Thank you, ChaosRocket, for putting up with this story long enough to beta it.
I think I also must be masochistic because I HATE first person. I really hate it. The lack of quality in this story is proof that I should never write in first person again. I only did it because I wanted to focus on Ryo. Also, if you pay attention you will notice that I NEVER use anyone's names in this story; first person makes it slightly easier to get away with that.

This is a birthday story for Fangirl16 (should be 17 now ;) ) She was very unspecific about what she wanted, so she gets this plotless bull. I really don't know what this is. I think it's pointless, but it is Deathshipping, so that should be good enough.

I can vaguely tell it's morning by the annoying light penetrating my eyelids. For all I know I slept well past noon, but I don't care. I only want to sleep more, but I know I have to get up and moving. Well, I would move if I could. As it happens, my entire lower body is sore and my head is pounding. I hesitantly put myself in a sitting position and release a sigh.

Tan arms wrap around my waist and pull me back down none too gently. I wince a little before I realize the owner of said arms was still snoozing the day away. I frown as I look at his peaceful face, and I envy his ability to continue sleeping. I suppose I like waking before him, though. He's never so calm when he's conscious, so I revere the short, quiet moments when I'm able to see him relax. I feel even more jealousy that, unlike me, he probably isn't sore at all, and that when he wakes up he'll likely just demand food and more sex.

Food and sex. That is how we started our strange relationship. He had no name and no home, nowhere to turn. Somehow I managed to be just around the corner when he finally looked around. I tried to cross the street before he turned down my alley, but there was always so much traffic going by, other people moving too quickly, rushing as if they knew where their lives were going. I had no path to escape, and he found me when we both needed someone to find. We stopped right there on the street, physically and metaphorically. What snapped us out of our short trance was his stomach growling, and I brought him home for a quick meal. Really, I intended to feed him sloppy leftovers and kick him out, but I guess I never was strong enough to turn away someone in need, despite any prior bad blood. Admittedly sex was another need of ours, but I didn't immediately give him that like food.

At first, I hated that he found me, because he was a basic part of my past, a reminder of the piece of my life that I never got a chance to live. I don't remember him like others might, since I can't recall remember anything from that time, but I knew he was supposed to be little more than a bad memory for everyone. Everything from back then should have stayed a memory, but some of the most unexpected things come back, I guess. From all I've heard about his behavior before, I don't think he has changed much. He is demanding, and rude, and cruel, and, sadistic and to summarize, insane. He can be absolutely terrifying, but the thing is, I've always loved to be scared, and that is a part of my past I have yet to live down.

Slowly, I close my eyes again and ease myself back into a comfortable position, his arms still holding me. Apparently my movements disturbed him because only moments later I feel hairs tickling my face and his body hovering over mine. I shouldn't have even bothered to go back to sleep.

"Planning on getting up?" I hear him chide, which I find quite laughable all things considered. I open my eyes and see his staring back at me, vivid and violet-colored, looking faintly drowsy but distinctly crazy.

"I might consider it if you weren't hovering over me, and if I could feel my lower body better," I retort. Last night was not our first time, but he tends to be overly rough. I am not some fragile porcelain doll, but after so many rounds, it would have been nice if he'd added more lube.

"Mmmm," he groans, sprawling back down on the bedspread. "I don't want to get up." He can be such a child, but I think technically he is only 9, so I guess I should be impressed with his maturity? I tend not to think about his age."If you want me to make breakfast you have to get up. It's-" I pause to look at the time. "Wow, it's already 12:42. What time did we go to bed?" I ask before thinking of all the things we did. His refractory period is short, so I was put into one position after another even after we both orgasmed.

"Well, you fell asleep after you came for, I dunno, the third time around three. I followed about thirty minutes later after I cleaned a bit of mess from when the condom broke," he growls. "I don't know why you bother making wear the damn things if they still winds up spilling!"

"Because you probably broke it by ripping it off incorrectly. It's always really weird to clean up the mess. Condoms or no sex at all."

I know he wants to debate more on our sex life, but I drop the topic there and decide to finally stand. My naked back faces him, and I shudder at the cool breeze touching my sensitive skin.

When he comes up behind me and wraps his warm arms and body around me again, I welcome the respite from the cool air.

I never have to see his face to know that he is grinning like the maniac he is. I feel his long tongue toy with my ear, and I feel my body heat up. "Breakfast or shower first?" he asks me mischievously. I feel very dirty, but I know if I say shower then he will wind up molesting me.

"I'll cook something. You take a shower first," I wisely reply.

He growls my name out, and I chuckle. "Fine," he states bitterly, retracting his body from mine, "but I want my pancakes to be shaped like penises." He turns away to walk into the bathroom near our room. At least I don't have to worry about what I should make for breakfast.

I slip on some loose pants and a t-shirt. I don't bother with underwear or checking if the clothes are actually clean because I want to take a shower soon anyway. Stepping into the small kitchen of my apartment, I get out the ingredients for pancakes. I work on my own pancakes first so that I can eat mine while I cook his. Unlike that pervert, I shape mine into various things like dinosaurs, bats, spiders (they looks like blobs and squiggly lines, but it's good enough), and the like. I try to make a pokeball, too, but I fail and looks like a normal pancake. I eat so much that making pancakes normally takes out at least half the box.

I faintly notice the shower stopping, and I just finished making the third inappropriately shaped pancake for the immature male. I turn the stove off and put his plate on the table with the syrup. I hear feet scuffle into the area, so I'm not taken off guard when strong arms reach over me and steal a pancake from the plate.

I turn and see him running that infamously long tongue over the pancake. He winks at me while he sucks and keeps only the head of the pancake in his mouth. When he reaches for the syrup and lets the gooey brown liquid spread all around, I finally blush and turn away.

"My turn to take a shower. Try not to let the pancakes replace me, pervert!" I call to him as I rush away, but I still hear his cackle. Next time I am strictly making him common circular pancakes.

I don't even bother grabbing new clothes as I head to the bathroom. I find a clean white towel on the rack and decide it will be good enough for later before I eagerly remove my clothes.

I step in the shower and turn on the warm water. The shower hits me hard, but I appreciate it greatly because it helps scrape off all the excess body fluids. I pour a heavy amount of shampoo and conditioner into my hair at the same time to hurry things along and then I begin to scrub. Since the other male takes long, hot showers, I know the water will be cold soon. Running the soap up and down my body thoroughly, I conclude my business just before the shower begins spurting chilly droplets.

I squeeze the water from my white hair before stepping out and drying off. For just a moment I stare at myself in the mirror and feel conflicted. My hair is longer than most people's, but it is significantly shorter than it was just a few years ago. I stare at my pure white locks, heavy and untamed from the sex and the shower, with a small sense of pride. By the time he found me I had moved away from Domino and tried to change my outlook on life. My hair hadn't been cut for years, leaving it dead white at the bottom, so I decided to cut and dye it, leaving no traces of my former self recognizable.

I failed miserably, as you can tell, since someone still found me. Worse was that I chose black of all colors, and when it began to fade, my hair had an ugly greenish tint. He thought it was the funniest thing in the world, but he made it better when he told me he liked my hair no matter what. That's just the type of guy he is, I think. He is every horrible word in the book, but he will always be honest. He does not care about hair (which should be obvious with how wild he lets his grow out) or clothes, but just takes a person as a whole.

I needed someone like that, but I didn't know it. I remember coming home to a small, worn apartment, so sad, alone, and with sore cheeks. I still don't know why I smiled so much. I was sad. I felt so lonely. I hurt people I cared for. I went hungry for days sometimes. I deserved to rot. I wanted to die. I wanted to feel pain. I wanted to stop smiling. I wanted people to know that my smile was fake. I wanted people to notice that I am not evil. I wanted people to know how obvious it was that I was taken over. I wanted them to know how much I was breaking.

I left. I went to live in an average sized city to attend a rather small college. I was going to completely erase my past and move on. To be honest, I barely remember any good things about my past, considering how many times my dark self took over, only allowing me to be consciously aware of what he was doing when he was using my body to hurt people. Me. I hurt people. I was horrible. I smiled. I hated it. Then he just found me.

He was definitely not searching for me, but he still found me. He was the "dark" to another soul, and I was the "light." I had never met him prior, never personally experienced his cruelties, but that was part of the appeal. He was the horror-mystery stories I loved so much. I wondered what he would do to me. I wondered what he would make me feel. I somehow knew he would help me feel "real."

I have no reason to smile for someone that wanted people to frown. I have no reason to hurt myself when I am around a sadist. I have reason to actually make food for myself when I know someone else will eat with me. I cannot feel alone when I feel someone's warm body embracing me in such intimate ways.

I drop the towel that was covering my pale, wet body and look more closely in the mirror.

I have five bruises on my hips from where he held me, and a few hickeys on my neck. I love seeing them. I love knowing I have evidence of my companionship. When I feel alone or when I feel like I am reverting back to how I was before, I think of him. I think of how unorthodox we must seem and laugh. I was never normal. He was never normal. Somehow the fact that we balance each other to make a more neutral oddness makes me smile, a real smile. The small smile is more evidence that I am happy with him than any bruise or hickey, but I still like having the marks as a safety net.

I hear a loud pounding sound on the door and snap out of my thoughts with a fright. "Done admiring yourself, snookums?" he asks with a mock-sweet pet name. I hate when he calls me that so much. He thinks that it is funny because it makes him think of our first time, when I came too quickly from a blowjob and I "snuck cum" in his mouth. Despite the vulgarities of the name, I think it almost sounds funny because it is supposedly such an "endearing" name coming from someone many would describe as a heartless killer. I wrap the towel tight around my waist and open the door.

"Move, please, so I can get my clothes." I see him eyeing me, and I doubt he will just step aside without something given to him. I now wish I had at least grabbed some boxers.

"Sorry, I don't think I will," he replies with a smirk, leaning down to capture my lips in a rough kiss.

I kiss him back and wrap my arms around his neck. I lean my body weight against him deviously and he steps back a little. Just as he releases me for a small moment in an attempt to pin me to the wall, I dash away to the room, towel falling on the ground. I love how that always seems to work.

I dig in my drawers for some for clothes. I pull on plain black boxers and a white tee. I know I should put on pants, but I decide not to, as I usually don't when I just want to lounge about. open the door to let him to come in, and he looks rather pissed. I place an apologetic kiss on his lips, but he takes advantage and pulls me in for more. This time I give in without any dastardly plans. Despite my innocent eyes and mannerisms, I actually love and need to be intimate and rough like this.

His hands never stay away from my butt for long. I curve into the touch, and I know that it only annoys my insane lover more. He just wants to take me hard, so knowing that I give in to the touches but still remain so refrained bothers him.

To help ease him I slide my hands down and under his loose black shirt and rub his well-toned chest. He smirks into the kiss, and I find myself smiling back.

"I wanna try something a little bigger and sweeter than a pancake now," he murmurs into my ear in his deep, lustful, commanding voice.

There used to be underlying threats when he said things like this, but I realize that he cannot hurt me. I expect pain, and it bores him to know I can take him. Now they are more like requests than commands.

With little resistance from him, I pull away and guide him to the bed, my arms and legs spread wide. "I doubt I will be much sweeter," I inform him with a slight blush because, despite this being a routine of ours, I amstill a shy guy at heart. He takes his cue eagerly.

I used to wonder how I became so open with him, but I know now that it's because he would never close himself off to me. With him I definitely feel the physical pleasure, but there is no denying my emotional gratification. If he hadn't found me, I would likely just be taking a walk with a numbing smile spread over my face. I would come to a corner and not know whether to turn or head forward.

Eventually, I would turn back to repeat the same process endlessly. I assume that he would probably be wasting away in either a bar, jail, or an asylum if he'd never met me. I shudder of how our lives would have been different without that simple run-in.

Overall, I think the thing is that without the other, neither of us would have known love. I only just realized that I do love him (though maybe not in a sappy, traditional sense), and I doubt he knows what to call any feeling that isn't anger or lust, but that must be it. Anyone could be rough and stay with me, and anyone could feed and sate his sexual appetite, but it's the that fact we work so well with each other that keeps us together. No one could make feelthe way he does, physically and emotionally. I guess that's why we love each other. The best part is that we only barely know it. We just live it in our simple, everyday lives, continuing things as things happen.

His head happens to be between my thighs, taking my hardened shaft to the base, and I moan his name. I feel so happy. I arch into his touch and I really am smiling. His tongue rubs and licks on the underside while he focuses on sucking the tip. It feels so, so good. I tilt my head to see countless blond, gravity-defying hairs covering most of my lover's face, except for his stunning violet eyes.

He notices and looks up at me, my erection still filling his mouth, with a shockingly handsome smirk, and I am assured that there really is no one that could satisfy me like him. As I'm about to peak in physical pleasure, I know I would never want to see anyone else in his position

My hands grip the sheets tightly, and I pant harder as he sucks faster. I release a particularly loud moan as I climax in his mouth. Thankfully has gotten better at swallowing.

"You're about as sweet as the pancakes," he reports dutifully after taking in the last of my essence.

He expects more, and I want to give it to him. I think that makes me happy, pleasing him. I see him remove his pants to reveal his own saluting arousal, and I nod as we switch places. This part is not something new, despite how shocking it may be to realize that we can actually be semi-gentle. I think I still want to add something to this unexpected relationship. Something I know that he won't be expecting.

I place my lips on his lower head and smile more. I don't know exactly where to start, but I have the ending already forming on my lips. "I love you," I say into the still air, letting it settle heavily like an impenetrable mist. I manage to catch him nod, and he turn away slightly.

I am content, happy even. In his topsy-turvy mind, that was basically a declaration of love, since he isn't trying to bash me against the wall in fury. I am happy; I would hate to be mutilated by the person I love because I told him I love him. That would just ruin the moment.

Actually, the moment is supposed to involve my giving him a blowjob. I should probably get back to doing that.

Thanks for sticking with this, guys (especially ChaosRocket).
Still, HAPPY BIRTHDAY. Leave a nice review if you don't think this wasted your time (and found my plot somewhere)! Please. I'd really like some nice reviews.