he’s always thinking of you, buying you little trinkets or treats he thinks you’ll enjoy while he’s out and about— your friends note that when he meets up with you, he never shows up empty-handed. your friends don’t mind him tagging along on your hangouts at all; he doesn’t complain or even mind when he’s holding dozens of bags, and he’s actually a fantastic person to gossip with.
when he drops by for a surprise visit to your house, he brings food for you— and enough for your whole family. your mother adores him, how sweet he is to you and how sweet he is in general. your father appreciates the extra help around the house, and even if he won’t admit it, is happy to monopolize alexis’s muscles by getting him to do some yard work that he’s been meaning to get around to. your sibling even meshes well with him, getting to see more of alexis’s snappier side in the banter they often exchange with him.
alexis is the perfect boyfriend— and you’re the perfect partner for him, given the way you turn a blind eye to his more… concerning behaviors. (maybe even more than that, with the way you feed into them, at times.)
if anyone asks how you two got together, you tell them the practiced and memorized tale of how alexis had very shyly confessed to in one of the campus cafes while offering you a pastry he’d bought just moments before.
it made for a better, more acceptable story than the truth: he’d been stalking you around campus for months, nearly an entire year.
you’d noticed, of course, but only after a while; you had no idea exactly how long he’d been watching you, only that you were aware of it for about a year. it probably should have disturbed you more than it did, but you didn’t particularly mind; alexis was more than just easy on the eyes, and you found his flustered state around you very endearing, and so you allowed his little obsession with you to fester, figuring it harmless.
and then, one day, you found him hiding out in your closet, taking photos of you through the slats in the door.
while you’d been masturbating.
anyone else would have, understandably, freaked out. screamed, thrown things at him, called the police. done something, anything other than what you did.
you, with a few screws of your own knocked loose, had gone up to him and traced a tantalizing finger down his chest. with your head tilted the size, you fixed wide eyes on him and asked, “do you want me to pose for you?” he’d had to stifle a moan when you leaned closer to him and whispered, “i’ll even let you dress me, if you want.”
things had escalated very quickly after that, in terms of both that moment and your overall relationship.
(he made you feel so good that night.)
your relationship with alexis is perfect, so long as no one knows about the little things: the bottomless collection of photos he has of you, the near-suffocating way he dotes on you, the location he’s constantly tracking, the way he has every little detail about you memorized, the way he’ll sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and you hold you tight, too tight, and ask “you won’t leave me, right? not like my family? not like him?”
maybe there’s something more than just a little wrong with him. there’s certainly something a little wrong with you for being okay with it.
but you’re keeping each other happy, and that’s what matters, right?
[yan! michael kaiser x fem! reader, childhood friends au.]
synopsis: your grandfather once cautioned you against feeding strays. it’s a lesson you wouldn’t fully learn until many years later.
words: 4.6k
cw: yandere themes - obsession, possessiveness, implied stalking, slight dubcon (no nsfw).
a/n: [head in hands] this was supposed to be a drabble
“You be careful with that, now.”
At the sound of your grandfather’s voice, you glance over your shoulder, fixing your attention on the man standing in the doorway, propped up against his cane. Your knees and face are smeared with mud, as any seven year-old’s would be.
You turn back around, cooing gently at the scraggly kitten that eats the canned tuna out of the palm of your hand. You lift your free hand to scratch at its head, smiling as it nuzzles into your hand before going back to the food.
“Why?” You ask innocently. “It’s so cute.”
“It’s a stray,” your grandfather says, voice dripping with disgust on the last word. “If you feed it, it’ll keep coming back.”
You frown. Would such a thing be so bad? If the poor little guy was hungry, you would happily indulge it; after all, withholding such a vital thing to its survival would be cruel.
“But it’s hungry,” you whine. The kitten polishes off the rest of the tuna before looking up at you and meowing loudly, bumping its head against your palm. Your heart soars at the endearing action.
“I’m serious,” your grandfather snaps at you in the tone that tells you you’ll be in trouble if you don’t listen. You give the kitten one last pet before reluctantly retracting your hand. You bite down on your warbling lip and blink away tears when it meows at your sudden absence in confusion and protest.
You walk over to your grandfather, and he takes your small wrist into his hand. He takes in your crestfallen expression and sighs, shaking his head.
“It’s for the best,” he says softly. “You don’t want strays getting attached to you.”
You look up at him with big, watery eyes. “Why not?”
“Because no matter how much you feed them, they’ll always be hungry, and then they’ll never leave you alone.”
Despite your grandfather’s warning, you continue to feed the kitten.
You’re careful to do it somewhere he won’t catch you, though. It’s summer, so you’ve been spending a lot of your time in the park that’s only around the block from your house. Turns out the kitten has been spending lots of time sunbathing there, too, so you make sure to start sneaking out some canned tuna with your packed lunch.
You walk past the swingset and toward the large, twisting slide that you’ve gotten used to finding the kitten under this time of day. Your small purple lunch bag bounces against your leg as you skip happily, swinging your arms animatedly. The tune you’re humming gets stuck in your throat and dies as you duck under the play structure and find a small figure already huddled beneath the slide.
A boy in a black hoodie two sizes too big for his frail body sits criss-cross on the floor. Bruised hands gently pet the kitten, which is curled up in his lap and purring softly. He can’t be that much younger than you— probably only by a year— but he seems far smaller than the kids in the grade below you at school, concerningly so.
His head snaps up as your feet come into his line of his vision, wide, impossibly blue eyes locking onto yours. He flinches so hard that the kitten yowls and jumps out of his lap, startled. He curls in on himself defensively and his breathing becomes labored, yet his wide eyes never leave you, tracking your every movement.
You blink in confusion at his reaction. “Um,” you start to say, but you’re cut off by a loud meow cutting through the air.
You turn to the kitten, which has now settled at your side and is pawing at your lunch bag. You giggle— of course, it’s already come to know where its next meal is coming from. You pick up the bag and unzip it, producing the canned tuna from inside it. You grunt as you tug at the tab a few times, but finally it gives way and comes off cleanly. You place it down, and the kitten eagerly prances up to it and starts eating out of it.
After a long moment of watching it eat, your eyes drift back to the boy across from you. His eyes are locked onto the kitten with such focus that it’s concerning.
Then, you realize he’s not looking at the kitten— he’s looking at the tuna sitting on the floor.
You reach back into your bag and take out a sandwich secured tightly in saran wrap. You unwrap it then split it in half, extending your arm out to offer it to the boy.
His eyes dart down to the sandwich and back to you, but he doesn’t make any move to take it.
“Here,” you say, waving your arm up and down in emphasis. “You can have some, if you want. Mom always packs too much for me, so I’m okay sharing with you!”
He glances back down at the sandwich and hesitates for just a moment more before his hand shoots out, snatching it out of your own and quickly bringing it to his mouth. You avert your eyes back to the kitten as he eats it, slowly working through your own half of your lunch.
When you’re done, you peek into the bag to see what else your mom packed for you. There’s a small bag of chips, an orange, and a banana. Maybe it’s a little selfish to keep the chips for yourself, but the boy seems to be just as eager when you set the fruits in front of him, so it’s probably fine.
He finishes eating before you do, and slowly, he inches closer toward you and the cat. He begins petting it again, stealing glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking.
Finished with your snack, you crumple the bag up and throw it into your lunch bag before zipping it back up. You brush your hand off on your pants, leaving a smatter of chip dust behind that your mom will probably chide you for later.
You look up at the boy, who is already staring at you. He flushes red and is about to look away when you hold your hand to him and introduce yourself.
You tilt your head toward him with a warm smile. “What’s your name?”
Michael waits for you under the slide the next day, and the next, and the one after that.
Days bleed into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years. You become permanent fixtures in each other’s lives. You bring snacks and books, bandages and a gentle touch and an unspoken oath to never ask, never pry. He brings nothing but himself, but for you, that is enough.
Your mother never asks why you pack extra food, or where it’s ending up. She likely just chalks it up to you being a growing girl, and for that, you are grateful.
There are some days, though, where you’re being looked after by your father, who chides you for taking more than you need and makes you put the extras back in the pantry. On those days, you apologize to Michael for the smaller portions you both have, but he simply brushes it off. He says he couldn’t care less if you show up with no food at all, so long as you show up.
At some point, it stops being about the food, you just fail to realize it. Michael never breaks his habit of trailing behind you like your own shadow, and he’s not exactly a sociable person (in fact, his glare alone scares off any other kids your age who try to approach you two), so you figure there’s still something he wants from you. And because of your upbringing, hand-holding and leaning against each other and hugging is something so normal to you that you cannot even begin to suspect that there is something much different he’s actually after.
You’re fourteen and he’s thirteen the first time he kisses you.
It’s a sunny day, but not too hot; there’s a nice breeze in the air that keeps you cool as you sit in the grass, idly popping grapes into your mouth as you watch Michael kick a ball into a wall over and over again, as is customary for you two these days. As always, he eventually wears himself out and finds his way over to you, collapsing beside you and leaning his full body weight against your side as you complain and futilely try to push him off.
“Micha, get off,” you whine, shoving at his shoulder. He doesn’t budge, and instead sighs in irritation and wraps his arms around yours to stop your attempts. “You’re heavy!”
“Your fault for feeding me so much,” he mumbles into your shoulder, prompting you to roll your eyes. “Seems like oversight on your part.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have if I knew you’d grow up to be this annoying.” Your words lack heat, of course— you don’t really mean it, and even if it wasn’t evident by your tone, it’s evident in the way you relax into his embrace. “Seriously, though. You’re all sweaty. It’s gross.”
Michael gives one last aggrieved sigh before releasing you. He reaches for the water bottle set beside you and drinks from it, and you go back to your grapes.
A comfortable silence settles between you two as you observe the other people in the park. It’s summer, so it’s busier than usual, which means Michael will probably leave sooner rather than later.
You turn to look at him, but as always, he’s already looking down at you.
You tilt your head to the side. “Do you need something?” You ask playfully.
Michael stares at you a moment longer, the wind rustling his hair into his face. Then, he leans down so quickly that you can’t react before he presses his lips to yours.
It’s soft, gentle. It’s barely there, his desire contained by a hesitation you haven’t seen within him in so long.
When you don’t respond, he pulls back, his face carefully smoothed over into a blank canvas, but you know him better than that. Fear dances in his eyes, fear that he’s overstepped and swung a sledgehammer straight into your friendship.
You blink rapidly, trying to pull yourself together. “Oh,” you say, smartly, and then feel yourself flush red as you fully process what just happened.
“Sorry,” he mutters under his breath. It sounds wrong coming from him, and you reach out to grab his arm just as he starts to withdraw into himself.
“Hey, look, it’s fine. I just— you just caught me by surprise. That’s all.”
He looks back at you, and you feel your breath catch in your throat. His blue eyes are shining, but there’s something dark in them that you haven’t seen before, something you can’t quite place.
“It’s fine?” He echoes in question.
You feel your face grow hotter.
“Yeah,” you whisper back, “it’s fine.”
When he leans down this time, you respond in kind.
You’re always the one to break off the kisses shared between you two.
At this point, you’re convinced he’s not human, given the way that lack of air never seems to be a problem for him. If anything, he seems more annoyed by the fact that you’ve stopped kissing him than the fact that he’s nearly panting from how long he’s gone without taking a proper breath.
He’s insatiable, you quickly find out. Shockingly, for a few weeks following your first kiss, he spends more of his time kissing you under the slide than playing football. When you get tired or want to take a break, he just opts to hold you in a tight embrace until you’re ready to kiss again or have to leave.
Eventually, his initial enthusiasm dies down, but his way of kissing you never changes. Shallow, rapid kisses swapped between inexperienced middle schoolers, but he never lets up, always eager to meet your lips again and take in your breath in place of oxygen.
You never put a name to whatever’s happening between you two. You’re not friends anymore, that much is clear, but you two don’t have the means of going out on dates, either.
Regardless of what you are, he becomes clingier than ever following the shift in your relationship, and a small part of you can’t help but feel like you’re suffocating.
“Micha.”
He looks up from the ball at his feet, skillfully dribbling it despite the fact that his focus is elsewhere. It’s impressive; hopefully, one day, you’ll be able to see him play professionally.
Your heart sinks to your stomach and sits there heavily. Would that be the next time you see him? On some screen, miles away from him, years from this moment in this time?
You’re moving out of Berlin. Your father’s being suddenly transferred to an office in Cologne, and you have just five days to get all your stuff packed up and ready to go for the train ride on Sunday. You have a shitty starter phone— your parents aren’t keen on you having a smartphone, yet— but Micha has nothing. You suppose you could write to him, but that would put him at risk if his father got to the mail before he did.
When he catches the look on your face, he settles the ball at his feet and locks his full attention on you. “What’s wrong?”
You swallow, averting your gaze to the ground. “I’m moving,” you mumble.
A thick silence settles between you two. The soft breeze is sharp in your ears, like deafening static reverberating through your head.
His voice comes out sharp, digging in a way you’ve never heard it before. “What?”
“I’m moving,” you repeat. “I’m leaving. Dad’s job— we’ve got to go to Cologne.”
He doesn’t respond for so long that you finally force yourself to look up at him. His face has gone completely blank, and there’s only something dark in his eyes, something completely unreadable to you.
His voice is tight when he asks, “When are you coming back?”
“I—” You sigh. “I don’t know. I don’t think I am. I think the transfer’s permanent.”
He looks down, seemingly mulling over your words. When he looks up again, his gaze goes is cold, and he hums, straightening out. “No.”
You blink, confused. “No?”
“You’re not leaving.”
You furrow your brows. “What?”
He looks down at you derisively, seemingly irritated that he has to repeat himself. “I said you’re not leaving.”
“I can’t just not leave,” you spit out. He’s starting to be ridiculous, and his condescension has never been something that bodes well with you, having only been on the receiving end of it so few times. “I’m not gonna have any family here.”
He jostles the ball between his feet as if this is another one your shared mundane conversations. “So we’ll just run away together.”
You narrow your eyes at him in disbelief. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”
He slants a side look at you. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
“Oh, sure,” you say, voice getting higher with each word, “just two teenagers running away and figuring out how to make ends meet. Can you please take this seriously?”
His foot comes down on top of the ball, hard. He flicks a finger between you two. “I am the only one taking this seriously.”
“This,” you echo, incredulous. “A stupid relationship.”
He kicks the ball to the side and turns to face you fully, and that’s how you know you fucked up. Each word bites as he asks, “Is that all this is to you?”
“You know I care about you, Micha,” you say carefully, “but asking me to throw away my family to stay with you is insane.”
Something shutters in his expression, but it’s gone before you can even register it. “I knew it,” he spits, “you’ve never cared about me as much as you’ve led me to believe.”
You grit your teeth. “Are you serious?”
He shrugs. “You obviously don’t value me as much as I value you.”
“Oh my god,” you snap, “you are fourteen. Get the fuck over yourself.”
“You think this is meaningless because we’re young?”
“I think,” you hiss, “that we have our whole lives ahead of us. I wouldn’t ask you to stay by my side if you had bigger and better things ahead of you.”
He continues to stare at you in icy silence. You sigh, frustrated.
“If it’s meant to be, it’ll work itself out,” you say.
Michael tilts his head, as if considering this. His eyes wander your face, committing every bit to memory. Then, he walks over to you, seizing your wrist in his hand. You step back, a bit thrown off, but he lightly tugs on your arm, pulling you back toward him.
“It will work out,” he says, eyes boring into yours. “I’ll make sure of it.”
He leans down and presses a familiar, gentle kiss to your lips.
“Then you won’t have to leave me ever again.”
This time, when you pull away, he lets you go. Seemingly without a care in the world, he turns around and picks up the ball, heading toward the trail that he takes home.
You return to the park the day before you leave, but you don’t see him. You wait for hours, but he never shows.
The unease twisting in your gut doesn’t unravel until the train speeds away from the station, leaving Berlin behind you.
You’re about to turn eighteen when you see him again.
Not in person, but on a screen like you expected. The name Michael Kaiser sits in a scrolling bar across the bottom of the screen which plays footage of him playing on Bastard München’s youth team, his long golden hair flowing behind him beautifully. The news anchor says something about him being one of the most promising players of the new generation— not that that’s something you need to be told.
Your friend says something from across the table, ripping your attention from the screen. You don’t notice how tense you’ve gotten until you relax again.
Despite the lingering feeling of unease his memory leaves you with, you’re still glad he made it, after all.
“Who’s this?”
You’re back home for the holidays during your second year in university. Your studies have taken you back to Berlin, albeit a part you hadn’t grown up near and is still new and fresh to you. “Home” might not be the right word, though— you’re spending Christmas Eve at your grandmother’s house. She’s been hosting your entire family the past couple years since your grandfather’s passing forced her to relocate to a smaller house, an attempt to fill the empty home with warm presences.
Currently, she’s playing with a small, bedraggled dog that has wandered onto her porch. It’s wheezy and staggers when it walks, indicative of its old age.
“Oh, just a sweet little thing,” your grandmother replies as she pets its back. “You know, your grandfather always hated it when I would feed the strays. I did it a lot back at the old house on the other side of town, but there’s not too many animals on this side, so I don’t really do it anymore.”
You consider the dog. Its fur is matted, but nonetheless, its tail wags so hard from your grandmother’s attention that its whole body shakes with it. It sneezes pathetically.
You shove your hands into your coat pockets. “So this is a new one, then?”
“Well, not quite.” Your grandmother chuckles. “I first met this little guy back at the old house. I’ve been feeding him since he was a puppy! Seems he found his way back home on his own.”
“Huh.” Your eyes snap back to her. “I didn’t think they could actually do that.”
She laughs some more. “The most determined and loved ones can.”
You retreat back into the house. Your younger cousins jump on you immediately, demanding you play whatever nonsensical game they’ve thought up this time. You shed your coat, and with it, your lingering distress at your grandmother’s words.
“Oh my god, do you have a secret admirer?”
Your roommate’s voice pulls you out of your shocked state. The dread freezing your veins gradually thaws out, and you kneel down to pick the bouquet of flowers off the floor in front of the entrance to your shared apartment.
Blue forget-me-nots, with some blue roses interspersed throughout.
It’s October now. Just under a year has passed since Christmas, but your grandmother’s words are fresh in your mind, as if you’d heard them just yesterday.
You fumble around with the bouquet, movements becoming more frantic when you can’t find what you’re looking for. “There’s no card attached to this.”
“Well, duh,” your roommate says. “That would defeat the purpose of a secret admirer.”
Except, it’s not a secret who sent you these. You might have been able to brush it off if it was just the forget-me-nots, but the roses speak for themselves.
You flick your wrist out to the side, shoving the bouquet into your roommate’s chest. She grabs onto them, so you let them go in favor of getting the door unlocked.
“Figure out what to do with them,” you say as you enter the apartment.
She trails in after you, hot on your heels in incredulity. “Wait, you’re seriously not going to keep them?”
“You know I’m not interested in a relationship right now,” you say breezily, feigning a calmness that contradicts your racing heart. “It’s a sweet gesture, but I don’t want them.”
“I mean—” Your roommate stammers a bit before her words peter out. She sighs, then starts rummaging in the cabinet beneath the sink. “Alright, whatever you say.”
She ends up arranging them in a nice glass vase you weren’t aware you two even own and sets them in the center of the dining table. They mock you until they wither and die, and you can finally dispose of them.
By the time February rolls around without any further incidents, your guard has lowered significantly, which is, of course, your first mistake.
You’re lounging on the couch in the common space when there’s light knocking at your apartment door. There’s mostly college students renting in this unit, so it’s not uncommon for someone to stop by and invite you to some party or other, and with Valentine’s around the corner, there’s sure to be plenty.
You set your laptop down on the coffee table and get to your feet, sliding your feet into your slippers and crossing the room to get to the apartment entrance. You reach up and begin to undo the locks without checking the peephole, which is your second mistake.
You pull the door open, and immediately, everything freezes in place.
His eyes are as blue as the day you met him, only his gaze is far sharper than they were even on the day you left.
The television and billboards really don’t do him justice. He’s fully grown into his figure now, the diet and training regimen of a professional athlete filling him out in ways that the portioned-out food fed to him from your hands could not. His hair is choppy, but a face that gorgeous can make anything work. It’s pulled up into a messy bun made to look regal by the glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. The blue rose on his neck is stark against his skin, and you eye the thorny vines that trail down and disappear beneath his shirt.
You meet his eyes again, apprehensive. His face is impassive, but the intensity of his gaze betrays him and keeps you pinned in place.
You clutch the doorknob so tightly your knuckles go white.
“Michael,” you say softly, and he frowns slightly at that. “What are you doing here?”
How did you find me? The unasked question hangs in the air between you two, but neither of you reach for it.
“Who’s Michael?” He asks airily. He steps forward, and hooks a finger under your chin before you get the chance to move away from him. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your Micha already.”
You swallow thickly. “I haven’t,” you mumble.
He hums. His thumb brushes against your chin lightly as his gaze trails over your body. When it lands on you again, his eyes swallow you whole. “You look good.”
Heat floods your cheeks in spite of the dread settling in your stomach, and you look to the floor again. “Thanks.”
You attempt to step back, but there’s a hand that finds its way to the small of your back before you can. The hand on your chin tilts your head up, up, until you’re forced to look at him again.
“I spent so long waiting for you, liebling,” he says. “Is this how you greet your boyfriend?”
“Boyfriend?” You sputter. “I don’t—”
His thumb presses firmly against your lips, quieting your protests. “Friends don’t make out, do they?” When you don’t respond, he adds, “We never did break up, you know. I’m glad to see you haven’t cheated on me in my absence.”
You finally reach your breaking point, all the agitation and unease within you spilling over. You shove at him as hard as you can, but if he didn’t budge all those years ago, he certainly wasn’t budging now. You shove at him again, this time trying to use the movement to push yourself away rather than push him, but he swiftly grabs hold of both your wrists and tugs you back toward him. Caught off guard, you careen forward and crash into his chest. His arms snake around your waist, an iron cage holding you firmly against him.
“Micha,” you hiss, “let me go.”
“Now, liebe,” he coos, releasing his hold on you just enough for you to shift and properly look up at him. “You know what that will cost you.”
You glare up at him, but to your chagrin, he seems perfectly content to simply hold you and gaze down at you. As seconds bleed into minutes trapped in his hold, you crack under the pressure.
You tilt your head up fully, and Michael lowers his head just enough to be within your reach. You close the distance between you two, intending for the kiss to be short, shallow, and sweet, just like your first.
You honestly should know better at this point. One of his hands comes up to cradle the back of your head, and he pulls you back in just as you’re about to get away.
The next kiss is deep, far more passion behind it than anything you two shared before you left. He bites at your bottom lip, and forces his tongue in when you startle. A whimper leaves your throat as he continues to lick into your mouth. You reach up to try to shove at his chest, but he places his other hand over it, rubbing his thumb against your knuckles in a mockery of a soothing gesture.
You gasp out when he finally breaks for air. Your lips sting from the sudden release of pressure, and a thin trail of saliva lines your bottom lip. You stumble back, but firm arms are there to catch you again.
You look up, and his pupil-blown eyes cause that unease to settle over you once more.
Gently, he brings your hand up to his lips and ghosts your knuckles over them.
There’s a glint in his eye as he asks, “Aren’t you going to invite me inside?”
Never satisfied. Insatiable, and now, somehow finding his way back to you.
You should have listened to your grandfather when you had the chance.
ness will find a new obsession once kaiser leaves bastard and signs to re al.
you’re a distraction at first, something to fill the void kaiser left behind. a placeholder to fulfill his need to fret over someone, a thing to project his stalkerish tendencies onto.
it doesn’t stay that way for very long.
it’s easier to hide the… scale of his obsession from you than it was for him to hide from kaiser. for one thing, you’re far more removed from ness; you don’t live in the same place, occupy the same circles, and have a career completely outside of sports. it’s far too easy to appear somewhat normal to you— if a little off-putting, but in an endearing way.
it’s easy to get a first date with you, then a second, then a third, until finally he earns the shiny title of boyfriend. he’s sickeningly sweet, and the endless affection and attention you afford him is addictive.
even when you do start to see the cracks in his facade, even when you do come face-to-face with the sheer volume of his obsession and desperation to keep you, you find you don’t mind it. all you have to do is love him, your sweet little alexis, which is what you’ve been doing the whole time.
please just stay with me, he’ll tell you, as if you’ve ever considered leaving him when he’s so good to you.
nothing good lasts forever, though.
you start backtracking when kaiser transfers back to bastard from re al, because while ness welcomes him back with open arms, you did not sign up for whatever’s wrong with that freak.
kaiser had broken things between you two off rather suddenly and volatilely. after a year together, he'd changed his mind, cruelly telling you that you simply weren't what he was looking for, weren't worth keeping around. with that condescending smirk you'd only ever seen used full force on the pitch, he discarded you to the side with a brush of fingers against your temple and whispered reminder that he could have anyone in the world— why would he want someone as plain as you?
you'd been shattered. you'd given him everything you had. he wasn't an easy person to love by any means, but you were determined to do it anyways, because you saw through his many masks and into the broken, beaten boy that lay beneath it all.
(and maybe that's why he left: he couldn't handle it, the way you always saw him for what he was and stayed despite it. because of it.)
your friends, the few you have, tell you it's for the better. they tell you that the relationship was making you weary, that you were hard to get ahold of, that anytime they did see you, you looked like you had just gotten all the blood and energy sucked out of you, the tired smile you wore doing nothing to hide how exhausted you were.
(because you kept smiling. you never stopped smiling, no matter what.)
and maybe they're right— maybe you were losing yourself, but it was a necessary sacrifice you were willing to make. a shard of you in exchange for a fragment of trust. a piece of yourself pulled into the darkness as a means to expose a part of him to the light.
nobody else understood, but you didn't expect them to. they hadn't seen his smile— the genuine one— in those rare moments when he was too sleepy to play off how much he appreciated your humor, your company. they didn't see the quiet trepidation, the soft tremble of his hands in yours when you kissed him, gripping onto your wrists like he didn't know whether to push you away or keep you there as you pressed your lips softly to his until he finally melted against you, slumping forward into your embrace like he was boneless, nothing more than your arms and your love holding him up and together.
but none of that matters anymore. you've been rebuilding yourself, scraping the pieces of yourself back together and cleaning them off, arranging them back into the version of yourself that hadn't poured so much of itself into another person.
it's been nearly four months, and you're finally starting to feel okay.
it's friday night. you're fresh out of the shower, cozy in your pajamas and ready to wind down by catching up on your favorite show after weeks of throwing yourself knee-deep into work to keep yourself distracted. you've just pulled some cookies out of the oven, and you're pouring yourself a cold glass of milk to go with them when there's a knock at the door.
with a raised eyebrow, you put the carton back in the fridge and shut it. strange— you're not expecting anyone, but it wouldn't be the first time one of your friends stopped by unannounced to crash your party for one.
you pad across the room from your kitchen counter to the door of your apartment, your slippers scuffing against the wood floor as you drag your feet. you peek out of the peephole— you can never be too safe.
there's a package sitting on the floor, no one in sight.
you undo the locks on the door, pulling it open. though uncommon, it's not unheard of for the front office to distribute packages in the tailend of the evening, not late enough for it to be concerning, but right around the time they'd be closing up.
you pick up the package, turning it over in your hands and inspecting it. your brows furrow. the box isn't labeled, and there's no return address— hell, your address isn't even on it.
then, there's movement in your periphery.
you look up just in time to see someone pushing themselves off one of your neighbor's doors further down the hall. your heart gives a painful lurch as the hallway lights catch familiar blonde hair that bleeds into blue, and you take a step back, positioning yourself more inside your apartment and gripping the door in a white-knuckled grip.
you swallow thickly as you meet his eyes. they're no less beautiful than the day he left you, but somehow, far more intense.
"kaiser."
his face twitches at that, pulling like an agitated muscle. something dart flits across his face before it smooths back over into perfect blankness. "liebling."
you purse your lips, retreating further into your home. "you shouldn't call me that," you say, but he just tilts his head at you in response. "what are you doing here?"
he comes closer, moving so slowly across the hallway that your brain is screaming at you that you're in some kind of danger, that you need you shut the door and lock it before it's too late.
you grip the knob tighter and move the door so you're half-hidden behind it, but don't shut it completely.
his gaze rakes over you, and the hairs on your arms stand on-end. he moves even closer— too close now. he stops when you close the door even more, leaving only a sliver of yourself visible.
"we should talk," he says in a disarming tone. it only makes the anxiety bubbling in your stomach worse.
"i'm not ready to talk to you," you answer.
he sighs at that. "i know i hurt you," he says, voice deceptively soft in a way you've never heard before. "let me make it up to you, hm?"
the door creaks under the force you hold the doorknob with. "you can't."
his eyes narrow slightly. "i can't?"
"you can't," you echo. then, before you can stop it from slipping out, "goodbye, kaiser."
you should have just shut the door.
mere centimeters before it clicks shut, there's another force pushing against the other side of the door, far stronger than you have any hope of resisting. a surprised shriek leaves you as your feet skid backward, the door pushing open more and more as kaiser forces his way inside.
with one last shove, you fly backward and drop the decoy package. kaiser steps inside, quietly shutting and locking the door behind him.
he moves toward you, and you scramble backward.
"stop," you hiss, panicked and frantically backing up like a cornered animal. your back slams into the corner of the kitchen counter and you yelp, flinching forward as the pain momentarily overrides your instincts and causes you to slump forward.
kaiser reaches you in record time. he catches you by the waist, and you gasp as his hands squeeze your sides, grasping at you with a bruising grip. a strangled noise leaves you when he hoists you onto the counter and forces himself closer to you, settling himself in between your legs as you straddle his waist.
"st—" the command dies in your throat when he presses his lips to yours.
it's gentle. he shakes with visible restraint, but it's still the softest he's ever kissed you.
it's fleeting, but you're still breathless when he pulls away.
one hand pressed flush against your back and holding you against him, he brings the other up to your chin to tilt your head upward.
his pupils are blown, the blue of his eyes little more than a thin ring around them.
your breath hitches. your hands fist into the end of his shirt as your eyes search his face, and he sighs, leaning in even closer to you, pressing your chests together.
"kais—" you start, but he quickly swoops in and bites meanly at your lower lip before pressing a few placating pecks to it.
he pulls away, and you try again. "micha."
he hums, content. he leans down, positioning himself at the junction between your neck and shoulder as he breathes you in. you whine softly as he begins mouthing at your neck, rubbing soothing circles into your back as he does.
this time, he cups your whole cheek with his hand when he drags your gaze back toward him.
he whispers your name against your lips before pressing another chaste kiss to them. then, "i'm home, meine liebe."
i actually think kaiser would be infinitely worse with a childhood friend.
you both came from nothing— shitty, abusive households, treated terribly and abandoned by those who were supposed to care for you and love you. you clung to each other growing up, serving as the only light and solace in the other's life.
a case could be made that such a tender friendship could have changed the outcome, produced a softer version of himself, one that knows love in at least some shape.
but his mentality gets more... twisted, contradictory. he has to be the best, has to secure his legacy because if he loses everything and falls back down to nothing, then surely even you will leave him, too, right?
yet at the same time, your love is damn near an expectation at this point. oh, he's being too difficult? too suffocating? demanding? it doesn't matter. you've seen him at his lowest, and stayed with him even then— this is nothing, and he'll be damned if he allows you to give up on him when he has everything, when he can give you anything you could possibly desire.
and you can forget about forming any bonds with colleagues, friends, and— god forbid— a partner. you only needed each other as children, and there's no reason for that to change now.
he holds on tight. too tight. he has one good thing, and he's not gonna lose it, he'll never lose it, not if he can help it.
➜ ft. n harmonia, volo (pokemon); phainon, sunday (honkai: star rail); alexis ness, michael kaiser (blue lock); valentin viljoen, ronin beaufort (killer chat)
yandere powerscaling: so you have your favorite yandere f/os, but how much of an actual threat are they?
the fields of assessment:
threat to others: exactly what it sounds like. would they get their hands dirty for their darling? what's their jealousy threshold, how do they go about eliminating their competition, and exactly how far are they willing to go?
threat to lover: are they willing to hurt their lover in any shape, way, or form. this considers beyond just the typical yandere act of killing their lover and looks at other things like manipulation, abduction, isolation, etc.
capabilities as a lover: are they a good partner? if you're stuck with them, hopefully you're getting something out of it— it might make up for some of the things they do, if you're willing to turn a blind eye, that is. [note: inverted score; a better lover should have a lower score, as for our purposes, it makes the overall situation with them less "threatening," as it's more "enjoyable."]
disclaimer: i don't condone yandere behavior irl. obviously.
anyway, let the powerscaling begin!
no-pressure tags: @wondeurland @fortheharbingers + anyone else who sees and would like to rank their favs!
{"Generally Harmless" Tier: Scores 1 - 3+}
N Harmonia (Pokemon) [Final Score: 2/10]
threat to others: 3/10
threat to lover: 1/10
capabilities as a lover: 8/10 → 2/10
i've talked about this at length before, but when considering N as a yandere, it should be noted that BW1 N and post-BW1 N are distinctly different yanderes.
as far as being a threat to others goes, he's only really a threat when he's the plasma king, and that only extends as far as mobilizing team plasma grunts as an intimidation tactic (and maybe getting their pokemon stolen). no one's really getting hurt, and i honestly think it would take a lot for him to even do this; he's not really a deeply jealous individual, so he'd only really do this if he thought someone posed some sort of danger to you. after the events of BW1, though? the score goes down to a 1, honestly. he doesn't have that kind of power anymore, and the most he'll do is play up the innocent act and sew seeds of distrust in your mind if there's someone he'd prefer wasn't around you.
he's not a threat to his lover. at all. he gets exactly 1 point in this category for the aforementioned subtle manipulation that pales in comparison to what everyone else further down this list is doing.
as a lover, N has a lot of potential. i do think the fucked-up isolated palace Ghetsis raised him in means he doesn't have much of a basis to go off of for what love should look like in practice, but i do think what he lacks in experience, he more than makes up for in enthusiasm. perhaps he's a bit awkward and distant at times, but for the most part he's willing to listen and learn and adapt to ensure all of his partner's needs are met and they're as comfortable as can be.
Phainon (Honkai: Star Rail) [Final Score: 2/10]
threat to others: 4/10
threat to lover: 2/10
capabilities as a lover: 10/10 → 0/10
though Phainon is certainly more than capable of mass destruction, it's his personality that has him ranking so low on this list.
honestly, the threat he poses to others is mostly theoretical; he could certainly kill a man for his darling if he wanted to (and probably get away with it), but it's more of a question of if he would. (assuming khaslana is still under lock and key in this case) it's safe to say that because of his high morals and sense of duty, phainon wouldn't outright kill anyone unless they were threatening his lover's life first. this isn't to say he's not a threat at all, though; there are certainly other ways to make sure people he finds to be… unsavory stay away from his partner, and as Amphoreus's Deliverer, beloved by all, it might come in the form of a few simple words rather than his sword.
another one that's not really a threat to their lover at all. he gets one more point than N, though, because i personally feel like he'd lean into the innocent manipulation act far more frequently than N would (and be more conscious of the fact that what he's doing is manipulating you). i mean, if you come equipped with lethal puppy eyes, you might as well weaponize them.
literally the perfect lover. you could not ask for a better man than this. he can cook, he can clean, he can provide, he can protect, he's there for you both physically and emotionally and is supportive of everything you do. he just wants to see you flourish and be happy and help you in any way he can.
{"Genuinely Concerning" Tier: Scores 4 - 6+}
Alexis Ness (Blue Lock) [Final Score: 5.7/10]
threat to others: 9/10
threat to lover: 5/10
capabilities as a lover: 7/10 → 3/10
behavior-wise, Ness is the most canonical yandere in blue lock. though it does seem like he's all bark on the field and no bite when someone slights Kaiser, i think it's moreso that he can't do something at that moment rather than that he won't. this is still indicative that there's certain lines he's not willing to cross for those he cares about, though, so that disqualifies him from getting a 10 (and hypothetically killing someone). he'll do just about anything else as far as threatening someone into disappearing goes. and he's easily one of the most jealous guys in blue lock, so it's incredibly easy to set him off and have him gunning for whoever he feels you're about to replace him with.
he's simultaneously a doormat and landmine, which complicates his score; no harm will come your way until you've set him off to the point where it's too late to do damage control. he hates when you're upset with him, so if there's a problem, he'll keep it to himself until he can't take it anymore. he really doesn't want to hurt you, but he'll abduct you and hide you away if it means you won't leave him. also, in reference to the way he's so devoted to Kaiser he wants to change him for the better by any means— he's a pro at manipulation, but with good intentions, so that's gotta count for something, right?
he's an absolute sweetheart, and always so eager to please! he's a quick learner, too, so rest assured that every single one of your needs is seen to and taken care of. he knows your likes and dislikes to an almost uncomfortable degree, so he'll always keep you comfortable and content. he's an ideal lover— if you can somehow ignore the obsessive, stalkerish way he learns you inside and out, and get used to his adoration that borders on worship.
Sunday (Honkai: Star Rail) [Final Score: 6/10]
threat to others: 9/10
threat to lover: 7/10
capabilities as a lover: 8/10 → 2/10
i've talked about him so many times on this blog i'm hard-pressed for new things to say, honestly.
you might be surprised to see him ranking so high, but i'm taking him at his absolute worst (because that's how i prefer him). he is the most powerful man in Penacony, with a magic labyrinth for a home and the power to craft isolated dream pockets at his disposal. in terms of being a threat to his lover, he wouldn't dream of harming a hair on their head, but really, he doesn't need to— hiding them away in Dewlight Pavilion or a self-indulgent dream of his making will suffice. and as we've seen, he's definitely got a manipulative streak; while he's not cruel by any means, he's not above using soft-spoken words to plant seeds of doubt that have his partner running back into his arms. he's also not above using the power of the Order to get what he wants.
when it comes to others, though? Sunday certainly would never kill anyone, but… he doesn't really need to. why would he, when he could easily throw them out of the dream so they never have access to his partner again? when he could brainwash them into leaving them alone? when he could shrink them down and trap them in the toy model of Penacony, toying with them to his heart's content?
devotion is woven into every fiber of Sunday's being— of course he'd be a fantastic lover. whether he's the Oak family head or an astral express member, he's doing everything in his power to ensure he's worthy of your love. he'll always listen to your troubles and support you through it, or do his best to fix the problem himself— which might be suffocating at times, but it comes from a good place. physical affection might fluster him at times, but he's always receptive to it. as long as you can learn to live with some of his more controlling tendencies, a relationship with him will be just fine.
welcome to the canon serial killer zone, where "threat to others" of the highest degree reside. of course i'm giving him the highest number i could bestow him, what do you think this is? while V has a pretty solid moral compass in terms of who his victims are, i am convinced that it's not infallible and can be tweaked as needed. i wouldn't say he's one to get jealous, but he'd certainly get paranoid, and any perceived threat to his lover must be swiftly disposed of— and, of course, there's no easier way to go about it than the method he's already been using to cleanse the world of other scum.
his score might be considerably high, but i'd like to heavily emphasize that i believe he would not physically harm his partner whatsoever, no matter what the situation is. however, i do think that a healthy dose of paranoia combined with his overprotectiveness certainly leaves abduction and, consequently, isolation on the table. sure, you'd be phsically unharmed, but the constant looming threat of being robbed of your established life and freedom has to be accounted for.
he's literally the only one on this list who can measure up to Phainon in the lover department. he can provide for you in every aspect of the word, is a protector (probably to an extreme), and is a true romantic. he might not always be able to spend as much time with you as he'd like, but he'll make the most of every last second that he can. it's only the aforementioned overprotectiveness that docks him a point— he can be suffocating at times, but he means well. he loves you like every moment spent with you could be the last— because there's always a small part of him that worries it might be.
christ, i'd give him an 11 if i could. you might've played killer chat, but have you played gluttony gods? yeah, he's going the full nine-yards and then some when it comes to getting rid of someone who's wronged the person he loves. he's already trigger-happy, so to speak, with a kill-count in the triple digits; no one should be giving him a reason to bash their head in.
how much of a threat he is to his lover is up to debate, but i'm semi-confidently leaving it at a 9. the threat of killing you certainly looms over his entire route, especially when he says you'd better find him first before he finds you; however, at the end, it's unclear whether or not he would've actually harmed you if you hadn't kissed or killed him. regardless, i would say the threat is prominent enough to warrant this score, and i wouldn't put a lot of stock in your physical wellbeing— at least, not in the beginning of his interest in you. besides that, he's literally the incarnation of a shoulder devil, constantly spurring you on the embrace the rot and indulge the darkest parts of yourself— that's gotta be a threat to you on some level, right?
contrary to everything i just said, ronin is quite the romantic, which is definitely saving his score here. unconventionally so, he'll love you in the way he knows how and prefers, poetically and gruesomely. you'll never know if the gift he's just texted you about is going to be a delectable home-cooked meal or the freshly carved-out heart of your high school bully, but hey, gotta keep things interesting in a relationship, right? and at the end of the day, no matter what's happening to you and how it changes you, you can always rely on Ronin to love you— especially at your worst.
Michael Kaiser [Final Score: 8/10]
he scored higher than both serial killers im genuinely sick
threat to others: 9/10
threat to lover: 8/10
capabilities as a lover: 3/10 → 7/10
he earns a 9 for how much of a threat he is to others because he'd do anything under the sun except for outright killing them (and even that's up for debate, but he does have a career to preserve, so i doubt he's risking a homicide investigation). everything else is fair game: bribing them to "disappear," ruining their reputation, fabricating a scandal, framing them for a crime— nothing is below him, and anything is worth ensuring he's the sole captor of your attention, the center of your world, just like you are his. this man is so desperate for love that once he has it, he's not going to let anything take even a second of your precious time that should be spent with him.
he's definitely a threat in the way that he'll do anything to isolate them and make them solely reliant on him. if he has to break you down, chip away at your self-worth and confidence in order to keep you at his side, then so be it. he definitely prefers emotional manipulation and probably gets off on it, but he's not entirely against more physical methods if he sees it as absolutely necessary. given his upbringing, i subscribe to the belief that kaiser wouldn't physically abuse his partner, within what he sees as reason; he would never raise his fist at you, but if the situation gets to a point where you escape confinement in his apartment— well, a broken leg will prevent that from happening again, right?
his skills as a lover definitely leave much to be desired. i do think there's some softness and vulnerability in him that might peek through and allow for moments of reprieve, but they're few and far between and don't nearly make up for how he is most of the time. on his best days he's stoic, demanding affection but never returning it, and on his worst he's downright volatile and inflammatory. he's a difficult person to love who doesn't know how to love, but craves and demands it nonetheless.
Volo [Final Score: 9/10]
threat to others: 10/10
threat to lover: 10/10
capabilities as a lover: 3/10 → 7/10
another one i've talked about at length. oh, this wretched blonde of mine. i knew he'd rank the highest before i even started scoring the others.
technically speaking, we don't really see him being a threat to others in the game, but i think that's more because of how the events unfolded rather than him actually not being a threat. i mean, he did technically cause the space-time rifts that unleashed dangerous pokemon on Hisui as a whole. he also did want to rewrite the universe and make himself its god, so. i would defiitely say that he's unhinged enough to pose a massive threat to anyone, especially since he's an incredibly jealous and bitter individual with a likely hairline trigger when he's not trying to keep his cool for appearances. and as we've seen in the game, he's definitely got a capacity for murder. (i mean, it's ancient Sinnoh, and i'm not putting much faith in Kamado to conduct a homicide investigation.)
oh, you mean the man who infamously yelled, "Giratina, strike them down!" in a shining moment of literally trying to kill the player character? yes i would say he's a threat of the highest degree to his lover and no i won't be elaborating beyond that and his "there are still corners of the Hisui region where we can stash you away in secret" voiceline.
much like the previously ranked blonde, volo, for the most part, is far too bitter of an individual to love properly. unlike kaiser, though, volo likely despises you deeply for making him fall for you, for being a distraction and giving him a tangible weakness in the world that he loathes. he's nothing if not an actor, though, so he's certainly able to play a part when he feels like it— and he'll lord it over your head, the scraps of affection and human contact you've come to long for after long periods of deprivation, delighting in pathetic you are.
fun fact: when he inevitably comes back in PLZA DLC i will explode
You'd gotten away with it. No one had any reason to suspect that all those deaths were related murders, or murders that could be traced back to you, for that matter.
But The Butcher had figured it out.
[ronin beaufort x gn! reader.] (yandere if you squint.)
words: 7.2k
cw: mild gore, descriptions of corpses, briefly referenced past child abuse, SA, and transphobia
a/n: ronin brainworms won this round against indefinite hiatus
"You'll never get it out, you know."
The figure hunched over the lake jolts in shock, clearly startled by your sudden appearance.
They're even more a mess than you initially thought— long black hair tangled with the tips drenched in blood. Their expression is set in a blissful, almost euphoric expression, but their trembling frame, wide eyes, and ragged breathing betray them.
A knife rests on the ground, by their thigh— shining a pristine silver, cleansed of the blood staining the white blouse they've been frantically scrubbing in the lake water.
The first time's always the hardest.
"It's likely set into the fabric already," you elaborate. "White's a bitch of a color to clean, anyway."
They continue staring at you, so you stare back at them. They can't be much younger than you, a couple years at most— maybe fourteen or fifteen. With the blouse off, you can make out heaps of KT tape peaking out from beneath their tank top, where the sleeve holes hang too low.
You've heard of this kid before, his existence spoken of by your parents alongside foul, derogatory comments that leave a sour taste on your tongue.
He's gone still. His fingers twitch and inch toward the knife.
"Save it for someone who's a threat to you," you say, and his hand freezes in place. You nod toward the soaked blouse being clenched in his other fist. "Go toss that downtown somewhere. Too much shit happens there. It'll never get back to you."
"Fingerprints?" He asks with a barely-there voice.
You snort. "No one's running prints on something found in a dumpster around there. Just wrap it up in a grocery bag or something so you can't immediately see the blood. It'll be fine."
His eyes narrow at you in distrust. Or suspicion. Probably both.
A smile plays at your lips. "You keep my secrets, I'll keep yours, alright?"
You don't get an answer— just more staring and icy silence.
You turn around, walking to your little garden a few feet away. You reach into your hoodie pockets, producing a pair of medical gloves and a ziploc bag. You slip the gloves on and kneel down, carefully observing the innocuous mushrooms at your feet before plucking them from the ground.
"A few words of advice," you call out as you look over your shoulder. The kid's moved closer to you, knife in hand, yet hesitating.
You hold the mushroom up, twirling it around in your fingers and flaunting it. "Use poison next time. Saves you the time and effort of a crime scene and a body to dispose of."
You stand up, depositing the mushrooms into the ziploc bag and sealing it shut. You ball it up in one of your hands as you shove them into your hoodie pockets, painting the perfect picture of nonchalance.
You give him a once-over. "Or just wear black next time if you like the mess." You shrug. "Can't help you with the bodies, though. They're usually not my problem."
His eyes widen slightly. You laugh.
You salute at him before turning your back on him once again, heading back toward the forest's paved trail. "Be smart. Don't get caught."
You don't think you get a response, but if you do, the gravel crunching beneath your feet drowns it out.
"Read it and weep."
You groan as your friend slaps down a red plus two, giggling at your misery.
"You suck ass, seriously," you mutter as you draw eight cards— whoever invented stacking is going on your hitlist. "After everything I've done for you."
"All is fair in love and Uno, my friend."
"Not your fucking friend right now." You slap down a red skip, ignoring your other friend's loud what did I do? that follows it.
"Oh, how awful," she mocks, "I'm going to be on bad terms with you right before you leave."
Something unpleasant twists in your gut at her words.
It's not her tone or even the statement itself that bothers you— no, you don't really have a problem with moving away. Sure, you tend to keep to yourself, but for whatever reason people see you as approachable, so it's pretty easy for you to make friends.
No, it's the place itself. Elysium is a fairly typical town; neither too small nor a sprawling city, not crime-ridden but having just enough suspicious characters to make visiting certain parts of it after sunset inadvisable.
It's also too close to home for comfort.
But Elysium's coroner's office is the only pathology residency offer you've got where you'll be doing what you want to be doing— examining bodies. So you're deciding to bite the bullet and move back to the midwest, in a state closer to the Bible Belt region you grew up in.
You force a laugh. "I'd be careful if I were you."
You hold up a plus four card, grinning.
"I know how to keep a grudge."
"So what's it looking like, Hensch?"
You and Dr. Hensch— a sweet, bespectacled man who likes to ramble about his newborn grandson in the break room— both give the sheriff an exasperated look.
"You need an expert to figure out that the cause of death is—" He cuts himself off, grimacing at the body. "—blunt force trauma?"
This is the third body of its kind that you've seen since starting at the office two weeks ago: skull caved in from taking a beating, various bruises and woundslittered across all parts of the body, face slashed to the point of disfigurement, and limbs snapped and twisted into odd angles.
It'd been jarring the first time, an impressive feat considering that there isn't much that can rattle you. Almost immediately, Dr. Hensch had sighed and solemnly said, "The Butcher."
It's quickly become apparent to you why Elysium's coroner's office would be willing to take on students needing to fulfill their pathology residency— The Butcher's work makes up a not-insignificant amount of the bodies that turn up, which means those qualified to examine bodies aren't exactly willing to work here long-term. While Hensch's office isn't in Uptown, it still sees its fair share of The Butcher's victims, as the serial killer seems to hop back and forth between districts, stringing his victims up for display wherever he pleases.
"I know that much," the cop mutters, "I meant to ask if you think this is his work."
Dr. Hensch looks even more vexxed. "I think we've both been around long enough to know the answer to that."
Without further discussion, the doctor pulls the cover back over the corpse— a pastor at a local church, one who your coworkers say had been caught cheating on his wife with a high schooler the previous week.
You don't feel sorry for the bastard.
Dr. Hensch clears his throat and makes his way out of the storage room, you and the sheriff trailing after him. "You have my official statement that the victim was killed by a blow to the head and it was the work of The Butcher. I'll perform a more thorough autopsy and have the front send you the records once I'm done."
"Sounds good, Hensch." The sheriff nods at both of you. "Appreciate you for always handling this."
As the sheriff disappears down the hall, Dr. Hensch sighs and mumbles, "What choice have we got?"
He then turns to you, and with what appears to be pity, says, "Unfortunately, you'll have to help me with his victims if you're going to be here the next few years. Do you feel up for it tonight?"
You'd be lying if you said that a morbid little part of you didn't light up at the idea of getting up close and personal with a notorious serial killer's work.
Faking a nervous smile, you say, "Well, what choice have I got?"
The crooning of some pop-punk singer abruptly cuts off as you kill the engine of your car and take a long swig of your coffee, relishing the warmth that coats your tongue.
Two cups in hand, you step out and shut the door with your foot, examining the shop before you. It seems a bit beat down, but in a way that adds charm rather than being a question of the quality of service.
Apparently, Dr. Hensch is having some car trouble this morning and had to have the vehicle towed to the mechanic. It's not that surprising to hear— the man drives a classic car, a bright blue '54 Chevy that he calls his "baby" and parks on the far end of the lot, away from the public's eyes and any other cars that could potentially do any damage to it. Deciding to do him a solid, you offered to stop by the shop and drive him to the office, which he happily took you up on.
You take a brief look around. There are four garages, but only one is open, and you can hear Dr. Hensch's hearty laughter— overlaying what you're pretty sure is death metal— pouring out of it.
The garage is interesting, to say the least. There are macabre posters hung up on the parts of the walls not holding tools, images that are disturbing to the point of being unsettling, but not quite visceral enough to upset customers and warrant a formal complaint to the shop manager. A further look around, coupled with the music blaring from a speaker tucked away into a corner, tells you more about the posters' presence: various animal and human skulls and fake, foam replicas of intestines and inner organs— the likes of which you would use for Halloween— are used as decor, livening the place up in a peculiar way. The yellow overhead lighting ties it all together, casting a dingy hue that leaves you feeling like you just stepped onto the set of a 90s slasher film.
Hensch's beloved Chevy sits in the center of it all, hood propped open as the mechanic tinkers with something inside. Immediately, your eyes are drawn to the blasphemic tattoo plastered onto his forearm, trying to make some sense of its meaning.
Hensch calls your name, snapping you out of your momentary distraction. "Ah, you made it!" He gets up from the metal chair placed beside where the mechanic's working and crosses over to the garage's entrance. He eagerly reaches for the cup you hold out to him, exclaiming, "And you brought coffee!"
You give him a smile that's getting less polite these days and more genuine. "Of course," you say, handing it off to him. "How's your, uh, baby?" You peer around him to look at the car again, trying to catch a glimpse of what's happening beneath the hood, and promptly freeze.
The mechanic is staring at you, rather intensely.
Before you can even really register it, his features have smoothed over, and whatever emotion was lurking in his eyes is guarded behind a smirk.
Hensch gestures to the car, beaming brightly as he does. He's far more energetic here than he is at the office, but you suppose that might have to do with the lack of corpses. "Just a little problem with the transmission, but she'll be as good as new tomorrow morning!"
"That's good," you say with a nod. "Will you need a ride tomorrow, too?"
"Oh— for the next few days, if it's not too much trouble for you! Wouldn't want to make Tilda call in late the whole week." Hensch turns to the mechanic, eager smile still fixed in place. "You said you'll have her fixed by Friday, right, Ronin?"
The mechanic— Ronin— grins lazily, spreading his arms wide across the hood.
"'Course I will," he says, answering Hensch but still eyeing you. "She's got some problems, but she'll be good by the weekend."
The doctor glances between you two, then lets out a little "ah!" before clearing his throat. "Where are my manners?" He gestures enthusiastically to the mechanic, saying, "This is Ronin, the best mechanic in town. Only person I trust my baby with."
He then turns back to Ronin, giving him a formal introduction to you. He ends it by placing a gentle hand on your shoulder, humorously saying, "This is my partner-in-crime for the next three years."
"Crime, huh?" He tilts his head slightly, drawing your gaze to the mess of dyed magenta hair framing his face. "You must be really into dead bodies like Doc, then."
You scrunch your nose— that's not quite how you'd put it, but to each their own. You look pointedly around the room before answering, "Based on your, uh, decor, I could say the same to you." Your face falls a little bit. "Very tame compared to the real thing, though."
There's something sharp in the smile he gives you. "Touché."
"Yes, well, I'm very grateful for that. I see enough viscera as it is," Hensch mutters. He then turns to Ronin, sheepish. "Not that I don't appreciate our chats."
Ronin shrugs it off. "Happy to help ya get things off your chest, Doc. Can't be good to keep all that to yourself."
You look to Hensch with a raised brow. "You don't seriously tell him—"
"Hey, hey, it's fine!" Hensch quickly defends himself. "Ronin's into all that slasher horror gore stuff and the like." He chuckles. "All you young people are these days!"
You frown. You're pretty sure that it's pretty illegal of him to be recounting the autopsies of The Butcher's victims to his favorite mechanic, but you suppose it's not a huge problem. The guy is probably just a forum freak who's a little too into true crime.
"If you say so." You glance back at Ronin, still feeling slightly unnerved by his gaze. "Nice meeting you."
"Pleasure's mine, darlin'." He smiles a bit wider, canines glinting in the lighting. "Don't be a stranger. Any friend of Doc's is a friend of mine."
You huff out a laugh. "I'm not hoping for any car trouble, but I'll keep that in mind."
As you and Hensch get situated in your car, the doctor grins at you, something a bit teasing evident in it. "You should stop by again," he says in an almost sing-song way, reminiscent of the way a school girl would talk to a close friend. "I think you two would get along just fine."
You hum noncommitally, flicking the radio back on. "I'll consider it."
It's far too early for this.
You yawn into the back of your hand as you throw your car in park and step out into the cool morning air. It's 4 in the morning, and the office had blown your phone up just about 40 minutes ago, stating that they need both you and Hensch to come in immediately.
Apparently, The Butcher had a mini-spree last night; three bodies were found in the local park at around 2:30 in the morning, and the cops want the autopsies and official reports as soon as possible. According to a leading detective, the cause of death might not be The Butcher's norm of blunt force trauma or assault by sharp object, but they need an expert opinion to confirm it.
Hensch sidles up beside you as you make your way toward the entrance. "Well, I wish I could tell you this doesn't happen often, but I'd be lying."
You pull the door open, holding it for him. "Early mornings, or The Butcher spicing up his MO?"
"Early mornings," Hensch says. Something passes over his face, and a bit despondent, he asks, "Am I a bad person for looking forward to examining these bodies?"
If the detective is right, it'll be the first time in a long while that The Butcher has decided to shake things up— you can't blame him for being excited over it, especially when he's been dissecting and analyzing the killer's work for years now.
"I wouldn't say so," you answer. "Enthusiasm means you'll do a better job. Consider it doing right by the victims' families."
Hensch gives a terse laugh, but doesn't agree with you or comment further.
You two are flanked by some senior cops the second you set foot in the office, three of them trailing you and Hensch as you make your way toward the morgue.
"Detective Juano says the usual beatings aren't severe enough to have actually killed the victims this time," one of them speaks hurriedly, catching Hensch up to speed. "She's pretty sure it's something else this time."
Hensch hands you a pair of gloves as you reach the morgue entrance, slipping on a pair of his own. "What else could it possibly be?"
The cop shrugs. "That's why we called you, Doc."
He huffs. "Well, yes, I suppose so."
The bodies are already laid out on three tables when you enter the morgue, covered by the same thin plastic white sheet you've gotten used to seeing over the past two months. Hensch approaches the one nearest to him and carefully pulls the cover back until the whole body is exposed.
Without further investigation, you're already raising an eyebrow.
The detective is right— the lacerations and bruises littering the body are far tamer than anything you've seen from The Butcher before, and many of them seem to have been done post-mortem.
But what catches your attention is the hue painting the victim's skin yellow— jaundice, a common symptom of liver failure.
Hensch uncovers the other two bodies, revealing them to be in the same condition.
"Curious," the doctor says, shaking his head as he peels back an eyelid, revealing shockingly yellow eyes. "We'll have to run toxicology. Are these victims significant in any way?"
"Not in the community, but maybe to The Butcher. Juano's looking into it."
"Of course," Hensch says distractedly, still examining the bodies. "She's always been on top of things."
You walk up to one of the bodies, observing the dark rings around the wrist and ankle area.
"Seems they were bound," you say to Hensch, then turn to the cops. "Have any other victims ever been held over a period of time?"
"Never," one of them answers. "That's what has us thinking it's personal."
You scrunch up your nose. Hensch had joked about hoping The Butcher was taking a vacation when no new corpses turned up over the weekend— turns out he was just toying with his victims this time around.
Hensch inspects the bodies, turning the limbs this way and that. "Injuries were likely acquired when they were initially kidnapped, to keep them restrained," he says to the room. "The lacerations, on the other hand, were carved post-humously."
"Standard," one of the cops mutter. "But why are they yellow?"
"Jaundice. Liver failure," you answer, poking at one of the bodies yourself. "We'll have to wait for the toxicology report to see exactly what it is, but—" Your words abruptly cut off as your hand brushes against the man's coat pocket, feeling something inside.
You look up at the cop to your left, slightly alarmed. "Something's in there."
With furrowed brows, the cop pulls on a glove and reaches into the pocket. Growing even more confused at whatever he feels inside, he pulls out his hand to reveal whatever is inside.
The hairs at the back of your neck stand on end as you stare at the item he twirls around in his hand.
Surveying the room, he asks, "A mushroom?"
"Amanita phalloides," you murmur, the name stirring the pit of your stomach. "Better known as the death cap, the deadliest mushroom in the world."
The cop pales and stares at his partner with wide eyes.
"I'll go get an evidence baggie from the car." She points at him. "Put that down and scrub your hands real good."
The male officer looks between you and Hensch, frightened.
"You should definitely wash your hands, but it's only deadly if ingested. You'll be okay," you reassure.
The officer nods and strips the gloves off his hands, rushing off to the sink in the corner of morgue.
Hensch peers down at the mushroom, now sitting by itself on a sterile tray. "Peculiar. He's never played around with poison."
Bile bubbles at the back of your throat. It's a coincidence, but one that grinds on your nerves nonetheless. "Guess there's a first time for everything."
The other officer returns, baggie in hand. "Did a quick Google search outside," she says as she hands the bag off to Hensch, who carefully tucks the mushroom inside. "This strain isn't native to this part of the U.S."
You hum and shake your head. "Would it be so surprising for a serial killer to be buying poisonous mushrooms off the dark web?"
She sighs. "No, I guess not." She nods at you Hensch. "I'm gonna run this back to Juano. This changes things, big time. We'll be back in a few."
"Toxicology will be back by then." Hensch waves them off. "See you soon."
As the door slips shut behind them, you ask, "What do you think, Doc?
He scans the bodies, eyes glimmering with concern and excitement. "I think it's indeed personal. If not the victims themselves, certainly the method."
A chill runs down your spine. You reach for a clipboard to get the report started, muttering under your breath, "Let's hope not."
"Fancy runnin' into you here."
You look up from your phone as someone slides into the empty stool beside you. Slipping off his hoodie and draping it across the back of his chair, Ronin greets you with a devilish grin.
"Hensch's favorite mechanic," you say, setting your phone done on the counter in front of you. "To what do I owe the honor?"
"Insatiable hunger." He reaches for one of the menus stacked up on the racks. "Five-car collision on the freeway today and bossman gave 'em all to me. I'm fuckin' starving."
You whistle low. "Tough. How's Hensch's baby, by the way? What was wrong with her?"
"Fine now. Found an engine leak, but there was also a problem with the electrical. It's 6-volt so gettin' the parts was a real pain in the ass. I told him he should just switch over to an alternator already, but he—" Ronin pauses when he sees the stark blank look on your face. He leans forward teasingly and asks, "You gettin' all that, darlin'?"
You huff out a breath and turn away from him, trying to hide your flushed cheeks from his view. "I don't know why I asked," you say, reaching for your drink. "I don't know anything about cars."
He props his arm against the counter and rests his cheek in the palm of his hand. His body is fully turned toward you, and having his undivided attention would probably be a little more flustering if you didn't find his gaze so unnerving— and familiar, in a way you can't quite place.
"Let's talk about somethin' you do know about, then. How's Doc doing?"
You laugh at that. "Fantastic. Having the time of his life."
"What's the occasion?"
You side-eye him. "I'm not big into the business of discussing the autopsies of murder victims with strangers."
"Who said we're strangers?" Humor glints in his eyes, but you don't know what's funny. "He already blabbed to me about The Butcher switchin' things up. That what you're talking about?"
You sigh. If he's gonna hear it from Hensch anyway, you suppose there's no harm in him hearing it from you.
"Yeah. Keeping his victims for a prolonged period of time and using poisonous mushrooms on them now." You swirl your straw around in your drink. "Cops think it's personal, but there's no link between the victims, so." You shrug, taking a sip.
"What do you think?"
"What do I think?"
"That's what I asked."
You blink at him. "I'm not into criminology or psychology or anything like that. I don't have anything to say about his MO or why he's switching it up."
Ronin clicks his tongue. "Surely the ones up close and personal with the bodies have somethin' to say. Doc always does."
"Hensch has been doing this a lot longer than me. I haven't been around long enough to really comment on the sudden interest in toxins."
"Bummer." Ronin nods at the waitress as she sets a cup of coffee down in fron of him, then focuses back on you. "Doc said you know a lot about the poisons being used."
"I did a report on poisonous fungi in my final year of undergrad," you lie with ease. "There were a lot of wild mushrooms where I grew up, so it's always been an interest of mine."
Something in his gaze shifts, and you feel a chill run down your spine. The unease from the garage has returned full force. "Yeah? What kind of poison is he using?"
You look up, pretending to think as an excuse to break eye contact. "Amanita phalloides, the death cap; conocybe rugosa, the fool's conecap; and amanita bisporigera, the destroying an—"
Your breath hitches. You hadn't given the mushrooms used too much thought, given that they were all commonly known poisonous mushrooms, but saying them together, in order, finally has the pieces snapping together in your head.
Ronin tilts his head. "Something wrong, darlin'?"
You shoot to your feet. "I, uh, I'm not feeling well." You shove your hand into your jacket pocket and toss some cash out on the table to cover your meal and the tip. "Sorry to cut things short. See you around."
You turn around abruptly— and crash into a waiter briskly walking toward a table across the room.
You gasp as a grape soda tips off the tray in his hands and spills all over your shirt and part of your jeans. The waiter scrambles to balance the tray before more glasses or plates can slip off of it.
You pick the plastic cup off the ground and put it back on the tray. "I'm so sorry, I wasn't watching where I—"
The waiter smiles, and you relax a bit. "It's fine don't worry about it." He gives you a once-over, and hisses through his teeth. "Sorry about your shirt."
As the waiter heads back to the kitchen to fetch another soda, you look down at your shirt and sigh. Unfortunately, you'd decided to wear white today.
"Damn it," you mutter. "This is one of my favorites, too."
Beside you, Ronin laughs. You're not sure if it's just because you're already on edge, but it sounds different from the other times you've heard it— a little more edge to it, maybe even a little manic.
"Yeah, that's gonna leave a pretty nasty stain. Might have to throw it out." His dark eyes gleam under the diner lights.
"White's a bitch of a color to clean, anyway."
You feel like you're going to throw up.
The moment you'd been anticipating for days was finally upon you: The Butcher's next victim had just been transported to the morgue, and it was time to see what mushroom he'd selected this time.
What you'd realized is that, thus far, the mushrooms and the order in which he'd used them lined up with the ones you'd used for your own spree nearly a decade ago.
Amanita phalloides. Slipped into a salad and used to poison the person who'd relentlessly bullied and beat you since kindergarten.
Conocybe rugosa. Blended into your abusive father's morning veggie smoothies over the course of several weeks.
Amanita bisporigera. Shredded finely into stringy bits and slipped into the soup a teacher who'd gotten far too touchy with you had packed for lunch.
Galerina marginata. Ingested by a boy you'd liked in high school, one who you found out was just sleeping with you as a joke and saying horrible things about you to his friends. You two had been out on a "date" in the forest, and you'd started the game of daring each other to eat the random leaves, berries, and mushrooms around. He had no idea that you'd personally grown what you dared him to eat, and being the idiot that he was, he'd eaten three of them to "impress" you.
He died in the emergency room three days later.
He hadn't told his friends he'd be seeing you that day, so the police concluded that he was just a stupid teenager doing something ill-advised.
Angelwood's hospital and nearest medical examiner weren't the most competent, so the only other person who's declared cause of death was mushroom poisoning had been your father. But because he was an "organic" health nut who often drank unpasteurized milk, the doctors and police chalked it up to him not doing proper research on the newest addition to his diet.
You'd gotten away with it. No one had any reason to suspect that all those deaths were related murders, or murders that could be traced back to you, for that matter.
But The Butcher had figured it out. He hadn't started using poison in his murders until you showed up, and it was in the specific order you'd used them, too.
Lightheaded and nauseous, you watch as Hensch pinches the corners of the white blanket draped over the body and peels it back.
Your heart falls through the floor.
The man lying on the table is around your age, but bears a striking resemblance to the boy you'd kissed and killed in high school. His lifeless eyes are yellow and his wrists and feet appear to have been bound like the rest of the recent corpses. The lacerations and carved symbols typical of The Butcher litter the entire body.
What immediately has you, Hensch, and the cops in the room recoiling is the man's face. The skin of his face and part of his neck are a bluish-purple. His jaw has been snapped out of place and hangs low, stretched down to the middle of his neck. Various mushrooms have been shoved into the gaping hole that is his mouth, likely going all the way down his airway.
Hensch clears his throat and shakes his head. "Well, seems this one might be asphyxiation, but we'll still get a tox screening done." He turns to you. "Any idea what our fungus friends are this time?"
With a trembling voice, you answer, "Galerina marginata. The funeral bell."
One of the cops laughs humorlessly. "Fitting."
A hand comes down on your shoulder, startling you. Detective Juano offers you a kind smile as she pats your shoulder soothingly.
"Why don't you step out for this one?" She asks. "This can be a lot for anyone, and you're still just starting your residency."
"N-no, I—" You clamp your mouth shut when you voice breaks, and swallow thickly, trying to steady yourself. "It's fine. I've been okay the past three months, I'll be fine now."
"It can catch up to you." Juano sighs. "Look, there are times where even I have to hand this case off to someone else for a few weeks to save my own sanity. No one thinks any lesser of you for taking a breather."
"Please feel free to step out." You turn to Hensch, who is watching you with pitiful eyes that make your skin crawl. "This was a lot for me in the beginning, too."
You take in a shuddering breath and realize you're on the verge of hyperventilating. Stripping off your gloves and tossing them into a bin, you nod. "Yeah, sure. Alright. Thanks. Sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry about, dear." Hensch gives you a sad smile, then picks up a pair of scissors and starts hacking away at the corpse's shirt. He's dressed in all white, and the parts of his clothes which had stuck to his lacerations are stained pink and red.
White's a bitch of a color to clean, anyway.
Ronin's words echo in your head as you step out of the room. Sure, you'd heard him say it just the other day, but had you heard them somewhere else before?
Your brows furrow as you drop into a seat in the break room and bury your face in your hands. Had you heard them before, or had you said them?
"Be smart. Don't get caught."
You slowly lift your face from your trembling hands as the memory of the lake, the rushing water, the body, and the boy come back to you from the depths of your mind.
"Who said we're strangers?"
You're fully hyperventilating now.
Keeping your steps as quiet and controlled as possible, you peer around the corner. The window slit on the door to the morgue shows that Hensch, Juano, and her team are all still preoccupied with the most recent victim.
You turn around and rush across the hallway toward Hensch's office. You know he has a drawer filled with business cards he's collected "just in case" he's in need of a specific service— you'd say there's pretty good odds that he has one for his favorite mechanic.
Stumbling into the room, you rush for the side of the desk with four drawers and reach for the smallest one sitting on the top. You pull it open and curse under your breath when you're met with a sea of cards, haphazardly tossed inside the drawer and unorganized.
Eyes rapidly looking between the drawer and the door, you begin rifling through it, pushing cards you've already glanced at to the side and flipping through the rest.
A black card with a skull on the front of it catches your attention. You pick it up and flip it over, reading the contact info on the back.
Ronin Beaufort, Mechanic
You drop the card back into the drawer and slam it shut.
Your father's voice carries across time, ringing through your head. "And stay away from that Beaufort kid. Don't need you getting any funny ideas about degeneracy."
"Oh my god," you wheeze out, pressing the palms of your hands against your eyes. "Fuck. Fuck."
Juano is down the hall. You can tell her the identity of the man she's been hunting down for years now. You can get him arrested, get him locked up before he can get to you—
But you don't have proof. You don't have proof unless you confess to your own crimes, and even then, it's all hearsay at this point.
You sob into your hand. Your heart is racing in your chest, and the noose around your neck is getting tighter and tighter by the second.
You need to leave Elysium. Tonight. You'll email Hensch, telling him it was all too much for you and you're probably gonna look for a coroner's office near a retirement home. You don't care if you have to repeat a year of schooling— you won't live long enough to get your degree and certification if you stay in this hellhole.
You step out into the hallway. There are still voices coming from the morgue, so you rush out the back entrance, sucking in a deep breath of the cool night air as you shove the door open.
In a haze, you rush into your car and turn it on. As you peel out of the parking lot, you spiral further. Is it even wise to go home? Who's to say he's not waiting for you there right now?
You grip the steering wheel tighter and abruptly switch lanes. New plan: you'll go to the bank, pull out some cash, and drive the whole night until you can find a place to crash. It doesn't matter what you have to replace, you're not going back to your apartment ever again.
The stoplights and headlights blur together as you drive to the bank. It's an odd hour in the early morning, but Elysium never really sleeps. There are a few cars that pass by here and there, but not enough to have you feel the safety of being in the public eye.
The sound of your car choking snaps you back to reality.
Your eyes go wide and you throw on your hazards as your car begins to jerk, sputtering to a stop. Heartrate picking up again, you look down at the dashboard.
Your check engine light is on.
"No." You turn off the car and turn it on again, punching the gas to no avail. You repeat this process, growing more hysterical as it continues to fail. "No, no, fuck, come on. Come on."
Slamming your hands on the steering wheel, you bite down hard on your lip to prevent yourself from openly sobbing. You bury your face into the wheel, taking deep breaths to steady yourself and figure out what to do next.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Your heart freezes in your chest.
Tap. Tap.
Barely lifting your head from your hands, you peek at the rearview mirror.
Someone in a hockey mask is standing behind your car.
Tap.
Nearly ripping the thing off its hinges, you open the glove compartment and take out the pistol tucked away inside. You scream and fling yourself out the door as something slams into your back windshield and shatters it.
You take off running down the street, clicking off the safety as you go.
The footsteps behind you are heavy, but rapidly approaching. As you reach an alleyway, you turn down it then spin around to face the entrance, raising your gun.
The figure rounds the corner, and you fire.
Click. Click.
With trembling hands, you pull the trigger again.
Click.
It's jammed.
Your pursuer starts laughing, and it crescendoes until the manic sound echoes throughout the whole alley.
Ronin pushes his mask half to the side, slinging his crowbar across his shoulders as he starts approaching you at a leisurely pace. His visible eye catches the light, and the same euphoric expression from all those years ago is still present, only honed into something far more sinister a decade later.
"Car fact for ya, darlin'." He says, gaze lazily following you as you scramble away from him. "Putting diesel in your car can clog the injectors and make it stall once it runs out of gas."
"Get away from me," you utter in response, arm falling pathetically to your side.
He laughs again, a low chuckle this time. "Sorry, sorry. Was the last one a little too much for ya? I might have gotten carried away with the jaw, but the guy was just screamin' way too much and I had to shut him up."
"You—" You stumble over a pipe. "You're insane."
"Pot meet kettle." He moves to point the end of his crowbar in your direction, and your heart skips a beat as he starts to take bigger steps. "You're the one who told me to not wear white or get caught, babe. Or did you forget about little old me?"
You laugh, hysterical and frightened. "I am nothing like you. You're a goddamn serial killer."
"Pretty sure more than three constitutes a spree. Shall I welcome you to the club? Throw you a little party?"
"Oh, fuck off," you snap. "I didn't kill innocent people!"
"Is anyone truly so virtuous to be completely free of sin?" The crowbar is dragging against the ground now, and the set of shoulders screams danger. "Everyone's got something festering beneath the surface. You'd know."
You back up some more, and to your horror, your back meets a wall. Sucking in a sharp breath, you blink away the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. "What the hell do you want from me?"
"Want ya to humor me." He taps the ground a few times as he walks, then says, "You stopped."
"Stopped?"
"Poisoning people."
You roll your eyes. "Yeah, 'cause I'm not a lunatic who gets off on killing people for no reason."
Ronin chuckles again. "I've got just as much a reason as you do." He's close now— too close. "Y'know, when you showed me your little garden that day, you looked so fuckin' giddy."
He stops right in front of you. He lifts the crowbar and presses it against your throat and leans in.
"I wonder," he murmurs into your ear, "if you had the same look on your face when my first gift to you turned up."
Gift. Your stomach drops.
"Doc said you were real excited," he continues, and you wish with everything in you that he wouldn't. "Maybe even more than him."
You'd been excited over the opportunity to flaunt your knowledge to the man overseeing your residency, to hopefully secure yourself a paid position after completing your schooling. You weren't excited to see another murderer putting the methods you'd once used into practice. The stomach flips and racing heart you experienced were nerves at how similar the killings had been to your own, not excitement at the sight of yellowing skin and memory of the bone-deep satisfaction you felt watching your father flatline or looking down at your fling's corpse at his public viewing. It was not a smaller, dimmer version of the euphoria you'd glimpsed on Ronin's face all those years ago.
"I wasn't, I just—" You clench your hands into fists, digging your nails into your palms. "Hurting the people who hurt me is what made me happy. It's got nothing to do with just hurting people."
"But it fascinates you, doesn't it? The way it passes for a stomach bug, deceptively making someone feel like they're gettin' better while it destroys them from the inside." He giggles. "Others might not have noticed, but I did. You followed Adam around a lot the day before he died. You got off on it, didn't you? You reveled in knowing he was dying and had no idea."
You ignore the thrill that zips down your spine at the memory. It's just a shiver, because you're trapped in an alleyway with a serial killer— it's nothing else.
"It's just because he hurt me," you whisper weakly.
"Far less than the others," Ronin prods, "and long after them, too. Did you actually resent him that much, or were you just looking to scratch that itch one last time?"
"Shut up." You screw your eyes shut. "If you're gonna kill me, just fucking do it already."
"Kill you?" Ronin giggles again, finally taking a step back. "Nah. Us Angelwood kids gotta stick together, right?"
You narrow your eyes. "But I know your identity."
"If you were gonna snitch to Juano, you would've done it before you tried leaving." Ronin's smirk stretches into a wide, disquieting smile. "You take me down, you go with me. Ain't that romantic?"
You shove at him, but he doesn't budge. "Then what do you want?"
"I want ya to stick around." He moves the end of the crowbar to rest under your chin, and uses it to tilt your head up, your eyes meeting his directly. "I'll tell you what, darlin'." Something shines in his eyes with the madness. It's not bloodlust, malice, or anything of sort.
It might be something like hope, and somehow, that's even worse.
"Hey man," you say, eyeing the heart in his right hand. "Can I have that back?"
▹rottober day 28: came back right
[ronin beaufort x gn! undead! reader]
words: 3.1k
cw: gore, murder, dubious consent regarding being repeatedly murdered, very brief one-sentence mention of past SA
a/n: the new bombshell is FINALLY entering the villa. i hate (love) this guy
You came back wrong.
After getting your head bashed in by some frat boy with a bright future who didn't want you spilling about how he'd taken advantage of you, your mother had been distraught. It'd been just you and her since your deadbeat dad dipped out on you two when you were six, and losing her child, her world, had broken her and driven her off the edge.
She'd found a coven, paid some witches, dabbled in necromancy. And she brought you back.
But you didn't come back right. Not quite human. Not quite her baby.
It was almost as if the sight of you snapping your leg bone back into place after a car accident was too horrible of a reminder that you'd died. It was the terrible truth that she'd done the unspeakable, committed blasphemy to bring you back from the dead, to bring you back as something only resembling her child, a child of God.
She abandoned you. Went to a convent, and pledged the rest of her life to the Lord as penance for you, her greatest sin.
You spent the last ten years wandering the country aimlessly, always sure not to stay in one place for longer than three years, lest anyone notice you don't age the way they do. From Los Angeles, you'd gone to Reno, then to Denver, then to Springfield.
And just over a year ago, you ended up in Uptown— the worst part of Elysium. There was something thrilling about living in a crime-ridden city, an allure you simply couldn't resist, especially since trivial matters such as mortality no longer applied to you.
You love Elysium as a whole, and all it has to offer, but there's something special about Uptown. It feels like stepping directly into a page or episode of your favorite media growing up, like you get to experience Gotham or Sunnydale for yourself. Maybe it's fucked up of you to romanticize a place so many people suffer in, but you can't help it; life without death is dreary, and you need to get your kicks from something.
Things go well for about six months. You delve into the city's nightlife when you can, more to people-watch and live vicariously through them than lose your mind in the high yourself. You make a few casual friends this way, playing the part of chaperone and designated driver while they chip away at their livelihoods with drugs and alcohol. It's nice to be able to socialize again, to have friends, even if it's with the people society considered scum, lower-than-low.
It all goes to shit one Friday night, as you're leaving a club on the outskirts of Uptown, frighteningly close to Purgatory. As you herd your cattle to your car, you notice you're down one sheep. Upon interrogating the group, one of them drunkenly giggles and says that your friend snuck off into the alleys with some guy around twenty minutes ago.
Most people would just leave it be at that— with as many active serial killers as there are in Elysium, anyone who goes into the Purgatory alleyways after sunset is just asking for it, and there's no sense in putting even more people in danger trying to save them.
Luckily for your friend, you're not most people, and you lack sense.
The things is, you didn't mind dying— you enjoy it, even. Though the permanence of death has been lost to you, the act of dying itself— the pain, the fear, the desperation, the chase— leaves you so exhilarated you can almost fool yourself into believing you can feel your stagnant heart racing in your chest. It's a high you can't get from anything else— not from alcohol, drugs, or murder. (Which, you had tried. You'd found that son of bitch and got your dues back in blood.)
So, sacrificial lamb that you are, you'd be lying if you say you aren't chomping at the bit to throw yourself into danger and go darting in and out and between alleyways, searching for your missing friend.
You'd be lying if you say you aren't excited to throw yourself in front of the crowbar directed at the back of her head as she's sucking the face of random club guy.
Your shout for them to run cuts off with a choked cough as your ribs crack and cave into your lungs. In a shining moment of selflessness, the guy valiantly shoves your friend behind him and away from the danger, before both of them book it in the other direction, leaving you to rot.
Well, that kinda sucks. You were expecting her to cry out for you at least a little bit.
You don't have the time to dwell on it, though. You cough up a clot of blood and barely manage to get to your knees when another blow lands on your spine. With a sickening crack, you collapse back onto the ground, losing feeling in your legs. As the crowbar comes down on you repeatedly, ruthlessly, you curl in on yourself, hiding your face behind your hands and arms, seemingly cowering in fear.
Your crooked smile fueled by pain and adrenaline stays hidden from the world.
About three hours later with ringing ears and a head stuffed with cotton, you come to, still in the alleyway.
Waking up after dying is what you imagine a computer feels like after a software update: booting up slowly, taking stock of where everything is and ensuring it's all running smoothly before powering up fully.
This time, when you wake up, nothing is operating correctly.
Gathering your innards and shoving them back inside the gaping hole in your stomach— which is humbling, as the flesh has been carved and peeled back like a damn pouch— is a unique experience, one that has you grimacing. It isn't your first time getting murdered since you've been resurrected, but it's certainly the first time your killer's gotten… artsy with their canvas. The mess almost isn't worth the thrill of the kill.
Next, you focus on your limbs, twisting your contorted and broken arms and legs back into place with a few snaps and clicking noises. Your whole body shakes with odd, jerky movements that resemble being possessed as you concentrate all your energy on getting your bones back where they belong. It's more of a mental thing than a physical one; you just have to imagine the injury healing itself, and usually, it does.
The flesh pouch on your stomach will require more effort, though. You'll have to go home, stitch it up, and wait about a day for the stitches to disappear and your organs to settle back into place.
With your broken limbs now little more than aching bones and stiff joints, you get to your feet. One arm keeps your stomach in place as you do a mental review of everything inside you, much like a phone-wallet-keys check. Your intestines are jumbled but there, you still have your whole liver and both kidneys, you aren't missing any fingers, toes, or teeth—
It takes you a minute to figure it out, given that the thing doesn't function anymore, but you don't have your heart.
Peering back down, you notice that, sure enough, there's a large, expertly cut gash in your chest, and a suspiciously empty spot behind your rib cage. You were so distracted by your stomach-turned-satchel that you completely overlooked it.
You sigh and throw your head back, trying to locate your heart. You found out around four years ago that your body and organs have some kind of fucked up Find My iPhone feature built into them. It'd been very useful in getting your kidneys back from those traffickers.
(You don't exactly need your organs to live, but it's nice to have them all, as it allows all your bodily functions to take place, which in turn, makes you still feel human. Without your intestines, you can't eat, and without your kidneys, you can't do, well, anything.
You absolutely don't need your heart— it serves no purpose to you now. But damn if you don't want it.)
It hasn't gone very far. You hobble about three blocks over, limbs still shaky and stomach still open, until you reach the site of another crime scene. The victim looks much like you did just a few minutes ago, and you feel a twinge of sympathy in your heart knowing that unlike you, they won't be coming back.
A twinge in your heart, which is currently being held by your murderer.
Your face screws up in confusion— is the man comparing them? He holds a heart in either hand, one coated in fresh crimson and still twitching, and the other perfectly unmoving, caked in flaky, dried blood.
It isn't hard to guess which one's yours.
You clear your throat, watching as the man kneeling before the corpse stiffens for the briefest of moments, before his head whips around to face you. The tips of his hair are coated in blood, his clothes are drenched in it, and the same red smatters the hockey mask covering his face.
You hold back a snort. How cliche.
"Hey man," you say, eyeing the heart in his right hand. "Can I have that back?"
Slowly, with a fluidity that has the hairs on the back of your neck standing up, the man gets to his feet. He puts the freshly-harvested heart down beside the corpse, still holding onto yours. He picks a butcher's knife off the ground. It makes a horrible scraping sound against the concrete that has your eye twitching.
He tilts his head to the side, taking you in. "Y'know, I'm pretty sure I killed you."
You shrug, expression a bit sheepish as you say, "You know what they say about nothing in life being permanent."
That gets an honest-to-god chuckle out of him. It sounds a little manic. "Ain't that the fuckin' truth."
When he doesn't say or do anything further, you hold an expectant arm out, gesturing to your heart. "I kinda need that, and I don't really think you need three of those."
He hums, considering. "Wasn't beating when I tore it outta you."
"I bet not," you answer dryly. "It's no more use to you than it is to me."
He tosses it up once, twice in the air, getting a feel for it. You frown. Admittedly, you're not very fond of your less-than-vital organ getting the baseball treatment.
"Catch!" He yells, then throws it up higher than before. It arcs through the air, and your arm shoots out instinctually, trying to grab it.
The knife cleaves clean through the bottom half of your arm. The severed limb hits the floor, your heart landing a few inches away from it.
You click your tongue. "Well that's just rude." Seriously, you even asked nicely. Now you're gonna need more stitches.
Hysterical laughter bounces off the alley walls. You roll your eyes, annoyed. This little encounter has taken far longer than it's needed to, and all you've done tonight is be inconvenienced. With a huff, you kneel down, and the laughter crescendoes when you remove your arm from your stomach in order to reach for your arm, allowing the pouch to flap open and your guts to peek out.
"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," you mutter. You tuck your arm beneath the half of it that hasn't been severed, then grab your heart and hastily shove it back into your chest. You'll worry about getting everything properly in place later, when there's not a deranged killer mocking you. "Seriously, fuck you."
"This is fuckin' rich," the man says, voice almost musical from how gleeful it is. "Does your revival time tie into your cause of death?"
"My injuries do affect my time asleep, yes," you answer as you get to your feet. You glare at him. "And thanks for the tons of stitches and blood transfusions I'll need, by the way."
"Anytime, sweetheart." You roll your eyes, and your irritation increases tenfold as he falls into step beside you when you start walking away. "Plenty more where that came from. Y'ever been decapitated? Ripped limb from limb? Pulverized?"
"That's a little personal. I just met you."
"C'mon, darlin', indulge me. If I crucify you, will you rise on the third day in accordance with the scripture?"
You grind your teeth together. "Shut the fuck up and leave me alone."
"If I stab ya to death instead of beating you with a crowbar, how long of a nap will you take?"
"Why don't you try it if you're so damn curious?" You sneer, and as soon as the words are out of your mouth, you regret them.
You manage to make it around the corner before the knife sinks into your back.
extra.
"I think we should take you to the hospital, like, now."
You sigh, pulling the "borrowed" hoodie tighter around you. "I'm fine, man. Just take me back to my place."
Your friend gives you a look. "Dude, you like, barely have a heartbeat. I think you're in shock. The hospital can give you some shit for that."
Of course, since you're just a magnet for lunatics with weapons, some madman had just held you at gunpoint in front of your friends. He didn't even want anything, just started yelling at you about how people like you were the reason people like him were out on the streets suffering and missing out on fortune and fame.
Whatever that means.
You're not in shock, because to be in shock you'd have to have been scared, and you certainly aren't scared of dying. Death isn't something that terrified you back when you had that encounter with the Devil's Butcher which you "miraculously survived," and it certainly isn't something you've been a stranger to in the months following it. You spent most of October being killed in more ways than you can count, and learning far more about your undead body and regenerative properties than you previously had any interest in knowing.
At some point, Ronin's obsession with you had turned into an obsession with you. He's since exhausted ideas for the various ways in which he can kill you, but you're still stuck with him, for better or worse.
Not that you mind it. You haven't minded it for a while now— dying, or his company (which go hand-in-hand less these days, but you two don't exactly have conventional interests).
So, no, your "faint" heartbeat isn't a result of shock. It's actually a lack of a heartbeat because, well—
Your heart is sitting in a jar. On a shelf. In Ronin's room.
You'd managed to wrangle him out of the phase of holding various of your limbs and organs hostage a few months ago, but your aorta seems to be the one thing he isn't willing to let go of.
You try not to think about it too much.
"Being in a hospital is only gonna work me up more." You're not lying— the stress of doctors prodding at an undead you is enough to give you hypothetical high blood pressure. "Just let me go home. I promise I'll be fine."
Your friend's face collapses into a frown, as does his posture, and you know you've got him. "Fine, just— text me when you get back, alright?"
You nod. "Yeah, of course. Wouldn't want you to worry."
He rolls his eyes. "We're all always worrying about you. I'm surprised you haven't died out on these streets, yet."
You laugh, a little harder than you should. If your friend finds it weird, he doesn't comment on it. After saying your goodbyes and reassuring that, yes, you'll text as soon as you get home, you two go your separate ways.
You suck in a deep breath, reveling in the slight breeze. It's the perfect temperature with the onset of late spring, warmer than winter but not enough to have you shedding the hoodie just yet. This part of Uptown has been quieter recently, and safer to walk through this time of night— all thanks to the owner of said hoodie.
Halfway to your apartment complex, there's a strange fluttering in your chest that has you suppressing a cough.
You grimace. One of the things you learned pretty early into your… "relationship" with Ronin is that your heart felt a lot more outside of your body than within it. It didn't respond to anything inside your body because there was nothing for it to respond to.
But when something made contact with it, outside of simply being held, that's when you would get the ticklish feeling in your chest cavity. Though you pretended it bothered you, you both knew that you found the semblance of a heartbeat oddly comforting.
Regardless, you take out your phone and open the encrypted chating app (which had thrown you for a loop when Ronin added you to it three months ago, but at this point, that's par for the course with him).
walkingundead: stop messing with my heart weirdo
Your response comes in the form of a spike of pain in your chest which does make you cough this time.
walkingundead: wtf was that
walkingundead: are you using it as a pin cushion or something?
goreboy: or Something
walkingundead: it's not a damn voodoo doll ronin
goreboy: maybe not
goreboy: but hey. there's an Idea
goreboy: if we Harvest your Flesh ya think we can a build a Mini-You?
walkingundead: let's not find out
goreboy: no, Let's
goreboy: we can find out Tonight
goreboy: almost Home, darling?
walkingundead: if you break in and start cubing me again i'm gonna send V an SOS
goreboy: wow
goreboy: didn't take you for a Snitch
walkingundead: desperate times call for desperate measures
walkingundead: and i'd like to wake up without having to worry about piecing myself back together, thanks
Another pinching pain stabs through your chest.
walkingundead: would you CUT THAT OUT
goreboy: already did Cut It Out
goreboy: in case you've Forgotten
walkingundead: do you think you're funny
goreboy: hilarious
walkingundead: seriously ronin i'd like to be able to sleep tonight
goreboy: i can Help with that
walkingundead: without being dismembered*
goreboy: you really know how to Ruin the Mood
goreboy: but i'll tell ya what
goreboy: if you want your Beauty Sleep that bad
goreboy: come on over here and Take It for yourself
You sigh. Is this seriously his way of asking you to spend the night?
walkingundead: you are such a peculiar creature
goreboy: i'm Flattered
goreboy: don't keep me Waiting long, darling
You're certain the fluttering in your chest from Ronin toying with your heart again— in more ways than just the literal.
