kk

-

you've ...noticed it.

you don't think anyone else has, but you've definitely spotted it- or, rather, him, besides the same buildings several times now.

being too bored to pay attention to the mindless droning of your parents affairs outside the church building, you tend to look, to wander, doing something like a cliche clearing of your throat or incessantly tapping your foot.

but when they're taking their time and you're counting the cracks in the sidewalk, sometimes you spot something, someone, out of place.

he's usually around the edge of your local church, spray cans in hand, and it's no surprise that later on in the sermon, a late attendee will whisper into the pastor's ear- and maybe an hour later, he'll coincidentally discover sacrilegious graffiti painting the sides of the cross-baring monument.

it's him, it's gotta be him.

you've had the idea of snitching on him. it'd take the burden off the community's minds, even though your father's insistent on catching the punk himself, and it makes sense with how much money he's put into the church, but you'd rather him shut up about it instead of grumbling around the halls like some vengeful wraith.

still though, does no one else see him? he sticks out like a literal sore thumb, especially around this part of uptown. has no one suspected him? with that statement of an aesthetic and that overall look he has, someone should've.

you chew on your lip. you never liked being a 'whistleblower', it was an overall bother, and you'd prefer someone else to call things out and get it over with. maybe nudge a few church goers into looking around the area more.

unluckily for you, fate must be on your ass, because with more attention to detail-

he's everywhere you look.

one night, he's leaning up over the edge of an alley, a light between his fingers and smoke obscuring his face.

maybe the next morning, you'll catch his back profile as you grab a bite to eat from your favorite cafe, as still as a statue until you swerve your head to talk to the cashier and he's suddenly turned towards you. head in palm, tilted forward, free hand flat on the table and fingers running circles into the table.

you look away for a flicker, smile, nod, and mhm your way out of the conversation with your food before eyeing the table again, heading straight for the front door.

yep. still... staring.

"odd," you thought.

a few days later, devil horns tower over the aisle of bookshelves next to you, slowly stalking through the 'classic literature' section, and damn, you're just now realizing how tall he is.

it makes you uneasy. no, not in a 'oh my god what if he does something to me!?' way but in an... unpredictable, way? you don't know how to pin it in your head, he- moves weird, like he's been given a different script than everyone else, he's shrouded in an air of complete mystery. each time you see him he's always just out and about, doing nothing. and you see him often. doesn't he have friends???

and when the streets get a bit too bare and the sky darkens more than you'd ever want it to while you're out and about, you see him. hands toying with something that clinks all snappy, but doesn't reflect in the moonlight.

with the dusk lingering low and his head cocked in your direction, you're always left wondering what the hell he's playing around with. you've never stuck around long enough to find out, and you're sure as hell not planning on changing that.

it's unsettling, though. the blackened plains of his irises stretching far and wide into x's, like a crosshair fixated on the back of your head. he's got his eyes dead set on you, and he's telling you something.

almost as if he's warning you.

you don't like it one bit, and it shows in the way your hands nervously scrounge about in your pockets and how you're tripping over your own feet when you quickly stride by.

you glance once, twice- no, must be five times over your shoulder, and you catch it-

a grin stretching out over his face as you turn the corner.

did he do that shit on purpose?

...

what a fucking weirdo.

.

.

.

it's ... 7:14 AM, and you're already fighting the urge to faceplant into the pew in front of you. the same words, the same damn sentences, hollow 'amen's and 'praise thee's bouncing around the cathedral like they've been trapped for centuries.

your eyes are heavier than usual, the air too thick with incense, fresheners, and whatever concoction of candles they've got burning today. it usually doesn't bother you, but today? today, it smells- no, reeks like suffocation.

you mutter another praise under your breath.

it's easy. you can do it without thinking anymore. doesn't matter that you don't believe it, doesn't matter that you're done with this whole thing. it's a habit at this point. automated. but for once, the words feel too hollow to even get out.

you just nod in subtle agreement each time someone in the crowd shouted another prayer towards Him. it was usually enough with your slight of enthusiasm, but this time you're just...

...not there.

you sink deeper into your seat... uh, well, you try to at the very least, the hard plastic's not really malleable. or comfortable.

this whole thing- this church, this routine, these people- it's all just background noise now. you've been doing it for... what? six years? seven? time blends in these halls.

you don't even bother with the half-hearted 'amens' anymore, you just let them think you're engaged. your facade's already slipping- hell, it might be gone entirely, and your mom's noticing that too, giving you her "make it look like you care" elbow jab. you flash a grin at her, wide and fake, but it fades two seconds later.

you should've tried going to sleep a bit earlier, because now you're fighting for your life trying to keep up the front while failing miserably.

you're already dreading the inevitable lecture in the car ride home about not being as 'uppity' as they want you to be. you just want to go to bed and deal with this later.

you try to ignore the choir singing their hearts out and the loud organs and pianos ringing through the air, pressing your gaze to other corners of the room instead.

the off-white wallpaper looks the same, and so does the stained glass windows, bright and irritating as ever. the older paintings hung between the intersections of wood and glass are also, unsurprisingly, the same.

the last supper, the creation of adam, and the...

huh.

why's the fallen angel crooked?

wait, no, scratch that, the fallen angel's not even supposed to be here.

you stare at it. for too long, probably.

something about it is wrong, and not just in the obvious way. not just in the 'why is this here?' kind of way.

someone must have put it here. someone must have taken the old painting down and replaced it, but why? who? when?

you were here last sunday. you sat in this exact spot, zoned out in the exact same way. the same sermon droned on, the same choir sang, the same hymns stretched on longer than they should've. it wasn't here then. you're sure of it. you would've noticed.

...you should have noticed.

your stomach knots weakly as you scan the congregation, searching for any sign that someone else finds this as strange as you do. but no one so much as glances at it. no murmurs of confusion, no hushed whispers about a missing painting.

it's like it's always been there.

the more you look, the less sense it makes. the longer you stare, the more off it feels.

that frame, it's lavish, elaborate, but tilted just enough to be noticeable. and the edges- no, the whole thing looks tainted, like time itself has worn it down faster than the others.

a deep, rusted orange creeps along the intricate carvings, clinging to the gold like something...

rotting.

your pulse stutters, but before you can even think-

"amen."

the word cuts through the air like a blade. sharp. sudden. you turn back in the chair and everyone's gathering their things, scattering to their corners, leaving, or just separating into the halls.

you rise, eyeing back and forth between your mother talking to her lady friends and your father slipping through the back door behind the pedestal. no one's noticed the painting, still.

so you move.

you weave between lingering bodies, past soft handshakes and polite smiles, drawn towards the painting like icarus towards the sun.

the pulse in your neck thickens as you step closer to it, slow. it's tilted to the right, a small skid mark printed against the wall from the slide of the golden corner.

you inhale, and it weighs heavy in your chest like smoke. and as your nostrils flare- ugh, what's that smell?

...iron?

metal, sharp, the kind of musty scent that gets deep in your nose and you can't huff out easily, the kind that sticks.

your stomach turns, and you push at the upper corner of the painting to set it up properly.

but as your fingers press and attempt to slide it back to normal, they... sink, into the darkened rust of the frame.

disgust settles in the scrunch of your nose, and you jolt from the wood. it's like drying syrup, thick, but no longer runny. just sticky and clinging to your fingers.

you cringe, your thumb rubbing over the smear on your fingers, and part of it flakes, like olden dust, while the rest of it smudges over your fingers.

...you know this consistency. this scent. this color.

it's blood.

you should be having a visceral reaction, you should be screaming and pointing at the painting like it's satan's reincarnation, like it's a hell-sent "gift" from the painted figure mounted before you.

but panic had always been silent for you, so you just twitched with your shoulders hind high and ran out of the nave, almost hitting the edge of a pew with the drag of your hip.

you need this off. now. fucking now.

you slam into one of the many bathrooms, sliding over the white tiles and snapping a cold handle towards you.

but the water doesn't take it all off. no matter how hard you scrub, some of it clings, deep in the creases of your skin, under your nails. like it wants to stay.

it won't come off, it won't come off, it won't come off-

the chills scaling the bones of your spine only make things worse; the panic's starting to show, your arms are shaking, your breathing's quickening, and tears are rimming the pink of your waterline.

...maybe you should tell someone.

where's the last place you saw dad? he slipped out the back door last you remember, and that leads to a whole maze of hallways that you never burdened yourself with memorizing.

more paintings, dark wood doors that slam shut and don't come back the same, the same deep navy carpet too soft beneath the scuff of your shoes.

is he in this one?- no, nothing. is he in the pastor's office again? would make sense, they have business deals all the time, they're old friends, after all.

you grip your wrist between your thumb and forefinger, shoulder brushing the pale doorframe as you catch the faint billow of white in the hall, marking the pastor's office.

you inch forward, chin tilting towards the doorway, and you hear the murmur of a voice, and the rustle of fabric. your breathing still as you peek through the gap.

it's the pastor, and he clearly didn't hear you. hands settled down on the low tides of a girl's shoulders, the roughened padding of his fingers running over the cross-stitching of her shirt.

...she's small.

younger than you. her frame barely fills out the oversized sweater she's wearing. his fingers, thick and rough with callouses, move absently along the stretch of fabric, his touch lingering in a way that makes your tongue press against your molars.

his grey brows are buttoned, wrinkles and hollowed skin sinking between the furrow of his expression and the firm line of his lips.

this time, the girl's a brunette, and her frame shakes as she lets out a tearful sob, hands wiping at the fat tears cascading down her soft, babyish face.

you can't see her face, just the edge of her dark hair, cut blunt at her shoulders, and the way her hands fidget with the hem of her sleeve. she's twisting the fabric, her nails digging into the wool, pulling at the loose threads. her movements are subtle, but the tension in them is palpable.

the man leans closer, his voice a low murmur you can't quite make out. his expression, though, his expression tells you enough. the deep furrow of his brows, the hollowness of his cheeks, the tight line of his lips. it's a mask of concern, an act he's perfected, but you know better. you've seen this before.

...and you've never done anything about it, either.

he shifts, his hand moving to brush against her hair, and she flinches- just barely. you catch it, though. so does he. his voice rises, soft and sweet, coaxing her like a shepherd with a lost lamb. the way he speaks, it's as if he truly believes he's doing god's work.

that's what's worst of all.

your heart rises to your throat, palms already clammy as you slink backwards, but you don't leave, you can't. the scene roots you in place, holding you there like you're tethered to it.

the blood stained on the padding of your fingers feels less... heavy. the tingling static running over your digits is... small, now. insignificant. as if it didn't matter in the face of this. something you've seen, known about, and hadn't done anything about either.

...why does some old painting matter when the man your father works with is a fucking predator?

but before you could realize, a hand. solid, almost stone-like, presses down on your shoulder, and your nerves scream.

the gasp catches in your throat like it's something boiling hot and all too feverish to be far from guilt, and when you look?

...it's just your mother. and her fingers are warm, grounding even, once you realize it's her.

her brows lift in quiet alarm, and her mouth twitches in a grimace- not quite a frown, not quite concern. she glances past you, over your shoulder.

the pastor is standing now. straight-backed. composed. the little girl at his side, clinging- not to him, but to herself. her hands are locked at her sides, sleeves bunched in her fists, and her eyes, wide and glassy, flicker between the two of you, then back to her worn shoes.

and for that split second?

the girl, her eyes met yours. wide, panicked, scared, with guilt stinging at her waterline.

as if she was caught doing something she shouldn't have been, and not the other way around. as if this was her fault.

"oh- my! i'm so sorry to interrupt, pastor!" your mother smooths, light and airy. too airy, her hands clutching in front of her with some weak little bow as if he even deserves her respect.

"we're getting ready to go, do you know where...?"

her voice drifts off as she glances past you and her smile tightens.

"oh, and there he is!" she cuts herself off with a chirp as your father appears from the far hallway, casual, oblivious, still adjusting the cuff of his coat.

...he looks guilty too.

matter of fact, everyone in this room looks guilty.

the pastor greets him with a smile- sharp but measured in its own right. he shakes hands with both of your parents, small pleasantries buzzing like flies over carcass, all motion and sound to distract from what's rotting underneath.

and of course, no one mentions the girl. no one asks what she's doing there. she's just standing beside a cross hung on the wall like decoration.

like some boring ass potted plant slapped somewhere to fill up space.

you can't stop staring at her.

the way she hides behind the fabric of her sleeves. the way her eyes don't rise. how... lost she looks. like someone running countless thoughts, ideas, predictions, insecurities through her head without having a reliable person to pull her out of it.

your mother's hand squeezes your shoulder again. not hard, but firm. anchoring. you blink, startled back into the scene just as the attention shifts.

"-y'know how it is," your mother laughs, nudging you playfully. "one of their 'off' days. probably up all night watching movies or on that phone again."

you force a smile, but it's chapped and twitching at the edges- your cheeks feel like they're withering away in real time.

the pastor, though? hasn't looked away.

his eyes, that cold mix of silver and grey, stay focused on you. not unkind, nor cruel. just watching. like he's memorizing something, or waiting for something to happen. like maybe he's even daring you to say something. (you won't. he knows you won't.)

then he chuckles, low, smooth, as if he's practiced this exact moment in a mirror before.

"ah, yes," he says, like he's read the line off a script he's performed a hundred times. "time always runs ahead when joy is in the room." he lifts a hand in a gentle wave, wrist loose. casual.

dismissive. a subtle "go on, now."

"time always runs ahead when joy is in the room," who the fuck even says things like that???

he turns. not to the girl, but away from you, towards one of the windows beside his desk.

your mother's already guiding you by the arm, her voice a soft scold in your ear: "you know not to wander near the offices, especially his."

you don't respond. your fingers curl tighter around your wrist, nails pressing into skin.

...someone else will do it.

they have to, right? this isn't something you should speak up on, imagine all the trouble you'll have to go through detailing everything, and what about your dad?

what'll happen to him?

so, like you've been taught, like you've gotten used to, you just nod while stepping through the cross-adorned pathway. you'll keep your mouth shut, again. you were never one to speak up, after all. someone will take the lead and like always, you'll follow.

you'll say nothing, again.

the faded feeling of blood dried over your fingertips dizzy into a bygone memory, the thud of your heartbeat heavy as you trace your steps to the entrance, your parent's thudding behind you like judgement.

and you hide your hands behind your back.

-

.

.

.

the car ride home is silent.

all of your preparation for the lecture on the way home had come bearing nothing but rubber against gravel, bated breaths, and raindrops painting the glass of your window while whisking them sideways from the wind.

you hum, veering your head away. you didn't even get to bet on one, flip a coin and see which one would've won the race down the glass- regardless, the sky's already looking a deeper blue with this weather, and the rain's slowing to a stop anyway. it doesn't matter.

your mother's quiet. your father's filling the air with idle, meandering commentary. points out half-faded signs, old storefronts with dusty displays with a low whistle and a shake of his head. like maybe he's trying to stir some life into the car's dead air.

no one replies.

not even as mom makes that one familiar swerve off the road, and especially not as the gates part with their usual mechanical groan that makes you cringe and the car pivoting into that gentle dip.

it parks in front of the same garage you've seen your whole life. pristine, symmetrical, perfect.

you shoulder the car door open, and the house looms ahead of you.

a massive, clean-cut structure. white siding, dark shutters, every edge sharp and curated like it came out of a catalog, the type of house you'd see a family in a sitcom live in. barely a house- a mansion. the grass is trimmed within an inch of its life, no weeds, no stray leaves- hell, you'd dye the bottom of your pants green if you ever thought of walking through it.

the white picket fence out front doesn't creak when you open it because it's been oiled to not creak. the hedges sit beneath the windows, sculpted into careful, indistinct shapes.

a porch light flicks on as you approach. one of the motion sensors, since everything here responds to presence.

the front door's been repainted recently- cream, soft, inviting. the handle is brushed gold, still cold to the touch. a cross hangs just above the doorframe, barely tilted, the nails holding it up almost invisible.

it's the "American Dream."

...and it feels more artificial than ever.

you step inside, and the scent of lavender cleaner slaps you across the face. it's always clean here, or at least it always smells it.

's always quiet. the hallway stretches forward in polished wood and framed pictures, moments of forced smiles and church events lined up in perfect intervals.

you roll your eyes- dinner needs to be made and you're restless. you can't just flop on your bed and snooze 'till the scent of tomato sauce and ground beef floats you over like a cartoon sniffing pie, so you pace through the house.

it feels like it's been hours- and it has been, but that painting is still scraping against the sides of your brain, even as you lean lazily against the banister and ask dad if he needs help with anything.

he tosses you a thoughtful look, as if wondering if he needs the assistance, before grunting and walking over to his garage, a hand waving you over.

you drag your feet, rubbing your thumb over the edge of your sweatshirt sleeve as the scent of old metal and oil makes your nose stiffen.

your dad's crouched near the toolbox, humming something tuneless under his breath. you settle in next to him, handing him things when he asks, and mostly just... zoning out.

talking about whatever comes to mind. college, a weird dream you had, the way you saw a dead squirrel by the curb that morning and no one had moved it all day long- he... doesn't say much.

just nods along. you don't mind.

he gestures over his shoulder.

"hey, could you grab my crowbar?"

you nod. drifting toward the far wall where the tools hang like silver ribs. it's a bit dim back there, shadowed with strings of web in it's depths. your hand hovers for a second before wrapping around the cold iron.

but the second you touch it-

you pause, must be for the third time that day.

it's sticky. not wet, but tacky in a way grease shouldn't be. your eyes trail up to the edge of the crowbar, to the curve of the teeth.

and there it is.

red. dried and dark like old ink. smudged along the tip, flaked into the grooves like it took a big chunk out of someone.

you shudder. stepping back like it might bite you. might tear and rip your flesh into the same shade next.

"dad?"

your voice cracks just a little as you hold it out at arm's length, like it's diseased.

"there's... there's something on this. it looks like-blood."

he barely turns. just glances, shrugs, and goes back to whatever he's doing.

"probably old oil. stuff gets like that when it sits long enough. just wipe it down dry, it'll be fine."

that's it.

like it's nothing.

and as you run a wet wipe over it until the sludge fades off, you decide...

maybe it is nothing.

maybe... you should turn a blind eye to it once more.

you hand it to your father with both arms. he takes it without looking, settles it into his palms, and pries open whatever he needed gaped like it's just another day in the garage.

and maybe it is.

maybe you are just being dramatic.

you should stop being so fucking hyper-aware about everything.

what's the point?

who's gonna stop you, anyway?

you laze against the wall as you watch him sort through the tools and oils you fetched for him, and offer a short glance to the dark oil pooling where the crowbar used to be.

muddy, thick, disgusting.

you spin on your heel, leaning off the wall and stepping onto the half-step leading to the door.

dooon't care, he'll deal with it himself.

the door creaks open under your palm, and you drift out, hands shoved deep in your pockets like they've got nowhere else to go. past the stairs. past the kitchen. just feet from your door when-

"hey!" your mother, calling from the kitchen. loud, of course.

you pause mid-step, and sigh.

"what?"

"can you run down and grab some parsley? i forgot it."

you huff. she hears it.

"you owe me," she tacks on, voice chipper and sharp. "for acting up at church."

you don't argue. just grab your wallet, swipe the keys off the hook.

"i'll be back," you mutter.

-

the screen door creaks as you push it open, night air folding around you like a damp blanket. the rain's softened to a mist- felt more than seen, clinging to the porch steps and soaking into your sleeves.

the clouds hang low, navy streaked with charcoal, and the whole world smells like wet mulch, asphalt, and bruised leaves.

your sneakers land soft against the pavement.

puddles ripple beneath you. tree branches sag under the weight of water, leaves sticking in clumps where they've fallen.

no dogs. no passing cars. just the hum of streetlights and the slow, wet sound of your soles on concrete.

overhead, the trees creak- not sharp like usual, but sluggish. like everything's moving underwater.

you don't rush. this kind of night doesn't let you.

you take it in, silent. not thinking much, for once.

and... there it is- the same neon green sign, flickering like always. the small strip mall lot's still half full, headlights bouncing off slick pavement as you dodge a guy wheeling a cart on your way across the street.

okay, uh- what did she want again? chives?

basil??? it's something green-

your throat clamps up real quick once you near the entrance.

shit.

no, no, no- not today, not tonight. you don't need this tonight.

you feel his presence first, not with your skin, but in your spine- an ache that rolls through your bones. you lift your eyes and there he is, half-veiled in the haze of the lot.

red-purple hair, plum shaded. shaggy and tickling the back of his neck- no, possibly longer. tall stature, a shrug in his shoulders, casual.

two fingers holding a cigarette like it's something useless. smoke slithering across his face in heavy ribbons, blurring the edges- keeping his expression hidden.

but you know.

you know that if you walk past and dare to glance back, his eyes will already be on you.

...and you don't wanna know what'll happen if you slow down this time.

you step in and it's bright, too bright, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a swarm. everything is a little too sharp, too linear. the aisles stretch forward like corridors in some sterile maze, and for a moment, you forget what you even came here for.

the air inside hits too cold, and far too clean. artificial citrus pumping through the vents like it's trying to cover something up.

your shoes scuff against the tile as you move fast. not running. just... fast enough that no one stops you. fast enough that if someone were behind you, they'd have to hurry to keep up.

you slide past the stacked boxes of cereal with cartoon eyes staring you down, past shelves of canned beans with knock-off labels. the aisles stretch longer than they should- bending weird, like the corners don't lead anywhere.

you nearly trip over a kid darting out from the cereal section and you mutter out some pathetic 'sorry', eyes flicking to the long shadow that trails behind you.

was it always that long?

were you always that tall?

your breath comes short. your eyes flicking to the edge of your vision.

what was it???

you slide by the kitchen knives, ducking by the workbench items, and-

parsley! it was fucking parsley!

your fingers close around the plastic container, so fast that you nearly drop it, and you don't dare turn around. you can't look. if you see it-him, it all becomes real.

you swallow, hard.

just pay. just leave.

you scan the horizon for self-checkout, but it's a mess- blinking red lights, long lines of irritated people tapping cards and sighing through their teeth, damnit.

you pivot sharply and duck into a lane with an actual cashier, a girl with acrylics and boredom baked into her expression.

she doesn't say anything at first- just scrolls her phone with one hand until she catches sight of you, and her brow arches like you've interrupted something more important than your panic.

you shove the parsley towards her like you have somewhere to be (because you do.) and she scans it slow- so slow that it almost feels deliberate- and starts bagging it like she's moving underwater.

you're digging for your card with fingers that won't still when she says, casually, as if making small talk:

"anything for your, uh... boyfriend, here?"

you blink.

but before you can even turn to see, before your brain catches up, a hand slides forward beside you.

slender, deliberate. it drops a bundle of items onto the conveyor with a soft thud-thud-thud-thud. with black, painted nails.

a box of knives.

heavy-duty garbage bags.

a pack of zip ties.

duct tape.

you saw them. flashes in your periphery while you rushed through the aisles. you didn't think he'd-

...he had enough time to grab all of those items while being hot on your heels.

and he's not even sweating, not even breathing hard, he's practically unfazed-

your breath hitches.

seconds later, his voice, would've been ragged with it's deepness if he didn't talk so smooth:

"yeah, actually. we're redecorating."

he offers the cashier a lazy smile that doesn't reach his eyes. just the edge of his lip curled like a blade, amusement wrapped in something... sinister.

the cashier lifts a brow again, her bubblegum-pink nails tapping lazily at the scanner. "...alright," she mutters, dragging the items across one by one.

you don't care enough to tell her to separate your items, you just slide your card and pay for both, tightening your grip around your wallet and hurrying out.

"hey, you forgot your-"

"nah, i'll grab it for 'em. thanks for the help, ma'am."

you're almost too fast for the automatic doors to keep up, basically shimmying through and pacing quick onto wet concrete.

you duck your head and move, hands gripping the plastic bag tight, the moist of the night making it cling to your fingers. the streets blur, neon signs, flickering lamp posts, the occasional flick of headlights. you're trying to look like you're not rushing, but your legs carry you faster than your mind can keep up.

you know the way. you've taken this path home a thousand times- but now, it's not enough.

then you see him.

slipping out of the store like he belongs in the dark. he clocks you immediately. there's no shout, no sprint, just a shift in his posture and the way his boots hit the pavement. just the shrug of his shoulders and the red of his hair.

you cut right off the main stretch and into the winding alleys- narrow, rain-slick veins at the edge of town.

shortcuts, usually. places you've ducked through when running late.

...you've heard about what goes on in them.

but your brain doesn't make that connection quick enough, only thing you're thinking about is how you should've grabbed your pocket knife from under your bed before going out late.

because tonight, every narrow corner feels like a trap.

every step echoes. not just yours.

thud.

thud.

thud.

too slow to catch you,

...and too steady to shake.

you glance back, and the streetlight behind you goes out.

black surrounds everything you thought you knew, and you find yourself leaning your shoulder against the wall.

there's familiar brick, and the sharp bend near the old fence. you can feel your heel catching onto rusted drains.

home's just around the corner.

you see it. the street you've known forever, lit faint and flickering.

you take a step towards it-

-and a large hand clamps around your arm.

you scream, instinct thrashing you away, but his grip doesn't budge.

his face is obscured in the dark, muddled in the mix between night and nightmare, and the sky flickers blue across the white of his teeth.

"what the- what the fuck!? what the hell do you-"

"you left this."

and between two slender fingers?

your receipt.

something innocuous enough to be friendly, but something that matters so much less because it's a fucking receipt, what normal person stalks someone down to give them their receipt back for parsley? fucking parsley???

"thanks for payin'. really made things easier, couldn't have you leavin' this behind after what you've done for me, yeah? just in case."

he's smiling at you.

not big, nor toothy, just in the middle. it should feel right, but it does nothing but make your skin crawl.

and it's enough to shimmer under the blue bleeding across his cheekbones and the darker shades of midnight licking at the outline of his figure. you can't tell if that smile is genuine or not.

but there's one thing you can see.

the black of his eyes. midnight shadows crawling up his jaw and nesting in the hollows of his eyes, swallowing the warmth, the distance, the air itself.

like a black hole dreaming.

it fills your lungs with concrete. he's just standing there, expecting something out of you, and your knees are shaking.

your hand stretches out before you even realize it, twitching as you take the receipt from him.

you mutter a quiet, broken "thank you," like it's the only thing you can muster up.

your fingers curls tighter around the strap of your bag. one foot in front of the other. that's all it has to be. just get home.

and just when you feel like you're out of the fire-

"you sure you wanna turn your back on me again?"

those words stop you dead in your tracks, your spine tightening like it's been snapped into place. that voice- low, near-silk in its composure, shouldn't sound like that. it shouldn't carry that smile underneath.

but it does.

you freeze, your heel scraping against the cracked pavement, faint static buzz of a nearby street lamp, the faint whistle of wind between buildings, your pulse pounding in your ears like a drum.

this guy isn't normal- who're you kidding?

you've known that from the second you caught him grinning over your shoulder.

you turn your head back.

he's still standing there in the dark. he hasn't moved a step, and yet it feels like he's much closer.

and even from this angle, you can't see his full expression, not really. the light doesn't quite reach him. it stops just short of his face, like the night is trying to protect you from knowing exactly what's waiting beneath the surface.

but the glint in his eyes- that's real. that's all there, you're not imagining that.

"you've got a bad habit of walking away, darlin'," he continues, quieter now, but somehow closer. the voice slithers past your ear like it came from your own mistakes.

"and every time you do, you make it harder for me to be nice about it."

you take a step back, then another. the bricks behind you are cool, slick with the dampness of the evening, and yet your skin prickles like he's already got his hands on you.

it's not just about the alley. or the receipt. or tonight.

it's about everything you never did. every silence. every moment you let something slide. every act of cowardice that built the road leading right here.

you thought there'd be a warning, a sign, a point of no return, but this? this is that point.

his gaze doesn't leave yours, even when the light shifts, painting him in blues and greys. his smile fades, but the weight in his stare only deepens.

"go on, then," he says softly, almost like a dare.

"turn around."

a tilt of his head.

"like you always do."

your brain's frozen. so are your limbs, you can't feel a damn thing with him just standing there.

unmoving. waiting for your next step.

"but just know," he begins, a hand smoothing down one of his pockets and pulling out a pack of cigarettes, a lighter falling into his other hand.

"if you do, this is the last time i'll let you."

-

.

.

.

it's been three days since you left the house.

...and you're scared out of your mind.

it's fine.

it's probably fine.

you're just tired.

overthinking.

that's what this is.

you haven't slept much. you haven't eaten. everything just... looks worse when you're hungry. or tired. or both. right? that's all it is.

you stare at the ceiling.

all the lights are on. every one. bathroom, hallway, kitchen. even the laundry room. you don't remember turning them all on. but you definitely haven't turned any off.

you can't. you tried once, two nights ago.

the second the hallway went dark, you swore you saw someone standing at the edge of it.

just past the fridge, where the wall bends.

it's making you nauseous. it's making your stomach gurgle, your mouth water when everything starts feeling too hot, even when you have nothing to puke up.

you've just been swaddled in your room, rewatching childhood shows and hiding behind the flash of lights. they'll keep you safe from everything your mind conjures up, right? yeah, right.

y'know, maybe he isn't coming. he's just a prankster that got a good scare out of you. the same guy who spray-painted the side of the church for shits and giggles.

yeah, he's got your attention now. he's been had it, he just wanted to prove it, and now you're shaking in your boots because he gave you a little jump.

...what an asshole.

your dad's upstairs, probably watching some football game with a beer, your mother's at work, the doors are locked, the lights are on- you're fine!

perfectly fine.

even your dad's having the time of his life, he's howling up such a storm upstairs that he's even coughing a little. good for him! good for you, even. you just need to lighten-

A faint drone of dread echoes out the house as your tv shuts off. your bedroom light flicks out, and the warm line of hallway light outside of your bedroom door gone.

it's pitch black.

there's nothing but the low drone of atmosphere dwelling out, and your skin rises in goosebumps immediately.

"dad?"

a second. two. then three.

"dad!"

nothing but a low thump. he's probably just getting up, or something. you charged your phone before this, you'll be fine-

you sink deeper into your bed, fumbling with your phone and a small whimper presses through your lips.

you call his phone, because one: you're too pussy to get up, two: he's upstairs. do you know how big this house is?

it rings. once, twice, three times-

and he picks up!

"thank god, i thought i was going crazy or something! the power's out, i think, do you-"

"sorry, darlin'."

your voice dries out immediately.

"think your father's preoccupied with something right now, want me to give him a message, or you gonna come get 'im yourself?"

your eyes water.

"he's got some nice tools, y'know. heavy iron wands i could do real good with- you're familiar with that crowbar, aren't you?"

and the line goes dead.

you drop the phone, and your breath stutters out like it's been kicked from your lungs.

crowbar? a fucking crowbar, that has to mean he's the...

fuck.

"no. no, no, no-"

your fingers dig into your sheets, then your hair, then the mattress again because you don't know what the hell to hold onto, what to grab to make everything feel okay.

your dad isn't answering. the lights are out. he knows where you live.

...he just answered from your dad's number.

"fuck," you whisper, eyes wide and shining now, the kind of panic-tears that sting before they fall. "fuck, fuck-"

your room is too small, and too quiet. the dark presses in on all sides like it's hiding with you.

you wipe your face hard, hands shaking.

you can't go upstairs. what if he's up there?

what if your dad-

no.

your head whips to the window.

the backyard. the fence. if you can just make it past the hedges, onto the neighbor's lawn, call for help...

you scramble to it, heartbeat drilling against your ribs, pulling up the blinds and unlocking the latch. you're halfway there, fingers hooked on the window frame to shove it up when-

BANGBANGBANGBANG-

a pair of hands slam flat against the glass. black leather smearing something dark on the pane.

you scream, stumbling backwards and crashing into your nightstand, knocking something over as you skid across the floor.

he's right there.

his hands splayed on your window. his face unseen behind the dark and the glare and the goddamn smirk you can feel through the pane.

you don't wait to see if he'll break it.

you're running down the hall, up the stairs, nearly swinging off the railing with how fast you're pedaling through the upper floor, opening the door into the main room, and-

the curtains have been ripped off, the dark red fabric lying on the hardwood flooring, stained with something darker. the moon's full, flickering rays of grey-blue light that helps you see half the mess.

the scratched-up coffee table your dad used to lean his elbows over is cracked into smithereens and nothing else, a leg or two sprawled over the floor, sharp pieces of wood scattered everywhere.

the tv isn't even on. but the black splotches and shatters of something clear on the floor tell you enough. it's broken too. and the blue light hitting the few shards of clear glass lets you see what's on it.

just red.

pure red.

sticky, sickly, and gross, veining darker around the edges and mudding under the shards like syrup.

there's nobody, though.

or, rather- no body.

where is he. god, where is he? you don't know if you're asking that question for your dad, or... him.

you tiptoe through the room and push open the side room. guest bedroom, there's nothing here. it's practically untouched, the bed still made, the tacky throw blanket draped lazily over it.

...not here.

you press your back against the wall and slink over to the main hall, stepping out slowly when you spot it.

another window. the big one in the width of the hall, the one that makes you feel tiny when engulfed in the blue.

and as you near it?

someone else nears it.

the tall figure curls around the corner like he's been waiting. like he knew you'd be dragged towards the light like moth to flame.

like he knew that this? this is where you'll realize, no- finally understand,

-that they were all wrong.

all of those services, the verses from that book, the teachings hammered into your head, the religious imagery plastered on every wall you've surrounded yourself with-

they were all lies.

the devil didn't stand tall with red, miasmic skin, or with scarlet irises that bled through his yellow eyeballs. he didn't even wield a pitchfork-he wielded a crowbar.

he loomed higher than you. higher than what your sins could ever amount to, blood sticking to the black of his gloved fingers, to the sharp angle of his jaw, to the curl of his bleeding lips.

his eyes are reflective of the styx river- pitch black that's somehow deepened with a pure, rich bloodlust. cruel x's print at their forefront, and they're dotting on you.

one thing that they did get correct, though? is that the devil wears horns atop his head.

or, at least his favorite butcher does.

you've gone stiff. immobilized. turned to stone like those angels praying outside of that church, frozen underneath the gaze of the devil himself, and the low drag of his favorite stake hums a deafening tune of dread down your spine.

the same crowbar from your dad's garage. slicked with blood and gleaming gristle stuck to the hook from his newest catch.

"c'mon," he drawls, his voice dripping with mockery. "is this the part where you pray, or is that later? after i break you?"

praying is the last thing on your mind.

you run.

and as you scramble away, he heaves the metal instrument over his shoulder, teeth white and bloodied, fully planning on making a new angel sing.

you bolt, feet slipping on the hardwood, scrambling forward like an animal shot full of adrenaline. behind you? a sickening chuckle. and lowly, slicked with malice:

"god, this is my favorite part."

that only makes you run faster.

you whip around the corner, and he's right there. right. there. teeth bared, crowbar raised, and you scream. loud, gut-wrenching, something primal, desperate, pathetic.

CRACK-

the blow hits the wall beside your head, splinters biting your cheek as you throw yourself back, tumbling through the hall like a ragdoll. you don't even check for blood- you're already moving, stumbling, crashing into the next hallway, gasping on instinct.

the air tastes like dust and copper. you can't feel your legs. they're just pistons now, running on nothing but fear.

but he's faster.

his boots thunder after you like judgment. you don't hear him breathing, you feel it. right on your nape.

and unlucky for you? his hands are faster.

a vicious fist grabs your hair and rips you backward. you hit the ground, hard. elbows first, then your spine, then your ribs as you twist and thrash, sobbing, lungs tearing with every scream, his hand wheeling you onto your front and keeping you pinned there.

he kneels over you, and he's not just breathing hard, he's laughing. a sadistic, maybe pitiful thing as his hand knots deep into your hair, and his hand?

slams.

your face meets the hardwood with the force of something forbidden, dots splattering in your vision. your nose cracks. something warm pools in your mouth, and you try to spit it out but almost choke on it instead.

"y'know,"

he drawls, knees pinning you down on both sides of your waist, a too-cold finger swiping over the blood on your face.

"you move real pretty when you're scared." his hand wrenches your face sideways as he leans in.

"shame it won't save ya."

you suck your cheeks in, collecting the blood in your mouth and heaving your weight on your elbows, spitting it all over his face, and it splatters a fair bit, painting the pale of his cheeks in tiny dots of orangish-red.

"fuck you."

he grins, and surprisingly? he relents. he lifts up, then nudges you in the hip with the toe of his boot- just enough to roll you limp onto your back.

"go on, then. let's see how far you can make it."

you tremble onto your knees, because he's giving you a chance, and whether it's for the love of the chase or not, you're not gonna let that slip by.

he whistles, fingers slathering the blood off his face with slow reverence, before raising it.

"one."

you bolt.

"two."

the stairs are right around the corner. you just need to run down and out the front door, it's not even far from here-

"THREE!"

he's fast. he's too fast.

you stumble down the stairs, not particularly worried about falling, just needing distance to separate yourself from the demon hunting you down.

the door's right there, locks done, all you need to do is just turn them, and-

the cross underneath it is upside down.

and the painted wood ahead of you tears like plaster with the hooked end of the crowbar, light-colored wood giving out with little resistance as an elbow jams into your ribs.

"didn't even touch the knob, huh?"

you crash into the corner of the doorway, his hand gripping your face, touch rigid against your skin as he pressed you back against the hinges, smearing the peeling white with the red of blood.

he didn't push hard- he didn't need to. the force was casual, controlled, as if restraining you took no more effort than swatting at a fly.

"is that it?" a brow is raised, the sharp of his teeth curling over the fleshy red of his lip. "is this all you've got for me? a little squirm here, a little squeal there? thought you'd at least try to make this interesting, you're so good at running away from everything else."

your pulse thundered in your ears, a fire building in your chest. he was mocking you. toying with you, instead of just getting the job done, like it's nothing.

like you're nothing.

your rage came in the form of your hands clawing at the thick of his forearm, teeth sinking deep into the flesh between his thumb and forefinger.

the taste, the warmth of blood foreign to yours flooding your tongue made you gag, even as you felt the satisfying give of skin, leather tearing with it.

this time? he would cry, curse, spit at you, even.

he'd let you go and you'd run to the backyard, scale the fence, find help or something-

but instead?

he laughed.

it started low, a tremor in his chest, then built into something sickeningly joyous. brows raised higher, the corners of his lips twitching and his eyes widening with something feral.

"now that's more like it!" his voice pitched higher, feverish. "drawing blood already, huh? didn't think you had the balls! took you long enough to finally give me somethin'."

leather pinches against your skin, pressing into your cheekbones with bruising force, your skin paling as he grinned wider, the edges of his mouth stretching unnaturally, disturbingly far.

"thanks. i'll treasure this later. hope it scars so i can keep your teethmarks with me. might be better than taking your heart out, a... gift, for the road." you try to retract them, get another angle, but he holds his grip solid.

"here's the thing, though," he whispered, leaning in close. his breath was warm, laced with the devil's tune against your ear. "you're not biting to win, are ya? you're biting to feel like you've got a say in this. like you're still in the driver's seat."

the black of his piercing rolled over the stream of maroon coating his upper lip, and then pressed into a murmur.

"hate to break it to ya, darlin', but you're just along for the ride."

without a second thought, he shoved your head into the door.

the sharp pain of your skull hitting wood sent stars flashing across your vision, his grip relenting, letting you curl to the ground with an exhale that sounds more like death.

"don't stop now," he cooed, his tone grotesquely affectionate. "c'mon, give me more. fight harder. kick, scream- do whatever makes you feel alive. because i'm gonna enjoy every second of this."

you crawl, knees bowing out and your nails scraping on polished wood wood as he lifts the crowbar from his side.

"where are you wanderin' off to? hiding in that little room of yours with that self-righteousness like it'll make everything go away?"

you just stumble against your door, knob already splattered with rust as you shoulder it open, thudding footsteps following you real slow.

...you don't remember leaving the room like this.

your blanket is sponged with blood. your walls, white, thick with long strings of muscle torn from fat flesh, and as you fumble for the pocketknife under your bed as quickly as your twitching hands can manage-

your fingers land on something warm, drying, squishy, and when you look?

intestines slotted underneath your palm, still warm, fresh, gutted ripe and new, faint strikes of dull purple through them making your vision flicker.

and below them?

it's your dad.

or... whatever's left of him.

his chest had been opened- no, peeled from sternum to pelvis like someone tried to unzip him from the inside. the cavity gapes wide, organs dragged and flopped out over your carpet like spoiled meat. there's yellow fat clinging to the edges of the wound, slick and jiggling with your touch, marbled through red like rancid butter.

his face?

both cheeks have been cut through, carved open to the ears like he's stuck in some permanent, forced grin. his lips split, teeth showing too much, red and black clogging around his teeth- congealing like resin.

his eyes are dull. well, his eye. the other is hanging loosely from its socket. teased out with too much care.

you don't scream, you choke first.

the air catches in your throat, curling into your stomach like it's trying to get away from you.

your knees buckle, and you collapse backward, hands shaking, knuckles bloodied and tainted with what you touched.

and then you vomit.

hard.

your entire body wracks forward, stomach convulsing as bile and spit and something unidentifiable spews from your mouth, splattering onto the bleeding carpet besides you, and you heave, tears, snot, blood, and sweat sticking on your face as you crumble to pieces.

"what- what did you do, oh my god- oh my GOD, what did you DO!?"

"god? oh, you wanna talk about god? the one you don't even believe in?"

venom is the only thing you hear in his voice. pure, pure venom, like he's the serpent itself, splaying sin before your eyes and convincing you to take a bite.

because all you wanna do is reap him boneless with that crowbar.

your hands sloth down the mess of your face, and you sputter, fear, exhaustion, panic, loss, everything just swirling in your chest like some endless washing machine.

and he scoffs.

"christ, you're so ignorant."

spittle laces your chin as your eyes narrow thin, tears bubbling down your cheeks as if trying to clean the blood off them.

"ignorant? is that why you did this? stalked me around, vandalized the church, broke in and killed my fucking dad? you think you're so righteous that you can-"

the teeth of his crowbar drag against your bedframe, and you gag on the taste in your mouth.

"righteous? righteousness? is that why you think 'm doin' this? you're a living, breathing example of righteousness, of ignorance, of whatever fucking word you're gonna spit at me, because at least i don't hide behind my faults. least if i do fuck up, i can own that shit. you?"

peeled chips of wood shed onto your knees as he points the crowbar at you.

"you let it slide. you let me slide. that priest. that painting. the obvious drying blood on the same crowbar i just used to rip your old man to shreds."

you did, didn't you?

you saw him at the cafe.

at the library.

at the convenience store, even just walking down the street, you'd see him.

you knew something was wrong, you just...

...never said anything about it.

the prickly edges of the metal meets your cheek, and he just... stares.

"you shouldn't be thinking about me, about how many times you ignored me. you should be thinking about that church. those walls? those are doused in blood."

his nostrils flair for a moment, and a scoff airs out of the bloody curl of his lip, chest heaving slow as the corner of his mouth twitches upwards.

"now you got me sounding like v. so much for justice and all that shit, yeah? i rather revenge. tastes real nice on the tongue."

and were he a better man, he'd drag the teeth of his crowbar over the pliant skin of your cheeks. tear the delicate flesh wide and stretch it across your face. end it slow, and make sure you feel it before you die.

but he's the devil. and the devil always takes.

that's why you're still here. still here with blood and snot wiped over your face, tears dry and burning.

"just kill me already."

he tilts his head, half amused, half bored.

"...you all always say that shit. giving up so quick, like the pain, the hurt, the everything you've caused will go away with you. death isn't that kind, darlin'-"

and with sticky fingers and shakier reflexes, you manage to quickly slide the crowbar out of his loose hand, your hands turning it over as you scramble back, defensive, ready to turn the tables.

...but he doesn't look... all that surprised about it. if anything, his lips stretch right back out to that grin, and he leans back on his heels.

"damn, what a mess you made."

the lines between his brows deepen as he raises his fingers, a canine catching onto the dried skin of his bottom lip in a slow drag.

you didn't think it was possible, but your heart squeezed thicker along your eardrums. you? a mess you made?

"what?"

the quiver in your voice is unmistakable, and it's like you're trying to remember how to speak again. how to talk with a clear head without getting out of survival mode.

the bloodied crowbar feels heavy in your arms, heavier than when you first picked it up. the mix of viscera and minced bits of flesh coating the iron makes it slippery against your palms, and you wince at the feeling- even more so at knowing whose it belonged to.

the spreading scarlet curls under the cracked edges of your nails, muddling your shaking grip, the stinging scent of copper tainting your nostrils as you nearly flinch at how still he seems now.

he has that demented grin torn across his jaw, but his hands are up as if being told to surrender, and he wiggles his fingers, teasingly.

"got a little trigger happy?"

he clicked his tongue, thudding out his boot against the mutilated body draped across the floor, which only twitched in response, and that? made the need for revenge burn hot in your chest, in your eyelids, in your palms, everywhere- and you're this close to tearing this man into a bloody pulp just like he did your father, but then you realize something.

something about what he said.

your hands are literally covered in blood- so are you, you're splattered head to toe in it, and with how he's grinning ear to ear, it seems like you've got a twist incoming.

"oh, the news would get a kick outta this!"

what?

no.

no, no no no- no, you know what he's doing, and the crowbar falling out of your grasp didn't make it better when it was already too late.

he just runs the tip of his tongue over his canine.

"your handprints are on that now."

your eye twitches.

"but they'll find my blood, they'll see my injuries, they have the technology to see everything that happened-"

"you think i'll let it come down to that? you would've been dead by now if it was impossible."

"he was my dad."

"and he was a shitty one."

"YOU SAY THAT LIKE YOU'RE ANY BETTER! YOU KILLED HIM!"

"-and your silence has killed more, don'tcha think?"

you seethe, fingers curling outwards like they want to tear into something.

"you can't frame me for this."

"i can leave it ambiguous enough. no body of yours to be found. just a corpse and enough cleaned-up evidence. hell, we're in your room right now."

his eyes narrow.

"-and that's if i don't include your mom."

your gut hollows. that needle-like feeling crawling up your legs as you stop breathing.

"she's gonna come home soon enough, right? i could make it fast- or slow. whatever you'll allow."

...whatever you'll allow?

no.

"please don't."

he flashes a grin.

"too late. i'm putting you in the limelight now, darlin'! the moment you laid eyes on me and let me hide like all your other pushed-off problems was the moment you volunteered. the moment you practically invited me in. so- what's it gonna be?"

you're crying again. begging, already clasping your hands together like it'll stop anything.

"please don't kill my mom. please, please don't-"

he cocks his head, slow. that crooked smile doesn't return- not yet.

"oh, i won't."

his voice hums, warm, false. "not if you help me."

"you wanna keep her alive?" he purrs. "then you're gonna help me set this place up. torch the whole thing. no trace of what happened here other than your dad. just smoke and mystery, baby. and you're coming with me to pay your dues. to scrub scum off the streets for every little act of yours that let 'em off the hook in the first place."

you clutch the front of your shirt, feeling your stomach churn again. "...and if i don't?"

that's when his smile drops.

he steps closer. drags it out, too- real slow, real measured as the last step thuds on the carpet. heavy.

his head tilts, leaning forward, and the gleam in his eyes? no longer playful. no longer mocking. just straight ice.

"i'll make sure they never find your body. or what's left of it."

he says it like it's something final. like no matter what happens, he's already planned twelve steps ahead of it.

"and i'll wait for your mama to come home. i'll open the door for her, hell- i'll even help her bring her bags inside."

his eyes open wider.

"and i promise you, sweetheart, i'll get real creative on how to redecorate the garage with her skin."

your stomach feels heavier. you feel like you're gonna puke again, when he raises a finger.

"so, what'll it be? you wanna paint this house red, be my guest. you wanna own up to your shit and paint the streets red instead, fine by me."

there's only one right answer here. but still, your fingers clutch against your chest as another tear wobbles down your cheek.

"my mom, she doesn't deserve-"

"oh yeah, she does."

you flinch.

"she was the ringleader of those suburban saints at your little church. had them all thinking nothing bad ever happened. you think that was by accident?"

no she didn't.

"she protected him harder than your daddy ever did."

no, she didn't, right? no, no, she didn't, but...

if your dad knows- knew, which he did, then obviously your mom knew. she told you to stay away from his office for reasons, right?

and you complied. mostly.

"how many children had to leave the church 'cause of what he did to 'em, again?"

it couldn't have been that many, right? you suspected a few, and only a few. most of them just left because they had to move away, right?

"...no, not that many left, a lot of them just moved, it was just... just life, they were just moving away for personal reasons-"

"holy shit."

he barks a laugh, but there's nothing funny in it. "you're stupid. you really are. you think kids and families just move like that? whole households up and leaving without a whisper?"

he just leans over and picks his crowbar up and over his shoulder, eyes dead.

"you wanna live? or you gonna die for this piece-of-shit family? the kind of family that tore kids apart for thinkin' they had a safe space? for believing in words spoiled by a perverted man with all the protection in the world?"

he cracks his knuckles.

"be my guest, i'll be glad to crush your head in, too. it's sink or swim."

"no- fuck, i- okay, fine, fine! you win, we burn it all down, just- keep her alive. we burn, and leave. okay?"

his teeth shine.

"knew you'd come around."

"say g'bye to your dear old dad before we get started! first with this door o' yours, whole house could use some christening!"

-

.

.

.

he made you do it.

he had the gas canisters behind the fence in the backyard, he was just waiting for you to come along. because of course you would.

he never planned on killing you, no, he planned on making you an example. he had everything propped up, set and ready, strings pulled and tight, and you danced the way he wanted you to.

he made sure you filled the basement, too. made sure you soaked your mom's mattress, made sure you spilled it all over your dad's corpse, made sure that white fence was doused.

and now you're standing on your lawn, knees shaking, match quivering in your fingertips with the devil hanging over your shoulder.

"go on now, this is your cue. drop it."

the salt stream wiped over your face doesn't help. neither does the dried blood soaked in your collar and slathered across your neck and upper lip.

...with the taste of blood drying in your throat, you drop it.

it trickles first- then catches. a clear blue rushes up the stairs, and orange flame follows, gluttonous and waiting.

it crawls onto the wood and eats up the door like it's nothing but fuel, before it scales the pillars, the balcony, the walls-

the fire alarm begins to scream. a high-pitched, robotic wail. over and over, but it can't keep up. the glass windows tense, darkening around the edges, before shattering outwards as puffs of black fogs out their jagged edges.

it doesn't take long for the beams to give in, white wood bends and blackens. the roof caves in. flames burst. that white picket fence? curls black.

and you know exactly what's turning to ash inside that house.

the fire moves like it's alive, writhing hungrily over the remains of your childhood. smoke coils into the sky, thick and unrelenting, and the grass crackles as the flames lick outward, greedily claiming more. and through it all-

he's smiling.

he's standing in the inferno's glow, the light carving sharp shadows across his face, catching the red in his hair, and the black of his lashes. he's breathing it in- the destruction, the finality, the inevitability, like he's an artist dusting off his hands and looking at his canvas.

you feel heat rise in your throat.

your father, gone. your mother... she'll come home to nothing. no house. no family. no explanation. just black fences and silence. you try to turn away. but you can't.

no matter how horrific it is, no matter how much your stomach knots and your lungs tighten from the smoke, you can't look away. and he knows it.

"beautiful, ain't it?"

his voice is almost gentle, but the weight of his hand on your back isn't. it presses down, forcing you forward just enough to make you stumble as he leans an elbow over your shoulder, as if you both are star gazing and not watching everything you've known burn down to the ground.

"and for once, you can't seem to look away from it all. poetic, huh? ignorance is bliss, as they say. so i'm askin' ya now... does this feel like bliss?"

your silence suffocates with the crackling of fire, and it only makes him scoff. he shakes his head, withdrawing his arm with a rough brush against your shoulder, and it does nothing to relieve the sinking feeling in your chest, because somewhere in the wreckage, your father's body is burning to ash.

he lets out a low whistle, the sound cutting through the thick of smog and heat, and your hands twitch. when you finally turn your head, he's already looking over his shoulder at you, eyes gleaming with something undeniably curious. enlightened, even.

"c'mon now."

he lifts a bloodied hand, fingers flexing before curling into a lazy wave. "you've got work to do, and i don't have time for slow learners."

and just like that, he turns away. as if this was just another step forward. as if this wasn't the moment everything in your life was irreversibly, violently, horrifically destroyed.

you're left standing there, watching the last remnants of your past disintegrate into a fiery heap.

and for once?

you can't tear your eyes away.

-

...hey guys...!!! long time no see....

SORRY FOR THE LONG LONG PAUSE i was living life i fear and ive been writing this for like 4 months... yeah it was really slow progress el oh el! i kept having to change technical things in the story like whether ronin would wear gloves or not for the sake of plot or stupid shit like that and having to reword a lot of things so if some things don't add up MY BADDD !!!

yeeeah uh IDK HOW TO FEEL ABOUT THIS ONE I LIKED THE IDEA BUT THE EXECUTION... is okay...i feel like he's so in character but also out of character??? did i make him too cruel i mean he's a serial killer there IS no 'too cruel' BUT IDK

oh and please comment on my posts!!! it gives me motivation to write more or else i feel like i'm just writing into the void

anyways i HATE this rn we'll see how i feel when i wake up and i will also EDIT any mistakes when i get up too! if i can confront this mess anyway!!

didn't name drop ronin ONCE in this whole chapter btw

okay bye bye ehheehhehee

-

ronin isn't one to bare his heart and soul out all carefree, he's the type to twist them with silken words and stringed innuendo, the type to keep you guessing so you never know what he's truly on about.

but damn, he couldn't lie; drifting off to sleep within the warmth of your lap as you thread your nails through his hair had to have been one of the best feelings in the world.

besides killing someone, anyway.

your fingers massage around the crown of his head and he gives a lazy sigh in response, lashes batting low and letting his cheek smush against your leg.

it's cute, the apparent need he has to interact and bury himself into everything you. maybe it came from the drunken confession outside your front door, or maybe it's the fact that he's recovering from a cold and couldn't give less of a fuck to dance around with his words.

"ronin," you hum, and he barely registers your voice, rolling onto his back so he could maintain eye contact with you instead, the way he likes it- especially now, with his voice rough from congestion.

his brows slightly bounce, as if responding 'yes?' and he runs his knuckles over your jawline waiting for you to say something, but you only sweep your thumb over the mulberry strands tickling his forehead, clearing them away from his lashes.

"feeling okay? you're not getting more stuffy from laying up on me, are you?"

he sniffles, letting a small 'mmm' falter through him and his index finger gives a light boop over your nose, a chuckle- throatier than usual, following.

"not so stuffy anymore, darlin'. jus'...a little tired, is all."

he's obviously congested, but it's clearing up and your chest falls slowly, exhaling in relief that he's not burning up as badly anymore.

you're honestly surprised that you haven't gotten sick by taking care of him. you're nursing him 24/7, and like the bastard he is, he's eating up every. second of it.

still teasing you, slinging a heavy arm around you to keep you close to him, constantly nagging for you to never leave his side.

he's as touchy as... never?

ronin had never been this...handsy in your friendship with him, and you'd never guess he was the type from how avoidant he seemed at your front door. but now?

now he's all over you.

when he gets the energy to stand, he lazily slouches onto you with his head on top of yours and arms snug over your neck like dead weight.

it's almost suffocating with how warm he is, and he takes little notice. if he does, he doesn't give enough of a fuck to move off of you.

you try to focus on whatever you're doing, elbowing him lightly in the side to make him move. instead, he only wrenches a dopey smile onto those pale lips of his.

"i ain't goin' anywhere, darlin'."

the finality of his words stir conflict onto your expression, a faint blush bleeding onto your cheeks and the corner of your lips firming themselves as to not crease into a grin. he's stupid.

and god, it makes you wanna kiss him even more.

but no! you can't, because his dumbass just had to wander the streets drunk in the pouring rain like some lovelorn loser rather than getting home and mourning his sorrows there.

you've chastised him multiple times over for it, but you can't lie- you're glad he showed up at your door instead of his. if he went home like usual, you'd have a conflicted serial killer agonizing over his feelings whilst being sick in bed ALONE.

and besides, every time you do start laying into him for his lack of caution or 'whatever' (how he phrases it), he just sloths himself over your duvet, hands up in a gesture of 'whaddya want me to do 'bout it?' as he chews his lip red.

"hey, hey- you're the one who's got my heart all strung up. i can't be the only one to take the blame, now can i, arachne?"

you roll your eyes at the correlation, ignoring the faint flicker of heat coiling in your stomach at the way his teeth tug at the already-blossoming coral of his lip.

...

it isn't fair.

he swings a love confession at you in the rain and you two are glued at the hip after. good, great, even! impeccable timing, really.

but you can't do anything about it. you have him staying over to recover and you can't even touch him the way you want.

he's sick, after all. even though he's not acting like it.

even the slasher playing out on the tv isn't enough to distract you. when watching these, you'd scoot just a little closer to him, and he'd pull you taut against his shoulder.

now though, he's soaking in your warmth, hands on your hips and head angled between the line of your jaw and the bone of your shoulder.

you should have known what you were signing up for the moment you let him inside.

still, you shoot him a look as you unscrew the cap off his medicine bottle, just in time to hear him groan, palms running to the front of your stomach.

you frown. "don’t even start with me."

he lifts his hands in feigned surrender, eyes lidding low and a brow quirking up. "eh, i could do without the medicine. leaves a weird taste on my tongue."

you shrug him off with a scoff, lips pursed. "you'll get better if you take it."

he leans against the counter, one hand propping up his head while the other pinches at the ends of his hair. "nah, i'd rather let natural selection take its toll."

..could he be any more annoying?

you roll your eyes at him before narrowing them, pinching the bridge of your nose. "oh, shut up and take it before i pour it down your throat myself."

he grins, slow and wolfish, his voice dipping just to spite you.

"that a promise, darlin’?"

if you held a mirror up to your face at that exact moment, the dusting of pink around your ears wouldn't have helped your case.

he's getting under your skin, and that's what he loves to do most.

why not give him the same energy?

you cross your arms with a sigh, turning your back to him with a shake of your head.

"damn, guess you don't want that kiss then."

the somber laced in your voice is pure mock, but it didn't stop the small grin threatening your facade.

in one...two-

"..alright, so uh- how much am i supposed to take again?"

bingo.

-

yeah, it wasn't too hard to get him to take his medicine after that.

he complained about the taste for about three minutes before he shut up and you dragged his ass to bed. luckily for you, he wasn't straining for an all nighter, either.

the window beside your bed is half-open, the blinds uneven where a few slits tilt just enough to let the outside in. dusky blues seep through the gaps, soft and endless, pooling onto the floor, stretching over the sheets. the night air lingers, cool against your skin, but your gaze is still fixed on him.

ronin, caught between light and shadow, the city’s breath painting him in something just shy of divine. the angles of his face softened beneath the faint glow, his lashes resting like brush strokes against his skin.

he's breathing well tonight. it's clear, not too stuffy, and his lashes lay still, undisturbed. no flutters, not even a scrunch in his nose as he tries to get comfortable.

you reach out, running a few fingers over his brow, smoothing over the faint crease that lingers there even in rest.

and your index finger falls over the bump of his nose, giving it a small boop yourself.

his lids twitch a little, once, twice, before he turns himself into the pillow beneath him, arms snaking up and around it with a low grumble.

you scoff, slowly lifting off the bed and sliding some shoes on quietly, taking light steps across the carpet and pulling an arm through one sleeve of your jacket, the other following suit as you grip your doorknob.

you turn it, trying your best not to have the door creak or the knob snap back into place, and just as you get a foot out the door-

"not even a kiss goodnight? rude."

his voice is honeyed with sleep, thick and drowsy, like he’s barely clinging to consciousness, and it's enough to have your pulse quicken.

you freeze, hands shoved in your pockets, already preparing your death glare, but you turn your head over to him, and...

he hasn't moved much, still sprawled where you left him, but one black eye's cracked open lazily, dark and luster-less in the dim light.

his head tilts slightly in your direction, cheek half-buried against the pillow, the deep red of his hair spilling shaggy and unkempt over the stark white fabric.

you chew the lining of your cheek, angling your arm against the doorway with a limpness that says 'fine, you caught me.'

"i was about to go and feed your babies back home, but i s'pose pepperoni and blackjack can wait since their father's so important."

he smirks, tongue licking over the dryness of his lips, before he raises his chin.

"you think i forgot?"

now, you pause at that. you stop the drumming of your fingers over the edge of the door, and your brow creases up.

"...forgot what?"

"my kiss, darlin'."

silence, then a scoff, and you push off the frame, crossing your arms with a wry smile.

"you're sick, ro-"

"and?"

you squint right back at him.

"fuck you mean 'and?' you think i'm trying to get sick?"

he leans onto an elbow, pushing his head up with a shit eating grin.

"c'mon, you've been sick since the day you tiptoed your way to purgatory. since you've kissed the devil, and now you're scared of contracting somethin'?"

your lips part. to retort, to deny, but you could only mutter something sly under your breath as you stomped back to his bedside.

you eye them over, and they're not so pale anymore- maybe a little bludgeoned, pink 'n pretty with the stain of crimson seeping between the light cracks softening on his skin.

your fingers hover for half a second. hesitating. thinking, as if weighing out the risk and the reward.

then, with yet another roll of your eyes, you lean down, close enough for the warmth of his breath to meet yours.

"fine. one," you murmur. "but you better pray that pepper's not plotting on blackjack."

his lips meet yours, warm despite the uneven drag of cracked skin against your own. it's slow- unrushed, lazy in a way that makes heat curl at the base of your spine. the roughness of his lips should be off-putting, the faint taste of medicine lingering between you, but it's not.

it's familiar.

it's him.

he exhales through his nose, the sound melting into the quiet space between you as he tilts his head just enough to deepen it. his mouth parts slightly, teasing at the seam of yours, and for a moment, it's softer than it has any right to be- like he's waiting, like he’s letting you take what you've wanted so badly from him.

but then, just as quick, you pull away with a scoff, brushing the back of your hand over your mouth, and your fingers linger at your lips longer than they should.

"that all i get?" he murmurs, voice husked from sleep, from you.

you roll your eyes, striding towards the door and opening it with pep in your step.

"get some sleep, loverboy."

-

something's...wrong, with ronin.

well- you technically could say that out of context and nothing would change, but no, something is terribly wrong with him. and surprisingly, it's not the fact that he's a serial killer with a kill count that rises practically everyday, nor is it the human remains aligning his shelves.

he's been out of it lately. constantly pacing around the reds and blacks of his room, all the while being more...fidgety than usual, unable to focus or parade his regular devil-may-care attitude around.

this is really fucking weird for him; ronin beaufort is the devil, and the devil doesn't change. he remains in the darkest pits of hell and slaps his knee at the idea of it, even.

he's unchanging, eternal, his punishment being no different.

so why couldn't he focus on his damn job and get this fucking filter replaced?

sweat beads down his forehead, grease coating his arms as he strained his neck further beneath the car, wrist flicking with each turn on the drain bolt and eventually...

it loosens, crust fluttering from the grooves of the screw, and the must of... whatever the hell's been sitting in this person's tank slowly infiltrating his nose.

it didn't have the strong petroleum scent, none of the chemical sharpness, and it didn't snake up his nose like new oil did either-

it smelled charred. ashy, even, and the must was evident as he turned the bolt and it did the rest of the work, a thick, almost black sludge filtering out of the tank and all over the concrete ground with a wet thud.

lacking a quick reaction, ronin's brows knitted low, letting a small 'fuck,' pass by his lips as he turned and reached around for wherever the hell he laid the oil catch pan.

he forgot to put it under the plug...somehow.

he's been forgetting to do a lot of things recently, matter of fact.

he shoves the thought down. he probably just needs to stop staring at a screen as soon as he comes home and get more rest, yeah, that's it.

speaking of a screen, when did you last text him? actually, when's the last time you two have held a conversation?

he slides the pan from beside him underneath the gunk-spewing tank, rolling from under the car and grabbing his tools and such off the ground, running his nails through the tips of his low ponytail.

...maybe he should check his phone.

it wouldn't hurt, just to see if there's a notification from you. he did get your number, finally. took a bit of convincing and some back-and-forth before you slid it, but now he has one of his best friends at his fingertips.

best...friends.

the collocation doesn't really fit with you, or at least the image he has of you. sure, you're his friend, a damn good one at that, and if he were to use it the way a normal person would, he would definitely call you his best friend.

but it doesn't feel right for him to call you that.

it's not like you're undeserving of the title, but it just doesn't fit with you. should he create a nice little title for ya?

he grins at the idea, and doesn't seem to notice the blackened oil trickling over his knuckles as he fumbles with his password.

you two are like... peanut butter and jelly? nah, overused, and stupidly corny. you two are like...thelma and louise! ehhh, he's not feeling it. cool reference, but maybe there's something else buried in that skull of his.

he leans against the car door, finally wiping his hand over the thin material of one of his plain work shirts. you can't really wear anything cool when you're working as a mechanic, after all.

tom and jerry? you two do bicker a lot. eh, not enough, also doesn't have that ring to it. bonnie and clyde? hard maybe, it'd be perfect if it was more platonic, besides, you two are just friends anyway.

friends- ugh, he cringes at that. he can't just dilute his partner in crime to a...friend.

naming you his partner in crime is very basic, but considering the underlying context between you two, it's rather fitting, right?

yeah, you're his partner in crime. plus, it doubles as a Set It Off reference in a way. fitting, veeeery fitting, actually.

"yo, beaufort! i'mma need this area in about 2 to 3, you finishin' up over there?"

a burly voice calls out- presumably one of his coworkers, and the twist in ronin's lips gives out- no notification from you.

he types out a quick message to you: 'still Alive?' as he slides his phone back onto the work table, he'll check it later- and only when he's done with this stupid replacement.

he lowers himself onto his creeper, rolling underneath the car whilst pulling the sludge-filled tin from underneath the ink-smeared tank and flushing the rest of the old oil out.

he grabs a wrench, tapping the rust and burnt oil from the plug and screwing it right back to its rightful place. he can do this quick, he's done this hundreds of times before, what's one more?

he's taking out the old tank when a high pitched chime rings out from his work table, his notifications alerting him of a new message.

weirdly enough, his motions freeze on cue and he's about to stand up and check it like it was instinct. but- well, he was still under the car.

a sharp, hollow crack rang through the garage as his head met the steel frame above him. a curse shot from his lips, low and snarled as the pain bloomed across his skull. eyes squeezed shut, he gritted his teeth, pressing a palm against the fresh ache.

for a moment he just...laid there, letting his arms fall flat on the concrete below him, exhaling through his nose and letting the pain settle before daring to move again.

what the hell's wrong with him? he told himself that he wasn't going to check his phone 'till he's done with this, and this is one of the easiest things to do in this field! why is it taking him this long?

through his wavering vision, he could spot two muddied boots slinking besides the car he's under, before they creased and the person sunk into a crouch.

"you okay there, kid?"

ronin rolled his eyes- 'kid', only one or two people here call him that, and the baritone of his voice paired with those boots must mean that the manager was doing his rounds and decided to check in on him.

"'m fine, just layin' on the concrete 'cause i wanna."

a thick rumble reminisce of a chuckle reins deep from the gut of the older man, before he cleared his throat and reached a gloved hand out underneath the car.

"need an ice pack?"

he eyed it- could help if there's any possibility of a bruise or a welt showing up, but as ronin ran a hand down his face, he gave a shake of his head.

it doesn't really hurt that badly anymore.

"nah, thanks though. just...lemme finish this and i'll be on my way out."

a grunt followed, the gloved hand retracting from under the car, and the raggedy pair of boots turned out of view.

alright, fuck it- let's just get this over with.

.

.

.

with a quick brush of his hands, ronin came out to the front, tapping on one of the various workers and letting them know that he was clocking out for the day.

slinging his bag over his arm, he was met with a calloused palm fixed onto his shoulder blade. he turns, and yep- the big guy.

"get some rest, you seem off your game."

the grouch's voice was unusually sincere, and it almost made ronin's gaze soften before the older man gave him an overly enthusiastic tussle of the hair.

"you're still young. sleep is important for you."

he's eyeing the light bags beneath his eyes and ronin could tell, but he only shrugged and gave a sloppy salute in return.

"yeah yeah, no kiddin', i'll be on my 'best' behavior next time. see ya later, old timer."

the gruff man stiffly nodded, immediately disappearing into the busy background as ronin turned and headed for the door.

as soon as the bell overhead chimed, he padded in his passcode and opened his messenger app, pleased to see the '3' icon bubbled besides your nickname.

[writer Darlin']

-'Sadly, my heart is still beating 😭'

-'agent's on my ass so I've been writing another piece for as long as I can whilst the hype is still high'

-'wouldja put me outta my misery?'

and there comes that feeling again, the staticky unease that bleeds into his cheeks, that flows in his chest and even shows through the light tremble of his fingers.

and then the obnoxious twist of his lips, the smile that weaves itself thick and heavy on his lower jaw that he can't seem to rip off, and he steps a bit slower through the sidewalk.

-'nah, i think I'll let ya Suffer a bit longer...'

-'besides, what's a devil to do Without entertainment?'

at this rate, you're probably rolling your eyes out of your own skull because of him, and he'd want nothing less.

[writer Darlin']

-'damn, cruel. shouldn't have expected the devil to be my savior anyway, guess I'll have to ask a sweetheart like Angel to smite me instead of your lame ass 🙄'

as soon as your reply dropped, he responded. no, not out of jealousy or anything stupid like that, but c'mon, be honest with yourself.

-'you've already got Lucifer himself staring over your shoulder, don'tcha think you're being selfish by hoarding all of the Divine power?'

he knows he's being a little shit, but that's just how he is when it comes to his best buds.

he's scrolling through your previous text messages, and it's enough to put a strain over his heartstrings. it's always a dance with you, and he wouldn't have it any other w-

...he nearly walks into a street light.

awkwardly shoving his phone back into his pocket, he decided to worry about getting home alive without some random slip-up ending in his death or worse.

yikes- yeah, he just needs a good kill and a few more hours of rest, and everything will go back to normal. that's all he needs.

...did you respond to his text yet?

.

.

.

maybe ronin was back to his usual self, because after going home and cleaning up, he felt like a new man.

it could've just been ridding himself of the grease and powder from his workplace, or maybe it was the thrill seeping its way back into his bones as he ran a finger over the cold, heavy iron of his crowbar.

changing back into his usual aesthetic helped too, reds and blacks with accents of silver coating him from head to toe, devil horns peeking atop the grey and black fabric of his beanie.

now that he's in uniform, pep flooded his step as he threaded his blackened nails through the silk of his hair, sliding out through his front door and into the night.

who's going to be his lucky pick for today?

.

.

.

he found his victim rather quickly.

greasy brown hair hung in uneven clumps around his sunken face, a pair of bloodshot eyes, watery and half-lidded, scanned the street with a predatory gleam, glinting with something both lazy and lecherous.

and each time a woman pedalled by, presumably hoping to get home before the night sky blackened further, his lips would curl into a crooked grin.

his targets were few and far between, but he made sure that every one of them knew that he had a mouthful of things to say about them right off the bat.

...no matter how young they looked.

it was almost funny, he wanted a victim and he found the best candidate as soon as he set out searching. who'd miss a scumbag like him? uptown needs their savior, after all.

it's more than enough to warrant bashing his head in for the night, and the perfect opportunity to clear his own in the meantime.

the narrow walls of the alley were slicked with grime and shadows. overhead, a single flickering street light was trying its' best to illuminate the corner with its green-hued flare.

its dying glow cast over the alley, draping its rickety textures in a haunting atmosphere- fitting, given that ronin had doused these walls with blood before.

the pavement was littered with crumpled newspapers, shattered glass, and puddles of murky water that reeked of decay. a nauseating stench hung heavy in the air- a blend of rotting food, damp mold, and something metallic and sour, like old blood.

scraping his crowbar along the exposed pipes decorating the filthy path, he tapped it against the dingy metal, once, twice- until finally, the scumbag turns his head, yellow teeth fixed into a scowl.

got him.

ronin's fingers flexed around the warming iron of his trusty weapon, before lifting it and raking its teeth against the brittle brick, a sound akin to nails on a chalkboard grating through the stale air.

"cut that shit out," a low snarl, warning, biting, even. the man's now leaning uneasily over his own two feet, glass bottle tight within the drunk's grasp.

ronin whistled out a long, sharp burst, dragging his tool against the cracked concrete, glass occasionally crunching under his platforms.

"you wanna go, asshole?" the pig snarled, vocal cords strummed with copious amounts of alcohol and mucus as his wrist wiped over his running nose.

the drunken bravado of this prick is more than enough to have ronin's fingers itching to burrow through his abdomen- to wreak havoc across this bastard's body and let him know what hell truly looks like.

the drunkard's now storming towards ronin, almost tripping over his own shoes as he slung slurred words and insults towards him.

little did he know, he was just luring him deeper within the emptied twists and turns of the alley, just to ensure that he gets enough time to hear him scream without any unneeded innocents stopping by and getting an eyeful of gore beyond their wildest nightmares.

eventually, the lone streetlight stopped its' flickering, dimming into a low hum buzz as its' glow grew weaker and weaker- and finally into pitch black.

how well can a drunk man see in the darkness?

.

.

.

it was the same routine. wash, rinse, repeat. mangle the disfigured body into whatever position he wanted and splatter the newly-killed man's innards all over the alley concrete for all to judge.

but the experience was....rather lacking. he barely had a taste of the rush, of the adrenaline rushing through his veins. it died out quickly, and he's right back to thinking of you as he slips through the night and right back into his sanctuary.

[goreboy] 04:06

-'hey Angel is cupid Also an Angel?'

[Angelic] 04:07

-'Well that's a lot of capitalization, especially with the A's but I don't think so? I think he's some god or something in Greek mythology, but I'm not too sure. Why?'

[goreboy] 04:07

-'you two have wings Good enough'

-'tell him to fuck off please and Thanks!'

-'and hey, you know i can't resist that Sweet sweet alliteration.'

[Angelic] 04:07

'How do I deal with you...'

'But wait wait wait, what does that mean? Cupid?'

he feels instant regret- he shouldn't be texting or ranting or whatever the fuck he's doing to angel right now. she's got her own shit going on, and he's skipping like a school girl in a field of daisies- well, preferably bodies, over the thought of...

you. god, it makes his heart hurt. why? how would he know?

he has to hunt you down for this- you definitely cast some weird spell on him to make him feel this strongly for whatever reason and it's absolutely destroying him.

sure, he cares about you, deeply. you're really close and he enjoys being around you, but he didn't know that hanging out with you a couple of times would amount to...this.

and now he's spiraling inside of his own head, falling apart at the seams so easily, and he doesn't even know why.

[goreboy] 04:13

-'oh god bless my bleeding Heart'

-'...'

-'it's Nothing.'

[Angelic] 04:13

'Ronin, is there something going on?'

being sardonically impulsive was a trait that rarely bit ronin in the ass, especially when his instincts were usually sharp, but when it did- it wasn't a fun time.

tucking his head in a bandage-draped palm, he dangled his fingers over the keyboard, only for them to hang motionlessly.

what does he even say to that? "i'm falling in love with one of my best friends and for the first time i'm too much of a pussy to admit it! woe is me!" give him a break.

[Angelic] 04:16

-'You don't have to tell me anything, but if there's anything going on, you know you have a safe place with me, no matter how irritating you are.'

-'Regardless, you really should sit down and just process anything that could be troubling you. Get some sleep in and see how you feel in the morning about everything, y'know?'

'-And if it's cupid related, I don't mind playing matchmaker. 🤍'

ronin couldn't help the smile creeping up on his lips. it helped, y'know? remembering that he had someone in his corner who he could confide in when things got heavy.

[goreboy] 04:17

-'Noted'

-'...'

-'thanks. for y'know, Everything.'

-'and that last bit seems rather Interesting despite the fact that you're basically a Lamer version of cupid'

[Angelic] 04:18

-'I hate you oh so very much 😭'

a dry chuckle vibrates through his chest, and he's shutting off his computer, letting the screen fade to black.

she's right, though. instead of moping in self pity, he should sleep on it, maybe even pray that he won't feel anything for you when the sun rises and he gets out of bed.

he lazily sets his phone on his nightstand, not bothering to plug it up before he had a double take, hitting the power button and reading the numbers in bold.

"4:20 AM."

didn't he say something about getting more sleep?

shit.

.

.

.

he wished he could say that sleep did something for him in the grand scheme of things...

it did little to nothing, especially with the time he went to sleep. now he's restless, maybe a tad manic, and driving himself absolutely mad at the thought of you.

god, it feels as though his teeth are about to fall straight out of their sockets- and not just because he's been slapping himself dumb around his room all night.

he's been thinking- way, way, way, way too much. thinking about his feelings, what he wants, if there's a possibility of you feeling anything too, if you want him too.

further in the day, he thought that perhaps a drink or two will smooth the rough edges, shut his brain up enough for him to do the usual, but after a glass, or two...maybe three, he wasn't getting any closer to salvation.

he still thinks about it- those rare times that you've two hung out and you would casually slink an arm over him or play with his hair as you two binged another horror franchise. the times where he'd turn to watch your reaction at a movie heavily relying on shock value and how you'd scoot a little closer to him after it.

was he just imagining that? did your heart beat no faster at the idea of being closer to him? was all of this normal for you? whenever you went outside to do something simple, like checking the mail, did you not spot something that reminded you of him?

because as he's trailing down the countless alleyways he has memorized like the back of his hand, everything he looks at sends his mind into a blurry fuzz of everything you.

he didn't even notice the storm clouds rolling in, and the low grumble of faraway thunder did little to dissuade him from traveling farther from home, despite his lack of jacket or umbrella.

he felt like a stray dog wandering the streets with a maw full of bleeding rot, looking for something to devour that'll push the feeling down.

but there's nothing to do to push it down, to cast it out of sight and out of mind, and he's too full of feelings that he doesn't know what to do with-

should he pick out another kill for him to waste his time on?

normally, that'd be something he'd consider, something he'd chase out and bide his time on until the adrenaline, the rush, the high- would hopefully push you out of mind.

but he knows it'll just fail, like it did the day before.

the sky's weeping heavier at this point, and he's just now wringing out the black fabric of his shirt, drenched beyond relief at this rate.

he shrugs it off like it's whatever, as if the thunder and fat raindrops pummeling down on him was nothing more than an inconvenience, and he decides to retreat back home for the day.

each stride through the darkening streets feel almost weightless as he trails down the empty sidewalks, and it's right there.

his sanctuary.

except he turns the doorknob and it's... locked.

a frown bags over his lower jaw, and he tries it again. nope, locked.

and then a hollered "i'll be right there!" muffles behind the door. wait, what?

he looks forward, noticing the unfamiliar 'welcome!' rug at the doors front steps, and the change in scenery around him.

the door opens, and before he can hot tail it out of there, you're peeking out from behind the frame, and your brows furrow.

fuck, he's so screwed.

did he really self sabotage himself so badly in his drunken stupor that he walked to your front door instead of his?

because now he gets to see you- in person. and he doesn't know if he can handle that right now, if he can stand face to face with you knowing how his heartbeat quickens at the sound of your voice, nonetheless seeing you right before him.

you're motionless for a second, eyes beading over his form in a vertical line before you craned the door wide open, a mix of concern and confusion etched onto your face and he sobered up at the sight immediately.

don't you see that you're opening the front door to the worst person right now? fuck, why did you decide to answer? you shouldn't have, you really, really shouldn't have.

it felt like he was dying of embarrassment, and death had never felt so foreign and uneasy in his chest as he gave you a nervous grin.

"uh, hey."

his voice was dry and nearly died out as soon as the words left his lips, a faint crack ending off of his awkward greeting.

and suddenly, he could feel the way his pants weighed more than usual and how his shirt stuck uncomfortably close to his skin, fat raindrops still pummeling him under the dark sky.

"is it...normal, for you to be standing in the pouring rain?"

it was a jab, a friendly one at that, but your lighthearted words were simultaneously laced with...shock? surprise? maybe pity?

he pulled at his collar, sheepishly rubbing at the nape of his neck as water trickled down against his spine, causing a shiver to stream through him.

"uh, yeah-yep. y'know, just, uh...getting some fresh air."

getting fresh air in the middle of a thunderstorm? yeah, right. he was hoping to lean into the dry humor of it all and maybe crack a smile out of you that would allow him to brush past the inevitable 'what the fuck are you doing here?' question, but fate said otherwise.

"well, maybe you should come inside? i mean-you're soaked and the night's only gonna get darker."

immediate no. he cannot let himself step through your doorway, he cannot delve between the walls that's everything...you. that's the LAST thing he needs right now, last thing he should surround himself with.

you tug at the wet fabric of one of his sleeves, as if trying to guide him into the warmth of your home, but he only nails his palms over the ridges of your doorframe, enabling him still.

"no, i'd rather stay riiiight here, thank you."

you side eyed the worsening weather at his back and grazed your pupils over to his, staring at him as if he said something funny.

"ronin-"

"'m fine where i stand, thanks darlin'."

you frown, your brow raised strictly as if you were about to scold him, but you held your tongue for whatever reason, as if you could tell that he really didn't want to step inside.

"fine, but if you get a cold and i have to take care of your ass, don't tell me i didn't warn you."

is it bad that the scenario doesn't sound too bad to him?

his heart's working against him in ways he never knew it could, and before he could shut himself up, he's leaning further towards you, eyelids heavy and irises locked onto yours.

"you'd take care of me if i were sick?"

he didn't realize how desperate he was coming across, but when he heard the immediate drop in his tone and the lack of crypt in his voice, he felt a flutter in his chest. fuck, you're killing him.

the attitude slathered all over your face phases over, shifting into light solemn as you cross your arms, giving a small nod.

"yeah, of course. i care about you,"

fuck, you're killing him!

"-you're one of my bestest friends, after all."

oh my god, put him out of his misery already!

he's never rolled his eyes harder, he could've sworn he saw the man on the cross himself for a moment and he could've set on his knees as a believer right then and there.

maybe he should ask for the lord to strike him down here and now, and hopefully with enough repentance he'll die on the spot.

unluckily for him, you noticed his reaction, the way his head turned and his x'ed out pupils narrowed and slid out of view. the way his head veered away from you and his nostrils flared momentarily.

now you're curious, and you already know what happens to those who question things they probably shouldn't. curiosity killed the cat, 'n all.

"well, you have something to say, yeah? this is the first time i've seen satan himself shivering, so should i assume that hell finally froze over?"

the jest in your voice was unmistakable, but so was the genuine undertone of your question. he wished he could turn you away and soothe your curiosity with a toothy grin that told you all you needed to hear-

but with how he's standing ahead of you like a deer in headlights, he'd reckon that it wouldn't do much to salvage this situation.

"i don't," he began, only to slap a hand over his face with his index and middle fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

"i, i can't, it's..."

he drawls off, and he can feel it, the excuses longing to claw their way out of the confines of his throat, the overwhelming need to escape your gaze, and the hesitation churning in his abdomen.

"wow, whatever the hell you're going on about is really fucking you up, huh?"

you weren't wrong. this was definitely out of character, especially for ronin out of all people.

you clicked your tongue, rolling it over your teeth as you mentally noted the slight tremor in his body.

"are you...sure you don't want to come in?"

your voice falls on deaf ears, he's too absorbed in it all, in everything you do down to the smallest things. it's embarrassing, really, the dilation of his pupils following the view of your tongue running over the angle of your canines.

the sight should strike terror into his bones and he knows it. he should be running for the hills at this point - what can he even do to tilt the odds in his favor?

and yeah, he's fucking horrified. horrified at the way that his face doesn't pale in fear, but hazes over with the lightest pink. horrified at the way his heartstrings tense and pull, as if his heart was trying to ruthlessly beat itself out of its' bindings.

you're the scariest thing he's come across. the careless ruffle of your hair, the rosy pigment blotched over your bottom lip, and that...casual look in your eye. the way light dances and reflects in your irises like the prettiest firework show he's ever seen.

you're bad. really fucking bad for him, you're the worst thing he's laid eyes on, and he knows it once your head tilts in confusion and his gut wrangles high into his throat. what the fuck are you doing to him? do you know what the fuck you're doing to him?

you're probably deeper in the pits of hell than he is, and that's saying something. you're dangerous! akin to some monstrosity that the likes of man couldn't even fathom.

he was wrong for questioning your lack of survival instincts when you opened the door for him, he should've been questioning his own when he wandered to your front door like a lamb to the slaughter.

instead of having your aorta between his fingers, you have his wrangled between yours, and you don't even fucking know it.

the crackle of thunder right down the street is enough to wake him from his internal monologue, and he realizes that you're basically shaking him dry, snapping your fingers before him in a pitiful attempt to 'wake him up'.

"jesus christ," you heave, and you're grabbing him by the wrists, the heat of your fingers locking around his pulse burned his cheeks into a brighter shade of pink that, for once, made him look more alive than corpse.

"ronin, talk to me. tell me what's going on, please, you're not acting like yourself, and that says something."

the sound of his lifeline thumps heavy in his eardrums, even as he digs his teeth into the crackled, slightly bloodied mess of his bottom lip. he can feel the random, morbid variations of everything he's been feeling coursing through his veins.

they taste odd, unbalanced over the piercing on his tongue, and he doesn't even know how to describe it himself. fuck it, he's here right now, he needs to do something about these feelings while they're still fresh and bleeding, but all the ideas garble up into pathetic word vomit once he gets a hold of them.

he's eyeing the wet glisten of your lash line, and he notices you're now, too, partially in the rain. the hands holding his wrists now interlocked with his, fingers crisscrossing over one another.

he's thinking about it all; the times you've shared, ranging from your hangouts to your gaming sessions, and they all were...

perfectly imperfect.

yeah, the time you two went out for ice cream and not even two steps away from the truck, your scoops splattered all over the pavement. or the last time you guys hung out over at his place and blackjack- his pet rat, started nibbling on your fingers and you nearly dropped the damned thing.

nothing ever seemed to go as planned when your paths crossed. it was as if the gods themselves conspired to curse your time together, weaving misfortune into every interaction, a twisted, modern-day version of romeo and juliet. yet, no matter how things unraveled, the night would always end the same: with laughter, warmth, and the unmistakable feeling that none of it mattered as long as you were together.

the stupidest shit could happen on the days that you've planned to see each other on, and no matter what, you two would find a way to work it out, without fail.

standing here now, would telling you ruin everything that's been? divide you two back on your separate roads, the way fate wants it to be?

he's tired of guessing.

twisting black painted nails around the width of your hand, he moves your palm up to the plain of his chest, and your brows raise. he lays it close to his collarbone, but far down enough that the flat of your hand meets the rapid thudding in his body.

"feel how fast my heart's beating?"

you nod.

"would'ja drive a stake through it? spare me my autonomy, quiet the rhythm in my ears and leave me no longer breathing?"

he's closer to you now, the x's in his pupils trailing your every feature, taking in the way your cheeks flush and your lids lower.

"would you consider that mercy? no longer needing to confront your emotions?"

he gives you the slightest smile at your response, the void in his gaze sucking you in as he lays a thumb under the curve of your lower lids, brushing over your cheekbone, smearing a few water droplets across your cheek.

"who wouldn't? that's the beauty in being human, in feeling all these...things. gives us so many weaknesses, so many flaws, but so, so much to discover."

he's almost grinning ear to ear at the sight of your eye twitching irritably, a tight lipped smile spread on your face as you huff. he can tell you want him to get to the point.

so he will.

"ronin, stop all the cryptic talk. just, tell me what's going o-"

"i'm in love with you."

and the warmth pumping through your cheeks increased by tenfold, for a moment, the cogs in your brain just... stalled. you blinked, once, twice, staring at him like he'd just spoke in a language you didn't know.

"wait... what?" the words tumbled out before you could stop them, a mix of confusion and disbelief your words.

"you... you like me?"

"did i stutter?"

"no, no, i-i just...like, like like me?"

it was adorable; how doubting you were, your words almost frantic. and it wasn't in a 'ew, you like me?' type of manner, it was more of a 'oh my god, you like me? me!?' way.

he now has both of his hands cupping your face, thumbing along the corner of your lips and you're even warmer- or maybe it's just because he's drenched in rain water and you're only slightly damp.

"is there somethin' wrong with me for likin' you?"

and just like that, the tables turned. you're the one who's flustered and trying to explain yourself while he's just smug watching your panicked display with a grin.

"no! no, it's just- i'm...dumbfounded. i mean, i didn't really see it coming. are you...sure?"

he's more than 100% sure, but if you need some more convincing, he doesn't mind.

"want me to prove it to ya?"

his jaw's already nearing yours and a low timbre wedges in the tangle of his vocal chords, words sweet and curious.

his question was rhetorical- he knew you wanted him to, and your irises giving his lips a quick glance confirmed it.

"well? i'm waiting in the wings."

you give a slow nod, hands running up to the broadness of his shoulders before he dipped forward and...

the soft pout of your bottom lip met the cracked surface of his, and it couldn't have been more perfect, the trailing of your fingers rising through the soaked locks sticking to his skin. you're warm, really warm, and he doesn't want to let you go.

and suddenly he can breathe again, the tension compressed in his body releasing all at once, he, for one, finally feels free at the maddening press of your skin to his.

the faint taste of alcohol dances between you two, and your tongue gives a light swipe over his bottom lip in response to it, as if trying to get a better taste.

have you come from the abyssal sky above to grace him salvation? to save him from the endless pits of his own sin? to cut him apart with gentle hands, to dissect him with hushed promises of alleviating the burning ache in his chest?

because the warm cradle of your embrace sets his soul alight, and he's burning up like a dry weed catching the first sparks of summer's relentless rays.

it's been so long since he was last touched like this. since he's had someone to cradle, someone to hold, to kiss, to love.

he's been saved by you, and not in the biblical sense, no, he's damned no matter how you look at it. but he no longer feels lost, no longer yearning, craving something he thinks he can't have.

eventually, you have to pull away, his arms still slung over the dip of your back, and yours still around the nape of his neck.

"whaddya say? wanna be my partner in crime?"

you cringe, your nose scrunching in utter distaste at his title for you and you pitch a playful whack on his chest, a curl lingering on your lips.

"were you always this cheesy?"

he's about to respond with a teasing quip back, but then-

"ah-achoo!" his head pivots away from you and into the crease of his elbow, sneezing into his arm and he sniffles quietly.

"i uh, might have to take you up on that offer you proposed earlier?"

"see! i told you!"

----

hi teehee thanks for reading sorry this definitely sucks ass in some parts bc i rushed this last minute, lots of things here were just made up/headcanons about his character

-

you know when you walk into someone's room, you can immediately tell what kind of person they are? what posters they roll on their walls, what decor they line the edges of their room with- if they have LEDs, what merch they willingly buy and if they have a whole shelf for said merch, etc?

if you were to walk into ronin's room with no idea of who he is other than his oh so charming looks, you might just say "typical, makes sense given his aesthetic." even if the jars of human remains seemed a bit too hardcore and realistic.

it all fit though, the color palette ranging from all hues of red, black, and white, the masks, the lava lamp, the VHS tapes, the illuminated 'KORN' sign hung in the corner of his room matching the 'still alive?' frame with a cartoonishly drawn heart- it was all him- it screamed ronin.

the plainest thing in his room was probably his bed- and he knew that. it was just a black headboard and footboard, with a red duvet and pillows with a white blanket overtop it. it did match the color scheme, which was enough for now, but it was missing something.

.

.

.

but as his pupils grazed over your steady form, warm and breathing, he realized something.

the slight flush of your cheeks, the way your eyelids fell heavy over your unblinking stare, the hazy glare of his TV burning a light glow over your side-

the ruffle of your hair, your legs snaking awkwardly with his, fingers mindlessly tracing invisible doodles over his forearm, and the slight quirk of your brow as your eyes retrace back to his.

"what's up?" your lips curl upwards slowly as his eyes noticeably fade from the trance he planted himself into, brows slanted upwards as he slow blinked.

"...youuuu good?" a small giggle slewed unevenly from your grin, and he scoffs, a playful jab at the side of your waist following the roll of his eyes.

"'m fine, jus' thinkin'. what about you, darlin'? feelin' comfortable in the devil's den?"

you flop over on your right side, facing him rather than the TV, propping yourself up on one elbow with your other arm tracing the angle of his jaw.

"for a devil, you're rather accommodating, i'll give you that," you tease, and he revels in it; in your warmth, in the fiery trace of your finger along his jawline, and for once, his hell is starting to feel a bit hot.

"in a literal sense, if i'm laying in your bed, wearing your shirt, cuddled up with you, watching old slashers, i think i'm as comfortable as i can ever get."

it's his turn to grin, moving his hand from its resting position on your hip to the small of your back, letting a small exhale he didn't even know he was holding fall from his lips.

his downcast eyes flicker from the graphic tee bagging low under the curve of your shoulders to the width of your thighs, and he couldn't help but feel a little warmer.

you did look good in his clothes.

and as your hand caressed his cheek, his head melting into your warmth, he spots something along the flex of your arms.

his blackened irises almost narrow at them, but they reverted back to whatever you would call normal as his hand drags from your back to the base of your arms, fingers gently rubbing over the faded marks of your pliant skin.

at this, the knitted furrow of your brows came together, a slight wrinkle in your expression as you awkwardly chuckle, a defensive grin uneasily firming itself on your cheeks.

"what's this for?" you question, a wry smile on your face as you realize the implications of his stare, and the look on his face...was just blank.

"no reason, just glad you don't...do that anymore, i guess."

with a shiver up your spine, you firm up your lips into a sheepish smile, nodding with a creak to your voice. "aww, c'mon. can't even say that without the 'i guess' at the end?"

and then he laughed, the tiniest hue of cherry blending into his ivory skin, his onxy irises filled with amusement.

"is it like me to carve open my chest and bare it fresh? i'm not that much of a romantic, darlin'."

it was your turn to scoff, turning over onto your stomach and reaching out to cup his chin with the flex of your fingers, thumb lolling over his bottom lip.

"'i'm not that much of a romantic, darlin'," you mock, voice whiny and pitchy before you deadpanned, eyes narrowed at him.

"oh please, cut the bullshit, ro. not that much of a romantic my ass."

ronin weaved a palm through the plum tresses sitting upon his head, a dismissive hum resting in his throat as he looked you over. "i'm not really, i mean- i kill people?"

"yeah- abusers. usually, anyway."

you then fanned out your hands, your digits extending with each gesture you were about to point out, pupils darting upwards into your lashes as if recounting your times together.

"our motorcycle dates? the shirts you give me each time i come over? the way you snuggle against me while we watch movies, when you complain about being cold to get me closer to you, when you crack cheesey jokes about how lonely your lips are, how-"

"okay, okay, i get it."

and as you took a glance at your boyfriend, a bead of sweat brimmed at his forehead and neck, face flushing a hue of carmine as his words spewed out in an exasperated rush.

you grin.

"oh, and that time you rushed me through your front door after i got drenched by the rain despite the fact that you were also soaked. when you prepared me soup in worry that i would get sick, and while i didn't get ill, you did the next day."

you were trying to be subtle, but with how his pupils were blown out and watching your every move, he was probably more aware of your slow crawl over to him than you were, the mattress making a small dip where your knee paused.

"then, i stayed over the whole time and nursed you back to health while we watched your favorite movies? or when i stopped by your job and you purposely wiped your face with the front of your shirt to flash your-"

"okay, fine! fuck, you win!"

his face was hot and covered by a thin sheen of sweat, a hand flayed out over his jaw to hide his most-likely embarrassed expression, brows arched downwards into a glare. he couldn't even look at you.

ronin beaufort, flustered? ronin fucking beaufort, embarrassed?!

you just made the devil bow his head.

a boisterous laugh bounced out of the pits of your stomach- jesus christ, you've rarely never seen him like this before, all shy and flustered.

your arms snake over your own abdomen, trying to pat down the rumbling giggles orchestrating from your gut with a roll onto your side, and you feel his elbow butt between your ribs playfully.

"give ya an inch and you take a mile, huh?"

he grumbles, giving you a nudge as you only cackle further, slapping a palm over your eyes to smear the tears pearling at your lash line.

"god, your face is fucking priceless when you're embarrassed! geez, i shoulda taken a picture, would've been amazing to have that spammed in mai-"

without skipping a beat, he reeled you into his arms, before turning and slamming you down right in the middle of the bed, hands jabbing and feverishly dancing over your sides.

all the sudden, your laughing increased tenfold- tears springing out of your eyes like sprinkles as you jerked, bucked, and kicked in protest of his tickling, but you couldn't do anything against his iron grip.

you felt like you were dying, stomach exhausted as you guffawed and blabbered, hiccups along the lines of "i can't-" "wait, my stomach hurts-" "have mercy-" following between the tears pitifully steaming down your reddening face.

he lets out a soft-hearted snicker, his body over yours and his knees pinned on either sides of your hips. his plum locks tickles your forehead, reminding you of the teasing grin on his face as he mercilessly dug at your sides- before his fingers traced upwards to your collarbone, and-

his fingertips padded over your neck, before your head jerked instinctively and you could only cackle further. is he trying to kill you?

and finally- you fought back, hands reaching up into his shirt.

he stiffened, eyes widening as your hands snaked up into the black fabric and wandered over his lower waist, making him jump and bubble his cheeks- as if that would quiet his laughter.

but you powered through the pain in your gut from laughing your vocal cords out and frenzied your hands up his abdomen, he gave out, falling pathetically besides you as you took your sweet, sweet retribution.

his arms flexed over his head in defense, lashes clenched shut as his face buried itself into the pillow besides him, almost as if taking cover from your violent antics.

you curl over against him, hands jabbing and frantically scurrying up his shirt as his laughs and pleas muffle besides you, and then-

your hands seemingly touched a sore spot, his laughs dying out and his breath hitching, as if he was in pain. finally taking a second to feel the skin below your palm, you handle it with deft, and...

it's smooth, slightly arched in size, extending from the middle of his chest to the side of his pecs. you lift up your head to look up his already hiked-up shirt, and...

it's his scars. a cringe forms in the side of your gut, fuck- did you piss him off?

"sorry," you usher lowly, withdrawing your hands, only for his to grab your wrists, placing them back right back on his chest.

his thumbs roll over your wrists, reassuring your tense frame back into ease, and you eye his facial expressions carefully.

his eyes are beady, sucked into the way your thumbs navigate the faded discoloration of his torso, brows furrowed and watching with a slight quirk in his lips.

and then his eyes harden.

"do you, uh," he begins, tone devoid of that usual bite he has to it, gaze wandering away from your hands on him, from your face and to the corner of his room.

"do you see me as, y'know, uhm-"

"the devil? hell yeah."

he smiles.

it was so... genuine, so adoring, blooming through the erasure of his doubts, of your validation- even as his soft hair messily spiraled into his vision, he couldn't take his eyes off you.

and as you slink besides him, letting your head sink into the pillow conjoined with his- he realized something, and this time he took full joy in memorizing it.

your touch, your voice, your sweet, sweet lips- even the messy, unbothered display you shroud around.

the way you smile at him in the dim light of his room, the warmth radiating from your body as your lips brush against his.

you're all the decoration he needs.

-