satoriberry

[satoriberry]

THEY NUKED MY BABY THEY KILLED HER THEY OBLITERATED HER WHERE'S MY PRINCESS TOKIMITSU WHERE IS SHEEEE

[satoriberry]

jai un galop d'essai de droit constit s2 mardi matin et depuis le commencement du weekend je n'ai fait que penser à perdre du poids et taper 1000+ mots dans le yukioli smut que je veux publier sur AO3...

[satoriberry]

i should sue haikyuu tiktok for convincing me that isagi was tobio-esque and kira was oikawa-esque because i'm not even kidding when i say that THAT sole comparison was the whole reason i even started blue lock.....

[satoriberry]

⟶ kento food court meet cute

⟶ well hey.. who missed me ;p my first time writing for sir kento nanami NGH i want him bad. ANYWAY sorry for going mia it's been a big week for me u guys i relapsed, i applied for jobs, i got in a car accident, and MOST IMPORTANTLY name change. i go by mio on other socials so from here on out all my shit will be tagged under mio i hope that's not too confusing ;p ALSO im slightly changing the layout of my posts from here on out as in im removing one of the banners ok anyway please enjoy and im very sorry for my absence 💓

cw :: fem!reader, shat this out in abt half an hour, reader wears glasses, possibly ooc!kento look ive never written for him before ALLOW IT, fluff/crack

Kento Nanami detests food courts.

So many loud, bustling people, restaurants selling overpriced, greasy food. He'd much rather pack his lunch in advance and eat it on the go.

However, even with his tight scheduling and near-perfect memory, he can slip and forget. He only realises he’s forgotten when he reaches for his packed lunch and finds nothing but stale air inside his satchel.

He sighs.

His lip curls as he taps against the sticky screen of the menu. He detests fast food, but when it's between Mcdonald's and KFC, he's choosing the latter. Boneless wings combo meal with medium fries and water.

He picks up his meal from the counter with a nod to the woman handing it to him, before turning to find an empty seat.

He furrows his brows. 1PM on a Saturday. Of course it's busy.

Circling around the food court once, twice, he can't find a single empty table. He settles for sharing a larger table with two other individuals eating alone. Sat in silence, and trying not to make eye contact with anyone, he begins eating.

He is about 30% through his meal when someone sits opposite him, and oh, God.

He glances upwards, and suddenly his French fry went down the wrong way and he's coughing, eyes tearing up.

God, how pathetic is he? One glance at a pretty woman and he's choking on his food, taking gulps of his water to wash it down. Even worse, you're staring at him with worry, frozen still as if you're not sure whether to call for help or perform the Heimlich or just offer him some more water.

“... Are you okay?” you say. People are beginning to stare, and he's taking gulps of his water.

“Yes, thank you,” he says hoarsely. “Just went down the wrong way.”

You smile placidly, before turning your attention to your meal. A McDonald’s happy meal. Interesting choice.

He returns to his own food, too. He tries not to stare, but he can't help but steal glasses. The way your hair falls around your face, and the glint of your eyes through your frames, and your manicured nails, and the way you take tiny little bites of your food, and he can't help but know that if he left without speaking to you, or getting your number, he'd be kicking himself for the rest of his life.

Tell her you like her keychains, Kento. Start simple.

“You’re very beautiful.”

Shit. That was not what he meant to say.

You glance up, furrow your brows when you realise he’s looking at you, then you're smiling slightly bashfully. “Thank you!”

His face doesn't betray how horrified he is feeling at his now evident lack of game, rather, he manages to return your sweet little smile. “Do you often eat at food courts?”

“No, not really,” you say. “It's too loud. But I forgot to pack my lunch today.”

Kento can't help but bark out a laugh, clearing his throat when you look up at him in confusion. “Pardon me. It's just that I’m here for the same reason. I can’t stand this place.”

You giggle. “Matching.”

The two of you lapse into silence as you finish eating. You finish your meal before him, but he notices that even after packing up your trash, you're lingering in your seat. This is his chance, and he knows you're thinking the same thing.

He forces his eyes to stay on yours, refusing to let his lack of game drag his gaze away from the beautiful girl before him.

“Would you like to give me your number? Then… maybe we can go to a food court together sometime,” he says.

Fucking hell Kento. ‘Would you like to give me your number?’ Like you're doing her a favour? God, you're seriously going to die al—

You slide a napkin over the table, where you've already scrawled your digits. “Maybe we can go someplace nicer than a food court, huh?”

He blinks owlishly, looking between you and the napkin. He clears his throat. “Of course. I'll… I'll call you.”

You smile once more, sling your bag over your shoulder, and leave without another word.

Kento Nanami loves food courts.

[satoriberry]

cat yapping 🐈

[satoriberry]

hmmm maybe im projecting too much, but i imagine higuruma to be passively suicidal.

he doesn't actually want to put an end to his life, and he doesn't want any kind of assisted procedure in order to do it either, but a reoccurent thought that he has is, "if i were dead right this second, i would be much better".

[satoriberry]

passive suicidal thoughts are so annoying because i dont have time nor money nor energy nor ACTUAL WILL to kill myself, but i know itll end all my troubles and stupid human worries. but i cant. at least not right now.

[satoriberry]

404

It's supposed to be Higuruma's day off, but he just couldn't help himself.

↳ pairing: hiromi higuruma x fem. reader

↳ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, sexual tension, exhibitionism, semi-public sex, oral sex (f. receiving), hr violations, improper use of a desk, boss-employee power imbalance if that bothers you, grey sweatpants should be their own warning

↳ wc: 9.2k

↳ notes: wouldn't catch me letting him leave the house looking like that, that's for sure. higuruma you get back inside right now.

The office felt quieter without him in it.

Not just quieter – wrong.

The kind of wrong that wasn’t loud or obvious, but insidious, creeping in through the cracks of routine and settling heavy in your chest. The walls hummed faintly under the fluorescents, the air stagnant and too still, like a room that hadn’t been lived in for a long time. Nothing had changed – your desk was still tucked into the corner of his office, the blinds still tilted to let in those pale, anemic slants of morning light, the coffee machine still wheezing dutifully in its nook. But the balance was off, something fundamental had been knocked out of place.

All because Higuruma had taken the day off.

You should have been glad. You had been glad when you first suggested it – flippant and teasing, after catching him pinching the bridge of his nose for the third time in an hour.

"Take a day, Higuruma. The firm won’t fall apart without you. I’ve got it!"

You hadn’t expected him to actually listen. He never did before. But now, knee-deep in briefs that refused to organize themselves, picking at the plastic lip of your highlighter just to have something else to do, you found yourself regretting it. The absence of him pressed against your ribs like an itch you couldn’t scratch, and you couldn't quite eschew ‘I'm glad he's resting’ from ‘how dare he leave me here alone’. It wasn’t that you couldn’t work without him. You were perfectly capable – good at your job, in fact. You’d fought tooth and nail to carve out your place here, earned every ounce of the trust and respect Higuruma placed in you. The firm didn’t need him today. You didn’t need him today.

But the office felt empty without him anyway. And maybe that was the problem – because Higuruma wasn’t loud, or particularly overbearing, but he had a way of filling up a space without you noticing. Not in big, sweeping ways, but in the quiet, unassuming things you hadn’t realized you’d come to expect. The soft clatter of his pen against his desk as he mulled over a case. The steady tick of his keyboard, the shff of paper sliding against paper. The occasional, absent-minded hum as he read through a deposition, too lost in thought to realize he was doing it. Or the cup of coffee he’d nudge across your desk with his knuckles, sweetened with sugar and a subtle wink conveying: I see you’re about to lose it, so here. Or one of his deadpan jokes that landed so poorly it looped back around to being funny and – against your better judgement and exacting standards for comedy – always managed to make you snicker. And even the way he’d check in – “How are you holding up? Fine? Good!” – just before a fresh avalanche of paperwork from his own arms threatened to swallow you whole.

It was ridiculous, really – how easily you’d come to calibrate yourself around his presence, the rhythm of his movements, the weight of his sighs, the rare, reluctant chuckle when something you said actually managed to slip past his exhaustion.

Without him here, the space felt unmoored, and you a slack-sailed ship set adrift in uncannily still waters.

You leaned back in your chair, twirling your pen between your fingers, glaring at the door as if sheer force of will might conjure him into existence, a punching bag for you to gripe at.

It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. You huffed, tilting your head back to stare at the ceiling, restless energy thrumming under your skin. It was ridiculous. He’d taken one measly day off – his first in who-knows-how-long – and you were falling apart like he’d abandoned you in the wilderness with nothing but a stapler and your wits.

The coffee wasn’t helping. You’d long since crossed the threshold into over-caffeinated jitters, and restless energy crawled up your spine like ants.

And for the first time, work wasn’t enough to occupy you. The murmur of voices in the hallway barely registered – just another piece of the building's white noise, slipping between the rhythmic tap of your keyboard and the distant shrieking tantrum of the printer. You paid no mind to the shuffle of footsteps or the scrape of a chair. Until they stopped right outside your door. You snapped upright, spine un-shrimped and pencil straight, fingers hovering over your keys, suddenly alert in a way that felt completely ridiculous. It wasn’t like you’d actually been waiting for something to happen. It wasn’t like you’d been hoping—

A knock. Sharp, perfunctory. And then, before you could do so much as blink, the door creaked open, like permission was an afterthought. Higuruma’s head poked around the frame. “Excuse me, I have an appointment…”

All dry humor and faux seriousness, low and familiar as the tone but underscored with a lopsided smile meant just for you, and whatever tension had been sitting squarely between your shoulders unraveled like an unfurled lily returned to water.

Relief washed through you, unreasonable in its enormity, such a thin and frayed lifeline tossed down into the well of your boredom. You tsked, air sucking between your teeth as your incisors caught and imprisoned your bottom lip, barely biting back a grin.

“Schedule’s packed, I’m afraid,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “Get out of my office.” Higuruma scoffed, stepping inside fully and letting the door swing shut behind him. “Your office?” “You’re not here, are you?” You gestured vaguely to the empty space he usually occupied, tilting your head. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

His lips twitched like he wanted to smirk, but instead, he just exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.

“Relax,” he said, waving a lazy hand. “Just forgot something.” And as he did so, you found yourself stuck there, pinned by a gravity far different than the tedious duty that bound you before. Maybe you were truly driven to madness through sheer boredom, because what you saw could not possibly be your Higuruma. Gone was the usual sharp, severe silhouette of a three-piece suit, the crisp lines and muted ties with their perfect Windsor knots, the clean-shaven jaw that usually looked carved from marble. This Higuruma was softer. Messier. He looked comfortable. And that was jarring in and of itself. His hair was tousled, fluffy, strands dragged slightly out of place like he’d raked a hand through it exactly once before stepping outside. He was wearing glasses – since when did he wear glasses? – thin, wire rimmed things perched on the roman bridge of his nose, lending a velveteen boyishness and charm, an age-defying panacea. And the scruff – God, the scruff – rough and dark along his jaw, prickling up over his cheekbones, dusting the hollow of his throat, suggesting carelessness or exhaustion, maybe both, but it forced you to trace this new and unexpected feature with far too much fascination.

You swallowed. Okay. Fine. Whatever. But it was his clothes that struck the killing blow. The black sweater was simple, plain, but the way the fabric clung, stretched over his shoulders and arms, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, strong sinewy forearms bared to your gaze and the chilly office air that raised goosebumps and fine dark hair alike was what made it noteworthy. Sneakers, scuffed and worn, suited for morning runs you knew he didn’t partake in. And then… the sweatpants. Oh. God help you. Grey sweatpants.

Soft and loose, they hung low on his hips, one size too large, the drawstring tied in a bow that felt obscene in its innocence; the drooping loop just begging to be caught on your crooked finger and tugged. The heathered fabric skimmed over his thighs, and every shift and step sent a ripple through the material, drawing your gaze against your better judgement to the unmistakable, undeniable, print beneath. They were absolutely shameless. And so was he for wearing them. And so were you for looking. Your brain crashed. Buffered. Blue screened. For a moment you forgot how to breathe. The brain function required for such automation went to worthier endeavors – like the slow shift of your knees to lock together, squishing your thighs shut beneath your desk as if the physical wrist-slap of no, bad, down girl! would silence the overwhelming yes, oh fuck yes! crowing in your head.

“... What are you doing here?” you croaked.  

“Nice to see you too,” he said, dry as ever, though the switchblade flick of his eyes over his shoulder was undeniably humored by your apparent lack of manners. “Don’t worry, I’m still technically ‘relaxing.’” He made air quotes with his fingers. As if that were the problem.

“But I couldn’t stop thinking about that book I left here,” he continued, sifting through a neat stack of binders. “Figured I’d swing by and grab it.”

His words went in one ear, whistled through the cavernous cavity that became your skull, and out the other.

Every synapse in your brain was too busy short-circuiting, trying to reconcile this version of him with the man you thought you knew. This wasn’t the same Higuruma who swept into courtrooms like a force of nature, cutting through the prosecution like a scalpel through tissue. No, this was someone else entirely. Someone devastatingly casual, achingly comfortable, and unintentionally – no, intentionally, it had to be intentional, no one looked that good by accident – sexy. Someone who made coffee in a small, cute kitchen with smushed and tousled bed head, those sweatpants fighting for their life to cling to sharp hip bones, sans shirt, a crescent-soft smile cast over a bare and scratch marked shoulder to sleepily ask whether you liked your eggs scrambled or over easy, or better yet what size ring you wear and you’d be more than willing to drop to your knees yourself— You swallowed the cotton lumps in your throat, your gaze catching on the subtle shift of his hips as he rifled through the papers on his desk. You couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t even pretend to. Didn’t even want to. Every part of your brain pickled in brine at once, one chaotic spiral after another: Why does he look like that? Why does he look better out of a suit than in one? How is that even possible, never mind allowed? Has he always been hot? Your brain screeched, and the death knell rung thrice. Had he been? Surely not, surely you’d have noticed, surely this would’ve been a problem months ago, surely you’re just hopped up on caffeine and jittery, yes, of course—

The tinnitus in your ears reached a fever pitch, and you quickly sniffed, surreptitiously dragging your knuckles beneath your nose with a quick flicker glance down, fully expecting to see a bloody vessel popped from the sheer pressure building in your sinuses.

You were going to die. Right here, at your desk, taken out by the unholy combination of casual clothing and Higuruma Hiromi.

You were devastated.

Why would he think twice about walking into his own office, dressed like he just rolled out of bed and into the middle of some cruelly curated thirst trap? Why would he stop to consider the devastating consequences of soft, messy hair and grey sweatpants on his wonderful, straight-laced, dedicated assistant? You were as much a fixture of the room as was the standing lamp in the corner, without opinion or recourse or stray thoughts that gleefully skipped down paths they shouldn’t.

“So, do you miss me? Check the box for yes or no.”

The question was so offhand, so casual, it felt like a personal attack. Higuruma didn’t even look at you when he said it – just kept scanning the bookshelves behind his desk. Meanwhile, you were unraveling in real-time, layer by secret layer, like some chaotic nesting doll of poorly disguised attraction and absolute mortification. Yes. Yes, I have, you thought miserably, but you couldn’t say that. Instead, you scrambled to pick up a file from your desk and brandished it like a shield. “Well, you left me with a mountain of work, so… maybe a little.” Higuruma finally glanced at you, something knowing flickering behind his gaze before it softened into almost pity – like he actually felt bad for something so frivolous as taking a break.

He sighed, shaking his head. “Consider it character-building.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s what people say when they want to justify unnecessary suffering.”

His lips twitched. “And?”

“And I don’t see you suffering,” you pointed out, waving vaguely at the absurdly soft-looking sweater draped over his frame, at the sweatpants hanging loose on his hips. “You look like you just woke up from a nap.”

He grinned, smug and self-satisfied. “It was a good nap.”

You grunted, a syllable that fractured in the middle like a dropped plate. You winced, nodding stiffly, every joint in your body locking into a marionette’s mimicry of calm. Your eyes, however, refused to cooperate. They widened, traitorous and gleaming, glued to him like he was the shiny prize in some deviously deceitful claw machine, just out of reach but taunting you with every twitch of the joystick in your fingers.

Higuruma hummed thoughtfully, tilting his head just enough to make the soft fall of his hair shift against his forehead. His fingers – long, deft, maddeningly precise – trailed along the spines of the books, pausing here and there to linger. It was methodical, unhurried, and utterly oblivious to the fact that every subtle flex of his arm, every shift of his shoulders beneath that infuriatingly soft-looking shirt, was eroding what little coherence you had left.

And those fucking pants.

Did he not have a mother who chastised him for wearing indecent clothing? Or were you just a voyeur? Loose in all the wrong places, snug in all the right ones. The fabric clung, suggested, hinted at truths your mind had no business trying to parse. Every time he moved, the lines and shadows shifted like a cruel optical illusion, and you couldn’t stop your eyes from darting back to them, helpless and hogtied as they betrayed every ounce of professionalism you clung to with blanched knuckles.

Your fingers hovered uselessly above your keyboard, and the sentence you’d been typing devolved into a jagged line of hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. It blinked at you accusingly from the screen, a digital monument to your brain’s complete implosion.

“Everything okay?” His voice broke through the fog, and you flinched. He glanced over his shoulder, brows furrowed and stitched together, and for a moment, the weight of his attention – direct, steady, disarming – was worse than any punishment.

“Yep! Yeah—totally fine!” you stammered, the words tumbling over themselves in their haste to escape. A nervous laugh followed, high-pitched and strained, like the dying wheeze of a deflating balloon. “Just, you know… great. Really productive.”

Higuruma’s lips twitched – whether in amusement or suspicion, you couldn’t tell – but he let it go, turning back to the shelf with a quiet hum. “Right. Well, no slacking just because I’m not here to breathe down your neck.” 

Not that you'd have minded the warmth of his breath at your nape, or the pointed traipse of his nose down the satin soft and secret zone behind your ear— You exhaled sharply, sagging in your seat, only to be yanked back to reality when your pen slipped from your fingers.

The sharp clatter as it hit the floor made your breath hitch. You bent down to retrieve it, but your elbow clipped the edge of your desk in your haste, sending an entire stack of papers cascading to the floor.

“Shit,” you hissed under your breath, scrambling to fix the mess, but before you could even reach for the first sheet, Higuruma moved, a seeking missile with its primary directive being to organize disorder, to settle the mess in his space. Even off the clock, he just couldn’t help himself but leap to occupy his hands.

“I’ve got it,” he said, already crouching down beside you. “Don’t worry about it. You keep working.”

“But—”

“Seriously, it’s fine,” he interrupted. He fluttered his hand at you, dismissive but not unkind, a gentle command to stay put. And then he was there – on his knees, right between yours, filling the narrow space under your desk like he belonged there.

You stopped breathing. Froze entirely. Because Higuruma Hiromi, the unflappable, immovable bastion of composure, was crouched so close that you swore you could feel his breath breeze against your knees. His hunched shoulders filled the gap between them, his presence suffusing and suffocating in the best and worst possible way.

Every movement was torturous. His fingers curled around each sheet of paper with a kind of care that somehow felt intimate, as though he were handling something far more delicate than office supplies. The flex of muscle in his forearms was subtle but devastating, the faint ridge of veins tracing elegant paths beneath his skin, a roadmap of destruction you couldn’t help but follow.

His glasses slipped and slid down his nose – crawling along the bridge, like they were in on the conspiracy against your sanity – and he nudged them back up with the edge of his knuckle, the motion infuriatingly casual but still made your pulse trip over itself.

You could imagine it so easily. Too easily. His shoulders hunched just like this, his head bowed low, but not over papers. His hands skimming, not the floor, but your skin, those precise fingers teasing a path along your thighs, coaxing your knees apart, his glasses fogging as his lips parted with a sly smile and—

“Here,” he said, breaking the spell as he rose fluidly to his feet, the papers stacked neatly in hand. He placed them on your desk, his small, faint smile utterly unaware of the chaos he’d just wreaked on your psyche. “Crisis averted.”

No, no, crisis caused, actually.

You stared at him, utterly mute, your throat dry, your heart threatening to hammer its way out of your chest. A quiet hum of satisfaction escaped him as he turned back to his desk, leaving you to pick up the pieces of your shattered composure.

And then, because the universe had a cruel sense of humor, he stretched.

Arms lifting high above his head, fingers lacing together, spine arching in one long, slow pull. A quiet, absentminded groan slipped from his throat, low and indulgent, like the stretch felt good, and something inside you – something delicate and self-preserving – snapped clean in half. Saliva pooled beneath your tongue.

But then his shirt rode up.

The hem lifted, inch by inch like a sinful satin stage curtain drawing back to reveal the main event upon the corpse of your sanity. Pale, smooth skin stretched taut over the lean planes of his stomach. The sharp jut of his hip bones, the faint, devastating groove of muscle dipping into the perfect V of his pelvis.

And there, just below his navel, a dark trail of curls, disappearing under the waistband of those godforsaken sweatpants. You forgot how to breathe. Of course he had a happy trail. Of course you were now going to think about that trail every time you saw him stretch from now on. That was one trail you’d happily hike down, hands, mouth, anything, straight to the promised land, actually—

You whimpered.

Higuruma froze mid-stretch. Slowly his arms lowered, his eyes sliding open with a heavy-lidded, almost feline sort of acute appraisal, one brow arched over his glasses. “Sorry?” he asked, his voice calm but laced with something new – something sharper, more curious.

Your brain scrambled, words piling up in a frantic, disjointed heap, none of them useful.

“Nothing!” you blurted. “I just—uh—spider! There was a spider.”

Higuruma blinked.

“Huge—” bad word choice “—Hairy—” oh my god, shut up “—but it’s gone now.”

Silence.

The corner of his mouth twitched, and you watched in real time as a dimple formed on his cheek from where he bit into the inside. “A spider?”

You nodded far too hard. “Yep. Massive. Terrifying. And gone.”

He didn’t move at first, didn’t blink. Just stood there with his head cocked to the left, eyes shrouded behind the glinting of the overhead light, but you had the distinct impression he saw straight through you. You wondered if it was too late to crawl under your desk and die or hide until he left, whichever came first.

His brow furrowed behind those glasses, just a hair – not enough to be suspicious really, but enough to make your chest feel like it was shrinking in on itself. Suddenly, you missed the boredom. You’d take loneliness over this catastrophic mental collapse any day. Maybe you were dreaming – one of those stress-induced nightmares where you showed up to work without clothes, only so much worse. “Well,” he sighed, tone light, offhanded. “I guess I’d better take a look.” You felt the color drain from your eyes, running off as icy dread that slammed into the sweltering wall of heat just held back by your diaphragm. A convection cauldron boiled inside you, and your silence had you nursing the blunt edge of your tongue, usually so adroit you struggled to whittle it back into some sort of functioning point.

“W-wha—?” “For the spider.” He clarified, pushing off the corner of his desk in favor of yours, slipping around the back to where you sat with a leisurely gait that felt gut-twistingly ominous. “If it’s that big, it could bite. I’d hate to leave you alone to deal with it once I’m gone.”

“No need!” you blurted, a little too loud, a little too fast, and you tried to recall when the last time you updated your resume was. “I’m sure it’s gone.” But he only hummed, unconvinced. “Just to be sure,” he said, and before you could protest, he was already behind you. His gaze swept the desk, eagle-eyed and determined, like he might actually see the thing lurking among the chaos of pens and loose papers your station had become. Then, he leaned in. Leaned over.

You felt the give of the upholstery that cushioned the back of your chair dimple beneath his talon-like grip, and slowly, he rolled your chair back. The swivel wheels spun, a mirror to the frantic cartwheeling in your chest, and it was far too late for you to counter-maneuver by the time he’d pulled you. It was too late to stand, or excuse yourself, or create any plausible explanation short of “I think I want you and I really shouldn’t,” and “this is going to be a problem so please go back home, oh god please.”

The solid weight of his chest hovered just behind your shoulder blades, the clean scent of fabric softener and soap invading your bubble like you’d walked past a perfume store. Too close, way too close. And then his forearms reached past you, one moving to grip the arm of your chair, forcing your own to drop limply down into your lap, while the other braced forward on the edge of your desk. Pinned, bracketed, you could do nothing but face forward like a statue bust.

Your breath caught and you held it in an iron fist, because every inhale welcomed more of that fresh Higuruma smell deep into your lungs, and you were pretty sure it was already imprinted into your cell lining. You had to actively remind yourself to inhale, exhale, repeat, shallow as you could manage, because your body seemed to have forgotten how. You weren’t sure if the lightheadedness was from lack of oxygen outright or lack of free oxygen. He stretched further, one arm snaking past you to lift a loose stack of leafed papers, then a book, then another book. “Hmm,” he mused, his voice low and thoughtful and you could feel the rumbling bass judder down each and every one of your vertebrae like a xylophone. “Nothing here.” You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering in your throat as he moved closer, his weight shifting slightly so that your chair gave a little rock forward with the accidental nudge of his pelvis. You could feel the soft brush of his sleeve against your shoulder, the rhythmic and completely calm exhalation of his breath against your temple when he deigned to tilt his head just so to address you. “I suppose it could be under here,” he murmured, reaching across to lift the edge of your keyboard. His fingers brushed yours along the way and your eyes slammed shut like old window shutters, blocking out the accompanying visual to the live-wire jolt that galvanized your spine to ratchet up straighter, inadvertently lengthening the stretch of your body pressed against the front of his. “I-it’s not under there,” you stammered, your voice a crackly whisper, too shaky, something he’d have chastised you for any other day. A good lawyer has presence. He’d scold. Enunciate. Use your chest. And maybe the fact that he doesn’t scold you should’ve clued you in. But you don’t think about it beyond the feeling of gratitude because you’re certain if he spoke to you in that tone he uses, if you were able to track the slow crawl of his lips down in that disapproving pout so close to your face, you’d simply self immolate. “Well you never know,” he said instead, his tone breezy and conversational. “Spiders are sneaky little things. They like dark corners. Lots of dark corners in a desk, on a desk, under a desk…” He shifted again, this time pressed just a little more firmly into your back – enough to be completely improper, you think, you’re pretty sure, but plausibly deniable as accidental. Because he’s only trying to help you, see? He’s looking for a spider that doesn’t exist, one that you made up because you were ogling the mouth watering muscle of his hips and wanted to trace the lattice work of fine blue lines with your tongue— You swallowed, and you were grateful you’d already crossed your legs because there was no way you could do so subtly now, grateful that instead you could just squeeze them closed a little tighter, your thighs squishing shut, chained and gated, and your nostrils flared with frustration and your brows knitted together just so at the slightest bit of pressure that pressed upon your center. “You sure it’s gone?” he asked, his voice dropping just a fraction lower in time with the tilt of his head towards yours. He craned around, forcefully catching your eye, and you met them feeling every bit a deer in headlights. You nodded, a quick up and down bob of your chin that you hoped passed well enough for an answer. You didn’t trust your mouth to open – you didn’t think anything would come out of it, but the things that could shouldn’t be afforded the chance to. He didn’t move right away. Instead, he lingered, his fingers idly toying with the edge of your mousepad. One of those ergonomic things, gelly and squishy, to elevate your wrist. A gift from a friend who didn’t quite care, who didn’t quite know you beyond your occupation as “office worker” so of course you would appreciate office supplies.

You watched with dawning horror, struck mute as his fingers gripped the gel pad, rolling it into his palm with a slow squeeze.

Your mouth went dry.

Pinned between his palm and the meat of his thumb, he lifted it, checking beneath for the arachnid interloper, before he sighed and returned it back down to your desk. But his hand stayed put, circling his thumb in slow, rhythmic circuits over the material, rolling the gel beneath his fingertip in an unhurried, back-and-forth knead, and you swallowed. Hard enough to hurt your throat, loud enough to know he heard, and with equal parts mortification and shame, you could feel the slick evidence of your unabashed ogling pooling between your thighs.

This man was a danger to society, and most certainly a danger to you.

“Hm…” he grumbled. And you watched as his hand quit fondling the squishy mouse pad you’d never be able to look at the same way again, one long finger flicked up to your computer screen. “You’ve got some typos there. Planning to fix those?”

Your jaw ticked and your eyes snapped to narrow slits. Your head jerked to face him with an indignant defense on your tongue – failing to account for how that would put you nearly nose to nose. And instantly you were cowed. You watched in real-time as your reflection deflated, mirrored in the gleam of his glasses, and your voice came out far more petulant when you muttered: “You’re distracting me.” His expression shifted, subtle, but there – your proximity made you privy to the amusement kept captive behind the lenses of his readers, a patient and knowing hook that drew a single brow up over the wire rim. “Am I?” His voice was mild, casual as you’ve ever heard it, but the way his fingers traced a deliberate line along the desks surface betrayed him, there was nothing absent about his mind in the gesture. His thumb grazed the edge of a page, smoothing over the corner before flicking it back with a sharp snap. You jumped, flinching to look at the offending sheet. It was not a fidget at all, but a consideration, a temperature check, and he smiled at the side of your turned head. “You’re jumpy today. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” His hand moved again, his fingers walking toward the armrest of your chair, resting on the small island of space unoccupied by your elbow. He didn’t touch you, but he hovered close enough that you felt he already had. You could stop this. You should. You could laugh it off, spin your chair, remind him and yourself that this is not the time nor the place, and isn’t professional in the slightest. You could try to convince yourself that your boss wasn’t reading you like an open book, and wasn’t seconds from confirming something you could never walk back. But you didn’t. “Well, I saw a spider, you know how I feel about those,” you tried to excuse. Higuruma’s lips puffed and pursed, daring to inch his thumb just a little closer, piercing your bubble to pluck a frayed string on your sleeve. “I didn’t see any spiders.” You were floundering. What the hell is happening, who is this man, and what has he done with your boss? It was the glasses. It must be. This overconfidence – even if irritatingly warranted – had to be a byproduct of knowing he looked good dressed down. And you wouldn’t mind dressing him down, undressing him, peeling off those already flimsy layers yourself, but you couldn’t. So you resisted, your arguments a sieve through which not a drop of water would hold. A shitty lawyer you’d make. “So just because you didn’t see it, it was never there?” you rebuffed. And that, it seemed, gave Higuruma pause. At least for a moment, until his head teetered down to almost rest on your shoulder, his back quaking with a vibrating laugh. “Oh? Schrödinger, is it? That’s what we’re doing?” You cringed as soon as you said it, knowing full well that quantum theory would not save you, but you certainly wouldn’t have minded a convenient box into which you could crawl and die. But he didn’t let it go. He never did. He thrived on contradiction, lived and breathed the thrill of the argument, got off on unraveling logic until all that remained was the truth. And right now, you hid yours poorly. You were caught red handed, red faced, damned by the scarlet that creeped ever higher up your throat and refused to be swallowed down. His voice dipped, amusement curling at the edges. “If I don’t see the spider, how do I know it’s real?” Your lips parted, but nothing came out. His hand still perched on the armrest curled inward by degrees – knuckles brushing against the back of your hand in the barest contact.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You inhaled, sharp and shallow between your teeth. “Higuruma.”

He stilled. His jaw twitched. And then—

“Do you want me to stop?”

No soft edges, no careful subtext. The words landed between you with a dull, leaden weight, devoid of that razor-edged coyness he’d been wielding like a paring knife. No shields, no plausible deniability – just blunt, naked truth.

You blinked at him, pulse thudding erratically against your ribs. Surely you had misheard.

But his eyes, fixed on yours, were clear. Watchful. Expectant. Beneath the wary composure, something raw flickered – uncertain and unsteady. A breath, a blink, a second too long with no answer, and you watched him start to fold in on himself like a flimsy card house.

“Shit,” he exhaled, quiet, almost to himself. His lashes flickered in rapid succession – once, twice, again. Like shaking off a trance, dragging himself out of something he knew he shouldn’t have sunk into in the first place. “I overstepped. You’re uncomfortable, I’m sorry.”

A sharp nod. A muscle clenched in his jaw, then smoothed out, his mouth flattening into something more neutral and practiced in its artificiality. Already withdrawing. Already gone.

And he looked—

God, he looked like a kicked dog.

Panic surged up your throat, knocking the breath clean out of you. Your hand shot out before your brain could catch up, fingers latching around his wrist, gripping firm. Warm skin, quick pulse beneath your touch.

“Stop what?” The words tumbled out, unsteady, breathless.

His gaze flickered back to you, impassive, unreadable. He didn’t answer.

You squeezed his wrist. “Stop what, Higuruma?” Higuruma swallowed. His wrist tensed beneath your grip, and you felt the subtle flex of his fingers curling inward, like he wanted to hold onto something but didn’t quite dare. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

You dragged in a breath, forcing your voice into something steadier. “Higuruma,” you pressed, voice softer now, urging. “Stop what?”

A beat.

Then another.

His mouth twitched. Not in a smirk, not in amusement, but like he was physically fighting himself, trying to bite something back before it slipped past his teeth. His head tilted just slightly, his gaze drifting – not away from you, not entirely, but somewhere to the side, anywhere safer than your face, as if the words he was about to say were too much to deliver straight on.

Then he exhaled, slow and shuddering.

“I lied,” he confessed.

“I didn’t come in for a book,” he admitted, and now it was like the floodgates had cracked. “I didn’t need anything. I just—” He laughed, soft, humorless, dragging a tired hand down his face. “I just wanted to see you.”

Your fingers twitched against his wrist.

He shook his head, incredulous at himself. “It felt wrong. Not seeing you today. Kept thinking I forgot something. Like I was missing a step all day and couldn’t figure out why until I caught myself reaching for my phone, halfway through texting you, trying to find an excuse, hoped you’d need me to come in after all, and I—” He inhaled sharply through his nose, closing his eyes for the briefest, tortured second before forcing them open again. “I just wanted to see you. That’s all.”

Silence pooled thick and electric between you, and now you were the one who had no words.

His throat bobbed with a swallow, his voice quieter when he spoke again. “So – I don’t want to stop. But I can. I will.”

There it was.

The inevitable moment where everything clicked into place and left no room for interpretation, no exit route to hide behind. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t testing you, waiting for you to fold and deny it. His face was open, stripped of all pretense, and that earnest sincerity – the kind that people mistook for courtroom performance but you knew better – hit you like a freefall drop straight to the pit of your stomach.

Higuruma Hiromi wanted you.

A slow, consuming warmth curled through your limbs, filling your veins, burning your capillaries.

Your grip on his wrist softened, fingers smoothing over the bone. A shift of weight, barely perceptible, but his breath hitched all the same. He was still watching you, eyes darting minutely between yours, scanning, waiting, bracing for rejection, for hesitation, for anything that would tell him he’d misread this, that he’d just set himself up for ruin.

You leaned in, just slightly, just enough to catch the scent of his cologne clinging to the fabric of his shirt, the warmth of his skin beneath it.

And you whispered, “Then don’t.”

Higuruma inhaled.

He was closer now, his weight shifting like his body had made the decision before his mind had caught up. His knee brushed yours. His fingers flexed against the armrest. His head dipped, slow, inevitable, like the pull of gravity was stronger now, like whatever unseen force had been keeping him tethered had finally snapped.

Your mouth parted – either to speak or meet him halfway – but then his forehead dropped, pressing briefly, firmly against yours.

His breath shook against your lips. “God,” he muttered, laughing softly in disbelief. “I really shouldn't.”

Then his fingers brushed your thigh, just barely, tentative at first – like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed. You exhaled, heat curling low in your belly, and reached for him, closing the space with a slow, deliberate roll of your knee to the outside of his. “I promise I won’t call HR if you don’t.”

He groaned.

And then he sank to his knees.

His hands slid over your thighs, smoothing upward in slow, reverent strokes, coaxing them apart, and your breath hitched. He watched, eyes heavy-lidded, flickering up to catch yours as he pressed a kiss – light, lingering – to the inside of your knee.

“Keep working,” he murmured, voice a little raw, a little wrecked already. His fingers curled into the hem of your skirt. “Don’t mind me.”

And then he dragged his mouth higher. Higuruma was breathing hard. You could hear it, feel it – the unsteady push of air against your bare thigh, the way it stuttered. His hands, already so warm, traced slow, sweeping lines up the outside of your thighs, fingers flexing against the hem of your skirt, seeming fascinated by the give and shift of the polyester, gathering the courage to do what he really wanted.

Like he still thought he needed permission.

You exhaled, shifting slightly in your chair, parting your thighs just enough that his fingertips slipped over the sensitive inner skin. His breath hitched, a quiet, sharp inhale through his nose. His head dipped lower, hair brushing against your knee, and you felt the tremor in his fingers as he finally, finally pushed your skirt up.

He did it slow, like he wanted to savor it, like he was unwrapping something precious.

Higuruma dragged the fabric upward, baring inch after inch of soft, warm skin, his thumbs pressing into the meat of your thighs, kneading absently like he couldn’t help it. And then he reached your panties, delicate lace darkened at the center with proof of your wanting. He made a sound, low and unsteady between a groan and a whimper. His fingers curled into the elastic, hesitating, holding.

Then he hooked them to the side.

He went still.

For a long moment, all he did was look. His hands tightened against your thighs, fingers dimpling the flesh, and he let out a sharp, unstable exhale. His glasses slipped a fraction of an inch down the bridge of his nose, but he didn’t move to fix them this time, didn’t move at all – just stared, breathing through his mouth now, lips parted like he was on the verge of either something catastrophic or panting like a dog.

“Oh,” he murmured, voice wrecked.

His thumbs smoothed against your skin, a reverent, subconscious caress.

“Fuck.”

You should have felt self-conscious, spread open for him like this, but the look on his face, the sincere, trembling hunger in his expression burned away any hesitation. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing up the brown of his irises black as pitch, his brows furrowed like he was in pain.

His hands slid under your thighs, lifting them, shifting you forward in your seat, making you open for him, spreading you wider. His nose – sharp, sloped, aristocratic you’d always thought – skirted along the inside of your thigh, his breath scalding, his lips dragging heat against skin. His stubble caught, a scratch of sensation that made your stomach jolt, made your cunt clench around nothing.

“Higuruma—”

He shuddered. “Hiromi,” he corrected, wide and needy eyes slowly swiveling up to your face, though not without great effort at having been reeled away from the exquisite glistening between your legs. “Hiromi’s just fine for right now.”

Then his mouth was on you.

The first stroke of his tongue was slow, broad, deliberate – a long, dragging lick from your dripping entrance to the stiff, aching pearl of your clit. Your whole body jerked, a broken gasp catching in your throat.

Hiromi moaned. Deep, desperate, guttural.

It vibrated against your cunt, made your thighs twitch where they bracketed his head. His hands flexed against your hips, squeezing like he needed something to ground himself, like the feel of you under his palms was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality; he’d mold the clay of your flesh into a life preserver, because he fully intended to drown here.

And then he did it again.

He was savoring it, the obscene, deliberate press of his tongue slipping through the slick mess of you, catching every little twitch, every tiny intake of breath. His nose brushed your clit with every motion, the bridge of it dragging just enough to make you squeak, your hands curling into the armrests, nails biting into the leather. A moan spilled from your lips before you could snag it back, too loud. Hiromi’s hands tensed against your thighs. He pulled back just slightly, just enough to glance up at you, his lips wet, mouth gleaming with dew, and glasses hopelessly lopsided. His voice was low, giddy and playful but the effect was outshone by how breathless he spoke – shaken and twitchy. “You’re supposed to be working, remember?” It took too long for you to realize what he was waiting for as he looked up at you. The clack of the keyboard. The pretense of professionalism. You laughed, choked and gravelly. Your gaze wrenched from the delicious sight of him below you up to the bleary glare of your monitor, blinking cursor and abandoned typo’s and all. Your fingers hovered over the keys before you forced yourself to type something, anything. A sentence. Just a few words. Hiromi hummed against you, pleased. His hands slid higher, hooking around your thighs to grip their fronts and tug you closer to him. Then he dipped his head and sighed – long and low, the sound that made your stomach tighten and heat pool in your gut, and would fuel countless wet dreams for the rest of your life.

You barely registered the way your thighs started to tremble, the restless shifting of your hips to wordlessly tempt him back, your body chasing after every slow, devastating pass of his tongue.

Hiromi felt it, though.

Felt the way you arched into him, the way your muscles twitched when he flattened his tongue against your clit and pressed, the way your breath caught when he let out a quiet, helpless whimper against you. He felt utterly pathetic, deranged, oh he could write empirical dissertations on every ethical breach occuring in his office today – but you liked it. Whether it was the taboo of it all or simply him – he hoped to god it was him – he could hardly drink you down fast enough before your sweet pussy drooled down into the cleft of your ass on the seat.

His fingers curled lower, slipping between your thighs from above, thumbs spreading you open.

He was shaking.

His shoulders quivered, adrenaline puppeteered his muscles into a jittery mess and he could do nothing but try to work through the tremors.

Then, like something in him had finally snapped, he gripped your thighs tighter and shook his head – side to side and feral, his nose rubbing against your clit, his tongue pressing inside you, spreading you open for him in a way that had you gasping, a choked-off moan catching in your throat.

“Oh, fuck—”

Hiromi growled into you, deep and needy, and then he was fucking his tongue inside you, quick and filthy and wet. His nose ground against your clit, his stubble rasping against the delicate skin of your inner thighs, and your entire body jolted at the overture of conflicting sensation.

You didn’t notice the way one of his hands slipped from your thigh, moving lower, until you felt the determined press of his fingers, felt the slow, careful stretch of two of them sinking into you, filling you alongside the obscene, messy slide of his tongue.

Your head dropped back against the chair, a broken, gasping moan slipping past your lips.

Higuruma growled into you, curling his fingers, pressing them just right, like he already knew exactly where to touch you, like he’d spent months learning your body before he ever laid a hand on it.

And maybe he had. Maybe those long, bleary nights where you caught him watching you – when your skin prickled under the self-conscious weight of his gaze – had never been idle, absent-minded staring at all. Maybe he hadn’t been zoning out, lost in legalese and exhaustion. Maybe he’d been looking at you like this all along.

Noticing the way you chewed on the end of your pen when you were thinking. The way you stretched your arms over your head after too many hours hunched over case files, the soft sigh you let out, the way your shirt lifted just enough to show the barest sliver of skin if he were lucky. The way your fingers tapped against your coffee cup in restless little rhythms, how your brows knit together when you were deep in thought, the way you bit your lip when you were holding back a smile.

Maybe, when he used to linger a little too long after walking you to your car – hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels, like he had something else to say but couldn’t quite get it out – it wasn’t just his usual brand of overworked buffering. Maybe it was this, all of this, eroding at the edges of his restraint, wearing it thinner every time you laughed at one of his dry remarks, every time your shoulder brushed his in passing, every time you looked up from your desk and caught him already watching.

And those guilty little smiles he used to give you?

Maybe they weren’t guilt at all. Maybe they were apologies.

For thinking about you in ways he shouldn’t have. For picturing you like this, like you were now, spread open beneath him, panting and flushed and trembling under the crooked curls of his fingers.

The realization hit you like a live wire, striking something deep and low inside you, flicking the taut rubber band behind your navel. Hiromi made a sound – low, half a moan, half a fuck, muffled into the slick, messy heat of your core.

And now that you knew – now that you saw it – there was no unseeing it.

Your pussy clenched around his fingers, sucking him deeper to the knuckle.

His whole body jerked, a sharp inhale through his nose, and his hips rolled against nothing, a ragged whimper spilling out muffled against your pussy.

He finger-fucked you slow and deep, his lips sealing around your clit and sucking it clear of its hood, rubbing with the flat of his tongue like it was his job. Like he’d done this a hundred times before, and he reckoned he has, if the lackluster imaginings in his head while he jerked himself to completion in bed were to be tallied. And just below your desk, he shifted, his breath fleeing the deflated balloon of his lungs in an embarrassingly high-pitched whine as he shouldered your legs and palmed himself through the soft grey cotton of his sweatpants. His cock twitched under the roll of his palm, thick and aching, the damp patch down the inseam darkening with every helpless grind of his hips against air.

His voice was wrecked, muffled, words half-swallowed against your skin.

“—fuck, y’taste s’good…lil’ more. Lemme have it…s’wet n’ pretty—”

Your breath stuttered, your hands flew to collect a fistful of his hair and yanked. He gasped against you, the vibrations shooting straight through your core to strike flint to steel, igniting the short and kerosene-soaked fuse in your belly.

“Hiromi, I—” you only just managed to squeak.

His free hand – it hadn’t been free though, but he’d sooner abandon himself than abandon you –  shot up, grasping blindly for yours, lacing your fingers together, squeezing tight. His tongue dragged over your clit, slow and deliberate, then he sucked, and—

You shattered.

Your whole body seized, back bowing, thighs clamping tight around his head. You barely heard the choked, desperate groan that tore from his throat as he swallowed you down, tongue fucking you through your orgasm like he was starving for it.

Everything blurred, your breath stuttering, your fingers tangled in his hair, clenching tight as your body pulsed around his fingers, your cum soaking his face, his mouth, slicking his wrist.

And still he didn’t stop.

Didn’t stop licking, sucking, devouring, his consumption of you was absolute. His lips wrapping around your clit, gentle and coaxing, dragging you through the trembling aftershocks until your body sagged, boneless, against the chair. But you felt the way his whole body shuddered and suddenly convulsed, the heave of his shoulders beneath your limp legs, the muffled broken moan that gargled in his throat as his fingers squeezed tight against yours— And the way he abruptly stilled.

When he finally pulled away, his breathing was ragged, panting against the inside of your thigh, his glasses fogged up, his lips swollen and shining, his stubble slick with the mess he’d made of you, earned from you.

“… fuck,” he rasped. His forehead dropped against your thigh, his fingers squeezing where they still clung to yours. “God. I—” He swallowed hard, his voice thick. It was rare for Hiromi to be rendered anything resembling speechless.

His shoulders shook between laughter and disbelief.

“Would’ve done that ages ago if I knew you’d let me.” Hiromi exhaled a slow, steady breath against your thigh. Then another. His fingers flexed in your grip once, twice, before finally loosening, slipping free only so he could smooth his palms along the tops of your legs, rubbing lazy, absentminded circles into your skin. His forehead rested against you, warm and damp, glasses tilted near sideways and lifted from his face.

Neither of you said anything for a long moment. The hum of the office settled back in around you – the faint click of a keyboard from down the hall, the intermittent trill of a phone ringing elsewhere, the low hiss of the air vent. But all of it felt far away, like a different world, like something that had no bearing on the one you were currently sinking into, pacified and hazy in your chair, while Hiromi sighed heavy and contented into your lap.

Then, just as the static buzz of post-orgasmic bliss started to fade—

His jaw went slack against your thigh.

You barely had time to react before his mouth stretched wide, lips grazing your skin, and chomp.

Not hard – just enough to make you squeal, swatting at him with the force of a wet napkin.

“Stop it!” you half-laughed, half-scolded, still breathless, shaking him off as he grinned, cheek smushed against your thigh.

He hummed, entirely unrepentant, his lips pressing an exaggerated, obnoxiously loud mwah right where he’d bitten you.

“Sorry,” he said, voice still raspy. “Couldn’t help myself.”

You huffed, still laughing, running absent fingers through his hair in retaliation. “You’re awful.”

“Mm,” he agreed, eyes slipping shut as he nuzzled deeper, getting comfortable like he had every intention of staying there for the rest of the afternoon.

You hesitated, still gathering the courage to say it, but you were riding the same high he was, and you wanted to. So you smoothed your hand down, fingers slipping under his prickly chin, tilting his face up just enough that he had to look at you.

“You want me to return the favor?”

His eyelids lifted just slightly, heavy-lidded and unreadable, like he was parsing whether or not you were serious. Then his mouth quirked, slow and wry, his voice a quiet rasp.

“There’s no need.”

You blinked. “No need?”

A beat.

Then – his ears went pink.

Oh.

Oh.

A slow, wicked grin curled at the edges of your lips.

“Hiromi Higuruma,” you said, voice rich with delight, dragging your fingers through the sweaty, mussed strands of his hair. “Did you—”

He groaned and dropped his face back into your lap, burying it in your skirt. “Don’t.”

You laughed, warm and breathless, carding through his hair, absolutely gleeful. “Oh my God,” you whispered, voice high-pitched, teasing. “I didn’t even touch you.”

His arms curled around your thighs, squeezing once in a half-hearted warning, but the damage was done.

“That’s…” You exhaled, still smiling, still floating. “God, that’s so hot.”

A muffled groan vibrated against your lap.

You weren’t going to let him off easy. Not after this. Not after knowing that just getting you off had been enough to get him off, too.

“What happened to all that patience, Hiromi?” you teased, nudging his chest with your knee. “What happened to self-control?”

He grunted, shifting, and you rolled your head to the side and saw it – the sticky, wet mess that turned the pale grey of his pants a darker charcoal.

You grinned. Oh, you were never letting him live this down.

He lifted his head slightly, glaring at you from under his lashes, though there was no real heat behind it. “I was patient,” he grumbled, jaw ticking. “It just… caught up to me.”

“Uh-huh,” you mused, biting back another laugh, still stroking your fingers through his hair. “Maybe you should take days off more often.”

Hiromi made a sound, indistinguishable between a laugh and a groan, squeezing your thighs where they still rested over his shoulders. “Don’t start.”

You hummed, smirking. Then, gentler, pressing the pads of your fingers to his scalp: “Seriously. You should.”

He went quiet for a moment, then sighed, long and slow, shifting his arms so he could rest more comfortably in your lap. “Maybe I will.”

Maybe he would. Maybe he’d let himself have more than just a stolen afternoon, a guilty indulgence. Maybe he’d stop making himself wait for nice things. Or at least consider it.

But for now, he'd stay there, warm and content against your thighs, letting you thread your fingers through his hair, letting you touch him like you wanted to.

And for the first time in a long time – maybe ever – he let himself enjoy a day off.

[satoriberry]

store bought tiramisu tastes like ass what the fuck

[satoriberry]

— APARTMENT 345. (PT I)

synopsis: moving into a new apartment with three men isn't exactly the most easy feat, but you think there's something quite unusual about your new roommates that makes life seem a little more fun. (prequel) feat. karasu, otoya, yukimiya || wc: 3.6k contains: fem!reader, she/her pronouns, roommates au, modern au, fluff, misunderstandings, an attempt at crack (pls laugh), aged-up characters (20s), pov switches, more of a focus on karasu in this

You think your roommates are weird.

Not weird in a bad sense, but just... odd.

Their dynamic with each other is especially a little peculiar, considering none of them act the same way with one another, their personalities always twisting just a bit when interacting with the other roommate. But it's still clear there's this unspoken harmony between the three of them that upholds the peace in the loft. You just struggle to fit yourself in it to help the foundation of it all—as it's clear you're not a part of their little circle. At least not yet.

Yukimiya is by far the most normal one out of the trio and perhaps the one you've talked to the most.

A true gentleman at heart, he's always the first to greet you in the morning as you sleepily daze into the kitchen, a steaming black coffee at the ready in your cup for customization. You come home later than the others, but he'll always save some leftovers for you in the fridge for you to munch on, your name written in neat handwriting with a smiley face adorning glasses on an orange post-it plastered on the container.

You blame it on not really knowing each other that well, but you find he's the most docile with you. Him, Karasu, and Otoya have known each other since their high school days, so it's quite normal of them to bicker childishly with each other, but when it comes to you, you always see a rather gentle smile on his face. You think it looks a little fake, though, as if it's there by default.

Otoya is humorous by nature. He's funny without trying, without having to crack a smile from himself. In fact, you rarely ever see him smile, just always has a sleepy look to his face as he says the oddest things known to mankind and is often the starter to meaningless conversations.

"I feel like we should domesticate bears," he had said one time out of the blue. "I think they're too cute to not be pets."

"They'd bite yer head off an instant, dumbass," Karasu told him as he flipped a page in his magazine, to which Otoya nonchalantly shrugged.

"If it means I can pet them, then I'd take the risk," he said simply stated before stalking off to his room that always smells just a little bit fruity and sweet (It didn't take you long to figure out whose Pineapple Ice Lost Mary was on the kitchen island).

He wears weird t-shirts too. Aside from the "I ♡ MILFS" shirt you saw when you first met each other, some of your other personal favorites include his firetruck red shirt that simply reads "i have a bomb." in plain black Arial font and his beige long-sleeve that displayed a cartoon cat yelling "Chicken Parmesan!" in a graphic speech bubble. Clearly wearing them with no shame, you ask Otoya where he gets such... unique... t-shirts, to which the latter replied,

"Goodwill."

Karasu is the one roommate you haven't cracked fully yet. By far, he's the weirdest.

Even though he was the first person you had met when you were first being interviewed, he tends to keep to himself. Something in your gut says that he's staying away from you, purposely keeping himself at arm's length. He's still cordial, but unlike the other two, he doesn't really seem to spare much words with you. The most he'll usually do is just remind you that it's garbage day, but other than that, he rarely ever speaks more than sentence to you on the weekly.

Because of such, you think you have to walk on eggshells around him, always apprehensive that you'll make one wrong move that'll for sure root a dislike towards you with him when it's clear he doesn't really seem to favor you all that much. He'll give a nod of acknowledgement at you if you pass each other in the halls and will ask if he can borrow a charger, but nothing more personal. You figure that might be best—it's better to have a roommate who barely knows who you are but exist with you peacefully instead of a roommate who constantly butts heads with you.

So when you finally have a day to yourself that just so happens to coincide with Karasu's, you are nothing less of tense.

And to think you were going to spend the day finishing up on your soap opera with your pals Ben and Jerry! You were looking forward to having the loft to yourself, so when you see Karasu lounging on the couch and watching a soccer match, your stomach plummets. Otoya gets home at around 5:00pm, while Yukimiya gets home at around 6:30pm, meaning you'll be stuck with Karasu for at least a full seven hours.

Karasu notices you as you walk out of the hallway, turning his head towards you when you come into view. You freeze suddenly, body going rigid as his deep navy eyes bore into you.

Your surprise still lingers in your body, even as you open your mouth to try and greet him, but nothing comes out.

A brow raises from him. "Hi...?"

"Oh! Uh," you twitch, trying to recompose yourself. "Good morning—!"

"Mornin'," he quietly greets back after a confused moment of silence at your reaction.

When you stiffly shuffle towards the kitchen, you want to crumble and whine. Back still facing your roommate as you pour yourself a cup of coffee, you ask, "You don't have work today?"

"Nah," Karasu says boredly, "Boss took an early vacation, so everyone got the day off today."

"A-ah, I see," you quietly reply back with a thick tongue. Fighting the urge to wail aloud at the fact you'll be sharing a space with the one roommate that seems a little too far from your reach, you escape back to your room with your breakfast, not really wanting to be around him.

You were planning to do so much today! Clean up the loft, do some stretching on the balcony to catch some sunlight, cook up some meals in the open kitchen, but of course your luck doesn't bestow upon you today, as doing all of those would mean Karasu would be in your vicinity.

The mattress creaks when you miserably land on top of it, pillow soaking in your whines and sighs. You suppose your room will have to suffice.

On the other side of the wall, Karasu swiftly pulls out his phone, head clamoring with thoughts and questions as he opens up the "alvin & the chipmunks" groupchat in his contacts.

karasu (10:34) : eita —otoya (10:36) : wat karasu (10:36) : u told me her day off was next week friday —otoya (10:38) : ya, the last friday of the month —yukimiya (10:39) : Check your calendar, Eita karasu (10:39) : yea exactly. it's today u fucking buffoon —otoya (10:39) : wait fr —otoya (10:39) : fackkk im late on my credit payment again

Karasu smacks his hand to his forehead, cursing Otoya under his breath. Of course he misread the dates. Now he's stuck here with you for the next few hours and he doesn't quite know what to do.

—otoya (10:42) : idk what ur deal is shes nice —yukimiya (10:42) : Agreed. I think you just need to talk to her karasu (10:43) : u guys dont get it —yukimiya (10:45) : Why? Does she make you nervous?

A dry swallow passes through Karasu's sandy throat as he reads Yukimiya's text. Even though it was quite a loud secret, Karasu couldn't deny the fact you did, in fact, make him somewhat on edge. But not for the reason you think.

It wasn't his fault. He didn't expect you to be so attractive in real life given that your contact information's profile picture was simply just your first initial. How was he supposed to act when such a pretty thing is around him at nearly all times? He's never been very good with women the way his roommates are. Terrified of making an accidental wrong move, Karasu distanced himself away from you, trying to make himself scarce in fear of doing so.

He groans before typing his reply back.

karasu (10:47) : no

Otoya replies back in an instant, and Karasu thinks he should put hair removal cream in his shampoo at his response.

—otoya (10:47) : liar lmfaooo bet someones got a crush uwu

He grits his teeth, trying to fight the blush that he can feel creeping on his cheeks.

karasu (10:47) : stfu moron karasu (10:48) : as if u weren't making goo goo eyes at her yesterday morning —otoya (10:48) : not my fault! —otoya (10:48) : theres just sumn abt a cute girl in a large tshirt and short shorts... 🤔 really makes u think... karasu (10:49) : bro thinks hes aristotle —yukimiya (10:50) : Please stay respectful

Yukimiya then texts something that makes Karasu's brain fizz out ever so slightly. He frowns.

—yukimiya (10:50) : Tabito, why don't you take this time to do something with her to get to know her? To help break the ice —otoya (10:50) : yaaa like yk how me and her went to that flea market together —yukimiya (10:51) : Yes exactly. Or how she and I visited that pop-up shop down on 5th

As much as he'd hate to admit it, Yukimiya did have a point. You got along with the other two men just fine, even having the ability to crack teasing jokes with them without a misunderstanding flying about. But he knew if he even tried to do something of such with you, if you took it the wrong way, he wouldn't know what to do with himself.

karasu (10:55) : idk —yukimiya (10:56) : It doesn't have to be extravagant. Just something casual —otoya (10:59) : ye like what chappell roan says🫡 —yukimiya (10:59) : That's not what that song is about —otoya (10:59) : oh...

Karasu shuffles his phone to the side and settles woefully into the couch. He shifts his eyes to your closed door, where he knows you're in probably not giving him the time of day.

On the other hand, you're wallowing in your misery still, trying to think of what to do that escapes Karasu's radius around you. Perhaps you should go to a museum? Or maybe try out that new pottery place down the block.

You opt for going to the grocery store, thinking that be a good distraction and would allow you to get some fresh air. Maybe you should try out that pasta recipe you've been seeing all over social media nowadays.

You launch up in your bed, determined to make this day about yourself and not to allow yourself just simply mope around in your room as you march towards the door. Hand grasping the doorknob, you fling it open, ready to clean yourself up in the bathroom but instead find yourself facing Karasu, who has a hand up that was clearly ready to knock on your door.

You jump back. "Oh! Hi there!"

"Ah," Karasu slowly puts his fist down, scratching the back of his neck. "Sorry. Didn't mean t'startle ya."

"No, you're fine," you choke out, wondering what business Karasu may have that landed him at your door. "Did... did you need something?"

You wince at your tone, since it comes out a little sharper than you intended. Karasu seems to have noticed it, seeing as how he thins his lips ever so slightly.

"Uh... well," he starts slowly. "Was just wonderin' if you needed anythin' from the store. I'm 'bout to head down there to do some shoppin'."

You blink owlishly at his comment before giving a stiff, brief chuckle. "What a coincidence," you mention, "I was actually gonna go there myself in a few."

You think of this as your chance to perhaps finally get some breathing space for yourself. An elation fills yourself at the thought, and you begin to conjure up your list to give him, but then he says something that brings the former feeling of tension back into you, heaving you down like sand.

Karasu juts his hands in his pockets, turning to directly face you, his red ears hidden from view from you, curtained by his dark hair.

"Well, if that's the case," he begins all too nonchalantly, going to share your gaze. "D'ya want to tag along?"

And now you're here, side-by-side in a semi-crowded market with the one roommate who you don't even know the age of.

Something in your common sense attempts to get the thought of he doesn't actually hate you through your head. But you still can't help the fact that every time you brush against him, when he looks at you, you think he's sending you a warning.

In Karasu's eyes, however, when he scanned the area of the market, he notices that it's quite busy, so he understands that there'll probably be some times where you just accidentally bump into him to avoid running into others, his eyes flickering to you each to just make sure you're okay.

"Jeez, this much for apples?" you exasperate as you put down the bag of the fruit.

Karasu looks over your shoulder, his cologne suddenly filling your senses. Sweet... you think, yet woody. A slight hint of sage, perhaps?

"Yer better off just gettin' the individual ones," he points out and juts his thumb behind him, breaking you out of your trance. "Y'can get the same amount for cheaper by a buck or so."

"Oh, really?" you perk up and whip your head around to view how much the individually stacked apples were, but before you can process it, you spin around too fast and twist over your own feet.

An elderly woman on a motorized shopping cart is just a few feet shy away from you, and you brace for impact from running into it, but you feel a yank of your arm tug you back just in time.

"Woah there," Karasu is quick to pull you in close to his chest, letting the elderly woman glide by without another care in the world. "Don't get too hasty now."

You feel heat skitter over your face, embarrassed at the fact that you can't even move your own limbs properly around him. You should've just stayed back home, sighing internally at how impulsive you could get. To think you could withstand an entire shopping trip with your roommate that you think stays away from you when you couldn't even stand being in the same room as him!

You mumble an apology, Karasu's cologne wavering about you again in an attempt to calm down.

He suddenly lets out a deep chuckle, the vibration of it thundering from his chest. You lift you chin up to see him... smiling? And it isn't one of those stiff ones that he often gives you nor the smirk he'd throw at Otoya or Yukimiya, it's a genuine one, one that shows his teeth and makes his eyes crinkle.

"Didn't think someone could get so excited 'bout mere apples," he remarks with a grin.

An incredulous stare glazes over your eyes, a lighter feeling in your chest suddenly gracing upon it.

Karasu takes notice of your staring and freezes. A dread leaks itself within his body, making him go rigid all of a sudden. Oh, he's really done it now. He can't go making such teasing jokes around you like you were Otoya or Yukimiya. You're not a guy either, it's not polite to be making such jokes around a girl barely knows.

An apology attempts to conjure in his tightened throat, but it dissolves the moment that he sees you break out into a smile yourself.

"Sorry," you breathe through a breezy laugh. "Economy's so bad nowadays that any good deal will get me reeling, y'know?"

Karasu's eyes soften when he spots your relaxed smile, one he's seen in passing but never to him, until now. And when you adorn it towards him and him only, he can't help but feel a fluttering feeling in his chest.

Yukimiya's words echo in his head. Break the ice.

"If that's the case," Karasu starts slowly. "The weather's gettin' peachy now. There's an actual farmer's market openin' soon downtown, and they sell their stuff for way cheaper than this crap."

He chews on the inside of his cheek, trying to avert his gaze away from your curious, awaiting one. He thinks those doe eyes could definitely beat a puppy's any day.

His breath hitches, confidence slowly building and falling as the seconds tick by.

Just break the ice.

"Would..." he coughs, clearing his throat. "W-would y'wanna go there with me... to check it out... next Saturday...?"

Karasu dares to turn his eyes back to you, where he finds you fondly smiling at him, assurance all over your features.

"I'd quite like that," you reply warmly.

The chicken plops into the pan with a hearty splat. Karasu winces.

"Shoot," he mutters, feeling a bit of the orange sauce flickering onto himself. "Didn't mean t'drop it that hard... did it get on ya?"

"A little bit," you laugh as you scoop up a bit of it from your arm and tasting it. Karasu looks for a sign of approval on your end to see if the pasta sauce is good on your favor and sighs when you nod contently. "Mm. Not bad."

The door to the loft clicks open and you avert your gaze to it after you sprinkle some salt into the boiling pot of water. In comes Yukimiya and Otoya, chattering about.

"Hi there," you greet, waving a hand.

Yukimiya is first to notice you both, surprise on his features when he sees his two roommates that had barely seemed to acknowledge each other since your move-in standing next to each other in the kitchen, cooking out of all things.

It's a domestic scene, one he thinks that you and Karasu would only accomplish in a year's-time or so given the current atmosphere. So it comes to a pleasant shock to him that the bull-headed Karasu actually took his advice for once and broke the ice by himself like a big boy.

"Smells good," Otoya hums contently and spots you and Karasu after Yukimiya. "Whatcha both cookin'? And can I have some?"

Otoya peers over Karasu's shoulder, the latter lightly shoving him back before Otoya can dip his dirty finger into the sauce. "Hold it, ya idjit. We're nearly done, relax."

"If you're able to actually, Otoya," you call over and jut your head towards the oven. "The garlic bread should be done by now. Would you mind taking it out so it can cool?"

"Can I get a piece?" Otoya asks, cheering under his breath when you nod as you roll your eyes.

Yukimiya watches as your pour in some pasta into the pot, noticing the way Karasu whistles haughtily as you laugh when the water violently bubbles.

"Ah, is this the marry-me chicken pasta I told you about the other day?" he asks, fighting a disappointment the builds when he acknowledges that he wasn't the one that got to cook it with you but rather Karasu, despite you and him have built a weekly-habit of cooking with one another.

"Yep!" you chime happily without a care in the world.

"I still think that the sauce is missin' somethin'," Karasu mutters. "Like there's not enough zing."

You peer over to him and take a little bit of the spare lemon leftover, squeezing a bit of it over the sauce and chicken. You take a spare spoon and sipping a bit of it. You then bring the spoon and its leftovers to Karasu's lips absentmindedly for him to try. "How's that?"

He pauses for a minute, breath hitching as you bring the same spoon that your lips touched for his to as well. He stutters but goes to lean in anyway, slurping it and tasting that tang that was missing.

Otoya's eyes narrow slightly as he places down the platter of bread.

Yukimiya's lips pull into a small frown.

You blink up at him. "Is that okay? I just added some more lemon."

"Yeah," Karasu breathes as steadily as he can muster. "yeah, it's good. Thanks."

"(Y/N)," Yukimiya announces aloud suddenly, averting your gaze to the brunette. He fixes on his usual demure smile on his face the moment you spotlight him. "Remember that new cafe that was being built around the corner? Turns out they're opening next weekend, d'you want to come with me?"

"Ah..." Otoya mutters lowly as he crunches on a piece of bread. "Why are you only inviting her?"

"I thought you guys don't like coffee," Yukimiya says casually, lips still fixed ever so lightly, but Otoya can tell there's a mild mockery behind that pretty face of his.

"I guess so," the latter says, sighing. "But... there's also the record shop also has its monthly 50% off sale on Saturday, remember, (Y/N)?"

Otoya's eyes go to glance at the record player you placed in the living room for decoration, yours and Otoya's collection of records piling up beneath it, your music tastes being one the things that you were able to break the ice with Otoya about. "I spotted that record you were talking about the other day, pretty sure it'll be a part of the sale if we can go next week."

A small bit of pity grazes on your face as you guiltily look back on the both of them from the kitchen island. Karasu fights the urge to smirk when he turns over the chicken in the pan, already knowing what you're going to say to them.

You scratch your cheek, smiling a little sadly at the two of them.

"I'm sorry guys, I'd love to go but," you wave a hand towards Karasu, who gives into temptation and throws a sly smile over his shoulder from behind you that makes the men you face frown and purse their lips. "Karasu and I have plans already that day to go to the opening of the farmer’s market..."

a/n. my re-run of new girl has inspired new heights it seems. also don't talk to me if u dont think otoya would vape bc ik that mf would hit a geek bar any time of the day /j (don't follow his example tho. keep them lungs clean, kids)

sorry that this was more focused on karasu than all three of them, but i prommy yukki and otoya will get their spotlight next time i write abt them (which will be soon hopefully! im having fun with this au)

thank you for reading as always! comments and reblogs are the best way to support your writers; they're always appreciated and never unnoticed <3

[satoriberry]

characters ; karasu tabito, otoya eita, yukimiya kenyu || wc ; 1.7k contains/cw ; gn!reader (though fem implied), no pronouns used, slight crack, roommates!au, modern!au, aged-up characters (mid-20s ish)

thinking about tabieitaken roommates!au new girl style, where you've finally had enough of your shitty landlord and your overpriced shoebox apartment after he pushes back his examination of your pipes that you think have been contaminated with rust for the nth time. not wanting to accidentally poison yourself any longer with the built-up rust inside them, you start finding new places to live and stumble upon a request for a roommate for a rather spacious loft. and the fact that you'll be paying only half of what you owe for the loft in comparison to your current apartment is an absolute steal!

when you send a request in for an interview, the person, karasu tabito asks when's the soonest you can come and is clearly more than elated in his email sent back to you when you say you can come after work tomorrow. something is telling you that there's a catch to this loft because you still can't believe you're only paying a fraction of a price for what seems to be a three bedroom apartment compared to the shoebox, but you shake it off, thinking that this opportunity only comes once in a lifetime and that if it comes to you, you should take it with full glory.

karasu comes to greet you at the door, a cordial smile on his face and tells you to make yourself comfortable, an accent evident in his tone. the loft is bigger in person, clearly, and it has a bunch of windows that let in a bunch of natural light. evidence of a man is scattered throughout the apartment, with some spare sweaters and a couple of beer cans sprinkled about, but it's still rather tidy.

after he asks you if you'd like some tea, he tells you to sit down at the couch, and the other roommates should be coming home soon after their grocery trip.

your head spins back to him. you blink.

"u-uh... other roommates?" you hastily say, taken aback.

karasu turns back to you, a cup of peach tea and honey in one hand for you. he raises a brow. "er, yeah...?"

"i-i thought," you begin and pull out your phone to double check the application. "i thought it was just you living here?"

karasu snorts and shakes his head, gently settling down the cup of tea in front of you.

"i wish," his kansai accent drawls with a laugh. "but no, i couldn't afford this all by myself. pretty sure i put down that we were lookin' for a fourth roomie?"

and to your disdain, you missed the fine print that was at the very bottom of the application, one that was hidden by the "read more" feature you didn't bother to check after your excitement seeing the cheap rent and spacious area took over. "fourth roommate needed, rent will be split across four ways equally" says the last bullet point.

your lips warble a bit. of course you overlooked such an important detail. you were so overconfident that you had found such an amazing place for cheap that you failed to try and find a justification for, only for reality to hit you hard on the head. and you had just signed off your lease, as well!

karasu notices your hesitation. "i know it doesn't come off as much comin' from a guy like me, but i swear my roomies are real nice and proper folks," he pauses, thinking over his words for a minute. "well, for sure one of them at least..."

three roommates... oh god. you ponder about. you've had roommates in the past—both good and bad—and you're sure you've dealt your fair share of rather horrible roommates back in your early adult years, so you think that four fully-fledged adults would have reached some point of maturity. the apartment did look spick and span after all.

the lock clicks suddenly at the front door.

"ah, they're here," karasu says with a grin. "don't worry, i promise they don't bite."

but his attempt at comfort doesn't do that much to ease your nerves, especially as you witness two other men walk into the loft with grocery bags in hand. your eye twitches.

one of them sports a rather fashionable manner—dressed in a light trench coat, hemmed jeans, and noir turtleneck, his hazelnut hair parted neatly with stylish glasses to top off his face.

the other... not so much. a beanie tops off a mess of white hair with a striking green lock falling over his face, a baggy white t-shirt reading "I ♡ MILFS" with grey sweatpants to match to clearly contrast the other man's outfit.

"they didn't have those cookies and cream protein bars you wanted tabi," beanie says nonchalantly as he takes off his slides. "so i got you some ice cream instead."

karasu grits his teeth. "ya fuckin' idiot. what makes you think ice cream is a good substitute for protein bars?"

glasses sighs and shrugs as he hangs up his coat, your presence to them still going unnoticed. "that's what i told him, but he insisted on it."

beanie shoves his hand into one of the plastic bags and holds up a cookies and cream ben & jerry's.

"they're the same flavor, aren't they?" he asks as he presents it to karasu. that's when he notices you sitting rigidly on the couch. his brows perk up. "oh hiya. you must be the roommate we're interviewing today."

you wave a stiff hand and give an even stiffer smile. "yes, hello. my name's—"

"—(y/n), right?" glasses asks you, a polite smile settled on his lips. when you really take a good look at him, you notice he's quite handsome, a certain charm radiating about him. "nice to meet you. i'm yukimiya kenyu."

his eyes exhibit a warmth that ever so slightly melts your frigid nerves, and you hypothesize that he's the one that's been keeping the apartment as tidy as it looks now.

"otoya eita," the other greets loosely, throwing a peace sign your way. you notice the way his eyes shift over your figure for a second before he nods quietly to himself, humming.

you squirm. karasu rolls his eyes and tells you not to pay him too much mind. "don't worry. he's a good guy at heart. a flirt, but you can just put him in his place if he needs it."

the other two settle themselves down next to karasu on the couch in front of you, yukimiya folding his hands courteously across his lap while otoya lays down lazily, manspreading a little. you don't think the personalities of three strangers you've just met have been so visible without the use of words.

yukimiya and karasu do most of the talking, asking if you have any pets or what do you usually do in the house. your answers fly by fluidly, many of them receiving nods of approval from the men. karasu asks you what you do for work, seeing if your salary would be able to cover your part of the rent.

"oh, um, i'm a manager for the marketing team for a talent agency," you say, feeling your nerves finally beginning to relax.

that piques yukimiya's interest. "oh really?" he asks, his eyes a little bright behind those glasses. "which one?"

"oh um, i doubt you've ever heard of it—" you sway off, a little shy about the fact you work for a rather prestigious company. "ego creatives group? does that ring a bell, at all?"

yukimiya gives you a charming laugh, a little astounded. "no way, that's the parent company of my agency! i work for flow talent management."

you give a little bit of a gasp that earns a chuckle out of karasu. "yukki here is a model himself part-time," he juts a thumb over to his brunette roommate. "a small world after all, huh?"

it's otoya's turn to speak up, his own ears perking up at the sound of your work and your connections. "so... does that mean you work for models... and stuff?"

yukimiya throws a warning glare. karasu pinches him on his arm, earning a whine from him. "what! can't a guy be curious?"

karasu points to a lone jar settled on the coffee table that has a post-it taped onto the front of it reading douchebag jar in sharpie. "that's worth at least a dollar."

otoya grimaces and pulls out a dollar bill, plopping it into the half-filled jar to your amusement.

the interview eventually ends and the men give you a tour of the loft and where you'll be staying. your bedroom is the second-largest one, one that has a large array of windows that look out into the city skyline ever so beautifully with exposed brick on one end. you think it's just ever so slightly smaller than the entirety of your own apartment, the spaciousness making you giddy and forgetting about the fact that you'd be sharing a space with three men.

"is it to yer likin'?" karasu asks as you walk about the room, though he thinks he already knows the answer based on your astonishment.

yukimiya grins as you examine the large closet space. "i admit, i'm jealous that you'd be getting all that closet space, but i figure you might have more clothes than i do."

otoya pouts when you feel the comfort of the queen bed, sighing pleasurably as you bounce about it. "you wouldn't happen to want to trade beds, would you?"

regardless, it's clear that the three men have come a unanimous agreement without exchanging words. given your answers, you'd be a pretty good person to room with, as you had no pets, you were financially stable, tidy, and would probably spend most of the time in your room given you often came home late.

as you prepare yourself to leave, you thank the men for welcoming you into their abode. you think you may still need some time to make a proper decision, since you don't seem to brush off the fact you'd be living with three men so easily, but "believe me... the offer seems tempting."

"actually, about that," otoya mutters, scratching the back of his neck. he flickers his eyes toward the other men, who avert their gaze away from you in the same guilty manner. you furrow your brows. otoya turns back to you and swallows a little thickly.

karasu takes on the liberty of breaking the ice. "so our rent is actually due in a few days and we sort of... lied to our landlord that we found another roommate already. we don't mean to rush you but—"

"—we'd need an answer by tomorrow at the latest," otoya finishes and juts a pen in your hand, him pulling out a wrinkled document of the lease's agreement from behind his pocket. "or today. like, right now, if you're able."

[satoriberry]

something so fucking embarrassing just happened to me in public, and i think that due to how simply humiliating it is, i've lost any kind of right to find other people's actions embarrassing or cringe. like forever.

[satoriberry]

how nanami deals with sensitive reader, who cries q lot;

nanami knows you’re sensitive, but sometimes, it still catches him off guard. like now.

you’re staring at your phone, bottom lip wobbling, eyes already glassy. he hasn’t even asked what’s wrong yet, and you’re sniffling.

“…what happened?” he finally says, setting his book down.

you blink up at him, looking utterly devastated. “the cat in this video… it just—” your voice cracks, and nanami braces himself. “it just got adopted, kento.”

he exhales, rubbing his temple, but the corner of his lips twitches. “and that’s… bad?”

“no, it’s wonderful,” you insist, clutching the phone to your chest. “but look at its face.” you shove the screen toward him, showing a small, scruffy cat being cradled by its new owner. the animal blinks sleepily, safe and content, completely unaware of the way it’s making you sob.

nanami watches the video for a moment, then looks back at you—your damp lashes, your trembling hands, the way you hiccup like this is the most emotional moment of your life.

he sighs, reaching for a tissue before tilting your chin up. “i see,” he murmurs, wiping your tears gently. “very tragic.”

you sniffle. “you’re being sarcastic.”

“i am,” he admits, but there’s no bite to it. just fondness. “but i’m happy for the cat.”

“me too,” you whisper. then your face crumples again. “it deserves everything.”

nanami doesn’t argue. instead, he tugs you close, letting you cry against his shoulder, already resigning himself to a lifetime of tissues and teary-eyed declarations about random animals on the internet.

—

nanami should be used to it by now. really, he should. but when he comes home to find you standing in the kitchen, hands frozen mid-stir over a pot of soup, tears streaming down your face, his heart stutters.

he rushes forward, hands on your shoulders. “what happened?”

you turn to him, lower lip quivering. “i was thinking about how good this is gonna taste, and i just—” you sniffle. “i got emotional.”

nanami stares at you. blinks. exhales.

“you’re crying… over soup?”

you nod, wiping your face with the sleeve of your sweater. “it’s just—it smells really good, and you had a long day, and i just want it to be perfect, and—” your voice cracks. “it just made me really happy.”

nanami pinches the bridge of his nose, suppressing the smile threatening to break free. he should be exasperated. maybe even a little concerned. but instead, he cups your face, brushing his thumbs over your damp cheeks.

“i’m sure it’ll be perfect,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “but if you cry into it, it might be a little salty.”

you gasp, swatting at him, and nanami just chuckles, wrapping an arm around your waist. he wonders how he ever lived without you and your ridiculous, beautiful, overwhelming emotions.

—

nanami wakes up to the sound of sniffling.

for a second, he thinks he imagined it. but then he turns over and finds you curled up beside him, the glow of your phone screen illuminating your face—your very wet, very teary-eyed face.

he rubs his eyes, squinting at you. “…what is it now?”

you sniff, barely sparing him a glance. “penguins, kento.”

“…penguins?”

you nod, scrolling with shaky fingers. “they mate for life.”

nanami groans, dropping his head back against the pillow. “we’ve been over this. multiple times.”

“but look at them!” you shove the phone in his face, showing a video of two penguins waddling side by side, their little flippers brushing together. “they’re holding hands.”

nanami sighs, dragging a hand down his face. he should tell you to go to sleep. but instead, he pulls you against his chest, resting his chin atop your head.

“we hold hands, too,” he mumbles.

you sniffle again, nuzzling closer. “yeah. that’s why i’m crying.”

he lets out a quiet laugh, pressing a kiss to your hair. “go to sleep, my little penguin.”

you gasp softly, clutching at his shirt. “kento.”

“hmm?”

“i’m gonna cry again.”

nanami just sighs, already reaching for the tissues.

—

nanami hears it before he sees it. the quiet sniffles. the sharp inhale. the telltale wobble in your breath.

he rounds the corner into the bedroom, fully expecting to find you watching another emotional animal video or reminiscing about a particularly moving meal.

instead, you’re standing in front of the closet, holding one of his dress shirts to your face.

he stops in the doorway, arms crossed. “…dare i ask?”

you turn to him, clutching the shirt like a lifeline. “it smells like you.”

nanami blinks. processes. exhales. “and that’s making you cry?”

“you don’t get it,” you whisper, voice trembling. “what if one day you go on a mission and—”

he’s across the room before you can finish that sentence, plucking the shirt from your hands and tossing it onto the bed. he cups your face gently, thumbs brushing away the tears before they can fall.

“i’m here,” he says, voice steady. “i’m not going anywhere.”

you sniff, fisting your hands in his sweater. “but—”

“no buts.” he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. “if you ever miss me, you don’t need my shirt. just come find me.”

your lips press together, eyes still glassy. “okay.”

nanami sighs, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close. “and if you cry over my laundry again, i’m putting you in the hamper.”

you gasp, smacking his chest, but he can feel the way you’re smiling against his shoulder.

[satoriberry]

hm.

[satoriberry]

anticipating ...

[satoriberry]

[satoriberry]

i asked my mom why men aren't fitnah the same way women are considered fitnah, hence the hijab, and her answer could really be boiled down to victim-blaming. like there's no substance in her argument. i'm so disapppointed and i don't know why.