a/n: this was inspired by a tumblr post i saw from @btchitsbigboogie, YOU INSPIRED THIS FIC
my best friend also works at a raising canes (my favorite fast food chain hehe) and the title is one of the catch phrases they have to use at the drive-thru I’M CRINEHSFKGJNSGN
edit: help i also just saw that someone made another tamsy at canes fic and now the next time i go to canes, i expect to see that beautiful man there.
tamsy caines, feared, dangerous, morally questionable menace of a man, is currently wearing a bright red polo shirt with a little raising cane’s logo stitched over his heart like it’s mocking him personally.
his name tag says TAMSY CAINES :)
the smiley face was not his choice.
he hates it here.
he hates the smell of frying oil that clings to his clothes, the way the drive-thru headset crackles directly into his soul, the way his coworkers think he’s “intimidating, but lowkey hot,” and most of all, MOST OF ALL, he hates the customers.
specifically the customers who squint at his name tag.
“so… like… caines?” some guy says, leaning way too far over the counter. “are you, like, related to the owner or something?”
tamsy blinks once. twice.
you, standing at the drink station refilling sweet teas, already know what’s about to happen. you stop moving. you’ve seen this before.
“no,” tamsy says, voice flat, tight. “i am not.”
the guy laughs. “oh, c’mon. that’s gotta be where the name comes from, right?”
tamsy’s eye twitches.
“CANES,” he snaps, slamming the box of toast down a little too hard, “IS THE NAME OF THE DOG.”
dead silence.
the guy stares. the line freezes. a child somewhere drops a crinkle-cut fry.
tamsy leans forward, smile gone, eyes dark, exhausted, and unhinged in that very specific i’ve worked customer service for too long way.
“a dog,” he repeats slowly. “a golden retriever. not me. not my family. not some secret chicken empire i’m hiding.”
“… oh,” the guy says.
you bite your lip so hard you almost draw blood trying not to laugh.
the manager gives tamsy a warning look from across the kitchen, but here’s the thing – tamsy is annoyingly good at his job. like, devastatingly good.
orders are always perfect. baskets packed neatly. sauce portions exact. he moves fast, efficient, smooth, flipping tenders like he was born with fryer grease in his veins. customers complain about his tone at times, sure, but they keep coming back because their food is always immaculate.
he hates that, too.
later, during a rush, someone else does it.
“wow,” a girl at the counter says, grinning. “your name is literally caines and you work here? that’s crazy.”
tamsy doesn’t even look up as he slides her tray across the counter.
“say it again,” he mutters.
“… what?”
“say i’m related to the restaurant again,” he says calmly, terrifyingly calm, “and i’ll throw you in the fryer.”
you snort from the back.
she laughs nervously, takes her food, and scurries away.
when the rush finally dies down, tamsy slumps against the counter like his soul has left his body.
“i’m going to lose my mind,” he says to no one in particular.
you hand him a cup of water. “you didn’t throw anything today. progress.”
he side-eyes you. “i almost threw her though.”
“baby steps.”
he drinks, sighs, and stares blankly at the wall. then without looking at you, he mutters, “if one more person asks me for the ‘family discount,’ i’m burning this place down.”
you grin. “you’re still clocking in tomorrow, though.”
his jaw clenches.
“… unfortunately.”
because he needs the money. because he’s good at it. because the universe is cruel.
and because, unfortunately, tamsy caines working at raising cane’s is the funniest joke reality has ever played on him, and it is never going to let him forget it.
you watch him fix his stupid little name tag, straighten his uniform, and step back up to the register like a soldier returning to war.
“hi,” he says flatly to the next customer. “welcome to cane’s.”
dreams are made, winding through his hair | tamsy caines x reader
in which your soft spot for rudo has tamsy’s curiosity piqued. it gets worse from there.
4.9k — tamsy’s pov, yandere themes, implied non/dubcon, abuse, manipulation, gaslighting, kidnapping, injuries, you know how it is, jane eyre allusions, reader is deeply flawed + vague jinki & past, tamsy is bad at feelings (no shit lmao), unreliable narration
A spider never chases. It simply waits.
All it takes is one misstep, a tingling along the silk weaved so intimately, that every pluck, every struggle, tells exactly where it is in the fine tapestry.
Such were Tamsy’s musings as he looked through the intricacies of an abandoned web at the courtyard—your usual spot to quietly read.
In the grand scheme of things, you were no threat. Just someone who appeared, since day one, to be both indifferent and aware of him. Something akin to a buffer than anything else. Perhaps even a hiccup—mildly annoying, yet passing. Ultimately, an irrelevant piece on the board.
Still, upon your integration with Team Eager, Tamsy had to check two important things. Your Jinki...
Could it kill him?
Could it be of use?
For one, it was a compelling little thing, as well as the mystery that had it wrapped around. A nuisance should you pit it against his own. Concerning each time he considered the manner in which it was often hidden away. But compelling nonetheless.
Though low priority, Tamsy wanted to get rid of it. But days turned into weeks, seasons had changed, and an unforeseen circumstance arose.
You used to flutter around from one person to another as if sampling petals, leaving nothing but coquettish smiles like a trail of dust in your wake, and still managed to keep everybody at arms length. It was quickly becoming a curiosity to Tamsy, the way you had been moving around so seamlessly…
Until the arrival of Rudo.
Lately, like a long lost older sister, Rudo had been growing closer to you, and disturbingly swift too. Tamsy wasn’t jealous, no, not necessarily. In fact, he thought this a promising development. A high so lovely, he pictured, and its potential crash once he decided to smother it. Advantages, despite everything, were still advantages, and all was well and welcome. By getting rid of you, he’d get to bend Rudo too—hitting two birds with a single stone. Such was the power of friendship, and Tamsy could all but gag about it.
How should he proceed with it, he wondered, the disposal. However, it was kind of impossible to take away someone who kept refusing to get attached to begin with. But Tamsy was nothing if not patient.
Logistics could come later. The traps were set.
For now, he would wait.
Nose deep into the foxing pages of a sorry-looking leatherbound, you didn’t even bother to look up as Tamsy approached.
“Oh, it’s that book again.”
“And what of it, Tam-tam?”
Tam-tam. Sounded more like an accusation than a lousy nickname.
“Just making small talk.” On the long makeshift bench, Tamsy situated himself next to you. You paid him no mind. “Delmon’s taking his time.”
“What’s he doing?”
Tamsy flicked his hand towards the big guy’s distant yelling. “Discussing logistics with Semiu. Or something of the sort.”
You gave no response, just a noncommittal grunt as your eyes drifted across the page. Yet a curve had formed on the corners of your lips. Faint, teasing, but there.
“What was it again?” He gazed at the expanse of the sky. Aimless, as if in deep thought. “I am no bird… no net ensnares me?”
And, there you go—a ripple on a surface that had once been unmoved. Now you were interested. Now you wanted to spark a conversation. Your head turned.
“You… you’ve read it?”
“How can I not, when you’ve been toting that thing around?” He vaguely gestured at the heavily battered book. “Found a copy not too long ago. How many times have you read it by now?”
“Many.” A nonanswer, like always, but the way your body leaned toward him this time was quite telling. Folding the corner of a page, you closed the book, and crossed your legs. “So, what are your thoughts?”
“Well, simply put, I think she’s quite admirable,” and annoying, Tamsy thought. Both could be true and said. “The way she just refuses to go down. Jane, that is.”
“And Rochester?”
“Oh, him? I find him a bit cruel,” and weak, a pathetic amateur, Tamsy thought as he rested his chin in his palm, “Jane deserved someone who could be transparent with her, not someone who played mind games to trap her,” he sighed then, thumbing the ends of his hair, “But then again, I guess that’s what makes it so good.”
You hummed, regarding him as the silence stretched on, before falling into a passionate and animated rambling. Tamsy listened. Took mental notes. It seemed that by having yourself repeatedly read about a fiercely independent woman, it was no mistake that you had this deep aversion to being controlled, a catharsis-seeking urge for liberation, and it amused him to no end.
Oh, the possibilities! Tamsy mused, the pleasure of being around passionate people. It was as if this chance was touched by divinity long before he had met you. He’d gladly take care of these convictions, make sure they were all intact, and in time, have you fail where the main character in the book succeeded.
“I really enjoyed this talk we had. We should do this again sometimes, perhaps over tea.” Prompted by the staticky voice that had echoed off his choker, Tamsy stood up and dusted his uniform. “Now, everybody’s waiting. Let’s go?”
“Oh! Wait—” You gasped in wonder, all for the sake of humoring him, it seemed. “Like a bookclub.”
“Is that what it’s called?” He tilted his head, humoring you back. “Then, yes.”
You didn’t speak right away as you remained seated, unmoved and looking up at him. Scrutinizing him. Then you smiled, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
“I don’t like tea.”
And with that, you stood too, and walked past him as if making sure you had the last say.
Some flighty thing you were.
༊࿐ ͎. ｡˚ ° ⊹ ˚.
Now what would it take to get you where Tamsy wanted you?
Unlike you, Tamsy was not much into flirting. Never had. Didn’t see the appeal in trifling with the art. It was too direct and totally not his style. Being reliable and kind and caring to the point of suffocation were more than sufficient, all of which had taken him distances.
Up there. Down here. Back and forth.
But, oddly enough, for someone who rarely had their hands out in the open, Tamsy found genuine pleasure in reaching out to touch you. Initially, it had meant to mess with you, but the strange warmth that engulfed him whenever your skin meets his palm, little by little, was becoming irresistible. He abhorred this new found feeling, yet relished it. Among these treats were having his elbow propped on your shoulder, the act of repositioning your mask, squeezing parts of you when he had to gently move you out of the way. Subtle. Friendly.
Sorely mild from what he truly desired most.
And even then, nothing seemed to work. You remained as you were, except a lot more watchful. If anything, it was as if you were challenging him, toying with him. Goading him to try harder. A different approach, perhaps? Well, he could just kill you, couldn’t he? After all, he loathed nothing but inactivity. Should he just conclude this earlier than planned? At this point in time, would it affect Rudo on a magnitude which Tamsy wanted?
No, he didn’t think so. And to top it all off, suspicions would arise. Not that it mattered, really. It’d be an inconvenience at most, but he would make do without it, thus deciding against it.
Perhaps he had to take it up a notch moving forward, drive you to a wall, and corner you. Humble you. A little self-victimization on his part wouldn’t hurt. He’d have you doubt your assumptions, have you doubt yourself. He’d have you spend all your time contemplating all the ways he had acted thus far, to a point at which you wouldn’t even dare think you had him clocked, or look at him like he was some sly creature hiding in plain sight.
And what do you know, an evening of celebration at HQ presented itself. The aroma of grilled meat and cheap liquor permeated the stuffy air in the break room. Tamsy plucked the opportunity like a dangling fruit—low and close to ripe—to make you see how much of an angel he was. Tedious, yes.
Entertaining? Absolutely.
The night advanced, as usual, and the alcohol began its descent into everyone’s systems, including yours. The conversations were a mishmash of nonsense, going from serious, to raunchy, to sappy, after copious amounts of crushed beer cans. Such were usual occurrences during these things. And anytime now, like clockwork, you would leave your post to get some fresh air. After all, you were a creature of habit, and whether sober or not, you liked your little evening strolls.
Outside wasn’t all that different, but at least it was less rackety, and he could have the pleasure of being alone with you. It didn’t take much for you to notice you were being followed. Smoke saturated his lungs the moment he had reached you, swirls of it trailing behind with the whispering wind.
“Want one, Tam-tam?”
“And here I thought you quit.” He started, holding up a hand to refuse the offer. “Are you alright?”
“Are you?” You threw it back rather sharp, easy, your narrowed eyes catching the slightest glint.
“A little concerned, is all.”
“Aww, aren’t you a sweetheart.”
Aren’t you a smart mouth, Tamsy mused.
The embers glowed fierce as you took a long drag, your fingers trembling ever so slightly with fresh blood adorning the sides of your lacquered index finger. “Why wouldn’t I be alright though?”
“Something’s bothering you by the looks of things.” Tamsy glanced at your hand, made sure you saw it, before facing ahead. “Was it the conversation back there?”
“Was it?” You hummed thoughtfully before chuckling between words without a hint of humor in it. “Or is it you that’s kinda bothering me? By the looks of things, of course.”
A beat passed, then another, as he shuffled off alongside you. He let your response hang suspended for a good while to let both of your footsteps tick away like clocks, let the awkwardness force its way in, before doing a little probing. The two of you had already reached the greater part of town, one cigarette after another, when he delivered the blow with a soft, self-effacing cadence.
“You don’t like me all that much, do you?”
“Eh?” Through an impish purr, you smirked. “What makes you say that?”
Aside from the fact that you had always gravitated towards Delmon—Delmon! Of all people! Because, what, your shared fondness for something so useless like flowers?!—it was the way you had his senses agitated, had them heightened. Your guard was always up when he was around, a lot more when he was near. The searing gazes. From distances. From across rooms. As if outwardly provoking him, anticipating for the slightest tell, the things he’d been doing underwraps. Of course, it was highly probable that you didn’t have a clue. And yet, and yet—
“A hunch, perhaps,” was what Tamsy settled for.
“And you’re bringing this up now, because?”
“Well, it’s important that we get along as a team, is it not?”
“We already make a good team as it is.” You leered. Tamsy hadn’t seen you this suspicious. “Does it matter what I feel?”
“It matters.” Tamsy said softly yet pointedly. “I wouldn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“Oh, I’m very comfortable! We’ve been working together for, what, almost a year now?” You waved your cigarette in a dismissive arc. “I’m fine. And it’s not like I hate you or anything like that. You’re just… too nice.”
Interesting. His gentleness didn’t waver. “Too nice?”
“You see, I don’t like nice. Nice rings all my alarms at once. Nice is…” you trailed off, mulling over the word. “… unpredictable. It’s a me problem. Nothing personal.”
“Oh, Tams, you really aren’t getting it, are you?” You all but chuckle, shaking your head. “Are all pretty faces this dense?”
Whaaaaat?
“Whatever do you mean by that, dear?”
You paused, snorted, and choked on your own smoke, which gave him an excuse to close the distance, leading you to a narrow alleyway, as he gently rubbed your back. The moment you were done wheezing, you echoed the pet name to taunt him. It was impressive how long you held his gaze before speaking, smoothing the length of his tie without a hitch.
“It means I like you, dummy.”
Tamsy blinked. Took him a full second to recalibrate. You… like him? Like, like like? That tiny pocket of silence was all it took for thoughts to spill from your lips once more.
“Look, I’m kinda wasted. And tomorrow? I probably won’t have a dust of recollection about this. So, please, be a gentleman and never bring this up, ever.” Then, a lazy smile painted your flushed face. “Besides, I don’t hook up with people I closely work with. Shits get in the way, you know?”
“Well, then, I didn’t hear a thing.” Tamsy smiled, nodding with warmth and assurance. Because of course. “Should we head back?”
And to this, you nodded too, almost disappointed, wistful. One that was a hard catch for the untrained eye. He bet you had expected a different response. And my, my, such exceptional turn of events, indeed. To think he thought of the opposite. How strange was that. He had to give it to you, momentarily as it was, for throwing him off kilter, but he already picked up where he had left off.
It would be a lie, foreseen or not, if he said this quick-paced push and pull of yours, didn’t move him, didn’t turn him on. If anything, it elevated the traps.
As you walked a few paces ahead of him, Tamsy wondered how skittish you could get once entangled in his ropes, wielding Tokushin, or perhaps even without. Wondered how he would go about it—crossing every boundary you had, as if the lines were scrawled in sand.
To you, it was a heavily downplayed drunken confession. Luckily for Tamsy, it was a poorly veiled fissure, one of which he’d gladly dip his hands in.
And dipping his hands he certainly did. One thing led to another, and Tamsy took the courtesy of accompanying you back to your quarters. Some gentleman he was, right?
Limp and flushed, Tamsy hovered over your figure as he laid you down on the mattress, giddy at the sight of a trust so giving, so profound. Certain you had fallen asleep, he fished for the readied hangover pill in his pocket, planning to put a little note beside it on your nightstand as proof that he would never do something indecent, cranking up the halo effect a little more.
And much to his delight and deductions, you pulled him down, shook his tresses loose, and kissed him like a hungry, feeble thing. The odd fixation you had for his labret made his piercing sting, prompting Tamsy to roll his eyes so hard it was nearly audible.
And yet, something else stirred in him, this feeling only you had ignited in him, and tickled his vice for control. It was the way you were so responsive under his touch. Breathless. As if starved. And even through the hindrance that were your clothes, Tamsy could feel how unbelievably feverish your body was against his own. It nearly stupefied him, this desperation you had—for better or for worse—for any semblance of connection, and his desire to see something pretty absolutely destroyed.
Under your indecisiveness, he snapped out of it, as you pushed him just enough to take a good look at him. You murmured an incoherent mix of half giggles and half bullshit—
“So gentle, aren’t you?” You cupped his face, your thumbs light like brushstrokes on his cheeks, cooing at him like he was some child. “You know you can quit the good guy act now, right? Put me in place once and for all?”
Tamsy supposed, no, he was sure this had happened before, and every time it did, they’d drop the act and proceed just as they pleased. Or perhaps they wouldn’t even try. They wouldn’t trick you, or hide beneath a facade, and show you just how despicable they actually were. Such cruelty was nothing short of new down here. He even deemed it necessary. And it really was a shame, and a little comical, how the likes of you subconsciously seek for a different ending in the same abusive loop.
“Why?” The mask slipped and it was well within intention. “Would you rather have me ruin you?”
The moment his question landed, your pupils began to yawn, blown significantly wide as if he was staring down at the abyss itself, threatening to swallow him whole. Your lips parted, soft and moist, yet the words held more of its usual bite. “Can you?”
You sweet thing. This sight alone was enough to overflow Tamsy with tremendous glee.
Perhaps it was the fear surfacing, that yes, he was just like everybody else, perhaps he was even worse, that you had been right all along. Or rather, out of satisfaction, for the likeness of control was within reach, that between you and him, you thought you were pulling the strings.
Either way, it was all so fascinating. So intriguing. So tempting.
He might as well simply let the facade slide off, pin you down, and have his way with you. The Watchman Series Book offered the convenience for such situations. You’d never remember a thing, but your body absolutely would, which was exciting to explore—its depths and all—with you. But turning your skepticism into reality seemed more enticing, and in the long run, felt more rewarding. Higher and higher, he’d hold your hand, make you believe that goodness was still out there, only for him to drop you from such great heights.
So, he’d bide his time. After all, he didn’t mind the long campaign. Because he was just so nice, wasn’t he?
And just like that, Tamsy broke the spell.
“You seem to misunderstand.” He climbed off the bed from which you sat up. Then, he smoothed out his disheveled hair and clothes. “I didn’t come here because I had an ulterior motive. Though I see why you’d think that. But honestly, I’ve never thought of you that way, nor did it ever cross my mind to…” He winced just the slightest to make it more believable. “To hurt you.”
“Oh, please.” You rolled your eyes, laughing the whole thing off. Tamsy thought it cute. “I was just messing with you.”
“I admit, I might’ve gotten carried away, but,” he sighed, theatrically so, “I wish you wouldn’t do such things—”
“It really is not that serious, geez.” You scoffed, waved him off. “You know what? Just go, Tamsy. Leave.”
Quietly, he twisted the doorknob then glanced over his shoulder one last time, and ah, there it was—the slightest hesitation. Did you feel bad, being so presumptuous? Did you feel ashamed, being so crass when all he did was care about you?
And to poke at the fresh bruise once more, he smiled a meek one. “I hope we’re still friends.”
Leaving your quarters, the muffled revelry downstairs immediately became louder down the hallway. It was only when he was inside the elevator that he felt his lips throbbing from being sore, as well as the wetness dripping down his chin. He ran a thumb over his piercing, eyes widening momentarily, before he chuckled at the realization. You’d really done it now. You had actually drawn blood.
It was safe to say that, right there and then, Tamsy had a change of heart. This might’ve indeed become less about your Jinki, or even less about Rudo. And it was becoming more about you.
How many, he wondered, just how much pulls and twists and spins would it take to break you? However, there wasn’t much material to work with. Tamsy knew next to nothing about what had made you who you were now. This wouldn’t do. How was it possible to weave the perfect handiwork without the path to one’s heart?
Still, your role in everything remained just the same. There was, however, more to you now.
Nothing too grand. Perhaps a separate play thing. Or a secret companion. His, nevertheless.
After all, Tamsy was growing fond of you, too.
༊࿐ ͎. ｡˚ ° ⊹ ˚.
Smooth. Fruitful. Such was Tamsy’s day. You and him. An easy job just as Semiu had declared. Two random supporters. Minus Delmon.
You had made the delightful mistake of handing Tamsy your history like a slice of moist cake, and boy was that easy. He had barely lifted a finger. He remained cordial, but distant. All it took was a bit of wiggle room for the guilt—for being so brazen, for ever doubting his kindness—to come weighing in on you. It was adorable, really, and quite a good run, to watch you put up such flimsy nonchalance, only for it to come crumbling down as soon as you were stuck with him on a job, helpless and injured.
While awaiting rescue, vulnerable with a wound that resembled a ravine on the better part of your arm and leg, Tamsy had to fabricate a sob story that only you should know. Something to keep you company. Something to take your mind off the pain.
“Also happened to me. Well, similar.” You had murmured, recounting the sordid details of your past, twice as open as the wound you had. “I never would’ve thought that you… You too…”
“How else, do you think,” Tamsy had said rather softly, as if his voice would shatter if he uttered a little louder. “I could’ve gotten these scars?”
Oh, how Tamsy loathed the pity, adored the horror that slowly stained your pretty face. How he adored you.
That should do it. That should deepen the bond. Tamsy found your suffering both beautiful and mundane. Such were many cases down here. Yet beautiful all the same. For what it was worth, all those anguish and torment years prior had fucked with your head, explained lots of things about you. For instance, how much it had hardened you, a quite formidable Jinki borne out of it, and finally, his absolute favorite, the softest spot you had only for Rudo.
Tamsy looked out the window as the vehicle rattled back toward HQ, his own reflection smiling back at him, all while you were taking a nap beside him. Everything was just about ready.
A leave should be filed soon.
༊࿐ ͎. ｡˚ ° ⊹ ˚.
“Hate to be the one to point this out, but that’s hella distracting,” Semiu, always the perceptive, annoyingly so, vaguely gestured at your thighs. “Are those from trash beasts, raiders, or did you pick up a new kink?”
“Whoa, hold on. Don’t go blaming our job.” Enjin interjected with a grin, his thick eyebrows dancing to which often preceded something inappropriate. “Those are rope burns.” Enjin then turned to Tamsy. “Tams, you guys overworking yourselves or what?”
“Oh, dear. Me? Never!” Tamsy leaned in for a closer look at the evidence of his own doing, his knuckles pressing against his lips as if in deep thought, deep concern. “My, what have you been up to? Or rather, who have you been fooling with?”
“Oh, give me a break! It’s nothing like that. For all we know, Tam-tam is way too vanilla for what you guys are insinuating.” Ah yes, always with the deflections. You were jesting, though your voice rang brittle along Enjin and Semiu’s back and forth banter, devoid of its usual playfulness.
“Don’t forget those hickeys—” Semiu cleared her throat, “Mosquito bites under that turtleneck.” She air quoted with manicured fingers, smirking, eyes not leaving the pages of her porn mags. “Why hide it? You know Eisha’s just down the hall.”
“No, I’m done bothering the poor girl.” You then waved them off. “It’s just been rough lately. Plus, Eisha didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, said it’s probably just fatigue. Right, Tams? Tell them. You were there.”
How adorable. Tamsy smiled, nodding with assurance. With the blood rushing through your cheeks and ears, you couldn’t even look at him. Such was the power of the Watchman Series and its pages! Quite handy, that thing, because it was indeed like that. It had been like that.
For a good while now, actually.
In his head, Tamsy replayed all the series of rendezvous you had had with him, that he was briefly overcome by worry that his angelic mask was beginning to melt. Who wouldn’t? If one had the pleasure of witnessing all the lovely ways he had dismantled you, only for him to patch you back up and return your beloved Jinki before midnight, leaving just enough residue to mess with your reality. Then, and only then, would they understand this pure unadulterated joy tingling inside him. But nobody could know.
No, he wouldn’t let it. All the soft pleas and broken looks and explosive rage fits. Even your mirthless laughters and pitiful attempts at seducing him into other arrangements, when beneath it all was nothing but scorn. Those were special delicacies for him and him alone. You’d come around, eventually, you’d find it in yourself to forgive him. But, oh, the dilemma—torn between having you unbroken with so much life and fight in you, and having you thoroughly demolished, was a conundrum, indeed.
All things considered, perhaps Tamsy might have actually fallen in love with you. And wasn’t that what you had secretly, yet so badly wanted of him all along? Who was he to even dare stand in the way of your deepest desires? Hm?
You and him. Wouldn’t that be glorious?
Now, what more would you have him do?
“Very well. I’m off then.” Tamsy announced, his body turned away from everyone, but his gaze remained fixed on you. “Do any of you need me to grab anything while I’m out?”
“Tams, wait—” you tugged on his sleeve, but quickly dropped it as if scorched. “Today’s your day off too?”
“No, no, I’m on leave,” Tamsy blinked, feigning innocence. “Why do you ask? Do you want to tag along for a bit?”
“That is if you don’t mind a little anxious arm candy.”
The way you had said was still very much like you. Smirking. Arms crossed to your chest. Yet something was amiss—your thumb kept picking at your cuticles. A habit that had always been there, but was progressively getting worse. How unfortunate. Tamsy suppressed a smile.
“Not at all. Come. What is it that’s troubling you?”
“Some weird shit.”
“How weird? Pray tell, what did you see?”
“Been having these… dreams—that doesn’t feel like dreams. It’s all so… surreal.” Your entire demeanor changed, now speaking in a hushed voice. “I’d be on my usual nightly strolls, right? And then something I won’t even dare go into detail would happen to me—like I’m trapped. I don’t know, it’s all a blur, honestly.”
“Trapped, you say.” Tamsy hummed, hit one of his deep thinking poses with eyes faraway, holding back a cackle or two. He then frowned, “Oh, dear, I hope our little heart-to-heart from a while back didn’t strain you… Come to think of it, that was the first you’ve spoken of the matter since it happened. I’m sorry for ever daring to pry.”
“No, it’s fine! I’m glad I did. I feel less alone after hearing yours,” and with this you walked a pace ahead of him, murmuring. You might’ve as well been talking to yourself. “Maybe I need to file a leave too… take my mind someplace else for a while. I tend to feel restless when I’m cooped up in one place for too long.”
“You have me should you ever need help with anything.” Tamsy smiled. Genuine this time. Perhaps he could surprise you with this staycation he had been planning all the while. But first things first! “Which reminds me… I did bump into you on one of these strolls. You do remember that, yes?”
“I do, and…” You stopped in your tracks, landing a hesitant glance at Tamsy before looking at your wrist, rubbing your other hand around it, which gave him such a rush of thrill. “You didn’t come with me… right?”
Ah, Tamsy fancied, what a good day for a light dose of guilt tripping, and it was only eight in the morning!
“Hm. I would have, but I figured those walks are your alone time, and I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand like last time—”
“Yeah, no, no, you’re right. That was stupid. Nevermind.” You sighed once more, sharper and louder this time. Then, you smiled—once so bright, now dimmed—scrambling not to hurt his feelings any longer. How sweet. “So! There’s this bookstore the locals have curated. Heard lots of them are still readable. I’ve been wanting to check them out… maybe grab some for Rudo, and the other kids too, you know?”
“That’s very sweet of you. I’m sure they’ll appreciate the gesture.”
“The problem is carrying it back, but whatever. The spot’s nearby anyway, so I won’t be bothering you for long.”
Tamsy beamed, eyes closing shut with enthusiasm. He then reached out, pressing a hand against your back—to which you flinched momentarily—as he guided you down the hall.
“Bother me? Goodness, don’t say such silly things. Not when the weather’s this lovely. Shall we?”
When he pushed the double doors for you, the light hit your countenance just right, illuminating your eyes. Brilliant. Beautiful. Bloodshot.
Check Out Time is Eleven [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]
Title: Check Out Time is 11 [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]
Synopsis: You're invited to a hotel for a warm meal and a place to sleep by a mysterious stranger. Soulmate AU.
Word count: 7100ish
notes: yandere, kidnapping, mentions of drugging, a really useless and non-philosophical reference to My Dinner with Andre
The red thread on his finger loses slack for the very first time in his life, and for the smallest of moments, Chrollo Lucilfer forgets himself. His steps falter, expensive, stolen shoes nearly scuffing on the sidewalk, and a startled breath quivers through his chest. His mouth gapes, ever so slightly.
In surprise.
In trepidation.
In realization.
The red thread was, had always been, attached to you. His soulmate. Whoever you were. The gentle tugging of the thread meant that after years of fruitless searching, you were finally somewhere nearby, close enough to reach. Probably, given the tautness of the thread, even within walking distance.
How lucky for him.
How unfortunate for you.
You were finally discovered. You were finally within his grasp, fingers itching, warm satisfaction blooming through his skin. How often had he ruminated over the fact that you had yet to belong to him? How often had he wondered what you would look like, how you would feel under his touch? And what you might do to him when he had you in person? Would he find himself changed, however slightly, as the others in the Troupe had been? Or would he mold you with his own presence, looming over you like a shadow?
The mere thought of you is enough to get his heart racing, bring a bead of sweat to his neck. It was so unlike him, and wasn’t that a thrill?
And then, just like that, the moment is over. He recollects himself and his mouth closes and his mind whirs back into focused gear.
He needed to find you, first thing. The rest of the logistics could come later.
His eyes track the movements of the thread, and without missing a beat, he turns on his heels to follow the direction of the movement. It was possible--no, highly probable--that you were close enough to reach on foot. Within the city, certainly, and he didn’t mind the exercise.
As he continues to walk, the cold gleam of the business district turning into rows of glitzy restaurants and downtown attractions, he’s glad that you weren’t too close. It gives him more time to think about what he wants to do with you.
The Troupe members that had already found their soulmates--and Chrollo feels a surge of pride in his chest, counting himself among them now, fulfilled in that goal--had taken on different approaches.
Some merely kidnapped their soulmates and kept them in secure locations. Simple, effective in terms of security, but that would ensure it would take him a long time to win you over. And he knows that he will do just that, eventually, no matter how he decides to keep you. Others took their time, attempting to strike up something of an ordinary relationship before revealing their knowledge of the red thread, and persuading their soul mates to come with them for safety (and romance)’s sake. Surely the more appealing of the two options, but it did come with the downside of expended time and energy.
What he would do with you depended on so many factors. Did you live in some stationary location, or were you prone to travel? What did you do for a living? Were you already in a relationship, some inferior partnership with someone who could never appreciate you the way that he could, as your only soulmate?
All of these questions circle heavily in his mind as he walks, following the thread that was becoming tighter and tighter between the pair of you. The ritzy downtown buildings were now gone, replaced by rows of old buildings that had seen better days. In place of fine dining were small cafes and diners that practically exuded grease, laundromats with blinking signs, and the occasional busted out window. The scores of people walking, gabbing, waving around fancy handbags were replaced by only the occasional person walking with clear destinations in mind, eyes in front.
As the thread becomes even tighter, it leads him down an alley that most people would have surely avoided. But he doesn’t worry about the glances of the people leaning up against heavy exit doors, or the people crouching on the ground with needles against their arms. He thinks about you. Will he find you here, perhaps, curled up in the arms of a drug dealer pumping you full of toxic chemicals that flushed you with endorphins and heat? Or you might be on the other side of the needle, pocketing cash and going on your merry way?
But, no. Perhaps not. Instead of leading him further into the den of seedy dealings, the thread brings him away, feet crunching on broken bottles, towards some type of fenced-in parking lot. Or it had been a parking lot, once
From a short distance through the metal fence, he can see burning barrels, tents, carts. The smells of cooking grills waft over, greasy foods, easy to cook outdoors. It wasn’t a new sight, in this city or otherwise. Chrollo had seen worse. Had lived worse.
And then, there--at the end of the red thread that weaved in between one of the fence’s metal honeycombs: you.
He sees you for the first time and knows, with a burning intensity that threatens to knock him over, that he needs you. He needs you now. He needs you always. You have something that he lacks and perhaps possessing you will give it to him.
Is this what the others felt, when they first saw their soulmates? Or is it something unique to you and him? Some unfathomable bond that has shaken him to his core? Not for long, of course, never for long. He regains his senses within moments and catalogs the feeling away for later analysis.
It’s you that he focuses on, now. And the fact he will have you, as soon as he decides on the where, when, and how. He wouldn’t be the leader of the Phantom Troupe if he wasn’t skilled at taking what he wanted.
Today what he wants is not a gallery of paintings or a rare gruesome artifact, but a person.
You.
What to make of you?
You’re standing in front of one of the burning barrels, rubbing your hands together. They look red and chapped, even from his vintage point. Behind you is a shopping cart filled with odds and ends. On the side nearest the fire, you had clearly laid out clothes over the edge of the cart--wet ones, from rain or maybe you’d had the opportunity to wash them. Your current ensemble is a simple hodgepodge. Clearly, you wore whatever was cleanest, whatever was warmest, whatever you could find.
He remembers such a living.
You appear to be on the outskirts, avoiding the groups scattered around the encampment. No one approaches you and you don’t approach them. A loner… by choice, or not? You wouldn’t be alone for long, if it wasn’t by choice, and in time you might be grateful for it. If it was by choice, well, there were ways to tame feral cats.
It doesn’t take much analysis to decide what to do with you, to decide how best to approach things. He’s glad that he wore something casual today. Just some simple slacks and a nice sweater. If he was overdressed, it might be more difficult. Not that he couldn’t manage it, but he enjoys advantages when he can get them.
With no hesitation, he walks through one of the ragged gaps in the metal fence and begins to approach you.
Your head jerks towards him the moment that his steps become even remotely close. He doesn’t mind. It’s only natural, especially for someone who has been living the way you surely have. There’s a tugging somewhere inside him--memory of himself and connection with you.
He smiles, not broadly, but in a way meant to disarm.
“Hello,” he says, stopping a few feet away from you.
You stiffen.
“I’m Chrollo,” he continues. His voice is undisturbed and calm. As if he was meeting you on a sunny afternoon in the park while you were both buying ice cream from the same cart. That might have been a more charming meeting, he muses, but this one can work to his advantage just as easily. “Won’t you tell me your name?”
You snatch your hands back from the barrel and step, refusing to turn your back to him, behind your cart.
“None of your business,” you say.
And oh, he thinks, it would be heaven if he could somehow bottle the first time he hears your voice and listen to it on demand. But he supposes, he has the rest of his life--and yours--to hear you speak.
“That’s all right.” He gestures towards you, the cart, your life. “I see you are in need.” You frown at him, but he continues. “How would you like to go somewhere warm?”
Your lip pulls back in a sneer and you move yourself on the other side of the cart.
“I don’t do that. Fuck off.”
Ah. You thought he wanted you to--well. It wouldn’t be the first time people took advantage of others in less fortunate situations. There had been enough of that in Meteor City.
“No, nothing like that,” he says, voice going soft. “I should have clarified. I’m a… missionary of sorts. I look for people in need and offer what help I can give. I’d like to buy you a hotel room for the week.” He notices your wary expression. “Or even the day, if that would be more comfortable for you. Somewhere you can get some safe sleep, a shower, something to eat. I wouldn’t even be there.”
He recognizes the look on your face all too well. Wariness. Suspicion. The face of someone who knows that people are tricky and greedy and cruel. That people will take things that they haven’t earned. Oh, yes-- he knows all of that so well, from both sides.
And he also knows how to get your guard to drop enough for him to accomplish his goal. Sure, mistrust is essential in an environment like this. But mistrust can always be overpowered when there’s something essential within reach. Like comfort. Or food. A warm place to stay, even if it’s just for a few hours. A private bathroom, a toilet, a tub.
“I don’t know,” you say, finally, having given him the appropriate stare down.
He nods his head.
“I understand. I would feel wary myself, in your position. It’s perfectly reasonable.” It is more than reasonable, he thinks, but you don’t need to know that. You just need to believe that coming with him will be worth your while, worth ignoring what he’s sure is a growing pit in your stomach.
“What I would like to do is accompany you to a hotel where I often book rooms for those in need. It’s a private room, of course. And I will pay for your meals.” He sees the gears turning in your mind at the promise of a bed. The promise of food. “I have my own room in the hotel, but it’s on a different floor, and I won’t have to see you at all,” he adds, and this is how he will make you step over that cautionary line. “I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Everything is pre-paid on my card, of course, and you’re free to order whatever you’d like. What do you say?”
He lets his words hang in the air, wafting like smoke from the nearby barrels.
You wet your lips. You glance around at the people around you. A few of them have taken notice of Chrollo, perhaps as a mark, perhaps more; but he pays them no mind. He could kill them in a fraction of a second and whisk you out of here just as easily, if he needs to… But he hopes it will not come to that.
“All right,” you say suddenly, softly. “If… you’re just going to give me a room and feed me, then all right.”
Chrollo smiles. It is, he thinks, perhaps close to a genuine one.
“Wonderful. Follow me, if you please.”
--
The hotel is expensive, but thankfully not terribly ostentatious. Chrollo would hate to put you off by throwing you into some gilded lion’s den. But the hotel is more reserved, classy. Comfort and luxury without any of the ridiculous trappings that often come with them.
Chrollo does bring you with him to the front desk, if only to reduce the chances that the security will kick you out for looking out of place. And you do look out of place, but perhaps that’s for the better. It will make you appreciate what he’s going to do for you more, won’t it?
You’re quiet all the while, but that’s to be expected. You only hold tight to your backpack, where everything you hold dear has been crammed, and let him do the talking. A reservation is easily made under the guise that only you are to know the room number--you certainly don’t need to know that he’ll swing back and reserve the connected room next door--and the key is given without fanfare from the polite desk clerk who gives you curious glances but nothing more.
Chrollo walks you to the elevator, ever the gentleman, and hands you the key. You stare at it. The uncertain expression on your face is unbelievably precious, he thinks. He hopes he can see more of it before it inevitably morphs into shock and anger and fear.
“Would you like some new clothing?” Chrollo asks, after he pushes the button on the elevator for you. “I can have some sent up from the hotel’s boutique. I’ll tell the front desk, so they can give the concierge the room number. Ah, and I’ll need to know your size, if you’re willing to give it.”
“You want to buy me clothes?”
You almost splutter out the words, and he has to restrain himself from kissing you right then and there. You are terribly cute, and there’s a slight disturbing tinge to how much he finds everything about you enticing so quickly. The way you furrow your eyebrows at his question. The slight look of embarrassment, the twitch of your lips.
He needs you so much, and he’s only known you for a few moments.
You tell him your size, then glance at him before staring at the glossy metallic doors. “Um, I need something warm. No useless stuff.” Your head gestures back towards the hotel lobby, where a few women are walking on the arm of male companions, dressed in sleeveless dresses and likely heading for the restaurant.
“Of course.” Chrollo does not tell you that he can envision you wearing all sorts of useless things in the future his mind is creating, brick by brick. You would look heavenly in something strapless, something slinky. Something that hangs off your shoulders. He would drape a fine wrap over them, were you behaving enough to go out with him--no one else but him will be privy to such delicacies.
For now, though, he resolves to send you the clothes he knows you want. Things will be a little more seamless if your guard isn’t entirely raised.
The elevator doors open.
Chrollo steps aside, and gestures for you to enter.
“This is where I take my leave. I will let the restaurant host know your name, and you can order whatever you’d like. It’s on my card. Please, don’t feel the need to hold back.”
You take a step inside the elevator and ah, there it is. Just the slightest hesitation. The slightest jerk of your head as you look back at him. Do you feel bad, leaving him in a lurch when he’s giving you charity? Do you feel beholden to him in some way?
“I guess it’s okay if we share a meal. You’re paying for it, anyway. It’d be awkward otherwise.” You stare down at the elevator carpet as you say the words, and Chrollo realizes that he’s perhaps misjudged the gesture. Your sense of shame, maybe, outweighs your desire to be rid of him and his potential alternative motives for assisting you.
That might come in handy.
He nods, as you turn around and make brief eye contact with him.
“Well, then. How about we meet here in 5 hours for dinner? I can send something dressy to your room, if you’d like.”
You shrug your shoulders as the doors close, which is as good as assent in his view. The string on his finger rises with the elevator, but now there is no fear that he’ll lose you. The string, something which had been maddening in its slackness for so long, is now something of a treasure itself. A little leash, keeping you to him, wherever you go.
Which, for now, is your hotel room--meaning he needs to get moving. He won’t pick anything too flashy out from the boutique; something modest, something simple. There are delicate steps to take to avoid making you feel ashamed without offending your sense of dignity all in one go.
Thankfully--for you and himself--he’s attuned to such needs.
5 hours. That would give you enough time to take a shower or bath, to change into the fresh clothing he’ll send up, to take a nap. Perhaps you’ll stare out the hotel window at the view or curl up in the bed, rolling on the fresh sheets.
Five hours would give you time to freshen up and relax, yes. And it would give him enough time to get hold of Shalnark and procure anything he needs to make your removal from the hotel as smooth as possible.
--
The shower is running again. He doesn’t blame you. He remembers days where a hot shower was a luxury beyond imagining.
He keeps his side pressed against the door connecting your rooms--not that you know he is on the other side with a key to yours, of course--and holds back a contended sigh as he watches the red string on his finger twirl and shift with your every movement.
What are you thinking about? He wonders. Are you thinking about how long it’s been since you had a hot shower? Are you thinking about slipping the shampoo bottles into your backpack?
Perhaps more inviting… are you thinking about him?
He knows what’s on his mind, and has been for the last few hours now. You.
What were you like, deep down, underneath your layers and justifiably guarded stance? Maybe you liked to read, maybe you once had a dream of being a dancer before life went to hell, maybe you were shy, maybe you liked to get drunk and sing your favorite songs at full volume.
What would you be like, once you were fully his?
What do you look like, underneath all of your clothing? What has nature and nurture shown fit to bestow upon you, your skin, all those secret places you keep hidden?
The thread bobbles again. Are you stepping out of the shower soon, or still scrubbing yourself? You’re so vulnerable, naked and unawares, just a few feet away from him. The water running is a delicious sound to his ears, because he knows that you’re underneath it.
He imagines what you might look like naked. He imagines what sounds you might make, underneath him, gasping and--
Oh, but he’s getting ahead of himself. He smiles and shakes his head at the rush. He should slow down, yes. Slow down and savor it all.
He clenches both of his hands. In one is the duplicate key, in the other is a syringe. Both go into opposite pockets, awaiting their respective time to shine.
--
The dress that arrives at your door with a prim knock from a porter is not quite what you expected--which is a relief. You expected the stranger to send up something ridiculous. Something slinky and glittering, maybe with only a half shoulder.
But instead it’s a simple dress with a flared skirt, all made from dark blue fabric. The sleeves are elbow length, the neckline isn’t too low, and there’s a matching black belt to go with it. He’s even sent up a pair of nylons, which are something you haven’t worn since you were a little kid, desperately trying to mimic your mother’s fancy outfits.
He also--and maybe this is overkill--sent up a few pairs of shoes in different sizes, along with a transcribed note instructing you to call the front desk if none of them fit, or simply wear your own shoes if you are uncomfortable with it.
This stranger--Chrollo--is awfully accommodating. And kind. And considerate.
Which is exactly why, when the dress is on and your nylon-clad feet are resting in the shoes easiest to run in, you tuck your switchblade into one of the dress pockets for safekeeping.
Maybe he is just kind. Or he’s one of those people that makes themselves feel better by occasionally being charitable; he’s harboring some sort of guilt that can be alleviated, however temporarily, by buying a person a sandwich or two.
But maybe he’s not. You’ve known people who have been hurt or killed or sometimes worse by so-called charitable people. People that lure you in with showers and hotels, meals and clothing. People that slit your throat before or after they have their way with you.
Life was dark and life was shit, and you weren’t born yesterday. If this stranger had any nefarious intentions, you certainly weren’t going to walk into them like a bleating lamb.
And yet, and yet… some part of you wanted to believe he had good intentions. You’re not sure why, exactly. You weren’t the type to look on the bright side or always see the good in people--or at least, you hadn’t been that way since childhood. Yet something about this Chrollo made you hope that he was a good person. That you’d have a nice conversation and he wouldn’t do anything more than give you a nice afternoon and a place to sleep comfortably for a bit.
It was an almost primal feeling, which made it all the more stranger. Your gut feelings usually told you something like: this place is dangerous, this guy’s probably got a gun, that alley’s too notorious to use as a shortcut.
Your gut didn’t give you silly notions, like wanting to trust someone, hoping they would talk to you during dinner, wondering if they’d be pleasant to be around for longer.
--
At least, not before today.
“And the lady will have the cailles aux raisins.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“Quail,” Chrollo says, allowing the waiter to take the leather-bound menu from his hands. As if your issue was with the choice of food--okay, you didn’t know what it meant, but still--and not that he ordered for you. “Stuffed with shallots, grapes, liver, and ah, I believe, some cognac, if I’m not mistaken.”
“That’s correct, sir,” the waiter says, not giving you a second glance--you didn’t even get a menu, which irked you, but considering you had nothing to pay with and perhaps the hotel staff knew it, it was a practical snub.
Your lips twist into a frown, although you suppose you can’t complain. The dish does sound good. Not that you’ve ever had quail. But it can’t be that different from chicken. Or duck. You had duck, once, as a kid. Your mother brought you to a hotel just like this for a Mother’s Day brunch and you sat at a table with an embroidered cloth and wore a pair of your mother’s white gloves, so that you would look extra fancy.
“I apologize,” Chrollo tells you. “I should have asked your preference first.” The strangest part is how sincere he sounds, like he really didn’t want to offend you. Like he actually might be interested in what you want to eat. Part of you can appreciate that, and part of you wants to finger the handle of your knife inside your pocket.
“It’s fine.” You shrug it all off. Because you can, and you choose to--but also because you’re famished and the smells wafting from the other tables is enough to make your stomach growl. “People usually don’t order things like this for me, anyway. If they do give me anything.”
Chrollo tilts his head slightly, looking at you like a particularly interesting painting on a wall. “No?”
You smile thinly. “Nope. I’m lucky if I get someone’s leftover fries from a fast food shop.”
“What a shame.” He places both hands on the table, clasping his fingers together. His gaze bores into yours. You look away, briefly, but find yourself wanting to look back. How odd. “I’m sure,” he begins, talking slowly, measuring out his words, “that must be demoralizing--to be treated as lesser-than.”
You can’t help the snort that comes out your nose, or the quick words that follow. “Yeah? And what would you know about that?” Your eyes rake over his outfit, your mind whirls over how much money he’s spent on you alone, as if it was nothing. A drop in the bucket. Some rich man playing with his money. Or daddy’s money, depending on the circumstance.
Of course, you expect him to get offended. You expect him to call you ungrateful and cancel the order and ship you out of here like yesterday’s trash. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has gotten angry that you didn’t play into their savior fantasies. Your muscles even prep to stand, your face goes stony, ready to block the anger that he’ll throw your way.
Only... none of that happens.
His face looks--it’s hard to describe, really. It’s almost like it glitches for a moment, and you see something you weren’t meant to see. You’re not even sure if he realizes it. And then his expression gets so remote and so quiet. He looks away from you for perhaps the first time, looking instead, at his hands.
“I know a lot about that, actually.”
It’s not offense in his expression but… sympathy? No, that’s not it either. You know “sympathy face” like the back of your hand, for all the good it does you.
It’s empathy. Trace, but there. A shared experience between you. Maybe that’s why you’ve felt inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt all day. Why you went with him in the first place, hunger pangs aside.
“So you’ve been…” You begin, but is there a need to finish. He’s been homeless, or something like it. Downtrodden. On the bottom.
He nods.
“Sorry.” The word comes out blurted but soft. Well, I’m an asshole, you think.
He smiles at you, a soft, thin thing--almost like a gloss that covers up his previous expression. “No, don’t be. You had no way of knowing, dear.”
Dear.
The word hangs between you silently, as if it’s being dangled on some sort of invisible string. He opens his mouth slightly--maybe to apologize--but shuts it when you don’t say anything. Instead, he simply blinks, and watches you.
Perhaps a minute ago you might have bristled at the nickname, might have sought to cut it right down, in fact. But for now, you brush it aside. He’s being nice--he knows what you’re going through. And sure, there’s some sort of guilt relief in his actions, but it’s not coming from the place of a rich man making himself feel better. It’s coming, you think, from a place of not just knowing where you’ve been but having been there himself.
Before either of you can speak, the waiter returns with your appetizer and despite the guilt in your gut, your hunger practically sings at the sight of the plate of bread and butter. It’s fancy bread, already cut, gleaming with what smells like garlic butter spread over the top.
The flavored butter is shaped like a rose and it’s only after you childishly dip your bread right into it and take a loud, chewy bite of the delicious goodness that you realize you’ve committed a faux-pas. There’s a tiny butter knife on the plate, obviously meant to delicately smear the butter onto your bread. And here you are, gnawing on the piece like some sort of medieval peasant during a bad harvest.
A pang of shame tingles over you. It’s a silly kind of shame--inconsequential, really. Who cares how you eat bread at some hotel you’ll never step foot in again in your life? But it lingers terribly. Until Chrollo picks up a piece of brand and dips it right into the butter, too, taking a chewy bite with far less graciousness than you imagined with his sophisticated appearance.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” He asks, not even bothering to cover his mouth.
You smile. You almost-snort. And the shame dissipates like ice crystals on a sunny day, as you and Chrollo both finish off the appetizer. He lets you eat more without saying a word, which you appreciate.
There’s a lot to appreciate about him, really. He’s been kind. He hasn’t been terribly condescending, dinner order notwithstanding. And he seems to know how to approach you with actual empathy and not just the sticky, coddling sympathy that most people do.
And you won’t lie--he is nice to look at. He even smells nice, but with the amount of money he had to spend on the clothing he sent up to your room, he can likely afford to buy expensive cologne.
If he notices you staring, he says nothing. Instead, he half-closes his eyes and appears to be deep in thought. Over… you? Or dinner?
He hums a bit under his breath, and you realize: it’s the music. It’s a delicate song being played by a small group of musicians set up on a stage in the corner. It’s familiar… your brain strives to catch up with your ears.
“You like this song?” You ask, because the silence has stretched too long, and the bread is now gone.
Chrollo opens his eyes and regards you with a sober smile. “Yes.” He pauses, then. “It’s--”
“Elgar's Chanson de matin,” you blurt, before he can. “I know it.”
His eyes widen, just a tad. Enough to show that he’s curious. A funny bit of pride thrums through you. It can be retribution for the quail earlier, you decide.
“You’re familiar with his work?”
You feel your cheeks heat up, even though you don’t get the sense that he asked to be cruel. He seems actually interested. Like he wants to know you. It’s nice, and confusing, and a little startling.
You nod, wishing there was more bread to break up the conversation. “What, you think someone like me can’t be interested in classical music?
“Of course not.” He answers swiftly, resolutely.
He reaches his hand towards yours and grasps it before you can think to pull away. It seems silly to yank your hand out of his, so you don’t. Even if the way he looks down at your interlocked fingers makes goosebumps dance up your arm.
His expression is so strange. He looks… lonely. And desperate. And relieved. But why?
Both of your gazes meet for one electric moment and for that moment, you feel like he sees you. And you see him. Not as clearly. But you see something inside him that is not quite on the surface. Something which does make you pull away, but not with distaste. You withdraw your hand from his slowly, like he’s a wild animal that you don’t want to startle.
The waiter, impeccable timing as ever, arrives with the main courses just as your hand makes its way into your lap.
And just like that, the spell is broken. Ripples of water dash whatever it was between you, and he’s speaking charmingly to the waiter, who appears swiftly again with a glass of champagne for each of you. You weren’t intending to drink, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt. It could calm your nerves.
Neither of you talk much for the rest of dinner. It’s not tense, exactly, but you can tell there’s something in the air. Questions unspoken, maybe, or just an awkwardness between two strangers who seem to both understand and misunderstand each other in equal measure.
The hotel’s restaurant begins to thin out after your main courses are taken away. A dessert menu is brought, and Chrollo orders a simple slice of cake for both of you.
Real vanilla bean frosting is on your lips when you ask your question. Quiet, but with most of the other guests gone, he has no trouble hearing it.
“So you were… homeless, before?”
You’re not sure why you need to know this. To confirm that he’s not some rich boy playing with his father’s money? To see how much he can really understand you? Maybe the champagne went to your head. You don’t normally drink, it wouldn’t be impossible.
His fork stalls as the question comes out. He glances up at you and there’s nothing offended or hurt in his eyes. He seems to weigh his answer before he gives it. It doesn’t really surprise you; he could be just as mistrustful of you as you are of him, couldn’t he?
“Something like that.” He rests his fork on his plate. “I suppose you are trying to decide just how much I can sympathize with your… situation.”
Heat floods your cheeks, and you’re grateful the water brought another glass of champagne that you can sip from to loosen the tightness in your chest.
If he notices your flushed countenance, he doesn’t remark on it. You like him better for it. He continues speaking, looking at you with a measured expression. Like before, his words come slowly and carefully, given to you with something akin to grace.
“Our situations were not exactly similar. I don’t find it terribly useful to compare them. Better in some ways, worse in others. Like anything.”
“Better?” You dab at your mouth with a napkin.
“Ah.” He seems to weigh his next words with even more scrutiny before he decides on them. “I had something you didn’t, which surely benefited me.”
“Which was?”
There’s something wistful in his voice now. It makes you lean forward over the table. With most of the other guests gone, it feels strange to talk so openly about clearly delicate matters. Chrollo mimics your lean, and while he doesn’t take your hands across the table into his, you get the feeling he’d like to, if you let him.
“Companionship,” he says simply. The word settles in the air like a brick that seems to land right on your chest. You blink and feel the beginnings of tears in your eyes. You really did have too much champagne, and this is all getting to be a lot. You start to lean backward when he speaks again.
“Aren’t you lonely?”
“No,” you lie. The shock of the question does make you lean back fully. Then, to be spiteful. “Are you?”
He doesn’t answer. He only looks down at his hands and the empty spot where yours used to be, and then back at you.
Nothing more is said on the matter. He pays for the meal and leaves a nice fat tip for the waiter--who has, you think, been lurking nearby either to witness your drama or to make sure no one swipes his tip from the table--before escorting you back to the elevators.
Shame slams back into you while you’re standing in front of the elevator doors.
“I’m sorry.” Sure, he asked it first, but fuck--you hate being rude. If you were rude. It was hard to tell how Chrollo felt about anything. The champagne making your head fuzzy doesn’t help. Not at all.
He tilts his head a little. “What for?”
Your eyebrows furrow together. “You know, for asking… for being…” You wave your hands around a little. It’s too hard to put into words. You’re tired, you feel out of sorts, and you’re tipsy bordering on drunk. You can give yourself some forgiveness in a lack of coherency in this matter, at least.
Chrollo regards you for a moment before he shakes his head, scoffing a little as he smiles.
“For being yourself? Or at least showing some small part of it to me? I don’t mind.” He holds out his arm and you, unsteady champagne fuzz in your head, take it. “I’ll escort you to your room, if that’s all right. I don’t feel comfortable letting you go there alone.”
You should tell him that you’ll be fine. You should. But the champagne in your brain and the way you feel drawn to him--however slightly--makes “should” fly out the window. So you nod and let him lead you into the elevator, where the ride up makes you dizzy enough that Chrollo has to steady you carefully, and you mumble out another apology.
He only chuckles a little and helps you walk out of the elevator without stumbling over the threshold. Your room is just down the hall and he keeps a steady grip on you the whole way, even though you’ve told yourself that you won’t stumble anymore. It feels weird, to have someone so close to you; to smell his cologne and feel the warmth of his skin.
It feels weird, yes, but giddy too. He is handsome. And he did buy you dinner. And clothes. And he’s not as shitty as you thought he might be at first. The way he ate the bread in solidarity with you earlier--you can’t forget that, can you? It was… cute, even. If someone like Chrollo could be called cute.
Is it the champagne, the newness of this stranger-but-not-entirely, the rich disarmament that comes with a full stomach and freshly washed face? All of the above? Whatever it is, it’s got you thinking too much about Chrollo as he gently takes the key from your hand and opens your hotel room door.
A gentleman, he only sees you just inside before taking his leave, promising to meet you for breakfast in the morning--if you’d like.
You would like, you tell him, and the door shuts and locks swiftly afterwards. Chrollo’s cologne lingers in the air, or maybe it rubbed off on you from all the steadying he had to do.
The hotel room is just as you left it. Clean and pristine, smelling vaguely of lemon. Your duffel bags and personal belongings are shoved in the corner. Maybe you’ll try to read one of your books tonight, before you sleep? It would be the first time you read on an actual bed in ages. Maybe you could even call for room service? A little midnight snack? It’s not like Chrollo would mind, or at least, he probably wouldn’t. It’d be something small anyway, nothing wild.
Unless you wanted a bubbly nightcap.
Full of ideas, you take your giddy champagne self back to the bathroom to change into pajamas that he sent up earlier, humming Elgar’s Chanson, thinking about bread and quail and… Chrollo. The knife in your dress pocket gets left on the bathroom counter. It was silly to bring it, now that you think about it.
Still humming, you flop on the bed and grab the menu for room service. It wouldn’t hurt to order some extra dessert. And another glass of champagne. Maybe two…
You’re so out of sorts that at no point for the rest of the night, before your weary head hits the soft pillow, do you stop to wonder how Chrollo knew your room number.
--
There are few things Chrollo truly regrets in his life. One of them, he knows, will be that he couldn’t plant himself in this town for a few months in order to properly court you; to introduce you, gradually, to the concept of nen. To the knowledge that you were his soul mate.
But it can’t be helped. He has to leave tomorrow night, come hell or high water. And he certainly won’t let you drown here a moment longer. It’s for your sake. You’ll come to realize that eventually, just as you will--in time--come to forgive him for what he must do.
You’ll no doubt regret letting down your barriers in the morning. But if you hadn’t been so keen to trust in someone, to trust in him, then he wouldn’t have gotten to see something of the real you underneath all of that built-up survival instinct. And didn’t you see something of him, too? He thinks you did. Just a moment, a spark, but it was there.
You sweet thing. He could hear you humming through the door earlier; heard you order room service (champagne and desserts) and he regretted not having Shalnark swoop in during dinner to set up some security cameras.
The key to your room feels heavy in his hand. On this side, he is simply himself, staring ahead as the red thread of his soulmate leads away from him. But once he turns it into the lock and quietly opens the door, there will be nothing between you but sleep.
He opens the door and relishes in the way the thread sags even further downward. If only you could have seen how beautiful the thread looked during dinner, all tangled up as he clasped your hand in his. That’s how the thread was meant to look. Not tight and taut and unforgiving.
You’re fast asleep when he silently enters the room and unlocks the deadbolt so that Shalnark can help him remove you from the premises. Curled up underneath the covers, you look like you’re in bliss. It’s likely the first restful sleep you’ve had in a long time. Months? Years?
How awful for you, to wake up tomorrow and realize that you’re no longer in the hotel bed. And that he’s the one to blame for it. How awful for him, too, to lose his grasp on the tentatively pleasant and revealing evening you had together. But he doesn’t think you’ll be empathetic on that matter. Not for a while, anyway.
He sits down on the bed next to you and it takes a considerable amount of self-control not to curl up against you. It’s not worth the risk of you waking, although the tranquilizer in his pocket could be jabbed into your thigh early, if need be.
Besides… you’ll have a lifetime of nights together after this.
There’s no need to rush what is finally his to keep forever.
I've been wanting to do something fun to celebrate the birthday of the silliest and coolest liar assassin out there, so I figured we could do a little prompt week together, to count down to it!
Beginning from the 3rd of July, you can participate by posting anything related to the prompts offered to you in the attached prompt list (fanfic, poems, art, collages, edits, ...). Please, make sure you add the hashtag #ngmweek26 to your posts, so that I can accurately track and reblog them. Feel free to tag me as well, if you want to!
I've divided the prompts for each day into three categories: One Word, Alternate Universes, and Scenarios. You may go wild with your interpretations. You can either select one prompt for each day or combine two from the same day within one work. That is up to you.
NSFW works are allowed and so are darker topics (even if most of these prompts are rather positive). Make sure you tag your works accordingly, please!
The final day - his birthday on the 9th of July - is a free day. Which means, you are free to post whatever you want!
Thank you for joining me in my attempt to make his birthday as special as possible! I will create a masterlist of all works in the end, so that we can have a little collection of love letters to Nagumo🖤
and the crashes are heaven for a sinner like me | chrollo x reader
600 w. hours before chrollo boards the black whale. all vibes no plot, body worship (reader’s foot is mentioned once), religious imagery, goodbye sex(?), non explicit, bittersweet, grief, emotional hurt/comfort. one shot. written with hearts swimming in my eyes.
first time writing for him kinda nervous might delete later <3 title is from here
You were a living, breathing prize, something far too precious in this ordinary world—the same world that had claimed you as something Chrollo could not keep.
He must have it nonetheless.
High above, fractured stained glass strained the silver moonlight, casting long shadows across the altar. Chrollo had shed his heavy coat, now clad in a loose black shirt. Damp stone and decay saturated his lungs and the insides of the abandoned church.
Your features caught the flickering glow of the tapers. Time was an abstract concept, fleeting, and so he approached without urgency. Chrollo loomed over you, his gray eyes holding the stillness of a winter sea—a placid surface with a mind heavy and moving with restless malice beneath. It was not the time to contemplate, to define his entire existence. And by having you near, the roaring fury thick in his chest fell momentarily silent.
Kneeling before you, Chrollo held the serenity of a man preparing a sacrifice. Here, no titles were required, and yet his touch remained unyielding but so utterly gentle—aching with reverence, as if your skin was made of rare parchment paper, handling a piece that belonged to him and him alone.
Cool, svelte fingers began their slow venture. The curve of your waist, every dip of your collarbone, the fragile thrum of your pulse beneath his fingertips were like pages he knew he must eventually close. Chrollo had never been a believer of the gods of the churches, only ever appreciated the architecture, the silence, the beauty and the tragedy awaiting its final act. But as his hands traced the warmth of your skin, he felt a strange envy for those who had the luxury to believe in eternal life.
“I wonder,” Chrollo murmured. Calm. Untroubled, “Is this what the texts meant when they wrote of grace?”
Leaning in, he closed the distance until the soft exhale of his breath fanned your skin. Chrollo pressed slow wet kisses to the arch of your foot, his gaze refusing to leave yours, watching your breath hitch. His own visage momentarily softened—pleasure, perhaps.
Or sorrow.
Your knees were smooth and pliant beneath his palm as he moved upward, parting them to take what was his. Chrollo pressed his lips to your inner thigh, leaving frisson in their wake, lingering there as if to embed himself into the present moment. Yet the mind couldn’t help but drift to the inevitable end—the certainty of dawn, the reclaiming of violence, and this sacred space dissolving back into cold stone. The impermanence of it all was what Chrollo loathed, and yet it was the very thing that made you so intoxicating.
In the tremors of your body, your sweetened moans of his name, the brilliance of your bare skin, Chrollo saw an oasis—a temporary reprieve from what awaited him on the Black Whale.
He traced the line of your ribs, counting each with his fingertips, before pressing over the plush curves of your chest that had been thumping like a ticking clock. Mourning the inescapable decay, the transience of all things, Chrollo closed his eyes and let the feeling wrap itself around him, letting himself feel your body shuddering, the relentless beat of a heart that wanted nothing more but life.
Exquisite, he breathed against your skin, a confession, an appraisal for something he knew he’d soon leave behind.
Chrollo indulged himself a little more as he had your face cupped like a chalice, tilting your head back to take your lips. Slow and heavy, he drank you in, letting the warmth of your mouth bleed into him as he tasted a semblance of a miracle, a promise of absolution.
Through his heavy eyelids, he gazed at the residual heat that had misted your countenance before burying his face in the curve of your neck. Chrollo inhaled deeply, took notes of your scent one last time as he filed it away in the pages of his mind—a solitary comfort, amidst the crowded decks, for the cold nights yet to come.
holding you by the hands: you know that the "you" in a 2nd person pov isn't literally you right? you know that even in a "reader insert" story it is still a character, right? you recognize that because they are not actually you they may make choices different from the one that you would make for the sake fo the story, right? you know that? you know that the only "you" that exists in the context of the story is the you that is reading it? right?
Title: The Village in Winter [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]
Synopsis: You meet a strange man in the museum one day.
Word count: 7500ish
Notes: yandere, autistic coded reader, kidnapping, manipulation, Chrollo is an asshole
Tuesday. Thursday. Saturday.
Each of these was a Museum Day. Well. Not officially. It wasn’t on some city-wide calendar or anything as glamorous as that. It was, however, a simple fact of life: every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, you came to your city’s famous art museum for the afternoon.
It was easy enough to take a long lunch during the week–the missing 2 hours on your pay wasn’t exactly something to weep over and if you wanted to cry, you could always come in an hour early to make up for it.
And you didn’t work on Saturday at all, so it was your time to spend as you wished. So why not spend it at the most famous museum in the city?
Maybe infamous was a better word. Outside news agencies never got tired of remarking about the dubious and potentially illegal origins of some of its works, rumored to be stolen hundreds of years ago by some king-or-another from a formerly favored lord.
The infamy wasn’t why you went, of course. You went for the art, dubious origins or otherwise. More specifically, you went for the paintings. Sculptures weren’t the same. They were often boring, blank imitations of life that captured nothing but smooth solid porcelain.
It was paintings that drew your eye and kept your interest. The brushstrokes, the way the lighting was specifically designed to pull people’s gazes this way and that; the hidden secrets behind a subject’s expression. All the little details that you could count on being there time and time again.
And so, like clockwork, you went there time and time again. To admire, to walk. Some of the guards and docents knew you by name at this point and, if they’d given it, you knew theirs, too.
It was nice to remember things when you went to the same place. It was nice, too, to visit the same paintings. The museum rarely moved pieces–it had happened only once in your memory–and that was especially ideal. Your steps and path could be familiar day after day.
What was not nice, however, was the fact that there was (today, of all days, a Tuesday) a man standing in front of your favorite painting at the exact moment you wanted to approach it.
The man’s presence wasn’t the not-nice part. (It was often nice when people admired the same things you did, because it meant they might ask you about them. And as many years as you had under your belt visiting these same paintings, these same steps, you knew quite a lot.)
The not-nice part was that there was a man standing in front of your favorite painting, and he was staring at (horror!) the wrong thing.
As you trace your familiar steps, coming agonizingly closer, you can see that he’s not looking at the painting but the frame. The frame! Of all things! He’s got his head tilted just-so, looking at it this way and that. Like he’s admiring it. He stops only when your footsteps get close enough to make it clear that you’re about to stop at the same spot.
“The frame isn’t period authentic,” you say, perhaps a bit too loudly, “There’s no point in looking at it.”
The man hums. You half-wonder if he’ll snap at you, people sometimes do.. But instead he looks back at the painting, as if he’s trying to see what you mean. “What makes you say it isn’t period authentic?”
His voice is low, a murmur. Out of respect for the museum, maybe, or he’s just embarrassed at being called out. You don’t bother trying to figure it out, because the question he asked is more than enough to have you ready to spill out the words.
“Well,” you begin, swallowing because you can already tell it’s going to take a while. “For one, it’s gilded with aluminum.” When he doesn’t respond, you smile, unbidden. “And of course, aluminum isn’t suitable for water gilding.” Your finger points to the frame (an unwelcome frame, in your opinion–but again, it was the painting, not the frame, that one ought to look at) and wiggles. “The era this painting was made, water gilding was the most popular. They certainly wouldn’t have used an inferior material like aluminum to do water gilding.”
“I see,” he says, after a moment. “Is that all?”
It is, naturally enough, not all.
“No!” You say, maybe too loud, because he raises an eyebrow. But you press on. “If it was just the frame material, that would be one thing. Not everything was water gilded, of course, it was just the most popular. But the real tell…”
And you might be reading him wrong (you do that a lot) but he does lean in, doesn’t he? Because he’s interested in what you have to say. You think. It would be welcome, anyway.
“The real tell,” you continue, pointing here and there on the frame. “Are the fasteners. Especially around the joints..” You press on before he thanks you, because he shouldn’t thank you before you give him the really important detail here.
“When the painting was made, they didn’t have keyed stretchers yet.” You point here, and there. “These made it easier to expand the frame, or make it smaller, simply by sliding the keys and tightening the screw. Before,” and there’s a laugh in your voice, “it was a pain when you wanted to take a painting out and swap it for something else. But with these newer ones, it was much simpler!”
There is a beat or two, and you wonder if he’s going to scoff and give you that smirky little smile people give when you’ve shared too much information that they apparently didn’t want. (Even if it was fascinating information, nonetheless.)
But he doesn’t. Curiously, and it’s a pleasant sort of curiosity, his smile isn’t smirky at all–it’s pleased. Happy, even, if your guess was as good as gold.
“Thank you,” he says, eyeing the frame–still the wrong part, you think–again. “I wasn’t aware that frames held such nuance.” He glances at you. “I appreciate your insight.”
Insight. Huh. No one has ever called it that before. Word-vomit, yes. Over-explaining, definitely. “Stuff no one cares about,” that one was pretty common. But insight–that was new. And it was, like his smile, perfectly pleasant. It made you feel almost fluttery.
“Most people don’t appreciate it,” you admit, too honest. “But the frame isn’t the important part of the painting, anyway…”
The next time he looks towards the painting he, thank goodness, actually looks at the painting within the frame. “Is this your favorite painting?”
“Of course.” The words come quick and sure.
“Why of course?”
Sometimes you wonder if other people have a switch that lets them choose when to hold back,
and when to indulge in their words. Because you find it very, very hard. Especially when it’s something like this, something like a painting you adore, something like being asked to explain why it is your favorite painting.
But this stranger asked about it, so even if this mysterious switch did exist, you certainly would have slammed the “full speed ahead” setting without hesitation.
“Well…”
This stranger gets to learn about it all. About the artist (Henri Lamorliere) and why he chose the subject (a village scene in the winter) and who commissioned it (a prince who owned the land and later died from complications related, presumably, to his gout) and how it ended up here, in this city, of all places. (That was, indeed, a longer story–involving said potentially dubious origins that you were more than happy to indulge in, considering the stranger’s interest.)
As for why it is, of course, your favorite–it is because of all the tiny details, small things, inconsequential and silly to most, but details that keep you coming again and again. A child depicting playing in the snow with friends; a couple ice skating, with one leg clearly losing balance, forever frozen before the young man falls straight on his bum; a woman with a bucket, frowning, staring into a frozen water well; a farmer carefully draping warm blankets over his horses; a streak of mud revealed underneath the pristine snow as a cart of firewood is pulled along; and on and on. It’s not just a painting, it’s a frozen moment, people forever engaging in these mundane or delightful or simplistic moments.
When you are done (and you must admit, you talked for quite a while) the man doesn’t roll his eyes or sigh or say that he must be off, which is very often the case when you talk too much.
Instead he, of all things, smiles.
“Thank you,” he says, and before you can ask why, continues: “How fascinating. I didn’t know the history of the piece as well I as I thought.” His eyes roam over the painting, the details you cling to. “And I never thought much about the scene being depicted.” He glances at you. “Not in the way you have, at least.”
It might be an insult. It might not.
“When you come here as much as I do, you learn a lot.”
He hums. Seems to consider something. And then, he asks:
“Would you like to share a coffee?” If you’re not mistaken, there’s a warmth to his voice. A bit of humor, too. Maybe he didn’t hate your diatribe about the piece, in the end.
But–well. It won’t work out, at least not without a concession on his part. (And yours, too, not that he’d understand it.)
“I only get coffee after I see the rest of my paintings.” A pause, something heated piercing the apple of your cheeks. “Um. They’re not my paintings. I didn’t paint them. I don’t have any work on display,” you explain, as if he needs that clarification. “I think of some of them as mine, because I visit them when I come here.”
Sometimes, when there’s time to ponder on it, you liken actions to machinery. It starts with thoughts. They go through a certain process before resulting in an expression or a word. That’s what you think of, now, as you watch this stranger taking in what you said. His own thoughts are no doubt moving through the cogs, being sent this way and that on some conveyor belt, ending in his final action.
Though it isn’t one you expected.
“Well then,” he says. “May I accompany you to see the rest of your paintings, so that I could join you for coffee?”
Huh.
It’s a break in the routine, sure. But he didn’t roll his eyes while you talked or quickly excuse himself to get out of hearing what you had to say. And if he was willing to listen, and follow your route, well–it might just be okay.
You don’t exactly plan to smile when you answer, but it creeps along your lips all the same.
“I suppose you could,” you say, and that smile quirks. “If you can keep up.”
“My name is Chrollo,” he replies, oddly, like it’s an answer.
–
Chrollo does, in fact, keep up. More than that, he engages in conversation with you, offering counterpoints, asking questions, even going so far as to ask how you learned such-and-such a detail.
Despite the interruption that he presents, it’s not unwelcome. It’s nice, actually, and as the afternoon goes on, you almost regret that there aren’t more paintings on your usual stop. But it’s not like the afternoon stops when you visit Boy and his Dog, one of the museum’s quirkier paintings; it is, yes, a Boy and his Dog. But the dog is wearing human clothes, and the boy is running wild on a broken leash.
(The painting always makes you smile. When the stranger asks why, you’re almost–well, perhaps actually–rude when you explain: “Because it’s all backwards, of course.”)
After Boy and his Dog comes coffee. And if your newfound companion is relieved to have finally gotten to the part he asked you about earlier this afternoon, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he watches; he watches as you approach the counter and the barista greets you by name, already starting your familiar order before you say a word.
“You come here often,” he says, and it’s not a question.
You nod and eye the pastry case. “It’s tradition,” you say, not taking your eyes off the goodies displayed inside the climate controlled glass. If they have fresh cinnamon buns, you get one of them. If they aren’t fresh, you stick to the prepackaged cookies. “Every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.”
The glaze isn’t hard, but smooth, a bit of it still runny along the edges.
Fresh.
“One cinnamon roll, please,” you order. Then pause, because that isn’t quite right today, is it? “I mean, two.” But is that right, either? You eye Chrollo and something like a smile plays at the edge of his lips. “Er, well, if you’d like one, that is–”
“I would, thank you.” It’s a relief to not have to walk back the order, and the barista behind the counter swiftly bags them up.
Chrollo orders his own coffee before you can offer to add his to your tab, but that’s all right. At least you’re buying him the cinnamon bun. It’s nice to help others, especially someone who was patient enough to listen. (Not just listen, though, you remind yourself. Actively engage with you, which is far better. And more rare.)
You’re in the middle of your cinnamon bun–literally, fork stabbing the middle part first, which is the softest, gooeist part–when he speaks up.
“I enjoyed our conversation today.” Soft, almost as if he didn’t say the words often. Maybe, and this was perhaps too egotistical of you, he didn’t.
“Mm,” you say, because you really did want to eat that middle part first, and the explosion of sticky-sweet cinnamon goodness in your mouth prevented further words for a few moments. Something about this seems to amuse him, and he places a hand over his mouth before he chuckles.
“What?” There is still some cinnamon roll still clinging to your teeth.
“Nothing,” he murmurs, though it wasn’t nothing at all. “I was simply thinking that I might see you on Thursday. If that’s all right.”
Your mouth quirks. It’s not irritation that you’re feeling. Not really. But he was something new, a blip in your schedule. Still, he didn’t make a mess of things. He listened, and it was nice, actually, for someone to not shoo you away like some gnat the moment you got going on a favorite topic.
“It’s all right,” you say, mind still wavering, but voice already made up. “If you can still keep up.”
He snorts, and nothing more.
–
On Thursday, he’s there. Standing by your favorite painting. And staring, again, at the unimpressive, unimportant frame. Of all things–again!
“You–” And it’s strange, how easily the indignation bleeds into your words. “But I already told you about the frame–”
But when Chrollo turns, he’s smiling, and it takes you a few slow moments to realize that he was kidding. Ah. It was… It was a joke.
There’s a flush in your cheeks as you stuff your hands into your jacket pocket. “I’m not good with jokes,” you admit.
He stuffs his own hands in his pockets and you can’t decide if it’s intentional mimicry or if he simply does the same thing in an awkward situation. (And which of these options is better, really?)
“Nor am I, it seems.”
That, for some reason, makes you laugh.
Makes him laugh.
Makes the afternoon start off on a better foot.
Later on, after paintings and coffee, Chrollo insists on coming to the museum Saturday to see you again.
You don’t protest.
–
It’s remarkable how quickly Chrollo becomes a part of your daily routine, and how swiftly he moves from being solely within your once-tidy museum routine to the outside.
To things like asking you out to dinner, and when you explain that on Tuesday evenings after work you go home and make breakfast for dinner, he insists on taking you to a diner-style restaurant to maintain your breakfast meal while not intruding on your home life.
Which is considerate, you think, that he understands that you’re wary of inviting a relatively new acquaintance into your home. But–going out to eat is not what you usually do. At least he doesn’t comment when you fidget too much, when you don’t look in the waitress’s eyes as you order, and when you seem relieved when the check comes.
You like him better for it.
–
Chrollo doesn’t tell you that you’re doing things wrong. Which is nice. It’s not that most people tell you flat out that you’re doing something wrong, at least not since you’ve become an adult. But you can tell by their looks; pinched eyebrows and frowns, glances, murmured comments to their peers.
Chrollo does none of this.
Chrollo does, however, often forget how you like things; or rather, how you don’t like things.
He gets too close. A hand that brushes your thigh when you sit together for lunch or coffee, his arm slung around your shoulder when the museum gets too crowded and you start to feel the crush of it crawling up your back. A term of endearment slipped in at the end of the night. Goodnight, dearest.
Maybe it’s a lot to remember, or maybe he’s just forgetful. There are other options that sometimes sneak up in your mind–maybe he’s doing it on purpose–but they are swiped away so quickly.
Because it’s Chrollo. He listens to you, he actually pays attention to what you say. He doesn’t mind that you sometimes have trouble making eye contact or that you get flustered in ordinary situations.
More than that–
He’s your friend. Someone who listens, who has something interesting to say, who seems to actually care about you. He’s the first friend you’ve had in a long time, and you were willing to put up with his forgetfulness in order to keep that friendship alive and well.
Even if it meant having to bat his hand away from your thigh on more than one occasion.
–
It’s Friday evening.
Friday evening should be relaxing. The end of the work week, a time to grab a favorite frozen dinner from the freezer and relax in front of the TV with a show that you’ve seen a thousand times.
Once it’s over, you’ll turn on the news and you might work on a puzzle or write in your journal or slowly make progress on an embroidery kit you picked up 2 years ago and have only ventured into a few times.
You might do these things, except–well.
Except everything has fallen apart.
Your shaking fingers almost don’t manage to pick out Chrollo on your contacts, and it’s a wonder your phone doesn’t crash to the ground and break into a million pieces with how much your hands tremble.
“Hello?”
He barely gets the word out and you’re already blubbering into the phone, incoherent, words bubbling out with no time to make them more understandable. They choke out, stuttered and half-baked, before you finally beg for the one person who might understand your distress.
He manages the trek in record time, impossibly fast, but you don’t pay attention. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s here and you don’t even protest this time when he sees your sobbing form and immediately scoops you into his arms.
It’s almost comforting, the way he squeezes you, gives you something to feel grounded. One of his hands inches a bit lower on your back than you’d like but even that doesn’t matter, doesn’t even register, because his presence has calmed you down enough to spit out the terrible truth:
“They stole it.” You gulp in a great, heaving gasp. “The Village in Winter. Someone… someone stole it.”
Chrollo’s body tenses. The news drones on in the background, but it’s moved on to something less important now. As if something could be less important than this. There’s a great big hole where the painting used to be, on the wall, in your mind.
Chrollo steps in or rather, steps back, placing one hand on your chin–the sensation makes something itch down your back, but you ignore it, because such things can be ignored in a time of great distress. “You are truly upset,” he says, finally, slowly.
“Of course I am!” Your own hands come up now, grabbing the one on your chin, tugging it down so you can squeeze it with great abandon. Chrollo doesn’t seem to mind. “It’s all wrong–” It’s wrong, too, the way that other hand still rests far too low on your back. “It won’t be there. I love that painting. I love it and now when we go to the museum tomorrow, it won’t be there!”
Chrollo’s hand on your lower back begins to stroke. Maybe it’s soothing. Or meant to be; you have to give him credit, you think, for rushing over and trying to calm you down.
“We don’t have to be there,” he murmurs.
Which does nothing to calm you down at all, because of course–
“We do have to be there.” Bitterness sets your jaw hard. “We do have to be there, and it will be all wrong.” The thought of all those precious details lost to you forever, the stories you’ve wound through again and again in your head. Even the new routine of admiring them with Chrollo, who always takes interest in the wrong part of the painting–that will be gone, too.
And it’s wrong, wrong, wrong. The world feels worse for it. What would be the point of going to the museum, when you’ve lost some integral part of yourself, all thanks to the work of some lowlife thieves?
Chrollo finally pulls himself away from you, a frown set on his lips. He glances around your living room, the disrupted Friday evening routine that is begging to be set back into place without all the pieces.
“Have you had your tea? You always drink it while you watch the news, don’t you?”
You do. Yes. Not tonight, though. At least not more than that first sip before it was interrupted by the horror of the news report.
“I was too upset to finish it,” you admit. “It’s on the counter.” But if you could finish it, maybe it would help. Now that Chrollo’s here to set everything back into order. It wouldn’t make things right–nothing could, except the restoration of that pivotal painting–but it’s a start. A comfort.
“Could you…”
He’s already on his way to the kitchen, a hand slipping into his pocket. “Of course. I’ll warm it up for you.”
“Thanks,” you force out, the word heavy on your tongue. Yes. Thank goodness Chrollo is here to set things into place. He knows what you like and need, wandering hands notwithstanding. So it comes as no surprise when he emerges from the kitchen with a newly warmed cup of tea and you stumble on shaking legs to the sofa.
Microwaved tea never tastes the same, and it’s no exception here. It’s almost too bitter now. But you choke it down anyway while Chrollo sits next to you, eyes on the screen, the flickering bar underneath the next program that repeats the news about the museum break-in.
Theft suspected to be the work of professional thieves. More updates on stolen paintings will emerge as staff inventory the losses. At least three security guards found dead…
The world spins. Literally, the world spins, and you reach out a hand and stand up on reflex with the anxiety that spreads through your chest.
“Chrollo?” He’s there, sitting next to you, but he falls in and out of focus as your vision wobbles.
“Yes, love?”
“I don’t feel very…” The word never comes before everything goes black, and you only just register the awful sensation of falling and being caught in someone’s sturdy hands before you faint.
–
Someone has shoved cotton into your mouth. That’s the only explanation your mind comes up with when the world returns and all you can taste is stale dryness. Someone must have shoved cotton into your mouth at some point before the blackness and this bleary, foggy wake-up.
But why would they do that, and why does your head feel so fuzzy, and why does the world feel like it’s moving? There’s an awful sound underneath you too, almost like rushing and wheels mixed together, like heavy traffic or–or a train.
Oh. Oh, no.
Air comes in great gulping gasps as you heave yourself forward and sensations assault your senses. A leather seat underneath you, the sun dimmed by drawn curtains, warm, stale air, the sound of rolling wheels and ground underneath you–and Chrollo. Chrollo sitting your opposite, on the same type of leather seat.
You’re on a train. You’re awake and on a train and Chrollo is sitting in front of you.
It’s a dream. Maybe. That’s what you think as you swallow up the cotton feeling, smacking your lips, craving the realization that this is nothing but a bizarre nightmare.
But nightmares don’t feel like this. This is real. It’s your body that feels sluggish and heavy, your eyes blinking away an awful, long sleep. Your voice that croaks out the words that half-stick to the roof of your mouth:
“Chrollo? Where… am I?”
There’s another question that clings to the back of it–What happened?--but the low curl in your gut makes you avoid it for now.
Chrollo, for his part, looks appropriately serious for the bizarre situation you’ve woken up in. He leans forward, folding his hands together, as he scans your face. For what? An injury? Is that why you’re here? You fell and hit your head and the only solution was a specialist who is only available in the next city, so Chrollo booked you the first tickets on the next train and he didn’t have time to warn you before–
“Dearest.”
The low curling in your stomach squirms, too. He knows you hate those pet names. It was easier to ignore them back then. When the two of you were strolling through the museum or he was indulgently watching you reorganize your books. When you weren’t suddenly on a train, feeling like you got hit over the head with a hammer.
A strange place, a strange Chrollo.
An answer might come, but your mouth is still too sticky and Chrollo interrupts what you might have said, anyway.
“We’re on a train.”
After a moment, a slow word comes. “Yes.” You swallow. “I know that.”
Chrollo smiles. It might be indulgent, but all you can think is: has his smile always been so condescending?
“Do you know why we’re on a train?”
Well. It would be stupid to say “yes,” when you don’t know the answer.
So you spit out the runaround thought from earlier, though even to your ears, it sounds more ridiculous with every passing word.
“I fell and hit my head and the only solution was a specialist who is only available in the next city, so you booked the first tickets on the next train and you didn’t have time to warn you before–”
He doesn’t call you an endearing nickname (thank goodness) this time but instead his smile widens, just enough to make it look like he wants to coo at you. It’s gross and sticky and you rub at your arms to make some of the feeling go away.
“Stop that. I’m not a child.”
His smile doesn’t waver, which only sparks a rush of indignation. The world has stopped feeling quite so heavy and when you sit up, you move to pull aside the curtains, if only to find out where in the world you’re at.
The countryside that’s rolling by isn’t remotely familiar. All lush and green and pretty. Are you even in the same region? The same country?
“How… how long was I asleep?” No, that’s not the right question. “Why was I asleep? I don’t remember…” Falling asleep at all. And what you do remember doesn’t fit inside this puzzle. You’d been watching the news, and there was the terrible report about the theft at the museum, and then Chrollo came over, and you drank your tea. One plus one should equal two, not waking up on a train.
Chrollo hums, and the sound brings you back. The ground rolls heavy underneath you two, separated by the carpeted floor.
“I drugged your tea,” he says, plainly enough.
It can’t be what he said, though. You’re hearing things. Maybe you suffered a blow to the head. That might actually make things.
“You what… my what?”
“I drugged your tea,” he repeats. Calm and clear and you’re certain that you’ve heard him right this time, only it’s still all wrong. Because this is Chrollo. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t. But he did. He said so. So the only thing left to wonder is:
“Why would you do that?”
“I enjoy your company,” he says, still leaning forward. “Very much so. And it was time for me to leave town, but the thought of leaving without you, well…”
Now, there are no “right” answers to this question. No one ever catalogs the proper responses to a hypothetical question about drugging one’s tea. Still, what he tells you doesn’t sound like the sort of answer one should give.
Kidnapping someone for ransom, sure. Kidnapping someone because they found out some terrible secret and no one else can no, understandable. Kidnapping someone to kill them because you’re secretly a murderer, again, makes sense.
Kidnapping you because he likes you?
It’s so wrong, so out of place, that you don’t answer. Can’t answer. There’s something sticky keeping your mouth shut and that something is Chrollo’s lack of common sense.
And then, of all things, he puts a hand on your shoulder. Firm. Irritating. A touch you want to shake but when you try, his grip keeps you in place. It’s too much. Too heavy and personal. It was something to be brushed off before, swept under the rug while you focused on what you liked about him.
But now?
You must be glaring. There’s a moment where you take stock of your expressions. Your eyebrows feel low and heavy, so they must be furrowed. Your mouth is dry and open. And your eyes are… well. It’s understandable to cry.
Worst of all, though, is that Chrollo’s hand goes from your shoulders to your cheeks, and it’s when he wipes at your tears that you finally fling your body backwards with enough force that the back of your head smacks against the wall.
It helps, this pain. This motion. So you do it again. Move your head forward and then back, feeling the firm smack of the wood against your head.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
An ordinary person might look shocked. An ordinary person might cry out and tell you that you're hurting yourself.
Chrollo, however, simply looks like he’s admiring a painting. He takes in the details, his head tilting just so.
“I packed some of your favorite things,” he says after a while, over the sound of your skull smacking against the wall. “Once we arrive at our destination, we can unpack some of them. It could help you calm down.”
“I want to go home,” you reply, between thumps. “I want to go home.”
He doesn’t reply, which is as good as a “no.”
“I’m taking you with me,” he says, still calmly, like you aren’t trapped on a train, like you aren’t banging your head with increasing intensity against the wood.
“I don’t want to go with you,” is all you can say, helplessness straining your voice. “I want–I want–” And when you look around, all you can see are these walls, the window, Chrollo. There are a thousand things that you want right now, and none of them are here.
You want your old microwave with the 7 button that sticks so you have to push it hard every time, you want the pink flower rug in your living room that you’ve had since childhood, you want your pumpkin-shaped mug with the chip on the handle, you want your blankets and your bed and the alarm clock on the side table on the left side, so you can wake up and easily roll over to hit the snooze button–
It’s only when Chrollo says your name that you realize you’ve been saying all of this, to him or to yourself, you’re not sure. There’s something stupidly hungry in the way he looks at you. It’s in the way he listens, too. Like he’s hanging onto every word so he can pick them all apart, splaying them open to reveal something inside.
But what? And why?
He doesn’t tell you. Instead, he hums. It’s a low grounded sound. It makes you feel–and you hate it, it’s gross, this feeling–comforted. Almost. Sort of. The way it used to, when you were feeling out of sorts and he swooped in to get you off the ledge.
Only this time he’s the one who pushed you to it, first.
“I’m not taking you home,” he says with a finality that makes your body jerk. “But you can view me as your new home, if it helps.” The smile he gives is warm and kind and if you were sitting in the museum over a cup of coffee, maybe you’d believe it.
“But you can view me as your new home, if it helps.”
It doesn’t help.
–
Your upper arm hurts from the way Chrollo gripped you in the hotel lobby.
“Don’t try anything, dearest,” he’d said, on the way in. Quiet and calm and sticky on the dearest. He might as well have been telling you that he was ordering in for dinner. “I’ll kill everyone in this hotel if you do. I’d rather not have to clean up any messes tonight. I’m sure you understand.”
The words should have shocked you. Or maybe they did, and you’re still in such an inward frenzy that you can’t seem to react to anything within the freezing utter bewilderment of your present situation.
So you didn’t say anything, though he gripped you hard all the same. And now you’re sitting on some oversized sterile hotel room bed that smells too much like sharp laundry detergent. There’s a mint on the pillow. You bet it tastes like soap.
“We’ll be staying here for a few nights,” Chrollo murmurs. The pair of suitcases he’d brought in are on top of the bed, and there’s a shock to your system when he unzips one of them and you recognize what’s inside.
It’s filled with your things–your hairbrush, a wellworn paperback copy of your favorite book, a bottle of your tried-and-true face wash.
Your clothes. (Well. Some of them.) Right down to your underwear, neatly folded on top. Chrollo had–taken them. Touched them. Been through your things, clearly.
“You…” The word comes out all strangled, and heat rises to your cheeks for more than one reason. “You really…” You really kidnapped me, you really planned it out, you really went through my private things and plucked them up.
He takes the pause in your thoughts to crouch down, peering into your face like he might yank the words out himself.
“Yes? What is it?”
“You... you…” And the words you want to ask are stuck between your teeth until you force them out. “Why did you do this? It’s not just… it can’t be just because you,” and your mind reels to remember what he said on the train. “Because you enjoy my company.”
Chrollo says nothing for a moment. A whole lot of nothing. Your mind is working too fast and you expect him to smile or grin, expect him to give some terribly wicked speech like a villain in a movie you’ve seen a thousand times.
Instead he blinks. Instead he frowns.
Instead his hand reaches out to grip your chin and you don’t have time to register the uncomfortable buzz from being touched when says something so softly that you have to strain to hear it.
“Oh, dearest. Don’t you know?”
When your chin does try to jerk away from his touch, it grows tighter, even as his gaze seems to soften. It’s a strange look on Chrollo’s face. Chrollo has looked contemplative, yes; contemplative and intrigued and annoyed, even, when some museum-goers were being too loud for your liking. He’s even looked sympathetic.
But soft? It’s new. It’s unwanted. And the expression stays on his face despite both of those terrible qualities.
“I care for you,” he says, repeating his earlier words. “Not just as a friend. But…” He turns your head this way and that. It makes you feel like a prized horse at auction. “I believe… as something more.”
Not just as a friend…
Not just as a friend–
“Not just as a friend.” Your repetition comes out all stilted. Maybe because of the hand on your jaw. Maybe because the words seem to creak out of you, every syllable one step down the staircase you’d rather avoid descending.
Something like a film reel flickers through your memories. Little moments, brought back to the forefront with a disgusting clarity. Why had you brushed him off so often? Because you were lonely; because he was your friend. Or so you thought.
But the way he pushed past what you wanted so often seems calculated now. The times he sat too close and let his thigh brush against yours; the way he didn’t hear you, or so he said, when you’d asked him to please stop calling you those soft, sweet pet names. The times he claimed not to be hungry only to ask if he could share your meal afterwards–the way his fingers brushed against yours when he accidentally (or was it?) reached for a bite at the same time.
“The whole time,” you bite out, acid rising in your throat. Your fingers curl against your thighs and there’s a terrible urge to knock them into something. “Were you like this… the whole time?”
Amusement crinkles through the softness in his face. It’s just as grating as nails on a chalkboard. “Did you really not notice?”
Shame flushes through you, heating up your cheeks, your chest, the very air in the room. “Of course not,” you spit out, words sounding more stilted with every passing moment. “Most people wouldn’t notice–notice that.”
At some point, he’s let go of your chin, and you take the moment of the realization to scoot backwards on the bed. Away from him and closer to the dingy looking headboard, which might have been pretty once upon a time, but was now scratched and chipped.
“Of course they would,” he counters, climbing onto the bed like some sort of terrible cat. “And they have, with far less effort on my part.” He pauses, a smile. “Not out of any genuine affection, of course. Don’t worry about that. Only to get something I wanted.”
He’s closer, now. Too close. His hand cups not your chin this time, but your cheek, and there’s only a few moments in between his face and yours. What if he…?
“Stop,” you say, desperate, helpless. “Don’t touch me.” He doesn’t stop. He leans in closer and you smack against the headboard. “Why aren’t you listening to me?”
What he says makes about as much sense as jello salad. Which is to say, no damn sense at all. “I am listening.” The almost-coo in his voice makes you want to hurl. “I’m hearing what you can’t say out loud, that’s all.”
But that’s not true. Is it? There’s too much going on. He’s too close and this room smells like soap and you ought to be home, not here, with yourself, not Chrollo. The muchness of it all has you aching to get away and make sense of it all, some way, some how.
“I always say what I want to say,” you manage, but you can’t hide the question in it. Isn’t that true? Isn’t that how it’s always been? It’s why people tend to look at you strangely sometimes. It’s why you were often too much for them, when it came down to it.
“You think you do, my dear.” His thumb rubs against your cheek. The touch is sandpaper. “But there’s something else inside you, I think. Something stuck that I’d like to crack open and pull out, if I could.” The fondness in his tone is out of place with the world around you. “If you’d let me.”
You need him to stop touching you. You need him to get away. You need this entire room to vanish, the sight of it, the smell of it, the feel of the unfamiliar sheets underneath you. A sound comes out, something short, stacatto–
“No.”
And Chrollo doesn’t leave and his thumb keeps rubbing your cheek, so you bring your arm up, smacking him away. Only his arm doesn’t move at all. It’s like hitting a pole–sturdy and impossibly strong.
So you try again, and again, and the sensation of hitting his arm isn’t helpful or soothing. It only makes your breath come in faster, makes the world spin. His breath grows faster, too, and you can’t begin to imagine why.
“You’ll grow to like this in time,” Chrollo says, finally, a touch of a sigh in his voice. “You’ll grow to like me.”
“No,” you say again, even though it doesn’t help.
In response, Chrollo simply continues to stroke your cheek.
–
In his defense–not that you are defending him–Chrollo said nothing when you’d taken the first opportunity to abandon the bed and build something like a fort in the corner of the room. It wasn’t anything like the pop up tent you used to have as a child (then a teenager and, sometimes, in a pinch, as an adult) but it would do. A fort made from blankets and some of the bed pillows, despite the detergent stink.
Anything to avoid sleeping in the same bed as Chrollo. More than that, anything to be alone, or something like it. You rocked yourself to sleep and dreamt about the museum.
In the morning, you wake up and remember everything in one great gulping heave. Your body tenses when you hear Chrollo walking around the room–the sound of the sink, the toilet, the rustling of clothes–until his footsteps stop outside your makeshift shelter.
He pops his head inside without so much as a warning.
“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
The glare he receives is enough of a response. He chuckles it away, easy as a gnat.
“I’d like to show you something. It’s a surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises,” you reply, voice tired and dull. He’s going to show you anyway. He knows it, and you do, too.
He holds open the drape of your fort but you don’t have the energy to be grateful that he at least didn’t drag you out of it. Your limbs feel heavy and awful as you crawl out, and the hotel room in the daylight looks no better than it did at night.
But Chrollo must have done some unpacking while you slept, because there are a few more things scattered around. His clothing, slipped into hangers. Toiletries–his and yours–on top of the chest of drawers.
And something set against the wall, covered in a plain black tarp.
The surprise, it seems. Curiosity prickles at you. Maybe it’s a good distraction from everything else. Maybe you’re just genuinely interested in what could possibly lay underneath.
Chrollo’s smile almost looks youthful as he tugs at the edge of the tarp, and you see a flash of black as he pulls it away, revealing the treasure underneath.
The Village in Winter.
It’s all wrong. It’s naked, without the frame, propped up in some hotel room surrounded by chipped furniture and laundry smells.
There is no air left in the room, no water left in your lungs. You could cough up a thousand years of dust right now and still not run out.
“You stole it,” you manage to say. Chrollo simply nods and looks for all the world like he’s showing you something he’s proud of; and he is, you think. Proud of everything. The urge to fall down swims through you, and you grip the wall.
“You were a great help,” Chrollo says, voice soft and confident and anything but assuring. “We were struggling with the best way to remove it without damaging the work underneath.” He tilts his head, just so, the same way he did that first morning in the museum.
Nothing is the same as that first morning in the museum.
notes. prompt #29 but this is mostly written as a loose interpretation of hozier’s song hence the title. tagging @maplewood-valley <3
Nagumo knocks and shortly the door opens. From stunned to elated to quizzed, he gathers your expression as they stumble into one another in a matter of seconds.
“You’re early.”
“I was already around the area.”
The words fall from his lips with practiced ease. You hum, nodding slowly as you regard him. A beat passes, then another, before the hinges groan.
“Sorry ‘bout the mess. I’m cleaning—well, was.”
When you step back, he reveals what he’s been shielding: white tulips, a dozen of them nestled in layers of sheer blush-pink paper. Cinched at the base is a silk ribbon in the same delicate color, holding them in place. Nagumo crosses the threshold, the door clicking shut behind him as he seals himself in. Your fingers graze against his own as he hands them over.
“Flowers?”
The word echoes into the quiet entryway, sounding confused more than anything as your gaze nearly burns a hole through him. He bends down, neatly aligning his shoes next to yours; an action that feels like it belongs to a different life.
“They were half off.”
“Oh, good.” You sigh in mock relief before turning. “Almost romanticized the gesture for a second there.”
For once, neither of you rush into your usual habits where a conversation is nothing but a mere afterthought. No hurried tearing of each other’s clothes. No fumbling in the dark. No guessing whether he’ll land on the couch or the bed. Distant are the nights where he stays for an hour or two. Maybe three if he’s exhausted enough to linger, longer if you’re chatty enough to humor him. And as always, it ends the same way—you, evidently satiated, smiling lazily from the tangle of sheets, murmuring, Lock up for me, yeah? as he peels himself off of you.
Instead, Nagumo follows a pace behind, taking in the apartment, the scent of coffee mingling with the crisp morning breeze coming in from the windows, the curtains dancing as dust motes glitter through the dappled sunrise. He drops himself on the couch, reclining next to a stack of neatly folded clothes. It’s as bright as it is out and it’s the first he is seeing your life in the light—the first he is seeing you this way.
To his left, the running water in the kitchenette adds to the soothing silence as he watches stray strands of your loose bun falling on the nape of your neck, wondering if they tickle. The stems—how delicate they are, like your fingers—how easily they give under the blade as you trim them. Drops of water spill as you transfer the flowers to a glass jar, its label barely there.
Nagumo nods when you offer coffee.
Your hand is warm on his shoulder when you set down a pink mug. Steam rises, hazing his vision as you disappear and return carrying a basket of fresh laundry. Your white dress flows and moves with you, hanging daintily over your shoulders—showing the curves of your collarbones and the moles across your back. Without any makeup on, skin dewy from light exertion, you look homey. All this unfolds slowly right in front of him and it is something Nagumo isn’t used to.
On the balcony, he watches you hang damp sheets on the line, each one familiar enough for him to feel the texture beneath his fingers. Your arms are raised, back turned—a profound trust you have as your bare feet shuffle around. Nagumo supposes he gets the appeal. The lack of edges. This fragile peace. The kind of softness that feels more dangerous than any gun.
Your phone buzzes facedown on the table. He peers and the name registers in his mind in an instant—your ex. Without hesitation, he rejects the call, turns it off and tosses it into the heap of clothes yet to be folded.
Nagumo almost chuckles out loud, because yes, perhaps his frequent visits in this part of town have finally begun messing with his head. It is hard to explain, even to himself, this sudden grip of desire for something he knows he will never have; something he has long denied himself of.
Ten. Maybe fifteen. He imagines himself years from now where the hardness of his life has melted. He imagines having a civilian’s back, not hunched or tensed for a blow, but sore from something stupid and wonderful—like fixing a leaky sink or sleeping too long in a shared bed. He imagines another version of this morning where he isn’t just a guest watching, but holding the same exact basket as you argue over something so meaningless. Perhaps he bought the wrong detergent or forgot to take the trash out the night before. He wonders what it would be like if his first thought upon waking was the smell of your hair, or the softness of your body against his, or simply the weather outside.
“You’ve been staring. Need anything?”
You’re standing right in front of him now and, as you look down on him, the urge to say something delightfully strange invites itself—that you look like an angel, that you were made for him, perhaps to save him. But no one says things like that to people they only sleep with.
“Nothing.” is what he settles for. “Just wondering if I can be of help.”
“But I’m all done,” you smile, and it’s like the sun breaking through the clouds. “Actually, I’m about to take a shower. Join me?”
Perhaps it’s true that this place is the closest he will ever get to heaven—a lie that he lets himself believe for a couple of hours. And for it to be true, he would have to scrub his soul raw, and even then, it’s still not enough.
He glances at the flowers he brought—beautiful, fleeting, and destined to wither—just like the vision he’s had about you just now. But no matter. That life is not for him anyway, for he is not that kind of man; he is not like other people.
Nagumo is nothing like you.
“Yeah.” He forces his lips into a reflection of your smile. “Let’s go.”
tags. college/uni au. sports (basketball & swimming), caretaking, burnouts/shutdowns, meeting the besties, akao bullying nagumo again, sakamoto what’s ur letterboxd, fluff, humor, the mortifying ordeal of being known (albeit just a little), mutual pining. sfw.
author’s note. the amount of glaze i lathered on nagumo in this fic should be studied bcs bruh… female bird moment? FELT. (also is sports really this serious?) (it is) (this is also sooo self indulgent to an embarrassing degree. i’ve been stressed ok!!) title :3
“Swimming? Thought you wanted to run?”
“I did tryouts for both.” You shrugged, shifting the weight of your bag. “But it’s been hot during the day. I’d rather be underwater.”
“Fair point. So what’s the specialty?” Nagumo asked. In his head, he had already mapped the distance between the main gym and the pool. “What are you swimming?”
“Butterfly.”
“Woah? Seriously?” He whistled in genuine surprise. “Isn’t that too taxing? You’re basically picking a fight with water for, what, fifty meters?”
“Exactly.”
Nagumo didn’t respond immediately. The trapped heat back at the gym made him a bit lightheaded. Perhaps that was why he was momentarily caught by the pendulum sway of your hair, swirling past him was the scent of your shampoo mixed with chlorine.
“… you get whatever you want from me. I won’t argue.”
Nagumo’s eyebrows shot up. Stopped spinning his keys. Stopped mid stride. The weight of your words took a second to land.
“Whatever I want?”
“If.” You swiveled on your heels, facing him. “And only if you take the championship.”
“Careful now.” He resumed walking, his face splitting into a grin as you dangled before him the prospect of answered desires like a low hanging fruit. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. I’ve got a long long list.”
Outside, the air was beginning to cool as evening approached, but the space between you simmered as you walked closer alongside him. He had the urge to hold your hand, but decided against it. Not sure why that was, he took your bag instead.
“If my relay team wins—which we will—I want the truth about something.”
“Hm?” Nagumo tilted his head with interest, fixated on a stray hair across your face. He reached out to brush it away. “My deep dark secrets, maybe?”
“No. It’s this Instagram account,” you glanced, as if watching out for the slightest tell. “The one you’re mutuals with. No profile picture, one following, one follower, hundreds of posts?”
His smile almost flickered. Nagumo forced a teasing edge to his voice, “What account?”
“Here.” You pulled up your phone, the said account already loaded. Because of course. “This one.”
A strange thrill sparked in his chest. He knew this day would come, but knowing you, never had he thought you’d do it in such a roundabout fashion. Nagumo looked at the screen, and then at you—your eyes searching his.
“All that stalking and you don’t even follow <i>me</i> back? Wow.” Whether he was actually sulking or changing the subject, he made sure you saw his exaggerated pout.
“Alright.” You tapped some, and then hit the ‘follow back’ button right in front of his eyes. “Done. So, deal?”
The wind swept through, carrying the scent of floor wax and freshly cut grass. Nagumo hummed, looked you up and down, coming to rest at your expectant gaze.
“I don’t know what mine is yet.” He pocketed his keys, let the words hang in the air as his focus narrowed to just you. “But sure. Deal.”
⋆ ｡ 𖦹 ° ⭒ ˚｡ ⋆
The usual academic gloom was gone, replaced with the kind of energy that only existed once a year. In every direction, pop music and bursts of cheers could be heard from a distance. Booths, the aroma of streetfoods, vibrant face paints—all mingled in a chaotic blur with each department’s pride.
It was Intramurals week.
The sun was sharp overhead. You weaved through the crowd, bag heavy on your shoulder as you headed for the pool.
Nagumo was nowhere to be seen. Sure, nothing new there. Though, you couldn’t hold it against him. He was most likely locked in pre-game rituals, you supposed. Having conflicting schedules, both of you weren’t able to watch each other’s finals—the very games that would define the outcome of your agreement.
Or maintaining the suspense by remaining out of sight—just Nagumo being… himself.
Nonetheless, his tricks were working. Every time you caught a glimpse of a red and black jersey, your head would whip to its direction, wondering if it was him.
But then again, it was fine. You once dropped by at one of his games anyway. And even that was already a lot. The main gymnasium was humid, loud, and buzzing with people filled to capacity—everything you hated. Not to mention that annoying squeak of sneakers against hardwood. Yet, you stayed and watched.
Arriving around the latter half of the game, you had spotted Nagumo almost immediately. While his other teammates were flushed and gasping for air and their jerseys soaked with honest work, Nagumo remained carefree, too casual in the way he chewed on his gum, raking his sweaty hair back, as though he was merely doing warm ups. You were almost convinced he was slacking. Almost convinced that he was maybe the team’s bench warmer.
Lost in flow, Nagumo hadn’t seen you right away. But the moment his searching gaze caught yours, occupying a seat in the front row that had been miraculously, suspiciously, empty—his demeanor drastically shifted from lazy genius into a peacock waiting for its moment.
Whenever he blocked a score or drained one, he pointed your way as he jogged backwards to the other side of the court. Of course he wasn’t normal about it. Far from it. He did all sorts of things—those ‘no sweat’ gestures, playful winks, eyes fluttering with knowing smiles. He even threw in some cheeky little dance at one point, making it feel like a joke privy only to the two of you amidst the madness.
Yes, madness. Because each time he so much as glanced in your general direction, the crowd directly behind you erupted into ear bleeding screams.
It was… cute, nonetheless. And irritatingly so. You found yourself biting the inside of your cheeks until they hurt, or hiding your face in your palms, desperately trying—as ridiculous as it may seem to anyone else—to not shutdown on the spot. It was already sweltering in there, and the way your neck and face burned wasn’t helping.
Especially as you were forced to observe him during timeouts.
From your seat, everything was laid out in front of you to the point of suffocation—his inked skin glistened under the harsh gym lights, highlighting the defined slopes of his limbs, the veins in his forearms appearing more prominent than usual.
Suddenly, the very mundane act of drinking water made you feel parched as hell all because Nagumo was doing it.
As if on instinct, you swallowed once when he did, watching the way his throat worked as he downed a cold one. Who would’ve known a single stray droplet gliding from the side of his mouth, dripping down his chin, had the power to shrink the world around you. Yet it didn’t stop there.
Nagumo refused to stop there.
The team bench was there. Did Nagumo care? Clearly not with the way he gravitated towards you whenever he was subbed out. Separated only by thin metal railing, he would lean his weight against it with a grin, challenging you into a staring match. The narrow strip of window at the far back caught the afternoon light just right. His eyes looked golden, like the sun dipped in dark honey. Sweet. Thick. Impossible to look away from.
“You’re looking a little…” Nagumo trailed off, his eyes wandering all over your face, your neck. “Overheated.”
At that point you could’ve just read the way his lips moved. Even then, the noise mattered little, his voice perfectly stood out. You pretended not to hear. “Shouldn’t you be monitoring the game?”
“What for?” He tilted his head. A drop of sweat rolled down his jaw as he leisurely chewed on his gum. “So, is it the heat? Or me?”
“You.” You crossed your legs, crossed your arms, fighting the urge to reach out and wipe him down. “You make my blood boil.”
“I do? That’s so sweet.” He chuckled. “Careful not to pass out, okay? Unless…”
“Unless, what?”
“Unless you actually want me to stop this game and carry you out in front of all these people?”
The mental image didn’t bother you one bit, but it did sound like a challenge. A threat. “And that’s supposed to intimidate me, because?”
“Woah woah, totally not trying to do thaaat.” In mock surrender, he lifted his arms, showing his hands. “Just reminding you not to cheat ‘cause I’d really love to keep my winning streak.”
Nonsense. “This is literally your first game.”
He may have said something more but you were already looking away, trying to focus on the scoreboard, on the ongoing blur behind him—on anything but him. But Nagumo leaned closer and closer, growing much invasive than the last, until his shadow smothered yours. His sweat, which was indescribably sweet, and the snap of peppermint assaulted your senses, forcing you to pay attention to him. You braced yourself, not entirely sure why, only for him to just rattle your bare knee with his damp fingers, his touch landing like a startling click to wake you. Grounding you. Distracting you.
Then, as if nothing happened, at the sound of the buzzer, he sauntered back and left you twice as hot and bothered.
But mostly bothered.
The pool didn’t have many people around. And yet, it was tense and suffocating as the air was thick with chlorine. Echoes of water slapping and sloshing bounced off the walls, punctuating the quiet buzz of chatter. The tiles stung cold beneath your feet, making your skin pebble with goosebumps, prompting your toes to curl, and forcing your shoulders to stiffen.
Going through the motions, you adjusted your goggles, your cap, loosening up your limbs, but your mind kept drifting back to the fragments of your conversation.
Whatever I want?
What account?
… But sure. Deal.
And all the bland exchanges of good lucks, good mornings, and good nights following that.
You looked down at the water, rippling white and blue as the second leg swimmer swam through her few final meters. She was behind, but the gap wasn’t that wide. Yet the pressure settled heavy on your shoulders. If you were unable to close this, whoever was manning that account would remain unknown.
Climbing onto the block, the non-slip surface bit into the soles of your feet as you coiled your body like a pulled bowstring, eyes locked at the wall below.
Ten meters. Five.
Leaning forward, your weight hung precariously over the edge. You inhaled deeply. Chlorine stung your throat. Still, you held it in. A subtle movement was caught at the farthest corner of your eye, a splash of color that hadn’t been there before. But then, your teammate’s arm surfaced, finally, her fingers reaching for the wall.
Five centimeters. One—
You launched.
⋆ ｡ 𖦹 ° ⭒ ˚｡ ⋆
Seven seconds.
The time was glowing red. Nagumo’s team had walked into the fourth quarter with a lead and a straightforward plan. Eat the clock.
But of course he had other ideas. Spending the final quarter at an absolute unhinged pace, he ignored set plays, and hooped from distances that were nearly insulting both for his opponents and his teammates.
Five seconds.
The lead had evaporated, naturally, 97-98. By forcing quick shots, it was as if Nagumo had handed extra possessions to the opposing team like gifts. On the sidelines, their acting coach was yelling something—a reprimand, surely, for a heat check, for his reckless arrogance.
Nagumo would hear the rest of it later. Or not.
He was going to win this and dip.
Two.
A desperate double team lunged at him. Nagumo didn’t even look long enough to remember their faces as he split the defense, sending the ball bouncing between one defender’s legs. In a blur, he spun around the other, reclaiming the ball on the other side before they could even turn their heads.
One.
At the three-point line, trapped into the narrow corner of the court, he didn’t bother to set his feet—the clock wouldn’t allow it. He launched, his jersey clinging to his sweaty skin, the ball rolling off his palm up to the very tips of his fingers as he released the winning shot with a snap of his wrist.
Zero—
The buzzer shrieked. The backboard flared. But Nagumo didn’t stay to watch the ball swish through the net. Didn’t wait for the crowd to roar, the high fives—the mayhem.
As soon as his sneakers landed on hardwood, he zeroed in for the locker room.
Someone yelled his name from the bench. He didn’t look back as he was already ripping the soaked jersey over his head. A metallic echo pierced into the muffled silence as he slammed his locker shut, his entire day shoved in his bag. Nagumo moved on pure adrenaline as he burst his way out of the gym. Everything at that point became background noise. The sharp afternoon breeze was harsh. The sudden brightness stung.
Nagumo didn’t care. He made a run for it.
The double doors were light. Nagumo slipped in like a shadow, taking shallow sips of air as his heart kicked its way out his ribs. Still in his damp red-and-black shorts, he leaned against a concrete pillar instead of sitting down, wiping the fresh sheen of sweat with the sleeve of his dry hoodie. The aftermath left him boneless and floaty. A mild brain fog was beginning to settle over him.
Nagumo, ironically, didn’t need a clear view to know it was you. Even underneath the obscurity of your goggles and cap, he could easily spot you. He didn’t blink. Didn’t cheer. Just stood perfectly still, drinking in your silhouette, the way your swimsuit—or the lack of it—hugged your figure. A smirk pulled at the corners of his lips as you curled over the edge.
And just like that, you dove.
Nagumo was left speechless, breathless—the tired thrum beneath his skin was eclipsed the moment you vanished into the crystalline blue.
He waited and waited, seconds stretching tautly like a wire ready to snap, holding him upright when his knees should’ve buckled, should’ve crashed. As if caught in a net, he was suspended in the limbo of your return.
But then, you surfaced.
Your arms swept in and over, water clinging like wings made of glass, before they shattered into an explosion of diamonds. The brilliant white light overhead caught every droplet, floating in the air like stars each time you sliced through.
Nagumo was completely, helplessly caught in the sight of you—so much that he felt his own pulse syncing with every whip of your arm and heavy kick of your feet. Your body moved like a silk ribbon unfurling in the water, lulling his own to slow down. Have him stare. Dazed.
Lost in the room.
⋆ ｡ 𖦹 ° ⭒ ˚｡ ⋆
Freshly showered, dressed in his comfiest clothes, Nagumo sat by the foot of the couch, his long legs stretched on the carpet with you slotted in the middle. Shoved to the wall was the coffee table, leaving the two of you with ample space and low lighting. Silent, motionless, you draped him like a weighted blanket—cheek pressed against his abdomen, arms looped around his waist.
It was adorable, really. And thankfully, this time, a high fever wasn’t out to torture him. This kind of unprompted proximity would’ve made his entire week, would’ve had him gloating for days. But there was a catch—Nagumo had no idea what was happening. He was utterly, positively, clueless about what was going on inside that head of yours. He’d never seen you this dejected. Or this… clingy.
Well, you did lose the race. But, really? You?
Clingy?
It was as if you turned into a totally different person. Again.
He had to adapt.
Again.
Nagumo shifted slightly, carefully, his hand hovering over your hair, unsure if a touch would make you feel better or make you go home, because for the past hour and a half, it felt like he had been doing every single thing wrong. He was either talking too much or too quietly.
Doing too much of this, too little of that.
Understandably, your team stood no chance in winning finals. One of the opposing teams had a ringer. A former swimming varsity from his high school who’d switched to volleyball in college and—how did he know about that? Well. As far as annoying coincidences go… they happened to be an old fling of Nagumo. One could say he was tongue tied. An understatement, really. He certainly had no plans to unearth whatever that was. ‘Cause hey, that was forever ago.
So instead, he just tried to be supportive when all he wanted to do was to rile you up the second you reunited with him. But nothing seemed to reach you, it was as if you retreated into an invisible shell he couldn’t quite crack.
Then, out of the blue, you reached for his hand, your fingers slowly intertwining with his own, while you walked across campus in complete silence. Sure, you had this quirk of playing with his hands when you two were alone. You had been brazen, though rarely, about other things before. But any public displays of affection were clearly not your thing. If anything, it was mostly him reaching out, and you, you just waited for him to come to you. The move, so genuine and innocent, made Nagumo almost ascend into a faraway land.
Somewhere along the path to your dorms, your voice came, devoid of its usual bite. “Nagumo, is it okay if I sleep over at your place tonight?”
He’d said yes of course—he would’ve been stupid not to. That’d be two wins in a day. In a second attempt to lighten the mood before having you at his place, he’d teased that you looked like a ‘very very angry dolphin’ during your last lap. He’d expected a witty retort, an eye roll, a snap. Anything. Let the tension rise. Let it spike.
Instead, your expression had fallen further, and he realized he’d totally misread the situation. That he only made everything worse.
This continued once you reached his apartment. Nagumo had never met someone as fickle as him about eating, but you… well. You were growing as a contender for the title. Every food delivery idea he had suggested felt like a threat as he patiently scrolled through apps with his head pressed on your shoulder. Too oily. Too soupy. Too stewy. The gravy was too salty. Texture was off. Looked like vomit.
Eventually, he just shrugged, set his phone aside, “You know what, I’m not even hungry. Are you hungry? Yeah, me neither.”
Then came the wardrobe crisis. He’d had to change his clothes several unreasonable times under your silent scrutiny. Too thin. Too plush. Static-y. Ew, polyester. Too stretchy. Warm to the touch. Too cool. The prints were scratchy. Too stiff. No, not that color. Until he’d managed to find the exact worn-out cotton shirt he had been keeping since forever that didn’t make your expression look pained. It was the same shirt you had worn once, which made it feel like a full circle moment for Nagumo.
Now, he just sat there, breathing as evenly as possible, his legs falling asleep long before he did. You were tracing shapes and patterns against his side, your fingertips sweeping in a way that was repetitive, predictable—he could see each of them glowing beneath his eyelids.
Boxes. Zigzags. Spirals. Hearts… His full name.
Then just Yoichi. A soft smile tugged at his lips.
He wondered what’s next, expecting something playful. Cute.
Maybe…
Nacchan?
Your finger moved, languid and delicate—a nickname he’d never heard. A secret just for him…
Chi.
On a normal day, Nagumo would’ve probably performed autopsies on the moment, interpreted every touch in a dozen different ways, or, since you were already here, persuaded you into situations until he got what he wanted. Your touch didn’t leave him ticklish, and instead turned him into syrup. Warm. Heavy. Butterflies fluttering low in his gut.
He tried to be present, tried to resist speaking, tried to not give in to his selfish desires. And forced himself to dwell on the events of the week, the daytime heat, the deal—letting them hit Nagumo all at once. Only for them to fade, diminished into this bizarre and truly humbling experience where he had become nothing more than just a cotton shirt you were clinging to.
Nagumo couldn’t tell if he had fallen asleep. Being pinned in the same position with you napping in his lap like a cat, it all surely felt like one hazy blink. Whether it was seven in the evening or way past midnight, he didn’t know—as if time had stopped existing the moment he aimlessly tossed his phone after firing off a message to the group chat.
But the guessing game was short-lived. From what he could sense—and hear—it seemed like Akao and Sakamoto were already at his doorstep, the digital lock chirped faintly as they punched in the pin. Not even a minute later the two were already walking in, taking with them the scent of ozone and car air freshener.
“Dude, what’s up with that text?” Akao’s voice echoed through the entryway, the stillness disturbed by the careless thuds of shoes being kicked off. “Thought you got kidnapped—“
Upon reaching the living area, Akao’s eyes widened then instantly narrowed, a deadly grin growing across her face. Sakamoto’s head crested close behind her, looking surprised too, if anything.
“Oh? What do we have here?”
Nagumo didn’t have the time to shush them. You were already calmly climbing off him, sitting beside him cross legged on the carpet. The movement allowed blood to come rushing back into his lower half, leaving him in excruciating discomfort.
“Babe, I’d totally shake your hand but I don’t know what that hand just went through…” Akao gave Nagumo a look of pure filth before turning back to you. “But I’ve heard so much about you. You’re his teacher, right?”
You blinked, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, voice thick with slumber. “I’m not a teacher.”
“What?!” Akao’s head snapped toward Nagumo. “Nagumo, this one’s new?”
“No.” Nagumo hissed, gripping the edge of the couch, his legs felt like being prickled with a thousand stinging needles—even his tattoos could never—making it impossible to maintain his composure.
“There’s someone new?” You glanced at him with a sleepy frown. Not even surprised. Not even upset. Just… sleepy.
“No!” Nagumo nearly yelled under the strain of both figurative and literal pressure. Catching himself instantly, his voice softened the second he looked at you again. “No… no. Of course not.”
Nagumo shot a look at Sakamoto, hoping he’d notice the pleading behind his smile. Sadly for him, his friend was already helping himself, quietly browsing for movies on Netflix.
Nagumo turned back to Akao, pushing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Tutor, Akao. Tu-tor.”
⋆ ｡ 𖦹 ° ⭒ ˚｡ ⋆
The world was finally starting to be steady and less volatile. After hours of surviving unspeakable imminence, you felt yourself returning into a controlled hum—warm and full with several slices of pizza.
On the couch, Akao was with you, her fingers moving through your hair with the gentleness that, so far, didn’t match how chaotic she had been. But you were no better. In no time, her rapid manner of speaking adapted with the hive of activity inside your head. Every word she dropped about Nagumo—a childhood habit, a specific fear, an obscure preference—felt like precious scrap.
Like free expansion packs.
You leaned your head back into her hands, passively watching the movie Sakamoto had chosen, careful not to disrupt the flow.
Down by your knees, Nagumo leaned against your leg. You stared at the back of his head, the way his hair looked disheveled made your fingers itch to reach out.
“I’m actually shocked you held out this long.” Akao’s voice was suddenly lowered. Almost didn’t register.
“Hm?” You murmured, your voice felt distant, staring at the glow from the screen which casted a hazy halo around Nagumo’s silhouette.
“Well, duh.” Akao gestured at Nagumo vaguely. “He’s got the communication style of a toddler.”
At that exact moment, Nagumo tilted his head back, looking at you upside-down, his gaze crushingly soft.
“She says that but that’s what they both love about me,” he interjected, his voice rumbling in your shins. “Among many of my most lovable qualities, of course.”
A chuckle bubbled up your throat—the first real thing you’d felt since the lost race and the humiliating deal. You couldn’t help it.
“Oh, look, she laughs!” Akao leaned over, entering your personal bubble, as if studying your face. “You’re cute. Got older siblings?”
You didn’t answer right away. You let your hand drop instead, your fingers disappearing into the messy hair of Nagumo’s nape. He stilled for a moment before his entire body leaned into your touch. In response, his hand slid up to lock his cool fingers around your ankle, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin.
“Speaking of siblings,” you started, glancing back at Akao. “Aren’t you his sister?”
Sakamoto hit pause.
Nagumo tensed.
Akao halted.
“Whose sister?”
“Nagumo’s,” you said rather confidently, having the vivid memory to back it up. “He mentioned it months ago.”
The room went unnervingly still for a second. Then another. Before Akao let out an inhuman sound that resembled a half wheeze and half shriek. She began laughing so hard her hands flew up, abandoning your hair, the intricate fishtail braid—the one she’d spent roughly fifteen minutes on—unraveled like ribbons.
“Nagumo!” She gasped, falling back, clutching her stomach. “I mean, everybody knows you’re a pathological liar, but this? This one’s a new record. Even for you!”
You looked down, Nagumo wasn’t in the slightest bit flustered. He didn’t even turn around. Just tilted his head back again upside down, looking up with the most innocent smile.
“I said that?” His voice was steady and smooth as he reached up, catching a loose strand of your unraveled hair between his two fingers. “Gee, I wonder why. Remind me again?”
“We were—“
Akao cackled, leaning over you to point at Nagumo, who began humming a tune to drown her out. Sakamoto shushed at them as he pressed play. “Listen, he’s an only child. A pampered baby boy who has to fabricate a whole family tree to avoid questions.”
Nagumo shrugged. “Past me was probably protecting my image.”
At that, Sakamoto went from a shushing machine to a vibrating, snorting mess.
“The heck does that have to do with anything?” Akao settled back to attempt the braid again, still bouncing with residual laughter. “And what image? The one where you’re a serial ghoster? Who likes sleeping in people’s beds, then disappears into the night the second things get too real? And just when they’re done running after your ass—Poof! You’re in their DMs at 3 AM like nothing ever happened? That?”
Nagumo stayed remarkably relaxed against your leg.
“Hey now, that’s an exaggeration.” He said, a smile audible in his tone. “Let’s wrap up the smear campaign, shall we? The movie’s about to get to the best part. Right, Sakamoto-kun?”
“Shut up! No spoilers.” Akao then turned to you, “I won’t even be surprised if he pulls the disappearing act after tonight—“
“He has, actually.” You jumped in before the thought could get away. “Plenty of times.”
“Oh, for real?” Akao perked up, her eyes gleaming in interest. Sakamoto began vibrating with more visible intensity. “And what do you do? Please don’t tell me you chase after this weirdo.”
“I don’t. I just—” You clarified, wanting to be perfectly clear. Nagumo’s grip, just slightly, squeezed around your ankle. “… I try to mimic him.”
⋆ ｡ 𖦹 ° ⭒ ˚｡ ⋆
It was the morning after. 6 AM still had that mild chill from the night before. At the entrance of your building, Nagumo stood before you, looking undone with just three hours of sleep, still in his sleepwear. A few meters away, Akao and Sakamoto were in the car waiting, the engine humming low.
“So,” Nagumo started, his voice gravelly. “When will I see you again?”
You shrugged, hadn’t processed yet the day ahead. “That’s entirely up to you.”
“Figures.” He didn’t move, just stared, eyes still bloodshot but focused.
“By the way, our deal.” You reminded him. “What do you want?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Nagumo’s smile was lazy, lopsided. Charming. “Saving it for later. Where’s your phone?”
“Here.” You tapped your bag twice, the sound flat and dull in the quiet street. “Battery’s dead.”
“Since when?”
“Last night, I think.”
“Right.” Nagumo exhaled, looked over his shoulder at the car, then back at you. “I’ll go now.”
You gave a slow nod, but he stayed rooted at the spot, hands shoved in the pockets of his sweatpants.
“Nothing.” Nagumo laughed a breath through his nose, his eyes crinkling. “Text me later?”
“I will.”
“FaceTime? Tonight?”
“Sure.” You watched him for a while, noticing the shift—the way his gaze kept dropping to your lips, eyes almost wobbling. “Are you waiting for a kiss?”
“Sorta,” He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers crawling upwards, making a bigger mess of his hair. A dust of pink high on his cheeks. “Kinda. Maybe.”
“What’s stopping you then?”
Nagumo let out a breathy chuckle before meeting you with silence. Lacking any of his playful edge, he drew closer, pulling the remaining air between you.
He cupped your face with his palm, his fingertips were cool against your skin as they slid to the back of your ears. Instantly flooding you were his toothpaste that matched yours and his scent that was distinctly, thoroughly him. It was familiar, expected, and still wasn’t enough.
When Nagumo leaned down, his lips were soft, a lingering pressure, sending a wave of warmth down to your toes, making you all putty. His touch, his presence, agitated and alleviated all of you at once. You gently came apart then back together, pressing deeper with every languid tilt of his head. For a few seconds everything else ceased to exist.
You craned your neck to have more, to give more, dark locks cascading down to tickle your cheeks. As you reached out to thread them away, he smiled against your lips, you found yourself doing the same. His breaths became your breaths, and yours his—hands growing more demanding with every touch, every taste.
Pulling back just an inch with eyes still closed, Nagumo swallowed hard, smiling stupidly.
“You could at least buy me breakfast first.”
Ache blossomed and more. It was the weekend. Your roommate most likely crashed the night elsewhere. Before you could form a response, he opened his eyes, the playful glint returning as he stole one more lingering peck before pulling away.
“Alright, you’ve had your fun,” He stepped back. “I’m really going.”
“Wait—“
Immediately, Nagumo turned and slipped back into your bubble, grinning. “Yeah?”
“A hug.” It was enough… for now. Maybe. You opened your arms a little. “A really really tight squeeze would be nice.”
The shit eating grin on his face didn’t disappear, but mellowed into something boyish. Nagumo first took your bag, mindlessly dropping it on the ground before he enveloped you, pulling you into his chest, strong arms wrapping around your shoulders.
Just as you wanted, he held you tight and steady. A long quiet grunt vibrated through him as his chin rested atop your head. You buried your face into the softness of his shirt, handfuls of fabric bunching up as you clutched onto his back. Whether it was your own heart or his, the beating was loud in your ears.
“Better?”
You nodded into his chest. He then softly chuckled, lifting you up just a little off your feet. His friends had been waiting for a while now, you thought. Hesitant, reluctant, you let go first.
Right after drawing the blinds, you climbed immediately into bed, its softness, the pillows, felt like a reset button. You tried to map your day ahead—nap for two hours, laundry, tackle deadlines—your mind, however, kept returning back to the week that had passed as you held onto the seahorse plushie Nagumo had given you.
It was only then you noticed the dark useless slab on the nightstand. Your phone. You reached for the charging cable, the click of the port provided a small spark of anticipation.
The moment the screen flickered to life, the silence was lifted. A string of alerts came chiming in—org group chats, apps, reminders that were both low and high priority—but two specific notifications were nestled in the stack.
(@invi___6th) accepted your follow request.
(@invi___6th) started following you.
You stared at the screen, unable to wrap your head around the fact that this, indeed—despite losing the race, despite the failed deal—was really happening.
Four hours ago, the time stamp read.
A flush immediately made its way to your face, undeniably hot and palpable. Nagumo had done this while all of you were dead asleep in his living room. The weirdness, his uncharacteristic bashfulness from earlier was solved with a definitive click—
I see, you mumbled.
You sat up, your thumb hovering over the profile with an irresistible pull. The grays rolled into colors quickly after giving in, revealing that it really was Nagumo all along. You had planned to scroll from the bottom up, but a glimpse of his latest post lured you in.
It was a carousel of last night. The cover photo was a hazy low light shot of pizza. As you swiped, the echoes of that evening came to life—the TV’s colorful noise, the scent of grease and cheese, the exhilarating atmosphere of their banter.
Most photos were candid moments. A shot of you and Akao on the couch with Sakamoto’s silhouette near the television, taken from behind. One of Sakamoto playing a game on his phone while you leaned in, watching eagerly, both of your brows furrowed. Another of Akao mid sentence, looking elsewhere while you watched her intently.
The last photo made you pause with the simultaneous gnaw and flutter of your stomach. Faceless—just a shot of your legs tangled with Nagumo’s on the sofa, the blanket kicked to the floor.
The caption was simply: 🌏💥
The dissonance was evident as you scrolled further into his private account. This grid was unfiltered and messy and almost cryptic with captions stripped down to a single word or a simple dot or emoji. So distant from his public account where it was curated to appear a certain way, where it was all just him him him.
The gym pictures weren’t those typical topless and sweaty mirror selfies. They were grainy snaps of Nagumo, some with Hyo, or just Hyo. Or Nagumo spotting a very angry Hyo in the middle of a bench press. There were shaky clips of them jogging when the sky was still asleep—nothing but the sound of him breathing and the orange glow of streetlights against the pavement.
You found a series of unedited spreads of food—bowls of ramen or plates of gyoza, captured with a lens hazy with steam. Most of them featured Shishiba, mid chew or staring down at his food with sleepy eyes. Sometimes with Osaragi too, haunting the edge of the frame, captured in harsh yellow lighting of late night diners. One clip in particular showed Osaragi leaning over the center console to apply a sheetmask to a disgruntled Shishiba in the driver’s seat, with Nagumo snickering in the background.
Akao and Sakamoto were the most recurring themes, often seeming uncool and lacking any sense of dignity. Some were clearly stolen from across the room. Some were taken with a blinding flash that washed out their features. There was a single shot of Sakamoto standing beside a short haired lady, the lighting soft for once. Then more dizzying sequences of Akao and Sakamoto. Some with just Akao. Some with just Sakamoto. Cramped selfies inside a car where no one was looking at the camera. Doing grocery runs. Inside tattoo shops. Arcades. One grainy photo showed the three of them, dated years ago, wearing oversized motorcycle helmets, caught in a series of ridiculous poses.
Throughout the whole feed were screenshots of their group chats. Chaotic streams of messages and low-res memes that you honestly didn’t quite understand. A bunch of clips that were nothing but a dark screen or a shaky view of the ground, the three of them taking turns saying something unintelligible with fits of laughter in between.
Sketches were littered everywhere just as much. Lots and lots of them. You saw a photo of Nagumo’s blistered hands, a carving knife slotted between his two fingers and an almost finished wooden stamp resting nearby. Another was a completed sudoku puzzle with his middle finger at the lower corner of the frame. More sketches. Profile sketches of you… in several different angles. Your hands. Your eyes, looking away, looking at him. Just your ear, hair tucked behind it, your earrings as the telltale. Then, your lips, your gaze lingering on them as you pressed the real one.
However few, there were also glimpses of his room. Close ups of the little trinkets and knickknacks which cluttered the space. His rumpled bed, the eclectic look of his bedroom walls, the unfinished lego set that had you frustrated each time the memory popped up in your mind was also there, looming in the background.
Wristwatches resting in their boxes or looped around his arm would show up every few rows. Some looked vintage. Others were sleek and modern. Most of them had names you didn’t recognize. A collection, perhaps.
The sea. Open fields. Clouds. Stray cats. Empty parking lots. Views from inside a moving train. Top floor through a glass window. Rooftops. Bridges. Tunnels. The aquarium outing he had mentioned some time ago was also one of them, the plushie he gave you still on the store shelf, making you give the little guy a tighter hug.
The recent ones with you in it—except for the childhood pictures he must have taken in your parents’ living room—were faceless. The charms dangling from your bag. The back of your head as you walked ahead of him. Your hand around a coffee cup. A book blocking your face as you sat across him. Hours and hours burned through talking on the phone in the form of screenshots. A familiar jacket draped over his unmade bed… the one he had wrapped you in when he first kissed you. How could you forget.
The campus grounds in wide angle snaps were almost imperceptible—random vending machines, the library, the football field at dusk, the track oval next to it, and so on. All of it seemed spontaneous. By chance. Until you zoomed in.
Maybe he wasn’t slick after all. Because somewhere in there, whether a blurred figure caught in motion or a static silhouette, you found yourself almost hidden in plain sight. The posts were dated months before you two had met, before your name felt like fingers running up your back because it was him saying it. Before his name started nestling softly inside your mouth.
The air in the room seemed to thin as you stared at the screen. Looking back, Nagumo had never been that open about his friends, about himself—about anything, really. He would never bring them up unless asked, and even then, nothing was revealed. You had almost pinned him as a selfish, arrogant prick if not for the constant spin of you you you—what you thought of this, how you felt with that.
How could someone be such an overwhelming presence, and at times, even claustrophobic, yet be so bafflingly quiet in the way he cherished his people? Through this private archive, his love for them—for the little things in between—was so evident it was endearing. Almost painful.
Wrapped around your heart was the realization of just how one person could effortlessly weave into another’s world. One moment, Nagumo was just a quiet gaze from afar that you hadn’t felt yet. Next thing you knew, he became this probing chatterbox with a presence so relentless that it’d feel equally suffocating when he was there as when he wasn’t. You didn’t want to be anywhere else.
You didn’t want Nagumo anywhere else.
You: Fyi, I had already deduced the account was yours. Just felt the need to confirm it.
The moment Nagumo read your message, he was at once stuck in a jumble of feelings, of impulses. He wanted to have you near, felt the urge to run laps, come over to hold you close, or disappear into thin air. The usual. But relief, ironically, for sure, was one of them, because that text—really? That’s all you got to say? But then, you began calling.
There were two sides to this.
Nagumo could let the matter disperse into nothing, replying in three days to a week later, and jump straight to something entirely unrelated.
Or… he could sit with the discomfort of simply being seen, watching his exoskeleton sloughing away in real time with every question, with every response.
The idea of missing you for a couple of days—probably more—honestly felt a lot bearable, a lot less humiliating, than whatever lay ahead. And yet—
And yet…
“Helloooo~ was planning to catch up on some sleep.” He wasn’t. He was wide awake. “What’s up?”
“So you’re a horophile? That’s an expensive hobby.”
“Well—“ Nagumo couldn’t help but snort. That was your takeaway after all you’d seen? “What can I say? Time is a cruel master, showing us one of the few things we can’t control in life. Something we can’t truly grasp—a flicker of what’s to come? A blink of what has been? You know what I’m saying?”
You were rendered quiet for a moment, the eye roll in the way you just sighed through the phone was almost visible. “I would’ve ended the call if you said some bull like ‘Time is money’.”
“No.” Nagumo grinned. “I just really like them as jewelry.”
end notes. sorry not sorry for letting my selfship bleed into this fic by calling him Chi <3333 it’s so cute and so meaningful to me and i love him sm it hurts :(((
and in case anyone missed it, nagu’s username for his secret account is basically his rokutoku knife, specifically the nearly invisible blade that’s made entirely of ceramic, because he’s so sneaky like that >:3c
Warnings: Yandere! Tamsy x fem! Reader, manga spoilers, violence, reader gets hurt, description of blood, gaslighting, near-death experience, Tamsy is an obsessive piece of shit in this
Your mask filter hummed faintly as it worked overtime.
Crouching behind a large refrigerator, you slowly peaked up from your hiding spot to check if things were safe. When you didn’t sense any danger, you stood up fully, clutching your notebook. It didn’t contain any relevant notes yet, but it’d all happened very quickly, so you weren’t gonna stress it. Not everyone was as diligent as Tomme.
A few meters ahead, the corpse of the trash beast was still twitching.
It had been massive, twenty times the height of a person, its body made of fused garbage and jagged rebar, a crooked mouth of shattered glass still grinding weakly against itself. Black sludge leaked from the wounds Tamsy had inflicted upon it.
Tamsy stood beside it, relaxed, like he’d just finished stretching instead of killing something that could’ve crushed a truck. His distaff glowed faintly where he held it, the light slowly dimming as whatever power he’d used faded out.
You tried not to stare.
“You can stop looking like that,” Tamsy said through his mask, flicking something sticky off his sleeve. “It’s dead.”
“I’m not scared.” You said petulantly, annoyed he’d caught you.
“I didn’t say that.” He added on. “I know you’re very brave.”
If it had come from anyone else, it would have sounded blatantly sarcastic. And maybe, just a little, it did. But this was Tamsy. Tamsy was usually so nice, so you told yourself the faint edge of sarcasm had to be in your imagination.
You looked away quickly, pretending to check the horizon instead. The polluted fog blurred everything past a few dozen meters, turning the wasteland into shifting silhouettes.
“I was just making sure there weren’t more,” you muttered.
“Mhm.”
He nudged the beast’s head with the tip of his boot. One of the glass teeth cracked with a dull crunch.
“You supporters worry too much.”
You were glad you were here, and not one of the other supporters. Follo especially would’ve taken very heavy offense to a comment like that. It implied the worry was unfounded, as if it was unnatural to worry when faced with a sharp, sludge-drooling behemoth that wanted to kill you. Instead of saying all that, you just let out a simple: “That thing was huge.”
“And now it’s not a problem.” Tamsy stretched his arms over his head lazily. “See? Easy job. Just like Semiu said.”
Easy.
Right.
You adjusted the strap of your mask, suddenly very aware that you were the one here who hadn’t actually done anything useful. The mission had been simple: escort Tamsy into the zone, observe, and write down anything that was even remotely interesting. You’d written some small stuff down, but the fight had been done too quickly for you to find anything really worth commenting about.
Tamsy lifted his foot off the trash beast corpse, and turned to walk your way, vital instrument lazily swinging side to side in his grip.
That said… Why was the beast still twitching? Was the core still int-
The windmill flank of the trash beast suddenly screeched as it whipped around in a final effort to kill tamsy, flinging a slab of debris outward. Tamsy dodged it, and hit the trash beast with his distaff, the damn thing finally getting flung around and decomposing like it should’ve done to begin with.
The debris, however, was still heading your way.
Your brain reacted before the rest of you did.
No problem. This part you’d practiced. Supporters weren’t frontline fighters, but you still had to survive long enough to observe and give actual support. If one thing had been drilled into you, it’d been on how to dodge trash like this. Your boots landed down on solid ground, a good way’s off from where the projectile had landed, meaning things were gonna be just fine-
Your balance vanished instantly.
“Wha-!”
With an immediate shift in trajectory, you went down hard, suddenly face to face with a very large pile of sharp and rough trash..
Your leg twisted underneath you as you fell, pain exploding up to your thigh as something tore open against the jagged metal. Your arm slammed against a rusted pipe with a sickening crack that echoed through your mask.
For a moment all you could hear was the roaring in your ears.
Everything went white with noise. Your ears roared so loudly it drowned out the polluted wind, the distant creak of shifting scrap- everything, though you were pretty sure you’d let out a cry loud enough to alert any trash beast in a hundred mile region.
It was one of your worst habits, one that the other cleaners hadn’t managed to train out of you yet. Whenever you got hurt, you cried out like you wanted everyone in a wide radius to hear you, which wasn’t an ideal quality in a career where being sneaky and getting hurt often were part of the job.
When your vision finally steadied and you were no longer screeching out of instinct, you raised your head to assuage the damage.
That… that was a lot of blood.
Somewhere nearby, footsteps crunched across rubble.
“Oh dear, you’ve tripped?” Tamsy covered his lower face with his sleeve, in shock at the state of your leg. You couldn’t bring up the energy to snap at him, knowing he didn’t mean it like that, and also you were a bit too focused on the fact that part of your femur was sticking out of your skin. “For a supporter, you sure are clumsy.”
Shame burned inside your stomach, and you couldn’t lift your head up far enough to make eye-contact with the giver. “Yeah, haha, my foot must’ve… must’ve caught on something.”
You huffed out and shakily sat up and grabbed at the top-part of your leg, trying to squeeze your upper leg so it would stop bleeding so profusely. There were protocols for this, but they seemed to elude you at the moment. Calling for back-up was the best option, right? But it was just you and Tamsy here, and he was way more experienced than you, and he’d yet to even touch his choker. Was there a reason… not to?
Were you missing something?
“I should… call back-up, right?” What you should’ve done in the first place was accept Gris’ offer to come along back at the base. He’d have you bandaged and in a car within mere minutes. But you’d been prideful, telling him Semiu had specifically said the job was supposed to be an easy one, one that only needed a single giver and a lil back-up just in case. Tamsy had even specifically asked for you! “That’s what… I should do.”
“Are you asking me?” Tamsy said softly, sitting next to you. “What do you think?”
You tried to focus. No problem, of course, you’d been trained for this.
You tried to recount the moment. You’d dodged, your foot had caught on something, and then you’d gone down hard, straight into a heap of broken concrete and twisted pipes. In a strange stroke of luck, it was only your leg that had broken so badly. Still, the pounding in your skull and the nausea curling in your stomach made it pretty clear you’d hit your head too.
A trash beast had been killed. You had been sent to observe.
“My head feels weird,” you murmured, reaching for your notebook to record the observation. Your fingers fumbled for the pen, your grip unsteady as if the thing had suddenly become too heavy to hold. You tried to write, aware of Tamsy watching while you struggled to form the word concussion.
He came closer and his hand slipped around yours, steadying it. Through the blur in your vision, you watched as he guided your hand across the page, helping you finish the letters.
When the last squiggly ‘n’ was written, you smiled at the notebook, before smiling at him as well. “Thank you for your help.”
His eyes crinkled over his mask. “It’s my pleasure.”
A few more moments passed.
As if realizing you needed to complete the next part of your internal mission, you clumsily raised your hand to try and touch your choker to reach Semiu. Tamsy grabbed your hand and lowered it again, gently. You looked at him, confused.
His eyes crinkled, still smiling.
“Tamsy?” You said softly.
“Yes?” He replied, cheerily.
“Why aren’t we calling for back-up?” Your gaze dropped to your ruined leg. A wave of panic twisted through your stomach as you noticed the bone jutting through the skin again. God. Once the haze wore off and you weren’t half-dissociated anymore, that was going to hurt like hell. “I’m hurt.”
“Don’t you remember?”
“Remember what?”
“Oh dear… did you hit your head that hard?”
Before you could react, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. He nuzzled his forehead gently against yours, making sure the mask didn’t get in the way.
“You must be in a lot of pain.” He said breathlessly.
“Huh?” You officially lost it. What was going on? Why was he acting this strange? Was he twirling around the subject, or were you really that concussed? You struggled a little to get out of his embrace, but to him, it probably felt like you were settling into his embrace. You could do little but let out another. “...huh?”
Tamsy pulled away from your face and your eyes widened as you saw blood on his mask. Was your head bleeding? That did make things way worse. Why wasn’t he panicking like you were?
“Tamsy? Why aren’t we calling back-up?” You asked again.
“You just asked me that.” He replied. “Are you dizzy? Why don’t you lie down for a bit.”
“You aren’t answering me.”
The wind dragged through the polluted zone again, pushing gray dust over the broken concrete around you. Somewhere behind Tamsy, the corpse of the trash beast shifted as pieces of it settled, metal clinking softly against itself.
Tamsy tilted his head a little, like he was considering something amusing.
“Oh,” he said lightly. “Didn’t I?”
“No.” Your voice came out weaker than you meant it to. “You didn’t.”
Your head swam. The world kept tilting slightly to the left, like gravity was having a disagreement with itself. You tried to focus on his face, on the familiar curve of his eyes above the mask.
Something about the red smeared across the fabric kept pulling your attention.
“Tamsy,” you tried again, slower this time, like maybe clarity would come if you spoke carefully. “There are protocols. If a supporter is injured during…during a giver operation, we…”
His gloved fingers brushed your wrist where he still held your hand down, his grip gentle but firm enough that you couldn’t lift it.
“We call back-up. That is protocol, yes.” He nuzzled your forehead again. “Good job remembering that.”
You swallowed.
“That’s…my job.”
“Mhm.” He pat your head, and it made you feel even dizzier for a few moments. “And you are so good at it, aren’t you?”
Another pause stretched between you.
Your leg throbbed violently now, the shock starting to thin out. Every pulse of your heart sent another hot wave of pain up your body. You squeezed your thigh again instinctively, though your grip had gone weaker with only one hand, the other still firmly held by Tamsy.
“Tamsy,” you said again, more urgently this time. “I’m bleeding a lot.”
“I noticed.”
“So we should call-”
“You’re very observant today.”
Your stomach twisted.
You blinked at him.
“What?”
Tamsy leaned back slightly. His posture was casual. Like you were huddled together watching a movie during a break instead of in the middle of a polluted zone with your bones sticking out.
His eyes crinkled again.
“You wrote it down and everything,” he said, nodding toward the notebook in your lap. “Concussion. Good job.”
Your gaze drifted to the page automatically.
Your chest tightened.
“Yeah,” you said slowly. “Because I think I have one.”
“Probably.”
“Which is… bad.”
“For you, yes.”
Your brain tried to follow that sentence and stumbled.
“…for me?”
“Mm.”
Another gust of wind rolled across the wasteland, carrying the sour stink of rot and chemicals. Your mask filter buzzed harder for a second.
Your thoughts felt sticky. Like they were moving through syrup.
“Tamsy,” you whispered, suddenly very tired and very very scared, “can you please call Semiu?”
His eyes softened.
“Oh, dear.” he said quietly.
There was almost something blissfully fond in the sound.
“You still think we’re doing that?”
Your stomach dropped. Your breath quickened a little. You stopped trying to put pressure on your thigh and instead tried to push yourself upright, planting one shaky hand against the ground. Your arm trembled violently, matching your breathing.
The strength simply… wasn’t there.
Your elbow buckled before you could lift yourself even an inch, and you sagged back against him.
You swallowed hard and tried again, slower this time, willing your muscles to listen. Tamsy tilted his head the other way now, studying your face like he was watching something incredibly fun.
“I did tell you,” he said.
A thin, helpless panic fluttered in your chest, beating faster and faster as the realization crept in that you weren’t able to get out of this. “Tell me what?”
“That you should lie down.”
Your vision swam again.
“I can’t lie down,” you muttered. “My leg…”
“You’re already halfway there.”
It took your brain a few seconds to process that.
You looked down.
At some point during your struggle, you had slid sideways against the broken concrete. Your body wasn’t upright anymore. Tamsy’s arm was loosely around your shoulders, keeping you propped up into the embrace.
You didn’t remember sinking down so much.
Panic fluttered weakly in your chest.
“Tamsy,” you said again, voice trembling now, your hands desperately clinging at your leg to keep pressure on it. The pool beneath you was growing. “You have to help me. Why aren’t you helping me?”
He looked at you for a long moment.
Then his eyes crinkled again in that same pleasant smile.
“You just asked me that.”
Were you going insane? Why was he acting this way?! Tears welled in your eyes and your lips wobbled as you tried to repeat your question again and again, still unsure why Tamsy was acting so crazy. Your bloodied hands couldn’t reach your choker, nor put enough pressure on your leg. He was just sitting there… watching!
You were going to bleed out.
With pure fear in your eyes, you stared up at Tamsy, knowing there was nothing you could do but bleed out into his arms if he didn’t allow you to call help. Even if help was called, you were quickly losing consciousness. They wouldn’t be here in time. You’d die. You were going to die.
A distant engine cut through the wind.
Both of you turned toward the sound automatically.
At first it was just a low mechanical growl somewhere beyond the gray fog, vibrating through the piles of scrap and broken concrete. Then headlights pushed through the smog, two harsh beams cutting across the polluted landscape.
A truck.
Your brain lagged behind the obvious conclusion.
“…what?”
The vehicle rolled closer, tires grinding over rubble until it stopped a short distance away. The side door slammed open.
“Afternoon,” a familiar voice called out. “Cavalry’s arrived.”
Gris jumped down from the truck, already moving fast. His boots crunched across the debris as he crossed the distance between you.
Your brain stuttered.
“…Gris?”
He crouched immediately, eyes sweeping over your injuries with efficiency.
“Well, damn,” he muttered. “You really outdid yourself this time, huh?”
Gloved hands were suddenly everywhere: checking your leg, your arm, your pulse. Gris worked quickly, movements precise and practiced. He’d already brought a medkit.
“Your arm is broken. Head is bleeding,” he said aloud, half to himself. “Leg’s a mess too. Femur stickin’ out like it’s trying to escape-”
You blinked at him.
“How…?”
Gris looked up briefly.
“How what?”
“How are you here?”
Gris frowned slightly, like the question was odd.
“Tamsy called it in.”
Your gaze snapped toward the giver beside you.
Tamsy was still sitting exactly where he’d been, posture relaxed, hands resting loosely around you to keep you upright, looking like an angel keeping you company in your dire time.
His eyes crinkled cheerfully when he noticed you looking.
“…you did?” you croaked.
“Of course,” he said affectionately. “It’s very important to me you make it out of here safe.”
Gris snorted.
“No flirting with my patients, Tamsy,” he said while wrapping a band around your thigh. “But good lookin’ out for her. Any later and she might’ve bled out. Couldn’t you have stopped the bleeding yourself, though?”
Tamsy shook his head. “My control over my vital instruments is not that delicate. I was worried I’d hurt her more if I tried to do something like that.”
Your brain still tried to reconcile everything with the last several minutes of conversation, not truly grasping the conversation the two men were having about you.
“But..” Your voice came out weak. “You…”
“Hold still,” Gris said, tightening the makeshift tourniquet. “This’ll suck.”
It did.
Stars burst behind your eyes as he secured the pressure band. You screeched wildly, for a moment completely out of control with the amount of pain coursing through your body.
“You’re lucky he called when he did,” Gris continued matter-of-factly, like you’d not just metaphorically ruptured an ear drum. He was probably used to it. You did have a penchant for getting hurt, though never before like this. “We’ll get you to Eisha in no time.”
You stared at Tamsy.
He tilted his head at you, still smiling with his eyes.
“What a relief, isn’t it,” he said.
Your thoughts slid uselessly against each other.
Had he…?
But you’d asked him.
Multiple times.
Why hadn’t he just said-
Your head throbbed violently and the question dissolved before you could finish it.
“Alright,” Gris said after a moment. “Let’s get you in the truck before you start passing out on me.”
The ride back was bumpy.
You were half-propped against the side bench of the transport, Gris driving while Tamsy was keeping your leg raised, checking the bandages every few minutes while the engine rumbled beneath the floor of the car.
Your leg had been stabilized as best as possible. Your arm was splinted tight against your side and some impromptu stitching had made sure your head hadn’t bled more than it already had. The total pain had settled into a deep, throbbing burn that pulsed with every movement of the truck.
Your notebook still sat loosely in your lap.
You stared at the word concussion for a long time.
“…Tamsy,” you murmured eventually.
“Hm?”
He was sitting beside you, one elbow braced against the wall of the truck like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“You didn’t tell me you called backup.”
“I didn’t?”
You turned your head slowly toward him.
“No.”
“Huh.”
He sounded mildly surprised.
Gris snorted from behind the wheel.
“You’re concussed,” he said. “Memory’s gonna be a little scrambled.”
Maybe.
That had to be it.
“Oh… I’m sorry.” You said, feeling ready to cry by the relief of it all. You’d been scared to death, sure you’d die on a pile of polluted garbage. Tears welled up in your eyes, but you didn’t want to embarrass yourself any further, so you looked away, trying to ignore how Tamsy’s gaze had been zeroed in on your face the second you got emotional.
Tamsy pat your good leg comfortingly. “Don’t worry about it.”
You exhaled weakly and leaned your head back against the metal wall.
Something tugged at your skin.
Your eyes drifted downward.
For a second your brain didn’t quite register what you were seeing.
A thin strand of blue yarn wrapped around your ankle.
Tamsy’s hand rested loosely nearby.
And very casually, like he’d been doing it the whole time, he was slowly pulling the thread free.
A little more blue yarn slipped out from your ankle, disappearing into his sleeves.
tags. college/uni au, happy au, nagumo centric, nagumo’s pov, motorcycle rides, road trip, beach vacays, sakamoto is whipped for aoi, akao being her menace self, fluff & humor, identity crisis, overthinking, meeting the parents, pining, soft nagumo, mild sexual content, paranoid kissing, vaginal fingering, hand jobs, orgasms, more pining!!!
summary. nagumo spirals at the thought of 'meeting the parents'.
author’s note. i’m genuinely running out of ideas for this au so here’s some fluff (and other stuff) that has nothing to do within academic premises
By four in the morning, Nagumo, Sakamoto, and Akao rolled out of the city. The sky was bruised purple and hadn’t yet been touched by the sun. Nagumo perched on Akao’s bike—a true spiritual experience, mostly because he knew he would spend the entire ride wondering if this time he’d finally meet some higher power.
For the sake of scenic routes, Akao was adamant about avoiding boring expressways. Nagumo spent the first hour watching blurred neon signs and gray concrete melt into the dark as they zipped by, Akao’s poor hair whipping against his helmet like a windstorm.
What was supposed to be a five-hour travel from the city to the coast spiraled into a grueling eight-hour journey of loitering and lung cancer activities. It seemed like every time there was a gas station or souvenir shop, Akao decided her nicotine levels were at an all time low. They would pull over and Akao would leisurely burn through half the pack.
Meanwhile, Nagumo scrolled through his phone, munching on whatever he could find in his bag as he sent you pictures of sights along the way. Sakamoto, of course, was the other reason their ETA kept crawling toward afternoon. Trying to quit smoking, Sakamoto had every excuse to wander into the back corners of these shops, avoiding the chimney that was Akao, but mainly to loot for trinkets to bring back for Aoi. By hour six, Sakamoto’s saddle bags were clinking with the weight of keychains and hand-painted charms, holding a small satisfied smile every time he zipped them up.
Heat shimmered in waves off the baked asphalt as the sun climbed up. Nagumo’s shoulders were beginning to feel stiff and his bum a bit sore. The constant stopovers were brief respites, until it had turned the trip into an odyssey—a true test for his god-like patience.
During the middle hours, they pushed deeper into the rural routes, navigating unpaved shortcuts and crossing small bridges. Their engines roared past farmers in rice paddies with the mountains as the backdrop. The air changed completely, smelling of mangoes and sun warmed earth that made the city feel like a distant dream. Eventually, the dense foliage began to thin, revealing glimpses of blue, sparkling through the gaps among the trees. The horizon stretched out to where the sky kissed the sea.
They reached the hidden trail near the shore.
“Don’t buy cheap meat!” Nagumo exclaimed, his voice propelled by the wind.
Sakamoto and Akao were already bickering over who would drive and who would carry the goods. Once things were finally settled, their voices faded as they peeled away toward the nearest town market to stock up.
Nagumo was left with manual labor, a role he usually bullshitted his way out of. But there’s no one to bullshit here except the sand and the birds. He checked his phone—still no replies from you—and shoved it back inside his pocket. Wondering what you were up to, he hauled the heavy gear from Sakamoto’s bike, his slippers sinking into the volcanic white sand of a beach Kindaka had kept miraculously untouched over the years.
For the next hour, Nagumo wrestled with the tent—a massive beast of a thing that was definitely an overkill for three people. He took his time, waiting for the heavy canvas to stop billowing before finally pinning it down. Ensuring the two had enough space to kick around in their sleep without breaking his ribs, he smoothed out the ground cloth and interior. The last flap now zipped, Nagumo stood back to admire his work, brushing back his sweaty bangs off his forehead, feeling the salt air stuck to his skin. It was so quiet—too quiet—that he was beginning to worry Sakamoto and Akao might get distracted and spend their entire food budget on more souvenirs.
The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving them with a sky thick with stars—it felt like they were under a different galaxy. The only light on their private stretch of sand came from the orange of the bonfire Akao was coaxing into a roar. Salt, wood, and the smoky aroma of barbecue filled Nagumo’s lungs. Sakamoto crouched over the grill, his focus as intense as if he were disarming an explosive when he was just flipping pork skewers.
Slumped flat on a beach towel, the cool glow of Nagumo’s phone illuminated his face, thumb hovered over the screen, refreshing your chat, maybe, for the hundredth time now—still no reply from you. He told himself the signal in this part of town was just shit. But the little knot in his chest was far from loosening. He had sent you a photo of the sunset, a blurry shot of the road, and even a silly selfie of himself with Sakamoto looking lost and Akao mid-smoke. But a response remained elusive.
“Hey, Sakamoto,” Akao’s voice cut through the sound of crashing waves, a fresh cigarette dangling from her lips as she tossed another branch into the flames. “Still claiming you’re quitting? I’ve seen you eyeing my pack every time I light up.”
Sakamoto didn’t look up from the sizzling meat, his expression ever unchanged, “The nicotine patches are working.”
“Yeah, that and keeping the souvenir industry alive,” Akao snickered, blowing smoke toward the dark sea. “At this rate, you’re going to need a sidecar for all your romantic pebbles.”
Nagumo saw an opening. He needed something to pull him out of his head before he started imagining you had forgotten about him already. He put his phone facedown on the sand, the silence from you still stinging.
“Speaking of the lovely lady,” Nagumo started, standing up to stretch his stiff limbs. “Have you met Aoi-san’s parents, Sakamoto-kun?”
“Look who decided to join in, Sakamoto!” Akao drawled, eyes glinting in reflected firelight. “Asked by the guy who disappears before the sun comes up, no less.”
“It’s just a question, Akao.” And to dismiss the sudden heat crawling up Nagumo’s neck, he let out an airy laugh, his voice as neutral as possible. “After eight hours of watching Sakamoto-kun curate a museum of keychains for Aoi-san, I wonder how deep the rabbit hole goes… out of pure academic curiosity, of course.”
“Academic, my ass.” Akao snorted, perked up, and fixed him with a look that was too sharp for someone three beers deep. Nodding at Nagumo’s phone, her face split into a grin, “You’ve been staring at that screen like a time bomb. That’s your own rabbit hole.”
“You know how my folks are.” Nagumo shrugged. Even to him, his excuse sounded thin. “Just checking the signal. I’d hate to make mom worried.”
Akao barked out a laugh. “Is it really your folks? Or is our prince charming here finally getting a taste of his own medicine?”
“Huh? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Maybe talk properly, Akao?” Nagumo waved her off, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. Now turning to Sakamoto, “So, Sakamoto-kun… have you? How did it go?”
“He’s scouting the terrain!” Akao cackled as she threw another branch to the fire. “Sakamoto! Look at him, he’s already practicing his ‘son-in-law’ bow!”
Sakamoto didn’t answer immediately. Poking at a skewer with a pair of tongs, his expression was unreadable as a stone wall. The silence stretched with the crackle of the fire and Akao’s wheezing snickers.
“It was quiet,” Sakamoto finally responded, “We had tea. Her parents didn’t say much.”
“See? You can’t do quiet, Nagumo.” Akao snorted so hard Nagumo was sure a bit of beer nearly came out of her nose. “You’d probably start doing card tricks just to fill the silence!”
“That’s it?” Nagumo sat back down and didn’t look away from Sakamoto. “They didn’t interrogate you, Sakamoto-kun?”
Sakamoto paused, the tongs hovering over the grill. “Just the usual questions… where I saw myself in five years. If I had a stable job. Looked at my hands.”
“That’s actually especially perfect for you and your silky soft hands, Nagumo.” Akao interjected, poking Nagumo’s sides with her toes. “Trust fund and all.”
Nagumo gripped Akao’s foot, ignored her and kept his attention on Sakamoto.
“And? What else?”
The tent was a quiet chaos. To Nagumo’s left, Akao was sprawled out like she was dropped from a height, her snoring sharp and abrupt. To his right, Sakamoto was an immovable boulder, his breathing steady like the tide outside. Nagumo was pinned between them in the middle, staring up through the mesh ceiling—a sky so crowded the stars felt suffocating.
You still haven’t replied, his phone a silent brick facedown under his makeshift pillow. Akao’s teasing from earlier still echoed in his head. She was right, though. She had her own brand of pointing them out but they were right, more often than not. As much as Nagumo hated to admit it—he didn’t do ‘parents’. The concept felt alien. And it wasn’t because he was socially inept. He had navigated parties and stiff formal dinners with his own family, sometimes with highly important people invited. But those people? They weren’t important to him. Even in his sleep he could play those parts with ease.
But you… you actually mentioned your family wanting to meet him. And said so casually too—classic you. The idea of sitting across a dinner table from the people who shaped the person he—who shaped you, was terrifying. Was he someone a mother wouldn’t worry about? Were his hands worthy of your father’s handshake?
Was he even good enough at all?
And your silence was only making it worse. Every minute that passed without a notification made him wonder if you were second guessing the idea too—or if you’d realized that bringing someone like him home was more trouble than it was worth. Nagumo shifted slightly, the nylon rustling, but his two friends beside him didn’t even flinch.
Nagumo was in the middle of paradise, literally, figuratively. Yet here he was, wide awake, feeling like a recruit on his first day.
The ride back to the city was slow. The wind and the fabric of his jacket against his skin felt like sandpaper on a fresh sunburn. Every muscle in his body screamed from yesterday’s whole day of swimming, and a totally uneven and unfair beach volleyball of three. Slumped on the back of Sakamoto’s bike—this time a much safer bet than Akao’s death defying leans, likely thanks to Aoi-san’s influence—the oppressive heat was lulling him into sleep.
Nagumo’s head might’ve been lolling forward, his helmet banging against Sakamoto’s, because a series of heavy taps on his knee jolted him awake.
“Nagumo.” Sakamoto’s voice was steady even with the wind blowing, his gloved hand stayed on his knee to ground him. “Stay awake.”
“I’m up, I’m up.” Nagumo mumbled, eyes barely open from the unforgiving high noon as he adjusted himself yet again to a position that didn’t make his scorched skin wince. He expected to relapse into another comfortable silence, but after a few kilometers, Sakamoto spoke up again.
“Just be yourself.”
Nagumo blinked, the haze of sleep cleared by sudden confusion. “What?”
Sakamoto turned his head slightly to the side, his voice a bit louder this time. “Just be yourself.”
“Huuuh?” He knew where Sakamoto was getting at, but he didn’t really wanna deal with it right now. “For what? So I don’t fall asleep?”
“The parents,” Sakamoto clarified, yelling over the engine. “Be polite—that goes without saying—but don’t put on a show. If they’re going to like you, it should be for who you are.”
Nagumo stared at the back of Sakamoto’s helmet, watching all the greens and browns blur into a smear on either side. Of course he knew what Sakamoto meant—honesty, sincerity, all that ‘good guy’ stuff. But the problem wasn’t that he didn’t want to be himself. It was that he’d spent so much of his life being the Nagumo everyone expected that he wasn’t even sure which version was the real one anymore. If he stripped away the jokes and the easy smiles, was there even enough left to impress anyone’s parents?
𓂃 ོ☼𓂃
A week later at the terminal…
Beside Nagumo, you were a sleepy little thing, your head heavy on his shoulder. He, on the other hand, had never been more awake. His chest was performing drum solos, and each time you spoke to him, he had to fight the urge to bolt toward the nearest exit and possibly, never look back.
Nagumo could handle exams week on three hours of sleep, could bluff his way through presentations he didn’t prepare for. But sitting on this bus, clutching a box of premium cake he had spent hours picking out, felt like he was going to walk into a firing squad.
“You’re bouncing your leg too much,” you yawned, adjusting your bag.
“It’s ‘cause I’m vibrating with excitement, silly.” He said, his voice had more of a lilt than usual. If his palms decided to become sweaty now, he was worried he might actually drop the box before reaching your house. He went over his script a few more times:
Nice to meet you, sir. You have a lovely home, ma’am. No, I don’t plan on being a bum after graduation.
The bus ride was only an hour, but it felt like the longest sixty minutes of his life. Every stoplight and turn was a milestone closer to the moment of truth. Nagumo looked at you… peaceful and completely unfazed by the fact that you were about to introduce a guy like him—who wasn’t even your boyfriend. What the hell—
What are we even?
A wave of panic washed over Nagumo. What if they asked about that and he said something stupid? What if he accidentally talked the way he talked to Akao and Sakamoto? What if they saw right through the ironed shirt and the polite smile and realized he was just one of those dumb fucks who wanted to bang their daughter?
Nagumo didn’t want to bang you—well, he did actually, for the longest time. That’d be really nice. But that was not all there was to it—shit. That wasn’t the point, was it…?
The bus pulled into its designated stop. Nagumo’s fight-or-flight leaned hard toward ‘flight’ as he stood up. The few minutes trek toward your house made his legs slowly feel like they were made of lead.
Upon reaching the gate, he checked his watch—almost lunch time. He seriously considered faking a sudden illness. In the name of keeping it cool, he hadn’t even asked a single thing about your parents. He’d just assumed they would be like you—maybe a little quiet, maybe the strict types who only communicate in polite nods and never crack a smile? Nagumo had his Dean’s Lister mask ready to go, the one he used for grumpy professors with a superiority complex.
Then the door opened, and all of his mental rehearsals were wiped in an instant.
Your father… he didn’t just open the door. At least six feet, maybe taller—maybe taller than Nagumo, the fuck?—with a build that made his tank top look like it was straining at the seams, he loomed in the frame. But honestly, it wasn’t the height that made his heart stop. It was the ink—tattoos flowed down from your father’s neck down to his wrist, intricate and dark, against the domestic look of your house.
He looked Nagumo dead in the eye with a smile so tight, his eyes almost crinkled close. It didn’t feel like a greeting. If anything, it felt like he was measuring him for a coffin.
“You must be the Nagumo we’ve heard so much about!” He boomed, his voice echoing off the neighborhood. It was way too bright, way too loud, way too cheerful for comfort.
Nagumo felt his own smile go stiff. Never before had he felt like a prey, holding on to a cake box for his dear life. He bowed, offered his hand, and managed to squeak out a greeting.
Without breaking a sweat, he had walked into the homes of professors, family friends, and distant relatives—usually radiating a level of confidence that bordered on obnoxious. He knew the drill. Find the sofa, offer the gift, make a polite comment about a framed photo, and win the room before the choice of beverage was even served. But standing in your living room, with your father like a mountain chirping at him with so much energy, Nagumo completely crashed.
He stupidly stood there in the middle of the rug, clutching the box of cake like it was a shield, his brain stuck on a loop of: Don’t sit yet. Don’t stand too close. Don’t breathe too loud. Don’t look at her. I mean, look at her. Okay, maybe not that long—
“Sit, sit, Nagumo-kun! We don’t bite… much.” Your father gestured toward a chair.
Even with the invitation, Nagumo didn’t move, paralyzed by the irrational fear that if he sat, he’d be trapped. And if he kept standing, he was being disrespectful. Nagumo looked at you—you looked puzzled, a brow twitching—while your father’s close eyed smile remained fixed on him.
Nagumo hadn’t survived Akao’s offensive driving and Sakamoto’s lectures just to end up not knowing what to do with his own body.
Never had he ever been more grateful for a person in his entire life than the moment you reached out and pried the box from his death grip. Nagumo watched as you disappeared into the kitchen, leaving him alone and under your father’s ‘cheerful’ gaze. Just as he was about to risk sitting in the chair, you popped back out to announce lunch.
Your mother was there, the three of you moving in the kitchen with grace. Her voice was flat, devoid of any of that singsongy warmth your father had. She looked like she could calculate his life span by looking at the way he held his spoon.
Sitting around the round table now, the steam rose between them. The silence was heavy and was broken only by the clinking of silverware against ceramic. Without a word and without a single crack in her expression, your mother reached over and heaped a massive portion of tofu and stew onto his plate.
“Eat more,” she said, it wasn’t an invitation. It was an order.
There was zero motherly affection in her tone, but the amount of food she was piling on his plate suggested she didn’t want Nagumo to faint in her house.
They moved on to the standard checklist: Nagumo’s major, where he grew up, his plans for the summer—it was all very casual, really. The kind of small talk he could do in his sleep if he weren’t currently under a microscope. Nagumo, nonetheless, was handling it all well. His answers were polite, posture straight, and he hadn’t dropped his fork once. But inside, his mind was going a hundred miles an hour. Each time your mother refilled his water without looking at Nagumo, or your father laughed a bit too loudly at one of his neutral jokes, he felt like he was prancing around a landmine.
Under the table, your hand, warm and soft, reached out and gave Nagumo’s knee a squeeze—a silent reassurance that pulled him back from his own racing thoughts. Your small knowing smile was enough to let him know he was doing fine, even if his brain was trying to calculate every possible social misstep.
The afternoon stretched on surprisingly peaceful. Since your father didn’t drink, the conversation never veered into slurred interrogation or loud probing. Instead, the two of them found a quiet, and quite intense, common ground in the world of tattoos. Your father’s overly cheerful energy from earlier smoothed out into a mutual appreciation for it.
Your mother, on the other hand, remained a monotone presence in the background, but her constant snack plates and sliced fruits exclusively just for Nagumo, felt less like a chore and more like observing a rescue animal, that saying thank you felt way too repetitive.
Oddly enough, for Nagumo, the tension gnawing at him started to soften.
Dinner was also incredible. Your father took over the kitchen and produced a spread that almost moved Nagumo to tears, his nerves completely dissipated under the weight of good food and light conversation. Naturally, the evening settled comfortably, so he assumed the night would end with a polite goodbye and a quiet bus ride back.
That comfort disintegrated the second you dropped a question about bringing extra clothes. Nagumo nearly choked on a piece of lettuce, his eyes sliding from you to your parents as the reality of the situation set in. Of course, he hadn’t considered the possibility of a sleepover! It was audacious enough that he was here. In his mind, this was a one-day mission before retreating back to the safety of his own apartment.
Your father’s bright smile returned. He insisted Nagumo could simply borrow some of his own clothes, his voice booming louder than ever, that felt like a trap closing shut.
“Just for one night,” your father added, the emphasis hanging in the air with a weight that made Nagumo’s spine go stiff. The offer was generous, but the message was clear—should he stay, he would be on watch.
Nagumo sat there, caught between the observation of your mother and the hospitality of your father, realizing his escape plan had been completely dismantled. He looked at you… you traitor, still with fondness, realizing he was about to spend the night with you.
But at what cost.
Nagumo laid uneasy on the mattress, staring through the bedroom door that was—per your father’s perhaps eleventh (..? He lost count) cheerful reminder—flung wide open to the hallway.
“The door stays open, Nagumo-kun! Have a good night!” He could still hear the echoes of your father’s voice, sounding entirely awake for a man who was heading to bed.
Upon hearing a distant thud of a door closing, Nagumo whispered in the dark, “Your dad is genuinely terrifying.”
You shifted sideways, looking back at him, “He’s not.”
“He smiles with his eyes closed.”
“You do that too.”
A beat passed. “I’m significantly less tattooed.”
The conversation drifted to comfort, recalling small moments of his time with your parents, the tension in his muscles bleeding out slowly. It was easy.
Anything that wasn’t about the two of you was easy.
He went on telling you about his long weekend beach getaway, showed you his peeling sunburn spots under his phone’s flashlight, and complained about it. Laughed about it.
“What have you been doing though? While I was out there.”
“Gaming.” You said casually, as always. “End-of-season grind.”
“Gaming.”
“Yes.”
One thing about Nagumo was that he would get into these moods, and one of them was a hunger for self-inflicted punishment. Probably that was what made him ask, “And you didn’t even bother to respond?”
“You mentioned once you haven’t been seeing them as much, so I figured you didn’t want any distractions. And I was enjoying mine anyways. We could always see each other after.”
True. Point taken. But the days following that you were both so busy, he had only seen you so haphazardly and not for more than thirty minutes straight.
“An emoji or something would’ve been nice.”
“You used to do that, so I figured it’d be okay to do that as well. The pics were pretty, though. I saved them. But, sure. Next time.”
On normal days, he would’ve dropped the subject by now. But he was totally in the mood for it. “What do you mean I used to do that a lot, do what exactly?”
“See you everywhere on campus except in our chats? It was fine at the time, really. I quickly understood that about you.”
If there was something you weren’t shy about, it was matter-of-fact subjects. Nagumo couldn’t help but feel affronted. Maybe a little irritation leaked into the way he hummed, because…
“Are you upset?”
Was he? An uneasy silence grew between you and him. The quiet buzzing of the distant fridge overtook. The tension in his shoulders returned.
“Out with it, Nagumo. Told you I can’t read minds.”
Nagumo pulled the blanket up to his eyes, grumbled, then sighed, “Something like that.”
“You’re upset because I did what you’ve been doing?”
He had to give it to you for stripping everything away to get to the bone of it.
“It’s different now,” he muttered into the edge of the blanket.
“Different, how?”
Because he had been thinking about you he wasn’t sure if you were too. Because each time he felt you liked him back, you would do a sudden U-turn. Because now he was finally in your house, drowning in your father’s shirt, full of your mother’s cooking. Because he finally got to spend time with you, just you and him, in your room, and he still couldn’t do a thing about it.
“It just is,” he exhaled. “I’ve been missing you. A lot. And it’s pissing me off. Okay? Happy?”
“I’ve been missing you too,” you said, he could hear you smiling through your words. “Should we update each other through texts every ten minutes starting tomorrow?”
He rolled his eyes. “Someone finally learned how jokes work—”
Your hand slid across the space between you, coming to rest on his stomach. His eyes snapped to the threat of your open bedroom door, that a simple warm touch made him feel like a trapped bird. He was trying his best to be on his best behavior, damn it. Sure, no one was there, only his looming fear of being caught—
Caught doing what exactly?
He closed his eyes, breathed out. Maybe he was being overdramatic. He didn’t move your hand away, and slowly let his own settle over, his fingers interlacing with yours. It was just handholding, nothing wrong with that.
The sheets whispered as you shifted closer, draping yourself over him into a sideway hug. He turned his head just enough to catch the scent of your shampoo, finally lulling him into a good night’s rest.
Just as his soul began to peel away from his body for sleep, your hand travelled from his stomach to his cheek, guiding his face towards yours. His paranoid gaze toward the dimly lit hallway came rushing back. The heat—thick and potent—centered right where your lips were hovering centimeters from his own was eroding the last of his vigil, it was becoming hard to breathe.
“This seals it,” a helpless quiet huff of a laugh escaped him, “You’re trying to get me killed.”
You said nothing. Just pressed yourself closer to his side, your eyes the only thing he could see through the filtered light—steady, pupils blown wide. Just as his focus fractured, he shifted and moved his hand, trailing his fingers up your arm until he finally cupped the back of your neck. But it wasn’t him who did the pulling.
You did.
For a moment, the wrath waiting for him outside your bedroom felt light years away. This kiss felt different—it wasn’t those stolen, effortless make out sessions back at uni, where he had acted all cool and smug, just looking to get a reaction out of you. This one felt desperate, as if he were pouring all of his anxieties and longing he’d been bottling up since all this started. All that stupid pushing and pulling had led to this—pulling and pulling until each other’s breath was the only world that had ever existed.
His hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips grazing the softness of your waist, circling his thumb over your rib, and god knew he was aching for more. Yet, he stayed there, hesitant.
Nagumo didn’t even recognize himself; no, this wasn’t like him at all. This was someone who actually cared about the consequences, because being caught might mean staining what he had carefully crafted up to this point—whatever it was the two of you had. He was caught in a tug-of-war between the yawning doorway and the thing that had been blooming in his chest.
Each time he slanted his mouth over yours, deepening the kiss, his gaze would flick back to the hallway, searching for a shadow, a silhouette. Anything.
“Can you stop that?” You whispered, breathless as you trailed a line of feather light kisses down his neck. “It’s creepy.”
“What is?”
“Your eyes,” Your hand clasped his, guiding him towards the plush curve of your chest. “Close them.”
Nagumo’s mind stuttered. Now your breaths, his own, the fabric rustling—all of it sounded like gunshots to him, echoing down the hall like a flare signal.
But then, you didn’t stop there.
Your free hand brushed against the heavy ache beneath the fabric of his boxers. A strangled gasp died in the back of his throat, nearly lifting his hips to chase it as he went absolutely rigid.
In all the months of careful pacing and polite boundaries, you had never been one to cross the line first. To have you do it now, under the most crucial conditions imaginable, felt like a deliberate act of sabotage against his sanity.
Almost like a reflex, his hand tightened over yours—either to stop you or pull you closer, he honestly wasn’t sure anymore. All he was sure of was that his ‘best behavior’ was crumbling to dust.
“Getting comfortable?” He managed to rasp.
“Very much,” you said simply, “We’re in my territory after all.”
And gods, was that so true. Even the stupid thing hammering against his ribcage was entirely yours. He’d go through a hundred more terrifying family meets just to be exactly where he was right now.
“Hm? Is that how it works?”
You hummed in agreement, your fingers slipping past the elastic band. Your parents’ bedroom was mere meters away and the boldness of it drove him into a wall. He let himself fall back on the pillow, eyes rolling back to the ceiling before snapping back to his habitual checking of the door.
“You’re being unfair,” he kissed you, deeply, trying to ground himself. “So unfair.”
His own hand travelled down, mirroring your movements with trembling desperation until he found you already slick and welcoming. He slid a finger inside that felt like being lured into a whirlpool. He moved with you, a faint tremor ran through his limbs as he tried to maintain some semblance of control. Every motion of your hands and lips made his vision swim.
“Let’s go,” you rasped, “All the way.”
The moment those last three words left your lips, it was as if the bedroom held its breath. His hand, which had been moving with hesitance, went still inside you. He stared at you, for what felt like eternity, his chest heaving like he had run a mile.
It was devastating, truly. Every fiber of his body was screaming for him to say yes, to pull you under him, and forget that everything beyond that open door existed. The warmth between your legs was an intoxicating weight. And the way you looked at him, with each agonizingly slow touch—it was a game, an argument he was losing. When you told him that your parents slept like rocks, he wanted nothing more than to believe you.
“Liar,” he smiled. A strained chuckle was all he could muster because he knew better—you never lie.
“It’ll be quick…” you sighed, “I’m almost there.”
The way you said it, the way you were squeezing him, the friction—all of it combined made him bury himself in the crook of your neck. He felt feverish. You felt feverish. He wasn’t sure whose sweat was whose anymore.
Nagumo was slapped back into reality the moment he felt you pull away and saw you beginning to disappear beneath the blanket, moving with the clearest intent, his desire spiked so fast he could blow a hole through the roof.
“Wait—no, no,” he whispered, scrambling to catch you. “Stay up here.”
Your faces were level again. He couldn’t remember the last time he gave a fuck about first times. But it sure was hell not gonna be here. At least, not like this.
Not with you.
“You’re kinda cute like this,” you murmured, not a dust of sarcasm or tease.
Uh… huh. Nagumo cupped the back of your head, inserting his damp fingers into your mouth so you could get a taste of yourself. You resumed, your delicate hand wrapping around him, a gesture he quickly mirrored. His desire overruled his inhibitions as he slipped two inside, curling them sharply—but his moves immediately backfired when his mind registered your soft moans as being loud as a thunderclap.
“Shh, god—see?”
“Shut it,” you hissed, moving against him, your touch becoming more urgent. “I told you… I’m gonna come.”
Nagumo’s hand flew to your mouth with the speed he wasn’t aware he had, muffling your sharp gasps against his palm. At the same moment, your fingers dug around his wrist with a bruising grip as he moved between your legs. You were coming, and he couldn’t even lean into the high. He was too busy guarding the rectangular death sentence waiting for him to make one single audible mistake.
Barely having a second to recover, he could feel it catching up to him. You didn’t stop, your hand continued stroking him, while your lips found a midnight snack all over his neck. He had to pull you into a kiss to stifle his own groans, his heart punching its way out of his throat. His body trembled with the aftershocks—a release that felt far from romantic and closer to a narrow escape.
He finally let his eyes shut for the first time tonight, his head falling back on the pillow, with you warm and heavy in his arms. But then, you asked,
“Do you think they heard us?”
Nagumo honestly didn’t know if he wanted to pull you into another kiss or if he actually wanted to be mad at you for all the traitorous acts you had put him through. His entire body still thrummed, the echoes of the last few seconds of a quiet clash lingering in the bubble that enclosed the two of you.
“If they did,” he whispered, looking at you. He sighed, unable to keep himself from smiling as he met your expectant gaze. The sight of you, unbelievably serene, made his own heart slow down. “I’m telling them you forced me.”
“A victim till the very end?”
“Yup!”
“Wanna play victim again?”
“…”
“That was obviously a joke. I’m sleepy.”
“Ha-ha.”
Next morning, as you all sat for breakfast…
“Good morning, Nagumo-kun—“ your father boomed, your mother sitting beside him, her gaze sharp. But then, his head tilted, eyes narrowing behind that smile. “Whatever happened to your neck?”
“Mosquitoes.” You answered for him without skipping a beat, filling up two bowls with fried rice—completely and utterly unfazed.
Nagumo gave a polite nod, scratching at the ‘mosquito bites’ that weren’t even itchy. Never had he ever felt this exposed.
tags: nagumo x f!reader. 1.2k. nsfw. one shot, smut, sexting, masturbation, plotless.
a/n: it’s been a while since i’ve written some heavy handed smut. so here’s my seasonal? annual? porn contribution to nagunation. pls be nice i wrote this fast in one sitting lmao
Nagumo has two problems. This horrendous jet lag and the ache of missing you.
A warm bath would be nice, he thinks, as he notices the tiny specks of blood on his clothes. The time reads 11:11 a.m as he unclasps his watch. Almost lunch time. He then realizes the time difference, wondering if you’re still up and waiting for him.
He’s dying to talk to you. Drawing the blinds, his vision adjusts to the sudden darkness, the pain behind his eyes alleviates only just a little.
Reaching for his phone, he can still feel it in his fingers, the tingling buzz all over his body as blade meets sinew. The aftertaste, metallic and sweet, lingering in the back of his throat.
All the way to the bottom of his notifications, there’s a message from you: I miss you. He reads and it feels like the first sip of a warm drink.
Missing you too. Just got back to the hotel, he replies. How’s your day been?
He tosses it on the sofa, its glow the sole bright thing in the room. Lazily, he kicks off his shoes, socks, pulls his tie loose. Halfway from undoing the buttons of his dress shirt, his phone chimes.
From the lockscreen, he peers: Not much. You know, the usual. Have you eaten lunch yet?
Not yet. This headache is killing me. :(
Want me to fix something up for you? :)
Nagumo smiles as he shrugs off his top. He knows where this is headed. Swiftly he threw his bunched up shirt somewhere. A sharp clink resonates in the quiet room and he’s free from his pants.
On his back, he falls to the bed and taps on the screen, your sleeping face lights up as his wallpaper, he lingers on that for a bit. So pretty and all his.
Just when he’s about to respond, a message pops up: You know what, nevermind.
Ah. You’re really out to get him tonight. It’s a shame you’re not here with him. He should’ve brought you along. He’s sure Oki wouldn’t mind after making him fly all the way here. As long as he gets the job done. Which he did. With flying colors too! Perhaps next time.
Someone’s cranky. Already in bed?
In bed and wearing something sooo sexy.
My shirt? He replies, playing along as he imagines you with nothing underneath, your tits showing through the fabric.
Yes. The baggiest of them all.
Nagumo snorts. Just my shirt?
You’re gonna be disappointed.
Haha. Why so?
I’m also wearing panties right now.
Nagumo inhales deeply and adjusts himself. The throbbing in his head might’ve gone somewhere else.
The one I like?
His phone pings: Yes. Then another: Should I take it off?
Keep it on, he replies. What else are you doing?
Imagining you imagining me.
His smile widens, dying to hear your voice, dying to watch you do it. Maybe even talk you through it.
Stiff inside his boxers, Nagumo does what you said. You in his shirt hiked all the way up, a hand between your thighs, panties soaked and pulled to the side.
His hand has found its way to grab his cock. The other types: Can I call you?
Nope. :)
Huh? Why not? Nagumo replies, his lower lip squeezed between his teeth. So mean. I thought you missed me. :/
I really do :( But it’s late and I gotta sleep.
Please, I wanna see you. He doubles down: Can I at least have a picture? He’s pathetic and he knows it gets you going. He can almost see the face you wear when you have your hand around his neck, looking so satisfied, his vision blurry with his own tears.
You got plenty of that already, babe. Goodnight! <3
Okay. True. If he tries he can get off even with the most innocent photo of you. Fine, that’ll do.
Nagumo exits the messaging app and—
Just kidding. No need to sulk :)
Attachment: 1 image.
Nagumo sucks through his teeth, double taps the screen to zoom into the picture, his tongue playing around the inside of his cheeks. Your pussy, he can almost taste it, can almost hear the cute sounds you make when he has his face buried in there.
His phone pings: See that? I need you.
I know, baby, I can tell, he replies. His cock feels uncomfortably hard in his boxers. Freeing both his hands, he pulls them down mid thigh.
Come home.
You got him so knotted up. Exhaling deeply, he wraps his fingers around his cock, slowly stroking it, his precum pooling at the tip. What if he just hops on the next available flight, go straight to your place, and have his way with you?
Two more days, he types, I promise I’ll make it up to you.
He spits on his palm. Closing his eyes, he imagines the last time he fucked you. You, a whining mess, knees planted on either side of him, head thrown back in bliss. He loves how sloppy you can get, the way you use him to make yourself cum—
His phone lights up, and he realizes how long he’s been distracted.
Attachment: 1 video.
His breath hitches, eyes immediately glued to the screen. He can see everything from this angle. Thighs tense all the way to your toes, the wand glistening with your juices. And your face—fuck. Your face. Those lips, the soft, wet flesh of your cheeks and tongue when he fucks you in the mouth. He has to stop himself or he’ll come right away.
Halfway through the video, he cranks up the volume. His dick twitches from the sweetness of your moans. What he’d give to be right there with you, to have your plush skin beneath his hand as he bends you over, watch his entire length slowly slip inside. The way your pussy clenches around his cock when he pulls all the way out.
I’m so close.
Nagumo can barely type, he replies: Show me.
Breaths shallow, he tries to calm himself down, thinks of what he’d have for lunch, waits so he can get off to the sight of you coming. One wrong move—a single lewd image of you in his mind can finish him in an instant. So patiently he waits.
Still waiting.
Anytime now.
In a flash, he picks up his phone as soon as it lights up. But it’s neither a text nor a file attachment. But an incoming video call.
You finally caved in. Nagumo grins.
He lets it ring. And then a couple more just to get even. He can’t be the only one to suffer. An eye for an eye, Nagumo can’t help but giggle. Then, calmly, slowly, he slides to answer.
“Why, hello~” he greets, upbeat and out of place. “Thought you’d never call—“
“Yoichi, I can’t,” Softly, breathy, a smirk playing on your lips, you whisper, “I need you.”
Fuck it.
The pleasure hits and that was it for him.
Nagumo snaps, the euphoric haze coming in waves. Through it, he hears you come, telling him he’s a good boy, as his breaths come out in choked up moans, shuddering, erupting all over his abdomen. All while completely and utterly untouched.
“Is the headache still there?”
It is. Very much so. But his other problem, this ache, his craving for you, has snowballed into something he can no longer ignore. It’s okay. With you, he can and will take more.
bro istg if i have to write cock and think about this guy one moment more. . .
tags: nagumo x f!reader. 5h. one shot, writing exercise, infidelity, improper use of disguises, roleplay, pining, no plot just pure vibes.
a/n: watched in the mood for love sometime ago and got inspired.
“The affair… I wonder how it all started.”
Nagumo was just as curious as you. Despite it being uncharted waters, he was eager to understand this kind of betrayal. And at the time, it seemed like a fun idea—follow them around, learn their interactions, and go as far as being their doppelgängers.
But lately, heat has spread across spaces where it used to be frigid. He has been asking himself the same question over and over: What am I doing? What do I want?
.
Nagumo pushes the door open for you. Like clockwork, you cross the restaurant, settle at the same spot, and order the same dish. Tethered to the skins of your fiancé and the woman he’s having an affair with, you and Nagumo dine as their doubles.
The food arrives. Steam rises toward the warm pendant light overhead, softening the already serene features you’re wearing. Tines meet lips and a familiar silence invites itself. His mouth waters.
Around your dainty finger, a sharp glow casts on the diamond ring. He glances despite himself and an aching stillness sits inside his ribcage, an unusual form of restraint, the kind he has been learning to harden himself to.
On and on, the evening unravels with the same loaded conversations and prolonged gazes, a game the both of you have clumsily been playing for months. His hand, flawlessly idle and composed, rests centimeters away from yours on the clothed table, doing the opposite of what it truly desires.
“I know we’re not doing anything and we won’t be like them.” You leaned in, breaking character for the first time tonight. “But we have to be careful.”
He smiles, tells you not to worry. “Of course, we won’t be like them.” He wants it to be true. Even if this promise makes the food move like broken glass inside his mouth.
.
Taxi rides minimize the chances of them getting recognized. In the back of these cabs, this proximity, Nagumo presumes, was the catalyst for it all. Perhaps in these suffocating spaces, constancy can’t breathe, leaving just enough air for a new flame to creep in and take hold.
His thumb finds the chapped edge of his index finger, the same spot he’s been picking on each time he brushes shoulders with you at the office. Almost there. A few more passing streetlights and you’re to reach each of your respective homes.
Nagumo inches his hand to yours, deliberate and well rehearsed. This is the part where you recoil, break character, or say Not yet, and try again. But you don’t pull away this time, the same way your gaze is fixed outside the window.
“I didn’t think I’d fall in love with you.”
He has made it all the way to this moment without pulling the reins but the droning engine swallows up his unpracticed words, leaving Nagumo suspended in a low vibrating limbo. In the hollow ache of that silence, you return his touch with a sudden and desperate squeeze.
“I didn’t expect it to hurt this much, Nagumo.”
Your body heaves in total collapse, trembling as hot shaky breaths dampen the chest of his dress shirt. Never has he seen you come apart since the beginning of this exhausting charade.
“I don’t wanna go home tonight.”
Facing him, Nagumo watches your disguise come off in real-time. And for a brief moment, this world—everything except you, matters little.
the title is a lyric from the song «me too» by meghan trainor
shapeshifter! nagumo yoichi x reader (kinktober day 3: selfcest)
(A/N): hello there, lovelies!
ahem... this wasn't planned but oh well, the hornies hit.
WARNINGS: selfcest, nagumo is a shapeshifter (I refuse to look further into explaining why he can switch his gender), genderbent! nagumo, (except he takes your appearance), slight petting, vaginal fingering, scissoring, makeup session, fwb-type relationships, she/her - afab character.
Having Nagumo as a partner - work partner? Sexual partner? ‘The person that you called when you forgot your key at the office or your car wasn’t starting up’ partner - implied having to deal with much of his unusualness and unpredictability.
And yet, nothing could have prepared you for when you walked into your shared apartment, finding him looking exactly like you; to add drama to the effect, he was also slipping into your own clothes, choosing an outfit that he had seen you previously wear, composed of a thin shirt and ripped low-waisted jeans.
You knew it was Nagumo because upon seeing you, his face morphed into his telltale smirk; it was but a slip of the moment as he quickly regained - and matched - your stern expression, while you gawked at the obvious similarities between the two of you.
Hadn’t it been for the different clothes and his movements, you’d have thought you were staring right in a mirror.
«What is it this time?» you questioned, tiredly and dropping your bag at the threshold of your room, uncaring of where it landed and kicking it at an angle with your feet; it seemed that you couldn’t bring your eyes away from the spectacle that Nagumo was offering you as he finished buttoning the shirt.
Due to its cheap quality and various washings, the fabric had become partially see-through, making it easy to notice your cotton bra.
It didn’t make you fluster that he had seen it and worn it, though you had sex on the regular, and that bra was one of the least sexy that you owned.
You shouldn’t have found this entire situation as arousing as you were.
«… mmh?».
Nagumo didn’t directly address you as he went to adjust the clothes, pulling on the waistband of the pants slightly, as you’d always do with anything that left your belly uncovered, and much to your shame, you noticed the way that it tightened on your crotch.
He also undid a few buttons of the shirt to expose your belly button, as you tended to wear longer shirts like that during your spare time.
«Oh yeah, yeah… I just… well, I just thought I’d exercise, you know? Shapeshifting isn’t a steady art and I thought… well…».
«… you thought well to get on my nerves?»
Much to his chagrin as he matched your pose two seconds later, you crossed your arms over your chest, in an obvious sign of displeasure. Here he was again, wasting your time and making you doubt your own sexuality.
«… because in that, you suceeded… congrats…».
«Oh, don’t be so mean».
Those words said with your own voice but Nagumo’s lilt felt terrorizing as you couldn’t help but be a bit shaken by this entire situation; as much as you wished to simply be angry at him, looking at your own figure had … an unsettling effect on you, almost as an out of body experience, with your eyes lounging attentively down your body.
You didn’t know whether to first focus on the flaws or the virtues.
Still, Nagumo chose for you as he came right in your face with a soft smirk.
You didn’t know how he did it, but somehow he had managed to shrink to your height; now you stood in front of the other, and the sole difference on your faces was your unsure expression and his complacent grin.
«I thought we might have fun like this».
«What?!».
The thought felt blasphemous as you knew what Nagumo was hinting at; using his own job or even his own disguises wasn’t a new game, and you did enjoy the roleplay that came with Nagumo pretending to be a stranger.
Still, you drew the line at fucking yourself, as you fixed Nagumo with a look that clearly said: not happening.
«I had an inkling that you fucking liked weird things, but this… this feels like it belongs on a dead dove do not eat tag».
You brushed him off, going past him to search through your - now messy - wardrobe for a homely change, and you were startled when he gently embraced you from behind, pressing his own chest against your back, and you couldn’t help but fluster.
You didn’t know whether you had acted this affectionately with Nagumo before, as most of your touches bordered between the strictly professional and ‘bordering on a HR nightmare’.
Still, it was Nagumo touching you, you reminded yourself, but it was your own body.
You didn’t know what to say or do for a few minutes, as you knew you should have turned around and smacked Nagumo’s - or better, your own - face with little to no mercy; he’d have whined a bit, but he’d have backed off. He’d have gone back to his height and his pretty features, and you’d be free to get started on dinner.
And yet, you didn’t do anything as his hands - linked at your waist - moved gently to splay on your stomach; usually Nagumo’s hand reached across it perfectly, so it felt strange and unusual to see a smaller hand, your own, to appear instead.
«C’mon!» he purred, which felt definitely eerie, coming from your voice and not his, «… just entertain me».
«And what’s in for me?».
The sole fact that you were questioning and not immediately pushing it back must have felt like enough of a win for Nagumo, the smug bastard.
«Haven’t you ever been curious about how I see you?».
Although it was your body, he still regained his strength, flipping you around swiftly.
You don’t think that you’d ever get used to seeing your face staring right back at you, especially when Nagumo was so good at matching your expression, making you wonder how he could do that.
It wasn’t just that he read people easily, able to improvise right after, he saw the expression, but there was much more that went into his abilities: he had had to study his subjects thoroughly to be able to mimic them to the latest details.
And if he was so good at reproducing all your expressions, he must have studied you a lot.
Which was point-blank creepy, and yet…
«… we have mirrors for that.»
Neither of you was a stranger to the occasional mirror sex, so you couldn’t yet understand where Nagumo was going; certainly, it had to be something freaky, but you had by now gathered enough intel on your partners that you knew this couldn’t just be the umpteenth bed shenanigan.
If anything, you indulged him because you felt curious about his ulterior purpose.
You hated, though, that as you stared right back at him, you didn’t find anybody but you looking back.
«… oh c’mon, we both knew that you are always a little too fucked out to completely look at the mirror when I fuck you,» that you couldn’t deny, though you flustered at such terrible words exiting his mouth, which was your own.
Although you hated the whole situation, you couldn’t help but love this dissonance: your face but Nagumo’s own voice.
«What’s with you wanting to take a dig at me, today?» you huffed with a slight annoyance, though what you said next basically annulled the whole of annoyance «… but I guess you won’t back down till I try it, so…».
«Is that a yes?» Nagumo didn’t even let you finish your phrase as he regarded you with a genuine smile, the kind that puppies gave to their owners when they came back with treats for not having done anything but be cute. «… knew you always had a bit of self-love».
«And that you are a fucking weirdo,» you shot back, though your hands reached out to cup your own cheeks, startled by how soft the skin felt underneath your touch.
Undoubtedly, you knew where your body felt the softest, but in this case, you wondered whether Nagumo’s copy was enhanced in some ways, though it retained the same heavy dark eye bags underneath your eyes.
Even the few stress pimples on your cheeks and forehead.
You weren’t pretty, and yet, there was a newfound appreciation for the body in front of you as you clumsily leaned forward.
You had thought at first that you wouldn’t have felt anything kissing an identical version of yourself, inherently cringing at the thought of agreeing to Nagumo’s experimentation.
Still, you couldn’t deny that the moment that you touched his - or was it your? - lips, it felt like sparkles flew as cheesy as that sounded.
He must have worn your lip balm before you had come home, and it retained the slight cherry flavor that you felt was just a collateral to the hydrating sensation.
It always felt too plastic-y and almost artificial in the way that you recoiled at the first taste, especially when the slightly glossy sheen made your lips stick messily.
And yet, there was no disgust for kissing yourself as you indulged softly in your own slow movements; had this been Nagumo, his hand would have fiercely grabbed at your face to keep you in place as if you could run away.
His subtle possession was always etched in your intimacy, and yet, with you, there was just the slight surrender that had you somehow be the one to grab at your own hair, feeling its texture through your fingertips before you pulled.
It was mean and definitely a tad explorative as you did so that you could look at your own face after such a kiss, immediately focusing on the slight drool that stained your lips and had ruined the glossy substance on them.
Well, better for you as you dived again, feeling the way that your body recoiled against you as your hands moved softly down your neck and your cleavage.
You were morbidly curious to press down, wondering whether it’d have hurt you.
You weren’t a stranger to breath play, but to hear directly the moan right on your lips when you tightened your grip slightly.
And right as you thought about how easy it was to pull you apart - was this why Nagumo enjoyed it so much - you felt the dull pain of teeth sinking right on your bottom lip, immediately pushing you apart as your own self smirked out of breath.
Decidedly Nagumo or… you?
Your first thought, had Nagumo wanted to overpower you, would have still been to push him down and hurt him a bit.
You might be the more submissive in such situations, but it didn’t mean that, as on the field, you’d have gone out without a fight.
And something was exciting in your pretty face and the ghastly smirk on it, as you approached yourself slowly, as if not to startle a natural predator.
«It wasn’t too bad?» your voice, but Nagumo’s words, though you couldn’t deny that the more you went on, the less you recognized the boundaries, but it might have been simply your horny mind «… I told you, you’d enjoy it».
«This doesn’t mean that I don’t find this entire situation any less weird,» and yet you were opening swiftly the front of your shirt with an unease that came from the fact that you weren’t the one doing it directly at first.
Your fingers were clumsy, unused to the buttons on the different sides; you had always also cared so little for Nagumo’s clothes - he could afford it - which prompted you to oftentimes just rip them apart.
You’d have preferred to save your clothes in this occasion though as you caught sight of your bra right beneath, gently tracing the cups in a genuine fascination; you could have gotten the same experience by looking in a mirror shirtless, but the warmth that presented itself against your heated skin was a whole new experience, alongside the unsteady breath as the tickling sensation.
Your eyes immediately moved to his - your own - face again, catching sight of a barely-contained cocky smirk, though your own interest was on the unfocused eyes and the soft fluster on your cheeks; it felt strange as similarly when you had first come to face with yourself, you felt the inward impulse to judge every small flaw, everything in you that wasn’t attractive, like the slight acne scarring that you still retained or the darker stains that made your skin uneven.
And yet, Nagumo’s game held a level of precision that made you amazed at the body in front of you, as you brought yourself closer and went on to taste your mouth again, meanwhile, your hands busied themselves with touching your body.
You felt far softer toward Nagumo’s skinny frame, and you couldn’t help but chase the fleeting heat of what you believed undoubtedly was striking arousal.
You couldn’t deny yourself, as it brewed promptly in you as well.
Nagumo hadn’t been half-wrong: at each gesture - stroke of your tummy, pinching of your nipples, and bite of your plump lips - you stopped to take into the sight of your face with your nose scrunching up, your eyes widening, and your mouth slumping open.
You almost forgot that the one in front of you wasn’t a copy of your own, but it was Nagumo under a pretense.
«I don’t know how you did it…» You spoke a bit out of breath due to the heated kisses «… but it feels… so fucking real».
«Hhm, everybody has their own secrets,» Nagumo said, as he gently grabbed your hand and unlatched his belt and buttons, and he gave you an opening to slip your hand in.
Where you thought that the deception would have ended, you were startled to find heated and wet skin in a situation similar to the one in your own pants.
«How…?» you questioned again as you had always thought that Nagumo’s deception was a simple appearance and didn’t change anything below the waist, but what you were caressing through the fabric was undoubtedly a cunt.
And Nagumo could feel every sensation as he shivered softly once you pushed the fabric further into his bud.
You couldn’t help but think that you should have been better acquainted with your own self, though it felt clumsy moving around your own body.
The constraints of the pants didn’t help, so you were secretly happy when Nagumo ditched them unceremoniously though it was your own and you’d have to undoubtedly iron them out once you had a bit of time; still this allowed you to come sight with your panties - you’d have had Nagumo’s head for that, especially as he chose a pair that you had been saving for ‘a special occasion’ - and the obvious slightly wet stain at the front, a signal that you weren’t the sole one enjoying the few kisses.
You wondered how Nagumo felt, though you couldn’t yet fathom how he had achieved his sudden transformation; whether he could feel everything as he’d have with his own body, or whether the sensation was different.
You’d have to ask him, though, at the moment, you just felt like gently massaging the wet stain through the fabric, beaming at the way Nagumo’s hand tightened immediately, his grip at your own, to keep you in place.
«Hhm, does it feel good?».
You couldn’t hold back from saying, as you looked at yourself, feeling the gentle clench of your thighs.
Nagumo always acted this way when you were together, self-assured and competent, though you wondered whether it had more to do with your own small reaction, giving out each of your thoughts.
«… fuck, I didn’t… I didn’t think that it’d…» Nagumo stammered through it was your own voice coming back to you, as you had had enough, and in a telltale move, you pushed your own panties to the side, startled by the way you felt wet and scalding.
It was inviting to simply slip a finger inside, and who were you to deny such a request, especially as your lover stopped his whole spiel in favor of a demure moan, clenching his thighs and entrapping your hand between them.
«… it’d… it’d have …».
«It’d have what?».
Self-love? You didn’t know her, as you felt a sadistic impulse in yourself to just shove the fingers in yourself, no matter the awkward angle.
You had fingered yourself plenty of times, but Nagumo had been right: with the possibility to just look at yourself, it felt like every emotion was heightened.
Fuck, you were wet.
«It feels… it feels good.»
You were brought out from your reverie by your own fac,e and for a momen,t you forgot that it was Nagumo, retracting swiftly your finger inside of yourself, absolutely ashamed with the wet sound it provoked and, most importantl,y the stickiness that it left around your finger and on your - Nagumo’s - thighs.
And somehow that triggered Nagumo’s own need.
He unlatched his hand from your own to make you come closer as his own hands wandered down your body, and you couldn’t help but think that - unlike you - he should have been far less awkward, but it felt like the difference in size of your body took him a bit of time to get used to when it was your skin underneath it.
It felt flattering and definitely mind-fuck-y as he helped you out of your clothes as if it was the end of the work day and you were discarding your own.
Naked, you let Nagumo lead you to the bed, with the silence between you two weighing awkwardly, though you kept on touching each other, unable to avoid it, as if the fact that you wore the same face meant that you also didn’t know where one ended and the other began.
Eventually, you were naked,one in front of the other.
Nagumo laid down on the bed and, much to your embarrassment and sudden fascination, he spread his legs shamelessly, subtly rubbing together his thighs in the making and showing you yourself, naked and glistening to him.
What was even more startling was that it wasn’t an act of exhibitionism as much as your own was an act of voyeurism.
No, it felt the normal calling for a lover’s help, and who were you to deny it?
«… have you ever thought how it’d feel?» you were the one asking, instead as you laid yourself astrew your own, with just a few inches separating your pussies from each other «… did you want to do this because of me or because you were curious to see how it’d feel for me?».
He had the gut to smirk at you, although it was taking everything in him not to react, shifting his hips forward as he clenched around nothing with your hole opening and closing in a pretty unhinged rhythm.
«… always wondered why you’d have so much fun.»
Oh, you had known that there had been a further purpose.
«So, this wasn’t truly about me, was it?» you goaded him slightly, shifting your hips far away though you couldn’t deny that had Nagumo looked down, he’d have found you similarly glistening as you wished nothing more than to feel your own folds against your own «… so why should I give you what you want?».
«… you aren’t this cruel.»
Well, you weren’t usually, but there was something funny in - quite literally - playing with yourself.
«… ugh, I don’t feel so generous now that I know you have ulterior motives. You are truly out to get me, ain’t you?».
«Well, don’t you enjoy it?»
He flashed you, your tongue.
It should have felt shameful to think about sitting on your own face, but you didn’t, as you inched forward, brushing your own cunt against Nagumo’s own for but a bare moment as you smirked at the soft howl he let out.
He tried to shoot his arms forward to bring you close when you inevitably pushed back.
Still, he didn’t have his longer arms, and he just flailed with little coordination, making you smirk as you looked down at him - yourself - helpless and wantin,g and you couldn’t deny the genuine heat that came into your stomach.
You couldn’t resist anymore, as you slotted yourself against Nagumo’s body, noticing it promptly, the way that he was losing control of not just his body but the transfiguration.
His hair had grown closer to his natural color than your own, and his eyes had changed shape; you couldn’t help but be a bit bummed out that you’d eventually come to stare at Nagumo’s face instead of your own features.
Did that make you a bit egotistical? Well, you didn’t want to waste your last moments together with yourself thinking about that.«Well, if you enjoy it so much, I think it’s just right, I do as well».
in which narumi gen wants to surprise you. but it’s you who surprises him instead.
tags: fluff, humor, might be ooc, 1k
rough continuation of this or whatever <3 wrote this in one sitting forgive me if it’s shit lmao
Gen was supposed to be in his office right now. Should be playing that one game he was itching to clear since yesterday but his mind, for some inexplicable reason, was elsewhere.
And that place was here… Right where he stood. At the front of your quarters. Gen wondered how many knocks were socially acceptable. Should he knock gently or with authority, he mused, as though he had suddenly lost the ability to execute the action altogether.
Much to his surprise, and or despite the embarrassment, the door swung halfway. His hand, which was paused midair, had never been this close to your face.
“Captain Narumi?”
Gen didn’t know whether it was your incredulous tone or the smile slowly playing on your lips that had made his stomach churn. But that didn’t matter now because the feeling disappeared as fast as it had surfaced.
“Hey,” He drew his hand back and found its way to scratch on his ear, “Your spot was empty at morning formation today.”
“Well, surprise,” you winced as you held the door wider, showing him your bandaged ankle. You then shrugged, “I didn’t think you’d mind, since, you know… You almost don’t go at all.”
Sure, that was true. Mornings usually didn’t exist for nocturnal creatures like Gen. Plus, he knew about the injury. He just didn’t know it was this bad.
“So, are you coming in?” limping, you made just enough space for him to pass through. You nodded to what he was holding. “Don’t want the pizza to get cold.”
If Gen was being honest, he half expected for your room to be crowded with cardboard boxes just like his own as you also had a knack for figurines—well, according to your Instagram feed. But as soon as he walked in, he was met with a well kept, dimly lit room.
Gen sat there, watching you pry open the box atop the low table. And if it weren’t for the pizza’s warmth swirling in the air, he observed, the space must’ve smelled much like the scent you’d wear whenever you were close to him.
Three slices in, Gen gathered all the details of how you had gotten yourself in a pinch. Rookie mistake, he had made sure you knew that. It was annoying how a Platoon Leader like yourself, who was almost on par with him, fell for a miscalculation such as that.
Of course, typical you had just laughed it off. He wasn’t going to lie and say he didn’t find that endearing about you. But you didn’t have to know that. He wouldn’t say it out loud.
His gaze landed on the shelf behind you and saw something familiar. So familiar that should’ve been on his shelf had he gone to the store a bit earlier that day.
Distracted, he crossed the room and examined the figure inside its clear case.
“This one,” Gen pointed, “Where did you get it?”
Innocently, you relayed all the information he had to know, all while he held the precious thing in his hands.
“I-it was you?”
You looked taken aback and on the verge of laughing because, yeah, sure, the falling to his knees effect might’ve been a little too dramatic, but it was totally warranted!
Gen knew full well why he hadn’t gotten the chance to snag the said figure. He missed the preorder period and as soon as it was released, it was sold out everywhere. Except for this one store, which had posted on their page, that they had two extras. Two! And he had missed that too!
He could always go for those resellers online, obviously, but he wanted the thing in immaculate condition, sealed with its pristine box.
“…can have it if you really want it.” you said, snatching Gen back to reality.
“What?”
“I said,” you chuckled, “I have an extra. You can have that one instead.”
You bought two?! He almost screeched, almost threw a tantrum. But he didn’t let his composure slide off the second time.
“I’ll pay you back.” Even he wasn’t so sure about this, and yet he said it anyway. And with conviction, “With interest.”
“Ah! No need, Captain!” You waved him off as you stood up, grinning from ear to ear.
Gen watched you limping towards a storage bin near your bed. When you returned, you offered the box to him with a bashful smile and a blush painted across your face.
In return, Gen’s face heated up too. Good thing he hadn’t trimmed his bangs yet. Though his reddened ears might’ve given it away.
“It’s supposed to be for December… You know? Your birthday. But it’s still so far and… I assume you couldn’t wait any longer?”
You’ve really done it now, Gen mused, but he couldn’t get a word out. His heart squeezed at the thought of you buying those two figures. One for yourself, another for him.
You? Thought of him? How? Why?
You then cleared your throat, “You know what, if you insist, you can pay me back in other ways… I have ideas.”
He sighed. “And those are?”
Like it was some cosmic timing, you pointed out how both of your days off were scheduled the same. “You know, we can drive around… Visit stores? Maybe even watch the sea after?”
Seconds passed and Gen finally rose to his feet. And before walking out the door, he said over his shoulder, “We’ll do that when you get better. And cover that box with gift wrap while you’re at it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gen shut the door behind him, didn’t even dare to look back. How could he, when he could practically hear the stupid smile plastered on that cute face of yours.
Itching to get back to his quarters, he sped walked through the halls, and not necessarily because of the game he had initially thought of.
It was because Gen, who was bursting at the seams, couldn’t wait to let himself smile, maybe even writhe under the covers, at the thought of you thinking of him.
i felt so honoured to be able to make a playlist for this fic!
the vibes i was going for with this playlist, starting with the first song, “mercury man”, is nagumo coping with his isolation and loneliness. with “i’ve got to see you again”, we follow how he meets the reader, how entranced he is by her. it’s a whirlwind of a romance, something addictive about her that he can’t get enough of.
they bond u in their own ways, dysfunctional or not, with “is this love?”, but in “babydoll” i wanted to explore the underlaying toxicity that is there due to the fact we are dealing with two individuals with baggage.
the remaining songs, “afterlife”, “dead talk” and “parasite”, are all what i imagine are emotions nagumo goes through in the aftermath. having to deal with the consequences of his own actions, haunted by reader forever.
i was very very happy to be able to do this and i hope the playlist doesn’t disappoint! i was a little nervous with my interpretation of your fic 👉👈 and all i can say is, everyone read this gem please!
this song is nagumo coping with his loneliness, you say? i don’t think i can listen to these lines without imagining him staring through the massive penthouse windows and thinking about the Best Friends Ever™️ and missing them so much. nope, you can’t convince me otherwise.
i’ve got to see you again - norah jones
okay nini, first of all, let me squeeze you for a sec because this song embodies the atmosphere in that little secluded club in my head. the #lyrics and genre? mwah chef’s kiss
lines on your face don’t bother me -> let me tell you. this line sent me into orbit. nagumo is a spy before he is an assassin, can read tells because, all his life, it’s what he was trained for. it’s what his family is known for. so upon meeting reader, he knows she’s more than what she lets on. she knows that he has been there before, knows that he comes and leaves with his friends and which particular friend. hence she asked, “your friend, he’s not with you?” but he still chose to ignore these signs.
down in my chair when you dance over me -> groaning because YES. he sits there alone, initially trying to relax so he can go to sleep after. she sings to him in a way that it feels like she’s courting him, like she’s physically dancing around him. and instead of lulling him to sleep, she lures him into the palm of her hand. and that is dangerous even for an assassin like himself.
yes, he can’t get enough of her, and even he doesn’t understand this to a degree. still, he comes back over and over because being with her feels like a dream, a reprieve from his job and his own mind and everything in between.
is that love? - cloudyfield
is that love? he wonders as she love bombs him during these series of nights, treating him like he’s the lighthouse of her universe, her favorite. she showers him with so much affection to the point of suffocation, starving his senses. and each time, the hunger grows intense, turning into a third presence. and i think that’s beautiful. nagumo, get up.
anyways. this song is so tasty. i had legit frisson over this song. might be my fave in the bunch. it’s been on repeat since. <3
babydoll - ari abdul
she persuades him to let her in - because this night creature cannot come in unless invited - after ever so subtly threatening to leave him. he makes a promise to let her in, to break down his walls, lay down all his desires just so she stays.
you see, he’s not that all oblivious. he’s got all the pieces, enough to put them all together to see the bigger picture, and yet he leaves them untouched. perhaps the reason is simple: what she is is beyond what his mind can comprehend. and so he plays pretend and let her win each time.
this collection of words, in my head, is exactly how it went down in perfect sequence. she seeks for her warmth, slowly, inch by inch, to ground himself, yet, what it does is the complete opposite. now, he’s in too deep, too late to escape her hold.
turns out his hunger was greater than hers, and yes, it might’ve been him who led her to her demise, yet it’s her who took his life. and now he’s left to carry on and to persist despite the horror of what happened between the two of them. what makes this extra sad to me is that, he’s very good at what he does so he’s left with a long long long time to live and watch all the people he’s ever loved and the people that’s yet to come to die like flies, one by one, in front of him.
dead talk - wind walkers
he comes over to her apartment, seeking for pieces of her. scraps even. because apart from her necklace, he has nothing, no pictures, no messages, none. and that’s so sad. after all, memories are all you have if you’re going to live this long. :')
nini!!! <33 this is NOT just a playlist to me. these are anthems to my delusions. and so i thank you for taking the time to read my fic and curate something as beautifully devastating as this. they make me feel so seen and understood. i’ll be clutching this piece of your brain close to my heart. i love you sister 🌷
