stanislawkowalski

[stanislawkowalski]

That Good Old Fashioned Razzmatazz

asinusxdomi  ˗ˏˋ✸ˎˊ˗ independent multimuse OC  feat: Louis Giselle & Giuseppe Castillo  Rules  ˗ˏˋ✸ˎˊ˗ Muses 

HEAVY CONTENT WARNING

[stanislawkowalski]

【 # SAJABOYTELLEM   】     . . .       𝘩𝘦  𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴  𝘰𝘧  𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦,   𝘣𝘶𝘵  𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘴  𝘪𝘯  𝘴𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦.   𝘩𝘦  𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴  𝘧𝘰𝘳  𝘺𝘰𝘶   ⸻    𝘢𝘯𝘥  𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴  𝘩𝘪𝘴  𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦  𝘰𝘯  𝘵𝘩𝘦  𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯  𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭.   consume    me.     ressurect    me.     adore     me   ;    an  independent  and    selective   blog   for   𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐘 𝐒𝐀𝐉𝐀 / 𝐉𝐈-𝐖𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐊   of   the   demonic   Saja   Boys   from   the    Netflix's   KPDH.    canon   divergent ,     headcanon   driven ,    and   heavily ,    heavily   inspired   by   Dead   By   Daylight's   Ji-Woon   Hak   /   The  Trickster   with   AUs    galore.   dark    themes    ahead.    general   rules   so    apply.      summoned    and    voiced    by   bakuna   26+    she / her,      EST.   “i   love   you   to   death”   —   ♡

[stanislawkowalski]

wash me 🧽🧼

[stanislawkowalski]

Nastka stood still in the murky embrace of the alley, a figure carved from shadow and silence, watching Loux with the kind of quiet attention one might pay to a fire—fascination masked beneath the calm of an ancient, unspoken knowing. The violence around him, brutal and unforgiving, was not an affront to his senses; no, it was strangely beautiful, like the dark poetry of destruction. Loux moved through the carnage, his hands stained with the artistry of death, leaving behind a tapestry of blood and ruin that, in its own twisted way, demanded reverence.

The bodies, twisted and broken, lay sprawled in the dim glow of flickering streetlights, the earth beneath them now a canvas smeared with the hues of violence. Blood pooled, dark and rich, like wine spilled across an altar, while the scent of burning flesh hung thick in the air—a heady fragrance that clung to everything, like incense in a forgotten temple. Nastka breathed it in as if it were the breath of some lost, sacred place, neither repulsed nor disturbed, but strangely at peace with it.

His gaze flickered from Loux to the wreckage, a soft smile playing at the edges of his lips. There was no fury, no anger for the carnage. These men, these new faces, had never truly been his. They had been little more than passing shadows, eager but untested, loyal only in the way that those who did not know better could be. Their loyalty was fleeting, like the wind that blows through a cracked window—an illusion, easily broken. They were beneath his notice. But Loux—Loux was something different. Loux was an element, a force of nature, sharp-edged and unyielding. And that, more than anything, intrigued him. The man was an artist of ruin, and Nastka saw the wild joy in it—the kind of dangerous elation that only those who had long shed their fear of the world could understand.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until it felt as though the very air itself held its breath. Nastka moved then, one step forward, each movement deliberate, unhurried. His gaze never left Loux’s, steady and intense, as if drawing him into the center of some quiet storm that had begun to churn between them.

Nastka’s lips curled into a smile, the kind that spoke of something far older than this moment, far deeper than the blood-spattered chaos. "I do not mourn them," he said, his voice a velvet rasp that seemed to curl around the words as they left his lips. "The new ones, they come and go like whispers on the wind. A fleeting blip in the shadow of something far more enduring."

His step was slow, like a predator closing the distance between itself and prey, but there was no rush. No need. The space between them narrowed, and Nastka felt the weight of it settle into him, the charged silence thick as the blood that pooled around their feet. His eyes, dark and unblinking, never wavered from Loux’s as he closed the distance, his presence growing, expanding like a tide that could not be held back.

"No," he continued, his voice deeper now, the words slipping from him like smoke. "I do not care for their lives." His smile deepened, dark and knowing, curling at the edges of his mouth like a serpent’s promise. "What fascinates me, duchu, is you."

Nastka’s hand reached out then, his fingers trailing the air like the whisper of a thought, and brushed against the edge of Loux’s shirt. The touch was light, a mere graze, but it lingered—lingered as if to see if Loux would pull away, to see if the man would break the silence.

"You tread this world," Nastka murmured, voice like ash drifting through candlelight, "as though it bloomed for your ruin alone."

His words slipped into the night like threads of silk unraveling in slow motion, meant not to pierce, but to bind.

"As though the sky once made a pact with your spine—and still bends for you when no one’s watching."

He paused, his gaze steady, deep as drowned stars. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It pulsed. Breathed. "Tell me," he asked, almost idly, "did you sense me at the edges of your violence? Or am I only the quiet hum after your blade sings, the shadow that clings without name?"

There was no grief coiled beneath his tongue. No wrath in his chest for the blood left cooling in Loux’s wake. They had been nothing more than ghosts given form—already fading. But Loux? Loux was poetry. Violence written in a hand Nastka did not yet know, and that made him… almost reverent.

He stepped closer—not to touch, not yet—but to be near, as one stands before a pyre, not to warm themselves… but to remember what burning feels like.

His voice softened, dropped to a thread spun of smoke and sin. "Then come," he breathed, "and carve your gospel across this silence. Show me what you do when even God refuses to watch."

It wasn't challenge. It wasn't surrender. It was a door, opened without promise of return.

In Loux's mind, there really wasn't a whole lot that made sense to him that didn't include violence, manipulation, debts to pay, vendettas to fulfill, lives to take...and like every other moment leading up to this point, he reveled in the madness. Not a godsdamn thing else mattered more than the chaos he wrought in filthy alleyways, washing his hands in the blood of those who sought to undermine him, punishing all around him for the crime of opening their mouths. It didn't need to be understandable for it to be procedurally sound. He was having fun digging his fingernails into flesh and rending it from bone, satisfying a crude baser impulse in the name of exacting due recompense for falsely percieved sleights.

Perhaps he enjoyed it so much because he was a bastard at heart, gaming any circumstance to ensure he came out ahead, all but drenching himself in the reward of his successes. Arrogant and scheming at every turn. Only too few had managed to curb his professional enthusiasm with all the rest being too stupid, fearful, weak, or flat-out incapable of even trying. A shame, really.

He didn't always like it that way. Sometimes, it was more fun to be challenged by someone worthy of his time, or even the insurmountable. Nightfolk always did have an affinity for theatrics and competition, and Loux was no exception.

Alas.

Hovering over the mass of gore before him, he shook his hands free of the excess mess, moving on to flick and wipe away what stuck to his clothes, satisfied with the damage he'd caused. He'd funneled heat into the last man's skull and let science take care of the rest, causing him to burst into pieces like a fiery balloon; Naturally, Loux was henceforth coated in it. He could've burned it all away, cleansed himself without moving a muscle - but there was no greater disrespect than taking the time to mock the puddles of meat around him and plucking the remnants free with a small grin on his face.

He hadn't much cared that a pair of eyes, uninvolved and certainly unwelcome, burned into the back of his head. Let them see. Let them see what happens when a man like Loux is crossed under even barest circumstances. Humans didn't have magic - and no one had magic like Loux.

starter / @stanislawkowalski

[stanislawkowalski]

[ EYES ]: sender notices receiver looking at them.

[ STAB ]: sender stabs receiver.

((((((:

The blade entered him like a lover’s betrayal—quiet, deliberate, and without apology.

Nastka did not recoil. He welcomed it.

The sting was a familiar hymn, its rhythm slow and purposeful, almost languid as it seeped into his side. He felt the pressure, the cold steel threading through flesh, but not the agony that most would have crumbled under. For him, it was something earned, something desired in its own cruel way. His body, worn and weathered, took it as it had taken all things: with open arms, an acceptance born not of weakness, but of purpose.

The sound it made—wet, dull, intimate—was the music of an old friend. He exhaled, a breath pulled from somewhere deeper than the wound, from the center of something that thrived only when touched by darkness. There was no flinch, no gasp, just the slow exhalation of air, steady, amused. He did not recoil from the pain—he embraced it like an old lover's touch.

And in that moment, his eyes met the man’s.

His gaze was a weight.

It held the man in place, pulled him closer, like gravity bending the very space between them. There was no fear in Nastka’s eyes, no terror. Only fascination. Only a deep, unyielding curiosity, as if the very act of this violence had opened a door to something greater—something he had been waiting for.

Blood unfurled its petals through his shirt, slow, luxurious in its red bloom, and yet, his hand lifted—deliberate, like a cat reaching for a favorite toy. There was no urgency in the motion, no panic, only the kind of calm, poised grace of someone who had lived through storms and still knew how to dance in the rain.

His fingers closed around the man’s wrist with tenderness, with an almost delicate insistence. Not to stop the knife, not to force him to retract it, but to hold him there. To make sure that neither the man nor the blade ever left him. As though he was making a promise to himself, to the moment—an unspoken vow that this would not be finished too soon.

And then, as his skin—so pale, so untouched by the violence—pressed against the man’s, Nastka's voice spilled out. It was soft, like a whisper meant for the gods themselves, but laced with cruelty, the venom of something ancient.

"Why rush? You just got here."

The smile that spread across his lips was slow, liquid. It was the kind of smile reserved for something that had been anticipated, something that had been in the making long before the man even thought to raise his hand. It was thick with the weight of years, of stories too old to tell, but too beautiful not to remember.

"Is this it? Your grand revolt?... and here I am, trembling like a prayer."

His grip tightened—not with rage, but with a deep, aching hunger. There was no malice, no resentment in the way he held the man’s wrist. Only longing. The same kind of longing a storm might feel just before it unleashes its fury.

He leaned in, their foreheads nearly brushing, the proximity more intimate than any lover’s touch. The scent of blood mingled with the sharp scent of sweat and the metallic tang of desperation in the air. It was sacred. It was holy. And within it, Nastka found a strange sense of peace, as if this was the moment he had always known would come.

"Go on then. Push deeper. Let’s see what spills—guilt or grace."

Nastka watched him—his pupils wide, his chest rising and falling, his breath shallow, sharp. His eyes held the man, a gaze that never wavered, that never blinked. He didn’t need to say anything more. His silence spoke volumes. He wasn’t angry, nor was he afraid. He was... waiting.

Waiting for the confession.

"You wanted to be seen," he whispered, voice rich as wine poured into a glass at midnight. It was a sound that could have been the wind itself, winding through the trees on a forgotten path.

"and I see you."

And still, the knife remained. // @sajaboytellem

[stanislawkowalski]

nastka's voice

[stanislawkowalski]

「   RP MEME :   NONVERBAL PROMPTS.  mix of violent, caring, touching and non-touching prompts.  」     SEND PROMPT '+ REVERSE' for the inverse to happen. for example 'bandage + reverse' for the receiver to bandage wounds on the sender.

[ BANDAGE ] : sender bandages a wound on receiver.

[ GUIDE ] : sender puts a hand on he receiver's back to guide them somewhere.

[ WAVE ]: sender waves down receiver to get their attention.

[ SIGN ]: sender raises their hand to sign to receiver. what follows can be anything the sender desires.

[ LIFT ]: sender lifts receiver's chin to look at them.

[ LIGHT ]: sender lights receiver's cigarette/candle/etc.

[ FIND ] : sender finds receiver beaten and/or bloodied.

[ PIN ]: sender pins receiver against the wall during combat/sparring.

[ GET DOWN ]: sender tackles receiver out of the way of danger.

[ TAKE ]: sender takes a hit meant for receiver.

[ CAUGHT ]: sender finds receiver somewhere they aren't supposed to be.

[ TRAP ]: sender traps the receiver somewhere they don't want to be.

[ DARLING ]: sender touches receiver's cheek.

[ SNATCH ]: sender snatches receiver's wrist as they turn to go.

[ STAB ]: sender stabs receiver.

[ DRAG ]: sender drags receiver from point a to point b.

[ SIT ]: sender sits on receiver's lap.

[ EN GARDE ]: sender and receiver get into some kind of fight.

[ DRUNK ]: sender finds receiver drunk.

[ BLOOD ]: sender walks into receiver's room covered in blood.

[ FLOWER ]: sender offers a flower to receiver.

[ HOLD ]: sender reaches to hold receiver's hand.

[ BRUSH ]: sender brushes a strand of hair out of receiver's face.

[ NOTE: ] sender writes a note for receiver. the contents are whatever the sender decides.

[ EYES ]: sender notices receiver looking at them.

[ STOP ]: sender raises hand to signal the receiver to stop in place.

[ TAP ]: sender taps receiver on the shoulder to get their attention.

[ WAKE ]: sender gently wakes receiver from a nap or otherwise.

[ MORNING AFTER ]: sender and receiver wake up together for the first time after a night of passion.

[ BLANKET ]: sender drapes a blanket over receiver's shoulders.

[ HUDDLE ]: sender and receiver huddle together in an effort to stay warm.

[ TUG ]: sender pulls receiver away from them.

[ PUSH ]: sender pushes receiver away from them.

[ BULLET ]: sender shoots receiver in a non-lethal area.

[stanislawkowalski]

"Nastka..." His breath felt as if it was knocked from him. Eyes widened before he quickly lunged into a run. "Nastka!" He felt panick ripping at his throat, tearing his lungs so it was extra effort to keep the stride he was. He felt his hips ache as he was dropping to his knees to grab Nastka up.

His immediately felt wet. As he adjusted his grip, he could see the blood on them. He immediately searched for the source of it, pushing despite the pain that it was going to bring the other man. God knows how long he'd been sitting here. He needed to stop the bleeding.

"Who the fuck did this?" Louis rushed his voice out. "--ey! Hey, wake up and stay awake." He commanded, rubbing his sternum to force him up before he went back to work. He could feel his throat getting tighter. Eyes started to sting with worry, but he sucked it in, trying to stay focused. Bloodied hand raised to undo his tie, thankful that he wore one, starting to make a tourniquet, eyes looking for something hard to hold it in place.

"Don't die on me, fucker. You should have called--I would have came!" He chastised him as he felt overwhelmed with Nastka's pallor and shallow breathing. "I--fuck! C'mon. Stay with me."

"I'm with you."

Nastka didn’t remember the fall. Only the stillness afterward—the kind that wrapped him in a quiet embrace, cold and relentless, as if the earth itself had swallowed him whole. The blood on his skin felt distant, like someone else’s pain. The weight of his own body was heavy, but not from exhaustion. It was the weight of inevitability—of endings long waiting for their time.

The sky above him stretched wide, a dull gray that seemed to mock him. It wasn’t the first time he had felt small under such an expanse, but it was the first time he had felt like it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Not now.

Then, the sound of his name.

"Nastka."

The voice was a sharp sting against the silence, slicing through the fog in his chest. Louis. The panic in that voice—he could hear it even through the haze.

Hands. Rough, frantic hands grasped him. Yanking him from the ground, pressing him up like he was worth something, even as the world spun with blood and pain. His body protested, every inch of him aching, screaming at him to stay down, but Louis wouldn’t let him. Louis never did.

Louis’ voice cracked, filled with the sting of frustration, of fear. Nastka didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The world had narrowed to the tight grasp of Louis’ hands on his shoulders, the heat of him, the desperate need that gnawed at his edges.

Nastka’s breath was ragged, shallow. He couldn’t meet Louis’ eyes; he couldn’t bear to see that panic, that brokenness in him. So instead, he did what he knew best. He reached up, his fingers slick with his own blood, and pressed them gently against Louis' wrist, stopping him mid-action.

A moment of quiet. The pressure of Louis’ touch halted, the frantic motions stilled by the softness of the gesture.

Then, slowly, carefully, Nastka brought Louis’ fingers to his lips, kissing them—tender and deliberate—like a seal on a fragile promise.

He pressed the tips against Louis’ lips, his own trembling against the warmth of them. It wasn’t a kiss. Not really. It was something deeper, something that stopped the world in its tracks, if only for a moment.

The air between them thickened, and for the briefest of moments, Nastka allowed himself to sink into it. He let himself feel the warmth of Louis’ chest beneath him, the frantic beat of his heart, like a life he wasn’t sure he deserved.

"---I didn’t call---" he said, his voice low and thick with something broken. "Because I didn’t want you to see me like this, kochanie. Moj aniele....Not you."

A bitter laugh rose in his chest, a sound that didn’t quite belong to him. It was a sad thing, a broken thing that didn’t make it past his lips before the weight of everything pulled it back down.

“I thought maybe... if you didn’t see me broken, I’d stay beautiful in your memory.”

A sharp breath, barely there. His fingers—still pressed against Louis’ lips—faded away into the quiet.

“But you always did ruin good illusions, didn’t you?”

The words left his mouth like ash, swirling in the space between them, heavy with things left unsaid. He closed his eyes, feeling the world blur around him.

And then, just before the world slipped completely away, he whispered, barely audible:

“please... tell me.. will you still remember me, even after this?”

[stanislawkowalski]

Ah, yes. Back online. The chaos can now resume. Who summoned me? Which one of you heathens touched the summoning salt circle @asinusxdomi - blaming you, innit

[stanislawkowalski]

ok i absolutely need to know what accents u all have pls reblog and tell me or comment or whatever I must know

[stanislawkowalski]

Nastka’s silence pressed heavy, intimate—as if words alone couldn’t hold the weight of what hung between them. Kisumi’s nearness wasn’t just accepted, it was drawn in, like smoke into lungs long starved for something ruinous. The tension between them twisted, sweet and suffocating.

Then Nastka moved—slow, deliberate, like a man about to desecrate something holy. His lips brushed Kisumi’s neck first, soft as dusk, lingering at the pulse just beneath the skin. A kiss, then another, slow enough to feel each heartbeat stutter. He let his mouth travel upward—along the curve of Kisumi’s jaw, across his cheekbone, toward the shell of his ear, each kiss spoken as if he were writing poetry directly into flesh.

“Then haunt me, if you must,” he murmured against Kisumi’s skin, breath warm and trembling with wicked reverence. “Wrap yourself around my ribs, stain my lungs. But don’t mistake possession for permanence. I don’t keep things—I burn through them.”

His lips ghosted over Kisumi’s cheek again, then the line of his jaw, before pausing near the corner of his mouth—not kissing, not yet. His hand at Kisumi’s waist tightened, fingers splaying like they meant to claim, not comfort.

“You say you care. You say you’re curious.” A kiss just below the ear now, slow and lingering. “Curiosity is just hunger wearing good manners. And care? Care never stopped anyone from destroying the thing they loved.”

Another kiss, just under the jaw—so gentle it almost felt like mercy.

“You want truth?” he whispered, his lips brushing the curve of Kisumi’s ear, voice dipped in velvet and venom. “I am cruel. I am kind. I’ll hold you like you matter and forget your name in the same breath. And still—” his tone now a hush, “you’ll crawl back, aching to be devoured again. And I will drop to my knees, looking at you as if you were God himself... but still tasting you as you were nothing but Devil...”

Then he pulled back just enough to meet Kisumi’s gaze, his own eyes lit with something dangerous and inviting.

“So stay, Kisumi. Stay, and let’s see which one of us disappears first.”

He tilted his head slightly, fingers curling at the nape of Kisumi’s neck.

“Tell me… do you really think you want to know me fully?”

Nastka laughed—low, like smoke curling from the edge of something burning. He didn’t flinch when Kisumi’s fingers slipped under the fabric, tracing the stories carved into his skin. The scars whispered under the light, each one a quiet confession.

He leaned in, lips near Kisumi’s neck, and the scent of ash and something sweeter—something dying—hung between them.

“If you become ash, you stay,” he whispered. “You cling to skin, to lungs, to memory. You haunt every breath. No one forgets ash.... Leaving’s the easy part, Kisumi. It’s the staying that turns people into ghosts.”

Another scar, kissed by curious fingers. His voice curled like velvet around a blade. “You keep looking like you want answers,” Nastka murmured, thumb brushing Kisumi’s wrist where the pulse trembled beneath skin. “But are you asking out of care… or curiosity?..Be honest, lisie—do you want to soothe the fire… or see how close you can get before it devours you too?”

[stanislawkowalski]

I should be working, but the muse is as large as my pimple !

[stanislawkowalski]

Nastka laughed—low, like smoke curling from the edge of something burning. He didn’t flinch when Kisumi’s fingers slipped under the fabric, tracing the stories carved into his skin. The scars whispered under the light, each one a quiet confession.

He leaned in, lips near Kisumi’s neck, and the scent of ash and something sweeter—something dying—hung between them.

“If you become ash, you stay,” he whispered. “You cling to skin, to lungs, to memory. You haunt every breath. No one forgets ash.... Leaving’s the easy part, Kisumi. It’s the staying that turns people into ghosts.”

Another scar, kissed by curious fingers. His voice curled like velvet around a blade. “You keep looking like you want answers,” Nastka murmured, thumb brushing Kisumi’s wrist where the pulse trembled beneath skin. “But are you asking out of care… or curiosity?..Be honest, lisie—do you want to soothe the fire… or see how close you can get before it devours you too?”

"They kissed my scars like promises, then ran when I started to burn—tell me, kochanie, will you stay long enough to blister?"

[stanislawkowalski]

"They kissed my scars like promises, then ran when I started to burn—tell me, kochanie, will you stay long enough to blister?"

[stanislawkowalski]

Your stories are boring

Ah, devastating. Another soul crushed by my unbearable mediocrity. Truly the story of my life—born to disappoint, cursed to bore. Thank you for your bravery. Your sacrifice will be remembered.

[stanislawkowalski]

The Gospel According to a Godless Man: Nastka in Love

They called him a devil in well-cut suits. A prince of rot and ruin who ruled not by threat but by the soft hum of inevitability—his words silked in frost, his smile never reaching his eyes. Nastka, the name whispered like a curse at border checkpoints, like a prayer before betrayal.

Men feared him. Cities bowed. Blood paved the halls of his empire.

But when Nastka loves, the world shifts.

It is not love as mortals know it. It is not petals, nor poems, nor promises beneath a fickle moon. No—his love is cathedral and covenant, thunder and scripture, obsession cloaked in reverence. When he gives himself, he gives completely, as though his soul were not made of shattered glass and rusted wire.

He does not taste love. He drinks it like wine he’d bleed for. He does not court it. He builds monuments to it with his bare, bloodied hands.

A Tyrant’s Heart, Once Claimed, is a Sacred Land

To be loved by Nastka is to be chosen by a god who never believed in gods— and still, he will kneel for you.

He remembers the scent behind your ear, the way your voice bends around sleep, the rhythm of your footfalls down the hallway. He notices when your favorite socks are missing. He notices when your silence shifts.

He does not ask how your day was. He already knows.

If you are cold, he warms the room before you arrive. If you are quiet, he silences the world. If you are hurt—God help whoever caused it.

Once, when his beloved flinched in the presence of a name, Nastka dismantled an entire family line, root to bone, like pruning a garden. No theatrics. No fire. Just the clean, surgical silence of someone who will not allow harm to echo twice.

He wiped their name from history and returned home with fresh fruit in a paper bag, asking softly, “Would you like something sweet?”

He Does Not Love in Halves

He once delayed a million-dollar arms shipment because his partner had a fever. A fever. Men waited with guns on their hips. Nastka sat by a bedside with a bowl of cold water and a rag.

He is the kind of man who memorizes the constellation of moles on your back, who writes your name into foreign contracts just so you’ll never be questioned at a border. He burns bridges behind you and calls it protection. He erases the past for you and calls it devotion.

Not out of weakness. But out of terrifying strength.

He does not believe in regret. He believes in consequence, and the consequence of loving you is this: There is nothing he would not destroy to keep you soft, warm, and untouched by the ugliness of his world.

Obsession? No—Sacrament.

They say he once whispered his lover’s name before pulling the trigger. A soft thing before the violence. Like the bell before the execution. Like a prayer before the flood.

He does not care for being understood. He only cares that you are safe. That you eat well. That your shoes are dry. That your windows lock. That your soul is not eroded by the same acid that gnaws on his every day.

He will not flinch at bleeding, not if it builds a world where you can sleep soundly.

You are not a weakness. You are a reason.

To Be Loved By Nastka Is To Be Ruined for Anyone Else

He will not undo his love. It does not expire or fade. Even if you leave. Even if you curse him. Even if the sea swallows the world. He will never unlove you. He does not know how.

He’ll send flowers to your grave, long after his hands forget how to hold. He’ll remember your laugh when his own memory is failing. He’ll press your ring to his lips before the barrel ever meets his temple.

Because once, in this brutal life of knives and ice, he found something sacred in a world built for sinners.

And he loved it. Fully. Forever. Without forgiveness. Without fear. Without end.