thinking about ex boyfriend!michael kaiser ૮ ˶′ﻌ ‵˶ ა
cw: suggestive
ex boyfriend!michael kaiser who was the one to dump you because he wanted to focus on his career and thought you were needy and far too much of a distraction. needless to say things didn't end on good terms.
ex boyfriend!michael kaiser who can't fathom the mere possibility of you ever moving on from him; he's fully convinced that you still think about him on a daily basis. all of these thoughts are filled with his own self-projection, but he'd much rather choke before actually recognizing it.
ex boyfriend!michael kaiser who believes that anyone who comes after him would be nothing but a downgrade from your part. he'd still be mad as fuck if you decided to get into a relationship with someone else though.
ex boyfriend!michael kaiser who still holds onto things instead of getting rid of them. it could be even something as simple as one of your shirts that you accidentally left at his place or a gift that you gave him; they're reminders of you finding him lovable.
ex boyfriend!michael kaiser who convinces himself that all of his last harsh words were necessary for you to fully let go of him. the relationship itself was far from perfect anyway, but at least it meant something.
ex boyfriend!michael kaiser who tries to downplay the feelings he had for you. he'll sometimes just refer to what the two of you had as something casual—people always come and go, after all. it didn't matter how hollow he truly felt as long as the others didn't see a single glimpse of his insecurities.
ex boyfriend!michael kaiser who won't go out of his way to immediately mess around with other women after your breakup. if he considered you a distraction, then so are they. he doesn't offer himself to other people that easily, nor is seeking comfort in others while feeling distraught a habit of his.
ex boyfriend!michael kaiser who despite not getting romantically involved with other people he finds the rumors of him dating celebrities to be amusing—solely because he likes to think about you seeing them and missing him.
ex boyfriend!michael kaiser who looks at your socials from time to time just to see what you're up to, trying to think of this as just completely normal behavior.
ex boyfriend!michael kaiser who confronts you after finding out that you've allegedly been seeing someone recently. even if you're not dating said person, just the option of you being interested in them is enough to wound this man's ego.
ex boyfriend!michael kaiser who will at first try to keep some physical distance despite coming over to your place—his excuse? he just needed to pick up some of his stuff that he left, and also a great opportunity to mock you for even thinking of replacing him.
ex boyfriend!michael kaiser who against all his previous efforts of not succumbing to his own temptations, he still finds himself touching you all over after being granted permission.
ex boyfriend!michael kaiser who for the first time in ages murmurs some apologies about not only the breakup but how he treated you in the past too. the recent distance and silence between the two of you must've made him vulnerable.
ex boyfriend!michael kaiser who is love starved and makes it clear in the way he kisses you like there's no tomorrow. anyone would think that he's trying to suck the life out of you with the way his lips touch yours, barely giving you any space to breathe properly while tightly holding you to himself.
"Oh my gosh! It's all wrong," you fell to your knees in tears.
Sae, who had been making dinner in the kitchen, immediately abandoned the stove at the sound of your voice. He rounded the corner far quicker than he normally would have, his heart sinking as a dozen worst-case scenarios flashed through his mind.
"Amor?" he asked, kneeling beside you. "What happened?"
"Our living room is so ugly," you choked out, gesturing dramatically toward the furniture you'd rearranged into what had to be its fifteenth layout of the day.
Sae stared at you. Then he looked around the room.
The couch sat a few feet to the left. The coffee table had been rotated. A lamp had somehow ended up beside the television.
"...What?"
"It doesn't work!" you cried. "None of it works. The couch is too big, the rug washes everything out, and don't even get me started on those stupid pillows."
His gaze drifted to the throw pillows you'd bought together nearly a year ago.
"The beige ones?"
"They're awful."
"You picked those."
"I know!" you groaned, dropping your face into your hands. "I had terrible taste."
Sae let out a quiet sigh before crouching in front of you, gently pulling your hands away from your face. "I think it looks fine."
"No, you don't."
"I do."
"You're lying because you love me."
He smirked as he rubbed your back, "..maybe."
Despite everything, a watery laugh escaped you.
"There she is," he murmured, brushing his thumb beneath your eye to catch another tear before it could fall. "Feel better?"
"No."
You looked around the room again before fresh tears immediately welled in your eyes.
"It's still ugly."
"...You're crying again."
"I know!"
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Sae simply watched you.
You'd never been one to cry easily. Frustrated? Sure. Annoyed? Definitely. But crying over furniture?
That wasn't like you.
Neither was crying because the café had run out of your favorite pastry three days ago. Or getting irritated enough to argue with him over whether clouds looked "too gray."
At first, he'd assumed you were overwhelmed from work.
Now...
"...Can I ask you something?"
You sniffled, nodding.
"When was your last period?"
The question caught you completely off guard.
"What?"
"Your last period."
You opened your mouth, already prepared to answer.
"...It was..."
Silence.
You frowned.
"...Wait."
You glanced toward the calendar hanging on the wall.
Then toward your phone resting on the coffee table.
Your expression slowly shifted from confusion...
...to realization.
"...No."
Sae watched as you unlocked your phone with shaky hands.
You opened your calendar.
Started counting backwards.
Counted again.
Your breathing became noticeably quieter.
"...There's no way."
He didn't say anything.
Didn't want to.
You looked up at him, your eyes impossibly wide.
"I... I'm late."
"How late?"
"...Almost three weeks."
The room suddenly felt impossibly still.
You stared at each other for several long seconds, neither of you quite ready to say the thought hanging between you.
Finally, Sae reached over and gently took your hand.
His voice was calm, the same steady tone he used whenever he wanted to keep you grounded.
"Let's not jump to conclusions."
You nodded quickly.
"Okay."
"But..."
He gave your hand a small squeeze.
"...I think we should buy a test."
You searched his face, looking for panic, fear, uncertainty.
Instead, all you found was quiet reassurance.
You let out a nervous laugh.
"I just had a complete breakdown over throw pillows."
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"If you're pregnant..."
His eyes flickered toward the living room before meeting yours again.
"...our child is going to hear the story of how their mother threw a fit over pillows."
You laughed through the tears that had somehow returned, leaning forward until your forehead rested against his shoulder. "They really are ugly."
"I'll buy new ones tomorrow."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
His hand settled against the back of your head as he held you close.
"But if replacing a few pillows makes you smile again..."
He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple.
"...then I'd say it's worth it."
my neck is sprained so im in pain but yay sae
& tysm for 1k followers, i can't believe that many people read and enjoy my lil ficssssss.
Feel free to ask me any questions you may have since there are so many new people!!
The moment Katsuki falls in love with you, he’s standing in front of you like a giant dog with his tail tucked between his legs while you go off on him, genuine shock written on his face.
He doesn’t even know what to do, he’s so caught off guard.
One second he was being his usual self, short tempered, too blunt, a little brash.
The next, you’re in front of him absolutely laying into him.
And not in that nervous, stumbly way people usually do around him either.
No.
You’re pissed.
“Get it together or get lost Katsuki. You’re a grown ass man, figure it out.” you snap, voice sharp.
And all he can do is stare at you.
It’s the first time he’s ever seen you angry.
He’d honestly started to think you didn’t have it in you, always so damn patient and sweet.
He’s standing there, mouth slightly agape.
A whole pro hero.
One of the strongest people around.
Getting chewed out by someone half his size and somehow losing.
He knows he looks dumb right now, he’s vaguely aware of it at least.
But the way you defend yourself, the fierce look in your eye that’s unwilling to back down.
It stirs something in him, something… hot and almost primal.
When you finally finish your rant, chest heaving and anger slowly simmering, he’s practically staring at you with stars in his eyes.
Your angry little frown deepens, “Anything to say?”
“No ma’am”, is all that comes out, cool and calm.
You huff, turning around and grumbling under your breath.
And he just watches you leave, heart beating hard under his ribs.
He thinks about it for the rest of the week.
..Then the week after that.
Then one day, retelling the story to Kirishima who’s got that dumb smug grin on his face, he realizes he hasn’t stopped thinking about the look in your eyes since.
And that’s when he knows.
He’s completely screwed.
————————————————————————
A/N: went for a run & this came to me…. took a breather so I could write it LMFAO
If there was one part of soccer Sae didn't care for, it was the mindless interviews.
A post-match interview? Fine.
A sponsorship shoot? Tolerable.
One of those painfully awkward videos where they sat professional athletes in front of puppies and expected them to reveal their deepest secrets?
Absolutely not.
Most interviews followed the same formula.
'How does it feel to score?'
'What's your workout routine?'
'Who inspires you?'
Questions that have been asked a thousand times and would be asked another thousand after, so when Sae entered the media room after his match, he was already halfway checked out.
The journalists sat in neat rows, hands poised over notebooks and laptops, waiting for their turn. The first few questions went exactly as expected.
"How do you feel about today's victory?"
"It was expected."
"What do you think separated your team from the opposition?"
"We played better."
The room collectively deflated with every short answer.
Good.
Maybe they'd end this faster.
Then someone spoke from the third row.
"During the second half, you stopped making overlapping runs and started occupying deeper spaces."
Sae's eyes shifted.
You weren't even looking at your notes.
You were looking directly at him.
"The commentators said it was because the opposing midfield was pressing higher," you continued. "But from where I was sitting, it looked more like you were baiting their defensive line into stepping forward."
Several reporters blinked.
One quietly stopped typing.
Sae tilted his head.
For the first time all afternoon.
"...Go on."
The moderator looked surprised.
You didn't.
"When their center-backs stepped up, they left space behind them. Twenty-three minutes later, your through ball created the winning goal."
You glanced at your notebook.
"Was that adjustment planned before the match, or was it something you recognized in real time?"
The room fell silent.
Because that wasn't a fan question.
It wasn't a tabloid question.
It was a gameplay question.
And a good one.
Sae leaned back in his chair.
"It wasn't planned."
A few heads snapped toward him.
Long answers were apparently a rare event.
"Their right center-back kept abandoning his position whenever their midfielder lost possession."
You nodded immediately.
"The number four?"
"Yeah."
You scribbled something down, it wasn't anything of substance you just wanted to look a little more put together.
Sae found himself watching you longer than necessary.
"Did you notice it before halftime?" you asked.
"I noticed it after twelve minutes."
A slight pause, "You?"
"About seventeen."
One of the reporters nearly dropped his pen.
Sae stared then, unexpectedly, a small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Slow."
A few journalists looked genuinely horrified.
You simply shrugged.
"I wasn't on the field."
The moderator looked like he had accidentally wandered into a private conversation.
The rest of the interview continued similarly.
Every question you asked dug deeper.
It was like there was no one else in the room. No other interviewer dared to ask a question, likely because they were trying to write down everything he was telling you.
Not once did you ask about his dating life.
Not once did you ask who he was friends with.
Not once did you ask him to rank teammates or reveal embarrassing stories.
And for perhaps the first time in years, Sae found himself answering because he wanted to.
By the end of the interview, he'd spent nearly twenty minutes speaking almost exclusively to you.
Something that didn't go unnoticed.
As the session wrapped up, the moderator thanked everyone for attending.
Most reporters immediately packed their things.
You did too, no attempt to linger or a request for a photo, you just grabbed your bag and left.
۶ৎ
Sae watched you leave.
"...What's her name?"
The moderator nearly choked.
"The journalist?"
"Obviously."
The man blinked then told him. He felt so starstruck that Sae Itoshi was talking to him that he handed him a card with the name of your company and some of your contact information.
Sae committed it to memory before standing and walking away.
Across social media, clips from the interview exploded within hours.
'WHY WAS SAE ACTUALLY TALKING???'
'HE ANSWERED IN FULL SENTENCES.'
'Who is that reporter???'
'Not him smiling because she challenged him.'
'Did anyone else catch him asking for her name after the interview????'
'SAE ITOSHI YOU ARE NOT SLICK.'
Even the players noticed.
The next morning, Sae walked into training to find several teammates waiting.
With grins.
Dangerous grins.
"Good morning, Sae," Shidou sang.
Sae immediately turned around.
"No."
"You don't even know what I'm going to say."
"Yes, I do."
"That journalist seemed nice."
Sae kept walking.
"She understood soccer."
The entire locker room erupted.
He'd never admit it, but they were right. He did remember you and he already told his manager and publicist that you were the only person he wanted to be interviewed by for the foreseeable future.
— A picture of you and Sae holding hands went viral and everyone is curious about the woman Sae chose to spend his time with
Sae didn't want to hide you.
He never saw the point in pretending you didn't exist or acting as though being in love was something to be ashamed of. If anything, he was proud of you. Proud to stand beside you. Proud to know you. Proud to be loved by someone who had somehow managed to slip past every wall he'd spent years building around himself.
But he also knew exactly how cruel the media could be.
He'd spent most of his life under a microscope. Every mistake was analyzed, every expression scrutinized, every interaction twisted into something it wasn't. People who had never spoken a word to him somehow believed they knew everything about him.
He could handle that.
You shouldn't have to.
So for the last two years, Sae had done everything in his power to keep the spotlight away from you.
And somehow, despite being one of the most recognizable footballers in the world, he'd managed it.
The media knew he was dating someone.
They just didn't know who. The first time the two of you appeared in headlines had been completely accidental.
A story posted to Shidou's Instagram during a New Year's Eve party had spread across the internet overnight.
The photo itself was nothing remarkable.
The image was slightly blurry, the lighting terrible, and half the people in the frame were making complete fools of themselves. Yet none of that was what people focused on.
Instead, all attention landed on the corner of the picture where you sat curled comfortably against Sae's side on the couch, your head rested against his shoulder and one of his arms was draped loosely around your waist.
For a man who often looked irritated by human interaction, the image was startlingly intimate.
The internet lost its mind.
Articles appeared within hours.
Fans began dissecting every pixel of the photograph.
Who was she?
How long had they been together?
When had this happened?
How had nobody noticed?
Unfortunately for them, the photograph revealed almost nothing.
Your face was obscured, and your name remained unknown. Sae, unsurprisingly, refused to answer questions.
That should have killed the story.
Instead, it made people even more interested.
Over the following months, occasional photographs surfaced.
A blurry airport sighting.
A grainy restaurant picture.
A fan spotting the two of you walking through Madrid late at night.
Every image offered another tiny glimpse into a relationship that somehow remained completely private despite public fascination.
The photos only created more questions.
In one picture, you were laughing at something he'd said.
In another, Sae was carrying your shopping bags despite looking mildly annoyed about it.
There were photographs of him opening car doors for you, waiting patiently while you stopped to pet dogs, and once, memorably, standing in line at a coffee shop while holding your purse.
That picture alone had generated thousands of comments.
People weren't just fascinated by you anymore.
They were fascinated by the version of Sae that existed around you.
Because the man the public knew and the man standing beside you seemed like two entirely different people.
Still, nobody could figure out who you were.
The mystery became almost legendary among fans.
Every few months, a new theory would emerge.
A model.
A professional athlete.
A childhood friend.
One particularly ridiculous rumor insisted you were secretly the daughter of a European royal family.
Sae never bothered correcting any of them, watching people be wrong was surprisingly entertaining.
Then came the photograph.
The photograph.
A fan had spotted the two of you walking through Madrid one afternoon and snapped a picture before either of you noticed.
The image itself was simple.
No dramatic kiss.
No romantic embrace.
No grand declaration of love.
Just the two of you walking hand in hand through a crowded street.
Yet within hours, it had become one of the most shared photos of Sae on the internet.
Everyone focused on your intertwined fingers, and how relaxed he looked.
Almost nobody noticed the ring.
At least not at first.
A week later, the topic inevitably found its way into a post-match press conference.
Sae had expected it.
The reporters practically vibrated with curiosity.
The moment the moderator opened the floor for questions, hands shot into the air.
"Sae, there's been considerable public interest regarding the woman you've been seen with recently."
He looked unimpressed.
"There usually is."
Several reporters exchanged looks.
One pushed forward anyway.
"Many fans have become curious about your relationship. Is there anything you'd like to say regarding the recent photographs?"
The room fell silent.
Sae glanced briefly toward the reporter.
Then back toward the cameras.
"Not really."
Collective disappointment washed across the room.
A few journalists visibly slumped in their seats.
Another reporter immediately jumped in before the topic could die.
"Many people have been referring to her as your girlfriend."
For the first time during the entire exchange, Sae frowned.
It wasn't a dramatic reaction.
Barely noticeable.
But it was enough.
Enough for every journalist in the room to realize something was wrong.
Or rather...
Something was inaccurate.
"My girlfriend?" he repeated.
The reporter nodded.
Sae stared at him for a second.
Then shook his head.
"She's not my girlfriend."
The room exploded.
Questions immediately began flying from every direction.
"What do you mean she's not your girlfriend?"
"Are you still together?"
"Did you break up?"
"Then who is she?"
The moderator's attempts to restore order were completely ignored.
Sae watched the chaos with an expression that suggested everyone present was being incredibly stupid.
Then, without another word, he reached for his phone.
A few seconds later, notifications began lighting up across the room.
One post.
From Sae's official account.
The image was beautifully simple.
Your hand resting in his.
His thumb brushing across your knuckles.
And sitting prominently on your finger was a diamond large enough to make the internet collectively lose consciousness.
The caption contained only three words.
She's my fiancée.
For several seconds, complete silence filled the room.
"Is that the answer you were looking for?" He asked, now more annoyed than ever.
Nobody moved.
Nobody spoke.
A reporter actually dropped his phone.
Then all hell broke loose.
Meanwhile, miles away from the chaos he'd created, Sae slid his phone back into his pocket, stood from his chair, and calmly left the press conference.
He had dinner reservations with his fiancée.
And unlike the rest of the world, he had no interest in talking about her when he could simply spend time with her instead.
and he’s definitely not someone who’d give you kisses for as long as you’d like.
but maybe you had the wrong idea about your boyfriend all along.
because lately, he has been pulling you close at random times, kissing you longer than he usually does. his lips linger on yours far more times than you had verbally asked him to kiss you. it does get embarrassing sometimes to ask him for them, but really, why can’t he just take the hint?!
although, it seems you didn’t really have to ask for it anymore, because he voluntarily gives those kisses to you himself.
you pushed him away gently, a little breathless from the long time sae had your lips on his.
“what’s gotten into you?” you asked him, your head tilting a little to the side in curiosity.
sae mimicked your action, his gloved hands still on your back. he had only gotten back from training, still in his tracksuit, still a little tired, and yet he decided to come after your lips the moment he opened the door to your apartment.
“i can’t kiss my girlfriend now?”
you hit him lightly on the shoulder with a half-mocking scowl on your face. “did you do anything to put you in guilt? you’ve been very… sweet in terms of giving me kisses lately.”
sae scoffed, tracing his thumb against your back. “are you saying i have been giving an unsatisfactory performance in the past?”
“no— it’s just—”
his lips were on yours again before you could finish your sentence. there wasn’t even anything else, just his lips on yours over and over again this past week.
“sweet,” was all he said before licking his lips.
oh… oh. you get it now.
“you… it’s my lipstick, isn’t it?”
sae shrugged and let you go, leaning to the counter behind him, both arms crossed. “you changed it.”
“and you like it.” a teasing smile couldn’t help but form on your face.
he shrugged again—acting so nonchalant as if he didn’t want to taste your ‘sweet’ lips every second. “you should use it more often. buy more of it.”
The rest of Class 3-A had already headed up to their rooms, leaving only Kirishima and Bakugo behind in the common room.
Kirishima sat on the sofa, unwrapping the support tape from his hardened forearms with a satisfied sigh. "Man, your blast radius is getting insane, man. I could barely keep my hardening up during that last set."
Across the sofa, Bakugo didn't reply. He was staring down at the ground, a towel slung over his shoulders, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. There was a strange, heavy silence hanging around him that Kirishima noticed immediately.
"Hey..." Kirishima paused, tilting his head. "You alright? You look like you're about to explode on a wall."
"Shut up, Kirishima..." Bakugo growled, his voice unusually low, rough, and entirely devoid of its usual aggressive tone. He clicked his tongue, his red eyes darting toward the elevator to make absolutely sure they were alone.
He took a sharp, aggressive breath through his nose, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.
"I have... a problem." Bakugo spat out and glared at the floor, the words sounding like they physically pained him to say. "There's this... unsettling, suffocating feeling in my chest. It’s a pain in the ass. It ruins my focus and every time I try to blast it away, it just gets hotter."
Kirishima blinked, looking genuinely concerned. "Wait, like a medical issue? Did you take a hit to the ribs during training? You should go see Recovery Girl—"
"It’s not a damn injury, idiot!" Bakugo barked, his face twisting into a fierce scowl as he finally looked up. "It only happens when she walks into the room. When that extra stands next to me. I can feel her standing next to me and instead of telling her to back off... my brain just glitches out. I can't think straight. It’s frustrating."
Kirishima froze mid-action, he stared at Bakugo’s furious, blushing face. He processed the words, connected the dots to a certain female from their class, and suddenly, a massive, unhinged grin broke across his face.
Kirishima let out a loud, disbelieving laugh, throwing his head back. "Oh, my god. Are we... are we seriously talking about this now?!"
"Stop laughing, Shitty Hair, or I'll murder you!" Bakugo threatened, a tiny spark snapping from his palm.
"Bro, it has been over two years and a half!" Kirishima yelled happily, leaning forward on his knees, completely amused by his best friend's sudden problem. "Bakugo, literally half the class thought you two were already dating. You literally listen to her tactical advice without screaming, and you're just now realizing you have feelings for her?!"
"I don't have feelings!" Bakugo roared, though the crimson flush spreading across his face completely betrayed him. "I don't get distracted by extras! I'm asking you because you're... you're a sentimental loser who understands this soft, emotional crap! How the hell do I make it stop?!"
Kirishima’s laughter softened, replaced by a warm, genuinely proud smile. He knew how hard it was for Bakugo to admit to needing help, especially regarding his own heart.
"You can't make it stop, man." Kirishima said softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "That’s the thing… She's not an extra to you, that's the whole problem. And honestly? It's incredibly manly that she catches your attention like that."
Bakugo glared at the floor, his chest heaving as he absorbed Kirishima's words.
"Tsk." Bakugo muttered, standing up and marched toward the elevator. "You're useless. I'm going to my room."
"Hey! Don't run away from your feelings, man!" Kirishima called out, grinning as he chased after him down the hallway. "If you need help picking out a gift or figuring out how to ask her to hang out without yelling 'Die!', your best bro has got your back!"
"Shut up, Shitty Hair! I don't need a guide on how to handle a girl!"
But as Bakugo stormed down toward the elevator, his fist clutched tightly over his chest, he knew Kirishima was right.
He was completely caught. And for the first time in his life, he didn't want to blast his way out.
꒰ summary ꒱ when a misunderstanding leaves your family convinced you’re bringing a plus one to your cousin’s wedding in Japan, the last person you expect to volunteer for the role is your infuriatingly observant intern, Satoru. it’s supposed to be temporary. professional. strictly off the record. but with your mother already sold on the idea of your mystery boyfriend, and Satoru proving far too good at the role, pretending starts to feel a little too dangerous. also, why is your “intern” secretly the heir to gojo corporation?!
꒰ tags/warnings ꒱ fake dating ⚹︎ undercover ceo! satoru ⚹︎ accountant! reader ⚹︎ satoru is 29, reader is 26 ⚹︎ lots of family pressure. reader has a complicated relationship with her mom ⚹︎ forced proximity ⚹︎ one bed trope ⚹︎ slow burn ⚹︎ mutual pining ⚹︎ wedding chaos ⚹︎ angst and fluff ⚹︎ some suggestive content but no explicit smut ⚹︎
꒰ authors note ꒱ hi cuties! this is a commission piece, and it is about 12k total. this first part is just shy of 6k and the second part will be out next week. i hope you enjoy 🫶🏻 (art by @/hanamin_0123 on x)
"Oi. Boss lady."
“No.”
One problem at a time, and the spreadsheet in front of you wins by default. Because Column F is wrong. It’s been wrong for forty fucking minutes, and if it stays wrong for forty seconds longer, you may actually die here at your desk — hunched over, half-blind, and found by Shoko on a Monday morning with your face pressed into a pivot table like a cautionary tale.
"But… you don't even know what I was gonna—"
"—the answer is no, Satoru."
Unlike the human embodiment of a headache currently lingering on the other side of your desk, the spreadsheet in front of you is at least pretending to be important.
The chair beneath him creaks, and then comes the silence you know too well. It’s the one that comes right before he decides to be a problem on purpose. Attention is gasoline and Satoru is, structurally, a fire hazard. Still, your eyes flick up, and—
"No fair…” he huffs, that ridiculous pout tugging at his lips. “You didn't even let me finish the question."
Your eyes roll back down.
“Mhm.”
"And it was such a good question.”
You turn a page. "Really?”
“Yup.” He’s draped over the corner of your desk now, like gravity has wronged him, whining. “It was such a thoughtful… personal… deeply relevant… extremely genius level getting-to-know-you tier question that—”
You scowl. "—Satoru, enough. Just do your job."
It lands harder than expected. The sigh he lets out is deeply, theatrically offended. And when you glance up again, he’s sprawled over that same corner of your desk you made the mistake of clearing for him on day one because you’d thought, foolishly, that giving him a designated surface might contain him.
It had not.
Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
Snowy white hair falls against his brow, sleeves rolled to his elbows; looking far too expensive and far too comfortable for someone whose official title is intern. His coffee is sweating beside your open planner — the one with a date next week circled in red: WEDDING, scrawled across the margin in your own handwriting. The condensation trails towards a stack of vendor invoices and—
…
Wait.
Are those the same vendor invoices you asked him to file yesterday?
Fucking great.
“Oh, c’monnn,” he grumbles, blinking at you over the rim of those absurdly expensive sunglasses he insists on wearing indoors. “One question. Just a tiiiiny one. It’s completely harmless. Humor me, yeah?”
You narrow your eyes.
“Satoru, you’ve been trying to ask one question for the last four months.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And you’ve been dodging it for four months. Imagine that.”
Technically… four months and four days. But who’s counting?
With an exhausted groan, your eyes fall shut, pinching the bridge of your nose. Noise drifts in from the hall — the elevator, the printer, a phone trilling somewhere nearby. But when you look up again, it all seems to fall away.
He’s gone strangely still. The smug grin hasn’t disappeared, but it’s softened at the edges, hooked at one corner with his head tilted slightly. And those eyes…
Oh.
That’s — no. You’ve seen his eyes before. Obviously. Four months of them. But right now, with the morning light doing something cruel and unhelpful behind him, they catch in a way that makes you forget you were mid-thought. The kind of blue that doesn’t ask if you’re looking. It already knows.
Which means of course, you look away first. “Fine.” Your hand drops as you mutter. “One question. But if it’s stupid, I’m sending you back to HR.”
It’s not much of a threat. It’s his last day, after all, and for reasons you still don’t fully understand, Satoru has always seemed oddly immune to consequences — which, frankly, feels statistically improbable given the amount of shit he’s managed to pull in the few months of being here.
“One question?” his grin sharpens. You point your pen at him. “Don’t make me regret this.” Yet his pleased chuckle is already making you. “Awhh… look at you. Finally yielding.” His pen twirls between his fingers, nodding with false solemnity. “Okay. So, here’s the thing… throughout these four months working beside you, I’ve seen a lot—"
“—that’s not a question.” You deadpan.
But ignoring you, he reclines back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head.
“Liiiike… I’ve seen the exact face you make when Mei-Mei emails you,” he smirks. “Even noticed you work through lunch more than you should. And I’ve noticed that little line right here—” he gestures vaguely between his own brows “—every time the budget goes sideways.”
Lips parting, you blink.
…why is he so observant?!
For someone who acts like he doesn’t give a shit, he’s strangely attentive.
You clear your throat, huffing. “Okay… what’s your point?” Your hands straighten a stack of papers that doesn’t need straightening. “Is there a question in here somewhere, or are you just reciting my habits back to me for fun?”
His grin is far too pleased. “Relax. I’m getting there.” And leaning forward, his voice drops, like he’s unraveling a conspiracy. “I just find it interesting how you answer work calls before the second ring. Every damn day. Doesn’t matter who it is.” His head tilts with a smug grin. “But for whatever reason, for the past month, your personal phone’s been ringing off the hook, and you never pick up. Not once.”
Heat creeps up your neck. Not because he’s wrong — but because he’s right. And he said it like it was nothing. Like noticing the pattern of your avoidance was just something that happened to him between stamps.
Oh.
Way too observant.
Shit. He couldn't have settled on what's your favorite color!? Or, what superpower would you have!? No. Of course he had to go for the fucking jugular.
His eyes drop to the planner lying open beneath the invoices. The circled date: WEDDING. And his grin sharpens. “Ohoho… I get it now,” he whistles, leaning back in his chair and kicking one leg over the other. “What’d your fiancé do to screw up this bad? Is the wedding off?”
Your head jerks up. “F-Fiancé?!” And he rolls his eyes with a scoff, still grinning. “Knew it. God, he must be really in the doghouse. Or maybe he’s just clingy as hell to be calling that much.”
You blink.
Okay. Nevermind. He’s wrong. That is not even remotely what’s happening. The most committed relationship you’ve had is the one with your coffee machine. And yet… part of it feels almost cosmically cruel.
Because somehow, this is the second time in a month that someone had looked at the scattered pieces of your life and decided a man must be hiding inside them. Except the first time, you never even got the chance to correct it.
After all… how do you tell your mother she’s wrong?
Last month, you still answered her phone calls.
Not because you expected anything different. But because somewhere between the second ring and the third, there’s this gap — this stupid, paper-thin gap — where you still believe she might ask how you’re doing and actually wait for the answer.
Some habits taste like smoke. Some burn like liquor. But yours, unfortunately, had always looked a lot like hope.
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
“Oh—uh, hi mom!”
Your phone was wedged between your ear and shoulder while you stepped out of your car, juggling your purse and what was left of your sanity. You were already behind schedule, and your mother was calling — which meant the day had already made its intentions very clear.
“What’s up?” the door slammed shut with your hip. “I’m actually about to—”
“—Trish sent the venue photos,” she blurted, launching into a conversation like always.
Blinking, you shook the bitterness away. Striding toward the towering glass of Gojo Corporation. “That’s—yeah, that’s great,” you muttered, badge in hand as you pushed through the front doors. “But I’m actually heading into work right now? So—”
“—It’s such a beautiful venue,” she ignored you. “Very traditional, very grand. But you know the Zenin family—they never do anything small.” And as she sighed in awe, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes.
The rational part of your brain told you to let this go to voicemail. But the rational part of your brain has never once won this fight. Because…
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
"Mom, I'm sure it's lovely, really… but I'm kind of—um, excuse me…" you pivoted around a man in the bustling lobby with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m literally walking into the building right now? But maybe we can revisit this later and—"
"—have you booked your flight yet?"
Your mouth flattened.
Clearly, your half of this conversation is optional.
“No… not yet,” you mumbled, as patiently as you could manage, jabbing the up button harder than necessary. “It’s been a crazy ass week so I haven’t had a chance to, but—”
“—every week is a crazy week for you.” The huff she let out sounded almost offended by the inconvenience of your life. “Why can’t you just book it now while we’re talking? I mean, it literally takes five minutes.”
A miracle, really, that your blood pressure isn’t a medical emergency.
Every week is a crazy week?
Yeah. No shit.
Two managers resigned last quarter. Another got escorted out by security. And their work didn’t disappear. No. It landed on your desk. Because that’s how it goes. That’s how it’s always gone. Group projects. Internships. End-of-quarter disasters no one else wanted to touch. If something needed fixing, it found its way to you.
You’re the one people relied on.
Just… never the one people chose.
“Mother. I’m at work,” you said, stepping into the elevator as the doors slid open, dropping your voice as you stabbed at floor fifteen. “Look—I’m about to walk into an eight a.m. meeting. But I’ll book it tonight, promise.”
“…eight a.m.?” she repeated slowly, before letting out a small, unbothered laugh. “Oh! Right. It’s eight p.m. here. Silly me. I keep forgetting.”
…
Keep forgetting?
She keeps forgetting that she’s ten thousand miles away? Forgetting that twenty years ago she abandoned you in another country to live abroad in Japan—handing you to your grandparents like a detail she'd get back to later?
How convenient that she forgot that.
The elevator slid shut, and you watched the numbers tick upward. “Um. Yeah…” you managed, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice. “Anyways. I’ll book it tonight. After work. Okay?”
"Okay, okay. Sure. Sounds good. But are you bringing anyone?”
Squeezing the strap of your bag, you swallowed the lump in your throat. This again? The last thing you needed was to walk into your shitty eight a.m. meeting looking emotional.
No thanks.
“I… uh…” you cleared your throat. “I um—actually—haven’t decided yet. But anyways, I gotta go, so—”
“Waitwatiwait. Haven’t decided? Does that mean… you actually found someone?!”
Her voice pitched up so fast it almost startled you, and your mouth dropped so low it could’ve hit floor one.
Shit.
“I-I—I didn’t say—"
“—oh, thank God. This is incredible!!” she squealed. “We’ve been so worried. I mean—Trish is younger than you and she figured it out,” her tongue clicked. “People have been asking questions, you know. Your aunt Sara keeps bringing it up every time I see her and—”
“—Mom, I—"
“—It’s about time,” The laugh she let out was relieved, like a problem in her life had finally begun resolving itself. “You can’t keep putting love on hold forever, because men aren’t going to wait around forever. You’re already twenty-six—not getting any younger, dear.”
Love?!
Who has time for that?
And why the fuck is twenty-six the age a woman expires?!
“What’s his name?” she pressed, practically beaming through the phone. “What does he do? Is he from there, or—oh, is he Japanese? Your father would love that, he always said—”
And she was off.
Spinning an entire man out of thin air. An entire future, really. Building him in real time from a tiny slip up you had because you were too tired and cornered and desperate enough to answer the phone in the first place. And you stood there, letting her. Because interrupting her has never once worked in the history of your life.
“—actually, never mind,” she chirped a moment later, as if she was being considerate now. “You have work. I’ll call tomorrow and you can tell me everything, yes? Okay, bye-bye honey—”
Click!
And just like that, the elevator went quiet. You were left staring at your reflection in the metal doors, phone pressed to your ear, listening to the silence where your mother’s voice had been.
‘We’ve been so worried.’
…
If they were so worried… why had you spent most of your life learning to take care of yourself? And yet, the second there might be a man, suddenly you’re worth getting excited about?
Funny how that works.
Scoffing, you lowered the phone, shoving it into your bag just as the elevator chimed open. Itadori Yuji’s head snapped up behind the reception desk.
“Morning, boss,” he waved, radiating sunshine as you walked towards the conference room. “Kento’s asking if you’re still good for the budget review at eight… or if I should just tell him to panic.”
Your smile softened, burying the sting. “Yes… I’ll be right there.” And as you stepped through the polished glass doors, you played the role you’d always played.
The reliable one. Twenty-six years old, with two master’s degrees, a career at one of the most competitive corporations in the world, and a team of seven that would quietly fall apart without you.
But…
None of that glitters quite like a diamond ring, does it?
“Oi,” Satoru frowns. “You’re makin’ that face again.”
“Huh?”
Blinking out of your spiral, your eyes trace back to the man across from you. His chin is resting in his palm, those impossibly blue eyes fixed on you with a quiet stillness that makes something in your chest trip over itself — like a lock turning in a door you didn’t know was closed.
“Oh.” You clear your throat, forcing the pen back into motion. “…what face?”
“The one you make when something’s wrong,” he says quietly, gaze unmoving. “When you’re upset and trying to act like you’re not.”
For a second — one terrible, unguarded second — you don’t have a single thing to hide behind. It’s just him, looking at you like your well-being is something he’s been keeping track of in a column you didn’t even know existed.
But then the sarcasm kicks in, right on time. "Wow," you say, forcing your hands back to the papers in front of you. "So… now you read faces?"
“Mm... nah. Just yours, sweetheart.”
And that grin — god, that fucking grin — hooks at one corner like he knows exactly what just detonated inside your chest. You don’t acknowledge it. Acknowledging things have consequences, and consequences with this man are not something you can afford.
"…that’s highly inappropriate," you mutter, shoving it down. "Let’s maybe redirect some of that insight toward the invoices, yeah?"
“Sorry, sorry.” He leans back, hands up like he’s the picture of innocence. “Wouldn’t wanna start shit with your dear future husband.” His grin goes sharp as he twirls his sunglasses between two fingers. “Though, wow. Tough look for him. Whatever he did, he clearly fucked up bad.”
Why does he sound… bitter?
No. You must be imagining it. This is Satoru. Satoru, who treats everything like a joke until proven otherwise. Satoru, who doesn’t care enough about anything to sound bitter over a man who may or may not exist.
You scoff. "You’re making some wildly stupid assumptions right now…"
He perks up at that. "Oh?" With his grin hooking higher, almost hopeful. "Wait. So, there’s no fiancé, then?"
Your lips purse.
What does he care? He’s not your mother.
“I wish you’d be this interested in your actual job,” you sigh, arms crossing. “Those invoices have been sitting there all week.”
“Uh-huh.” He tips his head. “And yet somehow, I noticed you still didn’t answer me.”
You frown.
What the fuck are you supposed to say!?
Oh. Um. Actually, Satoru, there is no fiancé. That’s the problem, actually! My mother invented him the other morning and I haven't worked up the nerve to call her back.
Yeah. No. You'd rather die at this desk.
“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”
“But I—”
“Drop it.”
He stares at you for a beat, then he flops back in the chair with a dramatic huff, long legs kicking out in front of him, mouth dragging into a sulky pout.
“Well, damn,” he grumbles, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, rolling his eyes. “No wonder you’re single if this is how you shut people down…”
The second the words leave his mouth, he blinks. His gaze flicks up to yours like he hears it too late — like he realizes, all at once, how shitty that sounded.And it only feels worse the moment he sees your face.
God.
Of all the places to hit.
“Oho… wow. Okay. This?” you say with a thin, self-deprecating laugh, chair scraping as you shove back from your seat. “Yeah. This is exactly why I shouldn’t have let you ask, Satoru.” You reach for your planner, your purse, anything to do with your hands besides let them shake.
He straightens, watching you scramble. “Whoa. Wait. I—"
“—because you don’t know when to stop!” The words come out louder than you mean, blinking at the sting behind your eyes. “You just keep pushing and pushing and pushing until you get what you want. Well good. I hope you’re happy.”
Before you can turn away, he’s on his feet. “Wait—” And the moment his hand catches yours, you freeze, breath snagging.
His voice is quieter now. His grip is firm yet gentle, and the air between you shifts, while something warm and uneasy twists low in your chest. The kind of feeling that makes you want to lean in and run in the same breath.
Though your eyes stay down. “Satoru… let go.”
“I didn’t…” he starts, then stops, gaze flicking to where his fingers still circle your wrist — before climbing back to your face, slower this time. “I’m… sorry. I just—” His mouth tightens. “I see how hard you work, okay? I see it. And every time that phone rings, you get this look on your face like it’s already ruined your day before you even touch it. And…” His brows pinch. “Fuck. I dunno why, but it pisses me off!”
Your gaze hesitantly drags to his, and the look in his eyes is softer than they have any right to be — all that blue, stripped of its usual sharpness, turned careful. Like he’s stepping toward something breakable and knows it. Like… if he asked once more, something in you might actually give.
“Satoru…” your breath hitches. “I-I—"
“Oh, finally.”
Shoko’s voice trails in, and your head snaps up so fast your neck almost goes with it. She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, coffee in hand — looking like a woman who arrived exactly on time for something she's been expecting all week.
Her gaze flicks down to where he’s holding you, and the corner of her mouth twitches.
"Sooo… not to interrupt whatever this is," she says, taking a sip, "but Kento's one eye-twitch away from a medical event. He needs you to sign off on the variance line before he starts reconciling his own will and—"
You're already jerking your hand back. "Yup—coming!" And as you step away, heat floods your face, but you don't look back. Not once. Not even when you feel him still standing there, watching you go.
Because looking back would mean acknowledging that something just shifted. And you are not — not — doing that today.
Unlike those invoices, perhaps some things are better left… unfinished.
You’re gone in a blur of heels, nerves, and professional self-preservation, leaving Shoko trailing behind and Satoru staring at the empty doorway like maybe the conversation might wander back through it.
It doesn’t.
And it’s not long before his mouth is pulling into a slow, petulant pout—just before he flops back in the chair with all the elegance of a man personally betrayed by the universe.
Un-fucking-believable.
He’d almost had you! After four months and four days of being stonewalled, redirected, and professionally shut down, you’d finally looked like you might give him something. A crack. A sliver. And then Kento had to ruin it with his stupid reconciliation sheet, his stupid earnest face, and his stupidly impeccable timing.
…
He could fire Kento.
Should he fire Kento?
As tempting as that thought is, Satoru settles for glaring at the empty doorway a second longer before dragging a hand down his face and raking it back through his hair. There’s no point. This performance will end soon. Because by this time tomorrow, he’ll be on a flight back to Tokyo. Where he can resume the slow, agonizing process of preparing to inherit a company he didn't actually give a shit about.
'Grow up, Satoru.'
'Apply yourself, Satoru.'
'You have no idea what it takes to run something like this, Satoru.'
Right. Because apparently, the heir to a multinational corporation needed to learn humility. Alphabetize files. Sit in a cubicle. Fetch coffee like some goddamn spreadsheet slut with a trust fund and nowhere to put it.
Four years of business school, two years shadowing his father; and yet, this is what they had for him?!
He scoffs. And when his gaze drops to the wreckage of your desk, he’s pulling the stack of vendor invoices toward him with a sigh that sounds put-upon even to his own ears. You’ve been nagging him about filing them for the better part of the week and… the least he can do is clear one thing before he goes.
The stamp thuds against the first page. Then the next. Then the next. And with muscle memory taking over, his face goes blank in the way it always does when boredom finally wins. It’s mindless shit. Still, he’s used to it. So naturally, when the phone on your desk buzzes, he doesn’t think twice; snatching it up, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he reaches for the next invoice.
It’s probably another budget nuisance. Or Mei. Or one of the other thousand little crises that seem magnetically drawn to your extension.
“Yo,” another stamp echoes. “Satoru speaking.”
There’s a sharp inhale. “…who?”
His brow lifts. “Uh… Satoru?” Another thud of ink slams against the paper and he huffs, annoyed. “What do y’need?”
The line goes quiet for a beat too long. Before the woman on the other end finally murmurs, “Satoru…” Sighing in awe. “What a lovely name. Is that Japanese?”
"Uh… yeah?” he snorts, flipping to the next page. “I mean. Last I checked.”
“Mm… I thought so!” She giggles. And her voice pitches like she's just unwrapped a present she didn't know she was getting. “So… Satoru. Why exactly are you the one answering her phone, hm?”
…
Why the hell does this woman sound so invested? And why is she asking questions that should be obvious?
Frowning down at the invoice, he stamps it harder.
“Because it rang?” He says it like it’s obvious. “And uh—sorry, but. Maybe because I’ve been with her for months, so… why the hell wouldn’t I?”
"Months?!” A soft gasp crackles, far too delighted. “You've—you've been with her for months?!"
"Mmm… four months and four days, technically."
He’s been her intern for that long.
That’s the question, right?
"—technically?!" she squeals, like the word personally seduced her. "Ohmygoodness—oh, this is perfect. Four months and four days—that is so specific.”
He blinks. But she doesn’t give him time to process.
“Look at you Mr. Devoted. Keeping track. I was starting to worry she’d never find someone like you. Every time I asked it's like pulling teeth. But I knew there had to be someone. I told her father—I said, there is a man, I can feel it.”
Pausing mid-stamp, the words slowly begin to catch up. Satoru straightens.
"…sorry. Who is thi—"
“—everyone is so excited to meet you at Trish’s wedding. I already reserved your seat and—"
Her voice keeps going… and going… and going. He pulls the phone away slowly as her voice echoes on the receiver, staring down at the phone in hand to see:
📞 Mom
Oh.
Oh, shit.
This is not your work phone. Your work phone is currently sitting at its dock twelve inches to his left. And it dawns on him that he accidentally just spent the last sixty seconds answering your personal phone like an absolute jackass and—
"Uh…” he backpedals. “Wait. I—"
"I told Sara, I said, we have to meet him and—”
"Stop. I-I really think—"
“—Satoru, what are you doing?’
His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, mouth dropping as he sees you standing at the doorway, eyes wide in horror.
Oh, fuck.
“Who is on the other end of that phone,” you hiss.
He winces, pulling the phone from his ear like it’s toxic — and you’re snatching it right out of his hand. He lets you have it without a fight, sinking back into the chair like he’s trying to physically dissociate from the situation he’s just created while you press the phone to your ear.
“And I mean…” she rambles. “I certainly was never one to wait around at twenty-six, believe me. But—"
"Mom."
"Oh! Honey!” She gasps. “Oh, my goodness, hi—I was just having the loveliest chat with—"
"I'm at work. Gotta go."
"—okay! I can't wait to meet Satoru, he—"
Click!
The phone sits in your hand like evidence.
And Satoru — to his credit — has the decency to look like a man standing in the blast radius of his own stupidity. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Like he’s rehearsing an apology in a language he hasn’t learned yet.
You stare at him.
He stares at you.
And somewhere ten thousand miles away, your mother is already calling your aunt Sara.
“Sooo… funny story…”
“—what did you do?!”
Satoru flinched, and now, the tears were already rolling down your cheeks — hot, fast, completely unauthorized. Not the kind you could disguise as allergies or blame on the air conditioning. No. The ugly kind.
Great. Fucking great.
You were standing in the middle of your own office, in the building where you work, crying in front of your intern. And Satoru felt the weight of it all at once. In the last four months, he had seen you in every flavor of workplace misery there was. Pissed off, stressed out, one spreadsheet away from actual murder.
But cry?
Never.
And this had his fingerprints all over it.
"Shit," he breathed, panic flashing across his face. "I—fuck. Okay. Please don't—I can fix this. I can—"
"Fix this?" A splintered laugh ripped out of you, and you hated how thin it was. "Fix what, Satoru? You just confirmed a boyfriend to my mother, a boyfriend that doesn't exist—and she is, at this very moment, probably already—"
Another break in your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hand to your forehead hard like you could hold the tears in by sheer force. But it only made it worse, because now you could feel the wetness on your own face, the heat of it under your palm, and the mortification landed like a second wave.
God. How fucking humiliating.
"Hey, hey—it's okay,” his voice softened. “We'll just… call her back. Right? Tell her it was a misunderstanding. Easy."
“Easy?” you scoffed, the word coming out strangled. “Y-You don’t understand my mother, Satoru,” you managed, voice gone thin as thread. God, you sounded like a child. “If she thinks something is true, then it’s true. That’s it. That’s—there’s no correcting her, there’s no walking it back, she’s already told my aunt Sara by now and Sara’s told Trish and—oh, fuck—”
Another sob tumbled out, and your fingers dug harder into your temple.
God. Stop it.
Stop it stop it stop it.
Think.
Think logically. You're good at this. You solve problems for a living.
But every time you tried to grab onto a thought, it slipped — replaced by the echo of your mother's voice, high and delighted. The happiest she'd sounded talking to you in years. Maybe ever.
…what look will she give you when you show up alone?
"I can’t," you whispered, and the word came out waterlogged. "I-I'm supposed to get on a plane to Japan in a week and—do what? Tell them there's no one? Tell them I'm still—"
Single.
The word sat in your mouth like a stone. You didn’t realize you’d gone silent until the silence itself started ringing — your sniffling, the hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled life of the office continuing beyond the door like yours wasn’t actively coming apart at the seams.
And through all of it, you could feel Satoru looking at you. His stillness; holding you with an expression you'd never seen on him before and couldn't categorize if you tried.
"Um…” he looked down, scratching the back of his neck. “Soooo... the wedding's in Japan?"
You blinked. “What?” And as you wiped your face with the back of your hand, his gazed tentatively flicked back up. “The wedding…” he repeated, voice careful. “It’s in Japan?”
"Yes." Your brow furrowed, not understanding. "Why?"
He didn't answer right away. Just looked down at the floor for a second, jaw shifting, like he was turning something over in his head — something he hadn't fully assembled yet but could already feel the shape of.
"Huh… okay."
Okay what?
You watched his expression change in real time — from guilt to calculation to something else. "Right then!" He said, clapping his hands once, bright and sudden. "No biggie. I'll just go with you."
No biggie?
Your mouth dropped.
That wasn’t even an option, was it?
…is he crazy?
“You’re kidding,” your laugh was awkward and breathless. His eyes rolled with a smug grin. “Sweetheart, c’mon,” and he was gesturing between the two of you like the answer was sitting there in plain sight and you were the only person in the room committed to not seeing it. "Your family thinks you're bringing someone? Cool." A hand pressed to his chest with theatrical solemnity. "I'm someone."
You stared at him. Genuinely stared.
Oh. He wasn’t kidding.
Yup. He’s crazy.
"You are not 'someone,' Satoru. You are my intern."
“Yeah. For like… another six hours?"
He checked his watch with a shrug, and your lips flattened.
"…that is not the point."
“Mm… feels a little like the point."
He smirked, but it faded faster than usual, dimming at the edges as his blue eyes hesitated on yours. Something shifted in his posture; the performance pulling back, like a tide going out. "Um… look…" He pushed off the desk, stepping closer. "It’s really no hassle." He said, hands sliding into his pockets. "I already have a flight scheduled. My family's in Tokyo. And I was going back after this internship anyway, so… this just moves my timeline back a little."
He was shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t agreeing to fly across the world with you and walk straight into the disaster that was your family.
…
His family’s in Japan too?
You barely knew anything about him. He kept his life sealed off with the same practiced deflection you kept yours — jokes in place of answers, charm in place of honesty. You never bothered to ask, because asking meant caring and that was a door you never intended to walk through with anyone.
But…
"Just… let me come with you. I’ll be your boyfriend for the weekend. For the wedding. For… whatever you need,” he said. And this time, when he stepped closer, there was no grin to hide behind. "I can be useful. I caused this. So… let me fix it."
Heat creeped up your neck, and you scoffed, weakly.
"Okay… but you can't fix my mother."
"No…” he murmured, tilting his head. His hand came up and brushed a tear trailing down your cheek with a careful gentleness. “But… I can make sure you don't have to walk in there alone?"
Your breath hitched, and when your eyes finally lifted, the morning light was being cruel again — catching in that impossible blue and turning it soft. Like stained glass dipped in sunlight. Like something holy made dangerous by the simple fact that it was looking straight at you.
“Mhn. So, do I get the job, boss lady? Because that look you’re giving me…” a slow smirk curls up the corner of his mouth. “Very encouraging for my boyfriend résumé, by the way. Might get addicted to it and wanna make it a full-time gig.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, looking away too fast to be convincing.“That was not a look. I was just—” You grimace. “…never mind.”
He’s chuckling as you brush past him. And his words are what scared you the most. Which was bad. Very, very bad. Because your mother was one problem. Japan was another. But Satoru looking at you like that?
Shit…
That felt like the kind of complication that didn’t stay neatly contained. And you knew better than anyone. Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
a/n: hehe. this has been fun to work on! i am excited to share the next part. clearly i love these fake dating/fake marriage tropes aha 🙂↕️ bc this is like... what—my third time doing it? soooo i tried to change things up and make it feel less standard/generic :) but anyways, like i said pt 2 will be out in a week, pls lmk if you wanna be tagged 💖
a/n : Inspired by the Youtube serie 'Actor on actor' by Variety, by Figure skaters such as Ami Nakai and Alysa Liu for the track record of the reader, and by the final match of the Football World Cup 2022! I suck at describing football because I don't know anything about it lmao (shame on me). I had a really great time writing this and I really enjoyed myself, so I hope you like it!
wc : 5.7k
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀★ likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated 𖹭 ★˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀
When the Chronicles interview you were supposed to give the next week for their ‘Athletes on athletes’ series paired you to a football player, you merely raised an eyebrow. You were a figure skater, so nonetheless to say your two worlds were miles apart. Almost nothing linked football to figure skating. Sure you two were athletes, that was the whole point of the interview. Still, you didn’t know the first thing about football. You even asked your manager to check if it was a mistake. But no. You had been matched with some German football prodigy. You were both nineteen and considered phenomenons in your respective sports, hence the pairing decision.
Even so, you decided to have a quick look at his biography on the internet the night before the interview. Impressive resume, you thought to yourself, as you scrolled down his profile. Though, the guy reeked of self-importance. You decided to check a compilation of his ‘best moments.’ He was attractive, you couldn’t deny it, and he definitely looked like he knew what he was doing when he was on the field.
Your suspicions about him having a superiority complex were confirmed the next day as you walked on set and felt the aura surrounding him. You weren’t impressed, why would you? You spent your days competing against other figure skaters who thought they were better than anyone else because they were trained by some renowned coach. You braced yourself for an unpleasant time. Discussing with these kinds of people wasn’t a piece of cake. Still, he was definitely handsome, completely in your personal beauty standards : tall, sharp features, confident posture, tattooed and muscled. Your stomach churned slightly, your eyes staying on him for a beat too long. Your external composure left nothing for him to see though, it’d likely feed his ego.
On the other hand, when you stepped inside the room, Kaiser almost smirked to himself. So you were the person they paired him with uh? His manager had told him you were a figure skater, not that he really cared anyway, he hadn’t listened. To him, you were merely someone to pretend to be interested in for an hour, to boost his popularity. He didn’t know your name, and hadn't bothered to look up your achievements. One thing that struck him about your appearance was your legs : they weren’t bare, but one look at them told him everything he needed to know. You surely had strong legs built to land all the jumps you did on the ice. He checked you out more precisely, noticing you looked nothing like a frail athlete he thought figure skaters were. To say you piqued his interest would be an overstatement, what would have been a waste of time if it had been with another athlete became something more interesting in his eyes.
The last adjustments of lighting and makeup were done as you two were sitting in front of each other before a plain looking set. The director told you to talk about your respective sports and your experiences as professional athletes. You were free of saying anything you wanted, the only restriction being to stay within family friendly details. Without much surprise, the beginning of the conversation was rather awkward. After all, you knew nothing about each other. Though you knew how to pretend, acting was a whole aspect of your sport. The director indicated to the crew and you two that the cameras had started rolling.
You smiled professionally. “Hi, nice to meet you, Michael. Do you want to start asking questions?”
Kaiser smiled back with his usual smirk. “Nice to meet you too. I’ll be a gentleman and let you start.”
You could hear the slight German accent in his english, it would be rather cute if he didn’t look so arrogant. “First of all, you’re a really, really good player. One of the things I want to ask you is do you have a ritual before a match to focus only on what’s happening on the field, blurring out the shouts from the crowd?”
He hummed, tilting slightly his head as his piercing gaze stayed on you. “I do. I tend to stroke my blue rose tattoo.”
“Is it some sort of lucky charm?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Do you have a lucky charm you keep during competitions?”
“My necklace is my lucky charm. Holds sentimental value.” You replied, a soft look on your face as you instinctively reached for it.
He was analysing your face carefully as you asked him questions and he replied mindlessly. You were asking surface questions, avoiding the strained tension that was growing between the two of you. Usually, athletes relaxed after a few minutes, allowing the interview to go smoothly. It was obvious to Kaiser’s eyes you were on edge, you had understood that if he didn’t find you interesting he’d crush you with ease. However, he could see a fire beneath your eyes, which told him that if he decided to bite, you’d bite back.
Without care, he interrupted your rant about how expensive competitions were in all sports, but mostly in figure skating. “Isn’t your sport for spoiled kids with dreams too big for themselves?” The room went dead silent. ”From what I’ve heard, competitive careers in figure skating usually don’t go on after the athlete turns 26 years old. Which only leaves you 7 years. Why invest yourself in a sport you won’t dedicate your life to?”
You stared at him, thrown off by the bluntness of his words. He was provoking you, and you were falling into his trap. You took a deep breath, gathering your thoughts to keep calm. “It makes me feel alive”
“You’re just gliding on ice to music, jumping around. Nothing interesting.” He countered.
“And you’re just running after a ball.” You snapped back sharply. “I could do what you do, but you wouldn’t last a minute on ice without falling face flat.”
He chuckled lowly. “You wouldn’t last 90 minutes of running around, Süßer”
“Can you even land a single axel?” You shot back, scoffing.
“I don’t need to.” He raised an eyebrow.
“And I don’t need to follow a ball like a lost puppy for 90 minutes. At least my sport has an artistic side to it.”
Before Kaiser could answer, the director interrupted the rather tense conversation on behalf of Michael’s manager–who was actually sweating at the idea of his athlete looking down upon you, it would be bad for his public image. While the director was asking you two to keep it cool and professional, you straightened up in your seat, glaring at the blonde man, who was reciprocating your gaze with an amused one.
The rest of the interview was as artificial as these chemical candies kids eat. As the crew was wrapping up their stuff, you walked towards Kaiser, bumping into his shoulder as you passed by him. “You think you’re better than anyone, it’s just a matter of time before you fall from your golden throne, asshole.”
He simply stared at your back until you left the building. Then without looking at his manager, a smirk growing on his face, he spoke up. “Get their number.”
A couple weeks later, the interview got released on Youtube. They kept the tense moment in the final version of the video. Drama meant views, and views meant recognition and money for the show. Without surprise, the interview blew up on social media : everyone was talking about it, about how iconic this pairing was and about how you kind of looked good together. That’s where it all started, the shipping and the fandom wars (football vs figure skating, Kaiser fans vs You fans). The topic was trending everywhere, and you saw your number of followers and views of previous performances spiking up. You were growing popular : you, the bronze medalist at your first Olympics two years ago when you were only 17. You still had a whole track record to build, and it was well on the way.
Before receiving a text from Michael Kaiser, you didn’t know he had your number. You frowned when you saw the notification late at night, as you were about to go to sleep.
M.K : “We made quite a lot of people talk about us with that interview.”
M.K : “It’s Kaiser.”
For a moment, you considered ghosting the bastard. Just the thought of talking to him again made your eyes roll. He didn’t deserve your time. Laying down on your back, you decided to answer.
Reader : “What do you want?”
M.K : “People are starting to ship us.”
It was as if you could see the arrogant smile he gave you that day. You internally groaned, you knew it was better to put down the phone and sleep. You registered his number under ‘Michael “Asshole” Kaiser.’
R : “Your point being?”
M.K : “You should thank me.”
R : “Why would I do that?”
M.K : “You’re growing popular thanks to me.”
R : “I didn’t ask for it.”
M.K : “You really won’t thank me? Wow, how rude for someone who cared about keeping appearances in front of the camera.”
R : “Deal with it.”
M.K : “I can have you free tickets for my next game if you want to stare at me in real life again.”
That was at that message you decided to leave him on deliver and go to sleep. What a dickhead. He was so full of himself he thought you’d take him on that offer. Sure he was nice to look at, but would you really indulge him and go to one of his games? It bothered you, to the point of keeping you awake, tossing and turning in your bed. If you did indulge him, it would only feed his ego. And you didn’t care about football, so why were you even considering his proposal? You ran a hand down your face, forcing your brain to shut up.
Little did you know, Kaiser had grown curious about you. After the interview, he found himself looking at all your performance videos, from your junior programs to your latest ones. Every single one of them, in chronological order, not caring if there were three or four videos of each program (from nationals, continent competitions and world competitions, and Olympics). He even created a playlist on Youtube. Your style was unique, powerful, gliding through the ice naturally, mixing speed, technique and artistry. You almost never fell. To him, it wasn't obsession, you were just a riddle to understand, someone interesting to analyse. He was hypnotised by you, in a way he couldn’t understand. So when he asked you to come to his game, sure, he was bragging. But it was also so he could see you again and find an excuse to investigate you more closely.
Reluctantly, you had agreed on going to one of his games. You did mostly because your cousins absolutely loved football and having tickets to a match with prodigies was definitely a gift you could give them (mostly since you had them for free, but they didn’t need to know that.) Standing in the VIP bleachers, you kept your eyes on Michael during the entirety of the game. He was definitely a genius, a superstar in the making. In fact, he was already one. He had everything for him : beauty, intelligence, fame and wealth. Your eyes caught his way more than you’d like to admit, and whenever you did, he’d flash you an arrogant smirk of victory. Gosh he was so annoying. He saw the fact that you accepted his offer as a victory, and you hated to boost his already enormous ego.
At the end of the match, you didn’t wait for him to reach up to you and you quickly left with your cousins, who were whining about wanting an autograph. You mumbled some half-assed excuse saying that the players were exhausted and didn’t want to deal with kids.
You didn’t even have the time to go back to your hotel that Kaiser had already sent a message.
M.K : “Left without a goodbye? I’m hurt, Süßer.”
R : “I had nothing to tell you.”
M.K : “And the kids didn’t want an autograph?”
R : “They did, but I didn’t want to see your displeasing face.”
M.K : “Displeasing? I’d say I have a rather handsome face.”
R : “So much for being humble…”
M.K : “Paparazzis saw you, doesn't help the situationship rumours.”
It was as if you could see his infuriating smirk behind the screen. Your need to hit his face with a football was spiking up quickly. He was enjoying the situation way too much in your opinion. How could one take pleasure in being such an asshole, you wondered. He was rubbing in your face the fact you got this popular thanks to him. You couldn’t even say it wasn’t true, you used to have fans and haters, but strictly within the Figure skating community. Without the interview with Michael Kaiser, you wouldn’t be so famous. It came with perks and detriments. More fans meant more expectations, and it also meant more haters and people calling you rude and unbearable just because you were standing up for yourself. You were used to ignoring the hate comments or dirty looks people gave you. You spent your whole life being looked down on, being told you’d never be a World-level figure skater. The bronze medal you won at your first Olympics made the hate fade away a bit. Only for it to come back after that interview, from football fans who claimed you weren’t relevant, or Kaiser fans who absolutely despised you for being rude to him. If only they knew how obsessed he was if you.
But before you knew it, the next figure season had begun. Surprisingly, Kaiser was still texting you multiple times a week, and you got used to it. However, you wouldn’t let the bastard get too confident. And you knew how to get petty. So you decided to choose a very specific song for your short program : Looking at me by Sabrina Carpenter. It was one of her old songs, it was perfect. You weren’t one to stay passive in front of the hate of parasocial fans. You’d never address it outloud, but you usually used your programs to express yourself. This one was directed at Kaiser, and his fans. They could talk all they want, they were bringing you attention from the media and much more. If anything, it all made you more confident, and you were stealing the show, because whatever you were doing publicly, it was turned into comment wars on social media.
Michael was a smart man beneath that handsome façade, so when you first competed with that program at the national competition, the probability that it was about him and the discourses online were high. The costume you were wearing was fitting the concept, and he caught sight of the blue rose sewed to it, a discreet confirmation that it was about him. You were silently telling him to not get his hopes up with you. And he was absolutely adoring you weren’t giving in easily. You were giving a hard time, putting him back in his place all the time, and he loved that. He was right where he wanted to be for now.
Kaiser watched the press conference you gave earlier that day, the journalists weren’t dumb either, mainly when there was drama involved. Obviously they asked if it was about him.
“If it’s about the football player Michael Kaiser?” You repeated the journalist’s question. “I did think about him while working on that short program. But to reduce the target to only one man would be a mistake.” You replied with a sly smirk, keeping eye contact with the room. “So many people, mostly on social media because honestly they never dare to tell you these things to your face, think they can be relevant and have an attitude when in reality they don’t know anything of what’s happening behind closed doors. If anything, what they do only makes people look at me more. Hence the choice of music.”
It didn’t take more than a minute for Kaiser to text you about it.
M.K : “What happens behind closed doors? Are you implying something?”
R : “Poor choice of words, that's all. Don’t get all heated now, dumbass.”
M.K : “Mhm, yeah whatever.”
M.K : “I kinda like it when you call me a dumbass.”
R : “I won’t call you that anymore then.”
M.K : “Awww, I’m broken-hearted.”
M.K : “See you tomorrow?”
R : “Not even in your dreams.”
The next day, you two met at your apartment after both your practices ended. Somehow you had reluctantly become friends and were hanging out regularly whenever you could. And since you were about to leave for the Continent’s championships, then the World’s, it was the last time you could see him before being away for some weeks. You hated to admit it but you had grown used to his presence in your life.
You laid down on your couch, groaning at the soreness of your legs. Michael was sitting on the carpet, back against the couch next to your side. He glanced at you, a small smirk on his face.
“Are you ignoring me?” He asked, taunting.
“What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t been looking at me.”
“Some things are more interesting to look at than you, Micha.” You countered, annoyed. In reality, he was wearing the grey sweatpants and black tank top that suited his frame perfectly and showed off his muscles. So of course you were avoiding him to not straight up stare in delight.
He knew he was handsome, and he knew he always had an effect on you when he was putting on that post-practice outfit. “You sure, Süßer?”
He agreed. Though, after you put on some shitty TV show, his focus wasn’t on it but rather on the warmth of your side behind his head. He was staring straight ahead, dissociating while thinking that he’d actually miss you. An uncomfortable warmth settled in his chest.
“Say.” He started.
“Mhm?”
“When are you coming back?” He asked in a rare moment of vulnerability.
“What?”
“The competitions, when do they end?”
“In a month.” You replied, frowning slightly yet still focused on the TV. “Why?”
“Because I’ll miss you.” He admitted quietly.
“What did you say?” You hadn’t heard him because you were watching the show and a plot twist was happening.
He sighed with a defeated smile. “Nothing important, don’t worry…”
There was not a single day during the next month where Michael didn’t text you. From just useless things his day was made of to complaining about some teammate or even to teasing you, he always found a way to be in your notifications. You followed him on Instagram, and saw that he was often staying at your place from his stories. You had asked him if he would like to take care of your plants, and Michael, yearning for your presence, said yes immediately. After all, if you weren’t here, being in your apartment was a small relief. Your scent, your stuff and the familiar setting was soothing him somehow. When you had questioned him about why he was staying in your apartment when his was way bigger, he barely justified himself by saying yours was closer to his club.
This routine settled for the next two years. You and Michael had become something between friends and lovers. Multiples were the night the friendship line was crossed, but neither of you seemed to mind. You still acted as if he was an inconvenience in your life, when in reality you had fallen in love with him over time. Kaiser was as smitten as you, if not more. The fact you were always seeing him as a bother rather than a lover made his daily life more exciting. He felt the need to win you over every single day, and he liked a good challenge. You were in every way a couple, but in the name. Fans were shipping the two of you more and more, edits and fanfictions flooding social media, journalists were waiting for an official announcement to write articles
Though, tension rose between the two of you in the privacy of your apartment. You were preparing for the Winter Olympics and he was preparing for the next World Cup. Training was becoming stifling and stressful. Both of you were more on edge, and being around each other was like walking through a landmine without knowing when a mine would burst. It wasn’t rare for arguments to occur, making you feel more exhausted mentally and physically.
Yet, you loved him, more than ever. And the feeling was reciprocated. It was a tough time, but neither of you was ready to give up on what you had. That’s when you noticed Michael had grown way more mature than he used to be when you first met. His 19 year-old version would’ve crushed you then left you without any remorses. However now, the man in front of you had conflicted emotions filling his beautiful eyes : he wanted to snap, still he didn’t want to lose you by saying something he could never take back. He was choosing you over his pride every day, every hour, every minute, every second. You were doing just the same. You knew you’d last as a couple. It was obvious seeing how you handled the crisis. In spite of that, neither of you seemed ready to put an official label on what you had. Deep down, you were afraid it’d change things between you. And now wasn’t the time to make a relationship status check-up. These sporting events were the most important of your careers, and you couldn’t allow any distraction.
The figure skating week in the Winter Olympics started off strong. You were more nervous than ever. It was your last shot to get a gold medal : you’d most probably be retired by the next Olympic cycle. You made a small mistake in your short program, placing you in third place. It wasn’t anything you couldn’t catch up in your free program. Though, a lot was on your mind. You had a big argument with Micha before the Olympics, because he chose to train rather than come to your side. You wished he was here, in the crowd, cheering for you, instead of running on the field countries away.
A knot formed in your stomach. You were about to perform your free program. You stepped on the ice, and at that moment everything blurred. Nothing was clear anymore, not sound, not images. You just focused on your feelings and what you had to perform to get that gold medal. It seemed so out of reach suddenly. You felt so small. You were starting to question everything. But one main concern came to you : why the hell didn’t you perform this program beforehand? Indeed, you had chosen to keep your Olympic free program a secret from everyone’s eyes. It was the first time you did it in a competition, meaning you hadn’t trained for it in real conditions. It was nerve wracking. Though it was too late to back out now. You took your starting position, waiting for the first notes of the familiar song to begin.
Michael had realized he needed to be there for you. He realized it too late. But he could make it before the second part of your competition. He caught the first plane, and landed a few hours later. He used his professional football players advantages to get a VIP seat at the last minute of the free program competition. His breath caught when he saw you get on the ice. He knew you by now, and you didn’t look peaceful nor confident like you always did. You looked vulnerable. And he didn’t like it, it made him feel sick. You weren’t someone vulnerable, you were a strong individual. He hated seeing you this small when you were supposed to be looking like you had the whole world in your palm. To say he was stiff was an understatement : his jaw was clenched, his fists were closed tight…
Then it all fell away when he heard the notes of the song begin. Desperado. By The Eagles. His favorite song. Michael Kaiser knew all about your past, current and future programs. He had learned them by heart because he loved you and your dedication too much. This wasn’t planned. You never mentioned to him your wish to make a program on his favourite tune. Much less an Olympic one, that could cost or win you gold. His eyes never left you for a second, he never blinked for the entirety of the song. He held his breath at each jump as if he was the one doing them. He snapped out of his trance when he heard the public cheer and applause at your final stance. That’s when he noticed his cheeks were slightly wet : he cried. Him. Michael Kaiser. Who hadn’t cried since he had been 15. His admiration for you spiked up to the end of the universe. You didn’t only have the world in your palm, you had his whole world. Never had someone shown him such a touching mark of attention and care.
Not only you performed to his favourite song, but you had told the love story growing between you with each elegant move. He recognized it all.
You didn’t know Micha was there, you hadn’t noticed him in the crowd either, too focused on the vulnerable personal story you bore on the ice, in front of the whole world. You were incredibly proud of yourself for the performance you gave. Though, a tiny part of you felt empty without some blonde with blue ends idiot around. The last two figure skaters competed, thus confirming your gold medal and your Olympic title. Excitement was hard to contain in your body. You hugged your opponents that were also friends. Cameramen were all over the backstages, capturing every second of your reaction. You couldn’t believe it : you were an Olympic champion. You ran a hand through your hair as tears filled up your eyes when realization daunted upon you.
You barely registered when a familiar hand with a crown tattoo on it grabbed your arm, turning you fully towards him. You barely had time to react that Michael Kaiser was here, that his lips were already on yours. A second was the time you needed to kiss him back, cupping his cheeks. Both your eyes were closed, purely enjoying the feeling of his kiss. The cameraman was still filming you, it was probably broadcasted in the entire world but you didn’t care at that moment. You felt complete, an Olympic title in one hand, and Micha in the other.
He pulled back slightly, murmuring against your skin. “You did it, Süßer. You’re a freaking Olympic champion.”
“You saw it?” You smiled, stroking his cheeks.
He nodded. “I saw it all. I’m sorry, doll. I should’ve been there from the beginning. I should’ve been with you.”
“You sure should’ve been there.” You countered. “I’m still holding that against you for a while, if you don’t mind.”
He chuckled lowly. “I don’t mind. Not when you’re on top of the world.”
“You liked my program?” You asked.
He stared at you for a moment, his eyes widening in disbelief. “If I like– Süßer are you really asking me that?” He scoffed. “It meant everything to me.” He admitted softly.
“Awww… I’m glad you liked it.” You kissed the corner of his lips. Your manager was calling you out. You had to go out on the ice to receive your gold medal. You glanced at him apologetically.
Michael nodded in understanding, letting you go for a moment. But after that? He wouldn’t leave your side for a while, clinging by your side. He watched you receive the gold medal with the brightest smile he ever saw on you. They gave you your country’s flag and played your national anthem. He was proud. And he understood at that moment he wanted to be proud of you as your boyfriend. The idea of asking you to make things official scared him to death : commitment had never been his strong side, he was struggling with the concept of family and leaning on someone else. Yet, he was willing to try, for your sake, for being able to tell people you were his.
The adrenaline had worn off by the time you arrived at your hotel room. You lunged on your bed, groaning in pleasure at the comfortable fabric surrounding your exhausted body. You wanted nothing but to sleep. Michael stood at the doorframe, leaning against it, his arms crossed over his chest, a rare fond look in his eyes.
“Hey…” He started.
“Mhm?”
“Can we be a couple?” He asked bluntly. He didn’t know how to do this, and grand declarations of love weren’t his thing.
“...what?”
“Can I be your boyfriend?”
You sat up so quickly it almost gave you whiplash. Frowning, you stared at him. “Are you being serious?”
“Dead serious.” He replied, staring back at you.
“You’re asking me that now, when I’m exhausted, when we’ve been arguing for months and after I won a gold medal?” You asked in awe at his straightforwardness.
“Exactly.” He said flatly, as if it was the most logical thing ever.
You shrugged. “Why not?” You chuckled, looking away for a second, flustered. Then, you looked back at him. “I mean yeah. We can definitely be official. I’d like that if you’d like that.”
“I want that.” He corrected, stepping closer to your frame. “I want to be able to call you mine.”
“Oooh I see, you just want to brag, isn’t it?” You teased.
He smirked. “Obviously. Now get ready for bed, you look like you’re about to pass out in that makeup and training outfit.”
You chuckled. “Alright alright. But only if I get to be the big spoon tonight.”
“Definitely not.”
“Are you not going to indulge in your partner’s wish after she won the biggest medal in the whole world?” You teased, seeing his revolve wavering.
He grumbled, swallowing his pride. “Just for tonight then. And only because you’re a goddamn champion.”
You grinned. “I won two things today, a gold medal and a boyfriend that listens to my wishes. Isn’t life so beautiful?”
“Yeah yeah… Don’t make me regret agreeing.” He countered. “I’ll get my revenge when I win the World Cup.”
“Can’t wait to see that!”
Unlike him, you had been there for the entirety of the Football World Cup, cheering on him either from the hotel room (it was too hot for you in summer to even think of going outside) or in the stands during the semi-finals and the final. You had been on edge during the entirety of the 90 minutes. You noticed Michael wasn’t glancing at you at all, meaning the match was difficult enough to grab his whole attention. You were glad, because if he won, Michael would feel prouder than ever. If you were honest, you never understood the appeal of football, but you were willing to try to understand it and enjoy it just for your boyfriend. And if anything, it allowed you to ogle your boyfriend being sweaty and breathless, which was a view you’d never be bored of.
You noticed journalists and paparazzis taking pictures of you. After all, your relationship with Kaiser had been publicly official for a few months now. But in these few months, you barely made any appearances together, to keep your couple more or less private and avoid anyone sticking their noses in your business. Fans went wild at the confirmation of their favourite athlete ship, yet some were sad that Michael ‘wasn’t available anymore’ (as if they had a shot with him duh). Your popularity and Michael’s were at an all-time high, meaning snakes like paparazzis would take every crumb you would give them, intentionally or not.
However, you kept your focus on the field. Michael scored two goals. When he celebrated them, he obviously glanced at you with a stupidly proud-ass grin. In the end, he and his team won after a penalty shoot-out. The score had been initially of 3-3 and then in the penalties it shifted to 4-2. Just like he did during the Winter Olympics, you rushed to him on the field. He grabbed you by the waist and twirled you around, chuckling.
“Told you I’d be a World champion, doll.”
“Did I ever doubt you?” You countered, raising an eyebrow.
“Nah.” He smirked, pecking your lips before putting you down and taking a look around while enjoying the stadium cheering for him and his team. He truly felt out of this world.
“Micha.” You cupped his cheeks, forcing his eyes back on you.
“Mhm?”
“I’m proud of you.”
His smile wavered, vulnerability seeping through from beneath old scars.
“You mean it?”
“I do.”
He bit his lower lip to avoid it shaking ever so slightly. Nothing would ever tear him apart from you, he was sure about it. He was still a jackass most of the time : it wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle. “I love you.”
“I love you too, dumbass.”
“I love it when you call me a dumbass.” He chuckled before kissing you shamelessly in front of the whole world again, and a packed up stadium. “Right then, let’s receive that trophy, shall we?” He stated, straightening up and addressing his teammates, grinning like a fool who won everything in life, because he who started with nothing, had indeed won everything.
5 times sukuna was heavily yearning + 1 time you finally noticed.
oblivious, lonely reader who’s used to doing things alone x downbad!sukuna. jealous!sukuna. gn!reader. reader wears glasses. uncle!sukuna. sukuna calls reader angel. he’s so down bad bro. ooc sukuna as usual. mentions of nsfw contents.
— ☆ —
1. movie nights.
you had a specific, detailed, high maintenance routine for watching movies. you had slowly perfected the process— a mental to do list popping up every time a new movie dropped that you needed to watch.
first, you needed to be in your designated ‘movie night pajamas’, the most comfortable you owned. your favorite blanket had to be there, along with your favorite pillow for support. you liked watching in your home more than cinemas, because you disliked the idea of not being able to pause the movie for whatever reason. who decided to make bathroom breaks that short, anyways?
for snacks, chips poured into your favorite bowl, your favorite niche flavor. a chocolate bar sat beside it just incase the movie got intense enough for you to crave it. your favorite drink was set beside them in a thermal cup, allowing you to drink it as slow as possible without it melting too quickly.
your phone had to be on dnd, blocking out every notification. the room had to be cold, and you avoided any distractions because pausing the movie on piracy websites meant three minutes of closing ads to turn it back on.
tonight, everything was perfect.
you were perfectly wrapped in your blanket, eyes wide as it watched the screen perfectly, chips tasting perfect, drink perfected, everything absolutely perfect—
bzzz.
you immediately groaned. who could possibly be showing up? you hadn’t ordered food. no one was invited over. it was late. what could possibly be urgent enough to prompt someone to ruin your little routine?
you paused the movie (which took three minutes of pressing ‘x’ on ads urging you to ‘text hot, single ladies in your area’, and ‘ai bots who can make you cum in three minutes!’), pushed the blanket off, and pulled the door open with a soft pout you didn’t even register, just to pause when you saw sukuna standing there, eyebrows furrowed, frowning.
you and sukuna weren’t that close, really. you were in the same friend group, but you always felt nervous around him. he was intimidating, scary, too cool for you. he always stared at you blankly, and you decided he was judging you for… everything. you were awkward, nervous, a little odd.
so, him showing up to your home at midnight was a little… nerve-wracking. his red eyes slowly scanned your comfortable, worn out pajamas, messy hair, tiny pout that faded as your eyes widened, before he blinked blankly. “sorry for showing up unannounced.”
he didn’t sound apologetic. at all. his tone was monotonous, almost unamused.
“can i come in?”
you slowly blinked, before realizing how dumb you must look. you grimaced internally, stepping aside, letting him in. immediately, his eyes landed on your little set up, and he arched an eyebrow. “movie night, huh? watching part two of your little movie series?”
“how did you know?” you mumbled, genuinely confused. much to your surprise, his lips twitched up in something that looked like admiration, amused, and it was the closest you ever got to see him smile.
holy fuck, he was so gorgeous it felt unfair. now that you were actually focusing on the man towering over you, dressed in a black shirt and gray sweatpants, tanned skin peaking from under his clothes, muscles on view—
“it’s your favorite series, and it just dropped. i can recognize the sketchy ass website because you hate netflix. you have your little movie night routine, pajamas, chips, and drink.” he murmured casually, nonchalantly, as if it was normal that the guy you thought disliked you knew this much about you. “i listen, you know.”
your jaw was slack, eyes wide. he only snorted, arching an eyebrow. “don’t tell me fucking gojo was right and you really think i hate you.”
you paused. “well…”
“are you serious?” sukuna scoffed. “you’re my fucking favorite in the group, dumbass.”
“what?” you mumbled back, more confused. “you always glare at me. you never talk to me. i was starting to think you didn’t even know my last name.”
he stared at you, almost as if you were insane, then sighed. “you really are oblivious, huh?”
“hey—“
he shook his head, still looking mildly amused. “here’s the notes suguru said he would drop by to give you and forgot. i know you like studying early.”
“oh. you didn’t have to—“
“i wanted to.” he immediately stated, face serious. “‘ll leave you to it, can’t have someone ruining your perfect night. goodnight.”
with that, he was out, leaving you even more flabbergasted.
what. the. fuck.
2. hangouts.
you were still getting used to the idea that sukuna told you that not only did he not hate you, but that you were his favorite in the group. to you, the idea was unbelievable. flabbergasting. maybe even a little more scarier than being hated by him for some reason, but you managed pretty well.
at least you were more comfortable hanging out with your group now.
however, you had a tiny little habit. you hated the coffee at the place your friends loved, so often, you just walked away to the place next to it to buy your own coffee. it provided you a break, making the little pit of your stomach that grows when having to be around people, even your best friends, for too long reset, and you just get a chance to catch your breath.
today wasn’t different. in the middle of the hangout, you grabbed your wallet and slipped out, enjoying the tiny walk in fresh air before you stepped into your favorite cafe.
the familiar barista immediately lit up at the sight of you, boredom fading from his face. he was your age, friendly with a cute grin that grew whenever you two chatted— something that made you feel at ease when ordering.
“my favorite customer,” he immediately greeted, grinning. the bell at the door chimed, and you both didn’t pay any mind to it. “i wonder what you will order this time.”
you snorted. you both knew you ordered the exact same thing every single time. “yeah, i wonder too.”
he chuckled, eyes flickering to the screen. you could feel a figure stopping behind you. “well, you know your total.”
you hummed, about to pay, when the familiar scent of sukuna’s signature perfume finally registered in your mind as he moved to step beside you, eyes narrowed, jaw slowly twitching. “make it two.”
you slowly glanced up. the barista looked up in surprise, before he nodded calmly. “of course.”
before you could register it, sukuna’s card was pressing against the machine, paying for you both. your jaw went slack for the second time this week, flabbergasted once more, but sukuna was already pulling you out of line so that the people behind you could pay.
and, more unfazed that he should be by his own actions, he casually held out the receipt. “here. you take the code and collect points on their app, right?”
“…how the fuck do you even know that?” you mumbled, utterly confused. “why are you here? how did you find me— did you even know what you ordered—“
“easy there, angel.” he murmured, calm. “you always carry the receipt and i see you type something from it on your phone often. ‘m here because the coffee in the other shop is ass. you always come here, so i figured i would try my coffee with you. i know what i ordered because i know your order.”
you openly gaped at him. he only reached over, grabbing both drinks, arching an eyebrow. “are you gonna gape at me forever or drink this sweet shit?”
“…did you just call me angel?”
his amusement immediately faded, ears turning red as he shoved your drink your way, looking away. “absolutely not. hallucinations. let’s go.”
that was what he chooses to deny? not that he knew your movie night in details? that he knew your exact drink? that he knew you secretly collected points from your favorite coffee shop?
you let out a tiny chuckle, amused, following behind him. that somehow managed to make his ears even more red, a scowl pulling on his pretty lips.
fuck. he was gorgeous, and adorable.
how horrible for you.
3. aquarium.
you laid face-down on shoko’s bed, face showed between the pillows, eyes shut in pure horror. “‘m so screwed.”
she sighed for the nth time from where she sat on the ground, studying. “you quite literally could not be more not screwed.”
“i have a crush on him, shoko. i never have crushes. and now i have one, on fucking sukuna. the guy once punched a guy for breathing ‘his’ air. he fucking hates people. i am so utterly fucked. he will kill me.”
she glanced up, as if she knew something you didn’t. “he won’t kill you. kiss you? maybe.”
“stop being delusional.” you mumbled, voice muffled as you buried your face into the sand further. “‘m so fucked.”
she sighed. “you’re delusional too if you don’t realize what’s happening. anyways, isn’t it the twenty seventh? your monthly aquarium night?”
you jumped up, gasping. “it is! fuck!” you quickly grabbed your phone to check the time, before opening the aquarium’s instagram page just in case there were any updates.
and, unfortunately, right there on their instagram story, posted twelve hours ago, was a simple statement.
‘couples only day!’
“oh, fuck my fucking life.” you mumbled, eyes on the story, shoulders drooping. “shoko, be my aquarium date.”
“couples only, huh? if only these weren’t the conditions,” she mused, almost flirty, before tilting her head.
“yes.”
“ask sukuna to go with you.”
you blinked once, twice, before pulling up your phone, nodding, serious. “good idea. ‘m asking gojo or geto.”
“that is quite literally not what i said.”
“you’re a genius.”
you sent off a quick text to geto and gojo, jumping off her bed to head to your own apartment to get ready. after dressing up all cute for the sake of your loved marine animals, you glanced down at your phone, where a vague text from gojo said he couldn’t, followed by maybe three million crying emojis (which was maybe because he had begged before to accompany you said no. aquariums were a single, you-only trip), and geto sent back a simple ‘he’s almost there’, and a thumbs up.
what kind of reply was that? you frowned, sending five questions marks, about to ask who the fuck ‘he’ was, when your doorbell rings.
you pulled the door open, and freeze when your eyes landed on the one and only sukuna. he glanced at you, eyes blank, and nodded once. “let’s go.”
“…where?”
he raised an eyebrow. “the aquarium. date night. let’s go.”
“…are you sure?” you immediately mumbled, voice uncharacteristically low. “‘m, uh, kind of enthusiastic about this. nerdy. geeky. um, annoying.”
his lips twitched up into an endeared smile that he immediately pushed back. “i know what ‘m getting into. let’s go.”
you grabbed your jacket, eyebrows furrowing. “suguru could have just said he couldn’t come. i’m sorry he sent you instead.”
“oh, he could come.” sukuna stated blankly, stepping into the elevator behind you. you glanced up at him, confused, and he stared back blankly, as if waiting for you to collect dots you didn’t even see. he only sighed after a few minutes, shaking his head. “this is both cute and infuriating. so, which stupid creature is your favorite?”
you expected a night with sukuna to be awkward. tense. uncomfortable. a night where you had to hold back so you don’t become labeled as talkative, or annoying, or too much.
you didn’t expect for him to be a good listener. nodding at whatever you said, asking questions at first to keep you talking until you were comfortable rambling. you didn’t expect him to hold your things so you could comfortably get closer to the glass, or stay longer at your favorite animals, or ask you about ones that seemed interesting, his eyes soft and lips twitching upwards just the slightest. you didn’t expect him to disappear at one point and come back with a few limited-edition items from the small gift shop either, dumping them in your arms wordlessly as you two were walking out.
“thank you for being my fake date for the night, kuna.” you mumbled as he was dropping you off, sleepy, eyes soft and voice slurred. he paused at your words, lips twitching into a frown before he eyed how sleepy you were and only sighed.
“of course, angel.” he muttered, reaching over and nonchalantly pressing a kiss to your forehead before he turned around, walking away. “…sleep well, goodnight.”
gaping at him seeming like a new routine, except this time, your sleepy eyes were set on his back as he left, almost getting distracted by his muscles showing through the fabric. oh, you were so, utterly fucked.
4. the beach.
you sat quietly on the sand, wrapped tightly in a towel, eyes ahead as you watched gojo, geto and shoko shoving each other in the water. choso was on a towel beside you, deeply asleep and snoring. toji was playing around with megumi and nobara and yuji, who was yapping about how his uncle dropped him off and disappeared. everyone was enjoying themselves.
you were freezing.
you had gotten there earlier, having known they would all show up too late. you liked swimming alone with no eyes on you, so with too much sunscreen, you stayed in the water under the sun in what you knew was the perfect time for you. by the time everyone else arrived, you were already drying in the shade.
oh, how you wished you had a dry towel—
a dry towel dropped into your lap before the thought even finished. you froze, glancing up at the sky, before immediately closing your eyes again and wishing for a million dollars just in case.
“don’t stare at the fucking sun.”
ah. your genie.
you peaked through your lashes at sukuna, who glared at you, a hand going to shade your eyes from the sun. he was dry, holding a small bag which you assumed was for his wallet and phone and car keys and towel, the sun kissing every spot on his perfect body, as if purposely teasing you.
fuck. how could someone be so pretty?
he sighed, pulling a cap out of the bag. he pushed it on top of your damp hair, shading your face, and slumped beside you. “switch towels. mine is dry.”
“hi.” you mumbled dumbly, blinking a few times to snap yourself from the daze seeing his beautiful red eyes in the sun put you through. his lips twitched, face softening, and he only pulled the cap down further. you finally remembered how to think. “don’t you need your towel dry?”
“‘m not going into the water this late.” he stated. his eyes flickered to choso asleep, and he rolled his eyes, standing back up. you watched shamelessly as he effortlessly pulled the heavy umbrella so it was covering the sun kissed stoner, sighing, voice lower. “that dumbass.”
“i spray him with sunscreen every two hours. flipped him once.” you mused, taking the chance of sukuna being distracted to switch towels, sighing in relief once the warm, dry, soft towel wrapped around you. “thank you, kuna.”
“don’t mention it.” he grunted, then frowned once he registered your words, “you rub sunscreen on him?”
“oh, no, it’s a spray.” you hummed, pulling it out. “isn’t it cool?”
he glanced at the spray bottle, shoulders slowly relaxing. “mhm. it is. can you spray me?”
you nodded, moving to stand up, immediately stumbling in the towel. firm fingers immediately steadied you, and you deeply hoped he couldn’t feel the warmth radiating off you from being flustered as he slowly let go.
you slowly sprayed him, the sunscreen leaving a shiny coat that made him look even more beautiful. after making sure every part of him was covered, you slowly sat back down. “try to rub it to make sure it’s even.”
he hummed, eyes shut, slowly spreading it out, spreading it out on his tan skin.
what a fucking sight, really. he was so, unbelievably gorgeous. you were so fucked.
“…you went early, huh?”
“…yeah.” you mumbled, eyes still on him, hoping he keeps his eyes closed.
“tell me next time. ‘ll go with you.” he sighed. “these idiots always come when it’s already too cold.”
you nodded slowly as he finally finished, slumping next to you on the little beach mat gojo had gotten, so close that his thigh was pretty to your covered figure. he frowned. “your lips are pale. still cold?”
you grimaced. “‘ll be okay. thank you for the towel—“
he sighed, an arm wrapping around your shoulder before he was pulling you towards him. you missed the way his body relaxed, lips twitching into a repressed grin, the face of a man finally achieving one of his long lost goals.
holy fuck. you were pressed to his side, his body oozing warmth. he smelled great, and you could feel his muscles every time he shifted. as you stared ahead, trying to pretend like you weren’t malfunctioning, your eyes landed on shoko, gojo and geto staring back at you guys from the water, jaws slack.
well. at least it wasn’t you this time.
5. studying.
as much as it seemed otherwise, studying with gojo actually helped you. you both kept each other in check— you stopped him whenever he started yapping, and he distracted you whenever you were spiraling. you both were a team when studying— having been one since the first semester, when you both met.
during breaks, however, was when you really liked studying with gojo. you both sat with thirteen expensive pastries in front of you, gojo’s treat, and he grinned excitedly. “oh, this will be so good. you go first.”
“you don’t have to tell me twice.” you mumbled, picking one up. you immediately moaned in delight, holding the rest to gojo, who reached over and took the rest from between your fingers. “fuck. this is so good.”
gojo let out an even louder moan. you both ignored the disgusted glares from the people around you, happily chewing. “oh, these are fucking godsent. thank you for being my taste buddy.”
“thank you,” you mumbled, grabbing another one. “you’re the one spoiling me with these. you’re, like, my dream man right now.”
gojo let out a loud laugh, before pausing, shivering in horror at whatever he imagined. “do not let sukuna hear you saying that. he’ll have my head.”
“why would he have your head for that?” you mumbled, mouthful, and distracted by the heavenly taste of these. you weren’t even a fan of pasteries, but these were on another level. you tried another, and immediately groaned. “fuck. try this one.”
you immediately extended your hand out to gojo. he, as usual, ate half of it off your fingers instead, and dramatically melted in his seat. “ten out of ten. perfect. stunning. i will marry whoever made these.” he swallowed, and quickly ate the rest off your fingers to. “and he will because he’s, like, in love with you.”
“you flipping liar.” you mumbled, unamused with the obvious fake news. “he doesn’t. he’s just a good friend.”
“he’s not a good friend,” gojo snorted. “he almost shoved my head into the toilet bowl yesterday because he was bored. he likes you.”
you did not believe him the slightest. “uh-huh. wanna try the red one?”
“yes, please.”
later that night, you were curled up in bed— going over everything you had studied earlier to lock the information into your mind. the groupchat was blowing up after choso was caught kissing someone (you already knew the news. choso blurted about his ‘secret’ crush to you before when he was high, and forgot.) and you just shot back a sticker laughing, said you were studying and you needed more caffeine to deal with this, and shut your phone off completely.
you really needed caffeine.
everytime you shut your eyes, all you can see is a cold, cup of your favorite coffee from your favorite shop. the condensation running down, the inviting taste, everything—
fuck. you needed one so bad. you frowned, turning your phone on to glance at the time, and paused when a notification stood out from between the ones on the groupchat.
sukuna: pick u up for coffee in five?
you stared at the message, then slowly glanced down at the sweatpants and oversized hoodie you were in, your hair messy, broken glasses on because you were too lazy to get these specific ones fixed and you lost the other, before sighing. you needed caffeine too bad to worry about how you looked in front of him right now.
you: please :c
a car honked downstairs a few minutes. you quickly grabbed your wallet and your half-dead phone, rushing downstairs, grabbing an oversized jacket on the way so you could tug it on top of your thick hoodie, grimacing at how much of a mess you looked. you slid into the passenger seat, and sukuna only stared at you, eyes slowly taking in your appearance, lips softly pulling up.
“don’t say anything.” you immediately mumbled. his smirk widened, but he didn’t speak, immediately resuming to drive, eyes ahead. “‘m so sleepy.”
“uh-huh. let’s get some caffeine in you.” he murmured, turning more serious. “don’t overwork yourself tonight. did you have dinner?”
you nodded, ignoring how your heart felt like it was twirling in your chest. “i did. ate and drank and slept well.”
he hummed. “good.”
in the coffee shop, he got the same as you, paying despite your complaints. once the drinks were out, he grabbed both, wrapping yours in tissues to keep your fingers from being cold before handing it over, humming.
you were looking over notes in your phone, too tired to register his actions. you only quietly took the cup, immediately sipping, shoulders slowly rolling down, tense muscles relaxing. “thank you, kuna.”
he clicked his tongue. “don’t mention it.”
in the car, you focused on sipping the coffee, and he cleared his throat. “gojo said you two were on a study date this morning. pastries and shit. said you called him your dream man.”
you snorted. sukuna glanced over, utterly unamused, almost pouting. “i love gojo.”
his lips immediately formed a scowl. “you love him?”
“not like that,” you snorted. “he’s just… he was the first person who was nice to me in university, you know. the first person who made sure i never felt like a burden. he means a lot to me, platonically.”
he was silent for a while, then nodded, pulling up in front of your building. “good. you deserve to never feel like a burden. you… mean a lot to me.”
was he trying to kill you? you immediately shuffled out, heart beating like it was trying to escape your chest, cheeks burning. “you mean a lot to me too, kuna. um, goodnight. thank you for picking me up.”
“don’t mention it, angel.”
+1.
against your will, you were dragged to a party.
you would have been enthusiastic, really, if finals hadn’t just ended— leaving you too sleep deprived that you couldn’t even walk straight. gojo had came over to force you out and picked your outfit out for you, keeping in mind your pleads for it to be something warm, and you ended up in the passenger seat of his car, asleep soundly, vaguely aware of his whining about you needing to be awake as he drove you there.
you could only remember little snippets between your tiny naps, really.
gojo having his arm around you as he dragged you in.
you slumping down beside choso, immediately falling asleep on his shoulder.
sukuna crouching down in front of you, concerned, eyes worried.
sukuna covering you with a blanket.
sukuna sitting beside you, pulling your head into his shoulder instead.
geto replacing choso. you shifting, head falling into his shoulder because he was warmer.
sukuna immediately pulling you back towards him, an arm falling around your waist to keep you close, bickering with geto.
after that, you drifted into deep sleep— the kind that only came after a week straight of pulling all nighters. and, when you woke up again, you were wrapped in a blanket, on the roof, on a tiny couch with your head on sukuna’s lap and a cigarette between his lips.
the second he registered you awake, he pushed the cigarette into the ashtray, eyes soft, fingers on your shoulders to help you sit up. “you okay, angel?”
“mhm. sleepy.” you mumbled, blinking slowly, still half asleep. you yawned, rubbing your eyes. “thank you for watching over me, kuna. you’re, like, my angel.”
“…don’t mention it.” he whispered— although, it sounded more like a pained whimper. “i… yeah. don’t mention it.”
it was silent for a few minutes. you both stared up at the sky, lost in thought, before sukuna cleared his throat.
“…the stars are pretty.”
“mhm.”
he paused, before speaking again. his voice was low, soft, but it was laced with quiet frustration that you could tell wasn’t pointed at you. “we’re, uh, done with the semester.”
“…mhm.”
he clicked his tongue, and sat up, like he’s restarting. “…we’re good friends.”
“we are.” you mumbled, still dazed from your delicious, needed nap. he let out a small groan, face buried into his palm.
“fuck.”
“…kuna?” you murmured, voice soft, sleepy. his eyes finally flickered up, frustrated and almost disappointed in himself, and you only gave him a small, sleepy smile. “i like you too.”
and finally, it was his turn for his jaw to go slack, eyes widening, before he turned to you quickly. “you’re not fucking with me, right? you like me?”
you nodded, sleepy, but focused. “i like you.”
he didn’t hesitate before dropping to his knees in front of you, eyes soft and almost pathetic. “say that again. please.”
“i like you, kuna.” you repeated, quieter, softer, more serious.
he let his head drop, face pressed against the blanket covering your thighs briefly, voice muffled when he spoke. “…you have no idea how many years i have been dying to hear this, angel. fuck.” when he lifted his head back up, his red eyes were almost glossy. “‘m marrying the fuck out of you one day.”
that managed a sleepy laugh out of you. “take me on a date first, at least. we haven’t even kissed yet.”
his eyes lit up at the mere thought— before you watched him visibly holding himself back, trying to appear more relaxed, probably to not scare you off, despite his reddening ears at the idea. “right. dates. i will date you so fucking good, i promise, you will never think of anyone but me again. not even that stupid barista who clearly wants you so bad. only me.” he nodded, serious, scowling, before his eyes softened again. “best dates of your life. where do you want to go? dinner? coffee? aquarium? your little movie night routine at my place? do you want me to make it a surprise? i will be the best boyfriend— wait, fuck, not that yet—“
you reached over, softly pressing your lips to his,
he froze, eyes probably wide, then immediately melted the second your fingers gently cupped his face to pull him closer, letting out a soft, little sound into the kiss that had his face flushing further.
once you pulled away, your eyes met his dazed ones, and he slowly sucked in a deep breath. “….fuck.”
“dinner sounds good.” you whispered back, thumb brushing over his bottom lip, and he shut his eyes, as if it took visible effort not to groan. “next week?”
“you think ‘ll make it to next week?” he let out a sharp laugh. “you have me fucking kneeling for you, angel. tomorrow. 8. please.”
“okay.” you murmured, voice soft. “now, come back up, i will want to continue napping on you.”
suguru is obsessed with aftercare...and you apparently
There’s a soft rock song playing in the background when Suguru finally finishes inside you, his hair sticking to his sweat slicked forehead and his eyes looking at you with that soft gentle quality he only reserves for you.
He swipes his thumb over your cheek as your eyes flutter open, allowing for the last wave of post-orgasmic bliss to wash over you.
“Hey gorgeous,” Suguru whispers softly, slowly making his way out of you and peppering kisses along your jaw, neck, and chest.
“Hey loser,” You reply back, smiling up at him as your eyes drift close again.
Suguru slowly gets up, making you groan as you feel the loss of his weight and his warmth. “Come on, you should shower,” He says, lifting you up with his strong arms and carrying you to the bathroom.
He strokes at your hair and allows his hands to roam all of you, as if he’s trying to remember you through engraving your body on his fingertips.
You push at him delicately, creating distance as you stretch out your limbs languidly.
“I have to shower,” You say faintly, your voice hoarse and your throat a little sore. Suguru closes the distance once again, kissing your lips with fleeting warmth and slowly trailing his hands all across your body again.
“I don’t see why I have to go for that,” He mumbles in between kisses, alternating from kissing your lips, to your earlobes, to your neck, and to your jaw.
“I have to shower,” You reiterate, feeling a soft giggle bubble in your throat as you feel his touch hovering over somewhere ticklish.
“Exactly, let’s go,” Suguru says, dropping his hands to yours and leading you towards the bathtub.
“I don’t remember showering being a group activity,” You chuckle as you see Suguru pout.
He shakes his head, his long raven hair falling perfectly over his shoulders and accentuating his form as if giving him an outline. “It is now,” He replies defiantly.
You shake your head and give him a look that has no heat in it whatsoever—only love, a quiet bubbling love that is subtle but definitely there. “Well you can find someone else to shower with because it won’t be me.”
Shaking him off of you, you make your way to the shower, stepping in and you’re about to turn on the water before you feel someone wrap their strong arms around your waist.
Suguru pulls you into a deep kiss, a one that is not messy but slow. It’s slow and it’s purposeful. A love letter laced in tongue.
He gives you a soft laugh when he hears you moan softly into his lips, pulling back to brush hairs from your face and tuck it behind your ears, “It wouldn’t be the same,” He says finally after looking at you for ages. Stroking at your cheek and holding your jaw.
“What?”
“It’d have to be you, it’ll always be you baby.”
You look at him incredulously, your heart beating a mile a minute before you watch him turn away and walk out of the bathroom, leaving you to shower like you asked.
You can’t help but miss the way his arms slotted around you perfectly, and the way his breath felt on your skin as he poured out his sentiments.
When you finish, you see Suguru on the bed, hair wet and wearing a big band tee and long pajama pants, smoking a cigarette while looking out the window.
You climb on the bed and slot yourself right in between his legs like you belong there—and part of you thinks that in more ways than one, you do belong there.
He reaches up at your face and cups it in his hands, pulling you down to kiss him. Soft, sweet, and deep like everything is with him.
He palms at your hair, and kisses you like he means it—like he really wouldn’t want to do this with anyone but you.
When you pull back you give him a smile, your voice dipped in honey and totally saccharine, “You smell like cigarettes.”
a/n : Inspired by the Youtube serie 'Actor on actor' by Variety, by Figure skaters such as Ami Nakai and Alysa Liu for the track record of the reader, and by the final match of the Football World Cup 2022! I suck at describing football because I don't know anything about it lmao (shame on me). I had a really great time writing this and I really enjoyed myself, so I hope you like it!
wc : 5.7k
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀★ likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated 𖹭 ★˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀
When the Chronicles interview you were supposed to give the next week for their ‘Athletes on athletes’ series paired you to a football player, you merely raised an eyebrow. You were a figure skater, so nonetheless to say your two worlds were miles apart. Almost nothing linked football to figure skating. Sure you two were athletes, that was the whole point of the interview. Still, you didn’t know the first thing about football. You even asked your manager to check if it was a mistake. But no. You had been matched with some German football prodigy. You were both nineteen and considered phenomenons in your respective sports, hence the pairing decision.
Even so, you decided to have a quick look at his biography on the internet the night before the interview. Impressive resume, you thought to yourself, as you scrolled down his profile. Though, the guy reeked of self-importance. You decided to check a compilation of his ‘best moments.’ He was attractive, you couldn’t deny it, and he definitely looked like he knew what he was doing when he was on the field.
Your suspicions about him having a superiority complex were confirmed the next day as you walked on set and felt the aura surrounding him. You weren’t impressed, why would you? You spent your days competing against other figure skaters who thought they were better than anyone else because they were trained by some renowned coach. You braced yourself for an unpleasant time. Discussing with these kinds of people wasn’t a piece of cake. Still, he was definitely handsome, completely in your personal beauty standards : tall, sharp features, confident posture, tattooed and muscled. Your stomach churned slightly, your eyes staying on him for a beat too long. Your external composure left nothing for him to see though, it’d likely feed his ego.
On the other hand, when you stepped inside the room, Kaiser almost smirked to himself. So you were the person they paired him with uh? His manager had told him you were a figure skater, not that he really cared anyway, he hadn’t listened. To him, you were merely someone to pretend to be interested in for an hour, to boost his popularity. He didn’t know your name, and hadn't bothered to look up your achievements. One thing that struck him about your appearance was your legs : they weren’t bare, but one look at them told him everything he needed to know. You surely had strong legs built to land all the jumps you did on the ice. He checked you out more precisely, noticing you looked nothing like a frail athlete he thought figure skaters were. To say you piqued his interest would be an overstatement, what would have been a waste of time if it had been with another athlete became something more interesting in his eyes.
The last adjustments of lighting and makeup were done as you two were sitting in front of each other before a plain looking set. The director told you to talk about your respective sports and your experiences as professional athletes. You were free of saying anything you wanted, the only restriction being to stay within family friendly details. Without much surprise, the beginning of the conversation was rather awkward. After all, you knew nothing about each other. Though you knew how to pretend, acting was a whole aspect of your sport. The director indicated to the crew and you two that the cameras had started rolling.
You smiled professionally. “Hi, nice to meet you, Michael. Do you want to start asking questions?”
Kaiser smiled back with his usual smirk. “Nice to meet you too. I’ll be a gentleman and let you start.”
You could hear the slight German accent in his english, it would be rather cute if he didn’t look so arrogant. “First of all, you’re a really, really good player. One of the things I want to ask you is do you have a ritual before a match to focus only on what’s happening on the field, blurring out the shouts from the crowd?”
He hummed, tilting slightly his head as his piercing gaze stayed on you. “I do. I tend to stroke my blue rose tattoo.”
“Is it some sort of lucky charm?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Do you have a lucky charm you keep during competitions?”
“My necklace is my lucky charm. Holds sentimental value.” You replied, a soft look on your face as you instinctively reached for it.
He was analysing your face carefully as you asked him questions and he replied mindlessly. You were asking surface questions, avoiding the strained tension that was growing between the two of you. Usually, athletes relaxed after a few minutes, allowing the interview to go smoothly. It was obvious to Kaiser’s eyes you were on edge, you had understood that if he didn’t find you interesting he’d crush you with ease. However, he could see a fire beneath your eyes, which told him that if he decided to bite, you’d bite back.
Without care, he interrupted your rant about how expensive competitions were in all sports, but mostly in figure skating. “Isn’t your sport for spoiled kids with dreams too big for themselves?” The room went dead silent. ”From what I’ve heard, competitive careers in figure skating usually don’t go on after the athlete turns 26 years old. Which only leaves you 7 years. Why invest yourself in a sport you won’t dedicate your life to?”
You stared at him, thrown off by the bluntness of his words. He was provoking you, and you were falling into his trap. You took a deep breath, gathering your thoughts to keep calm. “It makes me feel alive”
“You’re just gliding on ice to music, jumping around. Nothing interesting.” He countered.
“And you’re just running after a ball.” You snapped back sharply. “I could do what you do, but you wouldn’t last a minute on ice without falling face flat.”
He chuckled lowly. “You wouldn’t last 90 minutes of running around, Süßer”
“Can you even land a single axel?” You shot back, scoffing.
“I don’t need to.” He raised an eyebrow.
“And I don’t need to follow a ball like a lost puppy for 90 minutes. At least my sport has an artistic side to it.”
Before Kaiser could answer, the director interrupted the rather tense conversation on behalf of Michael’s manager–who was actually sweating at the idea of his athlete looking down upon you, it would be bad for his public image. While the director was asking you two to keep it cool and professional, you straightened up in your seat, glaring at the blonde man, who was reciprocating your gaze with an amused one.
The rest of the interview was as artificial as these chemical candies kids eat. As the crew was wrapping up their stuff, you walked towards Kaiser, bumping into his shoulder as you passed by him. “You think you’re better than anyone, it’s just a matter of time before you fall from your golden throne, asshole.”
He simply stared at your back until you left the building. Then without looking at his manager, a smirk growing on his face, he spoke up. “Get their number.”
A couple weeks later, the interview got released on Youtube. They kept the tense moment in the final version of the video. Drama meant views, and views meant recognition and money for the show. Without surprise, the interview blew up on social media : everyone was talking about it, about how iconic this pairing was and about how you kind of looked good together. That’s where it all started, the shipping and the fandom wars (football vs figure skating, Kaiser fans vs You fans). The topic was trending everywhere, and you saw your number of followers and views of previous performances spiking up. You were growing popular : you, the bronze medalist at your first Olympics two years ago when you were only 17. You still had a whole track record to build, and it was well on the way.
Before receiving a text from Michael Kaiser, you didn’t know he had your number. You frowned when you saw the notification late at night, as you were about to go to sleep.
M.K : “We made quite a lot of people talk about us with that interview.”
M.K : “It’s Kaiser.”
For a moment, you considered ghosting the bastard. Just the thought of talking to him again made your eyes roll. He didn’t deserve your time. Laying down on your back, you decided to answer.
Reader : “What do you want?”
M.K : “People are starting to ship us.”
It was as if you could see the arrogant smile he gave you that day. You internally groaned, you knew it was better to put down the phone and sleep. You registered his number under ‘Michael “Asshole” Kaiser.’
R : “Your point being?”
M.K : “You should thank me.”
R : “Why would I do that?”
M.K : “You’re growing popular thanks to me.”
R : “I didn’t ask for it.”
M.K : “You really won’t thank me? Wow, how rude for someone who cared about keeping appearances in front of the camera.”
R : “Deal with it.”
M.K : “I can have you free tickets for my next game if you want to stare at me in real life again.”
That was at that message you decided to leave him on deliver and go to sleep. What a dickhead. He was so full of himself he thought you’d take him on that offer. Sure he was nice to look at, but would you really indulge him and go to one of his games? It bothered you, to the point of keeping you awake, tossing and turning in your bed. If you did indulge him, it would only feed his ego. And you didn’t care about football, so why were you even considering his proposal? You ran a hand down your face, forcing your brain to shut up.
Little did you know, Kaiser had grown curious about you. After the interview, he found himself looking at all your performance videos, from your junior programs to your latest ones. Every single one of them, in chronological order, not caring if there were three or four videos of each program (from nationals, continent competitions and world competitions, and Olympics). He even created a playlist on Youtube. Your style was unique, powerful, gliding through the ice naturally, mixing speed, technique and artistry. You almost never fell. To him, it wasn't obsession, you were just a riddle to understand, someone interesting to analyse. He was hypnotised by you, in a way he couldn’t understand. So when he asked you to come to his game, sure, he was bragging. But it was also so he could see you again and find an excuse to investigate you more closely.
Reluctantly, you had agreed on going to one of his games. You did mostly because your cousins absolutely loved football and having tickets to a match with prodigies was definitely a gift you could give them (mostly since you had them for free, but they didn’t need to know that.) Standing in the VIP bleachers, you kept your eyes on Michael during the entirety of the game. He was definitely a genius, a superstar in the making. In fact, he was already one. He had everything for him : beauty, intelligence, fame and wealth. Your eyes caught his way more than you’d like to admit, and whenever you did, he’d flash you an arrogant smirk of victory. Gosh he was so annoying. He saw the fact that you accepted his offer as a victory, and you hated to boost his already enormous ego.
At the end of the match, you didn’t wait for him to reach up to you and you quickly left with your cousins, who were whining about wanting an autograph. You mumbled some half-assed excuse saying that the players were exhausted and didn’t want to deal with kids.
You didn’t even have the time to go back to your hotel that Kaiser had already sent a message.
M.K : “Left without a goodbye? I’m hurt, Süßer.”
R : “I had nothing to tell you.”
M.K : “And the kids didn’t want an autograph?”
R : “They did, but I didn’t want to see your displeasing face.”
M.K : “Displeasing? I’d say I have a rather handsome face.”
R : “So much for being humble…”
M.K : “Paparazzis saw you, doesn't help the situationship rumours.”
It was as if you could see his infuriating smirk behind the screen. Your need to hit his face with a football was spiking up quickly. He was enjoying the situation way too much in your opinion. How could one take pleasure in being such an asshole, you wondered. He was rubbing in your face the fact you got this popular thanks to him. You couldn’t even say it wasn’t true, you used to have fans and haters, but strictly within the Figure skating community. Without the interview with Michael Kaiser, you wouldn’t be so famous. It came with perks and detriments. More fans meant more expectations, and it also meant more haters and people calling you rude and unbearable just because you were standing up for yourself. You were used to ignoring the hate comments or dirty looks people gave you. You spent your whole life being looked down on, being told you’d never be a World-level figure skater. The bronze medal you won at your first Olympics made the hate fade away a bit. Only for it to come back after that interview, from football fans who claimed you weren’t relevant, or Kaiser fans who absolutely despised you for being rude to him. If only they knew how obsessed he was if you.
But before you knew it, the next figure season had begun. Surprisingly, Kaiser was still texting you multiple times a week, and you got used to it. However, you wouldn’t let the bastard get too confident. And you knew how to get petty. So you decided to choose a very specific song for your short program : Looking at me by Sabrina Carpenter. It was one of her old songs, it was perfect. You weren’t one to stay passive in front of the hate of parasocial fans. You’d never address it outloud, but you usually used your programs to express yourself. This one was directed at Kaiser, and his fans. They could talk all they want, they were bringing you attention from the media and much more. If anything, it all made you more confident, and you were stealing the show, because whatever you were doing publicly, it was turned into comment wars on social media.
Michael was a smart man beneath that handsome façade, so when you first competed with that program at the national competition, the probability that it was about him and the discourses online were high. The costume you were wearing was fitting the concept, and he caught sight of the blue rose sewed to it, a discreet confirmation that it was about him. You were silently telling him to not get his hopes up with you. And he was absolutely adoring you weren’t giving in easily. You were giving a hard time, putting him back in his place all the time, and he loved that. He was right where he wanted to be for now.
Kaiser watched the press conference you gave earlier that day, the journalists weren’t dumb either, mainly when there was drama involved. Obviously they asked if it was about him.
“If it’s about the football player Michael Kaiser?” You repeated the journalist’s question. “I did think about him while working on that short program. But to reduce the target to only one man would be a mistake.” You replied with a sly smirk, keeping eye contact with the room. “So many people, mostly on social media because honestly they never dare to tell you these things to your face, think they can be relevant and have an attitude when in reality they don’t know anything of what’s happening behind closed doors. If anything, what they do only makes people look at me more. Hence the choice of music.”
It didn’t take more than a minute for Kaiser to text you about it.
M.K : “What happens behind closed doors? Are you implying something?”
R : “Poor choice of words, that's all. Don’t get all heated now, dumbass.”
M.K : “Mhm, yeah whatever.”
M.K : “I kinda like it when you call me a dumbass.”
R : “I won’t call you that anymore then.”
M.K : “Awww, I’m broken-hearted.”
M.K : “See you tomorrow?”
R : “Not even in your dreams.”
The next day, you two met at your apartment after both your practices ended. Somehow you had reluctantly become friends and were hanging out regularly whenever you could. And since you were about to leave for the Continent’s championships, then the World’s, it was the last time you could see him before being away for some weeks. You hated to admit it but you had grown used to his presence in your life.
You laid down on your couch, groaning at the soreness of your legs. Michael was sitting on the carpet, back against the couch next to your side. He glanced at you, a small smirk on his face.
“Are you ignoring me?” He asked, taunting.
“What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t been looking at me.”
“Some things are more interesting to look at than you, Micha.” You countered, annoyed. In reality, he was wearing the grey sweatpants and black tank top that suited his frame perfectly and showed off his muscles. So of course you were avoiding him to not straight up stare in delight.
He knew he was handsome, and he knew he always had an effect on you when he was putting on that post-practice outfit. “You sure, Süßer?”
He agreed. Though, after you put on some shitty TV show, his focus wasn’t on it but rather on the warmth of your side behind his head. He was staring straight ahead, dissociating while thinking that he’d actually miss you. An uncomfortable warmth settled in his chest.
“Say.” He started.
“Mhm?”
“When are you coming back?” He asked in a rare moment of vulnerability.
“What?”
“The competitions, when do they end?”
“In a month.” You replied, frowning slightly yet still focused on the TV. “Why?”
“Because I’ll miss you.” He admitted quietly.
“What did you say?” You hadn’t heard him because you were watching the show and a plot twist was happening.
He sighed with a defeated smile. “Nothing important, don’t worry…”
There was not a single day during the next month where Michael didn’t text you. From just useless things his day was made of to complaining about some teammate or even to teasing you, he always found a way to be in your notifications. You followed him on Instagram, and saw that he was often staying at your place from his stories. You had asked him if he would like to take care of your plants, and Michael, yearning for your presence, said yes immediately. After all, if you weren’t here, being in your apartment was a small relief. Your scent, your stuff and the familiar setting was soothing him somehow. When you had questioned him about why he was staying in your apartment when his was way bigger, he barely justified himself by saying yours was closer to his club.
This routine settled for the next two years. You and Michael had become something between friends and lovers. Multiples were the night the friendship line was crossed, but neither of you seemed to mind. You still acted as if he was an inconvenience in your life, when in reality you had fallen in love with him over time. Kaiser was as smitten as you, if not more. The fact you were always seeing him as a bother rather than a lover made his daily life more exciting. He felt the need to win you over every single day, and he liked a good challenge. You were in every way a couple, but in the name. Fans were shipping the two of you more and more, edits and fanfictions flooding social media, journalists were waiting for an official announcement to write articles
Though, tension rose between the two of you in the privacy of your apartment. You were preparing for the Winter Olympics and he was preparing for the next World Cup. Training was becoming stifling and stressful. Both of you were more on edge, and being around each other was like walking through a landmine without knowing when a mine would burst. It wasn’t rare for arguments to occur, making you feel more exhausted mentally and physically.
Yet, you loved him, more than ever. And the feeling was reciprocated. It was a tough time, but neither of you was ready to give up on what you had. That’s when you noticed Michael had grown way more mature than he used to be when you first met. His 19 year-old version would’ve crushed you then left you without any remorses. However now, the man in front of you had conflicted emotions filling his beautiful eyes : he wanted to snap, still he didn’t want to lose you by saying something he could never take back. He was choosing you over his pride every day, every hour, every minute, every second. You were doing just the same. You knew you’d last as a couple. It was obvious seeing how you handled the crisis. In spite of that, neither of you seemed ready to put an official label on what you had. Deep down, you were afraid it’d change things between you. And now wasn’t the time to make a relationship status check-up. These sporting events were the most important of your careers, and you couldn’t allow any distraction.
The figure skating week in the Winter Olympics started off strong. You were more nervous than ever. It was your last shot to get a gold medal : you’d most probably be retired by the next Olympic cycle. You made a small mistake in your short program, placing you in third place. It wasn’t anything you couldn’t catch up in your free program. Though, a lot was on your mind. You had a big argument with Micha before the Olympics, because he chose to train rather than come to your side. You wished he was here, in the crowd, cheering for you, instead of running on the field countries away.
A knot formed in your stomach. You were about to perform your free program. You stepped on the ice, and at that moment everything blurred. Nothing was clear anymore, not sound, not images. You just focused on your feelings and what you had to perform to get that gold medal. It seemed so out of reach suddenly. You felt so small. You were starting to question everything. But one main concern came to you : why the hell didn’t you perform this program beforehand? Indeed, you had chosen to keep your Olympic free program a secret from everyone’s eyes. It was the first time you did it in a competition, meaning you hadn’t trained for it in real conditions. It was nerve wracking. Though it was too late to back out now. You took your starting position, waiting for the first notes of the familiar song to begin.
Michael had realized he needed to be there for you. He realized it too late. But he could make it before the second part of your competition. He caught the first plane, and landed a few hours later. He used his professional football players advantages to get a VIP seat at the last minute of the free program competition. His breath caught when he saw you get on the ice. He knew you by now, and you didn’t look peaceful nor confident like you always did. You looked vulnerable. And he didn’t like it, it made him feel sick. You weren’t someone vulnerable, you were a strong individual. He hated seeing you this small when you were supposed to be looking like you had the whole world in your palm. To say he was stiff was an understatement : his jaw was clenched, his fists were closed tight…
Then it all fell away when he heard the notes of the song begin. Desperado. By The Eagles. His favorite song. Michael Kaiser knew all about your past, current and future programs. He had learned them by heart because he loved you and your dedication too much. This wasn’t planned. You never mentioned to him your wish to make a program on his favourite tune. Much less an Olympic one, that could cost or win you gold. His eyes never left you for a second, he never blinked for the entirety of the song. He held his breath at each jump as if he was the one doing them. He snapped out of his trance when he heard the public cheer and applause at your final stance. That’s when he noticed his cheeks were slightly wet : he cried. Him. Michael Kaiser. Who hadn’t cried since he had been 15. His admiration for you spiked up to the end of the universe. You didn’t only have the world in your palm, you had his whole world. Never had someone shown him such a touching mark of attention and care.
Not only you performed to his favourite song, but you had told the love story growing between you with each elegant move. He recognized it all.
You didn’t know Micha was there, you hadn’t noticed him in the crowd either, too focused on the vulnerable personal story you bore on the ice, in front of the whole world. You were incredibly proud of yourself for the performance you gave. Though, a tiny part of you felt empty without some blonde with blue ends idiot around. The last two figure skaters competed, thus confirming your gold medal and your Olympic title. Excitement was hard to contain in your body. You hugged your opponents that were also friends. Cameramen were all over the backstages, capturing every second of your reaction. You couldn’t believe it : you were an Olympic champion. You ran a hand through your hair as tears filled up your eyes when realization daunted upon you.
You barely registered when a familiar hand with a crown tattoo on it grabbed your arm, turning you fully towards him. You barely had time to react that Michael Kaiser was here, that his lips were already on yours. A second was the time you needed to kiss him back, cupping his cheeks. Both your eyes were closed, purely enjoying the feeling of his kiss. The cameraman was still filming you, it was probably broadcasted in the entire world but you didn’t care at that moment. You felt complete, an Olympic title in one hand, and Micha in the other.
He pulled back slightly, murmuring against your skin. “You did it, Süßer. You’re a freaking Olympic champion.”
“You saw it?” You smiled, stroking his cheeks.
He nodded. “I saw it all. I’m sorry, doll. I should’ve been there from the beginning. I should’ve been with you.”
“You sure should’ve been there.” You countered. “I’m still holding that against you for a while, if you don’t mind.”
He chuckled lowly. “I don’t mind. Not when you’re on top of the world.”
“You liked my program?” You asked.
He stared at you for a moment, his eyes widening in disbelief. “If I like– Süßer are you really asking me that?” He scoffed. “It meant everything to me.” He admitted softly.
“Awww… I’m glad you liked it.” You kissed the corner of his lips. Your manager was calling you out. You had to go out on the ice to receive your gold medal. You glanced at him apologetically.
Michael nodded in understanding, letting you go for a moment. But after that? He wouldn’t leave your side for a while, clinging by your side. He watched you receive the gold medal with the brightest smile he ever saw on you. They gave you your country’s flag and played your national anthem. He was proud. And he understood at that moment he wanted to be proud of you as your boyfriend. The idea of asking you to make things official scared him to death : commitment had never been his strong side, he was struggling with the concept of family and leaning on someone else. Yet, he was willing to try, for your sake, for being able to tell people you were his.
The adrenaline had worn off by the time you arrived at your hotel room. You lunged on your bed, groaning in pleasure at the comfortable fabric surrounding your exhausted body. You wanted nothing but to sleep. Michael stood at the doorframe, leaning against it, his arms crossed over his chest, a rare fond look in his eyes.
“Hey…” He started.
“Mhm?”
“Can we be a couple?” He asked bluntly. He didn’t know how to do this, and grand declarations of love weren’t his thing.
“...what?”
“Can I be your boyfriend?”
You sat up so quickly it almost gave you whiplash. Frowning, you stared at him. “Are you being serious?”
“Dead serious.” He replied, staring back at you.
“You’re asking me that now, when I’m exhausted, when we’ve been arguing for months and after I won a gold medal?” You asked in awe at his straightforwardness.
“Exactly.” He said flatly, as if it was the most logical thing ever.
You shrugged. “Why not?” You chuckled, looking away for a second, flustered. Then, you looked back at him. “I mean yeah. We can definitely be official. I’d like that if you’d like that.”
“I want that.” He corrected, stepping closer to your frame. “I want to be able to call you mine.”
“Oooh I see, you just want to brag, isn’t it?” You teased.
He smirked. “Obviously. Now get ready for bed, you look like you’re about to pass out in that makeup and training outfit.”
You chuckled. “Alright alright. But only if I get to be the big spoon tonight.”
“Definitely not.”
“Are you not going to indulge in your partner’s wish after she won the biggest medal in the whole world?” You teased, seeing his revolve wavering.
He grumbled, swallowing his pride. “Just for tonight then. And only because you’re a goddamn champion.”
You grinned. “I won two things today, a gold medal and a boyfriend that listens to my wishes. Isn’t life so beautiful?”
“Yeah yeah… Don’t make me regret agreeing.” He countered. “I’ll get my revenge when I win the World Cup.”
“Can’t wait to see that!”
Unlike him, you had been there for the entirety of the Football World Cup, cheering on him either from the hotel room (it was too hot for you in summer to even think of going outside) or in the stands during the semi-finals and the final. You had been on edge during the entirety of the 90 minutes. You noticed Michael wasn’t glancing at you at all, meaning the match was difficult enough to grab his whole attention. You were glad, because if he won, Michael would feel prouder than ever. If you were honest, you never understood the appeal of football, but you were willing to try to understand it and enjoy it just for your boyfriend. And if anything, it allowed you to ogle your boyfriend being sweaty and breathless, which was a view you’d never be bored of.
You noticed journalists and paparazzis taking pictures of you. After all, your relationship with Kaiser had been publicly official for a few months now. But in these few months, you barely made any appearances together, to keep your couple more or less private and avoid anyone sticking their noses in your business. Fans went wild at the confirmation of their favourite athlete ship, yet some were sad that Michael ‘wasn’t available anymore’ (as if they had a shot with him duh). Your popularity and Michael’s were at an all-time high, meaning snakes like paparazzis would take every crumb you would give them, intentionally or not.
However, you kept your focus on the field. Michael scored two goals. When he celebrated them, he obviously glanced at you with a stupidly proud-ass grin. In the end, he and his team won after a penalty shoot-out. The score had been initially of 3-3 and then in the penalties it shifted to 4-2. Just like he did during the Winter Olympics, you rushed to him on the field. He grabbed you by the waist and twirled you around, chuckling.
“Told you I’d be a World champion, doll.”
“Did I ever doubt you?” You countered, raising an eyebrow.
“Nah.” He smirked, pecking your lips before putting you down and taking a look around while enjoying the stadium cheering for him and his team. He truly felt out of this world.
“Micha.” You cupped his cheeks, forcing his eyes back on you.
“Mhm?”
“I’m proud of you.”
His smile wavered, vulnerability seeping through from beneath old scars.
“You mean it?”
“I do.”
He bit his lower lip to avoid it shaking ever so slightly. Nothing would ever tear him apart from you, he was sure about it. He was still a jackass most of the time : it wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle. “I love you.”
“I love you too, dumbass.”
“I love it when you call me a dumbass.” He chuckled before kissing you shamelessly in front of the whole world again, and a packed up stadium. “Right then, let’s receive that trophy, shall we?” He stated, straightening up and addressing his teammates, grinning like a fool who won everything in life, because he who started with nothing, had indeed won everything.
exes to lovers (rekindling), mature language, smau + written in call log, angst (from last ex & ex friend) with eventual comfort + fluff (from sae), sae folding after you decided to run to him, alot of “i miss yous”, implications of rumor started from last ex and an asshole of a friend, image of you crying/having a panic attack in call with him.
author’s note, this came out late because i had to find a substitute for the chat app (the one i use suddenly has an ai feature and that sucks lol) so yeah
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