ㅤㅤpeonies ── ⟢ ⧼西村力⧽ ・⸝⸝
ㅤ18+ 1406 ꕤ extreme gore, bodily injury, graphic head trauma, obsessive themes, blood & violence against women, psychological horror, body horror.
𓆩 ✩ 𓆪 part of my kill!kill!kill! series.
RIKI wonders if it’s possible to love someone this much.
not the kind where you show up with flowers every saturday (although riki does it—every single week without fail, to the point where the florist already has a bouquet of pink peonies ready for him to pick up). not the kind where you leave sticky notes with hearts and reminders, or to text good morning at exactly 7 in the morning because that’s when your alarm goes off (but he still does that too religiously).
what riki is thinking of is something more… different.
like right now, you know?
“i’m starting to think that you really like peonies, ki,” you say, tilting your head as you tuck one stem lower so the bouquet looks fuller. your eyes flick up to meet his across your bedroom. your boyfriend raises his brows in curiousity at your statement.
“if i tell you i like lilies instead… would you change the arrangements? or am i stuck with pink peonies forever?” you joke, giggling lightly as you gently puff the petals.
your boyfriend leans against the doorway, arms crossed loosely, mouth curving into that easy, handsome, fond smile he always has on his face. “of course i would,” he answers softly without hesitation. warm. lovely. “anything you want, baby. lilies, roses, those weird spiky ones—i’d figure it out,”
“i love you.”
the words come out true in the way that only riki knows it matters on the outside.
but inside his head, it’s already fracturing.
were you ever grateful?
the thought comes uninvited and cold and harsh, like ice cracking under foot when too much pressure is being put on. were you ever grateful? for the flowers every saturday. for the late–night convenient runs riki does because you’re too lazy to cook. for carrying your bags even when his hands were full. for listening to every rambling story about your day even when his own head was screaming.
did any of it ever actually mean something to you?
riki watches your hands move again—delicate, soft, unaware—adjusting a leaf here, fluffing a bloom there. you hum softly under your breath, content. happy because of the flowers he bought. flowers he keeps buying because genuinely, seeing you happy lights him up every single time you open the door makes something in his chest bloom too.
but why the fuck would you say that you like lilies now? after months of pink peonies every saturday, now you want lilies?
it shouldn’t be that big of a deal; people change their minds every day, mundane or not, but riki can feel it starting—that slow heat crawling up his spine… the way his molars ache from his jaw tightening. then, his heart does this ugly thud, too fast and too hard.
so what if you like lilies now?
it shouldn’t be a big deal, but…
he pushes himself off the doorway.
three steps, that’s all it takes.
the floor creaks under his weight but you don’t look up yet, still arranging, still so goddamn oblivious to what goes on in one’s head.
riki’s hand closes around the handle of a glass pitcher—wet from water, heavier than it looks with all those stems crammed in. the last week’s peonies tremble as he lifts it, petals quivering like…
like they’re afraid too, for you.
then—
the base of the pitcher connects just above your right ear—right where your pretty hair parts when you tilt your head like you do when you’re concentrating. it’s not elegant or beautiful like in films.
instead, the bedroom’s met with a meaty, wet thud, the sound of something dense hitting something softer. the glass doesn’t break on the first hit; it just dents your skull instead. a dull compression, bone flexing inward like cardboard before it gives.
your blood doesn’t fountain right away either—it just beads brightly at the line along the split skin—then wells up thick and dark as the scalp peels back in ragged strips from the impact of riki’s hit. only then does the pitcher finally shatter on the second hit, shards driving upward into the soft meat under your hairline.
the peonies in the pitcher exploded with the force of the swing. the petals tear free first, soft pinks scattering in arc. some stick to the fresh wound, adhering to the raw, open skin. others are driven by the broken glass—punching into your exposed tissue, forcing their ways inside.
if you want to be ungrateful so bad, here you go—one long sharp piece lodges deep like a broken tooth, severing your artery; riki assumes—because now your blood does come in earnest and generous. hot ropes of it spray across your desk filled with fresh peonies in a mason jar, wilted ones you didn’t have the heart to throw away, dried peonies he gave months ago that break at the slightest touch, splattering all over.
pretty soft pink petals now turn crimson at the edges.
you gasp, followed with a choked, wet gurgle as air is forced out through your throat that’s suddenly too full of copper. your body jerks hard and your knees buckle sideways and you slump against the table, one hand slapping uselessly at the edge to support yourself.
the fresh peonies inside tumble out, rolling through the mess, and down on the floor.
your fingers drag red streaks down the white cloth, and your cheek presses to the cool surface of the floor, sneaking more, and your bloody mouth opens and closes like a fish left on the dock. the soft hum you were making earlier is gone, replaced by small, wet clicks every time you try to breathe. tiny red bubbles form at the corner of your lips, popping with a faint pink froth. your fingers twitch near your side—fingers curling weakly against nothing.
“ngh…” you choke out, blood pulsing from the gash at your temple with each movement. your chest rises and falls in shallow hitches—each one slower and weaker than the last. somewhere in your death, you try to form his name, or maybe just any sound that you can prove to yourself that you’re still alive—but all that comes is a thin, crimson thread that stretches and snaps as your head lolls slightly to the side for the last time.
riki drops what’s left of the broken handle then, letting it clatter among the petals and glass. thankfully, he’s wearing the home slippers, so he’s not so hurt by the shards. he stands there, breathing hard through his nose.
the room smells like iron, wet earth, and the cloying sweetness of flowers.
slowly, riki kneels in the spreading puddle—warm, sticky against his sweats. he turns your pretty face toward him with gentle hands, thumbs sliding through the mess on your cheeks. your eyes are still open, pupils blown wide, unfocused but searching.
still looking for him, even if he’s the one who’s got you in this state now.
a single petal is stuck to your lower lash. riki brushes it away with his thumb.
your boyfriend leans in close, pressing his lips against your bloody forehead. tasting the iron when he kisses you. “you said lilies,” he whispers into the cracked temple. “i heard you.”
your last breath rattles into the air, carrying the faint sweetness of the lip balm you always wear.
“ki?”
you laugh a little, tilting your head so your cheek brushes his chest. you don’t notice how close he’s gotten behind you. your boyfriend swallows, shaking his head lightly before forcing his voice normal again.
“yeah?”
you turn around and reach up, wrapping your arms around his neck. “thank you, baby. for everything,” you murmur, tiptoeing so you can plant a chaste kiss on his cheek. then, you move to peck the corner of his lips before pulling away.
“by the way… i’m just kidding with the lilies thing,” you giggle, eyes crinkling at the corners. “i love peonies more than anything. especially if they’re from you.”
riki’s grip on your hips tightens—just enough that your breath hitches for half a second. then, he loosens it. your boyfriend leans down to kiss the side of your throat, right over the living pulse that still jumps under his mouth.
“anthing for you,” he murmurs.
in the back of his skull, your blood is still spreading across the tiles. the peonies are soaking red, and your eyes are still open, staring up at him like he’s the last thing you’ll ever see.
instead, he closes his own eyes, breathing you in.
for now, this is enough.
