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Nagito was not afraid of being seen with a weapon. Even right after Nekomaru's murder, that sentiment didn't change. As he walked out of the Final Dead Room, loaded pistol in hand, the one thing on his mind wasn't fear at being labeled a killer, nor was it anticipation due to the information he had uncovered. As he glanced down at the gun clasped between his pale, slender fingers, the only thing he could think of was Hajime. It was inappropriate, disrespectful even, to be having intense sexual fantasies when one of their classmates had just been found dead. But propriety had never stopped Nagito before. In fact, the taboo of it only sharpened the sense of desire twisting and churning in his gut.
Due to the nature of the investigations, it wasn't difficult for Nagito to find Hajime alone. The other boys had already returned to Nekomaru’s body by the time Nagito reappeared, which made things easier. Hajime was alone, hunched over the central table in the Strawberry House lounge, frowning at the inner mechanics of the clock that had previously been hanging on the wall. His hair was messy, his brows furrowed in deep concentration, so focused he didn’t notice the soft creak of the door or the hush of footsteps against the plush carpet. Nagito stood for a moment in the threshold, watching. His heart beat steadily, not from fear or adrenaline, but from something far more intimate. There was something divine about Hajime in moments like these; alone, unaware, vulnerable. If Nagito could have stayed like that, simply watching, he might have. But opportunity demanded action.
"Hey Hajime." His voice, raspy and low from lack of water, cut through the silence like a knife. Hajime startled, his entire body tensing as he whipped around.
"Jesus Christ," he spat, eyes narrowing the moment he registered who it was. “I told you to go away. Why the hell are you -”
His voice cracked like a whip, raw with irritation and exhaustion. Nagito could hear it, the edge of fear behind the fury. It made his smile widen, just slightly.
“You’re like a damn roach,” Hajime snapped, rubbing his temples with a shaky hand. “No matter what I do, you keep coming back. Creeping around like some freak -”
His words halted abruptly as Hajime’s eyes fell to the weapon in Nagito’s hand.
The air in the room changed instantly, as if a vacuum had opened. He froze, mouth slightly ajar, his eyes flicking between Nagito’s face and the barrel now casually raised toward him. He felt his heart stop as he registered what was in front of him, Nagito's eyes dark and smile wide as always. His legs bumped the edge of the table behind him, and he stiffened. Rage drained from his face, replaced by something far colder—numb shock giving way to the roots of panic. Nagito chuckled at this change, moving forward with him as if this were a tango.
"Now now, my beloved Hajime. No need to get feisty. If I intended to kill you, I would've done so already. Killing you isn't on the cards today, I just want to... harm you? Show you your place? Play with you, I suppose."
Nagito mused out loud, running his thumb up and down the handle of the metal object clenched in his hand. He tilted his head to the side, eyes scanning up and down Hajime's face, his heaving chest as he hyperventilated. Nagito could see the gears turning in his head, the calculation of risk, escape, motive. He knew Hajime was smart, but in this moment, he was also cornered. The fear behind his eyes was delicious, tragic, and achingly beautiful.
He took another step forward, closing the distance between their bodies, dropping the gun down slightly to rest against the soft skin of the others neck. Nagito lowered his head to the other side of the brunette's neck, tracing gentle kisses up and down where his artery would sit, contrasting the pressure of cold metal digging into the other side.
“You’ve been trying to remember your talent for, what, four weeks now?” Nagito continued, eyes scanning over him like he was admiring a piece of art. “At first, I thought it was cute. You stumbling around like a lost puppy, looking for meaning. But now… it’s just sad.” He whispered, lips gently grazing the others skin, causing him to shudder from the light touches.
Hajime’s hands curled into fists at his sides. His face flushed, not with embarrassment, but with frustrated helplessness. Nagito knew that look. He’d seen it before, in flashes, during quieter moments.
“I went into that room,” Nagito murmured, “and my reward was finding out what you are.”
For a split second, Hajime’s fear was eclipsed by a different emotion; hope. He pushed forward, hand rising cautiously to the weapon in Nagito’s grasp, not aggressively, but with just enough pressure to gently lower it.
“Monokuma told you?” Hajime’s voice cracked with urgency. “He told you what my talent is?” The sudden shift in his tone was undeniable, desperate, hungry, fragile, as if he were a child who had been granted his greatest wish.
Nagito said nothing at first. He just smiled, and that was enough. Hajime saw the answer in his expression before the words came.
"Hajime, the truth is… you’re just as worthless as me. You don’t have an Ultimate. You’re a reserve course student who paid to get in. You have nothing that makes you special. You are nothing."
The light drained from Hajime’s eyes like a dying star. He staggered backward half a step, lips parting slightly. His body didn’t crumple, but it stilled as if part of him had just been shut off.
Nagito watched him fall apart. Slowly. Completely. And it made something inside his chest tighten, relishing and glowing in the painful beauty of Hajime's despair.
“You’re nothing to them,” Nagito said softly, stepping close enough that their bodies nearly touched, “but this means you’re just like me. This means that I can love you in all the ways I want to, without it being wrong. Because two worthless people can be together, right?”
He reached up with his free hand and threaded his fingers through Hajime’s hair, tugging gently. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make him look up. Hajime didn’t speak. He didn’t pull away. He just stood there, trembling slightly, lips parted like he wanted to protest but didn’t have the strength to do so. His large brown eyes gazed up at Nagito, the dejected look a clear indicator of just how crushed he was truly feeling. Nagito was expecting him to react in anger, to threaten him and scream that he was a liar. Instead, he got to see him break. He saw the light of hope in his eyes shatter and felt the fluttering of his heart grow stronger.
“There it is,” Nagito whispered softly, pulling his face away from the others neck. “That's the look... you wear despair so beautifully, Hajime, despite how ugly the feeling is.”
He pressed closer, until the cool barrel of the pistol slid under Hajime’s chin, tilting his face upward. Hajime stiffened, breath catching in his throat with a sharp inhale.
“See?” Nagito murmured, voice almost reverent, his lips only a few centimeters away from Hajime's. “You follow so easily when you’ve lost everything.”
The metal dragged slowly from Hajime’s chin to the center of his throat, and then lower still, trailing down the fabric of his shirt, over his chest. Hajime shivered, uncertain whether it was fear, arousal, or some horrific fusion of both.
“You’re shaking,” Nagito observed with a breathy smile. “Is it because you’re scared of me?”
Hajime didn’t answer.
“Or is it because you like this?”
He shifted the gun lower, letting the cold tip press just below Hajime’s navel through the cloth of his shirt. His other hand found Hajime’s wrist, his long, cold, slender fingers easily wrapping around him, firm but not painful, anchoring him there as the tension between them simmered into something new. Something hotter.
“You let me touch you before, didn’t you?” Nagito mused. “Back then, it was different. I was different, hiding. You still thought you had potential. But now you know the truth, and you’re still not pushing me away.”
Hajime swallowed hard. His body was betraying him; flushed skin, shallow breathing, the way his hips jerked slightly at the touch of the weapon.
Nagito chuckled. “It’s okay. I like that you’re a little broken now. It means I don’t have to hold back.”
He eased the gun downward, letting it glide along the waistband of Hajime’s pants.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked softly, almost sincerely.
Hajime opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He just stared at him, paralyzed and flushed, breath stuttering as the muzzle pressed lightly, insistently, between his thighs. The cold pressure of the metal sent shocks through his body as he gasped at the sensation.
"That's what I thought," Nagito whispered, lips curling into a crooked smile. “You’re letting me. You want it just as bad as I do.”
The barrel shifted, dragging along the inseam of Hajime’s pants, then pressing up beneath the fabric, unfastening nothing, just there. Cold steel against warm skin. Hajime’s breath hitched violently, hips jerking back before the table blocked him.
“I could pull the trigger right now,” Nagito murmured, voice low and dreamy. “Blow a hole straight through your pelvis. You'd bleed out in minutes. But I'm not going to. You know why?”
Hajime swallowed, chest heaving. He still didn’t speak, but the shaking of his hands said enough to make up for it.
“Because you’re already ruined,” Nagito continued. “I don’t need to kill you. I just want to watch you come apart. Fall to pieces because of me.”
He reached with his free hand and popped the button on Hajime’s pants with casual ease. The zipper followed, slow and deliberate, revealing lightly tanned skin beneath strained fabric. The gun followed like a lover’s touch, gliding along sensitive skin, nudging beneath the waistband of his boxers, as if it had a mind of its own.
Hajime's knuckles whitened against the table behind him. Every muscle in his body was taut, trembling, not from resistance, but from the unbearable pressure of anticipation. Shame, confusion, and heat rolled in waves across his face.
“You’re hard already,” Nagito said softly, in awe. “How wonderfully pathetic.”
The barrel slid beneath the waistband entirely now, resting against the curve of Hajime’s erection. The sudden jolt of cold made him gasp, knees nearly buckling. He let out a small, choked noise, humiliation, or arousal, or both.
“It feels good, doesn’t it?” Nagito breathed. “Knowing I could destroy you, and instead I’m doing this. Treating you like something I own. Like a favorite toy I’m polishing with my thumb.”
His thumb circled the trigger lightly as he spoke, not pulling, just teasing the idea. The implication lingered in the air like smoke: danger, closeness, inevitability. His lips grazed Hajime's ear as he whispered to him, his own pants straining at the sight of someone fully in his control.
Hajime finally moved, barely. His hips gave the tiniest, involuntary thrust forward against the barrel. Just a flicker of motion, but enough. Enough for Nagito to moan, low and broken, like the contact had cracked something open in him.
“That’s it,” he whispered, almost reverently. “That’s what I want. That perfect little moment where you give in, even though everything in you says you shouldn’t.”
The gun began to move slow, methodical strokes along the underside of Hajime’s cock, still trapped by cloth, still untouched by hands. Nagito didn’t need his fingers; he had the weight of threat and the cool kiss of steel. It was enough. Hajime trembled like a wire stretched to its limit, like any moment the last part of him would snap. His lips parted slightly, small quiet whines escaping his mouth as he felt the steel become slick with his own fluids.
“Do you want me to use my hands instead?” Nagito asked. “Or should I keep going like this? Make you cum untouched, just from fear and shame and the weight of the truth?”
Still, Hajime said nothing. But he didn’t pull away. His head fell forward against Nagito's shoulder with a dull thud, lips parted, breath shallow and fast.
Nagito leaned in, lips teasing the shell of his ear, breath tickling the sensitive skin of his neck.
“You don’t need a talent, Hajime. You just need a purpose. And I’ve already found it for you.”
Hajime didn’t speak. His head was still tilted forward, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted in stunned silence. His body betrayed him, trembling and flushed, the outline of his arousal obvious beneath his half-undone pants. Nagito stood before him like a supplicant at an altar, the pistol nestled between them as both weapon and offering.
“You're still holding back,” Nagito whispered. “Even now, you're pretending this is something I'm doing to you. But it’s not. This is what you wanted the moment you saw me with the gun.”
The muzzle pressed harder, just enough to force a low, stifled sound from Hajime’s throat. Not a protest. Something closer to a moan, strangled by denial.
“I could ruin you with this,” Nagito said, his voice hushed and reverent. “And you’d let me.”
He leaned in, lips brushing Hajime’s neck, not kissing, just breathing him in. He let his tongue graze the skin slowly, contrasting the intimacy of breath and heat with the coldness between them below.
Then, Nagito pulled back slightly and let the gun fall, only briefly, so he could drag down Hajime’s pants the rest of the way. Hajime gasped, stumbling slightly, too dazed to resist. His boxers followed in one slow, deliberate pull.
“Perfect,” Nagito murmured, eyes wide as he took in the full sight of Hajime exposed, vulnerable, trembling against the table, cock flushed and already slick at the tip. “You’re so much more honest when you’re humiliated.”
He lifted the gun again - not at Hajime’s head, not at his chest, but low and deliberate. The barrel kissed the underside of Hajime’s shaft again, and this time, Nagito dragged it slowly upward in a full stroke, watching intently as Hajime arched his back.
“You're going to cum for me,” Nagito said softly, like he was stating a prophecy, not a command. “But not with just the gun.”
He lowered himself, crouching down between Hajime’s legs, pistol still gripped in one hand. The other hand, warm and shaking slightly, reached forward to cup the base of Hajime’s cock. He stroked it once, then twice, letting the gun rest along the side as though guiding his movements.
Hajime’s fingers twisted against the table’s edge, breath choked in his throat. His hips bucked involuntarily forward.
Nagito exhaled a shaky breath. “Even when you hate me, your body listens.”
His mouth replaced his hand. Hot, wet, unrelenting. His tongue traced along the underside of Hajime’s cock while the cool barrel of the gun continued to press against it in tandem. Heat and metal, saliva and steel. The contrast was maddening. Hajime’s knees buckled again, and he cried out, quietly, but enough. Enough to betray how close he already was. Nagito gripped Hajime's thigh, looking up at him through his eyelashes as his throat clenched around the tip of Hajime's length. He made a satisfied humming sound, sending vibrations down through Hajime's dick, causing him to let out a particularly loud whimper.
Nagito pulled back, saliva glistening at the corner of his mouth. He let the gun slide up the length once more before tapping the barrel gently against the head.
“Beg for it,” he said, voice hoarse and electric. “Beg me to let you cum with a gun against your cock.”
Hajime shook his head weakly, but his body leaned forward into the pressure. His eyes were glassy, glazed over with something between resistance and surrender.
“Please,” he whispered finally, broken and hollow. “Just do it. Please let me.”
That was enough. Nagito resumed his pace, mouth and hand working together in fluid rhythm, the gun a constant presence against Hajime’s skin—cold, precise, unforgiving. His tongue teased the underside of his tip, drawing even more whimpers and whines from the mouth of the brunette. Hajime's left hand flew to the head of the boy below him, fingers tangling in his fluffy locks, tugging on the strands as if begging him for more.
Hajime came with a stifled cry, hips stuttering forward, legs shaking as he slumped back against the table like a marionette with its strings cut. Nagito swallowed everything, slowly and methodically letting his throat take the liquid down, watching through his lashes as Hajime lost control of his actions.
Once he was sure Hajme was done, he opened his mouth, releasing his cock from the warmth and letting it bounce back down against Hajime's leg. He stood back up, licking his lips, eyes alight with reverence and ruin.
“You look like a painting,” Nagito murmured, brushing a damp strand of hair from Hajime’s forehead with his fingertips. “Fallen, hollow, beautiful. Even your shame is divine.”
Hajime’s only response was a ragged breath. His gaze darted to the side. He wouldn’t meet Nagito’s eyes.
Nagito’s breathing was shallow. His entire body trembled, not from fear but from a kind of euphoria. He had tasted it, Hajime’s surrender. And now, he wanted more.
“You made me feel alive again,” he whispered, voice shaky. “You... you gave me something to worship.”
He brought the gun back up, not as a threat, but like a religious relic, and tucked it between them, cradling it in both hands before pressing it gently against Hajime’s palm. Hajime flinched at the cold metal, fingers instinctively curling away before Nagito guided them forward again, slowly.
“I want you to help me,” he said quietly, his voice almost childlike. “You made this happen, so... you should see it through.”
Hajime swallowed hard, but he didn’t pull away. His fingers curled slightly, hesitant, but responsive.
“That’s it,” Nagito breathed, unzipping himself with his other hand. His cock sprang free, flushed and twitching, already smeared with precum. “You’re doing so well. Isn’t this nice? We’re equals like this. We’re the same.”
He pressed the gun between them again, sliding it between their joined hands so the cold metal nestled beneath his shaft as they moved.
Hajime tensed at the contact. The contrast of skin and steel sent an unintentional shiver up his spine. Nagito let out a low groan, rolling his hips forward slightly into their shared grip.
“Use it,” he whispered. “Please. Stroke me with it. I want to feel both of us, you, touching me through it.”
Hajime obeyed, slowly, dragging the barrel along the length of Nagito’s cock, guided by their joined hands. It was messy, clumsy, far from elegant—but it was intimate. Their fingers tangled, palms pressing together with sweat and tension as they worked in tandem.
“Just like that,” he whispered. “Together.”
He guided their rhythm, both their hands slick against the shaft, the barrel of the gun running alongside it with a chilling metallic scrape that made him shudder. Hajime’s breathing was uneven, tense, held tight in his chest, but his grip stayed steady.
“It’s not just the gun, Hajime. It’s you. Your hands on me. That’s what makes it feel like this.”
Hajime swallowed thickly. His jaw was tight, his expression unreadable, but there was no denial. Just the awful, quiet honesty of someone who’d given up on pretending to stop this.
“Fuck,” Nagito gasped. “You’re perfect like this. Complicit. Beautiful and broken and mine.”
Hajime finally spoke, low and bitter. “You keep saying that like it’s a good thing.”
“It is,” Nagito moaned, leaning into him, their foreheads nearly touching. “This is the only thing that’s right.”
Their movements quickened. The slide of skin against steel, the wet sound of their strokes, the burn of heat and pressure mounting with every motion, it was overwhelming. Hajime’s breath hitched, and he squeezed his eyes shut, lips parted but silent now, as if speaking again would make it worse.
“Look at me,” Nagito whispered, trembling. “Please, Hajime, just look at me while I fall apart. See what you do to me.”
Hajime did. Slowly. Almost like he regretted it.
But Nagito came the moment their eyes met, with a sharp gasp and a full-body shudder, his release spilling across their joined hands and the black metal beneath.
Silence followed, broken only by their breathing. Hajime finally pulled his hand away, wiping it on his shirt with a disgusted twist of his mouth.
“This didn’t mean anything, don't go getting ideas. This wasn't like back then.” he muttered, voice thin and exhausted.
“Maybe not to you,” Nagito whispered, smiling faintly through the crash of post-orgasmic bliss. “But it meant everything to me.”
He leaned forward, resting his head against Hajime’s shoulder, not caring about the mess between them.
“You’re my hope, Hajime. And now you’re a part of me. Forever.”