“I’ve missed you,” you say softly. 

“Missed you too.”

It's not much better when you bring him home. There's a big welcome home party for him — his pa and his great Aunt Betty and all the neighbours who used to say he was such a good kid — and none of them seem to notice the change. He smiles at everyone and laughs politely at their jokes, but his arm is heavy around your waist the entire time.

When the party is over and evening starts creeping into night, you find yourself giving one excuse after the other so you won't be alone with him. 

“You really ought to drive Aunt Betty home. Her eyes aren't the best anymore.”

“I'll just run these leftovers over to the neighbours. You know how the kids love cake.”

“Just go on up to bed without me. I want to get this mess cleaned up.”

But all your excuses run dry eventually. He walks with you over to the neighbours and tells the kids he'd be happy to send over some cookies tomorrow. He helps you sweep up and wipe the tables, even though he's still in his dress blues and you know how much he hates to get them dirty. 

When the house is spotless and the moon is high, you finally have no way of avoiding him.

“I thought about you all the while I was gone,” he says at last. You can't read the expression on his face. “I did everything I could to get back to you.”

You expect him to kiss you, or touch you with that fire all returning soldiers are rumoured to have. He doesn't. He just gets ready for bed and sleeps on the very edge of the mattress. 

You tell yourself that you're being paranoid. Who knows what terrible things he saw during the war? Of course he's going to be a different man after all that violence and blood. 

The next morning, you make him his favourite breakfast. You rest your palm on his thigh while he pushes it around his plate. He doesn't eat a single bite. 

“What would you like to do today?” you ask. 

“Whatever you want. As long as we're together.”

That's another strange thing about him — he's oddly subdued. The man he was before would be all over you, calling you baby and darling and dollface. He'd be proposing half a dozen different places to visit. 

You tell yourself that your old fiancé will come back with time. Maybe he just needs to adjust to being back home. 

A month passes, and then another. He doesn't kiss you. He doesn't hold you at night. You don't see him eat a single thing.

You still love him. Of course you do. But oh, it's hard. You might as well be living with a stranger. 

“What have I done wrong?” you ask him eventually. “Why won't you touch me?”

He looks guilty. And maybe a little frightened. 

“I…can't. I'll hurt you. You don't understand how badly I want you, how much I wanted you while I was gone.”

“Please.” You touch his cheek. “Please, just be my fiancé again.”

When you stand on your toes to kiss him, he goes perfectly still. His lips are cool, and he tastes of pine. 

“Don't,” he says when you move closer. “I'm not safe. Not for you.”

You pull away, but can't hide the hurt and anger you feel. 

“What's the point then? If you won't have me, then maybe we shouldn't be together at all.”

He flinches when you pull off your engagement ring and slam it against his chest. But he doesn't follow you when you leave. 

Getting your own apartment and sleeping alone is less of a transition than you thought it would be. You were alone when he was gone, and you were alone when he came back, too. It hurts. It hurts deep inside you, and most mornings you have trouble forcing yourself out of bed. 

You tell yourself that it's for the best. He doesn’t want you, not really. If he did, he would have fought harder to keep you. You try to forget about him, mourn him as though he died overseas. 

It doesn't work. And when he finally comes to get you back, some part of you isn't all that surprised.

He comes for you on the night of your anniversary. 

You wake up to a cold breeze, and when you open your eyes, your bedroom curtains are fluttering in the open window. 

“Don't scream,” he tells you pleasantly. He's sitting in an armchair in the corner of your room and you're so shocked to see him that you make no sound at all. 

“I thought staying away from you would be the best thing for you,” he says. “But it wasn't any good, not a bit. I kept thinking about you like I was still at war.”

He's in his field uniform. Even though it's clean, the front of it is ripped to shreds. He fingers the holes in his shirt. 

“Machine gun. Hurt like a bitch. When I died, you were the last thing I thought about. More than the panic, more than the fear of death, it was you.”

You sit up slowly. You can't take your eyes off him. 

“What are you?”

He shrugs. “I don't know. I just know that I died, and they had to leave me behind. There are strange things over there, stories I used to laugh at when we were first deployed. When I woke up, those stories didn't seem all that funny anymore.”

It's his eyes, you realise slowly. It's his eyes that are the most different thing about him. The same colour, the same shape. But you get the sense that something old and terrible is staring out at you.

“What did this to you?”

He sighs and rubs his jaw. “I don't know that either. But I don't get hungry anymore. I tried eating a few times, out of curiosity, but it all tastes like mud. I don't sleep, I don't dream. Nothing.”

“When we were in bed together…”

“I was awake the entire time. When you fall asleep, I like to watch you. You can't understand how much you mean to me. You’re the one thing that kept me going.”

“You say that. You say you love me. So why hide this from me?”

“Would you have believed me?”

You aren't sure you believe him now either. The logical part of your brain is telling you that there's no way a dead soldier can just get up off the battlefield and come home. But those eyes…

He sighs again and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. His dog tags swing on their chain, catching the moonlight. 

“I don't know what I am. I don't know if there's heaven or hell or if I can even die again. All I know is that I love you. I want to be with you. Staying away is impossible, and…dangerous.”

“Why dangerous?”

“Because I want you all the more when I can't see you. It's like I need to mark you up just so I know you're mine. I thought I loved you already, but now I burn up at the thought of being without you.”

Your dead fiancé stands up slowly. You're not afraid of him, because deep down you get the sense that he's still the man who loves you. No, you're far more afraid of the thing you can feel right below the surface. The magic or curse or hoodoo that's keeping him alive. 

“Will you let me kiss you, knowing what you know now? Knowing what I am?” 

There's only one answer you can give him. Despite your fear, despite the deep-seated sense of wrongness, he's always loved you. And you've always loved him. 

Lawrence grunted in time with each heaving shovel of dirt, the wet, heavy mud putting strain on their aching shoulders and arms, their limbs trembling with the effort to dig.

It was the middle of the night. 

Their car was pulled up to the narrow entrance of the forest's clearing (their space, the space they had rightfully claimed and possessed, the space nobody else dared touch), giving them plenty of light in the darkness and making the beading sweat on their pale skin glow, like something otherworldly and extraterrestrial, something inhuman.

It wasn’t the darkness that was going to stop them, though, nor was the drug pumping through their veins, slightly blurring the edge of their mind.

The only limitation to this thankless task was how far they wanted to go.

Almost there..." Lawrence murmured to themselves, wiping sweat from their eyes with the back of their shirt sleeve. “Come on, almost there…”

Advice forums for this particular task had suggested digging a hole six feet deep and four feet across.

Of course, those users had been professionals advising someone with better means and resources than Lawrence had, and they were also advising on a professional burial —one that would inspire dignity, respect, and mourning, as opposed to advising the necessity of a shallow grave that would inspire nothing of the sort.

Lawrence's grave didn't need to inspire anything.

If everything went to plan, nobody would find it, so feelings were a moot point.

They eventually stopped digging once the hole was approximately chest deep and wide enough that spreading their legs and standing shoulder-width apart created a tight squeeze.

The grave didn't need to be comfortable, after all.

After a moment of respite, Lawrence climbed up out of the pit, their knees and arms feeling weak from exertion, and slammed the shovel into the pile of wet earth and mud they had heaved out of the ground. They walked over to their car, popping the trunk with a click of their keys, and sat on the padded edge, taking another moment to catch their breath and rest.

“There’s still a lot more work to do…” They said to themselves as their gaze settled once again on the half-finished grave, somewhere close to satisfied with how it was looking.

"Hff..."

Lawrence's gaze quickly moved from the grave to its eventual inhabitant in the trunk, messily tied at the ankle, thigh and wrist with duct tape, and gagged and blindfolded with the same.

“Don't worry. It’s almost over. Just a few more hours, and you won't even remember any of this happened.” They murmured encouragingly, making their tone as soft as they could manage without whispering, and reached over to idly rub its trembling calf. 

They didn't take offence when it flinched and tried to wriggle away from them. It had a reason to be afraid, after all, even without the drug surely putting them through hell behind the blindfold of tape. 

And had it been able to see, it probably wouldn't have been at all settled, seeing Lawrence's empty expression, devoid of the expected eagerness or excitement people usually felt on the precipice of committing murder, before it died.

“Mm, it'll be over for me, anyway..." Lawrence hummed, standing up from the trunk of their car, taking a moment to collect their mind and trying to get through the mental fog that the drugs were causing. "At least for a few weeks, before I come to check on you...or, ah, what used to be you."

The bundled-up girl (boy, being, whatever it was now) started to shake a little more, muffled whimpers and sobs sounding miles away through the layers of duct tape covering its face and squishing its features.

Lawrence tilted their head to the side and watched the way it pathetically squirmed and twitched in the deep trunk, feeling absolutely nothing in the pit of their chest. 

They'd had stronger reactions to seeing trapped animals in their childhood. Why weren't they feeling anything?

"Shhh..." Lawrence hushed in the closest approximation of soothing they could manage, and reached out to place a clammy hand on its shoulder. "Shhh...shhh, there, there now...don't you understand?" They smoothed a hand through its matted hair, dark, the colour of mud, of soil, of earth. "You're going to return to the earth. And you're going to feel it too, feel every cell decompose, and...melt into the soil."

They breathed out, taking a grip of its hair harder than they intended.

"I'm...so jealous..."

Lawrence took a deep sigh as they suddenly found themselves at a loss for words.

"God, it's so silent here..." They murmured, taking a moment to look around. "I never noticed how quiet it was before. I wonder..." They sank to their knees, their otherworldly paleness illuminated further by the glow of their trunk. "If the universe can hear me out here. This far in the wilderness, so far from anyone else.”

Lawrence sighed wistfully, their dead, grey eyes looking upwards, and sat motionless, like a statue of some dark idol, gazing upwards at the vast ocean of stars above.

“Are you listening right now?” They spoke quietly towards the stars, a strange and almost reverent look on their face. “Can you hear me all the way out here? Can you see me, all alone?”

But they heard nothing.

They never heard anything, just like they never saw anything, never felt anything, not even close.

“I didn't think you'd answer me anyway.”

Lawrence let out a hopeless string of giggles that bordered on deranged, before suddenly cutting themself off and sighing with frustration, eyes flitting to the bound body at their side.

"I've always had trouble connecting, you know. Can't connect with people, can't connect with the earth...nothing." They pushed themselves up onto their knees, then climbed to their feet. "I owe it to you to...help you connect."

"Mmf, hmm!" It cried out and let out a muffled sob as they carefully picked it up in their arms, its severely inhibritated state not letting them fight or struggle properly.

"Shhh, now, shhh, don't fight me..." Lawrence shushed softly even so, carefully carrying it towards the grave, their pace slow and sluggish due to the effort of carrying the weight while under the effects of the drug. 

But maybe there was a little reverence in there, too, that was making them take this slow.

At least, that's what they were going to tell themselves.

They carried them over to the open grave like some bizarre, twisted lover, like they were replicating the ending of a romance as opposed to carrying someone to their death, walking slowly with a strange deliberateness, so as not to trip on the uneven ground.

"Mmff-!" It started to cry a little more into the thick blindfold, trembling, trying to press up against their chest, like a child might try to garner some sympathy, empathy, anything that its captor would give.

"There there, it’s going to be fine. I'm right here." Lawrence whispered into its ear, nuzzling their cheek against its hair, and against its sweating temple. They looked almost tender as they bent down and placed it gently into the grave, taking a moment to adjust it so that it remained facing upwards and lay relatively comfortably. 

Their face may have been a mask of indifference, but they felt themselves feeling peaceful as they stood over the little body beneath them. 

"You're almost home at last. And you're not going to be alone anymore." They tilted their head, the slightest smile softening their gaze even more. "You're going home. To the Earth. And nothing else will ever be wrong again."

The sounds coming from below weren't bothering them anymore (if they ever did), and Lawrence didn't listen to a single protest or whine or whimper as they climbed out of the grave and took up the shovel again, the hardwood grounding and rough as their calloused fingers curled around the handle. 

"Don't you want to sleep?" They said, taking the shovel in both hands and loading the metal with the first load of dirt. "You can...if you like. You deserve to."

The sounds of the shovel filled the air, a rhythmic sound. Thud, thunk, thud, thunk. 

Lawrence's arms ached, and their shoulders felt heavy, but they ignored their entire body's pleading for respite and threw another pile of dirt into the grave, covering an inch or so of the body below.

"We all deserve to."

The dirt hugged its curves like a suffocating, black caccoon swallowing a bound lump of white, like the Earth was there to cradle it and comfort it as it was returned from whence it came, flesh invited to rot and melt into the soil, nourishing everything that came after. 

Just as things should be.

After a sufficient amount of time and effort, its body was no longer visible. The dirt was still wet and clumpy, still disturbed, of course, but the surface of the shallow grave was already beginning to take on a more...natural appearance.

Lawrence couldn't stop themselves from smiling, so much so that their jaw began to ache, and their cheeks grew damp with tears of elated happiness.

They would never be able to see the river again; they didn't deserve something that good, that pure.

It starts with your laugh.

Sharp and sudden, slicing through the paper-thin wall between your apartment and his. You’re not trying to be loud (you never try to be loud) but the complex is cheap, and the insulation’s shit, and he hears everything.

You’ve got someone over again.

Lawrence is sitting on the floor of his kitchen, cross-legged in the dark, smoking a cig down to the filter. He presses the butt into the base of an empty mug and lets it sit there, still hot.

You laugh again. Higher this time, breathy.

His hand twitches.

He hates your laugh.

Hates how easily it bursts out of you, careless and bright and full of life. Hates that it echoes around the hallways like it belongs there, like you belong here. Hates the sound of your voice rising with someone else’s, friendly and warm and never tight with fear like his always is. You talk to your neighbours. You go outside during the day. You smile when you see people.

You smile when you see him.

You say, “Law!” like it’s a good thing. Like you’re always happy to see him.

And he despises you for it.

You’ve brought him his mail when it ended up in your box. Complimented the plants growing in the corner of his balcony. Asked questions about the weird little vines he keeps in planters. You don’t flinch at the sight of him, just tilt your head and grin and make it seem like you’re not just pretending.

He doesn’t understand you. And he hates that he wants to.

He wants to claw his skin off every time you catch him staring. But it’s worse when you don’t.

Your laugh fades and it’s replaced by murmuring. Then quiet. Too quiet. Oh fuck, he knows what that means.

He shifts awkwardly on the floor, jaw tight.

The headboard hits the wall.

His body goes stock-still.

You’re moaning now, breathy, open-throated, the kind of sound that’s not embarrassed to be overheard. The kind that means someone else is fucking you right now. And you’re not being quiet.

Law clenches his jaw until it clicks.

He tries to focus on something else, anything else really, but it’s already happening. The heat blooming low in his gut, the press of blood in his cock, the sudden tight ache like punishment. He grits his teeth and doesn’t move.

But you’re louder tonight. You say something (annoyingly, he can’t make out the words) and then your moan breaks into a giggle, and he nearly comes untouched.

He’s hard enough that it hurts.

He presses the heel of his palm to his crotch, not to get off (not yet) but to make it stop. It doesn’t help. The fabric of his sweatpants feels too tight, his skin too sensitive. He can still hear the rhythm of the bedframe, the quiet, rhythmic slap of skin-on-skin through the wall. You’re still fucking laughing.

It’s impossible not to picture you: sprawled naked on the bed, legs spread wide open, some faceless man fucking you hard enough to shake the headboard. He can practically see your back arching, your body moving with each thru—

Fuck! He can already feel himself leaking precum into his boxers, his cock aching.

He curses under his breath and shoves himself to his feet. He needs air. He just needs to cool down.

★·.·´¯`·.·★

The balcony is already cracked open, a narrow sliver of night cutting through the overheated room. He grabs his lighter and a half-crushed pack of cigarettes from the windowsill and steps out.

It’s better to smoke outside anyway. The landlord complains if the unit smells like smoke. Says it lingers in the walls.

Law drops into the battered lawn chair tucked between his overgrown potted plants and leans back with a sigh. The air is cool, almost sharp against his overheated skin. It helps. A little.

He lights the cigarette, takes a long drag, and tries to think of nothing. Just cold air, smoke, the scrape of breeze against his damp neck. The ache in his groin still pulses (irritating, insistent) but he ignores it. It’s not real. It’s just his body. Stupid. Animal. Loud and needy and inconvenient.

But then he hears it again. Muffled now, but still unmistakable.

You.

Moaning.

He goes very still.

Are you really that loud? Or is he just that attuned to you now?

He grits his teeth. You’re shameless.

He turns his head to glower at your apartment. His eyes land on the window and—

Stops.

You're there.

Window half-open, curtain pulled lazily to one side. Just enough.

You're on top of someone, knees braced wide, hips moving in a slow, devastating rhythm. Your head tilts back, throat exposed, hair messy, mouth open like you’re sighing.

The person beneath you is faceless, forgettable. Law doesn’t see them. Doesn’t care.

All he can see is you.

Your hands down sliding down over your own stomach so you can touch yourself. Your body arching just so. The wet drag of your movement, the bounce of all of your softest parts. You move slow and steady, and the motion is hypnotic. Your head tips back. You ride the man beneath you with practiced ease, confident and open and so fucking alive.

Law’s mouth goes dry.

His cigarette trembles in his hand.

He doesn’t mean to stare. But he does.

He watches the way your body moves, how your hips roll, how your thighs flex, how the muscles in your stomach shift. He watches how you grind down and lift again, fluid, and effortless.

He keeps watching.

He tells himself it’s just a minute longer. Just long enough to burn the image into his brain so he can be done with it, be free of it.

But then a minute passes and he’s still looking.

Your skin is flushed, a heat rising from beneath that spreads across your pretty skin, bright pink at your cheeks, painting down your neck, blooming across your chest and shoulders. There’s sweat beading along your collarbone. You smile (open-mouthed, blissed out, radiant) and it’s disgusting how perfect you look.

Law grips the arm of the chair like it’ll keep him grounded.

You’re so alive. Vibrant. Electric. Glowing like something divine. He can practically hear the pulse in your veins just watching you. You are everything he isn’t; you’re everything he’s never been, not even before the drowning.

He hates it. He hates you.

You might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

His mouth is dry. His cigarette’s burned down to ash between his fingers, but he hardly even notices.

Then—

You turn your head.

His lungs seize.

Law jerks back like he’s been caught in the act of something unspeakable… which, in a way, he has. His breath catches in his throat. Every muscle in his body goes rigid.

Fuck.

FuckFuckFuckFuck.

Panic claws at the base of his throat. You’re going to scream. You’re going to rush to close the curtain. You’ll tell whoever you’re with and send him, some big grinning idiot, down the hall to pound on Law’s door and try to beat the shit out of him.

Which — fine. He could handle it. He’s not worried about the fight. He’s stronger than he looks. He’s stronger than most people.

But someone at his door? In his space? That’s the real violation.

He opens his mouth and stands up, ready to—what? Apologize? Vanish? Throw himself off the balcony?

But you don’t scream.

You don’t close the curtain.

You just tilt your head a little, studying him. Like you’re not surprised. Like you were expecting him all along.

And then you smile.

Not the wide one you give your friends. Not the bright one you offer strangers on the street.

This one’s small. Secret. Just for him.

You don’t stop.

You’re still looking at him.

And you’re still moving.

Law’s breath stutters in his chest.

Why aren’t you stopping?

His brain trips over itself trying to make sense of this. He’s never been good at social norms but even he knows this isn’t normal. You’re supposed to panic. You’re supposed to be ashamed. At the very least, you’re supposed to shut the curtain and look away.

You don’t look away.

You don’t stop.

You keep moving, keep grinding, keep panting, eyes locked on his, mouth parted in something that’s half groan, half grin.

Law’s heart is pounding so loudly that he can hear it echo around  his skull. His muscles are locked, tension wound through every inch of him like barbed wire.

Why the fuck aren’t you stopping?

His skin’s too tight. His hands have gone numb from how hard he’s clenching his fists. You’re not looking at the man beneath you anymore. You’re watching Lawrence, eyes half-lidded and shining and—

Oh, fuck.

You're louder now.

On purpose. He can tell. You're exaggerating it, just a little. A soft moan drawn out longer than it should be. A breathy gasp punctuated by your hips shifting, your smile still fixed in place.

You're putting on a show. Just for him.

What are you doing? he thinks, wild and desperate. What am I doing?

His chest heaves. His thighs are shaking. He wants to look away but can’t.

And then (then) you start whimpering.

It’s soft at first. Barely audible all the way through the window.

“Please…”

Your voice. Sweet. Breathless. Wanting.

“Please…”

Again. Higher now. Needier.

And Law knows what’s coming. He sees the way your back arches. The way your thighs tighten. The way your face scrunches in a shape that feels familiar even though he’s only ever imagined (never seen). The shine on your skin. The flush. Your mouth opening—

No.

No.

No.

He’s up in an instant, chair clattering against the balcony rail.

He stumbles inside, slams the door behind him like it’ll cut off the sound, like it’ll break the spell, like it’ll fix something.

It doesn’t.

His breath shudders out of him as he leans back against the door, hands shaking at his sides. The blood in his body feels like it’s burning. His skin’s too tight. His dick’s still hard (throbbing, actually). His brain is short-circuiting, sparking on the same useless thought:

What the fuck was that?

What did he just do? What did you just do?

He sinks down to the floor, knees pulled up, palms over his face.

He wants to rip his own skin off.

His legs give out before he can make it to his bed. He drops to the floor like something snapped in his spine, palms pressed to the hardwood, head hanging low. His breathing won’t settle, every gasp makes his ribs ache. His body is locked so tight he feels like he might snap.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

His whole body is burning. Every cell. Every nerve. He drags a hand through his hair, yanks it once, hard enough to hurt, and it still does nothing to clear the fog choking him.

His hips twitch.

God, he’s so hard. Still aching. It’s unbearable now. A need knotted deep in his gut, pulsing with every heartbeat.

He’s still trembling as his hands slide into his sweatpants. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out the image of you, but it's seared into his brain. He can still see the way your skin flushed, the sweat dripping down the curve of your spine as you moved, the look of ecstasy on your face.

His hand wraps around his shaft, squeezing hard enough to border on painful. He strokes himself roughly, palm slick with sweat. In his mind's eye, it's him under you. Him you're grinding on, hips rolling in a filthy rhythm. Him. Your nails are digging into his chest as you chase your high. But, as always, the fantasy shifts, darkens.

His hands move from your hips to your throat. He sees himself wrapping his fingers around the column of your neck, squeezing. Your eyes widen in surprise, then fill with fear as you realize what he's doing.

He imagines you struggling as he squeezes tighter, feeling your pulse jump and stutter under his palm. The life flickers in your eyes, and he wants to snuff it out. Wants to watch it fade, watch the light in your gaze turn to darkness. Watch the spark of life leave you.

In his mind, you're still there, but changed. Your skin is no longer flushed and glowing with life, but pale and still, with a waxy sheen. Your eyes, once bright and shining, are glassy and vacant, staring at nothing. The life has drained away, leaving behind a beautiful corpse, a perfect, delicate thing.

His hand moves faster over his shaft, squeezing tighter, chasing the release he so desperately needs. His breath comes in harsh pants, his heart slamming against his ribs like a wild animal fighting to break free of a cage. He's close. He's so fucking close.

A strangled grunt escapes him as he finishes, his cock pulsing and throbbing as it spurts warm cum over his hand and into his pants.

In the aftermath, he collapses back against the floor, panting, shaking. His skin feels too hot, too tight, like he's burning from the inside out. Guilt claws at him. What the fuck is wrong with you, Lawrence? He knows that he’s disgusting. Sick and deranged.

He stares at the ceiling, chest heaving, as those depraved images linger in his mind. You, dead. Pale. Still. So different from the vibrant creature he’s come to know.

He needs to get his shit together. He needs to fucking stop. He can't keep doing this. It's not normal. It's not right.

As the waves of pleasure recede, a sickening horror takes their place. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with him?

He stumbles to his feet, pulling his messy sweatpants down and wiping his softening, sensitive cock with shaking hands. He shoves the clothes into the bottom of his closet, burying the evidence of his depravity out of sight.

But even as he washes up in the bathroom, he can't escape the images in his head. The way you moved, the sounds you made, the life and vitality that radiated from you. It haunts him. It's like a fever dream, too vivid to be real. And the dark, cruel things he imagined doing to you... he tells himself it was just a fantasy, just a sick, twisted fantasy born of loneliness and desperation. But he knows better. Deep down, he knows the truth.

It’s only a matter of time before he does something that he can’t take back.

★·.·´¯`·.·★

The next evening, Law steps out of the apartment building just after 8:30 PM, hoodie up, coat zipped, collar high.

He doesn’t expect anyone to be outside.

Which is why he nearly walks dead into you.

You’re leaning against the railing near the stairs, one boot scuffed against the concrete, cigarette balanced between your fingers. Smoke curls lazily in the air around you. You’re staring at your phone, scrolling, maybe, not a care in the goddamn world.

He ducks his head and keeps walking, like if he moves fast enough, you’ll disappear behind him. Maybe you won’t say anything. Maybe you’ll ignore him. Maybe you’ll pretend it never—

“Law!”

He flinches.

“Hey, I saw you’ve got crocuses coming up,” you say, gesturing with your cigarette toward the second-floor balconies. “Didn’t know they bloomed so early.”

He doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t stop.

He just walks a little faster, hands buried in his pockets, jaw clenched so tight it clicks. His face burns. His stomach turns.

The first thing you hear is someone whispering.

The air is thick and humid, smelling of wet soil, iron, and something strangely sweet. You open your eyes to a jungle of potted plants, pothos, spider lilies, thick trailing vines, covering every surface. The lights are dim and the space is claustrophobic.

You try to move, but your arms don’t answer you. Your chest tightens. You’re strapped down.

No. Taped. Thick duct tape. Your wrists sting from the pressure of it.

Across the room, that guy from the pub is facing away from you, muttering away, his shoulder’s hunched.

“It’s okay… I’ll… I’ll fix it. It won’t be like the last time. J-just stay calm.”

His voice is barely audible, raspy and thin. You don’t speak. You just watch him, your breath shallow. Already, tears are gathering hot in the corners of your eyes. You try to blink them back, try to swallow it all down.

Then he turns.

“AH!”

His whole body jolts like he’s been shocked. He spins to fully face you, gangly limbs pulling inward as if he could physically retract from what he's seeing. Like you’ve ruined something just by opening your eyes.

“You’re awake!”

You suck in a ragged breath, the beginning of panic now fully blooming in your chest. You twist against the chair, feel the scrape of tape against skin. Your breathing speeds up, shallow and rapid, and the sob that escapes you is barely a sound, more like a hiccup breaking through your teeth.

He visibly winces.

“No, no, c-calm down,” he says quickly, lifting both hands in an awkward, stuttering half-wave. “I… I can explain this.”

He can’t. Not in any way that makes sense, at least.

But in his head, there was a reason. When Ren left (so suddenly, so selfishly) it had felt, well, overwhelming. He didn’t want to be alone again. He couldn’t be alone again.

And then you were there. Just standing there. So soft and human and available. You looked at him like you saw him, even for a second. And that was all it took.

He didn’t plan this. He never plans anything. He just reacted (hit you, grabbed you, dragged you) and now here you are, taped to a chair in the middle of his sanctuary, ruining the stillness.

And he’s realised, all of a sudden, that he doesn’t actually want you here.

He tries to smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. They’re too glassy. Too… dead.

You're silent in response. Because you genuinely don’t know what the hell you could possibly say. You’re in a stranger’s apartment, bound to a chair in front of a man who seems… particularly unstable.

Lawrence clears his throat. Starts to pace a little. “L-look, this all got out of hand…”

His hands flutter uselessly, like he’s trying to catch thoughts mid-air and put them into words.

“I’ve been talking to Ren for a couple of weeks and—”

He stops. Looks at you again. He takes in your tear-streaked face, your trembling lip, your knuckles straining against the tape. Terror. Disbelief. Disgust. He sees it in your eyes, even though you’re trying to keep your expression neutral. Trying to survive this.

And just like that, the words dry up.

There’s no point in explaining it. You won’t get it. You can’t.

That realization sours on his face. His eyes narrow. His shoulders tense.

“I should never leave this apartment,” he mutters, almost to himself. “…Not worth it. All I found was another problem.”

A new wave of panic swells in your chest. You don’t even think before you speak, you just need to stop whatever path his thoughts are about to go down.

“I…” Your voice quivers. “I don’t have to be a problem.”

He blinks. Slightly thrown off. You push yourself forward, scrambling over the fear tightening in your throat.

“I could be your friend. Instead.”

That word hits the air like a dropped knife.

Friend.

You’re not sure if you believe it. You’re not sure if he does. But you’ll say anything right now if it means staying alive. If it means buying yourself even another five minutes.

Lawrence grimaces, hard. He presses his fingers to his temples and exhales like your suggestion physically hurts.

“That’s not…” He shakes his head. “That’s not a good idea. Not for your sake.”

You push, your voice cracking with effort. “Just… just give me a chance.”

He stops pacing. His head tilts slightly, and for the first time since you woke up, he looks angry.

“A chance…?” His tone curdles. He’s not shouting, not yet, but there’s an edge there now, ragged and rising. “You think I haven’t given people chances? You think I haven’t tried?”

His voice rises, thin and sharp like cracked glass. “I’ve tried a hundred times. A thousand. Everyone is the same. They want to fix you until they realize they can’t. Then they leave. Or they lie. Or they call you a… a monster, or a freak… or something worse.”

His expression twists to an old, ugly rage.

Your tears betray you then. You’ve been holding them in so tightly, but now they break loose. Fat tears that roll down your cheeks in thick, shameful tracks. Your shoulders shake with the effort of not breaking completely.

And it does something to him.

He flinches, not out of pity, but... something. His eyes go unfocused, his posture slackening like he’s buffering through a thought he doesn't know how to hold onto.

He doesn’t understand what he’s feeling.

Something tight coils in his stomach (hot, electric, uncomfortable). Not bad, necessarily. But not something he knows how to handle. Your fear, your helplessness… They’re strangely thrilling. You're looking at him like he has power. Real power. Like you need to beg for his approval.

He doesn’t know why he likes it so much.

His hand runs through his hair, tugging slightly. He turns away from you, not dramatically, just as if he can't be looked at while he thinks this through.

“Stop,” he mumbles. “Stop crying. It’s too much. I can’t think.”

He sounds almost... lost. His voice thinner now, strained. Less angry, more tired.

Then, quieter, like the words aren’t for you at all: “What am I gonna do with you?”

Lawrence turns away from you and drifts toward the window, stepping between thick fronds and over stacked books and cracked pots.  Outside, the city is slowly lighting up. The sun bleeds over the tops of distant buildings, casting pale gold between the towers.

“I… I should just rest,” he murmurs. “I… I can’t think straight right now.”

He rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm, then looks back at you, your shaking body, the tears you haven’t quite stopped choking on.

“You’re probably tired too…” he says. “You’re diurnal, right? I kept you up all night.”

You can barely speak, your throat raw and tight, but you manage, “It’s okay.”

He blinks. Caught off guard by your tone. “O-oh!” His voice lifts, surprised. So polite. So soft, even now. “I… I can make you some tea. To help you sleep?” he offers, awkward and halting.

You force a small shake of your head. “I’m sure I can fall asleep on my own…”

His eyes darken, narrowing just slightly. He was trying to be kind. That’s what this was. And you just rejected it. “You should drink it,” he says, firmer this time. The offer now sounds more like an order.

Your pulse jumps again. Your hands tighten in your lap, sticky with the tack of dried sweat and tape glue. Still shaking, you raise your chin as best you can. “I’m not… going to drink it.”

The silence that follows is long. Dense.

“Fine,” he snaps. “I won’t make you sleep.”

With stiff, abrupt movements, he shrugs out of his hoodie, then his shirt, tossing them onto a nearby chair. He doesn’t look at you again. He just climbs into the mess of blankets on the low bed against the far wall, pulling them over his shoulders.

The room falls quiet, but your tiny sobs don’t stop. You try. You press your lips together, bury your face against your shoulder, do anything to muffle the sounds.

You don’t want to wake him. You don’t want to anger him. You don’t want him to see you like this and remember that he still doesn’t know what to do with you.

He doesn’t say anything else. He just lies there. Listening. Each hiccupping breath and shuddering inhale send a thrill rippling through Lawrence's body under the blanket. He keeps his eyes closed, trying to pretend that he’s falling asleep, but he’s sure that you must hear his heart pounding in his chest.

He can't remember the last time he felt this alive. This... aroused.

Fuck. Your tears, your fear, your utter helplessness: it's like some new kind of drug pumping through his veins. More potent than any of the herbs he grows in the jungle of his apartment.

He knows, on some level, he should feel sorry for you. He knows he should feel guilty for causing you this distress. But he doesn't. He feels something else entirely. Something dark and selfish and hungry.

His hand inches lower under the blanket, palming himself through the thin fabric of his sweatpants. He's semi-erect already, his cock twitching and throbbing at the sound of your muffled cries. He has to bite back a moan, not wanting to alert you to what he's doing.

He strokes himself, slow and steady, in time with your shuddering breaths. You're so lovely like this, so vulnerable, so afraid. And the fact that he's the cause of it... it's intoxicating. Addictive. He wants to hear more of it.

You continue crying softly, your sobs tapering off into occasional sniffles as exhaustion takes over. Your body feels heavy, your limbs leaden, and your eyes are sore. You wish you could move your hands, if for no other reason than to wipe away the wetness on your cheeks, but the tape holds your wrists fast. Even overwhelmed and terrified as you are, your body can no longer fight off the pull of sleep.

Lawrence listens intently, taking in every delicate sniffle and shuddering breath. He finds the soft, quiet sounds almost endearing. You're so quiet and gentle. The noises you make are so unlike the loud, wailing cries he imagines most people would produce in your situation. No, he’d hate that. He’d hate the noise of it all. But you’re perfect.

His hand continues its steady, slow rhythm under the blanket, stroking and squeezing himself.  He shoves his face into his pillow to muffle a groan as he feels his release approaching. His hips twitch, pushing up into his own touch as his hand works feverishly over his cock.

Unwilling to hold back any longer, Lawrence inhales sharply through his nose as he reaches his peak. His sweatpants grow damp where his cock throbs and pulses, spilling his cum inside them. A shudder runs through his entire body at the intensity of it. 

Utterly spent, he lets out a shuddery breath against the pillow, then slips into a deep, dreamless sleep. He’ll decide what to do with you in the morning. But for now, he just feels... satisfied.

★·.·´¯`·.·★

When Lawrence wakes, the sun has crept further across the room, painting long amber lines across the floorboards. He stretches languidly, letting out a slow yawn. Then he remembers.

You’re still here.

He turns his head and looks at you.

You’re asleep. Or faking it. Either way, you’re not looking at him yet, and he prefers it that way.

Dried tears cling in brittle salt lines on your cheeks. Your head is slumped slightly to one side. There’s still redness around your eyes, but your breathing is slow. Shallow. Soft.

You look peaceful.

And so beautiful.

Wait. No. Not beautiful.

That’s not the word.

You’re much more interesting than that.

He tilts his head, studying you like you’re something pinned beneath glass.

A bloom of violet and yellow has formed at your temple where he struck you yesterday, irregular at the edges, the way rot spreads on fruit left too long in the sun.

Your lashes stick together in wet little clumps. Insects caught in dew.

Your body shifts slightly, subtle at first. Then your head twitches, just enough to suggest you're coming to.

You blink, disoriented until your gaze settles on him.

And there it is again.

That look.

Wide. Fragile. Terrified.

And there it is again. That feeling.

He stands a little taller.

You’re afraid. He can see it in the way your muscles tighten, in the rigid hold of your body, in the way your eyes flick away from his face and snap back just as fast, like you’re checking to see if he’s moved.

You’re not crying yet. But he wants you to. He wants to make you cry. He wants to watch your face twist, wants to hear the little crack in your voice when you try not to fall apart. He wants to see what you’ll do when he reminds you that you’re trapped, and that everything, your comfort, your body, your life, is under his control now.

Your thread is in his hands. And he could do anything. That feeling settles in his chest like heat. Heavy. Slow. He doesn't know what to call it. But he knows he likes it.

“You’re never going to leave this apartment,” he taunts you, voice low, deliberate, meant to dig in. “You understand that, right?”

He sees the shift immediately. He sees how your jaw tightens, how your eyes widen just slightly. There’s a tremble starting in your chin. Your body is on the brink of a collapse.

“Whether it’s today,” he continues, voice soft as moss, “or a year from now. You’ll die here. I’m keeping you.”

Your eyes begin to well up again, slow, steady. You try to hold it in, but it’s like trying to hold back a flood. Your shoulders draw in tight. Your nose reddens. Your mouth stretches in that ugly way people cry when they don’t care how they look. Before long, wet snot drips down onto your upper lip.

He likes that, too. The realness of it. The helplessness.

And then the tears come too. Tracking the same paths that they carved the night before.

Your chest hitches with tiny, restrained tremors. Your breath catches in uneven pulses.

Contained. Like you’re trying not to disturb him.

Perfect.

His cock is already chubbing up back to half-mast again.

Then, his name slips out from between your lips, raw and shaky. Barely a whisper. Cracked and wet. “...Lawrence.”

The sound hooks into him and he blinks like, for a moment, he’d forgotten that he existed.

He steps closer then and cups your jaw with one trembling hand. Your skin is almost distractingly warm against his cold, lifeless hands, and he holds you like he’s unsure how to touch you, thumb dragging clumsily beneath your eye, wiping tears that are already replaced by more.

He wants to taste them. Just a little. Just press his thumb to his tongue. But no. He won’t. Not yet, at least.

He smiles again. Wide. But his eyes stay glassy. Empty.

“I would tell you this was going to be alright…” he whispers.

His thumb lingers just a moment longer.

A month passed as you plotted your grand escape. You would take a backpack of supplies: food for a few days (though you had to eat sparingly), water, and a weapon, the latter of which he had ample of.

A 20 gauge shotgun and a .17 HMR for hunting small game, a CA-15 and a Ruger American for bigger prizes. A handgun and two knives for backup. He always takes one rifle, one handgun, and two out of four knives; leaves the rest behind.

You never asked to know any of this information. He forced you to listen. Once a week, he made you watch as he cleaned his arsenal after a hunt.

Disassemble the weapon. Brush out the frame. Lubricate. Clean the barrel. Put it back together.

It was simple but time-consuming.

Over the weeks, you noticed that he deliberately took his time, with you sitting across him quietly. You never understood why. You refused to acknowledge him out of defiance; didn't want to give him the satisfaction of thinking he piqued your curiosity. He seldom spoke. Only said something as he switched guns.

"20 gauge. I use it upland, for birds."

Fifteen minutes passed. You said nothing.

"Morakniv 4 inch. Field dressing."

You frowned, staring at the logs burning in the fireplace. He went back to work.

If only you could notice how thin his patience was wearing.

Knowing this ritualistic habit of his, you were too scared to pick out a gun. Not only did you not know how to use one, you also know that he would notice immediately. You settled for one of his knives; the one that he never takes with him. You waited for a rainy day like this one so you could cover your tracks better: no obvious footprints, no visibility, nor the sound of footsteps. Every sharp breath, ever shudder, every shaky step forward; all of it blended into the forest.

The rain is a double-edged sword, unfortunately. You don't notice the huntsman lingering close by. He draws large, lazy strides forward. Watches as you spare a glance at your tombstone, taking a moment to catch your breath before you took off again.

That's it. He'd given you enough chances to turn back. He won't let you go any further.

A single shot of his handgun into the air makes you freeze.

"On your fucking knees. Now."

You hated when he talked to you. Always curt, authoritative and imperative. Scared and full of adrenaline, you bolt in a desperate act of rebellion. Unwise.

"Help! He's kidnapped me, anybody, ple-!" He's on you in a second, tackling you to the ground with your face caked in wet dirt, tying both hands behind your back.

Can't breathe.

You wriggle your wrists as much as you can, claw at whatever you can reach. Yet, the hunter stops at nothing. He pulls you up by the hair and you breathe in, choking on the rain. Your relief is short-lived as he turns you around to face him.

"Had your fun?"

The weight of his gaze forces you to stare back. The way your eyes fill with desperation and fear. The way you shudder under the rain. The way your wet clothes cling to every curve of your body. He never wants this to end.

"We're in the middle of nowhere, did that even occur to you? Of course nobody's going to hear you. Stop screaming, fuck!" He sounds manic. You have never seen him so erratic. You try to quiet your inconsolable sobs as his hands roam your body.

"Say you love me."

"I-I love you." Insincere, but it'll do.

He caresses every tender muscle; chest, waist, hips, thighs. Rough and impatient, eyes never leaving yours. Like he's trying to ground himself. Remind himself what you are to him. Maintain control.

His hands stop at your ankles. They're uncharacteristically gentle as he folds your legs over your torso and puts your feet up on his shoulder. Your shoes are undone, slowly taken off along with your socks.

"You're helpless and foolish." A kiss to your right heel. "Wouldn't last a day out here without me." Calloused fingers brush along the arc of your left one.

"I'll show you that you need me. Sounds good, yeah? That'll teach you to be fucking grateful." He massages the flesh, then rotates your ankle clockwise. Your breathing becomes frantic.

"Please, Cain! Please don't do this, I promise I won't try this again!" You screech.

Mercy eludes him. In his eyes, there isn't a semblance of guilt nor hesitation for what he's about to do. He sighs.

"I know just how to deal with stubborn things like you. Stay put or you'll make it worse."

You close your eyes. The rain is getting colder, but his touch is warm against your skin. Your brace yourself. The forest is quiet, save for the rain. A sickening crack echoes through it.