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tags: dark tom, violence, magic duelling (mentions of injuries including cuts, bruises, blood, and death), lowkey toxic relationship, kissing, implied sex (but no smut)
hogwarts.
one of the oldest, if not the oldest, wizarding schools in the world (several historians have opposing opinions on that subject). with its extensive history and countless mysteries, hogwarts proved to be quite an impressive building all around.
you knew that some people found the archaic history boring or irrelevant. you recalled the lack of attention from your fellow pupils during history of magic classes. it was true that the majority of people preferred the more modern schools that have already adapted and advanced alongside time, but you thought that they lacked the allure hogwarts had. it was something about the ancient history that was entrancing. perhaps it was the fact that the corridors and towers you walked across as a teenager were also occupied by wizards and witches centuries ago - some growing to be the most powerful magical beings the world had ever seen.
that was ultimately why you had sent an owl with your application as soon as you heard of a job vacancy at hogwarts. it was not a linear decision; you had actually spent a few months working at the ministry of magic immediately after graduation. you had been placed in the department of magical creatures as a first year employee and had quit soon after you were tasked with wrangling a misplaced kappa, who had nearly bit off a finger on your wand-dominant hand.Â
after that fiasco, you had debated remaining unemployed for a while, using the decent bit of gold you had saved up, but that seemed awfully boring and wasteful.Â
you wanted to do something impactful; you wanted to make a change. you wanted to be left as a part of history, like the fact that the current currency system was created centuries ago, yet it was still used to this day. you wanted to make an impression that would last longer than you would live. Â
and what better way than to teach!
â
âtruly, thank you for your time. it has been years since i have seen a mind as bright as yours.â headmaster dippet smiles.
âit is my pleasure, sir.â you stay quiet, your knee anxiously bouncing as you wait for any indication you have successfully passed the interview.
he sips his tea before clearing his throat. his office is quite barren. . .
âi would love to have you as a defence against the dark arts professor,â yes! âthough, unfortunately, i had just recently filled that role earlier this week. a very promising young wizard, just like yourself, though his professional experience is closer aligned with what hogwarts is looking for.â
you have to fight to keep a frown off your face. âoh. . .âÂ
âbut you are still so young! why rush into a profession so soon? travel, explore. magical france is truly incredible in autumn - i can recommend a few spots, i go there nearly every year. st. tropez is especially gorgeous.â dippet continues on, barely looking at you as he fumbles with his tea.
you stare blankly, fighting back tears as you clutch your transcript. you were so close; the dream you had held onto for all this time was dangled right in front of you, like a bone, only to be yanked further away once more.
âexcuse my ramblings, miss.â dippet claps his hands together, âi understand that a rejection can be disappointing, but you have enlightened me during this interview. i do happen to have another opportunity for you.â a glimmer of hope. âyou must understand that hogwartsâ library is the most fundamental part of the castle - aside from the headmasters office of course.â he lets out a hearty laugh, and you awkwardly chuckle along, anxious to see where the conversation is headed. âour previous librarian has unfortunately resigned due to personal reasons. we were considering magically automating the library in his absence, but you know how adolescent witches and wizards are - constantly keen on testing how far their magic can go - the automatic system would be destroyed before christmas. we need a wizard, a magically advanced and talented one, one like yourself. so, what do you say? would you be willing to be hogwartsâ new librarian?â
your mouth moves before your mind, âof course, i would be forever grateful.â
âexcellent, my dear! let us handle some paperwork before i introduce you to your duties.â
though, being a librarian is not what you initially envisioned yourself doing, you couldnât help but accept the offer. it is still hogwarts - and books are fundamental to education, you would still be playing your part in educating a future generation.
baby steps, you remind yourself.
you at least had one foot in the door.
â
the great hall is as boisterous as you remember to say the least.
the students are barely contained to their seats, eager with the beginning of the term excitement. it brings a small smile to your face. you cannot imagine being that age again and being restricted magical use during the summer, no wonder they are all anxious to be back.
it truly does feel full circle. you were once one of those students, anxious and confused regarding the unknown future. you never would have guessed you would be back at hogwarts, this time at the staff table. itâs an entirely different perspective - figuratively and literally.
you are drawn out of your musings when professor mary flint clears her throat from beside you, eager to continue the conversation you were having.Â
âthat is enough about me, how has it been working in the library over the summer? were you able to sort through all the books and files yet?â mary asks from your left. you introduced yourself to her when you ran into each other earlier in the day. you werenât able to connect with any of the other faculty over the summer - too busy cooped up in the library, so you are grateful she is there to converse with.
your head perks up, âoh yes, of course. though it was quite a tedious task. the library is far more extensive than i remember.â
âi can imagine,â she murmurs, wiping her lips with a napkin. âthe greenhouse and gardens has been just as much of a nightmare. i simply wanted to enjoy a few weeks in manhattan without worrying about my mandrakes, and of course dippet hired a coverage who forgot to cover his ears when rooting.â she shakes her head with a sigh.Â
âoh, that sounds awful,â you agree, helping yourself to another serving of pumpkin juice.Â
âindeed, i had to apparate across the ocean when i was in the middle of an opera. spoiled my whole vacation!â
âat least itâs all settled now,â you give her a smile, âi still have to redo all the wards on the restricted section, itâs like nobody even tried to make them effective-â
you are cut off by the sound of chair scraping beside you.
âapologies for my tardiness, ladies.â
and if that wasnât the most handsome man you have ever seen. objectively. tall and lean. dark brown eyes that deepened like delicious honey pools under the candlelight, high and sharp cheekbones, and a perfectly aristocratic pointed nose. you stare for a moment, looking for a singular flaw or oddity, but you realize life truly is not fair when you cannot find one.
ânot at all, tom, you have nothing to apologize for,â mary murmurs, leaning across you to speak to him. âdippetâs beginning of term speeches are nothing worth attending anyway.âÂ
the man, tom, lets out a delicate laugh, taking his seat. âitâs good to see you again, mary.â Â
you feel him turn to stare at you, and you suppose the appropriate thing to do is introduce yourself. âand, i donât believe we have met yet, itâs a pleasure.â you smile and extend your hand, telling him your name. âitâs my first term at hogwarts, iâve just filled the librarian position.â
tom shakes your hand delicately, âtom riddle. it is nice to hear i wonât be the only new faculty member to join hogwarts this year.â
âoh, thatâs lovely! may i ask if youâre going to be teaching?â
he nods, beginning to prod at his plate. âyes, iâll be teaching defence against the dark arts.â
you physically feel all the colour drain from your face. so this is who had stolen your dream job from you. you narrow your eyes as you stare him. already so casual and self assured - he just started for merlins sake! and he was starting a job that was supposed to be yours. he didnât even seem excited to tell you what he taught - it was almost like he didnât even care. if you had gotten the position like you were supposed to, you would be telling people you taught defence against the dark arts with pride. this arrogant little-
tom meets your eye, and his brows raise in shock. âi apologize, did i say something to offend you?â
he looks concerned, genuinely concerned, and it takes you a few seconds to realize you were scowling at him.Â
âno, not at all,â you reply cooly.Â
mary lets out a nervous giggle from your other side, âwas defence your least favourite subject in school?â she questions.Â
âit was my favourite, actually.â you clarify stabbing a roasted potato.
âoh, well maybe she just had a special attachment to the previous professor.â she grins at tom, âwe all have our favourites donât we? iâm sure youâre going to be popular among students this year.âÂ
tom laughs, âi can only hope to be an excellent professor to these talented young minds, first impressions are important.â he smiles, staring at you.
mary looks past you, saying something else to tom that you cannot even be bothered to listen to.
you scoff under your breath. you donât even have the will to finish your meal - not with him right beside you. perhaps it could be considered petty or rude, but your emotions are so high, you cannot find it in yourself to care.
âexcuse me, you two, i think iâm calling it an early night.â you stand up and head towards the exit. you donât bother waiting for a response - if you have to hear another stupidly perfect sentence about tomâs perfect job, coming out of his perfect mouth your head is going to implode.Â
â
the next morning you find yourself cringing at what happened last night.Â
perhaps you were being a little childish.Â
losing the position to tom wasnât his fault - it was dippetâs. tom was just like you: a young adult around the same age, hoping to fulfill a dream. but still, he looked so young, barely a few years older than yourself. so what possible experience could he have gotten that gave him a leg up on you?
you know that dwelling on it will only drive you mad. past is past - so you can at least try and smooth over that encounter with tom. you would rather not have the next nine months with him be awkward and tense.
the first idea that comes to your head is chocolate. everyone loves chocolate! you have a few extra tins that you have stashed away from muggle london. they were intended for yourself, but you suppose losing one chocolate bar is worth gaining a friendshipÂ
you decide to wait until lunch to find tom, you still have a few library duties to attend to - the restricted section still needs some fixing, there are quite a few dark tombs that need enhanced warding.
you push open the library doors, waving your wand to ignite all the candles. you toss your satchel on your librarian desk and head towards the restricted section, which has seemed to grow in size since your time in hogwarts.Â
a gasp slips your lips when you see someone already there - tom - knelt over near the bottommost shelf.
âwhat are you doing here?â you choke out, pressing a hand to your chest.Â
tom looks up at you, lips lightly parted. he looks rather flushed as he stands up to his full height, wiping his palms against his robes.
âi teach defence against the dark arts, it is only right i research what i will be teaching.â he smiles at you like he thinks you are a stupid little child - and you are not.
âyes, i know what you teach, professor riddle. iâm wondering how you got into the library in general. the wards arenât there for no reason, and thereâs a very obvious âclosedâ sign on the door.â
âi apologize, i assumed that the library was open to everyone?â
âwell, yes, of course itâs open to everyone during regular hours, but itâs five in the morning.â you say incredulously.Â
âthat is my mistake then. i guess i am just adjusting to the new rules. . . with the new librarian.â he gestures at yourself.Â
âi donât think dismantling wards in the castle has ever been allowed.â
âthe wards on the door were you?â tom looks surprised, folding his hands in front of him.
âno, just the sign. . . the wards were left intact by the previous librarian. i guess i thought they would be enough to restrict students. i just hadnât thought about the professors.â
tom looks almost sheepish as he lets out a breath. âi sincerely apologize. it has just been so long since i had stepped into this castle. i suppose with the new perspective of being a professor, i had just gotten excited with the prospect of new additions to the library.â he swallows, adam's apple bobbing against his throat. âfor what it is worth, the wards on the restricted section are truly advanced, i assume those were done by yourself.â
you nod slowly, âyes, thank you, professor riddle.â
tom shakes his head, âyou do not need to call me that. we are peers, âtomâ, will do just fine.âÂ
âthen, thank you, tom.â
âexcellent. though i do have to say as amazing as your wards are, they were still quite easy to dismantle,â
âyes, i noticed. . .â you respond. he clearly already proved that.
âbut, that is a good thing. you should make them a little weaker and disillusioned, allowing for some students to get through. it would make them let their guard down if they thought the books were unprotected, then a quick incarcerous and caterwauling charm would do the trick.â
you hum in thought, considering it, before you realize that would be ineffective. âthough, who would want to get up in the middle of the night to hand out detentions? it would be much simpler if the wards were obvious, but impenetrable, that way students wouldnât even attempt to bypass them.â
âthough that would only be possible if you were capable of casting impenetrable wards.â
your jaw drops, how rude. âi beg your pardon?â
âno, no, i did not mean it as an insult, simply as a form of guidance. you are clearly able to do sufficient wards, but you are capable of doing excellent wards. that is all i meant.â tom raises his hands in defence. âin fact, i would be happy to help you, only if you wish.âÂ
âiâm quite alright. iâm sure iâll manage just fine on my own.â you say. âso, was there a book i could help you find?â you squint at the bottom shelf, attempting to see which titles he was looking at.Â
his jaw clenches ever so slightly, but he complies, crouching down and plucking a book from the general area. âmoste potente positions,â tom says, showing you the worn cover. âprofessor slughorn recommended it. defence against venom based hexes and jinxes is in the curriculum for sixth years, i thought this would assist me. you have to understand what you are fighting after all.â
âthat is right,â you nod, âi hope you find it enlightening.âÂ
you take a step back, checking the time on your wristwatch. itâs nearing the time when you should be opening the library. though, you doubt anyone would be coming here this early and especially so soon in the term, you still need to fix the wards tom dismantled - and there is another challenge you have:
the hidden basement section of the restricted section. you didn't even know it existed. dippet had showed you the entrance and explained what it was during the summer. it holds some of the darkest magical books in the wizarding world. he told you that it was already protected by hogwartsâ magic, but it was still your responsibility to upkeep and maintain the books: they were to always be concealed and protected.
you did not understand the point of having all that knowledge and nobody knowing of it. but, he explained that though nobody knew of the hidden basement, some professors and outsiders were able to request the banned titles for research, they just couldnât know where the books were.
the ground level restricted section that is in the library is mild compared to the basement. when you browsed the titles out of curiosity, you were shocked. the deeper and deeper you got into the restricted section, the darker and more insidious it got. it was nearing the last layer of the inferno: treacherous.Â
you really do understand the severity of the situation and concealing such dark material. it would be truly terrible if it got into the wrong hands.Â
âthank you, i should be on my way now.â tom tucks the book into his coat pocket and heads towards the door.
you are about to simply wish him a farewell, but you cannot stop yourself from rushing to your satchel and pulling out the small box of chocolates.Â
âwait, tom!â you catch up to him and extend the treats, âhere. itâs a beginning of the term gift. iâm not sure if youâre a fan of chocolates, but i thought youâd might enjoy these.â
he simply stares at the box for a moment, a crease between his brows. you begin to worry that you have overstepped but he finally takes it from you.
âthat is very kind of you,â your first name slips off his tongue like honey. tom gives you one final smile before departing.
baby steps. . .
â
throughout september, you and tom develop what could be called a. . . friendship.Â
tom finds you during early mornings in the library - always with two steaming hot cups of tea. it only took him three days to figure out your preference of milk and sugar.Â
you tell him about the students who spill ink on century old tombs, and he tells you about students who have thrown bombardas instead of protection shields.Â
you hate to admit it, but your âfriendshipâ is actually quite nice. you truly donât ever think you have ever met someone that could challenge you like tom. some people think itâs funny or endearing to question your opinion on a certain topic - but it actually ends up being quite annoying because nearly all of the time they have no idea what they are talking about.
but tom, heâs different. he questions your opinions because he really is interested in them. and somehow he manages to be well read and informed in every single subject you debate - which only gives you another thing to envy him for.Â
âdo you think a wizard could be born evil?â you question.
you and tom are sitting across from each other in a corner of the library, both reading separate books and snacking on chocolate frogs. technically you two are not allowed to be out past curfew - but you are technically in your workspace, and he is a professor.
tom slowly looks up over his book, a brow raised. âwhere is this coming from?â
you show him the card you got with your chocolate frog: herpo the foul.
âah, i see.â he says, setting his book down. âwell, that is a difficult question to answer.â
you smile as you take another bite of the chocolate, âit seems iâve finally stumped tom riddle.â
âi said difficult, not impossible,â he corrects, âi simply need to think about it for a moment.â
âwell, i already have an answer,â you say.
his eyes flick up to yours immediately. tomâs eye contact is always intense and entrancing; you donât think you could look away even if you wanted to.Â
âtell me,â he says softly.
âi think nobody is born evil.â you say firmly, ânot herpo, not even grinderwald. itâs nature versus nurture. thereâs no genetic predisposition that would cause a wizard to be an - evil psychopath. itâs nearly always because of the way theyâve been raised, or something terrible that has happened in their youth. humans are most mentally vulnerable in their adolescent years - a singular traumatic memory would be enough to permanently offset their brain chemistry. it is suffering that is truly the root of all evil.â
âpeople suffer all the time,â tom counteracts, âhow many people are starved, abused, and neglected, yet still have compassion in their hearts? others are born into generational wealth with loving families, yet they still wish to see the world burn.â he shakes his head.
âwell, i do agree itâs possible for individuals who have suffered to break the cycle. but still, no matter how positive and loving a persons upbringing looks, thereâs still nearly always a traumatic event that has happened that would have caused them to become evil. just because they donât look like they have suffered doesnât mean they havenât.â
âeven if they did suffer: suffering does not excuse wickedness,â tom tells you.
âso what could?â
tom stares at you, the corner of his lip twitching upwards. the shadows in the library flicker across his face. his lips part, and his tongue darts out to wet them, and you donât even realize it, but you are so anxious to hear his answer. you are nearly at the edge of your seat, hands folded under your chin as you lean forward.
âtell me, tom.â you whisper.
in response, he simply shrugs a shoulder and leans back in his chair.
âyou donât know?â you ask, annoyed.
he nods his head, âi do not.â
âi thought you knew everything.â
âwell, it seems you finally stumped me.â he leans over to your side of the table to pick up the herpo card. âdo you have an answer?â he looks up at you through his lashes.
you bite your lip as you look down. âmaybe, but. . .â your voice trails off, âi donât have a solid opinion, just a few ideas.â
âthen do not hesitate to share something with me.â tom says, âwe are friends, arenât we?â
you let out a small laugh, âyes, we are.â
âgo on,â he beckons.Â
âso. . . iâm not saying any of this is morally correct - it's obviously terrible and wrong, but. . . nearly every dark wizard was initially in pursuit of one thing before they went mad: knowledge. they were all intelligent, i mean even grindelwald was called a prodigy as a child. but, at some point, itâs starts being not enough for them. they outgrow all the basic books and curriculum - itâs not enough to satisfy. and eventually they learn more and get deeper, but the deeper you get into anything - the darker it gets. and you know thereâs this certain hunger when it comes to learning, a hunger that cannot be satisfied, and then those dark books arenât enough anymore. so then they need to start experimenting their own darker spells and potions and rituals, not because itâs the intent to kill anyone, but because itâs a just the collateral to learning. grindelwald got in trouble for experimenting, and so did herpo. they werenât searching for wickedness, they were searching for knowledge. they just took it too far and then. . . evil found them.â
you are nearly breathless when you finish, and when you look up tomâs eyes are so bright, they are nearly glowing.
âsorry.â you shake your head, sitting back in your chair.
âsorry for what?âÂ
ânothing. . . maybe that was too much. sometimes i get too into these things.â you let out a deep breath, keeping your eyes down.
tomâs hands slide across the table, softly grasping yours. his skin is so cold, but you find it refreshing under the heat of his gaze. he nearly looks angry, âdo not ever apologize for having an inquisitive mind.â
that brings out a small smile, âthank you, tom.â
âof course.â he replies, retracting his hands. he frowns for a moment as he stares at the table âi think you are the first person that has ever changed my mind.â
you raise a brow.
âi was going to say power.â he clarifies. âthat is what could excuse wickedness. but, you are right, perhaps it is knowledge.â
âwell, maybe our answers arenât too different, knowledge is power, afterall.â
â
a few days later, you come into the library extra early to retrieve a dark tomb requested by dumbledore: secrets of the darkest arts. itâs located in the basement section, so you try to be inconspicuous as you sneak into the library, and into the hidden doorway that led to the staircase.
however, when you return to the ground floor restricted section you frown. the wards have been tampered with. you sigh as you wave your wand to cast a diagnostic charm: someone has removed the wards, then re-did them with their own magic once more. though, they tried to mimic your spell-casting, the actual magical signature does not match yours.
you glance around slowly, looking for anything amiss, when you finally see it: magick moste evile is missing.Â
your brows crease as you try to guess who could have done this. you know no student - not even seventh years - could have possibly possessed to the magic needed to dismantle your wards.
the first culprit that comes to your mind is tom. of course it would be tom, who else could it have been? he had already done it once before and of course he would do it again.
your mind fumbles at the why, though. why would tom do this? he, himself, said that two of you were friends, he could have simply asked you to borrow the book, itâs not like you would have said no.
unless he didn't want anyone knowing he wanted to read it, but why. heâs a defence against the dark arts professor, of course he would have to read a book like magick moste evile.Â
you let out an annoyed huff - just as you were beginning to enjoy tomâs company, he does something to ruin it.
with the book for dumbledore retrieved, you decide to fix the mess tom made. though, you have not yet proven it to be him - you think the answer is quite obvious.Â
â
by the time you are done fixing the wards: you abandoned your robes, removed your tie, opened the first few buttons on your blouse, and completely destroyed the hairstyle you had done before you left your quarters. there are no mirrors in the library but you are sure there is sweat sticking to your forehead, and you look entirely too disheveled for work.
you check your wrist watch and sigh when you see itâs almost breakfast. ideally, you hope to run to your quarters to freshen up, but tom interrupts your idea when he steps into the library - a steaming cup of tea in his hands.
a quizzical look graces his face as his eyes trail from your head to your toes. you flush when you realize how indecent you must look.
âsorry,â you murmur. then you get upset at yourself because you should not be sorry, he should be. you snatch your robes which were discarded on the floor, covering yourself.
tom places the cup of tea on your desk. âno, i apologize. i did not realize you were busy.âÂ
âyeah i didnât realize i would be busy either.â you mutter, attempting to adjust your tie.
âi am sorry to hear that. what happened?â tom steps closer to you, pulling the tie from your grasp and within seconds he has it neatly tied against your neck.
it all happens so fast you donât have the time to react. you wish you were quicker, you should have stepped back.Â
you bite your lip as you look down, âi have a question, tom.âÂ
he looks slightly surprised as he stares at you, âi thought our debates were reserved for evenings?â
so heâs deciding to play stupid. very well then.
âyou know what iâm talking about.â you say firmly, âyou dismantled my wards, again.â
you refrain on mentioning the book. there is a slim possibility that tom simply removed the wards, and a student else took the opportunity to steal it.
tom lets out a huff of a laugh, âi beg your pardon?â
âoh, donât play coy now. my wards were completely dismantled, who else could have done it? or who else would do that?â
tom looks at you pitifully then shrugs, âi donât know. that sounds terrible. though, i did warn you that your idea would not the most effective at protecting the books. next time, please do not be afraid to accept my help.â
you scoff shaking your head, âno, no, i know my wards, riddle, no student could have possibly dismantled them.â
âyou said yourself that grinderwald was a child prodigy. would it be a surprise that child geniuses walk around this castle every year?â
âthat is not possible. . . and donât say stuff like that!â you cross your arms over your chest.
âso, you think i am responsible, then?â
âi know you are!â
tom slightly frowns, âwe are friends; i would never do that to you. the restricted section holds such dark, powerful books, if the wards on them were insufficient and the wrong person gained access to them, that would certainly jeopardize your job. i enjoy your company too much to see you terminated.â he looks up at you and smiles.Â
your jaw slowly drops as you simply stare at him.Â
âi left you tea,â he points at the mug on your desk, âi wish you the best of luck. and, again, do not be afraid to ask for help.â
tom gives you a small wave as he turns to leave. though, you feel like you have just been hit with an immobulus charm, your feet are cemented to floor and the only thing you can move is your face as you scowl at his retreating back.
â
you step out the bathroom in your quarters, cozied up in your pajamas as you just had a shower that was entirely too hot. it was the only thing you could think of doing to relax your mind.
you have not yet told dippet about the missing book. as annoyed as you were with tom, his words truly did scare you because he was right. the books in the library were your responsibility, and technically a missing book would be your fault. if you were fired from hogwarts within the first term of being here, it would ruin your reputation and crush the closest opportunity you had to your teaching dream.
you let out a yawn as you sit down at your desk, detangling your hair before bed.
to be fair, tom's response to your accusation had made you slightly doubt yourself. he had come across as so genuine. but either way, why would he admit to it? your reaction to him sneaking in the library the first time certainly was not pleasant, and this time he had actually stolen. of course he would play innocent.Â
the only thing you can do now is rest. it had been such a stressful day, and you would presumably have another stressful one tomorrow as well as you would have to find that book. the only thing that could make your life slightly more tolerable was a good nightâs rest.Â
you pull back your comforter and lay down, shimmying until you find a comfortable position. you freeze. you shift for another minute, thinking that your mind is playing tricks on you.
there is something very hard moving under your head.
you sit up, grabbing your wand to cast a lumos. you grip the corner of your pillow and yank it off the bed, and. . .
there it is sitting on your bedsheets. . .
a snake.Â
you scream.
â
tom is not your friend.Â
you decide that very firmly.Â
after discovering that he had managed to sneak into your living space, you barely got any sleep last night.
you debate on telling dippet what he has done. although you have no proof, you could still simply mention your suspicions. but, you would look so silly. everyone adores tom. you were not the only person he was becoming friendly with, nearly every other faculty member considers him a confidant - and even the students are obsessed with him.Â
and of course everyone is. tom smiles when is supposed to, says the smartest things that are different, but not too obscure, always perfectly intelligent. he always compliments the women, converses with the men, and . . . steals dark books when he thinks nobody is looking.Â
you don't go to the library that morning.Â
you have grown slightly afraid of tom, and you would rather not drink the next cup of tea he brings you.
instead, you go to the greenhouse where mary is. she has dozens of puffapod plants that need harvesting - and she insists that it cannot be done magically - only by hand, otherwise it disrupts the growth cycle.
âitâs been awhile, my friend. how has the beginning of the term been for you?â mary asks, harvesting a pod.
you watch her do it, trying to mimic her movements on your own plant that you have been harvesting. âitâs been. . . fine.â you really donât want to get into it. you doubt mary would even believe you, she seems to be another victim to tomâs trance. âso, what about you?âÂ
âoh, donât be silly! i heard itâs been a lot more than fine.â mary smirks at you, throwing a wink
you flush and start sputtering before you can form a response. âwhat are you talking about?â
âyou and tom, of course! what a lucky girl you are. . .â she sighs wistfully.
âme and tom?â you say incredulously.
she nods as though it is obvious, âyou two seem awfully friendly.â
you snort, plucking another pod off the plant. âtom is friendly with everyone.â
âwell, yeah, but heâs very. . . surface level with everyone. of course, he is so polite and such a gentleman, but heâs also a tough shell to crack. but, with you, heâs different.â
you try to hold in a laugh - tom is certainly different with you in one way. you doubt he breaks into other faculty quarters. âi donât know if i would even call tom and i friends.â
âwell, he certainly would. he was looking for you a bit ago, said he couldnât find you in the library.â
âgood.â you mutter under your breath.
mary giggles, poking your side. âplaying hard to get, atta girl.â
âsomething like that. . .â
â
you think you have successfully evaded tom for the whole day. unfortunately to your utter dismay, when you exit the great hall after dinner, tom is standing right there.
âthere you are,â tom smiles at you like everything is normal. like he didn't steal a dark arts book from the library, then leave a snake in your personal quarters.
âriddle.â you say with a nod.
âif i am not mistaken, it seems as though you have been avoiding me today.â
you hum in response, unsure what to say.
âwhy is that?â he questions, folding his hands in front of him.
you let out a huff, throwing your hands in the air, âyou know why, riddle.â
he frowns at you. âthat is quite unfair then. you still believe that i have dismantled your wards?â
you nod slowly, âwell then, if youâll please excuse me, i need to head back to my quarters early now. i have to make sure nobody is leaving snakes in there.â
âsomeone left a snake in your quarters?â tom asks, pretending to look shocked. âlet me go with you now, i can cast a few wards of my own to keep you safe - or we can go speak to dippet together.â
you scoff loudly. you truly donât know what tom is trying to do. he does terrible, heinous things, then denys them and tries to be some sort of saviour - but he knows that you know, so what is the point? trying to figure out tom riddle is going to drive you mad, and it simply isnât worth it to you.
âhave a good night.â you mutter, brushing past him.
âwait a minute.â he catches up to you quickly, âthe fifth years are going to hogsmade this weekend.â
âiâve heard.â
âthey still need an extra chaperone,â he tucks his hands into his pockets. for a second, he looks nervous, almost bashful. âyou should volunteer - i already did. that way, we can both go, perhaps enjoy a few butterbeers together.â
you narrow your eyes, âno.â you say, perhaps a bit too harshly, âno, thank you. i have a few books to look after.â it comes off bitter, and you hope tom understands what you are insinuating.Â
he clenches his jaw as he looks down at you, âokay, that is no worry at all. good luck with your books.â
â
you can almost breathe easier during the weekend knowing that tom is not in the castle. there is no possibility of him ruining your day, today.
though, you still decide to avoid the library despite how much you like reading, because there is too much of a connotation between library and work - you would rather not think about working on a saturday.
instead, you decide to go for a walk by the great lake, it was something you used to do a lot as a teenager during your time at hogwarts.
the weather is in that perfect autumn transition, a shining beautiful sun, but a nice, gentle, refreshing breeze to accompany it. it truly is serene and beautiful. you finally feel calm for the first time this week.
you do debate going to spend time with mary, sheâs sweet and hilarious - but sheâs not tom. tom who brought you tea and challenged your mind, but tom, who also jeopardized your job and broke into your room, leaving you a poisonous snake as a present.
you find a tree near the water, and sit down, leaning your back against it. the warm sun feels cozy against your skin, and you feel your eyes slowly shut as you begin to relax.
of course, a shadow falls across your face.
you open your eyes, squinting, to see tom standing in front of you.
what you want to do is groan loudly and ask him what he wants now, but that would be unprofessional, so you cross your legs and remain silent.
âi am sorry to interrupt. i just-â
âno, iâm sorry to interrupt, i really wish to be alone right now.â
âi truly apologize if i have said or done something to upset you. i do wish to repair our friendship. but, at the moment, i have come to speak to you regarding professional matters.â
âitâs outside my working hours; you can ask me on monday morning.â you give him a tight smile, strained at the edges as you try to prevent yourself from scowling.
he sighs, and itâs the first time you have seen tom look annoyed. âi need a book, please.â
why donât you just steal it again? you want to ask.
you clear your throat, âokay, iâll see you monday morning.â
his eye twitches. âbut, i need it-â
âno, riddle!â you snap. âit doesnât matter what you need, because you have proven that every time you want something, you just take it. what you have done is completely unacceptable according to the schools standards, and mine. i believed that we were friends, and itâs a shame because i truly did enjoy your company.â
you push yourself off the ground, grabbing your belongings before storming off.Â
â
halloween at hogwarts is truly magical.
you cannot believe that majority of the world - muggles - will never be able to witness this.
instead of floating candles in the great hall ceiling, thereâs floating jack o'lanterns. and though, it is more of a muggle tradition to wear a costume, you still decided to participate slightly. you hope that it would make some of the other muggleborn students feel more at home.
you transfigure a quill into a small pair of realistic bunny ears, that twitch and fold like real ears would. you enjoy how much the students find it funny. it brings a little magic to your life and it reminds you of why you wanted to teach in the first place.
during the special feast you find yourself sitting near the edge of the table with mary to your right, unfortunately thereâs an empty seat to your left. you can only hope tom wonât show up to fill it.
âyou look amazing,â mary smiles at you, popping a piece of chicken into her mouth. âsuch a shame weâre stuck at hogwarts, london nightlife would be all over you.â
âoh, stop it, you look lovely as well.âÂ
âwhy thank you.â maryâs skin has animated vines running all over it - like a tattoo. sheâs been quizzing students all day over it, asking them which plant she is meant to be.
âso,â she continues, âi havenât seen you and tom together, lately. did something happen between you two?â
you bite your lip as you shake your head, âno, not at all, i have just been incredibly busy with work, you know.â
mary gives you a look, âwhatever you say. . .â
you raise your brows as you stare at her. âiâm being serious, i have no idea why you are so insistent on believing that think me and tom are in a relationship.â
mary looks above your head and smirks into her glass, âspeak of the devil.â
the devil indeed: tom.
he truly did not even need a costume, because the waves of evil already radiated off of him effortlessly.
âhi, tom,â mary gives him a sweet smile.
âmary.â
you can feel tom stare at you for a second, before he pulls out the chair beside you.
as soon as he sits down, mary is standing up. âoh, would you look that! i actually have some plants that need attending to, enjoy your night!â she giggles as she leaves.
there are now five seats between you and the next professor.
you grumble to yourself as you debate getting up and following her. but, you are so hungry, and the food tonight is exceptionally delicious - you really donât want to miss it. you reluctantly pick up your fork, beginning to eat. the sooner you finish your food, the sooner you can leave.Â
âi like the ears,â tom says, âvery impressive magic.â
you hate that the compliment causes your heart rate to increase rapidly, âthank you. . .â
âthough, i should say you look quite nice, in general. not just the ears.â
you turn to look at him, your fork halfway to your mouth. his mouth opens, and words come out. his lungs expand when he breathes, and his heart is always beating. but, his eyes, his eyes are always empty. you know tom means nothing he says.
you drop your fork back onto your plate, letting it clatter. tom, surprisingly flinches at the sound. then, you push your chair back, brushing your robes as you stand up and exit the great hall.
as soon as you exit, you hear footsteps trailing behind you, he is not even trying be discrete.
you are immediately furious, you turn around to face him. you can feel your anger flowing through every part of your body, as you step closer to him.Â
âi really donât know what is wrong with you. you dismantle my wards, twice. left a snake in my bed - i had to wake up hagrid in the middle of the night to get rid of it - and it was poisonous. but, yet you wont leave me alone. why is that, riddle? what do you want?âÂ
âi am afraid i do not know what you are talking about.â tom replies simply.
you take another step closer, this time, your chest is pressing against his. âexcept you do.â he looks perfectly serene as he stares at you, not a single hair astray. âyou do this thing where you lie a lot, which i hate because i enjoyed your company so much.â
âyou enjoy my company?â he looks so stupid to you.
âenjoyed.â you emphasize. âbut, yes, i did. quite a lot.â you look up at him, a softer look in your eyes. you place a palm against his chest. he is wearing so many layers of fabric, you cannot even gauge how his body feels. âwhy did you have to dismantle my wards, tom?â
âi did not,â he shakes his head.
âdonât lie to me.â
âiâm not.â
âbut you are,â you sigh, âi just want to know, why.â
he stays quiet as he looks at you.
âtell me,â you say once more, softly.
his eyes meet yours, and you watch as he swallows a breath. âi. . .â
âyou what?â
all of a sudden, the atmosphere changes, and so do his eyes as they harden. when he stares down at you, you nearly flinch, he looks absolutely furious. you donât know what you have done, but you donât care to prod any longer.
tom doesnât say a word as he pushes past you, knocking your shoulder.
you watch as he stalks down the corridor, robes billowing behind him. perhaps, he has finally learnt his place when it comes to you.
â
the next morning you are finally confident enough to resume going to the library early again. you know that tom is upset at you for some reason, and he would not dare to bother you.
you flick your wand to ignite all the candles, and when everything is lit, you let out a horrified gasp.
nearly every single book in the library - including the books in the restricted section - have been knocked off their shelves. they are strewn across the library like confetti.
the tables and chairs look as though they have been hit with a reducto, they are simply reduced to bits and pieces of wood.Â
everything - everything is absolutely destroyed.Â
you clutch your wand and fight the urge to cry.Â
you think of complaining to dippet, but that would just prove that you are incapable of doing your job and cannot do what is asked of you.Â
so you clean - everything. you are thankful that magic exists as you fix everything. but it is still extremely tiring and tedious, and for each book you reorganize you gain more hatred for tom - and more fear.
fear of what he is capable of.Â
it takes you hours to finish, and by the time you are done, your magic is burnt out.Â
you are about to leave for a much needed nap when you see one book placed neatly - intentionally, on your desk. itâs a book on dark curses, flipped open to a random page.
though, once you get closer, you realize it is not a random page at all - itâs opened to a page about an internal organ boiling curse.Â
a curse invented by herpo the foul.
you truly donât know what you have done to cause tom to react like this.Â
all you know is you have finally angered the beast.
â
it has been weeks since you have interacted with tom, and you cannot say it has been unpleasant. you were expecting him to destroy the library once more, or poison your breakfast, but it has thankfully been - quiet.
you have gotten closer to a lot of the other faculty, often doing favours for each other. tonight, dumbledore found you, asking you to cover patrols as a prefect fell terribly ill and there was nobody else available. of course you said yes.
with your lumos floating above your head, you continue down the corridors, thankfully, finding no lingering students. it actually proves to be a peaceful night - except for when you pass by tomâs office. you already feel uneasy.Â
there is such dark energy radiating from it, and you simply wish to breeze past it.
as soon as it is behind you, you feel like youâre able to breathe again, though that reprieve does not last for long because the door clicks open and you feel someone spin your shoulder around and push you against the wall.
of course.
he narrows his eyes as he stares at you. he looks uncharacteristically unwell - as in he looks haggard almost. he places both hands on either side of your face and leans down towards you.
his lips get so close to your ear, you can feel the brush of them against your skin as he speaks. âyou think i donât know who you are?â his voice is dangerously low, a dark tremor that causes your spine to involuntarily straighten. âor more accurately: what you are?â
your eyes narrow in confusion.Â
âi donât know what the hell youâre talking about, riddle.â you spit out, but you quickly lose all venom at the end of your sentence when his hand moves from the wall to your neck.Â
tom simply rests his hand there, and you know what he is doing. he is prodding for a reaction. a flinch, a gasp, an increased pulse beating under his finger tips - or perhaps a confession - one that doesnât exist because what he is accusing you of is nonsensical. you will yourself to calm down, he cannot hurt you in the castle. you are sure of that fact. it gives you the confidence to continue speaking.
âyou believe that just because i am immune to your charm and chivalry i must be a some creature, some thing. i donât even know what youâre insinuating. i thought you were smarter than that.â your face is so close to his, you can smell his aftershave and the peppermint from his toothpaste. you try to take a step back, startled at the intimacy of knowing tomâs preference in toothpaste, unfortunately your back meets the wall.
âyou take me as a fool. you really expected i would not learn of your veela ancestry?â
you almost burst out laughing.
âwhat?â you are so flabbergasted your voice comes out shrill.Â
his hand drops from your neck and he takes a step back. he looks so certain, so boastful, so positive he had just figured you out. but there really was nothing to figure out. you werenât anything special, you didn't even have any wizarding ancestry let alone veela ancestry. you were simply a young adult working at hogwarts - not even as a professor, simply a librarian.Â
you look down, brushing your hands against your robes. âyou are far mistaken, riddle. i come from a muggle family - not anything special, even for muggle standards. thatâs all there is to me. iâm magically adept because i work just as hard as you. i donât need to be a creature to be good.â
his eyes narrow in suspicion. âyou are muggle-born?â
âyes.â you says proudly, âare you surprised that salazarâs notions were as foolish as him, and i donât need to be born from wizards to be advanced in magic?â you scoff. âi donât need to hear your supremacist rubbish on how i am unworthy of something i was born with. if you think iâm so undeserving of magic, then come try and take it.â
you stare him down. itâs a challenge, a shove - a dip into the mirky waters of tom riddle, anxious to see how far he could be pushed before he snapped.
his expression is unreadable, but he doesnât look away.
tom then clears his throat. âmy apologies, i was simply looking out for the safety of the school.â
you are baffled.
tom riddle had just accused you of something, had been wrong, then apologized.
though, you now know better than to consider any word from him to be genuine.Â
you bring both of your hands towards his chest and shove him away, a now respectable distance between you both.Â
much better.
âthen you better think again before you decide to corner me.â you sneer, âiâm not too sure headmaster dippet would be pleased to hear what type of books his star professor has been stealing from the library.â
anger flashes across tomâs face like lightning. you swear you see his ebony eyes flash ember. the look on his face is enough to make you feel as though you had pushed to far, you had broken down his sheepskin, pulling and ripping and finally the gruesome wolf was visible. this was tom riddle.Â
you fucked up.Â
âwhat books?â he grits out.
you feel your throat bob against your throat and your eyes go wide.
ânothing,â it is barely audible. âhave a good night, tom.â you mutter, before turning down the corridor. your footsteps echo across the walls, and itâs a startling reminder that it is far past curfew and the castle is barren. it is just you and tom.
you donât know why, but you feel like you should be running.
â
your feet trip over one another as you sprint down the corridor. your mind is made up: there is no more waiting, you are going straight to dippetâs quarters and reporting tom. you were going to wait, but you have a terrible feeling that something bad will happen to you if you do.Â
the stupid anti-apparation wards irritate you more than they usually would. you are wasting previous time by having to physically run. if you could apparate, tom would already be in azkaban by now.Â
you are nearly out of breath when you reach one of the moving staircases - you hold onto the railings so tight, you lose feeling in your hands.
almost there. . .
you nearly wipe out trying to step off the stairs, landing on your knees with a painful fall. you just barely, gain your footing when a spell flashes beside you.Â
it catches you so off guard, you donât even remember you have a wand. you spin around, trying to see where it came from, but another spell flashes, a green one, this time it is far too close to your face.
what the hell is tom casting at you? you turn a corner, remembering you are a witch, and throw a protection shield up.Â
that is when it really starts. second after second, a myriad of spells come flying towards you. judging by the colours, they are all very dark. Â
both your hands tremble as your grip your wand, perspiration gathering on your forehead as you fight to keep your shield up.
if you could see tom, that would be helpful, but heâs disillusioned somewhere. you cannot even hear him which means he is casting everything nonverbally.Â
then you see it - a shimmer of something across the hall from you. before you can think, you throw a confringo in the general direction. your suspicions are right, because tomâs disillusion spell falls, though, unfortunately that is the only damage you do.
âfucking dammit,â tom yells, throwing another spell at you, dark purple, the infamous a organ boiling curse. lovely.
you dodge it physically, ducking to your left before throwing a stupefy. tom deflects it easily.Â
there is a slight disadvantage considering that your goal is to simply apprehend tom, while his goal seems to be attempting to kill you.
he throws a slicing spell, and this time instead of dodging it, you repel it back to him. it works in your favour, and it nicks his hand.Â
whatever slicing spell tom used must have been modified with some type of dark magic, because the cut begins to turn into a disgusting dark colour - it looks like the skin is dead.
and that was what he just tried to hit you with?
the injury to his hand causes him to falter slightly, it was on his wand dominant hand after all.
you are so baffled that he had just cast that towards you, you cannot help but respond with a dark spell of your own: an obscure curse that liquifies the eyes of the victim.Â
well, that shocks him.
you can see the surprise on his face, and though he manages to dodge it, you can tell he is still caught off guard. you take that as an opportunity to throw another spell: expelliarmus. such an easy spell, taught to second years, yet it works. his wand comes flying into your hand.
âyou can cast non-verbally, but you cannot cast wandlessly.â
you cast another spell, binding him in ropes.Â
you slowly approach tom, his eyes are furious and his breathing is ragged.
âwhat are you?â he through gritted teeth.
âa witch,â you reply with a saccharine smile, âi just beat you in a duel.â you are so stunned, you almost let out a giggle. you knew you would have made a better defence professor.
you cautiously go closer, kneeling down to his level. âi have proven to you that i can beat you in a duel, so now you know you canât use magic to hurt me. i am warning you, riddle, stay the hell away from me. for good. you know what i have on you, donât make me go to dippet.â you stand up, staring down at him. a small smirk finds your lips, âit would be a shame to see you terminated of your position.â
â
exams conclude, snow falls instead of rain, everything changes as the winter deepens - but one thing remains the same: you and tom are both insistent on avoiding each other.
and slowly, itâs almost like you forget he exists. when you were aware of his presence, it was like you saw him everywhere. but now, he is just another professor you donât know.
itâs finally the christmas holidays, and most professors and students have already taken the train back to kingscross, though, you donât have anyone to go home to, so you decide to remain at hogwarts.
thankfully, itâs not as though the castle is barren, slughorn decided to throw a christmas party for the remaining students and faculty.Â
âthere you are!â slughorn opens his arms as you step into the decorated classroom.Â
he is most definitely already intoxicated. you give him and awkward hug, and engage in small talk.
âso, how has your christmas been?â you smile, gratefully accepting the glass of champagne he offers you.
âoh just lovely!â he beams, his plump cheeks turning rosy, âiâm so happy, my boy tommy is here tonight, did you say hello yet?â
you take a large sip of champagne, you are sure you will need it. âiâll definitely make my rounds throughout the night.â
âyes, yes, yes! let us make them right now.â slughorn places a hand on your back as he begins to guide you to a small group of wizards before you can decline.Â
âoh, no, perhaps not yet,â
ânonsense! come, come, i want to introduce you to a few friends. they are interested in a couple books in the library.â
slughorn tells the group your name and you extend your hand to the each of them - though your hand begins to shake when you see tom standing right there. you did not even see him come over.Â
in an attempt to not come off as impolite in front of everyone, you still shake his hand. âtom.â
âit is nice to see you, again,â he replies, not meeting your eye.
slughorn laughs as he glances between the both of you, âyou two have not had enough drinks, you are still both so tense!â he picks up two glasses of an amber liquid, âthis an elf made whiskey. naturally aged for a century - you cannot find this anywhere.â
he pushes the drinks into both of your hands. âdrink! donât get all shy, and donât make me waste my galleons.â he wags a finger in front of your face playfully.Â
you let out an awkward laugh, swallowing the drink in one go. that was definitely quite strong.Â
âwow, professor, that certainly is strong.â you mutter, attempting to hold in a cough.
âyou enjoyed it, right?â he asks, taking both you and tomâs empty glasses. you didnât even notice tom finished it - that is a surprise.Â
âso much so, thank you. though, i need to use the lavatory, i will be right back.â
slughorn smiles at you, already getting distracted by professor kettleburn who was showing off a niffler.
you glance at tom quickly, making sure he isnât looking at you before slipping out the door.Â
thank goodness, you let out a shaky breath, walking towards a large window.
you press your cheek against it, allowing the cold glass to cool your heated cheeks. it feels strange being in tomâs presence again, but it seems as though he is just as intent on leaving you alone.Â
a small frown pulls at your lips as you look outside, watching the fluffy snowflakes dwindle down. thereâs a magical glow around christmas time. . .
âi have a confession.â
tom.
you flinch at the sound of his voice. it has been so long since you have spoken, he sounds unfamiliar to you, itâs like it's your first time hearing him speak again.Â
âi already warned you, riddle,â you reply, not turning to meet his eye.
âi recall,â he whispers. âi have a scar to remind me.â
you scoff, âtechnically, that was your own doing.â
he lets out a small laugh, âperhaps. though, i simply wanted to be honest with you for once.â
that catches your attention. you turn to face him and raise a brow. âgo on.â
âi really did believe you were veela. not because i questioned your ability to be talented,â his vowels drag, and he is speaking in a weird cadence. he really is drunk. âon halloween, when you asked me to be honest about the wards - i hated you, i wanted to throw every curse i knew, but still, i found myself behaving - differently. i felt myself bending to your will, even though i fought against it. i thought no witch could have done that to me, not unless you slipped me a love potion, but i am very thorough with what i ingest. so the only possibility in my mind was that you had to have veela magic.â
he shakes his head, wiping a hand across his face, âi do not even know what to call what i feel.â
tom comes closer to you, you have the opportunity to walk away, or even push him again - but you stay.
âdo you feel it, too?â he asks, and you can smell the alcohol on his breath.
âthe hatred?â you question, looking up at him. âthe urge to kill you?â
he confirms with a nod.
âyes,â you swallow.
his hand comes to cradle the back of your head, pulling you closer to him. a few moments ago, you could simply smell the whiskey on his breath, but now you can nearly taste it.Â
tom tilts his head down, brushing his lips against yours. âyou have been quite mean to me lately. i am not sure you deserve a kiss.â
you let out a breathy laugh. âyou tried to kill me.â
âyouâre right.â he leans down and places his lips over yours.
itâs firm, soft, gentle kiss, the complete opposite of how you feel towards him. you sigh against his mouth, and he deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue across your bottom lip as his free hand moves to rest against your waist.
your hands come to grip his collar as you kiss him harder, it begins to turn sloppy. you are still so angry, and you hate him, but still you do this. you know he is a wicked man, you have seen the types of curses he uses, but you want this.
you pull away, breathless.
âtell me where the entrance to the basement restricted section is,â he whispers against your throat, nipping your skin with his teeth when you shake your head, no.
you tense for a moment - heâs not even supposed to know it exists. âmaybe if you tell me why youâre stealing dark books.â
he lets out a genuine laugh, kissing his way back up your throat and placing a firm kiss against your mouth once more.
âiâm not that drunk.â
âmaybe you need a nightcap in my room, then.â
tom raises a brow as he stares at you. you both know what you are implying.
âlead the way.â
â
you lay against tomâs bare chest, dragging your fingers across his skin.Â
your latest orgasm has done quite a lot to sober you. you expect to feel some form of regret - you had just slept with tom riddle, after he spent the past four months basically psychologically torturing you. . . but you donât care. you hate him just as much as you want him - he is like another book you are trying to figure out, one that frustrates you as you try to understand it, but you can never put it down.Â
you move your head up to stare at him, when he notices, he brushes a piece of hair away from your face, so tenderly.Â
âso,â you start, a smile already forming on your lips, ânow will you tell me about what youâre researching.â
his lips twitch into a smile, he leans down to place a soft kiss to your hairline. âhorcruxes.â the words are whispered against your skin.Â
a/n: thank you for sticking around this long! i hope you guys enjoyed, but feedback is still always appreciated. iâd also be interested in writing requests, so if you have any, feel free to send them!
so the jjk angst is hitting me so hard, literally no one talk to me while I go insane and pretend that the ending and all of the bad things never happened :)
why did no one tell me about The Invitation (2022), itâs genuinely such a wattpad/tumblr 2010âs fic feeling movie that is a bit cringe but lowkey itâs fun. Reviewers hate it but itâs honestly made for people who who read bad fan fictionđ
synopsis à Ë. á”á” when youâre too sick to care for your baby, nanami brings her to the office strapped to his chestâcalm, efficient, and completely unfazed as he gives presentations with a pacifier on his tie and a baby on board.
toriâs notes á°.á this is ridiculous iâm warning you
nanami doesnât even flinch when you croak from under the covers, voice raw and pitiful: âken, i canâtâi think i have a fever, and she wonât stop crying unless iâm holding her.â
your voice cracks halfway through the sentence. you look like a ghost of yourself, half-sunken into your nest of tissues and blankets, hair a disaster, eyes glazed and watery. the babyâs red-faced and sniffling too, sprawled across your chest like a little heater, tiny fists grasping your shirt like she knows you might try to hand her off.
nanami, standing in the doorway, calmly adjusts his watch.
âiâll take her.â
you blink. âyou⊠you have three meetings today.â
âand now i have three meetings with a baby,â he says, already crossing the room like a man with a mission.
you canât even protest properly before heâs kneeling beside the bed and gently peeling her off you, expertly switching to his papa voice â warm and low, as if heâs de-escalating a tiny, fussy hostage situation.
âthere we go,â he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then yours. âweâll manage. rest. you know what medicine you should take. call me if you need anything.â
ten minutes later, heâs at the front door in his usual tan coat, baby carrier strapped securely to his chest like sheâs a very warm, very giggly piece of office equipment. sheâs wearing one of those obnoxiously frilly headbands you swore youâd never put on her â but she screamed when he tried to take it off, and heâs not here to pick battles today.
diaper bag over his shoulder. bottle packed. pacifier clipped neatly to his tie. hair combed, shoes polished, baby securely swaddled and babbling.
âdonât let the interns try to hold her,â you wheeze weakly from the hallway.
âi would rather die,â he replies without missing a beat.
as he walks out, you hear him murmur to her, âno loud commentary during the finance report. we must suffer through it in dignified silence.â
cut to: the morning finance meeting, 9:01 a.m., in a fluorescent-lit conference room downtown.
the projector is humming. spreadsheets fill the screen. half the team is slumped in various degrees of caffeine withdrawal.
nanami kento walks in, perfectly on time, baby on his chest like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
he doesnât explain it. doesnât apologize. he walks straight to the head of the table, clicks open his laptop, adjusts the projector, and begins speaking with the same calm, measured cadence he always usesâ
except this time, thereâs a tiny foot sticking out of the carrier, gently bumping his blazer.
âmoving into Q3,â he says, clicking to the next slide, âweâre forecasting a moderate increase in asset reallocationââ
the baby lets out a soft, inquisitive coo.
nanami glances down at her, gives a very small nod, and says to the room, âcorrect. the Q3 projections are, in fact, unfortunate.â
silence.
wellâalmost silence.
from somewhere near the coffee machine, an intern tries to whisper, âis that aâ?â
nanami turns his head fractionally. just enough to shut it down.
âyes. sheâs here in lieu of her mother, who is unwell. please direct all questions to me or her, depending on the topic.â
no one questions it.
she doesnât cry, not even once. in fact, she seems thrilled. she clutches his tie like itâs her personal emotional support ribbon and waves her tiny hand every time someone shifts in their chair. at one point, she lets out a high-pitched giggle, and nanami simply pauses mid-sentence, gently pats her back, and continues like nothing happened.
someone tries to make eye contact and smile at herâ
she beams and throws her toy at them.
nanami takes back the toy and sighs, âdonât encourage her. sheâll never stop.â
the entire time, he keeps presenting with his utmost precision, occasionally glancing down at her to tuck the headband back into place or swap her pacifier like heâs been doing this his whole life.
he wraps up right on time.
âany further questions?â
dead silence.
even the regional manager just gives a tight nod. no one wants to risk being shamed by a baby.
â
back home, itâs late afternoon when the door creaks open.
youâre still buried in blankets, half-delirious and clinging to a half-empty box of tissues. you blearily lift your head at the sound of keys in the bowl.
nanami walks in with the same exact expression he had when he left: calm, unreadable⊠except thereâs a little extra softness at the corners of his eyes.
the baby is still strapped to his chest. fast asleep now, one hand gripping his tie, the other curled against his collarbone. sheâs drooling slightly. he hasnât removed the headband.
âshe was very well-behaved,â he says quietly. âarguably more professional than half the team.â
you laugh â or try to, but it comes out as a croaky wheeze.
he crouches beside you, brushing a bit of hair from your face. âhow are you feeling?â
âlike death.â he nods and kisses your cheek.
you glance over at the baby. âhow was she, really?â
âchatty,â he says, straight-faced. âopinionated about quarterly earnings. but otherwise excellent.â
he lifts her hand gently, unhooks her fingers from his tie.
âyouâre insane,â you whisper.
he leans in to kiss your forehead, gentle and lingering.
âefficient,â he corrects.
then, after a beatâ
âalso⊠she now technically works in accounting.â
you blink. âwhat?â
he shrugs.
âsomeone handed her a spreadsheet. she drooled on it. thatâs more than my latest intern did today.â
you laugh again, properly this time.
he finally unstraps her, carefully settling her into the bassinet. she doesnât stir â not even when he tucks her blanket in with military precision.
you lie there watching him move quietly around the apartment, sleeves rolled up, tie chewed, hair slightly out of place, and realize:
papa nanami could take over the world with a baby strapped to his chest and a pacifier in his pocket, and heâd still be home in time to fold the laundry.
⥠Synopsis: in which your ex boyfriend left you with your biggest blessing in life, or- a bundle of a blessing. And he doesnât even know it.
⥠tags/warnings: 18+, (explicit content in later chapters) angst, and drama, exes to lovers, hidden baby trope, Toji is an asshole (but we love him), Reader just wants to raise Megumi in peace, CEO Toji, possessive Toji, emotionally constipated Toji, Tension, misunderstandings, Flashbacks to past relationship, Heavy themes of abandonment, trust issues, and redemption, baby Megumi is a cutie, Megumi is a mamaâs boy, reader works at a flower shop
imagine you and best friend! satoru dealing with valentine's day and seeing all these discounts.
it starts with a tragic discovery between the two of you after a long day at work. you've both been so busy that you both have forgotten that today was valentines day.
valentines day. a day both of you could never seem to touch or want to touch. a day you both don't think you could celebrate, with how busy you both are in between missions.
at times, being busy was a blessing. because you both don't have to deal with these sort of things. but today, after finishing the work schedules rather early, there was no choice for the two of you but to face the world bend to be the world of lovers on this day.
today all around tokyo was these special valentineâs day deals that's only valid for one day. your favorite bakery down the street is offering buy-one-get-one-free heart-shaped pastries. the movie theater satoru often goes to has a couples special for half-price tickets.
even that currently trendy high class french restaurant youâve been dying to try has a special lovers night only promotion where they will serve a full-course meal, usually way out of your budget, free for couples celebrating their love.
âthis is just ridiculous, isn't it?â satoru suddenly scoffs, adjusting his sunglasses. you see him put his hands on his pocket, irritated. âwhat about best friends? whereâs the platonic soulmate discount?â
âexactly, goddamn it!â you huffed in response, glaring at all the signs right in front of you. âwe suffer through all our mutual friendsâ gross relationships, third-wheel their dates, and for what? no perks for us suffering folk?â
imagine you and best friend! satoru both lamenting about being single and all your friends being couples, enjoying their dates.
the thing is, its not that you hate romance. you don't. you never have hated it. but it's hard to deal with it. being very busy people with very incredibly demanding jobs, its often hard to find the time to just stop and date and slow down like all of your mutual friends.
so, it's hard this month. it's consistantly been a month of endless wedding talk, anniversary countdowns, and romantic getaway plans from your friends.
âbet theyâre all getting free desserts tonight, aren't they?â satoru grumbles, watching a couple share a milkshake with two straws. âdisgusting.â
âyou know what?â you say, slamming your mug down. âwe deserve something nice too.â
he raises a brow at you. "well, what do you have in mind?"
and thatâs how you end up at the very high-end french restaurant continue to rave about, holding hands across the table, grinning at the host and making the most of the efforts you can to actually look ike youâre both madly in love with each other.
âwe're just another happy couple here for the loverâs night special, as you can see.â satoru beams at the host.
the host nods. âwonderful. weâll just need to see proof of marriage.â
your smiles freeze at the host's words. â...i'm sorry....marriage?â
âuh, yes, mam. the promotion is exclusively for married couples., as you can see on the poster.â
satoru recovers first, throwing an arm around your shoulder. âof course! weâre very married. we got married at the city hall. yeah, yeah. now we plan to be married again with all of our friends there. i'm just waiting to repropose again, hahahaha.....isn't that so ridiculously married?â
you finally recovered and nodded rapidly. â....yes, yes. we're so madly in love. we really are, aren't we?......darling?â
"right, right, my love. isn't this great?"
the host eyes you both with scepticism but the host just gives up and eventually shrugs. âalright, alright, mam, sir.....right this way.â
and that was a success. now, you both sat there comfortably in that fine leather covered booth and start ordering almost everything in the menu.
a four-course gourmet meal later, youâre leaning back in your chair, stomach full, congratulating yourselves on your flawless deception. then the bill arrives. itâs a number so high your soul leaves your body.
satoru lets out a low whistle. âyikes. well, i'm glad we donât actually have to pay this.â
âyeah.....â you laugh weakly, but sweat prickles at your neck. then you had a moment, suddenly smacking his arm lightly. "wait, aren't you rich, satoru? why are you worrying about the price?"
"hey, hey. just because i'm rich doesn't mean i don't want to enjoy the discounts." he says defensively, taking out his black card. "i enjoy this sometimes."
then, right as the waiter approaches again to take the bill, satoru suddenly crouches down, moving down slightly just to tie his shoe. and your overfed, panicked brain sees your husband on one knee and immediately blurts out:
âYES, I DO! I'LL MARRY YOU AGAIN!â you shout in a panic to satoru as your eyes widened along with his. "uh....."
the people in the restaurant look at eahc other before the entirety of the restaurant suddenly just burst into applause, in small bouts and then in a larger surge.
the waiter comes back with the receipt and just beams at the two of you, clapping. the host dabs at their eyes and just sighed, as if it's the incredible thing they've ever seen. satoru looks up at you, mouth open in sheer betrayal.
âbabe.......â he says through gritted teeth.
âhoney.....â you whisper back, frozen in horror.
and just like that, youâre fake engaged (once again).
imagine you and best friend! satoru dealing with the aftermath of your fake engagement.
as soon as you step out of the restaurant and away from the prying eyes of all the people who were still congratulating the two of you, you whirl on satoru with the most horrifed, exasperated exression you could muster all the while shaking your head.
you didn't even know where to put your hands at this point. you were just moving it about it, trying to understand what just happened. you were just both faking this to have a good, joyful discounted dinner.
âWhy didnât you just stay standing?â you hissed at him.
âi was just tying my shoe, for christ's sake!â he says, offended.
âWHO GETS ON ONE KNEE TO TIE THEIR SHOE IN A FANCY RESTAURANT?â you suddenly say in an outburst of emotion.
âexcuse me for being dramatic while i'm tying my fucking shoe, bro!â
you groan, pressing your hands into your face. âthis is a disaster. what if someone we know saw? fuck, what if someone took a video and uploaded it on tiktok with those heartwarming music tunes? what the fuck, everyone at work will see it, oh my god.....â
satoru wiggles his fingers. âthen we milk it for free gifts. i mean, come on. think about it. it's a foolproof plan."
âno, absolutely not. this is a one of thing, satoru. oh myââ
"just hear me out! this is going to be a good thing for the both of us every single holiday and every single restaurant we visit. i mean, it's like with a birthday cake."
"satoru, that's a horrible idea!"
but itâs too late. heâs already taking a picture of the voucher that he was holding in his hand, thanks to the manager who is basically getting free advertising with what you had both accidentally done and texting it to your found family group chat.
satoru đ€: just got engaged lol free meal WOO
nanami (ken)to: i refuse to believe this. [name} surely you have sme common sense not to do something like this.
get(oooouttt): there's no fucking way this is happening??? [name] blink twice if you feel like this is a kidnapping
ssssssshoko: did you drug her? there's no way she's agreeing to this, satoru. come on.
megumi (gojo's son): block me already oh my god, i don't want any part in this.
you snatch the phone from him, but the damage is already done. soon enough, your phone starts blowing up. it's like everyone on the planet is just spamming you. including your literal parents. and then his parents.
i mean, all the people you mutually know are calling, texts after texts are just continuing to flood in, and then all the sudden, you found yourself realizing that you might actually have to commit to this bit unless you want to explain the most humiliating scam of your life.
you look at satoru with the glare of a thousand suns. "i'm going to kill you."
he wiggles his eyebrows. âready to be my future spouse, baby?â
you inhale deeply, trying so hard to calm yourself down. but unfortunately, that's easier said than done at this point in time. you hum to yourself, almost like a mantra.
you could strangle him. i mean it's not that hard, he will let you do it. wait, it shouldn't be could. it should be, you should strangle him. at this point, it feels like an essential thing to do now.
but you knew yourself better than that.
whatever he does, you know you can get over.
you like this guy, you were sure of that too well.
just a little bit too much, more than it should be allowed.
so instead, you sighed as you take the voucher from his hands. "youâre buying me breakfast every day until this blows over.â
imagine you and best friend! satoru waking up the next morning to absolute chaos.
you barely got a moment of peace when you finally got home before your phone starts vibrating like itâs trying to escape your nightstand. yet shook your head at it and left it there for quite a fair bit and ended up drinking some wine, regretting your decision one after the other over botles upon bottles.
and that's when your night ended, with you too drunk off your mind, still refusing to open your phone and you going on ahead to mumble in your sleep about how you didn't know what to do when you had to face reality.
but respite could only last for so long. with one eye barely open, you your found yourself woken by the stupid, endless buzzing sound that's been coming from your phone.
you groaned, still feeling the headache from alcohol from last night. you didn't want to get up. you didn't want to face the messages that's coming one after the other on there.
but even if you wanted to get back to sleep, you know you couldn't. when you woke up. you just did. there was no other recourse now. you mumbled under your breath before moving forward and blindly grabbed the phone.
opening it, it blinded you. you groaned for a bit, adjusting your eyes to the information. before long, you were squinting at the screen. you couldn't believe what you were seing. you purse your lips.
37 missed calls. 86 unread messages.
your message box, from the group chat to every other contact message on your phone, well they were all on fire. and you didn't know how to stop it or to control it. they were just all a mess and you didn't know what to do.
satoruđ€ : so actually the engagement is real. me and [name] are really engaged </3
ssssssshoko: âyou got engaged, [name]???? i had to find out through TEXT??? from satoru???? that you're engaged TO SATORU? explain, asap.â
get(oooouttt): wow this is like the worst thing [name] ever did in her life actually
nanami (ken)to: âi am deeply concerned.â
megumi (gojo's son): âi hope this is a joke. i really, really do.â
then came the other kids messaging you individually. wait, how did they even find out all about this? they weren't even in the gc that satoru made for your little found family. you start to scroll up and try and figure out who they were from.
yuuji (my son actually): âCONGRATS, SENSEI!!!!!! I KNEW IT WOULD HAPPEN ONE DAY!!!!!!â
nobara (my pretty daughter): âU BETTER LET ME PLAN THE WEDDING SENSEI????â
yuuta (eldest son): [name]-sensei!!! congratulations to you and gojo-sensei!!! im wishing you well <3
maki (eldest daughter): [name]-sensei what do you MEAN you're engaged to that idiot???? MESSAGE ME BACK, SOON????
there were more of that, if you were being honest. one after the other, your students from kyoto and tokyo, and even from your one year in fukuoka, were just questioning you left and right on the same question. why the fuck would you be engaged to gojo satoru?
"i can't deal with this." you say as you continued to scroll through your messages. "i can't be doing this."
but then a message stops you at your tracks. you could feel yourself stunned with your mouth agape. this can't be happening to you right now, not at this moment. you purse your lips, as you reread the message over and over again.
yaga masamichi (ugh my boss) : â{name], i've told gojo already. but we need to talk.â
you moaned with irritation, almsot wanting to throw your phone. now your boss is involved? you can't be dealing with this after a night of drinking. you just really can't.
before you could even process that further, your doorbell rings. dreading whatâs about to come, you shuffle over, still in your horribly mismatched pajamas, and open the door only to find gojo satoru, fully dressed, grinning, and holding up a tray with two coffees.
you groaned at him, rolling your eyes. âwhy are you like this?â
âbecause iâm very dedicated, very devoted, very enthralled with our little funny bit.â he breezes past you into your apartment, setting the coffee down before dramatically flopping onto your couch. âso my dearest baby, how does it feel to wake up engaged to me?â
âlike iâve made a terrible mistake.â you say to him, taking the coffee from his tray. "like i've ended up in a bad dream over and over again. like i've been reborn into a bad life. like i've beenâ"
"okay, okay, i get the point." satoru clutches his chest, sighing dramatically. he moves to take his own coffee. âbut don't worry. i'm sure that's not permanent. thatâs just the pre-wedding jitters, sweetheart.â
you throw a pillow at his face. "you're so annoying. let me have my drama here."
he catches it with ease, grinning. "not without me, baby."
"ugh, can't you call me something other than baby?"
"why not, baby not hitting your system?"
"no, it's giving me the ick."
"well, give me a moment." he winks at you. "i'm gonna find you a good one."
you hummed, sipping your coffee. "make it good."
"so how's pookie bearâ"
you threw another pillow at him.
you should have known it wouldn't have worked.
you groaned at the appearance of infinity.
he smirked at you. "i'm taking that as a yes."
"i hate you."
"no, you don't."
imagine you and best friend! satoru realizing you have to deal with everyoneâs reactions now.
you both spend the day together in your apartment, just going and watching the first season of love is blind. satoru was getting way into it that he ended up screaming at how badly it's going.
in the middle of your transition to season two, your phone goes on and buzzes once again. you raised a brow, picking up your phone again, checking who it was. must be a message again.
you purse your lips into a line. it wasn't a message this time. right now itâs your boss, yaga masamichi you on the other line calling. you exchange a look with satoru and showed him who was calling.
the white haired man smirks as he leans on your rather comfortable couch, mouthing for you to answer it. you roll your eyes at him before pressing the button to answer and putting the call on speaker.
âuhâhello?â
âget to my office. now. and bring gojo.â
you furrow your brows. "for....for what, yaga?"
"for human resources talk." he says rather bluntly. "on relationships and ethics."
"hey, yagaâ" satoru starts to say in a cheerful tone.
but before satoru can breathe another word, yaga masamichi immediately ended the call. you sighed heavily as you glare at him, quickly putting away your phone. you move to take your second cup of coffee and drinking it.
satoru sips his (cold) first coffee. âwelp...... i guess weâre in trouble. now.â
you groan, dragging a hand down your face soon after you drink. âugh, i can't believe this. satoru, this is all your fault.â
âmy fault?â he overdramatically gasps, feigning offense at your accusation. âwho was it that panicked and said, âYES, I DO!â in the middle of a restaurant knowing we were already fake married?â
you glare at him. âwho the hell fucking kneels like its a proposal without warning just to tie their shoes in a romantic high end restaurant during the middle of valentines day rush hour, huh? of course i'd think it's a proposal, dumbass!"
he grins at your rant, raising his coffee cup up like it was a toast. âsomeone who's happy to be a trendsetter.â
you smack his arm, and he laughs, dodging you easily. âcâmon, letâs go and see yaga, let's just get this over with and give him what he wants.â
imagine you finding out that best friend! satoru actually really likes you.
you expect the meeting with yaga to be a disaster. that's just how it goes when you had meetings with yaga when you were in high school. i mean, that's just how it was back then. you were always getting roped in satoru and suguru's stupid little messages, after all.
but as soon as you both arrived, he sat you both down and started to go and tell you both about how there's paperwork that has to be done and that you and satoru should remember ecthics (especially satoru).
well, that was much more on the fact that satoru's too well paid and relatively rich and he shouldn't be ripping people off with emotional manipulation when he could afford not getting the vouchers from a restaurant.
but all in all, it was a new experience with yaga. maybe he was really getting old. because by the end of it, he does something that you don't expect and pat you and satoru in the back.
yaga then sigh deeply, rub his temples and then simply says. âjust keep it professional at work. especially you satoru. i'm watching you."
"but yaga, i can't say no if they offer it to meâ"
"no ifs or buts, satoru." yaga successfully cuts satoru off. "i don't care if you get them. just give them to [name]."
"yeah, satoru. give them to me." you also butt in, almost cheekily with a shit-eating grin on your face.
"you're so annoying, i can't believe this."
yaga turns to you. "don't provoke him, not here. i want this to go as fast as possible so this can just not be more paperwork than it already is."
and then after that, thatâs it. there were no punishments, no dramatic consequences from him like it used to be. it was just a pat in the back and a warning not to let your engagement interfere with your jobs. and to get take advantage of too many free coupons.
when you and satoru leave the office, you both exhale in relief. you both started to make your way out into the hall way before you went ahead and started stretching, letting the sun hit you as you walked.
âthat was surprisingly easy, wasn't it?â you muttered to him. "that was so unlike yaga."
satoru smirks. âyeah, almost like heâs given up on controlling me.â
"well, i can't really call it giving up, more like he's just....you know, making life easier for him." you yawned back at him. "well, except on the coupons."
"hey, when it's being offered to me, who am i to go and say no to some good old granny offering it to me in a tuesday in her petite little shop?"
"that's why." you sighed back at him.
with the biggest hurdle out of the way, you assume things will settle down. though, it's another thing when it comes to the group chat. the group chat was still going on about it.
but you were sure today, it will eventually stop being an explosive news trend. and people would actually come to believe that you and satoru are actually, really, canonically engaged.
well, it should be fine. really, it should be. i mean, if you can fake being engaged, then you can fake breaking up too, right? it just takes a little bit of the imagination to do it all over again.
or how he insists on holding your hand when youâre out together whether that's in a public spor or a private spot, even when no one was around to go and watch the two of you.
but then it just really escalates, to the point of no return.
one night, when youâre out with some of your friends, and when someone teases you about the engagement and how it went viral on social media.
and satoru does something that you didn't expect. gojo satoru doesnât joke back. instead, the white haired man merely wraps an arm around your shoulders and casually says to that person, âyeah, that's the point. she's mine. that's how it works, no?â
your eyes were wide to the point of bursting. satoru smiles, his blue eyes narrowed. but they were not bluffing, you can see it really well. you know that look all too well for him to just be playing an act. he means it.
you felt a sudden panic. you know that it's an act. well, it should be an act. it should be part of the bit, the one that you were both in on. but the way he looks at you at this moment, all too focused, all too sincereâ you know that itâs not fake.
what was this damn feeling? you try to ignore it. but you don't know how to. not when you could feel your heart beat going on and on and on when you keep lookign at him.
you tell yourself to stop looking, to stop focusing on him. you tell your body to stop being so damn red all the time, to stop feeling flustered whenever you try to not kick your feet when he laughs.
you keep trying to convince yourself that heâs just too committed to the joke. that this is just all good fun between the two of you, that you both can stop worrying about this in no time.
until one night, when it all falls apart.
imagine best friend! satoru accidentally confessing his feelings to you.
it unfortunately happens during a late-night walk after a long mission. you both ended up taking missions that's only a few train stations away from each other.
you didn't want to give in, at first. but of course satoru keeps asking about your mission today and where you'll be. and he was happy to know you both will end up easily meeting if you ride the train to where he was.
and that's what ends up happening. you finished your mission within a couple of hours and immediately meet him at his favorite cafe in roppongi, already finishing a bout of the pastries they had in there.
you sighed as you sipped through the remainder of your strawberry matcha drink with tender ease, continuing to walk beside satoru through the brightly lit alleyways.
this part of city is quiet for some reason, believe it or not. usually roppongi is busy, but satoru seems to know which streets are relatively empty at this time.
well, you supposed that's just how it works sometimes. roppongi is his playground after all. you always preferred enjoying around shimokitazawa. there were too many good thrift stores and local food stores you go there.
all through out the walk, you noticed that gojo satoru is uncharacteristically silent. which was way too unlike him. it was really freaking you out. you have never had this much silence when it comes to gojo satoru.
you finally go and nudge him with your elbow. âwhatâs the hell is up with you?â
he exhales, shoving his hands into his pockets. ânothing.â
a pause comes as you both continue to walk.
you wanted to say something again, to ask.
but then he beats you to it as he looks at you.
he sighs rather softly. âreally, it's nothing. i'm just thinking.â
you tilt your head, brows furrowed downward. âabout what?â
he suddenly stops walking, turns to face you, and you know. even before he says it, you know. satoru never hesitates. you don't think you've ever seen this man ever have a second thought when it comes to things he's serious about.
he never falters, never holds back. but right now, standing under the dim glow of the streetlights, he looks rather nervous. and when he speaks, his voice is quieter than youâve ever heard it. he just never was that type of person. he's not someone who falters, or ever holds back.
but right now, standing under the dim glow of the streetlights, he looks rather nervous. if anything, he looked more like a young school boy trying to convey something. and it was something you had never seen.
that's why it astounds you when he speaks a little later, with his voice is quieter than youâve ever heard it. âyou know i wasnât actually joking, right?â
your breath catches, nearly dropping your strawberry matcha. âwhat?â
âthis whole thing, all this.â he gestures vaguely, almost all too messy. âthis thing....this....us. it's not....it wasnât really fake. well, at least not for me.â
you felt like time stopped in that moment. you could feel your heart stop. everything in the world just suddenly stopping. everything around the two of you, everything just suddenly stops.
you canât think. you canât breathe. does satoru actually like you? does he really have this true honesty in his heart about this? you just felt like you were malfunctioning right now.
and furthermore, you have to stop right now and think, to go on and start asking you have to ask yourself all these questionsâwas it ever fake for you, either? and most of all, do you actually like him too?
all the sudden this inevitable silence continues to compound and stretch between the two of you. all there was now was the weight of his all too honest words lingers in the air, heavier than anything youâve ever faced together.
you open your mouth, but nothing comes out. gojo satoru, for once in his life, isnât smiling. heâs just looking at you for approval, for reciprocation.
you watched as his nervous hands still remained shoved deep into his pockets like heâs bracing himself for impact. like heâs waiting for you to break his heart and reject him and tell him that this isn't what you want from him.
you swallow and took a breath. âsatoruâŠâ
he exhales sharply, tilting his head back. âyou donât have to say anything to me, really.....i justââ
"hey, i want to say something but i just...."
his lips quirk up, but itâs not his usual cocky grin. Itâs smaller, almost hesitant. âyou don't have to say something out of pity, really. i just....i'm not trying to convince you. i just....figured you should know.â
your mind continues to race. you and satoru have always been best friends. from childhood to now, you were always what the other needed. you bicker, you tease, you share meals and inside jokes. you had a world of your own.
but then you think about all the little things as you grew older and got even closer, there were things you missed along the way. now you could see the way he always saves you the last bite of his dessert, the way he reaches for your hand even when thereâs no reason to. the way his gaze lingers, softer than it has any right to be.
the way you never pulled away.
the way you never wanted to.
the way you wanted it to continue.
"wait, you like me?" you say, with mouth agaped. "what?"
"yes!" he says, almost defensively. "what's wrong with that?"
"nothing, nothing is wrong with that. i just....." you take a slow breath, calming yourself. âsince when?â
satoru huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. âdunno. maybe....a while now.â his eyes flick to yours. âi didnât mean for it to happen, yâknow? but then we fake-dated, and i thoughtââ
you purse your lips. "you thought?"
he hesitates, but he says it anyway. âmaybe if i played pretend long enough, youâd actually look at me that way.â
your chest aches at his words. for a moment you let them sit and let yourself think inwards. to think about all these years together. and those little hints you felt within you, those little butterflies that dwelled upon your belly little by little.
you think about the times when youâd felt right at home when satoru put his arm around you in public. how your heart would continue to skip a beat when heâd whispered my favorite minx or my sweetheart just a little too softly. how the idea of this not being real had stung more than you were willing to admit.
you step closer, and his breath catches. âsatoru.â you say again, quieter this time. "hey, listen to me."
âyeah?â he looked at you, almost too hopeful, too eager for you to see him. to look take in the whole of him. "what you want, sweetheart?"
you could feel your cheeks flushed and your heart running a marathon as you reach for his hand. you let them curl gently around your fingers, ever so tightly, as though there was no more option to let go. he watches you do what you did. he doesnât move, doesnât breathe.
ââŠwhat if Iâm already looking at you that way?â you ask him, almost too shyly as you try your darnest to continue to look at him. "i mean....what if i'm just into this as you are?"
his head snaps toward you. his lips suddenly part. his fingers tighten around yours, like heâs afraid youâll let go. then he exhales a breathless laugh, tipping his forehead against yours. you gasped lightly, finally face to face all too wholly.
âgod, i hope you mean that.â his voice is barely more than a whisper.
his tone just feels rough around the edges like heâs afraid to say it too loudly, as if giving the words too much weight might make them collapse. his bright eyes were now dark and searching, flicker across your face, desperate to find any hint of hesitation.
âbecause thereâs no takebacks, okay?â
his breath is uneven, his chest rising and falling too quickly as he waits for your answer. he looks like heâs bracing for impact, like heâs convinced that at any second, youâll change your mind.
that you would walk away and realize this is a mistake, like you would go on and step back, and leave him standing in the wreckage of something that never had the chance to begin. but you donât.
âi do mean it, you know?â you whisper to him, with a small smile. "trust me, okay?"
he could feel how each word carry the weight of every stolen glance, every unsaid confession, every moment that had led you here. your souls meet in that one gaze, colliding in the space between you, threading together something fragile yet unbreakable.
and so when he leans in slowly, cautiously, like heâs giving you every possible chance to pull away, but you donât. rather, you didn't want to. instead you smiled at him. you'd waited just as long as him.
instead, you let the moment stretch, let the air between you hum with the tension of everything youâve both been too afraid to say. his fingers twitch at his sides, like he wants to touch you but isnât sure if heâs allowed. his breath mingles with yours, warm and shaky, a silent plea in itself.
so you close the distance for him. itâs not a desperate kiss, not a collision of lips and urgency. itâs something softer, something reverent.
it was like heâs memorizing the shape of you, like heâs terrified this is all a too good of a dream that will slip through his fingers the second he moves too fast and he would wake up with nothing, without you in his arms.
his hand comes up, hesitant at first, before finally settling along your jaw, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. the touch sends a shiver down your spine, a quiet ache blooming in your chest. you tilt your head, pressing into him, answering his silent question with your own certainty.
and thatâs all he needs. the hesitation melts away as he deepens the kiss, his other hand slipping to your waist, pulling you just close enough that he can feel the way your heart is racing.
it was running just as fast as his. everything about this was feeling so overwhelming, so intoxicating. everything about it just feels like it was magical. everything else fades into nothing but this. but him. just it should be.
when you finally pull apart, breathless and dazed, he doesnât let go. his forehead rests against yours, his fingers still tracing idle patterns against your skin.
âyouâre sure?â he asks again, but thereâs something different in his voice this time. something softer, like heâs starting to believe you.
you smile, small but certain. âiâve never been more sure of anything.â
summary: nanami kento prides himself on his discipline, efficiency, and ironclad work ethic. you, on the other hand, are a paragon of spontaneity and relentless optimism. as ceo, youâre used to getting what you wantâand your next business venture? winning him over.
âą pairing: secretary!nanami kento x ceo!fem!reader
âą contains: fluff, mild angst, smut (oral sex, desk sex, protected sex, angry sex, slight dirty talk), office romance au, grumpy x sunshine, profanity, alcohol consumption, parental pressure to get married, corrupt corporate companies, implied misogynyâplease let me know if iâve missed anything!
âą word count: 17.9k
âą art credit: pinterest | read on ao3 here.
Nanami Kento is a man of routine. At precisely 7:26 A.M, he heads out of his apartment with his tie knotted perfectly and his shoes shined. At 7:43 A.M, he reaches the coffee shop he always frequents, and by 7:54 A.M, he walks out with an iced coffee with three shots of espresso (for himself) and a Mocha Cookie Crumble Frappuccino (for you).Â
If he drives fast enough, he can clock in at his workplace by 8:28 A.M, and by the time he reaches his desk, itâs 8:31 A.M. He waits patiently for you to arrive sometime between 8:36 and 8:49. Usually, you arrive exactly at 8:45 A.M, and until then, Nanami works on making a list of all the tasks scheduled for today, in order of greatest priority.
Itâs when the clock starts inching towards 9:25 A.M and you still havenât arrived, that Nanami Kento starts to get a little bit worried.
At 9:26 A.M, Nanami finally sets down his pen. He isnât the type to fidget, nor is he the type to worry unnecessarily, but thereâs an undeniable itch in his chestâa quiet, nagging thought that something is off. He checks his watch. Then his phone. No missed calls, no unread messages. Highly unusual.
The drink he bought for you sits untouched on your desk, the condensation already forming a damp ring on the pristine surface. You always take the first sip as soon as you walk in, mumbling some variation of how you need caffeine to tolerate capitalism.
He waits exactly three more minutes before standing.
If anyone notices the way he strides towards the elevator with more urgency than usual, they donât comment. The buildingâs lobby is its usual mess of suits and hurried footsteps, but your usual entranceâheels clicking against polished tile, a cheerful âMorning, Nanami!ââis absent.
He exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly as he debates his next move. Calling you outright would be overstepping. You are his boss. He is your secretary. If you were simply running late, you would text.
That means something must have happened.
Nanami adjusts his tie and makes the call anyway. The phone rings. Once, twice, three timesâand then, finally, your voice; groggy and unmistakably hoarse.
â...Nanami?â
He clenches his jaw. âWhere are you?â
You pause, followed by a rustling sound, as if youâre shifting under blankets. âOh, shit.â
âYou overslept,â Nanami states.
âUh,â you say intelligently. âMaybe?â
Nananmi doesnât sigh, though he wants to. Youâre an excellent CEOâbrilliant, quick-witted, sharper than most people twice your age. But responsible when it comes to your own well-being? Absolutely not.
Thereâs more shifting on your end, followed by a muffled groan. âI might be a little hungover.â
âOf course you are.â His glasses have slid down the bridge of his nose, so he adjusts the frame.
âListen, it was my friendâs birthdayââ
âThatâs not an excuse.â
âOkay, mother.â
Nanami does sigh this time. He glances at his watch. If he leaves now, he can get to your apartment in twelve minutes, fifteen if traffic is bad. âIâm coming to get you.â
âWait, what?â
âYouâll waste another thirty minutes trying to function. Iâll be there in twelve.â
Thereâs a long pause. Then, in a voice thatâs entirely too suspicious for someone who just admitted to being hungover, you say, â...How do you know where I live?â
âI fill out your paperwork,â the secretary says.
Another pause. âThis feels like an invasion of privacy.â
âYou list it under the company address.â
âWell, I could be lying.â
âAre you?â
Silence. Then, begrudgingly, you admit, âNo.â
Nanami does not have the time for this. Heâs already halfway to the parking garage, briefcase in hand, and his patienceâthough formidableâis starting to wear thin. âStay put. Drink some water. Donât make it worse.â
You hum. âDefine worse.â
âDonât make me regret my employment here.âÂ
Thereâs a chuckle on your end before the call clicks off. Nanami shoves his phone into his pocket and fishes for his car keys. The headlights of his white Toyota Corolla blink back at him. He slides into the driverâs seat as quickly as possible and starts the engine.
Nanami Kento does not speed. He is a very responsible driver. Yet, here he is, at 9:41 A.M, speeding towards your apartment because you overslept, are likely still half-drunk, and have a board meeting in less than an hour. Objectively speaking, this should not be his problem. But Nanami has long-since accepted that you are his problem.
There is a margin of error in his schedule now, and he does not like it. His mind is already running through the necessary steps to minimise the damage.
Best Case Scenario (Highly Unlikely): Youâre already awake, dressed and hydrated. You recognise the consequences of your actions. You get in the car immediately. The meeting proceeds as planned. (The probability of this happening is about the same as Gojo Satoru from HR filing his paperwork on time.)
Most Likely Scenario (Unfortunate but Expected): You answer the door in your pyjamas. You have not consumed a single drop of water. You groan at him, complain about work, and stall for at least ten minutes. He has to herd you into productivity like a kindergarten teacher. He gets you to the office just in timeâbarely.
Worst-Case Scenario (God Forbid): Youâre still in bed. You refuse to move. You throw up on his shoes (he will quit). You open the board meeting by saying something absurd like, âGentlemen, what if we invested in a company that just makes really big spoons?â and Nanami Kento gets fired.
He adjusts his tie at a red light. No, he refuses to let it reach that point.
By the time he pulls up to your apartment, he is ready. He checks his watch once more. 9:53 A.M. Nanami forgoes the elevator in favour of climbing up the staircase two steps at a time. Your apartment is on the fifth floor, and he knocks twice. Firm and precise.
The door swings open, and you areâwell. Exactly what Nanami had expected.
Youâre standing in the doorway wearing an oversized hoodie and what are definitely not your pants. Your hair is a tangled mess, mascara faintly smudged beneath your eyes. Nanami is not a man easily shaken, but this is certainly not how he expected to start his morning.
âYou look awful,â he says.
You groan, dragging a hand down your face. âGood morning to you too, sunshine.â
Nanami steps into your apartment uninvited. The place is surprisingly not a disaster, though for a luxury apartment, it does seem a tad bit shabby. An empty wine glass balances precariously on your coffee table, next to a half-eaten slice of cheesecake andâGod help himâwhat appears to be a sequined tiara.Â
He chooses not to ask. Instead, he sets his briefcase down, rolls up his sleeves, and heads straight for your kitchen.
You blink. âWhat are you doing?â
âFixing this.â He pulls open your fridge, scanning the contents with a critical eye. It is, to his horror, mostly condiments. âWhen was the last time you ate a proper meal?â
You scratch your cheek. âUm. Last night?â
He shuts the fridge a little harder than necessary. âCheesecake doesnât count.â
âRude. That cake was expensive.â
Nanami ignores you, opting instead to fill a glass of water. He hands it over, watching as you take a slow, reluctant sip. âDrink all of it,â he instructs.
âYou sound like my mom,â you say, squinting at him.
âYes, well, if your mother were here, I assume she wouldnât have let you drink half your body weight in alcohol the night before a board meeting.â
âWait.â Your eyes widen. âThe board meeting.â
Nanami resists the urge to point out that this should have been your first concern, not the last. âYes,â he says, âthe one that starts in thirty-five minutes.â
You suck in a breath sharply. âI need to shower.â
âObviously.â
âI donât have time to do my hair.â
âYouâre wearing it up.â
âI donât have time for makeup.â
âYou keep a bag in your office.â
You scowl. âYouâre very annoying, you know that?â
Nanami gives you a pointed look, taking your empty glass of water from your hands. âYes.â
You grumble something under your breath before disappearing into your room, the door clicking shut behind you. Nanami sighs. He takes off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose, before rolling his shoulders. He deserves a pay raise.
By the time Nanami drags you into the office, youâre at least functioning. Heâs made sure of it. He forced you to drink two full bottles of water and a homemade electrolyte mix (which you gagged on); stopped you from wearing a sweatshirt that said Eat the Rich (your argument was that it was thematically appropriate); shoved a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich into your hands (which you sullenly ate in the elevator, glaring at him the entire time); and silently questioned all of his life choices.
And now, he stands beside you in the conference room, arms crossed, expression stoic, while you sit at the head of the long, polished table, addressing a room full of corporate executives.
To your credit, youâre holding your own. Your voice is even. Your sentences are concise. Your data is accurate. If Nanami didnât know that you had been half-dead in bed forty minutes ago, he wouldnât be able to tell.
The board membersâa collection of old money, new money, and at least one guy who definitely inherited his position from his fatherâwatch you with varying degrees of interest. Some, like Flower Bandana and Secret Tattoo from Marketing, nod along. Others, most notably, Wire-Rimmed Glasses and Charcoal Pants, pretend to skim the reports in front of them. Nepotism Baby, however, is very obviously checking golf scores under the table.
Nanami clocks all of it. Still, you power through.
ââand as you can see, our projected quarterly growth remains steady despite recent market shifts. However, to maintain momentum, we need to prioritise long-term investments inââ You pause. Nanami notices it immediatelyâa brief hesitation, a flicker of your fingers against the table.
Youâve forgotten what you were saying.
To the untrained eye, it is imperceptible. To Nanami, who has spent an ungodly amount of time observing you, itâs as obvious as a flashing neon sign.Â
Before you can recover, Salt-and-Pepper Board Memberâthe one who always speaks in a tone that suggests he hasnât been happy since the Reagan administrationâleans forward. âMiss CEO,â he says, adjusting his gold watch, âbefore we move forward, Iâd like to address something.â
âOf course,â you reply smoothly, though Nanami catches the way your hands tense against the table.
Salt-and-Pepper clasps his hands together. âWhile we appreciate your insights, I have to askââ a pause, carefully calculated for dramatic effectâ âwhat exactly is your long-term vision for the company?â
The room stills. Itâs a trap. A carefully laid, passive-aggressive, MBA-scented trap. Nanami watches you closely. He knows this type of boardroom maneuverâan underhanded way to question your competence without outrightly saying it. Testing the waters to see if youâll crack, so to speak.
You, as always, rise to the occasion.
âMy vision?â you repeat, tilting your head slightly, voice measured. âThatâs an interesting question.â
Nanami presses his lips together. He can see the gears turning in your head.
You lean back in your chair, lacing your fingers together. âIf I had to sum it up, Iâd say my long-term vision is simple: Growth, innovation, and ensuring that this company doesnât crumble under the weight of its own outdated bureaucracy.â
Salt-and-Pepperâs eyes narrow just slightly. You continue.
âBecause letâs be honest, gentlemenââ (Nanami notes how you conveniently exclude the few women in the room; they could do no wrong in your eyes) ââwe could sit here, shuffle numbers, and pat ourselves on the back for maintaining the status quo, or we could actually build something for the future. Something sustainable, something adaptive. Something that doesnât leave us scrambling every time the market shifts.â
Impressive. Nanami hides his amusement behind a neutral expression. Youâve managed to say absolutely nothing while making it sound like youâve said everything. A skill only a true genius could master. Salt-and-Pepperâs eyebrows pinch. He opens his mouthâlikely to challenge youâbut before he can, Nanami steps in.
âFurther details on our strategic initiatives can be found on page five,â he says, flipping to the appropriate section in the report. âYouâll find that the CEOâs approach aligns with our projected financial goals and ensures continued shareholder confidence.â
Translation: Shut up and read the damn report. Salt-and-Pepper huffs in irritation.
The meeting continues. Charts are analysed. Projections are debated. Wire-Rimmed Glasses tries to poke holes in your marketing budget, only for Secret Tattoo to shut him down with three lines of data and an unimpressed eyebrow raise. Nepotism Baby suddenly develops an interest in the conversation only when someone brings up potential tax incentives.
Throughout it all, Nanami stands beside you like a quiet, immovable force of nature, ready to step in whenever necessaryâthough, to his silent chagrin, you seem to be having fun.
âYou know,â you say, after redirecting a particularly obtuse question from Charcoal Pants, âI was going to bring this up later, but since weâre already on the subject of outdated modelsââ
Nanami immediately dislikes where this is going.
ââIâd love to discuss our executive compensation structure.â
The temperature in the room drops several degrees. Thereâs a long, pointed silence. Salt-and-Pepper visibly tenses. Wire-Rimmed Glasses stops pretending to read his report. Charcoal Pants blinks very fast. Nanami sighs. You are testing his patience. Heâs not sure what youâre trying to achieve by discussing potential salary cuts to the Board of Directors, but it is too late now, and he is in too deep.
âCompensation structure?â Salt-and-Pepper repeats, as if youâve just suggested setting fire to the stock portfolio.
âYes,â you agree. âAs you all know, our yearly executive bonuses amount to a significant percentage of our net profits. While rewarding performance is important, I believe we should also explore options that align with our long-term company health.â
One of Salt-and-Pepperâs eyes twitches. âI see. And what exactly do you propose?â
âA more balanced structure. Something performance-driven, sure, but also weighted in a way that ensures weâre reinvesting into the company and our employees. After all, a company is only as strong as its people.â
âThatâs a⊠bold suggestion.â Salt-and-Pepper smiles, but it is a smile in the way a wolf bares its teeth.
âOh, I know.â You flash him a blindingly fake grin. âBut thatâs what visionaries do, right? Think boldly?â
The discussion moves forward. The board members clearly have no interest in discussing executive pay cuts, and after five minutes of unproductive back-and-forth, Nanami steps in to smooth things over.
âWe can table this discussion for another time,â he offers. âLetâs return to our key agenda items.â
Translation: You are all embarrassing yourselves. Move on. Thus, the meeting drags to an exhausting close. As the last board member exits, the conference room falls into silence. Nanami breathes out slowly. He turns his attention back to youâwhere you sit, still slumped in your chair, spinning a pen between your fingers.Â
You look pleased with yourself. Of course, you do.
âYouâre mean,â he says plainly.
You grin, unapologetic. âBut youâre still here.â
Nanami presses his lips together, but he doesnât deny it. Youâre right; he is still here. Still standing beside you, still following you through your commitments and obligations, still making sure you donât self-destruct before lunch, let alone the fiscal year. Still watching.
Nanami Kento isnât blind to his own habits. He is not a man given to sentiment, nor is he someone who allows himself to be distracted. He has spent years cultivating a certain discipline, a carefully maintained distance between himself and his work.Â
Yet, here he is.
Here he is, noticing things. Like the way your fingers tap absently against the table when youâre thinking. The way you tilt your head ever-so slightly when someone challenges you, as if already preparing a rebuttal. The way you wield charm and sharp wit like a weapon, disarming a room full of men who think they can rattle you.
Here he is, memorising things. Like the exact cadence of your voice when youâre amused versus when youâre irritated. The way you argue, not just for the sake of arguing, but because you genuinely believe things should be better.
Here he is, wondering things. Like why the sight of you so thoroughly holding your own in that room makes something in his chest feel curiously, infuriatingly warm.Â
He shouldnât. He shouldnât worry about you, shouldnât be so aware of the way your presence has begun to take up space in his thoughts.
Nanami isnât sure when it started. Maybe it was the first time you dragged him into a fight you had no business winning, arguing down a board member twice your age with nothing but facts and deduction. Maybe it was the morning you shoved a coffee into his hands without preamble, grumbling something about corporate capitalism slowly draining the life out of him. Maybe it was when he realised that despite your recklessness, despite your exhausting tendency to push every limitâ
You were trying.Â
Maybe thatâs why he stays. Not because youâre impossible. Not because you test his patience on a daily basis, but because, despite it all, Nanami believes in you. Maybeâjust maybeâthat belief is starting to feel like something else entirely.
He clears his throat, shaking off whatever momentary lapse has settled over him. âYour next meeting is in fifteen minutes,â he says, already turning towards the door. âTry not to fall asleep before lunch.â
âNo promises,â you call after him, and Nanami forces himself not to look back.
The next morning, you arrive at 8:45 A.M on the dot, and though you donât greet Nanami with a chipper good morning wish, you do shove a neatly-wrapped roll of melonpan into his arms.Â
âFor yesterday,â you explain. âThanks for picking me up even though itâs not a part of your job.â
Nanami stares at the melon bread in his hands. Itâs soft, and still warm, wrapped in crinkly butter paper. For a moment, he simply blinks at it, as if itâs some kind of foreign object, something misplaced in the orderly structure of his morning routine. (It is.)Â
Then, he looks at you. Youâre already at your desk, halfway through flipping through a manila folder, scanning through documents with your brows furrowed in concentration. But Nanami catches itâthe way your fingers loosely hold the paper, the way your shoulders arenât as stiff as they were yesterday. Itâs an offeringâbut more than that, itâs you remembering, because the name of the bakery printed on the butter paper is his favourite one.
He sets the melonpan carefully on the desk beside his coffee. âIt was never not part of my job.â
âHuh?â Your head snaps up.
âLooking after you.â
Your brows knit together in something Nanami recognises as your default setting: Suspicion. âThatâs not in your job description.â
âIt should be,â he says, shrugging.
Your expression flickersâjust for a secondâbefore you roll your eyes. âGreat. So Iâve officially become a liability. Good to know.â
âYouâve been a liability since day one.â
âWow. Youâve been holding onto that one, huh?â
âIâm simply stating facts.â Nanami picks up the bread, breaking off a piece, and takes a bite. The outer layer of cookie dough is crisp, and it melts on his tongue with just the right amount of sweetness.
Your lips press together, like youâre trying to fight off a smile. âSo?â
Nanami chews, swallows, and nods once. âAcceptable.â
âOh, shut up. You love it.â
He says nothing, merely covers up the bread with the butter paper once more and places it next to his coffee once more. You look pretty today, he thinks. Youâve recovered from yesterdayâs series of meetings. Youâre smiling more. It might turn out to be a good day after all. Nanami doesnât allow himself to linger on the thought. He reaches for his coffee, taking a sip, while you return to your documents, flipping a page with a little too much force.
âYou have a meeting at ten,â he reminds you.
âI know.â
âAnd a working lunch with Legal.â
You make a noise of protest. âNot the suits. Again.â
âThey have concerns about the expansion,â Nanami says mildly.
âThey always have concerns.â You sigh, tilting your head back against your chair. âI swear, they enjoy making my life difficult.â
Nanami hums noncommittally. Itâs not an argument heâs inclined to entertainâmostly because he knows youâll win, and youâll be smug about it. Instead, he glances at his watch. âYou have exactly ten minutes before the executive team starts pestering me about your whereabouts.â
You make a face, dropping your folder onto your desk with a soft thud. âCanât I justâskip?â
Nanami gives you a look. You groan and stretch your arms above your head, letting out a soft sigh before reaching for your pen. He watches as you jot something down in the margins of your notes. Youâre still tired, he realises. Maybe not visibly, not in the way you were yesterday, but he sees it. The way you rub your temple when you think he isnât looking, or the way your posture shifts just slightly when you exhale. Itâs ridiculous, really, how attuned he is to you.
He clears his throat. âI rescheduled your two-thirty to tomorrow.â
You blink at him. âWhy?â
âBecause youâll need the break.â
You purse your lips, considering this, and for a second, he thinks youâll argue. But then, to his quiet surprise, you nod. â...Okay.â
The ten oâclock meeting is exactly as tedious as Nanami expects it to be. The executive team drones on about projections and budget allocations, with at least three separate tangents about âsynergyâ and âmaximising operational efficiency.â Nanami watches as you nod along at all the right moments, feigning interest while you fiddle with your pen. He knows youâre not actually absorbing any of itâyour attention is already elsewhere, likely preoccupied with the looming meeting with Legal.Â
(He knows this because, at one point, you doodle a tiny stick figure on the margins of your notes. When the CFO asks for your thoughts, you barely miss a beat before delivering a perfectly rehearsed response.)
When the meeting ends, he follows behind you. You stretch discreetly, rolling out your shoulders, and when you glance at him, your expression is a silent plea for mercy.
Nanami sighs. âStop looking at me like that.â
âLike what?â
âLike you expect me to spare you from your next obligation.â
âBut you could,â you say, all mock innocence.
âI wonât,â he answers.
You heave a sigh. âYouâre heartless.â
âIâm efficient.â
âSame thing.â
âYou have twenty minutes before your next meeting,â Nanami says instead. âEat something.â
âOkay, boss.â
Your secretary rolls his eyes. âYouâll thank me later.â
You do, albeit reluctantly. The legal teamâs working lunch is predictably dull, full of jargon and contingency plans and hypothetical risks that you pretend to take notes on. At some point, you throw Nanami a look so filled with unspoken suffering that, if he were a softer man, he might have pitied you.Â
See? your expression seems to say over the rim of your coffee cup, eyes flat with boredom. This is my suffering.
Nanami lets his mouth twitch upwards. Youâll survive.
You donât know that. You narrow your eyes at him.
You do surviveâjust barelyâthrough an hour of suffocating legalese, sitting through discussions on compliance policies and liability frameworks with a blank notepad and polite nods. You havenât written anything down except Help me in the margins, which Nanami had caught a glimpse of when youâd shifted the notepad slightly. When the meeting finally, mercifully, ends, you slump back in your chair, stretching your legs out beneath the conference table with an exaggerated groan.
âI deserve a reward for making it through that,â you mutter.
Nanami flips through his schedule. âYour reward is not getting sued.â
âThatâs a terrible reward,â you retort, scrunching your nose.
âItâs an important one.â
âYouâre no fun, you know that?â you say, but thereâs no real bite to it. Just annoyance, not directed at him.
âI do,â Nanami says, without missing a beat.
You huff a soft laugh, shaking your head before pushing yourself to stand. He follows suit, gathering his notes. Itâs only when you step out of the conference room that he notices it againâthe way your fingers tap absently against your arm, the slight crease in your forehead.
Youâre preoccupied. Not just with workâno, heâd recognise that kind of stress easily. This is something else.
Nanami doesnât pry. He never does. If you wanted to talk about it, you would. But when you step into the elevator and donât immediately pull out your phone or launch into complaints about Legal, he speaks before he can stop himself. âWhatâs on your mind?â
You turn to him, mildly surprised. âWhat do you mean?â
âYouâve been distracted all morning,â he says evenly.
âItâs nothing serious,â you say, a little softer than usual. âJust⊠something personal.â
Thatâs more than he expected you to admit. Nanami nods. He doesnât push further or demand an explanation, but he asks, âDo you need anything?â
âIââ Your fingers still against your arm. âNo. Iâm fine.â
Nanami Kento doesnât believe in prying. Heâs spent years making sure the lines between professional and personal stay intact, clean and neat. You, however, have spent just as long ignoring those lines completely. He could leave it at that. Should, probably. Itâs not his place to push, not when you so rarely let people in. But the problem is, he knows you too wellâor, at least, better than most. He knows you well enough to recognise when youâre on the verge of running yourself into the ground, or to see through the half-hearted distractions you use to keep yourself from thinking too much.
The elevator doors slide open, and you step out first, wringing your hands like youâre physically squeezing out whatever was on your mind. He doesnât comment when you pick up your pace, diving headfirst back into work as though you were never distracted in the first place.
Itâs strange, he thinks, this feeling that lingers in his chest as he watches you settle back behind your desk. Heâs always known his role in your life. Heâs your secretary, your buffer against boardroom politics, the person who keeps your world running just a little more smoothly. He arranges your meetings, reorganises your schedule, and reminds you to eat when youâre too caught up in your work to remember.
Still.Â
There are moments like theseâmoments where the boundary blurs, where the concern twists into something deeper. Moments where he finds himself wanting to do more than just keep you organised.Â
Itâs a dangerous thought, one he has no business entertaining, so he doesnât.
Nanami Kento is not a morning person. He is, however, a responsible person, which means he is usually awake at a reasonable hour, even on weekends. Today is no exception.
His apartment is quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wallâthe minute hand inches towards 7:42 A.Mâand the occasional rustle of a turning page as he reads. A fresh cup of coffee sits within reach, steam curling lazily into the air. Itâs black, strong, and exactly the way he likes itâno unnecessary sweetness, no frills. This is how he prefers to spend his time off: A slow morning, a good book, and silence.
Then his phone buzzes. Nanami glances at the screen, frowning slightly at the name that appears. You. He sighs, already feeling a headache coming on. Nothing good ever comes from you calling him on a weekend. Or at all, really.Â
Still, he picks up. âWhat?â
For a moment, thereâs nothing but silence on the other end. Then he hears you take in a breath, like youâre working up the nerve to speak. âHey, umâ Are you busy?â
âItâs my day off.â Nanami closes his book and leans back in his chair, his fingers pressing against his temple.
âI know,â you say quickly. Your voice sounds a little differentâsofter, almost unsure. That alone puts him on edge. He isnât used to you hesitating. âThatâs⊠actually why I called.â
His frown deepens. He recognises this setup. This is how people sound right before they ask him for something. Nanami shifts the phone to his other ear, already resigned. âWhat do you want?â
âOkay, first of all,â you say, defensive already, âI resent the implication that I only call you when I need something.â
âThat is the only time you call me.â
â...Okay, fine. Thatâs fair.â
Nanami sighs again. He swears he isnât the sighing sort of person, but you seem to bring out sides of him he never knew existed. âWhat is it?â
Thereâs another pause, longer this time. He hears the faint sound of movementâmaybe you shifting your weight, maybe you fidgeting. He almost rolls his eyes.Â
âThereâs a flea market today,â you say, but thereâs something different about the way you say it. Your voice is notably quieter, almost hesitant. âI, um⊠I wanted to go, but I donât really have anyone to go with.â
Nanami stills. You? Hesitant? You, who has no problem bossing him around at work, who never hesitates to demand his time and attention, shy about asking him for a favour? Something about the way you say it makes his chest unfurl with warmth.
âSo,â you continue, voice uncertain in a way he isnât used to, âI was wondering if maybe youâd wanna come with me?â
Nanami doesnât answer right away. He could say no. In fact, he probably should say no. Itâs his day off, and he has no interest in spending his weekend surrounded by noisy crowds, looking at secondhand trinkets he doesnât need.Â
He exhales, already regretting this. âWhat time?â
âBe ready in an hour?â you ask hopefully. âDress casual. But, like, not too casual.â
âIâm hanging up now,â he says.
âWaitââ
Nanami places his phone down on the table and stares at his coffee like it has personally betrayed him. How did this happen? One moment, heâs enjoying his peaceful morning. The next, heâs been roped into spending his day off at a flea market. Itâs fine. He can handle this. He just needs a plan.
Best Case Scenario (Highly Unlikely): Youâre already waiting outside when he arrives. You havenât made any impulse purchases within the first ten minutes. You respect his personal space. You finish browsing in a reasonable amount of time, and Nanami returns home with his sanity intact. (This is about as likely as Gojo Satoru from HR suddenly developing the ability to stay awake for longer than five minutes during important meetings.)
Most Likely Scenario (Unfortunate but Expected): Youâre ready, but youâre too excited. You get distracted by every shiny object at the market. You see a vintage typewriter and suddenly develop an unrealistic dream of becoming a novelist. You haggle dramatically over an item that costs the same as a cup of coffee. He ends up carrying all your bags.
Worst-Case Scenario (God Forbid): Youâre waiting outside, but youâve already made three online purchases while waiting. You spot a tarot card reader and decide he needs his fortune told. You find a vintage sword and somehow convince him to buy it. He loses you in the crowd and considers leaving you there. He doesnât. (Unfortunately.)
Nanami arrives exactly on time, at 8:42 A.M, dressed in a dark olive button-up with the sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows, paired with well-pressed slacks and his usual leather shoes. His watch glints under the afternoon sun as he adjusts his glasses, scanning the crowd until his gaze lands on you.
Youâre waiting near the entrance, shifting your weight from foot to foot with barely contained excitement. Youâre wearing a breezy sundress, the colour bright against your skin. A canvas tote hangs from your shoulder. You rock onto your toes when you spot him, waving as if he might somehow miss you in the small crowd. Nanami sighs. You look pretty, he thinks, but when has he ever not thought so?
Just like that, Nanami Kento finds himself being ledâagainst all better judgementâtowards the market, where the streets are lined with stalls draped in colourful awnings, and the scent of saffron and cherries mingles in the air. Vendors call out their wares, old books are piled up in uneven stacks on wooden crates, and delicate silver necklaces and earrings gleam in glass cases. Somewhere, a musician plays a soft tune on a violin, the notes drifting through the air like the slow unraveling of a ribbon.
You walk slightly ahead, turning back every so often to ensure Nanami is still there, as if he might bolt at the first opportunity. How stupid of you. As if heâd go anywhere else. The man doesnât miss the way your shoulders are loose, the way you no longer hold tension in your frame like a coiled wire. This is why weekends exist, he supposes.
When you reach a stall selling secondhand books, you stop abruptly. âSee? This is nice,â you say, running a finger along the worn spine of a novel. âBetter than sitting in a meeting with Legal.â
Nanami hums. His gaze is on you. You pick up a book with a cracked leather cover, flipping through its yellowed pages. Then, suddenly, you turn to him, holding it up.
âTell me,â you muse, lips curving. âHave you ever been wooed in a flea market before?â
He blinks. âI donât think so.â
You clear your throat and read aloud: â...and he regarded her with a most admiring countenance, struck by the quickness of her wit and the sharpness of her tongueâŠâ
Nanami crosses his arms as you hold the book open like a scholar about to present a groundbreaking thesis. The corners of his lips twitch, but he schools his expression into something neutral. âIs that so?â
You nod solemnly. âA most admiring countenance,â you repeat, tapping the page. âThatâs what it says. I think thatâs a very poetic way of describing how you look at me all the time.â
He looks at you, ready to say something horrifically stupid, probably, but then you grin, mischief shining in your eyes, and he shakes his head with a quiet sigh. âYou do realise thatâs from a romance novel.â
âOh, Iâm very aware. I just thought, maybe, if I read enough passages, you might be so swept away by the romance of it all that youâll fall madly in love with me.â
There it is. That ridiculous, absurd, entirely unserious thing you doâteasing him just enough to see if you can get a reaction. Nanami knows this game well.
âHm.â He tilts his head slightly, his voice even. âAnd if I say itâs working?â
You blink. For once, you donât have a quick-witted reply. Your fingers tighten around the book as you search his expression for somethingâanythingâto indicate that heâs joking. But Nanami is frustratingly unreadable, his gaze steady, the sunlight catching the sharp planes of his face.
You shift, looking back at the book. âThen Iâd say I need to find more material,â you mumble. âSomething more compelling.â
He chuckles, amused at the way you retreat when met with your own words. âOf course.â
You huff, flipping through the pages again. He watches as your fingers dance over the old paper, as you scan each line with an almost childlike curiosity. Thereâs a sort of reverence in the way you handle books, as if each one holds a tiny universe inside. Nanami understands. He takes a step closer, just enough to catch the scent of your perfumeâlight, familiar. Youâre so engrossed in your search that you donât even notice.Â
âThis oneâs nice,â you murmur, tapping another passage with your fingertip before reading it aloud. ââTo be looked at with such devotion⊠it is a wonder she could bear it at all.â Sounds familiar, doesnât it?â
Nanami doesnât say anything. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet.Â
You brighten instantly. âSo you are being wooed.â
He hands over a few bills to the vendor without acknowledging your comment. âJust buy the book.â
You chew on the inside of your cheek, barely holding back a laugh, before placing the book inside your tote bag. Your fingers brush against his brieflyâjust the lightest touch, gone too soon. The transaction is done, and the book is safely tucked away, but Nanami doesnât know why his mouth suddenly feels too dry, or his clothes feel too warm.
âYouâre a very easy target,â you say, tilting your head up to look at him.
âEnlighten me.â
âWell, for one, you act all stern and no-nonsense, but you just bought a book because I read one romantic passage out loud. That, Nanami, is the behaviour of a man who is, against his better judgement, deeply susceptible to my charm.â
Nanami doesnât dignify that with a response. Instead, he turns and starts walking down the narrow aisle between the market stalls, knowing full well that youâll follow. You fall into step beside him. âHey, I wasnât done talking.â
âI know.â
âYouâre so rude.â
âYouâll live.â
You roll your eyes and he lets you get distracted by the next few stallsâone selling mismatched ceramic mugs, another displaying old postcards with faded ink scrawled across them. You pause at a stall selling silver jewelry, fingers trailing over delicate rings arranged on a velvet-lined tray.
Nanami watches, hands in his pockets, as you try on a ring, twisting it around your finger before putting it back. âNot getting one?â he asks.
You shrug. âI donât know. I like the idea of having one, but I donât think Iâd wear it often enough to justify it.â
He glances at the tray, his gaze settling on a simple silver band. He briefly considers buying it for you, but the thought unsettles him for reasons he doesnât want to examine too closely. He says nothing and waits for you to move.Â
You wander through the market together, stopping here and thereâlaughing when you find a truly heinous painting of a cat, nudging Nanami when you spot a tarot reader just to see his reaction, groaning dramatically when he refuses to let you buy a vintage sword. (He doesnât trust you with a sharp object. This is a reasonable stance, he thinks.)
By the time the afternoon sun hangs high, painting the streets in gold, Nanami finds himself carrying a small bag of your purchases despite his earlier aversionânot because you asked, but because, without thinking, he took it from you when your hands were full, and somehow, neither of you mentioned it.
Nanami Kento is brushing his teeth, already halfway through his night routine, when his phone buzzes against the bathroom counter. He considers ignoring itânothing good ever comes out of late-night callsâbut then he sees your name flashing on the screen, again. He closes his eyes. He spent half the Saturday with you at the flea market. Itâs a Sunday night, and heâs already thinking about the miserable Monday morning waiting for him. He doesnât need whatever nonsense youâre about to tell him. Still, he picks up the phone.
A sigh leaves him, muffled by the toothbrush in his mouth. He spits, rinses, and presses the call button. âWhat?â
âNanami,â you say, pathetically slurred.
âOh, for Godâs sake.â
âNo, listen, listen,â you insist, voice wobbly. âI haveâa problem.â
âOf course, you do,â Nanami says. âWhere are you?â
âAt home.â Thereâs a rustling sound on the other end, like youâre rolling around on a couch, or maybe tangled up in a blanket that you donât have the coordination to escape from. âI made it home all by myself. I think thatâs really impressive. You should say youâre impressed.â
âIâm not.â
âYouâre so mean,â you whine. Then, lower, in a voice so pitiful he almost snorts, âI think Iâm dying.â
Nanami checks the time. 10:34 P.M. He should tell you to drink some water and go to sleep. He should just hang up. From the other end of the line, you let out a tiny, miserable noise. Itâs barely a sniffle, more like a small whimper of distressâpathetic, and fleeting, but it sits wrong with him. He stands there for a moment, staring at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, waiting for the irritation to take over. It never does.
Instead, his eyebrows furrow in something that isn't quite a frown, but close enough. Then, he grabs his coat. If he leaves now, he can reach your apartment in twelve minutes, fifteen if traffic is bad.
Your apartment is unlocked when he gets there. Nanami pushes the door open, stepping inside and toeing off his shoes. He barely has the time to take in the messâyour shoes kicked off in two completely different directions, your bag lying lifeless in the middle of the floor, clearly dropped mid-strideâbefore you come stumbling out of the kitchen, gripping a glass of water like itâs the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.
âYou came,â you breathe, eyes wide. âMy saviour.â
He frowns. âWhy is your door unlocked?â
You wave a hand, dismissive. âItâs fine.â
âItâs not fine.â
âWhy are you mad?â You blink at him, wobbling slightly where you stand, and tilt your head like heâs the one being unreasonable.
Nanami presses his lips into a thin line. Instead of answering, he reaches out to flick you on the forehead. You yelp, nearly dropping your glass. âThatâs for being careless.â He folds his arms. âHow much did you drink?â
âMm. Enough.â
âThatâs not an answer.â
âEnough to want to die, but not enough to actually die,â you clarify, solemn. âDoes that help?â
âNo.â
You snicker at his flat tone, but it quickly turns into a hiccup. Eyes wide, you slap a hand over your mouth, until you relent and start giggling uncontrollably. Nanami watches you, expressionless. He has never been more tired in his life.
Without another word, he moves past you and into your kitchen. âSit down. Iâll make you something to sober up.â
âI donât wanna sober up,â you whine, trailing after him.
He eyes you critically, pulling open a cabinet in search of honey and ginger. âWhatâs your excuse for getting drunk this time? Another friendâs birthday party?â
You snort. âDonât be silly, Nanami. Youâre the only friend I have.â
He stills. You blink at him, swaying slightly. He ignores the warmth creeping up his cheeks, and tells you to sit down before you fall over. You huff, but oblige, dragging a chair out and collapsing into it. Your head flops onto the counter, cheek squished against the cool surface. âYouâre kinda good at this,â you mumble.
Nanami doesnât bother looking at you as he fills the kettle. âItâs just tea.â
âNo,â you say, voice thick with something close to admiration. âLike. Taking care of people.â
His hands still for a fraction of a second before he returns to slicing ginger. He doesnât acknowledge your words, but something in his chest twists. Itâs not like itâs hard to take care of youâyou stumble through life with the kind of reckless abandon that practically demands someone step in before disaster strikes. He glances at you. Your arms are folded under your head, body lax, but your eyes are distant, slightly unfocused.
He asks, âWhat happened?â
You blink sluggishly, turning your head just enough to look at him. âHuh?â
âYou donât drink like this for no reason,â he says. âWhat happened?â
Your lips purse. You look like youâre debating whether to brush him off or tell him the truth. Then, with a hiccup and sniffle, you mumble, âMy parents want me to get married.â
âWhat?âÂ
Your nose wrinkles, like the very thought is giving you a headache. âItâs stupid,â you grumble. âThey want me to meet some guy, settle down, be stable or whatever. Like thatâs something I can just do.â You lift your head slightly, eyes glassy, lower lip wobbling. âI donât wanna get married.â
Nanami swallows. Thereâs something painfully childlike in the way you say it, as if youâre afraid of being forced into something you canât escape from. Your face is flushed from the alcohol, but your expression is unguarded. He could be rational about thisâtell you that you donât have to do anything you donât want to, that itâs your life. But he knows thatâs not what you need right now.
Instead, he reaches out, pressing his palm against the top of your head, warm and steady. He hears your sharp intake of breath.
âYou donât have to get married if you donât want to,â he says, voice quiet but firm. âNo one can make you.â
You stare up at him, wide-eyed. The room is still. The only sound is the quiet whistle of the kettle coming to a boil. Then, like a switch has flipped, you sniffle, rubbing at your nose with the sleeve of your sweater. âYouâre so nice to me, Nanami.â
âI really am.â
âI should marry you,â you say seriously.
He pulls his hand back immediately. âAbsolutely not.â
âWhy?â you say, lips quirking into a lazy grin. âYou afraid youâd fall in love with me?â
Nanami levels you with a flat look. âIâm afraid youâd forget that we ever got married in the first place.â
You cackle, unbothered, and he shakes his head, exasperated. The kettle clicks off. Nanami turns back to the counter, pouring the hot water into a mug. He stirs in the honey and hears you sigh behind him.
âI mean it, though,â you say, softer now. âI donât wanna get married. Not to someone I donât love, or âcause my parents think I should.â
Nanami glances at you over his shoulder. Your face is half-hidden behind your arms again, but your eyes are clearer now, a little more serious despite the alcohol buzzing through your system. He walks over, setting the tea down in front of you, and says, âThen donât.â
You blink up at him again. He nudges the mug towards you, and you wrap your hands around it, staring down at the amber liquid.Â
Nanami inhales slowly. âNow drink your tea and go to bed.â
You hum, blowing gently on the surface before taking a sip. Then, peeking up at him through your lashes, you say, âWill you stay?â
He hesitates. Itâs late. He has work tomorrow. You have work tomorrow. But when he looks at youâtired, drunk, a little lostâhe knows he wonât be able to leave until heâs sure youâre okay. â...Iâll stay until you fall asleep.â
You smile sleepily, satisfied, and take another sip of your tea.
The board votes.Â
Salt-and-Pepper calls it. Wire-Rimmed Glasses raises his hand first, the corporate equivalent of a teacherâs pet. Charcoal Pants follows, though his fingers twitch with uncertainty. Nepotism Babyâwho has been thoroughly checked out for the past forty-five minutesâglances up from his phone just long enough to nod vaguely before going back to whatever meaningless app heâs scrolling through. Nanami watches you from the corner of his eye. You donât move.
Salt-and-Pepper looks pleased. âWell, thatâs that. Weâll move forward with drafting the initialââ
âWait,â Secret Tattoo from Marketing cuts in. âAre we seriously doing this?â
Salt-and-Pepperâs eyebrows rise, as if he hadnât expected resistance. Foolish of him. âIs there an issue?â
An issue? Oh, where to begin. Your fingers drum once, twice, against the table. âZenâin Industries.â You say it like youâre testing the words, rolling them around in your mouth to see if they taste any less like poison. âThatâs the best we could do?â
Wire-Rimmed Glasses adjusts his frames. âTheyâre the most viable partner given the timeline.â
âThatâs debatable.â
âThe most viable approved partner,â Salt-and-Pepper clarifies. âWeâve reviewed the alternatives.â
âYou reviewed them wrong,â Flower Bandana mutters under her breath.
Secret Tattoo leans back in her chair, arms crossed. âI donât like it either.â
âThis decision was made with careful consideration,â Salt-and-Pepper says. His left eye twitches, and he turns back to you. âMiss CEO, while I understand your concerns, business decisions must be made pragmatically, not emotionally.â
Translation: Suck it up and sign the damn papers.
You tilt your head. âRight. And pragmatism is why weâre aligning ourselves with a company whose leadership has been, letâs see, sued five separate times in the last decade for fraudulent business practices, labour violations, andâoh, my favouriteâpotential ties to organised crime?â
Wire-Rimmed Glasses clears his throat. âThose cases were dismissed.â
âThey barely avoided a federal indictment,â you say.
Nepotism Baby suddenly chimes in. âZenâinâs big. Theyâve got resources.â
Nanami resists the urge to sigh. Yes, genius, thatâs how companies work. You shoot the boy an unimpressed look, and say, âThey also have a history ofâhow do I put this politelyâbeing absolutely terrible.â
Charcoal Pants shifts uncomfortably. âThatâs a bitââ
âAm I wrong?â
Secret Tattoo raises a hand. âWould now be a bad time to remind everyone that they also had an entire warehouse shut down for safety violations?â
âThat was an isolated incident,â Wire-Rimmed Glasses says.
âWas it?â you ask. âBecause my notes say it happened twice.â
Nepotism Baby leans towards Wire-Rimmed Glasses. âWait. Twice?â
Salt-and-Pepper clears his throat. âMiss CEO, I assure youââ
âNo, really, help me understand.â You lean forward, elbows on the table. âBecause last I checked, we werenât in the business of giving ethics violations a seat at our table.â
âThis partnership will allow us to expand at a rate we canât achieve alone.â
âUh-huh. And remind me again, whatâs the exact rate weâre aiming for? Because if youâre simply going to say something like, faster than usual, I feel like there are other ways to do that. Like, I donât know, hiring more people. Investing in R&D. Not selling our souls to a family that definitely has bodies buried somewhere.â
Nepotism Baby looks even more alarmed. He leans back towards Wire-Rimmed Glasses. âWait. Bodies?â
âMetaphorically,â Charcoal Pants says weakly.
You click your tongue. âProbably.â
âThe decision has been made.â Translation: Sit down and deal with it. Salt-and-Pepperâs patience has officially run out. Flower Bandana shakes her head. Secret Tattoo mutters under her breath about corporate bootlickers.
Your fingers curl around the pen in front of you. Nanami, ever the observer, sees it immediatelyâthe way you stiffen, the way your expression shutters, before you school it into something blank. âFine,â you say coolly. âIf thatâs what the board wants.â
Salt-and-Pepper nods, pleased. âIâm glad we could come to an understanding.â
The meeting adjourns. The board members leave. Salt-and-Pepper sniffs condescendingly in your direction before stepping out. Nepotism Baby stretches, lets out an obnoxiously loud yawn, and wanders off. Charcoal Pants moves quickly, as if afraid you might call him back, and Wire-Rimmed Glasses follows him. One by one, they filter out, until the conference room is empty, save for you and Nanami.
Your fingers uncurl from the pen youâve been gripping so tightly that there are deep grooves in your skin. You set it down. Tilting your head back, you stare at the ceiling for precisely three seconds before letting out a single, humourless laugh.
âWell.â Your voice is calm, but only barely. âThat was fucking awful.â
âYou handled it well,â Nanami says.
You let out a breath, somewhere in between a scoff and a sigh. âI shouldnât have had to handle it in the first place.â
Thatâs fair, he thinks. You drag a hand down your face as if trying to smother the frustration bubbling just beneath your skin. It doesnât work. âI knew theyâd pull something,â you mutter, âbut Zenâin? Of all the goddamn companies in the world, they want them?â
âItâs a strategic decision.â He knows itâs not what you want to hear, but he says it anyway.Â
You drop your hand and turn to him. âSay that again, and Iâll replace you.â
âIâm only pointing out the obvious.â
You sigh, but donât argue. You both know the board sees nothing but numbers, nothing but projections and timelines and carefully-worded justifications. They donât care about anything outside the bottom line.Â
âI donât want to work with them, Nanami,â you admit.
He already knew that. But hearing you say itâsofter now, tiredâsettles something heavy in his chest. He doesnât like it. âYou wonât do it alone,â he says simply.
Your lips twitch upwards, but it doesnât quite reach your eyes. âOkay.â
âOkay.â
You study him, searching for something, but whatever you find must be enough, because you sigh and push yourself up from your chair. âGuess weâre stuck with this mess, then.â
âSeems that way.â
âIf Iâm suffering, then youâre suffering with me.â
âUnfortunate,â Nanami says, but he knows you know he doesnât mean it.
You guffaw, tension easingâslightly. He can tell itâs still there, simmering beneath the surface. Heâs still thinking about it, watching you as you head for the door. He sees the way your jaw is set too tightly, the way your shoulders are stiff. Youâre angry. Not just irritated, not just frustratedâangry. Itâs not just about the boardâs incompetence. Itâs Zenâin Industries.
âLetâs get something to eat,â Nanami says.
âGod, Nanami. Are you asking me to lunch?â
He stiffens slightly at your teasing, but he doesnât say anything. He just walks past you, already heading to the elevator. You laugh, falling into step beside him.
At lunch, you pick at a Greek salad with disinterest, stabbing a piece of feta cheese with your fork. The restaurant is a nice placeânot overly extravagant, but tasteful in a way that suits Nanamiâs particular preferences. He hadnât put much thought into where to take you. He just needed to get you out of that boardroom.Â
Now, though, as he watches you pick apart your salad, he wonders if it even helped.
You roll an olive on your plate with your fork. Across from you, Nanami takes an absent sip of his lime soda, only half paying attention to the taste. The silence is not uncomfortable, but he feels awkward regardless. He should be focused on the partnership, on the logistics, on the long list of ways this shouldnât be as much of a problem as youâre making it out to be. But instead, his mind drifts.
To you.
To your sharp edges and sharp tongue, to the way your expressions flicker just a little too fast sometimes, as if youâre trying too hard to rein yourself in. To the way you are so painfully aware of everything around you: Every person in a room, every slight shift in tone, every implication buried in corporate jargon.
You are, objectively speaking, a brilliant CEO. Ruthless when you need to be, charming when it suits you, but most of all, uncompromising. Yet, when it comes to thisâwhen it comes to Zenâin Industriesâyour anger is not just professional. It is personal.
Nanami doesnât like personal. Personal is messy. Personal gets in the way of logic, of utilitarianism, of clear-cut and efficient decisions.
He tells himself that is why he is still thinking about this. Not because the tightness in your shoulders makes his chest ache. Not because he has never once seen you almost falter the way you did today. Not because he has spent the past half-hour cycling through every possible reason for your reaction and coming up empty.
No, he tells himself, it is because this is a complication he cannot account for, and that is what bothers him.
You press your fork into the olive, just enough to puncture the skin. Then, so casually, you might as well be commenting on the weather, you say, âDid you know that I was in a relationship with Zenâin Naoya?â
Nanami freezes. His brainânormally so methodical, so efficientâcomes to a screeching halt. There is no quick calculation, no immediate strategy to deal with this information. There is only the sound of your voice, so stunningly normal in its delivery, juxtaposed against the implication of the words themselves. His grip tightens around his glass of lime side. He doesnât set it down or react outwardlyâbut he shifts in his seat.
Zenâin Naoya.
He knows the name well. Anyone even remotely involved in business does. He is a member of the Zenâin familyâone of those Zenâins. A man with power, influence, and a reputation that precedes him. Not for anything good, either. Nanami has never met him in person, but heâs read enough and heard enough to know that he would not want to.
He finally sets down his glass. For once, Nanami Kento does not immediately know what to say.
âNothing to say?â you ask lightly.
Nanami studies you carefully. You are not looking at him, but he recognises this version of youâthe one who pretends youâre fine, who deflects with indifference. The one who would rather fill the silence than allow it to become suffocating.Â
âYou never mentioned that before,â he says slowly. It is not a question; just an observation.
You attempt to smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. âIt never came up.â
Nanami is many things, but he is not stupid. The warble in your voice, the way your fingers tighten ever-so slightly around your forkâthis is why you were so angry in the meeting. This is why you stiffened at the mention of the Zenâins, why you dug your heels in so hard. He should have realised it sooner.
He breathes out slowly. âAnd now it has.â
âYes,â you say simply. âWould you like me to tell you about our first date?â
Nanami does not react. He makes sure he sounds neutral when he answers, âNo.â
You hum, feigning disappointment. âIt was terribly boring, anyway. He took me to some overpriced restaurant with a six-course meal, and every single dish had foam in it.â
Nanami ignores the way his stomach twists at the thought of you on a date with someone like Naoya. It is illogical. Unnecessary.Â
âI was nineteen,â you continue. âVery stupid. I thought I knew everything. He was older, and it seemed impressive at the time. He said all the right things. I was easily impressed back then.â
Nanamiâs fingers curl against the table. Back then. As if there is a before and after to who you are. He doesnât like the insinuations of that. âYouâre not now,â he says.
âNo, I guess not.â For the first time in the conversation you look up at him. Nanami does not look away. You lean back in your chair and say, âSo, now you know.â
Now he knows. Nanami doesnât know what to do with that knowledge. It sits uncomfortably in his mind, wedged there like a stubborn wooden splinter. For now, he does the only thing he can do. He nods, takes another sip of his lime soda, and says, âEat your salad.â
You laugh. Itâs a short huff, but it almost makes Nanami smile.
 âMiss CEO,â one of the Zenâin representativesâa wiry, balding man who sweats too muchâsays, visibly struggling to remain polite, âsurely you understand that our current offer is more than fair.â
âFair,â you echo, as if testing the word on your tongue. âThatâs an interesting way to put it.â
Nanamiâwho has spent the last three weeks enduring these negotiationsâalready knows where this is going. He resists the urge to sigh.
âWould you care to elaborate?â Balding Man asks. He keeps his tone professional, but there is an undeniable sense of annoyance in his eyes. Nanami takes a deep breath. You, however, smile.
âWell,â you say. âI just think itâs funnyââ
Oh, no. Nanami shuts his eyes for a brief moment, pressing his fingers to his temple. He has heard you say this exact phrase at least five times this week, and every time, what follows is never actually funny. It is, usually, a goddamn nightmare.
Balding Man shifts in his seat. âFunny,â he repeats cautiously.
âMhm,â you hum. âI just think itâs funny that, in your latest revision, youâve somehowââ you tilt your headâ âconveniently removed the profit-sharing clause we originally discussed. The one your team proposed, by the way.â
âThat was an adjustment made to account forââ
ââwhat, exactly?â you interrupt, leaning forward slightly. âBecause as far as I can tell, it was an attempt to quietly slip in a clause that benefits your side while offering absolutely nothing in return. Now, Iâm sure thatâs just a simple oversight, right?â
Balding Man opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, like a fish flopping around outside water. Nanami watches this unfold with an increasing sense of frustration.Â
You are doing this on purpose.
This is not a necessary discussion. The contract could have been finalised two meetings ago, but you have spent the last three weeks turning every single interaction into an exercise in endurance. You nitpick everything. You argue over semantics. You demand last-minute revisions on things that donât even matter. At one point, you outright rejected a clause you had originally asked forâjust to make them go through the process of re-drafting it.Â
And because Nanami Kento is your secretary, he has spent most of his time smoothing things over before the Zenâins lose their patience entirely. It is, frankly, exhausting.
âWe can revisit that clause,â Balding Man says tightly.
âOh, we will,â you say, with a delightfully insincere smile. âIn fact, letâs go ahead and set up another review meeting.â
Nanami finally steps in. âThat wonât be necessary,â he says, voice clipped.
Your head snaps to him so fast that he almost regrets speaking. Almost.Â
âExcuse me?â Your voice is deceptively calm.
Nanami meets your gaze, unwavering. âDragging out negotiations benefits no one.â
Balding Man exhales, muttering something under his breath. You, however, do not look impressed. Your fingers drum once, twice, against the polished surface of the table. âI wasnât aware I asked for your opinion, Nanami.â
A sharp silence settles over the room. Nanamiâs fingers curl into his palm. You do this all the time. You argue, you challenge, you push every meeting to its breaking point. When things spiral, heâs the one left cleaning up the mess. Now, when he finally intervenes, youâre mad at him? Fine.
Nanami sets his jaw. âIâm only saying what needs to be said.â
The corners of your mouth turn downâjust a fractionâbefore you lean back in your chair. Without looking at him, you say, âLetâs wrap this up.â
Nanami doesnât allow himself to feel relieved just yet, but at least you donât push back any further. The rest of the meeting crawls towards a conclusion, with the Zenâin representatives clearly eager to be anywhere else. The moment the last pleasantries are exchanged, Balding Man all but scrambles out the door, leaving you and Nanami alone in the conference room. The silence is razor-thin, stretched taut like a wire about to snap.
âThat was productive,â you say, standing up.
He closes the folder in front of him with a controlled snap. âIt could have been productive three weeks ago.â
You donât even look at him. âTragic, isnât it?â
He levels you with a stare, but you keep your attention on straightening the cuffs of your blazer, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. The dismissal is blatant. His patience thins. âYouâre making my job harder than it needs to be,â he says.
At that, you finally glance at him. âThen maybe you should stop getting in my way and embarrassing me in front of our collaborators.â
âIâm doing my job.â
âAre you? Because from where Iâm standing, it looks more like youâre doing theirs.â
The words are like iceâcontrolled, but cold enough to cut. Nanamiâs fingernails dig crescents into his palm. âYouâre dragging this out for no reason,â he says evenly.
You hum, turning towards the door. âIf you think that, then maybe you should stick to taking notes instead of giving opinions.â
That stops him in his tracks. You donât wait for a response. You step out of the conference room without another glance, the steady click of your heels the only sound in the empty hall. Nanami exhales, fingers flexing at his sides.Â
Youâre shutting him out. If thatâs how you want to play, so be it.
It starts with the coffee. Nanami always brings it to you in the morning when he reaches his desk at 8:31 A.Mâblack for him, a complicated order with enough sugar to kill a lesser man for you. He knows the exact amount of cream that you like, and the precise temperature it needs to be when you take your first sip. But the morning after the meeting, when he sets his cup down on his desk, thereâs no second cup. He hears the slight pause in your typing when you notice. A small shift of paper against paper.
âNanami,â you say.
He doesnât look up. âYes?â
âDid you forget something?â
He smooths his tie down over his chest, eyes still on his tablet. âI assumed you wouldnât need my help with something so simple.â
Thereâs a long, brittle pause. He knows youâre looking at him. He can feel your eyes upon him from across the room. But he doesnât glance up, doesnât shift. Finally, you close the file in front of you with a muted snap and rise from your chair. Your heels click sharply against the floor as you pass him, pausing just briefly at his side. âHope your scheduleâs clear,â you say, voice like glass. âYouâll need to redraft the acquisition proposal by noon.â
âFine.â His mouth tightens.
He retaliates with paperwork. Nanami knows exactly how to drown someone in administrative hell without breaking a sweat. The next morning, he leaves a neat stack of contracts, memos, and reports on your desk, all unlabeled. He knows you hate that. The revised budget is buried beneath the expense sheets, and the acquisition reportâstill missing a key sectionâhas no notes attached. He hears the scrape of a chair, followed by the clipped sound of your heels striking the marble floor as you stalk towards his desk.
âDid you think this was acceptable?â you say, tossing the report onto his desk. Nanamiâs hands are still on his keyboard. He doesnât look up. âThe section on profit restructuring is incomplete,â you add.
âI assumed youâd prefer to review it yourself,â he says, âsince you were so insistent on final approval.â
âCorrect it,â you say, voice low. âAnd put it on my desk by the end of the day.â
Nanami closes his laptop with deliberate care. âOf course.â
Meetings become a war zone. He starts cutting in before youâve finished speaking. You return the favour without hesitation. One afternoon, during a strategy meeting, he hears you inhale and knows exactly what youâre about to say. âActuallyââ he begins.
âI donât need clarification,â you say flatly, not even looking at him.
âItâs important to avoid miscommunication,â Nanami says. His eyes flick towards you.
Your smile is thin. âThen stop talking.â
Nanamiâs mood darkens. Balding Man, sitting across the table, looks like heâd rather fling himself out of the nearest window. Nanami doesnât care. Youâve made it clear how little you care about his input. If you want to micromanage everything, heâll stop bothering to clean up your messes.
He starts adjusting your schedule. Meetings appear on your calendar without explanationâoverlapping appointments, double-booked sit visits, late-night briefings. At one point, you get a notification for an 8 A.M call with the accounting department, only to find out Nanami cancelled it an hour earlier. You stride into his office. He doesnât look up from his tablet.
âI thought you handled scheduling,â you say.
âI must have misunderstood your preferences,â he says without inflection. âSince youâve made it clear that you prefer to handle things yourself.â
You stare at him. He still doesnât look up. Finally, you scoff under your breath and leave. Nanami watches the door swing shut, something sharp and pointed pressing into his chest.
Lunch becomes unbearable. You still sit togetherâout of habit, perhapsâbut the silence is cutting. Nanami eats his neatly-packed bento with steady, measured bites; you stab aggressively at your pasta, tearing the penne apart like itâs personally offended you. Once, you push your tray an inch towards him and say, âTaste this.â
âIâm allergic to it,â Nanami says, scrolling through some news article on his phone.
âYouâre not allergic to chocolate mousse.â
âI could be.â
You make a noise, sharp and irritated, and push the tray away. Nanami doesnât look away from his phone. He feels the tightness in his shoulders. He hates this. He hates that youâre angry. He hates that heâs angry. Most of all, he hates that he canât stop himself from pressing harder.
The final blow comes during a boardroom meeting. One of the department heads starts talking in circles, and Nanamiâalready at the edge of his patienceâstarts to cut in. âWe alreadyââ
âI think itâs important to clarify the terms,â you say smoothly, before he can finish.
Nanamiâs gaze snaps to you. His eyes narrow. âThereâs no need to clarify anything.â
âJust making sure,â you say, flashing him a bland smile.
Nanami closes his laptop with unsettling calm. You start gathering your papers. His hands curl into his lap. âIf you want to manage everything,â he says quietly, âIâll stop bothering to give input.â
You look at him; your eyes are ice when you say, âMaybe you should,â and walk out without another word. Nanami watches the door shut behind you. He clenches his jaw so hard, it begins to hurt. This is untenable, he thinks.
Nanami hears the clock ticking.
Itâs past midnight, and the city outside the office windows glows faintly beneath the dark sky. The only light in the room comes from the soft, sterile glow of your laptops, casting cold shadows across the polished table. His tie is loose around his neck, and the sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows. Across from him, you sit with your laptop open, eyes fixed on the screen. Your hair is slightly disheveled. Thereâs an untouched cup of coffee beside you, gone cold hours ago.
Itâs quiet, except for the sound of typing and the low hum of the air conditioning. Nanami reviews the document in front of him, trying to concentrate, but it proves to be a difficult task when his gaze keeps drifting towards you. He observesâthe tightness in your jaw; the slight furrow of your brow; the way your fingers tap a little too hard against your keyboard. He knows youâre frustrated. Youâve been frustrated for weeks. So has he.
He hears the sound of a key sticking, followed by an annoyed exhale. âFucking hell,â you mutter under your breath.
âYou should take a break,â he tells you.
âIâm fine,â you snap.
Nanami sets his pen down. âYouâre not fine. Youâve been working non-stop forââ
âI said Iâm fine.â
He leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. âYes, clearly. Thatâs why youâve been rereading the same page of that draft for the past thirty minutes.â
Your head snaps up. âIâm sorry, are you the CEO now?â
âAre you trying to sabotage your own company?â
âOh, fuck off, Nanami.â
âGladly,â he bites out, closing the folder in front of him. âMaybe then you can stop wasting my time.â
Your chair scrapes loudly against the floor as you push back from the table. âIâm sorry Iâm such an inconvenience,â you say sharply. âGod forbid you actually have to work for a change.â
Nanamiâs expression darkens. His hands press flat against the table as he stands. âItâs not about the work. Itâs about you actively making it harder for yourselfâand for me.â
âAnd here I thought handling me was part of your job description.â
âI donât mind doing my job,â he says icily. âI mind when you refuse to let anyone help you and then act surprised when things donât go your way.â
âThen why donât you quit?â you say, chin lifting. âIf you hate working for me so much, why donât you just leave?â
âMaybe I should.â
You suck in a breath sharply, shoulders tense, mouth tightening. Nanami knows heâs gone too far. He sees the flicker of hurt in your expression before you smooth it away.
âDo it, then,â you say coldly. âWalk out. Itâs not like anyoneâs forcing you to stay.â
You are, he wants to say. Because you are, whether intentionally or not. Nanami finds himself drawn to you, like a moth circling a very bright flame. If he was a sunflower, he thinks youâd be the sun. Nanami doesnât say any of that. He steps towards you, walking around the table until heâs right in front of you. âDonâtââ
âOr what?â You smile, sharp-edged and bitter. âYouâll finally stop pretending to care?â
Nanamiâs hands curl into fists. âStop it.â
âStop what?â you demand, turning away from him and bracing your hands on the desk. The papers underneath your hands crumple. âStop trying to make sure my company doesnât go fucking bankrupt, or stopââ
âIâm trying to help youââ
âNo,â you say, breathless with rage. âYou know asking for help means I canât handle everything myself, andââ
âYouâre so stubborn,â he says, finally. His heart hammers against his ribs. âYouâre impossible to work with right now.â
âI am under pressure!â you yell, whipping around to face him. âYou think Iâm being difficult on purpose?â
Nanami stares at you, breathing hard. His hands brace against the table to keep from shaking. âThen what the hell is this?â
Your hands are trembling. Your eyes shine with something dangerously close to tears, but you donât let them fall. âMy parents are pressuring me to get married. And on top of that, Iâm trying to close a deal with my exâs company because of my stupid board of directorsânever mind the fact that the Zenâins engage in borderline illegal practicesâand I have to sit across their representative and pretend I donât know Zeniâin Naoya once tried to steal intellectual property from me. And the only person I trusted to be able to help me out has been treating me like a fucking liability.â
Nanamiâs breath catches. âIâm notââ
âThen do something, Nanami,â and you sound pleading when you say it, and Nanamiâs chest tightens.
Youâre an anomaly in Nanamiâs perfectly-structured, perfectly-planned out life. He has known this for a while, only he never acknowledged it until now. The thing is, Nanami thrives on order; on logic; on neat, clean lines and predictable outcomes. He works best when things make sense, when he can anticipate every possible outcome and adjust accordingly. Heâs built his life around that certaintyâdisciplined and unwavering.
But thereâs you.
You, who he canât predict. You, who challenges him in every conversation, who barreled into his life with no premonition. You, whose moods shift so easilyâstern one moment, playful the next, always just a little out of reach. You, a hurricane in the body of a woman. You, you, you.Â
You are the only thing in his life that doesnât fit into a box. And yet, somehow, youâre the only thing he doesnât want to let go of. You barreled straight through his rib cage and settled deep down inside his unsuspecting heart, and he does not think he could pry you away, now.
Nanami breathes hard. His pulse is a frantic, erratic thing beneath his skin. It echoes in his ears as he stares at youâeyes flashing, chest rising and falling.
Youâre closeâclose enough that he can see the tremor of your hands where theyâre braced against the desk. Your mouth is parted and your breath is unsteady. Thereâs a flush creeping up your neck, and your eyesâGod, your eyesâburn into him like theyâre trying to carve him open from the inside out.
Nanami should step back. He knows this. He should take a deep breath and turn away before one of you says something you canât take back. But his feet feel rooted to the ground. You look at himâreally look at himâand whatever thread of control heâs holding onto snaps clean in two.
His hand moves before he can stop it, fingers brushing along the line of your jaw. Your breath hitches. You donât pull away. He tilts your chin up, his thumb resting just beneath your lower lip, and your mouth opens slightly beneath his touch. His palm is warm, and then his hand slides to the back of your neck.
And then youâre movingâclosing the distance between you without hesitation. Your mouth crashes against his, rough and desperate, and Nanamiâs hand tightens at the nape of your neck as he kisses you back, hard.
Itâs messy. Too fast, and too much. Your teeth catch against his bottom lip, and he exhales harshly, his other hand sliding down to your waist and yanking you forward until thereâs no space left between you. Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt; you tug him down to you. His lips part against yours, and you deepen the kiss, all gasping breaths and frantic movements.
Nanamiâs head spins. His hand slides beneath your blouse, finding the bare skin at the small of your back, and you shudder. You press closer, and he feels the quick, uneven flutter of your heart where your chest is pressed against his.
You break away first, just barely. Your breath ghosts against his mouth, shallow and ragged, before you lean in and kiss him againâslower this time, softer, but still aching with urgency. Nanamiâs hand slips into your hair, his thumb pressing gently behind your ear as your lips part beneath his. You sigh into him.
Nanami knows he should stop. He knows he should pull back before this spirals out of control. But you breathe his name against his mouth, quiet and pleading, and Nanamiâs resolve shatters.
He kisses you deeper.
Nanami doesnât thinkâheâs past the point of rational thought. His hands slide down the curve of your waist, settling at your hips as he walks you backward, step by step, until the edge of the table presses against the back of your thighs. Youâre breathless, flushed, lips swollen from his mouth. He watches your chest rise and fall, watches the slight tremor in your hands where they curl into his shirt.
His hands are on your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the polished surface. Papers scatter beneath you, forgotten, as his mouth trails down the column of your throat. His lips are soft, his breath hot against your skin, and you gasp when his teeth scrape lightly over the sensitive spot under your jaw. His hands are firm at your hips, sliding beneath the hem of your skirt as he coaxes your legs apart.
Your hands find his shoulders, clinging. He drops to his knees in front of you. His gaze lifts to yours, golden in the low light of the room. His hands slide down your thighs, spreading them wider, and his mouth curves slightly when he sees the way your breath shudders.
âMay I?â he asks, a little bit hoarse.
You nod. âYes,â you breathe out.
Thatâs all he needs. His mouth presses to the inside of your knee, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the soft skin of your inner thigh. Your head tips back when his lips brush higher, his breath hot against the lace between your legs. He pulls your underwear aside with a tug.
âLook at you,â he murmurs, thumb brushing along your inner thigh. His breath hitches as he watches your slick shine between your folds, already glistening with arousal. His thumb traces the line of your slit, parting you with a slow, teasing drag. âSo wet for me already.â
His eyes flick up to meet yours. âDid you need this that badly?â
You open your mouth to answer, but you shudder when his thumb presses against your clit, rubbing a slow, lazy circle. A broken sound escapes you, hips twitching towards his hand. Nanami hums in approval, and says, âIâll take that as a yes.â
The first stroke of his tongue is slow, like heâs savouring the taste of you. Your thighs twitch, but his hands find purchase beneath them, anchoring you firmly against the table as his mouth works against you. His tongue flicks over your clit, and your hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the strands. He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against you as his lips close around you and suck.
âOh, my GodâNanamiââ
He hums against you, pleased. His tongue slides down, dragging through your folds before pressing back up to your clit. Heâs focused, the same way he is with everything elseâthis time, though, his only goal is to make you feel good. His fingers flex against your thighs. Your hips jerk, but he presses you down with a firm hand. His mouth leaves you for half a second, just enough time for him to say, âStay still.â
Then, heâs back on you, tongue sliding over you in slow, wet strokes. His lips close around your clit again, sucking softly before flicking his tongue over it until youâre gasping. Your thighs threaten to close around his head, but his hands keep you pinned open.Â
âNanamiâNanami, Iâmââ
His mouth seals over your folds, tongue curling against you just right. Your back arches, a broken moan slipping from your lips. You sag against the table, breathless. Nanami presses one last kiss to your thigh before standing. His mouth glistens.
âCome here,â he tells you, and this time, heâs the one who sounds pleading.
He kisses you, hard and hungry, and makes sure you taste yourself on his tongue.Â
Nanamiâs breath is ragged when he pulls back. His hands slide down your sides, steady even as his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths. He undoes his belt with one sharp pull, the metallic jingle ringing in the quiet room. The sound makes his cock twitch, already painfully hard from how wrecked you look beneath himâforehead beaded with sweat, lips swollen, legs still trembling from the way he just made you come.
He draws himself out, cock slapping against his abdomen. He wraps a hand around the base, and strokes himself once, slow. His cock is thick and flushed, the head glistening with precome. His jaw tightens. Heâs already so close, but he wants to take his time. He wants to savour thisâsavour you.
âAre you on the pill?â he manages to ask.
You nod, desperate and frantic. âYes, yesâfuck, pleaseââ
âBend over,â he says, voice low.
You hesitate for a second, blinking up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. But his hands are already on you, guiding you up and turning you until youâre facing the table. His palm slides down the curve of your back, pressing your forward until your chest is flush against the cool wood. His hand lingers at the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he leans over you.
âYouâll let me have you like this, wonât you?â His mouth brushes against the shell of your ear. âSpread your legs for me.â
You do, and Nanamiâs breath stutters. His hands slide down to your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there as he pulls you open. His gaze drops to where youâre still slick from his mouth, the sight making his cock ache.
âFuck,â he curses under his breath.
He lines himself up, dragging the flushed tip of his cock through your folds, coating himself with your arousal. He rubs the head against your entrance, teasingâbut heâs barely hanging on himself. His cock throbs, and his grip on your hips tightens.
âNanamiââ you gasp out.
He sinks into you in one slow thrust. The stretch makes him moan, the tight heat of you wrapping around him inch by inch. His forehead drops against the back of your shoulder. He bottoms out, his hips pressing flush against you. âGod,â he breathes, voice strained. His fingers curl against your skin, hard enough to bruise. âYouâre soââ
He pulls back, almost all the way out, and then thrusts back in. You shudder beneath him. Nanami groans low in his throat. The sound vibrates against your skin as he sets a steady pace, hips rolling into you with each thrust. Each drag of his cock against your walls makes him see white behind his eyes.
âSo tight,â he mutters, more to himself than you. His hand slides up your spine, spreading his fingers between your shoulder blades to press you down. His other hand grips your hip hard, holding you still. His cock stretches you open so perfectly that he can barely think straight.
He watches the way you take himâhow you flutter around him each time he pulls back, how your legs shake when he thrusts deeper, how your eyes close and your lips part with pretty moans just for him to hear. He wants to see more. He slides a hand down to your front, his fingers finding your clit. He rubs quick circles, and the way you clench around him makes him hiss through his teeth.
âNanamiââ Your voice is wrecked, gasping, breaking.
âI know,â he says through gritted teeth. His thrusts quicken. His chest presses to your back as he leans over you. His mouth finds the side of your neck, and he sucks hard. âLet meââ
You come with a sharp cry, and the way you tighten around him makes his rhythm falter. His cock throbs as he fucks you through your orgasm, dragging out every last tremor. Your walls flutter around him, slick and hot and perfect. Nanami groans against your skin. His thrusts grow shallow and uneven, his breath ragged.
He comes with a low, guttural sound, hips pressed deep as he spills inside you. His hand stays on your hip. He presses his mouth to the back of your neck, groaning.
His breath is still ragged as he carefully pulls out, the feeling of his cum slipping out of you making his chest tighten. He slides a hand down your back, smoothing your hair away from your face as he leans over you.
âStay there,â he murmurs, his mouth brushing against your shoulder. His voice is soft now, almost tender. âLet me take care of you.â
He tucks himself away, smoothing down his shirt before his hands return to youâlifting you gently from the table and letting you lean into his arms. âNanami,â you say.
âYes?â
âWeâve ruined all the contract papers.â
The office feels too quiet the next day.
Nanami sits at his desk, but his mind isnât on the stack of reports in front of him. His pen hovers over the paper, unmoving. His thoughts drift back to last night. To you.
The way you looked beneath him, flushed with heat and trembling. The way your breath caught in your throat when he touched you. The sound of his name falling from your lips, breathless and perfect. Nanami exhales, trying to clear his mind. He pinches the bridge of his nose, but the memory clings stubbornly to the edges of his mind. His hands curl into fists. He should not be thinking about thisâabout you.
But itâs impossible not to. Especially when youâre right there.
He hears your voice before he sees you. He hears you let out a quiet laugh from across the room, the sound tugging at his attention like a thread pulled tight. His eyes lift automatically and he finds you standing at your desk, flipping through a folder with that little crease between your brows you always get when youâre focused.
You glance up, your gaze meeting his. Neither of you move, until you give him a small, polite smile and look away.
Nanami grits his teeth. His pen presses hard against the paper as he looks down, trying to will his pulse back to normal. Pathetic, he thinks.
He should be able to handle this. Heâs an adult. A professional. He has handled far more serious situations with more composure than this. Every time you walk past his desk, his gaze follows you. Every time you speak, his attention hooks onto your voice like itâs a lifeline. His fingers itch to touch youâto brush a hand along your arm, to tip your chin up and steal a kiss.
Itâs getting unbearable.
Itâs not just the memories of last night that haunt himâitâs the aftermath. Because youâre acting⊠normal, and thatâs the problem. You greet him the same way you always have. Your smile is the same. Meanwhile, Nanami is fighting for his life every time you walk within ten feet of him.
This morning, youâd handed him a report with your fingers brushing over his. âMorning, Nanami,â youâd said, bright and sweet.
His hand had twitched. âMorning.â
Youâd walked off while he sat there, wondering how a simple touch could make him feel like his entire nervous system was short-circuiting.Â
But the worst part is that heâs not subtle about it. Not at all. Itâs a problem.
Like when you walked into the office this afternoon, holding a cup of coffee, looking pretty in your blouse and trousers. Nanami had glanced up for half a secondâand in that half-second, heâd managed to knock his pen holder off his desk.
âAre you okay?â youâd asked, setting down your coffee and crouching to help him.
Nanami had stared at the mess on the floor. âFine.â
Youâd smiled at him, amused. Heâd looked away quickly, feeling heat creep up his neck.
Or earlier today, when you had stopped at his desk to ask about a meeting. âDid you get the email from Gojo?â youâd asked, leaning slightly over his desk.
Nanami had blinked at you, his mind immediately spiraling back to last nightâthe feeling of your body beneath his hands, the way you had gasped when heâ
âNanami?â
âHm?â
âThe email?â
âYes. Yes, I saw it.â
âYou sure?â
âPositive.â
Youâd looked at him for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly. Then youâd shrugged and walked away. Nanami had exhaled once you were out of sight, rubbing a hand over his face. Heâs being so obvious, and thatâs unacceptable.
âNanami, could you grab those papers from my desk?â you ask that evening, glancing over your shoulder as you pack up your bag.
âOf course,â he replies, already standing. His legs carry him towards your desk before he can think better of it.
Your desk is neat, everything in its placeâexcept for the book. Itâs placed on the edge, slightly worn from use. He recognises it instantly. Itâs the one he bought you at the flea market weeks ago, when youâd read out a few sentences in an attempt to âwooâ him. He hadnât expected you to actually read it.
Curiosity tugs at him. His hand drifts towards the book. The spine gives under his touch, looseâlike itâs been held too many times, thumbed through on quiet nights. It falls open easily. Thereâs a dog-ear marking a specific page. Nanami reads the passage beneath the crease:
âIt hit him all at once, like the sun breaking through the clouds. That the way his chest ached every time he saw her smile was not fear of confusionâit was love. Had always been love. And how foolish heâd been, not to have known it sooner.â
Nanami Kento freezes. His fingers press lightly against the paper. He thinks of the way you smile at him; of the soft, half-lidded look you give him when youâre tired; of the way you always seem to find him first in a crowded room. He thinks of the warmth in your laugh, and the way you lean towards him when you talk, like you donât even realise youâre doing it.
How had he not known?
His heartbeat stumbles. His gaze lifts to you, across the room.
Youâre still packing up, tucking a notebook into your bag. Your brows crease slightly in concentration, the corners of your mouth tugging down. You push a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Nanami swears he forgets how to breathe.
Had you known before he had? Is that why you marked this passage and left it there for him to find? Or had you dog-eared it for yourselfâbecause you had some sort of silly, idiotic hope that it was true?
You look up. Your eyes catch his. You smileâsmall and soft, easy as breathing. Nanamiâs throat tightens. His chest aches in that quiet, unbearable way thatâs starting to feel familiar. He sets the book down. You zip up your bag and turn around to the door. His gaze follows you without thinking.
Oh, he thinks, heart pounding. How foolish of me.
It hits him that night, when heâs in bed and thinking about you. Youâd said that Zenâin Naoya had stolen your intellectual property once. His eyes widen, and he sits up straight, reaching for his phone thatâs charging on his nightstand. He dials in your number.
You pick up after two rings. â...Hello?â
You sound sleepy. When he looks at the time, itâs almost midnight. âSorry. Did I wake you?â
âYes, butââ he hears you yawnâ âitâs fine. I should savour the occasion, actually. Itâs rare that you call me first.â
âYes, well.â Nanamiâs cheeks burn. âI wanted to ask you something.â
âGo on.â
âThat nightâ The night weââ Nanami feels his entire face heat up. âThe night we argued,â he settles on. âYou mentioned that Zenâin Naoya stole your intellectual property.â
Thereâs a pause on the other end of the line. He hears you shift, the rustling of sheets punctuating the silence. âThat was a long time ago,â you say quietly.
âWhat happened?â he asks.
âItâs⊠complicated.â
âI have time,â he says, settling back against the headboard. His hand presses over his mouth, his thumb resting just below his jaw.
âIt was when I was still with Naoya,â you say carefully, like youâre trying not to give away too much. âI was working on a pitch for an international partnership. It was something Iâd been preparing for months. And IâI made the mistake of showing it to him.
âHe said he just wanted to look it over. But then he brought it to his family as his own work. Word-for-word. Even the phrasing in the executive summary was identical.â
âAnd no one said anything?â Nanami questions.
âPeople noticed,â you reply. âBut itâs the Zenâin family. No one wanted to stir the pot, you know?â
âWhat happened with the pitch?â
âIt tanked. Naoya didnât bother to prepare for the follow-up meetings. He couldnât answer half the questions that came up. It was humiliatingâfor both of usâbut I was the one who took the fall. No one was going to take my side over Naoyaâs. His uncleâs practically running the whole board. It was easier to let me look incompetent.â
Nanami feels his teeth press together. His free hand curls into a fist against his knee. âYou shouldâve told me.â
You huff out a laugh. âI didnât know you at the time, Nanami. All this happened while I was working for the Zenâinsâbefore my dad retired and handed me his company.â
The Zenâins hadnât been circling your company. No, it had been Salt-and-Pepper who brought them in. The timing had been suspicious. The Zenâinsâ reputation is taintedâfinancial mismanagement, aggressive acquisition tactics, borderline illegal practices. The last thing you needed was to be tethered to a sinking ship.
But Salt-and-Pepper had managed to convince over half of the board of directors. Wire-Rimmed Glasses had been on his side from the start. So had Charcoal Pants and Nepotism Baby, albeit reluctantly.Â
âThis isnât just a business deal. Right?â he asks you. He understands, now, why youâd made negotiations with Balding ManâZenâin Industriesâ representativeâso difficult. Youâd tried to drag it on for as long as you could, trying to stall the deal from going through.
You stay quiet on the other end. Nanami takes that as confirmation.
âOkay,â he says slowly. âOkay. We can figure this out.â
âWhat are you thinking, Nanami?â
Salt-and-Pepperâs financials. His holdings. Any private deals with Zenâin Industries or overlapping investments. Nanami has access to all of itâboard records, meeting minutes, even expense reports. If there is a paper trail, he would find it.
âDo you think,â he says, âyou can handle a meeting with Legal tomorrow?â
It happens quickly after that.
Past papers are uncovered. Shady deals surface. Itâs almost too easy. Nanami knows how these things workâno paper trail is truly invisible, no backdoor negotiation is as airtight as it seems. People talk, especially when the money starts moving.
Nanami digs through your companyâs internal records the next day, tracking down the original licensing agreements for the software framework. The timeline doesnât add up. Zenâin Industriesâ supposed âinternal R&Dâ was completed two months before the initial product proposal had even been drafted. Thatâs not just suspiciousâitâs impossible.
He finds the buried reports: Memos from Salt-and-Pepperâs office, quiet requests to âstreamlineâ the internal approval process. He findsâperhaps most damning of allâa forwarded email chain from Wire-Rimmed Glasses to Balding Man.
Need to close this by Q3. Zenâin Industriesâ team will take over full oversight post-merger.
The date on the email reads for two weeks before the first joint meeting had even been scheduled.
He goes to the Accounting department next, via the internal compliance office. Someone from accounting had flagged a discrepancy in the financial statements weeks ago, but it had quickly been buried. There were payments made to an offshore accountâsmall enough to be overlooked at a glance, but steady and consistent. It was linked to a shell corporation in Singapore.
A shell corporation owned by Zenâin Industries.
Nanami doesnât hesitate. He sends the information to your private office line under encryption. The paper trail is too neat. This wasnât just about a merger. It was a quiet takeover.
Salt-and-Pepper had gotten sloppy. He had to convince the board to sign over proprietary assets through the collaboration over the new product. Let Zenâin gut the tech. Then quietly dissolve the partnership and walk away with the intellectual property rights. Your company would be left holding the frameworkâand the financial fallout.
Salt-and-Pepper would walk away with his cut.
Youâre surprised to see him when he walks into your office. His tie is askew. His shirt is rumpled. He is not the usual, put-together man he is. How could he be, when your own board of directors was secretly conspiring against you?
âNanami?â you ask, setting down your bag.
He slides a folder towards you without a word.Â
The next day, the partnership with Zenâin Industries is called off, and Salt-and-Pepper is stripped of his position. (Translation: He was fired.)
When Nanami Kento officially decides to ask you outâbecause he has, officially, let the fact that heâs in love with you sink inâit is supposed to be methodical. He had planned out the worst-case, most likely, and best case scenarios in his head, as he always does.
Best Case Scenario (Highly Unlikely): You say yes immediately, without even pausing. He takes you to that quaint French place he knows you like, and the waiter winks at him approvingly because youâre clearly out of his league. Youâre charming (you always are), and heâs witty (for the first time in his life). At the end of the night, when he walks you to your door, you kiss him. Itâs perfect. Birds are singing. Angels are weeping. The stock market hits a record high the next day.
Most Likely Scenario (Fortunate and Expected): You blink at him, and then laughâa little nervous, a little delightedâand agree to go out with him. He takes you to a good restaurant. You order something a little too expensive, but he doesnât complain. Youâre charming (you always are), and he is⊠passable. He doesnât embarrass himself. He even manages to make you laugh once or twice. Instead of kissing him at your doorstep, you punch his arm lightly and say goodbye. He fist-punches the air like a teenage boy when you close the door.
Worst-Case Scenario (God Forbid): You reject him. You say you only think of him as a friend and nothing more. He blacks out for approximately five seconds. You stop bringing him melonpan. He stops walking with you to the elevator. He will probably leave the company. Years later, he hears youâre married to someone whoâs the complete opposite of him (probably a racecar driver). He dies alone.
(Heâs accounting for margin of error, obviously.)
Nanami reviews his options with the same level of focus he usually reserves for quarterly reports and balance sheets. He weighs the pros and cons, considers timing, and factors in your general mood over the past two weeks. Youâve been in good spirits since Salt-and-Pepperâs departure. An excellent sign.
Still, when he finally stands outside your office, his heart is pounding hard enough to disrupt his thought process. Which is utterly ridiculous. Heâs a grown man. A professional. Heâs closed million-yen deals under pressure, right by your side. There is no reason he should be standing here, debating whether to knock.
The door swings open before he can decide. âNanami?â you say, blinking at him.
His mouth opens. His mouth closes. Heâs completely blank.
You tilt your head. âAre you okay?â
âYes,â he says, except it sounds completely unconvincing. âI wanted to ask you something.â
You give him a curious look, stepping back to let him in. He follows you inside. His heart rabbits inside his rib cage. This is fine. Heâs prepared for this.
âYou look serious,â you say, sitting on the edge of your desk. âIs this about work?â
âNo.â His hands are in his pockets. He takes a breath. He needs to rip the bandaid off. âWould youââ He stops. Closes his eyes. Starts again. âWould you like to have dinner with me? As a date.â
You donât say anythingânot right away. Instead, you snort.
Nanamiâs eyes snap open.
Youâre covering your mouth with your hand, but itâs not enough to muffle the sound of your increasingly uncontrollable laughter. Your shoulders are shaking with the full-body kind of laughter.
âAre youâŠâ Nanami feels like his brain is short-circuiting. âAre you laughing?â
âOh, my God,â you wheeze, tipping your head back. âYouâ Youâre asking me out?â
âThat is⊠generally how this works,â he says stiffly. His cheeks prickle with heat.
You dissolve into another fit of giggles. Nanamiâs heart sinks. Heâs about five seconds away from accepting defeat and leaving the country after changing his identity.Â
But then you slide off the desk and point an accusing finger at him, still laughing. âNanami Kento,â you say, breathless, âdo you have any idea how hard Iâve been trying to get you to notice me?â
â...What?â
You groan, wringing your hands together. âI have been trying to get you to notice me for months. You are literally the most oblivious person on the planet.â
Nanami opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His brain is working overtime trying to process the implications of what youâve just said.
You hold up a finger. âFirst of allâthe book.â
âThe book?â Nanami echoes, very intelligently.
âYes, the book. The one you bought me at the flea market? You didnât have to, so I figured you might feel the same way âcause you do a lot of the stuff I ask you to do, even though you donât have to, and no oneâs forcing you to. And the time you came over because I was drunk and I called you up and you made me tea and stayed until I fell asleep. And here I was, overthinking everything because I like you so muchâtoo much, probably, andââ
Nanami steps forward, closing the distance between you in two long strides. Your eyes widen slightly as he places his hands on your waist, steady and warm. His thumb brushes the hem of your shirt.
âYou,â he says, âtalk too much.â
Your mouth opensâto protest, probablyâbut Nanami leans down and kisses you before you can say another word.
Your breath hitches, and then your hands curl into the front of his shirt. You melt into him. His lips are soft and sure, and the way you sigh into the kiss makes his heart stutter. He feels you smile against his mouth.Â
When he pulls back, youâre breathless, a little flustered. But your eyes are bright and happy, and that, Nanami thinks, is always good.
âOh,â you murmur. âWas that the best case scenario?â
âBirds are singing,â he says. âAngels are weeping.â
âStock market?â
âRemains to be seen.â
You grin and pull him down for another kiss.
Nanamiâs apartment is quiet in the way he likes best. His bedroom is dark, save for the small pool of golden light from the lamp on the nightstand. His bed is warm, and so are youâcurled beneath the blankets, your hair spilling over his pillow.
The book he bought you is sitting on the nightstand. Thereâs a new crease in the spine and a bookmark tucked partway through because heâs been reading it. He never used to care for fiction, but youâd smiled so brightly when he picked it up that now he finds himself reading it when he gets the time.
The mug of honey and ginger tea warms his hands. You blink sleepily when you see him, sitting up when he approaches the bed. Your hair is mussed, and you have a mark on your cheek where youâd turned into the pillow. His heart does that foolish, undignified thing where it stumbles in his chest.
âTea,â he says, handing you the mug. âDrink.â
You smile when you take it. He sits down on the edge of the bed and watches you lift the mug to your lips. His hand finds your hair almost without thinking, fingers threading through it.
âWeâre meeting my parents this weekend. You remember, right?â you ask, resting the mug on your knee.
âAre you turning into my secretary now?â
âNo,â you say, and tilt your chin up defiantly at him. âJust so you know, Iâm marrying you whether my parents approve or not.â
âNoted,â Nanami says.
âGood.â
âWhy are you asking me?â
You shrug, a tad playful. âI donât know. Thought you mightâve come to your senses.â
He makes a quiet soundâsomething like a laugh, though softer. âThat would be difficult.â His thumb brushes the curve of your cheek. âI lost them a long time ago.â
You smile like that means something. Nanami leans back against the headboard, his arm resting across your shoulder as you tuck yourself into his side. The book is still sitting on the nightstand, waiting for him. Heâll pick it up later, after youâve fallen asleep. For now, he lets himself breathe you inâwarmth and honey and ginger.
âWe have work tomorrow.â He tilts his head, and his lips brush against your hairline when he says it.
You laugh under your breath, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. âI am your work, Kento.â
Nanami smiles. He kisses your head again. His heart feels unbearably full.
Thus, he thinks, the courtship affairs of a common man have come to a very satisfying close.
âą a/n: as per usual, thank you to the inimitable @mahowaga for listening to me ramble about this fic & helping me out whenever i got stuck. this fic is pretty much dedicated to her. thank you for reading & i hope you have a wonderful day!
summary: when your mom told you to steer clear of men, you didn't think she meant all of them - fur, whiskers, and all. but hey, maybe naming your cat mr. pickles was where you went wrong, considering she's apparently a mrs. now. and oh, she's pregnant. great. just fantastic. enter suguru geto, your drop-dead gorgeous neighbor, who's not just good at stealing glances but also at being a reluctant father - well, kitten father. turns out, his annoyingly smug orange menace named gojo's the reason you're now an unplanned (grand)parent. is this co-parenting arrangement going to end in peace, or in pieces? or worse, feelings? spoiler alert: suguru geto's got more than just child support to offer, and he's about to prove it in ways that'll have you questioning who the real stray here is.
warnings & tags:Â fluff and crack, eventual romance, no angst, geto is a year older than reader, geto is an (international) law student implied to be rich, reader's college program is not specified, strangers to friends to lovers, eventual smut (oral, f & m + 69). cast: geto, catoru (gojo is a tabby cat), yaga, sukuna, choso, yuuji, shoko, brief mention of utahime and nanami.
author's note: how i feel adding a graphic after not touching any editing apps since eight grade: đșđșđșđșđș. first long-fic on here and it is obviously for my @norikuna <3 i had so much fun writing geto, i hope you like this, and yes i named her mr. pickles after your meet-cute fic/s.
âŒïž i recommend reading on ao3, as tumblr's formatting this fic very poorly and often times the fic has long paragraphs mashed together. i'm so sorry, but please enjoy!
chapter one: guess who's expecting (hint: it's not you)
when your mother warned you to stay away from men, you didnât realize she meant all species of men. in your defense, you didnât even know mr. pickles wasâŠwell, a dudette. a full-fledged woman, even.
judging by her usual air of indifference toward the struggles of lifeâwhether it be a broken mug, burnt toast, or the existential dread and fear of capitalism looming over youâyouâd assumed she was male. an assumption, it seems, born of sheer hubris. after all, youâd done thorough background checks on everyone else you let into your life. everyone except the stray cat that had waddled into your overpriced studio apartment one rainy night and decided it was hers.
the truth? you didnât mind. between cramming for your degree and surviving the post-mortem of your relationships (both romantic and platonic, because apparently humans are terrible at consistency), mr. pickles became the one reliable constant in your life. albeit a hairy, aloof constant who occasionally brought you hairballs and dead bugs as sacrificial offerings to her goddess. you, of course, were said goddess.
any normal, functioning adult would have taken her to a shelter, or maybe put up a flyer: âfound: one stray cat, bad attitude included.â but you, lonely soul that you were, took her in. except, it hadnât been that simple. no, the first night you met her was anything but serene.
you were drunk. plastered. wobbling through the door with a bag of takeout in one hand and your heels in the other, ready to collapse onto your bed and dream about a life where rent didnât cost your soul. but instead of an empty apartment greeting you, there she was. sitting smack in the middle of your living room like some furry squattersâ rights advocate, tail flicking with utter disdain.
you froze, still holding the doorknob, as your eyes locked with hers.
"what theâ" you whispered, blinking hard to confirm you werenât hallucinating. nope, she was real.
the cat let out a long, guttural âyeowwwwwwwwwl,â like she was just as horrified by you as you were by her.
you screamed. naturally. "who are you?! how did you get in here?! securityâs supposed to be goodâoh my god, is that a rat?"
she screamed back, launching into an impressive round of yowls that rattled your very bones. it became a chaotic symphony of you, still holding your takeout, pointing at her with your shoe, while she darted back and forth in an apparent panic over your panic.
"okay, okay," you gasped after what felt like hours but was probably five minutes. "justâcalm down! iâll call the cops or animal control orâdo i even know animal controlâs number? is that a thing people know?!"
the cat paused mid-panic, tilting her head as if considering whether you were worth the hassle. then, slowly and with the grace of a self-proclaimed queen, she sat back down.
you stood there, panting, wide-eyed, and still clutching your takeout like a lifeline. "areâŠare you done? can i move now?"
she gave a single chirp in response.
you blinked. "was that a yes?"
another chirp.
"okay, cool. good talk," you muttered, inching toward the kitchen counter to set your stuff down. "you know, you really picked the wrong apartment to haunt, bro. you donât wanna hang out here."
she followed you, hopping onto the counter with zero hesitation.
"oh, youâve got nerve," you grumbled, waving a hand. "get down. thatâsâŠoh my god, is that chicken grease? youâre gonna get salmonella. do cats get salmonella?"
the cat meowed, which you took as a very sarcastic no.
you sighed. "great. now iâve got a cat."
letâs rewind back to the future, to the moment you found out mr. pickles had a party of tiny paws brewing in her belly. it wasnât an epiphany that hit you like a bolt of lightningâno, it was a series of increasingly bizarre events that gradually chipped away at your ignorance until the horrifyingly adorable truth came crashing down.
first, letâs talk about âpinking up.â apparently, around 16-20 days into pregnancy, a catâs nipples turn pinker and more prominentâa fact you learned after a very awkward google search. not that you were actively inspecting mr. picklesâ nipples. that feltâŠwrong. but you did notice, eventually. the weight gain started subtly, a little extra fluff around her midsection that you brushed off as the result of switching to a premium brand of cat food. "guess the organic kibbleâs working," you mumbled one evening as mr. pickles sprawled on the couch like a spoiled heiress. she blinked at you, unimpressed, before rolling onto her side, belly on full display. it was⊠rounder than usual. suspiciously so. but denial is a hell of a drug.
then came the morning she beat you to the bathroom. literally.
you were nursing a wicked hangover, the kind that makes you reconsider every life decision leading up to the night before. groaning, you dragged yourself out of bed and toward the bathroom, only to freeze in the doorway. there was mr. pickles, perched in your shower cubicle, hurling her guts out like sheâd been partying harder than you. "what theâ" you started, but she cut you off with another violent retch. you just stood there, slack-jawed, your own nausea momentarily forgotten. "are you⊠hungover? can cats be hungover?" she ignored you, finishing her business before hopping out of the shower with a nonchalance that screamed youâll clean that up, right?
and the sleeping? donât even get started on the sleeping. mr. pickles, your once lively (read: temperamental) companion, now spent her days passed out in the weirdest positions. youâd leave for class, catch her sprawled upside down on the couch with her legs in the air, and come back hours later to find her in the exact same spot. the first time it happened, you panicked.Â
âmr. pickles?â you whispered, crouching beside her. no response.Â
"oh my god, are you dead?" you poked her back. nothing.Â
just as you were about to call your landlord and have him prepare for the worst, mr. pickles let out the laziest, most judgmental yawn youâd ever heard.
then came the personality shift. the mr. pickles you knewâthe one who hissed at your laptop every time you opened it, as if microsoft word had committed a personal offenseâwas gone. in her place was a clingy, purring ball of affection. she started curling up on your lap while you worked, purring loud enough to rival an industrial saw. âawwww, whoâs a good kitty?â you cooed, melting into the moment. and then she shed enough fur on your clothes to build a second cat.
but the final straw, the one that shattered your fragile understanding of reality, was the nesting.
you came home one evening to find mr. pickles frantically rearranging your laundry basket, clawing at the clothes and dragging them into a fluffy pile. she paused when you entered, her eyes wild with an intensity youâd never seen before.
"uhhâŠwhat are you doing?" you asked, only to be met with a deep, guttural growl. "okay, thatâs new," you muttered, backing away slowly. "you doâŠwhatever that is."
it hit you then. the weight gain, the puking, the clinginess, the nesting. oh my god.
"oh my god," you whispered, clutching the counter for support. "mr. pickles is a girl."
your world tilted. memories of every time you called her sir or buddy flashed before your eyes. you were the problem.
you rushed her to the vet the next day, bursting through the door like a contestant on a reality show. "sheâs been acting weird," you blurted to the receptionist. "and by weird, i meanâŠis she pregnant?"
one checkup later, the vet turned to you with a warm smile and uttered the words that changed everything: âcongratulations, youâre a mother.â
your jaw dropped. "what? no. no, iâm not. sheâsâsheâs the mother!" you gestured wildly to mr. pickles, who was now lounging on the exam table like this was all very boring. the vet chuckled. âwell, technically, that makes you a grandmother.â
a grandmother. you, a college student, were a grandmother.
as you drove home in stunned silence, mr. pickles stretched out in the passenger seat, her belly looking smugly round. you glanced at her, still reeling.
âdoes this mean i have to start calling you mrs. pickles now?â
she purred. of course she purred.
chapter 2: welcome to parenthood, kinda
the day after the vet visit, you were a woman on a mission. holding mr. pickles up like she was a fragile artifact, you found yourself wandering the corridors of your apartment building, knocking on doors and attempting to uncover the truth behind your felineâs unexpected condition. sure, your mother raised you single-handedly, but did that mean you had to take on the role of a cat grandmother solo? absolutely not.
the first stop was masamichi yaga, your landlord. you werenât sure why you started with the most intimidating person in the building, but desperation has a way of clouding judgment. his door creaked open, revealing the towering man himself, wearing a slightly bemused expression. âuhh âŠgood morning, mr. yaga,â you stammered, clutching mr. pickles tighter for moral support. âiâuhâwanted to askâŠdo you have a cat?â he raised an eyebrow. âa cat?â
âyeah,â you said, awkwardly adjusting your grip on mr. pickles. âbecause, um, sheâs pregnant, and i was wondering ifâwell, you knowâŠâ
yaga blinked at you for a moment, then let out a low chuckle. âno, i donât have a cat. the only thing i house around here is pandas.â
you stared at him, waiting for the punchline that never came. â...pandas?â
âyup. no cats.â
you decided not to press further. âright. okay. thanks, anyway.â you shuffled away, cheeks burning, as he closed the door behind you with a definitive click.
next, you made your way to chosoâs apartment. youâd seen the guy a few times in the hallwayâtall, always dressed like heâd just walked out of a corporate ad, with an aura of quiet exhaustion that screamed salaryman. when he opened the door, he looked down at you with mild surprise, a coffee mug in one hand. âhi,â you greeted, feeling oddly self-conscious under his gaze. âi, uh, have a question. do you happen to own a cat?â
choso blinked, glancing at mr. pickles, who let out a disinterested meow. âno, i donât.â
âare you sure?â you pressed. âbecause my cat is pregnant, andââ
âiâm sure,â he cut in gently, though his tone held the same weariness you felt every monday morning. âi barely have time to take care of my brothers, let alone a pet.â
âbrothers?â
âyeah.â he took a sip of his coffee. âone of themâs a high schooler. the other oneâŠwell, heâs sukuna.â
you froze. âwait. sukuna? as in, the scary guy with the tattoos who glares at everyone when he smokes in the hallway?â
choso nodded. âheâs not so bad once you get to know him.â
you had your doubts but decided not to argue. âright. okay. thanks anyway.â
your next stop was shokoâs apartment. youâd always admired her cool, no-nonsense vibe, but the dark circles under her eyes told you she probably didnât have time for a pet. still, you knocked. when the door opened, shoko stood there, looking like she hadnât slept in three days but somehow still pulled it off effortlessly.
âhey,â you said, trying to sound casual. âdo you have a cat?â
âa cat?â she repeated, leaning against the doorframe. âno. iâm barely home enough to keep my plants alive, let alone a pet.â
you nodded, biting back a sigh. âyeah, that makes sense.â
âwhy?â she asked, eyeing mr. pickles. âis she yours?â
âyeah. sheâs pregnant.â
shoko raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips. âcongrats, grandma.â
âdonât remind me,â you groaned. âthanks anyway.â
lastly, you tried suguru getoâs apartment. according to the buildingâs handbook, he was your neighbor on the floor above. but when you knocked, there was no answer. âgreat,â you muttered, glancing down at mr. pickles. âour prime suspect isnât even home. what now?â
mr. pickles responded by squirming in your arms, clearly unimpressed with your sleuthing skills.
defeated, you trudged back to your apartment, where the reality of impending grandmotherhood sank in further. with no leads and no one to pin the blame on, you flopped onto your couch, setting mr. pickles down beside you. she stretched lazily, looking far too pleased with herself.
âthis is your fault, you know,â you muttered, pointing a finger at her. she responded with a purr, curling up into a fluffy ball of indifference.
great. just great. looks like you were in this aloneâagain.
evening rolled in, and with it came mr. picklesâs dinner time. lately, youâd been overly cautious about her diet and moodâthe whole pregnancy thing and allâbut tonight? tonight she was testing your last nerve. there she was, stationed by the door like her life depended on it, yowling dramatically with an almost operatic flair. her tail flicked like a metronome, her cries growing more pitiful by the second. âoh, come on,â you groaned, setting her food bowl down with an exasperated sigh. âwhatâs with you tonight? youâve eaten like, three times already.â
mr. pickles, naturally, ignored you, clawing at the door with all the determination of someone who just had to get out. âfine,â you muttered, stomping toward the door. âbut i swear, if thereâs a stray out there, you can explain yourself, motherfââ
you flung the door open mid-rant and promptly froze.
standing in your doorway was a man. a ridiculously tall, stupidly handsome man with long, silky black hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck and bangs that framed his angular face like heâd just stepped off the cover of handsome landlord quarterly. he wore a plain black sweater, dark trousers, and an expression that was equal parts bemused and apologetic. but your attention snapped to the cat he was holding aloftâan orange tabby with piercingly bright blue eyes that were somehow both smug and indifferent at the same time. âuhâŠhi,â he said, his voice deep and smooth with an edge of uncertainty. âthis yours?â
âthatâsâŠnot my cat,â you managed, pointing awkwardly at the tabby.
âfigured,â he said, glancing past you into your apartment where mr. pickles was now peeking out, her ears perked and tail bristled like an antenna. âheâs mine. nameâs gojo. found him sitting outside my door screaming his lungs out, so i thought maybeâŠâ his words trailed off as his gaze flicked between you, mr. pickles, and gojo. then, realization dawned on his face.
âwait.â he looked at mr. pickles, then back at you. âis your catâŠ?â
âpregnant?â you supplied flatly. âyep. as of about a week ago, thanks for asking.â
getoâbecause of course youâd figured out that this very handsome man was suguru geto from the floor aboveâblinked, visibly processing this information. âhuh,â he said finally, his brow furrowing as he glanced at gojo. âbutâŠgojoâs neutered.â
âwhat?â you blurted, staring at the smug orange tabby who looked anything but neutered. âyeah, had it done ages ago.â geto tilted his head, clearly as baffled as you. âso how the hellâŠ?â you pinched the bridge of your nose, feeling a headache blooming. âyouâre saying thereâs no way it couldâve been him?â
ânot unless he figured out how to reverse a neuter,â geto said dryly, his lips twitching in a bemused smile. you both looked at the cats theâgojo, lounging smugly in getoâs arms, and mr. pickles, glaring daggers from the safety of the couch. âokay,â you muttered, mostly to yourself. âif not gojo, then who? because i donât exactly let her out, and sheâs been acting weird for weeks.â
âwellâŠâ geto began, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. âhe did sneak out a couple of times last month, but i didnât thinkââ
âoh my god,â you groaned, cutting him off. âare you telling me your supposedly neutered cat is actually some kind of feline lothario who managed to knock up my cat on one of his escapades?â
âitâs not like i planned this,â geto defended, though there was a hint of amusement in his tone. you shot him a look, but before you could respond, gojo meowed loudly, almost like he was bragging. âgreat,â you muttered, throwing your hands up. âjust great. now i have to deal with kittens, rent, and figuring out how the hell to co-parent with the guy next door who canât keep his cat under control.â
geto chuckled, his dark eyes twinkling with genuine amusement. âwell, if it helps, iâm pretty good with kids. or kittens, in this case.â you stared at him, incredulous. âthis isnât funny.â
âoh, come on,â he teased, his smirk widening. âitâs a little funny.â you groaned again, retreating into your apartment. âthis is a nightmare.â
âor an adventure,â geto countered, stepping back into the hallway with a casual wave. âlet me know if you need any help. babysitting, moral support, whatever.â and just like that, he was gone, leaving you with a very pregnant mr. pickles, a smug orange tabby, and far too many questions about how youâd managed to land yourself in this ridiculous situation.
-
the realization hit you as soon as you pressed "send." oh no. oh no, no, no.Â
did you really just text suguru getoâyour neighbor, a man who likely had better things to do than deal with your ridiculous antics a demand for child support? for cats? you flopped face-first onto your couch, groaning into a throw pillow. âwhat the hell is wrong with me?â mr. pickles, lounging on the armrest, flicked her tail and let out a smug little chirp, as if sheâd orchestrated the entire debacle. âyouâre no help,â you muttered, rolling onto your back to glare at her.
but it was too late now. the text was sent, sitting in getoâs inbox like an uninvited guest at a party. you imagined him reading it, probably over a cup of coffee in his immaculate apartment upstairs, eyebrows raised in disbelief before muttering something like, what the hell is this?
âwhat was i expecting?â you asked the ceiling. âa courtroom? with gojo cat wearing a tiny tie and confessing his sins?â mr. pickles yawned, completely uninterested in your spiral.
âugh,â you grumbled, standing up. âwhatever. itâs his problem now.â
-
bleary-eyed and still half-asleep, you shuffled to the door the next morning to grab the newspaper. the universe owed you at least one boring morning after last nightâs embarrassment. but as you opened the door, your sleep-deprived brain screeched to a halt. there, sitting on your front porch, was a 5kg bag of premium cat food, the kind youâd seen in the store once and immediately walked past because it cost more than your monthly grocery budget. âwhat theâŠâ you muttered, crouching down to inspect it.
taped to the bag was a folded piece of paper with the words âchild support :)â scrawled in smooth, confident handwriting. beneath the note was what looked suspiciously like a paw print in ink. you squinted, trying to process the absurdity of the situation. âno. absolutely not. did heâdid they actually ink up the cat for this?â you glanced down the hallway, half-expecting geto to pop out from behind a corner and yell âgotcha!â but it was eerily quiet. mr. pickles, who had wandered over to investigate, sniffed the bag and let out an excited meow, her tail curling in approval. âof course youâre happy,â you said, picking up the note and reading it again. âthis is like winning the lottery for you.â
you flipped the paper over, looking for more, but that was it. just âchild support :)â and a smug paw print. âoh my god,â you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. âheâs good. heâs really good.â you set the bag inside and grabbed your phone, your thumbs hovering over the keyboard. what were you even supposed to say to this? thank you? an apology for being unhinged?
before you could overthink it, a new message lit up your screen.
geto: hope this helps. let me know if you need anything else. gojo says hi.
you stared at the message for a long moment, torn between laughter and mortification.
âwhat do i even say to that?â you asked mr. pickles, who was now trying to claw her way into the bag of food. she didnât respond, obviously, but you took her enthusiasm as a sign to type out the least embarrassing reply you could muster.
you: thanks. mr. pickles says hi too. sorry about the text, was half-asleep. really appreciate this though.
a reply came almost instantly.
geto: no problem. wasnât sure how much to get, so i just grabbed the fanciest one. figured she deserves it.
you snorted, shaking your head. âwhat are you, cat royalty?â
mr. pickles let out a pleased chirp, pawing at the bag triumphantly, and you couldnât help but laugh. whatever this situation was, at least mr. pickles was happy. and, okay, maybe suguru geto wasnât completely terrible either.
you thought life couldnât get more ridiculous after the whole âchild supportâ stunt. but somehow, suguru geto managed to raise the bar so high that it was practically doing pull-ups in the stratosphere. because when you stepped out of your apartment to grab some fresh air and regroup after being up all night with a cuddly mr. pickles, you realized geto had turned this entire ordeal into a neighborhood event. âdid he⊠throw a party without telling me?â you muttered to yourself, narrowing your eyes as you spotted a small, hand-decorated sign taped to the landlordâs door. it read: "congrats to the new parents: gojo & mr. pickles!â
ânew parents?â you said aloud, incredulous.
as if summoned by your confusion, chosoâs door creaked open, and yuuji popped his head out, looking entirely too enthusiastic for such an early hour. âhey, neighbor! did you see the banner?â you blinked at him. âbanner?âÂ
yuuji pointed down the hallway. you squinted and, sure enough, there it was â a banner strung across the hallway ceiling that read: "welcome baby kittens!!!" in what looked like glitter glue. âoh my god.â you pressed a hand to your forehead. âhe didnât.â
âhe totally did!â yuuji grinned, stepping fully into the hallway. âhe came by earlier and told me about gojo being a dad. so cool, right? i mean, gojoâs kind of an idiot, but hey, every cat deserves a shot at fatherhood.â
âyuuji,â you said, pinching the bridge of your nose. âheâs not an actual dad. this isnât a sitcom. itâs justâŠbiology.â yuuji shrugged. âbiology, destiny, same thing. oh, by the way, geto dropped off cookies! want one?â you looked down and noticed yuuji holding a plate of cookies shaped like tiny cats.
âwhat theâdid he bake these?â
ânah, i think he bought them,â yuuji said, biting into one. âbut still. pretty neat, huh?â you groaned, muttering, âneat isnât the word iâd use.â
just as you turned to head back into your apartment and escape the madness, there was a loud, insistent scratching at your door. you froze. âdonât tell meâŠâ
yuuji, still chewing on his cookie, pointed. âthatâs probably gojo. heâs been making rounds all morning trying to visit your cat. i think heâs really taking this fatherhood thing seriously.â you stormed to your door and there he wasâgojo cat, gojo the cat, his bright blue eyes wide and hopeful as he pawed at the doorway like a love-struck romeo. âoh, for crying out loud,â you muttered, scooping him up and holding him at armâs length as you entered your house. âwhat do you think youâre doing?â gojo meowed pitifully, his tail flicking as he looked past you toward mr. pickles, who was curled up on her blanket, looking utterly unimpressed. âsheâs not interested, casanova,â you told him, turning to yuuji. âcan you take him back before he climbs my curtains again?â yuuji laughed, taking the cat from you. âno problem. come on, gojo. letâs give her some space.â
as yuuji disappeared down the hall with gojo, you closed the door and leaned against it, letting out a long sigh. but before you could even sit down, your phone buzzed.
geto: hope youâre enjoying the festivities. gojoâs a little excited, but who can blame him? parenthood changes you.
you stared at the message, your eye twitching.
you: i'm one sleepless night away from snapping. please stop turning my life into a hallmark movie.
geto: donât be shy. youâre the real hero here, grandma.
you groaned, tossing your phone onto the couch. mr. pickles, who had been watching the entire ordeal with an air of feline superiority, let out a small, smug purr. âdonât you start,â you told her, flopping onto the couch. âat least itâs a long weekend.â but deep down, you knew there was no such thing as peaceânot when suguru geto and his ridiculous orange menace were involved.
-
suguru geto was not having a good day.
he sighed, leaning back against his couch as the familiar hum of embarrassment settled over him. gojo cat, sprawled across the armrest, gave a half-hearted meow, probably to mock him. heâd woken up to him scratching at his front door like a lunatic, yowling for his morning ritual of inspecting the hallway for signs of mr. pickles. the normally smug and self-satisfied orange menace had been acting weird for daysârestless, meowing at windows, and straight-up bolting every time geto so much as opened the front door. it had taken geto exactly one trip downstairs to realize why.
you. or more specifically, your cat.
geto hadnât even known you had a cat until heâd knocked on your door last week, with mr. pickles in the background like some furry empress. now, not only did he know, but he also had the dubious honor of being the grandfather of mr. picklesâ unborn kittens. âhow did it even come to this?â he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he stared at the glittery âwelcome baby kittens!!!â banner heâd put up in the hallway. he knew he was making things worse for himself, but honestly, it was better than sitting in his apartment, spiraling. he sighed, looking down at gojo, who was perched on the armrest of the couch, lazily licking a paw. âyou couldnât just chill, could you?â geto said, narrowing his eyes at the cat. âno, you had to go and ruin my already complicated life. do you know how awkward this is? do you?â
gojo blinked at him, clearly unbothered. âof course you donât,â geto muttered. âyouâre a cat.â
the thing was, geto had genuinely thought heâd be cool about this whole situation. sure, it was a little weird to be co-parenting kittens with the girl heâd had a hallway crush on for months, but it wasnât like he couldnât handle it. except he wasnât handling it. heâd told yuuji. heâd told yaga. heâd even left cookies for shoko. and now half the building knew about gojoâs escapades. âwhat am i doing?â he groaned, leaning back on the couch and covering his face with his hands. âyou know, this is all your fault,â geto muttered, glaring at the cat. gojo, unbothered, blinked lazily.
it wasnât like heâd never tried to talk to you before. he had. there was that one time in the campus library, where heâd psych himself up for twenty minutes only for you to leave before he could string a coherent sentence together. or the time in the cafeteria when he thought about offering you a seat at his table but chickened out because he was certain his friends would tease him for weeks. âthis is what rock bottom feels like,â he muttered to himself.
he wasnât even supposed to live in this building. as an international law major with a full schedule and internships on the horizon, he shouldâve been in one of the fancier complexes closer to campus, but fateâor sheer bad luckâhad landed him here. not that he could complain. not when you were his downstairs neighbor. he had always figured you were out of reach, though. you had this aura of being completely in your own worldâpoised, a little reserved, but not in a way that came off as unapproachable. more like you were quietly observing the chaos around you, letting it wash over you like a passing breeze. and heâd been content to admire you from afar. well, mostly content. but now? there was a knock at the door.Â
geto froze.
âplease donât let it be her,â he whispered, praying to whatever higher power might be listening.
it was you. standing in his apartment building, holding a note he wrote about âchild support.â
âhey,â you said, holding up a piece of paper. âyou forgot this.â
âoh,â he said dumbly. âright. thanks.â
you stepped inside, looking around at the various cat-themed decorations geto had somehow acquired in the past 24 hours. âso⊠big fan of cats, huh?â you asked, raising an eyebrow. geto felt his face heat up. âuh, yeah. something like that.â you smirked, crossing your arms. âyou know, you didnât have to go all out like this. itâs not that big of a deal.â
ânot a big deal?â geto repeated, incredulous. âyour cat is having kittens with my cat. thatâs, like⊠monumental.â you rolled your eyes. âtheyâre cats , geto. not royal heirs.â
âstill,â he said, crossing his arms defensively. âiâm just trying to be responsible here.â you looked at him for a long moment, and geto swore he saw the tiniest flicker of amusement in your eyes. âresponsible?â you repeated. âis that why youâve turned our hallway into a petting zoo?â geto opened his mouth to argue but stopped when gojo jumped down from the couch and strutted over to you, rubbing against your legs like the shameless flirt he was. âtraitor,â geto muttered under his breath. you crouched down to pet gojo, a small smile tugging at your lips. âwell, at least someone knows how to make a good impression.âÂ
geto stared at you, his brain short-circuiting. âuh, yeah,â he said finally. âheâs⊠heâs good at that.â you stood up, brushing cat fur off your hands. âanyway, thanks for the food. mr. pickles appreciates it.â
âno problem,â geto said, trying to sound casual. âyou know, if you ever need help with⊠anything, just let me know.â you raised an eyebrow. âlike what? cat parenting classes?â
âsure,â geto said, shrugging. âor, you know, anything else.â you gave him a long, considering look before finally nodding. âiâll keep that in mind,â you said, turning to leave. âthanks, grandpa.â
geto groaned as the door closed behind you. âwhat am i even doing?â he muttered again, looking down at gojo, who had jumped back onto the couch, looking entirely too smug. the cat meowed, as if to say, youâre welcome.
chapter 3: first we stalk, then we brunch
later in the evening, you found yourself huddled under your comforter, laptop balanced precariously on your knees. mr. pickles was curled up at your feet, occasionally flicking her tail, as if silently judging you. you ignored her. tonight, you had a mission: to do a deep dive into the enigma that was suguru geto. you werenât proud of yourself, okay? but curiosity had officially killed the catâor at least put her temporarily out of commission. like any sensible person armed with curiosity and internet access, you turned to linkedin. not instagram, not facebookâlinkedin. because nothing screams âserious investigationâ like stalking someoneâs professional achievements. âletâs see what weâve got, mr. pickles,â you muttered, typing âsuguru getoâ into the search bar on the holy grail of professional snooping. mr. pickles perched regally at the foot of your bed, her gaze judgmental as ever. âdonât give me that look,â you muttered. âiâm doing this for you.â
within seconds, his profile loaded up, and your jaw practically hit the floor.
suguru geto | international law student | aspiring global policymaker | passionate about justice and equality
âugh,â you groaned, scrolling further. âpassionate about justice? who is this guy?â his bio didnât help matters. it was filled with phrases like âdedicated to fostering positive global changeâ and âcommitted to bridging the gap between policy and implementation.â
âcommitted to being annoyingly perfect, maybe,â you muttered, side-eyeing mr. pickles. she let out a half-hearted meow that you chose to interpret as agreement. his experience section was even worseâor better, depending on how you looked at it. a summer internship at the UN where he âassisted in drafting resolutions and collaborated with member states on sustainable development initiatives.â worked as a legal intern at some fancy law firm with a french name you couldnât pronounce, where he âfocused on international human rights cases, with a specific emphasis on refugee protection.â not to mention being a volunteer coordinator for a charity in sri lanka, where he âorganized relief efforts and distributed supplies to displaced families during the holiday season.â
bachelorâs in international law | current student
active member of the debate team and global policy forum
that explains it, you thought. you were a year younger and in an entirely different departmentâhe probably had his head buried in treaties while you scrambled through your own projects. still, the idea of suguru walking the same hallways as you sent your mind reeling. âwas he in the cafeteria when i spilled coffee on myself that one time?â you wondered aloud. as you continued scrolling, you stumbled upon his posts. his posts swung wildly between annoyingly inspirational and oddly endearing.
the first was a very cheesy, slightly-too-polished âringing in the new yearâ post, complete with a stock photo of fireworks and an unnecessarily long caption: âas we close the chapter on another year, let us remember the power of community and resilience. cheers to 365 days of growth, learning, and striving for a better world!â
âuggghhh, gag me,â you snorted, though you couldnât help but admire how polished it all was.
then there was a post featuring none other than gojo cat sprawled on a cushion, mid-snore. the caption read: âcats are not just petsâthey are companions, teachers, and sometimes, our greatest confidants. thank you, gojo, for reminding me to appreciate the little joys in life.â
âoh, come on,â you groaned. âwho even has time for all of this?â mr. pickles let out an approving meow, her ears twitching at the picture. ânot you too,â you sighed. just as you were about to close the tab, a final post caught your eye. it was from a few months ago: a blurry picture of the university quad, with a caption that read: âsometimes, itâs the quiet moments on campus that remind you why you started this journey. grateful for this space, these people, and this path.â
âquiet moments, huh?â you mused, leaning back against your pillows. âmaybe heâs not all bad.â mr. pickles let out a disapproving chirp, as if to say, focus on the fact that heâs responsible for my current condition, thank you. and just when you thought youâd seen it all, there was his international cat day post. gojo cat lay sprawled in the background, his belly exposed, looking utterly unbothered. geto had written an almost poetic ode to feline companionship. âin a world filled with noise, cats remind us to listen to silence. they are the quiet guardians of our souls.â
you couldnât help but snort. âquiet guardians? mr. pickles, your baby daddy is a poet now.â mr. pickles gave a soft chirp, as if to say, better him than some nobody. âfine,â you relented, closing your laptop. âmaybe heâs not terrible. just⊠annoyingly perfect.â but as you lay back against your pillows, a nagging thought lingered: why had he never said anything? youâd walked the same hallways, shared the same campus, yet heâd never even made a passing hello. was he too busy, or something else? either way, you werenât sure whether to be impressed or annoyed. probably both.
-
suguru geto prided himself on being polished and refined. and he had standards okay? he wasnât some creep skulking around in the shadows. he was a man of composure, logic, and discipline. but all of that went out the window when it came to you. he is also an upstanding citizen who just happened to know your spotify account, which he checked semi-regularly. for research purposes, obviously. it started innocently enoughâgetting your instagram handle. no big deal. he hadnât even followed you right away, worried it might seem weird coming out of nowhere. it was all very calculated: a "friend of a friend of a classmate of a third cousin" pipeline that eventually led him to your public page. a click here, a scroll there, and boomâyour instagram aesthetic was forever seared into his memory. but social media wasnât enough. no, geto was too curious (and maybe just a bit too pathetic) to stop there. this led him to your spotify.
now, he didnât just stumble upon your spotify profile by chance. this particular treasure hunt began at a house party at the start of the year. utahime had made a collaborative playlist for everyone, and while everyone else just added their favorite songs, geto decided to dive deep. deep as in scrolling through over 150 accounts connected to the playlist just to find yours. âthere it is,â he had muttered triumphantly back then, his lips twitching into a satisfied smile. âgotcha.â and from that moment, your spotify profile became his guilty pleasure. your profile picture at the time? a blurry photo of what looked like you holding a glass of wine at some fancy rooftop bar. but the playlists were the real treasure.
your âgym ratâ playlist was his favorite, with high energy tracks, peppered with one or two questionable choices. seriously, why was there a taylor swift song in the middle of your workout playlist? your âin the clerb, we all cryinââ playlist was interesting to say the least, comprising of indie ballads, heart-wrenching acoustics, and, for some reason, a single abba track. then there was âroad trip,â featuring everything from funky throwbacks to an absurd number of songs by chappell roan. âyouâve got taste,â geto muttered to himself, clicking into the playlists one by one. âquestionable taste in some areas, but stillâŠâ he often scrolled through your profile aimlessly, not necessarily looking for anything new, but just existing in your world, even if it was through music. tonight, he found himself back on your page, like some kind of masochistic ritual.
his eyes drifted to his chrome tabs, where your spotify was bookmarked for easy access. it was right there, sandwiched between his email inbox, an online soba delivery menu, an article titled â10 Tips for Acing Your Next Law Internshipâ and a tab about international trade law regulations. âno new playlists,â he murmured, leaning back in his chair. your gym playlist hadnât been updated in six months (âwhat happened to your gym rat era?â), and your grwm playlist was untouched. âslacking, hm?â gojo cat, perched on the edge of the desk, gave him a slow blink. âboring night for you too, huh?â geto sighed dramatically, glancing over at gojo cat sprawled on his lap. the feline barely flicked an ear in response. âdonât look at me like that,â geto said, narrowing his eyes at the feline. âthis is completely normal behavior. iâm not stalking. iâm just⊠maintaining a healthy level of interest.â
âitâs not creepy,â he justified aloud, more to himself than to anyone else. âitâs resourceful. iâm just staying informed.â gojo cat stretched lazily, letting out a yawn that sounded suspiciously judgmental. âoh, donât start,â geto shot back, tapping lightly on the catâs head. âyouâre the reason i even know her in the first place.â getoâs eyes flicked to your âgym rat eraâ playlist again. still untouched. âwhat happened to that, by the way?â he asked no one in particular. âgave up? hit your personal best and retired early?â gojo cat pawed at the corner of his laptop, as if trying to close it.
âright,â geto muttered. âthis is perfectly reasonable. iâm just⊠interested. itâs not like iâm walking past her door at 3 a.m. or something.â a fleeting daydream crossed his mindâwhat if the two of you had a shared playlist? something intimate and special, where you both added songs and left little comments. ââthinking of you when i added this,ââ he mused in a mockingly cheesy tone, shaking his head. âgod, what am i, thirteen?â still, the thought lingered, making him smile despite himself. just as he began to close the tab, a notification popped up.
[beef_boss_69 has followed you.]
his entire demeanor shifted. âbeef boss? beef boss?â geto practically spat the name out. âwho the hellâwhat kind of username is that?â he clicked on the profile, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the new follower. it was a faceless account, with no playlists or followers of its own. âoh, great,â he grumbled. âa bot. or worse, some guy who thinks heâs funny.â he glanced at gojo cat, who looked thoroughly unimpressed. âdonât give me that look,â geto said, pointing at the cat. âyouâd be upset too if some guy named beef boss was muscling in on your territory.â gojo cat chirped, which suguru took as a sign of agreement. âexactly,â geto said, nodding to himself. âi mean, whatâs next? chicken king 420? pork prince 88?âÂ
he sat back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. âi should just send the linkedin request,â he muttered to himself. ârip the band-aid off. whatâs the worst that could happen?â gojo cat let out a loud meow, almost as if to say, youâre never going to do it. âshut up,â geto shot back, though there was no heat behind his words. he closed your spotify tab, ignoring the way his stomach twisted at the thought of actually interacting with you. maybe tomorrow, he thought. or next week. or the next time beef boss made a move. as he shut his laptop, he made a mental note: tomorrow, heâd work up the nerve to send you a linkedin request. baby steps, right?
-
you werenât even sure what had pulled you out of bed that morning. was it the ungodly racket outside your door? the growing guilt of not actually reading the paper you insisted on having delivered? or maybe just the suspiciously human-sounding yowls of mr. pickles as she nested in the corner of your room? either way, youâd dragged yourself out of bed, eyes half-closed, hair resembling a birdâs nest, and shuffled toward the door in your favoriteâread: most embarrassingâpajamas. and there he was.
suguru geto, standing in front of your door in the crisp morning light, wearing an athletic jacket, sweatpants, and the expression of a man who was absolutely not ready for this level of chaos. attached to his hand was a leash, and attached to the leash was none other than gojo cat himself, strutting like he was the king of the neighborhood. âmorning,â geto greeted, his tone breezy but his face clearly betraying some inner turmoil. you blinked at him. âis that⊠is that a harness?â
âyep.â geto scratched the back of his neck. âgojo here insisted.â as if on cue, gojo cat let out an overly dramatic meow, his bright blue eyes locking onto yours. he looked like a lion surveying his kingdom =âor, more accurately, a spoiled housecat demanding tribute. âyouâre taking your cat for a walk?â you asked, still half-asleep and very much regretting this encounter. âyeah, heâs been getting a little⊠restless,â geto said, glancing down at the fluffball who was now trying to paw at your door. âand by restless, i mean clawing the walls like a maniac at 3 a.m.â gojo cat let out another meow, this one louder, and then craned his neck to peer behind you, as if expecting mr. pickles to emerge in all her pregnant glory. âokay, whatâs he doing?â you asked, narrowing your eyes at the cat. âprobably hoping to see his baby mama,â geto replied with a dry chuckle. you stared at him, your brain still buffering from the sheer audacity of that sentence. âbaby mama?â
âlook,â geto started, suddenly looking flustered, âi was wondering if you⊠i mean, if she ⊠maybe we could ââ
âspit it out.â
âdo you wanna join us for a walk?â he blurted, his cheeks faintly pink.
gojo cat meowed again, clearly seconding the idea. or maybe he was just demanding that you bring mr. pickles along. you sighed, glancing over your shoulder at the aforementioned queen of your household, who was currently sprawled on her side like a beached whale. âsheâs not exactly in the mood for exercise.â âplease,â geto said, his tone bordering on desperate. âit might do her some good. and honestly, it might keep gojo from trying to scale your window again.â you pinched the bridge of your nose. âfine. but you owe me breakfast for this.â
âdeal,â geto said immediately, his relief almost palpable.
after an embarrassingly long five minutes of wrangling mr. pickles into her carrierâcomplete with angry hisses and a swat to your handâyou emerged from your apartment, looking like you were about to march into battle. âready?â geto asked, his smile equal parts charming and sheepish. âletâs just get this over with,â you grumbled, hoisting the carrier while mr. pickles glared daggers at everyone in sight. as the four of you set off, gojo cat kept glancing back at the carrier, chirping softly as if trying to woo mr. pickles through sheer persistence. âheâs really laying it on thick, huh?â you said, raising an eyebrow. âlike father, like son,â geto joked, then immediately looked mortified at his own words. you snorted, finally cracking a smile. âcareful, geto. i might actually start thinking youâre funny.â he grinned, his confidence seemingly restored. âwell, miracles do happen.â
mr. pickles, meanwhile, let out a low growl from her carrier, clearly unimpressed with the whole ordeal. gojo cat chirped in response, pressing his face to the mesh side of the carrier in what could only be described as a show of devotion. âis he always like this?â you asked, watching the ridiculous display. âonly when heâs in love,â geto replied, shooting you a look that lingered just a second too long. you pretended not to notice the way your heart skipped a beat. âwell, he better not get his hopes up. mr. pickles isnât exactly the romantic type.â geto chuckled. âguess heâll just have to win her over.â as the morning sun climbed higher, you couldnât help but feel that maybe, just maybe, this whole ridiculous situation wasnât so bad after all.
geto meanwhile, was mentally spiraling. he didnât know what was worseâthe âlike father, like sonâ line heâd just dropped on you or the fact that you didnât immediately burst out laughing and leave him and his ridiculous orange tabby in the dust. instead, you stayed, which only made things harder for him. literally. his heart was pounding so loudly he was sure even mr. pickles could hear it from inside her carrier. he was trying to play it cool, but how was he supposed to do that when his so-called son was busy embarrassing the hell out of him? gojo cat was living his best life, pulling on his leash like a dog on a mission. his blue eyes sparkled with excitement as he trotted beside mr. pickles' carrier, occasionally pawing at the mesh as if trying to âconnectâ with his beloved. mr. pickles, for her part, was clearly over it. she sat in the carrier like a disgruntled queen, her ears flat and her glare sharp enough to cut diamonds.
âyour catâs persistent,â you said, watching as gojo cat did a full circle around the carrier before flopping dramatically on the sidewalk, belly up, in what looked like a plea for attention. âheâs⊠special,â geto replied, attempting to reel in the leash as gojo cat kicked his legs in the air, rolling onto his side to stare mournfully at mr. pickles. âgojo, stop being weird.â gojo cat let out a pitiful meow, his paws pressing against the carrier like he was performing some romeo and juliet reenactment. âis this normal?â you asked, raising an eyebrow as you crouched to take a closer look. âdefine normal,â geto deadpanned, tugging the leash again as gojo cat started to nudge his face against the carrier. âheâs just... enthusiastic. about life. and apparently, love.â
âmr. pickles looks like sheâs about to murder him.â
mr. pickles, indeed, was having none of it. when gojo cat got too close, she raised a paw and batted at the mesh with a low growl, making geto jump. âokay, timeout,â geto said, scooping gojo cat up with one arm while holding the leash in the other. gojo cat squirmed, letting out a series of indignant chirps as if protesting his removal from the âlove of his life.â âyouâre really committed to this cat dad role, huh?â you teased, standing back up. âitâs not a role,â geto replied, attempting to adjust gojo cat in his arms as the feline twisted dramatically, his tail flicking with determination. âitâs a lifestyle.â you snorted, and geto decided right then and there that he would endure any amount of humiliation for the sound of your laughter.
meanwhile, gojo cat had decided heâd had enough of the timeout. with a sudden burst of energy, he wriggled free from getoâs grip and made a beeline back to mr. picklesâ carrier. he pawed at it again, letting out a chirp that sounded suspiciously like, notice me, senpai. âjesus christ, gojo,â geto muttered, scrambling to grab the leash. âcan you give her some space for five seconds?â
âheâs determined,â you said, your lips twitching as you watched the scene unfold. âiâll give him that.â
âdetermined to get us kicked out of the building, maybe,â geto grumbled, finally managing to wrangle gojo cat back.
mr. pickles, now thoroughly fed up, turned her back to the carrier door, her tail swishing in annoyance. she let out a loud, irritated meow, as if to say, enough of this nonsense. âlooks like the queen has spoken,â you said, nodding toward mr. pickles. âyeah, well, tell that to this guy,â geto replied, holding gojo cat up like a misbehaving toddler. âi swear, heâs got no chill.â
âtakes after his dad, huh?â you said with a sly grin.
geto froze, his cheeks heating up. âiâuhâheâs not my biologicalâuhâŠâ
you laughed again, shaking your head.Â
ârelax, geto. iâm just messing with you.â but before geto could recover and try to salvage what was left of his dignity, gojo cat let out another loud meow, squirming in his grip. âgreat,â geto muttered. âand now iâm the guy whose cat ruins his chance to make a good impression.â
âwho said it was ruined?â you said casually, your gaze meeting his for a brief, heart-stopping moment. and just like that, geto decided that maybeâjust maybeâgojo cat wasnât the worst wingman in the world after all.
honestly, when you first saw geto on linkedin yesterdayâhighlighted internships, connections with every fancy-sounding legal firm, and posts that made him look like a diplomatic demigodâyou thought, oh, great. another rich boy who probably orders his coffee by listing ten modifications and has never eaten instant noodles in his life. add gojo cat into the mix, and you were sure this guy was going to be the embodiment of an annoying private school kid, complete with a pet who demanded bottled water and artisanal treats. but this? this was unexpected. geto was, dare you say it, fun. the man actually cracked jokes, didnât have that holier-than-thou attitude, and seemed genuinely nice. how was he even an international law major? werenât they supposed to be the glorified MUN kids of society?
âso, what do you think of him?â geto asked, glancing down at gojo cat, who was currently doing his best impression of an olympic sprinter, chasing a rogue leaf across the path. âhim?â you asked, smirking. âi think heâs a menace to society.â
âhey, thatâs my son youâre talking about,â geto said, mock-offended. âlike father, like son,â you shot back, and you caught the faintest twitch of his lips. âyou wound me,â geto replied dramatically, clutching his chest like youâd just dealt a fatal blow. you laughed despite yourself. âi mean, am i wrong? youâre kind of a menace too, you know. showing up with that âlike father, like sonâ line earlier.â
âthat line was gold, okay?â he said, defensive but clearly holding back a grin. âbesides, it worked. youâre still here, arenât you?â you rolled your eyes but couldnât help smiling. âyou got lucky. i needed some fresh air.â
âah, so iâm just a side quest for your morning routine. noted,â he said, looking mock-wounded again. âdonât make me regret this,â you said, though your tone was light. but then, of course, you had to spiral. because what kind of person just casually smells like bamboo? why were you even thinking about how he smelled in the first place? no, focus. you were not about to develop a crush on mr. linkedin extraordinaire.
âso, um,â geto started, scratching the back of his neck. you noticed he did that a lot when he was unsure of himself, which was oddly endearing. âdid you, uh, happen to notice we go to the same university?â
âoh, i noticed,â you said, raising an eyebrow. âwhat i didnât notice was how i never saw you around campus before.â
âi keep a low profile,â he said quickly, a little too quickly.Â
âlow profile? you? with your fifteen linkedin posts about networking events and charity galas?â you teased. he flushed, and you bit back a laugh at the sight of the ever-composed suguru geto getting flustered. âthatâs professional stuff,â he said, looking anywhere but at you. âdifferent vibe.â
âsure, mr. diplomat,â you said, grinning. âbut seriously, why havenât we crossed paths before?â
âwell, youâre a year younger,â he mumbled, âand in a different department. plus⊠i mightâveâŠâ
âmightâve what?â you pressed, leaning in just slightly.
âmightâve avoided you,â he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. âavoided me?â you repeated, blinking. âwhy?â
his face turned a shade darker. âbecause i didnât know how to talk to you, okay?â you stared at him, caught off guard by his sudden honesty. for a moment, neither of you spoke, the sound of gojo cat rustling through the bushes filling the silence. âwell,â you said finally, breaking the tension with a small smile, âyouâre doing fine now.â he looked at you, his expression softening. âyeah, maybe.â
and just like that, the flustered energy transferred to you, because how was this guy suddenly so disarming? you quickly turned your attention to gojo cat, who had now returned, proudly carrying a twig in his mouth like it was some grand prize. âyour catâs weird,â you said, hoping the heat in your cheeks wasnât too obvious. âtakes after his owner,â geto quipped, a little more confidently this time. you snorted, shaking your head. âyeah, well, youâre lucky i donât scare easy.â
âlucky, huh?â he said, his lips curving into a small, genuine smile.
you groaned inwardly. maybe you were spiraling. if mr. pickles could talk, youâd be subjected to a very long, exasperated lecture right now. and honestly? sheâd have a point. because here you were, fumbling in front of what could only be described as a god-sent manâminus his questionable taste in cheesy pickup lines and feline companions. and judging by the way she was scratching insistently against the carrierâs mesh, mr. pickles had had enough. âalright, alright,â you muttered, unzipping the carrier. âbut behave, okay? no swatting.â
the minute she stepped out, in all her pregnant, regal glory, gojo cat lost his mind. if there were an olympic event for wooing, heâd be taking home gold, no contest. he was meowing nonstop, his tail flicking like crazy, hopping in excited circles around mr. pickles. âgood god,â geto muttered beside you, watching his catâs antics with a mixture of horror and amusement. âheâs⊠persistent, isnât he?â
âpersistent? your catâs acting like he just won the lottery,â you said, watching gojo cat crouch low and wiggle his butt like he was about to pounce. âmr. pickles deserves the best,â geto said with a smirk, his tone dripping with mock sincerity. âshe deserves peace and quiet,â you shot back, laughing as mr. pickles calmly let gojo cat have his little moment of excitement before promptly swatting him on the nose.
gojo cat froze, blinking in shock. then, as if nothing happened, he tried again. another swat.
âhe doesnât give up, does he?â you said, shaking your head. âlike father, like son,â geto said with a shrug, and you snorted.
âoh, so youâre like that too, huh?â you teased, raising an eyebrow at him. he froze for a second, his brain clearly buffering. then he laughed, scratching the back of his neck. âi like to think i have a bit more self-control.â
âhmm,â you said, pretending to consider. âdebatable.â
âharsh,â geto said, placing a hand over his heart like heâd been wounded. things werenât any better for geto. watching you laugh at his lame attempts at humor was doing something dangerous to his brain. you were so close, and the way your eyes lit up when you laughedâŠ
he couldnât help it. he felt the same urge gojo cat mustâve feltâlike physically shaking, meowing, jumping, doing whatever it took to make sure you were looking at him. but he was a man with poise (he reminded himself), so instead of resorting to anything outrageous, he blushed furiously, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. âyou okay there?â you asked, noticing his face had turned an alarming shade of red. âyeah, yeah,â he said quickly, waving you off. âitâs, uh⊠warm out here.â you glanced up at the sky. it was barely sunny with a light breeze. âsure,â you said, smirking. âtotally the weather.â
âdonât call me out like that,â he mumbled, looking away and rubbing the back of his neck again. âyouâre cute when youâre flustered,â you said before you could stop yourself, and the words hung in the air for a second too long. his head snapped toward you, eyes wide. âwhat?â
âi â nothing ,â you said quickly, suddenly very interested in the stray thread on your sweater. âno, no, go on,â geto said, leaning in slightly, his voice teasing now. âwhat were you saying?â
âi said nothing,â you insisted, but your face was practically on fire. he grinned, leaning back and crossing his arms. âmm-hmm. sure.â
you groaned, hiding your face in your hands. âmr. pickles, save me,â you muttered, but she was too busy fending off gojo catâs latest round of attention to care. and next to you, geto was grinning like an idiot, his blush finally starting to fade as he realized he might not be the only one spiraling.
amidst the awkward giggles and blushes, your stomach decided it had enough of the coy flirting and declared war. a low, awkward rumble escaped, loud enough for both you and geto to freeze. âwas thatâŠ?â geto began, his lips twitching.
âno,â you lied immediately, your face heating up. âthat was probablyâŠgojo.â as if on cue, gojo cat meowed loudly, almost like he was backing you up. but mr. pickles wasnât having it, her head snapping toward you with a âyouâre kidding, right?â look. geto, bless his golden heart, didnât press further. instead, he scooped up a very indignant gojo, who was in the middle of another extravagant attempt to woo mr. pickles.Â
âsounds like breakfast is overdue,â he said, grinning. âmy treat, as promised.â you hesitated, watching as mr. pickles, the opportunist she was, pranced toward her carrier with the regal air of a queen boarding her royal carriage. she gave you a look that screamed, what are you waiting for? letâs go, servant.
âuh,â you started, scratching the back of your neck. âso, funny story â i didnât bring my wallet, and even if i didâŠâ you trailed off, remembering the bleak state of your cashapp. $27.53 stared back at you the last time you checked. it was a miracle you even had that much. â...i wouldnât be able to afford it.â geto blinked at you, as if youâd grown a second head. âwhat?â
âyeah,â you said, already feeling the mortifying urge to dig a hole and crawl into it. âiâm, uh, broke. like, hilariously broke. economy, yâknow?â you added with a weak laugh. âyou think iâm letting you pay?â geto said, looking genuinely offended. âwhat kind of guy do you think i am?â
âa nice guy?â you offered, unsure where this was going. âno, no,â he said, shaking his head. âa gentleman.â
oh god, the drama. you stifled a laugh. âwell, excuse me, mister gentleman. i just didnât want to assume youâd pay.â
ânormal?â he asked, arching a brow. âwhat, like mcdonaldâs?â
âthat wouldâve been perfect, â you muttered. he just chuckled. ârelax. itâs on me. besidesâŠâ he leaned in slightly, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. âi have a reputation to uphold. international law guys donât slum it, you know?â you snorted. âyouâre so full of it.â
âhowâd you know i was going to say that?â you asked, narrowing your eyes at him. he shrugged. âjust a hunch. order whatever you want.â
you hesitated, glancing at the menu. everything was overpriced, and you were 80% sure a single pancake here cost more than your rent. âfine,â you said finally. âbut if i order the most expensive thing on the menu, i donât want to hear you complain.â
âdeal,â he said, smiling like youâd just agreed to marry him. god, he really was trying to woo you. and judging by the way your heart was doing somersaults, it mightâve been working.
the cafe was everything you imagined a âfancy breakfast spotâ would beâmuted beige tones, big windows letting in soft sunlight, overpriced art hanging on the walls, and tables filled with people who somehow looked like they owned hedge funds. there were plants too, the kind that didnât seem real, and a faint jazz tune played in the background. if geto was trying to impress you, he was definitely succeeding, albeit unintentionally making you feel a little out of place. but all of that took a backseat the moment you heard that voice.
âyouâre joking,â you muttered under your breath as you caught sight of none other than ryomen sukuna, towering like a goddamn villain straight out of a noir film. the cigarette smell hit first, faint but unmistakable, lingering on his dark uniform. his face twisted into a scowl the second he spotted your table. âugh, pets,â he grumbled, eyeing the carrier with disdain. âthis is why this place is going downhill. who even lets cats in here?â
âgood morning to you too, sukuna,â geto said smoothly, leaning back in his chair with a calmness that only pissed sukuna off further. you, on the other hand, were seconds away from panic. this is chosoâs brother? youâd seen him before, sureâusually smoking in the hallway and glaring like everyone had personally wronged him. but now? here? as your server? gojo cat immediately picked up on your distressâor maybe he just didnât like sukunaâs faceâbecause he started growling in getoâs lap. it was the tiniest, most pitiful growl, but sukunaâs eyes snapped to him, narrowing in challenge. âwhatâs that thingâs problem?â he asked, jerking a thumb at gojo cat. âhis problem is you , â geto said, smiling. âcanât say i blame him.â sukuna shot geto a flat look before turning his attention back to you. âwhat are you having?â he asked, his tone sharp enough to cut steel.
you panicked, your eyes darting to the menu. âuh⊠ummm âŠiâll have the, uhâŠâ you started, struggling to pronounce the ridiculous name of the dish. âthe croissantâŠsomething?â
âyou mean the croissant aux truffes?â sukuna interrupted, rolling his eyes. âyeah, got it. anything else?â you shook your head furiously, feeling your face heat up. âand you?â sukuna turned to geto, clearly already over this interaction. âmy usual,â geto said casually, resting his chin on his hand. sukuna raised a brow, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a mean smirk. âyour usual , huh? whatâs that again?â
geto froze for half a second, his cool demeanor slipping ever so slightly. âyou know what my usual is,â he said, his voice a little sharper. âdo i?â sukuna asked, feigning innocence. âmustâve slipped my mind.â
âitâs soba,â geto hissed, his calmness now completely abandoned.
âoh, soba,â sukuna said, nodding slowly like heâd just solved the mystery of the century. âgot it. soba. anything else, your highness?â geto glared at him but didnât say anything, and sukuna walked off, muttering something under his breath about âstupid regulars.â the moment he was out of earshot, geto leaned back in his chair and let out a dramatic sigh. âiâm never coming back here.â
âreally?â you asked, raising a brow. âbecause it sounded like you practically live here.â
ânot after this humiliation,â he said, though the way his lips twitched betrayed the fact that he wasnât as annoyed as he pretended to be. you couldnât help but laugh, the earlier tension melting away. âfor what itâs worth,â you said, âyour âusualâ sounds pretty fancy too.â
âdonât,â he groaned, burying his face in his hands. âiâll never live this down.â
from the corner of your eye, you saw gojo cat attempting to claw his way out of geto's lap, probably planning to finish what he started with sukuna. mr. pickles, ever the drama queen, merely yawned, completely unfazed by the chaos. it was going to be a long morning.
sukunaâs approach to serving was efficient, sure, but it was laced with the kind of attitude that made you question why this place hired him in the first place. he practically slammed getoâs soba on the table with a smile so forced it could rival a ventriloquist dummy, and your croissantâalthough perfectâarrived with a snide comment about âpetting zoosâ under his breath. you gave him a tight-lipped smile, muttering a quick âthank you,â while geto tried to hide his snicker behind his hand. sukuna walked off, grumbling something about âpretentious cat dads.â
âdonât mind him,â geto said, breaking his chopsticks with practiced ease. âheâs just like that with everyone. well, maybe worse with me.â
âso youâre special, then?â you teased, tearing off a piece of your croissant. âyou could say that,â geto replied with a grin, feeding gojo cat a tiny bit of soba under the table. gojo, the shameless flirt, lapped it up happily, ignoring mr. picklesâ death glare from her carrier. things were calm, peaceful evenâuntil the gaggle of women arrived.
they were the type youâd expect to see in glossy magazines: perfectly coiffed hair, subtle but expensive-looking makeup, and outfits that screamed âwe brunch in designer clothes.â they made a beeline for gojo cat, cooing and fawning like he was some sort of feline casanova. and, like the attention-seeking traitor he was, gojo lapped it all up, practically preening under their praise. âoh my god, look at him!â one of them squealed, petting gojo as he leaned into her touch. âheâs so cute!â
âwhatâs his name?â another asked, giving geto a smile that could only be described as predatory. âgojo,â geto said, chuckling awkwardly. âyou named him after yourself?â one of the women teased, clearly mistaking him for the egomaniac in question.
âuh, no, actuallyââ
âoh, sugurruuu!â another one interrupted, clearly recognizing him. âitâs been ages! how have you been?â you raised an eyebrow as the women began circling him like sharks. apparently, they were his seniors from a past internship, which made sense because they had that polished, professional air about them. âwe missed you at the office!â one of them gushed. âyou were so good at handling those client presentations,â another added, her tone a little too sweet for your liking.
you took a bite of your croissant, trying to ignore the sudden twist in your stomach. it wasnât like you had any claim over geto, right? and yet, seeing him chuckle nervously and entertain them, even though it was clear he was uncomfortable, made you bristle. beside you, mr. pickles was practically vibrating with irritation, her tail flicking furiously as she watched gojo soak up the attention. she let out a low, guttural growl that you couldâve sworn mirrored your exact mood. âheâs such a ladiesâ man,â one of the women purred, gesturing to gojo. âjust like his owner, huh?â
âactually,â geto said, his voice cutting through the chatter. he looked at you, his expression unreadable but his tone steady. âthis is my partner.â
wait, what?
the table went silent for a moment as all eyes turned to you. the womenâs faces fell ever so slightly, their previously cheery expressions dimming as they processed the information. âpartner?â one of them repeated, her voice tinged with disbelief. âyep,â geto said, leaning back in his chair with a small, satisfied smile. âweâre co-parenting these two,â he added, gesturing to the cats. you blinked, your mind racing. co-parenting? he wasnât wrong, technically speaking, but the way he said it made it sound...a lot more serious than it actually was. the women muttered half-hearted congratulations before awkwardly excusing themselves, their heels clicking against the tiled floor as they walked away. once they were out of earshot, you turned to geto, your cheeks burning. âpartner, huh?â
âwhat? itâs true,â he said, a hint of smugness in his tone. âweâre co-parenting.â
âyou do know how that sounded, right?â you asked, narrowing your eyes.âsounded perfect to me,â he said, giving you a lopsided grin. you rolled your eyes, but you couldnât help the small smile tugging at your lips. maybe, just maybe, you liked geto a little more than you thought. meanwhile, gojo cat continued basking in his stolen glory, and mr. pickles finally settled down in her carrier, clearly satisfied with how the situation had turned out.
chapter 4: he brought kibble, you brought your heart
the days following your chaotic breakfast outing became a mix of heartwarming absurdity and mild chaos, all thanks to geto and his ever-determined cat.Â
it started with the pet supplies. one offhand comment about needing more for mr. pickles, and suddenly geto was at your door with an entire armful of toys, treats, and nesting materials. âyou said you needed stuff,â he shrugged, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he handed you a bag that looked heavy enough to contain bricks. âthis isâŠa lot,â you said, peering inside. âdid you buy out the entire pet store?â
ânah, just the essentials,â he replied, brushing off your comment. âbesides, i had to get stuff for gojo anyway.â
the âstuff for gojoâ turned out to be a single can of tuna.
then came the vet visits. geto had decided, entirely unprompted, that your vet appointments were now his responsibility. he would show up unannounced, a coffee in hand for you and a carrier for gojo in the other. âi donât think the vet needs to see gojo,â youâd said the first time he came along. âyou never know,â heâd replied, entirely serious. âwhat if he has sympathy symptoms for mr. pickles? heâs been sneezing a lot lately.â
âthatâs because he shoved his face into a pile of dust bunnies,â you deadpanned. still, you couldnât deny how much easier it was having him around, even if it meant enduring his occasional attempts to one-up the vet with random facts heâd googled beforehand. âyou know, some studies say cats feel pain differently during pregnancy,â geto commented as the vet checked mr. pickles over. the vet gave him a flat look. âthatâsâŠnot entirely accurate.â
âhuh, weird,â geto said, leaning back with an entirely too smug grin. âiâll look into it more. itâs good to stay informed, right?â
meanwhile, gojo catâs relentless courtship of mr. pickles had reached new, unhinged heights. every day brought a new âgiftâ for her nesting area, ranging from sweet (a soft sock) to outright concerning (a half-dead lizard that had you shrieking and yuuji wielding a plastic lightsaber like some kind of jedi exterminator). âgojo, no!â youâd yelled, trying to wrestle the lizard out of his mouth. âdonât hurt him!â geto shouted, entirely missing the point as he held gojo back. âdonât hurt him?!â yuuji echoed, brandishing the lightsaber dramatically. âwhat about me? what if it jumps at me?!â
amidst the chaos, mr. pickles remained the picture of serenity, carefully arranging each of gojoâs offerings in her nesting area like some kind of bizarre art installation. she even started tolerating his presence, which was a minor miracle in itself. âlook at them,â geto said one day, gesturing to the two cats as they napped side by side. âtheyâre like us.â you raised an eyebrow. âone of them brings in literal trash and the other barely tolerates them. which oneâs supposed to be me?â
âwell, obviously, youâre mr. pickles,â he said with a grin.
âand youâre gojo?â
âexactly.â
you laughed, shaking your head. âgeto, youâre ridiculous.â
âand yet, here you are,â he teased, nudging your shoulder lightly.
despite the chaos, you couldnât deny that your little makeshift familyâcomplete with a sock-stealing, lizard-catching cat and his annoyingly thoughtful ownerâhad started to grow on you. mr. pickles seemed calmer, you felt more relaxed, and even getoâs awkward attempts at affection were kind of endearing. maybe, just maybe, these two werenât so bad after all.
but honestly, you shouldâve known geto would take a casual dinner and make it look like an event. the moment you opened the door and saw him standing there, you realized just how badly you underestimated the manâs ability to weaponize his looks. heâd ditched the usual button-ups for a fitted black turtleneck that clung to him like a second skin, paired with tailored gray slacks that looked more expensive than your monthly rent. his hair was tied back in a sleek ponytail, but a few stray strands framed his face just enough to be annoyingly perfect. and then there was the smellâsome cologne that was equal parts warm and spicy, making your knees wobble like a newborn deer.
âyouâŠuh, look nice,â you managed to stutter, awkwardly gesturing him in. he chuckled, stepping inside. âthanks. figured i should dress up a little since youâre going all out with dinner.â oh, so now itâs your fault for making dinner sound like a five-star experience when it was really just some pasta and garlic bread. meanwhile, your own reflection in the hallway mirror mocked you mercilessly. you were still in your semi-formal college attire: a blazer that was slightly too big, a wrinkled blouse, and pants that had seen better days. you could have changed, but no, you thought youâd save time and effort. bad call.
dinner itself went surprisingly smoothly. mr. pickles and gojo cat managed to coexist at the food station, which was nothing short of miraculous. out of the corner of your eye, you saw gojo nudging a small portion of his food toward mr. pickles, who sniffed it delicately before accepting. âlook at them,â geto said with a soft smile, catching your gaze. âsharing like that. think itâs love?â you scoffed, trying to ignore how his smile made your heart race. âor maybe gojoâs just trying to butter her up so she doesnât swat him later.â
âharsh,â geto replied, leaning back in his chair. âyouâre cynical. i like it.â
after dinner, you were about to tackle the dishes when geto, ever the overachieving law student, pulled out his macbook. the glow of the screen illuminated his face as he typed furiously, answering emails and looking like the poster boy for "i have my life together."
âwork?â you asked, carrying a stack of plates to the sink. âjust a few emails,â he said, not looking up. âone of the partners at my internship sent over some last-minute questions.â you blinked, watching him with mild disbelief. âitâs a friday night.â
âwelcome to international law,â he said dryly, fingers flying across the keyboard. against your better judgment, you found yourself⊠impressed? his focus, his confidence, the way his sleeves were rolled up just enough to show off his forearmsâit was annoyingly attractive. âugh, law students,â you muttered under your breath, scrubbing at a plate. âwhat was that?â suguru asked, looking up with a smirk. ânothing,â you said quickly, turning back to the sink. âjust saying how dedicated you are.â he laughed, the sound low and warm. âyouâre bad at lying, you know.â
âand youâre bad at taking a break,â you shot back, trying to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks.
after a few more minutes of typing, geto finally closed his laptop and joined you in the kitchen. âhere, let me help,â he offered, rolling up his sleeves further. âyou cooked,â he said, taking a plate from your hands. âleast i can do is clean up.â you wanted to argue, but the sight of geto, sleeves rolled up, standing beside you at the sink, made your brain short-circuit. âfine,â you mumbled, handing him a dish. âbut if you drop one, iâm not forgiving you.â
ânoted,â he said with a grin, elbow brushing yours as he worked. as you both washed dishes in companionable silence, you couldnât help but glance at him every now and then, heart doing a stupid little flutter each time he caught you looking. maybe this dinner wasnât such a bad idea after all.
geto had never been one to overthink simple things. he prided himself on his ability to stay cool and collected, whether it was during an exam, an internship interview, or wrangling gojo cat after heâd somehow escaped onto a neighborâs balcony. but here, standing next to you, washing dishes, his heart was doing its best impression of a jazz drummerâcompletely out of rhythm and far too loud. he tried to focus on the task at hand, scrubbing a plate with the precision of a surgeon, but his brain was too busy short-circuiting over the sheer domesticity of the moment. you, standing next to him, a faint smile on your lips as you passed him a dish. mr. pickles and gojo cat sitting like a mismatched elderly couple in the corner, their rivalry seemingly paused for the evening. this was too much. domesticity was his weakness, and you were unknowingly his kryptonite.
"you know," he started, trying to sound casual, "iâve been working on my forearms lately. gotta make sure gojo has a sturdy perch when i carry him." your laugh was soft but genuine, and it hit him right in the chest. "oh yeah? is that why youâve been flexing every chance you get? because i was starting to think you were just trying to flirt." he froze, plate in hand, before turning to look at you with a mock-offended expression. "flirt? me? thatâs slander. iâm just a humble man with well-defined forearms doing his civic duty.â
"right," you drawled, rolling your eyes as you handed him another dish. okay, suguru, he thought. focus. this is the perfect moment. ask the question. itâs not that big of a deal. except it was a big deal. because it wasnât just about asking if youâd like to carpool to college every day. it was about getting more time with you, sharing little moments like this. he cleared his throat, trying to find the right words. "hey, uhâŠyou know how i drive to college every day?" you glanced at him, a little confused. "yeah?"
"and you, uh, also go to college every day?"
"correct," you said slowly, raising an eyebrow.
he could feel his palms starting to sweat despite the soapy water. this was ridiculous. why was he nervous? it was just a question! but somehow, the thought of you saying no made his stomach twist. "so," he continued, trying to keep his tone light, "i was thinkingâŠmaybe we could drive together? you know, save on gas, reduce our carbon footprint, that kind of thing." you blinked at him, clearly caught off guard. "you want to carpool with me?"
"yeah," he said quickly, nodding. "i mean, it makes sense, right? weâre both going the same way, and i wouldnât mind the company. plus, iâve got this playlist iâve been dying to share." that wasnât entirely true. his playlist was a chaotic mix of instrumental lo-fi, 90âs rock and songs gojo cat seemed to enjoy, but heâd happily curate something just for you if it meant hearing you laugh and sing along.Â
"youâre serious?" you asked, and he swore he could see a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. "dead serious," he said, putting on his best poker face. "itâs a purely logistical decision, of course. nothing to do with the fact that i think youâre great company or anything." you stared at him for a moment before breaking into a laugh, and he felt his shoulders relax just a little. "okay," you said finally. "sure, letâs carpool." he grinned, feeling an almost embarrassing amount of relief. "awesome. you wonât regret it, i promise." as you turned back to the sink, he couldnât help but steal a glance at you, his heart still doing its offbeat jazz solo. yeah, this was going to be good. better than good, even.
the last dish was set on the drying rack, and with it came the awkward silence that always followed. you and geto exchanged a glance, both of you clearly trying to decide what came next. do you send him off with a polite "thanks for the help," or do you suggest something casual? ugh, why was this so hard?
"soooo," you started, awkwardly fidgeting with a dishtowel. "uh, do youâŠwant ice cream?" geto blinked at you, his expression pleasantly surprised. "ice cream?"
"yeah, you know, frozen dairy, sugar, flavors," you said, waving your hands vaguely like you were describing some rare delicacy. "do international law students even like convenience store ice cream? or are you more into, like, artisanal stuff churned by monks in the alps?" his laugh was low and warm, the kind of laugh that made you feel like youâd just won something. "as tempting as alps-monks-churned ice cream sounds, iâm fine with rocky road if youâve got it."
rocky road. heâs perfect, you thought as you rummaged in the freezer, pulling out a pint. mr. pickles, ever the queen, trotted over and sat primly by your feet, tail twitching as if she expected you to serve her a scoop. gojo cat, on the other hand, had found a stray spoon to bat around the kitchen floor like it was his lifeâs mission. you handed geto a bowl, and he graciously accepted before pulling out his macbook and setting it on the table. "mind if i put something on?"
"as long as itâs not UN debates or a soba recipe tutorial," you teased, leaning over to peer at his screen. to your credit, you werenât snoopingâyou were just curious about what kind of stuff an international law student kept on their homepage. but the minute you saw it, you froze. nestled among his neatly arranged bookmarks for email, law journals, and a soba takeout joint, was your spotify profile. your brain went into immediate overdrive. oh dear god. oh no. oh yes. wait, what?
you fought the urge to gasp, to point, to scream into the void. instead, you settled for the most nonchalant reaction you could muster. "huh. your bookmarks are soâŠorganized." but your awkward tone gave you away, and geto, sharp as ever, followed your gaze. when his eyes landed on the offending bookmark, he paused mid-scoop, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. "oh," he said, clearly trying to play it cool. "uh, yeah. thatâsâuh, for convenience. you know, for when you share playlists and stuff."
"totally," you replied, nodding far too enthusiastically. "makes sense. who doesnât bookmark their friendsâ spotify profiles?" you were lying through your teeth, and you both knew it. but instead of feeling weirded out, your heart felt like it might actually burst. he bookmarked your spotify. this ridiculously attractive, smart, and funny guy has done something so nerdy and cute, and you think you might die. the silence stretched awkwardly until you couldnât take it anymore. "soâŠwhatâs your favorite playlist of mine?" you asked, trying to keep your tone casual but failing miserably.
geto, to his credit, recovered quickly. "probably the one you called âin the clerb, we all cryinâ.â itâs got a lot of questionable choices."
"questionable choices?" you gasped, feigning offense. "excuse me, those are carefully curated emotional masterpieces!"
"right, right," he said, nodding solemnly but with a teasing glint in his eyes. "masterpieces like, what was it? âtornâ by natalie imbruglia followed by party rock anthem?"
"thatâs called range, geto."
he laughed again, and you swore it was the best sound youâd ever heard. meanwhile, gojo cat had successfully cornered the spoon under the fridge, and mr. pickles let out an indignant meow, clearly unimpressed by the lack of attention directed her way. "anyways," you said, clearing your throat and desperately trying to steer the conversation away from how much your soul had ascended, "what are we watching?" he smirked, clearly enjoying your flustered state. "how about a soba recipe tutorial? you know, for research purposes."
"get out of my house," you deadpanned, throwing a napkin at him. but deep down, you couldnât stop smiling. maybe you did like geto. just a little. or a lot. whoâs counting?
-
the youtube video played on, gordon ramsey passionately dissecting the finer points of why "tiramisu supremacy" should be the law of the land, but you werenât paying attention anymore. instead, you were hyper-aware of the ridiculously attractive man next to you, lounging on your bed, casually eating rocky road like he wasnât a complete menace to your sanity. gojo cat had stationed himself at your feet, swiping lazily at a loose thread on your blanket. mr. pickles, in a rare display of domestic harmony, perched regally on a pillow next to geto like she was claiming him as her territory. you could almost hear her smug little cat thoughts: this one? yes, acceptable.
meanwhile, you? you were losing it. somehowâthrough some strange twist of fate or cosmic jokeâyour head had ended up resting on getoâs chest. his chest. his sculpted, unfairly perfect chest. you told yourself it was for comfort, or convenience, or whatever excuse your brain could scramble together. oh god, is this okay? what if he thinks iâm weird? or worse, what if he doesnât care at all?
his arm was just kind of⊠hovering there, like it didnât know what to do. his bicep flexed every time he adjusted, and you swore it was on purpose. itâs not on purpose, idiot. calm down. "you good there?" his voice cut through your internal spiral, warm and teasing. you cleared your throat, suddenly self-conscious. "uh, yeah. totally fine. just... comfortable, i guess."
"comfortable, huh?" he echoed, his tone light but his heart doing cartwheels. sheâs comfortable. okay. donât freak out. play it cool. meanwhile, geto was absolutely not playing it cool. this is fine. this is normal. people hang out like this all the time. friends. buddies. totally platonic. on a bed. watching gordon ramsey. with her head on my chest. oh god, iâm dying. his arm was still hovering awkwardly, and it was starting to cramp. should he justâ? no. too much. but maybe? before he could overthink it further, you shifted slightly, glancing up at him.
"you can, you know," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. he blinked down at you, dumbfounded. "can what?"
"put your arm around me," you mumbled, cheeks heating up like a furnace. getoâs brain short-circuited. oh god, she said i can. she actually said i can. is this real? am i dreaming? whereâs gojo? he needs to see this. wait, no, absolutely not. this is private. oh god, my arm.
"uh, yeah. sure," he finally said, his voice cracking just a little as he tried to sound casual. his arm settled around your shoulders, warm and solid, and you let out a content sigh. meanwhile, internally, he was screaming. this is the best day of his life.
"youâre stiff as hell," you teased, glancing up at him. "sorry, itâs justâiâm not used toâ" he fumbled, trailing off. "chill out," you said with a soft laugh, your hand lightly resting on his chest. "itâs just me."
just you. the girl heâd been pining after for weeks. the girl whose spotify profile heâd bookmarked. the girl whose cats heâd willingly co-parented like an idiot in love. he wasnât even sure how he was still breathing. "yeah," he said softly, his lips quirking into a small smile. "just you."
"hey, are you even watching?" you asked, gesturing at the screen where ramsey was now passionately defending the honor of cannoli. "uh, yeah. totally," he lied, having absolutely no idea what was happening in the video. "oh yeah? then whatâs his stance on panna cotta?" you challenged, raising an eyebrow. geto paused for a second, then grinned sheepishly. "panna whatta?" you groaned, laughing despite yourself. "youâre hopeless."
"hopelessly charmed," he muttered under his breath, but thankfully, the loud volume drowned it out. gojo cat let out an exaggerated yawn, curling up at the foot of the bed, while mr. pickles blinked at both of you with what could only be described as approval. and for a brief moment, with you curled up against him, geto thought that maybe, just maybe, domesticity wasnât so bad after all.
the clock on your bedside table glowed 9:30 pm, the red numbers a cruel reminder that sunday was slipping away. geto shifted slightly, the arm around your shoulders reluctantly moving as if to signal his departure. right. college tomorrow. responsibilities. but neither of you moved. instead, his attempt to lift his arm ended in a poorly executed maneuver that pulled you closerâmuch closer. suddenly, your face was inches from his, and you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin. his breath hitched. oh god. oh no. oh yes. what if he does something stupid? like kiss you? no, bad idea. abort. retreat. pull away. youâll think heâs weirdâ
you kissed him first. his brain went blank.
your lips pressed softly against his, a tentative, curious movement that sent every coherent thought in his mind scattering like autumn leaves in the wind. your lip balmâsomething fruity, maybe peach?âlingered on his lips, blending with the faint taste of rocky road ice cream. his heart stopped, then kickstarted with a force that left him lightheaded. "oh," he murmured against your lips, his voice barely audible. "oh?" you pulled back slightly, a teasing smile quirking your lips. "i â i mean â" he stammered, his cheeks flushing a deep pink. "uh, wow."
"wow?" you laughed softly, your hands sliding up his chest, your fingers curling lightly into his shirt. "shut up," he groaned, but his grin betrayed him as his hands instinctively found your waist, steadying you as you moved to straddle his lap. oh god. oh god. sheâs on my lap. this is not a drill. repeat, this is not a drill. "youâre awfully red, suguru," you teased, your tone light, but the way your fingers brushed against his jaw made his pulse race. "yeah, well, youâreâ" he cut himself off, his eyes flickering to your lips before meeting your gaze. "youâre unfairly pretty, okay? and iâm trying not to pass out here."
"pretty?" you echoed, feigning innocence as you leaned in closer, your noses brushing. "is that all?" he chuckled, low and breathy. "pretty, gorgeous, unfairly cute. take your pick." before he could spiral into another wave of self-doubt, you kissed him again, and this time, he responded in full. his lips moved against yours, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to savor every second. his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him, his fingers flexing like he couldnât quite believe you were real. in the background, gordon ramseyâs voice bellowed something about undercooked risotto, but neither of you noticed. this is what dreams are made of, right? he thought. her lips, her taste, the way sheâs holding onto me like iâm her favorite person in the world. rocky road and lip balm and⊠gordon ramsey? okay, ignore that. focus. focus on her.
"you good there, suguru?" you murmured against his lips, your voice laced with amusement. "good?" he echoed, his hands sliding up to cradle your face. "iâm amazing. incredible. best night of my life, no contest."
"youâre such a dork," you laughed, your forehead resting against his. "yeah, well," he said, his smile softening as his thumb brushed along your cheek. "you like this dork."
"i do," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. his heart soared. he tightened his hold on you, his lips ghosting over yours once more as he whispered, "good. because i donât think iâm letting you go anytime soon." the clock ticked on, but neither of you cared anymore. responsibilities could wait.
-
just as getoâs lips brushed against yours for what felt like the hundredth time that evening, a loud, synchronized cacophony of meows erupted from the corner of the bed. you both froze.
there sat gojo cat and mr. pickles, staring at the two of you with matching expressions of feline judgment. mr. pickles, her fur slightly puffed and her eyes narrowed, let out an indignant mrrrow that sounded suspiciously like "get a room." gojo cat, ever the instigator, joined in with an exaggerated meeeooowwww, his tail flicking dramatically as if to say, "seriously? right in front of us?"
âoh my god,â you mumbled, burying your face in getoâs neck as he chuckled, the sound rumbling against you. âi think weâve offended the fur babies,â he said, clearly trying not to laugh too loudly as gojo cat began pacing in circles, yowling like a siren. âoffended? they sound like theyâre trying to declare war,â you muttered, pulling back reluctantly. âmaybe theyâre just jealous,â geto teased, his dark eyes twinkling as he reached up to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. âjealous of what?â you scoffed, glancing at the cats. mr. pickles was still bristling like a wronged queen, while gojo cat was now attempting to paw at the edge of the bed for dramatic emphasis.
âof this.â geto smirked, leaning in like he was about to steal another kiss, but mr. pickles let out a sharp hiss, cutting him off. âokay, okay, time out!â you said, waving your hands in surrender. with a sigh, geto released you, though his hand lingered on your waist for a moment longer. âguess thatâs our cue.â you followed him to the door, the cats trailing behind like disapproving chaperones. gojo cat let out one last, drawn-out meow as if to say "good riddance," while mr. pickles sat primly by the door, glaring up at geto with all the disdain she could muster. âsheâs really protective of you, huh?â geto said, slipping his shoes on. âalways has been,â you replied, your hand resting on the doorknob. âprobably doesnât help that you keep bribing her with treats.â
âbribing?â he repeated, feigning offense. âthatâs called building trust.â
âsure it is, mr. international law,â you teased, leaning against the doorframe.
he chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. âspeaking of trust, uh⊠iâll pick you up tomorrow? for class?â you raised an eyebrow, smirking. âtrying to make this a habit now?â
âwell,â he said, his cheeks pinking slightly, âi figured iâd bring you another one of those fancy croissants. and, you know, maybe see you smile first thing in the morning again.â your chest tightened at his words, warmth spreading through you. âsmooth, geto.â
âis that a yes?â he asked, his voice softer now, his gaze locked on yours. âyeah,â you said, your lips curving into a smile. before he could step out, he leaned down, his lips brushing yours in a quick but lingering kiss that made your heart race. when he pulled back, his smile was uncharacteristically shy.
âgoodnight,â he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
âgoodnight,â you replied, watching as he walked away, his hands stuffed into his pockets but his stride noticeably lighter.
as you closed the door, you turned to find mr. pickles sitting side by side, staring up at you with unreadable expressions. âdonât look at me like that,â you said, pointing at her. âyouâre the ones who ruined the moment.â mr. pickles let out a chirpy meep , as if to say "iâm just doing my job," before padding back to her nesting area with an air of smug satisfaction. you shook your head, unable to stop the grin spreading across your face. whatever this thing with suguru was, you didnât want it to end. not now, not ever.
chapter 5: justin bieber and other forms of groveling
you swung the door open, expecting to find a text from geto telling you to come downstairs like a normal person. instead, you were met with him. suguru geto, standing at your doorstep, looking like heâd just stepped out of a gq photoshoot. âmorning!â he greeted cheerfully, his voice as smooth as his suit. yes, a suit. a dark, perfectly tailored one that hugged his broad shoulders and slim waist just right, paired with a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the top, exposing just a hint of his collarbone. the whole look was topped off with a skinny black tie and shiny leather oxfords that somehow made you question if you were even allowed to walk next to him. and donât even get started on his hairâpulled back into a low bun, with a few loose strands framing his stupidly perfect face. âwhyâwhy are you here?â you stammered, gripping the doorframe for support because, honestly, this man might be a health hazard. âthought iâd save you the trip downstairs,â he said casually, though his lips curled into a smirk like he knew exactly what he was doing. âbesides, i wanted to see you earlier.â great. now your heart was doing this weird fluttery thing, and you hated it. âyou know you couldâve just texted me, right? like a normal person?â
âwhereâs the fun in that?â he quipped, his voice tinged with amusement.
ugh.Â
the first thing that hit you when you slid into his carâa sleek black bmw z4 convertible with the top downâwas the overwhelming scent of car cleaner mixed with him. âdid youâdid you just get this cleaned?â you asked, wrinkling your nose at the smell. âmaybe,â he replied, a little too quickly. you glanced at the dashboard, which was spotless and gleaming. the leather seats looked freshly polished, and there wasnât a single crumb or speck of dust in sight. well, except for the faint trace of orange fur on the passenger seat. âyou missed a spot,â you teased, pointing at the fur. âgojo,â he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. âaw, donât be mad at him,â you said, grinning. âheâs just marking his territory.â
âyeah, well, heâs not paying for this car, is he?â suguru shot back, though the corners of his lips twitched upward. the car smelled like money, honestly. the leather had that rich, almost intimidating scent, and the steering wheel looked like it had been handcrafted by someone with a phd in luxury interiors. but somehow, there was this comforting undertone of suguruâs cologneâspicy, woodsy, and ridiculously distracting. you tried to act normal, like you werenât suddenly hyper-aware of how close you were to him in this car that felt way too intimate for a ride to campus. âso, whatâs the occasion?â you asked, nodding toward his suit as he pulled out onto the main road. âinternship meeting after class,â he explained, keeping his eyes on the road. âwanted to make a good impression.â
âyeah, well, mission accomplished,â you mumbled, more to yourself than him, but he still heard. âwhat was that?â he asked, glancing at you with a playful smirk. ânothing,â you said quickly, your cheeks heating. as he drove, you found yourself sneaking glances at his hands on the wheel. his sleeves were rolled up just enough to expose his forearms, which looked unfairly muscular for a guy who claimed to âbarely have time for the gym.â the veins running up his arms were just⊠there, taunting you.
âyouâve been working out, huh?â you blurted, unable to stop yourself. he chuckled, a low, warm sound that made your stomach flip. ânoticed, huh?â
âkind of hard not to when your biceps are trying to break out of that shirt,â you retorted, trying to sound nonchalant. âoh, this?â he said, flexing his forearm slightly as he adjusted the gearshift, clearly showing off. âugh, stop,â you groaned, covering your face with your hands. âyouâre so annoying.â
âand yet here you are,â he teased, shooting you a quick grin before turning his attention back to the road. as you sat there, half-annoyed and half-smitten, you couldnât help but think that this man was going to be the death of you.
-
the two of you sat in the car outside your campus building for a moment longer than necessary. the engine was off, but the atmosphere buzzed with something heavy, something neither of you dared to name yet. geto had one hand draped lazily over the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift, but you werenât fooled. his jaw was tense, and his thumb tapped nervously against the leather, a small tell that youâd come to recognize. he didnât want this ride to end. neither did you, if you were being honest. âso,â you started, your voice almost shy. âthanks for the ride.â he glanced over at you, his dark eyes soft but smoldering all at once. âyeah,â he said, his voice low, âanytime.â and just when you thought heâd let you leave, he moved.
his handâlarge, warm, and calloused just enough to send a thrill through youâslipped behind your neck, his fingers brushing against your skin in a way that sent goosebumps racing down your arms. the touch was firm but gentle, commanding but tender.
âcome here,â he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
you didnât even have time to process before he pulled you in, his lips crashing against yours with a fervor that left you breathless. this wasnât just a goodbye kiss; no, this was something deeper, something that spoke of longing and frustration and a thousand unsaid things. his lips were soft but insistent, moving against yours like he was trying to memorize the feel of you, like he didnât care that the windows werenât tinted enough for the scene unfolding inside. his tongue swept against your lower lip, asking, no, demanding entrance, and you couldnât deny him. the taste of himâcoffee from earlier, a hint of mint, and something uniquely suguruâwas enough to make your head spin. your hand instinctively came up to his chest, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt as if to steady yourself. but instead of pulling away, he deepened the kiss, tilting his head to get a better angle, and you thought you might actually lose all sense of reality.
when he finally pulled back, it wasnât abrupt. no, he lingered, his lips brushing against yours one last time, as if reluctant to let go. his breathing was heavy, his cheeks slightly flushed, and when you looked up at him, you saw the faint sheen of your lip gloss smeared on his mouth. his lipsâpink, swollen, and thoroughly kissedâwere enough to make your brain short-circuit.
âyouâve gotââ you gestured vaguely to his mouth, your voice shaky. he raised an eyebrow, smirking in that infuriatingly confident way. âlip gloss?â he guessed, his thumb brushing over his bottom lip like he was testing the feel of it. âyeah,â you mumbled, feeling your own cheeks heat up. âgood,â he said simply, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. âiâll keep it.â you wanted to scream, cry, and maybe kiss him again all at once. instead, you just sat there, dazed, as he leaned back, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
âguess i should let you go now,â he said, though his tone made it clear he wasnât entirely thrilled about the idea. âyeah,â you managed to say, though your legs felt like jelly just thinking about walking into that building. as you stepped out of the car, the smell of car cleaner and his cologne still lingering around you, you could feel the weight of peopleâs stares. it wasnât like fancy cars were a rare sight, but you stepping out of that car, looking thoroughly flustered and kissed? yeah, that was something. you glanced back at him one last time before closing the door. he gave you a small wave, the smirk still firmly in place. âiâll pick you up later,â he called out, and you swore you heard the faintest hint of smugness in his voice. âyeah, okay,â you replied, trying to sound normal even though your entire body felt like it was on fire. as you walked toward the building, your mind raced with one singular thought: suguru geto was going to be the end of you. and honestly? you were okay with that.
-
as geto shifted gears and eased into a parking spot, he let out a long breath he didnât realize heâd been holding. "oh, suguru, what a smooth operator you are," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his already-perfect hair. but as his fingers grazed his lips, he froze. oh no.
your lip glossâthat faint pink menaceâwas still there. he squinted into the rearview mirror, tilting his face left and right like he was analyzing evidence at a crime scene. yup, definitely there. and definitely noticeable.
âcool. love that for me,â he said under his breath, grabbing a tissue from the glove compartment. he dabbed at his lips gently, trying to erase the sheen. but no matter how much he rubbed, it refused to disappear completely. a faint tint lingered, stubborn and utterly humiliating. not that he minded, of course. secretly, he was fighting the urge to giggle like a high schooler who just got his crushâs number. she kissed me, he thought, his inner monologue doing cartwheels. and now her lip gloss is on me. does this count as shared property? do i need to buy her a ring now? he glanced at the building where youâd disappeared moments ago. a soft smile tugged at his lips, but then he caught his own reflection again, and the smile turned into a scowl.
âfocus, suguru. youâre an international law student, not a lovesick teen,â he muttered, trying to psych himself up. but then, completely unbidden, the lyrics hit him: shawtyâs like a melody in my head that i canât keep outâ
âoh my god, no,â he groaned, dropping his forehead against the steering wheel. âpull it together.â he sat up straight, fixing his tie like he was about to walk into court, not class. still, his thoughts wandered back to the kiss. he could still feel the warmth of your lips on his, the way you tasted faintly of coffee and lip gloss. âyeah, okay, maybe iâm a little lovesick,â he admitted to no one, sighing dramatically. a loud honk snapped him out of his reverie, and he jerked upright, eyes darting around. some guy in a beat-up sedan gave him a look as if to say, get moving, pretty boy.
âright, right, focus,â geto muttered, putting the car into park. but the distraction had already done its damage. in his daydream, heâd nearly considered driving through the building instead of parking near it. and not for the first time. last semester, thereâd been that unfortunate incident where heâd been too engrossed in memorizing legal jargon to realize he was barreling toward the curb. it wasnât his finest moment, but hey, everyone made mistakes. this time, though, it wasnât legal jargon messing with his head. it was you.
after ensuring his car was perfectly parked (and double-checking for rogue curbs), he checked his reflection one last time. hair? immaculate. tie? sharp. lips? âŠstill faintly pink. he sighed, leaning back in his seat. "well, if anyone asks, itâs my new look," he muttered, smirking to himself. but deep down, he wasnât bothered. in fact, the idea of walking into his building, pink lip gloss and all, knowing it was from you? yeah, he could live with that.
-
you glance at your phone for what feels like the millionth time, the lock screen mocking you with its time: 6:45 p.m. every minute that ticks by feels like an eternity. where the hell was geto? the man who swore on rocky road ice cream and cats that heâd pick you up after class. âugh, liar,â you grumble under your breath, clutching your phone tighter. you dial his number again, half-hoping, half-dreading, that heâd pick up. the line rings once, twice, and then straight to voicemail. âfigures.â
the campus courtyard is thinning out now, with most students heading home or to their dorms. you, however, are still standing at the edge of the parking lot, looking like the poster child for loser-core chic. a group of girls you vaguely recognize from your department walk by, their giggles low and conspiratorial as they glance in your direction. one of them nudges her friend and whispers loudly, âsee? i told you. you canât trust law guys. theyâre always playing games.â you stiffen, feeling your cheeks heat. okay, rude. but alsoâŠthey might have a point?
âpoor girl,â another one says, her voice dripping with pity. âshe probably thought she was special.â your jaw tightens as you resist the urge to shout back, no, actually, heâs probably just late! maybe traffic, or⊠or⊠you groan inwardly. even you donât buy your excuses anymore. just as youâre debating whether to crawl under a bush and live there forever, your deskmate, nanami kento, approaches. ever the epitome of politeness, he clears his throat softly before speaking. âhey,â he begins, adjusting the strap of his leather satchel. âare you, uh, waiting for someone?â
you force a smile, trying to appear less like a rejected rom-com protagonist. âyeah, uh⊠my rideâs just running a little late.â nanamiâs brow furrows slightly, and he glances at his watch. âitâs been over thirty minutes.â
ouch. okay, way to rub salt in the wound, kento.
he sighs, looking almostâŠsympathetic? âi could drop you off if youâd like. itâs on my way.â
normally, any sane, self-respecting woman would jump at the chance to be chauffeured home by nanami kentoâa man so punctual and reliable, heâs basically a walking swiss watch. but alas, you are neither self-respecting nor particularly sane at this moment. âthanks, nanami, but iâm good,â you say, waving him off with a grin thatâs probably more pained than reassuring. he nods slowly, clearly unconvinced but too polite to argue. âalright. take care, then.â as he walks away, you let out a long sigh, your earlier bravado crumbling. âugh, geto, youâre so dead,â you mutter under your breath, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. by now, the campus is nearly deserted, and the idea of taking the bus home looms over you like a dark cloud. with a resigned sigh, you check the bus schedule on your phone. the next one isnât due for another 15 minutes. just perfect.
the bus ride home is as glamorous as youâd expectâfluorescent lights that make everyone look vaguely ill, the faint smell of stale chips and rubber, and the occasional bump that sends you jerking forward. you plop into an empty seat, your bag clutched tightly on your lap. a group of teenagers in the back snicker about something, and the guy across from you is humming off-key to whateverâs blasting through his headphones. yeah, this is way better than being driven home in a bmw z4, you think bitterly, rolling your eyes.
the faint scent of orange fur clings to your bag, and you wonder if itâs from gojo cat sneaking into getoâs car this morning. the thought makes you irrationally mad all over again. i bet the car is fine. he probably just forgot or something stupid like that. you lean your head against the window, watching the city lights blur past. the rhythmic hum of the bus is oddly calming, but your thoughts are anything but. what if heâs hurt? a small, worried voice pipes up in the back of your mind. but you squash it quickly. no, heâs just being an idiot.
-
geto is convinced this is how he diesânot by some massive legal scandal or a tragic car accident, but by sheer embarrassment. the moment the clock hit 6:00 p.m., he knew he was doomed. when the hands of time ticked past 6:45, panic set in. itâs fine, he had told himself, gripping his steering wheel with white-knuckled determination. she probably hasnât even noticed yet. but she had noticed. oh god, had she noticed. every missed call and unread text was like a dagger to his heart. he could practically feel your disappointment vibrating through his phone. the sheer audacity of his internship, requiring him to sit through endless discussions about treaties and bylaws while you were out thereâwaiting for him like some rom-com protagonist.
and what does he find when he finally arrives at campus? absolutely nothing. a deserted lot, the soft hum of crickets, and not a single trace of you. he rubs a hand over his face, groaning as he slams his car door shut. great, suguru. really great. not only do you make law students look unreliable, but youâve also officially cemented yourself as a clown in front of the only person who matters.
so, he does the only thing a desperate man can do: breaks every traffic law ever invented, zipping through yellow lights and cutting corners like itâs his goddamn personal mission to get to the apartment before you disappear entirely. âplease donât hate me,â he mutters under his breath as his bmw roars down the street. âiâll get on my knees if i have to. maybe not in public, but likeâŠif it comes to that.â
meanwhile, youâre trudging through the dimly lit hallway of your apartment complex, the bus ride home having sucked every last ounce of life out of you. your feet ache, your bag feels heavier than ever, and your faith in men has plummeted to new depths. he didnât even call back. the audacity, you think bitterly, fumbling for your keys. wasnât i just defending international law men this morning? god, iâm so stupid.
youâre too busy cursing geto to notice the looming figure leaning casually against the wall by the elevatorâsukuna. he smells like croissants and cigarettes, an objectively weird combination that somehow works when itâs him. his uniformâa black button-down rolled up to the elbows and an apron slung lazily over one shoulderâis dusted with flour. âyo,â he greets, his voice low and gravelly as always. you freeze mid-step, praying you donât look like a drowned rat after that miserable commute. âuh, hey.â
âlate night?â he asks, cocking an eyebrow as he takes in your obvious exhaustion. âsomething like that,â you mumble, trying not to sound as annoyed as you feel. sukunaâs sharp eyes flick to your bag. âbus, huh? thought you were too fancy for public transport these days. what happened to prince charming?â oh great. just what i needed, you think, rolling your eyes internally. âprince charming is currently on my list,â you snap, more to yourself than him. âyikes.â sukuna lets out a low chuckle, his smirk infuriatingly smug. âguess mr. perfect isnât as perfect as you thought.â
âokay, first of all,â you shoot back, âiâm not having this conversation with you. second, why do you even care?â he shrugs, clearly unbothered. âi donât. just funny to see you slumming it with the rest of us peasants.â before you can muster a witty retort, the sound of rapid footsteps echoes down the hallway. you both turn just in time to see geto rushing in, his tie slightly askew and his expression one of pure panic.
âthere you are,â he blurts, skidding to a stop in front of you. his eyes dart between you and sukuna, his brows furrowing slightly. âoh, now you show up,â you say, crossing your arms. âdid you have fun ghosting me for two hours?â
âwait, i can explainââ
âcanât wait to hear this,â sukuna mutters under his breath, earning a glare from you.
geto runs a hand through his hair, his words spilling out in a rush. âi got stuck at my internship, and they donât let us use our phonesâ stupid rule, i knowâbut i swear i tried to get to you as fast as i could. i even broke, like, five traffic laws. maybe six.â you narrow your eyes, unimpressed. âand thatâs supposed to make me feel better?â
âno! i mean, yes! i meanâŠâ he groans, clearly flustered. âlook, iâm sorry. really. iâll do anything to make it up to you. please donât be mad.â sukuna snickers, leaning back against the wall. âwow. anything, huh? bold move, law boy.â
âcan you not?â you snap at sukuna before turning back to geto. âfine. you can start by explaining why my calls didnât matter enough for you to pick up.â
âthey did matter!â geto insists, his voice rising slightly. âi swear, if i couldâve answered, i wouldâve.â sukuna snorts, muttering, âsounds like excuses to me.â
âdude, seriously?â geto snaps, finally losing his patience. âguys, enough!â you cut in, throwing your hands up. âiâm too tired for this. suguru, if youâre really sorry, you can start by leaving me alone for the rest of the night.â
getoâs face falls, but he nods reluctantly. âokay. yeah. iâll go.â as he turns to leave, sukuna shoots you a smug grin. âguess prince charming isnât so charming after all.â you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose.Â
-
youâre sprawled out on your couch in the most dramatic fashion imaginable, mr. pickles perched on your chest like some kind of feline overlord. her tail swishes back and forth, slapping your face occasionally as if sheâs judging you for your life choices. canât even secure a law student, her gaze seems to say. and honestly? fair. lanas haunting voice croons âthe other womanâ from your speaker, because of course your brain thought this was the perfect soundtrack to your misery. who is the other woman, his degree? you wonder, staring blankly at the ceiling while mr. pickles kneads your collarbone with zero regard for your comfort. maybe itâs the un charter. maybe sheâs prettier than me. you groan, picking up your phone to scroll aimlessly, only to see it light up with a string of notifications. itâs geto.
geto: hey.
geto: iâm so sorry, seriously.
geto: please donât hate me.
geto: gojo cat is crying.
and there it is, a picture of gojo cat edited with comically large tears streaming down his face. you snort despite yourself.
geto: i can explain.
geto: the internship is evil.
geto: satan himself probably drafted those treaties.
geto: and i had to read them all.
geto: sorry :((((
you roll your eyes but feel your lips twitch. the messages keep coming.
geto: look, i even made a playlist called âmy apologiesâ to make it up to you.
geto: song 1: sorry by justin bieber.
geto: song 2: call me maybe by carly rae jespen.
geto: song 3: iâm a fool by cee lo green.
youâre this close to laughing when another message pops up.
geto: please forgive me, iâll do anything.
geto: iâll even let mr. pickles sit in the bmw.
now youâre grinning. typing back, you send:
you: doorâs unlocked.
the next sound you hear is heavy footsteps thundering down the hallway above. you blink. âheâs running,â you mutter, barely containing your laughter. within seconds, thereâs a knock at your door, and when you yell for him to come in, the door swings open to reveal a completely disheveled geto. his hairâs a mess, his suit jacket is halfway off his shoulder, and heâs panting like he just ran a marathon. âyouâre serious about leaving your door unlocked?â he breathes out, a hand on the doorframe for balance. âwhy are you out of breath?â you ask, trying not to laugh. âyou live one floor up.â
âsprinted,â he replies, straightening up. âpriorities.â
mr. pickles hops off your chest with a disgruntled meow, sauntering over to sniff him. she gives a little approving chirp before settling down by his feet. âeven mr. pickles forgave me,â he says, grinning like an idiot. âso, am i forgiven?â you lean back into the couch, trying to look unimpressed. âyou sent me a justin bieber song.â
âa classic apology move,â he counters, stepping closer. âand gojo cat cried. thatâs how sorry i am.â you roll your eyes but hold out your hand. âfine. youâre forgiven.â he takes your hand, pulling you up from the couch into his arms without hesitation. âgood. because iâm never missing another ride again. next time, iâm picking you up in advance, like a whole hour early.â you snort. âyouâd probably park outside my window and text me to hurry up.â
âabsolutely,â he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. âiâll even bring coffee. and croissants.â mr. pickles lets out a loud, approving chirp. ah, love.
-
it did feel a little ridiculous, the way you were sprawled on top of geto on your couch, both of you tangled together in a heap of limbs. but neither of you seemed to care. he had one arm slung around your waist, keeping you steady, while his free hand lazily traced circles on your thigh. you were lying chest to chest, close enough to feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek. "you know," he said, voice slightly muffled as he buried his face in your hair, "if i ever screw up like that again, iâm giving mr. pickles full authority to end me. claws out, no mercy." you lifted your head to meet his gaze, one eyebrow raised. "oh, sheâd do it too. and with that belly of hers, sheâs got some extra power now."
as if on cue, mr. pickles let out a loud, approving purr from her spot at the other end of the room, delicately grooming her very pregnant self. her tail flicked in what you could only assume was satisfaction at being included in this hypothetical revenge plot. geto chuckled, his hands tightening slightly on your waist. "there you have it. mr. pickles as judge, jury, and executioner. iâm officially terrified." you smiled, tracing the line of his jaw with your finger. "as you should be. she takes no prisoners."
âand neither do i,â he murmured, his tone dipping as he tilted his head up to kiss you. the shift in mood was sudden but not unwelcome. his lips pressed against yours with the kind of determination that made you forget how to breathe for a second. his hands slid to your hips, holding you in place as he leaned back against the cushions, taking you with him. "youâre really trying to prove a point, huh?" you teased, breath hitching as his grip tightened. "i donât think words are enough," he said between kisses, his voice low and smooth. "actions speak louder, right?" and speak they did. his hands wandered lower, firmly grabbing the soft curve of your ass, earning a surprised squeak from you. "suguru," you warned half-heartedly, though your hips involuntarily shifted against him. he grinned up at you, the picture of smug satisfaction. "what? i donât hear you complaining."
âyet,â you shot back, but your body betrayed you, rolling your hips again as heat pooled in your stomach. "thought so," he said, voice dipping into a near growl. his hands guided your movements, holding you steady as he kissed you again, deeper this time. it wasnât just apologetic; it was hungry, desperate, and laced with a promise to make up for every missed second. mr. pickles, ever the unbothered queen, yawned loudly from her perch. apparently, the impending chaos was none of her business.Â
things were absolutely peachyâliterally and figurativelyâbecause there you were, straddling geto on your worn-out couch like it was the most natural thing in the world. his tie had been discarded somewhere (youâll probably find it wedged under the couch cushions next month), and his usually crisp shirt was wrinkled beyond salvation. his hands, warm and firm, roamed over your thighs and hips, eventually settling on your ass, which he seemed determined to commit to memory with the way he kept squeezing. it was flattering, really. all those squats and lugging around mr. picklesâ oversized carrier had not gone unnoticed.
âyouâre really into this, huh?â you teased between kisses, nipping at his bottom lip just to feel the soft hitch in his breath. he grinned against your lips, shameless and unrepentant. âwhat can i say? iâm a man of taste.â his hands squeezed again, making you jolt slightly. âand damn, this is a masterpiece.â
âoh my god, suguru,â you groaned, half-laughing, half-mortified. âyou sound like a bad rom-com character.â he tilted his head back, letting out a deep, rumbling laugh that made your stomach flip. âhey, i call it like i see it. canât help it if iâm honest.â
âyeah, well, your honestyâs about to get you kicked off this couch,â you shot back, though your hands betrayed you, sliding up his chest to cup his face. âoh, câmon,â he said, leaning up to kiss you again, softer this time, like he was trying to remind you exactly why you hadnât kicked him out yet. âyouâd miss me too much.â and then, because suguru geto couldnât let a moment of peace exist, he smirked and said, âbesides, youâre the grandma of the house. gotta respect my elders.â you froze, pulling back just enough to stare at him with a look that could melt steel. âexcuse me?â
âgrandma,â he repeated, entirely too pleased with himself. âyou know, since youâre mr. picklesâ mom and all. technically makes youââ
âi swear to god, suguru,â you interrupted, cutting him off with a sharp pinch to his side that made him yelp. âdo you have a death wish?â
âwhat? itâs a term of endearment!â he tried, though his laughter betrayed him. âyouâre lucky i like nerds,â you muttered, but your lips betrayed you, curving into a reluctant smile as you leaned down to kiss him again. âlucky indeed,â he murmured, hands finding their favorite spot once more. mr. pickles, meanwhile, let out a loud, judgmental meow from her perch, as if to remind both of you who really ran this house.
and geto? geto was panicking. like, full-blown, internal monologue of doom panicking. sure, he looked calm on the outsideâwell, except for the faint pink creeping up his neck and the way his hands were starting to tremble just a bit against your hips. but inside? oh, it was a mess.
he loves ass. he loves your ass. in fact, he loves you. and while those three facts should be enough to keep him focused and confident, they were doing the exact opposite. becauseâplot twistâhe hasnât exactly been in the game for a while. âokay, breathe, suguru,â he muttered to himself under his breath, trying to keep his cool as your hands idly played with the collar of his shirt. but your superwoman instincts picked up on everything , and your raised brow as you looked down at him only made things worse. âyou good?â you asked, voice soft and teasing, but laced with genuine concern. âyeah, totally,â he replied too quickly, clearing his throat like that would erase the way his voice cracked. âiâm justâuh. just, you know... thinking.â you tilted your head, watching him with that infuriatingly cute little smile that made his stomach flip. âabout what? youâre usually a lot smoother than this, geto.â
âoh god, iâm blowing it,â he groaned, letting his head thump lightly against the back of the couch as he finally let the words tumble out. âitâs just... itâs been a while, okay? iâm out of practice or whatever, and now iâm worried iâm gonna, like, disappoint you or something. and that grandma joke? yeah, that was supposed to kill the mood so i could avoid all of this.â you blinked at him, caught between laughter and disbelief. âare you serious right now?â
âpainfully.â he sighed, running a hand through his hair, his other hand still planted on your hip. âyouâre amazing, and i just... i donât want to mess this up.â for a moment, you just stared at him, and he could feel himself shrinking under your gaze. but then, the smile that spread across your face was nothing short of wicked. âoh, suguru,â you murmured, leaning down so your lips brushed against his ear. âyou have no idea whatâs coming, do you?â his breath hitched as your hand slid down to the buttons of his shirt, popping one open with a practiced ease that made his heart skip a beat. âw-what do you mean?â
âi mean,â you said, voice dropping to a low, sultry tone that sent shivers down his spine, âiâm about to make sure you never, ever doubt yourself again. youâre gonna be too busy thanking me to think about whether or not youâre âout of practice.ââ
he swallowed hard, trying to think of a coherent response, but all that came out was a strangled, âuh â okay.â
âgood,â you said simply, shifting your weight and sliding down his lap. and as he looked down at you, wide-eyed and completely at your mercy, one thing became crystal clear to suguru geto: he was absolutely, 100%, in over his head.
-
diva down? diva down. the diva in question being you. you, the self-proclaimed diva of the century, were currently on your knees, ready to turn suguru getoâs jittery, bashful energy into something far more relaxedâwell, if relaxed meant completely wrecked. and honestly? you were thriving. âoh god,â geto let out a breathless laugh, raking a hand through his loose hair as he looked down at you, his cheeks pink and his eyes hazy with anticipation. âyou donât have toââ
âstop,â you cut him off with a teasing smirk, fingers already working on his belt with the precision of someone on a mission. âdonât ruin my moment, suguru.â he laughed again, that soft, breathless kind that made your stomach do flips. âright, wouldnât dream of it.â as you slid his belt free and popped open the button of his slacks, you couldnât help but notice how his chest rose and fell just a bit faster, the faintest hint of nerves lingering in his gaze. âyou good up there?â you asked, giving him a little grin. ây-yeah,â he stammered, licking his lips. âjust... uhh, taking it all in.â
âoh, youâre gonna be taking a lot more than that in a second,â you teased, tugging at his slacks. he groaned, tipping his head back against the couch as he laughed again, but he still lifted his hips eagerly to help you slide the fabric down. and holy shit. those slacks had been doing a lot of heavy lifting, and now, with them out of the way, you were faced with undeniable proof that suguru geto was not just hot, but also packing. âdamn,â you muttered, your eyes widening just a bit as you took him in. âwhat?â he asked, his voice tinged with nervousness, but also curiosity. ânothing,â you said quickly, though your smirk betrayed you. âjust... wow.â
âwow?â he echoed, his brows lifting.
âwow,â you confirmed, leaning in closer. âyouâre full of surprises, huh?â
he chuckled softly, his hand coming down to rest gently on your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin in a way that was almost too sweet for the situation. âi could say the same about you,â he murmured, his voice low and warm. âoh, suguru,â you said with a teasing lilt, your hands bracing against his thighs as you leaned in, letting your breath ghost over him. âyou have no idea.â and as you finally got to work, suguru let out a sound that was half laugh, half moan, his head tipping back as his hand slid into your hair. yeah, it was definitely going to be a long nightâfor both of you. and honestly?
bless men raised by their mothers. or at least men who respect women beyond a surface level, because suguru geto? he was proving himself to be a certified sweetheart even with his brain turned to mush. "god, you're...you're so good at this," he babbled, voice pitched just enough to send a shiver down your spine. "likeâohhh, fuckâyouâre perfect. seriously, i donât know howâfuckâyouâre even real."
you couldnât help but smirk around him, though the sheer earnestness in his tone was making your head spin. suguru wasnât just moaningâno, he was giving you a running commentary like his life depended on it. and honestly? the mix of his praise, his ridiculous vocabulary, and the raw honesty of his reactions were doing more for you than you cared to admit. "shiiit, babe," he groaned, his hand tightening in your hair as his hips shifted just slightly, like he was trying to hold himself back. "youâre incredible. so... so fuckingâgod, youâre beautiful." you hummed against him, letting the vibrations travel through him, and the broken moan he let out in response was almost enough to make you moan.âiâfuck,â he stammered, his free hand clenching and unclenching on the couch cushion as though he was trying to ground himself. âi canât evenâfuck, youâre amazing. you know that, right? like, amazing.âÂ
it was ridiculous, really. this level of detailed, horny babbling shouldnât be hot, and yet, suguruâs desperate, unfiltered honesty was doing a number on you. youâd kiss him if your mouth wasnât otherwise occupied. âyouâre gonnaâoh fuck, youâre gonna ruin me,â he rasped, his words punctuated by a low, shaky laugh. âlike, actually. no coming back from this. youâreâshitâso perfect, babe. i donât even know how youâre real.â you glanced up at him briefly, catching the flush on his cheeks and the dazed, almost reverent look in his eyes. he looked wrecked already, and you werenât even close to finished. yeah, men raised right were a blessing. and suguru geto? he was living proof.
suguru was going to cry. or die. or both. maybe at the same time. because when a simple, god-loving, god-fearing man like him thought of youâhis girl, his loveâhis mind didnât stop at the surface. no, it wandered far, far into the future. he dared to dream big: marriage, a nice house with you, gojo cat and mr. pickles running the place with their eventual brood of kittens, and maybe, if he let himself get really carried away, a kid or two of your own. but this? this was not in the script. not the way he imagined this happening, not this soon. was he complaining, though? no, not one bit. still, suguru couldnât shake the way his brain was short-circuiting. what if you thought this was weird? not the moment itselfâbecause, holy shit, this moment was unrealâbut the way he couldnât control the ridiculous rambling bubbling out of him.
âgod, youâre... youâre gonna be the death of me,â he stammered, his voice breaking slightly as his hand tightened on the couch cushion beneath him. âseriously. iâm done for. youâveâfuckâyouâve got me wrapped around your finger. literally, figuratively... h-hell, every way there is.â he let out a shaky laugh, his other hand brushing the edge of your jaw, his touch featherlight like he was afraid heâd break youâor worse, wake up and find out this was all a dream. âyou have no idea, do you?â he murmured, his tone softening even as his breaths came uneven. âhow much iâfuck, how much i love you.â
that admission was supposed to stay locked in his chest, hidden away alongside the future house and the diary full of thoughts he would probably never admit aloud. but there it was, laid bare in the open. his throat tightened as he watched for your reaction, his heart pounding in his chest like it was trying to break free. his mind raced with every possibilityâwhat if you thought he was moving too fast? what if this ruined everything?
you were going to die. or cry. or both. maybe not in that order, but the emotional whiplash was real. because while you wereâlet's face itâgiving the performance of your life, suguru geto had the audacity to play the wildest card in his hand: he told you he loved you. the words hit you like a sucker punch, making your brain screech to a halt. you paused, pulling him out of your mouth with a slick, obscene pop, a strand of spit still connecting the two of you as you gaped at him like heâd just told you the earth was flat. âwait, what?â your voice was hoarse, a little breathless, and full of disbelief. your hands remained steady on his thighs, but you werenât about to let that slide. âsay that again.â
suguru blinked at you, his flushed face half-covered by the messy curtain of his hair. and yet, somehow, he still looked every bit the breathtaking dork you fell for. âi... i said i love you,â he mumbled, his voice soft, but you could see the telltale signs of his nerves in the way his hands fidgeted at his sides. oh, you knew you won now. your lips curved into a sly, wicked grin, your heart pounding in your chest for reasons that had nothing to do with what you were doing moments ago. âgood,â you said simply, your voice low and teasing, before brushing your thumb over his hip bone in a way that made him shiver. âbecause i love you too, suguru.â the way his eyes widened, his chest hitching in disbelief, was almost enough to undo you completely. but you werenât done. oh no, not by a long shot.
you leaned in again, doubling down on your efforts with a newfound determination, your mouth warm and eager as you took him back in. this time, you didnât hold back, letting him feel just how much you meant those words. the soft noises tumbling out of him turned into broken, desperate moans as you let him slide deeper, letting him bump against the back of your throat with a confidence that made his hips jerk. âholyâfucck, baby, â he gasped, his voice trembling as his hands instinctively tangled in your hair. âyouâreâoh my godâi canâtââ
and just like that, he was gone. the way his body tensed, his hand gripping the back of the couch like a lifeline, was all the warning you got before he tipped over the edge, his release hitting you with an intensity that left him trembling beneath you. you pulled back slightly, swallowing and smirking as he looked down at you with dazed, love-struck eyes, his chest heaving. âyou okay there, lover boy?â you teased, wiping your lips with the back of your hand as you crawled up to straddle him. he groaned, dragging his hands over his flushed face, but even through his embarrassment, you could see the adoration shining in his gaze. âyouâre going to be the death of me,â he muttered, but the small, lovesick smile on his lips said he wouldnât have it any other way.
somewhere in the tangled chaos of his mind, suguru was thinking about reciprocity in customary international lawâsomething about how states are expected to treat each other in kind. why this popped into his head as he helped you up from your knees, he had no idea. maybe his brain was short-circuiting from everything that had just transpired. or maybe it was just his nerdy coping mechanism for the sheer intensity of what was about to go down. either way, he shelved the thought because all he knewâclearly, distinctly, and beyond a shadow of a doubtâwas that you needed help. erm, his girl needed help. and suguru geto? he was nothing if not a gentleman. âalright, up you go,â he said, his voice warm and teasing as he hooked an arm around you, effortlessly lifting you.
before you could even fully process what was happening, he threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing, carrying you to the bed. âoh my god, suguru!â you squealed, smacking his back, but there was no real heat behind it. " shh, this is for your benefit,â he said, laughing softly as he adjusted his grip. and with a surprising amount of precision for a man who had just been thoroughly flustered minutes earlier, he tossed you onto the bed. somehow, miraculously, you landed gracefullyâno awkward angles or unflattering positions. before you could catch your breath, suguru was already yanking down your pajama shorts, his movements sure and deliberate. his hair, still a little messy from your earlier efforts, framed his face as he looked down at you, his dark eyes filled with a mix of affection and hunger. you smirked, propping yourself up on your elbows. âyou know, if youâre really feeling sorry, thereâs one thing you could do.â his brows raised, intrigued. âoh? whatâs that?â
âsit down,â you said casually, leaning back against the pillows. âbecause iâm sitting on your face.â suguru froze for half a second, and you could swear you saw his soul leave his body. but then he let out a low, almost reverent laugh, his hands already sliding up your thighs as he knelt onto the bed. âyouâre killing me,â he muttered, his lips curving into a grin that was equal parts adoring and wicked. âbut if you insistâŠâ and as he settled himself beneath you, looking up at you with pure devotion, he thought to himselfâif he had a ring right now, heâd propose without a second thought.
sit on his face? seriously? where the hell did that confidence come from? because letâs be realâhave you ever sat on someoneâs face before? no? yeah, thatâs what i thought. so it really serves you right for hovering over suguruâs face in the most awkward, hesitant way possible after you practically tore your underwear off like a woman on a mission. and suguru, bless his sweet, sweet soul, was waiting so patiently. expectantly, even. until he let out this deep chuckleâlow and warm and way too sexy for your own goodâand before you could spiral any further into overthinking, he reached up and yanked you down onto his face. oh. OH. there was no time to process, no moment to think, because suddenly the same mouth that usually went on and on about laws, treaties, and whatever international nonsense was now french kissing your cunt like it was his one true calling in life.
you moanedâloud and borderline pornographicâbut could you really help it? suguru groaned against you, the vibrations shooting straight through you as his grip tightened on your thighs, holding you firmly in place like he had absolutely no plans of letting you escape. you tried. god, you tried to play it cool. tried to pull a geto on him with a little bit of horny babbling of your own, figuring heâd appreciate the effort. but every time you so much as opened your mouth to string a coherent sentence together, suguru would double down on his actionsâhis tongue flicking or curling in ways that had you seeing starsâand whatever youâd been planning to say vanished into the void, replaced by high-pitched whines and breathy moans.
âsuguruâoh my godââ
he hummed in response, the sound smug and almost teasing as he looked up at you from between your legs, his dark eyes practically glowing with amusement and pride. âyou talk too much,â he mumbled against you, the words muffled but clear enough to make your face heat up. and honestly? youâd be offended if he werenât so goddamn good at what he was doing.
geto was putting in the work. the work. and you? you were trying not to cry or completely lose your mind, but if you did, you had a sneaking suspicion heâd love it more than anything. the man had a thing for dramaâespecially if it was drama he caused. but in the middle of all this face-sitting, tongue-lapping, thigh-gripping madness, you noticed something else.
geto was hard. painfully so. the sight of him below you was already sinful enough, but the way his erection strained against his boxers, twitching every time you moaned his name, was almost too much. his response time to recover was unrealâmaddening, evenâbut considering it was you on top of him, you liked to think you deserved the credit. and since a wise saying says to love your neighbor as yourself, you decided to help a man out. literally. your hand snaked down between you two, wrapping around his length with a touch that had him freezing for a split second. âwhat are youâoh, fuck, â geto choked out, the sound muffled against your thighs as you yanked down his boxers and started stroking him.
he let out a garbled groan andâyou couldnât make this upâspat. he outright spat onto your cunt, the hot slickness dripping between your folds, and you? you loved it. the move earned him a sharp gasp, followed by a breathless laugh as you sped up your hand, squeezing him just enough to draw out those pretty whines you loved so much. âoh my god, suguru,â you teased, voice shaky but teasing nonetheless. âdid you justâ?â
âshut up,â he grunted, his words nearly swallowed by a low moan as you swiped your thumb over his tip. âyouâre the oneâfuckâdriving me insane right now.â and judging by the desperate way he buried his face against you, tongue moving feverishly as his hips bucked into your hand, youâd say he was enjoying this just as much as you were. but the real kicker? when you came, your body instinctively pressed down against his face, your thighs squeezing tight enough to almost cut off his air supply. geto didnât complain. not once. if anything, the muffled groan against your cunt and the way he jerked against your hand as he came told you heâd gladly die like this if it came to it. but luckily for both of you, you lived to tell the tale.
once the both of you had managed to throw on some semblance of clothing, clean up, and collapse into the bed, thatâs when reality hit geto like a brick wall. what. the. hell. just happened. as he laid there, his arm slung lazily around you, your soft breathing against his chest, his brain decided now was the perfect time to spiral. he glanced over at mr. pickles, who sat perched on the counter in the kitchenette, her tail flicking in judgment. the cat looked like she was debating calling the authorities on him for defiling her beloved owner. oh god. what does this make the two of you?
no, scratch that. the real panic set in when he remembered: he told you he loved you. not in some subtle, cute, roundabout way either. no, it was the full-blown, l-o-v-e type of confession. the kind he wrote about in his secret diary he kept under his bed. the kind that implied white picket fences, shared dreams, and a life together. and judging by the way you were pressed against him, one leg draped over his, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his bare chest (because yes, the formal shirt had been entirely ditched), you were either about to let him down easy or...
oh god.
âyou okay?â your soft voice snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts, your hand pausing its movements as you tilted your head to look up at him. he cleared his throat, his cheeks flushing. âuh, yeah. yeah, totally fine.â you squinted at him, your lips twitching like you were trying not to laugh. âyou sure? youâre looking a little... out of it.â well, there was no way out of this now. in all his dorkus glory, he blurted out the dreaded question:
âso, uh... what are we?â
the words hung in the air for a second, and geto wanted to melt into the mattress. but instead of laughing or teasing him, you smiled, your expression soft and fond. âwhat do you want us to be?â
âi mean...â he swallowed hard, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. âi said i loved you, so... maybe something serious?â you grinned, pressing a kiss to his chest. âgood. because iâm not letting you go after that performance, lover boy.â and just like that, geto decided he could die happy. even if mr. pickles never forgave him.
chapter 6: the class youâll never forget
geto woke up feeling like the main character in some rom-com where everything had finally fallen into place. the sun was shining directly on his face, his skin was clear, the tension that had been tying his muscles in knots for weeks was gone, and most importantly, there was you snuggled up next to him. your soft snores were music to his ears, and mr. pickles' contented purring from her nesting area completed the picture. everything was perfect. except for the yeowling.
it started faint, like the distant sound of a car alarm, and grew steadily louder. groaning, geto rubbed his face. âwhat the hell...?â he suddenly bolted upright, realization hitting him like a freight train. âoh no. oh no, no, no.â you groggily stirred beside him, blinking up at him in confusion. âwhatâs wrong?â
âgojo,â he groaned, flopping back against the pillows dramatically. âi left him alone in my apartment last night. he probably thinks iâm dead.â you blinked, then snorted. âthatâs dramatic, even for a cat.â
but geto wasnât joking. heâd seen gojo cat throw tantrums over him leaving for ten minutes to grab milk. this? this was abandonment on a grand scale in the eyes of the overly dramatic feline. as if on cue, the voice of your landlord, yaga, boomed from the other side of the door. âkeep that cat quiet, or iâm calling animal control!â you gasped indignantly, sitting up. âexcuse me! mr. pickles would neverââ
âitâs not mr. pickles!â geto groaned, already throwing on his pants. âitâs my overly theatricalââ
just as he was about to open the door to go upstairs, a loud thud echoed from the direction of your fire escape. the two of you froze.
âwhat was that?â you whispered.
geto peeked out the window, his jaw dropping. âoh my god. no.â
there, perched precariously on the fire escape outside your window, was gojo cat. his tail swished furiously, and he was glaring through the glass like he had just tracked his runaway owner down on sheer willpower alone.
âhe... jumped from my window to yours.â
âthatâs, like, one story up!â you exclaimed.
âi know!â
gojo cat let out another ear-piercing yeowwww! that sounded suspiciously like he was cursing geto out in feline language. âokay, okay , iâm coming!â geto sighed, sliding the window open to let the cat in. gojo cat pranced inside with all the dignity of someone who had just won an olympic gold medal, ignoring you entirely as he hopped onto getoâs torso and began aggressively kneading his shoulder. âiâm sorry, okay?â geto muttered. âi didnât mean to abandon you.â gojo cat meowed smugly, his forgiveness conditional.
âso... how mad would you be if i told you yaga still thinks this is mr. picklesâ fault?â you asked, biting your lip to hold back a laugh. geto groaned, flopping back onto the bed, gojo cat still perched on his chest. âthis is my life now. cat dad, tenant offender, and boyfriend to the worldâs most beautiful woman.â you grinned, kissing his cheek. âand donât you forget it.â
gojo cat, ever the drama queen, was about to make a grand display of his wrath, his tail swishing like an emperor preparing to deliver a royal decree. but then, he saw her.
mr. pickles. lounging in her nesting area, belly round with her impending litter, she cast him the most witheringly judgmental side-eye known to catkind. it wasnât even subtle. her disdain radiated like heat off asphalt, and for a moment, gojo catâs indignant rage faltered. but then, like the suave rogue he believed himself to be, he straightened up, puffed out his chest, and strutted toward her with a confidence that could only be described as delusional. it was all tail flicks and exaggerated steps, as though the very floor beneath him had the privilege of bearing his paws.
and thenâsmack. the grand feline tumbled, face planting into the ground with all the grace of a wet noodle.
you tried to stifle your laugh, but the sound still slipped out. geto choked back a snort, muttering, âthatâs my boy.â mr. pickles, however, did not laugh. no, the dignified queen merely let out a single approving chirp, a sound that might have translated to "pathetic, but amusing." gojo cat, undeterred by his embarrassing mishap, rose with renewed determination. and with the kind of courage that made you question if he had a screw loose, he approached mr. pickles once more, his intentions clear.
but he did. gojo cat, in what he undoubtedly believed was the ultimate gesture of love, began grooming mr. pickles. grooming her. and she let him.
for a moment, you thought she was going to swipe at him with all the fury of a hormonal mom-to-be. but no. she actually closed her eyes, her purring like a soft motor. it was... surreal.
âdid we just witness the biggest romance of the century?â you asked, genuinely baffled. âbigger than us?â geto teased, pulling you closer. âway bigger,â you deadpanned.
as you both watched the unlikely duo share their moment, you couldnât help but laugh. gojo cat was clearly putting his all into his attempt at love, and mr. pickles? well, she looked like she was actually enjoying it.
âah, love,â geto sighed dramatically, resting his chin on your head. âeven dumber than us,â you added, shaking your head in disbelief.
-
you were on cloud nine, feeling a level of peace and contentment that only came from having a hot law nerd boyfriend and a cat with enough sass to rival gojo cat himself. geto's bmw hummed quietly beneath you as the two of you cruised toward campus. it wasnât just the morning coffee kicking in; it was the knowledge that if this man dared to be lateâeven by two minutesâmr. pickles would end him. like, not even metaphorically. sheâd leap on him, claws out, and make him regret. because mr. pickles loved his hair. she loved kneading it, curling her paws into his long, luscious locks as if claiming her personal throne. and honestly? you got it. if you were a cat, youâd do the same. hell, even as a human, youâd do it (and did, regularly).
as he pulled into the parking lot, the goodbye routine began. âdonât forget to text me when your class ends,â he said, already pulling you into a warm hug. âdonât forget to pick me up, or weâre breaking up,â you countered sweetly, earning a laugh from him. âyouâre scary, you know that?â he teased, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. âand youâre my very gorgeous, very whipped boyfriend,â you shot back, leaning up for a kiss. he wouldnât dream of ghosting youânot when you were this beautiful, amazing, kind, and, obviously, a little unhinged. as he opened your door and helped you out like the true gentleman he was, he insisted on walking you all the way to the front entrance. his hand rested at the small of your back, a gesture that had you swooning even as you teased him.
âyou do know youâre going to be late, right?â
âworth it,â he replied with a grin, bending down to kiss your cheek. but just as you were about to part ways, a booming voice shattered the moment.
âGETO! LAW STUDENTS BUILDING! NOW!â
you both turned to see a very exasperated professor waving frantically at him from across the quad. you couldnât help but laugh as geto sighed, muttering under his breath about how âlove is a battlefield.â he gave you one last kiss, muttered a promise to pick you up later (or else), and jogged off. you watched him go, smiling like an idiot as you whispered, âah, love.â
the day started fine. better than fine, actuallyâyou left getoâs bmw with a kiss and the knowledge that your cat, mr. pickles, was safe and sound in her nesting area, glaring at gojo cat with the fury only a pregnant feline could muster. but halfway through your lecture on post-modern feminist theories (a riveting topic, truly), your phone buzzed. it wasnât a normal notification. no, it was the cctv feed suguru had installed as a âgiftâ to keep an eye on your âqueenâ (read: your absolute dictator cat). and there she wasâmr. picklesâkneading her nesting area with an urgency that sent a chill down your spine.
âoh. oh no. oh dear god.â you whispered, staring at the screen as she let out a war cry that could only mean one thing: grandmahood was happening. you shot up from your seat so fast your desk screeched against the floor. âis everything okay?â your professor asked, startled by your abrupt movement.
âuh, yeah! just â cat emergency! sheâs â uh â giving birth!â you stammered, already halfway out the door.
âcongratulations?â someone in the back called out, earning a round of laughter you had no time for.
you sprinted through campus like a woman possessed, your backpack bouncing behind you as you cursed yourself for not realizing mr. picklesâ morning mood wasnât jealousy but labor. and thenâbecause fate had to test youâgeto appeared, casually strolling toward the law building with his usual unbothered grace. âbabe?â he called out, watching you bolt past him like you were auditioning for the olympics. âno time to explain!â you yelled over your shoulder. he frowned, putting two and two together because, letâs face it, the manâs a genius. âis it mr. pickles?!â
âYES!â
and then he started running behind you.
âsuguru!â you wheezed, already out of breath. âGET YOUR CAR!â
âwhy?â he shouted, effortlessly keeping pace with you.
âbecause weâre running across a campus thatâs like thousand acres and I WILL DIE!â
he paused, muttering something about how you were so dramatic, before pivoting on his heel and sprinting toward the parking lot.
you barely made it to the main road before suguruâs bmw skidded to a stop beside you.
âget in!â he barked, throwing the passenger door open.
âi swear to god, if she starts delivering while weâre stuck in traffic ââ
âsheâs not gonna start without you,â he said, rolling his eyes.
âcats donât work like that, suguru!â
âwell, neither do women, but here we are,â he shot back, pulling into the driveway of your building.
you bolted out of the car, taking the stairs two at a time while suguru trailed behind with all the urgency of a man who knows heâll be the one cleaning up whatever mess awaited. when you burst into the apartment, mr. pickles was mid-contraction, glaring at you like, finally, my useless human has arrived. gojo cat, meanwhile, looked terrified, hovering at a safe distance as if he was considering calling 911. âokay, okay, weâre here!â you panted, dropping to your knees beside mr. pickles. suguru followed, looking at the scene with wide eyes. âdo...do we call a vet?â
âno! sheâs got this. we just have to support her!â
âsupport her how?â
âi donât know! emotional support?â
âsheâs a cat!â
mr. pickles let out a low growl, silencing suguruâs protests. âokay, okay, iâll shut up,â he muttered, backing away slightly. the door creaked open, and there stood shoko, still in her scrubs and sporting the exhausted yet curious expression of someone returning from a night shift only to walk straight into chaos. âwhatâs going on here?â she asked, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. you barely spared her a glance as you clutched suguruâs arm. âmr. pickles is in labor. itâs a whole thing. prayers are appreciated.â
âprayers?â she scoffed, stepping closer. âiâm a doctor. i got this.â
relief washed over you. âthank god, shoko! we could use an actual professional!â
but the moment she peeked over the edge of mr. picklesâ nesting area and caught sight of a tiny kitten halfway out, her calm demeanor shattered.
âOH MY GOD, WHAT IS THAT?!â
âwhat do you think it is?â suguru deadpanned, visibly unimpressed. âi donât know! i didnât sign up for this!â shoko shrieked, stumbling backward and holding her hands up as if warding off an unholy demon.
you blinked at her, utterly dumbfounded. âarenât you a doctor?â
âa human doctor! this is nature gone rogue! â
mr. pickles, clearly unamused by shokoâs dramatics, let out a low, guttural growl that sent the so-called professional scurrying back to the doorway. âyouâre on your own,â shoko muttered, lighting a cigarette like the events unfolding in your living room werenât directly her problem. meanwhile, gojo cat, always the overachiever, decided he needed to help. unfortunately, his idea of help involved attempting to paw at the nearest kitten. âdonât even think about it!â suguru warned, his voice laced with exasperation.
but it was too lateâmr. pickles, mid-contraction, turned her fiery gaze on gojo cat, who froze like a deer in headlights. one wrong flick of his tail, and mr. pickles let out a feral hiss that could have sent shoko back to med school. gojo cat, realizing he had crossed the line, slinked back to the corner, tail tucked between his legs, his usual swagger replaced with what could only be described as embarrassed defeat. âwell, thatâs one way to keep him in line,â you muttered.
âthis is insane,â shoko said, still watching from the doorway. âhow do you people live like this?â
âwe manage,â suguru replied, his tone completely void of humor as he massaged his temples.
the next hour was a whirlwind of cat screams, your whispered words of encouragement, and suguru pacing like an expectant father in a sitcom. âshould we name one after me?â he asked at one point, earning a glare from both you and mr. pickles as she finally let out one final push, and another tiny kitten entered the world. you let out a relieved sigh, and suguru finally cracked a smile. he was crouched beside you, holding your hand as if you were the one giving birth. âyou did amazing,â he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple.
âshe did amazing,â you corrected, motioning to mr. pickles.
âteam effort,â he replied with a grin.
and as mr. pickles began cleaning her newest babies, shoko muttered from the door, âyouâre all insane. call me when itâs over.â
âyouâre the godmother, shoko!â you called after her, earning a muffled string of curses as she disappeared down the hall.
âweâre gonna need so much cat food,â he muttered, pulling you close.
ah, the miracle of life.
-
a few weeks had passed since d-dayâdelivery day, or as suguru had renamed it, âdomestic chaos day.â the kittens were growing faster than you thought possible, transforming your once peaceful apartment into a battlefield. mr. pickles ruled the roost with an iron paw, while gojo catâs ego took a daily beating as the kittens bested him at every turn. every time one managed to leap higher, run faster, or swipe his tail just right, his tail would puff up in indignation like a furry balloon. youâd managed to rehome a few of the kittens, starting with shoko.
her kittenâaffectionately dubbed âroachâ for her uncanny ability to survive despite zero effortâwas the perfect match. low-maintenance, unfazed, and perpetually napping. shoko had initially protested, but now youâd catch her sending you pictures of roach curled up in her sink or casually perched on her liquor cabinet.
then there was yuuji. poor, sweet, persistent yuuji. heâd campaigned harder for a kitten than some politicians do for office. the boy went through hoops â begging you, suguru, choso, sukuna, and even mr. pickles. you werenât sure how heâd pulled it off, but eventually, he was deemed worthy of a black-and-white troublemaker he promptly named âgumi.â the kitten adored yuuji and spent most of his time riding on his shoulders like a parrot, though you suspected yuuji let him get away with far too much.
sukuna, on the other hand, had reluctantly taken the runt of the litter after it refused to leave him alone. âdonât need some damn cat,â heâd grumbled the entire way home. now? the tiny kitten followed him everywhere, even sneaking into his apron pockets after he came back from work. he pretended to hate it, but the soft grumbles about âstupid runtâ were always followed by careful, protective pats on the kittenâs tiny head.
but the biggest surprise of all came when suguru decided to make your relationship publicâon linkedin. linkedin, of all places.
it had started as a joke. youâd teased him about not âproperly asking you outâ after all this time, and before you knew it, heâd crafted a three-paragraph-long post about you. âin a comitted relationship with the love of my life, and no, this isnât a humble brag â itâs a masterpiece,â heâd typed with the fervor of a man defending his dissertation. the post included references to romantic literature, quotes from classic movies, and, somehow, a detailed analysis of how mr. pickles and gojo cat played pivotal roles in your story.
youâd wanted to die of second-hand embarrassment, but the post blew up. colleagues, professors, and even strangers commented, congratulating the two of you. âyouâre insane,â youâd told him, hiding your face in his chest as he laughed. âinsane about you,â he replied, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
life wasnât perfect â it was loud, chaotic, and occasionally overwhelming. but with mr. pickles, gojo cat, and your ridiculous yet lovable boyfriend, it was better than you ever imagined.
synopsis. what was meant to be an innocent trip down to the bridge becomes a national sensation when you get outed as #15 pro-hero dynamight's soulmate on live tv. inconvenient, yes, very much soâbut it's not like you have to do something about it. but then the bakugou katsuki himself seeks you out, and you find yourself getting into a whole lot of trouble.
c.w. minors dni. fem!reader, pro-hero!katsuki, aged-up, post-timeskip/ch 431, soulmate!au, lots of cursing, reader is ill, depictions of mental illness (mentions of depressive themes and suicidality), mentions of death, nsfw/mature themes, minor manga spoilers
a/n. here it is, y'all! while i know the word count and tags are quite daunting, i really hope you give this fic a chance because i'm extremely proud of this one, which i haven't felt about my writing in a while. if you do end up reading it, thank you and i sincerely hope you enjoy it <3
to be fair, you were justâŠweighing your options.
taking a short trip down to shizuokaâs famous ayumi bridge wasnât part of your itinerary for the day, not that youâve been having exceptionally busy itineraries for who knows how long. it was a spur-of-the-moment decision that you periodically second-guessed on the way there, the vivid picture of your unmade but comfortable bed weighing heavily in your mind.
still, and despite yourself, you couldnât deny the need for fresh air, nor the relief that filled your renewed albeit fatigued lungs as you finally arrived at your destination.
from where you are now standing with your arms folded on top of the relatively short railings, you look past the barricade and down onto the cloudy river below you.
it was an innocent gestureâone borne out of curiosity minus most of the morbidityâbut it apparently wasnât innocent enough, because one moment you were studying the ripples in the distant water, and the next, youâre violently yanked from behind.
you let out an unintentional âoofâ as you stumble backward, your body helplessly tugged alongside the blouse that you vaguely register as the thing thatâs being pulled back. you probably stagger a few feet away from the edge of the bridge, before unceremoniously falling on your butt.
and as if out of nowhere, pro-hero dynamight emerges right in front of you.
âare you crazy?â he spits out, frenzied. âdo you have a fucking death wish?â
you blink. âiââ
he throws his arms up in what you think is defeat, cutting you off, although heâs looking more pissed than resigned. âfucking menaces,â he mumbles loudly under his breath.
a surge of indignation instantly shoots through you, and you open your mouth to spit something back at him, but you donât get the chance to, because he holds out his hand.
robbed of all words, and quite frankly, barely registering whatâs happening, the best you can do is blink at him. again.
his eyebrows furrow, irritation surely bubbling in his veins. his hand stays put, though. âwhat are you waiting for? get up.â
you hesitate, eyes drifting from his face and down to his hand. unlike his gloved left, his right is bare, and riddled with a plethora of scars. you didnât know about that, at least from his pictures on tv and social media, unlike the one on his face that is constantly broadcasted for everyone else to see.
you donât dwell on it further, though, deciding then and there that you want to go home right the fuck now.
you quickly take his hand and help him by pulling yourself up. once youâre upright, youâre just as quick to let go, opting to brush off the dirt stuck to your clothes.
âthanks,â you start, forcing yourself to meet his piercing gaze thatâs indubitably boring holes into your face. ââŠi guess.â
âyou guess?â he spews, incredulous, before shaking his head. ânever fucking mind.â
âdynamight!â
startled, you whip to look at the source of the voice, and your eyes comically widen when they land on a group of people who look suspiciously like the media. and right behind them are a few police cars dotted with several police officers.
you turn to face bakugou, about to clarify with him if he knows what theyâre doing here, but heâs already staring at you, an inexplicable expression etched on his face.
âwhat?â you canât help but ask.
he sighs, cocking his head toward the closely approaching herd. âget ready.â
âdynamight!â the woman decked out in a blazer and pencil skirt exclaims, completely oblivious to the concept of personal space as she thrusts her microphone into bakugouâs face. you feel yourself shrink from where you stand slightly to his right, unsure as to whether or not youâre being filmed right now.
you hope you arenât.
âtwo negotiations in a row,â she breathes out, disbelieving. âhow did you do it?â
negotiations?
âwhat kind of stupid question is that?â he barks out. âi simply was in the right place at the right time with the first one.â
âoh, youâre too humble!â she quips, signaling the cameraman to steady his shot of the pro-heroâs face. âwe came as soon as we could when we heard about what was going down here.â
âyeah, and you couldâve caused the situation to escalate even further than it already did,â he retorts without missing a beat. the reporterâs face falls. bakugou takes that as a sign to go on.
âyouâre lucky i arrived and intervened when i did. and how did none of you dipshits think to call the fucking police?â
âiââ
âyouâre all too preoccupied with getting your next scoop that you lost your fucking grip on reality and failed to help,â the pro-hero chastises.
he pauses for a second, and youâre about to think heâs finally done with his spiel for the womanâs sake when he glances at you, looking like heâs got something more to say.
and as you find out in the next, excruciating seconds, he definitely has.
the man shoots his arm up, his thumb sticking out, pointing conveniently at you.
âcase in point,â he states. âwe couldâve had a casualty.â
you gawk at him.
a what?
âiâm sorry,â you start, turning to face the ash-blonde, acutely aware of the inquisitive eyes peering at you, âi think youâre misunderstanding. i wasnât going to jumââ
âoh my god.â
miffed, you turn again to look at the woman, but now her countenance has gone all pale, looking like she just saw a poltergeist. seemingly speechless, she doesnât try to get a word out, but what she does is point at bakugouâs wrist.
the man beside you shifts on his feet, uncomfortable. âthe fuck are youââ
whatever bite the pro-hero was about to unleash on the reporter gets stuck in his throat when he flips his hand and freezes.
and when you see the familiar-looking timer written on his wrist that reads 00:02:57, you stiffen.
it canât be.
still, youâve got to make sure.
and so with bated breath, you slowly lift your right hand, turning it with the palm facing up.
and sure enough, your timerâthe one thatâs been at zero your entire lifeâreads just a few seconds after bakugouâs.
he thinks heâs fucking spiderman.
you mentally roll your eyes as you replay the clip of bakugou that went viral a few days ago.
you were able to put two and two together on the way home from the bridge, your conjecture proven correct when you got home and checked your social media accounts, which were crawling with articles and posts about the jumper who the #15th pro-hero dynamight was able to talk down.
he was a middle-aged man who apparently lost custody of his only son in light of his divorce, and couldnât find a way out of the agony apart from death.
you couldnât get a good view of his face, since the shots were all focused on bakugou taking his glove off to reach out to the guy, but you figure thatâs a good thing. the manâs already fucking suicidalâthe last thing he needs is for his privacy to be breached.
you can only laugh at the irony as you parse through your notifications, because lo and beholdâtheyâve already found you out.
because of course! what story sells better than a notorious heroâs successful negotiation with a jumper?
a notorious heroâs successful negotiation with a jumper who also happens to be his fucking soulmate.
nevermind the fact that you werenât actually planning to jump that day.
âexcuse me?â
you look up from your phone to find a teenage girl peering at you timidly from across the counter.
you tuck the device in your pocket and put on your most cordial smile. âhi! how can i help you?â
she puts what seems to be a fantasy duology on top of the surface between the two of you, before shooting you a shy smile back. âjust these two, please.â
you peek at the titles and immediately light up. âgreat choice! my friend loves these.â
she lets out a delighted sound as you ring up her purchase, and you make small talk as you take her card and pack her books in a brown paper bag.
âhave fun reading!â you say as she accepts the package from you, mouthing a quick thanks.
you watch the girl exit the bookstore with a grin you didnât know you had on your face, which you only catch wind of when you shift your attention back to the next person in line.
because one sight of them has it wiped off your mouth in an instant.
even if theyâre decked out in the most unhelpful disguise of a baseball cap, hoodie, and face mask.
still, two can play at this game. and quite frankly, youâre up for roleplaying rather than having a confrontation anyway, with this ridiculous get-up he has on.
and so with the most friendly tone you can muster, you ask: âhow can i help you?â
even behind his whole guise, you can see the darkening of his gaze when you put forth the question. âare you serious?â
you tilt your head to the side in fake innocence. âwhat do you mean, sir? youâre at the counter at a bookstoreâŠâ
apparently, thatâs enough to rile up the great explosion murder god dynamight, because he angrily tugs his mask down before bobbing his head as if saying âseriouslyâ?
you pretend youâre just figuring it out, going the extra mile by letting your mouth form the shape of a small âoâ, but you can tell heâs not buying it. he glares at you, and youâre smart enough to know itâs a warning, so you cut it out despite yourself.
âthe questionâs still the same, by the way,â you offer when he doesnât say anything. âhow can i help you?â
his eyebrows furrow. âare you always this fucking nonchalant?â
no, you answer in your head, but he doesnât need to know that itâs less nonchalance and more apathy. you shrug, âit's either that or panic about the whole situation.â
this time, his eyebrows shoot up. âso youâre not frazzled? like, at all?â
you stop yourself from rolling your eyes just in time. âof course, i am. kind ofâat least. the last thing i need is to be scrutinized by the public.â
âthat oneâs on you, showing up at the same bridge as that jumper.â
you bristle. âi told you, i wasnât going to jump!â
only belatedly do you realize that you just said that last bit quite loudly, and you hurriedly scan the room to see a few curious faces have glanced your way. you bow slightly in apology, before turning back to regard the pro-hero.
he huffs. âletâs say you werenât. it doesnât matter, because we still made contact and now the news is out.â
âso? i donât see how we have to do anything about it.â
âbelieve me, i agree.â
you laugh. âwow, who knew the dynamight doesnât want a soulmate, let alone meet and be tethered to one?â
âlaugh all you want, dumbass,â comes bakugouâs reply. âbut what iâm about to say is not a laughing matter.â
âdo pray tell.â
âfuckingââ he starts, before taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. once heâs expelled that air, he fixes his gaze on you. you subconsciously straighten up.
âi need you to put up appearances with me.â
you squint at him. âhuh?â
he presses his lips in a tight line. âiâm dropping in the rankings, and iâll drop even further if i donâtââ
âi donât see how any of this is my business.â
ââif i donât do anything palatable about the situation,â he presses on. âitâs costing me and my agency, as much as i fucking hate to admit it.â
you only stare at him, letting the gears in your head turn in light of the newfound information. and when you donât say anything, bakugou finishes.
âitâll only be for a while.â
pft.
a while?
you hesitate. of course, you would. thereâs absolutely no reason for you to get involved with the pro-hero, especially not now nor in the near, foreseeable future. in fact, you donât even want to think about how he found out this is where you worked part-time. and you know thereâs more where that came from.
you shake your head, âiâm sorry, but thereâs no way i canââ
âiâll pay you.â
you whip to look at him, shocked. âwhat?â
âyou need the money, right?â he asks, and you hate how heâs right. âpr is offering an amount.â
you gulp, hating even more how youâre actually considering this. âhow much are we talking about?â
he tells you. you barely catch your jaw from dropping to the floor.
with that amount, youâll have the luxury of quitting this minimum wage job that youâve barely been able to keep doing and then some. youâll be set on your monthly expenses for a couple of months, and maybe even have enough to splurge on the few things that youâve been wanting to get for yourself but havenât had the means to.
and all that just by pretending for one to two months, tops?
your name and face are already common knowledge, anyway. there shouldnât even be a debate.
you stick your right hand out, the one with the ticking timer on your wrist, for him to shake. he extends his, and the sight of the matching numbers sends an unidentifiable sensation down your spine. you try to ignore it.
and just like that, you shake on it, and the deal is on.
besides, youâve got nothing to lose, anyway.
you push the glass door open, mindful of not adding any more handprints on the already marked surface. the wind chimes you didnât know were hanging above it from the inside resonate as you enter, and you find yourself suddenly grateful that you at least managed to put on a bit of makeup for today. a few people seated near the entrance glance to look at you, which is probably a good thing for once.
right before bakugou left the bookstore a few days ago, he suggested you exchange numbers, which you agreed to gingerly. you expected radio silence for at least a week and hoped for forever, but a text eventually came later that night, asking for your availability so he could schedule a meet-up in public.
you told him you couldnât meet until today, probably giving off the impression that you were busy with something, when in reality you were just tired and needed the time to process what was about to happen.
it takes you a second, what with the afternoon crowd slowly encroaching on the establishment and filling up the tables, but you eventually locate him, with the help of the scarred hand he raises to get your attention.
âhey,â you greet when you reach his spot near the back, and he nods at you in acknowledgment. taking a seat across from him, you make it a point to study your position. âare you sure you want to sit here?â
he raises an eyebrow, which you can now see clearly without the shadow of the cap from before. âwhat, this table not up to your standard?â
exasperation shoots through you, as it always does, but you shake it off. instead, you toss him a tight-lipped smile. âno, itâs just that people might not see us back here. which, you know, kind of defeats the purpose?â
he doesnât say anything for a beat, gaze fixated on you, before he breaks eye contact and shakes his head. âdonât worry,â he offers. âcalculated move. weâre still gonna be spotted, trust me.â
you nodâŠslowly. you guess that makes sense. if you seat yourselves smack dab at the center, it may come off as the both of you seeking attention, consequently undermining the authenticity of your whole charade. a real high-profile couple would want to keep it low-key.
you snort at what you just called the two of you.
âwhat?â bakugou asks, defensiveness bleeding into his tone. you look up at him, and you take a second to study his appearance. he ditched the cap and hoodie, only sporting a black shirt and what you think are loose joggers and sneakers.
and with his infamously unruly hair trimmed?
well. you hate to admit it, but he actually looksâŠnice.
you smile at him, genuinely this time. ânothing.â
he narrows his eyes at you, like he thinks youâre lying out of your ass, but he lets it go. luckily enough, and as if on cue, the waiter arrives to give you the menu and complementary water, and bakugou orders iced tea while you request your go-to drink. you thank the guy before he dashes off to tend to other customers.
âso,â you start when silence falls upon the two of you. âhow exactly are we going to do this?â
he picks up his glass. âdo what?â
âyou know, pretend?â you gesture vaguely with your hands. âdo we have to do pda or something?â
you didnât plan to cause it, but regardless, bakugou chokes on the ice-cold water he was just in the middle of drinking. you reach out toâwhat, rub his back?âbut he holds his hand up to stop you as he coughs his lungs out. you sit back down, and you watch him as he gathers his bearings, wiping the tears that pooled at the corners of his eyes.
âsorry,â you supply, âgreat job, though. you just announced our presence to everybody.â
at that, bakugou snorts, and you canât help the chuckle that bubbles out of you. he shakes his head, âdumbass.â
âbut no,â he continues, back to being serious, âwell, at least for now. as far as pr is concerned, we just have to be seen together until the whole thing dies out and the volatility of my ranking dissipates.â
âokay. that clicks, i guess.â
âyouâre still up for it, then?â
now itâs your turn to narrow your eyes at him. âwe shook on it, didnât we? iâm a woman of my word, bakugou.â
âwellââ
âand for the last time, i wasnât going to jump.â
that makes him bark out a laugh so loud that it startles you. grinning, he waves you off. âyeah, yeah. donât need to get all worked up, princess.â
blazing right past that cursed nicknameâyouâd first go through hell and high water before you let yourself be flustered in front of this manâyou shoot him an expectant look. âwell?â
âwell, what?â
âare we just gonna sit here and stare at each other for two, three hours? weâll have to do something, smartass.â
if bakugou is anywhere near bothered by your nickname for him, he doesnât let it show. instead, he takes the bait. âwhaddya have in mind?â
âwe can play a conversation game. the one that has prompts?â you fish out your phone from your bag, and you quickly thumb through your apps until you find the one. you click on the button that says âplayâ and place the gadget at the center of the table.
âthere,â you point. âi ask a question and you answer. then we switch and so on and so forth.â
he examines the screen. âsounds lame.â
you scoff. âlamer than sitting and waiting?â
he doesnât answer for a few seconds, until he finally sighs and nods at you, shifting in his seat as if bracing himself for whatâs to come.
âi can go first,â you volunteer, straining to look at the words on display. you cringe when you read them. âdo you think i was popular in high school?â
âseriously?â he snickers, and you shrug.
he doesnât even take a moment to think about it. âwell, you work in a bookstore, so no.â
âfair enough. your turn,â you swipe on the screen and turn it 180 degrees so he can see it.
you laugh when his face contorts as he finishes scanning the question. his eyes dart up to glare at you. âwho came up with this stupid ass game?â
âjust read the question, bakugou.â
he splutters for a beat, ultimately relenting, seething the words through his teeth. âwhen it comes to relationships, do you think iâm looking for something casual?â
youâre pretty sure you know what the answer is, but you still squint at the man to mess with him.
âare you fucking with me?â he grits out, bug-eyed. âdoes it fucking look like iâm capable of being casual about anything at all?â
you canât help itâyou throw your head back and laugh.
âstop laughing at me, dumbass.â
you press your lips together in an attempt to quell your mirth, but you burst out laughing again when you catch a glimpse of his reddening face.
âheyââ
âsorry, sorryâit was justâyour faceââ
âi get it, now quit it.â
eventually, but not immediately, you do. to your relief, bakugou doesnât forfeit like a sore loser after that round, instead choosing to press on and find an equally incriminating question for you. you bounce off of each other, mainly talking about your respective pasts, like your education, families, and upbringing, although staying considerate enough not to overstep and pry on confidential information.
there were quite a few questions directed towards the presentâwhat youâre currently doing, any nearing plans, current eventsâand you were okay enough to answer them with minimal detail. the future-oriented ones, though, you barely manage to skirt around and not respond to. you noticed bakugou looking at you a little too closely during those instances, but you feigned indifference.
thatâs all you could do, really.
even then, and without you noticing, the hours pass by, and by the time you actually look past the prompts and up to your phoneâs clock, itâs already 5:05 pm, a good four hours past your agreed-upon meeting time.
when you glance back up at bakugou, his face reads the sameâmild shock at the fact that you were too engrossed in your conversation to notice the sky getting dark and the streetlights illuminating the walkways beyond the coffee shopâs glass walls turning on one by one.
âsorry,â you say as you swiftly take your phone and lock the screen. âi didnât mean to keep you.â
âno,â he counters, pocketing his own. âi didnât notice, either.â
you smile at him as you put on your bag. âstill think itâs lame?â
âyes,â he promptly replies, a smirk now decorating his sharp features. âbut i had fun, or whatever the fuck.â
and for the nth time that afternoon, you laugh.
he texts you first that night, to your surprise.
(8:38 pm) bakugou katsuki: thanks. for coming out today.
from where you were sprawled lazily on your mattress, hair still wet from that shower you almost didnât take, you thumb out a response.
(8:39 pm) you: no problem, boss đ«Ą
you press send before you can overthink things. instead, you let the warm feeling of someone elseâs gratitude bloom in your chest and bask in it. that doesnât get to happen for too long, though, because another message arrives.
(8:40 pm) bakugou katsuki: donât call me that. by the way, did you see the news?
you feel your brows crease.
(8:40 pm) you: what news?
ping.
(8:40 pm) bakugou katsuki: bakugou katsuki sent you a link
you immediately click on the string of words, and youâre redirected to an article. it takes a while to loadâthe internet is sometimes spotty at your modest condominium unitâbut when it does, your jaw drops.
before anything else, you zoom in on your face, because priorities, right? you stare at the bunch of pixels for a good few minutes, before ultimately deciding thereâs nothing you can do about it anyway. besides, itâs not like this was the first glimpse the public has had of your appearance. despite yourself, you check bakugouâs, and of course, the man looks like he just came straight out of a magazine shoot.
you then read the title, which mustâve been written in haste in an attempt to get ahead of a random netizen going viral. soulmates spotted: pro-hero dynamight seen with the girl from the bridge.
well.
at least theyâre not calling you a jumper.
still.
(8:44 pm) you: seriously? girl from the bridge?
another ping.
(8:44 pm) bakugou katsuki: still at the fucking headline? hurry to the end, dumbass.
you roll your eyes, mainly because you canâperks of living alone and all. skimming through the sentences, you mouth the words to yourselfâa rehash about who you are, the contact from a few days ago, eyewitnesses and accounts from todayâuntil you land on the thing you think bakugouâs been trying to highlight.
in light of recent events, bakugou katsuki, who recently dropped several spots due to unfavorable encounters with citizens, has risen in the charts to #13.
you beam.
you and bakugou hang out a couple more times over the course of the next few weeks.
your get-togethers mainly depend on his scheduleâwhich you gawked at how hectic it was when he first described it to youâeven more now that youâre officially unemployed. your contractual obligation at the bookstore ended just in time as your first paycheck from the dynamight agency arrived, and you took the impeccable timing as the universeâs way of telling you to quit so you could instead spend your time freely on hobbies that you havenât had the energy for.
on the days that you do meet, though, you end up dedicating a huge chunk of your waking hours to the endeavor. itâs like that meme of a google calendar, with the get ready for meeting, meeting, and recover from meeting blocks taking up the entire 9 to 5.
this was definitely the case for your fourth rendezvous, which you spent at a park near the bridge where you first met. he didnât give you any details, so you walked into it blindly with a full face of makeup, hair done, and a tote bag full of finger food and some beverages in tow. needless to say, you were surprised when you arrived to the bakugou katsuki on a plaid orange picnic blanket, with what looked like handmade sandwiches displayed for hungry onlookers to see.
âdonât start,â he preempts when he sees you eyeing the snacks as you sit down.
you blink at him innocently, a smile tugging at your lips. âi wasnât going to.â
he frowns. âquit grinning, would you? i just thought itâd be nice to get some fresh air.â
nodding solemnly, you bring out your share of rations. âsure.â
you brace yourself for any snide remark about your pitiful foodâat least, as compared to his handcrafted onesâbut they donât come. instead, what you get is a side eye, before: âwhyâd you look like youâre going to an event, or some shit?â
you whip to face him. âhuh?â
he gestures to your face.
âoh, this? i just donât want to look ugly in the photos, is all.â
âugly?â he spews, as if the word in itself was as hideous as it meant.
âyeah,â you retort defensively, placing the cans of juice on the ground before shifting to look at him. ânot that you have to worry about that.â
a pause.
âwhatâs that supposed to meaââ
âdo you have anything you want to do?â you cut him off, changing the topic.
âiâuhââ bakugou stammers, caught off guard. âwe can just talk, or something.â
you light up at that, and he scoffs when he sees. âsame game?â
âwhy the hell not.â
he texts you again after the picnic, right as you step out of the train and onto the platform of your stop. you smile when you catch a glimpse of it.
(6:05 pm) bakugou katsuki: at #9 now. thanks.
as you walk up the stairs and onto the streets, you find yourself wondering why this whole ruse has been working like a charm, and the answer is quick to arrive.
humans love narratives, after all.
and what better way to forward the age-old, comforting, and redeeming tale of soulmates than through the prickly, explosive pro-hero they know so well?
you donât hear from each other after that. youâd be lying if you said it didnât make you nervous just the tiniest bitâhe was right, after all. you needed the money, especially after having quit your job. but you tell yourself itâs only been a couple of days, to trust that heâll text when itâs time to make another public appearance, and that heâs way above ghosting you like youâre easily dispensible, regardless of whether or not you do feel that you are.
so, in an attempt to stop obsessing over this thing youâve got going on with bakugou, you drag your ass out of bed and head to the nearest mall to run a few errands. you realize when you get to the supermarket that you forgot to catalog the things you actually needed to buy, cursing yourself when you do. still, you try your best to get on with it, relying instead on your hazy memory of what needs replenishing.
a good thirty minutes later, and with your groceryâfilled tote bags hanging from your shoulders, you trek towards the pharmacy and fall in line. as always, thereâs a long queue, but you eventually reach your turn, promptly buying your necessary meds and hightailing it out of there.
you consider booking a taxi instead of commuting home when you eventually feel the strain of the weight on your shoulders, but decide against it. the temperature is pretty decent anyway, you think to yourself as you walk and relish in the cloudy yet slightly windy weather. you study the buildings that you pass by, partly to distract yourself from how your bags are getting heavier and heavier by the minute, when your eyes land on a particular complex and you stop.
itâs either youâre going crazy, or youâve been passing by the dynamight agency a million times and you never noticed.
you stand there for what feels like an eternity, peering at the floor-to-ceiling glass windows and letting the internal tug-of-war play out inside your head, until you ultimately let the curiosity win. slowly and with caution, you take a few steps towards the entrance. you honest-to-god werenât planning on stepping foot inside the establishment, but apparently, the equally glass doors are automatic.
you falter for a moment, eyes wide as saucers like a deer caught in the headlights as the âgatesâ slide open for you, before making the split-second decision to enter. it was either that or look stupid in front of everyone in the lobby whoâs now staring at you, anyway.
luckily, you donât get to stand thereâawkward as shitâfor a second longer because one of the receptionists hurries over to where youâre positioned.
the lady beams at you. âgood afternoonââ
âhi,â you supply, âi was justââ
ây/n, right?â
crap. âuh, yes.â
her grin widens. âyouâre just in time! bakugou-san just clocked out.â
âoh, i wasnâtââ
ây/n?â
the two of you whip to look at the back of the large room, and sure enough, the owner of the increasingly familiar gruff voice is looking right at you, just as shocked at you being here as you are.
you can only watch himâin all his regularly clothed, duffel bag-carrying gloryâas he briskly walks towards where you are.
a waft of his heady perfume hits you just as he arrives at your side. âwhat are you doing here?â
what the fuck are you supposed to say? âi, uhââ
âshe mustâve come to visit you, sir,â the receptionist pipes up chirpily.
at that, bakugou regards her with a lookâone that says, do you mind? and you guess he must use that a lot around here, because she snaps her mouth closed in an instant, and bows before retreating to her spot behind the counter.
you keep your eyes trained on the woman as she scurries, wishing the ground would swallow you up before youâre forced to look at the pro-hero. but then he says your name again, and your head creaks to face him as if itâs got a mind of its own, its automaticity akin to that of vines winding to get the smallest peek at the sun.
âwell?â he demands, brow raised in waiting.
âi was just going home and noticed your building was on the way,â you answer truthfully, a tad bit embarrassed. you shouldnât have stopped and let your curiosity get the better of you.
he studies you for a second longer before his gaze drops to the things youâre carrying. âyou were walking home? with those?â
âyeahâŠâ you respond, voice small. âdonât worry, theyâre not that heavy,â you lie.
and before he can call you out on your deceit, you throw the question back at him. âhow âbout you?â
the second it tumbles off your lips, you knew it was fucking stupid.
ââŠi work here?â
there it is. in a last-ditch effort to save face, you let out a laugh, although it comes out a bit stilted. he narrows his eyes at you, but if you didnât know any better, youâd think the man was amused.
âlet me drive you home,â he offers out of the blue, you almost choke.
âwhat? no, iâm okay.â
âyour shoulders are about to give out,â he says pointedly. âdonât be fucking stubborn.â
âseriously, iâm alright,â you insist, and he sighs. you turn it right back at him, âdonât you have somewhere to be? youâre actually leaving early for once.â
and strangely enough, he is. from the few weeks of knowing knowing him, youâve learned that the man puts in overtime almost every single day, which has been one of the reasons why your hangouts were always scheduled on the weekends.
ââm visiting my parents,â comes his curt reply.
you beam at him. itâs funny how picturing this hulking brute of a man as his parentsâ son makes you feel warm. âthatâs so nice of you.â
ââs nothing,â he dismisses, before: âtheyâve been asking about you, you know.â
âme?â you repeat lamely. âwhat about me?â
he shrugs. âjust basic information about you, how weâre doing, and all that crapâŠâ
and when you donât say anything, he just goes straight for it. âthey want you to visit.â
you gape at him.
âbut donât be pressured, and shit,â he backtracks. âi know thatâs a tall order.â
huh.
ââŠiâll think about it,â you eventually offer with a nod. and you willâlater. when youâve got your wits about you. but for now, you hastily go through your bags and pick out the thing.
âhere,â you say, just as you thrust the small bouquet of orange tulips toward him. âgive these to your mom. or dad. or both, really.â
his eyes dart between you and the flowers and then back at you again. great, you think to yourself. youâve successfully rendered the man speechless.
âtake it,â you assert after a moment. âtheyâre better off in you guysâ hands, anyway.â
he examines them for another while, before he finally takes them off your hands.
âthanks.â
you only smile at him. to your pleasant surprise, he flashes a small one back.
(9:06 pm) bakugou katsuki: iâd tell you to check the news but i know itâll take you a century. iâm at 6th now.
the drowsiness that was just clouding your brain wards off like smoke thatâs being fanned away. you sit up on your couch, rubbing your eyes with one hand while you type out a response with the other.
(9:07 pm) you: ha. and congrats!!! thatâs great to hear đ„ł
you barely get to adjust your buttâs position when a notification pops in.
(9:07 pm) bakugou katsuki: thanks. and my parents loved it, just so you know. the old hag especially.
you smile. another message.
(9:08 pm) bakugou katsuki: she wants you to come over for dinner this weekend.
your face falls. shit. you didnât see this coming.
(9:09 pm) you: so soon?
your default ringtone resounds across your one-bedroom unit.
(9:09 pm) bakugou katsuki: sheâs in a rush. say no if you donât want to.
you pause, suddenly acutely aware of the guilt thatâs stewing in the pit of your stomach. is deceiving his parents necessary, when all you need is to put on an act for the general public? still, bakugou did say his mother was in a rush. maybe he just got sick of her insistent nagging.
you take a sharp inhale.
(9:12 pm) you: iâm down đ«Ą
and just because thereâs nothing more fun than pulling at his leg:
(9:12 pm) you: âŠgranted iâll get paid for it đ
ping.
(9:13 pm) bakugou katsuki: you and your greedy ass. fine.
âand so thatâs how i got masaru here to say yes to a date!â
you laugh as mitsuki loops an arm around the shoulder of the brunette sitting beside her, who only chuckles to himself, a faint pink sitting high on his cheeks. you chance a glance at bakugou, and sure enough, heâs rolling his eyes at his motherâs finishing line.
âwhat?â he quips defensively when you toss him a pointed look. âiâve heard this story a million times.â
âand youâre gonna hear it again, tsuki,â mitsuki replies unapologetically.
bakugou only groans as you smile at the couple from across the table. âi think that was an excellent story, mitsuki-san.â
âthank you, y/n. but enough about us!â she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, and you feel your stomach drop. âhow âbout you two, huh? whatâs the deal?â
âthe deal is youâre being nosy as fuck,â comes bakugouâs snappy retort.
âcome on, katsuki,â masaru implores, a playful lilt in his tone. âweâd love to hear about how things are going between the two of you.â
âis the press being all up in your ass?â mitsuki demands, âbecause i can tell them to fuck off if you need me to.â
âsure, if you want to fucking embarrass me.â
âyou know what, iâd actually love to do that.â
âfucking hagââ
you worriedly watch the two ash blondes as they go at each otherâs throats, before you look at masaru for help. he only shoots you a meek albeit unalarmed expression, which is enough to tell you this isnât an uncommon occurrence in the bakugou household. thankfully, though, they calm down after a beat, opting to glare daggers at each other instead.
âto answer your question, mitsuki-san,â you take the gamble and interject, and everybody whips to look at you, âtheyâre being quite harmless. you know, minus all the circulating information about my life.â
at that, mitsukiâs joyful countenance morphs into one of sorriness. âiâm afraid thatâs part of having a soulmate with a high profile, dear. it doesnât help that you were being filmed when you both found out.â
âyeah, well, thereâs not much we can do about it,â you offer with a genuine smile.
âis that why youâre just leaning into it?â asks masaru. âhanging out in public and all?â
âuhââ
âobviously,â bakugou cuts you off. you turn to look at him, stunned, before shifting back to face the couple.
âuh, yes,â you continue, âwe figured there wasnât any point in hiding anymore.â
that seems to perk mitsuki up. âhide what, tsuki?â
and when neither of you says anything: âare you trying to tell us something?â
you sneak a glance at bakugou, only to find him already looking at you. you stare at each other for what feels like a minute short of forever, before he breaks eye contact and cooly says the next thing.
says the next thing while simultaneously pulling the rug from under your feet.
âweâre dating,â he declares, and you sit there, witnessing his parentsâ eyes bug out in surprise, hoping yours arenât betraying the very same emotion youâre feeling right now.
âreally?â
âoh my god! since when?â
bakugou huffs, practically exuding annoyance. âyes, and just recently. end of discussion.â
masaru laughs in delight while mitsuki pouts, although you can tell sheâs fighting off a grin.
âand here we thought you were gonna die alone, tsuki,â masaru jokes.
âshitty fuckingââ
âno, but seriously,â interrupts mitsuki, âi was getting nervous, katsuki. what with my diagnosis, i thought iâd never get to see you be happy with someone.â
you pause, looking at the man beside you. âdiagnosis?â
âoh! he didnât tell you?â mitsuki queries, tone laced with worry. âi donât mean to be a party pooper, but i just got diagnosed with stage 2 breast cancer a few months ago.â
shit. âiâm so sorry, mitsuki-sanââ
the woman waves you off, a beautiful smile adorning her familiar features. âdonât be, dear. the doctor says the outlook is good as long as i strictly adhere to treatment.â
despite that, you canât help but frown. âhow are you feeling these days?â
âiâm good!â she supplies cheerfully. âmasaru and i have been spending more quality time together, and katsukiâs been visiting more often. and of course, you being here is an added bonus.â
you toss the woman a grateful look, which she returns generously. mitsuki talks some more about it before shifting the conversation back to less depressing territories, like what bakugou was like growing up and her and masaruâs plans for retirement. eventually, minutes turned into a few hours, and came the time to go home. you profusely thank the couple as you begin to head outside, while bakugou steps out to his porsche to get the engine started.
âiâll be hoping for your speedy recovery, mitsuki-san,â you say as you step out onto their front porch.
âthanks, dear. and iâll be hoping that things go well between you and katsuki, okay?â
you force a smile on your face and the words out of your mouth. âi hope so, too.â
the air is tense between you and bakugou as you step out of his car at your complexâs parking lot, then through the doors at the guarded entrance, and even during the elevator ride up to your floor.
neither of you says a word the entire time, sharing only a few nods and glances with you leading the way. you were fully expecting him to just drive off the second you got out of his pristine vehicle, but he ended up exiting with you and following your trail like a shadow.
thankfully, not many people are still around to see you in the lobby or on your floor, even if itâs still 9-ish on a saturday. you both were all for being spotted together, but maybe being seen at either of your residences will cause more trouble than help. you are about to say this to break the ice when you arrive at the end of the hallway and in front of your unit, but bakugou beats you to it.
âiâm sorry i didnât tell you.â
you freeze, blinking at him. âdidnât tell me what?â
he sighs, and suddenly the lines that you were convinced werenât on his face a second ago are now evidentâalong with the exhaustion thatâs carved right into it. âthat my mom has cancer.â
you frown. âthereâs nothing to apologize for, bakugou. youâre not obligated to tell me.â
âstill,â he insists, seemingly growing more tired by the moment. âit blindsided you, hearing it from her. i shouldâve just told you earlier.â
âmaybe,â you admit, âbut i understand your apprehension.â
he grumbles, but doesnât reply. you decide to just go for it.
âcan i ask you something?â
he looks up from where he was staring at the off-white tiled floor, expectant. âwhat?â
âis she part of the reason?â you begin, treading carefully. âwhy you wanted to put up appearances?â
he stares at you for a beat, perhaps a beat too long because you find yourself slowly regretting bringing up the query in the first place. you are about to backtrack and apologize for asking when, to your surprise, he nods.
ever so slightly that itâs almost imperceptible, but enough of a motion for you to see it.
âi just wanted to seem like iâm putting myself out there,â he mutters, âjust in case something happens.â
you nod, ignoring the way your heart is stinging at his sincerity just now.
âsheâs always been on my ass about finding someone, but then things happened and you showed up, and i figured why not just hit two birds with one stone, or some shit.â
a pause.
âpersonally i wouldnât want to be the stone hitting not just one but two poor birds, but i get it.â
that mustâve caught him off guard, because bakugou snorts. you grin at him when he snickers and calls you stupid under his breath, the atmosphere taking a vastly lighter turn.
now, you didnât notice it beforeâmuch like how you didnât notice his agencyâs building being part of your regular route to the mallâbut bakugou has a dimple. a tiny one. and similar to his nod from a short while ago, itâs a subtle little thing, but itâs thereâespecially now that heâs smiling.
and right next to his dimple are his lips.
which are looking ungodly moisturized compared to your undoubtedly chapped ones.
wait.
your eyes shoot up from his lips to his eyes, a tidal wave of equal parts shame and humiliation ready to crash over your entire, pathetic body. but just as it is about to metaphorically collide with your frame, it freezesâjust as you do.
because you catch himâand no matter how much he might try to deny it, you saw it with your own two eyes.
he was staring at your lips.
but apparently denying it isnât part of his agenda for the night, because he does the exact fucking opposite.
he dives in and presses his lips onto yours.
and you were rightâthey are sinfully soft, even if you havenât seen him apply lip balm in the handful of instances you hung out.
and as far as you can remember, this is the last coherent thought that crosses your mind, because the next few minutes go by like a blur. you vaguely recall him pulling away and looking straight at you, as if waiting for a reaction, before leaning right back in when you pull him closer by his shirt. what you donât remember is who opens the door or how you manage to use your keys without breaking the momentum, but you magically do, just as magically as how fast clothes are shed on the way to your bed.
you recall him eagerly towering over you as your back hit the soft sheets of your mattress, as well as the honest admission of his inexperience yet willingness to learn against your neck. you remember guiding him, telling him how to touch you and the right places to do soâwhere to rub and lick and thrust not just his fingers to drive you over the edge.
and he doesâdrive you over the edge. over and over and over that you lost count. and you equally returned the favor, shocked at your own desperation and unusual determination to make him feel good. you recall his being vocalâwhich you loved, if the incessant wetness between your thighs that lasted the entire night was any indication. you donât remember when you finished for the last timeâwhen you both crashed out from sheer exhaustion.
but it eventually happenedâotherwise, you wouldnât be laying here, naked under the covers, with a sleeping bakugou illuminated by the sunlight peeking through your black-out curtains.
this wasnât part of the plan.
the whole pretending to be amicable soulmates plan, sure. but perhaps more importantly, your short-term plan that consists ofâŠwell, today and tomorrow.
the last thing you need is to actually be tethered to a person this late in the game.
still, and despite the palpable regret that sits heavy on your chestâthe one thatâs very bare at the moment albeit concealed under your freshly-washed blanketâyouâd be lying if you said you didnât want it. besides, you donât have anything else to blame for your behavior last night other than your own free will.
but why do you still feel so empty?
âyou okay?â
ripped out of your stupor, you whip to look to your left, and you donât know who else you were expecting, but your eyes still widen in surprise when you see a naked bakugou, slightly propped up by his two elbows that strain under his hefty weight. unable to sustain his gaze, you keep your line of vision trained on this one vein that runs along the length of his arm as you merely nod in response.
unsurprisingly, he doesnât take that for an answer.
âiâm not asking again,â he warns, and your eyes shoot up to meet his in disbelief.
the words are out before you can rein them in. âare you always this mouthy even in the morning?â
âiâm not a morning person,â he simply spits back, as if thatâs enough of an explanation in itself.
you furrow your brows at him, having half a mind to lock in on this staredown until the fluid in your eyes dries out and you finally, finally die (or go blind, whichever comes first), but then just as quickly as it possessed you with his challenge, the fight within you dies out, leaving your body limp with numbness and fatigue. you break eye contact when it happens, shaking your head in resignation.
you settle with: âitâs nothing,â and blindly hope he leaves it at that.
ââs not nothing if itâs clearly bothering you,â he retorts to your chagrin.
âi donât want to be embarrassingly vulnerable if itâll make you uncomfortable.â
at that, he scoffs. âwe fucked. multiple times last night. it canât get any more vulnerable than that.â
you flush at his brazenness. âyeah, well, thatâs the thing. weâŠyou know,â you lower your voice for the next bit, âhad sex, and now the lines are getting blurry and itâs all confusing.â
and when he doesnât say anything for a moment, you tie your spiel with a mangled bow. âi told you it was gonna be embarrassing for me.â
that seems to rub him off the wrong way, because his nose flares in irritation. âwhyâre you talking like iâm some cold ass fuckboy? i told you, didnât i? thereâs nothing fucking casual about me.â
âi didnât mean it likeââ
âlet me talk first,â he commands, and you shut up.
he sighs when you do, letting his head droop between his shoulders. âi donât regret it, but if you do, then iâm sorry. i shouldnât have made a move.â
you sit up from where you were lying down, the motion causing him to look up and at you as you shake your head, âdonât apologize, bakugou. itâs justâŠâ
you trail off, weighing on what you can and cannot say.
âitâs just what?â he prods.
you let out a long exhale. âitâs just things are a bitâŠcomplicated, to say the least.â
that makes the pro-hero frown, but he doesnât get to push you to expound on it because a booming voice erupts throughout the room, entirely juxtaposing the earlier quiet. you startle, then ease up when you realize itâs all mightâs, and that itâs merely a ringtone. bakugou scrambles out of bed to fetch his phone, and you manage to look away just in time to avoid catching a glimpse of his massive dick.
which, after last night, is really just for courtesy purposes at this point.
thankfully, you donât have to stare at the ceiling for too long because he retrieves it in record time, before hurriedly crawling back and flinging the covers on top of his lower half.
he eyes you as he brings the device up to his ear and speaks into it. âwhat is it, nerd?â
you strain to listen in on the voice at the other end, but you barely manage to pick up on a few words. you resort to observing bakugouâs facial expressions instead.
âcut to the chase,â he spews, and you find yourself feeling bad for the other person. âiâm busy right now.â
you watch as bakugou listens to the ânerdâsâ reply, stiffening when the pro-hero curses under his breath.
âitâs next weekend? whyâd you have to book it this early, then?â
was he planning to meet this person somewhere?
âshit. fine, iâll ask her.â
you donât even get to wonder who her is before bakugou swiftly brings his other hand up to cover the microphone, regarding you straight-up.
âshitty deku and round cheeks want to hang out next weekend,â he explains, slightly hesitant, before: âyou up for that?â
you make a quick survey of bakugouâs face. can you even say no, at this point? technically, you can, but an inkling deep inside you points at your needing a distraction, because otherwiseâŠ
otherwiseâŠ
no, nowâs not the time for that.
instead, you nod, forcing a smile on your lips. âiâll go.â
bakugou stares at you for a beat, gaze borderline scrutinizing it makes you uneasy. but then he nods, and you find yourself taking a sharp breath as he goes back to his phone call.
âweâre in.â
âonce again, serving time will be 15 to 20 minutes, and iâm haruhi, your server for this evening.â
you collectively thank the waitress as she beams at the four of you while serving your glasses of water, before turning around to return to the kitchen.
âthis restaurantâs really hard to get into, you know,â shares midoriya when the girl is out of earshot, catching your attention. âbut i heard their katsudon is really, really good, so i worked hard to get us a reservation.â
âworked hard, my ass,â sneers bakugou without missing a beat. âyou pulled some strings. i recognize the owner, heâs the father of one of your top students.â
âkacchanââ
âdonât tease him, bakugou,â the brunette interjects, an adorable pout etched on her pretty face. âi was with him, he was on the phone for thirty minutes with the receptionist begging for a slot.â
âand you two are begging to be teased,â comes bakugouâs snarky quip. âquit it with the whole defending him, would ya?â
you fail to stop the smile that invades your lips as the new couple blush at bakugouâs remark, an unmistakable tinge of pink flooding both of their cheeks.
âif itâs okay to ask,â you start, tamping down the shyness that looms in when the two across you regard you pleasantly, âhow long have you been dating?â
âuh, about three months, right, izuku?â uraraka replies quietly, the pink from earlier now blossoming into a more apparent red as she looks at the man.
ây-yes, three months,â confirms the greenhead.
from where heâs seated to your left, bakugou snorts. âitâs been a long time coming, if you ask me.â
âyou make it sound so simple, bakugou,â counters uraraka, before shifting to face you. âit really wasnât easy to get to this point, y/n. iâm not sure if bakugouâs told you, but we went through a lot in ua and even after that, which made entertaining anything beyond hero work impossible. plus,â she adds timidly, âthereâs this whole soulmate situation on top of everything.â
curious, you ask. âwhat soulmate situation?â
and, as if theyâve gone through these motions countless times before, both midoriya and uraraka lift up their right wrists and thrust them forward for you to see. you lean forward to get a better view.
you look at midoriyaâs first. his looks just like yours before you met bakugou a little over a month agoâopaque and conveniently set at zero. you then glance at urarakaâs, but to your surprise, hers looks different. a huge number is written on her fleshâŠ
but itâs static and greyed out.
you look up at the woman, confused, and sheâs quick to explain. âmy soulmate died a few years ago.â
she shrugs, âand izukuâsâŠwell, heâs never heard of them.â
ânot that we wouldnât be with each other if they were both around,â clarifies midoriya, who says it so quickly he almost stumbles over his words. âitâs just that because of these circumstances, our relationship is a bitâŠunconventional.â
âi understand,â you promptly reply with the most gracious expression you can muster. uraraka shoots you a grateful look, while midoriya bashfully scratches at his head.
you sense bakugouâs gaze on you through your periphery, but you ignore it.
you wouldnât be able to hold it, anyway.
âitâs romantic, isnât it?â
you round the corner, careful not to brush against bakugou when he does the same to your left. a sigh of relief threatens to wrack over the entirety of your frame when youâre met with the sight of the familiar-looking street, brightly illuminated by an array of streetlights dotting the entire length of it.
âwhat,â he says more than asks, effortlessly keeping up with your pace with his long strides.
you take a fleeting glance at him, before shifting your attention back to the pavement in front of you. âmidoriya and uraraka, and how they chose each other.â
âi guessâŠâ he responds, voice uncharacteristically quiet. âbut iâve always seen it from lightyears away.â
you pause, although youâre quick to step back into your rhythmic walking. âreally?â
âtheyâve always had each otherâs backs even before ua,â he explains. âitâs creepy how similar they are to each other, too. itâd be weird if they didnât end up together.â
he says it so seriously you canât help but laugh. you catch him looking at you, smirking. âyouâve got an interesting way with words, bakugou.â
âsue me.â
you, in fact, donât sue him, but you do unleash a cutting wisecrack in his direction, which he counters with his, and this goes on and on without pause that you donât even notice youâve already arrived at the front of your condominium unit until he points it out.
and as the weighty realization of this dawns on you, so do the memories of what happened when you were last here together. you rush to suppress them, and pick up the conversation from where you left off.
âi donât know about you,â you quip, tossing him a grin, âbut i take comfort in the fact that people can find someone beyond their designated soulmates.â
to your dismay, albeit somewhat unsurprisingly, bakugou doesnât return itâthe grin nor the sentiment, apparentlyâbecause he only stares at you weirdly, like you just said somethingâŠoff.
great, you think to yourself. now youâve ruined it.
might as well ruin it even further at this point, right?
finally, and to your brainâs relief, you let the damned grin fall off your face, let your shoulders sag from the strenuous effort to seem tall and confident for the last few hours, and you heave a heavy, heavy sigh. you sense bakugou stiffen at your palpable change in demeanor, but you pay it no mind.
âlook,â you start, willing yourself to look up to meet his eyes, which you instantly regret because now theyâre laced with obvious concern. still, you press on and gulp. âi didnât want to do this, but i guess i have no choice now, do i?â
âwhat are youââ
âi know things are weird right now, and i just had to go ahead and start catching feelings like a lunatic, but iââ
you trail off, uncertain, before deciding fuck it. âthis canât go on, bakugou.â
the second you let the words out, you can only watch with anticipatory dread as a million emotions dance across his features. you stand there as he opens his mouth, before closing them, and then opening them again, although nothing comes out.
what seems like an eternity passes before he finally gets something out.
ââŠwhy?â
you press your lips into a thin line. âitâs because iâm sick.â
there.
but then he says something that completely throws you off balance.
âi know.â
you feel your eyes widen in surprise as he diverts his gaze. âwhat? how?â
âiââ he starts, reluctant, before: âi noticed.â
instantly, you flame in embarrassment. you thought you had this whole masking thing pinned the fuck down. and all this time you hadnât?
you mustâve looked distraught at his admission, because he swiftly tries to soothe you. âdonât hide,â he says, and only then do you realize youâre shrinking in yourself like you do when you want to disappear. he frowns, âthe last thing you need to be is fucking ashamed.â
at that, and despite yourself, you snort. you donât have the heart to tell him you canât remember the last time you felt shame over your condition from how long itâs just been thereâan unwavering part of your life. still, you force a reply. âthanks.â
and before he can say anything uselessly placating thatâll only chip away at the very little you have left, you beat him to it. âi should head inside.â
âbutââ
âgood night, bakugou.â
and just like that, you spin on your heel, open the door with your keys, and close it shut in his face.
the conversation from earlier wouldnât leave his head.
even as he tosses and turns on top of his king-sized mattress, and even as the clock ticks past the usual, strict bedtime heâs set for himself as early as high school, he finds himself wide awake, his steady heartbeat the only thing thatâs breaking the monotonous quiet of his lonely bedroom.
so much happened in the course of the few minutes in front of your place, that while he prides himself in his acuity and general sharpness, he admits even he couldnât have responded the way he should have despite desperately wanting to.
which fucking reminds him.
he didnât get to say he likes you back.
he was so wrapped up in you implicitly trashing your soulmate connection, as well as you calling it quits that he barely registered your hasty confession. not when you immediately followed it up with an acknowledgment of whatâs been causing you pain.
and as he stares at the dimly lit ceiling of his room, bakugou arrives at a pivotal realizationâhis feelings should be the least of your worries.
but that doesnât mean you didnât deserve to know.
so with a renewed sense of determination, the pro-hero promptly sits up and reaches for the phone thatâs perched idly on his nightstand. 10:07 pm, it reads. you should still be awake by now.
he types out a message.
(10:08 pm) me: you awake? can i call you?
he presses the send button before he can back out of it.
what feels like five minutes pass without a single chime emanating from his phone, at which point he finally allows himself to let the anxiety creep up his neck. he stares at your caller id, debating whether or not youâd get mad if he just went ahead and called you.
eventually, and after five more minutes, bakugou decides heâd rather face your wrath than deal with his own regret.
so he calls you. once, no answer. second attempt, sent straight to voicemail. third, fourth, and fifth, and thatâs when a ghastly chill envelopes him.
it couldnât be.
still, with bated breath and immense dread pooling in his stomach, he slowly lifts his right wrist to check.
only to find that the timer has stopped.
Ëâșâ§â as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated <3 feel free to drop an ask, tooâi'd love to chat with you. have a nice day!
i want to get a master's degree i want to take a cake decorating class i want to dance i want to sing i want to write and remember how to think i want to swim i want to be free
genre: drabble, starts fluffy, hurt/comfort, got a bit angsty towards the end? this one got away from me icl
word count: 2.7k
synopsis: You have a romantic dream about your best friend, Gojo Satoru, that changes how you see him overnight. The next day, you can hardly look him in the eye, and it starts to bring up some bad memories in the man.
warnings: language, i don't think there's anything else? lmk if I missed anything <3
Like this? You can find my smaus here and my drabbles and other fiics here!
Do you have a request? You can find my rules for requesting here!
Some claim Satoru Gojo is insufferable. Conceited. Annoying. At best, an acquired taste. You on the other hand, were always seen as a sweetheart, lovely and likeable to everyone you meet. So a close friendship between the two of you had always been seen as well, odd.
Especially when you factor in your places in the world of Jujutsu. You werenât from a sorcerer family, a solid grade 2 sorcerer. Satoru, however, was well, Satoru Gojo. The strongest sorcerer in the modern age. The special grade heir to the Gojo clan. No one had expected heâd befriend someone with the likes of you.
It had all started on your first day of your first year at Jujutsu Tech. He, being an already experienced, powerful sorcerer swaggered his way into the room, not caring about his three classmates. When he had offhandedly insulted you - for being weak, of all things - you had bitten back with some choice words of your own. An unusual way for a friendship to form, but your ferocity had him curious and you begrudgingly realised you had an eerily similar sense of humour. From then on, the two of you had been thick as thieves, often to those around youâs dismay.
Your closeness to the other sorcerer led to many speculations, as many close friendships do. The two of you were hounded with questions about your (non-existent) romantic feelings for one another, which were always met with grimaces and disgusted guffaws from the two of you. You were best friends, and loved each other to bits, but you werenât in love. That was something entirely different, no matter that the first thing either of you did in the morning was message the other, or that the two of you instinctively sought out the other after a bad day. Or the pit of negative feelings you felt every time someone fawned over the attractive Gojo heir, which you had reasoned away as being irritated his admirers were interrupting your conversations.
You loved Satoru Gojo. You werenât in love with him.
It was your mantra. The two simple sentences flowed around your cortex at all times, doubly so when in your best friendâs company. And even more so when you had dreamed about him.
It wasnât a sexual dream in the slightest. Thatâs what unnerved you the most - the romantic aspects of it all. A wet dream could have been explained away by your recent pent-up energy being released by your subconscious, and the easiest target for the aforementioned frustration being your handsome best friend. But no, the dream wasnât about a quick fuck, two friends screwing for a release and nothing more. It had been so much more intimate.
The two of you were sat in an idyllic field full of wildflowers - you perched in his lap, his long legs framing yours as they splayed out onto the blanket underneath the two of you . His hands had found a spot on your waist, his chin resting on his shoulder as he looked at the array of chocolate dipped fruits that you had packed. The sun, and his affection, heated your face, a smile ever present on it. His expression mirrored your own, smile only disappearing when puckering his lips to place loud, dramatic pecks on your shoulder and face, a loud âmuahâ sounding after every one. You had laughed at his antics, before feeding him a slice of banana and kissing away the chocolate that had somehow been smeared onto his cheek. The whole scene had felt like something from the romance films the two of you cried at together, the warm feelings of being both loved and in love filling your heart.
Your eyes had shot open, you being suddenly awoken by your blaring alarm, and the minute details of the dream had started to fuzz. But the emotions of it lingered, leaving a deeper feeling toward your best friend that you didnât want to think about and a deep disappointment that the scene had been fictitious.
You decided to ignore the dream. You had just been sleep deprived, and your brain was making up whacky scenarios. There was no way you actually liked Satoru, right? You were aware he was attractive, hell, you had eyes. But he was your best friend. And only that. It didnât matter that everyone always predicted that the two of you would end up married one day, the more extreme conversations claiming that the two of you would make beautiful children.
However, when you strolled into the Staff Room of Jujutsu Tech, being greeted by the wide smirk of the man plaguing your dreams had your cheeks heating in a way they never had before. He bounded up to you, standing right next to you, your shoulders rubbing together- did he always stand this close to you? He held out a cup of coffee towards you, having bought one for you on his own way into work. You took it, thanking him and took a sip - it was sweet, way too sweet for your liking.
âEr, I think you got these mixed up, Toru. This tastes like yours.â
âOops, my bad, here.â He swapped the cups, taking a long drink out of the one you had just sipped from. You stared at his lips meeting the lid of the drink - an indirect kiss. You shook the thought out of your head, taking a sip of your own beverage, which was much more to your liking. An indirect kiss? What were you, 12? The two of you didnât share drinks often, sure, but that was only because of Satoruâs extreme sweet tooth. Why were you freaking out over this?
âYou good?â Gojoâs voice pulled you from your thought spiral, a finger prodding your cheek.
âYouâre so annoying.â You scoffed, batting his hand away, trying to ignore the slight fluster you felt.
âYeah, but you love me for it.â Your friend grinned back at you, causing your heart to stop momentarily.
âShut up. Donât you have a class to teach or something? Go annoy your students.â You grumbled.
âWhat? But you just love it when I annoy you.â His prodding resumed, this time on your shoulder.
âSatoru.â
âOh, sorry, I meant that I just love annoying you. The world does revolve around me, after all.â He quickened his pace, leaving you to feel like the parent of a needy toddler. You glared at him, taking another swig of your drink to give yourself something to do as to not focus on the fact that you could feel his breath on your skin. It reminded of your subconscious picnic, the way his breath tickled your cheek as he leaned in to kiss it.
âIâm going to do my job. You should too.â Your voice was sterner than you intended it, and you brushed away from the tall man. You left the staffroom, heading towards your classroom, not even offering a goodbye as you left. What you didnât see in your storm of confusing emotion was the disappointment Satoruâs face was riddled with at your actions, his shoulders slumping and a frown forming. Were you mad at him for something? He couldnât think of anything he had recently done to warrant that reaction. Well, whatever it was, he decided, he had to put it right.
His first attempt was at lunch time. After a hectic morning of various classes, you were excited to tuck into the bento box you had packed for yourself the night earlier. But, when you opened the fridge to retrieve it, it was gone. Instead, there was a note in Satoruâs signature chicken scratch handwriting.
I have your precious lunch hostage. Come to my classroom.
You were not in the mood for his antics right now. Your morning had been busy, but you had been unable to focus the entire time - up in your classroom, you had had the perfect view of Satoru and his students on the field outside. It was distracting, an omnipresent reminder of the unsettling dream that was having much more of an effect on you than you wanted. He was your best friend, for fuckâs sake - and had reacted to any confusion over the two of you dating with as much contempt as you had previously displayed.
Still, you trudged to Satoru's classroom , mentally preparing for what he could be up to. You peeked in through the window in the door to the room, trying to gage what he could possibly be up to. He had his back to the door, and he was bending down, setting up what looked like a - oh, fuck no. The few desks that normally sat in the middle of the room had been pushed to the side, and a large blanket had been put in the middle, two lunches sitting atop it. A fucking indoor picnic? What sick joke was the universe playing on you? As the realisation hit, you ran off, deciding to leave your packed lunch behind and forfeit it for a much lesser one out of a vending machine. No lunch was worth the emotional mess that Satoruâs little plan would bring, you decided.
To say Gojo was confused when he saw you take off after seeing his picnic (the six eyes sure were helpful sometimes) would be an understatement. The two of you always had lunch together, and it wasnât as if he hadnât taken your lunch hostage to make you go along with his sometimes stupid ideas. He had to admit, it stung a little. To put it plainly, Satoru Gojo had been in love with you since you yelled at him on the very first day you met. For you to not go along with what he said just because he was âthe strongestâ, to meet someone that wasnât an ass-kissing sycophant was so refreshing that he found himself falling deep into a pit he didnât think he ever wanted to escape from. Just being near you was enchanting: the way your eyes would light up when you smiled; the laugh you hated but he loved because it was so genuine; the way you improved his day just by looking at him. Satoru Gojo was sickeningly obsessed with you, often to the detriment of those around him - not that you were aware of it.
That obsession was why the idea of you being upset with him had him simply distraught. You were Satoru Gojoâs sole weakness, and you had no fucking clue. He just had to have you in his life - sure, the most ideal outcome would be you by his side as his partner, his lover, his one and only, but he would have you in any way he possibly could. If being your best friend, and nothing more, meant still being by your side in 10, 20, 30, 50 years down the line, then heâd keep himself in check and admire you from afar. But you were mad at him. That was the only logical explanation that he could come up with. Thatâs why you were colder than normal earlier. Snappier than usual. Yet what had he done? What mistake could he have possibly made to make you pull away from him, even by a millimetre? It wasnât because you were finally tired of him, right? You hadnât finally succumbed to the opinions of so many around you, had you? Finally gotten fed up of his antics, didnât want to be around him any more? He couldnât handle that. He could kill some of the strongest of curses as easily as he breathed. He could handle being the crutch that the entire of Jujutsu society relied on to stay upright. But being without you? Heâd been left by a best friend before - he wasnât going to let it happen again without a fight.
You hadnât seen Gojo for the rest of the day. Not whilst teaching, not whilst lesson planning in the staffroom after the dayâs classes. There hadnât been a hint of white hair anywhere. You should have been relieved, but his absence only seemed to worsen things. There was no escape from your paranoia, half-expecting him to jump out a every turn or from every dark corner - you could picture his crooked smirk as a sudden appearance of his made you jump out of your skin. Alas, the scare never came, and as the day went on, you found your paranoia turning into something much more akin to⊠longing? As the hours flew by, you found yourself wishing that heâd sneak up on you, scare you senseless, just so you could hear that roaring laugh that always followed his antics. You missed him, in a way you never had before. Jesus Christ, itâs been five hours. Get a hold of yourself. No mater how much you internally scolded yourself though, a longing was making your heart ache. You wanted to see him, desperately. Embarrassment be damned.
You neednât hold on to that thought for long though, because as you reached you flat, opening up your front door, a set of piercing blue eyes were shining in the dark.
âSatoru? What the hell are you doing sat in my living room, in the dark?â You flicked on the light switch, closing the door behind you and kicking your shoes off. Gojoâs eyes didnât leave the wall they were staring at, his posture rigid on your couch. He mumbled something quietly.
âI donât have a six ears technique, Toru. Youâre gonna have to speak up.â You made your way towards him, positioning yourself on the sofa next to him. Your heart sank in your chest as he shuffled away from you.
âYouâve avoided me all day.â You managed to make sense of his mumbling this time, âare you⊠done, with me?â
Your eyes widened at his words, your head shaking furiously. âWhat? No, absolutely not! What gave you that idea?â
âYou ran away, at lunch earlier. I saw you.â His eyes finally met yours. It had your face heating as the entire reason why youâd been avoiding hit you like a ton of bricks. But you couldâve sworn there were tears lining your friendâs lower lashes.
âNo, IâŠâ You sighed, deeply, âitâs, er, complicated.â
âDonât- just donât leave me. Please. I know Iâm annoying, but I can tone it down, I can change- just please, donât leave me.â
You tucked your legs under yourself, propping up into a kneeling position. Tremors wracked your hands as you reached out, cupping Satoruâs face in them.
âDonât you dare. Donât you ever, ever âtone yourself downâ because someone called you annoying.â Your voice was as shaky as your hands.
Tears started falling down the manâs face, his eyes not daring to look away from yours. âI canât lose you, though. Ever. I love you too much for that.â Your small gasp filled the deafening silence of the room at his words. His face dropped, and he pulled away from you, out of your hold. Panic filled his features.
âShit, sorry, Iâll go, donât hate me, please, Iâm so, so sorry-â He stood up, turning to leave, but you grabbed his arm before he could go anywhere, still kneeling on the couch.
âYou love me?â It was barely above a whisper.
âHave for a long time, sweets.â Sadness plagued his words.
âI- I think Iâm in love with you too.â The two of you were so still, it was almost as if you weâre posing for a painting. You, on the sofa, reaching out to him. Him being pulled back by you, tear stains and a small smile decorating your faces. A Sorrowful Confession, the artist would call it.
âYou think?â
âI- itâs complicated. But I canât see you as just my best friend anymore, Toru.â He closed the distance between the two of you, his hands finding your waist. Your own found a place on his chest, your faces so close your breaths were mingling.
âCan I kiss you?â He muttered.
âPlease.â You nodded, and his lips found yours in an instant. It was slow, passionate, full of everything the two of you couldnât find it in yourselves to talk about. You begrudgingly pulled away, but pressed your forehead against his.
I wanted to address a lot of posts I am seeing within tags, which I am sorry I will be using the same tags to say this because I think itâs important you guys read this. Thereâs this influx of people complaining about the lack of fluff and angst and how it seems certain fandoms are dominated by smut. Recently, thereâs been a significant wave of complaints regarding the perceived scarcity of fluff and angst in our fandoms and the dominance of smut-oriented content. I understand where youâre coming fromâI truly do. Personally, I donât enjoy reading smut as much, even though I write it quite often. My preference leans toward fluff, and I empathize with the frustration many feel when searching through tags. Like trust me I get it. However, I am a writer too and I think you guys need to understand something and maybe this will help create more of a balance.
The BIGGEST factor in the fluff vs smut content is the way engagement - aka likes, reblogs, and comments, affect a writers' motivations. In the age of social media, content that garners attention often dictates what creators choose to produce. Many writers have observed that smut content tends to receive more likes and reblogs compared to fluff or angst. This disparity creates an environment where the desire for validation and visibility leads to an increase in smut writing. People can sit there all day long and say âwrite for you.â etc etc. But at the end of the day the reason we share the content, is to garner engagement.
It's really important to recognize that if the community wishes to see more diverse content, including fluff and angst, there's a collective responsibility of the readers to engage with those works. Itâs super easy to write a few lines of smut and get 5k notes. But fluff and angst more often than not take real time and creativity. So, if fans desire a broader range of stories, itâs crucial to support those who take the time to produce them. This means liking, reblogging, and actively promoting stories in these genres.
The relationship between the types of content produced and audience reception perpetuates a cycle: if writers see that smut gets more interaction, they are incentivized to write more of it, leading to a greater abundance of adult content. So that said, if the community starts to uplift and appreciate fluff and angst stories, writers may feel encouraged to explore these genres more freely, creating an environment of diversity within fan fiction.
TLDR: If fans want to see more fluff and angst, they can influence the community by actively supporting those works and giving writers incentive to want to produce these works.
âą â đŹđźđŠđŠđđ«đČ | after that fateful night, you begin to see rafe cameron differently - and it seems like he feels the same.
âą â đ°đđ«đ§đąđ§đ đŹ | ooc!rafe, teasing, descriptions of bullying (?), sweet rafe, a lot of word vomit, um... idk what else? it's pretty sweet and wholesome
The thing about Rafe Cameron is that he doesnât linger.
Not in the way you might expect. He has a reputation for showing up, making noise, and leaving behind chaos in his wake. Rafe doesnât hover, doesnât check back, doesnât get involved. But ever since that nightâsince the low rumble of his voice pulled you from the edge of panic and his steady presence walked you safely out of dangerâit feels like heâs everywhere.
You tell yourself itâs nothing. A coincidence. But the truth is, youâve caught him watching you more than once. At Sarahâs party last weekend, his eyes found you across the bonfire, the flickering light sharpening his sharp features and softening his smirk. At The Wreck, when you stopped by for takeout, he was there at the bar, casually nursing a drink, his gaze flicking to you the moment you walked in.
And now, standing in the backyard of the Cameron estate during Sarahâs infamous summer party, you can feel the weight of his presence even though you havenât seen him yet tonight.
Itâs like heâs threaded into the atmosphere now, an undercurrent you canât ignore.
Youâre holding a drink in one hand, the other resting on the edge of the pool as Wheezie chatters beside you about some drama from school. Sarah is off somewhere playing hostess, and the crowd is a mix of Kooks, tourists, and a handful of Pogues Sarah deemed âcool enoughâ to make the cut.
The air is warm and heavy with the scent of salt and chlorine, and youâre doing your best to pretend youâre not scanning the crowd for him.
You tell yourself youâre not hoping to see him.
But then, you do.
Rafe steps out onto the patio, a drink in hand, his posture relaxed but commanding as he surveys the party. He looks effortlessly at home hereâlike the house, the lights, the music all belong to him in some unspoken way.
When his eyes find you, itâs immediate, like he knew exactly where to look.
Your pulse quickens, and you glance away, trying to focus on Wheezieâs story. But even as she rambles on, you can feel Rafeâs gaze burning into you. Itâs a mix of heat and challenge, daring you to acknowledge him.
And when you finally give in and glance back, heâs smirking.
He doesnât approach right away. He never does. Instead, he takes his time, drifting through the crowd like heâs in no rush, talking to people here and there, all while his attention keeps circling back to you.
Itâs maddening.
You take a sip of your drink, willing the flush in your cheeks to disappear, and try to focus on Wheezieâs latest complaint about her friends. But then Rafeâs voice cuts through the noise, low and unmistakable.
âHaving fun?â
You look up to find him standing beside you, one hand casually tucked into his pocket, the other holding his drink. Heâs close enough that the faint scent of his cologne reaches youâsomething warm and sharp and entirely too intoxicating.
âTrying to,â you reply, your voice steadier than you expected.
His smirk deepens, and his eyes flick to Wheezie, whoâs already grinning at him. âDonât let her bore you to death,â he says, nodding toward his sister.
âHey!â Wheezie protests, shoving him lightly.
Rafe chuckles, the sound low and easy, but his attention is back on you in an instant. âCome find me later,â he says, his voice just loud enough for you to hear over the music.
And then heâs gone, disappearing back into the crowd, leaving you standing there with a racing heart and Wheezieâs teasing grin.
âAre you blushing?â Wheezie asks, her tone all too knowing.
âAbsolutely not,â you say quickly, turning back to your drink.
But you are. And the worst part? You know Rafe knows it too.
There was a time when the idea of Rafe Cameron being anything but insufferable would have been laughable.
You remember those long, sticky summer evenings spent at the Cameron house, sitting at the kitchen island with Wheezie while her parents were out at one fundraiser or another. Babysitting wasnât exactly glamorous, but it was better than working at the marina, and Wheezie was sweet enough to make it bearable.
Rafe, on the other hand, was a different story.
He had this knack for showing up just when you thought youâd have a quiet night. Youâd be helping Wheezie with her math homework or making her one of those ridiculously specific sandwiches she liked, and thenâbam. There he was, leaning against the doorway with that signature smirk plastered across his face.
âYouâre doing it wrong,â heâd say, nodding at whatever you were doing, even if it was as simple as slicing bread.
âDoing what wrong?â youâd snap back, barely sparing him a glance.
âExisting,â heâd tease, stealing a chip off your plate and popping it into his mouth like he owned the place.
It was endless. Heâd make fun of your clothes, your car, your playlist. Anything and everything was fair game, and he never missed an opportunity to remind you that you didnât belong in their world. You were a Pogue, after all, even if your dadâs business had climbed its way into something respectable.
But there was one nightâone momentâthat always stood out, no matter how much you hated to admit it.
You were sitting at the island again, Wheezie at your side, her little hands clutching a glass of milk while you tried to get her to eat a handful of carrots. Rafe was there too, slouched in one of the barstools with his phone in hand, half-listening to whatever you were saying just to mock it later.
Everything was normalâuntil Wheezie came stumbling into the room, tears streaming down her face.
âWhat happened?â you asked immediately, rushing over to her.
âTheyâthey were making fun of me,â she hiccuped, her words barely audible through her sobs.
âWho?â you pressed gently, crouching down to her level.
âThose boysâŠfrom down the street,â she managed, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her sweatshirt. âThey said I was weird and that no one likes me.â
Your heart clenched, and you reached out to pull her into a hug, murmuring something soothing about how those boys didnât know what they were talking about. But before you could say much else, Rafe stood up.
It wasnât dramatic or loud. He didnât say a word. He just⊠stood.
And then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him as you sat there, stunned.
âWhatâwhereâs he going?â you asked, looking down at Wheezie, who just shrugged.
Fifteen minutes later, Rafe came back. His knuckles were scraped, his nose was bleeding, and there was a bruise already forming on his cheekbone.
You stared at him, wide-eyed. âWhat the hell happened to you?â
He grabbed a dishtowel off the counter, pressing it to his face as he shrugged. âItâs taken care of.â
âRafeâŠâ you started, but he just waved you off, heading for the stairs like nothing had happened.
Looking back on it now, itâs almost funny how you didnât see it then. He didnât make a show of it or stick around for the praise. He just⊠handled it. The same way he handled everything, quietly and with a bluntness that often left more questions than answers.
Rafe Cameron wasnât always like this.
You can still remember the version of him from when you were younger: loud, impulsive, and seemingly incapable of taking anything seriously. He was the type of kid who would shoot spitballs in class just to watch people squirm, who cared more about his next thrill than the consequences that followed. There was a recklessness about him then, a streak of carelessness that made you write him off without hesitation.
But now, standing on the edge of Sarahâs party and watching him weave effortlessly through the crowd, you canât help but notice how much has changed.
His hair, once a shaggy mess of blonde that fell into his eyes, is buzzed now, the sharp cut emphasizing the strong line of his jaw and the defined shape of his cheekbones. Heâs leaner, but more solid too, his movements deliberate instead of erratic. Even the way he holds himself is differentâconfident but restrained, like he no longer feels the need to demand attention because he knows itâs already his.
Itâs not just his appearance, though thatâs hard to ignore. Itâs the way he seems more grounded, more present. Youâve heard whispers about him stepping up to help his dad with the family business, even if people still question his motives. Youâve seen him around town, not in his usual haunts, but at the construction sites or walking out of Gradyâs hardware store with blueprints under his arm.
Heâs working. Actually working. And itâs not just for show.
The realization hit you that night, downtown, when he pulled you out of a situation that couldâve gone sideways fast. The way he handled itâcalm, capable, and protectiveâwas so at odds with the Rafe you thought you knew that it left you reeling. Youâd always thought of him as a spoiled rich kid, someone who relied on his family name to coast through life without lifting a finger. But in that moment, when his steady presence shielded you from danger, you saw someone entirely different.
And now you canât unsee it.
Itâs driving you insane, honestly. Because no matter how mature heâs become, no matter how different he seems now, heâs still Rafe freaking Cameron. The boy who used to mock you for your Pogue roots, who once threw a party so wild that Wheezie had to call you to help clean up the next morning. The boy who, for years, seemed to exist solely to prove that Kooks always win.
And yet, here you are, catching yourself looking for him at every party, every gathering, even when you donât want to admit it.
You hate it. Hate how your pulse races whenever his sharp blue eyes meet yours, how your mind replays the way his voice softened when he asked if you were okay that night. Hate how, even now, as you stand with Wheezie by the pool, your thoughts are consumed by the memory of him leaning closer in the kitchen just a few nights ago, his tone teasing but his eyes saying something else entirely.
It doesnât help that Rafe seems to sense it. The shift in the air between you, the way youâve started noticing him in ways you never did before. And the worst part? He seems to enjoy it.
Heâs not obvious about it, not in the way he used to be when he was younger. No, this Rafe is far more subtle. He doesnât shout or flaunt or draw attention to himself. Instead, he waits. Watches. Pushes just enough to leave you questioning everything but never enough to let you get comfortable.
Itâs infuriating.
You take a long sip of your drink, hoping the buzz will drown out your spiraling thoughts. But even as you try to focus on Wheezieâs chatter and the hum of the party around you, your eyes keep drifting back toward him.
The worst part is, he doesnât even have to try.
Itâs like heâs rewritten the rules of who he is, and now youâre stuck trying to figure out where you fit in the story.
You shake the memory from your mind, blinking back into the present as the Cameron estate buzzes around you. The party has shifted into full swing nowâmusic booming from portable speakers, a few brave souls splashing in the pool, and clusters of people laughing and drinking under the string lights that crisscross the patio. Wheezieâs long gone, swallowed up by her friends, and Sarah is playing hostess somewhere, leaving you alone with your thoughts.
Or rather, alone with the memory of Rafe, the boy who used to tease you mercilessly but once left the house with a determined glare and came back bloody for his sisterâs sake.
The worst part? That moment, that side of him, wasnât as much of an anomaly as youâd tried to convince yourself. Sure, he was arrogant and annoying and drove you up the wall, but when it came to the people he cared about, Rafe was all-in. He didnât hesitate. He didnât back down. And now, years later, you canât stop replaying the way he showed up for you downtown, the same intensity in his eyes, the same protective edge to his voice.
Itâs maddening, really.
You hate that youâre noticing these things about him. The sharp line of his jaw, the way his shirt fits just snug enough to hint at the strength beneath, the way he moves through the crowd like he knows exactly how to command attention without asking for it.
You catch sight of him again, standing near the bar and laughing at something one of his friends says. The golden glow of the string lights above him catches on the sharp cut of his jaw, the subtle curve of his smirk. Heâs relaxed, leaning casually against the counter, completely at ease in his element.
You should look away. You should focus on something else, anyone else. But your gaze lingers, drawn to the effortless way he commands the space around him. Itâs maddening.
And then, as if sensing your attention, Rafeâs eyes flick up and find yours across the yard.
The breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, youâre frozen, caught in the intensity of his gaze. He doesnât smirk this time, doesnât do anything but hold your stare, his expression unreadable. It feels like an eternity before he finally moves, pushing off the bar and heading in your direction with that same unhurried confidence that drives you crazy.
You glance around, your nerves buzzing. Part of you wants to walk away, to avoid whatever game heâs playing. But your feet stay rooted in place, and before you know it, Rafe is standing in front of you, close enough that you can catch the faint scent of his cologneâsomething warm and woodsy that makes your pulse race.
âLooking for someone?â
Speak of the devil.
You turn, already knowing what youâll find, and there he isâRafe Cameron, standing just a few feet away, hands tucked casually into his pockets. His smirk is firmly in place, but his eyes carry that same quiet intensity youâve come to associate with him, the kind that makes your stomach flip in a way youâre not proud of.
âNo,â you say quickly, too quickly, and his smirk deepens.
âSure about that?â he asks, stepping closer.
You resist the urge to step back, holding your ground even as your pulse quickens. âPositive. Just enjoying the party.â
âRight,â he drawls, his voice low and amused. âBecause you look like youâre having so much fun standing over here by yourself.â
You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes at him. âWhat do you want, Rafe?â
He doesnât answer right away, just tilts his head slightly, studying you in that way that always feels too knowing. âYou,â he says finally, his tone soft but laced with something that sends a shiver down your spine, âare way too easy to mess with.â
You roll your eyes, ignoring the heat rising in your cheeks. âGlad to know Iâm such a source of entertainment for you.â
âOh, you have no idea,â he replies, his grin widening.
Heâs teasing, you know he is, but thereâs something else beneath his words tonight, something that feels more real than the surface-level banter youâre used to.
âSeriously,â you say, trying to shift the conversation before your heart gives itself away. âDonât you have a crowd to charm or something?â
âMaybe Iâm right where I want to be,â he says, leaning just slightly into your space. His voice drops a fraction, soft enough that it feels like itâs meant just for you. âEver think of that?â
Your breath catches, and for a moment, you canât think of a single thing to say. Heâs too close, his presence overwhelming, and all you can do is stare at him, your mind spinning with thoughts you shouldnât be having.
You huff, turning to look out at the pool instead of his stupidly smug face. âWhat do you want, Rafe?â
Heâs quiet for a moment, and you glance back at him, surprised to find his expression softer than you expected. âYou looked like you needed saving,â he says lightly, nodding toward the now-empty lounge chair where youâd been sitting.
You roll your eyes. âIâm perfectly fine.â
âAre you?â He leans a little closer, just enough to make your heart skip. âBecause you seem a little... tense.â
Your breath catches, and you hate the way your body reacts to himâlike itâs tuned to his every word, every movement. âIâm not tense,â you manage, though your voice betrays you with its slight waver.
He grins, and itâs infuriatingly charming. âIf you say so.â
The silence stretches between you, charged and crackling with something you canât quite name. You expect him to keep teasing, to push just far enough to leave you flustered before walking away like he always does. But instead, his gaze softens, and for a moment, he just looks at youâreally looks at you, like heâs trying to figure you out.
âYouâre not like the rest of them,â he says finally, his voice quieter now.
The words catch you off guard, and your brows knit together in confusion. âWhat do you mean?â
âYou know what I mean,â he says simply.
And maybe you do. Maybe thatâs why your chest tightens at the sincerity in his tone, the way heâs looking at you like heâs seeing something even you donât fully understand.
Before you can respond, one of his friends calls his name from across the yard, breaking the moment like a snapped string.
Rafe sighs, glancing over his shoulder before turning back to you. âGuess Iâm needed elsewhere,â he says, his usual smirk returning as he steps back.
âShocking,â you mutter, trying to ignore the weird ache in your chest as he starts to walk away.
But then he pauses, turning back to you with a grin thatâs equal parts mischievous and genuine. âYou ever need saving again, you know where to find me.â
And just like that, heâs gone, leaving you standing there, flushed and frustrated and entirely too aware of the fact that Rafe Cameron is under your skin.
The rest of the night passes in a haze of chatter and laughter, but you barely hear any of it. Your mind keeps circling back to Rafe, to the way he looked at you, the way his words lingered in the air like a challenge and a promise all at once. Itâs maddening.
By the time the party winds down, youâre exhaustedânot from the noise or the crowd, but from the mental gymnastics of trying to convince yourself that Rafe Cameron doesnât affect you. Itâs a losing battle, and you know it.
Wheezie insists on walking you to your car, her arm looped through yours as she chatters about some drama with her friends. You do your best to focus, nodding at all the right moments, but your thoughts are elsewhere.
When you finally get into your car and start the drive home, the silence feels heavier than usual. The streets are dark, the glow of the headlights bouncing off the familiar bends in the road. You roll down the window, hoping the cool night air will clear your head, but it doesnât. If anything, it makes the memory of Rafeâs gaze feel even sharper, like a ghost you canât shake.
You pull into your driveway and sit there for a moment, the engine ticking softly as it cools. Normally, youâd go straight inside and crash, but tonight, you linger, your fingers drumming against the steering wheel. The night feels unfinished, like thereâs something left unresolved.
You shake the thought away, grabbing your bag and heading inside. The house is quiet, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the creak of the floorboards under your feet. You kick off your shoes, toss your bag onto the counter, and start the familiar routine of winding down.
But even as you wash your face and crawl into bed, you canât stop thinking about him.
The next few days pass without incident, but the memory of Rafe sticks with you, weaving itself into the mundane moments of your routine. You see flashes of him in the strangest placesâin the sharp line of a customerâs jaw at the boutique, in the golden sunlight filtering through the trees on your drive to work, in the steady confidence of someone walking down the street.
Itâs ridiculous.
Itâs Rafe.
And yet, no matter how hard you try to push it away, the memory of that night lingers. The way he stepped in without hesitation, the quiet assurance in his voice, the way he didnât make a big deal of it afterward. Itâs all so at odds with the version of him youâd built in your head, and itâs throwing you off balance in a way you canât quite explain.
The next time you see him, itâs at the Cameron house again. Wheezie had texted you, begging you to come over for dinner, and youâd caved, mostly because you missed her and partly because you were curious.
You tell yourself itâs not about him.
But when you walk through the front door and spot Rafe leaning against the kitchen counter, his head tilted back in laughter, your pulse stutters.
âHey!â Wheezie greets you, bounding over to give you a hug.
You hug her back, trying to focus on her and not the sharp blue eyes that flick over to you from across the room.
âDinnerâs almost ready,â Wheezie says, pulling you toward the dining room. âCome on!â
You follow her, keeping your head down, but you can feel Rafeâs gaze on you as you pass.
The meal is lively, filled with chatter and the occasional bickering between Sarah and Wheezie. Rafe is mostly quiet, chiming in here and there but keeping his attention on his plate. You try to ignore him, but every time he moves, every time his fork scrapes against his plate or his voice cuts through the conversation, your stomach twists.
After dinner, Wheezie and Sarah disappear upstairs, leaving you alone in the kitchen as you help clear the table. Youâre stacking plates by the sink when you hear footsteps behind you.
âYou always this helpful?â
The voice sends a shiver down your spine, and you donât need to turn around to know who it is.
You glance over your shoulder, finding Rafe leaning against the counter, his arms crossed and that familiar smirk tugging at his lips.
âJust trying to earn my keep,â you say lightly, turning back to the sink.
He chuckles, the sound low and warm. âYou donât have to do that here, you know. Youâre practically family.â
The comment catches you off guard, and you pause for a moment before setting the plates down. âDidnât realize you thought of me that way.â
âWhy wouldnât I?â he says, his voice closer now.
You glance back again, finding him only a few steps away. His expression is softer than you expected, his smirk replaced by something more thoughtful.
âI donât know,â you say, shrugging. âGuess I figured youâd still see me as the annoying Pogue babysitter.â
Rafeâs lips twitch, like heâs holding back a grin. âYou were annoying,â he says, his tone teasing. âBut youâre not a babysitter anymore.â
The air between you shifts, the playful edge to his words giving way to something heavier. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, your nerves buzzing like live wires.
âI shouldââ you start, but your words falter as Rafe takes another step closer, his gaze locked on yours.
âYou should what?â he asks, his voice low.
You donât have an answer. Or maybe you do, but itâs lost somewhere in the haze of his closeness, the way his presence seems to fill the room.
For a moment, neither of you moves, the tension crackling like a live wire. And then, just as quickly as it started, Rafe steps back, his smirk returning as he grabs a glass from the counter.
âDonât stay up too late,â he says, his tone light but his eyes lingering on you for just a second longer than necessary.
And then heâs gone, leaving you alone with your racing heart and the overwhelming realization that youâre in deep trouble.
That night, lying in bed, you stare up at the ceiling, your thoughts running wild. The familiar shadows stretch across your walls, the faint hum of the ceiling fan filling the quiet room. Normally, this is when your mind would wind down, drifting into blissful silence. But tonight, thereâs no such luck.
Rafe Cameron is an enigma that refuses to leave your head.
You keep replaying the evening in your mindâhis teasing smirk, the way he stepped closer like it was the most natural thing in the world, the way he looked at you with something you couldnât name. Itâs maddening.
And then, unbidden, another memory surfaces. One you havenât thought about in years but suddenly feels impossible to ignore.
You were sixteen, still babysitting Wheezie regularly, and youâd just gotten a new pair of shoes. Nothing extravagant, just a pair of sneakers youâd saved up for with months of odd jobs. You were excited about them, maybe a little too excited, and you made the mistake of mentioning it when Rafe wandered into the kitchen where you were helping Wheezie with her art project.
âNice kicks,â he said, his tone dripping with mockery as he leaned against the counter. âDid they give those away for free at the thrift store?â
You glared at him, bristling. âI bought them, actually.â
âWith what? Spare change you found under the couch cushions?â he shot back, smirking as he reached over to steal a cookie from the tray youâd set out for Wheezie.
âLeave her alone, Rafe,â Wheezie piped up, frowning at her brother.
But Rafe didnât listen. He kept going, poking fun at everything from the color of the shoes to the brand, all with that infuriating grin plastered on his face.
At the time, youâd been furious. Youâd wanted to snap back, to tell him off, but you didnât. Instead, youâd rolled your eyes, muttered something about how he didnât know anything about fashion, and went back to helping Wheezie.
Now, though, lying in bed, the memory feelsâŠdifferent.
You remember the way his eyes lingered on your shoes, the way his teasing felt more pointed than usual, like he was testing you. You remember how, when you finally left the house that night, you caught him watching you from the window, his expression unreadable.
And then there was Ward.
Ward, who always seemed to have some sly remark about how much time you spent at the house, about how Rafe âjust couldnât leave you alone.â
Youâd dismissed it at the time, laughed it off as some weird dad joke that didnât land. The idea of Rafe Cameronâspoiled, obnoxious, impossible Rafeâhaving a crush on you was absurd.
But now?
Now, as you lie there, replaying every interaction in excruciating detail, the idea doesnât feel so absurd anymore.
The way he teased you relentlessly, always finding a reason to be around when you were at the house. The way heâd watch you when he thought you werenât paying attention. The way his smirk would falter sometimes, just for a second, like he was debating whether to say something more.
It all takes on a new light, and the realization sends a shiver down your spine.
Rafe Cameron had been in your orbit for years, a constant, infuriating presence that youâd never thought to question. But now, as the pieces start to fall into place, you canât help but wonder if youâd been blind to something that was always there.
And maybeâjust maybeâyou were starting to see it now.
The realization lingers with you, threading itself into your days like an invisible tether you canât shake. Every time you think youâve managed to push Rafe Cameron out of your head, something brings him back. A passing thought, a fleeting memory, the sound of a voice thatâs too close to his. Itâs driving you mad.
It doesnât help that the Cameron house has become a second home again. Sarah and Wheezie keep pulling you into their plans, which always seem to conveniently land you back at the sprawling estate. And Rafe? Heâs there more than ever nowâclean-cut, focused, and still as infuriating as ever.
You keep telling yourself itâs nothing. That whatever strange shift youâre feeling is in your head. But the tension between you is undeniable, crackling in the air every time youâre in the same room.
The Cameron living room was alive with laughter, the sounds of dice clattering against the wooden coffee table and Wheezieâs triumphant cheer filling the air. Game night had started with its usual chaos, everyone fighting over who got to pick the first game, but now the competition was in full swing.
âWhat are the odds,â you muttered under your breath, eyeing the tiny slip of paper in your hand with a mixture of resignation and disbelief.
Sarah leaned over your shoulder, peering at the name written there, and burst out laughing. âOh, this is too good.â
You shot her a look, crumpling the paper in your fist. âWhatâs so funny?â
âJust⊠you and Rafe? On the same team? Itâs poetic, really.â She wiggled her eyebrows before ducking out of reach as you swatted at her.
Rafe, of course, was leaning back against the kitchen counter like he didnât have a care in the world, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers. His eyes slid to yours as if heâd been waiting for this moment, his smirk just wide enough to make you want to throw something at him.
âGuess weâre stuck together, huh?â he said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy.
You forced a tight-lipped smile. âLooks like it.â
It wasnât that you disliked Rafeânot anymore, at least. But being paired with him for family game night meant opening yourself up to endless teasing and that annoyingly competitive streak heâd never quite grown out of.
âDonât worry,â he added, pushing off the counter and heading toward you. âIâll carry us.â
âOh, how generous of you,â you shot back, earning a quiet laugh from Wheezie, who was busy setting up the game board in the living room.
By the time everyone gathered around the coffee table, the mood had shifted to something lighter, easier. You found yourself sitting shoulder to shoulder with Rafe, his broad frame taking up far more space than was necessary.
âAlright, Cameron Dream Team,â Sarah said with a grin, motioning between you and Rafe. âLetâs see what youâve got.â
The first few rounds went about as expectedâRafe being overly confident, you rolling your eyes, and the rest of the Camerons watching the two of you with varying degrees of amusement. But as the game wore on, you realized something strange: you and Rafe actually worked well together.
It wasnât just that you were winning (although that certainly helped). It was the way heâd glance at you for confirmation before making a move, or the way your banter seemed to flow effortlessly, pulling laughter from the rest of the room.
âUnstoppable,â he declared after another win, leaning back with a satisfied grin.
You snorted. âLetâs not get ahead of ourselves.â
Rose, who had been quietly observing from her spot on the couch, chimed in then, her voice cutting through the lighthearted chaos. âYou two make a good team,â she said, her tone casual but her gaze sharp. âIn the game and⊠otherwise.â
The words hung in the air like an errant firework, startling and impossible to ignore.
You felt your face heat immediately, your fingers fumbling with the edge of your sleeve. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Rafe shift in his seat, his expression unreadable for a moment before a small, almost sheepish smile tugged at his lips.
âMaybe sheâs right,â he said, his voice softer than usual.
Your stomach flipped. Whether it was the implication behind his words or the way his gaze lingered on you just a moment too long, you werenât sure. All you knew was that the heat in your cheeks was impossible to shake.
The rest of the night passed in a haze of laughter and friendly competition. Rafe stayed closer than usual, his elbow brushing yours every so often as he leaned over the board or reached for the dice. You told yourself it was nothingâcoincidence, proximityâbut your heart betrayed you, skipping every time his eyes found yours.
By the time the last game wrapped up, the clock had crept past midnight, and everyone was beginning to drift. Sarah and Wheezie headed upstairs, Rose disappeared into the kitchen, and Ward had retreated to his office hours ago.
You stood by the front door, pulling on your jacket, when Rafeâs voice stopped you.
âHold up. Iâll walk you out.â
You turned to find him shrugging into a hoodie, his hands already sliding into his pockets.
âYou donât have to,â you said, though you didnât mean it.
He shrugged. âItâs late. Humor me.â
The cool night air hit you as the two of you stepped outside, the faint crash of waves in the distance punctuating the quiet. You walked side by side down the driveway, the gravel crunching under your feet.
âSo,â he said, breaking the silence, âremember when Wheezie tried to convince us sheâd trained that stray cat to do tricks?â
You laughed, the memory flooding back. âShe was so serious about it too. I think she even made a schedule for âtraining sessions.ââ
Rafe chuckled, shaking his head. âAnd then it scratched the hell out of me when I tried to pick it up.â
âServes you right for thinking you could pet a feral cat.â
âIt wasnât that feral,â he said, grinning. âJust⊠misunderstood.â
The conversation flowed easily, memories and laughter spilling out like water from a cracked vase. It felt natural, effortless, like no time had passed since the days you spent chasing Wheezie through the halls of the Cameron estate.
When you finally reached your car, the laughter faded, replaced by a quiet that felt heavier than before. You turned to face him, leaning against the door as his gaze dropped to the ground, his usual confidence nowhere to be found.
âSo, uhâŠâ He rubbed the back of his neck, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. âI was thinkingâŠâ
You tilted your head, waiting, your heart thudding in your chest.
âWould you wanna grab dinner sometime?â he blurted, his words tumbling out in a rush. âLike⊠just us?â
For a moment, you stared at him, thrown by the nervous energy radiating off him. This was Rafe Cameronâconfident, sharp-tongued Rafeâand yet here he was, looking at you like a boy afraid of being turned down.
You couldnât help itâa soft laugh escaped you, your hand flying up to cover your mouth.
âWhat?â he asked, frowning.
âNothing,â you said, your smile widening. âYouâre just⊠nervous. Itâs kind of cute.â
He rolled his eyes, but the faint flush in his cheeks betrayed him. âIs that a yes or not?â
âItâs a yes,â you said, still smiling.
His relief was immediate and almost comical, his grin spreading wide enough to make your chest ache. âGood,â he said, nodding like he was trying to play it cool. âGood.â
As you slipped into your car, he leaned against the door, watching you with an expression you couldnât quite place.
âDrive safe,â he said, his voice softer now.
âI will,â you replied, your heart still thrumming as you pulled away.
For the first time, the idea of Rafe Cameron didnât feel impossible. It felt⊠right.
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A/N: HII soo this is my first attempt at fics, dont hesitate to say anything, good or bad
k have fun :))
tags: professor tom riddle/professor reader, marriage, angst, horcruxes, sorry if i forget any
wc: 1,584
They've been together, inseparable for 3 years, married for 2 and a half.Â
Tom saw her as an equal as much as someone like him could, she entranced his very being. They talked about subjects he was interested in, in a very objective and intelligent way and he was in awe when he realised he found a match, someone that could understand his fascinations and obsessions. She mostly didn't share them but she was open, he could ask her at 2 in the morning which one of the unforgivableÂ
curses she'd use to get information from someone and she'd genuinely give it some thought.Â
Her fascinations lay more in the zoological department, muggle and magical. She spent hours in forests and jungles, the beings holding her attention for hours. Though, like Tom, she found it hard to open up to people and find like-minded individuals not just regarding creatures but life in general. When he asked to come with her on one of her shorter research-trips, she felt her body and sould levitate. Her greatest wish has always been to grow old with someone loving by her side, someone who she'd love back with her whole self.  Is it him? She hoped so and prayed every night.
He felt the same when she asked about his sketches and faveorite books. Tom Riddle, the usually selfish and greedy man, suddenly interested in the eccentric and always joyful zoology professor? He cursed himself for it, a good 5 months before talking to her for the first time.Â
Now she is staying at his home in the country, a dark penthouse by the sea. To be specific, it is not as dark now, he found that she brought more light into it than any possible lamp.Â
As dreamy as this may sound, but like in every married life, there's always small and petty arguments. Like now, her sitting in bed and reading, not giving him half an ounce of attention while he looked at her from the doorframe.Â
He mentioned horcruxes and the sheer idea of immortality a few times, even on the day they met, but she simply laughed it off. Who would want to be soulles? It seemed absurd.Â
But yesterday evening, when he explained that he wants to go through with his plan of doing so, she couldn't bare to give him more than a gulp and ignorance. He was being mean.
"Apologise, so we can spend at least the evening as a couple. It's cold to sleep without you in my arms." Tom meant it genuinely, but his tone was rough. He didn't understand her problem.
She simply kept on reading, like he didn't even exist. He groaned in annoyance and that did it.Â
"I'm sorry, did my back damage your knife in any way? Do excuse me", he winced and didn't know if it was because of her closing her book shut loudly or her words. Probably the latter.Â
"What do you mean?"
She exhaled in confusion. Did he actually not see the problem?Â
"Tom. You outright told me that you want to split your soul from your body and divide it into 7 different parts. Oh and that you want to live forever. Do you not understand why I'm upset?"
"I'm going to be honest, no, I don't. I find you're being ridiculous, this is a marvelous discovery. "
"Well it is, which on the other hand doesn't mean you have to partake in it!" she says as she sits up straighter in the bed.Â
He sees that and mirrors her reaction, standong up straight and putting his hands in the pockets of his pyjama pants.Â
"Why not? It would help me be more focused on my work and goals and I wouldn't be occupied with unnecessary matters."
"Like me?" His wife didn't know if she regretted saying that, but it came out in the same second he ended his sentence.
Quiet.
"Don't do this. Of course not like you, you matter a huge deal. This would benefit me in every part of my life, I'd be the most powerful wozard that ever lived. There's been noone else more powerful than Death in the history of wizardry and it could be your husband, how are you not the least bit proud?"
"Proud!? You want me to be proud!? What else should I do, throw you a party and congratulate you on a life of pure damnation!?"
She was now standing approximately 1 horizontal man away from him, on a good way to become furious.Â
"Damnation? I hope you mean admiration and being seen with respect, fear and devotion for the rest of time."
"Tommy?" She only called him that when she felt truly helpless or frustrated.
"Yes darling?"
Her voice went almost inaudible, "Where am I in that wonderful way of living you so dream of?"
"By my side." He was sure of that and knew he needed her in this. She'd be his queen in the whole thing.
She breaks into a series of scoffs, some distrustful and some humorous, she found the situation quite absurb. What were they even discussing?Â
"I'll age! I'll age and be old and grey and wrinkly and youll still be thirty! It'll look ridiculous."
Was it embarrassing he hadn't thought of that?Â
"There's plenty of spells to slow down aging." Stupid Riddle.
"Great Havens. If we put that aside, what about your soul? You'll be a shell of the man you truly are. How do you explain that?"
"What? Thats foolish, I'll be myself!"
"You'll be a soulless man! Only goal driven and shutting out everything else! We'll never again talk about life and the universe late at night, you'll never again appreciate me making you tea when you forget the time in your study and we'll never joke about the future and raising an army of baby wizards who we'll name after the imaginary friends we had as children. We'll never go to the city again and you'll never pick out a flower I adore and buy it behind my back to surprise me later although I'd always catch you and we'll never buy cheesy and ironic books for each other in that beautiful old book store we love. Now call me crazy and soft, but I happen to cherish these things."
It was hard to look him in the eyes during saying all that, but she needed to get her point across. She also despised herself for tearing up at this very moment, walking towards him with a pointed finger.
"Tommy, I swore to support and love you in everything you do, but- but taking the soul of the man I love from me-", she hesitated, wanting to stop her voice from breaking and breath from hitching.
He gulped. This was unfair.
"Don't do this."
"-taking that; now that's too much for me. I can't stand behind that."
"You're being cruel."
"I'm not the only one."
That stung, it stung them both at the same time. In the end, they were both just people. She was now standing very few inches infront of him, pointing at his chest, barely holding herself together.Â
"You know what? Do it. I wont stop you or hold you back. That was never my goal."
"I don't understand. Forst you can't stand behind it then you say go ahead."
"If this makes you happy, what I truly doubt, you'll do it without me."
That made his dinner almost come up slightly, it was never an option.Â
"You can't just leave now, you know I love you. Do you not love me anymore? Is that what you're trying to say?", he knew it spounded mean but he hoped to get the point across, he was genuinely wondering.
"Oh don't twist this. I'll always love you with every part of me, body, soul, mind and all, as long as I live, that's why I can't-
that's why I can't watch you do this..."
"So what are you going to do? Just leave? You know you can't do that." He didn't quite believe that she would. Was it cowardly to start a fight rather than comfort her or express his own feelings? He'd have to look into that.
She breathed in, deeper than ever before. It was important that she stays collected now.
"Fine. I'll leave when you do it. That way you wont miss me."
Tom Riddle never got dizzy, he was too aware of his surroundings for that. Yet, now he was holding  onto the doorframe next to him with such strength, that his knuckles turned paper white. He was also afraid to touch her, even breath in her direction, because she might fully disappear already.
"You can't...you can't be serious..." It was more of a whispered plea than a threat.Â
She on the other hand, felt that she needed to touch him or else this stupid boat of too many emotions for both of them would sink to the bottom of the deepest point in the ocean. His cold cheeks warmed at the touch of her palms. In that very moment he also exhaled briefly, still finding deep-rooted comfort in her, even at this time. Her eyes filled with tears, to the brim this time and she ignored them, it was no time to sob now. Her right hand caressed his hair; like it was any other moment they shared before.
"I'm sorry Tommy. I really wanted us to get grey and wrinkly together."