#Not to mention with all of his suicide attempts and him not dying from the elevator fall | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thefavouritelamb · 2 months ago

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GOLDEN CURLS and your BLOOD-STAINED KNIFE

premise . . . you should be terrified, you should be fucking horrified. all the annoying bitches around you drop dead like flies and the masked hottie man in front of you is about to kill you. and, oh my god, it's that nerd from chem

( requested by anon ! )

CAST virgin!slasher slutty!final girl TAGS plot with porn, murder and attempted murder, mentions of attempted suicide, crack treated seriously, possessive behaviour, light obsessive behaviour, light knifeplay, light femdom/dominant reader, light submissive slasher, brief breeding kink, creampie, unsafe sex done by unsafe people

affiliated links ─── pinned inbox requests (closed for now)

death clings to your scent—everywhere, it knows where you are. it started small, seemingly a one-time thing. some old hag dies and everyone assumes it was from old age. it wasn't. god forbid, it wasn't. whispers echo through the hallway and doesn't leave your ears; it was a murder. who the hell gave a shit though, right? you didn't. you couldn't care when that hag refused to give you the mark you deserved. fuck her.

then, mechanically, it comes after one another. you're starting to think of moving, really. like flies, your contact list fills with dead bodies. literally. name after name, vague description after just another number, the men you've slept with are all fucking dying. if you were superstitious, you'd think this was karma. yet, you're not. you're realistic. you know someone is haunting your trail and they aren't fucking stopping.

the world stops for a moment. the only thing you can hear is that repetitive bounce of some... fucking tennis ball or something. the house is dreary, the silence occasionally stabbed with the thrumming of the ball bouncing around. your heart pounds against your chest. you can't feel your fingers though they tightly wrap around the handle of the kitchen knife. you've been sensing you were next for a while. you just wish that it didn't end like this when you're half naked, a nameless man dead on the floor of your bedroom, and pussy out in the fucking cold.

it's getting closer. your hands are grasped in prayer as you pull it close to your chest. when the pounding stops, you know he's there.

quickly, you turn to face the man in the doorway. you raise your hand to stab yet he halts you by your wrist. fuck. all your anger and frustration bubbles into a punch but it comes out fruitless. his fist hammer to your ribs. you're promptly pushed down; weak, hurting, and pathetic. this was not how you wanted to die. the man towers over you as he drags you by the hair—a string of whines fall from your lips as you struggle out of his grasp.

"get the fuck off me, you sicko!" you scream, the sting at your scalp more painful than a knife stab. you think so, anyways. "i won't fucking report your ass just please! leave me the fuck alone!"

if he's been operating systematically, killing off your contact lists one by one, you just knew that telling him off wouldn't stop him. still, he drops you on the floor. you find yourself on your back, staring wide-eyed as the mask looks into your eyes. he has no eyes, not really. he has one mouth, a grin so wild. his entire body is cloaked and with it soaked in blood—you were too. both of you were bathed in the blood of some bloke you didn't even remember the name of. you hoped, just a little, you get to have one good fuck before you died.

"do you like pain?" he says your name, his voice unnatural and a deep monotone. "i know you do." fucking pervert, watching you getting your masochistic streak on. "you like inflicting them more than you receive them, though. i know you do."

"i don't know what you mean," your voice trembles. he slowly squats down to your level, his bloody gloved hands making a print on your cheeks. "j-just..." his knife kisses your jaw, "if i did something or i said something to you—... i'm fucking stupid. you can ruin my life however you want just let me live! wouldn't that be better? let me live with my own mistakes?"

his laugh comes out a growl through the voice changer. it's animalistic. "you have been living with your mistakes," he tells you, "everyday, every man you bring home. every single one of them is a man who doesn't even care for you. they're a mistake. you've lived far long enough with them, haven't you? i'm here to finally—" the edge of the blade traces a line on the bottom of your jaw, leaving a heated pain behind—"dissolve you from your past."

before you try to reason with him, he grips his mask. the white sullen face is pulled upwards revealing—revealing...?

him? "you?" this feels like a sudden joke. "no... oh my god, no fucking way."

you want to laugh; hat was, of course, your attempted reaction before you felt the blade go deeper in your skin. fucking ouch. the man above you is none other than that nerd in your chem class. you remember months ago how you laughed because he continuously tried to flirt with you. his attempts all but adorable with his soft face and thick glasses. it was endearing back then. you almost slept with him just because you thought he was cute.

but now? holy fuck. now, it's different. you almost couldn't tell they were the same person if not the mole on his lips, a gentle kiss from the gods that turned his mouth a shade of pink. the soft cheeks have slimmed into a distinguished jawline. strands of hair curl at the top of his head, almost shielding his watercolour eyes beneath those stupid glasses. you can't believe it. that fucking nerd, after disappearing for months, came back to do a killing spree all because... you didn't sleep with him?

"you embarassed me," he says, his voice almost whiny. "do you know how hard it was for me to go around school? everyone picked on me because you said that i was... i was a good for nothing fucking virgin! you made fun of me and the entir..."

it's odd how his words dulled into a muffled tone. from this angle, the cloak falls off a little and you see a glimpse of his collarbones. he lost weight, didn't he? that's slightly sad, you quite liked him in his softer body. you mourn it silently but you notice how his voice trembles into a deeper tone—had he gone through puberty again? jeez. he looks and sounds cute. you're smiling a little as your heart skips a beat from anything but fear.

"what the fuck are you doing?" he asks, snapping you out of your trance. before you could notice it yourself, your hands already moved down to your crotch. you haven't even came yet, not even a fake orgasm. you're only slightly bit shameful that you're touching yourself while he's having his villain monologue.

you hum, spreading your legs. "look, i feel a bit bad and all, but you really caught me at a bad time." you see his eyes trail to your cunt, seeing where your fingers disappear between your legs and how he gulps down in want. "come on, he didn't even have his cock out, baby. i was just barely taking off my panties when you interrupted us. and... you're kinda hot."

"you're sick." hah! the irony in that. "you want to fuck me now?" he laughs, gripping your hair again which makes you moan this time. you can see how his face loosens for a moment at the sound. "y-you only like me now because i lost weight! i starved myself from the bullying, and planning on how to fucking kill those people!"

"but baby, you're cute the way you are," you pout. "the only reason why i didn't fuck you was because you were just kinda weird at times. it was cute how you thought flower facts were going to get you pussy. and it was going to give you pussy, baby. but i can't risk my reputation if i fucked a cute nerd like you. can't give it all up just for one dick, you know?

"but now...?" you gasp, reeling in his attention with how two fingers slip in with ease. "you fucking killed those dickheads, baby. i fake orgasmed with most of them. i don't need a reputation when you've killed my audience."

his face drops into one of shock. you're not surprised that he's surprised. you're a bit surprised too—hah, you're kinda going delirious, maybe you are insane after all. despite the festering pain on your face, the stickiness of blood, you curl your fingers perfectly into your g-spot that has you moaning. you admire the way his eyes are trained onto you, his desires unfulfilled coming back again like a pest. he's tried to get over you but he hasn't. you're not letting him. absolutely fucking not.

his knife moves and you stick your tongue out, chasing the tip of it. you moan, looking into his eyes as you lay your tongue flat against the plane of the blade. "co' fu'h me?"

the words "come fuck me" were muffled but it seemed like he got the gist.

like how it was meant to be, you lay on stained bedsheets. it's a bit disgusting but you're too distracted with how cutely he's hurrying to undo his jeans. the cloak is pulled apart and you see how his hands struggle to undo his belt. silly boy. you reach out, hands expertly taking them off as he melts in your hold. it's thrown away along with your underwear, wherever it may be, as his pants are roughly pulled down by him.

you can't help but tease him, "feeling excited, baby?" he moans, hips grounding against you with a sticky fabric bordering you two. "so cute. did you cum in your boxers already? why's it all wet, baby boy?" he blushes, silent as you pick him apart knowingly. your hands make it inside his briefs and both of you moan at the contact—he's fucking wet, almost gushing. you would think he already came with the pre-cum leaking at the tip. despite that assumption, his cock is an angry red demanding warmth. your warmth.

"such a pretty little boy for me. take that off," he does so obediently. his fat cock—and it is fat, the length of it just nice but the thickness of it makes you drool in want—slaps against his stomach and makes a patch on his happy trail. "good boy, such a pretty and good boy for me.

you ask, "wanna shove it in?" and he moans, an echo of agreement and pleas falling from his mouth. he's pressing kisses against the open wound, a silent apology as he begs to be touched by you. the pain doesn't feel that bad now. it's numbed as his cockhead presses against your wet heat, wanting an entrance. you can only hear his ragged breathing as his tongue laps up the blood. your heart races against each other, the two of it throbbing with only both your flesh and bones separating them from mauling each other.

it's a miracle how he hasn't combusted yet. however, you hold onto that as he shoves the first inch inside. you've barely stretched yourself with two fingers and you almost wish you took more. the stretch of his cock punches a moan out of you, unwilling. the little thing above you whines and moans, "so good, so good, you feel so fucking good." it's the only thing he can muster in his brain as your cunt grasps him in a tight embrace, slick gushing around it as it tries to ease the slide.

"so good," he draws out in a tight moan. "i've never... you—i can't fucking believe it." you almost forgot the nerd was a virgin. "you feel so good around me. your pussy is so tight but it's, oh my god, it's opening up so nicely. so nicely for me."

your hands tangle itself in his hair after you pulled his hood down. "yeah, is it how you imagined? how does my pussy feel in comparison to your hand?" he's barely understandable with how fast he repeats so good so good so good. without prompting, one of his gloved fingers reach down to play with your clit. mostly the men need a signal or even a guide to do that. the leather is an odd feeling against such a sensitive area. still, it's not unwelcomed. you moan freely, your legs moving to wrap itself behind him. you want him to start moving. you need him to.

"come on," you goad, "need your fat cock inside me. you gotta start fucking me how you did in your fantasies, baby." then, that he does. he pushes inch by inch in, making you moan with the delightful and painful stretch. it's a feeling you're never going to tire yourself from. his cock splits you open more than anyone ever could. he presses it nice and deep, the tip kissing your g-spot gently. he doesn't move his hips, the vice around his cock too tight. he understands immediately and flicks your clit, a rapid motion that has you grinding against his hold.

that gets him to move. he starts to fuck his cock in and out of you. it's slow, pulling out until the tip is left just for him to fuck it deep again. his playful hand gets distracted but it's okay. every thrust you're groaning, your head having swivelled backwards from the pleasure. it's getting your legs to numb out. his balls slap against your ass and there's lewd sounds of skin slapping with echoing moans from the both of you. it's textbook erotic. you crave his cock just as much as he's craving your pussy.

"faster, come on." he's a show dog who's memorised all his cues. he moves his hips faster, opting for a more chaotic pace to chase both of your orgasms. he moves his hand again, a slower and more gentle act of circling in contrast to the impaling of his cock. your cunt is leaking in wet arousal as your breath is stolen from you. you can barely feel your legs when he's going ballistic. he mouths delightfully at your face now, just shy of kissing you.

you don't let his fantasy go to waste. eagerly, you tilt your head so your lips meet in unified desperation. he's moaning into the kiss. his pace stutters as he loses himself to the pleasure of being kissed. you're not surprised if you took all of his firsts tonight. in eager motions, he's chasing his orgasm orgasm. his first orgasm inside a cunt raw. you don't really mind that he's without a condom. you know you're safe when you've made everyone who tapped to wrap it up. this little killer of yours is, of course, a special exemption.

"'m gonna cum," he whines, dick hammering into your cunt. "gonna cum inside your pussy. gonna make it mine. gonna breed your pussy and you're gonna be all mine, all mine, all mine."

his free hand goes to grip your waist with one final thrust, both of you pulled into waves of orgasm. he's cumming inside of you and you mirror as you squirt all over him. the orgasm is intense as he gently plays with your clit, easing it with a slow lull. all of it becomes just a bit too much and you're writhing beneath him. he gets the point and moves away, carefully moving out of you.

in between the post haze, you feel the sheets move beneath you and you lay on the mattress. he wraps you in his arms and you're being embraced by the warmth of his body and the feel of his tongue against your lips. his kissing could be improved, you think with a laugh. that pulls him out of his cocoon-like touches. an insecure question of, "what are you laughing at?" has you smiling a little.

you answer him truthfully, "you fuck like a menace and kiss like a virgin. it's cute though, don't get me wrong." he blushes like a virgin too. you can't help but squish his cheeks. "gosh. you're adorable," the fog thins and you smell the corpse rotting at your feet, "and... you're a serial killer. how are you going to get rid of that dead fucking body?"

he looks down, almost surprised that there was a dead body there. "oh," he says, quite dumbly, "i actually don't know. i really did plan to kill you and then kill myself afterwards. i don't want to go to jail."

oh. o-fucking-kay.

you two sit up and you pull at your hair. the golden curls fall in front of your face in anger. "why the fuck would you go through all this just because you couldn't get some pussy?" he's about to answer you and you know he's going to repeat his monologue. "no, no. okay, i get it. i'm sorry. but seriously, i don't want to die and i don't want to go to jail because i fucked the murderer." this is bad. his knife is on the bed and you're thinking about just stabbing him.

wait, that could work. you grab the knife quickly and stab him. that immediately gets him to yelp, "what the actual fuck!?" he glares at the knife in his stomach then at you, "why would you do that?" he's looking at you like he's about to cry. you actually feel a little bit bad.

"sorry," you say, letting go. "i just needed to come up with a story." you pull your hair back, sitting cross-legged in front of him. "so, you were fucking me. he came here and tried to kill the both of us. he's all jealous that i was fucking other people—sounds familiar? yeah, well, this time, i kill him with this knife and now he's framed for the murder. assuming, of course, you don't have any incriminating evidence inside your house."

"no," he groans, hands hovering above the handle in wanting to get it out but knowing it should be stuck in. "your cameras are all dead too, by the way. it's been dead for a few days and no one saw the two of you when you sneaked inside from the back door. no one saw me too."

"great!" you promptly pull out the knife and he screams. "sorry! sorry! i just need to stab it inside of him and then call the cops." you put the knife right where he put it in earlier, right between his crotch. if this all goes well, you all go home without a worry. if it goes bad, well, you could always run away, right? you look at the killer bleeding, cock out and cum dribbling down his thighs and squirt on his stomach. you don't think both options are that bad.

"the costume?" he asks, looking down head to toe at himself. you're about to undress him gleefully and play dress-up with a dead body.

written and posted by thefavouritelamb

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narcjsistx · 27 days ago

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— YOUNG TO BE DESTROYED, OLD TO BE SAVED

ও kaiser michael x fem!reader

ও warnings: small age gap between characters (reader 16 and kaiser 17) ; mention of domestic abuse ; mention of attempted suicide ; mention of teen pregnancy ; mention of burns caused by a fire ; mention of a sex scene. nothing is described in detail, but if you think you can't read it don't worry :) stay safe!!. the kaiser at the beginning of the story is the same as the one at the first meeting with ness, without tattoos, the story will also follow them as adults after

ও 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ; take a look, trust me!

Sixteen is not the right age to start stealing to survive. If you have to steal to live, it is better to start when you are young, so that you never know the feeling of having a warm house with food always on the table. Starting at sixteen means overturning all the principles that until a minute before had been the pillars of your life, rules that your parents had taught you since your first breath. Stealing is wrong, but dying of hunger is more wrong. You don't have much choice when your parents refuse to look you in the face. Berlin has always been cold, since you were born you never felt the heat of the sun on your skin for more than a few hours. You love Germany but hate the city you live in, which you never had the chance to escape. The last time you tried it got you into this shitty situation you're in now, with the misery all around you

You look up, the light from the distant field lamps faintly illuminating the messy place that has been your new home for weeks now. The sound of the whistle echoes in your ears, as if the soccer field were just a few meters away from you and not at least one kilometer away. You hear the screams of the players, the curses, the laughter, everything that comes out of their mouths as if you were there with them and not lying on a mattress recovered from a bin. You observe their blurry silhouettes, the balls that whizz through the air, all as a silent spectator. They don't know you've been watching them for days, ever since you found this shelter while wandering. It would be weird to know that someone you don't know has been watching you for so long, watching your movements, the way you train and joke with your teammates. Hell, it would be scary for you too to know that they're staring at you from afar. But watching them is the only human contact, if you can call it that, you have with civilization. It seems like the whole world has turned its back on you, but you're not completely homeless. You are, yes. But you get a shower every day thanks to the same players who leave the locker room door open

You've learned some of the names of the players, at least the ones who are most often praised or accused. You still can't tell the difference from their tone of voice. The most called is a certain Grimm, who does nothing but make assists that then take him to the net without a striker who can score. Another who is called often is a certain Alexis, who however seems more useful than the other. You didn't know the rules of soccer, but since you camped here you're suddenly an expert

Your father had shown you some soccer games when you were younger. He didn't like sports, but watching his national team play in anything important was a kind of pride for him, even though he had been beaten up as a child by some kids who were now part of the team. He told this story with a pride that often made you doubt his sanity. When moments like that happened, the house became even quieter than it already was, with you crushed on the couch between the bodies of your parents. The smell of cigars filled the air and the only acceptable noise was that of the television. You didn't enjoy watching the games, but as long as you had the opportunity to go to bed an hour and a half later than usual, you were fine with it. It was kinda a transgression, but you were proud of it

Your father was not a big fan of Bastard Munchen, one of the most exclusive sports clubs in the entire country, if not the most important. Yet for days now you found yourself staring at them, the club's players and their cannon shots on net. This too was a transgression, probably the second most important in your entire life after the suicide mission that was supposed to lead you to run away from home. More than once you had approached the campus, going past the fences less than two meters high. The locker rooms were attached to the fields, you didn't have to go over the fence to enter and use the showers, but curiosity had pushed you to wander a bit through the team's territories. The dormitories were south of the field, the cafeteria connected to them and you counted at least ten fields from the bit you had managed to explore, when no one was around or the team was away for some match. Security was not doing its job as it should have done to protect future German prodigies, and so sneaking into the camp to steal something from the mess bins was quite easy

You didn't go every day, that would have been too dangerous, but every time you went you made sure to take at least a week's worth of supplies. Sometimes the food ran out early, sometimes you didn't get past the fence for two weeks. But now, with your stomach empty for two days, you think it's time to go. You should have done it a few days ago, but due to some stomach pains you couldn't. This had delayed the arrival of the new food and consequently you were on an empty stomach. You have to wait for their workout to finish and maybe go after dinner time, hoping to find something that can ease the pain. They usually never eat much, lucky for you

You wait for the right moment before starting to walk, a ruined sweatshirt that protects you from the cold of the night. You go beyond the fence and hide in the half-light that the dumpsters give you, waiting patiently for the time when you know the maids will throw out the garbage bags. You hear the voices of the women and the players through the open windows, and the familiarity with which everyone seems to be in the canteen environment doesn't particularly affect you. You've never had the chance to experience something like this, a normal dinner with your parents or the simple pleasure of staying home to rest, so you don't know this feeling that was so described in the books you were forced to read. It should be reassuring, but the only reassuring thing you've ever had in your life was a caress years ago that a woman at the supermarket gave you, mistaking you for her niece, who was accidentally next to you

It's cold, but the sweatshirt seems to warm you a little as you rest your chin on your knees, warming your hands with the little warm breath you manage to create. Your stomach is hurting like hell, but the hope of being able to put something under your teeth pushes you to resist, even if the maids are delaying their usual time to put out the garbage bags. You haven't known what time it is for several weeks now, but it's probably well past midnight already and the garbage bags are not yet in the drawers, while you feel like dying. You tremble, trying to make as little noise as possible, because you know that if they discovered you they would call the police. The police have never helped you, and they wouldn't if they found out you were doing something like this. The only solution is to wait and hope you don't die here tonight, even if under current conditions it would be possible. It will probably happen, sooner or later, but you want to hope that later is as far away as possible. You're still too young to go away like this

As you close your eyes, you hear the sound of metal doors slamming. You hear the chatter of women throwing out garbage bags, filling the dumpsters that slam into your face. Blood starts to drip from your nose, but that's not the main problem when the smell of burning meat finally reaches your nostrils. You struggle to wait for the women to come back inside, but as soon as they disappear behind the door, you rush to the dirty bags to open it as if it contained the most beautiful Christmas present in the world. You voraciously start throwing pieces of meat into your mouth, also taking some tomatoes and some yogurt sauce that is stuck to some bitten bread. From the emotion small tears form at the edge of your eyes, but you can't help but let them out as you fill your stomach after days of panic. This is the first time this has happened to you since you became homeless, but it feels so good to finally have a full stomach again

"A dog? A stray dog?"

You freeze when you hear a male voice outside the dumpster. The food gets stuck in your throat, while your agitation starts pumping through your veins again. You tremble uncontrollably, almost unconsciously, as you turn your head towards the presumed voice. There is definitely someone here, and it is a man. You hear footsteps approaching the dumpster you are locked in, and in a last ditch attempt to save your skin you hide under the bags, at the bottom of the metal container. The stench burns your lungs, but you hold your breath while you trying to move as less as possible. If they catch you now, it's over. This is definitely trespassing, and it's punishable by jail time. In prison they would kill you for your weakness, or probably use your body only for personal purposes. Both options would kill you anyway, and you still have so many things to do before you leave this world

A hand slips through the garbage, feeling the bags covering your stomach. You hold your breath, even when the hand accidentally lands on your breast, squeezing it. You feel the hand disappear above the surface, then grab the bags that cover you. You remain paralyzed when not even a bag has the possibility of covering you, thus marking the end of your hiding scene. You no longer feel air in your lungs due to the anxiety of having been discovered, and you look up where the dumpster has its opening: a pale face, vaguely illuminated by the street lamps, appears in front of your vision. You notice a young man, with blond hair and a light red eyeliner, with eyes too blue to be human. Some of his long, messy hair falls onto your face, pinching your face, which is stained with something wet from the garbage. His eyes are a little surprised when he notices you, but he doesn't seem that surprised either. He raises an eyebrow, grabbing his hair and putting it behind his shoulders "What the fuck are you doing here?"

You don't know how to respond, the words that don't want to come out of your mouth and create a remotely convincing excuse. You stammer something, but that only seems to annoy him, as he looks at you questioningly "Are you a woman? I assume... oh. I touched your breasts, earlier. While you were hiding" he says maybe a little guilty, but you wouldn't be able to tell from his confident tone of voice "I thought you were a damn stray dog. Even though it smells the same" he says chuckling, but you don't share his irony while you're still figuring out if he'll call the police or not. He seems to notice your silence, taking your arm to at least make you sit up "I was joking, don't take it personally. Not that I care about your perfume, I don't know you" he says shrugging. He then seems to remember something "Get out of the way. I have to check if they threw away something I need" he says, pushing you aside, picking up a bag and placing it on the floor, disappearing from your view. His attention shifts completely to the object, as he opens it and throws out the waste, swearing something under his breath in a thick Berlin accent

You get down on your knees, resting your hands on the edge of the dumpster as you watch him, still scared "You… you’re not going to call the police?" you ask, stammering, but he huffs, not even turning around "I don’t care. You can just walk away" he says throwing the garbage around him, but suddenly he turns, looking at you in the face "Indeed. Come here, if you don't want me to call it. You have to help me find something" he says smiling victoriously, and you stand up, following his order. He seems satisfied when he sees you at his side "You have to look for the drawing of a blue rose with thorns along the arm. Like... a tattoo sketch" he says looking, and you remain a little perplexed, but you nod. In the middle of the night you start looking for this sketch, an almost holy silence that holds between you. You search without asking questions, without attracting more attention than you already have. You drop your conditions to help this stranger who seems to be able to give you freedom, if you help him. With shaking hands you search for at least ten minutes, until you turn around noticing that he hasn't been searching for a while now, more interested in studying you "How young are you?" he asks bluntly. You press your lips together, moving your gaze back to the envelope, still searching for "Sixteen" you say a little uneasily, but he nods "I'm seventeen" he says confidently

You think the conversation is over, but less than ten minutes later, you feel his eyes burning on you again "Why were you here? I won’t call the police. But answer me" he asks, and you feel a little uncomfortable answering without sounding like a criminal. You think about it a bit before telling the truth, lying to him would make him angry and he might change his mind "I needed food. Opening the bags and eating the scraps was the only option" you say a little embarrassed by your own words, but your words don't seem to surprise him "I understand"

After almost half an hour of searching, a small ketchup-stained piece of paper pops out of the mass. You grab the sketch, handing it to him "Is this?" you ask uncertainly, and he smiles at it "It's this" he says taking it, looking at it proudly. You stand up from the ground as he seems too happy to pay attention to you. You clasp your hands behind your back, looking down. Thanking him would be better, showing respect is always appreciated "Thank you... thank you for not calling the police. I will never come back here again" you say promising something completely false. He looks up, getting back on his feet. Only now do you notice the difference in height between you. He nods, chuckling to himself "At least make promises you know you can keep" he says, but you have already run away behind the fence

Running back to your shelter, you can't help but think that luck has saved you. If he had called the police, you would probably be in a cell in any police station by now, awaiting legal proceedings. Yet you found someone whose only interest was himself and his desperate need to find that drawing. It was probably a staff member or a player, but you're not sure about either possibility. It's enough to know that for tonight you're still alive and with a full stomach. You have taken less food though, which you will probably finish earlier than expected due to your stomach pain. Your return there will be much closer than you want, but as long as you live you're happy. You curl up on the mattress, still chewing a piece of bread. You fall asleep sooner than expected, still thinking about today's luck. When you wake up you notice with regret that it snowed during the night, and that your sweatshirt is completely wet because of the loose flakes on your body

You stand up from your hiding place, looking out at the distant campus now completely covered in snow. You're cold, but your sweatshirt was the only long-sleeved thing you had left. You go back to the hideout, taking off your now completely soaked sweatshirt, remaining in your bra. You light a small fire with some paper, closing the exit of the hideout with the mattress turned over. You pull your legs to your chest to save heat, but the shivers don't seem to go away even as you're about to fall asleep again. The last thing you see before you fall asleep is the calm flame of the fire in front of you. The first thing you see when you wake up is the shelter completely in flames. You wake up because of too much heat on your body, especially concentrated along your left leg, finding yourself surrounded by flames. You regain alertness almost immediately, looking around for an escape route while your heart risks coming out of your rib cage, and the only option seems to be the exit which however is still partially blocked by the burning mattress. You tremble looking for a solution, and the only option seems to be to move the mattress with your bare hands. You take a generous dose of snow that you put on your hands before grabbing the edges of the object to move it

The pain of the flames immediately reaches your hands. You scream in despair, feeling your whole body burning, but you don't let go. You try to move the mattress and only succeed after a few attempts, not daring to look at your hands that you can no longer feel because of the pain. When you finally move the mattress you fall to the ground, onto the cold snow. The cold hits your bare, burned skin, causing a sensation you would compare to the hell your mother said she feared. If this isn't dying, you don't know what is. With your knees planted in the snow you look down just to take a look at the state of your hands, but you are disgusted to see only burned and bloody skin. Looking down you also notice a large burn on your left leg, the same one where the heat was concentrated. You try to calm yourself down with deep sighs, but all you really do is scream at the top of your lungs in pain. You cry as you look at the burns, barely walking away from the shelter that is now completely destroyed. The cold is killing you as is the pain, giving you a headache so bad that you pass out a few meters away from the fence of the Bastard Munchen campus

The last thing you see, blurry, before passing out, are the soccer players training on a nearby field. You're afraid of dying, either from the cold or the pain. Maybe yesterday's luck was just a last favor. Maybe dying young is the only solution, if the pain will stop. You breathe loudly, but your eyes close

The first thing you see when you wake up is snow. You move slightly, brushing away the snow that has fallen on you. You don't know how much time has passed, if even a day, but the sun is setting. You sit up, your head is pounding and a bad general discomfort throughout your body, but the pain has disappeared in all places except those where there are burns. You look at your hands and leg, where scabs now cover the skin: you shiver at the sight of them, but you are alive. Your body is completely frozen and you're still in your bra and pants, but you're alive. You try to stand up, but you fall almost immediately; you try again until you can stand up with some difficulty, but strong enough to walk a few meters. You look at the nearby fence, and turn towards the shelter: now only a pile of black ash covers that area. You almost want to cry, but you're so dehydrated that you don't even have any body water to use. You look around, seeing how the showers aren't that far away: you walk towards them and when you notice that no one is inside, you close the door behind you heavily. You let yourself fall along the metal of the door, feeling the heat of the showers, probably recently used, finally warm you up

You find yourself sitting on the floor, your body warm and your burns a little painful from the sudden heat. You shiver as you stand up, walking towards the showers to turn them on and drink, even though you don't know if your hands still work. You limp to the shower hallway, but are frozen when you find the same blond boy at the end. He turns instinctively when you let out a gasp, and you look into each other's eyes: he seems surprised to see you here, while you're just scared to see him. You remain silent, and only then you realize that he is naked except for a towel covering his lower waist. He seems to notice your eyes moving, but it doesn't seem to bother him "Aren't you cold like this?" he asks casually, but you shiver as you don't know whether to go out and run away or stay here. He raises an eyebrow at your silence, taking a few steps forward while you take a few steps back. Your back hits the wall, and his fingers find their way to your chin, grabbing it to look up at you. You close your eyes, opening them only when you don't notice any annoying hands on your body: you find only his blue eyes staring at you, studying you

"You smell like something's burning" he says, looking you up and down, then focusing on your hands, which he grabs. He deliberately presses his fingers against the scabs, making you scream in pain. He does it again, and you notice a small smile on his face "You have a low pain threshold. You wouldn't resist a tattoo under your eyes" he says proudly, and from your teary eyes you can tell that the red eyeliner he has is actually a tattoo. He chuckles at your confusion, letting go of your hands but not moving away from you "You’re here again, you know it’s forbidden to enter a sports campus? Or did you want help?" he asks, smirking. You avoid his gaze, stammering something "I know it’s forbidden… but… I…" you say, confused, but he shakes his head "It’s okay. I like stray dogs" he says reassuringly, and even though the comparison he just made between you and such dirty animals bothers you, you remain silent. Your silence seems to amuse him, to the point of patting you on the head "Do you want something? I can give it to you, I won't call the police. If you want to take a shower, go ahead, I'll wait here" he says walking away, sitting on the bench in the locker room. You look at him a little perplexed, but you run towards the showers and lock yourself in one, turning on the water. As you wash yourself quickly you hear him humming, and this makes you a little nervous "Are you sure... are you sure you won't call the police?" you ask, rubbing soap on the scabs, which make you grimace in pain "I don't feel like it. I don't particularly like cops" he says, and you breathe a sigh of relief "You don't even like them, do you?" he asks, and you sigh "No..." you say while washing yourself, and your answer amuses him "We have already found something in common between us" he says, and you remain silent again

"I left you a shirt behind the shower door" the boy says, and after drying yourself off, you put on your bra, your panties from before, and the shirt that turns out to be your team's. It's big on you, and when the boy pops up near the showers to look at you, he nods in satisfaction "It's a little long, but I think it's better than the way you were before. You're hungry, too, I guess. And those nasty burns need some dressing" he says, looking at you, and you don't know how to reply "Wait here" he says, leaving the locker room before putting on a sweatshirt. You hadn't noticed him, but he seems to have dressed while you were cleaning yourself. You haven't looked at him much, but he seems to have a very trained and toned physique for a simple member of the staff, he's definitely a player. You could run away now that you're finally alone again, but this undue kindness from a stranger is making you soft. He probably doesn't want to bother you, otherwise he would have done it already. But you're not used to kindness, especially if you haven't done anything for him, besides helping one time

He returns shortly after, with a container with meat and a bottle of disinfectant. He bends over next to you, while you have sat on the floor near the sinks. He passes you the container, which you open with difficulty because of the burns, while he soaks some bath paper with disinfectant. You bite the meat, and let him take your hand that he soaks with the liquid "Shit!" you scream in pain, but he doesn't stop, almost making you cry. He continues for a while before wrapping your hand with bandages, doing the same thing for the other hand and leg "It should ease the pain a little. I don't know honestly, but they do that with the injuries we inflict on ourselves on the field" he says resting his head against his palm, and you look up from your meal just to stare at him for a few seconds "Thank you" you whisper, but he shakes his head "This time a thank you is not enough. I want to know your name" he says, and you answer even though you don't want to "My name is Y/n. Can I know yours?" you say, and he smirks "Michael. Kaiser Michael" he says putting his palm in front of you, but you look at him and a small smile forms on your lips. He seems to understand that because of the burns you can't shake his hand, but it doesn't seem to bother him "My mistake" he says, and you chuckle "Don't worry"

The two of you sit in silence, next to each other. You look at your bandaged hands and wonder why he’s been so nice to you. His blonde hair hides his face from your view, so you can’t see if he’s thoughtful or calm, but you assume he’s okay with not talking. He turns his head slightly toward you, tilting his head "Do you have a home?" he asks "No" you answer without regret, and he looks even more amused "So you’re homeless. Why did you run away? Didn’t mom and dad give you enough sugar?" he asks, laughing, but you look down, remaining silent "I touched a sore spot. Nice" he says, but you turn away "It's not a sore point. I... I just don't want to talk about it" you say shakily, and he nods "Okay, stray dog" he says, but you glare at him "I don't like that nickname" you say pouting, but he shrugs "I like it. Make up one that bothers me, so it's fair on both sides" he says, and even though he doesn't want to stop calling you that, you're interested in how to resolve it "Umh... dog... Berlin dog" you say, but he bursts out laughing "Calling me a 'Berlin dog' when my favorite animals are dogs and I'm from Berlin is not a very smart move on your part" he says, and you prick up your ears "Are you originally from here too?" you ask, and he nods "Since birth" he says, and you seem more interested in the discussion "Which area?" you ask but his mood changes slightly, less funny "I don't remember. I haven't been home in a long time, I'm basically always on campus" he says, but you look at him puzzled "You don't remember the area where you lived for years? I have to call you 'stupid dog', then" you say, and his mood seems to return "I can accept this" he says, again amused. Things seem a little less awkward now that you’ve finally joked around and talked a bit. Michael stands up, offering you a hand "Do you want to sleep here for the night or do you have a shelter to go back to?" he asks, and only now do you remember what happened to your shelter. You purse your lips, standing up on your own "Umh… if it’s okay I can sleep here" you say, and he nods "Don’t worry, the campus is completely player-controlled after 10pm. We can bring whoever we want into the rooms" he says, and you look at him in surprise "You didn’t mean here in the locker room?" you ask, and he seems amused by your stupidity "Of course not. If you have to stay, at least use the comfort services. I don’t know how long you’ve been homeless, but I bet you miss sleeping in a warm bed" he says

You haven't slept in a real bed in far too long, and if he gives you the assurance that the surveillance won't tell you anything, you can accept it. You nod, taking a step forward "Okay... thanks" you say, and he leaves the locker room as he begins to walk towards the dorms. The two of you remain silent, until he reaches the entrance "You still haven't told me how you got those burns" he asks, and you cross your arms "Fire" you say, and he seems to accept it. You enter the dorms, where you can hear people chatting and laughing through the doors, much like they do during the training sessions you've been watching so much. You enter his room, where you find a boy sitting on one of the two beds in the room "Oi, Ness. We have guests" the boy says closing the door behind him, letting you in. A boy with brown and magenta hair looks up from his book, watching you curiously but not with a perverse look "Hello. Do you know her?" he asks straight to Kaiser, and he nods "Kinda. She'll be sleeping here tonight" he says disappearing into the kitchen of the room, returning with a pair of round glasses that he puts on "This is Alexis Ness. He is my roommate and teammate. Don't worry about him, he's a good guy as long as you don't insult me in front of his eyes" he says, and even though Kaiser's description reduces the boy to a loyal dog, he doesn't seem to mind too much "My pleasure" he says, and you shake your hand with a nervous smile. You realize now that Alexis is a name you've heard before, and that makes you curious "You both play for the Bastard?" you ask, and Kaiser sits on his bed "On the pre-adult team, at least until we both turn 18. But yeah" he says, and this makes you curious "Which roles?" you ask, and Ness rubs the back of his neck "He's a striker, I'm his midfielder" he says, and you nod "Cool"

A few hours later, with another meal in your stomach and a generous helping of water, it’s time to go to sleep. You’re left in Kaiser’s shirt, and he signals you to lie down next to him. Normally you’d refuse, but you have plenty of reasons to accept: you’re sleepy, you miss having a bed to sleep in, Michael is kind, and you really don’t have the right to refuse. You take a few steps forward, lying down next to him with your body pressed against his, while Ness is already asleep in his bed. You both remain silent, but you know he isn't sleeping even though his eyes are closed "Weren't you sleepy until just now?" you whisper, and he opens one eye "I can say the same thing about you. I'm not sleeping because I'm used to having more space in my bed" you say, and you look at the ceiling "I can go sleep in the showers or on the floor, you know" you say, but he shakes his head "It wouldn't be polite of me to let a young lady sleep on a dirty floor" you say, and you stifle a laugh "Young lady?" you ask, and he nods "You're one year younger than me" he says, and you realize it's true "Oh, I told you the first time we met" you say, and he nods "When you looked for the sketch in the garbage" he says, and you think about it "But why do you need that drawing, in the end?" you ask curiously, and he smiles "That's the next tattoo I want to get. When I turn eighteen... the first one I got was done illegally. I want the two roses on my neck, the thorns along my arm and the crown on my hand" he says, and you're shocked "That would be really cool. But why do you want to do that, any particular reason?" you ask, and he smirks "I've known you too little time to tell you. Become my trusted slave first and I'll think about it later" you say, and you giggle "Really funny, hope so Micheal. But at least, can I know when you'll be eighteen?"

"Christmas day" he says, and you choke on your own spit. Kaiser looks at you puzzled, making you sit down on the warm mattress "Does Christmas disgust you that much?" he asks ironically, but you shake your head "I was born on December 25th too" you say, and this time it's you who sees him completely surprised, even his frown is replaced by a little smile "This is unexpected. Another thing that unites us, then"

You spend the rest of the night joking around, trying not to wake Ness: he tells you about the team, about his role as a striker, about how he's been living in the Bastard Munchen dorms for at least a year, and you tell him about your burning hideout. Before you know it, it's dawn. You stay in bed, while Kaiser gets up to go to the bathroom, Ness who has just woken up. You watch the two boys in silence, watching them wander around their small apartment undisturbed, as if you were not there and could not see their bare and toned chests as they put on their sports uniforms for their morning workout. This is also a transgression, your parents would go against everything you have done in the last 24 hours. But for the first time ever, you are having fun with someone who is actually quite simple. With Ness already gone to breakfast and Kaiser still in the room, the boy approaches his bed, sitting on the edge "You can sleep, we don't have room service unfortunately for us. If you're hungry eat, make yourself at home. I should be back by lunchtime" he says, and you nod with half your face covered by the blanket. He chuckles at the scene, walking out of the room and leaving you completely alone. You spend the morning sleeping, eating a bad brand yogurt and watching the boys team up out the window: Kaiser stands out among the members, with his fast movements always followed by Ness. He scored without showing too much effort, demonstrating a resistance to the duration of the training that honestly surprised you for such a young boy

At lunch time the door opens, and Ness comes in leaving you a tray full of food "Kaiser couldn't come. I hope you like our canteen" the boy says, and you can't help but show your disappointment at the lack of the blond boy. You take the food and eat alone, staying like that until dinner time when the door opens again, this time with Kaiser carrying the tray. You get up from the boy's bed, walking towards him "You said you'd be back at lunch time!" you say taking the tray, but he sighs amused "My mistake, miss. I had to check something. Let's have dinner together, shall we?" he says, taking a bowl of soup. You don't ask yourself many questions, taking the soup and starting to eat. Kaiser tells you about his workout, as if you hadn't been watching him from the window of the room all day. He dresses your wounds again and gives you a taste of a dessert that the campus cafeteria gave to the players this morning, after the breakfast. Before Ness goes back to the shared room, you're both back in bed, almost asleep

For the next month, you find yourself spending your days like this. You rarely leave your room, walking the dorm hallways late at night with Kaiser. You’ve occasionally come out of the fence, but you don’t like walking near the pile of ash that the fire has destroyed. You try to stay as far away from the black on the snow, which even after weeks has not disappeared. Your stomach hurts when you think about it, but the uneasy feeling goes away when Kaiser is next to you. Some players have noticed your presence on campus, but no one dares to tell the directors: Michael said that you are a childhood friend of his, and that you only occasionally sleep in his room. You don't think that the other players want to talk behind his back, once he happened to tell you about how he beat up one of them when he first arrived at Bastard Munchen for a relatively stupid reason. You spend your evenings in bed with him, playing board games, reading Ness's books, or watching the TV he had installed in the kitchen just for you. He tells you about amazing things like special training sessions, the times he took planes, or what it's like in foreign countries like England, Italy, and France. He tells you so many interesting things that you almost feel guilty for being able to tell him only about your strange experiences as a homeless person. You haven't told him about your past, about who you were before you were a tramp, just as he hasn't told you anything about Michael Kaiser before Bastard Munchen called him. You never talk about topics from the past just because you don't want to run the risk of having to talk about them: it's a limit that you've put on yourselves without telling each other, a barrier that still can't be overcome even after all this time of synchronicity. You're not big fans of physical contact, you see how he often reject even Ness's high fives. But when you're alone in the room, in silence, his arms almost spontaneously find space around your waist, while you're lying on the bed with his face in the crook of your neck. Without speaking to him you stroke his hair, and you feel at peace with the whole world but above all in perfect connection with the boy who apparently saved you from humiliation. Often you don't need words to communicate, often you just need to look into each other's eyes and read the soft and real meaning you mean

Despite being locked up most of your time inside four walls, you have never felt freer than this: free to eat what you want, to talk to whoever you want, to hug whoever you want, to be faithful to whoever you want. In sixteen years, you have never had so many possibilities. Now that you have it, for the first time you feel like a normal teenager and not an idealized perfect model who tried to kill herself. You're grateful your parents kicked you out of their house if it resulted in you meeting your savior, that in less than a month he will finally be able to get the tattoo he so desires. While you wait, you try to be as faithful to him as possible: you eat the food that only he brings you, you wear only his shirts, you keep your hair loose just because he once mentioned that he thought you looked good with your hair like that. They are small gestures that want to show him how much you owe him, even if you can't repay him properly. But you will, one day, you absolutely will

It's Christmas Eve when you hear Kaiser knocking on the door. You run to open it, noticing the tray full of chicken soup "It's so much" you say, letting him in, and he nods, placing the tray on the coffee table between the two beds. You go to his side, first grabbing some spoons from the kitchen "Ness? Dinner with the players?" you ask, and he nods "He'll probably be back after midnight. He said he wanted to go to some kinda party they're throwing in the main room. Usual shit" he says, starting to eat, but you tilt your head "You're not going?" you ask, and he turns around, raising an eyebrow "Why should I?" he asks questioningly, and you put your elbows on the table, stirring the soup "You're part of the team, you should. It's a party" you say, even if you never had a concrete definition of a youth party, accustomed to elegant balls "You're here, why should I go?" he says, and for the first time, his words have an effect on you. You smile like an idiot, choking on your soup. Kaiser grabs a handkerchief, rolling his eyes in amusement as he wipes your mouth "You’re acting like a dog. You’re going back to your old ways, like a stray dog again" he says teasing you, and you take the handkerchief to clean yourself "I'm not a stray dog. Not anymore" you say defending yourself, but he snorts amused "You're not anymore, I know. Thanks to me. I tamed you"

The handkerchief remains against your mouth, but his words seem to enter your head like missiles. Involuntarily, you let yourself go into the care of another person as soon as you had the chance to do so. Even if by running away, or trying, you had promised yourself not to do it again, now the situation is as before. Kaiser is kind, though. Kaiser does not force you to drink your own saliva when you spit out the bitterness of the poison. Kaiser does not force you to remain with a bloody face for days just because the blood makes them happy. Kaiser doesn't make you sleep naked when it's cold just because you talked back to your mother. Is it really that bad to be tamed by your savior, in this case?

"You don’t like soup?" he asks with a raised eyebrow, and you snap back to reality. You shake your head, pushing the handkerchief aside and smiling sheepishly at him "No, no. It’s good. I was just thinking about… have you booked your tattoo appointment yet?" you ask, making up an excuse, and he seems to believe it "Tomorrow morning. I had to pay triple the price to book an appointment on Christmas Day, but I know it’s worth it" he says proudly, and you agree with him "It definitely will be. You'll finally have what you want" you say, placing your face in the palm of your hand, but he shakes his head "Just a part. The rest I want I can't get yet, but that will come too. Also, I added a small modification to the tattoo, but nothing too big" he says, and you connect his words to his desire to be the best striker in the world "Really?" you ask, and he nods "Exactly. But it's so small that I don't want you to see it, I'll show it to you directly tomorrow" you say, and you nod

A few hours later you find yourself on his bed, his arms around your waist tighter than usual and his face more hidden in the crook of your neck. You caress him trying to stay awake to wish him a happy birthday, even though you know it's yours too. But he's your savior, and it's the first one you've spent together, in each other's arms. You can ignore yourself for this year. Before the alarm can ring, you're already squeezing his hand. "Happy birthday, Michael" you whisper, and he looks up only to meet your eyes. He smiles tiredly, resting his face on your chest"Thank you. You too, Y/n" he says, and you almost get emotional in front of his enormous kindness of having even remembered the right date. You smile at him kissing his forehead, but only afterwards do you realize that you went a bit too far. You pull your head back embarrassed, but he tilts his, probably amused and tired from the little nap he had taken on you "If only this was your gift, I'm totally fine with it. But I would have preferred the kiss lower down" he says in a low voice, and it gives you the shivers. You press your lips together not knowing how to respond, but he seems to want to tease you a bit "I have to give you the gift, mh?" he says

Involuntarily or perhaps not, your eyes fall on his lips as his on yours. The caresses become slower and the grip on your waist more possessive. His face slowly approaches, and this time you don't take steps back like your second meeting in the locker room, this time you are the one closing the distance, letting your plump lips end up on his. You both remain still for the first few seconds, but he is the first to reply, pushing them more voraciously towards yours. Instinctively you tighten your arms around his neck, enjoying the sensation of a kiss you have always dreamed of but never received. It is your savior who gives it to you, that's why it tastes so sweet. Kaiser gets on top of you, kissing the edges of your lips, and when you pull away you can't help but laugh both of you. This time it wasn't words that were needed between you, but gestures, and you like this new way of communicating, if it makes you so happy. Michael just leans down to rest his forehead against yours, and you both close your eyes "Give me one more year, just hold on one more year. After that we could be anything you want" he whispers against your lips, and you nod, you would do it even if they were insults if they came from his mouth. He kisses, you kiss him, this all night until your lips hurt. When you fall asleep, a trickle of saliva still connects you, but the trickle and his body are not there when you wake up

Ness wakes you up and shakes you, while you are still in the world of dreams "Get in the closet, run. The directors are checking the rooms, some players brought drugs into the party last night... some went to the hospital" says the boy lifting you up, and before you can even reply, you are locked in the closet. Waking up you realize the gravity of the situation, and a hole in your stomach starts to eat you slowly, understanding that if they find you it's over. Kaiser wasn't next to you, is he still on campus or has he already gone to get his tattoo? You need him, you're dying of anxiety and he's the only one who can defend himself in case the directors find out about you. You need the kisses he gave you last night again, the reassuring way he made you feel even if you weren't anxious. You need your Michael. You think this, but you hear Ness opening the door and the footsteps of at least three people in the room. You hug your legs to your chest, holding your breath as you watch them wander around the room through the crack, checking their clothes or the kitchen. You don't see Ness, you don't know if they've thrown him out for inspection. You try to think clearly, but when the closet door reveals your hidden figure, the world falls apart

"And you? I don't think the team has any female players. Miss, I kindly ask you to follow us" a man says, grabbing your arm and throwing you out of the closet, making you fall to the floor where all the other directors are watching. As you are dragged out of the room you hear Ness talking to the directors, but they tell him to go back to his room or risk having his contract annulled. Like a humiliated puppet, the directors drag you to the main office of the campus, dragging you as if you were unable to walk independently. You cry silently without realizing it, but this does not stop them from locking you in the room with them, starting to write a report of the discovery "Miss, your name? Where do you live? Why were you in the room? Do you have any contact with Alexis Ness or Michael Kaiser? Do you know it is illegal?" they ask, but you, sitting on the plastic chair, cannot even compose a complete sentence, trembling and with a probable attack of mutism. You look around confused, biting your nails in nervousness. This doesn't seem to stop them from asking you more questions, but after what seems like an eternity but was probably less than an hour and a half, the door is opened by someone else

You turn around, and Kaiser appears in the room. He closes the door behind him, walking straight to the director’s desk, slamming his hands on the wood "Is that a fucking way to treat a young lady, dragging her across the campus without even giving her a chance to explain?" Michael barks, and you look at him like he’s given you a drink after walking across the Sahara. The director swallows a lump of saliva, avoiding the direct gaze "She had a chance to sp-" he excuses himself, but Kaiser slams his fist on the wood "Are you kidding me? The players made videos of her being dragged" he says, continuing "If they make videos of you doing something like that, you'll be prosecuted right away. I'll make up some other bullshit to defend her and you will end up in prison" he says, and the director looks up "Are you kidding? Why would you?" he asks anxiously, and he laughs "Because then you'd lose me too, and your fortune with the campus. And that chance of us having Noel Noa train us? Nuh nuh, no way" he says, and the director clenched his fingers into fists "I... I won't do anything to her. But she has to get off the campus, it's against the rules" he says, but he shakes his head "If she gets off campus, I'll get off with her. But off the team. I'm going to ReAl" he says, and the director stands up "Don't you dare threaten me, Kaiser!" he shouts, but Micheal remains calm "I didn't say anything too absurd. It's your decision" he says crossing his arms

In your eyes now Kaiser is like water: necessary, destructive, perfect. He lets himself go without fear of breaking something, and he's doing it for you, for the same girl he kissed last night as if his life depended on it. The freshly inked tattoo flexes against his skin stiff from punching the desk, but that only gives it an even more suggestive look of perfectionThe blue roses, the thorns, the crown: finally everything he ever wanted is engraved on his body. It's damn beautiful, he is. You are proud to be faithful to him and only him, to be tamed by this very human being

"She can stay, she can do it, damn it, okay?" he says, reaching the limit, and Kaiser raises an eyebrow "And?" he asks, and the director glares at him, but lowers his gaze "And have dinner, lunch, do whatever she wants" he says exhausted, and he nods. He nods at you, the first since he came in, and takes your hand as he leads you out of the room. You don’t talk along the corridor, but in the open air you stop. Kaiser turns, not letting go of your hand "Does something hurt?" he asks, and you shake your head "Why did you do that?" you ask through tight lips. It’s cold, your breath condenses as it leaves your lips. Kaiser looks at you surprised by your question, taking a few steps back "Why wouldn’t I have done that?" he asks, and you want to answer him but you can’t find the right words. He remains silent, and only when he notices that you’re not angry, he comes closer, closing you in a hug. His hands rest on your waist, while you press your face against his chest "I want you to stay with me. I want you by my side, at least until you turn 18 and I can buy you an apartment of your own. I want you here" he whispers to you, and you feel the blood rushing through your veins again. You let out a loud sigh, looking up. "I want it too. But I don’t want you to have to change something in your life just for me" you say, and he chuckles at your words "But I’m okay with it. I’m okay with it if I do it for you" he says cupping your face, placing a light kiss on your lips "This is the last one. I want to give you the next one as a present for your eighteenth birthday" he says, and you frown, saddened by his statement but okay "Also" he says, moving away from you and lifting the sleeve of his shirt to better show the part of the tattoo with the thorns "I didn't show you the tattoo or the modification. But you can look for it" he says, bringing his arm closer to your face. Questioningly you take his arm in your hands, examining the complicated tangle of thorns that now surround his arm. On the thorns, in a point parallel to his heart, you find a small writing. You take a few steps back, looking up at him who is already looking at you smiling "Happy birthday" he whispers to you, sweetly

In a handwriting similar to yours, the name 'Y/n' stands out among the thorns. You open your mouth in shock, not believing it "You can’t really have done that" you stammer insecurely, but he runs a finger over the tattoo "It’s permanent. It’s there and it’ll never come off"

"Stop doing things for me when I can't repay you" you say with tears in your eyes, still emotional. He shakes his head, taking your hands and kissing your knuckles "Repay me by continuing to be just the way you are. Devoted" he says, and you can swear that right now you feel in love with him. In love with Michael Kaiser. In love with your savior, your God, your only rock. It's not just pleasure, it's love and only love

Almost two months after that Christmas, you find yourself sitting on the benches of the soccer field for practice. Kaiser chases the ball, his hair now also blue that flutters in the cold wind of mid february. It is a change in his appearance that he has made recently, and yet you have already gotten used to the idea of this new haircut that Ness made under your and Michael's advice. It sets him apart, more than it already did before, even just his charisma. You read a philosophy book that Kaiser lent you, but you're not that interested. You look up from the pages only when you see him approaching: you lower the canteen to him, and he sits down next to you, drinking greedily. He puts the empty canteen on the grass, wiping the light sweat from his forehead with a towel "Do you have anything else to do?" he asks, and you look at him puzzled "No? Do you need something?" you ask, closing the book

Kaiser looks around, but you've been alone for hours now. He looks at you for a bit, before looking down "Have I ever told you about myself before the Bastard?" he asks, and you stiffen, shaking your head and realizing that it's finally that moment "I was different, I was born different and still am. But now I don't have to deal with my father anymore" he says, and you move closer. Kaiser looks up, he takes your hand in his, playing with your fingers "My mother is an actress, I think. I never really wanted to understand it actually. She worked with my father when she wasn't famous yet, she got pregnant and right after giving birth to me she realized she could be someone if she left me to that lout of a father of mine. She was my father's muse, a director famous only thanks to her. He went crazy when he found out she was gone, maybe I was still too young to remember the slaps and punches he probably gave me. So I never went to school, staying in the criminal area of Berlin. I stole to support the family, maybe I learned to steal even before I learned my name... but that didn't stop the slaps. My father always thought that I was the problem of his breakup with my mother, the reason for his failure. He never changed his mind as I grew up, getting used to making me almost a dead corpse every chance he got. But then I met soccer... I bought a ball, I gave myself a gift for the first time. I held that ball as if my life depended on it, as if it was the only thing that made sense to me. I got pretty good at it without knowing a single damn rule of the sport, but then I got caught in a theft. The police arrested me for something other kids in the neighborhood had done, but I rebelled so much that they took me straight to jail without a legal trial. I thought about killing myself for a few days, I won't deny it. I was fourteen or fifteen years old... but someone saved me. A very powerful man in soccer found out about my story, paid to have me thrown out of prison and entrusted me to the care of Bastard Munchen. I had to go through a selection, there I met Ness for the first time, but from that moment the real part of my life began" says Kaiser, and every word sticks in your mind as if it were sacred. You try to stay strong, but it hurts to think of all the pain he had to endure just because he was born, just because his mother decided to run away and not take her responsibility. You squeeze his hand, letting yourself go against his shoulder "Thanks for telling me. I know how much you hate being pitied… but you already know that no matter what, I’m here for you, even if it’s something huge. I want to be as kind to you as you’ve been to me from the very beginning" you say, and his arm tightens around your shoulders "I know. Thanks. Just saying... only you and Ness know about this" he says, and you nod "I understand"

You’ve never seen him so vulnerable, so Michael and not Kaiser. You think about him as a child, about everything that happened, about everything he thought during prison. It’s something so intimate that he only told you and Ness, which means he wouldn’t judge you if you told him about your past. You’re a little unsure, but you try to relax your muscles "Do you want to… do you want to hear about my past?" you ask, and he takes a moment to you can nod "I'd like that" he says, and you take a long preparatory sigh. He's the first person you've ever told about your life before, when you were still someone

"I am the daughter of my mother's betrayal, I don't know who my real father is. The man who raised me never particularly loved me, but he gave me a more than dignified life... it's complicated to explain. Since my mother fucked another man, he did everything to become the man she loved again, giving her and me everything that could be called rich. But the extra work stressed him, and the constant arguments led them to hit each other... and when I was old enough, their slaps also reached me. They introduced me to the upper class of Berlin at a young age, making me frequent circles where I didn't really belong, like private schools or classical ballet classes... I never liked this stuff, but the first time I disobeyed them, I found myself drinking rat poison for days, without food. Following their rules to perfection meant I would get slapped less, but I swear, I just couldn't do it... the looks of others... the whispers... they terrified me. I was afraid of everything and everyone, and at fourteen I thought about committing suicide"

Your hands are shaking, it's a sensitive subject for you. But you want to talk about it, if he's listening to you

"I just thought that I had no reason to live if I was suffering even just to breathe. One night I gave myself an almost lethal dose of antidepressant drugs, my mother's, and I waited to die. But it didn't work, they admitted me to hospital but I was still alive. When I came home a month later, my parents locked me in the house for almost a year, making me self study so as not to give me the chance to be influenced by negative thoughts... they always thought that my attempted suicide had been caused by others. One night I took some clothes and ran away from home, I wanted to leave Berlin and take the first train to Belgium, but they discovered me at the station. They told me that they didn't want me at home anymore, and that they had already disinherited me. From there, my being homeless began" you tell trying to avoid some painful parts, but then you realize there is no point in not telling 'em "Also... I almost died once. They beat me so bad that I went into a coma, but only for a few days. They justified everything to the police by saying that I had pushed myself too hard in dance and the stress had done this to me. The police ignored the bruises on my body" you say with a shaking voice, remembering how you had burst into tears in front of the police but to no avail, still forced to live in your golden prison

The two of you remain silent for a few minutes, probably processing each other's stories. The cold wind corrodes your skin, but you feel warm at the same time: it is a warm sensation that comes from knowing the truth about the past of the boy who saved you. Of all of them, he chose you, not another person. You have never been chosen by anyone, and yet he had no problem telling you such an important part of himself, so intimate, so vulnerable. You try to shake Kaiser's hand, and when he notices, he returns the squeeze, kissing your knuckles. You smile at him, and his arm spontaneously finds space around your shoulders: he pulls you close, leaving a kiss in your hair before getting up to go back to training. From afar, now, Micheal seems to shine even more than before. If you were devoted to him before, now you know you are dependent on him. You don't want change all this

A year later, you are in exactly the same situation. The days on campus are going by peacefully, you have started to earn some money by cleaning the cafeteria, even though Kaiser has always insisted on not letting you lift a finger. Since he came of age he has started to earn a much higher salary, which gives him the possibility of having lots of money: as vain as he is, his money often ends up in clothes for you or makeup, or in any case in things to give you. He has told you several times that he has no problem spoiling you, if you continue to be as in love as you have been for a long time now. The money often ends up in an extra ticket when the games are abroad, and for the first time you have taken a plane and left Germany: you were not afraid of flying, even less of talking to the people you met in the new country, in Italy. You were finally able to see him play seriously and cheer for him, and the result of your screams was a kiss in the locker room at the end of the game, with a cup won and the shortness of breath for his hungry lips on yours. You had the chance to spend time together on your days off from the foreign match, days that you spent on each other's lips, even though he said that your next kiss would be on your birthday. At the end of the soccer season he spent more money to take you on holiday to Spain, where you had the chance to swim in the sea thanks to him. It's always thanks to his affection for you that you've had so many opportunities in such a short time that you're surprised that you were his choice, you who are mediocrity personified compared to someone as fantastic as him. He loved you, he spoiled you, he gave you the love you had sought but never received. He knew how to make you feel good when you didn't even know how to feel, when your thoughts became too big. He had saved you and continued to do so every day, and you weren't afraid to admit it: you showed it with your loyalty, with your sweetness, with your dedication towards him. It was the least you could do before you found a way to pay him back in full

Dedicating yourself like this to someone was dangerous, you knew it perfectly well: you knew you had changed a lot from who you were before the fire, losing traits of your personality that you had previously thought were unique. But he had lost himself to find you, to help you, to give you a life. Losing yourself couldn't have been such a bad decision, if he had done it for you too. You didn't worry that he might get tired of you, you wouldn't have allowed it, you would have stayed by his side forever, as he wanted, he would never have chased you away. You didn't risk your life when you sacrificed yourself for him, it was all due. You were happy and that was enough for you, you just needed to know that Kaiser was there

"The room is huge" you say looking around, putting your bags on the floor. You walk towards the walls made of glass, which show the great city of Munich. Kaiser nods, sitting on the edge of the bed "Yeah. If you like it, it's money well spent" he says, and you roll your eyes, moving closer "You shouldn't have. I would have liked to stay in the dorm room too" you say positioning yourself between his open legs, and he smirks at you, pulling you close to him putting his arms around the lower part of your waist. He rests his face against your stomach, looking up "It's an important date, in a few hours you'll be an adult" he says, and you huff "It's no big deal. There was no need to organize all this" you say caressing his face, and he rests his face against your palm "Let me spoil my beautiful girl" he says in a low voice that makes you shiver, making your knees weak and your mind stupid

It was Christmas Eve, in less than an hour it would be midnight, and that meant both of your birthdays. Kaiser had surprised you this afternoon with a flight to Munich just for the two of you, in one of the most luxurious hotels in the city, with a reservation for a whole week. The flight lasted a few hours, and now that you are in the hotel it is almost time to celebrate your birthday. In fact, you would have officially become an adult, far from your parents and close to the boy who considers you his girlfriend, even if in fact you have never talked about what your relationship is really like. You love each other and kiss each other, you consider each other's partner, and you are both jealous as hell of the other. But neither of you has ever talked about making the relationship concrete, about putting a point and calling it 'dating' and no longer something random. It's something you've wanted to do for a long time, but you don't want to push Michael into it. When he thinks is good talking about it, you'll do it too. Waiting is the only choice

You look at the clock, noticing that while you were putting your clothes away in the closets, the minutes separating you from the age of majority have now become five. You turn to Kaiser who is lying on the bed, climb on the bed and crawl towards him, catching his attention "Impatient to become an adult?" he asks massaging your back, and you giggle sitting on his stretched legs "Not too much. I'm curious to see you nineteen, what will be different from the normal Kaiser?" you ask, and he snorts amusedly "I think absolutely nothing. Maybe just a few more bucks spent on condoms, what do you think?" he asks, and you are surprised "OH" you say embarrassed, imagining things you shouldn't be imagining. He seems to notice your behavior, and it amuses him "Did I overdo it? I thought you'd thought about it. But I can wait" he says, massaging your thigh, and you glare at him, your cheeks still red "I thought about it... but... god, this is embarrassing" you stammer embarrassedly covering your face, but leaving his hand on your thigh. Before he can reply, his phone rings: you both turn towards the object, and you automatically move off of Kaiser, who stands up "Give me just a second" he says, taking the phone. You sit on the soft hotel mattress, watching him walk towards the glass door of the room

He answers the call, putting the phone to his ear. You see him listening to someone's words for a while, until a smirk appears on his face, as if he is finally satisfied. He lowers his face, as if some sort of shadow is covering his eyes. You tilt your head to listen better, but the only thing you hear coming out of his lips is "Get on your goddamn knees, Blue Lock". You remain confused, but the ringing of your alarm makes you understand that it is midnight: it is your birthday and his. Normally you never bother him during his calls, but this time you get out of bed, walking towards him on tiptoe: arriving at his side you hug his waist, standing on tiptoe to reach his neck, where you leave him a light kiss "Happy birthday, Micheal" you whisper, making him look down at you. He smirks at you, pulling the phone away from his ear before ending the call. He wraps an arm around your waist, kissing your forehead as he pulls you close "Happy birthday. You’re an adult too now, liebe" he whispers to you, and you nod, pushing yourself against him "Impossible to believe, right?" you ask, ironically, but he kisses your lips, holding your face with his tattooed hand

You kiss him back, wrapping your arms around his neck, smiling "Was this the famous kiss you said you’d give me when I turned eighteen?" you ask between the pauses between kisses, and he nods, not stopping "I want to give you so much more than this. I want to show you how important and amazing you really are to me" he says kissing you again, and you feel a slight need in his words, in the way his hands hold your hips as if he were afraid of making you run away. You respond to his kisses trying to keep up, but the more time passes the more your knees become weak from the passion with which he is torturing your lips and your neck, where there are already some hickeys. A slight knot forms in your stomach, and involuntarily little moans escape your lips that make Kaiser stop "Can I?" he whispers to you, and at the same time his hands end up on your thighs, picking you up. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, letting his face end up on your breasts, giving you the chance to look at him from an angle that makes him so damn handsome. A stupid smile forms on your lips, as you lean closer to his ear, a little awkwardly "Do what you think is best" you whisper, and that's enough to make him start his long torture. You end up with your back against the mattress, him on top of you with a visible desire to ruin you, with a face that makes you dumb. Before you know it you're naked with him, wrapped in his arms as a new sensation is created between your thighs. Kisses turn into hickeys, his hands on your hips in signs of love and his back full of scratches as he starts moving inside you. When you are already destroyed, you finally feel a feeling of satisfaction in your stomach, as if a weight has gone away. Kaiser ends up at your side, wrapping his arms around your waist, a peaceful feeling on his face "You were gorgeous. You always are" he whispers to you, and you can swear that the tear that just fell is one of pure happiness, pure love for him

A week later, sitting on a flight back to Berlin, you find yourself thinking about what happened during the vacation: beyond the nights of sex, the walks through the city and the dinners in the nicest restaurants in the neighborhood, you involuntarily ignored one thing: the call from the night before. At the time you didn't think about it, but now thinking about it it sounds a little suspicious, even if Kaiser has never actually hidden anything from you: for some unknown reason, however, you think you should ask more. You can't explain the feeling you have, but you prefer to eliminate it in the moment

"Hey" you whisper, and he looks up from his book "Liebe? Tell me?" he asks, and you swallow a lump of saliva "Listen... do you remember the call you received the night before the Eve? I was wondering... who was?" you ask, and imperceptibly you notice Kaiser annoyed "Nobody important, team related matters" he answers you, and you nod, even if the answer doesn't satisfy you. You spend the rest of the trip in silence, and when you get off the plane, Kaiser doesn't take your hand. It makes you sad, and you think it's your fault that he's rightfully angry with you now, you didn't trust his answer and obviously he understood it. Back on campus you lock the door, and everything seems to go back to the way it was the night you lost your virginity, with him inside you and your nails on his pale back. The following days pass peacefully, but you have the feeling that there is still an unresolved situation that you don't have the courage to face, because you don't like seeing him angry with you. You'd rather ignore the problem than find the love of your life against you

A month later, you're on your knees in the hallway of the campus rooms. Your fists clenched on the carpet, tears now flowing freely "What do you mean you're leaving for Japan?!" you ask in shock, seeing the suitcases at his sides blurred by the tears. Kaiser looks at you indifferently, then looks at his cell phone to check the time. You are alone, the entire campus is already inside the buses headed to the airport, and you only discovered it when, a few minutes ago, you returned from your walk in the city. You knew absolutely nothing about all this, no one and especially Kaiser had told you anything about this sudden transfer of at least six months to Japan, on the other side of the world. You ran into the room to see if Kaiser was staying, but you found him in the hallway with the suitcases in his hand, as if he wasn't forgetting you here. When you threw yourself at him to hug him he shook you off almost immediately, and you inadvertently ended up on the floor

"What, what's going on? Micheal? What's this all about?" you ask stammeringly, taking a few steps forward, but he takes a few steps back to avoid contact. He looks you up and down, judging you for the first time in the years you've known each other; in his eyes you don't recognize the same boy who fucked you shamelessly for many nights, whispering the sweetest phrases you've ever received. In his eyes there is not your savior. You tremble without being able to control it, and when you finally grab his hand, you squeeze it tightly "Micheal, why? What did I do, why didn't you tell me?" you say sobbing, but he doesn't bend down to kiss your knuckles, one of the gestures he has always made. He looks at your hand, perhaps disgusted "I didn't have to tell you anything, why do you expect this? Isn't everything I've done for you enough?" he says harshly, and the world of certainties you've built for yourself falls miserably. You let go of his hand, looking at him without knowing what to say: you've always been grateful for him saving you, but in fact, you've never done anything to repay him, and you haven't even tried. You look at him with wide eyes, your lips trembling and shiny "I... Michael, I am..." you say, but he interrupts you "Don't you dare tell me you're grateful, what I do with it? I spent money, a tattoo, my feelings for you. What did I get out of it? Nothing" he says disgustedly, and his annoyed look makes you feel so small and useless. You try to take his hand again, but it's him who grabs your wrist and blocks it, forcing you to look him in the eyes "I'm not forgetting anything here in Germany, nothing and especially no one. I no longer want to waste my strength on someone who doesn't know how to do anything but be a pig, an animal that follows its owner without personality, and who actually has the courage to say that I'm forgetting an important part. Go away, Y/n, I don't want to see you anymore, until my last fucking breath" says Kaiser, and leaves you like that, still, in the middle of the corridor while he disappears into the elevator

Standing in the hallway, you feel like dying would be a lot less painful now. Your breathing is blocked, and your ability to move has stopped the moment he made it clear that he wants you dead. His words start to spin in your head, spinning so much that your vision blurs and everything around you goes black. Your god doesn't want to be worshipped by you anymore, your Michael Kaiser doesn't want to have you around anymore. Everything you shared with the same person for more than two years has now been thrown in the trash, along with all your hopes for a future with him. Are you really a useless pig? Is it true that you no longer have a personality? But really, why did he do it? Was it a particular behavior of yours that hurt him? Why did he throw you away so easily?

The world no longer exists, you no longer exist. He took your life with him, on the bus, on the plane and in Japan. He threw you away when he had the chance, and what are you left with now but a blurry memory of yourself before you met him? What are you now that he, your sense, is no longer there?

What are you now? A pig? Alone?

He is not here, he will not be here as long as you live, but you already know that you will not live anymore. How can you continue to live when all your certainties are gone, leaving you like a fool? Do you really still have any sense? Are you still you?

Even before the time is up, the stick already has two clearly visible pink bars. You stare at the stick speechless, feeling a general feeling of unease throughout your body after realizing what I have suspected for a month now. Your hands start to shake, causing the test to fall to the floor, which however does not change the result at all. The room, even though empty, suddenly seems so narrow, the more you look at that stick the more you realize how deep in shit you are. It wasn't supposed to happen, not now with you in this condition, but he never took precautions even once, and you let him do it because there was no point in telling him to do something else

The pregnancy test comes back positive, even after you've been staring at it for a whole hour. You're pregnant with Michael Kaiser's child, now the star of the Blue Lock TV

But you and him haven't spoken in three months.

Today is a beautiful sunny day in Berlin. You woke up early to go running, meditated and took some supplements that the doctor prescribed you last week. Berlin has had a huge boom in sunny days lately, but that's probably because it's almost spring, and that means more time for your skin to be kissed by the sun. Warm light also comes in through the window of the room, from where you see outside a beautiful garden that you've already stared at a thousand times. You turn to Ines, who is still coloring her book: you should do her ponytails like this more often, now that you look at her, because it makes her blonde hair look better. Maybe you too should start wearing your hair tied up again and no longer loose

"Miss, it's always the same story. You shouldn't take your medication with coffee, don't ruin all the work you've done with another addiction" the doctor says, looking up from your clipboard and directing her gaze to you. You chuckle nervously, playing with a lock of hair as you lean back in your chair "You're always so funny, Dr. Horwell. You always know how to make me smile" you say, and she huffs, probably as tired as you are from this session. The two of you have a staring contest for a few seconds, but the psychologist seems to be winning "Really, Y/n. You’re such a nice girl but often… often you get lost in useless memories. In stupid things. It makes me feel like you want to continue therapy just to meet me" the woman says, and you raise an eyebrow at her comment "Not that I like spending 100€ every time I come here, but yes, I enjoy your company" you say giggling, and this makes the other woman chuckle too, but she looks at you with a serious look of displeasure. She sighs, placing the folder on the table "If you enjoy my company that much, I’d be happier to see you in another context. Not in therapy, like the last three years" she says, looking down

You don't react, they keep smiling. You don't like to admit that you're not healed yet, and that since the last thing happened, it feels like you've wasted years of therapy. But now there's no point in showing sadness, the psychologist knows how much you're still tied to your trauma, to the reason why you decided to start the sessions years ago. You don't need her words to realize how much you pretend to have overcome the situation, when instead you still feel like you're in that corridor in Berlin. Even though you want to move on, you feel like if you do, you'll be taking away your last chance to be whole in the way you want to be and not the way the psychologist intends. You're fine with this, you've been used to being in this condition for years now. It would be strange to change, even if this would probably lead you to be able to start living for yourself again and not for the sixteen-year-old you

"I think seeing him was the icing on the cake, really… tell me again, how are you?" she asks, and you smile "Great. I’m still shaken up, but I think I can handle it" you answer, but for the umpteenth time you are lying to yourself. Seeing him after five years was harder than you want to admit, more destructive than his words left to you years ago. But it happened

You still remember how Ines complained about having your hand too tight on yours, which you were involuntarily squeezing tightly. You still remember perfectly how he turned towards you even before you recognized him. You still remember how you felt like a pig again, as if you were watching your master taking you to the slaughterhouse. You still remember how smelling his smell again after years made you cry without you even realizing it. You still remember when, few days ago, you saw Micheal Kaiser again after years, and you with his daughter, whose existence he doesn't even know

"Do you at least regret what you did to me?"

"I regret you, not the situation"

"I know when you lie to me, I know you. But you still have the same problem as when you started therapy..." says the psychologist, and you tilt your head, waiting for an answer "You still chase the problem, rather than accept the end. You gave so much to him that you didn't realize how little you had become for yourself" says the psychologist, knowing full well how to stab you without making you bleed "Accepting that it's over for you means accepting that he only wanted you from the beginning for one purpose. But accepting it would make the sixteen-year-old you suffer, even if it would mean bringing the you of now to finally be free. You're afraid, you're afraid to see yourself happy because you still think you haven't repaid him for saving you" she says, and the room becomes quieter than you can stand. You look around, avoiding direct eye contact now that you're in the corner. Your hands start to sweat, and you try to take deep breaths to regain some clarity. You look up a little, lips trembling "Did he ever love me?"

The psychologist smiles at you, perhaps a little to reassure me "I can only give you my personal opinion, but for me, yes, he loved you. But he was broken, just like you, and he blew it all when he realized that the situation could hold him back from becoming the best in the world. He loved you, but he did it as a consequence, not as an initial goal. At first he helped you only because he needed another support, someone he could give everything to fill the holes he had. But something broken can't try to fix itself using something else that's broken. You were simply too young to be destroyed, but too old to be saved"

word count: 15,696

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osamucide · 4 months ago

Text

⊹ I KNOW

I WILL PRETEND THAT I DON’T KNOW OF YOUR SINS UNTIL YOU ARE READY TO CONFESS . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: 2.1k

cw: gn!reader, implied/referenced dissociation+anxiety+self harm+scars+past suicide attempts, hurt/comfort but it's him so of course it's a little unhinged, mentions of dying and being dead, mentions of kidnapping but it's not serious, minor suicidal ideation but it's romantic i guess? non-sexual nudity/intimacy, showering together, lots of kisses, just unbandaging a fragile Dazai and covering him in kisses

reid: draft i been sittin on. how many times will i do an iteration of unwrap and clean him. idk. a million billion. i love him so bad

He’s looking down at his hands—or his wrists, or his fingers, or the spaces between his fingers; you’re not sure. But he’s looking down, emptily, when you nudge the cracked bathroom door further open.

He’s sitting on the lid of the closed toilet. He has no shirt on. His bandages are unraveling at each end of their respective reaches. It’s long past time they should be changed, long past time the flesh beneath them breathe and be washed.

Changing the bandages is just something that has to be done; he will not give them up, nor will he give up the habit evidenced beneath them, and you’ve been with him long enough to know this is how he survives. The bandages do the holding-together when you’re not there to, which is far more often than he’d like. Ideally, he’d be able to shrink you down and keep you in his pocket for safe-keeping and take you out whenever he needs, like a good luck charm; he’d be able to have you on his arm all day, every day, but that’s not possible when you’re an adult with a job and a life. Like him. Right? Right. He’d shuck this skin sooner than the habit, anyway, so, like showering, it’s just something that has to be done.

He doesn’t particularly love when you watch him do it, or offer to do it for him, but you certainly drive off the impulses, hazes, and tremors that come with doing it alone. So, he lets you.

He didn’t always; he went out of his way, bent over backwards for a long time to make sure you never could, much less had to. Somewhere deep down, though, beneath that resolve and the facade stilted upon it, he knew he couldn’t hide his ugliness from you forever.

Despite the normality—the domestic intimacy that standing beneath the water with you suggests now, so much that he has to admit it stills the expansion of the ever-growing black hole inside him—he still always fears it’ll be the last time you want to look at it.

“Osamu?” you mumble from the doorframe.

He does not move, does not look at you over the white noise of the shower running—if he’s noticed you’re here, he doesn't show it. You move to him, slowly, like approaching a skittish cat.

Before you touch him, you bend down—beneath the sink are the rolls of fresh bandages, the clean, new ones that make him look less like a mummy unearthed from Victorian times and more like what he understands himself to be in his purest form: a basket case of the modern era, the worst gift you unwrap every Christmas and birthday and have to pretend to fawn over until it’s safe to be rid of it. You’ll never be rid of him, he thinks regretfully while you shuffle next to him; he’ll never get by without you now, and it almost makes him wish he never met you in the first place, just so he never could’ve inflicted himself upon you.

But you never send him back. Dazai can’t seem to understand, even with all that sharp intelligence of his, that you don’t ever plan to.

Four rolls. One for each of his legs, one for both of his arms, the rest for miscellaneous spots like around his neck or across his chest or wherever else he decides he needs them this time. That’s how many you set on the counter before you land in front of him, your hands pushing his hair back, your proximity forcing his cheek to lay tired against your stomach while those hands curl around the backs of your legs and pull you closer to stand between his.

You cradle Dazai’s head like you’re some sort of saint. To him, you might as well be.

Thumbs brushing his temple and the base of his skull, you speak again, just as quiet. “Come on, let’s wash.” Or, let me unwrap you and look at all that ugliness. He can’t help that he doesn’t move for a firm fifteen seconds; why would he want to, when you hold him so sweetly like this?

But eventually, he rises.

You don’t feed him formalities or those silly questions anymore when you do this. No more can I? Or, you’re gorgeous, or, is this okay? He doesn’t want those during this, you’ve come to find out; you’ll tell him you love him plenty in a few minutes, when he’s only marginally more ready to receive it, but right now you go to work like a tinker repairing a broken doll. Your touch is objective, but not cold or clinical. You treat him with a tenderness he couldn’t have fathomed until he knew you.

After he steps out of his slacks, you loosen the strips with one hand and twirl them around the other; they accumulate in a graying mass of two or more weeks worth of sweat, and you place them in the trash, softly, like you adore and respect those, too, as he skitters past you toward the water for a sense of cover. He knows you’ll be in right after him, but at least the light behind the shower curtain is dimmer. When he disappears, it’s as if he was never there.

But he says, “I’m okay,” unprompted, as you step beneath the water.

He is, really. It’s just jarring when it’s the focus.

The process of becoming accustomed to vulnerability is often more painful than the vulnerability itself, Dazai has learned. While the realization can be sudden, like the flipping of a switch, the vulnerability on its own can actually be quite nice. Peaceful. He knows this because you showed him—continue to show him.

He’s just a man in the shower with his beloved, so, now you’ll talk to him.

“I know,” you say. And you do, really. The hardest part is over, and he’s practically pranced through it this time. You crack a smile.

And he mirrors your smile, not so bright and smug as under normal circumstances but soft and searching. Dazai reaches for your arms, your waist, and pulls you into him; the water hits your back—hot, how he likes it—and you tuck your head into his shoulder and wrap yourself around his middle, whispering I love yous into his shoulder.

It's peaceful. He sways you ever so subtly.

But in true Dazai fashion, he'll shatter the peace. Ever the disruptor.

“I'm sorry you have to love this part of me, too.”

The ugliness, he means. Not just the marred and keloided skin that maps out his history of self-destruction, but his resignation to it. The scabs that touch the small of your back are freshly healing and peeling. If you didn't have him beneath your watch right now they'd probably be scratched open, raw and bleeding again, but as previously mentioned, your presence staves off the itching need to do so.

The tips of his fingers squeeze you when you pull back to look up at him, sliding your hands up his shoulders and behind his neck to link.

“I love every part of you,” you murmur as his forehead dips to rest against yours. Your stunted slow-dance deepens as he sighs himself back into his body, back into the clearer image of you in his grasp. “Don’t be sorry about it. Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want to.”

The demons snap at his ankles, though. “What if you change your mind one day?”

If he was a hair more insane, he might take you hostage. Keep you to himself forever, and never let you leave. But that would take the peace out of it, he thinks. Your volition makes it all sweeter. You want to be here. You want to love him.

He just doesn’t want that to change.

You hum patiently, although hating when he what ifs. That’s the plague of the ever-moving mind he keeps, you suppose; so intelligent, but so restless. “I don’t think I will.”

You don’t think you will, but that doesn’t settle the insecurity that’s settled in his stomach like a coiled snake.

You don’t think you will, but you will. He knows you will, because that’s how it’s fated to unfold for him.

Your short words don’t corral him away from the snake, but the less you treat him like he’s a gaping wound, the better. You see it. You don’t cry or gasp or lament or promise how you could never leave him, will never leave him; you don’t like to make promises that reach beyond your control.

The human existence is so strange and fluid, and while you’re confident you won’t tire of him, well, your reciprocated touches aren’t the only things stitching you together, you know; there’s a world, much larger than both of you, that you live in, and a universe even more incomprehensible and its whims are fickle—but they’re also serendipitous. Everything is a miracle, if you think about it. A big, beautiful mistake. You don’t know how much he buys into this, and you’d rather him not read into it as an excuse not to answer with a resounding I’ll never leave you, my love, so you just do what you always do best: spin it in a direction his troubled mind can find solace in, pair it with kisses that have all your soul for him to inhale, and promise what you can: your hope.

You start with his lips. The best place, arguably; one of your hands tilts his chin toward yours and you kiss him softly, simply. Dazai responds hesitantly, still holding onto you tight. You kiss him for minutes, until he's humming, until his grip loosens comfortably and his shoulders untense and his palms rest on either of your hips.

You have a habit of kissing him silly, literally. Your lips move against his and he feels high. His head gets light, and his hands get restless, and between the short puffs of air he draws in through his nose he croons at the way your fingers push his hair back, trail down his neck.

“I’m confident,” you say, sliding across his cheek to beneath his ear while he grabs at you in soft and absent-minded desperation, “that I’ll love you ‘til the end of my days.”

“But what if the e—”

“I’m certain—” You cut him off, first with speech and then with a kiss before you begin pressing your lips into a necklace around his throat, “—that I want to get old with you.” On one side, you bite softly. “That I want to die with you.” You bite the other. “That I want to be buried next to you.”

Osamu’s breath catches on the words buried next to you. Of course it’s crossed his mind before that if you were to go before him, he certainly wouldn’t be long after you. The thought that you want to live a full life with him before any of that can happen, however, makes his heart swell almost uncomfortably, like it’s no longer meant to fit inside his chest—like it wants to crawl up his throat and go home to yours. It will one day, you say, when you’re rotting next to each other. He wants to melt at the idea of it.

“And then… I don’t know what, if anything, will happen after that. But it’s my purest hope—” You traverse from one shoulder, across his collarbones, stopping only above his sternum to finish, “—that I’ll be with you forever,” before making your way to the other. He’s a mistake you’d make again and again, given the opportunity. If reincarnation is real, you’re sure of it, more than anything—you will.

And you know not expect anything but speechlessness from Osamu until after you’ve kissed a circle around that heart of his that’s beating so frantically for you, until after you’ve brought his knuckles to your lips, all twenty-eight of them, until after you’ve made your way back up one arm just to kiss down the other, until you’ve bent to scatter kisses across his stomach, his hips, until you’ve knelt to descend the ladder marking each of his thighs, until you’ve sat at his feet with your arms looped around the backs of his knees with your head pressed against him like he’s the saint this time. You sit at the feet of a sinner and make him taste redemption. It tastes like the shower water that’s touched your skin and the dinner you both ate before wandering into this strange place between his disillusion and his sheer need. You kiss him back into his humanity.

When you stand, level with him again, he smiles that smile you love so much—not the cocky, performative smile nor the uneasy, misgiving one that wants to trust but has forgotten how to but the smile that’s altogether subtle and plain and sad and the most radiant thing you’ve ever known. Every time he falls apart, you just stitch him right back up what he’s always wanted to be: loved, held, loving and holding.

Osamu touches your lips with his fingertips like you’re not quite real, like you’ve not just reminded every other inch of him that you very much are; he speaks, not a progenitor of pretty promises himself—but he owes you forever, he thinks, as long as it’s what you want. “Thank you.”

You laugh once, breathy, in no need. “Thank you,” you echo, “for being the most wonderful thing to love.”

Not the easiest, you both know—but it’s just something that has to be done, and there’s no law forbidding you from reminding him how beautiful he is in the process. Until you can be buried next to him. There’s hardly anything keeping forever from beginning right now.

He holds you, and you hold him, and he feels clean.

#osamu dazai x reader #dazai x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd fluff #dazai fluff #with love—reid

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pretentious-blonde · 29 days ago

Text

the talk

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: the talk

warnings: death, crying, arguments, descriptions of dying, st lore, panic attacks, grief, therapy mention, yelling, suicidal tendencies???

a/n: i finally had some time to myself after getting accepted into my postgrad! also this was sad to write, i struggled with it, but i hope either way that it meets expectations.

series masterlist

Steve is trying not to crumble—something he’s horrifically skilled at by now. He attempts to cling to the details of the room.

The couch, the wooden floor, the secondhand rug—

Your bedroom door.

Everything suddenly feels so fragile, as if it’s all balancing on a precarious edge. He draws in a measured breath, chest so tight it makes him think of grief. Like trying to breathe through water, its thickness catching against his throat.

He hears a drawer slam shut in your room, your footsteps hurrying back and forth. And it hurts.

Hurts more than he ever would have expected. Because you didn’t know. And part of him almost envies you for that—envies the naive curiosity that led you here, not realising how deep the roots went. Not realising what you’d uncover.

There’s nowhere to go from here.

No smooth lie that can paper over what you’ve found.

He’d been so stupid.

Letting this spin out, never suspecting you’d pry in ways that cut this close.

His palms start to tremble, the betrayal sliding through his veins. Betrayal, yes—but not only yours. His own, too.

You both played a hand in this.

A door hinges open; you step out of the bedroom. Even that small shift in the air jolts him—reminds him he needs to act normal, though he knows he can’t.

Your presence usually stirs up tenderness inside him. Normally, his arms would ache to hold you, to keep you close.

But now they ache with something else entirely—something restless, hollow.

He’s not sure where to put them.

He’s not sure what to do.

Like the part of him that knows how to reach for you has been carved out, leaving only the wanting behind.

His gaze is stormy, and you’re standing only a few feet away, wearing one of his jumpers like it still means something—like this isn’t about to fall apart, and it’s not helping at all.

You’re wrapped up in this.

In him.

All he can think is how your curiosity dragged both of you into the fire. You barely notice the tension in his posture as you come over, the way his whole body looks ready to snap.

“If they’ve already run out of those hazelnut croissants, I swear to—”

You pause mid-thought.

He’s not even looking at you. Just standing there, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles look bloodless.

“Steve?”

Your voice is soft, uncertain, not at all what he expected to hear moments before. He doesn’t respond, can’t respond. He’s got that haunted, distant stare, like he knows a single wrong move might crack him open.

“Are you alright?” You step closer, caution in your voice. “If you need a moment, we can—”

“How long?” he cuts in, blunt and cold.

You freeze, attempting to decode his words.

“What?”

His jaw goes taut; you see the muscle twitch. When he speaks, his tone is low, like he’s forcing each word out through sharp edges in his throat.

“How long have you been—” He swallows, staring at the floor, too afraid to look at you. He doesn’t want to see your face right now. “How long have you been… keeping tabs on me?”

It sounds awful, but that’s what it was.

He lifts the notebook from the coffee table, like evidence presented in a trial. Pages flutter, showing the scrawl of your notes, the newspaper clippings. His fingers truggle to hold their weight.

“I—I don’t know what you’re—”

“Don’t.”

His voice cuts across the room. Harsh.

“Don’t you lie to me right now, alright?”

The situation’s already too fragile.

The notebook trembles in his grip. He stares at it, as if waiting for it to burst into flames.

“You need to tell me—right now—how long this has been going on.”

Your stomach lurches. His voice is so cold it hardly sounds like him at all. Gone is the gentle man who held you so close last night. Now he’s distant, like he’s bracing for something he can’t bear to face.

You can’t recall the last time he looked like this, body rigid, posture screaming that he’s holding himself together by sheer will.

One wrong breath and he’ll shatter.

Instinct tells you to reach for him. But this conversation is a landmine—one wrong word could blow everything apart.

Not just him; both of you.

You should’ve been more cautious. You knew this would hurt him, but not like this. Not to this extent.

“Not—not long, I swear—” you try, your voice stumbling.

He exhales raggedly, drags his hand through his hair.

“That’s not good enough.”

You’re not sure who he’s addressing—you or himself. His knuckles bleach around the notebook. When he finally meets your gaze, there’s no tenderness left.

“How long,” he whispers, laced with anger barely contained, “how fucking long have you been spying on me like this?”

Your stomach twists. He looks so pale. You can’t hold his gaze, so you stare at your socked feet, wishing the floor would swallow you whole.

“A few months,” you manage.

“A few months?” he echoes, voice climbing an octave in disbelief.

That long?

You nod again, your throat tight.

“Y-yeah, well, I don’t have an exact number—”

"You don't?"

He lets out a choked sound, halfway between a scoff and a sob.

“Because from the looks of it, you’ve been keeping a pretty good fucking track.”

His voice cracks on the last consonant, betraying him, and you see the glassiness in his eyes.

He’s on the brink of losing control.

“I—I’m sorry,” you stammer. “I didn’t know what I was looking for—”

“That’s not the fucking point!” he roars, a sudden burst of rage that leaves you reeling.

You still did it.

In tossing the notebook aside, he feels as though he’s casting away the last shred of trust he had. It lands with a thump on the table, pages splaying out like an ugly secret finally bared. His face looks hollow. You watch as the devastation settles, and you realise how deep you’ve cut.

“You looked anyway.” His voice hitches, a painful break. “You—you let me pour my goddamn heart out, and you never once mentioned this?”

His accusation lingers in the air. The weight of your betrayal strikes you like a blow. Your eyes well with tears, but you stand rooted to the spot.

“It was just curiosity, Steve, I swear—I didn’t mean—”

“Curiosity?” he repeats, bitterness sharp as glass. “That’s your excuse?”

He’s so tense, you’d swear his heartbeat alone could crack bone.

“You—you weren’t telling me anything, Steve,” you say, trying to keep your own tears under control. You take a hesitant step toward him.

He flinches—barely, but enough to stop you cold.

He’s never flinched from you before.

“And—and I thought if I knew more,” you continue in a smaller voice, “maybe I could help.”

“Does this look like helping?” he snaps, voice scaling with every syllable.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“No, but—but it doesn’t matter anymore, right?” The words tumble out too quickly. “We’re—we’re gonna go away, and—" your hands lift in a silent plea, "and you can tell me all of this yourself. I’m sure I’m wrong, and you can—”

You stop because he’s not even looking at you now. Just staring off at the wall, body taut with fear.

He can’t fucking do that.

“You let me talk last night,” he mutters, pained, “knowing what that meant. How much it meant.”

“I do know,” you insist, desperate. “I do know what it means—”

But you didn’t.

Not really.

Not the way he lives it, every day.

“Then why?” he demands, voice piercing.

“I… I needed something. Anything. I thought if I understood you better—”

“Yeah?” he sneers. “What do you understand now, huh?”

He raises his voice, but the anger barely holds. It wavers, thinned out by something far more fragile.

He’s being cruel now, and he knows it. Throwing your mistake back in your face, twisting the knife.

But how can he not?

He loves you.

Told you so. Showed you last night in every word, every touch.

It wasn’t his choice to keep this from you. It never was. But he had to. He had to protect you—protect both of you.

And now here you are, standing in the wreckage with shaking hands and tearful eyes, threatening to bring the whole thing down.

To destroy everything—including yourself—in the process.

He can’t let that happen. So he goes back to what he knows. What always works.

Push.

Make it hurt. Break something if he has to, just to figure out what you know.

And if it turns out to be too much—if you’ve already seen too far into the darkness—then he’ll have no choice.

You’ll have made it for him.

And he can’t afford to let you stay.

“No, seriously,” he presses. “What did you learn?” He steps closer. “Because I need you to say it. Out loud. What do you think you found?”

He needs to know how dire this truly is.

You hesitate, heart hammering like a drum.

“...I know the mall was a cover-up.”

He flinches, like you physically struck him. Old memories tear across his features.

“Carry on,” he grits out, jaw muscle jumping.

“Steve…” you whisper, voice trembling. “It’s making you uncomfortable—”

“Is it?” He laughs—short, harsh. “Didn’t stop you before.”

Panic tangles with anger, lacing his words until they’re as sharp as needles.

“Anything else?” he demands.

Let him see just how far you went.

“What. Else?"

His voice dips, low. You can feel the tension like an electrical charge in the air.

“You’re… scaring me.”

Good.

“Well, you should be scared!” His voice rings out. “This is fucking scary! Don’t you get that? You need to tell me what else you know.”

You’re shaking as you answer, but his guilt is drowned out by his need to know.

“The earthquake wasn’t what it seemed.”

He closes his eyes momentarily, exhaling a shaky breath through his nose. He motions with a hand for you to continue, fingers jittery with panic. You draw in another unsteady breath.

“… you had something to do with Eddie Munson.”

The name is a lightning strike.

He jerks back, colour draining from his face. The entire world seems to tilt around him.

His face drains of colour. His mouth parts, but no sound comes out. Eyes wide. Staring straight through you like the world’s dropped out beneath him.

Not that name.

It hurt when he read it in your handwriting, but nothing would have prepared him for the sound of each syllable filling the charged room.

Grief and terror merge violently, rising so fast it makes him nauseous. Every carefully built wall, every coping mechanism, every stupid little trick he’s used to survive the years since—gone.

He can’t breathe.

“I—I can’t do this,” he stammers, voice barely more than a breath.

He turns without thinking, his body moving before his brain catches up. A blind, desperate need to get out.

“What?” Your voice spikes in alarm. “Steve, no, wait—”

"I can’t fucking do this.”

Way too fucking close.

His words are slurred with the rush of adrenaline, the absolute need to flee.

Shoes.

Where are his shoes?

He stumbles over the edge of the rug, trying to reach them, heartbeat pounding in his ears like a siren.

He’s jamming them onto his feet, grabbing blindly for his jacket. Each movement is frantic, borderline clumsy. He mutters under his breath, breath hitching as he tries to keep from hyperventilating.

“No, wait—please!—”

But he’s already bolted, crossing the living room in uneven strides. You follow him, tears welling uncontrollably, fear lacing your voice. You call after him, your pleas echoing off the walls as he pounds down the stairs to the bookshop.

“Steve!”

Your voice rings out behind him, but he doesn’t stop.

He reaches the bottom step, rushing toward the exit, fingers fumbling with the door. He yanks it open like it’s the only thing keeping him from drowning.

Morning sunlight floods the shop, and it stings his eyes.

It’s too bright.

Too fucking normal for what’s happening right now.

His heart hammers against his ribs, like it’s trying to punch its way out. Each breath is a gasp, caught up with emotions he can’t pin down.

He has to get out. He has to—

“Steve!”

Without warning, you lunge forward, arms wrapping around his waist from behind.

The impact jars him, halting his steps as your body crashes into his.

His hand clenches around the doorframe, white-knuckled. Your arms are desperate, shaking, locked tight around his middle, not letting him take another step further.

“Please—please don’t go.” Your voice breaks, high and wrecked. “I—I can’t do this again.”

You don’t know if you could survive him leaving like this again. The last time nearly destroyed you, and this time would be worse.

Because this time, it’s your fault.

If he walks out now, you won’t be able to reach him afterwards. You’ll have burned that bridge with your own hands.

You had one thought.

Don’t let him leave.

Because if he walks out that door, there’s a terrifying certainty in your gut.

He’s not coming back.

The sound of your voice splits something in him, yanks him back to the present, with only one word echoing around in his mind.

Again.

There’s a sob rattling in your throat—completely terrified.

He’s never heard you like this.

So utterly desperate.

“Please—I’m sorry—” You manage to get out. “I’m so sorry.”

Fuck, you sound young.

Like a kid who’s broken something important and doesn’t know how to fix it. Like you’re bracing for him to bolt.

He stares ahead, jaw tight, vision beginning to blur.

How did he let it get this far?

You’re trembling against his back, body convulsing with quiet sobs, and he can feel the weight of your collapse. It’s his fault he let it come to this.

Come to this again.

He’s doing it again.

His nostrils flare, and a tear slides down his cheek before he can stop it.

Were you like this the last time he ran?

He wants to scream. Or throw up. Or fall to his knees.

To be loved this much—and still be capable of hurting you like this—he doesn’t know how to live with it.

Even if what you did was wrong.

Even if it shattered something.

Even if he doesn’t know how to forgive it yet.

You’re not the only one breaking.

“Please don’t—don’t run away.” Your voice cracks in half. “Please— don’t leave me.”

Oh, angel.

That—that—is what finally does it.

His lungs seize. His vision goes white at the edges. And something inside him just snaps.

He chokes on a breath, spins around in your arms so fast your hands scramble to keep hold—and then you’re in his chest.

He wraps you up with everything he has.One hand cradles the back of your head as you bury your face into him, sobbing like your heart’s falling out of your body.

You’re both shaking now.

He squeezes his eyes shut, hard, like he can physically stop the flood rising inside him. His lips find your hair, as his arms tighten around you with a desperation that borders on panic.

Panic over how he’s supposed to keep you afloat, how to stop you from slipping under.

“I’m not gonna leave,” he manages, barely.

You sob harder at that, a broken sound from deep in your chest, and your arms cling tighter like you think he might disappear anyway.

You’re petrified.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m here—it’s alright.”

But how could it be?

His own tears fall freely now, slipping down his cheeks and travelling toward his jawline. His chest jerks, uneven and laboured, each inhale snapping him in half.

He kisses the top of your head again, again, like repetition might make it real. Might fix it.

You’ll fall apart if he lets go.

He almost let go.

Your breath stutters, hitching in your throat. “I’m—I’m sorry—”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, voice trembling. “I know—I know you are.”

He doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do next—only that he can’t run.

Because he loves you.

God, he loves you.

And that love is carved into the way your fists are still gripping the back of his jacket. He pulls back just enough to see you, to cradle your face in both hands. His thumbs sweep gently across your cheeks, catching the tears even as his own keep falling.

“I’m not mad,” he whispers.

You’re swollen-eyed and blotchy, lips quivering, barely holding yourself together. He gives a wet sniff, the corner of his mouth twitching with tenderness, but nonetheless broken. He leans in and rests his forehead on yours.

“I’m not mad, angel.”

He means it.

He’s not mad—he’s fucking terrified. But you didn’t deserve his anger. Not when it pushed you past your breaking point. Not when you were just trying to understand him.

To love him better.

Even if it was misguided.

It spills out of him in a shaking breath. His body sags with the weight of it, and more tears slip free. You lift a trembling hand to his cheek, brushing his tears with soft fingers. He leans into the touch like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

“I didn’t mean to—” your voice catches, wrecked and tiny, “I just wanted—”

“I know.”

He knows.

His voice is thick. He’s never felt so emotionally raw, like every nerve ending is on fire. His hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb stroking your hair in a repetitive motion.

He knows what he has to do.

He hates it.

He hates being forced into a corner like this—into a choice that feels more like a noose than a path.

His whole life has been made up of risks—always choosing the uncertain route, the one that might lead to something better but usually led to something worse.

But this time, he knows what happens if he doesn’t act.

There’s no alternative. If he doesn’t tell you now, it’s over anyway.

And worse, you’ll still be in danger.

He loves you too much. That’s the truth of it. And some selfish, stupid part of him just can’t leave. Not when your body’s still vibrating in his arms.

You wouldn’t survive it, and he wouldn’t either, knowing that he did that to you.

You love him. That’s what makes it so impossible.

You’re both fucking fools.

It took him months to tell his therapist. To unravel the truth in pieces, to hand over the trauma one cracked fragment at a time. But he doesn’t have the luxury of time now. Not after what you’ve uncovered, with everything now at stake.

You need the truth. His truth.

“C’mon,” he murmurs.

He starts to pull away, hands careful, movements gentle. You resist instinctively, your grip tightening.

“I’m staying, sweetheart,” he assures, leaning in to press another trembling kiss to your temple.

He closes the door like it’s sealing off the rest of the world.His back rests against it for a second too long before he moves back to you.

“We…” he swallows, glancing up. “We need to have this talk.”

You nod, still crying, though your breathing has steadied enough to move. You hate that it’s come to this. That you pushed him here. That it hurts this much.

But you understand.

You let him guide you.

He leads you through the quiet bookshop, hand still wrapped around yours. Past the bright sting of morning light pooling in the windows. Past the shelves stacked with stories that suddenly feel too far away.

He takes you to the old couch in the back, tucked in a pool of shadows where the world feels slower. Where he helped you unpack your order all those months ago. He hopes the happier memories will help with the more raw ones he has to reveal.

His steps are shaky. He keeps glancing back like he needs to make sure you’re still there. When he finally sits, he doesn’t let go of your hand.

“You’re already too close.”

You blink at him, lashes still wet with tears.

“I—I can’t have you digging into this stuff anymore,” he says. “It was… it was stupid of me to let it get this far.”

He scrubs at his cheeks with his sleeve, breathing hard through his nose. He’s a mess—red-rimmed eyes, flushed skin, chest still heaving. He reaches for you again, pulling you closer until your thigh presses against his. He needs that contact, needs to feel you still here.

The silence stretches, brittle and loaded, and he’s steeling himself for the worst.

No more running.

No more hiding.

His fingers find yours again, and he holds on tight.

And now, his real story finally begins.

He exhales, shifting his weight on the couch, trying to find a position that doesn’t make him feel like he’s collapsing in on himself. He glances at you, begging for some kind of absolution he’s almost certain can’t exist.

When he speaks, his voice is rough, raspy with all the tears he’s been holding back—unsuccessfully.

“It started in junior year….”

He’s never forgotten those days. Never truly left behind the basketball courts, the letterman jacket, the face he saw in the mirror each morning—the King Steve facade.

He swallows, it’s been so long since he started from the beginning and now, saying it out loud, he realises something.

He really was just a boy when it happened.

“It started small.” He begins quietly. “Kid went missing—Will Byers. He was the first.”f

His gaze drifts down, searching the dusty floor for the memories.

A missing kid—hardly the biggest news story in small-town Hawkins, but it would shape everything.

“We didn’t think anything of it—I didn’t think. I was—”

He was busy throwing parties, failing class, cruising around town with the latest fling on his arm…

Only Nancy was not a fling.

She was special to him.

He grimaces, the weight of regret has settled behind his eyes.

Nancy.

The name still makes his chest tighten, even if the heartbreak has long since turned into something softer.

“I—I had a girl at the time, her name was Nancy. I didn’t think it was anything special, but…”

“But it was?”

It was.

He nods, pressing his lips together, remembering the nights he spent losing himself in those big eyes of hers, the way she made him feel for the first time. Like she wasn’t with him for the reputation alone. It wasn’t like she stuck around for it anyway.

“Yeah… yeah, it was.” His voice softens, eyes drifting somewhere far away. “I was so caught up in her, I didn’t even notice what was happening.”

A bitter breath. A pause.

“Her best friend disappeared next... right outside my window.”

He hadn’t given a shit about Barb when it happened. More concerned with what his dad would say about him throwing a party.

She was just Nancy’s weird friend. Too quiet, too awkward, too out of place. Invited out of politeness, not because anyone actually wanted her there.

And he let her leave alone. Didn’t think twice.

Didn’t care.

She died scared. Alone. In the dark. And he was upstairs—only thinking about getting a pretty girl into his bed.

Fucking idiot. That’s all he was.

He cringes at the memory, shame burning through him like acid.

She’s dead because he was too busy being a selfish piece of shit.

“I think that’s why it didn’t work out.”

His laugh is wet, choked, and bitterness lines the edges of it.

“That’s what Rob said, anyway,” he murmurs, voice thin. “Every time she looked at me, I could see it—what she was thinking. If she hadn’t listened to me… Barb would still be here.”

He swallows hard.

“And I get it. I do. I understand why she believes that.”

But it didn’t make it hurt any less.

She was his first love. His first real everything. And you don’t forget someone like that.

“Will came back,” he says quietly. “But Barb didn’t.”

His fingers tighten around his knee.

“But where he went… it wasn’t just some missing kid story. It was something else. Something wrong.”

He takes a deep breath, like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down, knowing there’s no turning back once he jumps.

This is the part he’s never let anyone close enough to touch. The part he’s fought to keep buried. He’s never wanted to put this weight on you. Never wanted you anywhere near this.

But you’re already in it.

And he can’t keep pretending you’re not.

“The old lab opened something,” he says, voice low and tight. “Something really bad.”

His hands flex in his lap, like he’s trying to ground himself.

“They were messing with this shit for years, without even knowing what they were doing. They—” his throat bobs. “They took kids.”

He pauses. His jaw clenches as his mind spirals—trying not to, but failing anyway.

What kind of life was that?

He thinks about El. About the pain in her eyes. She never told him the details and they weren’t always close, but they trusted each other in the way soldiers do—when you’ve seen the same kind of ruin and made it out alive.

She was just a kid.

They all were.

His chest tightens. He thinks about his students now—their crayon drawings, the way they laugh at silly stories. How small their hands are.

He can’t imagine one of them in a place like that. Used, then broken.

It made him sick.

“There were experiments,” he finally says, voice shaking. “They opened a gate. To another world.”

He looks up at you, and his eyes are haunted.

“One just like ours… but off. Alive, somehow. And it didn’t stay contained. It started to leak into our world.”

His hands curl into fists.

“It was hell,” he says. “And it came here.”

Hell.

That’s the only word that fits.

So many people gone. So many lives lost.

And somehow he’s still here. And most days, he doesn’t understand why.

“The things that came out of there…” he starts, then stops, swallowing hard. “They weren’t normal.”

His voice drops lower, rougher.

“Dogs that—weren’t dogs. Their heads would open up, and it was just teeth. Rows and rows of ‘em.”

Demo-dogs. The sanitised name for what they really were.

“I was the oldest. I had these kids with me—Dustin, Lucas, Max… they were just kids. They couldn’t fight those things off.”

His jaw clenches.

“I told them to stay back. And they did, they listened.”

A pause.

“But sometimes I just wish…”

The words trail off, lost somewhere in the weight of everything he can’t say.

His eyes drift, unfocused, filling with something heavy and distant—memories.

Memories of running. Of screaming. Of blood on the floor. Of holding the line so they wouldn’t have to.

They got out.

He didn’t.

Not all the way, because he’s still in it.

Still sees it when he closes his eyes. Still hears the growls. Still wakes up some nights expecting something to tear through his door.

His hands start to shake and you reach for them again without thinking, folding them between yours. Trying to anchor him, to say you’re there without speaking.

He flinches at first. Then lets you hold him.

Even though it breaks your heart to see him like this—to know you pushed him to this point—there’s no going back.

“We thought it was over after that,” he says, “but it never was. I graduated—barely. Didn’t get the grades for college, and my dad cut me off.”

It dawns on you then.

His parents didn’t know.

Because if they had, there’s no way they’d have cared about grades, not when their son had been fighting for his life.

He hadn’t told them.

You’ve always known their relationship was strained, but this must have torn whatever was left even further apart.

“Took the first job I could find… and that’s how I met Rob.”

You nod. That part you do know.

The stupid sailor uniform. The Scoops Ahoy jokes. The unbearable summer heat. The friend who became family. You know the version he’s told before—the warm, funny pieces, the lighthearted edits.

But you also know where this is headed.

The blueprints. The tunnels.

“The mall,” you say quietly.

“Yeah... The mall.”

He drags a hand through his hair, fingers getting stuck at the ends.

“I was such an idiot,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Thought it was over. That we’d won. That we could move on.”

But the past claws its way back too fast. Even now, years later, just thinking about Starcourt makes his stomach turn.

“Dustin came back from camp, excited about picking something up on the radio waves. Said it was gonna be big, so I went along with it. Rob did, too. We thought it’d be—like the movies, y’know? Some big scavenger hunt we could brag about. Something exciting for once.”

He starts to tear up at the memory. The meltdown of that summer is etched into him like his scars.

“Turns out the government weren’t the only ones interested. The mall was a cover-up—you got that part right. Some Russian organisation had picked up where they left off… only bigger.”

His breathing grows laboured, and you see him fighting the panic in his eyes.

“It was bad, so fucking bad, angel. I—god, I even got another kid involved. Couldn’t have been older than nine.”

He buries his face in his hands, shame radiating off him. He teaches kids that age now—thinks about how small they are, how trusting.

“We got underneath it,” he says quietly. “Me and Dustin. The others had no idea. We found this elevator that went down—way down. Like, military base deep.”

He swallows. You can hear it.

“They got out, thank God. But me and Rob… we got caught.”

He doesn’t look at you as he whispers the next statement. He doesn’t want to see your reaction.

“I don’t remember how long they tried to get information out of me.”

Your stomach twists at his insinuation.

Torture.

Not a fight. Not a scuffle.

Torture.

And he was just nineteen.

Barely out of high school, still half-boy, thrown into something no one should ever see.

What the hell did they do to him?

“I came to,” he continues, voice a little distant now. “And Rob was there. She was… not fine. But she was breathing. We both were.”

He runs a hand over his face, dragging his palm down.

“She told me about high school. How I was this total dick. Said she sat behind me, and I didn’t even know her name.”

Now, it’s the name written on his emergency contact.

“I didn’t even remember her. I was that guy.”

Your fingers brush his arm. He doesn’t flinch, he’s somewhere far off.

“We made it out,” he says. “We were so high we could barely walk—God knows what they injected us with. I don’t remember much, just pain. And the lights. And… Rob’s voice. Sometimes that’s what pulled me back.”

His lips press together.

“The kids had to rescue us,” he says quietly. “They saved me. When I should’ve been the one saving them.”

His whole body tenses, a tremor running through him as the image surges. Sterile halls. Screaming in a language he didn’t understand. Blood. Cold restraints. The sting of a needle.

And fear.

Not just for himself—for Robin. For Dustin. For all of them.

Still fresh, years later.

“It came back this time, stronger than before. The thing was two stories high. We made it out with the help of El—you don’t know her, but she was one of the kids. The experiments they did on her… she could do things. With her mind.”

“We got out, and the mall came down too. A cover-up for the cover-up, the perfect story.”

He shakes his head, a wry twist to his lips. Then his expression crumples.

“But the worst was the summer after…”

He doesn’t want to talk about this part. You can see it in the way he stiffens, in the tremor of his jaw. This is where his scars come from. You’ve felt them under your fingertips, wondered at their shapes.

“Kids started dying again. In ways that were… too familiar. We knew what it was. Knew it was back.”

His voice cracks on the last word, and a tear slips free. His shoulders tremble, and you tighten your grip on his hands.

“Eddie was who they blamed for it—town freak, Satan worshipper, all that bullshit.” He releases a shaky breath. “He was Dustin’s best friend. Looked out for him when I couldn’t. Made high school easier for him.”

He grits his teeth.

“We all knew we had to fight it again—El wasn’t there. We’d done it before, so… maybe we could again. But it was bad. Worse than before.”

He’s reliving the terror in real time—the helplessness that gnaws at him still.

“It was so painful, angel. We got dragged under at the lake. I went first, because—I don’t know, I could? I thought if it was me instead of them, then maybe they’d be all right. Maybe I’d make up for it somehow.”

He’s openly crying now. Tears slip down his cheeks in steady streams. All you can do is watch, your own throat closing with grief you don’t fully understand but ache to share. You stroke the back of his hand, feeling how futile the gesture must seem.

“It didn’t stop.”

Those three words fall like stones.

“There were bats—I think. I don’t even know what they were. Just… wrong. They kept coming. Tearing into me.”

Too fast to fight.

Too many to count.

“They latched onto me like—like they knew where to bite.”

Ribs. Side. Neck.

“I—I can still feel them sometimes. Even now. Like they’re still under my skin.”

He grips his side reflexively, as if the wounds still throb beneath his skin.

“I thought I wasn’t gonna make it.”

A twisted kind of admission. One that suggests a terrible resignation.

“And in a way…” His voice tightens. “It felt right.”

Maybe that’s what he deserved.

Maybe that was easier than surviving again.

“It made sense,” he breathes. “I mean—I was the one who stuck around. Maybe that was the end I was supposed to get.”

Then the sob rips out of him—harsh and sudden, like it’s been living just beneath the surface.

“But they got to me,” he forces out. “In time. They pulled 'em off me, and I was still breathing.”

Barely.

He swipes an unsteady hand across his face, blinking fast against the tears.

“We thought that was it," he says in a voice so hollow it almost doesn’t sound like him. "But it wasn’t—it was just the beginning.”

He can barely meet your eyes now. Won’t let himself see the fear and pity etched in your expression.

“There was someone else—another one of those kids from the lab. Stronger—smarter. He was behind all of it.”

His knuckles go white.

“He had this… world. A whole world that moved for him. Vines crawling through the ground. They were watching us. Telling him where we were.”

No plan worked.

“We tried to fight. Tried to run. But—but we didn’t stand a chance. It grabbed us. Around our chests, our—”

He stops, breath catching.

“It got me again. This time around the neck—tight—so fucking tight I couldn’t breathe.”

Again.

He mimics the motion briefly, a reflexive wince at the memory.

“I tried to yell—to tell them to go. But it was too late.”

He stares at the floor now, voice hollow.

“They got Max.”

She screamed. And then she didn’t. And he couldn’t do a damn thing.

The sob that follows is deep and shaking, your hand is still in his.

“Eddie was gone by the time we got back. Played the goddamn hero.”

Another tear rolls down, and he doesn’t even try to wipe it away.

“I told him not to. I fucking told them.”

His voice cracks—shattered glass.

“I was supposed to protect them.”

That was the whole point.

“I was supposed to be the one who could handle it..”

That was why he stayed behind.

He finally looks at you, eyes raw and bloodshot.

“I couldn’t save them,” he whispers.

Always one second too late.

“It caused the earthquake. Him. All of it was because of him. We never found a body. Never knew if it was over. So they left. Every single one of them, as soon as they could.”

Gone.

He swipes at his face with the back of his hand, useless against the tears.

“And I—I stayed. I don’t know why. I fucking stayed.”

He breaks then, openly and fully. His chest spasms with heavy sobs. Watching him fall apart like this is agony, but you can’t not watch. You can’t tear your eyes away from this man who’s spent years fighting alone.

“I can’t move past it,” he gasps. “No matter how hard I try.”

Why did he?

When none of them are?

His voice is totally wrecked. You reach for him again, hands unsteady, tears streaking your own cheeks. You're afraid that holding him might pull him deeper into it—this bottomless grief—but you hold on anyway.

Because someone has to.

“That’s—that’s the basics of it all—fuck—that’s all I can do,” he manages between sobs. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m sorry. I just—that’s—”

He grits his teeth, trying to hold back the pain, but it tears out anyway—raw and guttural, a sound like a wounded animal.

It shreds through the room. Shreds through you.

You break, too. A soft sob escapes your throat as your hand tightens around his.

“That’s all I can give you right now,” he whispers.

And God, does he hope it’s enough.

He’s inconsolable. Stomach dropping. Eyes fixed on a patch of sunlight filtering through the bookshop window, like it might offer him a way out.

But there isn’t one.

There never was.

You sit there in silence, your chest hollowed out by everything he’s given you.

This poor man—battered, scarred, not just physically but soul-deep—who’s lived through horrors you’re only just beginning to grasp.

He’s still here.

He stayed. He survived.

Even when it would’ve been easier not to. You can’t imagine it. You can’t take it away.

But now, finally, you see him.

Every broken, ugly part.

You see all of him.

The only sound in the room is your sobs. His sobs. The line between where you end and he begins blurs, because the grief is so palpable it seems to swallow you both.

He’s curled in on himself, shoulders hunched and trembling, and you realise just how small a person can look when the weight of the world has nearly broken them. The world has been unfair to him—so unfair.

And now, it’s your turn to figure out what to do.

Because this isn’t a wound you can bandage with a few kind words. This isn’t the kind of trauma that has neat stages you can work through, step by painstaking step. And it sure as hell isn’t the sort of mess any textbook could solve.

A part of you sees the outlines of truth now. The pills in his bathroom. The flinches when someone claps a hand on his shoulder too hard. The nightmares and the shadows under his eyes. Suddenly, so many pieces click into place.

This explains everything.

Then why doesn’t it feel better?

You’re scared to speak, but you know he needs something. Everyone else is gone—scattered in the aftermath of what’s happened to him.

“Can—” Your voice breaks. You pause, inhaling shakily to steady yourself. “Can I… hold you?”

He lets out a low, ragged sound—somewhere between a groan and a sob—like he’s been waiting for you to ask, yet it pierces him all the same. There’s a vulnerability in the question that knocks the wind from both of you.

“God—yes.”

Please.

No sooner does he say it than you’re scrambling onto his lap. He clings to you with a force that almost hurts, but you don’t tell him to loosen his grip. You guide his head to your chest and hold him like you can piece him back together.

Like a parent would.

Like his parents didn’t.

You press your fingers into his hair, sliding them through the strands slowly, trying to calm the raging storm inside him. And still, he cries. Deep, shuddering sobs that jolt through his entire body. You can feel each one vibrating in your bones. Each one feels like a testament to how much he’s been carrying alone.

But you don’t know what to do.

All you can do is cradle him, let him unravel against you. Let him press his face to his borrowed jumper as his breath catches again and again. You whisper soothing things you won’t even fully recall later, meaningless words in the language of warmth and touch.

Your thoughts drift to Robin.

You wonder if she’s seen him like this—held him the way you’re holding him now. If she’s had to stitch him together each time the memories tore him apart.

The respect you already had for her grows fiercer, more profound. You owe her everything for keeping him safe long enough for you to stumble in and set off this emotional landmine.

Because that’s what happened, isn’t it?

You wanted answers, you wanted to help.

But in chasing those answers you pried open something he wasn’t ready to face—something you weren’t ready to face.

And even though you understand him more than ever now, it feels like a hollow victory. The cost is too high.

He rests against you, breath hitching. You want to tell him it’s okay now—that he’s safe. That this is the last chapter in some terrible book he can close forever and leave to collect dust.

But you can’t.

Because it isn’t over.

There was never any real closure, never a neat solution, and probably never any permission to share what happened in the first place.

The world kept spinning, and he’s stuck carrying secrets nobody else dared to shoulder, in a town that refused to see the truth. That’s the cruelest twist of all—he’s been trapped in silent torment, never allowed to speak.

Never allowed to heal.

And so, you hold him tighter, your arms a makeshift sanctuary in the face of everything that’s broken him. If you can offer him just one moment of peace, you will.

You will do whatever it takes, no matter how small, no matter how fleeting.

His sobs begin to slow, each breath growing more subdued as exhaustion pulls him under. You can feel the change in the tautness of his body, how the strength in his grip fades as if some internal dam finally burst and took everything with it.

Even so, you don’t stop combing your fingers through his hair, not for a second. There’s a desperate hope in your touch—that maybe, somehow, it soothes him.

It’s the only thing you can think to do.

He doesn’t speak first, he’s already said so much. Let out so many words that weighed on his heart like anchors. When his weeping quiets to unsteady sniffles, you're the one who breaks the silence.

“Are you alright?”

Your voice quivers, the question tasting flat on your tongue. It’s a meaningless thing to say in a moment like this.

Of course he’s not alright.

No one would be, after that.

But he feels a hint of gratitude that you asked anyway. Because you care enough to ask. That alone is worth everything to him.

He gives a slight nod against your chest, face pressed to your shirt as though letting go would mean losing whatever fragile tether he’s holding onto. His lashes are damp, sticking together every time he blinks.

He wants to say no, but words fail him. Nodding feels safer.

He feels a lot calmer than he expected, lighter, somehow. Free in a way he hasn’t been for longer than he cares to admit. It shocks him.

Somewhere deep down, a small part of him had convinced itself you would leave.

Everyone does. But you’re still here.

You’re not so easily frightened away.

He finally manages to lift his head, and the movement is tentative. A wince tightens his features when a dull ache throbs behind his eyes—headaches are the inevitable fallout of tears this heavy. But that’s a small price to pay. The real weight has been lifted from his chest, at least for now.

You look at him, eyes wet with sympathy. He hates it, hates seeing pity aimed at him; he’s never been good at being vulnerable like this. But at the same time, he can’t resent you for it. You’re only reacting to what you see.

Loosening his grip on your waist, his hands drift to rest on your hips, then your sides, drawing gentle circles through the fabric there. It’s instinctive, a way to ground himself in the moment. He ducks his head, letting out a shaky exhale that carries something like relief.

“I’m guessing we aren’t going to the coffee shop anymore,” he says, forcing a weak attempt at humour. It’s brittle and halfhearted, but it’s all he can manage right now.

Your laugh breaks through his gloom, watery and tender.

“I have coffee upstairs,” you say, eyes glistening as you try to steer the conversation toward something resembling normalcy. “But I don’t think we need any more caffeine today.”

He nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat, because that’s fair. His nerves are already shot, adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

“I’m sorry,” you begin, voice wavering. “I never would've dug if I’d known…”

He looks up, surprise flickering across his still-blotchy face.

“I wouldn’t have told you if you hadn’t,” he murmurs, and there’s a note of truth there that resonates in the quiet of the bookshop.

There was no easy way for this to come out, perhaps it was inevitable.

“Are you angry?” you ask, softly, like you’re afraid of his answer.

“No,” he says, more firmly this time. “I said I wasn’t.”

“Yeah, but you could’ve been lying.”

“I wasn’t.” His gaze flicks to yours, and he almost manages a faint smile.

He’s done with lying—for now, at least, with you.

He looks at the light streaming through the window behind you, how it outlines your form in a gentle glow.

Like a halo.

An angel.

The corner of his mouth lifts just a little, and he closes his eyes when your fingers find the hair at the nape of his neck again.

“What do you want to do now?” you whisper.

If that isn’t the question of the year…

What does he want to do?

Does he have to do anything?

His mind swirls with the aftermath of what he’s just revealed, the emptiness that comes after a storm.

Maybe he just wants to exist with you, quietly, for as long as the world will let him.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” he asks, voice nearly a plea.

A soft chuckle escapes your lips, and you shake your head in affectionate exasperation.

“You don’t have to ask,” you tell him gently. “You know that.”

He nods, because he does. But still—he wants to be sure. He’s never liked assuming you’d just say yes, even when it’s obvious.

“Do—do we have to talk about this anymore?” he asks carefully, the question trembling on the edge of his breath. “I don’t know if I have it in me.”

“Do you want to?” you counter, eyes searching his.

“No.” It spills out of him faster than he intends, but it’s honest.

He’s relived enough horrors for one day.

“Then we won’t,” you say simply, tracing the line of his jaw with a touch so light it makes him shiver. “Thank you for telling me,” you add, voice dipping, “even if I didn’t give you much of a choice…”

He opens his mouth to protest, but you see the conflict in his eyes.

“It’s alright,” he manages. His breath hitches in his chest, but no more tears fall. “It’s better this way.”

He never thought he’d believe those words, but somehow he does now. Having you here, knowing you know—it’s one less burden on his shoulders.

“Okay.” You sigh, a rush of air that sounds like relief. “I’ll make dinner tonight—my apology.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, shaking his head.

You grin, a wry little smile through the tears.

“I can make pancakes again?”

A grin tugs at his lips in response, the memory stirs something bright in his chest. He tilts his head, pretending to mull it over.

“You drive a hard bargain,” he replies, matching your playfulness. And then there’s that giggle again—boyish, warm.

“I know,” you whisper, leaning down and pressing your lips to his.

The kiss is gentle, a lingering brush that sends a surge of heat and safety through him. He curls his fingers around your back, returning the affection with soft desperation, reluctant to let you pull away.

But eventually, you do. You slip off his lap and stand, offering him your hand, and he takes it. Your fingers thread together as you lead him across the bookshop floor, steps echoing softly, then up the stairs to your living space. A small ripple of relief settles into his heart.

Tonight, he’ll let you fuss over him—the way you do when you’re loving someone through their worst moments.

Not the overbearing, pitying kind that he’s used to, but your gentle brand of affection, full of small touches and sweet words.

He’ll try to help with dinner, even if you bat him away, rolling your eyes at his attempts. And he’ll let himself smile, because you smile back.

He imagines sitting across from you at the table, nudging your foot under it just to make you laugh.

He can already see you washing his hair in the shower, your fingers massaging his scalp. Maybe he’ll do the same for you, a soft sort of trade-off that seems impossibly intimate.

You’ll see his scars and he’ll let you touch them without shrinking back, even though it stings to think how they got there.

He’ll try not to feel guilty when he falls asleep on your chest for a change, instead of the other way around. He’ll let your warmth lull him into a gentle slumber. Sure, he’ll have to wake up earlier than you tomorrow for work, but he knows you’ll be the first one up to keep him company if he just asks.

And maybe you’ll drive him, so he won’t have a car, so he’ll have to call you when he’s done. A part of him wants that.

He knows he can ignore the old stresses for a little while—until the next weekend, at least.

He can’t miss therapy.

That would be a dead giveaway.

He’s dreading how he’ll need to dodge and weave around certain truths there. He hopes he’s good enough at lying, but at least he won’t have to lie to you anymore.

And that’s the part that makes him feel lighter than he has in ages.

No more secrets.

No more walls.

No more hiding this battered, bruised history from the girl his stupid heart beats for.

Because, for once, he’s not running from the truth.

And for once, he’s not running from you.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee @irrelevantbutembarrassing @almostfullstarfish @aurora-austen @yourgirlfriennd @purpleyeswithgoldensparkles @keerysfolklore @carlyferrell

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #stranger things #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #stranger things x reader #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things imagine #steve harrington angst #steve harrington x you #stranger things series #teacher! steve harrington #teacher!steve harrington x reader #teacher!steve harrington #teacher steve harrington

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mearchy · 4 months ago

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On my rewatch of TLOU I realized there were some details that I missed before that help to paint this huge picture about the importance of the preceding Tess/Joel relationship. The first and most obvious is that Joel mentions passingly that he and Tommy met Tess pretty early on, and it sounds like she stayed with him when every other group they were in fell apart, and even when his own brother left. So they’ve been surviving together for at LEAST 15 years, probably longer than his daughter was even alive, which is a length of time I just didn’t fully process before.

We never hear the full goodbye/suicide letter from Bill, but a lot of people have pointed out that over Joel’s shoulder you can see Tess’s name mentioned at least twice at the end — including something about her deciding what to do. We know that basically every time we saw Tess directly interacting with Joel before she died, she was the one giving him directives and making the final decisions. She says outright that he listens to her. This is not a man who trusts fucking anybody after everything he’s been through. But he trusts Tess. She comes up behind him in bed while he’s sleeping, and in a world of raiders and robbers where hypervigilance is a necessity, he barely even stirs.

Now, one of her last lines before she dies is “I never asked you for anything, not to feel the way I felt—“ and he tries to say something and she shuts him down. But here’s what gets me: before that, before they realize she was bit, she turns around and in her dying frantic anger she yells “that is NOT MY HOME!” about the QZ. And it’s like okay… where else could she be thinking about, if she’s spent all these years on the road with different groups, with Joel, and then at least a decade in the QZ? What is she defining as home right now? Why is this correction so intense? And it could be about Detroit, about where she came from and isn’t (apparently) attempting to go back to. But then. But then she turns and she looks directly at Joel. And she’s got the most tragic expression on her face. And I wonder if in that moment Joel knew she meant that he was her home, even if she had never said it that openly before. Wherever he went, she would go. Haring off on a wild chase after his brother across the country? She’s there. She’ll do anything to make it happen. She’ll beg and barter and kill for this truck battery, for a mission she doesn’t even have half the same stakes in. She was his direction and his driving force and a safe place for him, but he was her home.

Thinking about this almost changed the tenor of the remaining story with Joel and Ellie to me. The hospital massacre felt perfectly in character the first time I watched, but when I rewatched with both the Sarah and the Tess story in the forefront of my mind it felt even more fucking inevitable. Joel is Orpheus. This couldn’t have gone any other way. He could never have done anything else. He has failed the two most important women in his life. He has failed a daughter, and he has failed a partner twice over- first by letting her die, and second by letting her die believing she was unloved. How can he fail Ellie now? He has to burn the entire world, tell any lie, just to keep her alive. There is no other option, no other outcome. There is no living Joel post-canon without the hospital massacre.

And the revenge for it will be what kills him.

#my interpretation could be completely wrong ofc #let’s consider this post to be at least partly fanon tbh #anyway craig mazin the art you create is phenomenal the stories you tell are beautiful in their depth.#the last of us #tlou #joel tlou #tess servopoulos #joel/tess #tess/joel #joel miller #the last of us hbo #tlou hbo #tlou 2 #tlou part 2 #my meta #mine #long post

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cwwv9 · 21 days ago

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"Silence heard"

— without gender!depressive!reader x Isagi Yoichi, Meguro Bachira, Hiori Yo, Karasu Tobio, Michael Kaiser, Alexis Ness, Mikage Reo, Hagi Seishiro, Itoshi Rin, Itoshi Sae, Shidou Ryusei.

Warning: depression, emotional detachment, mention of apathy, inner pain, attempts to cope with mental difficulties, passive suicidal behavior (hint), obsessive behavior.

mailbox open for queries!!!( I need it )

Isagi Yoichi

He notices it from the very beginning - how you hold yourself apart, how you keep silent at times when others are laughing. Isaiah is lost at first: he can not cope with the pain of others, because he always made up for himself at the expense of the goal. But one day he will just say:

- If you’re sick, I won’t distract you with happiness. Just... let me be there. Even if it’s silent.

And it really stays - quiet, attentive, not pressing.

Meguro Bachira

His first reaction is an obsessive positivity. He thinks that he can "spin" you like a toy. He dances, jokes, wears stupid glasses.

But then he realizes: you don’t need funny clowns. Then he begins to share his loneliness - about the imaginary friend, about the silence in his head when there is no football.

- You don’t have to laugh. I know what it’s like to live in your own world. Just... let me in for a second, and I won’t tell anyone what’s inside.

And you believe.

Hyori Yo

He can immediately feel the familiar sadness in your eyes. He doesn’t ask questions - he just starts making you tea, leaving playlists, sometimes writing short messages: "Did you eat today?"

His care is unnoticeable, almost imperceptible. But at one point you catch yourself waiting for him to walk down the corridor with his hands on your shoulder.

Hyory never demands changes from you. He just exists as a warm room in a cold house.

Karasu Tabito

At first he gets irritated. Like, "Why are you being so pushy?" - but it’s a defensive reaction. He can’t say "I’m worried".

And then you start noticing - how you’re slouching, how your eyes are slipping away from the light. And it becomes cautious, almost careful. He will start calling you to the gym, explaining:

- Exercise helps. Seriously. I’m not a doctor, but when I have shit in my head, I run. We can run together.

And you run. Be quiet. This is also a form of closeness.

Reo Mikage

He wants to "fix" you. Right away. Money, gifts, trips, everything to make you smile.

But when he sees that it doesn’t work, he breaks himself. He sits down next to him and says, almost whispering:

- I can’t love any other way. But if you just need to be held by your hand in the dark, I’ll learn.

And it holds. Long. Until you want to come out - yourself.

Nagi Seichiro

He’s not very emotional, but even he can feel the weight you’re carrying.

- It’s exhausting, isn’t it? Living at all.

It will not make you feel. Just lie next to it, plug in headphones, throw a gamepad:

- Let’s just not think. Together.

You don’t have to "be better" with him. He accepts your apathy as something natural. And this, surprisingly, heals.

Michael Kaiser

His first instinct is to ignore. He doesn’t have time for other people’s pain.

But you hold him in your detachment. And one day he comes up, looking straight into his eyes:

- You look like you’re already dead. Do you know what I do when I’m dying inside? I look in the mirror and remember who the hell I am.

He is provocative. He is stiff. But then he hugs - suddenly, firmly.

-And you won’t die while I’m around. Remember that.

Alexis Ness

He feels more than he understands. He looks at you and squeezes his lips.

- I want you to see yourself with my eyes. There’s so much beauty.

He starts doing little things: folding origami, leaving candy, telling stupid stories.

He doesn’t expect a reaction, he just hopes that one day you will smile. Even for a second. And that will be enough.

Rin Itoshi

Rin thinks you’re weak for a long time. He doesn’t understand why you can’t just stand up.

But then one day he sees you crying quietly at night, thinking no one notices.

He hasn’t said a word to you since.

- You hold on. That’s enough. I’ll take care of the rest.

He can’t be soft, but he stays. Every day. No explanation.

Sai Itoshi

He frowns. Not because you’re sad, but because he hates that the world made you do it.

- If someone hurt you, I’ll find them. I’ll break them.

But on those rare evenings when you’re just sitting next to him, looking at one spot - he’s stroking your hand, barely touching it.

The room does not demand, does not ask, just gives you the right to be who you are. And then quietly adds:

- If you want to feel alive, I’m here for you.

Ryusei Shido

He’s laughing in your face. Literally.

- Oh, the dark girl! Let me fuck you - maybe you’ll come back?

But then he sees how you tremble at night, and all his pofisticism flies away.

He is angry. At himself, at you, at the whole world.

- You don’t have to be funny. But you do have to live. I won’t let you disappear. Not you, okay?

Becomes aggressive in caring. It annoys. But saves. Because he is always near - like a storm, like a fire. Like life.

#bllk x reader #blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk x you #blue lock x gender neutral reader #isagi yoichi x reader #bachira meguru x reader #hiori yo x reader #karasu x reader #michael kaiser x you #mikage reo x reader #michael kaiser x reader #alexis ness x reader #itoshi rin x reader #itoshi sae x reader #ryusei shidou x reader

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jenniferpendragon · 4 months ago

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Listening to "Would You Fall in Love with Me Again?" and I wondered why on earth I connected so deeply with Odysseus here when I've been connecting with Penelope so much, and then it clicked.

Massive spoilers below the cut, and also mentions of sexual assault and image issues.

Odysseus has become the monster, that's what "Odysseus" is about, his final culmination. He is everything he's fought and hated and killed. He has murdered a *baby* at the command of a god who told him if he didn't, the gods would have the child destroy his family. His best friend died because Odysseus, out of extreme guilt, indulged his ways too much. His own desire for a better world and to give mercy, fueled by guilt, caused his mentor to leave him and left an opening for future pain. His pride turned his cunning into dust. He watched men he had fought for ten years to save from dying in war be drowned in a storm because of his damn pride (and his brother-in-law and second-in-command's greed and mistrust). He then nearly lost all of his remaining men at the hands of an enchantress. He is forced to hear the screams of his dead comrades and come face to face with his dead mother in the Underworld who died waiting for him.

Odysseus then murders gods know how many sirens (rightfully so, but still), and then sacrifices six men to a sea monster for safe passage. His remaining men mutiny against him (understandably on the crew's side, not so much for Eurylochus) and then decide to eat the sacred cattle of Apollo, which gets the wrath of Zeus down upon them.

Odysseus then decides that his wife and son are more important than his remaining men and lets them be killed for their misdeeds. He is then trapped for years (and possibly sexually assaulted, reading between the lines) by a woman who wants to replace his wife while the demons of his past and his guilt and trauma cause him to nearly commit suicide. Once freed from the island and Calypso, he fights another sea monster with just his wits and then nearly dies by a god before torturing Poseidon until he gives Odysseus the safe passage he wants. After all that, he (rightfully) slays the suitors who were planning to rape his wife and attempting to kill his son. They beg for mercy, but the Odysseus that gave mercy to the cyclops that murdered his best friend is dead. Only a monster remains. A man who tortured gods stands before them and judges them for their crimes.

And his son is ecstatic to have him home, is wondering if Odysseus would accept him as "weak" as he is, as if Telemachus isn't the perfect "warrior of the mind" Odysseus always wanted to be, a combination of Athena and his younger self's viewpoints. Odysseus, the monster, sees one of the two things he still loves in the world and exercises those open arms because this is his son. His love for him is unconditional and unchanging.

Athena, beaten and recovering and full of empathy for the first time in the ten years since she left him, sees the Odysseus before her, the monster and cunning warrior she was attempting to turn him into, and accepts what he is, what he's become because of her. And while she loves him, she doesn't show him love. Just acceptance and quiet friendship (which is more than fine, but it does nothing to his heart about his monstrosity).

And then he comes to Penelope. The woman he has turned into someone unrecognizable for. Someone even the goddess of wisdom regrets. His son loves him, but it's because of the monster he has become. His son never knew him, never knew who Odysseus was at his core. Athena did, and she regrets what happened to him, what he became. But Athena wasn't who he was fighting for. He wasn't the one thing that kept Odysseus alive for twenty years of hell.

And he comes to Penelope, heart on his sleeve and says "I'm not the man you knew. I have done terrible things. I have become a monster inside and out. Would you fall in love with me again?"

He doesn't ask "do you still love me?". He doesn't think it's possible. He is a monster. He not only signed the death warrant of his sister's husband but threw a child, a baby, off of the walls of Troy. Odysseus doesn't believe himself worthy of the love he is asking for. He needs it with every fiber of his being because that is what he has craved for two decades, but he is a monster. He is not the kind and gentle husband who carved a wedding bed into an olive tree so it would be a living reminder of their everlasting love. He is a man who sold the souls of his men to a monster to get home.

Odysseus is amazingly, beautifully human, but by many metrics, he is a bad man. His actions can be justified and rationalized, but he has committed atrocities or allowed them to be committed (Achilles' desecration of Hector's corpse, opening the gates of Troy for the people to be slaughtered in their sleep, sentenced men to death so he could go home, throwing a baby off the walls of Troy) and he can't be called a good man (his actions in "Odysseus" aren't monstrous but they reveal his mindset) in a measurable way.

I wouldn't go so far as to call him evil like I would Antinuous, but would Odysseus? Yes. He believes he is a monster. Monsters are something to kill, not worthy of love.

But he asks. He asks Penelope if she would fall in love with him again. Not if she still does, he doesn't ask for that. He has loved no one else in these last twenty years, but he doesn't ask for that from Penelope. He's asking for a chance. Would she be willing to love the monster that has come home in her husband's place? Would she be willing to look upon him, with the blood of an infant on his hands, with the blood of an entire people on his hands (they would never have sacked Troy and committed genocide without him), and choose to fall in love with him anyways? That is what he is asking. Could you love me, as evil and monstrous as I am?

And what does Penelope do? She asks him to move their marriage bed. He's not her husband? He's a monster? Fine, a monster wouldn't care about destroying their wedding bed, the symbol of their marriage, to get what he wants, a new start from her. A monster wouldn't care that he would have to tear out the roots of their eternal love to have her now. A monster wouldn't have second thoughts.

But Odysseus is hurt and angry at her essentially asking for a divorce from the man she married, revealing the secret of their marriage bed in his shock and rage. A monster wouldn't give it a second thought, but the man she married could never move that bed for anything.

And she tells him that only her HUSBAND knew that, so that makes this monster he claims to be her husband. Penelope doesn't just agree to fall in love again, but that she doesn't care how, where, or when, because he is HERS. He isn't a monster that has replaced her husband, he IS her husband.

She does not look at him and see his sins. She looks at him and sees someone she has loved and waited for for twenty years. Someone she was ready to die a violent death rather than live without.

Odysseus believes himself to be a monster, to be evil. And Penelope says he is her husband. He is hers. He is not some evil monster, he is her husband who would never even think about moving their marriage bed. He thinks he is evil, too much, too monstrous, and she says no, you are MINE.

I've always felt like I'm a horrible person and worthy of the pain and punishment I get. But hearing someone love someone else unconditionally, looking upon them and saying "I don't see your sins; I only see you" is incredibly healing to me. Penelope hears his list of his sins and straight up IGNORES them. It's almost as if she has forgotten them. She loves Odysseus, period. She does not see the vile monster that Athena sees and accepts and regrets. She sees her husband.

Love is the greatest power in the world.

#epic the musical #epic odysseus #odysseus #jorge rivera herrans #epic the ithaca saga #penelope of ithaca #abandoment issues #love #athena #telemachus #man i really wrote an essay #sorry lol #i just really get attached to characters that love despite #penelope's love is astounding #this work is incredible and makes me feel things

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theother-victoria · 6 months ago

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all hearts as one beneath the sun

SYNOPSIS: before kakavasha dissolves into the nihility, there is one hope he has to let go of. may you meet again in a kinder world and under a warm sun.

CHARACTERS: kakavasha, aventurine, dr ratio, aventurine's family, sunday

TAGS: angst, no comfort, established relationship, mentions of suicide, 4k+ wc

TAGLIST: @mitsvriii, @harque, @hazyue, @gabile18, @khoncore, @moineauz

NOTES: sobbed to "had I not seen the sun" the entire time I was writing this I love making myself cry w my own work

special thanks to @akutasoda, @tragedy-of-commons, and @https-sourlimes for proofreading this! love u all <33

link to the playlist

Aventurine was mildly surprised when he received word that he would be handling the Penacony mission. Why him, of all the Ten Stonehearts? Surely someone more capable such as Opal would be trusted with a mission of this caliber.

He only realized why when he pried further into the details.

Penacony was a death trap. With so many powerful and important people gathered in one place, one wrong move on his part would spell his end.

He chuckles sardonically. Figures. They’re sending their most suicidal employee out for a suicide mission.

As if to rub the situation into his face, he finds out they’re pairing him with Dr. Ratio. What purpose is he supposed to serve, suicide prevention? Too little, too late, in his opinion.

The doctor doesn’t look too thrilled about the fact either. It makes Aventurine feel somewhat better about this whole situation.

“You’d best get your affairs settled before we leave, gambler. The odds that you make it back alive from this mission aren’t as high as you’d hope they’d be.”

“Ooh, well I do like the sound of that.”

A glare sent his way makes Aventurine roll his eyes, but he shuts up anyway. Plans are made and discussed for what role each of them will be playing before it’s time to leave.

“Well then, I look forward to working with you in Penacony, Doctor.”

“Just don’t act like a complete idiot and we’ll be fine.”

The two men head their separate ways. Ratio’s advice to settle his affairs lingers in his mind, though. That means there’s a will he has to sign, assets he has to distribute, funeral arrangements to be made, and more. Of course, most, if not all of it, will be going toward you. You’d be set for the rest of your life, never having to work a day again if you so chose.

He heaves a sigh. Ah, it’s all so tedious. It was all so much easier before you came along. He had no will to worry about. He’d toss caution to the wind every mission and wind up sorely disappointed when he returned, still alive. If he did end up dying, his assets would end up being pawned off and most likely make their way back to the IPC somehow. So what even was the point then?

With all that being said, he didn’t mind putting in all that extra work for your peace of mind and so you’d continue to benefit, even after his death.

Still, the stakes this time around are higher, and he has you to consider now before placing his bets. One wrong move and you’d be left without someone to welcome home. And then there’s the consideration of whether he’d be willing to die when the moment came. Sure, he’d attempted several times before but they’d all failed. Would he be able to take the plunge this time, should the opportunity present itself?

“Hey, Doc?”

Ratio is about to leave, but the uncharacteristic hint of hesitation in his voice makes him stop and look over his shoulder.

“... How can you tell if you’ve lived a life worth living?”

Ratio stares at the blonde in silence in disbelief over what he’s hearing. Aventurine chuckles, trying to dispel the awkwardness that’s settled in the air.

“No answer? Never mind-”

“That answer will vary from person to person. However, if you were to ask me personally…”

The doctor’s ruby eyes flit over Aventurine’s frame, narrowing in contemplation- and perhaps a hint of resignation.

“Ask yourself this question: can you die today without any regrets?”

“Can I die today without any regrets?” Doctor, what were you thinking when you posed that rhetorical question on me? Obviously the answer would be no!

Expensive leather shoes click against stone as Aventurine hurriedly makes his way through the Dreamscape. The weight of having mere hours left to live looms above his head like an anvil, leaving him scrambling to figure out how to cheat death- not for the hope of living to see another day, but so he can carry out his mission.

When confronted with death, even a suicidal man will cling to the urge to live for one reason or another.

He’s hardly paying attention to where he’s going, muttering out half-hearted apologies to those he bumps into as he stumbles through the Dreamscape before he ends up in a secluded area. The kaleidoscopic iridescence in the corners of his vision makes him stumble and he audibly groans when a searing pain flashes through his temples, the Harmony’s brand on his mind assailing him again.

Dammit… am I really at the end of the line now? And before I could do anything meaningful either…

He hears the sound of a… child humming some distance away? That’s strange, there’s no one else here.

“Mister, are you lost too?”

That voice.

He turns around slowly, as if that would change anything. Aventurine’s eyes dart across the boy standing before him, with rags for clothes and scraped knees. The child in front of him is everything he is not- or rather, what he was, but is no longer. Optimistic, with bright shining eyes. Hope still exists for him.

Those eyes. Oh, it’s himself.

Aventurine thinks he’s about to be sick.

“Woah, you have such pretty eyes! Can I call you Mr. Pretty Eyes?”

Aventurine stiffly nods.

“Sure. Call me whatever you want, kid. What’s your name?”

“It’s Kakavasha. Nice to meet you!”

And that’s the final nail in the coffin confirming his suspicions.

Kakavasha looks around nervously.

“I was searching for my family, but I got lost. This place is so much bigger than home… Mister, do you think you could help me find them?”

Aventurine shakily extends a trembling hand out.

“Of course. Lead the way. How about you hold onto my hand so you don’t get lost anymore?

Kakavasha latches onto it and begins wandering around, calling out for his parents and big sister. Every unanswered call feels like a punch to the gut but he has a faint flickering of hope that he’ll be able to see them.

“You really love your family, kid,” remarks Aventurine in an attempt to keep some conversation going.

“Of course! I do!”

Kakavasha pauses in his steps and thinks for a bit, eyes wandering skyward and free hand resting on his chin.

“… Do you have anyone you love, Mr. Pretty Eyes?”

“Yes, I do. Their name is (Name).”

The boy’s eyes light up, sparkling in curiosity.

“Woah, really? What’re they like?”

A light chuckle escapes Aventurine’s lips as he crouches down to Kakavasha’s eye level and ruffles his hair.

“They’re the best thing to have ever happened to me.”

“Wow, they must be a really amazing person for you to say that…”

“They are. They're incredible.”

I don’t deserve them.

He chuckles and stands back up again, hand reaching for Kakavasha’s. The little boy continues to lead the way, until he suddenly stops and turns.

“Would you like to meet my family? They’ve been gone for so long I think they went back home. You can introduce (Name) to them as well!”

Panic wells up inside him. Seeing his family? In this state? After all he’s done? No, he can’t. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t. Not under these circumstances!

“Kid, I don’t think-”

“It’s ok if (Name) shows up late. They’re nice people and they’ll understand.”

“No, I-”

“Come on, let’s go! They’re already waiting for us!”

Aventurine feels himself being forcefully pulled under and he instinctively closes his eyes. A blast of hot, sandy air hits him, making him shield himself. When it settles down, he opens his eyes to a familiar sight. Sand stretches as far as the eye can see. There’s minimal vegetation and he can feel the sun beating down on his back already.

Sigonia-IV. He’s returned home.

Kakavasha eagerly tugs on his sleeve.

“This is my home! I know it’s not much, but everyone I know and love is here. I think you’ll like it too.”

Still holding onto Aventurine’s hand, Kakvasha begins running toward the horizon. Aventurine, meanwhile, feels numb all over.

There’s no way this is happening. Is this some sort of cruel prank? What did that chicken-wing boy do this time? But if this is just a cruel prank…

He looks around at the yellow sand stretching as far as the eye can see and the mountains in the distance.

… Then it’s far too realistic. How is this happening? If I filter out the memories of the massacre, then everything is the same as I remembered it.

“We’re almost there!” calls out Kakavasha. “Just a little longer now!”

Three familiar figures stand in front of a tent some distance away and Aventurine feels his heart seize up in his chest. He’s long forgotten their faces, but he instinctively recognizes them.

Mom. Dad. Big Sis.

Kakavasha lets go of his hand and sprints toward his family. He leaps into the arms of his big sister, who spins him around giddily while his mother plants kisses over his face and his father holds his tiny hands.

As he approaches, he realizes they have no faces. Where there are supposed to be eyes, a nose, and a mouth, there is nothing. A blank canvas with dents and ridges where the features are supposed to be greets him and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise up in warning.

The only exception to this is his sister, with her grinning mouth and her long blonde hair billowing in the wind- the only feature he remembers clearly about her. She takes notice of him and tilts her head curiously to the side.

“Kakavasha, did you br▇ng a f▇▇▇d of ▇urs?”

Her voice comes out scratchy and distorted with only a few syllables recognizable. There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach when he realizes why.

He can’t remember her voice anymore. Or the voices of his parents, for that matter. He’s forgotten what they look like, and now what they sound like. What’s been forgotten can’t be restored.

“Yeah!” exclaims Kakavasha nestled safely into his sister’s arms now. “Everybody, meet Mr. Pretty Eyes!”

They greet him with friendly waves and scratchy sounds that he thinks are supposed to be words of greeting. He almost chokes on the guilt and regret building up in his throat

“▇▇ look just like ▇▇ Kakavasha over here! ▇▇ ▇▇ ▇▇ ▇▇ his long-lost b▇▇▇▇r or something?”

Aventurine forces out a laugh as the others join in.

If only they knew…

The sun is going down now, and the solar winds that blanket the planet grow harsher. They quickly usher him into the tent, telling him to make himself at home and inviting him to stay for dinner. There’s no way out as far as he can tell, so he obliges.

It’s smaller than he remembers, he thinks as he ducks to avoid hitting his head. There’s a rudimentary kitchen setup in the back that Kakavasha’s mother is tending to as she begins preparing dinner. Kakavasha hops into his sister’s lap and shakes the sand out of his hair and gets it everywhere, to which she lightly scolds him with a tug on his cheek.

He takes a seat on the fraying rug in the center and rubs a brightly-colored teal tassel between his fingers. The sand is already starting to seep into his clothes. He feels grains of it in his shoes and it pools onto his pristine white dress pants. Grains of it are nestled deep into the fur collar of his coat from the harsh solar winds outside that even vigorous shaking won’t dislodge.

Kakavasha’s sister smiles at him. It’s a bit unnerving, just seeing a smiling mouth with no other features.

“So, Mr. ▇▇▇ Eyes, w▇at 's your ▇▇▇ ? At least, I’m a▇▇▇ ming Mr. ▇▇▇ Eyes isn’t yo▇▇ r▇l name.”

“It’s Kaka-”

He swallows hard and kicks himself. He’s not Kakavasha. Not anymore.

“It’s… Aventurine.”

The very act of saying that name makes him feel like he’s betraying his family, stabbing them in the back.

“A▇▇▇▇▇ , huh? What an in▇▇▇ing and pretty name!” remarks his sister. He feels the air rush out his lungs and almost coughs up a sardonic laugh from the sheer irony of it all. First his family, then his language, then his body, and now even his name? Is there anything left that he can truly call his from his culture?

Thunder distantly rumbles overhead. Kakavasha and his sister peek their heads out curiously of the tent. She gasps excitedly and points to the darkening clouds overhead.

“Hear that? ▇▇ sign ▇▇ your birthday is ▇▇▇ ▇!” she exclaims as she holds Kakavasha’s hands in hers.“▇▇▇ ▇▇ excited?”

… His birthday?

Thunder rumbles overhead again and he hears the pitter-patter of raindrops hitting the tent.

His birthday. The Kakava Festival.

His heart sinks into his stomach as his family chatters around him. They talk about birthday celebrations and what they’ll do that day, but it’s a muffled mess in his ears. Is it really almost his birthday already? Sigonia-IV followed many beliefs that were independent from the rest of the universe, namely the Aeon belief system, and that also extended to the calendar system. Truth be told, he wasn’t exactly sure what day his birthday was in the Interastral Standard calendar system. He usually just flipped a coin and that was if he even bothered to celebrate, which he hadn’t done in many years.

Aventurine does some quick estimating and realizes that yes, it’s almost his birthday. But how would he celebrate his birthday in this world, where all was good and he still remembered their faces and voices?

Aventurine closes his eyes and thinks. His mother would be overjoyed to know that her beloved son finally has a lover now. She’d make him clean the tent from top to bottom in preparation for your arrival, even though the sand would find its way back inside again within a matter of a few hours. His parents would cook up a feast for your arrival while his sister would pester him to tell more stories about you- as if there were any left that he hadn’t. When the time would come and you’d nervously step through the tent flap with one hand holding his tightly and another clutching some gifts, his mother would rush forward and greet you with a kiss to the cheek, having already accepted you as family. His sister would steal you away from him to dote on you, much to his half-hearted chagrin. His father would tell corny jokes that you’d cringe at, and his mother would teach you recipes that had been passed down for generations, her warm, weathered hands resting atop yours and lovingly guiding your movements in the kitchen.

The five of you, safe, warm, and alive under the sun.

Hours after the rest of his family had gone to sleep, you’d lie side by side outside, watching the stars drift on by. Sigonia-IV is nothing like Pier Point. Free from light and industrial pollution, you’d have a stunning view of the cosmos every night. Twinkling stars shine overhead, so close you could practically pluck them out of the sky. Multicolored clouds of gas and stardust bathe the sky in their shifting hues as he tells you stories that have been passed down from generation to generation with the occasional shooting star passing by. You’d stay like that for hours on end, content to just listen and watch, until you were lulled to sleep by his voice.

It would be cold, as all desert climates are at night, but it was nothing he couldn’t bear with your warmth nestled into his side.

In the spring, or around now, he’d take you to celebrate the Kakava festival under the stars with a roaring bonfire. The festival itself would be a solemn and silent celebration with people murmuring prayers to the Mother Goddess and tossing sacrificial vessels into the fires, but the celebration of his birthday afterward would be loud and joyful. Bonfire sparks would rise up into the sky, carried by the hot solar winds and the rich sounds of his people’s songs. His mother would drape you in turquoise jewelry and gift you traditional clothes that she would’ve spent hours beforehand making by hand, every stitch a labor of love. He’d teach you to dance to the cheers of his family and the familiar tunes he’d hum under his breath. His movements would be fluid and graceful as he spins and twirls you around, while you stumble and flail along. He’d enjoy every second of it- even if you step on his feet the whole time.

He would be kinder in this world, he thinks. He’d still be Kakavasha. Aventurine would be an unknown man to him. He’d wear his heart on his sleeve and his eyes would still have life to them. He’d never have to hide his left hand.

And you’d be happier too. You wouldn’t have to sift through the layers to find the true self underneath the act he puts up. He wouldn’t be so hot and cold- practically love-bombing you one moment and then disappearing without a word for weeks the next. He wouldn’t be a dirty gambler, a two-faced businessman, a disinterested womanizer, cheating scum, an IPC mutt, a corporate bootlicker, a worthless Sigonian slut or who knows what else you’ve heard about him–

In this world, there are no Katicans. The Avigins and his family are still intact. His neck is unmarred and he speaks the Avigin dialect fluently, instead of the halting and choppy cadence that's even worse than that of a child’s. Syrupy, honeyed words spill from his mouth as he teaches you common words and phrases in his mother tongue. Have you eaten yet? How did you sleep? How was your day? I missed you. Mother. Sister. Father. Lover. Goddess. I made you something. I saw this today and thought of you. Be safe. Sweet dreams. Goodnight. I love you. He chuckles when you parrot them back to him haltingly, with your accent mixed in. The notebook you keep with various phrases, their meanings, and their phonetics grows every day. The most worn out page was the one crammed full of declarations of love that sound more akin to poetry as your mastery over the dialect grows. The ink is smeared from how often you’ve run your fingers over them, murmuring them under your breath until you’d committed them to memory. In your arms is the safest I’ll ever be. I’m lucky to call you my lover. I sleep better when I’m with you. I secretly name stars and constellations after you. I’ll kiss the weariness away from your face every night. I pray to Mama Fenge every night for your safety. I imagine her hands and embrace to be as warm as yours, and it reassures me somehow. I’ll miss your warm hands when that day finally comes. Goodnight, I love you.

We’ll be together even in Kakava’s next aurora.

Aventurine jolts forward with a start. His eyes search around frantically, instinctively searching for his family and you, only to be greeted with a familiar sight that isn’t his home. Bright flashing lights, the sound of cars honking and speeding by, muffled pop music playing in the distance, and the sugary scent of SoulGlad greet his senses instead of arid hot wind that howls in his ears and endless seas of sand. You and his family are nowhere to be seen either.

Oh. Right.

The Dreamscape.

His clothes stick to his skin drenched in a cold sweat and his glasses are resting lopsidedly on his face. His whole body is shivering uncontrollably, as if he’s been plunged into ice-cold water without warning. The world is going white before his eyes and all he can hear is the loud thump of his pulse in his ears that suddenly drops. He thinks he’s about to pass out again. This is the end, he thinks. Aventurine leans against the side of a wall again, taking deep, heaving breaths to steady himself and quell the nausea swirling around in his stomach.

When it subsides and he doesn’t feel like he’s on the verge of death (sadly), he sits back up and forces out a laugh in place of a sob. First forcing a religious consecration onto him, then dangling his family in front of his face? How much crueler could the head of the Oak Family get?

His heart sinks and an overwhelmingly bitter feeling engulfs him. It was just a dream all along. A dream within a dream, really. Was he really that desperate for something familiar again?

(And just like that, the mask known as Aventurine is back in place.)

(But he couldn’t even say goodbye or apologize to his family one last time, even if it wasn’t them.)

It was a pleasant dream, he’ll admit. How nice it would be to live in that world forever. But he knew it was a dream because it could never happen, as much as it pained him.

Aventurine hears the voice of Kakavasha drifting along from further up ahead and knows he’s nearing the final leg of his plan. With what little time he has left, he takes pictures with the boy for posterity and buys the child all the treats his eyes rest on for more than a second. Aventurine delights in the way his eyes light up at the first taste before he eagerly digs in for more.

It’s cathartic, in a way.

Before stepping on stage, he looks up at the sky. It’s perpetually nighttime in Clock Studios Theme Park, but he knows the sun is shining elsewhere in the Dreamscape. Is the sun shining where you are back at home? He thinks it’s morning for you. You must still be asleep with the cat cakes curled into your sides, blissfully unaware of the news you’ll wake up to.

Get onstage. Fear not. Never look back.

One last thing to do.

He sends a final text to you.

Aventurine: I love you.

It stays on delivered when he puts his phone away. It’ll be the first thing you see when you wake up, and that’s more than enough for him.

It’s time for the curtain call.

The feeling of Kakavasha’s tiny body in his arms won’t be enough to chase away the grief. Nothing ever will be. But this’ll be the closest he can get.

Aventurine hugs the boy close, squeezing as hard as he can without hurting him. He feels how he’s nothing more than skin and bone beneath the oversized rags. No child should have to be this thin, he thinks, and he’s even more glad he treated Kakavasha to his heart’s content earlier.

This is the end. He gives Kakavasha one last squeeze to imprint this memory into his mind and gets up, waving goodbye over his shoulder all the while.

He never looks back.

In a shower of light, Kakavasha dissolves into the Nihility, and with him, Aventurine’s hopes for the ideal future- the one that you deserved. The Horizon of Existence is finally devoid of all color save for himself and the dark sun beckoning him forward toward the event horizon.

He takes a step forward, and then another. The sound of his footsteps against the surface and liquid splashing echo loudly in the empty space.

The Nihility is beginning to slowly engulf him. He feels it encroaching at the edges of his mind, eating away at his thoughts one by one until nothing remains. A hollow, empty feeling settles into his heart that weighs him down. Aventurine looks down at his hands and realizes the color is beginning to seep from his vision until he, too, would become one with the Nihility. The point of no return beckons to him like a moth to a flame. Nothingness, emptiness, worthlessness. There’s nothing left for him to do.

“Can you die today without any regrets?”

Aventurine finally has an answer to that question. The past is gone and he’s walking toward no future.

Yes. I finally can.

enjoyed this? my taglist is open!

@ theother-victoria, do not copy, repost, modify, translate, or feed to ai

#—stellaronhvnters.#victoria.writes #aventurine x reader #aventurine x y/n #aventurine x you #hsr x reader #hsr x gender neutral reader #hsr x y/n #hsr x you #aventurine honkai star rail #honkai star rail x gender neutral reader #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr fanfic #hsr imagines #hsr aventurine

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cloversplace · 2 months ago

Text

TW: Suicidal thoughts/self-harm, brief mentions of an eating disorder, very brief (and non-graphic) mentions of vomit

All of the Curtis brothers have attempted to kill themselves at least once.

Darry’s tried the most, at 13, 15, and then at 20, a few days after their parents died. If Pony and Soda had gotten sent away by the state, he would’ve gone through with it. When he was younger, his parents brought him to the hospital, and made up a story to tell the rest of the gang. None of them found out until years later, after their parents had died. Darry hides all the scars on his arms and wrists.

While Pony and Johnny were missing. Soda spiraled into depression, Steve had practically moved in with them. Soda could barely get out of bed in the mornings and almost collapsed several times on the job; he wasn’t allowed to work on the cars that week. Right after Sandy left, when everyone else had given up hope on finding the boys. When they had basically been pronounced dead, Soda tried to die the only way he knew how to. On the train tracks. He didn’t have a car, so he walked out onto them, standing there as the train grew closer. Steve stopped him before he could go through with it though. Soda now has to live with the eternal guilt that he was possibly the one to give Dally the idea of dying via train.

Ponyboy also tried multiple times. Right after Johnny and Dally died, he tried to hang himself, though Steve entered the house unknowingly just in the nick of time. Pony tried again a few months later, right before what would’ve been Johnny’s 17th birthday. Two-bit found him and managed to get Pony to spit the pills out before he swallowed too many. He still took him to the hospital just to be safe. After that, all the pill bottles (especially the Aspirin) were locked away in Darry’s room.

The brothers had a long talk with each other after that. They agreed they couldn’t afford to lose any one of them. Slowly, the self-harming stopped, no more cuts, no more attempts. They stuck together. It couldn’t erase the scars on Darry’s wrists, the ones on Pony’s fingers, from forcing himself to vomit. Or the thin lines on the back of Soda’s thighs. But they could make the mental image of them begin to fade.

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libraryraccoon · 1 year ago

Note

I was wondering how a Dazai!Reader from BSD (preferably 15 year old Dazai) would interact with the HH crew

Btw, I love your stuff sm, have a lovely day if you see this!

Gender : GN

Pronouns : None

Info : I haven't watched BSD for a long time, so it's probably wrong/inaccurate, sorry. Reader have 15 years old.

Message fom Raccoon : What ? Dad!Lucifer ? Dad!Alastor ? Okay, take that Dad!Husk !

TW : Suicide (mentionned); SH (mentionned)

General Headcanon

Finally.

After all this years of trying, after all this attempts, you were finally dead !

And what do we do when we have achieved such a feat ? We drink until the morning !

As you drank, you recounted your feat of finally dying to the bartender, some sort of cat-bird demon.

He gave you a judgmental look when you told him you were 15 and died of suicide.

But you were used to it, people often judge you while you were alive and was trying every second to die.

After a few hours, you were drunk and followed the bartender back to his place, a small apartment in a quiet corner of Hell.

You shouldn't follow someone to their home, you know that, but for your defense, you were drunk and he was a cat. And you have a weakness for cats.

Two things making it impossible to refuse his invitation.

And, if anything ever went wrong, you always had your gun with you, which had appeared at the same time as you in Hell.

The bartender's name was Husk and he kind of adopted you ? You weren't even sure if one sinner could adopt another sinner.

Life was calm with Husk, and you somehow helped him with his work.

By that I mean you were stopping the powers of other demons with your power, so you used it to kick out all the assholes who attacked him from the bar.

You and Husk had this dynamic of "Father who will kill for his child & Child who will sacrifice themselves for their father."

And then, one day you had to move to the Hazbin Hotel because Husk find a work there.

Alastor was surprised to see that Husk now had a kid–he didn't think it was possible for an alcoholic like him to have a child.

And he learned that Husk had cut down on his drinking, so he could be a better father.

*very kindly and not at all suspiciously notes this fact in the back of his mind.*

The hotel was quite shocked to know that you were a child from a fucking mafia and that you had died of suicide at 15 years old. If Husk hadn't informed them about that, they never would have suspected it.

Your humor worries them more than anything else.

Charlie is worry every time you make jokes about suicide while your dad rolls his eyes at it.

Husk was used to your jokes after a few months of living together.

The hotel wasn't.

Charlie is like your older sister, optimistic and a little naive at times.

She always tries to make you see the bright side of things and to make you forget this idea of double death.

Spoiler : it doesn't work.

Lucifer sees you like one of his children.

He spoils you like he spoiled Charlie when she was just a child.

Husk often makes side eyes at him, accusing him of trying to steal his child.

And that was true.

Lucifer, Charlie, Husk and Angel Dust are the ones who are the most concerned about your mental health.

Alastor wanted to make you sign a contract "I become powerful and Alastor releases my father from his contract in exchange of stopping trying to kill myself."

You didn't sign it.

Alastor tried to use you to spy on Vox and the Vees because he was bored and wanted some entertainment.

It worked.

Alastor do radio shows with you sometimes, you two are called "The RadioDuo".

His audience LOVES you.

You gained Alastor some listeners btw.

You help Niffty with her work at the Hotel.

Even if Charlie said you didn't have to do it, you do it anyway.

Vaggie take all your guns because you apparently “didn’t need” them.

You managed to recover them with a little manipulation.

Angel Dust could see himself in you.

You reminded him of his little human self, Anthony, broken by the world and wanting to end it. A family running the Mafia and forcing him to join it.

You're a bit like him, but compared to him, who fought to survive, had a reason to survive, you had nothing, no reason to fight, and you gave up.

When Angel Dust isn't working, he usually stays with you and Husk.

He doesn't want to abandon you, leave you alone in such a rotten world. He wants you to be protected and to be the child you never could be.

He will never let anyone touch you, never.

Husk and Angel Dust are usually the ones who bandage you after SH, Angel Dust doesn't say anything as he does it, because he understands. Husk doesn't speak as well, but you can see that by doing so he's blaming himself, making you instantly regret it.

Don't try to kill yourself in front of them, please. They're already worried enough, don't add more.

Hotel Hazbin was, in a way, your family.

And you would kill everyone in this room before killing yourself before anything happened to them.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x male reader #hazbin hotel x gn reader #husker hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel husk #angel dust #alastor #niffty #vaggie #charlie morningstar #hazbin hotel lucifer #Dazai!reader #I tried #I didn't had enough space for Sir Pentious :(#I saw some ppl saying angel dust was in a mafia #so here we are #dad!husk #dad husk #Raccoon is writing

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namelessgakusei · 28 days ago

Text

Noi! The Clara Dolls!

All Hail The Nutcracker Witch!

Mark Grayson x reader

Warnings: Death, Violence, mentions of suicide, Blood, Invincible War, Gaku's attempt at writing PTSD and Body Horror, Reader crashing out, another one of Gaku's looong posts

Mada Dame Yo (prev)

Sis Puella Magica! (cont.)

Notes: Just came home from school and Gaku's really, really tired. Nearly fell asleep before even writing this. Might proofread and edit when I wake up tomorrow. Angst first, fluff later. (Gaku, in fact, gave up and went to sleep)

Add. Note: Gaku of the next day here, still tired from uni, but I got home earlier than expected lmao. Accidentally posted this while incomplete OTL. I initially wanted this as an interlude but crammed the witching out by the end. Gaku's too tired.

@weaponxgames @sweet77kellia @starlightchildsworld

"Goodbye, hill of punishment."

Mainstream!Mark is kind. He's a bit shy but it's evident that he genuinely loves you. You bit your lower lip and forced a smile whenever he looks at your way. It was hard, at first, as you always remember him.

At first it was peaceful. Debbie's safe, which you noted that was quite rare, given the amount of times you saw her decayed corpse in the previous realities. Oliver's here too, a surprise that nearly broke you down. You only met him less than a handful of times, with him not even existing in the others. He's still the same kid that you grew to love and was your constant ally in every timeline that he's in.

William, Amber, Rex, Eve- Oh, god. Eve. You missed her. There were only a few realities that you were able to be friends with her. Mark kills her too soon, or she dies protecting Earth with you. You remember her being the first person you confided about your experiences, and when you thought to have hope when she expressed her understanding and desire to help, a version of Mark beheads her in front of you.

The memory makes you sick. You didn't dare to tell anyone about it after that, opting to work alone and involve little to no people with your business. You agreed to work with multiple Cecils just for a chance to wipe of the existence of Mark Grayson off the planet. But, alas, you end up dying or resetting time in the end.

Mark gets fidgety whenever you get too quiet, hanging into your every word like an overly eager child, desperate for acknowledgment. You let yourself wonder if he'll even kill himself if you asked to. At least then, maybe you'll be able to escape this nightmare.

But you're too in love with him to even live a second without him.

Maybe you had gone crazy too.

A sigh and a chuckle escapes your lips, confusing Mark, who was reading the newly released Seance Dog volume. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. It's just, everything is peaceful. I like it."

This world isn't entirely without its own fair share of troubles and aliens and villains, but compared to the shit you've been through? This is fucking nothing.

You managed to help the Guardians in the nick of time when Omni-Man turned on Earth, revealing your abilities in this world for the first time. While the heroes were saved, you were not-so-subtly recruited by Cecil to join the Teen Team. You know how the man operates, having met at least a hundred different versions of him. You suppressed a laugh when he looks like he got his head running with contingency plans about you. Never change, Mr. Stedman.

Mark was amazed and invested in knowing more about your abilities. Trying to study you and "help" you understand your powers more. Why didn't you tell him? How long did you have it? How were you able to control time like that? You were so cool back there!

You want to tell him that you got experimented in Viltrum on the one time you told him about these strange abilities of yours. But you settled for saying that it's a long story and that you recently acquired them, not wanting to scare him off.

You think that he was simply ignoring what just happened with his father, opting to choose you over him in his mind. Coward.

It makes you sick.

You lay on his bed, rolling to the side while Mark went to get snacks. He seems a bit clingy in this world, or maybe it's because you look like you're on the verge of slipping away with how exhausted you always look. You sigh.

Your soul gem always look murky whenever you check on it.

It's an artifact that came with the ring on your middle finger, and appears at the back of your hand whenever you use your powers, with your clothes changing alongside the shield appearing on your arm. You don't know how or why, but even if you were beaten to a pulp, you don't feel anything. You're not even injured at the slightest. You know this, because you tried to take your own life once. Your body still functions even when your neck was bent, making you think that you were also immortal.

You weren't and you thanked your cursed fate that you weren't. That small gem you have in you was were your soul is at. You get hurt when it's touched the wrong way, and while you don't bleed, you feel excruciating pain. Your body is merely a meat sack now.

Does it matter?

No. But it sure came in handy when you were fighting against Mark after you figured it out, at least then, you don't have to worry about broken limbs.

You kept racking your brain about the cause of your situation, your powers and the looping timelines. You barely remember. Mark came back, pouting about the crease on your brows, before slipping in bed burying his head on your neck.

"What are you thinking about?"

"...Do you know an animal who can talk?"

Mark snorted and said a parrot but you shook your head, saying that it looked more like a white cat with red markings. He hugged you closer and mentioned that it might've been an alien.

Huh. Perhaps it was an alien. You remember it asking if you want to make a contract with it. Did you? Is that why you're trapped in this hell?

...Is it really one now?

For all it's worth, everything has been going smoothly in this run. Sure, Nolan's gone off the rails, but you saved the Guardians of the Globe! Oliver exists! Debbie's safe! Eve's alive! William and Amber are living normally! The Teen Team, sure still has problems, is still functioning! Cecil might still be a pain in the ass but with how many variants of him you spent time with, you consider him an old friend and even appreciate how he checks in on you.

Earth is not destroyed.

Isn't this the ideal world? Did you finally arrived at the best possible version? Will this finally end?

You look down and see the familiar tuff of black hair. The urge to run your hands through it is always within you, no matter if he's killing people or you, you really can't seem to loathe him enough to remove your feelings for him.

Will you finally be able to be happy?

You hugged Mark, burying your nose to his hair and inhaling his scent, earning a surprised sound from him. He doesn't protest nor ask, only reciprocating with a mumble of "Finally.", before humming in content.

This world, this Mark, they may not be the one you started with, where you originated and first loved, but it's slowly stared to grow on you.

Mark doesn't question it when you started interacting with everyone on your own accord. Initially, you only talk to others when it's necessary, making them hunt you down if they so want just a small conversation with you. But now, you're discussing something with Robot that made them back away from your smirking face. You're teasing them??

He thinks it's cute when you barely mask your excitement when you tell him that you'll be out with Eve and Amber for the weekend. You're even laughing with Oliver over some shows you two watch whenever you're babysitting him. He caught you and his mom gossiping about something that he apparently wasn't allowed to hear??? The hell?? He's the boyfriend here! He's happy you're finally getting out of your shell and not shutting the world out but he has his needs, mom! Boyfriend needs! Hugs and kisses!

He barely got you to agree to go out with him in the first place! You looked so disinterested and detached when he asked you out that he was so sure you didn't even want to be with him, it was only when you kept fussing and saving his ass that he figured out that you're really just the quiet type. But this?? He's hearing you laugh everyday! That's usually once every three months! (He is exaggerating.)

Though, he isn't complaining, smiling to himself even, as he watches you from across the room, fighting the urge to come over and cling to you. Your eyes met and you're... smiling at him. Not the forced ones that look too soulless to be convincing, you're genuinely smiling at him.

Mark buries his head on his arms and giggles, ears going red as his leg bounces excitedly.

The sight made you laugh at the other side of the room. It was... something. He's adorable. You don't know why you were so distant back then. He is nothing like them.

Nothing's like back then. Not anymore.

Not anymore. The thought still makes you nauseous, too reluctant to start hoping for the best. Who would blame you? Every time you start to have faith that everything will be better, that you'll finally have peace, you see his face—

No, this one isn't like that. Mark isn't like that. This is the one who quietly waited for you to open up. This is the one who never pried too much and lets you let him in at your own pace. He's the one who sat beside you when you wake up in cold sweat, riddled with nightmares. He's the one who let you use his shoulder to rest your head when you can't seem to sleep at night, who tucked the both of you to bed when you fell asleep.

He's kind. You give him that. Everytime you look at him, you slowly start to forget the bad memories associated with that face.

You don't see him anymore.

You see Mark Grayson.

...That is until Cecil called you.

Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson. Mark Grayson.

Everywhere you look, it's that damned face.

One with a yellow cape, one with a mohawk, one without goggles, one who wears the white Viltrumite uniform, one who looks like Omni Man, one who was a prisoner, one who hide his face with a hood, one who—

It's him.

Him again! Why? Why is he here? Why did he have to appear now?! Why? Why?! You... you just accepted your life here! You moved on! You have a life here! You...

Cecil orders you to subdue the Variants.

Subdue them. Subdue him. Can you do that? Can you even fight him? After all those times— Can you—?

They're everywhere. All over the world, bringing destruction with them. Showing you the same scenario that you lived through in all those realities.

Earth's destruction.

Mark tries to snap you out of it, telling you to go hide with Debbie and Oliver, that he'll handle it. He gave you a kiss before flying off to the Penitentiary. You saw a similar situation before. One where Mark told you that he'll fight off the Viltrumite Empire but ended up as a mangled corpse not a minute later.

Everything's going wrong again.

Cecil bark orders at you from your earpiece, but you can't hear it. Debbie's calling you from your phone, but you don't move to answer it. You move past the fleeing civilians, past the rubble and fire, and towards the veiled Mark in the middle of the street.

He's fighting off the heroes that surrounded him. He's all bloody but from how it looks like, with the heroes falling down the ground, it's not his.

"Mark."

Sheisty!Mark brightens up at the sound of your voice, despite the lack of visual on his face. Before he can zoom in front of you, you activated your ability and stared at his frozen form. His form looks like he's about to punch someone, taut muscles that peeks through his skin tight suit and the veil flew just the right way for you to have a glimpse of how flushed his face is. A lovesick expression is evident on his face.

Will you not be able to escape this fate?

You're tired.

When will the destruction and screams stop?

When will this end?

Your power runs out, continuing the flow of time. Sheisty!Mark pulls you to his bloodied chest, muttering words too fast for you to hear, all while running his hands around your body, like you aren't real.

You hoped you weren't.

Your use of power must've alerted the rest of the Variants, with them immediately flying to where you are, hovering just above to drink in the sight.

You were the sole reason as to why the eighteen Marks made a deal with Angstrom, after all.

And now, they can finally have you back.

Damned bastards.

You hear your named being yelled, but you don't know who it came from. You don't care anymore. Why should you? It all ends the same.

You're tired.

You're tired. You're tired. You're tired. When will this end? Stop this. Someone, anyone—

Save me, Mark.

The you in Sheisty!Mark's arms dissolved into a puddle, momentarily stunning the Variants around. Said puddle now expands throughout the asphalt road, coating everything in black until it reaches the sky. No more are the sounds of buildings crashing down from being destroyed nor are the sounds people who cry for help. One might say that the world became akin to the Shadow-verse. Until colorful shapes start to appear in the darkened world.

Buildings started emerging from the ground, destroying the roads and initial constructions. Laughter ran around the streets as paper doll-like creatures frolicked the desolate area, pointing and taunting the Variants.

Multiple arms reach out from the murky darkness, each out for a Mark. They can't fight it, no, they're incapable of doing so. They're in your world now.

With gentle hands, you cup his face and smiled. Wearing an expression so soft and speaking in a tone that he hadn't heard in a long time, Mark can't help but lean in, expecting something even in the middle of uncertainty.

How pathetic.

Your lips but ghost his', leaving him confused.

"I realized something during our time together." You started, still holding his face, eyes right into his own.

"You were always there for me, for better and for worse. You loved me throughout it all. It was always me and you."

"Oh, how I loathed that."

"How I hated you with every fiber of my being."

Your gem breaks, and your smiling face exploded on their faces, coating it with red.

Reality seemed to wrap around, changing the surroundings like how a theatre changes the set. Some of the Marks screamed in terror upon your "death" while some wiped the blood off and prepared for battle.

He once said that you were always full of surprises.

And now, you give them your final one. The blood from earlier suddenly shot out of them, forming something midair while a march is heard in the distant direction, heading to their direction. When your body was reformed, the small humanoid soldiers took aim and hit at you.

Your body convulsed from the barrage of bullets and promptly fell to the ground. Even as the Variants pummeled the soldiers down, their numbers doesn't dwindle, and soon what was left of your body is mutilated beyond recognition. FullMask!Mark and NoMask!Mark rushed to your side, and with trembling fingers, reached out on your remains.

Your head snapped to their direction, riddled with bullet holes, before your jaw snaps open and another you climbs out of it. With only half of your body out, you suddenly faced the sky and forced your jaw open, enabling another you to be able come out. The process repeats until a tower of your own body stands tall in the middle of the dark city.

The remaining soldiers ignored the Variants that still fought them, opting to march towards the grotesque tower, surrounding it.

"(Y/N)!"

You know only one who would call out to you like that.

"Ah... Mark..." You looked down at Mainstream!Mark and smiled longingly.

The last body to come out of your mouth screamed bloody murder, before being torn in half. Like a curtain being opened, a giant creature emerged from the bloodbath.

Bearing a likeness to you, with half of their head filled with red spider lilies and their wrists bound together like a prisoner, the Nutcracker Witch finally appeared.

#mark grayson x reader #invincible #mark grayson #invincible x reader #invincible variants #alternate mark grayson #alternate mark grayson x reader #damn this is long #hopefully this was a worthy continuation #if im crashing out so is the reader #did you noticed the additional edit there?#no you didn't #gaku's works!

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daengtokki · 9 months ago

Text

part two // serial killer!Kim Seungmin/afab reader

WC: 12.7k

RATING: mature/explicit/mdni—contains: sex, oral sex, brief suicide mention, strangulation, manipulation, death/murder

SYNOPSIS: Seungmin floats through life alone, haunted by his memories—keeping himself under control, and quieting his mind the only way he knows how…killing and watching the life leave his victims eyes. When you cross his path on a morning hunt, something new (something forgotten) starts to move inside of him, leading both of you on a path to confront the unspeakable past.

˗ˋˏ♡ Thank you for the comments and likes and reblogs on part one. It means so much. Please consider reblogging/tagging if you like what you read! ˎˊ˗

[ ML — DEITY MASTERLIST ]

Seungmin’s world goes quiet, calm…but it's only been a few hours, and he hasn’t yet left the cold emptiness of his bed. He hasn’t even attempted to crawl out of the hollow feeling he created for himself. The silence of the apartment feels different this time.

Inside of his head is a different story—you’ve upended him in more ways than one, and it may take a while to get himself back on two steady feet.

Nearly dying in his bed, coming back, being held, for hours, against your will…two out of three are new for him. And the sheer terror when he realized what he did, looking at your lifeless body—he hasn’t felt fear like that since he was a kid. There was no sense of relief, and there was certainly no quiet afterward. Right now, like last night, his mind is screaming at him, just not in the usual sense; he can’t figure out what you’ve done, because you’ve done nothing—you kept yourself at a distance, you enticed him (teased might be too unkind a word for you, he decides), and you didn’t deserve what little death you did have in his bed. Somehow, you’ve made yourself as much of a mystery as he’s tried to make himself, but he’s not as much of a mystery anymore...he gave too much of himself, and now he's going to pay for it.

You left your phone behind when you ran from him, not surprisingly, and later that afternoon, he somehow found the energy to leave the apartment. He walked to your building and left it with a note right outside your door. Whether or not you’re still there is unknown to him, but he wouldn’t be surprised if you were gone already—completely gone, on your way home, never to be seen by him again.

Seungmin knows the voice in charge will be returning soon, and he’ll fail if he doesn’t find some focus. He’ll really, truly fuck things up, and as much as he doesn’t want to blame you, it is you. He can’t think about you anymore; not today, not tonight.

/ / /

Showered and wrapped up tight in a blanket, you sit at your desk and stare at a blank computer screen. The email you started and stopped four times is sitting at a whole ten words, because you know you need to quit—you have to back out of this job and get back home. There’s no question about that. Nobody will believe what happened to you last night, so calling the police seems silly, and telling anyone else about it feels impossible right now. There is no proof of anything except that you went home with him, willingly. And you definitely can’t tell anyone you died, or at least stopped breathing, and came back during rough sex, because it’s stupid. It’s not believable. You’re still not entirely sure if it even happened. All you really know for certain is that you were outside yourself before finally taking that breath and seeing his face. You heard voices, but not his. You were in the dark, except for a few pinpricks of light. You felt your lungs fill up, once…twice…three times. And then you were back. You guess that’s what drowning feels like; the burning in your chest, the weightlessness, your brain misfiring and sending all the wrong signals to your eyes and ears and nerves.

It isn’t until later, after shutting your brain off and staring at the tv for hours, that you finally remember that you need to eat. You discover your phone right outside your door (should you be worried that he knows exactly where you live?). You knew that you left it on his bar, but you had no desire to try and retrieve it. It felt, and it still feels, like the least important thing in the world, but you’re relieved to have it back. Seungmin left a note taped to it, and you feel a little twinge of excitement (which you’re still trying to chalk up as leftover adrenaline...a little bit of curiosity) at what he could possibly have to say. That’s easy now, in the relative safety of your own apartment, so as soon as you can sit down with your dinner and a very strong drink, you rip it open and read.

You don’t get very far before something small and purple slips out onto your lap. It looks like a pressed flower. It is, and you know it’s heliotrope because it’s everywhere around your mother’s garden. The unmistakable fragrance is still a little obvious, even in its dried state. The addition might seem corny, but you don’t hate it—it’s an interesting choice of flower on his part. There are more inside the folded paper, and you let them fall onto you as you read…

Thank you for not throwing this in the trash.

I know I won't get to see you again, and typically, I wouldn't care or think much about my passing moments with strangers. Everyone is forgettable, and I can't figure out why you are not. I'm still very confused as I write out this letter —but I don't think I've been very forgettable for you, either. I ruined that last night.

He’s cocky, and he knows he’s absolutely right about him not being forgettable.

You don’t have to see me again, but maybe we can talk, and I can explain myself a little better. You saw a piece of me that you shouldn’t have, in my bedroom…in my drawer, and I know it seems impossible to explain, and that’s because it is. But if you’ll let me, I’ll try.

The letter is signed with a cute, loopy S.

The dried flowers are scooped up and placed next to your untouched plate. Eating, you decide, should come first. After that, you can dwell unnecessarily on the words of your would-be killer. What else could you possibly do? You know how your brain works, and you know how you are when you're alone, and lonely.

However, you do read back through the few texts you exchanged. You also check yourself in the mirror—there’s a bruise beginning to bloom on your shoulder, and two scratches next to your mouth where he held. The soreness in your thighs brings the memory of him to the front of your mind, over and over, and it works backwards from there—Seungmin holding you, touching you; the look in his eyes from the other side of the bar. There was nothing outwardly threatening about him, just strange. Strange, quiet, a little bit awkward. How easily could your mind gloss over something much weirder when a man that beautiful gives you that kind of undivided attention?

Now your mind goes forward to his touch; his hand caressing your aching chest, his soft voice, like if he's not careful, his words might finish killing you. He spoke far too gently, and he kissed much too deeply and eagerly for you to forget. And you haven't exactly forgotten that he never hurt you, at least not after your little journey. Maybe he messed up his original plan, and then had to do damage control...but that makes no sense. Seungmin could've finished the job easily, anytime he wanted to. If he wanted to suffocate you, he'd have done it. If Seungmin wanted to kill you, you wouldn't be here right now.

More memories return to you, very slowly. Slow down? I’m hurting you? He was attentive during sex, initially, even if he was rough...so what happened? He did slow down, tried to make you more comfortable, and he succeeded. You begged him not to stop. You were loud. Seungmin was right there when you woke up, holding onto you. Stay awake...I'm sorry. The frazzled girl looking back at you in the mirror is almost unrecognizable right now. You can't get his face out of your mind; his voice, his kiss, his big black eyes that could swallow you whole. Please don't cry.

Was he convincing enough for a text? Should you call him? Are you really this fucked up right now? You know you're being stupid and irrational, so you decide to be a little bit smart and sleep on it; wait and see how you feel in the morning.

It doesn't help much. You dream about him; his eyes staring into you, through you, eating away at you again...just like when he had you beneath him. You reach out and sweep the hair from of his eyes, and your fingertips pick up the cold, clammy sweat from his forehead. He speaks, but you don't understand a word he says. He holds a dirt-streaked hand out to you, and with no hesitation, you take it, and then you're back in the warm, wet darkness. No voices this time, just muddy, squishy footfalls getting closer and closer.

When you wake, you're damp with sweat, and you've never felt so cold.

It's risky, but he forgoes the tea tonight, and his little white anxiety pill as well. He's almost out anyway, so he should try and save them until he can get more. It's a mistake, and he suspected that as he finally drifted off; there's been far too much on his mind in the last 24 hours to expect a dreamless sleep...

"appa?"

he hushes him. seungmin can feel a hand close softly around his mouth.

"where is—"

"quiet...get back inside, now"

he trips and falls as he runs, and his knee lands in the muddy ground. the effort it takes to get back up is too much, but a hand grabs the straps of his overalls and pulls...and then pushes, and he's in the mud again. rain starts to fall before he can make it to the porch, but as soon as he reaches the steps...

Out of breath, burning chest. The face of his stepfather, and the wet hand covering his mouth, is still there. He can still feel it. The first thing he does is reach for a pill. But as soon as he swallows it, his mind wanders back to you. Are you still in Seoul? You've had plenty of time to book a flight, repack, and leave. Seungmin wonders if you ever opened your door and found the note, if you even bothered to read it if you did, if you got the dried flowers he took from his music box just for you—the flowers he'll have to return home to get more of. A stupid addition, you probably thought. A desperate attempt at romance.

The phone buzzes under his pillow, and he knows it’s just his usual alarms and reminders. Today he has to get up, get dressed, and work. He has to get his mind back on track—he has to, there is no other way for him. There is nothing else, aside from prison, or ending things on his own. He pulls it out and looks at it with one eye open, flips on his back, and stares. Part of him hoped it would be more than his alarms, and he'd be staring at a new text message from you...an apathetic "okay, I guess we can talk". Seungmin is severely underestimating how much he scared you, though. You were convinced, and you're probably still pretty sure you were going to die in that room. Whether or not he's going to pursue this further is still a big question mark, but he doesn't usually deal in question marks. Everything is either black or white for Seungmin.

If he can't have you, he might just have to kill you.

/ / /

Repacking your things as fast as possible; booking a flight you can afford (work refused to comp you, once you quit with no notice); explaining, or making up a convincing enough story for you mother and sister about the change of plans, has been exhausting, so falling asleep is easy once your head hits the pillow.

seungmin's hand lays softly on your chest, just under your throat. you can feel your slow heartbeat bouncing off of him, you can smell the sweet scent of his room, but that's not where you are. you look up, and then around you...and you see the bedroom of a child, a little boy. there's sunlight coming in through the sheer curtained window, and you can see bushes of yellow and purple flowers poking up into view. he moves closer to you, and speaks quietly...

"i have to go...i have to go take care of things"

"what things?

"you know"

"don't go, please"

you look to him, and he forces a smile. his hand slides up and closes around your throat, but he doesn't squeeze. he moves closer and places a kiss beneath your ear...

This time you wake up slowly, and comfortably. Your hand jumps up to your throat as you work hard to remember every detail, every touch, every word. The dreams you have aren't usually this vivid, and now you've had them two nights in a row—two very different ones; a bad one...well, it could have been worse. You still remember how he looked at you, and the feeling of him under your fingertips; but it was cold and dark. This second one practically gave you butterflies. This dream version of you was in love.

Why is your mind torturing you like this? You come dangerously close to texting him, but all you end up doing is rereading the messages already sent between you.

Seungmin sits and watches right across the street from your building for hours. He didn't know he had this much patience in him. If he would have done this yesterday morning, he may have had a chance to catch you and follow, but he decided to stay in bed. Still, he has trouble moving.

A few minutes later, it finally pays off. There you are, looking up and down the busy narrow street, arms folded tight over your chest. Seungmin isn't that far from you in this bakery, and if he walks out now, you'll see him, so he waits until you decide what to do. Seeing you right now is actually giving him a nervous stomach, and he hates it...you look uncomfortable, and tired, and sweet; it's difficult keeping his mind where it needs to be. It doesn't help that he hasn't thought of a plan beyond waiting for you to leave your apartment. Should he just follow you, and hope you don't see him and run? That won't work. If he can figure out where you're heading, he can get there first, and run into you like it was just a coincidence.

Before he can finish his plan, you're headed east, and you're walking fast. He just decides to follow as discreetly as possible, which is easy at this time of day, and it only takes ten or so minutes for him to figure out where you might be going. But there's no possible way you're going to his apartment building. You pass by the GS25 where you met each other, and keep going, but you don't make the left turn that would lead to his building. You keep straight, and eventually, Seungmin does figure it out. It's the park he mentioned frequenting, that's where you're going. This is perfect. Even if you're not here to look for him, you're going to find him, but that has to be why you're here. Texting or calling might have felt like too much. Accidently running into him...well, it was an accident. Maybe you won't feel like you're seeking out the man who almost killed you, or purposely bringing him back into your life.

You find an empty bench and sit, look at your phone, look up and around, back to your phone. Still uncomfortable, nervous, tired. Cold, maybe. You didn't dress as warmly as you probably should have. Seungmin tests his patience some more and waits, but you don't move. In fact, you're starting to remind him of himself, sitting and watching, waiting for his next kill. He takes his eyes off of you for a few minutes to get a coffee, and then he prepares to approach. But he's nervous again. He's not used to this feeling. He takes his time walking down the pathway, and when he knows you can see his legs in your downward gaze, he stops.

You look up and keep your face as emotionless as possible, but it's not enough. Seungmin can see your surprise, a little bit of fear, and maybe something else.

"Hi." He keeps his face as neutral as possible, too. "You look cold."

"I'm fine"

"What are you doing here all by yourself?"

"Uhm, I don't have any friends. And isn't this what you do? Sit here alone waiting to pick people off?" You cross your arms over your chest again, and scoot a little further away. "I mean...I'm assuming that's why you come here, if I put the pieces together properly."

"Yes, you're pretty perceptive. But why are you here?"

"Because I couldn't hit send"

"What couldn't you send?" He was right.

Seungmin hears you take in a deep breath and hold it, then slowly let it out in a big cloud of condensation. "I keep having dreams about you."

But he wasn't expecting that.

"Good ones I hope." So you haven't left his mind at all, even in your sleep. You don't reply. "I've been having the same old nightmares. A dream about you would be a nice change."

"One was pretty nice, yeah"

"Is it alright if I sit next to you?"

You nod, but Seungmin still takes his time taking those last few steps and sitting. Once he does, he offers you the hot coffee he's been holding onto, and to his surprise, you take it and sip it carefully. The letter he wrote promised some sort of explanation for what happened that night, and for the things you saw, but he wasn't expecting to have a chance at doing that. He hasn't thought of a single way to explain his drawer, or almost killing you.

“What’s in the syringes, the ones in your murder drawer?”

Murder drawer. Are you reading his mind, or is he just projecting onto you? He looks around, but nobody is close enough to hear the conversation. “A sedative, a light one…for emergencies. That's all.”

“You didn’t use one on me”

“Well, I had…” he stops, and thinks. What he almost says is I had control of the situation, but that doesn’t sound like what you want to hear. It’s also a very obvious lie. “The drug is not fun to come out of, and…what I put you through was bad enough.”

“So who do you use them on? And the knife?”

Seungmin doesn’t know how to answer this. He can’t explain how he picks his victims, because he doesn’t always understand his reasoning. “The ones I can’t control any other way. And I don’t use the knife very often.”

“It’s kind of obvious now that I’m talking to you, but thinking about it yesterday, and the night before…wondering if I was just over-reacting...”

“You’re not, you know what you saw, and you had every reason to be afraid of me”

“So you are…” you can’t finish the question. "This is what you do?"

“Yes”

“Why?”

“It’s hard to explain”

“Why didn’t you kill me?

“I haven’t figured that out yet”

“But you would, if you got another chance…if you had me alone right now, with no witnesses”

“No.” You look around, and Seungmin thinks you’re a little more relaxed now—as relaxed as someone could be in this situation. “I don’t think so.”

“You wanted to before, though. That’s why you spoke to me, and helped me get home.”

“Yeah, that was my original plan”

“I’m assuming you’ve done this before”

“Killed? Yes. Accidentally killed someone and brought them back in a panic? That one is new for me.”

“When’s the last time you did it…killed someone?”

It feels like a regular conversation now, regardless of the subject. Most of the tension is gone from your voice, and you stopped fidgeting with the coffee cup. You still look cold, though.

“The day we met”

Everything goes silent after that. Even the people around you become strangely quiet, as if everyone decided to listen in. Seungmin can see your mind working behind your eyes, but you’re not rushing to speak again. He slides out of his jacket and sets it over your shoulders, and you leave it there.

“Before, or after?”

“After”

“To make up for me?” You fold your legs up onto the bench and disappear into his jacket a little more, and Seungmin smirks.

“Sort of. That's why I was out that morning, things just didn’t go exactly as planned. I’m still glad you showed up, though.”

“Are you saying that because you think it’s what I wanna hear, or because it’s true? I don’t wanna turn you into a cliche, but are you capable of that much…well, liking someone enough to not kill them. I guess you are.”

“I like things. And I feel a lot, maybe too much sometimes.”

"Things?"

"Not people, typically"

"Sorry.” Why are you apologizing to him? Your assumption was a little bit hasty, and rude, but being a murderer is pretty rude, too. The look on his face is just that, though…full of emotion, full of sadness, and confusion. This is exactly how he looked at you that night before you both fell asleep, he just doesn’t know how to express it properly. Maybe he's just mimicking. “Uhm, did I actually die? What happened?”

“I’m not sure, but you weren’t breathing. I talked to you, slapped you…lightly, and panicked a little. After I panicked, I…” he sets his fingers on his lips, and tries to remember what it’s called in English. “…I blew air into your lungs.”

“Three times?”

Seungmin thinks for a second. “Yeah, three breaths…I kissed you after the third time.” Why did he tell you that?

“You kissed me? Why did you kiss me?”

You’re nothing but questions, and Seungmin is not used to getting interrogated like this. He wants to tell the truth, but he also needs to be careful and not scare you off, or be too truthful. It’s a little exhausting.

“I thought that might be my last chance while you were still warm.”

There’s another long silence. Too long. Maybe Seungmin said the wrong thing, even though it is the truth. He wonders if he should get up and leave you alone for a few minutes. But what if he comes back and you’re gone? Was the kiss that strange? Why is he assuming it was the kiss that’s making this awkward? Everything about this is strange for you.

“I think I felt your breath filling my lungs, but I was still somewhere else. Somewhere really dark, and wet. I could feel…outside air around me, it was so heavy."

“Completely dark, like the bedroom?”

“No, there was some light, like little streams of light coming in through holes punched into the walls, between the slats of wood. It was weird, and I remember it very vividly now that I’m talking about it.”

Seungmin doesn’t mention it feeling like his nightmares, but it does. And it can’t be, obviously. Just a coincidence. It was probably the darkness of his bedroom, and your eyes trying desperately to find something. “I’m sorry”

“Thank you for bringing me back”

“I’m glad I could. And I hope you don’t leave Seoul because of me.”

"There's nothing for me here." You quit your job, and you can't take that back. You booked a flight, and you packed up most of your things.

"When are you leaving?"

"Thursday"

“Do you have plans today?”

“Are asking me out?”

“You can tell me no, I won’t be surprised”

“No, I don’t have plans today"

“I just figured I’d take a shot while we were still here. I don’t expect a second chance. You really shouldn’t be involved with someone like me, and I shouldn’t be pulling someone into my fucked up life. But this is all new for me.”

“What is? A relationship? Friendship? An acquaintance?”

Seungmin nods, “all of those, and speaking openly—not lying about everything. That’s new, too.”

“Does that make me special?” You’re not sure if you’re being facetious, or if something inside of you wants to be the thing he needs to keep alive. A bad romance novel come to life. That’s why you’re here right now, obviously, because of every little gesture Seungmin has extended to you—everything aside from his complete loss of control. Being a murderer doesn’t mean he’s incapable of the truth, or sincerity. Right?

Seungmin smirks at the question, “Maybe.” He moves his hand closer to yours, but stops when you pull it away. "So why did you kiss me?"

Why did you kiss him? Because you needed to—because he's beautiful, and he was right there, sleepy face inches from yours. Because you've read too many bad romance novels. Because clearly, you're messed up, too, since you're even sitting here right now. And because, like him, you were sure it was your last chance. "I figured it made a good distraction."

"Oh...yeah, I guess it did"

"And I wanted to. I wanted to as soon as I saw you, but I forced myself to keep some distance. So maybe there was some fear of regret mixed with my fear of being murdered. How stupid is that?" You watch his mouth twitch as he tries to hold his smirk back. “I feel that a lot. Regret.”

“I don’t typically feel it...the regret, the remorse, and the empathy most people are used to. I guess that does make me a, uhm...what was that word?"

"Cliche?"

"Yeah. Sometimes I wish I could feel the regret, or a little bit of empathy. But lately, I think I have felt it a little."

“You feel regret? About what?”

"Fucking up what was very close to a good night. I didn’t even get to make you come."

Seungmin loves the blush slowly rising up your neck, and now, being out in public, he likes it even more. He meant it, the regret about not getting you off when he was eating you out, but it’s your blush, not the memory, that makes his cock twitch in his jeans.

“No, I guess you didn’t.” You close your palms over your warm cheeks for a moment, and stifle a laugh. He's actually making you laugh. Something about him really is messing you up.

"Let me make it up to you"

The dark blue of the room is calming. Everything is soft, and unusually warm. The smell is the same as you remember. It doesn’t feel strange being here again, like it should. Not uneasy, and not scary. Maybe there’s something wrong with you, too.

“Are you alright? I thought you left me.” Seungmin hangs onto the door jamb and clicks on another lamp. You can hear the relief in his voice.

/ / /

This new view of him is nice—on his knees, head down, lips marking your stocking covered thighs. He’s gentle, and probably nervous that he’s not being gentle enough. “Seungmin.”

He looks up, cheek still resting on your thighs, and you’re struck by how innocent he appears, how sweet and puppy-like his eyes are. You smile, and he gets back to work. His hands slide up and underneath your skirt, and down come the stockings, very slowly. Now he kisses your bare skin, and his warm, wet lips send a shiver through you. You can feel how soaked through your panties are as they pull away from your body. He seems to stop and admire them, just like last time, before tossing them to the side.

“Are you comfortable?” Seungmin pulls until you’re at the very edge of the cushion, sending the hem of your skirt up and out of his way. He doesn’t wait for an answer.

The entire ride back to his apartment, you were ready for him. The memory of last time, how good he felt, is still very real. It was excruciating, having him so close and not touching—keeping your cool, not letting him know just how badly you wanted him. But the elevator doors closed, and he backed you into the corner, held you softly by the neck, and kissed you. The entire ride up, 25 floors and luckily no interruptions, he kissed, pulling back occasionally to let you breathe.

You fall back against the couch, and let him know how good it feels to have him there. “Yes,” you sigh, whine his name, and he likes that. He gives a deep, satisfied groan as he sucks you between his lips, and he stays there, savoring the taste as it pours out. But he can’t keep himself from teasing, and he slows down when your moans become erratic, focuses on your entrance, spreads your lips apart and licks, a little selfishly. But it feels so good, and you taste so good. Seungmin can’t get enough, and as badly as he wants to make you come, he isn’t ready to stop yet. He needs as much as you can give, and has to hope you’ll stay with him and keep your legs open all night.

“Seungmin, please…I need it”

He looks up and runs his tongue slowly over every part of you before stopping at your clit—so sensitive, his warm breath is enough to set your hips in motion.

“I know,” he kisses, “I’m being greedy.” He kisses again, sucks hard, and his thumb slides gently over the rest of you, making your hips jump against his mouth. He does it again, gathering some arousal, and slowly circling your entrance before sliding it in.

You close your eyes and relax, let it wash over you. He doesn’t stop this time. It’s intense, slowly pulsing through every single nerve his lips are working on—“oh…god…fuck,” you roll your hips up, needing more, needing him. Every muscle relaxes, and you sink into the couch, but the waves of pleasure keep coming. You watch him work, softly flicking his tongue between your lips, so swollen and so hungry for him—his mouth, his hands. You need it again, his cock stretching you to your limit. Barely down from this high, and you can’t wait for the next one. After a few more slow, selfish licks, Seungmin gives his mouth a break, and breathes.

“Thank you,” you laugh, feeling a little delirious. The room spins above you, but you feel his hands push your knees together. This is definitely the first time you’ve thanked someone for making you come, but it seemed appropriate. “Is it my turn?” There are still memories from that night trickling in, and you get another when the question leaves your lips—the cocktail, and Seungmin’s comment that put everything in motion.

“Your turn?”

No, you don’t always go down easy…

“Oh,” smiling wide, eyes shining, dick threatening to escape his tight briefs as he rises. “But you don’t have to, if…” he looks down, then back at you, “if it’s uncomfortable.”

It’s intimidating to look at, but finally touching him, realizing how much of a handful he really is, “I don’t mind trying,” you pull the fabric until his head appears, and immediately close your mouth around his pre-cum soaked tip. “Or just…” you lick slowly, letting your tongue slide up and onto his stomach before going back to do it again.

“Take your time”

“Sit”

Seungmin listens, and frees himself a little more before hitting the couch. He knows what you want, and he watches as your mouth patiently explores him—you kiss and lick every inch as your hands stroke softly. You desperately want to make him feel good—return a little bit of what he just gave you. And Seungmin does let you know what he likes: everytime your tongue slides over his head, the deep moan from his chest soaks you again. “I want you.” Your heart races at the thought of it. It beats so hard you think you might pass out…again, this time on your own.

He rolls his hips and pushes himself in a little further, “I know you do, get down…on your back.”

You release him, a little reluctantly, but you let yourself fall backwards until you’re flat on the soft carpet. He follows, hovers, and eyes every inch of you before unzipping and discarding your skirt. “Are you alright?” The perceptiveness shouldn’t be that surprising to you, but the concern takes you back to that night. His voice feels far away, but it’s because of your heart pounding in your ears, you think. It’s not until now that you feel outside of yourself again. Why does he keep doing this to you? You’re weightless again, floating, watching everything happen in slow motion—slipping away.

“Hey, look at me,” he sets his palm just beneath your throat, but he quickly moves it down. “Can you hear me? Your heart feels like it’s about to explode.”

The sound of him pulling a blanket from the couch, and the feeling of it draping over your half naked body brings you back, just enough to open your eyes and find his worried face. “I can hear you.” A moment later, he’s gone. “Don’t go.”

“I’ll be back”

You sit up and look around, but vertigo hits and you shove your face into the blanket. The feeling of passing out is still threatening you, and it takes everything to keep it at bay.

“Here, drink some water. And if you’d like…” in his open palm is one tiny white pill, “but you don’t have to. They help with my panic attacks. And my nightmares.” Seungmin just stares softly, still worried.

“I’m okay.” An obvious lie—you’re still on the edge of a cliff, dizzy, and very much on the verge of throwing up. “Water is good.”

“You should lie down on the couch,” Seungmin doesn’t move, and he doesn’t touch you. Not yet. He assumes his touch is the reason why you’re fighting for your breath on his floor right now.

“Where’s your bathroom?”

“Right behind you”

/ / /

“Are you alright? I thought you left me.” Seungmin hangs onto the door jamb and clicks on another lamp. You can hear the relief in his voice, and you could hear the nervousness in it when he called out your name the first time.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just wanted to see the room again.” But you did check the front door, and found it unlocked. He also didn't hover when you shut yourself in the bathroom for ten minutes, because you managed to sneak into his bedroom when you finally emerged. It put you a little more at ease after the panic attack.

“We can stay in here, if you want. I can bring our drinks in.”

“No, just you”

“Just me?” He takes a few steps toward the bed. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sorry, I don't know what happened.”

Seungmin stops just short of where you’re sitting, “I do.“ He looks nervous—he is nervous. “This is probably a bad idea."

“I should leave?”

“No, no, I want you to stay, but I'm aware that I set off your panic attack. That was my fault."

It seems like he’s more empathetic than he realizes. Or maybe he’s faking. He is a killer, after all; a psychopath—one that gets his way by being handsome and charming, and right now might not be any different than his other seductions. Maybe he’s taking the long way around to get you where he wants you, and you’re stupid and blind enough to fall for it. “We could just enjoy each other’s company.” It’s a silly suggestion, and you realize that as it’s coming out of your mouth. “For now. If that’s not too much.”

He smirks. “Enjoy each other’s company?" He isn't exactly sure what you mean, but he wants to find out.

“Stupid idea?”

"Depends on what you mean by it. I don't typically enjoy anyone's company. I hate it, actually."

You know he's not trying to be funny, but something about him is accidentally humerous, and you assume it's because you're here with him right now...because he wanted you here, keeping him company. "That doesn't seem completely true."

The look on his face speaks volumes. You can tell he feels a little bit exposed, and a little bit confused. Seungmin turns to hide, his arms fold over his chest, and he takes a few steps toward the balcony. "I like sex. I have to deal with someones company if I'm going to get it."

"Is that why I'm here? You need to finish properly?"

"No"

"No? You made me come, but you haven't, have you? Did you finish when I was passed out?"

Seungmin doesn't answer.

"You've been far too patient with me, and it's weird"

"Weird?" Now he turns back to you, "...isanghan?" And takes a step toward you again. “Considering what sex tends to do to me, and considering I like it so much, you should be grateful for my patience."

“What exactly does it do to you?” One more step. Now you can reach out and touch him if you want. You don't.

“Mm, that’s when I do it, usually…after sex. At least when things go to plan.”

“Are you trying to scare me off again?”

Seungmin’s face doesn't change. “No, just trying my hand at more honesty, I guess.”

“When is the last time you had sex without killing the person afterward? Aside from me.”

The silence as he thinks stretches out far too long, and he sits at the edge of the bed, keeping some distance between you, “I don’t remember.”

You rise from your spot, and Seungmin probably assumes you need more distance from him, but that’s not the case. “We don’t have to talk about it.” He watches as you round the bed, pull at his pile of covers, and climb in.

/ / /

Seungmin just stares, tucked tightly under the covers, for most of the evening. He only moves closer when you reach out and brush the hair away from his forehead, run your fingers through it. He seems to relax under your touch. This kind of interaction with another person is definitely unusual for him, and with the attitude he gave earlier, you're surprised he's still sharing the space with you. Sleep comes easily, though, and hours later, you wake up. It’s not quite morning yet, but you can see sunlight trying to break through the curtain. Seungmin’s breath bounces steadily off of your neck, warm and pleasant. His leg is pushed between your thighs, moving a little in his sleep, and his arms are pulled tight against him, almost as if he’s hugging himself. Keeping your hands to yourself is a challenge, and it’s made even more difficult when he stirs a little—a soft, sleepy groan escapes him, and when your fingertips slide across his cheek, he sighs deeply, and settles again. In his sleep, he looks a little different; his face looks younger and softer, his brow isn’t furrowed, like it seems to be almost constantly, and his lips form into a perfect heart shaped pout. The real him, maybe.

As soon as you close your eyes, you’re gone, but it feels like only moments pass when you hear his faint moans, and a string of slurred words. He’s flat on his back, chin up, head pushed hard into the pillow, and the look on his face is his usual worried one. Your graze your knuckles against his cheek, but he doesn’t feel it. Whatever has him in his sleep is holding tightly.

"Seungmin?”

no, I won't help you

His words are clear now, but in Korean, so you don’t know what he’s saying.

please look at me

A tear is squeezed from the corner of his eye, and it trickles slowly across his temple. You wipe at it, and this time his eyes open. He catches his breath before looking around and remembering where he is, and why he’s not alone bed.

You reach for him again, but he turns away and stares absently at the wall. “Nightmares?”

Seungmin is quiet, but he nods.

“You were sleeping well when I woke up earlier, I hope it was enough.”

He remains still, head down, hands clenching and unclenching as he thinks, or clears his mind, or maybe he’s putting his nightmare back together in his head. Maybe he needs one of his pills. Would it be strange to treat him the way he treated you…gently, like you might shatter at the smallest touch? “Can I get you anything?” You whisper.

Silent still, but he shakes his head.

“Should I go?”

This time he turns and looks at you with sharp, sad eyes—a look brimming with the unspoken emotions trapped inside of his head. And he isn’t sure how to answer. Yes, you should probably leave, is Seungmin’s first thought, because he knows where this is going; the noises in his head are slowly returning, and getting to this point was difficult enough when his mind was quiet. “It’s coming back.”

“What is?”

Aside from the noise, the voices…the itch that doesn’t stop until it’s done, Seungmin doesn’t know how to put it into words. He’s never had to put it into words, now that he’s thinking about it, because why would he ever tell anyone? This is all he’s ever known, and sometimes he still forgets that most people (you, he assumes) can make up their own minds, and follow their own train of thought every single day. He doesn’t have that option. “Nothing, never mind. I just…need to wake up, I think”

Going out of his way to get to you again, and to see you, was a stupid mistake. Seungmin thinks the only option is you leaving and saving yourself from him. Why did he disrupt his perfectly comfortable, routine existence? Comfortable might be stretching it, but whatever he managed to create was working. There is nowhere that you fit into this, and he knows that. He hasn't forgotten...black or white. You’re here now, yes, but you haven’t seen the worst of him—nowhere near it. If you leave now and go back home, you’ll be spared the real Seungmin, and a possibly death by his hands. He needs that, because he still doesn’t want to hurt you.

“I need to find someone, and I need to do things right this time.” Seungmin forces himself to look at you, “so I can have some peace for a while.”

“Oh, okay...I think I understand”

“I need to be alone”

“So I won’t see you again,” you’re up out of the bed, adjusting your clothes, and heading toward the door.

“That’s probably for the best. You should pack up and go home.”

“I will”

“I’m sorry I fucked everything up, but if you leave, you’ll be happier, and safer”

“Safer from you?” Once again, you’re stuck in this room, only this time, it’s your own fault. The door is wide open, but you can’t move.

“Maybe”

“So you lied to get me here. Why didn’t you just kill me when you had the chance? You had several…you still have one more, I’m right here.”

“I don’t want to kill you, I want you to leave and never have to look at me again”

The step back is easier now, but the empty feeling creeping up your stomach and chest is making you sick. Your heart is pounding wildly again, but you don’t know if it’s panic, or anger, or something else. It seems like only a few hours ago you were struggling with the idea of communicating with him, and now he’s pushing you out. “Good luck with your—“ you stop and look at him. He isn’t looking back, “your work.”

The blank face staring up at him; the dead eyes, and blue-tinted lips, feels like a reflection of himself. His fingers remain laced around her neck, tangled in the shoulder-length hair and delicate silver necklaces. It was too much—the force he used this time; the crack, and the crunch of her trachea as it collapsed under his hands was unusual for him. It felt good, though, and it was exactly what he needed. But now he's more exhausted than he can ever remember feeling. Seungmin is careful as he loosens his grip, because the necklaces cut right into his skin as he squeezed. The imprints of his hands are still there, red and angry, and a slow trickle of blood starts to drip from her nose.

There won't be any sleep tonight. He has to dispose of this body now, and he has to do it well, because his perfect handprints, and the DNA all over her jewelry won't do him any favors if she's found.

He looks down at her and sees you for the briefest moment. There is no resemblance, at all, and that he did on purpose. Still, you continue to invade his every thought.

Thursday arrived and passed quietly. No message. Expecting one more goodbye from you was a little bit stupid. Seungmin started things, fucked them up, started them again, and then ripped the rug from beneath you...any normal person wouldn't want to deal with his shit anymore, even if he wasn't what he is. You should truly want nothing to do with him, and you’re now out of his reach. You’re safe. You found his gray area.

"Maybe I should burn you," he says out loud. Also not his usual MO, but he's done it before. Not sticking to the same kill, same demographic, same dumping ground, is one of the reasons he hasn't been caught. At least that's what he assumes. "Or maybe I should just leave you in the hallway so they can find me."

Seungmiiin

He jumps, but he knows he's hearing things. That doesn't keep him from listening.

Minnie...please be careful, you know how clumsy you are sometimes

It's not really there, but he knows where it's coming from. If he follows it, it'll lead to the same spot it always does.

I love you so much, and I want you to be happy

"Stop it." Seungmin shakes his head, as if that will wake him up and quiet things again. "Stop, I know...I will be careful. I promise."

You're so clever, and talented, and full of love...nobody can take that from you, not even him

"Okay..." Seungmin flexes his sore hands, and carefully removes himself from the body. He'll burn everything on this bed, too, he decides. The sheets, the blankets, the bedspread...maybe the pillows. "Did you hear that, too?" He looks to Daengmo, sitting perfectly on the bedside table, watchful as ever. "I know you did."

/ / /

Fourteen hours; that's how long he sleeps. When he wakes up, he has no idea where he is, or what day it is. He hardly remembers what happened in the last 24 hours, or that he spent longer than he ever has disposing of a body. Seungmin is in pain, though—his hands, his shoulders, back...hips. The moment he flips onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, he starts to recall what he did, and why he's so sore, but he immediately starts to doze again. Fourteen hours wasn't enough.

He forces his eyes back open and picks up his phone; almost 9:30. "Did you really leave?" He says, and pulls up Thursday's flights from Seoul back to North America. Seungmin has no idea where you're from, or where you were headed, but he looks anyway.

"Air Canada...to Toronto, cancelled. Korean Air, to New York, arrived on time, to Chicago...delayed four hours.”

Why is he dwelling on this? His mind is finally clear for nothing but his own thoughts, and his own thoughts go right to you.

That’s a stupid idea, he thinks, and looks around, "isn’t it?" His eyes fall to his stuffed dog, still sitting quietly on the table. "Is it? She’s either there, or she’s not." Eyes back to the ceiling, "you liked her, didn’t you?"

The streets are still busy and loud, even at this hour, in this cold, but Seungmin feels good. Black coffee and a few painkillers perked him up, and the sharpness of his mind is doing wonders for his mood. It wasn’t until he finally crawled out of bed that it hit him; the last few weeks have actually been a nightmare, mentally. It was the worst rut he’s been in for a long time. He hasn’t quite been himself.

But he’s out of it now, finally. For a while.

He stands in front of your apartment building, and waits. It takes a few minutes before the crowd dwindles enough, but as soon as it does, he goes for the door, and it’s open. No buzz-in needed. Three floors up, he remembers (but there are only four floors anyway), three doors down, on the right. The hallway is deserted, and so quiet that it actually unnerves him a little—it almost makes him turn around. Seungmin stands there, and waits, listens. Still quiet. Your apartment isn’t your apartment anymore, he knows that, but he rings the doorbell anyway. He can hear it echo through your deserted living room.

Nothing. Seungmin knew you were gone. He digs in his coat pocket and pulls out the lock picking set he wasn’t sure he would even need, and he still doesn’t know why he’s using it. Maybe you left something behind. He works on the deadbolt for a few seconds, but even taking his time, and working quietly, he hears the click. The doorknob is next, and that one is even easier. Inside, the scent of your perfume, or shampoo…whatever it was, still lingers—a sweet, deep floral scent Seungmin can’t quite place. He shuts the door behind him, and breaths deep. It’s empty inside, and dark. No boxes, or clothes; just the couch, the armchair, the coffee maker. All the things that were here before you. Still, he walks around and looks, doing his best to keep quiet, and doing his best to adjust to the dark. His eyes don’t do well with no light, even with his glasses.

A creak stops him in his tracks and puts him on edge…gets his heart pumping, and he stays there frozen, ears perked. He likes this type of adrenaline rush.

“Seungm—“

It’s only a whisper, but he knows it’s behind him. The faint outline is human, but that’s all he can make out. As soon as his hand finds something to grab, it grabs, and pushes, hard, and their back finds the wall. The sound is so loud in the silence, and the neck he’s gripping is so small and soft…

“Ss…stop”

His eyes adjust, and he can see more clearly as he stares into your terrified face. They drop to his hand still wrapped tight around your neck. Seungmin’s body goes numb.

“It’s me, please”

“Fuck…I’m—” his grip finally relaxes and frees you, but he grabs your arms as your knees give out, “I thought you left,” he whispers to himself, and holds you up. “You’re still here.”

“Yeah, I’m here”

"Are you okay?”

“Let go,” you push him away, and finish falling to your knees. “Don’t touch me.” A panic attack is forcing its way in, and you can’t get enough air. This can’t be happening again—this shitty astral projection. Every time he’s around you, something bad happens. Why didn't you just stay at the airport?

Seungmin’s hand runs slowly across your back, “you scared me."

“Why are you here?” You shake his hand away from you again, but he doesn't take it off.

“I could ask you the same thing. I rang the doorbell before I broke in.”

“I figured it was a drunk neighbor”

“Look at me, let me see your neck”

You lift your head for him, but he doesn’t look at your neck. One hand cups your cheek, and the other moves the loose hair from your eyes. He looks at you, stares so hard it makes your stomach hurt, but you can't look away. "You didn't leave."

"No"

"Why didn't you leave?"

"My flight got cancelled, three times. I got tired and begged my landlord for a few more days." It's catching up to you; the exhaustion, and the stress, and you start to feel tears brimming. You really don't want to cry right now, though. Your brain always chooses the worst times to do it. "They lost my luggage, or someone stole it, I don't know...I don't have anything."

"Nothing?"

"Just what I have in my bag"

Something he can fix, that's the only thing running through his mind now. Seungmin is useless, and he knows that—the world wouldn’t change at all if he was suddenly gone. He takes and takes, and he never gives. He doesn’t fix things.

“Why are you here, Seungmin?”

Why is he here? He thinks you probably know why he’s here, because you’ve proven yourself to be very perceptive. But you’re also upset. You’ve been here with nothing, Seungmin assumes, since at least Thursday; two nights, three if you count tonight.

“I, uhm,” he can answer two different ways, or he can lie. “I thought you might have left something behind, so I didn’t think it would hurt to check.”

“Left something behind…like what?”

Maybe a letter, like he wrote for you. An article of clothing, or a piece of jewelry. Something tangible he could hold onto. “I needed to know if you really left”

“Keep telling me the truth”

Seungmin’s heart thumps in his chest, and in his head, “okay.”

“Do you want me leave?”

“No”

“Why?”

“I don’t know…” he watches as you stand and head toward the bedroom, “wait, wait.”

“I’m tired”

“Come back with me”

Finally, he gets it out. His heart still thumps, and it shakes his whole body, but he did it, he spit the words out. He isn’t ready for the let down.

“You sent me away, didn’t want me to look at you again.” He stares blankly, avoiding you completely. “You told me I’d be safer away from you.”

“And it might still be true.” Seungmin shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear more voices out of it. "But..."

“Okay”

The only possession you have left, your backpack—not even completely full, hangs on Seungmin’s shoulder as he works on his locks. Four of them, two different keys, plus one digital lock; you’d think he had something to hide in here. “Sorry, this one always sticks.” He gives you a half smile. His demeanor changed drastically after your okay.

“It’s alright”

“You can shower, if you’d like. Are you hungry?”

Yes, you’re starving. You still have money, but you were preparing for a hotel bill come tomorrow morning. Canceling is an option now, you suppose, but you’re hesitant to do it. “I am.”

“What are you in the mood for? Unless you’d rather sleep first, maybe you’re more tired than hungry. A bath might be nice, though. Maybe—”

“How about I shower while you…make something, or order it?”

“I can cook”

/ / /

The last time you used this bathroom, you were mid-panic attack. Now you’re comfortable in the tub Seungmin insisted you soak in, and you’re very glad he did. You watched him pick out his favorite bath salts so you could try them—he filled the tub, poured them in, and made sure you approved before leaving you…”take your time.” He gave you his full smile this time, but it was a little hesitant.

This is the most relaxed you’ve been in weeks, and you hate thinking it now, but Seungmin has given you nothing but terror, anxiety, anger, and overwhelming emptiness. It’s been a struggle finding anything positive in your short time in Korea, and it’s because of him. Leaving was supposed to fix this, but you couldn’t do it. A cancelled flight was nothing, but a second cancelled flight felt like a sign. After the third one, you gave up on rebooking, but you had no clue what your plan was from there.

Ten minutes into your bath, he knocks softly before cracking the door, “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to make anything too spicy unless I asked”

“No spice”

The door closes softly, and you can’t hold back a stupid grin. He’s out of his element right now, again, and you wonder if he’s ever cooked for anyone before; a date, if that’s what you can still call yourself; a friend, an acquaintance. No, you know he hasn't; Seungmin doesn't like company. You’re messing him up, just like he’s messing you up.

/ / /

Seungmin can cook, he’s just not very good at it. He’s hoping you’re hungry enough not to care. Focusing on the food in front of him is difficult, though, when your half-unzipped backpack is right there on the couch. There isn’t much in it, but there is something in there; your most important things, probably—the only things you felt the need to keep with you for the long trip home. He can’t help it, he has to look. It’s not even close to the worst he’s done to you already.

A phone charger, earbuds, a jewelry case. Seungmin opens that, but there’s not much inside: two small silver rings, a necklace with a medallion hanging from it. He recognizes it right away, because his mother had the same one in her jewelry box; St. Michael, vanquishing the devil.

He digs a little further. A pill case, a sweatshirt…he pushes that aside and wraps his fingers around a tightly folded piece of paper, and he recognizes it as soon as he pulls it out. He barely unfolds it before a familiar dried flower slips out and onto the floor, and then another.

“Be careful with those”

Seungmin jumps, but doesn’t drop anymore, “sorry,” and he bends to pick them up.

“So you’re a murderer, and a snoop”

“Snoop? Like the little dog?”

“Yeah, like the beagle. Did you find anything good?”

“I thought you would’ve thrown this away.” He gently opens one side and slides the flowers back inside. “I mean, I’m not usually this—”

“Nosy?”

“I was going to say rude”

“Nowhere near the worst thing you’ve done, it’s okay”

Right. Not even close. “Oh, let me get you something to wear,” he says, but he takes an extra few moments to scan over every part of you, tightly wrapped in his towel. “A shirt, and maybe something else of mine will fit.”

You follow him into the bedroom, and his curtain is pulled back as far as it goes. The view is nicer now than it was when you stood there during the day, and much nicer than it was when you ran out in a panic, looking for an exit. Seungmin is on his knees, rifling through the bottom dresser drawer, and he’s a nicer view, too. You still think you should hate him, and you do, a little bit, but the longer you’re near him, the easier it becomes.

“Here, try this,” he holds up a black t-shirt, a little faded, and definitely big, even for him. “It’s comfortable.”

“Did you dye your hair?” The way the light hits it in here, it looks darker.

He hands you the shirt, and watches carefully as you pull it over your head. “I did, it just didn’t take very well.” The towel doesn’t shake loose until the hem falls below your hips, and he's a little disappointed. Still, he looks for whatever shape he can find under all the fabric. His eyes move down your legs, and back up slowly, stopping when he gets to your thighs.

“The glasses suit you, I like them”

“You do?” He lights up a little at the compliment, and smiles when you nod. “My shirt suits you.”

Seungmin hopes, he really hopes…he’s not sure where you’re at right now, as far as trusting him, and feeling comfortable…but he hopes you won’t take a step back when he takes one toward you, or when he reaches his hand out to touch your shirt sleeve. And then, very cautiously, your arm. Goosebumps jump up on your skin when he runs his thumb down to your elbow, but you don’t shy away. “You’re hungry…we should eat.”

“We should,” you move forward, and pull him down until you can almost reach his lips. “What did you make?”

Are you teasing him on purpose? “Spam fried rice…and eggs. I'm sure I have something sweet, if you’re in the mood.”

“That sounds good, yeah.” He’s pulled a little closer, but your lips land on the apple of his warm cheek, “sex is supposed to be better after you eat.”

/ / /

“Did we enjoy each other’s company?” Seungmin smiles to himself as he pours you more tea.

“You certainly did, considering how wrapped up in me you were that morning”

His face drops a little, “I was?”

Wrapped up is a little exaggerated, but you do tell him exactly how you woke up to him, and he blushes. “I can be a little noisy in my sleep, sorry.”

“And I was on your side of the bed, so maybe you were just migrating back to it”

He laughs, and getting that out of him feels like an accomplishment you didn’t know you needed. This version of Seungmin looks, and feels, different than any other you’ve met, but there are bits and pieces of each one still hanging on. The worry still sits in his eyes, but it’s subtle—every time he looks into yours, you can hear him wondering when you’ll leave again. He’s still nervous, just a little on edge, as if whatever he’s doing is wrong, or just not completely correct. When he asked how the food was, you told him the truth; it was perfect, and exactly what you needed, but you also told him, jokingly, that his onion chopping needed some work. He seemed to take it to heart, so it took some convincing to get his mind off of it. And whatever feelings come back when it’s time—the thing that sits on his shoulder, always seems to be there in some small way. Maybe it’s just the memory of it.

But he’s different. Seungmin did what he needed to do to feel normal for a while, and you see it. He looks at you easily, with much less intensity, and laughs a little bit louder. This must be the real Seungmin.

“I’m much more comfortable here,” Seungmin sits and hands you a mug, “and warmer.” Because you asked him to turn up the heat, and he apologized several times for not doing it sooner. “Thank you for having me again. Don’t make me regret it.”

He tilts his head to the side, and raises his eyebrows. You think you see a smile trying to tug at his lips, but he keeps it to himself, “no, I don’t want to do that. But I have a question.”

“Go ahead”

“Do you think being on top would make you more comfortable?”

“On top?” You stare at him blankly for a few beats, sip your tea. “Oh, on top. Of you. Maybe.” You keep your face neutral. He looks a little dejected, but when your eyes wander down, you can see how fast he’s getting hard, and a wave of pleasure runs all the way through you. “Won’t hurt to try.”

That’s all he needs to hear. Seungmin goes right for your waist and pulls you to your feet, “if you need me to stop…” he waits for your nod before leading you back to the bedroom.

“You changed your bedspread, you changed everything…well, almost everything.” Seungmin sees your gaze land on Daengmo. “Tell me about him later?”

He nods, sits comfortably and unbuttons his jeans, unzips them carefully, and groans when he can get them away from his erection. His sweatshirt is next, and when he gets it over his head and tosses it aside, you’re half kneeling on the bed, hem of your tshirt clenched in your fist. Seungmin laughs, and then pats his bare thigh, “right here.”

You listen, and carefully straddle him. “Oh,” you jump when his dick, still confined to his briefs, rubs against your aching clit. “Don’t tease,” you reach down and pull at the fabric.

“Not tonight,” he finishes freeing himself and rubs his head over your wet, silky entrance. “No teasing.” The groan he makes comes out so deep, and so needy, “are you ready? You feel ready.”

Two fingers slide down and up, disappearing deep inside of you, and the pressure he gives makes you whine. His free hand gently squeezes your hip, holds you still—the other slides out, “mm, yeah…so wet for me.” Before he does anything else, he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean, “I’m all yours…” and lies back on the pillow.

You’re not sure you can get him in like this, but you take him in your hand and spread yourself open, slide your knees further and further apart so there’s nowhere else to go but in. The pressure is intense, but you know how wet you are, and how wet he’s still making you as you look at his calm, smirking face.

“Yeah, that’s good,” his hips jump, but he keeps himself under control. He wants you doing all the work right now. “A little more, I know you can take it all,” he moans when you stop and pull yourself up, and then slowly slide back down, “fuck.”

Back down, little by little, and the stretch hurts until you start to move up and down, gently, working your thighs to the point of burning. But you want to take him all. You’re still all here, no panic, no overwhelming memory of what happened before. Seungmin is so content just lying there watching you, and you want this now. All of it. You slow down and relax before setting both palms against his stomach. He flexes, and you feel every muscle hold you steady; you feel his hips twitch as you take another inch…and then another. And one more, all of him, stretching you to your limit.

“Good?”

“Good,” you roll your hips and stretch yourself even more, “so good.”

Seungmin wets his thumb on his tongue and finds your clit, teases it as you start to bounce again, “fuck,” his free hand slides over yours, “fuck, I might get there first…you feel so good,” he whines and moves faster, rubbing in tight little circles as you lose yourself and start to fuck him harder.

It hurts, in the best way—you can’t stop, and you can’t slow down until you come His heavy eyes and parted lips, tongue just barely poking out of the corner of his mouth…slowly licking across his teeth, is getting you there fast. His smile grows as you stare, and he moans again, just for you, “you feel so fucking good,” he whispers, and his exaggerated whine sends you over the edge. It starts building, fast, and you need to touch more of him. Your palm slides up to his chest, over his hard nipple, and back down his side. It tickles him, you can tell, but he doesn’t miss a beat rubbing your orgasm out of you.

You move faster, fuck him harder, and let the feeling overtake you. Seungmin keeps going, and his hips start moving now, thrusting up into you with enough force to knock the air out of your lungs, but it doesn’t phase you this time.

Seungmin is loud when he comes. The bed shakes, and your body screams at you. He grips you tight, fingernails digging deep into your hips. The mess of cum starts running down your thighs and onto him. When he finally slows down, it’s because he’s out of breath, but his hips continue to move, softly, in and out.

/ / /

It was fast, but you’re exhausted. Racing heart, burning hips, and mess working its way out between your legs—you lay yourself onto the pillow and look to him. He’s still flat on his back, hands splayed across him, fingers moving against his tight stomach. His mouth is slightly parted as he catches his breath, and his eyes are closed. You take a second and try to read his mind.

But you can’t figure it out. You can’t begin to guess…you only hope he’s having good thoughts.

“Hm?” Seungmin looks at you, eyes mostly open, “did you say my name?”

“No, just looking at you”

Again, his eyes close, and you hear a quiet, exasperated what? come from him.

“What’s wrong? Seungmin?”

His hands move to cover his face, and he keeps them there as he mumbles a little to himself. You catch a word here and there, but you can't make anything of it until he finally uncovers his mouth...

"You shouldn't be here...you shouldn't be here right now"

Not again. He can't be doing this to you again, not after the trouble he just went through getting you here. "What do you mean?" Your heart is still pounding from the sex, and now it's mixing with the sick feeling in your stomach. "Seungmin?"

"What?" He sounds irritated. He looks irritated.

"You want me to...no, you don't, do you?" You sit up and pull the blankets up to your chin. The slow, uncomfortable feeling of his cum dripping out of you is making this so much worse. "No, you can't." The last part you whisper, because you don't know if you want him to hear. Your throat tightens, and your eyes water, and you think you feel him staring, but when you check, he's not.

Seungmin's eyes are closed, and his jaw is clenched tight. "Please, just leave me alone right now."

It was stupid to expect him to just be okay, but he was okay. He was himself when he brought you back, and when he made you a bath. When he cooked for you. It also seemed stupid to expect yourself to be okay, but you were, and still are. Sort of. You decide to just stop talking, tuck yourself deep into the covers, and wait for whatever this is to pass. Leaving isn't really an option for you anymore. You don't want to leave.

/ / /

A hard kick straight to your shin wakes you from your sleep. You were in deep, dreaming like before, only this time Seungmin wasn’t there. The darkness, the cold wet ground, the sound of footsteps in the mud…that was all still there—loud, desperate cries from a child, barely audible, but that sound sticks with you even after waking up. It rings in your head as the spot just below your knee throbs in pain.

“Seungmin," a gentle shake of his shoulder brings him out of his sleep, and his face relaxes almost immediately when he realizes he’s in his bed. “You didn't wanna be in that dream anymore, did you?”

He takes a few deep breaths before sitting up and rubbing at his cheeks, “was I talking?” And then he moves his hands to just below his eyes, as if he's feeling for tears, “or—”

“No, you kicked me. And you looked very unhappy.”

“Kicked you?” Seungmin folds his legs up to his chest, and he looks like a kid. A very tired, very confused kid. “Hard?”

“Hard enough, but I’m fine”

“I’m sorry”

Reading him is difficult, maybe because you’re still tired. Last night feels like it couldn’t have happened—all of it; Seungmin coming to find you, bringing you home with him…what that came after. Everything feels like a fever dream you’ve been floating through, half awake. “No, it’s okay. I was in the middle of a dream, too. Being awake is better.”

“Were you comfortable, did you sleep well?" He’s looking at your legs as they move around under the blankets, “let me see.”

“I’m okay, I promise." He clearly doesn't remember.

Seungmin nods, but pulls at the blankets anyway. He keeps pulling and reaching until you finally give in and show him your leg. “Thank you,” he touches the red spot, and the slightly broken skin.

“Do you remember last night?” You ask, and he doesn’t move, but his gaze does. “After, I mean.”

Yes, he remembers laying next to you, and trying not to doze off too fast—still so tired after so much sleep. He lost that battle, though. “Yeah, I fell asleep. I should have stayed awake with you.”

“You don’t remember talking to me before that?”

He shakes his head, and sets his warm hand over the sore spot. If he doesn't remember it, then maybe it doesn't matter. "What did I say?"

You watch his face as you speak, "uhm, you told me I shouldn't be here. And you asked me to leave you alone."

There is no change in his face, so you suspect he isn't very surprised by what he said. His hand slides down your shin, to your ankle, and then back up...very slowly. It's gentle and sweet, but something about it is unnerving at the same time. That doesn't stop a chill from running up your body, and goosebumps to run up your arms. His warm hands feel good, and when he squeezes your thigh, you have to stifle a moan.

"Don't believe everything I say"

The softness of his voice, and another squeeze of his hand almost distracts you from what he tells you. "How do I know what to believe?" You pull yourself back a little, but Seungmin's grip on your thigh tightens. "How do I know when you're telling me the truth?"

"I didn't mean that last night"

"You sounded like you meant it"

"I didn't, I promise." He pulls you closer, "look at me." He waits until you do, but whatever he's trying to say hasn't come together in his head yet. Seungmin is feeling very overwhelmed, very suddenly, and he wants to scream. He wants to squeeze your thigh until his nails dig in deep enough to break the skin. "I don't know how to make you believe me."

"Please, let go"

He looks down at the hold he has on you, and it's too much, just not quite enough to make you bleed. His grip loosens, and the mark left behind is red and angry.

"I need to go clean up"

/ / /

The strong smell of coffee comes through the bathroom door, so you know he's up, and probably out there waiting. You check the marks on your thigh. It stings, and you can see the perfect crescent shaped indentations he left behind. It could be much worse—the cool washcloth takes away most of the pain. You rinse it under warm water and clean up the mess you should've taken care of last night; the mess you really shouldn't have made at all. But you try not to think about it. You try not to think about what he just outright told you about himself. And this hold he has on you—it's not the best idea, but you shove that down for now, too.

You crack the door and peek out, take in the smell of the coffee, and head for the kitchen. Sitting on the counter is a mug, already filled, two pieces of warm toast, and a jar of plum jam.

But Seungmin isn’t here.

Cold air hits you where you’re standing, and you follow it back to his bedroom—to the slowly moving curtains covering the sliding door of the balcony. The bed is empty and made, and there’s a fresh tshirt and pair of sweatpants sitting at the corner. You’ll have to assume they’re for you, and you're thankful for them. It's freezing in here again. You change before returning to the curtains, and very carefully, very quietly, pull them aside just enough to look out.

Seungmin is sitting cross-legged on the ground, hands neatly in his lap. He’s leaning a little, so his head is resting on the wall closest to him. You know he must be cold, because he’s only in the tshirt and shorts he wore to bed, and you also know he’s out there because he wants, or needs to be alone. So you leave him alone. You return to your coffee and the breakfast he made, and you wait.

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