#i just think that their songs are so necessary and the pain is okay

[l3monivy]

bears in trees just simultaneously swallowed me whole, gripped my soul and squeezed it raw, spat me out covered in blood and guts and tears, and embraced me all at once. we don't talk anymore is raw and i feel raw and exposed, we are flesh and bones but we are also people and we do not talk anymore and i miss you like the ocean but i am scared of jumping in the puddle. anyways thank you bears in trees for making songs that are honest and real and that do not shirk away from the scary uncomfortable feelings that are so much easier to simply avoid but instead say, this. this is what i feel, and i am human

[g0dlyunsub]

make you mine.

spencer notices that you’ve been skipping a few too many team socials.

pairing :: spencer x fem bau!reader

warnings :: romantic confessions, mentions of alcohol, mental health, hurt/comfort, plenty of fluff, spencer is a huge softie

word count :: 2.3k

author’s note :: don’t think i’ve written anything where reader and spencer confess their feelings for each other?? anyways here’s to more hurt/comfort 

accompanying song :: sugar by brockhampton

“who’s up for drinks at o’keefe’s?”

a loud cheer erupts as the elevator doors open and reveals garcia standing in front of the entrance with a gleeful smile.

“count me in!” jj raises a hand and emily promptly follows suit. the two giggle as they lean in to embrace the tech analyst festively decorated with bright red jewelry.

when rossi declares the first round’s on me! the room breaks into an even louder celebration, whistles and applause sounding left and right.

moving past the crowd with a few happy chants of your own, you finally settle in your seat and stretch. sighing, you shuffle through the pile of case files sitting on your desk and stuff several into your shoulder bag. you tie up your hair and take out a pen from your pencil holder. once again exhaling with a deep sigh, you flip through the remaining manila folders, ready to document all of the evidence after today’s investigation.

“you’re coming, right?”

you crane your neck to your left to identify the source of the voice and see morgan, hands on his hips as he scans your face for your usual smile teeming with enthusiasm. you offer a feeble smile instead, shaking your head as you point to the case file you’re working on.

“i’d really love to, but… this paper isn’t going to write itself.”

“oh come on, not again. when’s it due?”

“tomorrow noon,” you mumble, gently rolling your head to the side to relieve the pain that’s been begging for release.

“you’re kidding. well, text me if you need a hand, or if you just want company.” morgan pats your back and turns around to leave, but not without first flashing you a wink. you watch as he slings his arm around garcia’s shoulder and as the rest of the team follow the pair out of the office, each giving you a wave before they disappear into the elevator.

“you’re not going?”

you turn around to see spencer, who’s just coming out of hotch’s office and holding a case file of his own. he turns off the lights upstairs and walks down the stairs, stopping once he’s in front of your desk.

“oh, um, no. i just need to finish writing this up really quickly, and then i’ll head back.”

you brush a strand of hair behind your ear and turn in your seat to get back to work, but spencer pulls up a chair beside you.

“that’s the third time in a row you’ve said no to them. you okay?”

you sit still for a second, unsure of how to respond. when spencer leans his elbow on the side of your desk, you know he’s not going to leave without an answer, so you look back at him hesitantly.

“yeah, i’m good. what’s keeping you here?”

“i just left a request to take two days off.”

“oh, nice. yeah, you seriously deserve a break,” you nod and offer a small smile. despite your friendly expression, the tiredness in your voice overrides your genuine words. before you can expose any more of your sluggish lethargy, you revert your attention back to your documents.

“yeah, and so do you.”

you turn to meet his gaze. a serious expression overtakes his usually lax face, tense facial muscles raising his brows and clenching his jaw.

you don’t know how to dispel the air of its building tension so you chuckle, playfully hitting him in the arm and shaking your head. “oh no, that’s- that’s not necessary. i’m fine, spence. besides, i took a break pretty recently.”

you rub your forehead tiredly as you speak and cock your head to the side, as if waiting for spencer’s dismissal so that you can get back to work.

“you haven’t requested a day off in 102 days. that’s 2448 hours.” spencer lowers his chin and studies you with his unwavering eyes. you feel your heart flutter alarmingly at his stare; you swallow slowly.

of course he’d be the one to count the days, no, the exact hour, since your last break. you try to play it off again by nudging him in the elbow, but he looks way too serious, concerned even. your arm hangs in the air with no warmth to latch on to.

“do you want to talk about it?” 

when spencer leans forward, you feel your throat run dry. holding your breath, you weigh your next words very carefully.

“spence, i’m fine. i don’t need the time off.”

“too late.”

“what?” your jaw sets uncomfortably when you hear spencer’s response, and a hint of amusement flickers in his eyes before he quickly narrows them.

“it wasn’t just my request that i submitted. i put in yours as well.”

“wait- wait what?” 

“yeah, hotch just wanted me to leave a physical copy for the sake of documentation. but he approved both of our requests before we even landed.”

“hold up… spence, you just… why would you do that?”

surprisingly, you don’t feel mad. yes, he’s just submitted a leave request without your permission, but maybe this is what you needed. someone to force you to take a break, because otherwise, you’d just work yourself to your death.

“like i said, you haven’t taken a leave in 102 days. constantly overworking yourself is detrimental and can lead to burnout because of the buildup of fatigue. in the long run, it can impair your memory and thinking. so,” he says as he grasps the pen out of your hand and closes your folder, “do you want to talk about it?”

as if he’s perfectly hit your pressure point, the tiredness you’ve been masking this entire time instantly unwinds. you let out a deep, weary sigh.

“you know, two weekends ago, when we went down to south carolina to investigate that case? and i stayed back for a few hours?”

out of the corner of your eye, you see spencer nod.

“well, i met up with a friend from college. we just hung out, you know, tried to catch up with each other.”

when you emit a stressed laugh, spencer reaches for your hand. he gently kneads your palm, and you take it as a signal to continue at your own pace. you turn your head to the side so you can take in the sight of him more fully.

“as we kept talking, i realized how she has so many friends, so much fun outside of her work. she’s even getting married in two months. and i just thought… i honestly wished for a second that she was a little more lonely, like me.”

you close your eyes, instantly regretting your confession. are you really making him listen to your childish concerns? you wish he’d laugh at you, dismiss it as plain stupidity and tell you that you were right to keep it to yourself. but he won’t, because he’s spencer reid.

spencer watches you intently, at how you force out a laugh and brush the tears that are welling up in your eyes. he observes the way you shake your head and refuse to look him in the eye.

“i’m so selfish, aren’t i? this whole thing–it’s so stupid. what am i saying, what am i even doing, wishing for something so foul?” your face crumples as you speak, and the words trail off into an absorbed mumble between your sniffles.

“it’s not stupid. you’re not selfish,” spencer hums quietly, lightly brushing his fingers against your cheek and dragging his thumb across your eyelashes to sweep your tears.

a strangled sob spills from your throat, and you lean into his touch, burying your cheek further into his palm. spencer waits patiently for you to recollect yourself, and coos a constant stream of it’s okay in your ear.

“at first, i thought it was the job, spence,” you finally utter your broken thoughts with a dry laugh, “but then i saw how everyone else was dealing with it. emily, jj, garcia. and then i realized, it’s me.”

spencer swivels your chair and draws you closer to him, so your thighs are lying between his legs. like a confused puppy, you let out a small yelp of surprise.

“you need to understand, y/n, that it takes time to find your rhythm, whether that’s at work, with your social life, or just a new place. so don’t compare yourself to others, because we’re all worried about something, and we’re all at different stages of coping.”

his longing glance breaches your lips, and you lower your eyes shyly. his soft-spokenness, undivided attention, and effortless verbal magic read your emotions like an open book. you don’t have to hide. the tears fall, fast and hard.

“let it all out. it’s okay. it’s always okay to cry, but you know what’s not okay? bottling it up all the time.” he pats your knees and rubs his palms across your trousers soothingly. 

“bottling your feelings constantly, it’s what psychologists call repressive coping. numerous studies have found that repressive coping has been linked to a less resilient immune system, higher vulnerability to cardiovascular disease, as well as proneness to certain mental health conditions, including anxiety and depression,” spencer continues while looking at you sympathetically with his soft brown eyes. 

slowly, you coil your arms around his neck and hold him in a tight embrace. 

“you’re not really fair, spencer, you know that?”

“what do you mean?”

“you can’t just cite all these cool facts when you speak. i don’t have an argument to toss back at you.”

spencer pulls away from the embrace slightly, and looks down at you with eyes full of mirth. he bursts into a small spate of giggles, and it’s contagious, because you also exhale a bubbly laugh.

“i can’t help it,” he breathes quietly, and the air that exits his lips tickles your eyelashes.

spencer continues to watch you with the same stare a sculptor would possess over a block of marble, and breathes warmth into your body. you finally let your arms loose and withdraw from the hug, grinning shyly.

“let me finish this report, and i’ll head back with you. what am i even going to do with the two days off anyways?” 

“i was thinking that we could check out the steam engine festival that’s happening downtown? the 611 is actually the sole surviving member of fourteen class j locomotives produced by the norfolk and western railway, and there’s going to be special excursions reserved for interested passengers.”

you laugh as spencer happily goes on his ramble, and you go back to writing your report – this time with a rejuvenated spirit.

“be honest, spence. you submitted my request because you wanted someone to go with you to this festival, didn’t you?”

“what? no!” spencer shakes his head, but your suspicions only grow when he starts fidgeting with his fingers.

“if you say so,” you grin cheekily, “but i could really use a drink tonight. you coming?”

spencer nods. he waits for you to finish up your edits and sign off the last page of the document, and helps you pack the rest of your belongings into your bag. with a boyish smile, he offers you his elbow, and you loop your arm in his. 

there’s a lot to be thankful for, a lot to be hopeful for, and a lot to love spencer for.

“spencer?” you ask quietly. spencer hums back in response. 

you don’t know why, but a sudden wave of confidence washes over you, urging you to say your next words without holding back.

“i like you.”

you thought your years spent concealing your feelings for spencer would have culminated in a much more formulated confession, but it’s too late to retrace your steps.  

almost immediately, spencer looks at you with widened eyes. you’re almost scared he’s going to abandon you and run away in a nervous flight, but he stays put, his cheeks flushing with the shade of deep red.

“y-you can’t be drunk already,” he stammers and then abruptly chuckles, making you wonder if he’s just attempted to respond to your confession with a joke.

but maybe you are drunk, drunk from the hazy feeling of love and the highs of spilling the emotional torrent earlier. you furrow your brows and fix your stare on the office floor.

“no, spencer, i like you as in i really like you. like, romantically.” 

spencer hesitates this time, moving only to press the elevator call button. you think you’ve just screwed up, right then and there, because his brows shoot up in surprise while his lips thin into a line. 

but then slowly, he smiles, his hazel colored eyes light up, and his gaze darts left and right excitedly. 

maybe all of the stars have aligned perfectly, because the air starts to collapse in on itself rapidly, and he stoops down to press a shaky kiss on your lips. it’s unlike anything you’ve ever shared with him, so different from when he hugs you, when he ruffles your hair, when he pats your back. it’s so tender and he leaves you to glow in the warmth of his lingering touch. 

it’s only after he does this that you realize that you’ve actually just confessed to your coworker, the man you’ve had a crush on for so long, the reason why you show up to work with a smile. before you can second-guess anything, spencer grabs your wrist and pulls you in. it starts with small pecks, but then he works up to a bigger kiss; by the time the elevator arrives, you’ve fully melted into his arms.

“2190 days.”

you look up to meet his blissful gaze with your own love-tainted eyes. “hm?”

“that’s the number of days that have passed since i first met you and started to work with you. i uh,” spencer swallows, toying with the strands on his leather bag nervously. 

he opens his mouth, only to shut it immediately after. he looks at you with a shy smile, the bashfulness dimpling his cheeks, and then clears his throat.

“i like you too.”

[prythianpages]

A Field of Dandelions | Azriel

azriel x green witch reader | Your High Lady calls upon you. requesting a remedy that only you know how to make. It requires specific ingredients found between the courts of spring and autumn and you're in need of an escort. Unfortunately for you, she assigns her Shadowsinger to accompany you. The Shadowsinger who hates you...or so you thought.

“Please don’t talk to me like that.”

“Why?”

“It’s cruel and heartless and you don’t even realize.”

warnings: angst but with fluff at the end, mentions of self-hate/abuse. pretty much Azriel thinking he's not worthy of a mate.

a/n: I've been re-reading the Shatter Me series and there's a scene between Aaron and Juliette that drove me to make this along with the song Dandelions by Ruth B. The dialogue above is directly from the book Unravel Me. I used them as a writing prompt along with the general gist of the scene and added my own twist to it. I just wanted to put that disclaimer out there.

The door opens before you can even knock and your dear friend and High Lady pulls you into a warm hug. She beckons you inside with a smile and your eyes dart around the various paintings adorning the walls, finding that some are new.

Surprise etches onto your features when your eyes land on the Night Court’s Spymaster. He stands at the end of one of the winding staircases with his usual stoic expression. Still as devastatingly handsome as always. You drop your gaze as quickly as you had met his and if he notices it, he doesn’t let it show. He doesn’t seem to acknowledge your presence.

Your ears pick up on faint crying. It grows louder and louder. Turning your head toward the source, your eyes land on Nyx. Despite being in the comfort of his father’s arms, his little features contort in pain. You greet your High Lord with a bow of your head, noticing the exhaustion on his face that mirrors Feyre’s.

“Is Mor on her way?” You ask, adjusting the strap of your bag. It’s full with all necessary tools and equipment you need for your venture.

Feyre had requested if you could make a tonic to sooth Nyx’s aches while he’s teething but your apothecary shop was unfortunately out of the main ingredient. Dandelion root. Not just any dandelion root but the ones that grow in the soil between the courts of Spring and Autumn and given the current tensions in Prythian and your status as a former Spring court inhabitant, it was not safe for you to go alone.

“Oh,” Feyre says as she takes the babe into her arms. You coo at Nyx and he blinks up at you, his crying coming to a stop. His lips tug up into a small smile and he wraps a tiny hand around your finger. “She is unfortunately caught up in Vallahan.”

“So then Cassian is to escort me today?” You ask again, looking up at your friend.

You catch the way she looks at Rhysand. They share a look and you know they’re communicating to each other through their mind. It’s Rhysand who answers you this time.

“Cassian isn’t fond of the spring, allergies and all.”

The Shadowsinger steps forward and your smile falls. You turn back to your friend, who gives you a sheepish smile in return.

“Azriel will be escorting you today.”

You almost want to say no. The thought of being alone with Azriel makes your stomach churn with unease and something else that you can’t quite discern at the moment. But Nyx begins to squirm in his mother’s arms with a pout and Feyre’s eyebrows knit in concern.

“Okay,” you sigh.

“Thank you so much for doing this,” Feyre says.

“Our son’s life is in your hands.”

Feyre slaps her husband’s arm with a roll of her eyes. “He’s not dying, Rhys,” she grumbles. “He’s just in some discomfort from teething.”

She then turns to Azriel with a stern look. The corner of her lips threatened to betray her. “Be nice.”

**

Azriel’s shadows envelop you both, whisking you away to the forest of the Spring Court. It was the safest of the two courts to winnow directly to. The air in the dense woods hangs heavy with the scent of blooming blossoms and you’re thankful for the muffled sounds of nature as it provides a soothing background noise, saving you from the awkward silence between you and the impassive Shadowsinger.

Azriel walks ahead, his movements graceful and quiet. His shadows cling to him like the loyal companions they are but some hover over your boots, silencing your own steps. 

He finally breaks the silence. “You’re staring.”

You shift your gaze immediately and wonder if he can also sense the pink that dusts your slightly flustered face. “I’m just surprised you’re the one escorting me,” you answer honestly.

“It’s not like I had much of a choice,” he responds cryptically.

A slight tension settles between you, your heartbeat quickening as you follow him through the forest. “Right,” you say, your face growing pinker.

You shift the weight of your bag to your other shoulder and Azriel comes to a sudden stop. He turns, his hazel eyes scanning you for a moment. Without a word, he takes the bag from your arm, effortlessly hoisting it over his shoulder. 

The unexpected gesture catches you off guard, and a quiet "thanks" escapes your lips. “You’re being awfully nice today,” you can’t help but observe, a mixture of surprise and curiosity in your tone “I think this is the most you’ve talked to me since we met.”

Azriel’s lips curve into an almost-smile. A rare sight that sends a flutter through your chest. “My High Lady told me to be nice.”

“Right,” you repeat quietly to yourself as you exhale, a futile effort to calm your fluttering nerves. It’s almost embarrassing the effect Azriel has on you and as the butterflies in your stomach stir, you hope that the rest of the day unfolds quickly.

**

Mates. Two individuals predestined to be together, brought together by unseen forces and an irresistible bond. Azriel once wondered if he had a mate but after centuries of living, he began to wonder if he was simply destined to be alone.

When his brothers found their mates and he still hadn’t found his, he started to think he was far beyond the reach of love. It was a blessing he could not have. He didn’t need a mate, so he convinced himself he didn’t want one. Romance was not part of his duties and he was starting to come to terms with the fact. 

That is, until, he met you.

Nestled right on the outskirts of the area known as the Rainbow of Velaris was a quaint shop. The wooden sign above, engraved with dark letters spelling out Nightrose Apothecary, swayed gently in the cool morning breeze. Azriel had ignored the frenzied whirlwind of his shadows as he stepped into the shop.

Shelves made of twisted vines and wood were neatly arranged with rows of glass jars containing colorful powders, dried herbs and exotic roots. A friendly black cat, lounging on the sunlit windowsill, blinked at him in greeting. As he stepped further into the shop, his senses became overwhelmed with the prominent scent of lavender and chamomile.

Behind a worn, wooden counter is where you stood. You hummed to yourself, immersed in the book in front of you. He found himself unable to take his eyes off of you as you skimmed over the rough edged pages, your fingertips carrying an enchanting green glow and eyes filled with darkness. 

You were a witch but it was no surprise to him. He had heard about you. You were a good friend of Feyre’s. One of the few people she could trust during her time in the Spring court. When the Spring Court fell into chaos, Feyre had brought you with her and helped you open up this shop.

His steps were silent and he’s sure you’re unaware of his presence, so he shifted, parting his mouth to speak–

“Hello, Shadowsinger.”

His steps faltered, eyes widening for a fleeting moment.

When you finally lifted your gaze to meet his, his eyes locked with yours and something deep within him awakened. An exhilarating feeling like no other. He felt light. He felt alive. And he was almost afraid to blink, not wanting the feeling to end.

His shadows peeked out from behind his limbs, curious to see what had their master in a chokehold. They dispersed from his body in a thrilled dance as the darkness left your eyes, revealing their natural color. They’re beautiful and sparkling with kindness, even as his shadows disobey his silent orders and slither up your arms in a cool greeting.

“I’m sorry,” he found himself apologizing, a slight tint in his cheeks. “They usually don’t do that.”

“It’s okay,” you brushed off his worry and he felt lightheaded and bewitched at the smile you directed toward him. “What brings you here?”

Azriel can’t help but feel that you already know why he’s there. He pulled his gaze away, choosing to focus on the crystal orbs on the counter instead. “My High Lady recommended I come to you. I’ve been having trouble…sleeping.”

The green glow returned to your fingertips as you beckoned a small clear vial from one of the shelves behind you. It’s filled with a silver liquid that glistened as it moved, mirroring the twinkle of the stars that light up the night sky.

“This should help.” You told him as you held out the vial to him. “Take a sip before you’re ready for bed and it should quickly pull you into a restful slumber. Some say it even brings forth sweet dreams.”

Azriel nodded his head, taking the small vial from you with a gloved hand. He stored it carefully into the chest pocket of his leathers. His hands then dug into the pockets of his pants but you held out a hand to stop him.

“It’s on the house.”

“But–”

“Any friend of Fey–the High Lady’s is a friend of mine.”

His throat tightened as he realized it’s time for him to leave and he doesn’t want to. He’s caught in a whirlwind of emotions and finds himself torn between hope and fear. Or maybe he fears what it means to be hopeful because for once in his life, he wants something.

He wants you. His mate.

But as he thanked you for your kind gesture, he realized that the bond must have not snapped for you as it had for him. So he reluctantly went on with his day and when the sky darkened and stars awakened, he took a sip from the small vial. He had the best sleep of his life that night and dreamt about you.

The next morning he asked Rhysand and Feyre about what he had experienced because he couldn’t believe it himself. They confirmed his suspicions and they were both delighted. Feyre even more so as you were her dear friend.  

She had taken it upon herself to bring you two together. Her first attempt was a family dinner. It was going well until Elain had spotted a spider and upon the small scream she let out, Nesta had rushed to kill it for her. Your distress was impossible to turn a blind eye to and Feyre quietly asked if you were alright.

“It didn’t need to die,” is all you quietly said, your eyes lined with silver.

Witches were one with nature and given your niche with herbs and creation, Azriel realized the depth of your admiration for all life that night. Then, another harrowing one. You were so innocent, so pure. He was guilty, hands tainted and stained red. He didn’t deserve you.

The Cauldron must’ve made a mistake.

Feyre was undeterred so she gave it another attempt, despite Azriel’s protest. She arranged a night out at Rita’s for the Inner Circle and invited you. Azriel didn’t plan on going but Rhysand had made sure his schedule was clear and when Feyre had sent him an image of you in a skin tight dress, he came as quickly as he could. 

But it was too late.

He arrived to find a high fae leaning toward you in interest and you were smiling at him. A smile Azriel wanted reserved just for him. The male had placed a hand at your waist and Azriel felt his stomach churn when you laughed at something he had said. A sound he wished to be the cause of. You seemed happy and who was he to stand in your way?

The male was everything Azriel was not. Blond, blue eyed and perfectly smooth hands–hands that were all over you and welcomed by you. He unconsciously hid his scarred hands behind his back and when your gaze met his across the room, he looked away. 

Azriel was not worthy of you. He didn’t deserve to have you as his mate. So he reminded himself that romance was not part of his duties and convinced himself that the Cauldron, had indeed, made a mistake. 

He couldn’t bear the thought of being just a friend to you. The mere idea pained him so much that he pushed you away. He didn’t return to your apothecary when he finished the vial you’d given him–not even when his nights became restless again and dark circles appeared beneath his eyes. When he’d see you walking along the streets of Velaris, he’d turn the other away and when you would visit Feyre and he was there, he’d find an excuse to leave.

But there was one thing he couldn’t shake off–the primal instinct to protect you. It was the least he could do for you as he felt indebted to you for the Cauldron’s mistake. 

So when he heard you needed an escort to the border between the Spring and Autumn courts, he was the first to volunteer, despite Mor and Cassian also offering.

**

It’s as if the ground beneath you comes to life in your presence. Birds fly over you, chirping and singing a beautiful melody. As you pass, buds blossom into beautiful flowers as if enchanted by you. Even the animals emerge from their hidden abodes. The squirrels playfully dart between branches while a family of deer gracefully emerges from the trees.

It becomes evident that nature itself is captivated by your presence. and it extends beyond nature, weaving its magic onto Azriel as well. It reaches into the very heart of the Shadowsinger, casting an enchanting spell that even he cannot escape.

A blue butterfly dances playfully around Azriel. It startles him, pulling him out of his trance and you can’t help the small laugh that escapes from you. You raise a finger and the butterfly lands on it softly.

“Hello, little one,” you coo softly. You turn to Azriel, holding out your finger to him. “Would you like to hold it?”

“No.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you scared of a butterfly?”

Azriel does not answer your question. Instead, his eyes dart around the forest that still stirs with liveliness around you. “What happened to keeping a low profile?”

“Sorry,” you apologize, even though it’s not your fault. The butterfly grants you one last flutter of its wings before flying away. “I can’t help but be admired by many.”

Azriel lets out a hum. You’re too distracted to pick up on the subtle resonance of agreement, your eyes widening as the meadow finally comes into view in the distance.

**

You inhale deeply, flooding your senses with the sweet and delicate fragrance surrounding you. Time seems to slow and your worries dissipate away as you kneel down, gently touching the soft sea of green, white and yellow. The gentle sway of the dandelions is mesmerizing almost, their feathery plumes catching the morning breeze like wishes aching to be set free.

Azriel watches you and his eyes are a reflection of an adoration deeper than any meadow bloom. There’s a bittersweet ache in his chest. You close your eyes, a serene expression on your face. Strands of sunlight weave through your hair, creating a halo of warmth and Azriel finds it hard to breathe when your lips bloom into a tender smile.

Your eyes open and meet his hazel eyes and suddenly, he’s looking away. He clears his throat, eyes looking around the field. “What’s so special about this place?” He asks, a desperate attempt to reclaim the distance between desire and reality.

“All life is a delicate balance of give and take. Spring brings forth new life and beauty, new beginnings. Autumn leaves showers of gold, recognizing the temporary nature of all things. “ You answer as if it's common knowledge and upon the bewildered expression on Azriel’s face, you offer the simpler explanation:  “The soil between Spring and Autumn is very potent.” 

“These are weeds. They’ll grow anywhere.” Azriel deadpans. He regrets it immediately at the slight frown that forms at his casual dismissal.

“You may see a weed,” you begin, plucking a single dandelion from the ground as you rise to your feet. You approach the Shadowsinger. “But I see wishes.”

You extend the dandelion to him with a softness in your eyes that he’s never been on the receiving end of. “They say a single dandelion possesses the power to grant one-hundred wishes. But their beauty lies in their resilience because when they fall apart, they simply start again. A reminder to us all of boundless hope.”

Azriel hesitates, his gaze fixed on the dandelion. His gloved fingers brush against yours and for a fleeting moment, he wonders what your skin would feel like against his. The mere thought dares to send a shiver through him but he swiftly pushes the thought away.

You smile at him as he carefully accepts the stem from you. His shadows remain dispersed around the field but from where he stands, he can feel them vibrating joyfully. Your smile is so bright, so dazzling and for the first time since he met you, it’s all for him.

A sudden warmth floods through him, a sensation he never anticipated, and he finds himself utterly captivated.

“Make a wish,” you whisper to him, your voice a gentle prompt that lingers in the air like a spell waiting to be cast.

Azriel is not one to believe in things like this but he finds himself surrendering to the magic of the moment. For you.

Under the tender gaze of a field of dandelions, he closes his eyes. He lets out a silent breath, and makes a wish. A breeze courses through you both in that moment. The dandelion’s wispy seeds take flight, unraveling into a fine constellation of possibilities. 

The soft bristles of hope travel through the air and find their way to you and a laugh escapes from you in response to the tickling sensation as they caress your face.

Azriel’s heart feels strangely gentle–as if the weight that often accompanies his existence has momentarily dissipated. His entire body seems to soften in the glow of your laughter and a rare smile forms on his face.

He’s stuck in a trance, mesmerized by you, failing to catch the sounds of the creatures approaching.

Before he knows it, there are arrows whistling around you both. He barely has enough time to respond as one hisses by his ear and darts to you. He immediately raises his hand up, his shadows rushing to the rescue and forming a protective shield around you both.

**

Your eyes are wide as you stare at the tip of an arrow that is a couple of inches away from you. It’s coated with blood. Azriel’s blood.

Your breath hitches at the sight. There's an arrow embedded into his gloved hand and if it weren’t for Azriel’s other hand at the small of your back, you would’ve fallen backwards.

“Are you alright?” His gaze is examining you carefully, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

You blink at his words. “Are you alright?”

“Well, well, well.” A voice drawls followed by deep, rumbling growls from the hounds that surround you. They’re kept at bay by Azriel’s shadows. “What do we have here?”

Azriel turns around, ready to face the threat head on. His shadows remain at your side protectively. Some slither up and down your arms, their touch aimed at offering comfort and reassurance. 

“Eris.”

The red head smirks and his teeth flash when he catches the sight of the Shadowsinger’s injured and bleeding hand. “My apologies,” Eris sneers. “If I had known it was you, I would’ve aimed for the heart.”

A sound escapes from you–one you didn’t know you were capable of making and you step out from the shadows. It draws Eris’s attention to you. His amber eyes drink you in and you feel Azriel stiffen beside you. The Autumn’s male’s eyes land on the obsidian necklace around your neck and they narrow.

“What is a witch doing in my lands?” His hounds that are still surrounding let out another growl, prompted by their master’s tone of voice. They snap their teeth menacingly.

But you’re unfazed.

Perhaps, it’s Azriel’s protective shadows or the overwhelming anger set alight by Eris’s words that grant you the confidence and push you forward. Your eyes fill with darkness, resembling a night sky without any stars and Azriel can feel the energy coursing through your veins as you call upon your magic.

“Keep wasting the air with that breath of yours and I might just cur–”

A hand comes over your mouth, stopping you from saying anything else and you’re being pulled flush into Azriel’s chest. You grimace at the taste of leather and squirm only for Azriel’s arms to tighten around you.

“Cute,” Eris remarks with a hint of amusement but there’s an unmistakable fear that flashes in his eyes for a short lived moment.

 “We’re just passing through,” Azriel states, his voice void of emotion. 

Eris observes you both in contemplative silence. He must discern something in Azriel that prompts him to stand down. With a thoughtful hum, he gracefully turns away. His hounds follow suit and as he walks away, he calls over his shoulders: “Make it quick.”

You watch as Eris disappears into the forest, still wrapped tightly in Azriel’s arms. It isn’t until Eris is completely out of view that you squirm again and without thinking, you bite on his gloved hand. Hard. Azriel flinches and finally releases his grip on you.

You turn to him with a glare that he returns.

“Threatening to curse the heir to Autumn? Are you out of your mind?”

“I should curse you for stopping me!” You exclaim, crossing your arms with a scowl. Your gaze then softens as you quietly add:  “He hurt you.”

“Gods,” Azriel breathes, stepping away from you and tilting his head backwards. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“You mean besides piss you off by merely existing?” You huff as you snatch your bag away from him to get the jars you brought. “Can’t imagine it gets any worse than that.”

**

The walk to your apartment is silent and you begin to wonder if you should apologize for your outburst earlier. It was not within your nature to raise your voice at anyone…or harbor anger toward someone. But Eris had tried to hurt you, hurt Azriel and then shamelessly sneered about it.

Azriel follows you into your home, watching as you set the ingredients you collected down. He expects you to bid him farewell and kick him out but as you turn to him and your gaze falls to his injured hand, you sigh.

“Come on,” you offer, reaching out for his hand and he recoils. You frown.  “Does it hurt?”

“No.” 

You know he’s lying by the way his jaw clenches and you can’t help but notice that he appears to be repelled by your touch. You almost laugh. “I promise I won’t curse you. I actually never cursed anyone before.”

Azriel’s expression remains unreadable.

“Just let me see. I can help you.”

“I’m fine.” He says through gritted teeth.

“You’re bleeding all over my floor.” You say in hopes to get him to accept your help and when it doesn’t, you cross your arms against your chest. “Do you really hate me that much? To be repulsed by my touch?”

“I don’t hate you.” Azriel confesses and his voice is much quieter, much softer when he speaks again. “I could never.”

Azriel holds your gaze in contemplation for a long moment. Out of the corner of your eyes, you can see his shadows pushing him toward you so you try again. This time, when you step forward, your hand reaching for him, he doesn’t pull away. 

 “Sit,” you tell him, nodding your head at one of the chairs in your kitchen. 

With a hard swallow, he does. He is entirely still as you hold his gloved hand in yours. Even his shadows are eerily still as if holding their breath. His eyes are boring into you with an intensity that heats your skin. You bring your other hand up, a soft green glow emitting from your fingertips. With the help of your magic, you carefully take the arrow out, drawing a sharp gasp from him. 

“Sorry,” you say, turning your attention to his glove next. You use your magic to remove it as well, not wanting to cause him any more pain or discomfort.

As the green mist of your magic dissipates, revealing the scarred skin beneath, your eyes widen. The scars are extensive, streaking around his fingers and the palm of his hand and the bleeding gash in the middle is nothing compared to them. You lift your gaze to meet his only to find his eyes are dead of emotion.

“Azriel.” You breathe and it’s the first time you’ve ever addressed him by his name and it sounds so pretty, so beautiful but the way you’re looking at him…

“Don’t.” His throat feels tight and he starts to withdraw his hand from yours but you stop him. You want to know who hurt him this deeply. Today was a day of firsts for you–first smile from Azriel, first time you ever felt so angry, first time you growled at someone and you were more than willing to add another first to that list. Cursing someone.

But Azriel looks like he’s about to break so you push your rage aside. Realization dawns on you as you now understand why he’s always wearing gloves around you, why he avoided you at all costs before. Your heart aches.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” you say softly as you begin to heal his hand. “Your scars may forever carry their stories with them but they do not define you. Your heart does and I can see it now. It’s bright and beautiful. You’re beautiful and–”

“y/n,” he almost begs. “Please don’t talk to me like that.”

The gash on his palm is now completely healed and you tighten your hold on it. “Why?”

“It’s cruel and heartless and you don’t even realize.” His voice drops to a pained whisper and his eyes are fluttering shut, body trembling. Shadows cling on to him, embracing him in an attempt to comfort their master. You’ve never beheld anything more heartbreaking.

“Do you think that lowly of me?” You begin, your voice quiet. “That I would be put off by your scars?”

When he doesn’t answer, your free hand reaches for his face, lifting his chin up. But his eyes are still closed and deep lines form on his forehead because your skin is so soft, so warm and he’s not worthy.

“Azriel,” you steady your breath. “You’re my mate.”

His eyes shoot open, hazel orbs glistening with tears as he looks up at you. “You know?”

“I’ve known since the moment I met you.” You confess with a pained smile. “I wanted to tell you right away but I didn’t want to scare you and when I was ready to tell you, you were avoiding me. I thought you hated me because, well, I’m a witch and not everyone is fond of them.”

“But that night at Rita’s–”

“My stupid attempt at making you jealous,” you explain to him sheepishly. “I thought it would prompt you to talk to me but it backfired immensely.”

Silence falls over you two. 

“I’m sorry.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “For what?”

“For being your mate.” Azriel responds. “I don’t deserve you. My hands are not only scarred but stained red. I’ve tortured many. I’ve killed many. You value life but I take it.”

“I value innocent life. It’s my duty to protect nature–to protect those that cannot speak for themselves.” You clarify. “I understand that it’s your duty to protect this court. I don’t see you any different for it.”

The hand at his face drops and you use it to remove the glove from his other hand. Your hands grasp onto his larger ones and you lace your fingers with his, embracing the thickened and roughened skin. Azriel’s breath hitches.

 “This can’t be real,” he murmurs to himself, dropping his gaze. “In that field of dandelions, I wished upon every one of them. For you.”

“Magic doesn’t work that way,” you tell him with a smile as an overwhelming rush of tenderness comes over you. “It cannot create or destroy love. It can only heighten what is already there.”

Azriel’s expression softens and he looks back up at you. Half terrified. Half hopeful. “So this is real?”

You decide to show him instead by leaning down and kissing him. 

Azriel’s body relaxes and then he’s using his hands to tug you forward and onto his lap. He kisses you back. Deeply and desperately. He places his hands on your face, your neck and then they’re at your waist, slipping under your shirt. He wants to feel your skin, all of you and you welcome it, arching into him because his touch feels so good.

It stirs a light of desire in you–a desire so bright that it rivals the sun and blossoms flowers of its own. A desire to love and be loved. 

“What else did you wish for?” You gasp out when you both pull away for air. His hands are right under the curve of your chest and he leans his forehead against yours.

His breath is heavy but he smiles at you and you engrave the image into your mind because you’ve never seen anything so beautiful. You’re inclined to ask Feyre to paint it for you later.

“My only wish was for you to be mine.” He confesses, pressing a kiss to your nose.

“Done.”

And then he’s kissing you again.

Azriel has heard of a love that comes once in a lifetime–he’s seen it come to his brothers. He never thought it would come to him but he’s pretty sure that you are that love of his and he was a fool to push it away. He knows this now because when he gazes into your eyes, he can see forever in them.

here's an alternate scene, where y/n is the one who says "please don't talk to me like that" instead of az: read here

here's a scene if you're curious about feyre's reaction: read here

if you're interested in reading more about this au you can find the masterlist for this series here

[animehideout]

like what would jjk men would do when you’re in your period (like how he would help you and what would he do to cheer you up)

JJK Men When You're On Your Period

a/n: Thank you anon for this request, I hope this comforts you <33 . Remember to stay warm and hydrated, also I realized that dates ( the fruit ) really helps with period pain 💗

Warnings: Fluff 🌸 but Smut only in Sukuna's part.

Characters: Satoru – Yuuji – Megumi – Choso – Toji – Nanami – Sukuna. ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Gojo Satoru: Runs you a warm bath.

He would sense that something is wrong the moment he stepped into your shared apartment after his mission.

You're not all goofy and cute while greeting him.

You didn't kiss him or jump on him like you usually do, but rather you're glaring at him.

He would be so confused trying to remember if he did something wrong to upset you but nah he's the best partner.

“Babygirl are you okay? did I do something wrong?”

“My tummy hurts” you would whine your glaring expression quickly turned into a pout.

Without saying anything he would rush to the bathroom, gather your favorite bath bombs and oils knowing that they might ease your discomfort.

Would approach you gently and carries you bridal style

“Come on babes, I think a warm bath will help, hm!”

He would adjust the water temperature for you, not too cold not too hot.

Would undress you, and help you to slowly get into the bathtub.

A playlist of your favorite songs is a must to take your mind off of your pain while you hum along with the tunes.

Gojo would light up some candles for a soothing ambiance.

He'd bring a bowl of fruits, and feed you while you're relaxing in the water.

Gives your shoulders light squeezes while rubbing them with scented body oil.

After that bath, he had already prepared a towel to wrap you with.

Covered in your towel he would carry you to your shared bedroom like a princess, where he dries your body and helps you dress up into more comfy pajamas.

He's always touchy so he can't take his hands off of you but if you don't want to be touched then he would respect your space.

“You're not alone in this, I'm right here baby. If there's anything specific you need, just let me know, kay? Your loving man will take care of you”

Yuuji Itadori: Builds you a pillow fort.

The sight of you curled up on your bed while holding your lower abdomen, broke his heart into pieces.

He can't bear seeing you in pain, he wants to protect you from every thing so that's why he'd do literally everything that may cheer you up.

He would bring you a box that he was hiding, full of your favorite snacks and necessary meds.

“I got you a little something, I've prepared this 2 weeks ago, in case your period starts”

“You prepared this for me?.. you're the best boyfriend ever”.

“Wait here for me I'll be right back! don't leave the bed..if you want you can start munching on your snacks”.

Yuuji would rush to the living room, arranging a cozy pillow fort with soft warm blankets and cushions.

He would hold you and carry you in his arms to the living room, while you hold your snack box.

“Surprise sweet cupcake! what about we spend the rest of the day in our little pillow fort?”

He would gently place you and pull up the blanket to cover both of you.

His presence created a warm and inviting space within the fort.

“Here let me fluff up these pillows for you”.

He would let you pick up your comfort show and watch it while snuggling together.

Would stare at you in a loving way while you eat your chocolate and chips.

Checks up on you every now and then to make sure you're feeling less pain.

Kisses your hands a lot and runs his thumb on your knuckles.

“How are you feeling my little pookie? Need anything else?”.

Megumi Fushiguro: Cuddles you to sleep.

You'd find a difficulty finding a comfortable position to sleep, nothing helps with your period pain like being in Megumi's embrace.

He's an understanding man, he would give you some private time to sleep alone in your bedroom while he sleeps on the couch.

But the moment you call for him because you need comfort he would literally run to you.

Approaches you with a comforting smile, sensing that now you need to be buried in his chest.

“Let me cuddle you and drift back to sleep together, you want that, love?”.

He'd bring extra pillows to ensure you're surrounded by softness even though his body is enough for you.

He'd lay next to you, while holding you gently, an arm under your head as a pillow and the other wrapped around you pulling you closer to him.

“Close your eyes love, I'm right here”.

He'd tenderly give you a backrub, easing the tension in your muscles.

He'd let you toss and turn and shift positions to make sure you have the most restful sleep.

His arms will always find a way to cuddle you close.

He'd play with your hair, while whispering sweet comforting words.

Forehead and top of the head kisses are obligatory.

“We'll take it easy tonight, no stress no worries, just relaxation and warmth–oh you're asleep? sweet dreams my love I love you”

Choso Kamo: Makes you food and tea.

Wouldn't allow you leave your bed he'll bring everything you need or crave right into your hands.

The moment you told him that your period started he'd go straight to the kitchen and prepares your comfort food.

He wouldn't let you take any period pills on an empty stomach.

He'd pick some fresh vegetables and some protein to make a nourishing soup, something that wouldn't give you a stomachache.

He would cook with care and love, making sure it tastes good.

“I'm making your favorite soup and brewing some tea for you my princess, it will be ready soon..stay cuddled on the bed”.

Once it's ready he'll bring it to you with careful balance making sure everything is in place.

The scent of the chamoline drink wafts through air creating a cozy atmosphere in your room.

He's so attentive, he'll adjust the pillows behind your back for a comfier sitting position.

He'll place the cup on your nightstand while he holds the bowl of soup in his hand, ready to feed you.

The soup is too hot? he'll blow on it. Needs more salt? he'll ran to the kitch to add some salt. You need a piece of bread? he'll instantly bring it to you.

“Eat slowly and enjoy the flavours my princess”.

After eating he'll make sure you take your pills and then drink your tea to help you warm up and digest.

Tucks you back to sleep, while he watches over you.

“I hope this brings you a bit of comfort my princess, I'm here to make you feel better, I just wish I can take your pain away”

Toji Fushiguro: Give you a massage.

I mean look at his big hands, they do magic.

He can't just watch while you're in pain.

He'd set the mood with dim lighting, and calming background instrumentals, creating a tranquil environnement.

He'd prepare your bed, spreading a big towel over it.

“Come here babe, lay and on the bed and get comfy. I'll give you a nice massage”

He'd take off your shirt so he can use the massage oils on your body.

He'd crawl on top of you while you lay on your stomach.

His large hands would begin with gentle touches, softly rubbing the warm oil on your back.

“Let me know if the pressure is too much or too little”

His hands would reach the areas where you may feel the discomfort, like your lower back.

His palms going up and down your back, caressing the soft skin and pressing on some specific spots to ease the tighteness.

Would squeeze your shoulders and the back of your neck softly.

His hands moving and working perfectly, applying magic to take your pain away.

Would regularly check if you're enjoying the massage he's giving you

“Does that feel good baby?”

Would keep the conversation going to take your mind off of your period, his voice soothing you.

He would turn you around to lay on your back, so he can massage your stomach and lower abdomen.

His hands circling around your waist, going down smoothly, the tension melting away with each stroke.

He would kiss your tummy repeatedly to make you giggle from the ticklish feeling.

“There you go doll, take your time to get up while I'll bring you some comfy clothes”.

Nanami Kento : Buys you everything you need.

He already knows you started your period, since he keeps track of your menstrual cycle.

He would get off work early to be next to you at home.

He would stop by the pharmacy to buy your favorite brand of pads and tampons and some pain killers.

He would also stop by your favorite restaurant and buys you food.

Buys you a bouquet of flowers to cheer you up.

He would arrive home, holding a lot of bags full of everything you need.

“Here you go honey, I've got you a few things that might help. Period pain sucks”

“H-how did you know my period started?”

“These flowers are for you, you deserve something beautiful like you”

He's fully aware of your mood swings, and how emotional you can get so he always makes sure to make you feel loved and cared for you.

Would help you put on some fluffy socks, so your feet won't get cold.

Would sit next to you on the couch and turn on the TV.

You'd place your head on his broad shoulder while you munch on your food.

His fingers massage your scalp and play with your hair strands.

Would encourage you a lot, drowning you in sweet and comforting words.

“I know this is tough but you're so strong love, this pain will fade away... Just say the word, and I'll bring the world to you, you're my ultimate priority”

Ryomen Sukuna: Makes you orgasm.

Instead of pain in your stomach he would make you feel butterflies.

Orgasming helps with period pain, and who's more qualified than Sukuna to help you release?

He would be surprised on how bratty you were acting towards him, literally yelling at him for the slightest things.

He breathed too loud? you'd tell him to shut up.

He chewed food too loud? you'd glare at him.

He's got enough of you screaming at his face, he's surprisingly patient with you.

“Alright, listen here little brat ..this website states that orgasming can ease the pain and regulate the hormones.. get on the bed let's me stop this mood swing of yours”

He'd be okay with making love to you while you're bleeding.

What matters is making you feel okay and brings back the soft and sweeter side of you not the grumpy one that he's already dealing with.

He'd know exactly how to make you feel good and relaxed at the same time.

Drowns you with flirty and praising words.

“You're so good baby, you know that? come on let me help you release and relief your pain”

“I must admit it, you're strong.. Periods must be a pain in the ass but you're dealing with it perfectly”.

He'd make you feel much better, both pleasured and relieved from he pain.

He'd help you clean up and then give you the aftercare you deserve.

“Finally, I've got my sweet baby back, you've been acting like a brat for the whole morning. See how patient I am with you instead of slicing you in half”

He'd flirt with you, and use cheesy pick up lines to make you laugh.

Would snuggles next to you till both of you fall asleep with you on top of him.

Sukuna tends to be more romantic when you're on you're period.

Despite his harsh and intimidating nature, he's a softball when he's around you.

[vatelixx]

The visionary, the willing executor,

Spencer Reid x afab!UNSUB!reader (written with mid!seasons Spencer Reid in mind)

SMUT!! copious amounts of angst (there’s traces of fluff in there as well if u get out ur magnifying glass)

BASED ON THIS SONG (it got so stuck in my head that I had to write something that correlated):

──── autistic spencer (it’s not explored that much, but it’s always gonna be present in my oneshots), evil evil reader (im not being dramatic this time. she’s literally a serial killer. like her ‘body count’ is copious. but idk, she’s kinda sweet. if u squint and ignore the bodies). They were in love ur honour !!! they’re still in love ur honour !!!! She pays him a visit two years after he found out about her homicidal tendencies (they miss each other, Spencer might also hate her a little but it’s okay, don’t worry about that).

Warnings: sub spencer (aaaaaaalways), maybe perhaps some vague, very faint mentions of switch!spencer but idk i blacked out writing this, choking, mentions of death and general behaviour that would get you a life sentence, praise more than degradation surprisingly, coming untouched, crying (you’d think that was a kink or something?), she fucks the good out of him, hopeful ending (eh, kinda), mentions of dante’s inferno, copious amounts of religious imagery, greek mythology references, this isn’t dead dove at all i promise.

w.c: 5k

a/n: everything i write has been so angsty recently. i’m working on something softer for my next upload i swear (alongside the requests, I promise, they’re being written im just a die-hard perfectionist). aaaaanyway, happy (belated) halloween!! It’s Spencer’s favourite season so i thought i’d write him getting destroyed by a serial killer (god when is it my turn????)

────────────

Spencer would consider himself a good person, by default. It’s reasonable: a renowned member of the BAU, with intellect he’s weaponized for morality. The blood etched onto his hands is justified. Necessary evil for greater cause. He’s willing to blemish his skin for the virtue, for the lives of others.

He remembers naivety. He remembers being so fragile he could easily crack into fragmented pieces of wasted innocence. Maybe that’s been stolen from him now, maybe the ruins of his sacrifices are too sharp to touch upon still, but he’s good. He knows he will always be good.

And yet, there’s a bruise. Something ugly and distorted that stains his skin. Something that has the ability to crawl deep into his bones and leave behind a mess of pain. Something bad. Festering and tainted, it haunts him with every breath.

You.

You, who came into his life as an abundance of sunlight. Helios personified. Pretty and warm, and everything he needed. He wanted to kiss you: the moment he stumbled into the coffee shop, tousled hair, overworked and raw from a burdening case. When you took his order, marking constellations onto the styrofoam cup. Andromeda, Ursa Major, Cassiopeia. Later, much later, then when you became an indomitable presence to his apartment.

But for all the good he’s preserved, Spencer knows he’s not allowed to receive it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” is the first thing he says when he finds you waiting for him. He always knew you would come back; you’re bound to follow him indefinitely. Like his shadow, his guilty consciousness, his cracked past of addiction and pre-pubescent torment.

He let you go. When the act was over, the curtain drawn, when he saw you. Homicidal, the perpetrator of the case he was working on, malevolence packed into the frame of perfection, oh even still, he let you go. Free to continue the cycle of death, he was left to scramble in the mess of his own misguided heart.

There’s risk in reward, and reward in risk. You’re meticulous, hedonistic to the last detail. But Spencer? Well, he will always be the one loose end you could never quite force yourself to clean up. The thread that kept untangling, even as time passed. Cut it off, you should be rational, wash every bleeding trace of him from your skin.

But there’s irrationality in love.

Blood adorns your features; there’s no need to touch up your appearance, to return to the domesticated facade you once used on him. No, he’s been exposed to the ugly now. There can be no do overs, no back-tracking, game over try again doesn’t exist in real time.

“What are you going to do about it?” you ask, and god, hes just as beautiful as the day you left him. So perfectly real, with dragging exhaustion and pretty brown eyes to ease the sting of his tight-faced, troubled expression.

You didn’t cut the phone lines, nor move the gun he keeps stashed in his cabinet drawer. Down the hall, to the left. You know he won’t make any abrupt actions. Know, in an intuitive way, telepathic communication between past lovers.

“It was a gamble coming here, aren’t you pleased to see me pretty boy?”

Spencer has to fight every urge he has, every moral he believes in to not lunge at you; to not strangle your slender neck, crack you in half, destroy you the way you’ve destroyed his sanity.

Two years, 8 months, 11 days since you cataclysmically uprooted his routined life. He fell in love with softness, not the jagged edge of a blade.

“I let you go. Wasn’t that enough?” it feels too natural, fighting in his apartment, some sort of twisted lovers quarrel. There’s a definite list of everything he should do in this moment, and despite all logic, he just blanks at the sight of you.

“You had to come back. Rub salt in the wound. Do you get off on this?” a sigh falls from his pretty lips, “Actually, don’t— don’t answer that. We both know the answer.”

“I get off on you,” you correct.

It’s true. If he was to analyse you, profile your warped brain like his other unsubs, he’d find nothing but unyielding loyalty to him. For all the damage you’ve done, there’s always been one anomaly to your detachment.

He stands right before you.

And, sure, maybe you’ve got a leg up in this situation. Perhaps the distorted memory of you holds him back: lazy nights and tangled sheets, his body pressed up against yours. The way he’d talk, quantum physics, philosophy, rambles that dissolved into open admissions of feelings. There’s a lot that was fake, but to be a good liar, you have to add subsidiary details of truth.

God, he wishes the world would be cruel—a cosmic alignment of karmic righteousness that would grant him relief: some kind of justification for what he must do. But the universe is indifferent, nothing but a distant star, a fleeting speck of dust in the grand scheme of life. There’s no such thing as good or bad, only consequences.

Consequences. Consequences for his actions. Butterfly effect. He can comprehend it. But, there were many things he adored about you, while the illusion of love was tangible. The way your hair would curl just above your shoulders, your skin in the morning light. The way you’d laugh at one of his obscure Star Trek references, better yet his criticism on modern, inaccurate horror. He could stare at you for eons, as though he was trying to make out the secrets of the universe in the constellation lines of your scars.

The illusion of love, as it was. He sees you now with the clarity of reality, the same way a mirage fades away as you approach; a distortion of perception.

“And you get off on me. Even now. Don’t you?” you say, shifting forward to close gravitational space.

There’s no way to disregard this morbid connection. No psychological justification he can exploit to demean your feelings. You’re not a psychopath, nor anything that relates to a lack of empathy. You feel— you feel empathy for all of your victims, the line of bodies that mark your path. But it goes deeper than that. There was reasoning for your actions, just as there was for his.

“Say it,” you goad. And there’s satisfaction here, sure. Something mean and condescending. But there’s also hurt, because he was supposed to be a means to an end, and now, he might very well be your end.

“Say you miss me. C’mon boy genius, a few little words and i’ll have enough content to satisfy me for years. Don’t be mean— you know I hate being edged.”

He does miss you, every day that he wakes up, his bones too hollow and cold to leave his bed. The ache in his chest where his heart was supposed to be, too empty to function. No amount of caffeine can fill the void in his skull where thoughts of you used to reside. The longing, the desire for the past to rewrite itself.

“You’re sick,” he tries. But he’s not good at this. Not when the love remained after the inevitable fall out, not when the darkest parts of him still clung to want, even after he realised the truth.

“You’re sick, and..” he tries again, “and I hate how much I miss you. There? Is that enough? Are you happy? Got what you wanted?”

You let out an exasperated sigh, “No. If I ‘got what I wanted’, I would still have you.”

Spencer dies. Metaphorically, literally, what does it even matter? He dies, respawns, and then kisses the admittance from your lips.

Instinctively, just like the past, your hands tangle through his hair, and perhaps there’s a sense of ownership to the gesture. The knowledge that he will always be yours. Scarred from your touch, returning to your lips like a dog with a bird. There’s a mindless attempt at anger on his part, biting lips and rough teeth, but just like always, he quickly melts.

He melts, and you catch him. Because for all it’s worth, lies and deceit aside, you’ve always loved him.

There’s something powerful to the gesture; knowing you have someone wrapped around your finger. Even after you’ve bared the worst of you, the ugliness of man-kind. There’s someone out there that will wipe the blood from your cheek, and kiss you through it.

“Oh, even better,” you mutter against his lips, “Much, much better. C’mon Spence, show me just how much you’ve missed me.”

Two years, 8 months, 11 days since he felt like he could breathe.

It hurts, it hurts so much, because there’s a sense of coming home to the kiss, and he just wants you to stay. To ruin him forever. To leave behind a deformed version of him, something unrecognisable and equally scarring.

You’re too loyal and he’s too susceptible to any form of attention. Because you want him, and it’s easy to fall into a cyclical cycle of self-destruction when you’re the catalyst.

“I did miss you.” he admits again. “You— crazy, homicidal excuse of a person.”

Spencer’s hand comes up to touch your cheek, the rough texture of skin meeting something soft. His thumb traces down the curvature of your jawline, a silent hello that doesn’t linger long, too soon to be replaced with his lips.

You push him back against the wall, a painful groan escaping your lips when you feel his hips canting forward, searching aimlessly for a friction you’ve both been denied. Two years. His body still aches for you. It’s primal, something perverted and tainted and so very good.

You knew this would happen. There was not a doubt in your clouded mind that he would deny you. What you do to me, I do to you.

“There’s my boy.” you mutter when you grip said hips, fingers finding their natural, fated position against divine bone. When he begins to find a stable pace, bucking up to meet you with every kiss that you press to his lips.

He whimpers when you touch him, soft sounds of need slipping past his parted lips into the confines of his empty apartment. He’s trying so hard to maintain composure, but he can’t find it in him to fight the inevitable. The ache of separation between himself and you. So he lets it happen, like he always does.

My boy, the possession goes straight to his head. One simple phrase and he’s untangling, breaking to pieces because yes, he is yours. And yes, he will forever want to be reminded.

“Mhm, mhm. Oh— oh, fuck.” he’s so hard, clothed cock pushing up against you with every movement. He could get off on less of you. He has. Every night.

And yes, it certainly feels like home. It’s only the thing your body has been aimlessly yearning for, day in and day out. It’s not fair, not fair to you, that you’ve allowed your resolve to crumble, your strategic, one-track mind, for the fleeting body of a past lover.

But then again, demeaning him to a past lover doesn’t even begin to articulate this.

You’re fairly certain he was put on this earth, just to torment you.

And you’re fairly certain you’ll always let him.

“God, you’re such a slut for me.” you say, drawing back from the friction just to prove your point. The disintegrating whimpers that bleed out of his mouth in response are enough alone to confirm.

His head falls back against the wall, baring that lovely length of his neck and its pretty bruises. He wants you to kiss him there, to leave one last mark before he says ‘I won’t see you again’ and means it this time.

“Don’t— don’t stop—” even as he speaks, a mess of jumbled words and breathless sentences, you’re still teasing him. He hates how much it works, how much he’d rather fall into the pleasure of your hands.

“Fine. Whatever. Yes. What do you want to hear? That it’s whorish the way I want you. That you’re able to just… corrupt me with all these dirty words, even though I have an extensive vocabulary. Even though i’m supposed to be—“

He’s not even sure what he’s supposed to be anymore.

“You know the extent of my devotion.” he concedes.

There will always be sadistic pleasure in reducing him to such an ignominious version of himself. You’ve seen it before, back when you were trapped in an artificial, yet domesticated, haze of bliss. But to hear it now? Even after everything has been said and done?

That’s a new type of pleasure.

You know he still holds onto the facade of you, aimlessly reaching for something intangible, something that never truly existed. “You want me to be good for you, huh? Just pack up my shit, leave it all behind, get better? Think about it. White picket fence. Coffee every morning. God— it would be insufferable. Coming home to feed the dogs, talking every night over the phone, begging you to be safe on a case, or or—“

Spencer breaks. Silencing your words with a pained whimper.

Usually, he doesn’t allow himself to think about that fantastical hypothetic. He can’t afford to. Months after he let you go, when the truth had been exposed to his naive eyes, he’d spend hours in a mess of aching limbs, dreaming up alternative realities where your hands weren’t stained from blood, and the most despicable thing you could do was make his coffee bitter.

So when you force him to open old wounds, to rehash past hopes, he falls apart. A whine escapes his lips, hips bucking, once, twice and then he’s coming untouched. Making a mess out of himself— and it’s sick, so very sick to get off on the thought of you permanent, the epitome of good.

Something he could hold onto without slicing open skin.

It’s not a good orgasm, it never is without your direct help, but at least it’s some form of release. In the aftermath, he blinks away tears, vaguely aware of the cum staining his boxers, creating damp spots through fabric.

There’s something painful, cutting to your gaze when you look at him. At the debauched sight, corrupted from just a few words.

Give it all up? For what? Him?

All things considered, it’s tempting.

“Spencer,” you mutter in the serrated moments between. When he’s still nebulous, caught in the aftershocks of abrupt pleasure. When he’s just gotten off, untouched, on the notion of a domesticated life with you.

He’s struggling to breathe. He’s spent nights gasping for you, reduced to the most debasing version of himself. So out of touch, you drove a blade through his back, catching his heart on the way.

“Why are you— doing this?” he asks, but before you can even answer, provide him with an explanation that will devastate, he’s lunging forward, kissing the lies that cling to your lips. Kissing you because his mouth hurts when it’s not attached to yours.

“One last time.” he says; he’s too intelligent, too intellectually adept, to allow this swallowing cycle of humiliation to continue.

But, underneath it all, he’s also inherently selfish for you. He’s fairly certain you were engrained into his skin, long before he fell into your barbed trap, teeth and penetrative ruin.

“Then you leave. You actually leave, never contact me again. No showing up at my apartment unprovoked. I have a good life without you. Understood?”

You scoff. He presses forward, “Understood?”

You don’t protest when he elucidates his life as good. Even if it’s quite the contrary. Even if he has to bare witness to depravity every single day, scrutinise his way through the minds of the most perverse. Perhaps this is a social experiment to him, perhaps you are the guinea pig, Laika sentenced to space. You know he loved you once, but it’s hard to comprehend the feelings remained unscarred, it’s hard to imagine you’re anything but a test subject now.

You look at him. Look at that pretty face. Your undoing. He could be your achilles heel, hamartia in its rawest form, or maybe you willingly chose to do this. Maybe fate, and divine intervention played no part in your attachment to him. Maybe it’s just chemicals. The logics explanation. Imbalanced, skewed chemicals.

“Don’t worry, boy genius.” you respond, “You won’t get anything, not even a postcard, from me. It’ll be like I never even existed.” no trace. D.C has always been a monotone cesspit of nothing anyway.

It’s cruel. Because if you leave, truly leave. And he never hears from you again, never catches you in his kitchen, drinking coffee with an unadulterated smile, then he will begin to forget.

The curve of your spine, the scars beneath your chest, the way your fingers fit into his own. The way he was able to memorise your body until he could draw it in the dark, when your body was pressed to his, when there was nothing but a false establishment of safety.

He knows he can’t forget. Not technically. But it’ll grow distant, it’ll be replaced with new normals and routines. That, that, he can’t compute.

“Good,” he says, kissing you again, kissing you because this is it.

Spencer wants you. In every sense of the word, he wants you so badly it’s killing him.

His bedroom still holds traces of you. That, itself, is a crime. But he just falls into you. The way lovers do. Your hands against his skin— his hair threaded through your fingers, your lips at the base of his neck. He lets you leave another bruise, a mark, a confirmation of possession, because even if this is the last time, he is, and always will be yours.

“Still the prettiest person i’ve ever seen,” you admit when he’s flushed naked beneath you.

There’s something in those doe-eyes, brown irises blown out of proportion, that hooked you. Even at the worst, it was still soft with him.

Slender frame, slightly arched, you want to bite into his hips, mark every inch of him as yours. It’s greedy, gluttonous, his messy hair, fanning out like a halo, the tangled curls he never bothers to properly care for.

“God, fucking look at you,” you grip his jaw, tilt his head back to bare that blemished neck of his. To have and to own. He’s so inexplicably different to you, so good it runs down to the bone. And maybe you’ve always been insatiable for what you’ve lacked.

He can’t take this. He can’t, not again. The past, the future will have to dissolve with this moment, because there will never be another again.

You will never get this close to him. It’s a terrifying thought, that this’ll be the standard of intimacy, of love - because he knows it isn’t. But he can’t risk the reality he’s faced with, the reality of living without this. Of living without you.

Your words only make it worse. He wants to beg you to stop. To cease the torture.

“Shut up.” He kisses you, as if to remind you that your mouth is made for kissing, for his lips, for a litany of dirty words that he can’t bear to hear. Those words are for someone else. For someone similar. Not him. Never him.

Defying fate. He gets off on being something bad beneath the surface. No one would ever expect it; boyish maladroit Spencer, the youngest of the team, willingly allowing, condoning, a killer to sink into his skin.

“Don’t tell me to shut up,” you respond, muffled against his lips. “If this is the last time, i’m going to enjoy it. Going to enjoy the sight of you, all desperate for me alone.”

“You assume i’ve ever been desperate for anyone else—“ he counters.

“Oh, that’s it. Keep talking dirty to me.”

“It’s not dirty. It’s a factual statement.”

You pull away, a trail of saliva bridging the space between your mouths. If there is higher power at play here, you want to curse, to spite your creator. Because if ‘things’ had been different, if you had been born from the same rib, this could’ve ended differently.

Or for that matter, never ended at all.

“Sit there and watch me.” you say, and Spencer hates the way he obliges. Pushing himself up against the headboard, he stares at you, at the way you position yourself, standing by the foot of the bed.

“Do you even know what you do to me? Do you even understand the gravity your existence has on me?” you continue, unfastening the lace corset that clings to your frame. When it drops to the floor, breasts exposed, you run your hands across them, catching pierced nipples for a vindictive moment of pleasure.

“I— uh,” Spencer is admittedly a little distracted. Sex had always been something ruinous between you two. Something that conflicted his lack of experience, forced him to adapt.

He always wondered how someone so soft, the epitome of light, could be this obscene. Now he understands.

“Lost your words? Come on, pretty boy. I thought you had an ‘extensive vocabulary?’ Hm?”

He wants to touch himself, to ease the pulsing throb that centres in his cock. But he doesn’t, because despite the time that has passed, he still knows your rules. “Don’t use my words against me. I’m being tortured.”

“Tortured, huh?” your hands fumble over buttons until you’re reduced to a pair of panties, soaked throughly, leaving scarce to the imagination.

“So so tortured. Oh my god, who are you? Can I please have my soul back?” he’s joking, but not really.

“Well maybe if you beg for it,” your words fade into a mess of moans, fingers slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. Spencer’s head spills back against the wall; he looks more affected by the movements than you.

It’s easy to fall back into old habits. Relapse.

“Come here, come here, i’m having an existential crisis.” he says, watching as you slip one finger, then two inside you, struggling to stand now. It’s strange how pleasure can reduce the most antagonising minds to vulnerability.

“Please— oh fuck, please. Please. Don’t make me watch, I can’t. Need you. Need you so bad.”

He thought he found the core of torture in you touching yourself, but he was wrong. Because when you crawl closer, when you slot yourself between his thighs, lips finding skin that only you have ever touched, he sees the root of evil in his brain. The ninth circle of hell.

It’s justified, he supposes. For all the good he’s done, he has betrayed. Himself, his friends, family, existence itself. There is not one thing he wouldn’t ruin, just to feel you. It’s incriminating, so yes, he deserves to freeze in Cocytus. He’ll willingly plead guilty, accept his entrapment in the ring of Caina.

“Poor baby, look at you.” you say, kissing his tip, catching the pre-cum on your tongue. Spencer responds: fisting bedsheets, fighting the restraint to buck forward, to find misplaced solace in the warmth of your mouth. He’s sprawled out across sheets now, lying back in a tangled heap of want. “Shh, it’s okay,” you continue, “I like my men desperate.”

“Desperate? Ah—,” he fights the urge to shut his eyes, too aware that this is the last memory he will ever retain of you.

You, painted into his mind. The final evidence left in the fire: mouth sinking down his length, taking him to the hilt, watery eyes and leaking mascara.

“This isn’t even desperation. You’re killing me. Just, oh oh— please, don’t. ‘M gonna cum. Gonna cum—“

Is it sick that he doesn’t want to? If only to prolong this transitory moment of destruction? Like the lotus eaters, he will always be mindless in the pursuit of more, more, more of you.

You draw back from his cock, only to press a soft kiss against the tip. The gesture alone has him reeling, has him begging to be saved, to atone for every sin he found in the comfort of your divinely crafted lips.

“Gonna let me sit on that pretty cock of yours, hm? Let me use you one last time? Promise i’ll be good,” a lie, “So so good.”

“God, yes. Yes, please. That would—“ You take him deep, deep enough that everything aches. He only feels alive when you’re wrapped around him, when there’s not an ounce of distance between your bodies, when he can touch the insides of you. Pry open the raw, unfiltered version of you.

He only feels alive when he’s sunk inside the harbinger of death. He’d laugh if it didn’t hurt.

You’ve got one hand tangled in your hair, the other pressed flat against his waist, supporting you through each bump of movement. Eyes like marbles, Spencer looks up, and wonders why this will never be enough for you.

You look back, meet his gaze, as if you’re Orpheus, predestined to turn around, to always return. Even if it’s just for one last second. Even if the fall-out is so much worse than pushing forward blindly.

Oh, hes certain you’re carving a hole inside him, something that will only grow and expand, imploring to be filled by it’s inventor. It’ll hurt, for the rest of time, he supposes.

When he finds your hand around his neck, he isn’t startled. Neither, when your thumb presses against his throat, applying pressure until the world cracks and fades, distorting his refined mind to the here and now. He floats, feeling transient in the curse of your touch.

“That’s it. Just let go. I’ve got you.”

He is a sacrificial lamb. The priests favourite. He will take the knife every time, and thank you for it after.

You release the tension, hand taking his instead. For all the cruelty you possess, you’d never think to harm him. Not physically at least. The emotional damage, however, finds you both. There can be no happiness in either of your worlds, not when the memory of each other festers. “Good boy— taking it so well. God, no one is ever gonna compare.”

He cries at the words. Pretty tears streaming down his face, because the reciprocation to his undying piety will forever trigger the warped chemicals in his brain. Will forever reduce him to something saccharine.

“Love you. Love you so much. Don’t go. Please,” he fractures, “please don’t go.” he begs, besmirched words he’ll regret in the wake of his pleasure. They don’t count, and yet, he knows, in the most depraved sections of his mind, they’re true.

You ride him harder. Back curved, finding god in the washed-out body of someone fatally destroyed. “Not going anywhere— fuck, fuckfuckfuck. That feels so good. You’re so good,” maybe it’s a kink to ruin something so perfectly spotless.

Maybe it’s a kink that he wants it.

“Say it. God, just say it. This once.” for old times sake, he almost adds. But that wouldn’t be objectively correct. For all the intimacy you shared, you never once articulated those three words. Perhaps it was to save your dignity, to hold pieces of yourself in the lies you beautifully crafted.

His thumb runs over your clit, and in the tangle of your orgasm, he almost thinks you forget about his demand. But after, when you’re still taking him, when you’re still clenching, unclenching, clenching around his cock, when you know you own every part of him, you answer.

“I love you.”

He falls apart. Hips canting, body squirming, whimper after whimper escaping his bruised lips as he releases inside of you. Pushed deep, defiled to the limit. For a moment, everything is okay, everything will be alright, because there’s pleasure, and it’s you. It’s always you.

How can he justify falling in love with you again? How can he, when he still clings onto the artificial love of the past? He’s not sure his heart can handle one set of feelings, nevermind two.

He takes you again, well… mostly you take him again. In ways that have him polluted with the remnants of your teeth. Canine marks, etched deep enough to bleed. He hopes the swelling leaves behind perennial scars, anything to remind him. Anything to hold onto when you’re gone and it’s cold.

After, when you lie together, he presses his forehead against yours and wishes he was in any other universe. One where you’re happy. Where everything is pure and simple, clean from sin.

There was always truth in what we shared before, you admit. Lazy nights spent draped over the couch, kissing him to silence convoluted rambles. Your presence in the morning, bathed in holy glow, sunlight bleeding over the pretty sight of you. The first night he touched you and saw god. And then the following night, when he ascended all over again.

He wakes to find no body. He wakes to find nothing. It feels like self-sabotage, the promise that you would leave, even if it’s quite the contrary.

In the absence, abstinence of your presence, he discovers traces of you in everything he sees, all of it, everything consumed, returning to the simple thought of you you you.

When the first postcard comes, Portland, dreary weather— beaches and ports, there’s no anger. No exasperation that you broke your word.

You love him, it’s morbid, but for someone like him, it overrules everything. Sanity, dignity, his own stable existence.

You overrule everything.

[vampiricgf]

WATER SONG [PT. 1]

merman leon x gov't researcher reader

word count : 7k+

warnings : female reader, reader has a sort of type A personality and some mild anger issues, talk of medical experiments, he's referred to as a subject and specimen quite a lot, descriptions of predatory behavior (animal kind, not the sexual kind), slow pace, sfw, lots of yearning for touch

okay part one isn't terribly exciting im sorry ajdgakab I just wanted to establish a connection between the reader and him in the setting n such before developing any deeper connection. also like 1% research went into this so im sorry if you're knowledgeable about oceanic research this'll probably piss you off lmao. also all credit for this au idea goes to @/bunnivievve tysm for letting me write a lil interpretation of your idea! this was inspired by this post of theirs as well ‹𝟹

JUNE

Subject Zero. 

Male, combined characteristics of humanoids and aquatic species. Captured by a trawling vessel, out in deep waters usually traversed by cargo freighters but occasionally by commercial fishing vessels. A freak happenstance. When the net had been dredged up in a fantastic spray of salt water, the hoard of tuna quickly spilling into the sorting containers, the men on deck had spotted something much larger than white fin tuna thrashing in the net. 

Upon careful inspection they feared they’d pulled up a man, some poor unfortunate victim of a seafaring disaster. A capsized or otherwise destroyed vessel, a near drowning victim that had fallen overboard perhaps. 

Until they spotted the flashing of sharp teeth, and the thick, muscled tail slamming against the wet metal under their feet. 

Thankfully their transmission to the Coast Guard was intercepted, a naval craft catching the broadcast and setting course as fast as possible for the trawler. 

And now Subject Zero finds respite in your “office”. If an office can be counted as more of an observation space, nevertheless. A part of you feels bad, the less scientifically trained and inclined part that is, for keeping such a clearly intelligent creature within a tank inside a black site. The initial placement had been… difficult. It was clear the subject missed the open ocean, and you did feel sorry that it had been so unceremoniously plucked from its home and deposited in such an alien space on land. But there was nothing to be done about it. 

He was far too valuable as a research opportunity. The cold, clinical part of your mind understood that. He was a marvel of nature, flesh and blood proof that man could be intermixed with seafaring species, it was one of the single greatest events in modern marine biology. And an immense privilege for you, the scientist chosen chiefly to study the subject. 

A dream. The government all but telling you to do whatever you deemed necessary, no concern over the expense. Gone were worries of securing grant funding for more piddling projects or the endless anxiety of thinking you would be stuck as one name in an endless list of names relegated to ordinary oceanic study. Not that your peers' works weren’t valuable, but you always held the selfish desire for notoriety. Had dreamed endlessly throughout your undergraduate program of the day your name would be the one filling up library indexes and publications with impressive, weighty studies. Discoveries so undeniable you would join the ranks of the most noteworthy in the field. 

And seemingly, your wish had been granted. Subject zero would be the gravel that paved your road to success. It’s just a pity it has to be such an intelligent creature. 

You sit back, uncuring from your hunched position at the desk, rolling your shoulders and wincing as you hear your joints popping. Documentation was a never ending pain in the ass but it had to be done, if you wanted to keep the convenience of not having to answer to nor justify your expenses to an overhead department. Ordinarily that work would be relegated to a lower priority researcher, but you preferred being able to sign off on it all yourself, comforted by the fact that there were no unforeseen surprises lurking in the documents or spreadsheets or data tables. Nothing anyone would be about to point out as a discrepancy, leaving you humiliated and floundering. 

As you close your eyes you can feel it, the hair on the back of your neck slightly on edge. The feeling of being observed. 

He seemed to prefer watching you when your back was turned or if you were otherwise unaware. If you were facing the ten foot thick glass of the massive elcousure he would recede into the farthest corners of it, shying away into watery obscurity. In a way it was cute, an obvious curiosity for the beings around him but he seemed stricken by shyness, didn’t know if you were trustworthy. Which was understandable. You were the one keeping him there, at least to his limited viewpoint. The one that denied him reentry into his former home. 

That irritatiningly scentimental part of your mind whispered to you again. 

What if he thinks you’re cruel?

So what? We don’t even know to what extend he does think. 

You say that but you do care, at least a little. Thats why you sneak him extra food. 

You sigh to yourself, pushing up from the familiar desk, palms flat on its slick glass surface before rising to your full height. Out of the corner of your eye you catch the white coat you don most of the day, every day, slung carelessly over the back of another chair at a separate station. Your badge attached via a shiny, silvery little clip. Walking over you purposefully keep your eyes directed away from the elcousure, your movements slow. This is a good opportunity to see how long he’ll watch you as long as he believes you aren’t paying attention. 

The badge is solid, though lightweight as you pick it up, bringing it closer to your face. It’s hard to believe you look so excited in the small picture in the upper lefthand corner. Your name in bold typeface as last name, first name all neatly lined up next to the photo. In it’s reflection you can see him, one hand perched against the glass, that thick midnight blue tail swishing up and down in a soft, rhythmic motion as he stays still. Ever watchful. 

Its hard to see in the little reflective glimpse but subject zero does have more… handsome features. You smile to yourself, recalling one of the other researchers giggling while telling you it wasn’t weird to note that because it was true. What man on land, with two legs, had eyes that shade of blue or a jawline that impressive? None that aren’t using photoshop or filters. 

Maybe if the discovery of the subject was publicized there would be throngs of people banging on doors trying to find out where he’s being kept. It did make you huff out a laugh, the idea that a half fish man who couldn’t speak was more appealing than the majority of men on earth. 

Maybe we should open an instagram page for him. 

You shake your head to yourself, still smiling, as you set the badge down. 

The office slash observation room remained quiet save for the occasional sound of sloshing water. It was late, well past time fo anyone other than the usual armed military guard to be roaming the facility. Well past time for you to go home. 

At that moment you turn, just enough to peek over your shoulder and as soon as your eyes fix on the spot he occupied all you catch is a low flash of dark blue, retreating into the shadowy depths encased in glass. 

~

OCTOBER

Three months of observation. 

Hardly enough to form any evidence based conclusions, but enough time to get started on the right path. You had approximately nintey days of solid data on his diet, his presenting condition each day, endless notes on his observable physiology. He preferred deep water fish, clearly an omnivore as he also didn’t mind the addition of oceanic plant species mixed with the fish when it was introduced into the tank. In fact he seemed to greatly enjoy the sudden introduction of variety, although still preferred to eat his meals in a semblance of solitude. 

His distrust was only natural, you had to remind yourself. Until such time as he’s fully used to his new environment you’re unlikely to observe any great variation in his behavior. 

At least he wasn’t showing signs of aggression. That had been a legitimate concern, and still was, of course. All proper safety precautions were followed to the letter when it came to subject zero, and absolutely no one was to physically get in the tank, not until further tests could be done on his temperament and how he reacted to certain stimuli both pleasant and unplseant. 

You grimace seeing a newly sent email notification, the little computerized ding signalling that your attention was required. 

When isn’t it?

You put the sleek desktop into split screen mode, keeping the charts on the subject to the left while your email opened to occupy the right side. Amid the usual low importance emails from general staff there was a new one, at the very top. The name made your stomach twist in preparation of the message. Dr. Gregg had, for lack of a better phrase, a raging hard on for the opportunity to remove the subject from the tank and getting it into a smaller one in order to sedate and extract genetic material. It didn’t matter that he’d already been sedated and had samples drawn when he was initially transported here, no. The good doctor wanted more than that, but you couldn’t accommodate the request in good conscience. 

Or rather, you were worried about the effect it would have on him. It could set back the last nintey days of progress, or worse, inspire severe mistrust and heightened aggression towards all researchers. There was no way, even with sedation, that cutting into him wouldn’t cause pain. And a source of pain that a creature like subject zero had no way of understanding would only lead to problems. 

The two of you had been butting heads over the issue for the last week, culminating in an argument yesterday where you all but told him to get fucked. You were the lead on this, you made the decisions and he wasn’t going to usurp your authority. Your credit. 

But as your eyes scan the email you can feel yourself getting physically hot, your blood pressure threatening to rise. 

You may be the lead, the head researcher on this project, but do not believe for one moment that I will not go above your head. You are not CIA, doctor. You don’t call the final shots here, and it would do you well to remember that. Whatever your personal feelings on subject zero, you cannot stand in the way of necessary elements that better out understanding of the creature. 

With shaking fingers you close the window, not bothering to respond and not trusting yourself to either. Every fiber of your being wanted nothing more than to march down that hallway and wring his wiry old turkey neck. Who does he think he is? He’s just some physiologist, some ancient fuck. Who is he to threaten you? If his contributions were so invaluable wouldn’t he have been made lead?

You squeeze your eyes shut, hands clenching in your lap as you breathed deeply in through your mouth and out through your nose. The meditation app you’d been using had provided you with some useful tools, being that your temper had plagued you since you were small. Always the first to fly off the handle at even the idea you could be questioned, your competence or credibility casted in doubt. 

Inferiority complex, a nasty voice giggled in your head. 

It’s not that it wasn’t true, and it was a bit of an achilles heel for you. But what took priority now was holding Gregg back, keeping him away from the subject and minimizing the risk that he could fuck it all up before you even had a chance to really begin. So, once you felt that initial flashpoint of rage quelling you reopened the email application, setting your shoulders back as you began typing. 

Under no circumstances are you permitted to sedate nor perform any surgical procedures on subject zero. You have not been given any formal authorizations, so it would do you well to remember not to threaten your head researcher in the contents of easily retrievable emails. You are free to broach the topic with any superior officer on sight, and I am more than happy to entertain a line of questioning from said superior officers on why I do not believe it to be prudent at this juncture to allow for another extraction of material. Research is not a race, Doctor. 

You can’t help but smile smugly to yourself, imagining his fury at opening your reply. If he thinks just because you’re young that you’re easily pushed around he is sorely mistaken. Nothing and no one is allowed to jeopardize the most important work you may ever do. 

With that you abandon the desk, it’s dull and mind numbing work, in favor of standing in front of the tank yet again. It was nice, having a portion of it extending into this area as an offshoot of the main tank where all the feeding and the bulk of physical testing was done. He seemed to enjoy it too, which despite yourself you did place some importance on. 

It was important to ensure he was as comfortable as possible. He was still a living being, despite his status as a research subject, and you took no pleasure in the idea of him suffering in any way. It was definitely a slight drawback, you could begrudgingly admit, that you tended to get… overly attached to the species in your care. You’d done the same in both undergrad and postdoc, although it was more important than ever before to keep a tight hold on those tendencies now. 

How would you feel, if you knew that man was so hell bent on slicing you open? 

Probably afraid. 

What are you feeling now?

It would be so much easier if he were capable of speech. The bridges that had to be built between what was known and unknown had to come from the very foundations, things that required occasionally unpleasant experiences in order to build their understanding of him. But if he could just explain some of it, that would be easier. A half formed bridge is faster to finish than one from scratch. 

Uselessly you peered into the clear, clean water. Between swaying stalks of plants there was nothing to see except the seemingly endless expanse of water. Several mind boggling tonnes of it, all kept nicely contained in ten foot thick military grade glass. Bulletproof. Shatter proof. Even if subject zero were to ram it with intent, crack it even, it would still hold. 

You couldn’t help but wonder, as you remained staring through that glass, if he was lonely. Seeing so many strange, upright walkers but being unable to even touch them, even consider the act of doing it. 

As you frown at your own reflection, you feel it again. 

Duel observation.

~

It was bizarre, to him. These two legs, tall men. He knew they existed, they’d always known a different sort of being lived on the land, domineered it and then took to making attempts at dominating the sea as well. It had all become so noisy, so very nearly unbearable thanks to their hulking monstrosities of shining metal and the things they constantly kept dumping into the water.

Every day there were new threats to avoid. Long gone were the days of simply worrying about other predators lurking in the open waters or within the sediment and foliage. 

He hadn’t seen the net, as they called it, until it was too late. Had been too caught in the euphoria of finding such a gigantic school of gorgeous, meaty tuna, that his mind switched off to everything but pure instinct as he’d circled them quickly, calculatedly. His jaw had felt the ache of hunger so viscerally it was like the bones themselves were vibrating with it. 

And then they’d all begun moving. Swept up, trapped in an upward drag that he’d been powerless to fight against while overwhelmed by the wriggling, frantic fish flashing across his vision, no way to know what was forwards or backwards, up or down. 

Then the shock of air. His lungs had seized up painfully with it, the feeling of being constricted by nothing at all yet everything all at once had been horrific, beyond frightening. 

After that it was too messy, too jumbled in his mind. Harsh sounds, their sounds, were prevalent in his memory but just beyond his grasp. Far too loud without the water to act as a buffer between, softening the blows of each reverberation against his eardrums. 

But her sounds were different. Or, it was that she didn’t make many to begin with. The look of them all was mostly similar from behind the thick material they kept him in, in this unknown space. At least they offered readily available food, although not nearly what he was used to hunting for himself and his webbed fingers itched at the thought of clawing through water in pursuit of some darting piece of prey. It would feel so, so good to sink his teeth into flesh, to feel it rip and catch in chunks between his teeth, the iron rich scent of blood swirling around. The roar of adrenaline in his ears. 

It was difficult to keep his focus on much here, save for her. The best parts were when the others disappeared but she would still be in that corner, down the long corridor of water and he would be able to see her, sitting and doing wholly alien things with her hands at something large and flat, but vaguely shiny. Hers didn’t have webbing, none of them did from what he could tell. How did they ever swim competently? 

She was softer than the rest and he enjoyed watching her do her strange tasks, sometimes she would pace around holding a sheet of paper in her hands, chewing on her bottom lip. Her teeth didn’t seem all that sharp, since she never seemed worried about cutting her flesh on them. What did they eat, with useless teeth? 

Just like at the present moment, with her back turned it was easier to look at her fully. Usually he wouldn’t approach openly like this, unsure of the intentions of everyone here, but this space seemed to be reserved for her only which put him at ease. That and none of those harsh spotlights were present, if anything she seemed to prefer it half dark which was fine by him, preferable to that loud bright area behind him back through the water corridor. But she seemed tense, the set of her shoulders curled forward, almost in on herself. Something in front of her was clearly upsetting and in some odd way he felt offense on her behalf. She was kind, gave him extra food before she would disappear through the night, always seemed to be keeping a close watch over him and how the others were with him. 

He may not be able to speak, but he’s pretty sure she was the reason he wasn’t suffering in this place. And that was good enough, at present, to make him feel a sense of kinship with her. Closeness. 

As she carried on with whatever it was that kept her so occupied his mind wandered to what it would feel like to touch her. They seem to enjoy touch, most of them being very casual with the way they interacted. How did she like being touched? Or would she dislike being touched by him outright? Would she find his webbed, clawed fingers disgusting, would she flinch away?

He frowned behind the glass. Hopefully not, but there really was no way to know. They seem intent on keeping a wide distance from him, which wasn’t unwelcome. The only one he was at all curious about was her anyway, not that he would purposely antagonize anyone who ventured inside his new domain, though he certainly wouldn’t circle them like one of the friendly, if a little dumb, nurse sharks do occasionally out in open water. 

He was so caught up in that worry he nearly failed to catch her movement, but his reflexes are faster than hers. Before she could approach the glass fully he’d already retreated a safe distance away. Watching as she stared into the expanse of water, her face unreadable but the set of her eyebrows told him she felt some kind of stress, strain. 

His fingers twitched at his sides, thinking about reaching out to touch her again.

~

You smile to yourself, a soft hidden kind, at the now familiar feeling. It was like there was a strange sense of understanding between you two, although you could just be ascribing things to him he doesn’t possess. Thats always something to keep in mind, as a researcher but more often than not lately you’re coming to resent that line of thought. It was clear subject zero was intelligent. Maybe not to the degree of a human being, but he was close enough evolutionarily speaking, that he was like a cousin in the chain. An offshoot of the formerly solidly established line of human life. Theres no reason, as yet identified, that he wouldn’t be able to communicate if given the chance to learn how. 

You aren’t thinking of him as a subject anymore. That’s dangerous. 

You know it is, know that voice is right. But it doesn’t account for everything. The odd push and pull, hide and seek game you two play here in this office every single evening. Its to the point now that you feel tense, uncomfortable if you don’t sense him behind you, watching you work or pace around nonsensically. You’ve spent over an hour before reading and rereading the same observational notes and data sets because you kept grinning to yourself like a fool feeling those eyes burning holes in your back. 

He’d even made appearances in your dreams a handful of times over the last month, flashes of deep, endless blue that clung to the soft corners of your mind as you went about your morning routines, ruminating over his appearance as steam from your coffee curled around your hands, ghostly fingers clawing at the air. Tension crept up your beck, spreading out over the tops of your shoulders and trapezius muscles prompting you to stretch against the back of your office chair, rolling your joints and hearing their familiar cracking in response to hours of sustained poor posture. Lazily you grasp your phone from the desk, thumbing open the music app and scrolling a bit through your shuffle playlist before settling on something bubbly, but easily tuned into the background. 

You wonder if he enjoys music, what his preferences would be if he could swipe through your library of songs. It makes you smile to yourself thinking about it, maybe that would make for a good test of his thinking abilities, how he responds to different genres, different artists. Standing, you bend slightly to make a quick note on a half discarded sticky tab: musical testing?

And suddenly a somewhat mad thought grips you, what if you tried right now? Whats the worst that could happen, he lurks in the background while you sway around the dim office like a fool? At least the only people who could see would be the guards, not that they’d say anything either beyond thinking to themselves that every researcher here must be insane. That makes your smile grow wider, giggling to yourself a bit as you take slight steps in time with the beat, giving a little spin on your toes to face the take. 

It only somewhat shocks you to find yourself face to face with him, that he hasn’t retreated to the safety of the shadowy corners. His eyes, a remarkably similar color to the water surrounding him, track your movements with abject curiosity as you follow an imaginary path, one foot placed delicately in front of the other to carry your body with the faint sound of the music. All the while his eyes never stray from you, even when he has to move to keep you in his sights, even when you come right up to the glass and offer a little spin in front of him, giggling to yourself a little more freely now. 

And to your amazement, at your laughter, he smiles. He smiles and it makes your chest feel light, like a ten pound weight you hadn’t even been aware of was finally lifted off. Some might find his fanged appearance frightening, to you it was boyishly cute. A toothy little grin, the tips of his elongated enscisors catching against his bottom lip, and his thick, muscular tail began to move. As if, had he possessed legs like yours, they would be moving in tandem with you. 

It felt like a genuine breakthrough, making you hug your arms around yourself as you stopped moving, still laughing and feeling just a tad bit lightheaded. He genuinely smiled at you. 

He was moving with you. 

That was a major breakthrough, even if just a personal one. Increased rapport meant things would be easier going forward, for both of you. 

With a contented sigh you pressed one hand to the smooth, icy surface of the glass, your fingers stretching over the sleek glass and he does something that makes your breath freeze in your lungs. Gingerly, the way people stretch out their hands to scared animals, inch by inch his own rases to be a perfect mirror of your own. One larger, webbed, hand pressed to the glass right behind your own. It felt silly but you were too afraid to even exhale with any effort, for fear even the barest noise would ruin the moment and he would flee right back into the far corners, beyond your reach. 

But he doesn’t, doesn’t stop holding your gaze for a single second and you marvel at the way his blonde hair sways in the water, like the finest strands of silk-

“So, thats why you keep refusing to allow any progress of this “research”?”

You nearly jump out of your skin at the voice from behind you, a signature grating tone you could pick out anywhere. As your head snaps to the side, body following the movement only a second after, you see him standing in the door way with his arms crossed nearly reeking of smugness. 

Fuck. 

~

One week. 

You have one week to figure out what to do. 

After shattering your late night revelation with subject zero, who has been increasingly attached to you ever since, the resident pain in your ass physiologist had made sure to fire off emails riddled with concerns and accusations addressed to the operatives truly in charge of the site. Questions of your ability to continue in any capacity with the project, the nature of your relationship to the subject, insinuating you had some kind of perverse intention, even going so far as to insult your credibility. Not only cc-ing yourself but “mistakenly” sending those emails to every person working on site.

It had effectively turned you into a pariah with regards to your peers. Whispers of conversation that would be cut off as soon as you set foot into a room. Strange looks from your coworkers, ranging from disgust to perverse curiosity. It felt like you were continuously on fire, every minute of every day. There would be a meeting in one weeks time, and until then you were relegated to nothing but the paperwork in your office, per the tense instructions given to you.

But your panic had less to do with your professional reputation, surprisingly, and more to do with feeling very nearly physically sick when you recalled how fixated he was with the idea of getting to cut into subject zero. If you were removed completely from this project there would be no one else to act as a roadblock, to keep that from happening. 

Your eyes slide over to the observation tank, noting the worried way he’s been watching you for hours now. You wished you could haul him out of there, explain what was happening, the risk of what could happen to him. Maybe he would have some idea of how you both could get out of this. But was there any way out? Or is the only option allowing yourself to become a laughingstock, a professional embarrassment and to allow subject zero to languish in whatever horror would surely be inflicted on him? 

You can’t say if desperation is the only thing motivating you, but your mind becomes mostly blank as you leave the office. Its early enough, after you’d been practically climbing up the walls all night, so maybe the choice was fueled by sleep deprivation. Whatever the case may be, you find yourself moving as if through a dream: down the cavernous corridors, turning and twisting to follow the slate grey concrete all the way to the impossibly large main observation chamber. 

With a swipe of your ID card, forcefully and defiantly, the locks give a little beep before disengaging. Mechanically you make your way to where the suits are stored. Specially designed, one of a kind. Made of an interwoven, enmeshed material not unlike chainmail to prevent sharp teeth from being able to puncture both cloth and flesh, and featuring only the best in terms of diving design. The manufacturer had created them after winning a defense contract from the governenment and you wonder if they ever would have guessed someone would be stripping and tugging the suit on in order to come face to face with something most people would assume only existed in a fairytale. 

But here you are: yanking and adjusting the suit before prepping the oxygen tank, also designed to be compact but sacrificing the amount of time one could spend fully submerged at any depth. Either way it would work for this application, although no one had been given clearance to dive yet. 

You knew doing this would come back to bite you far worse than just those vendetta fueled emails. Diving without any clearance, using untested equipment. It was beyond insane. But the circumstances felt insane enough on their own to justify it. Subject zero was overwhelmingly likely to be just as intelligent as you were, and just as likely to feel physical and mental distress in similar ways. Trying to communicate was step one and what better way than face to face. Then you could form step two: proving beyond a reasonable doubt that he was intelligent and thus, could be advocated for medically even if he couldn’t advocate for himself. 

That was the only way to halt the now speeding train of decisions being made on his behalf and without his input. If he could even write out the most barebones statement, even that would work to prove they needed consent to continue with any of this. Tomorrow you could wake up in a whole new world, one where there is technically a second legal classification of human being, one with a tail and gills. The though made you smile despite the tense circumstances. 

What you were doing was a halfcocked, absolutely batshit attempt at a hail mary but it was worth a shot. Your reputation was already in tatters on site, how much worse could it be? If you fail in this all that happens is you’re dismissed and removed from the site, doomed to be a whispered footnote for future researchers. Did you ever hear about the lady that went crazy with one of the subjects? A cautionary tale about getting too attached to your work. 

But fuck that. If you’re not at least a little attached to your work then do you even really care at all about any of it? You would argue that the resident physiologist holds no love for the work, only a love for the idea of something else experiencing pain.

With a deep breath you sit carefully on the steel ledge that runs the length of the tanks open ceiling. Easy, you just flip backwards and hit the water, reorient yourself and try not to get eaten by one potentially pissed off subject. Yeah, a real piece of cake. With that you decide theres no more time to waste, it’s probably already flagged in the system that you accessed the main deck, they’ll be here any minute. 

Good, that means they can all see I’m not insane or inappropriate. He can comprehend things just like we can, the music wasn’t a fluke. 

In the span of a second your worldview dips, swirls, and the splash of water hits your ears at the exact same moment the shock of cold does. The water is kept at approximately the same temperature as the water he was captured in, frigid Atlantic delights. As bubbles envelop you, you manage to get yourself turned right side up, carefully circling your arms to tred water and remain mostly stationary. This would be the key moment, you have to exercise extreme caution. 

You’re another predator that has invaded the territory of a fellow predator. In the natural world, it’s a killable offense. But you keep your eyes open, sweeping the dimly lit, wide expanse of saltwater around you. No sign of him, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t here, watching you, gauging the situation. As you continue to keep your breathing even, your movements slow enough but steady enough to keep your body afloat, you catch sight of something in your peripheral. That intimately familiar midnight blue tail. He was moving behind you now, one webbed, clawed hand slicing through the water like knives as the rest of him came into your view. That sandy, dishwater blonde hair floating in fine tendrils around his face, framing piercing blue eyes that took you in critically, curiously. 

You allow him to keep circling you, doing your best to calm your nervous system that felt on high alert, panic just on the cusp of overriding your sensibilities. Allowing that would spell disaster, you would certanly be killed if you started thrashing or spinning wildly, it would scare him, you could both be injured in any kind of violent altercation. They would kill him if he killed you. 

But your worries abate as he slows to a stop in front of you, and despite your eyes staying locked together you’re conscious of the audience you have on the other side of the glass. The feeling of being watched by many people is something quite unique, it’s also unnerving. You wish you could apologize to him, you hadn’t realized before how uncomfortable literally living beneath a microscope was. 

You raise your arm, hand extended, in a painfully slow movement that makes the muscles in your forearm ache. His attention goes to the appendage now how hanging between you two, eyeing it with equal parts suspicion and what seems to be excitement. The physical equivalent of a high pitched alarm happens in your body as he moves closer to you, the air suddenly locked in your lungs as you wait. This was another critical moment. Would he grasp your hand? Rip it off? It was entirely unknown, beyond dangerous. 

But none of those things happen. The painting, god touching adam, comes to mind as he raises a clawed index finger delicately up to yours. They don’t touch but rather hover in proximity to one another before a grin works its way across his face, those sharp incisors catching against his bottom lip as his eyes flick back to your goggled face. 

You hope he can see that you’re smiling too, but you hope its not like it is with monkeys where grins are signs of aggression. But it seems that fear is unwarranted as his tail twitches erratically, the wispy bits of filigree flesh on the split end swirling through the water in a gorgeous display of deep blue and white. Like sheer fabric winding through the air. 

The ecstasy that floods your brain is a feeling like no other, a full body sensation that spreads from the tips of your fingers to your fabric covered toes. His tail moves to brush against your kicking legs, the heft of it is shocking. You can immediately imagine the sheer power of it kocking into you, it would feel like being hit by a freight train no doubt. For something that looked so elegant and otherworldly, it was still a threat. 

But you couldn’t get distracted you needed some display of his intelligence, and you needed it now. 

So you shake off the awe, do your best to refocus on his face. Carefully you draw back your hand, pointing to yourself and then at him. You repeat the gesture several times, hoping to receive a reaction that displays understanding. 

And he doesn’t keep you waiting long. 

In a flash one clawed, webbed hand encircles your wrist and halts your movement. 

It’s like time suspends, a complete and total pause as you feel a different kind of chill within the suit. It’s like you’re watching in third person, your throat seizing as your fingers intertwine hesitantly. It’s an oddly tender gesture, and then your body is tugged through the weight of the water, pushed against the solidness of his chest. Your arms came gingerly around him, and his enveloped you in turn. He was all firmness, so solidly built it shocked you. You hadn’t properly appreciated the sheer mass of him, the way his body had been crafted for underwater pursuit, hunting. But also to accommodate displays of affection, just like your own. 

And as you two embrace you can’t help but smile again. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to form one hell of an argument on his behalf and you would shout until your face was blue that going forward, communication would take priority. Worrying about the innerworkings of his physiology could wait until later.

[stardustizuku]

I’ve recently been thinking on why there’s people who interpret Kuro in such a drastically different way.

And something I notice is that you can easily tell how someone experiences the series, based on what they think of the GWA.

The way you interpret the Green Witch Arc is indicative of of how you have been interpreting the story so far, and how you’ll interpret it going forward

Generally, there’s two interpretations:

1.- The Reaction Ciel had to the mustard gas, are his true feelings coming afloat

2.- The Reaction Ciel had to the mustard gas, isn’t how he feels.

The first interpretation (and I’m really not trying to be mean about it this time) comes from a very, uhm, shall I call it Teenage-Like? mindset of how pain and trauma works.

I call it Teenage-Like, because I’ve seen it in mostly literature aimed at teenagers, be it fanfics or YA. It comes from an inability for teenagers to actually voice how they feel towards their parents. A helpless feeling of being ignored.

I don’t wanna point fingers but this is the basis of a lot of Self Harm tendencies (physical, emotional, psychological, or others like EDs or digital self harm) come from. A need for people to notice you are in pain. But because you feel like you cannot voice it yourself (or don’t deserve it, it can vary) you start to lash out. Put yourself in higher risks, to have someone find out there is something wrong with you.

So the moment the main character finally breaks down, or has a moment of weakness, it’s interpreted as someone finally being truthful.

This is how Ciel’s reaction is interpreted by the first half.

The mustard gas is simply a trigger of pain, that causes all of Ciel to unravel. He’s in pain right now, cause he’s always in pain. He’s avoidant to Sebastian, cause he’s always been scared of him. He doesn’t trust him. He doesn’t trust adults. Finny is the only one who actually cares.

This makes the fact that Sebastian ,essentially, slapped him to get him to react, come off as cruel.

The boy is finally being honest, and you just tell him he’s being childish? Horrible.

Obviously, that’s not my interpretation.

Okay so, what happens once you’re not a teenager? Once you don’t have an adult figure to take care of you? What happens once you start avoiding telling your parents the pain you’re in, not because you think they won’t care, but because they’ll care too much and get worried and you don’t want them to get worried?

You start to realize pain is not the end of the world.

While, when being a teenager, getting sick meant someone gets to take care of you and maybe notice you aren’t okay, as an adult getting sick potentially means - not going to work. Which means your won’t have money to buy food, which means you’ll probably go hungry.

So getting sick becomes less of a way to get away from the responsibilities you have, and more of a burden.

That’s why you’ll see, in media aimed at adults,mental breakdown less depicted as an opportunity to be honest, and more of a sickness that needs to be healed.

You can have a more honest and truthful conversation, while you are sound of mind. There’s no power dynamic between friends, like it would with adult figures and children. So this song and dance, isn’t necessary.

You don’t have to be sick to be understood. And your friends will rather try to help you, than understand you when you’re suffering. That’s the nature of adult relationships.

This is more or less the framing that comes from Ciel’s breakdown (in the second interpretation).

The Mustard Gas isn’t showing Ciel’s true nature - it’s showing Ciel at his most vulnerable. This means, not in his sound mind.

Saying things he normally wouldn’t, hurting people he normally would hold close, and clinging to people he generally would never try to get close to.

Simply put, it isn’t just “a bit of pain to make him unravel” but a “Ciel is getting psychologically tortured by a weapon used for chemical warfare”.

He’s past being honest. He’s having such a severe reaction, that he cannot function. He’s being tortured and broken, to the point he is no longer himself.

He isn’t being “truthful” he’s scared.

And fear can make you do things that, in your sound mind, you would never do.

The point is that, Ciel isn’t saying what he truly feels or being “honest”. It’s him scared out of his mind, saying everything and anything to make the fear stop.

And the biggest proof is how he treats Sebastian.

The fact that Ciel asks Sebastian to “go away” or “not come near” is perhaps the most glaring reason as to how badly this Gas messed with him.

I’ve said this before but to Ciel, Sebastian is a lifeline. He’s the only tool he has for his revenge. The thing that, even after he lost r!Ciel, he was willing to sacrifice it all to achieve.

And at this point in time, Sebastian is also the only emotional anchor Ciel has.

As far back as the second episode, Ciel has asked Sebastian to stay. Even when he’s having flashbacks, even when he’s having an episode. In fact, Sebastian leaving him is a great source of anxiety - since as seen in BoC in the Asthma Scene, without him Ciel feels powerless enough to die.

He feels more protected with him, because he KNOWS Sebastian will protect him and that Sebastian will follow his orders.

Again going with the analogy of a dog - He feels more comfortable having the chained beast by his bed, simply bcs others are trying to hurt him and the beast won’t eat him right now.

So him asking Sebastian to go away, is throwing away his biggest safety net for a surrogate for r!Ciel, just means he’s reverting to the mentality he had during the cult.

If Sebastian is constantly telling him “it’s okay, they can’t hurt you anymore, you’re outside the cage, you can do what you WANT”

Ciel clinging to Finny is him going “no, im staying in the cage bcs at least the cage is familiar”

And no matter what the first camp tells you, staying in the cage, trapped inside your pain ISNT the healthy option.

(We could argue Ciel’s need for revenge rather than healing is also unhealthy, but no one in the second camp would even call Ciel anything other than a villain in someone else’s story)

So, Sebastian slapping him and going “no, that’s not what you want”, isn’t as cruel as it would be in the first interpretation. Because as we see, he’s right. That’s not what Ciel wants. And it’s proved by the next scene where Sebastian talks to Ciel about what he truly wants.

Rather than Sebastian telling Ciel to “get over it”, it’s closest to a “snap out of it, something’s wrong”

This is further proved by the fact that, Sebastian first instinct isn’t to scare him. He does back away, he does try to wait and gently coax him. But Ciel literally cannot reason with him.

That small but significant difference in interpretation has wildly different outcomes in how you perceive both, the characters and the story.

If you pick the first, you’re reading Sebastian as an enemy. Someone who does not respect Ciel. You see his attempt to eat Ciel’s soul as a breach of trust, and proof that he doesn’t care for him.

But if you pick the second option, you see Sebastian as an ally. Someone who’s running out of time and ways to save Ciel. His actions, while crass, ultimately help Ciel. What he was trying to do, was help.

Yana, very clearly, wanted the second interpretation. However, I cannot, in good conscience, tell you it’s the only interpretation. People are free to pick and chose how they read the text, irrelevant of how little of the actual text they’re reading.

But I will say, picking the first is symbolic of a less mature way of thinking. Common on those who like to infantilize trauma and trauma responses. It’s the easy, safe and comforting way of reading the text. As I said, it’s common in those who want their pain to be acknowledged.

That reading of Kuro is one that speak to me, that you’re not really ready to confront pain. And someone with that mentality, is not someone who’s reading of the text I find particularly interesting. Sure, you can share it, I’ll never stop you, but know you’re speaking to me in an entirely different language. You’re interpreting the text so differently, that I don’t think it’s even the same text anymore.

Again, you’re essentially writing analysis on fanfiction. And I’m not all too interested in dissecting your own trauma sloppily painted over British Aesthetic.

[painsandconfusion]

Racing Time

(tw: death, mercy kill, suicide mention, torture, illness, bad caretaker)

Time is cruel.

No. No, that sounds like it’s the beginning of a sorrowful love story. This story was nothing like that. No love letters or star-crossed drama. No soft cotton sheets dampened with delicate tears.

Caretaker’s story was just blood and pain. Gore and screams. Darkness and terror.

Yet, through it all, time was the worst part by far.

Caretaker and Whumpee had been with Whumper for a month already. Each day, they’d slip into the captives’ cell, latch Caretaker to the wall, then carve out fleshy chunks of Whumpee’s proverbial soul. So many times and in so many ways. Caretaker’s only injury was the bruising of their wrists and the ache that settled into their ears after Whumpee’s screams crashed like a bullet through their skull. 

They didn’t complain. What was there to complain about? And to who? Whumpee? Who was always trembling, sobbing, or comatose on the concrete floor after Whumper left?

Their pain didn’t matter. They just held Whumpee, dressing their wounds and cooing soft songs to fill the silence. To fill the time.

So much worse than the daily tortures was the wait between them. Not knowing what time it was. How long they’d been here. When Whumper would come again.

Whumpee couldn’t do this any more. Caretaker saw first hand time and time again how the cracks in their mind began to form. How their body shattered into illness - which granted them no reprieve or respite from the pain.

Whumper didn’t care. They would keep on going until Whumpee’s agonized body finally gave out. And already, they were so weak. So pathetic when they tried to crawl or thrash or fight.

They didn’t have it in them anymore to scream.

Caretaker nestled Whumpee in their arms - Whumpee’s back against their chest. Caretaker let their soft, flawless form wrap around Whumpee’s shivering and battered one.

“You know I’d do anything for you, right? That I only want the best for you?”

Whumpee twitched a nod against Caretaker’s shoulder, their cold nose pressed into their protector’s neck.

“..do you trust me?”

There was a slight hesitation, but Whumpee didn’t have the mind to think any more than necessary. Again, Caretaker received a nod.

Caretaker’s hand was shaking as it reached up, wrapping softly around Whumpee’s throat. Their thumb and middle finger found the tender veins sluggeshly thunking away on either side of the trachea. With great precision and as much gentleness as they could manage, Caretaker applied pressure, feeling the blood and precious nutrients dam up against their grip.

Whumpee twitched, but the pressure wasn’t painful, so they stayed. At least, that’s what Caretaker assumed was going through their mind.

“..I’m going to put you to sleep, okay? Then you can get away from the pain. Just let yourself black out and I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Whumpee tensed slightly - likely the pressure starting to build up in their skull causing discomfort and not at all aiding in the concussion. But they didn’t move. They simply gripped Caretaker’s other arm a bit, letting this happen. Eyes closing against the sensation.

It didn’t take much time. Nor did Caretaker want it to. Time was cruel. Sadistic and unforgiving. Whumpee didn’t deserve to spend so very much of it having nothing to look forward to but pain and death. 

Caretaker’s grip didn’t let up when Whumpee blacked out. They kept the steady but gentle grip, kissing Whumpee’s hair and humming the first wordless melody that came to mind. They kept their fingers in place even when Whumpee's rattling lungs stopped scraping for air.

Whumpee wouldn’t choose to die. At least, they shouldn’t. No one should.

Caretaker would do it for them.

. (I'm sorry, I don't have energy for taglists today)

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

here's something short and goofy for you guys bc this song has been stuck in my head all morning.

“So, Eddie?” Steve asks while he, Robin, and Eddie are lounging around Family Video on a slow Tuesday afternoon.

“Yes, Stevie dear?” “Where did the ‘Big Boy’ thing come from?”

Steve watches as every bit of Eddie freezes under his gaze. 

“Uh..”

“Yeah, I’d like to know too, what’s up with that Munson?” Robin says, leaning forward on the counter beside Steve, pushing all of her right side into Steve’s left.

Poor Eddie.

“Oh, uh, well…” Eddie’s brow furrows for a moment before something seemingly comes to him in a moment. “You know how loud the rumor mill can be, Steve-o.”

“Whattya mean?” He knows what he means, he just wants to see what Eddie will say. He also knows It’s gotta be a tortuous question for the metalhead, especially one who’s crush is the one asking him. 

That was the other thing; after Eddie’s accidental pain-med induced schmoozing of Steve and the prompt forgettening of ever saying anything, Steve (and Robin) had come to the conclusion that he’s super into Eddie too.

Now it’s just a matter of getting Eddie to admit it, and having fun flirting and making him squirm a little in the meantime.

“Well, the phrase itself is from a song, but you do know your lovely conquests would talk, right?” The blush on his cheeks just makes him look cuter.

“And you believed them?” Robin states more than asks.

“Well there’s no way I’d ever know one way or the other!” Eddie laughs, his cheeks darkening.

Ignoring the myriad of things he could say to that, Steve instead asks “What song?”

“Huh? Oh, uhm, it’s from this random tape that Wayne picked up on the road a couple years ago. Has this weird art on the cover of some guy and like, skeletons and stuff? Dan something? It’s all yellow-y orange and blue..”

“That sounds so familiar…” Robin mumbles when Steve asks, “How does it go?”

“What?”

“The song.”

“Uh…” Eddie zones off into the distance and starts mumbling to himself.

Robin is still mumbling to herself too, “That sounds so familiar, what the hell?”

Eddie presumably finds the lyrics then, because he starts singing. “Big Boy, real cool, you can tell he’s no one’s fool, And he tries so hard to come off like a star.” Eddie starts dancing around in front of the counter, “You can tell by the way he combs his hair, by the cocky grin and that moody stare. By the way he leans and juts out his hip...” He sings, pointing at how Steve is doing exactly that.

Steve laughs, waving him off, “Okay, okay, I get it! You can st—”

“Elfman!” Robin calls out suddenly.

Steve and Eddie share a look. “Who’s an elf?”

“The Dan guy from your song, Elfman? Was his last name Elfman?”

Eddie snaps his fingers at her, “That’s it! Danny Elfman!” “The guy from Oingo Boingo!”

There are a few beats of silence.

“Don’t look at me like that, he’s the singer in Oingo Boingo! My parents love their stuff, and they did that song in Weird Science!”

“Which song?”

“..Weird Science.” she says as if that was obvious.

Something clicks in Steve’s head at the name, too. “Wait, I know I've seen that name somewhere else...” He rounds the counter and toward the shelf he knows the tape he's thinking of lives; it’s a goofy movie, he’s watched it before on some of his long solo shifts and it’s honestly kind of grown on him.

He grabs up the first copy he sees, one of the Family Video plastic clamshells, and brings it back to the counter, popping the tape into their tape player.

The opening credits start up, and at the title card: “Oh hey, Pee-Wee's Big Adventure! I love Pee Wee!” Eddie says, excitedly jumping up to sit on the counter in front of the TV (and Steve).

“Yeah you do..” Robin mumbles.

“Shut up,” Steve grumbles, elbowing her a bit harder than necessary, “Look.” he points up to the text on the screen. 

“Damn, this guy’s everywhere!”

“‘Music composed by Danny Elfman’. Holy shit! Good memory, Dingus!”

“Thanks! Now what is this about Eddie loving Pee Wee?”

[zukosdualdao]

the moon will sing a song for me (i loved you like the sun)

zutara month, day seven: divine intervention, @zutaramonth.

summary: when zuko takes the lightning aimed for katara, it takes a little more than her usual healing to get him back from the brink. feat. yue's words of encouragement and empowering influence on katara, medically necessary bloodbending, and a zuko who is too out of it to understand much of what is going on, but that's okay. katara has him.

content warnings: general references to violence and wounds, nothing more explicit than the show.

notes: title is from "the moon will sing" by the crane wives. yes i do too many lyric titles. no i will not stop <3. idk when sozin's comet officially ended but for fic purposes we are imagining the timing makes sense for the moon to be out after the agni kai. two pieces of dialogue were taken from the show.

Zuko groans as he's being turned over. His bones feel like liquid, his skin set alight, his heart like a crater in his chest.

Katara, he thinks, he tries to say, he doesn't know.

Katara looks at him with a worried expression, her lips turned in a frown, her eyes wide with fear and sadness as she presses a watery hand to his crumpled, prone form.

She is worried but alive. She is alive, and if she is here, then she must have defeated Azula.

Katara is alive. That is what counts. This was his destiny, then. To save her.

It wasn't a bad note to end on.

Zuko closes his eyes. There's a hammering thud in his chest. He is so tired. Normally, he'd associate the feel of it with exertion, or else desperation, and he would feel frantic. But he is so tired. He has been so tired.

"No," he thinks he hears Katara say. It sounds like she's underwater, or perhaps he is. "No, Zuko, don't you dare."

He struggles to open his eyes again because he doesn't want her to sound so angry with him and doesn't want her to be sad. It only feels like a moment has passed, or maybe it has been hours.

She is looking up. Pale, yellow light shadows her.

Katara is speaking with the moon.

The moon is also a girl.

Someone told him a story like that once.

A spirit, he thinks a little redundantly, with white tresses of hair and a glowy form and a gentle smile. The moon spirit?

Zuko jerks, a spasm of his body as he lights up again with the pain, and Katara looks back to him, alarmed.

"—but you know another way," the moon-girl insists softly to Katara, whom Zuko looks at as her mouth sets in a thin, determined line. Unless he's imagining it all, which is possible. "And I am here with you now."

After a moment's hesitation, Katara nods and sets her left, water-encased hand against his chest again and raises her other in a motion he faintly recognizes.

"This is going to hurt," she says warningly, sadly. "But it will help. I think. It has to." She shakes her head, torn.

Zuko doesn't know what's going on, but if Katara says it will help, that's all that really matters.

"I trust you," he slurs. Is that him? Does he sound like that?

Katara blinks. Zuko watches tears slip from her cheeks.

And then, it starts. She did not lie about it hurting. Despite himself, Zuko feels his body rising from the ground in pain and panic, and Katara has to keep him pressed down. His blood is boiling, his chest swelling. This must be what dying feels like. But then, he's pretty sure he was dying before. He supposes it's a process.

"—sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry—" Zuko makes out the words, faint in his ears, though Katara sobs them out.

Eventually, though, the beat of his heart evens. His blood begins to simmer down. The pain melts.

He watches as Katara pulls back, resting on her knees. The moon-girl smiles down on them before fading back into being just the moon, high in their war-torn sky again.

Nothing that just happened makes any sense, Zuko decides dazedly. But it was Katara who saved him, and that made all the sense in the world.

"Thank you, Katara," he rasps, looking up at her through heavy eyes. Looking at her made everything in the world seem alright again.

She looks down at him with a soft expression and a watery smile.

"I think I'm the one who should be thanking you."

[itsjunear]

Comfort

Note: Hello loves! I'm back. After a few months, I have officially finished my midterms and have gotten used to the rhythm of university. I've lost a bit of practice, so I'm really sorry if this is horrible. I know the possibility of a fae catching a cold is almost nil, but I'm sick, so I'll indulge in writing something like this. Again, English is not my first language. I love you all! ❤❤❤

Psdt: I was listening to this song while writing, it doesn't have much to do with it, but I wanted to share it anyway.

Definitely, today would not be a great day. I mean, if waking up with a terrible headache and a runny nose wasn't enough of a bad omen, Az was out on a mission and probably wouldn't be back for another two days.

I sighed as I tried to stand up. The room spun, preventing me from continuing my pitiful attempt to get out of bed, and I groaned, coming to the conclusion that my body felt as if I had climbed up and down the stairs of the House of Wind five times.

I settled back into the large bed I shared with my mate, curling up in the spot that still held his scent. Damn, I missed him so much. I wanted him to be here to hold me.

This is what I had become: a spoiled and needy person because of Azriel. However, with a strength of will gathered over 300 years, I managed to get out of bed and drag myself to the bathroom. I definitely had a fever, and a cold bath would help, so I forced myself into the tub.

Fifteen minutes later, shivering and dressed in Az's warmest clothes, I forced my body to make some soup. Apparently, my biological clock was also out of whack, and I hadn't realized it was already past noon.

Feeling worse than after training with Cassian, I had some of the soup I had made and went back to bed. Wrapped in the scent of my partner and the security it provided, I must have fallen asleep at some point.

A light touch on my forehead gradually pulled me out of unconsciousness, and I responded with a sound filled with annoyance. A low, deep laugh answered me, making me open my eyes as quickly as I could.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hello, darling” greeted Az's voice, immediately making me smile. “Everything okay?” he asked as he stroked my hair.

I nodded, stroking his cheek. “I thought you’d be back in a couple more days.”

“That was the plan, but I got the information Rhys wanted earlier” he frowned. “Just in time, it seems.”

“I’m fine, Az. It’s just a cold” I tried to get out of bed as my head started spinning again. “You must be tired. I’ll make you some dinner.”

My big and handsome mate stopped me, blocking me with his wing and arm simultaneously. “Stay right there, Y/N. Don’t even think about it.”

I rolled my eyes, followed by a grimace from the pain it caused, and tried to push him away from where he had knelt by the bed. Oh, surprise. He didn't move, not even a little.

“Y/N” he called.

I didn’t look at him, so he put his hand under my chin to center my gaze on him. “You need to rest. I’ll call Madja to give you some remedy, okay?” he informed me as he stroked my hair again.

“Az…”

“If necessary, I will tie you to the bed. I'm serious” he interrupted firmly.

“Fine” I rolled my eyes again. “Only if you lie down with me” I relented. After all, this was the only thing I had wanted since the morning.

He smiled as if he could read my thoughts and sent a wave of love through the bond. Without speaking, he lay down next to me, then pulled me into his arms and settled me on his chest. Filled with his warmth, I felt the fatigue overcome me again, and half asleep, I whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he responded before unconsciousness claimed me.

[ju-nebugg]

okay people here’s a proposition for you that i’ve been thinking about nonstop lately

CORNLEY DOES SWEENEY TODD

if this has been done before i apologize, but i haven’t seen it so i figured i’d compile my thoughts!

i know it’s sondheim. i know they’re not necessarily the most musically inclined (cough cough nativity cough cough) would chris do it anyway? absolutely he would. would it go horribly wrong? obviously.

i’m gonna put the bulk of the text under the cut so i don’t ruin people’s scrolling but if you’re interested i’ve got a LOT written down!

okay initial casting:

- CHRIS is SWEENEY. i think people would roll their eyes at that but he would SO enjoy the drama of it all. he seems a bit too posh for the role but i think with the right stage makeup and a month or so without a haircut he could pull it off. he loves a good descent into madness and wants to try being all broody. his voice isn’t QUITE low enough for it though so they have to pitch up most of the songs a step or two. it’s a pain.

- ANNIE is MRS. LOVETT. i think this casting is absolutely perfect tbh, she would be SO GOOD at the manic, over the top energy and i think she’d love to go a little feral. character voice!! wild physicality!! annie is perfect!! and just imagine the VOCALS. this would probably be the best performance in the show. props to her <3

- SANDRA is JOHANNA. yeah, basic, but it works. obviously sandra can do the whole damsel thing pretty well, but she could probably beg great the bit of madness that johanna falls into in the second act as well! easy casting.

- just as easily, MAX is clearly ANTHONY. sweet, naive boy who’s desperately in love. no deliberation necessary. he’s pure and perfect and definitely plays up the innocence.

- ROBERT is JUDGE TURPIN. i think he can definitely be menacing enough, and would totally enjoy playing opposite chris in this role because he can mess with him a lot.

- DENNIS is the BEADLE. love putting him in a duo with robert, but also i think there are lots of opportunities for comedy with him in this role (see below)

- LUCY is TOBY!!! we got a hint of lucy as little orphan boy in christmas carol and i think she’d do a really good job with this role! it’s the biggest one she’s had with cornley so far and i’m sure she’d be nervous but the audience would ADORE her.

- VANESSA is the BEGGAR WOMAN/LUCY BARKER. this casting has the possibility of either a ridiculously good performance or a VERY awkward one. she’d probably feel very self-conscious about being so unhinged and wild, but hopefully she’d get into more as the show progresses.

- JONATHAN is PIRELLI and JONAS FOGG. i want to see greg tannahill with a silly italian accent and then a silly irish accent. that’s all. also he’d kill it.

- TREVOR is doing all of his wonderful tech stuff and also stands in as a bunch of the people that sweeney kills! and also some other stuff lmao

running bits:

- lots of mishaps with the blood. nothing working the way it’s supposed to. many necks begin spraying blood at the completely wrong times (very much like chris’s unfortunate gunshot bit in harper’s locket). they brush it off as some sort of plague that’s been affecting the whole of london. chris is stained all over with red as early as “worst pies”

- they actually try to make sweeney’s chair-chute work in real time, dropping actors (mainly trevor) directly from the barbershop on the second level into the “basement” of the shop, and it goes pretty badly. almost every time they use it trevor almost gets stuck, and he gets out somehow (occasionally with some smoke or crashes ptgw-elevator style yk yk)

- whenever vanessa as the beggar woman calls out for the beadle, dennis comes on stage, and they keep having to shoo him off

- one member of the ensemble is consistently off tempo by one or two beats, either vocally or with the dance. the music is supposed to feel discordant but this just feels wrong lmao

- there are a lot of delays. sondheim always requires cues to be TIGHT and PRECISE and cornley is consistently off the mark on that. i will elaborate below.

scene by scene:

- opening is decent but chris gets stuck on his entrance or something and so the strings just sorta go for a while and they wait and wait and wait for him to pop out and then he finally does

- at one point during worst pies, something falls off of annie’s costume (a fake eyelash or something) and into the pie she needs to give chris. he sees this. they both panic for a second but the song is so fast that they can’t really take it out

- they get to “if you doubt it take a bite” and just pause and stare at each other in fear and chris slowwwwwly eats it

- the ensuing disgust is genuine

- during “poor thing”, the flashback of his wife is supposed to be recorded and projected on the back of the stage. as it goes with cornley and projectors, something else is shown, ala dennis’s birthday in ccgw, and annie just continues to sing over it

- it’s nothing too horrible, just embarrassing

- maybe somehow the events in the video follow along with the lyrics in an ironic way? i don’t have a specific idea for this yet so lmk if you think of one

- when chris throws his arm up with the razor at the end of “my friends”, the blade goes flying into the audience. screams are heard. they proceed as normal.

- there’s GOTTA be something with the birds after “ah miss”, i don’t have ideas but im sure someone will

- pirelli’s miracle elixir is wild. lucy is doing great but BOTH of her wigs come off with the hat when she has her big reveal, and ends up doing the song about her pin-curled real hair and everyone just goes along with it

- ahhh, classic jonathan moment. during pirelli’s, there’s a little facade with a door that jonathan is supposed to burst out of at the end for the big button. of course, it doesn’t work. he can’t get the door open, everyone waits in silence and watches the knob jiggle. he walks around the side and they all gasp again and carry on

- “ladies and their sensitivities” starts out well but then robert starts singing over the top to be heard, and sandra fights back, and by the end everyone is screaming

- robert is a total pain during pretty women etc

- max gets held up during pretty women somehow and doesn’t burst in when he’s supposed to, chris is waiting to kill turpin but without max’s cue we have a lodge-style “ohhhh im gonna do it” kinda thing and they end up whistling more back and forth until max arrives

- for some reason they make annie run all the way up and down the stairs each time she gets interrupted in “god that’s good.” her frustration with sweeney and her total exhaustion is not false.

- dennis parlor songs. say no more.

- of course, there has to be a moment where vanessa is forced to improvise. i’d go with one of her little crazy lullabies being dragged out because the music cuts off (during the end of city on fire, maybe?) and she has to come up with more wild babble and it’s so uncomfortable for everyone lmao

- during “by the sea,” they try to have a silly little dream sequence of the beach with puppets of seagulls and fish. i’ll let you use your imagination there.

- similar to pretty women, robert keeps adding to the ending scene so chris can’t kill him. something like:

- “the face of a barber, the face of a prisoner isn’t memorable” or whatever the line is

- “it really isn’t. who are you?”

- long, frustrated chris bean pause. “…surely you know me, sir.”

- “not at all.”

- “benjamin barker?”

- “you certainly look like a barker. shave your own face for once, dog.”

- “robert—“

- “is that your name? i’ve never met a robert, sir.”

- and so on and so forth until chris just walks over and does the throat slit without the cue

- when vanessa is supposed to go down the chute at the end as lucy’s body, she gets stuck and annie pulls trevor out in a bad wig as a stand-in body for chris to weep over. robert is supposed to fall out of the chute still in the process of dying, but he gets stuck behind vanessa and just makes agonized noises from inside the chute. it makes for a very strange image. he continues to make these noises throughout the scene after he’s supposed to be fully dead, and it undercuts the drama quite a bit.

- i’m sure there’s more but i’m too excited to share this so i’m gonna cut myself off there, please reblog with any of your own thoughts!

[curiositymemes]

STICK SEASON: WE'LL ALL BE HERE FOREVER.

taken from the 2023 album by noah kahan. trigger warnings for mental illness, trauma, medication, references to suicide, and the exquisite agony of life in rural new england. feel free to change wording and pronouns and provide context as necessary. do not add to this list.

northern attitude.

how you been? 

you settled down?

you feelin’ right? 

you feelin’ proud?

you settle in to routine.

what does it mean? 

i’m not how you hoped.

you’re gettin’ lost.

scared to live, scared to die. 

you’re feelin’ lost.

stick season.

you must’ve had yourself a change of heart.

now i am stuck between my anger and the blame that i can’t face.

it’s half my fault, but i just like to play the victim. 

i’ll dream each night of some version of you that i might not have but i did not lose. 

i thought that if i piled something good on all my bad i could cancel out the darkness i inherited from dad. 

i miss the way you laugh.

you once called me forever now you still can’t call me back.

that’ll have to do.

my other half was you.

i hope this pain’s just passin’ through, but i doubt it. 

all my love.

how have things been?

well, love, now that you mention it.

i’m sayin’ too much, but you know how it gets out here.

now i know your name, but not who you are.

it’s all okay, there ain’t a drop of bad blood.

you got all my love.

if you need me, dear, i’m the same as i was.

what i’d give to have you out of me.

i still recall how the leather in your car feels.

and at the end of it all, i just hope that your scars heal.

i swear i was scared to death.

i smiled stupid the whole way home.

you said, ‘i’ll never let you go.’

she calls me back.

there was heaven in your eyes. 

everything’s alright.

look at me and don’t you lie.

don’t you hold your head up high.

for bullshit, i do not have time.

do you lie awake restless?

why am i so obsessive?

this town’s the same as you left it.

the radio is taunting me.

i don’t get much sleep most nights.

i’m seeing you in every dream.

if only i could fall asleep. 

i’ll love you when the oceans dry. 

i was too afraid of living life in your footsteps.

come over.

it was there when we got here, will be there when we leave.

you won’t have to guess who they’re speakin’ about.

i’m in the process of clearin’ out cobwebs. 

i was takin’ the wrong meds; feels good to be sad.

my house is just barely big enough for my family.

my mouth was designed for my foot to fit in it.

i promise you, darlin’.

you won’t ever go back.

i know that it ain’t much.

i know that it ain’t cool.

you don’t have to tell the other kids at school.

someday i’m gonna be somebody people want.

new perspective.

makin’ me nostalgic.

we were kids; but that don’t make this less hard.

if i could fly i doubt i’d even do it. 

i’d probably get high and crash or somethin’ stupid.

gave me your word.

i can’t pronounce it.

no thing so sure that i can’t learn to doubt it.

everywhere, everything.

would we survive in a horror movie?

we trust everyone we meet.

we’re littered with scars from our preteens.

i wanna love you ‘til we’re food for the worms to eat.

‘til our fingers decompose, keep my hand in yours. 

i know every route in this county.

maybe that ain’t such a bad thing.

i’ll tell you where not to speed.

it’s been a long year.

orange juice.

honey, come over.

it’s yours if you want it.

we’re just glad you could visit. 

feels like i’ve been ready for you to come home for so long.

i didn’t think to ask you where you’d gone. 

why’d you go?

my heart has changed and my soul has changed.

you just asked me to hold you.

it made you a stranger and it filled you with anger.

my life has changed.

the world has changed.

don’t you find it strange that you just went ahead and carried on?

are we all just pullin’ you down?

strawberry wine.

darling, speak to me.

don’t you say a word.

you thought you were cursed?

i’m in love with every song you’ve ever heard.

if i could lose you, i would.

all the time we used to have.

the things i miss but know are never coming back. 

no thing defines a man like love that makes him soft.

growing sideways.

finally found some middle ground.

i said, ‘i’m cured.’

i divvied up my anger into thirty separate parts.

i’m still angry at my parents for what their parents did to them.

it’s a start.

but i ignore things and i move sideways ‘til i forget what i felt in the first place.

i know there are worse ways to stay alive.

everyone’s growing and everyone’s healthy.

if my engine works perfect on empty, i guess i’ll drive. 

i forgot my medication, fell into a manic high.

now i’m sufferin’ in style.

why is pain so damn impatient? ain’t like it’s got a place to be.

if all my time was wasted, i don’t mind. 

i’ll watch it go.

it’s better to die numb than feel it all.

halloween.

the dawn isn’t here, the sun hasn’t rose.

they got money to make and children back home.

i worry for you, you worry for me.

the bridges have long since been burnt. 

i’m leavin’ this town and i’m changin’ my address.

i know that you’ll come if you want.

i’m losin’ myself.

i’m seein’ my life on a screen.

i know that you fear that i’m wicked and weary.

i know that you’re fearin’ the end. 

i only tell the truth when i’m sure that i’m lyin’. 

homesick.

are you bored yet?

the weather ain’t been bad if you’re into masochistic bullshit.

this place is such great motivation for anyone tryna move the fuck away from hibernation. 

time moves so damn slow i swear i feel my organs failing.

i stopped caring ‘bout a month ago, since then it’s been smooth sailing. 

i would leave if only i could find a reason. 

i got dreams, but i cant make myself believe them. 

i’ll spend the rest of my life with what could have been. 

i will die in the house that i grew up in.

i’m homesick. 

still.

i don’t wanna say goodbye.

it only falls into place when you’re fallin’ to pieces.

you miss something that you can’t place but you can’t deny it. 

you can’t stay here.

it’s hard to face and it feels too ugly.

it’s like i’m still here with you. 

can i fix what is broken?

the view between villages (extended). 

for a minute, the world seems so simple.

i am not scared of death.

i’ve got dreams again.

there is meanin’ on earth. 

i feel so far from it.

it’s all washin’ over me. 

i’m angry again. 

the things that i lost here, the people i knew.

they got me surrounded for a mile or two. 

i found a town big enough for anything i want.

i’m not a city girl, by any means.

it still has a lot of meaning to me.

i grew up there. 

your needs, my needs.

you ain’t gotta tell me what it means.

i promise to be there this time. alright? 

you were a work of art.

that’s the hardest part.

i’m naming the stars in the sky after you.

dial drunk.

i promised to forget you.

i ain’t takin’ any fault.

am i half the man i used to be? i doubt it.

forget about it, whatever.

it’s all the same anyways.

i ain’t proud of all the punches that i’ve thrown. 

for the shame of being young, drunk, and alone.

i gave your name as my emergency phone call.

i’d die for you.

from charmin’ to alarmin’ in seconds.

i’ll let the pain metastasize.

i beg you, sir, just let me call.

let’s wait, i swear she’ll call me back.

son, are you a danger to yourself?

fuck that, sir.

son, why do you do this to yourself?

paul revere.

this place had a heartbeat in its day.

nothin’ was the same.

it just ain’t that simple, it never was.

one day i’m gonna cut it clear.

i’m not from around here.

i’ll leave before the road crew’s out. 

i’ll turn up the music and i’ll forget.

i’m not ready to let go yet.

i’ll just pretend i didn’t hear.

it’s typical, i fear.

folks just disappear.

if i could leave, i would’ve already left.

no complaints.

i thought i had something and that’s the same as having something.

i get mad at nothing.

i pull no punches, then feel bad for months.

thought i was raised better, tried to fake better.

now the weight of the world ain’t so bad.

i saw the end, it looks just like the middle.

i filled the hole in my head with prescription medication.

who am i to complain?

now the pain’s different. It still exists, it just escapes different.

yes, i’m young and living dreams.

i’m in love with being noticed and afraid of being seen.

call your mom.

oh, you’re spiralin’ again.

don’t you cancel any plans.

stayed on the line with you the entire night ‘til you let it out and let it in.

don’t let this darkness fool you.

i’ll drive all night.

i’ll call your mom.

oh, dear, don’t be discouraged.

i’ve been exactly where you are.

if you could see yourself like this.

you’dve never tried it.

stayed on the line with you the entire night ‘til you told me that you had to go.

throw a punch, fall in love, give yourself a reason.

don’t wanna drive another mile wonderin’ if you’re breathin’.

won’t you stay with me?

you’re gonna go far. 

this is good land, or at least it was.

it takes a strong hand and a sound mind.

it makes me smile to know when things get hard, you’ll be far from here.

pack up your car.

put a hand to your heart.

say whatever you feel.

be wherever you are.

we ain’t angry at you, love. 

you’re the greatest thing we’ve lost.

the birds will still sing.

we’ll be waiting for you, love.

we’ll all be here forever.

we spent so long just getting by.

that’s the thing about survival; who the hell likes livin’ just to die?

you told me you would make a difference.

it won’t be by your own volition if you step foot outside this town.

it’s all we’ve had for always.

you’re gonna go far.

if you wanna go far, then you gotta go far.

forever.

let’s drive for no reason.

you look fine in the evening.

honey, it’s starting to storm.

used to wish i meant anything to anywhere, to anyone.

i’m glad i get forever to see where you end.

i won’t be alone for the rest of my life.

i’ll meet a girl in the heat of july.

i’ll tell her so she knows.

i’m broke, but i’m real rich in my head.

when i hold her close, i might loosen my grip, but i won’t ever let her go.

[ataraxiaspainting]

Hier Encore II.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

[Hier Encore I.]

Synopsis: Yorknew Police Department Headquarters, 1995, April 10th. You are a director of public safety. The Phantom Troupe attacks the headquarters and takes you under the guise of a hostage situation. Even when the ransom is paid, you are never returned and assumed to be dead. After thirteen months of captivity, in 1996, on May 9th, you escape and try to learn how to live again somewhere far away from your captor. The payment of freedom comes with a steep cost, one that stains your hands so much that even if you drown them in bleach, the stain will remain there for the rest of your life.

Warnings: Yandere themes, kidnapping, the reader is described as AFAB and uses she/her pronouns respectively, not SFW implications, misogynistic undertones (not from Chrollo), forced tattooing, unhealthy relationships, manipulation, mentions of starvation, some minor Hunter x Hunter spoilers, violence, Hisoka showing up sorry about that in advance, minor character death, and stalking.

Word Count: 13.7k.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Lacrimosa by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

4:00 A.M. by Taeko Onuki

My Girlfriend Is a Witch by October Country

Michelle by Sir Chloe

Sonne by Rammstein

Enemy by Imagine Dragons

Venus Fly Trap by MARINA

Maneater by Nelly Furtado

cult leader by KiNG MALA

Teacher’s Pet by Melanie Martinez 

“She looked like a vixen, and that’s what she was; she had all the instincts of a female fox. She was the proverbial predatory female. She had what she wanted, now, and she was content. There was just the getting completely away with it that counted.” – Gil Brewer, Sin for Me

ii. “I would not wish any companion in the world but you.”

You’re happy here.

You’re happy here, picking pumpkins and apples to make decorations and cook into pies. You’re happy here, harvesting sunflowers to put into glass vases around your cottage. You’re happy here, going into the farmer’s market and smelling freshly roasted corn and baked goods.

You’re happy here with Sebaste.

You’re happy here with Sebaste, who is always carrying gifts for you–lovingly ignoring your pleas to better learn how to budget his money–cookies, fried mushrooms, glazed yams, eggplant parmesan… your favorites. His too.

You hope he’s happy here with you too.

He says he does.

*~*~*~*

“Where do you want it? The neck, the leg? Lower, higher?” a voice, still trying to be cordial but exhaustion and annoyance overtook it halfway. 

The faux leather furniture squeaks slightly as it is pushed down a bit by you sitting on it. You try to adjust yourself as you lay on your stomach, the plastic beneath you crinkling. ABBA’s Lay All Your Love On Me is playing from the small radio, the audio slightly too quiet for you to make out what part the song was at, and also because of how loud the tattoo artist was as she asked Chrollo a few questions.

“The lower back.” he touches it with his cold finger, almost making you jump and run out of that parlor. “Somewhere around here.”

You try to close your eyes and imagine you are anywhere else in the world. Even a sketchy bar would be better than this tattoo parlor because at least then you could leave with no pain in your body. 

“Okay.”

“Thirty thousand Jenny, along with a million for keeping silent about this.” You hear a large bag filled with coins being placed on the table. The same bag that made the owner of this place go on his knees and kept repeating that there was no appointment necessary anymore. While the sound of money jingling would make anyone feel happy, it sounds like nails on a chalkboard to you. No one will ever know though, because you keep your mouth shut unless you have to say something sweet. “Feel free to count it if you wish. I will not stop you.”

“Nah. I’ll pass.”

“Alright then. Are you going to use a stencil first to show me what it would look like? I think that would be best.”

You hear a tired sigh. “If that’s what you want. I’ll take it out.”

Your legs want to run. Your heart wants to burst out of your chest. Your eyes want tears to come out in rivers. But you can’t.

You can’t because it’s useless and all of your progress would be ruined.

“Here we are.”

You feel thermal paper going on the spot just above where your butt is. 

“Looks good.” Chrollo hums, pleased. “Behave. I’ll be back soon.”

His voice is soft but still firm. He steps toward you and squeezes your hand lightly, his thumb rubbing circles around it. He hums again. You can only see his shoes from this angle, but you know he is smiling. You want to scream, but you can’t.

You nod, still not talking. You hear a praise leave his lips, but you’re too scared to pay attention. He thanks the tattoo artist and leaves. The door shuts behind him quietly. For a brief moment, you sigh with relief.

The tattoo artist also sighs. There is a nervous chuckle that escapes both of your mouths, the type where both of you know what would happen if either of you were to step out of line. You try to move your neck upwards to look at the posters on the wall. Most are Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell, with a few of Audrey Hepburn. The largest poster is of the 1953 film Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, with Monroe and Russell dancing above the title in revealing magician outfits.

The tattoo artist turns the dial on the radio, putting on I Put A Spell On You instead, which you'd rather listen to. 

The tattoo artist leans in closer and talks to you in a whisper. "I'm so sorry about this. I had to do it."

Your eyes are wide, but you manage to keep your calm. Your fingers are shaking. Chrollo's voice is in your head, telling you to be still or he'll know. You do your best to ignore it as the tattoo needle stabs your back, sending shivers down your spine.

The entire process takes five hours, with you zoning out after about twenty minutes. 

The tattoo artist lets out a heavy sigh and leans back in her chair. "We're done, darling. I hope you're satisfied with your new tattoo."

You're exhausted. Your back feels numb. You have zero interest in looking at your new tattoo. You just want to leave.

Chrollo walks through the door with an even bigger smile on his face. "Ah, she's done, is she? Let me take a look."

He walks closer and sees the spider web tattoo, the number zero being on top of it.

"Beautiful. Your tattoo looks amazing, darling." Chrollo stares deeply into your eyes. "Now, would you mind standing up so I can see you in full?"

His eyes wander around your body. Your heart drops as you stand up.

Chrollo looks from your head to your feet as you stand. With every inch of your body, he smiles more deeply. "You look amazing, my dear. Stunning." He runs his smooth fingers across your skin, tracing the design of your tattoo. "Well, I'm satisfied with your new tattoo." He grabs your hand and pulls you towards the door. "Now, let's head back to the room. Don't you need to sleep? It's been a tiring day."

He stares at your tattoo one last time before reaching out and touching your back, tracing the black spiderweb pattern. You want to cry, but you can’t. You feel both the physical and mental pain silencing you. So, all you do is nod. 

Nothing is worth the risk.

The tattoo artist doesn’t look at either of you because of the intense guilt she feels.

The December weather outside only makes you want to shiver more.

Life is death. Death is a blessing that allows the weak to rest. Death is life. Life is a curse that allows only the strong to reap the rewards.

*~*~*~*

Even after all this time since the incident happened, your lower back still hurts. 

It burns whenever you touch it–like your skin is on fire–but it may be more mental than physical.

There is no scarring, thankfully, and because it is on your lower back, it can easily be hidden. Perhaps that was the point of the placement, for only if you do not have a long shirt or high-waisted pants would anyone see it; and only Chrollo was the only one you were allowed to be nude with, not that you had any choice.

It is the 21st of October, 1998. Sebaste now sleeps in the same bed as you. He talks in his sleep sometimes, about celebrating Halloween with you or his mother. It’s cute, you think. The photo frame beside the bed has a Polaroid photo of you and him, both smiling brightly. It’s a gift from his mother to you in more ways than one. Whenever your paranoia is set off, you hold it in your arms until you have calmed down. 

You loved Robin like you would your mother, and aside from Sebaste, she was the only one you would regularly talk to. She is kind to you, and once gave you hand-carved furniture as a gift when Sebaste first introduced you to her as his girlfriend. On colder days she brings you a pot of her homemade pumpkin soup and chatters away as soon as she sets foot in your home. She was talkative, very talkative, which funnily enough contrasts with Sebastian's introversion.

*~*~*~*

“What will you do to stop people from knowing I am still alive?” 

The question you asked, mere days into your kidnapping, came when you were lying down, restrained. You did not mean to sound aggressive, but you think you did by accident. Your nervousness is making you lose your touch, it seems. 

“If you would like to know, my dear, I shall tell you.” Your captor responds, sitting on a chair beside the bed. 

You want to scream for help. You want to demand him to take the silk binds off of you and run for the hills. But you can’t, because you know it would be useless. You have to wait for the right moment.

“I want to know.”

A book covers the lower part of his face, but his eyes still look down on you from your helpless position. The Brothers Karamazov. How fitting.

“We will request more money for your release.” Even though you cannot see half of his face, you know he is smiling from how pleased his voice sounds. “So much money that the authorities will simply give up on you, money that simply cannot be paid.”

Here you are, with a silk scarf tied around your wrists, not too tight but not too loose, and another binding your legs. He got rid of the handcuffs when he returned with you to a penthouse, wanting in some sense to make sure you were at least partially comfortable. Perhaps the handcuffs were just to ensure the public thought that you were a hostage taken for ransom. 

“Four million, sixteen million, perhaps twenty million for just a cut of your hair, maybe fifty million for a photo of you in your presumed last moments.” There is a pause, with you finally being able to hear your rapid heartbeat hidden behind a mask of calmness. “They will give up on you eventually, and the world will continue to go on as it always has.”

You silently wish that you could turn your hearing off like a light. There is such depravity, devotion, and greediness in his tone. 

“Maybe they won’t.” Your eyes keep moving around the room to avoid his intense stare from above. “Maybe they’ll know whatever body you plant is fake. Maybe they’ll locate me. Maybe they’ll… they’ll pay everything off.”

“That does not seem plausible, my sweet.”

You are holding back a sea of tears.

“Even though you think so, there is quite a small chance that will happen. That chance will only dwindle as the price increases, I am afraid. Money is far more important to governments than human lives in all cases. You know that, don’t you?” Chrollo says, his voice slightly teasing, turning a page of his book. “Perhaps it is for the best that they think you are dead though, angel, with all of the… dealings you have done when you thought no one was watching. You are quite resourceful. It’s something we have in common, you know.” 

You know that you’ll only make this situation worse if you try to fight back anymore.

You just look up at the ceiling and count the tiles, waiting for the moment he unties you.

One, two, three, four, five, six…

*~*~*~*

You liked gardening before your capture, and still do. As a hobby, you grow plants that are suitable for the fall setting. You cook with them when they have matured enough, or give them to Robin if you have too much of them. You especially like yams because they can be cooked into both sweet and savory dishes. A duplex trait you love.

It keeps your mind off of Chrollo.

You got yourself a new watering can recently. It can hold more water for your plants and it is prettier than your old one. It is a metal one, the spout rose freshly cleaned from rust by your gloved hands scrubbing for what felt like a millennium. It was worth it. The water compartment has purple lilies and white jasmine flowers on its bottom half. There are also a few butterflies, bees, and praying mantises among them. It’s cute and comforting to you.

This new life is also just as cute and comforting to you. You feel a sense of stability now that you aren’t forced to go from place to place by your captor or in fear of being caught by him. There is a sweetness and simplicity to it all. You get better sleep now that you share a bed with someone you love rather than someone you hate with all your being. You wear sweaters and sweatpants instead of those revealing shirts and short skirts, being free to dress warmly for once. Even when you were given tights as a reward for good behavior, they always were not nearly enough to make you stop shivering. Whenever you go to a clothing store in the town you avoid the section with clothes that are meant to show off collarbones or thighs. You’d rather die than wear them, even in the scorching heat of the summer months, bearing the rolls of sweat that appear on your face and your back.

*~*~*~*

The clothes are too tight. It’s hard to walk like this.

Everything itches. 

You would love nothing more than to take your clothes off right here.

One of your hands goes to the upper part of your back while the other goes near your spine, your arms almost hugging you from how odd their placements are. As much as you fidget, you cannot seem to get that one spot, until you feel someone else scratch it gently.

“Here?”

You sigh, relieved as Jean’s nails move up and down, subduing your discomfort. 

“The bodice is almost strangling me, and they gave me ballet slippers twice my size.” You groan as you sweep your bangs to the side so you can see what is in front of you. You start walking with Jean away from the stage and into the darkness of the hallway where the dressing rooms are.

“Don’t you think you can buy a new pair?” A well-meaning question, but their tone doesn’t stop you from dryly laughing.

“I’m not the one who had the lead role.” You walk to the door with the number four on it, twisting the handle and pushing it backward. “This is just a sideshow, anyway. As soon as I get that promotion, I’m getting out of here and moving to a different Yorknew district. One with a name that does not claim to be a saint.” Upon entering the dressing room, you raise your arms towards the ceiling and emit a low, discontented sound. “Hilland or Kingstown, hopefully. Those have the highest crime rates, after all.”

“Saintshore isn’t that bad.” Jean leans on the door and begins to take off their shoes, their quality much higher than yours. Your eyes go back between your vanity and theirs, both of which have bouquets piled on top of each other, along with other gifts. “The audience loves you, you know.”

“Then why was I the deuteragonist yet again?” Your hands shift through your mound, separating the flowers from everything else. Some chocolates, makeup, perfume, confessional love letters… nothing to pay much attention to, as usual. Frustration overtakes you, but you don’t let it show. 

“I mean it. Everyone loves you. You rival my popularity most of the time.”

Another dry laugh from you. “Then my dog days should be over by now.”

“Perhaps they will soon.” You don’t need to look in the mirror to know that Jean is smiling, trying to comfort you as they always do. “I think you’ll be okay. You have plenty of potential and you are admired by many here, from the patrons to the staff.”

“If those people loved me as much as they say they do, then I wouldn’t be in this dress and instead be living in a penthouse, living a life of luxury without working a single hour.”

“Maybe that will happen someday. You never know.” A hug from behind. “Maybe you’ll be swept off your feet tomorrow by some charming, tall stranger. Like those meet cutes from those movies you like watching.”

“If only, Jean. If only.”

*~*~*~*

Robin took you to the library today because you had mentioned that the few books you had were getting boring. She told you that she had never taken for an answer when you said you didn’t want to bother her. She then grabbed your hand and pulled you all the way here, repeating that you were never an inconvenience to her and that she loved you. She accompanied you to the horror section, remembering your fondness for the genre as you had mentioned a few days ago. That and Halloween were just around the corner.

You were glad to have someone to talk to while Sebaste was busy working in his office, at least.

Robin was chattering away, talking about random stuff that she remembered or events that happened when she was younger. A few weeks ago, she went on a tangent about the history of execution methods and how it related to racial segregation, and if you were being honest it was interesting to listen to. You learn a lot from Robin this way, even things like carving you learn more from her words and less from her movements. 

As much as her interests are varied and odd, you cannot deny that Robin is very knowledgeable. Whenever Robin is present, it's as if you're engaged in a conversation with an old buddy or a younger sibling passionately discussing their interests, even though Robin is significantly older than you. If it wasn’t for the fact that there are many small sections of white hair amongst her ginger locks and her wrinkles, a stranger would probably have assumed that she is your little sister.

You love her and trust her.

“What about this one?” Robin asks, holding out a book with the title We Have Always Lived In The Castle on its monochrome front. 

If you recall correctly, it’s a Shirley Jackson work. Someone recommended it to you a long time ago, you think. You can’t remember who exactly, though. It was not Chrollo as he was not the most interested in horror to begin with. All that was on his bookshelves were books relating to philosophy or something else in that vein.

At present, the library houses a mere handful of people. The librarian, the village teacher with two visibly tired children. A girl about your age with bright purple hair and a black leather jacket with tiny spikes on its cuffs and a white skull on the back of it. A man who looked a bit older than you was reading a book with his other hand on his chin looking zoned out in a way. 

*~*~*~*

There is a pleased, wanting moan coming from behind you on the bed. 

“We’re finally alone, baby…” 

Don Dario lays on his bed, large enough to be used by at least five people. The frame is made of agarwood, and the headboard is crested with what you assume is pure gold, considering how rich the Don is. The pillows are encased with wine red and medallion yellow silk. So are the curtains of the canopy. The blanket is doused in similar shades, but slightly darker than you think. If you choose to lie down, you could see the painted inside of the marquee, but you don’t want to. You do not want to sleep with this slimeball. So you simply sit at the corner hoping the Don would just give up and let you go.

“Don’t be shy, baby.” His knees are stabbing into the mattress and he is quickly unbuckling the belt of his crimson velvet robe, moaning and chuckling with excitement. “Come on, pussycat. Come to Daddy.” Even though you refuse to face him, you can envision how he is licking his lips as you hear his mantle being thrown to the floor. “No need to keep playing hard to get. Nobody’s here aside from you and me. I know you want me, darling.” 

Click, click, click.

He crawls on all fours to your backside and then to your right side, still cooing and cawing. You finally look at his eyes, and you see the direction they are facing; downwards. After a slight scoff from you, though, he looks upwards towards your face. “You’re so cute, you know. I feel like I will never get tired of looking at you.”

Click, click, click.

“You like me too, don’t you?” There is a smirk on his face, making his double chin even larger and making you in turn narrow your eyes. “You must, at least a little bit, right? Everyone wants a piece of me. But I don’t mind if such a pretty girl like you wants to get a bit more than you were told that you would get. You will, if you promise to come back, that is. For another round.”

There is a whisper of a glare in your eyes, and when Don Dario notices this he simply laughs haughtily. 

“Now, now, sweetie.” He puts a hand on your shoulder. “I always keep my word. You just have to do your part and everything will be fine.”

“I never said I would do this, you forced me to be here.”

The grip tightens and you wince. “When I saw you on that stage, I knew I had to have you. I was feeling generous. I still am.” His voice is now cold and demanding, the opposite of how it was just a few seconds ago. “I’ll pay off your debts and have a word with your boss, I promise, if you do as you are told.”

“Asshole.”

Click, click, click.

There is a murmur of fondness from Don Dario’s mouth, but you don’t care enough to make out what he said. 

“You know no sane woman would sleep with you willingly, and so you order your lackeys to grab one by the hair and drag her to your room. Quite pathetic, wouldn’t you say?”

Don Dario rolls onto his back and cackles like he is being tickled. “This kitten is trying to use her claws to fight a lion! How adorable.” You want to throw up.

Click, click, click.

A flash.

“What was that?” You ask, irate. 

“Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” Your neck turns to see him start to unbutton his shirt, the golden letters and medals of the many necklaces around his neck smashing against one another. “Just a few mementos, and also to make sure you don’t say anything… crummy.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Call me whatever you like, but one way or another you’ll do what I want.” There is a sudden grab of your hair as you are forced to lay on the mattress roughly. The touch of the velvet beneath you, despite being soft, also feels like molasses on your skin and makes you feel slow and heavy. “Let us not wait a second longer, my bride for today. Be good for me and maybe I’ll even send more money your way in the future.”

You want to cry out for help, but his henchmen are right outside his bedroom door in case you try to run. It would be useless. You wouldn’t be let go and all that would result from it is you being pushed and shoved back into Don Dario’s arms eventually. He would find you if you ran. 

You decide not to fight anymore. You’re exhausted and there would be no point in the long run. You nod and the genuine smile that appears on Don Dario’s face is a terrifying sight to you. At least you would get that promotion and the money to pay off your debts, even if it hurts to walk in the morning.

“Give daddy some sugar, baby.”

Every hair on your body stands on end as you nod.

You are nothing now but a Mignonne who is forced to be swept off her feet.

“Lay all your love on me.”

*~*~*~*

The newspaper today had an odd headline, to say the least. Especially because this town is so far away from the Saintshore district of Yorknew. It would take forever to get to it, not that you would ever want to return to that place that should be categorized as a nuclear dump if anything. The food was greasy. There was always a whiff of smoke, either from the smokers or the many, many cars, and rusty needles on the ground below you if you set foot outside. Not that there would be a point in going for a walk as Saintshore was practically unwalkable except for a few suburban areas and a small portion of the poorly taken care of parks. 

Mobster Don Dario Niccolo Found Beheaded In Alleyway was not a title you had ever thought would be read or even seen by you or anyone for that matter, but it makes sense. Dario was not short of enemies who would do anything to kill him or at the very least sabotage his business affairs with other criminals. He always had the limelight on him, whether his deeds were good or bad. That gave him the nickname of the uncrowned king of Saintshore. You don’t feel bad for his family or his ‘friends’ in the slightest. That is one person who is part of your unwanted past gone, after all, and someone will be there to get the blood-soaked inheritance and probably continue the Niccolo legacy to take more money.

You’re happy to be far away from that district and from the Phantom Troupe, almost enough to get you on your knees and worship the stars above you. 

*~*~*~*

His movements are always silent, never betraying his presence with the sound of footsteps. You never hear them coming.

He does it on purpose, you think, to keep you on edge and to catch you in any act of escaping he suspects you will do.

He’s right if he does expect you will try something, though.

His earrings glimmer in the moonlight, hypnotizing you with their beauty. His eyes glimmer too, his irises reminding you of the pitch-black sky that is above you two and this picnic blanket. His teeth remind you of pearls sold in unpurchasable jewelry shops. At least you feel hypnotized, because you do nothing as he takes your hand, not even flinching. Like the devil, Chrollo is beautiful. But the beauty is only hiding what lurks beneath the surface; a monster.

“Open wide, dearest.” The chocolate-covered strawberry leans closer, pale fingertips holding onto its dark green leaves. “This is romantic, is it not?”

Maybe you can blur out his words for a bit longer to again remove the bitter taste in your mouth. Then only the sweetness of the scenery in front of you would remain, hypnotizing you yet again.

*~*~*~*

When you step out of your house’s door, it is like you are instantly transported back to four years ago; the last time you celebrated Halloween.

All the houses on every block have decorations of some kind, whether going all out with animatronics supposed to resemble monsters like the popular Bays’ house or a measly jack-o-lantern standing out amongst a poorly taken care of front yard like the lone Mr. Hyde’s house. Perhaps the weeds only increased the scariness for the children and were done on purpose. Ah, weeds. How horrifying. All of the houses also have candy to give out to the trick-or-treaters, from Ms. Alson’s house down the street to the unpopular Blissetts’, your neighbors. In Ms. Alson’s case, she is giving out handmade gift bags to everyone who passes by, even adults. However, the Blissetts only put out a smaller-than-life basket of candy corn with a ‘take one’ sign next to it. Terrifying.

“Trick or treat. Give me something good to eat!” The kids chanted, running around in circles as they all wore costumes.

*~*~*~*

As you ponder the origins of this situation, you diligently search for any missteps on your part. Chrollo, in his typical fashion, remains silent about the expression on your face as your mind races. He always waits for you to speak first, yet you are certain he is aware of your thoughts. Together on the balcony, he feigns interest in his book, his sunglasses serving as a disguise to conceal the gaze fixated upon you. What could you have possibly done to cause such a high-ranking criminal to be romantically interested in you? Did you meet somewhere before? Did he see you from afar and become obsessed with you that way?

“You look rather nice with only my shirt on.” A hand is placed on your bare thigh, squeezing the meaty flesh gently.

“When did you first start liking me?” Your vocal tone emerges with a softer and huskier quality than initially intended. You discreetly clear your throat, contemplating whether a repetition of your words is necessary. Chrollo's gaze is fixated upon you, yet you avoid meeting his eyes, instead directing your attention towards the captivating spectacle of the sunset. The hues of yellow seamlessly blend into orange, which seamlessly blends into red, the colors melding together without complete separation. He affectionately applies more pressure to your thigh, emitting a gentle hum. This shirt serves two purposes: to allure him, ultimately facilitating your escape, and to maintain a facade of modesty, despite it being the most conservative garment available in the hotel room. Your loathing for him burns fiercely within, yet you must never allow it to manifest outwardly.

When you fixate on the sunset, you wonder to yourself if you perhaps can distract yourself from the sensation of his hand caressing your thigh.

Placing his book on the table near the outdoor couch, he leans in your direction and gently draws you onto his lap. You make no resistance, acknowledging the potential advantage this holds for your scheme. After all, even if you tried, he wouldn't allow you to escape.

“I mean if you don’t mind. If you don’t want to tell me, I won’t get mad.” You lean in, Chrollo’s hair slightly tickling your nostrils. “It’s your choice.”

“You’re right in that aspect. It is my choice.” He hums and you can picture his eyes behind his sunglasses shifting upwards in reminiscence. The arm around you pulls you in closer so that your nose is right next to his neck. “But I’ll tell you if that is what you want. I was in Saintshore and saw you dancing in a ballet.”

“Which one?” You mumble, not even surprised that he knew your side job before you were promoted. You can smell his cologne; musk, sandalwood, rum, and vanilla. He always sprays just a bit too much, not enough to make you cough but enough for you to smell it whenever he is close. Not that you would ever tell him that, as that would ruin your plan and he is self-aware enough to know what he is doing. 

“Swan Lake. You played an excellent Odile, beloved.” His hand brushes your arm while the other dances on your thigh still. The queen of the black swans.

“That’s it?” You ask, and Chrollo responds by having his hand over upward from your thigh to your bangs, brushing them to the side. 

“You were just so graceful. You still are just as beautiful, you know.” He kisses your forehead and you try your hardest to not flinch. As you gaze at the sunset, you make a conscious effort to divert your attention from the affectionate tone in his voice. He passionately shares his journey of falling in love with you, while his hand gently rests beneath your shirt, and you sense something hard beneath you. It’s best not to think about it too much, you tell yourself.

*~*~*~*

Two years, five months, twenty-two days, twenty-three hours, and five minutes.

That is the duration of time that had passed since your triumphant escape, about half the duration accounting for the time it took for you to reach a considerably distant location from the place where you were held prisoner.

Tickets to films, musical adaptations, ballets, stage adaptations, and operas. Piles upon piles of novels, fashionable clothes, and delicious food that were more expensive than anything you had ever bought before your capture. Everything was given to you in the blink of an eye, all aside from freedom. 

Memorabilia like heart-shaped sunglasses, flared sundresses, lingerie made with lace and silk, violas, violins, cellos, croissants, cream puffs, macaroons, rings, necklaces, chokers, thigh highs, garter belts, short skirts, sheer tights, and hotpants were all given to you without you even asking. You only wore them and played them and ate them when it would help you with your escape plan, which you guessed was all the time. You became the archetype known as the temptress, a symbol of lust and desirability. Unethical, a Queen Bee, mysterious, wanting, and seductive. But you also had to become Chrollo’s sweetheart at the same time. A princess from a fairytale, a coquette, gentle, sweet, and alluring. 

*~*~*~*

The bedroom is suffocating to you. It was too clean, too pristine, the walls having all furniture mounted on it tidy with not a speck of dust or dirt. There is a low hum of the air conditioner that is above hung paintings that were both stolen and bought legally. A pendulum clock above the bed with its hand swinging from side to side with a constant tick-tocking sound. The blanket restraining your wrists was tied to the headboard, the half that was all things considered a piece of your part of the bed. He doesn’t restrain your legs anymore, a reward you suppose for good behavior, for not trying to kick him whenever he touches you or at the very least within your range. Similarly, he doesn’t gag you anymore for not screaming and crying and demanding to be let go.

He sometimes feeds you and sometimes lets you feed yourself. He brings you whatever you want to eat whenever you want to eat. Pastries, cheese, bread, pasta, all of it you have access to, all you have to do is ask for it. If you don’t request anything, the meal will be something nutritious and balanced, like steamed rice and broccoli with tofu and miso soup. One time you refused to eat, clamping your mouth shut like a toddler as he gently tried to guide a metal spoon to your lips. 

You tired your neck out that way and gave in about an hour later, though the food was ice cold by then.

You don’t refuse to eat anymore. You don’t do a lot of things you want to do anymore. You are scheduled as to when you can and cannot walk within the penthouse like you are his dog. The only room you have privacy in is the bathroom, when the silk restraints come off and you can walk around freely, as small as the room is. Though it is windowless, and there would be nowhere to hide if Chrollo ever decided to open the lockless bathroom door. 

If you are good, he lets you watch movies or shows on the television, he’ll read to you, one time he even gave you some of your old things from your apartment, putting them on the table beside you. If you are bad… On days that you are bad, he ignores you, aside from when you ask to go to the bathroom, he describes the brutalness of the murders he has committed in great detail as you squirm, or he will tickle you for an hour straight until your face is red with tears and you can hardly breathe.

“I’m willing to wait.” 

He repeats this every time you try to tear the blanket off of your wrists and ankles, every time after you cry and scream your lungs out, every time you refuse to look at him and at yourself in a desperate attempt to control at least one thing; your imagination. He wants you to break and leave only your vulnerable, core self. You could never resist the pull of rebellion forever, your thread of patience always eventually snapping and forcing yourself to tie it back together. You could never resist what lays dormant in the deepest crevices of your heart; a chained-up beast. 

“With time, all pain fades.”

*~*~*~*

Maybe he is right in that aspect. As much as you want to deny it, with every passing month you were held captive, what Chrollo does then surprised you less and less. You sort of became comfortably numb to it all, only focusing on escape and not how much he touched you everywhere and told you sweet nothings both in and out of bed.

*~*~*~*

“The bathroom is well stocked with all sorts of soaps and shampoos and creams, as well as any other necessities you will need for this.” Chrollo says as he presses one of the mirrors above the sink, the mirror opening and revealing more products than are at the rim of the bathtub already. As always, his voice is calm. 

You have never heard him angry before, or sad before, and you don’t want to. You don’t know what he would do if you pushed him to that point. That is why when Chrollo had told you that he wanted you to bathe him as a reward for you being so good these past few weeks, you agreed. You had just graduated from being restrained from the bed to being able to walk around the penthouse freely, and you don’t want that taken away from you, especially so soon.

“And I expect you to do a good job.” He adds, bringing your focus back on him and not on the restraints he had tucked away in his closet a few days ago. “There might be other rewards for you if you do so.”

“I know.” You mutter and pull the handle above the bathtub. Water starts to flow and warm up. You want to ask him if those rewards would be for you or him, but you can’t bring yourself to. Rewards from Chrollo are always a gamble, ranging from making bread to him bringing you a spider lily plant home to gifting you clothes that showed off your collarbone to you sitting on his lap as he read. 

“Good girl,” Chrollo says, watching as the tub begins to fill with water and he closes the mirror with a soft click. “And if you’re a very good girl,” He pauses for a moment as the edges of his lips bend into a smirk from what you can see in the foggy mirror. “Who knows what kind of reward I might just give you.” He turns to you, his face still covered by a sly smile. “That is, of course, if you’re a very good girl.”

As much as you try to stop it, your eyebrows furrow slightly at his statement, unsure of what to think. All he does is chuckle.

“Why don’t I make this as fun for you as possible?” In his hands are narrow glass vials, each a different color. From the grainy appearance you can see from each bottle, you can safely assume that they are bath salts. You are right as Chrollo puts them each on the area around the sink one by one. “After all, you’re going to be taking a bath with me.” He pauses for a moment, allowing his words to hang in the air. “I hope you’re excited, darling.” He leans in close and presses a kiss on your forehead. “You’re going to enjoy this very, very much, I promise.”

“I know.” You mutter again as you step forward toward the sink, and Chrollo steps back a bit for you to see the options of bath salts. As you expected, there is a wide variety of scents. Floral aromas such as lavender, rose, cherry blossom, and vanilla. There is also a selection of sweet scents, like strawberry and apple, while at the same time, there are some muskier, darker scents, like cinnamon and sandalwood.

You have no say in your hell. You don’t want a say in your hell.

You pick up the narrow periwinkle flask labeled as lavender with shaking hands. As the warm water in the tub fills your bathroom with the sweet smell of lavender, you hear Chrollo speak up from behind you. 

“Good choice, love.” He says, his voice filled with anticipation as he speaks. “Now then, I think it is about time for you to give me that bath.”

You hate how you automatically nod, and how Chorollo coos as he starts unbuttoning his shirt.

*~*~*~*

You still have trouble having baths in the village bathhouse because of him. You have trouble doing a lot of things you had no problem doing before. You sometimes wake up and because of Sebaste’s dark hair and white skin, you mistake him for Chrollo for a few moments of drowsiness and almost cry and scream. When you are brushing your hair, you style it the way you like it but almost consider putting it in a style Chrollo likes, just in case you see him that day out of pure chance and bad luck. Whenever you see a book that used to be on Chrollo’s shelves, you almost buy it or borrow it so you can burn it later.

*~*~*~*

“What are you looking for, dollface? Treasure? Get rich quick schemes, history?” a voice, still trying to be cordial but curiosity and wandering eyes overtook it halfway. 

The faux leather furniture squeaks slightly as it is pushed down a bit by you sitting on it. You try to adjust yourself as you sit down on your butt, crossing your legs. ABBA’s Lay All Your Love On Me is playing from the small radio, the audio is slightly too quiet for you to make out what part the song is at, and also because of how loud the construction is outside.

“You are a Hunter, aren’t you?” You lean in slightly and make direct eye contact with him, putting on a slight smile. “I would like to know more about a certain Spider if you catch what I am saying.”

You hate how the man looks at you, confusion clear on his face. You knew it would be risky coming here, but you have no other options.

“Why them?”

You place a large bag filled with coins on the table. “The thirty thousand Jenny fee to talk to you, along with a million for keeping silent about this.” You now see the man’s eyes glitter with greed as he smirks. Some people were just too easy. This feels like child’s play compared to Chrollo with the lengths you would have to go to manipulate him. “Feel free to count it if you wish. I will not stop you.”

“Nah. I want to get straight to business if you don’t mind.”

“Alright then. What do you know about them? Tell me everything.”

The man leans back and looks at the cracked ceiling. “Just be warned, pretty little lady, if they come after you it’s not my fault. You’re asking for trouble.”

You’re annoyed at him keep calling you pet names. You want to slap him. You want to say you would rather not be here at all. But you can’t.

You can’t because it’s useless and all of your progress would be ruined.

“Just one sec.”

He takes another drag of his cigar and exhales, the smoke erupting from his nose onto your face and almost making you loudly cough.

“I’ll tell you.” He smiles, the cigar still wedged between his two golden teeth. “You young ones are so dumb. You aren’t even a Hunter, dollface.”

His grimy voice is like nails on a chalkboard to you. He takes the cigar out of his mouth and his finger taps on it, making some of the burnt parts fall onto the ashtray. He hums again. You just want your information so you can go. You don’t want to do small talk, especially with this prick.

You nod, still not talking. His grin widens at that. He raises one of his hands and a man in a suit and sunglasses comes out of the shadows and hands him a folder, leaving straight afterward without making a sound. So you have unwanted company.

You almost let out a sigh then. The man whistles a tune unfamiliar to you as he looks through the file. He then throws it in an uncaring way towards your side of the table, the folder letting out a slight thump as the paper makes contact with the wood. He whistles a bit more and puts one of his legs over the other. He sighs and your disdain for him only increases by then.

He leans toward and taps on the document inside, some of his cigar ashes staining it.

He grabs the bottle of liqueur beside him and pours some into his shot glass, his many golden rings shining underneath the dimmed lights. "Here is all the information we have on them. It is troublesome how little we know about them."

Your eyes are full of annoyance, but you manage to keep your calm. You lean forward and read through the paper in front of you. You have to do this. You have to do this to make sure that your freedom is everlasting.

To read the entire page took only a few minutes at most, the man being truthful in the fact that no Hunter knows them very well despite the Phantom Troupe being much more than infamous.

The man lets out a heavy sigh and leans back in his chair. "Sorry, miss. We know hardly more than you do, but I’ll try to tell you anything else we found out recently."

You want to let out a sigh again. The paper is littered with stains and leaves residue on your fingertips. This is necessary, you tell yourself. Though you just want to leave.

The man clears his throat to get your attention and holds up one of his fingers. "According to my resources, the Spider has recently lost a leg. They quickly gained another to replace it, unfortunately."

It indeed should not be surprising considering how many enemies the Phantom Troupe has, but it is a bit to you.

"We don’t know which one. That’s the most we know of the situation." He stares deeply into your eyes. "I don’t have any other information to give you, I’m afraid."

His eyes wander around your body. Your heart drops slightly as he grabs the folder and closes it.

You don’t stand up, instead briefly gazing at the liqueur bottle. The man smiles more deeply then, and you feel like you are about to throw up. "You know, you’re very pretty, miss. Just beautiful." His hand moves toward you in one brief motion, to which you respond by leaning away, "I don’t bite, no need to be scared." You stand up. "Now, now, dollface. We should talk a bit more, don’t you think? Maybe I can even drive you back to your place later, or mine."

You scrunch your nose in disgust and begin to walk out of the room. He does not physically stop you, but he mumbles insults under his breath. Slut, whore, the more unoriginal ones. You just ignore them and leave.

That guy was an asshole, but at least you got something out of it.

You wonder which Spider has died.

You hope that it was Chrollo, but that would be near impossible.

Chrollo is hardly known about, after all. There was hardly any information about him anywhere; from the news to the people you question and bribe. You don’t know anything about him either, despite being previously a captive of his. Perhaps even Chrollo does not know much about himself, or at least that is what you theorize.

To entirely free oneself from his clutches, one would need to strike a pact with the devil.

*~*~*~*

Sometimes you think you are an escaped ballerina from her music box. You were always in the same position and only did what you were told.

All you have were the walls of the orchestrina and Chrollo. Without him with you in those many penthouses and hotel rooms, you had no one and could speak to no one. Even when you had escaped by shattering your silk-clad, bleeding feet, some small scattered porcelain pieces of you are left behind for him to find.

If you ever told Sebaste the truth, it would all be for nothing, wouldn’t it?

You would be back to being on the run, trying to pick up whatever ceramic drops from you to avoid leaving a path of breadcrumbs that would lead him directly to you. Just one mistake is all it takes, and it would all be over in a flash. You would try to fix it as quickly as you can, but it wouldn’t be enough, because one day his grabbing hands will grab the soles of your feet, and there you will stay forevermore, attached back onto them, never being able to leave his palms.

A few breaths would kick the door down. The windows would rattle. Weeds would sprout in your garden. You would smell cigarette smoke because the palm of your hand would be back to being used as his ashtray. Everything would burn to the ground. 

You don’t want that. God, you do not want that. More than anything in this world.

*~*~*~*

There is someone in your home.

There is someone in your home, and you don’t think they are here to kill you.

There is someone in your home, and although you don’t think they are here to kill you, they do not come with the best of intentions either, though.

You think they are in love with you. Love may not be the best to describe it, you think, maybe obsessed or infatuated instead.

Whoever breaks into your home regularly leaves you gifts; flowers, cards, clothes, and other things they know you like. They must have been stalking you for quite a while before doing this because hardly anyone you know knows what your favorite instrument or candle scent is.

Sometimes they go on rants in the letters they send to you once or twice a week. Sometimes they bring you trinkets, usually hairpins or porcelain figurines. One morning you woke to find a bag of coffee grounds, your favorite brand but also quite an expensive one. When you used them that very morning, they praised you greatly with a long note the next day. However, when you refused to eat the slice of strawberry shortcake that was put on your kitchen table and threw it away in your bin, there was no note whatsoever.

You don’t think they cared, or at least didn’t want to let you know they cared. The amount of gifts put in your apartment only increased every time you ignored the last present. They kept getting more and more expensive, too. Whoever is in your home is either filthy rich or does not know how to budget their money well. 

Sometimes you hear the lightest of breaths when your back is turned and you are sitting on the sofa, watching a comforting movie. They are fast and good at hiding because whenever you try to catch them in the act there is nothing behind you. 

Every time you try to tell someone, they say to just install more security, more locks, cameras, and invest in self-defense lessons and tasers and alarms. You have tried that, and nothing works, the gifts and trinkets keep coming.

No one believes you and your stalker knows it. Every time you try to report it and get shut down, there is a mocking chuckle from behind you when you come back home.

You aren’t alone, you’re with them, but you wish you were because then you would at least be able to rest. You wish you were alone in the dark.

…

There is someone in your home.

There is someone in your home, and you think they want you.

There is someone in your home, and you know you don’t want them.

…

You’re tired. You don’t know how to express it.

It’s nearly midnight and you just want to take out your resentment on something. You just want to be alright. You lock your apartment door behind you and walk from the entrance to your small sitting area. You sit on the couch, ignoring the large box on the table beside it. Instead, you grab the basket of VHS tapes on the floor, shuffling through them with both your hands.

Billy Madison. Perfect. You take it out.

Your fingers tap against the front of the tape, your other hand scratches the back of your head and rubs the back of your neck, and your feet shake.

Your stalker must have turned your lamp on when you were out working, maybe for you to see the gift, because you know you didn’t. You don’t care to address the box or them right now, as you are used to it by now.

You snap the VHS tape in half with both of your hands.

All this world does is hurt you, so who can blame you for wanting to hurt it back?

It was a shitty movie anyway. A horribly written plot. Horribly written characters. You were never really a fan of comedies, especially those with a spoiled rich kid as the protagonist. You were going to throw it out even if you didn’t break the tape. You want to demote that assistant who gave you that as a joke.

But that would be petty, and it was a joke. You just wish he got you Gone with the Wind or The Princess Bride or Romeo and Juliet or something like that instead. You could go for a romance movie right about now, especially one with a forehead kiss. You love forehead kisses.

You throw the smashed VHS tape in the garbage.

You could swear that you heard a chuckle as you did so.

…

There is someone in your home.

There is someone in your home, and they put a gift beside your bed as you sleep.

There is someone in your home, and they put an unused VHS tape with the title ‘Romeo and Juliet' on your bedside table before you could wake up.

There is someone in your home, and they give you a forehead kiss before slithering off again into the dark.

You know they won’t stay there for long, but you foolishly hope that they will.

Dark goldenrod, rich black, gray, baby powder, blood red.

*~*~*~*

There is someone in your home. You are sure of it.

The placement of everything is slightly off.

The perfume bottles and makeup products in your bedroom are slightly tilted, and your figurines are placed in places where you know you didn't put them, like finding your cat music box on your vanity when it is always by your bedside table, and your bed is slightly unmade. You feel a gaze whenever you are at home and when you are just about to fall asleep, you hear the soft clicking of a camera. You hear the floorboards creak, too loud to be your dog’s. You know Sebaste would never do those things because he is in his office all day working, even when you are in bed already.

Your kitchen is dirtier than usual. There are always some fallen, dried leaves on the floor even when neither you nor Sebaste had gone outside that day. Some of your food is missing, like the leftover pancakes you planned on eating. Sebaste claims to have not eaten them, and you know he is telling the truth. 

It is not just your paranoia. There is someone in your home, watching you.

That same person is most likely watching you outside your home too. You feel a gaze wherever you are.

Whenever you go to the library to read something, you always feel someone looking at you whenever you are paying attention to the books, turning their gaze away the moment you look around. Whenever you pick up takeout from the local saloon, you feel someone staring at you in the corner, blending in with the rest of the dancing, friendly villagers. Whenever you are at the farmer’s market, you feel a gawker behind you, hiding behind one of the stalls, one filled to the brim with boxes and boxes of produce. Whenever you turn your head as you are walking to your cottage, you hear quickening footsteps, running farther and farther away. Whenever you are in the town’s museum, you can sense someone near you in the same exhibit, pretending to pay attention to the artifacts and not you.

Their eyes feel intense like you are made of gold. Something sellable at an auction or something to be stuffed into a penthouse and never see the light of day again. Within your blood flows aureate brilliance to them. You are something to be used, to be fed to the wolves.

You found a few muddy footprints in the bathroom coming from the window above it a few days ago. They are too big and too misshapen to be your dog’s, and they don’t look like the footprints that Sebastian's sneakers leave behind. You clean it up with a mop and some spray. As much as you want to be, you cannot say you are exactly afraid, but a few tiers below that.

You are cautious, sure. You make sure your doors and windows are locked before going to sleep now as well as double checking them in the middle of the night. You cannot say you are afraid, though. You are plotting to catch them in the act, and you don’t think someone afraid would confront their stalker.

You keep doing your usual routine. Wake up, boil water for coffee, wash your face and brush your teeth, make coffee and breakfast, and eat said breakfast. You prefer this life to the one you ran away from by a landslide, still, even though your stalker is somewhat ruining it. Chrollo would treat you like a glorified dog.

Sit, stay, and roll over.

Good girl.

Here is a treat.

You think Sebaste is the only one keeping you from snapping and hunting down your gawker with a bow and ax. Ironically, he still doesn’t know about them. But that’s alright with you. You prefer it.

His routine mirrors yours. He makes coffee for you some days. He eats with you. He walks the dog with you. Then he goes to his office to work.

This is a life you are happy with. You aren’t going to let your stalker ruin that for you.

You are not going to tell Sebaste either. It is much better if you handle this problem on your own. Solving problems on your own is what you are used to, after all. Sebaste could be in danger if you tell him. You’re in danger, and you don’t want him to share your fate more than he already is.

Sebaste is the one person in this world you can trust wholeheartedly. You want to protect him, and you would give up everything if it meant he would be happy and safe. So, you buy a taser, some pepper spray, and a pullable alarm, and learn how to hold your keys in just the right way so you could be able to use them as weapons in case your confrontation with your stalker goes sour.

You have planned what to do with your stalker if things do go as you intended. An abandoned shed, a chair, zip ties, and some… equipment if they do not tell you everything they know right away. 

*~*~*~*

Once upon a time, there was a princess who had a terrible curse placed upon her by a witch when she was an infant. Everything she touched would die in but a few moments. One day, she got tired of living alone on the outskirts of her kingdom, banished when she was near adulthood, and set out into the woods to search for someone to be her first-ever friend. 

However, what she discovered was a malevolent man exuding an overwhelming aura of greed. 

She hated him. She hated him with all her being, from how he looked to how he spoke to how he treated her; everything he did she disliked. 

So, a few days after meeting him in the forest behind her cottage, the princess asked him to touch her face. He did, gently caressing her cheek with his palm and fingers. As his hand made contact with her delicate visage, the princess gently shut her eyes and silently counted to five. But when the princess opened her eyes, she was horrified by the sight in front of her. 

The stranger was still there, alive.

…

The unexpected visitor revealed himself as King Death, who is in relentless pursuit of a bride who embodies purity and possesses a power comparable to his own. 

"To discover an angel as calm and radiant as the morning doves and dew is an immense stroke of fortune." 

Uttering these words, he ensnared her with a gaze as binding as a wedding vow, his eyes devoid of light and depth, unlike anything the princess had witnessed in her secluded little forest. Without delay, he then accomplished his task with an air of satisfaction.

…

Princess Blossom bemoans her unfortunate circumstance, trapped in a desolate garden devoid of life and sunshine. “Do you have not an ounce of mercy for me or anyone?" 

Across from her, King Death relishes in the corpse beneath his feet, a lifeless dove's remains, its once pristine white feathers now drenched in crimson, reminiscent of cherry wine. “If you think a bird is beautiful, just wait until you find it dead, dearly beloved by life itself until its last breath.”

…

In the palm of King Death rests a delicate flower in bloom. In a casket adorned with white wisterias lies his cherished bride, eternally his. "A blossom as lovely as you, my rose, should not wither away so easily." Her eyes exude a captivating beauty, a reflection of innocence mingled with fear. "What troubles you, causing such tremors? It cannot be the chill in the air." Though she trembles with fear, he hungrily consumes her terror as the flowers around her wilt.

…

“The nearer you are, the more I break! Have you always been this cruel to us mortals?” Princess Blossom bangs on the wood above her, the coffin sealed shut and buried six feet underneath the beautiful grass, stars, and flowers. She hears someone coming to dig her out, but that hope is replaced with fear as soon as she realizes the sound is coming from beneath her. This is King Death’s reply to her question; to take her to the underworld where only his eyes will see his radiant queen forevermore.

*~*~*~*

It’s necessary, you tell yourself. If there was any other path you could follow, you would have taken it. At least, you think you would have.

Your stalker follows you everywhere. You know it, they know it, but Sebaste doesn’t know it. They probably have seen you in the abandoned shed preparing everything, and either are preparing themselves for confrontation or not taking you seriously. 

You hope, for their sake, that they are doing the former. You hope, for their sake, that they will simply tell you all they know without you even bringing them to the shed. You hope, for their sake, that they will simply do that. But you know it won’t be that easy. Either this person is obsessed with you or was paid to follow you.

If your stalker indeed fits into the latter category, they are certainly in for an unpleasant surprise. You won’t let them get away. You won’t let them do anything other than cry, say what they know, and beg for mercy. Eventually, they will have no voice box to scream with, and only blood will come out of their mouth instead of any sound. 

You will make sure of it.

You made a vow with yourself to make sure of it.

You have no choice other than to be cruel. You know that, and you hope your follower knows it too. It would be far less trouble for either of you that way.

You have to protect yourself and Sebaste, no matter the cost. You love him too much to lose him. He is in the house and you are outside, defending him. You will do anything to make sure he is alright.

So, you wait. You wait for hours.

There is someone outside your home. 

You are sure of it.

You are going to confront them here and now.

You aren’t afraid. You are merely cautious. You don’t want Sebaste to hear any struggling or cries.

Through the window, you smell warm, fresh coffee being brewed in the French press. Sebaste has always had a bad habit of drinking coffee late at night. But it’s alright, he most likely has to work a bit more anyway.

You wait until your thoughts go numb with a lack of sleep. You slap yourself in the face, hard, to keep yourself awake.

*~*~*~*

If one were to compare, this penthouse resembles a work of art in a museum.

It is untouched by dirt and if the small flames of the candles on the table where the television is placed didn’t move from side to side, you would forget anything aside from you and Chrollo could move. Everything shares the same color palette, and there are no warm hues aside from the roses on the vanity in the bedroom and modest fires. Rose ebony, gunmetal, reseda green, silver, periwinkle. Black. Black, black, black, like one day someone decided to cover the counters, walls, and chairs in soot or charcoal. 

It is like whoever designed this had won a lifetime supply of ink paint and decided to use it in different concentrations. Rich on the desks and the vanity, but lighter in some areas like the walls, showing designs of olive roses. The farthest you can go here is to the balcony or lean on the door of the entrance like you could pass through it like a portal if you wished hard enough. You cannot jump from the porch, if you remember correctly the room number is 20008. You are twenty floors off the ground, and you know that you cannot survive a plunge from that high up. 

You feel like a canary in a hanging birdcage. 

You can only tweet and look pretty. You cannot leave unless your captor is there with you every step of the way. You are only allowed to do what you are told to do and not what you want to do.

This is an impeccable, foolproof, ideal enclosure for any imprisoner.

All is flawlessly pristine, to the point of nausea for anyone trapped inside.

You can only chitter and peep like the baby bird you are forced to be. You can only be cradled within suffocatingly loving arms. Chrollo is like your shadow, following you to every part of this place, treating you like a porcelain doll or a pet. You don’t dare act outside of the role you were given because then you know your detainer won’t be pleased with you and your chances of escape will be even lower than they already are.

“Dearest?”

There is that sickeningly sweet voice again, from beside you. He does not know how to shut up, not that you would bother telling him such. You are here, in his domain and his clothes and eating his food. You have no say here, and he knows it.

“Yes?”

You try your best to replicate the tone of a doting, little lover. You don’t fiddle with the skirt of the short dress you were given. According to your kidnapper, your solitary pair of jeans and single hoodie has ‘vanished under enigmatic circumstances’ and thus gave you this attire as compensation. Asshole.

You are waltzing whether you like it or not.

It is how you act that chooses whether you are pulled with puppet strings or not, though.

“You look beautiful.” His tone is so sincere that it almost induces a nauseating urge to vomit directly onto him. “So beautiful.”

You feel like a statue only brought here to be gawked at. He is always touching you in some way, most of the time it is your thighs that are held captive by being caressed with hands akin to velvet. You let him because what else can you do? You would want nothing more than to push him away and run out the door but you simply cannot. You are trapped here, and using Chrollo with honeyed words and passionate kisses is your only key out. You cannot stay in this consolidated coop any longer or you will break.

If you falter, you will never get out of here.

If he catches you in the act of escaping, you will never be free. The silk restraints will be replaced with shackles. A mile of running only means an inch of a chance of escaping. You don’t want to die here. You don’t want to die with rotting, choking hands around your neck.

As you expected, Chrollo’s hand squeezes your inner thigh. “Thank you, Chrollo.”

From the look in his eyes, you can tell he wants so much more than just those words.

*~*~*~*

Footsteps. Calm, poised ones. There is no sound of stray branches snapping or dead leaves crunching. Footsteps of one who knows what you plan to do. 

You do not recognize him. His eyes are as bright as gold yet as hungry as a wolf’s, unblinking. If he was a word, it would be dangerous, in bold, yellow, large, lit letters.

His hair is as pink as bubblegum. His nails are quite long, pointed, and painted black. He has a teal star on one of his cheeks and a yellow teardrop on the other. With his mere presence, he towers over you in height and strength and everything else possible. He is as odd-looking as a clown, you note to yourself. 

“I had heard the Spider had lost and gained a leg.” You say as the grip on your knife gets much stronger than before. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

“Correct, my dear.”

“Which one did you replace?”

“Fourth.”

“So Omokage then.”

“I think. Can’t recall right now.”

You scoff at that. “Can’t recall, huh?” The stranger’s grin stays on like a sticker of a smile that was placed on his face where his actual one would be.

“It doesn’t matter who died, I defeated them and that is all that matters. There is no use in remembering the name of a rotting corpse.” 

“I would thank you, but you have the same mission as he probably did.”

“Whether you like me or not does not matter either, I am here either way.” One, two steps closer. “I am here either way and there is nothing you can do about it, my dear.”

“I never liked Omokage, anyway. He always treated Luna so poorly.”

“Who?”

“The captive that was forced to be his doll of some sort. Though I assume she is dead by now, right?”

The man shrugs his shoulders and laughs. “Probably.”

“Was wherever you all buried her marked if somebody even buried her at all?”

“Maybe, maybe not. I do remember something about a body being put in a dug-out hole by Machi.”

At least she was given that, you guess. “How did she look?”

“There was hardly a body to bury if I remember correctly. It looked like someone took a skeleton and put leather over it.” Another amused chuckle.

“So she starved to death then. Slow and painful and probably chained up. He always restrained and gagged her before he left, after all.”

The man yawns, disinterested. He is not even paying attention, is he? 

“If you ever find out where her grave is, please put a jasmine flower on it for me. Jasmines were her favorite.”

“If I remember. Why are you asking so much about her anyway?”

*~*~*~*

Luna is kind to you, so kind. Despite being taken by such a monster that treats her so horribly, she still manages to smile whenever she talks to you, albeit how rare those times were. You remember one time she wore a turtleneck, the only one she was allowed to wear according to Chrollo, to cover the bruises on her neck, arms, and collarbone. Another time she wore a surgical mask, though because of how bright the teal color was it did the opposite of what Luna wanted it to do; not attract more attention to her face. Omokage only let her wear it because he thought it would “humble her”, whatever that fucking meant. Luna never hit him or at the very least tried not to, even when he broke two of her fingers in front of you. It was a punishment for asking for five more minutes to chat with you. 

“It will all be okay.” It is a repeated saying of hers.

“I know it will.” She would always answer that when you asked how she knew that things would get better. She repeats the saying and her answer both to you and to herself when the times get tougher than they usually are for her. She looked out for you and tried to make your situation better by telling Chrollo how good you were to her. Omokage only ignored and glared at you when you tried to do the same for her. You hate Omokage. You do, with all your being. You hated him more than you did all the other Troupe members.

You hated Omokage more than Chrollo even, which is quite the accomplishment if you say so yourself.

Chrollo thinks it is funny. At least you think he does. Maybe that is why you see Luna more than you do the other “Webs”, as you captives are named.

“It’s okay if he hurts me, I won’t hit him back. Violence is not the answer, it only creates more.” She grinned as she said that, one of her front teeth missing. “He’ll die one day and then I will be free.” It is clear to you that if she continues to think that way, she will break. “You’ll be there to tell Number Zero to free me, right? Then I can go home.” 

She is always such an optimist. It’s a trait you wish you had. You almost wish you could trade places with her because at least Chrollo does not treat you as his punching bag, though you suppose being his plaything isn’t much better. 

“I’ll do the same for you if Number Zero dies. At least then one of us would be free, either way, the ball rolls.” Her light is fading, you can tell by how she looks at you, how her blue eyes don’t shine as much as they used to. “I’ll do anything to make sure he listens.” She is going to break soon. You want so badly to stop it. You want to save her. But you can’t. “I mean it. I’ll do anything if it means you’ll be free.” 

You know she means it, and it brings you so much more pain than if she didn’t. She unintentionally twists her knife further into your heart

“It will all be okay. I want you all to be happy. You all deserve it.” You want to tell her that she does, more than you do. She deserves a good life, a normal life. “We are friends, aren’t we?” You can’t bear to tell her the truth of what will happen if either Omokage or Chrollo dies. “Friends look out for each other.” 

She placed a kiss on your forehead then, before Omokage could stop her. She was dragged back by him pulling on her long sable hair as she cried out in pain. He called her a whore and pulled her out of the room. Neither she nor Omokage came back to the room that day. 

*~*~*~*

“She was so sweet. She didn’t deserve to die like that at all.”

“I am Hisoka, by the way.” He bows, the smirk still being plastered on his face without faltering.

You take a few steps back as he approaches further, trying to remain some distance apart from him. “Stay back.” Hisoka hums and merely comes closer.

“If the description I was given and what you know checks out, you must be [First]. At least, I hope that’s who you are, for your sake.” He smiles and he moves forward. “You have certainly been going on a few little adventures, haven’t you?” 

“...Yes.” He stares down at you. You know that to him; you are a mere rubber toy to twist until your head pops off. 

His gaze shifts to your house, behind you. “You certainly are resourceful; I’ll give you that. The life you have built for yourself was made from nothing. Quite admirable.”

“Do you mean that?” You ask, your voice both cold and inquiring as to why one of the members of the Phantom Troupe is here, in front of you and your house. But you already knew the answer.

“I do.” His voice seems somewhat truthful, but you can tell he wants more.

“Why are you here, Number Four?”

“Now, now. No need to be so aggressive.” He puts his hands up in a mockery of surrendering as he goes back to looking down on you. With the dying trees and debris behind him, he sticks out like a sore thumb. “I have a favor to ask of you. Nothing more, nothing less.”

The way he looks at you, a look of one that is about to skin a poor, defenseless doe.

“What kind?”

“Simple. Tell me all you know about the boss.”

“What would I get in exchange for telling you such information?”

“I will not tell the other Troupe members of your location.”

“Is that a threat, Number Four?”

“Oh, no, it is not a threat. It is a potential promise if you don’t listen. While you are at it, you can also tell me about yourself. I believe we haven’t had an actual conversation before if the boss told me the truth that you have been on the run from him for more than two years.”

“Don’t be greedy, Number Four.”

“Oh, no.” Hisoka grins with a proud smile. “I believe you are the one being greedy, my dear.”

“...you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

“You ran away from a life of luxury and comfort. Surely you feel at least somewhat foolish for doing such a thing?”

“Perhaps.”

“The boss is quite displeased with you, though I assume you know that by now. He has been searching high and low all over for you.”

“I’m quite aware, Number Four. We both know I don’t intend to go back.”

He nods and hums. “I know. That is why if you still want to play house with your precious boy toy, you’ll do what I say.” 

You scoff and look to the side. “He is not… just a plaything. He is different.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” He looks off to the woods. “Plus, I believe there is a rat in your midst. I am sure you have noticed. If you tell me what you know, I’ll trap him for you.”

“You mean you’re not…” Your posture slightly relaxes, but soon firms up once again when you realize that you have two people following you now; Hisoka and your mysterious stalker.

“No. I’m not. So, will you accept my offer, darling?”

“Why does such information matter to you?”

Hisoka shakes his head, still smiling. “That doesn’t concern you, my dear. Now, tell me what you know if you don’t want the rest of the Troupe being here in a matter of mere hours.”

You’re happy here.

You’re happy here, being independent once again. You’re happy here, having stability and not fearing a sudden, gruesome death where you die alone with no one but your captor. You’re happy here, being able to find some humanity within yourself.

You’re happy here with Sebaste.

You’re happy here with Sebaste, who is in the house, blissfully unaware of the laurel crown placed on your head, its thorns digging deep into your skull and dying the tips of it crimson red. He doesn’t know of the invisible scars that mark your body, a gift from the very pits of hell’s flames.

He will remain in that place, never knowing of anything you have buried underground.

He will stay, no matter the cost you will have to pay.

You’re happy here with Sebaste, and you’re not going to let anyone take it away from you.

“Do we have a deal?”

The moment your lips part, the words that escape your mouth are the ones Hisoka longs to hear.

[mangoisms]

i want your hands, your future plans (to the bitter end)

━ pairing: tim drake x f!reader

━ summary: A night on the town and a first-time encounter with Tim as Red Robin — and knowing that, too.

━ word count: 3.3k

━ contains: super brief mention of stalking (within the normal canon-typical range), established relationship, suggestive content

━ a/n: technically takes place as an extension of my other tim fic, i'll be the dangerous ledge (you be the parachute), but prior reading not required! title is from this song

━ you can read this on ao3 as well

“And he just left! He left! At the first sign of trouble, he is gone and he leaves me behind! You know, I’d get it if it were out first date or something, ‘cause like, whatever, you don’t owe me anything — would still be nice but it’s not something I’d get mad at since it’s Gotham but… you know?”

You do know. And you do think it’s fucked up that Amir’s boyfriend abandoned them at their date to Amusement Mile after a false alarm about the Joker. 

It’s just that… three men have been tailing you guys for the last two blocks. 

You two didn’t have that long of a walk after coming out of the station; Amir lives in the Upper West Side like you, their apartment building only a few blocks from Rose Oaks, you would find out. But it doesn’t take long for others to notice an opening and take it. Not in this city. 

Amir hasn’t noticed yet. You only noticed because, well, when you have a vigilante for a boyfriend, you’re guaranteed a crash course in all manners of suspicious activity and whether danger is on the horizon. 

And danger is very much on the horizon. 

You already pressed the panic button on your watch, though. Tim outfitted it. A standard WayneTech smartwatch configured with a panic button that sends your location to him and can also be sent to the others. 

It’s just a matter of continuing on your way. Keeping an ear out. Wondering when the two of you need to start running. 

A breeze flutters your sundress. You frown a little bit. You aren’t dressed for it. Not with your wedges. Neither of you are. Amir wanted to drown their sorrows in margaritas at a new restaurant in the Fashion District and you went along for moral support. They’ll probably fare better than you with their ballet flats. 

You do have a taser. Voltage as debilitating as Dick’s escrima sticks. Or so Tim tells you. You’ve, fortunately, never encountered those up close and personally. 

You hope it won’t get that far. You are strong and independent. But strong and independent can only get you so far in a city like this and you are secure enough to not mind relying on your boyfriend for help. Especially since he’s, you know. A vigilante. 

Any of them could help. You don’t mind. Send Cass or Steph or Helena. They can save you any day. 

But that’s not necessary. 

A choked yelp stops you. Amir stops their rambling, tensing. You spare a glance over your shoulder and watch as the three men go down quickly. 

“Woah,” they mutter, the both of you now turned, watching Red Robin step away, men down for the count, hands cuffed, pained groans escaping them. 

“I didn’t hear them,” they mumble. “Shit. Shit.”

You squeeze their arm. “You okay?”

They look a little pale. Which is saying something, with their russet skin. 

“Yeah. Yeah. Just…” They shake their head, watching Tim — Red Robin — straighten up. “Never seen one of these guys in person before.”

“Me, neither.”

And that isn’t a lie. Not technically. This is your first time with Tim as Red Robin for a… prolonged period of time. And it’s… not bad. Not bad at all, you think, eyeing the imposing figure he cuts with his suit, Kevlar molding to broad shoulders and a lean, muscled figure. The shadows from the nearby street lamp make the panes of his face even sharper, prettier, in the night. 

But you have to remember your position here. This is Red Robin, one of the Bats, one of Gotham’s many vigilantes. Not Tim Drake, your boyfriend. Even if you saw him off tonight, helped clasp his cape to his suit and press the domino mask to his face, you cannot give anything away. 

“Are you two alright?” he asks and you immediately notice the modulator, changing the pitch and tone of his voice. Most likely for Amir’s sake. You hate it but understand the need. 

“Yeah,” Amir says, a little dumbfounded. “Yeah, man. I mean you…”

“You saved us,” you finish, looking at him. It’s hard to tell where his eyes might be with the white lids of the mask but the tilt of his head is in your direction. 

A spark of energy skitters up your spine as a moment passes and he drags his eyes off you. 

“Just doing my job,” he says, demure, something about it amusing to you, making you glance to the side, lips pressed together to suppress a smile. “Can I walk you two home?”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Amir says. “I’m sure you have, uh, other things to be doing right now…”

Even if that were so, Tim is unlikely to leave you two alone. If he won’t walk with you, he’ll shadow you. You know he will. And honestly, you’d like him to do it, too. But Amir is just being nice. Trying not to burden Red Robin, a figure that, arguably, has many burdens, especially regarding the city. 

“I don’t mind,” he says, then pauses and hastens to add, “as long as you two are fine with it, I mean.”

Amir looks at you, a question in their dark eyes. You just nod at them, letting them know the decision is in their hands. 

They glance back at him. “Alright. Sure. We’re not far. Won’t keep you long.”

“Like I said. I don’t mind.”

He falls into step with you, with him nearest to the street and Amir between you. For the best, probably.

For a minute, it is painfully awkward.

Well, painfully awkward for Amir.

You? You’re just trying to stave off a smile. You never quite anticipated you’d ever have to play this game of pretend with Tim but it’s… fun. A little thrilling, if you want to be truly honest. A secret the two of you share. With poor Amir caught right in the middle of it. 

“Should thank you,” Amir suddenly starts after a couple minutes of silence. “Since, like she said, you saved us.” 

“Just doing my job,” he says, echoing his earlier words. 

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. It’s a monumental thing, acting normally here, pretending you don’t know Red Robin personally, intimately, but your coworkers know you’re fond of the superheroes of your world, of the vigilantes of this city, particularly Red Robin, so, you think, trying to justify it, Amir would think it odd if you kept quiet this entire time. 

Even if, should they have noticed your odd silence, an entirely plausible excuse would be that you were too nervous to speak with him…

But you think his recklessness is rubbing off on you. You can’t help yourself. So —

“Doing more than that, I think, walking us home,” you say lightly, conversationally. 

An electrifying tension flexes in the air between you, despite Amir’s obvious presence physically between you, and you get hit with the nearly unbearable urge to get your hands on him. 

Doesn’t help that something about him being suited up like this sort of… really does something for you. 

The name leaves something to be desired, that’s for sure, and you’ve teased him about it since Red Robin (the restaurant) isn’t even that good, like their whole thing is bottomless fries but, like, the fries aren’t good and it’s kind of embarrassing for them. A little embarrassing for Tim. But not as embarrassing as going by Drake, that’s for sure. And sure, yeah, Red Robin is supposed to be after a bird but… you know? The connection is impossible to ignore. 

But…

Questionable naming decisions aside, the suit itself, the suit he designed, all blacks and reds with sparse accents of yellow, it’s nice. Good. Great. Flattering for the muscles you know he has. 

Your face warms. The summer heat of the night edges on uncomfortable as a different kind of heat settles inside you. 

He clears his throat. You bite your lip. 

“It’s the right thing to do. And I don’t really have anywhere else to be right now so… might as well make myself useful. Personal escort isn’t really the worst of what I sometimes have to do. Preferred, maybe.”

You barely stop yourself from saying Preferred, huh? 

Remembering your present company. 

Don’t want to tip them off. And also, they know you have a boyfriend. Would look really bad if you started flirting. Even if it is with the one vigilante you admit to liking quite a bit. But your real life romantic relationship is a little more important than what is perceived as a parasocial relationship to others.

Of course, the truth allows you to stretch those boundaries. But you only like Red Robin — really like, you mean — because you know that is Tim. Your Tim. So. 

“I’m sure we’re better company than a couple of goons,” Amir says. 

A short laugh. “You’ve got that right.”

“Prettier, too,” they add, arm tightening around yours. A teasing squeeze. 

You chuckle. 

“I would also have to strongly agree there,” he says smoothly. 

Amir hums, a curious note to it, but one you don’t get to look too closely at as they point ahead, at the brick apartment building on the next block, sandwiched between a bodega and nail salon. 

“That’s me.”

Once you get close enough to the entrance, Tim lingers behind, letting you two have your space as you follow Amir to the door. 

They dig through their tote bag, eyes on your face, barely illuminated by a dim street lamp nearby.

“I’d ask if you were going to be okay but I don’t think I need to,” they remark quietly, voice low enough to carry only to you, eyebrows arched. 

You blink. “Why not?”

A furtive glance at your vigilant (heh) guardian, who looks out at the street. Surveying your surroundings. Trying his absolute hardest not to eavesdrop on your conversation even though you know he must be dying to. Being a vigilante for over a decade erodes some of the more basic social courtesies. You don’t let him get away with it on most days. Certainly not now since it seems like something is about to be implied. 

“Sort of seems like he likes you,” they say, finally fishing out their key and fixing the bag over their shoulder. 

“I don’t think we interacted that much to get that kind of impression. Also, boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” they say, grinning now, mischief sparkling in their dark eyes. “But Tim likes Red Robin, too, doesn’t he?”

You sputter a laugh. Then catch the most minute twitch of Tim’s body in your peripheral, head moving like he wants to look before he stops himself.

You quell your laughter, lips twitching still. “You’re kidding.”

“No,” they say very assuredly, voice still low — thankfully. “I am not. Could take him home. Have a little fun.”

You laugh again. Harder. Take him home. You will take him home. (At least you hope so. He agreed to patrol but didn’t agree to stay out as late as the others like to.) It’s just you aren’t taking him home to your boyfriend. Because he is your boyfriend.

But they don’t know that. And honestly, you’re too amused to mind this whole thing. It’s funny. Tim’ll get a kick out of it, too.

“I’m just saying,” they say, shrugging, finally moving to unlock the door. “You and Timbo are definitely a nice package together. If he had any sense, he’d take the opportunity.”

“Oh my god.”

“Just saying. Text me when you get back, okay?”

You smile. “I will.”

They wink, then slip inside, door rattling shut behind them. 

It’s hard to keep a grin down. Your cheeks ache with the force of it, face hot. 

God.

Take him home. Honestly. 

Shaking your head, still grinning, you turn around. Not surprised when you find Tim already turned, looking back at you, head cocked. No pretenses to uphold here. Not anymore. The thought makes your heart pound, a dizzying kind of heat taking hold of you once more, frenetic energy crawling under your skin and making your fingers twitch to touch him. 

But that can wait.

Instead, you gesture forward and he nods. The two of you begin your walk to Rose Oaks, which is a couple more blocks ahead. 

“Seemed like you two were having fun,” he remarks a minute later. The modulator is shut off, much to your relief. Though it hardly helps your growing desire to shove him into the nearest alleyway and kiss him breathless. Worsens it, if anything, that warm, familiar tenor gliding over you. 

“Amir was being very funny.”

“Oh?”

“I believe they were implying that you liked me. With the other underlying implication that I should take you home because of it.”

“Really now.”

You bite your lip, grin uncontainable. “Mmhm. And when I brought up the whole, you know, boyfriend thing, they said, Well, he likes Red Robin, too, doesn’t he?”

That startles a laugh out of him. 

You can’t help but join. 

It eases some of the tension. Tim drifts closer, still chuckling, gloved hand brushing the small of your back.

“They’re a riot as always, then,” he says, then sobers a bit, moving closer, until your elbow brushes his ribs. “Are you okay?”

You flash him a small smile. “I’m okay. Got a little anxious but I wasn’t alone, which sounds horrible but —”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “It makes sense. It’s worse to be on your own. I’m glad you weren’t.”

“I’m just glad you were able to get here. I wasn’t expecting you specifically but it was nice.”

“I was in the area.”

“Well, thank you,” you say, sending him a soft smile.

Fingers skim yours. “Of course.”

You walk in silence for a minute. His hand brushes yours repeatedly. Gloved, still, but you don’t mind, finally hooking your pinky with his, feeling the textured, non-slip material. Odd but not unpleasant. He gives your fingers a gentle squeeze.   

You let them wander, your fingers tangling briefly, before your thumb skims the heel of his palm, fingers tracing over his palm, then traveling upward. You’re rewarded with the barest silver of warm skin from where the glove and sleeve do not meet. Your thumb skims it once, twice, then he’s moving and you’re moving, back, back, back into an empty alleyway until you’re pressed up against the wall, his arms around you, pulling you flush against him.

Though, you aren’t actually pressed to the wall. The arms that are wrapped around you save you a couple inches between the back of your dress and the brick wall. You wouldn’t care about it, too consumed with this moment, breathless as he curls around you, but Tim does, he considers it, and you love him a little bit more because of it. 

Your heart pounds so hard, you’re certain he can feel it, with how close you two are. Even through the thick Kevlar that protects him. 

Summers in Gotham City are hot and humid. Extremely during the day and moderately during the night. It still doesn’t compare to the heat inside you, burning for him. Your hands clutch his shoulders, fingers digging into the nearly-impenetrable material until the textured grooves of it are imprinted into your skin.

Tim breathes a little unsteadily, like you, bent close, breath ghosting over your mouth, smelling sharply of mint. On longer stretches of patrol when not much happens, he chews gum to keep awake. A special kind Bruce makes in-house and can be safely swallowed or if spit out, dissolves. Better than sustaining on coffee and energy drinks since, if they need to jump into action, most of the time, they end up leaving their trash behind, getting too caught up with everything. 

They’ll go back and clean it up but you’ve heard that it’s a little annoying sometimes, having to backtrack, having to do it at the end of long nights when they’d just like to go home and crash. The gum leaves no traces and doesn’t affect them, either. 

Some of them still drink that stuff, anyway, though. Duke is fond of an atrocious combination of Monster energy drinks and Takis. Cass is, too. His influence, you’re certain. 

But now, you’d just like to taste that mint for yourself. 

“Tim,” you whisper.

“Names.”

“I’m not calling you Red Robin like this.”

A soft chuckle. The sound sends goosebumps breaking out over your skin despite the warmth of the night.

He leans his forehead to yours. You close your eyes, basking in his presence. You can smell his shampoo. Lingering bits of his cologne. He had lunch with some WE board members today. Doesn’t hurt to stay on their good side, even if he doesn’t work with WE as much as before. 

You nuzzle your nose against his cheek. He smiles. You just know it’s so terribly lovesick. Mostly because you’re wearing a similar one on your lips right now.. 

“So…”

“So?”

“About what Amir was saying… what are my chances of going home with you tonight?”

You can’t help your smile from widening into your grin, your cheeks aching with the force of it, heady affection and love rushing through you, unspooling in your chest like cotton candy. Insane how much you love him. How attracted you are to him. Doesn’t matter how long it’s been, you think it’ll always be that way. You’ll always want more. More, more, more. All that he can give.

Maybe because of his responsibilities to Gotham. Maybe because you know you won’t have him entirely because of that. Maybe just because you love him. 

Maybe all of that. 

Now isn’t the time to think on it. 

“Pretty good, I’d say.”

“Just ‘pretty good?’ Not sure if I’m happy with that.”

“I could stand to be convinced.”

That’s all you need to say.

His lips meet yours in the next second and you press that much closer to him, suddenly wishing you didn’t have the thick Kevlar between you, that you could feel his skin against yours. But that’s hardly appropriate for a Gotham alleyway so you take what you get. 

The mint makes your mouth tingle deliciously. His breath is almost cold when his lips part, teeth nipping your bottom lip, eliciting a shudder from you. The kiss deepens, stealing your breath, mind blanking, the drag of his tongue against yours making your knees weak, a bit too hot and heavy for right now, a bit too intense, but not unwelcome, no, not at all. He gets like this sometimes, from the adrenaline of what he does, and you hardly mind alleviating the fervent energy inside him. Although alleviating might be too kind a word. Right now, you think, your nails scratching through his hair, windswept and windblown from patrol, a quiet, wanting sound escaping him at the feeling, you two have become more like a feedback loop, endlessly repeating, his desire feeding yours and yours feeding his. 

You don’t imagine he is complaining. 

You’re panting when you two separate and his lips are red more than pink now, on their way to being swollen. You’d love to see that to completion. Among other things. 

Tim can tell. Lips pulling upward. Smug. Pleased. You enjoy the sight too much to knock him down a couple pegs. Not to mention you’re still trying to get your brain back online. Always takes a bit when he kisses you like that. All open wanting and desire, like he wants to consume you. The thought makes your face hot. More hot.

“Patrol?” you ask breathlessly. Just a confirmation before you take the plunge.

“Wouldn’t start something I couldn’t finish, gorgeous. So? What’s the verdict?”

You take a deep breath. “The verdict is… take me home. Right now.”

“Gladly.”

[alearicci]

“you're losing me, charles” – CL16.

pairings: charles leclerc x girlfriend!reader(but name in fic Ann); charles leclerc x ex-girlfriend.

summary: the most difficult breaking is when you and her love each other, but the decision can no longer be changed.

warning: break up, hurt/comfort, sad, a little bit social media au.

song to read: you're losing me - taylor swift.

note: this is just my understanding of how a girl can act when parting. In your thoughts it may be different, but this is a story with my fantasy fiction and therefore, I ask you to treat it with understanding.

It was too painful to write, I feel very bad about parting with people I once loved.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ♡ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Charles Leclerc was sitting on the bed, looking at a photograph of him and his girlfriend Ann standing on the bedside table. The weight of the impending decision weighed heavily on his heart. But he understood that there was no other way out. That if he didn't tell her right now, he wouldn't be able to later. Then this belated conversation can aggravate the situation and make it much worse for both her and him. Charles took the photo in his hands and took the picture out of the frame. He smiled sadly as soon as his eyes met the girl in the photo. Ann. She was always there for him and gave him sincere love. She provided him with such necessary support, gave him the opportunity to feel needed.

Charles involuntarily thought about the day when this photo was taken. It seems that it was the first time she came to a family dinner in his family. Ann immediately liked his mother and brothers, which made the racer very happy. And how can someone not like such a girl?

Charles really loved her. He loved her with all his heart.

But now his heart is asking him to let her go.

The world-famous Formula 1 racer, determined to succeed in his career, knew that sacrifices were inevitable, but he never imagined that he would have to choose between career and love.

He was so eager to become a professional driver, did everything to make his dream come true. He could stay up all night thinking about how to improve the car, he trained until he lost consciousness, he squeezed everything out of himself to succeed. But how can you live without love in our cruel world?

He dreamed of returning home after a hard workout, spending time with his beloved and telling about the past day at the racetrack. He dreamed of seeing his girlfriend in the paddock, she would be wearing his trademark cap and would glow with happiness when he crossed the finish line in the top three. He dreamed of celebrating victory until morning and knowing that his sleeping beauty was waiting for him at home.

He got it and now he will lose it of his own free will. Funny, isn't it? When you love a person and when he loves you, you don't give up on him. But this time it's different.

Ann walked slowly into the room, noticing the thoughtful expression on Charles' face and their shared photo in her hands. A certain anxiety and misunderstanding of the whole situation filled her eyes as she walked towards him.

"Honey, what's wrong? I don't recognize you lately. Are you okay?"

Charles took a deep breath, trying to collect his thoughts. It turned out pretty damn bad. He couldn't bring himself to say those terrible words.

"Ann, we need to talk. Please sit down."

Ann sat down next to him, her hand gently touching his arm.

"Of course, Charles. What is it?"

He gently stroked her fingers with his own, finding solace in her touch before breaking the news that would destroy her in just a couple of seconds. And, it is unlikely that he will ever be able to touch her like that again.

"I... I think we should break up."

Ann's eyes widened in disbelief, she let out a nervous laugh and muttered.

"Break up? Charles, are you kidding? I don't really feel like laughing."

Charles plucked up the courage to look into her eyes, his own eyes were full of uncharacteristic sadness, because at any other time his eyes were filled with a mischievous sparkle.

"No, Ann, I'm not kidding. Damn it."

Charles exhaled heavily and bit his lower lip.

"What... What did I do wrong, Charles Leclerc?"

"It's not about you. It's about me and my career. Formula 1 requires a huge level of dedication, and also requires me to always be focused and ready for any turns. I'm not able to properly combine common sense on the track and feelings for you. I just... not worthy of you, you know? I want to spend more time with you so that we can be a normal couple like everyone else, go on frequent dates, stay up all night, dance until morning, but I can't. I'm sorry, but my decision is well thought out and I won't change it."

Ann's voice was shaking with pain. She couldn't believe it would end like this. That he had told her in plain text that she meant nothing to him. That he chooses himself, not them, or even her.

"So you prefer the race to me, right?"

Charles tightened his grip on her hand, his heart clenched in pain from the decision he had made.

"I don't want to lose you, Ann. But I can't ignore the pressure to perform, to constantly give my best on the track. I never wanted this, honey. I never meant to hurt you. But our careers, our aspirations pull us in different directions. The demanding nature of my profession and constant travel do not allow me to give you the time and attention you deserve."

Tears were still gathering in the corners of Ann's eyes as she hurriedly removed her hand from Charles' palm.

"You're losing me, Leclerc. As soon as I started this conversation. If you can't handle everything, then I don't think you really needed me. I thought we could support each other, Charles. I believed that we could handle this together. But it looks like it was all in vain."

Charles swallowed noisily and shouted nervously.

"Ann, our love is sincere and strong, but the reality of my profession is inexorable. Constant travel, intense training, demands on my time... it would be unfair to ask you to wait for me, to put your life on pause."

Charles paused, his voice choked with emotion, and Ann was silent, still trying to be strong.

There was emptiness inside.

With a heavy sigh, he gathered his thoughts and continued: "I don't want to keep you from your dreams, from the opportunities that lie ahead of you. You deserve someone who can be there for you, who can give you the love and support you need. And right now I can't be that person, no matter how much I want to be."

He automatically took Anne's slightly trembling hands in his again, squeezing them to comfort her. To comfort not only her, but also myself.

"Please understand that this decision is also tearing me apart. It's not because I don't love you, but because I love you enough to know it's the right thing to do. We both deserve real happiness and satisfaction, even if it means that our paths diverge."

Ann nodded, trying to smile as sincerely as possible. She knew she couldn't change Charles's mind, but she couldn't not defend her honor. Finally, she abruptly pushed Charles's hands off her own, causing him to round his eyes in surprise and said.

"If this is what you really think is best for your career, Charles, then I won't stand in your way. I hope that you will achieve the success you are striving for. Good luck.

Ann got out of bed and went to the closet to pack her things.

"Ann..."

Charles stood behind her and wanted to hold out his hand to calm her down.

"Silence, Leclerc. Silence. Let me pack my things and get out of your house. And out of your life. I will remain in it only in memories. As your friend said... Daniel, I think his name is. No regrets, only memories. Right. "

Ann's voice traitorously broke from nervous overstrain, which made both her and Charles start in fright.

When Charles reluctantly let Ann go, he couldn't help but wonder if the price he had paid was too high and if success on the racetrack would ever bring him the same joy and happiness that Ann had once brought.

Ann left an hour after their conversation. It took Charles a long time to get used to the idea that she would not come back.

Everything reminds him of her.

Everything reminds her of him.

As soon as Ann got to her apartment, she didn't cry or break the dishes. She went to her Instagram, deleted all joint photos with Charles from her profile and posted a post with a single phrase.

hahaitsann

liked by carlossainz55, arianagrande and 234.379 others

hahaitsann my heart won't start anymore for you

view all 1881 comments

arianagrande: babe are u ok?

⇾hahaitsann: happier than ever

carlossainz55: fck. ann you're alright?

⇾ hahaitsann: of course, ca, don't worry:)

danielricciardo: ann are you home? I will come now.

⇾ hahaitsann: ouuh. no need, dan, tysm.

kellypiquet: girl I'm here

charles_leclerc

liked by carlossainz55, landonorris, fancharles1 and other 1.290.300

charles_leclerc i can't find a pulse.

view all 12.328 comments

landonorris: you guys are scaring me, what happened?

⇾ charles_leclerc: nothing just an incident

carlossainz55: charles, can you go to direct and answer me?

fancharles1: WHA-A-AT

⇾ carlossainz55: same reaction mate

sofiestay: I hope you're all right, Charles.

lec16lerc: god what happened?

16charlec: did you and Ann break up?

⇾ janerttb: I think yes, they both don't have pictures in their profiles together. Did you see Ann's post?

⇾ 16charlec: no. but. wtf.

So that's what was supposed to happen. It hurts, yes. But you have to be a strong girl.