synopsis: when you're on a road trip and tensions arise from your sassy boyfriend being a grump.
pairing: modern au, boyfriend!sukuna x f!reader
warnings: explicit sexual content, mdni. hate sex! cowgirl in the driver's seat, it's summer, biting and mentions of drawing blood, some cockwarming, sukuna is a dick and gets mouthy with you and you do something about it basically
masterlist
wc: 2.8k
a/n: all i can say is this is a product of ovulation. that's all. enjoy!
the air conditioner of ryomen's ford f 150 was blasting on full power, and yet it was still not enough to combat the heat of this sticky summer day.
that, and the radiating steam off of your and your beloved boyfriend's heads.
you were white knuckling your paperback copy of pride and prejudice, body turned away from an equally-tense ryomen. his left hand was on the wheel as the right leaned on the open window, which was a rare sight indeed. it usually rested in a comfortable grip on your thigh while the right steered. his fingers drummed in an irregular fashion, the habit you knew he had when he was annoyed. today, ryomen itadori was truly the epitome of a sassy man.
you let out an exasperated sigh when you push the pesky strand of hair that kept whipping in your sight, having you reread the same line three times over.
"can you please, please fucking roll up your window? i have brushed my hair out of my face literally every damn second," you yell over the wind resistance thudding through the truck.
ryomen scoffs. "first you complain that my fuckin' ac doesn't work, and now you want the windows up? choose a struggle," he gruffs out. oh, he wants his ass beat. you pray to whatever god is out there to save him from your rage, because you know he's going to need it.
your eye twitches when you whip around to face your sassy boyfriend. "are you serious right now?" your tone has gone up an octave, incredulous that he had any back talk after the multiple debacles of earlier today.
you had planned this cross-country road trip for months. it was the only two-week block that the both of you were free from university and work. you had wanted to explore rural japan with him, tasting local teas and taking candid pictures on mountain tops. just whimsical couple activities. you were perfectly fine doing all of the dirty work of planning, packing and swiping of credit cards.
whether those cards were his or yours was neither here nor there, but still.
so when you wanted him to be excited and involved since you took care of everything else, was that so much to ask for?
it started when you realized that ryomen itadori was not, and will never be, a morning person.
you had set three alarms to make sure the both of you would be up by 5:45am, in order to make it on the road in good time. instead, he barely made it out of your bed at eight with a loud groan. he only dragged himself out of bed with a string of curses after you threatened to throw cold water on his face.
you packed your yeti cooler with ice packs and his favorite energy drinks, laid out his clothes the night before like some lovesick housewife. not your proudest moment, but you just wanted everything to go well. unfortunately for you, his sour mood resulted in the first two hours of the drive with him half-asleep, baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, answering your excited chatter with grunts.
"baby, look. we're gonna see so many cool birds!" you nudged him and pointed to the images on your phone. he doesn't even give you a glance. "mhm." you gave him a look of surprise he didn't catch. what massive pole was stuck up his ass?
by the time you stopped for breakfast at a konbini, he was already barking at the cashier over nothing.
"babe, you know there's a bunch of white monsters in the back."
"don' want that shit. i'm gonna get a heart attack one of these days," he snapped at you, taking you aback. you bit your tongue, hoping his sassy spell would be solved after he finished his famichiki and the hangry nature would be quelled. still, you could feel the annoyance in you bubbling up. relax, you thought to yourself. we can still turn this around!
it was a shame that "turn" came in the form of a literal wrong turn on the highways. it was completely his fault because he swore he knew a shortcut that google maps had never heard of, to which you snorted at. "can you just get back on the path i marked off?" you sighed with knitted brows and frown.
"if there was an exit, i woulda fuckin' took it." he mutters. "right…" you roll your eyes.
unfortunately, three hours later, you were still stuck on winding rural roads instead of the scenic route you’d planned. your knee was bouncing in agitation at this point. it snowballed from there with his shitty ac, the way the sweat was making your sundress stick to your thighs and back, the wind being no solace for the temperature outside of making your hair a lame attempt at a bird's nest.
who could blame you for cracking when he told you to "choose a struggle"?
"are you serious right now?"
ryomen’s jaw flexed, crimson eyes flicking to you for a second before locking back in on the empty rural road. “deadass. you’ve been on my dick since we left. woke me up at the asscrack of dawn, ac’s too weak, i’m not excited enough, took the wrong turn—”
“because you did take the wrong turn, asshole!” you exploded, slamming your paperback down on the dash. “you swore you 'knew a better route' and now we’re lost in the middle of nowhere, three hours behind schedule, sweating our asses off because your precious truck’s too vintage for a decent ac and you won’t roll up the damn window!”
he let out a loud, hollow laugh. “my truck? you fuckin' begged to take the f 150! now it’s my fault the ac can’t keep up with this heat? and the window—fuckin’ roll it up yourself if it’s that big a deal!”
you let out a frustrated noise. “oh my god, you are actually impossible!” you seethed, turning fully toward him. “i planned this whole goddamn trip. i packed everything, booked everything, even let you talk to me nasty all day! all i wanted was for you to show up excited instead of acting like i'm forcing you to be here! but nooooo—my dick of a boyfriend ryomen itadori couldn’t possibly wake up on time or follow the route or keep his shitty attitude in check for one. fucking. day!” you shrieked.
his fingers tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles paled, his eyes whipping back at your angered form sporadically. “maybe if you stopped micromanaging every single thing and breathing down my neck, i wouldn’t be in such a shit mood! you act like this trip has to be perfect!”
"pull over.”
ryomen scoffed. “we’re in the middle of—”
“i said pull the fuck over, ryomen.”
something in your voice made him glance at you once more. his sharp eyes narrowed, but he didn’t argue. with a low curse, he jerked the wheel hard. the big ford swerved onto the gravel shoulder, tires kicking up dust and small stones as he slammed on the brakes. the sudden stop threw you forward slightly against the seatbelt. you unbuckle hastily, turning to face him.
before he could get another word out, you lunged across the console and grabbed the front of his shirt, yanking him into a violent kiss. it wasn’t romantic at all, it felt more punishing than anything. you bit his lower lip hard enough that he hissed, definitely drawing blood given the metallic copper taste on your tongue. you used that moment to climb over the center console like a woman possessed, knees banging against the gear shift and elbow knocking the wheel.
“the hell—?” ryomen started, clearly caught off guard by how fast you moved. his hands instinctively went to your waist to steady you, but you slapped them away.
“shut the fuck up,” you snarled, straddling his lap and shoving his back against the seat. the steering wheel dug into your spine, so you reach for the metal bar underneath to throw his seat back. in the same instant it flew down, you ground down against the growing bulge in his shorts with purpose. you were already soaked from the mix of rage and adrenaline. “this is your fault. literally all of it! so you’re going to sit there.." a moan. "..and take it,”
his eyes widened for a split moment before narrowing again, his hand going to wipe his bloody bottom lip. "bossy little—"
you cut him off by reaching down and shoving his shorts and boxers down just enough to free his cock, which was already growing harder by the second, red and leaking. without giving him any time to adjust, you hike up your sundress and pushed your panties aside, sinking down on him in one rough and unforgiving push.
"mother—fuck!" ryomen's head slammed back onto the headrest, a choked growl ripping from his throat as you surrounded his length in whole with your soft heat.
you didn’t wait at all. you started riding him hard and fast, hips slamming down with punishing force, using every bit of leverage the cramped cabin gave you. the truck creaked and rocked on its suspension with every aggressive roll of your body. you turn his baseball cap making the brim face back so you can see all his facial expressions. and god, did the backwards brim do wonders for you and your clit. sweat already slicked your skin, making your thighs slide against his easily.
ryomen’s hands flew to your ass, squeezing hard. “shit… slow down! you’re gonna—”
“i said shut up,” you hissed, gripping the hairs at his nape and yanking back so you could glare down at him. you clenched around him deliberately on the next downstroke, making his hips jerk. “you said i’ve been riding your dick? i’ll show you me riding your dick,”
for a moment, he was stunned by the spur of intensity from his usually cheerful girlfriend. guess he did kinda fuck up. then something in him flipped. a wicked, feral grin spread across his face.
"you wanna play like that, huh?" he growled.
suddenly his grip on your ass tightened bruisingly and he started thrusting up to meet you with brutal force. the momentary dominance you had held vanished as he matched your pace and then some. he drove into you so hard the back of your head nearly hit the roof of the cab.
“oh yeah? take it out on me then,” he taunted through gritted teeth, eyes locked on yours. one hand slid up your back and yanked the straps of your sundress down, exposing your breasts so he could latch his mouth onto one, sucking hard while he fucked you deeper.
the truck filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping skin, your angry moans and his low grunts. the useless ac blew air over your overheated bodies. you rode him messily, grinding your clit against his pelvis on every thrust while he retaliated by pounding up into you mercilessly.
“god you’re so deep,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.
“still mad?” he smirked against your neck before biting down. “ride me harder, angel. make me feel how pissed you are, fuck—”
you let out a broken moan and did exactly that.
bracing your hands on his chest, you slammed yourself down onto his cock with renewed aggression, hips rolling and snapping in a brutal rhythm that made the entire truck shake. the backwards cap really did look stupidly hot on him. the sweat dripping down his temples, crimson eyes half-lidded and boring into yours.
“fuck you,” you gasped, even as you clenched tightly around him. “i hate you so much—ah!”
ryomen groaned loudly, the sound vibrating against your chest. “bet you do,” he growled, voice wrecked. “use me. take it all out on this dick you hate right now,”
your sundress was bunched uselessly around your waist, tits bouncing with every harsh movement as he sucked and bit at them, leaving raised marks all across your chest. your hair stuck to your neck and shoulders, but you didn’t care anymore. all that mattered was the burning stretch of him inside you.
just like he could read your mind, his hand suddenly snaked between your bodies. his thumb found your clit and rubbed fast, tight circles with precisely the right pressure.
“thaaaat’s it,” he panted, eyes locked on your face. “you’re squeezin' me so fuckin' tight. still mad, baby? cum all over this cock.”
the combination of his filthy words, his thumb on your clit, and the delicious way he was pounding into you from below finally snapped the coil in your stomach. your orgasm crashed into you explosively. you cried out, thighs shaking uncontrollably as your walls pulsed and fluttered around him, soaking his lap and the seat beneath you.
ryomen cursed loudly, hips stuttering. “fuck— that’s my girl—”
he slammed up into you one last time and held you down hard as he came, thick and hot, filling you in heavy spurts. his groan was guttural as he emptied himself deep inside you.
for a long minute, neither of you moved. the only sounds were the cicadas outside, your shared panting, and the low hum of the truck’s idling engine. you slumped forward, forehead pressed against his sweaty shoulder, his cock still buried inside you slowly softening. ryomen’s arms slowly came around your back, holding you closer. his touch had lost that bruising edge.
“…damn.” he muttered hoarsely, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss to the side of your face. "didn’t know you had that in you.”
you let out a weak breathless laugh, still trembling. “you deserved every second of it.”
“yeah… i know i did.” he sighs, one hand rubbing slow circles on your lower back. “i’m real sorry, baby.”
you pulled back just enough to look at him. his lip was still bleeding a little from where you bit him. you wiped it with your thumb gently, admiring his rough features.
his sanguine eyes were softer than they’d been all day. he was watching you with that lazy, loving haze he had after every time you had sex that always made your stomach overload with butterflies.
ryomen leaned forward and pressed a slow, surprisingly gentle kiss to your lips. when he pulled back, his voice was low.
“i’m sorry,” he repeats, “for everything. i know this means a lot to you and i should’ve just been a good boyfriend. i’m especially sorry for saying stupid shit to you. i was bein’ a dick when you’ve been trying so hard to make this trip good.” his hands slid up your thighs, thumbs stroking soothing circles over your sweat-slicked skin. "i don’t deserve you at all, baby.”
you stayed seated on his lap. the anger had burned itself out leaving only exhaustion and that familiar comforting ache between your legs, given you were kind of cock warming him now.
“you were really being a dick,” you muttered, but there was no bite left in it.
“heard.” he huffed a quiet laugh and rested his forehead against yours. “you bit the shit out of my lip, though. felt that.”
“good. you earned it.”
ryomen grinned, the expression boyish and unfairly charming despite his disheveled state. he helped you lift off him carefully, both of you hissing at the oversensitive drag. the evidence of what you’d done immediately started leaking down your thighs. he cursed softly under his breath at the sight, looking far too pleased with himself. you give him a pointed look that he purposefully ignores with a playful whistle.
once you’d both fixed your clothes and he cleaned the two of you, you finally climbed back into the passenger seat. you mildly wince at the twinge between your legs.
his hand immediately found its favorite resting place on your thigh, squeezing affectionately. “better?” he asked. you nodded, leaning your head against the seat. “much better. though i’m gonna be feeling you for the next few hours.”
“hot.” he said smugly, then quickly amended when he saw your glare, “—i mean, i’ll drive carefully.”
he put the truck in drive and eased back onto the rural road. the scenery outside slowly started to improve as you left the worst of the winding backroads behind. golden sunset light filtered through the trees and for the first time all day, the silence between you felt comfortable instead of tense.
after a few minutes, ryomen glanced over at you again.
“hey.”
“hm?”
“i love you.” his voice was quiet and sincere. “even when you’re scary as hell and ride me like you’re trying to snap my dick off.”
you burst out laughing, covering your face with your hands in a bit of embarrassment. “i love you too, asshole.”
he smiled and brought your hand up to his lips, kissing your knuckles before settling your joined hands on your thigh. “tell me about the first stop you planned,” he said, thumb stroking your skin. “i’m listening this time, for real.”
i need to jump his bones so bad it's not even funny.
buy me a drink :)
reblogs are highly appreciated ♡
taglist! @riotsgrl | taglist form
peace luv bathtub!!!
all dividers by @cafekitsune, photos from pinterest and art by hunnismokah
synopsis: 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 dubcon, 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 anka 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 speak. 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. A 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. After blow drying your hair you find your clothes 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
synopsis: ryomen s. itadori realizes his secretary deserves more.
pairing: boss!ryomen itadori x secretary!fem reader.
warnings: explicit sexual content eventually, mdni. workplace sexual harassment and misogyny (not from sukuna). mentions of depression.
masterlist | next
you are on: i quit (1)
a/n:
hi guys 🥹 yes this is a little evil to start another fic after not updating my other two that have been sitting for MORE THAN TWO YEARS, but this has been eating away at me and i just had to write it. bear with me this one is going to be longer than i’d like 😭 also, definitely inspired by every romcom trope ever and what’s wrong with secretary kim. as always, links are for your immersive experience! and- something new!!!! i’m going to add some songs for each chapter :)
⭐️ this chapter’s vibe:
- stupid girl by garbage
- angry johnny by poe
- crucify by tori amos
ao3 link here.
You can’t say corporate life was your first choice.
Sure, you studied Business Analytics and Data Science in college. You had a special interest in consulting on creative business strategy. Solving problems that actually meant something. What you didn’t envision was running errands for glorified man children in overpriced suits.
You knew it was a possibility to end up working a lower level desk job to gain experience. You took the job because you knew it could lead to more open doors. Onward and upward or something stupid like that.
It just bothers you that somewhere inside your heart you thought you were destined for bigger ventures. You suppose it was wishful thinking in a country that thrives on worker productivity over ingenuity. A 3.9 GPA got your foot in the door but it didn’t stop you landing a job you were over-qualified for.
Itadori & Zenin Enterprises was a multi-level corporation that dabbled in a lot of things, all the way from real estate to product management. It was the kind of company that looked massively impressive to outsiders but exhaustive internally.
You had the pleasure of working on the top-most floor, the 42nd suite, designated for the Executive Operations branch. Just a fancy way of saying these men (yes, mostly men) were in charge of overseeing all other branches. You joined freshly out of college, twenty-two years old and bright eyed. Little did you know that this 42-floor building would bleed your soul out slowly over the next seven years of your life.
It’s five in the morning when you awake to the muffled noise of your phone ringing. You wave a hand around on your nightstand, nearly knocking over your lamp to grab the buzzing thing. Rubbing your bleary eyes to see the caller ID was impossible without your glasses, so you just answer.
You already know who had the audacity of calling you at such an hour.
“Yes, Mr. Itadori?”
A gruff but much more awake voice rumbles on the other line. Infuriating how relaxed he sounded. “I need you to cancel the one o’clock lunch with my grandfather today. And Yuuji’s science fair is tonight. I need you to make his board. Preferably before five. Bring a dress for the auction tonight as well.”
A pause settles. You want to say something but he beats you to it.
“None of the shit you wear in the office.”
Before you can even comprehend all the instructions or even get a word in, the phone clicks off. Naturally, in his usual fashion. You flip around on the bed to stuff your face in the pillow and let out a much needed scream. You sit up to collect your bearings. There wasn’t much use getting in another hour of sleep before having to get ready for the office, so you dredge yourself to get ready.
Ryomen S. Itadori was an insufferable man. All your friends know him as the “King of Curses”, because he was the roadblock between you and a healthy social life. It was like he could sense you about have an enjoyable night off. Calling you out of working hours to gather files, sort his schedule, do miscellaneous tasks that definitely could wait for another time.
But as his personal secretary, there were some unspoken rules for you at the company. One turned down request and you knew it would lead to your termination and all seven of those dreaded years would be for naught.
He was blunt and oftentimes pretty inconsiderate with his words. Comments on your attire or just general aloofness to speaking with a woman were pretty common. You wouldn’t deem it misogynistic, more like he sincerely does not know how to articulate himself in a kind way effectively. With anyone for that matter, not just you. Honestly, that was worse than being an ignorant prick. And besides, there were far worse chauvinists that actually looked down on women in that office.
You were rarely on the receiving end of his true tyrannical side after learning your trade, but everyone else in the office received tirades you could hear from your desk outside his thin-glass office. That frosted glass feature did nothing but hide the embarrassed faces of fellow executives while the large 6’4 man would tear them a new one. Jenny from HR was quite the recurring character for you, much to your dismay. One of the three women on the floor and she was a total two-faced vixen. Somehow, she was convinced you slept your way to your position which you found out from a drunk co-worker by slip of mouth and ever since you’ve kept your distance. Ironic how much of a loose lipped individual she was for someone who handled the interpersonal relations of everyone in the office.
Your mind was elsewhere while blowdrying your hair, churning out how to accommodate all the tasks for the day when your phone rings again.
“Hey, babe. What’s up?” You put the man on speaker as you begin to style your hair in simple curls.
A muffled voice in the background can be barely heard alongside your caller. “—What? Okay, okay I’ll tell her,” Suguru laughs faintly. “Satoru wanted to tell you he misses you and hopes you’re alive.”
You frown and put the iron down, clipping up each side with black barrettes. “He should get Satan to agree to the merger so maybe I’ll actually have free time,” you retort.
You were referring to the long standing project of Gojo & Sons, LLC trying to assimilate with the corporation, which has been going slow and unsuccessful for about three months now. It’s lead to long meetings that only irritate Ryomen even more than usual, and puts you into doing overtime nearly every day from being unable to complete your daily tasks.
“You’re there every meeting! You know I’m trying,” the white haired man whines from the background.
You giggle despite yourself. “I know, Toru. I’m just frustrated that he still hasn’t taken the bait, everything look perfect logistics-wise. The merger could shoot our stocks fifteen percent by next quarter,” You chide, zipping up your dress.
“Duh.” Satoru says. “My company’s perfect ‘cus I’m perfect.” You can practically see the classic smirk in his voice right now. “Wish you’d work for us, to be honest. You deserve more than being a servant for those shriveled dicks,”
“Alright, enough work talk. I’m already turned off,” Suguru groans.
You cackle, buckling your flat Mary Janes. “Thanks for letting me know you guys are screwing again,” you quip sarcastically.
“Why would we be together at six in the morning if we weren’t?” Satoru shoots back playfully.
You grab your large tote bag and throw the cocktail dress inside it alongside your keys and other items. “Lalala don’t wanna hear it,” you yell in a sing-song voice, moving to leave your quaint apartment.
“Okay, okay, we’ll stop being gross,” Suguru slips mid laugh. “The reason I wanted to call you is because we wanted to get you for the weekend, just a small get-together,” he says.
You’re turning the keys of your beat-up Toyota and it revs to life. You mentally check your schedule. “Sugu, I only have Saturday free. Is that okay?” You wish you could have lazy Sundays like everyone else, but it usually ended up being your planning day for the week ahead.
“That… works,” Suguru murmurs carefully.
“Well we wouldn’t want you to miss the engagement,” Satoru blurts.
You nearly screech to a stop in the middle of the road warning you a honk from the car behind you. Your jaw is completely unhinged.
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” You shriek. “You guys got engaged and I’m finding out now?”
“Well, remember the dinner you couldn’t make last week…” Silence fills the car.
“Satoru proposed then.”
You’ve known the two since your college days alongside your friends Shoko, Utahime and Yu. It’s weird how all of your somehow get along (for the most part) despite being in totally different majors and having very contrasting personalities. You’ve seen a lot of each others’ firsts— 21st birthdays, first adult jobs, first bad breakups, first shitty apartments.
You’d always assumed you’d be there for the important things.
And now you weren’t. Because you were busy tending to the whims of a man who couldn’t be bothered to remember your birthday. You wanted to be angry. Sad. Something other than the void and empty hole that was growing in your chest from the last few months.
Your worried mother suggested you see her therapist and you obliged, for her sake. Severe depression and anxiety due to workplace stress. You didn’t need to pay five hundred dollars to know that, though.
You didn’t expect the dominos to fall in your favor. You were taught to work hard for your dreams. But when would it be enough? The year was coming to an end and that would mean eight total years at the company. Your 30th birthday was coming soon too, to boot. Sure, you were focused on your career, but the fact you hadn’t had a real date in over eight years really settled in. When would you get married? Would you even be able to have kids like you wanted? The questions circled nastily into the void in your stomach that housed all your feelings instead of you processing them in a healthy manner.
After ending the call with a solemn “I’ll be there, congrats” you made the rest of the drive thinking about the reality of your life. Pulling into the parking garage you look at the tall, blue building that reflected the sunrise. Today, it looks less impressive than usual. Just bleak.
You ride up the elevator in silence. Not enough foot traffic to have someone to share the silence with, so you just scroll your emails. You try to shake off the dead feeling you were dragging from earlier. Game face, babe, you tell yourself.
With a ding you’re walking away with strong steps on the marble to the executive offices in the back. When you push the tall glass door, Mr. Hoshino from acquisitions is already standing outside his office with a cup of black coffee. He’s somewhere in his sixties, perpetually red-faced, and has the habit of looking women over in a way he probably thinks is subtle. It isn’t.
His eyes briefly drop to your shoes.
“Usually women wear office appropriate heels, not those… school flats.” He grunts. You give a polite but curt smile, the one you perfected for moments like these, and keep walking before he can say anything else.
Further down the corridor, two senior executives stand talking outside the conference room. The conversation dips as you approach. One of them gives you a short nod. The other doesn’t bother.
“Secretary,” he says instead, like a title instead of a greeting.
You pause out of obligation. “Yes, sir?”
“When is Itadori available this afternoon?”
“I’ll need to check his calendar.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Well, do it. Mark me for his lunch.”
As if that weren’t already the plan. You give him a small tight smile. “I’ll see what I can do, sir.” There was no way Ryomen would want to sit in with him while he already asked to skip the lunch with Wasuke Itadori.
They resume talking before you’ve even turned away. You are unfortunately very used to this behavior and the lack of respect. It’s not much use complaining because all of them share a similar mindset. You’ve never brought it up with Ryomen, but you didn’t think he even noticed at this point. He was too busy yelling at them for not doing their jobs properly to begin with.
Your desk sits where it always has, directly outside Ryomen Itadori’s office, positioned so that anyone seeking him has to pass through you first. The computer hums to life as you set your bag down, the familiar routine unfolding automatically.
You’ve barely opened his calendar when a voice cuts across the corridor.
“Well, look who made it in early.”
Naoya Zenin leans against the low partition beside your desk like he owns the space. He’s younger than most of the men on this floor. In his late twenties, maybe. He makes up for it with a confidence that borders on arrogance. Tailored suit, expensive watch, posture loose with inherited entitlement. It’s infuriating he actually does his job when required because he’s such a pain to hear speak.
Nepotism created and maintained.
“Surprising to see you here early too, Zenin,” you say without looking up, sending off the itinerary to the printers.
He clicks his tongue lightly. “You know, after six years I think you could call me Naoya. You’re around my age, right?”
You don’t bother to correct the fact that you’ve actually been here for almost eight years. “I think I’ll stick with Zenin.”
He smiles at that sharp and pleased, like your resistance is part of his entertainment.
“You females are so snippy,” he chortles, glancing at the garment bag poking out of your tote. “Big night out?”
“It’s a dinner work function. You know, with Mr. Itadori."
“Shame. Would’ve been nice to see you in something tight.”
You don’t respond. He lingers anyway.
“Funny thing about this place,” he says casually, eyes drifting over the desk. “Girls like you always get stuck doing everyone else’s work.”
Your fingers pause on the keyboard. “Well, someone has to make sure everything runs smoothly. I know how stressful thinking can be for you.” You finally look up and give him a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.
He laughs under his breath. “Ever the wise one, Miss Secretary.”
Then, after a beat:
“You ever think about moving departments?”
“No.”
“You should. Someone with your… skill set could do well somewhere else.”
You tilt your head and give him a faux pout. “And who would run your calendars, Zenin?”
Naoya’s grin widens. “See? That’s what I mean,” he says, leaning a little closer. “You know you’re irreplaceable. It’s adorable.”
You suck your teeth as you stand up and make your way to the printing room, unfortunately with Naoya on your heels. “Careful with your words Zenin, if I knew any better I’d think you’re flirting. Jenny’s only a couple doors down,” you say rather definitively.
Naoya stops for a fraction of a second, eye twitching, clearly irked. “Oh, I’d never, Miss Secretary. Don’t flatter yourself that much.” As if he wasn’t begging for a chance at seeing your figure just moments earlier.
You roll your eyes and keep walking, scanning the print queue on the machine. The sheets spit out one by one, and you gather them with precision.
Mr. Hoshimoto peers into the room and snaps his fingers at Naoya. “Oi, Zenin brat. You’re needed in the acquisitions meeting. Now,” He barks. Naoya’s cheshire cat act drops and he gives you a small nod and makes his way behind the man. “Duty calls,” he presses through firm lips. Saved by the bell, you exhale.
Finally, you head back to your desk to see Ryomen’s door slightly open. Your sign to make your presence known and start the day.
You step toward the door, hand brushing the frosted glass. The faint creak of the hinge echoes slightly in the quiet corridor. Ryomen Itadori is already seated behind his massive desk, papers and folders spread out like a small organized storm. He’s wearing a navy suit today, you passively note. His figure was nothing short of hulking, and you wondered sometimes how the man acts and dresses outside of the office. It’s hard to imagine him without all the expensive and serious attire.
He glances up as you enter, expression neutral but watchful.
“Good morning, Mr. Itadori,” you say evenly in your customer service voice, laying the printouts neatly across the corner of his desk.
He makes a noise that you know is his own greeting for day. He eyes the stack for a moment. “Brief me.”
“Yes, sir. Your lunch with your grandfather is cancelled. The files from last night’s meeting are in chronological order. Plus the investor notes you requested.”
He leans back, hands steepled, staring at you as if weighing whether you’re capable of remembering the rest of the day. “And Yuuji’s board?”
You blink, because of course. You nod. “I’ll have it ready by five like you asked, sir.”
“The clothing I mentioned,” he continues, flipping through a folder. “For tonight. Show me what you brought.”
You pull the cocktail dress out for him to see, holding it up. He tuts. “It’s too you. Make an appointment with Delaney at Saks. Go during my lunch. Oh, and charge it on my Amex.” You part your lips to protest but he simply looks up with his tense gaze, the protest dying in your throat. “You will look presentable tonight. No excuses.”
You turn around and give a scowl he can’t see as you pack away the dress. Of course he’s not even worried about the money like you are, more focused on scolding you for your choices in clothing. It’s not like you specifically brought the plainest items so you’d get less cat-calls and unnecessary eyes around the office. Not that it actually worked, because you get them anyways.
He’s already moving on in his mind. “Gojo merger prep. I want updated projections, charts on those growth models from last week. I need them on my desk before the conference call at ten. Double-check the numbers. I don’t trust those fuckers in accounting.”
“Already verified,” you hum, tapping the stack of spreadsheets on his desk. “Everything matches the report from last night, and I confirmed the figures before I left.”
He gives a small eyebrow raise and a satisfied grunt. The most praise you could expect from Ryomen Itadori.
A knock interrupts the whirring of your internal monologue. Mr. Manako, an executive, pokes his head in. He’s in his seventies, eyes small and sharp behind thick glasses which was ironic for his name. Due to his clearly deteriorating age, he regards you like a minor inconvenience.
“Secretary.” he bites out, nodding briefly to Ryomen. “I need the revised contracts for my department. I hear you’re handling them.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get them to you before your eleven o’clock call.”
“Good. Don’t make me wait.”
He retreats as quickly as he appeared, leaving you with the quiet clatter of your own breathing and the ticking clock on Ryomen’s desk.
Ryomen finally leans forward, tapping his fingers against the wood. “Anything else you need to alert me of?”
You swallow the urge to sigh. “Not at the moment, sir.”
He regards you for a heartbeat longer, then leans back, sliding the folder toward him. “Stay on top of it as you do. You’ll hear from me if anything changes.”
“Yes, sir.”
The words taste hollow in your mouth, the rhythm of this constant dance you had to perform. Requests, confirmations, small scolds… so ingrained it almost feels automatic. You push it down.
You gather your things and leave the room before you can gain a splitting headache.
Today is going to suck.
Before you know it, it’s already four o’clock. Your mind drifts to the events of the day so far.
Earlier, you had begrudgingly made the trip to Saks Fifth Avenue to buy the dress during your lunch break. While you were in the store talking with the associate named Delaney whom Ryomen knew well, you received a text from him.
Attached in the message was a link to the official Saks website. You click it and your eyes nearly bulged out of your eyes when the page loaded. He has got to be joking. Nearly thirteen grand for a single evening gown? Has he lost his mind?
You stare at the sweetheart neckline and how the red ombres into a darker shade. It’s a familiar color you don’t remember where you recognize it from. It was a beautiful dress, that’s for sure. But there’s no way you could buy this on his dime.
And as if he heard your internal monologue, another text buzzes.
Satan (1 new message)
If I don’t see the charge on my card I’m coming down there.
You freeze. Yeah, no need to poke the bear. You’ll buy the goddamn dress.
You leave the store with a very happy Delaney waving you goodbye and a large dress bag in tow.
So here you were, coloring a tri-fold cardboard with Crayola markers and glitter glue. You’d done most of your daily tasks, alongside some errands you didn’t want to run for other executives who clearly didn’t understand your position. A small but mighty voice stops you.
“Miss, you forgot the dot in the I!” You look up and smile at the pink haired boy who was swinging his feet in your chair, his size making the chair look far bigger than it was.
“Is that right, hon? You better come here and fix it then,” you quip playfully. The boy giggles and jumps off, happy to actually do his own project. He was done writing his paper on how lemons can generate electricity a while ago, thankfully for you. Ryomen underestimated his nephew Yuuji for a lot of things. He was a beyond intelligent child at seven years old, almost eight. But it was clear he had you help the kid so he doesn’t lose a finger or something while doing the arts and crafts side of the project. You knew from the past few years of unsolicited nannying that he was the most insane ball of chaos you’d ever seen.
You can’t help the grin on your face as you watch the boy make the most adorable concentration face, his tongue barely sticking out the side of his mouth. The glitter glue tube was held with as much precision as an elementary level child could muster as he circled the dot.
“Perfect,” you exclaim. “A masterpiece.”
Yuuji beams like you just knighted him. You could see what teeth just fell out recently which gave his that cute lisp you’ve been hearing for a few weeks now.
“Uncle’s idea is gonna win for sure,” he says confidently, capping the tube hastily.
You huff a quiet laugh. “It’s not a competition, Yuu.”
“It is,” he insists, standing up to face you where you were sitting on your knees. “Last year Uncle got second and he was mad.”
That earns a small snort from you. You could imagine the hilarious scene perfectly: Ryomen Itadori, a merciless dictator, defeated by papier-mâché volcanoes and hand-drawn planets.
“Well then,” you say, nudging the markers toward him, “we better make sure this one is a shoo-in.” He nods gravely, taking the responsibility seriously. You could never get over how adorable that kid was.
Suddenly, Ryomen’s door opens, and his footsteps stop just short of the desk.
“How’s the progress?” he asks flatly.
You look up. “Yuuji’s got a good hold on it.”
His eyes move to Yuuji, then back to you. Then his gaze shifts again to the cardboard. Yuuji straightens proudly. “Look, Uncle!”
He holds up the marker-streaked lemon diagram that was bigger than his body like it belongs in a museum.
Ryomen studies it for a moment longer than expected. “Hm.” High praise.
Yuuji grins, invigorated to continue perfecting the tri-fold.
Ryomen’s eyes flick back to you. “Board meeting ended early.”
“Yes, sir.” It became really awkward whenever Ryomen attempted small-talk with you, you much preferred his gruff demeanor. It was just easier.
His gaze drops briefly to the Saks dress bag leaning against your desk. He doesn’t mention it, but you know he seemed pleased. The receipt in your dress pocket burned, feeling the weight of the thirteen grand even now.
He turns like the matter is settled and starts back toward his office, then pauses. Without looking at you he says, “You’ll come in with me tonight. I’ll drive you.”
“Alright, Mr. Itadori.”
The door shuts and you can finally release the breath you didn’t know you were holding. Yuuji tilts his head.
“Uncle’s scary.”
You give him a half smile.
“Yeah,” you say. “He kind of is.”
Yuuji considers this for a moment, holding his marker pensively. “But he likes you.”
You laugh softly under your breath. “No,” you say. “He just likes things done right.” Yuuji shrugs like the difference doesn’t matter. He goes back to coloring without holding much importance to what he said, but you think on it for a bit. Ryomen doesn’t really like anyone outside of maybe his brother Jin? He spends time with Yuuji, but even then you don’t think he enjoyed being around children that much. It felt a little silly to consider he favored you in any way.
Your gaze drifts from Yuuji to the clock.
4:16 PM. Less than two hours until you have to leave. You pick up a marker and start outlining the title again to keep your hands busy. Lemon Battery. The glitter glue catches the light when Yuuji tilts the board. For a few quiet minutes, sitting beside a seven-year-old with marker-stained fingers, the void in your stomach fades just enough to feel some warmth on your chest.
The zipper on your dress glided up with ease, and the dress fit oddly well. It actually bothered you it held you like a glove compared to your regular wardrobe. I guess money does buy quality, you think.
You switch your flats for black glossy stilettos that let your dress comfortably stay off of the ground, something you were worried about. You hated when gowns dragged along the floor. You adjust the sweetheart neckline, then immediately stop yourself from adjusting it again. You step out into the corridor with your heels clicking in unfamiliar rhythm against the polished floor. The executive wing is quieter now, most of the employees already gone or cloistered behind their doors finishing calls before heading out.
Ryomen’s door is half open. You knock lightly against the frame.
“Come in.”
He’s standing near the side credenza instead of behind the desk, tuxedo jacket already on, broad shoulders stretching the dark black fabric. One hand is working at his tie with visible impatience, the knot uneven and sitting too low. He glances up when you enter. His eyes stop just for a second before they move away again like nothing happened.
“Fix this,” he says, tugging once at the tie.
You step closer automatically. Close enough to smell the spicy edge of his cologne, something rough and expensive. Despite the biting scent, you really like it. You reach up, fingers brushing the silk. The knot is a mess, and you want to laugh at how badly he’s got it wrangled. You suppress it.
“You twisted it,” you say quietly.
“Hm.” Ever the expressive response.
You loosen it with practiced motions, you had helped your brothers with them when they were younger. Your knuckles brush the solid line of his chest through the dress shirt. You pretend you don’t feel the outline of the top of his pec. He stands perfectly still, gaze fixed somewhere above your head. You can’t see him trying his best to avoid looking down at you in this moment.
“Hold still,” you murmur.
“I am.” He mumbles.
The knot finally slides neatly into place, and you smooth the front once and step back.
“Done.”
His hand comes up, adjusting it once out of habit, even though there’s nothing wrong with it. He steps away from you, turning to grab his Rolex. You wait near the door, hands loosely clasped in front of you, the way you always do when he’s finishing up. The habit is so ingrained you barely think about it anymore. His gaze lifts again. His eyes move from your the stilettos, the rising ombré, the structured bodice, the neckline before your simple pendant laying over your collarbones.
“You look different,” he says, as if it was just an observation.
You shrug, simple and dismissive. “That tends to happen when you’re wearing something worth a small mortgage.”
A quiet huff of breath leaves him. Not a laugh, but close. It surprises you because you don’t think you’ve ever made him show that much positive emotion.
“It fits.”
You nod once. “Delaney knows her job.” You hum, sing song-like. His gaze lingers another second, sharper now, like he’s trying to place something he can’t quite name. Then, predictably, he moves on. He reaches for his keys and moves toward the door, and you step aside automatically to let him pass. The sheer size of him fills the doorway for a moment before he steps into the hall. You follow a half-step behind like always, heels clicking in careful rhythm. You stop at your desk long enough to grab your small hand purse and your coat, switching off the desk lamp with a soft click.
Ryomen waits by the elevators without impatience, but also without the softness expected from the gentlemanly look he was exuding. Hands in his pockets, posture straight, presence commanding even in his stillness. When you reach him, he presses the button down. The elevator hums somewhere above. For a moment, neither of you speak. Then his eyes flick sideways toward you again.
“You walk fine in those?” You glance down at the heels.
“They’re manageable.”
“If you fall,” he says evenly, “you’ll make me look bad.”
You smile faintly. So much for him being kind to you for once and caring about your wellbeing.
“I’ll do my best to preserve your reputation, sir.” you manage with a tight lipped tone. The elevator dings and the doors slide open.
By the time you pull up to the venue, the front entrance is already crowded with socialites and other guests waiting to get in.
The dinner was an auction being held in a restored historic hotel downtown, all marble floors and chandelier light. Valets hurry forward to gather the keys to exotic cars. Flashes snap somewhere near the entrance. Investors, board members, donors; dark suits and women in gowns that whisper across the floor.
You step out when he does. Immediately, the shift happens. You fall into step beside him as cameras flash. Someone calls his name. He acknowledges them with a slight incline of his head, one hand briefly clasping at the small of your back to guide you through the entrance. It’s not intimate at all, simply directional. Ownership in the most corporate sense. Inside, the ballroom is already alive with clinking glasses and low laughter. You’re both handed champagne flutes within seconds. He doesn’t drink yet. He scans the crowd.
“Stay close,” he leans down to murmur in your ear without looking at you. You curtly nod, ignoring the shiver that ran up your spine from his breath.
For the first hour, it’s the usual routine. You circulate when prompted. Introductions melt together. You provide quiet reminders of names and departments under your breath when needed. He speaks numbers and strategy like it was silk. You watch the way he commands a group of men twice his age.
The part you had dreaded all day finally starts to surface.
A group of senior investors from an older firm corner him near one of the high tables. You recognize them as some of Wasuke Itadori’s first loyalists. You hover just behind Ryomen’s shoulder, present but unobtrusive as usual. One of them, an Italian man named Mr. Calder, looks you up and down in a way that makes your body stiffen.
“Well,” he drawls, swirling his drink, “Ryomen, you didn’t tell us you had upgraded your accessories.” The men around him chuckle. Ryomen doesn’t laugh at the ill mannered joke, but he doesn’t say anything to him either. The expression on his face was unreadable to you.
Calder’s gaze lingers on your neckline. Not at all subtly eyeing your cleavage, which you now wanted to cover. All that adjusting for you to be eaten up anyhow. “Smart move bringing her. Softens your image. Makes you look less… hostile.” You feel the words like a slimy film on your skin. You keep your face neutral. You’ve done this before.
Another man leans in slightly. “What’s your role, sweetheart? PR?” You open your mouth, ready with the rehearsed line.
Before you can speak, Ryomen answers. “She handles my operations.”
It should feel like he came to your defense, but it just doesn’t.
Calder smirks. “Must be exhausting. Keeping up with him all day.” His eyes slide back to you. “Bet you earn your paycheck.” He winks as if he knows something more. Laughter roars among the group again and something inside your chest tightens.
You wait. You wait for him to shut it down. To correct the tone. To say your name. To say anything that places you beside him instead of beneath his feet.
He simply doesn’t.
Instead, he pivots the conversation back to acquisition margins like the comment never happened. The men follow him easily like the greasy dogs they were. You stand there, heat creeping up your neck, the champagne turning sour in your mouth. It wasn’t the first time you’ve been meat on a stick, but it’s the first time you can feel exactly what they think you are in this room.
A prop. An accessory. A nice visual. A good fuck.
The rest of the evening blurs in your mind. You smile when expected, fetch updated numbers from your phone. You even endure when another guest asks if you “came with the merger package.” You laugh it off because that’s what you do. You can feel the void in your stomach nearly swallow you into the ground, unable to control the spiral you were slowly losing yourself to. You didn’t felt the tear roll down your face until it hit your chest, and thankfully no one saw as you chose to excuse yourself to the bathrooms. The marble counter is cold under your clammy and shaking palms. The mirror reflects a woman who looks expensive and composed and completely hollow behind the watery eyes.
You think about Yuuji’s proud and innocent grin earlier. Your two best friends getting engaged without you being able to be there. About eight motherfucking years of being an “indispensable asset” but never visible for anything more than being a pretty face to stare at. You think about the way Ryomen’s hand rested at your back like positioning furniture.
You don’t think he ever truly disappointed you until today and it hit you, cold and unrelenting. Your knees buckled as you slid onto the marble floor. Before you know it, you were silently sobbing with your head in your hands. Thankfully no one was around to witness your facade slip, especially not the men that made those degrading comments about you. You prided yourself in not letting think they got to you. Today it just felt like everything was crumbling. Years of invisible labor, of constant polishing and preemptive apologies, of running on autopilot to make men look good while fading yourself into the background. Eight years of your life spent making this corporation run while quietly eroding the parts of yourself you once held sacred. The scent of expensive perfume and champagne hung thick in the air, suffocating in its own way. You hated that it made you feel trapped, hated that it felt so damn inescapable. Your thoughts drifted, as they always did when exhaustion cracked the careful walls you built. Gojo’s words from this morning float in your mind.
“You deserve more.”
Satoru made the offhand offer a couple times over the years, joking but not entirely, about a position in his firm where merit meant something and you could be more than an overworked secretary. The memory burned through the fog of resignation like sunlight through rain. You straightened your shoulders, exhaled through a shaky nose, and let the logic seep in slowly, deliberately. The merger would definitely be stiff when you left to work with Gojo and Sons only to see Ryomen and the team again, but this time it would be across the table where you could be the one calling the shots. Not just the girl who brought them coffee and handled their dinner reservations.
You would go back out there. You would finish the night as expected, perform your duties for Ryomen like you promised. You would keep the smile and nod. But every step you took would carry a quiet weight of the seed of a plan forming in the dark spaces of your thoughts.
This was it. You wouldn’t let another comment from a man like Calder slide past without consequence. Because you were done with the treatment you’ve been subjected to.
You quickly pull a tissue from your tiny purse and damage control your makeup and blotchy face. Don’t look like you’ve been crying. Don’t let them see. As you stand up and collect your feelings up again, you adjust the hem of the dress and reposition your pendant.
When you step back into the ballroom the layered murmur of voices and clinking glassware grows and fills your ears once more. Nothing has changed, no one noticed you were gone. The world of elites moved on without interruption, just as it always did.
For a moment you stand near the entrance, letting your eyes adjust to the warm gold light again. The void in your stomach has settled into something steadier now. Contained.
You spot Ryomen almost immediately.
He’s standing with two board members near the far side of the room, posture straight as ever, one hand loosely around a glass he still hasn’t touched. He’s listening to one of them speak, expression carved into that familiar impassive line. Even from across the room, his presence pulls attention like gravity. He’s not looking at them at all, he’s scanning the room. Who is he looking for? It takes him less than a second to notice you when you start toward him. He steady gaze lingers longer than usual as you take your place beside him automatically, half a step behind and to the side.
“—projections for the third quarter are optimistic,” one of the men is saying. “Assuming the merger terms finalize on schedule.”
“They will,” Ryomen replies evenly, still staring at you.
The conversation wraps a few minutes later, and the two men drift away toward the bar.
Only then does Ryomen finally feel it right to speak with you.
His eyes move over your own, not in the analytical and leering way the other men’s had been, but in that precise, intentional manner. It’s unlike how he usually looks at you and you’re hyper aware of it. A large hand settles on your elbow as he steps close to your bubble.
“You were gone for a while,” he says.
“Long line at the bathrooms.”
A beat passes.
His sharp red eyes narrow slightly.
“You look tired.”
You manage a controlled smile. “Long day, Mr. Itadori.”
“Hm.” He doesn’t accept that answer, you can tell. Not at all. Ryomen doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t intend to follow through on, and right now he’s studying you with a quiet focus that feels far more invasive than Calder’s wandering eyes ever did.
“You’ve handled worse days,” he says.
The observation lands heavier than it should.
“I’m fine,” you reply more sharply than you intended. “Everything’s on schedule like you wanted.”
His jaw ticks slightly, like he’s the one bothered by your obligations.
“That isn’t what I said.”
You hold his gaze anyway. It takes effort not to look away from his deep red stare.
For a moment he says nothing, and the silence stretches in a way that makes you acutely aware of how close he’s standing, his deep breaths pushing on the sleek black tuxedo he was wearing.
Finally he exhales quietly through his nose.
“If you’re unwell,” he says softly, “you should have said something.”
The words are gentle, almost awkward, like he isn’t entirely sure how to phrase them. Concern isn’t quite the right word. But it’s closer than you expected.
“I’m not sick,” you murmur. “Just thinking.”
That seems to catch his attention more than anything else. His brows deepen into a frown.
“About what?”
The question comes out flat, but there’s real curiosity underneath it, the rare kind he doesn’t bother hiding.
You smooth your hands together, keeping your voice even as you flit your gaze between his eyes. “Work.”
A pause. Then, quieter:
“Well, I assume that’s where your head should be.”
And there it is. Nothing malicious in his statement but you already lost the fragment of realism you saw just now from Ryomen Itadori. Work first. Always. The confirmation lands strangely gently inside you, like the final piece sliding into place in a puzzle you’ve been avoiding.
You nod once, finally breaking the gaze to look at the bustling ballroom.
“Of course, sir.”
His eyes linger on you another moment, like he still isn’t convinced, but eventually he turns back toward the room as another guest approaches. Every minute that passes while you stand there providing quiet support like always, the heavy decision inside you settles deeper and deeper until it feels solid as bone.
The next morning, you step into the office without your usual large tote bag of necessities. You were actually dressed in your normal attire for once, not the work clothes you had routinely wore, earning more than a few stares from the men in the office. Naoya is the first to approach, predictably. He’s grinning before he even reaches you, eyes already dragging over your figure with open interest. Whatever comment he’s winding up to deliver never gets the chance to leave his mouth. You hold up a hand without breaking stride, palm out between you like a stop sign.
“In your fucking dreams, Zenin.”
The words are loud and sharp enough to land cleanly. He stops short, blinking in surprise before a laugh breaks out of him startled and amused. “Well, good morning to you too,” he calls after you, voice bright with entertainment.
You continue your beeline to Ryomen’s office with the stack of documents and the cleanly prepared letter in your arms. There was no turning back from this now.
You enter without your usual greeting. This has him looking up with confusion, and then doing a double take when seeing you dressed so casually. You barely take note of how he’s looking at you as your heels click around his desk, handing him the letter while still holding onto your papers.
“I quit, Mr. Itadori.”
He doesn’t speak, the silence stretching into something dense and unfamiliar. He pushes his chair hastily from his under desk and stares at the envelope like it might rearrange itself into something else if he waits long enough.
“What?”
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.
synopsis: simon riley was put on permanent leave approximately half a year ago for reasons he doesn’t want to rehash. his adjustment to civilian life has been barely productive until he finds out a young doctor lives next door in his apartment complex.
pairing: retired!simon "ghost" riley x civilian doctor!fem reader.
warnings: explicit sexual content eventually, mdni. future mention of death and militant violence, gore. ptsd and war trauma.
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you are on: met you (1)
a/n: this is a very self indulgent drabble i made for a friend years ago that i want to expand on but i wanted to see if anyone enjoys it first? LOL
really short and scrappy chapter. SORRYYY
ao3 link here.
Moving to Manchester was planned. Getting a haphazard work schedule with dingy pay was not. You were a positive and content person by nature, anyways. You pride yourself in that. It’s what keeps you going, especially in your field. Truthfully, you knew that being a menial doctor in the States would mean earning in dollars opposed to pounds— and even thought you didn’t need a load to keep yourself steady, it helped to keep yourself comfy. And anyways, your parents were doing fine back home so there wasn’t a need to earn for anyone else.
This was for you.
Another unexpected downfall of your work included needing to stay close by. While there were loads of accessible hotels and motels, the only apartment within 5 miles of the hospital wasn’t the prettiest. The drab building was a bit of an eyesore, but was any building really that beautiful in British weather?
The day you entered your flat, you were met with dull walls and peeling paint. Yet the only thing you could see was the potential it held, your eyes drifting across the space and imaging your layout. It was a momentary problem to you. Your personality seeped into the cracks over the course of the next few weeks. Your belongings and love for color brightened the area well. Cozy blankets were draped on your homey couch, lights strewn on the walls, and your old paintings hung in the background. It was the only way you could create a haven for yourself, away from the fast and anxious energy of the emergency room.
A safe place.
Your mind brings you back to the time you were collecting your affairs for the relocation. Hands idly tapping at the screen. The mouse hovers over “Relationship and Children Status”. With a sigh, your fingers flick to write “Unmarried, no child. Living alone.”
You come to know in the month following your move that the local Manchester hospital mostly had doctors that are engaged, married, married with children. It’s something you longed for but genuinely never had time for, with medical school and the rest of your studies. You’re in your early thirties, so technically you still have time, you concur. There’s always a possibility.
Despite your optimism, the reminder never fails to nip at your heart on the common occasions— example: a colleague leaving early to go home to his wife. “Anna’s got my favorite on, haven’t had a proper meal with her since Thursday,”
You smile and shake your head. “Go on then, I’ll hold fort.” The clench in your heart is hard to shake off.
Evidently, your availability was the largest compared to the other doctors. Hence you were rarely home. It made you appreciate the time you did get, though. You loved having time to enjoy a mug of coffee, something shockingly unappreciated in the UK, you come to learn. You’re the only one with a separate pot of hazelnut blend at the hospital. Your demeanor by nature was friendly and open-hearted. That’s part of the reason you were so good at your job— you cared about people. It was making friends as a busy doctor that proved difficult. Days would blend without much interaction besides your patients and colleagues, and you ached for some sort of connection with someone. Just a simple conversation that wasn’t vital signs or inter-physician collaboration.
You didn’t expect it in the way it came.
The workday drawled a little past two in the morning and it was raining heavily. Worse than the usual shower and gloom you received, you note. Ironically, you had forgotten your umbrella and your clothes under scrubs were a tad thin for the rain chill. You sighed and accepted the circumstances, and pulled your phone to call a cab. You hurriedly run out as you hear the phone ding, covering your head with your tiny crossbody purse. It doesn’t help much, you’re soaked anyways. The drive was quiet and short, the thudding of raindrops filling your ears instead.
You run inside the complex, your boots clacking and squelching with the water on the tiles. Your hair is damp and clings against your neck in an unattractive manner, as you observe the damage in the elevator door reflection. At this point, you were absolutely killing for that hot shower right now. Hands rub up and down against your arms to warm up as the elevator beeps so, so slowly.
You hardly notice the soft footsteps that stop beside you, and pop your daydreaming bubble. You’d never know he was trying his damnedest to alert you of his presence, to not spook you.
Your eyes drift to meet the tall, filled-out figure of a man dressed head to toe in black clothes. The man was clad in what looks like a dry-fit shirt covered by a black zip up jacket with the hood up, black cargos leading into combat boots, and the most notable of all— a charcoal colored balaclava and black surgical mask to boot. A chill runs up your spine. His demeanor was nothing short of screaming powerhouse. Not to say you didn’t find it insanely attractive, weirdly enough.
You didn’t realize you were staring so intently your face blazes when you hear a gruff clearing of his throat. The elevator has already came and is open in front of you, and here you were staring at the strange but interesting man that suddenly appeared before you. You blink a couple times and realize with a soft oh! and quickly make way inside, his large build following suit. The doors slide closed, the air silent, but his presence heavy on your right.
You press the button for floor seven and look at him as if to ask which floor, to which he responds with “I’m on the same floor.” You just nod and smile in response.
You shift your frame a little, embarrassed before turning to face him. “I’m so sorry for earlier, that was awfully rude,” You blurt out as kindly as possible, your hands motioning wildly, as you do in any conversation.
It’s hard to make out his expression behind all the coverings but his chocolate brown eyes look down at you with intensity, a little calculating even. He nods ever so slightly, and you hear a rumble of a reply: “S’alright. Not the easiest sight to see in the middle of the night.”
Your lips quirk up and you let out a sweet chuckle. He’s terrifying, but not immune to banter, you think. “Well, I’m not quite the looker myself given this goddamn rain,” you smile, hands combing through the knots the rain made of your hair. You hear a small but low hum from him.
“Floor Seven.”
Your back straightens and you exit the platform. You keep walking down the hall.. and ironically, so is he. You begin to wonder if you dropped something in the elevator and as you turn to speak to him, he beats you to the punch. “Ah, I’m your neighbor.. promise I ain’t followin’ ya.”
Your mouth drops and another small oh! leaves, similar to the one that escaped you earlier. You notice he’s standing at the door right next to your own, with a pair of plain keys in his hands. No chains or charms, you note. You nod dumbly, and smile nervously. “Well um, goodnight then, Mr…?” You trail awkwardly.
He nearly blurts out his name. “Riley. Simon Riley.”
He didn’t look like a Simon Riley at all. But it was a cute name. You smile warmly and exchange your own name as well. He nods and bids you goodnight, his large figure retreating into his flat as you return to your own.
Dropping your keys on the little toy dog hooks you have, a smile creeps on your face.
My next door neighbor Simon Riley, you think.
again i’ll only really write more if anyone is interested 😭 it was a really flimsy idea
unpopular opinion but i get the ick so fast when reader is written with a baby voice/whiny in their general personality and it dials up during sex 😭😭 like the “w-wan’ more, kuna!” is SICKKKUH i wish i could record the way i laugh when i read those ☠️ it’s a personal preference thing though, if you feel like you like small aegyo reader be my guest brother who am i to stop your destiny
no one jump me please but ooc naoya is EATING at my brain like just imagine,, you’re a servant in zenin house and you both grew up together. he was raised from a young age with the notion that women are meant to be inferior, assets to obtaining heirs. but he LOVEDDD spending time with you even though it wasn’t allowed. you both come of age and turn into adults,, you staying a maid while he’s gaining higher clan duties. he can’t help but ACTUALLY treat women with respect because you bullied him into getting some morals lmao
someone tell me not to write this because i’m already drafting a chapter i have like seven fics in progress now
synopsis: just a very long drabble about kento as a father to a girl.
pairing: husband!kento nanami x wife!reader, first time girl parents
warnings: descriptions of sexual activities, mdni.
masterlist
a/n: this was originally just a little blurb i thought of bc of a post i reblogged, but i decided to keep it as a treat until now! thank you for 100 followers (now 110, i can't keep up with you guys☠️), i truly appreciate it! 💕 i hope you enjoy 🤭 much luv 🤍!!
you were caught by surprise when you found out you were pregnant. you and your husband weren’t exactly trying for a kid, but you weren’t taking steps to prevent it either. you stopped birth control when you got married to kento, which was coming up on two years ago.
you weren’t one to track your cycle, but even then you knew it had been a good while since you had one. three pregnancy tests later, you were sure this wasn’t a false positive. you slumped on the bathroom floor in shock and joy. all you could think about was kento’s reaction.
you and kento wanted a family. you established this very early on. he wanted marriage, kids, the whole nine yards. he was so collected in his life he had sorted all serious life decisions as soon as you started dating to avoid any and all conflicts of interest. that was your beloved, alright. the calm and collected one. he held down the world so you could live freely and happily.
but one thing that took you by surprise was something he didn’t have to outwardly tell you, but you deduced over time.
kento nanami was obsessed with the thought of having a daughter.
anytime you’d be out shopping, you’d see him linger at the baby section going through tutus and little pink onesies.
he’d send you videos of babies during work, which you scolded him for. (they were very adorable, however.) they always seemed to be daddy and daughter ones.
when you were putting away laundry, you noticed in his tie drawer a tiny pink bow tucked away. you giggled to yourself. maybe he’d bring it up with you when he was ready.
and when your friends had their daughter early last year, you saw the way kento’s eyes twinkled with hope when you both visited the newborn. he asked so many questions to the new parents, what books they read and where they bought their stroller from. he was so engrossed in jotting notes down you practically had to tear him away to go home that night.
so it was safe to say your husband was very much excited in the idea of having a baby, especially a little girl.
you knew the chance of not having a girl was there, but something told you it was fate your first would be one.
you couldn’t keep the secret for very long because just as how you found that sweet little bow so easily, your husband was quite the detective himself as well.
you were reading on the couch when kento bursts in the living room with a very familiar stick in his hand, face incredulous.
“darling, please tell me this isn’t one of your friend’s.” his voice was filled with raw emotion; you hadn’t seen him tear up this badly since your wedding day.
you throw your book to the side and give him a betraying laugh. “did you dig through our bathroom’s trash?! you didn’t even let me surprise you properly!” you protest, your eyes welling up as well.
he ignores the accusation and instead falls to his knees in front of you and cups your stomach, fully sobbing now. “we’re pregnant,” he says. “you’re carrying our baby.” he’s buried his face in your thighs, trying to hide the ugly sobs leaving him. you pull his face up to yours and have him to look at you. “yeah ken, we’re pregnant.”
if kento wasn’t already very protective of you, he definitely was now. holding doors, lifting things, hell- even making breakfast was all getting done by him. your hormones made it very hard to deal with his overbearing behavior and you ended up getting angry every time you were barred from doing something.
“let me make my own goddamn coffee or i’m picking up this knife.” you grit out, shuffling groggily to the counter in disheveled clothing. your tiny baby bump was peeking from under your tank top. the man silently backs away with his hands up. he knew what battles he lost with you.
(he still turned the pot on every morning. just to keep the water hot, of course.)
he also was big on making sure you got all the nutrition you needed; his cooking focused on your health while also incorporating your favorites. it definitely helped that he was a phenomenal cook.
your morning sicknesses were brutal. you ended up an entire two weeks of being woken up at 3am running to the bathroom to puke your guts out. kento took note of all the foods that made you nauseous and remembered not to buy them.
however, kento was buying a ton of baby gear. bottles, pump machine, diapers, bibs, everything. your bonus room (soon baby’s room!) was filled with miscellaneous items that kento kept bringing, which again: you scolded him for.
(he never listened. that man is stubborn too.)
the weeks fly by and soon it’s time to see the sex of your baby. kento’s the one who’s been micromanaging all your checkups and helped pick out an OB-GYN that you both loved. he’s been calling off work every appointment, and you once cried in the car because you felt so overwhelmed with happiness that your husband was so supportive and attentive. he had to rock you for a good five minutes before you went in.
“uncross those little legs, baby..” your doctor cooed as she moved the cold device over your belly. you’re gripping kento’s hand with a vice-like hold. you knew you wanted a girl so badly, and you’d love the boy equally— you just knew how much it meant to kento. his eyes were also trained on the sonogram, nervous. his foot was tapping intensely and it only stopped when you touched his knee. you both share a loving nonverbal glance before turning your attention back to the screen.
“congratulations mommy and daddy, it’s a little girl!” your doctor exclaims with a whisper.
kento gives a shudder and smiles at you, overjoyed. you look at your little girl on the screen again and immediately burst into tears, throwing yourself on kento’s chest.
your doctor slips out for a moment to let you both recollect yourselves.
he’s been repeating to you in soft whispers, “i’m going to be a girl dad, i’m going to have a little girl!”
your belly started showing a lot earlier than you thought, but genuinely you didn’t mind. your over-prepared husband already bought comfort clothing that were loose but cute, and even maternity jeans?? you burst out laughing when he showed you them, and he was confused by your response. they’re extremely efficient..” he defensively said, a pout on his lips.
another weird upside of your pregnancy was that kento was never working overtime at his corporate job. he practically races out of the office to come home to you and the little biscuit, something you started calling the baby.
and of course, he loved seeing you pregnant the most. sometimes he would come home and immediately go in for kisses, which led to you laying on kitchen counter spread open for him as he eats you out eagerly.
“god, you look so sexy like this,” kento murmured between you. he has his arms hooked around your thighs, but his hands were firmly on your round tummy. you could see his wedding band glint as he stretched his hand over the top; that definitely turned you on.
you’re not even there mentally from all the white stars you were seeing (your husband had that effect on you). “mm.. yeah?” you reply weakly, trailing off into soft moans. you were blissed out and so happy you were having this sexy man’s child.
safe to say when the summer heat really kicked in and you were in crop tops and summer dresses, he couldn’t keep his hands off of you. or his dick out of you. you were worried the baby would be uncomfortable, but kento reassured you he took the utmost care in keeping you and the baby first.
given your hormones, it became free-range pounding all around the house after that talk.
you both knew you didn’t want a huge baby shower or any parties, but a small gathering of your friends and family at your house was held by the request of your mother. you had told both your and kento’s parents ahead of time you were pregnant, and the gender. they were both equally excited for the new addition.
you had some of your college friends attend, and similarly, kento’s came too. you had known satoru gojo and suguru geto since you first started dating kento, and they’d become your friends as well. when you saw them, satoru was instantly raving over you and your “pregnancy glow” and how he and suguru would be the rich gay uncles that would spoil their new niece or nephew. (it was no doubt their present was the largest on the table.)
kento was mildly irritated with satoru hovering you so much, but you swatted your husband and told him to let it be.
some of kento’s students also came because you knew they were very dear to kento. a pink haired yuuji and his two friends greeted you with small gifts they scrounged up with their allowances. you thanked them warmly and chatted a while before the anticipated event of your gender reveal.
given your family was non-sorcerers, the reveal was not themed like you originally wanted to— where kento would pull a cursed tool from a box, and it would be either pink or blue. kento had to break it to you that he’s never actually seen a pink cursed tool, nor did he own one. it sounded way cooler in your head, but kento was against having any sort of weapons at your party anyways.
so, the classic cake cutting was what you chose. a simple white cake with “girl or boy?” in fancy lettering, and the hidden center was filled with pink frosting.
everyone gathers around you and kento as you cut the cake, and once you both hold it up, they all erupt in cheers.
you kiss kento sweetly on the lips and smile up at him. "thank you, my love," you whispered to him before your family came to bear hug you both.
you could’ve sworn you hear satoru sobbing in the background while egregiously taking candid pictures of the moment, but you were too wrapped up in the hugs from your husband and immediate family to really hear.
you started to really collect the pink items after that. your favorite was a pair of dolly shoes with a matching mommy set nobara dropped by with one day, saying she just had to buy them when she was out at the mall. you were so touched she even thought of you and your baby on her personal time. she waved your thanks with a smile, and only requested that she gets babysitting duty over the boys if need be. she said quote, “they are never trusted to be alone with a child”. you laugh and accept the deal.
you receive your due date at the next appointment, which is around january. your OB-GYN tells you your baby girl is growing accordingly and everything is going in good time!
your husband develops a habit of resting his hand on your belly all the time. sleeping, he’s the big spoon with a hand under your baby girl. reading on the couch with a hand on you. he gives your belly a kiss every time he leaves for work in the morning. (you too, of course. his lovely, beautiful wife.)
he comes into the bathroom one day while you’re at your vanity braiding your hair for the night, a pensive look on his face.
“what is it, love?” you say, looking at him from the reflection in the mirror. he hums, twirling his wedding band.
“have you been thinking of names? it’s no rush really, i just wanted to know if the letters would fit in an engraving on my ring.” your hearts swells and you can’t help but let out a small adoring sigh. before you know it big fat tears are rolling down your face and the hormones once again got the best of you. you’re going to give your partner a heart attack with all the big emotions you’ve been feeling!
he’s already dropping to his knees to embrace you and reassure you. “darling, please don’t cry.. you’re making me sad,” “b…” hiccup! “…but you’re so-!” hiccup! “sweet..!”
you eventually settle for a name related to new beginnings, considering your baby girl was set to be born in the first month of the new year. aurora.
you yourself also got into your nesting instincts, finding cute bookshelves and other items to be built in your online shopping cart. little did you know kento had already ordered them and was on a mission to build them before the baby girl was here.
one night, you found your precious husband asleep with a book in his hand and a notebook by his side. it was a parenting book.. your heart squeezed. you move to pick the book from his grip when you notice what he wrote in the notebook. “always remember daddy loves you my dear.” he was writing letters to your little biscuit. you had to leave your bedroom so kento wouldn’t hear your happy sobs.
after a good grueling nine months, your due date was quickly approaching. kento had requested time off, which his boss begrudgingly allowed. the man knew that it wasn’t worth it fighting with his hardest worker. you were waddling everywhere; kento thought you were positively adorable for a pregnant lady. “you’re not just my beautiful wife right now, you’re my beautiful wife carrying my daughter,” he would tell you.
it would be one in the morning, three days before your expected due date when you would feel a large cramp in your belly. you knew your little girl had a knack for kicking and dancing, but this definitely felt different from before. you were in bed with kento, his body engulfed around yours. you flip with a wince to face him, tapping his face gently. “ken.. ken, the baby’s coming,” you manage with a small groan. your husband practically leaps out of bed when he hears the words come out of your mouth. before you could blink, he was already putting on a shirt and his glasses, rushing to get your hospital bag. “don’t worry, my love!” you know he was uber prepared for this moment. you push off the bed with much might when you feel your husband’s arms around you, holding you up right. he looked beyond worried, but his words were nothing but soothing. “iv’e got you, honey. we just need to get to the car, okay?”
the delivery itself was also rather gruelling, you ended up in labor for the whole night. aurora nanami was born at 11:42 AM, five pounds even.
when you heard your daughter cry for the first time, you couldn’t help but cry yourself. kento was right beside you, holding your hand as you had given birth to your child.
during skin to skin, he was looking at you and aurora in absolute awe. you gave him a small smile. “you’re so strong and amazing, do you know that?” he tells you.
when he held aurora for the first time, you knew he was enchanted. your girl was immediately his entire world.
after staying at the hospital for the required amount of time your OB-GYN suggested, you tell kento you want to rest at home. he’s already packing the bags as those words leave your mouth.
the drive home was extremely slow because he wouldn’t drive over 15 mph, earning tons of honks and angry drivers. he couldn’t care less, he had his tired wife and newborn in tow!
several months later..
something you and kento learned very quickly was that your girl was extremely, extremely smart.
she was walking well before her age range, saying “mama” and “papa”, and even learning her numbers.
kento told you it was all your genetics, which you proudly accepted.
also, aurora was born with a surprising amount of hair on her head! she had the same golden blonde hair as your husband, which he proudly accepted.
“my little flower, would you like pigtails or a ponytail?” the chubby face staring back at him was in contemplation. she holds up a “two” with her fingers. kento nearly cries on the spot— she knew that pigtails meant two! “alright my love! two it is.”
you also found out your husband was learning new hairstyles in his free time, and used you as his model. “darling, aurora still has her baby hairs.. we can barely tie it as it is,” you tell him over your shoulder with a giggle. he wasn’t listening, he was too engrossed in the youtube video of fishtail braiding— the next step after he had mastered regular braids on your hair. “hush, my dear. natalie was just about to tell me where the left strand goes!”
when her first birthday came, it was a huge celebration. kento spared no expense to make the party memorable.
you had baked her smash cake and ordered a separate more elegant cake for guests— kento would not stop bothering you in the kitchen that morning, his hands all over you from the back while you tried to finish your work in a timely manner. your swatting did nothing to fend him off.
“ken, if you keep rubbing me like that, you’re getting a second kid.” “who said that wasn’t my goal, dear?”
the party had pretty much the same people from your baby shower, this time including some families you met at your mommy and me class at the gym.
your baby girl was sporting a hair bow you had definitely recognized— then remember it’s the same one you saw in kento’s drawer a year ago. how cute you finally get to see it on her.
aurora was all smiles, thank god. she wasn’t a fussy baby at all in her first months, but you knew she was still a kid that could get cranky randomly. you were glad it was such a seamless and perfect day.
once again, so grateful for you guys! <3 happy 100 rahhhh 😈
also i really want more writer moots, so if you write jjk x reader or anything in the realm i would love to interact! 💗 i feel like my tumblr has been so dead so i’m in need of a revival 😔
