𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙧𝙮, 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙖 𝙢𝙚𝙨𝙨!
You're a clumsy, messy, pushing thirty single woman who always gets herself tangled with weird men. There's always a bottle of wine in your fridge and a pack of cigarett– damn it, you were supposed to quit! So how is it possible that still, somehow, you have two of the most successful men in a country completely enamoured by you?
pairings: Nanami Kento x Reader (x Gojo Satoru)
content/warnings: Bridget Jones AU, fluff and eventual smut, mainly fluff tho, Nanami is sooo Mark Darcy coded, mini series, all of them are around thirties/in thirties, Gojo is a playboy, romcom vibes
a/n: here we're going back to the movie accuracy, although I changed some dialogues of course :)
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─── 003. Dear diary, this fuckass lawyer stood me up!
"You must be joking," Satoru tried to joke, rumpling between his fingers a white sheet of paper.
With big, fancy, almost medieval-like manuscript letters. The first "R" bended in reddish circles, swirling like the dragon's tale, and the rest –"esignation letter" – written quickly on your thigh in overcrowded metro. You didn't have time to make it fancy too, and from what you had seen, medieval manuscripts usually bolded out only the first letter.
Anyways.
You also had the standard, boring, printed copy, but the decision to change the jobs was too important not to make it fancy.
"Sugar, I'm not accepting it," Satoru sighed, sliding the document away on his desk.
You sat right in front of him on a plush chair – professional, straightened up, with a coffee stain on a white (very professional!) shirt, looking like a high-schooler being scolded by a headmaster. You groaned, taking the other (less funny) letter from the bag and sliding it towards Satoru again. He didn't even look at it before crumbling with one hand and throwing to the trash can.
"Hey!" came louder than you thought, bringing the attention of few people in the office. "Now you need to accept the medieval one."
"No, sugar, it doesn't matter which one it is – I'm not accepting your resignation letter. At all."
"You cannot not accept it. It's against the HR rules," you scoffed. "And I found a new job, starting on Monday."
"Well," Satoru stood up from his leather chair and rounded the desk, before sitting down at its edge, right in front of you. Hands in pockets of loose trousers, glass-covered eyes looking down at your stupidly scrubbed-up figure. "I don't fucking care about HR, you're not resigning. And you should give at least six months notice."
"You can talk about it with my lawyer," you mumbled, standing up slowly.
Big hand rested on your shoulder before he pushed you back on the chair.
If it wasn't a job-resignation meeting, you would probably think about the way Satoru's forearm bulged with muscles the moment he pushed you back down.
But you didn't think of it, as you were currently a very, very busy and professional woman.
"Your lawyer? Why the fuck would I talk with your lawyer, sugar?" He tsked, seemingly quite irritated with your decision. "Listen, if this is about that Friday–"
You scoffed, throwing his hand off your shoulder. "It's not. I need to change something in my life."
"And this change is getting rid of me and your well-paid job?"
Well, he wasn't wrong. You did want to change jobs for a while, with a push-and-pull relationship with him being one of the many reasons. Another one was a too-long commute and a clear waste of your gossiping talents, which could be used in a much more mouthy-friendly environment.
Satoru looked rather crushed, with arms crossed on a wide chest and furrowed forehead, as if trying to think of ways to change your mind. But there was truly nothing that could do it, because Satoru was nothing more than a fling and a playboy, who at the age of thirty still much preferred chasing skirts to finding himself a proper woman. In his age.
Your feet moved, wanting to stand up, but he quickly stopped you. Warm hands wrapped around yours as he placed them on his chest.
"I..." he started, looking almost maddened. Like Heathcliff, after digging up Catherine's body and hugging it yearningly (yes, you've finally read the book). "I need to tell you something, sugar. And it's going to cost me a lot of courage to do it, so please listen to me."
You looked around, seeing that the glass walls of his office were now ogled by curious glances of your coworkers.
"What are you doing?" came out in a whisper, while you tried to keep a polite smile.
"It may be too sudden, but..." he sighed, lifting up your hand and pushing it against his trembling lips.
Oh, for fucks sake, he should go into acting with such perfectly polished dickhead moves. Because you knew where those teary eyes and fakely concerned gaze were going to.
"Satoru, I swear to God, if you plan to say–"
"I love you, sugar," of course. "I know you can think I'm nothing but a rake, but... I'm just a hurt and lost man. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you. You know, my parents never–"
You gasped, with rage filling your whole body from the pads of fingers up to hair roots. "Did you just quote a fucking Mr Darcy?"
He smiled. "You like Pride and Prejudice, right?"
You couldn't listen to it anymore. To the fable sold by hundreds of thousands of men to their girlfriends, after they cheated on them with a blonde hairdresser from next door, because they felt lost.
The "I am the problem, not you" thingy mixed with "If you gave me a bit more attention, I would need to sink my cock into someone else's cunt" cries, you've heard multiple times from your previous arse boyfriends.
Satoru wasn't even your boyfriend, and yet – you couldn't help yourself from scoffing and smacking his hand off.
"I'd slap you, but you could enjoy it too much," you murmured, finally standing up.
His I'm-too-broke-to-pay-child support demeanour quickly flattened, and a sly grin once again lifted up his lips. "Didn't work? It usually does. I would go down on my knees, but the environment is rather unfriendly, don't you think?" When you didn't laugh, he once again tried to recall a serious face. "Listen, I'm really sorry. But I really do like you and–"
Before he could finish, a quiet knock filled his office, and a young secretary shyly walked in.
"Mr Gojo?" she said, glancing at the small distance between you two with a furrow. "The model you wanted to invite for dinner said that–" she quickly shut up, seeing his widening eyes and your slowly falling mouth.
He whispered something, with lips curving in shut up or maybe not now please, but she still stood there like a dumb lamb.
You looked at him, at her, then back at him and back at her, as if trying to comprehend what she was just trying to say.
Oh, this bloody wanker!
"Ah, ah!" Satoru cracked an awkward laugh, waving a hand. He tried to ignore your raised eyebrows and a little shake of the head. "Darling, what model? I'm sorry, but I'm in the middle of an important talk. Could you please come later?"
Young secretary bit down on lower lip, feeling even more awkward. "But, Mr Gojo, you told me to invite the model from the publishers' party and reserve a hotel, isn't that right? I–"
"Okay, I'm done," you murmured, placing the sheet of medieval-scripted resignation letter on his desk.
Prying eyes of coworkers glanced your way with gasps, following Satoru's scoff and his secretary's sweating forehead. Poor girl thought she was at fault!
You squeezed between her and the doors, adding a little note about how inappropriately low her neckline was, to which she reacted with a flush, before going towards the elevator.
Satoru buried face in his hands and took a deep sigh. "Fuck, wait!"
Long legs quickly caught up while you were waiting for the elevator to finally come up. Out of all the days, why must it have been late today?
Your finger pushed the creamy button with a desperate click, but Satoru was already there. Tall and pathetic, with an actual glimmer of misery coiling behind the rimless glasses.
"Listen, you were one of my best workers, and I really think that finishing our cooperation on a bad note is not appropriate. I promise to be on my best behaviour, but please, reconsider this," he rambled. "If you feel overlooked, I think we can change a few things, right? This job has many good prospects for someone like... you."
The elevator arrived and opened with a gentle sound of a bell. You stepped inside before turning towards him. He stood in place, with a foot tapping nervously on the office's ugly carpet, and lower lip dragged between his teeth.
Other coworkers glanced at you secretly, as if watching the forbidden love story of a princess and her peasant boy. Are you going to betray yourself and run away to die of bubonic plague at the age of thirty, or choose to marry a cold prince, but live for at least two years longer (depending on how often you would shower)?
"Well, thank you, my dear. That's quite good to know that I was such an important employee for whatever the fuck you were doing here. But frankly speaking, if working here would mean staring at your face for eight hours a day, I would rather be hired to whip Donald Trump's ass."
He furrowed. "I think you meant wipe…"
Ugh, bastard!
And when the metal doors closed, you took a deep breath.
After all these years, you were finally free of your wanker boss!
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟
Your new job was... something.
Firstly, getting inside the TV studio was not that easy, even with a signed contract shown to guards and multiple attempts to convince them that yes, you are working here, yes it is your first day, no you still don't have a pass.
You were twenty minutes late on your first day and everything because of some stupid plastic pass, which seemingly needed to be used to each and every room in this place.
Including the bathroom.
Working as a presenter on popular telly wasn't something you could imagine yourself in, but apparently, directors were charmed by your humour and intelligence during the recruitment (they cared about the latest gossip on the British Monarchy more than about the Middle East, as it seemed).
Soon started to love your boss and a team made of twenty-something-year-old people, who threw daggers at you for always pushing the best ideas out there. Working in media meant being pushed towards the older section of your coworkers, always hanging out with a forty-something boss and the HR secretaries. Youngsters from your team saw you as an experienced, unavailable, older woman, although you still had at least half a year to thirty birthday and were closer in age to them than the rest of the team.
The job itself was fun, always full of surprises, with you and the cameraman walking around the town and fulfilling the stupidest wishes of your boss. He was an eccentric, with too many ideas and not enough time, seeing you like a golden goose who was always up and ready to present the most foolish concepts of his.
"Come on, people, let's do the brainstorm," he would say during the Monday meetings, with all the team trying to come up with the program for the next week. "I'm thinking, why are lanky men attractive to goths? I'm thinking, young people having sex in cemeteries. I'm thinking, what are the secrets of playboys?"
Oh, the last one would be a perfect case if you could only interview Gojo Satoru. And you probably could but wouldn't do it, considering that your farewell wasn't the nicest one and happened mainly because of his playboy tendencies.
"Maybe we can talk about why women are attracted to firefighters?" you offered casually, but your boss quickly turned your way.
"Are they?" he asked, glancing at each and every woman sitting in the room.
All of them nodded, as if surprised by the question alone.
"Of course, who isn't?" one girl murmured, chewing on her pen.
"It's like a strip show, but for women," someone else added, and you wanted to say that there is an actual strip show for women called Magic Mike (you still couldn't get those damn tickets), but decided to shut up.
It was one of the few chances to bond with your younger coworkers, and you just couldn't miss it.
Your boss clasped, with a leery smile crossing his face. "Amazing, brilliant, spectacular! Does anyone know any hot firefighters?"
There was a long pause, with a few shaking heads.
"Um," you coughed, raising up a hand. "Actually, I know."
And when a wave of jealous groans rolled through the room, you knew that bonding had just ended.
So that's how it was going. Back and forth, between the studio and the streets – doing interviews, sliding down the firefighter's pool, and accidentally hitting a cameraman with your ass, trying to talk to young drug addicts and not getting jabbed by a dirty needle. That was your job.
Anyways, the work itself was going great, although you couldn't say the same thing about the love life. Thank god your mother was always on the tip of her toes, trying to play a matchmaker and push you towards the–
"Nanami Kento invites you to his parents' ruby wedding," she chirped, calling your line on Sunday morning.
You groaned, trying to dig out the not-yet-dried buggers from your eyes. "Good morning to you, too, Mom. Although I didn't get any message about the invitation."
"Yeah, well, his mother has told me to tell you that he wants you to accompany him," liar. "I've heard you met him a while ago? During a party? How was it?"
You yawned, turning on the other side and closing your eyes for another few minutes. It was 8 a.m. on Sunday, for Christ's sake!
"Great, we talked. That's it," I also barfed on his slacks and forced him to haul me up those fuckass stairs, but you didn't mention it. Wasn't that crucial.
Your mother sighed on the other side, covering a microphone (you were surprised she knew where it was and didn't accidentally hang up), to say something to your father. A few whispers were exchanged before her chirping once again hit your ear.
"That's wonderful, darling. He's such a charming man, I told you. More than happy to have your company during the wedding–"
"I'm not going," you mumbled, trying to close eyes for at least another five minutes.
The air creeping between the loose window seals was biting cold, making you curl under the downy bedding like a baby.
"Come on, darling, let's not start," she reprimanded, as if you were thirteen again. "He's really happy to see you again, and the party should be amazing. Come and have fun," before you could refuse once again, she quickly added. "Well, I need to go, but text Kento that you would love to join him."
And then she hung up.
Ugh, this woman!
It took you a while, however, to muster up a courage and reply to Kento's invitation.
Firstly – because you weren't sure whether he really invited you or it was just your mother's matchmaking attempt to force you to text him.
Secondly – the barf thing was still vivid.
Thirdly – there was no reason for you to go, as you weren't anyone important for either him or his parents.
Fourthly – the wedding was on Saturday, so you would have to miss the new episodes of the Endless Love and Love in the Air, which were a thousand-episode Turkish melodramas you've watched with an older neighbour in flat five.
A groan slipped in when you opened the messages, with his nickname displayed ominously on the upper strip. Your mother has sent you his number after the unfortunate New Year's meeting, so since then he's been saved as an Arse 2. Arse 1 was reserved for Satoru.
I regret to inform you....
Dear Kento, unfortunately I...
Devastated as I am, I sincerely apologize for...
There aren't words that can describe the distress this miss feels upon being unable to accept Mr Kento's invitation...
It wasn't the eighteenth century anymore, so you deleted the message and threw the phone on the night table.
Thoughts of that night started to flood your mind again, reminding you of Kento's furrowed brows and his deep sigh. Hazelnut eyes were glued to the vomit on his slacks – which by the way also left a huge stain on your carpet – as if looking at them long enough could force them to disappear. You remember murmuring some apologies, but the champagne made your head spin and knock you out right away.
It was an utterly embarrassing, shameful, absolutely mortifying experience, stripping you of any chance for the future shag with Nanami Kento (not that you wanted... really).
You took the phone, once again opening the messages.
Mr Kento, thanks for the invitation, it is with great pleasure that I shall accept...
Oh for christ's sake.
Hi Kento, thank you for the invitation! I would love to join you at your parent's ruby wedding :)
Hm, not bad.
As long as he'll interpret the smiley as a symbol of actual joy rather than an ominous sign (that was its second meaning, according to your young coworkers).
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟
Two weeks later, after the oh so bombastic set of work events, related to you getting embarrassed twice on national TV, but also earning "the funniest presenter" award – according to some gossip magazine – one of the most horrendous evenings of your life has finally started.
At 4 p.m. sharp, with you and your parents arriving at Nanami's ruby wedding and coming inside the heavily decorated villa.
It was still quite cold outside, so all the guests gathered in the living room, which was at least twice the size of your attic apartment. The gentle gleam of lights and candles bathed it in warmth, and you noticed Kento right away. Near the fireplace, wearing another three-piece, but this time in deep, ocean blue, with an ugly, yellow tie hanging between the muscular pecks (oh, it must've been ovulation talking).
He didn't reply to your message for two weeks straight, and now hazelnut eyes dared to glance your way with a furrow, as if he truly didn't expect you to be here.
You were all greeted by the serving staff, offering a glass of champagne and piles of little snacks, with your favourite small sandwiches lying on a tray. The guests looked like taken from a tsar's era ballroom, with furs and glimmer and heavy dresses brushing the deep red carpet of Kento's home.
Everything was beautiful, mesmerising. Leaving you and your father with open mouths, as you both shyly hid in the corner, trying to avoid the awkward small talk.
"A bit showy, isn't it?" he murmured, sipping slowly on a champagne.
You nodded, trying everything in your mighty power to not look towards the Kento and a pretty brunette he was talking to.
Bubbles trickled down your throat, eyes narrowed, seeing the woman's hand squeezing his biceps gently, before the living room was filled with her sweet laughter.
Oh, for Christ's sake, of course she had one of the most beautiful laughs you've ever heard!
Kento, however, stood as stony as always, with tightly drawn eyebrows and a flat smile. He didn't seem uncomfortable, but also not quite relaxed, looking at her in a rather casual, maybe even bored manner, with warm eyes darting every few seconds towards... oh.
"The salmon sandwich is rather good, you should try it," your father mumbled, munching on his fourth one. "They must've spent a fortune on a salmon of this quality, I tell ya!"
You turned his way with flushed cheeks, trying to hide them from Kento's prying eyes. "Dad, what are you talking about? You hate salmon."
"No darling, I hate when I need to buy it. Have you seen the recent prices? Dearest!"
You stood in the corner for a while, munching, chatting and guessing which lady had real fur and which not, doing a mental ranking of all the guests that had arrived for the celebration.
Kento was trying to amuse them all, greeting, talking, laughing (sounded rather fake), but seemingly looking rather tired. You could only guess that organising the whole party drained his soul.
After half an hour of standing in the corner, your mother has finally graced you both with her presence, throwing daggers and your wet fingers trying to dig an olive from the bottom of the martini.
"Why aren’t you talking to Kento, dearest?" rolled in anger, before she turned towards your father. "And you! Stuffing yourself full rather than trying to find a husband for your loser daughter!" Ouch. "Go to him right this second," she smacked your shoulder, before pushing you towards the man.
But you couldn’t do it. Not like that, with all the people staring at your face and wet fingers gripping the green olive.
The music played quietly in the background, shushing your mother’s voice enough to not let everyone know that you were an almost thirty-year-old walking tragedy, scaring each and every male within a ten-meter radius.
You excused yourself to your mother and walked out of the living room under the pretext of finding the loo. But instead, you quickly turned towards the garden and went outside, plopping down on the wooden bench hidden between the… for fuck’s sake, is that a Christmas tree?
"It is," a deep voice rolled through the air, before someone sat right next to you.
Someone, meaning none else than Kento.
His thigh brushed yours, and the heavy smell of cologne coiled your senses with a warm fragrance of the fireplace and wood. He smelled like those wooden cottages hidden deeply in the woods, where rich people liked to go on short trips. The expensive ones, with a week costing a third of your salary.
You sat in silence for a while, with him staring somewhere beyond the tall trees and you chewing on the inside of your cheek.
"Listen–"
"You know–"
Both of you started, but he quickly gestured your way. "You first."
"Thank you. I, well, I wanted to thank you for the invitation and also apologise for the previous night," you mumbled, fiddling with your fingers. "I might've drunk too much."
He snorted, leaning his arm on the bench's back. "I didn't invite you, my mother did."
Oh...
Oh!
So, so embarrassing!
Of course, he didn't invite you. Why would he? A girl who not only always made herself a fool, but also ruined a precious, blooming feeling that sprouted between you two on that–
"But I'm happy you're here. Didn't expect you to actually come," he quickly added, looking at the changing expressions on your face. A deathly pale, slowly changing into a flush, then whiteness again, as if you went through a thousand different emotions during the last five seconds.
"You are?" came out almost whispered, with your eyes darting his way shyly. "But what do you mean, didn't expect? I texted you."
Hazelnut eyes creased in confusion, and blonde hair tilted on the side. "I'm quite sure you didn't."
Hm?
"No, I did. Sent you a message two weeks ago, but you didn't reply."
Kento looked genuinely confused, quickly taking out his phone and sliding a long finger through the messages. "No darling, you didn't. I don't have anything."
He must be joking!
You also pulled the phone out, going frantically through the messages, and–
Oh well.
You, in fact, did not send the message, seeing the written text still sitting warmly as a draft.
Bugger!
You coughed awkwardly, hiding the phone back in your pocket and looking back at Kento.
"Well?" he asked, not even trying to hide the mischievous smile. "What happened to the message?"
A soft tsk slipped through, with another wave of flush washing over your cheeks. "Nothing. It's still there."
"There?"
"Yes, in my phone. I'll send it after the party, pretending that you were the one who invited me. Like a true gentleman and not mama's boy."
Kento smiled even wider, with a laugh bubbling in his throat.
Why, suddenly, it was so easy to make him laugh? Did he hit his head or something?
"I wanted to text you, but don't have your number," he stated, once again taking his phone out. "Maybe–"
You scoffed, rolling your eyes at his pathetic attempt to wangle out your number. "If you wanted to invite me, should ask your mother."
Kento didn't get discouraged, with a phone still gripped between his fingers and screen glimmering with an "add new contact".
"I preferred to ask you in person – like a gentleman."
"You could do it weeks ago."
"I wanted to, but you were dead drunk, and I'd rather focus on keeping you in a recovery position so you wouldn't choke on your vomit."
You groaned, hiding your face between hands.
Oh god, it couldn't get worse!
"I'm so sorry," you muttered, not daring to look at him. "Please just, leave me. Let me freeze to death here. Why do I always have to make a fool of myself!"
He didn't say anything, but soon something warm covered your shoulders and a heavy hand landed on your back. It circled small waves on a frozen skin, as if trying to boost your blood circulation. When you glanced up, you noticed a lack of a dark blue jacket that was previously sitting tightly around his back. A smell of fireplace hit your nose even harder, with a big material wrapping you like a baby.
"You're not a fool. Well, you are a bit bizarre, I must say, but..." he stopped, looking down at your embarrassed face with warmth. "I quite like you."
Oh.
Something sudden, intense, bloomed inside your chest, spreading all over the body. A spark, a flame... a parasite? Maybe you've eaten too much of those salmon sandwiches.
"You like me?" popped out in disbelief. "In like a dating kind of way?"
"Yes, darling. Like dating kind of way. Like me asking you on a date way, meeting tomorrow at six p.m. way, wearing a suit–"
"When you say it too often, it's not funny anymore," you mumbled, and he only laughed. "But tomorrow is Sunday."
His warm hand still circled your back, and the woody scent made your head spin.
In a good way. The kinda orgasmic way. The foreplay way.
"Adults can't go on Sunday dates?" his head tilted.
"It's not that, but... after Sunday is Monday," you said, and he nodded, as if truly trying to understand where you were going. "So Sunday is basically an introduction to Monday. You know, the worst day of the week. On Sunday, you cannot do anything but contemplate how horrible Monday will be and prepare yourself for the worst," he looked as if already regretting the invitation. "What I mean is, you cannot enjoy Sunday–"
"I'll be there at six," he interrupted warmly, tucking the lost strand of hair behind your ear. "I'll try to fix your weird habit of not being able to enjoy Sundays."
And then he went back inside, leaving you with his sexy-smelling jacket and sharp pang in heart.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟
So the next day, you were in a complete panic.
Nanami Kento was coming over to pick you up in half an hour, but your hair was still a mess, and half of the wardrobe was lying on the bedroom carpet. You planned to wear jeans, but he mentioned something about a suit (who the fuck wears a suit for a first date!), so jeans turned out to be a big no-no.
It must've been something posh, but your only posh dress was nicely folded in a dirty laundry basket, and it smelled too horrendously to wear it again (you've checked).
At five thirty, you finally decided to go with a simple, long skirt and a turtleneck. It was giving an Oxford smartie, with slightly curled hair and brownish tights, ending with elegant, leather shoes.
It was sexy but casual. Smart and cute. Not quite posh, but pushing you towards the mysterious librarian.
At five forty you had an everything shower (just in case), and it took much longer than you expected.
Oh no, it was already five fifty-five! And your hair was still wet!
You very much hoped that Kento would be late, as you didn't want him to see you in a disgraceful outfit made of a towel and wet hair.
At six, your hairdryer was still on a full blow, tossing your hair in little tangles.
Thank god he still wasn't here.
At six ten, your hair and make-up were quite well done, but the brownish tights got ripped when you pulled them too quickly. Oh well, the long skirt would need to do its job.
At six twenty, you stood ready and perfumed, with a black leather bag gripped in one hand and a phone in another. Weird, he was late, but you didn't get any message.
But then you remembered that yesterday you had quite forgotten to give him your number. For Christ's sake, he wooed you with those warm eyes and handsome face, before you could even put your number in.
Six thirty – still not here, although you went downstairs twice.
Six forty – you opened the diary with fury, almost ripping the pages out.
Six fifty – one last chance, before you'll slander his soul and decide to curse for eternity.
Seven p.m.
Pen touched the yellow paper.
I hate, hate, HATE, this fuckass lawyer! No wonder his beautiful wife left him! Asshole, bastard, a fuckwit! And he did it on SUNDAY ! ! !
next chapter
Hihi, hope you liked it! The next chapter will be the last and yes, we'll get a bit of a smut!
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