#is this how I get capitalism to work for me?

[gojover]

the courtship affairs of a common man

summary: nanami kento prides himself on his discipline, efficiency, and ironclad work ethic. you, on the other hand, are a paragon of spontaneity and relentless optimism. as ceo, you’re used to getting what you want—and your next business venture? winning him over.

⇢ pairing: secretary!nanami kento x ceo!fem!reader ⇢ contains: fluff, mild angst, smut (oral sex, desk sex, protected sex, angry sex, slight dirty talk), office romance au, grumpy x sunshine, profanity, alcohol consumption, parental pressure to get married, corrupt corporate companies, implied misogyny—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! ⇢ word count: 17.9k ⇢ art credit: pinterest | read on ao3 here.

Nanami Kento is a man of routine. At precisely 7:26 A.M, he heads out of his apartment with his tie knotted perfectly and his shoes shined. At 7:43 A.M, he reaches the coffee shop he always frequents, and by 7:54 A.M, he walks out with an iced coffee with three shots of espresso (for himself) and a Mocha Cookie Crumble Frappuccino (for you). 

If he drives fast enough, he can clock in at his workplace by 8:28 A.M, and by the time he reaches his desk, it’s 8:31 A.M. He waits patiently for you to arrive sometime between 8:36 and 8:49. Usually, you arrive exactly at 8:45 A.M, and until then, Nanami works on making a list of all the tasks scheduled for today, in order of greatest priority.

It’s when the clock starts inching towards 9:25 A.M and you still haven’t arrived, that Nanami Kento starts to get a little bit worried.

At 9:26 A.M, Nanami finally sets down his pen. He isn’t the type to fidget, nor is he the type to worry unnecessarily, but there’s an undeniable itch in his chest—a quiet, nagging thought that something is off. He checks his watch. Then his phone. No missed calls, no unread messages. Highly unusual.

The drink he bought for you sits untouched on your desk, the condensation already forming a damp ring on the pristine surface. You always take the first sip as soon as you walk in, mumbling some variation of how you need caffeine to tolerate capitalism.

He waits exactly three more minutes before standing.

If anyone notices the way he strides towards the elevator with more urgency than usual, they don’t comment. The building’s lobby is its usual mess of suits and hurried footsteps, but your usual entrance—heels clicking against polished tile, a cheerful “Morning, Nanami!”—is absent.

He exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly as he debates his next move. Calling you outright would be overstepping. You are his boss. He is your secretary. If you were simply running late, you would text.

That means something must have happened.

Nanami adjusts his tie and makes the call anyway. The phone rings. Once, twice, three times—and then, finally, your voice; groggy and unmistakably hoarse.

“...Nanami?”

He clenches his jaw. “Where are you?”

You pause, followed by a rustling sound, as if you’re shifting under blankets. “Oh, shit.”

“You overslept,” Nanami states.

“Uh,” you say intelligently. “Maybe?”

Nananmi doesn’t sigh, though he wants to. You’re an excellent CEO—brilliant, quick-witted, sharper than most people twice your age. But responsible when it comes to your own well-being? Absolutely not.

There’s more shifting on your end, followed by a muffled groan. “I might be a little hungover.”

“Of course you are.” His glasses have slid down the bridge of his nose, so he adjusts the frame.

“Listen, it was my friend’s birthday—”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“Okay, mother.”

Nanami does sigh this time. He glances at his watch. If he leaves now, he can get to your apartment in twelve minutes, fifteen if traffic is bad. “I’m coming to get you.”

“Wait, what?”

“You’ll waste another thirty minutes trying to function. I’ll be there in twelve.”

There’s a long pause. Then, in a voice that’s entirely too suspicious for someone who just admitted to being hungover, you say, “...How do you know where I live?”

“I fill out your paperwork,” the secretary says.

Another pause. “This feels like an invasion of privacy.”

“You list it under the company address.”

“Well, I could be lying.”

“Are you?”

Silence. Then, begrudgingly, you admit, “No.”

Nanami does not have the time for this. He’s already halfway to the parking garage, briefcase in hand, and his patience—though formidable—is starting to wear thin. “Stay put. Drink some water. Don’t make it worse.”

You hum. “Define worse.”

“Don’t make me regret my employment here.” 

There’s a chuckle on your end before the call clicks off. Nanami shoves his phone into his pocket and fishes for his car keys. The headlights of his white Toyota Corolla blink back at him. He slides into the driver’s seat as quickly as possible and starts the engine.

Nanami Kento does not speed. He is a very responsible driver. Yet, here he is, at 9:41 A.M, speeding towards your apartment because you overslept, are likely still half-drunk, and have a board meeting in less than an hour. Objectively speaking, this should not be his problem. But Nanami has long-since accepted that you are his problem.

There is a margin of error in his schedule now, and he does not like it. His mind is already running through the necessary steps to minimise the damage.

Best Case Scenario (Highly Unlikely): You’re already awake, dressed and hydrated. You recognise the consequences of your actions. You get in the car immediately. The meeting proceeds as planned. (The probability of this happening is about the same as Gojo Satoru from HR filing his paperwork on time.)

Most Likely Scenario (Unfortunate but Expected): You answer the door in your pyjamas. You have not consumed a single drop of water. You groan at him, complain about work, and stall for at least ten minutes. He has to herd you into productivity like a kindergarten teacher. He gets you to the office just in time—barely.

Worst-Case Scenario (God Forbid): You’re still in bed. You refuse to move. You throw up on his shoes (he will quit). You open the board meeting by saying something absurd like, “Gentlemen, what if we invested in a company that just makes really big spoons?” and Nanami Kento gets fired.

He adjusts his tie at a red light. No, he refuses to let it reach that point.

By the time he pulls up to your apartment, he is ready. He checks his watch once more. 9:53 A.M. Nanami forgoes the elevator in favour of climbing up the staircase two steps at a time. Your apartment is on the fifth floor, and he knocks twice. Firm and precise.

The door swings open, and you are—well. Exactly what Nanami had expected.

You’re standing in the doorway wearing an oversized hoodie and what are definitely not your pants. Your hair is a tangled mess, mascara faintly smudged beneath your eyes. Nanami is not a man easily shaken, but this is certainly not how he expected to start his morning.

“You look awful,” he says.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

Nanami steps into your apartment uninvited. The place is surprisingly not a disaster, though for a luxury apartment, it does seem a tad bit shabby. An empty wine glass balances precariously on your coffee table, next to a half-eaten slice of cheesecake and—God help him—what appears to be a sequined tiara. 

He chooses not to ask. Instead, he sets his briefcase down, rolls up his sleeves, and heads straight for your kitchen.

You blink. “What are you doing?”

“Fixing this.” He pulls open your fridge, scanning the contents with a critical eye. It is, to his horror, mostly condiments. “When was the last time you ate a proper meal?”

You scratch your cheek. “Um. Last night?”

He shuts the fridge a little harder than necessary. “Cheesecake doesn’t count.”

“Rude. That cake was expensive.”

Nanami ignores you, opting instead to fill a glass of water. He hands it over, watching as you take a slow, reluctant sip. “Drink all of it,” he instructs.

“You sound like my mom,” you say, squinting at him.

“Yes, well, if your mother were here, I assume she wouldn’t have let you drink half your body weight in alcohol the night before a board meeting.”

“Wait.” Your eyes widen. “The board meeting.”

Nanami resists the urge to point out that this should have been your first concern, not the last. “Yes,” he says, “the one that starts in thirty-five minutes.”

You suck in a breath sharply. “I need to shower.”

“Obviously.”

“I don’t have time to do my hair.”

“You’re wearing it up.”

“I don’t have time for makeup.”

“You keep a bag in your office.”

You scowl. “You’re very annoying, you know that?”

Nanami gives you a pointed look, taking your empty glass of water from your hands. “Yes.”

You grumble something under your breath before disappearing into your room, the door clicking shut behind you. Nanami sighs. He takes off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose, before rolling his shoulders. He deserves a pay raise.

By the time Nanami drags you into the office, you’re at least functioning. He’s made sure of it. He forced you to drink two full bottles of water and a homemade electrolyte mix (which you gagged on); stopped you from wearing a sweatshirt that said Eat the Rich (your argument was that it was thematically appropriate); shoved a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich into your hands (which you sullenly ate in the elevator, glaring at him the entire time); and silently questioned all of his life choices.

And now, he stands beside you in the conference room, arms crossed, expression stoic, while you sit at the head of the long, polished table, addressing a room full of corporate executives.

To your credit, you’re holding your own. Your voice is even. Your sentences are concise. Your data is accurate. If Nanami didn’t know that you had been half-dead in bed forty minutes ago, he wouldn’t be able to tell.

The board members—a collection of old money, new money, and at least one guy who definitely inherited his position from his father—watch you with varying degrees of interest. Some, like Flower Bandana and Secret Tattoo from Marketing, nod along. Others, most notably, Wire-Rimmed Glasses and Charcoal Pants, pretend to skim the reports in front of them. Nepotism Baby, however, is very obviously checking golf scores under the table.

Nanami clocks all of it. Still, you power through.

“—and as you can see, our projected quarterly growth remains steady despite recent market shifts. However, to maintain momentum, we need to prioritise long-term investments in—” You pause. Nanami notices it immediately—a brief hesitation, a flicker of your fingers against the table.

You’ve forgotten what you were saying.

To the untrained eye, it is imperceptible. To Nanami, who has spent an ungodly amount of time observing you, it’s as obvious as a flashing neon sign. 

Before you can recover, Salt-and-Pepper Board Member—the one who always speaks in a tone that suggests he hasn’t been happy since the Reagan administration—leans forward. “Miss CEO,” he says, adjusting his gold watch, “before we move forward, I’d like to address something.”

“Of course,” you reply smoothly, though Nanami catches the way your hands tense against the table.

Salt-and-Pepper clasps his hands together. “While we appreciate your insights, I have to ask—” a pause, carefully calculated for dramatic effect— “what exactly is your long-term vision for the company?”

The room stills. It’s a trap. A carefully laid, passive-aggressive, MBA-scented trap. Nanami watches you closely. He knows this type of boardroom maneuver—an underhanded way to question your competence without outrightly saying it. Testing the waters to see if you’ll crack, so to speak.

You, as always, rise to the occasion.

“My vision?” you repeat, tilting your head slightly, voice measured. “That’s an interesting question.”

Nanami presses his lips together. He can see the gears turning in your head.

You lean back in your chair, lacing your fingers together. “If I had to sum it up, I’d say my long-term vision is simple: Growth, innovation, and ensuring that this company doesn’t crumble under the weight of its own outdated bureaucracy.”

Salt-and-Pepper’s eyes narrow just slightly. You continue.

“Because let’s be honest, gentlemen—” (Nanami notes how you conveniently exclude the few women in the room; they could do no wrong in your eyes) “—we could sit here, shuffle numbers, and pat ourselves on the back for maintaining the status quo, or we could actually build something for the future. Something sustainable, something adaptive. Something that doesn’t leave us scrambling every time the market shifts.”

Impressive. Nanami hides his amusement behind a neutral expression. You’ve managed to say absolutely nothing while making it sound like you’ve said everything. A skill only a true genius could master. Salt-and-Pepper’s eyebrows pinch. He opens his mouth—likely to challenge you—but before he can, Nanami steps in.

“Further details on our strategic initiatives can be found on page five,” he says, flipping to the appropriate section in the report. “You’ll find that the CEO’s approach aligns with our projected financial goals and ensures continued shareholder confidence.”

Translation: Shut up and read the damn report. Salt-and-Pepper huffs in irritation.

The meeting continues. Charts are analysed. Projections are debated. Wire-Rimmed Glasses tries to poke holes in your marketing budget, only for Secret Tattoo to shut him down with three lines of data and an unimpressed eyebrow raise. Nepotism Baby suddenly develops an interest in the conversation only when someone brings up potential tax incentives.

Throughout it all, Nanami stands beside you like a quiet, immovable force of nature, ready to step in whenever necessary—though, to his silent chagrin, you seem to be having fun.

“You know,” you say, after redirecting a particularly obtuse question from Charcoal Pants, “I was going to bring this up later, but since we’re already on the subject of outdated models—”

Nanami immediately dislikes where this is going.

“—I’d love to discuss our executive compensation structure.”

The temperature in the room drops several degrees. There’s a long, pointed silence. Salt-and-Pepper visibly tenses. Wire-Rimmed Glasses stops pretending to read his report. Charcoal Pants blinks very fast. Nanami sighs. You are testing his patience. He’s not sure what you’re trying to achieve by discussing potential salary cuts to the Board of Directors, but it is too late now, and he is in too deep.

“Compensation structure?” Salt-and-Pepper repeats, as if you’ve just suggested setting fire to the stock portfolio.

“Yes,” you agree. “As you all know, our yearly executive bonuses amount to a significant percentage of our net profits. While rewarding performance is important, I believe we should also explore options that align with our long-term company health.”

One of Salt-and-Pepper’s eyes twitches. “I see. And what exactly do you propose?”

“A more balanced structure. Something performance-driven, sure, but also weighted in a way that ensures we’re reinvesting into the company and our employees. After all, a company is only as strong as its people.”

“That’s a… bold suggestion.” Salt-and-Pepper smiles, but it is a smile in the way a wolf bares its teeth.

“Oh, I know.” You flash him a blindingly fake grin. “But that’s what visionaries do, right? Think boldly?”

The discussion moves forward. The board members clearly have no interest in discussing executive pay cuts, and after five minutes of unproductive back-and-forth, Nanami steps in to smooth things over.

“We can table this discussion for another time,” he offers. “Let’s return to our key agenda items.”

Translation: You are all embarrassing yourselves. Move on. Thus, the meeting drags to an exhausting close. As the last board member exits, the conference room falls into silence. Nanami breathes out slowly. He turns his attention back to you—where you sit, still slumped in your chair, spinning a pen between your fingers. 

You look pleased with yourself. Of course, you do.

“You’re mean,” he says plainly.

You grin, unapologetic. “But you’re still here.”

Nanami presses his lips together, but he doesn’t deny it. You’re right; he is still here. Still standing beside you, still following you through your commitments and obligations, still making sure you don’t self-destruct before lunch, let alone the fiscal year. Still watching.

Nanami Kento isn’t blind to his own habits. He is not a man given to sentiment, nor is he someone who allows himself to be distracted. He has spent years cultivating a certain discipline, a carefully maintained distance between himself and his work. 

Yet, here he is.

Here he is, noticing things. Like the way your fingers tap absently against the table when you’re thinking. The way you tilt your head ever-so slightly when someone challenges you, as if already preparing a rebuttal. The way you wield charm and sharp wit like a weapon, disarming a room full of men who think they can rattle you.

Here he is, memorising things. Like the exact cadence of your voice when you’re amused versus when you’re irritated. The way you argue, not just for the sake of arguing, but because you genuinely believe things should be better.

Here he is, wondering things. Like why the sight of you so thoroughly holding your own in that room makes something in his chest feel curiously, infuriatingly warm. 

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t worry about you, shouldn’t be so aware of the way your presence has begun to take up space in his thoughts.

Nanami isn’t sure when it started. Maybe it was the first time you dragged him into a fight you had no business winning, arguing down a board member twice your age with nothing but facts and deduction. Maybe it was the morning you shoved a coffee into his hands without preamble, grumbling something about corporate capitalism slowly draining the life out of him. Maybe it was when he realised that despite your recklessness, despite your exhausting tendency to push every limit—

You were trying. 

Maybe that’s why he stays. Not because you’re impossible. Not because you test his patience on a daily basis, but because, despite it all, Nanami believes in you. Maybe—just maybe—that belief is starting to feel like something else entirely.

He clears his throat, shaking off whatever momentary lapse has settled over him. “Your next meeting is in fifteen minutes,” he says, already turning towards the door. “Try not to fall asleep before lunch.”

“No promises,” you call after him, and Nanami forces himself not to look back.

The next morning, you arrive at 8:45 A.M on the dot, and though you don’t greet Nanami with a chipper good morning wish, you do shove a neatly-wrapped roll of melonpan into his arms. 

“For yesterday,” you explain. “Thanks for picking me up even though it’s not a part of your job.”

Nanami stares at the melon bread in his hands. It’s soft, and still warm, wrapped in crinkly butter paper. For a moment, he simply blinks at it, as if it’s some kind of foreign object, something misplaced in the orderly structure of his morning routine. (It is.) 

Then, he looks at you. You’re already at your desk, halfway through flipping through a manila folder, scanning through documents with your brows furrowed in concentration. But Nanami catches it—the way your fingers loosely hold the paper, the way your shoulders aren’t as stiff as they were yesterday. It’s an offering—but more than that, it’s you remembering, because the name of the bakery printed on the butter paper is his favourite one.

He sets the melonpan carefully on the desk beside his coffee. “It was never not part of my job.”

“Huh?” Your head snaps up.

“Looking after you.”

Your brows knit together in something Nanami recognises as your default setting: Suspicion. “That’s not in your job description.”

“It should be,” he says, shrugging.

Your expression flickers—just for a second—before you roll your eyes. “Great. So I’ve officially become a liability. Good to know.”

“You’ve been a liability since day one.”

“Wow. You’ve been holding onto that one, huh?”

“I’m simply stating facts.” Nanami picks up the bread, breaking off a piece, and takes a bite. The outer layer of cookie dough is crisp, and it melts on his tongue with just the right amount of sweetness.

Your lips press together, like you’re trying to fight off a smile. “So?”

Nanami chews, swallows, and nods once. “Acceptable.”

“Oh, shut up. You love it.”

He says nothing, merely covers up the bread with the butter paper once more and places it next to his coffee once more. You look pretty today, he thinks. You’ve recovered from yesterday’s series of meetings. You’re smiling more. It might turn out to be a good day after all. Nanami doesn’t allow himself to linger on the thought. He reaches for his coffee, taking a sip, while you return to your documents, flipping a page with a little too much force.

“You have a meeting at ten,” he reminds you.

“I know.”

“And a working lunch with Legal.”

You make a noise of protest. “Not the suits. Again.”

“They have concerns about the expansion,” Nanami says mildly.

“They always have concerns.” You sigh, tilting your head back against your chair. “I swear, they enjoy making my life difficult.”

Nanami hums noncommittally. It’s not an argument he’s inclined to entertain—mostly because he knows you’ll win, and you’ll be smug about it. Instead, he glances at his watch. “You have exactly ten minutes before the executive team starts pestering me about your whereabouts.”

You make a face, dropping your folder onto your desk with a soft thud. “Can’t I just—skip?”

Nanami gives you a look. You groan and stretch your arms above your head, letting out a soft sigh before reaching for your pen. He watches as you jot something down in the margins of your notes. You’re still tired, he realises. Maybe not visibly, not in the way you were yesterday, but he sees it. The way you rub your temple when you think he isn’t looking, or the way your posture shifts just slightly when you exhale. It’s ridiculous, really, how attuned he is to you.

He clears his throat. “I rescheduled your two-thirty to tomorrow.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

“Because you’ll need the break.”

You purse your lips, considering this, and for a second, he thinks you’ll argue. But then, to his quiet surprise, you nod. “...Okay.”

The ten o’clock meeting is exactly as tedious as Nanami expects it to be. The executive team drones on about projections and budget allocations, with at least three separate tangents about “synergy” and “maximising operational efficiency.” Nanami watches as you nod along at all the right moments, feigning interest while you fiddle with your pen. He knows you’re not actually absorbing any of it—your attention is already elsewhere, likely preoccupied with the looming meeting with Legal. 

(He knows this because, at one point, you doodle a tiny stick figure on the margins of your notes. When the CFO asks for your thoughts, you barely miss a beat before delivering a perfectly rehearsed response.)

When the meeting ends, he follows behind you. You stretch discreetly, rolling out your shoulders, and when you glance at him, your expression is a silent plea for mercy.

Nanami sighs. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you expect me to spare you from your next obligation.”

“But you could,” you say, all mock innocence.

“I won’t,” he answers.

You heave a sigh. “You’re heartless.”

“I’m efficient.”

“Same thing.”

“You have twenty minutes before your next meeting,” Nanami says instead. “Eat something.”

“Okay, boss.”

Your secretary rolls his eyes. “You’ll thank me later.”

You do, albeit reluctantly. The legal team’s working lunch is predictably dull, full of jargon and contingency plans and hypothetical risks that you pretend to take notes on. At some point, you throw Nanami a look so filled with unspoken suffering that, if he were a softer man, he might have pitied you. 

See? your expression seems to say over the rim of your coffee cup, eyes flat with boredom. This is my suffering.

Nanami lets his mouth twitch upwards. You’ll survive.

You don’t know that. You narrow your eyes at him.

You do survive—just barely—through an hour of suffocating legalese, sitting through discussions on compliance policies and liability frameworks with a blank notepad and polite nods. You haven’t written anything down except Help me in the margins, which Nanami had caught a glimpse of when you’d shifted the notepad slightly. When the meeting finally, mercifully, ends, you slump back in your chair, stretching your legs out beneath the conference table with an exaggerated groan.

“I deserve a reward for making it through that,” you mutter.

Nanami flips through his schedule. “Your reward is not getting sued.”

“That’s a terrible reward,” you retort, scrunching your nose.

“It’s an important one.”

“You’re no fun, you know that?” you say, but there’s no real bite to it. Just annoyance, not directed at him.

“I do,” Nanami says, without missing a beat.

You huff a soft laugh, shaking your head before pushing yourself to stand. He follows suit, gathering his notes. It’s only when you step out of the conference room that he notices it again—the way your fingers tap absently against your arm, the slight crease in your forehead.

You’re preoccupied. Not just with work—no, he’d recognise that kind of stress easily. This is something else.

Nanami doesn’t pry. He never does. If you wanted to talk about it, you would. But when you step into the elevator and don’t immediately pull out your phone or launch into complaints about Legal, he speaks before he can stop himself. “What’s on your mind?”

You turn to him, mildly surprised. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been distracted all morning,” he says evenly.

“It’s nothing serious,” you say, a little softer than usual. “Just… something personal.”

That’s more than he expected you to admit. Nanami nods. He doesn’t push further or demand an explanation, but he asks, “Do you need anything?”

“I—” Your fingers still against your arm. “No. I’m fine.”

Nanami Kento doesn’t believe in prying. He’s spent years making sure the lines between professional and personal stay intact, clean and neat. You, however, have spent just as long ignoring those lines completely. He could leave it at that. Should, probably. It’s not his place to push, not when you so rarely let people in. But the problem is, he knows you too well—or, at least, better than most. He knows you well enough to recognise when you’re on the verge of running yourself into the ground, or to see through the half-hearted distractions you use to keep yourself from thinking too much.

The elevator doors slide open, and you step out first, wringing your hands like you’re physically squeezing out whatever was on your mind. He doesn’t comment when you pick up your pace, diving headfirst back into work as though you were never distracted in the first place.

It’s strange, he thinks, this feeling that lingers in his chest as he watches you settle back behind your desk. He’s always known his role in your life. He’s your secretary, your buffer against boardroom politics, the person who keeps your world running just a little more smoothly. He arranges your meetings, reorganises your schedule, and reminds you to eat when you’re too caught up in your work to remember.

Still. 

There are moments like these—moments where the boundary blurs, where the concern twists into something deeper. Moments where he finds himself wanting to do more than just keep you organised. 

It’s a dangerous thought, one he has no business entertaining, so he doesn’t.

Nanami Kento is not a morning person. He is, however, a responsible person, which means he is usually awake at a reasonable hour, even on weekends. Today is no exception.

His apartment is quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall—the minute hand inches towards 7:42 A.M—and the occasional rustle of a turning page as he reads. A fresh cup of coffee sits within reach, steam curling lazily into the air. It’s black, strong, and exactly the way he likes it—no unnecessary sweetness, no frills. This is how he prefers to spend his time off: A slow morning, a good book, and silence.

Then his phone buzzes. Nanami glances at the screen, frowning slightly at the name that appears. You. He sighs, already feeling a headache coming on. Nothing good ever comes from you calling him on a weekend. Or at all, really. 

Still, he picks up. “What?”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence on the other end. Then he hears you take in a breath, like you’re working up the nerve to speak. “Hey, um— Are you busy?”

“It’s my day off.” Nanami closes his book and leans back in his chair, his fingers pressing against his temple.

“I know,” you say quickly. Your voice sounds a little different—softer, almost unsure. That alone puts him on edge. He isn’t used to you hesitating. “That’s… actually why I called.”

His frown deepens. He recognises this setup. This is how people sound right before they ask him for something. Nanami shifts the phone to his other ear, already resigned. “What do you want?”

“Okay, first of all,” you say, defensive already, “I resent the implication that I only call you when I need something.”

“That is the only time you call me.”

“...Okay, fine. That’s fair.”

Nanami sighs again. He swears he isn’t the sighing sort of person, but you seem to bring out sides of him he never knew existed. “What is it?”

There’s another pause, longer this time. He hears the faint sound of movement—maybe you shifting your weight, maybe you fidgeting. He almost rolls his eyes. 

“There’s a flea market today,” you say, but there’s something different about the way you say it. Your voice is notably quieter, almost hesitant. “I, um… I wanted to go, but I don’t really have anyone to go with.”

Nanami stills. You? Hesitant? You, who has no problem bossing him around at work, who never hesitates to demand his time and attention, shy about asking him for a favour? Something about the way you say it makes his chest unfurl with warmth.

“So,” you continue, voice uncertain in a way he isn’t used to, “I was wondering if maybe you’d wanna come with me?”

Nanami doesn’t answer right away. He could say no. In fact, he probably should say no. It’s his day off, and he has no interest in spending his weekend surrounded by noisy crowds, looking at secondhand trinkets he doesn’t need. 

He exhales, already regretting this. “What time?”

“Be ready in an hour?” you ask hopefully. “Dress casual. But, like, not too casual.”

“I’m hanging up now,” he says.

“Wait—”

Nanami places his phone down on the table and stares at his coffee like it has personally betrayed him. How did this happen? One moment, he’s enjoying his peaceful morning. The next, he’s been roped into spending his day off at a flea market. It’s fine. He can handle this. He just needs a plan.

Best Case Scenario (Highly Unlikely): You’re already waiting outside when he arrives. You haven’t made any impulse purchases within the first ten minutes. You respect his personal space. You finish browsing in a reasonable amount of time, and Nanami returns home with his sanity intact. (This is about as likely as Gojo Satoru from HR suddenly developing the ability to stay awake for longer than five minutes during important meetings.)

Most Likely Scenario (Unfortunate but Expected): You’re ready, but you’re too excited. You get distracted by every shiny object at the market. You see a vintage typewriter and suddenly develop an unrealistic dream of becoming a novelist. You haggle dramatically over an item that costs the same as a cup of coffee. He ends up carrying all your bags.

Worst-Case Scenario (God Forbid): You’re waiting outside, but you’ve already made three online purchases while waiting. You spot a tarot card reader and decide he needs his fortune told. You find a vintage sword and somehow convince him to buy it. He loses you in the crowd and considers leaving you there. He doesn’t. (Unfortunately.)

Nanami arrives exactly on time, at 8:42 A.M, dressed in a dark olive button-up with the sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows, paired with well-pressed slacks and his usual leather shoes. His watch glints under the afternoon sun as he adjusts his glasses, scanning the crowd until his gaze lands on you.

You’re waiting near the entrance, shifting your weight from foot to foot with barely contained excitement. You’re wearing a breezy sundress, the colour bright against your skin. A canvas tote hangs from your shoulder. You rock onto your toes when you spot him, waving as if he might somehow miss you in the small crowd. Nanami sighs. You look pretty, he thinks, but when has he ever not thought so?

Just like that, Nanami Kento finds himself being led—against all better judgement—towards the market, where the streets are lined with stalls draped in colourful awnings, and the scent of saffron and cherries mingles in the air. Vendors call out their wares, old books are piled up in uneven stacks on wooden crates, and delicate silver necklaces and earrings gleam in glass cases. Somewhere, a musician plays a soft tune on a violin, the notes drifting through the air like the slow unraveling of a ribbon.

You walk slightly ahead, turning back every so often to ensure Nanami is still there, as if he might bolt at the first opportunity. How stupid of you. As if he’d go anywhere else. The man doesn’t miss the way your shoulders are loose, the way you no longer hold tension in your frame like a coiled wire. This is why weekends exist, he supposes.

When you reach a stall selling secondhand books, you stop abruptly. “See? This is nice,” you say, running a finger along the worn spine of a novel. “Better than sitting in a meeting with Legal.”

Nanami hums. His gaze is on you. You pick up a book with a cracked leather cover, flipping through its yellowed pages. Then, suddenly, you turn to him, holding it up.

“Tell me,” you muse, lips curving. “Have you ever been wooed in a flea market before?”

He blinks. “I don’t think so.”

You clear your throat and read aloud: ‘...and he regarded her with a most admiring countenance, struck by the quickness of her wit and the sharpness of her tongue…’

Nanami crosses his arms as you hold the book open like a scholar about to present a groundbreaking thesis. The corners of his lips twitch, but he schools his expression into something neutral. “Is that so?”

You nod solemnly. “A most admiring countenance,” you repeat, tapping the page. “That’s what it says. I think that’s a very poetic way of describing how you look at me all the time.”

He looks at you, ready to say something horrifically stupid, probably, but then you grin, mischief shining in your eyes, and he shakes his head with a quiet sigh. “You do realise that’s from a romance novel.”

“Oh, I’m very aware. I just thought, maybe, if I read enough passages, you might be so swept away by the romance of it all that you’ll fall madly in love with me.”

There it is. That ridiculous, absurd, entirely unserious thing you do—teasing him just enough to see if you can get a reaction. Nanami knows this game well.

“Hm.” He tilts his head slightly, his voice even. “And if I say it’s working?”

You blink. For once, you don’t have a quick-witted reply. Your fingers tighten around the book as you search his expression for something—anything—to indicate that he’s joking. But Nanami is frustratingly unreadable, his gaze steady, the sunlight catching the sharp planes of his face.

You shift, looking back at the book. “Then I’d say I need to find more material,” you mumble. “Something more compelling.”

He chuckles, amused at the way you retreat when met with your own words. “Of course.”

You huff, flipping through the pages again. He watches as your fingers dance over the old paper, as you scan each line with an almost childlike curiosity. There’s a sort of reverence in the way you handle books, as if each one holds a tiny universe inside. Nanami understands. He takes a step closer, just enough to catch the scent of your perfume—light, familiar. You’re so engrossed in your search that you don’t even notice. 

“This one’s nice,” you murmur, tapping another passage with your fingertip before reading it aloud. “‘To be looked at with such devotion… it is a wonder she could bear it at all.’ Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

Nanami doesn’t say anything. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. 

You brighten instantly. “So you are being wooed.”

He hands over a few bills to the vendor without acknowledging your comment. “Just buy the book.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, barely holding back a laugh, before placing the book inside your tote bag. Your fingers brush against his briefly—just the lightest touch, gone too soon. The transaction is done, and the book is safely tucked away, but Nanami doesn’t know why his mouth suddenly feels too dry, or his clothes feel too warm.

“You’re a very easy target,” you say, tilting your head up to look at him.

“Enlighten me.”

“Well, for one, you act all stern and no-nonsense, but you just bought a book because I read one romantic passage out loud. That, Nanami, is the behaviour of a man who is, against his better judgement, deeply susceptible to my charm.”

Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he turns and starts walking down the narrow aisle between the market stalls, knowing full well that you’ll follow. You fall into step beside him. “Hey, I wasn’t done talking.”

“I know.”

“You’re so rude.”

“You’ll live.”

You roll your eyes and he lets you get distracted by the next few stalls—one selling mismatched ceramic mugs, another displaying old postcards with faded ink scrawled across them. You pause at a stall selling silver jewelry, fingers trailing over delicate rings arranged on a velvet-lined tray.

Nanami watches, hands in his pockets, as you try on a ring, twisting it around your finger before putting it back. “Not getting one?” he asks.

You shrug. “I don’t know. I like the idea of having one, but I don’t think I’d wear it often enough to justify it.”

He glances at the tray, his gaze settling on a simple silver band. He briefly considers buying it for you, but the thought unsettles him for reasons he doesn’t want to examine too closely. He says nothing and waits for you to move. 

You wander through the market together, stopping here and there—laughing when you find a truly heinous painting of a cat, nudging Nanami when you spot a tarot reader just to see his reaction, groaning dramatically when he refuses to let you buy a vintage sword. (He doesn’t trust you with a sharp object. This is a reasonable stance, he thinks.)

By the time the afternoon sun hangs high, painting the streets in gold, Nanami finds himself carrying a small bag of your purchases despite his earlier aversion—not because you asked, but because, without thinking, he took it from you when your hands were full, and somehow, neither of you mentioned it.

Nanami Kento is brushing his teeth, already halfway through his night routine, when his phone buzzes against the bathroom counter. He considers ignoring it—nothing good ever comes out of late-night calls—but then he sees your name flashing on the screen, again. He closes his eyes. He spent half the Saturday with you at the flea market. It’s a Sunday night, and he’s already thinking about the miserable Monday morning waiting for him. He doesn’t need whatever nonsense you’re about to tell him. Still, he picks up the phone.

A sigh leaves him, muffled by the toothbrush in his mouth. He spits, rinses, and presses the call button. “What?”

“Nanami,” you say, pathetically slurred.

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“No, listen, listen,” you insist, voice wobbly. “I have—a problem.”

“Of course, you do,” Nanami says. “Where are you?”

“At home.” There’s a rustling sound on the other end, like you’re rolling around on a couch, or maybe tangled up in a blanket that you don’t have the coordination to escape from. “I made it home all by myself. I think that’s really impressive. You should say you’re impressed.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re so mean,” you whine. Then, lower, in a voice so pitiful he almost snorts, “I think I’m dying.”

Nanami checks the time. 10:34 P.M. He should tell you to drink some water and go to sleep. He should just hang up. From the other end of the line, you let out a tiny, miserable noise. It’s barely a sniffle, more like a small whimper of distress—pathetic, and fleeting, but it sits wrong with him. He stands there for a moment, staring at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, waiting for the irritation to take over. It never does.

Instead, his eyebrows furrow in something that isn't quite a frown, but close enough. Then, he grabs his coat. If he leaves now, he can reach your apartment in twelve minutes, fifteen if traffic is bad.

Your apartment is unlocked when he gets there. Nanami pushes the door open, stepping inside and toeing off his shoes. He barely has the time to take in the mess—your shoes kicked off in two completely different directions, your bag lying lifeless in the middle of the floor, clearly dropped mid-stride—before you come stumbling out of the kitchen, gripping a glass of water like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.

“You came,” you breathe, eyes wide. “My saviour.”

He frowns. “Why is your door unlocked?”

You wave a hand, dismissive. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

“Why are you mad?” You blink at him, wobbling slightly where you stand, and tilt your head like he’s the one being unreasonable.

Nanami presses his lips into a thin line. Instead of answering, he reaches out to flick you on the forehead. You yelp, nearly dropping your glass. “That’s for being careless.” He folds his arms. “How much did you drink?”

“Mm. Enough.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Enough to want to die, but not enough to actually die,” you clarify, solemn. “Does that help?”

“No.”

You snicker at his flat tone, but it quickly turns into a hiccup. Eyes wide, you slap a hand over your mouth, until you relent and start giggling uncontrollably. Nanami watches you, expressionless. He has never been more tired in his life.

Without another word, he moves past you and into your kitchen. “Sit down. I’ll make you something to sober up.”

“I don’t wanna sober up,” you whine, trailing after him.

He eyes you critically, pulling open a cabinet in search of honey and ginger. “What’s your excuse for getting drunk this time? Another friend’s birthday party?”

You snort. “Don’t be silly, Nanami. You’re the only friend I have.”

He stills. You blink at him, swaying slightly. He ignores the warmth creeping up his cheeks, and tells you to sit down before you fall over. You huff, but oblige, dragging a chair out and collapsing into it. Your head flops onto the counter, cheek squished against the cool surface. “You’re kinda good at this,” you mumble.

Nanami doesn’t bother looking at you as he fills the kettle. “It’s just tea.”

“No,” you say, voice thick with something close to admiration. “Like. Taking care of people.”

His hands still for a fraction of a second before he returns to slicing ginger. He doesn’t acknowledge your words, but something in his chest twists. It’s not like it’s hard to take care of you—you stumble through life with the kind of reckless abandon that practically demands someone step in before disaster strikes. He glances at you. Your arms are folded under your head, body lax, but your eyes are distant, slightly unfocused.

He asks, “What happened?”

You blink sluggishly, turning your head just enough to look at him. “Huh?”

“You don’t drink like this for no reason,” he says. “What happened?”

Your lips purse. You look like you’re debating whether to brush him off or tell him the truth. Then, with a hiccup and sniffle, you mumble, “My parents want me to get married.”

“What?” 

Your nose wrinkles, like the very thought is giving you a headache. “It’s stupid,” you grumble. “They want me to meet some guy, settle down, be stable or whatever. Like that’s something I can just do.” You lift your head slightly, eyes glassy, lower lip wobbling. “I don’t wanna get married.”

Nanami swallows. There’s something painfully childlike in the way you say it, as if you’re afraid of being forced into something you can’t escape from. Your face is flushed from the alcohol, but your expression is unguarded. He could be rational about this—tell you that you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, that it’s your life. But he knows that’s not what you need right now.

Instead, he reaches out, pressing his palm against the top of your head, warm and steady. He hears your sharp intake of breath.

“You don’t have to get married if you don’t want to,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “No one can make you.”

You stare up at him, wide-eyed. The room is still. The only sound is the quiet whistle of the kettle coming to a boil. Then, like a switch has flipped, you sniffle, rubbing at your nose with the sleeve of your sweater. “You’re so nice to me, Nanami.”

“I really am.”

“I should marry you,” you say seriously.

He pulls his hand back immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?” you say, lips quirking into a lazy grin. “You afraid you’d fall in love with me?”

Nanami levels you with a flat look. “I’m afraid you’d forget that we ever got married in the first place.”

You cackle, unbothered, and he shakes his head, exasperated. The kettle clicks off. Nanami turns back to the counter, pouring the hot water into a mug. He stirs in the honey and hears you sigh behind him.

“I mean it, though,” you say, softer now. “I don’t wanna get married. Not to someone I don’t love, or ‘cause my parents think I should.”

Nanami glances at you over his shoulder. Your face is half-hidden behind your arms again, but your eyes are clearer now, a little more serious despite the alcohol buzzing through your system. He walks over, setting the tea down in front of you, and says, “Then don’t.”

You blink up at him again. He nudges the mug towards you, and you wrap your hands around it, staring down at the amber liquid. 

Nanami inhales slowly. “Now drink your tea and go to bed.”

You hum, blowing gently on the surface before taking a sip. Then, peeking up at him through your lashes, you say, “Will you stay?”

He hesitates. It’s late. He has work tomorrow. You have work tomorrow. But when he looks at you—tired, drunk, a little lost—he knows he won’t be able to leave until he’s sure you’re okay. “...I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

You smile sleepily, satisfied, and take another sip of your tea.

The board votes. 

Salt-and-Pepper calls it. Wire-Rimmed Glasses raises his hand first, the corporate equivalent of a teacher’s pet. Charcoal Pants follows, though his fingers twitch with uncertainty. Nepotism Baby—who has been thoroughly checked out for the past forty-five minutes—glances up from his phone just long enough to nod vaguely before going back to whatever meaningless app he’s scrolling through. Nanami watches you from the corner of his eye. You don’t move.

Salt-and-Pepper looks pleased. “Well, that’s that. We’ll move forward with drafting the initial—”

“Wait,” Secret Tattoo from Marketing cuts in. “Are we seriously doing this?”

Salt-and-Pepper’s eyebrows rise, as if he hadn’t expected resistance. Foolish of him. “Is there an issue?”

An issue? Oh, where to begin. Your fingers drum once, twice, against the table. “Zen’in Industries.” You say it like you’re testing the words, rolling them around in your mouth to see if they taste any less like poison. “That’s the best we could do?”

Wire-Rimmed Glasses adjusts his frames. “They’re the most viable partner given the timeline.”

“That’s debatable.”

“The most viable approved partner,” Salt-and-Pepper clarifies. “We’ve reviewed the alternatives.”

“You reviewed them wrong,” Flower Bandana mutters under her breath.

Secret Tattoo leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “I don’t like it either.”

“This decision was made with careful consideration,” Salt-and-Pepper says. His left eye twitches, and he turns back to you. “Miss CEO, while I understand your concerns, business decisions must be made pragmatically, not emotionally.”

Translation: Suck it up and sign the damn papers.

You tilt your head. “Right. And pragmatism is why we’re aligning ourselves with a company whose leadership has been, let’s see, sued five separate times in the last decade for fraudulent business practices, labour violations, and—oh, my favourite—potential ties to organised crime?”

Wire-Rimmed Glasses clears his throat. “Those cases were dismissed.”

“They barely avoided a federal indictment,” you say.

Nepotism Baby suddenly chimes in. “Zen’in’s big. They’ve got resources.”

Nanami resists the urge to sigh. Yes, genius, that’s how companies work. You shoot the boy an unimpressed look, and say, “They also have a history of—how do I put this politely—being absolutely terrible.”

Charcoal Pants shifts uncomfortably. “That’s a bit—”

“Am I wrong?”

Secret Tattoo raises a hand. “Would now be a bad time to remind everyone that they also had an entire warehouse shut down for safety violations?”

“That was an isolated incident,” Wire-Rimmed Glasses says.

“Was it?” you ask. “Because my notes say it happened twice.”

Nepotism Baby leans towards Wire-Rimmed Glasses. “Wait. Twice?”

Salt-and-Pepper clears his throat. “Miss CEO, I assure you—”

“No, really, help me understand.” You lean forward, elbows on the table. “Because last I checked, we weren’t in the business of giving ethics violations a seat at our table.”

“This partnership will allow us to expand at a rate we can’t achieve alone.”

“Uh-huh. And remind me again, what’s the exact rate we’re aiming for? Because if you’re simply going to say something like, faster than usual, I feel like there are other ways to do that. Like, I don’t know, hiring more people. Investing in R&D. Not selling our souls to a family that definitely has bodies buried somewhere.”

Nepotism Baby looks even more alarmed. He leans back towards Wire-Rimmed Glasses. “Wait. Bodies?”

“Metaphorically,” Charcoal Pants says weakly.

You click your tongue. “Probably.”

“The decision has been made.” Translation: Sit down and deal with it. Salt-and-Pepper’s patience has officially run out. Flower Bandana shakes her head. Secret Tattoo mutters under her breath about corporate bootlickers.

Your fingers curl around the pen in front of you. Nanami, ever the observer, sees it immediately—the way you stiffen, the way your expression shutters, before you school it into something blank. “Fine,” you say coolly. “If that’s what the board wants.”

Salt-and-Pepper nods, pleased. “I’m glad we could come to an understanding.”

The meeting adjourns. The board members leave. Salt-and-Pepper sniffs condescendingly in your direction before stepping out. Nepotism Baby stretches, lets out an obnoxiously loud yawn, and wanders off. Charcoal Pants moves quickly, as if afraid you might call him back, and Wire-Rimmed Glasses follows him. One by one, they filter out, until the conference room is empty, save for you and Nanami.

Your fingers uncurl from the pen you’ve been gripping so tightly that there are deep grooves in your skin. You set it down. Tilting your head back, you stare at the ceiling for precisely three seconds before letting out a single, humourless laugh.

“Well.” Your voice is calm, but only barely. “That was fucking awful.”

“You handled it well,” Nanami says.

You let out a breath, somewhere in between a scoff and a sigh. “I shouldn’t have had to handle it in the first place.”

That’s fair, he thinks. You drag a hand down your face as if trying to smother the frustration bubbling just beneath your skin. It doesn’t work. “I knew they’d pull something,” you mutter, “but Zen’in? Of all the goddamn companies in the world, they want them?”

“It’s a strategic decision.” He knows it’s not what you want to hear, but he says it anyway. 

You drop your hand and turn to him. “Say that again, and I’ll replace you.”

“I’m only pointing out the obvious.”

You sigh, but don’t argue. You both know the board sees nothing but numbers, nothing but projections and timelines and carefully-worded justifications. They don’t care about anything outside the bottom line. 

“I don’t want to work with them, Nanami,” you admit.

He already knew that. But hearing you say it—softer now, tired—settles something heavy in his chest. He doesn’t like it. “You won’t do it alone,” he says simply.

Your lips twitch upwards, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

You study him, searching for something, but whatever you find must be enough, because you sigh and push yourself up from your chair. “Guess we’re stuck with this mess, then.”

“Seems that way.”

“If I’m suffering, then you’re suffering with me.”

“Unfortunate,” Nanami says, but he knows you know he doesn’t mean it.

You guffaw, tension easing—slightly. He can tell it’s still there, simmering beneath the surface. He’s still thinking about it, watching you as you head for the door. He sees the way your jaw is set too tightly, the way your shoulders are stiff. You’re angry. Not just irritated, not just frustrated—angry. It’s not just about the board’s incompetence. It’s Zen’in Industries.

“Let’s get something to eat,” Nanami says.

“God, Nanami. Are you asking me to lunch?”

He stiffens slightly at your teasing, but he doesn’t say anything. He just walks past you, already heading to the elevator. You laugh, falling into step beside him.

At lunch, you pick at a Greek salad with disinterest, stabbing a piece of feta cheese with your fork. The restaurant is a nice place—not overly extravagant, but tasteful in a way that suits Nanami’s particular preferences. He hadn’t put much thought into where to take you. He just needed to get you out of that boardroom. 

Now, though, as he watches you pick apart your salad, he wonders if it even helped.

You roll an olive on your plate with your fork. Across from you, Nanami takes an absent sip of his lime soda, only half paying attention to the taste. The silence is not uncomfortable, but he feels awkward regardless. He should be focused on the partnership, on the logistics, on the long list of ways this shouldn’t be as much of a problem as you’re making it out to be. But instead, his mind drifts.

To you.

To your sharp edges and sharp tongue, to the way your expressions flicker just a little too fast sometimes, as if you’re trying too hard to rein yourself in. To the way you are so painfully aware of everything around you: Every person in a room, every slight shift in tone, every implication buried in corporate jargon.

You are, objectively speaking, a brilliant CEO. Ruthless when you need to be, charming when it suits you, but most of all, uncompromising. Yet, when it comes to this—when it comes to Zen’in Industries—your anger is not just professional. It is personal.

Nanami doesn’t like personal. Personal is messy. Personal gets in the way of logic, of utilitarianism, of clear-cut and efficient decisions.

He tells himself that is why he is still thinking about this. Not because the tightness in your shoulders makes his chest ache. Not because he has never once seen you almost falter the way you did today. Not because he has spent the past half-hour cycling through every possible reason for your reaction and coming up empty.

No, he tells himself, it is because this is a complication he cannot account for, and that is what bothers him.

You press your fork into the olive, just enough to puncture the skin. Then, so casually, you might as well be commenting on the weather, you say, “Did you know that I was in a relationship with Zen’in Naoya?”

Nanami freezes. His brain—normally so methodical, so efficient—comes to a screeching halt. There is no quick calculation, no immediate strategy to deal with this information. There is only the sound of your voice, so stunningly normal in its delivery, juxtaposed against the implication of the words themselves. His grip tightens around his glass of lime side. He doesn’t set it down or react outwardly—but he shifts in his seat.

Zen’in Naoya.

He knows the name well. Anyone even remotely involved in business does. He is a member of the Zen’in family—one of those Zen’ins. A man with power, influence, and a reputation that precedes him. Not for anything good, either. Nanami has never met him in person, but he’s read enough and heard enough to know that he would not want to.

He finally sets down his glass. For once, Nanami Kento does not immediately know what to say.

“Nothing to say?” you ask lightly.

Nanami studies you carefully. You are not looking at him, but he recognises this version of you—the one who pretends you’re fine, who deflects with indifference. The one who would rather fill the silence than allow it to become suffocating. 

“You never mentioned that before,” he says slowly. It is not a question; just an observation.

You attempt to smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. “It never came up.”

Nanami is many things, but he is not stupid. The warble in your voice, the way your fingers tighten ever-so slightly around your fork—this is why you were so angry in the meeting. This is why you stiffened at the mention of the Zen’ins, why you dug your heels in so hard. He should have realised it sooner.

He breathes out slowly. “And now it has.”

“Yes,” you say simply. “Would you like me to tell you about our first date?”

Nanami does not react. He makes sure he sounds neutral when he answers, “No.”

You hum, feigning disappointment. “It was terribly boring, anyway. He took me to some overpriced restaurant with a six-course meal, and every single dish had foam in it.”

Nanami ignores the way his stomach twists at the thought of you on a date with someone like Naoya. It is illogical. Unnecessary. 

“I was nineteen,” you continue. “Very stupid. I thought I knew everything. He was older, and it seemed impressive at the time. He said all the right things. I was easily impressed back then.”

Nanami’s fingers curl against the table. Back then. As if there is a before and after to who you are. He doesn’t like the insinuations of that. “You’re not now,” he says.

“No, I guess not.” For the first time in the conversation you look up at him. Nanami does not look away. You lean back in your chair and say, “So, now you know.”

Now he knows. Nanami doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge. It sits uncomfortably in his mind, wedged there like a stubborn wooden splinter. For now, he does the only thing he can do. He nods, takes another sip of his lime soda, and says, “Eat your salad.”

You laugh. It’s a short huff, but it almost makes Nanami smile.

 “Miss CEO,” one of the Zen’in representatives—a wiry, balding man who sweats too much—says, visibly struggling to remain polite, “surely you understand that our current offer is more than fair.”

“Fair,” you echo, as if testing the word on your tongue. “That’s an interesting way to put it.”

Nanami—who has spent the last three weeks enduring these negotiations—already knows where this is going. He resists the urge to sigh.

“Would you care to elaborate?” Balding Man asks. He keeps his tone professional, but there is an undeniable sense of annoyance in his eyes. Nanami takes a deep breath. You, however, smile.

“Well,” you say. “I just think it’s funny—”

Oh, no. Nanami shuts his eyes for a brief moment, pressing his fingers to his temple. He has heard you say this exact phrase at least five times this week, and every time, what follows is never actually funny. It is, usually, a goddamn nightmare.

Balding Man shifts in his seat. “Funny,” he repeats cautiously.

“Mhm,” you hum. “I just think it’s funny that, in your latest revision, you’ve somehow—” you tilt your head— “conveniently removed the profit-sharing clause we originally discussed. The one your team proposed, by the way.”

“That was an adjustment made to account for—”

“—what, exactly?” you interrupt, leaning forward slightly. “Because as far as I can tell, it was an attempt to quietly slip in a clause that benefits your side while offering absolutely nothing in return. Now, I’m sure that’s just a simple oversight, right?”

Balding Man opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, like a fish flopping around outside water. Nanami watches this unfold with an increasing sense of frustration. 

You are doing this on purpose.

This is not a necessary discussion. The contract could have been finalised two meetings ago, but you have spent the last three weeks turning every single interaction into an exercise in endurance. You nitpick everything. You argue over semantics. You demand last-minute revisions on things that don’t even matter. At one point, you outright rejected a clause you had originally asked for—just to make them go through the process of re-drafting it. 

And because Nanami Kento is your secretary, he has spent most of his time smoothing things over before the Zen’ins lose their patience entirely. It is, frankly, exhausting.

“We can revisit that clause,” Balding Man says tightly.

“Oh, we will,” you say, with a delightfully insincere smile. “In fact, let’s go ahead and set up another review meeting.”

Nanami finally steps in. “That won’t be necessary,” he says, voice clipped.

Your head snaps to him so fast that he almost regrets speaking. Almost. 

“Excuse me?” Your voice is deceptively calm.

Nanami meets your gaze, unwavering. “Dragging out negotiations benefits no one.”

Balding Man exhales, muttering something under his breath. You, however, do not look impressed. Your fingers drum once, twice, against the polished surface of the table. “I wasn’t aware I asked for your opinion, Nanami.”

A sharp silence settles over the room. Nanami’s fingers curl into his palm. You do this all the time. You argue, you challenge, you push every meeting to its breaking point. When things spiral, he’s the one left cleaning up the mess. Now, when he finally intervenes, you’re mad at him? Fine.

Nanami sets his jaw. “I’m only saying what needs to be said.”

The corners of your mouth turn down—just a fraction—before you lean back in your chair. Without looking at him, you say, “Let’s wrap this up.”

Nanami doesn’t allow himself to feel relieved just yet, but at least you don’t push back any further. The rest of the meeting crawls towards a conclusion, with the Zen’in representatives clearly eager to be anywhere else. The moment the last pleasantries are exchanged, Balding Man all but scrambles out the door, leaving you and Nanami alone in the conference room. The silence is razor-thin, stretched taut like a wire about to snap.

“That was productive,” you say, standing up.

He closes the folder in front of him with a controlled snap. “It could have been productive three weeks ago.”

You don’t even look at him. “Tragic, isn’t it?”

He levels you with a stare, but you keep your attention on straightening the cuffs of your blazer, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. The dismissal is blatant. His patience thins. “You’re making my job harder than it needs to be,” he says.

At that, you finally glance at him. “Then maybe you should stop getting in my way and embarrassing me in front of our collaborators.”

“I’m doing my job.”

“Are you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks more like you’re doing theirs.”

The words are like ice—controlled, but cold enough to cut. Nanami’s fingernails dig crescents into his palm. “You’re dragging this out for no reason,” he says evenly.

You hum, turning towards the door. “If you think that, then maybe you should stick to taking notes instead of giving opinions.”

That stops him in his tracks. You don’t wait for a response. You step out of the conference room without another glance, the steady click of your heels the only sound in the empty hall. Nanami exhales, fingers flexing at his sides. 

You’re shutting him out. If that’s how you want to play, so be it.

It starts with the coffee. Nanami always brings it to you in the morning when he reaches his desk at 8:31 A.M—black for him, a complicated order with enough sugar to kill a lesser man for you. He knows the exact amount of cream that you like, and the precise temperature it needs to be when you take your first sip. But the morning after the meeting, when he sets his cup down on his desk, there’s no second cup. He hears the slight pause in your typing when you notice. A small shift of paper against paper.

“Nanami,” you say.

He doesn’t look up. “Yes?”

“Did you forget something?”

He smooths his tie down over his chest, eyes still on his tablet. “I assumed you wouldn’t need my help with something so simple.”

There’s a long, brittle pause. He knows you’re looking at him. He can feel your eyes upon him from across the room. But he doesn’t glance up, doesn’t shift. Finally, you close the file in front of you with a muted snap and rise from your chair. Your heels click sharply against the floor as you pass him, pausing just briefly at his side. “Hope your schedule’s clear,” you say, voice like glass. “You’ll need to redraft the acquisition proposal by noon.”

“Fine.” His mouth tightens.

He retaliates with paperwork. Nanami knows exactly how to drown someone in administrative hell without breaking a sweat. The next morning, he leaves a neat stack of contracts, memos, and reports on your desk, all unlabeled. He knows you hate that. The revised budget is buried beneath the expense sheets, and the acquisition report—still missing a key section—has no notes attached. He hears the scrape of a chair, followed by the clipped sound of your heels striking the marble floor as you stalk towards his desk.

“Did you think this was acceptable?” you say, tossing the report onto his desk. Nanami’s hands are still on his keyboard. He doesn’t look up. “The section on profit restructuring is incomplete,” you add.

“I assumed you’d prefer to review it yourself,” he says, “since you were so insistent on final approval.”

“Correct it,” you say, voice low. “And put it on my desk by the end of the day.”

Nanami closes his laptop with deliberate care. “Of course.”

Meetings become a war zone. He starts cutting in before you’ve finished speaking. You return the favour without hesitation. One afternoon, during a strategy meeting, he hears you inhale and knows exactly what you’re about to say. “Actually—” he begins.

“I don’t need clarification,” you say flatly, not even looking at him.

“It’s important to avoid miscommunication,” Nanami says. His eyes flick towards you.

Your smile is thin. “Then stop talking.”

Nanami’s mood darkens. Balding Man, sitting across the table, looks like he’d rather fling himself out of the nearest window. Nanami doesn’t care. You’ve made it clear how little you care about his input. If you want to micromanage everything, he’ll stop bothering to clean up your messes.

He starts adjusting your schedule. Meetings appear on your calendar without explanation—overlapping appointments, double-booked sit visits, late-night briefings. At one point, you get a notification for an 8 A.M call with the accounting department, only to find out Nanami cancelled it an hour earlier. You stride into his office. He doesn’t look up from his tablet.

“I thought you handled scheduling,” you say.

“I must have misunderstood your preferences,” he says without inflection. “Since you’ve made it clear that you prefer to handle things yourself.”

You stare at him. He still doesn’t look up. Finally, you scoff under your breath and leave. Nanami watches the door swing shut, something sharp and pointed pressing into his chest.

Lunch becomes unbearable. You still sit together—out of habit, perhaps—but the silence is cutting. Nanami eats his neatly-packed bento with steady, measured bites; you stab aggressively at your pasta, tearing the penne apart like it’s personally offended you. Once, you push your tray an inch towards him and say, “Taste this.”

“I’m allergic to it,” Nanami says, scrolling through some news article on his phone.

“You’re not allergic to chocolate mousse.”

“I could be.”

You make a noise, sharp and irritated, and push the tray away. Nanami doesn’t look away from his phone. He feels the tightness in his shoulders. He hates this. He hates that you’re angry. He hates that he’s angry. Most of all, he hates that he can’t stop himself from pressing harder.

The final blow comes during a boardroom meeting. One of the department heads starts talking in circles, and Nanami—already at the edge of his patience—starts to cut in. “We already—”

“I think it’s important to clarify the terms,” you say smoothly, before he can finish.

Nanami’s gaze snaps to you. His eyes narrow. “There’s no need to clarify anything.”

“Just making sure,” you say, flashing him a bland smile.

Nanami closes his laptop with unsettling calm. You start gathering your papers. His hands curl into his lap. “If you want to manage everything,” he says quietly, “I’ll stop bothering to give input.”

You look at him; your eyes are ice when you say, “Maybe you should,” and walk out without another word. Nanami watches the door shut behind you. He clenches his jaw so hard, it begins to hurt. This is untenable, he thinks.

Nanami hears the clock ticking.

It’s past midnight, and the city outside the office windows glows faintly beneath the dark sky. The only light in the room comes from the soft, sterile glow of your laptops, casting cold shadows across the polished table. His tie is loose around his neck, and the sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows. Across from him, you sit with your laptop open, eyes fixed on the screen. Your hair is slightly disheveled. There’s an untouched cup of coffee beside you, gone cold hours ago.

It’s quiet, except for the sound of typing and the low hum of the air conditioning. Nanami reviews the document in front of him, trying to concentrate, but it proves to be a difficult task when his gaze keeps drifting towards you. He observes—the tightness in your jaw; the slight furrow of your brow; the way your fingers tap a little too hard against your keyboard. He knows you’re frustrated. You’ve been frustrated for weeks. So has he.

He hears the sound of a key sticking, followed by an annoyed exhale. “Fucking hell,” you mutter under your breath.

“You should take a break,” he tells you.

“I’m fine,” you snap.

Nanami sets his pen down. “You’re not fine. You’ve been working non-stop for—”

“I said I’m fine.”

He leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “Yes, clearly. That’s why you’ve been rereading the same page of that draft for the past thirty minutes.”

Your head snaps up. “I’m sorry, are you the CEO now?”

“Are you trying to sabotage your own company?”

“Oh, fuck off, Nanami.”

“Gladly,” he bites out, closing the folder in front of him. “Maybe then you can stop wasting my time.”

Your chair scrapes loudly against the floor as you push back from the table. “I’m sorry I’m such an inconvenience,” you say sharply. “God forbid you actually have to work for a change.”

Nanami’s expression darkens. His hands press flat against the table as he stands. “It’s not about the work. It’s about you actively making it harder for yourself—and for me.”

“And here I thought handling me was part of your job description.”

“I don’t mind doing my job,” he says icily. “I mind when you refuse to let anyone help you and then act surprised when things don’t go your way.”

“Then why don’t you quit?” you say, chin lifting. “If you hate working for me so much, why don’t you just leave?”

“Maybe I should.”

You suck in a breath sharply, shoulders tense, mouth tightening. Nanami knows he’s gone too far. He sees the flicker of hurt in your expression before you smooth it away.

“Do it, then,” you say coldly. “Walk out. It’s not like anyone’s forcing you to stay.”

You are, he wants to say. Because you are, whether intentionally or not. Nanami finds himself drawn to you, like a moth circling a very bright flame. If he was a sunflower, he thinks you’d be the sun. Nanami doesn’t say any of that. He steps towards you, walking around the table until he’s right in front of you. “Don’t—”

“Or what?” You smile, sharp-edged and bitter. “You’ll finally stop pretending to care?”

Nanami’s hands curl into fists. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” you demand, turning away from him and bracing your hands on the desk. The papers underneath your hands crumple. “Stop trying to make sure my company doesn’t go fucking bankrupt, or stop—”

“I’m trying to help you—”

“No,” you say, breathless with rage. “You know asking for help means I can’t handle everything myself, and—”

“You’re so stubborn,” he says, finally. His heart hammers against his ribs. “You’re impossible to work with right now.”

“I am under pressure!” you yell, whipping around to face him. “You think I’m being difficult on purpose?”

Nanami stares at you, breathing hard. His hands brace against the table to keep from shaking. “Then what the hell is this?”

Your hands are trembling. Your eyes shine with something dangerously close to tears, but you don’t let them fall. “My parents are pressuring me to get married. And on top of that, I’m trying to close a deal with my ex’s company because of my stupid board of directors—never mind the fact that the Zen’ins engage in borderline illegal practices—and I have to sit across their representative and pretend I don’t know Zeni’in Naoya once tried to steal intellectual property from me. And the only person I trusted to be able to help me out has been treating me like a fucking liability.”

Nanami’s breath catches. “I’m not—”

“Then do something, Nanami,” and you sound pleading when you say it, and Nanami’s chest tightens.

You’re an anomaly in Nanami’s perfectly-structured, perfectly-planned out life. He has known this for a while, only he never acknowledged it until now. The thing is, Nanami thrives on order; on logic; on neat, clean lines and predictable outcomes. He works best when things make sense, when he can anticipate every possible outcome and adjust accordingly. He’s built his life around that certainty—disciplined and unwavering.

But there’s you.

You, who he can’t predict. You, who challenges him in every conversation, who barreled into his life with no premonition. You, whose moods shift so easily—stern one moment, playful the next, always just a little out of reach. You, a hurricane in the body of a woman. You, you, you. 

You are the only thing in his life that doesn’t fit into a box. And yet, somehow, you’re the only thing he doesn’t want to let go of. You barreled straight through his rib cage and settled deep down inside his unsuspecting heart, and he does not think he could pry you away, now.

Nanami breathes hard. His pulse is a frantic, erratic thing beneath his skin. It echoes in his ears as he stares at you—eyes flashing, chest rising and falling.

You’re close—close enough that he can see the tremor of your hands where they’re braced against the desk. Your mouth is parted and your breath is unsteady. There’s a flush creeping up your neck, and your eyes—God, your eyes—burn into him like they’re trying to carve him open from the inside out.

Nanami should step back. He knows this. He should take a deep breath and turn away before one of you says something you can’t take back. But his feet feel rooted to the ground. You look at him—really look at him—and whatever thread of control he’s holding onto snaps clean in two.

His hand moves before he can stop it, fingers brushing along the line of your jaw. Your breath hitches. You don’t pull away. He tilts your chin up, his thumb resting just beneath your lower lip, and your mouth opens slightly beneath his touch. His palm is warm, and then his hand slides to the back of your neck.

And then you’re moving—closing the distance between you without hesitation. Your mouth crashes against his, rough and desperate, and Nanami’s hand tightens at the nape of your neck as he kisses you back, hard.

It’s messy. Too fast, and too much. Your teeth catch against his bottom lip, and he exhales harshly, his other hand sliding down to your waist and yanking you forward until there’s no space left between you. Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt; you tug him down to you. His lips part against yours, and you deepen the kiss, all gasping breaths and frantic movements.

Nanami’s head spins. His hand slides beneath your blouse, finding the bare skin at the small of your back, and you shudder. You press closer, and he feels the quick, uneven flutter of your heart where your chest is pressed against his.

You break away first, just barely. Your breath ghosts against his mouth, shallow and ragged, before you lean in and kiss him again—slower this time, softer, but still aching with urgency. Nanami’s hand slips into your hair, his thumb pressing gently behind your ear as your lips part beneath his. You sigh into him.

Nanami knows he should stop. He knows he should pull back before this spirals out of control. But you breathe his name against his mouth, quiet and pleading, and Nanami’s resolve shatters.

He kisses you deeper.

Nanami doesn’t think—he’s past the point of rational thought. His hands slide down the curve of your waist, settling at your hips as he walks you backward, step by step, until the edge of the table presses against the back of your thighs. You’re breathless, flushed, lips swollen from his mouth. He watches your chest rise and fall, watches the slight tremor in your hands where they curl into his shirt.

His hands are on your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the polished surface. Papers scatter beneath you, forgotten, as his mouth trails down the column of your throat. His lips are soft, his breath hot against your skin, and you gasp when his teeth scrape lightly over the sensitive spot under your jaw. His hands are firm at your hips, sliding beneath the hem of your skirt as he coaxes your legs apart.

Your hands find his shoulders, clinging. He drops to his knees in front of you. His gaze lifts to yours, golden in the low light of the room. His hands slide down your thighs, spreading them wider, and his mouth curves slightly when he sees the way your breath shudders.

“May I?” he asks, a little bit hoarse.

You nod. “Yes,” you breathe out.

That’s all he needs. His mouth presses to the inside of your knee, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the soft skin of your inner thigh. Your head tips back when his lips brush higher, his breath hot against the lace between your legs. He pulls your underwear aside with a tug.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, thumb brushing along your inner thigh. His breath hitches as he watches your slick shine between your folds, already glistening with arousal. His thumb traces the line of your slit, parting you with a slow, teasing drag. “So wet for me already.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours. “Did you need this that badly?”

You open your mouth to answer, but you shudder when his thumb presses against your clit, rubbing a slow, lazy circle. A broken sound escapes you, hips twitching towards his hand. Nanami hums in approval, and says, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

The first stroke of his tongue is slow, like he’s savouring the taste of you. Your thighs twitch, but his hands find purchase beneath them, anchoring you firmly against the table as his mouth works against you. His tongue flicks over your clit, and your hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the strands. He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against you as his lips close around you and suck.

“Oh, my God—Nanami—”

He hums against you, pleased. His tongue slides down, dragging through your folds before pressing back up to your clit. He’s focused, the same way he is with everything else—this time, though, his only goal is to make you feel good. His fingers flex against your thighs. Your hips jerk, but he presses you down with a firm hand. His mouth leaves you for half a second, just enough time for him to say, “Stay still.”

Then, he’s back on you, tongue sliding over you in slow, wet strokes. His lips close around your clit again, sucking softly before flicking his tongue over it until you’re gasping. Your thighs threaten to close around his head, but his hands keep you pinned open. 

“Nanami—Nanami, I’m—”

His mouth seals over your folds, tongue curling against you just right. Your back arches, a broken moan slipping from your lips. You sag against the table, breathless. Nanami presses one last kiss to your thigh before standing. His mouth glistens.

“Come here,” he tells you, and this time, he’s the one who sounds pleading.

He kisses you, hard and hungry, and makes sure you taste yourself on his tongue. 

Nanami’s breath is ragged when he pulls back. His hands slide down your sides, steady even as his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths. He undoes his belt with one sharp pull, the metallic jingle ringing in the quiet room. The sound makes his cock twitch, already painfully hard from how wrecked you look beneath him—forehead beaded with sweat, lips swollen, legs still trembling from the way he just made you come.

He draws himself out, cock slapping against his abdomen. He wraps a hand around the base, and strokes himself once, slow. His cock is thick and flushed, the head glistening with precome. His jaw tightens. He’s already so close, but he wants to take his time. He wants to savour this—savour you.

“Are you on the pill?” he manages to ask.

You nod, desperate and frantic. “Yes, yes—fuck, please—”

“Bend over,” he says, voice low.

You hesitate for a second, blinking up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. But his hands are already on you, guiding you up and turning you until you’re facing the table. His palm slides down the curve of your back, pressing your forward until your chest is flush against the cool wood. His hand lingers at the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he leans over you.

“You’ll let me have you like this, won’t you?” His mouth brushes against the shell of your ear. “Spread your legs for me.”

You do, and Nanami’s breath stutters. His hands slide down to your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there as he pulls you open. His gaze drops to where you’re still slick from his mouth, the sight making his cock ache.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath.

He lines himself up, dragging the flushed tip of his cock through your folds, coating himself with your arousal. He rubs the head against your entrance, teasing—but he’s barely hanging on himself. His cock throbs, and his grip on your hips tightens.

“Nanami—” you gasp out.

He sinks into you in one slow thrust. The stretch makes him moan, the tight heat of you wrapping around him inch by inch. His forehead drops against the back of your shoulder. He bottoms out, his hips pressing flush against you. “God,” he breathes, voice strained. His fingers curl against your skin, hard enough to bruise. “You’re so—”

He pulls back, almost all the way out, and then thrusts back in. You shudder beneath him. Nanami groans low in his throat. The sound vibrates against your skin as he sets a steady pace, hips rolling into you with each thrust. Each drag of his cock against your walls makes him see white behind his eyes.

“So tight,” he mutters, more to himself than you. His hand slides up your spine, spreading his fingers between your shoulder blades to press you down. His other hand grips your hip hard, holding you still. His cock stretches you open so perfectly that he can barely think straight.

He watches the way you take him—how you flutter around him each time he pulls back, how your legs shake when he thrusts deeper, how your eyes close and your lips part with pretty moans just for him to hear. He wants to see more. He slides a hand down to your front, his fingers finding your clit. He rubs quick circles, and the way you clench around him makes him hiss through his teeth.

“Nanami—” Your voice is wrecked, gasping, breaking.

“I know,” he says through gritted teeth. His thrusts quicken. His chest presses to your back as he leans over you. His mouth finds the side of your neck, and he sucks hard. “Let me—”

You come with a sharp cry, and the way you tighten around him makes his rhythm falter. His cock throbs as he fucks you through your orgasm, dragging out every last tremor. Your walls flutter around him, slick and hot and perfect. Nanami groans against your skin. His thrusts grow shallow and uneven, his breath ragged.

He comes with a low, guttural sound, hips pressed deep as he spills inside you. His hand stays on your hip. He presses his mouth to the back of your neck, groaning.

His breath is still ragged as he carefully pulls out, the feeling of his cum slipping out of you making his chest tighten. He slides a hand down your back, smoothing your hair away from your face as he leans over you.

“Stay there,” he murmurs, his mouth brushing against your shoulder. His voice is soft now, almost tender. “Let me take care of you.”

He tucks himself away, smoothing down his shirt before his hands return to you—lifting you gently from the table and letting you lean into his arms. “Nanami,” you say.

“Yes?”

“We’ve ruined all the contract papers.”

The office feels too quiet the next day.

Nanami sits at his desk, but his mind isn’t on the stack of reports in front of him. His pen hovers over the paper, unmoving. His thoughts drift back to last night. To you.

The way you looked beneath him, flushed with heat and trembling. The way your breath caught in your throat when he touched you. The sound of his name falling from your lips, breathless and perfect. Nanami exhales, trying to clear his mind. He pinches the bridge of his nose, but the memory clings stubbornly to the edges of his mind. His hands curl into fists. He should not be thinking about this—about you.

But it’s impossible not to. Especially when you’re right there.

He hears your voice before he sees you. He hears you let out a quiet laugh from across the room, the sound tugging at his attention like a thread pulled tight. His eyes lift automatically and he finds you standing at your desk, flipping through a folder with that little crease between your brows you always get when you’re focused.

You glance up, your gaze meeting his. Neither of you move, until you give him a small, polite smile and look away.

Nanami grits his teeth. His pen presses hard against the paper as he looks down, trying to will his pulse back to normal. Pathetic, he thinks.

He should be able to handle this. He’s an adult. A professional. He has handled far more serious situations with more composure than this. Every time you walk past his desk, his gaze follows you. Every time you speak, his attention hooks onto your voice like it’s a lifeline. His fingers itch to touch you—to brush a hand along your arm, to tip your chin up and steal a kiss.

It’s getting unbearable.

It’s not just the memories of last night that haunt him—it’s the aftermath. Because you’re acting… normal, and that’s the problem. You greet him the same way you always have. Your smile is the same. Meanwhile, Nanami is fighting for his life every time you walk within ten feet of him.

This morning, you’d handed him a report with your fingers brushing over his. “Morning, Nanami,” you’d said, bright and sweet.

His hand had twitched. “Morning.”

You’d walked off while he sat there, wondering how a simple touch could make him feel like his entire nervous system was short-circuiting. 

But the worst part is that he’s not subtle about it. Not at all. It’s a problem.

Like when you walked into the office this afternoon, holding a cup of coffee, looking pretty in your blouse and trousers. Nanami had glanced up for half a second—and in that half-second, he’d managed to knock his pen holder off his desk.

“Are you okay?” you’d asked, setting down your coffee and crouching to help him.

Nanami had stared at the mess on the floor. “Fine.”

You’d smiled at him, amused. He’d looked away quickly, feeling heat creep up his neck.

Or earlier today, when you had stopped at his desk to ask about a meeting. “Did you get the email from Gojo?” you’d asked, leaning slightly over his desk.

Nanami had blinked at you, his mind immediately spiraling back to last night—the feeling of your body beneath his hands, the way you had gasped when he—

“Nanami?”

“Hm?”

“The email?”

“Yes. Yes, I saw it.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

You’d looked at him for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly. Then you’d shrugged and walked away. Nanami had exhaled once you were out of sight, rubbing a hand over his face. He’s being so obvious, and that’s unacceptable.

“Nanami, could you grab those papers from my desk?” you ask that evening, glancing over your shoulder as you pack up your bag.

“Of course,” he replies, already standing. His legs carry him towards your desk before he can think better of it.

Your desk is neat, everything in its place—except for the book. It’s placed on the edge, slightly worn from use. He recognises it instantly. It’s the one he bought you at the flea market weeks ago, when you’d read out a few sentences in an attempt to “woo” him. He hadn’t expected you to actually read it.

Curiosity tugs at him. His hand drifts towards the book. The spine gives under his touch, loose—like it’s been held too many times, thumbed through on quiet nights. It falls open easily. There’s a dog-ear marking a specific page. Nanami reads the passage beneath the crease:

‘It hit him all at once, like the sun breaking through the clouds. That the way his chest ached every time he saw her smile was not fear of confusion—it was love. Had always been love. And how foolish he’d been, not to have known it sooner.’

Nanami Kento freezes. His fingers press lightly against the paper. He thinks of the way you smile at him; of the soft, half-lidded look you give him when you’re tired; of the way you always seem to find him first in a crowded room. He thinks of the warmth in your laugh, and the way you lean towards him when you talk, like you don’t even realise you’re doing it.

How had he not known?

His heartbeat stumbles. His gaze lifts to you, across the room.

You’re still packing up, tucking a notebook into your bag. Your brows crease slightly in concentration, the corners of your mouth tugging down. You push a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Nanami swears he forgets how to breathe.

Had you known before he had? Is that why you marked this passage and left it there for him to find? Or had you dog-eared it for yourself—because you had some sort of silly, idiotic hope that it was true?

You look up. Your eyes catch his. You smile—small and soft, easy as breathing. Nanami’s throat tightens. His chest aches in that quiet, unbearable way that’s starting to feel familiar. He sets the book down. You zip up your bag and turn around to the door. His gaze follows you without thinking.

Oh, he thinks, heart pounding. How foolish of me.

It hits him that night, when he’s in bed and thinking about you. You’d said that Zen’in Naoya had stolen your intellectual property once. His eyes widen, and he sits up straight, reaching for his phone that’s charging on his nightstand. He dials in your number.

You pick up after two rings. “...Hello?”

You sound sleepy. When he looks at the time, it’s almost midnight. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“Yes, but—” he hears you yawn— “it’s fine. I should savour the occasion, actually. It’s rare that you call me first.”

“Yes, well.” Nanami’s cheeks burn. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Go on.”

“That night— The night we—” Nanami feels his entire face heat up. “The night we argued,” he settles on. “You mentioned that Zen’in Naoya stole your intellectual property.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. He hears you shift, the rustling of sheets punctuating the silence. “That was a long time ago,” you say quietly.

“What happened?” he asks.

“It’s… complicated.”

“I have time,” he says, settling back against the headboard. His hand presses over his mouth, his thumb resting just below his jaw.

“It was when I was still with Naoya,” you say carefully, like you’re trying not to give away too much. “I was working on a pitch for an international partnership. It was something I’d been preparing for months. And I—I made the mistake of showing it to him.

“He said he just wanted to look it over. But then he brought it to his family as his own work. Word-for-word. Even the phrasing in the executive summary was identical.”

“And no one said anything?” Nanami questions.

“People noticed,” you reply. “But it’s the Zen’in family. No one wanted to stir the pot, you know?”

“What happened with the pitch?”

“It tanked. Naoya didn’t bother to prepare for the follow-up meetings. He couldn’t answer half the questions that came up. It was humiliating—for both of us—but I was the one who took the fall. No one was going to take my side over Naoya’s. His uncle’s practically running the whole board. It was easier to let me look incompetent.”

Nanami feels his teeth press together. His free hand curls into a fist against his knee. “You should’ve told me.”

You huff out a laugh. “I didn’t know you at the time, Nanami. All this happened while I was working for the Zen’ins—before my dad retired and handed me his company.”

The Zen’ins hadn’t been circling your company. No, it had been Salt-and-Pepper who brought them in. The timing had been suspicious. The Zen’ins’ reputation is tainted—financial mismanagement, aggressive acquisition tactics, borderline illegal practices. The last thing you needed was to be tethered to a sinking ship.

But Salt-and-Pepper had managed to convince over half of the board of directors. Wire-Rimmed Glasses had been on his side from the start. So had Charcoal Pants and Nepotism Baby, albeit reluctantly. 

“This isn’t just a business deal. Right?” he asks you. He understands, now, why you’d made negotiations with Balding Man—Zen’in Industries’ representative—so difficult. You’d tried to drag it on for as long as you could, trying to stall the deal from going through.

You stay quiet on the other end. Nanami takes that as confirmation.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Okay. We can figure this out.”

“What are you thinking, Nanami?”

Salt-and-Pepper’s financials. His holdings. Any private deals with Zen’in Industries or overlapping investments. Nanami has access to all of it—board records, meeting minutes, even expense reports. If there is a paper trail, he would find it.

“Do you think,” he says, “you can handle a meeting with Legal tomorrow?”

It happens quickly after that.

Past papers are uncovered. Shady deals surface. It’s almost too easy. Nanami knows how these things work—no paper trail is truly invisible, no backdoor negotiation is as airtight as it seems. People talk, especially when the money starts moving.

Nanami digs through your company’s internal records the next day, tracking down the original licensing agreements for the software framework. The timeline doesn’t add up. Zen’in Industries’ supposed “internal R&D” was completed two months before the initial product proposal had even been drafted. That’s not just suspicious—it’s impossible.

He finds the buried reports: Memos from Salt-and-Pepper’s office, quiet requests to “streamline” the internal approval process. He finds—perhaps most damning of all—a forwarded email chain from Wire-Rimmed Glasses to Balding Man.

Need to close this by Q3. Zen’in Industries’ team will take over full oversight post-merger.

The date on the email reads for two weeks before the first joint meeting had even been scheduled.

He goes to the Accounting department next, via the internal compliance office. Someone from accounting had flagged a discrepancy in the financial statements weeks ago, but it had quickly been buried. There were payments made to an offshore account—small enough to be overlooked at a glance, but steady and consistent. It was linked to a shell corporation in Singapore.

A shell corporation owned by Zen’in Industries.

Nanami doesn’t hesitate. He sends the information to your private office line under encryption. The paper trail is too neat. This wasn’t just about a merger. It was a quiet takeover.

Salt-and-Pepper had gotten sloppy. He had to convince the board to sign over proprietary assets through the collaboration over the new product. Let Zen’in gut the tech. Then quietly dissolve the partnership and walk away with the intellectual property rights. Your company would be left holding the framework—and the financial fallout.

Salt-and-Pepper would walk away with his cut.

You’re surprised to see him when he walks into your office. His tie is askew. His shirt is rumpled. He is not the usual, put-together man he is. How could he be, when your own board of directors was secretly conspiring against you?

“Nanami?” you ask, setting down your bag.

He slides a folder towards you without a word. 

The next day, the partnership with Zen’in Industries is called off, and Salt-and-Pepper is stripped of his position. (Translation: He was fired.)

When Nanami Kento officially decides to ask you out—because he has, officially, let the fact that he’s in love with you sink in—it is supposed to be methodical. He had planned out the worst-case, most likely, and best case scenarios in his head, as he always does.

Best Case Scenario (Highly Unlikely): You say yes immediately, without even pausing. He takes you to that quaint French place he knows you like, and the waiter winks at him approvingly because you’re clearly out of his league. You’re charming (you always are), and he’s witty (for the first time in his life). At the end of the night, when he walks you to your door, you kiss him. It’s perfect. Birds are singing. Angels are weeping. The stock market hits a record high the next day.

Most Likely Scenario (Fortunate and Expected): You blink at him, and then laugh—a little nervous, a little delighted—and agree to go out with him. He takes you to a good restaurant. You order something a little too expensive, but he doesn’t complain. You’re charming (you always are), and he is… passable. He doesn’t embarrass himself. He even manages to make you laugh once or twice. Instead of kissing him at your doorstep, you punch his arm lightly and say goodbye. He fist-punches the air like a teenage boy when you close the door.

Worst-Case Scenario (God Forbid): You reject him. You say you only think of him as a friend and nothing more. He blacks out for approximately five seconds. You stop bringing him melonpan. He stops walking with you to the elevator. He will probably leave the company. Years later, he hears you’re married to someone who’s the complete opposite of him (probably a racecar driver). He dies alone.

(He’s accounting for margin of error, obviously.)

Nanami reviews his options with the same level of focus he usually reserves for quarterly reports and balance sheets. He weighs the pros and cons, considers timing, and factors in your general mood over the past two weeks. You’ve been in good spirits since Salt-and-Pepper’s departure. An excellent sign.

Still, when he finally stands outside your office, his heart is pounding hard enough to disrupt his thought process. Which is utterly ridiculous. He’s a grown man. A professional. He’s closed million-yen deals under pressure, right by your side. There is no reason he should be standing here, debating whether to knock.

The door swings open before he can decide. “Nanami?” you say, blinking at him.

His mouth opens. His mouth closes. He’s completely blank.

You tilt your head. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he says, except it sounds completely unconvincing. “I wanted to ask you something.”

You give him a curious look, stepping back to let him in. He follows you inside. His heart rabbits inside his rib cage. This is fine. He’s prepared for this.

“You look serious,” you say, sitting on the edge of your desk. “Is this about work?”

“No.” His hands are in his pockets. He takes a breath. He needs to rip the bandaid off. “Would you—” He stops. Closes his eyes. Starts again. “Would you like to have dinner with me? As a date.”

You don’t say anything—not right away. Instead, you snort.

Nanami’s eyes snap open.

You’re covering your mouth with your hand, but it’s not enough to muffle the sound of your increasingly uncontrollable laughter. Your shoulders are shaking with the full-body kind of laughter.

“Are you…” Nanami feels like his brain is short-circuiting. “Are you laughing?”

“Oh, my God,” you wheeze, tipping your head back. “You— You’re asking me out?”

“That is… generally how this works,” he says stiffly. His cheeks prickle with heat.

You dissolve into another fit of giggles. Nanami’s heart sinks. He’s about five seconds away from accepting defeat and leaving the country after changing his identity. 

But then you slide off the desk and point an accusing finger at him, still laughing. “Nanami Kento,” you say, breathless, “do you have any idea how hard I’ve been trying to get you to notice me?”

“...What?”

You groan, wringing your hands together. “I have been trying to get you to notice me for months. You are literally the most oblivious person on the planet.”

Nanami opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His brain is working overtime trying to process the implications of what you’ve just said.

You hold up a finger. “First of all—the book.”

“The book?” Nanami echoes, very intelligently.

“Yes, the book. The one you bought me at the flea market? You didn’t have to, so I figured you might feel the same way ‘cause you do a lot of the stuff I ask you to do, even though you don’t have to, and no one’s forcing you to. And the time you came over because I was drunk and I called you up and you made me tea and stayed until I fell asleep. And here I was, overthinking everything because I like you so much—too much, probably, and—”

Nanami steps forward, closing the distance between you in two long strides. Your eyes widen slightly as he places his hands on your waist, steady and warm. His thumb brushes the hem of your shirt.

“You,” he says, “talk too much.”

Your mouth opens—to protest, probably—but Nanami leans down and kisses you before you can say another word.

Your breath hitches, and then your hands curl into the front of his shirt. You melt into him. His lips are soft and sure, and the way you sigh into the kiss makes his heart stutter. He feels you smile against his mouth. 

When he pulls back, you’re breathless, a little flustered. But your eyes are bright and happy, and that, Nanami thinks, is always good.

“Oh,” you murmur. “Was that the best case scenario?”

“Birds are singing,” he says. “Angels are weeping.”

“Stock market?”

“Remains to be seen.”

You grin and pull him down for another kiss.

Nanami’s apartment is quiet in the way he likes best. His bedroom is dark, save for the small pool of golden light from the lamp on the nightstand. His bed is warm, and so are you—curled beneath the blankets, your hair spilling over his pillow.

The book he bought you is sitting on the nightstand. There’s a new crease in the spine and a bookmark tucked partway through because he’s been reading it. He never used to care for fiction, but you’d smiled so brightly when he picked it up that now he finds himself reading it when he gets the time.

The mug of honey and ginger tea warms his hands. You blink sleepily when you see him, sitting up when he approaches the bed. Your hair is mussed, and you have a mark on your cheek where you’d turned into the pillow. His heart does that foolish, undignified thing where it stumbles in his chest.

“Tea,” he says, handing you the mug. “Drink.”

You smile when you take it. He sits down on the edge of the bed and watches you lift the mug to your lips. His hand finds your hair almost without thinking, fingers threading through it.

“We’re meeting my parents this weekend. You remember, right?” you ask, resting the mug on your knee.

“Are you turning into my secretary now?”

“No,” you say, and tilt your chin up defiantly at him. “Just so you know, I’m marrying you whether my parents approve or not.”

“Noted,” Nanami says.

“Good.”

“Why are you asking me?”

You shrug, a tad playful. “I don’t know. Thought you might’ve come to your senses.”

He makes a quiet sound—something like a laugh, though softer. “That would be difficult.” His thumb brushes the curve of your cheek. “I lost them a long time ago.”

You smile like that means something. Nanami leans back against the headboard, his arm resting across your shoulder as you tuck yourself into his side. The book is still sitting on the nightstand, waiting for him. He’ll pick it up later, after you’ve fallen asleep. For now, he lets himself breathe you in—warmth and honey and ginger.

“We have work tomorrow.” He tilts his head, and his lips brush against your hairline when he says it.

You laugh under your breath, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. “I am your work, Kento.”

Nanami smiles. He kisses your head again. His heart feels unbearably full.

Thus, he thinks, the courtship affairs of a common man have come to a very satisfying close.

⇢ a/n: as per usual, thank you to the inimitable @mahowaga for listening to me ramble about this fic & helping me out whenever i got stuck. this fic is pretty much dedicated to her. thank you for reading & i hope you have a wonderful day!

[just-a-space-duck]

I’d like to throw in that many people who turn to piracy would happily pay for the stuff they’re pirating, but there’s no option for them to indefinitely keep whatever they’ve bought.

When the only official way to access a particular TV show or most audiobooks or art programs is by paying a regular fee for it forever or only being able to access it by connecting to the seller’s servers where they can take that content away from you at any moment, piracy becomes the only cost effective option.

And then there’s stuff that isn’t available from official or legal sources: old video games that their copyright holders have chosen not to rerelease, overseas comics that have never been officially released outside their home country, songs only available on limited edition albums. Sometimes paying for the content isn’t even an option for the folks who can and want to pay.

Also, how is piracy less ethical than libraries where thousands of people share one book that they theoretically could have all bought individual copies of? How is it taking money away from the creators (who definitely should be paid well, don’t get me wrong) more than buying a copy secondhand is? How is piracy any worse than sharing your copy of a game with a friend or listening to a fan-made lyric video or getting a free trial at Streaming+ or recording a show on VHS so you can watch it later? If you are fine with all of these forms of media and program sharing, then you should be fine with capital P Piracy. Because, at least in the US, a lot of work is being done to remove even these methods and spaces so people only have the option but to pay buckets for all their media, info, and tech.

Also, so many discussions on piracy center on entertainment, but this also applies to more practical stuff too. If a person needs to learn another language, write a decent resume, file their taxes, learn about the effectiveness of certain medicines, find their ancestry records, etc, they should be able to do that with as few barriers as possible, but more and more of that stuff is being paywalled, and piracy has become the solution to get around those paywalls.

I will always encourage folks that if they have the money to spare on fun stuff, to put that money where it will do the most good while also giving them some joy (always pirate from Disney, maybe give that $5 to your favorite indie animator instead) but also, you do you with your money and time.

One fallacy, I think, of anti piracy arguments is that a lot of them seem to assume that if I'm unable to pirate something I'm going to pay for it instead rather than going "oh! that's a terrible shame" and then quickly forgetting about it

[respectthepetty]

Have you caught up on JoongEst interaction? Est left a comment "HBD bro" to Joong bd post and Joong responded by saying "I'm happy. Thank you." Few days later, Joong also liked Est's post.

There are WILD theories going on, apparently some ghostshipping accounts claiming Joong & Est are secretly dating because they have matching rings, same clothes, etc. and lovestragram, and Joong changing his bio to #rest means Est because "R" is Rivipon (Est's name) + "est" = "Est" and Est's comment being the only one Joong responded with words while others being just a heart.

I don't even know if I'm supposed to take this seriously because I've seen bl actors wearing same clothes and accessories within their group of close friends so many times, and this argument being used in every dating rumor just doesn't hold enough substance for me. I need some actual stuff like when MewTul was being rumored to be bfs like helping the other's sibling do homework while the other one is not even around. Anyway, the most interesting part for me was Daou did NOT wish Joong hbd. So before Est was the one who blocked Joong while Daou never unfollowed Joong, and now Est and Joong followed back each other, commented and liked posts and Daou is out of the picture. And Est was still hanging out with Daou like yesterday, so.

You said capitalism in your post when they followed back and I think I feel the same way since Daou is not part of LOL but Est is. I'm genuinely wondering where this would go once LOL preparation starts.

There is no ethical consumption under capitalism, so if the lure of more money is what gets me the return of Hot Girl Summer, then so be it!

If the Twitter mafia wants to think that Est wrote two O's on Joong's birthday post because he wanted to write "boo" instead "bro," I support it because Bangkok is experiencing excessive heat with its ridiculous humidity, and people are going to start acting up because they are cranky, so the more love we have, the better.

But I think the mafia could come up with a better reasoning for Joong only responding to Est with words when he responded to everyone else with ❤ like pettiness: I'm happy (despite the issues you caused over the last few months). <- (PERIOD?!) Thank you (for nothing!). <- (ANOTHER PERIOD?! This is hostile!)

But my favorite has to be the "#rest" theory because that would make him the Taylor Alison Swift of BL Land playing 4D chess when my ass is just trying to play checkers.

Either way, I'm excited to see what is planned for LOL Fest because Joong has already stated he wants to see William and Est perform (as if he won't be performing with them! Can't trick me twice, Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo!). Thanks, different anon, for that link.

If it's genuine, that's great, but if it's Joong putting his streaming media production degree to use, so he can continue to cash those checks, even better! Just because he no longer has a frog to feed does not mean he doesn't have bills to pay. RIP, Edward.

So unlike some other fans *cough* Ohm *cough* I'm going to support my chismoso in collecting his bahts and his bag like a young Lucille Bluth, and if May 19 rolls around and they are back to blocking each other, then I hope he convinces Khaotung and First to be the new Hot Girls of the Summer.

Thank you for this information, and I hope you have the exact day you want with little treats sprinkled in.

[carylmeanslove]

Chupi has standards unlike a certain Toilet Twerker.

I checked Chupi & saw they posted yesterday a post mentioning they got an offer to collaborate with Shein. I am not one bit surprised by the decision she made.

This seriously cracked me up!

It makes one wonder if this could be a Lukola/Anti A bread crumb. I'm not 100% convinced it is a Lukola/Anti A bread crumb, but I find it really interesting & hilarious, nonetheless.

I added some stuff with the green & yellow text to highlight my speculation.

What do you guys think? I love how she used both the Lukola Claddagh draft design & the actual Lukola Claddagh in this post. 😏 We see you Chupi.

The yellow arrow above is me so like 😁😏 at the use of the Lukola Claddagh design draft.

Fast fashion (Shein): Antonia's fashion. Right up her ally, her trying to be trendy, but going for speed instead of quality.

Different: Nicola is different. She has a timeless, elegant & beautiful etc... kind of style.

Made in Ireland = Nicola.

Gold & Diamonds = Nicola is golden & is a true diamond. Nicola is Luke's lifetime, the love of his life that will last a lifetime. Contrast to Antonia (Shein) who is only due to a time of bad luck of becoming acquainted with someone who is a leech & someone with no substance.

A season = The time that Luke is having/had to deal with Antonia while the NDA obligations is/was being carried out. Also, the time we are having to deal with seeing Antonia being in Lukola's love story.

Saying no to Shein = Luke standing up to Antonia to protect his family. It was easy, no question that he would fall on the sword for them. My darling Ireland = Luke telling Nicola he isn't going anywhere that is his heart is hers. The Englishman loves his Galway girl.

HA! LOVE YA CHUPI!

ETA: I got an anon message from someone who claimed to be an Lukola (doubt it) complaining about this post. Anyone who thinks this honest post is harsh is someone who doesn't understand having standards. Having/wanting quality over the fast fashion that is what today's capitalism climate runs on. Also, if anyone is defending Antonia in any way with how much of a leech she is being, she is delaying Lukola's plans with the NDA obligations. Luke is so freaking miserable around that girl. She like Shein is cheap. She doesn't want to work hard to make something of herself with hard work with the sweat of a brow like Luke, Nicola & Chupi has. She'd rather go the cheap/easy way. Trying to get famous off of Luke & now also Nicola. Just like Shein wishes to benefit from Chupi's hard work.

[animegirlrunningwithtoast]

As a shelter worker, an uber driver once picked me up after i had a notably difficult day. Several injuries and multiple rounds of pain in the ass cops. And he said to me “i don’t know why you bother with them”

And i just started. About the resident who held the door and opened the mag locks for me every morning at 7am, because i was too short to reach the mechanism. The elderly man who made sure someone came and helped me when I fell on the ice and was alone in the job. The man who was absolutely sure I was the child of Captain Morgan, but phoned from hospital every sunday to ask 1) is his stuff still there 2) hiw are we 3) how was the captain. I had dozens of lads like this: wnd I never had a client be abusive to me and not apologize. not try to change how they treated me after. Because i treated them as people and they did the same to me. They were lashing out because they could yell at me and get some form of attention, and yelling at the systems neglecting the homeless was like screaming into an endless void that would never acknowledge you. Even if I got mad, barred them yelled, I still at least noticed them.

I got out of my uber, thanked him, the ride was spent in silence aside for that.

2 months later I catch a Lyft. It is the uber driver but now he’s doing lyft. And he’s running an informal network distributing food to street living folk because of that conversation. He told me he went home, and thought about how he always had leftovers because his family was still in Syria and he didn’t know how to cook for one. How he was alone and unseen, unable to find non gig work while in immigration limbo and not that different from them. So he started giving the extras away. Paxking up boxes lucnhes and giving rhem as he drove. Then his friend who owned a a restaurant started giving him food too, and then more restaurants. Then uber killed his account for distributing on the clock so he swapped to lyft.

People are fundamentally kind. I genuinely believe this. They harden and grow coarse under the crushing weight of capitalism and the nuclear family, because we are supposed to be communal but capitalism splits us into itty bitty households so they can sell 20 hammers to 20 houses, instead of 5 to a community.

“People are inherently terrible” no!!! Have you ever seen a child wait for their friend while they tie their shoelaces? Have you ever known someone who would bring hurt squirrels and rabbits and mice to the nearest vet just so it doesn’t suffer? Have you seen someone grieve? Have you ever read something that hit your heart like a freight train? Have you looked at the stars and felt an unexplainable joy? Have you ever baked bread? Have you shared a meal with a friend? Have you not seen it? All the love? All the good? I know it’s hard to see sometimes, I know there’s pain everywhere. But look, there’s a child helping another up after a hard fall. Look, there’s someone giving their umbrella to a stranger. Look, there’s someone admiring the spring flowers. Look, there’s good, there’s good, there’s good. Look!!!!

[daylighted]

hi !!! long time no see !!!

i wanted to start this off by saying thank you all for all of the love i got in my absence 😭 over 1k notifs i returned to! that is unreal! and in this same breath, thank you for how many of them were so kind? the support and the love and genuine kindness you all showed me as i was literally logging off for a while ( for me at least ) is so, so much more appreciated than i think any of you will ever know. i am going to answer them all i promise !! i am just currently reacclimating to even being on here LOL.

my next keypoint is going to be a little hard boundary </3 i'm sandwiching it in between the good stuff so hopefully that makes it okay !!! i think it goes without saying, but in case it needs spelled out, please do not follow me if you follow smarties. there is a full thread on why tagged in my pinned; what is linked is just the final thing i am making about her, considering this is all she's wanted is my attention. i do not care if you believe that "this is just fanfiction and you will follow us both" or anything along those lines. it stopped being fanfiction at the first secret account she made to reach me; it has dug its own grave by this fourth. i am not asking for you to choose my side or hers, because again, i do not give a shit about sides or teams or anything like that. she is harassing me, and so i am cutting the lines as they reach me, in this instance where i have a semblance of control. i hope you understand but it is not my intention anymore to coddle to people who continuously support her after everything that has happened to me.

i learned a lot about myself on this break! i am an incredibly anxious person. LMFAO. if you take away one of my constants, i think i go a little stir crazy, something that fluctuated for me throughout this week! i think i am a lot better now. i got a victory royale on fortnite (LMFAO) which if you know me, you know this is a HUGE W because i suck at it! i started reading again! i started watching supernatural again! i wrote a lot of updates on things, and the things i didn't get to are in a clear list, and i actually do have motivation to finish them! this is a huge feat for someone like me who tends to quit and move onto the next thing. i am going to spend tonight & tomorrow queuing what i have to post so i can (hopefully) catch up on everything else in the background. plus, i'm writing a book? like i said, it's been a little bit of an anxious break, but a productive one!

i also updated my theme hehe. for st pattys! this is all but irrelevant but i do love updating my theme, as we all know, so <3 !! a new dahliablog outfit has been added to the collection. if you want me to do your theme lmk LOL and i'm serious !! if you can't tell i love doing it & i might as well capitalize on it since ( new lore! because i can't help but overshare on the internet at all times ) i can't work for six months at least, though probably more with how my seizures are </3 side hustles and me are about to get well acquainted HAHA.

this is a very long post & i do apologize, i just wanted to let you guys know all of the things i got up to in my absence <3 i hope you didn't miss me too much, and i hope that what i put out for all of you in these coming days & more to come are things you will enjoy<3 thank you for sticking by me and all of my absolute crazy ideas & lack of commitment to the ones i had already started. i'm working on that part!!

love, dahlia <3

[mxrcurysb1tch]

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆‧₊˚ Astrology observations pt. VI˚₊☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊

✮ As always, take what resonates and leave the rest. xo

✮ Women with Venus in Leo want the red carpet rolled out for them in love. Give me the princess treatment, fly me to Paris, check us in at the Ritz, buy me designer, show me off. Men with Venus in Leo are pulling all the stops in love. They’re the ones splashing out, being extremely chivalrous. I know a guy with this placement and he’s usually super stingy but when his girlfriend is involved he makes sure she is treaaaateedd.

✮ I once read somewhere that mercury retrograde natives get really annoyed and frustrated when technological errors happen, when the WiFi is loading slow, when they don’t understand how something works on a computer etc. And idk about you guys but as a native myself, I can definitely relate lol!

✮ Speaking of mercury retrograde, I often find that when two natives meet each other, they either understand each other on a whole different level or they c o m p l e t e l y misunderstand each other and butt heads constantly and just generally get on each other’s nerves.

✮ 10h moons and being great musicians. I’ve noticed that a lot of musicians, especially ones that write their own songs have this placement and I think it’s because they’re so good at laying out the details of their lives in their songs and their emotions are a key component in the success of their career.

✮ *sigh* this is one I’m so tired of hearing. Capricorn isn’t just about being obsessed with money, materialism and capitalism. It’s about success, improvement, and mastery. Now I can see the overlap between the two ideas and the significations are definitely there for a reason. In our culture, the sign of success is having the money and the career, the house, so yes those things are likely to be attractive to a Capricorn. However it could just be about being successful and improving in any area of your life not just money and career.

✮ 6h stellium and/or moon might suffer from major health anxiety or intrusive thoughts, even OCD in extreme cases.

✮ Chiron 9h/sagittarius You might feel completely lost in life and like nothing has any meaning. You might have a confusing relationship with religion or be into nihilistic philosophies. Travelling and exploring the world can offer you a sense of purpose and meaning.

✮ Neptune aspects to personal planets can make a person feel very in tune with the psychic world and the energy of the collective unconscious. They might easily pick up on energetic shifts on a societal scale. The type of aspect will show how the native feels about this, what they choose to do with this ability and if it is a hindrance or help to them.

✮ Uranus aspects to personal planets can make the native very susceptible to understanding trends and behaviours in society. They may have a sixth sense predicting trends and people’s behaviours before they happen. I think this is especially prominent for those gen z that have Uranus in Pisces. Uranus aspects to personal planets can also make the native very ahead of their time, and they may propose extremely controversial or shocking ideas and observations that later turn out to be astute and extremely popular. With hard aspects, the native can struggle to harness this power for good and may rub people up the wrong way or even disgust them with their outlandish ideas. With more benefic aspects, the native can be seen as a visionary, someone to be revered and followed.

[punkiefart]

Very good point, but I do think we need to hold equal value our personal skills and the local professionals. Like the point about the zippers, sometimes stuffs completely out of your skill set and you should totally go support your local seamstress. Same with shoe repairs. But if these tasks interest you, take a look into the process, talk to your local professionals and most would be happy to give you tips on how to do it yourself. Money can be very hard to come by, or simply not enough to cover those kinds of costs when you have bills to pay. Getting interested in the process through free resources (YouTube, although not perfect, has taught me so much) can help you find possible alternative ways to keep your stuff lasting longer. There's value in everyone's skill, and it's always best to keep working on yours while supporting others. This is not anti small business, this is an anti capitalist take trying to focus on skill sharing and empowering yourself to LEARN. LEARN ANYTHING THAT INTERESTS YOU. You are a god with the ability to create, and capitalism is really trying to kill off our creative abilities so that we have to keep buying, keep using money, to keep a failing system moving just a little longer. FUCK MONEY, but if you have to use it were it'll actually help someone instead of a Corp. Talking very broadly here, You can't always rely on others labor, as is the american way, to take and take and take. I know this may be confusing, but people are more than machines to do the work you don't want to. We all deserve better and to treat each other better

in the spirit of diy or die I'd like to remind yall that there's people, usually small local businesses whose is literally fix clothing

I had a pair of boots that i wore religiously almost every day for five years; had the soles fixed twice by a shoesmaker for less than half of what a new pair would've cost

almost alm of my zippers have broken at least once, local seamstress fixes them for like 10 bucks

yes, making your clothes yourself is good - both in spirit and economically speaking - but you can still pay people for fixes you can't do yourself. it's still punk af to support small traders

[hiraethwrote]

Firstly, enjoy your shows, gorgeous!

I can't wait to see your thoughts about seeing more of Tobio and then Levi.

But you also made me curious, what do you think like which characters from jjk and hq would fit perfectly into a downton abbey type of au?

including : suguru geto, satoru gojo, kento nanami, yuki tsukumo, shoko ieiri, toji fushiguro contents : f!reader, historical au, no curse au, forbidden romance, affairs, insinuation of drinking/partying, age gap, scandals, not proofread word count : 1.3k

author's note : omgomgomg this is so cute, and got a little carried away meaning i formatted this as a little drabble, and i have to dedicate a post of its own to a hq version of a downton au <3 love you bby

suguru geto — starting of with who i believe would fit best as the main man in this downton au.

because mr. geto is the heir to the estate, though not first in line.

taking very direct inspiration from the show itself, i see him as the equivalent to mr. matthew crawley, a distant cousin who hasn't had anything to do with his relatives at downton until he was informed he was to be the next person to take over the estate.

a reserved gentleman who comes from a more modest way of life. without any title or significant rank, mr. geto has somewhat of a hard time adjusting to the new and luxurious life that downton has to offer. not to mention, he often finds himself butting heads with the family in general.

eventually he manages to have the whole family warm up to him. everyone except of you, the oldest daughter of the lord of downton.

from the moment you first meet, neither of you are able to hold your tongue when it comes to small comments — both of you sink to petty lows in each other’s company. the enemies to lovers and slow burn burns bright.

with time, he wins over the respect of the family by abiding to tradition but also paving way for modern changes. turns out this is also what eventually ends up charming you into his good graces.

satoru gojo — cannot answer this question without including my favourite golden boy, who is definitely a controversial individual in the downton au.

satoru gojo, the loud and notorious distant cousin that resides in london, creating “havoc” wherever he goes (or that’s at least how the earl himself describes his behaviour).

unlike his family, mr. gojo rejects tradition, and dives head first into a new and less conservative future. his relatives back at downton believes he simply acts out to spite the prideful individuals who carry titles, but he genuinely believes in the modern world. with society heading in a new direction, he looks forward to the time where it will knock the higher ups in his family down a few pegs.

the worst part? his stunningly good looks works nearly as a get-out-of-jail free card, much to his family’s frustration. they’re furious he gets to frolic around the capital and tarnish the reputation of their name.

in a desperate attempt to calm his wild side, his family tries to lock him down with a respectable lady from a rich family that will instantly clear up his image. of course he rejects any proposals.

his family thinks he denies any beauty they present to him simply to be difficult, but the truth is much innocent.

there is only one girl who as captured his attention — you, the sweet barmaid who serves drinks at the shady bar in the bad side of town. already the very first time he visits the location you manage to catch his eye, and he is utterly smitten by you.

kento nanami — it’s to no surprise he is an outstanding gentleman, first and foremost. but i imagine mr. nanami to be the most respected member of the staff with his position as butler of downton.

he is surprisingly young for his role, always performs perfectly on his duties as well as leading the rest of the staff.

it should definitely be mentioned that by proving his loyalty and dedication, he has grown to be a part of the inner circle of the lord of downton — the earl of grantham would go as far as to consider mr. nanami a friend, never hesitating to seek the support of his butler.

there is only one factor that has him begin to bend against his responsibilities — you, the lady’s maid to the daughter’s of downton.

mr. nanami knew he signed up for a life by himself when he took on the position, but he can’t deny the unspoken tension that develops between you. longing stares shared across the ballroom during dinners, the softness conveyed when speaking each others name, all factors that makes it oh-so-hard to put his job first like promised.

yuki tsukumo — the sneakiest housemaid of the downton estate.

she performs exactly what is expected of her, nothing more, nothing less. she doesn’t see why she should do anything beyond what she is paid for.

by behaving this way, she manages to blend in with the crowd. not even everyone in the family would be able to tell you her name. miss tsukumo doesn’t mind at all though, as it gives her the opportunity to obtain all sorts of gossip that travels throughout the house, whether it stems from the titled folks, or her peers downstairs. if something even the slightest bit of scandalous might start to stir up, bet your last dime that a particular housemaid is the first to get her hands on the information.

she consideres all the information she gathers as hightly valuable, and will definitely won't give it up to anybody. at least not for free.

except for you of course, the young and gorgeous assistant cook, hid away in the kitchen all day.

the second she has her claws in the latest gossip, she quickly scurries down to the kitchen to fetch you for a few minutes to give you a hurried rundown, setting the expectations for the deep dive into the topic once dusk rolls around.

shoko ieiri — surprise, surprise, she’d be a part of the medical staff in town.

but, due to the fact that she is a women, she is merely a nurse despite being ten times more educated and knowledgeable than the men she works with. there is not much else she can do than express her opinions on the matter and hope her male colleagues would trust her and do as she requested.

either way, she often sneaks around the hospital at night to provide additional care to the patients she is able to help with the little resources she has.

by being loud and outspoken, desperately trying to argue with the men in power, she manages to catch your eye, the wife of the most respected doctor at the hospital. you’re drawn in by her opinionated outbursts and secret set of skills, which eventually have you approach her.

neither can deny the spark that occurs in each other's company, unable to explain what exactly it is you're both feeling. but it is just the start of a scandalous affair.

toji fushiguro — without a doubt, the most unapproachable member of staff.

for years and years, mr. fushiguro has been the handyman of downton, and people outside of the family cannot fathom how he has managed to keep his job. he’s rude, vulgar and downright unmannered. but he is the best handyman downton has had the good fortune of housing. sure, he is a little rough around the edges, but there isn’t a problem on the property he won’t be able to fix.

his rough and dirty exterior has people stay clear of his path, the conversation always quieting down if he enters the room. not that he minds, as he prefers to stick to himself anyways.

however, there is a certain someone who has sparked an interest in the rugged man always covered in dirt and grime from head to toe — you, the youngest daughter of the earl.

you hear the stories, all the rumours about how he participates in activities not suitable for anyone with self respect. but unlike the people around you, your drawn in instead of pushed away.

and mr. fushiguro tries as hard as he can to stay away from you. not only is he quite a few years older than you, but he is also of a much lower rank. and you’re the daughter of his employer, the earl's little princess. he doesn’t want to corrupt you, but senses you're trouble as you time and time again sneak off to keep the man company as he does his job.

©hiraethwrote 2025 . all rights reserved. reposting, translating and otherwise plagarisim is prohibited

[lifeafterpsychiatry]

can I ask for like, a spark notes on what anti psych is?

like. I'm very aware of and agree with the fact that psych as a structure is based in control and capitalism and such, and the structures of normal and such are all based around ability to perform in a white abled capitalist etc society.

But im also like, Dependant on psych meds to function even a little, and I think the way I have interacted w psych meds is the way everyone should have access to if thats needed. all med changes, starts, and stops have been because I went to my docs and said "I'd like to try this", and they told me abt options and what they thought might work well, but left the end decision up to me. and ik thats far from universal, but I do think that in an ideal world that would be more or less how psych meds worked. ive also had shit experiences with CBT, but had great success with DBT and more or less like the idea its built on (a lot of ppl w chronic mh issues didn't have the opportunity to build certain skills growing up, and helping them build those later can be super helpful to make their brain less stressful to live in)

are these views which have a place in anti psych? is there anything youd reccomend I read to get a better idea of anti psych's view on meds for ppl who benefit from them and/or less standard therapies like dbt?

When I say I'm antipsych, I mean that I am against psychiatry as a carceral institution with the power to deny people basic bodily autonomy in the name of coerced and forced treatment.

I'm not against the concept of deciding to take psych meds or go to therapy, and there would still be space to do so in a world without psychiatry as an institution of carceral power. I still think there could be relevant use of many individual tools associated with psychiatry for some people, and I fully respect your right to pursue both psych meds and therapy.

I just want it to happen in a context of full transparency and autonomy, where you are actually guaranteed the final say in what treatment you want and if and when to stop it, without the risk of someone forcibly treating you (or denying you treatment you do want) if they think you're making the "wrong" decision.

I do have many criticisms of psych meds and the (lack of) scientific evidence behind them, but I don't want to deny mentally ill people the right to decide for themselves what they want to try and what works for them. I am in favor of full autonomy for mentally ill people, not a new dogma for how we're allowed to live our lives.

[flowersdiceandlove]

@way-down-aevistown yeah. honestly i headcanon that the temple thing happens in canonverse anyway, but it definitely happens in this au. And Wu Ming is obvious about it. Fengqing's temples are canonically near each other cause of their rivalry, so it's really like a two for one deal for him. He goes to burn/desecrate one of their temple and look! just across the street is a temple for the other one! How can he not get that one too?

Mu Qing and Feng Xin would try to team up in their fights with him because they're both weaker and know it and their only hope of winning(landing a hit) would be to work together, but... It doesn't last long. They would devolve into fighting each other mid fight because they would be arguing on their own anyway, but Wu Ming's yelling out stuff that just brings up old memories and grudges cause that's what the three do when they fight. So, it ends up alternating between fengqing working together to fight Wu Ming, then a three-way battle, then fengqing deciding to work together again for a bit, then back to a three-way battle in a cycle again and again. Sometimes Wu Ming will even stand back and watch them beat each other bloody and hurl insults at each other having completely forgotten that they were also fighting Wu Ming and not just each other. By the time they remember that fact, their faces are bruised and swollen from each other and Wu Ming is watching them with a smirk, maybe even snacking on something. If his enemies want to waste their strength beating each other up, he's not about to stop them. The three then all go back to fighting.

And, oh yes, Mu Qing finds out about the bead so much sooner. And he is pissed. In fact, Wu Ming will purposefully make sure that the braid with the bead is styled in his hair and visible when he knows he's gonna be seeing Mu Qing. And then he'll start playing with it and twirling it around because it just pisses Mu Qing off more. He spent so long looking for that earring and this entire time with was with this motherfucker. He wants to scream and pull his hair out he's so mad about it and the fact that Wu Ming is rubbing it in. Because of this they of course know he's the kid from the parade. This brings up a whole other slew of things to yell at each other. They're bringing up all the grudges and grievances. Mu Qing and Feng Xin yell that Xie Lian should have just let him fall and Wu Ming yells back that they're just jealous because only His Highness was capable of saving him. They bring up the burning of the Xie Lian's palace on the Summit of the Crown Prince the day after the parade which then brings up his bad luck. (The gods can't believe that Wu Ming used to have the worst of luck since he's so incredibly lucky now.) Wu Ming brings up Mu Qing having him kicked out of the army, who brings up Wu Ming stalking Xie Lian when the royal capital still stood. Feng Xin brings up Beizi Hill which then leads Mu Qing to shout out in shock "You were only 13/14! You should be thanking me for having you kicked out of the army! You weren't even old enough to actually join!" The gods are learning so much about these three, and are having a field day with it all. The only thing the three ever agree on is their feelings for Qi Rong. All three have had very unpleasant experiences with Qi Rong, so when Feng Xin and Mu Qing hear that Wu Ming went to beat up Qi Rong or something, they're like "Yeah, that's justified." because even if they hate Wu Ming, they still remember what Qi Rong did to him as a little kid and still find it just as horrifying even all these centuries later.

They eventually bring up the temple scene and the "Live for me!" speech Xie Lian did, and the gods want to curse Xie Lian so badly for that leaving them this nuisance to deal with while he's who-knows-where but are too terrified to actually do that because they know what happens to you when you disrespect Wu Ming's god. They're just left thinking "What were you thinking!?!?" towards Xie Lian because look what happened! Wu Ming will sometimes twirl his red umbrella around when it rests on his shoulder because it draws attention to it and reminds them that Xie Lian is his god and has accepted Wu Ming as his apostle.

I've still been thinking about Mei Nianqing and I still run up against the same wall. If Mei Nianqing and Wu Ming met, eventually, Mei Nianqing would tell Wu Ming the Truth about their history and White No-Face. And if that happened, Wu Ming would absolutely destroy Jun Wu before Xie Lian even ascended for the third time which would then throw everything I've already written above off. There is just no world in which Hua Cheng, if he knew White No-Face still existed, wouldn't hunt him down and take care of everything before he had a chance to mess with Xie Lian again. idk. If anyone has ideas for that part let me know cause if not then Mei Nianqing can't be in it until after Xie Lian ascends and then we'd miss out on Wu Ming trying to get Mei Nianqing out of the Gambler's Den before he ends up gambling his immortal life to some scum slave trader there. Or Mei Nianqing being horrified at Wu Ming's handwriting and asking how Wu Ming thinks he could possibly be fit to serve His Royal Highness with handwriting like that. They would have a very funny dynamic, so someone please think up a solution.

Au where Hua Cheng stays as Wu Ming. All the canon stuff during the first banishment happens, but when he goes to Mount Tonglu, he stays as Wu Ming instead of becoming Hua Cheng. He decides to keep the name Wu Ming bc that’s the name His Highness gave him. He keeps wearing the black robes and Xianle soldier uniform/armor. He makes it clear that he was a soldier in the Xianle army, that he still considers Xie Lian his god, and he wants to serve and protect his god for the rest of his existence just as he wanted in life. He still becomes the calamity and founds Ghost City and challenges the gods, but he does it as Wu Ming. Instead of Crimson Rain Sought Flower, he becomes Crimson-Teared Smiling Ghost (or maybe Crimson-Teared Smiling Soldier?) bc when he’s standing in the blood rain, it slides down his smiling mask making it look like he’s crying tears of blood.

The Heavens know that he’s looking for Xie Lian, and when the Mount Yujun mission happens and Xie Lian’s asking about the young man who controls silver butterflies, they’re like “ah, yes, Wu Ming... Of course he was there since you were…” And Xie Lian is balking learning that Wu Ming is still here and has been looking for him and is still openly worshiping him after all that happened. Xie Lian finds out where to find Wu Ming and hurries down to Ghost City and finds Wu Ming.

This could either be a speed run for their relationship (more than it already was in canon) because Wu Ming’s devotion makes it kinda clear of how much he loves Xie Lian and Xie Lian figures out that he’s Wu Ming’s beloved that Wu Ming wanted revenge for—and, while Xie Lian’s not sure he deserves this love after all that happened—is touched deeply and falls in love with Wu Ming as they spend time together. Or it makes it drag out so much bc they both feel guilty about the past and inadequate to stand next to the other. Xie Lian not feeling worthy of Wu Ming’s steadfast devotion, and Wu Ming feeling he’s failed his god since he left Xie Lian to fight White No-Face alone and is only just now finding him. Either way, like hell Xie Lian’s leaving Wu Ming’s side after their parting 800 years ago and is 100% on Wu Ming’s side in everything. The Heavens have some sort of critique about Wu Ming or warning to Xie Lian about him? In one ear and out the other along with a pointed reminder that Wu Ming is his ghost and his follower. Do not speak I’ll of him again :) Wu Ming’s poor heart is pounding and his face is flaming at how steadfast his god, his love, his everything is defending him and fanboying so hard about it to He Xuan and Yin Yu.

I think at first Xie Lian would move into one of the shrines or temples that Wu Ming built in Ghost City, but then after a little move into Paradise Manor properly.

Also, while Wu Ming openly worships Xie Lian, he doesn’t make any of the denizens of Ghost City worship him. However, bc their beloved Chengzu is worshipping this god, they want to as well and learn about this god that their Chengzu loves. Because of this Xie Lian has a lot of temples and shrines in Ghost City. This number increases after Xie Lian moves there and actually starts answering their prayers, helping where he can, becoming just as beloved as their Chengzhu to them in his own right.

Since Xie Lian has all these temples and shrines, when he has his initial debt, he actually has merits streaming in that Ling Wen is plucking from Xie Lian before he even gets them to start repaying the debt. He still needs to do the Mount Yujun mission though because it is a big debt. And Wu Ming has no intention of purposefully giving more offerings to Xie Lian to help him pay the debt that way cause he doesn’t think Xie Lian should have been billed in the first place. And, since the gods know that any merits from Xie Lian would be coming from Wu Ming and Ghost City, they’re actually scared to take the merits since they think it would piss Wu Ming off (they’re right, of course). So they’re more than happy when they learn about the Mount Yujun arrangement, saying they only want merits if it comes from that mission. (Some still decide to just wave the owed merits all together just to be safe.)

Most of the gods in Heaven still avoid Xie Lian like he’s the plague because of his past but also because (and as the leading reason) because they don’t want to piss Wu Ming off accidentally if they say something offensive to Xie Lian by mistake. After Wu Ming challenged the gods and it came out that he worshipped Xie Lian, the incident of the 33 gods kicking Xie Lian off the mountain came out and so people are scared they’ll be next if they make a wrong move around Xie Lian. They don’t know Xie Lian very well, so they don’t know what he would consider offensive.

Feng Xin and Mu Qing know Exactly why Wu Ming’s pissed at them and can’t even blame him for it after learning of Wu Ming’s devotion. I think their interactions would be really funny. The three of them dragging up old, petty grievances, and hurling Xianle insults at each other. Wu Ming and Mu Qing are winning this because their memories are so good that they remember a lot while Feng Xin is wondering how these two remember so fucking much and so many fucking details. He’s doing pretty good with the insults, though. Those he remembers just fine. Pretty much all of Heaven has learned insults and swears from the Xianle dynasty and dialect and they actually use it. (Xie Lian is pretty shook after ascending again and hearing his native dialect used so casually after it being out of use for centuries.)

The gods eat up Wu Ming, Feng Xin, and Mu Qing’s beef because they know it’s personal instead of left wondering why he’s so against the two and are enjoying watching the matches, arguments, and fall out with them all just like they did with just Feng Xin and Mu Qing in canon.

While Wu Ming does have a lot of fake skins, he still always wears the smiling mask when he’s going up against the gods or in any Official business as Crimson-Teared Smile Ghost/Soldier(?) as a matter of trademark and principal. If he’s not wearing it over his face, he might slide it to the side of his head or have it hang from his waist. When he’s in a human disguise in the Mortal Realm, he keeps it tucked away out of sight, but still on him and easy to grab to put on. He might also just have a technique for making and shattering them for when he needs them. Like how his butterflies come out of his vambraces.

I really like the idea of his title starting out as “Crimson Teared Smiling” because it’s so beautifully tragic. The blood rain falling down makes him look like he’s crying tears of blood, and horrible type of grieving for his his god who went through so much. He wears his smiling mask, though, and is makes it look like he’s smiling because his god was kind and smiled kindly to all, offering shelter and a helping hand. Xie Lian’s duality is reflected here, the pain and suffering he went through with the bloody tears, but also the kind smile he kept and still offers despite it all. We also can’t forget White No-Face’s cry-smiling mask. That just feels like the cherry on top of hidden meanings.

As for whether it ends in “Ghost” or “Soldier” I keep wib-wobbling back and forth on because they’re both so good. “Ghost” is good because that’s what Wu Ming is. He is a nameless ghost. He was nobody until his god gave him purpose. He was ready to die and felt dead because of his shitty life and luck before he remade himself for his god. Even when he was alive, he was always told he’d be better dead and that he’d not live to 18. He was always surrounded by death and tragedy. A ghost is a very good descriptor of what he is even before he died. In volume 1, Chapter 6 it says:

Many believe that, as the God of Misfortune, any paintings or writings of the Prince of Xianle have the powers of a curse. If placed on the back of a person, or on the main entrance of a household, then the cursed person or household will run into all sorts of bad luck… …It was hard to tell whether this was a description of a god or a ghost.

With Honghong-er's luck, even as alive, I would not be surprised if this was true for him also. So, "Ghost" is a very good word to describe him and has a lot of meaning to it.

However, "Soldier" also has a good meaning to it. Wu Ming was a soldier in the Xianle army. He took up arms to defend the capital, but mostly his god, Xie Lian. In the first battle after Xie Lian desended, Mu Qing notes that Wu Ming(still a nameless soldier) was fighting really closely to Xie Lian the entire battle, trying to keep enemies away from Xie Lian. Later, as the ghost Wu Ming in actuality, he was a soldier once again, serving Xie Lian directly, working as his blade and tool. He made himself into a solder for Xie Lian. He did that. That was his choice. He pushed away his fate and became what he wanted. A soldier. A protecter. All for his god. He still wears the armor and attire of a Xianle soldier because that's what he is in this au. He is a champion of Xie Lian, the Crown Prince of Xianle, his weapon, tool, protector. He is a soldier and he wears that honor proudly. Xie Lian is the one who told him he would be suited for a saber and gave him tips. He pledged himself to Xie Lian many times, and Xie Lian accepted that pledge. He is Xie Lian's soldier. His champion. Everything Wu Ming built was towards that end of protecting Xie Lian. The fact that Wu Ming made himself this, is so very in line with canon that it would be so beautiful for his title to reflect this just as the "Sought Flower" does in his canon title.

"Ghost" is a good descriptor of him, but holds tones of his past and what was given to him.

"Soldier" is what he made himself despite it all.

Both are so good, and I'm not sure which would be better. Maybe it's something they change? In canon, there are multiple titles used for people. Just Qi Rong is called both "Night Touring Green Lantern" and also "Green Ghost." So, idk.

I thought up this idea about a week ago and was like "I should write that. That's such a good idea and would be so much fun." but then I remembered that I have so many other fics I need to finish and that this idea would be a big one because there's no way that this could be a oneshot or anything even in the realm of short. I would think 50k at least, but the way my writing goes, it would probably end up closer to 100k. So, i decided to release this idea to the wind and see if any of you got inspiration from it. If anyone writes this or has ideas, let me know because I really do love this idea and want to see stuff about it.

[sophie-frm-mars]

so my new girlfriend is very much into electoral politics, she participates on a local level organizing meetings and going over policy ideas, we talk about politics from a local level to a global level and I always take the approach of like "the whole world is a system designed to crush people at the bottom, and all systems of power are just temporary configurations that will vanish and appear again and again as societies emerge and break down throughout time." and of course her approach is more "the written rules of politics have meaning worth paying attention to beyond just the desires of the powerful to have things their way."

and I need you to convince me that her approach is interesting, because I want to be interested in what she has to say, and if that's not possible then it would be nice to hear your thoughts about, idk, all of this, maybe an idea you have can shake things up in an interesting way, I'm not trying to win an argument, I'm trying to enjoy my girlfriend's special interest, help

I love this question!

So here's my first thing about this - human social structures use lots of the same absolute basic units of interaction and organisation. You have to talk about stuff, decide what goals you want to achieve, how to work towards them and then take steps. In military theory this is called the ODA or OODA loop, you can look it up. Your gf is involved in practical organizing, just in a way that serves to recuperate democracy into capitalism and take away rather than give power to the people

I'm not sure from your ask if you're involved in any organizing yourself but if you aren't there is still a tonne to learn from local political organizers in electoral politics even if their imagination is prefigured to coopt their efforts. I have friends who've worked in NGOs, panels and committees with the UN, I've known people who've written reports for President Biden and people who've gone to Westminster to meet with high level ministers, I've had friends in the DSA, Momentum, and all the way down to little affinity groups trying to organize a banner making session and it all works (or doesn't work) the same way. As Muel likes to put it, it's all just people going into different rooms and talking with different people

So on a basic level, there is a lot of practical stuff you can learn about organizing talking to someone involved in local politics

In order to be more involved, if that's what you want, in her interests while also maintaining your own political principles, I have two suggestions:

1. Try to figure out ways that your politics can help her. There are in the ways people organize what we could call "democratic technologies". The people's assembly. Hand signal voting. Stack organizing during meetings. Even a suggestion box is in a sense a democratic technology.

You can try to bring these things to her and see what kinds of things could be done in her environment to make things more actually empowering and democratic. Neoliberalism provides faux democratic technologies in order to blunt and dead-end organizing efforts while declaring to everyone they've "empowered communities". If you can trick everyone into spending all their efforts into getting a community funding grant that they may or may not actually get, where they have to present a complete budget and plan, they won't spend that time just directly using their labour to help people, and if they do get the grant the capital circulates more, promoting the market both materially and in people's minds as the only way society functions. If your gf can make changes to electoral politics around her she might be able to undo some of the things you don't like about it as a system and shift focus away from expecting an authority to fix your problems onto direct action

2. Organize in your local community and invite her to be involved. Not sure what else to say about this, it would show that your stance is more effective

[respectthepetty]

Hii Petty!!

Est has followed Joong back!!

Like you said, capitalism wins🤣 and the winner here is definitely Gmmtv

Thanks, Anons!

HOT GIRL SUMMER IS BACK!!!!

Est's pictures are about to be fire once again!

The devil works hard, but GMMTV works harder.

[the-rainbow-of-doom]

(This post was sponsored by a 1+ hour commute)

[sleepyorchidmonster]

Yup! I think one of the reasons Book 2 is often so disappointing is because it's right after Book 1 (that was incredible).

Leona's backstory needs so much extra interpretation just to get that point across. It's probably because they tried keeping it too similar to Scar's, while the others had more creative freedom to actually work with it...

Leona and Ruggie being on the same boat, except not technically (Leona is on Premium Class) is quite annoying too. I get the idea that they're both outcasts and the Palace staff always thinks of Leona as "cursed", but they should've focused more on that angle then, because, again, Leona is a prince while Ruggie lives in the slums....

Ruggie overblot would've been so cool! Maybe next year, if the story keeps progressing with more overblots....

CAPITALISM INCARNATE YES LOL.

Jack feels like a bit of an outcast in Savanaclaw (mostly because he's a wolf and the fandom has been attempting to assign him a Disney inspiration for the past 5 years lol) but I love his dynamic with the other first years, being the braincell holder of the group (also the moral code with Savanaclaw), not to mention how he's Leona's freshman, but respects Riddle and hangs out with Vil, contrasting how Epel is Vil's protégé but prefers Leona.

While I would've preferred a Cactus Wonderland for Jack's dream, it's still very sweet how close his dream is to his actual life, meaning he's already quite happy with how things are, with only a few changes to Leona's and Ruggie's personalities 5hat threw everyone off guard (probably how he thought they'd be like before he joined NRC).

MICKEY MOUSE VOICE! Your friend is hilarious, that's so cool!

Ruggie and Jamil's team up was truly a highlight of Glorious Masquerade.

Oh Ruggie's dream was great! He just wants his dad back and to have a chance at a regular school life (with no overblots) while also making sure Leona actually gets the respect and recognition he deserves.

Savanaclaw believes so much in Leona it's actually heartbreaking, he thinks he's the worst, meanwhile Ruggie and Jack in the back be like: "If Leona has a 1000 fans I am one of them, uf he has one fan, it's me, if he has 0 fans, then no he doesn't because my ghost is still there".

Guys, I love the heartslabyul dream arc and I understand they probably did the order for plot reasons so they could have certain characters in some dreams and not in others but like… THE CHARACTERS NAMES ARE 1234 AND YOU DID THE DREAM ORDER AS 2413!!! WHAT?!?! On that note actually, why is Trey named Trey and Cater named Cater? Because rank in the dorm wise we have 1 and 2 as the freshmen and then you would think that the normal junior would be 3 and then the vice housewarden would be 4 but noooo the normal junior is 4 and the vice housewarden is 3. How does this make any sense? This puts the power order at 1243! I’m not saying Cater should have been vice, I’m saying Trey and Cater should have swapped names. Like I’m sorry, your characters names are 1234 and you couldn’t even do us the basic courtesy of ordering them properly?!?! Am I the only one bamboozled by this? (I saw opportunity to use the word bamboozled, I took opportunity to use the word bamboozled. Now I have used the word bamboozled even more times you see.) idk maybe it’s supposed to be weird because it’s Alice in Wonderland or something but come on!!!

[bixels]

As cameras becomes more normalized (Sarah Bernhardt encouraging it, grifters on the rise, young artists using it), I wanna express how I will never turn to it because it fundamentally bores me to my core. There is no reason for me to want to use cameras because I will never want to give up my autonomy in creating art. I never want to become reliant on an inhuman object for expression, least of all if that object is created and controlled by manufacturing companies. I paint not because I want a painting but because I love the process of painting. So even in a future where everyone’s accepted it, I’m never gonna sway on this.

if i have to explain to you that using a camera to take a picture is not the same as using generative ai to generate an image then you are a fucking moron.