Faith༉‧₊˚.

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.

For another night that Hiromi lay in the futon close to yours, it lead you to wonder how much you've already done here, and how much you must've drained his bank account in the few days. You'd been getting massages and using all the hot water.

It was unclear as to whether he'd already paid for the stay here, if there was no timeframe - he did say you would stay for however long was needed.

You weren't sure any holiday was enough to heal you from your parents, nevermind the curse. 

You stared at the dark ceiling.

"Hiromi."

The given name on your tongue was an unfamiliar word you wanted to taste, one you'd already moaned not once, but twice.

His reply took you away from invasive thoughts.

"Hm?"

Your warm hands interlinked over your stomach. under the duvet. "You didn't send the details to pay my half of the stay."

Your words had been clear, but they still faded into suffocating silence.

The duvet and pillow rustled. You turned your head to the barely distinguishable silhouette, awaiting his response.

"You don't need to pay me back," he said, voice low but awake. "I'm your husband."

The beating organ behind your chest fluttered from dissonance of the title and the reality.

"Are you sure? I couldn't."

"I'm sure," he replied.

You were thinking of something else to keep a conversation. Words came out easier when you couldn't see his blank yet soft expression.

You lightly cleared your throat. "Do you dislike talking about the curses?"

Cursed spirits, despite your lack of knowledge, felt like the only exclusivie topic between you and him - since he hadn't met anyone before you that could also see them.

"Not if you don't."

"I just can't imagine how it's been. To see them for so long," you said, almost a whisper. "How did you begin kiling them?"

He was forced to see your turmoil in the embodiment of a curse. You surmised that he was also struggling ever since you'd accidentally walked in on him in the bathroom that other night.

Was the abundance of curses apart of the reason?

 "It almost felt like something surged in me."

"Like an awakening?" you asked.

He shifted beside you slightly. "I'd be stronger if it was that. I got practice from killing smaller curses."

He could fight, whether the curse was or wasn't a worthy opponent.

If he'd stepped into your room much earlier, he would have seen and killed the blue curse in its much smaller state. He wouldn't have mentioned its existence to you, assuming you couldn't see it and that would be that. Maybe you wouldn't even be at the ryokan right now, if that happened.

"You were very strong," you blurted. The words caught up to your brain and you added, "That night."

"Not any other time?"

Was he…teasing?

"In the courtroom," you corrected, swallowing. His effect on you was seamless, that it was difficult to banter with him.

"You've seen my cases?"

Did he not know who he was?

You'd never seen his face until you met him for the first time, but you'd known his name. Every law student and lawyer in Japan did.

"In law school," you replied.

"I didn't realize I was that old, is all."

In the dark, you couldn't resist the small smile growing on your lips.

"You were strong too," he said. Your smile froze. "That entire day."

Your knees squeezed under the covers, almost near your chest.

That entire day.

He didn't need to specify what had gone on. He noticed you'd been holding back when your and his parents came over.

"I wasn't," you breathed. Your mind painted white piling up like snow on the kitchen floor. Flour had spilled over the floor, a depiction of your spiraling thoughts.

"You were, considering…" He lightly cleared his throat. "I didn't defend you."

You wanted to dwell less on the past, but you were surprised Hiromi remembered the times he was around you. Fleeting moments with him felt less disposable that way.

"I don't expect you to defend me," you responded.

The words were soft, but honest. He was only being respectful to your parents - his in-laws.

He didn't know anything about you. For all he knew, you were a horrible daughter that treated her poor parents like they were worthless.

Yet, he'd arranged this trip solely based on the fact that you were scared and stressed.

Most men did not go that far. Perhaps Hiromi among men was like finding a blood-red rose in dead weeds.

The next morning, a basket waited on the engawa. A staff member had delivered fresh yukatas and sandals, matching couple ones.

Hiromi's yukata was beige with a dark purple obi. Yours was lilac with a light cherry blossom pattern, and a beige obi to contrast his.

The new sandals consisted of modern geta for you, with a slight heel. The solid wood looked tough.

You stepped through the hall to give him the clothes.

His deep voice came from the living room. You stopped in front of the ajar door, the basket of clothes in your hands.

"We're well, Kaa-san. How are you and Tou-san?" he spoke.

You looked down to his yukata. You didn't mean to eavesdrop, but there was something in the formality that caught your attention.

You couldn't recall him using honorifics for his parents, unlike how you called yours.

"No, it wasn't long by train," he said.

You remained still.

"I don't know what my mother told you." A short silence passed as he listened. "No, no, we just need a break."

My mother.

Your eyes drifted down the hall.

You were hoping it wasn't what you thought.

"Work has been nonstop, but she also needed time away."

"No, I don't believe she has."

His tone seemed too polite for someone that had loving parents.

Everything was adding up to your suspicion.

You weren't banning your parents on calling Hiromi, but they hadn't even called you, their own daughter. You doubted he was the one to call them first.

Then again, you didn't know how much he and your parents had spoken before you'd gotten married; before you even met him.

"Yes, she…" he paused and you turned your ear to the door. "She's been taking care of me."

Your palms grew sweaty gripping the handles of the basket. You hoisted it up with an arm, to not drop it and reveal your presence.

It's not your house. You should be more careful.

I was just reminding her to take good care of you.

"Hm. Granted I've…left her to it here."

He sounded hesitant, almost ashamed.

She was treating you like a nuisance to your own husband, and maybe you were, but she didn't have the right to check.

Your parents were making sure you were fulfilling your worth as a wife, if that was all you were good for now.

The few days here were spent in fragments alone. At the same time, it felt simultaneously difficult for you to feel normal around Hiromi.

He must've preffered to keep you at arm's length - just as he'd always done since the day you met him.

If Hiromi was a red rose among dead weeds, you were a thorn in his side.

 Attempting to move on, you left your eavesdropping spot to change into your yukata. Like the other one, it was your usual size on the label, but it fit loosely - as beautiful as it was.

And just as before, you had the same struggle with tying the obi tightly around a loose yukata.

You wanted to ask Hiromi about the call and you weren't sure when a good opportunity would be, but it was wrong to listen in the first place.

You felt stupid for even being upset. Emotions were futile.

Feel them, instead of enduring them.

The door slid open, just as you'd gotten the urge to tear the yukata off and hide under the futon's duvet.

You kept your gaze to the mirror. It wasn't like you were naked, so he didn't think anything of it as he stepped in. The obi was tied behind you, even if it wasn't the most secure.

"They left more yukatas and sandals," you simply informed.

You stole a glance at his tall figure in the mirror. He nodded, briefly glancing into the basket on the bed, before his head turned to you.

Your eyes dropped back in front of you. His hair was dry and soft, and you wanted to card your fingers through it.

"It's loose again?"

You didn't respond, as footsteps crossed the tatami. How could he tell in an instant?

"Do you want me to tie it?"

"It's okay." Your voice came out quieter than intended.

She's been taking care of me.

Did he mean it?

"Here."

He came behind you, soap and cologne clouding you. You didn't run to stop him.

The feel of the obi loosening was poetically intimate, letting you imagine him taking it off because he wanted to see what was underneath.

Regardles of the thought, your hands held the lilac yukata together tightly and helped him loop the obi around you a few times, as you'd done last time.

You may have endured your emotions, but he hid his. Whenever you felt like you were the one always having breakdowns, you remembered the man in the bathtub with all his clothes on.

Was he sinking?

Whether he was stuck to one side like a seesaw, or if he was at the bottom of the ocean, you wondered how he'd get up.

Around you, Hiromi was a quiet man. He was the loudest lawyer in Japan, because of how silent the courtroom became whenever he spoke, not because he shouted.

Yet, he did not give you his voice because he owed you nothing. You were not a case he needed to solve or a mystery that kept him in the office all night, making you wonder over and over why he married you.

You did not ask, since you'd also become a quieter woman.

Instead, you stumbled. Your heart jumped at the loss of balance, feet slipping as you were pulled from behind.

Hands left the obi and quickly grabbed your wast. He caught you in the warm front of his body.

You couldn't help but blink up to the mirror as you stilled. He was glancing down at you, round eyes bigger with concern.

"Sorry," he spoke, voice lulling you. "I pulled too tight. Are you okay?"

You quickly nodded, before he released you and trusted your feet to work. You were disappointed at the quick absence of warm hands around your waist.

The almost-tumble had pulled you out of apprehensive thoughts for only a moment, a moment where it felt like his touch belonged to you.

The day flew past. Your feet, especially your ankles, were sore from your new geta, adding to the bad mood.

The walk to and from the communal building killed you, making your back ache too. Hiromi headed back to the ryokan after breakfast, while you stayed. A massage was ineffective and you itched to get back to your old sandals on the walk back.

Your geta were not the only thing to throw you off balance. Your parents had managed to worm their way into your head, even when they were not directly talking to you.

Who else would try to catch you out, if not your own blood?

You tried not to seem too affected in front of Hiromi. It wasn't his fault and he hadn't said anything bad about you.

Your pace was still slow, even when you wore your old sandals to dinner.

"Just tired," you'd simply said, when he asked if you were okay. You knew it was a terrible lie - how tired could you be here?

Afterwards, you weren't sure where Hiromi was in the ryokan. You sat at the edge of the futon, feeling unproductive - even if that was also the point of being here, you'd been sluggish today.

You felt you were back to square one. Your parents had ways of reminding you of your place, even in conversations you were not present in. It seemed they expected Hiromi to do the same, by calling him and checking if you were an adequate wife for him.

You knew the answer was no, yet you couldn't handle it if he were an unbearable man either, that viewed a woman's only purpose to be a housewife. Hiromi was an anomaly, one you were lucky to have.

A husband was a central title, but for him, it was a distant position.

A few more moments of moping around lead you to realize how surprisingly thick the lattice doors were, when you hadn't noticed his footsteps. The shoji opened.

His upper half was bare with damp hair, while his lower half wore a towel. You'd accidentally seem him shirtless before at his house, and you'd even sat beside him while he was naked in the bath, but now you felt like a pervert.

"Sorry." You averted your eyes, wincing as you struggled to stand.

You felt wary eyes on you while you pushed yourself from the floor. "No, sorry, I forgot my robe."

You pressed your lips together, about to step past his lean body, until he spoke.

"Do your legs hurt?" he asked. You stopped in your tracks, glad there was still space between you as you glanced up to him.

Your lips parted, nodding in admission. "It's the geta they delivered this morning, but it's not as bad as it was earlier."

Realization flickered in his brown eyes. A droplet of water trailed down his prominent nose.

"Your yukatas don't fit and the geta cause you pain. Shall I ask for new ones?" he asked.

You paused. You didn't know how much longer you'd be here for to ask for more, and you secretly wanted him to continue securing the obi around your waist.

"Maybe tomorrow," you said.

He gave a nod and you thought that was it, until he spoke again.

"I'll go to the convenience store and get something for the pain."

Your eyes grew wider and immediately, you shook your head. The convenience store wasn't far, near the coffee shop you'd gone to, but it was the evening and he'd just showered for the night.

"Please, it's really okay. Thank you."

"I'll get changed and go. If you're going to shower, be careful or just use the ofuro," he replied.

You let out a small breath akin to a sigh.

As he said, you bathed in the ofuro and dried off in the bedroom. There was a folding screen in the closet that you should have taken out sooner, with you and Hiromi sharing the room.

Conveniently, as you put a robe over your shoulders, Hiromi knocked on the door.

"Come in." You felt weird saying it as you tied the robe over your naked body, even from behind the folding screen.

When you stepped out, a plastic bag dangled from his fingers. Brown eyes scanned your robe.

"You didn't need to go to the trouble. Thank you, Hiromi," you said, as he took out a few gels and packets of painkillers.

"I was going to go in the onsen first," you added, hence your robe. Maybe the heat and steam would free your mind too. "I'll take the medicine after."

He nodded

"Mind if I join?"

You wondered if there was a problem in your knees too, with how they almost buckled at the words.

When his mother suggested an onsen ryokan as your honeymoon, it was what you envisioned; sitting beside or opposite him in hot spring water. But that was exactly it - imagination.

"Of course not," you said softly, attempting to swallow the nerves catching in your throat.

Hiromi gave you a headstart to the onsen, since he'd gone to wash off again briefly before he joined you. You could release your robe without fretfulness of his eyes, but it wouldn't change much. The hot water soothed your feet for the time being.

The glass door slid open. Your heart raced faster with anticipation.

You reared your head to him briefly, before glancing away.

He almost immediately unwrapped his robe and got in, pale ripples of water spreading outward.

Your teeth clung to your bottom lip, careful not to draw blood over the onsen. You wished you could put a hand over your mouth to silence any breath of yours that could be audible, since holding your breath wasn't a good idea.

You became acutely aware of small details that you felt he could see even in the dimness of lanterns. Your breasts floated, although they were hidden. The water concealed above your shoulders, yet you felt exposed.

Stream danced between you and wet your eyelashes, making your vision soft and shrink the world to only reflect the pool and him.

You allowed yourself a glance to him, where in a small moment through the tension, his body looked relaxed. Hiromi didn't seem to be shy about being naked, at least, when he was submerged deeply in water.

His shoulders were back, but his posture was no longer tense. His brunette hair was already damp and droplets gathered along his skin. His collarbones before his broad shoulders were deep and defined by the shadows of the evening and onsen's roof.

You felt yourself sink a fraction deeper into the water, before he was the first to break the silence.

"Where does it hurt?" he asked.

Your tongue briefly wet your lips. "My ankles, mostly. It's not that bad."

"You were limping. I'll ask them for different sandals," he said."

You shook your head."No point."

"Why not?"

You opened your palms under the water, drifting through it. "Aren't we going to leave soon?"

"We don't need to."

You inhaled deeply, mindful of your chest to not raise above water with the breath. You watched the ripples your hand made. "It's best we do."

"Why?"

"Because…" you whispered, eyes trailing to the fence covered by bushes - your barrier to reality. You continued, voice slightly clearer. "Because things will go back to how they were."

Maybe it was easier to pull yourself from the fantasy land here, where he spoke to you every day and ate meals with you - even if it was brief. You barely talked, and that wouldn't change.

"I know I've been…" he stopped, searching for the word. "Distant."

"You have things to worry about." you mumbled, trying to paint his face in the water with your mind, as you avoided the real thing. 

You felt pathetic. The call you'd overheard had gotten to you and it was impossible to hide it, at the end of the day.

"And you? You aren't a burden to me," he said.

 The words that should have relieved you with their honesty, left you with emptiness.

She's been taking care of me.

Even if he'd lied to get your parents off of your back, it hurt that he had to.

"It's just…" you started, wondering if you were really about to do this. "I don't know anything about you. Like, that night in the bath."

Your gaze finally found his, with concentration.

"What about it?" he asked. There were undertones of the cynical defensiveness of the Hiromi from that night.

"You were fully dressed, in the dark. I thought you were going to drown," you whispered. "It looked like you wouldn't care if you did."

You managed to get it all out, so he knew how much you worried. Even if it was none of your business, you felt like an explanation would give you peace of mind.

Even the sounds of water stilled between you, as well as the gentle breeze of the night, before he finally responded.

"Sometimes, I find myself thinking too much," he began, voice steady but pensive as if it were a wistful dream.

"About things I can't change. I wonder what it would be like if I didn't care at all, if I did things I assumed I shouldn't do," he said.

He wasn't being specific, and he never was.

You could only attempt to read between the lines, that cases at work had felt impossible, even if he was the only one known for solving dead ends. That perhaps it would be easier if he was a typical, money-hungry lawyer.

"So you sit in a bath with your clothes on?"

A faint exhale, almost a breath of amusement nearly broke the tension. "Something like that."

"If anything's wrong," you began, softly. "You can tell me."

His brows furrowed, confused. 

Was it absurd that you cared? His own wife?

"You cared about my struggles with my parents," you added, feeling the need to explain. It wasn't quite what you wanted to say. Caring wasn't an act of exchange.

"Have I?"

Your back hit the edge of the onsen, shocked.

His gaze shifted from side to side, correcting himself. "I meant, you shouldn't feel like you have to care."

The words didn't help. It was more frustrating for you.

You weren't good enough to know the details. Maybe you would never understand him, so he didn't even give you the option of trying.

You let out an exasperated sigh.

"It's just that, I don't know what you think. What you feel, or go through. We don't…I never see you, to understand. You work constantly," you felt yourself ramble the thoughts as they came. It was a shock if he even understood anything. "Or, why you…"

Why you avoid me. If you ever wanted me.

"I don't know why you married me," you whispered, shoulders deflating.

Your name suddenly fell out of his mouth, concern in his deep tone, but the water was already rippling and splashing. 

Your fingers grabbed the robe before your mind even comprehended it. You pulled yourself up from the water and caught your naked body in the robe as you did, eyes returning to yourself as you shot out of the water.

"I'll go to sleep," you muttered.

"Please. Stay," he breathed.

You didn't place too much pressure on your feet after you stepped into your old sandals, in case you worsened it in an intense moment. 

His eyes burned into you, head following your movements as you stepped through the glass doors and shut the shoji, separating yourself from him.

now? the only way to describe your… involvement, would be friends who fucked. friends with benefits. sneaky links. whatever you could call that grey area.

your palm comes up to cover his mouth and muffle his moans. peeking up and over his shoulder to your closed bedroom door, you grit your teeth and huff, digging your ankles into the small of his back. “quiet,” you hiss. “my mom is quite literally downstairs,” you rustle beneath your breath.

sheepishly, he teasingly grins, all pussy-drunk and cute, making your heart cinch. pale cheeks flushed and pupils blown wide. “sorry, baby. i get carried away when you’re squeezing me l-like thattt,” he contests all-whiny, leaning down to connect your lips to his.

they slot over perfectly, like they were made for each other. he tastes like the slice of pumpkin pie your mom had given him that he’d finished in no less than three bites.

your legs tighten around his tapered waist, the base of his cock swelling inside of you when he buries himself to the hilt. he groans into your mouth, which rattles around the cavity of his chest, his bulbous tip sweeping pre-cum against your puckered cervix and dragging against your g-spot. god, you’re so plush and warm he might cum inside you. again.

you’d slapped him when he did it last time.

“m-might have to put a muzzle on you,” you giggle softly, stroking his tongue with your own.

“can do…” he pulls away and huffs against your cheek, a shallow thrust leaving him breathless. “can do whateverrrrr you want to me, pretty.”

pretty. you could argue that he’s the pretty one here.

his hands find the velvety underside of your thighs, before he’s pinning them to your bare chest. starstruck blue eyes appraise you in this new position—puffy folds slick with your mixed arousal glistening in the gentle bedroom light, your core fluttering around his length just an inch deep, desperate to be fucked. a lewd display for your childhood bedroom littered in soft pastels and plushies, but neither of you seem to mind.

suddenly, the air is knocked from your lungs when he slams a practically rough stroke into you, punching a groan from your gut.

“t-toru! i said soft, or else i-i,” you stutter, eyes nearly rolling into your skull. “can’t keep it in…” you trail off under your breath, nearly succumbing to overwhelming pleasure.

flushed cheeks, he chuckles all low and indulgent. “jus’ can’t help it when you’re all adorable and fuckable like this,” he admits, swiping a strand of hair from your sweaty forehead. “makes me wanna rearrange your guts.”

you whimper, watching as a glob of spit falls from his lips and hits your clit. warm, wet—you’re dizzy and twitching beneath him.

but then, he’s pistoning his cock inside of you, stretching you wide and full of him. you jostle and moan unabashedly. he tosses a pillow on top of your head, pressing it down over your face. “sorry, baby. you’ll j-just have to keep quiet for me,” he sighs dreamily, watching his cock disappear between your silky folds, dick spasming when you tighten up. you just swallow up every inch he gives you. so needy. so pretty.

all his to ruin. and he’ll make sure of it.

The schedule had been worked around your academic one — you work Monday morning, Wednesday and Friday afternoon, which are slots free of classes. Every 8am and 8pm though, you do have to be at the library to open and close, which involves stocking and double checking inventory. You’d usually spend those free slots studying in the library, but now you’re getting paid to work at the library. Which is great because, well, money, but also because the library’s not that busy or chaotic so it’s the best time to study.

It’d been a week since you officially started. 

Thankfully, you don’t run into Nanami very often. Maybe a couple times a day. Still, it’s more often that you’d like — by virtue of being on the same course and basically taking the same modules, just different classes, you have very similar schedules and so work the same shifts, more or less. 

Having developed an unspoken understanding of territories (he mans the first three floors, you do the next three, and the seventh’s so rarely visited that it’s practically no man’s land) means that you two purposefully avoid each other.

Occasionally, however, you’ll spot or walk past the other, carrying boxes or pushing carts or stocking shelves. Neither of you ever utter a greeting. The most you say are commands, like ‘Mrs. Collins wants you to look for some guy’s missing hat in Lost&Found’ and ‘we need to prepare the conference room for the book signing; you collect the flower shipment and I’ll fill the water vases.’

It works. 

Just about. 

There are, admittedly, some rough bumps along the way. 

For example, the two of you have developed an unfortunate habit of re-shelving each other’s work. Not because it’s been done incorrectly — he’s never incorrect, you have to admit even if it kills you — just differently. 

Nanami insists on aligning every spine so the call numbers sit in a perfectly straight visual line along the shelf edge, whereas you leave a small amount of breathing room between books so they’re easier to pull out. Every so often you’ll return to a section you’ve already done to find the entire row adjusted. 

You’ll fix it.

Later that shift, he’ll fix it back.

It’s a very minor thing, admittedly, but it’s a matter of pride. And you won’t let him correct you on anything you don’t deserve. The worst part about the back and forth is the scoff or huff he gives you, like he expected you to fuck up or he’s exasperated with you, as though you’re a child who keeps trying to fit a triangle in a circular hole.

Then there’s the cart problem.

The returns carts are shared, technically, but you’ve both taken to parking them in your preferred aisles. Occasionally you’ll round a corner only to find Nanami has quietly wheeled yours away and replaced it with an empty one.

“You took the Classics cart,” you mutter.

“You left it blocking the PA range,” he replies calmly.

“It was not blocking anything.”

“It was obstructing access to two shelves.”

You glare.

He keeps shelving.

There’s also the matter of reference requests. They happen in waves. Unpredictable, inconvenient, and always, somehow, when the two of you are within striking distance of each other. A student will hover at the edge of the desk first. You can always tell. That particular brand of hesitation — half-formed question, phone clutched in hand, eyes darting between shelves as though the answer might materialise if they stare hard enough.

“Um, sorry,” they begin, already apologising for existing. “Do you know where the Greek myth books are?”

And like clockwork…

You step out from one end of the aisle.

Nanami emerges from the other.

“I can help you,” you say.

“I can help you,” he says, at the exact same time.

The student looks between you, visibly startled, like this is the last thing they wanted. Classic socially anxious individual who already had a script planned in their head and both of your presence has derailed everything. Now, they’ll have to wait months to try again. Maybe even years.

Offering a warm, reassuring smile, you answer, “They’re just over here. Mythology’s grouped with Classical Literature, so you’re looking at—”

“—PA3000 to PA3049,” Nanami interjects smoothly, already stepping forward. “Primarily primary sources and critical editions. If you’re after something more introductory, the retellings are shelved separately under BL.”

The smile of yours twitches. 

God, why can’t he see you have this one? Why does he always have to interrupt and ruin the vibe with his blondness? 

“Right,” you say lightly, “but if you’re just starting out, I’d recommend going straight to the core texts. Translations of The Iliad, The Odyssey, Hesiod—”

“—which can be inaccessible without context,” he cuts in, tone still perfectly polite, although he does throw you a scathing look that clearly says ‘fuck off.’ “A modern retelling would provide a more structured entry point.”

Your smile is beginning to hurt your cheeks. “Or it risks distorting the original material before they’ve had a chance to engage with it properly. You should this, Nanami, since you have a track record for not engaging with the core themes of anything we’ve read.”

That earns you another scoff. 

Pushing his glasses up his nosebridge, Nanami brushes off your jab. “And sending them straight into archaic verse without guidance is more effective?” he returns. Under his breath, he adds, “Stop projecting your own illiteracy onto me.”

You gesture toward the mythology section, more insisting now. “It depends what you’re looking for,” you say to them, deliberately ignoring him. “If it’s for a course, you’ll likely want—”

Nanami steps in beside you, and gestures to the same direction, his explanation layered neatly over yours. “If you tell me which module you’re taking,” he says, “I can direct you to the exact editions your lecturer is referencing.”

You both fall silent.

And then, together, you smile.

To the student, your bright, sharp, unnatural and forceful smiles must look like the creepiest thing ever; the last thing anyone would want to see at a dark library. And it shows. They take a step back, laughing nervously. “Um…I can just—yeah, I’ll just have a look,” they say quickly. “Thank you. Both of you. I’ll just…yeah....”

You watch them go, your smile dropping the second their back is turned. Fuck, your entire face hurts. “Well,” you mutter, “that was a shitshow.”

Nanami exhales softly through his nose, already turning back toward the desk. “You were about to send them to Fitzgerald unprompted.”

“It’s a perfectly valid translation.”

“It’s dated.”

“It’s classic.”

“It’s stylistically inconsistent,” he fires back, giving you a look.

You scoff. “God forbid literature have style.”

He doesn’t rise to that. Of course he doesn’t. He simply adjusts the cuff of his sleeve, immaculate as ever. “Lattimore is more faithful.”

“Dry, you mean,” you counter immediately. “Painfully so. If you want someone to actually enjoy what they’re reading—”

“Enjoyment isn’t the priority.”

“It should be.”

“It isn’t.”

“Hi, can I get some help?”

There’s a beat.

You both turn at the same time as another student approaches.

And just like that—

The cycle begins again.

Sometimes, the student hesitates long enough to actually choose. Those are the worst. Because when they step, hesitantly, apologetically, toward one of you, the other always notices.

Always.

If they come with you, you don’t look back immediately. You take them through the stacks, voice softening, explanations tailored and perfect, careful but engaging. You pull books with practiced ease, stacking them neatly into their arms, offering just enough commentary to feel helpful, not overwhelming. But when you do glance over your shoulder, he’s watching, like you know he would be.

He’s no doubt waiting for you to mess up, for the student to express dissatisfaction with your recommendation so he can swoop in, a carcass-loving vulture.

If they choose him, it’s worse.

Because he’s efficient. Precise. Irritatingly thorough.

You linger longer than necessary, pretending to reshelve nearby, listening as he guides them through classification numbers, editions, cross-references. His voice low, steady, assured.

“And if you compare this translation with the Greek, you’ll notice…”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t move away. Not until the student laughs, genuinely this time, and thanks him. Not until he allows himself the barest flicker of satisfaction. And when he finally looks up, when he finally meets your gaze, it’s smug. 

Oh, it’s smug as hell.

All you can do is smile sweetly, as sweet as a stake to the chest, and warm as the twist. 

Although, you must admit, losing in the recommendation battle hurts less than when he helps you. Whether it’s carrying the heavier boxes for you from morning shipments, or picking up or putting away books you can’t reach, it’s all equally soul-crushing.

“I’ll take that,” he murmurs. 

“No, it’s okay, I got it,” you say, though it’s obvious to anyone with eyes that you’re struggling under the weight of a particularly big box from the truck. 

Nanami shakes his head. He slides his hand and arm under, skin grazing yours for the briefest moment, and he lifts the box into his hold. “Don’t be stubborn. Just leave the heavy lifting to me and go finish up your essay for Professor Tonee Sdark — he’s a stickler for on time submissions, you know this.”

Grumbling a little, you’re left with no choice but to give up on this one thing. “Fine. Than—”

“I already submitted my essay,” he says before you can grit out something you’ll regret. 

That familiar ‘I’m better than you’ tone has your jaw dropping. “Ugh, so what if you submitted early? My essay’s probably better than yours.”

“Mine is completed so I highly doubt that,” Nanami retorts, already stalking off with your box.

At least he makes it easy to not stop hating him, you bitterly think to yourself.

It’s the same story with reaching the top shelves. The other library assistants, the older ladies who look like they’ve been here since the founding, use the one stool that’s available. Which very, very unfortunately means that you sometimes have to turn to him for help. 

The first couple times you’ve asked him, he made such a big fuss about it, proudly citing some Tall Person Supremacy rhetoric with a self-satisfied smile, that you gave up and said, never fucking mind. 

In your refusal to stroke his ego any further, you started standing on top of shelves to reach the books you need. You climbed up and would hold onto the wood for stability, teetering dangerously. 

Perhaps in curiosity, Nanami finds you at the end of the aisle. His brows furrow. “What are you doing?”

“Leading women to freedom from men’s biological advantages.”

Nanami frowned. He took a step in. “Get down from there. You’re being irresponsible.”

“Go collect the tears of children to maintain your blondness,” you told him, rolling your eyes as you stood on your tiptoes. 

He shook his head and said, “I’m serious. Just get back on the ground and I’ll do it.”

“No,” you breath out, straining to reach the leather, “I’ve…got…it—FUCK!”

There’s a sharp, sudden drop in your stomach as the world tilts, your grip slipping from the shelf, body pitching forward. 

A hand clamps around your wrist.

Firm. Unyielding.

Another catches at your waist, steadying, pulling you back before gravity can finish what it started. For a moment, just a moment, you’re suspended.

Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. You’re close enough to feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your sleeve, the solid line of his arm braced under you, the faint, steady rhythm of his breathing.

Nanami exhales, relieved. His shimmering eyes pierce yours. “Are you trying to kill yourself?” he says, low, but there’s something off in it. Tighter.

His face is closer than it’s ever been; you can see the slight furrow between his brows, the way his grip hasn’t loosened yet, like he hasn’t quite registered that you’re not falling anymore.

Something inside you thumps. Once. Hard enough to hurt.

You both seem to realise the position you’re in at the same time.

“As if.”

“Ew.”

He lets go.

Immediately.

Like it burns.

The two of you jerk back just as quickly, nearly knocking into the shelf behind you, books rattling against each other as you regain your footing.

You smooth down your sleeves. He adjusts his cuff. You both clear your throats.

“Use the stool,” he says flatly.

“Mind your business,” you shoot back, just as quick.

Then, with identical expressions of thinly veiled distaste, you turn away, and pretend nothing happened.

And of course there’s the seventh floor.

Half of it is the restricted section. The other half is a place with velvet seats, worn away though still intricate rugs, and intimidating paintings of old, white men. There’s a fireplace on the other end; it doesn’t ever get used, because, well, this is a library. You discovered it in your first year after accidentally pressing the 7th button instead of the 6th on the lift. It was one of those jackpot! moments.

Now, in your third and final year, you like to sneak off here when you’re on break or you have some time before or after your shift. Sometimes you’re studying or revising, and other times you’re reading a book you picked up from one of the shelves downstairs.

It’s hard to understand why there aren’t many people coming here, if any. Only one or two occasional people every hour. You’ve spent hours on the seventh floor without being disturbed. Maybe they find it too quiet up here, too undisturbed, abandoned. 

Yet somehow, whenever you decide to take a quiet break up there, maybe to skim through a commentary on Sophocles, you’ll hear footsteps between the stacks.

Nanami, carrying a book like always.

Neither of you acknowledge the coincidence. Neither of you leave. You just sit at opposite ends of the long table, reading in silence and pretending the other isn’t there.

It’s fine, you guess. Mostly. Except for the small, irritating problem that every time you see him, you find yourself noticing something new to be annoyed about.

How his slacks are pristinely ironed, the fact that he wears slacks and not jeans or sweatpants, that he seems to have a sweater in every colour, that he’s never had a bad hair day, never any smudges on his glasses, not a ball of fluff on his clothes, and how he flips through pages by starting at the top before sliding down and flicking. 

You know he’s noticed things about you too. 

He’s been vocal about it — scoffing when you doggy ears a page to mark your spot, flinching when you crack spines, shaking his head when you drink or eat at your desk and leaving crumbs on the surface, and muttering about how you must be a degenerate for skipping to the very last page of the book for spoilers. 

Most of the time you spend up here reading is in silence. 

Other times, however…

“How was it?”

You look up from the book you’ve just finished. 

Nanami’s not looking at you. 

For a second, you think maybe you imagined his voice, and although the thought that you would want to hear it is disconcerting, you’re prepared to pull your gaze away. Then you notice the stiffness in his body. 

“It was good,” you responded, quietly. “A little flat in the third arc, but otherwise enjoyable. A 7.8 out of 10.”

His lips twitch. “You rate your reads?”

“You don’t.”

With the most imperceptible shake of his head, he replies, “No. I never thought to.”

Inspecting the book he’s reading, you ask, curious, “What about that book? What would you rate it so far now that I’m making you think to?”

“How can I rate something I haven’t finished? That seems unfair, don’t you think? I could find it convoluted now and then have a satisfying understanding of every scene when I finish because it’s the author’s intention for you to reach the end to make a conclusion.”

You groan. “Oh my god, you are such a nerd. Like, we’re all nerds, but you take it to a different level.”

Nanami huffs. He inspects his wrist. “You ought to start heading to your next class, and take your crass spirit with you.”

“Whatever.”

In seconds, you gather your belongings and march away to the elevator. As the door opens, you hear him call out, not too loudly.

“8.2.” A beat passes, and you imagine he’s cringing at the foreignness of his actions, wincing at the insult to the author for making snap judgements before seeing the whole picture. So it’s not surprising that he adds, “For now.”

When the door closes, you see your reflection.

And the smile you’re sporting.

.

.

.

By the second week, you’re slumped over the desk, playing with the paperweights and begging for a fight to break out over a plug. 

The fun of angering people by leaving cards giving others permission to take their spot wore off after the first week when people would glare at you as they came back to find their stuff piled on the floor. Always at you, and never at the person who actually did it. 

Honestly, the highlight of your day comes from late returns; you like giving judgmental looks to whoever’s late, varying the intensity based on how late they are. It’s pretty satisfying, you must admit, to say that this will go on their permanent record and by the third strike, they’ll never be able to borrow another book here or in any other institution’s library in the city. 

“I’d say the power’s gone to your head, but you’ve always been like that.”

You sigh, wiping the grin off your face. “And just when I was having a good day, here comes the devil to ruin it. What’s up with you?”

Nanami leans back against the desk, eyeing the clock. He’s got a frustrated look on his face. “I’ve finished my book, all the prep I need to do for classes, my internship, the next ChessSoc meeting, and all my upkeeping tasks for today. There’s still two hours left in my shift.”

“So?”

“So,” he says, stretching the word out as he stares at you over his glasses, “I need stimulation.”

Stapling the printed risk assessment forms you filled out for the next event that’s booked out the conference hall together, you think for a second.

On any other day, any other time, you would have told him to fuck off because that’s got nothing to do with you. But you’re bored too. Today’s slow. Slower than the usual library slow. You need something, anything, to entertain you. 

You chew the inside of your cheek, unsure. “Have you been to the restricted section yet?”

Brow cocked, he asks, “No. Have you?”

“No,” you say. “Do you wanna go? We can find something to read for half an hour.”

At that, Nanami frowns. “We’re on the clock.”

Rolling your eyes, you sweep an arm out at the very peaceful, very unstimulating surroundings. “Look around, dummy. We’re not going to be missed for half an hour. And if you recall any time you’ve ever been here before, you’d know that it’s very common for the front desk to be unmanned for quite some time. No one will get mad at us. It’s either that or you can go jerk off in the toilets, or whatever it is incels do.”

Nanami regards you flatly, but he can’t stop himself from pondering it for a second. The allure of old, priceless books is too great to not consider. He sighs. “Fine, but we have to come to a mutual decision on what to read; don’t just decide on your own.”

“Wasn’t gonna.”

Nanami gives you a look that basically says, bitch please.

There goes your plans.

You put up the ‘We’ll Be Back’ sign and head off to the very top floor, to the back corner you haven’t yet had the chance to really take in. 

The area’s fenced off with metal bars, caging the delicate books in there. The keypad beeps green when you press your card to it. You both step in. 

Door clicking shut behind you with a soft, decisive sound, you note how the air inside the restricted section feels immediately different — cooler, drier, carrying the faint, papery scent of age. 

The space isn’t large, but it’s dense with history. Tall shelving units stand closer together than the public stacks below, every shelf filled with volumes whose bindings look older, heavier, and far less replaceable. Some are wrapped in protective mylar jackets, others boxed neatly in archival cases with little labels printed in precise librarian’s type. 

A long oak table sits beneath a shaded lamp in the centre of the room, clearly meant for supervised reading. Even the light feels subdued, filtered through frosted glass panels so the sun can’t bleach the spines. 

It’s a whole different league here.

You drift slowly down the nearest aisle, instinctively lowering your voice though there’s no one here to overhear. 

Many of the books look like they’ve survived several centuries already: calfskin bindings rubbed smooth with age, titles stamped in fading gold, fragile paper markers poking out from between pages that probably haven’t been turned in years. 

Here and there are newer acquisitions too — facsimile editions, critical compilations, annotated translations. But the real treasures are the old ones. A shelf of early printed Latin texts. A small run of Greek tragedies bound in cracked leather. 

Inside you, something comes to life. 

The fatigue that was wearing you down seems to disappear. In its place is a small smile.

Nanami moves beside you with the same careful pace, his hands clasped behind his back like he’s afraid to touch anything too quickly. “Temperature-controlled,” he murmurs, glancing toward the unobtrusive vents along the ceiling. “Humidity regulation too, probably.”

You nod faintly, eyes still scanning the spines. “Archival preservation,” you say quietly. “UV-filtered lighting, limited handling. They probably log who checks anything out. It’s just incredible, isn’t it?”

His lips twitch. “Quite.”

The place feels less like a library and more like a vault.

It’s wonderful.

Still smiling, you jerk your head toward the rolling ladder. “Let’s read the Satyricon.”

Nanami pauses mid-step. “Of course you would suggest that. And I thought we were in agreement that we would decide together?” His words suggest disapproval, yet he’s gripping the wooden thing tightly and already making adjustments for you to climb it.

You glance over your shoulder innocently. “What? It’s a significant work of early Roman prose fiction,” you say, citing your professor. “You’re gonna agree with me, so don’t even try.”

He watches you climb the first rung, expression caught somewhere between exasperation and reluctant amusement. “Just so we’re clear,” he says dryly, “if Mrs. Collins catches us reading the most scandalous text in the restricted section during our shift, I’m telling her it was your idea.”

“Oh please. You’re acting like we’re reading monster fucking erotica. It’s satire, calm down.”

Up above, you search through the glass panels for the black leather with gold embossing. There are so many pristinely kept books here, all as early editions and as original as possible, that it’s hard to find. With a gesture from you, he pushes the ladder to the side, by a couple inches, as though any more would be totally disastrous. 

Pussy. 

“Ah! I found it!”

You knew the library had it; you’ve scoured every online resource to ascertain with enough precision what is in the university’s possession and what is not. 

Ecstatic, you glance down at Nanami, only to find him clearing his throat and snatching his gaze away. The tips of his ears are pink. You blink. What’s his problem?

“You alright down there?”

“Fine,” is his clipped and hasty reply. “Just climb down soon. Preferably now.”

That’s when it clicks.

You’re wearing a skirt. 

Sighing, you ask, “Are you perving on me?”

Nanami hurriedly defends, “O-of course not.” This would sound more convincing if he isn’t suddenly finding the specific shade of brown the ladder rungs very interesting. 

Carefully, you climb back down with the book in hand. He doesn’t shake you off when you hold his shoulder for balance as you land back on solid ground. There’s a shit-eating grin on your face. “You’re blushing — like my choice of panties today?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, scoffing. He takes the book from you, about to walk over to the table but you hold him back by his collar. 

Stumbling, he holds himself over you, to avoid crushing you with his weight, all while you’re leaning back on the ladder. He blinks furiously. “What on Earth are you do—”

“Did you like my panties or not?”

Nanami shakes his head in disbelief, trying to pull away. “You’re deranged. This is just like when you claimed reading translated works were as valid as reading works in their original language. Just ridiculous and plain wrong!”

He’s so reactive, so easily flustered, when he’s been caught. 

Usually, he’s cool, calm and collected. The epitome of Nietzsche’s Übermensch. The most he’s ever looked bothered is when he removes his glasses to pinch his nosebridge at whatever you’ve just said to him. 

Now, he’s avoiding your eye, pulling back but not quite using much force, and actually blushing. 

Why can’t you look away?

Why are you pushing it when you could just pretend nothing ever happened?

Why do you want to see how far you can go?

“Kento,” you breathe out, “did you like my panties?”

A startled noise comes from him, like he hadn’t expected you to say his name, and certainly not in the way you’d just done. He’s momentarily panicked, stupefied. Frozen. He snaps out of it, however, when you snort, amused by the reaction you’d gotten. 

Brows furrowing, he furiously admits, “I didn’t get a good enough look.”

That should be the end of it. 

You should let him go, cheekily read a couple pages at least before heading back down and actually doing the job you’ve been paid to do. It’s how you two work: backs and forths until you have to part ways.

But it’s no longer up to you. 

Nanami’s playing the game now, and he doesn’t like to lose. 

Just like the first Monday, the training, something hard touches your bare skin. Except this time, it’s not just one thigh — it’s both of them. He’s lightly skimming the book up between both thighs, forcing them to part ever so slightly. The coldness of the surface has your breath hitching. 

Hooded, his eyes are drawn to the almost imperceptible movement of your chest.

“Kento…”

“You’ve goaded me this far,” he rasps, eyes fixated now on the slivers of skin he’s never seen before. “I should see it through. I have to make a fair assessment before reading my conclusion, don’t I?”

Every reasonable voice inside is telling you to push him away, to end this mini battle of yours, to stick to using words to claim victory. But…you’ve been so busy that you haven’t touched yourself since you started this job.

It wouldn’t hurt to have a little run, right?

“Mm,” is consequently the only response you can muster.

Inch by inch, he slides it higher and higher until it’s creeping under your skirt. Still, he doesn’t stop. He pushes the material up your thighs, revealing more of you to his blown-out pupils. You’re suddenly aware of the softness of the cloth, of how close he is, of how dizzying his heat is. 

Seconds later, the apex of your thighs come to view. Your yellow panties peek out, as does the little bow at the front. 

You both release shaky breaths. 

He’s standing so close that your lips graze his cheek. Right by his ear, you whisper, “What do you think? Is it up to your liking? Is it getting your nerdy, little heart racing? Are you hard?”

Insulted, he huffs. “I’ll answer as soon as you tell me if you’re turned on by the act of flashing me your underwear.”

“I’m not.”

Nanami shudders at your voice, which in turn makes his tremble when he says, “Liar.”

“Am no—NGH!”

Your hands grip his biceps, which are thicker than you’d expected. He’d nudge your clothed slit with the spine of the book, expertly meeting your clit through your panties. Dark eyes flit up to yours, inspecting, observing, absorbing every flicker in them. “That’s how you sound when you moan?”

Maybe you should be embarrassed, maybe you should be ashamed. You feel neither. 

Laughing a little, you ask, “Why, you expected I’d sound differently?”

“I imagined you’d sound like a demonic roar or a banshee’s scream,” he off-handedly answers.

The insult doesn’t land. How could it when he’s grinding that book against your pussy as though he doesn’t realise he’s even doing it, far too focused on your face and the flutter of your eyes, the parting of your lips, and the way you fight to pretend you’re unbothered?

Hips grinding down, you wrap your arms around his neck, purely so you’d have someplace to rest them on. “You’ve been imagining me moaning, Ken? Kenny? Kenny Benny Bear?”

Nanami presses it up harder. You throw your head back with a gasp. His nose steals the opportunity to skim the length of your neck. “I’ve imagined you doing many-a things — apologising for being irritating, admitting defeat, realising your wrongs, coming to understand my point of view—”

“Alright,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I’m dry now.”

He talks over you as though you hadn’t said anything at all, “—and yes, moaning. Sometimes in pain when you’ve really pushed me. Often burning in a ring of hell where everyone parrots my views.” 

“Wow, your dirty talk is abysmal,” you tell him.

“Also,” he continues, giving you a pointed look, “sometimes in pleasure.”

His confession has you riding the spine of the book harder without realising it.

“I’ve imagined you writhing just like this,” Nanami mutters at the crook of your neck, tickling your skin. “I’ve imagined you completely at my mercy. I’ve wondered, at my very lowest, how you’d sound saying something other than an insult. And I’ve mulled over whether I’d be satisfied at the slightest hint of defeat, if I’d finally be able to shut you out of my head at night, if it’d be all I need.”

Your orgasm is approaching fast. He’s rubbing your clit faster and faster, learning the speed and pressure you like, lips mouthing at your neck, wood behind you creaking with the strength of his grip. The ridges of glued twine under leather is devilishly good. You can hardly think.

A conflicted groan registers on your ears through the building haze. “Oh god…this shouldn’t be getting you off. I shouldn't be getting you off. This…this is wrong,” he mutters, sounding quite afraid.

“Then stop, Kento,” you tell him. Your eyes are rolling back, chest arched out. You don’t mean the words you uttered. Or maybe you do. It’s hard to know what’s real and what isn’t.

He shakes his head. “Not when you’re close. Not when I want to hear how you sound, see how you look, completely unravelling for me. Because of me.”

Distantly, you’re aware you’ll regret this in the future. You’ll regret ever giving him this much power, but right now, all you want is an orgasm. And through heavenly miracles alone, he’s actually about to make it possible. “A-are you -hah- satisfied, Kento? I-is it enough?” you ask, suddenly.

Nanami’s eyes meet yours. He knows exactly what you’re referring to. 

“No,” he admits, voice breaking in anger. “Not even fucking close.”

That’s when it hits you. 

Whole body spasms wrack your body. A hand darts out behind your head, cupping it so you wouldn’t hit the wooden rung of the ladder when you throw your head back with a cry. 

Through the waves, he keeps rubbing your clit, breathing as heavily and as shakily as you. 

Eventually, you have to push his wrist away. “E-enough.”

Cool air meets your front as he steps back.

You’re both panting, flushed and clammy. 

Your skirt has ridden up your hips. Your panties are soaked, and if he can’t tell from seeing the wet mark at the front, he can definitely tell from the sheen that’s been left on the leather of the book he’s holding. 

Finally feeling embarrassed, you yank your skirt down with more force than necessary. Why were you even wearing a skirt when it’s chilly out? Did you somehow know this was going to happen? 

No, that’s improbable. 

This was a mere spur of the moment thing. Nothing more, nothing less.

Nanami exhales, letting go of the final balls of tension in his own body. He adjusts his glasses, then clears his throat. 

He inspects the book. “I’m no preservationist, but I’m certain vaginal fluids are damaging to leather.”

“Don’t call it that.” You wince.

Dryly, he asks, “What would you call it?”

“I don’t know! Just, don’t say ‘vaginal fluids’ again.”

He wipes the wetness off with the inside of his sweater, grumbling about the irony of your delicate sensibilities when you just came all over a book. Which is valid, you have to admit. Though he’s just as guilty as you are.

There are no cameras inside the restricted section, only outside, to record the comings and goings of visitors. And thank god for that, because this would have been enough to get you fired, expelled and sent straight to jail. Maybe even put on the sex offenders’ register.

Standing straight, you tell him with no room for arguments, “This never happened.”

Slowly, his eyes drag back up to you, taking your dishevelled appearance. Something passes in those eyes, a desire that’s shaken off, that’s yanked back and locked away, denied. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

With a silent understanding between you two, he climbs the ladder and places the book back. 

The two of you leave, being sure to lock the gate behind. 

You head for the lift. He briskly strolls past.

“Where are you going?”

He pauses. A muscle in his jaw ticks. “...The toilet.”

“Why?”

His eyes venture down his own body. You follow. 

“Oh.”

Ding!

The doors open. You step in, double checking your clothes to make sure everything’s in order. As the doors are about to close, a hand grips one of them and keeps it open. You blink at the return of the pink hue over his cheeks. 

Nanami runs a hand through his hair and seems to debate something before he decides to bite the bullet and say, “Your panties are satisfactory.”

Then he lets the doors close.

.

.

.

“Ha, I beat you!”

Nanami rolls his eyes. 

He’s reshelving the returned books from yesterday’s collection this afternoon. You’d come to bother him, deciding it’s more important to gloat than take care of anyone’s literary needs after emails with essay feedback made their rounds. 

Excitedly, you ran down the hall, peeking through aisles to find him. When you did, the first things you said weren’t hi, hello, how are you, they were, “What did you get?”

Asking for clarification was unnecessary; he already knew what you wanted. His answer had been a mark that’s 2% lower than yours but it might as well have been 20.

“Don’t let this go to your head — I’m asking the professor to remark my paper.”

Pinching his cheeks, you coo, “Who’s a sore loser? Who’s a sore loser? You are. Yes, you are.”

Nanami pulls his face away with a roll of his eyes. He walks around your body and pats your hip so you’d move an inch to the side. He slides another book back in its place. “I am not a sore loser. I simply believe he made a mistake. My essay deserved at least 5% more, which would put me 3% higher than you. So I win.”

“If your essay is indeed deserving of the 5%, which I highly doubt because your judgment is clouded by your own arrogance.”

“My judgment is never clouded,” he responds, frowning.

You lean against the bookshelves, peering up at him with a grin so wide and bright he grimaces at the sight of it. 

He narrows his eyes at you, another book in hand. “What else do you want?”

Shrugging, you pull at a loose thread on his sweater and nonchalantly answer, “Oh, I don’t know, maybe a reward.”

“A reward? Why on Earth would I reward you for besting me temporarily?”

The last word was unnecessary, you think, but you let it pass. “Fine, don’t think of it as a reward.” You ponder for a second, searching for the right word. “Let’s call it a prize instead. Yeah,” you drag the word out, satisfied, “I want a metaphorical trophy for my win.”

There are barely any people here on a Wednesday afternoon. Perhaps because of the lovely weather outside; they’d all rather hang out with their friends and bask in the sunlight. The two of you, on the other hand, are cooped up between dusty shelves, alone. 

Nanami mulls your words for a second. He cups the back of your head, pulling you forward. One of the last books is placed on the shelf behind you. He steps back, crossing his arms. “What do you have in mind?”

You gesture for him to follow you. He does, begrudgingly. 

On one of the study booths in the far corner, there’s your laptop set up. You shove him into the booth, facing the screen and able to keep a look out for the rest of the fourth floor, in case someone walks by, which you doubt will happen. 

He looks at your laptop, brow rising, unimpressed. Drawling, he points out, “So you wanted to rub salt in the wound by showing me your ‘superior’ essay.”

“Yep,” you chirp. 

Leaning forward, you wriggle your brows conspiratorially. “My prize doubles as a punishment for you — I want you to read my essay, aloud, from start to finish, so you’ll understand why it’s worth 2% more than yours. Easy.”

A look of utter contempt twists his features. He says, “You are a child.”

“I’m actually doing you a favour, if you think about it,” you argue.

“I highly doubt that.”

“No, it’s true,” you rebut, tightening the bow keeping your hair back. “By allowing you to read my essay, you’ll be learning how to improve your essay writing skills in the future. You should really be thanking me.”

Nanami wracks his brain thinking of some way to get out of the punishment but can’t seem to find one. Any sane person would shrug you; he doesn’t owe you anything after all. But he’s not sane. He wants to reserve the right to punish you back when he beats you in whatever unspoken challenge you two sets. So he bitterly acquiesces, “Fine. I’ll read it. I’d like it to be known, however, that it is well within my prerogative to voice my opinions if I find weaknesses in your arguments, or god forbid, typos.”

You frown, offended. “You won’t.”

“Hmm. We’ll see.”

Rolling your eyes, you get to your knees and climb under the table. “Would it kill you to accept that I’m better than you?”

His whole body tenses. Confused and cautious, he tilts his head down to meet your eyes. “What’re you doing?”

Toothily, you smile at him. “Punishing you. Don’t you know everything’s got a twist? It’d be pretty boring if you were just reading what I wrote. The real fun comes from giving you hurdles. Like Odysseus’ journey.”

Hands make quick work of his zipper, no match for his own which tries to stop you as he hisses, “Do not compare blowing me to the Iliad.”

“I didn’t say I’d blow you,” you say, gripping his dick through his underwear. His hips jolt. He’s already semi-hard. “Is that what you want me to do, Kento? You want me to blow you, to suck on your cock, and make you feel all good?”

Nanami grits his teeth. “You are a pain. I hope you’re aware that if I were to beat you in any matter of competition in the future, I will have something torturous lined up for you.”

“Yeah, emphasis on if.” 

Pulling his underwear down, you reveal him to you. “Woah, you’re huge.”

He hastily covers your eyes, embarrassed. Nanami spits out, “Don’t stare so intently.”

You shake his hand off, eyes wide and marvelling at what you see in front of you — he’s big. Impressively long with a good girth, neatly shaved, cleanly kept, nice prominent veins running up the length leading to a pink mushroom head. 

“That explains your audacity,” you breathe out.

He’s still trying to push you away by your face. When you grip his thighs, squeezing, his strength weakens, as though realising it’s far too late and the damage has been done. 

A little nervous now, you tell him, “I was just gonna jerk you off but now I kinda wanna blow you.”

“It won’t fit in your mouth, ‘huge’ as it is,” he mutters, insulting you without trying to. “You’ll only hurt your jaw.”

Poking it to watch it bounce, you bristle. “Sounds like a challenge. Haven’t you learnt by now not to challenge me? You know there are no ends I wouldn’t go to to prove a point.”

Nanami leans back in the seat, head resting on the cushy top, staring at the ceiling with some kind of defeat. “Yes, I’m certainly learning that now.” Then he looks down at you again, adjusting his glasses as though that’ll make his vision clearer. “But if you think I’m afraid of you, you have another thing coming.”

“That a promise, Ken?” you cheekily ask, proud of yourself for noticing an opportunity to make a dirty joke.

His cock bobs, lightly smacking your face. It towers over you, spanning the length of your face from chin to hairline. 

“That’s up to you and how well you can put that irritating mouth to use,” he replies, voice deeper now.

You grip his cock at the base, flinching at how hot it is. Nanami hisses. Experimentally, you give it a tug. A pearlescent bead oozes out of the slit. Without thinking, you lick it. He grunts. 

“Salty,” you murmur. 

He snaps, “Don’t make commentary.”

“Speaking of,” you say, remembering what all of this was for, “get to reading. Mama wants to gloat.”

A second passes, likely because he wants to argue, wants to get the last word in. Classic. Eventually, he decides against it. Nanami starts reading, starting from your title and your name. Begrudgingly, may you add. Painfully so, and without restraint so you understand how awful this is for him. And maybe it’s your imagination, but there’s an intimate quality to the way he says your name — his voice has taken on a softer tone, a warmer recognition, like spotting a landmark in a new city or finding a familiar face in a sea of strangers when you enter a room.

No, it must be your pussy talking.

It’s tingling at the remnants of his taste on your tongue.

You lick from base to tip, watching it twitch and listening for the hitch in his voice when he makes his way through your introduction. 

“Your style of writing is so different from mine,” he mutters, one hand scrolling on your laptop and the other resting on his thigh, drumming. “It’s -hah- bolder, more unafraid.”

Kitten-licking his cockhead like it’s a lollipop, you mentally give him kudos for his ability to stay so focused. His finger grazes your cheek when his whole body jerks, a shaky breath releasing above you. “Why would your writing style come off fearful?” you wonder, words coming out garbled since your mouth is otherwise occupied.

Nanami’s finger grazes your cheek again, this time intentionally. “Perhaps afraid isn’t the right word. Perhaps I mean, cautious, tentative.”

“Hmm.” In tandem, you suck on the head and jerk him off, licking the slit where more salty beads leak. “Why would you be cautious? If you’re sure about what you believe in, you should go for it, no?”

His eyes meet yours. His pupils are blown out. He licks his lips and gulps. “I believe that’s easier said than done.”

You shrug. “Try it one time and get back to me.” Then, you take as much of him as you can until his tip bumps the back of your throat, hollowing your cheeks and sucking hard.

“Fuck!”

Like a knee jerk reaction, Nanami grips your face, back arching. From what you can see, he’s flushed, not quite as pink as his cockhead but close to it. He’s breathing hard, panting like he just ran a marathon. 

Pleased with yourself, you hum around his dick.

His clutch tightens, pulsing in time with his cock. 

“I-I think I’m going to cum,” he warns you, tense all over and sounding almost whiney, like a scared child. 

Releasing him with a pop, a string of saliva splitting when you pull away, you untie the bow holding your hair. 

He opens his mouth as though he’s about to ask why you stopped but figured that that gives you too much power so he closes it. 

You wrap the thin, silk ribbon around his base. You pull it tight. A droplet forms at his tip that you kiss, licking it off your lips. He groans.  “The bow…” he says, pained. “What’s the bow for?”

“The bow, my good sir, is the real punishment. A twist within a twist!” Nanami’s brows furrow, thinking hard about what the hell you’re talking about. “What, you thought I’d let you cum? Just like that? Oh, Kento. Poor, wittle Kento.”

Somewhat clumsily, you climb out from under the table and sit beside him. The floor’s still empty, the sunlight still as bright as ever. Leaning your head on his shoulder, the two of you stare at his throbbing cock, all flushed, glistening with your saliva, beading precum, with a little bulge at the base where you wrapped the ribbon around his base.

Nanami sucks in a sharp breath when you cruelly squeeze the cockhead, thumb pressing the slit and rubbing the cum around. “This is low,” he growls. “Even for you.”

“Oh, hush, you baby. You can always take it off and relieve yourself whenever. I’m not Big Brother,” you say, licking your hand clean, acutely aware he’s watching the act. “But if you do decide to hold out, come find me after the shift. I’ll take pity on you and let you cum.”

You press a kiss to his cheek. Laptop closed and gathered in your arms, you step away. 

“I’ll be working the desk,” you say. “You know where to find me.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” he mutters loud enough for you to hear.

.

.

.

“Look who came back to eat their words.”

Nanami’s standing beside you, fingers drumming on the wood of the desk. He’s staring at the massive clock across the room, watching the second hand tick tick tick around. 

It’d been hours. You hadn’t seen him since. Truthfully, you thought he had called it quits by unravelling the ribbon in the toilets and jerking himself off. Or maybe he’d gone flaccid and forgot all about it. 

But no, he limped his way over to you, still flushed and looking like he’s a second away from strangling you. 

He doesn’t say a thing. At first.

You greet the last person in line, taking their book and their details, and thanking them for their prompt return. Meanwhile, Nanami still hasn’t said a word. Hard to say if he’s contemplating your murder or if he’s mentally scanning his memory of the Bible.

He’s merely groaning under his breath, occasionally brushing his hair back as though he needs to be doing something, anything, otherwise he’ll explode. 

Meanwhile, you notice the slight sweat on his skin, the way he shuffles on his feet, how he frequently rolls his shoulders back, and releases controlled exhales. There’s a tent in his pants, barely noticeable — he might have adjusted himself so that it wouldn’t show, which is wise — but definitely there. 

God, he looks awful. 

“You don’t look like you’re doing well,” you say, pressing a hand to his arm. “Hey, Nanami, forget what I said befo—” 

He snatches it back. 

You flinch. 

Nanami looks at you with wide eyes like he didn’t mean to do that. “F-forgive me. You caught me by surprise.”

“It’s alright. Do you need some water?”

Laughing, bitter and low, he replies, “No, not water. I think you know exactly what I need.”

Heat rushes through you, the same kind of heat you felt when you were on your knees between his legs just hours earlier. You bite your lip. “There’s still twenty minutes before closing. Can you wait?”

When he looks up at the ceiling, eyes shut, exhaling through his nose, his Adam’s apple bobs. He must be doing some serious introspection. A beat passes. He answers, “I’ll wait however long you want me to. Just…just don’t be too harsh…please.”

“Please?” you parrot back. You gawk at him. “I didn’t know you knew the word; I’ve never heard you use it.”

His eyes pierce you, pinning you to the spot. “Under the right conditions, I think you’ll find I’m very familiar with the word.”

That’ll do it. 

You place the ‘We’ll Be Back’ sign down on the front desk, resisting the urge to cringe at the realisation that you’re starting a pattern of misusing the sign to do things you know you shouldn’t do in the library full stop but also whilst on the clock.

Grabbing his arm, you pull him to the stock room somewhere around the corner. You shuffle in. The door shuts behind you. Light switch flicked on, you shove him back to the door, hands hurriedly unbuttoning and unzipping his pants.

Nanami shakes his head, pushing your hands away. “No, I lasted this long without touching myself; I deserve a little more for my reward.”

In a blink of an eye, he spins the two of you around, pinning you to the door. You gasp. “Nanami—”

“No, not Nanami,” he rasps above you. He lifts your chin up, bending down to inhale your scent. The body heat radiating from him is near-scalding; he’s practically feverish. “You don’t call me Nanami when we do things we shouldn’t, do you?”

You hadn’t realised. It never occurred to you that maybe you’ve been switching up — you’ve always called him Nanami. Everyone does. If you hadn’t heard the register be called out, you would have never even known his first name was Kento. So why is it so easy for you to make the switch without noticing? 

“What do you call me?” he asks, though it sounds more like an order, like a test.

And you don’t like to fail.

“Kento,” you answer, chest heaving.

His eyes flutter shut. He nods, lips curling at the corner, pleased that everything’s right in the world. Then he falls to his knees. You reach out, worried he had collapsed, but Nanami’s fine.

No, he’s more than fine.

The man’s shoving his face between your legs, inhaling so deeply one would think he’s run out of oxygen. You call out his name, holding him back by his shoulders. “Ken, stop!”

“Don’t,” he says, pleading. “Don’t tell me to stop. Not now. Please. I-I can’t take much more of this.” Nanami no longer sounds or looks like himself — the way he moves isn’t controlled, graceful, nor purposeful. It’s manic, jittery, practically feral. He’s nosing at the apex of your thighs through the thin material of your dress, pantyhose, panties. 

His cheek nuzzles the texture of your thick, black tights, which you had pulled on for warmth. Soon, long fingers tuck themselves inside the waistband and tug the material down. It’s fluffy inside. Nanami makes a delighted sound at the cloud-like feeling. With his help, you step out of your shoes and out of the tights. Cold air skims your skin. You shiver. 

“Okay, fine,” you tell him. “Just maybe don’t be sniffing me too much; I’ve been on my feet all day.”

“So?”

Nanami’s brows are knitted together as he gazes up at you. He doesn’t understand the relevance of your statement.

Face flushed, you reluctantly explain, “I probably don’t smell like flowers and rainbows down there.”

“I don’t want to smell flowers and rainbows,” he counters, offended. Soft fingers digging into the plush of your bare thighs, venturing higher and higher until he’s lifting your dress up to reveal what’s underneath to him. He tucks the hem into the underside of your bra so he’s free to see everything. “I want to smell you, however you are, in whatever state you’re in.”

Who knew just a couple hours of teasing would leave him like this — honest and all poetic? 

If you’d known a little ribbon around his dick was all that Nanami needed to look so utterly defeated on his knees before you, you would have done it the moment he opened his mouth years ago.

He nudges your clothed slit with his nose. You moan. 

“Kento,” you say, combing his hair back. He looks up at you, eyes hazy and wide, like a puppy. “Anyone ever tell you it’s impolite to play with your food?”

An amused huff touches your inner thighs. His hands are groping your thighs, feeling the softness. A moment passes. Quietly, Nanami admits, “I can’t do it.”

You frown, wanting to look at an invisible camera in the corner. “Um, hello? I’m already wet. Can you not back out now? That’s really rude.”

A thumb pushes in on your damp panties, right where your entrance is. A squelch reaches both of your ears.

Nanami releases a breath. “Yes, you are wet. Soaked. Dripping.”

God, is he just going to run through synonyms this entire time?

“Yeah, so eat it,” you tell him, exasperated. 

He shakes his head. Eyes fixated on the imprint of your pussy lips, he licks his lips. Then his eyes flit up at you. “Will you promise not to hold this against me? Not to tease me?” 

A pregnant pause passes. You try to process the questions. 

“Everything else is fair game — my losses, my stumblings, how I speak, how I dress, my stances, mistakes, flaws. All of it is yours, to do with as you please. I can take it. It’s as easy as breathing,” he says. Definitive. Certain. Angry?

His thumbs graze the lacy hem of your panties. He growls from deep inside his chest, like it hurts him to say any of those words, like they rise up in his throat covered in barbed wires. 

In this moment, you’re stuck to the door. Kept in place by his unrelenting grip. Pinned by his dark eyes. Terrified by the honesty in his words. Despite how unnatural any of this is between you, you don’t say anything to break the atmosphere. It’s too rare, too precious, too priceless, too easy of a victory to claim. 

“But desiring you?” he spits out, as if it was burning his tongue to hold in it. “It’s a truth I cannot face, not in the light, not this close, not when you’re looking down at me like you just might want me too.”

A pang hits you right in the chest.

You almost double over.

Has he always been this pretty? So devastating to confront, even in the safe confines of the storage room? Or are you just horny? That must be it; you’re needy, and anything and everything he says is simply dirty talk. That’s all. And you can play this game too. 

All it takes are little sentences that sound sincere, that sound like you’re playing along. 

Brushing his cheekbone, right under the rim of his glasses, you whisper, “That sounds an awful lot like a confession of love, Kento.”

Nanami chuckles, pressing a kiss to the skin that meets the lacy trims of your panties. “No, I’ve not yet hit rock bottom. But you’re right in that it’s a confession — I’m confessing I want to taste you. I want to touch myself, to cum with my tongue buried inside your pussy, with you moaning my name and admitting defeat, if only because I already have. In this regard at least.”

Oh god, you want that too.

The hunger in your core has been doubling with every passing minute; you’re growing dizzy with it. 

“We’ll never talk about this again,” you promise. “Nothing happened here. Nothing to discuss, nothing to regret. It’ll fade into the abyss with all the other things we’ve done and will never speak of again to anyone.”

“And all the others we’ll do?” he adds, already on the same page as you.

Whatever flashes in your eyes is enough of an answer for him.

Nanami yanks your panties down and licks a stripe up your slit from drenched entrance to pulsing clit. You both moan at the same time. 

“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

He’s making out with your cunt, spreading your juices around, making a thorough mess all over his face and your inner thighs. There’s no rhyme or reason to the way he eats you out. Eat isn’t even the right word. 

Consuming is closer.

Devouring.

Licking and sucking your clit, shoving his tongue inside, curling it against that familiar spot that has your eyes crossing and your body thrashing in his hold — he’s doing whatever he pleases. This isn’t even about you; it’s revenge.

It’s him evening the playing field.

Catching up.

“Spread your legs wider for me,” he mutters, lifting a thigh up so he can press in closer. He rests your leg over his shoulder. “Thaaat’s it. Good girl. Knew you had it in you to listen to someone other than yourself.”

You whine, hips riding his face, grinding your clit on his nose. “S-shut up, Kento. I only listen to -ngh!- good ideas. Up till now, you’ve n-never had one.”

Nanami worms two fingers in, squelching his way inside as he flicks the tip of his tongue on your clit incessantly. He scoffs. “We both know you’re so egotistical, all ideas that aren’t yours are wrong.”

“Hmm, I won’t argue with that.”

“No, you shouldn’t. Just stand still and let me hear how good I’m making you feel.”

And you do.

As much as you can, you try to keep under a certain level of noise, so people won’t hear from outside. In spite of your best efforts, however, you’re still moaning wantonly, whimpering obscenely, calling his name out desperately. Oh god, this is beyond humiliating. It’s worse than walking down the street naked as people throw tomatoes at you and yell, for shame!

But he’s moaning right into your cunt, and neither of you point it out to the other.

Ziiiiiiip!

He grunts. 

He must be jerking himself off now, tugging furiously at his cock to match the pace at which he’s drinking up your juices. 

Glasses foggy, they sit askew on his nose bridge. Not that he cares. His eyes are shut anyway, too lost in your taste, in your heat, the feeling of you.

You can’t see it, can’t see how pretty and messy his cock must look, can’t see him wrap his big hands around the thickness of it. And it’s such a damn shame. The mere thought, the images you conjure up yourself, that you pull from the deepest, darkest parts of you, that you’ve used at your most wretched hours, are good enough thought that soon you’re squealing. 

“Kento! Ken, fuck! I’m cumming. I’m cumming—NGH!”

Waves of pleasure bursts out of you, rushing through your body. You throw your head back, eyes following. You pull at his hair, guiding him to keep sucking your clit like he’s a toy grabbed from your bedside drawer. 

Through it, he aids you through your orgasm, muttering words of encouragement: “That’s it. Keep going. Use me. Tastes so good, sweetheart. So fucking good.”

In what feels like years later, all of it is exhausted out of you. 

You slump down the door, falling to the floor where your bare ass meets the coldness and the wetness of the droplets that had splashed from your pussy or dripped down your thighs. Your panty hangs from one ankle. Your tights in a pile.

In front of you, Nanami had brought himself to his feet, hand bracing against the door and the other jerking himself off so fast it’s like a blur. The musky smell of a cock that’s been leaking cum steadily for hours hits you. The air between is humid. Thick with your combined scents. It’s downright lewd.

And at the base, as pretty and as tight as you had tied it, is the ribbon. 

Your ribbon.

Basically marking him. 

“Take it off,” he grunts out. “Now.”

Head clear after having scratched your itch, you tease him by sticking your tongue out. His tip bumps into it over and over again. Each time, he groans. He leaves salty drops on the wet appendage. Your eyes roll back. 

“Say please, Ken. I believe this is as fair a condition as any, no?”

Nanami growls, trying to fight the instinct to do whatever needs to be done to achieve pleasure. 

But he can’t.

“Please,” he gasps out. “Please let me cum. I can’t take any more.”

You hum. “Good boy.”

With a single pull, the string unravels. The moment it’s loose, he spurts all over your face, taking you by surprise. 

“FUCK!”

Searing ropes of cum land on your skin, some in your hair and on your tongue. He continues jerking himself off, riding his high. Nanami’s moaning so pornographically, letting out sounds that you want to bottle up, that you worry someone will come knocking and asking who’s filming an OF. 

The neat hairs at his base glisten with sweat. His balls clench. Veins throb. His hand keeps tugging on his cock, drawing out his orgasm. 

If he hadn’t considered it yet, he should start an OF. You’ll even manage him.

Eventually, he begins slowing down, deeply satisfied. 

That’s when you strike.

You suck his tip, gripping his hips so he can’t pull away. You suck all the cum that’s still left in his balls, gulping every ounce down with no hesitation.

“No, fuck!”

Nanami whimpers. He fucking whimpers. 

He ruts into your mouth, a sharp contrast to the hands trying to push your head away. “N-no. No more. It’s too much. It’s -hngh!- t-too much. Please!”

Only when he utters the last word do you let him go. He stumbles back onto some shelves, pants around his ankles, looking like a fool. Though you’re not much better, what with your dress all twisted and tangled inside your bra and your thighs quivering. 

The two of you look at each other, both catching your breaths, both eyeing each other up.

Then you two stand up, fixing your hair, rearranging your clothes, wiping what needs to be wiped. Wordlessly. Expertly. Just a pair of individuals who have no self-control, whether with verbal battles or with your genitals. 

“I’ll leave first,” you tell him.

“Yes. I’ll follow after.”

And true to your words, you never mention it again.

.

.

.

“Oh, fuck, Kento,” you moan, tangling your fingers in his hair, either to push him off or to pull him even closer. Hard to tell. “W-we’ve been gone too long.”

Kneeling between your legs, he makes out with your cunt like he’s been starved the whole day. 

You’re in the back corner of the second floor, in the blindspot of cameras, hidden behind some shelves. Despite the dizzying pleasure, the delectable bliss of having your clit licked and sucked so intently, you’ve never allowed yourself to be too distracted; there are people walking around, and if you moan too loudly, someone will surely come looking. 

Rough hands push your stuttering thighs apart. Nanami breathes out, “Haven’t -hah- haven’t gotten my prize yet.”

Oh right…

That’s how you two found yourself here.

Again.

Since that day, you’ve been challenging each other to stupid, crazy bets: who can collect the most returns, who can reshelf fifty books faster, who gets turned to for help most, among other things. The winner gets to do whatever they want to the loser. 

Usually it’s hiding in the storage room and rutting against each other’s hands. Sometimes it’s under desks and using mouths, and only mouths. Other times it’s not sexual at all — it’s being the one to mop up vomit off the floors, dusting all the shelves of a certain floor, or simply, but not easily, stating loud and clear that you lost. 

Today, after finding a book the computer randomly suggested first, he decided his prize will be getting you to cum three times on his tongue without getting found out. And you won’t let him call you a sore loser with that smug half-smirk he has by backing out. 

Whenever footsteps near, you two part, breathless and dishevelled and pretending to be busy with rearranging the books on the shelves or fluffing the curtains out. As soon as the coast is clear though, you’d look at each other with half-lidded eyes, panting, and hurriedly reposition yourself so you'd be sitting on a desk and he’d be ravaging your cunt with too much precision. 

“Ken, come on,” you whisper, legs thrown over his broad shoulders.

Nanami groans, hand climbing up to grope your tit through your shirt. He squeezes until your clit is twisting on the tip of his tongue. “You’re close. Just hang in there.”

Minutes later, you cum. 

Biting your lip, you keep as quiet as you can as the third and final orgasm explodes in your lower belly, all while he’s suckling on the cream oozing out of your pulsing entrance. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you rasp.

Dazed, you slump back onto the table. Nanami stands up, leaning forward to stabilise his own shaky legs. His hair is messy, chin and lips glossy, glasses fogged, cheeks flushed, and an obvious boner in his pants. 

You smile. Legs locking around his hips, you pull him in. That chub nudges your bare and puffy pussy. 

He grunts. “Don’t.”

“Oh, don’t be coy now,” you purr, sitting up. You brush a lock of his hair from his clammy forehead and tug him closer. There’s no denying how hard he is; he’s about ready to burst. “You know you want to.”

Nanami looks so conflicted — he does want to, that much is clear, but he doesn’t want to get caught either. The classic battle between desire and logic rages inside him, and for a second it looks like the latter might win. When you begin grinding against his boner yourself, however, zipper rubbing your already sensitive clit and forcing a low moan out of you, the former emerges the victor.

“You drive me insane,” he growls, pulling your hair back to tuck his face in the crook of your neck. He ruts into your cunt with fervour now, so quickly lost in the feel of you, in the friction, in your warmth, in your softness. 

You hug him to you for purchase, wrapping your arms around his body. The strength of his shallow thrusting is rocking you and the table. He clutches you to him too, hugging you like you’re a pillow he’s been humping at night.

How odd it is that you’ve grown familiar with the shape of his body, with his warmth, his scent…

How odd that you find no embarrassment in being so vulnerably laid out for him, no indignation in being used so obscenely for his own pleasure, no reservations in moaning his name to aid in his search for release.

Whatever’s in the air that’s polluting your mind, you hope it has no permanent effects because after this trial run is over, you will never allow yourself to be so impulsive, certainly not with the most irritating person you know.

“S-shit, I don’t want to make a -ngh- a mess,” he says, hushed and panicked. 

“Take it out,” you reply. “Quickly.”

Whilst he hastily unzips his pants and releases himself, you grab the nearest thing from you and tear a paper from it. You replace his hand, jerking him off. He growls out your name, head thrown back. 

Then he cums.

Nanami gasps for breath, blinking in disbelief. “Did you…” He swallows. “Did you just vandalise a library book?”

Looking at the crinkled, yellowed page in your hand, which contains his spend, you answer, “Yeah. Whoops.”

“Whoops?” he repeats. “How on Earth are we going to explain that?”

He tucks himself back in his pants, looks down at the wet spot that rubbing against your pussy has left, and groans for a different reason. When your eyes meet, you know you’re thinking the same thing: we’ve just ruined a perfectly good book unnecessarily.

Guilt twinges in your chest. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you mutter, “No, you’re right. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“No,” he says immediately. He presses a kiss to the top of your head as he carries you down from the table. “Don’t apologise. We both weren’t thinking.”

You watch him drop back down to his knees, pulling the panties he’d tucked into his pocket and guiding your feet through them. He slides them back into place where they belong, making sure your skirt falls neatly over them. The coldness of your own juices makes you wince.

Nanami knits his brows together. He thinks about what to do. Unsure, he suggests, “Perhaps we can claim we found it like this. Surely, that’s believable, considering the other ridiculous things we’ve encountered on this job.”

Warm eyes glance at you. 

He frowns.

“Are you alright?”

“Y-yeah.” You clear your throat. “Yes, yes, I’m good. No, totally. We can let Mrs. Collins know we found it like that. It’s an autobiography from that politician she doesn’t like so I’m sure she won’t mind.”

Those same eyes narrow on you, but he doesn’t prod. 

Giving you a once over, he nods, satisfied that everything’s right. “I’ll go ahead. I’ll see you later.”

“Yep. See you later, buddy.”

Nanami flinches, like he’d been struck. “Buddy?” he almost spits out. His eyes narrow again, more certain this time. “What are you planning?”

You frown. “Why do you think I’m planning something?”

“Because you’re acting suspicious,” he answers. “This is just like the time you told me the lecture hall had been moved to a different room, smiling all innocently, and laughing maniacally when I entered the right room late and furious.”

The memory makes you smile. “Oh yeah. That was funny — you were so red in the face and wouldn’t stop glaring at me the whole time. Didn’t work the next time, unfortunately.”

“Yes, because fool me once, shame on you. Twice won’t happen. So I ask again,” he says, stepping back cautiously, holding the damaged book between you two as though it could be an adequate barrier between you two, “what are you planning?”

Shaking your head, you close the distance and pull his sweater down over the front of his pants. “Nothing, promise. Go to the bathroom, clean up, and I’ll deal with the book.”

He’s staring down at you, unconvinced. He doesn’t have a choice though; he can’t be walking around with a wet spot on his crotch. 

You take the book and the sullied paper, throwing it in the nearby trash can, and stalk off, aware of the eyes that follow you and of the still-tingling spot atop your head where his lips had touched so casually.

Why did he do that?

Why did it seem like he hadn’t realised he had done that?

It’s difficult to ascertain exactly how you’re feeling — confused, scared, weirded out, grossed out?

None of those are quite right. 

Is it possible the games you’re playing with him are proving to be more disastrous than you initially thought?

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: Latest Essay Submission

Sure, I’m free on Thursday afternoon at 1:30pm for an office hour. I’m happy to discuss any parts of your essay you would like feedback on and answer any questions regarding the feedback I provided. I cannot, however, remark your essay. Department policy. — Toji

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: Thank You

Dear Toji Fushiguro, Thank you so much for your prompt reply, and for being amenable to meeting with me. Whilst your response greatly pleases me, it also disappoints — I was so very hoping you would consider re-reading my essay, because I am certain you will see the value in pushing me into the next grade boundary.  It is, after all, only a matter of recognising brilliance when it is placed directly in front of you. I trust this will not be your first encounter with such a phenomenon. Please consider it. Kind regards, Someone who would owe you the world if you do

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: Department. Policy.

No.

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: no??

Um, excuse me.  Do you not find your reply unprofessional and unnecessarily rude? As the Teaching Assistant, you have a responsibility to respond appropriately and with grace. Need I remind you, you are representing our dear Professor, who would want the very best for his students (which includes me). Nevertheless, I shall overlook this callous response in exchange for extra marks. I am, as always, generous. You could learn from me. Best wishes, Someone not above blackmail

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: nice try

I don’t know where you got the idea that you’re above policy, nor who told you I’d listen to you over the Prof (my employer), but you’re barking up the wrong tree. And in reference to your initial email, I have many friends, you are not one of them, but even if you were, I still wouldn’t pull strings and be as stupid as to leave a paper trail via email. If you want higher marks, earn them the normal way. Wishing you a speedy recovery from the head injury you must have suffered recently, Toji

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: I am well, thank you very much

Dear TA with a stick up his ass, Note how I have not explicitly asked to be given extra marks? I am only asking that you reconsider my essay and the marks you have awarded me, because I am absolutely certain you were mistaken in your initial assessment, which is fine. I understand. You’re overworked and underpaid. Shit happens.  So allow me to say, my essay was well-researched, balanced, concise, and thoroughly supported with relevant scholarship. I engaged directly with the question, demonstrated independent thought, and constructed a coherent argument that remained consistent throughout. According to the mark scheme — which I have, unlike some people, actually read in detail — I should be placed in the top band.  This is not an isolated case of overconfidence either. I have submitted numerous essays to both you and the Professor, and they have consistently fallen within, or very near, the top band. There is a clear pattern of performance here, one that does not suddenly collapse without reason.  In short, my essays are worthy of that standard. I am worthy of that standard. You are, at present, the only barrier between me and my deserved academic standing. I would encourage you to reflect on that carefully — on the weight of that responsibility, and on whether you are discharging it fairly. Wondering why you were ever hired, Girl who regrets ever giving you my last gum three months ago P.S. You really needed it

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: that supposed to make me want to reconsider?

I’m sure Mommy and Daddy gave you too much praise and love as a child and that’s why you are the way that you are, but you’ll find that I’m not so easily impressed.  Your essay had egregious mistakes that, if I had it my way, would have earned a 0. Be grateful I even let you have the marks you have now.  No one is ‘worthy’ of top marks by the simple virtue of existing. That is an arrogant way of thinking I despise. There is only hard work and determination, which yes, you show at times, so good for you, kid. Still not just gonna hand out extra marks because of whatever history you think we have together. Advising you to get over yourself, Toji P.S. Not taking judgment from someone who pops three gums in the morning instead of brushing their teeth

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: suing for emotional distress

Dear Toji Fushiguro, My parents are both dead, so thank you for bringing up traumatic memories. I really don’t appreciate the personal jabs. Please refrain from mentioning them, from talking about the people who worked multiple jobs to put me through college, who won’t be there to see me graduate, won’t be in the crowd cheering me on. But yes, they loved me very much. And it is because of their support, which I still feel even when they’re no longer here with me, that I do this.  It isn’t easy for me to grovel at your feet for scraps, for crumbs. However, I will do whatever I must to succeed. So judge me all you want, hate me, and show me disdain for my relentless, shameless ambition. Just answer me this one question: What are you willing to do to prove people wrong? Because if it is anything less than what I am doing, then you are not a TA deserving of my respect. Despite it all, best wishes, An orphan P.S. If you are apologetic and regretful, you may earn my apology via extra marks. Thanks in advance P.P.S. I do brush my teeth thank you very much!

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: you’re deranged

I saw you touring your fucking parents through campus just last month. You pointed at me and said and I fucking quote, see that miserable-looking homeless man? he’s the TA with no hobbies or interests other than grading that I told you about. Spare me the guilt trip.  Even if you were a Make A Wish kid, still not giving you shit.

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: did not know you heard me…my bad, big bro

Dear the greatest TA to have ever lived, So, yes, I did lie about being an orphan. But, I feel that I was one in another life, and the tragedy of that distant life long lived carries me through this one.  More importantly, I have a special message for you: Thank you so much for your continued responses. I deeply appreciate every hour you dedicate to aiding me, and the student body which you govern. I understand you are so busy and carry many burdens; it cannot be easy. Yet you persevere and always give detailed and insightful feedback that has never failed to guide me towards improvement. You truly are an inspiration. If I could nominate you for employee of the month, I would. If such a thing existed. Let me know and I’ll campaign for you myself. Scout’s Honour! (Please do forgive me for my lapse in judgment. It’s late and I am not thinking clearly). All the best and love in the universe, A student who really needs you to not tell the Professor about any of this P.S. It really is late, what are you still doing up? P.P.S. You jerking off? P.P.P.S. The video you watching any good? Send recs pls

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: don’t play games you can’t win

Dear idiot,  It’s just three marks. You can live without it.  Enjoying the ass-kissing though, Toji P.S. What the hell is wrong with you? P.P.S. Working. 

From: [email protected] Subject: lol sure

'Working.' And no, you give me too much credit. I really cannot live without the three marks. I need it for something. This isn't just vanity talking.

From: [email protected] Subject: go to sleep

We have an early lecture tomorrow. Shut your laptop and count some sheep or something. I don’t want to hear anything from you tonight again. I’m serious.

From: [email protected] Subject: fine

But this isn't the last you've heard of me.

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: stop. seriously

I know you’ve been following me. To my classes, the library, my hang outs, my fucking home. Don’t pretend otherwise — I could hear you whispering ‘oooh you wanna remark my essay sooo bad’ from behind a fucking bookcase. Not only is it stupid as hell, it’s also creepy as fuck. Do you not have better things to do? Like, I don’t know, hitting the books so your next essay will be better and we won’t have to do this whole song and dance? Next time I see you stalking me, I’m going to tie you up to a lamppost and let campus security deal with you. – Toji.

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: oh that?

Dear Toji Fushiguro, For legal reasons, I will neither admit nor deny your accusations. Perhaps every encounter you believe you had with me outside of lectures/classes/office hours were mere coincidences. Campus isn’t that big, after all. I promise I would never do anything to endanger you (unless, of course, it’ll give me extra marks — I kid, I kid). If my persistent appearances are bothering you, however, maybe you should reconsider your rejection of my plea to have you re-read my essay. Just food for thought. Best wishes, Woman who might already have been, but I’ll keep that to myself P.S. you’ll tie me up? Kinky. Didn’t know you have those kinds of interest rawr

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: fat chance

My answer was no yesterday. It’s a no now. And it will be a no in every single instance you ask me in the future. Grow up, Toji

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: never say never

We’ll see…

From: [email protected] Subject: hi handsome

Dearest Toji,  The distance is agony. I miss you so very dearly, yet every metre we are kept apart only strengthens my adoration for you.  Lots of love, Your soulmate

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: it’s too early for this

Don’t be emailing me during a lecture. Focus. And I don't know what distance you're talking about; you’re literally sitting on the front row, right in front of me. Damn near killed that girl when you shoved her for the spot. Listen to what the professor says — it’s important.  And stop spreading your legs; I can see your panties from here. — Toji P.S. Focus on your notes before I move you to the back.

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: boo you’re boring

Dear hot stuff,  Important, you say? Important in the sense of appearing in the next exam important, or important for the soul important? You don't need to tell me, just send one wink for the former and two for the latter. Also, I have no idea what you’re talking about.  I’m not wearing panties ;) All the best, Your gorgeous girl P.S. ngh I love when you wear those grey sweatpants, if I look closely enough, I swear I can see every vein

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: no.

Dear dumbass bound by the university’s Code of Conduct, You know better than to solicit unfair advantages by exploiting your personal relationships. I trust you also know that since we filed an official form regarding our relationship that you face different papers than your peers, which will not be marked by me.  — Toji P.S. quit staring at my dick. you panting like a bitch in heat ain't helping. neither was the low cut top you're wearing.

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: I know I know

Dear Mr. Strict TA, I’m well aware. I was just kidding. I actually appreciate that the department approved of our relationship, with the support of the Professor. Not that we would have let them stop us — I just like that we can still see each other in lectures and classes, whenever you’re auditing or teaching.  You know how worried I was that things would change if we became official.

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: yeah, me too

I owe the Prof a lot. Guess he was preparing for this day or something.  Look, just don’t do anything that’ll get you in trouble or will make the other students think you’re getting special treatment. I don’t like the idea that you’ll be discredited because of me. You got a bright future ahead of you. I won’t ever hold you back.  So head down, alright? Leave all the worrying to me. — Your Toji

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: I love when you’re sweet

Okay, okay. I’ll pay attention. This is a rather interesting topic anyway. I bet the PowerPoint was all you — it screams, I don’t get paid enough to use pictures and animation lol Oh, and don’t forget we promised Megs we’re taking him and his wittle friends to the movies tonight! Please don’t stay too late grading. Love, The best sister in law ever!

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: good girl

Yeah, didn’t forget. Little brat’s been going on and on about it. Says he wants to sit next to you, like I didn’t raise the runt. Whatever. Wait till he finds out you hog the popcorn.  Meet me in our usual spot after this lecture. I wanna verify something you said for myself.  Better not have lied to me.  — Toji

FRATBOY!SUKUNA forgets entire conversations in the middle of his sentences when he catches a glimpse of you moving around in your seat in the front. his friends are nudging him, asking if he’s even listening, and he just grunts with those red eyes still locked on you.

“yeah, no. sounds good.”

“the fuck? i asked what we’re doing after class.”

“yeah, no. that’s fine.”

most of his mates give up at that point.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA finally sits next to you one day. shit, he doesn’t even really process walking down to the front row. one second he’s in the back, the next he’s plopping into the seat beside you like it’s nothing. obviously not thinking about it was the method, since overthinking only made him more nervous every other time he’d tried. you look up at him with a cute little confused expression, and he feels the rush of the blush hit him all at once, the fact that you’re right there, close enough to touch. he clears his throat and leans back trying to act like he’s totally normal about you.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA tries to make some easy small talk but immediately fumbles the bag. he taps his pen against the desk, glancing at your notes inquisitively.

“you always write this much? fuck.” he asks with a nervous laugh, like he’s not hanging on your answer.

you look at him a bit startled that not only was he still sitting there, but he was also talking to you. you nod, starting to explain the topic in that quiet voice of yours. he listens with open ears, your speech like gospel, the tone of your voice now engrained in his mind. he’s never been lucky enough to hear your voice before, but as of now it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever heard.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA tries to keep up the conversation, but now he has a million things to worry about. does he look okay? is there potentially something in his teeth? fuck, what did he have for breakfast? but most of all, he can’t stop gawking at you, you’re way prettier up close. he keeps clocking the way your eyes flutter down when he looks at you too long. you smile shyly when he thanks you for explaining something, and the way you had your notes set out really impressed him. everything about you felt all but too overwhelming, he wasn’t sure if he could keep this up any longer without throwing up from the nerves.

nevertheless, FRATBOY!SUKUNA tries with all he is to keep you on the hook. “you’re such a clever girl, you ever… study somewhere else? like, not here?” he asks awkwardly in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. you blink at him, then mention a café you like to visit on occasion. he jumps at the opportunity and nods too fast, “we could go, like, together. or whatever. maybe.” real smooth, ryomen.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA then asks for your number all nonchalant. he slides his phone across the desk toward you, trying to keep his face nice and neutral and not dusted with pink. “y’should put your number in,” he says with a smirk, masking the goofy smile he wants to let out. “so we can arrange n’ shit.” you hesitate for sec, then take it, typing your number in with a small pull to your lips. he watches your fingers, not even pretending to look away. when you hand it back, he feels very weirdly proud, like he just won the golden lotto.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA walks into the frat that night with a fat grin on his dumb face. he kicks the door open loudly, calling out to everyone, “oi, guess who got her number.” the boys present in the house erupt with sarcastic cheers and praise, and gojo stalks up to him and pats him on the back.

“m’ gonna be honest i didn’t think your dumb, loser, good for nothing ass would ever-”

“shut the fuck up.”

FRATBOY!SUKUNA, after all the commotion of the evening settles, is back in his room alone. to be honest, he’s kinda stressing over whether to send you a message or not. i mean, he really, really wants to, but what if you think he’s a loser for texting you not even five hours after meeting?

he's sprawled back on his bed, phone in hand, your contact open on his screen. he’s been staring at it for a good five minutes and decides that he’s just gonna bite the bullet and stop being a pussy.

sukuna [9:42pm]: yo, its sukuna

sukuna [9:42pm]: from class today

you [9:43pm]: i know who you are 😭

sukuna [9:43pm]: okay damn

sukuna [9:43pm]: i'm glad you said yes to going out

you [9:44pm]: oh? i didn’t know it was like that

sukuna [9:44pm]: like what

you [9:45pm]: like a date..?

he pauses with his thumb hovering over the screen, staring at your message a second too long with an increasingly reddening face before typing again.

sukuna [9:46pm]: depends

sukuna [9:46pm]: you want it to be a date?

you [9:47pm]: mmm

you [9:47pm]: do you?

sukuna [9:48pm]: wouldn’t have asked if i didn’t

you [9:49pm]: i seee

you [9:49pm]: first date... kinda nervous...

sukuna [9:49pm]: oh wow, your first one? i'll make it good, promise.

there’s a small bit of time, then three dots that come and go about three times.

you [9:50pm]: why did you even ask me

you [9:50pm]: you’ve never talked to me before? 😭

sukuna [9:51pm]: been looking at you for a while icl

sukuna [9:51pm]: just never did anything about it till now

you [9:52pm]: oh i see

you [9:52pm]: why me?

sukuna [9:53pm]: don’t know

sukuna [9:53pm]: you’re quiet but not in a boring way

sukuna [9:53pm]: you actually know what you’re doing in class

sukuna [9:54pm]: kinda into that

you [9:54pm]: kinda?

sukuna [9:55pm]: mkay

sukuna [9:55pm]: very

you [9:55pm]: ahh

sukuna [9:56pm]: what

sukuna [9:56pm]: you asked

you [9:56pm]: i didn’t think you’d give me a legitimate answer

sukuna [9:57pm]: i don’t lie about that stuff

...

sukuna [9:58pm]: you got insta?

you [9:58pm]: mhmm

sukuna [9:59pm]: send it overr

you [9:59pm]: wow ure bossy

sukuna [10:00pm]: sorry sorry

sukuna [10:00pm]: please send me your instagram?

he doesn’t know it, but you too are smiling sweetly at the messages.

you [10:01pm]: okay okay it’s @/y/n

sukuna [10:01pm]: got it

a second later.

sukuna [10:01pm]: followed

you [10:02pm]: i see it

you [10:02pm]: don’t stalk too hard

sukuna [10:03pm]: no promises

you [10:03pm]: 💔💔

sukuna [10:04pm]: i’ll text you tomorrow, yeah?

sukuna [10:04pm]: we’ll figure out when to go

you [10:05pm]: okay :)

sukuna [10:05pm]: night sweetheart

you [10:05pm]: goodnight sukuna

FRATBOY!SUKUNA immediately stalks your instagram. his phone’s now mere inches from his face as he scrolls slowly. every single photo gets a long, long look. there’s ones of you in cafés, you with your friends, you smiling up at the camera like you don’t know how good you look. he zooms in on stupid details, your pretty little outfits, your coffee order in one pic, the way you pose so sweetly. god, why did you have to be cool and cute? the swag gap was getting bigger.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA can’t stop thinking about you in the lead up to your little date. he gets a haircut and tells his barber to make him look ‘sexy as fuck,’ makes sure to go to the gym the morning of your little date so he has a nice pump, and takes the time the night before to lay out a nicely curated fit. (he couldn’t let you fit mog him on the first date, but by the looks of your instagram, that seemed highly likely.)

“nanami! c'mere.” he yells down the hall an hour before what might have been the single most important outing of his life.

“what?”

“do i look good?”

nanami rolls his eyes and begins to leave, not in the mood for sukuna’s little ego boost shenanigans.

“wait! no, no. m’ serious. i’ve got a date with that girl i told you about.”

this piques the blonde’s interest, and he takes the time to actually look his friend up and down. he smiles at the air of nervousness he can sense and pats the tatted man on the shoulder.

“you look ‘sexy as fuck’, ryo.”

FRATBOY!SUKUNA 's at that cafe a full twenty minutes before you'd planned. first date nerves, or whatever. he’s picked a booth that's tucked away and ordered the coffee he’d remembered from your instagram to arrive at the table in time for when you were supposed to get there. and when you do get there, the man has to say a prayer and thank his lucky stars that he’d worked up the courage to ask you out, because holy shit, you looked perfect. (swag gap, definitely still there.)

after standing up far too abruptly, he apologises to the chair he’d almost toppled over then walks up to you, a bashful smile on his face.

“yo, you look real pretty.” he mentally slaps himself for how gojo that sounded, but it was the most prominent thought up in his head.

“oh... thank you.” you reply softly, toying with the fabric of your shirt and avoiding his eyes with a flush.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA thinks he might just implode with cuteness aggression. that easy tone from your texts was gone, left with your careful, slightly anxious voice. he was gonna change that.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA talks your ear off in an attempt to ease both yours and his nerves, but just ends up totally fumbling every single sentence.

“so... d’you go to the gym? i mean, not that you need to. i do. even went this morning to get a good pump for you, could ya tell?”

“oh, you like mitski? that’s cool, that’s cool. i like druski, they kinda sound the same.”

“your hair looks real nice, does mine? i got a haircut for this by the way, needa look good for you.”

FRATBOY!SUKUNA thinks he’s totally fucked this up by now. but when he’s done rambling and winces to look back at you to see how you’re taking his horribly embarrassing monologue, you’re staring up at him with a fond smile, and he softens up and relaxes.

“do i.. make you nervous, sukuna?” you tease.

that starts the ice breaker conversation that kicks off the next three hours of non. stop. talking.

you two discuss everything and anything there is to discuss, you take turns telling each other what your favourite such and suchs are, and most importantly, the awkwardness from before is nowhere to be seen, you were meshing well.

in the final moments of the stellar date he’s almost sure he dreamt up, FRATBOY!SUKUNA sits and stares at you for a second. you're all smiley from talking, looking down at your mug, swirling the liquid in your cup, and both you and the cozy cafe background look so pretty. so, he snaps a picture.

“ah! did you just-”

“sorry, sorry. you just looked really good.” he flips the phone to show you, and it might’ve been the nicest candid anyone’s ever taken of you. “i can delete it if you want, just thought it’d match the vibe you’ve got goin on on your instagr-”

“please send that to me.” you interrupt, staring in awe at the photo.

the man just smiles, loving the way you perk up. “i’ll do you one better.”

and just like that, that photo is sitting on his story, your handle tagged at the bottom with a white heart.

you felt like crying, he had to be really down bad to be posting you this early on, but you weren’t complaining.

that night, FRATBOY!SUKUNA's phone explodes with countless dm's asking him about the cute girl in his new story. friends, friends of friends, friends of friends of friends, old flings, recent flings, his mum, everyone. he ignores them, though, silencing his instagram notifications. he had better things to do, like text you.

sukuna [11:12pm]: that was the best date i’ve ever been on

you [11:13pm]: you’re so right actually

sukuna [11:13pm]: nh i’m so serious

sukuna [11:14pm]: like

sukuna [11:14pm]: i was lowkey stressing all day for that icl

sukuna [11:15pm]: but i had a really good time

sukuna [11:15pm]: so thanks for saying yes to coming

you [11:16pm]: that’s freaking cute omg 😭

you [11:16pm]: i also had a lot of funnnn!!

you [11:17pm]: i liked hearing you talk about your interests and such

you [11:17pm]: you’ve got a lot of unexpected interests, i love it 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

well i love you... too early? yeah, maybe.

sukuna [11:18pm]: unexpected is crazy

sukuna [11:18pm]: how fratty do u think i am

you [11:19pm]: nooo that's not it, shuddup

you [11:19pm]: it was really nice

sukuna [11:20pm]: well you’re nice

sukuna [11:20pm]: and you dress nice

sukuna [11:20pm]: actually

sukuna [11:21pm]: you dress really nice

sukuna [11:21pm]: i noticed that straight away

sukuna [11:21pm]: you’ve got like

sukuna [11:22pm]: a really cool thing going on im kinda jealous

sukuna [11:22pm]: don’t know how to explain it

sukuna [11:22pm]: but yeah

you [11:23pm]: oh my gosh thank you so much

you [11:23pm]: thank you thank you thank you

you [11:23pm]: i try so hard, its good to have a little recognition 💪

sukuna [11:24pm]: nah you don’t even try

sukuna [11:24pm]: that’s the annoying part istg

sukuna [11:24pm]: you just look like that

you [11:25pm]: oh my gosh

you [11:25pm]: stop i will cry

sukuna [11:25pm]: i’m being so serious

sukuna [11:26pm]: you gotta help me dress better or something

sukuna [11:26pm]: i can’t be showing up next to you looking stupid

you [11:27pm]: you don’t look stupid!

you [11:27pm]: your outfits are always nice ive thought that for ages, even before we talked

you [11:27pm]: you don’t need my help

sukuna [11:28pm]: i do actually

sukuna [11:28pm]: c'mon i’m asking nicely

you [11:29pm]: mm

you [11:29pm]: i mean

you [11:29pm]: i could help you

sukuna [11:30pm]: yeah?

you [11:30pm]: help you get undressed LOLLL

FRATBOY!SUKUNA's never felt his cock throb as hard as it just did. girls have sent him videos with sound and he's never popped a boner that quick. one, flirty message from you and boom, rock hard erection in the span of ten seconds. he has to take a breath, throw his phone away, and look up at his ceiling for a good five minutes to calm down.

sukuna [11:37pm]: lol you want me bad

you [11:38pm]: first time flirting... kinda nervous...

FRATBOY!SUKUNA comes to class, he completely ignores his friends and plops down next to you with your coffee in hand. his boys boo him later for it and call him a love-struck loser, but he just tells them to shut up, and doesn’t move back.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA starts bringing his school shit to class. notebooks, even pens that actually have ink in them. he leans over your notes more than his own, asking questions under his breath and nudging your arm when he misses something the prof says. you start expecting him now, shuffling your stuff to the side to make space before he even sits down.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA follows you to the library one afternoon when you mention you’re heading there to study. he just blurts, “i’ll come,” and boom, study partner. he hates the place, it’s far too quiet for him, but he sits across from you anyway with his long legs stretched out under the table, trying his best not to get bored. and to his surprise, he doesn’t. he watches you all pretty and focused, and it makes his heart thump with affection, that cute way you tap your pen when you’re thinking and how you push your hair back when it falls forward. he ends up actually doing some work. not great work, but still.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA starts making it a routine centered around you. go to class, then the library, then drive you home. every day. you mention that you could just take the bus once, but he cuts you off with a foul look. “don’t be stupid, i’ve got a whole ass car,” he says it flippantly and yet, he’s grabbing your bag for you, slinging it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. the drives get longer each time, and it’s not because of traffic, but because he takes the long way on purpose. he plays music he knows you like, the windows are cracked, and you end up talking about everything. he definitely doesn’t rush to drop you off, no. petrol was expensive, but you were worth every cent.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA’s smoking up on the porch with choso one night when he gets a ping from you and fumbles to answer it.

choso watches with a tired smile and chuckles, “grown ass man,” choso mutters, nudging him with his foot.

sukuna scoffs weakly. “shut up.”

“you’re so into her.”

“really?” sukuna rolls his eyes, dragging a hand down his face. “i am. like… a lot.” he sighs. “she’s not like anyone i’ve messed with before. i just... i adore that girl.”

choso hums in acknowledgment.

“i think she’s a real keeper,” sukuna adds. “it’s just... never had something like this before.”

“like... a girlfriend?”

“mhm.”

“the fuck?”

FRATBOY!SUKUNA rolls his eyes again and explains, “dunno, just never really felt a connection with anyone like that before. her, though? fuck me....” he blows smoke into the starry sky, thinking a little longer before adding, “scared i’m gonna fuck it up.”

choso takes a second before answering, calm as ever. “just don’t overthink it, yeah? be yourself, you’re already doing fine. treat her right, that’s all there is to it.”

sukuna lets that sit, nods slowly. “yeah.” he glances over, bumps his shoulder into him. “thanks.”

FRATBOY!SUKUNA takes that advice and runs with it. he starts asking you out more, not just study sessions, but actual plans. food after class, quick stops at random places he thinks you’d like, late night drives just because you both feel like talking together. he pays every time without making it a big deal, just taps his card and moves on. he remembers little things you mention and brings them up later, making your head dizzy with adoration.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA gets closer to asking you the big question every single time he drops you off. it sits right there on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down at the last second. not yet... he wants it to be just right. he wants you to look at him like you already do, just a little more.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA drives you home one afternoon after a particularly long sesh in the library. the sky’s turning shades of red and orange, that late golden kind of light. you slide into his car, smiling, and he just stares for a second before shaking himself out of the daze. “you hungry?” he asks, already starting up the engine.

“i meannnn,”

he smiles at your cheek and takes you to your favourite drive thru without needing any directions.

“you remember my favourite place?” you ask.

he shrugs. “yeah. you talk a lot.”

you talk a lot now, at least.

you laugh, and he thinks he’d come here single every day if it meant hearing that beautiful sound.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA doesn’t head straight to your place after, he drives up this hill just outside town and parks facing the blooming horizon. it’s pretty, you even comment that it’s pretty, but when you look to him to see if he’s agreed, he’s looking at you instead.

“hm, what’s up?” you query.

he exhales like he’s been holding it in all day, then he turns his whole body to you, one muscular arm resting on the wheel.

“i wanna be your boyfriend,” he says. there’s no joke or some inside gag you didn’t know about, no. he’s being one hundred percent honest and you can tell by the way he’s looking you dead set in the eye.

“genuinely. i want that. really fucking bad.”

although you’re terribly caught off guard, you still smile, looking up at the man who’s staring at you so utterly in love.

“yeah? well i’d really like that,” you reply.

FRATBOY!SUKUNA lets out a breath and a laugh of relief. his shoulders drop, the harsh tension easing up, and there’s this small, disbelieving smile pulling at his mouth.

by now you’re both just cheesing at one another, laughing in short bursts and looking away shyly. but when your eyes lock again, you can’t ignore the pull that drags you close.

closer, and closer, until your eyes are shut and his lips are pressing ever so gently to yours.

the sunsets in it's last phase, the red and pinks painting the car in a deep, warm ambiance. he pulls back, then cups your cheek softly.

“you’re my girlfriend now, yeah?”

“yes, ryo. m' all yours.”

“first girlfriend.. kinda nervous...”

“we hang out too much.” you giggle, and he kisses you again.

"that's a problem i always wanna have."

a/n: i missed writing this dumb stupid guy

With her tone indicating the absolute end of the conversation, you’re left with no choice but to shuffle out of your seat and out the door. 

How could this have happened?

You applied for the role of assistant librarian a month or two ago, competing against at least a hundred applicants across campus for the position, all so you could add another extracurricular on your résumé. Naturally, you’d consider how disappointing it would be to be rejected, to have had your hopes up after the rounds of interviews only to be let down, and the consequent banging against the wall you’ll inevitably do because failure is devastating.

Now that you’ve been given the position, you’re left wishing you’d been rejected instead. 

That would certainly be a better outcome than the one you’re currently facing. 

“If you hate this arrangement so much,” a voice starts, monotone and deadpanned, “perhaps you should quit while you’re ahead.”

Whirling to the towering blond adjusting his glasses behind you, you hiss, “Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

“Naturally,” he replies without missing a beat.

Nanami Kento…

Your mortal enemy.

Your nemesis.

Bane of your existence. 

A fellow Classical Literature student. 

The kind that’s always got a book in hand or in his bag, each day different, each more pretentious than the last. The kind that puts his finger up and says ‘actually…’ with a blank look on his face and isn’t afraid to correct a lecturer on any inaccuracies in their presentation. The type to underline in pencil, because apparently using a pen is “barbaric.” The type to annotate in the margins in that neat, irritatingly precise handwriting of his, with arrows and references and little cross-analyses that make you want to slam the book shut over his fingers just to spite him.

The type to sigh — fucking sigh — when someone mispronounces a Latin word or phrase. “It’s not ‘veh-nee, vee-dee, vee-chee,’” he’d once said flatly across the seminar table, not even looking up from his notes. “It’s ‘way-nee, wee-dee, wee-kee.’”

No one asked.

No one fucking cared.

But he said it anyway.

In other words, he’s an asshole. 

Does anyone else see that?

No. Because they’re enamoured with all of it. Each time he put his hand up to argue a point you made in a lecture or class, people just leaned forward and listened intently. They pay more attention to what he says than to what any professor tells them. And when he had corrected that poor guy on his pronunciation, the girls fawned and the guys nodded with a ‘fair enough’ look. 

When you corrected someone on the fact that Caesar wasn’t an emperor, it was Octavius who was the first emperor of Rome, people started whispering. 

It must be the blond that lets him get away with it. 

Something about the lightness of his hair bewitches them.

And perhaps also because he doesn’t argue with them the way he argues with you. It’s constant, incessant, relentless. It’s like he only listens out for your voice in lectures to undermine you. Not your thesis, not your sources. 

You.

Because he’s pure evil.

Of course, you give back as good as you get. You’re no pussy. If he makes an argument, you counter it, regardless of whether you believe in what you’re saying or not — you’ve learnt that it’s not about belief, it’s about eloquence. Put forward any argument sophisticatedly enough and people usually relent.

He doesn’t.

So it’s no surprise that lectures overrun and topics get out of hand whenever the two of you lock eyes across the hall, one glaring with all the heat of hell and the other cutting with the chill of Antarctica. It’s gotten so bad that faculty staff had agreed to change your schedules so that, as much as possible, the two of you are separated. Apart from the one or two modules where there are no alternative classes, you are kept far apart.

One of said faculty staff missed the memo.

The Librarian Director, instead of seeing that you’re clearly the superior candidate, came up with the brilliant idea to hire two assistant librarians. Because apparently your applications and interviews were so good that she just had to have you both. 

To that you say, what a load of bull.

Now, you’ll both be stuck in the library. Together. Having to work as a team. 

The horror.

“Why don’t you quit?” you fire back at him. “You’re already President of ChessSoc and an intern at the ReignReignGoAway Publishing House. Do you really need this too?”

His eyes make the most minute movement that to anyone else would be imperceptible but to you is the most blatant display of an eyeroll. “Keeping tabs on my activities isn’t beneath you, I see,” he drawls. 

“As if. I’m just generally knowledgeable.” Then, wanting to get back on track, you say, “Seriously. Tell her you rescind your application. You must know this is a bad dynamic — we don’t get along. We’ve proven that time and time again — remember the Great Fire of the 19th Century Maps?”

Picking up some invisible lint off his jumper, he begins walking away. 

You follow. 

“I remember you burning the maps, yes. I also remember you blaming me for ‘evoking a rage so hot inside, the maps just set themselves on fire,’” he retorts dryly, making quotation marks with his fingers. 

Down the hallway you two walk on a fine Friday morning the sunlight beams in through the windows, casting shadows of the window panes. One could consider this a lovely day, a beautiful day, and you might have too, if only you aren’t pleading to have peace and balance restored by appealing to his sense of reason.

Which apparently doesn’t exist.

You meander around a group of girls, legs pumping faster than usual to keep up with his longer ones. “I didn’t set the books on fire,” you argue, scowling. “You probably did with your lighter and tried to frame me.”

Nanami glances down at you from the side, looking as unimpressed as ever. He says, “I don’t smoke. Why would I have a lighter?”

“I don’t know!” Your hands fly up, almost whacking him. “Maybe ‘cause you’re secretly an arsonist. It gets you off or something!”

“Please refrain from theorising about what ‘gets me off’ — I’d rather not have to file a sexual harassment claim today,” he wryly replies, one corner of his lips twitching because he thinks he’s the wittiest person in the world. 

You shove him to the side to avoid bumping into some guy. He yanks his arm back like you’re diseased. You purposefully rub your arm on him again to make a point. He scowls.

“Puhlease.” The two of you turn the corner. “You’re stuck so deep in books every day, I highly doubt you know what sex is. You probably don’t even know what a woman is.”

Busy inspecting his sleeve as though you’d smeared something foul on it, he mutters, “We spent an entire seminar discussing sexuality in Roman satire and Roman elegy. Perhaps you’ve forgotten because I won that debate.”

“Uh, you didn’t win anything; I stopped arguing because listening to you misuse Roman attitudes toward sexuality was painful. And need I remind you what happened in the next lecture? You got Romulus and Remus mixed up. Like an illiterate idiot.”

A muscle in Nanami’s jaw ticks. 

A sense of victory warms your chest. 

“It was a 9am lecture, and I hadn’t had coffee after I pulled an all-nighter — forgive me if my brain wasn’t fully awake then.” He readjusts the strap of his bag which hangs over one shoulder. “And let’s not get started on mistakes and mix ups because I shan’t ever forget you cited Roman mythology about Medusa’s victimhood in our discussion about women in Greek mythology; you’re not one to be lecturing me about women, especially as it is up for question if you are even human, much less a member of the fairer sex.”

You grab his arm. 

Nanami pauses, looking down at you curiously, as though waiting for you to start crying. 

A figurative tumbleweed passes.

“Did you…did you just say ‘shan’t’?”

He rolls his eyes, this time with full force and no subtlety. 

“Look,” he says, lifting his glasses up with one hand and pinching the bridge of his nose with the other, “regardless of what extracurriculars I am or am not already doing, I have every intention of being at the library at 8 o’clock for the training. Be there or don’t. Though if we’re both being honest, I’m really hoping it’ll be the latter.”

It’s your turn to roll your eyes.

“Oh, I’ll be there. I shan’t let you show me up. Because I have every intention of not letting you get your way, like everyone else does.”

With final glares at each other, the two of you part ways, turning and pushing open the doors into your different classes, which happen to be right opposite each other. 

Because, in some cruel joke you’re not a part of, the universe can’t seem to resist bringing two people who feel so strongly against each other together, whether they like it or not.

.

.

.

Your preparatory work for next week’s classes have been done, you’re at a bar near campus with your friends, and the sky’s clear, allowing you to bask in the beauty of the stars. 

All that’s to say, it seems that meeting the conditions any recipe stipulates to have a wonderful Saturday night is futile against the might of Nanami Kento’s stink, which he’s left all over the walls of the bar. 

“Stop glaring at him,” Needa Neym says. 

The girl beside you, Frend Namburgtoo, adds, “Literally. Like, it’s a Saturday, surely your hatred for him can take a break for the weekend?”

Needa takes a sip of her cider. “I thought your New Year’s resolution was to stop hating him anyway. Whatever happened to that? Whatever happened to spending energy on more productive things?”

That resolution didn’t last long, but not by your doing; you tried to be the bigger person on your return to campus by chirping a ‘good morning’ to him on the way to class. 

He muttered, ‘I don’t have any change,’ before hastening his steps as though you might shank him. He didn’t even look at you.

Suffice to say, any attempts to let him not get on your nerves have always failed by virtue of his terrible personality and attitude.

Glowering, you snatch your gaze from the offending sight of him in the back corner with his friends. “You’re acting like hating someone takes a lot of effort — it comes naturally to me.”

One of them snorts. 

“Oh yeah, because printing posters about how he’s a Literature terrorist and sticking them up all over campus was so effortless?”

You wipe away the condensation from your third drink of the night. “That was after he sabotaged our presentation on Greek tragedies by changing the powerpoint last minute,” you remind them. “Letting the whole student population know the truth about his illiteracy was the least I deserve.”

Frend gives you a pointed look before she says, “To be fair, babes, you did write the presentation yourself and didn’t let him have any input.”

“Yeah, because I knew he’d fuck it up!” you defend. “He should have thanked me; it was one less piece of work he had to do. But no, he had to make me look an idiot.”

They both sigh. 

“Honestly,” one of them starts, “after the whole stealing his book and swapping it out with a copy where you — what did you do again?”

Needa helps by offering, “She annotated the copy with British slang, and wrote ‘innit’ and ‘wagwan fam’ all over pages, right before their half-term exam. Remember how mad he was? He came and found us sitting on the grass after.”

“Oh yeah!” Frend nods, remembering it clearly now. “He couldn’t even say anything; he was so mad all he did was open and close his mouth before stomping off.” She looks at you, an amused smile playing on her lips. “After that, I’ll admit, I gave up hope for you.”

A smile creeps on your lips too, this one fond. 

That was a good day. Great idea too. Nanami was so mad he turned red in the face the moment he opened his copy in the exam hall. His eyes had found yours through the rows and rows of students, narrowed and accusing. You smiled at him, and again when he came marching towards you three. 

That was the first time you’d seen him at a loss for words. 

And when he had deleted all your footnotes in your essay, an opportunity he saw in the library because you left to go to the bathroom, you were furious, albeit thinking, worth it.

Of course, you couldn’t prove it was him, but he was humming a tune to himself as you passed by, so that told you enough.

“It’s such a shame about girl code,” Needa says wistfully. You follow her gaze to the corner booth where Nanami is. “He’s such a fine, fine man. I’d love to get a taste.”

Your whole face twists with abhorrence. “What…the…fuck.”

Frend laughs. “Oh come on. You can hate him all you want, but you gotta admit, he’s cute.”

“More than cute. He’s hot.”

Feeling too overwhelmed with disgust, you slide out of your seat and announce, “I’m going to the bathroom to throw up. Please go touch grass before I return. I can’t stomach you two right now.”

Their giggles chase you all the way to the dingy women’s bathroom.

Those two have been your friends since First year, when you were living on the same dorm floor. Now, you’re roommates and have been best friends since. Your friendship actually began because you ranted to them about how awful this guy from your course was. 

It’s really something that the hatred between you two began so early and never wavered. You can’t even remember what you or he did to spark the animosity. Although, now that you think about it, it hardly matters. 

They comforted you when you started to think that you weren’t cut out for university, when you felt out of place, and not as smart as everyone else. They even helped you in your campaigns for revenge, and surprisingly they haven’t gotten tired of hearing all about your rivalry with Nanami. 

Thankfully, it’s not all you three talk about; they have plenty of boy problems of their own. It’s just, with the recent developments regarding your application to be the assistant librarian, the flame’s been reawakened. 

In all honesty, you try to avoid talking about him for too long — conversations regarding the pretentious loser somehow almost always pivot to how attractive they find him. Like Nanami’s a cancer that spreads, or spores from a fungus that infect anyone and everyone who breathes them in. 

God, he’s the worst!

When you exit the bathroom, you find Frend and Needa have left your table. They’ve run into different friends and are chatting away in different corners of the bar. 

Meanwhile, Nanami looks like he’s been found by a member of the opposite sex. 

The bar is loud, as one can expect, so it’s not like you can hear the conversation they’re having. But based on the snickering of his two friends, Haibara and Shoko (two people on different courses you’ve run into and can actually tolerate the existence of), you can guess that the girl’s taken an interest in him.

“Oh, god,” you mumble. “What is going on with the world today?”

In a few inebriated steps, you find yourself standing right in front of them.

Nanami’s eyes fall on you first. He narrows them ever so slightly.

The four of them are sitting together — Haibara on the same side as the blond with Shoko on the opposite side, beside the girl you now recognise as Anna Ying, from the Psychology department. A lovely girl. Easy on the eyes. Very sweet. And very blind, you figure, if she’s wandered over here and is chatting up the beastly-looking man. 

You tower over the table with a bright smile. 

“Hi, gorgeous,” you say to Shoko. 

She raises her glass towards you, smirking gleefully at the glare her friend throws at her. “Hi, pretty. Love your top; you wear that for me?”

“Of course,” you reply, batting your lashes. Then, to Haibara, you ask, “How was the DND campaign? You finish it yet?”

Despite the ‘subtle’ jab to his side, the man beams at you. “No! There was a sudden twist with one of our party members siding with the Dark Lord. It was intense!”

“I bet, I bet.” Finally, to the girl and Nanami, you cheerfully inquire, “Whatcha talking about, gang?”

Anna blinks up at you, then laughs nervously. “Oh, I was just talking to Nanami here; I was asking him about his hobbies.”

Tossing your arm over his shoulder, you lean on him as he stays sitting. “Very interesting. Very interesting. Say, Nanamin,” you begin, fighting back a laugh at the way he actually flinches at the nickname, “you tell her about your peculiar interests yet?”

He glances down at your arm. You can tell he’s half a second away from smacking it away, but he likes to keep up pretenses of being a gentleman in front of others. Drawling, he asks, “What ‘peculiar interests’ do you mean?”

“Oh, you know, whips, leather straps, latex cat suits,” you explain casually. “The lot. The sex shop in the bad part of town’s your favourite place, no? You gonna take her there for your first date?”

Blanching, she turns her gaze to the three of them, as though looking for a denial, for some kind of defense. She finds none. Only humour in the two friends and a deadpanned look in the guy she’s wooing. 

With a flush, she stammers out, “Oh, um, that’s interesting.” She gives Nanami a polite smile. “I should get back to my friends. Bye.”

Nanami exhales through his nose before he takes a huge gulp of some hardcore liquor you don’t typically see people your age drink. Without looking at you, he wonders aloud, “Is your night so boring that you must disturb mine?”

You ruffle his hair with a grin. He scowls harder. “Yes, actually. Don’t act like I got in the way of anything — she was bound to find out you’re a weirdo and get turned all the way off. That or she’ll find your micropenis so offensive to the human race that she runs away screaming. Just sparing you all the drama. You’re welcome.”

He taps his glass with a finger, thinking. 

“You know, your curiosity about my size is starting to become tedious,” Nanami drones. “Please channel your energy into understanding what a book is. I imagine you’ll have a hard time come Monday morning otherwise.”

Gritting your teeth, you force a faux friendly tone. “Aw, don’t you worry about that, Nanami. I know what a book is very well; I’ve seen you reading The Book of Mormon enough times.”

Those are the last words you exchange with him before you saunter back to your friends. 

Apart from that, you two stay clear enough from each other to have a pleasant night. 

Which, in your case, means collapsing back into your seat with Frend and Needa, immediately downing half your drink. You launch into a retelling of your ‘nightmarish encounter’ –— topped with swear words that he hurled at you, shoving and death threats — that has them both scolding you for walking over to him in the first place. 

Certainly not the support you were looking for.

You nurse your drink after that, mostly because Frend keeps topping it up, insisting you ‘deserve it’ after enduring Nanami’s presence, whilst Needa scrolls through her phone, periodically shoving memes in your face that you barely register through your mild buzz. At some point, someone orders a round of shots, and you participate purely out of principle. 

Eventually, however, you decide to call it quits. They let you go without much argument, satisfied that you’re not too drunk to walk home on your own.

You stand outside, shivering a little and admiring the full moon for a second. 

It really is a lovely night. One of the last few you’ll be having before the weather takes a turn for the worst this approaching winter. Soon, the last leaves will fall, frost will cover surfaces, then snow, and you’ll have to lose the skirts and dresses and opt for sweatpants and thick coats. 

“Hey.”

You turn.

A guy stands in front of you, offering a sweet smile. He’s…decent. Not mind-blowing. Just cute. Taller than you, a little awkward, and with hands shoved into his pockets and shuffling on his feet from the cold in a way that gives you the ick somewhat. Like, wear a jacket?

No, bad. Be nice, you tell yourself.

“I saw you inside,” he says, offering a small smile. “You looked like you were having, um, fun.”

“That obvious?” you retort, huffing a little laugh.

“A little,” he admits. “I get it though. Sometimes, you’re just not up to party and let loose. So, I was thinking maybe you’d want some company?”

It’s not smooth. Not particularly clever either. But it’s easy. And right now, easy sounds good.

You tilt your head, considering him for a moment longer than necessary, letting your gaze linger just enough to make him straighten a bit. “Depends. Are you interesting enough to keep me entertained on the walk home?”

He grins at that, relieved. “I could try.”

Humming, you take a small step closer, already half-deciding that maybe it wouldn’t be the worst idea. A distraction would be nice. Something to take the edge off the night, the lingering irritation, the impending doom of Monday morning. Then…

Disaster. 

“Careful.”

The voice slides in smoothly. Familiar. Unwanted.

Your shoulders tense before you even turn. 

Nanami Kento stands a few steps away, coat already on, expression as composed and irritatingly neutral as ever.

The guy beside you blinks. “Uh?”

Nanami doesn’t look at him. Only at you. Although his words are pointed at him. “Just a word of advice,” he says, adjusting his glasses slightly. “You may want to be cautious. After the last time I had the misfortune of spending an evening in her company,” he continues, “I found myself…dealing with certain irritations.”

The implication lands like a slap to the face. Your jaw drops before you can stop it, heat flooding your face in a rush so fast it makes your ears ring. For a second, you can’t even process it, can’t quite believe he actually said that out loud, here. He did not just…

“It cleared up,” he adds, almost thoughtfully. “But still. Better safe than sorry.”

The guy stiffens, all easy charm draining out of him in the span of a heartbeat. You can feel it — the subtle recoil, the way his posture changes, a sudden awareness creeping up on him.

He takes a step back.

Actually takes a full fucking step back.

“Right,” he says quickly. “I, uh, I think I just remembered I have somewhere to be.”

“Wait,” you start, but he’s already gone. Vanished back into the bar as though his life depends on it. What the actual hell. Why did he believe that so quickly? Is there something about you that makes an STD look believable? 

You turn on Nanami, seething. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

He meets your glare without flinching. “Consider it repayment,” he says simply.

Your hands curl into fists. “You absolute—”

Nanami walks past you. Just like that. Like he didn’t just ruin your night. “Good evening,” he adds, mocking, taunting, grating.

You stare after him, fuming.

The sight of the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth has you grabbing a rock from the ground and throwing it in his direction. It lands a metre behind him. A metre too far.

.

.

.

You arrive five minutes early for the 8am training.

He’s already there, sipping on coffee from his thermos. 

“God, you’re ridiculous,” you tell him. “Did you really have to come earlier than me just to spite me?”

Nanami slowly drags his eyes up from the novel he’s reading in the breakroom as you plop yourself down on the seat opposite. His gaze lands on your coffee cup. A brow cocks up, as though saying, wow you do not care about the environment, do you? Thanks for killing all the wildlife.

“How could I have possibly known what time you’d arrive?” he replies, uninterested. “Believe it or not, my decisions aren’t centred around you.” You’re about to grumble some kind of insult, when he adds, “But it’d please me to tell you Mrs. Collins commended me for being proactive. Do let that ruin your day.”

“Ugh, shut up.” 

God, he always has to be such a kiss up. 

Then, still scowling, you ask, “How’s the book?” 

He lifts one shoulder up in a non-committal shrug. “I much prefer Camus’ Sisyphus.”

“Same, but The Stranger’s good too — a very poignant piece about isolationism.”

“Or, moral negligence,” he adds, gaze meeting yours over the rim of his glasses. 

Scowl returning, you say, “I won’t get into this again with you. I just can’t.”

“Because you know you have little to add?”

“Fuck y–”

“Morning!”

Both of your heads snap up at once.

The Library Director stands in the doorway with the kind of bright, administrative cheerfulness that suggests she has already had two coffees and solved three organisational crises before sunrise. 

What a boss. 

All you’ve solved is finding matching socks.

Mrs. Collins is a small woman approaching retirement age, with sharp glasses perched halfway down her nose and the quietly terrifying air of someone who can detect a misplaced book from three floors away. You’d run into her many times over the years — she’s skilled, an expert in literally everything you’ve thrown her away (cartology, etymology, and other ologies). She’s basically Google’s Google. 

You force a smile so polite your cheeks ache. “Good morning,” you say sweetly.

Nanami closes his novel and rises to his feet with grace. “Morning,” he echoes beside you.

The smugness radiating off him is suffocating, yet she doesn’t seem to notice. To her, she only sees two model students, eager to indulge in her passion. She must be aware of your animosity but she has the kind of look in her eyes as she gazes at the two of you that lets you in on the fact that she thinks you’ll both work it out on this job eventually. 

It’s a look you’ve seen often; everyone wants to be the one that brings you two together.

She’s going to be severely disappointed.

Mrs. Collins claps her hands together lightly. “Wonderful. I’m so pleased you’re both here early. Initiative is exactly what we like to see in the library.”

Nanami does not look at you, but you know he’s thinking about what he said two minutes ago.

“Yes,” you say brightly. “Some of us are very committed to this position.”

“Mm,” Nanami hums. “Some more than others.”

Ass.

Gesturing for you to follow her out of the breakroom, she says, “Come along. I’ll give you the grand tour before we begin training.”

The campus library is quieter than usual, now almost completely devoid of people but not quite of life — thick carpets swallow footsteps, tall windows filter in grey morning light, and rows upon rows of bookshelves stand stall, proud. Sentinels of wisdom and human creativity. There’s a faint smell of dust, polished wood, and paper that’s been aging quietly for decades.

You inhale it like oxygen.

He does too.

You notice.

Unfortunately, he notices that you notice.

“Try not to drool at the prospect of finally learning how to read anything that doesn’t mostly consist of pictures,” he murmurs under his breath as you pass a glass case containing a collection of early printed editions. “You’ll fog the display.”

“Suck my dick and balls.”

Nanami recoils. “You have the humour of a prepubescent boy.”

“Yeah, bet you’d know all about that since you look like you hang around schools in a white van.”

“Blow me.”

“Oh, so now who has the humour of a prepu—”

Mrs. Collins turns around suddenly.

Both of you instantly straighten. 

“This,” she says, gesturing proudly to a long reading hall, “is our primary study room, which I’m sure you’re both very familiar with by now. During term time it’s always full. Your job as assistants will be to help students locate materials, reshelve books, manage desk enquiries, and, most importantly, maintain the quiet study environment.”

“Of course,” Nanami says smoothly.

“Absolutely,” you add. Then you think of something to ask. “Do we get to hand out those cards that have the time stamps? Y’know, the ones that let other people know if someone’s been away from their desk for longer than fifteen minutes so they can take their seat? I’ve always wanted to piss people off when they return to their desk and realise someone’s taken it.”

Mrs. Collins laughs. “Yes, I’ll show you where we keep the blank cards.”

Behind her back, Nanami mutters, “Oh, look who’s an aspiring metre maid?”

Mimicking him, you repeat with an exaggeratedly deep voice, “Blergh, metre maid, blergh I unironically love Callutus 16 and think it’s peak poetry.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “I do not, but I do believe it is misunderstood.”

You roll your eyes. “It is not. It’s adequately understood; you just don’t like the conclusions people reach about the damn thing.”

He adjusts his glasses, lips pursed. “Yes, well, they’re wrong.”

“It’s a poem about face fucking, you idiot,” you remind him, baffled.

“Language!”

The little old lady is giving you a disappointed purse of her lips. How did she hear that but not everything else?

Somewhat embarrassed, you mutter, “Sorry, Mrs. Collins.”

She huffs, but continues, gesturing toward a tall corridor of shelving. Nanami quietly snickers. He baited you, and you fell for it. You’ve given him the satisfaction of watching you be scolded for saying ‘face fucking’ in a library. Ugh, you need to focus!

“Now,” Mrs. Collins happily starts up again, like nothing had happened, “the stacks are organised according to subject classification. Humanities are primarily on the second floor, though Classical Literature has its own dedicated section.”

Your ears perk up immediately.

Nanami’s do too.

She smiles; she knew you’d both only really care about this section. “Most of the older material is stored here,” she continues. “Translations, commentaries, philological studies. We also hold a small rare-text collection, which in time has slowly been dwindling due to lack of funding and support by the Board, but we persevere and do what we can to pay these precious books the respect they deserve.”

You and Nanami exchange a glance.  A dangerous one.

“Oh?” you say politely.

“How fascinating,” Nanami adds.

All Classical Lit students know about the rare-text collection. As undergrads, you’re not allowed to be anywhere near it — they’re fragile, priceless, and one of a kind. Only PHD students are granted access, and even then it’s heavily restricted to books on the topics they’re researching. 

One of the other reasons why you applied for this position is because Assistant Librarians get access to the restricted sections. A fact Nanami must know too.

Mrs. Collins nods. “You’ll both spend quite a bit of time here, I’m sure. Shelving, cataloguing, assisting researchers. And reading, of course. It’s partly the reason I took a liking to you two; avid and knowledgeable readers are exactly what we need.”

She pushes open a heavy wooden door.

Beyond it, the library stretches aisle after aisle of tall shelves packed tightly with books: worn spines, faded gold lettering, thick scholarly volumes.

The Classics section.

Your natural habitat.

To have access to the whole library before and after opening, when there’s only you and these books, is such a blessing. You can sit by the window, by the radiators, on the comfortable velvet loveseats, and read to your heart’s content. Besides the benefit to your résumé, this perk might have been the reason you applied to begin with.

“Well,” Mrs. Collins says, “why don’t we begin with something simple? Reshelving!”

She hands each of you a small stack of returned books. You glance at yours. Greek lyric poetry. Nanami glances at his. Roman satire. 

You snort quietly. “How fitting,” you murmur.

Nanami adjusts his glasses.

“I was thinking the same thing.”

Mrs. Collins clasps her hands behind her back, completely oblivious to the silent war brewing between her two assistants. “You must have read the information pack I sent via email over the weekend. Let’s put you to the test. Take your time,” she says. “Accuracy is far more important than speed.”

Nanami nods. “Of course.”

You nod too. “Absolutely.”

She walks a few steps away to organise a cart of books. There she runs into one of the older ladies who runs this place with her. The one who does the whole stereotypical, scary librarian ‘shhh’ you see in movies. Or in Monster’s University.

The two of you get to work, reading the spines of the book and the information in the sleeve. You had read her email. In fact, you studied it. Not even because you knew Nanami would have and he’d one up you, but because it was genuinely interesting — you’d been curious to know about the systems in place at libraries, especially one as big and institutional as this one. 

It can’t possibly be easy to run this whole place, after all.

Humming as you work, you slide books to make room for the ones you’d picked up. 

First you check the call number on the spine label — three lines of information neatly printed beneath the small library stamp. The email explained it clearly: the library uses a Library of Congress Classification, not the Dewey Decimal Classification most school libraries rely on.

You tilt the first book slightly, reading the label.

Class PA: Classical languages and literature. Then the number sequence. Then the Cutter number, which alphabetises by author. Then the publication year. You glance along the shelf until the numbers climb toward the right range.

There.

You slip the book between PA 6303 .G52 and PA 6303 .L17, nudging the row until the spines sit flush against the edge of the shelf. The training email had emphasised that too: books should sit upright and even with the shelf edge so call numbers remain visible.

Nanami, to his credit, is minding his own business. He does his part, tackling his pile book and by book, disappearing between aisles and reappearing to grab more. You’re ahead by one book. You smirk to yourself.

“I started with two more books than you.”

“Huh?”

He looks you right in the eye and enunciates more clearly than needed, “I’m technically ahead; don’t get cocky.”

Huffing, you slot another book in by your head. “It doesn’t matter where we started. It’s all about who gets to the end first, so I’m gonna be as cocky as I want to, thank you very much.”

The man opens his mouth to retort, but his gaze drops to the cart, specifically to your pile. The corner of his lips twitches. He says nothing else.

Odd…

Nothing to complain about though — it works to your benefit.

This morning, when you awoke before the sun had risen to make sure you’d arrive early, you had one thought: do not let him drag you down to his level. As much as possible, you should avoid him. Yeah, sure, you haven’t been doing a very good job of that since the day’s started, but after this training, after the mandatory side-by-side action, you’ll pretend he doesn’t exist.

That’s the best way to get out of this three month long experience, before the academic year ends and you both graduate, never to see each other again. 

Time has proven again and again that once the two of you get started, you can never stop. It’d be constant arguing and nitpicking and glaring for hours and hours with no sign of slowing down. That’s how you two work; never half-assing the things you’re passionate about. 

So you’ll ignore him, avoid him, write him off from your lived reality, do whatever you can to prevent him infecting you with his inferior intellect.

And before you know it, you’re down to your last book. You rush to grab it, noticing with great delight that he’s got two more to do. 

But when you inspect the number and realise something he had realised earlier than you, the wicked smile you’re sporting drops. 

“You son of a bitch…”

Nanami’s smile is small, barely there, and yet to you he might as well have been grinning. He slides his penultimate book in, reaching two shelves above your head whilst Mrs. Collins finishes up her conversation and looks to have every intention of making her way back to you two. 

You slowly look up and up to the very top shelf where your fingers could not graze even on your tippytoes. 

At the same time, he empties his side of the cart and brushes his palms clean of dust.

“All done?” she asks.

He stands taller. “Yes. A very helpful exercise, thank you.”

“Kiss up,” you grumble under your breath. If he hears, he doesn’t show it. To the Director, you sheepishly say, “Sorry, I’ve got one last book to shelve but I can’t quite reach where it should go. Is there a stool nearby?”

Frowning, she checks her watch. “The stool’s in the storage room on the ground floor; we won’t have time to get it — I have to show you how to use the filing system on the computers and your log-in details before we have to open the doors. Perhaps Nanami can do it for you. He is a tall boy.” She looks at him, fondly smiling. “You can reach just fine, can’t you, dear?”

Cordially, in a way that nearly makes her swoon you’re sure, he replies, “I would be very happy to compensate for what my colleague lacks.”

Nanami says it in such a way that makes it sound like a joke, like he’s being ironic in a genuinely supportive way. That’s why she laughs and pays no mind to the twitch of your eye. 

There.

That’s exactly how he gets his way — with charm he pulls out of his ass. And everyone buys it. It’s as if you’re the only one who can see through his glamour, the only one who sees him for what he is.

Evil spawn.

He strolls over to you, giving you the same look he gives all the professors, though he’s not doing it to butter you up, he’s doing it to rub salt in the wound, to mock you. 

A hand takes the book from your grip, having to yank it when your fingers would not loosen. You don’t move out of his way, glued to the spot by your disbelief at his audacity and at your parents’ failure to make you taller through genetic luck. 

Body pressing close, he pins you to the shelf. His woody cologne fills your nostrils. The softness of his blue, cashmere sweater tickles your face. Your face scrunches up in revulsion.

In a leisurely manner, he skims the book up the side of your body, climbing higher and higher until it blocks the brightening sunlight from your face momentarily and reaches his face, blocking his lips and the sounds he makes when he mutters, “I’ll gladly compensate for your height today, disappointing intelligence tomorrow, and your incompetence always.”

Through gritted teeth, you say, “I admit to lacking in height in comparison to you, you four-eyed giraffe, but you and I both know I do not lack the other two.”

His warm eyes scan your face, dipping down to your chest which is pressed up against his for the briefest of seconds. 

“We’ll see.”

Book meets wood. 

It’s done.

He won.

Mrs. Collins claps her hands together. 

“Wonderful! Let’s move on, shall we?”

Nanami steps back. You finally let out the breath you didn’t realise you were holding. He adjusts his glasses and sweeps his arm out. “Ladies first.”

“You mean, beauty before beasts,” you grouch, side stepping around him to get the hell away from whatever that was.

“I most certainly do not.”

The two of you follow closely behind Mrs. Collins, who seems to be mentally ticking off a checklist as she goes — inspecting shelves and books, desks, and lamps, making sure everything’s in order before the opening. 

Making sure she can’t hear, you whisper, “Really? Coulda fooled me. You were totally checking me out.” You add with a singsongy voice, “Saw you look at something you shouldn’t have, Nanamin.”

“I was not looking at your breasts!” he hisses, aghast and cheeks flushing.

A laugh escapes you. “No one said anything about my breasts. Way to out yourself, perv.”

He glowers, snatching his gaze from you and staring straight ahead. “Your obsession with my sexuality is becoming glaringly obvious. Perhaps you’re projecting.”

“Projecting what? I’m not in love with you.”

Nanami huffs in amusement. “No one said anything about love.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. You grab his arm, halting him in his tracks like you did on Friday, this time with no joke up your sleeves. Fixing him a firm look, you enunciate loud and clear, “I am not in love with you. Making light of checking each other out is fine, I’ll admit I might have done that to you here and there, but broaching the line of love is out of the question, Nanami.”

Tilting his head to the side, he smirks a smirk so evil, it sends shivers down your spine. “So you were projecting. How pedestrian of you.”

“I was not projecting, you pig-headed assho—”

“That’s enough, you two!”

Your heads snap to the side.

Mrs. Collins stands ahead, arms crossed and eyes scolding. 

She’s reached her limit.

“I have heard all about your little rivalry from the Literature department,” the Library Director starts, not looking like a granny you’d help across the street but rather a leader you do not want to cross. “You two are somewhat infamous for your pettiness and competitive spirit, just as much as for your intelligence, ambition, and creativity. And for that, I was warned against hiring you both, by your very own references. All of them.”

Neither of you make a move or open your mouth to argue; survival instincts have kicked into gear.

She continues, tone leaving no room for doubt, “Libraries are a place of worship. For books, yes, but also for human development. These sacred grounds hold history, knowledge, and insight into the future. In many ways, I hoped, and still hope, that by hiring you both, you will rise to the occasion to learn. To put aside your rivalry, to see past your prejudices against each other, and learn that there are two souls reflecting one another in passion for literature and serving others. You’ll be better students, people, citizens of the world for it.”

Beneath the lecturing coldness of her words, there is a maternal warmth you recognise. The older woman, hair grey and eyes the same, means every word she utters.

You soften.

“By the end of your time here, I am certain you will leave no longer enemies but friends. Allies. Bonded by a shared sense of justice for ink on pages. If only you will apply yourself, open your heart and your minds. In the meantime,” she says, sighing and turning back around to continue her tour, “try not to kill each other. Blood is so difficult to get out of the carpet.”

Told off, you walk behind her with a pout. 

It was like being scolded by your mother. 

Everyone’s warned her, warned that no matter how many have tried to get you to calm the fuck down, no one’s succeeded, that they’ve all decided you’re hopeless. Yet she was willing to give you both a chance. You owe her. Perhaps not pure gratitude since this arrangement is hellish, but certainly something.

“Two souls reflecting one another?” Nanami mumbles to himself. He pinches his chin, deep in thought. “Open your hearts and minds?”

To yourself, you repeat, “Sense of justice for ink on pages, huh?”

The two of you share a look.

Then you both let out something of a cross between a chuckle and a scoff.

“She’s no Shakespeare, that’s for sure,” you conclude.

“And she’s certainly not someone with an understanding of biology.” He exhales. “If all librarians end up this melodramatic, then I hope these three months won’t be long enough to do permanent damage to my psyche.”

“That’s a big word,” you tease, elbowing him.

Nanami scoffs. “Of course you’d think a six letter word is a big word — counting past five must prove to be arduous for you. There, another big word, don’t burst a blood vessel thinking about what it means.”

“Mrs. Collins?” you call out, pumping your legs faster to reach her. “He just called me a whore. You should fire him for creating a hostile work environment.”

“I did no such thing!” he defends, legs quickening too. “Mrs. Collins, believe me, I do not even have that kind of word in my vocabulary.”

You snicker. “How can you be an assistant librarian if you don’t even know basic words? Clearly, I’ll be the one picking up your slack.”

“Says the woman who’ll quickly grow very familiar with the stool waiting for her in the storage room?”

“Yeah, actually. Sorry not everyone can get leg-lengthening surgery like you.”

“This must be hard to believe, but I’m all natural — unlike your lip fillers.”

“Uh, excuse me, but I’m also all natural, but thanks for admitting you stare at my lips and think they’re so pretty they must have been augmented.”

“No, I thought they looked so off-putting, the filler must have been migrating. Back alley procedures have higher risks of being botched than more expensive ones, after all.”

“Oh, wow. Mrs. Collins, are you hearing this?”

“Yes, please. I would love to hear what you think about her egregious behaviour.”

Two sets of eyes land on the woman, who hasn’t paused in her walking. She doesn’t defend you, doesn’t fire him nor threaten to have him expelled like she should. Instead, she merely purses her lips and says to herself,

“Oh dear.”