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“Komaeda, enough.”
Whenever Izuru used that tone with him, addressing him by his name, he always paid close attention to the way that his Servant froze dead in his tracks, stopping whatever meaningless, half-fumbled apology he was giving from spilling out any more. That face looked the same as the one that Servant made when he was about to vomit, and at the same time, his submission only intensified. Izuru loathed to hear those pleas for forgiveness; he had told Servant time and time again that he understood the situation, and he was often not at fault for his shortcomings. It was fine. Izuru couldn’t find it in him to care. It would pass just as quickly as everything else, anyway.
This week in particular had been a rough one for them. No matter how many times Junko paired them up together and sent them off into the wasteland, no matter how many times Servant pledged his undying loyalty and faith to Izuru, they just couldn’t manage to get it right this week. He could spot part of the issue in an instant: Servant’s gaze. Perpetually locked on Izuru, following his every move like he might lose him if he didn’t, it had contributed to many a mistake in their time together. He’d trip. He’d spill things. Today (and the thing that Servant was so insistent on apologizing for), he had stumbled straight into Izuru, shoving him to the ground in the midst of an imperative fight for their side. In an instant, all hell had broken loose, and he knew that the only reason they escaped was their combined talents. He knew the only reason they got into that mess was Servant’s.
Beneath him in the kitchen, hunched over low and hanging onto his coattails, Servant was trying to splutter out an excuse for his actions. In here, they were safe; this was the place that Junko had bestowed upon them months ago to carry out their business, and not a soul could reach them. Just moments prior, Servant had been begging Izuru to let him cook to ‘begin to try and make up for what he’s done’, even if they both knew it would end up inedible. Under Izuru’s cold gaze, the words wouldn’t lock into his head until he sank down to his knees, bowing his head. “I just think I should face some sort of punishment for what happened.”
Punishment. Of course. That’s all any of these people seemed to care about, wasn’t it?
Izuru sighed, rolling his eyes as he stepped away from the counter. “If you wanted to make amends,” he replied, taking off his jacket and tossing it carelessly over a chair, “you would listen to me the first time and stay out of my way while I conduct my business. I have accepted your apology, and we have had this discussion repeatedly this week.”
“And yet I haven’t been punished once.” Oh, he was petulant today. Immediately, Servant recognized his own tone and flinched, surely able to notice the way that Izuru’s body subtly tensed up. Without thinking, he immediately spat out another, “I’m sorry, please forgive me.”
“Up. On your feet.” His voice was no more monotone or stiff than usual, no more force put into it, but he saw Servant’s skin pale. Gesturing vaguely with his hand, Izuru watched as Servant jolted off of the ground and scrambled over, chain held out in a trembling hand to him. He took it. He’d taken it before, and as he always had been, he was careful with it. He still coiled around his fist and used it to drag him down the hallway in silence, and yet Servant still looked terrified.
Maybe he dragged his feet a bit when he walked. There was no need for him to move as slow as he did to the Junko-installed ‘torture chamber’ other than to have a flair for the dramatic. Sue him, the people he spent the most time around were Servant and Junko herself. The second the door was shut behind them, Izuru dropped the chain, Servant almost collapsing to the ground with it considering how badly his knees were shaking. He couldn’t help but wonder what the other Remnants had done to him over the years. He didn’t want to bother with it right now. Instead, Izuru took a seat on the only proper chair in the room, allowing Servant to stand meekly in front of him. “Tell me what you want. I want to hear you say it with your chest.”
“I want to atone for my trespasses against you. I will accept any punishment you offer me without argument and without complaint.” Servant’s head remained bowed as he spoke the entire time, refusing to meet Izuru’s eyes. “Please make me understand the magnitude of what I’ve done.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” Servant’s head snapped up, only to immediately find Izuru grabbing him by the very first link of his collar and ripping him forward. He gasped for air, if only until Izuru unlocked the shackle with deft fingers and let it fall to the ground. Servant’s hands came up to his neck, gently rubbing the marks there before meeting Izuru’s eyes once more. “Why?”
“I need you to be a human for this. You will behave as though you have some self respect for what I plan on doing to you.” When Servant didn’t seem to know what to say in response, Izuru went on with his instructions. “Strip. I want every inch of your skin uncovered, and when you’re done, go sit on the table and shut your eyes.”
The table in question was menacing enough. It was padded well, but the amount of exposed gears served a haunting reminder that it was a torture machine. Anyone’s limbs could be strapped down to it before being yanked into unnatural positions, or someone could be forced to stay there for hours. Still, Servant complied, removing each article of clothing and folding them neatly as he set them aside. That was the next chance Izuru took to speak. “Two.”
“Two?” Servant paused, glancing back at him with his brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“You have earned two. I did not ask you to fold your clothes. You dawdle, Nagito. Put them aside and go sit down.”
“Please, I would prefer if you didn’t call me-”
“Three,” Izuru interrupted. “I will call you whatever I please. Tonight, you will be known to me by your given name, and you will refer to me by the same. I will not repeat myself again, now sit.”
That put a spring in his step. Immediately, he rushed over to the table, taking a seat on it and crossing his legs in the most useless attempt to maintain his dignity that Izuru had ever seen. In a way, it was almost cute. It wasn’t enough to comment on, not as Izuru stood and ambled over to the closet where he knew all the materials he may need were held, finally going to use after all this time. He never expected to use these whenever Junko insisted he would; she was sure this wasn’t the method she had in mind.
Setup was quick enough. Nagito remained silent the entire time, listening as buttons, batteries, and wires all snapped into place and shaking from his position on the table. It briefly occurred to Izuru that he may be assuming the worst, fearing his own death at a time like this. For once, he didn’t seem to relax when Izuru touched him, his hand settling on his shoulder before trailing down his back. “Readjust. Find a comfortable position lying on your stomach, and put your hips at the edge of the table.”
Nagito followed suit, scooting back and straddling the table before quickly laying down. He propped his cheeks up on his arms, his eyes still shut and his mouth pursed into a thin line. Izuru could see the tension laced into his spine, ingrained in every vertebrae and nerve, and before he continued, he sat down on the side of the table beside him. His hand remained right between Nagito’s shoulder blades. He could feel his heartbeat against his palm, mere centimeters from his own ever-droning pulse. “Are you scared?”
“...Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Is this not what you wanted? It’s what you’ve been asking for.”
He didn’t answer for a moment, the lights buzzing overhead, and Izuru brought his hand up to Nagito’s hair, combing through it gently with his fingers. In an instant, Nagito melted, his voice breaking as he sank into the table. “It is,” he said reluctantly. “I’m still able to be scared, aren’t I?”
“Yes. You’re entitled to your emotions, even if I fail to understand them.”
“That’s it, then.” He paused. Slowly, he opened his eyes, looking up at Izuru. They remained half-lidded, like that mattered; he wouldn’t see anything of substance anyway. “I guess I didn’t expect you to follow through.”
Izuru’s head fell to the side as he pulled a knot out of Nagito’s hair. He’d brush it later. Braid it, if Nagito would let him. “I see no reason to lie to you. You asked. I delivered. Really, Nagito, what do you live for? For the rush that you get off of my threats? For something else? I see no reason for your continued existence if you’re going to be so indecisive.”
“For you,” Nagito murmured. “Only for you. I live to serve, after all. What other reason do I need?”
“Personal enjoyment. A way to exist as something other than a vessel for my satisfaction.”
“I don’t need any of that.”
Izuru sighed, climbing off of the table, and Nagito’s eyes immediately snapped shut the second he would have been able to see something again. Izuru kept his pace slow, his shoes clicking softly on the tiles as he stepped in front of him, and Nagito, per usual, was his doll. He moved exactly how Izuru wanted him to, putting his chin on his forearms, and Izuru tapped him on the cheek with two fingers. “Open your eyes.” He did. “Tell me to call this off.”
Nagito’s brow furrowed. “Why?”
“You don’t feel secure right now, do you? You’d rather not suffer at my hand, I’m sure. You beg for retribution, but when your god delivers, you’re still human. You’ll still be mad at me, and then you’ll crave more despite the bitterness you feel. It’s going to be a cycle, and you won’t know how to cope with it without me.”
He sank into himself a bit more, still staring at Izuru all the while. For comfort’s sake, Izuru got down on his knees, his chest pressed to the table as he cupped Nagito’s face, and Nagito leaned into his touch. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“You wouldn’t. I’m entirely neutral in this situation.”
“Then why won’t you just tell me what to do?”
“Did I not give you a command a moment ago? I told you to call this off. You don’t even have to say anything. If you don’t want this, then you can get up off of the table, redress, and we can go about our day without you repeatedly begging for me to punish you.” For a moment, Nagito hesitated, and Izuru knew he had won. “You want this, don’t you?”
“More than anything. I don’t even have to know what you’re doing, and-”
“You won’t, then,” Izuru interrupted. He ran his thumb along Nagito’s cheek, and he seemed to melt into the touch. “I’ll tell you this: you reserve the right to stop this at any moment. I’m not Enoshima, and I am not delivering this because I have any particular desire to. If you tell me to stop, I will. If I think you’re too lost to make that decision anymore, then we’ll be done. If you fall unconscious, this stops immediately. Otherwise, you will serve your full punishment as I see fit, but I will humor any changes in positioning, breaks, and a handful of requests, within reason. Do you understand?”
Nagito nodded, his eyes having gotten progressively wider as Izuru spoke, and after a moment, he hesitantly asked, “why?”
“You can be a bit miserable, if that’s what you want. I’ll grant you that tonight. You will not, however, feel unsafe. I won’t check in with you, but you will always have choices to make. I think that’s the worst thing I could have imposed as a punishment, don’t you think? Your autonomy?”
He let out a dreamy, shaky sigh, and Izuru could see him sinking right back into that familiar, submissive headspace of his. “I adore you. You fascinate me to no end.”
Izuru hummed, dragging his fingers down to Nagito’s lips. Without thinking, Nagito let his mouth fall open, allowing Izuru to trace them over his teeth for a moment before he started sucking on them. They’d done this song and dance too many times, it seemed, or Nagito just had some sort of Freudian way of seeing him. “I did not ask you to do that. It’s what I intended either way, but you lack restraint. That’s why we're here.”
Nagito didn’t say anything, just stared, waiting for further approval or dissent. Izuru gave him neither, allowing him to continue for a while, and once he decided they were done, he tried to pull his hand away. Nagito’s teeth scraped against his skin, prepared to bite down until Izuru muttered a soft ‘four’, and he let go immediately after. Izuru rounded the table, his other hand trailing down his back until he settled behind Nagito’s spread legs. Those two fingers, still wet, settled on Nagito’s hole, and Izuru did not pause at the strangled sound that Nagito let out, pushing both into him without reprieve.
He stilled when he reached his knuckles. Nagito half-keened. “Wh-What are you-?”
He didn’t dare to finish the question, but Izuru knew what he meant anyway. He scissored his fingers experimentally, if only to see what sound it pulled from the man beneath him. “Exactly what it seems.”
“Are you going to fuck me?”
If Izuru were a more emotional creature, he would have grinned. It was almost amusing, hearing the amount of hope in such a despairful person’s voice. “Something like that. You’ll be sated to some degree.”
He continued.
They’d done this before, the two of them avoiding the fact that there was a living, breathing human attached to what they were doing in favor of dodging their faces. Izuru still remembered the way that velvet heat would feel on his fingers, expertly moving his hand in the way that he knew would keep Nagito so painfully close, but would refuse to give him the satisfaction of finishing before they got to start. That was one of the things he disliked about his talent: when he was an aficionado of every craft, it was often difficult to know when to stop. That had ended far too many of their sessions sooner than he would have liked, but he’d learned. He’d figured out what everything meant when it came to Nagito, to the reactions he wanted to elicit and the ones he’d save for later. They were connected like that, Nagito would often say. Izuru had to agree.
This time, though, it wasn’t meant to be pleasurable, not for either of them. The way Izuru fingered him this time around was functional, a means to an end and nothing more. Nagito could whine and mewl all he wanted, but the point of it was to stretch him out, not to warm him up for anything. Besides, Izuru would bet money that he was hard from the moment he touched him. He had no trouble growing aroused, and lucky for Izuru, Nagito’s begging became background noise to him long ago. He was still aware of it, but he hardly considered it anymore. They weren’t real requests, after all. Still, he could use them to his advantage. “Five,” he said, pulling his fingers out. He wiped them on Nagito’s back, just to feel him shudder.
“Five what?” he whined, exasperated at the loss of contact. Izuru didn’t answer him, letting him ramble away as he started to bind him to the table. He didn’t do much; one leather strap came to rest around his lower back, pinning his hips to the table, and he raised it ever so slightly, just so Nagito’s feet didn’t touch the ground. “You keep spouting off numbers at me, but I don’t know what they mean. They’re not a very considerable threat.”
Cooly, impassively, Izuru slapped him once across the ass, more as a warning than anything else. Nagito squeaked. “Ask to know what I’m going to do to you if you want to know.” Nagito fell silent, his ears reddening at their tips, and Izuru continued. “Behave yourself.”
“Yes, Izuru. Sorry, Izuru,” he murmured, and Izuru took his spot behind his legs once more. For a moment, he considered changing his plans entirely; Nagito was spread out so beautifully in front of him, ready and waiting, and if any part of Izuru was human, it was his biological instincts. There was still a warm, wet hole that he could fuck into if he so pleased, and his cock twitched in vague interest at the idea. He dismissed the thought just as quickly. Later, perhaps, but he’d hate for their trysts to become a punishment for Nagito.
Instead, the plan went on as expected.
If Nagito heard him lubing up the dildo behind him, his reactions didn’t betray that. As far as Izuru knew, he had no idea what was going on, and when he moved the machine forward, adjusting it to line up with him, Nagito gasped, stiffening up. Izuru waited, at first for Nagito to calm down, then for the sheer suspense of it all. He let Nagito feel the weight of it, the size of the head against him, and just how impartial it was in comparison to Izuru. The first, however, still didn’t come until Izuru spoke. “Relax. This isn’t going to work if you don’t trust me.”
“That’s bigger than you are,” he replied, half-delirious already, and Izuru didn’t humor him with a response. Slowly, Nagito’s body began to slacken, and once he was calm enough for Izuru to do so without hurting him, Izuru slid it forward, making him take it to the base and ignoring the groan he let out as he did.
They stilled. The only movement either of them gave for a moment was Nagito’s breathing, his body heaving off of the table as his chest inflated with each inhale. Izuru didn’t reprimand him for it, admiring his work, taking interest in the way he stretched around it. It was bigger than him, wasn’t it? “How does it feel?”
Nagito managed to get a hold of himself long enough to purr. “Indescribable.”
“Better than something smaller? Something organic?”
Nagito took far too long to answer, and Izuru allowed himself a slight smirk. “Uh… yes. Yes, I think so. Not you, though. It’s so- it’s stiff. It’s straight.”
“Why isn’t it better than me, Nagito?”
“Yours- sorry for my vulgarity, Izuru, I’m disgusting, I know- yours has a curve to it. It hits things better. It’s hot, and I can feel your pulse, and-” Nagito cut himself off. Even from behind him, Izuru could see the way that Nagito’s face broke out into a smile. “You’re usually moving by now.”
“Impatient,” he admonished with no real malcontent behind it. He went right back to his chair, sitting down in front of him with his legs spread, and he lounged back in it as Nagito stared at him expectantly. Izuru didn’t meet his eye.
That machine was much more imposing when it loomed over someone, wasn’t it?
Whatever it was, it was meant to be used in a variety of ways. Izuru hadn’t taken the time to familiarize himself with the technology of it (nor most of the instruments of torture), but it had caught his eye in the past, and he knew what the basic principle was. It was sexual, and it was motorized; everything else seemed to be an elaborate restraint system. Hooks, clamps, and surgical steel all came together to make a hulking beast, one that held its arms above Nagito, ready to strike if Izuru so willed it.
Nagito, though, was none the wiser. He laid there, only aware of the attachment, hearts undoubtedly dancing around his psyche as the horrors of what they were meant to be sat behind him. Once more, he looked like the picture of innocence, if innocence was content in getting fucked by Frankenstein’s monster.
No matter. Izuru wouldn’t tell him, so he never had to know. That’s what their dynamic felt like to Izuru, in an odd way: Nagito fell in love with something that could not love him back, something that was always more liable to kill him than to bring him the happiness that he so desperately sought. Each night, he pleasured a robot, and the robot brought him the same sort of stimulation in return, but he willfully ignored the fact he did little more than perform maintenance on an object. He didn’t care. He rejected the notion that he could be hurt at all, much less that his paramour could be a danger to him.
At least Izuru could familiarize him with the motors of this one.
He’d slipped the remote into his pocket at one point while he was setting up, pulling it back out to hold it in a loose, idle grip with his thumb and forefinger. It dangled, his grip poised over the ‘on’ button as he raised it to the level of his own eyes, and Nagito perked up. Izuru pretended not to notice, his gaze locked on the buttons and the settings as he memorized each and every one of them, and when Nagito whined, he lowered it. Got a better hold on it. Pressed it against his lips. “You don’t know what this is.”
“I do.” The strap was positioned in such a way that Nagito couldn’t rock back onto the attachment, but he tried his best regardless. The friction on his dick must be so minimal, Izuru realized, but it had to frustrate him.
“No, you don’t,” Izuru corrected. “You think you do. I can tell you, though, that despite having only walked this earth for a year, I know more than you. Whatever this remote controls, whatever physical object it wills to move, it’s more than that to me, and you can’t read my mind.”
“Oh.” Nagito blinked. He wasn’t all there. He was never one to argue, anyway. “I’m sorry, Izuru. You’re right. You know more than me. You always do.”
“Precisely. If you’re aware of this, why do you refute me?” Nagito didn’t answer, trying to find a way he’d done so recently, and Izuru refused to wait for him to find the offending action. “Earlier, I told you that your mistakes, all of them, are forgivable. They’re fine. I did not ask you if they were, I told you this as though they were an abject fact, and yet you decided to argue with me. You continually apologized. You’re autonomous, yes, and you’re permitted that right, but I still know what’s best for you. Right?”
“Right.”
“Right, what?”
“Right, sir.” Izuru just stared at him, and shyly, Nagito corrected himself. “Right, you know what’s best for me. I’m sorry for refusing to listen to you, and that’s… that’s why I’m being punished, right? Not because I asked for it?”
“Good, Nagito. It makes our lives easier when you use that brilliant head of yours. I’ve seen you be more than capable, and yet you decide to dumb yourself down.” He stuck the edge of the controller in his mouth, just the corner, and leaned forward to set his elbows on his knees. He met Nagito’s eyes as he did, more intense than he had previously. “It’s all or nothing. You may ask if something is unclear to you, but if I tell you that something is one way, you will not tell me that it isn’t. Have faith.”
For a moment, Nagito hesitated. Until Izuru waved him on, teeth still clenched on the hard plastic of the remote, he didn’t say anything. “What is this, then? Whatever’s behind me? I’m pretty sure I know what it’s going to do, but- but what is it?”
Izuru, in that moment, managed to remember something. Just a flash. He smiled in front of Enoshima once, just Enoshima, and she hadn’t shut up about it for days. She called it handsome, alluring, something out of a Playboy magazine, and he hadn’t even tried to put anything behind it. He seldom did it in front of people because of that conversation, and yet there, in front of Nagito, he smiled, wicked and drawing a blush to Nagito’s face immediately. “A lesson.”
He hit the power button, and the machine started to move.
Nagito most definitely knew what it did before it began, but he gasped all the same, reaching for the edge of the table and grabbing onto it. Izuru did little more than watch, letting the languid, unyielding pace do the work for him, and he grabbed the remote once more, watching Nagito try his best to hold onto his focus. A shame, really; Izuru hadn’t turned up the pace yet, and yet Nagito was already losing himself. “Is that good for you?”
“Yes,” he groaned, hardly letting Izuru finish the sentence. “Faster, please, come on-”
Izuru held up a hand, and Nagito managed to cut himself off. “I should tell you that if it goes up, it’s not coming back down at your request. I haven’t decided if I’ll turn it down at all. It’s still on one, are you sure?”
“Again, yes.” There was a twinge of annoyance in his voice, one that was quickly dashed by Izuru turning up the setting. Nagito’s eyes fluttered shut, a blissful smile spreading across his face. “Can I guess what you’re counting for?”
“You may.”
“You’re-” he choked, moaning between his teeth, “-you’re counting the settings. I’ll be done once I get to- five? Five now?”
“No. How disappointing. I thought you would have figured it out by now.” He glanced down at the remote, pursing his lips. “Not much of a punishment. Getting you up to that level, especially when there’s ten levels to this thing.”
Nagito whined. “It’s hard to think around you! I’ve- fuck! I’ve been so close since you grabbed my chain earlier, and-”
“Cum, then,” Izuru interrupted. Nagito looked up at him pleadingly. “I’m serious. I won’t impose any more consequences. The rules of the game have been decided, and I’m not one to change what’s definite.”
Nagito opened his mouth to say something else, but with a particular shift of his hips, all that came out was incomprehensible noise, mere sound that wasn’t connected to anything. For a second, Izuru thought he caught a bit of begging, and Nagito’s body shook, but he waited until Nagito devolved into chanting ‘more’ to push it up to three.
Izuru did not have many subjective opinions. They didn’t serve someone like him, a vessel for everyone else’s hope, but he kept a couple dear to his heart: he disliked Junko Enoshima, and Nagito looked pretty when he was having an orgasm.
It was damn near the same every time. For whatever reason, one that Izuru couldn’t glean, they were intense, wracking his body with tremors, and he often squirmed while Izuru fucked him. He tried to now as well, but the strap held firm across his back. Next, the tears sprung to his eyes, just barely spilling over, and every single sound went from high and keening to breathless, all at once. His eyes rolled back. They always did, and after, he would smile.
Usually, he didn’t receive any more stimulation after he was finished. Izuru would pull out if he wasn’t done, stroking himself until he painted Nagito’s face in white, or maybe he’d wait and have him suck him off once he regained his senses, but Izuru didn’t stop the machine. He didn’t lower the intensity on it, either, watching Nagito ride it out and love every second of it, and yet his pleasure quickly turned to confusion when it continued well beyond that. He met Izuru’s eyes, receiving his pedestrian stare in return, and he managed a laugh. “I-I finished, you can turn it off now, sorry, I don’t know if you knew that or-”
“That was one,” Izuru replied. He poised his thumb over the four on the controller. “We got up to five, didn’t we?”
Nagito’s eyes went wide, and that stupid, delirious smile spread across his face once more. Something in Izuru clicked. He skipped over four and went straight to five.
Overly sensitive and evidently enjoying this far too much, Nagito cried out, cumming again and jerking in his restraints. Izuru started to speak again as Nagito fought against the leather. “You’re having fun, it seems. I anticipated this possibility, but it bores me regardless. Bores me and… annoys me. I’ll have to sit and listen to you gripe about how this wasn’t a real punishment all evening, won’t I?”
Nagito let out some sort of sound that was adjacent to a ‘no’, and Izuru raised an eyebrow in turn. “No? No, you see being overwhelmed with pleasure as a punishment? Why? Tell me, is it self-hatred, or do you just not want me to stop? Or does it hurt, and you’re such a masochist that you’re willing to take it?”
“It’s-” he could hardly get the words out, ragged and broken, and by the time he found the ability to talk again, he’d already forgotten the objective. “Please, Izuru, turn it up, fuck me harder, I want it so fucking bad, I promise I’ll try to entertain you!”
Izuru stood, the chair’s legs scraping across the tile as he did, and he walked over to the bed, dropping the controller into his pocket. He leaned over at the hips, meeting Nagito’s eyes at a far enough distance that he wouldn’t be hit by him as he rocked back and forth, but not so far that Nagito wouldn’t be able to reach him. He did reach out to him, in fact, and Izuru held out a hand in turn before bypassing both of Nagito’s in favor of grabbing his jaw roughly. “When I ask you a question, you will answer it.”
He had to think about it. Izuru had seen this man kill countless people without an ounce of foresight, just a flick of his wrist and some reliance on his luck, and yet there, in front of him, looking him in the eyes, he had to think about it, wheezing and gasping all the while. “All three?” he said eventually.
Izuru rolled his eyes, then kissed him.
They seldom kissed in the way that lovers did; Izuru felt no benefits from it, and Nagito didn’t feel as though he deserved it, so they often fucked without attachments, rough and emotionless and without their faces ever coming to meet. He’d pepper Nagito’s neck in bite marks and bruises if he was asked to, marking him as a piece of property, and if they did kiss, it wasn’t gentle. There was nothing behind it, just fire and a mutual fervor that could not be translated into words when they did things in the most animalistic ways possible. There were teeth. There were always teeth.
This kiss was no different. While Izuru didn’t change his grip, Nagito had to hold onto the table, and he took absolutely no dominance in it. Izuru’s other arm came to rest beside him, biting his lip and forcing his tongue into his mouth with no remorse, and Nagito took every second of it. Izuru found that his servant was infinitely forgiving of him, more than willing to deal with any split lips that he inflicted upon him. Once, he joked that Izuru should kiss those better, that he should see if it should help, and Izuru indulged him, much to his delight.
It went the exact same way their normal kisses did, no more tenderness or care behind it than he usually offered. He still recalled the exact moment when he drew blood again, reopening the wound and relishing in the way the warmth of Nagito’s vitality spilled into his mouth. His heart had fluttered in his chest, the ghost of an emotion forming on the edge of his periphery, and the only reason they stopped was because the tightness in Izuru’s slacks got to be a bit too much. He had Nagito suck him off, putting that gorgeous mouth to use, and once he was done, he let him lick the blood off his teeth while he stroked himself to completion. Izuru seldom felt anything, but in some bizarre way, Nagito made his nerves blaze to life and his body ache in the most needful of ways. There was something about him. Izuru loved something about him, truly, deeply, and he still didn’t understand it.
Nagito spasmed beneath him, a choking sound reverberating from the back of his throat before being swallowed down by Izuru’s mouth in turn. Ah. That must make three, then. Izuru’s belt was starting to get on his nerves.
Ah, well. If he was letting Nagito indulge, he may as well give way to those annoying urges too.
He didn’t pull away until he absolutely had to, letting Nagito breathe for a moment as he started to undo his tie. When they first started doing this, he never cared that Nagito was the only one naked, but he came to learn that things were far more interesting when they both were. He wouldn’t grant him the sight, but he’d at least let himself cool down a bit, listening to Nagito’s whines and breathless moans as he tossed his tie aside and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. His jacket, he recalled, was still in the kitchen, and he almost regretted leaving it there. The belt came next, and he watched as Nagito’s eyes lit up at the sound of the buckle, letting out a hopeful sound. He was interested, sure, but Izuru shook his head. “This is a punishment, Nagito.”
Nagito tried to speak. It wasn’t working, not in the least, but Izuru got the message anyway: he was begging for it. He wanted it. Izuru had hit him before as a means of punishment, and he’d taken that belt on his own request more times than he could count.
(Not more than Izuru could count. Thirty-six.)
Either way, he didn’t see it as a punishment anymore, or perhaps he did, and he craved it. Izuru didn’t care. He dropped the belt, letting it clatter to the floor as his slacks slipped lower onto his hips, and he ran his fingers through Nagito’s hair once more. After a moment of petting him, his other hand came up as well, threading it in the other side, before both of them forced Nagito’s head back. He didn’t put much pressure into it, not when Nagito was too boneless to fight him anyway, but Nagito gasped all the same, staring up at him.
He looked at Izuru like he was the sun. Izuru was incapable of feeling embarrassed, but Nagito's eyes told him that he was his entire world, and his cheeks reddened either way.
“I know you want it,” Izuru said, his tongue heavy in his mouth. It put a little more of a snap behind his words, one that had Nagito even more enraptured by him. “I told you I’d humor requests, but I think that’s more than you can handle right now. Don’t be greedy.”
“Ngh- okay, Izuru!”
A beat. His hand slid into his pocket, finding the remote once more. Izuru, with a considerable amount of effort, allowed himself another grin. “Thank me for being so generous to you.”
Izuru didn’t care, not really. He took care of Nagito, and Nagito bored him endlessly, but doing it took about as much effort as breathing most of the time. Even on the hard days, even when he faced the smallest iota of a struggle, it proved somewhat interesting; he was seldom challenged, and if another human could offer him that, perhaps they were worth being kept around. Nagito didn’t need to thank him. Izuru wouldn’t let him go anytime soon.
Still, just as Izuru expected, he obeyed him, managing to get out half of a ‘thaaa-’ that turned into a drawn out, desperate moan as Izuru turned the machine up. Nagito held onto the table again, taking a moment to get his bearings and shake the stars out of his eyes, and when he was done, he reached out to Izuru. In response, Izuru’s lips twitched in disinterest (no matter what the bulge in his pants said), stepping away from the table in favor of sitting down again. Nagito whined in disappointment, only perking up again when Izuru undid the button of his pants, sliding them down half an inch. Nagito was drooling before Izuru pulled his cock out, stroking it idly. “I have to say, I’m not entirely bored by this. The gimmick is… oh, the novelty’s fading. Perhaps I’ll end this early.”
He didn’t even whine this time; Nagito wailed. Izuru raised an eyebrow. “No? You like this? That’s just like you. I can’t torture you without you begging for more, and I can’t bring you to the brink of a pleasure-induced insanity without making your day. If you could speak to me like a person, then I’m sure you’d be begging for me to turn the machine up even further.”
Nagito nodded. It wasn’t even foresight on Izuru’s end anymore; he just knew Nagito that well.
He kicked it up to seven, listening as the mechanisms above Nagito squeaked in protest, harmonizing with him and making the room that much louder. The motor wasn’t happy with him, either, even as Nagito chased his fourth orgasm of the night and made it clear just how happy he was with Izuru. Izuru watched it all, fully hard now, still more interested in the show than he was with finishing himself off, right up until it all hit another crescendo. Nagito went up again, his eyes half-mad, and when he came, he didn’t come back down. He stayed in the same state, panting and begging incoherently, and Izuru’s hand stilled, if only to consider his options.
He’d planned on fucking Nagito once this was all said and done, shoving himself into his best servant’s ass and using his limp body until he reached his peak, but he couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted him too badly.
Either due to the swiftness of his motions or the force of them, the chair fell when Izuru pushed himself out of it, walking over to Nagito and positioning himself in front of him. Nagito stared at him hungrily the entire time, too shell-shocked to reach out, but his mouth was open all the same. His hands found purchase on the sides of Nagito’s head again, lining his dick up with his lips and waiting until the machine jostled him forward to push into his mouth, hitting the back of his throat on the first thrust. Nagito choked, yet he still looked up at him adoringly, taking hold of Izuru’s shirt once he could. Izuru didn’t need to say a word. He did either way, just because he knew it would drive Nagito insane. “Suck.”
He didn’t have to be told twice.
Really, it was useless of Izuru to give him any commands to begin with; Nagito was too far gone to care about anything but his own pleasure, but he still gave a valiant effort. The machine did most of the work for him, rocking his body in the restraints and providing enough movement that he could feel like he was doing something. In reality, Izuru took to fucking his face in time with the rhythm, burying himself as deep as he could in the warmth of Nagito’s mouth on the upstrokes, using him as little more than a toy. He didn’t keep his eyes on him the entire time, making note of the puddle beneath him on the bench, cooling against his stomach, and the rust marring the joints of the metal frame. He made a note to fix it later in case Nagito wanted a repeat performance, regarding that thought with a soft hum and another click of the remote. Eight. The old machine rattled in protest, which, to Nagito’s delight, meant that the attachment began vibrating incessantly.
Nagito sounded even nicer with his mouth full, Izuru decided. He’d learned long ago that no matter how much Nagito sputtered and carried on underneath him, he was damn good at sucking cock, loving it almost as much as he enjoyed having Izuru in his ass. He choked like a virgin every time he did it, but he chased that feeling, swallowing Izuru down to the hilt every single time he tried, dutifully worshiping him as the tears sprung to his eyes. Perhaps that’s why he started smoothing his hair back, petting him and offering gentle praise as he chased after that warm feeling in his stomach. He wiped away stray tears, muttering reassurances he’d never spoken to Nagito before, telling him that he was pretty, he was worth something, that he was a fascinating specimen of humanity, the only one worth being around and the only one he would ever touch like this-
Nine. Right before he tipped over the edge, he clicked the machine up to nine.
When Izuru came, he did it with very little fanfare, usually stilling as his breath hitched, then pulling out as soon as he could manage. He was always silent, not bothering with small talk or a continuation of his actions, and yet that night, he was still speaking. He gave him one notch up, and he spilled directly into his throat while telling Nagito just how much he valued him.
That night, he gave Nagito a reward and something of a love confession, all in one fell swoop. He had to be more careful; he didn’t need to create anything Pavlovian in him.
His head was far too foggy for him to consider the implications of all of it, removing his cock from his mouth and wiping the excess spit and cum off of Nagito’s chin. He tucked himself back into his pants, pulling the controller out once more and setting his thumb over the ‘off’ button, right up until Nagito protested. He paused. “You’ve served your punishment. You needn’t continue.”
Nagito shook his head, trying to argue, but all he could say was a whimpered, prolonged ‘no’. Izuru’s thumb slid off the button. “You haven’t?” He shook his head again, and Izuru dropped the remote back in his pocket. “How many times have you gotten off, Nagito?”
“F-Four,” he spat, struggling to get the word out. From there, it all came out in a torrent, and he began to rock in his restraints. He was trying to get out of them, he realized. “I can’t, Izuru, please, it’s not enough. It’s never going to be enough, it’s not you, it’s not right. I wanna cum, it hurts so bad, I need you-”
“You need to be gagged,” Izuru interrupted, his cock twitching in interest. Damn, he hated having such a fallible body. “You will see your punishment to the end on that table, taking a plastic cock in your ass, and you will live with the fact that I decided to fuck your throat. I have not prevented you from finishing this entire time. It hurts because you’re overstimulated, not because your body craves mine. It's taking time because there’s nothing left in you, not because you’re waiting. I will stop if you want me to, but otherwise, these are the exact circumstances under which our game will conclude. Do you understand me?”
Nagito’s eyes were starting to glaze over. He panted, if only for a few seconds, before he spoke again. “Put it to ten.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a command. Izuru’s heart thumped against his ribcage, and for a moment, he could have believed that his body craved Nagito, too.
“If I give you the highest intensity, I’m adding a condition to your punishment.” Izuru said simply. “You may keep it at nine or request a lower setting, and if you do that, then as soon as you’re done, I’ll unstrap you, give you fifteen minutes to recover, and then I expect you to get dressed, collared, and get back to business at my side.”
That was the usual plan of action. Izuru wasn’t done.
“If, instead, you decide to ask me again for this machine’s full capabilities, you will not walk out of this room. I’ll unstrap you, and then I will carry you to bed. I will finish dinner, clean you up by hand, and I’ll feed you myself if your hands shake too much for you to handle it. Your chain will stay here. For the rest of the night and well into tomorrow, you will not only be human, but you will be treated like royalty. That is my stipulation. Tell me, Nagito, do you want that?”
Nagito, as Izuru learned long ago, hated his affections being returned to him. He would offer his blind devotion to anyone, loving Izuru like the romantic partner he never got the chance to have, but the second anyone turned an iota of care back on him, he broke. He’d get cold and dismissive, confused by the reciprocation, and Izuru had never been allowed to administer proper aftercare following one of these nights. To Nagito, being loved was a fate worse than death. Izuru offered to torture him, and then, in his eyes, he offered to kill him. That sort of tenderness would be agony, and yet-
He nodded. Izuru hit the button and stepped back, watching the show.
Setting ten, apparently, did not increase in intensity at the same intervals at everything else; either that, or it was simply too much for Nagito. His entire body lurched, and he began to writhe as the full force of the situation finally impacted him. To Izuru, he looked like a man struck by lighting, uncontrolled and electrified in his every movement, and after a few seconds of that treatment, he howled. That howl turned into a laugh, the kind that wheezed out of the pit of his chest and reminded Izuru just how sick (physically and mentally) he really was. Izuru knew he was still crying, resigning himself to his fate, and the only indicator that it was over was Nagito’s scream. He came dry on the table like that, Izuru staring at him without reacting to it at all.
Izuru started to push the settings back down, one at a time.
Nine.
Izuru took the remote out of his pocket, hitting the first button and striding towards him, his shoes clicking against the tiles. He reached for the strap, then, seeing the way Nagito was still squirming and mewling, decided against it. He’d injure himself if he suddenly gained his freedom like that.
Eight.
Instead, Izuru knelt down in front of him, cradling Nagito’s face in his hand. His tie was still within reach, and he grabbed it, starting to wipe his face off for him. Nagito protested, and Izuru shushed him without any real harshness. Nagito was too tired to fight him, his throat too raw to speak.
Seven.
He threw the tie aside, then took Nagito’s clothes and his own shirt and tossed them in the same general area. He knew Nagito’s clothes didn’t get washed often. Izuru would do the laundry for both of them while he had Nagito on bedrest, just because he could.
Six.
Izuru kissed him gently, slow and careful and keeping his lips out of reach of his teeth. He didn’t bite him. He didn’t crave Nagito’s blood in his mouth, but he inexplicably craved Nagito, even if his mind was elsewhere.
Five.
Nagito’s shock wore off, and he began to kiss him back. For a moment, they were real lovers, two people that actually cared for one another instead of a servant and the man who dragged him around on a leash. It wouldn’t stay, not for long, but he was supposed to be withstanding Izuru’s idea of caretaking, anyway.
Four.
Izuru liked kissing Nagito. Kissing him wasn’t part of the plan, nor the aftercare. He just enjoyed the way their lips slotted together. He enjoyed the way that Nagito kissed him like he needed him, only him, playing to both his desire to feel useful and his repulsion for his own creation. He wasn’t needed as an ultimate, but as a partner. Even if he weren’t supernaturally good at kissing, Nagito would have pulled him in anyway, and that’s what made it so nice.
Three.
Izuru was incapable of love. Most of those emotions and the centers that housed them were removed upon his birth, or maybe they were removed when his host proved to be too difficult to manage otherwise. Still, he felt something for Nagito, even if it was just a warm regard that sat in his chest and didn’t really need to be sated. He knew the idea would repulse him, so he never said a word.
Two.
He traced the words ‘I love you’ onto Nagito’s cheek with his ring finger anyway, over and over again, marring his flesh with something more than the bruises and scars that covered his form.
One.
Izuru would never be sure if Nagito picked up on the letters and their meaning or not, but when he finished the phrase the first time, Nagito reached out and held onto him twice as tight, his fingers tangling in Izuru’s hair as if he’d disintegrate if he let go. Izuru, in turn, held him right back, silently reassuring him that he wasn’t going anywhere.
Off.
They stayed there like that for a minute, even when they stopped kissing and sat close to one another, their foreheads pressed together. It was a long time before Nagito even let him get up, groaning in protest when he did, and Izuru ignored him. It wasn’t a hard feat anymore, not with how mouthy he was. Carefully, he undid the strap across Nagito’s hips, running his fingers along the red marks it had left and thinking about how he’d deal with them later. He got behind him, taking hold of the machine and unhooking it from the metal frame. “I’m going to take this now.”
“Do you have to? Can’t it just stay there?” he complained, letting his cheek hit the table as he looked back at him. He was met with Izuru’s stern glare, and with a huff, he relented. “I’m sensitive.”
“I know. That much is obvious. Are you ready?”
Nagito grumbled something incomprehensible, and when Izuru didn’t back away, he nodded. Izuru could see him biting his lip as he dragged the machine away, removing it from him in one unyielding motion, the structure creaking as he did. He returned it to its spot, planning on cleaning it later, the drone of metal falling to background noise for a few seconds at most before he tuned into it again. He became more aware of it, of the fact that it had been going on a bit too long, that it seemed to sway right on those metal hinges-
Something cracked. Izuru’s body moved on its own.
One of the benefits of being the ultimate conduit of talent and hope was that Izuru didn’t need to think about his actions. More often than not, his brain could move five times as fast as his hands, and his hands would move twice as fast as his body. All of the sounds and his course of action registered first, then his hands, and when his senses finally kicked in, Nagito’s back was against his chest, feverishly warm as he dangled off of his feet. The echoes of the crash were still rattling in his skull, a million instruments of torture having caved in on one another as they crushed the table under their excessive weight. However much it was, it could have splintered a ribcage into shards, leaving nothing left of Nagito other than a smear that he had to clear off of the ground.
Izuru’s lungs usually caught up after his eyes. He let out a breath against Nagito’s ear, giving him a cursory glance. “You’re okay.”
He wasn’t really asking, but Nagito nodded in confirmation anyway, licking his lips as though his mouth wasn’t bone-dry. “Uh… yeah. I guess I am.”
“It seems Enoshima’s toys aren’t nearly as sturdy as we thought.”
“I was sort of hoping it would do that,” he replied, idle and submissive. “I wanted it to do it with me under it. I can’t stand the idea of you serving me for a change. With my luck, though…”
Izuru let him trail off, waiting a second for him to continue, and when he didn’t, he spoke. “Is it a stroke of good or bad luck that you’re alive right now?”
Nagito didn’t answer, and that was all the confirmation Izuru needed.
“You can’t say I didn’t give you any choice in the matter,” he said, flipping Nagito in his arms so he could carry him easier. He didn’t feel like much, wasting away to little more than a menagerie of bones once the despair set in, and Izuru took him to bed without losing his breath. “I gave you two options, and you decided your own fate.”
“I don’t deserve it.”
“I don’t care.”
“Is it selfish of me to say that you should?” Nagito retorted, his head hanging limply into open space. He refused to meet Izuru’s eye, but then again, Izuru wasn’t looking at him, either. “I’m sure it is. Still, Izuru, you have every right to hate me. You’ve given me pleasure beyond my wildest dreams, forgiven me for my failings, and you now plan on spoiling me. You refused to hurt me back there. I almost got you killed today, I know you’re aware just how close one of the revolutionaries got to caving in your skull with her boot-”
“And your legacy almost just became ‘the self-deprecating moron who was crushed to death by a sex machine and the associated torture rack’,” he interjected, carefully twisting the handle to their room. They never intended to share a room, but Nagito’s sprung a leak, and then the guest room collapsed when he tried to stay there. He ended up in Izuru’s bed by the end of the first week, and sharing a bed simply became easier from there. He stepped inside, setting Nagito down on the bed and propping him up on the half-dozen pillows that Junko insisted they have. “We’re even, if that’s what concerns you so much. Yes, I think your mistakes are foolish and can have deadly consequences, but I find myself infinitely more irked by your incessant grief parade. Every soul on earth is miserable. Not one of them cares if you spill a glass anymore.”
Nagito fell silent, staring at the wall instead of responding. Izuru took that as his cue to leave, and he returned to the kitchen.
He had to start dinner over, the pot having boiled over and scalded while they were gone. He expected the processions to take far less time than they did, but he certainly didn’t mind the time spent in silence. He cleaned everything up, putting everything back in its right place and leaving it to sit while he started the laundry. He stayed in his underwear, but his pants made it into the wash, and he padded barefoot back into the kitchen. There was a bit of blood on the floor, still a bit sticky underfoot, and he couldn’t quite remember where it came from.
When he arrived again, Nagito had made his way to the kitchen, stumbling on fawn’s legs as he tried to hold himself up. He wore the robe Junko once got Izuru as a mockery of his time at Hope’s Peak, cut in the same style as the one that the steering committee gave him. It was black silk lined with red, Monokuma’s face stitched into the breast pocket, and Izuru never wore it. Nagito took to it on occasion, but the sleeves didn’t fit his arms like they did Izuru’s, dangling awkwardly around his hands or pooling at his elbows. He was taller, so the hem of it came up higher than it would have on the intended recipient, and with his frame, the neckline hung coquettishly off of his shoulders, collarbone on perfect view. In that robe, Izuru could see everything from the blisters on his feet to the bruises from his collar to the guilty look on his face. He didn’t regret being there, just that he got caught.
Izuru didn’t say a word. He picked Nagito up by the hips, setting him on the counter beside him and continuing to make dinner as Nagito sat silently beside him. Every once in a while, Nagito’s foot would graze his thigh in a very intentional way, a coy attempt to get his attention without asking for it, and Izuru would turn and press a kiss to his cheek in turn. Nagito recoiled each and every time, his lip curling in disgust (likely with himself) before he settled back down. He knew what the consequences were. He still didn’t let them deter him, not when he was getting kisses from Izuru as a punishment.
The meal came to pass with very little conversation. Nagito allowed himself to be carried back to bed, set atop a pillow when he subtly complained about how stiff the bed felt on his aching hips, but he insisted that Izuru eat first. Izuru didn’t argue with him, eating his plateful and ignoring when Nagito accused him of leaving more in the pot for him than he took for himself.
(He did, but that was irrelevant. Nagito’s figure had always been attractive to him, an object to be desired from the moment he shot him that day at Hope’s Peak, but he worried for him. Nagito was sick, both physically and mentally, and Izuru wouldn’t let him die. If he could get Nagito to eat more, it was a step in the right direction. He liked the pink glow he got on his face during the days he was in passable health so much better than he liked anything else about him.)
Once he was done eating, his plate set aside, he fed Nagito, as promised. When Nagito raised his hand to take his plate, Izuru could see how badly they were trembling and immediately changed his mind, letting Nagito eat off the spoon at whatever pace he needed. Izuru saw the way he intentionally dragged things out, trying to make Izuru step back and quit, but he severely overestimated Izuru’s ability to care. He got bored, yes, but he intended to see this through to the end. It could have taken an eternity, and he would have stayed there for each and every agonizing second of it.
They finished eating. Izuru took their dishes, washed them, and put them back in their proper places before putting their clothes in the dryer, getting a wet cloth, and returning to the bedroom. Nagito took one look at him and the rag in his hand and started stripping the robe off, setting it on the corner of the bed; the dark silk pooled on the sheets, reflecting what little light they had to work with and shimmering on the edge of Izuru’s vision when he knelt beside Nagito. On his knees, Nagito laying on his stomach before him, he carefully wiped the sweat, grime, and cum from his skin, recalling how he had shimmered in the same ways. Izuru found him much prettier than the robe.
Once Nagito was clean enough that he’d be comfortable until he could shower tomorrow, he tried to get up, only to be met with Izuru’s hand planted between his shoulder blades. He scowled, pressing his cheek into the bed. “This isn’t necessary.”
“Nothing is,” Izuru replied, carefully straddling his thighs and settling down on them. He had flipped Nagito over onto his back to finish cleaning him, then moved him right back, and he had a perfect view of the expanse of his back, able to take the time to focus on it. Other than the old, familiar bedsore scars that littered his form, he could see the purple marks starting to blossom where the strap sat earlier. He ran his fingers over them, making Nagito shiver. “You were thrashing.”
“How could I not have?”
Izuru ignored him. “Is it alright if I touch them?” Nagito pursed his lips, hesitating for a moment, then nodded, turning his face away from him completely. Without another word, Izuru began massaging the less affected areas first, then the worse ones, watching the way Nagito tensed beneath him.
What had that body gone through? What did it mean to be a human like Nagito?
It meant the bed sores he gained over his time in the hospital, trying to treat an untreatable illness that he’d be living with for the rest of his life. It meant finally being able to get up again, going on a trip as a glorious celebration, only to sustain the burn scars that sat on the back of his right arm, right above the pop-art display of IV scars and bruises that would never heal in the crook of his elbow. It meant refusing to take shots or fluids in his left arm because that was his dominant arm, and he had once been told that a particular medication could make him lose feeling in his limbs. It meant sticking to that credo even when it hurt him, even when he was burnt to hell and needed rational medical treatment, all because of a superstition he had due to a medication that he couldn’t remember the name of. It meant the indicators of Junko’s torture, her essence burnt into his skin, and it meant the bruises that his chain collar caused. It meant the raw spots on his throat because of it, the ones that Izuru caused, the ones he had to have caused because he was the only one who had been close enough to him to pull it recently.
It meant a lot of things, really. It meant the scars on his feet from every time he stepped on a shard of glass or a loose floorboard, and it meant the mark on his hip where a stray BB had hit him when he jumped to the defense of his childhood dog. It meant the little cuts on his fingers from trying to make them a meal, and it meant the little bald patch that sat right under his hair where he had once been hit with a rock. It meant surgical scars. Scraped knees. Previously broken fingers that felt like cotton when he flexed them in Izuru’s grip. It meant the knife wound Nagito had sustained two months prior, some idiot revolutionary diving to stab him in the midst of a battle and landing right in his abdomen.
Izuru wouldn’t know what any of this felt like. He saw the man coming, after all. He didn’t come to Nagito’s rescue. He didn’t even stitch him up once everything was said and done.
When he came back to reality, it was due to a muffled sob from Nagito, and Izuru’s hands flew away from him immediately. He had been touching the not-quite-a-scar, he realized, and a wave of something washed over him. “Nagito?”
He didn’t say a word. If he really was crying, he was good at covering it, and Izuru climbed off of him and took a spot at his side. Nagito got up the second he could, grabbing the robe with one quick, clawed hand and sliding it back on. He didn’t tie it, hugging himself to hold the edges closed instead, and when he turned halfway back towards Izuru, he could see just how blotchy Nagito’s face had gotten. He was crying again. Nagito let go of the robe momentarily, if only to angrily scrub the heel of his face over his cheek. “You make me feel so beautiful. It kills me.”
“I don’t understand.” Izuru didn’t move, his hands settling atop his thighs. His nails dug into the skin there, usually protected by his slacks, now bare to take all of it.
“Of course you don’t. When I adore you, you don’t feel a thing, because you deserve it. It means nothing to you. It’s exactly what you were built for. When filth like me earns your praise, it means something, and it means something completely unearned. What have I done to be loved? Why do I get to fuck things up over and over again and still earn your favor?” Izuru reached out to him as he spoke, and despite himself, Nagito bypassed his single hand completely and dove into his arms, crying against his chest. Izuru felt the tears roll down his stomach, hitting the waistband of his boxers and cooling them down at those spots. He didn’t mind it. He pulled Nagito into his lap and let him cry.
Once the sobs turned to whimpers, Izuru spoke, combing his fingers through Nagito’s hair and grabbing the cloth to clean his face off again. “It seems your punishment has succeeded in taking its course on you. You haven’t learned your lesson, but you’ve broken open.”
“I’ve been open. I’ve been open since Enoshima grabbed me by the spinal cord and yanked me to her side,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by the way his lips grazed Izuru’s skin with each word. “The lesson is ‘don’t ruin things so badly that you feel the need to punish me’, isn’t it?”
“You asked for a punishment. I found a way to adequately punish you, considering nothing else seems to work.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“You know that isn’t what I’m trying to get you to realize here,” he replied, and Nagito sank into him meekly. Izuru’s hand slid out of his hair and down to his throat, rubbing the fresh reminders that Nagito still belonged to him, that he was still wanted. “What you need to get through your head is that I’m seldom interested in making you suffer for your numerous failings. If I punish you in the traditional sense, I don’t get anything from it. If I punish you in a way that actually works, then your self-deprecation habit worsens. When you perceive the entire world as boring and as though nothing in it matters, then you do not wish to waste time on morals that will not stick with people who will not listen to reason.”
“Get rid of me. Please, throw me to the wayside.”
“Nagito, I need you just as much as you need me.”
The words slipped out of his mouth before he really knew what he was saying, but he didn’t disagree with them. He hated to think about it, but he did. He needed Nagito like he needed air in his lungs, like he needed his wild nerves soothed and like he needed to be useful. He needed Nagito like a child needed their creepiest doll, the one they kept on a shelf with its back to them until a terrible storm came by and they suddenly needed the guidance of something far more terrible. He needed Nagito like a body needed warmth, and Nagito, in his own right, gave him that warmth all on his own, even with the iron deficiency that made his fingers freezing cold when they came to rest on Izuru’s back in the middle of the night.
“Oh.” That was all Nagito said for a moment. “Oh. Why me?”
Still, he could salvage this. “I prefer you to everyone else I’ve met. You’re less boring.” Fuck. That was the opposite of salvaging things. Nagito’s eyes were sparkling now, actually. “You’re mine.”
“Yours?” He was continually making things worse, actually.
“Until you physically cannot stand the weight of it anymore, you’re mine.” Worse still. “I treat the things I consider my own with a certain tenderness, and to see you debase yourself to such indignity when you think it’ll please me is insulting. You know nothing pleases me. The only baseline urge I have is to benefit someone else. I’m a conduit for other peoples’ urges, so I will conduct your maintenance if you refuse to do it yourself.”
That sounded suspiciously like a love confession, he’d realize the next day. If it wasn’t, then it was definitely a statement of his neverending devotion.
Still, Nagito just muttered “yours” under his breath incredulously, not quite believing it nor catching onto what Izuru said. He started crying again at some point, wetting the sleeves of his robe this time, and Izuru held him through all of it. He tired himself out not long after, and Izuru laid down with him, his arm tucked in the crook of Nagito’s neck as they laid face-to-face with one another. His other arm snaked up behind him, delicately braiding Nagito’s hair into something that wouldn’t get tangled as he slept, then settled on his waist. Then, he planned.
Mentally, he mapped out all three meals for tomorrow, the ‘excuse’ he’d give Junko when she asked about their impromptu vacation (“I had no interest in serving your whims”), as well as when he and Nagito would shower. He traced out every spot he’d press kisses to once he woke up the next morning with his eyes, the kisses that he really wanted to give him, not the ones that he would allow just because they shared an encounter from time to time. Everything he did for Nagito came from a place of care, of concern, and it frustrated him to no end that Nagito discounted it. If he valued Izuru so much, if he thought so highly of him, then why didn’t those opinions matter? Why were those ones the only ones he thought were wrong?
Why couldn’t Nagito see that every word Izuru spoke to him was crafted with the only love, the only feeling, that his miserable shell of a body had ever felt?
Every once in a while, Izuru had hope. That didn’t necessarily mean he wanted to abandon Junko, but he considered it. His hope, however, was not hope for the world he was meant to protect; Izuru’s hope stemmed from a desire that someday, somewhere, Nagito would finally understand the lens through which Izuru saw him.
----
Nagito still didn’t understand when they parted for the final time on Jabberwock Island, all of the Remnants locked in their pods after Izuru, as their acting leader, told them to surrender to it. He didn’t tell any of them why, nor about Junko’s consciousness on the hard drive that was burning a hole in his pocket, but Nagito was the first to agree regardless. He’d follow Izuru to the ends of the earth, trusting him with every fiber of his being no matter what it meant for him. He even gave Izuru a little wave with his real hand and a cheerful smile before the effects of the anesthesia overtook his body, his weak constitution folding under it in a matter of a few seconds.
Izuru didn’t go down so easily. He watched them all fall asleep, the friends and family members of people who once led happy, normal lives, ones that were now dead. He used to be one of those happy, normal people, he knew, and soon, that person might have their life back. It depended on if the plan worked or not, and silently, he rooted for it not to. He rarely saw it in all the time they spent together, but apparently, Nagito was an arrogant little shit before they met; if he could feel happiness, that would be the event that would have elicited it.
He took one last look at his Remnants, then at Nagito, before plunging the hard drive into the slot in one quick, stealthy motion. He was still staring at Nagito’s sleeping face when sleep pulled him under.
----
“Nagito, enough!”
Behind him, Nagito cackled, still hanging his full weight off of him while Hajime tried to brush the taste of sex out of his mouth. The white foam still dotted his lips for a moment before he spat it out, elbowing him in the side playfully. “I wouldn’t be ignoring you right now if you got underneath my arms, but it’s so much more difficult to brush my teeth when you’re monopolizing my arms.”
“You shouldn’t be ignoring me anyway. You promised me penance for watching me trip on the boardwalk earlier,” he retorted, swaying both of them lightly. His cheek pressed against Hajime’s, nuzzling against his face in a way he’d learned to reciprocate, cool metal fingers dancing across his chest. He’d held that metal hand a little while ago, purely out of the symbolism of it, while Nagito stroked himself to completion underneath him, arching beautifully off of Hajime’s bed. When he did, Hajime noticed he couldn’t see his ribcage pressing against the skin like he usually could, straining to break free. He felt a glow of pride over it, and he had fully intended on touching him all over when they got back into bed again.
He didn’t say that. Instead, he said, “I just gave you my undivided attention for two straight hours. Besides, you were the one who wasn’t watching where he was going. There was pretty obviously a loose board there.”
“Yeah, and who was the one who laughed at me when it happened, Hajime?” As revenge for earlier, Nagito jabbed him in the stomach with two fingers, and Hajime let out a strangled sound underneath him, trying to squirm away. “Come back to bed. Lay down with me.”
“It’s not even that late. We could still go out and-”
Ah, and there it was. Nagito pulled him right into a kiss, giggling all the while, and Hajime sank right into his grasp. He couldn’t help it; something about Nagito won him over before they woke up from the Neo World Program, and he’d deal with his quirks without complaint so long as they still loved one another.
(Mostly without complaint. By then, it was rarely a mark of actual annoyance as opposed to teasing or trying to get away from too-eager hands and Shakespearian soliloquies. There was still plenty to complain about, and their friends did, but Hajime found something endearing in him.)
He begrudgingly followed Nagito back to bed, two mattresses hastily stitched together and put on a different framework than most of the other ones on the island, sitting down on the edge after Nagito threw himself into the sheets and wrapped himself up in them. He wasn’t necessarily an Adonis, but with the way the sheets curled around him, white hair fanning his head in a halo, he may as well have been. Hajime slid in beside him, only for his face to immediately be attacked with kisses and unbridled affection. “Hey, hold on, at least let me lay down before you start!”
“Start what?” he asked, feigning innocence between his assault. “I’m not starting anything. I started loving my boyfriend a long time ago, if that’s what you’re saying. God, Hajime, terrible at geometry, even worse at speaking…”
He trailed off, and Hajime, despite himself, laughed at his own expense, earning the kind of smile from Nagito that lit up his entire face. “I know where you put your key when you came in. I could always just go back to your cabin if you’re gonna be difficult.”
“No, don’t do that!” He immediately latched onto Hajime tighter, and Hajime wasn’t sure he could have pulled away if he wanted to. Goddamn, Kazuichi made that arm strong. “Stay here. I’m here, and I want to be with you.”
“Yeah, and I want to be with you. Let me get up for a second, I’m going to turn off the light.” With a soft huff, Nagito let go of him, sitting up and watching as Hajime walked to the switch and flipped it. He kept his gaze on him the entire time, as if he didn’t trust him not to leave, and he only relaxed again when Hajime took his spot again. He wrapped his arms around Nagito’s waist, and Nagito draped his arms over his shoulders in turn, letting out a sigh of relief and shutting his eyes. Hajime briefly reached up to brush a lock of hair out of his face. It had gotten longer, he noticed, longer than it had when they first woke up and Nagito chopped half of it off in frustration. “You okay?”
“Mhm. ‘Course I am.”
“You sure?”
“It’s just-” Nagito sighed exasperatedly, his eyes half-opening again, starting off in a way that made Hajime knew he was decidedly not okay. “You don’t really mean it, do you? You’re not going anywhere?”
Hajime shook his head. They’d spoken about it before, dozens of times, starting right back when Nagito first woke up. Back then, Hajime sat with him for hours, sleeping in the chair beside his bed, and when he finally got up to get food for the two of them, Nagito grabbed his sleeve and begged him to stay. Hajime had to promise that he’d be back for Nagito to let go, and when he came back, Nagito burst into tears, laughing hysterically all the while. He didn’t expect him to stick with his promise, he told him. He thought he’d run away, just like most everyone else did. Hajime was at his side from then on, day in and day out, good times and bad. “Even if I did, it’s not like I can lock you out.”
“It’s the sentiment. If you did it, I’d stay away. That doesn’t bother you, does it? All the- the talking out of turn, and making fun of you?”
“Nagito, I like it when you have fun. I’m not mad at you for doing it.” Nagito blinked, still shocked no matter how many times Hajime said it. “I like you a lot, okay?”
The gears were still spinning behind his eyes. “I’m yours?”
“Sure. You’re mine.” Hajime squeezed his hip lightly. “We could get stupid shirts that say… I dunno. ‘If lost, return to Hajime’, or something.”
“That’s horrendously tacky,” Nagito replied, his nose crinkling up, and Hajime laughed. Nagito pulled him closer, if that was possible, allowing Hajime to have some of the blankets (even if he knew Nagito would take them back within ten minutes of falling asleep), and he put his face in the crook of Hajime’s neck. “Is there an antithesis to an ultimate? You’re the anti-ultimate of good taste. Ultimate bad taste.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You picked out Hope’s Peak’s reserve course for high school,” he retorted, kissing his neck as Hajime conceded with a groan. “I know I’m supposed to be the lucky one, but you’re awfully fortunate to have such a cool, talented ultimate to spend time with. I don’t know what you would do without me.”
“Lead a more normal life?”
Nagito ignored him completely. “You’d just be so lost. It would be sad, Hajime. Someone else would have to pick you up off the street like some kind of abandoned puppy, and- hey!” Hajime shoved him, and he cut himself off with a laugh, shoving him right back. “Hajime, knock it off!”
Hajime loved those four walls. He loved those cabins, and he loved the confines of Jabberwock Island, recovering and learning to deal with the post-despair world in the secluded comfort of a tropical paradise. More than anything, he loved Nagito, and he loved seeing him like that: arrogant, comfortable, and happy.
They stopped play fighting eventually, devolving back into lazy kisses that led to Nagito falling asleep midway through one. He still had a tough time admitting when he was at the brink of exhaustion, but Hajime was helping. The actual therapist and minimized stressors were helping, too, but he attributed every ounce of his improvement to Hajime and the rest of his friends. Whatever affected him before the killing game, still in his time spent brainwashed and delirious, was locked behind a wall that Hajime couldn’t access; everyone else got to sit in on the group therapy sessions, but he ever-so-conveniently didn’t have any memories of that era.
He hadn’t heard or seen anything from Izuru since that final conversation with Enoshima. He still had one red eye, and his hair grew in a slightly darker brown, stringier and looser, but otherwise, there wasn’t any evidence that he’d been operated on at all. He couldn’t feel it. He didn’t even know if Izuru was still there or if he had been purged from his body entirely. He couldn’t access any of that ever-useful talent, but his friends loved him anyway. He hung out with former ultimates, with the ex-Remnants, and they thought he was more than valuable to them once everything was said and done.
Nagito liked him. He didn’t talk about that time in his life, and while he still revered talent, he found something in Hajime that he liked just as much. He found reasons to worship him, and in turn, Hajime adored feeling useful, bringing up Nagito’s confidence and doting on him when Nagito would allow it.
In all honesty, it kind of turned Nagito into an asshole if he wasn’t one already. Hajime didn’t mind. All it meant was that Nagito knew he had some real value, that he meant something to people, and he was content with that. How could he be upset when it all came from a place of love?
That’s what Hajime fell asleep thinking about that night, admiring the marks on Nagito’s skin, from the IV scars on his arm to the faded friction burns on his neck.
----
When Izuru woke up again, he was staring at Nagito’s sleeping face again. His hair didn’t fall down his back again, and he wasn’t wearing his suit- or anything at all, for that matter. They weren’t in a tank. Nagito’s ever-cold fingers had been replaced with metal, warm and humid under- under the tropical heat? He couldn’t tell, and he didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to wake Nagito up. There was someone waking up in the back of his head, a new, nagging voice yelling at him from his psyche, and Izuru groaned internally when he realized he was now sharing the body he’d been unwillingly placed into. What a pain.
More importantly, though, Nagito’s cheeks were glowing that healthy pink he loved so much. He still loved him. That’s what he and the voice concurred on, evidently.
Ah, well. He let his head drop back onto the pillow and shut his eyes, holding Nagito close to his chest. He’d deal with it in the morning. He didn’t care enough to think about it so late at night.