simkonup

[simkonup]

Until our limit

Maniac Aegon x female!Reader

modern au. Warning: blood, violence, toxic relationship, murder

Aegon has a new passion, and it is anything but romantic.

In the dim bathroom, the sound of water running from the faucet echoes. A cold, bluish light settles on the black-tiled floor. y/n stands there barefoot, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, while her hands throb painfully beneath the flowing water. Someone once told her that blood should be rinsed out with cold water.

The white porcelain sink alternates between crimson and pink from the liquid splashing within. It’s a beautiful, almost hypnotic sight, if you can push from your mind the thought of what exactly is giving the water that color. At the point where the cloth meets the bar of soap, brownish foam forms, slowly rising into the air. The smell of blood itself is tolerable—an iron scent reminiscent of stewed fruit, something everyone recognizes, and everyone’s familiar with the salty taste of blood in the mouth. But where protein and hemoglobin mix with alkaline soap, a particular scent is produced: it seeps in, fills your nostrils, clings to your throat, and when you try to cough, you can taste that same mixture on your tongue.

Y/n feels nauseous. She desperately wants to rid herself of the foul sensation welling up inside. She brings her cold, trembling fingers to her mouth and closes her eyes, while icy drops trickle down, wetting her face and sliding along her elbow.

And that smell is on her hands.

She’s on the verge of losing it. One more drop, and she won’t be able to hold back. Once the final drop falls from her hand, then…

“Are you taking the opportunity to bathe yourself too?” a familiar voice calls out, and a man’s figure leans casually—almost lazily—against the doorway.

“What?”

“I asked what you’re doing in here so long.”

Y/n turns off the faucet, and finally, silence settles in the bathroom. Her hands begin to warm up, the nausea gradually subsides. All the feelings and thoughts from moments ago now seem like a bad dream. The water had been so loud that within its roar, y/n could hear those frightening, anxious thoughts—like a stranger’s voice whispering in her head.

Her boyfriend—Aegon—is no longer the same person she once knew. One accidental killing changed something in him, destroying one of the fundamental boundaries of who he was. Y/n still remembers the horror and fear frozen on Aegon’s face when he accidentally took another person’s life. But no matter how hard she tries, she can’t pinpoint the moment his terror turned into excitement. When exactly did something crack inside him, luring him away from humanity and guiding him to kill again—this time deliberately?

He committed his second murder four months later, meticulously planning every detail. Y/n knew nothing about it—only when the third killing happened before her very eyes, triggered by a minor quarrel, did Aegon reveal the second. That one happened in a flash, an impulse, and he never again involved his girlfriend in his subsequent murders.

Then more followed. The fourth, the fifth… Eventually, whenever y/n heard keys turning in the lock of their apartment, she’d shut her eyes tight and try not to think about how many times it had happened, silently wishing it had stopped at six. But even without counting, it kept going—the scrape of keys, the water in the shower, the clang of something metallic against the sink. It could be normal in other couples, under different circumstances, but not how it was for them. And when y/n couldn’t sleep at night, she felt the smell of blood lingering around her, even in bed. Still, she never left. Not because she was complicit in the third murder, but because she was the reason the first one happened at all.

“Babe,” he says, stepping toward her. His warm palms rest on her still-wet face. “This is really sweet, but let’s not get carried away. I despise any kind of servitude, including chores.”

“If I rinse it out right away, it’ll be much easier to wash.”

“To hell with that,” Aegon says, frowning. “I’ll just burn it all over the weekend. Not a problem.”

“And until the weekend, it’ll just stay here? What if someone sees it?” Y/n weakly tries to object.

“Who’s going to see it?” he cuts her off right away.

“I don’t know.”

That’s only half of her concern. More importantly, the thought of Aegon’s possessions stained and drying with someone else’s blood somewhere in their apartment disgusts her. You can’t have a paradise-like love nest if it contains trophies marked by someone’s death. It doesn’t fit into the perfect picture y/n wants to paint in her head. So each time he comes home, she attempts to scrub away all signs of his twisted obsession. These clues she hides from herself, clinging to the illusion that everything is fine. After all, on their dates, his shirts were always pristine white. And with her hands, they become so again. “Apply a solution of baking soda to the fabric, rub it well, and leave it for half an hour. Then rinse under cold water. If any trace remains, use laundry soap and run a 30-degree wash cycle.” And there it is, not a drop of blood to be seen.

“If you don’t tell anyone, no one will see,” Aegon says with a smile, running his thumb along her lower lip. “You’re not going to say anything, are you?”

“And you’re so confident you won’t slip up yourself?”

“Confident enough. But you still haven’t answered my question,” he says, now gripping her chin so she can’t avert her eyes. For a couple of seconds, the bathroom is silent.

“I won’t say anything.”

“That’s my girl. It’d be a real shame if you got scared and ruined our happiness by doing something stupid.”

He presses his lips gently to her forehead, lingering longer than usual, and with just that single tender gesture—and the word “happiness”—Y/n is convinced anew to trust him over her own inner voice. She just needs to surrender and close her eyes.

See no evil. Hear no evil. Speak no evil.

They still love each other; neither doubts that. He’s just as gentle with her as before, gazing at her with the same love in his eyes. Every romance follows its own path, with its own nuances. Their poor, unlucky love is overshadowed by something that society deems wrong. But that doesn’t mean their love shouldn’t exist, right? It only means that y/n’s path is harder than most.

“Come to the bedroom, y/n,” he whispers softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Y/n is his next trophy—and part of his special concluding ritual. After every victory over fate, he celebrates by plunging into the pleasure her body brings him. His lips graze every vertebra of her spine, ending their path at her lower back, leaving behind a bite. The wound is shallow, driven by passion and adoration for her—at least as long as she remains his equal. Y/n doesn’t know exactly what differentiates her from his victims. But the moment she loses it, the wound will deepen.

One hand on her neck, the other wrapped around her waist. Hot kisses along her face, ragged breathing and muffled moans in her ear. Y/n is ensnared by earthly pleasures and lust, and as long as it feels this good, she’s ready to forget that she’s stuck in a cage. Ready to forget the things she once considered unforgivable and wrong.

“Louder,” Aegon whispers, and his fingers tighten on her throat.

She obeys, does everything he says—because what’s left of her own will anyway? What remains of her hopes, her principles, her rules, her convictions?

Her life has sunk into a slippery quagmire of disappointments and glances backward at how things used to be. Now her days revolve around choosing between hydrogen peroxide, aspirin, or baking soda. Only the bone-chilling cold water and the heat of her beloved’s body remain constant. He’s the only thing that colors her existence, greedily and barely filling it with tiny doses of former happiness. He is also what ruined her life forever.

Because even if y/n musters the courage—even if her trembling fingers finally manage to dial the short string of numbers on her phone—nothing will change for her. You can’t wash the stains off yourself, and there’s still no surefire way to rid yourself of love for someone.

A sudden, rougher-than-usual bite on her shoulder jolts y/n out of her thoughts, and she gasps involuntarily.

It’s already deeper.

“Drifting off again, are we?” Aegon says huskily, a clear note of irritation in his voice.

“Sorry,” she replies in a whisper. He clicks his tongue but softens a moment later, leaving a kiss on her temple.

No, not enough yet.

On that fateful day, they had an ordinary date: no special reason, no grand romance. After a couple of drinks at a bar, they lingered outside so Aegon could finish a cigarette before their taxi arrived. Phone screen was already showing the route to their home and an estimated travel time when a man, clearly having drunk more than he could handle, stumbled out of the bar. Y/n noticed him right away—she didn’t even need to take her eyes off her phone. His swaying figure wandered in their direction, and her body instinctively tensed up, though it still didn’t seem like a real threat. Being a young and attractive woman, y/n had encountered such situations a hundred times and already knew how to act. A drunk man is like a witless dog, and in the worst cases, that dog might be vicious—but it can still be outsmarted. A few tricks and guidelines can prevent a serious conflict, and y/n had plenty of practice. If only she’d been alone that evening.

It all started with the typical “Excuse me, could I…?” then a couple of mumbled comments that made Aegon scowl and sneer with disgust. He was about to fire back, but y/n caught his eye, stopping him with a small shake of her head. With an irritated sigh, he gave in, taking a drawn-out, anxious drag on his cigarette.

Y/n exhaled in relief when the phone screen showed a notification that a driver had been found.

“Eight minutes. A gray Toyota Prius.” Locking her phone, she folded her arms across her chest to keep in as much warmth as possible. Her eyelids fluttered closed, her muscles relaxing at the familiar, comforting smell of smoke—though only for a moment. Once again, she snapped rigid when she smelled a strong reek of alcohol and felt unwelcome fingers pinching her thigh. Y/n opened her eyes, ready to lash out, but she was too slow.

Aegon snapped. He flicked his cigarette over his right shoulder and gave the man a single, forceful shove to the chest, bracing for a blow in return that never came.

In his rush to protect his girlfriend from the man’s lewd comments and unwanted touch, Aegon misjudged his own strength. The man was drunk and unsteady on his feet. Losing his balance, he toppled over like a rag doll, hitting his head against the curb. In a single instant, your heart stops, the blood drains from your face, and the only question racing through your mind is whether fate will forgive your mistake this time. Slowly and calmly, like a small creature exploring new territory, a dark liquid spread across the asphalt. No, you won’t be forgiven. Along with the man you accidentally pushed, you, too, plummeted into the same abyss.

Realizing the horror of what he’d done, Aegon exhaled in agony, while y/n canceled the taxi they’d been waiting on—just four minutes away.

The case was closed, framed as an accident, thanks to Aegon’s family’s money and connections. But for the entire car ride afterward, Aegon sobbed on y/n’s lap. She stroked his hair, doing her best to ease his despair, yet all she wanted was to wake up from this nightmare. Her mind was consumed with counting minutes and running through countless “if only” scenarios. If only there had been one more drink, one more conversation, one more glance in the mirror to reapply her lip liner. Maybe those few extra moments could have spared her beloved from the guilt devouring him. On another branch of reality, this horror never happened to them, and as y/n feels his trembling beneath her hand, she envies the version of herself in those alternate timelines.

It seems certain that Aegon will never make that same mistake again. Having endured such a nightmare once, surely he’d never want to relive it. That’s what we all think, reexamining events through the prism of logic. But the twisted human mind doesn’t follow commands or rules. Once it experiences horror, it seeks to control it—and no one can predict exactly how something inside us may break.

Collapsing onto the bed beside her, Aegon falls asleep almost at once, while y/n lies awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling. Her hand unconsciously reaches for his, resting on her stomach, and she intertwines their fingers in a gentle gesture. She turns her head to look at his face, her heart clenching with the barbs of love and familiar regret. Those same barbs prickle her eyes, making thick, salty tears roll down her cheeks.

No, she can’t. She can’t leave him. Not when she’s so weak and needs him so desperately. It’s better to yield and quietly lose than to lose him right now.

And so again and again, in a vicious circle, they both repeat the same line:

“Not today. When I stop loving you—then.”

Naively believing that love guarantees something, at least until one of them reaches their limit.

In the end, they’ll have to count the minutes again, to see who wins by being the first. In the end, when one person’s limit becomes the other’s final breath.

[simkonup]

Black lamb

Dazai Osamu x female!Reader

Dazai returns to his hometown to meet his former lover.

English is not my native language, sorry, I'm losing aura points.

A small lamb got tangled in some fishing line. Its plaintive bleating echoed across the foggy field. I approached to free it, and it cried even louder, this time from fear. Some people do harm by leaving lines behind, while others try to do good by releasing you from them. But once you’ve been ensnared, you’ll fear everyone the same, regardless of their true intentions.

As I tried to untangle the knots, the animal began to buck, pulling the line taut. One strand tightened around its neck, and a strangled wheeze escaped its throat. The lamb was hurting itself—this much was clear to me, but did it itself realize that? I placed my palm on its muzzle, gently pressing it to the ground, and pinned its front legs with my knee. In that position, it could hardly move, while my right hand was still free. I hurried to loosen the line around its neck, and then attempted to remove it completely. In vain. The silvery strands had tangled together, clinging to its soft wool, as though they had become part of the little lamb.

“It won’t work this way. You need to cut them.”

I turned toward the voice. A slender figure, half lost in the wind but very familiar to me, stood before me. I left this place once, but she has lived here her whole life, and it seems she has absorbed all of its traits. She has become the living embodiment of my former home. Her hair was curling in the damp air; the last time I saw her, it was noticeably shorter. I thought I could see that the naivety in her eyes had vanished, that they had grown darker—perhaps a reaction to me. My memories of Y/N were bright ones, so whenever I heard someone say, “There is still good in life,” I partly thought of her. But did she ever think of me? Maybe when she heard how that saying ended:

“And some bad, too.”

I was the one who asked to see her, but deep down I had hoped she wouldn’t come. Another act of kindness she showed me—her worst and, at the same time, her best trait.

“I’ve got nothing to cut with,” I said. I felt as if I had to learn to speak all over again just to get out that one simple phrase.

“I’ll help.” She knelt beside me, the hem of her skirt falling onto the damp grass. A blade flashed in her hands, and in an instant the lines pulling at the animal’s neck and front legs were cut. Feeling incomplete but much longed-for freedom, the lamb again thrashed under my hand, then suddenly jumped up, ready to run as far away from Y/N and me as possible. I managed to yank away the remaining strands just before it finally escaped, and the lines that had imprisoned it were left clutched in my hand. Not everyone can help you, even if they truly want to.

As I studied the tangled mass of line, Y/N looked at me. Her eyes examined my face with interest. Had she noticed any changes there? Had she seen the same extinguished look that was in her own? Regardless, she waited for me to speak first.

“Thank you,” I said, diverting my eyes toward the forest. She sighed wearily.

“There’s nothing to thank me for. But if you are thanking someone sincerely, look at them. You were the one who taught me that.” Indeed, those were my own words. Without direct eye contact, you’re thanking fate itself, not the person who showed you kindness.

I looked at her, and she smiled. When people smile out of happiness, those smiles shine like the sun. But a sad smile, like Y/N’s, glows like the moon. That glow made me feel melancholy, and somewhere deep inside, a long-forgotten sense of guilt awoke. It gripped my heart so tightly that I could scarcely breathe. I tried to smile back, but an awkward, entirely uncharacteristic smile twisted my face in a way I definitely hadn’t intended. I often smile in everyday life, but whenever I try to do so sincerely, it probably looks as though I’m on the verge of tears. A light breeze picked up, rustling both my hair and hers. For the first time, it occurred to me that we looked alike. In the past, I would have said Y/N was my complete opposite, yet in truth, we had more in common than I’d realized. At least in our past pretenses, we were alike. In our relationship, I pretended to be a different person because I wanted to know what it was like to be a normal person who’s loved, while she pretended because she didn’t want to lose me. In the end, we both failed—that was another thing we shared. I wonder what would have happened if we had tried being honest with each other.

“Will you be here long?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m just passing through, and I thought I’d see you since I had the chance.”

“I see,” she said, and I sensed a slight note of disappointment.

“Do you want me to stay?”

She didn’t answer, only gave a comforting smile, looking down at the hem of her skirt. It was clear enough without words: my presence would only make it harder for everyone.

I smiled again, this time my usual smile. Dusting the grass from my pants, I stood up and gallantly extended a hand to Y/N.

“Shall we go for a walk?” She reached for my hand in return.

We walked, and the grass bent beneath our feet. There used to be a path here that we forged together, walking through this field every evening. But now everything was overgrown with fresh grass; there was no path forward or back, however metaphorical that might sound. We walked in silence, listening to the wind and the chirping crickets. Everything around us was gradually turning gray, and we had half an hour at most before night fell completely. Both of us understood that, but we still said nothing. Talking about how we felt without each other would only disappoint us both. If I told the truth, she wouldn’t understand, and if I lied, she would sense it. And my reaction would be the same, except that if she lied, it would probably be a relief for me. As we walked, I kept my eyes on the ground, while Y/N looked ahead. I wanted to know what she was thinking. If it were anyone else in her place, I would assume they were wondering how burdensome this meeting was and how much they wished night would fall so they could say goodbye to me forever. Anyone else might think that—but not Y/N. She was thinking of me; it was only unclear if she was thinking of the old me or the person I am now. Her kindness was always genuine, never tainted by politeness or self-interest. I admired her pure altruism. I knew she was far stronger than I was—she had sacrificed herself more than once, never receiving anything in return. Y/N never betrayed her good heart. No matter how unfair the world was to her, she never became hostile toward it. I couldn’t manage the same.

Even now she was sacrificing herself. I became yet another disappointment to her, shattering her heart, but I still had the audacity to ask her to meet me. And she came, though she knew that seeing my face would reopen old wounds. Y/N has every reason to forget me. But she still remembers. With every step, she remembers more.

Her kindness, gentleness, and capacity to love were the reasons I fell for her. And they were also the reasons I ran away from her. The qualities I once admired began to frighten me. I believed if I always held her hand, always listened to her thoughts, always kissed her soft cheeks in a surge of my passionate admiration, I might gradually become more like her. I truly felt that near her I was becoming a better person. But the higher you soar on the wings of your own illusions, the harder you fall afterward. Those wings aren’t made of sturdy materials or careful plans, but merely of the fragile hope for a better life.

That’s what happened to me. My attempts to become a kind-hearted, worthy person destroyed me from within. And the more I tried to become like Y/N, the more I hated those very qualities that had once charmed me. I couldn’t find in myself what she had in her, and I grew tired of pretending to be someone else. It was too difficult for me to suppress my dark side. The good deeds I did weren’t selfless. Every time I helped someone, I expected the world to return the favor. Not receiving it, I fell into hysterics and took it out on Y/N. Perhaps this could have gone on forever. Y/N would never have broken this vicious cycle on her own. She had long grown used to enduring rather than fighting, and, worst of all, she believed her love was helping me. She thought that if she suffered, I would be relieved. But the knowledge that I was hurting her only made me feel infinitely worse. I dreamed that one day she would hate me. I dreamed that she would finally tell me “enough” and throw me out. How I would have rejoiced had she done even one bad thing to me.

But she did nothing. To the very end, I remained a coward who couldn’t find the strength to simply talk to her. The height of my cowardice was literally running away from her. When I received a letter offering me a job in another city, I said nothing. On the day of my departure, while Y/N was still sound asleep, I left a note on her bedside table:

“I’ll be glad if you can forget me. Thank you for everything, and goodbye.”

We had not seen each other since. Until today.

We came down from the slope and were already near the houses. Night had finally fallen, and streetlamps were switching on one by one in an even chain.

“Are you angry with me?” I finally worked up the courage to break our silence.

“No,” she answered without hesitation. “I had so much time alone to try to understand you, but it still wasn’t enough. Now I’m certain I’ll never understand what’s going on in your head. You won’t let me in, and I no longer want to try.”

She paused, as if wondering whether to go on.

“I’ll never understand your motivations, and I don’t think anyone will. So I pity you, Osamu. I was lonely without you, but you were lonely even with me. And still, you’re not a bad person in my eyes.”

She stopped and turned toward me. Her gaze was determined and cold.

“I have only one request. Tell me why you came. What was the purpose of this meeting?”

“To finally thank you properly.”

No sooner had I finished saying the word “properly,” a wave of grief—like the saltiest ocean—shimmered in her eyes. She tried to hide it and quickly lowered her head, while I kept my eyes on her.

“Thank you, Y/N. Thank you for being there, and thank you for remaining a good memory for me.”

Her pale hand shot up. She was telling me “enough” at last, albeit only through a gesture.

“I’m leaving. Don’t see me off.” She turned, walking briskly toward the glowing lights.

I didn’t try to stop her; I just watched the figure recede forever. But suddenly she turned and looked straight at me, and I felt my heart freeze. Shimmering tears ran down her cheeks in the streetlight’s glow. Her lips moved soundlessly. The wind carried her whisper beyond my hearing, but I could still make out the single word she uttered:

“Thank you.”

Somewhere far away, perhaps already safe and warm among its brothers and sisters, the little lamb is burning with shame. It must regret that the people who saved it did not harm it after all.

Because if you hurt me, I can justify my fear. I can justify running away without thanking you.