#: I love loove your canon au divergent version of getouh — it's hellaaa

[ratiosalaryman]

[ lit ]  your muse lighting a cigarette , spliff , etc. for mine . 

@getouh : ( answered non-sexual acts of dominance — accepting ) getouh lights → nanami's cig

It was time to come up for air. The heavy metal door swings heavy behind him as he puts the cigarette to his lips, stepping free of the threshold of sterile office silence and numbing fluorescent lights. He is greeted by the setting sun on a Tokyo skyline. The neon lights of the metropolis flicker to life around him, casting eerie green and crimson light on the towering monolithic building behind him. A reminder of his deadline, Nanami sighs, sucking dead air through his teeth as he acquiesces to the night's trials. Tie askew, Nanami finally takes off his suit jacket, folding it beneath his arm as he searches for a lighter. He finds his financial report, instead. Frustrated, he sighs as he pulls out a pen and props himself on the concrete boundary. He folds the paper in half, tired and body feeling like a damned punching bag, he scrapes his eyes over the numbers again, irritable that he had pocketed something so important amidst a deadline. He senses something sick on his periphery, but he's easy to ignore the impending choke of cursed energy. Better to weigh the day's plaguing deadlines. But there is something familiar in the click of shoes upon the pavement. An unwelcome presence that cuts through Kento Nanami's arithmetic reverie.

Nanami's eyes lift from the spreadsheet, meeting Getouh Suguru's gaze with measured disinterest. A "miss me, Nanami—?" plays on the man's dark eyes, smugness dripping off every movement, every gesture as he encroaches. There is a great assuredness in him that Nanami hasn't met before. This isn't the Suguru Getouh he knew. The confidence is different, not the same humble confidence that he admired before. It can't be— The man produces a lighter out of nowhere. His ex-upper class-man smiles mockingly at him, pressing too close-- Nanami meets his eyes with stiff stoicism, and without waiting for permission, Getouh flicks open the lighter. The flame dances to life as he leans in. A cackle of flint and steel lights up the hard lines of Nanami's face, his cool eyes not leaving Suguru as he casually lights his cigarette. The acrid scent of burning tobacco fills the air as Nanami inhales, a gesture more of compliance than desire. The smoke curls around them like a twisted dance, unresolved tension that hangs thick between the two men. Nanami's eyes narrow, the distaste evident on his face as he turns his head to exhale a lazy plume of smoke. Getouh leans against the concrete wall, watching him with the dark eyes of a shark that tastes the scent of blood. The rhythmic pulse of traffic sounds continues on and on around them, and the wind picks up. "I'm on break," he says, his voice carrying a subtle edge. He notices the sheet in his hand has been crushed in the interim, and Nanami silently folds the paper in irritation to tuck it away. He rolls up his sleeves, a tick of his, to then flick away the ashes, seeming more interested in anything else, save the black hole on his periphery— Suguru. The glow of the cigarette tip illuminates his features, sans glasses, his cursed tool replaced with the mundane air of over time weariness and annoyance. No one is here to witness this ghost return, save Kento Nanami, salary man. He's retired from this bullshit, for fucks sake.