Good night

Toxic

Nagito Komaeda was not quintessential, by any means.

Nor was he veritable.
Nor structured.
Nor balanced.

Solitary confinement wasn't so bad- it wasn't as though Nagito had any friends to spend time with, anyway. The only person he cared for had come to visit him, and for that, he was thankful.

Hinata-kun had graciously taken it upon himself to deliver food as Nagito cooed and swayed on the polished wooden floor, his wrists and feet bound with rope. He hadn't forgotten the boys startled reaction throughout their first trial- but he didn't blame himself. No, the truth of hope would have come to Hinata's attention soon enough. But none of that changed the present. He could sense his wariness.

Hinata carried a wounded expression on his face- a meddlesome trait, and Nagito couldn't tell if he was constipated, or terrified.

".........Uh...I bought you some food. We didn't want you to....Starve." he gulped, his feet shuffling anxiously.

A burst of admiration rushed through Nagito in that moment. Hinata had chosen to replenish him, even though he was vermin! A macabre smile had crept onto his lips before he could stop himself. "You brought that for little ol' me? Hinata-kun, you shouldn't have! Will you feed it to me? You'll have to get on your knees to reach me, Hinata-kun! I'm aaaaaall the way down here! On the floor! Hinata?"

Hinata's eyes were soothing to watch (as he squirmed). Chestnut flecks lulled Nagito into their rich, dark depths and held him there, captive and absorbed and lost.

"S-shut up...Freak. You're weirding me out."

F...freak? Blood rushed into foreign regions, for reasons Nagito couldn't explain. He mused for a delicious lifetime, soundlessly, into the rich silence after the storm, justifying his own morbid truth, for he was helpless in dictating his own emotions. He couldn't deny his feelings for Hinata, even if they held no such justification. It was merely...Pure reverence. And an even purer love.

His thudding heart, his thudding heart.

Perspiration was volant to form upon his pale forehead. He felt hot all over, and his skin began to crawl, alive with the sensation of moths and grubs and beetles gnawing beneath the capricious surface. Oh, what a world. Nagito, his creamy hair tousled and damp, lay sprawled upon creaking floorboards like a slutty hostage. Yet he didn't hold any oppositions in having his limbs bound, for he knew how to escape a few pieces of miserable rope.

And to the other students, he unequivocally deserved a punishment. Who was he to object to the wills of ultimates?

Hinata had been staring at him for a while now, wide eyed and visibly tense. Was his predicament too perverse for the ultimate to handle? Nagito absentmindedly wet his lips, excited at the prospect of seducing the boy he liked.

"Komaeda? I'm...I've been meaning to tell you something. I-"

Hinata was crudely whisked away before he could finish. Monomi and her antics were utterly, irrevocably infuriating. Nagito yearned to uncoil the fabric and string that held her lumpy body intact. He wanted to tear her eyes from their sickly cavities as though he was a feral dog, snarling, teeth bared and glistening with malignance. Poised to maul and lacerate her, as many times as he needed to. Rip, burn, rip, burn, rip, burn, rip, burn.

Monokuma was the same. The sight of two inanimate objects, endowed with the idiosyncrasy of sentience, despite lacking any purpose or value, (apart from second-rate comedy) angered Nagito in ways he couldn't explain. And so, at every cue of their upbeat music, he was filled with an impotence of rage.

What did Hinata-kun want to tell him, anyway?

His stomach growled. Ribs bulged through the dirty fabric of his t-shirt. Shifting over in the slightest granted him a waft of his own body odour, which was sour and potent after three days of isolation. He disgusted himself more and more with each passing day.

Boredom had begun to stir within the boy, and so he thirsted for sensation. A sound. A touch. A smell. Anything, anything to awaken his mortality once more. He tried gnawing on the wooden floorboards, but his teeth ached after a few minutes.

He even attempted to slither around like a worm, but he had no lubricant between his naked body and the wooden floor, and burns were quick to form upon his milky skin. Life was so new and breathtaking from the perspective of an insect. Nagito could hardly believe his luck! There really were perks in being an irredeemable, sickly wedge of toxic waste. As enlightening as it was- he knew he could never truly live as a worm. He would never produce mucus, and he would never have a digestive system capable of converting dirt into energy. Life was full of disappointments.

So, if not wormplay, what was a boy to do for fun around here? Maintain homeostasis? Nagito scoffed.

By that point, he had removed the rope from his slender wrists. Soothingly grazing the indents of his ribs with a subdued touch, his mind wandered to Hinata.

He supposed Hajime was handsome, in a rugged kind of way. Nagito enjoyed his body. Somewhat average, a seemingly adequate example of the male physique, and yet unique in its own way. The broad, husky shoulders and slender arms which were full and soft and yet firm, somehow. The way his pants hugged the prominent bulge of his crotch, which never failed to make Nagito ache with want. His hand slid further down still.

Sunlight dousing his caramel locks of hair. His harsh eyes alight with hope and splendor, always eager to entertain the masses. His sympathy. The soft touches and deep chuckles. His firm hands, and those lengthy fingers.

Nagito wondered how they would feel...Stroking in placid lengths. A thumb teasing the tip of his cock as he writhed and moaned. Fingers gripping his width firmly, milking precum from the length of his stiff cock. The faint trace of a curious tongue, probing, teasing. Touching ridges and stretches of skin that Nagito wasn't even aware he had. Shivers cascading down his spine until, tugging greedily, up and down, up and down, up and down...

He sighed, a bony hand still faltering above his erect shaft.

Semen had painted the umber floorboards, and oozed out still, caressing the ridges of his knuckles and the folds of his foreskin. It was morbid and perverse, but Nagito relished the sentiment with fervour.

...

....Nagito's stomach dropped.

The door was...

How long had Hajime been standing there?