Work Text:
He’d known you from the life he’d abandoned. Across rows of desks, wedged into the corner of the room where as few people as possible could ever see your monitor. He’d known you from the lunchroom. From taking his meal break long after everyone else so his return to work would only warrant another measly hour or two before he could leave again.
He’d known you from brief eye-contact and small-talk, and far too many work absences to justify for an office worker in Tokyo. On the odd occasion, the boss would lament your absences due to sickness, but if there were any telltale signs beyond indicators of hangovers, you seemed in perfect health when you were present.
For a while there it entertained him, wondering if you were actually ever even sick. Both of you seldom interacted with the rest of the office, but you did manage to hold his attention, if not be fascination, then at least by resentment.
When he left, he gave no notice period. By no means was he looking forward to becoming a sorcerer again, but dropping a full-time job after years of fruitless dedication was…thrilling.
You left an impression on him, even if he had no intention of staying in touch.
Perhaps that’s why he so readily recognises you when he’s standing in line at a cramped little deli four years later. Hunkered down in a corner booth by the window as always. Phone in one hand. Sandwich in the other. He’s never seen you without office clothes, but he’ll admit, the cardigan is a nice change.
He’s ordered lunch already. Gojo holds up the line behind him, stroking his chin at every single menu item on the board. It’s plenty excuse to break away from being publicly associated with him, stepping to the side to observe you while he waits.
You look nice. Time has been kind to you.
Then, you look up, and god help him, he doesn’t look away fast enough. There’s no pretending he wasn’t looking.
“Nanami.” You greet, offering a lazy wave from your table.
You remember him.
His posture straightens ever more, bumping Gojo’s chin when the man tries to peek around his shoulder.
It’s with a curt nod that he acknowledges you, as well as the server, plucking his sandwich from the counter and turning away to reciprocate with your own name. He’d rather walk out altogether, but he’s trapped waiting for Gojo to hurry up and decide on his damn order.
Instead, the man follows him to your table.
“Been a while.” You say.
“It has.” He agrees. With every response, his current coworker’s gaze shifts between you. No doubt gathering as much information as he can through nonverbal means. It’s acceptable, for the moment. At least he hasn’t started speaking, yet.
Your gaze combs him, head to toe. It’s a look he’s grown more familiar with in recent years since returning to the school. White-collar spinsters recognising the visage of a salaryman who dedicates far too much of his time to himself and therefore won’t ever have to be dealt with in prospective marriage.
“You got bigger.”
Here we go.
“I have.”
“It doesn’t suit you.”
…
Unexpected.
“No, it doesn’t.”
A little smile creeps onto your face at that. Nanami, meanwhile, gives you nothing. He’d like to compliment the cardigan, he thinks — but such a thing would be incredibly forward. Especially under the scrutinising gaze of his coworker.
There’s a hand on his shoulder, and Nanami steels himself to be made a mockery of.
“Hey.” Gojo mutters, affording you a glance while he regards Nanami. “I’m gonna order. You stay here and catch up.”
With that, he’s striding off, leaving the two of you alone. Part of Nanami is relieved that he isn’t being dragged through a humiliating spectacle. Another part seethes at how astute his coworker has decided to be for this interaction and this interaction only.
There’s an awkward moment of silence. You were never stupid; no doubt you’ve registered why Gojo has aborted the conversation. Nevertheless, you gesture to the seat across from you. “S’not taken, if you and your—“
“Coworker.”
“Coworker…” You trail off. “Doesn’t look the office type.”
“He’s a teacher.”
Your head tilts to the side. Curious. “You’re a teacher now?”
“No.” Nanami answers. Then he sets his lunch down, shrugs out of his blazer, and sits.
“Well look at this. First lunch we’ve had together.”
That’s not necessarily true, but he won’t say anything. He’s spent plenty of lunch hours in the distance past sitting unseen at a table while you shake the life out of a vending machine.
Nanami neglects his sandwich for now, folding his hands atop the bench. “Are you still at the office yourself?”
You snort. “God, no. Left not long after you did.”
“I see. What do you do now?”
“Freelance, for the most part. Any you, if not teaching?”
“Let’s go with freelance.”
You chuckle at his response, and he does not like the spark of old camaraderie it strikes. He does not like the memories it stirs up. He’s not before been so aware of how prone he was to studying you across tables in the past. You smile at him like you know him, and he does not like how appealing he finds that.
Gojo better hurry up.
“You’re looking well.” He probes, clearing his throat. “Are you feeling better?”
That earns another curious tilt of your head. “What do you mean?”
“You always took a day off during the week. I assumed you were sickly.”
“Oh!” Realisation crosses your face, halting you moments before you take a bite out of your sandwich. “Yeah, that was bullshit.”
Nanami almost chokes. Outrage comes first. Then, passing amusement that his suspicions held water. He crosses his arms over his chest. “I knew it. How did you justify such dishonesty?”
“Just hated the job. I was pro rata. Whenever I accrued nine hours of sick leave, I took a sick day.” You explain. “Then, when I quit, I took my payout without having dipped into it.”
A lump forms in Nanami’s throat. Stilling him.
You’ve been playing the system. That’s scandalous. That’s downright indecent. Something in his core tightens, turning molten in milliseconds. Terribly familiar. Exceptionally rare in the presence of others.
He does his best to level ire at you rather than admiration. “That’s not a particularly respectable way to build your career.” He comments, and the way you smile at his admonition has him slipping further.
“Nanami.” You chide, leaning forward just slightly, and even across the table Nanami feels compelled to lean back lest this all become far too intimate for public witness. The tone you lace around his name. The minute tap of your tongue against the roof of your mouth. Something’s wrong here. Something feels wrong. “Being a worker ant sucks. The boss refused me a salary to worm his way out of bonuses. Why not work the system to get a four-day work week?”
A surge hits him out of the blue, so ecstatic and shameful he has to avert his gaze from you to keep from implicating you in whatever’s happening to him. A throb follows, leaving arrhythmic little echoes in its wake, and all of a sudden, Nanami feels every muscle in his body momentarily slacken.
He catches his exhale before it can incriminate him, swallowing audibly.
Crap.
He — he can’t have —
Yet a sickly new warmth is the nail in the coffin. Spontaneous orgasm. No — not spontaneous; you pulled him through such a shameful confession, and he fucking came because of it. This was your doing, and he’s terrified at both possibilities — that you either know what you’re doing, and this is deliberate — or if you’re totally ignorant to his situation, and he’s far more messed up than he imagined.
At least he’s skilled at holding his composure. On your end, his only tell might be the tick of a muscle in his face.
He has to get away from you. Immediately.
Your expression shifts. A notch concerned. “You okay? Your eye was just twitching— "
“Everything’s fine.” He states. It will be, once he’s retreated. “I’m leaving. Excuse me.” Then, he’s shimmying out of the booth and snatching his blazer to situate in front of him before he — let alone anyone else — can assess the damage. “My coworker is — I need to —“
Gojo is still holding up the line with his order. There’s no chance of using him as an excuse. He has no choice. He has to abandon ship.
You don’t move from your seat, watching puzzled as Nanami slips away. The sandwich remains poised in front of you. A mission not quite aborted. “Well, all right, it was nice chatting.”
Nanami isn’t so sure. As he hurries out of the building and shambles to the car, he can’t decide whether this interaction is the second or third worst thing to ever have happened to him.
Ijichi straightens out to glance at the rear view mirror when the sorcerer clambers into the back seat, taking refuge with his blazer held fast in his lap. “That was quick.” He comments, and Nanami makes an effort not to take offense. “Where’s Gojo?”
“Drive me home please, Ijichi.”
“But he’s getting my lunch…-“
"Now, please."
Ijichi’s disappointment radiates in a slump as he flicks on the indicator and pulls onto the road.
The instant he’s shut the front door, Nanami wastes no time. He tosses his blazer on the hallway table, moving through his apartment. First things first; he needs to get himself cleaned up.
One hand hurriedly tugs at his belt while he heads for the bathroom, reserving the other for turning on the light and bracing his weight against the basin as he unzips his fly.
Nanami assesses the damage, checking beneath his waistband. A disgusted scoff escapes him. Thankfully nothing has soaked through his trousers, but it’s a mess, and what’s worse — he’s hard.
He weighs up his options. He’s going to have to wash up, either way. He could punish himself for such a slip-up, or he could give his body what it wants and curb the craving.
It’s been a long time, after all.
Screw it.
His fingers feel freezing wrapped around his cock. It breaks immersion and pulls a choked breath from him all the same.
Nanami doesn’t draw it out. He’s far enough along and has far too much to do to warrant anything but efficiency. If he’d have gone out of his way to conjure such thoughts he’d be ashamed, but they come like an assault, crashing over his thoughts. Washing out the rational in their wake and leaving him with a photo book of rapid-fire images to spur him on.
His pace is led by instinct. You’d be torturously slow with your mouth, winding him down after a long day, toying with him when he lacked the energy to get himself off. Your hands would be faster, working him with precision in minutes-extended breakaways from work.
A shiver runs through him. His grip on the basin tightens. Last round's spend and pre-cum soak the gaps between his fingers, adding a wet tap to the rhythm of his hand. Now that’s a nice thought. Applying a fraction of his salaried hours to this. Sneaking off with you. The higher-ups none the wiser that they’re paying the two of you to get each other off on company time—
God, would you have the same attitude to taking your own pleasure? Or would he have to speed you up, compensate for your laziness?
He could show you. He could do it. He could have you fluttering around his fingers with seconds to spare before you both returned from another intermittent smoke break.
Four day work week. Four day work week.
His core tightens. He’s close. He doesn’t even realise he’s been stifling his breaths until his vision turns spotty.
You could learn so much from each other. You could teach him to meander. To enjoy the merits of wasting time. Taking up space. Stealing property that’s already been a tax write-off. Trying new experiences like sleeping in and eye contact and cockwarming. It’s foul of him to imagine such things of you, but it’s impossible to resist. You’re far too clever about evading what ails him not to see eye to eye. You’d know precisely how to use him for your pleasure, and you’d give him the same opportunity.
He’d fuck you clothed. Not sparing any time for prep or cleanup — god, you’re reckless enough that you’d like it that way, too. He could have you folded over a barely-ergonomic chair in the break room, bringing you undone in as little time as possible. Then, when neither of you are on the clock and he’s far too exhausted from a day at the school to put in the effort, you’d exact your revenge; perched in his lap, riding him even when he has nothing more to give.
Nanami’s breath hitches. An unconscious hum stirs in his throat. If he weren’t alone, he’d be embarrassed by the pitch. He feels himself skirting the edge, swelling just a little more in his hand as he works himself faster.
Four day fucking work week. That’s — god, that’s unreal.
Nanami’s orgasm crests, trembling through him until he’s holding onto the basin for dear life, brow furrowed as he tries in vain to suppress the low whine that slips from his throat. His cock throbs. Uneasy stripes of cum paint the basin, licking up the tile wall. Liquid heat spills over his fingers as he works himself through the release, coaxing out every last drop until finally, his strength gives out.
Now left with just dwindling aftershocks and total exhaustion, Nanami lets his head drop, sweat-dampened fringe dusting his brow while he regains his breath.
“Shit.” He sighs.
It’s divine, the degree of sleepiness that follows. He’ll let it take him, once he’s cleaned himself up. The less time he has to spend reflecting on this, the better.
“Yo Nanami! I got your old coworker’s number for you since you were too chicken-shit to do it yourself—WOAH YOU’RE JERKING OFF!”
Nanami’s head snaps in Gojo’s direction, the man standing freshly teleported in his shower cubicle. His stomach drops. “Get out!” He barks, hunching over to cover himself as best he can. “Get out of my house!”
Gojo does not leave. He’s shocked, sure, but he doesn’t budge. “You got it on the mirror?!”
“Stop looking!”
“I can’t! How’d you manage that!”
Nevermind.
“GOJO, GET OUT!”
This ties for number one.