the concept of "personal property" is foreign to your roommate. what belongs to him and what belongs to you simply does not exist in the vocabulary of his.
so when you enter your shared apartment after a grueling nine-hour shift, you already recognize the rhythmic buzz echoing down the hallway. it’s the exact same sound you’ve confronted him about three times this month.
you march down the carpeted hallway and throw the bedroom door wide, not even bothered to knock because he certainly didn’t ask permission to breach your space.
and there he is, your thoroughly infuriating, completely shameless roommate, sprawled across your duvet with those absurdly long, pale legs monopolizing the entire mattress. his glasses are askew on his face, the lenses clouded from his own ragged gasps as he rubs your favourite wand's head against his sensitive cockhead—smearing his sticky pre-cum all over.
“gojo!” you snap, your delivery flat and dripping with unadulterated irritation. "you are doing it again?!"
he lacks even the basic decency to look up from his own groin, refusing to acknowledge your presence at the foot of your bed. his chest heaves under an oversized anime t-shirt, hips giving a pathetic, needy little twitch against the mattress as the rattle of the motor continues to pleasure his nerve endings. he rolls his head back into your pillows, letting out a shaky, wet moan that sounds nearly pornographic.
“shh… wait a sec,” he pants, his voice thick and raspy; a world apart from his typically fast-talking cadence that usually annoys the shit out of you. “i'm almost there. don’t be mad, it just… it feels so much better than my hands…”
you’ve had the boundary talks. you’ve threatened to lock your door (which he can bypass anyway). you’re tired, your feet hurt, and the audacity of him sitting in your room, treating your personal drawer like his own candy shop without an ounce of shame, makes your blood boil.
you stride over to the bed, and before his overstimulated brain can register the sudden movement, you reach down and wrench his hand away from his crotch, sending the toy clattering onto the floorboards.
“hey!” he whines, a petulant, spoiled-brat pout instantly forming on his lips as his eyes finally dart up to yours. “i was literally right there! c’mon, that’s just cruel—”
unable to tolerate his dumb whining a second longer, you drop to your knees beside the mattress and clamp your hand around the bottom of his cock with intentional force. before he can even puff at the sudden restriction of his blood flow, you raise your other hand to land a stinging slap directly across the pink flesh of his angry cockhead with a loud smack!
satoru gasps, his spine arching off beautifully as his body spasms from the impact. his vivid blue eyes are now blown wide, blinking rapidly behind his spectacles while a miserable whimper spills from his plush lips. "do you think you can just use my things because you are too lazy to buy your own?"
to penalize his arrogance further, ensuring the lesson sinks into his imbecile brain, you squeeze your thumb and forefinger around the tender skin beneath the swollen mushroom tip and pinch, using enough force to guarantee a lasting red mark.
the reaction is instantaneous. the agony of the nip, combined with another slap across his aching cock, pushes his nervous system into overload. satoru releases a startled shriek, his hips thrashing desperately as he tries to wrench his hips away from your horrific grip, thighs jerking against the sheets in a futile attempt to escape the blinding pain.
but your hands are unrelenting, and the torment only accelerates the climax. his cock throbs spastically as if its trying to communicate something using morse code before he erupts.
thick, pearly ropes of cum shoot straight up, splattering across his own flat stomach and the hem of his shirt, dripping down the pale skin of his abs.
“oh god—” he groans, voice cracking as his upper body collapses back into the pillows, the sudden impact knocking his spectacles off his nose to land sideways on the mattress. he looks like a total wreck; his mouth hanging open, a thin strand of saliva bridging his lips as he stares up at you with dazed, dilated pupils that consume his baby blue irises.
even as the intense peak subsides, his hips give one final, weak throb against your hand, and he possesses the sheer nerve to smile—a lazy, unrepentant smirk forming on his stupidly handsome face.
“do… do that again,” he whispers, breathless and shameless as ever, cocking his head like an overly enthusiastic bunny. “slap it again for me...?”
first day, first lecture, actually. he stepped in late, and the only empty seat left was beside you. you both stared at the professor in pure, utterly confused silence, question marks probably floating on top of your heads as you tried to gather anything. after five minutes, you simply turned and asked him to let you pass so you could leave.
he grabbed his stuff, joining you. he asked if you wanted to grab coffee, and that’s how it all started.
three years later, you were the untouchable sukuna ryomen’s girlfriend. your relationship was private, no one knew any details (it wasn’t like anyone would dare to ask sukuna, especially with the way his resting face was a terrifying glare to everyone else) and you two preferred it that way.
no one knew the details. no one knew how sukuna was deeply and utterly smitten— the scowling, terrifying, muscular 6’4 man turning immediately into lovesick puppy for you. clingy, needy, obsessed, your guard dog of a boyfriend never ever let you doubt his love. he always made it clear, whether it was his arm’s wrapped around you every chance he got, or him spamming your phone whenever you weren’t around, using any excuse to talk to you, or the way he dropped everything for you, making it clear you were his first priority, or the way he listened intensely to every word that left your mouth and noticed everything about you— which showed when he referenced your words from months ago, or bought you gifts you didn’t even mention, or could tell you weren’t okay from a single glance.
it really was not a lie that sukuna ryomen loved you. he knew it. you knew it. his frat knew it. everyone that really knew sukuna knew he loved you.
which was why the break up broke you.
that night didn’t even seem real. he had ignored you for a total of three days, replying to your texts dryly, which was already odd. then, he showed to to your place in the middle of the night, jaw clenched, eye bags dark, like he hasn’t slept in days. he didn’t elaborate, didn’t explain— simply told you he was tired, that he couldn’t do this anymore, and walked away.
like he didn’t just ruin you. like you two weren’t discussing your shared future a few days ago. like you two hadn’t already agreed what stupid fucking roses you wanted at your wedding. like he hasn’t kissed you so softly just a few days ago, murmuring soft pleads for you to never leave him.
to make it worse, he didn’t disappear after. he attended your shared lectures as usual— sitting behind you, always behind you, like he needed to keep you in his vision. he left your notifications on, which you knew because he remained the first to view every story until you blocked him. he kept going to your favorite cafe beside campus (he didn’t even like their coffee) at the exact same time you always did, his sad eyes set on you, buying a single water bottle each time, until you stopped going. you even had to stop going to the library late at night, because he would always be there, blank notebooks open as he pathetically pretended to focus when his eyes wouldn’t leave you alone. even late at night, when you would scroll through your chats, you would see his bubble. tying. erasing. there.
it was worse, because it was obvious that he still loved you.
it made you want to scream, really. it would have been better if he just… pretended you didn’t exist. ignored you. blocked you first. flirted with girls in your vision. did anything to make you feel like he didn’t care anymore. like he didn’t give a fuck, so you could move on. so you wouldn’t get the stupid urge to show up to his place and ask him what the fuck his issue was. so you could hate him.
but again, unfortunately for you, sukuna was never good at hiding his love for you.
it was going to be okay, though. because sukuna already broke it up, and moving on was clearly the only good solution. it wasn’t like he will ever come back, anywa—
bzzz.
dilf420: bro. ur fucking bf is sulking and ruining my party. can you come pick his drunk ass up. ill pay u.
you blinked once at the notification, then twice, then immediately opened it. you really should have blocked the whole frat.
you: broke up. no longer my bf. also, ur broke.
toji replied immediately.
dilf420: idc that u two broke up he’s drunk and blabbering about missing his fucking wife come pick his ass up
you stared at the dm blankly, eyes staring at the words like it would disappear if you blinked.
his fucking wife.
your throat felt dry. heart physically hurting, like someone’s fingers were digging into the muscle and squeezing it the way sukuna used to squeeze your fingers before kissing each knuckle. it hurt, so much, your vision slowly blurring the longer you stared at the three words.
on the other side of the phone, sukuna was pressed against toji, shoving his face into the cracked screen, face flushed from the alcohol, lips almost pouting, hair messy from running his hands through it so many times. “is she answerin’?” he muttered, voice slurred. “my pretty wife, is she comin’?”
toji sighed. “nah, man. she left me on read. you’re so fucked.”
sukuna groaned, stumbling slightly before he was leaning on the wall, eyes shut in pure devastation. “she hates me. what if she doesn’t wanna get back?”
“…you showed up at three in the morning and broke up with her without giving her a reason, bro. on gojo’s soul, she does not want to get back.”
it was silent for a few seconds before a quiet sniffle echoed in the room, and toji’s head snapped to the untouchable, scary figure sliding down the wall, face buried into his hands, shoulders trembling. toji’s eyes widened briefly, but sukuna grunted, the sound shaky. “not a fucking word.”
the next monday, you were still recovering from toji’s dm as you slid into your morning, 8:30 am lecture. you were half-asleep, buried in sweatpants and a hoodie, hood up in an attempt to hide from the world. your eyes were drooping sleepily, head slowly slipping from where your head rested on your palm, the tip of your pen slowly seeping ink into the paper.
someone slides beside you, and you freeze. you knew that cologne. you bought that cologne.
you didn’t move a muscle, shoulders tense, eyes suddenly focused as they stared ahead. you could feel his gaze, his thigh pressing against yours in the annoyingly small seats. you could feel the heat from his skin, even from the thick fabric of your sweatpants.
…what the fuck was he doing?
your jaw clenched, before you took a quiet deep breath, convincing yourself he must have not looked properly when picking a seat. it takes a few minutes, but you’re finally able to focus back on your professor again, ignoring the way you could feel his gaze shifting to you ever few seconds.
“…i’m sorry.”
you sucked in a sharp, annoyed breath, gaze still ahead, fingers tightening around the pen in your grasp, eyes unamused. he slowly placed a cup on your desk— your favorite coffee, from your favorite cafe. you froze, and you could see him wincing from your peripheral vision.
“…give me a chance explain, please?”
you carefully pushed yourself up, grabbing your bag and notebook, and silently stepped out of the hall. outside, toji was standing, a sigh on his lips as he caught up with you despite how you only spared him an annoyed glare.
“he loves you, you know that.” toji murmured. “give him a chance to explain.”
“no.” you muttered. “he’s a coward who left me without an explanation. now he wants to give me one?”
toji grimaced. “that wasn’t his brightest moments, but… come on, he’s your sukuna.”
“he made it clear he’s not.”
that night, you were dragged to one of their parties, curtesy of gojo begging you to show with tears and snot running down his face, using a lame excuse about how everyone in the frat misses you. you didn’t buy it, but you had to stop the embarrassingly loud bawling boy on your doorstep.
now, you sat in their kitchen, perched on the counter, an overly sweet drink between your fingers, and a staring ex-boyfriend on the other side.
sukuna was sulking.
eyes set on you, lips pursed, arms crossed— he ignored everyone who stared at him just so he could keep his eyes on you. geto and nanami sighed as they passed, geto offering him a bottle casually, and sukuna grabbed it, eyes still on you before he tilted his head back and drowned half the bottle down, only stopping when nanami pulled it back while snapping about expensive liquor.
the thing about sukuna? he was a lightweight, and an emotional drunk. that usually manifested in a shorter temper when he wasn’t with you, and him being unbelievably clingy with you, and now, a few hours after gulping random drinks down?
it manifested in him dragging himself to stand in front of you, lips wobbling and eyes tearful, looking like a kicked puppy instead of the frat bro everyone was terrified off. “baby…”
you hated how your own heart clenched, fingers digging into your palm to prevent yourself from cooing at him and tugging him into your hold safely. you only narrowed your eyes at him, and his eyes glossed even more. he opened his mouth, probably to beg, only to halt dangerously.
you, unfortunately, knew him too well. you let out a loud groan, quickly jumping off and dragging him to an empty bathroom upstairs, shutting the door just in time for him to drop to his knees and empty his stomach out into the toilet. he let out a choked sob between retches, and you sighed, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, a hand slowly rubbing his back. “dumbass.”
“i miss you so much,” he immediately whimpered, eyes shut painfully. “i miss you so, so, much. please, angel, forgive me, please— i want you back, i need you back, ‘m a stupid son of a bitch for every breaking it off, i need you in my life, please—“
he was interrupted with another gag, and you sighed, resuming to rub his back as he continued, your own vision blurry, heart shattering at the broken sob he let out once he was done.
“breathe.” you murmured softly. “come on, kuna, breathe for me. you can do that, yeah?”
“no,” he choked out. “i can’t— can’t even breathe without you, baby. please, please, forgive me for being a dumb idiot, i need my wife back, please—“
“if you breathe now, and we can talk tomorrow.”
it was almost humorous how he immediately straightened up, red, watery eyes wide, nose red and cheeks flushed from the alcohol. you sighed, reaching over to wipe his tears away, and he let out a pathetic whine, immediately leaning into your touch. you finally helped him up, forcing him to brush his teeth before you opened the door, quietly leading him into his room.
inside, he immediately flopped into bed, tired, sad eyes staring up at you. “you’ll… talk to me, right? please, baby?”
“tomorrow,” you murmured, throwing him a pair of shorts. “just sleep now, okay?”
he nodded frantically, eyes shutting quickly, obediently.
no one would believe this was the version of sukuna ryomen you knew— now when everyone else got the loud, short-tempered, rude, asshole version of him. you stared at him softly, watching his breathe even out, eyes fluttering shut, before you sighed softly, and stepped out of his room.
the next morning, you woke up to sukuna in front of your door, hair messy and eyes exhausted, yet holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers and your favorite coffee, the other messily trying to adjust his shirt to look more presentable. the second you opened your door, eyes sleepy and hair messily, lips pulled into a frown, he froze.
red eyes widened softly before his body relaxed, eyes softening, and breathed out slowly. “…hi.”
you reluctantly opened the door wider, letting him in. he stepped in, 6’4 solid figure suddenly seeming small, gently setting the items down, hands that are used to throwing punches leaning down to carefully adjust a delicate petal before he straightened up, eyes falling back on you, so full of unsaid emotions that they were already glossing over.
after a few seconds, he swallowed harshly, throat bobbing before he took a step closer. “i missed you.”
you frowned, eyes narrowing. “why did you break up, sukuna?”
“please,” he choked out the second the name escaped your lips, eyes wide in pure devastation. “please, angel. ryo, kuna, baby, pretty boy— anything but that.”
your frown deepened. he let out a defeated, shaky breath, and stepped even closer. “i broke it because i was a fucking idiot. i… i never loved someone so much, angel, i never cared about someone so much. you made me the happiest person alive, and… i knew you deserved better.”
you froze. he sniffled, taking another step closer, eyes desperately and voice breaking. “angel, i… i’m a selfish, possessive asshole, and you deserve someone perfect. i was so scared that you’ll wake up one day and end it, so i… just did.”
your vision clouded with tears, and he dropped to his knees, eyes wet with unshed tears. “i was a stupid, fucking idiot. i should have stayed, talked to you, got the reassurance i know my angel would give me, but i didn’t want to be selfish… i thought i was doing what’s best for you…”
he let his head drop, face falling to press against your abdomen, a loud, pained whimper escaping him. “turns out i was a fucking idiot for ever considering letting you go. i… i have been miserable, angel, bawled my fucking eyes out an embarrassing amount of times. i miss you so much, baby, i can’t— i can’t live with you. i can’t sleep, eat, breathe,” he gasped, hands trembling as they slowly reached to hold into your waist, and let out a louder sob once his fingers touched your body, tears soaking your shirt. “i need you in my life, angel. please, i can’t live without you. my heart only exists to beat for you. i was a fucking moron to ever think about letting you go. you deserve so much better— and i promise, ‘ll be better. i’ll be a better boyfriend, a better partner, a better everything— just, give me a chance,”
you sniffled. the second you did, his head snapped up, eyes wide and tearful and horrified, and he immediately shot to his feet, ignoring his own soaked face as gentle fingers slowly cupped your cheek, wiping your tears away. “please don’t cry, i can’t handle you being upset, please—“
“you idiot.” you finally whispered. he froze, eyes wide and pained, and you only stepped closer, letting your head drop into his chest. his arms immediately wrapped around you, pulling you until no space existed between you both. “are you stupid?”
“i am. i’m sorry, baby,” he whispered back. “i’m so sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m—“
“shut up.” you croaked out. “you’re an idiot. i love you as you are, you asshole.”
“i know, baby. i’m sorry.” he buried his face into your neck, his tears damping your shirt once more. “i’m never leaving you again, angel. not even physically— i’ll be so clingy you’ll get sick of me. i can’t live without you, i’m sorry, i’m sorry.”
you let him hold you, eyes shut tiredly. “…idiot.”
he let out a sharp laugh, holding you even tighter, pressing wet kisses all over your face until a smile broke on your pretty lips, and you could physically feel him finally breathing normally, still pressing kisses to your face, gentle and needy and desperate. “i know, angel. only an idiot would ever walk away from you. never, ever again. i love you. never, ever again. i’ll marry you, my love. never leaving you again.”
a/n i hate tumblr i had to write this three times </3 anyways hi ^^ still obsessed w these headers…
you’re well aware that your relationship with satoru isn’t exactly normal. people seem to think you have no clue, but you’ve never been ignorant. for all the casual jokes and whining clinginess, you can tell your boyfriend is deeply, possessively in love with you.
it shows in everything he does. satoru likes to hide it behind a veneer of playfulness. you don’t mind. in all reality, you find it pretty cute—the doting, the teasing, the silly jokes that all veil that intense want that lurks in him. he wants you so bad it’s impossible to ignore. no, more than that: he needs you so much it bleeds into everything he does.
he’s teasing when he winds an arm around your waist, joking when he drops his chin on your head and pulls you away from whoever you were talking to. there’s a casual, unspoken jealousy to the action, but he’s so good at pretending it’s just gojo being clingy. it’s just what everyone expects of him. you’re the only one that knows better. you can see the angry glint in his eye, hear the way satoru’s heart picks up in his chest every time you reciprocate. you’re the only one he lets past infinity, the reason he’s been working to make it cover you as well. he just can’t bear to see other people touching you—you don’t blame him, do you?
best of all, you’re the only one that sees him desperate, that gets to watch him unwind. he worships you. you don’t have sex as much as you make love, his hands roving your body and plucking sweet moans from between your lips. satoru will murmur as he takes you, voice unbearably vulnerable and unspeakably intimate. “no one else can make you feel like this, baby,” he says on a moan. on the next, quiet and sure, “even better, i’m the only one that gets to see you like this. they don’t even know what they’re missing out on. i won’t let them ever find out.” he holds you tightly, kisses you ardently, and if you let him, he’ll fuck you until his legs give out. until he has no more love left to give.
so maybe you’re a little too encouraging. so what? who cares if you let your gaze linger on another man just to watch satoru’s eyes sharpen? what does it matter if you’ll play ignorant to another man’s advances, just to revel in the way satoru steps in and stakes his territory?
sex like that is even better. satoru gets mad, possessive—not at you, never at you. but your entire body becomes a canvas for him to stake his claim on, and it makes him rough. he’ll grip you until you bruise, kiss you until your lip splits, fuck you deep and hard so that you wake up the next morning sore, just so he can dote on you all over again.
“he’s so needy,” utahime complains to you one day, after he’d dragged you home from an event. he’d claimed he just wanted you all to himself for a moment, to get away from such boring company. it’s more honest than everyone suspects. he really does hate to see you talking to other people. “he wants to leave, and you leave. he hates when you talk to other guys. i swear, whenever you’re not paying attention to him, it’s like the sun’s frozen over. and then he has to act up until you’re looking at him again. how can you handle a guy that clingy?”
“i think it’s cute,” you reply. “i like how much he likes me. makes me feel like i’m the only girl in the world, you know?”
utahime snorts. “he sure seems to think so. remember last week? it’s like he didn’t even realise that girl was flirting with him.”
he hadn’t. or maybe he had, and satoru simply revels in your jealousy as much as you do his. you’d attached yourself to him like a limpet, fingers curling around his bicep as your head leant against his shoulder. you were polite to a fault until you chased her off, so clingy that satoru couldn’t tear his eyes away. in the end, he’d barely said three words to the girl before you monopolised all of his attention. he’d grinned wide and proud, and been twice as clingy as you were thereafter.
(when you got home, well. you’d been on top, riding him to a slow climax while he stared up at you worshipfully. his thumbs rub circles into your thighs, and with every rock of your hips, he lets loose an unabashed groan. he’s so free in his pleasure, so open about how good you make him feel. satoru never lets you doubt how perfect you are for him.
he comes first, for once. heaves and whines into your mouth even as he tells you to keep going, tells you that i’m sorry i want you so bad, baby. that doesn’t mean you need to stop—take me for all i’ve got, kay? he whispers those promises until you follow him over the edge, curled on top of him and breathing deep against his collarbone.
“you’ll never leave me, will you?” he asks, except he doesn’t say it like a question. he says it like a vow.
“never,” you promise. “you’d be dead before i let you get rid of me.”)
choso fics | a lil story inspired by anolog horror choso <3, doesn't follow the canon plot this is mainly just off the dome, giving a little bit of "monster in paris" vibes at first
choso kamo x reader
Synopsis: Choso has never known human kindness other than that of his brother. A spectacle, stuck between something not quite human and not quite a monster, he's long struggled to fit in anywhere outside of his own company. It isn't until the elusive being meets you, the only human being who's ever bothered to be decent to him.
to sum it up: choso falls for you the second he meets you, but the only way he knows how to pursue you is to watch you from afar...
WC: 10,166
Warning(s): our baby's a little creepy in this one, stalking mentioned, he has absolutely no social skills but c'mon he loves you so much
Something vile and merciless as it yanked at his essence, dragged his core from a warmth he can't quite remember. Can't quite name.
In the inky, chilling exposure of darkness, hands reached out from a slimy mass, a burst of blood and life shaking abruptly through the being's veins, pumping like the very red clots would jump out from his skin to serve a life of its own.
And suddenly, light. Harsh, piercing through his retinas, flickering red amidst hues of violet that have only now begun to see the sun as its golden rays peel eyes open impatiently.
Choso shied away, backing into the shadows that were once meant for him, that remain the encapsulation of his only comforts.
The dark haired Death Painting never asked for life, not in such a way. A severed connection once held between two other life forms ached terribly, sending pangs of grief through his chest that were enough to make him realize that light, joy, those human concepts of happiness under the sun were not meant for him. He's not a human after all. He exists somewhere in between consciousness and a nightmare, a monster and the narrowly acceptable.
A heart as big as Choso's fails to match his appearance. Dark, sunken eyes, circles beneath that drag them further into his skull. A haunted quality about his piercing gaze as he stares, observes from afar, undetected, unheard, unseen. Scraggly, brown strands of hair that sprout over his forehead and poke high into the air from a pair of cropped pigtails. An exhaustion that never quite leaves his expression, dragging down curved, pale lips upon ghostly pale skin. Marks that morph and warp with his technique, stamped like a stain of blood across his nose and beneath his eyes.
And a height... a height that intimidates, mimicing that of mythical creatures from a far off land - a curve of lean shoulders and muscle that hunches over its very own shadowy imprint on the pavement, a mass of cloth that seems to pool from the very ground as it drapes around Choso's big, ghoulish frame.
With no connections and no warmth, Choso lives his life in the crevices overlooked by mankind, in the forgotten wastes of what society leaves behind. A wandering half curse with no family to name except for a salmon haired boy that he protects from a distance, surveys, and ensures the wellbeing of from where he thinks he goes undetected, but Yuji always knows when his strange big brother is around, the one he only recently discovered he even had when he was walking to his dorm late one night and felt like he was being followed.
When the fifteen year old whipped his head around, he saw them. Two pale, shining circles at the end of the block, peering out from around the corner of an alleyway, an aura of gloom twirling about his head, sending shivers down Yuji's spine.
Once he got through the eeriness of it all, Yuji felt a hint of pity toward the creature. Beneath that dizzy unsettling countenance about him, beneath his severely lacking social skills and perpetual grey overcast that follows him, Yuji discovers that his habit of staring and... following him around (stalking is the term he is looking for, but he doesn't want to paint Choso in any more of a bad light than others already do) derives strictly from a place of desire to be close, from an instinct to care that Choso himself has failed to identify.
The very small hint of humanity that Choso comes to display is fully at the orchestration of Yuji and his friends. The brown eyed boy attempts to teach Choso the ways of the world through some of the planet's best films, or at least what Yuji deems to be the best films.
Long after Yuji has fallen asleep on the couch with his head tossed back and drool dribbling down his chin, Choso leans closer into the television with his knees to his chest. Lavendar eyes stare wide as colors flash across his fair skin, and the scene cuts in the midst of the rampaging action to a man and a woman - the great hero and the girl he fights for, watching the monstrous opponent lay siege to the city from a nearby cliff. Wind whips through their perfectly styled hair, they turn to each other as fire roars, and their eyes meet amidst a catalysmic crescendo of flames a blaring string instruments.
Choso's breath catches in the back of his throat as something... intimate is exchanged. His head tilts at a perfect angle, mimicing the behaviors of an owl, and his pupils reflect the pinnacle of the movie. The moment of broken tension: a desperate kiss.
The great hero grasps his lover's arms tight and brings her in to share breaths, to mold skin, to join lips passionately. The corners of Choso’s lips tug down with inquisition, his alien mind whirring as he processes the unfamiliar display. The music swells, the camera pans to the woman's brows curling with ferver as she throws her arms around the man's neck as if it will be the last time she sees him.
A goodbye?
After a few moments, the music settles and the protagonist pulls away. He gives her one last emotional look before daringly taking off into the direction of chaos, leaving the weeping woman to wave after her stud.
It is a common theme Choso identifies in these strange films. The one persistent thing in all the confusion of Yuji's favorite series. The complication and intensity of human connection. Siblings, friends, parents, lovers - an inseperable bond is shared with various ways of communicating each different relationship. Nevertheless, the motivations behind each behavior remains the same - sacrificing lives, intercepting to take the bullet, promising the land, moon, and stars. Love.
No matter what kind. It drives everything.
Choso's head swivels to look at Yuji as the movie continues on in the background as he snoozes. Blinking, the messy haired half curse looks down at the blanket that pooled to the floor. He cranes over to grab it, and awkwardly fumbles, turning stiffly to stretch the fabric over the fifteen year old's frame, blanketing him in warmth the way he saw a woman do her child in one of the earlier movies of the night.
Choso leans back, cautious, uncertain, bunching himself back into the corner of the shared couch. His arms wind around himself again as he stares at his brother, waiting for some outburst, like the ones gifted pedestrians have when they accidentally catch a glimpse of him in the wee hours of the night, prowling about vacant corners. The screams. The panic. The blood curdling fear ringing out high into the stars. The running.
But instead, Yuji twitches, snorting loudly, then nestles back into the comfort of the blanket, cheek squishing over the pressure of his propped palm.
Love. Choso ponders it. It feels... familiar somehow. Like it was the only thing aside from darkness engrained into his way of being when he manifested into truth.
Is that what ached so much when his other brothers were killed? Is that what keeps him tied to Yuji despite his responsibility for the former deaths?
It must be.
It's the only kind of love Choso truly knows. When he thinks of origins... of a mother, there's nothing. Choso was born into this world with no predecessors, no friends. As though he was destined to be a void.
And that special love? That love between two people, christened by the touch of one another's lips, by glittering gazes, and an urge to fight through hell in order to protect the other?
It’s a completely foreign notion. He wonders what such things feel like. He wonders how people know when the time is right, when the sentiments are shared, when the unspoken words lingering in the air are filled with a kiss, with a mute declaration.
Choso turns back to the screen. He watches a bit longer before looking down at his own hands, bringing them to vision before his knees. His eyes note the blue veins that course over the back of them and down his forearms. He notes the alarming width of his palms, the greying of his slender finger tips as if he is decaying. The sheer lack of color in his complexion.
His eyes flicker back up to the shiny, tan bodies decorating the screen. The human quality of life sparkling in the characters eyes.
He wonders if love like that, that makes women cry and men run off to fight, is a luxury reserved for those born completely human. Those born to a name. To an identity rather than a curse.
Choso returns to the shadows when he is not needed by his brother. In spite of Yuji's best efforts to integrate him, the brunette feels uneasy in human company. Not because he doesn't like it, but because he feels the judgment in everyone's eyes when they regard him, when his little brother introduces him as his sibling, and lips curl, or eyes dart over his figure in discomfort.
Choso knows he's not the prettiest. He's not the most ordinary. He's large, and inky, and macabre, and silent. Those who look like him are often portrayed as the villains of the heroes' stories, and he has long accepted that. He's okay with that.
The only thing he asks of this existence is for it to grant Yuji's safety. And though the boy tells him he doesn't need to stalk about from a far distance any time Yuji leaves his house, Choso persists. It's the only way he knows how to look out for his baby brother. His only family. His only ties to the human world.
So when Yuji's friends murmur about how his new big brother is creepy, Choso doesn't let it eat him up inside. He stays out of their path, not keen on frightening his brother's schoolmates, allowing him the normal life that Choso has never known.
One night, after Choso has watched Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara walk back into their dorms safely after a late night out, the half curse turns to meander the dark streets pensively. With his gaze to the ground, his mind subconsciously numbing out his surroundings, he does not see the figure in his way when he turns a corner. Emerging like some apparition from the darkness, his eyes eventually lift and he freezes.
The brunette's sunken eyes go wide.
His stomach drops. His breath catches.
There you are, crouched by the side walk, planted on the side of the road in front of the sewer. You stare, anguised, into the sewer crate, knees bent as you lock in on something lost to you now. You're angry, it seems.
Choso backs away into the shadows again, peering out from the corner to observe you.
You release a frustrated groan, one unweighted due to the lack of company you believe yourself to have. You crane your head forward, squinting your (e/c) eyes to get a better look into the darkness and murmuring frustrations to yourself that Choso can't quite understand from the distance.
The brunette leans in to get a better look at you. His mind is clouded as he watches you like you're a spectacle, eyes glassy and blown.
(S/c) skin. Big (e/c) eyes, full of life, full of humanity, full of emotion. The curve of your jaw, so pleasant upon the eyes when you clench down angrily on your teeth. The warm quality of your cursed energy, of what Choso interpets as the very essence of your soul. Your aura, bright, full, clean. Perfect (h/c) hair. Perfect chipped teeth. Perfect faded scars across your arms, perfect chipped black paint on your fingernails.
You are entrancing.
Yet, you seem so upset.
Choso looks around. The street is vacant save for you crouching there, and you aren't doing well to pay attention to your surroundings. Whatever's got you distracted is surely jeopardizing your safety. Why is someone like you all alone in the middle of the night like this?
You're angling your body awkwardly to stretch an arm through the open space leading into the ground. You tilt your head upward, face on display for Choso to examine, and you grunt with a wince. The muscles in your face tighten as you stretch and strain, skin wrinkling aesthetically by your eyes and the corners of your lips.
You dropped something down there. Is that it? You're trying to get it out?
Choso's right foot moves to step forward, his slender fingers poking out to help, but he stops himself as echoes of terror flash across his memory. He retracts slowly, dejectly, careful to avoid scaring you off.
After a few minutes of watching you switch between your right and left arm to no avail, you rip your arm away with another groan and rise to your feet. Overcome with agitation, you kick at the concrete, only to regret so immediately and whimper as you hop on your unharmed foot with a hiss.
Your shoulders drop, your countenace shifting to crestfallen and tired. You press your lips hard together, glaring down at the sewer as you stand on your two feet again. A shuddering exhale leaves your parted lips, and you duck your head in shame, moving to plop down on the side of the curb and bury your face in your hands.
Choso feels himself frown. You appear so... sad.
Is it because of whatever you dropped?
He observes that way your shoulders tremble, and soon the muffled huffs of breath rise into the still air as you sniffle into your palms.
He wants to help you. Badly.
In the midst of Choso's thoughts, his foot shuffles across the ground once more, knocking a complacent rock out of place and stirring up a small commotion.
The rock rolls out from the alleyway, into the street. Choso panics, ducking further into darkness as you lift your head with sudden urgency.
Tears stain your cheeks, your eyes tinged a light pink, and you sniff hard, lowering your hands into your lap when you catch wind of the rock. You swipe the back of your hand over your nose and go to stand up, having the sense to now have your guard up since something is evidently nearby.
"H-Hello?" you croak out, rising to your feet cautiously as you stare into the direction of the rocks origins. You know someone is there. You sense the energy now, bubbling like some inky mass in the shadows. You frown, for of course you would run into some kind of threat tonight, of all nights.
You sniff again, harder this time, dropping your shoulders with a huff. "I know you're there," you call out, voice echoing throughout the street.
Choso swallows hard, his heart suddenly lurching forward in his chest. He has to leave, before you see him. Before you take one look at him and deem him some sort of monster.
"If you're trying to scare me, it's not gonna work. Nor is robbing me. Everything valuable I own is -" you point to the sewer grate beside you with pursed, irritated lips. "- right down there, so. And trying to kill me won't go so well for you either. Just so you know."
A sorcerer? Or some member of the jujutsu world? You must be. He can tell by the way your stature adapts a specific stance, one he sees many of the students take on the field when they are preparing to spare. You don't seem to be completely in it though. You're movements are lackadasical, tired, like you just want to get whatever you're about to encounter over with so you can go back to wallowing in pity.
Choso's confused. He doesn't want to hurt you. Or steal from you. He just... doesn't want you to see him.
But after a few more seconds of his silence, you march over to the alleyway boldly. Choso backs away on instinct as you come in close, your hand rising to grip the brick as you peer into shadows and nothing. You squint, angling your head differently. "Hello?"
Then you make them out. Two glowing, hollowed purple orbs floating about in the near distance, and the soft ruffle of clothing as the owner of said eyes retreats further.
You scrunch your brows together, something uneasy settling in your stomach. The silence, the eyes, the darkness, it makes you shudder.
"I can see you," you eventually whisper, your tone evening out. Choso freezes, stuck.
You can see him?
No, not fully. You couldn't possibly, or else your reaction would have been less calm.
Because you're so close. Wafts of your perfume float into his confined space, intoxicating his senses and tickling his nose. It twitches, his hand going to paw away at it, as if he has the power to rid himself of your enticing presence.
And you, well, you're at a loss. You can tell, now that you've shrunk the distance, that whatever is out there doesn't want to come near you, let alone hurt you or take anything from you. It's hiding away, you assume, but from what? Why? What's so bad about it that needs to be hidden?
"Are you following me?" you ask.
No. No, he's not. Not now. He didn't mean to find you here like this.
"...Can you... speak?" you try once more for a response, but to no avail. You palm at your damp eyes again, ridding the saltiness from your gaze so you can see and focus properly. There's another shuffle back, and something sympathetic blooms in you. You aren't exactly sure why. Perhaps it's because of the shitty day you've been having. "Are you some kinda harmless curse?" you ponder aloud. Still nothing.
You stretch out a hand, and it reaches into darkness blindly. Choso looks down at your soft, small palm turned upwards, and your pretty eyes searching through nothingness with something desperate in your gaze.
"Look, see?" you offer. "I won't hurt you. I'm off duty, anyway," you half chuckle something sweet and hypnotic and... defeated. "As long as you don't hurt me too. Promise."
Tear dropped lashes blink and a sad, comforting smile rises to your lips.
"I probably sound insane trying to talk to you, but... if you don't mean any harm, I really wouldn't mind the company right now," your voice drifts off at the end of your sentence as if you are humiliated, leading Choso to stop backing away from you instinctively.
A human being is asking for him to show himself, asking for his company, and all he can do is stand frozen in place, as this is incredibly unfamiliar territory.
He wants to go. He wants to listen to you, to believe that you truly mean what you say. But fear grounds him until your next soft phrase.
"Please?"
You hear slow footsteps approach, and you lower your hand the closer you feel him getting to you. A soft, pathetic smile graces your features, and gradually, a head peaks out from the blanket of darkness.
But when your eyes go up, they land first on chest.
Your expression slowly wilters as your eyes trail up and up and up slowly, and after what seems like an eternity, they finally find stunned violet hues that peer down at you from overhead. He emerges cautiously, a similarly pathetic expression on his face, circling those strange eyes of his. Your arms completely drop to your sides, your brows lifting, your lips parting to release a soft breath of stun.
A spooky sight greets you. Over six feet of astonishing mass blending into the shadows of the darkness, a frozen face of what you would name as fear written across his empty eyes. You aren't quite sure what he is. He looks like some kind of curse, but the way he stares, the way he watches with a breath held is far too human for you to tell.
Wild strands of dark brown, dark enough to be black, sprawl over his forehead and into his wide eyes. His chest rises and falls slowly like he's waiting for the shoe to drop, waiting for your outburst, for your cruelty.
But instead of your cruelty, instead of fleeing in a terror-stricken haze, you just return his gaze and stare in awe. Perplexed. Intrigued. Surprised.
Choso stares at you, awaiting your rejection with lips clamped tight together. You just watch, lips parting and jaw dropping slightly.
You don't know what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn't him.
Though, despite his frame and offputting nature, there's that humanness swirling in his gaze like he is ashamed of himself, like he wants to rerteat at any given moment.
Your heart lurches with empathy.
"Oh..." you start, unable to find the right words. Subconsciously, you take a step back and Choso notices immediately. His adam's apple bobs, and he keeps himself half submerged in shadows. "...You're..." you breathe out.
Disgusting? Horrifying? A wretched sight?
"Tall," is what you elect to say, nodding slowly to yourself in your stupor. Choso's shoulder slump slowly in surprise.
You don't run. You didn't throw things at him. You don't even yell.
You just look at him as though you're amazed.
Choso feels something strange bite at the apples of his cheeks, the manipulation of his blood no longer under his control but his own body's. He blinks once, long and hard, as pink swirls over pale skin - his cheeks and the tip of his nose. His nose and lips curl, now crooked as he adjusts to the heat of his face as he stands before you.
"Sorry, um- I'm kinda a mess right now," you blink your own eyes repeatedly, snapping yourself out of your daze. Your hands slap at your sides, and you stretch your hand back out again. "I'm... (Y/n). Do you... do you have a name?"
You didn't run.
Choso is utterly frozen, a fish out of water.
The shock of your amiability despite having just seen his face is sending him reeling. And now, having stepped into the flickering luminescents of the street lights with you, his breath has been knocked away with the shock of your... your...
"Hello?" you wave, hesitantly taking a step closer to examine him with skeptical eyes. Your eyes narrow, your brows draw together, and your lips curve - not with distaste, but with curiosity. "Can you hear me? Or... even understand what I'm saying?"
Beauty.
That's what it is. That's what Yuji called it. Something so nice to look at, it can't be named as anything but such.
As you lean in to examine him closely, carefully, Choso names it. Feels it. Sees it. You're beautiful. The most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
You tilt your head, releasing your arm to prop a hand on your hip. "...Are you okay?"
Is he?
No human has ever asked.
He feels his heart jerk in his chest, and he jolts slightly. His hand abruptly flies to the very spot, and he looks down in alarm as though his own body has betrayed him.
You frown, suddenly believing that this being, this man - whatever he is, is hurt somehow. Or at the very least, having a psychotic break.
Your hand instinctively reaches out, and the moment Choso detects it, he pulls away swiftly, owlish eyes finding yours again. You deflate. "Do you need any help? Can I take you somewhere?" you ask, voice softening.
What a pretty sound.
No one has every spoken to him so casually. No one other than Yuji.
Why aren't you afraid? Don't you see his face? The way it absorbs all light to reflect only bleak darkness? Don't you see the marks of a killer, of a blood curse user? Of something strange and offputting and unfamiliar?
His eyes detail your red ones, then fly to the sewer opening.
Lifting a slender finger, he points.
"...Did you lose something?"
His voice slithers out low, yet smooth, a bass you are surprised to hear. There's something monotonous and robotic to the sound, like he has no idea how to speak to someone like you, or to anyone for that matter. His tone is also thick with lack of use, as if these are the first words he has spoken in days.
Your eyes follow his finger, still confused, and slightly taken aback by his speech. You gulp and locate what he is talking about you look back up at him in question. "Oh, yeah," you sigh, suddenly remembering why you're out here in the first place. "I... um... dropped my phone down there. And it has my ID and credit card in the case..." you trail off to turn back to him with questions in your eyes.
"Can I... help?"
You blink. "Um, I mean... if you can? If you really want to?"
Choso doesn't waste any time. You watch as his bulking, inhumane frame steps fully out of darkness and moves toward the sewer with a determined expression.
When he stands in the street, you see his full frame much more clearly from afar, and you ogle him. He's certainly a curse, or someone hybrid between that and a human being. His face, his hair, his ten fingers and two hands are enough to signify the workings of another human, but the lack of color on his skin, his size, his bulkiness, the sharpness of his jaw, the way he speaks, the way his eyes stare. Those traits of his are all quite unique, and while you think he should scare you, he doesn't.
Choso locates your phone. He sees the screen facing upward just a few feet below the crate. His head tilts as he studies the predicament, and before you can tell him not to worry about it, you watch him lurch forward, hook his fingers into the grate, and yank it out with one forceful tug. Your eyes widen as he tosses the metal crate over his shoulder like it weighs nothing, and it lands with a loud clanging. He then hops down into the hole without a second thought. You hurry over to check on him.
But what greets you upon arrival is a large hand stretching out from the sewer, your phone clasped in his dark fingers. You gasp, light catching your eyes as you bend over. Choso looks up at you sheepishly, waiting patiently for you to take your belonging as he stands still.
"Holy shit, you actually got it?" you exclaim, reaching to retrieve your phone, brushing his cold hand. Choso retracts it, swallowing hard as his face warms even more. You check to make sure nothing is cracked or wet as Choso climbs his way out, pressing his palms to the pavement and pushing forward with his seemingly impressive strength. He clambers back to his feet before you, uncaring of the grime smudging his robes, and awaits your next reaction, your next words like an eager puppy.
You heave a sigh of relief when you find no damage to your device and hug it to your chest. No longer full of sadness, your (e/c) eyes find his and you grin wide, all teeth on display and your eyes squinting with gratitude.
"Thank you so much! You're a life saver."
Thank you. You're thanking him - him. A human being is thanking Choso, and he can't even operate his brain quickly enough to say you're welcome. He just nods stiffly, staring.
"You must be really strong, huh?" you pipe up, your voice now chipper and free. Choso doesn't say anything, and you chuckle slightly with a nod toward the discarded sewer grate. "You yanked that thing like it was nothing."
"Oh. I am strong. Yes," Choso says awkwardly, for it is a fact. It's true. He possesses remarkable physical prowess, much like his little brother, but you still giggle upon hearing his answer. His ears burn. He's never made it this far in conversation with someone before. Is he supposed to laugh? Is he saying the right things?
"Yeah, I can see that," you say warmly, tucking your phone back into your pocket. With another spirited exhale, you smile. "So you were watching me back there, weren't you?"
Choso's face flushes a deeper pink. "U-Um-"
"I only ask because... well, you were here long enough to see that I lost something. You saw me have a meltdown, right?" Choso stares. "You saw me crying and stuff," you clarify.
The half curse clears his throat. "Yes," he croaks. "I did. I was watching you. I saw you hurt your foot, too. Sorry," Choso hastily rushes out, stiff and peculiar, like the word was tangled on his tongue and he didn't know how to get it out. All he knew was that you needed to hear it. "Sorry," he says again, this time quieter.
You quirk a brow. "Why? Were you watching me, I mean?"
He doesn't know how to respond.
"It's okay," you say after a moment of silence, having taken in his countenance and his tone and deduced that he isn't a threat. "I'm not upset. Just wanna... make sure you aren't a secret threat to me or something."
"I'm not," he swears. "I don't want to hurt you. I would never hurt someone without reason."
"Okay..." you drawl. "I believe you. So then, why?"
"I was... walking," he starts.
You nod. "Right."
"Then I saw you, so I stopped walking."
"...To watch me?"
"Not at first," Choso admits, incapable of lying. "I didn't want to... scare you. So I stayed in there."
You turn and look back at the dark alley, and something suddenly tugs at your chest. "I see."
"Do I scare you?"
You whip your head back around to look up at the being before you. You tilt your head, soaking in the image of him, detailing the submission behind his dominating, foreign physique. You smile again.
"No. I've seen much scarier. Trust me," you wink. Choso's heart spasms again, and his body jerks. You stifle a laugh at his odd nature. "I appreciate your concern, really. But it might've been less creepy if you'd just come up to me in the first place. I don’t bite."
There's that word again. Creepy. Choso scratches the side of his jaw, pensive. "Normally, people run away."
"What? They run away? From you?" you ask, and Choso nods solemnly. Your heart aches. "Sure, you're a little unique, but that's no reason to run from you. That's kinda harsh, no?"
Choso frowns. "Unique?"
You hum. "I've never seen anyone or anything like you before. But that's not a bad thing."
"It's not?"
"Of course not," you giggle. "You should own it. You're the only one of your kind out there, just like I'm the only one of myself out there," you sing happily, your mood having been healed.
You don't know how deeply your words impact Choso as he listens to you, watches you. "So... you don't think I'm gross? Or - or ugly?"
"God no. I actually think you're really sweet. You wanted to help me without even knowing me," you beam. "It's a shame people haven't stuck around long enough to see that."
Suddenly, flowers bloom in Choso's mind. Warm colors and fragrances drift into his imagination and surround you as he stares, and as you grin up at him like he's any other man.
You think he's unique. And sweet. No one has ever used such words to describe him.
You're pretty, and unjudging, and kind.
Little hearts bloom in Choso's dead eyes as he starts to imagine what life could be like with you in it, suddenly struck by Cupid’s arrow.
"I think you're sweet too," he suddenly blurts, having grown confident under your compliments. "And... um... beauty - beautiful. Beautiful."
Caught off guard by his compliment, your smile fades slightly. You notice the reddened state of his face and the cute way his dark brows curl. Flattered, heat burns at the back of your neck as you chuckle nervously, out of your depth. This was the very last thing you would have expected him to say.
“You think I’m beautiful?” you ask.
Choso gulps, rethinking his words. The last thing he wants to do is offend you. So he doesn’t say anything again, tongue tied and beet red.
“T-Thank you. I guess,” you murmur. “I don’t look… the best right now. But you’re sweet for thinking so,” you laugh again.
Befuddled by your statement, Choso speaks again. “I do think so,” he asserts.
“Okay. Thank you,” you nod shyly.
You are just so pretty, Choso doesn’t know what to do with himself.
An awkward silence breezes by as Choso stares at you, and you quickly determine that he’s got absolutely no social skills. You breathe in sharply. “So what’s your name?”
“…Choso.”
“Choso?” you echo, and the said man feels chills curl up his spine at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue. “That’s a nice name. It’s nice to meet you.”
You thrust your hand out to him again, and Choso studies it. He’s seen this before. Handshakes. People do them with one another as a formality when introducing themselves.
He can’t believe you want to shake hands with him.
Cautiously, Choso lifts his large hand out and slowly his fingers clasp around yours. His hand is cold, the sheer size of it dwarfing your own.
And your hand is so warm and soft, like a cushion of cotton or the surface of a cloud.
You giggle slightly, looking up at him. “Now we shake.”
Choso clenches his jaw in embarrassment and carefully shakes your hand, allowing you to guide the up-and-down motion.
You smile triumphantly. “Good… you can let go of my hand now.”
Choso does, ripping it away when he notices he’s been holding onto you for too long.
"So, Choso," you start kindly. "Where were you heading tonight?"
"Um. Nowhere," he says. "I was leaving my brother-"
"Brother? You have siblings?" you inquire, intrigued.
"Y-Yeah. A little brother."
"Wow, how old?"
"Fifteen."
"Awww, how sweet," you grin. "I have a little sister. She's not so little though. She's nineteen. Real pain in my ass."
Choso perks up. "Are you the eldest?"
"Unfortunately," you joke.
Choso's heart flips yet again. How could you get any better?
"So after you left your brother, where were you going?" The brunette shrugs. You hum, looking over his now tattered, dirtied robes.
The poor guy is all alone out here, hiding away from the public because people have grown frightened of his appearance without bothering to learn what lies beneath. And though he is a bit grim looking, he isn't all that bad. At all, actually.
He's got a kind face. And dare you say, eerily handsome features. He didn't ask to be born this way, and even after having burdened humanity's cruelty, it seems that he still seeks humanity's approval.
There's nothing ugly or monstrous about the pink face looking back at you now. You've had a particularly trying day yourself too, and the only inkling of kindness that the universe had to offer is the being towering over you in the empty street.
He's lonely. And you just so happen to be too.
You look all around you, then mentally question if you are truly about to do what pops into your head. "Your clothes are dirty," you observe.
Choso looks down at his robes. "Oh. Yeah."
"...I think I have some spare clothes from my dad somewhere in my closet. You look about..." you note his height and the width of his body with a curved smile. "...his size?" you guess. "He’s a big guy. Do you maybe... wanna come to my house and get cleaned up? I'll wash your robes for you. You can consider it a thank you for helping me get my phone."
The violet eyed half curse is silent as he processes your offer in a daze. You tilt your head and raise your brows with a smile, and that is enough for Choso to follow you blindly, happily to your home.
Your scent clings to the air of your small apartment, and Choso has to duck his head to enter through your front door. His once dull eyes shine as he takes in the coziness of your space, your snug furniture and the earthy tones that accentuate the environment. You're talking as you lead him through the living room and head into your room to sort through your closet, but Choso lingers behind as he takes in his surroundings.
Pictures of waterfalls and winding green trails litter your fridge, stuck to the surface with little magnets naming far off places and national parks. There's dishes piled in your sink, unwashed, and an apron hangs on the pantry door that reads: kiss the cook.
There are fairy lights strung up on all of your walls, encasing the space in a soft, dim glow. Plants decorate your kitchen table, your coffee table, the corners of the floor.
And when he follows your voice into your room, he is mute with admiration as he looks around. You stand on the other side of your bed at your closet door, rifling through articles of clothing. The lights in your room are even softer, with hues of orange and pink warping the ceiling from a little projector. There are little knicknacks sprawled over your nightstand and desk, and a big shelf piled full of books right next to it.
Choso steps into the space slowly, entranced, his eyes floating to a frame propped up by your bed. He bends over, reaching for it to examine. There you are, pictured in the middle of some rainforest, your arms spread wide above you and a heart stopping grin on your face.
So pretty.
"A-ha! These should work!" you exclaim, whipping around with a big grey shirt and black sweatpants stretched in your hands. Choso panics, hastily putting your picture frame back into place. In his rush, it fumbles from his grasp and drops onto the carpeted floor. He winces, fumbling once more to pick it up and put it back. You laugh. "Relax, Choso. It's okay. That picture's actually from when I went to Costa Rica last year. It was a really awesome trip."
"You like to travel," he observes, stepping away from your nightstand to stand stiffly with his arms at his sides, afraid of causing any more commotion.
"I love it. And nature. It helps - I don't know - ground me I think. I’m not the most social person out there, so I go away to center myself," You move forward to lay out the clothes on the bed next to him. "Here, why don't you go shower and freshen up. You can use whatever's in the bathroom."
Choso blinks, eyes following you. "Shower? Here?"
"I promise I don't mind."
Somehow, Choso ends up cramped in your shower, his robes discarded on the floor as his nose brushes the showerhead. He sorts through every single one of your soaps and shampoos curiously, gingerly, flipping the lid to smell each one. Some are more sugary, others fruity, and all of them carry some piece of you that Choso engrains into his mind. He uses every one.
He's in there so long that you have to knock and check to make sure he's okay. Only then does he put everything carefully back in place and finish up.
Choso emerges with steam clinging to his body and hair damp, loose over the frame of his face as unfamiliar, clean clothes cling to his skin. You do a double take when you look up at him from where you sit at your desk in front of your laptop, and he awaits your reaction, his robes piled in his arms with that sheepish look on his now brighter features.
"Oh wow, look at you," you turn in your chair to admire him with a grin. "How do you feel?"
"Wet."
You snort, looking up at his dripping hair free from its ponytails. "Here, gimme your robes. I'll throw them in the wash then help you with your hair."
Once again, Choso finds himself in foreign territory as you stand on a step stool in the bathroom mirror with a blow dryer clutched in your hand. Choso stares at you through the reflection of the glass as you gingerly dry his hair, hot gusts blowing his dark strands to and fro. Your gentle fingers separate strands after asking permission, and you're careful to avoid tangles as you work with crisp focus.
Choso's skin buzzes. His entire body is vibrating as he hunches in your little bathroom, letting you care for him as if you aren't a stranger he only met a couple of hours ago. He thinks he might be sick when his rapid heart rate and warm cheeks persist over a long period of time in your company.
When you finish blowdrying, you laugh slightly and lower the device to unplug it. Choso's hair is now fluffy and full of volume, sitting atop his head like a thick helmet of shoulder length locks. A mop of bangs hides his eyes, and you lean over to curve the strands out of the way gently so he can see. He flushes, eyes finding yours. “Hi,” you chuckle.
“H-Hi,” he murmurs back.
After a bit of combing and maintenance, you finally hop off of the step stool and stand beside his large frame. "There. All done."
The pale skinned man observes himself in the mirror and almost doesn't recognize what stares back. His hair feels soft, looks neat, as his bangs curve around his ears and his hair filters gracefully down his neck. The outline of his broad shoulders is visible against the fabric of your dad's old tee, his biceps bulging against the sleeves. He feels refreshed. Renewed. Warm and fuzzy.
"Better?" you ask.
Choso turns to look at you and is overcome with a rush of emotions he can't name. "Yes," he exhales, whipped.
As Choso's robes hang to dry, and you retreat to your bed having offered up your couch for Choso to sleep on, the half curse elects, instead, to stand over you in the darkness of your room as you sleep.
The clock reads three in the morning, and piercing through the night, Choso studies your unconscious form. You lay on your side with fists bawled up under your chin. Your eyes roll beneath your lids, lashes fluttering as your lips part with gentle breaths.
Choso feels his heart hammering heart again. He presses his palm to his chest.
Is this the feeling the movies speak off? The intensity? The heat?
When Choso returns to Yuji the next day, still wearing the clothes you gave him and carrying his robes in a spare tote bag that you let him borrow, the salmon haired teen's eyes bulge out of his skull and his jaw drops to the floor.
"Bro, what the heck happened to you?!" Yuji exclaims. "You look so - like - well, you look great!"
Now, with the approval of Yuji, Choso puffs his chest and closes his eyes with great emotion. "I met a woman."
Thus begins the unhealthy habits, the toxic patterns that Choso knows no better but to follow. He can not get you out of his head, the way your fingers threaded through his damp hair. The way your hand felt in his when he shook it. The way your house smells, the way your soap and scent clung to his body. The way your eyes lit up when he helped you retrieve your phone, and the way you never feared him.
His heart skips beats when he thinks of you, when your name rings through his head like a melody. He learns from Yuji that he is in fact not sick, but that he has exhibited signs of yearning, signs that he is romantically interested in you.
Choso begins to chase the feeling day in and day out. Whenever he has the opportunity, he's seeking you out in secret. Tracking you down, trailing behind you throughout your days, watching you through a window from across the street, lingering to ensure that you make it home safely at night.
You're a Jujutsu librarian. You keep a collection of important documents at Kyoto Jujutsu High, the rival of Yuji’s school. You lay low, linger in absences, keep to yourself. You're far more isolated than Choso would have believed you to be, given your bright personality, but you seem content to be so. You like to read, he finds. You like the simple things about life. You stop to take pictures of trees and pay extra for limited edition copies of books. You feed birds and sit in park benches, just existing. Being. Alone.
Weeks go by of Choso following you around, all the while meeting you in person once every week to stroll through town at night and talk. He can't help but to look after you, the same way he does Yuji. You've bled into his life, you've left a lasting impression, and Choso can not quit the way his body reacts to your voice alone. He can't quit the precious way your eyes catch the glimmer of the moon, or the way the corners of your lips curl with an impending smile.
He's grown obsessed with you. With your very life.
And one day, he decides he'll do something about it. With a rather questionable pep talk from Yuji buzzing in Choso's ears and a bouquet of hand picked flowers in his trembling hand, he goes to head to your apartment when he catches you inside a restaurant on the way there.
He stops, heart jerking when he sees you, confusion rising, as he expected you to be in your house by now. Normally you are. It’s pretty late.
Choso takes a step closer in the dusk, only to find that you aren't alone. His heart drops to his stomach as you sit there across from some guy, cozied up in a booth, surrounded by warm lighting. Your shoulders hunch and your eyes crinkle as you laugh, and Choso frowns. He thought he was the only one who made you laugh like that.
Nausea rises as the man across from you smiles, and you smile back. He's pretty and perfect, like the heroes in Yuji's movies. Perfect straight teeth and smooth skin, bagless eyes and hands that don't scare. Light cropped hair and bright eyes. Everything, everything, that Choso is not.
A lump builds in the back of Choso's throat as he glares at the two of you. He doesn't know how long he stands there, heartbroken, flowers falling to his side and eyes darkening.
Did you want someone 100% human after all?
You return home that night rather drained. You'd forced yourself to go on yet another date set up by Utahime, who swears up and down that you would be less lonely if you put yourself out there more. You sigh, tossing your keys to the ground and shuffling off your shoes at the door, shutting it tight behind you.
It's not as though the guy was bad. He was nice, you suppose. A little drab, but otherwise, not a monster. Even so, you couldn't bring yourself to be interested in him beyond that. The conversation was stifling, and the entire time, your mind kept trailing off to other places, other worlds, to... to Choso.
You groan, rubbing your temples as you go plop down on your couch in the dark with a weighted sigh. You know you're a little strange, as most people in the Jujutsu world are, but you can't help the things that stimulate you. You can't help but to be interested in the things overlooked, the things no one cares to see, the things others write off as unnoteable.
But Choso is anything but to you.
With his strange way of speaking and moving, his strange eyes, and strange, strange behavior, he's unveiled passion. The kind that comes easily to him, the kind that certain people are merely born with. He will talk for hours about his brother, then listen to you talk for hours about your interests and occupation. And he'll watch you when you speak... like a hawk, like he's afraid of missing any second.
And you like it. You like the way he makes you view the world unintentionally. You like his mystique. You like his unique quality. You like him.
But it's irrational. Choso hardly exists during the daytime. You only see him once a week, and he's... well, he's different. Though you enjoy his differences, you realize that liking him could pose some complications with your job. Unless you kept him a secret. But Choso doesn't deserve such treatment. He deserves someone who fully embraces him.
And you do. You want to. You're just... scared.
Your head leans to the side, your eyes darting across the space when you catch a shadow just behind you in the connected kitchen. You scream out, jumping up from your couch to throw yourself against the wall.
With a trembling hand, you reach out for the lights, and flick them on to reveal Choso standing there before you behind your kitchen counter.
You pant erratically, your heart hammering into your chest. "Choso?!" you shout. "What the fuck?! What are you doing here?"
In typical fashion, he doesn't answer. But he is void of the warmth and kindness you ordinarily associate with him. You furrow your brows in concern as you press yourself further against the wall, taking in his intrusive stature.
That sheepish gaze is nowhere to be found. The light that once trickled into his violet hues is gone. Instead, the Choso that stands before you is silent with resentment, betrayal. His lips are curved down, his eyes sharp on you as he stares. His gaze feels stern, hard, unforgiving, and his brows are angled down. The shadows encompass him, helping him to blend into darkness much like how he did when you first met him. But this is different.
He looks angry. With you.
You swallow thickly, unfamiliar with this side of the sweet man you've come to know.
"Cho..." you start slowly in a shuddering whisper. "Why are you in my house?" He doesn't reply. Your nose flares. "W-What's wrong?"
Nothing.
"How long have you been here?"
Still nothing.
You heave out, attempting to calm yourself with a hand to your abdomen. "Jesus Christ. You scared me."
This, this, elicits a response.
"I scared you. Huh."
His deep voice rumbles out into the dimness. You gnaw on the inside of your lip, startled by the bass in his tone, by the severity with which he speaks to you now.
"Y-Yes, Choso. You're standing in my kitchen in the dark. How did you even get in here?"
"The same way I always do."
"The same way y- what?"
He doesn't even bother to correct himself. He makes it known that he'd been here, that this is his territory, not anybody else's. It's supposed to be just you and him.
Your blood runs cold. He's snuck into your house before? More than once?
"Why are you so far away?" he asks suddenly.
You stare like a deer in headlights, unaware of how tightly you press yourself away out of instinct. Your nervous system is still reeling from the scare, and you're desperately trying to process everything that Choso just said - trying to process why he's in your house like this, why he's looking at you that way.
You watch as he starts to move, slow steps padding against your floor toward you. You stare with wide eyes as he approaches, stepping into the dim light, moving across your carpet to stand before you.
You inhale and exhale slowly, eyes glued to his as he stops just a couple of feet away from you. He studies you so closely, you feel he can read every thought in your mind with those eyes of his. You see something wrecked in his gaze, something broken that urges his eerie, solemn state. Your frown deepens, your confusion intensifying.
He takes one more step forward. "Are you scared of me now?"
A crease dents the space between your brows. "I'm more confused than anything right now, Cho," you tell him in a hushed voice. "How often do you sneak into my house?"
"A couple times a week," he says casually.
You twitch. "Why? Why wouldn't you just - just ask to come over?"
"Do you not like me anymore?"
"Wha...?" your face scrunches. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm really confused. I don't-"
"Do you prefer someone more normal than me?"
You squint. "What do you mean?" you ponder his words, thinking back to your date. Then it dawns on you, rather fast. "Were you... have you been watching me?"
"I always do," he confesses earnestly, eyes pointed. You clamp your mouth shut, eyes widening as Choso takes another step closer. "I always want to know what you're doing and make sure you're okay. And tonight, I saw you with him. With a normal guy. I didn’t like it."
He doesn't have a filter. Not a single one. Choso acts and speaks on impulse, and his impulses after having met you have drawn him closer and closer, have placed him into the center of your life, and he wants you to have him. He wants you to want him there, but he needs to know if this is all for nothing. If he even has a chance with someone like you.
"Choso..." you start, slightly alarmed and overwhelmed.
"Who is he?" he asks coldly, something torn in the back of his voice. His brows twitch, his chest tightening. "Were you on a date?"
"You can't just-"
"Is he what you prefer? Over me?"
Your face falls.
You don't know what to say.
If you were to answer him truthfully, you would have said no. Of course he's not. You don't even know the guy, and he's hardly even half of what Choso is, half of what he makes you feel.
But you are reeling with shock at these sudden revelations, at the intensity of Choso's feelings that you can not deny you knew he had. It was always so telling in the way he clung to you when the two of you went out. The color that always swirls in his cheeks when he's with you. The way he just can't stop staring.
But you didn’t know it would get this bad.
You should have known. Choso isn't like ordinary people. He's a half curse with hardly any experience with other human beings aside from his brother, and he's even mentioned how he would follow Yuji around during the day to ensure his safety.
Choso is a passionate person. He feels more than the ordinary being. He acts on his emotions, which likely feel foreign to him, far differently than anyone else would, and you should have known. You should have known that bringing him into your house upon first meeting would have bridged a connection that deluded him into thinking he's entitled to your space at all times.
You should have known that a little crush wouldn't be just a little crush to him.
And Choso is desperate. Desperate for you. For your answers. For a sliver of the attention you gave that guy at your date. Desperate for your love, love which he's never gotten to experience before you.
Looking into his eyes now, your instinct is to comfort him through your discomfort. Choso's always been so honest, so unapologetically himself, and he's looking to you for something, anything. And you want to give it to him, but you can't overlook what he's telling you now. What you're seeing.
The eeriness of it all.
"Choso," you say his name firmly, and something in him shifts slightly. "You can't stalk me like that. That's not okay. You can't follow me around when I'm unaware. That's an invasion of my privacy. I'd never do that to you. You understand?"
The brunette falters, his brows twitching again and his lips curling down. "You don't like me anymore?" he asks again, this time lower, more fragile.
Your heart aches against your best judgment. "I do like you, Choso," you say, hesitantly bringing your hands up to cup his face to calm him. You feel the half curse jerk under your touch, and like the fool he is for you, he melts into your palms, shoulders slumping as he hunches over, lavender eyes softening into something oh so pathetic. "I do. Okay? I like you a lot."
He's sap, his sternness crumbling. "You do?"
"I do," you assure him.
“I like you a lot too. I like you very much. As more than a friend.”
“I know, Cho. I know,” you say tenderly. “And I’m happy to hear that, but I don't like you sneaking around me. That's weird, okay? You can't just come into my house whenever you want or follow me like that. I don't like that. At all."
Choso grimaces. "But I just want to protect you."
"I can protect myself."
"I want to help."
"You can help by respecting my space."
"But you won't want to see me otherwise."
"That's not true," you sigh. "You just have to ask."
"What about your date?"
"I don't prefer him over you, Choso. It was one date. And it wasn't that good," you tell him.
“Why did you go out with him in the first place?”
“I don’t know - it doesn’t matter. I was thinking of you the whole time.”
Choso's lips twitch into a crooked half smile, cheeks dusting with color. "Oh."
"Yeah. Oh," you roll your eyes, dropping your hands from his face much to Choso's chagrin. "You're fucking weird, Cho," you exhale with a slight laugh, shaking your head.
"I know," he mumbles. "I'm sorry."
"I'm not your fifteen year old brother, okay? There's this thing called phone calls. You can talk to me and ask to see me whenever you want. Just ask. No more sneaking around or breaking in. Or I'll be really upset."
Choso slumps. "Okay," he mumbles. He peers at you through thick lashes. "Are you going to see him again?"
"That's kinda the least of my concerns right now."
He takes in your edged tone and deflates. "You're mad at me."
You pout, quirking a brow and crossing your arms. "A little bit. You freaked the hell out of me just now,” you say. “But that doesn't mean I don't... still like you. Or think you’re scary. I'm just adjusting. Processing."
Choso suddenly takes the energy of a kicked puppy. "I'm sorry."
"So you said."
You gasp as Choso drops down to his knees before you, reaching forward to cling to your thighs. He wraps his burly arms snug around your legs, pressing his face to your stomach. You raise your arms in shock, face flooding with heat. "Choso, what are you doing?"
"Don't see him again," he muffles into your clothes. You feel his voice vibrate against your skin, and you shiver. "Don’t see any other man. Please. Pick me. I want it to be me instead."
You go to say something, but he holds you tighter, pressing himself to you pathetically, burying himself in your scent and warmth. You can be mad at him, if that's what you need. You can put boundaries in place, much to his chagrin, and he'd eventually deal. But he sincerely hopes, prays, that you won't abandon him for this. That you won't take back all the wonderful things you said about him, that you won't leave him for clinging too intensely, for offending you, for invading your space.
He just wants to be near you. That's all. He can't function when he's not near you.
And as strange as Choso is, you know that you are no better the moment you feel your heart flutter and skin tingle under his touch, when his desperate plea flushes against you. He's pitiful. Addictively, attractively, pitiful.
You exhale, lowering your hands to rest atop his thick hair. He whimpers, pushing in close, a great contrast to how he appeared to you only moments ago. You doubt he was even trying to scare you then. You assume that intensity is merely a part of him, a subconscious reaction when you are involved.
Choso's lashes flutter as you stroke over his hair, his face nuzzling closer. You look down at him with tired eyes.
"I do pick you, Cho," you say, despite his stalking. Despite his unwarranted presence in your home. "I pick you every time."
your husband is an observant man, and he shows it when he gives you the book you talked about a couple of days ago.
based on an ask.
✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦
the morning began in a suspiciously normal way, and that should have put you on alert from the very beginning. because after several years with nanami kento, you had learned that the most romantic gestures usually came disguised as absolute normality.
he wasn't the kind of man who announced surprises with a mysterious smile or prepared grand spectacles to attract attention. on the contrary, his displays of love were quiet, carefully thought out, so natural that many times you didn't realize how much effort he had invested in them until you were already completely emotional. and that morning was exactly like that.
the sun filtered softly through the kitchen windows while you prepared breakfast. the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the room, and from the table, nanami flipped through the newspaper with an almost irritating calmness. everything seemed normal. too normal.
what you didn't know was that over the past few weeks, you had made one very specific mistake. one that nanami had noticed immediately, because every time you passed by a bookstore, every time you looked through recommendations online, or every time you talked about books before going to sleep, you ended up mentioning the same title. not in an exaggerated or insistent way. just little comments here and there. simple things.
"they say it's incredible." "the reviews are amazing." "maybe i'll buy it when i have time." what you forgot was that kento remembered absolutely everything related to you. especially the things that made you happy.
so, when you finished breakfast and started clearing the dishes, he simply got up from the table and disappeared for a few minutes. you didn't think much of it, he was probably looking for something or finishing some pending task. however, when he returned, he was carrying a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper. he held it in his hands for a few seconds before approaching you with that characteristic calmness that always made it seem like he wasn't doing anything extraordinary, even when he clearly was.
"i think this belongs to you."
you frowned as you accepted the package, which was somewhat heavy. much heavier than you expected. you turned it over several times, trying to guess what it was while nanami watched the scene with a dangerously calm expression.
when you finally tore through the paper and saw the cover, you felt your heart give a small leap inside your chest. it was the book, that book. the very one you'd been wanting to buy for weeks, the one you'd mentioned countless times without realizing it. for a few seconds, you simply stared at it as if you feared it would disappear if you looked away.
"kento..."
he raised an eyebrow, "yes?"
"when did you buy it?"
"a few days ago", "a few days ago?"
"mhm." the ease with which he said it made you laugh, because of course. of course he had bought it days ago and, knowing him, he had probably been planning all of this long before that.
you pressed the book against your chest while trying to process the absurd emotion caused by such an apparently simple gesture.
and then you noticed something. nanami was already gathering a few things near the door: a basket, a blanket, a bottle of water, and a bag that definitely hadn't been there that morning.
"kento?"
"yes."
"why do you have a picnic basket?"
this time, the corner of his lips curved ever so slightly, just a little. but enough for you to know that something was happening, "because we're going out."
an hour later, the two of you were walking together through one of the most beautiful parks in the city. it was one of those days when the weather seemed specifically designed to exist inside a romance novel.
the air was cool without being cold, the blue sky was clear, the leaves on the trees swayed gently in the breeze, and sunlight filtered through the branches, creating small golden flecks along the pathways. everything was peaceful, serene, beautiful. and the farther you walked, the more you suspected that nanami had thought of absolutely every detail.
eventually, you found a secluded spot beneath a huge tree whose branches provided enough shade to protect you from the afternoon sun. nanami spread out the blanket with almost ridiculous precision while you watched in amusement. then he unpacked the contents of the basket.
carefully prepared sandwiches, sliced fruit, desserts from a bakery you both adored, coffee in insulated thermoses. there were even little adhesive bookmarks for the book. "I can't believe you planned all of this."
nanami finished arranging the plates before sitting down beside you, "i can believe it perfectly well."
that made you laugh so much that you ended up resting your head on his shoulder. because yes, of course you could believe it. that was exactly what made him so special.
not the grand speeches, not the extravagant gestures. but this incredible ability to pay attention. to listen, to remember, to turn small everyday wishes into unforgettable moments.
after eating, you finally opened the book, and the excitement returned immediately. the smell of new pages, the texture of the paper, the promise of a story waiting to be discovered. you settled against the tree trunk while nanami opened his own book, a copy he had been reading slowly during his free moments for weeks.
and so you began to read. together, in silence. but accompanied. time seemed to disappear almost completely. every now and then, you looked up to watch him: the quiet concentration on his face, the way he held the book, the occasional movement of his fingers as he turned a page. and every time you did, you felt something warm settle in your chest.
because not all love stories were made of grand adventures. some were made of this. of sharing comfortable silences, of reading beneath a tree on a sunny afternoon, of accidentally brushing shoulders while both reaching for a cup of coffee, of looking up at the same time and smiling for no particular reason.
hours later, when the sun began to slowly descend toward the horizon, you closed the book for a few moments to rest your eyes. the story had completely captivated you. however, when you turned your head, you discovered something much more interesting.
nanami was no longer reading. now he was watching you. he didn't even try to hide it, not even a little. he had no need to. he simply remained there, leaning against the tree, looking at you with that soft expression that only appeared when the two of you were alone.
"what?" you asked with a smile.
he shook his head, "nothing."
"liar."
a small pause.
"you look happy." and it was such a simple answer that it almost made you cry.
because you immediately understood that this had been the true purpose of the entire day. you and your happiness—that was what he had wanted to see from the very beginning.
so you moved a little closer and rested your head on his shoulder. you stayed like that for several minutes while the wind gently stirred the leaves above your heads.
nanami placed a hand over yours and held it softly, watching the sunset with you. thinking that, perhaps, that after all the places he had visited in his life, after all the experiences he had accumulated, and after all the years he had spent searching for something resembling peace, his favorite place was still exactly the same.
a shared blanket, a book in your hands, your head resting on his shoulder. and the absolute certainty that there was nowhere else in the world where he would rather be.
satosugu are cheating on each other with you, part two.
part one here!
you knew your nebulous position as the other woman was never going to last. when you’re the affair partner of both people in the same relationship, it’s inevitable that the truth will eventually come out. you just decide to have it happen on your own terms.
you escalate your own behaviour; with suguru, who you mostly have sex with and share the occasional drink, you up your antics. you leave behind lip gloss, you kiss bruises in places he won’t immediately notice, keep your nails sharper to scrape lines down his skin. you moan in his ear as he fucks you and ask, “what would your husband think, if he walked in here right now? watching me take you like i’m the one you’re married to?” just to relish in the way his voice strangles on a heavy groan as he comes.
with satoru, who’s far more interested in the emotional side of things, you devote yourself fully to the role of secret girlfriend. with suguru, you might be a nice, illicit fuck for when his husband’s busy. with satoru? you’re the partner he wishes his husband was. he takes you on elaborate dates, he buys you flowers, he flourishes with every sweet kiss and whispered affirmation. when he calls you late at night, paralysed with fear because he just knows his husband is cheating, you leave suguru in bed to console him from the safety of your bathroom. he can barely look at you when he fucks you, refuses to turn the lights on, then shudders in your arms as you nurture him in the aftermath.
it’s manipulative. you’re halfway in love with them from the thrill alone. you let it build and build, watch as their marriage slowly falls apart from their own actions, and, when it’s all coming to a climax, you arrange a threesome.
in the end, it’s easy. you invite them. suguru tells you happily that his husband’s out of the prefecture that weekend, and he misses you so much, sweetheart. can’t stop thinking about you. satoru tells you his husband is definitely with that homewrecker, so why can’t he spend a weekend with you? they don’t even care about the third, so long as you make sure they’re hot.
then they both show up, and it’s glorious.
after all, aren’t you blameless? it’s suguru that told you he wants something casual, satoru who said he doesn’t mind if you see someone else at the same time, since he’s doing the same. it’s not your fault they’re cheating. it’s not your fault they’ve accidentally fallen for the same woman outside of their marriage. it’s definitely not your fault that you accidentally arranged a threesome with both of them. how could you know? it’s not like suguru’s ever seen you snooping through his apartment. it’s not as if satoru has given you any details about his wayward husband, either.
there’s a moment of silence. of shock. they stare at each other in obvious disbelief while you smile cluelessly. you tell them you “just know they’re going to get along!” and they “have so much in common.” they don’t correct you. no, suguru does something better:
“it’s nice to meet you,” he says, perfectly neutral. “i’m geto suguru. i’ve heard a lot about you.”
satoru looks heartbroken. he looks angry. “gojo satoru,” he replies. “can’t say i’ve heard much about you.”
“looking forward to learning more, i hope.”
“something like that.”
you’re giddy with excitement. how couldn’t you be? they don’t even know. they’re playing some secret, private game between just the two of them, unaware that you know. that you’re a witness to it—better yet, that you’re an orchestrator.
they fight over who kisses you first, and when you goad them into kissing each other, satoru bites suguru so hard his lip splits. suguru growls, pulls him by the hair, and tells him that if he can’t mind his teeth like a good boy, suguru will tie him up so he won’t be able to use his hands, either.
somehow, that’s exactly what happens.
satoru bites and scratches as you all undress, a ball of tightly wound feeling he can’t quite get ahold of. when suguru kisses your neck, satoru tugs at his long hair so hard his neck cracks. after that, well, suguru doesn’t let it slide. he sits you in satoru’s lap and watches satoru bite his way across your tits before pulling his arms behind his back and tying him to the headboard. satoru’s legs follow, winding his calves to his thighs. it says something that satoru doesn’t argue.
“you act like you two know each other,” you say breathily, chest sore from where satoru bit your breasts on the wrong side of too hard, skin pinkening and indented with the shallow divots of his teeth.
satoru groans, watching as suguru pulls you away, situating you in his lap with your back to his chest and your legs spread over his thighs, presented to his husband. “never met the guy,” he says lowly, “and if i have, i don’t recognise him.”
“don’t worry,” suguru croons. “we are going to get very familiar.” his hand caresses down your side as he says it, thumbs rubbing strong circles into your skin.
satoru’s eyes stay fixed on your face.
suguru takes you apart with careful efficiency, teasing you until your pussy flutters with each brush of his fingers against your thighs, your navel, just short of the apex of your thighs. when he finally touches you where you want him, his fingers are long and slow and languid as he spreads you open, fingering you with lazy contentment as he sucks wet kisses down your neck and back. he leaves you straining and whining, makes satoru watch until he’s groaning as if he can feel the phantom touch of suguru’s every caress.
suguru bends you forward until you’re on your hands and knees, head just barely brushing against satoru’s knees. satoru parts his legs further, staring down at you with something close to awe. a little scared, a little sad, and very aroused. suguru crowds your back, bending over your figure and biting the shell of your ear as he slowly, slowly sinks into you.
“my good little wife,” suguru says, loud enough for satoru to hear. satoru chokes on his next breath, bordering on a sob. “should’ve married you, sweetheart. i could keep you like this forever.”
“suguru—“ satoru pants.
his skin is red and raw from his shuffling, his dick rock hard and straining against his black boxers. from the way his chest heaves, his eyes burn red-rimmed with tears, you’d think he’s the one being fucked. when he catches you looking, he lurches forward with a low groan, cut off as the rope tightens around his muscular thighs. he murmurs your name on a strangled groan.
a hand moves, grabbing you by the cheeks and pulling you to look over your shoulder, neck craning at an awkward angle. “ignore him, sweetheart.” suguru whispers in your ear. “eyes on me. he’s not the one fucking you so good, is he?”
“i could be,” satoru growls. “i have. fucked her hard and fast, like a whore. she must be, if she’s willing to fuck you.”
it’s mean, unnecessarily targeted at you when the ire is really directed at his husband. suguru’s eyes crinkle on a smile.
“that’s not a very nice thing to say, is it? she’s always so sweet, so good. maybe you just don’t fuck her right.”
“i’ll show you—“
you stop listening. suguru thrusts so hard and sure, just slow enough to have you craving more, just fast enough to satisfy you. stamina has always been his strong suit, and he fucks you into over sensitivity. his thumb moves, sitting heavy and mean over your clit, rubbing firmly against you with every thrust forward. you fall apart warbling his name, hands reaching backwards to scratch at his thighs. then he fucks you to tears, keeping eye contact with satoru, muttering filth in your ear all the while.
“should knock you up, so you have no choice but to marry me.” he says, watching as satoru’s mouth drops on a whine. “keep you happy and full in my bed, so you never have to leave. you’d be the perfect wife, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”
satoru comes untouched with a breathy whine of your name. your name, as if his husband isn’t right there. as if he hadn’t just watched his husband fuck the girl he’d been playing around with. suguru follows soon after, spilling into you unprotected.
they both stay the night. you share a quiet, almost awkward breakfast, where you play the fool and chatter with your usual enthusiasm. when they leave, it’s at the same time.
you don’t know what happens when they get home. what you do know is that suguru texts you a few days later to come over. satoru asks you out on another date. and, a few weeks later, you fall back into bed with the both of them.
virgin!nanami is hesitant the first time you go down on him, because as he's nearing his (blinding, earth-shattering) orgasm, you aren't pulling off. ☆
he's played the scene a million times in his head before; late at night as he palmed his cock through his boxers and tried to will his mind away from such lewd thoughts of you. in every fantasy he's had of you knelt before him like you are now, you serve him with your mouth until he's close, and then pull off to stroke him through his orgasm.
but your lips are still wrapped around him. his ragged breath, the gentle buck of his hips up into your mouth... is it not enough to tell you he's about to unravel?
kento has to lick his lips to try and save his dry mouth before he speaks, though it comes out as a broken moan anyways. "sweetheart, i'm... so close."
you hum around his cock, send a vibration up his spine that has his eyes rolling back. you hollow out your cheeks and increase your pace, desperate for a taste.
it's too much — he's never felt so boneless. nanami's right on the edge of the strongest orgasm he's ever had when he gently tugs back on your hair. "stop. stop."
you pull away instantly, wiping your spit-sheened lips dry and watching him with wide eyes. "are you okay? too much?"
kento is breathless, his cresting orgasm quickly fading out of reach. "you didn't pull away. i was going to... finish."
"well, yeah. you cumming is kind of the whole point."
he blinks. "i... not in your mouth. i respect you, and i don't want you to sacrifice your comfort for me."
you can't help but grin at the serious look that paints his face. you lean down and press a kiss to his knee, and then higher up on his thigh, and another just above the patch of hair that bases his leaky cock.
"kento nanami," you look up at him, pressing a feather-light kiss to his tip. "if i don't find out what you taste like when you 'finish' in the next few minutes, i might die. i think about it all the time, you know? touch myself wondering if you'd cum down my throat or make me hold it in my mouth a little. savour you, or whatever."
he blushes pink at the thought. your words are enough to relight the fire licking at his groin. he watches you for a moment; tries to discern whether or not you're only saying what might please him, but ultimately nods.
you don't throat him immediately, though. instead, you duck your head down and press a few messy kisses to his balls. his hips twitch upwards at the contact, his breath hitching in his lungs. you smile, dart your tongue out to lick at the source of his hesitation.
"god, that's dirty," he groans. "you like this?"
"i like you," you hum, mouthing at his balls with spit-covered lips. you're making a mess of him, though that only gives you an excuse to suggest showering together later. "like your balls too."
"i... shit, i see that."
he's so sensitive, knitting his brows together as you suck and lick and kiss his balls with a feverish sort of worship you didn't know you had in you. his cock rests against your face, throbbing as it hardens even more. he could cum like this.
but you aren't quite done with him.
when you pull back to take his cock back into your warm mouth, all the way down to the base, kento swears he must've been a saint in his previous life to deserve such pleasures in this one. you trace the vein that tracks the underside of his length with your tongue, and then hollow your cheeks out to suck.
he cums all too-quick and with a loud and uncharacteristically whiney moan that makes you wonder how he'd sound tied up and begging. it feels almost wasteful to take his load anywhere other than deep inside of you, but you're sure you'll have plenty of opportunities for that in the near future.
he tastes good. salty. you want to keep sucking, see if you can milk him for more, but he's already overstimulated and panicking a little at the sensation he's feeling. although you think he likes it, you know it'll be too much for his first time. you pull off, careful to spill as little of his release as possible, and sit back on your heels.
and kento is a mess. his lips part as he watches yours pull into a greedy smile. he's eager to watch you spit it out, perhaps just to see the visual reminder that he came in your mouth. but you meet his eyes, let him sit on your tongue a moment longer, and then swallow.
oh. he wonders how he'll ever lead a normal life again after a sight like that. his mouth is dry, cock still wet with your spit, heart beating out of his chest...
still, he manages to stop you when you move to get up and start on his aftercare. "wait."
꒰ ̮͈ ̞ ̮͈𖩩꙼꒱┊experimenting on your husband nanami !
nanami kento is a very patient man, it's one of the things that drew you to him to begin with. he handled very frustrating clients with grace, he handled bad drivers and busy streets with ease, he carried immense amounts of stress from work and never took it home with him. you have absolute faith that he would be an incredible father to your future children because if there was one thing about nanami it was that he never, ever gets angry.
and while, yes, you loved it about him, sometimes you find yourself curious. you secretly wish to see what he's like when he loses his temper, you wish to see how far his patience can go. you can never fully commit to pushing his buttons, though. at times, you will try to act demanding and bossy and he will give you that soft look that melts your heart as he does everything you ask and you lose the strength to keep going entirely.
until today. today you told yourself you would find out no matter what.
ATTEMPT NUMBER ONE
it started in the morning. you woke up early to pack a lunch for him to take to work. this wasn't the first time you had done a nice gesture for him like this, but it warmed nanami's heart all the same. little did he know is that this box of lunch that was definitely for work included an image that was definitely not safe for work of you in his favorite set of lingerie. you imagined him being all worked up the whole day and very frustrated when he came home. it was perfect.
at around noon you receive a text:
"Sweetheart?"
"yes my love"
"Did you mean to put this photo of yourself in my lunch?"
"yes i did, ken. why, don't like it? :("
"I love it. You look beautiful. I can't wait to see you tonight"
you sigh at the screen. while you love his compliments, his patience had won once again. you knew you had to do more.
ATTEMPT NUMBER TWO
you decide that perhaps one picture just wasn't enough to get to him. you put on the same set of lingerie and fix your makeup up a bit and you look at your expansive collection of products that were all bought by him, and your resolve begins to falter. you then think about how hot interesting the results would be, and you're fully motivated once again. it's for the sake of science, after all.
you send him several more pictures of yourself in the same set in very compromising poses and he responds almost instantaneously.
"Sweetheart, you know I think you look gorgeous, but please save the pictures for when I'm home. Somebody could've seen."
"and? isn't that kind of exciting?"
"I'd rather not have any other men see you in that way, if possible."
"aw you're no fun."
and he left you on seen. seen. you couldn't tell whether you should feel afraid or accomplished. either way, it was very exciting, too exciting to stop now.
ATTEMPT NUMBER THREE
the sun was beginning to set and you still had no response from your husband. you knew he would be home soon and decided to pin the final nail into the coffin. you wrack your brain on what to do and look around the room for ideas. you see the very big and elaborate bouquet of flowers your sister had sent you a few hours prior as a belated birthday gift and had the perfect idea.
you sent nanami a picture of the bouquet with a message thanking him for the flowers.
"My love, I didn't have any flowers sent to you today"
you giggled as you feign confusion in your messages and then send him a picture of a fabricated note that says "from your secret admirer." he takes a few minutes longer to respond than usual.
"Do you really think I don't recognize your handwriting? We'll talk about this little game you're playing when I'm home."
bingo.
RESULTS
as soon as nanami entered the house you ran to greet him cheerfully as if nothing had happened. you hugged him tightly and surprisingly he immediately hugged back and melted into you the same way he always does. his face was buried into your neck and you began to accept that your experiment had failed and that you unfortunately married the best man who ever lived, even though you already knew that.
there's a moment of silence until nanami speaks his first words since he returned home. he says your name, barely above a whisper, into your neck. his voice was dark and unfeeling in a way you've never heard before. his hand rises to stroke the back of your hair before he grips it, tight. "first, you leave that photo of yourself in my lunch. then, as i finally begin to bring my focus from the picture and back to my work, you send more. then, when i express my concern for other men seeing you in a way that only i should, you say that i am "no fun." and then, since you're committed to pushing my buttons today, you try to trick me into thinking another man had sent you flowers." you try to hide your excitement as best you can and muster up a very unconvincing "i'm sorry?"
he doesn't respond. instead, he's dragging you to your knees by your hair and pressing your face up close to the very prominent bulge in his pants. "i have been hard for the past five. hours." he says that last part with a new venom in his voice and despite knowing it wasn't the best idea, you couldn't help the little look of accomplishment that grew on your face. "oh you think this is funny, do you?"
nanami pulls himself free from his pants and your eyes widen. he got even bigger, somehow. he was large, throbbing, and the sight alone was overwhelming. you open your mouth to try to defend yourself but nanami seized the opportunity and shoved himself into your mouth. he used his grip on your hair to push your head down until your nose made contact with the slight trail of hair leading upwards. he groans a very sexy sound before he begins thrusting into your mouth at a relentless pace. "i'm no fun, huh? i'm no- haah- fucking fun?"
through your tears, and your very occupied mouth, you try to let out any sounds of apologies you could, but nanami showed no mercy. "no, baby. sorry isn't going to cut it this time. play stupid games, win stupid prizes. i'm going to make sure you learn how to behave, and when we're done you're not to do this again, understood?"
you frantically nod your head, but as your thighs clench and you feel yourself already soaking, you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you were absolutely going to do this again.
i mean, it's for science.
i hope u guys liked this one.. im not very sure about the idea </3 i'm sorry it's cut short, i haven't tried writing sex scenes yet but i hope you still enjoyed ! if you'd like me to try to write a part 2 please do let me know, but i apologize if it's underwhelming TT as always, kind criticism is always welcome :3
🏐 "𝑺𝑼𝑲𝑼𝑵𝑨 𝑹𝒀𝑶𝑴𝑬𝑵," ◦ ₊ㅤ ﹙ nsfw sukuna catches you watching porn ꗃ .. smut mdni ꒰ ୨୧ ꒱ mina says reupload from toruzip ⁀ ˳ ⟡
You had recently began to become insecure about your sex life with your boyfriend, Sukuna.
He was your first, and you planned for him to be your only… the only problem was how vanilla the sex you two had was. You liked the sex, you liked him taking care of you, making you giggle and squirm as he treated you like the most fragile thing in his life. Something to be cherished, not to be fucked and thrown around. Though, from what you had heard from all of Sukuna’s past lovers… was that he was supposed to be mean in bed, manhandle you, spit in your mouth and tell you to just shut up and take his cock.
He never did any of that with you—so you were just left to assume that he didn’t think you could take it. That he would eventually grow tired of having to deal with plain, boring sex with plain, boring inexperienced you, and leave you for someone better.
It ate you from the inside out until you finally gave in.
Typing up “porn” on your laptop in the living room of your shared apartment when Sukuna was out with his friends was not something you ever thought you’d do in a million years. Your hands and knees were trembling with nervousness, face set in a determined glare, but your bottom lip quivering gave away your nervousness.
Oh my god. What the fuck were you doing?
The first video was lewd, there was no denying it. Even as you tried to rationalise in your brain how ‘informational’ it could be, it was just some woman being fucked for views. Nothing romantic about it, there was even comments… mostly by incel men. Exaggerated moans, the loud crackling of the man’s hand slapping against the woman’s ass… your face gave away how obviously you didn’t want this. Mouth agape, eyebrows furrowed and tense, upper lip curled in disgust.
“Uhm… okay. Onto the next one..” you huffed and looked away to give the ghost in the corner of the room an “are you seeing this bullshit?” Look.
The second video was much more different, and made your clammy hands relax their intense grip on your fuzzy pink glitter pen. A woman, just riding her husband. Keeping him tied to the bed in those fuzzy handcuffs and all, while he kept moaning something about being a good boy. It felt much more intimate, making something inside you throbbing a little.
You swallowed the lump in your throat and scribbled down notes, actually taking into consideration what Sukuna might prefer in bed. Maybe he’d like to see you take control, moan his name like the woman, talk dirty things about his—the door clicked softly, disrupting your focus, as a very confused Sukuna walked into the apartment.
Shit.
Sukuna had been home earlier than expected, sighing tired and soft as he was already thinking about melting into your arms… until he heard moaning. And he knew damn well those moans weren’t coming from you.
I mean— he did have a flicker of a thought pass by his brain about you cheating, but then remembered how you had waited an entire week to gather up the courage to hold his hand and the thought was quickly disregarded.
Psh. You? Cheating? You glared at every man that even tried to talk to you, as if they had made a mistake by even daring to enter your space.
You slammed your laptop shut and sent your note pad flying across the room in a hurry, rushing to erase all evidence of what you had been doing when your eyes met Sukuna’s narrowed pink ones. Freezing in the act, your arm still outstretched to where you had thrown the notepad. Flustered, and a little disheveled and you tried to act innocent, muttering a “h-hi ‘kuna..” while busying your hands with fixing the pillows.
Sukuna found the room empty except for the flustered, blushing woman he loved more than anything. His brows furrowed in confusion when his eyes trailed across the room to notice the laptop shut, and your glittery pen and notepad thrown out hazardously on the floor near a potted plant. His eyes narrowed further, a long sigh passing through his nostrils when his pupils slowly trailed back to you.
You blinked at him innocently, playing up the oblivious act to a 100, despite the heat you felt all over your face and just how much you just knew you were absolutely screwed. You swallowed, acting as if you hadn’t just been watching porn seconds before. You mumbled a terrible lie, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa, “I was just.. working on my assignment for bio,” you nodded at your very very bad lie.
Sukuna's eyes narrowed as he took a few steps towards you, his gaze darting between your flushed face, the closed laptop, and the notepad lying haphazardly on the floor. He knew something was up, knew that you were hiding something from him. The way you shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, the way you avoided his gaze... it was all so fucking telling.
You were never a good liar, were you?
“Working on your assignment, huh?” he drawled, his deep voice tinged with a hint of skepticism as he crossed his arms over his muscular chest. “Funny, I could've sworn I heard some pretty loud ass moans coming from in here… sounded nothing like you typing away on a laptop.”
He took another step closer to you, his tall frame looming over your smaller one as he bent over his hips slightly. He could feel the way your breathing had quickened, the way your chest was rising and falling quickly beneath your shirt.
“Come on, baby,” he coaxed, his voice softening slightly as he reached out to tip your chin up with his fingers, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You don't need to lie to me, sweetheart. I know something's up. What were you really doing before I got home?” He asked. His tone was gentle, but you knew better than to lie to him and potentially make him mad.
Last time that had happened you found yourself sentenced to sleeping alone on the couch, while a pouty sukuna was sleeping alone in your bedroom.
He could see the hesitation in your eyes, the way you bit down on your plump bottom lip nervously. He wanted to lean down and pull it between his teeth, to bite it gently as he kissed you. But he held back. He wasn’t gonna fuck you just yet, he had to figure out what the hell those moans were first.
He knew he had to tread carefully here, had to find the right balance between being understanding and being demanding. He didn't want to make you feel bad for exploring your own desires and curiosities, but he also needed to know that you trusted him enough to say ‘sukuna I was watching porn!’ So he could applaud you before dragging your ass to the bedroom.
You whined before making him sit on the couch right next to you, plopping him down comfortably on the soft futon, before you got up and picked up your note pad with the neatly written notes from the floor. Walking back to him with trembling steps you plopped comfortably down on his lap, sighing softly and showing him what you had been doing.
Your handwriting was cute and neat as always, with the cute little drawing on the side, despite how lewd the words were. “The video showed the wife teasing her husband before sex with something called a strip tease? I don’t know what that is but I’ll try it for Sukuna!” Sukuna read one of the dot points aloud, as you sighed wearily and defeated, completely embarrassed.
Your brain was already planning your funeral.
You opened your laptop, about to explain to him what you had been watching before the loud lewd sounds of moaning bursted out from your laptop. You quickly jumped out of sukuna’s lap to shut down the porn video that you were ‘learning’ from.
“I don’t-.. watch anything like that for my free time usually, by the way..” You mumbled embarrassed and shy.
Sukuna's eyes had widened in surprise as he scanned over the notes scribbled in your neat handwriting. He couldn't help but let out a small snort, looking away to try and stifle his laughter.
“Hey! I can see you laughing at meeee!” You whined and punched and slapped at his chest, gently enough to not hurt him.
While he took in the lewd words and the cute little doodle of a woman on top of a man with both of them having dumb little smiley faces . Fuck, the way you had written out your little to-do list, complete with hearts and silly faces next to each point… as if all the words weren’t the most pornographic descriptions ever.
“A strip tease, huh?” he murmured, his deep voice a low, teasing rumble as he looked up at you with a smug smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. ”Baby, you don't need to learn how to tease me. I'm already putty in your fucking hands.” He said, already making you weak in the knees from just that smirk of his.
He reached out and took your hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze as he pulled you down onto his lap. He loved the feeling of your soft, plump ass pressing against his thighs, loved the way your small frame fit so perfectly in his larger one.
“But if you want to practice fucking with me in allll different types of positions, I'm more than happy to let you,” he said, his voice growing thicker with desire as he slid his hands up your sides, his thumbs brushing along the sides of your breasts. Just itching to inch closer to where he could properly pinch and pull. “In fact, I fucking insist on it, baby.” He whispered into your ear. “C’mon, it’ll be fun… practice every new foreplay thing or sex position you learn. Only on me.”
He could see the embarrassment in your eyes, when you blurted out a “huh?” He could feel the way you squirmed shyly in his lap. But fuck, he loved that you were trying to learn how to please him, loved that you wanted to make him feel good in every way possible. It just showed how much you cared for him, how deeply you loved him.
“I’m not gonna judge you for watching porn baby, but I’d rather you to just watch the tapes we’ve filmed” he breathed out a little hazy, already imagining all the filthy things you’d discover on your own and try with him for the first time.
You whined to him, grumbling at his last words and narrowing your eyes onto his pink ones. “I didn’t watch porn because I was horny or anything.. I have you to help me if I feel like that anytime..” you admitted to him pouty before sighing and looking away. You hesitated before whining again and letting your insecurities spill.
“I just feel like you won’t love me as much if I keep being boring in bed..”
Sukuna raised an eyebrow before pulling you closer again and narrowing his eyes, his rough fingers gripping your chin and making you face him. His glare made something inside you ignite, something between your legs throb a little. “Don’t you dare call my girlfriend boring. Do you even know how fucking hard I am right now? Just from you sitting in my lap?”
He couldn’t have his girlfriend (whom he loved very much) doubting her worth. In fact, he’d fuck those worries out of you.
Right now.
The next thing you knew was that you were dumbly whining into the mattress, ass up as he had a large hand pushing your face down, pounding into you. You didn’t need to watch porn or anything to please him.
You were already doing such a good job already! Squeezing him… squirting everywhere… drooling into the pillow.
Sukuna groaned loudly, his deep voice a low, animalistic rumble as he pistoned his hips forward, driving his thick cock deep into your tight, wet pussy. He could feel your silky walls clenching around him, gripping him like a tight glove as he fucked into you hard and fast, just the way he knew you needed it.
“F-fuck fuck fuck, baby, you feel so fucking incredible,” he grunted, his hot breath fanning over the back of your neck as he leaned down to growl filthy praise into your ear.
”So perfect, like you were made just for taking my fucking cock…”
He slid a hand up your arched back, his long fingers splaying out over the smooth skin of your shoulder blades before he pushed you down harder into the mattress. He loved seeing you like this, loved the way your ass jutted up and out, the perfect target for his hard thrusts. He could see your tits squishing against the pillow, could hear the way you whimpered and mewled with every slam of his hips against your plump ass.
“You don’t—shit… fucking need to learn a goddamn thing from porn, sweetheart,“ he panted, his voice strained with pleasure as he fucked you harder, faster, spurred on by the feeling of your slick walls squeezing him so fucking tightly. “Y-you're a fucking natural, b-baby. The way you fucking squeeze me—oh shit you’re so tight… the way you squirt all over my fucking cock... fuck, it's so fucking good, sweetheart.”
He could feel your thighs trembling beneath him, could sense that you were getting close. He knew all the signs, knew every little sound and shiver that meant you were getting closer and closer to your orgasm.
He was a good boyfriend. He always put your pleasure before his.
“That's it, baby.. f-fucking take it,” he commanded, his hips slamming against your ass with brutal force as he fucked you into the mattress. “Take my cock like the good slut you are. Fucking soak my dick with your sweet cum, baby…”
Maybe… you should’ve just stuck with the vanilla sex.
giving trueform! sukuna a footjob through his pants— 18+
"enough, you. i am trying to watch this." sukuna hisses, pushing your socked feet away from his face for the umpteenth time. you keep rubbing the fuzzy fabric against him because it makes him shudder. you never thought he, your hulking, strong, worryingly resistant-to-pain boyfriend would be all sensitive and ticklish to some fuzz, and yet here you are.
"why? it's cute, kuna. im just showing you somethin'." goadingly, you nudge the clean fabric under his chin, hoping to rile him up further, and he grabs your ankle and drags you forward, snarling at you and grabbing both of your feet, holding them in place against his lap.
oh.
oh.
he must underestimate you.
slowly, you rub the soles of your covered feet back and forth against his crotch, feeling the bulge twitch and throb at the attention inflicted on it. now, sukuna's trying to save face, staring stubbornly at the tv and pretending his dick's not overreacting to some faint touches.
you laugh. "you're so sensitive. think you can cum just from this?"
"i haven't the faintest idea what you're referring to."
you laugh and turn your feet so that your soles are placed together with his chubbed bulges in between. you rub up and down and side to side slowly, rolling his dicks and pressing them together in the thin sweatpants he's wearing tonight. hideous thing, he thinks. he only wore it because you bought it for him after he'd been wearing robes around your home.
wanting him to have more casual, comfortable clothing, you bought him a couple pieces of loungewear - mostly in gray - and gave it to him, reassuring him tht nobody's meant to see him in it but you.
and here you are, taking advantage of his love for you and willingness to wear the thin fabric that makes the print of his dick visible through it, an easy way for you to watch his cocks grow and react whenever your feet rub on them just right.
with how hard he is, there's little space in his sweats and even less in his custom-made boxers, so the friction you're giving him is just causing his cocks to press together, mixing pre-cum leakage since his tips are touching.
sukuna tips his head back. "fuck, what are you doing, human? this is obscene," he pants, unable to stifle his sounds. the remote control in one of his four hands clatters to the sofa cushion as he focuses on your feet between his strong thighs, not even interesting in playing it cool anymore.
the fabric of his sweats bunches and stretches over his thickening shafts, pressing against all the ridges and veins and heightening his sensitivity. it's different from if he were bare, or if it were your hands wrapping around his dicks. there's so much stimulation with both your feet on both his cocks through his clothes; that he just can't hold it in much longer.
the heads of his cocks keep rubbing quick circles against each other with each pump of your feet on him, having created a large wet spot on the front of his pants. you laugh softly, and he grits his teeth with embarrassment, a dark flush spreading across his cheeks. "do not- hnghh- mock me..." he tries to get out, but just manages to slur all his words together as his groans take over.
you continue moving your feet up and down in a long, rhythmic, stroking motion, the precum leaking out of him smearing along his dicks and acting as a heavy lubricant. the heat and mosture is trapped between fabric and skin.
you increase the pressure, squeezing his cocks together and curling your toes around the swollen heads, the movement a heavy, dragging sensation that makes his hips twitch upwards involuntarily. "you havin' fun, kuna?" you tease upon seeing the fucked out expression on his face, and he grits his teeth with aggravation.
"ill get you - fuck - back for this in just a moment, believe me..."
he breaks off into another heavy groan.
by now, the entire front of his sweatpants are soaked from pre seeping out of both his tips.
sukuna's close. close to cumming in his pants from some foot rubbing. so pathetic.
you pick up the pase, feet moving in frantic, inconsistent motions so that all of him is stimulated at once, effectively milking his cock through his pants. at some point, he shudders, grabbing fistfuls of his pink locks to keep himself calm. but its hard when you keep rubbing your toes on his sensitive tips, squeezing and rolling them against one another, while your sole and heel press into his shafts.
sukuna uses two of his hands to press your feet together a little harder, lifting them up and down on his dick quick and rough; making them press all up on his cock until finally, a fresh bout of wetness spreads on his pants.
he grunts your name as he cums, keeping your feet on him while he bucks up into them, his other two hands gripping the back of the sofa to keep him stable as he cums from both of his swollen tips.
convulsing, more and more cum pumps out of sukuna, your feet squeezing it straight out of him.
your feet keep grinding the hot release into the cloth of his pants, mixing it with sweat and the patch of pre from earlier, making a sticky mess all over the pants. some even seeps out and rests on the outer seam because of the thin fabric. you've made such a mess of him.
satisfied, you pick up the remote from the ground and kiss his cheek, changing the channel to your favorite one instead. now that he's spent, he can't really snatch it back from you or argue, and you get to watch your favorite without hearing any of his complaints. a huge win in your book, for sure.
Synopsis: your plan is to avoid your rival, now that you’ve both been hired as assistant librarians, to minimise the chances of getting into hours long debates and committing murder. the problem is that he's everywhere — helping you carry heavy boxes, scoffing at your choice of literature, eating you out in the back corner between the We Shouldn't Do This and the We'll Never Speak of This Again shelves. in all the bickering and orgasms, you're left with one question:
is the smell of books an aphrodisiac?
EPILOGUE - this marks the end of the librarian!nanami fic. thank you so much for keeping up and for reading. you all have the patience of saints. your love and support for this series means the world to me, and I will forever be grateful to each and every one of you for loving this version of Nanami. I love you all.
Warnings: no spoilers (contains smut, fluff, and angst) :)
Word Count: 5.3k
Canto IV - Masterlist
“Oh, Kento,” you whisper, hugging your coat tighter around yourself. “I wish you could be here.”
Leaves crunch under your boots. You bury your face a little deeper in your scarf.
Campus smells the same as you remembered it. That’s the first thing you notice. Cold air, damp bark, something faintly sweet from all the coffee shops that have popped up on and around the area.
So much is familiar, and of course it is — things don’t change that much, even if it has been years since you graduated. The same oak tree everyone used to fight over in the summer stands tall. Same hedges, same brick walls, and cobblestones. Same mascots and crests plastered on banners and plaques.
But, as you’d expected, things are different too. New faces, naturally. A wing was added to the Psychology building after the department received greater funding for their contribution to mental health research. The old noticeboards have gone digital, glowing screens cycling through events you can’t decipher. You don’t see many older professors; you wouldn’t be able to tell who’s a professor and who’s not anymore when professors and students have grown closer in age.
“Time really does fly, huh?”
In spite of any changes, however, you still feel right at home here. The steps you took from building to building are embedded in the soil. The phantom of your laughter echo in the halls, overlapping with generations before and after you. Even if you graduated a while back, you’ll always be a child of academia.
Although you’re elated to be back, you can’t help but feel melancholy.
A trip down memory lane doesn’t feel right without one of the people that took prime real estate, after all.
It just isn’t the same.
“Stop ignoring me.”
Shuddering, you sigh wistfully. “It’s like I can still hear him.”
“You can kill me in your mind all you like,” the voice begins, dryly, “it doesn’t change the fact that you know I’m right; Kindles cannot ever be superior to a good, old, physical book.”
You scowl, and turn to look back at the man trailing behind you. “They say wisdom comes with age but you’re proving them all wrong, aren’t you, babe?”
Kento’s rubbing his glasses clean from the slight fog that’s made the lenses difficult to see through. His cheeks are ever so slightly pink from the cold, and they’re the only markers that he’s bothered by the weather. Unlike you, who’s missing the warmth of Malaysia. He barely even tanned.
He reminds you, “We’re the same age, my love.”
“Yeah, well, I wear it better,” you respond haughtily.
Sliding his glasses back on, he blinks a couple times before hastening his steps to reach your side. He holds your hand in his and tucks it into his pocket, where a handwarmer lies waiting. A thumb rubs your knuckles. Kento smiles to himself. “I’m inclined to agree on that front.”
“Okay, so you can also agree with me about how Kindles are a fine alternative to physical books. I really don’t know why you look down on them so much — they’re so practical. You can have multiple books all in one place, they’re smaller and more portable than a book, they weigh much less, and you can adjust the font and page colours. They’re more accessible, Ken. You need to get with the times.”
He nods. “I see your points, and I’m not saying Kindles are to be scoffed at. I simply mean that, if given the choice and you have no accessibility needs, one ought to choose physical copies, and support the ever-dying paper industry.”
“You mean the paper industry that’s killing trees?”
Kento glances down at you. “Are you arguing that the manufacturing of Kindles has zero environmental impact?”
It’s a trap, you recognise it. He’s trying to bait you. It’s not going to work.
Squeezing his hand, you tug him to the direction you want to take him: down the scenic route as opposed to the shorter path to your destination. He doesn’t put up a fight.
Casually, you say, “No, of course not. Everything has a carbon footprint. But it’s all about minimising your impact, and decreasing the number of books, and pages, that have to be printed in favour of having them digitally available, supports that. I don’t think you can argue against the point that Kindles are more environmentally friendly than physical copies.”
“So being environmentally conscious and friendly is the goal. That’s your main point? It’s the underlying reason for any decision you make regarding what you read and in what medium you read it in?”
Without waiting for a response, Kento continues, “Would you say owning three Kindles, two more than you really need, is environmentally friendly? And if so, what would your response be to me pointing out that since you bought your first Kindle, barring the fact that you bought two more, the rate at which you purchase physical copies hasn’t decreased.”
In a flash, you yank him inside a random building. It’s in the process of renovation. The alumni newsletter said it’s going to be a ‘Wellness Centre’, whatever that means.
There’s no one here. The lights aren’t even on. Only the natural light from the gloomy sky lights the hall full of caution tapes and unemptied boxes.
You shove Kento against the wall and kiss him.
His hands fall upon your waist reflexively.
Lips move together so easily, so comfortably that you grow dizzy already. There’s nothing careful about the way he kisses you. No measured distance, no polite hesitation. Just heat, and the sharp edge of something that could be likened to deep satisfaction.
Kento exhales against you, fingers tightening at your waist to anchor himself. Your hands curl into his coat, tugging him closer and closer still, until there’s no space left between you at all.
Every breath, every shift, every small sound echoes back at you.
A thigh of his parts yours. The apex of yours meets it unhesitatingly. You’re wearing jeans, and despite the layers between you, you can feel the hardness of his muscular thigh. Your hips grind down on him with a gasp.
“Distracting me with your body?” he breathes out. “This must be an admittance of defeat.”
Your hand finds the bulge you knew would be there. When you grip him, he sucks in a sharp breath and throws his head. A light thud resounds. “You wish, Kennypie,” you whisper, rubbing his already-hard clothed cock in time with how you rub your clothed clit on his leg.
Truth is, you believe physical copies are superior to digital. Always. You were a Classical Lit student, and forever a snob, you’ll happily admit.
What you won’t ever admit is that Kento is right.
You’ll take any camp opposite his just to feel the thrill of debate.
Faster than you had snatched him to the dark, he spins the both of you around and pins you to the wall. He sucks your bottom lip, then your neck where your pulse is. Kento untangles your scarf, pulls down the zip of your coat along with his descent, and comes to kneel before you.
“No, darling,” he exhales. Your thighs squeeze together. “My wish is to taste you.”
Threading your fingers through his hair, you let him unbutton your jeans and pull them down. Goosebumps rise. He soothes warmth into your skin with his palms. With a giggle, you ask, “Again? You just ate me out this morning, Ken.”
Rare mornings where you could sleep in are usually spent with him settled between your thighs, or you between his. Why wouldn’t they be?
As he guides one foot out of the jeans, he nuzzles your thigh. The tip of his nose grazes the frilly hem of your panties. “Who said I’m limited to only once per day?”
The both of you really shouldn’t be doing this. If you get caught, you won’t be expelled; that’s not the punishment non-students face. It’s jail time. But there’s no one here, and there are no cameras. The campus is near empty because of the gloomy weather, and the way he’s started mouthing at your pussy through your panties feels too good to stop.
“Fine, but be quick, okay?” you tell him. “Our friends’ll be waiting, and after we scolded Sho for being late at the last dinner party, it’ll be a bad look if we’re late now.”
Kento hooks his finger on the gusset and pulls it aside. He makes a dreamy sigh at the sight of your puffy lips, glistening with your juices. A thumb of his parts the lips so he can see your clit and press a kiss to it.
You jolt.
“I’ll be quick,” he mutters, sounding wholly unconvincing. “She’ll get over it if we’re late just this once.”
Then, he’s licking a stripe up your slit, collecting your wetness on his tongue. “So sweet,” he says. “Always so sweet for me, for Kento, aren’t you, sweetheart?”He’s burying his face deeper between your thighs, desperate to get as close to you as possible.
You squirm against the wall, panting. “We’re not going to be late,” you insist.
The end of your scarf tickles his forehead. You move it away, wanting to have an unobstructed view of his face as his tongue flicks the sensitive bundle of nerves over and over again.
Nodding absentmindedly, he agrees, “No, we won’t be late…but it won’t be so bad if we are.”
Groaning, both in frustration and in pleasure, you repeat, “We’re not going to be late, Kento. I swear to God, you better not mess around.”
Two fingers worm their way inside your entrance, stretching the tight ring of muscle out. You feel the long digits reaching deep. They force your gummy walls to expand around them. You’re flushed, pulse racing. If anyone were to catch you now, there’d be no explaining your way out of this.
His glasses have fogged up again. It irritates him. He takes the thing off with a hasty hand and pockets it. You like him with his glasses, but you like him with his eyes drinking you up more.
Kento curls his fingers over that spot he knows well. You moan, hips stuttering onto his face. His words come out muffled when he says, “That’s up to you, sweetheart. Admit I’m right, and you’ll get your orgasm and your high horse.”
Tempting, you think.
He knows you so well.
But not well enough.
Throwing your leg over his shoulder, you fully commit to getting your orgasm one way or the other. “I would rather be late to every event we have for the rest of our lives than admit you’re right in any capacity, Kento,” you announce resolutely.
He chuckles. “Of course you would. My stubborn, stubborn girl.”
That’s the last you hear from him before he’s wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard. The pressure inside builds and builds. You can’t deny his skilled tongue and years of knowing your body in and out, perhaps even better than he knows his own.
You cum with a slap of your palm over your mouth, stifling the scream. “Fuck, Ken,” you groan.
Through it, he keeps sucking and curling his fingers. He’s elongating your pleasure, making sure you can ride your high, and his tongue, to your heart’s desire.
And just when it starts to get too much, you shove him away from your pussy. He doesn’t let you create too much distance — greedy hands grip your hips. He presses himself close, covering your body with his body heat.
Movement heavy with the remnants of your orgasm, you fight to release his cock from the tight confines of his tailored pants. It lands heavy in your palm, tip flushed and leaking. You feel the rush of his blood, the way it makes the length pulse and his veins prominent. You stroke him a couple times just to hear him murmur your name in that slutty voice of his.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he rasps. His hips are rutting into your hold.
“Are you gonna fuck me, Ken?” you purr. “Are you going to christen this building before it’s even been built?”
Kento nods. He kisses you, as though unable to bear being apart from you for too long. The taste of you lingers on his tongue, and you don’t mind it. He pulls away enough to reply, “Yes, darling. I want to feel you, want to make you feel good.”
You kiss him again, smiling. “You always do, Kento. Go on, I permit you to put it inside.”
He lets out a low laugh. “How kind.”
Kento hikes your leg up on his hip, allowing his cock glide through your swollen, slick lips first. He coats the length with your juices. Lewd noises squelch, and upon the initial contact, you both gasp into each other’s mouths.
Soon, he can’t wait any longer, and the fat cockhead is prodding your pussy as though knocking politely. It enters you slowly. Inch by inch. Being careful of the fact that he hasn’t been able to give you as much foreplay as he would have wanted.
The stretch is so familiar, so good that your back arches off the wall. “Oh, fuck, Ken.”
“I know, my love,” he murmurs. “Me too.”
Under the layers, you sweat. You’re aware of the fibres of his sweater you borrowed brushing your skin, of the hairs sticking to the back of your neck, of how his clothes and yours makes the closeness feel dull. It’s not like being in the comforts of your own home, of being naked and in bed, and feeling skin on skin.
Restless, you whine, “Ken, put it all in.”
A kiss to your forehead and he’s doing as you asked.
The two of you moan when his pelvis meets yours. You’re flushed together, and it’s glorious. There’s a slight sting but nothing that doesn’t make your eyes roll back.
Kento croaks, “You feel so warm, so tight, so -hngh- soft. God, sweetheart, you’re perfect. So, so perfect.”
Your hips rock together. It’s not like the purposeful, drawn out lovemaking you do at home. You’re not teasing, playing games, or rutting against each other knowing there’ll be more rounds after this.
This is quick. It’s fast, it’s uninhibited, it’s animalistic. You’re merely racing towards your peaks, humping each other like dogs, and grunting and moaning like so. There’s nothing sophisticated or elegant about the slapping of skin, about the clash of lips with teeth, or of the way your fingers dig in whatever body parts you can latch onto.
“Is it nice to be back, Ken?”
Panting, he flexes his jaw as he tries to ground himself enough to think. “Y-yes, darling. It’s nice to see what’s changed and what hasn't.”
In between kisses, you respond, “Right? I mean, things have changed, but being here makes me feel like I’m a student running late for class. It’s lovely.”
He grinds his pelvis into yours, rubbing your clit till you’re almost drooling. “Yes. It is. It reminds me of the old times with you, and our -ah fuck- friends. It gets h-harder and harder to see them every year.”
“I know,” you say, hips working down on his cock. “Thank you for arranging this reunion, Ken. It’s so desperately needed after all the travelling.”
Kento cups a tit through your clothes. He kneads the fat and you jut your chest out for him. “They’d all been wanting to see you after all your success, sweetheart. It was pretty easy to organise when they want to see the award winning star in our circle.”
You grin and clench down on him. He hisses. “Oh, stop you. It’s not like you’re hiding in my shadows.”
“Someone h-has to keep these big-ego writers in place,” he responds playfully.
“My place is sitting on your face or riding your -ngh! keep going- c-cock, right, Ken?” you ask, batting your lashes up at him.
He kisses your forehead. “Whatever you say, my love.”
Something about the fact that he’s more dressed than you are has your eyes rolling to the back of your head. It’s the way he looks composed, but you know better: his cock pulses every time your walls clench down on him, and he throws his head back, Adam’s apple bobbing. It’s how you lick up the sweat beading on his neck when he does, and he grips you harder.
The rate at which he’s fucking inside you is increasing. You’re being jostled against the wall, feeling every bump and grind as if your senses are heightened. You no longer feel cold or conscious of being caught. All you can think and feel and taste and hear and see is him.
“I’m close,” you grit out. “I’m so close, Ken!”
“I’ve got you, my love,” he promises. He grabs the back of your other thigh. You’re held up in the air by his hands, boots dangling and jeans dragging on the floor. Like this, he reaches even deeper.
Your tits bounce with every rutting, and you wish he could be sucking on one. You wish you could rub yourself all over him. You wish there weren’t layers keeping you from him. That you could be as loud and wild as you want.
Combing your fingers through his hair, you yank his head back and command, “Yield, Kento. Submit to the -hah- love of your life and tell her she wins.”
His eyes narrow. “Or what?”
You grin. “Or I won’t cum.”
And he knows you mean it — you’re far too stubborn to succumb to pleasure, especially when there’s victory on the line. So he shakes out of your grip and rushes to dive his face forward. “You’re right,” he whispers to your ear, breathing warmth to the heated skin. “You’re always right. Kento’s wrong, about whatever we were arguing about this time, about everything.”
A breathless laugh carries into the humid air. “Damn right.”
One particularly perfect thrust against your g-spot has your vision spotting, your legs shaking, and toes curling. You cum with a silent moan. Kento groans into your neck, grip bruising as your clenching milks him to his own orgasm.
This will be somewhere between your sixth and eight orgasm of the day and it’s just as strong as the first.
Sex with Kento — wherever, however, whenever — is always mindblowing and mindmelting, a fact you rejoice in after concerns of age getting in the way. Of course neither of you are objectively old; your backs and joints are just fine. But you’ve been together for years now, and people often talk about how the chemistry fizzles.
Thankfully that has yet to happen.
“Oh, s-sweetheart,” he murmurs.
“Mm, Ken,” you say when the pleasure begins to subside. “We didn’t wear a condom again. Now your cum’s gonna be dripping out of me and onto my panties.”
He throbs. You laugh again.
“I’ll clean you up, darling,” he replies.
Kento presses a kiss to your cheek and pulls out. The shift is abrupt enough that you both suck in a breath, the cold air rushing back in where there had only been heat a second ago. An emptiness fills you. Your cunt clenches around nothing.
You land a little unsteadily when he sets you back on your feet.
He’s about to get onto his knees. You stop him. “No, Ken, we’re going to be late.”
He looks conflicted for a second before he checks his wristwatch and reluctantly nods. “Yes, you’re right. Again.”
“Naturally.”
Like trained criminals, you quickly fix your clothes back up and get rid of any evidence. He tugs your jeans back up, giving you some time to replace your panties with a wince at the coldness. His hands zip your coat back up, then tucks your scarf inside. He fixes your hair, and you his. Kento slides his glasses back onto his nosebridge and blinks furiously to adjust his sight.
With last checks, you two give the other satisfied nods and head on out, though not without him sneaking a kiss and you smacking his ass.
“I can’t believe we’ve been on campus not even half an hour and we’ve already desecrated a building. We haven’t matured at all,” Kento mutters under his breath when you get back on the right path and near your destination.
Looping an arm through his, you reply, “I know. Isn’t it great?”
Amused, he glances down at you and holds your hand. He brings it up to his lips and presses a kiss on your knuckles. “The greatest.”
You laugh.
Then stop.
Up ahead stands a woman you could never forget. And when Kento stills too, you know he’s thinking the same thing.
Mrs. Collins doesn’t look like she’s aged a day — there’s sprinklings of colour in a head of greys, in spite of the wrinkles she bears her skin is still tight, and there’s a sharpness in her eyes that hasn’t faded away.
She’s wrapping her scarf around herself. Without needing to ask, you know where she just came from. It oddly brings you some peace to know she hasn’t left.
You don’t know if she remembers; it’s been some years and you only worked for her for a couple months. Or if she does remember, would she say anything? Would she pretend she doesn’t know you, never did anything, and you’re just another passing figure?
“Well, hello, my dears.”
So she does.
It’s impossible to tell if that brings you comfort or not.
“Hi, Mrs. Collins,” you say. Nanami cuts you a look but you give him a reassuring squeeze. “It’s been a while.”
“Has it?” she asks, not sarcastically, but rather genuinely, as though she finds it hard to keep time and it was just this morning that she stepped inside the library with the intent of setting you up, and she’d now stepped outside.
A part of you is surprised she’s talking to you, that she’s entertaining this conversation, when she could walk away and go about her day. There’s no obligation to talk to you at all. You’re no longer students, no longer employed by her, no longer young and naive.
Her eyes slide over to Kento. “Mr. Nanami, are you not going to greet me?”
You’ve never spoken to him about her since before you graduated; neither of you bring it up. And you never found that fact odd — there were almost much more interesting and pressing things to talk about.
“Good afternoon. We don’t wish to keep you. Please don’t mind us,” he replies, coldly. Well, it would seem warm enough to anyone who didn’t know him well. To you, however, you might as well be standing next to a glacier.
She hums. “Still haven’t forgiven me, I take it.”
No, Kento doesn’t seem to have; he’s as rigid as can be, as distant as possible, and paler than ever. You squeeze his hand. He doesn’t squeeze back.
It must haunt him more than it haunts you.
You don’t think about her and what happened very much, to be frank. You’re too busy to do so. It would be a lie, though, to say you don’t sporadically recall how you were used. Sometimes when you’re staring out the window and drinking coffee. Sometimes when you’re getting in a car. You’ve thought about what you would do and say if you saw her again, if she would ask for an apology, if you would cuss her out, blackmail her.
Right now, when the opportunity has risen and there’s no better time, you can’t seem to do any of that.
Because the person you see in front of you isn’t this cruel, callous monster of cosmic proportions who deserves to be dragged by the hair. She isn’t going to turn you to stone or tip your boat over. She’s not the devil, the mother of all demons, the shadow under your bed.
She’s just a woman who loves books.
And you’d do anything for the things and people you love too.
“I forgive you,” you tell her suddenly. The words leave your lips without you realising it.
Mrs. Collins purses her lips. If she’s surprised by your words, she doesn’t show it. “I never asked for forgiveness for what I did.”
“I know,” you say. “I know, and I forgive you. What you did, what happened, didn’t stunt my growth, didn’t stop me from graduating, from entering the real world with pride and confidence, and didn’t stop me and Kento from being together. What you did made me stronger. I forgive you.”
Maybe you were never even really mad at her. Maybe you’d forgiven her a long time ago, around the same time that Kento asked you to be his girlfriend and you never looked back.
The older lady processes your words for a second or two. She even looks you up and down. Then she looks at Kento, and asks, “And you?”
“I can’t.”
Does disappointment flicker in her eyes or mere acknowledgement? Does either in yours?
Whatever the case may be, that’s all there is left to be said here. At least that’s what you think until she opens her mouth again as though the act is an afterthought.
“I read your book, dear. It’s a rather popular stock in the library.”
“Thank you,” you say automatically, a reflex you’d picked up on the book tour.
“It’s not a compliment,” she replies. “It’s just a fact.”
It lands like a compliment, and you take it as such.
“I’ll be looking forward to the sequel,” she says. With a final, acknowledging nod, she turns. Mrs. Collins doesn’t strut off immediately though; she pauses and adds casually, “Best of luck, Mr. Nanami.” Then she goes and disappears around the corner, leaving behind a mist of warm air.
For a moment, the two of you just stand there under the dark clouds. As far as interactions with someone you once knew and who fucked you over goes, that wasn’t so bad, right?
You rub Kento’s arm and lean your head on his shoulder. “Are you okay, Ken?”
“I’m sorry.” You look up at him. His shoulders are still tense. His gaze fixed ahead. “I know it’s unfair to resent her, especially when you’ve graciously forgiven her and I have no right to hold any moral high ground, but I just can’t. I’m sorry.”
You figured as much — he can’t forgive himself, and so he can’t forgive her, because forgiving her means forgiving himself. It’s too soon and he’s as stubborn as you so your reassurances will only go in one ear and out the other.
“No, Ken. It’s okay. Really. Process things however you need to.”
Kento replies with some heaviness, “I’ll forever be grateful you forgave me, when you shouldn’t have.”
Sighing, you grab his face and force him to meet your eyes. “Kento, it was so long ago. You’ve apologised a millions times back then, and couldn’t even get it up for the first month or so when we started dating out of guilt, remember? I know you’re sorry, hon, and I know you’d never do anything like that again. We’re not going to spiral over something that happened eons ago.”
He leans into your touch and sighs too. “You’re right, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bring down the mood.”
“Better now than later, at lunch,” you say, shrugging. “Remember not to let Shoko’s teasing yet the best of you, ‘kay, Kenny Benny Bear.”
At the old nickname, he grimaces but otherwise says nothing.
Looping your arm back through his and marching on, you add, “Plus, I can’t say I didn’t deserve it even just a little bit. Remember when I swapped your copy of The Iliad before the exam and your average went down by a couple points?”
Kento smiles at the memory. “You only did that because I changed the time zone on your laptop in the study room when you weren’t looking and made you late for the guest lecture with Phicshonal Lehjendaree Dyrektore.”
You throw your head back and chortle. “Oh my god, yeah! I was so mad. I’d been looking forward to that for weeks.”
“It was a good lecture too,” he notes fondly. “You really missed out.”
A smack on his chest does nothing but make him smile harder.
“Ugh, whatever, asshole,” you say though you’re smiling too. “We were both stupidly childish, weren’t we?”
“Very,” he agrees.
The two of you cuddle close together, one could say for warmth or for comfort. In spite of the weather, of the dip in the mood, you walk on feeling light. Campus is really quite beautiful in Autumn, with the vibrant reds and oranges and browns of the leaves, and the emptiness of the streets between buildings.
It’s a good day to be with friends, you think.
Soon, the library comes into view.
Whereas many buildings have had some tweaks done to them, the library remains just as you remember it. Marble pillars, tall doors, golden lettering, stone stairs, and a welcoming glow to it that you’re sure only you and other nerds can see.
You were a little surprised that the meet up point would be here, especially when Kento was in charge of making the plans, but now that you’re at the foot of the stairs, you’re glad it’s here. Now it really feels like coming home.
A ping alerts you both. Kento checks his phone, and clears his throat. He stiffens again. “We’re going to be late. Let’s head inside.”
You nod and follow him up. He grips your hand tight to make sure you don’t slip on the stairs.
The doors open with a soft push.
For a second, you don’t understand what you’re looking at.
Then— faces.
Familiar ones.
Needa and Frend, grinning too wide. Shoko beside them wriggling her brows at you as Haibara jumps excitedly behind her. Your parents, his, family and friends scattered in little clusters, all turned toward you with that same unmistakable look. Expectant. Bright. Soft in a way that makes your chest tighten before your mind can catch up.
You blink.
The library — the same one you spent years in, arguing and studying and fighting — has been transformed. The harsh overhead lights are gone, replaced by a gentler glow. Lamps lit up. The dreary, old curtains have been swapped for lush velvet. There are no students. No quiet shuffling, no turning pages, no whispered conversations.
Just melodic music.
A string quartet is tucked near the far end where the reading tables used to be. Bows glide over strings, slow and aching and beautiful threading through the air and tickling your skin, which is growing warmer from both the attention, the shock, and the protective temperature of the indoors.
There’s bouquets of flowers on mahogany tables. Petals littering the floor, thickest where you come to stand in the centre of the huddle under a chandelier of twinkling lights. Soft whites, pale pinks, a few deeper hues woven in. They curl around the ends of shelves, rest along tables, and climb just slightly where they shouldn’t.
Your heart starts to pound, hard enough that it drowns out everything for a moment.
Slowly, you turn.
Kento is there.
On one knee.
The music, the light, the people — everything fades at the edges until it’s just him, steady and sure despite the way his hands shake just slightly around the small box.
The ring catches the light.
Your breath leaves you in a quiet, startled exhale.
“I’d ask if you would do me the honour of making me the happiest man in the world,” he starts, staring only at you, “but you already have, so I suppose the better question is…”
Tears well up in your eyes and you already have the answer at the tip of your tongue pleading to be screamed.
Synopsis: your plan is to avoid your rival, now that you’ve both been hired as assistant librarians, to minimise the chances of getting into hours long debates and committing murder. the problem is that he's everywhere — helping you carry heavy boxes, scoffing at your choice of literature, eating you out in the back corner between the We Shouldn't Do This and the We'll Never Speak of This Again shelves. in all the bickering and orgasms, you're left with one question:
is the smell of books an aphrodisiac?
Canto III - The Dark Descent
℘ stakes have been added to the pot. you should stop letting him part your legs, should stop allowing him to light your fire, but no harm no foul if you guys just continue as you have been, no?
Warnings: smut, cunnilingus, public sexual activities/trying not to get caught, fucking in front of a mirror, inappropriate use of a cart/book/stamp, body marking, outercourse, cúm eating, kicking someone in the balls, rivals to lovers, not very slowburn at all, some dark humour, Nanami and reader being mean to each other, both are Classical Literature students, some sexual jokes, not proofread — actually not. this went through so many revisions I doubt it's even coherent (do let me know if you spot typos and inconsistencies, that would be very helpful!)
Word Count: 15.1k
Canto II - Masterlist - Canto IV
Low grunts fill the bathroom stall.
Your mouth is full with his cock, which he’s desperately thrusting inside you.
“God, look at you,” he rasps, a hand guiding your head back and forth on his impressive length. “So sweet and agreeable when you -hah fuck- have something to occupy that dirty mouth of yours, aren’t you?”
Soon as he clocked in this morning, he’d claimed victory over the fact that he was first to arrive. It was a flimsy excuse for a competition, but you let it slide. Nanami took you to the women’s bathroom — well, he initially tried to lure you to the men’s, and that just wasn’t going to happen so you dug your heels in — and was initially going to eat you out whilst you were sitting on the toilet lid but you insisted.
You roll your eyes. You’re always sweet and agreeable, just with people who aren’t bitter and hard to agree with because they’re wrong. Aggrieved, you grip his balls too fast and too hard all so you’d hear his sharp intake of air and feel his cockhead bump the back of your throat.
“Mm, fuck, I’m gonna cum.”
Tossing his head back, he explodes in your mouth with no other warning except for the final throbbing of his cock.
You swallow it all. Whilst you get to your feet, you think about how much easier it’s becoming for you to take him down your throat, for you to swallow his cum, and generally tolerate his entire being.
“Thank you,” he mutters.
“Don’t mention it,” you reply, wiping your lips.
He’s still panting by the time both of your phones ping.
“It’s Mrs. Collins,” you announce, frowning.
Nanami tucks himself back inside his slacks. “I wonder what she wants.”
The two of you exit, taking advantage of the fact that the library has yet to open to the general campus. You both wash your hands in relative silence as though he hadn’t been bruising your throat and smacking your chin with his swinging balls for the last ten minutes.
Outside is clear too.
You walk to her office, down from the second floor.
A little worried, you ask in a hushed voice, “You don’t think she knows what we’ve been doing, do you?”
He takes a second or two to think about it. Then, certain, or at least wanting to convince himself he’s certain, he answers, “No. We’ve been careful.”
Though as he says those words, you know that, with the awkward air hanging over you, neither of you really believe those words. The absolute truth is, you haven’t been very careful at all. In fact, it wouldn’t be a stretch to say you’ve been indulging in being careless too much; it turned you both on to know you could be caught by anyone at any second.
Eventually, you both reach her door. You knock.
“Good morning, Mrs. Collins,” you say in unison.
She’s sitting behind her desk, rubbing at her temple with one hand and holding her reading glasses with the other. A beckon with her hand has you sliding in a seat across from her desk, Nanami in the other.
Despite yourselves, you share a glance — this looks serious.
Mrs. Collins exhales slowly, setting her glasses down on the desk with a soft clink.
“Yes, good morning,” she replies, though there’s a weariness in her voice that immediately puts you on edge. Her fingers press briefly to her temple again before she straightens, folding her hands together in a way that feels…rehearsed almost.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” she says. “No point in beating around the bus with you two.”
Your spine stiffens.
Beside you, Nanami goes still.
Is this it? Is she going to out you two for indecent behaviour? Is she going to reveal CCTV footage of your pussy being munched right by the feminist literature section and lecture you on the irony of it all? Did you leave behind evidence? A panty, drops of cum she got forensics to do DNA tests on, or witnesses?
Are you going to be fired?
Expelled?
Sent to jail?
Drawn and quartered?
“There have been some…adjustments made to the department budget.” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “Unfortunately, the library has not been spared.”
A beat.
You feel your stomach drop — for a different reason than you’d been anticipating. Relief doesn’t settle inside. How could it when a different bomb’s been dropped on you?
“We’ve had our funding cut,” she continues, more firmly now. “Quite significantly.”
Silence settles over the room. You glance at Nanami, and he’s already looking at you — sharp, assessing, like he’s trying to piece together the implications before they’re fully spoken.
Mrs. Collins doesn’t leave you waiting long. “As a result,” she says, “I can only retain one of you through to the end of the academic year.”
The words land heavily. For a moment, neither of you reacts.
“What?” you blurt, sitting forward before you can stop yourself. “You can’t be serious.”
Nanami’s jaw tightens, though his tone stays controlled. “On what basis is that decision being made?”
Mrs. Collins sighs, as though she’s already had this conversation a dozen times in her head. “That,” she says, “is precisely the difficulty.”
You swallow, exchanging another quick glance with Nanami. You can see it in his expression too: the rug’s been pulled from under him. This wasn’t what he was expecting. Too much uncertainty rides along in her words.
Mrs. Collins continues, oblivious. “You’re both excellent in your own ways. Truly outstanding,” she says. “But I don’t have the resources to justify keeping you both on. So…” She leans back slightly, eyes moving between the two of you. “I’m giving you a choice.”
That growing knot in your stomach twists again.
“You may decide between yourselves,” she says plainly. “Or, I will observe your work over the course of the next three weeks and make the decision myself.” The room feels smaller suddenly. “By the end of the month,” she finishes, not sounding the least bit pleased about any of this, “I will inform one of you that your contract will not be extended. Whoever gets to stay will have the opportunity to work for the last month or so of the academic year, and as long through summer as they please.”
You let out a quiet, incredulous breath. “You’re asking us to…what? Compete for a role we already competed for?”
That truly shouldn’t be such a disgusting word to utter; you’ve been competing for years. Now, however, when it’s being enforced by a third party, it feels cheap, ridiculous, completely and utterly absurd.
“I’m asking you to be practical,” Mrs. Collins replies, not unkindly. She is not happy with the turn of events herself. “This is an unfortunate situation, but it is the reality. You needn’t do anything but be yourself. I’ll take on the burden.”
Another pause. The ticking of a clock somewhere in the office suddenly feels deafening. You glance at Nanami again, but this time it’s different. Not shared amusement nor quiet complicity. Something tighter. More uncertain. Because for the first time since this whole…thing between you began, the two of you are being placed on opposite sides of something real.
Mrs. Collins folds her hands again. “I’ll give you some time,” she says. “But not too much. I expect an answer soon.” Her gaze lingers, measured, final.
“You may go.”
Neither of you moves immediately.
And when you do stand, it’s slower than before, like an invisible thing has shifted between you on the way in, and neither of you quite knows how to step around it on the way out.
Nanami’s the first to speak ten minutes later as you’re both opening the heavy doors and letting the early birds reserve their seats. He says, “There’s no conceivable way we’ll agree on who should stay and who should leave, so I suggest we leave it up to her. It’s the fairest option.”
Already walking away to push a heavy cart down the shelves, you follow him. “You’re not actually considering competing for this role, are you?”
“What’s so wrong about that?”
That familiar wrinkle between his brows has appeared as he frowns down at you. He begins shelving the books away cool, calm and collected, like he always is, and it’s irritating you more than usual.
“Um, maybe the fact that we’d already competed to have this job in the first place? And now she’s just taking it from us? After all the interviews, the bullshit application forms and the ‘tell us something no one knows about you’ farce?”
Sighing, he leans against a shelf, arms crossed. “We have no choice — the decision was clearly made above her head.”
“So that’s it?” you ask him. “You’re fine with us having to fight each other for a job?”
Nanami looks at you over the rim of his glasses. There’s a certain weight to his question when he counters, “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing this entire time? What’s the difference now? Apart from the tangible consequences looming beyond our…”
You don’t need him to finish his sentence; you got it.
Technically, he wasn’t wrong — a thought you keep to yourself. Competing is something you’re familiar with. Even once you both secured the jobs over many other applicants, you were aware that the competition hadn’t ended. You were always going to have to be on your A-game to show him up, for your pride and satisfaction.
However, you can’t seem to shake off the feeling that something’s different this time, something irreversible, a loss that the loser will suffer that neither of you are ready for.
“You’re aware then that we’ll have to really give this our all, right?” you say, finally coming to a conclusion he already reached. “We can’t keep sneaking around, blurring lines, getting involved with each other. If we’re rivals, we’re rivals.”
He swallows hard and adjusts his glasses. Nanami extends a hand out.
“May the best man, or woman, win.”
You don’t shake it. You walk away from him and from the conversation with pursed lips. Under your breath, you mutter, “Oh, she will.”
The rest of the morning is spent not in each other’s pants but rather in a blur of menial and meticulous tasks that leave barely a moment to breathe or fucking think — collecting returned books, helping people find what they’re looking for, checking books out, giving recommendations, cataloging a fresh shipment of books that seems to have doubled overnight, your fingers sticky with dust jackets and your eyes straining to read tiny print on the spine labels, and blah blah blah.
Nanami is elsewhere, reshelving rare texts, stamping due dates, checking inventory lists, or killing babies, you don’t know.
Once, you caught sight of him and a girl. She gave him a shy smile, and he returned a warm one back. You didn’t hear their conversation, you don’t know what she wanted, and what he replied, and you realised it’s probably best — if she can successfully distract him, that would be wonderful.
Generally, though, you try not to think too much about him; getting caught up in what your competition is doing, after all, is a sure-fire way to lose your footing.
But perhaps tension in your shoulders did release when you notice she’s nowhere to be seen after and he’s still here, as serious as he always looks when he’s focused.
The library is large, but the quiet makes every movement sound like an announcement, and you’re acutely aware of the other’s presence without needing to see him.
When your paths cross, it’s brief, perfunctory. You’ll reach for the same cart, hesitating a heartbeat too long before sliding past each other, shoulders brushing lightly, eyes flicking up and meeting, just for an instant. Each glance is careful, loaded with silent calculation.
Neither of you smiles, neither speaks, but it’s a conversation all the same.
A warning, a challenge, a question: who will falter first?
It’s nearing lunch break — when you can clock off, grab some food with your friends, and then head off to your afternoon classes.
You’re behind the desk, taking over for Loretta, one of the older ladies. Stamping due dates, a voice makes you look up.
“Hey,” he says, leaning casually against the counter. Tall, well-dressed, a little sun-kissed from the outdoors, with a smile that’s perfectly practiced. “You’ve been avoiding me, huh?”
You frown. “Excuse me?”
He grins, tilting his head as if that should explain everything. “I gave you my number weeks ago. Why haven’t you messaged me?”
Your eyebrows knit together in confusion. “I…what?”
Is he drunk? Do you need to call campus security? Maybe he’s a crackhead; the well dressed, rich-looking kids were always on coke, you’ve noticed.
The guy laughs, a little embarrassed, but persistent. “Yeah. Remember? I gave it to—” he glances to the side of the desk where Nanami had been helping with the returns earlier— “your coworker here. Asked him to hook me up.”
Something clicks in your brain. You pause mid-stamp, eyes widening. “Wait…you’re telling me you’ve been trying to reach me…through him?”
“Uh… yeah?” he says, shrugging, still smiling like it’s not a big deal. “He said he’d get me your attention, but—” he gestures vaguely—“guess that didn’t exactly happen.”
There’s nothing you can do but blink. The whole conversation’s confusing you so badly. What on Earth is happening?
When he doesn’t see you fawning, he sighs and mutters to himself, “Shoulda listened to the others. That guy’s really not helpful at all.”
Others?
Over the past month, several guys in the library had given you looks, had lingered a little too long at the front desk, and nothing ever happened. Sure, they’d come up to you and directly ask, but you’d turn them away because you’re too busy trying to put away the most books. You didn’t think much about any of it.
Things are starting to make sense and simultaneously only leave you more confused the more you try to think about it now.
You look toward the stacks, half-expecting to see him watching.
And there he is, precise as always, shelving a row of books, perfectly still, expression neutral but eyes flicking toward you ever so slightly. Nanami can’t do subtle even if it kills him.
Gazes clash.
Something thrums beneath the surface. You swallow.
The guy at the desk, oblivious to the internal storm, smiles again. “So…lunch? Or are you gonna make me beg?”
You stare at him, then at the silent figure of Nanami across the room, and finally mutter, half amused, half exasperated, “I think you’re going to have to wait your turn.”
And just like that, you’ve made up your mind.
He’s in the cloak room of the conference hall when you seek him out right before lunch break, after you’ve completed the imminent task at hand. It’s a tight space but that doesn’t stop you from bulldozing your way in and taking him by surprise with a slap on the back.
“What— What are you doing here?” he asks, twisting his neck to look back at you.
“Punishing you,” you say, casually. You wind your arms around his hips. You find his soft dick with ease.
Nanami grunts.
In the narrow confines, he puts up a fight at first, something about right and wrong you’re sure, and the competition for the one assistant librarian role, but he quickly loosens up with a long sigh. “What have I done now?” he wonders, resigned.
With expert skill, you take his cock out. It’s already so heavy even though it’s only now starting to chub up. Lightly, you pet it, bringing it to full mast.
Meanwhile, your head is buried between his shoulder blades. You tease, “A little birdy let me in on your shenanigans.”
One of his hands envelops yours. It drags your palm up and down the length at the pace he likes. Nanami groans. “Get to the point. You’re frightening me.”
“Always so on guard with me, aren’t you?” you say, smiling. “I’m talking about how you’ve been hoarding all the numbers guys have been trying to give me.”
Nanami stiffens.
Slowly, like he’s being careful not to set you off, aware you’ve got him by his literal dick and balls, he says, “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” you sing.
He runs a hand through his hair. “Fine, yes, I have been withholding the many numbers and messages men want me to pass along. But it is only because I believe it is unprofessional, and certainly not because of whatever you’re accusing me of.”
Thumb guided by his, you collect the bead of pre that’s escaping his flushed tip. You smear it on his pretty, pink cockhead. He’s fully hard now, and the familiar heat, weight, and length has your mouth salivating.
“Oh, so you didn’t purposefully and proactively stifle a possible competition for who could be asked out more while on the job? God, you’re such a baby. You knew I’d win by a longshot because not many people want to date your grumpy ass, so you didn’t even let me know I was being asked out at all. Wow. Really. Wow.”
Nanami exhales. “Yes. That’s exactly it. You got me.”
“Yeah, I got you by the dick. Now that I’ve found you out, you have to accept my punishment. Them’s the rules.”
You round his body. The warm light from the flickering bulb doesn’t do much to illuminate the small space. With coats sandwiching you in and hangers rattling, you peer up at him.
There’s a vanity behind you.
Leading him by his dick, you get yourself up on it and slot him in between your legs. Nanami casts a shadow over you as he eyes you suspiciously. You don’t blame him — just hours before, you two had decided to go back to your old ways and compete as fiercely and as normally as you always have.
Now, you’re stroking his cock and spreading your legs so he can see the wet spot that’s grown on your panties.
He releases a shaky breath.
“I don’t understand,” he mutters, deeply troubled if the furrowing of his brows and the tentative placement of his hands on your bare thighs are anything to go by. “Why are we playing games at all? I thought we’d made an agreement to take the competition for the permanent role seriously. I thought…I thought you’d never talk to me again, much less touch me.”
You watch him seek out your sopping pussy, thumbing the clit and prodding the wet spot. With little patience, Nanami pulls your panties to the side and feels you skin to skin. You moan.
“I thought that too,” you tell him, lifting your shirt to reveal your bare breasts to his eyes. His mouth parts. A finger of his slips inside your pussy with ease. “But I realised something — our games didn’t just start when we got the job. We’ve been playing games since we met: who can correct our professors more, who can find a way to insert ourselves into discussions more, who can get better marks, who can get the best compliments, who frequents the Dean’s List more often.”
Nanami bends down. His lips grazes your chest, skimming and basking in the softness of your skin. He travels down the valley between your breasts before pressing a kiss to the curve of one. All while he’s worming a second finger inside your drenched pussy, wringing out slippery squelches muffled by the coats around you.
“Don’t you -hah- get it, Nanami?” you ask him, back arching. “Everything is a game between us. So why don’t we just commit to it? Just stop pretending? We can keep playing our games whilst we let Mrs. Collins decide which of us she wants to keep. I don’t know about you, but I need the orgasms.”
He finally takes a nipple in his mouth, sucking it into a hard bud. His thumb rubs your pussy’s bud too. “Kento,” he says.
“Huh?”
His tongue flicks your nipple at the same time he curves his long, slender fingers against your g-spot. You gasp.
“If we’re committing to our ridiculous games, then you should commit to calling me Kento when I’m knuckles deep inside your pretty pussy, don’t you think?
You laugh. “You’re such a narcissist you’ve got a fetish for your name, don’t you?”
“I plead the fifth,” he says, squeezing your tit as he makes his way down your stomach.
Nanami’s about to kneel and have a go at your cunt when the doorknob rattles.
The two of you freeze.
You only have a second to process what the hell’s about to happen before he carries you in his arms and tucks you both at the back, behind some thick, furry coats.
Someone’s in here. You don’t turn to look to see who, lest you make a noise. Instead, you clutch him tightly, face buried in the crook of his neck as he grips you up by your ass. Nanami breathes low and even despite the redness of his face.
It’s dark and crowded enough in here to blend in if whoever the person is doesn’t go looking through the coats. And it’d honestly be fine if his cockhead wasn’t prodding your clit.
His cock has slipped through your pussy lips. You’re pressed up against it. Every slight shuffle, every inhale, every minor adjustment has him rubbing your pussy.
He whispers right into your ear, bare audible even to you, “Stop. Moving.”
“You stop moving,” you fire right back.
When his grip slackens a little, it leaves you sliding down his length. Nanami reflexively hikes you up higher the very moment it happened. Which is a mistake. Because he had just effectively rubbed you up and down his cock.
You whine, fingers threading through his hair and pulling for a tether. He hisses.
A shit show is what this is — each reaction has an equal and opposite reaction and each of those has you oozing more juices on his cock, making the slip and slide easier, and all the more pleasurable.
The person’s still here; they’re humming as they use the very same vanity you were sitting on.
They left the door open, and the light thrumming of life beyond covers a little of the noises you two are making. You hope, at least.
“Kento,” you whine, hips moving on your own now.
He shushes you. “I know, I know. Me too. Just bear with me, alright?”
You’re grinding on him now, using the length of his cock and the prominent veins there to stimulate your poor clit, and he can’t do a thing about it. Nanami throbs here and there when your clit nudges his frenulum or the slit of his tip.
Whoever the newcomer is, they’re taking their stupid fucking time. You want to strangle them. Especially when they trip over something and send a bunch of things clattering. “Ah, fuck,” they groan.
The act itself is harmless. Accidental. A mercy because it means they’re distracted with re-righting whatever mess they’ve made.
But you can’t find it in yourself to be grateful because it had startled you and Nanami. Your bodies jolted, sending you higher up his hold and falling down right onto his dick.
His tip pushes in.
You barely manage to bite back your moan.
Eyes wide and body tense, you stare at him in the shadows. Through his glasses, his eyes are just as wide as yours. His jaw is clenched tightly, grip on your body bruising. “S-stay still,” he commands shakily. “I’ll pull out.”
“No,” you find yourself breathing out before you can process the word. When he stares right through you, disbelieving but so badly wanting to believe, you find the courage to say, “No, I want it. I want it so bad, Ken. Please?”
Nanami’s eyes almost roll back. “Yes, baby. Fuck, if you ask so nicely, how am I meant to say no?”
All he has to do now is lighten his grip on you; you slide down and down and down until he’s buried to the hilt and you’re feeling fuller than you ever have. His size is almost impossible to manage but you’re so wet, so needy, that it only takes a couple winces and fluttering of your walls.
Foreheads pressed together, you moan into each other’s mouths, lips just touching.
Feet pad away.
A door closes.
“You’re so tight,” he groans louder, unhesitating to exploit the fact that it’s just you two in here again.
“So big,” you whisper.
He emerges you both from the stuffy corner and walks over to the door. Each step has his fat cockhead prodding your g-spot over and over again. He locks it without breaking eye contact.
The heat in his gaze sets your skin alight.
Nanami sets you down on the vanity, still inside you. He pinches your chin and says, “Are you sure about this?”
You roll your eyes. You clamp down on him.
He gasps, cock throbbing inside you.
Swallowing down the choked, animalistic noise about to creep up his throat, he snarls, “Always so difficult with you, isn’t it?”
To your satisfaction, he starts rutting into you. Shallow thrusts at first, testing the waters, getting used to your warmth and the exact feel of your walls. Then faster and deeper, bumping the exact spot that has you mewling and writhing.
“Here?” he asks, voice hoarse. He splays a hand out on your lower belly, pushing down a little. You cry out, back arching. “Oh yes, I see now. This is where you feel me most, no?”
God, he feels so good.
There’s no barriers between you, and if he was anyone else, you’d be deeply worried. But Nanami is Nanami. He’s cleaner than a surgery table.
“Ken,” you moan. “Harder. Fuck me harder.”
He nods, lips to your head as he holds you close. He rams his cock in with greater force, rattling the whole desk.
You whine. “Yes! Yes! Just like that.”
“Tell me how to please you,” Nanami whispers, cradling the back of your head before it can hit the mirror behind you. “Tell me everything about you, about what makes you feel good, your fantasies, who you want me to be, what you want me to say.”
Arms wrapped around his neck, you shake your head, fucking down onto him. “This is great. It’s perfect. God, hngh! J-just be yourself. Keep fucking me like this.”
Nanami groans.
“I hate how good you feel,” he confesses, angry. “Hate how perfect your -ngh fuck!- body is, the sounds you make. How one touch, one look from you, has me weak in my fucking knees.”
He pulls your head back by your hair. His hazy eyes scan every inch of your face, drinking up every wince, every flutter of your eyes, every gasp out of your lips. He wants to be mad. He wants to say something insulting, something to make your cunt clench down on him. But when you mumble his name, Nanami’s whole face softens.
Burying his face in the curve connecting your neck to your shoulder, he presses a kiss there. “God, you drive me insane.”
Despite yourself, you laugh. “I’m surprised you haven’t cum the moment you finally felt a woman’s insides.”
His lips twitch.
“And I’m surprised you haven’t melted with how wet you are around my cock.”
Nanami pulls out and spins you around before you can make a retort. You see yourself in the mirror. You make eye contact all the way as he pushes back inside you.
The way he bites his lips, blows air out to get some clarity, flush and sweat — you can’t take your eyes off him, can’t unnotice all these things about him.
Soon his pelvis is flushed with your ass. He pummels his cock in and out at a rhythmic pace, controlled and measured. Your eyes roll back. The squelches, the slapping of skin, the fwop fwop fwop, everything is simultaneously muted by the intensity of the pleasure blooming inside your core and heightened by the finite space between you.
He can’t seem to decide whether he wants to watch his cock entering you or to watch your face scrunch up in bliss. With a frustrated growl, he finally decides instead to shut his eyes tight.
Weak.
Both hands sneak under your body. He gropes your swinging tits in one and rubs your clit with the other.
“Are you going to cum for me?” he asks though it’s not a question, not really.
You grind back into him, wanting him deeper and deeper as you near your climax. Unable to help yourself, you answer, “I’m gonna cum for me.”
Nanami’s low chuckle sends chills down your spine. His dark eyes keep you pinned through the reflection.
“Then cum,” he says.
And you do.
He stifles the too-loud moan that was about to alert the whole library to what you’re doing with a palm slapped over your mouth. You don’t care. Muffled moans are subdued and spasms wracking your entire body, the waves of euphoria race through you, rendering you a dumb, soaked mess.
“Ah, fuck!” Nanami’s hips stutter. “T-too tight. Don’t -fuck- s-squeeze down on me.”
“No, w-wait,” you stammer, unable to lift any of your tired limbs to physically prevent him from cumming where he shouldn’t.
But it’s too late.
He orgasms right after you.
Hot, searing cum explodes inside you. It paints your walls white. You pant, made dizzy by the feeling of his pulsing cock staking its claim inside your pussy.
“So good, so good, so fucking good,” he gasps.
The two of you catch your breath, neither one pulling away. His hands are still all over you, squeezing and absorbing the sensations of a flushed, clammy body. You hope the two of you were quiet enough not to be noticed.
He softens inside you. Finally, he pulls out.
You wince.
“Forgive me,” Nanami mutters, rubbing a hand over your pussy as though to soothe it.
When he pushes two fingers inside, wringing squelches out with your mixed juices, you reach back to smack him. “Hey!”
Nanami apologises again. He pulls his fingers out and clears his throat. The flush on his face renews with the suspicious glare you throw at him. “Sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“I know came inside of me,” you grouch, slapping his chest. “You’re lucky I’m on the pill, idiot.” To that, he has no reply. He only regretfully uses someone’s inside sleeve to wipe his fingers clean. Spinning around, you grimace. “Got anything to clean me up with?”
“I’d use someone’s coat or scarf, but I can’t vouch for how clean they’d be,” he mutters, troubled. He thinks for a second, looking around and patting his pockets. There isn’t anything. Nanami tucks himself back in, zips his pants up, then gets down on his knees before you.
“Woah, what’re you doing?”
“Cleaning you up,” he says simply, like it’s supposed to be obvious and he’s disappointed you didn’t work that out yourself. Firm hands spread your legs apart.
“Hey! No, don’t.” Your protests fall on deaf ears. Nanami won’t budge. He buries his face right up against your pussy, unhesitating to lap up the juices flowing out of you. “Oh, fuck, Kento. Y-you’re a freak.”
The man doesn’t seem to care that he’s eating his own cum out of you. Or maybe that’s exactly what he wants. You can’t tell, and you can’t think too much about it when he’s circling your clit with his tongue.
Nanami licks through your slit like a dog, just cleaning you up and all the wetness that’s made your thighs sticky. He says, “No, I’m thorough. We can’t leave behind any evidence.”
Your head leans back on the mirror, accepting that you’ve got no choice but to let him do what he wants with your cunt. Though that doesn’t stop you from remaking, “Please, you just wanted to taste me again. Can’t get enough, can you?”
It’s a joke. A statement made with humour.
But his unwavering gaze — the way he’s looking up at you and reading every expression, every thought and flicker in your face and eyes — suggests he’s not when he ponders out loud, “Is that so wrong?”
Nervously, you gulp, then smile.
“Probably, but it’s too late now, isn’t it?”
Nanami kisses your clit so gently, so tenderly that your smile drops.
“Far too late.”
.
.
.
Like something awakened, a dam burst, you two have been fucking nonstop.
Every opening and closing since Monday morning have begun and ended with sex in the storage room. Quick, dirty sex. Mindblowing sex. Neither of you can seem to get enough of how each other feels, of the momentary washing away of all that was looming by the end of the week, but your rivalry never ended.
You two would compete to see who’d cum first in the toilet stalls, each taking turns to be on their knees. He’d eat you out as well as he could, pulling all his tricks, and you’d blow him like you wanted to suck his soul out from his balls. A timer would be going on your phone, and you’d battle it out to the very last second. Currently, you’re winning 3-2.
The loser gets a stamp — one that you’d snatched from Mrs. Collins office — pressed right on their pelvis: Late Return.
They’d have to walk around like that till they can get home and wash the ink off.
When you lost, Nanami had thumbed the mark right above your cunt, both his lips and your pussy lips still glistening. He hummed. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t misty-eyed. I’m gonna get you back.”
He looked up at you and smiled. “Of course you will.”
And when he lost, you stamped it high enough that whenever he reached up, it’d be visible by virtue of his sweater or shirt riding up. You passed by, running a nail across that sliver of skin. He shuddered. His cheeks reddened. He muttered, “Tease.”
You muttered back, “Loser.”
On Wednesday, you both started a game that involved not touching each other and seeing who could hold out longer. Of course, there were caveats: he had brought a vibrator with the intention of leaving in your panties, thrumming away at your sensitive clit, and you would send him faceless nudes every five minutes.
The fun of it was that you could back out at any second; you could take the vibe out and he could just not open your messages. But he had given you his phone number for this reason and so it’d be a waste of your time to chicken out.
It seemed easy enough at first anyway.
For the most part, you could keep a straight face when dealing with other students and researchers. He’d pass by and press some button on the remote control he has all to hear your voice hitch or watch your eyes cross. In retaliation, you’d send him pictures and videos of you playing with yourself and moaning his name.
He gave in first.
What broke him wasn’t the nudes, though they certainly pushed him close. No, what did it was the fact that you had experienced a full-body orgasm right in front of some guy asking you out. The guy was about to touch you, to ask if you were okay because you were breathing weird and all squirmy.
Nanami swooped in with a casual excuse of you being sick.
You tried to hobble over to the nearest room, the coat room, but couldn’t make it any further than a study booth in the back corner. The same one you first blew him on. You were pawing at his cock, fishing it out right there and then, and he decided he couldn’t wait any longer.
So, whilst no one was there, he took you right in the booth, ducking low.
“You showed him something you shouldn’t have,” he growled, a sound you’d never heard him make before.
Weakly, you argued, “That was your fault, asshole.”
And when he stacked two hardcover books over your lower belly, pressing on your bladder and driving you fucking insane?
You made a mess all over him that he forced you to clean up with your tongue.
Which was fine since he was going to be punished with pen markings all over his body as a result of his surrender.
Vibe dead and tossed, you met up after in the break room, knowing that all the other staff members would be having a meeting about the budget cuts, and since they had yet to decide which of you they were going to keep, neither of you were privy to the information. And that too was fine, since it meant you had an hour or so to yourself on the comfortable sofa.
Gleefully, encouraged by the blush on his cheeks and the way he was throbbing right under your pussy, you drew ‘loser’, ‘inferior intellect’, ‘pleb’, and ‘my bitch’, among other things, on his bare torso.
He protested each new label but with how you were grinding on his cock and pouting down at him to play fair, he couldn’t exactly fight against it.
It was a delirious high to keep him pinned under you, covering his pristine skin with proof of your superiority.
“Hush, Ken,” you scolded. He was groaning and complaining incessantly. It was hot.
Nanami huffed, hands on your thighs as you straddled him. “You’re taking too long; there can’t possibly be any more space on my body.”
“Thou doth protest too much.” You gripped his face, smiling down at him, and said, “You’ve never looked prettier than with my name written right here on your chest, Kento.”
He pulsed right up against your clit.
Another quickie was slotted in before the meeting ended and the staff would be roaming around again.
A fire drill has taken all the occupants of the library this Friday afternoon. Instead of following procedure, the two of you decided to stay behind, with everyone none the wiser.
Nanami’s buried balls deep inside you, a hand splayed out over your back as he keeps you bent over one of the carts you use to transport books around the library. It’s empty and you’re clinging to the metal thing for dear life, moaning wantonly with every harsh shove of his cock inside your sloppy pussy.
He’s holding the cart, dragging it back and forth the way he would with your hips. You have no choice but to let the cart yank you on his length.
“Ken,” you mewl, “we need to hurry. They’ll be back any time soon.”
He grunts behind you. “I know. But I will not cum until you do.”
Your clothes are still on, just slightly shuffled around to allow you to touch where you wanted. The clothes always stay on; you can’t seem to cross the line of being completely bare. Mostly because you two keep fucking in places where you could caught, and partly because it seemed to be an unspoken boundary you won’t cross.
It hardly matters to you — his cock is all that you need to see.
The way the hot thing bullies a path through your gummy walls is delectable. It’s honestly all you can think about in class or at home. He fills out every nook and cranny, stretching your walls and making sure you feel all of him.
“You’re insatiable,” you say, riding the snappy movements of the cart. “You’re a sex maniac, just obsessed with me.”
Scoffing, he yanks the cart back harder. He thrusts in deeper. You cry out. Nanami retorts, breathy and hoarse, “Says the girl who chose to greet me by squeezing my cock through my pants. You were already wet when I touched you. Dirty girl,” he rasps. “Must have been thinking about me all day.”
“As if,” you mutter. Then, you add, “You were already —wait, Ken, deeper, yessss— you were already hard when I felt you up. Bet the sight of me was enough to get you going, huh?”
“I’ll admit to your —f-fuck, loosen up— a-accusations if you do.”
“Never.”
Nanami chuckles.
His hips are relentless. They never tire, never falter. Not till he’s about to come anyway. No one’s ever fucked you this good, and it kills you to admit to yourself that the person you’d deemed the devil just weeks before has the best dick game full stop.
Ugh, you just love when he fucks you from behind, when his balls swing and smack against your clit, when he covers your back and groans right into your ear.
It’s no wonder then that you cum mere minutes later.
“Oh god,” you moan. “So, so good.”
“Hmm, fuck. Perfect. Just perfect.”
He slides himself out of you, coming to kneel behind you to eat the cum spilling out from behind. Yeah, after all the sleeping around, you still hadn’t enforced the rule of wearing a condom. It just seems so pointless when he’d already been inside you. And you don’t want a layer muting the feeling of his prominent veins scraping your sloppy walls.
“Do we taste good, Kento?” you ask, smiling lazily. You reach back, drumming your fingers over the hand that grips your thigh in place.
Nanami moves his hand to trap yours in his clutch. A thumb brushes over your knuckles. Voice muffled, he responds, “Mmm. Best choice of breakfast I rather think, though that’s mostly because of me.”
“Ugh, don’t act like I don’t often have to kick you away from my pussy because you won’t stop eating her out otherwise. Lying is a sin, Kento.”
He chuckles, suckling your pulsing clit. “So is pre-marital sex, but we’ve already done a lot of that.”
“See you in hell then,” you say, wistful.
“Yes. Save me a seat.”
The distant alarm stops by the time you cum again. Noises outside get louder. You two, like experienced criminals, rearrange your clothes so that no eyes would be able to tell what you’ve done. You even sneak around to blend in with the group, as though you had been out with everyone else.
It’s somewhat of an impossibility how you two managed to balance fucking like rabbits with your tasks. There’s not a single book gone unshelved, no student left waiting around, no emails about late returns unsent. In fact, Mrs. Collins had complimented you both on a couple occasions for how well you two worked. She seemed especially pleased that you weren’t arguing — though you’re sure if she knew what exactly you had taken up on doing, you’re not sure she’d keep looking at you with pride.
Naturally, the week passed by quicker than all the others before it.
And made the next week feel so much slower.
.
.
.
Nanami didn’t come into work.
His internship had set him on a project that would require his attention and efforts most. Or at least that’s what you heard from Mrs. Collins, who warned you that you’d have to be picking up his slack, at least until next week, when he should be back.
Which is great.
Really.
Because it can be an opportunity to show you’re better for this job than he is.
A heads up from him himself would have been nice though. Why hadn’t he told you anyway? Sure, you were just fuck-buddies with much less emphasis on the buddies than the fuck, but still. And honestly with how this week is going so far, you’d place less emphasis on fuck too, since he hadn’t even opened any of the nudes you sent him.
The more you grumble about it, however — when wiping tables, logging returns, reshelving books, touring prospective students — the more you turn your negative energy to yourself.
Nanami doesn’t owe you an explanation, nor does he owe your nudes a viewing, even if they are works of art.
He’s never explained his own schedule to you, and you’ve never thought to do the same to him. Really, why would he tell you anything? And why do you care? You have toys and fingers you can use if you need to get off so badly.
Once in a while, you’ll see him on campus, on your way to your respective classes. The two of you don’t pause to chat, don’t say hi, don’t even look at each other. Which is how it usually was between you. Although, there used to be the occasional glares or snide comments if the other gave a smug look after gaining higher marks on some essay. Or if you two just felt like it.
Now, there’s nothing.
No one to look at with a ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ when someone spills their drink all over a table, or knocks over a pile of books you were reorganising. No one to mutter a quiet ‘what idiot gets Camus and Sartre mixed up?’ to or a ‘not it!’ if someone reports a clogged toilet in the men’s bathroom — and it was always the men’s.
Was this job always so fucking boring?
“Hi.”
“What.” The word spews out of you faster than you can process the one syllable the stranger uttered. You look up at the girl. She’s staring wide-eyed at you. Standing up, heat growing in your cheeks, you say, “I am so, so, sorry.”
She waves it off, shuffling on her feet. “No, don’t worry about it. I work at a bakery, so I understand what a bad day looks like when you’re dealing with people,” she says with a laugh. “I just wanted to know if you could pass a message along to the guy you work with. Um, Kento?”
How does she know his first name?
Did he introduce himself to her as such?
They don’t seem to be close friends, one because he has a very small number of friends, and two because she almost didn’t remember his name.
The girl’s pretty: brown hair in a ponytail, kind eyes and a warm smile. She looks like the kind of girl you bring home to mother. And she bakes?
Nanami loves bread; you’ve seen him snacking on pastries and sandwiches far too many times not to notice that. She can bake for him, or at the very least, get him a discount at the bakery she works at. Bet he’d like having sex in the toilet stall at a bakery. The smell of a pain au chocolat can get him off.
“What is it?”
A blush blossoms on her cheeks. You fight the urge to frown in disgust. Is she blushing because of that guy? The blond with poor eyesight? The one who wears business casual clothes everywhere? What kind of sorcery did he use on her?
“Oh, um, I guess I just wanted to tell him I really enjoyed the book he recommended to me when I was here last week. I’ve been looking for him every day but I haven’t seen him.” A thought occurs to her. She adds, “Maybe I can tell him myself — do you know when he’ll be back?”
“No idea,” you lie through your lying teeth.
Disappointed but not discouraged, she suggests, “Could you ask him?”
“I can’t.” Another lie — you have his phone number now, but it’s not like you can explain to her that you only have it because you were sending him nudes.
Baker girl sighs. She smiles at you, a smile so full of goodness that you have to mentally swat the instinct to hiss at the burn. “Alright. Then, could you tell him that I’d love to hear his thoughts on the book over coffee? I hope I’m not giving you too much trouble!”
“Sure. I’ll tell him.”
“Thank you!”
With that, she strolls away, still smiling, still blushing, and no doubt thinking of him.
Turning to the books in front of you, you finally scowl.
“Nanami? Seriously?” you mutter.
The same Nanami who called you a strumpet under his breath for suggesting that he would have been a concubinus in the Roman era with how passive he is? The Nanami that stretches his legs out to trip you but claims he’s simply exercising his right to take up space? The Nanami that was literally eating you out at the very same spot you’re standing in now?
Ugh, there really is no accounting for taste.
Thankfully the message she left with you was short and brief, easy to remember. You ponder over it every hour of every day — as you work in the library, as you’re in class, showering, walking through campus, meeting up with friends, laying in bed awake.
The end of the day at the end of the week arrives pretty soon after.
Waving goodbye to the nighttime caretaker, you exit through the front doors.
You’re exhausted. More so than usual.
Technically, you had done two people’s worth of tasks. And perhaps it was just your annoyance clouding your judgment, but you could have sworn it was busier than ever this week. The burden of doing the grunt work finally caught up to you; your feet hurt, your back aches, you feel greasy and hideous, and ready to burn down libraries for no reason.
Fresh air envelops you, and it helps a little.
The cold night air is lovely. A much needed relief after spending a whole, stuffy day in the heart of academia and after back to back morning classes. At least the weekend is ahead of you. That’s something, you guess.
“Hey, pretty lady.”
The voice slurs a little around the edges.
You turn your head and immediately regret it.
Some guy lurches toward you from the direction of the dorms, one hand stuffed into the pocket of a puffer jacket that looks like it’s seen more beer spills than washing machines. His cheeks are flushed a blotchy red, eyes glassy, hair flattened in strange directions like he’s run his hands through it one too many times tonight. There’s a plastic cup clutched in his other hand, whatever’s inside it sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
It’s a typical frat guy.
The kind of guy you’re rarely ever around as a Classic Lit student, and as what most people would call a nerd.
Yet, here he is, passing by the library, right on time for you to be walking home in the dark, alone. Terrific. Fantastic. Just great!
He grins at you — the confident grin of someone who has absolutely no reason to be confident. “Where you headed?” he asks, leaning a little too close, the sour-sweet smell of cheap alcohol drifting over. “Party over at Sigma something. You should come.”
You stare at him.
Frat Guy takes your silence as encouragement. “I mean—” he gestures vaguely at you with the cup, nearly spilling it, “—you look like you could use a drink. Loosen up a little, y’know?”
His eyes drag down and back up again in a way that makes your skin prickle.
“Bet you’d be real fun once you’re not all…” he waves his hand again, searching for the word, “...uptight.”
A laugh escapes him as though he said something clever. He leans against the brick wall beside you, missing slightly and having to correct himself.
“So what’s your name, pretty lady?” he presses, smile widening. “C’mon. Don’t be shy.”
Full body shuddering, you ignore him and start walking off. There’s streetlamps lighting paths, and you do see the silhouettes of a couple people walking by in the distance. Worse comes to worse, you’re ready to drop kick the guy as soon as he shows any sign of being a problem.
Which, right on cue, he does.
“Hey,” Frat Guy says, losing his dopey smile. His voice has dropped an octave, taking on a deeper, darker tone, and you stiffen. “Who the fuck do you think you are ignoring me? You think you’re all that, you fucking loser?”
Your steps don’t stop.
Behind you, you hear his shoes scuff faster against the pavement. “Oi,” he calls, irritation bleeding into his voice. “I’m talking to you.”
You’re already turning slightly, gauging distance, weight shifting instinctively to the balls of your feet. If he grabs you, you’ll—
A hand settles lightly on your shoulder.
Neither grabbing nor restraining. Just there. Warm. You know that hand. You’ve felt that hand, but it’s never provided comfort, reassurance, not in the dark of the night, and certainly not when it shouldn’t be here at all.
“Is there a problem?”
You look up.
Nanami stands beside you.
His tie is loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. There’s still the faint stiffness of the office about him — creased trousers, polished shoes, suit jacket draped over one arm — but the long day clings to him too. A shadow of fatigue beneath his eyes. A faint crease between his brows.
He glances down at you first. A quick once-over. Checking. Then his gaze shifts to the guy behind you.
It sharpens.
Frat Guy squints at him, clearly trying to process the sudden appearance of a tall, broad man in business clothes standing between him and his intended target.
“Who the hell are you?” he scoffs.
Expression unchasing, he steps forward just slightly, positioning himself so you’re fully behind his shoulder. “A passerby,” he says calmly. “Who noticed you harassing someone who has clearly chosen not to engage with you.”
Frat Guy lets out a drunken laugh. “Oh, she wants me.”
“She walked away.”
“So?”
Nanami tilts his head a fraction. It’s such a small movement, but something about it drains the air from the space between them. “Then the conversation,” Nanami says evenly, “is over.”
“Fuck. You. Four. Eyes.”
“Hey, I call him Four-Eyes! Well, not really, but I’ll start, you dickless piece of shit,” you yell.
Uggo reddens even more in the face. And when Nanami snickers, that’s when he reacts: he lunges forward for Nanami with his teeth bared and his fists clenched so tight the knuckles have turned white.
You get in between before he lands a punch. With a swift kick to the balls, you both watch as he doubles over, heaving and red in the face. He clutches his groin, veins popping in his forehead. He wheezes.
Oh, fuck. You definitely kicked him too hard. Like hard enough that his testicles definitely turned back into ovaries inside of him.
You make eye contact with Nanami, who’s wincing with second-hand ball-pain.
“Run.”
You both bolt down a random direction. Cool air whirls past you, pushing your hair back. You pump your legs, feet pounding the ground. He’s right beside you, running with ease, though with less heavy breathing, you bitterly notice.
Laughter rings out.
It’s only until your lungs begin to hurt that you realise it’s yours. And his.
What you did was a crime. And Nanami’s an accessory to the crime. Which is fan-fucking-tastic because it means you won’t go down alone. Or could you rely on self-defence? It hardly matters. You both fled the crime scene together, laughing shamelessly, and disturbing the peace.
You’ve never kicked someone in the balls before. It felt pretty fucking awesome.
Eventually, you reach a good enough distance from the library, from the scene of the crime, and come to a slow stop.
“Why would the assailant go for me instead of you?” Nanami asks, bewildered as he processes what happened. “You were the one who called him a ‘dickless piece of shit.’ And I cannot get blood on my work clothes. Certainly not for someone who thinks Shakespeare was a homesexual fraud.”
“He is.”
“He is not.”
“Oh, cause you were there?”
“Were you?”
“In spirit, yes.”
“Well, then in spirit, you are deluded, and as always, wrong.”
“Whatever.”
“Hmm.”
Releasing a breath, you run a hand through your hair. “I can’t believe I kicked him in the balls. What a rush.”
“I can’t believe he called me ‘Four Eyes,’” Nanami muses, half-humoured, half-offended. “Having glasses does not give me two new eyes. It basically only makes my two existing ones work the way they should.”
You pat him on the back. “Sure.”
The two of you begin walking, reorienting yourself based on where you are. For a while the only sounds are your voice, the distant thrum of music from somewhere deeper in campus, and the soft rhythm of Nanami’s footsteps beside yours. Soon, that asshole becomes what feels like a figment of your imagination. So does the adrenaline.
The fight in you weakens. Slackens. He doesn’t comment on it. On any of it.
When you can’t stand the silence any longer, you ask, much calmer and less worked up now, “Why were you there? By the library, I mean. I thought you’d be coming back from your internship.”
Nanami hikes his bag high up on his shoulder. “My commute involves walking through campus at this time.”
“Liar,” you say not a moment later. “The publishing house is not anywhere near here. You’d have to go out of your way to be on campus to get to your place — and before you say something about how I must be stalking you if I know where you live, I want you to know I overheard Haibara remarking quite gratefully that you live near the big supermarket. So spare me.”
A small twitch comes to life on the corner of his lip, one you would have missed if you two hadn’t just walked under a streetlamp. Clearly amused, Nanami responds, “Fine, you got me. I came by because I wanted to gloat.”
“You’re lying again.”
He glances down at you. “Are you suggesting I’m not capable of doing something for completely self-serving, sadistic reasons?” he wonders, a teasing lilt to his voice.
Laughing, you answer, “No. You’re more than capable. I’m saying, you’re not the type to admit to it. They’re more inside thoughts.”
Nanami chuckles and doesn’t argue.
Instead, he wonders, “How was the library?”
“Oh, you know,” you begin, shrugging, “same old, same old. Real dickhead behaviour not warning me, by the way. That you’d be gone the whole week.”
“Did you miss me? Is that it?” he teases. “I did not peg you for the sentimental type.”
You scoff. “Of course I didn’t miss you. If anything, I missed your tongue. Or your dick. You know how annoying people get me so tense.”
Adjusting his glasses, he points to a dark spot behind a tree. “If you’re in quick need of release, I’m sure we can manage something before the next person passes this trail.”
“I know you’re joking,” you start, feet slowing down, “but that would actually be nice.”
A hand at your back pushes you along, forcing your walking to pick back up. “There are limits to how public our sex can get. Move along.”
‘Boo,’ you almost say. That, or ‘pussy.’
Shaking his head, Nanami says, “I did debate over whether to tell you. It’s…difficult for me to know the do’s and don’t’s of our new dynamic. And truthfully, seeing as you didn’t reach out to me with a complaint, I thought you didn’t care.”
If he’s expecting you to rebut that, then he’s sorely mistaken. Because you don’t care. You really do not care. It was nice to have him gone, actually. You had more room to breathe. You didn’t have to worry about him scolding some poor soul about their preference for translated works on account of their inability to read the original text, didn’t have to share the sixth floor seating area when you needed some downtime, or anticipate him scoffing at your chosen book for the week.
“It’s fine,” you mumble loud enough for him to hear. “You don’t owe me anything.”
Nanami hums.
With a small frown, you mull your next words over. “Some girl wanted me to pass a message on to you.”
That piques his interest. “Oh? What did she say?”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
A laugh escapes him. It’s loud. It takes you both by surprise.
You thought he would have been mad, would have thought you were playing games again, wanting to take a little revenge against him. On the contrary, he seems entertained.
He continues walking with you. His suit and tie are wrinkled with the day’s hard work (and the running), and despite the slightly dishevelled look to him, he still looks like he could charm the pants off any recruiter. You can tell he hasn’t been on a break from responsibilities — whatever they did to him on that internship this week has dragged him through the mud.
Good.
That’s precisely what you wanted after you had to clean up what smelt like piss on a spot on the carpet by the children’s development section, which was a concern in and of itself.
“I do sincerely hope you don’t hate me too much for abandoning you this week,” Nanami muses eventually, returning to the previous subject matter. “Whilst it brings me great pleasure to imagine that crease between your eyebrows leaving a permanent mark because you couldn’t stop yourself from cursing me out every shift, I don’t very much feel like walking into a boobytrapped workplace come Monday morning.”
A small smile playing on your lips, you fiddle with the strap of your back as you say, “I was pissed. Like you wouldn’t believe. But I feel better now that I’ve seen you.” Your eyes meet. You hurriedly add, “Because you look like shit; I’m sure they put you through it at the publishing house, right?”
Nanami makes some kind of face, a mix between a grimace and a nod. “Hmm. There was some printing error for a book that’s about to have a big launch. There was a lot of scrambling happening.”
“What book?”
“The History of ‘Slut’ and How to Banish it by Phayk Rightur,” he answers.
Your jaw drops. You grab his arm. “You’re joking. I fucking love Rightur! She wrote about the history of sex toys and how deeply ingrained they are in history. One of my most favourite books ever!”
“So she did,” he replies, smiling. “And so it is.”
“How do you manage it?” you ask, smile fading. “Studying, attending classes, the internship, and being president of a society? I’d drop dead if I had to do all of that. I mean, I had a taste of it last year when I was working a part time job to afford a ski trip with my friends while I was on the committee for two societies. But president in your third year? Damn.”
You’re on the main road now, just walking side by side as cars zoom past. Light from stores, from headlights, and from overhead streetlamps keep you both clear as day to each other’s gazes.
“A lot of late nights,” he replies humourlessly. Then something indiscernible passes in his eyes as he looks down at you. “I ought to thank you, I think.”
You blink. “Thank me?”
He nods, looking straight ahead now, posture straighter, renewed energy channeling itself though his bones. “Yes. Without you, I wouldn’t have been motivated to work late nights, forced to open my notes and read and read until I passed out at my desk from exhaustion; I knew if I slacked off at any point for any reason, you would have eaten me up.”
This is the first time he’s ever revealed personal information to you, willingly anyway. Most of what you knew about him came from your own observations and from things heard in passing.
Now, he’s readily offering information.
And you don’t know how to feel.
You stay silent, afraid that if you speak the bubble will burst. Nanami strikes you as the kind of man who, if he realises he’s divulging too much, will pull back and restrain himself. Maybe if you keep quiet long enough he’ll tell you a secret so embarrassing you can lord it over him in the future.
“I hate late nights,” he starts with absolute certainty. “I hate booking office hours and sitting in dull rooms when all I want is to take a stroll through the park. I hate staying in the library longer than I need to when the weather’s lovely and my friends are pestering me to hang out. I hate flicking through pages and pages until I get papercuts. I hate drinking energy drinks and coffee at terrible hours, and ruining my diet, and relying on ginger shots to keep my immune system protected enough to sit through an exam.”
You’re not a fan of late nights either.
Who is?
All your friends would confidently say you hate them, in fact; you complain enough. Sacrificing parties and dinners out for dusty old books isn’t easy, and you love dusty old books. You love learning, not cramming dates and foreign names into your head. You love constructing arguments, not typing away for hours and hours until your eyes are red and words start to lose all meaning.
Suffice to say, there’s certainly been many times when you’ve driven yourself mad wondering what it’s all for, but failure is not an option for you.
It just isn’t.
You never really thought about if Nanami felt the same way, if he hated late nights too. Maybe in the back of your head you just saw him as an absolute machine powered by vitriol and a need to be pretentious. Maybe you just never saw him as someone who struggled, not like you.
“I’m already set to graduate with honours, with an impressive résumé and enviable references, and I have offers for graduate jobs lined up. So all this unnecessary bullshit — pardon my French — leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.”
Frowning, you say, “What a long winded way to flex—”
“But there was,” Nanami continues, the weight of his eyes landing on the side of your face, “and is, nothing I hate more than seeing you claim victory over me.”
You look up at him, footsteps stuttering.
He’s not looking at you, yet he’s aware enough of your positioning to pull you by the crook of your elbow closer to his side when a fellow pedestrian walks a little too closely.
“You’re not a good winner: you’re loud, you want everyone to know, and you’ll never let any of your competition live it down. And that uncoordinated display you call a ‘victory dance’ you do all over campus whenever you’re the top of your class leaves me with so much second-hand embarrassment, I have to sit by a pond and really reflect on where it all went wrong.”
Rolling your eyes, you say, “Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’m awful. I’ve heard that before. Mostly from you. But also from plenty of other people. Thanks for the reminder.”
Nanami shakes his head, still smiling. “It wasn’t intended as an insult. Granted, it wasn’t a compliment either. I simply meant to say that if it wasn’t for you, for our rivalry, I would not be where I am today. Do not let it get to your head though. It doesn’t mean anything more than a comment I’ll deny in the future, but I thought it’s something that should be said aloud at least once.”
Knuckles brush against each other. Neither of you snatch your hands away.
“Yeah, well, I guess I could say the same for you,” you reluctantly say, huffing uneasily. “I admit I wouldn’t have worked as hard as I did, and do, if it wasn’t for the incentive of rubbing it into your face that I’m better than you. Thanks.”
He chuckles. “You’re very welcome.”
You reach your apartment before you realise it. It hadn’t even occurred to you that that was where you were walking. The walk felt as long as it was short. Your friends will be up, doing their own thing in their rooms. They wouldn’t notice if you came up unless you announce yourself.
You don’t make your way inside. The two of you stand by the doors, leaning against the railings of a ramp facing the road.
Why did he walk with you the entire way? His place is in another direction entirely.
That should have been your question. What comes out instead is, “Why didn’t you ask me what the girl said?”
“What girl?” he asks, blinking.
“The girl,” you say as though that should be enough to spark something. It doesn’t. Somewhat exasperated, you add, “The girl with the message she wanted me to pass onto you?”
“Ah.” Nanami drops his bag and jacket off on the ground. He crosses his arms and legs at the ankle. “I’m not sure. Perhaps I expected you wouldn’t tell me even if I asked, especially considering that I hadn’t been giving you other men’s numbers or whatever message they have either.”
You forgot all about that. It never even occurred to you to ask for what exactly they’ve said.
“I would have,” you say. “Told you if you wanted to know, I mean.” Your eyes flit to him. “Do you? Want to know?”
He looks at you quizzically, likely suspicious of your sudden inability to piece together a full sentence. “I suppose so,” he replies, slowly, carefully. “What did she say?”
Your arms are brushing together. Neither of you move. Despite the chill of the night, you don’t shiver, don’t think you should scurry off inside where it’s warmer, where you can put your sore feet up and sleep like the dead.
“She was pretty. A baker. Or just works at a bakery, I don’t know. Brown hair, brown eyes, petite. She seemed nice. Dresses well too. Cute top, classy jeans, clean shoes—”
“The relevance of her appearance will soon make itself clear I hope,” Nanami sarcastically drawls.
Biting the inside of your cheek, you shrug. “Just wanted to set the scene, maybe jog your memory.”
“The message will suffice.”
Why is it so hard for you to say it aloud? Why can’t you just tell him? It’s not like she said anything offensive or embarrassing. Maybe you’re worried he’ll be upset that you withheld the information for so long, that you buried the lede, or didn’t chase her up on it on his behalf.
Maybe…
“She said she liked the book you recommended to her last week.”
He hums. “Is that why you’re dragging your feet in telling me? Because you’re jealous that no one has given you that feedback?”
Offended, you turn to him. “Um, actually, no. A lot of people have told me that. More people than you, I’m sure.”
Nanami looks at you too. His eyes soften out of lethargy. “Then why are you upset? Did she say something to you, something insulting? Or was she rude? I know you’ve encountered your fair share of impolite people, as have I, but try not to let her ruin your mood. For every bad customer, there are many more good ones,” he reminds you.
“No,” you breathe out, feeling guilty not that he’s assuming the worst of her, of someone who has a crush on him. “No, it’s nothing like that. I told you she was nice. Really nice actually. I think you’d like her.”
“I’ve yet to understand the relevance of any of these comments,” he says, concerned now.
People pass by. None that spare either of you more than a glance, the kind of glance people give strangers to make sure they’re not a danger.
Although you’re in public, there’s a twinge of intimacy colouring the atmosphere, one that not even being pressed up in a storage room together can bring.
Finally, you give in.
Head slumping on his chest, you mutter, “She wants to go on a date with you. To discuss the book or whatever.”
If he’s surprised by the weight of your body leaning on him, he doesn’t show it. Nanami wraps an arm around you, patting your back. He bears both of your weight as he leans back on the railing and you slot yourself between his legs. Your exhaustion has returned and you can no longer stand on your own.
“I see. And this is upsetting to you?”
He’s like a therapist gauging your reactions, trying to see if you need to be restrained and kept away from sharp objects. It almost makes you laugh. Fiddling with a button on his shirt, you mumble into his chest, “No, I don’t care.”
Nanami’s warm. Like a furnace. It’s nice. He also smells good in spite of having worked a whole day. So unfair.
“Of course you don’t. You’re far more concerned with beating me in our classes, in our library, and in life right, my little victory-fanatic?”
You nod weakly. “Yep. That’s it. You got me.” Slowly, you peer up at him. Whatever he sees on your face has his gaze softening again, though not with exhaustion this time. You ask, “Are you going to say yes to her?”
He tucks your hair behind your ear. “What would you like me to say?”
“No. I want you to say no.”
Where did the honesty come from? You’re really dying to know. Because that was a truth you didn’t realise you bore. How odd. How seriously odd.
His nose skims your hairline, lips brushing your forehead. “You’re in luck — I have no intentions of agreeing to date her, or anyone. I’m far too busy to be a very good partner I fear.”
You hum. “It’s great to be self aware.”
The answer was a relief, but it also leaves you unsatisfied, restless, unsure. Let’s just chalk it up to sleep deprivation, you mentally decide.
“Before I forget,” he says suddenly, pulling away a little to pick up his work bag, though he keeps a hand at your hips, fingers drumming, “I snuck a little something away from the firm. A gift for myself, I thought, after all the work they put me through for minimum wage.”
Curiously, you watch him open his bag and pull out a big envelope. He hands it to you.
“For me?” You don’t wait for him to reply; you rip open the envelope, eyeing him with a warning in case what’s inside is a dead spider or a mousetrap. It’s neither. A hard, flat thing is pulled out by your tentative hand. “Is this…”
He adjusts his glasses, pink tinging his cheeks. “It’s not quite of my interest. I figured you’d find it of more value than I would. Especially after I noticed you brought another of her book to class some time last year. Although, that being said, you are under no obligation to like it, a fact which you’ll no doubt make clear if history with you is anything to go by—”
“Kento, shut the fuck up.”
“Yes, alright.”
The hard, flat thing in question is a manuscript. Bound in a hard case, like a notebook with coil binding. When you open it to the front page, you see in uppercase and in bold, The History of ‘Slut’ and How to Banish it by none other than Phayk Rightur.
Squealing, you jump into his arms, wrapping your own around his neck, and placing a long kiss on his lips before you can even think about your actions. Nanami’s grip on your hips tighten at first in surprise. He drops his guard, melting, and tugging you closer to him.
His eyes are half-lidded, staring down at your lips and chasing them when you pull away with a fat grin. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” you repeat, peppering kisses all over his face. “This is the best gift ever!”
You’ve never been given a manuscript before. It just simply isn’t a gift one could buy. And your family and roommates know very well how many books you have — this is by far the most valuable one you have. Who even knows how much it could sell for? Not that you would; you’d both get into a lot of trouble if the firm knew their intern had stolen from them.
Clearing your throat, you ask,“Do you, um… Do you want to come up? It’s late and you’ll have a lot of walking to do. It might be best to wait till the morning.”
Nanami brows are knitted together as he runs a finger along the seam of his lips. Something seems to pass in his eyes. A realisation. A dawning. A something you can’t quite figure out. He straightens up, picking up the work bag he placed on the ground. “No. I appreciate the offer. Haibara will be expecting me. Go inside.” He raises a taunting brow up. “I won’t go easy on you even if you come in on Monday with a cold.”
Is he rejecting you?
Does it sting or are you just cold now that he’s let go of you?
“Y-yeah. Alright.”
The two of you stare at each other for a moment or two, unsure and waiting for the other’s next move. Why is it suddenly so awkward?
“Um, goodnight, I guess,” you say, internally cringing.
He gives a tight lipped smile, which isn’t really a smile at all. “Yes. Goodnight.”
And off you go, walking into your apartment building and not daring to glance back, afraid of what you’ll see if you do.
.
.
.
“Oh, there you two are.”
You look to the side. Mrs. Collins is speed-walking in the way older ladies too, all hip swaying and slow. She flags down Nanami who’s ahead and brushing the floor up.
“Before the end of your shift, before closing, please come by my office — it’s time for me to make my decision,” she says.
A glance is shared between you and him.
A whole week had passed since he walked you home. It also marks the end of the three weeks the Library Director had given you both to decide between you who goes and who doesn’t, and now it is time for her to decide for herself.
The two of you didn’t mess around this week. Something about the looming end had him limp and you bone-dry. That or another reason you can’t really think much about.
You’d texted Nanami once or twice. He never replied. You’d also tried to strike up a conversation with him, either during lunch breaks or on the way out, but he was always busy and had to go first. He didn’t come up to the sixth floor once to read. At least, he didn’t when you were there.
His sudden distance was odd. And frankly, annoying. And also not something you could casually mention to him. It felt very much like being right back at the start.
Mrs. Collins smiles warmly, squeezing both of your arms. She adds, “Take it easy today. Don’t worry about slacking off or being behind. I want you two to enjoy your last couples here as two of my finest assistant librarians. Take a gander over at the restricted section if you haven’t already. I’ll see you both later.”
Without your replies, she strolls off, chasing down someone who’s holding a drink by the shelves with her stern face.
“This is it, huh?”
You jolt. You didn’t expect him to talk to you. “...It would seem so.”
“We should do something symbolic to commemorate our last shift together, don’t you think? We wouldn’t be Classical Lit students if we weren’t clichés, after all,” he suggests.
You beam. “We still haven’t read Satyricon. Should we go back up to the restricted section and read it?”
Adjusting his glasses, he nods. “Great idea. You go ahead, I’ll follow soon; I’m going to the bathroom first.
With a smile, you say, “Okiedokie. Don’t take too long.”
Weirdly enough, now that the day has arrived, you don’t feel very stressed. You were before you walked in through the doors. Now, you’re feeling pretty good. Maybe because he was actually talking to you, and you can stop feeling like you’d done something wrong.
The air shifts the moment you pass through the narrow iron gate of the restricted section — cooler, heavier, touched with the dry, almost sweet scent of aging paper and leather that has long since outlived its makers.
This is what you love about libraries: the smell of lives lived, of stories told thousands of times.
None of your friends understood why you would sniff every new book you bought, but to you it’s like crack. Better even. Not that you’ve had a taste of crack. Can you taste crack or is it strictly for sniffing?
A sense of nostalgia hits you.
You’re going to miss this place if you’re not chosen.
A lifetime before, it seems, you would have been devastated by the concept of losing, especially to Nanami. Now, however, you don’t seem to have a strong preference for winning. All you can think about is that it’s a shame that the library’s experiencing budget cuts and that means you both can’t be here together from now on.
Acutely aware of everything, you see this part of the library in a new light.
An appreciative one.
An amazed gratitude.
You don’t rush.
There’s something deliberate in the way your fingers trail along the spines as you pass, grazing titles you’ve only ever whispered about in lectures, in half-joking, half-reverent tones. The Satyricon waits somewhere ahead, scandalous and sullied by you. You don’t greedily run to read it to make up for what you had failed to do the first time. Because this, more than anything, feels like the last moment before something closes. Before you are chosen, or not. Before you become singular instead of we.
A desk sits tucked beneath one of the windows.
The rest of the room is curated, meticulous, every volume catalogued and caged behind careful order; Mrs. Collins and the other keepers care for every book here like they’re their children.
But the desk looks…interrupted. A chair drawn out just slightly. A book laid open, its spine pressed flat. The sight of it pulls you forward before you quite realise you’ve moved.
By the time you reach it, something uneasy has already begun to settle low in your stomach.
The book is older than most here — vellum pages, the ink faintly uneven with age, margins annotated in a careful, archaic hand. And…
A tear.
Not a gentle loosening of the binding, not the quiet decay of time. A page has been ripped clean out. Jagged edges remain, fibres splayed like a wound, the absence stark and unmistakable. For a moment, all you can do is stare at it, your mind refusing to reconcile the violence of it with the sanctity of the room.
“No,” you murmur, barely audible, as though the book might hear you. “What the hell? Who would do this?”
Your fingers hover, hesitant, before lowering to the edge of the tear. You don’t touch it, not really. Just enough to confirm it’s real, that this isn’t some trick of the light or your imagination.
The damage feels…fresh.
“Oh, my dear! I know I suggested you come up here, but I didn’t realise you would do it so soon. I am pleased to see you seizing the opportunity.”
The voice slices cleanly through the stillness.
Your head snaps up. Mrs. Collins stands a few steps in front of you, one gloved hand pressed lightly to her chest, the other still curled as though she’s just pushed the gate open in haste. She’s smiling at you.
“Isn’t it just so wonderful up here?”
Her gaze drops.
So does her smile.
The shift is immediate. The next words she was about to utter to you are cut off mid-thought, replaced by a silence that seems to expand, pressing outward until it fills every corner of the room.
You follow her eyes, though you already know what she sees.
The open book. The torn page. Your hand, still hovering far too close.
“Oh,” she says softly. It isn’t loud. It isn’t accusatory, not in any overt way. But something in it lands heavier than if she had raised her voice.
“No.” The word comes quickly, instinctively, as you straighten, pulling your hand back as though burned. “That’s not— I found it like this. I just came in, and it was already—”
“My dear,” she interrupts, stepping forward now, her attention wholly claimed by the book. The warmth she’d worn earlier has thinned into something panicked, something intended to be subdued but failing. “Do you have any idea what this is?”
Her gloved fingers hover over the pages with a care you hadn’t quite managed, reverent even in their urgency.
“I wouldn’t….Mrs. Collins, I didn’t do this,” you say, hating the way your voice sounds: too fast, too eager to prove you know, that you understand the gravity of it.
A small hum escapes her, noncommittal. Thoughtful.
She doesn’t look at you.
Instead, she leans closer to the book, inspecting the torn edge with a focus so intense it feels like you’ve already been dismissed from the equation. As though the only thing that matters — the only thing — is the damage itself, not how it came to be. “This is irreplaceable,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Absolutely irreplaceable…”
“I know,” you insist, softer now, stepping closer despite the instinct telling you to retreat. “That’s why I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t touch it like that. I came in and it was open already, I thought someone must have done this. Because I wouldn’t. You must know that.”
“Must I?” she wonders. “Because I seem to recall you reporting a previous incident to do with a ripped book.”
The pause that follows is small.
But it stretches.
Goddamn it, it stretches until you feel it’s about to snap against your skin and leave a permanent mark. And of course it stretches; you have no defence for yourself. That previous incident is damning. As is the fact that less than ten people have access to the restricted section, and you are one of those ten, and the only one found at the scene of the crime with a record that could be tied to vandalism.
At last, she straightens. Her gaze lifts, settling on you fully this time, and there it is.
The change.
There’s no clear accusation to fight, no direct disbelief to dismantle. Only that subtle shift in the way she holds herself, the careful neutrality that feels, somehow, like distance. Like a decision made and buried in the grass, six feet under.
Footsteps approach behind you.
Measured. Familiar.
Nanami.
Relief sparks. Brief, bright, almost desperate. You turn before he’s even fully in the room, already reaching for the steadiness of him, the unspoken understanding that has carried you through long shifts and longer nights, through whispered conversations between stacks and the quiet, heated moments stolen where no one could see.
He takes in the scene quickly. The desk. The book. You.
And he doesn’t look surprised.
Mrs. Collins turns to him at once, as though grateful for a second witness, a second anchor. “Mr. Nanami,” she says, her tone composed once more, though the tension beneath it remains. “Were you in here earlier? Did you happen to leave the gate unsecured? Because your colleague here is suggesting someone left the gate unlocked, allowing a vandal to desecrate a priceless manuscript, and all other members of our library are accounted for, but you.”
You flinch with her wording; she’s suggesting you’ve thrown him under the bus. But Nanami would see through that. He’d know you wouldn’t.
It would be so easy.
You don’t even realise you’ve stepped closer to him until your shoulder nearly brushes his arm. There’s an expectation there. Built on everything that has passed between you. On the way he looks at you when no one else is watching. All he has to do is look at you. Just once. To see you.
“I’ve only just arrived,” he replies, adjusting his glasses.
And that’s it.
No hesitation. No glance in your direction. No acknowledgment of the space you occupy, the accusation you’re standing in. The words fall cleanly into the room and settle there, offering nothing for you to hold onto.
Something in your chest tightens, sharp and immediate.
Of course he’s telling the truth. Of course he is. That’s who he is — precise, measured, unwilling to bend facts for comfort. You’ve admired that about him. Relied on it. But this isn’t about facts, and you both know it.
Mrs. Collins nods slowly, absorbing his answer, her attention already drifting back to the book, to the problem that can be quantified and contained. “I see.”
It’s absurd, really. Nothing has been said outright. No verdict delivered. And yet the conclusion settles heavy in your bones all the same.
If Mrs. Collins had wanted to keep you, she doesn’t now. All of you know it. Yet no one offers you an opportunity to defend yourself, to put your case forward. They’ve both stepped ahead together, leaving you behind.
You look at him again, waiting stupidly, for something more. A correction. A clarification. Even just a quiet, “She wouldn’t do that.”
He doesn’t offer it.
When you look into his eyes, pleading, searching, all you can see is the flicker of doubt. You know without asking that he’s thinking back to when you had casually ripped a page from some random book some time ago too. He’s not staring at you accusingly, but the very fact that he’s not sure you didn’t do this is enough.
The distance between you yawns open, sudden and immense.
And when Mrs. Collins shakes her head and off-handedly says to Nanami, “You were right — she’s just not cut out for this job. Too emotional. Too unstable. Just doesn’t have what it takes,” that distance becomes a gaping chasm.
You stumble back, like you’d been struck.
Neither of them are on your side.
They never were.
“I understand,” you say at last, though no one has asked you to. “Perhaps it’s best that I see myself out early today.”
Your voice sounds steady. You’re grateful for that, at least. For the small mercy of not fracturing in front of them both. Because you will not cry in front of Nanami fucking Kento.
Mrs. Collins offers a polite, distracted nod, already reaching for solutions that don’t involve you.
Nanami says nothing.
And in the quiet that follows, you turn away and never look back.
i think nanami is used to being pretty quiet in bed. he doesn’t want to sound like a caveman when he’s blowing your back out, you know?
but when he starts dating you… well, you have a voice kink, and quiet just won’t work for you.
you breathe his name in his ear, you beg for more when he pulls back, you cry out with your head thrown back when he makes you cum. and his ears blush pinker at the tips the louder you are.
one night, when he’s been gone for a mission for nearly a week and came back and literally fell to his knees for you, his hands gripping your thighs as he stinks inside, you don’t even realize you’re moaning as he stretches you out.
“shh, baby,” he whispers, his breath hitching as you clench around him. “don’t wanna wake the neighbors.”
“s-sorry,” you whisper back breathlessly. “j-just— feels so good— don’t i make you feel good ken?”
he lets out a little chuckle, tucking his head in the crook of your neck as he starts slowly thrusting, pausing at the end so the tip of his thick cock can grind against your g-spot before he pulls back again. “of course you do, sweetheart. isn’t it obvious?”
you pout a little, though the expression is interrupted twice as your lips drop open in pleasure. “no it — nghh — it’s not. you don’t even moan when you’re inside me.” and despite the playful tone, there’s a slight edge of true hurt and insecurity.
he pulls back to look at you, hazel eyes searching your face and watching your expression start to crumple as pleasure starts to burn hotter inside you. “you really think i don’t enjoy this?”
“n-no, but—“
he cuts you off, leaning in until his lips are pressed right against your ear. the low sound of his voice, his breath on your back, his body on top of yours as he continues fucking you; it all makes you gasp, arching up into him. “you need me to make noise? need me to tell you how much i love this pussy, hm? how good it feels when you grip me — haa — that tightly?”
and for the very first time, nanami lets his moans fall from his lips right in your ear.
it’s insanely erotic, his voice only meant for you as he spills all the dirty thoughts he had of you while he was gone. how he couldn’t wait to stuff you full. how he’s going to wake you with his mouth in the morning just to have the taste on his tongue.
and as his pleasure crests like a wave, his voice pitches to a low rasp, his moans gravelly, almost pained as he fights off his impending orgasm.
“this cock is yours, baby,” he pants in your ear, his breath sending shivers down your spine. “you’ve earned it.”
you stare up at him in awe, and when he cums, his voice, breathless with pleasure as he moans sends you over the edge as well.
a/n: if he moaned in my ear i would not rest until i merged with him like a symbiote. like he would never escape me.
୨୧ choso’s just about as pathetic as a man can get. ୨୧
this realization comes to you after gojo begs you to give his friend a chance.
“please,” gojo says, and you scowl at him. “he’s nice. and i’m pretty sure he has a massive thing for you.”
“me?” you ask, incredulous. “i’ve never talked to him in my life.”
gojo sighs, flopping back onto your couch. “if i ever, like, loosely mention you in conversation, i swear he blushes.”
that’s how you end up in the living room of the frat friday night. loud, warm, the air slightly hazy.
choso right beside you on the couch, barely looking at you at first, all hunched shoulders and quiet glances, dark hair brushing his neck, dermal piercing catching the light every time he nervously shifts.
yeah, you think, he’s cute.
you end up sharing a joint, and that’s when you notice how he freezes every time your fingers brush his, how his breath hitches. it’s not subtle. not even a little. and when you lean a bit closer, knee nudging his, he almost drops it. across the room, gojo and the others are already smirking like they know exactly how this is going to go.
they don’t even try to hide it when they leave. gojo claps choso on the shoulder, says something low that makes his ears turn red, and suddenly it’s just the two of you on that worn-out couch, the music muffled now, the air heavier.
choso apologizes. for his friends, for himself.
you remember thinking how easy it is to get a reaction out of him. how all it takes is a hand on his chest, a soft question, and he’s unraveling right in front of you.
he nods at everything, says yes too quickly like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he hesitates. when he slips and said “please,” you know you have him.
“d’you like me, cho?” you murmur with glassy eyes, hand sliding up his collar and pressing against his nape, fingers deftly threading through inky hair.
“g—yes. yes, so much,” he exhales, voice shaking slightly as you pull him closer to you.
“wanna fuck?” you whisper, straddling yourself on his lap and relishing in the small, broken sound he makes when your glossed lips suckle at the junction of his neck.
“here? now?” his eyes bugger wide, hands squeezing your waist as your lips trail up, and up, and up, until you’re sliding your tongue in his mouth, bracketing your lips against his, swallowing his needy little moans.
he pants into your mouth as your hands pull at his hoodie and he shrugs it off wordlessly, cheeks flushed as your eyes trail down the milky expanse of his chest.
“pretty,” you murmur, and he whines, hands frozen at his sides when you slip your shorts off and toss them to the side.
“as much as i wanna feel your mouth on me,” you breathe, pupils blown, “i need to feel you in me. now. yeah?”
“y—yeah,” he shudders, hands fisting the couch beside him nervously as you tug his jeans and boxers down mid-thigh, his cock beading precum as it aches towards his stomach.
“i—ohmygod,” he slurs, whimper being pulled from his throat as you sink down on him in one shot. “please—”
“haven’t even done anything,” you say, hands locking onto his shoulders as you lift your hips slowly before dropping them back down, the motion making choso buck up desperately and moan into your neck.
“m not gonna last,” he whines pathetically, and you sneer, telling him to be good for you or you’ll stop.
you think it’s 30 seconds before he’s cumming, head falling back against the couch with a strangled sound.
he whimpers when you ask him which direction his bedroom’s in.
18+ :: get(o) cucked ! , satoru fucking you in front of his bestfriend after suguru gets dumped
“suguru,” satoru coos as he pulls away from your drenched core, a string of your arousal still connecting him until he licks it away. “i’m really sorry to hear about your breakup, man. hey, let me know if i can do anything to help, yeah?”
you whine at the loss, blinking open to cast your gaze to where your boyfriend’s phone is set up on your nightstand, capturing you as you lean back against the headboard, legs raised. without satoru’s tongue fucking into you, you regain enough rationality to try and pull down your shirt but he keeps a firm hand, holding it up just above your tits so both men can have a good view. “keep that shirt up, pretty. let him see those pretty tits bounce.”
suguru groans, dark hair tousled as he leans back against his couch in a state of dishevelment that can only be explained as a post-breakup slump.
“shut the fuck up,” he heaves, hand dipping below the frame to stroke himself. “you’re such a conceited asshole.”
you bite your lip, bucking up into nothing and satoru laughs at you both, slapping at your core lightly and making you jolt.
“what do you mean? i’m going out of my way to help you. i don’t just share my girl with anyone. isn’t that right, sweets?”
“you are a dick,” you mumble.
your cheeks burn hot, embarrassment flooding you even as his words cause a bead of arousal to roll down your core and he swipes it away with a rough thumb, licking it up with an exaggeration moan.
“god, don’t you wish you could taste her?” he groans for suguru. “so fucking delicious.”
“keep talking like that and i’ll go soft,” suguru says, but judging from the way his hand speeds up, you think it might be the opposite.
satoru grins wide, all teeth and arrogance, as he pulls you up. he sits facing his phone and drags you onto his lap, your back against his chest, legs spread over one of his muscled thighs. “don’t act like a virgin. i know you want a closer look. and she wants you to look, don’t you?”
you squirm as you feel the rough denim of satoru’s jeans press against your bare, sensitive pussy and try to hide your face in his neck. but your awful boyfriend only chuckles low, forcing your hips to grind forward. “aw, baby, don’t be like that. suguru’s just jealous over there, pumping his cock like it’s his only friend left. right?”
suguru’s breath stutters and he reaches over to adjust the phone for a better angle on himself, his fist wrapped tight around his thick shaft, sliding up and down with deliberate pumps. “you talk too fucking much. just get on with it.”
satoru laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest into your back as he rocks your pussy harder against his thigh, the friction building slick heat between your legs. your clit drags over the seam of his jeans, sending jolts of pleasure that makes you whimper softly, mortified that suguru can hear every wet slide.
“see that, suguru?” your boyfriend purrs. “she’s soaking my pants already. ride it harder, baby—grind that pretty pussy on me. tell him how good it feels. or are you too embarrassed? come on, moan for the camera.”
you bite your lip, heat creeping up your neck, but satoru’s fingers dig in, forcing a rhythm back and forth and back and forth, your folds parting around the hard muscle.
you shudder out his name. “this feels…”
“that’s it, sweets,” he drags out sweetly, nipping the lobe while his other hand slides up to pinch your nipple through your shirt. “fuck my thigh like you mean it. look at suguru, baby—his dick’s leaking just from watching you. bet he wishes he could feel this juicy cunt instead of his own hand. right, suguru? admit it, you’re hard as fuck for my girl.”
suguru grunts, his strokes audible now, fist slick with his own pre-cum. “you’re such a dick, satoru. bet you cum from your own dirty talk.”
knowing just how desperate your boyfriend can get, you whine as the pleasure coils tight. your pussy clenches around nothing as you rut faster, clit throbbing against satoru’s jeans.
“w-wait,” you manage through your gasps, humiliated how loud your slick sounds are, how suguru’s watching every desperate grind. “oh, fuck—it’s too much!”
satoru smirks at the phone, his thigh flexing up to rub harder against your swollen lips. “hear that? that’s how she sounds when she’s close. but you’re not getting there, baby, not yet. slow down—tease yourself for him. show suguru how you edge that pussy on my leg.”
he stills your hips just enough to make you whine in protest, hands closing around his biceps in an attempt to steady yourself.
“fuck you, satoru,” suguru groans, but his hand doesn’t stop, twisting around his cockhead with a wet schlick. “let her cum. you’re dragging this out.”
“jealous much?” satoru shoots back, then turns his attention back to you, murmuring in your ear. “want more? you’re gonna have to work for it. come here, face me and get on all fours.”
he doesn’t wait for you to move, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and tugging them open just enough to free his thick cock. it springs out, hard and veined, the tip already glistening with pre-cum as he gives it a lazy stroke.
you do not need to be told twice.
“come on, crawl over and wrap your pretty lips around me. show suguru how you do it.”
you turn and crawl up his legs, ass lifted for the camera, thighs parting slightly to expose your dripping folds, the cool air hitting your heated skin.
satoru leans back on his hands as you take over stroking him, kissing the length of it. “open your mouth, let me see your tongue.”
you part your lips, tongue flicking out to lap at the salty bead on his tip before taking him in, hollowing your cheeks as you suck.
he groans, thrusting shallowly to hit the back of your throat, the stretch making your eyes water. one of your hands reaches back between your thighs, fingers sliding through the mess of slick and drool, circling your clit before dipping into your entrance with a soft squelch.
distantly, you hear suguru curse.
your fingers work your pussy in rhythm, plunging in and out, thumb rubbing your swollen clit as juices coat your hand and trickle down your thigh.
“shit, look at her.” suguru’s breath hitches audibly, his strokes turning rougher, cock twitching in his grip. “ass up like that, fingering herself while she’s slurping on your dick. you’re a bastard for this, satoru, but fuck if it isn’t working.”
satoru chuckles before breaking into a soft moan. “yeah? bet you’re leaking just watching. hear that—ngh—sound? that's her creaming on her own fingers because my cock’s got her that desperate. go on, baby—moan around my cock. tell suguru how much you love sucking me off, how you’re throbbing for it.”
he pulls your hair tighter, holding you steady as he grinds deeper and deeper, the head of his dick pulsing against his tongue.
your mouth works satoru’s dick with desperate suction, tongue swirling around the thick shaft as you bob deeper, gagging on the length that fills your throat. saliva drips down your chin while your fingers plunge relentlessly into your soaked pussy, chasing your own high. your ass stays high, thighs spread wide for the phone, letting suguru watch every clench of your walls and every glide of your thumb over your throbbing clit.
pleasure builds in your core, your body trembling on the edge, but satoru’s breaths turn ragged, his hips stuttering as he grips your hair tighter.
“fuck, baby—slow down,” satoru grunts, voice rough and strained, his cock swelling against your tongue. before you can double down, he yanks you off with a wet pop, your lips leaving him shiny and slick, strings of spit connecting you to his pulsing head.
you gasp for air, spluttering. “why?”
satoru strokes himself once, twice, eyes flicking to the phone, where suguru’s face is flushed, his own fist flying over his cock.
suguru seems to catch onto what you don’t because he suddenly says, “wait, don’t stop—let me see her cum, satoru, you asshole—”
“night, suguru. enjoy the blue balls.” satoru grins, leaning forward and around you to end the call with a wet finger.
he tosses the phone aside, not giving it another glance, and hauls you up by your arms like you weigh nothing. he drops back into the bed and pulls you up onto his lap, your pussy clenching empty now that your fingers are gone.
“did you like that, sweets?” he coos, though he knows the answer, if your state is any indication.
“that was mean.” you pout, squirming. “he was going to cum.”
“i’m not letting anyone see you cum.” his hands slide down to your hips, lifting you over his cock. “up you go, ride me proper.”
he lines you up, the broad head nudging your dripping entrance and making you whine in anticipation.
you sink yourself down with a sharp cry, his thickness stretching you wide, filling every inch until your ass meets his lap, buried to the hilt. the burn of the stretch mixes with relief, your walls fluttering as he wastes no time—thrusting hard, the slap of skin on skin filling the room.
satoru grabs your wrists, guiding your hands to the headboard above. “hold on tight, baby, i’m not going to be able to slow down.”
you obey, fingers curling just in time as he starts fucking up into you in earnest.
his hips snap upward with brutal force, cock dragging against your inner walls, hitting deep with each drive. your tits bounce with every thrust, nipples hard and aching in the cool air, while your pussy gushes around him, coating his shaft and balls with your arousal.
“ah—fuck! satoru, you’re so deep,” you moan, body jolting, the headboard creaking under your grip.
he angles his hips just right, grinding against that spot inside that makes stars burst behind your eyes, his free hand sliding up to pinch your nipple, twisting it until you arch your back. sweat slicks your skin, the room smelling of sex and sweat, but he doesn’t let up—pounding relentlessly, his voice dropping low and filthy as words spill out.
“god, look at you, taking my cock like a greedy little slut—your pussy’s sucking me in so tight. you’re so fucking wet. bet you loved putting on that show for suguru, didn’t you? fingering that wet hole while he jerked off to you. but now it’s all mine, baby—gonna fill you up, pump you full of cum.”
you feel him throb harder inside you, his thrusts growing more erratic as his own voice turns him on more. you submit yourself completely, falling into his chest and letting him bear hug you, burying his face in your neck and inhaling ferally.
“fuck yeah—imagine suguru hearing you scream my name right now, knowing he can’t have this tight pussy wrapped around him.” satoru’s breath hitches, his grip around you tightening.
“gonna cum?” you stutter, meeting his thrusts.
he nods frantically, a whiny tilt entering his tone. “so fucking much, baby, oh god. gonna cum so hard for you.”
with a guttural groan, he slams up one last time, burying deep as he cums hard. hot spurts flood your pussy, coating your insides, his body shuddering beneath you while he rides out the waves, still muttering praises between clenched teeth.
“that’s it, take it all,” he rasps, hips jerking shallowly to push it in deeper, your walls clenching around him in response, drawing out his release until he’s spent panting into your hair. “god, you kill me every time.”
you let out a breath, slumping into him fully. “think suguru is still mad?”
your boyfriend chuckles weakly. “i gave him some real life material. he should be grateful if anything.”
his phone pings on time and satoru groans, fumbling around the sheets until his fingers close around it. he holds it up and you tilt your head over your shoulder to see.
there’s a single notification.
suguru: involve me
a/n: thank you to @jayflrt 4 alpha reading !! we can't talk here, email me
