entwined, we dream.

most recent works.

► DREAMS ARE MADE, WINDING THROUGH HIS HAIR. TAMSY CAINES. YANDERE THEMES. IMPLIED NON/DUBCON.

► AND THE CRASHES ARE HEAVEN FOR A SINNER LIKE ME. CHROLLO LUCILFER. BODY WORSHIP. NON EXPLICIT. ONE SHOT.

► FROM EDEN. YOICHI NAGUMO. FWB. DOMESTIC FLUFF. MILD ANGST. SFW.

tamsy caines.

►

lucilfer chrollo.

►

hayakawa aki.

► I HEARD THE NEWS TODAY. HURT/COMFORT.

narumi gen.

► SOMEONE HAS A CRUSH. FLUFF.

► WITH INTEREST. FLUFF.

nagumo yoichi.

► SAFEST PLACE ON EARTH. ONGOING ON AO3.

► IMAGINE ME, IMAGINE YOU. ONE SHOT. NSFW. E-SEX.

► PERHAPS PERHAPS PERHAPS. ONE SHOT. YEARNING. NON-SEXUAL ROLEPLAY. INFIDELITY.

► IF ORPHEUS WAS A HITMAN. EXES. SELFSHIP CODED.

► LIGHTING UP THE NIGHT. ANGST. VAMPIRES AU.

► IN THE HOLIDAY SPIRIT. ANGST.

► BLUFF. JCC NAGU. NSFW.

► UNTITLED. DRABBLE. FLUFF.

► NTH. PAST LIVES. DOOMED ROMANCE.

► THE DAY YOU SAID GOODNIGHT. HURT/NO COMFORT.

► STILL AND ALL. PART 1 / AO3. COLLEGE AU.

► GIVING IN TO THE LOVE. (AO3) ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. RED STRING THEORY. EVENTUAL SMUT.

► COLORING SESH. ONE SHOT. FLUFF. SUGGESTIVE. FWB.

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.”

“And yet,” Tamsy sighed, flashing the slightest, self-deprecating smile. “It wounds me.”

“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.

You precious thing. Rudo would surely miss you.

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.

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.”

“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.

“Bye.” He said. Still not moving.

“Bye...” You trailed. Clueless. Frustrated. “Clearly not. I’m sorry, what’s happening?”

“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

thank you for reading <3

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?”

Sakamoto’s shoulders visibly deflated. Nagumo snorted.

“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.

nagumo, probably:

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. . .

“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.