Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

His fingers quiver as he tightly grips the hem of his sweater. This is as vulnerable as he's capable of being; he's exposing the very essence of his suffering to you—a hermit who simply homed him. He has no soul to bear—it shriveled and died long ago—but this is pretty close.

He's too trusting.

Conversation between you two is average and holds inquiries intended to dig into his past—not to mention assessments that are downright invasive to determine his status as a person or visitor. Truthfully, there's little reason to reveal his darkest secret and place it under your scrutiny.

To soothe his nerves, he rationalizes the decision. He's endured your awkward treatment and check-ups out of respect. Despite your clear aversion to developing interpersonal relationships, you've allowed him space in your abode. Never put him out of his misery, even as the corpses and saccharine stench of decay continue to pile with the passing of each night.

He never intended to hurt anyone, but his heart—if there was ever one to begin with in the dark void nestled between his chest and abdomen—has grown cold after several instances of rejection and abandonment. His life is worth little, but he refuses to out himself because he still has the tiniest sliver of hope left to believe that things could be different this time. Your tolerance of his presence has to constitute for some degree of closeness.

And at this point, he's desperate for any semblance of warmth. The stretched, marred skin beneath his coat sleeves prickle at the thought. The sun is too daunting—but he discovered lighters and hot water had little effect on his state. The sensation of burning on his surface is incapable of satiating the cold emptiness he constantly feels inside.

He slowly begins to lift the bottom of his sweater. The toasty air of the living room still tickles his lower belly, causing his body to shiver harder; goosebumps speckle his blue flesh. He maintains unsteady eye contact with you during the process. Your gaze is concentrated, and the way your hands tighten around the shotgun in your grasp hints at how antsy you are, but you haven't brought up the firearm yet.

His slow, delicate breaths are beginning to quicken. He can't watch your reaction. He so very badly wants to believe you're different, and he thinks he might lose it if he witnesses your disgust and hatred in real time. He gulps and turns his head up to stare at the stained ceiling above him. This is it.

He doesn't have to see the aftermath of his choice to recognize the pain he's caused. He hears the wet squelch of bodies rupturing. The metallic scent of blood wafts up his nose as it splatters across the surrounding walls and ceiling. He tastes the acid of a little bile surging up his throat out of repulsion. Within seconds, the drunkard perched on the couch and the elderly woman nestled in the armchair became another pair of casualties to weigh on his guilty conscious. But you, inconceivably, survived. Now you understand why he's afraid.

"No... N-Not again."

You're shell-shocked. Your shaking arms struggle to lift the shotgun to point it directly at him as he shoves his sweater back down. He timidly peers up at your face, ashamed, and winces at what he sees. Your eyes are as wide as saucers and covered with a glossy sheen of wetness, pupils dilated and gauging whether to react with fight or flight. He can see how your irises shake, trying hard to not glance at the visceral mess behind him. Eyes truly are a window to Hell.

"What did you do?" The suddenness of your voice makes him flinch. It's fragile, as if the slightest misstep could abruptly send you over the edge. He can tell you struggled to push the syllables out to confront him by the way you tense your throat. You aren't one for conversation when you're upset.

He regrets ever showing you the true extent of his being. Remorse hangs heavy in the recesses of his mind. He yearns to be curled up on the couch again, hands interlocked protectively over his head as he listens to the lanky man beside him sip a cold beer in contemplation. He'd even suffer the awkwardness of lifting his arm again for your inspection if it meant you'd quit staring at him with such severe contempt.

"I didn't m-mean to." He pleads, holding his hands out, dry palms facing your direction. Whether it's to keep a safe distance or beckon you closer is lost on him. "I thought it would be d-d-different here. It n-never is. I didn't w-want this. I swear I d-didn't." His voice is weak and slurred. He'd be crying right now if his reflexes weren't so impaired due to his condition. He brings his shaking hands back to conceal his face in despair, as if to hide from your judgment at his atrocities. The bloody tips of his fingers ache as he clutches his stringy hair.

And then you drop the gun.

It's a relief that a shot didn't bolt out of it the moment it touched the floor. He peeks between his fingers to stare at the weapon, and then at you. You're shaking. "I can't take this anymore." You say aloud, and he can't tell if you're admitting that to yourself, him, or whatever spectral being cursed this planet to suffer.

Have you reached your breaking point? Have all the deaths you've failed to prevent—the loss of vulnerable people you agreed to shelter—accumulated in your psyche to destroy your logic? Truth be told, he's grateful.

He stumbles back as soon as you take a step toward him. Are you going to shove him out of the house? Strangle him with your bare hands to ensure his death is unhurried and agonizing? Honestly, he can't bring himself to be petrified or defensive. What had he expected the outcome of his choice to be? He deserves this for his ignorance.

He closes his eyes and tries to still his figure—tiny tremors make him shudder regardless—in anticipation of his retribution. Your arms hesitantly snake around his waist, as if you're readying to break his spine in half. He has no reason to seek change anymore. This is mercy for a slayer like him—a creature incapable of exchanging affection.

The relief of death never arrives.

Instead, there's a light pressure resting on his shoulder. He opens his eyes, concerned, and is befuddled by the sight before him. Rather than enacting vengeance for your lost allies, you cradle him closely, your hands caressing his back and the dip between his shoulders. He realizes the wetness trickling down the crook of his neck are your tears. You had to have been severely disturbed to want consolation from a killer.

Unsure of how to react, his arms hover behind you, uncertain. "Stay here. You can have the bed tonight." Your voice is raw with emotion. He was right; there is zero chance your thoughts are clear right now. The better decision would be to shove you back—to take that shotgun and stick it under his chin himself—but he was never a great person. He's too ravenous for contact to reject this.

His hands settle on your back, initially cautious, but his hold swiftly tightens; you're practically crushed together. His sweater shifts against the hole in his abdomen under your weight, and the soft fabric brushes the dark flesh inside. He's tempted to make another metaphor out of it. One about how the warmth of an embrace could compensate for the emptiness inside his heart. He resists for your sake.

For the first time in potentially ever, he almost feels full. Like there isn't a constant void within him that has deprived him of everything and everyone he desires. It isn't quite enough to heat him from the inside out, but it signifies a new beginning, and he thinks he could find meaning with you by his side.

"O-Okay. I won't l-leave."

Chapter Text

In the dead of the night, when the stars have disappeared and it's time to put heads to rest, he creeps into the privacy of your bedroom. He winces at the shrill sound of the door creaking in attempt to alert you of his intrusion, but he's placated by the way you have yet to stir beneath your quilt.

He pauses at the edge of your bed to hover above your slumbering form. He observes the slow rise and fall of your chest, untroubled by the rattling of visiting savages at your windows; you're completely serene as you sleep. It's a staggering difference compared to the usual crease between your brows.

He saunters toward the opposite side from where you're dozing and lifts the bedspread to slip beneath it. The sensation of his coat and jeans against the duvet is discomforting under the blanket, but he's unwilling to strip a single layer. He can't afford to sacrifice any warmth, not even for the sake of contentment.

After he's settled, he's startled to see you've awaken. Instead of questioning his repeated invasion—you're used to this nightly routine by now—you're content to simply stare and let the quiet be undisturbed. Similarly, he isn't quite aching to have a conversation.

It begins with you gesturing with a little wave to beckon him closer.

He shuffles to you, anticipating how you intend to respond; as per usual, he's initially unsure about how to react as you loosely wrap your arms around him. It's always awkward at first; you haven't been this open to contact in a long, long time. He can briefly smell the stench of alcohol on your breath before you hide your face into the snug cranny between his neck and shoulder.

He soon wraps his arms around you in return, compensating for your unsecured hold with a compact hug. You shudder at the coolness of his hands seeping into your turtleneck—you didn't put enough attention into your attire to change into "real" pajamas—but you refuse to retreat. Neither of you question the way he weaves his legs with yours or how you lightly stroke the sliver of his hip peeking from beneath his sweater.

Your unspoken relationship is symbiotic in a way. You keep him and his secret safe in your abode, and in return he whispers to you his suspicions about who you need to dispose of before your companions are slaughtered. And after darkness shrouds your house and the field of rotting wildflowers surrounding it, when everyone has retired into their preferred rooms to escape the horrors of being awake, you hold each other to cope with your underlying suffering.

It's painfully domestic—a concept he's clearly unfamiliar with—but your gestures subtly show how experienced you are compared to him.

He vaguely recalls a couple instances where he saw a picture frame with a photo of a blonde woman placed neatly on the little table close to the entrance of your house; its yellow hue and frayed edges indicate its age. However, there was interestingly little dirt on its surface when he inspected it—like it's held frequently.

For someone who's adamant about seeing human interaction as a chore, he thinks you're a little softer than you choose to let people see. You try hard to hide your weaknesses, but he's witnessed the way you awkwardly cradle the young girl in the kitchen as she weeps over her grief. How you listen to the moral speeches of the cheerful man in your office despite your opposing pessimism. The pained look of nostalgia for a time long since passed in your eyes as you fondly pet the chunky cat while it sits on the hallway dresser beneath a portrait of an equally hideous feline.

But unlike you, he isn't the type to tear open the layers of one's flesh and heart to get insight into their past and regrets. Even though you hadn't offered him the same grace the first few days he resided in your home, he resists questioning the origin of your antisocial nature. You both have skeletons in your closets to hide—perhaps literally in his case.

Besides, he doesn't need to ask about your life before to see how you're lonely now. You're two sides of the same stained coin.

Your hand is steadily crawling up his torso.

His breathing quickens out of curdling anxiety. This isn't the type of touch you usually partake in; you're toying with death the way your fingers brush the outer edge of skin surrounding his abdominal cavity. Dread swirls around his head—what if you get hurt as a result of this depraved exploration? He'd be devastated if you perished as all the others have, especially if it was the result of your own recklessness.

In the span of seconds—uncharacteristic compared to his typical speed—he's up and straddling your hips. His hands are wrapped around your wrists, carefully pressing your hands against his front. "B-Be careful." He needs to guide the trajectory of this exchange to prevent you—the only person who has ever accepted his true self—from becoming another tragedy.

"Get off. Now."

Your expression is difficult to see in the shadows encompassing your bedroom, but he knows you're afraid. He can tell by the way your pulse rapidly beats beneath his thumbs.

In his haste to singlehandedly direct the situation to ensure your safety, he was inconsiderate of how exposed you are. It's a painful reminder that you two are fundamentally different—your instincts will always plead with you to be distrustful of the uncanny being sharing your space.

"S-Sorry..."

He murmurs, shakily releasing your forearms as he awkwardly lifts himself from your lap; he sits at the end of your bed. You stumble to sit up as well, but he ignores your pointed stare. Guilt pools in his stomach. He's convinced he's destroyed his singular chance at having a semblance of a connection with another person.

"It's alright. We can still..." Your sentence trails off, and he tries to not get his hopes up. "I just need to sit up." You struggle to explain, but he understands your point nonetheless. You need to have a degree of power as well—to be able to protect yourself.

When he finally looks at you again, you're rubbing one of your arms in uncertainty. However, the tension in your body visibly deflates when he scoots between your legs; this time, you don't object as he gently clasps his hands around your arms to pull you closer. You don't even acknowledge your hair raising in response to his infectuous body temperature.

He allows you to roll his sweater up as you caress his abdomen, grazing hair and blemishes as you patiently take your time to reach his hollow. He'd be relieved for the lack of light in the room if he wasn't so concentrated on keeping his composure over the sensation of your petting. It's not the first time you've seen his hidden spot, but you haven't had the chance to inspect it so closely before—not that he ever thought he'd let you—and he's overly conscious of his imperfections.

You've reached the cusp again. You glance up at his eyes in search of approval, and you swallow when he hesitantly nods. He isn't sure how he's survived in rejection and isolation for so long. He's taken the mantle of keeping his pullover out of obstruction for you; his fingers are shaking around the hem as he watches your hands disappear inside of him.

He heaves a grateful sigh.

You've prevailed again; there's astonishingly no blood or gore splattered across your firm mattress. However, his breath abruptly hitches when he feels you running your fingers along the layers and ridges of dark flesh inside his orifice. You realize it's not wet like you expected when you press the tips of your fingers together to determine any organic residue.

You move to reach impossibly deeper, and you're both in disbelief at how it's even possible as you witness the length of your arms gradually being swallowed by the recess in his torso. You don't know what you intend to get out of this—you could very well die at any second for the sake of satiating your curiosity. Testing the waters? Seeing if there's an end to his emptiness?

And then you're seizing something within him. Neither of you know what. There's no shape or texture to describe; it's inconceivable.

He gasps and lurches forward, gripping your shoulders tightly. You haven't let go, and he's trembling as he tries to keep his own body weight from collapsing on top of you. He thinks you've reached the singular star in his personal black hole of wickedness.

"W-What did y-you...?"

You don't respond and instead lean down slowly, careful not to shift whatever it is that you're cradling—he'd like to believe it's his life's essence in your hands, the heart and soul he once thought had died for good—and you press your forehead against his. His breath mingles with yours as he pants and shakily stares at you with deep, indescribable sentiment.

You both slightly smile. It's an ugly sight with your yellow, stained teeth and his barely shifted skin—his attempt at replicating standard expressions of emotion—but it's your personal, shared moment of joy in this hell of a world. He never wants this to end, and you've never been so bodily and spiritually engrossed in another person before.

This is the pinnacle of intimacy.