you guys have been wondering about bitterverse dust and why gen hates him so much, so here's content :)
this has a sister fic that comes later on, after killer and dust's relationship has ended, that i'll post in a couple days, so keep an eye out for that if you're interested teehee :3
as always, ao3 link is in the reblogs if you prefer to read things there (i know i do).
the sister fic i mentioned will be posted to ao3 as a second chapter to a single work, and i'll update this post with the link to the second part once it's up :)
if you're a child, don't read this. please. this is some of my darker content, so it's for adult audiences only. thank you!
cw: violence, abusive relationships, abuse, dark content, implied/referenced sexual content
The back of his spine hit the wall, making a rhythmic clunking sound that could almost drown out everything else, if he focused enough on it. His skull rested on the other’s shoulder, arms wrapped around his neck for any semblance of stability. The air that he didn’t really need was coming in and out too fast – in and out; too fast – and an involuntary grunt fell from him as he exhaustedly tried to push himself up and away, hands pressing firmly against Dust’s shoulders, like that might be enough. He was tired.
“Stop,” he managed, just barely, and the sensations ceased but didn’t quite recede.
His breath came through pants, and he sounded almost as tired as Killer. Bright purple eyelights only just barely peeked up at him from beneath the edge of his hood. “What?”
“Stop,” he repeated, louder, emphasising the point by allowing his legs to fall from around Dust’s waist; the tips of his toes barely managed to brush against the floor.
As his hands tightened around Killer’s thighs to keep him from falling, conflicting emotions that Killer couldn’t quite recognise darted across Dust’s face, in the form of narrowed sockets and pursed lips. When his head lifted, ever so slightly more, his browbones were furrowed, halfway between two feelings, neither of which Killer had any desire to name.
“Why?” he said, somewhat hoarsely, and something about the genuine confusion in his tone was enough to push Killer over the edge.
Expression screwing up into some reflection of a feeling Killer wasn’t sure he even really felt, his hands curled into fists against Dust’s shoulders. “Stop,” he said, surprising himself with his own desperation, and he brought his fists back to beat on the other’s chest. “Stop it. Get out– Get off of me!”
Dust yelped as Killer’s hands found their way to his face, pushing him, flat palmed, away. “Killer, don’t,” he hissed, somewhat slurred by the hands assaulting his face. “You’re going to make me drop you.”
“Stop!” he screamed, so intense that it broke off at the end into some incomprehensible, animalistic sound.
Wincing, Dust lifted Killer up and off, and, in his haste to back away, dropped him to the floor, where he landed with a short, choked sounding yelp and pressed himself as far against the wall as he could manage, legs tucked to the side. He was choking on something, but he couldn’t be sure what; his vision was too obscured by the dark determination leaking from his sockets – his nose, his mouth; if he was thinking clearer, he might have connected the dots – to comprehend. His breathing came out ragged, harsh, and his hands clawed at his throat desperately for just a moment before they were wrenched away, drawing out an instinctual snarl as he fought to free himself.
“Stop,” Dust said, and something about that was funny, so Killer laughed. “Stop. You’re hurting yourself.”
“I don’t care,” Killer hissed, somewhat manic.
And, just as harsh, almost harsher, “I do.”
The grip on his wrists didn’t falter despite how he pulled against it, so, all at once, Killer allowed himself to fall limp, slumping against the wall as his head lolled to the side. Dust, with a tenderness that made something entirely nauseating stir in Killer’s soul, wrapped Killer in his arms, supporting his skull with one hand and pressing his forehead to Killer’s. Their breaths mingled, and the tightness in his throat doubled, but he didn’t move.
“It’s okay,” Dust murmured; it was loud against Killer’s silence. “You’re okay.”
A soft, aborted squeak got stuck between his teeth as Dust’s fingertips brushed over the outer ring of Killer’s soul. They gently cupped the organ in their grasp and tender, loving intent coursed into its core from their contact points. Autonomously, the tension fled from Killer’s body, and he fully relaxed into Dust’s arms, pliable. A grin tugged at his lips, laughter catching in his throat, yet still, and, distantly, he wished that his soul wasn’t so inviting; that it would hide in his chest, like it was supposed to.
“See? You’re alright,” came the coo. If Killer focused his gaze, he could see the smile on Dust’s face; so, he didn’t. “What happened?”
And, the question, like a command, spurred on an answer, “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Dust echoed, and there was something slightly incredulous to his tone and in the way his sockets narrowed. “You don’t know? Or, you don’t want to tell me?”
“I don’t know,” he repeated, with more certainty than he felt.
The hands that caged in his soul felt sticky where they brushed over its magic, and the sensation, coupled with the same stickiness between his legs, made Killer feel filthy and heavy with grime. His thoughts were slow, and sluggish, as if they, too, were being contained by Dust’s grasp; as if they, too, were filthy. Some part of him felt ridiculous at the thought – as if he hadn’t done this a thousand times before and never cared about how it debased him – but a larger, louder part of him was too suffocated by it to care.
He had no right to feel so exposed, he knew, but he did anyway, and it gnawed at him like whatever it was that had taken him over earlier; like the way laughter fought to claw its way out of his throat, only stopped by the fear that it would offend his lover.
If it hadn’t been for the heavy complaisance that had taken over his entire being – mind and body; in and out – he might have squirmed against Dust’s grasp, but he didn’t.
“I think you do know,” Dust murmured, and Killer shook his head, minutely.
Again, like a lifeline, he repeated, “I don’t know.”
Somewhat clipped, Dust hummed, shifting to press Killer’s head against his shoulder. The flesh of his magic was soft against Killer’s legs, uncomfortably hot. “Sometimes I wish I could read your mind,” he said. “It frustrates me, not being able to tell what you’re feeling.”
“Sorry,” he croaked, without even needing to think.
“Don’t apologise,” came the response, with a huff, “just be honest with me.”
“I don’t know,” Killer hissed, surprising himself with frustration he hadn’t known he’d been feeling, beneath the cotton-like haze of positive intent. “Stop asking.”
His breathing stuttered to a stop as Dust brought his soul closer to his chest, and he shut his sockets, knowing what was coming and nevertheless frozen in place. Then, all at once, a harsh gasp knocked him back into breath as something sharp and electric sparked within him. He arched away from the feeling for only a moment before heaviness overtook his bones once more, and he laughed as Dust placed their souls between them, almost resting in his lap.
“You’re scared,” he noted, somewhat breathless, too, and the notion was just as much of a revelation to Killer. “What are you so afraid of?”
A single word, heavy on the tip of his tongue, choked back between laughter, and he shook his head with the same manic energy.
“Just be honest with me,” Dust said, easily; as if it were that simple. “I want to help.”
“You–” Killer choked out, spitting a thick glob of determination from his mouth with a pained grin. It dribbled down his chin and narrowly missed defiling their souls, but he almost wished it had. “You’re not helping. Let go.”
Something red hot and heavy settled in his chest, and he could feel more than see the way that Dust frowned. “I’m just trying to figure out what happened,” he said, defensive. “You never tell me what you’re feeling. How else am I supposed to find out?”
Like the words were a live wire – and, perhaps spurred on by feelings that weren’t even his own – Killer seized against Dust’s chest, cackling as his hands reached down to claw at Dust’s with such fervor that, even through the buzz in his ears, he could hear Dust yelp.
Carelessly, like an animal, Killer ripped his soul away from Dust’s, and the sudden lack stung like cold water on a burn. When Dust went rigid before him, Killer scrambled out of his grasp, managing to only get a few feet before he couldn’t keep his back to Dust any longer in the wake of fury and terror. He remained pressed against the wall, half-crouched and half-collapsed onto his knees, and he wiped determination from his vision with the same harsh desperation as each of his breaths.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” he snarled, though whatever fire had lit in him when their souls were linked was quickly burning out, stoked only by whatever mania he could muster. “Don’t. Don’t. I’ll kill you,” came the hiss, and he hoped it sounded as animal as he felt. Heaving, his fingertips clawed notches into the castle’s wooden panelling. “I’ll hurt you. I’ll kill you. I’ll spit in your dust, and I won’t feel a thing about it. I won’t miss you. I–”
Pain bloomed in the back of his head like a fire, so intense it doused any of the fury he had left.
The only warning he’d gotten before his skull made contact with the ground was a dangerous glint of purple, then something heavy had collided with him and knocked the breath from his chest. It came back in something between a laugh and a sob, and he clawed at Dust’s face with animalistic terror.
“Stop,” he choked, yanking as his fingers caught in one of Dust’s sockets. “Stop. Get off–”
Undeterred, Dust ripped Killer’s hands from his face – uncaring of the way the force of the motion caused bright red blood to leak from his socket; it almost could have been mistaken for a tear, if it weren’t for the cold fury that darkened his expression – and pressed them against either side of Killer’s head, despite the way he struggled against him, teeth snapping at anything that got near enough to draw his attention.
Above them, a blaster opened its maw, burning bright with an intense, white-hot, purplish hue, and, for just a moment, Killer froze. The light was so intense, it cast all of Dust in shadow, leaving only the matching purple of his eyelights to shine through the darkness.
“Take it back,” he hissed, sharply. His grip on Killer’s wrists was enough to hurt. “Take back what you said.”
“No,” Killer said, laughing, wide-eyed, as he kicked and struggled beneath him. “No. No.”
The light of Dust’s sockets narrowed, and he cocked his head to the side. “You’ve made it clear that it’s too much to ask of you to return what I give you, but I have limits, too, and I’m not asking very much,” he continued. “So, take it back.”
Falling still, once more – in resignation? In hopelessness? Did it matter? – Killer only heaved desperate, pained breaths against where Dust had him pinned, bones audibly rattling against one another. His soul shifted erratically, sharp and heavy agony pulsing through him with each beat. The ground felt far beneath him, and, despite the piercing panic that kept him anchored within himself, his mind was fuzzy and muddled.
The feeling was familiar enough – intense enough – to spur on whatever remained of the self-preservation that was normally buried too deeply behind carefully crafted carelessness to actually affect him.
Now, his instincts fought against his stubborn mask hard. He refused to let them win; clung to its presence like it was all he had left.
His skull fell back against the ground, and he allowed it to fall to the side carelessly.
“Take back what you said,” came the demand again, sharp.
His jaw clenched shut stubbornly, and he forced himself still, only moving in the shameful instinctive trembling of his bones.
“Don’t ignore me!” The words came out closer to a snarl; there was something vicious and pained behind them. The grip around his wrists tightened, but Killer held his tongue.
Above them, the blaster deteriorated – as if it could bear the weight of things no longer – showering them both in dust and raw magic, and the sudden change in lighting revealed Dust’s expression; furrowed brow bones, an open mouthed frown. His eyelights trembled, glowing brightly in intense emotion, and something shone in the corners of his sockets. He looked stricken, and Killer wished that he felt bad about it.
The longer they stared, silent and unmoving, the more Dust’s expression fell into desperation. His frown tightened, and his sockets were wide. His eyelights darted over Killer’s form, looking for anything to soothe himself, and something went cold in Killer’s marrow when they paused over the easy target that hovered over his chest.
Then, all at once, Dust released Killer’s wrists, lunging for Killer’s soul with one hand and his own with another.
Like the bang that followed a pulled trigger, all hell broke loose once more, and, with renewed energy, Killer thrashed beneath him.
Dust cried out – though Killer couldn’t be sure if it was from pain or despair – as Killer gripped his wrist with both hands and tried to force it away, bending it however he could manage, even if it was in a direction it wasn’t supposed to go. Immediately, Dust’s other hand released his own soul, and he grabbed one of Killer’s arms, trying to force his wrist back in the direction it was meant to go.
When Killer lifted his head to sink his teeth into Dust’s fingers, the man cried out again. A glimmer of victory flickered at the sight of purple tears, then burned out as the top half of his body was easily raised from the ground just enough to be slammed back down.
He released Dust’s hand when he opened his mouth to yelp, and the momentary weakness was enough for Dust to force his arm back into place, until Killer’s own were pressed against his neck and caged him in.
Desperately, he snapped at Dust’s other hand – the wrist he’d managed to snag at the start – but his skull was caught mid attack and forced back to the ground. Again, Killer tried to twist Dust’s arm, away from the mangled mess of a soul that beat rapidly before his chest, but Dust was quicker.
A bone, sharp, pierced his shoulder, and, with an instinctive scream that he hardly recognised as his own, Killer released one hand to instead push against Dust’s face. His fingers clawed against the edges of his sockets, and his shoulder burned like fire in the effort, but Dust didn’t falter, only blinking around the intrusions and shaking his head to attempt to dislodge them.
Without the combined strength of both of his hands, Dust easily pinned one of Killer’s wrists back to the side of his head, and, with that distraction removed, he tore the other hand from his face, moving fast enough that Killer couldn’t snap at his fingers once his skull was released, and forced it to the ground, too.
Two more bones pierced through the palms of Killer’s hands, pinning them there like a butterfly to a board, and, again, he cried out. But, the moment Dust released his wrists to go for his soul again, Killer yanked his hands upwards, forcing his way up his restraints, careless of the way the wounds on his hands grew impossibly wider. White-hot pain lanced through him for only a second – a raw scream tearing from his throat in the process – before the weight around his wrists were back again, forcing them back down.
As Killer went to bite – to kick, and buck, and thrash – once more, Dust abruptly cut him off.
“Stop!” he shouted, though it came out more like a sob, and Killer froze, staring up at his lover.
Tears streamed down his cheeks – spilled from his nose, wet his mouth – and his face was flushed purple with the effort, highlighting the bright red streaks where Killer had clawed him. His shoulders shook as sobs wracked his body, and he shook his head, sockets squeezing shut in agony for just a moment. Meeting those eyelights again – shaky, and small – was almost as startling and painful as their violent struggle from before.
Again, he sobbed, and, when he spoke, his voice was softer than before. “Why don’t you want me?”
When Killer didn’t answer, only breathing heavily and staring, wide-eyed, he continued.
“You don’t want to make love. You don’t want to speak honestly with me. You don’t want to feel my soul, and let me feel yours,” he listed, and the hurt in his voice made something uncomfortable churn in Killer’s chest. “Why don’t you want me?”
Fear and exhaustion weighed him down, mind and body, and his head once again fell back to the floor with a clunk. It felt like his skull was filled with cotton, and there was none of the pleasant buzz of positive intent like when his haze had been caused by Dust’s intent. No, this was a sharp feeling, the remnants of adrenaline thrumming in his marrow, that kept him far away. His sockets slipped shut, and his mind processed the words slowly; too slowly.
“Now, you won’t even talk to me,” Dust said, though the words broke off at the end, into something like a whimper. “How am I supposed to know what you’re thinking? What you’re feeling? You won’t speak to me. You won’t let me feel it myself. You don’t want me.” Then, harsher, “You don’t love me.”
Hoarsely, and through heaving, painful breaths, Killer managed, “I do love you.”
“Then, why?” Dust hissed again, and his grip on Killer’s wrists tightened. “Why don’t you want me? Why did you want to stop? Why did you shy away?”
“I don’t–” he began, then, sharply, cut himself off, so quickly that his jaw clicked from the effort. Words swam in and out of his head as he struggled to come up with the right thing to say; always, there was a right thing to say. “I just– I was tired, and I wanted to see if you would.”
Sockets narrowing, Dust cocked his head to the side. He sniffed, but his shoulders were no longer shaking so violently with raw emotion. “Would? Would what?”
“Stop,” he said, simply.
When some of the sorrow on Dust’s face melted away into confusion – sockets narrow, still shining from tears, but no longer leaking; a brow bone raised – a bit of the unexplained heaviness in Killer’s chest lightened. “That’s it?”
The blandness of his response forced a snort from Killer, though the dredges of shame prickled at the edges of his soul. He shrugged, ignoring the pain that lanced through his wounded shoulder at the action.
His despair somewhat gentled, Dust cringed back, and his grip on Killer’s wrists loosened. As he sat up, Killer couldn’t help but note how Dust towered over him from where he laid on the ground. There was something vaguely unsettling about it, especially in combination with the half-sneer that painted his lover’s expression. It made the hum of panic, that hadn’t quite abated in his soul, buzz a bit louder.
“So, you don’t hate me?” Dust asked, somewhat incredulously. “Or, think I’m disgusting?”
Brow bones furrowing ever so slightly, Killer hummed out a no, the words trapped in his throat behind a lump of some emotion.
“You just… wanted to see if I’d stop…”
In the relative calm, some of his good sense returned to him – the haze slowly clearing, just enough to allow him to think – and Killer couldn’t help but flinch a bit. He lifted his head slightly, to better meet Dust’s eyes, and he cringed inwardly at the way suspicion and frustration sparked in his gaze. He huffed out a laugh before he could stop himself, then let his head fall back to the ground below with a clunk.
“What?” he hummed, tiredly, as if the whole thing hadn’t snowballed so horrendously that it turned into a physical fight. “I was just curious.”
“Curious,” Dust repeated, as if to confirm it to himself, and the word came out incredibly bitter. “I don’t like that you tested me. It made me feel bad. Like you hated me.”
“Well, there’s no need to be upset,” he said, and he tried for a smile, but it felt weak and unsure even to him. He could feel the way it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and he was sure its effects were abated by the way his skull remained pressed against the floor in exhaustion. “It’s not like your response affects your grade. You would have passed either way.”
The bitterness in Dust’s features once more fell away into confusion, and his head cocked to the side. His eyelights studied Killer’s face intently, looking for something in its features, and, whatever he found – or didn’t – made him narrow his sockets again. Carefully, uncertain tone edging on what Killer thought might be relief, “Really?”
And, under a less sharp gaze, Killer’s grin came more easily, though it still felt wrong on his face. “Sure.”
“I would always stop, if you wanted me to,” he added, and Killer only met the serious look in his gaze for a moment before he forced his eyes to the wall at his side. The wood was stained dark, and the grain traced patterns up, and down, and around in circles; he could see where they’d sullied the panelling in their fight. He wondered if their prior hands-on activity had left a mark, too. “I’d never want to make you do something you don’t want to.”
Something about the words made his grin sharpen, and, somehow, it ached. “Right.”
There was a beat – a moment of silence – and, suddenly, the tension was back in the air.
“What, you don’t believe me?” came the hiss, and the hostility in his tone drew Killer’s attention fully back to the man who still sat atop his torso. His hands flexed against the bones that kept his hands pinned, and he considered struggling against them again, for only a moment. Dust’s hands fisted into Killer’s sweater, and that hurt expression had returned. “That’s not fair. I stopped, didn’t I?”
Killer blinked at him; once, then twice. “I was agreeing with you.”
“Then, why’d you say it like that?” he insisted. Ever so slightly, his hands tightened their hold, and, distantly, Killer was afraid that he’d started a fight again. “You said it like you didn’t believe me.”
“I do believe you,” Killer said; quick, placating, just as insistent. “I was agreeing.”
A noise – something like a wheeze of uncertainty – escaped through Dust’s gritted teeth, and his brow bones furrowed more harshly, but his fists loosened. His fingers still remained knotted in the thick material, but the tenseness left them, and his thumbs gently smoothed out some of the wrinkles he’d caused. “I care about what you want,” he repeated, somewhat urgently. “Your consent is important to me.”
Unbidden, Killer’s hand tried to twitch upward to grasp his soul, but it was firmly stopped in place, and he bit back a hiss at the sharp wave of pain that ran from his palm, towards the tips of his fingers, and up to his elbow. He flexed his fingers in an attempt to soothe the pain, but it did little to help. Something about it all spurred on an exasperated pang of amusement, though he didn’t dwell on the feeling or its cause, and it was distant enough to ignore.
“I know,” he said instead, evenly. “That’s why you stopped, when I asked.”
“You believe me, right?” Something about his tone sounded almost desperate, and Killer had to fight back a cringe at the sound. It grinded against a part of his soul uncomfortably. “You believe I care?”
A heavy breath weighed him down, keeping him silent, for just a second. Dust’s magic pressed against his own, warm through his shirt and against his stomach. And, suddenly, the last thing he wanted to do was remain here. He wanted to shower off the sweat, and fluids, and hope that this filthy feeling went away with it. He wanted to put on clean clothes and lay on something comfortable. He wanted to dress his wounds and sleep away the pain. He wanted to hide away from the feeling of prying eyes.
It shouldn’t have felt like such a big ask.
As warmly as he could manage, Killer smiled up at his love and was relieved when something softened in his gaze; practise makes perfect. “Of course,” he said. “Of course I do.”
When a sigh of relief made Dust’s shoulders sag, the warmth of the breath ghosted over Killer’s bones uncomfortably. The magic that kept him pinned fell away, and it was like a weight had lifted.
Gently, Killer reached his hand up to cradle Dust’s cheek, and neither of them seemed to much care about how his blood smeared across the bone, mixing with the violet remains of his tears and creating a pretty magenta. “Take me to your room?” he offered, carefully soft. “We’ll shower, then we can cuddle in bed.”
Something sparked in Dust’s eyelights at the offer, and he eagerly leaned into Killer’s hand. “I love you.”
His smile tightened, ever so slightly, but Dust didn’t seem to notice. “I love you, too.”
As if the words nudged a secret button that broke them out of the tension they’d been trapped in, finally, Dust pushed himself from Killer’s middle and stood to his feet. When Dust offered a hand to help him to his feet, Killer took it, and he barely winced when the contact made the hole in his palm throb in agony.
Guilt flashed through Dust’s gaze, for just a moment, and he was quick to release his hand once they were both on their feet. “Sorry.”
Shrugging, Killer pulled his jacket back up around his elbows, pointedly avoiding the wound in his shoulder. “It’s fine,” he said. Then, smile turning somewhat wry, “Just don’t be mad if I fall asleep, okay?”
With a roll of his eyelights and a huff that was somewhere between annoyance and fondness, Dust nodded. “Alright, fine. Just this once.”
As they began to make their way down the hall, Killer walked silently alongside him, considering softly. Hesitation made him slow, but he’d need to earn his respite, and that thought was enough to spur him into action. Pausing only briefly, Killer caught Dust’s chin in his fingers and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth.
“Thanks, love,” he murmured. “Sorry about earlier.”
Face flushed a pretty purple, Dust blinked, frozen in place until Killer looped his arm around his and began to lead them down the hall again. “Yeah. No worries.”
Silently, Killer raised a hand to his chest and, ever so slightly, tucked his soul to the side, away from his lover. It thrummed uncomfortably from the contact, but, almost immediately, he felt himself ease. He choked back another laugh, letting it come out as a hum instead, and half-heartedly questioned why he felt the need to hide from someone who cared so much about his autonomy.
He questioned why, if that were the case, his autonomy was never quite enough.
Not that it mattered much, in the end.
Such curiosities were pointless and inflammatory, but there were some things Killer just needed to know. It was easier, if he knew what to expect. Boundaries could shift and wander as they needed to, and, retroactively, he was sure that he’d want it just like he was supposed to. Until then, his wants could be mutable suggestions; options to consider, or don’t.
After all, at the end of the day, a test without a correct answer meant nothing at all.
Timeline where Killer's spent so much time resetting and killing everyone that the human half of Lola's soul started shifting one of her dominant traits from kindness to determination so she'd be able to remember the resets and keep out of harm's way.
Unfortunately all this has accomplished is now Lola is very traumatized and if the past version of herself could see her, she'd be very disappointed
Oh yeah, we're going straight to hell with this one. I need to make this EXTREMELY clear- at this point, whatever their relationship is, is NOT healthy and should not be mirrored in real life. They're both terrible to each other.
Killer wants her to hurt him because he thinks he deserves it for killing everyone in the timeline over and over again as well as unintentionally dragging Lola into this mess, the resets start driving her insane too.
Lola hates that even though he clearly feels guilty he won't stop what he's doing, that he'd do it all again in a heartbeat. But hurting him isn't just an outlet for that, it makes Killer more open, more grounded because he finally feels like he's getting part of what he deserves so he's not as dissociated.
They hurt each other, most of the time Killer's happy to be hurt. Other times he slips back into dissociation and he's happy to hurt or kill her if she bugs him or gets in the way (she does, it doesn't feel as bad to hurt someone who's also fighting back).
Lola doesn't know how to feel about Killer, she craves having a close genuine connection that isn't wiped away by the resets but she's not really over the whole "he's killed my friends and me hundreds maybe thousands of times because he wanted to" thing. Killer unfortunately, still adores her. He doesn't even think she's done anything wrong. He doesn't seek any closeness because he doesn't think he deserves any of it no matter how much he misses it. They're stuck in limbo where Lola won't cross the bridge outside of building that emotional connection because Killer's far too happy to let her do whatever she wants and that's really uncomfortable.
Soooo Blaise and I have been cooking in the background. This is Bitterverse Killer's Clover.
You know, before he killed her and everyone else in his timeline.
Repeatedly.
They were silly guys who liked each other but it turns out that the existential horror of living in a timeloop and remembering it kind of fucks with your relationships with other people.
pixelskylines
romaincrisis
germansingergirl