Hi!! I'm Shindo | she/her | just here to yap <3 | 🔞 | INFP
I've seen others have their little introductions so I thought I'll hop on too.
Here's the list I'm into:
Anime: Blue Lock, BNHA, KnB, Soul Eater, Saiki K, JJK, Mob, Haikyuu, Free, D Gray Man, Dr. Stone, KNY, Gintama, Tokyo Revengers, Sakamoto Days, Windbreaker, & manhwas
Kpop: I'm mostly a 2nd-3rd generation stan but I like Aespa, TXT, NCT, Ateez, Dean, IU, & Taeyeon (I listen to Jpop and rock too)
Other: Alien Stage, Ensemble Stars, A3!, Obey Me, Love and Deepspace, Heavens Official Blessings, Hypnosis Mic, South Park, Vocaloid, Wuwa, Genshin & more
PLEASE HMU AND INTERACT I WANT MOOTS + SEND ASKS HAPPY TO INTERACT <3
various!bllk, with a reader that has BALL knowledge.
⤷ crackfic, fluff, separate characters, smau, bllk! pro players (not involved in blue lock, but using their nel teams) au, established relationships, reader is a (toxic) football nerd, they do not know about this high intelligence knowledge of you, shidou, sae finding his actual soulmate in his soulmate.
𓂃✍︎ 18+ mdni · umemiya realizes he has a breeding kink
Umemiya is someone you regard as gentle. Someone who is considerate about everything he does. Most especially, he is nurturing towards people he's grown to care for.
It's no wonder that the entire folks of Makochi, you included, have come to gravitate naturally to him, whether he intended that outcome or not. It's not hard to simply follow someone as good-natured as he is.
It isn't hard to fall in love with him, either. You would know, from how quickly you've become smitten with him, just because he's simply himself.
When you need someone to walk you home late at night, he will be there, freshly showered and smelling like your favorite orange blossom scent. When something doesn't feel right, he will show up at the front of your house and ask what's wrong. When you're hurt, he will tend to you with so much care, you would think you hung up the moon to deserve that kind of treatment.
That's the kind of man he is. Reliable, strong, considerate — every good thing there is becomes an embodiment in Umemiya.
It is also no different from when you and he are being intimate with each other. You trust him. He doesn't give you an ounce of uncertainty. Even months after you suggested you can take it raw with him, he reassures you with a promise that he has enough strength to pull out before coming undone.
Because it's Umemiya. Trust comes so easily with him.
You never doubt his control.
Until today.
He didn't plan on it.
"U-Ume?" You breathe out, unsure. "You just —"
He's gone quiet; Bofurin's leader is staring hard at where he's connected to you, watching the flow of his release leaking out. You've never seen him quite like this. The few times he has rendered everyone speechless because of his silence were due to his fury. However, this calmness is rather foreign.
"Hajime," You cup his cheek and force his head up, hoping it's enough to break him free from his trance. "Hey, you okay?"
He snaps his attention to you. "Yeah." He says with a smile.
"Okay." You relax. "Just wanna make sure. So, did you just —"
"I did."
"It's okay," you quickly reassure, "I can go plan B. So you don't have to worry about any —"
"No." He shakes his head, his palm resting on your stomach while he flutters kisses to your knees. "That was nice. I want to do it again."
"H-Huh?"
"Let me do that again." Something switches in him. Like, suddenly, this is someone who's led countless fights to victory and not the man who would prune a plant and cry about it the very next second.
You should have known then, with the way he watches himself thrust in and out of you. His eyes begin to darken with a heavier dose of lust and determination.
You feel his arm scoop underneath you, lifting your back from the mattress and shifting your position to ride him. When he pulls you close, you feel fuller.
"Oh, my God!" You gasp, digging your nails into his shoulders. "Hajime! Hajime!"
"I want to fill you up, baby." He confesses, chest heaving. "Breed you over and over again. I like to see you full."
Your cheeks flush red at his words.
"I can feel you tighten around me. Do you want that, too?" He marks your neck. "You're going to be full with my children, and everyone's going to know."
"Hajime. Please!"
"I need you to get pregnant." He holds your hips as he pounds harder.
You play with his hair, gone from its usual gelled style.
"Tell me." He mutters hoarsely. "What do you want, my love?"
"I want you," you pant, "and I want you to put a baby in me, Hajime."
When you moan your answer, Umemiya completely loses it. His pace turns unforgiving, nearly borderline punishing. You can only moan strings of gibberish mutters as he explores you thoroughly: sucking your breasts, playing with your clit, and marking you everywhere.
He catches your gaze in time for your release. "Come for me, my love. I've got you. That's my baby girl. There we go."
And you come hard at his command, clenching yourself around him. You hear a sharp intake of breath before he follows suit with a guttural moan. You both collapse back onto the mattress. His shoulders shake with restraint, keeping himself propped up and steady so he doesn't fall on top of you.
He waits for you to settle. But you can still feel him buried inside of you, twitching every so often. He brushes your hair away from your eyes and nudges you with his nose.
"Are you okay?" He smiles.
"Y-Yeah," you can only offer a light chuckle. "T-That felt good."
He slowly rocks himself again. "Stay like that," he softly says, caressing your numbed thighs, "I'm not done with you yet. We're going to keep doing this until I'm sure you're pregnant."
He leans towards your face and kisses you roughly. When he pulls back up and continues his minstrels, you are almost lulled to the rhythmic pace he's doing.
"I love you."
You echo a laugh. "I love you, too."
He kisses your stomach reverently, akin to worshiping someone divine.
"I'm going to keep you full, my love," Umemiya says with his gentle honesty and that big smile of his. "You're going to be a mother tonight."
You had just flown all the way from Japan to Spain to see your boyfriend, Sae Itoshi. After months of only seeing him through a screen on FaceTime, he was finally standing right in front of you. You looked around the beautiful penthouse, taking it in person for the first time—the warm, yellow glow of the lights, the impossibly high ceilings, and the faint hum of the city sprawling below.
Sae leaned against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms. "So, I take it you like it?" You turned to him, your face lighting up. "Are you kidding me? This is amazing."
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and he shook his head. "Alright. Let me shower, and then we can order some food," he said, turning to walk toward the bathroom.
But you had other plans. You walked into his large bedroom, the bathroom only a few feet away where the sound of the shower was already running. You had been thinking about this the entire flight.
Digging through your suitcase, you pulled it out: a deep red babydoll lingerie set. It was a sheer, lightweight mesh that split completely open down the front, held together only by a single clasp just beneath a plunging lace neckline. You had never worn anything like this before and, in all honesty, you were nervous as hell.
But you hadn't bought it for nothing.
Slowly, you peeled off your clothes and slipped on the lingerie, watching the loose, sheer skirt fall softly around your hips.
You looked in the full-length mirror and took a deep breath. You looked good. Still, a quiet doubt crept in, making you wonder if he would think it looked weird on you.
Walking over to his bed, you sat on the edge and waited impatiently for him to come back into the room. You didn't even know how to sit. Thoughts flooded your mind, Should I do a sexy pose? Flip my hair? but in the end, you just sat there, fidgeting with your hands in your lap.
Moments later, he emerged from the bathroom. His usual styled bangs were down, his damp hair clung to his forehead, and a single towel was wrapped around his waist. Immediately, your heart started pounding twice as fast. Sae paused the second he saw you sitting there, looking soft and vulnerable in the deep red lace.
You gulped, trying desperately to play it cool despite your nerves. "So, um... how was your shower?"
He didn't answer right away, his gaze locking onto you as he slowly walked closer. He stopped right in front of you, towering over the edge of the bed. "Good," he said, though his voice sounded completely detached from the word. He wasn't actually paying attention, he was fascinated, this was entirely new.
Reaching down, Sae ran his fingers up your bare arm, the contrast of his cool skin sending a shiver through you. He slid one of his slender fingers right under the thin strap of the lingerie. "This is new," he said blatantly.
A faint blush rushed to your cheeks, and you swallowed hard. "Yeah... well, I wanted to surprise you. But honestly, I just feel silly."
He raised a single eyebrow. "Silly?"
You gave a small nod, instinctively dropping your gaze to the floor. Before you could look away completely, Sae's fingers gripped your chin, tilting your face up and forcing you to look him in the eyes.
"You don't look silly," he said, his voice dropping into that commanding, unbothered tone. "Stop that. And look at me when I'm talking to you."
Then, in that low tone, he ordered, "Get off the bed and go stand in front of the mirror. Now."
His tone made your stomach do flips. You didn't need to be told twice. Quickly, you walked over to the full-length mirror, met with your beautiful reflection.
Sae walked up right behind you, his hands slowly tracing up the sides of your bare arms. "Take those panties off. Slowly," he murmured against your ear, his warm breath sending intense shivers down your spine.
With shaking hands, you reached under the sheer red mesh, carefully sliding the panties down your legs until they pooled completely at your feet.
"Good girl," he murmured against your skin. In one fluid motion, his palms pressed into your shoulders, arching your spine forward and ripping an unexpected gasp from your lips. You didn't even hear the towel hit the floor. all you felt was his cock pushing inside you without warning.
"Sae!" you whined, your voice cracking. It had been months, nearly a year since you last felt him like this, and your mind completely went fuzzy, forgetting how good he stretched you out.
He adjusted his grip with ease, his right hand locking around your wrist to pin it back while his other palm pressed heavily into your shoulder. "Fuck," he muttered, a low rasp vibrating against your skin as his bangs draped forward, shadowing his sharp eyes. He stared down at where he was buried inside you, "missed this sweet pussy."
You let out a breathless gasp as his tip ground right against your cervix, your pussy tightening around his length. Sae didn't give you a second to adjust. a satisfied look crosses his sharp features, "Let me show you just how pretty you look," he rasped low against your skin, his hips immediately snapping forward to drive deep inside you right in front of the mirror.
Sae watched your expression twist in pure pleasure, his gaze dropping to follow the brutal visual of his cock burying itself deep inside you with every heavy thrust forward, making your tits bounce relentlessly in the thin fabric over and over.
"Who's a pretty girl?" he muttered against your neck, he buried himself to the hilt on a particularly deep thrust, forcing a pornographic moan from you, making white spots flash in your vision. You were too far gone to respond. your face in the mirror was completely ruined. mascara running down your flushed cheeks, and your mouth hung helplessly open.
when you didn't answer right away, his pace suddenly ground to a torturous halt. "I said... who's a pretty girl?" he repeated, his cyan eyes pinning yours in the reflection. You sucked in a breathy gasp. "Me! I'm—I'm a pretty girl!" you whined. "yeah you are" he murmured, ruthlessly slamming back into his rapid pace.
his dick was soaked in pre-cum and juices making your pussy squelch relentlessly. You felt so tight and warm around him, making his brain lose all train of thought.
He felt the way you gripped around him—the familiarity of you being about to cum. Your legs shook, barely able to support your weight, and you could only stand because of his iron grip. "Cum for me, soak my dick," he groaned heavily, his chest flushing hard against your back as he felt his own release near.
You couldn't even force out a word. A broken wail tore from your throat as he drove ruthlessly deep, stuffing you full while relentlessly bullying your g-spot. your entire body went limp, gushing around his dick, heavy slick ran down your thighs and puddled onto the floor.
You felt his girth throb inside you, he throws his head back and quickly followed right after with a choked groan, hips jerking erratic while pumping his thick load into you.
A breathless gasp left your lips as he slid out of you, your knees immediately buckling until he caught your weight. Holding your shaking body still, he turned you around to face him. He reached up, his thumb brushing away a smudge of ruined mascara. "Beautiful" he murmured.
"Ughhh, I'm so out of shape and flabby. But I hate going to the gym. Absolutely HATE it. But I love sweets...What am I supposed to do? Die?"
Mina giggled at your dramatic display, arm now covering your face as you leaned your head back on the couch.
"Why don't you ask Kiri or Sero. Kiri is super dedicated and will help you without constant screaming. Or Sero who is less dedicated, so no unintentional guilt, but will make sure you hit those goals."
"Love you offering up your boyfriend for training, but ehh, I think I need someone to be mean. Guilt doesn't even get me to the gym."
"If you ask Bakugo you will not get out of any workouts. Know that and feel it in your soul."
You groaned, laying your head in her lap looking up at her.
"Why can't I just look good like you."
Mina laughed.
"Oh sweetie, Kiri makes me work out just not at the gym."
You sat up groaning.
"Ew gross...Though if Bakugo offered that kind of workout...Nevermind. Can't put that out in the universe."
"Well, you'll figure something out."
The next morning you were stretching in your room when someone knocked.
"Good your dressed. Let's go."
"Huh. What?"
"Heard you bitchin to Mina yesterday."
You froze wondering just how much he heard.
"You heard? All of it?"
Bakugo smirked when he saw how embarrassed you were.
"Enough to know you ain't gonna get what you need from shitty hair or elbows trainin' ya."
You shouldn't be reading into that innocent statement, but how could you not when he wore that smirk.
"You don't mind, then?"
"Tch. Wouldn't have offered if I did. C'mon, gotta build your stamina if ya wanna get to the Kiri/Mina workout," Bakugo eyed you up and down before walking away.
Not only had he heard it all, now he knew you wanted to jump him. Ugh.
Bakugo walked away full smile because now he didn't need an excuse to spend time with you. And of course he'd have to touch you to correct your movements. It's what any good trainer would do. So, yeah, he was going to enjoy pushing your limits. At the gym, of course.
being apart for so long had already begun taking its toll— the seven hours time-difference, missed calls, and replies that only grew shorter & shorter whenever sae was buried deep in training. but it snowballed fast, and weeks of frustration finally spilled out all at once.
“… you didn’t even bother replying to any of my texts yesterday, sae!” you snapped, pacing back and forth across your bedroom with your phone pressed tightly to your ear.
“i told you. i was busy with training.” he replied flatly.
“you always use that as an excuse!”
“cause it’s the truth.”
“so you couldn’t spare thirty seconds to send me a text?” you shot back, frustration bleeding through every word.
a tired sigh came through the speaker. “… not everything revolves around texting you every hour.”
the words left his mouth harsher than he intended.
“… got it.”
“you know that’s not what i meant.” he sighed, exhaling sharply.
“then what exactly… did you mean, sae?” you demanded, your voice trembling despite how badly you wanted it to sound firm. “because lately it feels like i’m constantly trying to squeeze myself into whatever tiny space you have left for me.”
“don’t start, please.”
“don’t… start?” you scoffed, a humorless laugh slipping out. “i’m your girlfriend. i shouldn’t have to beg for your attention.”
“and i shouldn’t have to justify every second of my day to you.”
for a moment, all you could hear was the faint static of the call between you. it stretched on long enough for your anger to start turning into something heavier.
“maybe… it’s better if we stop pretending this is working,” you whispered, your throat tightening around every word.
sae’s sharp reply came instantly. “don’t say that.”
“… why not?” you snapped. “when was the last time we had a conversation that didn’t end like this?”
“that’s because you keep pushing.”
“no, it’s because you’re impossible to talk to!”
“maybe because nothing i say is ever enough for you.”
for a beat, neither of you said anything. then came the final straw. “fine,” you breathed, the word coming out shakier than you wanted. “… maybe soccer is the only thing you actually care about. you know what? i’m done.”
before he could respond, you ended the call.
the screen went dark instantly, your tear-streaked reflection staring back at you through the blackened glass.
for the first time since the argument started, your apartment fell completely silent. your chest felt tight. your eyes burned from crying because some part of you already missed him. and despite how angry you still were, guilt had already begun creeping in around the edges.
but right now, the resentment that had been building for weeks was still fresh, still sitting heavy in your chest. then in a fit of anger and exhaustion, you’d decided to block him everywhere— imessage, whatsapp, instagram, tiktok, even his email too. you didn’t want to hear his voice, see his name pop up on your screen, or read another dry reply that made you feel like an inconvenience.
you just needed silence and a moment of clarity for yourself.
—
on the other side of the world, sae stared at his phone screen in disbelief.
his messages weren’t delivering. his calls went straight to voicemail. when he opened instagram, your account no longer existed in his following or followers. the last message he sent you sat on ‘not delivered.’
he tried once more, then again, each attempt ending the same way. still nothing.
“… fuck,” he muttered, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
he was in his hotel room after his evening training, hair still damp from the shower, exhaustion from the day mixing with rising irritation from whatever that transpired between you two.
sae rarely lost his cool. but right now, sitting on the edge of the bed with his phone gripped tightly in his hand; he was definitely furious. sure, the two of you had argued before, but this time you had intentionally shut him out. he knew he’d said things he shouldn’t have. he knew the distance had been wearing thin on both of you. but the thought that you’d actually block him— or cut him off completely made him feel more helpless than ever.
after one last failed call, he threw his phone onto the mattress with a sharp exhale, dragging a hand down his face.
“stubborn woman…” he hissed under his breath, teal-eyes sharp with irritation. “you really think blocking me is going to fix anything?”
he leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the phone lying uselessly in front of him. a small part of him wanted to book the first flight back to japan without thinking twice, while the rational part of him knew you’d only resent him for ignoring the space you so clearly needed.
but the longer he sat there, unable to reach you; the heavier the unease settled in his chest. because for the first time in a long time… he couldn’t get through to you.
and he absolutely hated it.
⨳ 𝓷𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: errr ending it here because i might wanna do a pt 2
hello! i love ur senpai kink suo fic a lot...usually not a suo stan but suo with senpai kink is 💦💦 i love it thank u...now any thoughts about semi public sex with that suo? hope that gives u an idea haha, he would really enjoy teasing reader to keep it quiet while calling you senpai, does remind you a lot who is supposed to be older.
the great inbox cleanout of 2k26
+18, mdni; senpai!suo so mandatory @jujellyfish tag <3
it really shouldn't have happened like this. but somehow, in the furthest reaches of your mind, you knew that if suo had wanted it... well.
"senpai... you said you could keep quiet, hm?"
you squeeze your eyes, biting down hard enough on your lips to bruise, but it's useless -- the way he's rutting up into your cunt just so, your legs pinned on either side of his hips, your back flush against the changing room wall -- you can't help the tiny little keens and gasps bubbling from you as he smirks, watching you with those liquid amber eyes.
"ha -- hayato-kun --"
he lets out a breath, a throaty groan working it's way up through his chest, choking out of him even as he buries his face in your shoulder and bites down on the juncture of your neck. you jerk in his grip, but he's strong, so much stronger than he looks, and he holds you steady.
steady enough to fuck you into the wall just a bit harder, his thrusts less precise than they were, less teasing, the rubbed-raw-ragged edge of him inching into view as he loses himself slowly against you.
"mm -- shit -- s-senpai -- ah -- you're not -- being fair --"
his voice cracks, his pace falters ever so slightly; you feel his finger dig into the plush of your thighs as he hoists you back up the wall, lifting his head.
he looks utterly ruined, pink tinting the high of his cheeks, his usually steady gaze going wide and glazed as his eyes flicker over your face, like he can't quite figure out what he wants to look at most, like he wants nothing more than to drink you in, but he doesn't have the strength enough to do it all in one go.
you'd sayy something if you could, if you weren't so desperate, so close to tipping over the edge you can feel it in the tips of your fingers. you whimper as he somehow manages a smirk, leaning back just far enough for his eyes to go half-lidded.
"mm... 's that all it takes, senpai? me fucking you in a changing room for you to get all flustered like this? d'you like it? knowing that people might hear?" his voice shouldn't be so steady, not when he looks so thoroughly debauched, not when you can feel the slight quiver in his arms, but his voice betrays none of it.
"ha - ya - t-to!" you keen, your head thumping back against the wall as he rolls his hips up into you, blunted nails digging into your skin. the pain is sharp, but the sting only pushes you further towards the edge.
"senpai..." he draws out his voice like a silken string, spinning it through the sexy-mugged air betwween you, "c'mon... show me how pretty you can be... how much of a slut you are when i fuck you like this... where anyone might walk in and hear... hm?"
and really, it's that last little lilt to his voice that does it, you think, the way he cocks his head ever so slightly, like a curious hawk, watching a tiny mouse struggling, pinned beneath it's claws --
little black sptos dance a the edge of your vision as you feel your whole body seize, pleasure rocketting through you, heat rolling from the top of your head down into the tips of your fingers and toes, the aftershocks leaving you reeling.
"o -- oh --" you can't do much else but sigh, going limp in his arms as he grins and leans in to graze his lips along yoru cheek before giving you a soft, almost chaste kiss.
"mm... there... doesn't that feel nice?" he asks, voice silken once more.
you shiver, the cool air kissing your sweat-slicked skin.
suo lets you down slowly, chuckling as you hiss at the drag of his still-hard cock pulling from inside you. he glances down with a strange, detached consideration before he looks back at you.
"ah... don't you think you should at least help me, senpai? after i've made you feel so good?"
you gulp, your mouth suddenly scalding dry. you look from his slick cock to his face, his expression expectant and oddly impassive.
slowly, you lower yourself to your knees as a smile stretches his lips, a hand coming up to cup your cheek.
"mm... thank you, senpai... i'll owe you one after this..."
funnily enough, sae probably has the happiest life in blue lock. he’s completely unaware of rin’s beef against him, he finds everything funny and laughs internally all the time, he’s a millionaire, he plays for the best team in the world, he’s adored by fans, he’s a member of the ng11, and he really doesn’t gaf.
funnily enough, sae probably has the happiest life in blue lock. he’s completely unaware of rin’s beef against him, he finds everything funny and laughs internally all the time, he’s a millionaire, he plays for the best team in the world, he’s adored by fans, he’s a member of the ng11, and he really doesn’t gaf.
— the gardener, the brat, and the murder of the roses
feat. umemiya hajime
summary. you didn’t ask for much. just peace, a date that didn’t involve dirt, and maybe your boyfriend not co-gardening with a girl who thinks liking plants are a personality trait. instead, you got a rooftop garden, a jealous spiral, an emotional support driver on standby, and one (1) very patient boyfriend who had to learn that jealousy don’t mix well with spoiled brat.
triggers/warnings. this story contains heavy sarcasm, unfiltered cursing, emotional chaos disguised as romance, and one (1) spoiled princess with a god complex and a soft spot for her boyfriend. jealousy, brat behavior, and more verbal violence. expect a gentle boyfriend trying to survive a meltdown. light emotional manipulation via pout, clinginess used as a weapon, and an unapologetic amount of delusional affection. suggestive make-up kissing, ridiculous banter, and general proof that love sometimes looks like “i’ll forgive you but i’m still right.” proceed with caution if you’re allergic to spoiled behavior, sarcasm, or men who say sorry by pulling you close and ruining your lipstick.
it’s one of those afternoons where the sunlight feels too sharp for comfort, the kind that spills like liquid gold across the rooftop and makes the air hum with lazy warmth. from where you sit, the bofurin rooftop stretches wide and open—patches of green everywhere, umemiya’s small garden spread out like an organized chaos of soil bags, pots, and stubborn flowers trying to survive under his care. there’s a faint scent of mint and wet soil that mixes with the faint sweetness of whatever he planted last week, and you can hear the buzz of city noise far below—horns, chatter, wind tangling through metal fences.
you’re sitting on the long wooden bench tucked under the white canopy he set up just for you, because apparently, “my princess can’t melt under the sun like sugar.” the fabric flutters softly, shading you from the daylight, and the breeze moves enough to lift strands of your hair now and then. your legs are crossed neatly, one heel dangling lazily, tapping against the bench in quiet impatience. your outfit screams money even in a place that smells like dirt—you’re in a short cream sundress with thin straps, a delicate lace cardigan slipping off one shoulder, and your feet are wrapped in glossy designer sandals, the kind that cost more than half the plants in his garden combined. a tiny gold chain rests against your ankle, glinting every time you shift, the perfect little reminder that you don’t belong anywhere near mud.
and yet here you are, because your boyfriend—sweet, gentle, annoyingly persuasive umemiya hajime—had the nerve to text you this morning saying “come watch me garden, it’ll be fun.” which, apparently, translates to “sit here and slowly lose your mind while i roll around in dirt and pretend i’m not taunting you.”
he’s in front of you now, stretching his arms above his head while he adjusts the strap of his gardening overall, the kind made from some thick, plasticky fabric that looks half-functional and half-insane in this heat. he’s got gloves tucked between his teeth for a moment while he ties the straps, and you can see the smirk starting before he even opens his mouth.
“you look like you’re attending a funeral,” he says finally, voice dripping with amusement as he glances your way. “what’s with that face, baby? i said watch, not suffer.”
you narrow your eyes at him, resting your chin on your hand, elbow on the bench’s armrest. “you dragged me up here to sit in a literal dirt museum. what did you expect my face to look like, hajime? pure joy?”
he laughs, soft but loud enough to fill the quiet rooftop, that deep, warm sound that never fails to crawl under your skin and make you want to punch him and kiss him at the same time. “come on, it’s not that bad. you’re just dramatic,” he teases, reaching for a watering can. “look at you, sitting there like royalty on her throne, glaring at the peasants.”
“if the shoe fits,” you mutter under your breath, crossing your legs tighter, one foot tapping impatiently again. “you should be thankful i even came. do you know how many people would kill for me to sit and watch them garden?”
he glances over his shoulder, half-grinning, eyes catching the sunlight just right. “oh yeah? who? your little fan club that couldn’t tell a rose from a weed?”
“don’t test me,” you warn, squinting at him through the lazy afternoon glare. “i could replace you in a heartbeat.”
“sure you could,” he says easily, turning back to the flowerbed, voice thick with sarcasm. “but would anyone else look this good in a pair of gloves while they’re elbow-deep in dirt? didn’t think so.”
you groan, flopping back against the bench. “god, you’re insufferable.”
he hums, not missing a beat. “and yet you’re still here.”
“barely.”
he chuckles again, shaking his head. “don’t act like you’re not enjoying watching me work. i can feel your eyes on me, sweetheart. or maybe you’re just mad you can’t touch me right now—don’t want to get your precious hands dirty, huh?”
you give him a flat look. “you’re disgusting.”
“mm, maybe,” he says, turning back toward you now, wiping his hands on the side of his overall and walking closer. “but i’m your disgusting boyfriend, remember?”
he stops in front of you, shadows from the canopy cutting sharp lines across his chest, and you tilt your head just slightly to avoid meeting his smug gaze. his hair’s tied back but a few strands have fallen into his face, and you hate how good he looks like that—half-sweaty, sunlit, with that grin that always promises trouble.
“you could’ve stayed inside,” he says softly this time, kneeling in front of you. “but you came up anyway. all dressed up just to complain.”
“you told me to come,” you hiss, tugging your dress lower out of habit, even though he’s already too busy staring at you like you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
“yeah,” he murmurs, leaning his arm on your knee, resting his chin there like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “and you listened. that’s what makes you so sweet sometimes. you act all spoiled but you still show up for me.”
you roll your eyes, but your throat tightens anyway. “don’t say that. it’s embarrassing.”
he grins again, eyes soft now, voice teasing but warm. “what, that i think you’re the best part of my day? yeah, real embarrassing.”
“you’re so full of yourself,” you mumble, trying not to smile.
“maybe,” he says, smirking, “but you love that about me.”
“no, i really don’t.”
“sure you don’t,” he whispers, and before you can respond, he leans forward, presses a kiss to your knee—quick, playful, and just annoying enough to make you shove at his shoulder.
“stop doing that,” you scold, your voice breaking halfway between anger and laughter.
“what? appreciating my spoiled little princess?”
“go plant your stupid flowers.”
he laughs again, rising slowly, stretching his back. “as you wish, your majesty.” then, just to be an ass, he winks. “try not to miss me too much while i’m over there.”
you throw your empty water bottle at him—it misses by inches—and he only laughs harder, voice echoing across the rooftop as he goes back to his plants, humming under his breath like you didn’t just threaten his life five seconds ago.
and somehow, despite everything—the sun, the dirt, the smell of earth, his constant teasing—you can’t help but watch him anyway. because there’s something about the way umemiya hajime moves when he’s happy, something about how every word he says drips with that mix of mischief and warmth, that makes the world feel less boring.
and maybe, just maybe, that’s why you’re still here.
you keep watching him, pretending not to, even though your eyes follow every damn move he makes. the way his shoulders flex when he bends over, the way his hair falls into his eyes when he looks down, that stupid little smirk that twitches on his lips every time he catches you staring—it’s infuriating. he knows exactly what he’s doing, and worse, he’s enjoying every second of it.
he glances up again, wipes sweat from his jaw with the back of his arm, and smirks like he can read your mind. you groan quietly, slumping into the bench, muttering just loud enough, “at least he could kiss me if he’s gonna act like this.”
his head tilts like he heard you, that slow, smug grin spreading across his face as he sets down the trowel. “what was that?”
you roll your eyes, refusing to repeat yourself. “nothing.”
he wipes his hands on his overall, walks closer—too close—and the sun catches the sweat on his collarbone, makes it worse, makes him worse. “didn’t sound like nothing,” he says, voice lazy, like he’s got all day to mess with you. “say it again, sweetheart.”
“i said—” you drag the words out, slow, deliberately testing him, “if you’re gonna keep looking at me like that, the least you could do is kiss me.”
“that so?” he asks, amused.
“yeah,” you say, feigning boredom. “but don’t touch me with those filthy glove-ass hands. i don’t want gardening residue on my skin.”
he laughs, short and low, his head dropping for a second before he looks back up through his lashes, and you know that look—it’s trouble. “filthy glove-ass hands,” he repeats, mocking your tone. “you’re lucky i like the way your mouth runs.”
“you’re lucky i let you near me,” you shoot back, but the words start to melt halfway through because he’s already moving.
and then—like some dramatic movie scene he thinks he’s starring in—he hooks his thumb under the glove and pulls it off with his teeth, slow, deliberate, eyes locked on you. the plastic shifts with a soft crackle, and he spits it out onto the floor like he’s doing something holy instead of stupidly sexy. it’s the kind of move that should look ridiculous, but somehow, on him, it doesn’t. it’s unfair.
“happy now?” he says, voice all lazy drawl, stepping closer until his knees bump yours.
“barely,” you answer, trying to sound unimpressed even though your pulse betrays you.
he leans down, placing his hands on either side of you, gripping the bench, boxing you in without touching you. the wood creaks faintly under his weight, and he smells like sun and soil and a hint of mint from whatever he’s been planting. you tilt your head back to meet his eyes, pretending like he doesn’t make your breath stumble.
“you said i could kiss you,” he murmurs, the words brushing your cheek like static, “not touch. i remember.”
“good,” you whisper, fingers twitching against your lap. “follow directions for once.”
he hums low, that sound that sits somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “you always talk too much before a kiss.”
“then shut me up.”
his grin widens, but he doesn’t move—he waits, eyes heavy, teasing. you finally reach up, pinching his jaw between your fingers, not too hard, just enough to make him tilt his head toward you. he lets you guide him, lets you think you’re in control, and the way he hums under his breath tells you he’s enjoying every second of your bratty little display.
when his lips finally meet yours, it’s warm and slow, a drag of heat that builds too quickly. you pull at his jaw to keep him close, lips brushing and parting, tasting faintly of sunlight and salt and something unreasonably soft. he kisses like he talks—lazy, deliberate, with the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly what buttons to push.
he doesn’t deepen it, though; he stays there, hovering, keeping that thin line of tension just to mess with you. his mouth moves against yours just enough to keep you wanting more, and when you try to tilt your head and chase him, he pulls back a breath, smiling against your lips.
“what happened to not touching?” he whispers, eyes half-lidded.
“this doesn’t count,” you murmur back, voice low.
“no?” he teases, brushing his lips against yours again, barely there. “then what does?”
you tug his jaw again, rougher this time. “shut up.”
he hums, biting back a laugh, and kisses you properly this time—slower, longer, until the world narrows to the sound of his quiet breathing and the faint creak of the bench beneath you. his breath hitches when you drag your nails down his neck, not enough to scratch, just to make him twitch.
“you’re impossible,” he mutters against your mouth, but the smile in his voice betrays him.
the kiss is still hanging there between your mouths, lazy and a little greedy, when the sharp metallic groan of the rooftop door cuts through the heat. it’s the kind of sound that makes your stomach drop—slow, dragging, impossible to ignore. you freeze first, lips still parted, breath still shallow. hajime groans like he’s the one being punished.
“no, no, no—don’t you dare—” he mutters against your lips, chasing you forward as you instinctively lean back, tilting your head to see who’s interrupting. except the movement just gives him a new target. the kiss lands hot against the side of your neck instead, his mouth pressing there once, twice, while he laughs softly through his nose.
“hajime,” you hiss, pushing at his chest. “someone’s coming.”
“yeah,” he hums, lips brushing your skin again, “me.”
you shove him harder this time, laughing despite yourself. “not funny, dumbass—your friends are here.”
he pulls back with a low groan, eyes rolling like the universe just personally wronged him. sure enough, when you look over his shoulder, the door swings open all the way, and a cluster of familiar chaos spills through.
“yo, hajime!” hiragi shouts first, way too loud for someone just entering. behind him, kaji waves lazily with a popsicle in his mouth, and tsubaki’s already half-carrying a bag of drinks like they’re invading the place. but it’s the unfamiliar girl beside them that makes you straighten a little, the one with perfectly brushed bangs and that cautious little squint when her gaze lands on you—on you and hajime, who’s still standing far too close.
he curses under his breath, quiet but sharp enough that you bite back a laugh. “perfect timing as always,” he grumbles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s been caught mid-crime.
“what?” you whisper, smirking. “didn’t plan on giving them a show?”
he glares down at you, half-embarrassed, half-annoyed, but mostly caught between wanting to kiss you again and not wanting to give his friends more material to torment him with later. “you think you’re so funny, huh?”
“i know i’m funny,” you say, tilting your head, voice dripping sweet and cruel. “but please, go greet your audience before they start clapping.”
he lets out a heavy sigh, mutters something that sounds suspiciously like i hate my life, and straightens up, stretching his back like this is all just an inconvenience.
you stay seated, watching as he turns around, shoulders squaring, voice slipping into that easy tone he uses with them. “you guys really don’t knock, huh?”
“knock? on a rooftop?” hiragi says, grinning. “bro, you were just making out under a canopy—what, you want a doorbell too?”
kaji laughs so hard he almost drops his popsicle. “look at him blushing. didn’t think i’d ever see the great umemiya hajime flustered.”
“shut up,” hajime mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “you guys can’t read a room for shit.”
tsubaki snickers. “we read it just fine. you’re the one who turned it into a romance novel.”
the girl—still silent—just smiles, small and polite, but her gaze flicks to you again, curious, a little sharp. you can already feel the judgment in her once-over, that quiet so that’s the girlfriend look, and something about it makes you want to smirk wider.
you cross one leg over the other, fixing your dress, calling out lazily, “if you’re gonna stare, at least say hi first. it’s rude to gawk.”
that earns a quiet snort from hajime, even though he’s trying to hide it. he glances back at you, his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a grin. “behave,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear.
“make me,” you whisper back.
he exhales sharply through his nose, mutters another curse you can’t catch, and turns back to his friends with a resigned smile that screams kill me now.
“guys, this is my girlfriend,” he says finally, and the way his voice softens on that last word doesn’t escape you. “she was just… keeping me company.”
“oh, we noticed,” tsubaki says with a smirk.
“you’re dead,” hajime says flatly, but his tone is too lazy to sound convincing.
you can’t help it—you laugh. soft, rich, bright, unbothered. the sound bounces across the rooftop, and hajime glances at you over his shoulder, shaking his head with that half-exasperated smile that never hides the fondness underneath.
you mouth the words you’re welcome, and he mouths back you’re impossible, which, of course, just makes your grin wider.
and when his friends finally turn away to start unpacking whatever they brought, he shoots you one last look—a warning, a promise, maybe both—before muttering quietly, “you and i are finishing that later.”
you hum, leaning back on the bench again, voice soft but laced with amusement. “oh, i know we will.”
you stand up, slow and lazy, like a cat stretching after a nap, the air warm and smelling faintly of soil and mint and him. your heels click against the rooftop tiles as you move closer, sliding your arm around his from behind, chin brushing the edge of his shoulder. he glances down immediately, that small flicker of surprise before the smirk catches up, his hand twitching like he wants to hold you but remembers you’re still surrounded by his friends.
you feel the shift in the air before you even look—the girl, standing a little apart from the others, her hand resting on her hip, her gaze not subtle in the slightest. there’s a glimmer in her eyes that feels too practiced, too deliberate, the kind of sparkle people wear when they think they’ve already been noticed. she’s watching him, not even pretending to look elsewhere, her stare sticky and sharp and sweet all at once.
you lean closer, lips barely grazing his shoulder, voice low enough that only he can hear. “who’s that?”
he hums, not even looking up. “that?” his tone is lazy, teasing. “that’s misaki. she hangs around sometimes. helps with the plants.”
you hum back, soft and unimpressed. “she looks like she’s about to help herself to your entire soul.”
he laughs quietly, tilting his head down toward you. “why, jealous?”
“of her?” you scoff, eyes narrowing as you watch misaki’s gaze trace the curve of his jaw. “please. i’ve met garden pests with more subtlety.”
he chuckles, low and warm, leaning a little into you like he can’t help it. “she’s just looking.”
“yeah,” you say dryly, “and i’m just thinking about taking her eyes out if she keeps doing it.”
he hums again, that amused, dangerous little sound he makes when you’re getting worked up for his entertainment. “mh. maybe she just can’t help it. maybe she thinks i’m pretty.”
“maybe she should start thinking from a safer distance,” you mutter, tightening your grip on his arm until he laughs under his breath.
“baby,” he says, that mock-warning tone, the one that usually means he’s about to kiss you into silence, “behave.”
you lift your chin, pouting but refusing to look at him. “you can’t tell me what to do.”
“sure i can,” he says softly, “i just don’t expect you to listen.”
you roll your eyes but the edge in you starts to crack, because that tone—lazy, fond, half-smiling—is the one that makes everything in your chest go stupid. “fine,” you mutter, quieter this time. “then give me a kiss and i’ll think about behaving.”
he doesn’t even hesitate. leans in, presses his lips against your forehead, warm and lingering. his breath fans against your skin and you almost forget the audience—until a shrill, high-pitched voice slices through the quiet like a paper cut.
“oh my god, look!” misaki chirps, voice bubbling with way too much excitement. “our plant’s blooming!”
the words hit you like cold water. you blink, tilt your head slightly, still resting against hajime’s shoulder. “your what?”
he stiffens for a second beside you, just enough for you to feel it.
you turn your head, watching her point eagerly at a small pot sitting on the far edge of the rooftop garden—a cluster of red roses, deep and glossy under the sunlight.
“what plant?” you ask, your tone light but your jaw tight enough to crack.
he opens his mouth, probably about to explain, probably about to say something harmless, but he doesn’t get the chance.
misaki beats him to it. “it’s the one we planted together!” she says, smiling too sweetly, her eyes flicking between you and him like she’s tossing bait into the air. “remember, hajime? i told you i wanted to see how red roses would grow here—and look, they actually did. our roses.”
she laughs, the sound airy and stupid and sharp all at once, and it lands somewhere ugly in your stomach. the way she says our isn’t just casual—it’s deliberate, pointed, smug, like a hand dragging down glass just to make you flinch.
you don’t blink, don’t move, just tilt your head a fraction and smile, sharp as broken crystal. hajime’s quiet beside you, shoulders tense, his jaw tight, and you can feel the shift in him—the low hum of frustration, the awareness of the storm about to form right next to him.
you keep your voice soft, almost sweet. “oh,” you say, staring at the roses like they’re something worth stepping on. “your plant, huh.”
she smiles wider, like she thinks she’s won something.
and hajime exhales slowly through his nose, his hand tightening once on your arm—gentle, grounding, warning.
you don’t look at him. not yet. you just watch her, eyes half-lidded, smile unchanging, while the air between all of you starts to hum with something dangerous. and you think, very quietly, this girl better hope those flowers are the only thing getting buried today.
it starts small, harmless, like a mosquito that won’t stop buzzing in your ear. first, it’s the rooftop again — her laughter floating in the background when you come to bring hajime coffee, the sound of her voice saying his name like she’s trying it on for size. she’s there, kneeling in the dirt next to him, pretending to listen while he talks about soil acidity or whatever plant bullshit he’s into that week. you try to stand there, smile polite, pretend you’re not plotting horticultural homicide in your head.
then it’s the café. your café. the one you told him was your spot, where the barista knows your name and he always sits across from you with his chin in his hand like he doesn’t see anyone else. except this time, she’s there too. standing behind him, leaning over his shoulder like she has the right, asking something about fertilizer ratios while you’re stirring your drink so hard the spoon almost snaps. she doesn’t even sit down, just exists too close, her perfume too floral, her voice too bright, and you want to pour your coffee on her goddamn shoes.
and it doesn’t stop there. somehow she’s everywhere—like she crawled out of the damn flowerpot and followed him home. when you meet him after class, she’s at the gate. when you pass by the park, she’s sitting on the bench next to him with a notebook open, pretending it’s about plants. once, when you went to grab ice cream, she waved from across the street like this is some kind of competition you didn’t sign up for.
every single time, she finds a way to talk about plants. the weather? plants. food? plants. love? fucking plants. it’s always the same, that high-pitched laugh and the way she pushes her hair behind her ear like she’s auditioning for the role of “background nuisance in someone else’s relationship.” and hajime, bless his dumb, gentle heart, doesn’t even notice the way she clings, doesn’t see the way she looks at him like she wants to bloom right there in his damn shadow.
you tell yourself it’s fine, you’re fine, until you’re not. until the next time you show up at the café and she’s already sitting at your table, her hands wrapped around his mug, nodding at whatever he’s saying about “root structure” like it’s poetry. and you stand there, staring at her, then at him, and the words come out before you even think.
“wow,” you say, voice sugarcoated and sharp. “didn’t know we were hosting a gardening seminar today.”
hajime looks up, startled for a second, then that lazy, infuriating smile creeps in. “hey, baby. you’re early.”
you slide into your seat across from him, not bothering to hide the glare you throw at the girl. “didn’t know you brought company.”
she laughs, that fake polite kind of laugh that makes your skin itch. “oh no, i was just asking hajime about pruning techniques—”
“yeah,” you interrupt, smiling with all teeth. “seems like you’ve been real interested in trimming lately.”
the silence stretches just long enough for hajime to sigh and say it, the way he always does when your tone gets sharp. “baby,” he murmurs, that warning laced with amusement, “behave.”
you turn your head slowly, meeting his eyes, voice flat. “i am behaving. this is my polite voice.”
he chuckles, leaning back in his chair, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. “uh-huh. and what happens when the polite voice goes away?”
“depends,” you say, stirring your drink again, metal clinking against glass. “how many limbs do you think she’d miss?”
“jesus,” he mutters under his breath, though he’s fighting a smile, eyes warm and stupid and amused. “you’re unbelievable.”
“and yet you’re still sitting here,” you hum.
he laughs quietly, shaking his head, then turns back to whatever pointless conversation the girl’s trying to resurrect. you zone out halfway through it, staring out the window, trying not to imagine every possible way to remove her from the narrative of your life.
by the time you’re walking back to the car, he reaches for your hand like everything’s normal, fingers brushing yours. you let him, but the irritation simmers under your skin, crawling up your throat.
“you didn’t tell her to back off,” you say finally, the words tasting bitter.
he sighs, looking down at you with that same gentle expression that makes you want to both kiss and strangle him. “she’s harmless. don’t waste your energy.”
“oh, i’m not wasting it,” you reply sweetly. “i’m saving it. for later. maybe when she tries to touch you again, i’ll show her just how harmless i can be.”
he laughs, a soft breath of disbelief. “you’ve got to stop threatening my friends.”
“she’s not your friend,” you mutter, but the rest gets swallowed by his low chuckle and the way his thumb strokes your hand absentmindedly, like he’s trying to calm you down without saying it out loud.
and somehow, that only makes it worse. because he’s still smiling. because she’s still everywhere. because no matter how hard you glare, she’s always there first—too sweet, too close, too damn loud.
and all you can think is how easy it would be to plant her right next to those stupid roses and see if she still smiles when you water her.
you watch the city roll past the car window, reflections sliding across the glass like water. the afternoon sun paints everything gold—terraces, storefronts, people moving too fast—and you sit in the backseat with your legs crossed, chin resting against your hand, pretending you’re not waiting for your phone to light up with a message from him. your driver doesn’t say much; he never does, just hums lowly to the sound of the traffic, and you appreciate the silence. it’s a soft kind of torture—the quiet before the storm, before the test of whether hajime umemiya actually keeps his promises.
he said he would. last night, when your voice was sharp and your patience had already started to crack, he reached across the couch, hand warm over your knee, and said, “i’ll stay away from her. i swear.” and maybe it wasn’t even the words—it was the look, the way his voice softened when you got quiet, the way he smiled like he still thought you were being dramatic but loved you for it anyway.
so now you’re here, in the backseat, hoping—no, praying—that you won’t see that girl’s face today. misaki. the name feels bitter in your mouth, like coffee that’s gone cold. one sight of her and you’ll probably walk right out, maybe throw a drink for good measure. but not before you look good doing it.
you’re wearing your favorite dress, the one that makes you feel like trouble wrapped in sweetness—a blue-and-white gingham print that hugs your waist and flares at your thighs, light enough to move when the breeze does. the neckline dips just enough, the sleeves puff slightly, the skirt short and unapologetic. your hair falls in soft curls that catch the sunlight when you tilt your head, and your shoes—bright, red, and shiny—match the lacquer on your nails. you don’t dress for him, not really, but you love how his eyes light up when he sees you. how he always leans back, looks you over like you’re the only thing worth staring at, and says something low and slow like, “you’re gonna ruin me, you know that?”
that’s what you want to hear today. that’s what you’ve been waiting for all morning.
the car slows as you pull up in front of pothos, the small corner café that smells like roasted espresso and lemon glaze. it’s warm inside when you step out, the little bell above the door chiming softly. the air smells like cinnamon and butter, and kotoha is there behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine, her apron tied too tight, her smile genuine.
“oh my god,” she says as soon as she sees you. “you look so pretty today.”
you grin, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “i know,” you reply, voice light, teasing. “but thank you for noticing.”
she laughs, rolling her eyes affectionately before going back to work.
you glance around, eyes sweeping the room—the cozy tables, the soft hum of conversation, the warm light spilling through the big windows. sakura’s at the bar with a few of hajime’s friends, loud and laughing, waving when they spot you. they know who you are, of course. everyone does. hajime’s spoiled princess, his temper in heels, his soft spot in a short skirt. it’s not an insult, not really—it’s just what they say when they think you can’t hear.
you nod at them, polite but detached, not stopping as you move deeper into the café. the world narrows to the back booth, the one tucked beneath the big hanging plant that hajime likes because he says it makes the sunlight softer.
and there he is.
hajime sits with his back to the window, one arm resting across the booth, his hair slightly messy, his sleeves rolled up. you almost smile when you see him—almost—until your eyes shift to the other side of the table.
misaki.
of course. fucking misaki.
sitting across from him like she belongs there, hands folded neatly over the table, that same too-sweet smile plastered across her face. she’s leaning forward just slightly, the sunlight catching the gloss on her lips, her eyes soft and full of something that makes your stomach twist.
for a second, everything goes still. you don’t even blink. just stare, expression calm, too calm, like the kind of silence that comes before a storm shatters the sky. your heels click against the floor as you take another step forward, the sound cutting through the air sharper than the hum of conversation around you.
and hajime—poor, dumb, beautiful hajime—looks up just then, eyes catching yours, and his smile falters for half a heartbeat.
and that’s when you think—yeah, someone’s going to bleed for this.
you can feel the tension long before you reach the table — the kind that makes your pulse slow instead of quicken, that eerie calm that comes right before you start smiling like someone about to commit a small, beautiful crime. your shoes echo against the floor, the soft thud of each step deliberate, measured, and you hold your bag in one hand like a weapon, your phone in the other, grip tight enough to crack the case.
misaki looks up when you’re close enough to see her expression shift — that polite mask slipping for a split second before she pastes on something almost human. her smile twitches, her jaw stiffens, and her eyes flick from your face to your legs to your neckline and back again, calculating. you can see it, that urge she’s fighting not to roll her eyes, not to look away, and it makes your own smile sharpen like glass.
and then there’s hajime.
he look at you like the sun just clocked in for overtime, grin stretching wide, the corners of his eyes creasing, the kind of smile that makes everyone else in the room fade out. you catch the way his gaze slides sideways for a second — to misaki — just long enough to make a silent point before coming back to you.
“you look so pretty,” he says, voice low, full of warmth, the kind that slips under your skin before you can stop it.
you blink at him, that half-smile never leaving your lips. “do i?”
“yeah,” he murmurs, hand already finding your waist like it’s instinct. he tugs you closer, guiding you down beside him with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times before, his thumb brushing slow circles against your hip.
you murmur a small thank you, tone sweet but your eyes never leave misaki. she’s sitting stiff now, back straight, her bitter smile doing a bad job of hiding the jealousy that’s practically humming in the air. hajime leans in, presses a soft kiss against your cheek, and the sound — that quiet, affectionate little moment — feels louder than the espresso machine, than the chatter, than anything else around you.
you tilt your head slightly, still holding her gaze, smiling like you’re both in on a joke she doesn’t understand.
“you look… nice,” misaki says suddenly, her voice dipped in sugar, sarcasm leaking through like poison. “but don’t you think that dress is a little too revealing? i mean—” she glances at hajime, all faux innocence and fluttering lashes, “if i had a boyfriend like him, i’d never wear something like that. i wouldn’t want to disrespect him by dressing for anyone else’s eyes.”
there it is. pick-me poetry.
you can hear your own blood thrum in your ears, the way your smile doesn’t falter but your grip on hajime’s arm tightens. he glances down at your dress — slow, deliberate, tracing the curve of the fabric like he’s cataloguing every reason he disagrees — before looking back at misaki.
“nah,” he says simply, shaking his head once, that lazy grin sliding back into place. “she can wear whatever she wants.”
misaki blinks, like she didn’t expect him to answer at all. “but—”
he cuts her off with a shrug, still smiling. “it doesn’t matter. she’s not dressing for anyone else. i know that. she likes looking good. i like seeing her happy. that’s it.”
and then his tone dips, casual but with that rough edge of finality. “besides, if someone ever got stupid enough to think they could say something about it, they’d figure out real quick who they’re dealing with.”
you hum low in your throat, turning your head slightly toward him, voice just above a whisper. “you’re so romantic when you’re threatening people,” you tease, lips curling.
he chuckles, leaning closer until your shoulder brushes his chest, his breath warm against your temple. “you like that, huh?”
“mm.” you hum again, eyes cutting back to misaki, who’s staring at you both like she just swallowed glass. “lucky for you,” you say softly, a wicked tilt to your mouth, “you’re not his girlfriend.”
her expression twitches, that polite smile cracking for half a heartbeat.
you rest your chin against hajime’s shoulder, fingers idly tracing patterns along the inside of his wrist. “see, the thing is,” you continue, tone syrupy, cruel in the prettiest way, “he actually likes it when i look this good. can’t stop touching me when i do.”
hajime lets out a quiet laugh, low and breathy, his thumb slipping under the hem of your dress just slightly — not enough to be scandalous, but enough to make a point. “don’t start,” he murmurs, voice quiet enough for only you to hear.
“what?” you whisper back, grinning. “i’m just helping her understand the curriculum. she clearly didn’t do her homework.”
misaki exhales through her nose, eyes narrowing just slightly before she pastes her smile back on, all polite poison. the air between you three stretches thin, sharp, almost fragile.
you just lean in closer to hajime, your perfume mixing with the scent of coffee and tension, your voice a lazy drawl against his ear. “see?” you murmur, just loud enough. “i told you she’d still be around.”
he sighs, half amused, half resigned, and presses another kiss to your cheek. “yeah,” he says softly, “but now she knows where she stands.”
and you smile, small and slow and devastating, because he’s right — she does.
misaki doesn’t know when to quit — or maybe she does and just enjoys testing the limits of your patience, poking around to see how far she can stretch before you bite. she tilts her head when she speaks, voice all honeyed sugar, the kind that sticks to your skin in a way that makes you want to scrub it off.
“you know,” she starts, pretending it’s casual, eyes flicking to the edge of your dress again, “with the way you dress, you probably don’t like to get dirty, huh?”
the words come out soft, almost playful, but you can hear the undertone, the spoiled little princess echo that hides underneath. she keeps going before you can even respond, smiling so sweetly it hurts. “i mean, i get it—clothes like that must cost, what, hundreds? thousands? they don’t really belong anywhere near mud.”
you can feel your jaw tense, but your smile stays, slow and deliberate. you glance at hajime, who’s sipping his drink, watching the exchange with the look of a man who’s both entertained and deeply aware that he might need to stop you before you start a fire.
“you’re probably right,” you say finally, tone bright enough to be dangerous. “they don’t belong near mud. or weeds.”
her smile falters for half a second, but she catches it, leaning forward with mock sympathy. “that’s what i thought. i just find it a little sad, you know?” she says softly, voice laced with fake pity. “that hajime has to do all that work himself. must be tiring. it’d be nice for him to have his girlfriend—” she drags out the word, lets it hang there, heavy and possessive, “—help him sometimes. gardening together sounds kind of romantic, don’t you think?”
hajime’s hand twitches under the table, probably because he can already feel the murder rising off you in slow, steady waves.
misaki isn’t done, of course. she smiles, all gentle and pure and nauseating. “but don’t worry,” she adds, her tone the perfect imitation of care. “you don’t have to stress yourself about it. i’m always there, so i can help him. really, it’s no trouble at all. you don’t even need to come to bofurin anymore. i’ll be there for him.”
it’s the for him that does it. the way she says it like it’s a promise, like it’s a shared secret you’re intruding on. she’s smiling like she’s already won, like this is her territory now, and it’s so infuriating you can practically hear the blood rushing in your ears.
you inhale slowly, turn your head toward hajime with the calm of a woman one wrong word away from an arrest record. “you hearing this?”
he hums, noncommittal, hand slipping a little higher on your thigh under the table — a silent warning, or maybe a prayer.
you tilt your chin toward misaki, the edges of your lips curling. “that’s sweet,” you say, the sarcasm so smooth it sounds almost sincere. “but i’m a little too pretty for that kind of thing. dirt doesn’t really go with my skin tone.”
she blinks, confused, and you continue, your voice low and syrupy. “i like looking good for my boyfriend. spotless. perfect. he likes when i do too. right, hajime?”
he lets out a quiet breath of laughter, squeezing your leg gently. “yeah,” he murmurs, eyes flicking between you both. “i do.”
“see?” you say, smiling wider. “i’m not built for shovels and dirt and… bugs. i’d rather make sure i look like this every time he looks at me.”
misaki’s smile is starting to crack now, but she still tries to hold on, her tone softening again, fake and trembling. “i guess not everyone’s like that,” she says. “some of us just don’t mind getting our hands dirty. it’s about… effort, i think.”
you tilt your head, grin sharpening. “oh, i don’t mind effort. i just put mine into things that actually get results. you wouldn’t understand, though.”
she frowns, a tiny twitch, and you lean in closer, eyes half-lidded, voice dipping just enough. “you don’t have a boyfriend, right? that’s why you don’t get it. it’s a different kind of work, keeping someone’s attention.”
her mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out. hajime’s quiet laugh slips between the tension, low and husky, his fingers tracing slow circles against your thigh like he’s both calming you and holding himself back from clapping.
“behave,” he whispers against your ear, and you hum softly, smiling at him without breaking eye contact with her.
“i am behaving,” you murmur. “just letting her know the dress code for my relationship doesn’t include mud.”
she exhales through her nose, and for the first time, her smile doesn’t return. you can see it—the faint flicker of irritation, the moment she realizes she lost the rhythm of her own game.
you lean back against hajime, letting him wrap an arm around your shoulder, your expression the picture of satisfied calm. “see?” you say sweetly, voice dripping in victory. “everything’s easier when people know their place.”
and hajime, ever the patient, lovestruck fool, just laughs quietly into your hair. “you’re gonna get us banned from this café one day,” he mutters.
you grin. “worth it.”
misaki looks at you like you’ve just thrown a glass of wine in her face. her smile collapses into disbelief, eyes darting between you and hajime as if she’s waiting for someone to back her up, to rescue her from the humiliation you’ve just gift-wrapped and handed over with a bow. when no one speaks, she laughs once under her breath, sharp and hollow. then she turns her attention fully to him.
“hajime,” she says, voice all brittle sugar, “you’re seriously going to let her talk to me like that?”
he blinks, frowning slightly, genuinely confused. “like what?”
“disrespectfully!” she snaps, sitting up straighter, eyes wide. “she’s been rude this entire time and you just sit there like—like it’s okay!”
you raise an eyebrow, leaning back against him like the show’s gotten good. his arm stays around you automatically, his hand resting warm at your hip, while you watch her unravel piece by piece.
“disrespect?” you echo softly, smiling just enough to sting. “that’s a big word for someone who told me i’m not girlfriend material five minutes ago.”
she glares at you, breath catching. “see? that’s what i mean. you twist everything. i was just being honest. you can’t even take a little advice without acting superior.”
“oh, don’t flatter yourself,” you say, voice calm, almost sweet. “i don’t act.”
hajime sighs, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s been dropped in the middle of a storm he didn’t see coming. “misaki,” he starts, gentle, trying to smooth it out, “come on, you kind of started—”
she cuts him off before he can even finish. “i didn’t start anything! i was being nice. i was trying to have a conversation and she—” she gestures at you, voice rising—“she keeps insulting me, mocking me, twisting everything i say like i’m the problem!”
you tilt your head, resting it against hajime’s shoulder, watching her spiral. she’s not yelling yet, but her tone’s slipping—too high, too shaky, the sound of someone who knows she’s losing ground but can’t stop digging.
“you are the problem,” you murmur, but you don’t say it loudly. it’s soft, almost a purr, and it makes her freeze.
“what did you just—”
“misaki,” hajime tries again, quieter this time, glancing around because now a few of his friends at the bar have started to notice the shift in tone, the way the air’s getting thick. “hey, relax. look, i get you didn’t mean anything, but she’s—”
“stop defending her!” misaki snaps, the words hitting harder than she probably meant them to. she pushes her chair back, the legs scraping against the floor, eyes glassy with anger. “you always do this—she says whatever she wants, and you just laugh like she’s some kind of joke. she’s mean, hajime. she’s—”
he leans back, posture still calm but his expression tightening. “she’s my girlfriend,” he says simply. “what did you expect me to do?”
she falters. for a moment, the silence stretches. you can see the exact second she realizes there’s no saving this, that the conversation’s already over. her lips tremble with another retort that never comes out, her pride forcing it back down.
and then she laughs again—loud, awkward, brittle. “fine,” she says, voice cracking just slightly at the edge. “whatever. i hope you two are happy together.”
and with that, she grabs her bag, turns sharply, and storms out of the café, the door swinging hard enough behind her that the bell jangles out of tune.
you watch her go, the corner of your mouth twitching upward, and hajime just sits there beside you, hand still on your thigh, staring after her like he’s watching the last petal fall off a dying flower.
you watch the door swing shut behind her, the bell still jangling out of rhythm, and you can’t help it—your mouth moves before your brain does. “god, she walks like a toddler who just got told santa isn’t real,” you mutter, leaning back in your seat, swirling your drink lazily like you didn’t just watch a girl’s ego disintegrate in front of an audience. “if she tripped on the way out, i’d call that divine justice.”
hajime lets out a soft sound beside you, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and when he says your name—baby—it’s low and warm, but threaded through with that gentle warning you know too well.
you turn to him, frown tugging at your lips. “what?”
he’s looking at you, shoulders still relaxed but eyes soft, a kind of calm you find both grounding and infuriating. he exhales, long and quiet, rubbing a thumb over the back of your hand before speaking. “don’t do that.”
“don’t do what?” you snap, more defensive than you meant to.
he leans back, expression patient, too patient. “that thing where you start tearing people apart when you’re mad. i get it, she pissed you off, but—”
“but what?” you interrupt, voice sharp enough to slice the air. “she started it. i didn’t even do anything until she decided to play saint mary of the mud pit. if anyone should’ve been told to shut the fuck up, it’s her, not me.”
he doesn’t raise his voice—he never does—but his hand catches yours mid-gesture, fingers wrapping around your wrist in that steady, grounding way that makes your heartbeat skip. “i know,” he says, quietly, like he’s been waiting for you to stop fighting long enough to listen. “i know she did. but sometimes you can be mean, baby.”
you freeze for a second, the word mean hanging in the air, heavy and dangerous. he must see the spark flicker behind your eyes because he adds quickly, “which i like, don’t get me wrong. i love that about you. i love that you don’t take anyone’s shit. it’s one of the reasons i—” he stops, half-smiling, thumb brushing slow circles on your knuckles. “i just wish you’d try a little harder with my friends. that’s all.”
you stare at him, incredulous, before scoffing and yanking your hand out of his grip. “wow,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “unbelievable.”
he blinks, confused but still calm. “what?”
“i do get along with your friends,” you shoot back. “i’m nice to hiragi. i laugh at tsubaki’s stupid jokes. i even let him call me princess without throwing my drink at him. i get along great with kotoha, too, by the way—maybe because she doesn’t try to fuck you over a flowerpot.”
hajime’s lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile, which only makes you more annoyed. he opens his mouth, probably to say something level-headed, but you cut him off before he gets the chance.
“are you seriously blaming me right now?” you ask, voice dropping low, sharp enough to draw blood.
his brows lift slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that angle. “no, i’m not blaming—”
“because it sounds like it,” you say, tone flattening. “it sounds like you’re saying it’s my fault she lost her mind, that i should’ve been nice while she was sitting there basically volunteering to be your emotional support gardener.”
he groans quietly, running a hand through his hair, the gesture slow and tired. “that’s not what i said.”
“then what are you saying?” you demand, leaning forward, eyes narrowing. “that i should’ve smiled and held her hand while she told me she’ll take my place? you wanted me to what—thank her for her fucking charity?”
his eyes soften again, that gentle patience you both hate and love returning. “no,” he says, voice low. “i wanted you to not let her get to you.”
you snort, looking away, your reflection catching faintly in the café window. “too late for that.”
he hums quietly, and even though he doesn’t reach for you this time, you can feel his gaze lingering, the air between you stretching thin—frustration, affection, and something you can’t quite name humming underneath.
you cross one leg over the other, arms still folded tight, pretending you don’t care, pretending you’re not waiting for him to say something that’ll make you soften.
but he doesn’t. not yet. he just watches you, eyes calm, lips curved in that small, maddening smile that always makes you want to kiss him and punch him at the same time.
you look away, staring hard at the window like it did something wrong. the reflection of your face blurs in the glass — angry, tight, too quiet. your chest feels like it’s caving in, the kind of ache that’s more fury than sadness but still burns the same. your jaw tightens, lips pressing together, and you bite down on the inside of your cheek just to keep it from trembling. you can feel the heat pooling in your throat, that humiliating sting behind your eyes, the kind you’d rather choke on than let fall in front of him.
you hate it. hate that he gets to sit there so calm, like he’s the reasonable one, while you’re trying to swallow every ounce of frustration that’s clawing up your ribs. he’s been letting that girl flutter around him like some fucking stray cat for weeks, smiling through it, saying “she’s harmless.” harmless. sure. until now she’s made you look like the jealous one, and somehow, somehow, you’re the problem.
your arms stay crossed tight, so tight your nails dig half-moons into your skin. the air between you is heavy, the silence thick enough to taste. hajime shifts beside you — you can feel the movement, that careful lean forward, the way his shoulder brushes yours, cautious.
“hey,” he says softly, and it sounds too gentle, too forgiving for the mood you’re in. you don’t move, don’t look at him, eyes locked on the glass. “baby, look at me.”
you don’t.
“come on,” he murmurs, fingers brushing your wrist, testing. “don’t do this. i’m sorry, alright? i didn’t mean to make you feel like i was blaming you.”
you scoff quietly, the sound sharp and bitter. “yeah, sure you didn’t.”
he sighs, trying again, his hand moving to uncross your arms, his touch slow, coaxing. “hey, stop. don’t shut down, okay? we’ve got the whole afternoon—remember the date? you’ve been talking about that damn reservation since yesterday.”
you yank your arm out of his reach, turning your head away, refusing to meet his eyes. “yeah, well,” you mutter, voice low but laced with venom, “i don’t really feel like playing happy couple after you just fucking blamed me.”
his head snaps up slightly at that, eyes narrowing in disbelief, but his voice stays low. “i didn’t blame you.”
you laugh once, sharp and humorless. “you basically did.”
“no, i didn’t.”
“you did.”
he groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose, frustration bleeding through his calm tone for the first time. “you’re twisting it.”
“am i?” you shoot back, finally looking at him, eyes burning. “because it sounded a hell of a lot like you telling me i’m the problem. like i’m supposed to just let her run her mouth and behave while she calls me spoiled to my face.”
he opens his mouth to argue, but the words die on his tongue when he sees your eyes glisten. his expression softens instantly, like watching glass crack. “hey,” he says again, quieter now, voice almost tender. “don’t cry. please.”
“i’m not crying,” you bite out, even though your throat betrays you, voice warbling just slightly. you turn your head again, blinking fast, furious at yourself for even letting the tears threaten to fall. “i’m just… so fucking mad right now.”
he exhales, slow, deliberate, leaning closer until his shoulder presses into yours, his hand hovering near your knee but not daring to touch again. “i know,” he says softly. “i know you are.”
you shake your head, jaw tight. “no, you don’t. because you’re sitting here all calm and reasonable like it’s not a big deal, like i’m overreacting. but she’s been hanging all over you for weeks, hajime. and you’ve just been letting her.”
he looks down, jaw ticking, but doesn’t interrupt. you push on, the words tumbling out, hot and bitter. “and now she finally gets what’s coming, and somehow, somehow, i’m the one who needs to behave? unbelievable.”
his hand moves again, reaching for yours, but you pull back before he can touch you, crossing your arms tighter, legs turning toward the aisle. the motion is stubborn, childish, maybe even cruel, but you don’t care.
he sighs again, that long, weary kind of sigh that says he’s trying to pick his words carefully. “i didn’t blame you,” he repeats, slower this time, his tone softer. “i just… wanted to calm things down.”
you don’t respond, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the window again. outside, people move in and out of the café, laughing, holding hands, their lives simple and oblivious. you sit there in silence, the ache in your chest tightening with every second, your anger too raw to hide and too tangled to untangle.
you can feel him watching you, though. his gaze heavy, patient, worried. and you hate that, too — the way he still looks at you like he loves you through all the mess, like your anger is just another thing he wants to take care of.
you don’t even bother wiping your tears — they slip down your cheek slow and angry, hot with humiliation, and the worst part is that he still looks soft. he still looks calm. like you aren’t seconds away from burning the café to the ground. you can’t stand that gentle tone, the way he’s trying to fix it with warmth, as if warmth will make you forget how small you felt two minutes ago.
“i want to go home,” you mutter, voice cracking halfway through, sharp but trembling, the kind of voice that comes from holding too much in for too long. you reach for your bag, your phone, your composure that’s hanging on by a damn thread. “you can go on your little date with fucking misaki. i’m done.”
“hey—hey, baby, no,” hajime says immediately, his voice panicked now, eyes wide as he leans closer. “don’t say that, please. come on, don’t do this. i’m sorry, alright? i didn’t mean it that way.”
you ignore him, unlocking your phone, scrolling through your recent calls, your tears dripping onto the screen and smudging your mascara. you sniff, wipe at your face with the back of your hand, and press the call button before he can reach you.
“you don’t have to call your driver,” he says quickly, trying to sound soothing but failing miserably. “i’ll take you home myself, okay? just put the phone down.”
you shake your head, refusing to even look at him, the phone pressed to your ear, telling your driver to pick you up. “no. you can take misaki home,” you bite out after, hiccuping mid-word, the sound making you even angrier. “go drop her off, give her a flower crown, plant your fucking feelings next to your little rose bush and watch them wilt together.”
he blinks, startled, almost choking on his own breath. “what—what the hell does that even mean?”
“it means you can go play gardener barbie with your emotional support earthworm, hajime!” you snap, sniffling hard, your voice breaking into something half-hysterical and half-furious. “you two can water your trauma and compost your self-awareness for all i care. maybe you’ll grow a backbone next season.”
“jesus, baby—” he starts, but you keep going, eyes glassy and wild.
“no, i’m serious! go teach her how to hold a shovel properly, maybe she’ll finally dig herself a personality. you guys can post about it too—#couplegoals, #rootboundidiots, #photosynthesisandchill.”
he groans quietly, running both hands through his hair, clearly torn between laughing and throwing himself off the booth. “you’re insane.”
“good,” you hiss, still hiccuping, wiping your nose with a napkin like your anger’s leaking out of every pore. “then maybe i’ll finally be immune to watching you play horticultural therapist for every girl with a trowel fetish.”
“what the fuck is a trowel fetish—”
“look it up!” you snap, voice too loud, your pout deepening until it hurts. you sound like you’re scolding him and begging him all at once, and it drives you even crazier.
he reached forward, trying to grab your wrist, trying to ground you again, but you pull away sharply, clutching your bag to your chest like a shield. “don’t touch me,” you warn, voice shaking. “go touch your plants. or her. or whatever living organism wants your attention today.”
he exhales, long and low, dragging a hand down his face, and when he looks at you again, it’s that same damn softness that makes you want to scream. “i’m not taking misaki anywhere,” he says firmly, trying to meet your eyes. “i’m taking you home.”
you glare at him through your tears, the kind that don’t fall gracefully but roll down hot and angry, pooling at your chin. “bullshit,” you sniff, snatching a tissue. “you’ll probably drive her to bofurin after i’m gone and plant matching sunflowers or something, then she’ll post about it with some stupid caption like ‘growth is beautiful’ and you’ll fucking like it.”
he presses his lips together, shoulders shaking slightly like he’s biting back a laugh, and it only makes your chest burn hotter.
“don’t laugh at me,” you warn, voice wobbling.
“i’m not,” he says quickly, even though he is, his thumb rubbing at his temple, his tone patient and tired but fond in that way that makes you hate him more. “you’re mad, i get it. but you know i’d never pick her over you.”
you scoff, wiping your face again, pouting so hard it aches. “you shouldn’t even have to think about picking, hajime. you should’ve uprooted that bitch the second she started growing near you.”
he blinks, then lets out a soft, helpless laugh, the kind that makes your lip tremble all over again. “baby,” he says quietly, reaching for you again even though you’re still trying to call your driver, “you’re the only person i’d ever want to plant anything with.”
“stop being cute,” you mutter, voice small, angry, hiccuping, as you jab at your phone screen again, refusing to look at him. “i hate you.”
“you don’t,” he says softly.
and that only makes the next hiccup come out louder, meaner, messier, because goddammit, he’s right — and that’s what hurts the most.
he keeps talking — god, he won’t shut up — and every word feels like sandpaper dragging across a bruise. you’re staring down at your lap, nails digging into your palm, phone still in your grip, and hajime’s sitting there beside you looking like a man drowning in guilt and desperation.
“baby, please, listen,” he murmurs, voice low and soft and frantic at the edges. “i’m sorry, okay? i’m a fucking idiot. i didn’t mean to upset you, i swear. i was trying to make it better, not worse.”
you don’t move, don’t even blink. you’re done. the silence between you is sharp and heavy, like it could slice through skin.
he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, the strands falling into his face. “look at me,” he says, gently tugging your chin, but you turn your head, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the café window instead.
“i fucked up, okay?” he mutters, voice thick with regret now. “i didn’t think before i spoke. i said something stupid, and now my gorgeous girlfriend’s crying on the day we were supposed to have our date.”
you let out a humorless laugh, low and bitter, your lips trembling from how hard you’re biting them. “oh, you think?” you hiss, your voice tight, dripping sarcasm. “wow, someone give you a phd in emotional awareness.”
“baby—”
“don’t ‘baby’ me,” you snap, cutting him off. “you’re lucky i’m not throwing this drink in your face. i’ve seen dogs handle loyalty better than you today.”
he flinches slightly, breath catching, but still doesn’t stop. “you’re right,” he murmurs, still trying to reach for you, still gentle like an idiot who doesn’t know when to quit. “you’re right, i was a dumbass. i’m sorry. please, don’t cry anymore, okay? you’re too pretty for that.”
“oh, fuck off with that line,” you spit, still not looking at him. “if i had a dollar for every time you used ‘you’re too pretty for that,’ i’d buy a better boyfriend.”
his lips twitch — maybe in pain, maybe amusement — you don’t care. you’re done pretending you’re fine. you hear him sigh again, long and ragged, his thumb brushing a tear off your cheek before you slap his hand away.
“stop touching me,” you mutter.
he does, finally. he leans back, defeated but still watching you, his knee bouncing restlessly under the table.
“i just—fuck, i hate this,” he mumbles. “i hate making you cry. i hate that you’re mad at me. it’s the fucking worst feeling in the world.”
“good,” you snap, wiping another tear away. “maybe next time you’ll think before you decide to be a spineless, clueless, misaki-apologist piece of shit.”
his mouth opens like he wants to argue, but your driver appears outside the glass door before he gets the chance. hajime spots him first, his head jerking up in relief like he’s been waiting for divine intervention.
“wait, no—don’t go yet,” he says quickly when you stand, reaching for you again. but you’re already grabbing your bag, shoulders squared, expression cold enough to frost glass.
you don’t even look at him when you walk past. he rushes up anyway, long legs closing the distance easily. he gets to the café door before you do and pulls it open, stepping aside.
“baby, come on,” he murmurs, his voice breaking just a little. “don’t do this. not over this.”
you walk out without a glance, heels clicking against the pavement, the weight of your anger holding your chin higher. hajime follows, trailing a few steps behind, still muttering apologies under his breath like a prayer.
“i’m sorry,” he keeps saying. “i’m sorry, i’m a fucking idiot, i know i am. i didn’t mean to make you feel like shit. please—hey, stop walking so fast—”
you stop right by the car, turning to him with a glare sharp enough to gut a god. “don’t fucking please me,” you hiss, your voice trembling with the effort of holding back another wave of tears. “you can take that tone and use it on your little gardening partner, maybe it’ll make the weeds grow faster.”
his shoulders sag, his breath shaking, but he still steps forward, reaching out like he’s going to hold the door for you.
“i’ll take you home,” he says, softer now, almost pleading.
you laugh—dry, cruel, beautiful in that venomous way. “no thanks,” you say, snatching the door handle before your driver can even move. “you can take misaki’s ass home. maybe you two can plant a fucking family tree while you’re at it, carve your initials in the trunk and die under it together like the two dirt-souled lovebirds you are.”
he winces, opening his mouth to say something, but you’re already ducking into the car, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “hell, maybe you can name your kids after fertilizer brands. that way, every time someone says ‘shit,’ you’ll think of her.”
“baby, stop—”
“don’t call me baby,” you snap one last time, your voice thick and trembling and furious, “you don’t get to call me that after defending that potted-plant enthusiast.”
he grips the top of the door, knuckles white, his other hand reaching for you again like he can still fix it. “please,” he whispers, but you won’t look at him.
you sniff hard, shaking your head, and mumble, “go water your conscience, hajime.”
and then the driver starts the car, the sound of the engine swallowing whatever apology he tries to mumble next, the world blurring as the café disappears behind you — him standing there, hands in his hair, looking every bit the idiot you just called him.
and umemiya hajime tries everything—calls, texts, paragraphs that could qualify as love letters if they weren’t just him apologizing seventeen different ways. every few minutes, another ping lights up your phone, his name glowing like he’s haunting you. you see them. you just don’t care. let him sweat.
because for all his patience and warmth, hajime can’t stand one thing in this world—his girlfriend angry at him. it eats him alive, that quiet space where you don’t talk to him, where your voice is replaced by silence. he can handle a punch, a slap, a full-blown tantrum. but your silence? that’s his apocalypse.
so by eight, he shows up. no call, no warning. the housekeeper must have let him in, because the next thing you hear is the deep, hollow creak of your bedroom door being pushed open. your room is massive—big enough to echo the sound of his shoes on the marble. the kind of big that makes his apartment feel like a closet. he pauses by the door for half a second, taking it all in, that soft, low whistle under his breath that he doesn’t even realize he makes.
you’re on the bed, sitting against the headboard, your knees tucked up, silk pajamas hugging you like a whisper. the balcony doors are open, letting the night air drift in, your hair moving slightly in the breeze. you don’t even look surprised. just annoyed. pretty and annoyed—a deadly combination he’s learned to fear and adore.
“what the fuck do you want?” you say, voice low and sharp, not even turning fully to him. “i thought i made it clear i didn’t want to see your piece-of-shit self tonight.”
he doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch. the insult rolls off him like water off glass. he steps inside, shuts the heavy door behind him with a soft click, then locks it. you glare at him for that, but he doesn’t care. he hums, hands sliding into his pockets as he walks deeper into your room, his lips twitching at the corner like he’s trying not to smile.
“yeah,” he says quietly, stopping at the edge of your bed before sitting down. “i’m a piece of shit.” his tone is steady, but there’s a flicker of guilt in his eyes that gives him away. “so why don’t you tell me exactly why?”
the challenge hangs in the air between you, thick and dangerous. you finally turn your head, eyes sharp enough to kill. “you really want me to spell it out?”
he shrugs lightly. “might as well hear it from the source.”
you scoff, the sound short and mean. “fine. you’re a piece of shit because you’ve got the emotional intelligence of a rock and the situational awareness of a traffic cone. because you let some over-perfumed, photosynthesis-obsessed charity case orbit around you for weeks while she looked at you like she was about to hump the hydrangeas.”
his jaw tightens slightly, but he stays quiet. you keep going.
“you’re a piece of shit because you sat there like a golden retriever on standby while she called me spoiled, and you didn’t even blink. because instead of backing me up, you told me to behave—like i was the one who needed manners. newsflash, hajime, i wasn’t raised in a barn.”
you lean forward, eyes flashing. “you’re a piece of shit because you keep acting like your niceness makes you some kind of saint when really it just makes people think they can walk all over you—and by extension, me. and i don’t get walked on. not by some chlorophyll-brained pick-me with a shovel and definitely not by my boyfriend who should’ve told her to fuck off the second she batted her eyelashes.”
you exhale sharply, chest rising and falling, your anger so thick it hums. “there. that’s your summary. congratulations. you’re the human embodiment of a doormat with biceps.”
he stares at you for a long beat, jaw slack, breath caught halfway between a sigh and a laugh, eyes glassy from how hard he’s holding it in. you know that look—the one he gets when you’re being cruel and brilliant at the same time.
and when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, low, wrecked and fond all at once. “okay,” he says softly. “that’s fair.”
you’re not done. not even close. your voice sharpens again, that lethal edge returning, each word slicing clean and deliberate. “and you know what else?” you hiss, glaring at him like the very sight of him is offensive. “you’re a piece of shit for letting her ruin my day. the day that was supposed to be ours. our date. the one you promised would make up for all the bullshit this week.”
you sit up straighter, arms folding over your chest, chin lifting high like a queen about to announce someone’s execution. “you’re a piece of shit because you let that girl get in between us like she fucking belonged there. you sat there—smiling, nodding, pretending she was part of the conversation—while she pissed all over the mood i built, and you didn’t tell her to shut the fuck up. you didn’t even blink. you just let her talk, and talk, and talk—like some possessed lawn decoration who didn’t realize she wasn’t invited to the goddamn picnic.”
hajime exhales softly through his nose, but you’re on a roll now. your tone slides from sharp to venomous, your words slick with sarcasm. “you should’ve told her the only thing you and her were growing was a distance, not some fucking roses. a stupid, tragic, half-dead bush that’s probably crying for help under her fake nails. i hope the thing dies, by the way.”
you pause just long enough to give him the kind of look that makes men rethink their entire life choices. “you know i love roses. you know that. they’re my favorite flower, hajime. and now—” your voice cracks, just a little, the anger melting into something raw, “now i have to find something else to like, because every time i see a rose, i’ll think of your dumb ass playing gardener with that chlorophyll-chasing, dirt-scented freak.”
he opens his mouth, but you keep going, your words picking up speed, your sarcasm dripping like honey turned acid. “i can’t even look at roses now without imagining you two standing there with watering cans, smiling like idiots, pretending you’re in some fucking cottagecore commercial for heartbreak. oh, look at us, hajime and misaki, the love story nobody asked for, sponsored by miracle-gro and emotional negligence.”
you laugh, short and bitter, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “so yeah, congratulations. you ruined roses for me. do you have any idea how dramatic that is? who the hell ruins a flower for someone? that’s psychotic behavior.”
you gesture vaguely toward him, voice trembling from equal parts fury and heartbreak. “and don’t you dare try to fix it with one of your sorry smiles or your stupid soft voice. i don’t want to hear ‘baby’ or ‘sweetheart’ or any of that crap. you’re not charming your way out of this one. you killed my favorite fucking flower, hajime.”
his shoulders drop, and for a second, he looks genuinely stricken. like he knows exactly what he’s done but can’t find the words to climb out of the grave he dug himself.
you sniff, crossing your arms tighter, looking away toward the balcony. “piece of shit,” you mutter, quieter this time, but the venom still there, thick and deliberate. “next time you decide to plant something, plant your sense of boundaries. maybe it’ll bloom faster than your fucking stupidity.”
he lets out a shaky breath, and though you’re not looking, you can feel it—the guilt, the way it weighs heavy on him, pulling him forward, pulling him closer.
but you don’t move. not yet. you just sit there in your silk pajamas, glowing under the soft light, furious and heartbroken and beautiful, like the kind of mess only someone stupidly in love could make.
he lets you talk, lets you spill every bit of poison sitting behind your teeth. when you finally run out of words he exhales, eyes flicking between your face and the balcony door.
“okay,” he says quietly, almost hoarse. “you’re right. i let her get near you, i let her get near us. i should’ve shut it down the first time she opened her mouth. i thought she was just harmless noise, but i see how it looks now. it’s on me.”
you don’t answer, still watching him like you’re deciding whether to throw him off the balcony.
he keeps going, voice soft but frantic underneath. “i’ll fix it. i’ll get rid of the fucking roses—hell, i’ll rip the whole bed out tomorrow if it makes you feel better. i’ll plant something else, something just for you. lilies, orchids, daisies—whatever you want. i’ll bring you every damn flower in the city if that’s what it takes.”
you snort, leaning your head back against the headboard. “oh wow, a floral apology tour. maybe you can get a discount card—buy ten bouquets, get your girlfriend’s forgiveness free.”
he smiles a little at that, but it’s weak, guilty. “i mean it,” he says, reaching out. his palm catches the side of your face, thumb brushing the line where your cheek’s still damp. “i’m sorry, baby. she can keep those roses for herself, i don’t give a fuck about them anymore. she’s not coming near you again. not at the garden, not anywhere.”
“good,” you mutter, still not looking at him. “because if she did, i’d turn her into mulch and send her to her own funeral in a flower pot.”
he huffs a laugh, forehead falling forward till it touches yours. “you really scare me sometimes.”
“you should be scared,” you whisper, your voice all sugar and steel. “you’re the one who thought sharing a hobby meant adopting a parasite.”
his shoulders shake with a quiet chuckle, and he leans closer until his nose brushes your temple. “no more parasites. just you. i promise.”
you hum, still pretending you don’t care, even though your hand’s already in his hair, tugging once like punishment. “you better, or next time i’ll be the one planting something—and it’ll be your dumb ass six feet under.”
“deal,” he says softly, kissing the corner of your mouth before you can say another word.
he kisses you like a man desperate for forgiveness, soft at first—testing the waters, lips brushing your jaw, the edge of your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth—each one a quiet apology shaped like warmth. it’s annoying how good he is at this, how every gentle touch feels like he’s rewiring your anger cell by cell. you’re still mad, still seething, but your body betrays you, leaning into the familiar scent of soap and soil and him.
his thumb strokes your chin; another kiss lands just under your eye, another on the tip of your nose, and he murmurs something stupid like “i’m sorry, baby” between each one until your brain starts to blur around the edges.
you groan, half irritated, half drunk on his breath. “you think you can just mouth your way out of this?”
he grins against your skin. “maybe,” he says, voice rough, hopeful.
“yeah, well, don’t get too excited,” you mutter, pushing a hand against his chest though you don’t really mean it. “tomorrow i don’t want to see those stupid fucking roses ever again. burn them, drown them, sell them to a funeral home—I don’t care. just make them disappear before i develop a rash from secondhand betrayal.”
he laughs, low and nervous, the sound vibrating through his chest. “you really hate them that much?”
“hajime,” you say slowly, looking him dead in the eye, “if i see one more petal, i’ll start a bonfire big enough to roast your guilt on. i want that bush gone. dug out. i want the soil salted like we’re closing off a cursed graveyard.”
he presses his forehead to yours, trying not to laugh, but you can feel it—the soft shake of his shoulders.
“i’m serious,” you add, poking his chest hard. “you let that chlorophyll homewrecker touch my favorite flower. you think i can look at a rose now without hearing her voice? please. that plant’s tainted. it’s basically a botanical crime scene.”
he hums, still grinning. “alright. no more roses. i’ll get rid of them tomorrow.”
“good,” you whisper, eyes narrowing. “because if i see a single leaf left standing, i’ll personally rent a bulldozer and flatten that garden myself. and maybe your ego while i’m at it.”
he laughs properly this time, head dropping to your shoulder, the sound rumbling low against your skin. “you’re insane,” he says softly.
you smirk, fingers slipping into his hair as you pull him closer. “yeah, but at least i’m your problem.” and he kisses you again, the kind of kiss that tastes like surrender, like he’s already planning the funeral for those damned roses.
it doesn’t take long for the anger to start crumbling—not completely, not all at once, but enough that your shoulders stop shaking, enough that the edge of your voice softens. hajime’s always been good at this, at quiet apologies that sound like promises, at letting his warmth do the talking. his hands are steady against your jaw, thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin, and every time he says something low and soft, you can feel the fight bleeding out of you.
his voice does that thing again—deep, patient, with that tiny tremor that always sounds like he means every word. “hey,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against your cheek, “breathe, yeah? i’m right here.”
you sigh, half in frustration, half in surrender, your fingers finding the hem of his shirt, tugging lightly. “i hate how you sound so calm,” you mutter, voice muffled. “it’s like your voice was made for manipulating me.”
he laughs quietly, his breath warm against your ear. “i’d call it soothing, not manipulating.”
“whatever,” you say, leaning closer until your forehead rests against his collarbone. your anger’s still there, simmering somewhere in the background, but it’s mixed now—with exhaustion, with affection, with that stupid ache that always shows up when you’re too close to him for too long. you murmur it before you can stop yourself, soft and tired, “i miss you.”
he stills for half a second, then hums, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “missed you too,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. “and i’m sorry again, sweetheart. you must’ve been really upset if you missed me this much.”
you tilt your head up, glaring weakly. “don’t get smug about it.”
he chuckles, his hand sliding down your back, slow and careful. “not smug. just… relieved you still want to see me at all.”
“please,” you snort, swatting his chest. “i wanted to see you so i could yell at you again. don’t flatter yourself.”
he grins, that soft, stupid smile that makes your heart twitch even when you want to punch him. “fair enough. but you’re calmer now, right?”
“barely,” you mutter, though your hand’s already tracing the edge of his jaw, your thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “you owe me.”
his brows lift. “yeah?”
“yeah,” you say, lips twitching. “you better plan another date. and i don’t mean one of your boring, coffee-shop, let’s-hold-hands-and-watch-you-pretend-to-be-a-gardener kind of dates. i want something nice. something expensive. something that doesn’t involve dirt or that woman’s cursed aura.”
he laughs, low and soft, tilting his head until your noses almost touch. “so… spa day, dinner, rooftop champagne?”
“keep talking,” you murmur, smiling against his mouth. “and maybe i’ll let you live.”
he grins, brushing his lips over yours again. “deal.” you hum, satisfied, closing your eyes as you let him kiss you again, the taste of apology and warmth and just enough smugness to remind you why you fell for the idiot in the first place.
you stay quiet for a long time, tracing the seam of his shirt between your fingers, the air heavy and warm from all the things you threw at him earlier. it sits there between you both—your anger, your guilt, your pride—like a ghost that doesn’t know when to leave. hajime keeps running his thumb along the back of your hand, like he’s waiting for something to shift, like he’s scared you’ll pull away again.
finally, you sigh. not the soft kind, the world-weary, dramatic, “fine, i surrender but only halfway” kind. your head stays against his chest, voice muffled and small but still sharp enough to sting. “i was mean,” you mutter. “like… really mean.”
he tilts his head down, kissing the crown of your hair. “mm.”
“and i said some fucked up things,” you continue, twisting your fingers into his shirt, “about you, not about her. i don’t regret any of the shit i said to her. she deserved every syllable. if anything, i wish i’d used bigger words.”
he laughs quietly, low in his throat, the sound vibrating under your ear. “noted.”
“but you…” you pull back enough to look at him, eyes still narrowed but softer now. “you didn’t deserve all of that. maybe eighty percent, tops. i might’ve… gone nuclear when a regular slap would’ve done.”
he hums, pretending to think. “so i’m only eighty percent a piece of shit now? progress.”
you glare, but the corner of your mouth betrays you. “don’t push it.”
his grin widens. “you’re apologizing. that’s new.”
“don’t get excited,” you warn, flicking his collar. “this is a limited-time offer. i’m still mad, i just feel bad for calling you a spineless gardening simp and comparing your emotional awareness to a traffic cone. that was… maybe too creative.”
he bites his lip, trying not to laugh. “i liked the creativity part.”
“yeah, you would,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “you’re lucky you’re hot. if you looked like a thumb, i’d still be screaming.”
he smirks, leaning closer, his breath brushing your cheek. “you’re forgiving me because i’m hot?”
“no,” you correct, voice dripping with sarcasm. “i’m forgiving you because i’m merciful. the hotness just makes it easier to look at your dumb face while i do it.”
he chuckles, kissing the tip of your nose, his hands coming up to cup your jaw again. “i’ll take it.”
you tilt your head, pretending to think. “but just to be clear, i’m only apologizing for being mean to you. not the rest. not the part where i threatened to salt your garden or to start a bonfire with the roses. that’s still on the table.”
he laughs against your skin, the sound so warm it almost makes your chest hurt. “deal.”
“good.” you tug at his shirt, voice softening just slightly. “now start planning my damn date before i change my mind and go back to hating you again.”
he smiles, that stupid, gentle, hajime smile that always makes you feel like you’re the only person in the room. “already on it, princess.” you hum, resting your head back against him. “yeah, you better be. and it better not include a single fucking rose.”
you stay where you are for a bit, your head on his chest, heartbeat steady under your ear, the air thick with warmth and that faint post-argument stillness. his thumb keeps tracing the curve of your waist, the rhythm almost hypnotic. after a while you pull back just enough to look at him, eyes skimming his face — that maddeningly perfect symmetry, the soft smirk that always looks one breath away from trouble. you try to fight the grin tugging at your mouth, suck your lips in like you’re hiding something, but he catches it instantly.
he raises a brow, knuckles brushing your cheek. “what’s that look for? you plotting something? or you’re about to say something perverted, aren’t you?”
you laugh, short and low, the sound melting into the quiet between you. “you wish,” you mutter, smacking his chest with a lazy slap that makes him chuckle.
“nah,” he says, smiling like he already knows what’s coming. “you’ve got that evil sparkle in your eye. that’s your danger zone face.”
you roll your eyes, drawing a little circle on his collarbone with your fingertip. “fine,” you whisper, voice slipping into a mock-serious tone, “you wanna have make-up sex?”
his reaction is immediate: a sharp inhale, a burst of laughter that fills the whole room, head tilting back as he grins like an idiot. you giggle too, the tension cracking open between you.
“jesus,” he laughs, still catching his breath. “you’re unreal. a whole menace wrapped in silk.”
“oh, please,” you snort, leaning closer until your lips brush the edge of his jaw. “you act like i came up with this all by myself. you’re the one who trained me for chaos, remember? i was a perfectly innocent girl before you showed up with your stupid voice and your stupid hands.”
he hums, grinning. “so now i’m the bad influence?”
“oh, absolutely,” you say, fingers curling into his shirt as you tug him closer, until he’s hovering over you. “you built this monster. now deal with it.”
he laughs again, lower this time, the sound rougher around the edges as he shifts his weight, letting you guide him down with that smug little pull. you fall back against the pillows, his body leaning over yours, the mattress dipping with the familiar gravity of him.
“god, you’re trouble,” he murmurs, voice half-amused, half-breathless.
“and yet,” you whisper, smirking, “you’re still here. congratulations on your poor life choices.”
he doesn’t answer. he just kisses you — slow at first, like he’s savoring the taste of forgiveness, his lips brushing yours once, twice, before deepening the kiss. it’s the kind that feels like an apology without words, a quiet ache that makes your chest twist. his mouth is warm, soft, a little desperate; you can feel the tension in his jaw, the slight tremor of relief underneath all the heat.
your hand slides up to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, and he groans softly into your mouth, his laugh ghosting over your skin when you bite at his lip just to be annoying.
“still mad?” he murmurs between kisses.
“ask me again in five minutes,” you mumble against his lips, smiling when he laughs quietly, his breath catching at the sound.
he moves lower, tracing kisses along your jaw, down to the curve of your throat. the world shrinks to the sound of his breathing, the slow, steady drag of his lips against your skin. he lingers there, just under your jawline, his mouth open enough to leave warmth that makes you sigh, your fingers threading into his hair as he works his way down.
“you’re ridiculous,” you whisper, breath uneven, though your tone still carries that familiar sarcasm. “you think kissing my neck’s gonna fix your entire PR disaster?”
he hums, lips brushing the spot just below your ear. “working so far,” he says, the words a low vibration against your skin.
you laugh quietly, a sound that melts into a sigh when he kisses you again, slower this time, longer — lips dragging lazily against the curve of your neck, his breath warm and steady. the scent of him fills everything: soap, coffee, and something faintly floral that makes you roll your eyes mid-blush.
“you smell good,” you whisper.
he chuckles, the sound muffled against your throat. “i showered. i’m trying to smell like redemption.”
“try harder,” you murmur, your hand fisting in his shirt.
he tilts his head, kissing higher, slower, until your breath catches again. his thumb traces the corner of your mouth, the motion tender, almost teasing.
“better?” he whispers.
you hum, pretending to think, even as your heart’s beating too fast. “you’re getting there,” you say finally, your lips twitching. “if you keep going, i might even forgive you by sunrise.”
“i’ll take my chances,” he murmurs, pressing one last kiss just below your jaw before lifting his head, eyes meeting yours with that stupid, boyish smile that always ruins you.
and you sigh, pushing his hair back from his face, the sarcasm softening just a little. “fine,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “maybe i’ll keep you around.”
“oh, lucky me,” he teases, grinning.
“don’t push it,” you mutter, but you’re already pulling him down again.
the next day, the sun’s already too bright for your mood, and you’re still halfway convinced hajime dragged you out just to test your patience. you’re in the passenger seat, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, your attitude set firmly to don’t talk to me unless it’s praise or apology. he’s humming to himself like an idiot, that calm little smile on his face that always looks suspiciously like he knows something you don’t.
“you’re being shady,” you mutter, swirling your straw. “you have that face. that ‘i’m about to do something dumb but it’s romantic so she can’t kill me’ face.”
he glances at you, laughing softly. “you’ll see.”
“if you brought me somewhere near dirt again, hajime, i swear to god—”
“you’ll see,” he repeats, obnoxiously patient, and keeps driving.
by the time you’re standing on the bofurin rooftop again, you’re seconds away from throwing him off it. the sun hits hard, the air smells faintly of soil and humidity, and you’re ready to start your usual speech about how this place is your personal hell on earth—until you look around.
no roses.
not a single one.
the corner where they used to bloom in arrogant little clusters is now spotless, the soil turned, fresh, bare. no sign of red, no smug petals staring back at you like a reminder of your temporary insanity. just dirt, clean and unbothered.
you hum, slow and satisfied, the sound low in your throat as you fold your arms. “well, well, look who actually listens for once in his life,” you say, smirking at him. “did you kill them yourself or did you outsource it to someone with emotional stability?”
he grins, leaning against the fence, hands in his pockets. “i did it this morning.”
“oh, how poetic,” you deadpan. “nothing says devotion like early morning floral homicide.”
he chuckles, stepping closer, his eyes soft even as yours gleam with smug triumph. “you’re welcome.”
“damn right i’m welcome,” you mutter, squinting at the empty patch of soil. “good riddance. those roses had bad energy. smelled like insecurity and pick-me perfume.”
he laughs louder this time, shaking his head. “you’re unbelievable.”
“no, i’m traumatized,” you correct, turning toward him. “do you know how cursed those things were? every time i saw one i could practically hear her voice talking about root systems and sunlight exposure. i had flashbacks, hajime. actual horticultural PTSD.”
he covers his mouth with his hand, clearly trying not to laugh, but the sound still slips out.
“go ahead, laugh,” you say, pointing at him. “but if one rose dares to regrow here, i’m calling an exorcist. i’ll sage this whole fucking rooftop and hang garlic like it’s a vampire nest.”
he grins, stepping behind you, his arms wrapping loosely around your waist. “no roses,” he murmurs against your ear. “just us.”
you hum again, smug as hell, tilting your head back against his shoulder. “as it should be. you and your dirt patch—romantic in a tragic, redemption-arc sort of way.”
“you really can’t just take the win, huh?” he teases, his voice warm, brushing against your skin.
“oh, i’m taking it,” you say, reaching up to pat his cheek lightly. “i’m taking it, framing it, and engraving ‘i was right’ in gold letters.”
he laughs, his breath against your neck. “you’re something else.”
“yeah,” you murmur, glancing over the empty garden with a self-satisfied smile. “something better than a rose.”
and you catch the way he looks at you when you say it—like he agrees, like he’d tear up the whole garden again just to prove it.
It started slowly, so insignificant that no one even noticed how or rather why he'd skip a few Toman meetings from time to time. His friends were quick to adapt to his absence, knowing how impulsively chaotic he is, they figured he'd probably be up to some kind of mischief– he is Keisuke Baji after all.
However, it became more obvious. Chifuyu found it quite unusual for Baji to go to school early and he was nowhere to be found during lunch break. Not only that but his grades were suddenly getting better.
The founders of Toman noticed his strange shift in behavior as well. Whenever they went out together Mitsuya would catch Baji staring at the flowers displayed outside a particular flower shop a little too long. Draken noticed too how the jewelry shop seemed all too interesting to him.
And one day Kazutora ran into Baji buying chocolates, candies and all the sugary stuff he sweared were too sweet for him. "They're not mine," he said but refused to tell whom he bought them for.
Though he denied it, the others already knew that he was in love. Chifuyu even caught him walking you home while carrying your bag. The sweet snacks he bought in your hand and the flower he'd been eyeing for weeks in your other hand.
𓂃✍︎ 18+ mdni · umemiya realizes he has a breeding kink
Umemiya is someone you regard as gentle. Someone who is considerate about everything he does. Most especially, he is nurturing towards people he's grown to care for.
It's no wonder that the entire folks of Makochi, you included, have come to gravitate naturally to him, whether he intended that outcome or not. It's not hard to simply follow someone as good-natured as he is.
It isn't hard to fall in love with him, either. You would know, from how quickly you've become smitten with him, just because he's simply himself.
When you need someone to walk you home late at night, he will be there, freshly showered and smelling like your favorite orange blossom scent. When something doesn't feel right, he will show up at the front of your house and ask what's wrong. When you're hurt, he will tend to you with so much care, you would think you hung up the moon to deserve that kind of treatment.
That's the kind of man he is. Reliable, strong, considerate — every good thing there is becomes an embodiment in Umemiya.
It is also no different from when you and he are being intimate with each other. You trust him. He doesn't give you an ounce of uncertainty. Even months after you suggested you can take it raw with him, he reassures you with a promise that he has enough strength to pull out before coming undone.
Because it's Umemiya. Trust comes so easily with him.
You never doubt his control.
Until today.
He didn't plan on it.
"U-Ume?" You breathe out, unsure. "You just —"
He's gone quiet; Bofurin's leader is staring hard at where he's connected to you, watching the flow of his release leaking out. You've never seen him quite like this. The few times he has rendered everyone speechless because of his silence were due to his fury. However, this calmness is rather foreign.
"Hajime," You cup his cheek and force his head up, hoping it's enough to break him free from his trance. "Hey, you okay?"
He snaps his attention to you. "Yeah." He says with a smile.
"Okay." You relax. "Just wanna make sure. So, did you just —"
"I did."
"It's okay," you quickly reassure, "I can go plan B. So you don't have to worry about any —"
"No." He shakes his head, his palm resting on your stomach while he flutters kisses to your knees. "That was nice. I want to do it again."
"H-Huh?"
"Let me do that again." Something switches in him. Like, suddenly, this is someone who's led countless fights to victory and not the man who would prune a plant and cry about it the very next second.
You should have known then, with the way he watches himself thrust in and out of you. His eyes begin to darken with a heavier dose of lust and determination.
You feel his arm scoop underneath you, lifting your back from the mattress and shifting your position to ride him. When he pulls you close, you feel fuller.
"Oh, my God!" You gasp, digging your nails into his shoulders. "Hajime! Hajime!"
"I want to fill you up, baby." He confesses, chest heaving. "Breed you over and over again. I like to see you full."
Your cheeks flush red at his words.
"I can feel you tighten around me. Do you want that, too?" He marks your neck. "You're going to be full with my children, and everyone's going to know."
"Hajime. Please!"
"I need you to get pregnant." He holds your hips as he pounds harder.
You play with his hair, gone from its usual gelled style.
"Tell me." He mutters hoarsely. "What do you want, my love?"
"I want you," you pant, "and I want you to put a baby in me, Hajime."
When you moan your answer, Umemiya completely loses it. His pace turns unforgiving, nearly borderline punishing. You can only moan strings of gibberish mutters as he explores you thoroughly: sucking your breasts, playing with your clit, and marking you everywhere.
He catches your gaze in time for your release. "Come for me, my love. I've got you. That's my baby girl. There we go."
And you come hard at his command, clenching yourself around him. You hear a sharp intake of breath before he follows suit with a guttural moan. You both collapse back onto the mattress. His shoulders shake with restraint, keeping himself propped up and steady so he doesn't fall on top of you.
He waits for you to settle. But you can still feel him buried inside of you, twitching every so often. He brushes your hair away from your eyes and nudges you with his nose.
"Are you okay?" He smiles.
"Y-Yeah," you can only offer a light chuckle. "T-That felt good."
He slowly rocks himself again. "Stay like that," he softly says, caressing your numbed thighs, "I'm not done with you yet. We're going to keep doing this until I'm sure you're pregnant."
He leans towards your face and kisses you roughly. When he pulls back up and continues his minstrels, you are almost lulled to the rhythmic pace he's doing.
"I love you."
You echo a laugh. "I love you, too."
He kisses your stomach reverently, akin to worshiping someone divine.
"I'm going to keep you full, my love," Umemiya says with his gentle honesty and that big smile of his. "You're going to be a mother tonight."
Warnings: mentions of violence, mentions of suicidal tendancies, mentions of blood
Song: Work song - Hozier
masterlist
Umemiya wasn’t scared of much. You, however, scared the living shit out of him. He undoubtedly and wholeheartedly loved you, but you still scared him.
You were a whole head and a half shorter than him, your eyesight was horrid and you could barely throw a punch to save your life. You looked defenseless and harmless, but what you lacked in height, you made up in fury. You were a hothead with a tongue as sharp as a knife.
Ume was a fighter that used his fists, you were a fighter that used her words.
“Explain yourself.” Your tone sent shivers up his back. You glared at him fiercely, completely ignoring the people around.
The atmosphere turned cold in your presence. Hiragi and Kotoha gulped, trying to make themselves smaller, while the rest watched wide-eyed as their leader seemed to tremble in his boots.
“We had some issues with the Shishitoren,” he scratched the back of his head, laughing nervously.
“So I’ve heard,” you hissed.
“It was Sakura’s fault really,” one of the boys spoke up. Your eyes shot to him, and he visibly jumped. You didn’t recognise him nor the other 2 with him, only Sugishita. They must be new.
“And who is this Sakura that happened to drag my boyfriend into a fight with the Shishitoren?” you crossed your arms.
They all pointed to an angry looking boy with half black half white hair, and different coloured eyes. You raised a brow at the peculiar looking boy. He did look like trouble.
“Uh… I…” he stammered, looking nervously at you.
“We have enough hard-headed idiots with a death wish around here,” you spat, furiously. “Why the hell are you morons letting this kid pull you into a turf mess?”
“Hey I—” Sakura began to interject but the look you gave him was enough to shut him up.
You turned back to Umemiya, strutting towards him. He got up with a shy smile marring his features. You wouldn’t guess he was in hot water with how calm he seemed.
He leaned down to kiss you. A gentle peck to cool you down. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.
This time it did.
“So are you going to tell me what caused this fight?” you asked, your tone a lot calmer than when you first came in. Hiragi let out an audible sigh of relief as you both sat down.
“Of course. Kotoha, bring her a plate, she’ll be here for a bit,” Ume said, waving at Kotoha.
Ume and Hiragi began telling the story, with the new boys, Sakura, Nirei, Suo jumping in occasionally.
You couldn’t say you weren’t angry that it escalated to fighting as you were vehemently against the violent nature of the Bofurin, but you were glad that the issue was resolved.
After finishing your meal, you all left the restaurant. You, Kotoha and Ume made your way home in the dark. You couldn’t see his face, but you knew Ume was likely aching. He loved it, much to your dismay.
You chatted a bit with Kotoha as you walked peacefully, slowing down your step so Ume didn’t have to exert himself to keep up.
“Come on, I’ll change your bandages before we go to bed,” you said to Ume when you got into your little apartment. Kotoha went to her room immediately, feeling spent from her long day at the restaurant.
Ume took your hand as you both walked to your bedroom. Ume took his coat and shirt off before sitting on the bed with his back against the headboard, while you changed into an oversized t-shirt and gathered the first aid kit you, unfortunately, always had to keep stocked up.
Ume was a role model and highly revered in this small town for his great leadership and kind heart. He used his fists to help and protect the community, which everyone was grateful for.
You hated that this was the way. Ume has tried to explain the logic behind him fighting and enjoying it so much but to you, it still looked like unnecessary violence.
You sat in between his extended legs and went to work on the nasty wound he had on his neck. You winced when you saw the gnarly bite mark. You got to work with your ointment and gauze, cleaning the area and wrapping it up again.
“This position is very…” Ume trailed off smiling suggestively. He let his hand wander to your exposed thigh.
“Don’t even think about it,” you warned, but his hand kept rising until it reached your underwear.
“Ume,” you practically growled. He retracted his hand with a pout, allowing you to continue your work in peace.
“I wish you didn’t have to do this,” you muttered sadly as you finished up. You got up to put the kit away, and returned to the bed.
“It’s who I am,” he answered, “and it’s not for nothing.” You both laid down after getting under the blanket and you rested your head on his chest.
“It’s not who you are, though,” you countered, “You just like fighting for some reason. I don’t like it.”
“I fight for the people I love and for the people who need it,” he clarified. You couldn’t argue with that. It was true to an extent.
“Will you ever stop?” You asked.
“Of course I will,” he chuckled, “I can’t fight forever. Someone will eventually come along to take my spot.”
“Oh yeah?” you smiled skeptically, “Who would be strong enough for that?”
“I don’t know but the new kid seemed intent on it,” he responded.
“Who? Sakura?” His seemed like the most obvious choice, based on the little you’d seen of him.
“Yep. He said he came here for the top spot,” he answered, a hint of pride and warmth in his tone. “He has a good heart. No doubt, he’d be a good leader with the proper guidance.”
“He seemed like a little menace to me,” you scoffed.
“A bit,” he laughed, “but like I said, he has a good heart. Just a lot of things he needs to learn and work through.”
“Just like you had…” You understood the empathy Umemiya felt towards people. It was by the grace of someone’s empathy and compassion that he became the man he was.
You could remember it like yesterday, the day you met at the group home. His white hair and sad eyes caught your attention. He didn’t speak to anyone, refused to eat and was always looking for fights and trouble.
You kept your distance because, again, he was clearly troubled, but one day you saw him arriving with one of the foster carer workers, Shitara-sensei, looking a lot less… sad. You remembered staring at him in awe when he joined you and the other kids at the dinner table and ate.
You grew closer until you became an official couple during your last year of middle school. It was only then that he told you what had happened that day and everything else that he had been keeping close to his chest. His parents death, his guilt over it that led him to look for fights that would harm him, or worse, kill him; his attempt to jump off a bridge, the Furin student that saved him. It was all a lot to take in but you did so for him. Ever since, you had been as thick as thieves, with you following behind him in his pursuits.
Umemiya developed a noble ambition of becoming a protector, not only for the kids in our home, but for the community as a whole. That ambition propelled him to the top, where he established the Bofurin. You were always there to wipe the blood from his nose and bandage his battered hand. You hated every minute of it, but that was the only way to achieve his dream.
As you grew older, you thought of your future. A career, marriage, a home, kids. It scared you even more that you couldn’t see an end to the violence that Ume thought was gentle and necessary.
“Just like I had…” he echoed.
“You’ve been fighting for a long time,” you stated, placing a hand on his bruised cheek.
“We have,” he pecked your forehead.
You were an arguer. Kids weren’t particularly kind to orphans, but you were a weak little thing as a child, so you argued. You were quick to anger and you had a thesaurus of insults at your disposal, ready to be spat at anyone who crossed you.
You spent a lot of years with your guard up, waiting for an attack to defend yourself and those you loved from. Through Ume’s endeavours, you soon didn’t need to have your guards up but you kept a few verbal knives ready just in case.
“We have,” you repeated, “and it’s time we stopped.”
“Soon,” he kissed your lips. A tactic to distract you.
“Promise me,” you demanded.
“I promise,” he conceded.
You studied his face for a moment, searching for any sign that he didn’t mean it. Finding none, you relaxed against him, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lull you to sleep.
me in the corner collecting dust as i wait for a gaku oneshot
“𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐨”
a/n: i did it. he's sauurrrr fine i need that bro
ac goes to mimeonsemi
synopsis: gaku hates how you keep beating him at his favorite arcade game.
the first time it happened, gaku barely cared.
he walked into the arcade after finishing a job, pockets heavier than they should've been, still wearing the bored expression of someone who'd seen far too much blood to be impressed by flashing lights and prize counters. he wandered from cabinet to cabinet until one machine caught his eye.
tekken 8.
easy. he cracked his knuckles, shoved a few coins into the machine, and played.
perfect accuracy. ridiculous speed. a score high enough to knock every other name off the leaderboard. it’s like he knew every combo of every character after the first try, aware of every move that could deflect an attack and land a harder hit in return.
he smirked.
gxku. first place.
"nice."
he left.
the next week, he came back. his name was second. and above it sat three stupid little letters. letters from your name.
"who?"
he stared at the screen for a long moment before quietly inserting another coin.
five minutes later – gxku. first place again.
he walked away feeling strangely satisfied.
the week after that – your initials again. first. again.
he frowned. that was more annoying than sakamoto or nagumo.
the fourth week became personal.
the fifth week became insulting.
by the sixth, he was timing his visits around the machine's maintenance schedule because maybe, maybe, someone was cheating. there was absolutely no logical reason his score kept getting beaten by someone whose initials looked like they belonged to a middle school honor student.
he even tried different machines. same result. your initials. every. single. damn. time.
his competitive streak (normally reserved for killing other assassins before they killed him) had somehow transferred to a fighting game tucked into the corner of a shopping mall.
he started optimizing. different grip. different finger placement. less blinking. he watched tournament videos online. he practiced on his phone. he spent so much time in the arcade that one employee started greeting him with, "welcome back." he didn't even know the employee's name.
something had gone terribly wrong. then one rainy friday, after finally reclaiming first place by a measly 43 points, gaku leaned back with a quiet sigh. "finally."
he left.
he came back the next morning. his score had been beaten. by 44 points.
there was no way. that wasn't coincidence. that was mockery.
he looked around the arcade for the first time in weeks instead of immediately sitting down. whoever you were… you had to be here. nobody normal played this much.
he crossed his arms and waited. 10 minutes. 20. 30.
and then you walked in carrying an iced drink, wired earpods around your neck, completely oblivious to the assassin currently watching you from across the room.
you smiled at one of the employees.
they smiled back. "morning."
"morning!"
you wandered directly toward his machine.
gaku narrowed his eyes. no. there was no way. you looked... painfully ordinary. you wore a cute outfit like you had come back from a hangout with your friends. your shoes were clean. you were humming some pop song under your breath. this couldn't be his rival.
you casually set your drink down. inserted a coin. selected expert difficulty. and absolutely annihilated his score.
his eye twitched. you didn't celebrate. you didn’t react at all actually. you simply nodded once, satisfied, grabbed your drink, and turned – only to nearly walk into someone.
you blinked. a very tall man was standing directly in front of you.
“oh, sorry.”
he stared.
you stared back. "can i help you?"
another long silence. then–
"hey."
"yeah??"
"you're the one."
"the one what??"
he pointed at the leaderboard without breaking eye contact. "the one ruining my rankings."
you looked at the screen. then back at him. and laughed. "that's what this is about? i thought someone was specifically trying to beat MY score."
"i was."
"oh."
another awkward silence.
you scratched your cheek. "well... i guess we've been ruining each other's rankings."
"... huh." that... hadn't occurred to him.
you tilted your head. "wait. are you the 'gxku' guy?"
"yeah."
"you're insane. do you know how many hours i've spent trying to beat you?"
"how many?"
you looked genuinely embarrassed. "too many, to be honest."
"same..."
the employee behind the counter nearly dropped the plushies they were organizing. they had spent 2 months watching the leaderboard become a battleground between two anonymous psychopaths. and apparently, neither of them had realized the other was doing the exact same thing.
you smiled. "want a rematch?"
gaku looked at the cabinet. then at you. "best out of 3."
"that's it?"
"best out of 5."
"confident."
"i'm winning."
you grinned. "that's cute.”
"... then best out of 10."
"you're on."
3 hours later, neither of you had left. your drinks had melted. the employee's shift had ended. a crowd had somehow formed behind the machine. people were placing bets. children were chanting whenever one of you hit a perfect combo.
at one point, someone actually whispered, "are they dating?"
"no," another answered. “worse."
you won the 10th game by 2 points.
gaku stared at the results screen as a man who refuses to ever accept defeat. but finally, he sighed. "rematch next week?"
you laughed so hard you had to grab the cabinet for balance. "you know..." you wiped a tear from your eye. "most people ask for my number first."
he considered it. "give me your number then."
"so you can text me?"
"so i know when you're coming."
you snorted. "to prepare?"
"to beat you."
"that's somehow less romantic."
"... was it supposed to be romantic?"
you looked at him for a long second before smiling to yourself. "you're kind of hopeless, man."
"... next saturday?"
you handed him your phone instead. "put your number in."
he frowned. "why?"
"because if i'm going to have an arch-nemesis, i at least want one i can bully over text."
he took the phone, typed his number in, and handed it back.
"i'm still winning next week."
you looked down at the contact he'd saved.
gxku (loses at tekken)
you locked your phone before he could see what you added in parentheses.
"yeah?"
"yeah."
"see you next saturday, loser."
for the first time in months, gaku walked out of the arcade smiling. he'd finally found the idiot responsible for destroying his rankings. unfortunately for him though, he’d also found something else – a feeling. specifically, attraction.
