#(sorta lmao)

You feel watched. Observed. And you know, very suddenly, that you are not alone. 

Red eyes lurk beneath the water, too terribly dark for you to see anything else but the ominous glow beneath the churning waves. You swat and paddle, suddenly filled with a cresting dread, but your feeble, clumsy human body isn't made for this environment. 

You begin to sob, flailing helplessly about. 

Something sharp and steely grabs your leg and begins to drag you under. Kick as you might, the water slows your momentum, and it feels like a cruel betrayal. Paddling with all your strength, you try to keep above the water’s edge, but to no avail. 

Soon enough, you're going under, head disappearing beneath the inky black abyss, and the moon disappears above you as if swallowed whole by the ocean herself. 

You can't see. You can't move. Crimson eyes move ever closer, but you cannot make out what holds them. The firm grip on your leg doesn't relinquish, dragging you into the depths as you scream bubbles and fight with what little strength you possess. 

The moon and stars disappear into the violent, swirling dark. 

Your skin itches and burns, the salt water assaulting your flesh. Your nails rip and tear at the scathing skin, legs still flapping about trying to deter whatever has grabbed you. Something inside of you bursts and you cry out in agony, unable to keep fighting as the torturous misery swells to an unbearable mass of confusion and pain. 

Down you go, further and further into the black water. 

You can barely make out your own body now, surrounded by an all encompassing darkness. The surface seems so far, and you're certain you're going to die for your hubris. Silly child, you weren't made for the ocean. 

As much as you wish you were a part of her, you are not. You are human, and you were made for traversing ground. You are a child of the land, not the sea or sky. You will never soar or swim beyond what your fickle human body allows. 

You are unsuited. Unworthy. And now you will pay for it. 

You cannot hold your breath much longer. 

Then suddenly, not at all. 

A final shriek leaves your lungs, body and mind screaming for air you cannot reach, water whooshing between the shallow slats of your flailing fingers. You inhale the sharp, briny water of the ocean into yourself, sputtering and hiccupping in excruciating fear and anguish. Thrashing and sailing, you will spend your final moments alone, howling in terror and agony. 

But you don't die. It takes long for it to process, but your consciousness remains. The grip on your leg relinquishes its hold, but the crescendo of horror keeps you from making for the surface. 

Your skin feels wrong against your fingertips, scaly and slick. Your legs do not feel as they should, aching and almost sticky with pain. Your neck stings and burns at the rounds. But worse than all of it is the ever present haunting feeling of something all too familiar skulking so close you can almost taste it. 

Opening your eyes, your hands tremble as you hold them in front of you. Claws as sharp as a bear accentuate your fingers, and your forearms have a small, thin membrane that perks out— like the fin of a fish. 

Pain turns to horror as you look down, seeing your legs no longer exist to be grabbed. Rather, you have a sleek, slim tail, almost hypnotizing in all of its holographic, hypnotizing kaleidoscope of color, your human flesh dissipating into layered slats of scales at your hips. With dawning dread, you realize that you can breathe, and somehow it is more horrifying than the precipice of death you found yourself treading only seconds ago. It tastes different from surface air, tangy and saline, laden with brine and slight sulfur.

It's strange and horrible and all too much at once. Still sobbing, you claw at your own unfamiliar flesh as if you could shed it through sheer will. The ocean is dark and deep and your eyes are bleary and stinging with salt water the longer you leave them open. The pressure hurts your head and it all feels so wrong. Like you've committed a crime against nature somehow. 

Those same horrible, devil-red eyes appear again, facing you, and in your reflection in them, you can see your hair glows in the faint moonlight, almost like—

Like him. 

“What?”

You hear his voice in your head, echoing his terrible cadence in your mind. 

“I thought this is what you wanted.”

You begin to scream, the last thing you see being a yawning, gaping mouth full of fangs curling into a malicious grin.

You jolt upright in your bed, clutching at your chest and heaving in air. Tears stain your cheeks and your lip quivers. Your hands are trembling, your body wracked with shivers that overtake you against your will. Too cold and too hot at the same time, you cannot decide if you want to curl up tighter or throw the covers off your shivering form all together. 

Moonlight shines gently through the window, moon high in the sky over the city. A gentle breeze wafts in, and the familiar scent of the ocean fills your nostrils. 

The nightmare again. 

You've suffered nightmares consistently since childhood, but lately, they've felt more real; Almost sentient in their malevolence. 

You know it sounds silly to a rational person, but the ocean used to help soothe them. You could go out to the shoreline and gaze out into the horizon where the ocean met eternity and feel calm again. But ever since you met him, you haven't been attending your appointments, so they feel like they're getting worse. 

After your first close call, he's haunted your dreams like a spectre. To be expected, you suppose, given his nature and his endgame. You figured your head was just messing with you, trying to process the strange series of events you'd recently endured by replacing your regular sleep demon with one with a name and face you recognize. But its essence is the same as the thing from your nightmares from childhood. The killer under the bed. The monster in your closet. 

And it instills the same horror as when you were a little girl. 

Feeling like a— no pun intended— fish out of water in the one place that you ever find peace is bad enough, but something about remembering yourself in that form horrifies you. The dreams usually ended once you drowned, but now it seems they're progressing, preying on newfound fears of what lurks at the depths of the ocean. Seeing yourself become the creature you fear above all else— one that is currently nested in your home. 

Composing yourself, you wipe the tears from your eyes and swallow back another wave of them. You gingerly sip at your water bottle, trying to stem the burgeoning wave, reminding yourself that it wasn't real and there's no reason to be upset. And frankly, the last thing you want is to bring Tomura back here and have him see you in such a vulnerable state. 

He'd probably offer to fuck the sadness out of you, and then you'd have to slap him and it would be a whole thing. 

You want tea and to watch TV, not much feeling like sleeping anymore, but Tomura is tucked away right down the hall— or he's supposed to be. He's never done as he's told, so you're certain he's stalking about somewhere, snooping through your shit. The last thing you want is to talk to him right now, especially after earlier. 

You resent being made to feel like a prisoner in your own house. 

You know what? Tomura be damned, you're getting some tea. Hell yeah. Girl power.

You roll your eyes as you flip off your duvet, glaring at the mug shards in your garbage can.  Your favorite tea mug. Just another thing he's ruined. 

Slippers on your feet, you gently pad towards the door, opening it quietly once again to check and see. Of course, the bathroom door is open, and Tomura is not, in fact, in the tub where he's supposed to be. The water is still there, but he isn't. 

‘At least he didn't flood my bathroom.’

Quiet as a church mouse, you slink to the kitchen, trying with all your might not to make a singular sound. You don't even bother with the light, knowing it will attract his attention. The kettle proves a problem, but when he doesn't suddenly appear, you breathe a sigh of relief. Reaching for your second favorite mug, you place it gently on the counter while you wait for your tea to boil. 

You have a headache from the sobbing. Your throat aches and your eyes are itchy. Rubbing at them gently, you try to recall more details about the dream that rattled you. 

The ocean. It's always the ocean. Perfect and tranquil and then great and terrible; a living, breathing entity capable of instilling overwhelming fear in you. The creature— him— is its death emissary. A living embodiment of the true hidden power of the sea. 

The dreams unnerve you, even if it seems silly looking back on it. There are worse things than becoming a sea creature. Hell, on more than one occasion, you've wished and wished for just such a thing to happen. 

But something about the way it happened fills you with fear. Bones snapping, skin warping, drowning and in agony and an over-encompassing confusion. Being dragged under and out of your happy place against your will, taken from your comfort zone and pulled into a black, wretched abyss— 

And the way he taunts you. 

It's Tomura's voice, but it's coming from your head. It's your mind antagonizing itself, and that makes it worse somehow. 

You don't fear being like he is— even if it was possible, which it certainly isn't— or at least you don't think you do. It's strange to think that's what your mind uses to try to cripple itself while you sleep. 

There's certainly some element of terror knowing that beneath the waves, somewhere out there, are likely legions of whatever he is. According to him, they could wipe out humanity if they really wanted to— they just didn't want to. What happens if— or when— they decide they've had enough? 

Drowning. Something that you love and seek solace from turning against you and choking the life from you? It's self explanatory. No need to dissect that one. 

Nightmares are a daily occurrence, and you'd more or less gotten used to them. No more waking up screaming and crying like a tiny child. Or at least, you hadn't in a while. 

Until now. 

‘Just stress’ you tell yourself. And who wouldn't be in your position? Harboring a murderer in your home that's weirdly obsessed with sex and death and cannibalism? It sounds like the plot of a bad Netflix horror show. 

The tea smells immaculate, and while you can't watch TV, you should be fine cuddling up with a good book—

“Couldn't sleep?” 

You damn near drop your mug again, free hand clutching your chest in shock. 

“Jesus—”

“Oh, grow up. You're so easily spooked. You knew I was here.”

“You're supposed to be in the bathroom!” You point at it vehemently. 

“You really expect me to just sit in the dark while you snore away?”

“Yes! I do! And you should be grateful for it! The only reason you're here is—”

“Yeah, yeah, not this again,” he shakes his head, seeming genuinely tired of hearing it. “What are you doing?”

“Not that it's any of your business, but I'm getting tea, and then I'm going back to bed.”

“Woke up, then? You were passed out like a guppy earlier.” He arches a brow. 

“You better not have gone into my fucking room,” you simmer at him, jaw ticking. “And no. I just wanted some tea.”

His eyes narrow on you, moving closer to you from the door frame and stepping into the kitchen towards you. His hand comes up to your cheek, a peculiar expression on his features as he studies your face in an unnervingly close and intimate way. 

“Stop, just stop, I'm not in the goddamn mood—” 

“You've been crying.” 

Your face flushes, knocking his hand away from you. “No, I'm tired, and I've been rubbing my eyes.”

“And now you're lying,” he frowns, looking over every facet of your features. It feels like too much– almost as bad as the touching. It’s invasive and prodding and far, far too intimate from him. It makes something inside of you burn. 

“What's it to you, anyways?” Sneering, you turn away from him and angrily stir your teabag into the hot water. “I could jump out the window, and it wouldn't be your place to care.”

“Why were you crying?” 

“Are you kidding?” Your eyebrows raise in genuine confusion, which quickly morphs into blossoming irritation and rage. “You're fucking kidding me, right?” 

“No. I'm asking. I don't know if you've noticed, but I don't mince words.”

“Because I'm fucking done, Tomura!” You slam the mug on the counter, splashing searing hot water all over the upper part of your hand. You barely feel it in comparison to the white-hot rage that takes over. “Do you have any idea how terrifying and just— just— surreal this situation is?”

It boils over like water in the kettle. Such a small spark into an spitfire inferno of hatred and emotion. A whirlwind of bittersweet release. 

His eyes flicker towards your freshly injured hand, opening his mouth to speak before you cut him off. 

“You show up here covered in blood, having just murdered a bunch of stupid students whose only crime was partying on the beach! And you— you show up here, and you try to kill me! And then, when you're cornered, you won't leave! You refuse! You could have left last night, but you didn't, and you won't!”

“I told you—”

“I don't care! Every single fucking morning, I wait for the police to knock down my door and find you here! You will have ruined my life! I can’t go to work, I can’t– I can’t even exist in my own house! I'll go to prison in the best case scenario! Worst case? Underground government facility being tortured for information— information on you!”

He scoffs. “They wouldn't—”

“Yes! They would! You of all people should know they would! You know how deplorable and power hungry we are! Discovering a brand new intelligent species that they know nothing about? And they think I do? They’d find it a threat to national security! World security! It’s like aliens landing on the fucking beach! And even if I didn't know anything, they'd think I did! Not to mention the harboring a murderer part—”

“Calm down—”

“Yeah! Women love being told to calm down by men that have done them violence! Keep it up! See what happens!”

You're raving now, on the brink of tears again, everything welling up and overflowing. Every last emotion over the last few years suddenly feels sharp and cold and overwhelming, and you feel alone in your misery with no one to talk to. No one except him— the pinpoint of your crisis. 

“They’d kill me, Tomura, and they'd make it hurt. I'm disposable once you're captured. They'd pin the goddamn murders on me, and my family would never know the truth. I’d disappear forever, thrown in some hole, my life literally over! Every second you're here, I wait for that.”

To his credit, he's smart enough to shut his mouth. He blinks at you with that blank expression, head cocked. 

“And you won't leave! Why? Who fucking knows! I don't even think you know at this rate! You want to— to kill me or do whatever, so I'm literally staring down death living in my own home! You could snap and decide you want me dead at any minute! You could decide you don't care if you get captured and just cut my throat open! How am I supposed to sleep?” 

It's all too much. Tears spill out, even as you grit your teeth and try to veil the vulnerability. The last thing you need is him seeing you cry. 

“And I'm so tired, Tomura. I'm tired. I'm tired, and I'm— I'm scared. I don't want to die. I don't want to disappear. I want to live, and I want to start living. I've never lived. But I want to. I want to—” 

Your chest crumples with the impact pain of your own admittance, and the crushing weight of your emotions is too damn much. You collapse onto the floor, knees buckling beneath you. The tears flow freely, even as you dig your palms into your eyes. 

“I just— I want to know what it's like— what it's like to live. Just once.” 

Hiccupping, you try to bite back the tears. It hurts, your heart literally breaking for yourself. It sounds self-indulgent and damselish, but you've kept it pent for so long that the caustic nature of your feelings is starting to burn your insides, spewing forth like bubbling acid. 

“I just don't want to do this anymore,” you admit, defeated, voice breaking. “I just wanted to live a normal life. Live, get a good job, get married or— or a bunch of cats! I just wanted to be happy. Was that so much? Was it so unreasonable?” 

He doesn't say a word. He only stares with empty features, scarlet eyes unyielding. 

“I just—”

Another wave of pain. Another crushing front of tears. 

It feels like an hour, how long you sit on the filthy kitchen floor, choking on your own tears. God, it burns— the hate and rage and every other feeling that crawls up your throat like a fresh bout of vomit. Word vomit. That's what you've done. 

It just makes your tantrum all the harder to endure. Between bleary blinks, you can see his feet as you inadvertently kneel at them, nearly at your breaking point. 

You're exhausted. You want to curl onto your own floor and die. 

He grabs your hand and you do your damnedest to lurch away from him, beyond ready to try and smash his damn face in right now.

“Stop it, brat,” he snarls. “You've hurt yourself.”

“Whatever,” you sneer back, not in the mood for his company. “Just leave me alone.”

You go to stand, but he pushes you down back to the floor. Not hard, but firmly. 

“Stop fighting.”

Colder water. You feel it on your hand. It hurts, and you reel, but something strong keeps you in place. He’s expunging a paper towel across your wrist, getting water all over your fucking  floor–

“Idiot girl. You've hurt yourself.” 

“Yeah, you said that bit.”

He tends to your reddening hand, applying cold water despite your protests and hisses. 

“Do you have–” He pauses for a moment, seemingly trying to recall something. “--Ointment, I think it’s called? And bandages?”

“In the bathroom,” you sigh in defeat, a crippling embarrassment already settling in. Letting people see you cry is weak. Letting him see you cry is suicidal. It's yet another weapon he can use against you, just another goddamn thing he can use against you. “The cupboard.”

He slowly stands, eying you as he does before heading down the hallway to his designated bedroom. You hear him rifling around in there for a moment, hissing words in a language you either do not or cannot understand before returning to you. 

“Idiot,” his jaw grinds as he kneels beside you, grabbing your forearm. “I don't like spoiled goods.”

“I don't give two fucks what you like! I'm a person! Not goods! This is the entire problem!”

He says nothing, but you swear you see a smile on his lips as he dabs the ointment on your rapidly reddening skin, being abnormally gentle as he does. You're too tired and too worn to call him out. You just want to go curl up in bed and not think about any of this until morning. 

“Its going to hurt for a while, I've heard,” he deftly puts the bandages on your hand, somehow avoiding causing you further pain. “And you'll need it wrapped and using that ointment. Now, in the meantime—” 

“What're you— woah!” 

He hoists you up into his arms with ease, carrying you bridal style. 

“Hey! Put me down this instant! Put me down or I'll—”

“Calm down, your majesty,” he scoffs, escorting you through the kitchen and into the living room. “I'm helping. Some gratitude wouldn't go unnoticed.” 

“Gratitude? You want gratitude? I should— hey!” 

He drops you onto the sofa with a careless heave, moving to sit beside you afterward. You scoot towards the far end, keeping your feet towards him as he rests his ass right on the opposing side of the couch. You glare at him, ready to put up your fists if he makes a move, but he doesn't. He only stares forward towards the screen, looking bored. 

“What in the nine hells are you doing?” You glare at him, unsure of his odd motives. He’s like the sea itself; completely unpredictable. 

“You said you felt like a prisoner in your own home, so I’m showing you you’re not. Not right now anyway.” 

“By…. watching tv?” 

“Yes.” 

You narrow your eyes at him, but he seems entirely nonchalant, not even noticing you at all, and if he does, he says nothing. Only keeps his gaze forward towards the screen that’s been turned down so low that it’s hardly audible. 

“I figured out how to work it… mostly,” He says, a flicker of frustration in his eyes as he glares over at the remote. 

Your body and mind go numb, and you sigh. Your explosion has left you exhausted, and you’re in no mood to fight him. Your hand is in wretched pain and starting to peel, and worst of all, you didn’t even get your tea. There’s no point in asking him to make it either– he probably hardly knows what it is. 

“What do you want to watch?” You ask him with a huff, reaching for the remote. 

He ponders for a moment, and you’re grateful that he says nothing about your sudden change in attitude. “Horror.” 

“Horror? Like slasher or what?” “Something where humans are dying,” He sends you a foul grin, and you roll your eyes, flicking the buttons to search through channels. You browse for a few moments, but there isn’t much on this time of night. A few channels look promising, but you’re not in the mood. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to know what they are. You settle on an old favorite through the DVR. 

“You’ll have to settle for a slasher thriller.” 

He raises a brow at you again, unsure what to say. It dawns on you that he likely doesn’t know what that is. 

“You’ll like it,” You assure him, setting the remote down, and then your head. The couch isn’t the most comfortable place– a damn sight less comfortable than your bed– but you’ll take it over the awkwardness of trying to leave, ironically enough. 

The movie plays on, volume so low you can hardly make out the screams of the size-negative-two damsel in an even smaller dress screaming and pleading with the killer. Tomura watches enraptured, and it would be unnerving if it didn’t remind you of your first time watching horror movies, too young to entirely grasp the concept of what was really happening. Unattached. Unable to relate to the victim, the same way that he is now. Of course. He relates to the killer of all things. This isn’t true horror to him– it’s just life. 

Eventually, your mind starts to wander and your eyes start to drift, lids lazily closing and opening again in an instant. You’re exhausted, and you’re supposed to work tomorrow, but you’ll need to call it off. You can’t leave Tomura unguarded– not yet. You do not feel comfortable sleeping next to him, so the thought strikes you to try to stay awake all night. 

You might be able to manage. 

Surely. 

“She’s stupid trying to plead,” Tomura says offhandedly. “He’s already got his mind set on what he wants. She’d do better to fight back. Pleading and crying will get her nowhere.” 

“Mhmm,” Mumbling, you rub your eyes. “That’s what I always thought. But I guess it’s different when you’re actually staring death in the face.” 

“Not if you’re smart, or resourceful, or dangerous. I mean, surely it’s not hard to be just one of those things?”

“He’s a lot bigger than she is, he has a knife, and he wants her dead. It’s not a scenario most people face on a daily basis. I don’t know how it was for you growing up, but humans don’t have situations like that on the daily… usually.” 

“I was fine growing up because I was strong. Nothing threatens me.” 

“Humans do,” You mock him. 

“Not humans. Your irrational sense of logic, arrogance, and overwhelming greed sicken me, but don’t frighten me.”

“Go outside then.” 

“I said I’m strong, not stupid. Even the shark knows when he is outnumbered; when to fight and when to fall back.” 

“Sounds an awful lot like fear, fish-face.” You kick him lightly, unable to help yourself. It looks like he thinks to strike you back, but thinks better of it once he sees your dozing face. 

“Whatever, moron.” 

God, you’re tired. When will he go back to the bathroom? The movie is only a quarter in, but he doesn’t seem even the slightest bit tired. Doesn’t he need to sleep? Is sleep a vanity thing for his kind? Does he even need to? There’s bags under his eyes, but there always is. It’s just a part of his features to you at this point. 

Your mind drifts against your will, throbbing hand dulling in and out of your mind. You’re mortified about earlier, but he doesn’t seem fazed by it. He’s far too engrossed in the film to even care. Your bedroom awaits, but truthfully, you’re too embarrassed to move. You admitted you felt a prisoner in your own home, and he had to comfort you. It feels like he’s taking pity on you and that makes you ill. No, you won’t go back to your bed. Your nightmare ridden bed–

Fingers flex, eyelids flutter shut. The low screams of the movie hardly bother you at all: It’s not the first time you’ve fallen asleep to horror. Besides, what can be scarier than the monster you know? 

You catch yourself snoring slightly at some point, head crooked on the sofa arm in a fashion that is certain to give you a headache in the morning. Add it to the list of problems you’ll deal with tomorrow.

Are you really going to sleep this near him?

He’s an apex predator. If he wanted you dead, you would be. He wants something from you before you die, similar to the killer in the tacky movie you put on for him. He’s toying with his food, clearly one to indulge his inner whims at the risk of his own safety. Same as the helpless girl in the movie, you’re being pursued by him, his intentions clear, but he’s willing to put himself at risk to get what he wants first. Same as the villain being chased by the hero as he runs after his wayward quarry. 

Besides, you’ll be damned if you’ll relent first. You already showed first weakness. Like hell it’ll be twice in the same night. 

In fact, as a show of dominance, you stretch your feet out over him, making yourself comfortable. 

“Just what are you doing?” He blinks over at you, bewildered. 

“Getting comfortable. Go back to the tub if you don’t like it.” 

He hmphs, and you swear you catch him staring at your legs. He looks perplexed, like he’s never seen a true pair before. After a moment, he speaks. “Humans are weird. Toes are weird.” Soon, he’s prodding yours with a nail. You kick him. “Stop that. It tickles and I hate it.” 

“Like I said, weird,” He rests his head on his hand, frowning as he acquiesces to the situation. “Are you going to sleep already?” 

You don’t respond, grinding your teeth, eyes closed, hands curled tightly into your chest. 

“Aren’t you worried I’ll take you in your sleep? In one way or another?” 

“Do it then, pussy. I don’t even fucking care anymore.” 

You feel his eyes on you, clearly nonplussed by your reaction. It’s gone in a flash, same as all of his strange emotions when he lacks the willpower to hide them at first. “Whatever, weakling,” He seems oddly distressed. “Sleep then.” 

You intend to. If you wake up dead, so be it. Anything might be better than facing the morning. A burned hand, a grown ass fish to babysit, a life to safeguard– and you’re entirely out of food at this point. It’s going to be hell in a fucking handbasket. Maybe him strangling you in your sleep wouldn’t be so terrible. 

The heroine screams again, begging and pleading for her life for the second time, unable to outwit the killer this time– or is she? You don’t quite recall.