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They meet in a dilapidated alley where the walls ooze sewage and the smell of vomit permeates the air. His phone buzzes.

are you dreaming?

Every three hours he gets this text notification.

The only way to escape reality was to do it in his dreams. That was the best option for a waste like him. Sleep all day, sleep all night.

There’s a way to teach yourself to lucid dream. Lucid dreaming is when you realize you’re in a dream, then you get total control over it through said realization. You can do anything. But it takes practice. When you’re awake you have to constantly ask yourself – are you dreaming? Learn the real difference between the conscious and unconscious, then you can explore your mind.

Dreams are way out of his shit reality. That was the best option for a waste like him. Sleep all day, sleep all night. Get away from the daily grind of bullshit.

In his dreams he’s not another major-depressive statistic. He's not some ugly stain on society.

If he manages to gain control over his dreams, it would be just about the first thing Kokichi ever had control over.

Every moment he spends awake he thinks about dying. Some of his best days are the ones where he really gets into it, one of those vivid space out sessions where his head doesn’t feel attached to his body anymore.

His innerards are splattered across the pavement, leaving behind a rorschach of brain matter as his last testament. That’s one of his favorite visualizations – he repeats it like a mantra in his head.

Stand on top of a roof. One foot forward. Jump. Hit the pavement. Splat. It’s over.

He’s over.

Rinse and repeat until he goes home to the shitty studio apartment he can barely afford.

On his best days he stands on top of the roof of his apartment complex, looking down at the sidewalk below, wondering, will I die from this height or will I just barely live, twitching and in pain?

He wants it quick, wants it fast, wants it painless. A three-story apartment complex won’t do the trick.

With as much as he thinks about suicide, he never goes through with it. Thoughts of death are merely daydreams to help him move him through the day, fantasies to preoccupy his mind with.

He has no friends, he has no friends, he has no friends , and that’s just the way it is.

are you dreaming?

The shuddering breath through his nose and tug at his scalp reminds him he’s awake. Sucking some sick strangers dick where anyone could see, like a brainless piece of shit. Kokichi hopes someone sees them. Hopes someone gets mad. Bashes his head into the sidewalk. Splat.

“Shuichi,” he says when they’re through with their alleyway encounter.

“My name is Shuichi. Nice to meet you.”

And the bastard holds out his hand, like they were going to be friends or something.

“Yeah,” Kokichi says, reaching out to take his hand. It’s clammy.

Nice to fucking meet you, had a great time sucking your cock, he thinks.

“I’m Kokichi.”


It turns out Shuichi Saihara is a real fucking freak.

Being suicidal means Kokichi can do whatever he wants. Just do anything – there’s no rules. The best case scenario is death, isn’t it? So when he follows the gangly limbed man back to his apartment, he thinks, I hope he kills me.

Hope he chloroforms me and ties me up and cuts me open and eats my heart and pulls out my intestines and chokes me and

“Here it is. Home, sweet, home,” he says, chortling to himself. Oh, a comedian . Real charming! What a winner.

They were both winners.

The light flickers on and Kokichi says the first thing that comes to his mind:

“What the fuck is this shit?”

She’s all over the wall, stoic expression and intuitive eyes, classic long, lavender hair, with that signature side braid – he’s seen her before. Kyoko Kirigiri, the original Ultimate Detective. Plastered all over the wall, the bed sheets, the pillows. Figures modeled in her image, plushies, so much shit. So much shit everywhere, who needs so many things ?

He’s never wanted to commit arson more in his life.

“Uh, so, I’m really into Danganronpa,” Shuichi says to break the silence. It’s broken, for just a moment that is. Then it’s back to the whir of the fan in the corner, back to the shallow breathing and humid stillness in the room. It’s a long time before Kokichi knows what to say. What do you say when you find another Danganronpa fan?

How ‘bout last week’s episode? Loved that execution! Never knew someone’s spine could be ripped out of them quite like that, huh?

“No shit,” is the phrase he settles on. Because no shit, he’s sucked the dick of another Danganronpa fan. What a beautiful, ironic, disgusting world.

He picks up a Kirigiri plushie off the bed and looks into its black button eyes. Looks back up to Shuichi’s golden eyes, unsettling eyes, way-too-wide eyes.

Kokichi groans, long and hard because he’s also into Danganronpa. He’s really into Danganronpa. Really, really, really fucking into it.

“I write fic,” he says, wishing his brain would explode right there. “Wrote the POV one where Kirigiri gives a titjob.”

Shuichi has stars in his eyes. Kokichi wishes he could melt into a puddle of goo.

“You mean the one? The really popular one? Seriously, that was you?”

It’s not really a major achievement to write a popular porn fanfiction. It really isn’t.

“Yeah. The really popular one. The really, really popular one. The top search result one.” Kokichi’s caught somewhere between wanting to show off and just plain off himself.

Shuichi goes dead silent before dropping to his knees and unzipping Kokichi’s pants. His eyes are wide and crazed, his pupils blown up, his mouth wide open – was he panting? He was seriously panting, drooling – just like a stray dog with rabies. Foaming at the mouth.

If Kokichi had any decency of his own, he’d find it repulsive.

“Let me thank you,” Shuichi says.

When they fuck, it’s quick and hard, no finesse, all teeth on flesh and scratching fingertips. But it feels good to get tangled up in a mess of limbs, feels good to fuck someone until they cry, until they stain their sheets, until–

are you dreaming?

He’s standing at the edge of a building, looking down at the pavement below. Kokichi pinches himself and feels nothing. There’s a split second where he realizes it’s a dream, and he takes the wheel. He’s dreaming. He’s wanted it for so long, but what does he do? Even when the world is his, he’s still a worthless fucking maggot, squirming and writhing in shit. It doesn’t matter. Summon any object, any scenario, and all his unconscious self could manage to do was sit in darkness.

Finally, he has the decency to dream up a gun and put it to his head.

Click, boom.

Kokichi wakes up covered in a cold sweat, chest rising and falling unevenly. He pinches his cheek, registering the tinge of pain. He’s awake.

Awake awake awake.


Thursdays they meet at same place, same time. Same song and dance, same “I love you’s” tangled up with “I hate you’s”. Shuichi shows him the pictures he took of him before they met. Pictures of him getting dressed, pictures of him sleeping, pictures of his empty home, familiar, so eerily familiar.

“I l-lied before. I knew exactly who you were. I wanted to be with you, ever since I read your writing,” Shuichi breathes out shakily, his voice is trembling with deranged excitement. There’s a sick smile on his face that just never quite goes away. Averts his eyes and blushes, acting bashful.

Kokichi’s writing is jack off material. Nothing more, nothing less. All of it, everything he’s ever written, has been Danganronpa porn. A lot of self-insert shit.

What if Kirigiri gave you a titjob? What if Komaeda fucked you raw? What if Togami stepped on your dick and spat on you?  That’s the sort of thing he wrote.

Maybe it was therapeutic to make that sort of thing. Made him feel like he had sexual encounters of his own. Made him feel like he was contributing to something. Made him horny.

“I guess you could say I’m a bit of a fanboy,” Shuichi shuffled through the pictures and showed Kokichi one in particular, a mere glimpse of his body through a door crack, his backside wet and dripping after getting out of the shower.

“How can I resist you when you look like this?”

are you dreaming?

He punches Shuichi in the face.

The sting to his fractured knuckles reminds him he’s awake. Then, he straddles him and punches him again. Shuichi’s nose is bleeding and broken, but he’s laughing, laughing so hard, then he’s crying, choking back sobs.

“Hit me again,” he says. Kokichi does, one last time, before they kiss, the irony taste of blood making him sick. When they fuck, Kokichi rides Shuichi until it feels like his body is splitting open. When they’re done, they’re both sore and broken.

Kokichi sets Shuichi’s nose back into place for him. Crack.

Looks painful, he thinks.

They clean up as if nothing had ever happened.


Another dream. Flying. Falling. No pain when he pinches himself. He’s sleeping. He’s dreaming.

Good.

Flying. Falling. Fucking.

Is this what he wants? Is this how he would spend his moments of lucidity? Fucking a dream Shuichi into a mattress? Hearing him scream, moan, and beg to be stretched open? It feels so good, so good that he’s drowning in the feeling. So good, so good.

Kokichi wakes up with a start, his chest rising and falling.

He shuffles off to the kitchen to get some water, his mouth dry like cotton, his breath stale on his tongue. Opens the fridge, gets his water, turns around.

Shuichi is there.

Kokichi jumps, drops his drink to the ground and glass shatters everywhere. Despite the mess, Shuichi steps forward, crunching shards underneath his shoes.

“When will you write more?”

Kokichi shakes his head in disbelief. Seriously? Is that what he fucking broke into his apartment for this time?

“I don’t,” Kokichi pauses, still dumbfounded as he searches for something to say in his half-awake stupor, “I don’t fucking know? Whenever I get to it, I guess?”

Shuichi’s expression drops from his usual creepy smile, to a straight, pursed lips. His eyes are still wide, still so bright even in the dark. But there’s no emotion on his face. Just blank, staring eyes.

“Oh,” he says.

Ohhhhh, hahaha, ” he says.

“That just won’t do,” he says.

His stomach feels like it’s on fire. Really hurts, it’s a searing pain, hurts so fucking bad and he can’t scream, he has no voice, it burns, fuck, he’s pinned against the fridge. Kokichi looks down, vision blurry, and he sees double of the kitchen knife stuck into his body. He slides down and tries to scream, but he has no voice.

And he’s falling and fading, falling until there’s just darkness.

Nothing but pitch black dark.

Kokichi wakes up, once again, his chest rising and falling.

It’s 2:28 AM.

He pinches his cheek about a hundred times to make sure he’s awake for good.


It’ll be fun – he says.

Nobody will know – he says.

What do we have to lose? – he says.

They don’t have anything to lose, not a single goddamn thing. There’s a lack of self-control, urge to see how far he could go, and depravity to relish in.

Sweet depravity.

Shuichi’s practically drooling when he clicks the switch, fumbling over-excited digits pressing the up button, until it’s higher, higher, oh fuck that feels good , higher.

They’re on an elevator and Kokichi’s got a small bullet vibrator up his ass. It’s the middle of the day, just past noon. Shuichi’s fumbling with the remote control in his pocket. The bastard isn’t discreet, his sick perverted smirk plastered across his face like a permanent mask. A woman walks on at floor 3 and positions herself in the corner of the elevator, right by the door.

She’s probably thinking, faster, faster.

Shuichi, please, faster, faster.

Now he’s got a boner, a boner that he’s shit at hiding. Floor 7 and the woman almost sprints out of the elevator. It’s just them. Kokichi reaches over and pounds his fist on the button that’ll take them to the top.

Floor 40. Rooftop.

There’s not an ounce of self-control in him when he pushes Shuichi against the elevator wall, wrapping his arms around him, disgusting bastard, sick fuck, their lips clashing together in an ungraceful cataclysm. Kokichi’s grabbing at his raging hard on, thinking, let’s fuck right here, right here, right now, rip me open.

Floor 20 – he’s got Shuichi’s cock in his mouth, the vibrator inside of him on it’s highest setting, a low buzz filling the tiny elevator shaft. Shuichi throws his head back, he’s sweating, he’s always fucking sweating, and he whimpers, his voice trembling as he runs a hand through his sweat-soaked hair.

Floor 26 – Kokichi wants someone to walk in, see them, and bash his head in.

Floor 32 – Shuichi comes in his mouth. It’s so fucking bitter.

Floor 33 – He swallows.

Floor 40 – He’s disappointed nobody caught them.

They shouldn’t be able to get up on the rooftop, but he picks the lock. The sky is so blue, crisp, and cloud free. He hates blue. Blue was Shuichi’s favorite color.

Ugly bastard, disgusting pervert, waste of space.

It was such a beautiful day.

He stands at the edge of the building and looks down.

One second he’ll be free falling, flying, then splat , he’ll hit the pavement.

Nothing left of him but a rorschach of viscera.

Shuichi stands on the edge with him and takes his hand.

One foot forward.

are you dreaming?