iansdreamer
iansdreamer
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iansdreamer ¡ 2 days ago
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bouncing up and down on it all day and night til we both pass out then repeat
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iansdreamer ¡ 4 days ago
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The (remade of last) Burning Nightmare || MIIIIIITO
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Pairing: Mito/Christian yu x Fem!Reader ౨ৎ
Genre: Horror, thriller, dark romance, angst, and fluff. ౨ৎ
Warnings: This story contains murdering, drugging, smut, stockholm syndrome, self harm, attempted suicide, and psychological terror. All of this is fiction and not depicted from DPR IANs real life. ౨ৎ
Word count: 1.1k ౨ৎ
Tags: @archivistvaultio ౨ৎ
₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨��‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊
The numbness was a quiet thief.
It crept through your veins like cold water, dulling every sensation until you barely recognized yourself. The world outside the cracked windows—the sun that rose and fell, the leaves that rustled in the wind—felt distant, like a dream you could no longer reach. Your skin was a dull canvas, an empty landscape where pain and joy had both long since faded.
You moved through the house like a shadow, your footsteps soft against the worn wooden floors, your voice barely a whisper when you spoke.
At night, when Mito was asleep, you would sit alone in the bathroom, staring at the pale reflection in the cracked mirror.
The mirror didn’t lie—your eyes were hollow, lips cracked, and your hands trembled slightly.
One evening, driven by a desperate need to feel something real, you pressed your nails into the pale skin of your forearm. Just hard enough to break the surface, just enough for the sharp sting to prick your senses awake. The thin line of blood that welled beneath the skin was an anchor in the swirling fog inside your head.
You traced the line again and again, the red bloom growing, the ache finally flooding through.
It was cruel comfort.
You hid the wounds beneath long sleeves and avoided Mito’s gaze, but he saw.
He always saw.
Mito never said a word. He never asked you to stop.
There was a weight in his eyes—a guilt that seemed to settle deeper than his blind left eye.
He felt responsible. How could he not? He was the cage you were trapped in. The nightmare that had stolen you from the world.
One afternoon, as you sat curled in the corner of the living room, the cool light filtering through the curtains, Mito sat beside you silently. His fingers hovered near yours, but he didn’t reach out.
Your breath was shallow, your thoughts dark and tangled.
“I’m tired,” you whispered, voice cracking.
“Then sleep.” Mito’s voice was soft, almost a purr.
“Not like that," You breathed.
"I'm tired of this. All of it. I want out."
Mito leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.
“Me too.”
You gave a bitter laugh.
“Then what is this?” You gestured between you two, the whole place that felt like was burning you alive.
“It's what's made for us to survive." he said simply.
--
Days stretched into a blur.
You barely spoke. When you did, your words were clipped, distant.
At night, the darkness in your mind grew heavy.
One evening, when the house was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioning, you crept out of the bedroom while Mito slept. Your steps were slow and deliberate as you crossed the hallway to the attic—the one room Mito never entered.
You knew it held old forgotten things, but it also had a sturdy rafter hanging from the ceiling.
Your heart pounded wildly, but the numbness had turned to something sharper—desperation.
Your fingers trembled as you tied the coarse rope into a noose.
Tears blurred your vision as you stepped onto the chair beneath it.
The silence swallowed your sobs.
You looked at the small slit of light coming through the attic window and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
And then—
Footsteps. The chair scraping against the floor.
A voice. Low. Steady. Not angry, not afraid.
“Don’t.”
The noose loosened.
The chair moved.
Strong arms wrapped around you from behind.
Mito.
His blind eye glistened with unshed tears.
“I won’t let you go.”
You trembled in his hold, the rope slack between trembling hands.
“Why?” you whispered, voice breaking.
“Because I need you. Because you’re not alone.”
Mito’s arms held you like you were made of glass, delicate and trembling.
The noose hung loosely behind you, swaying slightly in the stale attic air.
Your breath came in ragged sobs, body shaking against his chest. You wanted to push him away, to disappear into the numbness again, but you couldn’t. Not this time.
“Why?” you repeated, voice barely audible.
He tightened his grip just enough to steady you, but not to hurt.
“Because,” he said, voice low and raw, “even when you don’t want me here, I’m not going anywhere.”
You buried your face into his shoulder, tasting the faint scent of rain and something bittersweet—his quiet regret.
“I don’t want to be here,” you whispered, fingers curling into his shirt. “I don’t want this life. I hate being broken.”
“No,” he breathed into your hair. “You’re not broken. You’ve given all you had. You’ve been fighting for so long, and I’m sorry I was the cage. But we’ll find the way out.”
You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze—the one unblinded eye, shining with something that wasn’t madness. Something like… hope.
“How?” you asked, voice breaking.
Mito’s hand cupped your cheek gently.
“Together.”
--
Days passed in a blur of slow healing.
You stayed close to him, leaning into the warmth of his presence, even when your mind screamed to run, to disappear.
You began to share your fears—whispered confessions in the dark hours when only the moon was awake.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” you admitted one night, eyes glistening.
“Then we’ll find out together,” Mito promised.
He never pushed, never forced.
He just listened.
And that was enough.
--
One afternoon, sunlight spilled through the tall windows, catching dust motes that danced lazily in the air.
Mito sat cross-legged on the floor, sketching in his worn notebook.
You watched him quietly from the doorway, your fingers nervously playing with the hem of your shirt.
Without looking up, he said softly, “You’ve stopped hiding the marks.”
Your breath caught.
“I’m scared it'll tear me more if i don't.”
He closed the notebook, meeting your eyes.
“I'll piece you back together, bit by bit if i have to. Even if i was the one who caused it.”
The weight of his words settled deep inside you.
For the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe.
--
Weeks later, the day came when Mito took you by the hand.
“Come,” he said softly.
You stepped outside together.
The sunlight was blinding, a warm, golden embrace that felt foreign and wonderful.
The breeze carried the scent of pine and fresh earth.
You took a shaky breath.
“It’s real,” you whispered.
He smiled, squeezing your hand.
“It’s our new beginning.”
--
Under the wide, open sky, you felt something stirring inside—a fragile seed of hope, watered by kindness and quiet love.
Mito looked at you with a tenderness that made your heart ache and soar all at once.
“Welcome back,” he said.
And you smiled.
Because hopefully, this time you--
No.
You guys are free.
Together.
No longer suffering a Burning Nightmare.
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iansdreamer ¡ 6 days ago
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Hello, your Xreaders drown me and I LOVE it. Say, may I request would you make another version of The Burning Nightmare? It was so good and I want to bite Mito for it. <3.
I LOVE UR APPRECIATION FOR MY WORK THANK U!! And of course I take any suggestions, but tell me how you would like this version so I can get an idea❤️
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iansdreamer ¡ 8 days ago
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compilation of dpr live saying iite cool ij his songs
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iansdreamer ¡ 16 days ago
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Spoon & Fork || Christian Yu
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Pairing: Dom!Christian yu x Sub!Fem!Reader౨ৎ
Genre: Smut, tiny bit of food play, degrading and praising kink. ౨ৎ
Inspo: Unreleased song named "Spoon & Fork" by DPR IAN, played in a Instagram live in 2021.
Warning: This story does not have aftercare unfortunately, so you'll just have to imagine it im so sorry. 💔 ౨ৎ
Word count: 2.1k ౨ৎ
₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊
The clock had just passed midnight.
The world outside your apartment window was hushed, except for the faint buzz of city life bleeding in through the cracked glass. Inside, the kitchen was dim—only the soft golden underglow of the stove light painted the space in warm shadows.
You sat on the countertop in your party dress, legs swinging slightly, a half-full wine glass dangling loosely in your fingers. Your lips were tinted a soft red from the merlot, and your eyes, heavy with alcohol and something deeper, stayed locked on him.
Christian stood opposite of you, leaning against the fridge. One hand shoved into his pocket. The other held the wine bottle loosely, his thumb tracing over the label without looking. His eyes hadn’t left you for a while.
He didn’t need to speak. You felt him staring. You knew that look. Like you were the only thing in the room. Maybe the only thing in the world.
There was silence, but it was the warm kind. The kind where two people don’t need to talk because the air between them already knows what’s about to happen.
You broke it first, with a quiet sip and a teasing smirk. “You’re staring, Christian.”
His lips curved just slightly. “You taste like something expensive tonight.”
You cocked your head, lifting a brow. “From the wine or from earlier?”
That crooked smile of his deepened. “Both.”
He set the bottle down gently on the counter beside you and stepped forward. His eyes were darker now—not from the lighting, but from the desire that curled in them like smoke. His fingers slid across your knee, up your thigh, slow and warm, and he leaned in.
You didn’t stop him. You tilted your chin, letting him close the distance. And when he kissed you, it was deep—syrupy and heady, like red wine melting into your bloodstream.
His tongue traced along your bottom lip, and you opened to him, letting the kiss deepen. You felt the taste of him. The message. The quiet craving beneath his silence.
You got his message from the taste.
When he pulled away, his breath lingered against your lips. He still had that half-drunken haze in his eyes, but there was clarity too—like he was reading every thought racing through your mind.
"I know what you're thinking," he murmured, placing his hands on your thighs, thumbs brushing bare skin through the slit of your dress. "But I was just dropping you off here, baby."
You gave him a pout, one he couldn’t ignore. You reached out and started toying with the loose knot of his tie, tugging gently, your eyes wide and sweet with playful seduction.
“Can’t you stay a little?” Your voice was soft, nearly a whisper, dripping in temptation.
He stared at you like he was already ruined. “Holy shit…” he muttered, breathless. “You don’t fight fair.”
You leaned in, close enough for your nose to brush his. “I don’t want fair. I want you.”
Christian exhaled a shaky breath as you slowly wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. Your wine glass clinked lightly against the counter when you set it down, your fingers now grabbing the silver spoon beside the half-eaten dessert you’d shared earlier.
Without a word, you brought the spoon to his lips—and offered it. He locked eyes with you, then took it into his mouth.
The way he wrapped his lips around the silver, the way his tongue played with the taste, made you shiver.
He pulled away and leaned in. “I love what you’re eating…”
You grinned slowly, pulse fluttering. “So let’s get the spoon and—”
“Fuck?” he finished for you with a soft laugh, low and dangerous.
He took the spoon from your hand, dipped it into the wine bottle, and dragged it along your bottom lip, smearing it lazily like a painter. He licked it off, slowly, savoring you. You moaned softly.
You reached for his tie again and began unwrapping him like a gift, your fingers brushing over the warm skin of his chest as you undid each button of his shirt.
He leaned into your touch, palms sliding up your thighs, gripping softly. His breath had gone shallow. You felt the way your presence undid him, piece by piece.
Once his shirt was off, he reached behind you, found the zipper of your dress, and eased it down with deliberate slowness. You felt the fabric peel off your shoulders like a whisper. The kitchen air brushed your skin—cool against your flesh.
Your bra came off next, unclipped effortlessly by his rapid fingers.
You kissed him again—messy, hungry—your arms locking around his neck, pulling him into you like you needed him to breathe.
When you finally pulled back, your lips were red, swollen, tingling. He looked like he wanted to dive right back in.
"Calm down baby, we still have the rest of the night," you teased, brushing your thumb across his wet bottom lip.
He smiled, breathless. “I can’t help how much I want you, darling…”
His kisses trailed from your jaw to your throat, down to your collarbone. He hovered just above your breasts, looking up at you like he was asking for permission before his mouth descended.
When he took your nipple between his lips, sucking softly, you sighed. His hand massaged your other breast, fingers drawing lazy, perfect circles around your sensitive nipple. You arched into him, head tilting back as your breath hitched.
You reached down instinctively, your fingers slipping past your panties to circle your clit—slow, desperate.
He noticed immediately. Caught your wrist.
"Patience, right dear?" he whispered with a devilish grin, eyes heavy-lidded with lust.
You kissed him again, tongue teasing his lip. “I need you so bad…”
His hands gripped your hips tighter. “Want me to take you right here on the counter?”
You bit your lip. “Fuck yes…”
He growled softly, teeth grazing your neck. “You’re such a slut,” he whispered, grinning as he pushed your panties aside and knelt between your legs.
You let out a trembling breath as his hands pressed your thighs open. His mouth found your inner thighs, kissing, teasing, until you were whimpering.
When his lips finally touched your clit, you gasped.
“Don’t tease me…” you breathed, tugging on his hair.
He looked up, eyes dark. “Yes ma’am.”
His tongue was heaven—slow, sure, methodical. He licked you with purpose, with hunger, with reverence. His fingers slid inside you next, curling at just the right spot, making your legs shake.
“Fuck—Christian…”
He didn’t stop. He wouldn’t.
Your orgasm built fast, pressure mounting—And then, suddenly, he pulled away.
You sat up fast, heart pounding. “What the fuck, Christian?”
But then your eyes fell to the bulge in his pants. He was rock hard. His cock strained against the fabric, practically twitching.
You reached for his belt.
He pushed your hands aside. “You’re too slow,” he said roughly, yanking the zipper down himself. “I need to fuck you.”
Your breath hitched the moment he freed himself. His cock was flushed and aching, thick and slick with pre-cum that glistened at the tip. You stared for a moment—utterly mesmerized—before you met his eyes again.
"You need me that bad?" you murmured, voice sultry, teasing as you spread your legs just a little wider on the counter.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, a small laugh escaping, but there was no amusement in his eyes. Just hunger.
“Shut up,” he muttered, crashing forward. His teeth caught your neck as he bit down—not too hard, just enough to sting. Enough to claim. And all while lining himself up with your entrance.
You could feel the head of his cock teasing at your slick folds. He dragged it up and down, slow, letting the wetness coat him in a sticky glide. You squirmed beneath him, moaning.
“Stop with your games and put it in me already, asshole,” you smacked his shoulder lightly, seriously. That grin of his returned—cocky, unbothered, fucking perfect. And then, finally, he did it.
He pushed in.
Inch by inch, he filled you. You gasped, your pussy stretching around him, your thighs tightening against his hips. It was overwhelming—the heat of him, the weight, the delicious pressure. You clutched onto his biceps like you were drowning.
"You're so tight, my love," he groaned, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His voice was low, frayed at the edges with restraint. You could feel his pulse racing.
He didn’t move at first. He just stayed there, inside you, as your walls fluttered around him, adjusting.
You both panted into the stillness—wine-sweet air thick with sex and longing. Your fingers ran up the nape of his neck, threading into his hair.
"Fuck... you feel like home," he whispered, voice cracked with sincerity.
Then he pulled back.
And thrust in.
Slowly.
Again.
And again.
Each movement built heat inside your belly, dragging friction over nerves that begged for more. You clung to him, lips brushing against his cheek, your moans coming in stuttered breaths.
"Faster..." you whispered into his ear, needy, trembling.
"Faster?" he echoed with a smirk.
Oh, you shouldn’t have said that.
He drew back—and this time, slammed into you.
Your mouth dropped open in a moan that echoed off the kitchen walls. The wet sounds of your bodies filled the air—his hips slapping against your thighs, your pussy squelching around him with every brutal, perfect thrust.
His rhythm was relentless. He pounded into you like he was trying to erase the space between your souls.
You clawed down his back, eyes rolling back as pleasure splintered through your body. You were so close—so damn close.
“Christian…” your voice cracked, hips bucking wildly beneath him. “I’m gonna cum—”
“No the fuck you aren’t,” he growled.
He slammed into you even harder, his pace punishing now. His hands grabbed your hips, pulling you into every thrust. Your body jerked with the force of him.
Every time he pulled out, you thought you might break from the emptiness—and every time he filled you again, you shattered.
“Not yet,” he hissed into your ear. “You cum when I say.”
The dominance in his tone made your walls clench around him again, which only made him grunt deeper.
“Fuck, baby… you like when I talk to you like that?”
You could only nod, crying out as his cock hit that perfect spot inside you again and again.
He reached between your bodies, finding your clit with two fingers. He rubbed small, fast circles in perfect rhythm with his thrusts. Your thighs trembled violently around his waist.
“I can’t hold it—” you choked out, your body jerking uncontrollably.
“Yes, you can. Just a little more. Be good for me, sweetheart.”
He kissed you then—messy, deep, tongues tangling as your moans spilled into his mouth.
And then, finally—“Now,” he breathed. “Cum for me.”
Your orgasm tore through you like fire. Your whole body arched off the counter, a loud, uncontrollable cry echoing from your chest. Your cunt pulsed around him, gripping him so tightly he nearly came right then.
“Fuuuck, that’s it…” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut as your body milked him.
He didn’t stop moving.
He wasn’t done with you yet.
He pulled out suddenly, and you whimpered from the loss. Before you could ask anything, he gripped your hips and turned you around.
“Hands on the counter. Ass up.”
You obeyed instantly, chest pressing against the cold surface of the marble as your hands braced for impact.
He lined himself up again and slid in with one smooth thrust from behind. You gasped, one hand flying up to cover your mouth as he started fucking you again.
This angle was different—deeper, rougher. You could feel everything.
His hand came down to spank your ass, the slap echoing through the kitchen. “You’re still dripping, baby. I didn’t know you could get wetter.”
You moaned something incoherent, too fucked out to respond.
He leaned over your back, his breath hot against your shoulder. “You’re mine like this. No one else gets this.”
You nodded, pressing your ass back against him. “Only yours…”
His rhythm faltered. You felt him twitch inside you.
“I’m gonna cum…” he rasped, pulling out just enough before slamming back in, chasing his high. “Where do you want it?”
“Inside,” you gasped, reckless and raw. “Please.”
That broke him.
With one final, brutal thrust, he stilled. His body tensed. He grunted into your shoulder as warm, thick ropes of cum spilled inside you. You felt every pulse, every breathless tremor of his release.
He stayed there for a moment—forehead resting against your spine, both of you panting like you’d just run through a thunderstorm.
Eventually, he pulled out, and you felt his cum drip down your thigh.
Christian kissed the small of your back.
You turned to look at him over your shoulder, your smile soft, fucked-out, glowing.
He cupped your jaw gently, brushing your sweaty hair away from your cheek. “You’re trouble,” he whispered, kissing your forehead.
You giggled, voice hoarse. “You love trouble.”
He smirked and helped you down from the counter, steadying your shaky legs.
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iansdreamer ¡ 18 days ago
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Merry go (happy ending) || Christian Yu
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Pairing: Christian Yu x Fem!Reader ౨ৎ
Genre: Fluff, heartbreak, bittersweet ౨ৎ
Inspo: The song Merry Go, by DPR IAN on his album "MIITO (Moodswings In To Order)" ౨ৎ
Word count: 2k ౨ৎ
₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊
Tags: @dlme08
The rain was pattering outside his window, soft at first—like fingertips on glass—but gradually building into a restless symphony of storm and sorrow. Each drop slid down the pane like the seconds he was losing, time running through his fingers again.
He was in a rush. Always in a rush.
But this time, it was different.
This time, it mattered.
He cursed under his breath, slamming his palm against the steering wheel. His car had broken down again—this time in the middle of the highway. The engine had coughed, sputtered, and finally died, and the headlights, long flickering like they had one foot in the grave, gave out entirely.
You always told him to fix it. Over and over.
But he never listened. Not about the car. Not about anything.
Now, with the sky barely blushing blue and the streetlights flickering out like tired stars, he sat stranded, helpless, and too far away.
He slammed his fist into the wheel, head falling forward, his forehead resting there in defeat. His breathing was shallow, rapid. Then slower. And then, suddenly, there were tears. At first, he tried to fight them—like always—but this time he couldn’t. They spilled. Heavy, hot, and angry.
He picked up his phone.
5:30 AM.
He was late.
He missed your flight.
His vision blurred, the cold light of the screen glowing in the darkness of the car. Panic twisted through his chest like a knife. But even as the tears fell, he didn’t give up. He couldn’t.
He hailed the first taxi he could find, yelling into his phone, voice cracking as he gave the driver the destination: LAX.
By the time he arrived, the airport was already alive. Bright lights, sterile air, people moving like static through the halls of departure. He ran—ran like his entire soul depended on it. He pushed past faces, past security lines and escalators, past time zones and memories. He searched until his lungs burned.
Then—he saw you.
You were standing near the gate, your suitcase at your side, hair gently tangled from the wind outside. And for a split second, everything froze. You hadn’t boarded yet. You were still there.
His chest collapsed with relief, and without hesitation, he broke into a sprint. The moment you turned, he wrapped his arms around you, lifting you off the ground. You gasped, more in disbelief than fear, and when he set you down, his eyes were red, tear-streaked, and wild with emotion.
“Don’t leave me…” he whispered, voice trembling.
You reached up, your thumb brushing a tear from his cheek. You were calm, heartbreakingly calm. “I have to,” you said softly.
He cupped your face in both hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks, trying to memorize everything—the shape of your lips, the small crease between your brows, the way your eyes looked when you were trying not to cry.
“You know I’ll long for the boring nights we used to rock?” he whispered, a faint smile breaking through the grief. “I remembered the last time I was at your spot. These might be unknown dead ends… but we were all that.”
He leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead in a kiss that ached like goodbye.
Then he held you. Just held you.
But before he could say anything else…
He woke up.
Cold sweat clung to his skin like static. His chest was heaving, heart galloping like it was still running through that terminal.
Another nightmare.
Not a dream. Never a dream.
It had been months now, but that nightmare haunted him like clockwork.
Because in reality, he never made it in time.
You never waited.
And he never got that goodbye you both had longed for.
He checked his phone again.
5:32 AM. That hour. That cursed hour. Always lingering like a ghost.
He blinked against the blue light, rubbing his eyes as if doing so would erase the image of you. But it never worked.
He must’ve passed out again last night, midway through reliving your memories. He always did that—ruminated on the past, tried to dissect every what-if like an autopsy. It was a habit now. A ritual of pain.
He remembered that specific moment with perfect clarity—the last time you tried. The rain was pouring then, too. The universe had a twisted sense of humor.
You stood at his door, drenched and trembling, mascara smeared like war paint, eyes swollen from crying. You had begged him to open the door, just like every other time your worlds had started slipping apart.
He opened it.
And maybe… maybe that was his biggest mistake.
Because he let hope in again. He let you in again.
You collapsed into his arms like you belonged there, like home was a person and he was it. He carried you inside as if you were weightless, as if you hadn’t both been dragging invisible baggage behind you for months.
You sat on his lap later that night, both of you cross-legged on the couch in dim lighting, legs tangled, hands framing each other's faces. Your fingers brushed through his hair gently as your gaze locked with his, unwavering.
“What do I do to you?” you asked, quiet and deadly.
The question pierced him.
You never really understood what you did to him—not fully—because he never opened up. But that question…
It cracked something wide open.
“You make me feel like I’m on a merry go,” he whispered.
You blinked. “Merry go?”
You knew what he meant. But you needed him to say it.
“I keep spinning,” he said. “Round and round. Same place, different day. Always hoping it'll stop. But it never does.”
His grip on your hips tightened. His eyes shimmered with unshed guilt.
“I don’t know if I can keep doing this back and forth… I’m a mess, darling. You know that.”
You said nothing. What could you say? It was all true.
So instead, you pulled his head to your chest, running your hands along his back beneath his shirt. His skin was warm. Familiar. Real.
This… this was the comfort you craved. Not the yelling. Not the slammed doors or bitter silences. Just this—him, close, breathing with you.
You’d been there too many times—love, break, repair, repeat.
You both knew how it started and how it always ended.
But that didn’t stop you from missing each other.
Even now, he missed you with everything inside him.
You took pieces of him with you when you left, like shards of a mirror—reflections of who he used to be when he was with you.
The night before you fled, you were lying in bed together. The windows were foggy from the rain. Your head was on his chest, your arm draped across his torso.
You tilted his face toward you, gently.
“Can we be forever?” you asked.
His breath caught.
You felt his heart race. Loud. Erratic.
“What do you mean?” he asked, playing innocent. But you could see through the cracks in his mask.
“Don’t play stupid, baby,” you whispered, voice feather-soft. “Just tell me if this can genuinely work.”
You were brave in that moment. Braver than he’d ever been.
But he couldn’t lie. He couldn’t give you what you wanted.
“I can’t,” he finally said.
And then, even softer, almost inaudible—“I’m scared.”
You understood.
God, you understood.
You gave up your fear to be with him.
But he couldn’t do the same.
So, while he slept—breathing softly, peacefully, unaware—you booked your flight.
You sent him a message before the sun rose:
|| I’m leaving. If you care… come see me before I go. ||
When he woke up the next morning and saw your message, it felt like drowning. Like waking up underwater.
He sent you a flood of texts. One read:
|| Haven’t I made it any further? You know I told you I was nervous... I didn’t mean to murder the moments I had with you. ||
But he forgot something.
Something his mind buried so deep in regret it erased it entirely.
That same night, before bed, he had said:
|| I’ve been telling myself i could be better off alone. ||
And he said it casually. Like it meant nothing. Like it was just air.
But it meant everything.
And now… it’s been a while. Time moved on.
But he hasn’t.
He still feels like he’s on that merry-go-round. Only now, you’re not there.
The spinning never stopped.
He went on a world tour after that. Music was all he had left to cope.
Then, one night, his tour brought him to the city you moved to. He never knew where you went—never asked. Maybe he was too ashamed. Maybe he didn’t think he deserved to know.
You, however, knew.
You stayed quietly updated. You knew about the album he released after you. You knew the song he wrote for you.
And despite everything—despite the pain—you bought tickets. Third row. Not close enough to be seen. But close enough to see him.
When the concert started, he walked out into the blinding lights and roaring crowd.
But somehow, someway… he saw you.
You didn’t wave. You didn’t smile.
But he saw you. Instantly.
His breath caught. His fingers tightened around the mic. He kept singing.
But something shifted.
And then… the song. Your song.
The one that bled you onto paper.
As it played, he locked eyes with you. And the world stopped spinning.
His voice cracked, raw with emotion. He cried. You did too.
No one else noticed. But somehow… they felt it. The emotion in his voice. The ghost in the crowd. The pain in every note.
They cried too.
Fighting their own demons.
The song ended.
You left.
Before the encore. Before he could find you. Before anything could start again.
And he didn’t chase you.
Because for the first time…
He knew.
It was time to fully let go.
And that…
That was the last time you ever saw each other.
—
But the story didn’t end there.
Not quite.
—
Weeks passed.
The song lingered like a bittersweet echo in your heart. You thought you were done. That chapter closed.
But one evening, as you sat alone in your favorite quiet cafĂŠ, a shadow fell across your table.
You looked up.
There he was.
Not on stage, not a distant figure in the crowd—just him.
Eyes searching, hopeful, vulnerable.
“I never stopped looking for you,” he whispered.
You blinked, disbelief and hope warring inside you.
“Why didn’t you try to find me before?” you asked, voice trembling.
“I was afraid,” he said simply. “Afraid I’d lost you forever.”
You smiled—a small, shaky smile. The walls you’d built around your heart softened.
He pulled out two coffee cups from a nearby counter, the steam curling like a promise between you.
“Can we start again? Just… talk?”
You nodded.
—
That night, you talked for hours.
About mistakes, regrets, dreams deferred.
About how much you missed the way things used to be.
But also, about what you both wanted now.
No pressure.
No expectations.
Just two people willing to try again.
—
The days that followed were filled with simple moments.
Long walks under streetlights, laughter that bubbled unexpectedly, and coffee shared in early morning silence.
He showed you the lyrics he’d written after that concert — new songs, honest and raw, dedicated to healing.
You shared your fears and hopes, opening up piece by piece.
—
One rainy afternoon, the city blurred in droplets on the cafĂŠ window as he took your hand gently in his.
“I don’t want to be a ghost in your past anymore,” he said softly.
“You’re not,” you replied, squeezing his hand back.
“I want to be your present. And maybe your future.”
You felt your heart catch and then steady.
—
Months passed.
The pain didn’t disappear overnight, but it became softer, easier to carry.
And in its place grew something new — a steady, quiet love.
Not the whirlwind of before, but a gentle tide.
He took you to the merry-go-round at the old city park, the one you both used to love as kids.
As the carousel spun, lights twinkling and music playing softly, you felt the world tilt differently.
This time, you were both riding together.
Holding on.
And for the first time in a long time, the ride didn’t feel endless.
It felt like home.
—
You looked at him — the boy who once spun around you like a wild, chaotic storm.
Now, steady. Present.
And you smiled.
Because this time, the music was yours to write together.
23 notes ¡ View notes
iansdreamer ¡ 19 days ago
Text
The (last) Burning Nightmare || MIIIIIITO
Tumblr media
Pairing: Mito/Christian yu x Fem!Reader ౨ৎ
Genre: Horror, thriller, dark romance, angst, and fluff. ౨ৎ
Warnings: This story contains murdering, drugging, smut, stockholm syndrome, and psychological terror. All of this is fiction and not depicted from DPR IANs real life. ౨ৎ
Word count: 2.5k ౨ৎ
₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊
You counted the days in silence.
Not with a calendar, not with scratches on a wall. You counted by what stopped happening. The sobs stopped first. Then the cold spots. The shaking mirror, the flickering light, the muffled whispers that used to wake you up in a sweat. Valerie’s presence slowly thinned, like a stain that faded over time but never really vanished.
A month.
That’s how long it took to kill her.
You didn’t stab her or scream an exorcism. No. You suffocated her. Bit by bit, night by night, you made her powerless.
You gave Mito your time.
You gave him your body.
You let him in, and you didn’t look away when he said your name like it meant something.
Valerie hated that. You knew it. She needed your misery to live—and you gave her pleasure instead. Sick, twisted, tactical pleasure.
She clawed at the walls in protest. You ignored her.
She bled messages across the mirrors. You wiped them away without flinching.
Every day, you touched Mito longer. Kissed him harder. And made sure the ghost watched every second of it. You whispered sweet things into his ear and looked into the mirror while doing it.
She was your audience. And you were her executioner.
One night, you laughed into his mouth while he trailed kisses down your neck, your shirt pulled halfway off, and the mirror cracked right down the middle. A clean split. The symbolism wasn’t lost on you.
After that, the house fell quiet.
Too quiet.
The next morning, the lights didn’t flicker. The antique mirror showed nothing but your reflection. And the walls? Not a sound.
You pressed your hand against one of them, just to check.
“Valerie?” you whispered.
No response.
You should’ve felt triumphant. But something about the silence was worse.
You weren’t free.
You were just alone—with Mito.
--
He started humming again, like he always did when something ended. You found him in the music room that afternoon, sitting at the piano, bare-chested, his tattoos shifting with every movement. The melody was soft, a little offbeat. It didn’t comfort you.
“You feel it too, don’t you?” you said from the doorway.
He didn’t turn around.
“She’s gone.”
His fingers paused. “Mm.”
You stepped inside. Your hand brushed against the wall beside you, feeling the smooth, lifeless wood. “I thought it’d feel different.”
He said nothing.
You sat beside him on the bench, close enough for your thighs to touch. He smelled like ash and flowers.
“She was never the problem,” he said suddenly.
You blinked. “What?”
Mito’s eyes stayed on the keys. “Valerie. She was a consequence. A symptom.”
“Of what?”
He finally looked at you. “You.”
Your blood went cold.
He smiled, like it was funny. “You think you're innocent, don’t you?”
You stood slowly, every muscle tensing. But his smile didn’t fade. It lingered, like smoke.
“I’m kidding,” he said, even though you both knew he wasn’t.
You walked out of the room without another word. You didn’t know why your heart was pounding. He wasn’t threatening you. He wasn’t even angry. But something in the air shifted—like Valerie left a space behind that something else would fill.
Something worse.
--
That night, he didn’t touch you right away. He sat at the edge of the bed, staring at his own hands.
“Are you scared of me?” he asked.
You didn’t answer.
“I wouldn’t blame you.”
Still, you said nothing.
He looked over his shoulder. His blind eye caught the moonlight like glass. “You’ve changed.”
“So have you,” you said.
He gave you a half-smile, then turned away again.
Later, he pulled you into bed. He kissed you with hunger, but it wasn’t about the ghost anymore. There was no audience. It was just him. Just you.
And still—you thought of the door.
The hallway.
The layout of the house.
The sound the front lock made when he used it.
Your fingers curled around his wrist, not in desperation but calculation. You traced the veins. You measured his breathing when he slept.
You hadn’t forgotten why you came here.
You hadn’t forgotten that you never wanted to stay.
But…
In the quiet, when his breath fanned your neck and his hand tangled in your hair—something clenched in your chest.
It wasn’t love.
Not really.
But it was close enough to make you hesitate.
--
In the following days, he started treating you differently.
He read to you from dusty books at night. He took you outside briefly—just the back garden, behind locked gates, where ivy strangled the statues and the air felt less dead.
He made you laugh once. You hated how easy it came.
And when you woke from nightmares, he was always there. Too quickly. Too ready.
You started to wonder if he even slept.
--
One night, while the house was still, you crept into the hallway. You stood in front of the mirror that once cracked from Valerie’s wrath. You stared at yourself.
“You should leave,” you whispered.
But your reflection didn’t move.
It just stared back, tired and worn, a little softer.
You didn’t look like a prisoner anymore.
You looked like a woman who made the cell her home.
That scared you more than anything.
--
In the morning, Mito brought you coffee. He sat beside you in bed and asked, “If the door was open, would you go?”
You blinked. “Is it?”
He smiled. “Answer the question baby.”
You paused.
“…I don’t know.”
You were lying.
But maybe he already knew.
And maybe—just maybe—that was part of his plan, too.
--
It was sometime between night and morning. The hours bled into each other lately, like your thoughts. You couldn’t tell the difference between dreams and waking life anymore. It all felt like one endless reel of dim lights, the scent of Mito’s skin, the distant creaking of floorboards, and the weight in your chest that never left.
You were in the room again—his room. The one with the black velvet curtains and the faint hum of that old record player spinning slow jazz in the background. You sat on the edge of the bed, tracing patterns into the blanket. Mito was across the room, shirtless, humming to himself while watering a dying plant on the windowsill.
He looked so calm. Too calm.
You blinked slowly.
Something was wrong.
It wasn’t him. It was you.
You’d felt it for days now—your mind slipping, like lace unraveling from its hem. There were moments where you’d stare too long at the knife drawer. Times where you’d wake up with your hands clenched like claws, nails digging into your own skin.
Your reflection had changed too.
Not physically. Not entirely. But something in your eyes was different now. Wilder.
That morning, you watched yourself in the bathroom mirror while brushing your teeth and you whispered aloud:
"You can’t live like this."
The you in the mirror nodded.
--
Back in the bedroom, Mito was lighting a candle.
You stood slowly. Your feet were light, but your chest felt dense.
“I’m going to the kitchen,” you said quietly.
He turned toward you, candle flickering in his hand. His blind eye caught the light like a cracked marble.
“Okay, darling,” he said. Soft. As if you’d told him you were going to get a glass of water.
--
The hallway stretched endlessly. Your footsteps didn’t echo—they fell like whispers. The house was still, but it wasn’t peaceful. It was waiting.
You entered the kitchen.
The fridge hummed. The air felt colder here. You moved slowly, your hand grazing the marble counter, past the glass tray, the crystal bowl of rotting apples, the bloodstained dish towel Mito never bothered to clean.
Then you saw it.
The knife block.
You reached for the largest one—a chef’s blade with a silver sheen and a wooden handle stained dark. Your hand wrapped around it, and the moment you pulled it free, your entire body felt electric.
Like waking up for the first time in months.
You turned.
Walked.
Back down the hallway. Back to him.
--
He was still in the bedroom. Sitting on the bed, this time playing with the strings of his black sweatpants. He didn’t look up as you entered. Didn’t flinch at the sound of your footsteps.
You stopped a few feet from him.
He finally looked at you.
At the knife.
At your trembling hand.
“Is that for me?” he asked.
His voice was so calm. Like this was a conversation about tea.
You didn’t answer.
Mito sighed and leaned back onto his elbows, exposing the full length of his body.
“Then do it.”
You blinked.
“What?”
He nodded slowly. “Go on. You want to be free, don’t you?”
Your throat tightened. Your fingers gripped the knife harder.
“I… I do.”
“Then this is what it takes,” he whispered.
You stepped forward.
He didn’t move.
He was breathing steadily. Like he wanted this. And maybe he did.
Maybe he always had.
Your hands shook.
“I… I didn’t want to love you,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to love you.”
Mito smiled sadly.
“That’s the cruelest part, isn’t it?”
“You let me fall in love with you just so I could be the one to end it,” you whispered.
“No,” he said. “You loved me because it was the only thing you had left to give.”
You looked into his eyes. For once, neither of them scared you. They both looked human. Fragile.
You inhaled.
He slowly pulled your free hand into his and pressed it against his chest—right where his heart beat steady and unafraid.
“Right here,” he whispered. “Make it count.”
Your body moved before your brain could.
Steel sank into skin.
You stabbed him low in the stomach, not the heart.
He gasped—a sharp, wet sound. His body jerked forward, blood blooming fast beneath your hands.
“F-Fuck,” he stammered, his breath catching.
His hands clutched your arms, not to push you away, but to hold onto something. Anything.
Tears ran down his cheeks.
“I love you,” he whispered.
You froze.
Then you started crying.
“Why didn’t you stop me?” you sobbed. “Why didn’t you stop me, Mito?!”
He smiled through the pain.
“Because I wanted you to be free.”
You collapsed to your knees, the knife clattering to the floor beside his body. You covered your face with bloody hands and sobbed.
Not because you regretted it.
But because you loved him.
You loved the man who locked you away.
You loved the man who broke you.
You loved the only constant thing in your twisted life—and you still had to kill him.
You then got up to hold onto him, your tears mixing with the blood. You held him as he gasped again and again, every breath smaller than the last.
And then, something strange happened.
You laughed.
It started small. A hiccup between sobs. Then it grew. Sharper. Unhinged.
Because you were free now.
There was no ghost.
No cage.
No one left to love you wrong.
Just you.
And the sound of Mito’s breathing—fading like a lullaby.
“I won,” you whispered.
Suddenly, all the lights in the house blinked once—then went out completely.
A silence followed, so thick and absolute it almost buzzed in your ears. Like the house had exhaled. Or maybe died with him.
The air changed. No more shadows moving in the corners. No more cold spots in rooms that should’ve been warm. The haunting… it was gone.
Mito let out a trembling breath, his blood pooling beneath him, thick and dark. His voice was barely audible now.
“There’s a flashlight…” he murmured, eyes fluttering. “In the drawer… you’ll need it… to leave.”
You stood on shaky legs. Your hands were covered in his blood. You stumbled toward the nightstand, groped blindly in the dark, and found the flashlight. The moment you turned it on, the beam sliced through the black like a lifeline. You shined it on his face.
His skin had gone pale. His lips were trembling. You kneeled beside him again.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
He blinked slowly. “Don’t be.”
“I love you.”
He managed a small, pained smile. “Lucky me.”
You leaned in and kissed him one last time. His lips were warm. Faintly trembling. Then still.
And just like that… he was gone.
You got up. The flashlight beam danced across the walls as you moved through the hallway. Each room you passed was different now—dust settling, wallpaper peeling. The glamor was gone. No magic. No illusions. Just rot. Just time.
That’s when you found a door you swore hadn’t been there before.
Cracked. Humble.
You opened it.
And stepped into the woods.
--
The cold hit you instantly. A real cold. Not the kind that haunted your spine or settled into your bones like fear—but the kind that whispered you’re awake now.
Your breath steamed in front of you. The flashlight caught on tall trees, their bark glistening with dew. You turned back.
The house—It wasn’t a mansion. Not anymore.
It was a crooked little cabin. A small, forgettable wooden box sunken into the earth, with vines curling around the corners and windows blackened by time.
Had that… always been it?
You stared, heart pounding. Then turned again, ready to run. Ready to escape for real.
And that’s when you saw him.
A figure in the distance, walking casually among the trees, talking to someone beside him. His voice faint but real. Human.
Your breath caught.
Same build.
Same hair.
Same presence.
But something was off.
He turned.
And both of his eyes were whole.
Your legs gave out.
You fell to your knees in the dirt, the flashlight slipping from your hand.
Because it was him.
But not exactly.
Not Mito.
Not the haunting man.
The real one.
He blinked, stepping forward, alarm flashing in his face.
“Hey—whoa, are you okay?”
He broke into a jog, his friend—some guy you couldn’t even register—hanging back a few steps.
You screamed.
Your throat tore with it. The cry was primal, panicked—ripping out of your lungs like something was dying inside you all over again.
Christian froze for a second, then crouched down as you curled up, face buried in your bloodstained hands.
He reached toward you slowly. “Hey, hey—easy. I’m not going to hurt you.”
You sobbed. You couldn’t breathe.
Because he looked just like Mito, but there was nothing in his face but concern.
Not obsession.
Not madness.
Not haunting.
Just… a man.
Normal.
Alive.
And completely unaware of what you’d survived.
“What happened?” he asked, softer now. “You’re covered in blood—are you hurt?”
You shook your head violently, still crying.
Christian turned to his friend. “Call someone. Now.”
And as his hand gently rested on your shoulder, you looked up at him through the blur of tears and whispered:
“Why do you look like him?”
His brows furrowed. “What?”
You laughed through your sobs. Then cried harder. Then laughed again.
You didn’t know if you were safe.
You didn’t even know if this was real.
All you knew was that your nightmare had ended.
And now, somehow…
It wore a new face.
37 notes ¡ View notes
iansdreamer ¡ 19 days ago
Text
The Burning Nightmare || MIIIIITO
Tumblr media
Pairing: Mito/Christian yu x Fem!Reader ౨ৎ
Genre: Horror, thriller, dark romance, angst, and fluff. ౨ৎ
Warnings: This story contains murdering, drugging, smut, stockholm syndrome, and psychological terror. All of this is fiction and not depicted from DPR IANs real life. ౨ৎ
Word count: 1.5k ౨ৎ
₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊
After a stretch of heavy silence, the lights in the room flickered back on with a quiet bzzt, buzzing faintly like insects trapped inside the walls. The shadows dissolved in the pale glow. You slowly pulled away from Mito’s chest, and the warmth of his body faded with the motion.
He paused, watching you for a beat, then smiled softly, brushing your hair behind your ear. "Goodnight, angel," he whispered, his lips barely grazing the shell of your ear before trailing a gentle kiss to your neck.
It should've comforted you.
But instead, something about it felt final—like the close of a chapter you hadn’t agreed to end.
You wanted to say something—anything—but the exhaustion won. You forced a tired smile instead. Your jaw ached from clenching.
Mito left without another word. The door clicked shut behind him.
You turned onto your side in the massive bed. The sheets were too soft, almost like clouds soaked in perfume. It should've felt luxurious, but it just made the room feel artificial—like a dream you didn’t trust.
Your eyes fluttered closed, lashes grazing your cheek. You were just beginning to drift when the lights started to flicker again.
It started subtly—a slow dim, then a pulse of brightness. Then faster. Erratic. Angry.
You bolted upright, heart stammering in your chest. The air felt thicker now, charged with something you couldn’t name. Your skin prickled.
You sat up, pressing your back to the cold wall behind you. It was damp with condensation.
You whispered carefully, like talking to a sleeping beast:
"Can you stop, please?"
The flickering only intensified. A hard flash, then another. The air crackled like static. You knew what it meant.
Valerie was listening.
"Mito!" you called out, voice shaking.
Nothing.
"Mito!" louder now. Still no reply.
Your panic spiked. “MITO!”
Heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway.
The door creaked open slowly, and there he was—shirtless, bleary-eyed, his black hair tousled like he'd just torn himself out of sleep. His tattoos stood stark against his skin, like stories inked into flesh.
"Yes, darling?" he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.
“Valerie,” you breathed out. “She’s making the lights flicker again. I... I’m scared.”
He looked around. The lights had stopped.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, blinking. “They’re fine.”
You groaned, frustrated. “She stopped when you walked in.”
Mito chuckled, the sound low and almost teasing. He walked toward you, arms wide. “You’re so jumpy, sweet thing.”
You didn’t answer, just stepped into him, letting yourself be wrapped in his warmth.
“Can you... stay?” Your voice was small, barely audible against his chest.
He didn’t respond at first, just breathed into your hair, his palm gliding up and down your spine. Then a soft “Mhm.”
He pulled away, waiting for you to lie down first. You hesitated, just for a moment. A flicker of doubt. But then you slipped beneath the covers, the sheets cool against your skin. Mito followed, curling his body around yours like a shield.
He nuzzled his face into your neck, lips brushing skin. “I love you,” he whispered, almost like a confession.
The words hit your stomach like a rock.
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
---
You woke up alone.
The bed was too quiet, too cold. Mito’s side was empty, sheets still rumpled from where his body had been. You sat up slowly, rubbing your face, trying to piece yourself back together.
Then the door creaked open.
“Good morning, beautiful,” Mito said with a wide grin, carrying a tray with food—toast, eggs, and something that smelled like vanilla. Too perfect.
You tried to return the smile. “Good… morning.”
He placed the tray gently on your lap, watching your reaction. You stared at it like it might grow teeth.
He raised an eyebrow. “You think I did something to it?”
“No, I just…”
He laughed, sharp and knowing. “You don’t have to lie. I can see it all over your face.”
You stayed quiet. He slid onto the bed next to you.
“Here. We’ll eat it together.” He picked up a fork, took a bite of the eggs. Chewed, swallowed. “See? Not poisoned.”
You watched him closely before slowly taking your own bite. It tasted… good. Almost too good.
But something inside you wouldn’t let you finish it. Pride? Fear? You weren’t sure.
“I need the bathroom,” you muttered.
He didn’t respond. Just gently took your hand and guided you out, walking you to the bathroom in silence.
The door clicked shut behind you. You let out a long, shaky breath.
You needed a way out. You needed a plan.
And now—you had one.
You were going to break Valerie. Push her. Make her jealous. Manipulate whatever tether she had to this place until it snapped.
Later, you found Mito at the piano. His back to you. Fingers dancing over the keys like magic. The melody was haunting, delicate—full of something unspoken.
He noticed your presence and turned slightly, tilting his head with a smirk. “Come,” he said softly.
You sat beside him, watching his hands. Every finger moved like it had lived many lives. He was beautiful. Unnaturally so.
You leaned your head on his shoulder. The moment you did—scratch, scratch.
The sound clawed through the air.
Valerie.
You covered your ears instinctively. The scratching grew louder—angrier. Then it stopped.
And the walls began to sob.
Actual sobbing. Wet and echoing, like the house itself was crying.
“She hasn’t done that in a while,” Mito said, puzzled.
“Cry?” you asked, shifting closer, your voice feigning innocence.
He nodded, smiling faintly. Then he wrapped an arm around you—and the crying got louder. More desperate.
“You’re making her upset.”
“I’m not doing anything…” you whispered, smiling into his shoulder.
This was it. This was your leverage.
--
Days passed.
You flirted lightly with Mito, careful not to push too far.
He treated you like glass—gentle hands, soft words. It made you question yourself. Was this the monster you were escaping from?
One night, you were behind him, massaging his shoulders. The dim light cast shadows over the scars and ink on his skin.
“You know,” he began, voice low, “I know you’re pretending.”
Your hands froze.
He turned to face you. “You didn’t think I’d catch on, did you?”
Your throat clenched. You stayed quiet.
“I told you before—I know you. Every part of you. I can smell your lies, darling.”
You blinked, swallowed. You couldn’t stop now.
You stepped off the bed, slowly walked to stand before him. His eyes followed your every move.
You closed the gap until your thighs were in between his. Inches from his mouth. Then—you kissed him.
He was startled. But not hesitant.
He kissed you back like he needed it. Like it was the last thing keeping him alive. He stood, grabbing your hips, walking you backward until you hit the dresser.
You broke the kiss to breathe, tilting your head as he kissed along your jaw.
With one hand, you subtly turned the antique mirror toward the bed—just enough for Valerie to see.
You kissed him again. This time, deeper.
His tongue slid into your mouth like it belonged there. He pulled you to the bed, gently laying you down before climbing over you.
He panted against your neck. “You’re trying to make her jealous, huh?”
You didn’t answer.
“That’s fine,” he murmured, lips moving down your neck. “Let’s play this game together.”
You bit your lip. This wasn’t the plan.
But you needed her gone.
So you kissed him again.
His hands slipped under your shirt—warm and sure. You gasped as his hands squeezed your breasts, fumbling with your bra, teasing your nipples until your breath hitched.
You moaned, and the walls screamed.
He grinned. “She’s listening.”
You looked at the mirror. “Good.”
“If that’s what you want,” he said.
His fingers slid into your underwear, gliding between your folds. He circled your clit. Teasing it. You arched into him, hips lifting instinctively.
Then two fingers inside you.
Your moans filled the room.
Valerie screamed through the walls again.
He pressed harder.
"God, you’re so tight," he whispered.
Your back arched again as he curled his fingers, hitting that spot, over and over. He even started grinding against your thigh softly, his hardness was evident.
You trembled beneath him.
He kissed your lips—tasting every breath. But just as you were about to fall apart—He stopped.
Pulled away.
You blinked in confusion. “Why’d you stop?”
“Look behind you.”
You turned—and froze.
Your name.
Written in huge, jagged letters on the wall.
In blood.
You scrambled up. “Was that Valerie?”
Mito nodded slowly. “We’re hurting her too much.”
You stared.
Then—smiled.
A genuine smile.
You couldn’t help it.
This was working.
You turned to Mito and threw your arms around him. He grinned into your shoulder.
“Don’t get too excited, yeah?” he whispered. “This is just the beginning, baby.”
Your heart stopped.
But you didn’t pull away.
You couldn’t. Not if you ever wanted to leave.
Not until she broke first.
21 notes ¡ View notes
iansdreamer ¡ 20 days ago
Text
The Burning Nightmare || MIIIITO
Tumblr media
Pairing: Mito/Christian yu x Fem!Reader ౨ৎ
Genre: Horror, thriller, dark romance, angst, and fluff. ౨ৎ
Warnings: This story contains murdering, drugging, smut, stockholm syndrome, and psychological terror. All of this is fiction and not depicted from DPR IANs real life. ౨ৎ
Word count: 1.1k ౨ৎ
₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊
You’re not sure how long it’s been since he left.
An hour? Two? The only light you have is the dim golden flicker from a single bulb above the door. It hums faintly, almost like it's struggling to stay alive—like it’s the only thing left between you and pitch black. You sit on the edge of the bed, knees pulled up to your chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. The ropes are gone, but you haven’t left the room.
You don’t know why. You just… don’t. It feels like even if thinking about crossing the threshold without permission might wake it up.
You tried to sleep. Your eyes shut eventually from exhaustion more than anything else, and you drifted into an uneasy dream. A hallway with no end. Mito standing at the other side, reaching for you, but every time you stepped closer, he faded further away.
You woke up with a jerk.
And that’s when you heard it.
A voice. No… not a voice. A whisper.
At first, you thought it was your mind playing tricks on you—remnants of the dream clinging to your ears.
But then…
“Y/n…”
You freeze.
The whisper is raspy. Delicate. Right up against your ear, though no one’s near you.
You turn slowly to the wall behind the bed.
“Y/n…”
This time it’s clearer. Multiple voices. Like a chorus of breathless chants all calling for you.
“Y/n… Y/n… Y/n…”
You stand, slowly. The floor beneath you groans as if it doesn’t want you to move.
You step toward the wall. You don’t know why. Curiosity? Instinct? Or maybe that same fear that tells people to check the closet even though they know the monster is there.
You lean your head slightly, listening.
Nothing.
Then, without fully understanding why—you whisper back.
“…Yes?”
Silence.
Your breath catches. You wait.
“…Hello?” you say, louder.
The silence hangs like a thread about to snap.
Then the ground trembles.
Not gently. Not like a subway humming beneath the earth. Violently. Like something underneath is trying to break through.
You stumble forward, hit your knees hard on the wooden floor. Your palms slap down to catch yourself. The tremors don’t stop.
Your voice finally breaks through.
“Mito!!”
No response.
You call again, louder this time, your voice shaking like the walls.
“Mito!!”
Then—footsteps.
Heavy and slow. Not rushed. Almost… deliberate. You freeze in place as they grow louder.
Then the door creaks open. He walks in like he’d just returned from a walk in the park, calm and collected, wearing a faint smile.
“What’s wrong, baby?” he asks, stepping inside casually.
You scramble up from the floor, brushing dust off your legs. “Don’t call me that.”
He pauses, tilts his head, watching you with a calm curiosity. “Alright,” he says softly. “Y/n.”
You cross your arms tightly, almost like you’re trying to hold yourself together. “Did you… feel that? The shaking? And… the whispers?”
He raises a brow. “Whispers?”
Your lips part to respond, but you stop yourself. You already feel like you sound crazy. The way his expression shifts so subtly—just a twitch of the eye, a curve of the mouth—it makes you feel small.
“I heard voices coming from the wall,” you say finally, more cautiously. “And the whole room started shaking…”
He watches you in silence for a moment.
Then laughs.
You flinch.
“Ahhh,” he says, walking slowly toward you. “That makes sense.”
You blink. “What?”
“She’s jealous.”
“…She?”
He steps even closer now, and you take a step back. He lifts his hands slowly—like he’s reaching for something fragile—and gently brushes your hair behind your ear with both palms. His fingers are warm, but his touch sends cold down your spine.
“You don’t remember?” he says, voice low.
Your voice is barely a whisper. “Remember what?”
He leans in, his lips nearly brushing your temple. “The girl who lives inside the walls. Valerie. She doesn’t like you.”
Your blood goes cold.
You step away from his touch. “Why?”
His eyes flash briefly with something darker. Possessiveness, maybe. But then he smiles again. That charming, unnerving smile.
“Because you’re the only one I love.”
He kisses your cheek gently, like it’s something innocent. But it isn’t. Not when your heart is thudding with panic. Not when you feel eyes on you, watching from places they shouldn’t.
You push him away. “Don’t.”
The floor trembles again—subtly at first, but enough to make the bedframe rattle.
Mito’s head snaps toward the wall, and his jaw tightens.
“She’s getting louder,” he mutters, annoyed.
You clutch the edge of the bed. He walks out of the room.
You sit frozen, unsure whether to follow or hide.
A minute passes.
Then another.
Then he comes back.
In his hand—a knife.
Your eyes widen. You scramble backward on the bed until your back hits the wall. “No, please—Mito, I didn’t mean—whatever I did—please, don’t—”
His head jerks up and he stares at you, then laughs again—louder this time.
“It’s not for you, silly.” He grins and holds the knife up. “I told you, I’d never hurt you.”
You stare at him in disbelief.
He turns and drives the knife into the wall.
Not once.
Not twice.
Over and over.
With each stab, the house groans. Cracks splinter across the wall like veins. And then—Blood.
Thick and dark, seeping down from the cuts like the wall itself is alive. The light above you flickers violently and then—Darkness.
You gasp.
Total black.
You can’t see. Can’t breathe. You fall to the floor, disoriented, crawling on your hands and knees until your fingers brush something solid.
A leg.
“Mito?” you whisper, voice trembling.
He crouches. Even in the dark, you feel the strength of his arms as he lifts you effortlessly and carries you back to the bed.
“Just wait,” he whispers. “She’s done now.”
You’re shaking.
He pulls you close. His arm around your shoulder, his palm gently stroking your arm. It’s strangely soothing—so much so that you hate yourself for letting it calm you. You bury your face in his chest, breathing shallow, unsure of where reality ends and nightmare begins.
“She just needed a reminder,” he murmurs.
“A reminder of what?” you ask, voice small.
He doesn’t respond.
You stay like that for a long time. Minutes. Maybe hours. Curled into his side in complete darkness.
And slowly, a thought begins to form. A plan.
If Valerie gets jealous… then maybe, just maybe, you can use that.
Not now.
But soon.
You nuzzle closer to him, letting him believe the fear in your body is surrender instead of strategy.
“Thank you,” you whisper into his shirt.
He presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“You’re safe with me,” he says.
You nod against his chest.
17 notes ¡ View notes
iansdreamer ¡ 20 days ago
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The Burning Nightmare || MIIITO
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Pairing: Mito/Christian yu x Fem!Reader ౨ৎ
Genre: Horror, thriller, dark romance, angst, and fluff. ౨ৎ
Warnings: This story contains murdering, drugging, smut, stockholm syndrome, and psychological terror. All of this is fiction and not depicted from DPR IANs real life. ౨ৎ
Word count: 970 ౨ৎ
₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊
He carried you into a room and when your blurred vision cleared, you were stunned.
The space was lavish—like something out of a dream. Deep velvet curtains, crystal chandeliers, antique gold-trimmed mirrors. A fire flickered gently in the hearth, casting soft light on polished wood floors and marbled statues. There were paintings, even a plush white couch he laid you on like a porcelain doll.
The air didn’t smell like dust. It smelled faintly of roses and sandalwood.
You blinked at him in disbelief. “What… what is this place?”
“My favorite room,” he replied. “This is where I bring the ones I love. Or thought i did.”
You recoiled slightly. “You don’t love me. You don’t even know me.”
He tilted his head, confused by your resistance. “I know everything about you. I’ve seen you before—many times. In dreams. In visions. I know your laugh. I know how you bite your lip when you’re nervous. I even know how you sleep.”
Your skin crawled.
He leaned in and cradled your face, his touch cold and obsessive. “You’re exactly how I imagined. No one else has come close.”
You pushed his hand away. “I want to go home,” you said hoarsely.
His expression darkened for the first time. “This is home.”
“No… this is a prison. You’re sick.”
That struck something in him—he blinked, then grinned. “There it is,” he whispered. “The fire in your voice. I was waiting for that.”
He slowly knelt in front of you, placing his hands gently on your thighs. You stiffened.
“I could worship you forever,” he said, eyes scanning your face like a painting he couldn’t touch enough. “You don’t understand what you do to me.”
You jerked back, panicked. “Don’t touch me!”
He leaned in, brushing a kiss to your jaw. You shivered—not from the touch, but from the weight of powerlessness.
You slapped his chest, pushing him off.
He stumbled back slightly, laughing under his breath. “Feisty.”
You glared at him, tears still slipping down. “You’re disgusting.”
He stood, brushing invisible dust from his knees. “Sorry,” he said casually, like you’d just declined a dance. “Got a little carried away. Bad habit, I suppose.”
You stood shakily, backing toward the door.
“I need air,” you muttered.
He arched a brow. “Air? Hmm.”
You weren’t going to wait for his permission.
“There’s a garden,” he finally offered, eyes watching you closely. “Down the hallway, first door on the left. But I wouldn’t recommend—”
You were already gone.
Your bare feet hit the floor hard, adrenaline giving you strength. You didn’t care if it was a trap. You just needed space. Something real.
The garden doors creaked open and for a moment, you forgot everything.
White roses. Thick vines curling around stone arches. The scent of honeysuckle and morning dew. It was hauntingly beautiful, like something preserved from another world.
You stepped inside.
Crunch.
You looked down.
A severed hand.
Your breath caught. You stumbled back, eyes darting. That wasn’t the only one. Scattered among the roses were other pieces—limbs, fragments of bone, heads with hollow eyes that stared up like they'd been caught mid-scream.
You screamed, nearly collapsing.
He caught you.
His arms circled you again, too familiar, too warm.
“You weren’t supposed to come here,” he said softly into your hair. “You’re stubborn.”
You turned to him, eyes wild. “What… what is this? Are those real?”
“Yes.”
“Why?!” Your voice cracked. “Why would you—what did you—”
He took your hands, unnervingly gentle. “They weren’t you.”
You stared at him, breath coming in ragged gasps. “You killed them.”
“I had to,” he said simply. “They tried to pretend, but my heart always knew. And I don’t like liars.”
You yanked your hands away. “You’re fucking insane!”
He only smiled. “You’ve said that already. But you’ll change your mind.”
You ran back to the house, lungs burning. Into the kitchen. Ripping through drawers, searching for anything. A knife. A key. Water. Something. Anything.
You found a half-empty bottle and gulped it down, letting it spill down your chin.
Behind you, footsteps. Not rushed. Leisurely.
He waited for you to drink, then reached for your wrist. “Come.”
“No!”
But he was stronger, and he led you—not forcefully, just calmly—into another room. A bedroom this time. Clean. Soft white sheets. Black candles. A massive antique mirror resting on a dresser.
He made you sit beside him.
Silence.
You were the first to speak, voice hoarse. “What’s your name?”
He smiled, like he’d been waiting for the question. “Mito.”
You swallowed. “Mito… what happened to those girls?”
“I killed them.”
“I know that,” you snapped. “I mean before you did. What did you do to them?”
His gaze wandered toward the ceiling, thoughtful. “I took them in. Dressed them. Fed them. Made them feel special. I thought they were you.”
“But they weren’t.”
He nodded. “They always got something wrong. Their laugh. Their eyes. The way they said my name.”
“And me?” you whispered.
“There’s no doubt about you.”
You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. You didn’t even know who you were anymore.
After a long silence, he stood and pulled something from a drawer. An ornate mirror with delicate carvings.
He handed it to you.
You looked at yourself.
Pale. Tired. Your lips chapped. Your eyes sunken.
But your reflection…
Smiled.
You weren’t smiling.
You gasped and dropped the mirror, hands shaking. “D-did you see that?”
He chuckled.
“She’s one of them,” he said casually. “The last girl. She’s in the walls now. Her spirit clings to me. She loved me too much to leave.”
You stared at him in horror. “Then why did you kill her?”
He leaned in close.
“Because,” he whispered, “she wasn’t you. And anyone who isn’t you… doesn’t belong in my world.”
And with that, he left the room, leaving you alone.
12 notes ¡ View notes
iansdreamer ¡ 20 days ago
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The Burning Nightmare || MIITO
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Pairing: Mito/Christian yu x Fem!Reader ౨ৎ
Genre: Horror, thriller, dark romance, angst, and fluff. ౨ৎ
Warnings: This story contains murdering, drugging, smut, stockholm syndrome, and psychological terror. All of this is fiction and not depicted from DPR IANs real life. ౨ৎ
Word count: 1.5k ౨ৎ
₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊
You stirred awake to a heavy stillness. The air felt thick, dense with dust and something metallic. Your eyes fluttered open, barely adjusting to the dim lighting—a single bare bulb hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly as if it had just been disturbed. The basement around you was lifeless, the corners swallowed in shadow, the silence unnatural.
It took you a moment to understand what you were feeling—tightness, pressure. You blinked harder, the fog in your head slowly lifting. Your wrists ached. That’s when you noticed the ropes. They were knotted tightly behind your back, rough against your skin, digging deeper with each subtle movement. You winced. Your shoulders throbbed from being held in such an unnatural position.
A sick wave of confusion crept over you as you tilted your head downward. The dress you wore last night—midnight blue, sparkly, delicate straps—was gone. In its place was an oversized t-shirt, baggy over your frame, paired with a simple pair of cotton shorts. They smelled like fabric softener. Clean. Fresh.
But that only made it worse.
Your breath hitched.
Had he…?
You trembled, the idea of him changing your clothes settling like ice in your veins. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying not to let your imagination spiral—but it was already too late. The thoughts clawed their way to the surface, cruel and intrusive.
You let out a shaky breath and tried twisting your wrists, testing the ropes. No give. Just more raw skin.
Above you, the old floorboards creaked. You froze. The sound was soft at first—light footsteps. Slow. Intentional. Then came the faint groan of a door opening, and before you could even brace yourself, you heard it. That rhythmic thump of descending steps.
He was coming.
The basement door cracked open, the hinges whining as it swung wider. Your breath lodged in your throat. You didn’t want to look—but you did.
He stepped inside, bathed in the faint overhead glow. Now dressed entirely in white—white linen shirt, white pants, barefoot like a ghost. His presence filled the room effortlessly, like the air shifted to make room for him. His eye—the one that still held sight—shone like liquid obsidian, sharp and beautiful in the most terrifying way. The other, clouded over, gave his stare an uncanny edge.
"Hey, darling," he said, voice light, sing-song, like he was greeting a lover at the door. His grin spread slowly, unnervingly wide. "Missed me?"
You didn’t answer. Your instincts screamed to run, to fight, to do something—but you could only inch backward, pressing your spine flush against the cold, gritty wall behind you.
Nowhere else to go.
He took his time walking over. Each step was unhurried, deliberate, as though savoring the moment. He crouched in front of you, resting on the balls of his feet, his face leveling with yours.
Then, his fingers reached forward—slow, gentle. They threaded through your hair, brushing against your scalp with care that felt so out of place it made your stomach turn.
"Why… why are you doing this?" you rasped, your throat dry, lips cracked. It felt like the first words you’d spoken in hours, maybe longer.
He let out a quiet laugh. Not loud—just a breath of sound, but it sent a chill through you. It wasn’t joyful. It was... indulgent.
He leaned in until you could feel his breath fan across your cheek.
"Baby…" he whispered, voice suddenly syrupy, almost reverent, "I've been through hell trying to find you."
His hand, still tangled in your hair, drifted to your cheek. His thumb caressed the side of your face like he was trying to memorize it by touch. The contrast between his tenderness and the tight ropes biting into your skin made it feel all the more wrong.
You swallowed hard. "W-why have you been looking for me?" Your voice wavered, barely above a whisper.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stood up—sharp, swift, like something had clicked into place inside him. You flinched.
He turned away, pacing slowly toward a set of drawers tucked into the shadows of the basement. His movements were smooth, too fluid, like he was rehearsing a dance he’d performed a hundred times before. He pulled a drawer open with a soft creak, rummaging inside until he retrieved something flat, worn at the edges.
A sketchbook.
He returned and sat down cross-legged in front of you, holding the book with a kind of reverence, like it was sacred.
“See this?” he asked, voice quiet now.
You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. You just watched as he flipped it open, page by page.
Drawings.
Dozens of them.
Each one of you.
Your breath caught in your chest.
One showed you laughing, head tilted back with joy. Another—your eyes downcast, solemn. Others showed you crying, asleep, looking away, unaware. But it was you. All of you. Page after page after page. Some looked like they were done from memory, others like he'd been watching from somewhere close.
You blinked back tears. From fear. From disbelief. How could this be real? You didn’t know him. You had never met him before last night.
He must’ve seen the horror on your face, because his grin returned—wide and boyish.
"I know what you’re thinking, my love," he said, closing the sketchbook with a soft thump. "But I swear I’m not crazy."
You didn’t move. Your heart thudded in your chest, loud, uneven.
He let out a long breath, eyes softening. “I’ve known you for a long time,” he said, almost like a confession.
You frowned, your confusion showing before you could mask it.
He chuckled.
“I’ve been dreaming about you since I was a teenager,” he continued. “Every night. No matter where I was, or how old I got—you were always there. Calling for me. Reaching for me. Needing me.” He paused, letting the silence stretch between you. “And I’ve been needing you. More than you’ll ever understand.”
You stared at him, stunned. This was beyond obsession. It was delusion—and deeply rooted.
He knelt in front of you again and, before you could recoil, he pulled you into a slow, lingering hug. His arms wrapped around your trembling frame with unsettling familiarity.
You wanted to cry—not from comfort, but from the overwhelming sense of being trapped inside someone else's fantasy. You weren’t a person to him. You were a dream he refused to wake up from.
His lips hovered near your ear, breath warm against your skin.
“I’m gonna take care of you,” he whispered. “Just like you’ve taken care of me… in all those dreams. Okay?”
His voice was so gentle, so heartbreakingly sincere, it almost made you forget how dangerous he was.
He finally stepped back, the warmth of his breath lingering in the cold air as if reluctant to leave you. Then—without a word—he reached for the ropes at your wrists.
The ropes fell away one by one, his fingers slow and deliberate, as if untying a gift. Your breath caught in your throat—not from relief, but from confusion. Why was he letting you go? You didn’t trust it.
As the last knot loosened, you flinched and pulled your arms in, cradling your wrists. They were sore and lined with deep red indentations. You didn’t dare look him in the eye.
He didn’t say a word. Just stood there… watching.
You forced yourself to your feet, slow and unsteady. The basement smelled like mildew and old dust, but your mind was already reaching for something beyond it—freedom. Air. Light. Anything but him.
The silence stretched.
Then his voice cut through it—light, amused.
“Run if you’d like,” he said. “It makes things more exciting.”
You didn’t hesitate. You bolted past him and up the creaking stairs. Your heart thundered so loudly it drowned out every other sound. Once at the top, you stopped to scan the hallway.
There were so many doors.
Too many.
You grabbed the nearest doorknob and flung it open. Darkness.
Another.
Darkness.
Another.
Black void, no end in sight.
You spun in a circle, frantic. Each door revealed the same bottomless night, like portals to nowhere. No windows, no cracks in the walls. The hallway was a maze with no exit.
Panic swelled in your chest.
Behind you, you heard the soft thump of his footsteps on the stairs. But he didn’t rush. He moved slowly, like a predator letting its prey exhaust itself.
You backed against the wall, breath shallow. When you felt his presence behind you, your legs buckled. His hand landed gently—too gently—on your shoulder.
“There’s no leaving me, baby,” he whispered, voice brushing your ear like smoke. “You’re all mine now.”
You turned your face away and sank to the floor, trembling. You didn’t even feel yourself crying until your vision blurred with tears. You curled into yourself, hoping to disappear.
“Why are you doing this?” you whispered into your knees. “Please… please let me go…”
But your begging only seemed to entertain him.
He crouched and scooped you into his arms like you weighed nothing.
“Don’t be scared,” he murmured. “You’re safe here with me.”
Safe. That word shattered something in you.
12 notes ¡ View notes
iansdreamer ¡ 20 days ago
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The Burning Nightmare || MITO
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Pairing: Mito/Christian yu x Fem!Reader ౨ৎ
Genre: Horror, thriller, dark romance, angst, and fluff. ౨ৎ
Warnings: This story contains murdering, drugging, smut, stockholm syndrome, and psychological terror. All of this is fiction and not depicted from DPR IANs real life. ౨ৎ
Word count: 1.2k ౨ৎ
₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊
The club doors swung open behind you with a screech, spilling out muffled bass and a wave of warm, alcohol-soaked air. You stepped onto the sidewalk, heels unsteady against the uneven concrete, as the door thudded shut behind you.
The sudden silence felt like a slap.
Your phone buzzed weakly in your hand, battery clinging to 2%. You glanced at the screen—no new messages. No one had texted to check if you got home safe. You swiped your tongue over your dry lips and looked up.
The city was a different animal at 2 AM.
Empty streets. Flickering lights. A wind that whispered down the narrow alleys like it knew secrets.
You tugged your jacket tighter, though it wasn’t doing much against the cold. Your dress—short, sparkly, beautiful under club lights—now felt too thin, too loud. You crossed your arms over your chest and began to walk, head down, trying not to trip.
Your head was fuzzy. Not drunk, exactly—just off-balance. Like you were floating half out of your body.
You knew you shouldn't be walking alone. But you’d spent every dollar at the bar, and the Uber app wouldn’t even load.
Home was fifteen minutes away. Ten, if you cut through the alley.
You paused at the entrance. It was narrow and soaked in shadow, like a mouth waiting to swallow you.
You knew better. You really did.
But your feet moved anyway.
You stepped inside.
It was darker than you expected—no windows, no neon signs. Just the dim, sour glow of a single streetlamp trying to reach in from the end. Your heels clicked on the wet pavement. You walked fast. You told yourself not to think about movies or news reports or all the girls whose faces ended up on missing posters.
And then you heard it.
Footsteps.
Not echoing. Not from behind a corner. Not imaginary.
Behind you.
Soft, steady. Measured. Matching your rhythm exactly.
You stopped.
They stopped.
A chill crept up your spine like fingers tapping your vertebrae. You swallowed thickly and glanced over your shoulder.
No one.
Just an empty stretch of alley.
You exhaled through your nose and laughed nervously to yourself. “Paranoid,” you muttered.
You picked up the pace, heels tapping faster now, echoing louder than before.
And then—again—footsteps.
Closer this time. Confident.
You didn’t stop to look. You started to walk faster.
Faster.
You could feel someone behind you now. Not just hear it—feel it. The heat of them. The weight of their gaze. The air felt thinner.
Your breath quickened. You turned a corner, heart pounding, mind spinning.
And then a voice.
Low.
Right behind your ear.
“Going somewhere?”
A scream clawed its way up your throat—but it never made it out.
A hand seized your wrist—cold, strong—and spun you around so fast your vision blurred.
You slammed into the brick wall. The impact stole the air from your lungs.
He stood in front of you.
He stood beneath the glow of a flickering streetlight, a shadow molded by the dark.
At first, all you saw was the outline—tall, lean, shoulders squared beneath a studded black jacket that shimmered ever so slightly when he moved. He looked like someone pulled from a dream gone wrong. Not quite real. Not quite human. His hair fell in soft waves across his face, messy and windblown like he’d been walking for miles. But it was his eyes that rooted you to the spot.
One eye was wide, sharp—burning with something unreadable. The other was dulled, clouded over, as if it had seen too much. They didn't match, yet they both stared into you, not at you. Like he already knew who you were. Like he’d been waiting.
His expression was calm, but empty in a way that sent a jolt of unease through your chest.
He didn’t speak at first.
He just looked at you.
And smiled.
It wasn’t comforting.
It felt like the moment before something goes terribly wrong.
He tilted his head.
You froze, your breath rattling in your throat.
“D-do I… do I know you?” you stammered.
He smiled. Slow. Amused.
“Do I need to?”
His voice was velvety. Too calm. It made your skin crawl.
You tried to step sideways. He mirrored you.
“I—I’m just trying to get home,” you whispered.
He stepped forward.
You stepped back.
The wall met your spine with a shuddering stop.
He was close now. Closer than anyone should be. His breath fanned against your face—sweet and metallic. His hand came up and tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear with such gentleness it almost made you flinch.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured. “You scared of me, sweetheart?”
You shook your head, too scared to lie convincingly.
His smile widened.
“Liar.”
His fingers slid down your cheek. You flinched, but didn’t pull away. You didn’t dare.
Then—he pulled something from his coat pocket.
A small blade. Slim. Clean. The kind you don’t carry unless you plan to use it.
Your blood turned to ice.
“If I ask you to do something for me,” he said, lifting the blade between you, “will you do it?”
You opened your mouth, unsure whether to scream or beg. Instead, all that came out was: “It… depends on what it is.”
His face changed.
Smile gone.
He pressed the flat of the knife to your cheek. Not hard. Just enough to feel the cold kiss of the metal.
“Wrong answer.”
You gasped as he slashed—quick, shallow—but enough. Enough to make your skin burn and blood rise.
You yelped, clutching your face. Tears sprang to your eyes.
He laughed. Not loudly. Quietly. Like it was private amusement. Like you were the punchline.
“I—please—please, I’ll do whatever you want,” you sobbed.
He ignored you, pulling out a phone with one hand and casually checking the screen. You watched his eyes move. Notifications. Messages. A clock.
You ran.
You barely made it four steps before your head jerked backward—he had your hair in his fist.
He yanked you to the ground, knees scraping the concrete. You screamed.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he growled.
“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I swear, just let me go!” Your voice broke. “I’ll do anything. Please.”
He knelt beside you, crouching low like an animal. His head tilted again.
“If I let you go,” he said calmly, “then you wouldn’t do anything for me.”
He leaned in, his face inches from yours.
“Why's a pretty girl like you out here dressed like that?” His gaze drifted down, lingering on your chest, your legs, the cut in your cheek.
You tried to crawl backward. He caught your ankle.
“No, no,” he crooned. “Not yet. You’re just getting interesting.”
You opened your mouth to scream again.
But you didn’t get the chance.
His hand was at your side—another sharp jab. You gasped, looking down.
A syringe.
He withdrew it smoothly, expression unreadable.
You blinked. The world around you began to swim.
“No…” you slurred, trying to lift your arm. Your fingers didn’t listen.
He caught you as you fell forward, whispering into your ear:
“Be a good girl for me.”
And everything went black.
20 notes ¡ View notes
iansdreamer ¡ 21 days ago
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At least there's DPR Ian 😌🖤
96 notes ¡ View notes
iansdreamer ¡ 25 days ago
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Merry Go || Christian Yu
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Pairing: Christian Yu x Fem!Reader ౨ৎ
Genre: Fluff, heartbreak, bittersweet ౨ৎ
Inspo: The song Merry Go, by DPR IAN on his album "MIITO (Moodswings In To Order)" ౨ৎ
Word count: 1.6k
₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊
The rain was pattering outside his window, soft at first—like fingertips on glass—but gradually building into a restless symphony of storm and sorrow. Each drop slid down the pane like the seconds he was losing, time running through his fingers again.
He was in a rush.
Always in a rush.
But this time, it was different.
This time, it mattered.
He cursed under his breath, slamming his palm against the steering wheel. His car had broken down again—this time in the middle of the highway. The engine had coughed, sputtered, and finally died, and the headlights, long flickering like they had one foot in the grave, gave out entirely.
You always told him to fix it.
Over and over.
But he never listened.
Not about the car. Not about anything.
Now, with the sky barely blushing blue and the streetlights flickering out like tired stars, he sat stranded, helpless, and too far away.
He slammed his fist into the wheel, head falling forward, his forehead resting there in defeat. His breathing was shallow, rapid. Then slower. And then, suddenly, there were tears. At first, he tried to fight them—like always—but this time he couldn’t. They spilled. Heavy, hot, and angry.
He picked up his phone.
5:30 AM.
He was late.
He missed your flight.
His vision blurred, the cold light of the screen glowing in the darkness of the car. Panic twisted through his chest like a knife. But even as the tears fell, he didn’t give up. He couldn’t.
He hailed the first taxi he could find, yelling into his phone, voice cracking as he gave the driver the destination: LAX.
By the time he arrived, the airport was already alive. Bright lights, sterile air, people moving like static through the halls of departure. He ran—ran like his entire soul depended on it. He pushed past faces, past security lines and escalators, past time zones and memories. He searched until his lungs burned.
Then—he saw you.
You were standing near the gate, your suitcase at your side, hair gently tangled from the wind outside. And for a split second, everything froze. You hadn’t boarded yet. You were still there.His chest collapsed with relief, and without hesitation, he broke into a sprint. The moment you turned, he wrapped his arms around you, lifting you off the ground. You gasped, more in disbelief than fear, and when he set you down, his eyes were red, tear-streaked, and wild with emotion.
“Don’t leave me…” he whispered, voice trembling.
You reached up, your thumb brushing a tear from his cheek. You were calm, heartbreakingly calm. “I have to,” you said softly.
He cupped your face in both hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks, trying to memorize everything—the shape of your lips, the small crease between your brows, the way your eyes looked when you were trying not to cry.
“You know I’ll long for the boring nights we used to rock?” he whispered, a faint smile breaking through the grief. “I remembered the last time I was at your spot. These might be unknown dead ends, but we...we were all that.”
He leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead in a kiss that ached like goodbye.
Then he held you. Just held you.
But before he could say anything else…He woke up.
Cold sweat clung to his skin like static. His chest was heaving, heart galloping like it was still running through that terminal.
Another nightmare.
Not a dream. Never a dream.
It had been months now, but that nightmare haunted him like clockwork.
Because in reality, he never made it in time.
You never waited.
And he never got that goodbye you both had longed for.
He checked his phone again.
5:32 AM.
That hour. That cursed hour. Always lingering like a ghost.
He blinked against the blue light, rubbing his eyes as if doing so would erase the image of you. But it never worked.
He must’ve passed out again last night, midway through reliving your memories. He always did that—ruminated on the past, tried to dissect every what-if like an autopsy. It was a habit now. A ritual of pain.
He remembered that specific moment with perfect clarity—the last time you tried. The rain was pouring then, too. The universe had a twisted sense of humor.
You stood at his door, drenched and trembling, mascara smeared like war paint, eyes swollen from crying. You had begged him to open the door, just like every other time your worlds had started slipping apart.
He opened it.
And maybe… maybe that was his biggest mistake.
Because he let hope in again. He let you in again.
You collapsed into his arms like you belonged there, like home was a person and he was it. He carried you inside as if you were weightless, as if you hadn’t both been dragging invisible baggage behind you for months.
You sat on his lap later that night, both of you cross-legged on the couch in dim lighting, legs tangled, hands framing each other's faces. Your fingers brushed through his hair gently as your gaze locked with his, unwavering.
“What do I do to you?” you asked, quiet and deadly.
The question pierced him.
You never really understood what you did to him—not fully—because he never opened up. But that question…It cracked something wide open.
“You make me feel like I’m on a merry go,” he whispered.
You blinked. “Merry go?”
You knew what he meant. But you needed him to say it.
“I keep spinning,” he said. “Round and round. Same place, different day. Always hoping it'll stop. But it never does.”
His grip on your hips tightened. His eyes shimmered with unshed guilt.
“I don’t know if I can keep doing this back and forth… I’m a mess, darling. You know that.”
You said nothing. What could you say? It was all true.
So instead, you rested your head on his chest, while he ran his hands along your back beneath your shirt. His hands were warm. Familiar. Real.
This… this was the comfort you craved. Not the yelling. Not the slammed doors or bitter silences. Just this—him, close, breathing with you.
You’d been there too many times—love, break, repair, repeat.
You both knew how it started and how it always ended.
But that didn’t stop you from missing each other.
Even now, he missed you with everything inside him.
You took pieces of him with you when you left, like shards of a mirror—reflections of who he used to be when he was with you.
The night before you fled, you were lying in bed together. The windows were foggy from the rain. Your head was on his chest, your arm draped across his torso.
You tilted his face toward you, gently.
“Can we be forever?” you asked.
His breath caught.
You felt his heart race. Loud. Erratic.
“What do you mean?” he asked, playing innocent. But you could see through the cracks in his mask.
“Don’t act stupid, baby,” you whispered, voice feather-soft. “Just tell me if this can genuinely work.”
You were brave in that moment. Braver than he’d ever been.
But he couldn’t lie. He couldn’t give you what you wanted.
“I can’t,” he finally said.
And then, even softer, almost inaudible—
“I’m scared.”
You understood.
God, you understood.
You gave up your fear to be with him.
But he couldn’t do the same.
So, while he slept—breathing softly, peacefully, unaware—you booked your flight.
You sent him a message before the sun rose:
|| I’m leaving. If you care… come see me before I go. ||
When he woke up the next morning and saw your message, it felt like drowning. Like waking up underwater.
He sent you a flood of texts.
One read:
|| Haven’t I made it any further? You know I told you I was nervous... I didn’t mean to murder the moments I had with you. ||
But he forgot something.
Something his mind buried so deep in regret it erased it entirely.
That same night, before bed, he had said:
|| I’ve been telling myself I could be better off alone. ||
And he said it casually. Like it meant nothing. Like it was just air.
But it meant everything.
And now… it’s been a while. Time moved on.
But he hasn’t.
He still feels like he’s on that merry-go-round. Only now, you’re not there.
The spinning never stopped.
He went on a world tour after that. Music was all he had left to cope.
Then, one night, his tour brought him to the city you moved to. He never knew where you went—never asked. Maybe he was too ashamed. Maybe he didn’t think he deserved to know.
You, however, knew.
You stayed quietly updated. You knew about the album he released after you. You knew the song he wrote for you.
And despite everything—despite the pain—you bought tickets. Third row. Not close enough to be seen. But close enough to see him.
When the concert started, he walked out into the blinding lights and roaring crowd.
But somehow, someway… he saw you.
You didn’t wave. You didn’t smile.
But he saw you. Instantly.
His breath caught. His fingers tightened around the mic. He kept singing.
But something shifted.
And then… the song. Your song.
The one that bled you onto paper.
As it played, he locked eyes with you. And the world stopped spinning.
His voice cracked, raw with emotion. He cried. You did too.
No one else noticed. But somehow… they felt it. The emotion in his voice. The ghost in the crowd. The pain in every note.
They cried too.
Fighting their own demons.
The song ended.
You left.
Before the encore. Before he could find you. Before anything could start again.
And he didn’t chase you.
Because for the first time…He knew.
It was time to fully let go.
And that…That was the last time you ever saw each other.
But even now, even still—He spins.
Around and around.
On a merry go.
Without you.
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iansdreamer ¡ 25 days ago
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hey guys so I'm kinda getting writers block for my next parts of the train station so I'm gonna start this new thing where I make like oneshots based off of dpr ian songs or songs outside of him if you guys request it!! Ik I only have 11 followers but it means alot to me 🥺💓
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iansdreamer ¡ 27 days ago
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i need to fuck him or else i will literally combust
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iansdreamer ¡ 27 days ago
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The train station || Christian Yu ; Part 4
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Pairing: Christian Yu x Fem!Reader ౨ৎ
Genre: Comfort, Fluff. ౨ৎ
Inspo: "Nothing lasts forever. But because nothing is everlasting, every moment we shared together was all precious." That's what they should've believed in. ౨ৎ
Word count: 2.1k
₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊
You parted ways that evening with a kind of ache you didn’t expect. It wasn’t painful—more like a soft tug at your chest that lingered as you watched him walk away. You had told yourself you were just meeting someone interesting. That’s all. Nothing more. But something in the way Christian looked back at you, with that half-smile and the hesitant wave of his fingers, made you feel like maybe you weren’t the only one walking away a little slower than usual.
That night, neither of you could sleep.
It started with a “made it home safe?” text from him—sent just five minutes after you got off the train.
You replied instantly:
You: Yeah, I’m in bed now. Tired but in a good way. U?
Christian: Same. That was nice today.
You: Really nice. Unexpectedly easy.
There was a pause, a few bubbles that blinked and disappeared, like he was typing and backspacing. Then finally:
Christian: I felt like I could talk to you forever.
You: Haha don’t say that, I’ll hold you to it
Christian: Good. Hold me to it.
You blinked at the screen, heart thudding lightly.
He followed up with a voice note—his voice a little lower, a little slower than it had been earlier, like the night had pulled something softer out of him.
|| “I keep thinking about how you looked when you were talking about your favorite movie. You went off for like five minutes and didn’t even realize it.” ||
(you laughed softly)
|| “I like that version of you... the one that forgets time when she’s talking.” ||
You recorded a voice note in return, your own tone shy, but honest.
|| “You make it really easy to forget time. And I don’t know, it’s been a while since I felt that comfortable with someone.” ||
His reply came quickly.
Christian: Same. I think... you might be a little dangerous.
You raised a brow, amused.
You: Dangerous?? Me??
Christian: Yeah. The kind of dangerous that makes people wanna stay up talking all night.
And so you did.
You talked about childhood, about old dreams. He told you about the time he thought he could build a treehouse in his grandma’s backyard and ended up hammering a nail through his shoe. You told him about your obsession with space when you were ten, how you wrote letters to NASA thinking they’d write back.
“You’re like... secretly a nerd,” he said with a grin in his voice.
“You’re just now figuring that out?”
“I love it.”
Around 2 a.m., you were both speaking slower, yawns sneaking in between words, voices quieter.
“I don’t really do this,” he said suddenly.
“Do what?”
“Stay up talking to someone like this. Not unless I really want to.”
You bit your lip. “Same.”
“I’m glad we met.”
“Me too.”
A long pause followed.
Then his voice, almost a whisper: “Can I call you tomorrow?”
Your heart did a little somersault. “Yeah. Please do.”
---
The next morning, you woke up smiling. The kind of smile that lasts even as you brush your teeth and brew your coffee.
From that day on, the rhythm was set.
Every morning started with a good morning text. Every night ended with a sleepy exchange of thoughts or dreams or silly photos. You sent him a picture of your breakfast one day—a sad, deflated pancake—and he replied with a video of him dramatically judging it, Gordon Ramsay-style.
He’d send voice notes when he was walking somewhere alone, telling you random thoughts like, “Do you think dogs ever think we’re their pets?” or “If you had to eat one thing forever, what would it be?”
You’d answer with giggles and over-thought answers like, “But what are the long-term consequences of eating just mochi forever? Asking for my future self.”
It was flirty without being heavy, honest without being scary.
Then one night, as he was rambling about almost setting off his smoke alarm while trying to pan-fry dumplings, he stopped mid-sentence.
You were brushing your teeth when you noticed. Foam in your mouth, you glanced at your phone.
“Christian?”
There was a pause.
Then:
“Hey... how do you feel about picnics?”
You blinked, spitting out toothpaste. “What?”
He chuckled. “Just answer.”
“Mmm... they’re nice. Why?”
“Wanna go on one tomorrow?”
You giggled. “Of course I do.”
---
The next morning, you took your time getting ready.
It wasn’t a date.
Not officially.
But something about it felt like it could be.
You stood in front of your mirror longer than usual, curling strands of your hair with practiced ease, reapplying gloss to your lips every time it faded. You wore a flowy, baby-yellow dress that caught sunlight like it was stitched from the morning itself. The neckline dipped gently, revealing just enough to make your heartbeat speed up when you imagined Christian seeing you.
You packed with care. Strawberries—real ones and also strawberry-flavored everything: macarons, mochi, soda. You’d bought a pale pink cooler and matching plates just for the occasion. And the mat? Strawberry patterned, of course. Something about it felt ridiculously on theme and perfect.
You looked at the mirror one last time before leaving and whispered to yourself, “It’s just a picnic.” But your heart didn’t believe you.
You arrived a little early. The park was quiet, sun-drenched, with trees offering pockets of shade and dappled light on the grass. You picked a spot not too crowded, under a wide tree that gave just enough privacy without making it feel too intimate.
You spread the strawberry mat, arranged the cooler beside it, and took a deep breath.
Then you waited.
Your hands fidgeted in your lap. Every passing group of people made your head lift. Was that him?
When he finally appeared, it was almost cinematic. He was walking toward you in slow strides, dressed in black cargo pants and a cream-colored shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair was slightly tousled like he hadn’t tried too hard, and he carried a paper bag and a grin that made your stomach flip inside out.
“Hey,” he said, once he was close enough.
You stood up, smoothing your dress nervously. “Hey.”
He paused, eyes scanning over you. “You look... wow.”
Your cheeks flushed. “I tried.”
He laughed and set the bag down. “I can tell. You’re glowing.”
You both sat down, the moment folding into something gentle, something shy but safe.
You poured drinks into paper cups. He unwrapped a baguette he brought and added it to your carefully prepped spread. You both laughed over how accidentally coordinated you were—he’d brought strawberry lemonade without knowing anything about your theme.
“I swear I didn’t copy you,” he said, taking a sip.
“This is just... fate.”
You pretended to gasp. “Did you just say fate?”
He gave a smug smile. “Don’t read into it.”
But you were.
You already were.
---
The sun was warm, not too hot, and the breeze played with the edges of the blanket, making it flap softly. Birds chirped in the distance. Every so often, the quiet between you two would stretch, but it never felt awkward. Just calm. Easy.
You laid on your back, staring up at the tree branches, your fingers brushing the soft fabric of your dress. Christian laid beside you, hands folded on his stomach, eyes half-closed against the sun.
Without thinking, you said, “I think I’m scared of love.”
He turned his head slowly toward you. “Why?”
You exhaled, letting the wind catch the weight of your voice. “I don’t know... I feel like every time I acknowledge that I’m experiencing love in my life, it goes wrong.”
You said it quietly, like it might break the moment.
He didn’t speak right away.
Then, softly, “I get that.”
You looked over at him. His expression wasn’t pitying. It was understanding. He’d been there.
“But you shouldn’t run from it forever,” he said.
You smiled faintly, eyes stinging more than you expected. He reached out, brushed a strand of hair gently from your cheek, and let his fingers linger for a heartbeat too long.
“You’re so pretty,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.
You turned to him, searching his face.
“Do you say that to all the girls you go on not-a-dates with?”
He grinned lazily. “Nope. Only the ones who bring mochi and look like they walked out of a photoshoot.”
You laughed, trying to hide how much it affected you. “That’s dangerously smooth.”
“I’m not trying to be,” he said. “I mean it.”
Your heart fluttered like it had wings.
Later, leaning against the tree trunk, you picked at a mochi while Christian laid stretched out, hands behind his head.
“Do you believe in timing?” you asked.
He looked at you, eyes thoughtful. “Yeah. I think... the right people show up when they’re supposed to. Even if it’s messy.”
“What if you’re scared when they show up?”
“Then you hold their hand until you’re not.”
You looked away, but your smile lingered.
The sun dipped lower, painting the park in golden hues.
Christian pulled out a disposable camera. “Can I take a picture of you?”
You blinked. “What? Why?”
“So I can remember today,” he said simply.
You tried to protest, but he raised it, capturing you mid-laugh, hair caught in the breeze.
“Beautiful,” he said.
Then he handed it to you. “Your turn.”
You caught him pretending to model with a mochi in hand, eyes wide and dramatic.
“Perfect,” you said, snapping it.
He laid back down, and sighed. “Today was good.”
“Yeah,” you echoed. “It really was.”
And when he walked you back to your car, his fingers brushed yours and didn’t let go.
“Text me when you get home,” he said.
“You already know I will.”
---
You had just gotten home when your phone buzzed.
Christian: You home safe?
You: Just walked in. You?
Christian: Yeah. Took the long way. Wasn’t ready to go inside yet.
You smiled at the message, standing in the doorway with your shoes still on, your dress lightly brushing against your knees as you leaned back against the wall. Something about the air felt different. You were still carrying the softness of the day with you.
Your phone buzzed again.
Christian: Can I call?
You didn’t even reply—just hit the green button.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then—
“Hey,” his voice said, warm and familiar through the speaker.
“Hey,” you echoed, already smiling.
There was a soft, companionable silence for a moment. You could hear him moving, maybe sitting down.
“You sounded surprised I wanted to call,” he teased.
“I wasn’t,” you replied, kicking off your shoes. “Just... you know. Trying not to seem too eager.”
He chuckled. “You don’t have to do that with me.”
You curled up on your bed, the phone pressed to your ear. “You sure?”
“Yeah. I like knowing you wanna talk to me.”
Your chest bloomed at the quiet honesty in his tone.
“I’m still thinking about today,” you admitted, brushing your fingers over the hem of your dress absentmindedly. “It was simple but... really special.”
“I was thinking the same,” he said. “You looked beautiful, by the way.”
You rolled onto your back, cheeks burning. “You already told me that.”
“I know,” he said. “Just wanted to say it again, in case you forgot.”
You paused, eyes flicking to the ceiling, letting the compliment settle into the quieter parts of your heart.
“Thank you.”
Christian sighed softly on the other end. “You know that thing you said today? About being scared of love?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve thought about that a lot since you said it.”
You shifted, more alert now. “What do you mean?”
“I think... I used to feel like love had to be dramatic. Like... chaotic or complicated or intense to be real. But today felt different. Peaceful. And I don’t think I’ve had that before.”
You swallowed. “That’s kind of sweet.”
“I’m serious. I think I’ve always been waiting for the other shoe to drop. But with you today, I didn’t feel like I had to keep my guard up.”
The silence stretched again, this time heavier.
“I’m really glad you asked me to go,” you said softly. “Even if it was just a picnic.”
He laughed under his breath. “You keep saying just. But it didn’t feel like just anything to me.”
You stayed quiet for a beat too long, and he noticed.
“What?” he asked gently.
“I think I’m still afraid,” you admitted. “Not of you. Just... of what I might feel if I let this happen.”
There was a rustle, like he was adjusting how he was sitting.
"You don't have to be." He whispered.
You both stayed on the line, not talking much after that. Just listening to each other breathe, letting the weight of the day dissolve in shared silence. It wasn’t awkward. It felt like the beginning of something. Something real.
Eventually, his voice came again—sleepier now.
“Don’t hang up yet.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
You smiled into the phone, letting the sound of his breathing lull you into a sense of safety.
And that night, you both fell asleep on the call.
Still not a date.
Still not a label.
But something was quietly unfolding between you—something tender, unspoken, and entirely yours.
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