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The air always smelled different after Utage left. It was probably because she’d open the windows, airing out his musky humid apartment (always in a room Tamon wasn’t in, or else he’d shrivel away like an anemic vampire), or maybe because she actually took out the buildup of trash he surrounds himself with to remind him of his place in the world.
But sometimes he swears her scent stuck around in the air behind her where she walked, something floral, understated but agreeable, that probably came in a bottle the same color as his hair.
Tamon drags his sweaty palms down his face as he stands in the doorway, staring at the empty space where she stood as she waved him a polite goodbye. His breathing trembles as he greedily gulps the air down, his throat tightening.
The Utage that lived in his head glares at him like he’s a piece of chewed up and spit out bubblegum stuck to her shoe. You’re so creepy Gloomyhara. Only freaks and perverts like to sniff girls.
“Ahhh!!” Tamon drops to the ground, rolling back and forth like a turtle stuck on its back while he covers his face in shame. “I’m sorry Miss Kinoshita! I’m so disgusting I should just die!”
When he’s through with his first self-loathing breakdown of the night (the fourth of the day in total) he slinks to the living room like a zombie, tugging the strings of his hoodie closed until all he sees is barely a pinprick of light. He doesn’t deserve the beauty of the world anyway, never mind the sight of his perfectly clean apartment after all of Utage’s hard work taking care of his miserable self.
He’s about to head to his equally miserable bedroom when he sees it. Utage somehow had bottomless pockets when it came to her Church of Tamon merch, constantly pulling out fans and posters and more. Today she had been waving a fabric banner she made herself with Tamon Is God lovingly embroidered in red thread, and had apparently forgotten it draped over the couch.
He shuffles forward as if in a trance, feet catching over the other until he falls over the arm of the couch onto his stomach. His trembling hands pick up the banner, his breath coming in heavy pants as he picks it up. Utage probably worked hours on this, her pretty hands working over the fabric with a needle and thread all night.
Tamon whimpers, a small pathetic sound escaping his mouth as he brings it closer to his face. He hesitates before finally touching it to his cheek and then lets out a broken moan, his eyes fluttering closed in sheer bliss.
All of Utage’s hard work, evidence of her love for Tamon—for Hottiehara.
It feels nice against his skin. Too nice. He should pull away from something so beautiful but he can’t bring himself to stop soiling it with his ugly face.
Unconsciously, Tamon tilts his hips a little deeper into the cushions.
The banner even smelled nice. Slightly like Utage’s perfume, but something else too. Maybe a candle, burning deep into the night in Utage’s room as she worked diligently on the masterpiece Tamon was ruining. Or her bathroom soap, the scent carried from her wrists and rubbed off onto the fabric.
“M-Miss Kinoshita…” Tamon mumbles quietly as he holds the banner over his nose, breathing in deeply. Hot tears prick at his eyes, falling down his face as his hips jerk against the couch. He grabs the banner tightly in his fist, wrinkling it and probably loosening the delicate embroidery. “I-I’m sorry Miss Kinoshita—!”
He might kill himself for real this time. He probably wouldn’t even have to go through all the lengthy steps to get his hands on a gun in this country—they would look at his disgusting self and give him one out of pity, knowing nothing of worth would be lost in the end.
Tamon moans, his dark eyes clouding over with lust as he humps the couch like a pathetic animal. Just the hard edge of the cushion could be enough for him to get off like this.
He doesn’t want to leave a mess for Utage though. The thought of her disgust and disappointment at having to scrub away his useless brain matter off the floor makes him speed up the pace of his hips, grinding against the poor couch that didn’t deserve to be assaulted like this.
How do you kill yourself in a way that doesn’t inconvenience other people?
(That question was already in his search history—the search result reminder of ‘help is always available’ was nearly burned into his monitor at this point.)
Maybe he should just walk into the ocean. Disappear romantically.
The value of all his merch would shoot up if he died, and then Utage would be able to sell it all for a fortune and retire from housekeeping and live out the rest of her life in a grand mansion instead of wasting her funds on airbrushed pictures of his abs. Killing himself might actually be the best thing for her.
Tamon rolls onto his back, sniffling pathetically as he pushes down the band of his sweatpants with his thumb. His cock was just as ugly as the rest of him, curving slightly to the side with an unsightly mole nearly lost in his dyed-pink pubic hair (as required by management).
He hates touching himself. It makes him sick. He does it twice a day. Three times when Utage comes over.
Tamon takes his cock in his hand and squeezes so tightly his stomach rolls with the mix of pain and sick pleasure. Punishing himself for daring to think he deserved to feel good was second nature to him. He jerks himself off fast and hard—he doesn’t take time to enjoy the hot and heavy feeling of arousal, or dare to explore his body to see what he likes. If his mind wandered from the task at hand (literally) at all he was almost guaranteed to lose his erection between the waves of guilt and self loathing.
So he tries as hard as he can to keep his mind empty as he works his fist over his cock. It’s exactly that nonexistent train of thought that leads to him grabbing the crumpled Tamon Is God banner from where it lay over his face like a funeral shroud and instead wrapping it around his cock.
“I’m such garbage!” Tamon huffs, his hips snapping up to fuck into his own fabric-covered fist. “I don’t deserve this!! I don’t deserve to live!! Y-you’re too good for trash like me, Miss Kinoshita!”
He must look so stupid right now. Pink hair messed up everywhere, his mouth gaping open with moans like a beached whale, hooded eyes dark with lust made even darker by his chronic eyebags.
“Ah, hah, I should just kill myself now!!” Tamon pants in sheer exhilaration, throwing his head back as he works his hand over his cock. “It’s exactly what a disgusting, low-life piece of trash like me deserves!”
Without thinking Tamon grabs for the strings of his hoodie and pulls them tight—what usually protects his ugly face from the outside world quickly turns into a makeshift noose as the strings dig into his neck.
What an ugly way to die! Tamon can barely wheeze with the pressure around his throat, but blood doesn’t have to reach his head when it’s all in his dick anyway.
The feeling is ecstatic. Tamon can feel his heart pounding in his skull, his pulse racing faster as he struggles to draw a breath. There’s a stupid smile on his red face as his eyes nearly roll back in his head, but his hand on his cock never slows.
Tamon chokes out what may have been a moan, a scream, or an apology as he comes while pulling his hoodie strings as tight as they could go.
Then he passes out.
He finally comes too a few hours later with a smack to the face, waking up blearily to see Ori over him, yelling about something or other like usual.
“You selfish piece of shit!” Ori smacks him on the head one more time, for good measure. “If you’re going to kill yourself, do it in a way that won’t affect the rest of us! Do you want F/ACE to be known as the group whose leader masturbated to death?!”
A mushroom sprouts on Tamon’s head. “I’m sorry.” He pulls his knees up to his chest, holding them close. “I know, I’m gross, I should just die—“
Ori narrows his eyes. “Eugh. Now when you say that I just think you’re getting off on it.”
Tamon turns onto his side, rocking back and forth slightly. “I’m horrible. I don’t deserve pleasure at all.” His eyes start to water and he sniffles.
Ori isn’t affected by his pathetic aura. He hits Tamon again in the side, and Tamon winces and wiggles like a worm left to die on the sidewalk. “And stay away from your throat next time! Your voice is the only part of you that’s useful.”
“I know, I know.” Tamon sniffles. There’s a wet spot on the couch now from his tears.
Ori yells at him for a few more minutes but eventually the sight of Tamon’s bare ass and tear-streaked face must have been enough to drive him off. It takes about an hour for Tamon to sit up, and then another twenty or so minutes for him to stand—and even then he doesn’t pull up his pants, shuffling towards his bedroom with them around his feet.
He falls onto the perfectly made bed—he doesn’t sleep under the covers most nights. It’s a shame to ruin Utage’s hard work with his selfish desire to sleep.
His eyes flutter closed but then something tickles his nose. The smell. His sheets smell like Utage… or did Utage smell like his sheets?
It was then Tamon realized he’d been fantasizing about the scent of laundry detergent, and as a result he stayed up all night writing potential suicide notes.