#it’s strange how your fic will haunt you for years if you don’t finish it

[pseudoincestuous]

I have yet to finish my kuusuke/kusuo post yet or the one about their relationship in general. But I did write a fic which only required the use of about 40% of my brain. you’re welcome.

[chimcess]

Nachash || jhs

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader (ft. Taehyung) Genre: Supernatural AU, Demon!Hoseok, Med Student!Reader, Smut, One night stand, Angst, Horror AU, Incubus! Hoseok, 90s AU, Yandere!AU Rating: 18+ (don’t interact if you’re a minor) Word Count: 21.4k+ Summary: After the loss of both of her parents, Y/N decided to sell their home in Florida and move back to New York City, a place that she has little memories of despite 10 years of living in Harlem. Her world begins to shift, and she starts to lose sight of dreams and reality, and at the center of it all is Hoseok, a sweet man who gives her a strange sense of deja vu, but she can’t help but wonder if he is who he says he is and why a strange bar keeps popping up in her nightmares. Warnings: Strong language, bad medical terminology (I tried), Hoseok has a demon side (like physically different), main character (somewhat) death (graphic), graphic violence, reader slowly losing her mind, heavy religious themes in a large chunk of this, explicit sexual content, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, manhandling, hard dom Hoseok, so much blood, low-key a yandere but not really, blood play, blood drinking, begging for life, extreme emotional manipulation, growling, over stimulation, unprotected sex (wrap it up), DARK ENDING, dubious consent (mind control/mood control/literally cannot leave Hoseok's presence), reader is severely mentally ill by the end of this, demonic possession, Stockholm syndrome, this is not a cute demon romance, read at your own risk, stopping here since there’s a lot just let me know if I missed anything A/N: After posting a teaser for this fic two years ago, I finally got around to finishing it! I’m still working on my smut skills, so I apologize in advance, but I hope you can get down with my favorite (and extremely evil) demon man. Happy Halloween (or, to my fellow Pagans, Happy Samhain)!

Prologue || Listen to the Playlist || Cross posted on AO3: here

Nachash (noun) "snake; serpent". Derived from the Hebrew root n-ch-sh.

July 1997

"How are you feeling?"

I sighed, pulling open another box. Unpacking was always the worst part of moving, like some cosmic joke designed to break you down piece by piece. Plates stared back at me from the box, and I clenched my jaw. The one on top was chipped—another thing on my growing list of replacements. I pulled it out and set it aside, determined to deal with it later. The rest of the plates went away in the cabinet. The broken one would be tossed.

"I don't know," I confessed. "Mom died. I'm everywhere."

My brother's hum of acknowledgment was all I heard. Miles had always been a quiet, distant sort, barely speaking to our parents. Their deaths hit him hard, but more so with Dad than Mom. Dad had been the stable one, while Mom was a relentless storm—never satisfied, constantly pushing, always demanding. To her, a doctor and a lawyer weren't enough. Miles had always seen her as aggressive, unyielding, and ever discontented. And Dad? Well, his complacency had its own way of grating.

Miles had moved to Oregon right after graduating from FSU, never looking back. We'd made the trek to see him a few times, but he'd never returned the favor. My stint in New York had mended our relationship somewhat. He visited frequently and spent his summers with me, and after Dad passed, he made a point to see Mom at least once a year. I didn't mind the trips to Portland; my Jacksonville home had become his family's vacation spot.

"So am I," he said, his voice betraying a hint of fatigue.

They'd been at each other's throats, arguing constantly, with his wife loathing Mom. Yet, I knew Miles held some affection for her despite their tumultuous relationship. He'd never truly made her proud, and that haunted him. I understood, but when I moved back home, the dynamics shifted. Mom used me as a weapon against Miles, making me the favored child, the one who came back. Miles was the ungrateful one who'd married the wrong woman.

Mom always blamed Trinity for Miles' "bad attitude." Dad knew better. I knew better.

"So," Miles shifted gears, "when can we come and visit?"

I smiled, "I'll be out there for Thanksgiving and Christmas. So maybe next summer?"

"That's a long wait."

I chuckled, "Well, Rory starts school this year and Trinity's pregnant. You're just as busy as I am."

I'd been the one with the most on my plate for years. Mom, a real estate agent, rarely left home, while Dad ran a plumbing company. When Miles went to college, I was knee-deep in medical school applications. During my residency, Miles was grinding through law school. When I moved back to Florida, I was buried in ICU shifts while he graduated and started his own practice. He met Trinity, and the two became inseparable. Mom despised her, but I saw how they brought out the best in each other. My career-driven life had left me disconnected, and while Mom reveled in it, I resented it.

Kids changed everything for them. Aurora was their miracle baby. Trinity had struggled with fertility for years, and when they finally had a child, it was as if their world had transformed. My brother was spent, and Mom's resentment boiled over. She was always bitter that they hadn't uprooted their lives back to Florida for the grandchild. By then, Miles didn't care. He'd made the trips for Dad but after Mom's cruel comments about Trinity's weight and their daughter being "too pretty" to be her granddaughter, Aurora never set foot in the family home again.

"Aurora is driving me crazy," Miles groaned. "She won't stop talking about the baby."

"As a big sister, I can tell you she's just being a normal kid."

"I know that," I could almost hear his eye roll. "I'm just worried. It's still early, and I don't want her hopes to get too high. Trinity's scared of another miscarriage."

It would be her sixth.

"Try to stay positive, bub," I bit my lip, surveying the cluttered room. I'd never finish today. "If it happens, it happens. But don't go into it expecting the worst."

"Between Mom and this…" He trailed off.

I understood his fear. Trinity was a few years older than me, and her anxiety was palpable. At 38, any pregnancy brought its own set of worries. Last I heard, Trinity was considering getting her tubes tied if this one didn't make it. The heartache was becoming unbearable.

"Hey," I kept my tone gentle, knowing that riling him up wouldn't help. "Keep your head up. Her next appointment is soon. Ensure she's sticking to bedrest, and you'll be fine."

"What if it happens again?"

My heart broke for him. Miles had always been the rock, the one who seemed unshakeable. Seeing him this vulnerable starkly contrasted with the angry kid he'd been in high school. Mom had pushed his buttons mercilessly, and I had vague memories of our squabbles, but they paled compared to the constant battles he faced with her.

I wondered if he ever grasped how I felt. He always thought Mom liked me more, but it was more about her being able to overlook me. While he fought for her attention, nothing I did ever really mattered. It was like a fog followed me, obscuring me from their view. Sometimes, it would lift, and Mom would acknowledge me, but then it would return, and I was forgotten.

"You'll get through it," I assured him.

We chatted a bit more. Aurora was excited about kindergarten and had picked out new uniforms. She was obsessed with Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood, and her new backpack reflected that. She'd even given her Prince Wednesday stuffed animal to the baby. It was everyday family life, but the emptiness in my chest grew. I longed for laughter and the innocent joy of children in my home.

"Trinity's calling me," Miles said, his voice muffled by distance.

"I'll talk to you later. Love you."

"Love you too, sissy."

I smiled faintly, "Later."

He hung up before I could say anything else. I glanced around the room, eyes narrowing at the boxes that seemed to taunt me with their mere existence. All of them were my own—mainly books, a few other odds and ends. The sadness that gripped me was relentless. I'd always had the most demanding job, the tightest schedule, and the deepest insecurities. Miles was angry, and I was desperate to be seen, so much so that I followed every command without question. Now, here I was, alone, surrounded by regret.

Dating felt like a cruel joke. My time in New York had alienated me more than anything else. That fog of invisibility from my childhood had returned with a vengeance. Coworkers would barely look at me for over a second; people on the street seemed oblivious to my presence and dates. They always ended badly. They weren't evil men but would forget my name within seconds. It felt like I wasn't real, like I existed on some other plane.

The only person who seemed to remember I existed anymore was my brother and his family. Dad's Alzheimer's had robbed him of any memory of us before he passed. Mom, too incoherent at Hospice, never stayed awake long enough to acknowledge my presence. Sometimes, it felt like Miles would momentarily forget me, only for my name to pop into his mind at predictable intervals—like clockwork, only calling on specific days and times, usually if he was planning a trip. It upset me more than I could recall, but now I wondered why.

"This place won't unpack itself," I muttered aloud.

I'd talked to myself so much it felt almost normal. I knew I needed to make friends, that without connections, I'd end up as lonely as my father, but the idea seemed futile. No one saw me clearly. No one ever had. When I searched my memories for anyone who had seen me, I came up empty. No one had ever really seen me. No one ever would. Instinctively, I knew this despite the facade of normalcy I tried to maintain. I had a job, a family, a house. I wasn't haunted. Or… maybe I was just being childish. I was simply forgettable, unremarkable. This I knew.

"I exist," I whispered, the words reverberating loudly in the stillness of my apartment.

The silence that pervaded my life mocked me with its omnipresence.

"How the hell do you get lost in a bar?"

"It's a lounge, sha," came a voice behind me.

What a peculiar dream. I took a bite of my sandwich, returning to the rude awakening that morning. I rarely remembered my dreams, if I had them at all. But last night had been different. I'd found myself in a dimly lit room with a man I couldn't recall clearly, dressed in white and speaking with an accent I couldn't place. I woke up before anything significant happened. The dream had been woefully uneventful.

The floor was almost eerily quiet tonight. Aside from the constant beeps and monitors scattered around and George Gilmore in room 11 watching football, no one spoke. The nurses here seemed less lively than I was accustomed to, their faces vacant, their words few. I kept to my small office most of the night, avoiding their station.

We'd had one death so far—a patient with a DNR who suffered a stroke shortly after midnight. Another woman had been pronounced brain-dead an hour ago. We'd wait until tomorrow to pull the plug, so her daughter could say goodbye. I didn't count her in my tally. The night crew had a way of seeing me even less than the others, and I didn't like them much.

"Hello, Doctor."

I jumped, startled. At least he had the decency to look sheepish. My irritation took me by surprise. I wasn't typically agitated; my feelings were either muted or overwhelming. He pushed his hair back, revealing messy chocolate brown locks, and held a clipboard stained with dubious marks.

"Sorry," he mumbled, shifting awkwardly under my gaze. I was already weary of his presence. "I was told you were new and thought I should introduce myself before leaving for the night. I'm Damon Glass, one of the anesthesiologists."

"Y/N Y/L/N," I replied, my voice flat and uninviting. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," he smiled, showing a gap between his front teeth that reminded me of my father's. It was a rare sight among people my age. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to come to me. Dr. Whitlock is on the floor, and I believe Morgan Fletcher is on call."

I nodded, appreciating the information but ready for him to leave. My distaste had faded, but I preferred brevity in conversations, especially with outsiders. I disliked the feeling of interacting with them. It was why I preferred dealing with the nearly dead; they rarely spoke, and when they did, I knew they'd be too medicated to remember much. The families were more accessible to handle than the ones back in Florida.

It was odd how my thoughts could veer into such morbid territories. Almost as morbid as my enjoyment of overseeing dying patients. It was not as macabre as my unbidden glee at my mother's death alongside my brother, but it ranked high on my list of flaws.

"Have a good night," I said, returning to my computer to refresh my emails.

Dr. Glass seemed to take the hint, leaving with an awkward smile and wave.

August 1997

I stood outside the door, the muffled sounds of grief seeping through the walls like a relentless, jagged current. The family's sorrow was palpable, a heavy fog that followed me down the hallway. I hoped to catch them in a better moment, but the cruel truth of this place was that better moments were rare. With a resigned breath, I raised my hand and knocked. The room fell silent, and a strained voice called out, allowing me to enter.

Elizabeth Fraiser had lived a life filled with grace and elegance. Once a dancer whose feet had carried her across Europe's stages, she met her husband in Paris and married him there. They had settled in New York, where her days of ballet had given way to a quieter role as a ballet instructor in Jersey. She had raised a family, and her pride in her children was as evident as her passion for dance. She spoke of them with a joy that contrasted sharply with the emptiness of my own mother's words.

Now, Elizabeth was in the late stages of lung cancer. Her family had clung to the hope of letting her pass away at home, but the relentless pneumonia and ceaseless pain had pushed them to make the difficult decision to admit her here. Her condition had worsened sharply today, and her family was struggling to cope with the harsh reality.

"Good afternoon," I said softly, a gentle murmur in the oppressive silence.

"Nice to see you," Elizabeth's oldest son, Elijah, managed a weak smile. We both knew he wasn't fond of doctors, but he tolerated me because I didn't overstay my welcome. "Mom's been sleeping for a while."

I stifled a sigh. Her body was crumbling, and delivering bad news was never easy. The small comfort was knowing she would soon feel nothing at all. We planned to increase her morphine dosage and withdraw all other medications. Her family would need to agree, but I wasn't too concerned. Mary, her daughter, had debated extending her mother's life with her brothers.

"We're really at the end, aren't we?" Mary's voice was strained, her husband's arm around her for support. Among them, she was the calmest, but the edges of her composure were frayed. Her eyes were red, testimony to her unrelenting tears. "Will she be in pain?"

I explained our focus on alleviating her suffering. She would be less coherent in the coming days but occasionally rouse enough to interact with them between doses. We aimed to ensure she had the utmost comfort and relief in her final days. The youngest Percy took the news hardest and had to excuse himself. I held Mary's hand, appreciating the warmth of human connection. I prided myself on my bedside manner.

"I know home care wasn't ideal for you," I broached delicately, aware of their crowded lives and young children. "But I'm offering it as an option. Respite care is also available, though I understand it was stressful before. It's worth discussing."

Elijah shook his head firmly. Mary hesitated, but her husband's reminder to care for herself and their baby swayed her. Percy's wife raised concerns about her own health, cementing the decision. Elizabeth would remain with us in her final days. It was probably for the best—she was too frail and in too much agony without constant medication.

"Let me know if you need anything," I said, glancing at the family. The nurses are always available, and I'm on call until six. Is there anything I can get you before I leave?"

"Mom needs a bath," Percy reentered the room. A nurse had come by earlier, asking if we were ready to step out. Let them know they could come in."

The rest of my shift dragged on. Other families were terse and uncommunicative, and their responses were minimal. I understood their grief, but it did little to ease my weary spirit. The nurses seemed as disinterested in me as ever. I had long since given up trying to connect with them.

The air outside was crisp, almost biting. I walked to the subway, the city traffic too maddening to endure. I'd trade bumper-to-bumper frustration for the quirks of the subway any day. Last week, a man in a bunny costume rapped at six in the morning. The week before, a man argued with his reflection in the window. Last night, an elderly woman beside me commented on my disheveled appearance, lamenting that men didn't like that and worrying I'd die alone. I barely remember if I responded. I hated talking on the subway; her parting insult had stung me.

Tonight promised to be different. I left the hospital later than usual, after two code blues and an injury report for a nurse. Overdue paperwork and an insurance squabble later, it was past eight when I left. My walk was short, and the wait at the terminal was OK, but the train didn't arrive until 9:30. When I finally boarded, the car was almost empty.

Then a group of men entered. They were rowdy, pushing each other, their drunkenness a stifling cloud. I almost moved when they sat too close, but I didn't want to draw attention. I could feel their eyes on me. I clutched my bag tightly, fingers brushing the can of pepper spray hooked to its strap. I was almost home. Just three more stops.

"Hey," one of the men called out. I ignored him. "Hey, you."

I hated the subway.

"Leave her alone."

That voice caught my attention. I knew it—or thought I did. When I looked up, I was met with a stranger, yet his presence felt oddly familiar. He was striking, with tanned skin and sharp features that made his brown eyes stand out under the harsh fluorescent lights. He took the seat beside mine, and I didn't stop him. The men were back to their raucous laughter, and I was forgotten. I relaxed slightly, hoping to remain unnoticed.

"Sorry about them," he said, his warm and soothing voice a gentle tenor that evoked a sense of nostalgia. "Are you OK?"

I nodded, unable to meet his gaze. Something about him tugged at the edges of my memory, yet he wasn't a celebrity, and I was sure I'd never met him before. Perhaps we'd crossed paths on the subway? My brain was playing tricks on me.

"Yes," I said softly. "Thank you."

Despite myself, I stole glances at him. I had to remind myself to breathe when I ventured past his neck. He was slender, but there was a subtle strength beneath his clothes. If he noticed my scrutiny, he said nothing. He returned to his book, but I was convinced that his eyes were still on me when I finally looked away.

I jolted awake, my body wracked with shivers despite the suffocating warmth of the blanket. The room was deathly silent, save for the moonlight streaming through the window like a spotlight on a stage set for a performance I never auditioned for. I rolled over, trying to bury myself deeper into the cocoon of my blanket, but then I heard it—a voice, soft and faint, yet carrying an unsettling authority.

“Oh, Y/N,” the voice crooned, dripping with a sinister allure. “It’s time. Come to me.”

Confusion and dread clawed at my insides as I stumbled out of bed. The room was a far cry from my own—stone walls, thick and oppressive, casting shadows that seemed to dance with malevolent glee. The floor beneath my feet was icy, a stark contrast to the comfort of my bed. My nightgown, white and delicate, felt like a mockery in this alien environment.

This wasn’t my room.

The voice came again, seductive and commanding. “Y/N, come out, come out, now. I’m waiting for you.”

Compelled, I moved to the window. Below, in the moonlit expanse of the lawn, stood the man from the subway. His face was eerily illuminated, his head tilted back as if inviting me to join him in the darkness below. His eyes—glowing a brilliant gold—seemed to reach out to me, promising unspeakable things if only I would take the leap.

I couldn’t tear my gaze away. He raised a hand, crooking a finger in a silent invitation. It was as if an invisible thread was pulling me toward him. Entranced, my feet moved on their own accord. Barefoot, the cold stone beneath me was a cruel contrast to the warmth I’d just left behind. I wandered through hallways and passages that felt simultaneously foreign and intimately known, descending into the shadows where he waited.

As I emerged onto the lawn, his smile made me shiver. He approached, his fingers brushing the side of my face—teasing, tantalizing, yet never quite touching.

“I’ve waited for you for so long,” he murmured, his voice a velvet caress. “So very long. And now, now you’re mine.”

A fragment of my mind screamed in protest, shouting that I didn’t belong to him, that I didn’t even know who he was or why I was here. But a deeper, more primal force tugged at me, pulling me closer until I was nearly touching him. His presence was unsettlingly soothing, and I took a breath, feeling the heat of his gaze.

“That’s right, my lamb, come closer,” he coaxed.

An overwhelming longing surged through me—irrational, illogical, yet so profound that I couldn’t resist. I needed him to touch me, to make the connection complete. I tilted my head to the side, exposing my neck to the moonlight.

He responded immediately, his fingers trailing along my throat, their cool touch sending shivers through me. I gasped, my body lighting up with each delicate brush.

“More,” I heard myself plead, pressing closer.

“Say it,” he demanded, his arms enveloping me in a possessive embrace. “Who do you belong to?”

“You. I’m yours.”

He cradled my head in his hand, leaning in. His lips were smooth against my skin, but his teeth were sharp as they pierced through flesh. I screamed as he drank deeply.

I awoke with a start, sitting up in bed, my hands clutching at my throat, searching for any sign of injury. The skin was intact, unbroken. I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm my racing heart that felt as though it might burst from my chest.

The lamp flickered on with a click, casting a harsh, unwelcome light that made me squint and shield my eyes. Grabbing my robe and a cup, I shuffled out of the room, the chill of the hallway hitting me like a slap. I closed the door quietly behind me, trying not to disturb the oppressive silence that hung heavy in the air. The bathroom, bathed in the sickly fluorescent glow, was as deserted as I’d hoped.

I filled my cup halfway with water from one of the sinks, then leaned against the cold, sterile tiles, watching my reflection in the mirror as I took slow, deliberate sips. The dream—the one that had shaken me awake—felt so unnervingly real.

I traced the line of my neck with trembling fingers, the blue vein just beneath the surface. What kind of twisted message was my mind trying to send me with that nightmare? It had been a full-on gothic horror—a relic of some crumbling English manor, not the kind of place I ever imagined myself visiting, unless I was buried in a pile of classic literature.

And him. The monster. Even now, as I closed my eyes, I could still see his face—a blend of dark allure and cruel beauty. His eyes, oh, those eyes. They’d held me in thrall, made me willing to surrender to any demand he made. I could almost feel his cold touch, see his smile that promised both ecstasy and agony.

Wasn’t the whole vampire-mother-stuff supposed to be a metaphor for sex? Maybe that’s what my subconscious was trying to shove in my face—sex, or the glaring void where it should have been in my life.

I studied my flushed reflection, feeling the heat in my cheeks. I shook my head, trying to shake off the nightmare’s grip.

The man sat next to me again. It had been a week since I last saw him, and my body still reacted to his presence. Today, I admired his chiseled jawline and elongated face. He was an exquisite oval with a strong profile. This time, he caught me looking and smiled shyly.

"I'm Hoseok."

The name sent a shiver, stirring something familiar and unsettling. I quickly brushed off the uneasy feeling. It was probably my own insecurity.

"Y/N," I replied, unable to tear my gaze away from him.

He resumed reading, and I focused on crocheting a stuffed rabbit for my nephew. Miles had called that morning to update me on Trinity's appointment. The toy wasn't perfect—far from it—but I wanted to give it a try.

"How would you feel about dinner?" Hoseok's voice broke through my thoughts.

I paused my knitting. "I enjoy dinner. Who doesn't?"

He chuckled, a rich, velvety sound that made me blush. "Cheeky."

I bit my lip, unsure if it was a compliment. I felt a pang of embarrassment, struggling to maintain my composure. The first date I'd been asked on since undergrad, and I was fumbling. Miles would have a field day.

"Would you like dinner with me?"

I hesitated. "Yes."

Hoseok's laughter resonated deeply within me, and I felt a jolt of warmth as he slid closer, his knee brushing against mine. He was impossibly warm. Instinctively, I shifted away, uncomfortable with his proximity. There was something off about him, an unsettling vibe that I couldn't quite place.

But then he smiled, and that soft, disarming grin evaporated all my doubts. He was dazzling. My eyes fluttered shut as his cologne enveloped me, weakening my knees. I had to remind myself to breathe. He was captivating.

"Do you like Italian?" he asked, his voice deeper now.

I nodded, struggling to steady my breath. Panic and embarrassment churned within me, but I couldn't ignore the physical response. My mind was flooded with inappropriate thoughts of Hoseok, vivid and intrusive. I gasped, feeling a flush of heat I hadn't experienced in a long time. 

"Does two weeks work?"

Snapping out of my daze, I looked at Hoseok and nodded. 

"I'm off on the 27th."

He smiled, and I stared at his teeth longer than necessary. They seemed different—sharper, perhaps, with redder gums. I blinked, reassured that they were just as I remembered. My sleep deprivation must be getting to me.

"Meet you here?"

We agreed to meet at six. I'd catch the 5:30 train to ensure I arrived before him. As the subway pulled into my stop, I waved goodbye and stepped out, only to realize I hadn't asked him where we were going. The thought lingered until the following day.

The voice is louder now, sharper, as if it’s cutting through the fog of my half-sleep. “Y/N? I’m waiting for you. Come to me now.”

I hear it, feel the tug of it dragging me towards him, but fear clamps down on me like a vice. My bare feet are numb on the cold, wet grass as I stumble through the twisting maze of hedges, trying to escape the invisible force that pulls me like iron to a magnet.

My breath hitches, coming fast and uneven, as I sprint around corners, the long white gown tangling around my legs and tripping me up. I’m not sure anymore if I’m searching for a way out or if I’m trying to find him.

I turn another corner, my ankle twists and pain shoots through my leg as I crash into an open space—a small, white fountain sits in the middle, surrounded by benches.

Through the flickering light of the moon dancing on the water, I see him. Not a figment of my imagination, but there he is, standing as he promised, waiting.

Hoseok walks towards me with a slow, deliberate grace. He bends, lifting me effortlessly from the mess of my tangled gown and into his arms. I feel a peculiar sense of completeness as he sits on a bench, cradling me like a precious artifact.

“Were you bringing me your gift? Or were you trying to run from me?” His voice is soft, almost tender, and yet it cuts through me. I open my mouth to speak, but no sound comes. I’m lost, adrift in confusion.

I’m mesmerized by his flawless beauty. My fingers move of their own accord, reaching towards his face. That smile returns, and I see the satisfaction in his eyes.

“You may touch me.” His lips part slightly, and I press my fingers against them. His tongue flicks out, wrapping around my fingertip and drawing it into his mouth. Before I can react, I feel a sharp bite.

I gasp as he licks the blood that wells up from the small wound. “A small treat,” he murmurs. “That’s why you came, isn’t it?”

I find myself nodding, helpless under his gaze.

He licks my finger one last time, savoring the taste before swallowing. “They told me you’d be extraordinary, worth every moment of waiting. Yet, your taste is beyond anything I ever dreamed.”

My body reacts to his words and his touch—still innocent but making my skin feel like it’s stretched too tight, like I might explode. I let my head fall back, exposing my neck to him as his tongue traces a path up the sensitive skin.

And then he bites.

I bolt awake, heart pounding as if it might burst from my chest. I fumble in the dark, reaching for the light switch, feeling profoundly alone with Rose away for the weekend.

I throw off the covers and stagger to the mirror, desperately checking my neck. There’s nothing there, no sign of the bite.

A cold shiver runs down my spine. I grab a blanket and a book, and huddle in the hall lounge, surrounded by the harsh light of every lamp and the incessant flicker of the television, trying to drive away the lingering shadows of the nightmare.

September 1997

I eased into my seat, the familiar weight of my bag pressed to my left side and draped an arm over it as if to claim it for my own. It was the first night off from the relentless grind of being on-call since mid-August and the first real night out in years. I’d never been much for the party scene, and medical school had only sharpened that aversion. The last time I went out for drinks was nearly six years ago, a fleeting memory of bar hopping that I’d abandoned early, too exhausted to keep pace with my friends.

Tonight, however, felt different. There was a nagging sense that I was misremembering that long-ago night, like a foggy half-remembered dream where something vital was missing. My life in New York had become a blur of medical texts and sleepless shifts, the grueling 24-hour days erasing the finer details of my existence. My final year had been a carousel of discomfort, but the specifics eluded me, lost in exhaustion. Perhaps a creep of some sort, some misguided doctor with a name I couldn’t quite grasp—maybe that’s what had soured my memory. 

I pulled out my phone and scrolled to find Hoseok’s contact. The old SeaTAC was still a relic of the past, but I clung to it out of stubborn habit. Despite its age, it was a lifeline to the outside world, a way to escape the pager’s relentless beeping. I longed for the day when I could toss the landline, but the cost of cell phone minutes constantly reminded me of its importance. With his endless chatter, Miles made sure I burned through those minutes with alarming frequency.

“Hello?” Hoseok’s voice was silky, a comforting balm after a long stretch of clinical detachment.

“Hey,” I breathed, trying to keep my voice steady. “Just got on.”

“See you soon,” he said, his tone warm and reassuring. I could almost picture the smile on his face, and it made me smile in return. His words seemed more benign over the phone, starkly contrasting the intensity of our recent encounters. “Save my spot.”

The car was beginning to fill up, Friday night revelers claiming their space, making it nearly impossible to save a seat. I promised I’d try, even as I felt the crushing inevitability of the crowd. His chuckle was soft, almost intimate. 

“Thank you, sweet girl.”

I bit my lip, the endearment both flattering and unsettling. A tiny voice in my head cautioned me, even though Hoseok had never used his terms of affection demeaningly. The voice grew louder when he wasn’t around, whispering warnings I couldn’t entirely dismiss. It was strange, this constant inner debate.

“I’m going to hang up,” Hoseok said, his voice a sensual murmur. I moved the phone away from my ear, puzzled by the seductive undertone. Was he implying something more?

Was I expecting more from tonight?

“I’m running up my minutes,” he laughed, breaking the spell of my thoughts.

“Oh,” I blinked, snapping out of my reverie. “Sorry. See you in a bit.”

The recurring dreams of him were becoming a distraction. My nights were plagued with vivid, unsettling fantasies, leaving me restless and frazzled. I wiggled in my seat, pressing my thighs together to quell the unsettling arousal. Reality would surely disappoint, no matter how compelling he seemed in my dreams. I resolved to hold off on sex for now. I didn’t want to tarnish his allure with premature intimacy.

“Why did you want to be a doctor?” Hoseok asked, his fingers entwining with mine.

The wine started hitting, and the night air was crisp against my skin. Hoseok was the perfect gentleman; the evening was a beautiful respite from my routine. I leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his body, and sighed.

“I wish I could say it was for noble reasons,” I said, my voice tinged with melancholy. “In truth, I just wanted my family to notice me. I thought graduating medical school would make them see me, but it never quite worked out that way.”

Hoseok hummed thoughtfully beside me. I turned my gaze away, feeling a strange mix of comfort and sadness.

“None of us are perfect,” he said after a pause, his voice low and contemplative. “I’ve made my share of mistakes, and my choices haven’t always been noble.”

I leaned closer, savoring his warmth and intoxicating scent. Despite my fatigue, the night felt lighter, almost magical. He was mesmerizing, and I was drawn to him in a way I hadn’t expected. 

“I have a hard time believing that,” I said with a soft grin, snuggling closer.

“Well,” he said, his arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me into his side. “You haven’t had me all to yourself yet.”

A shiver ran down my spine, a curious blend of fear and delight. The night had been a rollercoaster of emotions—enchantment and apprehension intertwined. Hoseok’s smile was disarming, melting away my unease, but I made a mental note to reflect on my feelings once I was alone. He seemed almost too perfect, and that nagging pit in my stomach grew again before vanishing. 

“I don’t want the night to end,” Hoseok whispered, his breath warm against my ear as we waited for the train. “I’m having such a good time.”

I smiled, “What kind of girl do you take me for?”

“When can I see you again?” he asked, his voice filled with genuine longing.

“Soon,” I promised. “I’m getting the next few weekends off now that the other fellowship student is starting. My supervisor is trying to get me off every Saturday.”

“It’s a good thing my boss is flexible,” Hoseok purred, causing my heart to race. “Otherwise, I’d never get to spend time with you.”

I wanted to be annoyed by his clinginess, to remind him I wasn’t his girlfriend, but instead, I found myself grinning. His words made me feel seen and appreciated. Despite the anxiety he sometimes stirred in me, I was eager to be close to him. He looked at me so intently that I was willing to overlook my reservations. Maybe it was just butterflies?

“Where do you work?” I asked, trying to divert my thoughts.

Hoseok was a bartender at a speakeasy in Manhattan, where he’d worked since it opened. He had hinted at it throughout the evening, teasing me with its obscurity. 

“It’s a smaller place,” he said amusedly. “You’ve probably never heard of it.”

“Try me,” I challenged, my heart pounding strangely.

“Dauphine.”

The name hit me like a jolt. Images of dimly lit corridors and crimson hues flashed in my mind. I was sure I’d never been there, but the name stirred a disquieting sense of déjà vu. The dream from July, the man from my dreams—there was a connection, but it eluded me. 

As we stood in the bustling, well-lit area, I edged away slightly, unsettled. Hoseok was a charming gentleman, but the name “Dauphine” had ignited an inexplicable dread. Despite his humor and warmth, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hiding something—or maybe I was just afraid of what I might find.

I stole a furtive glance at him, and it felt as though I’d known him far longer than the scant time we’d spent together. His face was oddly familiar, like a recurring image in a dream half-remembered. I had met him before, somewhere.

“No, you haven’t,” his voice cut through the night like ice. It was cold, detached, far from the warmth he’d shown me all evening. A shiver snaked down my spine, and I forgot to breathe. His grip on me tightened as though sensing my legs would buckle beneath me. “You’ve never known me before.”

The fierce scowl on his face startled me. His eyes, glowing with an eerie golden light, seemed to burn through me. Everything about him felt otherworldly like he was something less than human. A fragmented memory of a man sitting alone at a bar surged up, only to dissolve into nothingness.

“I am Hoseok,” he whispered, his voice weaving a heavy spell over my senses. “I am your boyfriend. We’ve been together a long time, and we’re in love. You just tripped and hit your head.”

A sudden jolt of pain made me wince and try to pull away from him. 

“Does it hurt?” His voice was deceptively tender, and I sighed through the pain.

“Yes,” I groaned, rubbing my forehead. “Does it look bad?”

Hoseok’s grin was unsettling, a blend of fake sympathy and amusement. 

“You were lucky this time. Just a barely noticeable red mark.”

I chuckled at my own clumsiness. I wasn’t usually this awkward, but my heel caught on a pavement crack. I gingerly rubbed my ankle and was relieved to find it unscathed. Even my heel had survived.

“Jeez,” I said, looping my arm through his. “I completely forgot what we were talking about.”

Hoseok’s smile broadened, clearly enjoying my disoriented state. I rolled my eyes and reached over to gently tap his chest. He responded by sticking out his tongue, which only made me scoff at his childishness.

“We were talking about work,” I said.

I nodded as if on autopilot. “How’s the bar?”

Hoseok worked at a swanky speakeasy in Manhattan, though I was trying to remember its name. Despite being together for what felt like ages, I had never been there. I was never one for bars, while Hoseok reveled in the place’s gothic charm. The name eluded me again as I tried to recall it.

“Tae’s excited,” he chuckled. “With Halloween around the corner, business will pick up.”

I hummed, my thoughts still lingering on the name. I had thought his boss was Tristan, but I must have misremembered. I shrugged off the nagging thought.

“You should stop by the bar,” I heard myself say, sounding oddly mechanical.

“Sounds fun,” he replied, his tone laced with a predatory edge.

Looking back on that night, it’s almost laughable how easily he swayed me. The way he possessed me was undeniable; soon, he would own every inch of me. Those dreams of him were his twisted way of showing love—how much he craved to touch me, to keep me bound to him. It’s sick and vile, and the thought of what we’d become makes me nauseous, yet to him, it’s love. 

“Let’s get you home,” he said, his arm wrapping possessively around my shoulders.

I remember leaning into his side, kissing his cheek as if I was floating. His presence was intoxicating. Even now, I can feel the ghost of his touch and his body's heat. It’s a twisted sort of longing I have for him. This place is cold and dark without him, without his reminders of how much he cares and wants me to scream for him. Here, time stands still, and life continues in a strange loop. I can’t say whether I’m alive or dead, but I know it no longer matters. Once I entered this world, my life ended and began anew. Hoseok made me feel both alive and dead simultaneously.

And as I write this, my heart aches for him. My fingers tremble at the thought of him returning to claim me again. The pain he inflicts makes my heart pound and my stomach clench. I miss him.

It both sickens and excites me.

October 19, 1997

My bones groaned and cracked like ancient floorboards beneath my weight as I fought to catch my breath. Sweat slicked my skin, and I began patting myself down, half-expecting to find something tangible to anchor me to reality. My surroundings slowly came into focus. The harsh fluorescent lights above stung my eyes, but their sterile brightness offered an odd comfort. I was at home, cocooned in thick blankets that had twisted themselves around my legs. The bed beneath me creaked with the effort of supporting my restless form. I sighed, flopping back down, trying to shake off the remnants of the nightmare that still clung to me like a shadow.

The dreams had become relentless, evolving from vague echoes of past terrors into something far more insidious. These weren't fueled by mere fear but by an overwhelming, consuming desire that felt dangerously close to swallowing me whole. The weekends were the worst, and after seeing Hoseok, they had turned almost infernal. He was always there in my dreams, his skin smooth and flawless, his deep brown eyes burning into mine with an intensity that left me gasping for air.

Every time I closed my eyes, his image flickered behind my eyelids like a dark, seductive film. The scenes always ended the same way: I would climax, my body convulsing in a fevered rhythm, while I looked up to see his face contorted in ecstasy. His deep, guttural groans would reverberate through me as his grip tightened on my skin. He would finish inside me, and my spent body would collapse beneath him. He would drape himself over me, showering my chest with tender, lingering kisses. The setting varied—my bed, a chilling, unfamiliar void, or a dimly lit lounge—but the conclusion was always the same.

With a sigh, I fumbled for my phone, my fingers brushing the cool surface. An email from Hoseok awaited me, and a smile crept across my face despite the haze of exhaustion. He was the epitome of a perfect gentleman—never pushing beyond my boundaries, never demanding more than I was willing to give, always accommodating his schedule to mine. Even in matters of intimacy, something many men would aggressively pursue, he always respected my pace. In the hectic blur of the past month, we hadn’t had a moment alone. He hadn’t even broached the topic. As I thought about it, I couldn't recall the last time we'd been intimate outside of these dreams.

From: Hoseok Jung Subject: All Hallows Eve Date: October 19, 1997: 03:05   To: Y/N Y/L/N Good morning, love, I'm sorry for the early message, especially since this is one of your rare mornings off. I hope I didn't wake you. I'm heading home from work and couldn't stop thinking about you. Taehyung is throwing a simple Halloween party this year, and luckily, it falls on a Friday. Would you like to join me? I think it could be a lot of fun. I love you. Hobi

I grinned and began typing my reply.

From: Y/N Y/L/N Subject: RE: All Hallows Eve Date: October 19, 1997: 04:15  To: Hoseok Jung Hobi, Don't worry, you didn't wake me. I was tangled up in strange dreams and was deep asleep when your email arrived. Sadly, I doubt I'll fall back asleep anytime soon, so I plan on catching up on Buffy or Beyond Belief—whichever's on. Hopefully, I won't get stuck with reruns of Seinfeld, not really my thing. Lucky for me, I'm working mornings this week. I'd love to come to your party. Call me when you wake up. Love you, too. Y/N Y/L/N, M.D.   Palliative Care Physician, New York-Presbyterian Hospital

It barely registered that, to my knowledge, I had never said "I love you" to him before. I had never really pondered the oddity of our relationship. My memories of our time together were a disorienting blur, but I never questioned it. It wasn't entirely my fault—he had ensnared me, body and soul, and any unresolved threads might make it harder for him to maintain control. Regardless of our tangled history or how elusive it seemed; I was simply glad he wanted to see me at that moment.

I lay huddled in my bed, my body a coiled spring of anticipation, each nerve ending tingling with the foreboding that had stalked me all day. His voice had been a persistent whisper, a sultry hum that turned my name into a haunting lullaby. It was a melody wrapped in an insatiable longing, a caress of words that promised more than I dared to imagine.

Tonight, I wanted to resist. I tried to muster the strength to ignore the insidious pull, that relentless tug drawing me toward him like a moth to a flame. The very idea of defying him churned my stomach with a nauseous dread. But the threads of his influence were woven so tightly around me, it felt like trying to escape from silken chains.

Then it came, cutting through the murkiness of my thoughts like a scythe. His voice, now sharper, more insistent, shattered the fragile veneer of my resistance.

“Y/N. Come to me now.”

With a sudden jolt, the pretense of defiance evaporated. I threw off the blankets as if they were chains, leaping out of bed and flying through the darkened hallway. My feet barely touched the ground as I hurtled down the stairs, each step propelled by an unrelenting force, dragging me inexorably toward him.

He waited for me in the foyer, bathed in an eerie glow that made him look like an apparition from a fevered dream—or perhaps a nightmare. His smile was both welcoming and chilling, a promise wrapped in malice. When he took my hand, his lips brushed against my fingers with a cool, electric touch that set my entire body aflame.

The intensity of my reaction embarrassed me, but he tilted my face up to meet his gaze, shaking his head with a look of almost pity.

“Your blood knows what it wants, my lamb. You must let your mind follow.”

My face burned with fierce heat, but the compulsion pulling me to him was too overpowering to resist. He guided me through the meticulously manicured gardens to a secluded alcove framed by dense, sculpted hedges. He seated himself on a bench, drawing me onto his lap with a practiced grace that made me feel both cherished and helpless. His eyes, dark and unfathomable, never left mine, promising secrets I couldn’t begin to comprehend.

“Are you ready, my lamb?”

Without a second thought, I bared my neck to him. The desperate craving for the bliss and torment of his bite had consumed me completely; waiting was no longer an option.

He lingered, his tongue tracing a tantalizing path along the delicate skin of my throat. The sensation was almost unbearable, and I found myself begging with a voice that sounded alien, strained.

“Please.”

And then he bit.

I shot awake, my heart a frantic drum in my chest. I had fallen asleep hunched over my desk at the hospital, my neck stiff from the awkward angle. Rubbing away the ache, I cursed the book that had plagued me with such vivid nightmares. I needed to talk to my brother again; this couldn’t be anything but a cruel trick of the mind.

The glowing digits on my alarm clock mocked me with their late hour. I stood up, stretching and feeling my heartbeat slowly return to normal. I changed into a t-shirt and shuffled toward the bed, determined to banish the lingering unease.

As I passed the window, something froze me in place. I looked down into the parking lot and saw him standing under a flickering lamppost, his gaze locked onto mine with a predatory intensity that made my blood run cold.

It was Hoseok—or at least, it looked like him. But the resemblance was grotesquely twisted. His eyes glowed with an otherworldly light, a sickly luminescence that cut through the night like a malevolent beacon. His skin was peeling away in ragged strips, as if he were shedding himself like a decaying husk. This was no longer my Hoseok. He was a creature of nightmares, a monster forged from my darkest fears.

My fingers clung to the windowsill as I stared, my body paralyzed by the overwhelming urge to run to him, to give in to the magnetic pull of his presence. I watched as his lips moved, shaping a single word that seemed to echo through the chill of the night.

“Soon.”

I gasped, my breath catching in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the vision to vanish. When I opened them again, the parking lot was empty, the lamppost casting its pallid light over a sea of unmoving cars. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief, snatched my blanket and pillow, and stumbled back to the on-call room, desperate to escape the sinister call that still haunted the dark corners of my mind.

October 28, 1997

"What should I do?" the nurse asked, her name slipping from my mind like a shadow lost in the night.

"Give them some space," I replied, my gaze fixed resolutely away from the room across the hall. Elizabeth had just passed away, her DNR a cold, ironclad barrier that left no room for last-ditch efforts. Her family needed their final moments with her while we waited for the body to be transported. Mary was still wailing into her husband's chest, and Elijah looked like he'd been dragged through a storm, barely able to stand. Percy stood like a marble statue, his eyes glazed over while his wife clung to him. The sight of Percy’s frozen, unseeing expression twisted my gut in a way I couldn’t ignore. It reminded me too much of what I feared—and I needed to escape the suffocating atmosphere of grief.

"Should we get them out of the room?" another nurse asked, her thick southern drawl hinting at Memphis. "Seeing her like that can’t be good for their mental well-being."

I shook my head. "Let them have their last moments in peace. Offer condolences and check on them regularly."

I fiddled nervously with my ID card, the familiar unease gnawing at me. My wounds from the day seemed too fresh. Miles surfaced in my thoughts again, and I resolved to call my brother on my way home tonight. Hoseok wasn’t working tonight, so he wouldn’t join me on the subway.

"I'm going to check in with 211," I murmured, watching Percy leave the room, clutching his phone like a lifeline. "I’ll be back in 5-10 minutes to see if the family needs anything. Just make them as comfortable as you can."

"You got it, doc."

The subway ride home was a silent affair. My headache throbbed like a relentless drum, and my stomach churned uneasily. The day had been heavy with more deaths than usual. Elizabeth’s family had eventually calmed down, but their kindness on their way out hadn’t eased the knot in my chest. I knew their pain intimately.

I called my brother as I made my way to the subway. Despite his complicated feelings about our mother, he was always supportive. The conversation ended abruptly when Aurora entered the room, demanding his attention. Miles had never truly understood my emotions; I doubted he ever tried.

The short walk home from the subway was a blessing, though the cold night air bit at my skin. I was grateful for the proximity of my apartment, but the streets were alive with noise—tourists laughing, gang members shouting outside their apartment complexes. I was relieved to escape the chaos, though my street wasn’t entirely free of foot traffic. My old apartment in East Harlem had been more of a hustle, with late-night carpooling with a coworker whose name eluded me. I knew it started with an 'A,' but the memory only worsened my headache. I set the thought aside for another time.

After selling the family home in Florida and vacation properties scattered across the country, I’d managed to buy a house on Astro Row at 100th and 30th Street. It was an old building—too expensive for its size, and initially, it seemed far from beautiful. But over time, it grew on me. I loved the brownstones, the front porches, the grand trees, and the quiet streets. I couldn’t imagine leaving. Even the renovations I’d planned were postponed. The charm of the old place had won me over, and I’d made peace with its quirks. I even got along with my neighbor, a small but welcome relief.

Tonight was quieter than usual, and none of my neighbors seemed awake. I missed the old man at the end of the street who used to sit on his porch, sipping coffee and waiting for dawn. It was nearly 4:30 AM. I shrugged and continued; my mind focused on the comfort of my bed.

Fumbling for my keys, I cursed quietly when my pockets were empty. My purse, a cavernous mess of clutter, swallowed everything. As I dug through it, a sudden burst of laughter behind me made me freeze. Two women strolled down the sidewalk, their laughter echoing off the walls. They were both stunning, their pale skin glowing under the moonlight. One of them locked eyes with me, her gaze piercing through the darkness. She looked at me as if she’d seen a ghost, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew me.

"Hello," she said, her voice as light and tinkling as a bell.

"Hi," I replied, feeling strangely off-balance.

The other woman seemed perplexed. Her beauty was almost ethereal, with blonde hair as pale as her skin and eyes as dark as night. Her gaze swept over me with an unmistakable disdain, her teeth bared in a slight sneer. Yet, despite her apparent coldness, she was undeniably beautiful.

"How are you?" the first woman asked, her voice soothing.

"Fine," I responded, my throat dry. "And you?"

The nagging headache intensified as I tried to make sense of the encounter, a sense of déjà vu wrapping around me like a tightening noose. The women moved on, their laughter fading into the night, leaving me with a lingering unease that clung to me like the shadows of my dreams.

She studied me, her face a shifting canvas of emotions before settling into a look of genuine confusion. I tried to place her but struggled. There was something crucial I needed to remember, something just out of reach, but my mind remained stubbornly blank. A frantic urge to call Hoseok seized me.

The realization hit me like a cold slap. Why did I think I needed him? I tried to convince myself I could handle this alone. But deep down, I knew I needed him here. He could make this headache vanish, soothe the gnawing anxiety that had taken root in my chest. I missed him. I loved him. I needed him…

“What's your name?” she asked, her smile both disarming and unsettling, making my thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm.

“Y/N,” I replied, feeling dazed and disconnected.

“Cold night, Y/N,” she purred, her gaze never wavering. “You should get inside.”

I nodded absently, my words failing me as I fumbled with my keys. The blonde woman's giggle, filled with an eerie excitement, made me shiver. I wanted to retreat, to escape this strange encounter. I shoved the key into the lock, eager to shut out the unsettling night.

“Y/N,” the first woman’s voice halted me, her tone chillingly smooth. Neither of them had moved since they stopped. The blonde’s smile remained fixed, and I couldn’t bring myself to meet the other woman’s eyes. “Be careful out here. You never know who’s wandering around.”

I nodded, turning the doorknob, but her voice stopped me again.

“I work at a bar in Midtown,” she said, her words snagging my attention like a hook. I had always known she worked at a bar, but why was it important? “It’s called Dauphine. Ever heard of it?”

Yes, I wanted to say. That place haunted my nightmares, a dark shadow that clung to the edges of my memory. But I couldn’t piece together why. Hoseok would know. He’d make everything better. No, my mind screamed—he’d only make it worse. I couldn’t say how I knew this, but I wanted to listen to the little voice inside me tonight. Something was very wrong.

“You should come by sometime,” she offered. “We’re on 1st and East 54th in the far corner of the Diamond District. If you need anything, just ask for ‘Bootsy.’”

Bootsy…

“Are you okay with cherry liquor?” she asked.

I let go of the doorknob and turned to face them fully. I couldn’t meet either of their eyes. The sensation was all too familiar. I took a deep breath, bracing myself for the answer I didn’t want to hear.

“Do you know Hoseok? He’s my boyfriend.”

The blonde hissed sharply. Bootsy gasped, her face a mask of surprise and something darker, more shadowy. It was clear that Hoseok was connected to these people, tangled up with my memories of New York, the root of all my confusion. I missed him. I loved him. I needed him…

No, I shook my head. Was that what he wanted me to believe? I wasn’t sure anymore.

“Yes,” Bootsy finally replied. “I’ve known him for many, many years.”

Before I could second-guess myself, I slammed the door shut and locked it. The blonde finally moved, stepping away from Bootsy and muttering something I couldn’t catch. She disappeared down the street, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts.

“What’s wrong with me?” I muttered through the door, my voice tinged with desperation.

Bootsy’s response came through with a sorrowful edge. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

I shook my head, my headache pounding with such intensity that I could barely keep my eyes open. “It’s him, isn’t it?” I asked, my voice breaking. “I don’t understand what’s happening. It’s like I remember things but not really, and everything goes blank every time he’s around.”

Bootsy’s eyes, a deep crimson, darted around nervously. They seemed to glow faintly, like a cat’s eyes in the dark. Her dark hair framed her face perfectly, glossy and sleek. Bootsy wasn’t human. What she was, I couldn’t say. But she was somehow tied to the nightmares that plagued me, and Hoseok’s shadow loomed larger than ever.

“He’s a demon,” she whispered hurriedly, her words laced with a fear that seemed almost tangible. “I can’t tell you exactly what he’s done. I’ve never known him to keep someone around for this long, but whatever you’ve done to make him want you seems to have spared your life. You should have died back in ’92 with your friend.”

A friend? Someone else had been involved? Hoseok was a demon? The fragments Bootsy offered were like pieces of a shattered mirror, reflecting a reality I could barely grasp. I believed her, though. I had no reason not to. My memories felt like they were being twisted, distorted by Hoseok’s manipulations.

Then I thought of the creature outside of the hospital and felt my knees go numb. I hadn't hallucinated anything. It was real. It was him. Oh my God.

“We can’t talk for long,” she said, a look of pained urgency on her face. “He won’t sleep for much longer.”

“What can I do?” I begged, clutching my head as if I could squeeze out the pain. It was unbearable. “God, it hurts.”

“Nothing,” Bootsy’s voice trembled. “Hoseok wants you, and he’s never lost a game. It doesn’t matter where you go or what you do; he will win. Whatever you’ve been doing has kept you alive this long, but I don’t know how much time you have left.”

Her words hit me like a tidal wave, crashing over me and dragging me under. I had been a pawn in Hoseok’s twisted game, my life manipulated by his cruel whims. What did he want from me? My body? My soul? The realization was suffocating.

“Go to Dauphine and find Taehyung,” Bootsy instructed, her voice carrying a chilling finality despite its almost maternal tone. “He had a soft spot for you back then. If you’re lucky, he might be able to change you, make you like us. That might be enough to satisfy Hoseok.”

Taehyung. The name cut through the fog in my mind like a beacon, easing the throbbing in my head, if only for a moment. He had haunted my dreams, his image vivid: a white button-up shirt, his gentle hands, his voice firm yet tender, saying he didn’t want to share me. He had left me in that bar, but the details were fuzzy—how or why I had ended up there was a blur. All I knew was that I was lost, and he had once been my guide.

She paused, her eyes darkening with a weighty empathy. “You’d be luckier if Taehyung agrees to end your life before the demon does. I wouldn’t wish this half-life on anyone, nor would I be glad to see you die, but those are your choices. I can’t guarantee you’ll make it through this.”

“What happened in ’92?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper, thick with desperation.

Bootsy shook her head, her expression darkening with sorrow. “He killed your friend and tried to lure you away. That's all I know, and I don't have time to explain the rest. The sun’s about to rise, and your demon will be waiting for you to fall asleep. Don’t fight it. Let it happen. If he knows you’re aware of him, he might decide to kill you.”

It felt wrong to just let it happen. What would this mean for me in the end? Would knowing about his influence change anything? I couldn’t be sure, but if I wanted to buy myself time, I had no choice but to take the risk. I needed answers, a plan, anything to regain control.

“Y/N,” Bootsy’s urgent voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. “Your memories won't come back unless he wants them to. Let it go. Either way you'll be dead.”

With those final, haunting words, Bootsy vanished as quickly as she had appeared. The weight of my predicament pressed heavily on my shoulders, my impending doom looming like a dark cloud. I stumbled back to the porch, unlocked the front door, and sought refuge in the sanctuary of my bed. Bootsy’s grim mantra echoed in my mind as I tried to push aside my troubling thoughts about Hoseok, grappling with the uncertainty that lay ahead.

He appeared to me then, in a vision that was both intoxicating and horrifying. His eyes sparkled with a predatory thrill, his touch setting my skin ablaze, igniting waves of pleasure that crashed over me with ruthless intensity. His worship was ceaseless, his lips warm and insistent, as if trying to devour every shred of my resistance. I was swallowed by him, lost in a whirlwind of passion that twisted the love I once felt (at least, I believed I felt) into something darker, more insidious. I missed him. I loved him. I needed him…

Bootsy’s words had struck me like a death knell, sealing my fate in an irreversible descent. She had unwittingly set my downfall into motion, transforming innocent affection into a ravenous lust that consumed every corner of my mind. When I awoke late in the evening, the decision to call off work for the rest of the week came with a grim resignation. The struggle to stay awake was in vain; it was becoming starkly clear how deeply Hoseok’s control had embedded itself within me. The inevitable was no longer a distant threat—it had already begun to unfold, dragging me into its dark embrace.

October 31, 1997

I tugged nervously at my skirt, my fingers trembling despite the cool night air that should have been a relief. The address that had arrived this morning was burned into my mind, glaring at me from the top of the paper—Dauphine, the bar Bootsy had mentioned. My plans were clear: find Bootsy, get directions, speak with this Taehyung, and figure out my options. But the gnawing truth was unavoidable—no matter what I did, it felt like my life was already slipping through my fingers.

Sleep deprivation had become my relentless tormentor. My eyelids felt heavy, weighted down by leaden exhaustion, and my attempts to feign illness to dodge work had morphed into a grim reality. It was a battle to stay awake each day, and I feared that simply making it to this bar would be a Herculean task.

I stared at myself in the mirror, trying to adjust the wig perched precariously on my head. I’d opted for a lazy Halloween costume—a half-hearted Cher from *Clueless*. The yellow plaid blazer was a thrift store find, the skirt a serendipitous discovery. But the wig made me look more like a grotesque caricature than a character. Frustrated, I yanked it off and tossed it onto the floor. I’d have to go without it.

Yawning, I fought the overwhelming urge to collapse back into bed. My cab was on its way, and I had to be ready. I gathered my essentials—purse, house keys, phone, and a spare outfit—preparing for a night that could very well be my last. I steeled myself for the confrontation, even if it felt like a hopeless, losing battle.

My daily struggle with myself had turned into a monotonous grind. My feigned illness had kept Hoseok at a distance, but it had only given me more time to spiral into despair over his influence. My mind was a battleground, where fragments of my past life clashed with the twisted desires he’d implanted in me. Every morning, I awoke to a gnawing need, a desperate craving for him that left me feeling sullied and repulsed.

I stepped outside and drew a shaky breath of the crisp night air. Calling my brother was both a comfort and a torment. There was a chance this could be the last time I spoke to him, and the thought tightened my chest like a vise. I fought back tears as I dialed his number.

“Hello?” Miles answered, his voice warm and familiar.

“Hey,” I forced a cheerful tone, though it felt hollow. “Still out Trick-or-Treating?”

“We just got back,” he said. “Rory wants to talk to you.”

My heart ached at the sound of my niece’s voice. “Hi, Auntie,” she said, her voice sweet as ever. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too, baby,” I sniffled, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Did you have fun?”

“Yeah!” Aurora’s excitement was a bright spot in my darkness. “I was Katerina, mommy was Miss Elaina, and daddy was Daniel Tiger.”

“That sounds amazing,” I wiped away my tears. “What about your baby brother?”

Aurora’s voice took on a scolding tone. “His name is Corbin, Auntie,” she said as though I should have known better. “He’s still in mommy’s belly, so he wasn’t anything. Mommy’s giving him candy.”

I laughed, though it was tinged with sadness. “How’s your mommy?”

“She says ‘Hi,’” Aurora replied. “We got the best candy! A lady was giving out big Starbursts. Daddy’s letting me have all the pink ones because I’m special.”

“You are special, sweet girl.”

A painful thought intruded—would Hoseok make them forget me if I asked him? The idea was almost too agonizing to bear. He’d kept me alive for five years, a perverse form of flattery that I struggled to appreciate. My self-loathing deepened as I thought about the life I was about to leave behind.

“Daddy says I have to go,” Aurora pouted. “Bye, Auntie.”

“Bye, Rory girl,” I choked out, my voice cracking as the tears welled up. “I love you.”

“Love you more,” Aurora’s sweet voice drifted through the line, a beacon of innocence in my storm of dread.

I gasped, the floodgates opening as I fought to keep my composure. “Impossible,” I managed to whisper, my throat tight with sorrow.

“Why?” she giggled, her innocent curiosity slicing through my resolve.

“Because,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, “I love you more than the world.”

Aurora’s laughter began to fade as she handed the phone back to Miles. The sound of her giggles and her mother’s laughter echoed in the background, a cruel reminder of the life I was about to lose. My heart clenched painfully at the thought of never hearing those sounds again.

“What’s up, sissy?” Miles asked, his tone tinged with concern.

“I was just heading out,” I said, forcing a tremulous cheerfulness into my voice. “Thought I’d call before my cab gets here. I’m leaving a little early.”

There was a heavy pause on the other end, a silence that spoke louder than words.

“Everything okay, Y/N? You sound upset.”

“No, no,” I hurried to reassure him, biting my lip to keep from sobbing. “Just tired. You know how it is.”

“You sure?” Miles pressed, his concern palpable. He was always too perceptive for his own good, but he never pushed too hard. I hoped he wouldn’t miss me too much.

“I’m positive, Bubba,” I said, my eyes darting to the cab pulling up to the curb. “My ride’s here. I love you.”

“Love you too, sis. Call me later?”

“I’ll try to remember in the morning,” I said, attempting to sound upbeat despite the crushing weight in my chest. “I know it’s late for you guys.”

I closed my phone with shaking hands and stuffed it into my purse, the weight of my decisions pressing down on me. The cab driver approached, his face a blur through my tears.

“Where to?” he asked, his voice a lifeline in the growing storm of my fear.

“1st and East 54th in the Diamond District,” I replied, offering a weak, strained smile.

“Dauphine?” The driver’s eyes flicked to me in the rearview mirror, a hint of something unsettling in his gaze. “Ever been there before?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, trying to steady my breath. “I don’t remember it all that well. Guess I had too much fun last time.”

“Watch yourself,” the driver said, turning on the radio with a slow, deliberate movement. “That place is crawling with freaks.”

“Welcome to New York,” I muttered, more to myself than him.

He chuckled, his voice a touch too jovial. “Been here my whole life. My name’s Jimin. Call me if you need a getaway driver.”

The car rumbled with the low hum of R&B, Jimin fiddling with the radio as if trying to mask the creeping anxiety that gnawed at my insides. I mouthed the lyrics, trying to drown out the terror that threatened to consume me.

My thoughts were a twisted mess of fear and longing. The image of Hoseok, tainted by his manipulation, flickered through my mind. The desire to escape him was overpowered by the suffocating grip of my own confusion. Taehyung was my last, desperate hope—a fleeting chance at redemption. But deep down, a gnawing realization settled in I was already damned, teetering on the edge with no way back.

The mantra echoed relentlessly in my head: I miss him, love him, and need him…

I was spiraling, caught in a web of my own making, and the thought of facing what awaited me at Dauphine was almost too much to bear.

“We’re here,” Jimin's voice cut through the thick fog of dread that enveloped me.

“Thanks for the ride,” I muttered, my fingers trembling as I fumbled with the cash. I handed him a generous tip, a feeble attempt to cling to some semblance of normalcy.

The alleyway stretched before me, a grim path between the upscale buildings of the Diamond District. It looked less menacing than I’d imagined, but its familiarity offered no comfort. Dim street lamps cast weak pools of light that barely touched the encroaching darkness. I hoped—prayed—that Hoseok wasn’t already here. The fading daylight gave me just enough visibility to navigate, and the murmur of voices outside the bar was a small, shaky comfort. I clung to the hope that these voices belonged to ordinary people, potential witnesses if I needed to make a quick escape.

As I approached, the group of people outside fell silent. My stomach churned violently, and bile rose in my throat, threatening to spill. I couldn’t bring myself to turn and face them; their gaze was almost a physical presence, making my skin crawl even though I never looked directly at them. A low, sinister snicker from one of them sent a shiver down my spine, amplifying my fear. I hadn’t even seen their faces, yet their mere presence was enough to make me quake.

The bouncer at the gate eyed me with a scrutinizing glare.

“Password,” he demanded, his voice flat and unyielding.

“I-” I stammered, my mind racing to recall the password Hoseok had given me. “Audubon.”

The gate creaked open, and I slipped past the security guard, my heart pounding like a drum. Despite my nervous bravado, the bouncer’s indifference did little to soothe me. Once inside, I felt a fleeting sense of relief, escaping the unsettling stares.

I gripped my bag tightly, knuckles white, and started searching for the bar. The interior was starkly underwhelming—plush couches and private booths scattered haphazardly, with red neon signs pointing to the restrooms. The oppressive red and black color scheme was heavy, but thankfully devoid of any overtly horrific scenes. I had no desire for strobe lights or dance floors; the thought of walking into a trap was more than enough to keep me on edge.

Navigating through the dimly lit space, I felt like I was moving through a maze. The long hallway ahead seemed to stretch into an abyss, the darkness intensifying with each step. The oppressive gloom and the eerie silence made my nerves jangle. The jazz music that had been softly playing in the background had faded, leaving me in a disquieting void.

At the end of the hall, the emptiness was almost a relief. The silence was oppressive but meant I wasn’t walking into a room full of hostile eyes. Perhaps this was how I’d met Bootsy—wandering aimlessly until she had found me and guided me out.

The bar seemed to stretch on forever, an architectural labyrinth that added to my growing sense of dread. I held my breath as the walls seemed to close in, my anxiety a tangible weight pressing against my chest. The high ceilings and claustrophobic spaces combined to create a sensation of being trapped. My heels clicked sharply against the linoleum, the sound echoing eerily in the silence. The place felt more like a mausoleum than a bar. Every step heightened my unease, and the hairs on my neck stood on end as I glanced around, trying to ignore the creeping terror that threatened to overwhelm me.

“Hello?” I called out, my voice trembling as it cut through the oppressive silence. “Is anybody here?”

The sudden sound of a voice behind me made me jump, my heart racing as I spun around with a gasp that morphed into a shriek. My balance faltered, and I slammed into the wall, scraping my arm against the rough surface. The sharp sting of pain was immediate and searing. I clutched my injured arm, the pain and the shock making my vision blur. I turned to face the figure who had startled me.

He stood there, his white button-down shirt contrasting sharply with the dim surroundings. His tall, lean frame was framed by broad shoulders, and his long fingers seemed to move with an effortless grace. But it was his smile that made my blood run cold—a wide, boxy grin that stretched unnaturally across his face, his eyes glinting with a mischievous, unsettling light.

“My apologies,” he said, his voice dripping with a smooth, honeyed tone. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I glared at him, struggling to steady my breathing and regain my composure. “It’s fine. It didn’t kill me, did it?”

He chuckled softly; a sound that felt more sinister than soothing. “You’re bleeding,” he said, his gaze dropping to my arm.

I looked down and saw blood seeping through a tear in my blazer. The sight of my own blood was like a cruel reminder of my vulnerability. The pain, combined with the sight of my blood, pushed me to the edge. My hands shook as I raised them to my face, tears welling up uncontrollably. The enormity of my situation crashed down on me like a tidal wave. Everything felt chaotic; my life had been turned upside down, and the relentless pounding in my head was unbearable. I should have stayed home. At least Hoseok’s presence, while twisted, had been a semblance of comfort.

The despair was suffocating.

“Are you okay, sha?” His voice was soft, but his touch on my arm was disconcertingly gentle.

I laughed, a hollow, despairing sound. “Does it look like it?”

“No, you look upset,” he replied, his eyes glinting with an unsettling mixture of sympathy and amusement.

“You don’t say?” I snapped, rolling my eyes and jerking my arm away from his touch.

Despite my evident distress, he remained unnervingly calm, his smile lingering like a dark shadow. His pleasure at my discomfort was unsettling, and the aura around him felt eerily similar to the disquieting presence of those outside. His attractiveness was overshadowed by a deeply disturbing quality that made me want to flee. It was as if fear had paralyzed me, pinning me in place.

Suddenly, a chilling realization hit me. As I forced myself to examine his face more closely, I recognized him from the shadows of my past. He was strikingly beautiful in a haunting way, like Bootsy. His pale skin was almost luminescent, and his eyes, once hidden in the darkness, now revealed flecks of red that seemed to glow with a menacing, otherworldly light. They were mesmerizing yet horrifying, a dangerous allure that made my skin crawl. The spell he cast was broken as quickly as it had begun, and I struggled to look him in the eye again.

“You’re looking for me, aren’t you?” His voice was a silky whisper that seemed to wrap around me, tightening with a sinister intent.

Embarrassed by my earlier outburst, I nodded slowly. My hope of finding help felt increasingly elusive as the night grew darker and more menacing. All I wanted was to escape, but the hope that things might improve clung stubbornly to me. Taehyung exuded a disorienting blend of warmth and menace, a mix of comfort and dread that left me feeling more lost than ever.

“I’m sorry for being snappy,” I said, my voice quivering as I wiped away a tear. “I don’t remember you all that well.” 

Or at all, my mind whispered in the encroaching darkness. The more I looked at him, the more I felt Hoseok’s oppressive influence tugging at my thoughts. Images of Hoseok’s touch, his voice, his eyes—each one flared in my mind with an insidious intensity. He misses you; he loves you, he needs you…

“Requiem was wrong,” Taehyung murmured, his fingers chillingly cold as they cradled my face. “You’re too far gone.”

“Who?” I managed to ask, my voice trembling and my head spinning. His touch was both numbing and intoxicating.

“Bootsy,” he cooed, his breath a mix of cotton and sweet pine needles. “She said you had a chance, but she was mistaken. My friend has already completed the bond.”

“W-what?” I whispered, dazed and confused. The throbbing ache in my head resonated with Taehyung’s presence. “What bond?”

“Maybe not,” he whispered, his proximity making my pulse race.

When his lips met mine, they were like ice, yet the jolt of electricity that surged through me made my knees buckle. His laughter was dark and twisted as he wrapped an arm around my waist, his tongue brushing against my lips. I mewled, clutching his shoulders as the electric sensation overwhelmed me. His groan sent shivers through my entire body, and the echo of Hoseok’s voice in my head was relentless. He misses you, he loves you, he needs you…

Suddenly, I shoved Taehyung away, gasping for air as a searing pain exploded in my head. It felt as if a sledgehammer had struck my temple. My vision swam, and I collapsed to my knees, tears streaming down my face as I sobbed uncontrollably.

“Poor child,” Taehyung crooned, kneeling beside me. His scent, soothing yet oddly comforting, did little to ease the tremors wracking my body. “I’m so sorry, but I cannot help you.”

“I’m going to die,” I sobbed, my voice cracking under the weight of my despair.

“Yes,” he said calmly. “The pain will lessen once you accept it; accept him.”

“What does he want?” I managed to choke out.

“Can’t you see?” Taehyung’s eyes glittered ominously in the dim light. “He believes he’s in love with you. It’s a pity, really. I want nothing more than to keep you, but I can’t risk angering him. He would destroy Requiem for revealing his secrets; she is my most cherished friend. Do you understand?”

Numbly, I nodded. I’m going to die. I miss him. I’m going to die. He loves you. I’m going to die. I need him. I’m going to die. I love him. He needs you. I’m—

“Your eyes look just like his,” Taehyung marveled, his gaze softening. “He’s bound to you in a way I’ve never seen before.”

As I stared at Taehyung, my vision began to blur, and the voices in my head whispered louder in the dark corners of my mind. Their weight pressed down on me, my eyes rolling back until all I could see was a void. When I came to, I was horrified to find vomit splattered across Taehyung’s pristine white shirt. His expression twisted in horror and pain as he watched me unravel.

A dark, malevolent presence loomed near, its acrid stench of soot and kerosene overwhelming my senses. My head throbbed as if it had been cleaved in two, and a grotesque, pecking sensation gnawed at my exposed, vulnerable insides. Taehyung’s icy touch against my rigid form offered little comfort as I lay helpless against his chest, terror seeping in with every passing second.

“There’s my girl!” Hoseok’s voice cut through the haze of despair, and just like that, the pain evaporated.

I exhaled, sinking into Taehyung’s embrace. His body felt like ice against my fevered skin, a chilling contrast that brought an unexpected relief. His cool fingers traced my scalp, their touch a soothing balm amidst the chaos.

“I hope you understand Bootsy’s decision,” Taehyung’s voice was as cold as his touch, carrying a weight of finality. “She thought you were still playing games. But she was wrong.”

A deep, resonant rumble filled the space, and Hoseok’s voice emerged from the darkness like a spectral echo.

“Requiem has every right to her judgment,” Hoseok said, his voice a smooth caress laced with menace. “If it were anyone else, I might not care. But Y/N’s suffering is a consequence of her meddling. I had hoped to keep her alive.”

“Why?” I croaked, the question barely escaping my lips.

“You’re my special girl,” Hoseok purred, his voice dripping with a twisted, cruel fondness. “So innocent, so malleable. You’re perfect.”

A strange calm enveloped me as I lay against Taehyung, the tumult of emotions and pain fading to a low murmur. Hoseok’s presence hung over me like a dark, oppressive cloud, his words a cruel mockery of the comfort I desperately sought.

Taehyung’s fingers moved through my hair with a cold, almost clinical precision. “You’ve been chosen,” he said softly, his voice carrying an unsettling calm. “It’s a rare bond that neither Bootsy nor I can undo. I wish there was something more I could do for you.”

My vision blurred, shadows of past anguish swirling around me. Hoseok’s voice echoed in my mind, a haunting lullaby that twisted my insides. “You’re mine, Y/N. No matter how you struggle, you are woven into my essence.”

The room seemed to constrict, the walls inching inward, shadows elongating and darkening. A biting chill settled over the space, the whispers of the damned intertwining with my deepest fears. I could almost see their forms, spectral and menacing, reaching out from the darkness.

I struggled to my feet, the world spinning dizzily around me. My head throbbed with a relentless ache, my heart pounding like a trapped bird. I stumbled away from Taehyung’s unnervingly composed presence, my eyes darting frantically for any sign of escape or salvation.

“Y/N,” Hoseok’s voice was a dissonant blend of soothing and threatening. “Don’t run from me. You belong here, with me.”

My breath came in ragged gasps, the overwhelming urge to flee battling with a stubborn thread of hope tangled in my despair. My thoughts were a chaotic mess, clinging to the faintest possibility of survival amidst the encroaching darkness.

I turned to Taehyung, my gaze pleading, desperate. “Is there no way out? Is there any hope left?”

Taehyung’s expression softened with a mixture of pity and sorrow. “Try to enjoy your final moments.”

Footsteps echoed ominously down the corridor, each step deliberate and foreboding. My heart leaped as a figure emerged from the gloom. Bootsy. Her presence was both a flicker of reassurance and a shadow of dread.

“I’m sorry,” Bootsy’s voice was a murmur of regret in the darkness.

I looked at her, then back at Taehyung, and finally at the encroaching shadows that seemed to reach out with a ravenous hunger. The weight of the choice, of my impending doom, pressed heavily on my chest, threatening to crush me under its gravity.

With a shuddering breath, I steeled myself. “I can’t let this happen to me,” I said, my voice trembling but resolute. “I don’t want this.”

The room seemed to hold its breath, the darkness thickening. Hoseok’s laughter echoed through the void, a low, mocking sound that sent icy shivers down my spine. “Of course you do. You wouldn’t be writhing on the floor if you didn’t.”

The shadows deepened, the walls closing in as if reality itself was warping to ensnare me. A cold grip tightened around my soul, a force dragging me back into the abyss I had fought so hard to escape. An aching chill settled below my diaphragm, squeezing the breath from my lungs. My head spun again, his voice a soft whisper in the recesses of my mind. I miss you. I love you. I need you…

Don’t leave me.

Taehyung’s expression hardened into one of grim resignation. “You’re already bound to him. The bond is too strong.”

As I fought against the invisible chains tightening around me, the futility of my struggle became all too apparent. The darkness swallowed me whole, dragging me back into the depths I had desperately tried to escape.

“Please,” I whispered into the void, but the darkness consumed my plea. “Please, no.”

Hoseok’s voice filled the void, smooth and victorious. “Welcome home, darling.”

The last glimmers of light vanished, leaving me in an eternal night, a prisoner of my own choices and the dark forces that had ensnared me. My mind fractured under the weight of the consuming darkness, and as the final remnants of my resistance crumbled, I faced the harrowing truth.

There was no salvation. No escape. Only the endless, consuming dark.

And in that darkness, I was utterly, irrevocably alone.

I don’t know how long I’ve been trapped in this suffocating darkness—hours, days, months, or maybe even years. Time has become an abstract concept here, slipping through my grasp like the thin veil of reality that separates me from the void. The only link to the world beyond this prison is Hoseok, a ghostly presence who appears with a gleam in his eyes that chills me to the bone. His voice, carrying the weight of a thousand tortured souls, always asks the same haunting question: How are you feeling?

We were never friends. Each passing day has sharpened my memories into a cruel clarity. I don’t know where my physical body is—doubtful it’s anywhere near this place. The ink and paper I use to write materialize out of nowhere whenever I need them, appearing and disappearing like phantoms in my disturbed mind. This place defies all logic and reason.

Initially, I fought Hoseok with every ounce of my being. Each refusal brought excruciating pain that felt like it would tear me apart. My screams echoed back at me from the oppressive void, unanswered and ignored. Hoseok would slip into the darkness with a silent, predatory grace, his hot hands roaming over my shivering body before I even knew he was there. I would scramble away, howling and begging him to take me home, but he always left without a word.

Eventually, I gave up the fight. I accepted that escape was impossible, even though my soul still ached for my old life. The pain eased only when I surrendered, and Hoseok’s visits grew more frequent. They were filled with idle chatter about his plans for me. I learned he was a demon, and I was destined to become one too. The possession would erase most of who I once was, but when I awoke, we would be forever linked as master and shade. My freedom would only come after I took my first human life, but that day seemed impossibly distant. Hoseok savored every bite of my soul with a mournful delight.

What I felt for Hoseok wasn’t love—it was an obsession, a malignant force that had seeped into every corner of my being. “A natural reaction of a shade to its master,” he said. I was bound to him, and escape was nothing but a cruel illusion.

The first signs of my unraveling appeared when Hoseok vanished for days on end. In the infinite darkness, where time had no meaning, his absence was a torment of its own. Despite his power to bend reality, he chose to leave me here, dependent on his presence for any sign of change. I began talking to myself, my voice the only sound in the oppressive silence. I spoke for hours, my throat raw and hoarse from the effort, desperately trying to fend off the encroaching madness.

I felt like an addict in withdrawal. I don’t recall when hallucinations began, but soon I was conversing with a phantom chorus of voices. Deep down, I knew it was Hoseok orchestrating these illusions, but my fractured mind twisted reality into something I could barely comprehend. My hatred for him only served to cloud my already distorted perception.

As time dragged on, I grew weary. My speech turned into riddles, convinced I was a prophet receiving divine revelations. Raised Catholic, I had long drifted from faith, but the darkness reignited an obsession with God. I clung desperately to fragmented Bible verses. Hoseok, ever the manipulator, provided me with a Bible. If I weren’t so far gone, I might have questioned his uncanny ability to fulfill my twisted needs.

When I told Hoseok about my religious background, he laughed, and the darkness morphed into a cathedral. For the first time, there was something tangible to focus on during his absences. It was both a prison and a gift. The pews were filled with spectral congregants, and every day became Sunday. I feverishly wrote sermons, warning of the apocalypse. Hoseok attended with a devotion bordering on reverence, but he always left too soon.

The withdrawal pangs paralyzed me, but incessant talking kept the crushing loneliness at bay. I remember the first encounter after becoming accustomed to this madness. My body trembled with need, yet my mind remained alert. Each denial of release brought physical agony, and Hoseok’s visits grew more frequent and prolonged. My breakdown was inevitable.

On the day of my final descent, I felt his presence before I saw him. My struggle had reached its nadir. Despite my lingering hope for escape, Hoseok’s presence shattered my resolve. I became an all-too-willing participant in his dark designs. Even now, as I lie prostrate in my despair, I can’t escape the haunting reality of my existence.

The words of the prayer rolled off my tongue like a ghostly murmur in the dim, solemn church. Each syllable was a desperate plea, a sacrament of my crumbling faith:

“Soul of Christ, sanctify me.”

“Body of Christ, save me.”

“Blood of Christ, inebriate me.”

This prayer was a twisted sacrament, a litany of sacred pleas that felt increasingly like cries into the void.

“Water from Christ’s side, wash me.”

“Passion of Christ, strengthen me.”

“O good Jesus, hear me.”

I bowed my head, eyes squeezed shut like a child hiding from monsters under the bed. My hands gripped tightly in a futile attempt to hold onto my sanity. I prayed not just for absolution but for a distraction, for him to stay away, for the sinful thoughts to dissipate like smoke in the sun.

“Y/N,” a voice whispered, spectral and insistent, urging me to rise, to accept, to finally bend to its will.

Reluctantly, I dragged myself to the pulpit, my legs trembling. I focused on the Gospel before me, the rhythm of my breath, the rehearsed words of today’s homily. I could hear murmurs of anticipation swelling in the pews, bouncing off the stone walls like echoes of forgotten promises.

Did they know? Did they sense the darkness creeping into my soul?

To be honest, I was unsure if anyone was really there or if my mind was playing tricks on me. This place had a maddening ability to distort my perception. I steadied myself, nodding to the organ player, offering a fleeting smile to the choir’s children—figments of my fractured mind. Their eyes, hungry for guidance, believed in my wisdom, though I felt utterly unworthy. Their gaze was a reflection of my own inner torment.

My eyes locked on a figure in the front row, right side, five seats in. My breath hitched, caught in my throat, as I beheld him. Jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket—an irreverent defiance slicing through the sanctity of the church. His gaze was a burning, unholy fire that cut through the darkness with unnerving clarity.

In that moment, the last vestiges of my sanity crumbled, leaving me exposed to the consuming darkness that had become my prison.

I steadied myself, nodding to the organ player, and offered a fleeting smile to the choir’s children, who I no longer believed were real. My gaze wandered over the congregation, each face a testament to a faith I felt unworthy of. Their eyes, brimming with expectation, seemed to pierce through me, demanding guidance I could no longer provide. I questioned my own sanity, wondering if anyone in that room could see how profoundly empty I felt.

I once had everything figured out. Before this… before him.

My eyes locked on a single figure in the front row, right side, five seats in. My breath hitched, caught in my throat. There he was: jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket—a casual defiance that sliced through the church’s sanctity like a blade. His legs were crossed, hands poised by his sides, eyes ablaze with a fire that seemed to burn straight through my composure.

No holy book in his hands, no righteous smile on his lips—just an unspoken, rebellious challenge. His presence was a magnetism that pulled me toward a pit of temptation and sin. I forgot my sermon. I forgot the vows and promises etched into my soul. The solemn pledges made to men of faith and to God. Promises I had written daily to stave off the creeping insanity.

Those promises now felt like distant echoes, overshadowed by him. His eyes, his lips, his rebellious aura—an inferno of forbidden heat that ignited a longing I could no longer contain. I closed my eyes, desperately trying to escape the searing image of him. Abs, legs, an all-consuming heat that seemed to draw me into its vortex.

When I opened my eyes again, the fire remained. A cough from the crowd jolted me back to the present. I tugged at my collar, the symbol of my childhood and a cruel gift from Hoseok. It used to offer comfort, a sign of belonging, but now it felt like a noose tightening around my neck.

The faces of the congregation were a sea of silent, unspoken questions. Their eyes bored into me, filled with unvoiced suspicions and judgments.

Shit.

My fingers trembled as I gripped the edges of the pulpit, trying to anchor myself amidst the spiraling chaos. The eyes of the congregation felt like spectral judgments, each one a reminder of my spiraling failure. Hoseok’s presence, fixed in my peripheral vision, was a constant, unsettling pull—a dark promise of chaos just beyond the edge of reason. It pressed heavily on my chest, a suffocating weight threatening to collapse my fragile sanity.

I forced my gaze back to the Gospel, attempting to focus on the familiar lines of scripture, hoping they would restore my fractured resolve. But the words on the page blurred and twisted, tangled in the storm raging inside my head. Each verse felt like wading through molasses, and a bead of sweat trickled down my temple, mingling with the cold sweat already gathering at the base of my neck. I cleared my throat, trying to regain control, but the sound emerged as a strangled rasp.

The whispers grew louder, like rustling wings pressing against the walls of my sanity. My heart pounded like a funeral drum, each beat a reminder of my mounting desperation. I could almost hear the devil’s laughter, mocking my feeble attempts to maintain a façade of righteousness.

Hoseok’s gaze was unwavering, a predator’s gaze that seemed to sear through my composure. His movements were fluid, deliberate—like a hunter preparing to strike. My mind raced, desperately searching for an escape from this hellish vortex. I glanced at the crucifix behind me, its hollow eyes and outstretched arms now a pitifully inadequate shield against the encroaching darkness. The sacred symbol that once offered solace now seemed like a cruel joke, highlighting how far I had strayed from purity.

The murmurs of the congregation grew insistent, a chorus of impatient whispers that echoed like an unholy chant. The church, once a sanctuary, now closed in around me, its weight suffocating. I took a deep breath, summoning the last remnants of my willpower. I forced myself to meet Hoseok’s gaze again, confronting the fiery rebellion in his eyes. He offered no sympathy, only a silent taunt that echoed my own guilt.

With a trembling hand, I reached for the microphone. My voice cracked as I began to speak, the words spilling out in a disjointed stream. I struggled to reclaim my authority, but with each passing moment, my grip on sanity slipped further. The congregation’s expressions shifted from curiosity to concern, then to alarm. Their faith faltered under the weight of my unraveling composure.

Hoseok’s gaze remained fixed, a dark star in a sea of light, drawing me inexorably towards his gravitational pull. My voice faltered, becoming increasingly erratic, reflecting the chaos within. The church fell into a tense silence, broken only by the rustling of the congregation’s uneasy shifting. I felt every eye on me, their silent judgment a palpable force.

My final words came out as a barely coherent murmur, a defeated whisper lost in the oppressive silence. I stumbled away from the pulpit, my mind a tempest of confusion and dread. As I retreated from the glaring scrutiny of the congregation, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was stumbling towards some dark, inevitable reckoning. Hoseok’s gaze followed me, a constant, unsettling presence as I fled the sanctuary.

I collapsed into the shadows behind the altar, my breath coming in ragged gasps that echoed through the oppressive silence of the church. The darkness around me felt like a living entity, wrapping itself around my chest and squeezing, threatening to suffocate me. Hoseok's eyes lingered in my mind, their haunting intensity a constant reminder of the sin and torment that had become my existence. The certainty of my spiraling downfall felt inescapable, and every breath I took seemed to deepen my dread.

The pews had emptied in an instant, leaving the room cloaked in a suffocating silence. My heart pounded as I watched Hoseok move toward me. The man before me was no longer the mortal guise he had once worn; his true form emerged, dark and unnervingly compelling. His eyes, once warm and inviting, now burned with a shadowed hunger that quickened my pulse with a mix of terror and something I couldn’t quite name.

“Y/N.” His voice, soft and reverent, seemed to carry a sacramental weight that sent an icy shiver down my spine. There was a truth hidden in those syllables, a meaning only he understood. As his nearness intensified, confusion and fear danced across my features. His calm, deliberate hand cradled my cheek, the touch both tender and overwhelming. The heat of my skin seemed to beckon to him, an invitation that terrified and enthralled me simultaneously.

"You're so lovely," he whispered, his voice a gentle murmur that barely masked the wild intensity in his eyes. His touch guided me backward with a grace that felt almost otherworldly. The church seemed to dissolve around us, melting away into a space that was unsettlingly familiar—a fragment of my life from New York. The red brick of the two-story house brought a strange, bittersweet comfort, like a fragment of a life I had once known. It calmed my racing heart with its eerie familiarity. He led me to the front door, his touch both comforting and possessive.

The lock yielded effortlessly, and as we crossed the threshold, the gravity of the situation settled like a stone in my stomach. The house, once a sanctuary of normalcy, now felt like a prison, its walls closing in with a menacing intimacy. 

"So perfectly lovely," he murmured again as he closed the door behind us. I stumbled back, my nerves crackling with an unsettling energy. It wasn’t just fear anymore—it was something darker and more confusing. A part of me ached for normalcy, for escape, while another part was drawn to him with a desperate, confusing need. The line between terror and an inexplicable, forbidden desire blurred beyond recognition. I clung to the last shreds of my sanity, even as I felt myself unraveling under the weight of my own conflicted emotions.

"Why are we here?" I asked, my voice trembling with a mix of breathlessness and an unspoken longing. My heart pounded with a confusing blend of fear and desire. It was as if clarity had returned to me for a fleeting moment, yet I was still tethered to the confusion Hoseok had woven into my days. His promises of relief had begun to erode the pain, even as they wrapped around me like a vice. I remembered the dreams he'd planted in my mind, their seductive whispers blurring my sense of reality.

"I thought you might feel more at ease here," he said softly, his tone smooth and soothing as he followed me through the cluttered living room. Each backward step I took seemed to draw him closer, his presence an inescapable shadow. "Do you like it?"

I hesitated, glancing around at the artifacts of my past—family photos, treasured mementos, relics of a life that now felt so distant. The room was a museum of a future slipping away from me, and Hoseok's eyes seemed intent on taking it all. "Yes, I do," I whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. The room, once a sanctuary of normalcy, now felt like a stage for his dark play.

"I'd like a drink," I said, placing a hand over my racing heart. I clung to the pretense of normalcy, desperate to maintain some semblance of control. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I felt a flicker of my old self. "Is there anything here? Surely you would... like one... as well."

Hoseok, having long since discarded any pretense of humanity, closed the distance between us with unsettling swiftness. His movements were almost too fluid, his presence too intense. His hands, warm and steady, framed my face with a possessive grace, his gaze fixed on the pulse in my neck, the rich, inviting blood beneath my skin.

"Oh, Y/N, my sweet, innocent little lamb." His voice, a velvety murmur, sent a shiver down my spine. His touch, trailing down to my neck, felt both magnetic and maddening. His eyes lingered on my flesh with a hunger that was almost palpable, a craving that seemed to consume him as much as it did me.

I trembled in his embrace, my conflicting desires mirrored in his touch. A soft moan escaped my lips, my breath warm and trembling with a heady mix of fear and desire. His smile widened, a predatory glint in his eyes as he encircled my waist, his touch moving possessively lower, tracing the curve of my hips and thighs. The tension between fight and flight heightened the charged atmosphere, leaving me both desperate and disoriented.

His eyes traced the flush of my lips, a reflection of the flush between my legs. The scent of my arousal mingled with my anxious heartbeat, a call to the beast inside him. His senses seemed overwhelmed by the promise of my warmth, the floral sweetness of my skin, and the earthy musk of my desire.

"You don't want... a drink?" I stammered, struggling to grasp the situation, to find a shred of reason amid the chaos of my emotions.

"Oh yes, Y/N. I very much desire a... drink." His smile was amused, his lips hovering just above mine. The taste of his breath, mingling with his tantalizing scent, sparked a deep, primal hunger within me. I was alive with all these unfulfilled needs, caught between an overwhelming desire and a paralyzing fear.

I inhaled shakily, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. "What... would you like?" The question was a desperate plea for clarity, a tenuous grasp at the last vestiges of control in a world that had become a tumultuous blur of lust and dread.

A low laugh rumbled in Hoseok’s throat as he brushed his lips over mine, savoring the teasing trace of my flavor. "I want you, Y/N. I want to drink you." His honesty was laced with a raw, consuming need, a plea that mirrored the chaotic mix of longing and fear surging through me. It was clear he had no intention of letting me escape—not now. His tongue traced the corners of my mouth, and his body pressed against mine, making his heat seep through every layer of fabric that separated us.

I trembled, caught in a storm of conflicting emotions. The scents of my home—the cheap cotton sheets, synthetic pillows, and lingering traces of my perfume—led him with a haunting familiarity. He lifted me effortlessly, carrying me with a purposeful stride, and placed me gently at the foot of my bed. The moonlight offered only a weak shield against the encroaching darkness that seemed to swallow us whole.

My heart raced, feeling like a delicate butterfly trapped in a predatory web. As he dropped his coat to the floor and drew me into a deep kiss, my earlier uncertainty dissolved into a raw, electric need. Each touch of his fingers against my body made me shiver, a mix of anticipation and dread coiling tightly within me.

The bed was unmade, its disarray a silent testament to my disordered state. His scent lingered in the tangled sheets and blankets as he lowered me onto them. My sweat-dampened palms gripped his hair, my fingers exploring the nape of his neck and shoulders. The buttons on his shirt came undone beneath my trembling hands, my desire growing bolder despite the icy grip of fear that clenched at my chest. His groan as his teeth grazed my throat made me arch my hips, pressing closer, driven by a need I couldn't fully understand.

My clothes fell away under his hands, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. His eyes devoured every curve of my body, his gaze as palpable as his touch. His mouth descended on mine, hungry and insatiable, and I was enveloped by him, lost in a swirling tempest of our shared desire. His touch became a language, one that read my body with an intimate knowledge I was helpless to resist.

As he explored my secret places, my soft sighs turned into desperate pleas. His searing touch brought goosebumps to my skin, but I pressed closer, overwhelmed by the pleasure he was giving me. I was caught between wanting more and the creeping dread of losing myself entirely.

"Y/N," he groaned, his voice a dark promise. "I want to consume you." His words were a growl, a warning wrapped in seductive desire.

"Yes, I want you to. Do it. Take me," I panted, clutching at his shirt sleeve. My body spoke louder than words, arching upwards in desperate need. I knew I didn't fully understand what I was asking for, but the awareness was drowned out by the intensity of my longing.

His hands covered my breasts, his fingers finding my nipples. I gasped, pushing closer as his mouth found each tip, his low growl sending shivers through me. My heart raced beneath his lips, the rush of blood whispering of more delights to come. I arched again, my body twisting off the bed, craving more.

His mouth sucked at my nipple, his tongue flicking to heighten my pleasure. His thigh pressed between mine, the fabric of his jeans rasping over my nakedness, igniting a desperate heat. I moaned and bucked against him, my fingers digging into his arms as I convulsed beneath him, reaching the peak of my desire. The exhilaration of the moment was punctuated by the fear that clawed at the edges of my consciousness, a persistent reminder that I was teetering on the brink of something both irresistible and terrifying.

The climax left me gasping, trembling, caught in a whirlwind of confusion and overwhelming need. Each wave of pleasure only heightened my fear, and my body’s reaction seemed to betray my mind's desperate protests. His touch, relentless and insistent, found a rhythm that both seduced and terrified me. I cried out, unable to stop the sounds that escaped my lips, but a part of me wanted to resist.

I tried to pull away, my hand grasping his wrist with a frantic intensity. "What... what are you doing to me…?" My voice was a ragged whisper, trembling with a blend of confusion and fear.

He looked at me with a dark, hungry smile, his eyes alight with a dangerous fire. "Y/N, don’t lie to yourself," he said softly, his fingers curling in ways that made my body shudder. "You’re not overwhelmed. Your body is telling me you want this. You’re close to coming again. I can feel it."

My protests dissolved into incoherent moans as his touch stimulated a spot deep within me. The pleasure was a cruel paradox, blurring the line between ecstasy and dread. I could barely think, my mind clouded by the intensity of his actions.

"No, Hoseok, it’s too much," I whimpered, struggling to catch my breath. "I can’t..."

His mouth moved to mine, his lips teasing, his breath warm against my skin. "You’re a beautiful little liar," he murmured. "It’s not too much. You crave this. You know you do. Beg for it."

The force of his command broke through my haze of desire. "Please, Hoseok...," I gasped, my will crumbling under his dominance. My words felt like a betrayal, but I couldn’t stop myself from begging. "Please, just... take me."

His satisfaction was palpable, a dangerous hunger in his eyes. His touch grew more urgent, driving me to the brink of madness. I was lost in a maelstrom of sensation, my mind screaming to pull away, but my body’s response only seemed to draw him closer.

The moment of his thrust was jarring, a mix of pain and pleasure that overwhelmed me. My body reacted instinctively, my hips rising to meet him even as my mind struggled to grasp the reality of what was happening. The intense pleasure was intermingled with a profound fear, a dread of losing myself completely.

His movements were urgent, almost desperate, as though he were chasing an elusive climax. I was limp in his arms, my breathing ragged, torn between an unbearable desire and an escalating terror.

Despite my growing fear, I clung to him, my hands fumbling for some semblance of control. My kisses were desperate, seeking to anchor myself amidst the chaos. His touch was relentless, and every stroke seemed to heighten the conflict within me.

He pressed closer, his hands exploring with a possessive intensity. My body’s reactions were at odds with my thoughts, creating a tumultuous storm of sensation and fear. My mind raced, grappling with the realization of what was happening, but the pleasure was so consuming that it blurred the line between consent and coercion.

As the moment approached, I felt his breath on my neck, a chilling reminder of the danger that lurked beneath his seductive veneer. The final act was a blur, my fear mingling with an overwhelming rush of sensation.

I was a walking paradox—caught between heaven and hell, life and death, sin and redemption. His presence was a fiery furnace, consuming me with the heat of stolen life he had been deprived of for so long. My body clenched around him, a pulsating rhythm that seemed to drive him to the edge of his sanity. His pleasure was overwhelming, a torrent of sensations that painted the world in a chaotic blaze of colors.

“Hoseok, please…” I whispered, my voice a fragile breath against the overpowering cacophony of sensations. I wasn’t sure if my plea was for him to stop or to continue, a desperate cry from a place deep within me that I couldn’t fully comprehend. My fear was a gnawing presence, clawing at the edges of my desire, but the confusion of what I wanted and what I was willing to accept blurred together.

His eyes were dark with a twisted satisfaction as he sensed the last of my climax and my blood draining from me. The thought of taking me to the brink of death both exhilarated and haunted him. His grip tightened, and with a guttural snarl, he pulled away from my neck, his fangs retracting with a mixture of frustration and reluctant restraint. The rush of his thirst roared inside him, but he forced himself to temper his need.

I was an indulgence he wouldn’t be denied again, a forbidden pleasure he was determined to claim. He gently laid me back on the disheveled sheets, my heartbeat weak and fluttering. He licked the last drops of blood from my skin, his breath ragged and uneven. Each touch was deliberate, sealing the wounds with a final, lingering caress—a practical necessity for a demon who wanted to savor every part of me.

“Mine,” he growled, his voice a low, dark promise that vibrated through my core. “You are mine, Y/N. From now until death claims you, until I claim you.” His breath was warm and heavy against my face. My eyelids fluttered, barely able to focus, but his words penetrated my haze. “If any other man dares to touch you, I will tear him apart. Remember this, my beautiful little lamb. Remember who you belong to.”

“Hoseok,” I murmured, my voice a faint echo of surrender. His satisfaction was palpable, a twisted delight in my obedience and submission. He rose and slipped out of the room, leaving me tangled in sheets and blankets. From across the street, hidden in the shadows, he watched and listened, his gaze a persistent weight on my fragile state.

As dawn’s first light crept through the blinds, it painted the room in a sickly, eerie glow. I lay amidst the tangled sheets, each twist revealing new bruises and bite marks—a grotesque map of the night’s events etched into my skin. The aftermath was a haunting blend of pleasure and torment, an unsettling reminder of what had transpired.

Hoseok’s presence lingered in the room like a shadow that refused to lift. The darkness he brought with him clung to the corners, an inescapable reminder of the nightmare I had just lived through. My mind, once a storm of fear and confusion, now spun in a twisted acceptance—a deranged serenity that felt as liberating as it was unsettling.

The door creaked open like the groan of an old house settling into its own despair. Hoseok reappeared, his eyes still gleaming with that predatory glow, but now softened by an unsettling tenderness. He moved towards me with a deliberate grace, each step imbued with a dark reverence that made my heart pound with a blend of fear and reluctant desire.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice a low, seductive murmur that slithered across the room. “Do you understand now? You are mine, every inch of you.”

I looked up at him, my smile a grotesque reflection of the twisted contentment that had taken root in me. It was not a smile of joy or freedom but a shadowy acknowledgment of a reality I could no longer escape. My old life had withered into obscurity, replaced by the suffocating reality Hoseok had imposed upon me.

“Yes,” I breathed, the word barely escaping my lips. “I belong to you.”

The truth of my submission felt like a heavy, warm blanket, pressing down on me with an oppressive weight. Despite the enormity of what I had given up—my freedom, my chance to reclaim any semblance of my old life—there was an undeniable satisfaction in surrendering wholly to him. The pain and loss had twisted into a perverse form of fulfillment, filling the void in my chest with a dark semblance of love.

Hoseok’s smile widened, a dark curve that spoke of unyielding possession. He reached out, his hand caressing my cheek with a gentleness that clashed violently with the ferocity of his claim. The room seemed to close in around us, the air thick with a palpable tension, as if the very walls bore witness to my surrender.

“You will never leave me,” he murmured, his eyes locked onto mine with an unbreakable determination. “You are mine, forever.��

I nodded, the movement small and almost imperceptible, but it was enough. It was a surrender, a relinquishment of my will to the dark force that was Hoseok. He pulled me into his arms, and I felt my resolve melt away, my body becoming a canvas for his power, intermingling with the strange warmth of our shared connection.

As his darkness enveloped me, I felt a disturbing sense of belonging. In the shadows of the night, under his control, my fears and desires tangled together, creating a new reality that was both terrifying and intoxicating. In that moment, I understood there was no turning back. I was his, bound in body and soul by the twisted threads of fate and desire.

Hoseok’s eyes softened as he pulled me close, his cold skin a stark contrast to the feverish heat of my own body. His embrace was a strange sanctuary, a place where I felt both ensnared and cherished. My mind, once a battleground of conflicting emotions, had slipped into a state of blissful madness. In Hoseok’s dark embrace, I discovered a twisted joy that defied all rational thought.

“I’ve given you everything,” he murmured, his breath cold against my ear. “We are bound now, Y/N. Forever.”

His words were a chilling promise that resonated through the marrow of my bones, a haunting echo that left me trembling uncontrollably. I clung to him, my grip a mix of desperate need and profound terror, as a disturbing form of happiness took root in the darkest corners of my mind. The loss of my old life, the sacrifice of everything I had once held dear, seemed like a fevered dream compared to the unsettling contentment I felt in his arms.

As the first light of dawn filtered into the room, casting long, distorted shadows that twisted and writhed, I looked at Hoseok with a gaze that was both adoring and disturbingly fractured. The vibrant world I had once known had dissolved into a distant memory, replaced by a nightmarish existence defined by the twisted love and passion we shared. My heart swelled with a love so profound it overshadowed any lingering regret, even as my mind spiraled further into chaos.

Hoseok’s final words were a chilling promise wrapped in disturbing tenderness. “Remember, Y/N,” he whispered softly, his voice a ghostly caress in the dim light. “You are mine, in every sense—in your heart, in your mind, and in your soul.”

As the door creaked shut behind him, the morning light seeping in like a reluctant witness, I was left enveloped in the oppressive embrace of the darkness we had forged together. My smile, twisted and unnatural, reflected the bizarre, unsettling happiness I had found in the abyss. I was forever bound to the night, my soul tangled in the shadows of Hoseok’s dark desires.

The room seemed to breathe with the remnants of his presence, each corner cloaked in an oppressive stillness that mirrored the void he had filled within me. The silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the cacophony of fragmented thoughts that raged in my mind. Now, there was only the echo of his words, the haunting promise of a future forever intertwined with his darkness.

I lay there, wrapped in the aftermath of our twisted union, my body marked by the evidence of his possession. Each bruise, each bite mark was a grotesque map of the new life I had been forced into. The pain was now a distant echo, overshadowed by the profound and disturbing contentment that gnawed at my chest—a contentment born of both surrender and madness.

As the minutes ticked by and the morning light grew stronger, I found myself replaying his final words in my mind, my thoughts fracturing with each repetition. “You are mine, in every sense—in your heart, in your mind, and in your soul.” The truth of those words reverberated through me like a haunting mantra, a binding contract signed with my very essence, even as my grip on reality slipped further away.

There was no turning back, no reclaiming the life I had once known. I was irrevocably his, a willing participant in the dark dance we had begun. The thought brought a grotesque smile to my lips, a smile that spoke of a happiness found in the shadows, a contentment born of surrender and madness.

At least, I wanted to believe it was madness alone that made me forget how afraid I was.

October 31, 2024

The house had become an enigmatic beast, its former guise of normalcy utterly transformed. From the street, it looked like any other home—silent and shadowy against the midnight sky. But within its walls, it was something else entirely. The shutters were clamped shut, keeping out any unwelcome glimmers of daylight. The curtains, heavy with dust, obscured the outside world, making everything inside a surreal, dreamlike blur.

Within this labyrinth of darkness, the house seemed like a twisted echo of a familiar nightmare. The air was thick with the mingling scents of old incense and stale dreams, creating a heavy, almost intoxicating atmosphere. Flickering candlelight cast eerie, jittery shadows that danced and twisted, as if mocking my attempts at normalcy. Silence pressed down on me, almost alive in its oppressive weight.

Days blurred into one another, each indistinguishable from the next in a fog of disorientation. Hoseok’s routines had become my own, though I couldn’t quite remember how or when they had taken over. My existence revolved around small tasks—cooking, cleaning, and performing acts of devotion—that had evolved into a kind of ritualistic pattern. It was as though each action was a silent offering to the enigmatic darkness that had enveloped our lives.

When I glanced in the mirror, the person staring back was a ghostly apparition of my former self. My face, serene to the point of being unsettling, bore a look of eerie contentment. I was a wraith, drifting through my days with a confusing mix of dread and satisfaction.

As night fell, the house came alive with an almost palpable energy. Hoseok’s presence was overwhelming, filling the space with his dark, commanding aura. His arrival was always marked by the ritualistic locking of doors, a subtle reminder of his control. The sensations of pleasure and pain that accompanied his touch had become a surreal symphony, a haunting reminder of the path I had chosen.

One particularly cold night, as the moonlight filtered through the grime-covered windows, Hoseok and I stood together, looking out into the void. The world outside was a distant blur, an irrelevant expanse that felt disconnected from my reality. The sky stretched above us, a vast, unyielding black, reflecting the emptiness of my existence. We were bound together by something primal and deep, though its true nature remained elusive.

Time inside these walls seemed to warp and distort. The house, once a symbol of normalcy, had turned into a crypt of our peculiar existence. The outside world had faded into obscurity, replaced by the certainty of Hoseok’s presence. I had found a strange form of happiness in this eternal night, where the terror of the outside world had been replaced by the dark, enveloping comfort of Hoseok’s embrace.

As I settled into my favorite worn leather chair, the house seemed to pulse with anticipation for Hoseok’s return. My knitting supplies were spread around me, with a scarf for Hoseok in progress. I hummed softly, my heart beating with a sense of calm and eager expectancy, as if I were awaiting a beloved dream to resume.

I replayed our last conversation in my mind, Hoseok’s words lingering like a haunting melody. “An old friend is coming for a visit,” he’d said, a hint of mischief in his voice. “She’s good at dealing with werewolves.”

I couldn’t suppress a bubbling laugh, the sound rising unbidden. “Isn’t she the one Namjoon’s obsessed with?”

His kiss on my temple had been darkly tender, sending shivers of pleasure through me. “Clever girl. It will be fun.”

I teased him playfully. “Don’t cause too much trouble.”

His laughter resonated through me, sending a thrill down my spine. “When have I ever been nice, lamb?”

“Nice to me,” I’d replied, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Very, very nice.”

Settling back into the leather chair, the hearth’s flickering light casting long, shifting shadows, I resumed my knitting with a serene focus. Each stitch felt like a small act of devotion, a testament to my growing obsession. I hummed softly, my heart a silent witness to the peace I had found in this twisted, eternal night. The lines between fear and love, sanity and madness, had merged into a strange, intoxicating tapestry that I no longer fully understood.

Hoseok said I was perfect. His praise was a balm to my disoriented soul.

I smiled, pushing away any lingering doubts about my sanity. I was fine. I was perfect.

Pager Codes:

110 307 - Go To Bar

209 - On My Way

08 - OK

420 - You’re in trouble

3011 - Be Careful

221 - Where are you?

419 - I don’t understand

100 - Come Back

© chimcess, 2024. Do not copy or repost without permission.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Just One Reason: Lost

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Lloyd Hansen

masterlist - to be added

Summary: A chance encounter at the sandwich shop doesn’t end how you expect.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The car rolls to a stop. It’s only then that you realise you’re no longer standing in front of your building. You flick your tear-webbed lashes and sniffle. You wipe your swollen and raw nose. The night clears before you as a sleek and modern geometric home stands before you. You lean forward as you cup your forehead. 

“Tootsie roll,” Lloyd startles you as the soft whir of the engine fades. 

You look at him. You’re in shock. At least, you think that’s what this is. Everything feels distant. You’re numb and yet you feel everything at once. It’s like living that dreadful day all over again. 

“How lovely,” your aunt Marguerite admires the silverware, “he always was a collector. He’d want me to have this.” 

“And his coins,” Uncle Carlos adds, “priceless. A keepsake to remember him by.” 

Family you hadn’t heard from in years, family you didn’t know, milled through your father’s home. Your home. They picked it apart like scavengers. They didn’t care about the funeral, not how much it cost, or even that your father was dead. They were only concerned about their bequeathal. 

And your father was always a generous man. He thought of every single one of them and you knew he wouldn’t deny any of them. So you didn’t. They took it all as you watched helplessly. No condolences, no shared memories of the man that was, not even an empathetic embrace. 

You said goodbye alone. You paid for the urn and his cremation and sold the house. You couldn’t afford it alone. You couldn’t bring yourself to keep living there with him haunting the walls. Instead, you took him with you to that apartment and he... 

You snap back to the land of the living. A bright light nearly shines you and you shield your face with your hand. You look down at your boots, the snow melting and weeping onto the mat. Lloyd tugs at the buttons of your coat and you jolt in surprise. 

“Hey, I know it’s been a long night--” 

“He’s gone.” You say coarsely. 

He tilts his head and his brows furrow in confusion, “he? Who?” 

“He’s dead,” you croak and turn away from his grasp. 

You bend over as you cradle your head and sob again. You want to scream. You can’t. You fold and collapse onto the floor. 

You’re scooped up and sat on something firm. Your coat is stripped away, your boots unlaced, and you’re take away from the front door of the strange house. The walls move past you as Lloyd carries you and lays you down on a cloud. 

You roll over and hide your face. If you close your eyes, it can’t be real. You sink into the mattress and your mind. 

“You’ll be okay,” your father rasps as he pats your hand, almost too weak for the simple gesture. “You always were the strongest person I know. Don’t know where it...” 

He didn’t finish the sentence for the rattling cough that overtook his frail body. He was no longer the brutish man who used to bluster in like a storm. He still laughed but it wasn’t that hardy bellow that made you warm inside. It was a rickety noise like the shaking of a stone in a can. 

He left more than that unfinished. He left you undone. He left you.  

He left you. 

He left you. 

You flail onto your back and gasp up at the ceiling. Where are you? You sit up and the world swims in shadows. Only the soft glow of the lamp wards of the shadows in the corners. 

You swallow dryly. Your head throbs, your eyes are half-swollen shut, and your nose is dried out. You’re still there. Why? Why are you still here without him? 

You fall back on the pillows and heave. You have nothing left to cry. You can only shake as you stare at the plaster. 

The lamplight eases with the rise of the sun between the curtains. You wallow in your renewed grief. It never truly went away, just ebbed until the tide came rolling over like a tsunami. Now you are lost to the depths. 

A gentle tap sounds like a thunderous boom. You flinch and tilt your head to see the door as it opens. A blurry figure enters. It isn’t until he’s at the side of the bed that you recognise Lloyd. He sits lightly and touches your shoulder. His hand feels like flames. 

“I called the building. It’s... nothing’s salvageable--” 

“Leave me alone,” you close your eyes and suck back a hiccup. 

“I know, it’s hard. Your whole life was in that apartment, sweetie, but you got me. You’re best friend. Huh? Me and you, we’re going to rebuild it all.” 

“You can’t,” you mutter. 

“Ah, whatever you want, tootsie, I’ll get it for you.” 

“I don’t want... anything,” you hiss. 

“Things are things, baby cakes,” he rubs your arm. “But you still got a friend, don’t ya?” 

“If you hadn’t-- I would’ve been there. I could’ve--” you gulp and shake your head. It doesn’t matter. 

“I’ll take care of ya,” he continues to pet you. “Get you everything you need. You’re gonna need a computer for work, huh? You can set up in here, or another room. Get a nice desk. Oh, you’re gonna need something to wear...” he pinches your sleeve. “Tell me your favourite snacks and I’ll order groceries--” 

You sit up and shove him away. It’s too much. He’s smothering you.  

You remember when you would have begged for someone to help. To just hug you. To just be there to cry with. Now, you just want to be left alone. 

“No, I’ll find somewhere else,” you say. “You don’t have to...” 

It won’t last. He’s nice now but he’ll leave you too. Just like everyone else. If he doesn’t do it himself, the world will take him away. 

“Tootsie roll, you need to relax--” 

“I can’t!” You snap and stand, only to stumble and land on your knees. You pant and heave as you keel over, arms shaking as you hold yourself over the floor. 

“Baby,” he hurries around and lifts you back onto the bed. “Your body’s telling you to stop.” He drags you back and pushes you onto your back, “so stop.” 

[dinogoofymutated]

Happy halloween everybody!!!!

Well, Happy early halloween, that is! I hope everyone is having a good day! As some of you know, I'm choosing to celebrate my 1000 follower celebration in the incoming months!! (well, technically like 1300 right now, I'm a little late 😭) I'm doing something especially special for this event, and I'll be letting all of you guys customise your fics!!

So the way this is going to work will be fairly simple. I will be writing these fics exclusively in the incoming months due to the fact I've been extra short on time lately, Overall, I will be posting four customised x-men fics in the month of October (once every week) Plus a special guest appearance on halloween day!

Sounds good, right? Well, you might be wondering, "Goofy, how in the world are these customisable?" And let me tell you!!! I will be creating seven writing prompts for all of you to choose from! The first three fics will all have two prompts per poll, with the winning prompt being the one used for that fic in particular!

But don't worry if the prompt you voted for doesn't win, it won't be lost to fanfic limbo completely! The fourth fic in october will have four prompts to choose from, the three losers + a brand new prompt! That way each of the losers gets a chance at redemption!

Once a prompt is selected, I will then create another poll to choose what character will be chosen for that fic! Not every character in X-men will be on every single poll, as candidates will be chosen by prompt compatibility. Once a character is selected, there's also a chance I will create a third and final poll choosing what sort of halloweeny character they should be!

These polls will be posted in the weeks leading up to october, with my hope being that I will have them all finished before october actually starts. I'm very excited to do this with Y'all, as I definitely have not done an event like this before!! Y'all better help me stick to it!

(Also, I have most of the characters I plan to put in the polls in the tags, but if you have someone in mind and want them to be considered as a candidate, please reblog, reply, or send me an ask!)

Poll 1: Haunted Mansion vs. Hocus Pocus!

Prompt one: Haunted Mansion

You've recently moved into an old, spooky mansion that your great-aunt left you in her will. It's been uninhabited for years but is strangely well-kept. You're sure you live here alone, but every once in a while you can't shake the feeling of being watched…

Prompt two: Hocus Pocus

You've been working at the Harkness museum of witchery for about six months now. One night after you get off of work, you decide to take a walk through the graveyard across the street to look at the stones. You find a very strange cat stuck in a trap in the process, and let the poor thing out. Turns out, he's not actually a cat at all, but working at a witch museum has its perks, and you find yourself helping the kitty regain it's true form!

Winning selection: Haunted Mansion!

Character poll:

Candidates: Nightcrawler, Quicksilver, Cyclops,

Winning selection: Nightcrawler!

Full fic Here!

Poll 2: Howling vs. Bloody halloween

Prompt Three: Howling

Something has been spotted in the woods behind your house. You don’t believe any of the bullshit all these reporters and wannabe horror vloggers are pushing, all you know is that you really want them off your land. Until you have a personal encounter with this creature, that is. What is the thing that has seemingly moved into your neck of the woods, and does it have anything to do with your new neighbor?

Prompt Four: Bloody Halloween

A bat flies through your window one night, and although you're dreadfully afraid of rabies and scared to touch the little thing, it's in really bad shape and you can't stand by and just let it die. You spend the next few days nursing the little guy back to health, when one day he up and disappears. The next night you go out with your friends, and feel like you keep seeing a familiar pair of eyes in the crowd.

Winning selection: Bloody Halloween!

Character poll:

Candidates: Gambit, Quicksilver.

Winning selection: Gambit!

Full fic here!

Poll 3: Season of the Witch vs. Halloween town!

Prompt Five: Season of the Witch

You’ve always considered the rumors about your family’s witchy and magical past to be fictional, absolute nonsense. Well, you did, until you found yourself accidentally bound to someone who’s more or less your familiar. Neither of you particularly wants this, so you focus on whatever magical skills you managed to inherit on breaking the bond- but is that really what you want?

Prompt Six: Halloweentown

You've won the title of best pumpkin carver for the past five Halloweens, which is a big deal in Halloween town! The Sixth year rolls around, and you're determined to keep your title. Until some dude accidentally smashes your masterpiece mere steps from the festival. You make him swear to you he'd make up for it next year. You've almost forgotten about it when the end of August rolls around, only to find him right at your doorstep.

Winning Selection: Season of the Witch!

Character Poll:

Candidates: Angel, Morph, Quicksilver.

Winning selection: Morph!

Full fic here!

Poll 4: Redemption round

This poll was a chance for the losers to win, and one fresh prompt to round them out

Prompt 8: Practical Magic

You recently found out that your family is cursed for any man you love to die. You’re devastated when you find this out the day after you realize you’re deeply in love, and make it your mission to keep your boyfriend alive. Shenanigans and ridiculous conflicts ensue, and after a very long couple of weeks- He reveals to you that he’s been immortal the whole time.

Winner: Practical Magic!

Character Poll:

Candidates: TBA

[phanfictioncatalogue]

DanAndPhilCrafts 2024 Masterlist

awake and unafraid, asleep or dead? (ao3) - vvuptic

Summary: Phil wants to take it all back. But he can't.

Or, the inner workings of Phil's mind during the filming of Potato Prints.

title: famous last words by my chemical romance

Conversations of Cannibals (ao3) - Anonymous

Summary: Inspired by the new DanAndPhilCRAFTS video - some conversations about cannibalism between Dan and Phil.

creativity is nothing without friendship (ao3) - natigail

Summary: Dan has made Phil a promise and he is eager to prove his devotion. He will carve out Phil's heart and sacrifice him.

But he is also going to make sure that he comes back.

Following canon of DanAndPhilCRAFTS - Slime

do it without hesitation (ao3) - Wraithpinned

Summary: While Phil’s entire adult life was devoted to Him, Dan’s entire adult life was devoted to Phil.

--

Dan grapples with what Phil is asking him to do

euphoric in some strange delight (ao3) - Anonymous

Summary: “Your turn,” says Phil, in a part they’ll have to cut out. “What do you mean?”

Phil hands Dan the blade, silver and sharp and bought in a neat set along with one for bread, one for vegetables, one for fish. Phil wouldn’t know this.

“I don’t want it to be me this time.”

finding beauty in the dissonance (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: Dan ripping out Phil's heart for a santanic ritual sorry this is really short idk how to summarize it lol

Based off of DanAndPhilCRAFTS - Slime

UNEDITED CHAOS

hangman (answer me now) (ao3) - queerofcups

Summary: How did you get used to the haunting?

Hell's Waiting Room (ao3) - dizzy

Summary: Based on the 1733rd danandphilCRAFTS video.

i do not fear bloodshed (if the slayer is you) (ao3) - emsinof

Summary: a poem inspired by the events that took place in the most recent danandphilcrafts video.

Just the Beginning (ao3) - NotAHappyPancake

Summary: Once upon a time, there were these two guys called Dan and Phil, who met on the internet and created this entire world. And now it's time to end it. It's time to start over.

make a pact to each other (got when no one's around) (ao3) - philsbisexuallion (bisexual_lightning)

Summary: There's not much time left. He has to finish what he— no, what they started. That’s why they came to this place.

Never Be Safe in Crafting! (ao3) - antiadvil

Summary: It happened again, but Phil can fix it, because Phil can fix everything. Dan just needs to follow the directions.

ominous (ao3) - TsingaDark

Summary: It starts on a Sunday, of all things. Nothing should start on a Sunday, frankly; it’s the one day where one is allowed to fully relax and lie around the whole day. Sunday is not a day to start new projects or change your life, it’s a day of peace and calm. Therefore, Phil notices much quicker than he usually would have that something is wrong.

Sacrifice (painted in the red from our hearts) (ao3) - Lesbianphan

Summary: "There's no fear in my lover's eyes, only trust in Him. Trust in me. I know what I must do: the ultimate sacrifice for Him. I must give Him what I hold most dear, the one thing I'd never part from. I must hold Philip's heart in my hands and offer Him what my lover willingly gave to me all these years ago.

If I love Him enough, my lover will come back to me. Reborn."

a.k.a the dark and raw 'DanandPhilCRAFTS - Slime' fic I was always meant to write.

surely the second coming is at hand (ao3) - ivylakes

Summary: From darkness they came, and to darkness they must return. And Dan is ready.

Or, a rewrite of the final events in DanAndPhilCRAFTS - Slime, as well as an analysis of Dan's internality during those moments.

That Deathless Death (ao3) - trancelover99

Summary: Date: April 1st, 2024. Time: midnight. Dan and Phil have returned to an abandoned cabin to carry out the one last ritual that will keep this demon away forever. But it comes with a price: Phil's heart and soul. With the right words, Dan can hopefully revive him after Phil's sacrifice, but he has other plans beyond that. Will he succeed?

The Craft Fic (ao3) - doctorhowlter

Summary: Dan is in lounge watching the reactions to DanAndPhilCRAFTS when Phil ask him if he wants to celebrate their April fools joke succes. But Phil's definition of celebrating doesn't seem to be that same as Dan's and things doesn't turn out as planned.

The Heart Fic (ao3) - Anonymous

Summary: Dan let himself fall into a trance, no longer thinking and instead just doing. Dan reached into the wound in Phil’s chest and wrapped his hand around his heart. Phil was already dead, yet the inside of his chest was still warm. Dan swore he could still feel Phil’s heart beat faintly as he began to pull the mass of muscle and blood out of his chest.

Before he had pulled all the way out, Dan paused and then slowly pushed his hand back into the wound. Warm. Wet. Beautiful.

Inspired by DanAndPhilCRAFTS - Slime

The Sacrifice (ao3) - Mysticallykai

Summary: DanandPhilCrafts is back again, with a lot to say and even more to do. We all saw the video, but what happened when the camera wasn't rolling? What was edited out? What if what we all thought was an April Fools prank, was actually very real?

to die by your side (is such a heavenly way to die) (ao3) - Anonymous

Summary: Despite no words being exchanged, they both know how the other is feeling, and that they are alike in their preparedness for what is about to happen. They understand each other so well that they can work in perfect tandem without issue. A connection so uniquely fundamental that it goes beyond communication as it is understood by the rest of the world. Something private, just for them—and soon, for Him.

you believe me like a god (i destroy you like i am) (ao3) - bunnyslipper

Summary: Tears stream down Dan’s face, mingling with the deep crimson of Phil’s blood, and Phil hates him. He hates that he loves him so deeply, enough to forgive him for tearing them apart like this.

[lightsonparkave]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO LIGHTS ON PARK AVE! WE’RE OFFICIALLY FIVE YEARS OLD AS OF AUGUST 22 (this post is a bit late 😅). While the actual anniversary has passed, you can continue the celebrations by submitting a work for the current round (and as always, you can still submit works for previous rounds that have ended!). Round 55 closes on October 31, and you have 18 prompts to choose from. There are no minimum work requirements or limit to how many works you can submit.

Not sure you can finish your work in time? Little messages are great presents too. What has the past year of Lights on Park Ave been like for you? Do you have a favorite prompt or round? A favorite LoPA work? Want to make a rec list of your favorites or wax poetic and show some love for a specific work and/or creator? Go for it. Let the Steve/Tony community know! The LoPA askbox is open or if you want to make your own Tumblr post or tweet, you can mention @lightsonparkave​ or tag #lightsonparkave. Whatever method you choose, I’ll make sure to share your message/post on here and Twitter.

Or maybe you’re not up to making anything this time. In that case, let’s take a walk down memory lane. Here are all 15 Lights on Park Ave works for previous rounds this past year.

ART

Any

Steve and Tony sitting under a blossoming almond tree - @jarvisuanddumetoo

Steve leaping off a building and Tony in his Iron Man suit rising up to catch him - @jarvisuanddumetoo

MCU

"The Mirror Takes Him" - ayapandagirl/Fluffypanda

EDIT

.616

"Before the Fall" - MissionCritical It’s so hard to remember, after years of anger and broken trust, how true their love was, how deep their connection. But it’s just as hard to forget.

"The Haunted" - MissionCritical

FIC

.616

"As If It Might Turn Out This Time" - @citsiurtlanu No matter what Tony does, the world burns. Steve burns. The Watcher offers him a way out. (This is a 616 Iron Age fic.)

AU

"A Knight's Treasure" - Naivelittleprincess/@sunnysideprincess Anthon follows Steven to battle. But the knight is not too happy about the rescue. He would rather have his mate hidden and safe, at least until the birth of their first child.

"An Alternate Tale of a Fall" - felisnocturna When a strange, winged man falls into the sea off the coast of Thera, Stephanos doesn't hesitate to jump in after him. Little does he know that saving Antonis will change more than just his plans for the day.

MCU

"A Comet Before the Ides" - ayapandagirl/Fluffypanda “Don’t go tomorrow.”

"Darling, your grave is right next to mine" - Naivelittleprincess/@sunnysideprincess This time he isn't alone. This time, when the plane goes down, Tony is right there with him, his voice wavering even as he quips about the horrible makings of their coffin.

"Hammering at the Door at 4 a.m." - ayapandagirl/Fluffypanda Past Tony comes to visit

"i give you, as you see, a ready argument" - soliloquent (@soliloquent-stark) “When he was seven, he wrote memento mori on his wrist. It worked; he has never forgotten.” or: Two things Tony cannot shake — his mortality and a secret love for Steve that lingers on, eleven years and counting.

"In Passing" - @nostalgicatsea (also on Tumblr) There is only this, only here and now. It takes Steve eleven years of transience to accept this, eleven years too late.

"Romcom Fantasies" - @starkparade Tony runs into Steve at the airport, and when the hotel Tony booked in Washington DC abruptly cancels his reservation, Steve offers him to stay the night at his place. It sounds like something straight out of Tony's romcom fantasies starring Steve, except Tony is convinced that Steve is in love with someone else.

Two excerpts from an Endgame WIP about Tony recording a message for Steve - @nostalgicatsea The recording started a minute ago, and Tony still hasn't said anything. It occurs to him that he should talk to Steve about this, if not as a—a whatever they are. Then Avenger to Avenger.

[les-gnossiennes-fantomatiques]

Fanfiction Author Interview Game

Thanks for the tag, @wheel-of-fish ! I’ll do my best not to sound silly here, but I am trying to get back in the saddle of writing again and this felt nice to do as encouragement.

How many works do you have on AO3?

A mere seven stories! I am absolutely pretending the FFN account I had twenty years ago does not exist anymore. (It does.)

What's your total AO3 word count?

161, 882

Your top 5 stories by kudos/likes:

The Fly Agaric

Between the Lines

All Imaginable Pangs

Le Phénomène

All That is Solid Melts Into Air (this fic will haunt me until I die.)

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try as much as I can to; I’ve honestly fallen behind this year, since I’ve been on hiatus for medical/mental health issues, but if you see me replying to your comment from a while back in the near future… I am so so sorry, but please know that I am SO deeply appreciative of every single comment that gets left on my stories.

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

Between the Lines! This one is a Leroux-canon insert that happens during the two weeks Christine is trapped in Erik’s house, and within the context of the fic, it ends badly, and within the greater context of the book… well! You know how it ends. It’s funny, because that was the first fan fic I wrote as an adult trying to get back into fandom after 15+ years of pretending I had moved on from it (spoiler: i did not.) and now I cannot bring myself to write dark endings.

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

Most likely Le Phénomène. This was written for fluff week and was a massive excuse to have Leroux E/C have sex during a rainstorm without having to worry too much about the plot lol. What can more i say.

Do you write crossovers?

I have! It’s The Follies! And I’m quite proud of it, but it gets zero hits haha, because it’s a Venn diagram of an already small fandom (Phantom) and an incredibly niche one (my favorite musical, Sunday in the Park with George, which is also set in early 1880s Paris and about a troubled artist/muse affair—which, if you’ve never seen it, GO NOW! The proshot is widely available and it’s life changing.). If you’ve ever wanted to see Erik get drunk with Bernadette Peters, then have I got a story for you.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

For the most part, no. I have had a couple of random people who don’t like what I’ll call “hate sex” blast me for writing Erik and Christine having it because, idk their love is pure or something, but that’s mostly it.

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yes! I don’t know if I write smut for the sake of smut (save for the one fluff piece), but I love writing emotional, atmospheric sex into my stories—sex that deepens how characters relate to each other and who they are as a person; people are allowed to have their own interpretations, but for me, sex is such a massive underpinning of most versions of the story and also a big part of my own life’s journey, and I just find it fascinating to write. I don’t know if people find my writing hot though, because things tend to inevitably get a little weird.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of?

Have you ever had a fic translated?

See above.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not since high school, and most of it was written to troll lol. I think now I’m just too picky and slow and set in my ways for anyone to want to collaborate with me, hahah.

What's your all-time favorite ship?

Erik and Christine forever. It just is what it is, folks. Their dynamic is so specific and strange and fascinating and I will never get tired of exploring it/reading it/drawing it/writing it etc. Every other ship I love is basically just another iteration of them.

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

There’s this Kay!verse horror story (with a happy ending because I’m me) that I started writing; it’s inspired by the myth of La Llorona and takes place during the weekend adult Erik returns to Boscherville to burn his mother’s house down. I really WANT to write it, but I have a story I need to finish first. I also seldom write horror and had to put it on pause because the particular subject matter of this one did not help my mental state lol.

What are your writing strengths?

I feel so silly writing this out about myself, hahah. If I have to say, I am particularly proud of my characterizations, my prose, and the thematic arcs I try to put into every story I write.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Plot. Oh, god. Plot. Like anything that isn’t angsting, fucking, or fighting is SO hard for me to write. (Hint: call everything a “character piece” and you never have to explain why nothing happens in your writing lmao). Looooong ass sentences. I’m incredibly slow at writing, terrible at outlining, and I second guess myself with every sentence. Someone once told me to my face that my fic writing was purple prose and I guess that still haunts me a bit.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

For the most part, I think it’s a bad idea. Unless you have a genuine handle on the other language, I think you’re better off implying that said language is being spoken through other means. It otherwise usually just reads as really cringey to me, like “Woohoo I ran this through google translate”—especially in smut. A couple of words here and there are fine, especially if there is a word that doesn’t have a 1:1 in the primary language, but something about a bunch of Google translate sentences being pasted into the middle of a story takes me out entirely. Just my preference though, especially when it comes to my own writing; I’m not Tolstoy. I’m not Nabokov. I’m not gonna try. Anyway, end tangent.

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

I’d say Pharoga, but my current WIP leans into that ship on and off. I really, really want to writeErik and Meg. One day. Or Raoul/Madame Giry

What's your favorite fic you've written?

It’s really hard to say tbh—the process of writing every one of my stories (including Tubeman Rik) has taught me so much about myself as a writer and person. But it’s a split between The Fly Agaric and All Imaginable Pangs. The former was basically the fic I’d been wanting to read and struggling to write for twenty years, and I put so much of myself and my own life experiences into it that it feels incredible to have finally laid it all out and gotten it on paper, even if I worry that I now have nothing else to say about Christine and Erik, haha. But there is something about All Imaginable Pangs that made it so fun to write—I love the challenge of crafting an OC who makes sense in Erik’s past, I LOOOOOVE thinking about the period of Erik’s life where he was trying to live as normal person, before he was jaded enough to become a mole person, and I love that period of time in art and history. It’s been so fun to sit in that world. I expected no one to read it, because I realize that OCs are a very hard sell in this fandom, but I just wanted to create a POV character who was closer in age to me, who’d been dealt a lot of luxury and a lot of shit thrown her way, who also has gray hair and soft thighs lol. That it has gotten any comments, let alone some of the seriously incredible feedback I’ve received across platforms, surprises and delights me. I can’t say whether or not Augustine is a success in terms of a believable original love interest, let alone person, but I like her enough that I’m (slowly) re-writing the whole story from Erik’s point of view.

Well. That was a lot of chatter. I apologize if any of this comes off as pretentious, but I’ve taken such a long hiatus from writing fic and this was a nice little jab in the arm to finish. I’ve had to take a lot of time away from fandom for health reasons, but I’m doing so much better and (i think) finally getting back in the swing of things. If you’ve ever so much as read one of my fics, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Tagging @box5intern @ladystormcrow @flora-gray @muirin007 @antiquarianne . My apologies if you’ve already been tagged.

[circledotdestroy]

Retrospective - Chapter 3: Square One

Pairing: Shouta Aizawa x F! Pro-Hero! Reader (slow burn)

Main Summary: After 12 years, you, Pro-Hero Strife, has to return to Japan. Your objective: discreetly track down and capture Akari Kaneko, a.k.a. Pro-Hero Aegis— your old classmate who attacked you during her visit in America. In the aftermath of All Might losing his power, however, using UA resources has its complications. The most unexpected complication being Aizawa, someone you never expected to see again. Why does your past have to come back to haunt you now? Masterlist First Chapter Last Chapter Word Count: 6,133

A/N: I'm back before a whole month passed! To celebrate, here's the chapter I spent those weeks revising. If you have any notes on how I did regarding the second portion in particular, I would appreciate it because it changed about 5 times. Anyway, it's A LOT of words so get comfy! I hope you enjoy the fic, and have a wonderful day.

All conflict is announced with lightning. Half your life was lightning rattling inside a box. Spine. Skull. Ribs. Fingers. The electricity, the HEAT craved consumption. All the things you were: fire, lighting, heat, raw energy– they were the visible manifestation of reactivity. 

Pointed gazes of your classmates charged you with the focus of a wall outlet. But you weren’t training right now. Homeroom finished seconds ago. You didn’t do anything–this time. No pre-battle taunts. No staring back. No staring at all, really. Akari missed out on today’s episode of “Strife’s Astute Observational Skills” because you had to pay attention to your homeroom teacher. 

Today was the day. You couldn’t misunderstand or forget a single word he said.

This moment was your career, your life. It was the CRUCIAL event of debuting your early hero career; and the whole world was going to see. 

So why was everyone staring at you? They should be concerned about their own strategy. Akari turned her chair to talk to you before the next class, but stopped to look at the students around the two of you. No one dared to whisper in the intense silence. You wondered if Akari felt the heat radiating through the room like you did. 

The tension got boring. When nothing happened right away, you picked up your bookbag to prepare for the next class. You flipped through the folders until you were interrupted by Akari tapping your desk rapidly for your attention.  Humming in acknowledgement, you grabbed the next folder and sat up. Aizawa was by your desk. You glanced at Akari, who gave you her look that said “I don’t know what’s going on”, then back at Aizawa. He looked down on you with unrivaled intensity. 

Aizawa, the boy with the rare ability to cancel other’s quirks with sight alone–what did he want from you? “I’m going to beat you in the Sports Festival,” he challenged you. It’s strange he felt the need to do that; whether coincidence or by design, he’s usually your opponent during training.

 Quirk-wise, he won the lottery. He was the most annoying person you’ve trained with in class. Not just because the teachers rarely let you go against anyone else. His quirk disregarded the prepwork you did before training to improve your quirk! Maybe YOUR physical training put you ahead of the game, but being paired with Aizawa all the time– and you mean ALL. THE. TIME–does nothing for you. It stalled your progress. It wasn’t fair. Everyone else gets to practice with their quirk, they get to have teachers give them pointers to improve their technique. But guess what? Most of these idiots can't punch correctly!

It’s clear the frustration wasn’t one-sided either. Aizawa never talked about it to you, or anyone in class, but before every challenge your spine sparked, after everything was done, his restless upset lingered. His combat was unpolished. Aizawa can take your strength away, but there’s only so much he can do against someone with years of formal training. 

UA doesn’t include non-quirk-based combat in the curriculum. Observing All Might’s fights told you that much. He relied on his strength and speed instead of any classic fighting style. You should’ve guessed UA didn’t cover brawling, but hey, no one’s perfect. 

Despite what other students have said, Aizawa wasn’t hopeless. In fights, he made plans in a snap and constantly tried new strategies to win. Going against him could be more interesting, if it wasn’t a frequent occurrence. Growing up in the hero industry, you had an eye for finding possibilities. Aizawa was a gem. In a world where anything is possible, he could dictate a fight’s terms. An advantage any agency would, and should, invest in. They’d be idiots if they didn’t.

Now though, he was here. Standing in front of you–with his little death glare. Challenging you to the event the whole grade is competing in by default. There was something about having the quietest boy in class show this much—what was it? His words were direct. He forced everyone’s attention on him and you, so contradictory to his usual self.

“Okay,” you shrugged. It wasn’t like you two weren’t competing for the top spot anyway.

“I’m serious.” 

You nodded, unsure why he was upset. You accepted his challenge, did he not hear you? You repeated yourself, “okay.”

Aizawa stayed at your desk. His bottom lip pushed out. Was he pouting? “Are you listening to me?” 

You shrugged lightly once more and turned your seat his way. “I said "okay ". Did you want something else from me?” An extra surge fizzled through your nerves. Aizawa’s eye twitched. He’s never done that before, you don’t think you’ve had ANYONE do that before. The closest thing was one of your dad’s coworkers–who’d twitch her lip when someone didn’t put the gym equipment away. 

“It’s unbelievable how you think you’re better than everyone. You’ve done nothing to earn it.” 

‘Done nothing?’

You pushed yourself up from your chair. ‘Done NOTHING.’

The hell does he mean “done nothing”?

You’ve gone above and beyond your whole damn life, but you’ve “done nothing”. In a room full of idiots who have NO fighting technique outside their quirk, YOU’RE the one who’d done nothing? 

You scoffed. “I have earned it.” The lightning bolt rattled inside the box looking for how it could run free. Closing the remaining distance, you became aware of how short Aizawa was compared to all the other boys in class. He didn’t move. You leaned closer and squinted at Aizawa’s face. Short and had a baby face to match. It’s like he came straight out of middle school. 

Normally standing this close caused most people to become uncomfortable. They’d look away or step back, but Aizawa didn’t break his gaze. He hasn’t once during this whole time. Didn’t he think you were a threat? The lightning bolt knocked against the box again. Why not nudge it open for a little while? Just enough for the boy in front of you. 

“Aizawa, last year I was accepted in a hero course in America. This year I was accepted into UA. Both times other students only thought about how ‘cool’ their quirk was, but people who only rely on quirks are lazy and become useless in the field. If you don’t learn other things, you’re an idiot.”  After years of training, and practice, and studying. After years of fighting to improve. There was no way in hell idiots should get a gold star because of their quirk. THAT would be doing “nothing”. He of all people should know better.

Staring inky droplets, you waited for his response. In seconds, his eyes widened and started to dart around the room. His breathing became shallow, increasing in speed. This part didn’t happen this quickly, then again, targets usually aren’t face-to-face with you. There was all this room between the desks for him to move away, but he didn’t. Aizawa was petrified.

Something gnawed in your stomach. Telling you it was a mistake, to let it go. Reminding you to not get caught. You shut the lid once more. You’ve scared him enough. Standing upright, you gave him a better chance to speak up. Something to back the big talk from earlier. 

Nothing.

You backed off from him, disappointment and restlessness swirled inside you. “I accepted your challenge. Practice your combat and don’t make us look bad, okay?” 

Aizawa responded in silence. Whatever he had when he first walked up to you was absent. He sulked to his seat, scowling when both your eyes met. You sat in your chair first, watching as he did the same.

The audience grumbled disappointed the show was over. They broke off into their own chatter about the Sports Festival. You looked ahead, rolling your eyes flippantly at Akari. She chuckled as she dug through her book bag in front of you for one of her notebooks. Any conversation had to wait. The next teacher should show up soon.

“Good morning, everyone,” a tired voice announced at the door. You turned from the back of the room, then trailed up, and up, and up the body of a frightfully thin man, slouching with a broken arm. Despite your own physical state, if you didn’t watch where you were walking you could send him flying into a table. He was a neon sign reminding you to stand tall and keep your shoulders back. In the heavy armor you wore, it’ll make you look stronger than you feel. Just like in those old All Might specials you watched when you were younger, “stand tall, keep your chin high, and show confidence.” The man, easily over seven-foot, paused in place, acknowledging you. Your hand rose from your side to wave–but, this was supposed to be a professional meeting. Wouldn’t a head bow be the polite thing to do?

Before you could do so, he spoke. “Hello, are you here for the meeting too?” 

“Yes.”

Mic stepped ahead. “All Might,” your eyes shifted back to the tall man. Crap, that’s All Might? Why is All Might here? “This is my old friend, Miss America, the Queen of Terror, and your Number 1 Fan in middle school–” your head snapped back toward your friend as he rushed that last statement and finished introducing you. “Strife, this is All Might, you know him already.”

All Might continued to smile, extending his unbroken hand for you to shake. You did, not having the heart to say Mic was exaggerating about your fan status. Yeah, you liked All Might, most people do. However, being his “number 1 fan in middle school” meant studying his fights when they came on your radar. Watching interviews to practice your Japanese. Not buying merchandise and knowing every detail about him. The only merch you’ve had for him was maybe two t-shirts gifted to you by one of your instructors growing up. In spite of still liking All Might as an adult, you’ve since come to the conclusion you’d never actually want to meet him in-person. 

“What part of America are you from,” All Might asked in english.

You took your hand back, not expecting him to continue with his own conversation. “I moved around a lot, so almost everywhere?” Switching back to english-mode was easier than stumbling through casual Japanese. All Might must’ve sensed it somehow and decided to save himself the headache.  

“Even in California?”

“Mostly for work, but I know Los Angeles loves you.” If you pulled up the news feed in America, there’d be several articles about LA’s celebration of All Might’s last fight. You couldn’t imagine being in his place– forced into retirement. Reminding him about the love he has back in the States would be a nice gesture, you thought.

“That’s good to know,” he responded. The man standing before you didn’t look like the hero you remembered, but his voice held sincerity. You understand why people were at ease around him.

Y’know, Strife went to school here because of you. She was in the same class as Aizawa and I,” Mic said, also in english 

“Really,” All Might was taken aback. Whether it was because he forgot popular heroes tend to inspire people to go to certain schools or because of Mic’s general behavior, you weren’t too sure. Mic did say you should work here. It’s like he wanted to introduce you to as much staff as possible, including the hero who inspired you to go to a different country, so you’ll be convinced to stay here. ”How’d you like it?”

Memories snapped together in your brain. A blinding window in the principal’s office. Piles of rubble you dug through. A pro chasing you in the woods— Hizashi started to fidget and laugh beside you nervously. Not the best things to remember about your school. You gave the white walls of the room a once over. Black fabric held your attention. ‘Training was fun.’ Eating on the roof was great—when you got over how tall the school building was. Getting your hero license was still one of the best days of your life. Just when you started thinking of the good times, a man–wearing a uniform similar to your old one, came into the room. He did a double-take, his eyes hardened into a glare, his underbite became more pronounced. Eyes burned into your back. When you glanced behind you, Aizawa already looked away. “I learned a lot,” you said making eye contact with All Might.

This guy with the underbite didn’t say a word as he walked behind All Might. He watched you as he lumbered to his chair at the center table of the ‘U’ formation—between Snipe and Aizawa. Aizawa glanced up from the folders to the other man. The man with the underbite nodded to him. Were they colleagues for a long time? Were they friends? 

Shaking the thought, you refreshed your smile toward All Might. It wasn’t a difficult thing to do considering who he is. “It was definitely… an experience,” you chuckled.  

“I’m sure we can talk about specifics during another time,” Mic jumped in. He’d have more stories to share than you would, and he’d relish the opportunity. It was for the best. What you remembered from high school was limited. Since graduation, a lot happened. There was always something. It didn’t help that your memories were typically sinkholes. It was usually up to your conversations with Hizashi and Nemuri to fill in the blanks when it came to your teenage years and some of your early twenties. 

“I’m sure it’ll be fun,” said All Might. He wished you luck in the meeting before he went to his seat at Midnight’s table. With the arrival of underbite guy, the entire roster showed up. The principal walked to the front of the room as Mic shook your shoulder for luck and went to his own seat by Aizawa. Aizawa stacked the folders and pushed them to the edge of his table, closer to the man with the underbite.

Underbite man continued sizing you up.  Aizawa stared you down as well. You widened your stance, daring either of them to speak, but nothing came. The men shifted their attention to their boss.

Pain and hunger paused as the meeting rapidly approached.

 What would Aizawa have in those folders, you wondered. He was reading those in the hallway and he went into the meeting room after the principal. Did Nezu know what was inside? Was it something Aizawa had against you? If you went over there, you could swipe one and see what he has; but it’s too late.

Nezu’s in front of the room. “I want to thank you all for taking the time, early this morning, to have this meeting—” No plan that involved getting close to Aizawa would work now. If you planned ahead, you could’ve done something in the hallway. Aizawa’s attention left Nezu and went to you. Frantically, you darted your eyes to the back corner of the other side of the room. Yes, because that doesn’t look suspicious at all.  “–current events and the changes in the school’s security, I want the decision to be made by you, my most trusted staff.” Aizawa totally noticed you staring at his folder! “I know the six of you will make a fair decision.” 

Like hell this was going to be fair, you thought. Aizawa has a folder with—

‘With what, exactly,’ you questioned. ‘What evidence could Aizawa physically have against you?’ 

Your breathing slowed and the walls of the room collapsed away into void. Hizashi and Nemuri are here. You met All Might and it was ok, in spite of any reservations you had. You were being ridiculous. 

Right?

Any dirt Aizawa had on you would show dirt on his own hands. If he wanted you gone, he’d have to rely on present examples or poke through your arguments. So far he had access to neither. Apart from that, you’ve been to countless meetings.

 “Strife,” Principal Nezu said. 

The walls reformed around you as you acknowledged him. Heat pooled behind your neck as you looked at the people that will decide your luck on the investigation.  “You have the floor.” The principal walked to his seat, by the edge of Nemuri’s table, where a notepad was set. Mic gave you a small thumbs up with the hand that rested by the edge of his table. You nodded, doing a discreet thumbs up of your own with your left hand to your thigh. 

 You grinned politely, making sure to thank the principal for the introduction. Showing you have good manners could sway the faculty by showing you weren’t a horrible dungeon troll. “And thank you all for your time, as well. As said before, I’m Pro-Hero Strife. I’m in Japan for a mission. I understand UA had some challenges in these past months and now is a critical time. With this in mind, I want to do my mission quietly. If you would do the favor of allowing me to do research here, I'd appreciate it greatly.” You made sure to look at everyone in the room, even at the two scowling men.

Aizawa had his arms crossed, unconvinced of the introduction you pulled out of your ass. Because, of course, he’d remember you are a horrible dungeon troll. You’re ready for him to speak out, but his partner took initiative.

“It’d be easier to make a decision if we got more details for your mission.” Underbite guy’s demanding tone almost made you break character. No objections came as to how the guy spoke to you. Of course, he couldn’t be the silent, suspicious type. Someone here had to be the ‘brash’ one, just like your ex-boss from the old agency. 

You continued to smile like you were taught. “That’s fair,” the arrangement looked riskier on their end. They couldn’t accept the agreement blindly. Sharing a few details could win their trust. “I’m looking for someone. A Pro-Hero by the name “Aegis”, her legal name is Kaneko Akari.”

“KANEKO?” You flinched at Mic’s outburst. Eyes bounced to him as the sunglasses hung from his face and his jaw hit the floor. You forgot about how over the top his reactions were in-person. “This meeting’s about HER?” 

Question marks filled the room. Aizawa continued his cold stare. The other guy held skepticism in his features. Particularly in the way he furrowed his brow as shown by the curves on his mask. Now that you really looked at it, an orange mask was such an odd choice for his uniform! His outfit is red, black and white, making the orange way too much. Maybe if he wore a visor instead it would add more variety in the texture and have a practical use—

Poor design choices aside– not preparing Mic ahead of time deducted points from your favor— you had to focus! You didn’t know if the staff knew Mic set this meeting in motion for you. But his reaction says you told him something and didn’t bother with full details. It makes both of you look bad. There’s no spinning this observation without pinning the blame on Mic. You’ll just have to take the hit and see if you can make up for it somewhere else.

“That name sounds familiar, " Midnight commented with slightly furrowed brows. Those words made you ready to jump. If Mic’s shock wasn’t a reflection of what you didn’t tell him, you can correct this misstep. Like if there was information, the type the media hasn’t released yet. “Wasn’t she in your class?” 

Disappointment washed over you. If she wasn’t told anything confidential, then there was no news. You shouldn’t be surprised Midnight didn’t know much about Aegis. In school, Nemuri met Akari once, off the top of your head. They didn’t interact after. After all, Akari was shy, Nemuri was… not.  

“Yeah, she was.” Mic answered as you swallowed your disappointment.  “Aegis has been ranking higher on the popularity polls for the past few years. Unexpected, considering her whole brand revolves around her fights. She doesn’t do much press events or interviews. Other than that, she’s a complete hermit!” Mic swung his arms out, nearly decking Aizawa, and leaned into his chair, making it drift backward. Aizawa scowled at him. “What do you need with that weirdo anyway,” he asked, pulling himself back to the table. 

Unlike when you spoke to him in the hallway, you took a moment to think about what to say exactly. Irritation was weaved throughout his response. Whether he was upset with you, or if he was annoyed at the mention of Akari was unclear. But you knew when this was over, no matter the result, he’d tell you everything.

You staggered for words, but only found broken porcelain and glass. A sickening crack. High pitched shattering then soft thumps of the pieces hitting the ground like rain. The blood oozed from Akari’s mouth as she left you with a cryptic message. One you weren’t sure you translated right when you were actively bleeding onto the carpet. “Kaneko got into trouble while she was in the States. The current charges include: multiple counts of vandalism, aggravated assault, breaking and entering, and arson. I have to find her and bring her back.” You’d never admit this outloud, but you were surprised you remembered how to say all those crimes as well as you did. Meanwhile, the teachers picture-posed like mannequins. Principal Nezu held his pen against the paper for a moment, then scribbled ferociously. 

“Those are serious accusations,” Snipe said. “Are you sure she did all this?”

“Yes.” You strolled over to your briefcase, bracing to pick it up “normally”. Your jaw clenched until your face was in the faculty’s view again. You stood with it by Mic offering a quick “excuse me”. He responded by gesturing ‘go ahead’. Setting the briefcase onto the table, you pulled one of the five disks out, along with a tiny remote, before shutting and shoving it under the table.

 “There are pictures of Aegis entering and leaving the location.” Going back to the center of the room you held the button on the disk. When it blinked blue, you dropped it while pressing the remote’s top button for the hologram to appear. When you pressed the next button, four images of Akari post-fight walking away from the hotel room, labeled and dated, alongside an image of her in uniform taken from a news article. The faculty reacted accordingly. The only exasperation you processed was “it’s really Kaneko” from the table behind you. In the top right picture, Akari held her overnight bag close to her body like she would a shield. Right arm going across to help her carry the weight from the camera’s point of view. 

You pressed the button again to transition to the next set of images. The hotel room. Two beds, one with a busted frame. A shattered window. Glass. Porcelain. Splinters. Splashed all over the floor like water. Then the splatters of dried blood in more places than you remembered.

“This is where the assault took place,” All Might asked in awe of the destruction. 

You confirmed, glass shattering in the back of your mind.

“It’s hard to believe a hero would go to another country to swap sides,” commented Snipe.

“Aegis isn’t being charged as a villain,” you corrected. “There’s no evidence she used her quirk, these are criminal charges.”

“These claims can cost a Pro their career without proper evidence.” Underbite responded. You didn’t like the way he said it. It wasn’t an exasperated comment, made in the shock of a Pro Hero throwing their like away overseas. The way it sounds, and the way he was looking at you as he said it, it sounded like an accusation. 

He didn’t believe you.

“With her rise in popularity, there’ll be an uproar regardless if the charges are made public. Especially now with the current condition of hero society,” All Might’s words drifted off. His hand met his chin. Pondering about the power vacuum his retirement is leaving behind, no doubt. If not, then he’s thinking of the scrutiny UA has been facing due to the villain attacks. Based on what Akari had brought up with that so-called “Hero Killer”, there’s been discourse on the idea of a “true hero” these past couple months. Combining all three concepts together painted an ugly picture explaining why you go to Japan’s Hero Commision. Who knows what they’d do with the current facts of this case if they find out.

“Popularity be damned! A criminal’s a criminal, a crime's a crime,” Mic bursted out. “That’s clearly Aegis, let’s just let Strife investigate here already!”

“It’s not that simple, Mic,” Midnight countered. “Even if there is evidence Aegis committed those crimes, that’s not the topic of the meeting. We need to think of the students before we let any hero investigate on school grounds. Think about it, there’s a reason why we don’t bring our investigations here as teachers.”

“Confidentiality is a big one. At least with the hero-side of our profession,” Snipe added. “On the teacher-side—even if there isn’t a rule against it, having a student see our cases runs the risk of them telling others, making them panic. Strife being here solely for an investigation does the same thing.” He had a point, you wouldn’t be confined to the school’s basement if they let you research here. The investigation required you to come in and out of the building to follow leads. With hundreds of students in the same area, they’re bound to notice you around. “Tensions are high with the students as it is.” 

But you could be careful–

“They’ll know she doesn’t belong here in seconds,” the soon-to-be world's third most grating voice reached your ears. 

Your eyes whipped to Midnight’s side of the room and looked at the wall behind her and Nezu. ‘Deep breaths,’ you told yourself. If you made eye contact with Underbite now, end badly. For you. ‘Deep. Breaths.’ The Principal didn’t look up from his notes, Midnight had her head cocked toward the center table with narrowed eyes. 

“C’mon, Vlad, give her credit! Strife graduated here, she’s a Pro, and she can keep a mission on the DL,” Mic argued coolly. 

“Of course, you would say that. You were in her corner before you knew why she was here. This is a critical time, do we really need anyone bringing more problems around this school?”

‘Breathe in. Breathe out.’

“Alright, let’s calm down,” All Might spoke up. His calm voice relaxed you enough to stop your inner commands. “Who’s to say it’ll cause problems? We don’t know what her investigation looks like yet.” All Might ended his statement looking at you.

You bowed your head ready to grab his gift, this opportunity he gave you, and run. “Outside myself, she had no contact with anyone in the States. On the first day of her disappearance, no one in the agency could find her. One of my coworkers found the postcard she left behind implied she was heading here. She doesn’t have contact with anyone in the States, but me. Japan is different. I need to learn about the people Aegis talks to regularly. Mic said she didn’t do interviews often, meaning I must look deeper. I know UA has records of Alumni, I think those records will be the most helpful.”

“Right.” You roll your eyes, ‘what now,’ you thought. So far, he was a mix between your old boss, the Medic, and your blank-eyed homeroom teacher with the way he’s testing your patience. We’re just going to hand over confidential files because you say so?”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Vlad,”  Mic asked, getting equally annoyed as you. Even Aizawa’s side-eyeing him for being as subtle as a freight train.

“I mean ‘I don’t trust this woman’,” Vlad responded. He gestured toward your direction. “For all we know, this is an old crime scene!”

“What are you talking about,” Mic asked.

Vlad pointed at you. “This woman has no business being around our students!”

“Excuse me,” you said without thinking. 

“Don’t act innocent. I know you have a history of manipulating people,” Vlad argued. He was the one starting problems! You wanted to argue back, but the principal was watching. Holding your tongue you glance around the room. You paused looking at the folders on Aizawa’s table. Aizawa watched you while Vlad accused you. Despite his insistence of knowing why you were here, he hasn’t said a thing since the meeting started. It was Vlad. They nodded to each other when they saw each other– Vlad knew what was inside those folders.

What the hell did Aizawa have on you?

An aggravated sigh left Aizawa. He rolled his chair back toward the wall as Mic and Vlad argued. It was the type of sigh you would let out when a new grad didn’t know a proper fighting stance—one that didn’t get them punched in the face. You clenched your left hand, ready to fight back against anything Aizawa had to say. He looked at the two men. “You need to calm down.” He turned to an irritated Vlad, who was as shocked as you were right now. “This is about the camp incident?” 

Vlad cocked his head at Aizawa— like he was asking the same thing you were. What does the villain attack have to do with this? 

“Our teachers resolved that years ago.” You took a step back. He wasn’t talking about the villain attack. But what did he mean by ‘our teachers’, Vlad wasn’t a student here. “Everyone panicked because a pro hero had unchecked anger issues and shouldn’t have been left alone with the students. The teachers at the time said everyone overreacted because of the heat,” Aizawa explained; he used the same rehearsed story. “It was fifteen years ago, we all moved on.” 

But why?

Vlad squinted at him in disbelief. “And what about the fights?” Red alarm lights went off. No one outside the school was supposed to know about those. Vlad was a student here!

“Fights?” Aizawa’s brows furrowed. He turned to Midnight, who looked down tracing her nail along the table’s surface. Then at Mic, who took to inspecting your briefcase underneath the table for quality.  

“We resolved those as well,” Principal Nezu declared. Tension left your shoulders thinking about the office window. How the setting sun shone through your eyelids as you stared below the desk, picking at a loose string that used to hold a gold button in place. The only memory you have of that day was when he said: ‘This is the last chance I’m giving you, you must make better decisions.’ “Vlad, if you have a relevant point, say it before we move on.”

 Vlad took a deep breath of his own. “I’m sorry for getting worked up, Nezu,” he sat down. You rolled your eyes, noting how he didn’t apologize for his behavior toward you. “I wanted to point this out as a pattern of behavior. Aizawa said the Pro Hero who watched over us had no reason being around students. I’m saying the same thing about Strife.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion, but Strife’s conduct during this meeting has been stellar. She had more patience than even I thought possible.” Nezu’s words made your head spin. You wanted to accept the compliment, but what did he expect you to act like? Did he think you'd punch Vlad in the neck? C’mon, you were a crappy teenager, but you wouldn’t have done that!

Vlad’s face scrunched up. He wanted to argue, but was holding back. Acting hostile toward you, whether it was his intent or not, worked in your favor. If he didn’t want you to stick around, he couldn’t rely on the past. To everyone else, anything you did prior to graduation was a long-rusted hatchet.

Nezu asked if anyone had any other concerns before getting on with the meeting. The teachers looked amongst themselves, a few shaking their heads.

“I do.” Aizawa’s eyes pierced through you expectantly as he leaned closer to the table. The last thing you said to him during your little reunion. You were supposed to tell him why you’re here, and he’s not satisfied. There’s no walking away this time.

He did you a favor, it’s your turn to pay up.

“How did you get this case?”

 “Kaneko visited me at my agency out of nowhere. I was working on a mission with a team when she arrived. She saw the agency was behind, crime has been getting worse these past few months, and she offered her help. The boss approved and she was added on to the mission. When we were done, we went to a hotel and this happened,” you gestured at the holographic images of the disaster zone. “I don’t know why she did this, but I know this wasn’t planned.”

“How,” asked Aizawa, still not pleased.

“She committed her crimes before she got paid. Boss told her she’d get the check the day after the mission finished because the money needed to be decided.” She hit you in the back of your head while you were looking for the commission paper. The mission was difficult. No smart or sane person would do it for free. “I have to find her– if Kaneko committed these crimes on her own, she has to pay.” 

“You have a personal stake in this,” All Might realized.  

You sighed looking at your boots. You knew this would come up. “If I said I didn’t, it’d be a lie. Kaneko showed up, I invited her in, and now I have to fix the problem. Without the history, in my agency I’m the only hero qualified to come here and bring her back. The Boss said my background made me the best option.”

“In the hallway, you said that your investigation should take less than two weeks,” Midnight said, lacing her fingers together on the desk. “During that time, the only students that must be in the school are in the first year hero course.”

“We already said, she can’t go in and out of campus without suspicion. How do you think that’s going to work with the first years after a villain attack,” Vlad asked. Midnight fumed in response, making him back off. 

Before you could respond, Aizawa spoke up. “What he means to say is our classes are training to get their hero licenses soon. They need to focus. If you’re around with no explanation, you’ll be a distraction.”

The cogs turned in their place as you realized who you were speaking to right now. Your smile came back. “That’s right, Mic told me about that!” If all you needed was an explanation… the deal wrote itself. If Aizawa wanted you gone before, you had to give him something to reconsider. “I could help with the exam.”

“Is that so,” asked the Principal.

“I’ve judged sixteen American licensing exams and I’ve mentored younger heroes at my agency. Mic said I was qualified to work here.” Mic agreed enthusiastically, Midnight doubled-down on the notion saying she could verify the information. Most importantly, what you said captured Aizawa’s attention.

“And you have time to do this during your investigation?” Nezu asked. 

“I’ll make time.” Nezu seemed pleased with the answer and he started writing something in his notepad. That’s when you remembered what he said earlier. The principal wasn’t making the final decision. You sauntered closer to the homeroom teachers. “Eraser, we were in the same class. You know I do great work. I’m sure you’re doing fine on your own, but if you let me do my research here, your students will excel in the exams. I’ll make sure of it.”

Aizawa considered your offer. Regardless of whatever you two had, you two will never be friends like you used to. Both of you destroyed that bridge and the foundation withered to dust. It didn’t matter if you two hated each other now or not. You could be professional. You could play nice. Sentiment would never work on him. Eraser Head needed a logical choice.

“Fine with me,” Eraser huffed. 

The grin on your face got bigger. 

Behind you the Principal asks for Vlad’s opinion. “If Aizawa wants Strife as an advisor that’s on him, but I'll stand by what I said earlier. If I’m not around, I don’t want her around my students.” You knew that was coming, but he didn’t matter. Soon after he spoke, the teachers put your investigation’s approval to a vote. When the result was clear Nezu spoke up. “Well then, it looks like Strife’s first day as Provisional License Advisor starts today.”

Taglist:

@lonelyghosts-stuff

[sequinsmile-x]

Waiting Room - Chapter 5

Everything had changed so quickly, her life torn out from under her in a matter of seconds, the trajectory of what it would look like going forward permanently altered. 

Emily's life changes forever when her parents are killed. Aaron just needs a job after his marriage breaks down and he answers an ad for a private security guard. If only the young woman he'd been hired to look after wasn't entirely resistant to his presence.

A Young Hotchniss AU

-x-

Hi friends!!

I think I've said it with every chapter, but I am so blown away by the reaction to this fic!! AU's are always a bit nervewracking because people don't always love them - but I am SO pleased you have all enjoyed this!!

This was a lovely way of marking my 3 year writing anniversary...here's to the next 3!!

Please let me know what you think <3

-x-

Warnings: Full list of warnings on the Master List

Words: 4.7k

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

She almost turns back. 

She fights against every instinct to go back to Aaron knowing that he wouldn’t want her to. She can feel his blood on her hands, the crashing of her past into her present almost too much to bear. 

She blows out a breath, giving herself a moment to calm down, and then she heads down the stairs. In a previous life, before she knew the sharp sting of loss, the confusion of grieving people she never had a good relationship with, she learnt how to get down these very stairs without being detected. She knew which floorboards creaked, and which corners would have indicated to her parents that she was sneaking out.

Now it’s knowledge that might just save her life. 

She’s almost at the front door when she hears a dark chuckle and her blood runs cold. She turns slowly, Aaron’s gun in her hands, and she comes face to face with the man who had haunted her nightmares for years. She clears her throat and raises the gun, pointing it directly at the chest of the man who had been nameless to her this time yesterday. 

“You should leave,” she says, pressing her lips together to cry to stop them from trembling, “The cops will be here soon.”

Ian smiles at her, his grip on his own gun loose, as if he didn’t see her as a threat, “Look at you,” he says, his blue eyes burning into hers, “All grown up.” 

“Leave,” she says, her voice fiercer now, “Or I’ll shoot.”

He smirks as if she hasn’t spoken, “You have your boyfriend to blame for me being here. As soon as the FBI started to look into what happened again I knew I had to tie up the loose ends I left in that alley,” Ian says, looking her up and down in a way that makes her internally shudder in disgust, “I was a little more…careless back then.”

She tightens her hold on the grip of the gun, “Some might say you still are careless,” she says, proud of herself for the fact her voice doesn’t shake, “They know who you are now. They’ll know you’re the one who broke in here.”

Ian chuckles and steps closer to her, “How do you think I found out the FBI was snooping around anyway? I’ve got guys everywhere,” he smirks as he gets even closer, his eyes flicking down to her hands, how her finger lingers over the trigger, “In another life, I think we could have had some fun.” 

She sneers at him, ignoring his comment entirely as he steps towards her again, forcing her backwards, her back against the wall, “Don’t come any closer.” 

He smirks at her, “Oh love, I think we both know you aren’t going to shoot-”

She pulls the trigger as he reaches out to touch her, cutting him off before he can finish. It feels like time slows down as he stumbles backwards, his hands coming up to his chest, blood slipping out from under his fingers as he falls down, his head cracking against the floor as he hits it. She stands there, unable to move, her hands so tightly wrapped around the gun her knuckles are bleach white. She keeps the gun trained on him, her breath unsteady as it forces itself out of her lungs, as she watches his chest go still. 

It felt strange that it was that simple. That her monster, the one she’d seen in every shadow in the last five years, who had changed the trajectory of her life, was gone in an instant. It’s like a transformation in front of her, the way he shifts from a phantom to nothing more than a man. 

“Em.” 

She jumps, torn out of her trance as she turns, the gun still in a tight grip in her hands, and a shuddering breath escapes her as she sees Aaron. He was barely standing, his hand against his side as blood dripped to the floor through his fingers. He’s halfway down the stairs, supporting himself against the wall, every step clearly a struggle. 

“Aaron,” she breathes out, dropping the gun to the floor as she runs over to him, “What are you doing? You’ve lost too much blood.” 

She makes it to his side, slotting herself between his good side and the wall, taking his weight onto her shoulder as she gets him to the bottom of the stairs. She usually loved the weight of him, found it comforting, her favourite way to sleep in recent weeks was half under him, but now it was a hindrance. The almost dead weight of him too much once they no longer have the wall to steady themselves against and they stumble to the floor as soon as they make it to the main foyer. 

“I heard a shot,” he grunts, wincing in pain as she lowers him to the floor, positioning them so he’s in her lap, “I thought…” He doesn’t have to say it, doesn’t have to say what the sound of the bullet had made him think. It had caused a surge of adrenaline, enough to push him onto his feet and seek her out, immediately replaced by relief when he saw her standing there, his gun in her hands. He lifts his head, groaning when he does so, when she presses even harder on his wound, “Is he dead?” 

She nods, “Yes,” she says, smiling tightly at him when he looks back at her, “He’s dead.” 

Aaron chuckles, not feeling the ache he thinks he should when his chest rumbles with it, “You’re a good shot,” he says, reaching up to touch her cheek, pressing his blood onto her skin, leaving behind a fingerprint he thinks might outlast him.

“Well I have a good teacher,” she says, pressing down on his abdomen, “Sorry if this hurts,” she says, relieved when she hears sirens in the distance, “Help is almost here.”

“Doesn’t hurt,” he replies, his eyelashes fluttering in a way that was familiar, a sign that he was falling asleep, and it fills her lungs with terror, her chest tight with pre-emptive grief. 

“You have to stay awake, sweetheart,” she says, the nickname he usually used for her slipping free, “Please stay awake for me.” 

He smiles up at her, “You called me sweetheart, I like it.” 

She chokes out a noise, somewhere between a sob and a laugh, the memory of when he’d first called her sweetheart almost overwhelming. His eyes drift shut again and she shakes him, but he doesn’t wake up. 

“Please, Aaron,” she half sobs, the sirens so close now they were overwhelmingly loud, her words quiet even to her, “I can’t lose you too.” 

___

Tick

The clock on the wall is loud. It’s all she can hear, all she’d allowed herself to hear ever since they’d arrived at the hospital, the only thing she can concentrate on so she doesn’t think about how she could lose Aaron. 

She’d travelled in the ambulance with him. His heart had stopped on the journey, something that had made the tears she’d held back since she’d found him in the hallway finally break free. 

Tock

He was in surgery, he had been for a couple of hours already. The police had spoken to her in the waiting room she was currently sitting in, had asked her questions she’d already forgotten and told her they’d be back in touch. She did know that she couldn’t go home tonight. The house was a crime scene, the body of the man who had killed her parents lying just inside the front door. The body of the man she’d killed. 

She killed someone. 

Tick 

She looks at her hands, washed clean and bright red from where she’d scrubbed them in the mirrorless accessible bathroom a kind nurse had led her into. She clenches her fists, digging her nails into her palms to try to and feel anything other than Aaron’s blood on her hands. 

He had to live. She couldn’t lose him. 

She’d survived her parent’s murders. She’d got through it, waded through the complex emotions and grief that had come with it, and recently she’d started to live again. To enjoy her life, to consider her future. And she knew that was because of Aaron. From the start, he’d helped bring her back to herself. He helped her feel safe and gave her the tools to protect herself - something that may have ended up saving both of their lives. 

Part of her hated that she’d met Aaron the way she had, that if she hadn’t lost her mother and father she likely wouldn’t have met him. A cruel twist of fate that she wasn’t even sure she believed in. Now she wasn’t sure how she’d live without him, how she’d survive his loss if he didn’t make it. 

He had to live, because somehow she’d fallen in love with him and she needed him to know that. 

Tock

“Emily?” 

She looks up from where her eyes had been fixed on the ground, her breath catching in her chest as her eyes meet Dave’s. She’d called him about 20 minutes ago, no longer able to stand being alone, and whilst she didn’t remember what she said to him the panicked look on his face lets her know it had spooked him. 

They hadn’t spoken since the argument almost a month ago, and it was the longest they’d gone without talking since her parents died. She can tell he isn’t sure what to do, a tension in his shoulders that she hadn’t seen before and she sighs, forcing a tight smile on her face. 

“Hi,” she chokes out, her voice not sounding like her own. 

“Are you hurt?” He asks, finally sitting next to her, his eyebrows furrowed together. She shakes her head, screwing her hands together in her lap, her cuticles torn to pieces. 

“No,” she shakes her head and sees how he looks down at the pjyamas she was still wearing, the dark patches of what was obviously blood standing out like a grim pattern, “It’s not my…it’s Aaron’s. He was shot.” 

Dave reaches over and squeezes her shoulder, his smile soft, and reassuring. A little too close to the way he looked at her on the day she buried her parents, “What happened?” 

She blows out a breath, her ribs aching as it escapes, “Ian Doyle, the man who killed Mom and Dad, he broke into the house. He and Aaron had some kind of altercation, the gunshot woke me up,” she wipes a tear from her cheek, “I found Aaron and then he gave me his gun, told me to go. I came across Doyle and…he came at me and I shot him,” she looks at Dave, her eyes wide as they meet his, “I killed him.” 

Dave pulls her into a hug, something she gratefully returns, “What about Aaron?” 

She sighs as she pulls back and she shrugs, “He’s alive and in surgery,” she says, pressing her lips together, “I…I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him.” It’s only after she’s said it she realises it’s the first time she’s spoken about her relationship with Aaron to Dave without shouting at him. She sighs again, guilt briefly overtaking her anxiety, “I’m sorry for what I said.” 

He smiles softly at her and pulls back, reaching into his pocket to take out his handkerchief, gently wiping her cheek, “You don’t have to apologise. I overreacted, and you’re not wrong,” he says, pulling his handkerchief away, a flash of blood on it, Aaron’s blood that had stained her cheek, enough to make her shudder, “I’m not your father,” he smiles wryly, “No matter how much I like to think I am sometimes.” 

She smiles softly at him, “Well, sometimes I like to think you are too.” 

It was something she’d wished more than once when she was young. Dave had always been more patient with her than her parents had been, more aware of the fact that she was a kid and would act as such. 

They fall into a brief silence and he reaches out for her hand, squeezing it gently, “Does he make you happy?” 

She nods, not having to think about it, “Yeah,” she says, laughing humourlessly, “He really does.” 

“Then that’s all that matters,” Dave says, a wry smile on his face, “Just promise me something.” 

She raises her eyebrow at him, “What?” 

“When you marry him, make sure you invite me.” 

She chokes out a laugh, something that feels out of place given the circumstances, and she shakes her head, “You didn’t even want me seeing him and now you’re marrying me off to him?” 

He shrugs, “I knew from the start there was something between you.” 

She rolls her eyes, “Oh that is such bullsh-”

“Is anyone here for Aaron Hotchner?” 

Emily freezes at the doctor's voice and she turns to look at him, swallowing thickly as she tries, and fails to find her voice. 

“We’re here for him,” Dave says, squeezing her hand before he stands up, “How did the surgery go?” 

“He made it through surgery,” the doctor says, a soft smile on his face and the relief is palpable, almost making Emily trip over as she stands up, “You can go see him if you’d like, one at a time though.” 

She nods as Dave encourages her forward, his hand on her shoulder as she turns to look at him, “I think we both know it’s you he’ll want to see when he wakes up,” he says, smiling softly at her, “I’ll wait here.”

“Thank you,” she says, smiling at him once more before she lets the doctor lead her out of the waiting room. 

She follows him down a hallway, trying but failing to listen to everything he was saying, her mind focused on nothing but seeing Aaron again and the relief that he’d made it. When she walks into his room a nurse is checking his vitals, a blonde woman with a kind smile who introduces herself as JJ before she leaves them alone, letting Emily know she would just be right outside if she needed anything. 

Emily walks over and sits in the chair next to Aaron’s bed, and she blows out a slow breath as she looks him over. He almost looked like he was sleeping, the usual slack expression on his face that she’d seen so many times before, but he was pale, the bags under his eyes pronounced by the pallor of his skin, and it makes her ache. She reaches out for his hand and jumps at the cool touch of it, something she knew was due to blood loss. He was usually so warm, her own personal furnace, and she cups his hand between both of hers, hoping that she can somehow press her warmth into his skin, that she could do for him what he’d done for her countless times. 

She isn’t sure how long she sits there intently watching his face, looking for any slight change, any flicker, that would indicate he was waking up, when she spots his lashes twitch. She stands up, one of her hands leaving his as she runs her knuckles down his cheek, her touch soft as she hopes to pull him back into consciousness. 

“Aaron,” she says quietly, her eyes searching for another sign he is awake, smiling when his eyes start to open, a relieved sob catching in her chest when his eyes meet hers, “Hi.” 

He blinks a few times, his vision blurry until she comes into focus, her smile the first thing he sees. 

“Hi.” He says. His voice is rough and she reaches for the small cup of water on the side table without prompting, offering him the straw so he can take a sip, the tepid drink soothing on his throat. “How are you?” He asks as she places the cup back down and she chuckles, shaking her head at him. 

“You’re the one who was shot,” she says, wrapping her hand around his again, tears pressing at the back of her eyes when he weakly squeezes back, “I’m fine.” 

“You shot someone, Em,” he replies, gently encouraging her to sit on the edge of his bed, “I know what that costs a person.” 

She sighs and she reaches out to run her fingers through his hair pushing it from his forehead, “I think I’m still in shock,” she says honestly, her lips pressed together as she shakes her head, “I can’t believe after all this time he’s just...gone. No longer a threat. I’m sorry you got hurt.”

He frowns at her, “It’s my job,” he says, and she raises an eyebrow at him, “Not like that. Well…not just like that,” he adds, the medication in his system and the pain making it difficult to make sense of his thoughts, “I love you. You’re supposed to protect the people you love.” 

She presses her lips together in a failed attempt to hide her smile, his casual confession washing over her, unfurling the last of the tension in her chest, “I love you too,” she says, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips, “And I’ll say it again when you wake up in the morning and can’t remember this.” 

He frowns, not quite understanding what she means and he groans as he shifts in bed, pain radiating up his side, “We might have to get in touch with Dave and tell him I’ll be out of action for a while.”

“No need,” Dave says from the doorway, a smirk on his face when Emily turns around that lets her know he’s heard more than she would have liked him to.

Emily narrows her eyes at him, “I thought the doctor said only one visitor at a time.” 

He shrugs, walks in and takes a seat, “I charmed that lovely young nurse outside.” 

“You mean you annoyed her into letting you in here.” 

“Anyway,” he says, acting as if Emily hadn’t spoken, addressing Aaron as he leans in closer, “There isn’t a threat anymore, so your services are no longer required.”

Emily rolls her eyes, “Dave-”

“Are you firing me?” Aaron asks, tilting his head at the older man whose smirk only gets more mischievous. 

“Yes.”

“Well, you can’t fire me,” Aaron says, “Because I quit,” he smiles when Emily turns to look at him, a curious look on her face, “Once I’m better I’m taking my girlfriend to Paris.” 

She smiles and squeezes his hand, the thought of going somewhere with him, of being anywhere other than the house that had never really been a home, overwhelming. “I think I’d like that.” 

___

Two Years Later

“God I hate flying.” 

Aaron smirks as Emily yawns and leans further into his side, the luggage carousel seemingly intent on never pulling their suitcases around. He leans in to kiss her cheek, smiling when she turns at the last second, the kiss landing on her lips instead. 

“I know, sweetheart,” he says, kissing her once more before he pulls back, “You’ve said that approximately every five minutes since we left Paris 9 hours ago.” 

She narrows her eyes at him playfully, “You’re the one who asked me to marry you,” she says, smiling as she looks down at her left hand, the engagement ring he’d placed there just a few months ago shining in the bright lights of the airport, “That means you have to put up with my complaining for the rest of our lives.”

He smiles and kisses her again, fiercer this time, pulling back only when she moans, the sound reminding him that they are in a very public place. His smile gets wider as she chases him, her eyes still closed. 

“It’s my honour to do so,” he says, kissing her forehead when she pouts at him slightly. He looks over her shoulder and spots their cases finally coming around the corner, “I’ll grab the cases, you wait here.” 

She does as he’s asked, knowing from experience that if she tried to help he’d simply glare at her. He liked to look after her and, as much as she sometimes hated herself for it, she liked to let him sometimes. 

They’d been in Paris ever since they’d left the US when Aaron was told he was fit to fly after the shooting. Emily hadn’t felt comfortable in the house anymore, any comfort she had once found there gone because of what had happened there. She swore sometimes she could still hear the gunshots echoing the hallways, or see where Aaron’s blood had stained the floor even though it had long since been cleaned up. She’d see the spot where she’d killed Ian and almost hear his laugh, a sound she knew she’d never escape. 

Paris had been their refuge, a place she’d always loved as a kid, a place that held some of her happier memories with her parents. It was nice to see it afresh through Aaron’s eyes, to take him to places he’d only ever read about in French class, to see the beauty that she’d once thought was lost forever because he saw it. It made sense to not move back to the US, at least not for now, and they were only back for a visit. 

Because of a promise she’d made in a hospital waiting room, when she wasn’t even sure Aaron was going to survive. 

“Ready?” 

She looks up and smiles at Aaron, nodding as she adjusts her hold on her purse, “Ready.” 

___

She looks herself up and down in the mirror, turning to check her profile and the back of the dress. It was simple, or at least more simple than any dress she’d ever imagined she’d wear at her wedding. It was white and off the shoulder, an a-line dress made of satin that ended at her knee. She’d curled her hair so it rested over her shoulders, contrasting nicely with the colour of the dress. 

She leans in closer to the mirror to check her make-up and hears a slight knock on the door, “Come in.” 

She hears a gasp behind her and smiles as she turns, not missing the glassy look in Dave’s eyes. 

“Bella, you look…well, bella,” he smiles, walking over and pulling her into a hug, “Thank you for coming back to do this,” he says as he pulls back to look at her, his hands still on her shoulders, “I know flying internationally it goes against wanting to keep it short and sweet.” 

She chuckles, “Well you are our only guest,” she says, pressing her lips together to stop them from trembling, her emotions catching up with her, “And I did promise.” 

He nods and leans forward, stamping a kiss on her cheek, "Your mother would be proud of you," he says, squeezing her shoulders.

She exchanges a tight smile with him and shakes her head. "No she wouldn't be," she says laughing, "She'd be furious I was getting married in city hall," her smile turns wistful, "I'd have agreed to a big ceremony just to shut her up, and then dealt with months and months of conversations about 'chicken vs salmon' and 'peonies vs calla lilies," she presses her lips together, "The only thing I wouldn't have given in on would be the dress."

"And the groom," Dave says, smiling at her knowingly, and she chuckles, the sound wet as it catches in her throat.

"Yeah," she says, her lower lip trembling slightly, love for the man getting ready just down the hall blooming in her chest, "And the groom," she wipes a stray tear from her cheek, "I miss them," she says, blowing out a steady breath, "Is that ridiculous?"

"Of course not, Bella," he says, pulling her in for a hug, "No matter what, they were still your parents."

“Yeah, they were,” she says, hugging him back, resting her cheek on his jacket, “And so are you.” 

He holds her even tighter for a moment, “Promise me something?” 

“Still working on the last promise I made you,” she says, smiling softly at him as she pulls back from the hug, “But it depends on what you want.”

“I’m too young to be a grandfather,” he quips, taking delight in the way her eyes go wide, the way her mouth falls open, “But if you do decide to one day, please move back here and do it. I hate flying.” 

She chuckles and shakes her head at him, “I’ll see what we can do, Dave.” 

There’s another knock at the door and she smiles at Dave before she calls out, knowing it could only be one person, “Come in, honey.” 

Aaron walks in, adjusting the cufflinks she’d bought him for the day, “We should get going…” he drifts off as he looks up, his eyes fixed on her, “You look beautiful.”

She walks over and kisses him, straightening his tie as she does so, “You look pretty damn good yourself.” 

“Okay kids,” Dave says, breaking the moment and walking over, a hand on each of their shoulders, “Before you get too lost in how much you love each other, let's go get you married.” 

Aaron nods and looks at his fiancee, reaching out to squeeze her hand, “Let's go get married.” 

___

The clerk at the check-in desk is enthusiastic, to say the least, when she takes their paperwork from them, filing it next to a series of troll figures on her desk, her smile wide and as bright as her pink-framed glasses, as she tells them congratulations and directs them to a waiting room just outside of the judge's chambers. 

Emily and Aaron sit next to each other, their hands linked on her lap, and Dave purposely sits apart from them, giving them space he knows they need. Emily sighs as she rests her cheek on Aaron’s shoulder and he turns to press a kiss to her forehead. 

“Are you okay, sweetheart?”

She hums as she tilts her head to look up at him, “More than okay,” she says, smiling reassuringly at him, “I just…” she drifts off, unsure how to put it into words, how to explain that every event like this was marked by the fact her parents couldn’t be here. 

“You’re thinking about your mom and dad,” he says softly, squeezing her hand, and she nods, grateful that he knows her so well. 

“It’s weird,” she says, biting the inside of her cheek, “If I hadn’t lost them like I did, I wouldn’t have met you, and that feels…” she shakes her head at the thought of it, “I don’t like to think about that, but it makes me feel awful at the same time. Like I’m grateful for them being gone because it brought me you.”

He knows there's nothing he can say, that no matter how much he wants to he can’t take this pain away from her. He leans in and stamps a kiss on her lips, a gentle thing that’s barely there. 

“It’s okay to be happy, Em,” he says, a mantra they’d had ever since they’d got together, “And, I like to think in every universe we would have found each other somehow.” 

She smiles at the thought of it, love and joy spreading through her chest, making it ache in a way that she never wanted to live without, “I could have worked for you at the FBI.”

He makes a show of fake shuddering at the thought, “God, you would have been a nightmare,” he says, fighting a smile as she scoffs, “You would have gone against my orders all the time.” 

She narrows her eyes at him, “You would have loved it.”

He nods, “I would have,” he says, kissing her softly, “I love you.”

She rests her forehead against his, “I love you too.” 

“Applicants Prentiss and Hotchner?” 

Emily pulls back and smiles at her fiance, the man who will be her husband in a matter of minutes, and he squeezes her hand. 

“Ready?” He asks and she nods, her heart hammering in her chest, nervous excitement thrumming under her skin. 

“I’ve never been more ready for anything.” 

-x-

Tag List:

@ssa-sparks, @lukeclvez, @lyds102, @glockleveledatyourcrotch, @hotchnissenthusiast, @danadeservesadrink, @ssamorganhotchner, @emilyprentissisgod, @notagentprentiss, @freesiasandfics, @emilyshotchniss, @thecharmingart, @paulitalblond, @hancydrewfan, @camille093, @whitecrossgirl, @moonlight-2-6, @rawr-jess, @florenceremingtonthethird, @jareauswife, @ms-black-a, @beebeelank, @aubreyprc, @zipzapboingg, @psychopath-at-heart, @criminalmindsgonewrong, @fionaloover, @kinqslcys, @prentissinred, @ccmattis-22, @denvivale317, @thrindis, @hotchsguccitie, @cmfouatslota77, @alexblakegf, @aliensausrex, @prentissxhotch, @emobabeyy, @victoiregranger, @stormyweatherth, @wanderingdreamer009, @ssablackbird, @luhwithah, @lex13cm, @prentiss-theorem, @dont-emily-me, @mrs-ssa-hotch, @jocyycreation, @itsmytimetoodream, @hotchnissgroupie, @controversialpooh, @capsshinyshield, @canuck-eh

Join my tag list here!

[andorerso]

A YEAR IN FICS - 2022

time for one of my favorite New Year’s tradition: taking stock of all the fics I wrote this past year!

Operation Midnight Kiss: Jyn has a plan for New Year's Eve but an eager new recruit complicates things... (1/1)

i’ll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife: Holy shit. She fucked a hitman. Released from prison after three years, Jyn Erso is just trying to pick up the broken pieces of her life. But the man who catches her eye might not be exactly who he says he is. (1/1) Good Behavior AU. technically written in 2021 but I didn’t post it until later, so now I have to file this under 2022 which annoys me a bit because it skewed my word count for both 2021 and 2022.... but it is what it is

The Replacement Cass: Jyn has a new boyfriend which would be fine... if not for his name. (1/1)

touching the sun: After Jyn and Cassian escape Scarif, they're in limbo. Neither of them really know how to be close to each other. But when Jyn notices a strange bond developing between them that she can't explain, it forces them to acknowledge their true feelings... OR, the AU that's not quite soulmates, not quite not soulmates (2/2) Written for the Rebelcaptain Big Bang project, only second chapter was written in 2022.

Blood Red Rose: 1920, London. An unknown creature dubbed 'the Beast' is terrorizing the streets at night. Vampire hunter Jyn Erso and recently turned vampire Cassian Andor might just be the city's only hope to catch the monster... (22/26) chapters 18-22 written in 2022

home we’ll go: Cassian Andor only comes back to Ferrix for two things: to get Maarva and Bee, and to say goodbye to the people he cares about. Neither goes the way he expects it to. AU for episode 7: what if Jyn had grown up on Ferrix? (1/1)

Amas Veritas: Jyn's a young witch who's just trying to keep her head down. But when Orson Krennic returns to town years after he allegedly killed her father, she can't help feeling like this is her chance to get some payback. What's supposed to be a harmless hex quickly turns deadly, and Jyn must now make sure no one ever finds out what she did or risk going to prison. But the pull she feels towards Cassian Andor, the private investigator the Krennics have hired complicates matters, and it doesn't help that she's sworn off love years ago due to a nasty love curse that sits upon her family. On top of it all, Krennic's ghost might be haunting her... This Halloween is shaping up to be the worst one Jyn's ever had. (5/7) Practical Magic AU

fighting dragons with you: Jyn is injured during a dragon fight, and Cassian is not happy about it. (1/1) Written for the Rebelcaptain Trees exchange

a wolf at heart: She kinda wished she could take him home with her. Jyn, the wolf-tamer. How cool would that be? OR, Jyn's a college student with a crush but Cassian has some secrets (1/2) Written for the Rebelcaptain Secret Santa exchange

always, someday: Sleep… He wants to sleep so badly, but if he does, it means he’s failed. They promised him they’d let him rest if he just gave them the answers they wanted. But that’s not a price he can pay. He can’t betray the rebellion, he can’t give up their secrets, their names, their locations, their weaknesses, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t — He can’t say anything. And he can’t sleep. They won’t let him. (1/1)  Written for the Rogue One Crew exchange

Prompts, requests and drabbles:

I’ve made so many mistakes, but you’re not one of them

I need you to help me reach the top shelf

you’re worth any fight

can you give me a ride?

the lights don’t shine as bright when you’re not here

firefighters AU

single parent & teacher AU

Total works: 17 (15 new ones)

Total wordcount: 104 087

And I outdid myself again this year! I don’t think I’ll be able to replicate it again this year with my new job, but my writing goal for 2023 is to finally finish Blood Red Rose. wish me luck!

[camels-pen]

unethical medicals

Summary:

Over time, Danny learns things about his parents.

None of them are very pleasant.

based on @echoghost1's prompt "Danny has finally revealed himself to his parents and they took it well! Or at least they did at first, now things are…" and @dekalko-mania's prompt "We have a lot of identity reveal fics- how about a post reveal one? What are the consequences (positive or negative or quirky) of danny revealing his identity (accidentally or not) to either his parents, Valerie, or anyone of your choice"

Ao3 Link

“Hold still, Danny.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said with a sigh.

His mom made a sympathetic face. “I’m sorry dear, but check ups are important.”

He resisted the urge to cross his arms. He did pout though.

His dad laughed as he squeezed the bulb of the blood pressure cuff. “Oh, it’s not that bad, Danno! You know your Uncle Daisy?” 

Danny squinted. “...maaaaybe?”

“Well, I guess that’s fair. The last time he came around was before you were even 4!” He mumbled a number to Mom and she wrote it down. “Anyway, he was in and out of the hospital all the time! The poor guy went so often that all the doctors and nurses knew him at first sight! Even kept up with how his school was going and everything.” He sighed. “Those hospital staff were good to him.”

“Oh…” Danny said. “Sorry, dad.”

“Hm?”

“For, y’know, your loss.”

“Loss?” Dad laughed. “No no, Uncle Daisy’s just fine! He’s just been living up in Iceland!” He rubbed a hand on his chin. “Maybe we should go visit one day. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him.”

“Maybe,” Mom said, grimacing. She would, if Dad really wanted to go, but he knew his mom loved the warmer temperatures better. “How about we finish this up and get dinner, huh?” Masterful distraction, Mom. He’d give her a secret thumbs up if his arm didn’t feel all tingly.

Mom gestured him down from the table and he hopped off, taking off the blood pressure cuff. 

---

Their parents were fighting again. Arguing back and forth about Santa, like they always did on Christmas. 

Jazz did her best to make things fun and take care of her younger sibling—to distract from all the ridiculousness and general danger going on around them—but it wasn’t hard to figure out that their mom and dad cared more about being right than their own kids. 

His name was [REDACTED] Fenton, he was 8 years old, and he decided he hated Christmas.

---

“Another check up?” Danny whined.

“You were lagging in your flight speeds today kiddo,” Dad said, an unusually somber and concerned look on his face. “We just wanna make sure you’re not getting sick or anything.”

Oh, that. Actually sort of made sense. He nodded. “Okay, but I think it’d be better if I went to Frostbite’s—”

“Oh, nonsense, hun.” Mom pulled out a thermometer from one of the drawers built into the side of the table. “We’re right here and while we’ve learned to trust your yeti friend, this is just easier.”

“But if it’s a ghost illness—Mmph!” Mom stuck it in his mouth while he was talking. He grumbled around it, but obediently kept it under his tongue. 

“If anything we find is outside the acceptable range of good health, we’ll take you to the FarFrozen ourselves.” Dad brightened up, sitting straight up on his stool with a wide grin. “And I will be driving. We don’t want a repeat of last time, dear.” Dad slumped.

Danny mumbled, “Fine.” Settled in to wait for the janky thermometer—that his parents always insisted on him using now because of some dumb shit like how it’s “already ecto-contaminated” and he’d “probably melt through the regular ones if they tried”. 

He trusted they were telling the truth. Didn’t mean he had to like it though.

---

Ghosts. 

His parents’ need to be right and prove themselves had led to them trying to build a portal to a world of ghosts. They loved to visit haunted spots all across the state while leaving him and Jazz behind, but now they were here all the time. It was strange, though he sort of liked it.

They had to grab some special metal thing though, and they were going to leave again, for much longer than their previous trips. Months, they had said.

He and Jazz could hardly handle a few weeks on their own. And the nice neighbours who had been helping would get tired of them eventually. And… he’d miss his mom and dad. He didn’t want them to leave, he wanted—needed to keep them here. 

So, against Jazz’s warnings, he told them. Stood proud and all of 4 feet tall and said that he was a he.

They were surprised. Shocked. And then they were picking him up and holding him close and saying they were so happy he would trust them with that, even asking about names and giving their own suggestions. Said they loved him and would continue to love him no matter what. That they would always be there for him.

A few moments later, they were out the door.

His name was [REDACTED] (Daniel?) Fenton, he was 10 years old, and he decided his parents were liars.

---

“Again?”

“At least it’s not a full checkup this time,” Mom placated. “Just slipped my mind to grab some blood last time.” She held up a small needle. “It’ll just be enough to fill a quarter of this. Promise.”

Danny kinda hated needles, but—

He squinted. “I get ice cream for dinner?”

“You get ice cream after dinner.”

Ha! Mission success. “I guess I can agree to that.” Couldn’t let her know he was too happy with the outcome or she might catch on.

Danny sat on the table, sticking his arm out. Mom got the rubber band thing and put it around his arm. She poked at his elbow with her finger, squinting and looking at it at different angles. 

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“A few of the lightbulbs on the ceiling got dimmer the other day,” she said. “Your father’s out getting replacements right now, but right now it’s making this quite difficult.”

She poked at his arm a bit harder. Ow. “Can I just lay down if it’s gonna take a while?”

“Sure, sweetie. That might even help, if I get the overhead light on.”

Nice. Good. Great, even. Because the less time he spent anticipating the needle, the better.

“Where is that darned switch?” Mom grumbled to herself. “Ah, here it is.”

A light came on in his peripheral vision before being moved right above him. He winced at the harsh light. 

There was a great big flash and everything—everything just—

“There we go.” He felt her place a finger on one spot. “Sorry, Danny. It’ll just be a few moments.”

He mentally shook himself, moving his hands to grasp tightly above his stomach. “Yeah, go ahead, Mom.”

It would only be for a few moments. Mom had said a quarter of that needle, right?

It would be fine.

See? He barely even felt the poke at his elbow. Any second it’d be done.

Any second.

Any—

“Mom?” he whispered.

“Yes, sweetie?”

“I thought you only needed a quarter? This feels like more than that.”

“Hold on.” He felt the needle leave his elbow and his mom put a cotton ball to it. She taped down the cotton ball and there was the light turned off soon after with a soft click. 

Danny rubbed his eyes and continued to blink the white spots out of it right up until his mom tapped his shoulder. “See?” she said. “Just a quarter.”

In her hand was, in fact, the needle—though he didn’t remember it looking so big. He had to carefully look away from the sharp part, but all in all, she was right. It looked more like a third than a quarter, but nothing terrible enough to swindle more desserts out of her.

---

Jazz’s birthday was coming up. He wanted to get her something special.

He asked his mom for money and a ride to the mall. She said to ask dad. Dad said to ask her.

He waited until they were both in the lab one summer morning and asked them both at the same time. There were a lot of “not now”s and “maybe later”s, but he put his foot down. 

He asked, clearly and loudly, if they had bought anything for her yet. They didn’t answer him.

Each of them handed him a 10 dollar bill and told him to get something nice for her. They went back to their work without another word or even a goodbye.

That was fine. He didn’t need a ride. He was a big boy, he could go and walk there himself.

So he did.

The heat was sweltering on the way there and worse on the way back—he saw black spots at one point and barely remembered how he got home—but he’d succeeded. He’d bought a beginner’s psychology book that Jazz had been raving and lamenting about for months whenever she and Danny went out to buy new clothes. 

He wasted no time making a card and shoving it and the book in an empty cardboard box he grabbed from the garage, hiding it in the back of his closet.

Time passed. Her birthday arrived. 

His parents asked to go first, presenting a neatly wrapped gift before the birthday girl.

She opened it. In it was the exact book Danny bought her, except it was hardcover instead of paperback.

She looked surprised and so so happy. She jumped up and hugged their parents. 

He mechanically set down his own gift, noting the poor wrapping job looking worse than before—with a line of duct tape along the top that he didn’t remember putting there.

Jazz liked the card. Looked confused at the book. Mentioned it would be nice to have two different copies instead of one.

Later, he asked his parents why they copied him. Why they didn’t ask for help instead.

His dad laughed. Joked about his imagination running away with things. 

His mom patted his head. Said it was the thought that counted.

His name was Daniel “Danny” Fenton, he was 12 years old, and he decided to never ask his parents for anything ever again.

---

“When did you even get here?!” Danny shouted, dodging past Technus’ electrical blast. “We’re in Elmerton!”

“You know us, Danno! We go where we’re needed!” his dad said, aiming a bazooka right at him. Danny paled. Then his dad pouted as his mom snatched the weapon from him and aimed it at Technus. “Aww, you never let me shoot anymore.”

“No offense dear, but you need to practice at the firing range again. It’s been too long since you’ve gone.” She shot at Technus and the ghost hastily pulled a bunch of electrical appliances through a store window, creating a shield.

“What? Who are you—gah! And why are you shooting at me?!” Technus used his electricity to make a giant hand above his shield and point at Danny. “I thought all you ghost hunters hated him the most!”

“As if we could hate our—!”

“Jack,” Maddie hissed, elbowing him in the gut. The murmurs of people hiding nearby echoed down the street, quiet yet loud. Danny hadn’t even noticed there was anyone still around and by the way his dad started to look nervous, he wasn’t the only one.

“Our, uh,”—Jack scratched his head—“town… hero?” It sounded like it physically strained him to say those last two words, but then he lit up. “Yeah! We’ve just recently been made aware that Phantom’s an upstanding ghost and we’re here to support him!”

“Upstanding?” Technus wrinkled his nose. “You give the ghost child too much credit. I heard he went to prison once. And on Halloween two years ago—”

“Technus, Hey!” Danny yelled, hastily cutting him off. “Don’t you have some kind of ‘take over the radio tower to control everyone’s radios so you can make sure only your favourite songs are playing’ plot to start scheming on?”

“Hey, that’s a great idea!” Technus grinned. “You really should be a teacher!”

Danny groaned, ignoring his parents’ inquiries about a ghost who caused mischief based on the first thing people shouted at him. He usually didn’t try and guess at Technus’ schemes for this exact reason—or, at least, not within his earshot—but the pressure to keep the ghost from blabbing about his past… mishaps to his parents made him panic and slip up.

Though, honestly? He was thankful he didn’t say anything worse. Or on a grander scale.

And, all in all, he and his parents worked together pretty well: his mom shot directly at Technus to keep him on the defensive and get him angry by not giving him any time to monologue; his dad used the Jack o' Nine Tails to grab and toss away any appliances that got too close to him and Mom; and Danny waited in the wings, invisible and looping around Technus in circles with the Thermos in hand, waiting for an opportunity.

Then, all at once, Technus erupted, sending his shield of appliances outwards and knocking his parents back. “I, TECHNUS, MASTER OF ALL TECHNOLOGY, HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR ANNOYING MINIONS!” Bundles upon bundles of wires came out of his coat, racing towards his mom and dad. “YOU DO NOT DESERVE YOUR STINGING INVENTIONS! I WILL—”

Technus was cut off as the Thermos’ beam hit his back. He screamed as he was sucked in, cursing his parents with something about bricked computers for life, whatever that meant. Danny capped the thermos shortly after the light dissipated and shook it a bit just for recompense. 

He relaxed now that the ghost was caught, but then he felt a blast of heat shoot past his side. He cursed, whirling around to find the source, but the only ones around were his parents, the bazooka’s muzzle smoking slightly in his dad’s arms.

His mom waved him down with a sheepish look. “Sorry, your father insisted on shooting a couple shots and you know how he can be.”

“And it was totally worth it!” Danny crossed his arms, glaring at him as he floated to the ground. His dad let out a nervous chuckle. “I mean, I do regret hitting you, kiddo.”

His mom tapped his shoulder, staring at his side with a furrowed brow. “Oh dear, you’re hurt.” Danny looked down. His suit was slightly singed. “We’ll need to do a checkup, just in case.”

“A checkup?” Danny groaned. “Seriously?”

His mom gave a sympathetic smile and he hung his head, groaning again.

---

He had had enough. 

Ghost attacks were running him ragged, as per usual, but Dash had been suspended from the football team for some reason and had been beating him up worse than usual, there was a pop quiz in History at one point that he quite certainly failed, and to put the cherry on the shit cake, he was finally starting to go through puberty. 

And it was extremely cruel.

If that weren’t enough, he’d found himself near desperate to stay in ghost form as long as possible.

Over time, he’d learned that in ghost form, he looked exactly how he wanted. Sure, he’d love some more hair on his chest, but that was something he could wait to happen. Because in his ghost form he knew it would happen, eventually.

School was always out of the question and, when he thought about it, so was the house; it was armed to the teeth—his parents were armed to the teeth—he couldn’t just stay in ghost form the whole time at home. 

The sound of his parents’ vitriol and gunshots, on a night he finally was free of ghostly disturbances—on a night he had to himself to fly through the sky and just be—was the last straw.

It was one thing after another after another and he couldn’t take it any more! He needed to tell them.

He knew they would accept him. Saw that after the whole thing with the Reality Gauntlet. Hell, he even saw it for a bit during that fiasco with—him, while his friends and family were stuck to that vat of Nasty Burger sauce.

So, he sat them down. Told them. Tried his best not to break down crying thinking about everything that happened during the past week to lead him to confessing. To lead him to choose to put his trust in them again, like he did when he was little.

And just like back then, just like with Freakshow—with him—they accepted him, apologized to him, worried about him. Said they understood why he would hide it. Said they were so grateful that he had survived his accident, regardless of what he became.

Just like back then, they said they loved him with all their heart and would do what they could not to break his trust—to try and make up for the past.

And they did, somewhat. They stopped shooting at him, gave him back up during ghost attacks. Praised him more in a short few months than he thought he’d ever been praised in his entire life. 

Heck, the initial stretch of time after his reveal had him laughing and smiling more than ever—comfortable in his own skin in such a momentous way he didn’t think he would feel a second time. And the ability to be himself, while looking like himself, with the continued help from his parents to try figuring out a more long-term solution for school, so he didn’t always have to be in ghost form to feel right—so he could be Fenton or Phantom whenever he wanted. 

It was amazing. 

It was more than he’d hoped for.

So, of course, it wasn’t meant to last.

Over time, their biases—their hatred and flawed science—would sink its hooks in again and reel them back, as if all of the hard fought progress they had made in an effort to better understand him had never happened. 

And over time, the only difference in their words became that he was “one of the good ones”.

It was meant to be a compliment. It didn’t feel like it.

His name was Danny (not Dan) Fenton, he was 16 years old, and he decided his parents would never change.

---

“You don’t think it’s weird?” Danny asked again. “Like, at all?”

Tucker shrugged. “They’re your parents,” he said simply.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sam groaned. “Have you met your parents? They were over the top protective of you way before you told them the truth.”

“And when we were little too,” Tucker said. Sam raised an eyebrow and he nodded. “Oh yeah, I’d even say they were worse when we were in elementary school.”

Danny grimaced. “Okay, yes, alright. You might have a point there, but!” He leaned forward, dropped his voice to a whisper, and said, “You don’t think it’s weird?” 

Sam rolled her eyes. “Danny, of course we think your parents are fucking weird. It’s just that it’s not a concerning kind of weird.”

“Oh, c’mon!” Danny threw his hands in the air. “I’ve watched enough sitcoms about doctors to know something’s up here!”

Sam and Tucker laughed at him.

“Seriously!”

The next thing he knew he was waking up on the familiar cold metal table he usually had his checkups on. 

He shifted slightly and groaned, a throbbing pain piercing through his head. His eyes fluttered up, squinting against the harsh overhead light with a hiss. He turned his head to the side, staring at the lab fridge… or rather, the inside of it, littered with dozens of vials of blood he never remembered giving. His parents gave frequent checkups, sure, but they weren’t that frequent, he didn’t always have a blood test, and they hadn’t started checkups at any time before this year. It didn’t make any sense.

A wall of orange slid into view and he mumbled, “Dad?” He thought he heard his dad mention he was waking up to someone and then a flash of blue passed by. “Mom?”

“Hey there, Danno,” his dad said softly, cupping his cheek. “You gave us quite a scare today.”

He made a questioning noise and his mom’s voice drifted up from somewhere at his feet. “There was an explosion at the park and you were directly at the centre of it.”

The park? Wasn’t he going there with—

A spike of fear ran through him. “Sam? Tucker?”

“They’re fine,” she said, popping up with something in her hands that he couldn’t quite make out. “Ran away as soon as they saw the danger coming. Unlike someone.” The reproach in her tone made him want to shrink into himself. He could hardly move without the pain in his head returning at full force, but there was an attempt.

Though, something about what she said didn’t sound right. He couldn’t imagine his friends leaving him to fight alone unless they left to get backup or better equipment, both of which would only be necessary for ghosts on par or stronger than Plasmius. “They’re really okay?” he asked, a bit of skepticism in his voice.

His dad laughed and patted his cheek before withdrawing. “‘Course they are, son, we made sure of it. Even offered them a ride home after we knew you’d be okay—though they were both really loud and insistent on not wanting to bother us, no matter how much your mother and I assured them it’d be no trouble.” 

Danny sighed, relieved. So they must have come over while he was out cold. His parents wouldn’t just let them leave injured and his friends wouldn’t hide who attacked Danny from them without sticking around to tell him after he woke up. He must’ve done something stupid like forget his intangibility and take one of Skulker’s missiles to the face or something.

“Thanks a bunch, but do you have anything to help with my headache? My head’s killing—” Danny tried to push himself up, throwing caution to the wind in favour of grabbing some snacks and heading up to pass out on his bed, but he was met with resistance.

When he looked down, noting a similar resistance at his neck, he saw—saw cuffs around his wrists, ankles, and chest. Anti-ghost cuffs. “Why—?” He wanted to ask—he wanted to, he did, but he felt an answer creeping up in the back of his head, and the question died on his tongue.

“Oh! Of course, sweetie.” Maddie scrambled back to the counter next to the open fridge, shutting the door with her foot while searching through the drawers for something. She returned with something small and filled with a bubbling purple liquid. When she twisted the cap off of it, it was odourless, but something about it—something about this made him want to get far far away from it. 

She brought it closer. “Here you go. It should get rid of your headache lickety split!”

Another spike of fear went through him and Danny thought back to Tucker’s words.

“Okay, how about this,” Tucker had said. “Whenever I have to go to the hospital, or even just to our family doctor’s office, my parents and I have a rule.”

“Aww Mads,”—his dad held up Danny’s head, his neck pressing up against what he assumed was another restraint—“no one says lickety split anymore! It’s ‘quick as a quill’ now!”

“Oh really? And where did you hear that from?” She put the bottle to Danny’s lips.

“If things get too much, I’ll just straight up say it if I can.”

“Wait—” Danny tried, but choked on the restraint the moment he spoke.

“From Vladdy!” his dad said happily. “He told me all about it the other day when I visited him!” 

“Stop—!” Danny pleaded, louder. 

His mom started to tilt the bottle up.

“And if I can’t, I tap out a simple pattern on one of their hands, or I find some other way to tell them, and they let me take a break or reschedule for another day if we can.”

He tried to jerk his head to the side, tried to purse his lips, but his dad held him still with a sharp, “Now son, it might not taste the best, but we know what we’re doing here.”

He made a noise of disagreement, squirming on the table and pulling harshly at the restraints on his wrists. 

Maybe they’d had enough of his struggling or maybe they were starting to get concerned for him. Regardless, in the next moment his dad used his free hand to squeeze the sides of his face hard enough until Danny was forced to open his mouth. His mom put the bottle to his lips and he was left with no choice but to drink it or drown.

It was the work of a few agonizingly slow and fear-ridden moments for the bottle of vaguely grape flavoured liquid to be emptied. 

“We’re only trying to make you better, hun.” His mom turned off the overhead light. Kissed his forehead. Left.

“We’ll let you rest, kiddo.” His dad flicked a switch on the side of the table. Patted his shoulder. Left.

Danny laid there on the table. 

Restraints open. 

Free to move. 

Uninjured.

“With your parents, I’m pretty sure the second it seems like you’re tapping out, they’ll bundle you up with enough blankets to suffocate you,” Sam had said with a smirk.

Danny curled up into a ball, turned invisible, and shook with silent tears.

---

It would be the work of a few weeks, maybe less, to convince his teachers that online schooling would work better for him. It would be even faster if Jazz vouched for him and his “preferred learning methods”.

He had ghost powers, too. He could just disappear into the night with no one the wiser. Grab a bag of things. Fly out the door. Find some place new to stay.

Jazz was graduating soon. He could always follow her wherever she went for college. Video call Sam and Tucker whenever he could. Figure things out from there.

It was a nice dream to have. 

His parents would never shut down the portal though. Would never quit in their attempts to harm and destroy ghosts in the name of science. Neither would they ever truly accept ghosts as anything except “malicious ectoplasmic scum”. No matter the evidence they found otherwise, no matter what their own son showed them—those were only ever exceptions to their self-prophesized rule.

Ghosts were evil. 

And that was final.

The frequent checkups at any minor sign of illness or injury. The amount of blood they took when he wasn’t paying attention. The most recent checkup after that explosion. It was all justified. They needed to do all that to find ways of neutralizing the ghost threat for good.

Paying attention to Danny’s lectures on ghosts. Asking permission for doing more than they said. Listening to Danny’s pleas. It all came second. 

Inconsequential, they said, in the scope of the larger picture.

It served as a bitter reminder that his parents would never love him more than they loved proving themselves right.

His name was Danny Fenton, he was 16 years old, and he decided his parents would never leave, and so, neither could he.

[theselfshippingwitch]

“ if you asked me to marry you tomorrow, i’d say yes. “ “ what about today? “

Are you interested in writing a fic? For Ray and Violet? 😍

Yes!!! I am never not interested in writing a fic for Ray and Violet. I am constantly bursting with ideas for fics for Ray and Violet.

-

She had loved that beautiful old Victorian house, with its big front porch and side screenhouse and spire-like structure sticking out from the top of the highest roof, ever since he pointed it out as they drove past once. His childhood home, which now sat old and looming and empty, having fallen into disrepair in the 15 years since someone last lived there. To anyone else, it would look abandoned and unkempt. To her, it was the haunted dream home she always fantasized they would live in together. Just as he was about to lose the property to the bank, she bought it up herself and paid for the repairs necessary to restore it to livable condition. They moved in together, and with his permission and input, even had a few additions built onto it: a library, a greenhouse, and extra bedroom and bathroom. They made the house their own, and finally it began to feel like their lives were moving forward together.

The night the library had been finished, and they had shelved their extensive personal collection of rare occult books, Violet leaned into him, wrapping her arms around him as she rested her head on his shoulders. He hugged her back, letting the palm of his hand lazily rub up and down her back. “I’m exhausted.” she sighed happily.

“Tell me about it. We just did a LOT of hard work. But I’m glad we got all our books shelved today.”

“Yeah…” She sighed. “It’s all finished, and this house feels like a home.” She looked around at all the little details she had planned, the figures of bats and snakes and other strange creatures carved into the decorative corners of the dark wood that framed the deep red wallpaper that adorned the small parts of the wall that weren’t covered by bookshelves. It really felt like it was well and truly theirs, with the personal touches only they would think of. “If you asked me to marry you tomorrow, I’d say yes.”

“What about today?”

She lifted her head up, trying to read his expression. “Ray…”

“I mean it, Violet. I want to marry you.”

Violet’s face flickered from a look of overwhelming joy to one of worry and doubt. “I want to, Ray. You know I do. But, I don’t know if I feel comfortable getting married and starting a family while you’re still doing field work. And, I know you love it, and I love how much you love it, but it’s just so dangerous, and if we’re going to make such a major life change, I would feel a lot more secure if I had to worry just a little less about your life being in jeopardy every day. I’m so sorry, Ray.”

Instead of the disheartened reaction she expected, he only nodded thoughtfully. “I understand. To be honest, I’ve had a lot of the same feelings lately. And, funnily enough, I’ve even started to get a little…bored, with the field work. I was thinking it was because we’ve only been getting small jobs lately, and I wanted some major disaster to happen again just to make things interesting, but all I do all day is think of you and this house and the life we’re building together. Maybe this means I really should move on. Pass the torch, as they say.”

Violet nearly burst into tears. “You don’t have to stop your work with the Ghostbusters completely! You could still work on the tech, and do research!” She rushed out all her words desperately. “I never want to make you feel like you need to give up on something you love, especially not in order to have a life with me!”

“Violet, sweetie, it’s okay!” He moved his hands to the side of her face gently, soothing her. “You’re not making me do anything. This is what I want. I want a life with you. I want to get married and start a family with you. You’re the most important thing in the world to me, and I don’t know what I’d do without you. I love you so much, Violet. I want to live in this home with you and our future children for the rest of my life.”

She smiled. “This is starting to sound like a marriage proposal.”

“Not quite yet.” Although he was already thinking of the jewelry box, once taken out of this home and kept safe by his Aunt Lois, now back in its rightful place on the dresser in the master bedroom, and the ring he knew was inside it, a gold band with a garnet gemstone, the birthstone of his mother. “It’s a promise. I’ll start doing less and less field work, and I’ll find a replacement soon.”

“You mean it?”

“Yeah! In fact, I’ve already got someone in mind!” His nephew, who he had been exchanging letters with for a year now, seemed as interested in the paranormal as his father was repulsed by it. He was turning 20 this year, and he would do well, Ray thought. 

Violet wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him. “So good to me.” She kissed him again. “The best.” and again. “I love you, Ray.”

Ray’s cheeks turned bright red, contrasting with the deep brown-orange of his hair, and Violet smirked, self-satisfied. She rubbed the tip of her nose on his. “Now, let’s go lie down on the couch and watch TV until we pass out. My feet are killing me!”

[cryptid-bird]

Reading An Old Fic

I'm reading an old Gorillaz fic that I wrote years ago, and it's so unintentionally funny in some parts. For context, 2D fucking. Dies. That's the plot. He's a ghost now. The story is mostly angst, so the random bits of humor is like getting smacked in the face. The story overall is not bad, it's just weird that I did that! If I had finished this, it could have been close to a novel length.

Highlights of the story:

The chapter names include such gems:

Drink To Forget Your Problems.

Great, This House Is Fuckin' Haunted.

Talking To Your Dead Friend Around Your Adopted Daughter Can Be Super Awkward

Play Video Games To Forget Your Crippling Depression.

Summon Satan To Help Deal With Your Problems Instead Of Facing Them Like An Adult.

Don’t Starve Shipwrecked Basically

I can sense a theme with some of these.

Murdoc gets in an elevator with a white suburban family. He has an inverted cross around his neck and blood on him (from an injury). It's awkward

2D uses his ghost powers to make Murdoc's shower ice cold.

After a very dramatic scene: “What’cha doin’?” Stuart asked. He sounded bored and alone. 

“Running from my problems.” Murdoc responded.

Taxi Driver: “My friends would be stoked to hear this, they’re big fans.” 

Murdoc: “I always love fans. Tell ‘em I said that my bed can always fit one more person.”

2D calls Murdoc a murderer for being partly responsible for his demise (even though it was unintentional). Murdoc denies being a murderer. 2D is like "I have a law degree!!", which is funny to me. Why does he have that

EMI Records calls Murdoc during an angsty scene and threatens to hold him hostage until he can tell them where 2D is. When he says he will get his lawyers involved, they tell him "We're a billion dollar company, we can do whatever we want"

2D meets a blind woman who can hear him. She doesn't know he is a ghost and doesn't get the memo. She's like "We all feel invisible sometimes. It's ok"

Russel: “I know you’re in there you green piece of shit”. 

Noodle is unable to ship her sword, but is somehow able to ship herself, a whole human, through FedEx. This is never addressed.

Murdoc plans to murder a child to bring 2D back from the dead. He can't bring himself to. He kills someone else instead by being bisexual at a club. This chapter is called: Murder For A Good Cause. The man he brings back is actually from the Black Cloud and attacks Murdoc first.

A line from the story, out of context: "It would just be plain awkward, like having sex with your best friend watching, except he and 2D weren't friends." 

(More under the cut)

Noodle: “Uhuh. Well, I’m going out to go get some dinner. If I come back and anything is wrong I won’t hesitate to harm you.” she threatened. 

Murdoc: “I know that! Enjoy your dinner!” he called as he dragged the corpse away to clear space. 

2D finds Murdoc drawing a pentagram next to a dead body and is like "WHAT THE FUCK"

“There’s a dead body on the floor-” Stu pointed out, but was interrupted by Murdoc.

“Stop pointing out the obvious.”

“So you slit his throat?” 

“What else did you expect me to do? Kindly show him the door?” 

This scene:

He pricked his finger, allowing a drop of blood to fall into the solution. He felt a strange tingling sensation, and the very next thing he knew he was standing in the oh so familiar underworld. 

He was in a building. The roof was high up and was supported by towering beams. On the beams were torches lit with hot flames. They were the only light in the room. 

A large demon paced back and forth. He seemed angry. “For the last time, I don’t want your car insurance! I don’t even have a car! How did you get this number?!” he paused, listening to what the person on the other line had to say. “At least I’m not going to have an early death! Have fun in Hell!” he swiftly hung up. It seemed he was unaware of his company until Murdoc cleared his throat.

And this:

“It’s you. You don’t remember our deal? You specifically asked for your band to never die. Your friend did, but because of our deal his soul remains. Well, ta-ta! I’m off to my meeting. Hell can’t run itself.”

If you want to read all of what I've written, let me know and I can upload the rest on ao3. I've already published some of it on there. I will not finish it, I'll just give you what I've already done.

[irisbleufic]

As I’m finishing your Toy Soldiers fic series for the first time, knowing only your Gotham fics otherwise…it’s so profoundly eerie to me how similar a core relationship dynamic you’ve given to Billy/Joey and Jerome/Five. Had you realized those echoes across those 2 pairings separated by almost 20 years in your bodies of work? It’s so unbelievably neat, but like I’m also kinda crying about it.

…Anon, I need a minute. FML.

No, it wasn’t conscious. But you’re right, and now I’m crying about it.

Joey and Five have such prickly pride and nasty, dangerous tempers. Joey reaches for a weapon; Five is a weapon. If they can’t find a weapon, they’ll just throw a punch. They each have a clearly defined dress/accessorizing aesthetic that means a hell of a lot to them. Joey’s hatred of his father hits so many of the same notes as Five’s hatred of Hugo Strange.

Billy and Jerome are both performers. Both pranksters. They’re not well understood or well liked by everyone, but they’ve each got their ride or die devotees. Billy’s parental trauma is not the same as Jerome’s, but both of these boys really hate their parents for good reasons. Their bravado covers a fuck-ton of loneliness and longing for acceptance—for love, even. Jerome’s bitterness over his family, who he genuinely did love once upon a time, bleeds everywhere given half a chance. Billy breaks down when he loses his whole world in a single person.

You have a brave, reckless misfit with an artistic aesthetic (who loves music) in each relationship; you also have an only slightly less reckless, but no less brave performer desperate to prove themself/be loved for themself in each relationship. You have an unequivocal us-against-the-world mentality; you have one person whose temper is so deadly that it regularly needs to be reined in by the other. If not restrained, hell breaks loose, and sometimes that hell is warranted.

(You have a death in each relationship, but for once an incongruous mirror. Jerome dies and is resurrected before he ever meets Five; Joey dies after he and Billy have settled into each other’s breathing space, and still there’s refusal to let go, a steadfast lifelong haunting. I have avoided ever killing Five or Jerome while they’re together, or even killing both of them together, because there is no end of unhinged fuckery that would occur in any of those three scenarios. Billy without Joey is unhinged enough for me to handle, and even then, Joey isn’t really gone…and is no less unhinged.)

Their worlds are temporally different, early 1990s vs. 2010s, but many of the same core interactions are there. They’re pairs of schemers who complement each other’s strengths and cover for each other’s weaknesses. Both couples laugh together so easily. I don’t have any other pairings capable of the same level of seriousness and silliness simultaneously. Intimacy often happens fast and without forethought. Oh, how they burn.

The trust, though—the trust. That’s what it is most of all, that and the complete and utter lack of personal space. The casual, reassuring physical contact that’s present without expectation of more. Even if they weren’t literally lovers, that would still be present, and it would be enough.

(They’re so young—so impossibly young for the tragedies in which they’re players. Come the end, they deserve whatever safe haven they can offer each other.)

[writersblockedx]

Just Being Neighbourly

Pairing - Pre-death!Tate Langdon x Fem!Reader Summary - The two have been neighbours for some years now, yet Tate can't help but make his move. Warnings - None, I don't think, just a lot of fluff! Words - 1.6K

A/n - It’s October which means I’ve been re-watching AHS and couldn’t help but write a tate fic after finishing murder house!

Masterlist 

It was always a mystery living in the house across from the Langdons. They were strange people, Y/n's mother would say coming home late from work after getting reeled into conversation with Constance. Or sometimes Y/n would catch the young boy, whom she knew to be Tate from school, leaving the house in the early hours of the morning.

It was them hours when she would be intruded by the thoughts to follow after to him, to yell his name. They were barely even acquaintances, they would be classed as strangers if it were the fact they knew the other's name. But, for whatever reason, Y/n couldn't help the feeling to make sure he was okay in them midnight hours. Yet, every time them thoughts surface, she'd bypass them, tell herself it was none of her business and return to trying to sleep herself.

It had been one random weekend when things began to change. She'd been standing at the bus stop at the end of the road for a bus that was already five minutes late. Her legs chilly with the autumn breeze that passed, yet she had no choice but to bare it in anticipation for the vehicle which was due. She'd been so focused on trying to spot the bus, she had never even clocked that Tate was wandering up to her.

His hands in his pockets, surely to keep his own palms warm, and a slick smile smothering his expression. "Hey," His soft tone reached her ears, almost making her jump - something of which she was successful in concealing as she turned to face Tate.

She too flashed a grin. Y/n tried hard to make sure it wasn't too much, but at the same time, that it wasn't too little. They were neighbours after all - they had to be neighbourly. But, Y/n also didn't want him getting any other ideas. Well, that part she wasn't quite sure of yet. "Hi, Tate, you alright?" She asked him.

"You don't have to make small talk." He chuckled and they both felt a wave of relief from his words. "We're not our mothers. You know, pretending to make small talk as if we don't hate each."

Her eyes narrowed and she swayed on her feet in curiosity. "How do you know my mother doesn't like yours?" She queried with a cheeky glint in her pupils that they both seemed to share.

"Because I've met my mother. I happen to live with her." He replied.

"Sounds torturous." Y/n didn't know the half of it. "Are you saying we secretly hate each other?" She then asked with the quirk of a brow.

He shrugged and took a moment to reply as if debating if he should even speak at all. "Do you? Hate me?"

Her head shook the moment the words slipped passed his lips, "No, of course not. What gave you that idea?"

Again, he was hesitant. Y/n couldn't know for sure, but this seemed like a concern which had been haunting him for awhile now. "You don't speak to me at school. Like when we pass in the hallways, or in class." He shrugged as if his tone wasn't dripping in heavy emotion he seemed to have been holding onto.

"Niether do you, Tate." She said with a slither of a smile. Had she known her apathy towards him was causing such concern, she would have done something about it.

"So you don't...hate me?"

She grinned back at him like she did the first time. "Course not." She told him, looking back at the road to spot the bus which was soon approaching.

Neither of them said anything as it gained closer until it stopped. Y/n got on first, swirling back to face Tate when he made no move to get onto the bus. "You not getting on?" She questioned with knitted brows.

A slick smirk was plastered against his lips, "I'm not getting a bus." He winked, the doors shut and the bus started moving again. There was one question that soon rung around Y/n's mind: if he wasn't getting on the bus, what had he been doing standing at the bus stop?

There was one thing that came out of that unexpected conversation: Y/n started noticing Tate at school. In the beginning, she'd started to smile at him in the hallways, he'd always smile back. Then it was a 'good morning' as they passed, or whispered in class. Before Y/n even realised it, she was looking for him in the crowds. She wished she'd bump into him, that they'd meet eyes and have an excuse to talk again.

There came a day where she just couldn't bare it anymore. Weeks had passed and while they were friendly, she craved for more. She was seated in the library, surrounded by a few friends. Y/n had a good amount of work to do - as her teachers kept reminder her - but her eyes wouldn't dare peel from the curly-haired boy sat two tables down from her.

Tate always sat alone. Sometimes it was because he simply wanted to do, other times it was because there wasn't a second option. At this time, he was completing some much over-due work, headphones over his ears which drowned out the chatter of the mindless teenagers around him. But it also drowned out Y/n. He was utterly unaware of her presence. Had he been, he probably would have made an effect to catch a glimpse of eye contact for the third time today. Alas, Y/n took matters into her own hands.

Without alerting her friends, she gathered herself from the table she was seated at and wandered over to Tate's. She didn't say anything till she sat in the chair across from him. Still with his music blasting, Tate had no idea of his new company. Well, not until she carefully snatched his Biology book from under him. Then his head snapped upwards, instantly flashing a smile as his gaze found Y/n.

"Ooo," She hummed as she took his text book, "Biology, must be a rough day."

He tucked his headphones off, letting them sit around his neck. "It's not that bad." He shrugged; certainly not his least favourite subject there was.

"Have to argue with you on that one." She quirked, sliding the book back towards him.

"Really? You struggling with an academic subject? Doesn't sound like you." He spoke as if he knew her ever so deeply.

She leaned in slightly, finding her chin fitting in the cup of her palm as she stared affectionately to the boy seated across from her. "And who told you that?" She questioned.

"Well, your mom told mine that you're an exceptional student." He chuckled with his words.

"That is true, except for biology." Y/n explained before a cheeky glint emerged in her eyes. "You know, if you'd be happy to, you could always help me out a little." She was testing the waters. She wasn't sure what had happened that day at the bus stop, but it had flickered some light in her which was still crackling and urging for more.

Tate laughed again, his doe-eyes meeting hers, "I can't believe you're asking me for help." He paused and her smile grew. "But, of course, I'll help you."

And so they arranged a time the next day to study over the subject. They met after school at her house. Despite being neighbours for a good few years, Tate had never in fact been at Y/n's house. But, as he was directed up stairs to her bedroom, he remembered thinking that it was exactly as he had expected it to look. Especially, when it came to her room.

"Do you have your text books?" Questioned Tate as they sat at either end of the bed, soon becoming surrounded by papers.

Y/n played in with knitted brows as she listen intently to the blond boy explain the carbon cycle. A topic which was easily a boring one, yet Y/n was more enticed than ever. "Do you get it?" Tate asked, seemingly snapping her out of her awe.

She nodded, "Pretty much yeah." Tate didn't reply. Instead, he plastered on an adoring smile as their eyes intertwined with one another. "What?" Y/n finally giggled when the silence went on for too long.

"You just-" He looked away for a moment. "You stare a lot." He looked back. Their smiles never faded.

The girl shrugged, "I like how you explain things." There was a glint glistening in her pupil that left Tate questioning what was about to follow.

She was already leaning in when Tate responded, "That's a good thing, I guess." He never shuddered as she got closer. Yet, he could never excuse the shivers which electrocuted his spine as their lips finally touched.

They pulled from one another, their foreheads lingering, yet not daring to touch. Tate still had his eyelids closed when Y/n opened hers. He was savouring the moment. Even if he knew the feelings were certainly reciprocated. Once they finally flickered open, Y/n admitted, "I actually have an A in Bio."

They both giggled. They both knew this wasn't the last. That, despite her A in Bio, there would be more study dates, more kisses and they would become more than just neighbours.

-

Everything - @alexxavicry @Emily-roberts @starrryskiees @m4nulup1n​  Want to get notified next time I post? Click here to get added to a taglist!

[knightofmidnightsun]

THE NIGHTMARE NEARBY, chapter one

the corinthian x gender neutral!reader

word count: 6,9K

warnings: no beta-read (yet!!!!), angst but there is fluff coming in a way (a strange one but still-), description of death and mention of a character's death (not a main one), and reader being nervous when talking to people that they don't know? (not exactly a warning but i felt that i needed to put it anyway) also if it wasn't obvious before: slow burn.

summary: the corinthian couldn't wait to share a coffee with you, he had been curious to hear you and figure out exactly what you were. what he didn't expect was you making him doubt everything about himself.

A/N: sorry for being late! i didn't proofread it so you could already read and enjoy it (i literally just finished it lol)! i really hope you like this one, i have been planning this chapter for ages, and a promise that you will like the next one as well!

| prologue. | fic's masterlist |

chapter one: the corinthian and the way to a soul

You hid your gloved little hands in the holes of your sweater, sitting on the sofa by yourself. Alone, with a delightful hot cocoa cup with marshmallows while reading a silly comic book, but alone.

Children don't usually realize the meaning of loneliness, do they? Except when they've already suffered a lot by it. Even when they are feeling bad, children always find a way to have fun by themselves.

And that you knew quite well.

Ignoring the snores from Uncle Bernard and Aunt Viola coming from their room, enjoying the silence of the night, and dreaming awake about a place where you wouldn't need to move from family to family all the time.

However, you weren't truly alone at the time you lived with Bernard and Viola. Not at all. It was a sad thing to realize years later, but it was the truth.

Despite all the darkness that haunted your younger soul, there were moments of light.

"I knew you'd be awake"

You smiled sheepishly as you faced your brother, Dominic. He had his eyes narrowed at your little figure over the living room's sofa while sneaking out of his room.

“I can’t sleep,” you pouted, returning your attention to your cup.

“Of course, you filled your stomach with sugar after dinner,” Dominic rolled his eyes, his words not having a judgmental tone unlike anyone but you would imagine. He threw himself on the couch next to you with a playful smile on his lips, “But don’t you worry, I won’t tell mom and dad… For a price”

You widened your eyes, pushing the mug away from your face.

“What price?” you asked, curious.

Before you could complain, your brother took your hot cocoa and enjoyed a long and slow sip. You tried to climb on top of him, whispering for him to give it back, but he kept his hand against your face and stopped you from interrupting him.

“Calm down, calm down-” he whispered back to you, raising the cup over his head so you couldn’t reach.

“You’re being mean,” you accused him, frowning.

Your brother sighed, surrendering to the deepest frown that he had ever seen on your sad turned-down lips.

“I’m sorry, I’m only playing with you” he shrugged with a sloppy smile, he handed your hot cocoa back, “It’s just that I need a favor”

“Hm,” you hummed with a scowl, sipping what rested of your hot cocoa, “What is it?”

Only then did you notice how Dominic was dressing. Instead of being in his pajamas, he was dressed as if he was ready to go to one of his friends’ parties.

“Are you sneaking out?” you squeaked in a whispering tone, “It’s freezing outside, Aunt Viola said that it is the coldest night of the year!”

You were shivering just thinking of your brother in the middle of the snowy night.

“I will meet with someone and I need you to cover me up if dad or mom ask you about me,” Dominic stood up, scratching the back of his neck, “But I will be back before they are awake, I just need your help in case they become suspicious about what I did or where I went”

“I don’t know…” you furrowed your brows, uncertain about what your brother was asking, “It’s really cold out there, you will be sick! It isn’t a good idea”

Dominic shook his head, amused at your concerns. Your fear wasn't about where he'd go with who he'd run into, but whether he'd get the flu.

It wasn't like he knew about the times you noticed the exchange of looks between him and some of his friends. Much like how the uncle and aunt looked at each other from time to time. And he didn’t need to anyway.

“Okay…” Dominic looked up, trying to figure out a way to reassure you about his plan when finally an idea came to him, “And what if I borrowed your gloves? You’ll be protecting me from the cold while I’m there. I promise to return it first thing when I’m back, what do you say?”

With a pinched mouth, you took your time to think about it. Your eyes flickered at the gloves you were wearing, contemplating if it was really worthy.

The gloves helped you to relax, everything was less noisy when you had them. They protected you from the bad sounds and the bad visions, it made it harder for all of this to near you.

So, maybe, it could protect your brother while he was away. Right? For the little of you of eight years old, it made sense.

“Fine,” you nodded, leaving your cup at the center table, and you started taking off your gloves, “But I have a price”

Dominic chuckled at your mockery tone, an attempt to mimic what he had said to you minutes ago. He crossed his arms and quipped at you, “Oh yeah? What is it?”

“More hot cocoa?” you replied, already handing him your gloves.

“Considerer it done,” despite how small your gloves were, Dominic made the effort to wear them, ignoring how tight they were on him, “See ya”

He went straight to the door, fishing for his keys and quietly unlocking it. Throwing yourself back to the sofa, you raised your eyes to his frame leaving the house and locking the door behind him, “Bye!”

If only you had known how that day would end and how the next one would start, everything would be different. You would have insisted to Dominic not to go outside, to not face the cold, to ask him to the comic book you had and put you to sleep, anything to stop him from stepping out of the house.

Anything if it meant he would be alive. Your gloves never saved him from the fate that was waiting for him on that freezing night.

In the morning, you woke up in a cold sweat. Followed by memories of people closing a casket as you stood quietly in the corner, with the vision of the transfigured rips over your brother’s paled face deep-rooted in your brain.

The happy moments where you two once shared hot cocoas were long gone and replaced by horrifying scratches.

Checking the hours, you searched for your gloves at the bedside table next to you.

You had plans and there was already a lot of pain that you gathered within you, half of them didn’t even belong to you. The last thing you needed was the same black clouds hosting in your being wandering through your mind.

So you put on your gloves before getting out of bed like you did every morning. Prepared to face a world where people wear their suffering hearts on their sleeves.

As you did so, Corinthian walked down the boulevard with a grin gracing his features.

He was still mesmerized by the overwhelming feeling of being in your presence, the aura you carried within you completely oblivious. So carelessly, holding such a curious magic, a piece of the Dreaming at the Wake.

And, you’re human. Only human, nothing more. If you were something else, he would have felt it, as he felt that magic intrinsic in your being.

How you hadn’t crossed ways with another Nightmare or Dream until now, was a mystery. Perhaps, you were lucky.

Or not much, since he found you.

The Nightmare was really excited to see what you had already discovered, and what would be your excuses while explaining how you made your assumptions about the case. It has been a long time since he hadn’t that much fun during his killing breaks.

A human meddling with his scenes, normally they would be asking to end in the same way his other victims did. However, there was something about you, in not knowing exactly who you were or your thing worked.

So, for now, he would have fun playing with you as if you were a puzzle. And when he had figured you out or it didn’t entertain him anymore, then you’d be gone.

Simple as that.

Corinthian smiled at the waitress as she opened the door for him, greeting him with a sweet smile and letting him find the seat he preferred. There were too many people at this time of that day, so it wasn’t difficult to find a friendly and isolated spot with a view of the streets.

Besides, from what he was testifying until that moment, you are being a funny thing to watch so there weren’t any reasons to worry for now. He didn’t imagine that stopping by the street where you live would offer him such a small surprise — but what could he say? You really were a curious little thing.

He was cleaning his hands with his cloth when it came to him, like a giant wave ready to drown him. If it were anyone else in his place, for sure it would be drowned by that sudden punch of emotions, even the other nightmares, and dreams. But, he swam through it.

The Nightmare hadn’t even gone to your bedroom, he was just at the street and under your window… And yet, whatever you were doing, almost knocked him out.

For the last decades, he had found his own ways to feel what you, humans, feel. At least, a little. Every time he found it came to him, he seized it until the last drop, and, when it was gone, he went for more.

There was a reason why he had this trail right behind him, a bloody one. All followed by a reputation, a name known to few: The Corinthian.

However, none of that compared to what you made him feel last night at the bar… Or while you were sleeping and he was just wandering down your street. You had no idea, did you? How everything you channeled and relived was felt by who was around you?

Maybe not everyone, since when you did that same thing last night at the bar none but him seemed to notice. It could be something that only someone like him was capable of grasping with bare hands, a creation from the Dreaming.

How lucky was he to have found you before any other nightmare or dream did so? To feel all these clouds of emotions from others gathered in your being: agony, grief, suffering, pain…

It was delightful to be by your side while you crossed through all of this, he didn’t even need to be right to your side! He was in your street and still felt all that you saw and lived in your sleep. Your mind and whatever you had didn’t sleep, not really.

You really were something else.

When you unconsciously hit him with your vision, Corinthian walked through it as he did at the bar. He wandered among all the emotions you had buried in you, most of them weren’t even yours besides the memory.

You were just turning all the feelings that weren't yours, coming from others, into something that was yours. Transmitting everything to a single memory that could represent everything that was inside you.

And he watched everything unfold from afar. The memory repeated itself time and time again, the Nightmare was gripped by the river of feelings coming from it, how it was running out of everything you had channeled into your soul during your day.

It was addicting to witness such a scene. And the Corinthian loved every second of it.

So yes, he couldn’t wait to see you again — wide awake and in front of him after everything you made him feel without realizing it.

As in a cue, his vision flickered to the known figure walking down the street to the cafe.

Unlike last night, it was a sweltering morning. The best thing to do was to get rid of any coat, enjoy the warm weather while it lasted, and save the sweaters for the cool breeze that only arrived at night. For weeks, that was how the civilians had been dealing with the city’s crazy weather.

You included.

As you made your way to the coffee, the man with sunglasses caught a glimpse of your figure. You wore your gloves, hiding them in the pockets of your branded black pants, and had your usually dark overcoat over one of your shoulders. If the weight of the winter clothing over your body was already enough to make you sweat, he couldn’t say for sure, but you seemed fine.

And, in any case, you were wearing your dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to your elbows. Showing more of your skin than usual, as the weather called for it. The blazing sun was already embracing your form in a glittering and almost poetic way.

But with the daylight touching your skin…

How could the Nightmare even put it in words without sounding silly? It was as if it wasn't just the pain of broken hearts and the dead that you channeled — but the relief that the sun brought to those starting to wake up.

Were you really oblivious to your own aura? Humans were stupid, used to just acknowledging the worse. There were no exceptions.

You entered the cafe, followed by the waitress asking about your morning as she glanced at your badge. However, you didn't seem to pay her any attention, searching for something around the place.

Then, your eyes locked on his mysterious dark lenses across the cafe. It felt like there was none else in the place but both of you.

At least, that was how the waitress felt since she stopped trying to start a conversation with an agent of the law. Instead, she smiled lightly and showed you the way to the Nightmare’s table, far at the end of the cafe and close to one of the windows.

Quickly, you thanked her and walked toward his table. The waitress muttered about the menu before letting you go, you replied with a nod and glanced around the place, confused that there weren’t so many customers there to entertain her.

Besides some workers sitting by the counter drinking their coffee and a couple next to the door sharing a french toast, you and the man in sunglasses were the only customers there. It was morning, shouldn't there be more people there before work?

You shook it off, taking your gloved hands out of your pockets and letting the warm air prick the skin of your wrists. For a moment, you allow yourself to appreciate the smell of pancakes, such a simple thing on a regular morning. Yet, enough to make you forget about your constant nightmares.

The Corinthian grinned at that, of how your shoulders would relax when you were at ease. It just lulled him into the fantasy of what it would be like to kill you, how satisfying it would be to feel his knife spearing all that energy inside you until it was gone.

How your blood would stain your cheeks as he gouged out your eyes just like he did the others. But this time he would enjoy every second slowly, caressing your skin as it turned cold, feeling all this power strained at your being disappear once your blood covered his fingertips.

However, patience was the essence, that was the best part of all of it: to see if he was capable of waiting for so long.

For now, trying to figure it out made him feel more alive than just killing. There was some fun in playing cat and mouse when you didn’t know who was who, or when the person didn’t know that they were in the game in the first place.

“Morning,” you pulled your lips in a tight line, sitting by the other side of the table, “I hope I didn't keep you waiting for too long”

“Don’t worry”, he dismissed you with a wave of his hand, “As I said, I knew you wouldn’t stand me up”

He didn’t miss the way you quipped a brow at him.

“Confident much, huh?” you asked, tapping the table quietly, “Don't you think it was that or your charming glasses that convinced me to pretend that I never met you, you’re a journalist and I hope you help me with information”

“And,” you continued, lifting a finger as to emphasize. The Corinthian just raised his arms, his shit-eating grin never leaving his face, he would roll his eyes if he could, “You said yourself last night, I need a stranger’s point of view to clarify my thoughts. Who’s better than an independent journalist?”

The blonde shook his head, for what you thought it may be disbelief. In a kind of way, you weren’t wrong. Yet, he was more surprised by the journalist facade you created in your head was still working than by your smugness.

“If you say so,” he shrugged, “How do you want to start this? Feel free to tell about those deaths anyway you want”

“Before,” you rested your hands over the table, stopping the tapping, “I believe you will want a guarantee that you can be the first to publish about the case when this is over, no?”

The Corinthian furrowed, “Why so?”

Didn’t he make himself clear last night? The only interest he had in all of this was to see how far did you know and if you were capable to get near to the answers, that and nothing else.

“Well, even if you've hinted that you're just listening to me theorize about the case I'm investigating out of curiosity…” you sighed, returning to tap the table, “Curious about me, the case, or both, I don't know. I can't let you leave empty-handed, the least I can guarantee is that you're the first article published about it, and yours, I can try to hold back the press”

Humans, how funny they are. There were no doubts about that. Despite being selfish and proud creatures, you were also selfless… In a way.

It's sad that when you are well-meaning, you are like that with the wrong people.

At the time, he didn't stop to realize it, but how long had it been since he'd laughed so genuinely?

“Fine,” finally, he replied, pretending to fix his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, “Why not?”

If anyone asked him why he was smiling now, another nightmare or even a dream, he’d say that fooling humans always bring him a smile. However, deep down, a little part of him knew the truth.

No one in your place would be so selfless to a ‘journalist’ that had made himself very clear that would steal from you and make your job hard. Even so, you were. Despite the flaws in your being, you defy that for being too innocent or stupid, he didn’t know what would be worse.

Either way, it made him forget for a second that he would kill you, sooner or later.

“Okay,” you nodded, pressing your hands against another, feeling the fabric rush your skin, “First of all, I really need you to not spill about this to any other journalist or reporter, informants only if they can help and know how to hold the tongue. People can’t know about that case or the victims, there are really strong people wishing nothing about this leaking”

“I assume that is something to do to what you said last night about the last victim, that it wasn’t any boy that died” the man replied, lifting his brows.

“Yeah,” you agreed, “He was-”

“Good morning! What would you like to order?” The cheerful voice of the waitress made you jump out of your skin, enough for you shut up before spilling saying that none else was supposed to hear.

“Good morning, sugar,” ignoring your reaction, the blonde man faced the waitress, with a suddenly husky voice, “For me, just a black coffee with room”

Unfortunately, different from what you wished for, the waitress turned to you. A big smile still lingered on her lips, even though you didn't look her in the eye.

“And you?” Oh shit.

“Ahm,” you tapped the table again, hating how you squealed, “Pancakes? They are smelling good, with extra syrup if possible, I would appreciate it. And black coffee as well, just without cream or whatever”

If you could, you’d slap yourself in the face. How ridiculous, ‘pancakes and black coffee, thanks’ would be enough but you had to ramble.

Regardless of your wish to dig a hole and hide there, the waitress nodded and went back to the kitchen with your orders. The man in sunglasses also didn’t seem confused or puzzled by how you phrased your order, if anything, he seemed stoic.

Lucky him, he knew how to hide from you when he was amused.

“So, detective?” he turned his dark lenses back to you, “What you were saying?”

“Oh right” you glanced at the window before looking at him again, “I can’t give the name right away but the boy was the son of a very popular politician from here, that’s what I can say for now”

“A son of a politician? And he was a prostitute?”

The Nightmare tilted his head, in false shock. You only raised your shoulders quickly, as if you agreed with his reaction.

“Yes, kicked out of the house and family about five years ago. Because of it, we are being forced to do our best so nothing is leaked to the press”

Stopping for a second, your eyes fixed on the view of the street outside the window, as you remembered the last boy’s mom. Different from his dad, you could see how terrible she felt about her son’s death, you couldn’t forget any detail of her face while she talked to you.

You still remembered how you were in the corner, avoiding your colleagues and enjoying a black coffee. It was easy to pretend to not listen to the senator's discussion with your sergeant. You knew too well that the wealthy man would lose at the end of the conversation, your boss was just stubborn as you were.

Then the boy’s mom found you, ripping your attention away from the discussion in the next room.

She begged you to go to the crime scene, not let them ignore the case as they usually did with the others. For you to not stop investigating and figure out soon who had taken her boy away from her.

And you promised you would.

“I see,” the Corinthian nodded, ignoring the wave of sorrow that started to pour from you. It was weak, almost unnoticeable. But it was there, he could sense easily, letting it hold to every fiber of his, “So far, someone killed three boys, took their eyes out and one of them was the son of a politician? What are the chances?”

Of course, the Corinthian knew who the boy was before he killed him.

They had talked a lot about paternal figures who did wrong to them, but that didn’t stop the Nightmare from killing the young man. It was exactly for being the son of an important and arrogant man, he thought they would never investigate it. Over the last decades, they never did.

But there were you to prove him wrong.

What were the chances, huh?

“I know, but it wasn’t someone. A man,” once again, you tapped the table in a known rhythm, “The unsub is a man”

The Nightmare narrowed his eyes at you, what was behind his gaze, clenched, “Right, I’m well aware that there are more male killers than females, but I’m intrigued by your certainty”

“For starters, there are a lot of implications. Even if my legist hadn’t found semen in the last victims, and by the exams, discovered that they had sex shortly before they were killed, I would still be sure.”

Okay, the Corinthian had to confess, he wasn’t expecting you to have examined the victim’s bodies in that way.

For the past decades, usually, people ignored it. After all, they were prostitutes, and was common sense that many men paid them for sex in secret, but nobody talked about or investigate it. No one ever went deep down to discover that they had sex right before he killed them, it was easy to assume that have been long before they died, or that could be from many clients and not one.

But, in less than twenty-four hours, you broke the chain. One stubborn person was enough to discover a little more about his killings than the many past investigators and detectives.

He was right last night, he couldn’t underestimate you. You probably forced the legist to run the tests although he certainly disagreed with you, you didn’t accept a no for an answer.

You really were a curious and nosy mortal, but persistent above all.

“And,” there was more? You didn't stop there, you kept going, “Female killers have different motives than male ones, none that matches killing prostitutes after having sex with them. To dominate victims the way it was done, and from what my analysis so far, it’s a man”

“Hm,” the Nightmare hummed, biting back his smile before it could get bigger, “I agree, I guess”

You nodded, more to yourself than to him. And again, you tapped at the table, as to distract yourself or keep your focus, the Corinthian couldn’t say. Certainly was something you usually did in conversations.

“Besides, the unsub clearly seeks control, something that female killers wouldn’t try by killing younglings. The unsub in that case, at every crime scene, clearly shows and tries to prove it,” you rambled in a lower tone, eyes fixed on how your fingertips found the top of the table, the blonde man never left his eyes from yours, “Control, power, you can name it. It explains why he would have sex with them before, he choosing for men younger than him, how the boys were before they were killed…”

The Corinthian knew he should feel sore, he was well aware of it. He didn’t expect you to not be that wrong, you were into something. And that should annoy him.

From what you said last night, he supposed that all you knew was what you sensed. All that fear, the same fear that he tasted as he killed that spoiled boy, would probably be why you were feeling so miserable about that case.

The Nightmare was waiting for you to say something about it, not that you could possibly have good clues of how the killer really thought.

They weren’t quite right, of course. Everything you said wasn’t the shoes to his feet, they didn’t fit, he repeated to himself.

He wasn’t looking for control, at least, not in the way you were insinuating.

Right?

The Corinthian shook his head, he didn’t need to have doubts. The Lord of Dreams couldn’t stop him anymore, he could finally experience freedom and feel alive, he didn’t need to prove control anymore.

It had nothing to do with proofing something. No such thing as control. What he did couldn’t be compared to what you said and insinuated.

Yet, all of this didn’t stop him from being impressed. You were a better detective than he thought, he’d give you that. It only made things more interesting to him. Challenging even.

It wasn’t only about understanding how you worked and if you get to figure out things just by whatever you had you, not anymore. That was the fun in playing a game of the Corinthian, things changed through the course of it.

He wanted to prove you wrong, just because he could. Because he knew the truth, the truth about what he did and his reasons, and none one else.

Not even you. And he couldn't wait to see the shudder on your face as his blade slashed through your chest and your fear filled him, made him feel alive while life faded from your beautiful eyes.

“I got it,” the Corinthian interrupted you before you continued to ramble, pursing his lips in a thin line, “I just don’t get why you are hopeless about it, you seem to have some ideas about the killer, more than any other detective would have in your place”

You took a deep breath, tapping against the table again. This time, the Nightmare paid attention to the sound. It wasn’t the rhythm of a song or anything similar, it had its own melody but it felt familiar for the Corinthian.

Your silence hadn't even lasted that long, but for the blonde, it had lasted millennia. Millennia where he watched you and listened intently to the tapping of your fingers against the table, barely audible and yet distracting. You didn’t even seem to realize what you were doing.

It wasn’t any song, it didn’t sound like a bop of the decade and nothing before, but something older. As he said, familiar. Each tap reminded him of something that he didn’t feel even in the last years in Dreaming before he left.

Home.

So, it clicked. As the Corinthian started to feel your conscience slipping away from the present and going somewhere, it was a lullaby. A wave of sorrow, deeper than before grew bigger and bigger, forcing him to swim through it like the last time.

Tap, tap, tap.

Again, it hasn’t even been five seconds.

However, time didn’t seem to pass as you crawled back to your being, drowning in yourself. Letting feelings that were yours and the ones you had kept with you for a long time hold you tight, pulling you to your deep end.

Tap, tap, tap.

The Corinthian followed you without thinking twice. As anguish led your conscious to the past where it had been buried down, the Nightmare did the same thing from yesterday, at the bar and when you were sleeping: he let the wave drown him, stopping to swim or fight against it.

Tap.

There was a reason why you tapped. In any conversation or alone, sharing a drink with yourself that you would never be finished. Or, listened to the melody of the rain and no one else.

It kept you focused.

Tap, tap, tap.

Everything was dark, shades of grey and black. Both of you were in the middle of a sea where would be impossible to differentiate your right hand from the left one. But you continued to focus. knowing too well where you needed to go, and the Corinthian was in your tracks.

The melody was guiding you. It helped you to focus through your path, you never had drowned and you weren’t drowning now.

Tap.

Despite your clear fear lingering in the air and complete confusion about what you possibly thought was your losing control. Part of you, a side of yours that you didn’t seem aware of, knew exactly where you were going and what were doing.

It wasn’t the feelings pulling you down, only you. That something inside you, channeling and unloading.

Tap, tap, tap.

Leading you to sorrow. But also, home.

The sun shone brightly over the Corinthian’s back, he wasn’t in the dark waters anymore or behind you. He was standing in a graveyard, among blurred people.

All of them were wearing black, being by themselves or talking with people they had seen once or twice before that day. The snow was thick and revealed the footprints of everyone that had been grieving that afternoon.

At first, among the cries and sobs, the Nightmare couldn’t spot you. So, he walked around, trying to find where were you in this memory. In the end, it was yours, you were supposed to be there.

In the back of his head, the melody of your fingers tapping against the table continued but in a hum. So, he let it guide him, bumping into strangers' shoulders like an imperceptible shadow and feeling the few flakes of snow bring goosebumps across his skin.

Something so mundane, something he would never feel outside of that memory, your mind. Not for lack of opportunities but because he wasn’t capable of, neither killing brought to him something so human as that. Not human, mortal.

Ephemeral.

When the blonde noticed, he was in front of a grave. It had just been put, the snow was still just covering the coffin buried six feet under. Yet, what called the attention of the Nightmare was the name engraved in it, Dominic.

Just then, he spotted where the hum of the lullaby was coming from.

The little version of you was unaware of his presence, like the last two times. You wore black clothes as well, enough to protect you from the cold of the snow and to show the sorrow you were keeping in. No tear dropped from your eyes, you didn’t allow them to roll down to your cheeks, you hold everything back.

However, you weren’t wearing your gloves, not as you used to as an adult or even in the memory when you were at this young age. You didn’t wear them but held them in an iron grasp. As if you wished hard for everything would rewind and you would no longer be there, but at home, with your brother again.

The Nightmare made his way toward you, sensing how your aura weighed down with all that sorrow, grief, guilt, sadness… Much of it not even your own but those of others grieving for your brother. But you knew that you knew that if you wanted to feel nothing of this, you only needed to put some distance and put on the gloves.

You just didn’t want to. You were letting everything in, maybe as a punishment for not stopping Dominic from going out in the middle of the night. Or, hoping that it would bring a little relief to the other people that loved Dominic as much as you did.

The Corinthian furrowed his brows, stopping by your side, he couldn’t even recall if he ever had felt something similar to this. Perhaps, when Morpheus almost undid him. It wasn’t exactly sorrow or anything close to what you were feeling but it was the only thing that made him feel… Dreary.

Yes, that was the word. Not that he was trying to relate to you, no. He just was curious, that was all.

Then, bringing the Nightmare back to what was happening, a woman came near you and stopped by your side too. He couldn’t see her face but she was older, her mascara ran down and highlighted her frostbitten cheeks.

“I told you that Bernard didn’t want us to bury Dominic with the glasses?” she asked out of nowhere, you only glanced at her, shaking your head. The woman chuckled but the cold breeze stole the sound of it, “He is still angry that we did it anyway but I don’t regret it, I would have if I had given in to him”

“Why?” you murmured, your voice in a thread.

“Dominic wouldn’t manage to find his way to peace without the glasses, at least, it was what my mom told me once,” she sighed, and you could see her breath thin in the air, “I know that what they did to my son… Perhaps the glasses will be useless, I didn’t pay attention to what the legist said about how his eyes were and everything but I want to believe that Dominic can see and use the glasses to find his way”

Hope. Despite the pain in her heart, Aunt Viola was still hopeful. You as a child couldn’t understand and not even the Corinthian could.

Yet, you felt her hope and embrace it, relieving a part of the pain that held your soul in pieces.

“It’s what they say, right?” you whispered, facing the woman, “The eyes are windows to the soul, I believe that Dominic will find the way home”

The Corinthian wished he could laugh but it never came. It was something that he would do if listening to this quote in any other situation. But now, he just was standing there, quiet, having no idea of what to think or do.

There was really something he could do? Maybe not, maybe he should do exactly what you were doing: accept it and move forward.

“Me too,” the woman crouched down to your height, hugging you tightly. she was afraid of losing you too, but the Nightmare could sense that part of the sadness of your adult self held in that memory was knowing she would lose you in other ways.

The memory was supposed to end there, it was what he thought so.

It took a while for the Nightmare to understand why it hadn’t finished. He crouched by your side, studying your childish face until noticing that your eyes were fixed on someone far away from you and the other people there. So, he followed your gaze.

The man was a blur like the others. He wore black like the others. He also was very older than you, like the others.

But, unlike the others, he didn’t carry grief with him. And that was the first thing you saw as you laid your eyes on him, feeling shivers down your skin.

The Corinthian stood up, narrowing his gaze on the man. There was no grief, suffering, sorrow, or anything that felt like it.

He was happy.

You hugged Aunt Viola tighter than before, burying your face in the crook of her shoulder. Processing the truth and burying it with you, you knew what would happen if you tried to tell someone about it, exactly how it went with the other foster families.

It didn’t stop you from getting back to the system of trying to find another family again.

Regret. Not sorrow, or not only that but regret.

In a blink, both of you were back at the cafe and time returned to its normal speed. The few workers chattered among them, finishing their eggs with bacon, and the last couple there was paying the bill.

The Corinthian hadn’t taken his gaze away from you, not even for a second. From the start until now, he looked into your eyes. You moved slightly away from the table, pursing your lips as you fought your tears back.

You regretted past choices, promises that were never or could be fulfilled and all of this brought you that melancholic.

“Here are your orders, sorry for being late!” the waitress came back to your table with the same cheerful smile, putting your pancakes in front of you and serving the coffee to both the blonde and you, leaving the cream you had asked for aside.

Taking a deep breath, the Corinthian nodded to the woman but said nothing. His gaze never left your eyes, which were anywhere at the cafe but his sunglasses. Watching all that sadness filling them when none of it should fit you, shouldn’t be yours.

The version he saw outside before you entered the morning, the one where you poured peace and relief, that fitted you more than that burdened one.

He wasn’t supposed to think like that. The Nightmare shouldn’t wish of being able to make all this pain inside you disappear, that regret, grief, sorrow… He really shouldn’t.

The Corinthian wasn’t one to pity. And somehow, you did him do. He couldn’t feel, not as humans did.

But he was feeling. He was feeling sorry for you, even though he wished he could kill you right then and there less than thirty minutes ago. Yet, it was like nothing of that had ever crossed his mind.

Before he could realize it, he reached for your gloved hand that still rested over the table. Immediately, your eyes found his sunglasses, taken back by his touch.

“Hey,” although your eyes were on his hypothetical ones, he called your attention again, “Are you okay? If you feel better, we can stop the conversation here”

There was no reason for him to worry for you, he didn’t. It was all a game, to see when whatever your ability was would stop to entertain him and when it did, he’d kill you. Then, everything would end.

You were a new toy, that was all. That was supposed to be all.

Why the Corinthian couldn’t convince himself that you were only one more human? One more that would be gone soon by his own hands?

“No, I’m-” you interrupted yourself, hesitant about what to do. Instead of retreating your hand from his, you let it there, “Thanks, I’m good”

You smiled. And the aura around you slowly flickered, the blue feeling lingered there. It wasn’t like the Corinthian expected it to leave now, things like that took time. However, there was that peace again, hope.

And, you talked. The Corinthian encouraged you to continue commenting on the case, on your theories, being careful so the dark clouds couldn’t torment you again. You guys even had to ask for more coffee when the coffee in the coffeepot on the table was finished.

Among ramblings and shared smiles, the Nightmare didn’t even realize how many genuine smiles he gave you until you were bidding goodbye again.

Maybe killing you would be harder than he was thinking (and he had continued to think).

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next chapter.

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