The pixels of your screen illuminated the pitch-black bedroom.
It was a glow casted by a sad, lopsided mound of brown blocks that constituted your latest masterpiece—a dirt house built out of shee boredom.
It was past midnight on a Friday, the exact hour when your brain should have been turning off, but instead, you were mindlessly clicking away on Minecraft.
That was until BLOOP!
A notification?
You opened a tab, and checked—it was from discord.
You raised an eyebrow. You didn't particularly use discord, it was an artifact on your desktop you occasionally opened just to lurk in a server, never typing a single word before slipping away like a ghost.
Leaning back in your chair, you clicked over to the tab, your eyes narrowing at the pending friend request.
The username staring back at you was cupcakecutie.
You let out a soft laugh. The fuck kind of name is that? It wasn’t just the name—the entire profile was an aggressive assault of pastel pinks, anime e-girl aesthetics, and a sparkling banner decorated with frosted cupcakes.
It looked like a meticulously engineered trap designed to lure in lonely boys for nitro or pocket change.
You were tired, your eyes ached, and you had absolutely zero desire to entertain someone at twelve in the morning.
Your mouse hovered over the red "Decline" button, ready to bury the request into the void of the internet, when a frantic text box popped into existence at the bottom of your screen.
cupcakecutie:
haiiii !! (◍•ᴗ•◍)
plz don't decline the request :((
please plz pleas!!
The letters were practically tripping over themselves. You could almost hear the frantic clatter of fingers slamming into a mechanical keyboard on the other side of the country.
A slow eyebrow raised as you stared at the desperate plea.
Didn't this person have anything better to do than stalk random people in a bloated server?
Then again, looking at your half-finished dirt mansion, you supposed you didn’t have much of a life tonight either.
With a heavy, exhausted sigh, you tapped out a blunt—"sorry not interested."
With a click, you hit decline, closed out the Discord window entirely, and turned your attention back to digging holes in virtual dirt until your eyelids grew too heavy to fight.
When you finally dragged yourself awake the next morning, the sun was already slicing through your blinds, blinding you as you reached for your phone.
The moment your screen woke up, it didn't just light up—it practically vibrated itself out of your damn hand!
Notifications were cascading down the screen like a waterfall. Dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of pings. Every single one of them was originating from that same community Discord server.
Your stomach dropped slightly as you opened the app, finding your direct messages overflowing with messages from people you had never spoken to in your life.
The entire server seemed to have mobilized into a unified cult of advocacy.
“Why didn’t you accept the request?” one read.
“Cupcake is literally the nicest person ever, why’re you being so mean?” another demanded.
“They’re so kind and sweet and cute, you’re missing out big time, dude.”
It was a horrifying level of collective glaze.
You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, utterly bewildered. All of this over a single declined friend request?
You couldn't even keep up with the scrolling text wall. But right there, sitting stubbornly at the very top of direct messages, was a fresh notification.
Cupcakecutie had sent another friend request. Along with it came a block of text that sent a faint, uneasy shiver down your spine.
cupcakecutie:
I'm sorry, was it the eagerness?
Did it scare you off?
I'm sorry I'm sorryimsorryimsorryimsorry I want todiepleaseimsorry
You stared at the unhinged desperation bleeding through the text. Okay, now you were actually weirded out.
A part of you wanted to block the account instantly, to scrub your digital footprint clean of whatever hyper-fixation you had accidentally triggered.
But curiosity, that stubborn, foolish human trait, pulled at your fingers.
What the hell was this person's deal? Why were they targeting you, a literal nobody who never even typed in the chat?
Deciding you could always hit the block button if things got too dangerous, you finally clicked accept.
YOU:
fine. what do you want?
The response landed the exact microsecond your message registered as read, as if they had been sitting in a dark room, eyes wide and unblinking, staring at a blank chat box for hours, just waiting for a sign of life.
cupcakecutie:
HAIII !!! IM SO HAPPY YOU ACCEPTED! EEEKKKK !! IM FREAKING OUTTT!! HAI HAIHAIIIIIIHIIII!!! ⊂((・▽•))⊃ IM MIMI!! <33
You leaned back, nearly overwhelmed by the sheer energy vibrating off the text. The capitalization, the excessive emoticons, the sheer volume of characters—it was like being shouted at by a tidal wave of pink glitter.
YOU:
yes yay! now not to be rude, but why did you friend me? I'm not even online and never call so?? plus don't you think telling people to add you back is too much
It was a logical question. You were a ghost in that server. You didn't participate in game nights, you didn't post memes, and your avatar was a default letter.
There was absolutely no rational reason for anyone to notice you, let alone launch a full-scale harassment campaign to force you into a friendship.
cupcakecutie:
I'm so glad you asked! :3 it's cuz you seem so cool like the sprinkles on cupcakes!! I love your profile !! Your username is so gorgeous too!! ^^ eekkk I've been waiting to talk to you for so long I'm shaking !! I can't I'm gonna pass out !! (♡ω♡ ) ~ and I'm sorry for those guys texting you, their such assholes ! >:( they're always trying to start something it's annoying !!
You blinked at the screen.
YOU:
lol um thanks! umm yeah sorry for being kinda mean earlier I was js curious and yeah those guys texting me was pretty weird
You typed it out mostly to smooth things over, feeling a twinge of guilt for how harshly you’d rejected them the night before.
Even if they were incredibly creepy, they seemed fundamentally harmless—just an overly emotional, hyperactive kid looking for validation.
cupcakecutie:
ITS OKII !! DONT WORRY ABOUT IT NOTHING YOU COULD DO WILL GET ME MAD (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡ I WAS SO GLAD YOU EVEN RESPONDED!! IM SO HAPPY YOU WOULD TALK TO A LOSER LIKE ME :(( YOURE SO NICE, Y/N !!<33
You froze. Your fingers hovered over your keyboard, your heart taking a strange, sudden leap into your throat.
YOU:
y/n? how did you know my name? it's not in my username at all?
Your Discord handle was completely detached from your real life. There were no linked social media accounts, no status updates, nothing that could trace back to your actual identity.
The sudden appearance of your real name in the chat felt like a cold bucket of water dumped straight over your head.
cupcakecutie:
OH IM SORRY(ᗒᗩᗕ) I LOOK LIKE A CREEP DONT I?? this is gonna sound weird but I ask people in the server about you(｡•́︿•̀｡) I'm sorry ! ( ≧Д≦) PLEASE DONT BLOCK ME!
Your eyes narrowed.
You didn't even know anyone in that server well enough for them to know your real name.
It meant Mimi had actively gone digging, interrogating members, sifting through ancient chat logs, or piecing together fragments of information from months ago just to find out who you were.
It was thin-ice behavior.
YOU!
oh um okay
but at least this means we don't have to introduce ourselves !
You tried to play it cool, desperately trying to de-escalate the sudden spike of tension. But Mimi took that tiny olive branch and ran with it at breakneck speed.
cupcakecutie:
MHM!! (≧▽≦) y/n y/n y/n !! It's such a pretty name !! it's like a lullaby! But then Mimi. Mimi just sounds ugly ! :( Mimi sounds like a dumb girl who doesn't go touch grass outside :( such a loser name ! :(( BUT Y/N IS A NAME I WOULD DIE TO SCREAM OUT !! Y/N Y/N Y/N <3 I love the way it rolls off my tongue ! (｡♡‿♡｡) I'm saying it in irl too omgee I'm getting butterflies in my tummy oh my gosh I'm blushing ♡(> ਊ <)♡
The screen seemed to blur with the sheer weight of your name repeated over and over again. It was dizzying. You sat there for a long moment, staring at the screen, a nervous chuckle escaping your lips.
YOU:
this is the most I've been complimented in one hour lol thank u ! and dw Mimi is a nice name.
cupcakecutie:
if y/n says Mimi is a nice name then it's nice ! :(( but y/n is wayyy better <3 y/n y/n y/n hehe I love saying ur name !! <3 just typing it out makes me feel tingly and full (づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ
And with that, days bled into weeks, and against your better judgment, the strange routine stuck.
It was mostly because talking to Mimi required absolutely zero cognitive effort on your part.
You quickly realized that you could type a single letter, a stray punctuation mark, or a lazy "lol," and Mimi would instantly generate a multi-paragraph essay reacting to it.
It was like keeping a hyper-reactive, digital pet that viewed you as an absolute, flawless deity. Every word you typed was treated as sacred text and every casual thought you shared was dissected and praised as an act of pure intelligence.
But as the days rolled on, the weirdness began to pile up, stacking like loose bricks waiting to collapse.
Mimi loved to send photos.
The chat history became a long gallery of images—outfits, room decorations, aesthetic plates of food, and stylized mirror selfies.
But there was a glaring, consistent pattern—the face was always completely absent.
It was always obscured by a phone wrapped in a pink, ribbon-tied case, hidden behind a carefully placed oversized plushie, or cropped out entirely from the neck down.
The clothes were always baggy, soft pastels, oversized hoodies that swallowed their frame whole.
You never pushed the issue though. The internet was a dangerous place, and you figured the poor girl was just self-conscious or intensely protective of her privacy. You didn't blame her.
But then there was the way the rest of the server talked.
Occasionally, you would catch glimpses of general chat when your name was mentioned.
The users who had originally swarmed your DMs to defend Mimi were still talking about "her"—except they weren't using "her."
"Yeah, he's super cracked at that game," someone would type.
"Did you see what he posted in media?" another would reply.
He? Him? You would stare at the screen, a profound sense of confusion warping your brain.
Every time you interacted with Mimi, she used the most hyper-feminine, delicate language possible.
The emojis, the high-pitched text energy, the pink cupcake theme—it all pointed to a girl.
And when you casually slipped she/her pronouns into your conversations or talked about her like she was a girl—Mimi never corrected you. Not once.
She just hearted your message, accepted the affection, and steered the conversation back to how amazing you were.
Was Mimi a guy? Were you just losing your mind? Was the entire server playing some massive, coordinated prank on you?
And when you finally got the balls to reach out to one of the servers regulars you had seen interacting with Mimi the most—you kept the message light, hoping to mask the confusion that had been brewing in your chest for weeks.
YOU:
hey quick question, does mimi ever like... do a face reveal or anything of the sort? just curious bc we talk a lot but i've never actually seen her face lol
You waited, your fingers tapping against your desk. A few minutes passed before the typing indicator flashed.
Friend:
He did actually lol! When he first joined the server he sent a selfie. Cute isn't he??
Before your brain could fully process the pronoun, an image file popped into the chat window. You clicked it, the file loading in high resolution across your monitor.
You stopped breathing.
The person staring back at you wasn't a soft, pastel-wearing anime e-girl. The photo showed a young guy, sitting in a dimly lit gaming chair.
He had sharp, shockingly handsome features—a clean, defined jawline, dark, slightly messy hair falling effortlessly across his forehead, and eyes that looked straight into the camera with an intense, calculated focus with a pout.
That was Mimi.
A guy. Mimi was a guy.
Your mind ground to a screeching halt. The gears in your head aggressively tried to process the cognitive dissonance.
You reached up, dragging a hand down your face as you replayed the last few weeks of your life.
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Your heart was drumming a frantic, uneven rhythm against your ribs.
You felt violated, but more than that, you felt a creeping sense of dread. If he was willing to go to those lengths just to get you to talk to him, what else was he capable of?
You pulled up your direct messages with Mimi, he was already texting you.
cupcakecutie:
Y/N !!! Y/N Y/N Y/N !!! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧
guess what guess what !! i saw you were typing in the general chat earlier but then you stopped :(( did you get distracted ?? were you thinking about me ?? hehehe i was thinking about you !! i made a list of all the things we’re gonna talk about today !! look look look !!
You took a deep breath, ignoring the message as you steadied your shaking hands, and typed out a message.
YOU:
I just saw the picture you posted in the general chat when you first joined.
You hit send.
The frantic, light-speed typing you were used to was gone.
Finally, a message popped up.
cupcakecutie:
Oh.
YOU:
you're a guy?
why did you lie to me?
why have you been pretending to be some e-girl for weeks?
what the fuck is wrong with you?
cupcakecutie:
i didnt lie :(( I told you my name was mimi! and you said it was a cute name, remember? you said it was cute, y/n.
YOU:
Stop acting like that. You actively let me believe you were a girl. You acted like a totally different person. The entire server uses he/him for you, and you just went along with me thinking you were some weird girl. Why didn't you just correct me?
cupcakecutie:
because you wouldnt have talked to me otherwise. ⊂(・﹏・⊂) you hate guys who act tough. I saw your messages in that other server you were in last year. you said you hated arrogant guys. i just wanted you to like me so much and everyone knows guys on the internet are mean and gross and you wouldn’t want to talk to a boy would you ?? you liked mimi !! you said mimi was cute ! you just want someone sweet right? so I became sweet for you! im sweet, aren't i? im the sweetest thing you've ever had. I can be whatever you want me to be.
Your blood ran cold. The other server you were in last year. You hadn't been in that server for over eight months. It was a completely different community, one you had left because it got too toxic.
How did he know about that? How long had he been watching you?
YOU:
Are you fucking stalking me?
cupcakecutie:
stalking is an ugly word y/n :(( it implies malicious intent! I dont have any malicious intent. I just love you. I love you so much it makes my chest hurt and my hands shake. I love everything about you. I just wanted you to be mine. I knew if I acted like a sad, desperate little girl, you’d eventually feel bad enough to talk to me. and I was right! :33 you talked to me for weeks. you told me about your day. you said goodnight to me. you belong to me now, y/n. we put in the time. we did the talking.
The sheer delusion in his words made your stomach churn.
Suddenly, your discord client chimed loudly. A loud, intrusive ringing sound filled your room.
cupcakecutie is calling you.
You stared at the incoming call screen. The pink banner with the cupcakes seemed to taunt you.
Your instinct was to decline it, to block him, to delete your account, and throw your PC out the window.
But a morbid, terrifying curiosity paralyzed you. You needed to hear his voice. You needed to know exactly what kind of monster you had been entertaining for the past month.
With a trembling finger, you clicked the green 'Accept' button.
The ringing stopped. For a moment, there was only the faint hiss of static, the heavy, digital silence connecting your room to his. You held your breath.
"You're actually there."
The voice that came through your headset sent a violent shiver down your spine.
It was nothing like the high-pitched, squeaky voice you had subconsciously assigned to him. It was deep. It was the kind of voice that commanded attention, the kind of voice that belonged to the ridiculously handsome face in that picture.
"Y/N," he breathed, the sound of your name rolling off his tongue with a terrifying reverence.
"God, you actually answered. I was so scared you were going to block me. If you blocked me, I would have had to do something drastic. I really didn't want to have to come over there tonight."
"Come over... what?" you choked out, your voice sounding small and weak in comparison to his heavy presence. "You don't know where I live."
A low, soft chuckle echoed through your headphones. It was a warm, pleasant sound that completely contrasted with the absolute horror of his words.
"Oh, my sweet, perfect Y/N. You live in the complex on 4th and Elm. Apartment 3B, right? Second floor. I bought a train ticket two weeks ago just so I could walk past it."
The oxygen vanished from your room. You were suffocating. The walls were closing in.
"Why are you doing this?" you whispered, your voice breaking.
"Because you're pure," his voice darkened, the playful edge vanishing, replaced by a raw, manic intensity.
"You're everything I've ever wanted. Is that so bad? You push guys away. You put up walls. But a girl? A sad, lonely, pathetic little girl who just wants a friend? You wouldn't turn her away. You're too nice, Y/N. You have such a soft heart. I just had to exploit it a little bit to get my foot in the door."
"You're psychotic," you breathed out.
"I'm dedicated! " he chirped, his tone shifting abruptly back to the bubbly "Mimi" persona.
"I worked so hard, Y/N! I spent hours perfecting the right amount of 'annoying' and 'endearing'. I had to threaten three of the server mods to make sure they pushed you to accept my request! I did all of that just for you! Because I knew once you talked to me, you'd realize how much we belong together!"
"We don't belong together! I don't even know you!"
"You know me, Y/N. I am Mimi. The only thing I lied about was what was in my pants, and honestly, you're going to like this version of me so much better," he purred, the deep bass of his voice rattling against your eardrums.
"I can protect you. I can give you everything you want. You don't have to worry about anything ever again. I'm going to spoil you rotten. Just like you thought I wanted!"
"I'm blocking you," you said, your hand moving frantically toward your mouse. "I'm blocking you, I'm calling the police, your fucking crazy!"
"If you block me," Mimi's voice dropped to a terrifying whisper, stripping away all the sweetness, leaving only a cold, hard promise, "I will be at your door in ten minutes. I am currently sitting in my car, three blocks down from your street. I have your spare key that you hide under the fake rock by the stairwell. If you hang up this call, I'm coming inside."
You froze. Your hand hovered over the mouse. He knew about the fake rock. You felt sick to your stomach.
"Good," he cooed softly, sensing your hesitation through the silence. "Just leave the call on, baby. Leave it on. Keep listening to my voice. You're doing so well, so fuckin' cute."
"Please," you begged, tears welling up in your eyes. "Please just leave me alone."
"Never," he replied, and you could practically hear the deranged smile on his face.
"You're mine now, Y/N. You accepted the friend request. You can't take it back. We're going to be best friends forever and ever! And parters! And everything else! I'm going to take such good care of you. I'm going to make you forget about everyone else in the world. It’ll just be you, and your cute little Mimi."
A soft, digital beep echoed through the headset as he unmuted his video camera.
There he was. He was sitting in the driver's seat of a car, the streetlights outside casting long, moving shadows across his handsome face.
He looked breathtakingly gorgeous, and utterly, completely insane.
He lifted a hand to the camera and offered a tiny, cute wave, his eyes wide and dark, locking onto yours through the lens.
"Hii, Y/N," he whispered, his deep voice wrapping around you like a physical chain. " I'm coming over now. Unlock the door for me, okay? I bought cupcakes, our favorite."
please be careful on discord guys esp with dudes lol I feel like discord is a very scary place so make sure to stay safe on there ! but yah meet Mimi y'all aka the fraud who larps as a girl to get you 🙄🙄
The apocalypse completely devastated the rest of civilization, but for your relationship, it just turned your boyfriend into a slightly more unhinged, heavily attached house pet. When he first turned, you thought it was the end until you realized that the virus completely failed to overwrite his obsession with you. His brain might be ninety percent decayed, and he can’t speak coherent sentences anymore, but his territorial instincts are operating at a terrifying 110% capacity. He doesn't want to eat your brains; he wants to aggressively cuddle you in the middle of a ruined supermarket while low-level growling at the passing horde outside the glass.
Yandere!Zombie has a deeply endearing, slightly disgusting way of bringing you "gifts" to show his affection. Because his cognitive functions are entirely warped by the outbreak, he doesn't understand that you can’t use a rusted car engine part, a half-chewed designer shoe, or a shiny piece of broken glass he found in a ditch. He will trudge into your makeshift safehouse at 3:00 AM, covered in dust, and proudly drop a literal waterlogged, moss-covered teddy bear onto your lap, tilting his head and letting out a soft, rattling huff from his chest while waiting for you to pat his head. If you praise him and tuck the gross toy into your backpack, he’ll let out a wet, raspy purr that sounds like a broken garbage disposal, completely ecstatic that he pleased his favorite human.
Yandere!Zombie protective instincts are absolutely terrifying because he has zero self-preservation left. If a group of armed scavengers or raiders tries to corner you to steal your supplies, your zombie boyfriend will instantly drop his slow, clumsy facade. He will sprint forward with supernatural, adrenaline-fueled speed, tackling the threat with a feral, bone-snapping violence that leaves the entire area looking like a horror movie scene. He doesn't care if he takes a bullet to the shoulder or gets stabbed he doesn't feel pain anyway. The second the threat is completely neutralized, his bloody, snarling face will instantly soften. He’ll turn around, tilt his head, and clumsily stumble back to your side, whining like a scolded puppy until you wipe the grime off his cheek.
Yandere!Zombie handles your human survival needs with a clumsy, suffocating level of micromanagement. He knows that you need to eat "the soft box food" to stay alive, so he will literally use his massive zombie strength to rip the steel security shutters off a locked convenience store just so you can walk inside and collect canned peaches. While you’re gathering supplies, he will walk right behind you, his cold, gray hand resting firmly on the small of your back to steer you away from any broken glass or dark corners. He treats you like a priceless, fragile antique that might shatter if he lets go for even a single second.
The most chaotic part of your dynamic is how Yandere!Zombie interacts with the other infected. Because he smells like a corpse, the other zombies usually ignore him but the second they try to wander too close to you, he turns into a total nightmare. He will literally physically throw himself in front of you, baring his decaying teeth and letting out a deep, echoing roar that asserts total dominance over the area. He has effectively conditioned the local zombie population to treat you like a radioactive zone; the horde will literally part around you in a wide, terrified circle whenever you walk down the street, entirely because they know the terrifyingly aggressive ghall holding your hand will rip them to pieces if they even look in your direction.
Ultimately, your life in the wasteland is a bizarrely comfortable, post-apocalyptic fairy tale. You are navigating the ruins of human civilization with a partner who is legally dead, completely unhinged, and entirely consumed by your existence. When you settle down for the night in an abandoned apartment, Yandere!Zombie will carefully pull your warm body against his cold, silent chest, wrapping his heavy arms around you like a protective human shield. He doesn’t have a heartbeat anymore, but as he rests his forehead against yours, letting out a long, contented sigh of rot and devotion, you realize that not even the end of the world could figure out a way to make him leave you behind.
Setting up a makeshift laboratory in the basement of an abandoned university science building is a nightmare, but managing your undead research assistant makes it absolute comedy. Yandere!Zombie has zero understanding of microbiology, virology, or why you’re staring through a microscope for eighteen hours a day, but he understands that this room is where you stay. While you’re frantically mixing chemicals and analyzing blood stability, he will sit flat on the concrete floor right next to your stool, his heavy, cold head resting directly against your thigh. If you accidentally drop a glass pipette or let out a frustrated, exhausted sob over a failed synthesis, he will instantly bolt upright, letting out a protective growl at the empty room before clumsily wrapping his massive arms around your waist to drag you onto his lap, entirely convinced the microscope is actively attacking your peace of mind.
Yandere!Zombie treats your highly sterile scientific environment with a terrifying lack of biochemical etiquette. He knows you need "the shiny glass tubes" to do your work, so he tries to help by scavenging for them in other wings of the hospital. He’ll stumble into your lab at sunrise, proudly holding a hazardous waste container or a random piece of an MRI machine over his head like a trophy, his face covered in ceiling tile dust. When you gently explain to him that a rusted dentist's drill isn't going to isolate the pathogen, he’ll let out a deeply offended, wet huff, crossing his gray arms and sitting in the corner like a scolded toddler until you go over and pat his messy hair.
Drawing his blood for chemical testing is an absolute circus. Because his survival instincts are completely gone, Yandere!Zombie doesn't care about the needle, but he deeply dislikes the fact that the tourniquet forces you to stop holding his hand for three minutes. The second you insert the syringe to pull a sample of his infected marrow, he won't even flinch, and instead he’ll use his free, decaying hand to clumsily play with your safety goggles, bopping the plastic frames and letting out a soft, rattling gurgle from his chest because he thinks you look incredibly cute in your lab coat. If you try to tell him to hold still, he’ll just lean forward and clumsily press his freezing forehead against your cheek, completely sabotaging your sterilization protocols with pure, unadulterated affection.
Yandere!Zombie has a deeply unhinged, territorial policy regarding your test subjects. To find a cure, you eventually have to trap a few low-level, regular zombies in reinforced steel cages at the back of the basement to test your experimental serum variants. Your boyfriend completely hates them. He views those caged infected not as scientific data, but as gross, uncultured peasants who dare to look at his favorite human. Whenever you walk near the cages with a clipboard, he will aggressively march right in front of you, slamming his massive fists against the iron bars and letting out an echoing, chest-vibrating roar that makes the test subjects completely cower in the corner of their cells. "H-Huhnnn," he’ll snap darkly at them, baring his teeth until you pull him back by his collar. "Shhh, leave them alone, they're for science," you’ll sigh, while he just grumbles, wrapping his arms tightly around your neck from behind to shield you from their dead eyes.
The ultimate reality of your research is that his instincts are actively fighting against the very concept of being cured. His decayed brain has associated his zombie state with total, unrestricted freedom to smother you 24/7. He doesn't have to go to work, he doesn't have to share you with society, and he can legally rip the throat out of anyone who looks at you wrong. On the day you finally synthesize a stable prototype serum and hold the glowing vial up to the light, he looks at the medicine with a look of pure, ancient suspicion. He knows that if he turns human again, the rules come back. When you turn around to face him, he will gently but firmly wrap his cold fingers around your wrist, tilting his head with a raw, pathetic whine, looking from the needle to your eyes as if begging you not to change the perfect, lawless paradise he built for you in the ruins.
Yandere Jason Todd x Soulmate Reader (Smut Warning: masterbation, receiving head)
Everyone had a soulmate.
It was one of those universal truths humanity had long since stopped questioning.
The sun rose in the east, gravity kept your feet on the ground, somewhere in the world, there was a person who belonged to you.
The universe simply created pairs. Two souls cut from the same impossible pattern. Destined to find one another if fate happened to be feeling generous.
Nobody knew why it happened.
Scientists had spent decades studying soulmate bonds. Religions had rewritten entire doctrines around them. Philosophers had built careers debating whether soulmates were proof of destiny or merely another law of nature. In the end, nobody had found an answer.
Soulmates simply existed.
Most people never even met theirs.
The world was too large, too crowded. Complicated.
But that never stopped people from dreaming.
The soulmate industry alone was worth billions.
Dating shows dedicated entire seasons to soulmate reunions, news stations regularly featured couples finding one another after decades apart, every bookstore had shelves dedicated to soul bonded stories.
People loved soulmates.
Loved the idea that somewhere out there existed a person made specifically for them.
↑←↓→
The most common bond was pain resonance.
One soulmate scraped their knee, the other felt sting. One broke a bone, the other suffered for it too.
Entire support groups existed for those unfortunate enough to be paired with athletes, construction workers, and adrenaline junkies.
Other bonds were rarer.
Dreamers could meet one another in sleep.
Some soulmates heard each other’s thoughts.
Others carried first words on their skin.
There were even people who saw flashes of each other’s lives through mirrors.
Every bond was different. Every bond was special.
Yours was a mark.
A simple symbol resting against your hip.
You’d spent most of your childhood believing it was a birthmark.
It resembled a bird frozen mid-flight. Two elegant wings spread wide across the dip in your skin.
When you were younger, you’d trace it absent-mindedly after baths, wondering why it looked so different from everyone else’s.
Your mother had laughed when you asked. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”
At six years old, that answer had been deeply unsatisfying.
At ten, you’d become convinced your soulmate was secretly an angel.
At eleven, you’d grown embarrassed by the entire theory.
At fifteen..
The mark disappeared.
Not faded. Not lightened. Disappeared.
You remembered staring at your reflection for nearly an hour.
The skin was smooth. Unmarked. Empty.
The shape that had existed your entire life was simply gone.
Nobody knew what that meant.
There were stories, of course. There were always stories.
Old forums. Urban legends. Half-remembered articles. A bond breaking. The universe making mistakes.
None of them were verified. None of them made sense.
You tried not to think about it. ‘Tried’ being the important word.
Because something else happened that day. Something far worse.
You woke up feeling wrong.
Not sick. Or injured.
Wrong.
Like someone had reached inside your chest and scooped out everything that made you feel human.
Getting out of bed felt impossible. Breathing felt exhausting. Your limbs weighed twice what they should. Food tasted like nothing, and music sounded distant.
Your parents took you to a hospital.
The doctors couldn’t find anything. Blood tests came back normal. Brain scans came back normal. Everything came back normal.
And yet it felt as though something sharp had carved straight through the center of you and left a hollow space behind.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
The feeling never truly left.
It might have dulled. Became manageable. But every morning you woke with the same strange emptiness sitting beneath your ribs, like grief.
Except you weren’t grieving anyone.
You couldn’t. You hadn’t lost anything.
Had you?
Six months later, the mark returned.
You found it after stepping out of the shower. For several seconds, you simply stared.
Because it was there.
Those familiar wings.
The soul mark, back where it belonged.
Except.. It wasn’t exactly the same. The shape had changed. Only slightly, but enough that you almost missed it.
The elegant curve of the wings remained. But now thin fractures cut through the design, like cracks spreading through glass. Like something had shattered and been forced back together.
The mark looked older. Wounded. Broken and repaired.
You remembered touching it with trembling fingers. Remembered the overwhelming relief that nearly brought tears to your eyes.
Your soulmate was alive.
That was the only explanation that mattered.
Alive.
Somewhere.
Breathing beneath the same sky. Walking the same earth. Waiting.
The thought stayed with you through every year that followed.
Even after moving to Gotham. After learning just how cruel fate could be. Even then, some stubborn part of you couldn’t help believing.
Because soulmates were supposed to be the one good thing the universe gave people. The one person who would understand you completely. Who would never hurt you. Who would always choose you.
You didn’t know it yet, but somewhere in Gotham, your soulmate looked at the matching mark on his own body and believed exactly the same thing.
Moving to Gotham had taught you two things very quickly.
The first was that every story people told about the city was true.
The second was that nobody ever told the whole story.
The news focused on the murders. The riots. The Arkham breakouts. The masked lunatics who seemed determined to turn every holiday into a hostage situation. Every article painted Gotham as a city perpetually teetering on the edge of collapse.
What they didn’t talk about were the people.
The old woman who ran the corner store and slipped free candy to local kids when she thought nobody was looking. The mechanic who fixed single mothers’ cars for half price. The teenagers who organised food drives after winter storms. The apartment residents who pooled money together whenever somebody fell behind on rent.
Gotham survived because the people refused to die with it.
Your apartment building was no different.
The first person to welcome you was Arthur.
Arthur lived next door and seemed to possess the unique ability to start conversations with absolutely anyone. Within twenty-four hours of moving in, you’d learned about his late wife, his chronic dislike of modern television, and the fact that he’d somehow managed to get banned from three separate community centers over the course of his seventy-three years.
You still weren’t entirely sure whether that last story had been a joke.
The retired soldiers upstairs adopted you shortly afterwards. Every evening they gathered on the rooftop with cheap coffee and folding chairs, spending hours arguing over topics nobody else cared about. Weather patterns. Baseball statistics. Whether Gotham’s pizza quality had declined over the past decade.
According to them, it had.
The children living on the lower floors were worse.
Far worse.
Because children had an alarming ability to decide they liked someone and then never leave them alone again.
You made the mistake of helping one of them carry a backpack. That was all it took.
Within a week they knew your schedule, your favorite snacks, and which apartment belonged to you.
You’d accepted your fate shortly after.
The women above you remained unpleasant.
Some people simply seemed determined to be unhappy.
You’d received two separate complaints because your television had apparently been “too loud.”
You didn’t own a television.
The rest of the building ignored them. It was easier.
Then there was Jason Todd.
At first, Jason seemed normal enough. A little intimidating, maybe.
He was a large man. Not merely tall but solid in a way that suggested years of hard living rather than careful gym routines. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of most shirts. Old scars disappeared beneath his collar and reappeared across his knuckles. There was a heaviness to him sometimes, filled with tension that never seemed to fully leave his body.
You’d caught glimpses of it occasionally.
The way he favored his left leg. The faint stiffness in his shoulders. The exhausted shadows beneath his eyes. Like someone who carried more weight than they knew what to do with.
Still, he was polite. Helpful. Generally liked by everyone in the building.
Arthur adored him. The children followed him around like ducklings. Even the veterans upstairs occasionally invited him to join their rooftop arguments.
Jason never stayed long, vut he always listened.
There was something strangely lonely about him. Not that you thought about it much.. At least not initially.
The first real conversation you’d had happened three weeks after moving in.
Arthur’s front door had jammed. Again.
The old man was muttering increasingly creative insults toward the lock when you’d returned from work.
Being a decent person, you’d offered assistance.
Being Gotham property, the door immediately declared war.
You eventually managed to force the stubborn thing open by bracing yourself against the frame and reaching up on you tippy toes for leverage.
The door finally gave way with a loud crack.
Arthur nearly fell backward.
You nearly fell forward.
And somewhere behind you, a man forgot how to breathe.
You never noticed.
Never noticed the apartment door opening across the hallway. Or blue-green eyes locking onto the sliver of skin exposed above your waistband. To the soulmate mark. The familiar black wings. The fractured lines running through them.
Jason did.
For one terrible second the world stopped. The hallway vanished. Arthur vanished. The city vanished. All that remained was the mark. His mark.
The same impossible shape he’d stared at in mirrors since childhood.
You.
The realisation hit harder than any bullet ever had.
You.
His soulmate.
Living directly across the hall. Close enough to hear through the walls. Close enough to touch. Close enough to lose.
The thought followed immediately after. Unwanted. Bloody terrifying.
Jason hated it.
Because suddenly every nightmare he’d ever had felt possible.
You could leave. You could move. You could disappear. You could die.
The Pit had returned his life, but it had never given him peace.
Now the universe had handed him something precious and expected him not to panic.
As if that had ever been one of Jason Todd’s strengths.
By the time you straightened, your shirt had fallen back into place. The mark vanished. The moment ended.
Nobody seemed to notice anything had happened. Nobody except Jason.
After that, things became strange.
Not immediately.
Jason tried very hard for them not to. He told himself he would act normal.
Normal neighbors talked. Normal neighbors said hello. Normal neighbors occasionally helped carry groceries. There was absolutely nothing strange about any of that.
The problem was that Jason had absolutely no idea what normal looked like anymore.
So he started noticing things.
You always carried exact change for the vending machines downstairs. You preferred reading digitally to hard books. You bought the same coffee every Tuesday morning. You tapped your fingers whenever you were concentrating. You hummed under your breath while checking your mail. Tiny things. Meaningless things. The kind of details most people forgot. Jason remembered all of them.
Which became increasingly difficult to explain.
You’d mention something once and he’d bring it up weeks later. You’d complain about work and somehow he’d remember every coworker’s name. You’d mention being tired and he’d somehow know exactly when your schedule changed.
The worst part was that none of it seemed intentional. Jason genuinely looked confused whenever you stared at him suspiciously.
As though he couldn’t understand why remembering things about you would be considered unusual.
Then one evening you discovered his weakness. Or perhaps he discovered yours.
You were checking the mail when he wandered into the lobby carrying a grocery bag.
“Red Hood got into another fight with Penguin’s people last night.”
You looked up immediately. The reaction was automatic.
Jason saw it.
The slight shift in posture. The sudden attention. The way your eyes actually focused on him for once.
A slow smile tugged at his mouth. “Oh,” he said. “So that’s the secret.”
You narrowed your eyes. “What secret?”
“The only way to get you to willingly hold a conversation.”
You scoffed, but you didn’t walk away.
Jason noticed that too.
Unfortunately.
From that day onward, discussions about Red Hood became alarmingly common.
You should have found it strange.
Most civilians didn’t spend this much time discussing vigilantes.
Jason always had opinions. Always had arguments. Information.
Somehow.
The conversations became routine. Comfortable, even.
And occasionally, very rarely, Jason would laugh. Not the dry, sarcastic thing he usually did. Not the sharp bark of amusement he used around strangers. A real laugh. Unexpected and bright.
For just a second it stripped years from him.
You’d catch a glimpse of someone younger beneath the scars and exhaustion. Someone who looked like they should have existed a long time ago.
Then it would disappear.
The walls would go back up. The tiredness would return.
And Jason Todd would once again look like a man carrying the weight of something nobody else could see.
You never understood why those moments stayed with you.
Across the hallway, Jason understood perfectly.
Because every time you smiled at one of them, he spent the rest of the day thinking about it.
You’d simply made the mistake of staying late at work and taking a shortcut home.
The Narrows looked different after dark.
The streets became quieter. The crowds thinned. Storefront lights reflected off rain-slick pavement while distant sirens echoed between buildings.
Most nights nothing happened.
Unfortunately, Gotham’s definition of “most” left a lot to be desired.
You were halfway down an alley when the shouting started.
Three men. Maybe four.
Members of the False Face Society if the masks were anything to go by.
They’d cornered somebody further ahead.
A teenager. Couldn’t have been older than sixteen.
The kid looked terrified.
One of the men shoved him hard enough that he nearly hit the ground. The others laughed.
You stopped.
For one stupid second, you actually considered intervening.
Then common sense returned.
You weren’t a vigilante. You weren’t bulletproof. You were just some idiot trying to get home.
You reached for your phone instead.
A mistake.
The screen lit up.
One of the masked men noticed. His head turned.
Your stomach dropped.
“Hey.” Suddenly four pairs of eyes were looking at you.
The teenager ran. Nobody stopped him. Because now their attention had shifted elsewhere. To you.
There was a very specific kind of fear that only this city could produce. The kind that arrived all at once. Immediate & primal. You felt it settle deep into your bones as one of the men stepped forward.
The alley suddenly felt much smaller.
Your fingers tightened around your phone.
Someone laughed.
Someone else told you to relax.
You took a step backward. Calculating escape routes. The odds. All of them terrible.
One of the men reached for you, and a gunshot cracked through the night.
Everything stopped. The sound echoed between brick walls. A flock of birds exploded from a nearby rooftop.
Silence followed.
Then a body hit the ground hard.
The man who’d been reaching for you collapsed unconscious. The others barely had time to react.
A dark figure dropped from above. Fast. Violent.
The first criminal went down immediately. The second lasted perhaps three seconds longer. The third tried running.
That mistake earned him a boot to the chest powerful enough to send him crashing into a dumpster.
The entire fight ended in under thirty seconds.
You’d seen videos before. Hell, everybody had.
Footage online. Security recordings. News broadcasts. None of them captured the reality of it. The sheer speed. The overwhelming physicality.
The way Red Hood moved like someone who had spent years surviving things most people couldn’t imagine.
When the final criminal hit the pavement, silence settled once more.
The vigilante straightened. The red helmet reflected nearby streetlights. Smoke curled from the barrel of a pistol.
For a moment, nobody moved. Then he turned toward you.
Your heart immediately forgot how to function.
Because it was him.
Not a photograph or old news report. Not some distant figure standing on a rooftop.
Red-fucking-Hood.
Close enough to touch. Close enough to hear breathing through the modulator.
You’d spent years reading articles. Watching footage. Defending him during arguments. None of that had prepared you.
“You’re bleeding.” The voice emerged distorted through the helmet.
Only then did you notice the sting.
Your arm.
One of the men must have grabbed you harder than you’d realised.
A shallow cut. Nothing serious.
Before you could answer, Red Hood stepped forward. His gloved hand closed around your wrist to inspect the injury.
You’d think about the touch for months.
“You’re fine.” The words sounded almost disappointed. As though he’d expected worse.
Then his attention shifted.
Already elsewhere.
Already moving.
A woman further down the street was crying. The teenager from earlier had apparently found police.
Somewhere in the distance another fight was breaking out.
Red Hood released your arm.
And just like that, the moment ended.
No dramatic goodbye. No lingering conversation. No special attention. No acknowledgement that you existed beyond confirming you weren’t seriously injured. He was already walking away. Already focused on somebody else.
Because the night never stopped needing him.
You stood there watching until he disappeared.
Continued to long after there was nothing left to see.
The obsession that followed was embarrassing. Truly embarrassing. You knew it. The rational part of your brain knew it. Unfortunately, the rational part had very little authority.
For the next week, every thought somehow led back to the Vigilante.
You replayed the encounter endlessly. The sound of his voice, the weight of his hand around your wrist, the effortless way he’d dismantled four armed criminals, and the fact that he’d barely even looked at you.
Arthur listened to your retelling twice before banning the topic entirely.
Eventually life moved on.
Work remained work. Bills remained bills. The city continued spinning. The memory dulled. Not vanished. Just settled into a quieter place. Something pleasant to revisit whenever your thoughts wandered.
Then two weeks later Gotham exploded.
Not literally for once.
The headline appeared online first. Then newspapers. Then on every Gothamites TV. Then every social media platform in existence.
RED HOOD’S SOULMATE? EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS SPARK CITY-WIDE DEBATE
You nearly dropped your phone.
The article contained several photographs from a confrontation between Red Hood and Black Mask’s men.
Most were blurry. Poorly timed. Worthless.
One wasn’t.
The image had captured him mid-fight. Armor damaged. The side of his tactical jacket torn open. And there, visible for the entire world to see, was a soulmate mark.
You forgot how to breathe.
The photograph filled your screen, the shape unmistakable.
Black wings. Thin lightning-like fractures running through the design. Like shattered glass repaired imperfectly. Exactly like yours.
Exactly.
The article itself became meaningless.
You couldn’t read it. Couldn’t focus. Couldn’t fucking think.
That was Your mark.
For a long time, you simply stared.
Then slowly, almost disbelievingly, your hand drifted toward your hip. Toward the soulmark hidden beneath your clothes. To the wings you’d carried your entire life.
The same wings currently displayed across every news station in Gotham.
Your soulmate.
The realisation felt surreal. Terrifying.
.. Wonderful.
Somewhere beneath the panic, excitement bloomed. Warm. Impossible to suppress.
Because after years of wondering, desperately hoping, of believing your soulmate existed somewhere beyond reach, you finally knew.
And unfortunately for your future peace of mind,
Your soulmate was Red Hood.
You groaned, dropping your face into your hands. This was ridiculous.
You'd exchanged approximately six words. Six.
You didn't know his favorite colour. Didn't know his age. Didn't know what music he liked. You didn't even know what his face looked like.
Yet your heart had apparently decided none of those details were particularly important.
A knock sounded against your apartment door.
You nearly jumped.
The article disappeared from your screen immediately. As though hiding it somehow made you less embarrassing.
The knocking came again, four sharp taps.
You already knew who it was. Nobody else knocked like that.
Opening the door revealed Jason standing in the hallway. A grocery bag hung from one hand.
His expression was unreadable. Tired. More so than usual.
You frowned immediately. "Jesus."
Jason blinked. "What?"
"You look awful."
A strange look crossed his face. Gone before you could properly identify it.
Then he scoffed quietly. "Thanks."
"You know what I mean."
"Do I?"
"You look like you haven't slept."
Something flickered in his eyes.
For a moment his gaze shifted past you. Into your apartment. Toward the phone still sitting on the kitchen counter. Then back again. "You hear the news?"
You stared.
Jason stared back.
Neither of you said anything.
Then simultaneously: "Red Hood." The words left both of your mouths at the same time.
Jason rubbed a hand across his face.
You pointed accusingly. "See? This is exactly what I'm talking about."
"What?"
"You are weird."
His eyebrows lifted. "You brought him up too."
"That's different."
"It literally isn't."
"It is."
Jason looked seconds away from arguing.
Then something changed.
The fight left him. His shoulders sagged slightly, exhaustion settled across his features. The expression aged him. Like someone carrying old wounds nobody else could see.
You suddenly remembered all those nights hearing his apartment door open at absurd hours. The bruises he occasionally showed up with. The limp. The scars. The perpetual exhaustion.
For the first time, a thought occurred to you.
Jason always looked like he was surviving something.
You weren't entirely sure what. Only that the feeling never really left.
"You okay?"
The question slipped out before you could stop it.
Jason froze.
You immediately regretted asking.
Not because it was rude, but cause of the look he gave you. Caught completely off guard. As though nobody had asked him that in a very long time.
Then he smiled. Small, genuine, and unexpectedly soft.
"Yeah," Jason said quietly. "Yeah.. I'm okay." The smile lingered. Just for a moment.
Then the walls returned. And suddenly he was Jason again.
Your strange neighbor.
The man who remembered everything. The man who somehow always appeared at exactly the wrong moment. The man standing in front of you while your soulmate's photograph sat open on your kitchen counter.
Jason shifted the grocery bag toward you. "Arthur asked me to bring these over."
You accepted it automatically. "Thanks."
"No problem."
His gaze raked over you for a moment longer, jaw clenching as he holds back from speaking up again.
Then he stepped backwards. Retreating towards his own apartment.
His gaze lingered on you for a fraction too long, almost imperceptible. The sort of thing most people wouldn't notice.
You did.
You always did.
Weirdo. The thought followed you as he disappeared across the hallway.
The door shut behind him.
A minute later you reopened the article, the familiar photograph greeted you immediately.
The wings.
The impossible certainty.
Your soulmate.
Across the hall, Jason sat alone on his couch staring at the exact same photograph.
Only his reasons were very different.
Because while Gotham was busy trying to discover the identity of Red Hood's soulmate, Jason already knew.
And for the first time since finding you, the rest of the world was looking too.
The grocery run had been an excuse.
Arthur had asked him to bring the bag over, Jason had just.. volunteered before the old man finished speaking.
An increasingly common occurrence these days.
His gaze remained fixed on the wall separating your apartments.
Thin drywall. Cheap insulation. A handful of feet. That was all. You were right there. Close enough that he could hear the occasional creak of floorboards. Close enough that he sometimes caught the muffled sound of whatever new show you were half-watching on your laptop through the wall. Close enough to know exactly when you got home from work.
Jason dragged a hand across his face. Exhaustion settled heavily behind his eyes.
He hadn’t slept. Not really. The article had been published thirty-six hours ago.
Since then he’d spent every waking moment putting out fires.
Some literal, some not.
The Bats had questions. Villains had questions. Reporters had questions.
The entire city suddenly seemed obsessed with the possibility of Red Hood having a soulmate.
As though the revelation somehow made him easier to understand. Like a soulmate transformed him into something less dangerous.
Idiots.
Jason leaned back against the couch.
His apartment was dark. Quiet. The television remained muted. Half a dozen news articles sat open across his laptop screen. Every one of them made him angrier.
Relationship experts discussing his future. Psychologists debating soulmate bonds. Random strangers speculating about the identity of someone they’d never met.
Your identity.
His jaw tightened.
One article had suggested that Red Hood’s soulmate was probably safer remaining anonymous.
Another had argued the opposite.
Apparently Gotham had collectively decided that your existence was public property now.
The thought made something ugly twist in his chest. Fear.
Jason hated admitting it. Even to himself. Especially to himself.
Fear was harder to fight than anger.
Anger was simple. Useful. Anger could be aimed at something.
Fear just sat there. Growing.
The photograph appeared on his laptop screen again.
The damaged armor. The exposed mark. His mistake. A stupid one.
He should have replaced the plating weeks earlier. Should have noticed the weakness. Should have-
The self-recrimination stopped.
It was pointless.
The picture existed. The damage was done.
Jason’s gaze drifted toward the opposite wall. Toward your apartment.
The memory of your soulmark surfaced immediately.
Arthur’s door.
The glimpse of skin.
The feeling that had followed.
For years he had imagined meeting his soulmate.
Not often. Not even consciously. But sometimes. Late at night, during patrol. On anniversaries he’d rather forget.
He’d wondered whether they were alive. Whether they were happy. If they hated Gotham.
.. if they thought about him too.
Mostly though, he’d thought about how they deserved better.
Jason Todd wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what he was.
A resurrected crime lord with anger issues.
A vigilante who carried guns.
A man stitched together with skin he no longer recognised as his own.
Not exactly soulmate material.
Then he’d met you.
And somehow everything had become worse.
Because now you weren’t hypothetical. You were real.
You smiled at Arthur’s stories. You carried extra snacks for the kids downstairs. You argued passionately about things you cared about. You made faces while reading articles on your phone. You laughed with your whole body. You existed.
And Jason had become terrifyingly aware of how fragile that made you.
Not because you were weak, but because Gotham wasn’t fair.
Good people died here every day. Disappeared. Became leverage. Targets. Victims. The city took things.
That was what Gotham did.
A sharp knock interrupted the silence.
Jason’s head lifted instantly.
The pistol hidden beneath the coffee table was in his hand before the second knock arrived.
Old habits.
The peephole revealed a familiar face.
Dick.
Jason opened the door. “What?”
Dick took one look at him. Winced. “You look terrible.”
“Get out.”
“Bruce sent me.”
“Tell him I said no.”
“You don’t know what he asked yet.”
“I don’t need to.”
Dick sighed heavily, stepping inside anyway.
Jason considered throwing him back into the hallway.
“You’ve seen the articles.”
Jason barked out a humorless laugh. “Hard to miss.”
Dick studied him carefully.
Years of experience had taught the younger brother that particular look usually preceded unwanted emotional conversations.
Sure enough, “are they okay?”
Jason froze. The room suddenly felt very still.
Dick’s expression softened. There was no judgment there. No accusation. Just concern.
Which somehow made it worse. Because Dick already knew the answer. The family had figured it out months ago.
Jason hadn’t told them. He hadn’t needed to.
The Batcomputer had eventually connected enough dots.
They knew.
Not your name. Not where you lived. Not who you were. But they knew Jason had found you. And they knew he hadn’t introduced himself.
“..They’re fine.”
Dick waited.
Jason hated when he did that. Just sat there patiently until people talked. An infuriating habit. “They’re safe.”
Another pause.
“…Jason.” The warning sat unspoken between them.
Jason looked away first. His gaze drifted toward the apartment wall. Toward the space beyond it. Toward you.
Completely unaware of the storm currently gathering around your existence.
His grip tightened around the edge of the couch. Barely noticeable.
He wasn’t like Dick. Didn’t gush over his mate like they made stars. He kept them close, private.
To himself.
But he was beginning to realise that may not be enough anymore.
Jason swallowed hard. Then finally said the thing neither of them wanted to acknowledge.
“The whole city’s looking now.”
Silence followed. Heavy. Understanding.
Jason Todd had never trusted Gotham with things he cared about, so he wasn’t about to start now.
Sleep proved impossible.
You blamed the article. And Arthur for somehow managing to bring Red Hood into every conversation despite supposedly banning the topic.
Mostly, though, you blamed yourself.
→↓←↑
Eventually, the walls of your apartment began to feel too small. Too warm. Too crowded with your own thoughts.
So shortly after midnight, you pulled on a jacket and went for a walk.
The city never truly slept. Even at this hour, Gotham breathed around you.
Distant traffic rolled through the streets. Neon signs flickered overhead. Somewhere several blocks away, a siren wailed briefly before fading into the night.
The air was cold.
It helped. At least a little.
You wandered without much direction. Past closed storefronts. Past graffiti-covered brick walls. Past the small twenty-four-hour deli one of the kids downstairs swore had the best coffee in Gotham.
Eventually you found yourself standing beside the waterfront. The black water reflected fractured city lights.
For several minutes you simply stood there. Trying very hard not to think.
“You should be home.” The voice emerged from the darkness behind you.
Your heart stopped.
Then immediately attempted to beat its way out of your chest.
Slowly, almost afraid the illusion would disappear if you moved too quickly, you turned.
A figure stood atop a nearby shipping container. Red helmet. Dark armor. Broad shoulders silhouetted against Gotham’s skyline. Red Hood.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
You weren’t entirely convinced your brain was functioning.
“You’ve got a terrible habit of appearing out of nowhere.” The words left your mouth before you could stop them.
A surprised huff escaped the modulator. Almost a laugh.
“Occupational hazard.”
Your stomach performed an embarrassing number of flips. “So that’s your official excuse?”
“It usually works.”
“You need a better one.”
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
The conversation felt absurdly normal.
This was Red Hood. Standing ten feet away. Talking to you. Like this happened every day.
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Just strange.
Heavy with things neither of you knew how to say.
His helmet tilted slightly, studying you. You wondered if he was doing the same thing you’d been doing for weeks.
Trying to fit reality beside expectation.
“You really should be home.” There was something quieter in his voice this time. Something that sounded suspiciously like concern.
You crossed your arms. “Funny. That’s exactly what my neighbor says.”
Another pause.
“..Smart guy.”
You snorted. The sound echoed softly across the water.
For a second you could have sworn Red Hood relaxed. As though hearing you laugh had eased something inside him.
The white lenses reflected distant lights.
“Get home safe.” Simple words.
Nothing special nor dramatic. Yet they settled somewhere beneath your ribs all the same.
Before you could answer, he stepped backward.
Already disappearing into the darkness he’d emerged from.
“Wait.” The word escaped fast, internally cringing at how desperate you sounded.
He paused.
You swallowed. Suddenly aware that there were a thousand things you wanted to ask and no idea where to begin.
In the end, only one managed to make it out.
“…Are you okay?” The question hung between you.
As though you’d somehow asked the last thing he’d expected to hear.
When he finally answered, his voice sounded different. Lower. Rougher. Human.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
“Yeah. I’m okay.” The answer felt suspiciously familiar. Heavy and tasting of salt from the nearby harbor. Like you’d heard it before.
The words were a hollow sentiment, a mask worn by a man who clearly knew the architecture of a lie far too well.
You watched him, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. There was a gravity to him, a pull that felt less like curiosity and more like a physical tether snapping taut.
You didn't know that he had been watching you for weeks. Didn’t know that he even knew that you were his soulmate.
Didn't know that he had gone through your balcony window far too many times to count just to smell the clothes you leave out across the floor or side of your couch, a starving man finding the only source of light in a dark world. To you, he was a legend. To him, you were the only reason to keep breathing.
"You don't sound okay," you whispered, the coolness of the night air emboldening you.
The silence that followed was deafening. The vigilante didn't move, but the atmosphere shifted. The air grew thick, charged with a sudden, violent electricity. He didn't disappear this time. Instead, he descended.
He moved with a predatory grace, leaping from the container to the pavement with a silent, heavy thud that made the ground vibrate beneath your boots. Before you could even draw a breath to gasp, he was there. He was towering, a wall of leather and pure heat.
He didn't stop until he was inches away, forcing you to meet the white lenses of his helmet. The scent of him hit you hard. A deep musk that made your knees feel dangerously weak.
"You shouldn't ask questions you aren't prepared to hear the answers to." The modulator was off. His gloved fingers catching the edge of the crimson plating.
With a soft, mechanical hiss, he lifted the helmet just enough. He didn't take it off just yet, just freeing his mouth.
Your breath hitched. You were staring at a face that was all sharp lines and bruised shadows, eyes that burned through the helmet with a hunger so primal it felt like it could consume the entire city. He looked like a man who had been wandering a desert and had finally found water.
And then, he leaned in.
The kiss wasn't gentle. It was a collision. It was the desperate, starving act of a hunter finally catching his prize.
His lips were firm, warm, and tasted of something dark and metallic. It was a claim. He tasted you like he was trying to memorise your very essence, his tongue sweeping against yours with a possessive rhythm that sent a jolt straight to your core.
You let out a muffled whimper, your hands instinctively finding the hard, muscular planes of his chest.
He didn't care about the shadows of the alleyway or the distant sound of a passing car. He didn't care that the Red Hood was supposed to be a symbol of justice, not a man driven to madness by a single touch. He only cared about the way you melted against him.
He’d dreamt of this.
His hands, large and calloused, slid down your sides. Gripping your hips with a strength that bordered on bruising. He forced you back against the cool brick of the building, the contrast of the cold stone and his searing heat making your head spin.
He broke the kiss, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches. His eyes searched yours, still hidden behind the mask. Frantic and obsessed, looking for the recognition that the bond was screaming in your blood too.
You didn't understand it yet, but you felt it. A deep, aching need to be undone by him.
He dropped to his knees.
It was an act of worship and a display of dominance all at once. The great Red Hood, the terror of the underworld, kneeling in the dirt of a dark alleyway at your feet.
His hands moved frantically, tugging at your clothes, baring you to the midnight air. He didn't wait.
He didn't even ask. He simply descended.
When his mouth found you, the world vanishd.
The sensation was overwhelming. The heat of his breath, the rough texture of his tongue, and the sheer, unyielding intensity of his focus.
He ate you with a desperation that was terrifying, his tongue swirling and probing, seeking out every nerve ending as if he were trying to find the very center of your soul. His jaw aching from the stretch. He was relentless, a hunter who had found the most precious treasure and refused to let a single drop of sensation go unharvested.
You arched your back, your fingers tangling in the collar of his jacket, a choked cry escaping your throat. You were unanchored, drifting in a sea of pleasure. Every lick, every suction, every flick of his tongue was a brand, marking you as his in the most intimate way possible.
He looked up at you for a fleeting second, his eyes dark with a terrifying, beautiful madness, before burying his face in you again. He wasn't just pleasuring you, he was consuming you. And as the tension coiled tighter and tighter in your gut, you realised with a dizzying sense of awe that you didn't want to be saved from him. You wanted to drown in him.
his hands slid from your hips to your thighs, spreading you wider, anchoring you to the brick so you couldn't drift away.
He was greedy. He swallowed your gasps, he drank in the sounds you made, as if he were trying to ingest the very proof of your pleasure. The rough texture of his tongue was a beautiful friction against your most sensitive skin, a rhythmic, punishing, perfect pressure that sent white hot sparks dancing behind your eyelids.
"Please," you choked out, though you didn't even know what you were asking for. More. Stop. Don't ever let go.
You hadn’t ever felt anything this intensely since you were fifteen and it felt like you’d lost everything.
He responded by surging forward. The sensation was too much. Like a tidal wave. A sudden, violent fracturing of your senses. You felt the tension coil in your gut, tighter and tighter, a spring wound to the point of breaking, until finally, the dam burst.
You cried out, your voice lost to the shadows of the alley, as your body shuddered in the throes of a release so powerful it felt like a seizure.
You clung to him, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your head lulling back against the wall as waves of liquid crashed through you.
He didn't pull away when you came. He stayed with you, his mouth still pressed to you, drinking in the aftershocks, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. Gulping as he attempted to swallow it all down.
He stayed there until the tremors subsided, until you were left limp and breathless, trembling in the sudden silence of the night.
Slowly, he rose. He didn't stand up fully at first, lingering in the space between your legs, his eyes looking up at you from the darkness. The white lenses of his helmet were gone, replaced by the raw, unfiltered gaze of the man beneath. He looked wrecked. You couldn’t recognise him in the darkness.
He looked like he had just survived a war, or perhaps, like he had finally come home from one.
He reached up, his gloved thumb brushing a stray tear or perhaps just sweat from your cheek, his touch unexpectedly tender for a man so violent in his passion.
"Don't ever look at anyone else like that," he whispered, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that promised both protection and imprisonment. "Do you hear me? Just me."
You couldn't answer. You could barely breathe. You could only stare at him, realising with a sinking, exhilarating dread that the man you had been idolising from afar hadn't just found you.
He had hunted you down. And he had no intention of ever letting you go.
To anyone else, the apartment was just a quiet, dimly lit space in a safe corner of Gotham. To Jason, the silence was loud. Deafening.
It was a constant, rhythmic thrumming that echoed the frantic beating of his own heart every time he thought of you.
He sat on the edge of his bed, the shadows of the room clinging to his broad shoulders like a shroud. He was stripped down to his joggers, his skin still humming with the phantom sensation of your warmth. It had been weeks since that night in the alley. Weeks since he had tasted you, since he had felt the way you shuddered under his touch and the hunger had only grown.
It wasn't a hunger for food or sleep. It was a hollow, aching void in his chest that only your presence could fill.
He closed his eyes, but that was a mistake.
The moment his eyelids fell, you were there. He could see the curve of your neck, the way your eyes had widened in the dark, the way you had looked so beautifully, helplessly undone by him.
His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He hated how much power you had over him. He was a man who had stared down death and spat in its face, yet here he was, a prisoner to the memory of a person who didn't even know the half of what he was thinking.
He stood up abruptly, the sudden movement sending a jolt of restless energy through his limbs. He paced the small expanse of the room like a caged predator, his footsteps heavy and deliberate.
His gaze drifted to the door.
The door was a thin, pathetic barrier. Just a few inches of wood and metal separating him from the world. And just twenty feet away, you were sleeping in a bed that wasn't his. You were breathing air that he wasn't providing.
The thought was intolerable. It felt like a physical wound, a fracture in his soul that refused to knit back together.
He wanted to tear the door off its hinges. He wanted to storm through the halls and break down your door until he could wrap his arms around you and never, ever let go. He wanted to mark you so thoroughly that the world would know you belonged to him by the very scent of your skin.
A low, frustrated growl escaped his throat. He reached for his waistband, his movements frantic, driven by a need that was as much about desperation as it was about lust.
As his hand closed around himself, he groaned, his head falling back. He wasn't just imagining the sensation of your hands or the heat of your mouth; he was visualising the way you would look if he finally claimed you properly. He imagined you pinned beneath him, your eyes searching his, seeing the madness there and choosing to stay anyway.
He closed his eyes tight, his breath hitching as he moved. You, he thought. A silent, prayer like chant in the dark. It has to be you. Has to be mine.
Every stroke was a frantic attempt to bridge the distance. He pictured your face, the way you had looked at him with that mixture of awe and terror. He wanted to protect that look, to be the only thing you ever saw, the only thing you ever felt.
He wanted to be your savior, but more than that, he wanted to be your entire world.
When the release finally came, it wasn't peaceful. It was a violent, shuddering explosion that left him gasping, his body tensing as if he were fighting an invisible enemy. He slumped back against the bed, his chest heaving, the sweat cooling on his skin.
The silence returned, heavier than before.
He stared at the ceiling, his eyes dark and predatory. The hunger hadn't faded; it had only sharpened. The "hunter" in him was tired of the chase. He was done watching from the shadows. He was done being the ghost in your periphery. Done playing the annoying neighbour.
He was going to bring you home. And once he had you, he would make sure you never had a reason to look for anyone else ever again.
The decision settled over him with terrifying clarity.
For months, Jason had told himself he was being patient.
While he learned your routines. While he watched Gotham become more dangerous by the day. While reporters dug through every corner of the city looking for Red Hood’s soulmate. Patient while criminals, mercenaries, and psychopaths searched for weaknesses they could exploit.
Patient while the universe dangled you in front of him and expected him to trust fate to keep you safe.
He was done being patient.
Jason rose from the bed.
The apartment felt suffocating. Too small. Empty.
Too far away from you.
His jaw tightened.
People always talked about soulmates as though they were something soft. Romantic. Gentle.
They never talked about what happened when a man like Jason Todd found his.
Nobody wanted to acknowledge that fate had teeth.
The universe hadn’t given him a lover. It had given him a reason. A purpose. Something precious enough to protect at any cost.
And Jason had never been particularly good at respecting limits.
He crossed the room and stopped beside the window. Gotham stretched endlessly below. A city of predators. A city that took and took and took.
His city.
For years it had stolen everything from him.
His childhood. His family. His life.
It wasn’t taking you too.
The thought settled into his bones like concrete. Absolute.
A slow breath left him.
Then another.
The panic that had haunted him since the article disappeared.
The uncertainty disappeared with it.
Because for the first time since finding you, Jason finally understood what he needed to do. Not watch. Not wait. Definitely not hope.
Act.
The realisation settled like relief.
People would worry. People always worried.
Then life would continue.
He’d experienced it firsthand.
It always did.
Nobody would know that somewhere far from Gotham’s noise sat a small house hidden among thick forests and winding roads.
A place with reinforced doors. A stocked kitchen. Bookshelves filled with things you’d enjoy. Fresh fruit by the windowsill. A home prepared long before Jason admitted why he’d prepared it.
A home waiting for its rightful occupant.
Waiting for you.
His soulmate.
His future.
His.
Jason rested his forehead against the cool glass.
For a brief moment, he imagined the future.
You arguing with him over breakfast. Rolling your eyes at his terrible jokes. Curled against him on quiet evenings. Safe. Always safe.
You’d fight him at first.
He knew that.
He’d try his best to remember not to take it personally.
You’d be angry. Terrified. Confused. But eventually you’d understand. Eventually you’d realise nobody would ever love you the way he did. Nobody would ever sacrifice what he would sacrifice. Nobody would ever protect you so completely.
You were made for him for a purpose, after all.
The soulmate bond had survived death itself. Survived shattered souls and broken destinies.
The universe had torn you two apart once. It would never get the chance to do so again.
A smile touched his mouth. Small.
Outside, Gotham continued to roar.
Inside, Jason finally felt at peace. Because the hunt was over.
He had found what belonged to him.
And this time, Jason Todd wasn’t ever letting go.
Gang I tried really hard & researched what others have done to write gender neutral smut. I’ve read it over like a quadrillion times and genuinely can’t tell if it even makes sense anymore😩
8K+ Words, 48K+ Characters, 1K+ Sentences, 647 paragraphs, 24 minute average reading time, 39 minute average speaking time.
YANDERE!IDOL x GN!READER — obsessive yandere / delusional yandere / cyberstalking / reader is a fan / fan signing event / he’s painfully awkward / never meet your idols, amiright?
A/N: double posting because it’s my birthday this week (˶>⩊<˶) i had fun w the fake texts & tweets!!
introduction • masterlist
𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who almost spits out his drink when his manager tells the group that they’d be hosting a fan signing event in your city.
You’d be there for sure. Right?
Right?
He’s counting down the days immediately. Obsessively checking all your social media accounts for updates as if you were the idol instead, wondering whether or not you’d come to see him.
He’s literally kicking his feet and squealing. Of course you would. You love him too, don’t you? Not in the way he loves you, but you’d get there, once you meet him and speak to him in person. He just knows it.
𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who goes crazy with his skincare and his haircare and his workouts and his diet — all in preparation for the big day. How could he ever face you if he doesn’t look perfect? He’d simply die of shame.
𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who doesn’t sleep a wink the night before the event. His racing thoughts keep him up, thousands upon thousands of imagined scenarios flitting throughout his head. What if he confessed to you then and there? Prostrated himself at your feet? What if he ‘accidentally’ bumped into you in the hallway? Orchestrated one of those “meet-cute”s that you love so much? The possibilities were endless.
𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who is an anxious mess during the event itself. He’s constantly glancing at the queue, hoping to catch a glimpse of you, completely neglecting the other fans sitting in front of him at the moment. His body is running on autopilot — smile unwavering, responses warm and polite — but his attention is solely fixed on finding you.
When you walk through those doors and catch his eye, he starts smiling so hard he genuinely looks as if he’s gone insane. He has a pretty face though, so he looks good no matter what he does. As you shuffle through the queue, he never takes his eyes off of you, not even once. He wonders if you noticed. You probably did, from the way you kept glancing back to look at him.
𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 whose hands can’t stop shaking when it’s finally your turn to speak to him. His signature is so jerky, and his script looks close to illegible as he hastily scrawls his number underneath his name.
However, you don’t notice, for the rest of his demeanor is flawless, and you are too preoccupied with making small talk with him to pay attention to what he’s doing with his hands. You hardly have the time to exchange three sentences with him before you have to make space for the next fan, anyway.
𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 whose anxiety goes into overdrive. What if you can’t read his writing? What if you think it was a joke? What if you don’t text him? What if you think he’s weird? Did he act too stiffly? Were his responses normal enough? Was his smile too creepy? Did he look too eager? What if, what if what if —
He’s literally going insane. He can’t even pull out his phone and check your posts to see your true thoughts about him right now. He’s dying. He’s drowning. Is this what suffocating feels like? There’s bile clawing up his throat, poison surging through his veins —
He shoots to his feet, the chair clattering to the floor behind him. Excusing himself, he says he isn’t feeling too well. He bolts out of the convention hall.
𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who runs and runs and runs — until he runs into you.
You’re already in the parking lot, halfway to your car, and the resulting scene could come straight out of a rom-com.
“Wait!” he calls. It comes out sharp. Desperate. “Y/N!”
You turn around. Brows raising high the moment you realise who it is.
He scrambles up to you breathlessly, the mask of ‘perfection’ he put on as an idol entirely shattered. Hair clings to his sweat-slicked skin, and even with all the makeup he has on, a faint blush peeks through.
𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 whose mind goes blank when he finally gets the chance to speak to you freely. Every scenario he had imagined, every speech he had rehearsed, every witty one liner he had planned to say... All of it, gone.
𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who has a grand total of zero social skills. He started training as an idol at a really, really young age — even dropped out of school to pursue this line of work — and thus has had no chance to interact with other people outside of his group and his bosses. When he is not “an idol”, he is really no one at all.
You blink. He blinks.
He raises a trembling hand to gesture at the signed album in your arms. “I, uhm... My number — You...?”
His face burns with crimson embarrassment. How very eloquent.
“Oh!” you say. You laugh, and it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard in his life. “I was wondering about that. Do you, ah, want to erase it or something...?”
His response comes out much more passionately than he had intended to be. “No! I — I mean, it’s... for you. It’s for you.”
“Oh,” you say, again.
The silence stretches on between the two of you. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead.
He gulps so audibly he swears it echoes throughout the parking lot.
“Text me? Please...?”
Surprise flashes across your face, before a shy smile, like dawnlight peeking through the clouds, blooms. His heart stutters.
“Sure. Is later alright? I have to get going now...”
“You could give me your number instead!” he offers quickly, stumbling over the words. “So I — Just in case you forget.”
“Ah, sure...!”
𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who doesn’t hear a thing while he’s getting chewed out by his manager. Head filled to the brim with thoughts about you. Fingers twitching, dying to unlock his phone so he can text you. He’s an addict at this point, addicted to the drug that is your attention.
(Yeah. You’re cooked. Unless you’re into that, then by all means.)
damian wayne who always finds a reason to touch you.
damian despises pda. he’s too proud and too disciplined to let anyone but you witness him being even slightly soft. however, when the two of you are alone and in the comfort of each other’s presence, every rule he has about showcasing affection fades away.
if he’s handing you something, even a mere water bottle, he’ll extend his arm a fraction more than necessary just to ensure that your fingers brush his during the exchange. the touch is featherlight—so light that it could be excused as a simple accident, but you both know the truth.
in the same way, you could trip over a cable or a loose rug and he’ll place a hand on your waist to steady you, muttering a low, “watch your step, habibti.” even though you don’t need it, his hand will stay for a beat longer, as if reassuring himself that you’re still there and still safe.
if you were to point it out?
“there was simply an eyelash on your face,” after he cradles your cheek with his hand, lightly brushing your skin with his thumb like you’re something that belongs in a highly guarded museum.
“it was blocking your eyesight. it’s a hazard,” when he ever so softly tucks the thinnest, least hazardous strand of hair behind your ear.
of course, he’ll never admit it. whenever you try to tease him about it, he’ll tell you that you’re reading too much into it, but the tips of his ears always tint the faintest red.
it’s not in an obsessive way, like he just has to touch you to show control or stake a claim. instead, it’s as though you have some sort of magnetic pull on him, one he could never resist if he wanted to. a pull that makes him long for the warmth of you, and he can only fulfill that longing with light brushes of skin in private.
yet, somehow, the subtle touches and quick grazes mean more to both of you than any public gesture ever could.
Stepbro phainon alone is already a threat for humanity, but have you ever think of stepbro phailings AWOOOO
Khaslana being the eldest, always so protective over you to the point where it's borderline suffocating in the most possessive way possible. curfews are non-negotiable. if you're out late, his car is already idling outside even though you didn't even tell any of your brothers where your location was. and whenever you get rebellious, moody, or decide to act out just to test his boundaries, Khaslana will drag you over his lap right then and there, pin you down with effortless strength, and smack your bare ass until you're sobbing, squirming, and clinging to his shirt while apologizing. He also uses his authority as the eldest to justify the most invasive things imaginable. he would handle your laundry and you’ll catch him sitting in the living room, neatly folding your underwear, running the silk between his fingers, smelling the fabric to "check the laundry detergent", and looking up at you with heavy, darkened eyes. And if he thinks a shirt or skirt you bought is "too revealing," he won't throw it away. He’ll make you wear it in front of him in private so he can "evaluate" if it’s safe for public view, staring at every inch of exposed skin. but you understand him and why he's doing all this!! after all, you know that your brother just wants the best for you!!
The middle brother, Reaver—let's just say his name is Neikos bcs there's no way a parent would ever named their child 'Flame Reaver', who is an anti-social, weeb, loser that would stay 24/7 inside his room and play games all day. He rarely talks to you but you want to get closer to him bcs he's your big bro, yknow :(((( so you'd occasionally join Neikos and he'd try his best to show off and flex his gaming skills. Oh, and what's that? you need help fighting a boss? okay he'll help you but you need to sit on his lap with no pants on while doing it, okay? yes, this is crucial because it'll give him a big buff so that he can kill the boss faster.
Then the youngest, Phainon, is… he's something, alright. unlike Khaslana’s suffocating control or Neikos’s awkward excuses, Phainon doesn't bother with subtext or subtle justification. if he wants your attention, he will physically demand it right then and there. He follows you around the house like an oversized clingy puppy, barging into your room without knocking and flopping his entire body weight over you while you're trying to study or relax. He uses his "helpless" youngest-sibling persona to get away with the most blatant, needy behavior. He’ll whine dramatically the second you try to push him off, shamelessly guilt-tripping you if you pay attention to your other brothers instead of him. Whether he's drag-along clinging to your arm in public or unabashedly demanding you pet his hair until he falls asleep, Phainon has no filter and no shame—if he wants to be attached to your hip 24/7, he’ll make sure it happens simply by being too relentless to ignore. talking about being demanding, he's VERY demanding, alright. If you ask him for a simple favor—like handing you the TV remote—he’ll hold it hostage and demand a "service fee." it can range from a kiss on the cheek, letting him grind his groin into you for five minutes, or asking you to rub your feet on his clothed cock.
but in the end, the three of them are still your dearest brothers and you love them all very much :) <3
i can't believe the thing that got me hooked into writing for flame reaver and khaslana is them being siscons 😭😭 okay you got me there.... but that is NOT a crime...
; not proofread, stepcest
yes yes i agree with all of this, but taking a step back, the beginning of your relationship with them was definitely meant as normal siblinghood -- meaning none of them are certified or proud siscons until much later lol. with this in mind, it's easy to paint first impressions of the brothers: khaslana has a reputation of being the oldest and most dependable sibling so he tended to be more strict, neikos is a social recluse and seemed to not care for you at all, and phainon -- the one closest to you in age -- appeared to be the only one among them who actually wanted to be your brother.
the two elder brothers are both emotionally constipated over the loss of their biological family, leaving phainon a several years long of a headstart when bonding with you. he's always wanted a sister, you know? :) and even if he met you after tragedy occurred in his life, he cherishes you regardless. when neikos is too stingy to let you play on his console or after khaslana left you in tears after a particularly harsh scolding, the only brother who ever took your side was great, dependable older brother phainon <333 he'd clumsily wipe your tears away, urging you to play on his console instead while he excused himself to argue with his brothers. they can't keep treating you like this! >:(
eventually, the teenage angst those two were going through clears up, and they start seeing you as more than a cheap family replacement. they start appreciating you in their own way, although phainon's petty side can't help but rub it into their faces that he was the one by your side since the very beginning.
and well. call it guilt or repentance, but as a way to make up for their immature years, they quickly grow to become very overprotective of you. if phainon alone was a tad bit too much, then you're no more than an insect trapped under a glass dome with two other brothers added in.
khaslana holds the most authority as his status of the eldest sibling, and he's shameless enough to hold this over your head at all times. khaslana knows best -- the phrase rots in quick succession as it transpires into a patronizing tone each time he addresses you. don't prance around when guests visit the house. your college outfit is too revealing, he's not letting you out until you change into something more comfortable. don't bring over boys nor are you allowed to invite your friends into your room. always inform him where you're going and stop turning off your phone's location.
you're not a kid to bite your tongue and nod with no protest -- you're grown enough to know that he's acting more like a helicopter parent than your own parents ever did. this isn't fair at all, sometimes you wish he stayed the same all those years ago. at least then you don't feel like you're being choked out with every action you do. before you could even rally phainon into your planned joint ambush to confront khaslana, your own older brother is unlocking your bedroom door to have a proper, mature discussion about boundaries and following the rules under this household.
neikos is a man who should not be allowed to have a sister. since he spent most of his formative years browsing the world wide web, he's acquired a refined taste for fetishes that all his fellow starcord friends would whoop and holler in agreement with. namely, of course, taboo relationships like stepcest. but to him, it's more than a porn category. you, his dear sister, are more than masturbation material to him -- he truly, actually cares for you so. and yes he'll admit he was a dumb numbskull who was too blind to care for you years ago...! but people change, and he's willing to step up on the podium phainon's been center stage in.
although that's easier said than done. neikos' daydreams consist of him being your favorite and only brother (because who cares about those two pests anyways) who's unabashedly a pervert, but you enable his behavior so everything is fine and dandy <333 except the next time he blinks, the fantasy drops to the floor like discarded clothes and he's forced to remember that none of those daydreams are true. he wants to do so many things, wants to live out so many fantasies, but he's stuck in his room crawling at the snail's pace -- too much of an actual coward to face you! ...he has your digital footprint memorized, at least.
the sky is blue, the grass is green, and your favorite brother is phainon. it's a losing game those two are playing, really. the battle was over the moment phainon introduced himself and swore to protect you from whatever this world threatens to drown you with. he's been your knight in shining armor since your teenage years, and while you appreciate your other brothers warming up to you, there's just no replacing phainon. you're both attuned to one another on an almost parasitic level.
it doesn't help that phainon was greedy enough to steal nearly all of your firsts -- because he wants to prepare you for the dating scene, of course! ^^ he stole your first kiss while out stargazing in the backyard and everybody else was asleep. it evolved into makeout sessions during nights when he'd sleep over in your room until he broke his dependable older brother for just a fraction to shove your hand underneath his tented boxers as he instructed you, with his mouth open and panting in delirium, to explore his body to your heart's content. it's what siblings are for; he's sure of it :) and next sleepover, he promises he'll be the one to worship your body in turn.
can you do akira kurusu x a reader that gives him a lot of nicknames? i think this would be cute ^^
Akiren, Yu, Kotone, Makoto with an S/O that gives a lot of nicknames
Note: OMG i was actually already making something similar to this so i decided to finish this before i sleep!! i'm trying to get back into writing p3 and p4 so i added the rest..... i need to refresh my writing for these characters so i hope its ok i added them too!!
Akiren
Akira really adores you, and this extends to every part of you. He also adapts a lot of your habits, so if you give him a lot of nicknames, he does the same for you! He is not embarrassed one bit, and if you don’t mind using the nicknames in public, he will gladly accept it every time. No matter how cheesy it may be. If he is your honey bunch, then from now on he is Honey Bunch Kurusu.
If you decide to suddenly stop using your nicknames for him, maybe you forgot or you are genuinely messing with him, he won’t take it to heart. He is very perceptive with your emotions, and he believes in healthy communication, so he is just chill on that front. He may tease you though once he starts missing your affectionate nicknames, like oh you want him to buy you a drink? Well, maybe you should stop messing around!
Yu
Another who is quite chill and finds you very endearing. He willingly lets himself be called all kinds of names you can think of, and actively encourages it as well. He has a nickname for you as well, but you outnumber him in that aspect. He tries to keep up, but he has a favorite nickname that he reserves just for you.
I truly believe Yu is a man of routine, so if you suddenly decide to stop calling all the nicknames you had for him, he will be sulky. He will ask you if things are okay between you two, and if he detects no problems then he will be relieved. Buuuut, he will be constantly pouting at you until you decide to give in and drop this silly game.
Kotone/Minako
Kotone is naturally bubbly and active, and greatly mirrors the energy of people around her. So she is similar to Akira, where she will try to match the nicknames you give her, making it have a bit of a competitive edge. The nicknames you gave her are like a badge of honor, and she is very happy that you love her as much as she loves you (if not more) so of course she is going to flaunt it. She thinks this little exchange between the two of you is a testament of your closeness and trust with one another, and that makes her really happy!
If you decide to mess with her and suddenly stop with the nicknames, she might overthink a bit. She will pull back a bit, but after a while she will just confront you about it. If the problem is nothing serious, she is going to have a big sigh of relief and demand that you make it up to her!
Makoto/Minato
He is a bit shy when it comes to the nicknames you give him, but he does not prevent you from calling him those. When you catch him off-guard, you might get a glimpse of him blushing from the affection. He probably won’t call you any nicknames in public, if he does, it’s a very rare occasion. Don’t doubt his love for you though, he just shows his actions in other ways.
He won’t be fazed if you stop calling him by your creative nicknames, and honestly if you do decide to mess with him with this, YOU might be the first one to give in.
cw; ghostface au, heavy obsessive themes, strong physical violence and blood, multiple side character deaths, general disregard for consent & autonomy, nsfw themes, noncon, mdni 18+
notes; commissioned piece by @kottiya ♡ tysm for how patient you were w me throughout this whole process (!!!) the 1996 scream was revolutionary to me when i first watched it so i've had sm fun writing this & putting my own spin on it <3 enjoy x
“seven of you go up there together, and only two of you come back.” the man draws on his cigar with a sardonic grimace. “with your guts still inside of you, that is.”
“i’m not a liar, detective.”
his eyes flash. “never said you were, kid. i just got this feeling…” the ghost of a smile on his lips, as he pivots without warning. “but nevermind that. how about you tell me what your relationship is with that man out there?”
he pulls down on the blinds in his office, so that on the other side of the glass, over his fingers; you can catch a glimpse of dean.
you stare at him for a moment in silence, eyes flittering over his skinned knuckles, broken nose, and how despite it all; or maybe because of it—that the sight still leaves you feeling sort of dizzy. sick. like you’ve had too much of something sweet. your answer is simple, and it comes far too quick.
“he saved me.”
his head’s resting against the wall behind him, and his eyes are closed. sitting so still in that chair, you’d think he was asleep if his foot wasn’t tapping against the linoleum of the police station floor so rhythmically. you wonder which song’s stuck in his head right now.
think you might already know the answer.
the detective says something, then. another question, you think, but it doesn’t find its way to you. everything around you fades into a realm of complete obscurity as dean’s eyes flutter open; dark, sly, flicking straight to meet your own through the parted blinds.
he smiles then, slow and sweet. it’s lazy, really, the way his lip curls at the corner.
and even though between you two there stands a wall, and twenty police officers and detectives and investigators with their pistols and rifles, you can almost hear him speak. can almost feel the words, like a low whisper murmured right against the nape of your neck.
skin here’s some of the most sensitive on the body, sugar. so thin. so easy to slice through.
wet fingers skimming their way down your shoulders and wrapping themselves around you. warm laughter, so completely and enviously sure of itself.
i don’t have to worry about you acting out, do i, sweetness?
the blinds snap shut.
you turn to the detective, staring down at you through the smoke wafting from the cherry red end of the cigar held loosely between his fingers. “look, kid. i got five dead bodies to figure out. that means no time to waste, yeah? those are five of your friends, and their families are knocking down my door for answers. it’s very important to me that you understand that.”
you frown, searching the weary lines on his face for an answer. there’s an accusatory tone to his words that makes your skin crawl, and it makes you wish you were anywhere but here. “what do you want from me?”
“how about,” he exhales slowly, savouring the taste of his vice. “you tell me the whole truth. and i mean all of it.”
it’s getting harder to breathe in here, with each puff of swirling smoke that stinks up the room. you give him ten good years, give or take, before the cancer catches up. but the more you think about it, the more you start to think that you might have to slash that number in half, actually. dean might just get to him first.
“okay,” you hear yourself say, trying to take small, shallow breaths. in, and out. in, and out. “where do you want me to start?”
in,
and out.
the detective brings the cigar to his lips and takes a deep breath. “from the beginning.”
-
it starts with a bad dream.
“baby,” he drawls.
there’s dirt under his nails and broken rays of sunlights catches in the strands of his dark, dark hair as he steps quietly over fresh soil, never sinking like you hope—only drawing nearer and closer to the trunk which carries you. the branch like a noose, curled around your neck.
he’s close enough, now, to see the way its jagged edges pierce into your skin, and even though his stygian eyes don’t look away from you for even a second, he says absolutely nothing. all he does is look at you, like he’s already picked you a very long time ago.
all that exists in the silence is the sound of your trembling breath. the promise, also, of an almost-violence that lingers in the air like the note of an old song. one of his hands skims along the side of your arm, gently brushing against your skin.
you used to be so soft to the touch, just like bruised fruit. but you’ve hardened now, haven’t you? he knocks against your chest, where your heart should be, and it sounds so very hollow.
ripe.
“didn’t think you’d be ready yet,” he murmurs, amused. “but here you are, sugar.”
his fingers curl around your neck as he takes his precious time to carefully detangle you from the branch that holds you up. he plucks you from the branch, and you drop into the palm of his hand.
the sun’s disappeared now, and everything’s gone dark. under the shadow of night, you try to move, but it’s a futile attempt at resistance. everything else is slow and heavy and silent and you recognise that, here, all you know is him.
the moment he has you where he wants you, the tree that you once used to hang up on begins to rot. the world you once used to inhabit dilapidates beneath the force of his loving hands, as the bark begins to split, peeling back until it snaps. the branches curl into themselves, and soil turns into ash.
but his smile doesn’t falter.
“don’t worry, sugar.” he whispers, tilting your chin up with one finger. his hands are rough and calloused, gliding over the base of your neck where the noose once was. his voice dips dangerously low, and he smiles. “you still taste plenty sweet.”
and then his teeth are tearing into you.
-
“wake up.”
tap.
tap.
someone flicks your forehead. hard.
“you’re having a nightmare, baby blue.”
you startle, heart racing in your chest as you’re snapped back into reality. your hands immediately fly to your neck, relief overcoming you when they come away dry. no noose. no blood. just, well—it takes you a few moments to register where you are.
the low murmur of a local radio station. the seatbelt uncomfortably digging into your skin. right, you surmise. the car. the road trip.
except, you realise, twisting in your seat, there’s nobody in the back row. the driver’s seat is empty, and two cups of gas station coffee sit cold in front of the console.
“why’ve we stopped?” you murmur lazily, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.
red shrugs. “tire popped, i guess. lucky us.”
squinting, you make out the time at the top of his screen. you’ve only been asleep for an hour or so and yet the scenery outside is wholly unfamiliar. uncharted territory that would be a shame, if wasted. with one last yawn, you haphazardly do up the laces on your shoes and turn to him over your shoulder. “right. get out, i’m going to stretch while we’ve stopped.”
red groans. “go out through the other side, for fucks’ sake.”
“jan’s sleeping.”
red rolls his eyes but ultimately obliges, inching out of the car whilst muttering one thing or another under his breath. you sidle past him with a knowing smile, nudged along by his elbow. you don’t even bother to act surprised when he inevitably slams the car door shut in your face, instead choosing to focus on the feeling of the road beneath your feet. it’s nice to finally stand on something solid after so many hours; something still.
you hear him before you see him, stepping around the back of the car. the sound of an absent, low song that he hums under his breath gives him away. you think you might’ve heard it before but… you can’t quite manage to place it.
he’s crouching by the car, working at the tire which is, in fact, evidently popped. you lean against the boot and take him in; sleeves rolled right up to his elbows, flexing prominent muscles beneath a smattering of hair.
“finally up, sleeping beauty?” dark brown eyes flicker to meet yours, which are focused, instead, on tracing the veins of his arms.
“yeah.” you cross your arms. “red woke me up.”
“sweet dreams?”
you study him for a moment, and even though the thought of it is insane—you wonder if, somehow, he knows.
“…something like that, you could say.”
“hm. you wanna help out?” he offers, mouth curling into a grin. “i could use it. always wanted an assistant,” he says. “an accomplice.”
“i’m not your assistant, dean,” you roll your eyes, still too groggy to get to work just yet. “and definitely not for free. keep dreaming.”
the man laughs, turning back to the sealant in his hands. “fair,” he concedes. he crouches down low, a knee pressed against the asphalt as he lines up the nozzle to the puncture, strong hands smoothing down the tire. “you can stay right there and just watch me then, sugar.”
“like i have nothing better to do?” you retort, despite not moving an inch from where you stand. “god, you’re so full of yourself.”
“yeah,” he murmurs absently. “you love it, though.”
“yeah, and delusional too."
“nah, baby,” dean doesn’t look up. your eyes keenly follow his every move and that’s why, you suppose, you just manage to catch the way his smile widens a fraction of an inch. “i’m jus’ observational, is all.”
shit, you curse silently. he finishes spraying the last of the sealant into the puncture and leans back on his heels with a satisfied grunt. you watch on, still rooted to where you stand—but not really all there, anymore. was red right?
he wipes his hands over his jeans, leaving black smears all over the denim. “fuckin’ hell,” he groans lowly. “pass me that rag in the back, would you, sweetness?”
you reach back into the trunk and toss him the cloth, which he uses to clean the grime on his hands. slinging it over his shoulder, he moves to stretch out his back. you hear the pop and the crack of dormant bones, almost like breaking. the snap of his wrist, as he rotates it in its socket, reaches out.
“not your assistant,” you remind him.
“i know, i know. you’re just a sweetheart, aren’t you?”
-
the car bumps over the last stretch of the sketchy gravel road, the tires (now patched up) crunching over loose stone that hits the windshield, through which you watch the tree line ahead parting like an open curtain. dappled sunlight flickers through the canopy, hitting the side of the cabin’s wood at just the right angle, making it glow during sunset.
“wow,” january marvels, finally awake from her seven hour nap. she brushes her curly red hair out of her eyes, face practically pressed against the window. “that’s stunning.”
covered in moss, old and untouched; it looks like a relic of the past. it sits on top of a small, sloping hill, at the bottom of which a darling little pier juts out over a picturesque lake. beneath the sun, the water glitters as it catches the light and reflects the shades of the cerise sunset in the sky.
“no fucking way this is where we’re staying.”
“map says so, mate.”
“pass me the damn map, krish. you probably can’t even read that shit.”
“nico, i’ve been driving for seven fucking hours. don’t piss me off right now.”
from the row behind you, a finger insistently pokes into your side.
you flinch, twisting half around. “dean—”
“what do you think?” he grins, cheek pressed lazily against the headrest of the backseat.
“it’s beautiful. i already know the next few days are gonna pass by so quickly,” you sigh.
even the sound of your friends arguing behind you, as irritating as it is now, you recognise that these are the moments that you will miss the most when you are no longer safely tucked away inside of them.
he hums. “s’pose we better make the most of them then, yeah?”
“yeah.” you shift in your seat, restless, already feeling that strange sense of preemptive loss settle somewhere within you. “you’re right.”
the car lurches slightly as krish throws it into park, and the ensuing silence (sans the sound of krish and nico arguing) settles deeply in the absence of the engine. instead, you choose to turn your attention to the constant hush of the lake lapping gently at the shore. perched somewhere high above, the chirping of woodland birds and their song.
you pop the door open and climb over (and pointedly ignore) an extremely agitated red, stepping out into the cool air, once again relieved to be standing on something solid and still. outside, it smells like pine needles and wet earth. you hear the rest of the group noisily spill out of the car, the gravel road crunching beneath the weight of their steps.
the trunk slams, and you turn over your shoulder to see that dean’s already there, tossing your overpacked and very, very heavy duffel bag over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. “i got it, sugar.” he says, stepping past you.
you blink, reaching to take the straps off of him. “thank you, dean, but you really don’t have to—”
“sugar,” he repeats slowly, gently prying your hand off. “i got it.”
your eyes fall to his hand, circling your entire wrist just between his thumb and index finger. his skin is so rough against your own. though you remain acutely aware of the fact that a considerable effort is being made on his end to handle you with care. that if he were so inclined, he could probably break those bones he’s holding onto right now with a flick of his wrist.
the moment stretches on for longer than it should, but in the end, you begrudgingly concede. it’d be stupid to kick up a fuss about him wanting to help you, even if…
even if i do feel differently to him.
“...okay? thank you.” you remove your hand from his grasp and take a step back, not missing the way his eyes follow where your hand falls to your side, fingers instinctively flexing. “can you do me a favour and…”
his boots thud softly on the worn wooden steps that lead up to the porch. you watch the way the light catches the broad line of his shoulders as he twists the doorknob, and the front door creaks open, slow and croaking; probably needs its hinges oiled.
“can you put my stuff down in the same room as red, please?”
dean pauses at the threshold and glances back down at you, his free hand braced against the doorframe. he laughs, then, like you’ve said something funny, amusement settling deep into his smile lines. “sorry. sorry, what was that, sugar?”
“i think you heard me,” you cross your arms decisively. “i’m not rooming with anyone else.”
“you can have one of the rooms downstairs,” he insists. “the listing said they had single beds.”
“no.”
“come on, baby.” he tilts his head in thought, staring down at you from the top of the steps. his smile is sharp. you’re reminded of the way in which his teeth sunk into you only a few hours ago, and even though it was just a nightmare; a phantom sort of ache spreads across your chest. “why would you possibly need to be in a room with him so bad?”
“dean.” you grit out, “put my stuff with red’s, or i’m sleeping in the car.”
at that, the man finally bites. “alright.” despite his eyes being the darkest shade of brown, under the glow of the dying day’s sunlight, they look like they’ve been set ablaze. “whatever you want, sweetness.”
you don’t even remember watching him disappear into the house before you find yourself down by the lake.
the sun is low now, just barely brushing the tops of the trees towering over you with a deep, amber glow that spills like thick honey over everything it touches. even the water you absently dip your fingers into looks like liquid gold. and you might've been inclined to think it was just that if you hadn’t felt how cold it was; the sort of icy chill that cuts straight through to the bone.
it’s in the way he walks; that familiar, lazy shuffle, the soft thud of sneakers on packed dirt. like he’s dragging his feet in protest of each step. you don’t look back, but then again, you’ve never really needed to.
you already know it’s red. you would recognise him anywhere.
“damn.” he lets out a low whistle, stopping just short of the water. “this isn’t too bad, huh?”
“can’t believe we’re finally here.” crouched by the shoreline, you let your fingers continue to skim the surface of the lake. the cold feels like something akin to clarity. “i thought that semester was going to be the death of me.”
“nah, don’t even remind me about that shit.” red drops down beside you with a groan. “let’s just, i don’t know, skip rocks or something. literally anything else.”
“have you ever skipped a rock in your life?” you ask, glancing sideways. the suggestion takes you by surprise, especially considering red’s favourite pastime is to stay inside and play games on his pc. you’re not even sure, sans today, that he’s ever been to a lake before.
he shrugs, the epitome of indifference as he sifts through the bank for a loose stone—
“first time for everything, no?”
—and immediately starts throwing pebbles into the water. he’s not skipping them, so much as he’s just aimlessly chucking them into the lake. you watch him dunk a dozen, before he turns to you with a scowl. “shut up. don’t even think about saying anything.”
“yeah, i wasn’t going to. just don’t quit your day job, red.”
“it’s harder than it looks,” he retorts, flicking another straight into the water. it hits with a loud plunk and sinks without ceremony. “easy to talk shit off your ass, isn’t it?”
you roll your eyes and pick a smoother one, flat and just the right size, before weighing it in your palm. when you throw, it arcs just right—three skips off the top of the quiet lake before it’s silently swallowed whole.
red scoffs. “fucking show off.”
you offer a lopsided smile and toss him a decent rock, not the boulders or the pebbles he’d been trying to skip. “try again. crouch down low and handle it more like a frisbee, not a ball.”
he rolls his shoulders and lines up carefully. stays low to the shore. you watch the way his arm curves in the air, the rock hitting the water, skipping once before it sinks into the water. he gives you a shit-eating grin, nevertheless.
“it’s progress,” you concede begrudgingly.
“just watch on, baby blue. by the end of the week, i’ll be better than you.”
“i’m gonna hold you to that. do you wanna have a rematch before we go home?”
“that’ll give me, what, five days to practice?” he calculates. “yeah, you’re getting your ass beat. loser pays for the winner’s coffee on the drive home?”
you extend a hand out to him. he takes it, with a firm shake.
“you’re on.”
at that, he falls back onto his elbows, the glow of the sunset painting streaks of gold across his jaw. sun’s almost gone down completely, with the way you can’t even see it peeking out over the tops of the forest’s trees anymore, so much as its last, dying rays filter through the leaves, instead.
“you know, i didn’t think you’d come straight down here. you didn't even see the inside of the cabin, yet.”
“i just needed a minute.” you tuck your knees into your chest, wrapping your arms around them. “i think you were right about...”
he’s quiet for a beat. “the dean thing?”
“the dean thing.” you confirm.
“yeah. i mean, wow. that took you long enough.” he teases, before leaning in conspiratorially. “what’s changed?”
“he’s been coming off really strong, recently. even today, it was just weird. he’s a good friend and everything, but it’s strange because i just don’t see him in that way but…” you frown. “i think he’s convinced i do. i’m scared he thinks that the feeling’s mutual when,” you wince, “it really isn’t.”
“weird, how?” red presses, “because if he’s making you feel uncomfortable—”
“i mean, it’s not serious? like today, he was weirdly insistent on carrying my bags, and sort of pushy with who i was sharing a room with—”
“like he has a say,” red scoffs.
“exactly. i mean, i get it now, what you meant about him liking me like that. but if he’s going to keep acting like this, i don’t know if we can keep being close, you know?”
“listen, i know dean, but i know you better.” he flicks a glance toward the cabin. “so do you just need me to listen, or do you want my advice?”
“just say what you’re dying to say,” you settle on.
“fuck. am i that obvious?”
you smile knowingly.
he throws another rock—better this time. two skips.
“see?” he smirks. “i’m already learning.”
you look up. the sky’s no longer ablaze with hues of vivid cerise and grand gold. the water is as cold as it always was. the only difference being that the lake now reflects the sky’s depthless shade of blue, dipping into something darker still.
red nudges your shoulder. “hey. get out of your head.”
“sorry,” you murmur, exasperated. “i know i’m already being a downer and we only just got here. i mean, fuck.”
“no,” he sighs. “you’re misunderstanding me. i know how easy it is for you to get caught up in your head, but this week? i just want you to have fun, especially after all those exams, but... you know all of that pales in comparison when it comes to whether you actually feel comfortable or safe, yeah? just try not to drive yourself insane, that’s all i’m asking. because the way i see it, you guys are good friends, i’m sure even dean isn’t eager to throw all of that away because he’s thinking with his dick.”
you run a weary hand over your face. “please, red, don’t talk about his dick.”
“sorry. now i’ve got to talk about it. matter of fact, he’s probably wanking right now, thinking about you. you said he had your bag, yeah?” red laughs, draping an arm around your shoulders, “don’t be surprised if your knickers are missing come morning.”
you shove him off you with an exasperated groan. “you’re sick. shut the fuck up.”
“yeah, yeah. you love me, though.”
“whatever.” neither of you fail to notice the way you refuse to deny his words.
the silence is thicker now, stretched by the steady chirp of crickets hiding amongst the blades of overgrown grass on the hill behind you. nevertheless, it remains comfortable. easy. the sort you can only really share with a close friend or, you imagine, a brother.
red shuffles closer to you in the darkness. “are you feeling sort of awkward about it?”
“very,” you correct. “i know he can’t help how he feels, but now that we’re going to be living in the same house for the next few days, i’m sort of… i don’t know. i just don’t like how he refuses to believe that i’m not into him like that. it puts the onus of shattering those delusions on me.”
“you don’t have to sugarcoat it. it’s weird as fuck when the friend group turns incestuous,” red grimaces, probably thinking back to when ivy and krish first started hooking up. “so even though he can’t help his feelings, you’re within your right to think he’s moving mad weird, regardless. you want me to stay by you until we’re home? maybe that’ll help him get the message.”
you don’t answer right away. you do, however, lean your head onto his shoulder.
“...thank you, red.”
“always, baby blue. i got you.”
this time, when he wraps an arm around you, you don’t protest.
“now that we’ve got that sorted, can we please go inside and help with dinner? otherwise, they’re all going to dump dish duty onto us and i really don’t want to spend our first night here stuck at the sink,” he shudders.
and finally, after what feels like hours of skipping rocks and watching them sink, one after the other, you rise slowly, sparing the water one last glance before following him back up the path that leads to the house.
the door to the veranda which overlooks the lake is closed, and the curtains are drawn in every single one of the windows, both upstairs and down. yet, you can’t help the way your attention lingers on the rocking chair. it sits there all alone, ornately carved, and a sturdy sort of dark oak. as you follow red up the hill, your attention snags on the details.
the way the rocking chair was still silently swinging back and forth. swaying gently in the darkness, though there was no breeze in the air tonight. it was, you mused, as if someone had been there just a moment ago, before quietly slipping away into the house.
it was, you decided, as if someone had been there just a moment ago, watching you.
-
dinner is served sharp at nine.
the dining room glows soft and golden, lit mostly by the stubby candles ivy insisted on earlier.
she’d found them in a box in a cabinet, alongside an assortment of halloween costumes and christmas baubles and easter ornaments. you’d all agreed, whilst taking turns in trying on the creepy clown and sexy nurse costumes, that the airbnb host had been trying to cover all their bases. it was almost endearing, in a way.
hence, tonight, it’s all uneven pillars of wax pooling at the bases across the table, causing shadows to flicker across everyone’s faces. after fishing them out of their box, she’d set them all up herself and, following the lengthy drive up, no one else really had the energy to fight her on it. so, the soft amber glow is the only lighting in the cabin’s otherwise dim dining room.
the table’s also been clumsily dressed with mismatched, floral tablemats you’d set down earlier, after finding them in one of the kitchen drawers. it’s a far cry from the small pyramid of canned drinks precariously balancing in the center of the dinner table. all sorts of beer and soju and soft drinks, condensation running down their sides, half of them already open, already finished.
unlike the food.
“it’s literally fucking raw.”
“it’s not that bad!” january frowns indignantly.
“jan.” red pointedly stabs a fork into his meatball which, as if on cue, topples off his plate from the force, landing on the wooden floor with a ceramic clink. “you know you’re supposed to defrost the meat before you cook it, right?”
“what the fuck?” nico frowns, examining his spaghetti up close, voice low and absolutely devastated. “jan, what the actual fuck? why is it rubbery?”
january sits low in her seat, arms crossed and voice petulant. her red hair is nearly as bright as the angry blush mottling her freckled skin. “maybe next time you can all help us, then?”
“us?” krish barks a laugh as he gently blows on his spoonful of his cashew curry. “nah, i had no hand in that shit whatsoever.”
as if to prove his point, ivy nods between frantic sips of cold milk, haphazardly wiping her nose after every bite. everyone politely ignores the pile of crumpled tissues by her plate. "krish’s curry's pretty good.”
“sorry,” nico gripes, indignantly pushing his own plate away, “not all of us have high spice tolerances like you and your boyfriend, ivy. some of us have human tastebuds.”
“your loss,” krish laughs lightly. “have fun cleaning up my leftovers later, mate.”
“yeah, in your fucking dreams. jan made this shit, so she can clean it up.”
“oh, shut up.” january groans dramatically, despite also having given up on the sad excuse of spaghetti sitting in her plate, seemingly untouched. “i literally already cooked.”
“you half cooked,” nico points out, holding his head in his hands in absolute dismay. “that doesn’t count when the meat’s still frozen in the middle. i’m pretty sure we’ll all be dead by the morning.”
“cheers to that, jan,” krish interjects, “about time darling nicholas bites the dust.”
“didn’t know we had comedy club at the table,” the brunette retorts.
red clears his throat decisively. “well, i already helped with dinner so i’m definitely not on dishes.”
“he’s not lying,” ivy adds, squeezing a generous amount of lemon juice into her serving of the curry, “red stirred the spaghetti for a bit. i saw.”
“he stirred it once,” nico scoffs. “don’t piss me off.”
“which is more than you bothered to do.”
“i did help,” nico insists with a frown. “i set the table!”
“you put out two forks, mate.” krish adds. “incorrectly.”
“you know what?” nico groans, wearily running a hand through his unruly curls. “you’re right. i should have shoved the fork up your ass, instead.”
“guys!” january throws her hands up in exasperation. “shut the fuck up! you want to be petty? ivy and i did the most, okay? so that means you three freeloaders can clean up.”
“you’re actually joking,” krish says. “i literally made a whole pot of curry—”
“three?” nico echoes, raising an eyebrow.
“you, krish, and red.” ivy clarifies softly, licking off the last of the curry from her spoon like she’s already finished arguing. her usually pale cheeks are flushed a warm pink from all of krish’s spices; seemingly having grown no more accustomed to her boyfriend’s cooking, despite the frequency at which she seemed to happily indulge in it.
“wait, but i thought you just said red helped—”
“yep.” jan claps her hands brightly, putting an end to the argument. “and, lucky for him, now he can help again!”
the table erupts with noise, as red launches into a dramatic tirade about 'feeling victimised' by the friend group.
seated at the very edge of the dinner table, you’re afforded a merciful out from the conversation. you sit with your chin resting on your hand, eyes tracing the rim of your plate (untouched) while trying to seem engaged, despite being lost in your own thoughts.
sitting directly across from you, the candlelight casting long shadows over his face, flickering gold in his dark eyes, dean says nothing despite all the surrounding clamour. but that’s not really what’s bothering you, no—
it’s the fact that you can feel his eyes on you.
you try not to meet his gaze, instead choosing to stare at the intricate lace edges of the patterned tablecloth resting beneath your plate. but it doesn’t matter how much of an effort you make to lose yourself within the loops and curls; your fingers drum restlessly against the table, itching for red to finish his food so that you can hole up in your room, undisturbed for the rest of the night.
“sugar,” dean leans forward just slightly, head tilted.
just my luck.
“sweetness,” he murmurs, again. “pass me that glass of water, won’t you?”
you slide the glass toward him, careful not to meet his eyes.
“thank you.”
you stare at your plate. “it’s fine.”
desperate for an out, you shift in your seat, leaning slightly toward red, who, true to his word, is sitting right besides you. he’s engaged in some loud debate with krish, defending himself from victim complex allegations. you think about leaning over or tapping his shoulder but you really don’t want to draw anyone else’s attention; both to dean’s feelings, or your avoidance of them.
instead, you decide to give him a quick, little nudge with your foot. subtle enough to get his attention, without causing a scene at the table.
feigning indifference, you absently push around the cold spaghetti on your plate as your leg swings out underneath the table and knocks against his ankle.
hard.
except he doesn’t so much as flinch. you spare him a quick glance, surprised, at first, to find that he’s still mid-rant, an insistent finger pointing at krish, who is allegedly guilty of ‘emotional manipulation.’
(“wow, mate. it’s because i’m brown, isn’t it?” — “no, but you are going to be black and blue if you don’t shut the actual fuck up.”)
in other words; he’s completely unaware.
the realisation dawns on you laughably late. and when it does, you turn around, slow and cautious. eyes flickering to face the man directly in front of you.
but dean’s already looking at you
—of course he is.
there’s something lurking in his stygian eyes as he takes you in. something akin to glee. the moment you catch a glimpse of it, you’re overcome by the feeling of having fucked up.
and then, almost as if on cue; beneath the table, dean’s leg presses back against yours.
you freeze.
the pressure is subtle, at first. just a coy nudge.
hi, sweetness.
but then he shifts; his foot, slow and deliberate, sliding up the side of your calf like he owns the space between you. there’s an entitlement in the movement which forces your eyes to snap up to his, but he only smiles wordlessly in response. so infuriatingly sweet and slow, as if he’s in on some private joke and, well—don’t you want to be a part of it, too?
you try to pull away under the table; his leg follows. you nudge again, harder. a futile effort at yanking your foot away. he only watches you, lazily running a finger along the rim of his glass.
you try to pull back under the table, subtle and cautious, but much to your dismay, even your very best efforts are all for nothing. he shifts again, just slightly, and the full weight of his calf presses in right up against yours. you feel an involuntary shudder roll down your spine at the way his limbs so effortlessly trap yours; effectively rendering you immobile.
keeping you in your place.
and the worst part of it all is that he’s not even trying to be subtle now. there’s something so enviously lazy in the way he cages your leg with his, as if this is just how things are.
you nudge again, harder this time—a dull sense of panic settling in; the sort you imagine overcomes a small woodland animal once it realises its somehow wandered into the jaws of a bear trap—but he only breathes a soft, airy laugh. low, and pleased.
he always has been stronger than you.
easy, sugar, you can almost feel his fingers gently trailing down your side; swear you can hear his heart beating in your head; steady. slow. you’re not going anywhere.
-
hours later, you rise from rustling sheets and slide into your slippers, casting a cautionary glance over at red, who’s still sleeping soundly on the other side of the double bed.
you need water.
quietly, you slink out of the room, silently closing the door behind you as you pad down the hall, sticking close to the staircase’s railing as you make your way downstairs in the dark. every step creaks louder than you’d like; old, wooden steps groaning in protest beneath your weight, despite your best efforts to move quietly.
the clock in the living room reads 04:13 when you pass it on the way to the kitchen, the only source of light being from a gap in the kitchen window curtains; letting in a sliver of moonlight that falls over the checkered tiles.
the house is completely quiet, save for the soft, constant hum of the refrigerator in the background. the others had gone to bed a few hours after dinner, having played a few rounds of uno and lamenting over the decline of the grad job market.
you tiptoe across the cool tiles barefoot, cringing when the refrigerator hums louder as you pass. your mouth is dry, from too many soju shots and not enough water—and you hadn’t realized until now, staring down the overflowing sink, that no one had bothered with the dishes from dinner.
shocker.
that means that the only clean glasses, much to your dismay, are all tucked away in the overhead cabinet above the sink. you open it with a soft creak and stretch upward, tilting forward on the tips of your toes to reach for one; fingertips grazing against the base of the glass. just barely skimming against the surface.
almost—
then you feel it; a solid presence at your back. somebody bigger than you, pressed up right against you so that you’re slotted, almost folded, against the kitchen counter.
before you can react, a hand reaches past your shoulder, all tan muscle and dark hair. you feel him stretch behind you, his body lined up against yours, arm brushing past your ear as he takes the glass down with casual ease, before carefully shutting the cabinet closed.
“there you go, sugar.”
you feel him lean in, as he reaches to turn on the tap, too. you watch, completely silent, as he fills your glass up before setting it down before you on the counter with a sharp clink.
he makes no move to pull away, and so, you find yourself staying perfectly still.
“you need help drinking it too, darlin’?” his voice is low. a little hoarse, as if he’s just been dragged out of the dregs of sleep. at your continued silence, low laughter follows, scratching at your insides like gravel. “all you’ve gotta do is ask, sweet thing. all you have to do is talk t’me.”
he’s close. too close. you can feel the heat of his body, against yours; the space between you feeling far more precarious than it should.
“thank you, dean.” you don’t reach for the glass that he’s set down for you.
“you’re avoiding me,” he hums softly.
he lets the words hang in the air for a moment before leaning down to bury his face in the crook of your shoulder. your fingers dig into the counter, as you make a feeble attempt to inch away from him, only succeeding in trapping yourself further.
“are you tryin' to make me jealous?”
“no,” you grit out. “get off me. please.”
undeterred, dean takes a long, languid drag; breathing you in shamelessly, as his fingers intertwine with yours along the edge of the counter. you feel his lips against your skin, curling into a small, knowing smile. “y’know,” he drawls. “there are other ways to get my attention.”
maybe it’s the absence of his smiling eyes and those hungry teeth; so eager to be all over you. so shameless. something about the darkness… not being able to see his face, even though you know he’s right behind you. it’s maddening. emboldening.
“dean. stop. i don’t like you.”
a pause.
then, as if you’ve confessed something tender; his voice drops to a low, coaxing whisper.
“so you want me to chase you?”
and there’s something hopeful in it, like he actually means it. like he’s waiting for you to say yes. your heart stutters.
“i don’t like you, dean,” you manage, but it sounds smaller than you mean it to. “please, stop. i don’t want you to—what, chase me."
he lets out a quiet breath of a laugh. “oh, sugar,” he chides teasingly. you watch his fingers untwine from yours, ghosting up the side of your arms before he finally steps away from you— “you can’t jus’ look at me all sweet at dinner and then cry wolf, baby.”
you turn on your heels to face him, brandishing the glass between you two like a makeshift weapon. your hands are trembling; your hold on it blatantly precarious. you can almost hear the resounding crash. almost feel the shards find themselves folded into your skin.
his eyes flash, and you understand in that moment that violence is something he understands clearly.
come closer, and see what happens.
your hold on the glass tightens incredulously, exasperation settling in. “i wasn’t looking at you like that.”
“yeah?” dean’s smile is quiet now. soft, even—almost boyish. and yet, you don’t trust it any more. you can see the cracks in him; glimpse something unstable underneath, despite the way his hands slip into his pockets with an easy, indifferent charm. “that’s what you’re telling yourself?”
“that’s the truth.” you insist, through narrowed eyes. “you have to leave me alone.”
"yeah?" he hums, as if considering something. “you sure you wanna be all alone, baby?”
“yes.”
“alright, sugar.” you hear him sigh, like he had expected that. weary and hopeful in all the wrong places. “but you’re makin’ me work real hard for it, aren’t you?”
the air feels colder the second he turns to leave. and then he’s gone; just like that.
the world picks up around you only when you find yourself alone. goes right back to normal; the refrigerator’s low hum settling in to fill the heavy silence once more. that sliver of the night sky casting a deep blue sort of sadness to well up within you. you don’t dare move an inch until you hear the sound of his footsteps up the creaking stairs.
and then it strikes you, like lighting a match. the glass almost falls from your hands, almost shatters in only the way fragile things fall apart when you let them.
you’d never heard dean come down the stairs, behind you.
-
“wow,” red notes, peering at you over his sunnies. “you look like shit.”
“shut up,” you mutter irritably, thrusting the bottle of sunscreen into his hands. “i didn’t sleep well.”
it’s only a thursday afternoon, and yet the sky opens in a perfect blue stretch overhead, clouds as thin as scattered gauze. sunlight glitters across the lake like it’s been dusted in crushed glass, the water cool and inviting against the sticky, humid air that clings to your skin.
you’re ankle-deep in the lake, wading beside red, the two of you walking slowly along the shallows, toes sinking into the silty floor, just as he nudges you gently with his shoulder. “are you sure you’re just tired?”
“i told you,” your gaze flicks up toward the others. “late night.”
he doesn’t press, opting to just keep a comfortable pace besides you, still dripping wet from an earlier dive.
further out on the lake, the little wooden pier creaks under the weight of nico and january. dean’s sitting at the edge with them, feet submerged in the water. there’s a towel slung over his shoulder; bare, tanned skin catching the light.
from this angle, his brown eyes gleam a bright gold, and you wait, stupidly, for him to look over at you—some sort of recognition. a smile. a brief glance.
nothing comes.
they're in the middle of some stupid breathing contest; their laughter carrying all the way across the surface of the water, louder than the gentle hush of it against the shore.
“alright, rules are simple,” january announces, holding up a finger. she’s dressed in a silver swimsuit which catches the sun like a discoball, and the sight of it makes you warm because it's just so quintessentially her. “last one to come up wins.”
“you were under for like ten seconds last round,” nico points out. “you sure this is the game you wanna play?”
“that was practice!” she insists. “let’s go again.”
you tear your gaze away from them, shoulders stiffening, and red notices.
“what happened?” he asks lowly, not looking at you.
you hesitate. the sun is warm, the water gentle. but the memory of last night clings to you, stubborn, obstinate.
“dean... cornered me, i guess.” you murmur slowly, watching the gentle undulations of the water lap against you. “in the kitchen, last night, i went down for some water and he found me.”
red straightens subtly beside you, voice sharp despite its softness. “are you okay?”
“i think so? he was being really weird, and honestly, i don’t really want to talk about it but…” you glance back toward the pier where dean’s now diving backward into the water. the surface breaks with a splash as he hits the water. “but he did agree to leave me alone. so. small wins, i guess.”
red’s jaw tightens. “i’m sorry.”
“what? why?” you turn to him, brows furrowed. you’re trying to search his face for something—anything—but he stays turned away from you. still close. just closed. “you didn’t do anything.”
“yeah. exactly.”
“...red.” you gingerly reach for his arm. “i’m not mad at you.”
“just,” he runs a frustrated hand through his wet hair, “wake me up next time, will you?”
“okay. i’ll… i’ll keep that in mind. thank you. again.”
you both fall silent, letting the splash of diving bodies and the faint shrieks of laughter fill the quiet space between you.
closer to shore, ivy and krish are tangled up on a towel, a messy tangle of limbs and lovesick glances. krish breaks off red grapes from their stems before indulgently placing them on her tongue. despite the wide-brimmed sunhat she’s wearing, you can still make out the way she lets his fingers linger past her lips, unblinking as she admires him in the sunlight. they look like they’re on a different plane of reality entirely.
somewhere safe, and untouched.
you wish you could stay right here; suspend this all in amber—forever remain enveloped in the warmth of the sun, surrounded by the sort of joy that feels familiar and comfortable.
but the moment fractures dangerously when red suddenly stops short, squinting towards the deeper part of the lake, up ahead of the pier.
“where’s nico?”
you follow his line of sight. january’s surfaced, panting and laughing, slicking her wet hair back, the fresh red dye staining the palms of her pale hands.
dean’s broken through the surface, too. quietly wading in the water, whilst looking around.
“nico?”
his name hangs in the air.
a moment passes.
then another.
“nicholas?” january calls.
and another.
you scan the water with growing urgency. dean twists around in the lake, pushing wet hair out of his eyes, as he squints at january. “he went under just before me,” he says. “you haven’t seen him come back up yet?”
“no! nico?” she calls again, louder this time. dean dips back under the water, but you already know the lake is far too murky to make out anything beyond the shape of your own hands right in front of you.
still nothing.
your stomach curls. red’s already swimming toward the pier with long, powerful strokes, the same thought written all over his face, while january treads water anxiously nearby.
“guys!” krish shouts from the shoreline, shielding his eyes from the harsh sun overhead. you turn to him as he frantically points towards the cabin. “should i get my phone and call—”
just then, something bursts up from the water right behind january.
“boo.”
she screams, nearly going under again. red startles in the water. dean curses out loud. even ivy yelps from her towel on shore, clasping a hand over her mouth in surprise.
“motherfucker!”
nico’s grinning wildly, curls plastered to his forehead, gasping from the effort of staying under so long. “oh my god,” he rasps, “you should’ve seen your faces!” he shrieks, grabbing on to the edge of the dock and slapping it triumphantly. “worth every fucking second. i mean, christ, guys!"
“you little shit,” january growls, “i thought you were dead!”
“never say that again,” red mutters, climbing onto the dock beside them. but you don’t miss the way his expression eases, just slightly. an almost imperceivable shift of his features from scorn into something closer to concern. “i almost fucking dove after you.”
“what the fuck?” nico reaches for his towel, glancing over at red through narrowed eyes. “i think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he ventures cautiously.
red shrugs. “only took you nearly dying.”
back in the shallows, you can’t help but feel overwhelmed with a sudden wave of gratitude. the paranoia of the moment already passed. the sun is shining, the birds are singing, and the sky is blue. and here you are, tucked away in this little pocket of the world with some of the people you care about most.
jan waves you over from the pier, where nico’s somehow wrangled red back into the water, the earlier anxiety already washed away, replaced by something warmer. “chicken fight!” she squeals, clapping her hands.
“you’re gonna regret that,” you warn her.
you pointedly ignore dean as he passes you on the pier.
“yeah?” jan challenges, already climbing into nico’s shoulders. “make me.”
but you don’t need an invitation. you’re already at the deep end.
-
this far in the deep country, the stars shine with a brilliance you’ve never really seen before.
no pollution. no skyscrapers. just the stretch of the night, as far as you can see. you’ve got this brilliant, titillating feeling that if you were to reach out, you might be able to gather it all in your hands. fistfuls of everything and nothing all at the same time.
the sky is a pale black, dusted with whorls of purple and dotted with suns that shine from galaxies millions of light years away. all seven of you are lying down on the grass by the lake’s shore, limbs spread out and intertwined, a tangled heap of spindly arms and long legs exhausted from a long, lazy afternoon under the sun; so lost in the sky above, so uncaring of the dirt stains on your clothes. you take turns in pointing out constellations that don’t even exist, inventors of your own delight.
it’s only what feels like hours later that you yawn, curling into red and decisively announcing that you’re “going to go shower.” you move to break away from him, whilst he blinks up at you slowly as you draw yourself up, onto your knees. “before all the warm water’s gone.”
“alright.” red says, already turning back to the stars. “i’m right behind you.”
you gather up your towel, wrapping it around yourself as you slide into your sandals and trek back up the hill, into the cabin. the door’s unlocked, and you nudge it open with your foot, too tired to even make sure you close it behind you; red will be up in a second, anyways.
the water takes less time than you’d imagined to heat up; only fifteen minutes. you leave the shower running as you sit perched on the side of the bathtub, peeling off your wet swim shorts. in the small space of the bathroom, the salt of the lake lingers, silt and sand sticking to your skin.
“shit,” you barely manage to catch a glimpse of your hair in the mirror, already fogging up. tentatively working your fingers through the knots and tangles, you almost miss it beneath the spray of the water; the shrill ringing of the landline down the hall.
better get that.
with a roll of your eyes, you decide to keep the shower running as you wrap a fresh towel around yourself, unlocking the bathroom door and stepping out into the hallway. the cabin is almost entirely quiet, save for the ringing, and the laughter that wafts in through the open windows from all the way down by the lake.
you reach for the handset, irritation dampened by a dull sense of awe at the sight of the little teal handline. looks expensive, probably vintage. “hello?” you twirl the cord between your fingers as you speak into the transmitter. an expectant silence follows, but there’s no response.
instead, you manage to make out a strange, shuffling sound. like white noise, almost.
“is anyone there?” you venture politely. nothing. and then, just as you’re about to hang up, thinking of it as nothing more than someone ringing the wrong number—
“hi, sugar.”
an awfully staticky voice. deep and distinctively masculine, yet wholly unrecognisable over the phone.
you frown, your earlier amusement being replaced by a prickling sense of apprehension instead. your fingers hold onto the cord tighter, almost like a lifeline, and you can barely hear the sound of your own voice over the heavy, grainy breathing over the line. “dean?” you mutter, eyes darting to the front door. “is that you?”
low, distorted laughter follows. mocking and derisive in its drawl.
“no,” the man sighs, almost sadly. “but you’ll wish it was.”
“wait! who is—”
the line goes flat. a constant crackling follows, and it feels like popping candy in your head.
who was that?
the cabin feels bigger than it had almost five minutes ago. emptier, too. you set down the handheld in its cradle, already intent on heading back to the bathroom. the towel feels abrasive against your skin, and you’re eager to wash the day away, already. to be clean again, under the nice warm water.
once again, you lock the door behind you, peel your towel off. you turn to the mirror before stepping into the shower, and there, waiting for you so sweetly; an arc, stretched upwards; above it, two circles. unmistakably eyes. an unmissable smile.
a happy face stares right back at you through the fogged up mirror.
-
you don’t mention it to anyone.
the door wasn’t locked, and you know your friends’ inclinations for harmless pranks. small little, fucked up things which are designed to scare. you refuse to give them a reaction, and besides, after you’ve taken your shower and everyone else’s piled into the cabin, turn by turn, for their own—you’ve almost forgotten all about it, more important matters at hand that require your rapt attention.
“jesus,” red mutters. “i haven’t played cards against humanity in years.”
“gotta have friends to play games, mate.” krish smiles, arms wrapped around ivy as he examines the cards in her hands from over her shoulder.
red flips him off from where he’s lying upside down on the couch, head dangling off the edge of the seat, as he thumbs through his own cards.
from beside the heavy, leather couches, the fireplace crackles deliciously, flames casting warped shadows against the wooden walls. the four of you are curled up in the living room, sans january, dean and nico, a half-finished game of cards against humanity splayed out on the coffee table between you—white cards dealt with varying degrees of shame and glee.
you set a black card from the deck down on the table, reading it aloud for the rest of the group. “one can never have enough…”
red whistles lowly when ivy, the first to play, unceremoniously flips her own card over. “altar boys? nice, and aren't you christian?"
“you literally played the nazi card right before this,’” ivy returns, leaning back into krish. "and no, going to church once a week doesn't make me christian."
“hate the game,” red shrugs, tossing his own card down. “not the player.”
krish is about to say something when january stumbles into the room, red hair dripping wet onto the wooden floor, a dye-stained towel haphazardly wrapped around her.
“right, has anyone seen nico?” she asks, crossing her arms. “i think he nicked my conditioner.”
“nope,” you put down your own card, turning back to the game at hand, just as ivy frowns, pushing away from krish to sit up.
“he came in last, right?” she looks around for confirmation, but only krish nods.
“yeah, he said he’d go after me. something about no point anymore, since all the hot water was probably gone. i mean, he might still be outside if you can’t find him, jan.”
“ugh,” she runs her hands over her face, “guys, i really hate to ask but can one of you go down and check? i just showered and i don’t wanna risk a cold by going outside.”
“i’ll go,” you offer, putting your hand face down on the table. “i showered first, so it’s all good.”
“i’ll come with.” red says, stretching. you think you hear a joint or two cracking as he reaches out, like a cat. he swings off the side of the couch’s edge.
you slip into a random pair of slides, left by the front door as red pushes it open, and the two of you step out into the chill of the night.
the porch light is bright against the darkness outside. moths flicker to the light, hitting the naked bulb, but beyond that, it’s just the vast black of the lake and the pines hemming it in.
“fifty bucks says he fell asleep by the water,” you joke, breath fogging in the air.
“hundred says he’s taking the piss,” red mumbles, fiddling with his phone to turn on his flashlight. “and i’m about to fall victim to it for the second time today. christ, he’s good.”
past the dock, the water is almost completely black, reflectant of the sky above. faintly, you catch the twinkle of a flickering star in the reflection, but it never really remains; only a facsimile of the world above, obscuring the depths below.
having made it down the hill, you follow red out onto the pier instead, nico nowhere to be seen by the shore.
“i can’t believe we were both wrong,” red marvels. “he’s stupider than we thought. went for a fucking swim, did he?”
“all alone?” you ask hesitantly, looking around for any sign of him. “that’s fucking weird. i don’t think even nico would do something like that.”
“don’t give him too much credit.” red mutters under his breath, “probably fancied himself a dip in the dark.”
the wooden planks groan dangerously beneath your weight, protesting with each step further. it smells of damp wood, old water, and something faintly metallic.
you see him then, you think. or rather, the outline of him—
“there!” you point, grabbing onto red's arm, “i think you were right. i think he’s in the water.”
“nico!” red calls. “very funny. bravo. now come inside and give jan her shit back before she kills us all, please.”
no movement.
the light of the torch lands on nico, floating in the water. his limbs are slick, head tilted just above the surface, the water lapping at his chin like it might cradle him to sleep. you get the sense than that something is very wrong, instinctively turning to red, fingers digging deeper into his skin.
“red, why is he—”
“holding his breath,” he reassures you. “you literally saw him do it today, baby blue. please just help him up so we can go inside. if i get too close, he’ll probably pull me into the lake with him and it’s cold as shit right now.”
“okay.” you let go of red, crouching down and reaching an arm out to your friend. the tips of your fingers brush the wet chill of his sleeve, and your voice is hesitant as you pull at it. “nico. please get up.”
your pleas fall on deaf ears, and for a long minute, the only sound in the darkness is the lapping of the lake against the pier.
“fucking hell, nico. joke’s over. get the fuck up, already.” irritated, red thrusts his phone into your hands and steps around you, impatiently hooking an arm under nico’s shoulders and rolling him over. his body slaps the water with a crash, but he doesn’t so much as move.
even you and red remain rooted to the spot. everything comes to a halt. in the split second before you drop the phone into the lake, you manage to catch the way his eyes reflect the night sky. pale black and purple stars. glazed over and glassy.
still. wide open.
dead.
your gaze drops, then, to his chest. the hilt of a kitchen knife juts upward, buried in his open mouth, twisting the soft flesh in a horrific, silent scream. blood pours from out of his lips, pooling dark and sticky around the blade. it stains his chin in rivulets which seep into the murky water, spreading like a galaxy of its own.
you’ve found nico, it seems.
-
“and you saw that he’s—” ivy starts, voice breaking. she doesn’t even manage to finish before a sob rips through her, and krish pulls her close, steadying her trembling shoulders.
“he’s dead.” red confirms flatly, perched on the edge of the couch. he refuses to meet anyone’s eyes, and so you’ve resorted to sitting besides him instead, his hands clasped in your own, thumb rubbing circles against his ice-cold skin.
“we could be next,” krish says quietly but firmly, looking around at everyone. “we need to get the fuck out of here before whoever is out there—” he glances at the front door, now locked and deadbolted. “decides to pay us a visit in here.”
“krish is right. we need to leave. they could be outside right now,” you add. “who’s got the car keys?”
“no! are you stupid?” january cries indignantly, pacing across the room. “if some psycho killer really is waiting out there, the last thing we want to do is open that door!”
“we should call the police.” dean suggests, “that way, i’m sure we’ll all feel safer.”
“yes! great idea. and,” january snaps her fingers triumphantly, brightening up. “the landline doesn’t rely on service to make the connection!”
without another word, the redhead turns on her heels, setting off down the hall. the rest of you follow, some faster than others, but ultimately, all six of you are gathered around the landline, an expectant, heavy quiet settling over the group.
she grabs the receiver, barely stopping to catch her breath, a shaky finger pressing the keypad for emergency service’s number as she puts it up to her ear, waiting for the sound of the landline ringing; creating the connection that your lives may very well depend on.
but nothing follows, except silence.
and that’s when she gasps, pulling at the cord; watching, helplessly, as it comes away without being pulled taut. no tension. just an easy incision.
somebody’s cut the cord.
the shock hits the room like a physical blow, and ivy physically collapses, her legs giving out from under her. krish works to hold her up, holding her close as she pales, hands clasped over her mouth, and eyes wide. everyone stares at the cord, severed in two, one half of which has come apart in jan’s hand.
silence stretches thick until dean breaks it, voice sharp.
“did you two see the weapon?”
“yes!” you yell, frustration boiling over. how many times have you told them the story? how many times have you recounted every gory image in excruciating detail? how much more will it take for them to understand? “for the millionth time—it was a knife! he was stabbed in his fucking mouth!”
“was it one of ours?” dean presses, ignoring your outburst. “was it from the cabin kitchen?”
understanding dawns late and laughably slow, the pieces clicking together to form a horrible picture. red tenses besides you, his hold on your hand growing painfully tighter as everyone turns to dean.
“you’re not saying…” krish ventures cautiously, mouth gaping open and closed. open and closed. as if he can’t quite seem to pick out the words he needs to say it. to voice what everyone else has already begun to realise.
january looks at dean sharply. “you think it’s one of us?”
“it’s not a question of if. it’s a matter of who.” dean’s smile is slow, almost amused. “which one of us killed nico?”
“i don’t believe that,” january interjects, eyes welling up with tears. “the last thing we need right now is to start pointing fingers at each other. i mean, do you even hear yourself?”
“i hear him,” krish says, stepping forward. besides him, even ivy’s gone eerily still. “who’s actually used the landline so far?”
you’re the only one who puts your hand up.
everyone turns to look at you.
“when did you last use it?” krish asks. his voice is low but firm. “and who did you call?”
“i mean, i didn’t call anyone,” you frown, gaze flickering between everyone. there’s something about being the object of everyone’s undivided attention, for all the wrong reasons. something about the way they’re staring at you, as if… “it was a prank call, i think. it came when i was about to shower.”
“you went to shower first,” ivy recalls quietly, chewing on her lip. her voice is shaky, as her gaze wanders to the landline. “you were in the cabin all alone until red left, right?”
krish narrows his eyes. “and red left twenty minutes later.”
“it seemed inconsequential!” you argue. “i thought someone was playing a prank on me!”
“you were the last person to use the phone,” krish crosses his arms. “and now, it’s suddenly not working.
“what the fuck are you implying?” you laugh wildly. “that i killed nico? you think i'm the one who stabbed him, krishank?”
“i think,” his jaw tenses. “that we’re missing something here.”
“mm.” dean shrugs, leaning against the wall to examine you. his appraisal is shameless, dark eyes roaming all over your body, before landing on your hands, intertwined with red’s. “that’s more than enough time to cut the cord and swipe the knife from the kitchen, baby.”
“okay,” red scoffs. “cheers, dollar detectives. can someone please call the police now? you know, like the actual police? whose actual job it is to arrest murderers?”
“where’s your phone, red?”
“let me think,” he makes a show of tapping on his chin, before gasping in faux shock. “oh, yeah! i think i dropped it into the lake when i saw my friend’s. dead. body. sorry, i hope that’s okay with you guys."
“i’ll go—” january pushes past red and krish, heading upstairs. “i left mine to charge before heading down to the lake.”
you hear her hurried footsteps clamber overhead as she storms into her room; the ensuing sound of a desperate search. something shatters. something heavy is dragged across the floor.
downstairs, everyone strains to listen close, before the sound of her frantic voice fractures the silence, cutting straight through it and shattering the precarious illusion, “i can’t—” she stumbles down the stairs, wide eyes and all. “i can’t find my phone.”
“what do you mean you can’t find it?” ivy’s voice pitches higher than usual, and she’s already digging both hands into the pockets of her jumper, pulling out nothing but a crumpled receipt and a stick of gum. “no, no, no… god, please, no.”
krish pats himself down, quick, jerky movements. he scoffs. “where the hell—? i had it. i literally had it on me before we started playing cards.”
“let’s just double check.” ivy’s already down in the living room, krish right behind her, yanking the couch cushions out from their place before tossing them to the floor behind him. you eye the fireplace, flames put out, but coal still burning hot, as ivy crouches down, arms reaching out in the gaps under the sofa, the tables, “i’m sure we’ll find them and—”
“okay. fuck this. do you really buy that we’ve all suddenly lost our phones at the same time?” krish snaps, his voice loud enough to make everyone flinch. “or do you think—”
“don’t say it.” january’s breathing hard, hair falling into her face as she shakes her head violently. “it’s not true.”
“someone took them.” ivy whispers.
dean whistles lowly, folding his arms over his chest. “we should stick together, then. keep an eye on eachother. nobody leaves the cabin.”
“no chance,” krish shakes his head, grabbing ivy’s wrist and pulling her to the front door. she looks back over her shoulder helplessly as krish fishes in his jeans for the car keys, but otherwise says nothing even when he unlocks the front door, pushing it open. “fuck that, mate. me and my girl are getting out of here, but you guys are welcome to stick around.”
“i mean, he— he has a point,” you argue, looking to red. “all we have to do is drive down to the nearest police station, right? at least we’d feel safer spending the night there.”
january hesitates, but visibly shaken, it’s all she can do to just nod along with whatever everyone else is saying, trembling fingers playing with a loose curl. “okay, i— yeah. okay. let’s go. let’s just get away from this place.”
dean shrugs, but pushes himself off the wall and follows. “don’t say i never warned you.”
nobody bothers to go back up to their rooms and gather their things. when the door does open, all everyone leaves with is the clothes on their back. you make an effort not to look out towards the lake, the pier. focus, instead, on the sound of gravel crunching beneath your feet as you follow everyone else down the driveway.
it’s cold outside, and the trees above rustle with the wind, every minute snap of a branch or twig causing your hair to stand on end. even still, it’s a reprieve from the suffocating atmosphere inside the cabin.
finally, you spot the car in the clearing ahead. still parked exactly where you’d left it. you let out a breath of relief you didn’t know you were holding as krish sidles up to the front door, ivy stumbling into the passenger seat as it unlocks. he turns the keys in the ignition and you wait outside as red climbs in first.
over your shoulder, you turn to glance at the cabin one last time, the warm yellow lights still left on from the open windows; the billowing lace curtains swaying with the breeze. it’s only when your gaze drifts to the darkness of the lake beyond the cabin that you hear the crunch of the makeshift road when dean crouches down, at the exact moment krish slams the steering wheel, repeatedly punching the horn, which blares in the night to no response.
“would you look at that?” dean murmurs softly, running a hand over the rubber almost reverently. you follow his gaze and freeze, just as he turns to you with a knowing smile. “look’s like someone’s slashed our tires.”
-
outside, hours and hours later, the wind’s picked up to a storm. the gale howls against the cabin walls, rattling the windows like something wild, desperate to get inside.
the fire’s burned low, a weak orange glow that only just licks at the shadows in the living room, and you feel a shiver roll down your spine despite being curled up right besides it. with slow, heavy, blinks; it takes you a few moments to make out the comforting shape of your friends in the darkness.
red and krish are half-asleep against opposite ends of the couch, shoulders slumped, breaths shallow. ivy is curled up in an armchair, knees tucked into her chest, her damp hair sticking to her face. on the coffee table, cans of beer and cruisers and soju sit emptied out and completely crushed, the alcohol still swimming warm in your stomach as you pull your blanket closer. you’d all drank yourselves to death’s door. seemed a better way to go, earlier in the evening.
something is wrong. feels off. incomplete.
one… two… three… four—
four?
your stomach lurches in a way that has nothing to do with the booze as you push yourself to your feet, nearly tripping over dean’s outstretched legs in your rush. he’s sleeping right across from you, on the opposite end of the fireplace. arms crossed, and head leaning back on the couch, you carefully step over his limbs as you frantically search for january in the darkness.
your heart sinks when you realise she’s missing, and an involuntary urge to curl up in a corner and cry overwhelms you. tears welling up in your eyes, you stumble out of the living room and down the hall, pulling on a jacket too small for you and shoving your feet into a pair of too-big shoes. too out of it to really care, you reach to open the door, but it doesn’t budge.
you try again, to no avail, rattling the doorknob as you grow more and more frustrated with each passing second.
“it’s locked, baby.”
“fuck!” you jump back, heart thundering, coming face to face with dean, who looks wildly unimpressed, yet amused at the same time. there’s a strange glint in his eyes as he takes in the sight of you, “dressed to the nines, aren’t you, gorg? and what exactly is the special occasion, sugar?”
“i’m going to look for january,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. you sound much more sober than you feel. “i’m going to go outside and… and find her.”
“oh, sweetness.” dean laughs, and the sound is just like syrup. sickeningly sweet as he pinches your cheeks and coos at you. “if i let you leave like this, you might never come back. you can barely hold yourself up straight, sugar.”
you swat his hands away. “i don’t need your permission. i’m going.”
“no.” he bites his bottom lip in a coy smile, eyes glittering. “i’m sure you don’t. but you do need these,” he taunts, fishing the keys out of his pocket and letting them dangle from one finger. “and lucky for you, i’m feeling very kind tonight.”
“why do you have those?” you frown, reaching for them.
dean’s arm shoots up, holding the keys just out of reach. you clumsily shove him in the chest, but the force only hurts you, causing you to stumble back, your spine hitting the edge of the doorframe.
the tears fall freely, now. exasperation and fear and petulance kicking in. you wish you were somewhere far away. you wish you were anywhere but where you are, with anyone else but this man. “please just gimme the keys. please. i gotta find jan…”
“nah, don’t think so, baby.” dean warns, grin still fixed but teeth showing now. “nobody ever teach you nothing good comes for free?”
you try again, grabbing for his wrist, but he twists away and hooks his free hand around your shoulder, spinning you back so that you’re pressed up right against him. the keys jingle maddeningly close to your ear as he leans in, his breath hot on your skin. he drags his tongue in a slow, deliberate stripe up the side of your neck, purring low in his throat when your sobs break free.
“tell you what,” he says, voice soft enough to make your stomach knot. “i’ll give them to you on one condition.”
“what d’you want—” you cry, voice cracking as you try to twist away.
his hand on your shoulder tightens, forcing you still. his lips ghost the corner of your jaw. “one kiss,” he breathes. “just one. i know you want to, sugar, ‘cause i see you. and you’re just like me, aren’t you?” he presses, “so hungry.”
“i’m not,” you protest weakly.
“i know, sweetness. i know. you’re starvin', aren’t you?”
the words hang between the two of you for half a second—and then he’s on you.
and it’s not gentle.
his mouth crashes against yours, teeth knocking, lips splitting under the force. his hands clamp around your waist with a terrifying strength, hauling you up so that your toes barely scrape the ground. instinctively, you wrap yourself around him and he groans into your mouth, like he’s about to consume you whole; swallowing every sound you make.
you twist, trying to pull back, but he follows—pressing you against the front door, dragging his teeth across your bottom lip hard enough to make you gasp. thick fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of your nape, roughly yanking you back back so he can bite at the corner of your mouth, lick at the sting. when you manage to turn your face away, he chases it, catching your jaw in one hand, forcing your mouth open for him again. his kiss is all teeth and breath and heat, chest heaving against yours.
your lips are throbbing and raw and when you can barely even breathe against him, some more primal instinct flares as without warning, you take his bottom lip between your teeth before clamping down just as hard, biting back fiercely.
surprise flashes in those stygian eyes for a fraction of a second as he pulls back, and you take that opportunity to prey yourself off of him, as his fingers fly to his mouth. he touches the small wound, skin splitting to blood, crimson against honeyed skin as his mouth breaks into a smile.
“wasn’t expecting that.” he admits, voice dark and amused. “can’t quite say i didn’t enjoy it, though.”
“keys,” you demand breathlessly. “you promised me the keys.”
“sure, i did.” he looks thoughtful. so impossibly beautiful in the darkness, busted lip and all. “y’know, the next time we do this, sugar, you won’t hold out on me, will you? ‘cause i’d just fuckin’ love to run that back—”
“the keys!”
his eyes flick upwards at that, even though that dimple in his cheek lingers, “so impatient. so needy, aren’t you?”
through the haze, you barely notice his hand slip from your hip to your back pocket until the cold weight of metal presses against you.
before you can stop him from following you out, he’s already disappeared down the hall with a cheerfully dismissive, “night, baby! don’t let the bugs bite ya.”
you stare at the keys in the palm of your hands and they feel, strangely, like something of a parting gift.
but you’ve got no time to give it more thought than necessary.
if anything, the last thing on your mind is to stay inside and think about dean, the sickening feeling of his tongue and hands already falling away to give way to a deep-rooted fear that only festers as you step out into the storm, hauling the door shut behind you and slipping the keys in your pocket.
the wind threatens to knock you over with each step you take, deeper into the surrounding woodlands. the trees overhead sway dangerously, and you flitter nervously, weaving between the sparse, thin trunks whilst calling out your friend’s name in the dark.
“jan!” you yell, cupping your shaking, cold hands around your bruised lips. “january!”
the rain is light, more like a drizzle, and even then, the canopy obscures you from the worst of it. the floor underneath your shoes is wet, however, soil watered and fresh and sinking with every footstep. your limbs tremble involuntarily, every nerve raw from dean’s touch, still thrumming beneath your skin. you shrug it off, unsure whether you’re venturing deeper or just running in circles.
it’s when the thought of going back to the cabin and getting help crosses your mind that, as if on cue, you spot something collapsed onto the floor just ahead of you.
squinting, you make out the edges of a human-like silhouette, but it’s only when you glimpse that vibrant red hair fanned over the ground that you fall to your knees, crawling over to her with a tremor in your voice.
“no, no, no.”
you reach out with hands that feel suddenly foreign, slick and trembling as they come to rest on a broken, limp form.
“jan? janny?” your voice is cracked, barely a whisper, desperate and fragile, your fingers shaking as they grip her arm, trying to rouse her awake with a fervent desperation. “jan, wake up, please.”
your palms press against wet, sticky blood, warmth seeping into your skin, turning your fingers red, the scent of iron thick and suffocating. you wipe your hands on the dirt, but the blood spreads, dark and relentless.
and then, your eyes drift upward, and you’re sick.
her head, or what’s left of it, is grotesquely split open, the jagged edges of her skull peeling away like rotten bark. the sickening sight of her brain; pale, and wet, spills out of the fracture, splattered on her face.
“jan.” you gag, clawing at the earth beneath you, nails scraping the muddy ground, bile rising up your throat. “please.”
your body shakes uncontrollably, a wild, panicked creature caught in the storm’s merciless grip—fragile, terrified, and utterly undone. the world narrows to the cold, light droplets of rain that dust your bloodied skin, sits on the pinpoint of a needle, narrows to become only this lifeless body before you.
you throw up, sick spilling past your swollen lips in short, heaving bursts. in your panicked state, you hear the crunching sound of leaves breaking beneath steps far too late. terrified, you desperately slap a hand over your mouth, but the vomit escapes through the cracks of your fingers.
covered in puke, and hands bloodied with the remains of jan’s head; that’s how the rest of the group stumbles upon you.
the beam of a handheld torch lands on jan’s dead body first, and you hear a scream pierce the dark just as the light slowly shifts to fall onto you.
-
someone slaps your cheek lightly. tap. tap.
“wake up, sleeping beauty. you’re in biiig trouble today, baby.”
your eyes flutter open, and it takes you a few minutes to register where you are, to remember what happened last night—
someone shoves a jug into your face as you begin to retch, latching onto the makeshift vomit bag with all your force as it all comes rushing back. never the whole series of events. more like frames, imposing upon each other. gaps, in some places, between faint phantom touches. biting down on something soft. the coldness of the keys in your hands. the crinkling leaves on which you collapsed. january.
oh, god.
january—
red rubs circles into your back, pushing your matted hair out of your face. the sick dribbles down your chin, and he carefully dabs a tissue over your face in an attempt to clean you up somewhat. he looks guilty, when you finally turn to him. and you’re about to ask why, when the door to your bedroom suddenly swings open.
“oh. you’re finally awake. sleep well?” krish asks flatly. he seems uninterested in any answers, and so you keep your mouth shut, finding its not too difficult considering the splitting headache you can feel coming on. the bags under his eyes are prominent even against the dark brown of his skin as he stares you down from the doorframe. “what do you want for breakfast?”
“i—” you wince as your voice cracks, but he doesn’t react. “i’ll fix myself something in a moment.”
“no,” he states simply. “you’re not leaving this room.”
you stare at him from where you’re curled up on the bed, lowering the jug from your face and swatting red’s hands away. you stare back at your friend, waiting for an explanation to follow, but he offers absolutely none.
“sorry?” you rasp.
“hard of hearing, mate? i said you’re not going anywhere.”
“why the fuck are you talking to me like that?” your voice wavers. “january just—”
“january died. yes, i know. i saw the body.” he narrows his eyes. “saw you there, too.”
“you’re not— i’m— i went looking for her!” you splutter.
“yeah, you seemed really eager to go looking for nico too. fancy that,” krish says simply.
“you think i had something to do with this.” it’s not a question anymore.
you turn to red, but his eyes flick to somewhere behind you, and you’re surprised to find dean sitting by the window, perched on red’s bed, which is against the wall just parallel to yours. he gives you a mock salute, dark eyes glittering in the sunlight.
“what the fuck?" you blanche. "guys, what the fuck? there’s someone out there killing our friends and i’m on house arrest?”
“dean’s going to watch over you. until we find our phones or the airbnb host drives up or we come across someone who can help, all of us are staying right here.” he jabs a finger in your direction. “especially you.”
“oh, dean’s playing guard?” you spit, “that’s rich, considering he’s the one that gave me the keys to the door.”
"uhuh." krish crosses his arms, unamused. “and give me one good reason he’d do that.”
“he asked me to kiss him. he said— he said that if i kissed him, he’d hand them over. and he did.”
“so you kissed him? last night?”
“well, yes.” you flush beneath the weight of his gaze. “i–i needed the keys.”
“right. that’s funny. ‘cause it was ivy that woke up from the storm, actually. only one of us who didn’t drink at all was her, remember? and you know something? dean was passed the fuck out. he had no idea where you’d gone. or that you or jan had even left in the first place”
“no. that’s not right. i swear he was awake,” you argue. “he kissed me. ask red. dean’s liked me for a while! he’s been acting like— like he’s in love with me or something!”
“and,” red adds gently, instinctively tensing up the second all eyes turn to him. “that’s exactly why i think he wouldn’t hand you the keys. you said it yourself. we know how he feels about you. the last thing he’d do is put you in harms way, especially in light of…” red swallows, “recent events.”
“but what if it’s him?” you cry. “what if it’s dean who—”
“flattered, sugar. but i came inside with krish before we found nico, and last night, the boys had to shake me awake. booze knocked me flat out.” he smiles sweetly. “didn’t even realise i’d actually woken up until we’d stumbled across the sight of you, poor thing, all alone out there.”
“trust me,” red adds, attempting to pull you into a hug, but you push him off of you and he just lingers awkwardly at your side. hesitant, but steadfast. “this is for the best, baby blue. you could have been seriously fucking hurt last night.”
“could have been killed.” krish says, and there’s a strange look in his eyes that scares you. like he knows more than he's letting on. “come on, red. we need to leave soon if we want to be back before sunset.”
“where are you going?”
“we’re going to try and walk it. gotta come across a car or a hiker or something soon enough, right?” red says. “at least, in a group of three, one of us can run back to the cabin if…”
he doesn’t say it. he doesn’t need to.
“but you’ll be fine.” red insists. “dean’s going to stay here, looking for our phones and— you know. in case someone swings by the cabin whilst we're gone.”
“just go, then.” you turn away from him, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. “i thought you would care more.”
red looks crestfallen. “i—”
“am i interrupting?” krish presses, his lips pursed impatiently. “time to go, red. in case you forgot, we don’t have all day.”
sighing, red takes the dirty jug from your hands and wordlessly presses a chaste kiss to your forehead as he follows krish out the room without another word. without so much as a glance over his shoulder as the door swings shut behind him.
“don’t be so scared, sweetness.” dean mutters, eyes closed from where he rests on red’s beds, arms crossed behind him and legs propped up, tapping against the mattress. rhytmic. restless. “you’re safe and sound with me. promise i’ll be on my very best behaviour.”
“you were there,” you whisper. more to yourself than to him. “i know you were. you kissed me.”
“fuck, really? you keep saying that, but i jus’ don’t believe i’d ever forget something like that.”
“i know what i saw. i’m not a liar.”
“never said you were. it was a fucking gruesome sight, baby. anyone else would’ve lost their mind. i mean, her brain wasn’t even inside of her head. her skull was literally broken. you’re braver than you think.”
“stop talking to me like that.”
his eyes flutter open, and he regards you evenly through low lashes. “like what?”
“like—” you shake your head, “like i’m crazy.”
at that, he smiles, slow and sweet. as if you’ve just let him in on some amusing inside joke. “you said it, sugar. not me.”
“i hate you,” you mutter.
“keep telling yourself that. makes it easier, doesn’t it?”
“i fucking hate you. i know it’s you.”
dean laughs, moving to stand. you glare up at him as he passes you, dangling the keys to your bedroom from his fingers. an overwhelming sense of deja vu almost keels you over, but you swallow the sick down, already too exhausted to empty yourself again. you feel like a husk. some pitiful sort of shell, emptied out.
“the things you invent, darlin’. the things you’ll convince yourself of,” he smiles fondly. “when you want to be saved.”
“i just want to go home.”
“poor thing,” dean murmurs from the doorframe. sunlight from the hallway windows shines in from behind him, and you can’t make out his face; catching only the vague shape of something that resembles a man. “all alone now, aren’t you?”
“please,” you beg, “please don’t do this to me.”
“but you wanted this, sugar.” the shadow tilts his head to the side, voice low like sweet syrup. you’ve got this sinking feeling that it’s already too late. that you’re already stuck. “don’t you remember, sweetness? this is exactly what you asked for. and i’m going to give it to you.”
the door shuts and wordlessly, you watch the lock turn with a loud, resounding click.
-
later, when ivy shuffles into your room, you’re glad to find she looks almost shameful. it’s in the way she drags her feet behind her. how she clutches the tray in her hands with white-knuckled fingers.
“how very kind of you,” you murmur, taking the plate from her. “to fatten up a sitting duck.”
ivy winces, but perches on the opposite end of your bed; a safe distance away. “you’re not. a sitting duck, i mean.” at this, she meets your gaze, eyes big and brighter than you’ve seen in days. “we’ve got good news. there’s—” she swallows, leaning in closer. “there’s hope.”
you put your fork down. “you found help?”
“signs of it,” she nods, before explaining. “we came across another cabin. seemed just like ours; an airbnb, maybe even with the same host. but someone was staying there. we— we saw a car outside. laundry on the porch. a woman’s dress and baby overalls and a man’s boots by the door—”
“did—” you lean in, heart thundering in your chest at the news. “did you tell them?”
about nico. about january.
at that, she falters. her lips tug downwards into a small frown, as she absently nibbles on her bottom lip. “no… we couldn’t. they weren’t inside. we figured the family had gone fishing but we couldn’t check since it was getting dark.” she breathes out a shaky sigh, “but tomorrow, we’ll leave a note. or kick down their door. either way, we’re all good now. we found help and— and it’s going to be okay.”
you’re not sure whether she’s trying to convince you, or herself. so you say nothing. though it is a relief to learn about the possibility of help, you still felt incredibly alone and helpless, locked in a room all day, with no opportunity for any sort of vindication. as if reading your mind, ivy clears her throat then, eyes awkwardly darting away again.
“and i just wanted to say… sorry. i’m sorry for how krish has been. i’m sorry for how much of a mess even i’ve been— it’s been very stressful for us both.”
“really? because i was having the time of my life.” you return flatly.
she wrings her hands, turning back to you, a flush creeping up the side of her neck. “no, i know. of course, you get it. it’s just that— well— god, i’m not really sure how to say this. um, it’s because… and you’re one of the first to know but…” ivy shrinks into herself, peering up at you with a nervous smile. “i’m pregnant.”
your eyes instinctively fall to her belly, which she hesitantly cradles. your mind blanks, details of the last few days blurring, only the image of a little cradle coming into focus; and all that comes out is an eager “congratulations!” ivy’s face falls at that and you rush to amend yourself, suddenly feeling extremely unsure of what’s just happened. “oh. sorry, um, condolences?”
“no! no.” she shakes her head, voice thick with tears. “there’s been so much loss of life recently and—” she chokes out, swallowing. “believe me, god knows i’m grateful but, with everything going on, i just worry..."
you force yourself to sit a little straighter, pushing away the creeping unease that threatens to take root in your chest. “ivy,” you say, keeping your voice steady for her sake, “we’re getting out of here. i don’t care how long it takes, or what we have to do, but this,” you gesture vaguely at the walls, the locked door, the promise of violence which hangs in the air, “it isn’t forever. you’re going to have your baby somewhere safe.”
her eyes glass over, lashes trembling, and she presses her palms to her stomach again. “you think we’ll get home safely?”
“i know so, ivy.”
she sniffles, a watery smile breaking through. “krish… he’s been—” she pauses, chewing on the words. “he’s been awful, i know. but… he asked me to tell you he’s sorry. he hasn’t said it himself because he doesn’t—” she exhales shakily, “—he doesn’t really know how. but he’s… he’s scared. for me. for the baby. for all of us, i think. it’s easier for him to be angry than afraid.”
you picture krish, jaw tight, eyes sharp; it’s not impossible to imagine his temper as a shield, even though you don’t completely respect it, you can understand it, to some degree, with ivy sitting before you now, growing a baby, a body—a life—inside of her.
“i get it,” you nod slowly. “so… does this mean i’m allowed out now?”
and you know you’ve pushed your luck when her face crumples. “i’m sorry, it’s just— just one more night. can you hang in there? it’s not even suspicion, so much as it is about keeping everyone alive.”
“but i can help.” you protest, pointedly gesturing towards her, “you shouldn’t even be going outside! you should be here, resting—
“krish doesn't trust dean.” ivy whispers, so quietly that you’ve got to hold your breath to hear her. she glances over her shoulder to make sure the door’s closed before flittering closer, all urgent nerves. “red told him everything. that's why you’re here. they only trust themselves to go out to find help, and krish needs to keep an eye on me. you’re just…”
krish doesn't trust dean. red told him everything.
“the scapegoat.” you finish, as it all clicks into place. "the bait to keep him here."
“i’m so so so sorry,” ivy insists. “they told me not to tell you but i need you to know that—”
the rattle of the doorknob cuts her off.
the door swings open, slow and deliberate, and dean is already there, leaning one shoulder against the top part of the frame, dark eyes slide over you both, taking in the closeness, the lowered voices.
“hope i’m not interrupting,” he drawls, the lazy smile on his lips just sharp enough to nick skin.
ivy’s head snaps up, guilt flashing across her face.
“evenin’, ivy.” dean hums, “krish was looking for you jus’ now.”
ivy swallows, straightens her spine, and gives your hand one last squeeze before she wordlessly brushes past him, stiff and silent, the space between their bodies so narrow she almost shies from his touch.
dean doesn’t move from the door. his eyes stay on you, pinning you there, as ivy’s footsteps echo down the hall.
“sugar darlin’,” he greets sweetly, pushing off the doorframe with a slow roll of his shoulders, as he straightens. the change is subtle, but it makes him seem larger somehow, the room smaller. his arms fall loose to his sides, fingers flexing once like he’s working out a knot, as he steps forward, moves closer. “you two seemed close.”
“she’s one of my good friends, yes.” you smile tightly. “your point?”
with each step he takes, his heavy boots are strangely silent against the floor. he closes the distance inch by inch, and the air thickens, stretching like sweet taffy.
“you let everyone in so easy,” he muses thoughtfully, “except for me.”
he stops just a breath away, the heat from his body brushing against your skin, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that’s almost suffocating. his eyes flick down briefly to your lips, then back up.
your pulse quickens, breath hitching as you swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “that’s ridiculous.”
his mouth quirks into a knowing smile, as he leans in just enough for his breath to brush your cheek. you flinch, the closeness making your skin tingle and your heart hammer. the space between you feels razor-thin, every second stretched taut with anticipation. you get the feeling that you’ve been here before. that you’re standing on the precipice of something that might just swallow you whole.
“are you scared of me, sweetness?” dean whispers, teeth grazing your ear.
the dinner ivy had brought up for you lies cold in your lap, but your fingers curl around the fork as you will your voice to hold steady. “should i not be?”
“not scared i’ll hurt you. wouldn’t do that unless you asked me all nicely.” he hums, a sound that vibrates deep in his throat, dark and amused. “should be scared of how easy you could fall into me, though. how bad i could make you want me.”
you squeeze your eyes shut, “you’re sick in the head.”
“you make me so, darlin.’” he croons sweetly. “you do this to me.”
an involuntary shiver rolls down the length of your spine at his words, as you brace yourself, trepidation trickling in like molten lead; weighing you down. you remember the feeling of sinking your teeth into something soft and sweet, a swollen mouth, like bruised fruit—
but then, you feel him pull back.
“relax, sugar. i’m not gonna touch you.” he extricates himself from you, slow and deliberate, and this time, you can hear the sound of his every step, like something of a punishment, as he crosses the room. “not tonight.”
“you’re leaving?” your eyes flutter open, and he’s back at the door, leaning against the frame with a hand resting lazily on the doorknob.
“thought you hated me?” he tilts his head to the side curiously.
“i do,” you frown. “i just…”
“then sweet dreams, baby.” dean blows you a kiss, and laughs when you make a show of dodging it. “don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
he switches off the overhead light before he shuts the door behind him, leaving you trembling in the darkness of your room, breath ragged. for those first initial moments, you sit there, painfully aware of the realisation that he never intended to come close. that he only wanted to watch you fall apart, hoping he would.
and then, your attention snags. you stare at the door. strain your ears to look out for it; the click of the lock.
but it never follows.
-
you watch the hands on the clock tick and tick; you watch the moon in the sky, hoisted higher with each passing second. the flashing stars hung up in the darkness, which once seemed close enough for you to touch, are now suspended far beyond your reach.
it’s only when five long hours have passed do you peel the covers off and sidle up to the door. fingers wrapped around the doorknob, you’re fully ready for the possibility of it not budging before you. but when you turn it, the door yields, opening before you.
you step out into the hall.
for a moment, you’re stunned. not entirely sure what to do with our newfound freedom. the facts of the situation have remained the same. somebody is lurking and waiting to strike; a killer, on the loose. one who could be sleeping, at this very moment, in one of the rooms down the hall from your own. you decide that your best course of action is finding red, who would be sleeping in one of the single bedrooms downstairs.
i trust him. he’ll know what to do.
creeping down the hall, you make an effort to stick close to the walls and take slow steps. some of the upstairs windows are open, letting in a chill. standing at the top of the stairs, your hold on the banister tightens, and you feel frightfully cold; unsure whether that’s got to do with the breeze, or the paralysing question of—
what if someone is down there, waiting for me?
you swallow, pushing your fear aside, about to take the first step when you hear it.
the sound of rustling sheets.
you move towards the sound, not because you want to, but out of instinct. a morbid curiosity overcomes you, pulling you closer to the shuffling. it’s coming from the room farthest from your own, on the opposite end of the hall; the one with the ensuite, that ivy and krish had called dibs on the very first day.
the door is wide open, which strikes you as strange. you stay inside the shadows which stretch across the hallway as you slink closer, fingers curling around the doorframe.
the pop and the crack of dormant bones, almost like breaking. the snap of a rotating wrist.
cautiously, with bated breath, you crouch down with palms pressed against the wall, to peer inside.
the windows are shut, curtains drawn and lights off. within the darkness of the room, it takes you some time to register the sight before you. you feel something inside you splinter; threaten to fracture and come apart as your eyes land on the figure in the corner.
there is a man, dressed in all black and donning the cheap ghostface mask you’d found stuffed in the cabinet alongside the other halloween and holiday paraphernalia on your first day here. you don’t know if he sees you; you don’t know if you even really see him.
you’re too focused on the iron poker in his hands. long and curled at one end, sharpened to a point at the other. you remember your friends reaching for it, tucked besides the fireplace as you all laughed in the living room, talking about your futures.
you see it now, raised high in the air by gloved hands.
the first strike with the poker is brutal and unforgiving. it connects with a sickening crunch that sounds like the snapping of dry leaves and twigs, only this is the bone of krish’s ribs shattering under the merciless blow.
you feel like you’re back in the darkness of the woodlands, running to something, running away from something, as you watch, rooted to the place, when krish staggers back on the mattress, instinctively attempting to throw himself over ivy.
one of his hands clutches at his chest, blood instantly blossoming like dark ink across his shirt, wet and heavy and clinging. his mouth opens in a ragged gasp, eyes wide with panic and pain, but no words come out. all you hear is a painful wheeze; a gargled exhale of sputtered blood.
ivy’s terrified gaze flicks between krish’s broken body and the masked attacker. petrified, she scrambles backward, trembling hands clawing at the headboard, shaking krish by the shoulders, but there’s nowhere left to run. nobody there to save her.
you will yourself to move.
to do something—anything. but you’re stuck.
trapped in the viscous moment, thickening like candy with each passing moment.
too fucking terrified to help your friend.
condemned, instead, to watch, as ivy spots you by the door. her fear crystallises into something more desperate as she pushes herself onto her palms, crawling forwards with trembling limbs to the foot of the bed. her pale hand shoots out in a silent plea, fingers shaking as they reach out for yours; for something to hold onto—
with a guttural growl muffled by the mask, the poker raises high, catching the moonlight, cold and merciless, before it comes plunging down, piercing straight through ivy’s skull with a wet, sickening squelch, the sick squelch echoes in your ears as crimson blood sprays outward in a dark fountain, splattering the floor and walls, painting the room with nightmarish strokes.
her head lolls back, mouth opening in a silent, strangled scream. blood streams from the wound, running in rivulets as it drips down her pale face and pooling beneath her like spilled milk. her body convulses violently from the aftershock, and you watch her limbs writhe before she finally falls still, eyes staring blankly at you, glazed and empty.
the masked figure stands over the carnage quietly as if taking it all in. and then, his shoulders start to shake. you can’t tell if he’s crying or laughing. you don’t even register that you’re throwing up until the bile burns like acid in your throat and spills out in a choking, ragged gasp—
the man freezes, and then he turns around. very, very slowly.
the mask’s black eyes are devoid of anything conceivably human, and the mouth twists down into a mocking, frown. a silent scream.
you hadn’t even felt the violent chattering of your teeth until you tried to speak. they knock against each other, caked with vomit, as you gape at the mutilated bodies of your friends. or rather, the grotesque remains of people you used to know. violated.
is this the vindication you’d wanted?
“dean?” you whisper into the darkness.
the masked man drops the poker to the floor, where it lands with a weak clatter, rolling across the room until it stops by your feet.
featherlight fingers trail down your spine, lips pressing feverish kisses to the back of your head as a warm body pulls you closer, against familiar lines of corded muscle. “right behind you, sugar.”
your heart stutters, and your head feels like it's splitting open.
if it’s not dean in front of you, then…
no.
no.
please, no.
please, please, please—
“red?”
“whoops,” dean breathes, pressing a blade to your neck. “guess the jig’s over, sweetness.”
“red?” you try again, gagging as the bile threatens to spill out again. but you know there’s nothing there. you’ve eaten very less the last day or so. swallowed so little. yet, you still feel that physical instinct to retch as the man in the mask—as red—crouches down to pick up the poker again. he holds it like it’s weightless, takes a creaking step closer.
fear overwhelms you, and you make to step back, to put distance between yourself and this... this stranger, but from behind you, dean keeps you in place, refusing to budge.
“ah, ah, ah. sorry, baby,” he croons, blade pressing against your throat. “but you’re goin’ to need to play the scapegoat a little while longer.”
red tears off his mask, tossing it onto the floor. his mouth is set in a stern line and there’s tears welling up in his wide eyes as he approaches you. “baby blue, it’s not what it looks like, i promise. he’s–he’s been blackmailing me. from the first night, it was either their lives or yours. i don’t know if he’s bluffing but–but i couldn’t even risk—”
“yeah, yeah. how romantic.” dean rolls his eyes. “save it, loverboy. just put the poker down.”
“put the knife down first! you said you wouldn’t hurt—”
“relax, romeo,” dean taunts. “i take good care of my things.”
red’s eyes flash wildly in the dark, caught somewhere between panic, fury, and something unreadable, before he lunges forward; dean reacts instantly, shoving you hard behind him, his body shielding yours as the cold steel poker clangs against the wooden floor. silence splintering with the sound of knuckles beating into skin.
i need to—need to run—
adrenaline surges through your veins and you take the opportunity to break away, turning on your heels to sprint towards the staircase, every step pounding like thunder against the creaking wooden boards, dipping beneath your weight. you race down the stairs two at a time, not daring to look back—
and end up in the kitchen.
you rummage through the cutlery drawer, but krish must have hidden the knives. instead, you swipe a silver fork before tossing one of the cabinets under the kitchen counter open and carefully folding yourself into the space, closing the cabinet door behind you with a soft, dull thud that resounds in the darkness.
you clasp your hands over your mouth in an attempt to quiet your frantic breathing. you try to focus on the stillness of the moment to keep your mind from wandering—
but even the silence doesn’t last long. it snaps, before you know it, like a string pulled taut, the moment you hear the sound of something long and sharp being dragged along the cabin’s walls; that slow, sick, grating.
“sugar? where have you run off to, baby?”
despite the way you press your palms over your ears, it’s impossible not to cling to every word. you curl into yourself, pocketing the fork you’d haphazardly swiped from the kitchen, let push come to shove.
“wonder when you’ll stop running from me,” dean muses, and you hear his heavy steps echo down the hall. “i don’t bite, y’know!” he laughs at that, positively delighted at his own cleverness. “well. not unless you asked first.”
“y’know, i’ve been wanting to do this for some time now.” dean says, the words light, like they’re not an admission. as if this is some sort of casual conversation, and he isn’t actively hunting you down. “get rid of everybody around you, and keep you all to myself.”
“maybe you’ll finally let me in now, baby!” dean gushes, kicking open another door. you hear the hinges creak open, as he rummages through the room, the sound of his boots muffled by the carpet. “got no other option, do you, sweetness?”
“so, listen, i know you’re scared right now, but i forgive you, darl’. i know your friends,” he spits out the word as if it disgusts him, “were distracting you from what you really wanted and putting all sorts of ideas in your pretty little head. i wish i could crack it in half sometimes, y’know? see what they said to you, and pull it right out. i wish i could put myself in there, instead.” he sounds almost mournful.
“so after this is all over,” dean proposes, “i’m going to take you somewhere far away. we’ll live the rest of our lives together. doesn’t that sound sweet, baby? just us two, and nobody else tryna fuckin’ interfere with us.”
“‘course, all that’s left now,” dean’s steps get closer. “is to find you, sugar.”
you press yourself closer to the cabinet door, straining to look out for even the smallest indication of his whereabouts in the cabin. you may not have the keys to the front door, but you should be able to wedge yourself through an open window. all you have to do is wait for him to go back upstairs or—
where is he?
your heart thunders, a minute panic settling in as you realise—
you can’t hear him anymore.
you shy away from the cabinet door, inching back as much as the small space will allow you. your breaths come out in shallow, panicked huffs, muffled by your hands which are clasped over your mouth so tight that your fingers have turned an alarming shade of white from the pressure.
and then, something heavy is being dragged down the stairs. through the hall, into the kitchen. it falls to the floor unceremoniously, almost as if it’s been thrown onto the checkered kitchen tiles.
a tense silence descends over the kitchen. a pall of trepidation. a promise of something violent. you know he’s right there. you know he’s right there—
“come outside,” dean calls. “before i bash his head in, baby.”
when you swing the cabinet door open, it’s slow and deliberate. cautious.
dean’s crouched before red, with the bloodied poker swung over his shoulder, palms resting on his knees as he turns his attention from the mangled body on the floor to you, poor thing, crawling out of the cabinet all skitterish and so, sweet.
“there you go, sugar.” he reaches out, gently coaxing you further out of the small space with warm, loving hands. a bruise blossoms beneath his cheek, which is sprayed with wet, crimson blood, running down his jaw. it’s caked under his nails too, as he moves your hair out of your face and hoists you up, with a hand round the back of your neck, angling your face towards red. “look at him.”
you squeeze your eyes shut, making an effort to avoid the limp body by your feet. “no.”
“you’ll be the last person who sees him alive, sugar. look at him.”
the corners of his lips quirk up in a satisfied grin as your eyes crack open, heavy, vision blurred with tears, as your gaze falls on red. dean laughs, the sound rich with sick amusement.
“remember that first night? you went with him, down to the lake.” dean uses his fingers to mime two people walking alongside each other, up the side of your arm. “that was the day i decided red would be the last to go,” he drawls. “except, here we are now, and… i’m stuck.” he admits, voice low. “i keep thinking about what i should do to him, sweetness. wonderin’ what would hurt you the most.”
“you’re insane,” you stutter. “you’re— you’re sick.”
“baby,” he chides, faux disappointment lining his saccharine words. “we’ve been through this, remember? you make me insane.” his pupils are blown wide, an all enveloping black. “every second your attention isn’t on me, i feel like i should just kill myself, y’know? i need you to witness me. to see me, how i see you.”
“dean,” you plead, voice barely above a whisper. fat tears well up in your haze, making your vision cloud over. “please— please don’t do this.”
“all you need, all you’ve ever needed,” he continues, unrepentant, “is a guiding hand. this guy’s dangerous, sugar.” his voice dips an octave lower. “he’s a threat to us. to our love. that’s why i gotta kill him.”
“no. please, no. all he’s done,” you sob, tears streaming down your face, “is keep me safe.”
not red.
anyone but red.
“all he’s done,” dean amends, kissing away the tears on your cheek. his lips curl into a soft, dangerous smile against your skin, “is keep you away from me. but not anymore, no. i’ve found you now, sugar. i’ve got you in the palm of my fuckin’ hand—”
he steps away, leaving you frozen to where you stand. a crying, shaking, mess of nerves.
dean drops the poker, where it lands, clambering against the kitchen tile. he reaches, instead, for a knife hanging from the loop of his jeans. the very same one he’d been holding against your neck, earlier; the same one he’d used to turn you into leverage for red.
crouching down, he lines up the blade at the base of red’s neck, bloodsoaked face splitting into a frenzied grin.
“—and i’m never fuckin’ letting you go again.”
-
“just watch on, baby blue. by the end of the week, i’ll be better than you.”
“i’m gonna hold you to that. do you wanna have a rematch before we go home?”
“that’ll give me, what, five days to practice?” he laughed. “yeah, you’re getting your ass beat. loser pays for the winner’s coffee on the drive home?”
you extended a hand out to him, and he took it in his own, turning it over so softly.
“you’re on.”
he’d fallen back onto his elbows then, the glow of the sunset painting streaks of gold across his jaw. you remember thinking he looked so beautiful. you’d never known such a pure love. he was like an extension of you. like a family.
“you want me to stay by your side until we’re home?” he’d asked gently. and you hadn’t answered right away. you’d just leaned your head on his shoulder and… that had been enough.
“...thank you, red.”
“always, baby blue.” do you remember the way he wrapped his arm around you? “i got you.”
and, he would.
he did.
-
“can you really call them intestines if they're, y’know, not in you?” dean turns to you, knuckles smudging the blood that coats his face, in a lazy attempt to wipe it off his mouth. “what do you think, sugar?”
you don’t really know what to think. you think you’re past thinking, but you don’t really think that’s what he’s looking to hear. all you know is that red is lying in a pile of mangled limbs at dean's feet. there’s only a gaping hole where his face used to be. skin, cartilage, and shards of bone have been reduced to something unrecognizable, mashed flat into the floor.
you blink, and it’s slow and heavy. you’re trying to make sense of it, but you can’t.
because this isn’t the man you loved like a brother, anymore. it can’t be. it’s severed flesh, and the remains of something which was once alive. his torso is practically cleaved in half, guts spilling out. bone peeking through. you want to look away, but the way his eyes slide back to you makes you feel like that would be a mistake.
dean grins at you over the ruin. “art’s gotta make you feel something, right?”
you gag so hard your ribs ache, but nothing comes up; just a bitter, acid sting crawling up your throat. the sound is wet and ugly in the silence, nearly drowning out the soft squelch of dean’s boots shifting in the pool of blood beneath him. he kicks something aside, stepping closer.
“the plan was for me to be the savior,” dean admits with a casual laugh, looking down at you; the way you tremble in his hands. “i was gonna rescue you from him, but…” he trails off with a knowing smile. “guess it’s too late for that one, huh?”
the dimple in his cheek deepens at your insistent silence. “talk to me, baby. you didn't even scream.”
you stare, face angled up towards his. eyes empty, and unblinking like you’re looking straight through him. you can’t even muster the energy to cry, anymore.
“don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs softly.
“like what?” you hear yourself ask, barely recognising the sound of your voice.
“like i could do whatever i wanted to you,” he rasps, “and you’d let me.”
“do i have a choice?”
“all you have to do is let yourself fall into it.” he leans in close, licking a stripe up your neck. “you could love me,” the flat, wet muscle of his tongue against your skin makes you want to curl in on himself, but his hands crawl down your spine, keeping you in place. keeping you close. “the same way i love you.”
“i wouldn’t be cruel to you,” he continues, brushing hair behind your ear with blood-slick fingers. “i can be good.” he smiles, stygian eyes glittering in the dark. “i can be sweet and kind and whatever you want me to be.”
his voice drops to a low, coaxing whisper. “haven’t you already made me work for it, sugar? haven’t i earned—”
you stab the fork into his shoulder.
dean staggers back, collapsing against the kitchen counter. but when you try to run past him and out of the kitchen, he sweeps low, reaching out for your ankle, and you go toppling down, slipping on red’s blood; falling. sprawled across the floor like prey.
“sweet baby. darlin’ sugar.” his breathing is heavy—something downright animalistic in the way he crawls on top of you, heaving and panting, pressed against you like a dog in heat. “i forgot you could bite.”
he grabs your face with his hands and yanks it towards him, wild eyes practically rolling back in his head as he wrenches the fork from your fingers, and yanks it out; tosses it aside. “but you forget that i want you to.”
and then he’s feverishly pressing your mouth against yours. all eager tongue and too much teeth. it’s fucking sloppy, the way he drools all over you. you try bite down, but he only purrs against your lips, letting you pull the skin between your teeth, as blood-smeared hands creep higher, wrap around your neck and hold it in place and you’re reaching for the poker or his knife or anything, overcome with desperation, helplessly kicking your legs beneath him and—
he gets there first.
the blade lines up against your throat as dean leans back a fraction of an inch, swollen lips dripping blood that mixes with the slobber smeared against his chin. through low lashes, his gaze drops to your throat, watching the pulse leap. his eyes are so dilated, they look like black pools of glee as his mouth curls into a coy grin.
his voice nips at your skin, barely above a whisper. you almost miss the words over the thundering of your heartbeat. the rush of blood in your head. “skin here’s some of the most sensitive on the body, sugar. so thin. so easy to slice through.” warm laughter, so completely and enviously sure of itself, rings all around you. “i don’t have to worry about you acting out, do i, sweetness?”
your stillness is an answer in and of itself. with a satisfied hum from somewhere low in his throat, dean’s other hand reaches for the fly of your jeans, the zipper pinched between bloodied fingers, as he runs it down the teeth.
and it sounds so much like an old song you’ve heard before, but can’t quite place.
-
“so let me get this straight,” the detective says, leaning back in the crackling leather of his office chair until it groans beneath the weight. “you’re saying you witnessed red kill each and every one of your friends?”
“yes.” you nod. “yes, i did, detective.”
“and you don’t know where he ran off to? no clue where he is?”
“no, sir. by the time me and dean came back for the others… after we’d gone to get help… the cabin was empty. except for—”
“your friends.” he finishes.
you close your eyes for a moment. “yes.”
well,” he exhales decisively, smoke curling from his nostrils, “i’m going to have to make sure your story corroborates with your friend’s, and you might be asked to testify in court.” he adds. “but we’ll discuss all of those details at a later date. otherwise, not much else i can pull out of you tonight. you’re free to go. ask the captain to drive you home.”
“thank you,” you murmur, though the word tastes strange in your mouth.
“and if you, uh—” he grunts, shifting the cigar from one side of his teeth to the other “—if you remember anything else, you come to me, okay? we’re all just looking for justice, kid.” he fixes you with a level gaze. “and that involves searching for the truth.”
“i know.”
the room sits in a quiet that feels thicker than the smoke hanging between you. he studies you longer than he should, like he’s searching for a crack in the surface, a glimpse of whatever’s churning underneath.
but you don’t give him anything. just meet his stare evenly. nothing left to give; nothing left in you worth taking, anymore.
eventually, the detective nods. a small, reluctant surrender. “you keep yourself safe out there,” he warns, grinding the cherry-red tip of his cigar into the ashtray until it dies with a faint hiss. “i never want to see you in here again, you got that?”
“okay. i will.”
and when the office door swings open, you can’t help the way your gaze immediately searches for that lazy lean, those sharp eyes, glittering with dark amusement. and when you’re the one to find him, because you’ve grown so tired of being chased—
you already know he’ll be smiling.
-
“i could use the help. always wanted an assistant,” you remember dean looking up at you with twinkling eyes. you remember thinking he was your friend. that you were safe. “an accomplice.”
“i’m not your assistant, dean,” you’d rolled your eyes back then, when it had been a choice. “and definitely not for free. keep dreaming.”
you wonder; did he know, even back then, the price you were going to pay? how much it would end up costing you?
“i know, i know.” he had turned back at that, and that low, lazy laughter followed, like it always seemed to. like you’d let him in on some joke. “you’re just a sweetheart, aren't you?"
hello~ can you do haru (free!) with a reader who's unintentionally very asmr-y? like her voice is really soft spoken and relaxing then when she starts softly touching him while he's resting on her lap or something he instantly gets tingles
which also means he's not getting off of her for a long time
What's Said Out Loud (Haruka Nanase x Reader)
𝗔/𝗡: 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗴𝗼!!!
𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩
𝙟𝙤𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧?
𝙗𝙪𝙮 𝙢𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚?
Haru is rarely stressed. But you know exactly what to do when he is.
At first, it was hard for you to tell when he was experiencing any negative emotion versus when he just didn’t care. After all, he was always so quiet. So stoic. So straight-faced. So cool. Back when you two were kids, at least. But he grew up. And so did you. And while yes, he’s still those things. And yes, he hasn’t really gotten any more outwardly expressive over time. But the two of you have grown closer. He’s learned to trust you. To let his guard down around you. And even if that does manifest in almost infuriatingly subtle ways, you’ve done your best to learn how to read him and his little moods.
So you can tell just by looking into his pretty blue eyes when there’s a storm brewing inside of them or if he’s just a little bored. And you can tell just by his posture if he’s starting to feel tired or if he’s feeling a little curious.
And you know if he’s upset or confused just by how slight his frown is. The same way you know how hungry or annoyed he is by the slightest twitch of his fingers. You can read him. You can read almost everything about him. The hum of his voice. The shortness and the volume of his breath. How long his eyes linger and how narrow they are as he peers at something. Hell, even his energy when he enters a room that you’re in. You can read it all. You know it all.
And because you can detect it all, you can respond to it. You can respond to him. Exactly in the way he needs you to. Like, he needs you right now simply because he’s stressed. And there’s only one person who can ever help him when he’s like this: you.
Not that he would ever say this outloud, of course.
So when he finds you today, enjoying the breeze of a nice, warm, and sunny day as you quietly flip your way through a book, he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he just makes a beeline for you. And when he’s close enough for you to detect him, you greet him the same way you always do. A friendly smile. A quick hello. The normal sort of thing. But as he gets closer and closer, and you spot the expression on his face, you know that there’s something on his mind that’s pulling him down.
You can do your best to think of all the things it could be. You can wrack your brain and try to see if it’s about an upcoming competition or a problem with the club. Maybe it’s something with his friends, family, or even Rin. Perhaps it’s school-related. Perhaps it’s something to do with swimming as a whole. Or perhaps it’s something that’s completely beyond you at the moment. Something he has yet to tell you about in any shape or form. But knowing him, he won’t tell you.
He won’t complain. He won’t vent or shout or rant or speak one word towards you, for that matter. In fact, you might not even get a sigh or a huff out of him. Instead, he’ll just creep closer and closer to where you’re sitting, and he’ll settle down right beside you. And before you even know it, he’ll be taking off his jacket and placing it on the ground right beside you. All so he can close his eyes and lay his head on your lap.
If this were the first time he did this to you, you might have felt a little shock. In fact, the first time he did this without any words or warnings to you, you distinctly remember the quiet sort of panic that took over as Haru made himself comfortable in your lap and closed his eyes to rest a little bit. But this isn’t the first time he’s done this to you. Nor is it the second or third or fourth or even the fifth time this has happened. So when the initial surprised feeling you got at his sudden appearance wears off, you find that you’re not shocked. And you’re panicking. Not even a little bit.
In fact, as Haru lays his head in your lap and lets out a deep, deep breath while he crosses his arms over his chest and prepares for his nap, you make a mental note of the page you were last on. And once you’ve done that, you flip to the beginning of your book, and you start to read. Out loud. And for him.
And almost instantly, something in him changes.
The second your voice starts to filter through the air as you read from the book, the energy around him shifts. Any heaviness that was once there seems to have evaporated into thin air. Though the fact that you’re currently reaching out and carding your fingers through his hair like he’s nothing more than an overgrown, grumpy yet loving house cat might have something to do with that. But it doesn’t change the fact that you see all the telltale signs of you doing something right. He doesn’t push you away. He doesn’t open his eyes and glare at you. He doesn’t even move a muscle for the first few moments you have him there, trapped in your little bubble of tranquility. Designed just for him.
No, instead, he calms down. The stress from his features doesn’t dissipate. At least, they don’t all disappear all at once. But ease up. They fade away. The release him from their hold. And all of this? It’s all because of you. All because of your presence. And perhaps most importantly, your voice.
You’ve heard it be called many things throughout your time growing up. ‘Soft’ is a common one. You hear ‘quiet’ very often, too. But you’ve also heard ‘sweet’ and ‘melodic.’ ‘Warm’ and ‘inviting.’ ‘Picturesque’ and ‘comforting.’ And so many, many, many more from friends and family and peers and strangers alike, all sharing something that they like about your voice. Something about your voice that they couldn’t help but love.
That said, Haru has never told you that he likes your voice.
In fact, he’s never commented on it. And you never expected him to. You didn’t think he had the words in him, really. But as you both grew older, you both changed in your own little ways. He became taller and stronger. Faster and better at his beloved sport. More so than you could ever manage. And you? Well, a lot has changed about you. But your voice in particular grew softer. Sweeter. More pleasant sounding than it was when you were younger, which was a tough act in itself to do. But you know this. Because Haru always responded well to your voice.
Even if he didn’t respond verbally to your questions or calls, you know he always responded in his own little ways. And you know this, you, because you know him. You can read all his little moods. All his little negative feelings that he hides behind stoic looks and pretty blue eyes. You can read it in the way he carries himself and in the way he sets his lips in a straight line. But beyond his negative emotions, you can read his positive emotions too.
So you can tell by the way his brows lower that he’s starting to feel a little bit more at peace, even though his eyes are fully closed. Just like how you can tell by the way his hands move to lay themselves across his chest instead of just folding themselves there that he’s starting to feel a little bit better. And just like how you can tell by the way that he’s starting to feel slightly heavier and heavier now that he’s beginning to rest his body weight on you, that he’s not just feeling good. He’s feeling happy. At least, happier than he was
Perhaps a bit sleepy too. Because those soft breaths of his are starting to sound suspiciously like snores. Not that you would comment on it. And not that he would ever say anything about it either. But you know. You know him.
So the fact that you’re dealing with a stressed Haru is surprising. But it isn’t concerning. You know what to do when he seeks you out like this. You know what he needs when all he can do is show up and put all his weight on you as if he didn’t know how to stand before now. And you know how to quietly break through his walls and lead him back into the light. You’ve always known. You’re the only one who knows. And thus, you’re the only one he can trust with his emotions. His feelings. His stress. His anger. His frustration. His silence. His sleep. His peace. But most importantly?
He trusts you with himself. And for a boy like him, that’s saying a lot.
It's been a year since the death of your husband, recently the world has been thrown into chaos for the past few days. Imagine your horror, when you find your deceased husband peacefully sleeping next to you and acting as if he didn't die.
If I were a zombie
I'd never eat your brain
I'd just want your heart
Yeah, I'd want your heart
>> may contain suggestive as well as violent nature, viewer discretion is needed.
PHAINON
Your husband passed away a year ago, during an accident. He truly was the love of your life, and you still think about him till this day. Back then, you used to sleep on his side of the bed just to capture the last of his scent and warm–people tell you to move on but how can you.
Ever since the recent changes that are going on around the world, you rarely go outside due to fear as well as for safety precautions. Honestly, you can hear phainon voice echoing through the hall–telling you not to go outside.
But this isn't the case, because one night–you woke up towards... Phainon laying beside you–he is dead. You tried to move away which stirs him awake, this phainon looks confused and tries to calm you down with the same softness he used to have.
He would not leave, this is not your husband–hes already dead. But every time you tried to tell him, he would say "used to be dead, but now I'm back to protect you" every time when he tries to initiate intimacy, he's hands are cold and there's no pulse. Despite all his attempts to convince you–the man that is sleeping next to you isn't your husband.
With his presence in the way, your house has been safe for quite some time. It's probably because of him scaring away any visitors who dared to come or simply him killing them, you would wake up towards your sheets being covered by blood but it was not him or yours–he would prevent you from going outside as well as preventing any danger coming to the house.
BLADE
Your fiancee yingxing was killed a week before your engagement and you have been trying to move on from the lost as fast as possible. Yet, every time you finally do it a sense of guilt of you leaving him behind or betraying him by seeing another man aches you in your heart–you don't know how to move on.
Your closest friend has been telling you to be wary of going outside due to the amount of "visitors" spotting as well as the sudden changes in the atmosphere becomes much more painful knowing that you are alone and no one is there to hold you or comfort you during this time of danger.
One night you receive a night mare, of your dead fiancee coming back to life and there to haunt you. You immediately shot up from your bed, while trying to calm yourself down–you decided to grab a glass of water. Unfortunately you weren't alone in your house, because another presence has managed to enter into your home.
You found your husband standing In the hallway in a state of confusion, as if he was a zombie but when he finally saw you–he slowly walked up to you and sniffed. You unfortunately don't know how to react because how are you supposed to react towards seeing your husband who has been dead for a year alive again.
"yingxing" or blade has no memory of what's going on, It seems he has lost his identity as yingxing and became "blade" he doesn't remember you, but feels a sense of possessiveness and yearning from you. He would glare at any visitors who have tried to enter as well as people, he managed to get into conflict with a FEMA soldier who fired his weapon at him but blade remained unaffected and proceeded to kill the soldier. He is violent, yet gentle with you leaving you stuck in a position of whenever he's gonna kill you or not.
MYDEI
Mydei truly loves you and you also love him but unfortunately, your marriage with him didn't last long because he was killed one night while getting pastries from your favourite bakery as a fun way to surprise you. The killer remains unknown till this day, and it leaves you a wound in your heart unfinished as well as unfulfilled longing for his presence.
Your in-laws decided to let you stay over the Vila as a way to get away from everything that happens as a way to help you cope with your grief as well as a way to show their support towards you. Which has been helping you a lot, since there's a photo album of mydei that helps you rest better at night.
You are wary by the current situation of the world as well as for your loved ones, calling your in-laws and family to check in on them making sure they are okay as well as unharmed during this time of global crisis but recently you have been losing contact with your in-laws. You are capable of protecting yourself, mydei have taught you the basics of self defense as well as learning how to use a shotgun to defend yourself.
One day, during the night you accidentally let in a visitor with you–a fight starts between you and the visitor. Before it can cause any more harm, a large silhouette has entered through the living room door and killed the intruder... That silhouette belongs to you... Husband? The one that is dead.
Mydei manages to maintain his sense of identity yet isn't aware that he himself is a visitor or remember he is dead, he scolds you saying that he was worried about you and how he travelled around to find you. It seems that he also killed his parents, which is why you lose contacts. You tried to run but he pulled you back to his embrace, not letting you go from his grip– you lost him and now he is not willing to let you go.
FLINS
Flins was nothing more but a dear towards you, he was the lover you ever wanted in every lifetime. He was romantic giving you flowers every week, he is attentive towards your needs and sadness. Every time you are upset he can easily spot it and light your day up, he is like a moon that guides you through the darkness. Unfortunately, he sadly passed away a year due to anomia.
His passing leaves a wound deep in you and a wave of loneliness. The life that you and him planned together has ended in over the past few months, you miss his touch and also his voice. You immediately cry when you realize you started to forget what he sounds like, you are in a dark place without your moon or the sense of hope.
Recently the changes of the world have you grow more isolated, the only companion you have was your cat. You would always double check whether or not that you lock the door as well as close to blinds to brush off the feeling of visitors coming in, making them believe the house is empty or abandoned.
One night, your cat decided to cause mischief and run out to the dark night. You immediately chase towards the last companion you have which is stupid but how are you supposed to cope, that cat was given to you by flins but now you are lost in the dark forest without anybody and a flash light that sooner or later loses its battery. When you were trying to navigate your way out, you unfortunately encountered a visitor and believed it was your last day and you silently accepted your fate.
But before the visitor could attack you, a cold hand covers your eyes protecting you from the sight that is happening. A familiar voice told you not to open your eyes until he allows it, and you obliged because the voice is similar towards flins. When you are finally allowed to open your eyes, you are met with the eyes of your dead beloved... Flins.
CHILDE
Childe or ajax has always been careless about his life which in the end cost him dearly, because he died due to it. He left you as a widow who has to watch your husband die because of his own desire for the thrill and you were forced to be a bystander which upsets and causes you to hate him. Was he not thinking about you, or was he even thinking in the first place.
The world has been changing recently, entities taking the form of your love have been coming and knocking your door wanting shelter with the intention of killing you, not to mention how resources have been scattered as well as how the weather has been dangerous to come off–causing you to suffer loneliness more.
You hated your husband's stupidity as well as careless nature, leaving you alone in this world. He truly did love you but he loves the feeling of danger more, he wants the feeling of adrenaline and not the feeling of security. He is simply unable to live the life of mundanity, because that's suffering for him.
One night, you hear the noise of window shattering and a person walking around. You prepared yourself to face your intruder but was met with the one and only ajax. Ajax immediately rushed towards you checking if you were infected as well as for any injuries, while you just stood there stunt.
Childe or ajax seems to be fully aware that is a visitor and he would not stop apologizing for everything, he's been nothing but a bad husband's to you and putting his needs about yours. He is caressing your face and his cold lips press against your cheek, he truly does miss you. Don't worry, he was given a second chance and he would use this time to protect you from the world.
ZHONGLI
Zhongli was consultant for a funeral but was unfortunately killed by a grieving family member of one of his clients, he would simply just mind his business making sure everything is in line as well as proper for the client yet he was attacked for simply being there. He died the same day that his client was buried.
The family member that killed him was arrested but unfortunately no amount of years of that person's life is taken, it's simply not enough with the life that you and zhongli have planned and dream off. Every night you would dream of him, as well as hoping that it's a bad night mare.
Hu tao and Xiao are your adoptive kids so you are struggling a lot protecting them as well as keeping a wall for yourself not to mention ever since the changes of the world and how the government advised everyone to stay indoors it seems as if nowhere is safe for your children and you. You often have to keep vigilance as well as advising your kids to not open the door.
Recently, hu tao has been jumping around and saying that daddy is Alive which is not true because your husband has already been dead. You didn't think much, thinking it was a way for hu tao to cope but by Xiao reaction you don't know whether or not hu tao is lying or not...
You woke up suddenly one night due to the sound of your children happily playing while also hearing a voice that you almost forgot, you carried a shotgun with you afraid that it might be an intruder or a visitor so when you open the door towards your children bedroom–you are met with the face of your deceased husband reading a story book about "the wolf and seven young goats" you are frozen in shock yet "zhongli" rise up from his sit and grab your hand leading you towards your children "how have you been my love" not phased at all by your reaction.
cw; captivity, 'lovebombing,' obsessive thoughts, possessive behaviour, nsfw themes, general disregard for consent or comfort, mdni 18+
notes; happy valentine's day my loves ♡ i listened to this on repeat whilst writing, and i would definitely recommend you do too for the full experience. this is dedicated, ironically, to those of you who feel like you're waiting for love to find you. you might not know it, but i promise you, it's already there. ♡
on valentine’s day, you wake up to love.
there are no foiled balloons grazing the ceiling, no banners strung across the wall. by your feet, through the haze of sleep, you squint at something red. for a second, you think it might be rose petals, scattered into a makeshift heart around you. until your vision sharpens, and you notice it’s wet.
only then do you realise it’s blood.
in the farthest corner of the room, a man silently watches. he’s crouched in the corner, balancing his weight on his heels as he slowly rocks back and forth. you think he might be muttering something to himself, but it’s too dark to see his face—
until he lowers his hands to the floor, and begins to slowly crawl towards you.
the only light in the room is a flickering lightbulb hanging from the ceiling over your head. even then, it’s weak. all that it allows you to see clearly are his hands as he pushes himself closer to you. he’s wearing those rubber dishwashing gloves, and even then, you can barely glimpse their original yellow through all of the red.
you’re completely still for the excruciating amount of time it takes the man to get to you. even if you wanted to, you can’t move; you’re tied down to one of those folding chairs, the sort you might find in a waiting room. it’s fitting, in a way.
“y-you’re really here, angel. finally…”
time seems to stretch on indefinitely, as you’re forced to listen to the sound of his laboured breathing in the silence of the room, and for a split second, you almost laugh at the absurdity of the scene; it really does feel like you’re waiting for the inevitable.
“do you know how long i waited for this? just kidding, haha. you obviously wouldn't. i forgot that, well, there’s no reason for you to.” helpless, you can only watch on as the stranger painfully drags himself closer, chest rapidly rising and falling. his arms are shaking when he stops, finally, right by your feet. “my sweet angel. i don’t blame you for that, it’s okay.”
he sounds like he’s on the verge of tears. you hear him take a shaky breath. “haah. still, i-i knew this part was going to make me a little sad, y’know. for obvious reasons. but, still… you… this is kind-of-sort-of-really crazy because, like, you don’t even know who i am. you don’t know me… yet, i guess. but wow, yeah, you really don’t know me, now that i think about it. i mean, hah, definitely not like i know you—”
his head is bowed. but you can clearly make out is his size. he’s lanky, but taller than you. you consider if you would be able to knock him out and run for it until he reaches for your feet, with quivering fingers.
“—but, my sweet darling angel, you will soon.”
it’s only when his hand wraps around your ankle that you abandon the idea. he’s shaking, but he’s strong. stronger than you. his hold on you feels like an anchor. like he’s keeping you in place, holding you down.
what the fuck.
although your limbs are bound by rope, you still jerk away from him, wincing as the rope chafes against you. the man flinches at your sudden movement, hands flying off your skin as if scorched.
“oh.” he breathes.
for a moment, neither of you move, regarding each other with a mutual appraisal. you silently pray that your resistance hasn’t set him off. you’re not sure if you’re strong enough to stay still and let him touch you how he wants. you hear him swallow, before he reaches for the end of his gloves. with great care, he peels the bloodied rubber off. you try not to look at them, try not to acknowledge how they’re completely drenched in red.
“p-please… please don’t be scared. um, i-i’m sorry. i get it—i’m sorry, my darling angel. i just k-keep getting ahead of myself and i know i should be more patient and slow and i really do promise that i’m trying.” even though you know he’s frustrated, the words come out more whiny than anything else.
he takes a shaky breath, “i’m trying to be very good for you and as patient as i can be but i need to—i need to just feel you. i need to know you’re real. like, you’re really here and i can just hold on to you. i, well, i need to know i’m not just dreaming. because, i mean… d-don’t laugh but… i used to, y’know.” strangely slow, he flexes his hands in his lap, giving them a curious once over before he finally, finally, lets himself look up at you. and now, beneath the little light buzzing above you, you see him. “because i used to, angel— i used to dream of you. haha, you probably think i’m really weird, don’t you..?”
his face is covered in a sheen of sweat. his adam’s apple bobs nervously as your eyes are drawn to the small, pale patches on his otherwise tawny skin, which are flushed an incriminating red. his bangs are overgrown, shifting with every other blink as he looks up at you from behind the thick black frames of his glasses. his eyelashes are long, causing the overhead light to cast shadows down his gaunt face. but that’s not what catches your attention. it’s when you follow the dark lines under his eyes, and meet his stare—
“for the longest time… that’s all you were to me. a dream.” he laughs, but it falls flat. he’s looking at you when he says it, but he’s not really there. “i would sleep, just to see you again.” he confesses. his eyes are eerily dull, even his words seem to slow down. “when i woke up, every day, i just wanted to die. i hated my life enough to consider it… but then i would go to bed, and every night, again and again… you would be there.”
his gaze sharpens then suddenly, as he snaps out of it. once more staring at you with unnerving lucidity, as he returns to his bashful self. “except now it’s different! now you’re really here… you’re like my saviour. like the light of my life. no, no. more like the— more like the love of my life. ah, it really was always going to be you, angel. nobody else could ever be enough.”
oh my god. he’s crazy.
the man’s pupils are unnervingly dilated. from where you sit, it looks like his eyes are almost completely black. he turns to the side, averting his gaze almost shyly as you continue to stare at him, still in shock.
“...please don’t look at me like that. it’s…” his voice turns strangled, awfully low. “it, erm, it overwhelms me.” it sounds like he’s forcing the words out. his expression is so pained, you would think he was as upset at this as you if it weren’t for the way he keeps readjusting his pants, and attempting to angle himself away from you.
“i-i mean that in a good way. obviously. or, erm, even not obviously,” he winces. “like, i can see how that could be misconstrued. but i just mean it in. like, a ‘you drive me crazy way’ i promise! i’m not, like, a creep or anything! haha. obviously not, but fuck… when you look at me that way… i…” he shudders.
it’s upsetting how apologetic he seems, even when his fingers shamelessly reach for your bare foot again. you’re not wearing any shoes. in fact, you aren’t wearing much at all. there’s a gap in your memory between going to bed last night and waking up… here.
you’re guessing he took that opportunity to dress you for the occasion, since your new outfit’s all blushing teddy bears and smiling love hearts, the sort of ostentatious thing you’d see on the clearance rack after valentine’s because nobody actually wears shit like this. except, apparently, they do—because he’s wearing the exact same pants. risque matching couple’s pyjamas for your death day.
he’s insane.
you try pushing away from him again, except this time, he holds on to you with more force. you jerk your knees away from him and he falters momentarily, before his fingers curl around your ankle even tighter, his other hand’s palm sliding up your shin almost reverently. “please don’t struggle. it’ll just tire you out and, erm, the rope will dig into your skin and i really don’t want you to get hurt, angel. you should try and, well, enjoy it. haha, i know i will. sorry, that was kinda lame. what i’m trying to say is that i just, um— i just can’t really stop myself. sorry.” he sheepishly grins up at you.
it’s hard to object when he starts peppering kisses along your leg. they start off relatively tame, before eventually becoming sloppier, and increasingly shameless until he’s practically sucking at the skin. it’s mortifying, the way he keeps his eyes trained on you, as his mouth moves down towards your feet. he licks your heel with a strangled whine, and you wince at the wet sensation of his tongue slowly running up the underside of your foot.
all you can do is close your eyes; it’s hard to say anything at all because of the duct tape.
he’s clearly enjoying himself. you try to ignore the sounds he makes. which is why you notice his silence before you realise he’s stopped. he’s not touching you anymore, you can feel that much, but you’re not sure you want to open your eyes. this is it, you think miserably. he’s already gotten bored of me.
“angel?” he sounds unsure. “c-could you look at me? sorry, i meant— um, please.” he amends. “could you please look at me? angel? it’s just that, well, i-i don’t like when you look away. sorry, you think i–i’m stupid, i know but this is the first time that you’re, well, noticing me, i guess. it’s the first time i can look at you looking at me, and it would mean so much if you could just, erm, open your eyes, pretty please?”
not willing to find out what happens when you don’t listen, you open your eyes just as the man stands, straightening to his full height. he looks down at you, eyebrows furrowed and lips downturned. he gnaws on his lip absently. he looks like he’s thinking about something. all that you can focus on is the fact that even with you tied to the chair, he’s double your height like this.
and that really scares you.
he’s finally going to kill me, you think. you’re about to die on valentine’s day in some delusional creep’s decrepit basement, and there’s nothing you can do about it. i’ve already seen his face, there’s no way he’ll let me go now.
you burst into tears.
you can't speak coherently but you can cry, even though your incoherent sobs are muffled by the duct tape plastered over your mouth. the stranger immediately panics, his eyes wide and alarmed as he hastily wipes away your tears with shaking fingers. “no, no, no! don’t— don’t cry! please. i-i can’t bear seeing you sad,” even his voice trembles as he nervously flitters around you. “was it me? was it something i said? i-i’m so sorry, my love,” his voice breaks. “just— don’t cry, please. i’m sorry. cross my heart, i’m so so so very very sorry, darling angel. i promise i didn’t mean to make you sad, i really really do want you to be happy.”
he’s anxiously biting on his nails, stopping abruptly only when he sees how scared you look. forcing his hands to his sides, involuntarily flexing out his fingers with what you think is the effort not to chew on the raw, peeling skin. but despite his best efforts to calm you down, the tears keep coming.
“okay, okay, erm, let’s see— how about— how about, uh—” your whole body shakes from the sobs, growing more sore as you repeatedly shift against the abrasive ropes. it hurts, you think sadly. it really, really hurts. the man gnaws on his lip, still trying to console you. “how about i make you a promise. what do you think, darling? doesn’t that sound nice, angel? if you stop crying i’ll, um, i’ll leave..?”
just let me go.
you immediately quieten, biting the inside of your cheek to stop the sobs. you calm down enough for the tears to only be accompanied by an occasional hiccup. he visibly withers at your efforts to get rid of him, though his lopsided smile doesn’t waver. if anything, he looks extremely relieved once you finally settle down. except now, neither of you are sure what to really do. he shuffles his feet, awkwardly fidgeting with his hands. you look up at the man expectantly, and though you can’t speak in your current predicament, you’re sure he understands what you’re trying to say.
let me go.
he hovers over you, unsure, and clearly not wanting to leave. “o-of course, i’m not leaving forever ‘cause, like, i can’t leave you down here all alone— and neither do i want to, obviously.” he rushes to clarify. “just for a little. and then after that, maybe you can talk to me... i-i really want to hear your voice. i want you to talk to me. i want to have a… well… i want to have a real conversation with you,” he confesses quietly. “we’ve–we’ve never done that before, you know. i’ve only ever seen you speak to other people.”
“anyways,” he sighs. “i do think i, erm, owe you a bit of an apology for… y’know.” in an attempt to further comfort you, his hand moves to your hair. “i’m sorry, my darling. i-i think i got a little, uhh, overexcited earlier. a little ahead of myself, maybe.” he hesitates to freely touch you, so his movement is disjointed as he awkwardly pats your head. it’s incredibly nerve-wracking, not only because of his trepidation, but also because of how hot and sweaty his clammy palms really are. “but please don’t worry.”
it feels like he’s copying something he’s seen someone else do but never actually tried himself. at some point, it feels less like a pat and more like he’s… petting you. “i would never actually, like, hurt you. no, no, i’d kill myself first before i ever do that to you. it’s just that— well, i just— i want to love you.” he looks sad. “because i— i really think that nobody has taken care of you in the way that you deserve. nobody’s been as gentle as they should have. isn’t that why you're lonely? why you were going to spend today alone?”
he’s just crazy, you tell yourself. he’s insane.
“a-and there’s also the fact that i, erm, want you to… also… love me… back...” he blushes furiously, chewing on his lip hesitantly. “and, uh, i know you’re sort of anxious right now. i should have told you all of this as soon as you woke up but, well, you just looked so… well. y’know. haha. sorry, i get kind of crazy about you and it’s like i lose my head and, like— ah, shit. see? wow, i guess i’m really not doing a good job of this whole… thing. i’m sorry again, my sweet angel.” he laughs weakly.
“you just do that to me, y’know? it’s like i lose a little more of myself everytime you’re near me. and now that i have you— a-all to myself, i mean. i can… i can touch you. i can talk to you, and this time, you can actually say something back. i don’t have to sleep to see you…” he collects himself, closes his eyes momentarily as if reigning in his frustration. “i already said that, didn’t i? fuck.”
he looks visibly upset by this point. you can tell by the way his eyebrows furrow as he considers you. he takes a steadying breath. withdraws his hands back to his sides, before kneeling in front of you.
he looks up at you with those big, doe eyes of his, and you can’t help but think about how earnest he seems in this moment. so hopelessly devoted to you, staring down at him in abject horror as he sits before you, sweet and hopeful.
“what i’m trying to say, my angel,” he says very carefully, mindful not to ramble, “is that i took you because i love you. i love you because you’re you, i love you because i’m me. i love you because i love you.”
you feel like crying all over again.
he continues, “our house is all ready for you. i’m all ready for you. there’s a beautiful life waiting for you here... with me.” he smiles, and this time you can tell it comes to him easier, a rare thing he is so sure of that he doesn’t need to trip over his words as he confesses it to you. “and, well, you just have to be ready for it in return.”
he looks bashful then, rubbing his neck awkwardly.
“and, well, i also sort-of-kind-of-maybe took you today ‘cause it’s valentine’s day. and…” he swallows, “i’m obviously your valentine. and you’re obviously my valentine. and i thought that today would make for the perfect anniversary of our new life together. the day of love, y’know?” a flash of hurt crosses his face, and his voice wavers momentarily. “yeah… i know. i know it’s probably really stupid to you, but…” his gaze drops to your lips. “to me, it means everything.”
he looks so genuine. he sounds so heartachingly sincere. in other circumstances, you might have even felt sorry for him. because although you’re aware that you can’t speak or scream or beg, that doesn’t stop you from putting on a show of it. the hope is that he’ll feel bad for you, seeing you try to talk against the duct tape, wincing at the pain. your pleas sound incomprehensible, even to your own ears, muffled and ultimately silenced.
but not unheard.
“i’m so, so sorry, my angel.” he mutters apologetically. “i can’t take that off because, y’know... you’ll scream. i mean, not that anybody will hear you… but i still don’t want you making too much noise. well, that’s actually not entirely true, haha.” he immediately looks embarrassed, rushing to shake his head. “n-not that we have to do anything you don’t want to, obviously! i-i want you to like it just as much and, well—i want you to, erm, want me… too.”
he drags his hands over his face, in a futile attempt to hide the warmth that deepens the colour of the pale patches on his face to a flushed pink. “can i, uh… can i kiss you?” he asks, peeking at you through the gaps of his fingers, wincing at each word he says out loud. bracing for rejection, already. you almost laugh.
it’s not like you could say no, even if you wanted to.
so you don’t.
instead, you nod, desperate to get the duct tape off. the man falters, visibly surprised. his eyes widen and his mouth trembles, as if he’s about to speak, but he never manages to get there. if the cost of your freedom is just one kiss— if you could just call for help—
it could be enough. for an escape.
it could be worth it.
silently, with trembling fingers, one hand turns your face towards his, palm against your cheek, still damp from your tears. you close your eyes in anticipation, bracing for the pain of having the duct tape finally peeled away, only for the pull to never come. in its place, a tentative pressure. soft, unsure at first. then, growing sloppier in its excitement; messy, amateur movements. his nose, bumping against yours. a nervous giggle.
he kisses you over the duct tape.
the tape crinkles between you, catching on the scratchy stubble along his sweaty upper lip. he exhales against it, warm and uneven, and the sound is awful. the sound of your name, between his awkward movements, is even worse.
and then you feel his tongue.
it’s grotesque. something wet against the shape of your mouth beneath the tape, a hesitant swipe, slow and searching; his tongue drags across the smooth grey surface, and again, you get the feeling that he’s mimicking something he’s only ever seen before. his nose knocks clumsily against yours again, as he smiles against you. “so cute…” he shakily breathes, “angel— my angel. i love you.”
“i love you.” the adhesive tugs at the corners of your mouth when he presses harder into you. “i-i love you.” he deepens the kiss, chasing a fantasy; uncaring that you stay deathly still beneath his lips, as they move once more to plaster open-mouthed kisses all over your chin, slick with his saliva. he says your name after each and every one of them, with such reverence, it sounds like prayer.
to him, you think, it may as well be.
“i love you...”
when he pulls away to catch his breath, there’s an obscene sheen to his chapped lips. even in the dim, flickering light, you know it’s his own saliva. you know it’s also plastered all over the tape on your mouth, can feel it smeared across your face, along your jaw, the shell of your ears. the man pants, his glasses fogged up so that you can’t make out his eyes. he takes them off, wiping them against his shirt, the speckles of blood you’d glimpsed on it earlier now dried. it makes no difference to him. he doesn’t care.
his attention remains transfixed on you. yours, on him.
you wonder why he’s so unusually quiet. and then, after he puts his glasses back on, you watch him rise to his feet, and realise what the reason for his silence is. “s-sorry, darling. erm,” he peers up at you through his lashes, gnawing on his lips. “i-i have to take care of… something.” though it’s a small consolation considering your circumstances, he at least has the shame to cover the patch darkening the front of his pants, as he presses the heel of his hand against himself. he ducks his head, giving you a sheepish grin. “i’ll, um, i’ll leave you alone for a bit, then.”
and then he stares at you.
and you don’t know what he’s looking at.
you don’t know what he sees.
what you know is that before he leaves, he gently brushes away your tears.
you hadn’t even realised you were crying.
“my sweet angel. i know… that you’re not very happy with me right now, but…” he looks a little sad as he looks down at you, something impossibly gentle in his gaze. the way he looks at you is almost reverent. “you could be. we— we could be. everything is already waiting for you.” he smiles, “you just have to be ready to accept it in return, my darling.”
you close your eyes. i— i really think that nobody has taken care of you in the way that you deserve. nobody’s been as gentle as they should have. isn’t that why you are so alone?
and then, he finally, finally leaves. you hear a door open, then close. you hear a lock click, the echo of his steps on stairs that go somewhere far beyond your reach. the light above you flickers, humming in the silence, suddenly unbearably loud. you wonder whose blood had been on him earlier, you wonder why you’re really here—i took you because i love you.
i love you because you are you, he had said earlier. i love you because i love you.
