last flowers | rohan/reader

8。forget-me-not

"Which is the true nightmare, the horrific dream that you have in your sleep or the dissatisfied reality that awaits you when you awake?"
— Justin Alcala

Calloused fingers reach out to her neck. It's not tender and possessively bruised like it should've been– this had to be a nightmare. The hands touched her gingerly, caressing her cheek with affection. They twisted and curved around her body to satisfy her, playing relentlessly with her lips and collarbone, before resuming the original goal. The hands squeezed her neck like an empty tube of toothpaste, and there was no going back from choking out the last bit of life she had left. The last glimpse she had before death was used on the owner of the hands— there stood Rohan Kishibe, proud and satisfied with his masterpiece.

•••

[Name]'s eyes fluttered open as soon as she could channel the willpower to do so. She took in her surroundings quickly; Rohan's bedroom. Ever since she crawled into bed with him the other night, she kept coming back. His bed was big enough so that they didn't have to snuggle close together, but she wanted to despite any protests he'd made. The woman was reconsidering that now, despite it being only a dream. Rohan killing her was not reality.

He slept soundly on his side, barely stirring for someone who came to bed so late at night due to heavy future planning for his manga. She briefly wondered how he managed to doze off so easily, when it took a village to keep her asleep. Especially when these nightmares made an appearance.

Rohan's sleeping was so much more vulnerable than she'd ever considered. He has no way to defend himself, physically or verbally. He's angelic when he's quiet, his lips parted ever so slightly with no sound but his breathing escaping them. He's not subtly tearing his own work down, or snapping at her obnoxiously flirtatious remarks. It's a nice change to see him without a smug grin or an irritated grimace.

[Name] touches the tender part of her own neck, sore and discolored from what she'd first thought was death but recalls Rohan's aggressive kisses. She ached for him to ravish her, eager for both the pain and pleasure that came with his touch, but it'd have to wait for another day. A day where she knew herself and a day where the artist could admit to any sort of feeling towards her, besides lust.

Rohan was bossy. She tried to enjoy it, but his demands weren't anything she could even try to have fun with.

Stay out of my drawing room unless I give you specific permission. This, she could understand. It was his private space.

Don't make a mess and leave it. Again, understandable. Though she continued to make a bad habit of it, he didn't seem to mind cleaning up after her too terribly. He liked grumbling about responsibility while he did it, thinking she wouldn't hear.

Don't leave the house without me accompanying you. Free will: stripped. Something about him made her stay. A compelling force in her gut drove her to listen. If it wasn't love, it was obedience. She didn't know him long enough to call it love, anyways.

"Psst. Rohan."

He didn't respond immediately. Rohan stirred in a sleepy fashion on his stomach, groaning about the extremely short nap he'd gotten before she woke him. His back was roughly scratched in two small symmetrical patches. "What?"

"Am I... an important person to you?"

Another groan. He flipped himself over and sat up groggily to look at her, bare torso in full view. "Why are you asking all of the sudden? I'm tired, and you woke me up for this."

"I just want to know that I matter."

"I wouldn't let just anyone sleep in my bed."

"I don't want to wake up one day with you feeling different. I have to matter. Your attention... It's what's been keeping me going, I think. I feel like I don't know much about my life currently except for these tiny details... And it's been unsettling. Please let me mean something to you."

"You mean something to me. Are you happy? Let's go back to sleep." She half-expected him to roll over, but he coaxed the girl back down by wrapping his arm across her upper back and pulling her close. It was a sort of intimacy she'd yet to get from him. It was always [name] as the big spoon, and Rohan as the noncompliant little spoon. They were nose to nose now, her sandwiched between his forearms, but it was rejuvenating to share that closeness. It was all she could cling onto now, after all, since she didn't have anything else to keep her here.

•••

Rohan was having a field day in hell. Thanks to [name]'s unintentionally proficient observational skills and policing training tucked into the recesses of her mind, she was a nuisance to keep things from. Even if he'd written away the majority of her detective abilities, she was always one step behind him, picking up clues the artist left behind and gleefully making him feel like an idiot each time she did. The woman made it impossible to leave pictures and police reports he borrowed from her detective self out, so he made an effort to keep them tucked away in his drawing room, where he completely forbid her from going to unless there was explicit permission. She seemed to understand that, while she infringed on his other personal spaces no problem. He considered purchasing an extra futon so he actually could force her to sleep on the floor, but her comforting warmth healed his achy neck and wrists when he crawled into bed after she did, weary from spending the day slaving over his art. By no means was she as important to him as Pink Dark Boy was, but she was an adequate pillow for him to snuggle up to at the end of the day.

A/N: omg so this is basically ch8? i found it on my drive so i just was like "whatever" and posted it, that's why it's hilariously short! i'm just hopeful this will get me in the mood to write for jojo... i've been too into pokemon & persona so i haven't been giving this fic proper attention. sorry ^^