#In a strange series of events and one fucked up day for sure

[dragon-chica]

Deadpool wouldn’t fix me, but he would make me feel like it’s worth it for me to keep living

[littlemisshyperfixation]

Lee Know Fic Recommendations

a - angst f - fluff s - smut

One Shots

Thanksgiving With You (f) by @dreaming-medium ⋆˙⟡♡ Your plans to go home to America for Thanksgiving are uprooted the night before you're supposed to leave. Unable to stand seeing you upset, Minho decides to take matters into his own hands and make sure you get to celebrate no matter what.

A cat proposal (f) by @astraystayyh ⋆˙⟡♡ minho is in love & wants to marry you

Handle With Care (f s) by @beesspacedotorg ⋆˙⟡♡ You've had a truly awful day, luckily, your adoring boyfriend Minho is there to make it better.

Lowkey (a f s) by @seungminheart ⋆˙⟡♡ catching feelings for lee minho was inevitable from the start. falling for him is as easy as breathing, but how are you supposed to let him know how you feel when you spend more time fucking him than talking to him? OR, the only thing you're more scared of than losing minho is loving him.

Call of the Siren (s f) by @tasteleeknow ⋆˙⟡♡ the effect he has on people is obvious, they’re drawn to him like he’s an oasis in a desert. then, with a small jingle of a bell that announces his arrival into your store, he attempts to ensnare you.

Cat and Mouse (a s f) by @hyunnie04 ⋆˙⟡♡ your co-worker has been on your case ever since you've started your time at the company. a strange turn of events and circumstance changes all that.

horror house (a s) by @tasteleeknow-remade ⋆˙⟡♡ you're stuck in a horror house alone—your only way out is with the guy who hates your guts. halloween themed enemies to lovers with minho.

makes me dizzy (s) by @hyunsvngs ⋆˙⟡♡ the best surprises come from the most unexpected sources - like having your crush corner you in a frat party after hearing you confess your deepest desires of him in the background of a video.

Love Said To Soul (a f s) by @jl-micasea-fics ⋆˙⟡♡ When the God of Love is tasked with humiliating a beautiful mortal girl, he finds himself much vexed to discover her immune to his skills. Determined to discover the root of the problem, he takes to mortal form and embarks upon a dastardly ruse that requires his getting close to her. The God of Love thinks he knows all. The God of Love knows nothing.

Side Quest (f) by @agi-ppangx

11:05 (a f) by @tasteleeknow

Feline Bliss (f) by @agi-ppangx

Love at your fingertips (f) by @stayinlimbo

Hotel check-ins (f) by @stayinlimbo

make up sex (s) by @linopls

Conversations with Minho (f) by @astraystayyh

sharing a bed series; Lee Know (s) by @skzdarlings

my moon and stars (f) by @withleeknow

Fake Texts

Flirting with bsf+roommate!LeeKnow (f)

Borrowing Minho's Cat

Random Texts with bf!Minho (f s)

[weirdworldofwinnie]

A Safe Way Out

Jonathan Breech x Female Reader (NSFW 18+ only)

Summary: You're a very shy patient at the psychiatric hospital and the newest inpatient part of the therapy group has to be the cutest man you've ever seen, and he takes an interest in you, but he's not quite as innocent as he looks.

Word Count: ~3,384

Warnings: Smut (unprotected sex), loss of virginity/innocent reader, cum squirting, oral (fem receiving), mental illness, past trauma, talk of depression and suicide, some angst, language

Disclaimer: This just fantasy/fiction, I do not own anything from the 2001 Irish film On the Edge starring Cillian Murphy.

Breech, Jonathan.

He was surely the prettiest person you'd ever witnessed admitted to this institution that he could make both men and even women jealous, even though his pajamas were ill-fittingly too short and he had a cocky attitude that didn't go unnoticed by the staff and other patients, but he wasn't a total asshole... at least you hoped.

At the couple of group therapy sessions he attended he was rebellious, giving the always tired (but very patient) Dr. Figure grief through ample sarcasm that made you stifle smirks, but as usual you never spoke much, being selectively mute unless you were forced to answer a question from Dr. Figure. They didn't give any drugs to dope up; the doctor didn't think you nor the small group you were part of needed them, but sometimes you wished they would so you didn't have to participate in these stupid sessions that went in half-spun circles and could just conk out in your room or outside.

You had been submitted here by your estranged parents after a series of concerning events that you had tried to mentally block out, including attempting to take your own life because of bullying and abuse; you were not able to ever acclimate fully to society because of it, which led you to being stuck in this place, mentally spinning wheels while growing more and more wary of the outside world everyday. Jonathan was the opposite; he had a spark of defiance and a fire you didn't have enough oxygen for to nourish for yourself. He clearly didn't think he really belonged here and in a way, you sort of admired him even if he was a bit strange and potentially dangerous... He was certainly an exciting refresher in such a dull, day-to-day drudgery.

One day after walking out of yet another mildly frustrating therapy session, he stepped in front of you in the hall as you were making your way back to your room alone, a curious light in his stunningly blue excuses for eyeballs.

"Hey, you mind if I join ya in your room?" he asked suddenly and you froze, uncertain of how to react. You only ever minimally interacted one-on-one with people you trusted... Fellow patient Nick kept saying Jonathan wasn't to be trusted, but Nick was also kind of a paranoid weirdo that always was listening to his headphones, so what did he know?

Jonathan seemed to sense your hesitation and he grinned, trying to put you at ease or maybe he was just messing with you. Either way, you had to hide your intrigue in case he was pulling your leg.

"Don't look spooked out, I'm just so fucking bored at this place and you're pretty cute, but you never really talk... I just wanna get to know ya better," he explained sincerely, but you still felt wary.

"Can I see your room at least?" he asked innocently and you finally gave him a shy nod, causing him to smile in broad relief that reminded you of the last rays of sunlight splashing upon the cliffs.

He walked along beside you, swinging his arms back and forth a bit as if he was winding himself up, all the way to your room and past an orderly who gave him a suspicious glance, but you gave the man a thumbs up to let him know it was fine. Security here was surprisingly not as strict as one would imagine for a psychiatric hospital and the younger patients tended to sneak out once a week to the city with minimal repercussions. They always came back anyway.

You reached your designated room and opened the door slowly, and Jonathan strolled in after you, sighing loudly.

"Oh, would'ja look at that - they gave you the fanciest room they've got," he commented sarcastically as you sat down on the small bed, tucking your knees up to your chest and he stood, surveying you and scene for a second and then joining to sit, copying your posture. He fiddled with his slippers for a minute and then turned to you curiously.

"So lemme get this right: You only talk when or if you have ta?"

"Yeah," you mumbled and he nodded sagely.

"That's an interesting way to deal with people. Don't blame ya, lot of wanks out there not worth being spoken to. What's your name - I mean, I know it from the meeting, but can you say it?" he asked, however unlike any doctor, it wasn't clinical or judgmental. He truly seemed interested and so you whispered your first name aloud to the floor.

"It's a nice name. How old are you?" You could hear the smile in his deep voice.

"T-Twenty two," you responded with a slight stutter, too fluttery to be able to meet his gaze.

"Fuck, that's older than me... I'm nineteen, but you know already know that. You ever been anywhere outside of Dublin?"

You looked away, not answering. If you ever had, you'd been too small to remember.

"How long you've been here?" he asked curiously and you splayed your hand, palm up towards him.

"Five weeks or five years?"

"Years," you whispered and he was silent for a few minutes, picking at the hem of his baby blue pajama pants.

"So much for the road to recovery, eh?" he scoffed and you just shrugged.

He put his legs down, feet flat on the floor and crossing his arms tight to his chest, wearing that oversized silly orange patterned sweater of his. He sniffed and bit his lip, glancing up at the bare ceiling as if he would find the answers to existence there.

"Something happened to you, I know. Shit, something happened to us all here. It's okay if you don't wanna or can't talk 'bout it. But I can't figure out if you have the same thoughts me and the others have? You know, what the doc locks us up for... suicidal? Like there's no fucking point to this blip of existence? And they think we're nuts, but we just seein' the truth."

You slowly pulled up your sleeve, exposing the faint scars etched into your left wrist, remnants of cutting attempts to escape life before you had been dumped off in this place indefinitely. You had never tried it since and were now an adult and could seek the means to leave if you truly wanted to, but there was nothing out there in the world for you.

"See this pinky finger?" Jonathan asked suddenly, poking up his baby finger and you nodded, interested.

"I was just trying to get rid of what was left of me old Da and the damn car didn't do the job right. Could've broken neck but all I broke was me baby finger. Least you've got the scars there to prove survivin'." He sighed heavily, almost disappointed, and you spoke the first sentence you had in days, your voice hushed from disuse.

"Why do ya wanna die?"

He blinked, giving you a meaningful glance and his full lips stretched into a tight ironic smile.

"I don't want to die; I don't want to be alive. I'm just a fucking living ghost, we all are... Doesn't that realization scare the wits outta ya?"

He looked away at the wall, blinking as the drippy tears escaped and his mouth quivered in quiet anguish, his dewy face scrunching up. You reached over and touched his cheek, catching a tear rolling down his smooth pallid skin and wiping it off tenderly. He sniffled, embarrassed, and gently took your wrist and whispered emphatically.

"I like you, Y/N. You don't freak out or talk down to me or bitch about your own problems. You're unique, but I'm thinking ya too cute to be truly crazy."

"Cute?" you repeated and he grinned at hearing your high breathy voice.

"Don't be so afraid to talk, you got a pretty voice. Bet nobody be calling ya cute in a long time, right?"

You shrugged sheepishly and he tilted your chin up with his fingers, tracing the outline of your face fondly and you blushed, not used to being touched by anyone like that. It was... comforting, a feeling you had been very numb to for some time. His pinkish lips parted and he tilted his head slightly, mouth gaping in anticipation for a kiss but you froze, unsure and not wanting to take the lead.

"I want a kiss," he murmured and the way he said it made you draw closer, trusting the process. He closed his eyes and blindly groped your lips, sucking, and then his tongue dove in with a surprising force, swirling around your mouth and he gripped the sides of your head in a vice, cutting off any resistance... Not that you were repulsed in any way once the initial shock wore off.

He broke away after several seconds, gasping and licking his lips hungrily.

"Mm, didja like that?"

Your cheeks became pink and he glanced over your head at the windowpanes being pattered with a steady rain and it was growing dimmer outside, evening approaching with a cloaking storm, and it reflected in the dull colors of the room that was becoming muted of natural light.

"Can I show you something?" he asked huskily, shifting on the bed restlessly.

You ducked your chin in affirmative, heart fluttering in uncertainty as he reached to yank his sweater and pajama shirt over his head, leaving him with a bare chest. You stared, fascinated in his anatomy; it had been so long since you'd seen anyone without some clothing on. He grinned, pointing awkwardly to your own chest.

"So, uh, now this... this'll be the part where you remove your garment," he instructed and cautiously, you unbuttoned your pj's and you never wore a bra, so soon he was facing your naked breasts with your nipples hardening from the airy exposure.

"Really cute," he breathed, gently putting a finger to your right nipple and pressing lightly, stroking around the center and then drawing a line to the other breast, doing the same to that one and you shivered, feeling a strange pull in your stomach that was borderline butterflies. He leaned back, bouncing up slightly on the bed and kicking his slippers off to the floor.

"But hold on, there's more to see," he said with a verging mischievous excitement. You'd never seen him look so genuinely joyful and as he tugged down his pj bottoms, you blinked, faced with a protruding bugle in his white underwear.

After a beat, he removed his boxers, springing forth a stiff appendage that you'd never in the flesh on a man, well, in its erect state at least.

"Want to touch it? It doesn't bite," Jonathan joked with a lazy grin and you cautiously extended a hand and put your fingers on the glistening tip. It was definitely moist and firmly solid, and he shuddered through a breath of arousal.

"Wet," you observed and he laughed, scooting closer so his penis was resting in your hands.

"I like it when you touch me there, don't stop," he begged and you felt him up, amused at his reaction.

He twitched in your palms as you ran careful fingers up his fleshy length and to his balls, lightly petting the coarse dark hair nesting around them, and he shivered pleasurably, resisting the urge to already ejaculate.

"Feelin' good?" you asked fondly, seeing his mouth agape and eyes nearly rolling back.

"Too fuckin' good, need to stop before I cum too quick. Wanna enjoy this... Lemme have at that pussy of yours now instead of using me dick, m'kay?"

You could tell it wasn't a question, but you weren't sure what he meant entirely. You eased off his genitalia, cock dripping slightly, and sat back, waiting for him to elaborate.

"Here," Jonathan murmured and his hands went to your waist, teasing down the waistband of your pj's and pushing the pants down your legs, letting you wiggle out and kick them to the floor, along with your slippers. He stared for a full ten seconds at your womanhood, biting his lip and swirling his tongue around his mouth, before he bent down and spread your legs apart. You tried to ask him what was going to happen, but he dove in already, tongue flicking at your delicate folds with attempted precision. You gasped audibly at the new sensation and he clamped hands down on your thighs, clinging on as he maneuvered his thick tongue faster and you grabbed at a fistful of his hair, shaking from the unfamiliarity and equal anticipation as your body seemed to take control of natural instincts and budding arousal grew stronger.

He just wanted to warm you up though, and he withdrew his tongue soon, lips glistening with a tiny smear of discharge. Your bare chest rose and fell in rhythm as he surveyed the fresh terrain, just aching for more. You very well might be a complete virgin and that prospect tantalized him yet also privately frightened him of messing up. Of course he'd been with girls before, but they weren't this sheltered and sweet. He may corrupt you and alter the course of this extremely new friendship, which in his mind was always meant to become more of a relationship; the moment he saw you he knew he needed to get in your pants.

"Eh, give it a go," Jonathan told himself forcibly and his finger jerked onto your entrance, worming in needily and making you squeak in surprise. He shushed you, zipping his lips with his free hand, giving you a clear message that it wasn't wise to make unusual noises. Even though it wasn't like there was cameras in the rooms, one couldn't be too careful. If Dr. Figure found out his newest unstable patient, the same one that pledged not to kill himself before New Year's Eve, was somewhat taking advantage of a virgin he just met in her own room, the doc would be most displeased.

Nevertheless, whimpers escaped from your throat as he pressed further to your clit and moved another finger to join the first, uncomfortably stretching into your walls. Despite the stinging pain, you felt an decent amount of wetness pooling from your vagina, almost like peeing, and clenched reflexively, hitting his knuckles.

"Oh, I'm thinking it's ready," he whispered impatiently, wriggling his digits away with a squelch and wiping your light drizzle of cum on his cock.

Before you could react, he adjusted position and slid on top of you, pressing his body down onto your bare one and rubbing his full cock in-between your thighs.

You gasped when he began to shove in rather roughly, squirming into your tight unbroken hole and you looked up at his face, watching his hair askew slightly and you noticed a scar above his eyebrow you hadn't noticed before. You wrapped your arms around his neck, afraid to get pinned underneath him, and tried to buck and roll with the motion, but it was getting painful.

"Hurts," you whimpered into his ear as he thrusted further.

"Not gonna hurt in a minute, baby," he whispered, too in heat to stop and consider much else and he clapped a hand over your mouth to stifle any more alarming noises.

"C-Can't go-go all the way in," he panted, his skin slapping yours and rocking the whole small bed.

Sure enough, the pain became more bearable though the more he worked you and pleasure eventually overturned it altogether, the bursting bloom of an orgasm that was very likely the best feeling that had ever happened to you. You sank your mouth on his shoulder to stifle a cry, careful to not bite too deeply, and then mewled into his neck, panting heavily along with him and digging your fingers into his brown scrubby sideburns and floppy hair.

"Mm, fuc-fucking good, ya likin' it, eh?" Jonathan choked out in a whisper and you couldn't respond, too taken by this incredible euphoria and the way his cock flexed inside close at your cervix. You weren't sure how long he could stay in without it becoming too uncomfortable, but he lifted up slightly, grunting softly at his own arousal and effort.

He pulled out just in time, finishing outside by squirting hot ropes of milky cum all over your vagina, stomach, and legs. The bedsheets took a few splatters as well and he heaved in relief as you laid there, utterly stunned at his sexual performance. You had squirted a little bit too and it had intermixed with his juices that you couldn't tell which was from whom. It was so intimate and gross and a big part of you absolutely loved it, having never been in such a situation before... It was exciting and playful.

He swiped two fingers through the fluids and spread it on your thighs further, encouraging you to feel it as well and you giggled at him taking your own fingers and guiding them up to his face, dotting his chin with cum.

Jonathan then sat back on his haunches and admired you, catching his breath and listening to the steady patter of rain. You rolled over onto your side and your eyes widened at a couple spots of blood on the sheets and he looked down in causal observance.

"Ah, that'd be normal, don't worry," he assured with a chuckle.

"Though, uh, maybe we'd better try to hide it case they come collect the sheets tomorrow," he realized on second thought.

"I say I been bleeding, on my cycle," you offered as an explanation.

"Yeah, that'd be good cover," he agreed and climbed off, picking up his clothing and shimmying back into the pajamas and sweater.

"Look, I'll get us some towels or somethin' from the bathroom," he said, walking quietly to the door and opening it with a peering glance out, but the coast was clear. Most patients should be in their rooms by now anyhow.

You relaxed in a post-orgasmic trance while he was gone, listening to the dripping weather outside and wondering how you'd be able to be normal around him tomorrow.

The door squeaked open softly a couple minutes later and Jonathan came back inside with a bundle of torn sheets of toilet paper clutched in his hand.

"Couldn't get towels, so I took some shit paper that'll have ta do instead," he announced with dry amusement and he used it to wipe you clean of the wet mess and you thanked him quietly, grateful to be dry again for it had become rather cold and tingly on your skin. You automatically flinched a fraction when he wiped at your folds, as you were raw and sore, but he was fairly gentle. When he finished, Jonathan moved in very close as if for a kiss, but only whispered near to your ear, tickling your earlobe with his warm breath.

"Don't tell anyone about what we did... just a little secret, m'kay? Though I guess you wouldn't be blabbin' to anyone else anyway," he chuckled darkly, but it wasn't mean.

"Maybe we can see each other again?" he proposed as he balled up the soiled toilet paper and retreated back towards the door.

"Okay, Jonathan," you whispered in reply and he flushed at the sound of his name on your lips.

"I think you'll be my new therapy, better than anything that wanker of a Freud psychiatrist can offer." He paused, shuffling his feet and then glanced up daringly, determination in his blue orbs.

"We'll find a way out soon, a safe way out, me and you and Rachel and Toby... and I'll show you how to have a good time at the pub, eh? Like the sound of that?"

You only smiled as he turned to exit, but then abruptly paused and bit his lip as he looked back at you with a yearning, like what the two of you had just done still wasn't enough.

"Abair do phaidreacha agus codhladh sámh," he spoke in Gaelic and you translated back softly with a meaningful smile.

"Say your prayers and sleep well."

With a dip of his head and smug, yet almost childlike smile, Jonathan ducked out the door and was gone for the night.

[captain-sunshine-11]

Kevin/Seth is such a ship that found me in a rarepair fic and it grabbed me the collar and forced me to read it.

Anyway here is some Kevseth headcanons because I can:

Seth lives and plans to make Kevin's life even more of a hell on court than it was before. Enough that Wymack does have to step in and tell them to settle their differences or there were going to be consequences. Kevin is reluctant to be civil and Seth doesn't want to lose his scholarship or prevent himself from getting another one. (Seth still has grad school ahead of him)

So the series of events that lead to them getting together is just them accidentally being alone together -> purposely being alone together after realizing that the other isn't Just an Asshole (ofc they don't tell the other its on purpose) -> A fight that leads to a kiss and the rest is history

They pinch each other and hit each other's arms when the other is being a dick. Depending on the damage done dictates how much it'll hurt (but they wouldn't ever draw blood or try to bruise the other)

When the others find out everyone is shocked except for Aaron. Mostly because he couldn't care less

Matt and Dan call them "The 2nd Cutest Couple" just to piss them off ("We aren't cute, Seth." "You're right, we're the cutEST, fuck you Matt." "Seth--")

Kevin calls Seth "Bryan" once as a joke and they don't talk for a couple days

Kevin can't sleep on his back when Seth is with him because he will just snore, so Seth has to hold him to make sure he doesn't roll over (he says its just so he can "Get some goddamn shutteye"... sure buddy)

Kevin makes an effort to become more knowledgeable on addiction for Seth, but also to understand the other addicts on the team. It makes his relationship with people like Aaron and Matt better as a consequence

Seth might not be as into Exy as Kevin but they do sit down and watch games together. While Kevin is analyzing strategy and players' tactics--Seth is yelling at the TV (he'd just seem like the type even if its a Baking Show or whatever)

Kevin, being involved with Seth, means he becomes better friends with Allison. (Seth & Allison here just remain very good friends that keep in touch beyond graduation) Which means Allison sometimes buys him clothes she makes Sure he wears and Kevin kind of has no choice (Kevin thinks that maybe making friends with Allison has been one of the best calls he has made in his life)

As Seth learns to be more open and less temperamental, they both end up saying lovey-dovey shit that embarrasses both of them. Seth once said "I love your smile" and Kevin had to leave the room cause he felt like he was dying

Not to say they aren't rough around the edges, a couple fights had to be taken to Dobson's office because one or the other feared that something would end them.

Dobson is never their first choice though, Seth goes to Matt for Advice and Kevin goes to Neil (finds out that is a bad idea) and then goes to Allison.

Their first big fight surrounds the area of Seth's insecurities that we see in TFC and Kevin's large ego when it comes to Exy. It led to angry sex, but lingering resentments that Kevin knew had to be resolved after ranting to Wymack (who told him to stop whining and apologize). Which resulted in a very awkward apology conversation

After a bit they get a hang of how to handle arguments but they are rocky in the first year or so of their relationship

Seth figures out Kevin's strange relationship to food and tries to cook (and fails) to make meals more tolerable. Kevin tries to be grateful but he ends up insulting the food anyway

Whenever Seth comes along to Eden's the rest of the Monsters wake up to find Kevin & Seth in the strangest positions asleep on the couch the morning after

Adding onto Seth coming to Eden's he pulls Kevin onto the dance floor and they always end up making out in the corner or in the bathroom

Seth wears Kevin's clothes but refuses to wear the USC Hoodie Kevin has.

Seth kissing Kevin's tattoo and sarcastically saying "Your Highness" whenever he does

[agent-cupcake]

grimm

Pairing: Death (Puss in Boots: The Last Wish) x f!catgirl Reader

Synopsis: The series of unfortunate events and clichés that lead you to meeting a familiar nightmare in the middle of the woods beneath a full moon. It goes about as well as you'd expect.

Warnings: 18+, explicit smut w/ a nonhuman character (not a nonhuman cock though), noncon, death, violence

Tags: alternate universe, angst, size kink, object insertion, masochistic reader, praise (voice) kink, outdoor sex

Words: 18.5k

Notes: It's been a while, huh? Yes, today we are going to fuck the furry from a kids movie, I'm not sure if y'all are even surprised but. Anyway. On the one hand I'd say I feel shame but on the other they shouldn't have made him talk so sexy, which is not my fault. All the Spanish is from DeepL and context.reverso. Hopefully any mistakes aren't too bad and you don't find it too cringe, or you can manage to look past it for my sake.

Once upon a time there lived in an unassuming little corner of the world a man. A husband to a beautiful wife and a father of two lovely children. He was strange, perhaps, for the ears atop his head, and the vertical irises through which he looked, and the spry springiness of his limbs. Stranger too for his chosen lifestyle, a traveling merchant whose blood couldn’t get any lower. Ravi, sons and daughters of Bastet, relics of a bygone era. For all that he was strange, however, he was steadfast. Bolstered rather than weakened by the critical eye of other men, the unyielding cut of his silhouette and unshakable confidence made the man a lord in his own right. He had been here, and there, traveling wherever the wind called him, and always with certainty. If his chosen path was obstructed by a swath of trees, he would see the forest leveled before he so much as considered choosing a different route. A further measure of his determination, however, would prove that if he were told that those same obstructing trees were sacred, he would scorch the earth so thoroughly that not even ash dared remain beneath his boots when he trampled on the hallowed ground. 

One day, the man looked down to admire how far he had come throughout the years, to smile upon the many grand achievements he had stacked up along the way. But then, looking a little closer, he couldn’t help but notice how long his shadow had become. While he had been distracted, the sun made its arc above him, and now it was falling towards the horizon, casting him in ever dimming light. Taking with it, he thought, Ra’s blessing. He began to tally up all of the things he had been ignoring. A stiff back, sore joints, fatigue after a day of travel, a headache after a night of frivolity. He noticed that while his son had grown tall and strong, he had been shrinking. The lovely apple cheeks of his beloved wife had begun to dull, wrinkles forming around her eyes. This realization filled the man with a feeling he had never experienced before—uncertainty. And then, fear. 

Unable to face the dark, he vowed that he would not allow it, he would do whatever it took to escape such a terrible fate. Unbeknownst to him, this audacious belief invited the attention of a creature with a unique penchant for mischief and an appetite for fear. A wolf. He told the man that he could run, he could fight, he could rage, he could try to pull the sun back with all his might, but in his desperate frenzy to escape the night, he would only incur a great debt. An immeasurable bounty. One, perhaps, that would condemn not only him, but his family and the legacy he had created. A terrible fate.

“I do not fear you,” the man said. 

The wolf laughed. 

It was to be a chase, then. A hunt. The man ran, searching for something, anything, that would save him, traveling here and there with purpose, scouring the shadows, tracking down myth and rumor with a passion bordering mania. There had to be, he reasoned, a way to remain in Ra’s boundless glory. Circling ever nearer, the wolf harried his prey to the last. 

Until, on the lush outskirts of a certain small village, a small ravi family set up their wagon for the night. The woods swarmed with the sound of bugs, the early summer heat simmering back down into the cold dampness of spring nights. Haunting and dreamlike, echoing in the dark, signaling finality, a song. And then, a figure in the dark. A familiar face, a frightening foe. 

There, in the night, beneath the full moon, the hunt ended. Nowhere to go, nowhere to run, his obsession had taken him so completely that the only remaining recourse was a final fit of fury against the dying light. Perhaps, in those last moments, the man realized what a fool he had been. Too late. The wolf had grown bored of the game.

Horror of horrors, serendipity struck. A child who should have been tucked up tight in her bed, sheltered and safe from what lurked in the dark, grew bored of counting sheep. She hadn’t yet learned to fear the night, thinking her father to be playing a delightful trick. Creeping, quiet, curious, and ignorant to the cruelty of the dangerous unseen, she breached the forest’s uncanny shadows. Deeper, deeper, until she discovered the truth. Her father’s corpse hit the ground, his empty eyes never seeing her terror, his deaf ears never hearing her scream. 

The gray wolf bid her to run, and she did. It was inevitable that they should meet again. 

one chance.

Before that night, you never gave much thought to death, or luck, or malevolent forces, or tragedy. It was only when you were huffing, puffing, screaming for help, crying wolf, that true fear crept into your life. Once the door opened, it could not be closed. Although the monster was long gone, its shadow remained. 

And they said: you were lucky to have escaped. They said: ravi law, loose as it was, could not be counted on for satisfactory justice. They said: the murder could not have been committed by any of the simple townsfolk. They said: it would be a blight upon the poor ordinary people for the case to drag on and on. And so the crime was tried thus—your brother, suffering a fit of drunken rage, donned a mummer’s wolf mask and murdered your father. 

Not even a day passed before the so-called trial was held. The only building that could accommodate the gawkers and jury was the local barroom, a place that stank of old wood and fermentation. You didn't know the man acting as judge, you did not recognize any of the faces around you, only that they were indifferent, cold, and your brother's life rested in their callous hands. He sat near the front as the case was laid out for the gawkers, his face drawn and shadowed. Clapped in irons, his mouth covered to protect his jailors from his sharp ravi canines, ears as low as you’d ever seen them, looking not so much a man on trial than livestock on auction.

"You’re the daughter, are you not?” the judge called. It took you a moment to realize he meant you, his dull eyes signaling you out. 

Someone spat at your feet. 

“Filthy half breed."

"They’re incestuous, the father must have found them in the act."

“They’re both guilty.” 

“Go ahead. Run. No one escapes me.” 

The low whisper, practically a growl, made your ears twitch, your heartbeat racing as you scanned the faceless crowd with dry eyes, blinking fast to try and find the source of that terrible voice. But the faces were all human, drawn with cruelty and disgust, but human. 

The judge banged on the table, catching your attention. “Young lady! You witnessed the crime, yes?” 

You shook your head in rejection of the phantom voice and cleared your throat, breaking free of your mother’s grasp to stumble towards the judge. "Yessir," you said. "Yessir, I am… I-I did."

“Go on, then. We’ll hear your testimony.” 

It was difficult to breathe, the air was stuffy and hot, your skin too tight. You could feel the people watching you, the weight of their eyes.   

"You've got it all wrong, sir,” you said. “It-it wasn't him. He couldn't-"

"The facts only, if you please," the judge said, cutting you off. "Did you or did you not see the man who attacked you?”

Hot, heavy tears formed in your eyes, primed to travel the same salty tracks down your cheeks left by those before. Fear, pain, sadness, exhaustion, all of it compounded and ached within you. You didn’t want to remember. You didn’t want to think. But you had to.

"It was no man, sir," you said, your voice choked.

“Do you mean to tell me a woman killed your father?” 

“No sir, it was an… an evil spirit.” Behind you, people muttered and whispered with disbelief. Shock. Doubt. Anger. The judge's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. “He had the head of a jackal, or a-a a wolf. ” 

“A mask.” 

“No, sir. It was not a man.” You heard your mother’s scolding voice from behind you, and your brother raised his head to look at you with shock, but you ignored it all.

"I should hope I don’t need to remind you of the severity of these proceedings,” the judge said, his eyes narrowed into slits.

"I know what I saw,” you replied, your hands balled into tight fists at your side.

"Your testimony is that an evil spirit with the head of a wolf murdered your father and attacked you?" The judge clarified, not so much as pretending to believe you. The question pulled a bit of laughter from the crowd. Your mother grabbed at your arm to pull you back, but you refused to let her. Instead, you set your stance and jaw.

"Yessir." 

More laughter, as if there was anything humorous about this situation. 

“I know,” the judge said loudly, silencing the crowd with a wave of his hand. “I know that you’ve been through a terrible thing, and I am sorry about that. That’s no excuse, however, and I mean this, it is no excuse for you to lie. You might think you’re defending your brother, but anything less than the absolute truth only strengthens the case against him. And, if I’m to be completely honest, I find this behavior deeply troubling. Perhaps it is acceptable among your kind to believe in stories of evil spirits and the like, but it is not appropriate here. We’re a good, God fearing people.”

“This isn’t a story. I saw it,” you insisted, your throat swollen and the world blurring up with tears. “The beast might still be in the woods, if you just look-” 

“Look for the big bad wolf?” the judge asked, a bushy gray eyebrow rising high, inviting further discontent and disbelieving laughter from the people behind you. He sighed, once again calling for order and shaking his head. “It pains me greatly, you must understand, I want to be fair considering your circumstances, but this really is unacceptable. If you won’t testify against him, your father’s killer-” 

“I told you,” you insisted, a little louder.

“No, young lady. And I repeat—no. What you have done is insult me and the fine people of this town with your absurd heathen fiction,” he told you.

“That’s not-” 

“Your kind think you are above civilized law, but understand that we are giving your father the justice he, as a son of God, deserves by right. Your father brought fear and tragedy into the hearts of these people, and your scoundrel brother committed an unthinkable crime. There are those who don’t believe your brother is deserving of a trial at all, considering the substantial evidence against him. Indeed, this is a kindness I am extending to you and your mother. So, for the last time, I will not tolerate your pagan fiction. Do you understand?” 

“I do,” you said, although you could feel your confidence wavering, a shaky cold sweat beading up on the back of your neck, pooling acidically in your stomach. He wasn’t going to listen. He didn’t believe you. “But I haven’t lied, I know what I saw.” 

That caused an uproar, the people’s voices overlapping, a relentless and meaningless wave of noise. Demanding you be silenced, removed, executed. 

“That is enough,” the judge exclaimed, and you didn't know if he spoke to you or the people. “So far, I have disregarded accusations that you were complicit in your brother’s crime, but if you continue to behave in such a manner, I may have to reconsider. That is a charge of patricide, young lady. Do you not have enough decency to spare your mother the loss of another child?” 

You looked at him, really looked at him, overcome with a dizzyingly caustic rush of pain and disbelief at the injustice. He didn’t care if your brother was or was not guilty, or who had actually killed your father. To him, the death of a ravi man was meaningless, let alone two. Let alone three. He saw your eyes and ears and that was it. 

Trying to fight back the thick swell of fear and pain and anger, you breathed carefully in and out, staring straight up in an attempt to fight the tears.

“It wasn’t my brother,” you said, forcing the words from your mouth without inflection. "He would never, ever… he wouldn't."

“Did you,” the judge asked icily, bluntly, “or did you not see the face of the man who attacked you?” 

Red eyes, a long snout, a canine mouth full of deadly sharp teeth. A spirit attempting some approximation of the god of death with twin sickles in hand, trying to twist the kind shepherd’s image into one of terror, a creature wearing the face of evil itself. But the truth cowered away from something far more potent, shamefully grotesque. Self preservation.  

“No,” you said, realizing too late the damning significance of that answer, wanting to add more but not knowing what. When you looked your brother in the eye, you understood. And it didn’t matter what you said after that point. You were the girl who cried wolf.

 

two times questioned.

That night, a great storm blotted out the stars and made it impossible to see more than a few feet in front of yourself. You made off into the night with your meager possessions packed up in a sack and some vague idea of where to go in the back of your head, mostly memories of better times. Anywhere was better than the home for wayward girls you had been shuffled into, a place that was a charity in name only. 

Ultimately, you didn’t make it far, not even out of the city. There was no place in the world left for you, and you were afraid of the dark, and it was so, so cold. 

Falling to your knees at the side of the road, mud splattering you with the force of each raindrop, you cried. Sobbed, curling in on yourself, desperate to wish it all away, wailing louder than the winds could blow as if your misery would overcome nature itself. You tried not to cry much anymore, tried not to show your weakness, but now it all came flooding out. Agony deep enough to drown, heavy enough to crush. 

Until you heard a song beneath the gale. Impossible that it should reach you above the riotous storm, impossible that you should know its melody. Panic slushed through your veins in an instant, and you stumbled upright, ready to run from a danger you had so desperately tried to convince yourself didn’t exist. Red eyes and silver sickles and-

When you whirled around to run, you were not caught by a wolf, but by the man you could only think of as the prison warden. 

Caked with mud and soaked to the bone, he dragged you back to the home, and you let him, fearing what lurked in the darkness more than you feared the punishment your escape attempt would earn.

Although it wasn’t bright, the light blinded your glazed eyes. You slipped when he released you, but felt nothing when you fell, leaving a muddy smear upon the tiles. Your fingers, bleached of color, were numb to all sensation, slipping when you tried to support yourself. The cold burrowed into your very core. You shook. Violently, as if your soul itself trembled.  

Fear had kept it all locked up tight in your chest. Fear of your shame for crying wolf. Fear that if you gave breath to the creature that haunted your dreams, he would be made real. You told yourself that your father was murdered by a man in a mask, but the wolfman haunted you, the face of oblivion, that song and that laugh. 

Distantly, you became aware of a commotion, and then the headmistress appeared before you. A towel was forced into your clumsy hands by the same girl who helped you get to your ice-block feet, muttering something about drying off. You doubted a single towel would manage that feat, but you held fast onto the fabric with fingers you couldn’t feel. 

“Where in God’s name,” the headmistress demanded, haughty even in her dressing gown and curlers, “do you think you were going?” 

You hugged the towel to your chest, feeling the fluffy material grow heavy and limp from your embrace. Ruined by your touch. Shaking so hard your teeth clacked, the entire world jittered and hazed, your bones practically vibrating, tears and snot dripping down your face with the rainwater.

“I asked you a question,” she said, her tone a little more shrill. Anger smoldered in her voice, but your eyes found purchase only on the lacy hem of her nightcoat. Such fine lace would have been imported from the north, your father had sold more than his fair share of it. You owned several pretty dresses decorated with similar frills, once. A lifetime ago. A life that ended with one decisive slash of silver. “Where were you going? Running off with a boy?” 

Wide open fields of rippling golden wheat, smooth red cliff sides overlooking deep drops into the abyss, frothy blue waves licking pale sandy shores. Places you knew, places you had only heard about. Ravi weren’t meant to stay in one place, yours was a people of wanderlust and breeze. 

The lady stepped forward and slapped your cold, numb cheek. You stumbled, slipping back onto the floor. “You will answer when I ask you a question,” she said. “I will not repeat myself again.” 

“I wanted to see my mother,” you finally told her, your voice barely comprehensible from the way you were shaking, more tears welling up. The pain was there, was always there, and it burned hotter than the biting blue on your fingers and toes. 

“Oh, for the love of… you’re well on your way to joining her,” she said. “What in the world was I thinking, allowing you into my home…”

You stayed silent. There was no defense you could offer, no excuse you could provide. She sighed, annoyed. 

“I’ll decide your punishment in the morning. Assuming you don’t catch cold and die.” She laughed once, a short sound. “I should be so lucky.”

Die. Your sluggish brain was slow to process that word, churning it round and round in a swirl of equally unpleasant thoughts. When you breathed, the air rattled in your chest. Your mother made the same sound at the very end, as if death had already planted its seed in her body, slowly infecting her from the inside out. Fear had never come for her, not like with your father or brother. There was only vacuous ecstasy, the madman’s bliss of fever. When you pictured what she looked like, it was her hollow eyes staring into nothingness, her bones poking out beneath waxy skin in unnatural angles and blood bubbling upon dry lips. “I am going to see them soon,” she told you, smiling. It was the first time since your brother’s execution that she didn’t look at you with blame smoldering beneath her pained eyes. “We’ll be together, and it will be beautiful.” 

But it was not beautiful. 

Death was a hideous, terrible thing. Despair and empty eyes and rotting flesh without poetry or resolution. Blood dripping from curved blades, lives harvested without mercy, red eyes flashing with glee. A neck snapping and a body gone limp at the end of a rope. Agony in a small room that smelled of human waste and sickness. Death was not beautiful. 

three failures.

The other girls called you, among other things, murderer. 

“She pushed her.” 

“Her kind are all like that, thieves and murderers.” 

“Freaks.” 

The two of you were stuck cleaning windows, balanced precariously high up in the air. The platform got loose, teetering uncertainly two stories up. It could have just as easily been you rather than her, but it wasn’t. Of course you hadn’t pushed her, but who would believe the word of a ravi?  

And who would believe you when you told them of the shadow which greeted her down below? A monster you couldn’t believe in. The bastardized form of a benevolent god. The real murderer. 

They saw your fear as guilt. And that was that. Murderer. You hadn’t pushed her, that was a fact. But it was suspicious, wasn’t it? There was a pattern of death surrounding you. Punishment.  

Every night, you begged forgiveness, begged for freedom from the creature that haunted you. Bastet did not answer. Ra did not answer. Your prayers became pleas, and your pleas weakened into whimpers. Eventually, you stopped asking.

It followed you. Death, less an intangible concept than a lurking threat circling ever nearer, followed. Your father, your brother, your mother, other girls in the home. But not you, no matter how close you came. Accidents happened. Punishment became more and more brutal. Part of it was because of what you were, a belief that a beast could handle rougher treatment. Part of it was your attitude. Punishment. Live, but live in misery. Survive, but survive endless torment. And they said that you were lucky. The beatings were never deadly, although they should have been. The accidents were never fatal, although they could have been. You shouldn’t have survived, but you did. 

four minutes.

It was spring, then. The river beside the road gushed with newfound force, overeager after an especially snowy winter. Even the season of life and rebirth was ripe with violence and death. The scent of it seemed to cling permanently to your dirty clothes, cloying in the chill of night. You and three other girls from the charity house followed by the riverside on the way back to town, your faces dusty and feet heavy from a long day of work. There was, as it turned out, quite a bit of money in renting out orphans to satellite farm estates who could launder clothes, clean carpets, polish silver, and scrub cast iron. No money for you or the other girls, but money nonetheless. 

The three chatted as they walked in front of you, a conversation you tuned out. Long had you grown accustomed to walking behind them, ignored and withdrawn. Trailing behind like a shadow, an afterthought. In so-called polite society, that’s all ravi were. They—they with their round irises and human ears, with their unmarked faces and smooth canines—didn’t want you at their side. You understood things like that now, things you had been so blissfully unaware of in your childhood. 

You watched their worn-out shoes marching on in synchronized steps. Watched when they suddenly stopped, your eyes drawn up in confusion as they turned towards you with big smiles. 

"Those flowers are awfully nice, you should see if you can cross the river to pick some for us."

"I’d go myself, but your kind are more agile than real people, right?"

"The rocks make a perfect bridge for you to cross."

Requests from them, although you weren’t sure they could be called anything other than orders, weren’t abnormal. The only thing lower than an orphaned girl was an orphaned ravi girl. That was the way of it. Rather than forming a bond of solidarity, they emphasized what little status they had left by pushing you around. Surely there were similar flowers on this side of the river, but that wasn’t the point. 

Biting your lip, you looked at the rocks spanning the river’s violent course to the other side. It wasn’t much of a bridge. Attempting to cross was, at best, stupid. If you fell, you would be helplessly carried away by the water, thrashed about against the rocks. Dead, surely. But if you denied them, they would almost certainly do worse. Whisper words of your supposed misdeeds to the headmistress, spread lies that would earn you punishment. Malice gleamed in their empty, hollow eyes. 

"All right," you said, feigning indifference as you sized up the river. 

The girls smiled and tittered as you faced the river. The water roared. Nerves had your hands shaking, but you didn’t let them show.

With a big breath and a mental prayer to Bastet to steady your feet, you stepped onto the first rock. Beneath the worn sole of your boot, the rock was slippery. You set your jaw, going to take another step. 

Something knocked against your back. While it was a light touch, the surprise jolted your balance. 

Just like that, the rock slipped out from under you. An undignified squawk left your mouth, and your arms flailed around empty air desperately to regain your footing, but you couldn’t manage it. 

The water hit as hard as the ground might, immediately dragging you under. 

For a moment that seemed to consume forever entirely, animal panic. You inhaled a lungful of water, thrashing wildly. You tumbled sideways as the river dragged you along, hitting rocks on the way. You violently struggled against its unstoppable current in an attempt to get your head above the water. 

Unable to breathe, unable to orient yourself, you were as good as dead. 

Then you slammed against a rock. The agonizing impact gave you enough of a painful shock to find purchase against it, slicing your palms against the rough edges as you held fast against the water’s oppressive tow. Blindly, you managed to find which way was up and dragged yourself to it. And then you were vomiting river water, hacking it out of your lungs and desperately trying to suck in gasps of air.

Feeling as heavy and broken as a corpse, you managed to flop onto the bank, covering your entire front with mud, crawling through it to drag yourself out of the water completely. It was there that you came eye to eye with three familiar pairs of shoes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bump into you.”

“I guess cats can swim after all.” 

“You’re lucky that rock was there, huh?” 

You coughed up more water, coughed until you were hacking up blood, wheezing and shuddering with bone-deep violence. There would be a terrible bruise on your stomach. But you were alive because of it. Pain, and life. Lucky you. 

five years.

Barely into your lanky teens and with nothing more than meager pocket change to live on, you made your final escape from the charity house and went west. The most recent beating was proof enough that if you stayed, you would die. The woman who stitched you up said you only narrowly avoided it this time. You knew a coffin was the sole eventuality waiting for you there. So you left. Despite the time spent there, you parted with no sentimentality for what you would be leaving behind, or excitement for what laid ahead. 

In a way, you were following your father’s example. His legacy. In his final days, you heard him muttering about the sun going down. Your brother whispered that he’d grown paranoid of his own death, that it was why your family never stayed in any place for too long. He was driven by a mean, feral fear and even aggression towards death, the cornered-rat instinct to defend your life at any cost, to protect the pitiful remains of existence as an animal would. You thought you understood. So you pressed against your bruises and exhaled slowly, accepting the pain as proof that you were still alive.

Dust kicked up a big cloud behind the wagon, baking beneath the heat of the sun. Although the world was alive with birds and bugs and the sound of hoofs on the road and wheels crunching over ground, you couldn’t empathize. Crusty from a night of fitful sleep, your eyes cringed away from the garish sunlight, your head pounding angrily. Pain and anxiety from your first night on your own kept you awake and, when you did manage a few hours of sleep, you had bad dreams. A fiction where your family was restored and you were all together again. Whole, untainted by horror and death. You woke up hollow and sick and empty, unalive but breathing. 

“Are those real?” the girl beside you asked, breaking you from your thoughts. She pointed at your ears, her eyes wide with curious innocence. You imagined that question had been building up for a while, ever since you hitched a ride on her father’s wagon to the nearest town, the two of you sitting in the back of the bed with your legs swinging over the passing road. She was very young, her round-cheeked smile missing a single tooth and bright colored ribbons in her hair. He was going to the next town over to sell goods from his farm.  

"Quinta!" her father scolded sharply. 

“It’s okay,” you said. It was better to be asked outright than to endure the side glances. “They’re real.” You tilted your head to show her. Quinta reached out to pet the fur, her chubby little hands cautious.

“What are you?” she asked, getting another stern look from her father over his shoulder. Not that you blamed her. He probably didn’t know either, ravi didn't often leave their small communities, and they were practically unheard of in this part of the world. Little wonder, some establishments wouldn’t so much as let you inside. It was a very positive mark on his character that he allowed you to ride on his wagon in the first place, most people wouldn’t. 

“I’m ravi.” 

She blinked. “Is that why you look like a cat?”

“I guess so.” 

Quinta considered that for a moment, staring at you unabashedly. It wasn’t just your ears that were different, otherwise you could have covered them up and avoided the scrutiny. With round eyes and vertical pupils, markings seemingly painted over your cheeks, you stood out regardless of what you did or where you went. Ravi were strangers to everyone, uprooted and adrift, low as the dust trailing beneath your feet. That fact hadn’t changed after you ran away from the charity house, you merely traded the title or orphan for that of vagrant. 

“My mom won’t let us keep cats, we only have a dog,” Quinta finally announced. “Do you like dogs?”  

You shrugged. 

“Are you afraid of them because of-” She put her hands over her head, mimicking your ears. 

“We are natural enemies,” you said, although the comment didn’t come across as the joke you intended. Perhaps because it wasn’t a joke. 

Quinta didn’t say anything, looking back at the passing road and her swinging feet. The warm air smelled like trees and dust and the stacks of straw piled up on the back of her father’s wagon. When the breeze blew, you got whiffs of the approaching town. Manure, cooking food, fire smoke, and that tangy, sweaty scent of so many people all crowded in one place. 

“Where are you going?” she asked. 

“Somewhere else.” 

“Oh.” 

You looked down, staring at the road. The sun beat down on your neck, sweat beading up on your hairline. You could hear the chorus of a small town’s buzzing crowds as the wagon pulled closer. 

“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Quinta said. “Will you come to our house? I bet you’ll like my dog, he’s really, really nice. My mom is there, you can meet her.” 

You smiled, feeling a sharp little pang at her sweet innocence. “Thank you, I’ll think about it.” 

“Oh, please say you will.” 

“Quinta, that’s enough,” her father chided. She frowned, but said nothing else. 

The wagon pulled to a stop where the animals could be hitched. You hopped off and stretched, looking around the town. You weren’t really sure where you would go next. Far away. As far as possible. 

“Thank you, sir,” you told the man, bowing politely.  

He nodded gruffly, and you knew you shouldn’t linger. Still, you couldn’t help but glance back at the sound of his heavy grunt. When he passed the wagon bed, Quinta jumped up onto his back, her arms wrapped tight around his neck. He was quick to rebuke her, scowling as he put her on the ground. That clearly hurt her feelings, turning away with a trembling lower lip and furrowed brows. You felt, for a terrible moment, a great pain in your chest. 

You wanted to tell her that he was just busy. Maybe he could be cold and stern, but that didn’t mean he didn’t love her. You wanted to tell her to love him while she could, that time was finite. Right then, you weren’t looking at a stranger and his daughter, but at a little girl with ears too big for her head and a man who waved at her from the driver’s seat with a sun-crinkled smile, a man who tweaked those fluffy ears with calloused fingers, and a man who kissed her forehead with paper-dry lips.

But then you blinked, sunblind and a little dizzy, and turned away from the scene. 

You thought of your father, love for him tender sweet and swelling in your chest, overwhelming. But quickly, always so quick, his smiling, twinkly eyes were emptied as his body fell to the ground, deprived of dignity in those final moments. And the monster turned from him to face you with a wild expression, a growl in its throat. He said you would meet again. The big bad wolf was not real, he was a masked madman, a creature of fiction. All the same, your anxious, cold gaze scanned the crowd of many faces around you. Haunted. Hunted. 

sixth sense.

Blisters covered your hands, and you couldn't stop coughing, your body seizing with fits of it. The tangy sour stench of smoke infected every pore of your body, saturated your lungs with its acrid excretions. Somehow, despite the horror of escaping a building as it burned down, you were alive. You had no idea what had woken you up, but it happened before anybody even noticed the fire. Others weren’t so lucky. The girl who slept every night two beds down from you, who was innocent, who had never done anything at all to you, was dead. 

"It's not your fault that you couldn’t get to her in time. You were lucky enough to get out with your life," you were told, an attempt at consolation. A lie. 

It was your fault. Your punishment. Your presence invited the flame to spark a blaze in the boarding house for working young women, and yet you had lived while someone else died. Above the sound of so many voices, of a chaos world attempting to fix such a tragedy, you could hear it. She screamed for as long as she was able, until her lungs were too coated in sooty black smoke to make a sound, until her flesh melted by the infernal heat. Other women boasted swaths of charred skin, blisters popping bright red and gruesome, bones broken from leaping out windows. Their lives would be ruined by this, by the sheer misfortune of being near you.

And as the flames licked the sky, you could have sworn you saw an inhuman face at the flickering orange edge where the light tapered into shadow, his eyes not so much reflecting the blaze as they were consuming the fire’s callous violence, soaking in the terror which mingled with the smoke. 

Then you blinked watery eyes, and the shadow was just a shadow. 

There was nothing for it, you left town as soon as you were well enough. Not soon enough, clearly. 

It was your fault, your punishment, but terribly, shamefully, you kept thinking, over and over and over, at least it wasn’t you. You breathed in air that still stank of the memory of murderous smoke and felt grateful that you would recover from this incident. 

That selfish drive was the crux of it all, the reason you could never allow yourself to move on. After so many years, most people would have found a way forward. They took their anguish in stride and did something with their life. But you didn’t. For you, there was no forgetting, and there was no moving on. You couldn’t be allowed happiness in a life others had been denied, a life that you hoarded so rabidly. Even cowards had to draw a line somewhere, didn’t they? No matter how miserable, you struggled to squeeze one more day out of the harsh world, to carve yourself another miserable hour, and then, crippled by pain and smoke and fear, felt a coward’s joy when facing tragedy because at least it wasn’t you.

Lucky, lucky, lucky you.

seven rainbow hues.

"Watch out!"

It happened so fast. That was the cliche, but the truth. Time did not wait for you to catch up in moments where survival came down to muscle memory. Panic and surprise cut up your perception in choppy little bits. One second you were walking down the road, you noticed a man beneath a falling beam and lunged, and then you were flat on your ass in the middle of a road, adrenaline spiking your heart rate and your entire body shaking with it. So little time had passed that the warning was still tangy in your mouth, the sound stifled by the echoing impact. 

Someone was shouting. Screaming.

Sitting up, little rocks grinding into your skinned palms, you looked at the fallen beam not even a foot away. Had you erred even a few inches to the right, you would have been, at the very least, catastrophically injured. Just like the man you tried to push out of the way. He was screaming. His leg was crushed.

But you were fine. Alive. 

People swarmed the man to free him from the beam while the world blurred extra bright, the colors of shock overloading your brain, dozens of different voices buzzing together. Someone asked if you were okay. You were. Of course you were. Alive. The carpenter jumped down from his ladder, finally getting the man out from under the beam. A gruesome mess had been made of his shin, bloody and broken. You only watched, a sort of cool numbness had taken the place of adrenaline. 

The man's leg was a ruin of flesh and bone, and your only injuries were a bruised tailbone and skinned palms. You should not have survived that. 

eight shots of moonshine. 

“He reared up real tall, howling like a beast, and that’s when I stuck him,” the hunter said, his expression animated as he recounted the story. It was, by your count, his ninth drink, and the fifth version of his story about how he fought, and escaped, the terrifying half-man-half-wolf beast—el hombre lobo, in the local dialect. It made sense that some cruel spark of fate would invite the subject matter wherever you happened to be, especially now. That’s the way these things always happened, wasn’t it? The world had a way of kicking you when you were down.

You listened to him with half an ear, staring at your chapped, cracked knuckles. Working as a laundress was not kind to your skin. Unfortunately, being ravi and having a limited skill set meant that simple labor was just about all you could get. So you did odd jobs and, once you had enough money, you would be on your way to the next place, and then the next, and the next. Passing through like a ghost, and then gone. Temporary. Just like this bar, this drink, this man and his story. Transient. 

“The sound he let out was deafening, and I mean that,” the hunter continued. “I’ve never heard anything like it, not in all my years.” 

“That’s not true,” you said loudly, pulling the story to a screeching halt before its predictable conclusion. You hadn’t meant to speak, but you did. If nothing else than to just make him stop. Details changed, but the ending was mostly the same each time. The creature put up a fight, but the hunter was stronger and smarter. Maybe he’d mention the bear trap again, how he watched the wolfman trying to gnaw off its own leg. And it wasn’t like you cared what some random drunk had to say. You didn’t, really. It was the alcohol, and the memories the alcohol was meant to be suppressing, and some misplaced well of fury crammed deep into your gut, unable to be reached or drained or expressed in any meaningful way. Or maybe it was something else, something less palatable. You had a way of testing people’s tempers. Pain was proof of purchase, after all. And you had paid more than your fair share. 

“What was that?” the hunter asked, glazed eyes surprisingly lucid when they landed on you, twinkling with an amused sort of incredulousness at being challenged. He had on a sweat stained red shirt and the ruddy complexion to match. Everyone around you was in similar states of drunken disrepair. So were you, for that matter—a shot of something hard and foul tasting past reasonable. Two shots away from having the energy to engage in this stupid argument, which was ridiculous considering you were the one to involve yourself in the first place. 

“That didn’t happen,” you said. The few people who had been paying attention in the first place laughed at you, but the hunter seemed intrigued, if irritated, by your attitude. 

“Are you calling me a liar?” he asked.

“Do you expect us to believe you fought the big bad wolf?” Those words were old and mean, that of a horrible old man without a shred of mercy in his heart. 

Red-shirt’s eyes narrowed. A couple of the men laughed again, sending a few drunken jibes in your direction. 

“Is that what you’re supposed to be?” One of his friends called, gesturing at your ears, which twitched under his attention. 

“No, no. She’s one of those cat people. The eastern savages,” the man sitting next to you responded, roughly tweaking your ear. He’d made a few friendly comments in your direction throughout the night. And then a few less friendly ones as the liquor loosened his tongue. You winced and ducked away, scowling at him. He grinned. “Have you got any wares to sell us, gata? Or maybe you’re here to put on a show.” 

Another laugh, a playful wolf whistle.

“Ah, I understand. I was mistaken,” red-shirt allowed, a mean grin spreading across his face. “It was no wolfman after all. You ought to tell your pa to keep away from these parts. Next time I see him, he won’t get off so easy.” 

That drew a bigger laugh from the few people bothering to pay attention. A part of you hated him a little bit, hated him with a riotous, evil sort of passion. His ignorance, his audacity. You hated yourself more for not holding your tongue. 

“No, it was her ma,” another man chimed in. “Must have been in heat if she was so focused on you.” You felt a red hot flush rise to your cheeks at that, some uncomfortable mixture of embarrassment and anger. 

Needing to calm the impulse of rage, and kicking yourself for having spoken at all, you took a deep breath. 

“Aw, pobre gata, don’t be upset,” the man next to you said. Poor cat? He drew out the condescending pet name with a sugary sweetness, going for your ears again. You scooted back to avoid him, nearly falling from the alcohol-induced sway of the world. The men laughed again. “Where’re you going?” he asked. “They’re just teasing.”  

You licked your dry lips. You needed to leave, it wasn’t the sort of place you should have been hanging out in the first place. Part of you worried that he might try something. He looked hungry. Worse, part of you wondered if he would, wanted to stick around and find out what kind of situation you’d dug yourself into. Curiosity didn’t come from desire or lust, but from something darker, the impulse of deserved violence. Alcohol made it worse, made you think that maybe you could want it, that you might enjoy being roughed up and used in a vulgar game of intimacy. 

“Let me buy you another drink,” he offered. “I promise not to tease you.” 

You pursed your lips, and knew you would hate yourself later, and decided that it didn’t matter all that much anyway. “Okay.”

Hours later, you were sweaty, sour with alcohol but no longer drunk enough to tolerate the discomfort, and ultimately dissatisfied with the interaction as you stumbled through the quiet town back to the room you had been renting. The unpleasant scent of sex was all you could smell, it clung to your rumpled dress and messy hair. Evidence of your mistake. Despite being so forward, he hadn’t been what you hoped. Whenever you pulled back, he thought to coax you further with sweet words rather than rough hands. You’d have been better off trying to antagonize the man in the red shirt to get what you really wanted, not a quick upright with a man who wanted to slobber on your neck and call you beautiful.

Disgust, shame—a sickening feeling of wrong had you ducking into an alley, vomiting up a stomach full of bile and alcohol like a homeless wretch, shaking hard enough that your teeth clattered. Snot, stomach acid, and tears smeared against the side of the building when you pressed your fevered cheek against it, the material rough on your skin. But it was cool, and solid, and you were breathing. Alive. 

Miserable. Beautiful. That was your mother’s word. An ugly, ugly word. Your shoulders heaved with half-hearted sobs, your skin crawling and stomach twisting. You were alive because the only thing you feared more than the hideous pain of living was beautiful death, and that was the ugliest feeling you could possibly imagine. 

Eventually, you collected yourself, wiping your mouth and eyes, and completed your walk of shame, your thoughts lingering on el hombre lobo and the furious hollow in your chest, and the sort of hatred which begged violence and cried for pity. 

nine lives.

Afternoon faded into sunset as you walked, and you weren’t too concerned. If anything, you felt the same relaxing sense of relief you always felt when you left one place for another. 

No, you didn’t worry at all until twilight gave way to the rise of the moon. That’s when you stopped, frowning up at the sky. Either you were lost or you had severely misjudged the distance. Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done other than continue on and hope that you reached civilization soon. You pulled your cloak a little closer to fight off the chill, adjusting your bag uncomfortably. Summer was coming, but the air retained the cold damp newness of deep spring. 

And so you trundled along, reminding yourself over and over that it was okay. While possible, it wasn’t likely that anything would happen to you. 

Your anxiety wasn’t helped by the full moon. A morbid coincidence, and a mixed blessing. It was full that night. Illuminating your father’s twisted expression of fear, haloing the impossible beast looming above you, lighting your way when you ran, dying your blood into the color of ink. As always, it was a bit of mischief the universe was having at your expense. It shone the same steady pale silver, bleaching the world in imitation sunshine just like it always had, always did. 

A gentle breeze shook the tree canopy, the leaves shivering. Above them, the perfect velvet blue veil of sky was mostly undisturbed by clouds. The stars twinkled and winked, dulled slightly by the radiance of the moon. Bugs wailed and frogs sang their nighttime dirge, an unsettlingly miserable sound. No matter how uncomfortable the sun could be, blinding and revealing, the night was worse. It was the place where nightmares lived, after all. And the woods, the place where the big bad wolf hid. 

Right. These were the woods where the hunter claimed to have seen the wolfman those few weeks ago. A chill slithered down your spine at that realization. While it was most certainly a lie, in the dark, it troubled you. It frightened you. There were many things in the deep, dark woods to be afraid of. Hiding, lurking. 

Huffing with annoyance at your paranoia, you vigorously shook your head and focused on the path instead. Everything was fine, you just had to keep going. 

Seemingly out of nowhere, the wind began to blow a lot harder, catching the hem of your cloak and loose strands of hair, crawling beneath your clothes to make you shiver. At the same time, a shadow slowly closed in around you, a stray cloud covering up the moon. The sudden lack of light made the shadows darken significantly. Goosebumps crawled across your entire body in response to the windy chill, hairs standing on end and visceral discomfort lurching in your gut like a hook behind your belly button. Surrounded on all sides by darkness, stranded in the woods, you were completely and utterly vulnerable. 

Then it all—bugs, the frogs, and the wind—everything died. Not slowly, tapering off naturally, but all at once, as if a great dampener was suddenly pressed into the air. And that was strange, that was eerie, that was cause for fear, but the first whistled note shot straight into your core.

Trees were hungry things. They, with their thick wood and big bodies, had an appetite for sound. Echoes, however, were mischievous. They would rather play tricks than be eaten. Back and forth, from everywhere and nowhere, a tune you knew all too well danced amidst the silent forest. The notes jumped from one to the next in a song that should have been cheerful but wasn’t. You didn’t move. You felt like you couldn’t. Standing there, ears perked and twitching in search of any noise aside from the whistling, heart racing, cold sweat gathering on the nape of your neck, you suddenly knew, with an alarming degree of certainty, that you weren’t alone. 

Slowly, eyes watering from the sudden burst and disappearance of the wind, you looked up. 

The whistler, seeming not to notice you, was no more than a dozen feet ahead, a darker shadow amidst the void, a little off the edge of the clearing. Jarring surprise shot like lightning down your spine at the sight, at how close you were to somebody you hadn’t noticed, so powerful that you stumbled backward on pure instinct. But your foot landed on a mossy rock and the squishy material slid out from under your boot. You tried to find your balance, but you wound up overcorrecting, sending you forward instead. With a yelp and a loud thump, you tumbled onto the ground, landing hard on your elbows and knees. 

The song ended.  

“¿Tan deseosa estás de ser engullida?” the man asked, amused. You looked up, terrified, but without any moonlight to help you see, the most you could make out was the vague shape of a hooded figure leaning against a tree. 

Fear made your hands shaky, your body unwieldy and awkward. Scrambling, unsure if you should have been embarrassed or scared, you got up to your feet. At least you weren’t hurt.

“I-I don’t… no entiendo,” you said, wondering, hoping, fearing, unsure. At least it was just a man. That shouldn’t have been the consolation it was. It shouldn’t have been any consolation at all. 

“I asked if you needed any help,” he clarified in an accented voice, amused in a way that made you think he was making fun of you. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“I, um… I was just surprised, bu-but it’s okay,” you said, trying very hard to calm down. “I’m fine.” 

“Are you sure? I would hate for you to wind up like the last girl who got lost in the woods,” he said. You squinted into the dark, but you couldn’t see any details beyond a shadow. Covered moon or not, the dark was borderline unnatural. “She was gobbled up whole, her granny too. You’ve even got the red hood.” 

It took you a second to register that he was messing with you. Entertaining any sort of interaction was foolish, but you couldn’t help your nervous laugh, pulling your cloak closer. “Oh, yeah.” 

The stranger laughed in turn, forcefully friendly in a very uncomfortably stilted way. The sound sent a fresh shiver down your spine. “They don’t get very many people coming all the way out here to visit,” the man said. “Are you here to see family, gatita?”

Your ears twitched nervously. “Um… Excuse me?”

“Is that offensive? I can never remember what you beast types call yourselves. Ra… something.” 

“Ravi,” you said.

“That’s right. I’ve never been much of a cat person myself, but I can see the appeal. The big eyes, the fuzzy ears… Very cute.” He paused. “Hey, can you purr too?” 

You drew back, your awkward moment of uncertainty giving way to dread at the underlying danger of a question like that. While many people scorned you blindly, there were those with a particular taste for half-breeds. 

“I need to get going, it’s late,” you said slowly. You didn’t want to turn your back on him, and you had no idea how close you were to town, but anything was better than here. 

“Wait, before you go, I heard a story recently,” he said, unconcerned with your response. “It’s about your kind. Stop me if you’ve heard it before.”

“I don’t-” 

“Once upon a time,” he said, speaking as if you hadn’t, “a gato got it in his head that one life wasn’t enough for him. Even though he had everything he could ask for—a wife, two children, a successful career, he was proud. He didn’t see why he should have to abide by the same rules as everyone else. Of course, he was warned that it was a bad idea, but it became a… preoccupation of his. He traveled just about everywhere, certain that he could do what no one else had.”

The man paused, giving you a moment to register his words, to feel the slow drip of horror pooling in your stomach. 

“It didn’t work out for him, in the end. It never does.”

“Who are you?” you asked, although you had a feeling. A very strange, awful feeling. “How do you-”

“Do you know how it ends?” he asked, pushing away from the tree and standing up, stepping out of the shadows, only a few feet in front of you. Your eyes were better adjusted now, taking in as much light as possible. His hood fell back, letting you see the man in full. 

Only, he wasn’t a man. 

For a second, the ears on the top of his head made you think he was ravi too. But they were too small. Pointed. Distinctly canine.

Then the rest of it registered.  

He wasn’t a wolf standing on hind legs, or a person with wolf features, but some inhuman, impossible mix of the two. His long, toothy snout was distinct to a dolichocephalic skull. A beast. That’s what you would assume given all that thick gray fur, round eyes, and the pointy ears directly on top of the head. But somehow, despite all of that, something about his face registered as perfectly, sickeningly, uncannily human. 

And you knew him. You saw him in your nightmares, in the shadows, in the darkest places of your mind. No matter what resolve you had before that moment, all you wanted was to run. You needed to run. But fear, pure and distilled, paralyzed you.

“No? That’s fine, it’s just a story, after all,” he said, the words far too well articulated considering the wolf’s muzzle they were coming from, the shiny sharp teeth through which they were spoken. 

You opened your mouth to respond, and instead you whimpered as you exhaled.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You remember me, don’t you? I remember you. Although, you were a lot smaller back then. Who would’ve thought that you’d turn out to be such a looker?" He laughed at that, a stilted chuckle. When you didn’t respond, his demeanor dropped, darkened. “Your fear was intoxicating.”

 Leaning forward, he closed his eyes and sniffed at the air like a dog. You couldn’t do anything, your limbs refusing to move even though every cell in your body screamed at you to run. When he leaned back and exhaled, his lips pulled back in what was very distinctly a smile, an expression that should have been impossible for a wolf to make. 

“I’ve waited a long time to see you like this again, I worried that it would be disappointing,” he told you, red eyes opening. They were mad. His smile was mad. Dread overwhelmed your system. “But you smell even better than I remember.” 

He took a step forward. With a few unnerving exceptions, his body was human enough. Tall, broad shouldered, slightly hunched, wearing clothes like a person. His hands were almost like paws with pads and claws, but were articulated like your own—short one finger. He was no monster. He was a nightmare come to life. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Surprised to see me?” 

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “No, you’re not… not real.”

You could see the excitement in his eyes as he licked his lips with a long tongue, another entirely animalistic motion. The perfect meld of human and wolf traits was fascinating. Sickening. Something that should not exist. 

You did nothing other than stare at him with wide eyes as he leaned in. And you did nothing as he raised his hand, dragging the claw in a butterfly kiss over your cheek. “You think?” he asked, the growl in his voice almost like a purr. 

That woke you out of your trance and you stumbled back, covering the skin which tingled from the very real touch.

He laughed and straightened out, but didn’t follow you. “It’s not safe to be out here so late. You never know what you’ll find lurking in the woods.”

You swallowed hard, your breathing picking up, the old well of fury cracking open just a little. There should have been more, but the fear was too intense, cold in your veins. “What are you?” you asked, barely audible. Frightened of the answer, but desperate to know. 

“Your father called me Anubis. That’s one of your gods, right?” 

“You are not a god,” you said, an objection because you couldn’t allow this nightmare, any degree of holy pedigree that you had feared for so long. There was doubt in your voice though, doubt you couldn’t stifle. 

“It depends on how you look at it,” he allowed. “But it’s true that I have no interest in being worshiped, and I certainly don’t want your faith. I prefer fear.” 

You swallowed hard, shaking your head in a hazy attempt to fight back the swelling tide of fear, to deny him that. “I'm not… not afraid of you, wolf."

That didn’t so much as make him blink. "You fear me more than you fear anything else."

"No! You killed my… my—I hate you."

“Sure you do."

“And because of you, my brother was…” You couldn’t finish the statement, your entire body nearly vibrating from the way you were shaking. “And then mm-my mother...” 

“Execution and, what was it, some kind of sickness?” The wolf clicked his tongue. “It’s a harsh world.” 

“You took them from me,” you said softly. “You took everything.” 

“Do you want revenge, gatita? You wouldn’t be the first.” 

The mocking tone of his voice was as bad as a slap across the face. Even if you wanted revenge, what fight could you possibly put up against an impossible creature like him? You flexed your hands and clasped them together, your breathing picking up with the confusion of old fury and sadness and fear. 

“I want to know why,” you finally said.

The wolf sighed, rolling his eyes in an exaggerated—and far too human—way as he continued to circle you. “Everybody thinks there’s a reason. There isn’t. Who lives, who dies, it’s all the same to me in the end. But there are those who… tempt fate. Although, I prefer to call it tempting death."

"You're saying that my father wanted to die? You're crazy,” you argued, your shoulders tensing in some form of defense. 

"He was especially tempting. His pride, his ego, his fear… I gave him several chances, and he chose to insult me over and over again.” He paused for a moment before continuing, “I may have gotten carried away. You can’t blame me for wanting some fun now and again."

Despite the relative warmth of the night, the air chilled whenever you inhaled, your skin raising with goosebumps. Something in your head clicked, the understanding you had been trying very hard not to acknowledge. 

"What are you?" you asked again, but you were thinking that you knew. Of course you knew, it was something you’d known for a long time. 

"You know who I am."

"Death," you whispered. 

“And you know all about tempting death, don't you? To be honest, I’m starting to lose my patience, gatita,” he practically whispered the pet name, leaning down behind you so the word brushed intimately against your ear, his breath disturbing the fine hairs and making them twitch. 

You yelped and jumped away, twisting around. All you could think about was how close all those teeth had been to your ears. Your neck. Death watched as you stumbled even further backwards, hitting a tree and falling against it. 

“Watching you survive things that would kill anybody else over and over, it’s unbearable. You throw yourself into danger like you’re trying to tease me.” Genuine irritation glowed in his eyes. Frustration. You shouldn’t have been able to see an emotion like that on such an inhuman face. 

You needed to run. Whether or not that was a good idea no longer mattered. Surely he wouldn’t follow you out of the woods, surely sanity would take his place once you were back among civilization, out of the moonlight’s pure lunacy. Your insides squeezed sickeningly. Your heart raced.

“Is it a cat thing? You inherited the ears, the eyes, and, what, the nine lives? I guess that skipped a generation,” Death mused, his demeanor shifting completely right back into amusement. “Or maybe it’s just dumb luck. What do you think, gatita—are you feeling lucky tonight?” 

Run. You needed to run. 

Death stepped forward. 

You had to run. 

Rather than get any closer to him to follow the trail, you rolled off of the tree to the side so you could escape into the trees, letting your pack drop to the ground to avail yourself of the extra weight. With your back to the wolf, you sprinted, not caring where it took you, only that it was as far away from him as possible.

Behind you, you heard him calling out to you. You heard him laughing. You gasped and choked for breath, your feet pounding against the forest floor, your streaming eyes blind to anything other than what was directly in front of you. Running, catching the sharp fingers of trees across your arms and face, stray logs and squishy moss and wet grass threatening to trip you with every step. All around, you could hear his laughter, echoing around amidst the trees and in your head. 

And for what? Your escape had been doomed from the start, nothing more than the animalistic instinct of prey. 

It really only made sense when you realized that Death stood directly in your path, a hulking shadow with red eyes. Your body jolted on instinct and you skittered into a hard stop, momentum pushing you forward while your feet tried to backtrack. 

“¿Dónde vas, gatita? Haven’t you heard that it’s dangerous to stray from the path?”

Thoughtlessly, you twisted around, but you were too slow. Or he was too fast. Grabbing a fistful of fabric from the back of your cloak, Death dragged you backwards. And then you were looking into a pair of bright red eyes, choking as your cloak’s tie tightened around your windpipe.

He growled as a wolf would, and you felt base terror in your very core. No matter how humanly he expressed emotion, his face was very decidedly that of a wolf, of a predator that you were naturally wired to fear. A rising surge of bile burned in your throat from running and all you could hear was your heartbeat, thundering ever faster. You choked out a yelp, lashing out however you could in a bid to get free. He easily avoided every attack you threw out, seemingly bored by the attempts, casually holding you at arms length. 

“What I really can’t stand,” he told you, his voice low and calm, “is how you waste it. Fighting so hard to stay alive, and for what? Nothing will be lost when I end it.”

“Shut up!” you cried, choking the words out through gritted teeth. You would live. Survive just like you always did. He considered that, licking his lips before irritation once more gave way to excitement.   

“Then again,” Death said, letting you down enough to stand on your toes, allowing you to take a breath. Oxygen hit you in a hard rush, you might have fallen over if he weren’t steadying you. “I’m in no rush.” 

“Let me go,” you demanded, your breathing ragged, your ears buzzing and ignorant of his words. 

Death smiled, his wolfish muzzle pulled back in an expression so human it bordered on obscene. His face was right to yours, you could practically count each of his deadly sharp teeth, see into the soulless depths of those evil eyes. 

“Your fear is positively mouthwatering. The poor little kitten is really terrified of el lobo feroz. That fear is the only thing that’s ever given your life purpose. If you think about it, I’m the only reason you keep going. It’s almost flattering.” He licked his lips again, considering you intently. “You don’t mind having some fun before I kill you, right?”

“No!” you screamed the word, but all it did was make his eyes flash with hunger. 

“I’m going to eat. You. Up.” 

Every muscle in your body went taut, seizing with a different sort of horror. That confounded curiosity to know what he intended, the disturbing impulse to tempt violence, was only heightened by the adrenaline in your system. You had no word for the dark feeling, for the disturbing impulse. Only disgust, swirling dark twisting up hot and low in your gut. With shaking hands, you finally managed to undo the tie around your neck, dropping out of your cloak and onto the ground. And then, before you could even stand up, you were running. 

This time, Death didn’t react. No laughter or jeering taunts followed your escape. Dampened beneath the rush of blood in your ears and your feet pounding on the forest floor, the woods were full of the normal sounds. Bugs and frogs and birds and the breeze. 

All the same, you knew that el lobo feroz wasn’t far behind. You knew that, and you knew you wouldn’t escape from  him. Not this time. But you couldn’t just stop. So you made your frantic flight through the trees, sprinting as fast as you could to escape a creature which existed in opposition to all that was sane or safe. Death himself. 

From behind you, in front of you, on both slides, all around, the lilting whistled tune finally began. Panic, bright red and raw, caused you to trip. There was a jolt when your foot caught on something, sending a little shockwave all up your body, then a lurch as gravity forced you down and momentum dragged you forward. For a moment, true weightlessness. And then you were skidding and somersaulting along the ground, skinning your hands and knees all over again before you collapsed, your chin painfully knocking against the ground when you completed your tumble. No pain registered, just numb confusion. You were breathing so hard your lungs burned, your tongue paper dry and sour. Despite the deafening sound of your heart beating and the wheezing rattle of air in your lungs, you could hear his song. 

Everything, everything hurt, but you forced yourself up, to shamble into the bushes, curling into a ball to wait. 

The song ended. 

Seconds—less than that, really—passed before anything happened. Then you heard him. He allowed you to hear him, your pursuer wasn’t concerned that you would manage to escape. He didn’t need to bother running after you, or disguise the noise of his approach. You squeezed your eyes shut until you heard heavy feet crunching through the grass and twigs right in front of you, peeking them open to watch a figure emerge from the darkness.

Death stopped to sniff the air like the predatory beast he appeared to be. You pressed both hands over your mouth and nose, your entire body shaking with the tension of staying stiffly still. For a moment, you hoped he would move on. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. 

“This has been fun,” he said conversationally, “but you’re not exactly the most challenging hunt. So, make this easier for yourself and come out, or make it more fun for me and stay put. Your choice, gatita.”  

Your sore, overworked body twitched, wanting to obey and spare yourself. But if he knew where you were, he wouldn’t be looking around randomly like he was, right? Unless this was another game and he was trying to trick you, to see how you’d respond to that threat. But he could be bluffing. You didn’t know, and that uncertainty kept you in place. 

Death chuckled ominously, leaving your line of sight. Somehow, that was worse than anything else, the nothingness of blind anticipation. 

For a fleeting moment, you hoped he had moved on after all.

“Did you really think you could hide from me?” Death asked. Behind you, above you. A short little scream ripped from your throat as he grabbed you by the hair, wrenching you upright so fast that your body went limp with dizziness, head spinning with terror and a fresh rush of energy. He kept you up by exchanging a fistful of hair for the front of your dress. “Me temo que no tiene suerte.”

Getting your bearings, you yelped, thrashing out of his grip. Death let you go too easily, causing you to stumble. You went down hard. This time, it did hurt. Your hands and knees were skinned raw. But still, you crawled. It wasn’t a choice, it was instinct.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” Death said, crouching down behind you. He laughed. “I’ve got a feeling that you will too.” 

“No—no.”

“You can’t lie to me. I can smell it. Fear mixed with desire… It's delicious. I can’t wait to have a taste.”

All you could do was grunt when he grabbed you by the waist, easily lifting you up and manhandling you onto your back. You fell with a heavy sound, dizzy all over again. 

“I’d say I was surprised, but… Well, I’m not,” Death said, straddling you. His legs were completely wrong. They bent like a man’s at the knee, but bent again with the backwards angle of a wolf’s legs, ending in a set of thick paws. His face was worse. He spoke with such vivid animation. It shouldn’t have been possible for a wolf’s face to emote like that, it shouldn’t have been possible that Death himself could look so gleeful, so excited. When you attempted to drag yourself away, he settled more of his weight on top of you. “This is how you like it, right? Rough. It makes you feel alive.” 

Even in your terrified panic, you knew what he was talking about. How long had he been watching you? How intently? Had you ever managed to escape from him, or were you just running around like a headless chicken, never knowing you were doomed? Furiously rejecting that, you bucked upward, bowing your back to throw him off. When that didn’t work, you grasped fistfuls of fabric from the front of his shirt to get leverage. 

Death growed low and grabbed your face, slamming your head against the ground, claws digging into the soft skin of your cheeks. He followed while you were still reeling, leaning down to talk directly into your ear. 

“Do you feel alive now, gatita?”

You whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut so you couldn’t see his frightening face. El lobo feroz. His nose was cold and leathery when it brushed your face as he pulled back, air ghosting across your cheek and making you whimper. Death laughed, sitting up. 

“The ears really are cute,” he told you, releasing your cheeks to take hold of your ear instead. The rough pads caught on the delicate skin, brushing the fur up in a way that made you shudder. He saw that, you could tell by the way his red eyes flashed, the way he licked his lips again. “Who knows, maybe you’ll change my mind about cats.”

“Stop it,” you said, covering your face in an attempt to find peace from this absurdity. He hadn’t broken skin with his claws, but your chin and palms were busted up, your cheeks latticed with shallow scrapes from the trees.

“I told you. You can’t hide from me,” Death said, his voice dragging with a growl. The threat was emphasized by the sudden cold edge dragging lightly against your neck. 

Stiffening, you lowered your hands, looking up at him with wet eyes—looking at the humanoid wolf claiming to be death, who had killed your father and ruined your life, who had haunted you every day since, whose mere shadow terrified you to your core, and once you came to grips with the unbelievability of what you saw, you had to contend with the knowledge that you were powerless to such a nightmare. Utterly, completely powerless.

Death groaned. Or hummed. Or growled. It was a happy sound, excited. “Está buena, gatita,” he told you, saying it like praise. “I don’t normally go for this sort of thing.” Casually, he nudged your chin upward before dragging the sickle down so the point caught beneath the neckline of your dress. “I shouldn’t. It’ll have to be our secret, hm?” 

Willful ignorance had done nothing for you thus far, but you still clung to it. He couldn’t be talking about what you thought he was. He couldn’t be that human. 

In a sharp movement, he pulled the sickle downward. Fabric ripped loudly in the quiet night. Yelping, you tried to pull the scraps back together, to cover yourself because that indignity was too far, wasn’t it? Nudity could mean nothing more than a prelude to violence to something like him, but it was different to you. 

Death growled in annoyance, pressing the weapon’s tip into the soft give of your stomach. 

“Hands off,” he told you. You didn’t move, and he pressed down. Not too much, just enough to break the skin, to draw blood. 

“Stop,” you said, clinging even more desperately to the front of your ruined bodice, “that hurts.”

 “I’ll keep going. To. The. Hilt.” Death drew out each word, pressing down with each word to make his point, the sickle’s edge disappearing into your skin. He meant it. Obey or suffer. 

Looking straight above at the uncaring night sky, you released your bodice. He chuckled as he pulled the weapon away. It might have been that sound, or the crushing disgust of being exposed. There was very little thought behind the way you lashed out, capitalizing on his moment of distraction as he readjusted himself. 

Your pathetic attempt at escaping the inevitable lacked any art or intelligence, only the final burst of energy that came from knowing you’d have no more chances after this. Death avoided your thrashing limbs, letting you wriggle your way upward, twisting around to try and crawl away. And then he drove the sickle into the ground right beside your hand, the blade only narrowly missing your fingers as he drove it into the dirt. You yelped, flinching away. Death used the moment to flip you around again, slamming the air out of your lungs.

"Delicious," he growled, curling over you to get at the exposed skin of your torso. Fabric that hadn’t been properly cut was torn away by his hands. Hands, paws. Human finger articulation and the thick pads of a dog’s feet, each tipped with dangerously long claws. They caught your skin, the rough pads like sandpaper on your sensitive flesh. Just as quickly as the fabric was out of the way, his nose replaced it, his hulking form hunching over your body. Each rapid inhale tickled your skin, pairing disturbingly with the cold of his nose. Unlike his hands, his tongue was soft, lapping up the blood he’d drawn on your stomach before he moved up. The uncanny mixture of sensations made you squirm. 

“Stop, stop now,” you said, jerking in uncoordinated little bursts beneath him more on instinct than rational thought. Fur filled the spaces between your fingers as you tried to push him off. He didn't react to you tugging on it, all it did was remind you of how bestial he was. The whole situation was terrifying, yes. But, more viscerally, it was gross. Deeply uncomfortable to feel his long, smooth tongue, to endure the threat of teeth as he moved up, to choke back disgust and terror as he passed over your nipples. “Stop,” you whined the word despite yourself, your eyes screwed shut in an attempt to separate from reality. Death chuckled, moving up across your flushed chest, to your neck, leaving you flushing bright red and slick with his saliva. 

“Impatient?” he asked, the words brushing over your fluttering pulse. “I’m not surprised. That’s fine.”

The waistband of your dress didn’t part as easily as the top. He worked from the other end instead, making a slit to tear the fabric up and expose your stockings and panties. Claws made short work of the thin, well worn cotton, carving shallow lines into your skin to strip you entirely. 

“Nn-no, what are you doing? Stop, st-” your words cut off with a heavy ‘umph’ when he pushed you back down. Death didn’t so much as look at you as he admired his handiwork, let alone respond to your plea.

“Just like I thought,” he said. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” 

“No,” you said, desperately shaking your head. All you could see was his sharp, sharp teeth, those deadly claws. And your body was electrified, covered with drool and chills and thrumming hot with blood. There was no way out of this, you couldn't even comprehend the pain he could cause. Out of options, you pushed down the remains of your skirt, attempting to close your legs. 

Claws dug into your thighs as Death forced them back open with a little growl, sparing you no indignity. The moon deprived you of the cover of darkness and it shouldn’t have been so embarrassing because he wasn’t a man, but it was. Just like he had with your torso, Death explored the exposed skin. The puffing brushes of air as he sniffed and licked along your thighs was humiliating and obscene on its own, nevermind when he nipped at the sensitive flesh to make you whimper, forcing you to contemplate the damage those teeth could do where you were most vulnerable. 

The thought of such agony had you try a final time to close your legs, only to have them spread even wider, giving you the perfect view of el lobo feroz with his muzzle pressed against your pussy, his long pink tongue lolling out to drag across your slit. It wasn’t the pain you anticipated, but it was just too strange, too surprising, too disturbing. Having the snout of a beast between your legs, regardless of the creature's perceived humanity, was enough to make you feel sick, twisted and filthy. 

“No, no, don’t,” you demanded shrilly, kicking in an attempt to displace him. Death growled, claws puncturing into your skin as he pushed your hips back down, peering up at you. His eyes didn’t reflect or catch the moonlight. They glowed. Empty. Evil.   

“Ten cuidado, gatita,” he warned. “Haven’t you ever been warned about getting in the way of a wolf and his meal?”

“Please,” you said, unable to comprehend that this could happen. That this would happen. “Please don’t… don’t. You can’t do this.”

“What are you going to do to stop me?” 

That was awful, too awful for words. Fight and risk more pain, or let it happen and… And what? What rational response could you possibly have to this other than disgust and despair? Maybe you should have been glad he wasn’t about to rip you to bloody shreds and feast on the remains, glad that you would be spared pain and immediate death, but that consolation felt terribly cheap when confronted with the equally unimaginable. 

“You can’t,” you said, your voice too high, terrified into a whine. “You’re not even… I mean it’s not like you can… like you’ll… you can…”

Death hummed in annoyance, you could feel the vibration of the sound. “Te voy a comer. Y luego te voy a coger,” he told you, the words easy like he was explaining something very simple which, considering you couldn’t understand them, only made it that much worse. “¿Está bien, gatita?”

“No,” you said. “No, I don’t…” Understand. Believe. Consent. 

Death laughed, arranging your legs into a more comfortable press towards your chest to make room for his hulking form. There was nothing you could do to make him stop. 

The pads of his fingers were painfully rough against your pussy’s outer lips, catching on the sensitive flesh as he parted them. His tongue, however, was softer than anything you’d ever felt, lapping at your entrance, up to your clit. You squirmed uncontrollably, locked in some limbo of disgust, discomfort, and embarrassment. 

You thought that if you just closed your eyes, if you just blocked it out, you could pretend that this wasn’t happening, but Death hummed out an animalistic growl, and his tongue was far too long and dexterous to be human, and his fur bristled against your thighs, and there was no way out. Already, your body was waking up to the stimulation. Responding. There was something wrong with you. You knew that, you’d known that for a long time, taking pleasure in beatings, wanting sex to be rougher and rougher, needing to be brutalized like it was an itch to be scratched. This was a new low, the grotesque indulgence of those most perverse.

Like you. 

“Please stop,” you whined, another plea to add to the string of ignored requests. Death made a sound you could feel more than hear. For reasons other than fear, you shuddered at the noise. 

With your clit acceptably swollen, your body twitching with every movement, his tongue slicked downward. Your hips jumped, legs closing and opening with surprise, but Death wasn’t deterred.

“No-oh,” you sounded so weak, your rejection coming out pathetic and breathy.  

Death made another growl-like sound, pushing you down flat with mean claws that poked fresh holes into your skin. You hadn’t been trying to escape, you just couldn’t stop from squirming as he tested the flinching muscles of your entrance. This was new, and different, and terrible, and foul. His tongue was soft and long and far too dexterous, pushing into you with a few hungry strokes. No human man could do that. It wasn’t physically possible. 

You whimpered, your head falling back in some vain attempt to block it all out. Escape wasn’t so easy. While his tongue lacked the pressure and weight of something solid, he attacked your g-spot with precision. Eating you out. Eating you. Given that long snout, it had to have been awkward, but that didn’t seem to deter him. And every time his head moved, his nose ground against your clit. He was probably watching you, watching you twitch and gasp and writhe helplessly, but you kept your eyes squeezed shut. The sight of a wolf’s head between your legs like this would kill you, surely it would. 

Unbidden, you remembered telling the child Quinta that dogs were your natural enemy, and your penchant for seeking the companionship of those who promised animosity, and the wicked sort of sense it made that you would find yourself here, and you could only laugh at it all but the hysterical sound came out like a sob, and then a low groan, and then a sharp whine when Death pressed the rough pad of one of his fingers against your clit instead, dragging small little circles against it while his tongue continued to torment you. 

“No, no, no, no-” 

Whatever you were denying, it was pointless. Noise for the sake of it, words getting all tangled up with your choked moans and sobs and hiccups. The little addition of pain from the too rough texture on your clit was enough to give you what you really wanted, what you always ached for. 

Pleasure lurched in your core, your hips bucking wildly. Death growled again and it was mean. Aggressive. You seized up, mouth open wide as if for a scream, your feet planted so you could tilt your hips up for more. More pleasure, more pain. Disgust, shame, fear, all of it became white hot and foul, agonizingly sexy in the few moments where the high of orgasm negated the living nightmare between your legs.

And then you were coming down, hips jerking into the tongue of a wolf monster, the creature that had killed your father, Death himself, and you actually sobbed, shying away from his touch as little sparks of overstimulation promised something worse. Unable to escape in any material way, you covered your face. Tears, dirt, and blood smeared together on the feverish, sweaty skin, nearly suffocating as you panted.  

Death let you be and sat up, laughing. Laughing at you.

“That was faster than I expected.” 

Peeking out from between your fingers, you saw the way his muzzle was glistening before his tongue swiped it away, saw the way he was smiling as he mocked you. “Ah. Unh-no, I-”

Death leaned over you. You flinched away, but he only grabbed the sickle he’d driven into the ground beside you. Casually, he flicked the blade out. The cool metal winked in the moonlight. Although you were still trembling with the aftershocks of orgasm, you weren’t too far gone to feel a fresh wave of fear. Immediately, you curled in on yourself, covering as much of your vulnerability as possible. 

“You cower in fear, but I can taste your desire,” Death said, licking his lips. “It’s not half bad.” 

“Please just… just stop.” 

“I’m doing you a favor. You’re too tight.” 

Death didn’t elaborate on that, positioning the weapon’s hilt between your legs, pushing the flared base between your folds before you could figure out what was happening. Everything was wet with a mixture of saliva and your own arousal, slick enough for the weapon to press against your entrance. You figured it out then, but he pinned you in place with a hand on your stomach, claws pressing against the flinching skin. There was nothing you could really do to avoid it, and you didn’t dare close your legs around the blade itself. 

“This might hurt.”

“Stop, please stop, you can’t—” 

Death didn’t say anything, watching your expression as he pushed the weapon’s grip into you. To see such a sharp blade between your legs in any capacity was dizzying, and that was without the intensely physical pressure of its grip rubbing against your inner walls.

“I told you, didn’t I?” he asked. “To. The. Hilt.” With every word, he drove the weapon deeper, your body jerking with each movement. 

“Stop, just stop, please, take it…take it out.” 

“I’d do it myself, but,” Death said, holding up his off-hand, “I’m not so sure you’d like that.” His claws practically gleamed in the moonlight, and you knew exactly how rough the pads were. The idea of those inside of you was enough to make your insides wither, although all that really amounted to was your cunt tightening around the weapon. You grunted at the feeling, shook your head fast, panicked. 

“No! No,” you told him as coherently as you could. Your tongue was dry as bone, you choked on the grit. 

“Thought so,” he replied, pulling the sickle back only to slam it back in. 

The textured grip felt disturbingly good in some mad, broken way. His tongue had been so smooth and soft, but this was solid and firm, forcing itself into you. He used it like a tool, not bothering to simulate sex, twisting it this way and that, forcing your pussy open. Making room. You couldn’t help but writhe with each movement, your cunt tightening around the grip, hips tilting up as you were consumed by a confusing twist of disgust and need. Violence and pain were things you knew and understood. Familiarity had you dripping around the weapon, you could hear how wet you were, and his harsh motions only emphasized the vulgar sound.

“Not bad,” Death said, amused by the sight. You shut your eyes. “This weapon killed your father. It’s only fair that you should die by it too—una pequeña muerte.”

“Don’t,” you said, body going painfully tense with disgust, with hate, with fear. Death pulled the sickle out, pushing it back in with an ugly squelch, dragging a pained yelp from your mouth, and then a distinctly less pained one when he twisted it slightly. “No, no, I…”

Little death. You belatedly realized the implication of that. You’d already come once, it wasn’t nearly as difficult to build you up again. Especially not when he was being more deliberate with each thrust, when the sandpaper-rough texture of his finger nudged at your clit again. 

Nothing in particular set you off, maybe it was just the acceptance of sensation, the acknowledgement that it would buy you a few moments of madness from this unthinkable situation. Gasping, flushing, writhing like a creature possessed, you seized up, pleasure flushing through your system with a white-hot sort of frenzy. You didn’t think it could be compared to death, not really. You felt distinctly alive for a few seconds of shivering, wet heat. 

Until it ended, abruptly dropping you back in the middle of an unfathomable predicament. 

Death hummed as he stopped, letting you wilt back onto the ground, trembling and hot. “I prefer a fight, but-” Without much ceremony and a disgustingly wet shlick, Death pulled the weapon out of your pussy. “You put on quite the show, gatita. This is going to be good.” 

“What are you doing?” you asked, drawing your legs in, wincing at the feeling. Some part of you still rejected what was happening, what he was capable of doing. Of course that got a little harder to believe when he pushed his pants down. Was it flattering that a monster would be turned on by torturing you? You wanted to think that it couldn’t be, that you weren’t that depraved, but the part of your deepest self that stirred in reaction to the sight frightened you. It seemed that the human shape and build of his body carried over to his primary sex characteristics. It was sick that the revelation should be relieving, but at least you would be spared the particular grotesque indignity of inhuman genitalia. Maybe if you shut your eyes, if you blocked it all out, you could pretend that it was just a man raping you. 

Because that was so much better.

You weren’t even aware that you were trying to crawl away until he clicked his tongue, grabbing your waist to pull you back into place. The pads on his fingers were so rough, claws threatening to rip the sensitive flesh. He licked his lips with wolfish excitement. Fur brushed your bare skin. There was no way out of this, to escape el lobo feroz. Not mentally, not physically. 

You pressed your thighs together as tightly as you could, ignoring how slick they were.

“It’s too late for that,” he said, easily prying them apart. Fur brushed against your skin, but you were more concerned with the sight of his cock as it bobbed up before settling against your abdomen. 

Heavy. That was your first thought, right before the comparison between your body and his cock really settled in your feverish brain. The head alone was thick enough that you couldn’t fathom it getting past your entrance, let alone that you’d be able to take the rest. 

“No, no, no, you-you can’t do this,” you said, staring at his dick with a crawling sense of fear that had nothing to do with his inhumanity—in all regards—and everything to do with the size. “It won’t fit.” 

“You can accommodate new life,” he said, a hand going under his cock to press against your abdomen, right above your womb. “Let alone Death. You’ll be fine.” He said it like a joke, like it was amusing. He was sick. You were sick. This was…

When he moved, the slap of his dick on your abdomen was audible, punctuating a joke that wasn’t funny to begin with. Death clearly wasn’t concerned as he rearranged you, pushing your legs up and apart until your thighs screamed, his body bearing down against you for leverage. The unyielding press of his cock between your legs made you panic, but he had you utterly pinned. You couldn’t do anything other than feel it slide across the sensitive flesh, settling right against your entrance. You couldn’t do anything to stop this. Death grunted as he readjusted you, claws digging fresh lines into your flesh, and began to rock his hips forward. When you yelped, bucking up against him, the sharp points broke skin. It would be easy for him to rip you up with nothing more than those claws. 

“Quédate quieto,” he growled. You didn’t need to understand to be still.

So close like this, you realized that you could smell him. Not the stench of a dog, of wet fur or a poorly maintained pelt. Not the scent of a man either, familiar and human. Death smelled like a cool summer night, and torrential rain, and a river’s violent rapids, and acrid smoke, and the dry dust of an old road. Although it wasn’t entirely unpleasant in the way you might have expected of a wolf man, it made your stomach churn, doing nothing to help you relax as he continued to press the thick head of his cock against your pussy.

For a moment, you thought that it really was impossible, that you would be spared. That single second of relief was all it took for the head to pop past the initial barrier of muscle. Your mouth dropped open at the feeling. Surprise, maybe. Your legs were spread wide enough to mitigate some of the dragging pain as he forced himself a little deeper, just past the ridge. Death made a sound low in his chest, but all you could manage was stiff, cold shock. Surprise at how surreal it all was. But reality marched on all the same, with or without your comprehension. You weren’t sure what you expected it to feel like, but you would have been wrong anyway. Stretching, aching, too much, too much, too-

Grunting, he rolled his hips, pulling back just enough before thrusting deeper. Little by little, letting you adjust and relax ever so slightly before pulling back to go further. You whined each time, back arching, your pussy tightening around him. It was probably a protective measure, trying to keep him out, but it hurt, pulling a rumbly growl out of his throat, his hips pushing forward despite the painful resistance. 

“No more,” you got out, the words tight, pained. 

Muttering something under his breath, Death leaned back to let drool drip from his long tongue. It landed heavily where the two of you were joined, splatting with an unattractive slap onto the place where you were joined, onto your swollen clit. He laughed at your girlish yelp of surprise. 

You let your head fall back, your hands covering your face. They smelled like dirt and blood. At least the extra lubrication helped, and you knew your body was responding to this. Whether to protect itself or out of some truly disturbing reciprocation, your pussy was soaking his cock, making way for him as he rolled his hips back and forth. 

Deeper, further. You were going to split apart. 

“Stop, please,” you finally broke enough to beg, pressing against his stomach, ignoring the sickening feeling of fur beneath your hand. You were almost surprised when Death stopped, huffing hard. Worse, you were grateful.  

“Too much, gatita? And you were doing so well.”

A pathetic little whine tore from your throat when you looked down at the remaining few inches of cock between your straining pussy lips and his grotesque inhuman body, despairing at the sight. “I can’t,” you whimpered. “No more.” 

Death growled in frustration, claws digging painfully into your skin as he shifted back and forth a few times, trying to ease himself deeper. You could see the shadow of distension shifting across your abdomen as he did, proof of how deep inside of you he already was. But no matter how he rolled his hips, or twisted you around, there was no more room. 

“Stop,” you said, the word getting caught in your swollen throat, your body desperately straining to get away for fear that he’d just force it in.

Death stilled, exhaling hard to steady himself. It sounded like a growl. Your pussy unintentionally clenched hard around him at the noise. It hurt, the muscles unable to adjust to his size. The reaction had his breath catching, and that became a throaty laugh.

“Fine,” he said, finally dragging his hips back. It was what you wanted, but it still hurt, the stretch worsened by the way your pussy squeezed and pulsed around his length. Death stopped when only the head remained inside of you. “You just need to be broken in. That’s fine.” 

You looked, stricken, from the dizzying sight of his cock—now, at least partially, glistening with your own arousal—to the sickening expression of manic glee he wore. How could a canine face express such viscerally human emotions? 

And then, in the back of your empty, dizzy head—why was this happening?

“No more,” you begged, squeezing your eyes shut, your pussy trying to push him out despite the discomfort of it. Claws ripped into your skin when his grip had to tighten to keep you in place, his hips chasing yours as you tried so desperately to escape. It hurt all over again. Maybe not as bad, but now you knew what to anticipate. 

“It's better like this.” He stopped when he was as deep as he could go and you were grateful that he didn’t push it further, grateful that he was taking it slow. The stretching, pinching ache wasn’t any better, but it wasn’t worse either. “What is this… Two? Three inches?” You looked down, realizing that he was referring to how much of his cock couldn’t fit inside of you. It had to be more than that, although you were stuck on the sight of your pussy stretched around him. “By the end of the night, there won’t be anything keeping us apart. That’ll be… poetic, don’t you think?” 

It wasn’t fair that his voice should be that of a man, should be low and dripping with a villain’s dangerous charisma. All you could do was groan weakly, your breathing shallow. Despite what he said, there was nothing poetic to the sound of it. Slick, filthy, disgustingly wet. Every thrust punched a sharp noise out of you, although most of them were nothing more than heavy breaths. Death wasn’t very quiet either, making noises that fluctuated seamlessly between that of a man and that of a beast. 

“Hurts,” you whimpered in protest, willing him to slow down. He didn’t. 

“Good.” 

The single word, the cruelty of it and the accompanying set of a harsher pace, hurt in more ways than the physical. You couldn’t help but wail in despair, writhing with pain you couldn’t escape, unable to get away as he fucked you. Deeper and deeper, forcing you to stretch out to accommodate him. 

“You like the pain, right?” Death asked mockingly, his voice low enough to nearly get missed beneath the filthy squelch of each thrust. And all you could do was whimper. Did you like the pain? No, but there was a perverse satisfaction of justified destruction. You had no idea how he knew that.

“I don’t,” you said, needing to reject him. To reject all of this because otherwise you were afraid it would end like before, that you would give in. That you’d enjoy this. But it was too late. You couldn’t help your hips from twitching of their own volition, and a particularly sharp thrust pulled a surprised gasp from your open mouth. 

“Buena gatita,” he said in a low voice, half growl. The sound, the language, the speaker, none of it mattered because your body knew praise, and the kind that came with cruelty was what you craved in the sickest part of your brain. “Muy buena.” Your cunt fluttered weakly around him, your hips rolling upward to meet his next thrust. It hurt, and it felt good. 

As soon as you admitted that to yourself in any way, you were lost. A few more thrusts and you had to bite your lip to keep from moaning. There wasn’t a single place within you that wasn’t full of him, not in your head or your pussy or your chest. Consumed entirely by Death. 

Gods help you, you could hear the fresh wave of wet arousal your body provided with that awful thought, so eager to submit to his dominion. As if sensing that, he stilled, his cock buried deep into you. Your eyes opened unintentionally, confused by the sudden break.

“Well, well, would you look at that,” Death said as a way of explanation, self satisfied. You followed his eyes, looking at where the two of you were joined. There was nothing between, his pelvis flush between your legs, the fur matting with how wet everything was. You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. His hips shifted and you could see the bump of distension, more pronounced now. “Like I said—poetic. All you’ve done for years is tease me and now-” He laughed. “Now you’re mine.”  

Death pulled back slowly, letting you see how much of his cock he’d forced your body to accept. It looked about as impossible as it felt, you couldn’t really comprehend it on any level other than the most base—sickening satisfaction. Ensuring you were still watching, his hips snapped forward. Once, twice, three times, making sure each thrust was solid and steady, filling you up entirely, the thick head of his cock brutalizing your cunt in a way no human man ever could. The battering against your cervix hurt in a profound, electric way, a way nobody had ever managed to hurt you.  

And you took it. Your mouth open dumbly, your head tipping back into the dirt, your body rolling with each movement.    

Even suffering such intimate, awful pain, you couldn’t deny your feeling of pleasure. Sublime friction, pressure in every place you needed it. And, to a dreadful degree, Death seemed to be aware of your reactions. Aware enough, at least, to take note when you couldn’t help but moan aloud, to exploit the angle that had you seeing stars. He grabbed you off the ground, forcing you to throw your arms around his neck. Like that, you were even more at his mercy. Full enough to split, you could understand the indulgence of size, of craving excess. Beautiful. Your boiling brain pulled that word out from its scattered nothingness, and it was beautiful. Repulsive, disturbing, grotesque, and beautiful.

“That’s right,” Death practically purred into your ear. “Look at how well you take it, you’d think you were made for this.” 

“Oh, gods, oh—please, I can’t, I…” You weren’t even sure what you were begging for, it was too late from the second he praised you, sending you spiraling, coming hard, your pussy squeezing his cock so hard it hurt, your fingers pulling hard at the fur on his neck. Death laughed breathlessly, not slowing down for even a second. You didn’t care. If it hurt, it felt good, an endless feedback loop of madness. 

Holding so close to him, you were more aware than ever of how terrifyingly powerful his body was. He could easily destroy you if he wanted. 

This was Death at his gentlest. 

Dizzy, reeling, hardly able to scrape together any coherent thought beyond that, all you felt at the realization was the vague veil of fear. Letting yourself get fucked by the big bad wolf. Coming on his cock, moaning like a whore for a being that shouldn’t exist in the middle of the woods beneath a full moon. 

His hips stuttered then, a groan catching on a growl in his chest. 

“Delicious,” he said. “Your fear, I could just…” Death didn’t finish that thought, or maybe you couldn’t hear it as his thrusts became well and truly punishing. Seeking his end like a man would. That was what you expected, in a distant way, but you didn’t expect that a mystical—mythical?—creature would ejaculate, only that you’d had enough encounters with men to know you shouldn’t let it happen. Not inside. Never inside, that was way too dangerous. 

“Nn-no-”  

He didn’t listen. You couldn’t escape, and you stopped caring after a moment because the heavy, carnal weight of him coming inside of you was enough to make you squeal, your pussy squeezing his cock, your body straining in an arch against his. You didn’t know if you were coming again or if it was just a continuation of the onslaught of stimulation that your brain couldn’t make rational sense of, but there was a sort of lunatic’s bliss in the feeling, in the agonizingly hellish ecstasy of pleasure. Of complete and utter excess. You could feel the rumbling vibrations of his growl, it entwined with the human groans. The two shouldn’t have suited one another, but your broken mind accepted both gleefully, losing yourself in the sound.  

After a few jerky, halting movements, Death released you. 

He was slow to pull out, which was probably a mercy. Even softening, his cock was painfully big, you couldn’t hold back your pained whimper when he pulled out. The absence was immediate, cold, and hollow. You wilted when he let you fall limp onto the ground, defeated. Deflated. Breathing as if you’d run a marathon, it was all you could do to keep it together, the gravity of all that happened setting in.  

Something landed on your naked, sweaty body. Scared, you opened your eyes. But it was fabric. A second passed before you realized it was your red cloak. The one you left behind to escape from him before. It felt like a lifetime ago. You gratefully used it to cover your nudity, glad for the moment to catch your breath with some dignity. 

“Ah, that was good,” Death said, satisfied, rolling his neck and shoulders. He’d already fixed his pants and retrieved his weapons. “The fun’s over now. For you, at least.”

“I don’t know… how to get back to the trail…” you said, wincing as you sat up and looked around. His cum dripped out of your gaping, sore pussy, sticky on your thighs. Vaguely, you wondered what sort of monsters would come from such a coupling, but you disregarded that thought just as quickly. If he was done, you needed to get away. Then again, you weren’t even sure if you could walk. 

“I wouldn’t worry about it.” 

Death’s less than friendly tone rolled over you like ice water. Slowly looking over at him, you exhaled a big, shuddery lungful of cool night air. He stood high above you, his looming figure blotting out the moon. Right then, he looked no different than he had all those years ago. Brilliant red eyes, gray fur, silver sickles. The big bad wolf in all his glory. 

“What?” 

Those bright red eyes held a different sort of intensity than before. Swirling, passionate madness without any of the ravenous hunger. “You know, I’ve been watching you ever since that night. Every time you narrowly escape death, and every time you get other people killed. But you know that, you’ve seen me. That’s why you run, thinking you can escape the inevitable. For whatever reason—luck, fate, the blessing of those gods you claim to believe in—your life has been spared over and over. And yet, you do nothing with it.”

There was malice in those words, a visceral sort of disgust that reflected what you so often felt for yourself. You considered trying to stand up, trying to run again. Fear thundered in your chest, urged you to escape as you always did. But, honestly, you didn’t think your legs could support your weight. No. You couldn’t run. You never had really managed to escape him anyway. 

“So, I thought, why does it matter if you die now or later—your life has no meaning. If I finish it now, you won’t be able to keep teasing me, and we’ll both have some peace.” 

“I don’t want to die,” you said, your voice hushed to hide the tears. 

Death looked down at you, and you wondered if it was disgust or pity you saw on his inhuman face. But then you realized, it was neither. His jewel bright eyes gleamed with glee, passion of a type you couldn’t understand, that belonged to something beyond the realm of what you could possibly comprehend. A living nightmare. 

“Your fear,” Death said, inhaling deeply as he took a step forward, his sickles in hand, “has the most intoxicating smell. I might even miss it.” 

[lieutenantfloyd]

Pizza Hut and Silent Observation (Also Known as Stalking) - Deadpool x Reader

Word Count: 3.5k

Summary: Through a series of strange but undeniably on-brand events, Wade Wilson has found his opposite—and falls in love with them along the way. But as they both reckon with their feelings, reader pulls away, though this only hurts them both.

Warnings: fluff, opposites attract, attempts at humor, violence, Wade had ADHD, mercenary! Reader, language, mutual pining and a bit of mutual stalking, gentle tapping of the fourth wall, and Wade being Wade.

Authors Note: As much as I love all the Poolverine x Reader stuff, I’m craving some solo Wade x Reader! So consider this to be me being the change I wanna see in the world lol

Read on AO3

A series of strange but undeniably on-brand events had led to Wade Wilson finding his polar opposite—The soft, quiet, and sweet to his rough, loud, and explicit.

For reasons unknown even to himself, Deadpool swears to keep his distance. Yet the more he tries to avoid you, the more you seem to cross paths. Keeping out of each other's way when you wind up trailing the same target quickly morphs into shared glances across bars and grocery store aisles. Wade is all too aware of the universe's fucked up sense of humor, and when he quite literally runs into you for a third day in a row, he swears that the sweet, melodic laughter that graces his is coming from the universe itself.

Despite the stolen kills and strange lack of conversation, Wade quickly grows fascinated by you. As you approach your sixth month of stilted interactions, the last remaining bits of optimism he has leave him wondering if this could potentially be the slowest slow burn of all time, only for those dreams to be crushed by the weight of everything that lies beneath his fancy spandex suit.

Nonetheless, his feelings about you—and how you operate in the field—grow into something far more than a simple curiosity. It becomes a wide-eyed admiration with an increasingly lewd undercurrent. You're everything he’s not. Clean and efficient with a one-track mind that never strays from the mission at hand.

Or at least that's what he tells himself.

-

It took exactly three meetings with the spandex clad mercenary to realize he might be the single most obnoxious person on the planet, and another five before you were willing to admit that he was also the single hottest.

You had always been someone who built their walls high and kept their defenses higher. It's why you found it so strange that the first crack in your emotional fortress was brought on by a mouthy mercenary taking a bullet for you without a second thought and making a joke about pegging with what should have been his dying breath.

His strange effect on you was something you used to justify your actions over the past several months. Frequenting his favorite bars and choosing to pursue the targets you knew he'd go after was simply just reconnaissance. You needed to know the why and how of what he made you feel, and getting close to him—while swearing it was for professional reasons only—felt like the best course of action. Sure, your heart raced every time you spotted him across the room, but that was only because you were satisfied by getting the timing of your meeting right. Maybe you let your eyes wander a little when he sunk his baby knife into the neck of your target, but you kept your thoughts of what else he kept hidden in that suit of his to yourself like any other well respecting person.

You weren't a stalker.

This wasn't stalking.

A grey area? Maybe. But definitely not stalking.

Or at least that's what you told yourself.

-

It was during your eighth month of silent observation that Wade realized that wherever he went, you were his sweet little shadow that kept him distracted. You had spoken to him barely a handful of times, yet you were always there to listen. You didn't care that he couldn't sit still or that he quite literally never shut up. No, you—his silent but darling angel—laughed at his jokes and brought him fidget toys. Alternatively, he never pressured you to speak up or forced you (too far) outside of your comfort zone.

The mutual respect between you grew larger and more profound until you were practically attached at the hip, becoming an unofficial duo both in the field and not. He'd always feel like he didn't deserve you, but at this rate, you were practically all he had left.

Logic—along with everyone in your lives—said that you should hate each other's guts. Yet from the first moment you met, You both just made complete sense to each other. You didn't ask to see what he hid underneath his mask and he didn't ask why you bought your groceries at the shop by His and Blind Al's apartment even though it was 45 minutes away from your own place. Things were simple. Good, even. But they still weren't enough for either of you.

-

He thinks about you constantly.

Thinks about you so much that he finds himself googling 'Can a person be a hyperfixation?' and 'signs you've found your soulmate' at 3am. Yet as much as his feelings for you have grown, whatever you had felt in return seemed to have disappeared along with your presence in his life.

Now what little focus he had was slipping. All because you had pulled away.

He'd taken more than a few knives to the skull over his last several missions, but the target he'd been tracking all year had finally made a home of an unmarked grave. He should feel excited—or at least somewhat satisfied—but he just felt numb. It'd been weeks since he'd last heard from you, but that didn't stop him from feeling phantom buzzes from his phone or searching crowds for your lovely, angelic face.

He'd even stopped by your place a few times. He forced himself to knock before picking the locks and entering your home. His genuine feelings of concern and abandonment were replaced by a gnawing pit in his stomach when he realized that your cozy apartment had become sterilized and vacant. He stayed there, frozen in place, for far longer than he would ever care to admit.

Deep down he'd always known this would happen. He was a depraved fuck up at best, and nothing good ever stuck around for him. But he thought—no, he knew—you were different. Only then did Wade admit that he was obsessed, if not teetering on the edge of stalkerish. He knew this was a glaring sign that he should back off, but Deadpool is anything, he is a man of maximum effort.

So he started waiting. Hoping that maybe you'll miss his unending self-deprecation and come back for him.

-

You promised to keep your distance. Wade was a good, albeit complicated, man who deserved something better. Someone who completed him. Who matched his energy and didn't forge a friendship based on an act of failed reconnaissance.

You'd been clean and clear of anything regarding him for over a month and were finally feeling good enough to head back to your old apartment and turn in your keys.

If you hadn't stopped in the hallway to reread the text from your landlord stating to leave the keys on the kitchen counter, you would have never noticed the shiny metallic scratches around the lock. Your line of work ensured that you knew instantly that it'd been picked, but you still moved in closer for a better look.

Whoever had broken in was either too inexperienced to know how to cover their tracks or brazen enough not to care. Given that the apartment was tucked away on the sixth floor with a freshly posted 'for rent' sign on the door, you couldn't see why this would be a random attack. You'd kept to yourself while living here, and you didn't have any valuables your more shady friends could be searching for. These were the facts you told yourself as you slipped the keys back into your pocket and ignored how only the latter, more reckless possibility had your heart racing.

Your typical evening plans were pushed aside in favor of pulling the security camera footage and settling in for an unconventional movie night.

Most of the tape was mind-numbingly boring, but your eyes were glued to the screen nonetheless. Searching for any piece of evidence to confirm your suspicions. Just as tiredness began to seep its way into your shoulders, you spot him. Even if he wasn't wearing the suit, you'd recognize him just by the way he dances into frame and gives a sarcastic wave at the camera. Seeing Wade again—even just in video format—fills you with so much affection that how you managed to leave him alone this long feels like a damn miracle.

-

The day of your return was unnotable in every way.

The sky is blue, the weather is mild, and you'd been tailing your target since before sunrise.

The job you were currently working requires fast, efficient work with no loose ends left behind. It was perfect for you, but the payout was enough to catch the eye of every mercenary in the local area and beyond. This was something you were banking on—the perfect way to say "I'm sorry" and "let's start over" to Wade without showing up cryptically on his doorstep.

The target pulls into a parking garage, and you know instantly that this is the other opportunity you've been hoping for. You follow them inside and park a few spaces away. You wait for them to walk in view of your rear view mirror before exiting the car. Their pace is relaxed and unalert as you fall in step with them—exactly how you prefer it—which giving you the green light to move in.

Your footfalls are silent as you close the small distance between you, weapon in hand. Hyperfocused and only a step behind them, you nearly run square into their back when they suddenly freeze and gasp.

"I'm on a tight schedule and you know what you did, so let's just cut to the chase, K?"

A second later, a blade lodges through their chest. As it retreats, their body falls limply to the ground, leaving your position completely exposed. Wade's eyes land on you instantly, and the way the whites of his mask widen has something in your chest growing tight.

"Hey," you stutter, thrown off guard by his sudden appearance. Though with everything you know about him, a part of you honestly should have prepared better for this.

"For what it's worth, I've been super busy since you decided to up and abandon me. So busy that I've only had time to cry twice in the last twelve hours," he says, slipping his katana back into place with precision.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry? You're gonna have to do better than that to get back into my good graces, sugar plum."

His humor remains as unwavering as always, but the edge to his usually carefree voice betrays a glimpse of his inner workings. If it hadn't been obvious before, you know now, without any doubt, that your attempt to protect his feelings had only done the opposite.

"I didn't want to hurt you, Wade."

"Well, you failed spectacularly!" He deadpans.

You breathe in sharply and take a cautious step closer to him as his hands rise to rest on his hips. "I like you, you know. Which for me is…a lot."

You can practically see the wheels turning in his head as he speaks. As if he's holding back his true feelings for once.

"It took me far too long to admit it to myself, but I like you too, Wade." He's shockingly quiet as you speak, and the silence drags on for several seconds afterward.

"Do you maybe… like like me?" He asks in a soft voice that has you gearing up for his inevitable teasing. You sigh, and he takes up a pose that says he's the picture of innocence. Yeah right.

"Against my better judgment, yes."

His hands fly to his face, and he gasps so loud you wonder if your sliced-and-diced target had suddenly come back to life.

"You're telling me—mouthy merc Wade Winston Wilson—that I created such a stirring in that-" his eyes flash downwards before rising back to yours "great chest of yours that the only way you knew how to deal with it was to ghost me like fucking Casper?!"

Your half baked plan honestly sounds stupid when you hear it out loud, but he's undoubtedly right.

You nod in a mix of amusement and defeat, which sends his fists flying into the air.

"YES!" He screams "I'm finally getting my third-act-confession-in-a-hallmark-channel-romance-movie moment! Take that you ableist studio execs!"

You roll your eyes, refusing to believe you're letting his weird quips charm you once again.

"I'm sorry Wade, truly," you say.

Guilt sets in then. While you'll probably always think he deserves better—or at least something different—than what you can give him, you've realized that breaking his heart by leaving hurt you both more than whatever may or may not happen if you let your feelings be known.

You awkwardly poke the stiffening body of your target with the toe of your boot before you take a page out of Wade's book and finally bite the bullet.

"You stole my kill, and that means you owe me dinner," You say with a surprisingly playful air.

Wade shrugs, not missing a beat as he counters you.

"I mean, 'stole' doesn't really apply when it was full on open season for this hit, and you just happened to be too slow."

"Wade, do you want to take me out or not?" You bite back.

"Hold your horses there Dr. House, yes I do!"

"Good." You nod.

"Good?" He questions with mock offense. "That's all you have to say when a handsome man such as I is about to take you out for a candle lit date at the third finest Pizza Hut in the city? I even offered to pay with the dirty money from my most recent kill!" He exclaims, eying the increasingly pale body between of you.

"I should stayed away," you mutter half jokingly under your breath as you turn to leave, knowing that he'd follow.

"What was that, pookie?" He asks, using his gloved hand to cup his ear dramatically as he crosses the distance between you with flourish.

You roll your eyes as he falls in step with you, though it doesn't go unnoticed by the usually unobservant mercenary.

"I saw that, sugarplum," he croons. You snort out an exasperated laugh and nearly repeat your previous eye roll just to stir the pot a little more.

"I know you're probably not as well versed in this whole enemies to lovers, will-they-won't-they dating thing, but I've read enough fanfiction to know that this whole dark and brooding thing you've got going on is supposed to be reserved for others, not you're darling love interest."

"I'm glad that you admit that I'm the main character," You laugh. Wade's eyes widen as he realizes the mistake he's made. Yet instead of pressing the issue, he slips his phone out of his spandex suit—where it's kept is something you don't care to think about—and calls in the kill.

You continue on walking, heading nowhere in particular. You’re just happy to have Wade by your side once again. The call comes to an end quickly, the phone disappears once more, and he loops one of his strong arms around your shoulders.

"So, pookie, about that dinner date…"

You raise your eyebrows instantly, recognizing that his tone of voice as the one he uses right before dropping bombshells.

"The money is on a thirty six hour hold—a surprisingly formal rule given our shady choice of gig—so would you mind paying? I'd tell you I'd pay you back but we both know I won't." He smiles innocently.

You scoff, only for a soft smile to bloom on your own face.

"You better sweep me off my feet," you tease, wrapping your own arm around him as you both make your way through the busy city streets. Cars race by and neon lights flicker overhead, reflecting in the puddles left by the afternoon rain.

He shoots you a sideways grin from beneath his mask, "Sweep you off your feet? That sounds like soooo much work. I'll just stick to charming you with my usual irresistible appeal instead."

You snort sarcastically. "irresistible appeal? You mean being an insufferable pain who always leaves me behind to clean up your messes?"

You turn the corner, arriving at the restaurant Wade had promised. You'd been here together before, though usually after a job gone wrong, and it had become your go-to hideout whenever your paths crossed.

Sliding into your usual booth, you lean back against the cracking vinyl and cross your arms, almost amused by the situation.

"You stuck me with the bill, so you better order something cheap," you joke as he eyes the menu.

Wade leans forward, his elbows resting on the table beside his now discarded red and black mask.

"Best I can do is treat you to dessert if you behave," He smirks, very much not talking about baked goods or confectionery.

You narrow your eyes at him, though he sees the playful spark swimming beneath them.

"Behave? That's rich coming from you. I'll be lucky if you don't have a knife buried in your head by the time the food comes out." He grins, a flash of mischief dancing across his eyes.

"What can I say? I like to make life exciting. Besides, we can't all be dark and brooding on the sidelines, now can we?"

You roll your eyes before looking back at the menu, an action that causes his smile to grow bigger.

The familiar heavy but playful energy between you has returned as if the past weeks had never happened. Things are comfortable, if not easy. It's the kind of rhythm you and Wade always fall into, no matter how long you spent apart.

From across the booth you see Wade's head fall to the side, his eyes examining you closely.

"What?" You ask, your eyes staying on the menu but not really looking at it.

"You seem…excited. Well, as excited as you can get, really." He says in a surprisingly soft tone.

"Me? Excited? Never."

"Perhaps then you just missed this sexy face? You wouldn't be the first…" he smirks as he looks at you with annoyingly innocent eyes.

"Or perhaps I'm waiting on the other shoe to drop. It seems like every time we're together, one of us is getting shot at or double-crossed. I wouldn't call that particularly exciting." You counter, though you know he's got you pinned.

He huffs out a laugh, leaning back in his seat. "Come on, Wednesday Adams, admit it—You. Missed. Me."

You glance up at him, meeting his gaze. There was something disarming about the way he looked at you, like you weren't just two messed up mercenaries thrown into the same mess over and over again. Like there was something more to be had than all your teasing and banter. And as much as you hated to admit it, he was right. You had missed him.

"I missed this place, not you," you deflect, though your smile betrays you.

"You missed this shithole?" he replies, eyes twinkling. "I knew your standards were low—I mean you are on a date with me after all—but holy fuck."

You shake your head, unable to stop the laugh that bubbles up. "Hey! This isn't a date!"

He leaned in, his voice dropping lower as it fills with that infuriating charm he's known for. "Oh, don't you worry pookie. This is just the first step in my plan to date the hell outta you."

For a moment you sit there, the noise of the restaurant fading as your eyes lock with his wild ones. A truth hangs between you—no matter how many times you tried to downplay it, there was an undeniable electricity that always sparked between you. Something crazy and unpredictable, not unlike your daily lives.

You shake your head. "If it's a date, then you're paying," you say, finally breaking the tension with a happy smirk.

"Fine," he says with a huff, drawing out the last syllable as he leans back in his seat. "But next time, you're buying the drinks."

"Next time?" You ask, raising your eyebrows.

"Oh, you know there's always going to be a next time," His eyes gleam as you let out a soft laugh, glancing at him with a mixture of exasperation and fondness.

"You're maddening, you know that?" You say, though there's no bite behind your words.

He gasps dramatically once more. "Is this the part of the movie where you say I drive you crazy before we go back to my place and have a heated makeout session?!"

For a moment you just watch him, eyebrows furrowed but a lazy smile hanging on your lips. The noise of the restaurant and the city beyond it fades into the background. It was almost funny how you and Wade always ended up back here, side by side, cracking jokes and deflecting feelings you both refused to admit you had.

Yet as his hand drops onto the table it brushes softly against yours, and you can't imagine a world in which you pull away. He's incessant, annoying, exasperating, along with a million other words, but he's here with you despite everything. A gesture that proves that maybe a bit of humor is exactly what you are missing from your life.

[minustwofingers]

cool about it teaser

pairing: closetedfem!reader x ellie

request? yes, by @gold-dustwomxn (:

summary: life in the apocalypse is hard enough. the last thing you need is unrequited feelings for your best friend—who is very much off limits. so you'll just be cool about it. really cool about it. set in a loose interpretation of canon where i toy around with the timeline and storyline just the slightest and this is also a bit of a slowburn

warnings: ur closeted asf, queer angst, gross men, explicit language, substance use

a/n: hey guys i haven't really been posting much recently, but i wanted to at least post two scenes from this series so u guys have an idea of what to expect...also so u guys can tell me which one you want me to work on more (love is a laserquest or this one). i hope u enjoy...sorry this one is a little disjointed! (there are many events that happen between the two scenes im sharing w u as a little treat)

I. (opening scene)

The revelation that your feelings towards your best friend had become complicated arrives with the dead of winter. It’s strange, really, how something within you came to life just as the rest of the world began to die. 

If you were wiser, you’d find ways to explain it away, to rationalize all the weird thoughts in your head. You’d cite the chill in the air. The holiday spirit running through Jackson. The desolation that came with your only outdoor companions being the brown corpses of deciduous trees and infected that hadn’t frozen in the winter storms that kept battering Wyoming. 

But with age came wisdom, and both of those virtues were in short supply in a post-apocalyptic world. So, you resign yourself to cataloging away these feelings and pretending like everything was absolutely normal and cool. 

The bad thing about having good things, you think to yourself bitterly one day as you watch Ellie’s eyes light up as she rambles in her room as you sit on her bed about a comic book Joel had found her, is that they’re risky. High risk—high reward. Ellie was special to you in a way that no one else was. And using this logic, losing her would bring such an unforeseen devastation that you weren’t sure that you could go on. 

So, normal. Cool. Chill. Because you cannot afford to fuck this one up. 

“I love when you tell me about your comics,” you tell her in a way that’s definitely not sappy sweet and gooey. 

She smiles crookedly back at you. “You’re such a fucking liar. I know you couldn’t give a shit about these.” 

“Am not!” You throw a punch at her arm, feeling your heart twist as she just grins wider. “For the record, I do give a shit. Many, actually.”

“That sounds gross.” 

“Your words, not mine.” 

And it’s absolutely gut wrenching how she can just smile at you like that, like she’s not holding your heart in her fist.

“So, uh, Cat,” you blurt out. You’d been staring at her for too long. “Dina said that you two were—uh…” 

You wave your hand around in the air like you’re sifting through thousands of possible word combinations. In reality, you know exactly what you need to say to get the answer you’re searching for. You just don’t want to ask. 

“Well…” She blushes. Her eyes drop to her hands, where her fingers are toying with the bits of cuticle she hasn’t already torn off. 

“I knew it!” you croon, hoping that the boatload of dread that just dropped in your stomach isn’t as obvious as it feels. “Tell me everything.”

“Nothing to tell,” she says. “Nothing yet, at least. It’s stupid but—I just noticed that she hangs around me a lot, you know? And, like, touches me more than she needs to. Shit like that. I dunno.”

The wound deep inside you splits like the fake grin on your lips. “Wowwwww. Look at you!” 

Ellie rolls her eyes. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I mean,” she says, her eyes twinkling conspiratorially, “What about Eddie? Jesse told me that you spend a lot of time with him.”

“We’re patrol partners,” you offer. It’s not a lie. You’re just choosing to omit the part where Eddie spends half his patrol staring longingly in your direction while you pretend not to notice. 

“I know that.”

“It’s…” You gnaw on your bottom lip. “I don’t know how I feel about that right now.” 

That’s not a lie either. Eddie is…nice. All the other girls like him, except for Dina (she has Jesse) and Ellie (she has another very obvious reason). He’s attractive. At least, that’s what Bonnie tells you. Apparently the buzzed hair and heavy bluntness found in all of his features is considered hot. 

But just because you’re not into him now doesn’t mean you could never be. That’s what your mother used to say about your father—she hadn’t liked him upon their first meeting. But it changed with time, and you’d rather have someone than be all alone. 

Ellie hums, picking at the cuticle of her thumb. “He likes you.”

“So I’ve heard.” 

“Well,” she says, “I heard Jesse’s putting on another bonfire tonight. Want to walk there together after dinner?” 

You spend another evening staring across the fire at your best friend, watching the warm glow of the flames warp and distort the shape of her and Cat, pressed up against each other and smiling wide. You aren’t sure why it makes you so uncomfortable to see them together. Homophobia? No. Maybe? You recently learned that that was a thing, but you don’t consider yourself bigoted, and being a homophobe is more of an opt-in situation, right? 

But when you try to reach deep inside to find a more plausible answer, there’s nothing. 

It’s your detachment from reality that lets Eddie drape a heavy, hard arm over your shoulder. 

“Hey,” he whispers into your ear. His breath is hot and warm. 

“Hey,” you whisper back, wanting nothing more than to get away. Thankfully, Ellie is too preoccupied with Cat to even look your way. You’re sure that you’d die if she saw Eddie touching you like this. 

“You look really pretty tonight.”

“Thank you.”

It’s like someone shone a spotlight on you, hung a sign on your neck that said, I am perceived and desired by men. You don’t know why this makes your skin crawl so much. 

Eddie’s fingers are tracing patterns on the flesh of your arm. You find that you’re grateful for the extra layer your sweatshirt sleeve provides. You don’t want him to touch you—don’t want to know what it’s like for him to deliberately make contact with your skin. 

The next time he speaks to you, it’s in a murmur that you suppose is meant to sound seductive. “You’re quiet today.”

“Just a little tired.” And now you feel guilty, because Eddie really hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s you who has an issue with a boy who’s perfectly nice and clearly likes you. 

He laughs like you’d said something funny, tightening his arm so you press into his side. His body is blazing hot like a furnace, and it feels hard and foreign.

II. (scene from somewhere in the middle )

“Sorry!” You titter at the crowd of your friends who formed at the sliding glass door. “Um—sorry.” 

It seems to be the only thing you can say. 

“Cat,” Ellie says, an edge of desperation in her voice. “Cat, please, it’s not like—”

“I’m pretty fucking sure of what I saw,” snaps Cat. She turns to Eddie, a vicious glint in her eyes. “Didn’t know your girl swung that way.” 

And then she shoves past the mass of people, Ellie kicking off from the deck railing with a stream of apologies falling from her lips as she follows behind. 

Eddie walks forward, confusion the dominant emotion in his wide face.

“Uh—I didn’t—”

“I’m really drunk,” you say to him, feeling the tears begin to spill down your cheeks. “It’s not like that. I promise it’s not like that. I don’t know why I did that.”

“Hey,” he says, opening his arms. “Come here. Why are you crying?” 

“I don’t know,” you sputter, stepping into him and pressing your snotty face into his shirt. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Fuck.”

“It’s really okay.” His hand finds the flat part of your back between your shoulder blade and rubs circles. “It’s just a chick. If it were, like, I dunno, Jesse, I would’ve been angry.”

“You’re not mad?” you ask, pulling away to look up at him. Maybe there’s something tonight you didn’t ruin. 

He smiles down at you. “‘Course not. Some guys find that shit hot, you know. Two girls kissing like that.”

The smile that seemed so innocent at first sends a sharp, chilling pang through your chest. He doesn’t seem to notice your hesitation in the way your face falls as his head dips to kiss you, doesn’t seem to register the disgust you exhibit until you have to shove yourself away.

“I’m really drunk,” you repeat, looking anywhere but his face. “I want to go to bed.” 

“I can come—”

“No.”

final a/n: like i said so sorry about how disjointed this is. i just want to get a feel for what my readers are more interested in for now!!

[storytowrite]

|You will always be mine ~ Lee Minho series|

PART 8

Paring: Minho x Y/N

Genre: smut, angst, university au

Word count: 1441

Warnings: sex, 18+, Minho is a psycho, dom!Minho, sub!reader, abuse, slight BDSM, kidnapping, violence, age gap, Minho is an university professor, Y/N can be hurt physically (and mentally too I guess).

Synopsis: Who knew that accidental fuck in the club bathroom with a handsome man will bring you to a lot of unexpected events.

Author's note: I kept this series for a really long time not sure if I want to post it or not, but I decided to do it anyway, so I hope you'll like it.

��—————————

The next day came. You woke up quite early. You glanced at your watch. You had four hours until classes started. You didn't feel like going to the university really. You were afraid of confrontation with Lisa. You didn't know if the girl hadn't already published the photos. You sighed heavily. Although Minho had distracted you from the previous evening quite effectively, the fear of what might happen gripped you again.

“Y/N? Why are you awake already?” You heard Minho's voice suddenly. Because of the stress that gripped you, you forgot his presence for a moment. You looked in his direction. The man was standing leaning against the doorframe and watching you. 

“I don't know... I'm stressed." You replied. “What if Lisa has already told someone about us?”

“She hasn't.” Minho replied calmly. “And she won't tell, ever again...”

“What do you mean?” You looked at him suspiciously. 

“I said I would take care of it, and I did.” He replied unfazed. He was really calm. Too calm... Something about his calmness was downright unnatural.

“Did you do something to her?” You asked, fearing the worst. 

“Me? No... easy.” He smiled slightly at you, but there was something in his gaze that you couldn't make out. “After all, I spent the whole night here at your place.” He winked. “Do you have to go to the university today? I have the day off and I thought you might want to go shopping with me.” He quickly changed the topic.

“Shopping?” You asked. “I'd love to, but I have classes and...” 

“And if you take the day off, nothing will happen, kitten. Get dressed.” He ordered. So you had no choice. 

“Well... Okay, if that's the case.” You said and followed the man's order. Minho watched you the whole time as you put on a set of underwear and wanted to put on pants. 

“Put on a dress.” He said. “Wait. I'll choose for you.” He walked over to your closet and pulled out a red dress with a slightly flared bottom. 

“Minho, I am not sure about the weather today...” You started, you didn't like dresses, unless for a party, but that's different. 

“I told you to wear a dress.” Said the man firmly. “Be a good kitten.”

“Y-yes.” You stammered slightly, but preferred not to discuss it with him anymore. Something strange was going on with him, but you couldn't tell what. 

“Okay, ready?” Minho asked, to which you nodded. “Then let's go to the shopping mall.”

“Minho, are you sure it's a good idea for us to show up together in such public places? After all, someone might see us and...” You started once you got into his car. Minho glanced at you. 

“Yes, that's definitely a good idea, kitten. Don't worry, no one will see us, and even if they do, they won't do anything.”

“You're too calm...”

“I'm calm because I know what I'm saying, kitten. Don't get stressed about anything, okay?” He asked and placed his hand on your thigh. He squeezed it gently, at which you let out a quiet sigh. “Do you have any more buts?” His tone, however, was not friendly. 

“No, not anymore...” You replied quietly and plunged into your thoughts. Minho, on the other hand, ran his hand along your thigh while smiling slightly. His thumb ran circles over your bare skin. 

When the car stopped at a red light, at one of the main crossroads in the city center, his hand slid a little farther under your dress, causing a gentle shiver on your body. Goosebumps appeared on your skin. Minho glided along your bare skin more and more boldly, hooking his fingers into the material of your underwear. From the corner of his eye, he watched how your body reacted to his touch. He loved to fill his gaze with this sight. 

Your lips gently parted and your breathing slightly accelerated. With each movement of his hand, your body relaxed more and more. He hooked the material of your underwear again and began to run his hands over it, making gentle circles. As if on cue, your legs gently spread and your panties began to get wet. Minho moved their material slightly to the side and slid one finger inside you. You let out a quiet moan as he began to move his finger back and forth. Suddenly he pulled his finger out and took his hand away, and you looked at him slightly annoyed. Minho licked his lips slightly, then wiped his hand in his handkerchief and started the car. For the rest of the way he didn't touch you at all anymore, making you more and more frustrated. 

“Why?” You finally asked, unable to stand it anymore. 

“Why what, kitten?” He responded with a question for a question, amused by your reaction. 

“Why did you take your hand away?”

“Why, did you want more?”

“Yes!”

“Well, good kittens get rewards... But you haven't been good lately, kitten.”

“But...” You started.

“There is no but.” He interrupted firmly before you could say anything.

 He parked the car in a spot in front of the mall entrance. Without a word, he got out of the vehicle and opened the door for you, shaking your hand. Despite your displeasure, you accepted it and, holding hands, you moved together toward the stores.

 Minho led you to the most expensive stores there were. You knew Minho had money, but you didn't expect that your lecturer could be so rich. In practically every store he bought you at least one or two things. You walked along loaded with bags. You glanced at Minho. 

“Minho? How can you afford all this?” You asked curiously.

“I've told you Y/N before. I have a few investments here and there...”

“Well, yes, but we've already spent as much as I pay for the apartment and bills myself in a month. I don't want you to waste money on me.”

“I'm not wasting money on you, I'm just spoiling you, because you're mine, which is, well, different, kitten.” He explained. “Besides, I like to spend money. Now I have someone to spend it on.” He shrugged his shoulders. 

“If I start going to college in these clothes, people will start asking how I can afford all this...”

“Then you'll tell them that your parents are sending you more money or that you've found a rich boyfriend. You'll come up with something, you're capable.” He winked. 

“And you really don't mind? I can't even afford to pay you back for those clothes...” 

“You don't have to give me the money, but if you have to, we can consider that you're already paying... with your body, and I'm perfectly fine with that. Now come on, there's underwear left to buy, and we're going back to my place.”

“To your place? What about Rheena?”

“Rheena won't bother us anymore, kitten. She had to leave suddenly... On business. And she is unlikely to return soon, I rather dare to say never.”

“I'm beginning to fear you Minho... You're very mysterious.”

“You like it, kitten.” He said and squeezed your buttock lightly. “We both know you like it. Now come on. I need to buy you a couple more sets of lingerie.”

As he said, so you did. You entered the lingerie store, where Minho picked out a few sets for you. He told you to try everything on. Each time you showed him another set, Minho took a picture. He explained that he wanted to have one for later, so that he would know what to possibly buy you as a gift someday.

After shopping, Minho took you to his apartment. He ordered you to unpack and put all your clothes in the closet, where he already had a place prepared for you beforehand. Without a word you did what he told you to do. After all, you're meeting anyway, so if you have a few things at his place, you'll be more comfortable if you were staying the night. Putting things in the closet, you noticed an oblong box on one of the shelves. Taking advantage of the fact that Minho was in the kitchen preparing a meal, you opened it curiously. A gold necklace with a rose appeared to your eyes. You took a closer look at it. It looked familiar, however, you could not remember where you had seen it before. It was probably in some advertisement, you thought to yourself, and put the box back in place. By this time Minho had tackled the food and called you over for dinner. You went to the kitchen.

——————————

<- Part 7 | Part 9 ->

-> Series Masterlist

Taglist: @yaorzu-blog, @iovecb97, @hpnsfwaddict, @syedazarintasnim, @palindrome969, @biujulia

[mentally-unstable-hottie13]

⭐️ 𝐒𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐬⭐️

Henry Bowers x fem reader

Read chapter 2 here

Summery:

You were new to the town of Derry. After some traumatic events that went down with your family, an old friend asked you to come to his town. He’d give you a place to rest while you figure things out. This town is strange and seems to be stuck in the past. What happens when you garner the attention of a boy who no one dares piss off?

A/N: this story is set in “modern” times but the town of Derry is more old fashioned. So roller rinks, arcades and record stores are still the places to go. Phones and video games as well as modern tv and music exist; it’s just more common to do “80’s activities”.

Henry’s actor when playing him was 18. so I’m saying the losers club freshman going into sophomore year while the Bowers gang is going into senior year having been 18 from being held back a year. You as a reader have an early birthday meaning you turn 18 a few weeks before school starts. The reader inserted character will be Latina coded and speaks Spanish but is never explicitly stated to be Latina . This is also a no Pennywise AU. If something is not specified in the story please feel free to fill in the gaps.

TRIGGER WARNING: this series may have;

Mention of past sexual assault

Mention of child abuse

Graphic bullying

On page child abuse

Fighting

Recreational drug use

Swearing

Shitty parents

Homophobic comments and actions (from the bowers gang)

Racist comments and actions (from the bowers gang)

This list is subject to change and at any time may be added to or things may be subtracted from.

In the end this story will be a love story but that does not mean it won’t be dark at some points.

the first few chapters will be dedicated to you and your backstory before we even touch the other characters. I made your character extremely real and flawed on purpose, but that does not mean you and Henry won’t eventually happen. Be patient, and enjoy.

Word count: 2,679

Estimated read time: 12

~~~~↯~~~~↯~~~~↯~~~~↯~~~~↯~~~~↯~~~~↯~~~~↯~~~~↯~~~~

Chapter one

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐧𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧

You were currently riding the bus into a small town you had never even heard of. This town was so small and isolated you weren’t sure you’d ever even seen it on a fucking map. Coming from a big town in Texas, this “Derry” place seemed so untouched to you. It was miles of trees, grass planes and old people. You hadn’t seen a major chain food place or clothes store since you entered. Oo scratch that, you just passed a McDonald’s that looks straight from a vintage photo.

This bus was disgusting. Old torn up cloth seats with mysterious stains of no conceivable origin. The man the rows ahead of you and to the left smelt like hookers and cigarettes. The woman on the parallel row to you on the right was out like a light and snoring like an old steam engine. The lights in the bus flickered. giving you a headache. You hoped you were getting off soon. All the sounds, smells, lights, as well as the gross sticky/wet feeling of the seat beneath you was making you feel sick.

It’s overcast today. It smells like rain. You loved that smell. The amazing scent of petrichor in your nostrils always soothed you. It looks as if it just rained. You hoped it will rain again today. That would make a bad day good. Even if just for a few minutes. You don’t know how long you sat on there, eyes closed inhaling the heavenly zephyr of wet air, but it must have been a while; because before you knew it the bus driver called out your stop number. Before slowing to a crawling pace.

As he started to slow the bus you gathered your things. The bus stopped and you made your way to the front. You smiled gently at the old male driver and asked him to help you get your bags out of the compartment on the outside of the bus. He happily stood and assisted you gathering all your bags. 5 to be exact. 2 were big with wheels while the other three were able to be stacked atop the wheely ones.

“You sure you can take all that to where you’re going little miss?” The old driver kindly asked.

“I’m sure. Thanks for the concern, mister. Have a good day.” You waved to the old man. And just like that. You were on your way. Your friend had texted you directions from the bus stop to his work. All you had to do was walk. Given being on what seemed to be the outer part of town, there was a very noticeable lack of sidewalks making your journey just that much harder. 20 minutes later you hit the part of town with sidewalks. No one was really out today. Which made sense. It was just raining. A total of 45 minutes of walking and you were finally at the record store.

You push the door open with a huff. You hear the bell above the door jingle with a direct succession of a man yelling,

“HOLD ON I’M IN THE BACK!”

You giggle, and set your bags to the side of the door so no one will trip over them if they come in. Once all your bags are settled you follow where you heard the voice come from. From the open doorway you see your old friend, Kevin, hunched over a box under a table, rummaging through the contents. You lean against the door frame and knock gently on it. Surprised. Kevin jumps and hits his head on the underside of the table with a loud “OW! FUCK!” Before turning to the culprit of the incident. You.

His eyes widen and he gets up and runs to hug you, you jump up and hug him. Wrapping your legs around him. He doesn't let you go for a long while.

You missed Kevin. You’d known him since you were little (about five years old). He was a good 20 years older than you. The story goes that you met his little brother Issac when their family still lived in Texas. You and Isaac had Been enrolled into the same kindergarten class and were inseparable ever since. You’d become close with Isaac’s family. It was just him, Kevin and their mom. Who you only ever knew as Momma.Momma loved you so much she let you make the spare room in their house yours for when you spent time over there. And given your family life, that was often.

When you were 12 Issac was diagnosed with leukemia.

He died shortly after he was diagnosed. You loved him so much. He was your best friend, and you were so close to Kevin and Momma, they were your family. After Isaac’s death Momma couldn’t take being in a town that reminded her so much of her son. So they moved to a different state. Even though Kevin was 32 at the time he saw you as a little sister and gave you his number so you could keep contact. With a tear filled goodby and one last kiss on the cheek from Momma they left and never came back to visit you. Kevin told you momma died 2 years ago from a brain aneurysm. It broke your heart. But you knew Kevin was suffering more. So as much as you needed to come to Derry, he needed it too. He needed his last bit of family back.

He set you down from the hug and ruffled your hair as tears dripped from your eyes. You missed him far more than words could ever describe.

“Don’t cry. I’m here. I’m not going away ever again.” He hugged you again this time not lifting you off the ground.

You laughed and punched him in the arm. “You better fuckin not loser, I’ll have’ta hunt you down and kill you”

You both laughed. He motioned out the door and you stepped aside so he could show you around. He’s owned this record store since he moved here. The previous owner was this ancient man who was pretty much giving it away. The building itself was paid off so Kevin never had to pay rent. All the furniture and merchandise from the last owner stayed so Kevin took over the very next day. Business was good. He sold record players, vinyls, cds, guitars and posters. It looked exactly like how your rooms looked in Momma's house. When Kevin told you to come to Derry he offered you a job here so you didn’t have to feel like you were only relying on him for money. He would pay you just above minimum wage and let you use your money on whatever you wanted and he would pay for your food.

You agreed and he sent you a plane ticket from Texas to Derry, then a bus ticket to get into town because the nearest airport was about 3 towns and 5 hours away. Just shows you how redneck this place is.

He looked at your bags and grabbed his keys.

“My truck is outside. Get your bags and toss em’ in the tailgate while I lock up for the day.” He said

“You got it dude.” With a quick salute you picked up the bags and walked outside. It was definitely going to rain again. You walked to the alley next to the shop and saw his beat up old red truck. Thankfully he had a tailgate cover so none of your stuff was gonna get wet. You lugged all the bags in before shutting it. Just on time Kevin came out and told you to “hop in”. You looked out the window the whole 30 minutes from the shop to his house. Occasionally looking at something special when he pointed it out. The school is a 10 minute drive and 30 minute walk to the record store. Maybe if Kev had a spare bike it could be a 20 minute ride. You drive down a dirt road where the homes are few and far between. As if Kevin could hear you wondering, he piped up.

“This is all personal farmland. That’s why there aren’t many people over here.”

You pass a specific house with a police cruiser out front.

“That there is officer Bowers land. I’m not one to tell you what to do, but I’d be smart and stay away from there. That pig is bad news.”

You nod in understanding. If Kevin warned you of anything. He meant it. It started to rain as You finally pulled up to an old gate, and Kevin tossed some keys at you and told you to get out and unlock the gate so he could drive in. Once the truck was in enough you shut the gate and locked it behind you running up to the truck and getting in again. You drove in a little before pulling up and parking in front of a smaller gate just surrounding the house.

“It’s just so no animals get in the house” Kevin grumbled,

He unlocked the tailgate then the house gate and helped you get all your things in the house quickly before shutting and locking his truck and the gate. Once inside you took off your muddy boots and looked around. It was a nice home. Kevin picked up both of your heaviest bags and nodded upstairs for you to follow him with the three smaller bags. He beats you to your room and sets your things down. As you are entering he flops down on your bed. He took care of all your furniture. You have a bed with black and purple bed sheets. 2 dressers in black and a desk with a tv. You walk up to some floor length curtains and open them only to find that you have a small balcony. He left everything else in the room pretty bare with a lot of extra room for you to decorate and make yours, you appreciate it.

He gives a loud, ugly groan that reminds you of growing up. Life is almost exactly how it used to be. With Kevin you picked up where you left off. You take off your coat and flop down on the bed beside him and give that same ugly, over dramatic groan, then you look at each other. You want to cry again. You didn’t think you’d see him again. But a series of unfortunate events led you to a better living situation with a man you loved too much. Your only friend. The almost 38 year old that still acts 19. You think that’s why y’all get along so well. He moves his eyes to your arm. The arm where a tattoo from the back of your shoulder to just above your wrist sits. It is a tattoo of Thorny vines cascading down your flesh. They aren’t big or obnoxious. The reference was a photo you took of you holding real thorn vines onto your arm. Its beautifully realistic and that’s just what you wanted. It would be much easier to hide here than in Texas. You could wear long sleeves because of the colder weather. Whereas in Texas if you wore anything other that a tee shirt you would overheat and die. The last feeling you ever want to experience again is being gross and sweaty in a long sleeve. Feeling the moist fabric against your arms would make you want to cut and peel your own skin off with the dullest rustiest spoon you could find in a prison cell.

“When did you get that?” He points to the tattoo.

“After Momma died. I felt like I needed something for her.” You replied.

“What’s it mean?”

“It means how I saw her. She was beautiful like vines crawling up a building but scary as thorns. I wanted to be just like her. I thought that if I get thorns on me I wouldn’t feel so scared.” You looked up at the ceiling as you spoke.

“I bet you and I are the only people alive to call that fuckin women beautiful” he chuckled.

He was right. Momma was not an objectively attractive woman… well at least not after Kevin was about 2. She had given birth to him when she was like.. 17 or so. She died in her early to mid 50’s. The boy that got her pregnant bailed after he found out, Leaving her alone to raise Kevin. After it got out around town that she was knocked up her parents kicked her out. She was a good student. All A’s with a scholarship to her dream school. She was working at a hotel where the manager was letting her live in one of the rooms, and she finished her last year of high school. A few days into summer that year she gave birth. Only 2 months into having Kevin the hotel fired her because of all the noise complaints of the baby crying. She had nowhere else to go and showed up at her parents' doorstep. She stayed with them for a year after all the begging she did. Near the end of that year she heard her parents talk about taking custody of the baby and she fled. Walking alone in the streets that night with a one year old baby it began to rain. In a panic to keep her baby warm she ran into the nearest building.

A bar.

All eyes were on her. A young girl with brown hair and bright blue eyes holding a baby had just walked into the roughest bar in town. Her makeup was smeared from crying and she was soaked to the bone from trying to keep her baby dry. She walked past all the men and sat down at the bar. The old kind bartender looked at her with wide eyes. Partly because she was wet and looked like she was crying, but mostly because who the fuck brings baby into a bar like this?

She and the bartender had got to talking and he gave her a job and told her she could stay in the room above the bar. He’d help her sound proof it and she would be allowed to keep a baby monitor while she works so she can go up anytime she wants. After a year of working there. Kevin turned 2 and Momma realized she was done looking like her parents' daughter. She shaved her head into a bright purple Mohawk and got tattooed anywhere that was possible. Growing up Kevin got to see his Momma as a rough at tough, tattoo having, fight winning, bar maid, who took no one’s shit. She had more muscles than most men at that bar did. And she worked there for as long as she could. Including All throughout her pregnancy with Issac and all the way up until they moved. They eventually moved out of that above bar room when Kevin was about 12. But that’s pretty much the story.

Momma was a wild woman who was tough as nails and scarier than any man. You’d never seen any other woman who looked as wild as her and you loved it. No one could beat Momma. Not even after she died.

You and Kev would always only see that woman as beautiful and tough. And no matter how unconventional their upbringing was. They all agreed that theirs was perfect compared to yours.

While you were deep in thought Kev stood up from the bed. He said your name shaking you from your thoughts.

“Immm booreddd.” He whined. “How about we order some pizza and watch some nasty ass gore movie while we talk about which characters we’d smash?”

You smiled so big your eyes squinted.

“UHH FUCK YEAH DUDE!!” You yelled and jumped up from the bed. You’d unpack and explore the town tomorrow. It was only Friday night. Why not relax with your best friend in the world? Forget about your parents, forget about school, forget about being the new kid. Who the fuck cares? Not you. Especially not when you were about to slam down a whole pizza.

~~~~↯~~~~↯~~~~↯~~~~↯~~~~↯~~~~↯~~~~↯~~~~↯~~~~↯~~~~

Thank you for reading. Please tell me if you liked it!

[lizardsfromspace]

Ben Chatham was too niche to ever become known outside one forum but it's the My Immortal of Doctor Who. It was a series starring the writer's self-insert companion, Ben Chatham, and I guess it started with his fanfic version of series 2 (not sure if it's still online anywhere, but there's a summary), where Jackie dies of cancer bc the author thought chavs shouldn't be allowed on Doctor Who & the Doctor murders a hamster. His stories are full of random grim moments, and no one is ever heroic, since everyone just dies until UNIT can save the day. Ben Chatham is gay and a military-loving Tory. He reintroduced Adam and Jack over the course of the season bc he didn't like writing women doing or saying things and bc he felt Rose was too lower class to be allowed on television

I think I first learned about him when he posted his pitch for Matt Smith's first story:

"Martha Jones is walking down the cobbled street of the Cornish village of Little Bampton towards the local Inn, pondering why UNIT had sent her to investigate the strange sightings nearby and disappearances. Since entering into full time investigative work for UNIT in the UK following the events of Journey’s End she had never been so bored by a case. Nothing has happened in the three weeks that she had been in the village and she found the locals distasteful and she suspected some of the older ones were rather prejudiced.

Suddenly there is a familiar sound and she sees the TARDIS materialise in front of her. She grins excitedly as the door is flung open: “DOCTOR……….OH” she shouts as instead of the Doctor, a slip youth with floppy hair emerges, dressed in jeans and a casual jacket. “Who are you? Wheres the Doctor” she exclaims. “Hey babe, I’m like the Doctor. I’ve regenerated like. Wow its great to see you again. Wicked!”Martha is perturbed:

“But you’re so….. So much younger.” “Yay its great to be a kid again. I’m like so gonna get a myspace page. You look great in that jacket babe, I’ve like SO got the hots for you. Hows about we get up close and personal on the TARDIS double bed.” The Doctor coyly lets his floppy hair descend over his eyes."

There's a lot going on here, but my fave parts are picturing Matt Smith saying "Hey babe, I'm like the Doctor" and the fact that Martha internally refers to the events of Journey's End as the events of Journey's End. I've accepted ever since that Martha Jones can sense episode titles; she was just out there living her life until she suddenly sees a vortex and the words "THE STOLEN EARTH" floating in the air and groans at having to do this again

Also, in the Chatham canon, Martha hates going on adventures and loves to whine and do nothing. Just like everyone else. Meanwhile the Eleventh Doctor is a horny freak who wants to fuck and post to MySpace. Both of them despise poor people

This story also features the Russian mob whose leader, named Ivan, has henchmen named Ivan, bc he could only think of one Russian name.

Was the writer of this serious or a troll? We will never know. Certainly he was surrounded by trolls. He got an entire subforum quarantining promoting his stories, and there were fanfics of his fanfic, made by trolls whose sincerity was also, for many years, in doubt (they were trolls)

What we do know is that the writer repeatedly insisted it was canon, and wrote a letter to Doctor Who Magazine demanding more coverage of his OC. They sent him a lengthier letter he posted on forum but in the magazine all they said was

"Er…who?"

Which just about sums it up

[twainxavier]

Resending this ask because Tumblr is a functional website 🤣🙄

I wanna know about You Know I'm Such A Fool For You! And also the embroidery projects you're working on👀

Yep, trying to answer this ask for over a day at this point had been entertaining at least 😅👌 but yes, if tumblr will let me, of course! 😊🫂💜

Okay so this fic is basically my child I adore it so much and I have barely started writing it 😅 Instead I transcripted over 6,000 words (so far) of DBD scenes that I want to include in the fic to make sure I got them right 😅👌 The general concept is the Cat King fixing his mistakes 🤣 So the fic starts from the Catwin forest scene and goes through most of the following events from the series with the Cat King actively trying to help Edwin and the others 😊

As for the snippet, I want to include a kind of long section from the end of the forest scene where the Cat King chases after Edwin in his cat form to try save him from Esther's trap again...

“If you walk away from me that thing is never coming off and you'll be trapped here forever and I will stop playing nice.”

His fists clench as he tries to contain a strange mix of rage and fear unlike anything he has felt in his long years. He doesn't even turn to see if Edwin is even still within earshot.

“Do you hear me I will stop fucking playing nice!” he yells into the emptiness of the forest surrounding him.

He knows Edwin is gone now. He knows he isn't coming back. And he knows it is definitely his fault.

If he hadn't trapped Edwin here for his own games, he wouldn't have ended up on Esther's radar, and he wouldn't be in the center of a worse than deadly trap right now. The Cat King can smell a forest elemental far larger than the little ones that were skittering around earlier swallowing up deer ghosts. Edwin and his little friends are in serious danger. And the Cat King just let him storm off right back into Esther's grasp.

Now who's the idiot.

With a deep sigh, a steadying breath, and a flurry of purple flame, the Cat King in cat form chases after Edwin.

The only issue is, this damn forest is such a maze he has lost him already. He feels like he is running in circles, panic increasing at the thought that he might never see Edwin again to apologise for fucking everything up. A loud roar from somewhere nearby utterly freezes him in his tracks. The forest elemental. Esther has found them.

He sprints as fast as his four legs can carry him in the direction of the roar, but when he sees it he stops in his tracks. It's fucking massive, so huge that he knows immediately that he will not be able to stop it or send it back to whatever realm it is supposed to be in. Fuck. He inches closer, trying to get a better view of what's going on. Esther is indeed here, clearly in control of the thing for now, and a deep sigh leaves him when he sees all three of those idiots just stood there facing down their certain erasing from existence. He's about to run in and distract Esther so the boys and their psychic can get the fuck out of here, when the elemental suddenly grabs Edwin and Charles in far too many tentacles and starts dragging them towards its face mouth thing.

The Cat King can't seem to get himself to move and help somehow. In a blink Crystal is on the ground, and the situation is escalating far beyond control. He has to do something, anything. Ester is leaning over over Edwin saying something the Cat King can just about make out over the muffled screams of the ghosts and the roar of the forest elemental. 

“God I love final moments.”

That damned bird who stole his love's first kiss swoops over head, cawing like he didn't just lead them into this, and the Cat King's rage bubbles over.

He leaps at Esther, scratching her back and leaping away again, trying to draw her away from the boys in the hope one of these idiots has a plan. Ester lets out a screech and whirls round to face him with an irritated grunt. He hisses at her and arches his back. If this bitch wants a fight, he'll give it to her.

“Of course. You mangy little Cat King. You couldn't leave my business well enough alone, could you?” Ester grasps her cane and stalks towards him.

He dives in again to scratch her legs then dodges a swing of her cane. He uses the opening to scratch her arm, then scampers backwards. He's trying to draw her away from the boys, and somehow it's working. Edwin and Charles are still holding on to something, still fighting, so he has to help. Using a tree as a springboard, the Cat King leaps up and manages scratch directly on Esther's face. The victory is short lived however, as on the way down, Esther swings that damned iron cane of hers straight into him.

The hit lands on his torso, sending him flying into the same tree he had just leapt off. He knows instantly that several of his ribs are broken, and no matter how hard he tries he can't push himself back up off the ground. 

He can't save Edwin.

Tears start to blur his vision, but he watches as Ester turns away from him, and walks directly back over to the boys. With no idea what else to do, he just screams at her.

“KEEP YOUR PAWS OFF OF HIM!”

She turns back around, the smirk on her face clear even from this distance. The Cat King is just happy she isn't looming over Edwin anymore, even if his shout means she is going to come and kill him instead. He's got more lives to live, Edwin doesn't.

She doesn't even make it two steps before Crystal has suddenly barreled into her, knocking them both to the ground.

The Cat King watches the ensuing fight in utter shock as Crystal does a better job of beating the shit out of Esther than he managed to do. He is still trying to force himself back up off of the ground, and keeping one eye on the boys just in case, when he sees Edwin lose his grip with one arm. He lets out a screech and tries even harder to get up and get back to the boys so he can help somehow. He also watches as Esther gains the upper hand in the fight, pinning Crystal to the floor only to then drag her back up and send her flying across the forest.

With all the effort he can muster, the Cat King forces himself to stand, and start limping towards Edwin. Perhaps if he scratches the forest elemental and pisses it off enough, it will take him instead. Edwin and Charles both lose their grip, and the Cat King is running before he even realises it. They manage to catch another part of the forest floor but this time it's Charles who almost slips. The Cat King doesn't care, if one of them goes, they both go, and he won't let that happen. He continues to sprint towards them, ignoring the burning in his lungs.

Esther's foot lands a blow in the same place her cane had, and she kicks him across the forest.

He lands hard, yet again too far away to help, and this time with his vision blurring from the pain. The muffled screams intensify for a moment, and he just has to lay there and hope that neither of the boys are gone.

“Stupid cat,” he hears Esther comment, and in all honesty, he can't help but agree.

He was stupid. Stupid to believe Edwin would let him save him and come back for Charles and Crystal. Stupid to think he could take on Esther and actually make a difference. Stupid to think that he would actually be able to help.

Crystal was on her knees on the floor, too far away to help, the Cat King was barely conscious at this point, Edwin and Charles were losing their grip. It was over.

I really hope you enjoyed this snippet and apologies for the cliffhanger! 😅 I am still working on this fic and hope I will be able to start posting it soon! 😊🫂💜

[blissfulcrow]

Way Home is Through You

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60094282/chapters/153862384

Link to first part: https://www.tumblr.com/blissfulcrow/765505943344693248/way-home-is-through-you-chapter-1-blissfulcrow?source=share

Hey yall! An update!! Let me know if you guys are enjoying this series. I am considering a beta reader so hit me with a DM if you're interested.

Chapter 2: Give Me A Reason To Believe

A hurried shuffling could be heard through the streets. Once white sneakers were desperately fumbling over sidewalks, hoping to escape this freakishly strange night's events. The glass of a long broken streetlamp crunched under her footfalls, eliciting a curse from her shaky lips. “Fucking shit!” she choked out. “Just my fucking luck, narrowly escaped a grave-robbing mime just to bust up my last pair of decent shoes. Fuck!”

She skidded around the corner, narrowly missing drunken patrons from the bar down the road. She didn't care; she needed to go home to sleep off this bad dream. When she woke up in the morning, it would all be okay. Finally, she arrived in front of her less-than-perfect apartment building. Steading her hand, she punched in the passcode, and as soon as the door lock clicked, she was in the building like lightning. Climbing up the five-set staircase on any regular day was an unpleasant struggle, but the adrenaline making its way through her body made her barge through her apartment door before anyone could see her. She didn't want to answer any questions from concerned neighbours; manners don't matter in dreams, right?

Hurling her bag in a haphazard direction, she couldn't be bothered to see where it landed. Her focus was on the bed. As she stripped down, all she could think was:

‘You're fine, you'll be fine. Just a bad dream.’Pulling back the covers of her bed, she threw herself into it, wrapping the blankets around her head, protecting herself from the outside world. A mantra over in her head like a stuck record, ‘You're okay, just sleep. You're okay; just sleep. You're okay, just sleep.’

Scenes flashing, A couple, tenderly embracing.

Happiness. Comfort. Love.

A soft gold engagement ring emerges from a box, soft gasps and bright laughter.

Shock. Euphoria. Love.

The man entering his home witnessing his partner being pinned and assaulted. Next thing he knows, he’s plummeting out the window.

Rage. Injustice. Love.

His partner, battered and bruised, still holding onto life. Thirty hours pass before she dies.

Anguish. Pain. Love.

He claws his way out of his supposedly final resting place. 

Hatred. Grief… Vengeance.

Jolting awake, her eyes wild with confusion, she tries to breathe. So much sorrow, so many thoughts and feelings, flood through her mind. Clawing at her chest to self-soothe, she weakly attempts to ground herself. Her heart was heavily thumping through her ears, and she barely registered the taps from the window. Scrambling out of bed, she throws on an old shirt and some shirts. Making her way over, she rips open the curtain. A black crow sits on the damp window cill, surely not the one from before? She heaved the heavy pane open to shoo the bird away, but it had other ideas, quickly ducking past her flailing hands and hopping its way into the apartment. Her eyes meet the birds, and the flashes start again.

The leather trench coat.

Crow symbols alight.Knives.Needles.Cars.

“Tell them Eric Draven sends his regards.”

 A name beating in her head like a violent drum. ‘Eric Draven’ 

She mutters that name as she pushes papers away, ignoring the bird that followed close behind her as she scrambles to find her laptop on the cluttered dining table.

Her hands tremble as she opens up her jacked computer, anxiously tapping the on button. Despite that, the laptop takes its sweet time loading up. As soon as the browser opens, she begins furiously typing the name.

The first article to pop up:

‘Recently Engaged Couple Murdered on Devils Night’

Young couple Eric Draven (member of the band ‘Hangman’s Joke’) and his fiancee Shelly Webster were found on the infamous holiday ‘Devils Night’ dead at their apartment. Eric was found with multiple gunshot and stab wounds, but the coroner reports that his official cause of death was the drop from their top-floor apartment. Shelly was taken into intensive care and 30 hours later died from her injuries. 

Her stomach dropped to the floor as she read the rest of the article. All this happened 19 years ago? 

As she skimmed through her browser, she came across a picture with this ‘Eric’. It was him! The lurker from the cemetery, with less make-up, but it was him. How? The article was almost 20 years old, but he looked no older than his late 20s! This is beyond crazy; people don't come back from the dead.

‘Maybe it's just some poser who read about the article and thought it would be a cool way to prank people. That doesn’t explain the visions, though. Maybe it is just a mental break’

A banging on her door pulled her from her downward spiral. Oh no…

Slowly, she inched towards the door, trying to get a glimpse through the peephole without making any noise. Peering through, it was him, the living dead guy. She began to back away slowly; maybe he would assume she wasn't there if she didn't answer. That was the idea before an obnoxious cawing sounded behind her, throwing away any chance of her avoiding the interaction. She opened the door, trying not to show her fear outwardly. For a moment, neither said anything, letting the suspense linger in the musty hallway air. Finally as if a gift from some higher power, he held something out to her. “You dropped this.” He stated, face unreadable. 

“Oh.” It was her license, making it entirely less creepy that he knew where she lived. She took the tiny card from him, a small smile forming. “I appreciate that I didn't have to pay for a whole new one, thank you. You really didn't need to come all the way here for this, though,” she chuckled awkwardly. “It’s not the reason I came, " he said bluntly. His eyes bore into hers, but she couldn't read him. “May I come in?”

“No offence, but I don’t actually know you and I don't have a habit of letting every person who rocks up into my humble abode.”

“The documents on your table tell me otherwise; you’ve been investigating.” Referring to the open tab with a picture of Eric. “How did yo-” She turned away from him to gaze back at her laptop to find he was already there in front of it.

“What the fuck! How did you..? You were just..?” She frantically pointed between the laptop and the hallway, trying to rationalise the fact that this apparently dead guy made it from one point to another in 0.5 seconds. 

Her reactions, to an extent, amused him; it's a lot better than being shot at or stabbed. He understood her fear but was desperate for help; she seemed someone who could help him navigate this world. 

“Your scepticism is warranted but pointless. I don’t know why I am here; all I know is I am stuck in this shithole again and have no clue how to return.” His voice raised at the end, his hopelessness slipping through. He had returned without Shelly before; what cruel world would do this to him again?

“Do you think that person in the cape had anything to do with it?” “I haven't the faintest idea. The last time I came back was because of the crow.” He shared, pointing to his feathered friend. “And she assures me this wasn’t her doing.”

“You talk to the bird?”  

“In a sense, not like you and I are now. It is like we are connected on a deep level.” He stated as he made his way around the apartment, taking in the decorations. It was an admittedly small apartment, realistically only needing to house one person. The wall was unsystematically plastered with odds and ends, photos, concert stubs, and anything that made it feel like home. The furniture was a juxtaposition of different styles. Red-stained wood chairs that looked antique were slid under a white chipped particleboard table. The state of her home reflected her innermost feelings: neglected and cluttered. 

He seemed to be trying to figure something out from the decorations; eyes furrowed in concentration as he poked and prodded at a poster. 

“I like your decor. Reminds me of mine and Shelly’s place.”

Her stance softened, and she felt pity for him. From what she read, they really seemed infatuated with each other, and in this case, that love was undying. She always had a soft spot for a tragic romance and felt compelled to try at least to help him get back home.

“Alright, man, sit down and explain it. I’ll see what help I can be.” She said, walking over to the couch to straighten it up for the present company. For the first time since he returned, Eric’s gloomy face held a small, although genuine, smile.

“Thank you.”

[jaegersmae]

Stargazing - Eren Jaeger

Chapter One: Here Comes the Sun

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Reader

Word Count: 5.3k

Series Summary: After you get dragged to a concert following a crazy night of events you somehow end up becoming the new photographer for an upcoming band, where you end up reconnecting with an old friend Eren Jaeger, and are welcomed into the band's inner circle.

Chapter Summary: After a strange encounter with two strangers you're dragged to a concert and are strangely reconnected with old friends.

After snoozing your alarm for the past hour you finally wake up to the loud sound of your door being slammed open and the voice of someone you know all too well.

"Wake up already! I'm so tired of hearing your alarms go off." Historia screams to you as she paces down to the side of your bed to your blackout curtains. "No wonder you're still sleeping, these curtains never let in any light." Just as you were about to scream at her to not open the blinds she swiftly opened both curtains in one action allowing the light to seep in throughout the room.

"Was that really necessary, Hisu?" you say as you reach over to one of your pillows to cover your face from the blinding morning light.

"It was the only way that would have woken you up in time for your photoshoot."

Just as those words left Historia's mouth you rapidly reached for your phone checking the time in a panic. "Fuck, fuck I'm gonna be so late," you shouted rushing out of bed and scattering across your room to try and get ready in less than 10 minutes. "Thanks, Hisu I completely forgot I had that shoot scheduled today."

"Yeah no problem, I kinda figured that's why I came in to make sure you were up. If you want I can drive you. I don’t have to go into work till later today and then I have to get ready for tonight. Will you be ready on time?"

"Tonight? What's going on tonight?" You're rummaging through your closet looking for the jean skirt you planned on wearing the night before. "There's no way you forgot." She laughed walking to the kitchen to have a cup of coffee ready for you when you walk out.

"Shit. I forgot the concert was tonight. I still haven’t fully agreed to go along with you!" You shouted while doing the finishing touches of your appearance. You decided to wear a denim mini skirt, a white lace tank top, Doc Marten leather platforms, rings scattered across your fingers, and the dragonfly necklaces you've had longer than you can remember.

While walking down the hall to leave the apartment you were struggling to put your earring in without the help of a mirror. The apartment Historia and you share is a penthouse in West Village that Historia's dad pays for, for the both of you. It was always spotless and well-decorated due to Historia's love for interior design.

"Here's your coffee with milk just like how you like it!" she said with the sweetest smile. "Thank you so much babe, what would I do without you!" Historia put her finger to her cheek as if she was thinking very hard about what you had just asked her. "Hmm probably living on the street begging for money on the side of some random gas station."

You spit out what was in your mouth laughing from the lack of sarcasm in her voice. "You are so lucky you didn't get any coffee on our clothes!" She exclaimed while reaching for paper towels to clean up the mess you made.

"You're not wrong though, I probably would've resorted to living in my car after we graduated!" And she really wasn't wrong. Historia has been your best friend since the first day of college. You both got assigned to be roommates during your freshman year at NYU and you both have been inseparable ever since. You wish you couldn't remember your life before meeting Historia. She's the most amazing person you know which is surprising for most people to hear considering how rich and spoiled she is. Her dad is the CEO of a law firm in the city and has a hard time saying no to any of his daughters' requests. Despite being more than well off she's one of the most humble and down-to-earth people you've ever met.

"Anyways, you said you were gonna drive me?" You say to her blinking your lashes and with the sweetest smile she can't refuse. "Yes, yes let's get going." She said reaching for her purse and coat. "Yay! I love you so much!"

You ran toward the front door where you always kept your camera bag and equipment. You have always loved photography and cameras, even when you were a little girl you would always be running around with a mini camera in hand. You loved the idea of being able to make a moment last forever through pictures so much so that you decided to try and make a career out of it.

As you're gathering your stuff you throw on a cardigan from the coat hanger and walk out the door. Historia shouts from halfway down the hall, "Race you down!" 

"Hey, that's not fair!" You sprint down the hall hoping to catch the elevator in time before it closes with Hisu on the other side of the door. Thankfully you were able to slip your foot in the elevator while it was closing forcing the door to open for you. 

Out of breath and already sweating due to that being the most physically active thing you’ve done all month. "I can't with you sometimes." She had the most guilty face and burst out laughing from seeing how out of breath you were. "Let's get you to your shoot already!" 

After making it to the car it took about a minute of driving around before Historia realized she had no idea where she was going. "Wait a second, where am I even supposed to go?"

"Oh yeah! My bad. To Central Park please."

"What was your shoot for anyways?" she said questioning why you would need to be at Central Park so early in the morning. 

"Some lady from the Upper East Side hired me to take pictures of her dog for its first birthday." You said while going through your gear on your lap to double-check that you had everything you needed for today.

She glanced over to you "Wait you're taking pictures of a dog?" She let out a laugh not believing what you were saying.

"Yeah..."

"Y/n! You literally have a college degree, you can do so much better."

"Okay well, I didn't expect the need for photographers to be so low. At least it's something!" defending yourself because in reality after you graduated in May this is the second time you've been hired for something in five months. The first was taking pictures of different types of fertilizer for a flower shop. "Plus you know how these Upper East Side people are, they would waste no expense for these kinds of things!"

"That is true. They love their pets more than their children sometimes. How much are you getting paid for it?" 

"About $200 an hour." Historia nearly drove into another car once those words left your mouth. "All of that for their dog?!" She sounded so shocked at how well you were being paid. You had braced your hand onto the door from the sudden motion of the car swerving to the left, "Hands on the wheel! I would like to not die today!"

"Sorry! That is so much considering this is all for a dog's birthday! Maybe I should've become a photographer instead." Her mouth was still slightly open from the shock of how much you're getting paid and from nearly driving into oncoming traffic. "Trust me you don't. You get paid so much for being a realtor! Plus you already have a handful of clients hiring you and this is only my second job." you said with a little frustration in your voice. You thought by now you would have had dozens of job offers and achieved your dream of working for National Geographic, but life had very different plans for you.

Thankfully from that point on to when you made it to Central Park, there were no more close calls with Historia’s driving. You finally arrived and double-checked the time to ensure you weren't running late. "It's 8:50, 10 minutes early to the shoot. Thank you so much for the ride" you said, getting out of Historia's luxurious vehicle. 

"Are you gonna need a ride back home once you're done?" she questioned while helping you get your bag from the floor where you were previously sitting. "No I'm good, I was just gonna walk back or take the subway. So you have all day to get ready for tonight!"

"You already know I'm going to look my best! I might meet my soulmate tonight so I'm gonna need a good meet cute story to tell our kids." Her pinks flushed pink from the thought.

🎵: [start playing Here Comes The Sun by The Beatles]

You couldn't help but laugh at how adorable she was being, "Have fun with that I'm gonna start going now." You shut her door close as she was getting ready to drive off "I love you let me know if you need anything!" You smiled at her "Love you too!" and off she drove after dropping you off on the south side of the park where the shoot was. Since you still had time to spare you decided to walk a bit slowly to the meeting point by the Gapstow Bridge. 

You begin to admire how beautiful Central Park looks during the changing season. Fall has always been one of your favorite seasons because of the falling leaves and colder weather. As you were walking you pulled out your camera and began to take some pictures of the flora and wildlife surrounding you. As you were walking a few dragonflies began surrounding you as if they were joining you along your walk. You couldn't help but smile and take a few pictures of how beautiful they were.

As you made your way closer to the bridge you saw a woman holding balloons who looked to be in her 30s standing under a tree, next to her was the cutest dog sitting looking up at the trees. You assumed this was the person you would be shooting for and approached her with a warm smile.

"Hi, I'm Y/n! Are you Mrs. Waldorf?"

"Yes, I am. And you're late." She said coldly. You reached for your phone to realize the time was now 9:01. You cursed yourself out in your head for deciding to take your sweet ass time in walking over here. "I'm so sorry I didn't realize how much time had passed when I was walking over here," you said in defense.

"Yeah, whatever, let's just get started. I had the idea of just having him be in nature, maybe surrounded by leaves or running around." She continued saying ideas but you couldn't help but get distracted because her dog began biting his own foot. "So did you get all that?" she said while crossing her arms, which sent chills down your spine. "Yes I did!" you lied. You kneeled down to get level with the dog, which was a very fluffy long-haired golden retriever. You reached for his collar to see the name tag with the name Prince engraved into it. "Nice to meet you!" you said, causing Prince to immediately perk up and start wagging his tail like crazy.

"Okay let's get started" You began setting everything up by placing a picnic blanket over some fallen leaves with the balloons that spelled Prince in the back. Can't forget the most important part which is a cute little birthday hat to place on Prince's head. The rest of the shoot went smoothly, besides the occasional scoffs of Mrs. Waldorf whenever Prince would get distracted by a falling leaf or dragonfly flying by.  You were able to get lots of great shots that satisfied Mrs. Waldorf and by the end of it, three hours had gone by. 

"These pictures came out way better than I would have imagined!" she exclaimed as you were flipping through the pictures on your camera. "Thank you so much! I will edit them and email them to you sometime in the next week." Prince was still running around, even after three hours of being posed he did not have any less bit energy. "Sounds perfect. I'm gonna have to come back to you next year when he turns two!" You both laughed, said your goodbyes, and went your separate ways. 

You decided to take the long way back and hop on a subway to get back home, but first, you wanted to walk around the park for a bit more. Living in a big city felt suffocating sometimes but walking around Central Park was always an escape for you and reminded you back of home. More people started crowding into the park compared to when you first got here. After walking around a bit you started walking out of the park with the goal of finding a coffee shop for your second cup of coffee for the day. After getting your cup of coffee you decided to sit outside and wait around for a while since the sun was now coming out. The warmth of the sun on you during a cold day always makes you feel better. 

As you were sitting all of a sudden two guys wearing sunglasses and hoods over their heads ran quickly from around the corner down the street and into the coffee shop you were sitting outside of. They looked very frantic and in a panic as if they were looking for a place to hide. Seconds later a third man came from around the corner, who was holding a camera and was looking around the street and into windows. He approached you and asked, "Did you see two tall guys walking around here?" You have no idea what is going on or if something illegal had just taken place but you instinctively pointed in the opposite direction of the coffee shop towards a hotel and said you saw two guys running away into there. The guy with the camera held it higher to his face and walked into the hotel with a smile across his face. 

You didn't understand why you felt the need to lie in order to protect the whereabouts of two strangers. But anyway, you continued scrolling through Pinterest on your phone while enjoying your coffee. The hooded strangers cautiously made their way out of the coffee shop and walked very slowly toward your direction. You were close enough to overhear their conversation with one another. 

"You think he's gone?" said the one wearing a gray hoodie. The other wearing a black hoodie responded "I think so... should we still run away?" You couldn't help but giggle at how ridiculous this whole situation was.

"If you both are talking about the guy with a camera he ran into that hotel," you said while pointing in the same direction. Immediately as you spoke both of the boys jumped and awkwardly stood there looking at each other. "Oh, now I feel like an idiot." chuckled the one wearing a black hoodie. They both started taking off their sunglasses and hoods once they realized the coast was clear. The one wearing black appeared to be around 6'3, had light brown hair cut into a mullet, and a strong build. The other wearing gray looked slightly shorter than the other and had gray short hair. Both of them were very attractive, to say the least. 

The one wearing gray made his way closer to you, picked up your hand, and bowed in front of you while kissing the back of your palm. "Thank you gorgeous, it would not have been fun if that guy had taken a picture of us." 

"Are you guys some kind of criminals?" you responded.

"No we're something better," he smirked while still holding your hand. "Okay that's enough Connie, let's get going before Armin murders us." said the guy with the mullet pulling the other away from you. "Hopefully we meet again gorgeous." They both made their way back down to where they came from leaving you alone sitting outside the coffee shop. You were left partially confused but not against whatever the fuck just happened. 

You eventually made your way back to your apartment and decided to watch La La Land and take a nap for the rest of the day once the movie finished. In the time you were sleeping, Historia came back home from work and was excited for tonight. "How is it possible for you to sleep this much?"  Deja vu. Historia once again woke you up for the second time today. You were still bundled up on the couch and started stretching as you were gaining consciousness. "Why don't you ever let me sleep woman?" 

"Because you're coming to that concert to me..." she said in her sweetest voice to make you feel more inclined to go out with her. "You're coming with me, so get your butt up and start getting ready." 

"Do I have to go with you? I can just sleep in for the rest of the night," you said sitting up on the couch with the blanket wrapped over your head. Historia paused from taking her jewelry off and walked from the hallway she was standing in to in front of you. "Yes!! You have to come with me, c'mon it'll be fun. You can even bring your camera, maybe they'll let you backstage to take pictures and I get to meet the band." 

"Hmm, I can use those pictures in my portfolio," you said, finally contemplating getting up and starting to get ready. "Exactly, so you'll come with me?" she responded smiling hoping for the response she wanted. "Fine, I will. But you're taking me out to breakfast tomorrow," you said exaggerating your second sentence. "It's a deal then!" she said and walked with a bounce in her step back towards her room to get ready. You finally got up with the blanket still wrapped around you, made your way down the hallway and stood in the doorway of Historia's room as she was rummaging through her closet for an outfit for tonight. 

"Who is this band anyways, are they famous?" you question. "They're called The Titans and are kind of new so not a lot of people know about them, but they're music is really good. This is actually their first ever real concert so the venue’s not gonna be the biggest so wear something short so you don't get all sweaty." Hisu said while holding different tops up in the air deciding whether or not she was gonna wear them. "So how did you find out about them?" you said while leaning more into the door frame. "I saw a video of their lead guitarist on Instagram and thought she was hot, so I followed them. But turns out their music is actually good and now we're here. Now enough of the questions and go get ready, we're leaving in an hour to make it there by 8." she said finally finding the perfect outfit. "Okay okay I'm going," you said, finally making your way to your room to get ready as quickly as possible. 

You decided to wear a black mini dress, sheer black tights, your Doc Martens again, a leather jacket for when you're outside, as well as your hair down with your favorite rings and necklaces. You decided to grab your black shoulder bag which was big enough to hide your camera inside of it. You walked out of your room to the sight of Historia ready for tonight. "You look so beautiful!" You said making her smile up from her phone doing a twirl while you hyped her up. "How many letters in Historia? ATE." She was wearing a light pink mini skirt and matching top with a long-sleeved lace top with strings that tied in the front. "Look at you! You are literally gorgeous!" she said hyping you up too. But her saying gorgeous immediately reminded you of the two hot strangers you met earlier that day. 

"Okay let's take pictures and shots before we leave because I have no idea if there are drinks where we're going," Historia said while grabbing your hand and walking out of the hallway into the kitchen. You both drank a little and started gathering your things to head out the door. You guys finally made it to the venue after taking the subway.

You both were walking down the street to where the venue was and were in shock from how long the line was outside. There were probably around 400 people waiting to get inside. "I thought you said the band wasn't that well known?" you said to Historia while you both were walking to the very end of the line. "They aren't! But I know they're becoming more popular. I just didn't think that many people would be here."

Eventually, 30 minutes had passed and you hadn't even made it halfway through the line. You both started getting cold from waiting outside for so long. "You think there's another entrance we could maybe sneak into?" you wondered out loud. "Maybe. But there's no way of knowing. You can go check while I wait in line so we don't lose our spot. Just come back if there is another entrance." Hisu said, looking around to see how much further the front entrance was. "Yes, of course, I'll be right back."

You walked around the side of the building and stumbled upon an alleyway that looked very sketchy but promising. Fuck it. You cautiously made your way down the alley. You abruptly heard the sound of dogs barking which made you flinch and question if getting kidnapped was worth all this. You decided it wasn't and planned on turning around to go back to Historia to deliver the bad news. As you were turning the corner out of the alley you bumped into somebody causing you both to jump backwards and scream. Your scream causes the person you bumped into to fall to the ground.

"Get away from me!" you screamed while reaching into your bag looking for pepper spray. "Stop, stop! I'm just trying to get inside. I'm not a serial killer! he shouted, holding his hands up and surrendering. You looked up at him and noticed the shirt he was wearing said "The Titans" which caused you to relax a little bit knowing he was just a fanboy. You still had your guard up but just put your pepper spray away. "Oh my god you scared the shit out of me" you sighed. 

He picked himself off the floor and started readjusting his clothes. "Imagine how I felt you almost pepper sprayed me." The man who stood in front of you had red hair that was cut into the weirdest hairstyle. It looked like he had a donut on his head. "Sorry about that, at least I didn't" you laughed. "I'm here for the concert too. I was just looking for a different way to get in." 

"How did you know I was here for the concert?" he responded with his eyes widening in fear. "Your shirt...?" you said with a questioning tone in your voice. "Oh," he said laughing, holding his hand to his heart. "Yeah I am here for that I was just going in through the back entrance." 

That piqued your interest. "So there is another way to get in?" you smiled hopefully to charm him into showing you the other entrance. "Yeah, there is. Want to just walk in with me?" That was way easier than you thought. "Yeah, sure! Wait, can you wait here while I go grab my friend?" you exclaimed before walking further down the alley. "Go ahead, but come back fast I wanna make it inside already," he said leaning against the wall. "Okay, I will! Don't go anywhere!" you started running back to where Historia is.

"Historia! you stood on your toes looking for blonde hair hoping to find her. After walking down the line twice you felt an arm grab you. "There you are, I've been looking for you everywhere!" you finally found her, well more like she found you. "Were you able to find another way in?" she wondered looking up to you. "Yeah I did come on there's some guy who said he knows another way in," you said grabbing her hand and walking down to where the alleyway is. "Huh?! You're trusting the words of some random guy?" she said in disbelief. "Well, when you say it like that it sounds so bad! He seems trustworthy! Plus he's our only way of getting in faster." you said in defense. "I'm trusting you on this."

As you approached the alley you saw the guy you left behind still leaning up against the wall. "Thanks for waiting up for us," you said, making your way closer with Historia right behind you. "I was worried you guys had split on me." he laughed. "I'm Floch by the way." 

"Nice to meet you." you jokingly curtseyed. "I'm Y/n and this is Historia," you said pointing at her.  "Okay awesome the door is right at the end of the alley and it's normally unlocked," he said while making his way deeper into the alley. You both followed and Historia squeezed your hand a little tighter. "What if he ends up murdering both of us?" she whispered into your ear. "There's no way, he told me he's not a serial killer." you teased her.  

"So..." Historia started to question Floch. "How do you know about this entrance anyway?" He slightly turned his head in your guy's direction but still walked forward. "I go to concerts at this venue a lot so I've learned how to skip the line. I also have been stalking the band for weeks and sent the leader an email about this venue hoping they would eventually book it." he rambled. You and Historia exchanged a knowing look wondering if you should burst out laughing or run like hell in the opposite direction. Luckily Historia was able to hold it together "That sounds nice." she awkwardly laughed. 

"Here we are!" Floch said happily. He reached for the door and was able to open it with ease. "Thank god. I always get so nervous one of these times the door won't open" he sighed in relief. As you all walked in it looked like the door led straight into backstage. There were people wearing all black and mics strapped to them running around everywhere and a group of girls standing in a circle which you assumed were groupies. Floch turned to you and Historia "Okay have fun ladies! Don't snitch about this entrance, please." he begged. "Thanks for letting us in!" you said. "Yeah, thanks! Have fun tonight!" Historia said waving bye to him. He waved bye and made his way to the group of girls and said something that made them all shriek and laugh in excitement. "Looks like he's a groupie too." Historia laughed at the sight in front of you both.

"I'm so happy we made it in! I couldn't have stood out there any longer." Historia said in relief, throwing her head to the side. "This is so much cooler than I thought." You said while looking around at the busy atmosphere that was surrounding you. "The concert starts in 20 minutes, let's go and see if we can get the front row!" Historia said excitedly while grabbing your arm. "I'll meet you there. I wanna see if I can take some pictures backstage," you said, pulling out the camera from your bag. "Oh that's true, I forgot that's why you came. I'll go find us a spot, call me if you need help finding me," she said slowly walking towards where the crowd was. "Okay, I will! See you in a bit." you smiled as she walked off.

You turned on your camera and started taking a few pictures of anything you found interesting. You got pictures of the instruments, people running around, and you even peeked your head where the audience was and got a few pictures of the crowd. You were happy with what you got and started making your way towards where Historia was while looking down at your camera. Since you weren't paying attention to where you were going you ended up bumping into someone. For the second time tonight. It felt like you walked into a wall and fell backwards dropping your camera in the process. 

"Oh my god," you said at the sight of your camera broken on the floor. "I'm so sorry! I had no idea I was gonna walk into you, I wasn't paying attention," said the guy who knocked you down. His voice sounded very familiar. He reached for your arms and pulled you up to your feet in one swift motion. You heard him speaking but his words weren't registering since you couldn't take your eyes off your broken camera. The camera your mom bought you many years ago was one of your most prized possessions, and there it was in multiple pieces lying on the floor. "Wait, aren't you the girl from the coffee shop?" That snapped you back into reality. You looked at the man who you got knocked into and it was the guy with the mullet from earlier that day. "You were the one running away with a hood on," you finally spoke. 

"What are the chances of that happening? Connie is going to be so excited to see you," he said, releasing your arms and standing up straighter. His height was very intimidating. "Connie?" you questioned. "The other guy I was with. Wait, what are you doing here? Did you know who we were when we met at the coffee shop?" he said, questioning you. "What does that even mean?" you laughed. "I'm here with my friend, we're here for the concert. What are you doing here?" you questioned him back. All he did was laugh. "I'm here for the concert too," he said amusingly. You didn't understand what was so funny but you had bigger things to worry about. You looked back at your broken camera and said "You're definitely gonna pay for my new camera." You were being dead serious. "Yes of course! I'm so sorry. I will make it up to you. I'll give you my number and we'll work something out," he said in the most heartfelt voice. Wasting no time you pulled out your phone and unlocked it so the mullet man could put his number in. "My name's Jean if you didn't know," he said in the same tone as before. "How would I have known that?" you said a little harshly. "Oh right." he laughed while giving your phone back. You felt like you were missing the point of something.

"Gorgeous?! I knew we would meet again!" you heard someone yell from behind Jean. It was Connie and he was running in your direction. You saw the silhouette of someone else behind him but were too focused on Connie to see the face of the person behind him. "Here we go again," Jean said while rolling his eyes. Connie shoved Jean out of the way so he could be face-to-face with you and placed your hands in his. "I have missed you so much, never leave again," Connie said while sounding genuinely sad. You couldn't believe how attached he had become after only one encounter with him. "I've missed you too," you couldn't help but laugh and play along with him.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the person behind Connie make their way closer to you. You broke eye contact with Connie and looked at them. Your heart dropped.

"Y/n?"

[zizzlekwum]

Stranger In A Not-So-Strange Land

Masterlist

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The BAU goes to New Orleans to solve a series of murders. Follows the events of Criminal Minds Season 2 Episode 18 "Jones."

Trigger Warnings: mentions of and mild descriptions of sexual assault

Word Count: 6,396

Tag List: @leftoverenvy @itsmeanobody @ctrljuls @theclassicgaycousin @fatherfigured [if you want to be added to the tag list, please comment or send me an ask]

NOTE: Sorry it took so long. I was sick for a week, and then I was almost finished last night (I had one more scene to write) and then my bunny, Pippa, unexpectedly died, so that ruined the rest of the night and I basically stayed in bed crying.

You arrive at work early, yawning as you sit down at your desk. You’re not surprised to see Hotch already at work. He gives you a nod as you sit down at your desk and start researching crime statistics.

“Morning, Y/L/N.”

You look up to see Prentiss sitting down at her desk across from you, giving you a small smile. “Hey, Emily,” you greet before yawning again.

“Rough night?” she asks.

You shrug. “I’m bipolar,” you explain. “I’m medicated, but about once a month, like clockwork, I go three days without sleeping.”

She frowns, eyebrows furrowing in sympathy. “That sucks. What do you do all night?”

“I lay in bed and pretend I’m sleeping,” you tell her. “I read a study once that found that pretending to sleep is actually more beneficial than just saying ‘fuck it’ and not trying. Basically, laying down and trying to sleep will help you feel more rested, even if you don’t actually sleep.”

“That’s really interesting,” Emily says.

“I thought so, too,” you say. “I would try to find the study for you, but it was back in my own universe, so I’m not sure it exists yet.”

“You should tell Reid about it,” she says. “I’m sure he would be interested.”

“What would I be interested in?” Reid asks from behind her, walking through the doorway.

“Just a study I read years ago,” you tell him. You’re filling him in when Hotch comes out of his office.

“We have a case,” he says. “Conference room, please.” You all nod and follow him into the room, where JJ is standing in front of the TV.

“We’ve got a serial killer in New Orleans who killed at least three men pre-Katrina,” JJ informs you. “Until now, the New Orleans police department believed that the serial killer died in the storm.”

“What’s happened to tell them otherwise?” Morgan asks, taking a sip of his coffee.

“A fourth body was found in the French Quarter last night.” JJ pulls up an image of the victim. “Same MO. Another male. Throat slashed, eviscerated.”

Prentiss frowns. “A year and a half? That’s a long cooling-off period. Are we sure this is the same unsub?”

“Well, he was probably displaced by the storm,” you point out. “Maybe he kept committing murders in another jurisdiction?”

“Possible,” JJ says, nodding at you. “He send a letter to William LaMontagne, the head detective on the case, claiming to be the same unsub.”

Gideon crossed his arms in front of him. “LaMontagne have any leads?”

“He died in Katrina,” JJ says. “His son is actually heading the case now.” You fight back a smile at her unknowingly mentioning her future husband.

“That can’t be easy,” Morgan says, frowning.

“Well, we need to pour over the evidence from the first three murders and determine the pattern,” Hotch says.

JJ shakes her head. “Katrina washed everything away. The three victims we know of, their autopsy reports, witness statements, DNA test results.”

“So basically, all we have to go on is the latest victim?” Reid says.

“Until he kills again,” Hotch adds.

“Fun,” you say, sarcasm dripping from your voice.

*   *   *   *   *

On the jet, you’re playing Pokemon Diamond on your DS, since there aren’t any files to go over.

“Hey Reid,” Morgan says. “What’s going on up there?”

Reid shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts. “I was just thinking of this old friend of mine from Las Vegas— Ethan. I’m pretty sure he lives in New Orleans now.”

“Really? Gonna give him a call?” Morgan asks.

Reid shrugs. “We grew up competing against each other in absolutely everything. Spelling bees, science fairs. We also both had our hearts set on joining the Bureau, but… first day at Quantico, he backed out.”

“He probably just couldn’t take the heat,” Prentiss jokes with a smile.

“It’s not really for us to judge, is it?” Reid frowns.

Prentiss’ smile fades. “Right. My bad.”

JJ clears her throat. “These are copies of the newspaper articles on the murders, dating back to early August, 2005.” She hands you a stack of papers as you close your DS and put it back in your bag. “It’s all we have to go on.”

“He killed three times, he stopped for eighteen months, then he started killing again,” Hotch says.

“We should have Garcia run a list of any offenders in the area,” Gideon says. “Anyone who spent the last year and a half doing time, and like Y/L/N suggested, anyone who was forced to relocate after the storm and recently moved back.” He nods at you.

“What is the victimology in killing a mechanic, a real estate broker, and a cook, with ages ranging from twenty-two to forty-five?” Prentiss asks.

JJ nods. “And this latest is a thirty-three year old taxi driver. They just don’t seem to have very much in common.”

“Apart from being men,” you say.

“And walking the French Quarter at night,” Morgan adds.

“Which is notorious for muggings off the main drag,” JJ says.

Prentiss frowns. “Yeah, but this guy isn’t in a rush to flee the scene. A slaughter like this takes time.”

“Andrei Chikatilo fantasized that the men he killed were his captives,” Reid chimes in, “and that torturing and mutilating them somehow made him a hero.”

“The city’s barely back to life,” Gideon says. “Something like this could cripple its psyche.”

“So where do we start?” JJ asks.

“We don’t have any case files or anything,” you remind her. “We really only have one place to start.”

Hotch nods. “Square one.”

*   *   *   *   *

When the plane lands, the team splits up. You go with Reid and Prentiss to the ME to examine the body.

“Four layers of fatty tissue sliced through like butter,” the ME says, uncovering the body. “I only seen that three other times.”

“You work this case initially?” Reid asks.

The ME nods as you slip on a pair of latex gloves. “You don’t forget victims like this. It’s like they were dissected.”

“I can still smell the alcohol on him,” Prentiss notes, also putting on gloves.

The ME shrugs. “This is New Orleans. Dead or alive, it’s a smell you get used to.”

“No defensive wounds,” you note, carefully lifting up the victim’s arm.

“Most likely a blitz attack,” Reid adds. He examines the stab wounds. “No hesitation marks or rapid thrusts. Cuts were methodical. Almost procedural.”

“My guess?” the ME chimes in. “Whoever gutted this guy was taught to.”

“You’re thinking he might have some medical training?” Prentiss asks.

The ME nods. “How else could he carve around every organ and leave each one intact?”

“Has anyone come to claim the body yet?” you ask.

“Anyone we could speak with?” Prentiss says.

“No,” the ME says, shaking his head. “I’ll end up boxing up the poor bastard’s ashes, left to collect dust in storage. All the bodies I’ve been through in the last year and a half, it’s a wonder I still have room.”

*   *   *   *   *

When the three of you get back to the station, Hotch is looking at a projection on the wall.

“Is that the letter from the unsub?” Prentiss asks.

“Yeah,” Hotch says. He reads it aloud. “‘I’m back with a vengeance. I wanted you to know… the last guy made it easy, being out so late, stumbling home drunk. I enjoyed slicing around the organs, thought about sending you one. He was asking to be ripped. Don’t you think, Boss? Yours Truly.’”

“To say that the victims were asking to be killed denies all culpability,” Reid says. “Most sexual sadists rationalize their own behavior by blaming the victims like that.”

Prentiss shakes her head. “But there was no evidence of sexual assault in the autopsy. He could be a homosexual male stabbing because he needs violence for arousal.”

“Every kill he’s acting out a fantasy of revenge,” Hotch says.

“What if he’s trying to act out something else?” Reid says.

“Like what?” Hotch asks.

Reid glances at the projection of the unsub’s letter. “With the exception of the victims being men, it’s the same MO.”

“What are you talking about?” Prentiss asks.

“Oh!” you exclaim. “Jack the Ripper?”

Reid nods. “Exactly. All four victims were found with their throats slashed, eviscerated, and the murders perpetrated in semi-public places after dark. Investigators taunted with letters addressed to ‘Boss.’ The only difference is that case was a hundred years ago and the murders took place in London.”

“And the unsub wants us to think that he’s the modern-day version loose in New Orleans,” Hotch says.

*   *   *   *   *

The next day, you find yourself at the scene of another murder. You, Morgan, and Reid are questioning the victim’s friends.

“So the three of you were out together last night?” Reid asks.

The man to your left nods. “Mark had just paid his tab at one bar and was on his way to meet us at another.”

“You guys get in any trouble?” Morgan asks. “Drunken brawl? Anybody get out of hand?”

The other man shakes his head. “We were just out to have fun, you know? Minded our own business.”

You adjust your glasses on your nose. “Could Mark have met a girl? Maybe upset her boyfriend?”

“No, ma’am.” The man on the right shakes his head again. “He struck out like we all did.”

Morgan nods. “Thanks guys.” You, Morgan, and Reid turn back to the body, where Prentiss, Gideon, and Detective Will LaMontagne are standing around the victim.

Will crosses his arms. “I can hardly keep up with this guy.”

“Well, if he’s mimicking Jack the Ripper, that might be precisely the point,” Prentiss says. “He terrorized London for months without ever getting caught.”

Gideon looks at Will. “I’d appreciate it if you’d gather your men. We’d like to give you a profile of who you’re up against.”

*   *   *   *   *

Back at the precinct, the team stands in front of the New Orleans cops, ready to tell them the profile. Hotch stands in the middle, while Emily is leaning against the wall next to you.

“The offender we’re looking for is friendly, agile, somewhere between thirty and thirty-five,” Hotch starts.

“He’ll lure with charm, kill with rage,” Gideon continues.

“We believe he’s murdering men to reclaim his power,” Emily says. “This unsub suffers from low self-esteem, but he probably covers it well. He dresses impeccably to feed the facade. Jack the Ripper himself was an impetuous lust murderer, whereas this offender is organized, calculating. He might even stalk his victims for days before the actual kill.”

“We believe this killer identifies with Jack the Ripper because he’s lost his own identity,” Gideon says. “Maybe through years of child abuse or some catastrophic event.”

Hotch continues the profile. “Because he overcompensates to hide his insecurities, we believe he may hold a position of authority at work.”

“We also believe the unsub has had medical training,” you add. “Consider EMTs, doctors, and veterinarians, people who may have an advanced understanding of the human body.”

“Please be careful,” Gideon says. “For this unsub, the French Quarter is a hunting ground. He’s certainly already proven he knows the terrain.”

The cops disperse and you and Emily return to the conference room to look over the evidence when Emily’s phone rings.

“Prentiss,” she answers, putting the phone on speaker.

“What was the thing Jack the Ripper took from one of his victims?” Garcia asks. “Besides. Well, you know. Her life.”

“Oh, uh….” Prentiss trails off.

“Tick, tock,” Garcia says.

You think for a moment. “Kidney?”

“Ding ding ding! Y/N’s right,” Garcia exclaims. “How horrifyingly fantastic is that?”

Emily nods at you, making you smile. “Garcia, are you going anywhere with this?” she asks.

“Just that I found an unsolved murder that happened four months ago in Galveston, Texas, with the same MO, the victim missing that very organ. I amaze myself.”

“Hey, I did wonder if the unsub was displaced by the hurricane,” you point out.

“Y/N, you are also amazing,” Garcia says.

Emily laughs. “I agree,” she says, causing your cheeks to heat up. “Great work, Garcia,” she says.

“Who was that?” Gideon asks, walking into the room.

“I may have been right,” you tell him. “Garcia found a case in Texas that fits the Ripper’s MO, four months ago.”

Gideon nods. “A lot of Katrina refugees relocated there after the storm.”

“It could definitely be our unsub,” Prentiss agrees. “He removes the kidney, just like Jack the Ripper.”

Gideon gestures to you. “Call Reid and Morgan. I want the four of you on a plane to Texas tonight.”

You nod, biting your lip. “Will do,” you tell him quietly.

*   *   *   *   *

Emily glances back at you as you follow her up the stairs into the jet. “Are you okay? I know you had a hard time in Texas during the last case.”

You sigh, fiddling with your hands. “I’m treating it as exposure therapy,” you tell her with a shrug. “It’s how I got myself used to the grocery store during the weekend days when it was wicked crowded. Besides,” you say, shooting her a smile, “I know you wouldn’t let anything happen to me, even if my asshole ex somehow did show up.”

She chuckles, throwing an arm around you. “You got that right. We have your back.”

The two of you settle in and wait for Reid and Morgan to get there, chatting about the case as you wait. After a few minutes, Morgan walks onto the jet.

You nod at him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he says, putting his bag down. “Where’s Reid?”

“He’s not with you?” you ask. Morgan shakes his head.

Next to you, Emily frowns. “We were hoping he was.”

“Thought you said you called him?” Morgan asks her.

She nods. “I did! Four times, nothing.” She glances at her watch. “The victim’s fiancée is expecting us.”

“What do we do?” you ask.

Morgan shakes his head. “We got one option. Wheels up.” He goes to tell the pilot to take off.

*   *   *   *   *

When you get to the fiancée’s house, it’s dark out. She invites you in and you take a seat next to Prentiss on the couch, Morgan on her other side.

“Everyone kept saying crime’s gonna skyrocket after the relocation,” the victim’s fiancée says. “You just never think it’s gonna happen to you.”

“The report said that your fiancé was bar-hopping for his bachelor party on the night he was killed,” Prentiss says.

“We were supposed to be married in October,” the fiancée says. She takes a deep breath. “He was just out celebrating that with friends.”

“Was there anyone at Leonard’s bachelor party you didn’t know?” Morgan asks.

She shakes her head. “We all grew up together. They’re like family to me. Whether they met somebody out, you know, that’s a different story.” She laughs humorlessly. “They’re a rowdy bunch. They’d party with anybody.”

You finish up the interview and leave the house. You hop in the back seat, giving Emily the passenger seat while Morgan drives. Emily sighs. “Each of the last two victims was traveling with a group. Both were drinking, both in public arenas, bar-hopping. So how could their friends not see anything?”

“It’s like when the lion preys upon an antelope,” Morgan says.

Emily frowns. “You lost me.”

Morgan laughs. “Well that’s because you, Emily Prentiss, have never been one of the antelope.”

“Oh, scratch that,” Emily says. “You totally lost me.”

“Me too,” you say, frowning.

“Okay, check this out,” Morgan says. “The antelope travel in packs. So the lion just sits and waits. Waits for just one of the antelope to break away from its herd, so when he’s alone, vulnerable, and completely unprotected, that’s when the lioness strikes. That’s when she makes her move.”

“Wait a minute, ‘her’ move,” Emily repeats.

Morgan nods. “There’s only one thing that’s gonna make a straight man leave his friends on a guys night out. And it’ll make him leave every time. One of the victims was out for his bachelor party. Another one out with just the guys. What’s the only temptation that’s gonna lure these men away from each other.” He takes out his phone and dials.

“The unsub’s a woman,” you finish.

*   *   *   *   *

Back at the precinct, you, Morgan, and Prentiss are looking through the case files again when Reid walks in.

“Hey, you guys are back from Galveston?” he asks, sitting down next to you.

“First light this morning,” Morgan replies. “Where were you?”

“I was out with a friend, I already told you,” Reid says casually.

“I called you four times,” Prentiss says.

“I didn’t have any cell phone reception, so I didn’t get your message until late,” Reid says.

Prentiss rolls her eyes. “Right.”

Reid looks to you. “What’s going on?”

“Unsub’s a woman,” you tell him. “We’re looking through the evidence again with that in mind.” He opens his mouth to respond when Hotch walks up behind him.

“We just found another body in the Quarter,” Hotch says. “Let’s go.”

*   *   *   *   *

At the scene of the newest murder, Morgan is examining the body as you, Prentiss, Gideon, and Reid watch him.

“Throat’s been cut,” Morgan says. “He’s been disemboweled, too.”

Gideon crouches down next to the body. “Reeks of booze,” he says. “It’s more than a pattern.”

“Only this time, she cut off the earlobe,” Morgan adds.

You nod. “Like Jack the Ripper.”

Prentiss looks at you. “What do you mean?”

“In one letter or correspondence, Jack the Ripper promised to cut the earlobe off his next victim, and he did,” Reid says.

“Wasn’t that the only day he killed twice?” you ask. Reid nods.

“So she’s gonna kill again by the end of the day,” Gideon says.

“Most likely,” you say. “Unless we can stop her by then.”

“Okay,” Prentiss starts, “what do we know about female serial killers?”

Gideon nods. “Basically, you have two types.”

“The Sante Kimes model,” Morgan says. “Cold, calculated. Preys on men for money. Takes her time building relationships.”

“Doesn’t sound like this unsub,” you say.

“It’s more likely we’re dealing with the Aileen Wuornos archetype,” Reid agrees, nodding at you. “Motivated by paranoia and fear, luring men with sex.”

“This unsub’s organized,” Gideon says. “She follows a routine. She meets men in a bar, flirts with them over drinks, and suggests they consummate the evening in an alley.”

“We should patrol the streets tonight,” you say. “Especially knowing we can expect another body by the end of the day.”

“Office just brought me this,” Detective LaMontagne says from behind you. You turn and see him holding out an evidence bag with what appears to be another letter from the unsub inside.

Emily takes it from him and reads. “Dear boss, by now I have rid the world of one more. So many men, so little time. I hope you don’t mind the mess. They make it so easy, I just can’t help myself. Yours truly.”

*   *   *   *   *

Later that night, you and Emily are patrolling the alleys together.

“Most of the women are in groups,” you note, looking around.

Emily nods from beside you. “We should be looking for someone on her own.”

You frown, thinking of the latest letter. “So many men, so little time,” you repeat. “She’s dead set on killing men. I wonder why?”

“She might be misplacing the rage from a father who molested her,” Emily suggests. “Some people think Jack the Ripper mutilated women after his mother sexually abused him for years.”

“She seems apologetic, weirdly enough,” you add. “At least for leaving a messy scene. I don’t understand why.”

Emily shrugs. “That might be what the detective’s father figured out before he died.”

You sigh. “Okay, I’m going to preface this with the fact that I’m not victim blaming, simply curious, but why are these men just fine with following a stranger into a random alley alone? I would never.”

Emily chuckles. “They’re not thinking with their head.”

“At least, not the correct one,” you respond. She laughs.

“Exactly.” The two of you continue looking around for anything that stands out, conversation lulling for a bit.

“Do you know what’s going on with Reid?” Emily asks after a little while.

You let out a long breath. “He… I mean, he hasn’t been the same since Tobias Hankel, and understandably so,” you tell her. “But I wish he’d let us in.”

She looks out at the crowd around you. “Not to change the subject, but I feel like we’re missing something. Let’s go meet up with the others, see if they’ve had any luck.”

You nod, following her through groups of people, fighting the urge to reach out and grab her hand so you don’t lose her. You find Morgan and Reid first.

“Hey,” Morgan says, shaking his head. “We got nothing.”

You frown. “Well, we’re running out of time. Day’s almost over.”

Emily sighs. “Hopefully Hotch and Gideon or JJ and the detective had better luck. Otherwise….” Her voice trails off, but you all know what she means.

Otherwise, you’re going to find another body.

*   *   *   *   *

The next morning, you arrive at the scene of the newest murder. Detective LaMontagne is kneeling next to the body, shaking his head.

“She’s mocking us,” he says, standing as you, Emily, JJ, Gideon, and Reid duck under the crime scene tape.

“And she’s true to her word,” Emily notes.

Reid crouches down next to the body. “Does anyone have any tweezers?” he asks. One of the crime scene techs hands him a pair. “Thank you.” He uses them to extract something white from the victim’s mouth.

“What is that?” JJ asks.

“I have no idea,” Reid says.

You look closer as Reid stands. “A note, maybe?”

Reid unfolds the paper and nods. “Y/L/N is right.” He looks over at the detective. “It’s addressed to your father.”

“Let’s see it,” Gideon says. Reid hands him the paper. “‘Dear boss,’” Gideon reads, “‘he wanted it, with that sharp tongue and vulgar hand. Thought you’d like to know, another will soon get what he deserves. Yours truly.’”

“It’s weird,” Reid notes.

You frown. “How so?”

“Typically offenders write letters to be heard,” he explains. “Jack the Ripper bragged about not being caught, but this unsub isn’t using correspondence to flaunt her latest kill, only to explain why she did it.”

“It’s possible that she considers herself a vigilante,” Prentiss suggests. “That the men she’s killing deserve to die.”

“Or maybe she’s contacting your father, not because he was the lead detective on the case, but… because she believes he’d understand,” Gideon tells the detective.

“You think he knew her somehow?” Detective LaMontagne asks.

“Can you think of a woman in your dad’s life he helped through a tough time?” JJ asks. “Might be another police officer, I don’t know, a prostitute he helped get off the street?”

The detective shakes his head. “Nah, he hasn’t dealt with prostitutes since he worked sex crimes.”

“The unsub wrote, ‘he was asking to be ripped,’ ‘I just couldn’t help myself,’ and ‘he wanted it,’” Reid says.

“Wait, that sounds a lot like what rapists say to excuse their behavior,” you say. You turn to the detective. “You said your dad worked sex crimes? Maybe she was one of his victims.”

Reid nods at you. “Exactly. She may be mirroring the man who raped her.”

“Detective, where are the files stored from your sex crimes division?” Gideon asks.

Detective LaMontagne shakes his head. “They were housed in the same place as homicide. Most of them washed away.”

“Did your dad have a partner?” JJ asks.

“Yeah, J.R. Smith,” the detective says. “Smitty, they called him.”

“Maybe he remembers something,” you suggest.

“Yeah, but they had a falling out,” Detective LaMontagne says.

Emily frowns. “What about?”

The detective shrugs. “I don’t know. They stopped talking when he left sex crimes. That was nine years ago. The guy didn’t even come to my daddy’s funeral, so….”

“Do you have a problem calling him?” Gideon asks.

“Not if it means breaking this case,” Detective LaMontagne says. He looks down at the body, frowning. “Honey, may I borrow your hand for a minute?” he asks JJ. She nods. The detective uses her to look at the victim’s hand, where there’s a stamp. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“What?” you ask.

He gestures to the hand. “That stamp? It’s admittance into the Mon Cherie. It’s a bar in the French Quarter.” He stands. “Nine years ago? It was called Jones.”

“Bingo,” Gideon says. He turns to JJ. “Get Garcia on the phone.”

*   *   *   *   *

At the Mon Cherie, Detective LaMontagne leads you all towards a man sitting alone at a table. “Smitty, how are you?” he says, holding out a hand to shake.

Smitty stares at him. “I hope you got a good reason for dredging this crap up,” he says coldly.

Detective LaMontagne lowers his hand. “Well I was hoping you might remember being called here with my daddy nine years ago.”

“Is that a joke?” Smitty asks, glaring at him.

The detective shakes his head. “No?”

Gideon steps forward. “My name’s Jason Gideon. We’re from the FBI. We’re investigating the series of murders in the French Quarter.”

Smitty shrugs. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“We need you to tell us what happened the night you and Detective LaMontagne answered the call in this bar,” Emily says. Smitty just stares at her.

“Am I missing something?” the detective asks.

Smitty smiles, and it makes you want to take a step back. “You really don’t know, do you? After that night, your daddy tried to bring me up on sanctions.”

“Why?” Detective LaMontagne asks.

“It was Mardi Gras. Some girl claimed she was raped,” Smitty tells him. You grit your teeth at his wording and flippant attitude. “I wasn’t buying it.” You fight the urge to cross your arms.

“What did she say happened to her?” JJ asks.

“Brass backed me up,” Smitty continues, ignoring JJ. “They ended up transferring your daddy out to shut him up.”

“What happened here?” Emily asks, glancing at you with a frown.

“It almost cost me my career.” Smitty ignores her.

“Do you mind telling us what happened?” Gideon asks the question this time.

Smitty stands, walking across the room. “My best recollection, she said she was sitting at the bar with two friends. One of the boys asked her if she wanted to play some pool. Witnesses claim she was up for anything.” You grit your teeth again but say nothing.

“She followed him up here?” Emily asks as he gets to the stairs.

Smitty nods. “His friend not far behind. She knew he was there.” You bite your lip. “That girl was a tease,” Smitty says. You want to punch the smug look off his face. “She was looking for a good time. Anyway, a couple guys were going along with that.”

“Did she yell out for help?” JJ asks.

“She said she did,” Smitty says, rolling his eyes. “But not a single person claimed that they heard her.”

“That’s what you registered as a disturbance?” you ask incredulously, your voice coming out louder than you mean for it to.

“It was Mardi Gras,” Smitty tells you. “Listen to me, that girl had enough beads hanging from her neck to jewel a small city. Anyone who exposes themself that much in one day isn’t a credible witness in my book.” You flex your fingers in an attempt to not curl them into a fist, a habit you formed as a child when you would get upset.

“But she wanted to press charges,” Detective LaMontagne says.

“I told her it was a waste of time,” Smitty says. “I knew one of the accused. He was a good kid.” He shakes his head. “He didn’t need the stink of that accusation.” You grab the bottom of your shirt into a fist.

Gideon sits down next to Smitty. “So you protected a rapist.”

Smitty scoffs. “Well, that right there was a bone of contention between his daddy and I. As far as I was concerned, no such rape ever took place. Now are you gonna tell me why you went and dragged this dirt back through my life?”

There’s a pause, and then Gideon speaks. “You know the serial killed who’s cutting up men in the French Quarter? She was your victim.”

“We’re trying to find a name,” Detective LaMontagne says. Smitty shakes his head.

“You don’t even remember her name?” Emily says.

Smitty rolls his eyes. “It was nine years ago.”

“Okay then, how about the name of the ‘good kid?’” you ask. “You know, the one who raped her.” Smitty takes another sip of his drink, not responding.

“Smitty,” Detective LaMontagne says. “You tell me right now or I’ll file a new sanction against you, and I guarantee you, this time it’ll stick.”

“Ronnie Thibideaux,” Smitty grumbles.

You turn and stalk outside, where you allow yourself to clench your hands into fists.

“You okay?” Emily asks from behind you.

You turn to face her. “I don’t like him.”

She smiles softly. “I can tell.”

“Was I that obvious?” you ask.

She shrugs. “Maybe not to a normal person, but I am a profiler, and it was written all over your face.”

You sigh. “I’ve watched enough SVU to know how common his mindset it, but I can’t fucking stand it.” You kick a pebble. “Like, he’s supposed to help protect people, not victimize them further! God, I fucking hate people.”

She puts an arm around your shoulders as the others exit the bar. “Caring so deeply about other people is a good thing,” she tells you. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Gideon gives you a questioning look, and you nod resolutely at him. “I’m good. Let’s go interview a rapist.”

*   *   *   *   *

Back at the station, you’re watching from the other side of the glass as Emily and JJ talk to the rapist, Ronnie.

“Mr. Thibideaux,” Emily starts, “we need you to answer a few questions about a disturbance you were involved with in 1998.”

Ronnie looks at her, a small smirk on his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“At a bar called Jones,” JJ adds. “It was Mardi Gras.”

“Well, then, I must’ve been drinking some, because I don’t remember a thing,” Ronnie says, that stupid smirk growing wider.

“We just need to know the name of your accuser,” Prentiss tells him.

Ronnie shakes his head. “Look, I told you I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

JJ shakes her head. “The statute of limitations is up,” she says, rubbing her face. “We just need a name.”

“Someone accuses me of rape, I’m gonna remember her name,” Emily says, sitting down across from the rapist.

“Unless you’re used to it,” you grumble to yourself. “Probably raped other women, too.”

“Well what can I tell you, cher?” Ronnie says, slight agitation creeping into his voice. “I guess she didn’t make that good of an impression.”

“Oh, that fucker,” you seethe, fidgeting. Your cross your arms, then uncross them.

“Unlike yourself, right now?” Emily is saying to Ronnie.

“Y/L/N, take a breath,” Hotch says quietly from beside you, his tone soft.

You sigh. “I’m fine,” you tell him. “Just really hate rapists.” You refocus on the interrogation room.

“You know,” Ronnie says, leaning forward, a dangerous glint in his eye, “I’m guessing if someone did do something to that girl that night, then she was probably asking for it. Maybe even liked it.”

“Oh, what a fucking ass hat,” you say. “He’s not even gonna tell us a name!”

“Guy’s not giving up anything,” Detective LaMontagne says from behind you.

“Reid, after the double murder, what was the Ripper’s next move?” Hotch asks.

“He mutilated and dismembered Mary Kelly in her one-room flat until she was unrecognizable,” Reid reports. “It’s believed to be his most vicious kill of all.”

“He had privacy,” you say.

“And time to torture his victim before killing her,” Morgan adds. “Maybe we’re not too late.”

You shift your attention back to the interrogation room, where JJ is showing Ronnie pictures of the victims. “She murdered these men, and I’m guessing it’s only a matter of time before she works her way back to the one she really wants to kill.” Ronnie looks at her abruptly, alarm written all over his face.

“She make an impression now?” Emily asks.

Ronnie swallows. “Sarah Danlin.”

You turn and walk away, grabbing a drink of water while JJ calls Garcia. She’s hanging up when you return, water in hand. “We got her,” she tells you.

*   *   *   *   *

At Sarah Danlin’s apartment, the team spreads out in groups to cover all entrances. You’re paired up with Hotch and Morgan, while Reid and Detective LaMontagne take the back entrance.

“Sarah Danlin! FBI! Open up!” Morgan yells. When there’s no answer, Hotch gives him a nod and he kicks the door in. You follow behind Hotch and Morgan, gun drawn, as you check each room.

“Clear!” you call out.

“Clear!” Morgan shouts.

You meet in the living room. “She’s definitely not here,” you say.

“Guys, there are some ripperologists who speculate that Mary Kelly was actually killed in a flat that Jack the Ripper rented for the night,” Reid says.

Morgan takes out his phone. “I’m gonna have Garcia check Sarah Danlin’s credit card accounts. It’s a long shot, but maybe we can trace her room back to her charge cards.”

You look closer at the coffee table. “Look.”

“Souvenirs,” Hotch says, picking up a paper. “These are from bars in the French Quarter. This is from Mon Cherie.”

Morgan shakes his head. “She’s trolling for victims in the place where it all began.”

“She can’t move on,” Hotch says. “The rape isn’t the whole story. I’ll bet there’s a history of sexual abuse that contributes to her rage as well.”

“It’s almost like by taking on the Ripper persona, she was trying to kill something within herself,” Reid says.

Morgan’s phone rings. He opens it and puts it on speaker. “Yeah, mama, what do you got?”

“Sarah Danlin’s Visa was charged an hour ago at the Royal Ruby Inn,” Garcia tells him.

Morgan smiles. “Ah, baby girl, you never disappoint. Thank you.” He hangs up and looks at the detective.

“That’s two blocks from here,” Detective LaMontagne says.

“Let’s go,” you say, everyone rushing out of the room and back to the SUVs.

It only takes a minute to get to the Inn, and you jump out of the car as soon as it stops, following Hotch at a run. He quickly describes Sarah Danlin to the desk attendant, who directs you to her rented room.

Hotch kicks the door open to find Sarah Danlin standing over a naked man who’s tied to the bed by his wrists. She has a knife in her hand. “FBI!” Hotch shouts.

“Drop the knife!” you tell her.

“Drop the weapon!” Hotch repeats.

“He wanted it,” Sarah says, pointing the knife at the man’s throat. “And he got it.”

“Put it down, now,” Morgan says.

Hotch raises his wrist to his mouth. “We need an EMT tech right away,” he says quietly into the receiver.

Sarah looks over her shoulder, focusing on you. “What are you waiting for?”

Morgan shakes his head. “Ma’am, we don’t want to shoot you,” he says.

She smiles humorlessly, looking at Morgan. “Be such a shame to waste this. Do you want it, too?”

“What we want is for you to please put the knife down,” Morgan says.

“Come on,” Sarah tells him. “Don’t fight it.”

You shake your head. “Sarah, please. We don’t want to hurt you.”

Detective LaMontagne comes into the room, lowering his weapon. “Sarah,” he says carefully. “My name’s William LaMontagne Jr. You knew my daddy?” Sarah’s eyes fill with tears as Detective LaMontagne inches his way closer to her. “Hey there. You trusted him, so trust me.”

“Where is he?” Sarah asks him.

“The storm took him,” the detective tells her. A tear rolls down her cheek. The detective puts a hand out, slowly reaching for the knife. “Come on. It’s over.” Sarah gives him the knife and breaks down, falling into his arms. “It’s over,” he repeats, carrying her out of the room.

You immediately start working to free the victim from his restraints, taking out your knife and slicing though the fabric. “You’re going to be okay,” you tell him as the EMTs rush into the room and begin their assessment.

You follow the EMTs as they load the victim into a stretcher and wheel him out to the ambulance, breaking away from them when you notice JJ and Prentiss pulling up.

“Hey,” you greet them. JJ gives you a nod as she walks over to where the detective is leaning against his car. You smile over at them.

“What’s that look for?” Emily asks, following your line of sight.

You shrug. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” you tease.

She laughs before her expression turns more serious. “I just wanted to check in on you, make sure you’re okay.”

You nod. “I’m good. I just hate that rape isn’t taken seriously a lot of the time. There’s a quote, something along the lines of, ‘rape is the only crime where you have to prove the victim’s innocence.’ I just hate that that’s pretty much true. It doesn’t matter if the victim was walking around naked, as long as they say don’t provide consent, it’s rape.” You sigh. “I’m lucky enough to never have been sexually assaulted, but I know a lot of women who were. Well, you know. I used to know a lot of women who were,” you correct yourself, frowning. “Anyway, as much as I miss my old life, I’m glad I found a new family, too. The BAU and the Jeffersonian team are the only reason I’m able to function, really. I’m not sure what I’d do without you guys.”

She smiles, putting an arm around you. “You’ll never find out.”

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

A Strange Sort of Family

hi, resident evil fandom, i'd like to throw my hat in the ring

look, i don't even really go here, the fandom mold just got into my brain and would not fucking leave. this is my first time writing any of these characters so if they feel a bit rocky, please forgive me. my media analysis brain has been spinning nonstop since we started the resident evil brain rot and ho boy would I love to sink my teeth into a proper horror fic but! i don't know if i'm there yet so i figured i'd start a bit easier for me :)

also--we all know there's no way ethan's just gone from the franchise now, right? like, sure, he's dead, but he died like 30 minutes into re7 and that didn't fucking stop him

ALSO also big shoutout to @dragonsareaqueerthing and @greenninjagal-blog for the encouragement to actaully make the words go :) hopefully i'll be spending more time in this fandom now that I've got that ball rolling

Read on Ao3

Warnings: talk about events of shadows of rose dlc, nothing explicit, bullying

Pairings: implied ethan/mia/chris, but Ethan & Rose is the focus

Word Count: 10,919

You'd think after about 16 years of being treated like a child and the most powerful bioweapon the world has ever seen, you might get used to it.

Nope!

Not even slightly.

Sometimes a family is a molded bioweapon, a traumatized agent, a former bioterrorist, and a series of golden, sparkly words. Sometimes family is decorating your room with your mother, sometimes family is hugging a pillow because your dad isn't here anymore. Sometimes family is training too hard and going out for ice cream, sometimes family is a dinner where your parents won't stop teasing you.

Or, five times Ethan Winters was there for his daughter, and one time Rosemary Winters was there for her father.

1.

You'd think after about 16 years of being treated like a child and the most powerful bioweapon the world has ever seen, you might get used to it.

Nope!

Not even slightly.

Okay, well, maybe slightly, but only in the way she's able to shake off some of the lesser things that would've made her really upset before. She's no longer threatening the lives of the agents that call her Eveline, to her face or behind her back when they think she can't hear them. Even when she really, really wants to. Small victories.

But despite her best efforts, she still returns to the cell block of a room—Chris had been so insistent that it wasn't a cell, but it was all concrete walls and a tiny window and a camera that she knows is in the corner—and curls up on her bed, jamming her headphones in and refusing to engage with the outside world until she could summon up the resolve to impersonate a normal person again.

Today had been no exception.

Rose throws her backpack onto her desk chair and slings her hat over the hook, kicking her shoes off and collapsing face-first onto the bed with a groan. More tests today, always more fucking tests. Didn't they have every inch of her shitty, moldy body cataloged by now? She has half a mind to start making shit up when they ask her the same stupid questions. 'How are you feeling today, Rose?' Oh, you know, just getting stuck with more needles than a fucking porcupine, how do you fucking think I'm feeling? Yeah, no, no homicidal instincts yet, just had one murderous thought the other day when I was imagining mold eating the bitch who called me a charity case. Although I did go to the park after I snuck away from that asshole you have tailing me on Tuesdays to see if I could amass a mushroom army, how was your day?

A small laugh leaves her throat at the thought of the doctor's face if she actually did say that, but then she'd probably have two assholes tailing her until they deemed her 'no longer a risk.' God, they were supposed to be these super highly trained agents, then why the fuck do they suck ass at being subtle?

Turns out, even having mold superpowers means she still has to breathe like a normal person, so she drags her face up from the bed and doesn't even bother to fully get up to inchworm up to the pillows. She mashes her face against the slightly cold surface—honestly, the best part about this prison-cell-ass room was that the air conditioning was always on Arctic, so her pillows were always cold—and grabs her phone, squinting at the notifications.

One from school saying her group project deadline was coming up…something from some shopping website she'd logged onto out of pure boredom three weeks ago…and a text from Chris.

Rose sits up a little more and opens the text. "Overseas this week…sorry I'll miss the—you fucking dick!"

Of course Chris is working this weekend, of course he's not gonna be fucking here to take her to the cemetery—great, that means another two hours of bus rides until she can actually go see her dad. She swears he does this on purpose sometimes, how often does he actually need to go overseas for 'work?' And it's not like anyone else here would be able to take her, she's learned her fucking lesson about asking them for anything more than more fucking food. Not bothering to stifle her groan, she flops back onto the bed, only for her phone to clatter out of her hand and onto the floor.

Great. Now she has to move again to pick it up.

She decides that moving is actually not what she's going to do right now, letting one arm hang over the edge of the bed, her cheek scrunched awkwardly against the lip of the mattress. She tucks her face against the collar of her jacket and rubs her thumb against the ring on her finger.

"Sorry it's gonna take me longer," she mumbles, "I really wanted to spend longer with you this time."

Her eyes widen when gold sparkling words appear on the floor next to her phone.

it's okay

"What the—" she whips around to look at the door, closed tightly, and jerks back— "how—"

The words are still there. The words are still etched into the floor, right next to her phone. She should check if they're on the camera—no, they can fucking hack into her phone whenever they want, and she doesn't—she can't—if this really is—

Rose swallows the lump in her throat as the words shift and change.

you ok?

"I—what—how are—" she swallows again, camera in the corner of the room, "uh, M-Michael?"

A pause as the words reform: sure

"I mean, I—I know," she says quickly, "I know what—I know what this is, I…I remember, it's just…"

camera, I know

"How is this possible?" she whispers, not daring to move from her haphazard scramble up the bed, "I thought you were—I mean, at the end, when we, uh, did the thing, it seemed like you were…that you were going again."

The words sparkle again as she grips the sleeve of her jacket—his jacket.

apparently i'm bad at it

"Bad at what?"

staying dead

Another laugh chokes its way out of her throat and she reaches out without thinking about it, just to touch the words. They glow a little bit brighter as she touches them and the tips of her fingers glow. Almost as an afterthought, she grabs her phone and shoves it behind her, hopefully muffling the microphone and at the very least, getting its cameras away from her dad.

Her dad. Those are her dad's words, that's her dad, he's here, he's here.

"Are you—is this…are you really here?"

sort of, as the golden words swirl around, part of you

"What do you mean, 'part of me?'"

not a scientist

"You're the only other m—person like me I know, I'm sure it'll be fine." She can almost hear the little huff of laughter as the golden sparkles swirl again. It seems like it's the same as it was when she was in there, with her dad only able to say a few words at a time.

i'm part of the mold, just like you, we're sharing a part right now

"Are you always sharing a part with me?"

i wish i could, and she feels her chest hurt a little bit, takes energy

"I guess that makes sense." Her arm begins to ache from being so stretched out. "I really miss you."

i miss you too sweetie

Fuck, she's 16, she should not be getting this choked up over her dad calling her 'sweetie,' but fuck it, she's a mold person and her dad's dead, she's allowed to sniffle a little when those words glow warmly under her fingers. Some hysterical part of her wonders if he'd be able to give her a tissue or a hanky the way he gave her guns and chem fluid in there, but she scrubs at her nose with her sleeve and decides that it's enough right now that he's here, in her room, still calling her sweetie.

***

2.

She almost recognizes it the second time, a tug in her gut. Given that she's got her hands over her face and is currently doing a fabulous impression of an angry seal, it'd be harder for her to see it. Still, she can't help the dumb smile on her face when she rolls over.

bad day?

"Oh, you know," she mumbles, "just your average day of being a human guinea pig."

ew

She snorts, clapping a hand over her mouth to muffle it. "You know I get a look at their notes sometimes? That's what they call you, just your initials."

surprised they're still talking about me

"What do you mean? Of course they're still talking about you, you're the—" she cuts herself off. The golden sparkles swirl.

i'm the what?

"Never mind."

The floorboards wait expectantly, but she twists the ring around her finger, chewing on her lip. After another moment, new words appear.

can i help?

"With what? With the tests?"

with you

Another tug in her gut, this time at the fact that she can't actually remember the last time someone asked after her, not their biggest liability or their most dangerous weapon. She props herself up on the cold pillows—thank you, government AC—and sighs. "I'm just really tired."

i bet

"Like—are they bored? What do they get out of sticking me with the same needle fifty different times? And it's not like they talk to me about anything, they just look at each other and then fake-smile at me and they tell me 'you're doing great,' like I'm supposed to know what that means. And the other people aren't any better! They keep trying to train me how to do a thing but they're not—it's not like they tell me why we're doing something or what I'm supposed to be doing instead, they just tell me I'm wrong and that's it."

that sucks

She huffs. "You have no idea."

After a moment, though, she realizes that might not actually be true. From what little she's actually managed to get Chris to tell her, and what she can learn from Mom, they were both held in BSAA's quarantine for ages before they moved over to Romania. And if Mom knew about Dad's…not-aliveness way before he did, then they must've done some sort of tests on him too.

"Can I ask you something?"

anything

"Did they, um, did they test you too?"

The floorboards stay empty for a minute, but it feels more like he's thinking than it does him avoiding the question. Sure enough, after another moment, words start appearing again.

they did, they didn't tell me anything either, just that i was lucky

"Lucky how?"

to have made it, even when i didn't

"You did, though," she mumbles, fiddling with the ring again, "you—this part of you made it. Chris told me, Mom told me. You…even after you were…gone the first time, you…you came back. The important parts of you, they came back."

and i'm grateful for it, for you

"You're gonna make me cry," she mutters, scrunching up a little tighter.

i love you Rosie

"Shut up." It's empty and they both know it. A few extra sparkles swirl around and she could swear he's laughing. "I love you too."

Sunlight streams in through her tiny window and she finds herself looking at the way the leaves on the tree dapple the shadow across the floor. Part of her dad's words are still glowing. She looks at the nightstand, bare except for her charger and alarm clock, then over at the desk where her school stuff is, then at the dresser. She reaches out and touches the metal bedframe. It's cold underneath her fingers.

what's wrong?

"Nothing." The words remain and she sighs. "I'm just being mopey."

you're allowed to mope

"Someone at school said something today," she says before she can think better of it, and she winces at how young she sounds.

bullies?

"Not really, it wasn't even really about me, I just—it's stupid."

if you're upset it's not stupid

"They were just talking about this thing they got for their room, okay?" Embarrassment makes her curl her fingers into the loose fabric of her jacket. "It's this mirror thing that hooks up to your phone and lets you play music and stuff from there. They were just talking about it and I thought—see, I told you it was stupid."

There's another pause. The breeze rustles the leaves outside. The shadows dance over the walls.

do you want it?

"Not really…I don't like mirrors that much anyway. And it's not like they'd let me just have another thing that connects to the Internet in here." She glances at the alarm clock. "I barely got them to let me get a laptop for school stuff. I don't think they've got a 'Mold Bioweapon Allowance' in their budget."

The silence grows thoughtful. She turns her head to look at the floorboards again, watching the few sparkles there swirl around.

it's your room, they say finally, it should feel like it

Rose scoffs. "What am I supposed to do, walk up and ask them to sponsor a shopping trip?"

why not?

"They're not gonna do that. They're just gonna brush me off again or tell me they're busy."

you've tried?

"I told you, I barely managed to get a laptop, which is something I need to be able to do schoolwork or anything, even have a taste of what being normal is like. And even then I had to argue for like, ages, and I had to get one of my teachers to write an email saying that it's necessary." She swats the white pillowcase, bitterness seeping into her words. "Everything else isn't necessary. They're all about practicality, like I'm just some other expense they have to deal with."

what about Chris? or Mom?

"Chris isn't here. He's always off somewhere doing something or he's here glaring at me like I'm some stupid new recruit that he doesn't want to have to train. And Mom's…I don't want to bother her, you know? She's got her own life now."

she's your mom, come the words almost before she's done speaking, she'd want to know

Rose sighs, sitting up to lean against the headboard. She twists the ring around and around her finger, chewing on her lip. "I don't know. Sometimes it feels like she's…like she doesn't want to know."

Another pause. What her dad had said before, about them sharing a part of the mold—she can feel something in her chest. An emotion that isn't quite hers, something like a deep and exasperated sadness. It's faint, not quite enough to put words there, but she can tell when she needs to look back down at the floor.

she does love you, let her

"Okay. I'll try."

thank you

"Would you come shopping with me?" she asks, even when she knows the answer. "If you could?"

The room gets a little happier as the sparkles swirl around.

i'd spend all day with you

"What did you want to have in your room? When you were my age?"

telescope

"A telescope?" She laughs. "Did you want to be an astronaut?"

astronaut ew

She laughs again and the sunlight seems a little brighter.

***

3.

She meets Mom at a coffee shop near the big bookstore downtown. She's not wearing Dad's jacket—it still feels weird to do, even after Mom's said it's fine—but she has his ring on a necklace under her shirt. Mom waves her over to a table in the corner, nodding to the smoothie already waiting.

"Pineapple mango," she says as Rose sits down, "your favorite."

"Thanks, Mom." She takes a big drink, savoring the weird feeling the pineapple leaves on her tongue. "How're you?"

"I'm okay. Work's been getting busy again recently with the month's end rush." Mom swirls her straw around her coffee. "Did I tell you about this new thing our boss is trying to make us do?"

"No, what?"

"Apparently some young CEO in the area made it big on corporate social media about 'team building exercises,'" and Rose is already groaning in sympathy, "so he sent out this survey this past week about what activity we'd rather do."

"What were the options?"

"This group painting class thing, where we all paint the same picture—"

"Like in kindergarten?"

"Like in kindergarten," Mom agrees, "there's a bar-arcade place that's just opened up on the West Side that does private events, and then there's a good old-fashioned work dinner."

Rose makes a face. "That's it? No, like, crazy obstacle courses, or escape rooms, or anything?"

"We barely had the budget for the normal year-end stuff."

"So what did you vote for?"

"I ended up voting for the painting, actually—"

"What? Mom, that's so lame."

"Hey!" She jokingly flicks a napkin at Rose. "Lamer than the most awkward dinner you can imagine or sitting and drinking for a whole evening?"

"Isn't that what adults do? You sit and drink and talk?"

Mom sighs, shaking her head as they both laugh. "Yeah, well, I figured it might be better if we tried to do something that wasn't just sitting and drinking."

"I guess."

"Besides, I'm still missing something for the bathroom upstairs. Maybe I'll hang up whatever I manage to make there," she adds, winking at Rose.

It's supposed to be a joke at how bad at art she is—really, even Chris looked at her stick figures and struggled to find something nice to say, and Mom just laughed it off—but Rose's smile fades and she shuffles a little in the chair. She drinks more of her smoothie. Dad's words turn over and over in her head.

"Hey, Mom?"

"Mm?"

"Would you…" She fights the urge to reach for the ring. "Would you help me decorate my room?"

Mom's brow furrows. "At my house?"

"N-no, my…my room at the compound. It's stupid, never mind."

"It's not stupid, Rose," Mom says, picking up her coffee, "I'm just—I guess I'm just surprised. Most teens don't really want their parents anywhere near their rooms."

"Yeah, well, forget it."

A car drives by. Despite herself, she reaches for the ring anyway. Something warm pulses in her chest.

"It's just," she manages, "I don't really have anything in there. It's just the military stuff."

Mom's coffee cup hits the table with a thud. "What do you mean you don't have anything in there?"

"I mean, there's just a dresser, a desk, and a bed. And my little side table thing. They didn't really give me any—"

"How much time do you have?"

Rose blinks. "Huh?"

"How much time before you have to get back?" Mom's already getting up and putting the lid back on her coffee. "We're not that far from the big stores and I have my car."

"I, uh, I think I have a few hours, so—" she scrambles up too, reaching to grab Mom's arm— "wait, you're really okay with doing this?"

Mom pauses for a moment, then reaches out and covers Rose's hand with hers. "You're my daughter, Rosie, I'd love to help you decorate your room."

A lump appears in her throat and she swallows it down. "Thank you."

"Come on," Mom grins, "what are you thinking you want?"

"Uh, I was thinking maybe like a whiteboard? That way I could write down stuff that I might forget? Or like—a magnetic one so I could stick stuff to it?" She gets into Mom's car and they start driving. "Or a corkboard—I've seen a lot of people pin like, pictures and stuff to a corkboard on their walls."

"What if you get both? A corkboard to put pictures and cute stuff and then a whiteboard to write on?"

"I also want a lamp. The normal lights just make my head hurt. And they buzz, you know?"

"Oh, I know exactly what you're talking about. It's like the world's most annoying crickets, isn't it?"

"And there's no, like, in between! It's either no light at all or—"

"Or my eyes are being scorched out, that's right."

They pull into the parking lot of the store and get out, still bouncing ideas back and forth. Mom grabs a cart and they head straight for the stationary section and they spend about five minutes talking about the different corkboards and whiteboards. Then Rose decides she wants magnets so she can stick stuff to the whiteboard, then Mom spots a cute set of push pins, and then another mom and daughter walk by with one of those fancy photo printers that print out pictures from your phone like Polaroids, and they just have to get Rose one of those.

As they pick out lamps and wall decor and sheets that actually have some color, she's struck by how normal this is. She's with her mom. They're shopping for stuff for her room. They're freaking out over the pillows that have little penguins on them. She's actually smiling and laughing and she's excited. She can't wait to get back and put all this stuff in her room.

She just…wishes Dad could be here too.

"I think I'd prefer the yellow lampshade, but it's up to you." Mom looks up from the shelf to notice she's gone quiet. "Hey, what's going on?"

"Nothing, nothing," she says quickly, wiping surreptitiously at her face, "…just…I kinda wish Dad was here too."

Mom's fingers stutter on the box and for a moment, she thinks she's going to see those walls go up again, the ones that always go up when she tries to talk about Dad, but then Mom puts the box down and rubs at her wedding ring. She still wears it sometimes. Rose reaches for Dad's, under her shirt.

"I wish he was here too, Rosie," Mom says quietly, "he'd be so proud of you."

Rose swallows, and her eyes catch on a tiny monkey LED lamp further down the shelf. She picks it up. "I think he'd vote for this one, don't you?"

A hint of fond exasperation comes to Mom's face. "God, did I ever tell you what happened when he found out that you loved that little monkey you got when you were still a baby? He tried to buy everything monkey-themed he could find because he thought you might like it."

"Wait, really?"

"I had to get Chris to help me talk him out of buying an entire monkey crib for you."

Rose puts the monkey lamp in the cart. Mom smiles and they keep walking. They end up spending way more than she thought they'd be and sheepishly tries to put some stuff back, but Mom won't hear a word of it and bags everything up.

"Chris can help cover the cost if he's so worried about it," she declares as they pull back up to the meeting spot where the car is supposed to take Rose back to the compound, "anyway, all of this should have been done years ago."

"Thanks, Mom," Rose says, "I had fun."

"We should definitely do it again. I'll help you decorate your college dorm too."

Rose smiles and gets out of the car. It fades a bit when she sees Paul again, leaning against the side of the van with his arms crossed. She turns her back deliberately on him and goes to help Mom get all the bags out of the trunk.

"You're late," Paul says, like he has any right to sound like a smug, condescending asshole.

"By like five minutes. Open the trunk."

"What's all that?"

"Stuff. For my room."

"Well, I—hey!" Paul finally moves when Mom just opens the trunk and starts putting the bags inside.

"You must be the agent Rose told me about," Mom says, her voice saccharine as she dusts off her hands, "is that right, honey?"

"Yeah," she mumbles, "that's him."

"Paul," he says, "Ms. Winters."

"Mia." Mom holds out her hand and he takes it, Rose peering at them from under the brim of her hat. Her eyes widen when Mom yanks Paul closer to her, her smile fading as she hisses in his ear. "Call my daughter Eveline again and I'll break your nose, are we clear?"

Paul jerks in surprise, before turning his head slightly. "Stand down, it's fine, I can handle it."

"You can't afford to make a scene in such a public place," Mom says, her voice still perfectly even, "and Chris won't risk harming me or Rose. So you can start treating my daughter like a person or I can break your nose right now and Chris can clean up your mess."

Rose can't stop her snort as Paul sheepishly walks back to the front of the car and gets in. Mom watches him go before she turns around and says, loud enough for him to hear, "Make sure you send me pictures when you get it the way you want it, okay?"

"I will."

"And if you decide you want anything else, we'll get it next time."

"Thanks, Mom. I love you."

"I love you too, Rosie." She glares once more in Paul's direction before she walks back to her car.

Rose doesn't stop smirking as Paul drives them back to the compound. He slinks off with his tail between his legs after helping her get all her stuff into her room. She can't cover up the camera—and let them know she knows about it—but she can play her music out loud as she decorates, hanging up the little plants they found and pinning a few photos to her new corkboard. It still strikes her how normal all of this is, dancing to her music and putting up all of her new things, finally collapsing onto her now-colorful blankets with a laugh.

She texts a few photos to Mom, who responds with gushing reviews and excited emojis, before she rolls onto her side to look at the floor.

"What do you think?"

The words only take a second to appear.

it's beautiful, sweetie

"You were right," she murmurs, "it was really nice to let Mom take care of me a bit."

i'm glad

"Oh! I forgot to show you the best part!" Rose jumps off the bed and goes over to the far wall, switching on the fairy lights she hung from the ceiling amidst a bunch of fake vines. "Now the camera will just think the glowing is from the lights!"

Golden sparkles swirl beneath the soft glow.

you're so smart

"I mean," she blusters, trying not to show how pleased she is, "I was just tired of lying down to talk to you all the time."

i see, still clever

"Thanks." After a moment, she reaches over and picks up the little monkey lamp and her stuffed monkey, safely hidden beneath her pillows. "Mom told me you wanted to buy a monkey crib for me."

it would go with the onesie

"You got me a monkey onesie?"

mom has pictures

"I'll have to ask her next time." She chews on her lip, running her fingers over the seams of the monkey's ear. "I wish you could've been there."

me too

"Mom threatened to break Paul's nose if he was rude to me again." The light swirls as Dad laughs and she laughs too. "I'd kick him in the nuts too."

that's my girl

***

4.

"Stupid fucking dickhead," she spits as she slams the door, throwing her backpack onto the chair so hard it scrapes across the floor. "Fucking asshole! I'll fucking rip his head off, the fucking bastard!"

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a tiny sparkle from the floorboards, and she stomps over to the lights, turning them on. Almost immediately, golden words swirl up.

what happened?

"Your buddy Chris fucking happened!" Rose throws herself onto the bed and punches the pillow. "He keeps treating me like I'm some—some fucking gun that only he knows how to fire and I'm fucking sick of it!"

It had been especially bad today, too. Chris apparently woke up and decided yeah, today's the day I'm gonna be a total fucking asshole for no goddamn reason. He started them out sparring, which he never does, he always has them warm up first because it's important not to strain yourself, except apparently not today when she was thrown against the fucking ground three times before she could even open her mouth long enough to say hi.

Or maybe ask what the hell crawled up his ass that morning.

And then he kept fucking looking at her like he was disappointed! Like it was her fault she wasn't expecting to be slammed up against the wall or pinned to the ground by a man fucking three times her size and then grunted at when she winced in pain because that fucking hurt, you asshole! And he kept on saying these stupid little comments that just made her angrier and angrier and then he had the gall to be like hey, you need to get a handle on your emotions like he wasn't pushing every single fucking button he knew she had!

You need to be sharper, he'd said like he had any right to try and be reasonable as he almost dislocated her fucking shoulder, emotions make you sloppy.

Yeah, well, he could try being sharper when he was being bullied for no fucking reason.

And when she'd finally screamed at him that she was done, that she didn't want to fucking do this anymore, he had the fucking audacity, the nerve to scoff and cross his arms and tell her that no, she wasn't done, she was only done when he said she was done. And yeah, she hadn't really made the decision to rush at him after that, her body did that on its own, but he literally just tossed her aside like a fucking doll and then said she wasn't leaving until she could do the fucking stupid thing he wanted her to.

She tried. She really fucking did.

But she couldn't do it.

And Chris kept refusing to help, saying he'd been training her for so long already, that he'd wash her out if she were any other recruit—to which she'd screamed that she wasn't, so why the fuck was he being like this? And he didn't fucking answer! He just told her to try it again and he kept making her angrier and angrier and she could tell Chris was getting angry too which just made hers worse because what fucking right did he have to be mad at her? What the fuck did she do to him?

It ended really badly. She'd gotten so mad she'd thrown herself at him again, not caring about proper technique or what was smart or anything, she just went for him. He grappled her, obviously, and that was supposed to be their tap-out, fight's-over thing, but she hadn't stopped. She'd scratched him and punched him and kicked him even when he growled at her to yield, and when that didn't work, she'd bit him.

Chris fucking wrenched her off of him and threw her across the room and she heard three guns click.

They'd glared at each other, Chris holding his arm like it was a fucking biohazard, and then he'd stalked off without a word while agents forcibly shoved her back to her room.

She's panting by the time she finishes, glaring a hole in the wall right below where the words normally appear. Her hands still tingle from where she'd hit the walls and the pillows. She looks up when she sees the familiar swirl.

you shouldn't have bitten him

The anger surges up her arms and she clenches her fists. "That's all you have to say? No 'I'm sorry he was such a dick, Rose?' 'You didn't deserve that?' You're fucking defending him?"

i didn't say that

"I just told you that your friend, the person you told to watch over me and keep me safe was fucking bullying me for no goddamn reason and the only thing you can say is that I shouldn't have defended myself?" Betrayal steeps vehemence into her words. Her nails bite into her palms. "I'm fucking glad I bit him!"

he's trying to help

"How in the fuck is he trying to help," she cries, "by being as bad as the bullies in school? By treating me like a freak that needs to be kept muzzled and on a leash?"

you did bite him

She picks up one of the pillows and hurls it at the wall. It hits with a pathetic thwap and falls limply to the floor. It only makes her angrier when she sees the words calm down when the lights stop shaking.

"Don't fucking tell me to calm down! You're supposed to be on my side!"

i am

She barks out a humorless laugh and picks up the pillow, throwing it back on the bed. "You're not on my side, you're on his. I don't need you lecturing me too. Just leave me alone."

More golden words swirl as she turns away, throwing herself onto the bed and curling up tightly around her stuffed monkey. She chokes around the lump in her throat and wills herself not to cry. She'd almost cried in front of Chris today already, she won't give either of them the satisfaction of seeing her cry now. She won't, she won't, she won't! It's not fucking fair that Chris did that. It's not fucking fair that he gets to act however the fuck he wants and then she's the only one punished for it. He gets to go all over the fucking world and only see her when it's convenient to him and he gets to be an asshole about it.

Dad's not even alive.

A sob chokes out before she can stop it, and then it's too late. She's blubbering like she's a stupid fucking baby again and she can hear the echoes of their voices in her ears. All alone, poor freak Rose, crying like a baby who doesn't get her way. She's so weird, she's so stupid, she can't do it. She's useless, she's not strong enough. Just go away. No one wants you here. No one wants you. No matter how hard she presses her hands to her ears, they won't fucking shut up!

Maybe she should've fucking kept the purifying crystal. Maybe she should've left with no powers and had a normal fucking life. Maybe she should've just left her dad to—

As soon as the thought threatens to cross her mind, she recoils from it. Guilt and anger war in her gut as she nearly grows sick. How could she fucking think that? After all he'd done to save her, protect her, how could she think about something like that, even if it was in a fit of rage?

A strangled noise escapes her throat and the bruises and injuries from her humiliating 'sparring session' abruptly make themselves known. Her body screams in pain; her shoulders ache, the bruise on her ribs throbs, and her jaw feels like it's about to explode. She has the hysterical impulse to bite herself and she wonders if it would hurt more than everything else. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpses a glow coming from the floorboards now and she curls up tighter, burying her face in the monkey's tummy. Fuck it, she's been called overly emotional and childish enough times already, she may as well throw her tantrum properly.

It's like falling into the Megamycete again; she has no idea how long she lies there, wallowing in her own emotional turmoil. Flashes of the bullies, of Chris's stupid fucking face, of watching herself get tossed around and left behind…even stranger things like massive castles filled with screams and horror, creepy old houses that just feel like tombs, deep water and clanking metal, all filled with whispers of freak, dangerous, stupid child, not good enough. Everything is too loud and too quiet and she just wants it to be over.

When she finally manages to rouse herself from whatever malaise she'd fallen into, the sun has long set. Her clock shows that it's close to 10—that would explain why her stomach is trying to dig a hole in her intestines. The anger fled unknown hours ago, leaving her weary and wrung out. In its absence, she no longer feels like the bioweapon that she's supposed to be, only the scared and lonely child. It's cold. She's hungry.

There's still a soft golden glow coming from over the side of the bed.

Her lip wobbles. She doesn't want to face the consequences of yelling at her dad and throwing a pillow at him, but she can't stop the blooming warmth that he didn't leave. She crawls to the edge of the bed and peeks over.

i'm sorry Rose

She sniffles and rubs her cheek on the sheets. "'M sorry too."

you were right, i should've been on your side

"You're always on my side," she mumbles, "I know you are."

still

She sniffles again and tucks the monkey under her chin. "Why was Chris so mean today? Did I do something wrong?"

i don't think so, sometimes he's just like that

"Why?" She's ignoring how much she sounds like a baby, thank you. "It's not fair."

no it's not sweetie

Rose closes her eyes, basking in the soft glow of her dad's comfort. "Was he ever mean to you when you were training?"

yeah

"What did you do?"

broke his nose once

It startles a laugh out of her. "You what? Wait, what happened?"

he was being an asshole, so i punched him

She giggles again, both at the image of Chris's surprised face with a broken nose and at the fact that her dad got so angry with Chris that he punched him hard enough. A few more golden sparkles surround the words before they change again.

you shouldn't try it though

"Aw," she complains, mostly for show, "but you did it."

do as i say not as i do

She's quiet. After a moment, she lets her arm hang down to touch the words again. They glow gently. "I don't like fighting with you."

me neither

"I'm sorry. I was being a brat."

The words swirl up quicker than she's ever seen.

you were upset at something unfair, not a being a brat

She sniffles again, reaching over to grab a hanky and blow her nose with a sharp honk. She throws it over to the laundry basket and lies back down. The words have changed.

if you need to hear it, i forgive you

"I forgive you too."

rest

She nestles up against the pillows. "Will you stay until I go to sleep?"

of course sweetie, i love you

***

5.

Mostly Rose doesn't dream. She'll close her eyes and open them again and it will be hours later and it's time to get up. Most of the time when she does dream, it's weird half-memories that aren't hers mixed with something she does actually remember. She has dreams of a house with a red chimney being taken apart by little robotic goats, or of a crocodile swimming through a swamp filled with dead crows, or of bugs crawling over test tubes and dirty flasks. Some of them make sense when she digs into the files she's not really supposed to have access to, some of them don't.

On rare, awful occasions, she has nightmares.

She's been curled up and unmoving for who knows how long, desperately trying to feign sleep. The mold in her keeps prickling like there's something else in the room, watching her, just waiting for a sign that she's awake to pounce. Her white-knuckled grip hasn't wavered either. She dares hardly breathe; even though her rational brain knows there's nothing there, there can't be anything there, her entire body is screaming. She can feel the milky sweat beginning to ooze from her palms.

Something creaks.

She goes stiff as a board.

A creak, a groan, a rumble as the air conditioning turns on and she forces herself to relax, cracking open one eye to see that yes, this is just her room, there's nothing to be afraid of here, she's fine.

Her eyes land on the switch to the fairy lights.

The small and whimpering part of her lunges for them, for the warm glow of the light, her dad's words, in lieu of running to her parents' bed to be comforted. The other part hisses that the second she moves, whatever's lurking in the dark will strike. The monkey wheezes as she tightens her grip, staring at the innocuous plastic box hanging against the wall.

With a sudden burst, she launches herself from the bed, slapping the button, and curling back up beneath the safety of the blankets.

Immediately, the soft warm light chases away the worst of the shadows and she can peek over her shoulder to assure herself that yes, nothing is there, she's safe in her room, everything's okay. Golden sparkles are already swirling, a quiet inquisitiveness filling that one empty part in her chest as she lies back down. He's rotated his words so she can read them easily.

what's the matter, sweetie?

"Nightmare," she whispers, more into her pillow than anything else.

i'm sorry

She curls up tighter, trying to pull the blankets up almost over her head. The sweat's almost ruined her monkey—she's going to have to wash it again—and she wipes her hands on the sheet. The absence of it hits the cold air and she shivers, hunching tighter in the covers and sniffling. A sudden and sharp ache sears through her chest and she shudders, harder this time, only the top of her nose peeking out over the comforter. She's so cold. Not in the way where she can pile more blankets on and it'll go away—she could put the whole world on top of her and she would still be cold. This horrible, achy, exhausting cold that seeps into her bones and makes her want to cry.

what can i do?

"You said in your—in your letter," she hiccups, "that you'd hold me when I had nightmares, and—and sing to me until I went back to sleep."

But the words on her wall are just words and words can't hold anybody.

She wants a fucking hug, goddamnit. No one touches her anymore, not unless they're running some stupid test, or sparring, or escorting her roughly down the hallway like some—some prisoner. The last time someone touched her and it wasn't that it was Mom, telling her she'd help decorate her room and that was so long ago, everyone else just—just—

"I want to go home," she sobs and it lands like a dead weight in the still room.

what do you mean?

"I want to go home, I want to go back to that house you showed—showed me when I was in there, where you—where your memories are and I can actually h-hear you and it's warm an'—an' safe, and you love me," she cries, not caring that it's the middle of the night and she's talking to a wall, "no one here loves me. No one loves me, the doctors think I'm some—some experiment that's run too—too long and the agents all think I'm a l-liability and Mom's not here because she gave me up and Chris h-hates me."

he doesn't hate you sweetie

"He does! He does, he does, I can feel it." She hugs her monkey tightly to her chest. "He h-hates me for being the reason you're not—you're not here anymore and he hates me for reminding him that you're dead and he hates me for—for being like this and—and—and—!"

shh…shh…shh…

But he's not here and she can't hear him shushing her and she's all alone in her cold, dark room and she wants to go home.

don't cry, Rosie, it's gonna be okay sweetie

"It's not. 'S not okay."

The wall doesn't move for a moment, then it swirls again.

scoot back, i'm going to try something

Frowning, she does, shuffling awkwardly back until she's on the far side of the bed. The golden light swirls around for another second, before it writes itself on one of the pillows.

hug me

"D—Michael?"

i'm right here sweetie, i love you so much

With trembling fingers, she reaches for the pillow, touching the words with a soft gasp as they glow warmly against her still-slick palms. A sob of disbelief leaves her throat and she bundles it to her chest, burying her face in it. A soft scratching and buzzing fills her ears as more words write themselves across the pillow, but she doesn't pull her face away to read them. Not when this is the closest thing to hugging her dad she's been since she was in the deepest stratum of the Megamycete, crying over his dying body. Not when she's still so cold and the words are so, so warm. She tucks her face into the crook of the pillow's embrace and she cries.

The words don't stop writing themselves over and over and if she focuses hard enough, it almost sounds like her dad is humming.

She falls into a light sleep, not willing to miss a moment of actually being so close to her dad, soothed by his presence. Soon, light has begun to break through the window, the auto timer on the lights long since activated to switch them off. The pillow is all gross from a mixture of drool, snot, and tears, and she sheepishly tries to wipe it away when a small glow comes from underneath.

it's okay

"It's kinda gross."

my privilege, i'm your dad

"Still."

ew, remember?

A watery smile. "Thanks."

i love you so much, i'm so proud of you

"I love you too," she mumbles back, curling her arms around the pillow. Another set of words writes itself and she leans back.

do you really think Chris hates you?

"I don't know. He…he looks at me like he can't sometimes. Or like he's waiting for me to…I don't know, turn crazy or bad or like he's waiting for me to turn into you, almost." She rubs her fingers over the pillowcase. "He used to be nicer."

have you spoken since?

She doesn't need to ask what he's talking about. "No. He's been out of town again. He's supposed to be back, um…"

She leans over to check her phone, eyes widening when she sees the date.

"Uh, today. Shit, I actually think we're supposed to have a training thing today."

Before more words can write themselves, there's a knock on her door. She freezes, phone still in her hand, pillow clutched close.

"Rose?" Fuck. "It's Chris. Can I come in?"

be brave, says the last flutter of words before her dad vanishes, i love you

"…yeah."

Chris opens the door. Rose tugs on her dad's jacket over her pajamas and clutches the pillow in her lap. She doesn't look at him. He moves around a little in the doorway before he shuts it with a click. After a moment, the bed dips and groans under his weight and she sneaks a glance at his arm. Her bite mark is still there.

"Surprised they let you walk around before that healed."

"You didn't even break the skin."

It's probably meant to come off in a way that means she doesn't have to worry about it, but it stings anyway. She turns away again.

A car drives by outside.

"I owe you an apology," Chris says finally, his voice low and gruff, "I shouldn't have been so harsh. I'm sorry."

She doesn't reply, but she shifts to face the window instead of the wall.

"There's been talk of getting you moved to another squad," he continues, and her stomach drops—is Chris leaving too?— "and I thought…if I could prove that you were good with us, that we had it all under control, then they'd drop it. Leave you alone."

At the rustle as he shifts, she glances over at him. His jaw works and his hand twitches on his knee.

"I thought…" He trails off, then scoffs at himself, shaking his head. "I don't know what I thought."

He turns to meet her gaze and her gut clenches at the obvious guilt and remorse she can see there. She swallows.

"You were mean." Her voice comes out a lot smaller than she'd hoped. She swallows and tries again. "I thought you hated me."

"I don't hate you, Rose," he says in a rush, turning to face her, "please don't think that."

"So you're not trying to get rid of me?"

"Shit, Rose, no, I'm not trying to get rid of you. You're—I think Mia'd kill me if I tried, no, I'm just—" he takes a breath— "I'm just trying to keep you safe, okay?"

"Then you should've said something! I would've trained harder if I knew—we could've—I would've done something else, did I do something wrong?"

"No," he insists, shaking his head, "no, you didn't do anything wrong."

Relief begins to pool warily in her chest. Her grip on the pillow loosens and she scoots a little closer. "I'm sorry I bit you."

He shakes his head again. "It's fine. You, uh, you have good bite strength."

"Good bite strength?"

"Yeah. Your contact's really good." He gestures to the bite mark on his arm. "Got all of them in there too."

"Thanks," she says, laughing a little. Chris smiles and it's a bit easier to breathe. She gives herself a shake. "So, what's today? Weapons, sparring, how to punch boulders?"

"Actually, I, uh, thought we'd go get ice cream."

Rose pauses, looking up at him, blinking as if she'd heard wrong. "Ice cream?"

"Weather's gonna get cold soon, the good place around the corner's gonna close." He shrugs. "Been craving it."

"Yeah…yeah, ice cream sounds good."

"Great."

And before she can think too much of it, she throws herself at him and hugs him for all she's worth. She feels him stutter, not quite sure what to do, and then his arms slowly wrap around her, holding her just as tightly. And oh, she's on fire, Chris is big and warm and solid and he's holding her like she's something special and she's gonna fucking cry her eyes out if she stays here a moment longer and she's gonna die if she lets go. Chris lets out a noise of dismay when she sniffles and scoops her up, like she's a little kid again, holding her in his lap and now she's making a mess of his shoulder too.

She could swear she feels Dad smile.

***

+1.

"I'm telling you," Rose says as she lounges on her bed, "you're wrong about the cover. It's actually pretty good."

i like the classics

"Yeah, well, you're old and boring, so that makes sense."

:(

The sight of the old-fashioned emoticon frowny face makes her burst out laughing. "Oh my god, that's so lame. I don't think I've seen someone use that in years."

it's a classic!

"You gotta get with the times!"

totes dope fam

Rose winces at the immense amount of psychic damage those three words dealt, her neck protesting as she almost cringes it out of alignment. "No, D—Michael, just no."

lol

She tosses the pillow playfully at the wall again, laughing when another frowny face appears on both it and the wall. "Aww, okay, I'm sorry, here."

She picks it up and cuddles it and the frowny face turns to a smiley face. Lying back down, grin still on her face, she toys with his ring. It's gotten shinier from all the rubbing, except where she ties the cord around it so she can wear it as a necklace. She turns it this way and that, watching the sunlight glint off of it. As she does, she catches sight of the engraving on the inside.

Always and forever.

"Do you want me to tell Mom and Chris about you?"

The words swirl for a moment.

up to you

She pushes herself to sit up, propped on one elbow. The ring glistens as she slides it back onto her finger, turning it to and fro. "I don't know. It feels bad keeping something like this from them, but I want to be selfish about it too, you know? I kind of like having you all to myself."

it's not selfish

"And what if Chris thinks it's bad?" She twists the ring harder. "What if he tries to take you away from me?"

i won't let that happen

Her shoulders drop a little and she picks up the pillow again, cuddling into it. A few words write themselves across it just so she can feel their warmth and she rubs her cheek against it. "Don't you miss them?"

all the time

A melancholy that isn't hers hangs in her chest and she squeezes the pillow again. "Then should I? They miss you too, you know. I think they'd be happy to, you know, hear from you again."

The words fade and the wall glows again as he thinks. She lets him have his time, rubbing the ring back and forth, listening to the slight rattle it makes as it spins around her too-small finger. When she hears the familiar soft scratch again, she looks up.

they're happy now, i don't want to ruin that

"They're not happy," she can't help but say, "they still miss you."

content, then

"You wouldn't be ruining anything," she argues, "I thought—I thought I'd never get to see you again after I got out of there. The day I heard you again? That was the happiest moment of my life."

mine too sweetie, or my un-life i guess

The words glow brighter as her fingertips glow too. She gets up and lays her hand against the wall, smiling as their powers dance together. "I really think they'd be happy."

A pulse of warmth runs up her arm to her chest as the words shift once more.

when you think the time is right

"I'll tell you, I promise."

i'm so proud of you, Rose, i love you so much

"I love you too."

That time doesn't come on their terms, though, because that would be easy. No, instead it's when she and Chris are over at Mom's house for dinner and Chris asks a question out of nowhere that almost makes her spit all over the table.

"What?" Mom asks as Rose glares a hole in Chris's stupid forehead.

"I said," Chris says like an unrepentant asshole, "who's Michael?"

"Michael?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Rose mutters, staring down at her lap.

"I was coming to get you for training last week and you were talking to someone called Michael." Chris takes a bite of steak and talks with his mouth full, like an asshole. "So who is he?"

Mom elbows her, winking. "Someone you like?"

"What? Ew, gross, no!"

Chris and Mom just laugh and Mom elbows her again. "Don't worry, I was your age once too. That's how I reacted when my mom asked me about my crush."

"Michael isn't my crush!"

"Boyfriend, then?"

"No, he's not my—" she covers her face and sighs. "He's not my boyfriend, he's not my crush, he's not someone from school, happy?"

"So who is he?"

Well, fuck it, no time like the present. She pushes back from the table, muttering about using the bathroom. They wait until she's halfway up the stairs to start talking again, their voices low in that way where she knows they're still talking about her, but she pays them no mind as she goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. She braces her hands on either side of the sink and takes a deep breath.

"I'm guessing you heard all that."

The words swirl up right below the mirror.

yeah

"I mean, it's not like we'll get a better opportunity."

probably not

"Are you ready?"

are you?

She rubs at the chip in the linoleum and turns on the cold water, just to make sure there's no milky sweat on her hands. "I'm nervous."

me too

"No matter what happens," she says firmly, "no matter what they do or say, I'm here for you, okay? I've got your back. I love you."

i'm so proud of you, sweetie, i love you too

The words glow cheerfully against the weird tile pattern and she reaches out to touch them. They share a moment before the words fade and she takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders in the mirror and nodding to herself. "Right. Let's do this."

She marches back downstairs and Mom and Chris do a horrible job of pretending not to be nosy and expectant. She sits back down and folds her hands in her lap.

"I'll tell you who Michael is," she begins, "but you have to promise not to tell anyone else."

"I promise, honey," Mom says, miming zipping her lips shut.

"Chris, you promise too."

Chris looks at her for a moment like he's going to disagree, then he winces as Mom kicks him under the table. "I promise too."

"Good." She takes another breath and reaches for the ring around her neck. The second she brings it out from under her shirt, Chris's silverware clatters against the plate and Mom inhales sharply.

"Rose," she says shakily, "where did you get that?"

"Before I said yes to joining you," Rose says, "I met K outside the lab. He told me there might be a way to get rid of my powers for good."

Chris frowns. "K never said anything like that to me, what do you—"

"I'm getting there. He took me to the lab where there was a piece of the Megamycete, and said that—"

"He what?"

"Will you both just listen to me?" The two of them quiet down. "Thank you. So, like I was saying, he took me to see the piece of it and said that there was a purifying crystal that Miranda discovered that could take the mold out of someone. All I had to do was look through the Megamycete's index of consciousness to see if I could find it."

"That's incredibly dangerous, Rose," Mom says quietly, and Chris looks like he's trying to strangle his fork. "Please tell me you didn't—"

"I wanted them gone," she interrupts, looking at her Mom, "they were—I was just a freak with no friends. Someone offered me the chance to be normal, are you telling me you wouldn't have done the same thing if you were a teenager?"

Mom looks at her for a long moment, but she doesn't disagree. Rose squeezes the ring and keeps going.

"It wasn't that easy, obviously. It was…really hard. And really scary. I had to fight my way through these, like, twisted versions of the places in Miranda's village, like that big castle and the creepy doll house, and there were all these versions of me that kept getting killed and tortured, I fought a version of Eveline too—"

"Rose," Chris tries to say but she doesn't let him.

"—but I had help," she continues. "There was something helping me. It helped me figure out where to go, what to do, gave me a gun and taught me how to use it. There were these glowing words that would appear when I needed them most and it…it was like having a guardian angel."

"Michael," Chris says, and she nods.

"Yeah, I called him Michael. He—he kept trying to get me to leave, said that it wasn't safe, but I wanted to find the crystal and so he helped me. And then we found out K wasn't actually K and it was all a trap set by Miranda—"

"It was what?"

Chris is already getting up. "Is she still in there? Do we need to—"

"Sit down, Chris, it's fine, we beat her. She's dead now, like, really, actually dead. She crystalized and turned to dust, I saw it."

His face still looks like he ate a lemon, but Chris sits slowly back down. He exchanges a worried look with Mom and she puts her hand on Rose's shoulder. "You said 'we?'"

"Me and Michael." She looks down at the ring and turns it over in her hand. "Until I found out who he really was."

Mom gasps, a small and shuddery thing. She holds her hand over her mouth and stares at Rose. "Ethan."

Chris makes a noise too as Rose nods. "Yeah. It was him the whole time. He…he protected me. From Miranda, from Eveline, from everything."

"He loved you so much, honey," Mom whispers, her eyes growing wet, "he never stopped loving you."

"He showed me our house in Romania," and to her horror, she can feel her voice growing thick too, "with all his memories. I heard his voice, Mom, he—he wrote me a letter, did you know?"

"Yes," Mom says, trying not to sob, clutching her shoulder, "yeah, honey, I know. He cried so much while he was writing it, he wanted you to get old enough to read it with him, oh, Rose…"

She swipes a hand under her nose and turns to Chris, who's doing that big, tough, I'm-too-manly-for-my-emotions-right-now thing and reaches for him too. After a moment, his hand turns and covers hers. He's trembling. "He taught me how to fight, Chris. We—we fought together. He shot the monsters in the face with a shotgun and gave me his power so I could kill Miranda, once and for all."

Chris swallows heavily. "Your dad was…he was one of the best men I've ever known, Rosie. He would be so proud of you." He sniffs. "You said he shot them in the face with a shotgun?"

"Mhm."

"Yeah, that sounds like Ethan, alright." Mom laughs and it sort of sounds like a sob but she and Chris are smiling now, so it's okay. Chris looks back at her and nods a few times. "So you were talking to him, then?"

"Yeah. When you walked by on Tuesday, I think it was…yeah, we were arguing about whether the original Blade Runner was better than 2049." She wrinkles her nose. "He said the original was better but I like the remake."

Chris frowns. "What do you mean, he said—"

The words scrawl over Mom's dining table, illuminating their faces.

i like the classics, that's all

Rose would laugh at the way Chris almost falls out of his chair if his hand and Mom's weren't trembling. She looks at Mom, who stares at the glowing words, and at Chris, who looks like he's about to be sick.

Mom breaks the silence first. "…Ethan?"

The words move, now right next to her forgotten plate.

hi honey

"You're—you're—"

bad at staying dead?

Mom's breath leaves her like she's been punched in the gut. "Oh, Ethan, I—I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry—"

breathe, it's okay

She squeezes Mom's hand as she takes a few shaky breaths. "What—how is this possible?"

rose

"We're both part of the mold," Rose says when Mom looks to her, "he's…he's using my part right now, we're sort of sharing it."

told her i'm not a scientist, figured you'd get it :)

"No one uses those anymore," Mom mumbles and Rose whispers a quiet told you so! as the smiley turns to a frowny for a moment, before the words change again.

i know it's been hard, i'll always love you

"Oh, Ethan," Mom whispers, reaching out to touch the words. She gasps as a flicker of warmth pulses through them and Rose squeezes her hand again. "I miss you."

i miss you too

Another glow flickers up next to Chris, who startles and stares down at the words in shock.

you too

"E-Ethan, I—" he cuts himself off as the words swirl again.

thank you for taking care of my daughter

Chris swallows heavily. "She's incredible, Ethan. You should be proud of her."

always am

"I'm sorry," Chris whispers, and something in Rose's gut clenches at how close to tears he looks too, "if I'd been faster, we could've gotten you out of there, we could've…"

it's okay, Chris, we're all okay

"You're dead."

i died in 2017, doing pretty well considering

"He is really bad at staying dead," Rose adds, "Miranda said so too. You should've seen her, she was so mad at us."

Chris looks like he's having a hard time deciding whether he wants to laugh or cry. The sparkles swirl again.

she's a fighter, she gets that from you too

His free hand jerks and Rose squeezes the one in hers. "You can touch, Chris, he won't bite. That's my thing."

it won't hurt, promise

Chris takes a deep breath and slowly touches the words. His breath leaves him in a rush as they glow warmly under his fingers. Rose smiles as she feels the mold connect all of them there, in that moment, through her and Ethan. Some part of her clicks into place. As if he can feel it too, which he probably can, another set of words appears in front of her.

we're so proud of you, Rosie

"Yeah, yeah," she mumbles as she feels heat rush to her cheeks, "shut up."

no :)

Mom laughs. "We finally have all three of us together again and you want us to not tell you how proud we are of you?"

"They've got a point, Rosie."

"I'll break your nose!"

"No, no," Mom says as Chris squawks, even though she's still smiling, "no breaking Chris's nose."

even if he deserves it

"Hey!"

As they all laugh together, Ethan's words still glowing in the warm, quiet house, Rose sits back in her chair and twists her dad's ring around her finger. Sure, being a mold bioweapon teenager was weird, but if this is the family she gets to have because of it, it can't be all bad.

[of-a-chaotic-mind]

Curiosity Part 3 (Final)

Summary: Colby explains his situation to Reader and asks her to be his.

TW/CW: Mentions of murder, vampires, mentions of Reader being held at knifepoint, Mafia/Vampire!Colby Brock x Reader.

Requested?: No

A/N: I'm not gonna continue this series because after reading back through it, not only am I not 100% in love with it but I'm not sure how to continue it.

Part 1 || Part 2

(Y/N)’s POV

Staring at the floor under my feet, I attempt to wrap my head around the events that had just happened. In only a handful of minutes, I had been held at knifepoint, rescued by Colby, and then shocked when my attacker dropped dead at the sniper shot of Jake. I rake my hands through my hair before declaring, “I’m dreaming. I have to be fucking dreaming.” I look around at the silent bar. A few feet away, Colby, Jake, and Sam stand watching me. I bite the inside of my cheek as hard as I can but unfortunately, it hurts like a motherfucker and I am, in fact, not dreaming.

Colby and Sam look at Jake, fury plain as day on their faces. Jake shrugs, “Listen… indirectly it was either him or her because if I hadn’t shot him, he would’ve killed you and then her as well.”

Colby clenches his jaw, but Sam is the one who responds, “Not only did you out us to (Y/N) but now we probably will have a turf war on our hands before long.”

Colby locks eyes with me as Jake attempts to defend himself, “How are they gonna know it was us? Huh? No cameras, I checked beforehand.”

Not breaking eye contact, Colby holds his hand against Sam’s chest who attempts to launch himself at Jake exclaiming, “You etch your fucking signature symbol into your god dang bullets dumbass!”

Jake snaps his mouth shut before looking down at his feet, “Shit…”

Colby approaches me now, slowly as if he’s afraid he’ll scare me off, which he might, that’s yet to be determined. What am I saying? I definitely should be getting the hell out of here. I just witnessed a murder, not to mention the fucking zipping around in the blink of an eye means there’s definitely something off about these three. Yet, despite my better judgment I stay glued to my spot.

Colby stops right in front of me and once again makes my heart flutter as he lifts my chin with his thumb and pointer finger, “What are you thinking, Sweetheart?”

I swallow thickly before replying, “Honestly? I’m thinking I should get the hell out of here.”

“Then why don’t you?” Colby whispers, staring into my soul.

“I don’t know,” I admit, “A good mystery always has been my biggest weakness.”

He grins at this, “Where’s the mystery here?” He inquires, already knowing the answer.

I roll my eyes at him, “You’ve got to be shitting me,” I pull away from him and take a seat at the bar. Dropping my head into my hands, I tug at my hair still trying to make sense of the situation I’ve gotten myself into. “Let’s start with why the hell are there a bunch of people hanging out in this fuckin’ speakeasy out of a mafia movie? Or how about what the hell are you up tied with,” I accentuate my sentence by pointing at Colby, “that a strange creep in an alleyway knows and is afraid of you? Let’s not forget that your friend here shot the aforementioned creep and then in the blink of an eye I’m here which I happen to know is a good twenty-minute walk from that alley.”

Colby sighs, waving at Sam and Jake to leave before taking a seat beside me, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Fucking try me because, at this point, I’ve lost all sense of reality,” I challenge.

Colby chuckles before finding my eyes once more, “Me and my friends are vampires but to everyone else in the city we’re just a mafia mob type organization. The man Jake shot tonight was part of Red Gang who is our biggest turf rival and you live smack dab in the middle of their turf.”

“Okay… so I might have fallen for the head of a vampire mob… got it,” I mumble to myself.

“You know being a vampire means I heard that right,” Colby states humorously causing my heart to jump, “I also heard that,” he laughs flicking his eyes to my chest and back to my eyes.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?” I question accusingly.

“And you’ll be the death of me,” he responds reaching up to brush hair behind my ear.

I’m now keenly aware of how close we are, “That’s- That’s not possible. Aren’t vampires supposed to be immortal?”

I notice Colby’s eyes flick to my lips and back again before shrugging, “Everything and everyone has their weakness. Your’s is a good mystery. Mine just might be you.”

I find myself leaning closer, so close our lips brush against each other as I say, “I can’t just… I have a life. I have friends and family…”

“We can play normal. However, I don’t see any point in you keeping that shitty job or crappy-ass apartment when I can easily take care of you,” he states, now staring hard at my lips. His eyes make their way back to mine, “You can’t tell me you don’t want this.”

“You’re right, I can’t,” I agree before finally closing the distance and kissing him. His lips fit perfectly with mine as I run my hands through his hair, tugging slightly upon reaching the back of his neck. He groans softly, reaching to pick me up and place me on the bar. Before long, we begrudgingly part for air.

He rubs his hands up and down my sides and hips, “You’re mine now?” He mutters. I nod before returning to kissing him. This time I pour every ounce of feeling I can into the kiss and I can feel him do the same. The air is full of passion and need. In the back of my mind, my thoughts call me crazy once again but I shove them away and lose myself in the man before me.

Masterlist

More Colby Brock Imagines