You flick your fingers through the papers in your hands with a practiced impatience. It was mostly performance— but performance was half the job anyway.
“Repeat that for me?” The tone in his voice was more emotionally charged you’ve ever heard him speak to you.
A simple sigh leaves your lips before you can stop it. Your heels click away from his outstretched chair, not interested to see the incredulous look you knew he had on his face. You couldn’t indulge yourself that quickly.
“I said I quit, Mr. Itadori.”
Or, Ryomen S. Itadori realizes his secretary deserves more.
⭐️ pairing: boss!ryomen itadori x secretary!fem reader.
⭐️ warnings: explicit content, mdni. alcoholism, cunnilingus and fingering. faux dub/con, dacryphilia and somnophilia.
masterlist | previous | next
you are on: i regret (2)
a/n:
i’m actually particularly in love with this chapter lol 🥹 still don’t know how much this is going to pan out but last wc was 6k or something, this one is a whopping 8.2k 😭 like oh my days. also elephant in the room- ao3 is down 💔 tumblr is seeing this first! also yes this song list is long, but whoever can map which scenes goes to which song gets a cookie 🍪
this chapter's vibe:
⭐️ ain't shit by doja cat
⭐️ so what by p!nk
⭐️ backstabber by kesha
⭐️ pennies from heaven by paul aka ft. michael bublé
⭐️ 6 underground by sneaker pimps
⭐️ another day of sun by lalaland cast
⭐️ i know a place (the creek song) by bluey
⭐️ glory box by portishead
⭐️ sexy boy by air
ao3 link here.
“I decline your resignation.” Your head whips around so fast your hair almost pokes you in the eye. He was leaning over his desk, both hands on the table with his piercing gaze trained on you. His chest was heaving silently, clearly irritated.
“Mr. Itadori, you can’t do that. I’ve already filed my—“
“You’re not leaving. I’m not allowing it.”
You scoff and stride to the desk. This was just rich. He wanted to act like a toddler now?
“You can’t keep me here against my will, Mr. Itadori. I already turned in my two weeks to Shuji,”
His jaw tightens. Anyone else would believe he looked positively furious, but you were certain this was him almost throwing a tantrum. He huffs, crossing around the desk to stand right in front of you. The height difference has you looking up. “You want a raise? I’ll double the salary. I won’t even call you outside of work hours.”
You chuckle humorlessly. This man can’t be serious. “Mr. Itadori, I—“
“Ryomen. When you’re negotiating with me, you call me by my name.” You wanted to punch the ever loving shit out of this guy.
“Well then, Ryomen, I’ll have you know nothing you can offer me will get me to stay.”
You throw him a glare.
“Name your price,” he says quietly. Then, softer— “Please.” The look he was giving you was painfully domestic.
For a second you just stare at him.
Ryomen Itadori, the boss who reduced board members to silence with a single look, was now standing in front of you like this.
Begging.
You cross your arms over your chest and narrow your eyes.
“When’s my birthday, Ryomen?” He freezes.
“Well, um.. I hardly—“
“When is my fucking birthday!” You say, a little louder this time. It surprises you and him both that you raised your voice.
He blinks. It’s like you hit a hard-reset on his brain, you had never been outwardly cross with him in all the years you worked together.
“I.. don’t quite recall.”
For a heartbeat the room is so quiet you can hear the low hum of the air conditioning and the faint tick of his ridiculously expensive Rolex. He drags a hand down the back of his neck, the way he does when he’s trying not to lose his temper completely.
“Eight years,” you say, and your voice comes out sad now, almost tired. “Eight years of late nights, canceled weekends, covering for you when you disappeared for three days straight on some deal nobody else could close. Eight years of being the only woman in every goddamn boardroom, smiling while they talked over me, fetching coffees, being treated like a serving girl. Eight years, Ryomen.” You let the fact hang between you both. “And in all that time I’ve waited for things to get better, for me to earn a promotion or a moment I could feel like this job meant something more.“ Your eyes down turn into a frown as you look at his window.
“I turn thirty in April. I haven’t been on a date since I was in college, or had a decent vacation since.. ever. I want a life. I want to come home to someone. I want a ring, and a house, and kids who won’t have to ask why Mommy’s always on the phone with her boss at midnight on Christmas Eve.” You turn back to face him.
His eyes widen just a fraction but you still catch it. The domestic picture you painted is so alien to him. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. Color creeps up the side of his throat and he looks suddenly violently uncomfortable, like you’ve stripped him naked in the middle of the office instead of simply telling him the truth.
“You—” He stops, swallows hard. His voice comes out rougher than usual. “You actually think about that shit? Marriage? Kids?” He says the words like they’re foreign. “You’re—you’re twenty-nine, you’ve got your whole career ahead of you, you’re—” He gestures vaguely at you, at the space between you, then the entire office. “You’re good at this. Why the hell would you throw that away for… for some picket-fence dream?”
You feel something splinter in your heart.
“Fuck you. I don’t want to die alone in a penthouse surrounded by money and silence unlike you.” The venomous words spill out before you can stop them.
“Excuse me?”
Ryomen’s voice is low and lethal holding the kind of tone that usually makes other executives scurry. He’s stepped closer to you making the distance between you two so minimal you can feel his short heated breaths. You’re past caring about the damage of what you’re doing. You meet his glare head-on, chin up, heart slamming against your ribs like hard drums.
“You heard me,” you snap. “You think I want your life? The one where you fuck everything that moves, or drink thousand-dollar scotch at 3AM, and pretend the emptiness doesn’t eat you alive? Newsflash— I see it. Every single day. The way you keep busy with work so you don’t have to think about yourself. You flinch when Jin talks about your family. Mr. Wasuke tries his best to connect with you but it feels like you make me cancel every appointment you have with him. You can’t even fucking spend time with your nephew without having me come in and finish your job! You’re terrified of anything real. So don’t you dare stand there and act like wanting more makes me weak.” You’re breathing hard by the end of your monologue.
His face darkens to something murderous. He takes one step forward, then another, pushing you back until he’s slammed his hand against the wall behind you. The scent of that same spicy cologne invades your nose.
“You think you know me so fucking well.” he snarls, voice rising now, no longer contained. “You’re my secretary, not my fucking therapist. You don’t get to decide what I’m afraid of.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you fire back, voice climbing to match his. “I forgot, I’m just the help! The disposable female accessory who smiles pretty and stands around like decorative furniture while your investors leer and make their disgusting little comments because apparently that’s just ‘how the boys talk’ in this industry. Last night with Calder?” Your voice cracks higher, sharp and hurt.
“You—” You jab a finger into his chest, hard. “You were right there. You saw it. You heard every word. And what did you do? Nothing. You went back to your conversation with them like I was invisible. Like it was my job to just laugh it off and keep smiling so your relations didn’t tank.”
His jaw locks so tight you can hear the grind of his teeth. The hand he has braced on the wall beside your head curls into a fist, knuckles whitening.
“Don’t,” he growls, ragged and dangerous. “Don’t you dare twist that into—”
“Twist it?” You laugh. “I stood there humiliated while Calder practically drooled over my dress, and you let it happen because confronting him would’ve made the room awkward. Because god forbid Ryomen Itadori ever has to defend the woman who runs his entire life from being treated like meat. You didn’t say a word. Not one. You just let him talk about me like I was some perk of the job, and then you had the nerve to care whether I felt sick or not because it would affect my performance. That’s who you are. That’s what I’ve spent eight years protecting.”
The office beyond the glass is a graveyard, just the collective stunned silence of people pretending not to eavesdrop while hanging on every word.
Ryomen’s face is a storm with his eyes blazing, mouth twisted. “You think I didn’t want to..” He cuts himself off, voice fracturing. “You think I could just deck a board member in the middle of a black-tie event without consequences? Without it blowing back on the company? On you?”
“On me?” You shove at his chest again, harder this time. He doesn’t budge, but the impact reverberates up your arms. “The only consequence I care about is that you stood there and let another man talk about me like I was assets to share. They don’t even bother remembering my name.” You feel tears welling in your eyes but you try to suppress them.
“You act like I don’t get hurt when people say things about me! You could’ve said something—anything. ‘She’s my right hand, watch your mouth.’ ‘Back off.’ Anything that showed I was more than that. But you didn’t. Because it was easier to stay silent and protecting your image matters more than protecting me.”
Ryomen looks bewildered at this point. For one suspended second his eyes drop to your mouth—flicker there, dark and furious and something else entirely—before snapping back up.
“You want me to admit it?” he snarls, voice dropping to a bitter whisper that somehow carries louder than the shouting. “Fine. I wanted to say something. So fucking bad. I should’ve broken his fucking jaw right there, and God, I wanted to. Happy now? Does that make you feel better?”
The words hit like acid.
“Make me feel better?” Your voice rises to a near-shriek. “I’ve handled worse than you’ll ever know, you emotionally constipated bastard! I’ve handled you! I just needed you to prove to me you believe I deserve respect and you weren’t like them.” You scoff, your laugh humorless. “I’m done, Ryomen. I’m done.”
You wrench yourself out from under his arm, shoulder-checking him hard enough that he stumbles half a step. Your bag is already in your hand.
“Enjoy your boy’s club.” you spit, turning for the door.
The door flies open with a bang that rattles the framed awards on the wall. You don’t look back. Not even at the stunned deep voices that follows you like a shadow.
Your heels strike the marble like hammer blows all the way to the elevator. Behind you, Ryomen doesn’t move or call after you, unable to say another word. He just stands there fists clenched, looking like he’s been gut-punched.
And for the first time in eight years, the silence in his office is deafening.
“Well, I’m glad he finally got a taste of his own medicine,” Shoko sighs, swirling her champagne flute before taking another sip. You shift in your dress, nodding.
You look at your phone and feel odd without the endless messages from Teams or any emails from Ryomen. “I’m just dreading seeing him again when he realizes I’ve joined Toru’s company,” She gives you a placid smile with raised eyebrows. “Don’t even worry about that. Let’s just enjoy ourselves tonight, ‘kay?” You nod, looking down the tables at your best friends talking to other party guests.
You feel relieved you can actually participate in the weekend engagement party for Suguru and Satoru, but you should’ve known it was going to be nothing short of flashy and high-end. The Gojo family spared no expense when it came to their prodigal son. You felt a little weird when you noticed some familiar faces from your corporate life, but that was to be expected. A big social gathering like this was also a huge opportunity to build stronger connections between shareholders and allied companies, and you wouldn’t put it past the Gojos to being efficient and intentional with their guest list.
You spot Yu and Utahime coming in and immediately stand up. You hadn’t seen them in almost a month now. “Guys, oh my goodness— you look so great!” Yu chuckles and gives you a wink. “Kento fitted me for a suit with his fancy tailor. Swanky, right?” Utahime gives you a huge hug. “I feel like you look different every time I see you,” she whines. “I wish you had more free time,” she says with a frown.
Shoko snorts. “You’re in luck,” she deadpans.
Utahime’s gaze flits between the two of you. “Don’t tell me. No! You’re free? You have to tell me everything!” she squeals. Yu gives you a surprised look. “Did you get fired? They’re stupid if they fired you.”
You shake your head, laughing. “God, no. I quit. Not gonna lie it was a bit of a debacle, but yeah. I no longer answer to Satan,” you hum happily.
Satoru and Suguru finally make their way to the group, escaping the long conversations with other guests. They’re dressed to match each other without trying too hard. Deep navy suits with silver accents, the kind of effortless coordination you knew was Satoru’s doing. The table lights up before either of them can speak.
“Toru! Suguru!” Utahime is on her feet first, practically bouncing. “You two look—god, you look perfect. Congrats!” She gives them both big hugs like the one she gave you.
Yu raises his glass with a grin. “Took you idiots long enough! Congratulations guys, we’re seriously happy for you.”
Shoko just lifts her flute in a lazy arc with a small smile. “To the happy couple. May your domestic life be as nauseating as ever.”
Satoru laughs brightly and drops into the chair beside you, slinging an arm across the back of your seat. You give him a side hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Congrats, babe.” “Thank you, thank you. You guys know we’re basically married already in spirit. Paperwork’s just catching up.” He winks at Suguru, who slides in on your other side with a small, private smile and a gentle brush of his knee against yours.
Suguru leans in first, voice low. “You okay?” It’s quiet enough that only you catch it.
You nod, exhaling. “Yeah. Just… strange not having my phone screaming at me every five minutes.”
Satoru snorts loudly. “That’s because your ex-boss is probably still sitting in the dark processing the shock.” He turns to the group, voice excited with vibrating energy. “But let’s talk about the real news! Our girl here? Officially free. And she’s starting at Gojo & Sons next week Monday working on real projects, no more serving for those horny dinosaurs. She’s gonna do fucking amazing. I’m already poaching half my strategy team.”
The table erupts in cheers, clinking glasses, Utahime’s delighted squeal. Yu whistles low. “We can finally have that friendcation we’ve been talking about for years!”
Satoru leans closer to you, dropping the volume just enough to feel conspiratorial. “Seriously though, you’re running all of strategy. And if anyone tries to pull the same bullshit Ryomen let slide…” His smile turns playful but edged. “They’ll find out real quick that my HR department doesn’t play.”
Suguru’s hand finds yours under the table, giving you stable and steady pressure. “He’s right,” he murmurs. “You’ve carried enough burden. Let us carry some of it for a while.”
You feel the knot in your chest loosen another fraction, your eyes welling up a little. “I love you guys,” you feel nothing but joy looking at the both of them.
Across the ballroom just out of your eyesight near the bar is the familiar broad line of Ryomen’s shoulders. His usual attire is missing his bowtie, something he gave up on doing because he really couldn’t get that damn knot the way you did. It makes for a really rugged edge to his look along with the fact he hadn’t shaved that day, and it was evident he seemed sort of lost in his own thoughts. He’s been reeling since your fight on Tuesday. He’s mid-conversation with Yamato Gojo, Satoru’s father, but is barely paying attention. He’s fiddling with the glass of scotch in his hand, already almost empty. You weren’t wrong when you said he had a problem, he knows that. His gaze was mostly trained toward your table, lingering on Satoru’s arm slung casually behind you, on Suguru’s quiet presence at your side, on the easy circle of people who gravitated towards your positive energy. You looked so happy, and he swore he’s never seen you smile that way before. At least towards him.
Satoru is the only one who notices his presence, cerulean eyes turning icy. He knew there was a chance that Ryomen would be invited without his consent given the way the Gojo family was, especially his father. He lets out a low, delighted hum, and raises his glass in an exaggerated, mocking toast across the room.
“To new chapters,” he calls, loud and unapologetic. “And to the best damn decision anyone at this table ever made.”
Glasses lift in unison and clinks vibrate. You raise yours last your smile small and certain, and drink.
Time slips by in the easy haze of booze and laughter. The quartet gives way to a jazz trio, the dance floor filling with swaying couples and you let yourself drift along to mingle and dance with your friends. You excuse yourself from the floor eventually, needing air that isn’t thick with perfume and hot bodies.
The terrace doors to the balcony are open, letting in the cool night breeze off the city skyline. You step outside alone, heels clicking softly on the stone, and lean against the balustrade, staring at the glittering glow of lights and cars below. The rumble of the city feels almost tranquil after the noises of inside. You reach into your bag to pull a cigarette you snagged from Shoko and quickly light it, taking a long drag.
Suddenly you hear footsteps behind you, deliberate and heavier than most. You turn around to glance at the person.
Ryomen stops a careful three paces away, like he’s afraid coming closer might make you bolt. The absence of his tie allows for the open collar of his shirt, revealing the hard pronounced line of his throat and a peek of his chest. His skin is flushed and one hand is shoved deep in his pocket while the other holds his glass of scotch, shoulders alert in a way you’ve only ever seen when he’s exhausted and pretending not to be.
For a long moment neither of you speaks. You were more surprised he was even here at the party, and moreover managed to find you.
He clears his throat, voice husky. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
You suck in a breath. “Satoru and Suguru are my college friends.”
Another beat of silence. You hear him shift his weight.
“I’ve been thinking about you.” The words come out raw and unfiltered. He shuts his eyes and shakes his head. “No I mean, what you said. You were right. I got caught up relying on you so much I couldn’t separate you from your role, mostly because you just do it so well. And I—” He exhales hard through his nose. “I’m sorry for everything. I was a shitty boss and a shitty person to be around. You deserved better than that. Still deserve better, I mean.”
The apology lays in the air. You flick ash of your cigarette and take another drag, your expression conflicted. His eyes are dark and heavy from exhaustion, shadowed under the terrace lights, and for once he doesn’t look untouchable. He looks like a man who hasn’t slept properly in days. Your heart squeezes for a moment.
You open your mouth to respond something measured but before the words can form, a new voice slices through the night.
“Well, isn’t this touching.”
Satoru appears at the terrace doorway like he materialized from thin air, arms outstretched wide, grin sharp and artificial.
Ryomen stiffens instantly. “Gojo.”
“Satan.” Satoru drawls, stepping fully onto the terrace. He saunters closer, positioning himself casually between you and your former boss. “Didn’t realize you were giving speeches tonight at my engagement. Very heartfelt. Almost made me tear up.” He sucks his teeth, shaking his head in faux emotion.
Ryomen’s jaw shifts. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“Oh, but it does.” Satoru’s smile doesn’t waver. “She doesn’t work for you anymore. She works with me now. Starting after this week, running point on all my strategy. Gonna to be beautiful, by the way. She’s scary good, has been since college.”
The words land like a slap. Ryomen’s face goes blank for a split second before the shock settles. Then something that looks pretty close to pain.
“You…” He looks from Satoru to you, then back again. His voice drops, quieter now, almost disbelieving. “You’re at Gojo and Sons?”
You meet his gaze with a small firm look. “Yeah, I am.”
He stares at you like he’s seeing you for the first time and it all makes him look younger, somehow. More human.
“I didn’t—” He stops, swallows. “I didn’t know.”
Satoru laughs once, short and cold. “Funny how that works, really. People don’t notice the underdogs carrying their whole operation until they stop.”
Ryomen doesn’t respond to his jab. His wading maroon eyes stay trained on you. “You think you’ll be happy there?” The question is so soft it almost doesn’t carry, just gentle.
You exhale slowly. “I’m not drowning anymore. That’s a start.”
He nods once the action jerky. He then looks at Satoru and his expression hardens again, but it’s brittle.
“Congratulations,” he says to him, voice flat. “She’s worth it.”
Satoru scoffs. “Super ironic coming from you, bud.”
He turns away from you both without a word. His posture is tense as he walks back toward the ballroom doors. The terrace light catches the empty scotch glass he leaves on the balcony table like a small deliberate surrender.
Satoru watches him go, then turns to you, grin fading into something softer. “You good?”
You nod, though your throat feels tight. You hope this gross guilty feeling passes. “Yeah. Just really weird seeing him like that.”
He steps forward and laughs, resting a light hand on your shoulder. “What, groveling? He’ll survive. Eventually.”
Satoru thinks for a moment. “Or he won’t. I’d be crying and throwing up if I lost someone like you too. That five o’clock shadow though, yikes. Either way, not your problem anymore!” You glance back at the ballroom doors Ryomen disappeared through. The music swells again, laughter spilling out.
You take one last drag and butt your cigarette on the ashtray, linking arms with Satoru.
“Come on,” you say. “Let’s go dance again. I wanna get them to play Dancing Queen.”
Satoru’s grin returns full force. “That’s my girl.”
As you giggle and dance away with your closest friends that night, you can’t help but get flashes of Ryomen’s face. The way he looked almost broken. Against your better judgement you try scanning around the ballroom for any sign of him, but it looks like he left right after your encounter. Maybe you should’ve told Satoru to lay off? It bothers you that even in your resignation he’s still tormenting you, but.. this time, it feels more personal. You’re worried about him and can’t seem to stop.
When your alarm goes off, you’re already up and staring outside your window with a mug of coffee. You assume that the schedule you used to be on was so engrained in your system that you got used to sleeping only a couple hours every night. Satoru told you he didn’t need you in the office until twelve, giving you way too much free time you weren’t used to. The past week of nothing to do has been you trying to remember what kind of person you were outside of work, before I&Z.
You choose to get ready and dressed, scrolling your feed mindlessly. Should you pick up your hobbies again? You loved crochet, but you were scared your yarn box probably has moths from sitting in the closet for so long. You settle on cooking, since you hadn’t been able to eat homemade food in a long time. Before you know it, you’ve made more food than you can eat— a spread of chicken alfredo, soy ginger vegetables, garlic bread and even a tray of chocolate chunk brownies. You glance at the time and realize you finished just in time to leave for the office. You pack the food away nicely, yanking off your apron. Maybe I’ll give some to Utahime, you think. She loved your food and evidently hadn’t gotten to have any recently.
The building that housed Gojo & Sons, LLC was rather similar to the I&Z one. It sat in the same downtown sector of the city a couple blocks away, so your commute wasn’t all that different. Satoru told you earlier the floor would be really busy when you were coming in, so you expected the chaos that you walk into. Phones ringing, people delivering papers and typing away at their desks. What you notice is the amount of young people employed, and how many of them were women. It brings a smile to your face.
“Hey! Glad you didn’t get lost on the way here,” Satoru is already walking up to you with a box of things you recognize as your office stuff you sent to him. “Just follow me, I’ll show you your new battle station,” he sings excitedly.
As you weave the crowd of people, you get a dozen of smiles and hello’s that you weren’t used to. Satoru finally turns towards a row of glass offices, almost like the ones the executives had at I&Z.
Your jaw mildly drops when you see your big mahogany desk, and the bookshelves to match behind it. As he sets down your box, Satoru is positively estatic with your reaction. “Don’t you love it? Suguru ordered the furniture for me but I thought you’d appreciate it more,” You dash over to give him a huge hug. “It’s perfect. Thank you,” you whisper.
After a beat he pulls you both apart and claps your shoulders. “Okay! Onto business. We have three meetings today, mostly introducing you to the teams. The big thing I wanted you to know is I’m keeping you on the merger case.” He sighs, rubbing his eyes. “I didn’t want to subject you to seeing Ryomen, but you have the most intel and understanding of the deal and I really need this to work. You’re my girl for the job, right?”
He looks at you expectantly, hoping you don’t say no. You give him a silly smile. “You’re crazy to think I’d let my issue with him interfere with our progress, Boss,” you say playfully with a finger salute. He punches a fist in the air in a silent celebration. “I knew I could count on you, babe. Be ready in five!” He calls over his shoulder as he leaves you to set up your new office.
The rest of the afternoon goes smooth and fun. You find out you have three people that you’ll be seeing the most of: A young spunky girl named Sana, she mostly works in the accounting and reporting numbers to you. Enji, a quiet and middle-aged family man who works mostly with Satoru and handles executive affairs— almost similar to your old job. And finally, a sharp and no-nonsense woman named Rin who was the only employee kept after Satoru cleared the strategy team due to her knowledgeability of the merger case. You recognize her from some of the executive board meetings you stood in with Ryomen— she was never very vocal, but her presence was heavy.
“I’m so excited to have another girl in strategy with us!” Sana’s energy felt like it bounced off the walls. Rin clears her throat, clearly irked. Sana blanches, chuckling awkwardly. “Sorry Ms. Ayano. I just meant like.. close to my age,” she mumbles.
You give her a kind smile. “It’s okay, I know what you meant. I’m excited to work with all of you,” you gesture to the group, bowing respectfully.
Hours after when you finally head back to your new office, computer in hand, you glance out the window to see a beautiful sunset. It was a blazing deep red, with streaks of orange. For some reason, an image of Ryomen’s tired eyes pop into your head. You instantly shake it off, scolding yourself. Why were you still worked up about him? And why was his stupid sad face tugging on your heart so much?
As you collect your things to leave for the night, your phone ringtone buzzes. You look at the caller ID and your eyebrows raise for a moment.
“Hey Jin, what’s up?” You’re a tad confused as to why he’d be calling you. Maybe he doesn’t know you quit working for his brother two weeks ago. Ryomen was never good at keeping his family in the loop.
“Hey, dear. Look, I’m sorry I’m calling you out of the blue, especially with everything that happened I’m probably the last person you want to hear from—“
You cut him off. “Nono it’s okay, Jin. We’ve been close for eight years now. It’s unfair for me to punish you for Ryomen’s actions.” You can hear him chuckle faintly over the line. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did, hon. But I appreciate your kindness. You’ve always been like family for me and Yuuji, and I don’t take that lightly.”
You feel your heart tighten with the mention of little Yuuji. You completely forgot in all the mess that you wouldn’t be able to see him as much anymore. “I appreciate you guys too, Jin.”
You hear him sigh before speaking again. “The reason I’m calling is actually because of Yuuji. He overheard Ryomen talk about hiring a new secretary today and had a huge tantrum with him over you. He’s locked himself in his room from the last two hours, and he won’t budge. He wants to see you. Can I ask you for this favor?” He seems painfully embarrassed by the situation given his tone.
“Of course,” You say without hesitation. “I’ll be there in twenty, maybe thirty if traffic’s bad. Tell him to hold on—I’m bringing dinner. Way too much of it, actually.”
Jin laughs, soft and grateful. “He’ll love that. Thank you so much for doing this. Drive safe, okay?” You click the phone off with a goodbye, already moving. Sana pokes her head around the corner as you’re heading for the elevator.
“Heading out already?”
You flash her a quick smile. “Just feeding a very important seven-year-old. See you in the morning.”
You make a hasty detour to your apartment to change into better clothes and pick up the food you made and leave for Jin’s home. The drive up has you reminiscing over when you’d drop Yuuji off after Ryomen got held up in a meeting, or when you’d swing by to babysit because Jin had pulled a double shift at the hospital. The neighborhood hasn’t changed at all. Tidy lawns, porch lights already on against the dusk, the evening dog walkers.
Jin’s waiting at the door when you pull up. He looks tired—more lines around his eyes than usual—but the relief on his face when he sees the tote bags is immediate.
“You didn’t have to bring all that,” he says, taking the heaviest one from you.
“Like I said, I made too much anyway. Figured Yuuji could use some bribery.” You step inside, kicking off your boots by the entryway out of habit. The house smells like laundry detergent and the faint citrus of whatever cleaner Jin uses. It’s the opposite of the sterile and modern penthouse Ryomen lives in.
Jin sets the food on the kitchen island and nods toward the hallway. “He only cracked it once to yell that he’s not coming out until you get here.” You give Jin’s arm a gentle squeeze as you pass. “I’ve got this.”
At the end of the hall, Yuuji’s door is shut tight. You knock softly.
“Yuuji? Sweetheart, it’s me.”
Silence. Then a small, muffled voice: “Prove it.”
You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. “Okay. Remember the time you tried to convince me that dinosaurs still live in your backyard and we spent an entire Saturday looking for footprints? You found a pigeon bone and swore it was a velociraptor femur.”
The lock clicks. The door opens a crack, then all the way.
Yuuji stands there in mismatched pajamas—Spider-Man top, dinosaur bottoms—eyes red-rimmed and watery. His hair is a total disaster. He stares at you for a long second, lower lip trembling, then launches himself at your waist hard enough to knock the air out of you. You drop to your knees and wrap your arms around him, squeezing tight. “Hey, kiddo,” you whisper into his hair. “Missed you too.”
He doesn’t let go for a long time. When he finally pulls back, his face is blotchy. “Uncle said you’re not coming back. He said you got a new job and you’re too busy for me. Are you too busy for me?” You hear his voice waver before he erupts in sobs. You coo and console him, rubbing his back until he calms down enough so you can speak.
When he's done he sniffles, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “I smell food.” You nearly cackle. Kids are always the same when it comes to what they love.
“Yeah, I brought you all your favorites. Alfredo, brownies. The works. But only if you come outside and eat with me and your dad.”
Yuuji considers this, then nods solemnly. “Deal. But you have to help me build my Lego Death Star. Uncle tried earlier and he got mad when the pieces didn’t fit. He said bad words.”
You bite back a smile. “I’ll help. And I promise, I’m never too busy for my favorite kid.” you say, kissing his cheek. He gives you one of those big grins you missed so much.
He takes your hand with his small sticky fingers curling around yours and leads you back to the kitchen, in a much more jolly mood now. Jin is already plating food, pretending he hasn’t been hovering nearby listening to every word.
The three of you sit at the table. Yuuji piles his plate high, talking a mile a minute about school, and about how Uncle Ryomen has been “grumpy and quiet and doesn’t even yell anymore, which is worse.” You listen and nod. You pass him extra vegetables before he can protest. Every so often your eyes meet Jin’s across the table, and he gives you a small, grateful smile that says more than words ever could.
Later, after plates are cleared and brownies demolished, Yuuji drags you to his room. The Lego box is open, and the pieces are scattered across his floor. You’re surprised no one’s stepped on this death trap yet. You sit cross-legged on the floor together, instructions spread out.
Halfway through snapping the first section together, Yuuji looks up at you, serious.
“Are you really not coming back to Uncle Ryo’s office?”
You pause, choosing your words carefully. “Not to work there, no. But that doesn’t mean I’m not coming back to see you. You’re stuck with me, kid. Deal with it.”
He grins bright and gap-toothed. “Good. ‘Cause you’re my favorite.”
You ruffle his hair. “Right back atcha.”
Jin appears in the doorway a while later, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. “Bedtime in ten, monster.”
Yuuji groans dramatically but doesn’t argue. When he’s finally tucked in and you’ve given him a hug goodnight, you linger in the hall with Jin.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For coming. And… not punishing him for his uncle’s mistakes.”
You shake your head. “Yuuji’s never done anything but make my days better. I’d walk through fire for him.”
Jin chuckles. “You have more of a soul than a corporate worker should usually have.”
You offer a small, tired smile. “I try.”
Jin reaches out, squeezes your shoulder. “You’re always welcome here, dear. Don’t forget that.”
You hug him tightly before stepping out, waving him goodbye as he closes the door. You’re rustling through your tote bag to find your keys when you hear a surprised voice.
When you look up, Ryomen is standing before you. Clad in faded blue jeans hanging low on his hips and an unbuttoned flannel rolled up at the sleeves, showing off a band tattoo on each muscle-corded arm you didn’t even know he had. A white tank top that’s seen better days sits underneath it. Your eyes drift to a gold chain you’ve never seen him wear before. There’s a sheen of sweat on his collarbone, maybe the night humidity. His usually gelled pink hair is now a wrecked soft mess, like he ran his hands through them too many times.
He looks completely different than what you’re used to. He’s carrying a six-pack of Corona and keys to what looks like the beat up truck parked next to your Toyota, a stark contrast to his usual sleek sports car.
“What are you.. doing at Jin’s?” He asks with a rough voice, mildly confused.
“I—” Your voice catches. “Jin called. Yuuji was upset and locked himself in his room. He said he wouldn’t come out unless he saw me.”
His eyes drop to the tote bag still slung over your shoulder, the faint grease stain from the alfredo container visible on the canvas.
“You brought food,” he says. It’s not a question. More like he’s stating a fact to himself, trying to make it compute.
“Yeah. I made too much earlier today,” You lift the bag a fraction, the containers inside shifting with a soft clink. “Figured brownies might help.”
He exhales through his nose—a short, rough sound that could be a laugh or something closer to defeat. Silence stretches between you, thick and electric. The cicadas hum in the bushes. Somewhere down the street a dog barks. Ryomen shifts his weight, his gaze flicks over you, taking in your casual clothes, hair slipping loose from the messy knot you threw up in a rush. You feel his gaze making your cheeks heat up.
“Me and Yuuji had a fight earlier so I left to blow some steam. Got distracted.” He lifts the beer pack, looking for a chuckle from you.
You can’t seem to muster one.
He clears his throat and looks away. “He settle down?”
“Yeah.” You nod, voice sounding like a squeak. “We built that Lego Death Star.”
“Good. That’s… good.”
Another beat. He looks at the truck, then back at you. The porch light carves harsh shadows under his eyes. The same exhaustion you saw on the terrace that night.
“You’d make a good mom.” He blurts out.
He stammers before clarifying. “I mean, you just do so well with Yuuji, I— I don’t think your goals are stupid. Or unimportant. The marriage and kids stuff. I was being a dick.”
You blink. He immediately looks like he wants to swallow them back.
“Oh… thank you.”
Your pulse hammers in your throat. His eyes keep dragging back to your mouth like he can’t help it.
You take a small step forward enough to close half the distance between you both. You convince yourself it’s you getting closer to your car.
“I didn’t know you were coming by the way,” he says quietly. “Jin didn’t say.”
“He probably thought you wouldn’t come back.” You offer a small, wry smile. “Or I wouldn’t come, either.”
Ryomen huffs—almost a laugh. “Smart man.”
You should leave. The keys are in your hand. Your car is right there. But your feet don’t move because the way he’s looking at you is unlike any way he’s looked at you before.
His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second, barely long enough to register, then snap back up. The air between you feels thicker, warmer. You’re suddenly aware of the faint scent of his skin mixing with the night-blooming jasmine from Jin’s garden.
“You look…” He stops, drags a hand through his hair, making it worse. “Different out of the office.”
You arch a brow, half-teasing, half-defensive. “Is that code for ‘you look tired’?”
“No!” His voice drops defensively, panicked. “You look good. Happier.”
The words land unguarded. He seemed a little wrecked, staring at you like he’s been starving for something he didn’t know he needed.
Your breath hitches. You feel the pull low in your stomach, that same stupid spark that you felt when you first started working for him. You pushed it down over the years because he made it easy with his ‘work first’ mentality. But right now, everything seems to be rushing back. It was a stupid crush fresh out of college. Why now was it popping back up in your brain?
“I should go,” you say, but it sounds weak even to you.
“Yeah,” he agrees. But he doesn’t step back. Neither do you.
He shifts the six-pack to his other hand, freeing the one closest to you. His fingers flex once, like he’s fighting the urge to reach out, to touch your wrist, anything. The gold chain at his throat catches the light again as he swallows.
“Jin’s probably watching from the window,” you murmur, glancing toward the house.
“Let him.” Ryomen’s mouth quirks—just the corner, barely there. “He’s seen worse.”
You laugh under your breath, soft and surprised. “Like what?”
“Like me showing up at 3AM after too much scotch asking him why I can’t keep anything good in my life.”
The honesty guts you. You can’t stop looking at him, the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his tank clings to his chest from the humid night, the quiet desperation in his eyes.
“I’m not coming back to work for you,” you say quietly.
“I know.” He nods once, slow. “I don’t want you to.”
“What do you want?” The question slips out before you can catch it, breathless and dangerous.
Ryomen stares at you for a long moment. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything normal and fails anyway.
“Right now?” His voice is gravel, intimate. “I want to stand here and look at you without a fucking glass wall between us. Just for a minute before you drive away and I have to pretend I’m fine with it.”
Your pulse thuds in your ears. The humidity makes your top and sweater stick to your back. You can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that if either of you leaned in even a fraction—
Jin’s porch light flicks once—on, off, on—like a subtle cough.
Ryomen huffs a quiet laugh, breaking the spell. “He’s definitely watching.”
You step back first, just half a pace. Enough to breathe. Enough to remember who you are, and what this is. And what you shouldn’t do.
“I should go,” you repeat, firmer this time, clipped.
He nods, his eyes flickering with a bit of hurt. “Yeah.”
But as you turn toward your car, he speaks again low toned, almost lost under the crickets.
“Drive safe,” your name feels illegal coming out of his mouth right now.
You pause with your hand on the door handle. Look back over your shoulder.
“Thanks.”
He doesn’t move as you slide into the driver’s seat, start the engine, pull away. In the rearview mirror you watch him stand there, eyes fixed on your taillights until they disappear around the corner.
You don’t realize until you’ve parked in your spot and killed the engine that your heart is still hammering like it’s trying to break free of your ribs. Your cheeks burn and you can feel the flush creeping down your neck, hot and traitorous. The steering wheel is cool under your palms, but your hands are trembling just enough to notice. You sit there in the dark garage, breathing too loud in the quiet car, replaying every second of the last five minutes on loop.
The rough, cracked edge to his voice when he said your name like it hurt to let it go.
The way he looked at your mouth more than once.
The worst part is the way your body responded and that heat that pooled between your thighs just from standing too close to him. Eight years of hating his mere presence and the moment he looks slightly pathetic your hormones decide to take over.
You hit your forehead to the steering wheel and let out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a concerned dying animal.
No.
No, no, no.
This is not happening.
You are twenty-nine. An adult. You just escaped being the invisible backbone of that annoying evil man who treated you like shit until you walked out. You have a new job, friends who care, and a life you’re finally starting to live for yourself.
You are not under any circumstances going to let a late night not-moment with Ryomen Itadori undo all of that.
It was a dead crush! you rationalize.
A small voice in the back of your head whispers.
Apparently it was just dormant.
You sit up straight, force a long exhale through your nose. You pull down your car mirror and talk to yourself like you’re talking to a particularly dense employee.
“He’s emotionally constipated. Probably hasn’t slept in days, like look at him! He’s clearly exhausted. He was delirious— exactly! He wasn’t in his right mind. He’s definitely half-drunk already. He said nice things about Yuuji and your dreams because guilt is eating him alive, not because he suddenly wants to play house. But what the fuck was that mom comment! Babe. Lock in. This is not a rom-com. This is a trauma response. Yours and his.” You jab an angry finger at the sweaty reflection of yourself staring back at you.
You grab your tote, sling it over your shoulder, and climb out of the car. When you reach the apartment, you lock the door with more force than necessary. You kick off your boots, throw off your sweater, drop the keys in the bowl, and head straight for the kitchen. You beeline for your liquor cabinet, finding the most expensive and oldest wine bottle you own. You open it with a pop and pour a hefty glass and drink it in three long gulps, willing the burn to douse whatever knot is still stuck in your throat.
Against your better judgement, you pull out your phone.
Open your messages.
His name sits there at the top of the recents, the Saks dress message and his threat, hours before everything imploded.
You hover your thumb over it.
Delete thread?
Your finger twitches.
Instead, you open a blank note and type three words:
Not. Going. There.
You save it. Lock the phone. Set it face-down on the counter.
You walk to the bathroom, strip out of your clothes, and step into the coldest shower you can stand. The water snaps you back into reality. You stand under it until your teeth chatter and the ache between your legs finally dulls to a faint, manageable throb.
When you climb out, wrapped in a towel, you catch your reflection in the fogged mirror.
You point at yourself.
“You are done pining after emotionally unavailable men who only notice you when you’re walking away. You are done letting proximity trick you into thinking tension is chemistry. You are done. You hear me?”
You wipe a stripe through the steam on the glass so you can see your own eyes clearly.
“And you are definitely done letting Ryomen Itadori live rent-free in your head.”
You turn off the light. You blow dry your hair and dress for bed, something warmer than usual because that shower did a number on you more than you wanted. You climb into bed, pulling the covers up to your chin.
You end up lying there in the dark staring at the ceiling, telling yourself over and over that the flutter in your chest is just adrenaline and a fluke. Nothing more. Nothing that matters.
You almost believe it.
Warmth. Your back is arching with the way his mouth works over your clit, pressing his tongue and making sloppy kisses on either crevice of your thighs. The sleep in your eyes has barely left. A hand goes to grab his hair, pushing him down more. “Please,” you whine. You can hear him chuckle.
“So,” a kiss on your opening.
“Impatient,” Another.
A finger is pushing inside you, curling to hit that spot that makes you shake a little harder. “Faster, I can’t—“ You’re babbling now, barely making words but the moans turn into small mewls, tears welling up in your eyes. He builds the tight knot raveling in your stomach, slowly picking up speed with his tongue and finger working in tandem. He groans into you and says something you can’t make out. Your noises get louder, and right when you feel the stars about to burst in your vision— he stops. You make a wounded noise, writhing to close and rub your legs together. He doesn’t let you, holding them down with his evidently strong arms. His body comes up from under the sheets, his messy pink hair looking like sin with the way the light streams in from your window. His pupils are blown and the slick wetness is shining on his chin as he throws you a silly lopsided grin.
“Can’t let my baby cum that easily.”
Ryomen Itadori’s voice rumbles as he leans down to kiss you deeply. A faint jingle plays in the background. Where have you heard that before?
You jolt upright and clutch your chest. You tumble onto the floor as you reach over to grab your phone blaring your alarm and miss horrendously, wiping you out with a loud thud. Apologies to your downstairs neighbors.
You choose to accept defeat and lie on the ground, staring at the same ceiling you saw while your ex-boss was passionately eating you out in your dreams.
You don’t need to check to know you’re undoubtedly wet.
Fuck.
ahhhhh wet dream trope hates to see me coming 😏 no pun intended
as always I love comments, and my inbox is open for reqs! also taglist is open <3
story summary: Your best friend lets you crash at her place over the spring break since you have nowhere else to go. Little did you know that it isn't actually her place. Instead, it belongs to a tall (grumpy) hot guy who finds you in his apartment–her brother.
chapter summary: Being cooped up all day with Kento isn't as easy as it sounds. Time to tempt the stick in the mud out for a drink. What could go wrong?
pairings: Nanami Kento x female reader
warnings: suggestive, mentions of previous masturbation, humour, two idiots pining, mentions of alcohol, toxic male behaviour (not Kento), misunderstandings, white knight Kento, also very oblivious Kento
Part Four | Series Masterlist | Part Six
The morning dawned–bright and fresh. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the events of the previous evening almost felt like some lucid dream rather than reality. Only the dull ache that remained between your thighs served as a reminder of your toying fingers. Whilst you might have found release, it was temporary at best, and the encounter with Kento in the kitchen had only served to rekindle your desire for the man who was quickly becoming less of a stranger to you.
In an attempt to occupy your mind, turning it onto more pressing matters other than the slew of questions about the stoic male—his interests, occupation, and preferences in a far more intimate manner—you decided that focusing on schoolwork would be for the best.
That was how you came to find yourself seated in one of the two tall chairs that lined one side of the kitchen island, your coursework spread out in a sea of paper and textbooks. It was an organised mess, or so you would say, others might disagree, but it worked for you and that was all that mattered. Or it might have been had it not been for the appearance of your host.
Kento shuffled into the kitchen, his hair dishevelled from sleep and yawning widely. A glance at the clock told you it was an early start to the day for someone who was meant to be on vacation. He reached his arms overhead into a delicious looking stretch, and paused when his eyes blinked open to spy you fully dressed with a pen between your teeth.
“Morning,” he offered once he too glanced at the clock with a slight squint. It made you wonder if he needed glasses and if so, why didn’t he wear them? His voice was gruff, laden with sleep, and you did your best not to squirm at the effect it caused in your stomach. “You’re awake early, no?”
“I could say the same to you. Didn’t you say you were on mandated vacation? Oh, and good morning. There is coffee in the pot if you’d like some?” You added, leaning your cheek onto your fist whilst you admired him, emboldened by the knowledge he wasn’t awake enough to notice.
He grunted in response. Deliberately not looking whilst you smacked your pen against your pursed lips, and instead made a beeline to the source of caffeine that had roused him from his slumber in the first place. He admired your dedication at being awake to study so early. The question of what you were studying tickled the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. The more he knew, the harder it would be to keep his distance as he had vowed to himself.
Lazing in bed wasn’t on his agenda, it would be a waste of time when he could be reading or getting in a morning run on the treadmill. Perhaps in another life, he would have savoured the idea of remaining nestled within warm sheets, the morning sun streaming across the rumpled bed from the gap in the curtains, and… He paused, knowing that his mind was conjuring another body beside him, one that was across the room from him.
A distraction was what he needed.
“You study like… this?” Kento asked, nose wrinkled in distaste.
The pen in your hand was no longer gently patting at your lips, it was smacking hard against the marble counter edge and his eyebrow quirked at your clear irritation. He fought the smile that tried to rise, wisely hiding it behind his mug whilst he took another long sip.
“It… makes sense to me.” Your eyes narrowed, shifting your hips forward on the chair to lean over the counter, pen wagging in admonishment.
Kento held up his unoccupied hand in surrender, not wishing to cause you any further annoyance and longing for a slice of solitude that he wasn’t going to find in here. “Let me get out of your hair, I wouldn’t wish to distract you from your studies.”
You scowled after him, annoyed at yourself for finding that you were fixated on the dips at his lower back and the way his muscles shifted and bunched as he moved away and out of sight. It was far worse in the clear morning light; you could no longer fool yourself into believing that the broad expanse of his shoulders and the strength of his torso was simply a trick of the low lighting. It was simply him, and you rested your head on your folded arms while you processed that nugget of information.
The rest of the morning was spent in some semblance of peaceful cohabitation. Kento contented himself with running in his home gym, earbuds in place and you wondered what kind of music he enjoyed on your trip to the bathroom, peeking inside only for a moment before darting away, scared to be caught.
It wasn’t until lunchtime approached that he reemerged into the living room, fully dressed in a cream sweater and navy trousers.
By this point, you were curled up into the far corner of the couch with a book in hand. Whilst peeking over the top, you watched as he manoeuvred around the kitchen to make lunch. You must have read the same passage at least a dozen times and still, the words wouldn’t sink in. It wasn’t until he turned to eat, that he froze–plate in hand.
Of course, your coursework was still splayed out and possibly looking even more disorderly than before if that was at all possible. You waited, counting internally for the snarky comment, but as you reached fifteen… you glanced at him again.
“Are you really standing over the sink to eat?”
“I’m sure you have a suggestion as to what I should do instead,” he sighed in resignation with the plate balanced on his palm and half his sandwich clutched in his other hand.
“You could, y’know, sit on the couch like a normal person,” you chided with a roll of your eyes. “Or are you that afraid of crumbs that you’d rather stand over there?”
If truth be told, he did despise crumbs and unnecessary dirt. However, he wasn’t about to get into it with you about something you’d find trivial and likely tease him over. As if accepting your challenge, he marched stiffly to the other end of the couch from you and rested his plate precariously on his knees to finish his sandwich. His forehead wrinkled into a scowl, and you fought the urge to tell him to ease up or he’d prematurely wrinkle his face. Something told you he wouldn’t take too kindly to such an accusation.
Unfortunately, the calm of the morning didn’t last into the afternoon. For such a spacious apartment it felt awfully cramped when the two of you tried to focus on your individual interests. It was like walking on eggshells and your nerves were on a razor's edge for no good reason. More often than not you found yourself studying the uptight man rather than reviewing your seminar notes.
Nanami prowled from room to room like a caged predator, one that was not accustomed to enforced captivity and was losing its sanity with each continued tick of the kitchen clock. You were certain he had sat on every part of the couch, first seemingly engrossed in the newspaper delivered to his door but it didn’t last. Before you knew it he was back on his feet and standing at the panoramic window with both hands clasped behind his back.
He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, ignoring the beautiful sight of the late afternoon sun turning dark and fiery across the city. It would have been what you studied in his position but no, Kento watched the hundreds of commuters down on the streets. Was he… envious?
It appeared that way and he only strengthened the idea when he huffed, leaving a cloud of breath against the clean glass and turned on his heel to retrieve his discarded newspaper. The crisp pages snapped apart harshly under his grip and you nearly laughed at what you could only describe as rage reading.
You rolled your eyes for what felt like the hundredth time and threw down your pen in defeat. After stretching your arms overhead and rotating your stiff wrists, you gathered your courage and rounded on the man who couldn’t settle into anything remotely relaxing.
“Wanna go grab a drink?”
Kento paused on the sentence he had already read ten times over. Was he hearing you correctly? “Pardon?”
Hopping down from the stool you’d sat at for most of the day, you approached slowly and shrugged. “It’s been a long day and I think we could both use a drink to relax us a bit.”
Why would you need to relax? He was the one wound tighter than a spring-loaded toy but he couldn’t even blame you, not rationally anyway. You’d spent the day studying diligently, only breaking to stretch your limbs, refill your water bottle or read your book. A book he was unfamiliar with, squirrelling away the title and author to look up later.
After his morning run and shower, the day had slipped through his fingers like grains of sand. No matter how tightly he tried to cling to them, the minuscule grains escaped through the cracks until the hours were lost and he felt a sick sensation in his stomach. He tried not to consider the accounts he could have handled had he been in the office, or the clients he could have snared if he’d been permitted to admit the conference as planned. It wasn’t worth the turmoil it caused.
“I have a well-stocked liquor cabinet and there is wine in the fridge if it’s a drink you’d like,” he offered, moving closer to you and ignoring the desire to splay his hand at the small of your back to guide you towards his prized collection.
You shuffled your feet looking decidedly more nervous. His head cocked in curiosity, noting your habit to chew on your lips. He bet they tasted sweet.
“Kento… can we get out of the apartment? I bet there are a few nice bars around here, and well… c’mon, I don’t want to go alone.”
He may as well have sighed at the sound of his name on your lips for the second time. You might not know it, but he would have agreed to just about anything at that moment. For that reason alone, he found himself perched on a bar stool in a noisy but thankfully well-lit bar a few streets away from the apartment complex.
Your face was a picture of excitement, and he laughed discreetly whilst you leant on the bar waiting for the bartender to notice and take your order. Kento did his best not to appreciate how your light blue jeans hugged your backside, averting his eyes to admire the décor instead. He scolded his rapidly diminishing restraint, feeling more like a hormonal young man than he did when he was a hormonal young man.
“Vodka cranberry please, light on the ice. What would you like, Kento? It’s my treat.”
Oh hell no. He wasn’t about to let a student pay for his drink, no matter the circumstances. Meeting the eye of the young man behind the counter, he bristled at the amusement that was evident in his expression.
“Laphroaig, neat. Make it a double, please,” he rattled off whilst fishing his card from the wallet in his back pocket. At his side, you were beginning to protest, tugging on his sleeve and damn near bouncing on your stool. The bartender nodded and wisely chose to remain silent as he accepted the card and hurried away to fulfil the order.
“Nanami, I said I was going to pay!”
Kento huffed. “So, I’m Nanami again… where did Kento go?”
Two glasses were set down on folded paper napkins and it was enough to distract you, your fingers slipping free from his sweater. The amused bartender returned Nanami’s card with a receipt and discreetly moved away. Another wise decision.
“You’re a student and I am not. End of discussion,” he said with enough finality in his voice that you nearly acquiesced–nearly.
You couldn’t help but gawk at him in incredulity. Was he so unaccustomed to such gestures that he didn’t realise this was your attempt to say thank you for letting you stay in his apartment? He swallowed a long sip of his whisky that you had already forgotten the name of, but you were sure was extremely expensive. His Adam’s apple bobbed and your mouth ran dry.
“It was meant to be a thank you, dummy,” you groused, pouting as you raised your straw to your lips and sipped the crimson concoction you’d ordered. “Y’know, for letting me stay at your place?”
“Did you know that you say y’know rather a lot?”
Blinking, you met his hazel eyes and nearly whimpered at the warm glow that shone from their depths. It was like standing before a roaring fire, logs popping merrily from the leaping flames and they had a way of making you feel… special. His face softened when he teased you like this, with no scowls wrinkling his face. For a man who was definitely manly–all sharp jaw and angular cheekbones–those mischievous eyes cast a boyish charm over him and you found yourself leaning closer, your elbow resting on the bar until he cleared his throat and looked away.
Thankfully, you were able to navigate the rough seas of casual conversation without incident. Kento spoke about his work with a passion that didn’t seem likely for what sounded like a rather mundane office job. You teased him for his dedication and the long hours he spent behind a desk with limited social interaction. He took it well, or perhaps it was the alcohol that loosened him up.
His cheeks were warming nicely whilst the bar picked up around you. The steady stream of corporate slaves traipsed in and out with colleagues in tow looking to warm their bellies with a drink or two before the final trek home. Kento spoke fondly of his sister and told you enough embarrassing stories from their childhood that the simmering hurt from not even knowing Karin had a brother, melted away.
The atmosphere was a pleasant one and Kento was a pleasure to converse with when he wasn’t acting like he had a stick up his butt. In fact, it was surprisingly fun to goad him into huffing and puffing at whatever nonsense took your fancy, simply to see him stiffen and frown, his chest barrelling in indignation until he realised you were baiting him and easily so.
Kento couldn’t recall a time he enjoyed more than this one right now. He was never one for taking up the invites from colleagues to go bar hopping on a Friday night, often staying late in the office and catching up on emails rather than drinking himself into a stupor. Only now did he wonder if he was missing out on something better than what he thought would be no more than a nasty headache and clouded memories. Perhaps, if the right people—or person—it could be enjoyable.
You were funny, animated and scathing but not in a cruel way, or at least that was his interpretation. He appreciated your wit and your unique take on the world caused more than one or two belly laughs, which were worth it just to see how your face lit up in reaction. You were clever too, always quick off the mark when he deliberately tried to trip you up and honestly… he was falling.
Love was far too soon to even consider but mild infatuation? Maybe.
With your drinks now empty, he asked if you would like another and after giving an enthusiastic nod, he ordered two more before standing to find the restroom. The solitude gave you a moment to collect your thoughts, staring into the depths of the polished bar edge as you wondered how to proceed. You liked him, that couldn’t be denied now but it still felt too soon, not to mention the guilt you felt over lusting after your best friend’s brother.
Your reverie was interrupted when fresh drinks were set in front of you and a presence settled by your side. Glancing sideways you expected to find Kento but it wasn’t him. A young man in his early twenties smirked at you, swiping a hand through his slicked-back black hair. He was suited and booted like the majority of the patrons but you stiffened instinctively with how closely he leaned into you.
“Can I buy you a drink, sweetheart?” He offered, clearly ignoring the fresh set of drinks under your nose whilst his arm draped over the back of your chair. The tips of his fingers brushed your shoulder, making you shudder and twist your torso away so he could no longer reach.
“No thanks. I have a drink and that seat is taken.” You pointed to the one he was occupying after lifting both drinks in what you hoped was an obvious show of disinterest.
The man laughed; a dirty smoker’s laugh that raised the hairs on your arms and roiled the contents of your stomach. “C’mon, sweetheart, don’t lie. Liars aren’t as cute as you. I bet you bought both drinks so no one bothered you, right? I’m too smart to fall for that, all the girls are doing that these days.”
Every warning sign and alarm blared obnoxiously loud inside your head. If your instincts hadn’t tipped you off, his words certainly did. You were not the first woman to be subjected to his unwanted presence and you prayed that no one had fallen victim to his overbearing advances.
Undeterred by your previous movement to escape his touch, the man turned his body into you and this time, instead of trying to put his arm around your shoulder, he landed a heavy palm on your thigh. You openly grimaced at the unsolicited move, brushing his hand away and crossing your legs. Any sensible man would understand this as a sign to quit but of course, he seemed to only take it as some kind of sick challenge.
“Someone’s a little frigid. Let me warm you up a bit, I promise to be gentle,” he sneered, showing teeth stained from years of cigarettes and lacklustre oral hygiene.
You caught the eye of the bartender, he was watching closely and you were grateful that he was attentive.
Your mouth snapped open to retort sarcastically about his lack of perception skills, but at that moment the bartender, who you considered your safety net, moved away to the other end of the bar to serve a new customer.
What you didn’t know was that the man behind the bar knew that you were completely safe, he had seen what you had not. Nanami Kento was striding across the room and he was pissed.
At first, he had waited to see how you reacted to the man and his clear advances, unsure if you were into this kind of thing or not, but the second he could see your grimace and how your entire body leaned away from the man in his seat, fire filled his veins. The very second he touched you without invitation and continued to advance when it was obvious you weren’t interested, he saw red.
He would never understand the self-righteousness of some men, and their seeming belief that all women were fair game if they tried hard enough. It was not foreign to him, and this wasn’t the first time he stepped in to ensure the safety of a woman, often women he didn’t even know. This time was different and he was consumed with both rage and confusion at his reaction.
You weren’t his, he reminded himself as he stopped behind the man still leering at you.
A dark shadow fell over your harasser and your head snapped up at the same moment the man glanced around when someone tapped his shoulder. Nanami’s face was twisted with barely restrained fury, a thick vein popped on his temple and you gasped as the heavy waves of anger crashed outward from his stance. It was potent stuff, enough to tighten your chest when the edges licked at you just for being so close to the source.
Kento appeared broader, taller, and more angular. It must have been a trick of the light, but your heart pounded all the same. You weren’t even watching the man suddenly swallow dryly in the wake of Kento’s fury, no, you couldn’t rip your eyes away from him. The second heartbeat from the previous night was returning with vigour and you crossed your legs to draw your thighs tighter together.
“Leave.”
One single word imbued with enough power and natural dominance the man turned tail and ran for the door without even a backward glance.
“Are you alright?” Kento asked, retaking his seat and throwing back half his drink in one swallow. You watched as he sucked his teeth, his fingers digging into his eyes as if he were suddenly weary of the entire world. Not until he turned to you in question, gaze searching your face with uncertainty did you realise you hadn’t answered.
It was your turn to swallow the runny saliva in your mouth. “Yes… yes, don’t worry. He was a jerk but it could have been worse. I mean, it doesn’t happen often—”
“It shouldn’t happen at all,” he interjected.
“I know, but it’s okay.”
He grimaced but said no more. His anger was still palpable, but once where the flames had licked at you for daring to be too close, they now seemed to cocoon around the pair of you and it was a comfort. A comfort you fought against leaning into, failing when your frame swayed closer and your eyelids sagged.
The thought of how you might act if he were your man rose like oil on water, swirling images of clutching the front of his expensive cream sweater to pull him into a kiss that demonstrated a sliver of your gratitude. The kaleidoscope of colours shifted to the interior of his apartment, kicking hastily out of shoes whilst your tongues tangled and your hands roamed with abandon. Decadent heat caressed your chest, prickling your skin and causing you to squirm in your seat, all to the carefully guarded gaze of Kento.
He didn’t know what to make of your sudden shift in demeanour. You were jittery where you once had been perfectly comfortable, he wondered if perhaps you were experiencing a delayed reaction to what had transpired but what he didn’t expect was for you to reach out and run a finger along his forearm.
It was a bold move and one that you didn’t fully think through before you were in full flow. To hell with being Karin’s brother, you wanted to take the chance of seeing if you were compatible. He was ticking more and more boxes the longer you remained in his company and honestly, you wanted to know if he’d loosen up for you if given the right incentive.
“Do you make a habit of coming to the rescue of damsels in distress?”
His nostrils flared and immediately you knew that these were not the right words to use. “Don’t… I’m not interested in pity.”
All you could do was stare, slack-jawed at the absolute stupidity of this man. Did he honestly think you were the type to come on to any guy that came to your rescue? The anger that leaked from Kento seeped into you, fuelling your own and you puffed your chest in response. The man was dense, that much was clear but it was the slight against your assumed reasoning that bothered you the most.
“Are you for real? You think I would do this to just anyone that came along and helped me out of a bad situation?” You hissed through clenched teeth, letting your anger surround you like armour.
Nanami blinked, once and then again. He loathed to be seen as some heroic white knight figure, especially when he didn’t feel like one. Doing the bare minimum should not be praised, not when it is the very least all decent humans should be doing. It wasn’t the first time a woman had tried to proposition him after he chased some creep off, but it was the first time when he actually knew the woman in question.
Perhaps he misread the situation, yet that couldn’t be true either because that would mean that you were interested in him and most likely from before he had returned from the restroom. His head was pounding and it had nothing to do with the music in the bar or the alcohol that filled his stomach.
“I don’t–”
The legs of your chair scraped across the floor as you pushed up and out, halfway towards the door before he could even react to your hasty exit. It was your turn to be pissed and boy did you let it show. A couple leapt apart as they blocked your exit, and Kento was quick to down the final swallow of his whisky and threw down some cash on the bar before jogging after you.
You heard your name being called and knew that he was right on your heels. The feeling of foolishness made you want to cry and that only intensified how furious you were. How dare he make assumptions like that without warrant. A hand caught beneath your elbow and you whirled around only to be met with those uncertain eyes once more. Exhaling deeply through your nose, you reined in your temper and waited.
“I’m sorry?” Kento said, dropping his hand away from your elbow and rubbing at his neck sheepishly.
“Are you? Sorry, that is, because that sounded like a question to me. If you don’t mean it, don’t say it.” You tapped your foot against the pavement, holding his stare with unwavering determination not to be the first to look away.
“I made an assumption and that was wrong of me. This isn’t… it's not the first time I’ve been spoken to like that and I reacted out of instinct.”
“Yeah, well, I bet they hadn’t…” You clapped a hand across your mouth, startled by what you very nearly admitted and so casually too.
As quickly as your anger arrived, it dissipated just as fast. Instead, you were overcome with the memory of bedsheets twisted around your knees and your fingers busy between your thighs. You throbbed, remembering how you imagined Kento’s handsome face between your thighs, his chin and mouth swollen and sticky from the mess he’d made, and your fingers tangled in his hair to encourage him.
The image of your fantasy Kento blurred with the man standing in front of you looking perplexed. How on earth could you have nearly admitted stuffing yourself with your fingers whilst thinking of him and what it might be like if you invited him into your bed? It was comical, really it was.
“Hadn’t what?” Kento asked in confusion, if not at the sentence you left hanging then the way you seemed to double over as if you were in pain. You waved away his attempts to step closer, and he wasn’t certain if what he heard was a delirious giggle or a noise of anguish. What hadn’t those other women done that you had? There were a hundred possibilities surely, and yet, what popped into his head was the sticky mess he had made last night whilst thinking of you.
No, it couldn’t be that… it would be stupid to even think that you might have both sought relief whilst so close yet so far, only a wall keeping you apart. It was wishful thinking on his part, or so he thought. The way you burst into spontaneous laughter gave him further pause. He was grateful when you straightened and bumped your shoulder into his arm, and walked with him back to the apartment. Your anger forgotten and the atmosphere between you clearer than it had been moments ago.
synopsis. your boyfriend breaks your heart one fight too many, and when you run into the hallway in tears, nanami opens his door—soft, steady, and willing to treat you right in every way your boyfriend never did.
☆ juniper's note. i wish i had a free bag of nanamiughhh i'm fighting with my man too ughhhh
you don’t even remember what the fight started over — something stupid, something small, something that shouldn’t have become this. your boyfriend was always good at making small things feel catastrophic, always pushing the worst buttons in you, always pulling the ground out from under your feet with a handful of sharp words and a shrug like it meant nothing.
you don’t even remember the last sentence he threw before you walked out; you just remember the tone. that cold, bored tone that says he’s already done with the conversation, done with you, done pretending.
and then the cold hallway air hit you and everything cracked at once.
you didn’t mean to slam the door behind you. it just… happened. the sound echoed down the corridor, loud enough to make you wince, loud enough to feel like your humiliation was now public record. you press your hands to your face, fingertips digging into your eyes, trying to breathe through the choking tightness in your throat.
you’re so focused on holding yourself together that you don’t hear his door open. not until he speaks.
“are you alright?”
you freeze.
nanami’s voice is soft in a way that shouldn’t travel so well, a warm sensation that slides under your ribs. you turn your head just enough to see him leaning against his doorframe — sweater sleeves pushed up, hair slightly mussed, glasses off for once. he must’ve been cooking, or doing something quietly domestic before your world fell apart outside his door.
you wipe your face fast, like that’ll erase the proof. “sorry. i didn’t mean to— i know it’s loud.”
“you’re not loud,” he says, stepping toward you. “you’re upset.”
that does something terrible to whatever was holding you upright. your breath trips. your eyes burn again. you look away because crying in front of nanami kento feels like breaking a rule — like he’s too gentle to witness something so ugly.
he doesn’t let you hide.
“come inside,” he says, not forceful, not assuming, just… certain. “please.”
you shouldn’t. you know you shouldn’t. but your feet move anyway, following him into the warm, quiet glow of his apartment. it smells like bergamot and something subtly sweet, like warm sugar, like safety. he’d already made tea — there are two mugs on the counter like he hadn’t decided which one he wanted yet. he hands you one.
“drink,” he says. “slowly.”
you do. because it feels easier than thinking.
nanami sits across from you, forearms on his knees, watching in that way he does — not staring nor intruding on you, just seeing. really seeing you, for you. it makes your chest hurt.
“do you want to tell me what happened?” he asks after a moment. “or do you prefer silence?”
you laugh. it’s thin and brittle. “i prefer… not crying in my neighbor’s kitchen.”
“you’re not doing anything wrong,” he says simply. “stop apologizing.”
you stare down at the mug, heat soaking into your palms. “he just… gets frustrated. i get emotional. i guess that’s annoying.”
nanami’s jaw flexes, subtle but unmistakable. “you’re not annoying.”
“you don’t know me that well.”
he tilts his head, eyes narrowing the slightest bit. “i hear you come home every day. i hear you sigh when you unlock your door. i hear when you’re humming and when you’re tired and when you’re dragging your feet because you worked too long. i know more than you think.”
your heart stumbles.
“and none of it is annoying,” he finishes softly.
the air shifts then. you look at him and he meets your gaze without flinching, without looking away, without doing what everyone else does when your emotions get too loud. he just… stays.
and that’s what breaks you.
your eyes well up again and you press a hand over your face, mortified. “god, i’m so sorry, i swear i’m not usually—”
his chair scrapes quietly against the floor as he stands and kneels in front of you.
“don’t apologize to me,” he says gently, thumb brushing a tear before it falls. “save that for people who deserve your regret.”
you inhale sharply, throat thick.
his hand lingers at your jaw, warm and steady. “may i?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. “i won’t touch you if you don’t want it.”
you don’t trust your own voice, so you nod.
he cups your cheek fully then, guiding your face up to his, brushing a tear away with the side of his thumb. he studies you like he’s memorizing something fragile.
“you deserve tenderness,” he murmurs. “surely you know that.”
“i don’t think i do,” you breathe.
nanami’s expression flickers — something painful, something angry on your behalf.
“then let me remind you,” he says quietly.
you don’t kiss him. he doesn’t kiss you. not at first. he waits — for your breath to steady, for your gaze to hold his, for something in your body to lean forward without realizing it.
and when it does—he closes the distance.
his mouth is slow and warm. not greedy. not demanding or excessive. he kisses you like he wants you to feel every inch of it, like he wants to prove something — that softness isn’t weakness, that patience isn’t boring, that you deserve someone who doesn’t make you beg for scraps of affection.
his hand slides behind your neck, guiding you gently, and your fingers curl into the fabric of his sweater like you’re afraid he might disappear. he doesn’t. he kisses you again, deeper this time, breath hitching when you pull him closer.
you don’t know who moves first — if he lifts you or you climb into his lap — but suddenly you’re straddling him on the living room floor, his hands firm on your waist, your bodies pressed flush.
“tell me to stop,” he murmurs against your mouth, though his grip tightens as he says it.
you shake your head. “don’t.”
and that’s all it takes.
he exhales like he’s been holding it for weeks — months, maybe — and his mouth moves to your throat, kissing you there, tasting you there, pulling sounds from you your boyfriend never bothered to find. his hands roam your back, your hips, your thighs, guiding you into a slow grind that makes your breath break apart.
you gasp, fingers sliding into his hair, pulling lightly. he groans, and the sound vibrates against your collarbone.
“kento,” you whisper, surprised by how easily his name falls from your mouth.
he shudders.
“say it again,” he breathes, kissing the corner of your jaw.
“kento,” you repeat, softer, needier.
his hands grip your hips like the name itself did something to him. “god… you have no idea.”
you lean into him, bodies aligning, heat sparking, the tension thick enough to drown in.
he kisses you again — slower this time, deeper, like he’s promising things without saying them. like he’s rewriting every moment you were told you were too much.
like he’s showing you what it feels like to be wanted properly.
and when he finally lifts you in his arms — standing, carrying you out of the living room, your hands clutching his shoulders — you realize something else: he’s not going to treat you gently because he thinks you’re fragile.
he’s going to treat you gently because he knows you deserve it. and maybe that’s the difference that undoes you completely.
nanami’s hands are steady even though his breathing isn’t. he carries you like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he doesn’t get you out of the hallway fast enough — but he still walks slow, careful, like his body refuses to treat you with anything but reverence. your arms wrap around his shoulders instinctively, your cheek brushing his jaw, and you feel him swallow hard like the closeness knocks something loose inside him.
his bedroom is dim, warm, soft lamplight spilling across clean sheets and a stack of neatly folded clothes. it smells like cedar and something that’s just… him. comforting in a way that makes your chest ache.
he sets you down gently on the edge of the bed, but he doesn’t step back. his hands stay on your hips, thumbs brushing small circles into your waist like he’s steadying both of you. his eyes search your face again — not for doubt, but permission.
“just tell me if anything feels wrong,” he murmurs, voice lower than before, strained around the edges like he’s holding back too much. “i’ll stop immediately.”
“kento,” you breathe, tugging him closer by the front of his sweater, “i don’t want you to stop.”
that’s all it takes.
his mouth is on yours again — deeper this time, hungrier, the restraint slipping at the seams. you lie back and he follows, one knee braced on the mattress beside your thigh, one hand sliding up your ribcage in a slow, devastating drag. his touch burns in the best way. like he’s memorizing the shape of you before he lets himself have more.
your shirt rides up and he breaks the kiss just long enough to pull it over your head. he pauses — not because he’s hesitating, but because he’s looking at you like you’re something he’s wanted for far too long.
“beautiful,” he mumbles, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
your cheeks flush. he notices. he smiles — soft, slow, just a little crooked — before dipping his head to kiss down your sternum, your stomach, everywhere his hands aren’t already touching.
your fingers slide into his hair, and the quiet sound he makes against your skin goes straight to your pelvis.
“kento—” you gasp when his mouth drags lower, hovering right above the waistband of your shorts.
“tell me what you need,” he says against your skin, warm breath making your thighs twitch.
“you,” you whisper. “just you.”
his hands slip under your hips, lifting you just enough to slide your shorts down your legs, kissing the inside of your knee on the way. your thighs tremble. he notices that too. he notices everything.
he settles between your legs, looking up at you from the pillows like you’re the only person in the world worth kneeling for.
“may i?” he asks again.
you nod, breath shaky. “please.”
and nanami loses the last piece of composure he had.
his mouth is warm as he kisses the inside of your thigh, then the other, inching closer with maddening patience. you arch when his tongue finally slides through your folds, tasting you like he’s learning a language.
your hand flies to his hair. he groans into you.
he eats you out like it’s the first real meal he’s had in weeks — slow at first, savoring, mapping every sound you make. then deeper, hungrier, tongue flattening against your clit in long, steady strokes that make your hips jerk.
“you’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice vibrating against you.
“kento— oh god—”
“good,” he whispers before sealing his mouth around your clit again. “let me have it.”
your thighs squeeze around his head but he doesn’t pull back — he slides his hands under them and holds you open, holds you still, keeps you right where you’re falling apart. he sucks lightly, then harder, alternating with slow licks that make your vision blur.
it builds too fast — dizzying, overwhelming — and you tug his hair, voice cracking. “kento, i’m… i’m close.”
he doesn’t lift his head. he doesn’t speed up. he just hums against you in approval, and that alone pushes you over the edge.
your back arches completely off the mattress, his name torn from your throat as your orgasm floods through you. he groans when he feels it, fingers gripping your thighs like he needs to hold on.
he keeps licking you gently through it, soothing, guiding you down, kissing the inside of your thigh once your legs stop trembling.
when he finally lifts his head, his mouth is wet, his hair mussed, his eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them.
“come here,” he says, voice rough.
he pulls you into his lap with both hands, kissing you slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. you straddle him without thinking, grinding down against the hard length in his slacks, and he shudders like he’s barely holding himself together.
“i need you,” he whispers against your mouth, confession slipping out raw. “i’ve been trying not to… but please. i need you.”
his self-control snaps the second you whisper, “then take me.”
he lays you back, unbuttons his shirt with shaking hands, kisses you through every inch of his restraint breaking, and the look he gives you as he pushes his pants down is nothing short of starving.
“i’m going to treat you right,” he says, voice shaking with how much he means it. “i swear i will.”
he lines himself up.
you gasp.
nanami pushes into you like he’s afraid to hurt you at first — slow, controlled, the stretch steals your breath instantly, heat blooming through your pelvis so sharp, it nearly folds you in half. he swallows hard when he feels you clench, eyes squeezing shut like he’s praying for strength he no longer has.
“oh—” he breathes, jaw tense, voice breaking into something almost pained, “you’re… perfect. god, you’re—”
he cuts himself off with a groan so low it vibrates through your chest. his forehead drops to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin as he sinks deeper, deeper, until he bottoms out and just… stops.
your fingers clutch his back, nails dragging lightly down his spine because you can’t not touch him. you’re too full, too overwhelmed, too aware of how solid and real he feels inside you.
his breath catches sharply, restraint snapping like a frayed wire. he lifts his head, eyes blown wide and dark, pupils swallowing the lamplight. he cups your face with both hands like you’re something he’s been wanting to hold properly for months.
then he pulls back, not far, just enough to feel the drag of you around him — and thrusts back in.
your gasp punches the air between you; his groan tears out of him like he’s been holding it in for years.
he finds a rhythm fast — slow enough to feel every inch, deep enough to make your toes curl, steady enough to make your breath break each time he snaps his hips into yours. his hands slide down your sides, gripping your waist firmly, pulling you into him with each thrust like he’s trying to get impossibly closer.
“i’m not going to rush this,” he murmurs against your throat, kissing you there, voice barely holding together. “you deserve better than being rushed.”
but his hips are already moving faster, deeper, the sound of your bodies meeting echoing soft and obscene through the room. you tighten around him and he groans again, forehead pressing to yours.
“you have no idea,” he breathes, thrust faltering for half a second, “how long i’ve wanted you.”
your heart stumbles. your fingers tangle in his hair. your legs wrap around his waist, urging him closer, harder, anything that gives you more.
“kento—”
“i’ve got you,” he whispers, voice warm and wrecked, adjusting the angle just enough to hit that spot that makes you cry out. “i’ll take care of you. let me.”
your head tips back, a moan spilling out of your chest, your body tightening around him so hard he curses into your skin.
“that’s it,” he mutters, thrusts growing messy as your nails drag down his shoulder blades, “arch for me— just like that— beautiful—”
you’re close. he feels it. he knows it. his hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, stroking slow, devastating circles that make your thighs shake.
“i want to feel you,” he rasps, hips relentless now, voice breaking. “cum for me. please— let me feel you.”
his thumb presses harder, the pace of his hips going deep and sharp and unmistakably desperate, and your whole body locks up, pleasure burning hot and fast through every nerve.
you climax with a gasp you try to swallow but can’t, your back arching into him, your nails sinking into his shoulders as your walls flutter and pulse around him. nanami groans and thrusts once, twice, then spills into you with a shudder that feels like his entire body is coming apart in your hands.
he stays inside you as he comes down, chest heaving, face buried in your neck, one hand stroking your hip like he’s trying to calm both of you at once.
“breathe,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “you’re alright. i’ve got you.”
you’re trembling. he realizes it instantly and pulls out slowly, carefully — kissing your forehead as he does, murmuring soft apologies even though you’re not in pain.
he lays beside you, pulling you into his chest, tucking you beneath his chin like you belong there. his breathing slows, syncing with yours, his hand rubbing gentle circles on your back.
for a while, neither of you speak.
then, quietly, almost shyly, he asks: “do you want to stay here tonight?”
you nod against his chest. he exhales — shaky, relieved.
he kisses the top of your head. “good,” he murmurs, tightening his arm around you. “because i wasn’t planning on letting you go.”
you’re half-asleep against nanami’s chest when the knock comes — sharp, impatient, rattling the door in a way that makes nanami’s brows crease instantly. he doesn’t move at first. neither do you. the knock comes again, louder this time.
nanami exhales through his nose, that quiet, annoyed sound he makes whenever the universe interrupts him at the worst possible moment. “stay here,” he murmurs, brushing your forehead with his lips before sitting up. “i’ll handle it.”
you tug weakly at his sleeve. “kento—”
he gives you a look. absolutely unreadable. “i won’t say anything you don’t want me to.”
he slips out of bed, pulling his sweater back over his bare chest, smoothing his hair with one hand — and somehow still looks more put together than any sane person should after what the two of you just did. you grab the sheets, holding them to your chest as you sit up, heartbeat quickening when you hear your boyfriend’s voice through the door.
“hey — man? i’m looking for my girlfriend. she stormed out earlier. i thought maybe she came this way.”
nanami pauses mid-step.
not because he’s nervous. because he’s choosing which version of himself to present.
by the time he opens the door, his expression is perfect: polite, neutral, almost bored.
your boyfriend stands there, disheveled, annoyed, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s the victim in all this. nanami takes him in with one sweeping glance — from the sloppy posture to the reddened frustration in his face — and decides instantly that he doesn’t respect him.
“evening,” nanami says, voice calm. “can i help you?”
“yeah, um — have you seen her? she ran out after some stupid argument,” your boyfriend says, leaning slightly to the side like he’s trying to peer past nanami’s shoulder. “i just wanna talk.”
nanami shifts one inch, enough to block the view completely — subtle but unmistakably territorial.
“no,” he says evenly. “i’m afraid i haven’t.”
your boyfriend frowns. “are you sure? i heard a door, so i thought maybe—”
nanami’s tone stays gentle, but there’s something under it now. something cold.
“i’m sure,” he replies. “and i think it’s best you give her space. she was upset.”
your boyfriend scoffs, rolling his eyes. “yeah, she gets like that. dramatic, you know? she’ll come back.”
nanami’s jaw moves — not a clench, more like a moment of restraint. a very precise moment where he chooses not to break this man’s nose with you being only a few feet away.
“people aren’t dramatic when they’re hurt,” nanami says quietly, gaze steady in a way that makes your boyfriend straighten without meaning to. “and she didn’t seem hurt until she was speaking to you.”
your boyfriend blinks, thrown.
“i suggest you go home. let her return when she decides to. not when you expect her to.”
your boyfriend stares at him, something irritated and defensive rising in his expression — but he doesn’t push it. he can’t. nanami’s presence is too calm, too heavy to argue with.
“right, um,” he mutters finally. “whatever. if you see her… tell her to call me.”
nanami nods once. “if i see her.”
he shuts the door before the sentence even finishes leaving the man’s mouth.
he turns the lock with a soft click.
then he stands there for a moment, hand still on the doorframe, shoulders lifting in a slow exhale — not from nerves, but from the pure, quiet satisfaction of shutting your boyfriend out of a space he doesn’t deserve to enter.
when he finally looks back at you, his expression softens instantly.
“he won’t be back tonight,” nanami says, returning to the bed with slow, careful steps. “and even if he is… you’re not obligated to answer him.”
you swallow, throat tight. “what did you tell him?”
nanami slips under the covers, pulling you into his chest again. his breath warms your hair as he murmurs,
“the truth,” he says. and then, after a beat, “that i don't know where you are.”
you blink up at him. “kento… isn’t that lying?”
he kisses your forehead, tracing your lower back with a slow touch. “no,” he says softly. “it’s protecting.”
“and i will keep doing that as long as you need me to.”
Look, most of the queer people I know, myself included, had pretty rough childhoods (for a variety of reasons, but being recognizably queer was part of it) and as a result, we are fiercely protective of kids. Not protecting kids in a walled-garden sense the way conservatives want, but celebrating the wonder and whimsy and weirdness of being a child, and treating children as people - people who might need more supervision and care, but people with opinions and thoughts that really do matter. So of course the most beloved children's books of the last 40 years are written by queer folx. It makes perfect sense.
when you think about it teenagers of the next generation will never get to experience a cw show with 7+ seasons and 22 episodes per season. they will never know what it's like to be insanely obsessed with a mediocre show with mediocre writing and mediocre acting (with one really good actor carrying the show on their backs). they will never know the feeling of fighting weekly in the trenches for your ship only for the writers to screw you over. they will never be so increasingly disappointed by the worsening writing choices as the seasons progress and they will never know what it's like to watch the worst series finale after investing years into a show. and that is the biggest tragedy.
₍^. .^₎⟆ synposis: soulmate!AU. nanami begins to find things that don't belong to him in his apartment. lipgloss. a single sock. a hair dryer. and in the middle of it all, a fluffy turtle keychain he wishes to give back to his unknown but destined lover.
word count: 2.5k
it starts with a plush keychain.
nothing too loud or flashy, just a fluffy yellow turtle with a metal clip on.
gojo nearly falls out of his chair when he spots it tucked between nanami's array of books and reading glasses. it's clearly out of place, cute and plush against the pristine cleanliness and monochromatic chic of nanami's apartment, and nanami doesn't harbor any secret children (that gojo knows of).
"and whoooooose is this? or more likely, which lady's is this?" gojo sing songs, dangling the keychain from his pinky finger. nanami sighs, his back turned to gojo as his coffee finishes brewing, the clipped comment dying in his mouth when he spots what the silver haired man is holding.
nanami has a near photographic memory of everything in his apartment. he's damn near curated every inch of his living space. at first he thinks it's a joke.
"where'd you even get that, gojo." he grumbles, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes.
"it was right here on your bedside table." gojo scoffs at the accusation.
the black coffee burns nanami's throat on the way down.
"if this is some kind of a prank, i'm afraid it's not that funny."
gojo actually pouts at that, like a little child that's been told off, before crossing his arms.
"I'm being serious, nanami! It was laying right here in between your books!" he pauses, before breaking into a big smile. "So you're either hiding a girl-"
"i'm not seeing anyone."
"or this is... the sign."
nanami pretends not to know, in an effort to calm his racing heartbeat.
"what sign?"
gojo's eyes widen.
"what sign? are you hearing yourself? this is your soulmate's lost item! this is so exciting! we have to celebrate! I have to text everyone we know, arrange flowers, there's this amazing restaurant downtown that does the most incredible s-"
whilst his friend rattles on, nanami's eyes remain fixated on the little turtle now sitting on his kitchen table, warmth blooming across his chest. he'd heard the stories of course. soulmates' lost possessions ending up in each other's homes. but he hadn't gotten his hopes up. not everyone in the world would have a soulmate. nor would it be so easy to say with certainty that finding strange items in your house would be attributable to a soulmate. but this...
his hands moved on their own accord, left hand brushing up against the toy. the keychain was soft in his hands, yellow fur and black stitched smile.
"and- hello? are you even listening to me?!"
nanami hums, if only to placate gojo, whose short attention span has now been diverted by a new text from geto. when gojo rushes out the apartment door, stealing a pack of mochi from the kitchen counter whilst rushing out goodbyes, nanami doesn't even bother to look up from where he's standing.
leaning up against the marble countertops of his kitchen, twisting and examining the soft plush from all angles. his heart flutters at the realization that he's holding something that belongs to... his one and only.
patting the small head of the toy turtle, he tucks it into his coat pocket, vowing to reunite it with its owner in the future.
a week later, on a lazy Sunday morning, he finds lipgloss where his extra toothpaste should be.
but not just a tube of lipgloss.
an array of different lipglosses of all shades - dark burgundy, cherry red, barbie pink, soft pink, sparkly peach. it makes nanami's head spin, pulling down one tube of lipgloss after another that have magically appeared in his bathroom mirror cabinet.
examining each one with surgical precision, he notices that one of the shades are clearly more used up than another. barbie pink. he makes a mental note of this, carefully placing away the lipglosses in a spare toiletry bag he keeps under the sink.
over the course of a month, that bag becomes filled with little remnants of his soulmate. nearly empty perfume bottles. a single sock with a print of a golden retriever. multi colored hair ties. a small travel sized shampoo and body wash set. these items appear randomly and suddenly without warning, often when he's having a bad day.
a late 1am return from work, his head pounding from exhaustion and dehydration? he nearly steps on the perfume bottle laying on the floor near his bedroom door. it's clearly well loved, with only a third or so left, and smells distinctively of vanilla and lavender.
a 7am rush as the city wakes up behind him, the streets of tokyo buzzing with energy as he clips on his shoes? he finds a multi pack of hair ties sitting neatly in between the gaps of his shoes in the cupboard.
nanami even almost misses the single sock - navy blue with a golden retriever print on it - hanging from his closet when he's cleaning, because of how natural it looks. when he takes it off from the rack, he turns it over in his hand and smiles: imagining how nice it would be to have her cardigan draped over his couch and pairs of socks tucked into his closet.
now whenever nanami can't sleep, he imagines what his soulmate looks like. is she tall? short? shy? extroverted? a coffee person or a tea person? the type to laugh loudly with her whole chest and heart, or giggle silently to herself in an effort to hide her laugh?
his hands inevitably find the soft turtle keychain sitting by his bed, stroking its fur and imagining what it would be like to hold her hand instead, as his mind starts to drift off to sleep.
he wonders if she'd have some things of his as well. nanami isn't a forgetful or clumsy type of person, but he is human. he can't really name the last thing he's lost - maybe a bookmark or a reusable straw - but he sometimes wonders if he should purposefully forget something so it would end up at her place.
he's not even sure if that's how these things work.
autumn fades into winter, the cold nights bearable only with the surprise of what he might find in his apartment today. he's actually disappointed when he returns to an 'empty' house, everything in place and just as he remembered. he starts to think the universe is playing a cruel joke on him (or that she's gotten good at keeping track of her things) when a full month goes by with no lost items appearing in his place.
then, he spots a portable charger that's not compatible with his phone lying on his bed, and he knows he has her back.
and when he finds three missing items in the span of one week during a particularly rough December - a fraying picnic blanket with square patterns, a pair of fluffy thigh high boots, and an expensive looking hair dryer - he wonders if she's losing these things on purpose.
all in all, his apartment is no longer looking like a one bed bachelor suite belonging to a single salary man. but more of a couple's living space with his and hers items adorning every shelf and table.
it's gotten to the point that having people over - even for a few minutes - is difficult, without being subject to many eyebrow raises and accusations of dating behind his friends' backs.
as the months now stretch into spring, the frostbite of winter melting away into gentle spring breezes and early sunrises, nanami finds himself getting impatient. when will he meet her?
he knows it's foolish, to even think that it'll happen. the fact that he's even been given a soulmate is something to be grateful for. but there's an ache that nibbles on the side of his ribs, a buzzing anticipation that never leaves his mind when he stands in the middle of a crowded place.
in every train station. public crossing. jam packed bar filled with cigarette smoke. he looks for her, one hand always in his coat pocket, stroking the soft pet turtle that started it all. he imagines it'll be like the movies, he'll come across a stranger and he'll just know.
his stomach will flutter, his vision will blur, and his heart will instantly make the connection.
but it never happens, much to his disappointment.
it's now April, a few months to summer. the cherry blossoms are finally out and nanami needs a morning run to clear his mind. a quick shot of espresso and light stretches in his living room are all he needs before his shoes are hitting the pavement, dodging cyclists and pedestrians enjoying their gentle 7am walk.
a few laps in the park later, he's back in his apartment just in time to fold his running clothes for the washing machine and take a long shower.
a man of routine, he combs his hair and applies his meticulous skincare routine, counting downards from ten. whilst adjusting his tie, he inspects his suit for any faults and finishes by spraying himself with the same vanilla and lavender perfume of his soulmate's.
lastly, out of habit, he makes sure that the turtle keychain is kept safe and secured in his coat pocket.
clipping on his watch on his wrist, nanami doesn't look onto the street as he exits the elevator. he collides with a body, the stranger letting out a surprised yelp and the sound of iced coffee splashing the pavement.
"I am so very sorry." nanami immediately says, lowering his glasses to look at you right in your eyes. you thankfully don't seem mad, just a bit sheepish, as you accept his left hand to stand back up on your wobbly feet.
"no worries. i should've been walking so fast." you try and laugh it off, your brain going haywire at just how good looking this guy is. he's blonde, tall, clearly athletic - from how the tight fitting suit is hugging his body - with a jawline that could kill.
he even smells like your favorite perfume, vanilla and lavender.
"not at all, i was preocuppied with my thoughts and didn't look onto the street before stepping out." nanami quips, eyes falling onto the spilled coffee. "could i buy you a new coffee as an apology?"
"oh, i don't want to bother you-" you start, though internally you want nothing more but to keep talking to this handsome stranger.
"please, you wouldn't be." he assures you, heart fluttering at how wide and genuine your smile seems to be when you accept. when you bend over to pick up the split coffee cup, his eyes land on your socks and his throat dries up.
mismatched socks. one plain black sock. and the other, a navy blue sock with a very familiar golden retriever print.
'stay calm, nanami.' he scolds himself as you walk alongside him on the way to the cafe, quiet conversation filling the air about what you both do for work. 'this could mean anything. it could just be a popular sock brand.'
the conversation is easy. you're witty, kind, you hold his bicep to stop him from walking into traffic when he doesn't realize the light has suddenly turned red. then, you get all embarassed, apologizing for grabbing onto his arm without asking.
it makes his heart so warm.
and when you arrive at the cafe, casually slinging your bag over to the other shoulder whilst ordering, he notices the array of keychains hanging from your bag.
his heart skips another beat.
"you like my keychains?" you ask with a quiet laugh, noticing how intensely he's staring at your bag. "i'm a bit of a collector with these things. i just think they make my bags look more... unique and cute."
"do they each tell a story?" he quips, lips curling at the end. god, he finds you so cute, especially when your eyes light up whilst delving into detail about each keychain.
"..but my favorite one I lost sometime last year." you say, thanking the barista as you accept the drinks. your fingers brush against his when you pass him his black americano.
walking side by side on the pavement, nanami's heart beats irregularly at that declaration, but you're none the wiser. only innocently tilting your head sideways and asking if his coffee is good.
"it's great." he lies, as if the bitter coffee isn't burning his throat from the anticipation bubbling in his stomach.
fuck it.
"what was it?" he blurts out, unable to keep it in.
"what was?" you ask, confused.
"the keychain you lost."
"a turtle." you say with a small laugh, licking away the foam of coffee on your lips. "silly, i know but my cousin got it for me."
he stops breathing for a second.
"... was it a yellow turtle by any chance?"
nanami stops in his tracks. you two are back in front of the apartment where he bumped into you. his blood is rushing so loud in his ears that he's worried you can hear it, as your eyes widen in surprise.
"h-how'd you..."
"a fluffy yellow turtle with white fins and a black stitched smile?" he finishes, smile so fond and wide that it blinds you.
you're at a complete loss for words, the gravity of the situation beginning to settle in, when he suddenly takes out (from his coat pocket) the very keychain you had lost and sorely missed.
"i've got it. and every other thing you've misplaced for the past year."
you stare at his open palm in disbelief, eyes carefully examining the object as you take the keychain from his hands and feel its fur against your fingertips. your heart is thundering in your chest, your soulmate smiling at you so brightly.
"i'm nanami, by the way. nanami kento." he introduces himself, ever so the gentleman.
"(y/n). (y/n) (l/n)."
there's an uniterrupted beat of silence, with nanami staring at you so intensely with burning adoration and you suddenly feeling the rush of embarrassment of how much you've lost in the past year.
"oh god, did you really keep everything i've lost?" you groan, nearly whining.
he only chuckles.
"yes i did. neatly categorized and filed in my apartment." he pauses, surveying your reaction. "would you like to come up and see?"
"yes." you say too quickly, before you're shaking your head sideways in an effort to calm yourself. "i mean, yes, uh, that'd be nice."
he turns to let you in, before he turns back around abruptly, stopping you in your tracks. you stare up at him, confused.
he only smiles, soft and gentle.
"hold on." nanami says, stepping closer to you. you're overwhelmed by his scent, mix of aftershave and vanilla lavender perfume, and how gentle his hands are when he takes the turtle keychain from your left hand.
he clips it onto your bag, giving it a gentle tug to ensure it's secure.
"there. don't lose it again." he says lowly, but there's a hint of teasing to his tone.
"and if i do?" you ask quietly, teasing him back, letting him drag you through the doors of his apartment.
nanami takes your hand, but this time, he doesn't let it go.
"you can come back to me."
a/n: ahhhh my first ever fic! i'm absolutely obsessed with nanami at the moment so i wanted to write something sweet for him. i remember reading a marvel fic with this soulmate AU idea a few years ago (soulmates find each other's lost possession in their apartment) so i wanted to give it a spin.
ᯓ★ likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated! ᯓ★
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