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nanamineedstherapy · 2 months ago

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Seven Minutes in Heaven (Chapter Two)

F!Reader x Gojo Satoru

Previous Chapter 1 (Tumblr/Ao3)

Summary: It was supposed to be a normal frat party. Just a stupid game of Seven Minutes in Heaven. Just him, king of never taking anything seriously, getting shoved into a closet for a dumb dare. And yet. Now, he can’t sleep. Can’t think. Can’t stop thinking about you. And one by one, his friends are starting to realize—Whatever happened in that closet? It never really ended.

Outside in the garden, Toji mocked. "Man got a straight-up haunted hard-on."

"Wait, wait, wait," Sukuna wheezed. "Tell me why bro just made out with a ghost so hard he got a fucking boner."

"Can we not call it that?" Satoru groaned.

"That’s exactly what it was," Hiromi confirmed, shaking his head. "You got seduced by a fucking spirit."

Shiu, lying on the grass scrolling through his phone, barely looked up as he added, "Even in the afterlife, women aren’t safe from your dick preceding your reputation."

"I'm gonna kill myself," Satoru muttered, running a hand down his face.

"Ghost girl might be into that," Choso said thoughtfully, sipping a beer.

"Yo, shut the fuck up," Satoru snapped.

"You were rock hard for a literal corpse." Shoko was almost rolling in the grass, clutching her bottle.

"FOR THE LAST TIME, I DIDN’T KNOW SHE WAS A GHOST!"

"And yet," Suguru drawled, gesturing vaguely at the still-very-visible problem in his jeans.

Satoru made a strangled noise, willing his soul to leave his body.

“If I see your haunted dick in my nightmares, I’m suing." Yuki yelled.

"I have hater friends. At least she thought I was beautiful." Satoru smirked.

A collective groan echoed through the garden.

Kento dragged a hand down his face. "I hate him. I hate him."

"Fucker just got ghosted in every sense of the word, and he still has the audacity to make it about his looks." Kashimo jeered, leaning on Haibara, who was barely holding himself up.

"Kill yourself," Sukuna muttered.

"Honestly, yeah," Hiromi agreed.

Satoru just grinned. "Jealous much?"

Suguru physically sighed. "Let's go, you delusional horny disaster."

---

Satoru couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Not the way your lips had felt against his, or how you made him laugh, or how you got flustered easily but still kissed him first like a paradox he couldn’t solve—though that haunted him, too.

No, it was the way you had looked at him.

Like you had been starving.

So, Satoru did what any rational person would do.

He spent an unhealthy amount of time at the library.

Gojo Satoru. At the library. Voluntarily. His friends thought he was having a crisis.

At first, there was nothing.

No students matching your description in the recent records.

No tragic accidents or ghost stories written in the university archives.

It was like you had never existed.

But then—

One night, while flipping through the school’s oldest records, something caught his eye.

An envelope stuffed with papers.

He pulled out a diary first.

Diary of Miss L/N

(Archivist - Leather-bound, gold-embossed. Found in the ruins of the university, its final pages splattered with what appears to be dried tears. Handwritten, ink fading in places. Some pages torn. Final entries nearly illegible—written in a shaking hand, desperate and uneven.)

January 3, 1914

There is a new litter of kittens in the old courtyard! I counted five, all squirming and mewling, their mother, a thin little thing who watches me with wary eyes. I left some bread soaked in milk, though I do not think she trusts me yet. Perhaps if I sit quietly tomorrow, she will let me closer.

(If I were a cat, would I be loved more easily?)

The groundskeeper scolded me, said I am too soft-hearted, that I let animals take advantage of me. As if a kitten could be cunning! I told him there is no harm in kindness. He only shook his head.

Satoru sat back, staring at the first entry, his thumb tracing your handwriting. He didn’t know much about you—hell, he didn’t even know you were alive a hundred years ago—but he could picture you, kneeling in the courtyard with kittens, trying to be kind. He imagined the faintest smile tugging at your lips when you saw them squirming in the dirt. The idea of you feeding a stray mother cat made his chest tighten in an odd, unfamiliar way. He ran his fingers along the edge of the paper, almost as if trying to feel your presence through it.

That groundskeeper? He was an idiot. He didn't get it. Satoru couldn't help but feel a spark of frustration. You didn’t need anyone’s permission to be kind. He almost laughed at the idea that someone might scold you for being soft-hearted. If anything, he wished he could go back and tell you not to worry about those around you. He would’ve probably looked at you the same way—the way he did when you kissed him, not knowing why or how, but unable to stop himself from caring just a little too much for someone so—soft.

January 10, 1914

I do not think they like me.

Not in the way they like each other.

They are polite, of course. They smile. They call me ‘Miss L/N’ with syrupy sweetness, but their eyes flicker. I see the way their lips press together when I speak. The way their laughter dies when I enter a room.

But it is alright. Not everyone has to like me.

I just wish they did not hate me, either.

Satoru skimmed the next entry, his eyes narrowing. You were already noticing the tension in the air, weren’t you? The polite smiles, the murmurs. The fake sweetness they showed you—he could practically hear the insincerity in their voices. He frowned, shaking his head. You didn’t deserve that. Nobody should ever make someone feel like they didn’t belong.

For some reason, even though you were long gone, he found himself angry on your behalf. He didn’t understand why they treated you that way. You were probably just too good for them, weren’t you? Too pure, too gentle. He shook the thought off, the sharpness of the moment still biting at him. It made him wonder if maybe he would’ve been one of the few who would’ve actually liked you.

January 25, 1913

Viscount Salvatore looked at me today. He did not merely glance—he looked. I was in the library, carrying too many books, and he leaned back in his chair, all effortless indifference, and drawled, "Planning to read all of those, Miss L/N? Or are you building a fort?"

(He thinks I am ridiculous.)

(He noticed me.)

I almost dropped Wuthering Heights on my foot.

A frown burrowed on Satoru’s face when he read about Viscount Salvatore. You noticed him. He noticed you.

He flipped your yearbook with his other hand to find any Salvtores; there had been two in your class who’d gone to become Army officials in the first World War and then died there. Your description fit the blue-eyed one with a cocky smirk. Like Satoru? Did you have a type?

He felt a slight sting in his chest at the thought of this Viscount—some guy who probably had no idea what to do with someone like you. Still, he couldn’t suppress the bitter taste in his mouth. Jealousy? Was that what this was?

A sigh slipped from his lips. It was stupid—he was more than a hundred years too late. He didn’t even know if you’d ever seen him the way he now imagined you looking at the Viscount. The thought of another guy noticing you—really noticing you—made him want to jump from a boat. But instead, he read on.

February 2, 1914

It was a joke. Just a prank.

"She'll cry and beg to be let out," one of them whispered, giggling behind her lace glove. "Let's see if Miss Perfect is still so polite in the dark."

The door slammed. The lock clicked.

The dark swallowed me whole.

I did not beg.

I bit my tongue until I tasted iron and waited. And when they let me out—smirking, triumphant—I smoothed my skirts, fixed my hair, and walked past them as if I had not spent the last hour choking on the thick, dusty air.

They did not like that.

"A little too perfect, isn’t she?"

(They will do it again.)

Satoru’s eyebrows furrowed as his gaze lingered on the next entry. You were trapped. Locked in a closet by the very people you probably thought were your friends. It was sickening. He almost couldn't finish reading—his stomach lurched with disgust. The way you didn't beg... it said so much about you. You must’ve been used to pain by then, used to being pushed aside and ignored. But still—you walked out of there like nothing had happened, like you didn’t carry the weight of what they had just done to you.

Satoru shook his head, muttering to himself, “Cowards. All of them.” He clenched the paper tighter in his hand. He hated the idea of you facing that kind of cruelty alone, without anyone there to stop it. He could feel it—your loneliness, your frustration, your unwillingness to break. And somehow, it only made him want to be there for you more. He'd never admit it, but there was a strange urge within him to make it right—even if it was a century too late.

February 10, 1914

Today, I found a sparrow with a broken wing. I named him Edgar (after Poe, of course).

I should have left him alone. Mother says I should not dirty my hands with such things. But he was shivering—how could I leave him?

Viscount Salvatore saw me, kneeling in the grass, my gloves stained with dirt. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Then, just as he passed, he murmured, "Don’t name it. You’ll only make it harder."

He has such an awful way of speaking. Always so practical. So cold.

(He was right. Edgar did not make it through the night.)

Satoru didn’t expect to feel as deeply affected by this entry. You found a broken bird and tried to help it. Just like the kittens. Just like everything else. He read about the sparrow, Edgar, and that bitter, practical remark from Viscount Salvatore.

He rolled his eyes. That guy was cold, wasn’t he? It was almost like he couldn't even understand that you just wanted to do something kind. His jaw clenched slightly at the thought of this Viscount, cold and indifferent. Did he not understand the pain of losing something you tried so desperately to save?

“You deserved better than that.” Satoru muttered quietly to himself. He could barely comprehend it, but it stung to think of you, caring for something so fragile, and yet not having anyone there to help you when you needed it most. He could almost hear the sadness in your voice, like you were speaking not just about the bird, but about yourself.

February 13, 1914

Razor blades in my book bag today.

I did not see them in time.

A sharp sting—red seeping into my gloves, blooming against the pale silk like a dying rose.

A girl gasped.

One of them. The one who used to call me her friend.

She reached for me, hesitated. Opened her mouth—closed it.

Did nothing.

(They are all cowards.)

I smiled at her anyway.

(It is getting harder to smile.)

The entry made Satoru stop in his tracks. Razor blades? What the hell...? He had to reread the paragraph twice, the sharpness of the words sinking into him with every line. It was hard to stomach—knowing that someone, one of the people who had once called you their friend, did this to you. Left you bleeding and didn’t even care.

He felt a fire burning in his chest now, a rage that was foreign to him. A strange protectiveness, something darker, almost suffocating. He didn't know how you had kept going through all this. And yet, you had. You smiled through it all, even when everything in the world was trying to break you.

Satoru stood up suddenly, pacing around the room. He was aware of how ridiculous this was—he didn’t even know you. But damn it, you deserved someone who would’ve fought for you. Someone who would’ve taken those blades from your hands and never let you feel alone.

February 14, 1914

Viscount Salvatore pulled out a chair for me today.

The smallest thing. A flick of his wrist. A glance in my direction. A murmured, "Miss L/N."

But I have not been spoken to kindly in so long.

For a moment, my eyes burned. My throat ached.

But I said nothing. I only sat.

And when I looked up—just for a second—he was already watching me.

(What a strange, strange man.)

Satoru’s fingers lightly brushed over the paper. He didn’t know what it was, but something about that entry—Viscount Salvatore pulling out a chair for you—made him pause. He didn't react outwardly, keeping his face carefully blank, but internally? There was a slight stir of discomfort. It was such a small, insignificant thing, yet it meant so much to you. A simple gesture, something that should’ve been normal.

He imagined the quiet moment, your surprise. The thought that such a little thing could make you feel seen, even for a second, gnawed at him. A frustrated sigh left his lips. Why did it have to be like that? If he were there—if only he were there, he would’ve shown you kindness, not just with gestures, but with actions. But that was a thought he quickly pushed aside, frustrated by how much time had slipped through his fingers. He kept reading, though.

February 20, 1914

I have decided. I loathe Viscount Salvatore.

He is insufferable. He speaks in riddles and always looks as if he is laughing at me. I do not know why I bother thinking of him.

(He held the door open for me today. Said nothing. Just waited.)

(I hate him.)

A faint chuckle escaped his lips as he read the next entry. You’d decided to loathe Viscount Salvatore now. "Insufferable," you called him. Satoru almost wanted to agree, though he couldn't completely share your sentiment. He had a feeling there was more to him—more that was left unsaid. Still, it was a funny thought. Viscount Salvatore being that frustrating, mysterious figure. Satoru was intrigued by how you wrote about him with such sharpness, but the words seemed like a cover for something deeper. He wasn’t sure what, but the tension between you two was palpable.

“Is it really that bad?” he muttered, flipping the page, knowing he wasn’t going to get an answer. He felt a flicker of something, but the rest of the entry, especially with the way he “held the door open,” left him feeling... unsure. He wasn't exactly proud of it, but maybe there was some part of him that didn't want you to find comfort in anyone else.

March 2, 1914

I found a dead rat in my desk.

Its body bloated, eyes staring.

Its tiny mouth open, frozen in a silent scream.

There was a note pinned to its belly. Still feeling generous?

I swallowed back the nausea and took it outside myself.

(It is getting harder to breathe here.)

Satoru’s expression hardened as he read about the dead rat in your desk. He closed his eyes briefly, forcing himself to focus. The cruel games they played—it disgusted him. He could almost feel the sickening weight of it, as if it were happening right there, in front of him. Who does that? He set the paper down and ran his hand through his hair, trying to keep his composure, though his jaw was tight.

You didn’t even flinch. You simply took it outside. There was an odd kind of resolve in the way you wrote that. No begging. No breaking down. Just... handling it yourself. It made him uneasy—how much you had to endure, and how little anyone had cared. He couldn’t imagine what you went through, not yet, but the pieces were starting to come together. The cruelty. The silence. The isolation.

June 20, 1914

I am tired.

No, not tired. Weary.

I wake up with my body braced, waiting for something—waiting for the next whisper, the next cruel trick, the next unseen hand that will shove me down the stairs when no one is looking.

I have not eaten all day.

(They will not break me.)

The word “weary” hit Satoru like a punch to the gut. He could picture you, slumped in exhaustion, never having the chance to recover. He could almost hear the quiet panic that sat beneath those words. The next cruel trick, the next shove—it was too much. His hand tightened around the paper as he read on.

He didn’t need to know everything to understand that what you were going through wasn’t just physical. It was something deeper. Something that made your bones ache and your heart heavy. And yet, here you were, still breathing, still defiant. He let out a breath, annoyed at the powerlessness he felt just from reading your words.

July 24, 1914

I am going to the party.

They said they want to start over. That it was all just foolish jealousy. That they want to be friends.

I should not believe them.

I know I should not believe them.

But I am so, so tired of being alone.

Just for one night, I want to pretend I belong.

Satoru frowned, eyes narrowing. The truth was already in your words before you even said it. He felt an odd mix of sympathy and frustration as you told yourself you were going to the party—hoping, wishing to belong, even for just one night. He had to read that part again, swallowing a lump in his throat.

He flipped the page; the diary ended. Satoru immediately scrambled to pull out another stack of papers from the binder.

Final Entries – Found Scribbled in the Dark on Stationary available inside the closet

(Archivist - Stray pages, ink smudged. Words scratched over and rewritten as if she could not make her fingers hold steady.)

July 25, 1914

They lied.

Of course they lied.

The music was loud. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and laughter. For the first time in years, I thought—maybe.

Then hands.

Grabbing. Dragging.

"Let’s see how perfect you are now."

They locked me inside.

A closet. Small. Cramped.

The door will not open.

It has been hours.

(Or has it? I can’t tell.)

No one is coming.

The change in tone was abrupt, and Satoru’s pulse quickened as he read about the party. He could feel the shift, the claustrophobia, the betrayal seeping through the paper. The scribbled words—he could almost hear you gasping for air, trapped in that small closet.

“They lied.” That one line stung. It was so raw. He couldn’t make sense of it. He couldn’t make it right. But he had to know—he had to understand why you were forgotten. He had to keep reading, even if it made his heart feel like it was crumbling under the weight.

???, 1914

How many hours has it been?

They will come back.

They must come back.

Please, please, please—

My throat aches.

I screamed until my throat bled.

No one heard.

No one wants to hear.

(They have forgotten me.)

Satoru’s hands clenched around the papers. They had broken you in ways that even time couldn’t erase. And he could do nothing. He gritted his teeth, struggling to stay composed, but it was impossible to ignore the ache that had settled in his chest. You’d screamed until your throat bled, and they had... forgotten you.

Satoru sat with his elbows on the desk, his fingers steepled against his lips as he read the next entries. He was quiet now, the usual restless energy in his body drained away, leaving only a tense stillness. The words on the page felt heavier with each line.

???, 1914

I am thirsty.

I am so thirsty.

If I press my ear against the door, I can hear the music.

(Another party?)

They are still dancing.

They are still laughing.

They are still living.

And I am here.

Satoru’s throat felt tight. He swallowed against it, as if somehow that would make up for the dryness that must have burned through yours. He could picture it too clearly—the way your lips must have cracked, your voice reduced to a rasp.

And yet, they were still dancing.

Satoru exhaled sharply. You were still there, forgotten, while life carried on just outside the door. The thought made him nauseous.

His fingers flexed against the paper. If I had been there... But he hadn’t been. No one had. That was the entire tragedy of it.

???, 1914

It is quiet.

No music. No voices.

Something has happened.

Why won’t anyone come?

Satoru’s breath slowed. You didn’t know. You had no idea that while you were trapped in that suffocating darkness, the world outside had shifted.

They left.

No one had opened the door. No one had checked. It wasn’t even malice at this point—it was worse. It was indifference.

His jaw clenched. You weren’t even aware that the world had moved on without you. You were just waiting. Waiting for a help that would never come.

July 28, 1914

Sirens.

War.

The halls are empty.

They have all gone home.

No one remembers I am here.

No one remembers at all.

Sirens. The first world war. The absence. His hand trembled. The emptiness of the halls. You had been forgotten amidst the chaos, the madness of the world falling apart. He hated the feeling of it. The helplessness. The way everything—everything—slipped away, leaving only that quiet, sickening silence. He muttered a curse under his breath, feeling a heavy weight in his stomach.

You had been alone. And it wasn’t just the physical isolation. It was the fact that no one even cared enough to remember you.

???, 1914

(Archivist - The ink is uneven, pressed too hard into the paper—her hand must have been shaking.)

I dreamed of Viscount Salvatore.

He pulled out a chair for me again.

Only this time, when I sat, he turned to me and said, "I see you."

I woke up crying.

(He will not remember me either.)

Viscount Salvatore was back in your dreams. And now, Satoru was reading about how you woke up crying. He shook his head slowly, his eyes closing briefly. Even in your lonely moments, he was there, haunting you—both a comfort and a torment. He could almost see it in his mind, the way Viscount Salvatore's distant gaze would have held some measure of regret, maybe even longing. But none of that would ever matter now.

“Damn it,” Satoru cursed under his breath. He didn't even know what he was mad at—himself, the Viscount, or fate. The whole damn situation. You didn’t deserve any of it.

???, 1914

There is no light.

I am afraid to sleep. Afraid I will wake up and it will still be dark. Afraid I won’t wake up at all.

I think I can hear something scratching. Or maybe it is just my own heartbeat.

Satoru shut his eyes for a brief second. That sentence—it was worse than the others. It wasn't just physical anymore. It wasn’t just being locked inside. It was the fear creeping in.

Afraid to sleep. Afraid to wake up and still be in the dark. Afraid to never wake up at all.

He felt sick. You weren’t even sure if you existed anymore. If you were real.

He let his head drop forward slightly, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. It was just a diary. Just words. So why did it feel like they were clawing at something inside of him?

???, 1914

I had a Mother?

Satoru’s eyes flicked back to the page, scanning the sentence again.

His stomach twisted.

You were unraveling.

That was what this was. Not just hunger. Not just thirst. Your mind was fraying at the edges, breaking apart piece by piece.

He shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable, a strange, suffocating weight settling in his chest. You had been alone for so long that even memories were slipping away.

You were forgetting yourself.

???, 1914

I dreamed of the kittens.

They were hungry. So was I.

I woke up biting my sleeve.

Satoru closed his eyes again. That dream—it wasn’t just a memory. It was your body crying out, pulling at whatever fragments of warmth it could find.

And when you woke up, you were biting your sleeve.

His lips pressed into a tight line. He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to picture you curled up in the dark, trying to trick yourself into feeling full.

He ran a hand through his hair, swallowing hard.

???, 1914

I have started whispering my own name.

I am afraid I will forget it.

Satoru blinked. The words blurred for a second before coming back into focus.

You were losing yourself. The last thing you had—the only thing left. Your own name. And even that was slipping.

His grip on the paper was too tight now. He forced himself to relax his fingers before he crumpled it.

You had been so, so alone.

???, 1914

I do not want to die like this.

I do not want to die in the dark.

Satoru’s shoulders tensed, but he forced himself to read it again.

You knew. By then, you knew.

It was no longer just fear. It was a final, quiet understanding.

Satoru’s hand came up, fingers pressing lightly against his temple. He had read countless things in his life—reports, records, confessions. But this?

This was someone—you—begging the universe for something it had already denied you.

???, 1914

Did he ever think of me?

Did Viscount Salvatore ever notice that I was gone?

(I am so, so cold.)

???, 1914

I can hear it raining.

There is no hunger anymore.

No thirst.

Just cold.

So, so cold.

???, ????

(Archivist - Final entry. Ink smeared, nearly unreadable.)

If someone finds this—Please—Please remember me.

Satoru didn’t move.

He stared at the words, his vision blurring for a moment before sharpening again.

His throat felt tight.

His grip on the page softened, and he slowly, carefully, set it down.

Satoru wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with this—this aching, gnawing thing in his chest. He didn’t have the words for it. But as he reached for the next stack of papers.

Newspaper Articles

(Archivist - Yellowed clippings, brittle at the edges. No one speaks of her anymore.)

DAUGHTER OF L/N FAMILY MISSING – UNIVERSITY REFUSES COMMENT (July 27, 1914)

Miss L/N, the only daughter of the esteemed L/N family, has been reported missing for over a week. The university has declined to comment, insisting that Miss L/N likely departed of her own volition.

Her parents, Mr. and Mrs. L/N, have offered a sizable reward for any information regarding her whereabouts.

SEARCH FOR MISSING HEIRESS ENDS IN TRAGEDY – PARENTS DECLARED DEAD (December 3, 1916)

After two years of relentless searching, Mr. and Mrs. L/N have perished under tragic circumstances. Their estate, heavily in debt from the investigation, is to be auctioned off.

Miss L/N’s disappearance remains unsolved.

RENOVATIONS UNCOVER HIDDEN CLOSET – HUMAN REMAINS FOUND (March 5, 1957)

Construction teams working on university renovations discovered a sealed-off closet in the west wing. Inside, they found skeletal remains, still clad in a deteriorated silk gown. A diary was found nearby, though much of its ink had faded with time. Officials report that the identity of the remains is unknown, as no records exist of any missing student matching the description.

No further investigation is planned.

THE DAILY GAZETTE

Est. 1896

Thursday, March 7, 1957

PRICE: 10 CENTS

MYSTERY OF THE FORGOTTEN GIRL: REMAINS DISCOVERED IN UNIVERSITY WALLS

Renovation Workers Uncover Skeleton, Raising Chilling Questions About the Past

By George L. Whitmore

SHIZUKA CITY—A routine renovation at one of the country’s most prestigious universities took a macabre turn last week when construction workers stumbled upon a hidden closet sealed within the walls of the East Wing. Inside, they found the skeletal remains of a young woman, her body curled as if she had simply lain down and never risen again. The discovery has sent shockwaves through the academic community, raising unsettling questions about how she came to be there—and why no one ever looked for her.

The identity of the deceased remains unknown. No records exist of a missing student from the time period estimated by forensic specialists—likely the early 20th century. But one thing is certain: she was left there. Forgotten.

A Name Erased

The East Wing, once a grand structure funded by old money and aristocratic influence, had been largely abandoned for decades before renovations began last fall. The university, now bearing the Gojo family name, was once under the patronage of another dynasty—one that, curiously, has all but vanished from historical record.

Researchers digging into archived documents found faint traces of a once-powerful benefactor: the L/N family. According to a 1907 university registry, the L/Ns were among the wealthiest patrons of the institution. From Arms dealings, their contributions were responsible for much of its early expansion. And yet, no descendants remain. No estate. No legacy.

A mere decade after their peak, the family seems to have disappeared altogether. Their name erased. Their wealth scattered.

And now, this girl—the girl in the closet.

A Harmless Prank Gone Horribly Wrong?

The discovery has sparked whispered theories among university staff and alumni. Some recall long-forgotten stories, rumors passed down like ghost stories in dormitory halls. Stories of a girl. Beautiful. Intelligent. Kind. Too kind.

“She was perfect, too perfect,” said one retired professor, who wished to remain anonymous. “People resented her for it. The way the faculty admired her. The way she carried herself. There were whispers, of course—ugly, jealous things. But back then, the school was different. There were rules about what could and could not be spoken aloud.”

While no official reports exist of bullying, former students who attended in the early 1900s recall the cruel pranks that were common among the elite circles of the time. Stolen books. Torn dresses. Whispered mockeries disguised as etiquette lessons.

Then there was the incident at a party—a party that took place just before the world changed forever.

“She went missing that night,” said another source, a woman in her seventies who had attended the university in the years following the First World War. “There were rumors, of course. But no one ever spoke of it directly. And then the war came, and everything was forgotten. Just like that.”

What started as a childish prank—locking a girl in a storage closet—became something else entirely when the world was plunged into chaos. Sirens screamed. Students fled. The university shut its doors. And no one, not a single soul, remembered to let her out.

A Legacy Stolen by Time

The timing is chilling. The L/N family vanished not long after. Their once-glorious estate burned to the ground under mysterious circumstances. With their wealth depleted in a desperate search for their missing daughter, they faded into obscurity, lost to history. Meanwhile, the university found a new patron—one with deeper pockets, stronger influence. The Gojo family.

“Nothing stays empty for long,” remarked historian Dr. Henry Carrington. “Power abhors a vacuum. One name disappears; another takes its place. That’s how history works. The question is whether it was simply fate... or something more deliberate.”

What Comes Next?

For now, the remains of the forgotten girl lie in the care of forensic specialists, who will attempt to identify her and, perhaps, grant her the dignity she was denied in life. The university has yet to release an official statement, though sources indicate there are plans to memorialize the discovery.

Still, the air remains heavy with unspoken truths. A legacy buried beneath floorboards. A name erased. A girl left to die in the dark, her existence fading from memory even as the institution she was meant to inherit flourished without her.

And now, decades later, she has returned. Not as a scholar. Not as an heir.

But as a skeleton in the walls of a university that no longer remembers her name.

Satoru understood what had happened.

---

1914

The first time they locked you inside, it was supposed to be a joke. A harmless prank.

“You’ll cry and beg to be let out,” one of them whispered, a cruel giggle curling around her words as she hid her smirk behind a lace-gloved hand. “Let’s see if Miss Perfect is still so polite in the dark.”

You cried.

But you didn’t beg.

Not that night.

Not yet.

It didn’t surprise you. You’d always known people resented you. You were the only child of the L/N family—their legacy was carved in the very stone of the university. Wealth, power, influence, all wrapped in a name that commanded respect. Your family had funded these halls, shaped them. Built them.

And you were meant to carry that weight forward, to live up to expectations that came with being the heir of such a name. You studied hard, spoke softly, helped others without a second thought. You tried to meet the world with grace.

But you had made one mistake.

You were kind. Too kind.

You didn’t wear your last name like armor. You didn’t command respect with a gaze sharp enough to cut or a voice cold enough to freeze. You didn’t move like royalty among commoners. You spoke gently, smiled too much, helped without expecting anything in return.

And that, apparently, was enough to make them hate you.

They called you perfect. A fraud wrapped in silk and sweetness. A girl born to wealth, yet untouched by cruelty. It made them sick to their stomachs. They told themselves your kindness was a mask. That you were pretending. That behind your soft smile, you looked down on them.

The whispers slithered through the hallways, filled every corner of every dormitory, echoed between the benches in lecture halls. “She must think she’s better than us.” The rumors crept, fed by jealousy and disdain, each one sinking deeper, until they made it their mission to tear you down.

It started small. Stolen assignments. Ink spilled all over your uniform. Books knocked from your arms as you passed, their laughter trailing behind you like a shadow.

But then the pranks grew worse. Razor blades slipped into the lining of your bag, waiting to slice your fingers. Your tea, laced with ink, stained your lips and tongue black for hours. Dead rats left in your desk drawers, bloated and stinking, their decaying bodies a cruel reminder of their hatred.

You had friends—or you thought you did. But when you looked to them, their smiles faltered. They said nothing. Did nothing. They looked away.

So, you endured it all alone.

Then came the night of the party.

You hadn’t wanted to go. But one of the girls, the one you still foolishly believed to be a friend, begged you. She said everyone wanted to start over, that they regretted their childish jealousy and were ready to put it behind them.

You wanted to believe it. You wanted so badly to believe that people could change, that cruelty wasn’t the default. You wanted to believe that if you just endured long enough, they would see you for who you really were.

So, you went.

The music was loud, thick with the beat of drums and the pulse of electric guitars. The air was heavy with smoke, alcohol, and the scent of youth gone wild. Laughter rang out, spinning around you as people twirled under lantern light. For the first time in years, you thought maybe—just maybe—you weren’t so alone after all.

But then, hands grabbed you.

They pulled you, dragged you away from the laughter, from the light, down the dim hallway that felt colder with every step. You struggled, but there were too many of them. Nails dug into your skin, and their breath reeked of whiskey and sweat.

They laughed. “Let’s see how perfect you are now.”

The closet was small. Cramped. A tiny, forgotten storage room in the corner of the building, filled with old books and dusty supplies. They shoved you inside.

You stumbled, tripping over the rough wooden floor, your hands scraping against the splintered walls. The door slammed behind you, the sound of the lock clicking echoing in your chest. You barely had time to press yourself against the door before it shut you in complete darkness.

“Let’s see how sweet you are after this,” they jeered, and then they were gone.

At first, you thought it was a joke. Any second now, they would open the door, laughing, saying it was just a prank. The music outside was still loud. The sounds of celebration filled your ears, muffling your screams and your frantic banging against the door.

They would let you out.

Of course, they would.

Wouldn’t they?

You banged harder. Screamed louder.

But no one came.

Minutes passed. Then an hour. Two.

Your fists were raw, your throat burned from the screams, but still, nothing.

At some point, you must have fallen asleep. When you woke up, your mouth was dry, your body stiff and cold. You were still in your party dress, but your shoes were gone. You had lost them somewhere, in the chaos of being dragged.

You banged again. Screamed louder.

Nothing.

More hours passed. Maybe a day. You tried to count the time, but it blurred. The darkness stole all sense of it.

Then, one night—though you couldn’t tell if it was day or night anymore—something changed.

The university went silent.

The once-bustling halls were empty. The voices, the laughter, the music—gone.

In the distance, you heard sirens. A sound that felt like the last thread of the world unraveling.

The world was at war.

Overnight, everything collapsed. Students fled. Professors disappeared. The university shut down.

And no one, not a single soul, remembered that you were still locked in that closet.

The hunger was unbearable at first. You pressed your hands against your stomach as it twisted in agony, but after a while, even hunger faded into the background. The thirst, however, never left. Your lips cracked, your throat burned, your vision swam.

But you were too weak to scream now.

At some point, you stopped feeling anything at all.

No one remembered the girl in the closet.

Days passed. Maybe weeks. Maybe months.

But in the end, it didn’t matter.

There was only silence.

When they finally reopened that part of the university—years, maybe decades later, during renovations—the workers found a hidden closet behind the walls. They found a skeleton, still curled on the floor, clutching the remains of a tattered dress.

No one knew who you were. Your records were gone.

The L/N family was erased from history.

Your parents had searched for you. Desperately. They spent every penny, called in every favor, tore the world apart looking for their only child.

But war doesn’t care for grieving parents.

They died before they could uncover the truth. Your home burned. And with them, the name that had once shaped this university disappeared from the records.

The buildings once funded by your family were renamed. The university you were supposed to inherit now bore another family’s name.

The Gojo family.

And you?

You had simply ceased to exist.

---

Present Day

Satoru stared at the newspaper article in his hands, the words blurring as his chest tightened. It felt like someone had reached into him, squeezing the air from his lungs until he couldn’t breathe. His vision wavered, the paper in his hands turning into nothing more than a smear of ink and empty noise.

He had spent the entire night digging. Searching. Prying through the layers of forgotten history no one had cared to remember. And now—

Now, he wished he hadn’t.

His chest ached. His stomach churned with the weight of it. He hadn’t expected to find this. He hadn’t expected to feel the crushing blow of reality, the terrible, suffocating guilt that twisted through him like a knife.

You had smiled at him.

how your fingers had trembled in his hands, how your wide, nervous eyes had held so much uncertainty, yet a quiet hope. And when you kissed him, your lips soft and warm against his, it had been the kind of kiss that felt like it was long overdue—like you’d been waiting a lifetime for someone to touch you.

And now he knew why.

You had been waiting for a hundred years.

A hundred years of silence. A hundred years of darkness. A hundred years of loneliness so deep it suffocated you, a cruel weight on your chest that no one had ever bothered to lift.

He thought about the closet. The cramped, suffocating space. The darkness. The silence that stretched on for years, unbroken. The pain of realizing no one was coming, no one cared.

The students who had shoved you inside. The laughter as they walked away, their voices fading into the distance while you were left to rot alone in a forgotten corner of the university. The friends who had seen it happen and did nothing. The ones who had turned their backs when you needed them most.

Satoru’s chest tightened further, a sharp pain stabbing through him. His teeth ground together, his jaw clenched so tight it felt like it might crack. His hands shook, trembled violently, as if they could somehow undo what had been done, erase the horror of it all.

He wanted to break something. Throw something. Tear through this cursed world and go back, back to that night, back to when he could’ve stopped it. To rip open that damn door and pull you into his arms, to tell you that you were never alone. That he would have fought for you. That someone—anyone—should have fought for you.

But it was too late.

One hundred years too late.

He sucked in a shaky breath, but it didn’t help. His lungs felt tight, and his throat closed up, like something was blocking the air. His hands shook as he traced the edges of the photograph in front of him. A group of students stood there, stiff and formal, their faces solemn in that black-and-white world of the early 1900s. They were so... distant. Detached. Like they were living in a world completely untouched by joy, by life.

And then there was you.

At the edge of the group, standing out like a ghost, yet so very present. Your soft features. Your gentle eyes. Your delicate, hopeful expression that somehow still managed to look so... lonely.

Beneath the photo, in delicate cursive handwriting, the caption read: "Class of 1914. Including Miss Y/N, the only child of the L/N family—our university’s first founding patrons."

Satoru’s breath caught in his throat.

Your name should have been everywhere. It should have been on every plaque, in every building, carved into the very bones of this place. Your family had built this school, laid its foundations with their blood and wealth. You had been the heir, the future.

And yet—

No one remembered your name.

Satoru’s pulse pounded in his ears, a frantic rhythm that seemed to echo in his chest. His fingers curled into the paper, the fragile edges crinkling beneath his grip. His heart hammered in his chest as he clenched his jaw, fighting back the urge to scream.

This school, his school, had been built on the L/N family name. Your family’s legacy was supposed to be immortal, etched into the very structure of the place. And yet, all he saw now were the names of the Gojo family—his family—everywhere. The library. The dormitories. The lecture halls.

Your family had been erased.

A sickening wave of anger washed over him. He wanted to scream, to tear the world apart. He wanted to shove the truth in their faces, shove it into the faces of everyone who’d forgotten you. Everyone who had abandoned you. But more than anything—he wanted to go back.

He wanted to go back to that night.

He wanted to break down that fucking door, drag you into the light, and tell you, "You weren’t alone. You’ll never be alone again."

But he couldn’t.

It was too late.

One hundred years too late.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the image of your face lingered. You, the girl who had been forgotten. The girl whose name had been erased from history. The girl who had waited for someone to remember, to fight for her. The girl who had suffered alone.

No one remembered you now.

But Satoru did.

A/N: Did you get who Viscount Salvatore was?

Next Chapter 3 - (Tumblr/Ao3)

All Works Masterlist

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yourstrulyhri · 2 months ago

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to-do list: 10/03 to 11/03 (sorta, not really)

chat, bit of an update: remember how i said i had exams starting from the 12th? ...well, guess what? apparently NOT. because yours truly a real dumbass followed the wrong schedule :D and it's tomorrow 💀 so, like, am i cooked? most definitely! but, i don't have a choice so here's time for another fuck it, we ball™ moment. fml

revise: amines, biomolecules.

read/solve: (i) NCERT o-chem x1 (ii) know your ncert. (iii) 34 pyqs. (iv) module.

revise: ecosystem, biodiversity & conservation, animal kingdom.

read/solve: (i) NCERT x2 (preferably, but for time constraints x1 should suffice, hopefully?) (ii) know your ncert. (iii) 34 pyqs.

revise formulae for units & dimensions, motion in 1d, motion in 2d.

read/solve: (i) 34 pyqs (i don't have time to solve all, so i'll only be solving those that i'd get stuck at?) (ii) know your ncert. (iii) module. (iv) go through DPPs.

mug up inorg. prac. chemistry

revise prac. org. chemistry from goc [need to actually sit down with the remaining, but i don't want to mug new things up rn]

go through previous year papers for tmrw's test? (our teacher gave us 3-4 papers - fortunately only the physics portion overlaps, so it shouldn't take a long time)

unfortunately seems like i'll have to pull an all nighter but if that means my grades will look better, (cause they've been pretty shit as of late) ,that's a price i'm willing to pay. i'll keep updating as i finish up this list! night <3 wishing myself luck bc i need it

#ri's studyblr #desi studyblr #study blog #studyspo #studying #studyblr #neet 2025 #premed #chaotic academia #desi academia

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latenightreadingpdf · 1 year ago

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Whispers in the Night - Spencer Reid

₊‧⁺˖⋆ Masterlist ⋆˖⁺‧₊

Summary: During a challenging case in Atlanta, BAU members Spencer and Y/N share a hotel room. As Y/N comforts Spencer through his insomnia with a gentle touch, their bond deepens, shifting their friendship into something more.

The team had been dispatched to Atlanta to investigate a series of gruesome murders that bore a chilling resemblance to the handiwork of a notorious serial killer. The case was intricate, with each crime scene offering more questions than answers. The BAU was under intense pressure to solve the case, and the atmosphere was thick with tension.

As the team gathered in the briefing room of the local police department, Spencer Reid, the genius with an eidetic memory and an IQ that most people could only dream of, shuffled through the papers in front of him. His slender fingers danced across the documents, absorbing every detail with an intensity that was characteristic of him.

Y/N, a key member of the BAU with a sharp mind and a compassionate heart, noticed the strain on Spencer's face. They had been friends for years, having developed a bond that went beyond the confines of the office. She was always there for him, understanding his quirks and mannerisms better than anyone else.

After a long day of interviews and crime scene analysis, the team checked into a local hotel. Due to a booking error, Y/N and Spencer found themselves sharing a room. Although they had shared accommodations on previous cases without incident, the circumstances of this case had left Spencer more on edge than usual.

As Y/N settled into her bed, she noticed Spencer sitting on the edge of his own, staring blankly at the floor. His usually vibrant eyes were dulled, and his shoulders were tense.

"Spence, are you okay?" Y/N asked softly, concern lacing her voice.

Spencer looked up, offering her a weak smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a lot on my mind, I guess."

Y/N knew better than to press him for details. Instead, she decided to offer him some comfort in the only way she knew how. She moved closer to him and gently began to play with his unruly hair, a gesture that had always seemed to soothe him.

Spencer's eyes fluttered closed, and a small sigh escaped his lips. The tension in his shoulders began to dissipate, replaced by a sense of calm that only Y/N could provide.

"Thank you, Y/N," he whispered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N smiled, her heart swelling with affection for her friend. "Anytime, Spence."

As the hours ticked by, Y/N could tell that Spencer was struggling to fall asleep. His restless movements and the furrowed brow were telltale signs of a mind that refused to rest.

"Spence, you need to try to get some sleep," Y/N said gently, her fingers stilling in his hair.

"I know, Y/N, but my mind just can't seem to switch off," Spencer admitted, his voice tinged with frustration.

Y/N paused for a moment, contemplating how best to help him. She knew that physical touch was something Spencer typically avoided, but with her, it was different. She was the exception to his rule, the one person he allowed into his personal space without hesitation.

"Would it help if I stayed with you until you fall asleep?" Y/N suggested, her eyes searching his for any sign of discomfort.

Spencer's response was a simple nod, but the gratitude in his eyes spoke volumes. Y/N moved to sit beside him on the bed, her presence a comforting presence in the darkness.

As she continued to play with his hair, Spencer's breathing began to slow, his body finally succumbing to the exhaustion that had been building within him. Y/N watched him as he drifted off to sleep, his features softening as the weight of the day's events fell away.

In the silence of the hotel room, with only the soft hum of the air conditioner to fill the space, Y/N realized just how much Spencer Reid meant to her. Their friendship had always been strong, but this case had brought them closer than ever before.

As she finally allowed herself to lay down and close her eyes, Y/N knew that no matter what the future held for them, she would always be there for Spencer, just as he had always been there for her.

The next morning, as the team gathered for breakfast before heading back to Quantico, Y/N caught Spencer's eye across the table. A knowing smile passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that had only grown stronger in the face of adversity.

While the case in Atlanta would eventually be solved, the connection between Y/N and Spencer was a mystery that neither of them wanted, or needed, to unravel. They were friends, confidants, and now, perhaps something more.

As they boarded the jet for the journey home, Y/N found herself looking forward to the future, to the cases they would solve together, and to the nights they would spend sharing whispered conversations and stolen moments in the quiet darkness.

The journey ahead was uncertain, but one thing was clear: no matter what obstacles they faced, Y/N and Spencer would face them together.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #fanfic #spencer x reader #spencer reid imagine #fluff #comfort #bau reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer x bau!reader #criminal minds imagine #spencer

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mysticstronomy · 7 months ago

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CAN TWO SUPERMASSIVE BLACK HOLES MERGE??

Blog#440

Saturday, September 28th, 2024.

Welcome back,

A team of astrophysicists that includes the University of Toronto’s Gonzalo Alonso-Álvarez has shown that pairs of supermassive black holes can merge together into a single, larger black hole – a major breakthrough in addressing what is known as the "final parsec problem."

longstanding astrophysics problem refers to a discrepancy between the detection of gravitational signals permeating the universe – which astrophysicists previously hypothesized had emanated from millions of merging pairs of supermassive black holes (SMBHs) – and theoretical simulations which showed that the approach of SMBHs stalls when they’re roughly one parsec (about three light years) apart.

Not only did the final parsec problem conflict with the theory that merging SMBHs were the source of the gravitational wave background, it was also at odds with the theory that SMBHs – each billions of times more massive than our Sun – grow from the merger of less massive black holes.

The new research, published in Physical Review Letters, has shown that pairs of SMBHs can indeed break through the one-parsec barrier and merge into a single black hole. This is demonstrated by calculations showing that SMBHs continue to draw closer because of previously overlooked interactions with particles within the vast cloud of dark matter surrounding them.

“We show that including the previously overlooked effect of dark matter can help supermassive black holes overcome this final parsec of separation and coalesce,” says Alonso-Álvarez, a post-doctoral fellow in the department of physics at U of T’s Faculty of Arts & Science and the department of physics and Trottier Space Institute at McGill University, who is first author on the paper. “Our calculations explain how that can occur, in contrast to what was previously thought.”

SMBHs are thought to lie in the centres of most galaxies. When two galaxies collide, the SMBHs fall into orbit around each other; as they revolve around each other, the gravitational pull of nearby stars tugs at them and slows them down, causing them to spiral inward toward a merger.

Previous merger models showed that when the SMBHs approached to within roughly a parsec, they begin to interact with the dark matter cloud or halo in which they are embedded. These models indicated that the gravity of spiraling SMBHs throws dark matter particles clear of the system.

The new model introduced by Alonso-Álvarez and co-authors James Cline, a professor at McGill University and the European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN) in Switzerland, and Caitlyn Dewar, a graduate student at McGill, reveals that dark matter particles interact with each other in such a way that they are not dispersed. The density of the dark matter halo remains high enough that interactions between the particles and the SMBHs continue to degrade the SMBH’s orbits – clearing a path to a merger.

“The possibility that dark matter particles interact with each other is an assumption that we made, an extra ingredient that not all dark matter models contain,” says Alonso-Álvarez. “Our argument is that only models with that ingredient can solve the final parsec problem.”

The background hum generated by these colossal cosmic collisions is made up of gravitational waves of much longer wavelength than those first detected in 2015 by astrophysicists operating the Laser Interferometer Gravitational-Wave Observatory (LIGO).

Those gravitational waves were generated by the merger of two black holes, both some 30 times the mass of the Sun.

The background hum has been detected in recent years by scientists operating the Pulsar Timing Array. The array reveals gravitational waves by measuring minute variations in signals from pulsars, rapidly rotating neutron stars that emit strong radio pulses.

Originally published on https://www.utoronto.ca

COMING UP!!

(Wednesday, October 2nd, 2024)

"WHERE DID MARS' ATMOSPHERE GO??"

#astronomy #outer space #alternate universe #astrophysics #universe #spacecraft #white universe #space #parallel universe #astrophotography

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hoonhoe · 5 months ago

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december diaries: day 3

honestly, ever since december has begun, i have kinda lost my motivation? i haven't been physically well lately, so i could blame it on that, but oh well, anyway, here's the to-do for tomorrow:

electromagnetic induction: solve more problems

vector 3-D: previous year problems sheet

notes on p-block as a whole

rev lecture on nuclei

semiconductors notes revision + problem solving

mock paper - 3hrs

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demifiendrsa · 9 months ago

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Emio – The Smiling Man: Famicom Detective Club – A Chat with Producer Yoshio Sakamoto

Emio – The Smiling Man: Famicom Detective Club will launch physically and digitally for Nintendo Switch on August 29, 2024 worldwide for $49.99. It is the first new Famicom Detective Club story in 35 years, following the previously released first and second installments in the series.

Key visual

Screenshots

Overview

About

Investigate a brutal death and its connection to an urban legend.

A student has been found dead! His head was covered with a paper bag with an eerie smiling face drawn on it—much like the victims of Emio, the Smiling Man—a killer of urban legend who is said to place such a bag over his victims’ heads.

As an assistant private investigator, you are tasked with helping police solve this crime, which is reminiscent of a series of unsolved murders from 18 years ago. Has a serial killer returned, or is this the work of a copycat? Are these crimes inspired by the Smiling Man story, or the origin of it?

Discover the answers to these questions and more as a member of the Utsugi Detective Agency in this intense story of suspicion, isolation, and fragility.

Explore an Interactive Drama Full of Interesting Characters

Playing as the investigative duo, you’ll need to learn a lot about the personalities and backstories of the other characters if you want to discover the truth. Who is harmless, and who is keeping important secrets? Ask questions, reference your notes, and make connections—you’ll have to order your thoughts and examine your leads carefully to draw the right conclusions.

#Emio The Smiling Man Famicom Detective Club #Famicom Detective Club #Emio The Smiling Man #Emio #Nintendo #Nintendo Switch #video game #Who is Emio

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justlemmeadoreyou · 2 years ago

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Unfulfilled

Ok so this was something I wrote a month ago, a simple idea that just popped up in my head. I kinda wanted to make this a series, and I still have the whole story, but I didn't think you all would like it, so tell me if you do! xoxo

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: fluff, cursing

Pairing: nerd!harry x nerd!reader

YN was stressed.

She had a physics exam tomorrow, and the constant flaunting by Harry wasn’t helping.

“I’ve revised thrice. And I am solving previous years’ papers for like, 2 hours now. I still don’t get this.” He sighed, listing up a plethora of achievements that YN was nowhere near.

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. You’ve finished the syllabus and are way ahead of me. I am far behind and you’re solving questions. Happy?” YN replied, head pounding from the strain in her eyes.

“What? No! Who said I was listing all the things I’ve already done? And that you’re way behind?” He smirked, and she wanted to smack his face.

“Shut up” she finally said to him, and he started to pout.

“Hey, I was just teasing. Do you want me to help you?” he asked, now feeling a bit guilty.

“No, I’ll do it myself. I just feel a bit stressed.” you replied, placing a hand over your head.

“Let’s go for some coffee. I’ll get you a muffin too” he offered, and who were you to refuse free coffee?

“Sure” you smiled, and he dragged both of your chairs out, pushing them back in after you got up. You exited the library and he followed behind.

“You know you don’t have to worry so much. You’ve studied. I know you have.” he smiled reassuringly, and you could feel some of the tension slipping away, looking at his ridiculously cute dimples.

“Thank you. You are the only person who would say that and I would actually believe it.”

You entered the small cafe, ordering two decafs. You drank it on the way, and went back to studying at the library.

You and Harry were academic rivals, for as long as you can recall. Since high school to senior year, and then here you were attending the same grad school.

Here too, you fought like children. The competition was a bit tougher now, though, since you both wanted to get good placements, and keeping constant 9+ cgpa was a tough task.

Nevertheless, you had become friends.

Good friends, actually. You both gave the valedictorian speech together, and you had to spend a lot of time with him for it. It was then that you realized that he was not so bad after all.

He was quite caring. He constantly checked in on those around him, making sure they were okay, and letting them know that he was there for them. Even right now, he would make you drink water, shared his food with you, and gave you a head massage. He took you for coffee, so that you would get up from the depressing library and get some fresh air, before going back and diving back in.

He was quite balanced too. He was extremely good at studies, and managed everything else along with it.

Everything, which was almost annoying.

He went for a run every morning around the uni, and was ridiculously fit. He was tall, and had great hair. He played occasional basketball too, and there was a plethora of girls who attended the game just to watch him get hit in the balls with the basketball.

He would go to parties too, unlike you, who preferred to stay in and burn your eyes out on a new movie on your laptop. He drank beers, and looked better than you in the morning.

He was so perfect.

How did he manage to do that?

>>>

The exam day had arrived. You had been biting your nails since morning, and had to stop before you drew out blood and had trouble writing. He sent you texts throughout the morning, wishing you luck and encouraging you.

“Love, you’ll do well”

“Yeah, but not as well as you. How many times have you revised now?”

“Four. But-It dosen’t matter!”

“Yeah. Right.”

As if a stressed-and-not-even-revised-once head could compare to a i-revised-five-times one.

Turns out, it did.

On the day of the result, you had managed to bite through your skin, and drew out blood. Your roommate, Lizzy, had put band-aids on each finger, and scolded you for doing it. She wanted to tie your hands to the side even, so they won’t reach your vampire teeth.

As the professor was handing out the papers, you felt nervous. Everything you had written in the paper was coming back to you like an attack, and making you think you had done everything wrong.

Meanwhile, Harry was relaxed.

So relaxed.

He had his arms behind his head, and was leaning on to the backrest, looking like he owned the world. You did not anticipate the change in expression when he saw his score.

“What-?” you could hear the surprise in his shreik, and he pouted like a baby when the professor shushed him.

He was looking at the paper like it wasn’t his own, and as if he had been somehow betrayed.

You managed to walk down to his sheet while the rpof was distributing them to the last benches, and quickly grabbed his sheet to see his score.

“95. Are you mad?”

“Just 95”

He groaned and frowned, trying to take your sheet and see the score.

“What did you get?”

“Oh. I didn’t see” you were so engrossed in his score that you hadn’t even taken a glance at your own paper.

You pulled out your sheet, and glanced at the big red circle.

Holy shit.

“What the-” you stopped mid-sentence, and your expression now matched Harry’s.

“Fuckin’ hell” he snatched the paper from your hands, and frantically started to go through each question. Every question of yours matched his, except one. It was a 3 marker, and you had gotten it right.

“I solved this in like, 30 seconds. It’s ridiculous-” he held the paper up, reading the question, “-Is it easier to pull, or push?” he put it down, and said “ Pull. Obviously.”

“That’s not true. It actually depends on the situation. Plus, you had to give an example.”

“What did you write?”

“It depends on the situation. If you were to move a lawn mover, pull would be easy. If you were moving an almirah, push would be easy.”

“Shit” he looked sad and confused, and to be honest, you felt bad for him.

“I can’t believe you got more than me.”

“Yeah. Suck on it, Styles’”

“Hey! I helped you!”

“Well, you couldn’t even answer a push n’ pull question. Next time, I’ll help you” you couldn’t stop the big smirk that stayed on your face throughout the class.

And honestly, even Harry couldn’t stop the warm glow spreading across his face from seeing you happy.

(next part)

perfect dividers by @firefly-graphics

any feedback, like, reblog is very appreciated! xoxo

let me know if you like it! // my masterlist

tip me here if you feel generous!!

taglist: @freedomfireflies @gurugirl @thechaoticjoy @styleslover-1994 @gem1712 @ellaorchard @bxbyysstuff @opheliaofficial07 @rafaaoli @tchlamqtsgf @the-mouse27 @indierockgirrl @vrittivsanghavi @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @drewrry @babyiamperfectforyou @avalentina

let me know if you want to be added or removed!

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brain-gains · 2 months ago

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Day 12&13/100 of productivity 🐣.

In this two days i have studied total 19 hrs. I have pulled two all nighters.sunday is my phy exam and honestly..I'm scared. I have failed 3 times in phy only in college..sometimes my fault sometimes Teaches problen.however i Don't wanna fail again..so I'm trying.

Although, My main focus is to end physics 2nd paper. As after this Test exam my First paper of all sub backlog coverage will start.so, I'm ending 2nd paper this month.well so,i have studied.

◑Cp 1,8,9( Note and all type of maths [thursday])◑ cp 1,7,8,9( previous year qus solve)

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busines-as-unusual · 6 months ago

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˖ ࣪ ⭑⟡Chapter 10 - Queen in the Moth Burrow⟡⭑ ࣪ ˖

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You drank enough to make a fool of yourself, but not enough to have dreamless sleep? Typical.

You weren’t granted the peace of the abyss behind your eyelids. You didn’t even get to enjoy the recurring dream of your family’s house fire. Instead, you were assaulted with retina-scorching lights, lecherous gazes, and a cacophony of mutilated jazz.

An invisible big band signaled your appearance on the stage. The audience’s eyes split and multiplied like cells into hundreds of thousands of leering pairs. The tiny needles inside your garish outfit stabbed at your flesh with every move and breath. Your feet, bleeding and blistered, filled too-small shoes.

You danced day and night, a shell of your former self, a puppet on taut strings. Every piece of your body bled to rot and fell off. Chunks of you screamed as they hit the stage. Limbs twisted out of sockets, tearing at the flesh. Teeth fell out of your mouth and hit the stage like scattered coins. The lights melted your eyeballs; the mess dribbled onto the stage like runny yolks.

And when your soul detached from your eviscerated carcass it danced as well. It danced until its scattered remnants crumbled into nothingness, your essence less than dust. It was over. Done. But it still hurt. Why did it still hurt? Why did it hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and—

Stupid. You were stupid for letting that pillock at the club last night get under your skin. Decades separated from Roman, but his influence on your afterlife clung to you like smoke from his putrid cigars. The smell refused to be washed out completely. It lingered and hit you when you least expected it, not unlike the demon himself.

Being associated with your old boss abuser was more common years ago, but it still happened on occasion. Sometimes it was a collector of old Pride Ring memorabilia. More often than not it was a fan of Roman’s Merry-trices that recognized you and had to let you know they did. You hated it every time. It served as an embarrassing reminder that you weren’t the only one in Hell who remembered your time on stage.

It was a comfort knowing that physical evidence of your time on stage was next to nothing. You set many a fire to make sure of that.

Sleep was rough. Waking up was even worse. You’d wish for the sweet release of death if you weren’t already buried in a shallow grave on the outskirts of a Louisiana bayou, flesh long since consumed by gators or (preferably) opportunistic deer.

Okay, maybe you were being dramatic, but bloody hell did you feel like someone drove a stake between your eyes (being in Hell you knew the feeling). The sunlight filtering in your hotel window was lemon juice in the paper cuts of your eyes.

Someone slipped mail correspondence under your door in the wee hours before dawn, along with several red feathers… for some reason. A letter from Vox; a direct request demanding asking to see you now as soon as it’s convenient. He’s bothering you with a physical letter, meaning you were high enough on the totem pole for last night's debacle to affect their brand. So much ass needed kissing to damage control this mess. At least Vox had a nice tush.

You sipped your morning cuppa, wishing Husk was up so you could mix it with some scotch. Alcohol got you in this situation, so more would obviously solve your dilemma. Alcohol and caffeine: a winning duo.

Meeting Lucifer Morningstar was on the day’s itinerary. While Pride wasn’t your vice of choice, you did like to dabble in that sin from time to time. Seeing the handsome devil in person was on your kicked-the-bucket list. Over drinks one evening, Husk had mentioned Alastor’s disdain for the king of Hell, and you hoped that meant you’d see little of the Radio Demon today.

Memories of last night were vague, but you could fill in the blanks well enough to know you drunkenly embarrassed yourself in front of him. Between your borderline flirting, detestable accent slipping in, and gratuitous French, you fought the knee-jerk reaction to swan dive out the window and introduce your face to the concrete. An extreme measure, sure, but desperate times, desperate measures, and all that jazz.

Remembering what exactly you said made your head throb from the effort. You couldn’t have been that wasted last night, right? Mot if the worst things you did were flirt, French, and fuck around… right?

Alcohol affected you in stages, and last night you were just past Stage One (the aforementioned triple-f comportment). At Stage Two, you overshared like a motherfucker, and your native English accent slipped into your speech; like a disk in your spine. Stage Three was… ugly. Really ugly. You’d devolve into a miserable maundering mess. Every regret or unsung feeling, every existential reflection of your choices, every cruel word from your mother’s mouth overwhelmed you.

It was in the throws of the third stage— sometime after setting Blitzø’s van on fire, but between hate-fuckings— you once confessed to him the circumstances of your death. Something you previously only shared with Rosie.

Flaunting flirtatious French fuckery around Alastor was enough to make you want to bury your head under a blanket of bricks. Ever since you planned to never be alone with Alastor, God in his everlasting cruelty made it his mission to stick you two together in embarrassing situations and laugh in your face.

Sighing, you finished your tea. No, you couldn’t blame God… no matter how much you wanted to. Your soul was a magnet and Alastor was a goddamn negative charge.

(Or however the fuck magnets worked…)

Case in point, you set your cup down and turned on your radio like you did every morning.

Despite getting little sleep last night, your body woke you like clockwork to listen to Alastor’s broadcast. The familiar wails of Alastor’s double damned victims greeted you. Their tormented screams melted into a lively piano instrumental that kicked off your morning routine.

Alastor’s mellifluous voice was your morning boon. The jocund inflection he infused into every word was enough to make the piano in your chest riff a merry little tune. You dressed and listened to him recount the latest news and goings on in the Pride Ring: territory takeovers, deals and disputes with the top Overlords, some juicy drama sprinkled in for extra flavor.

In the middle of applying your makeup, Alastor plugged the Hazbin Hotel, a last bit of business before he queued the next song.

“… and now for something a little easier on the ears for my listeners who might be finding themselves rather fried this morning. This one’s for you…”

The first few notes of Josephine Baker’s “C’est Lui” (a song entirely in French) wafted into your room, striking you dumb.

You smeared lipstick across your cheek. “Shit!” The aforementioned piano keys jammed in your rib cage. The rusty piano wires wrapped around your heart.

You wiped lipstick off your cheek. “Fuck me gently with a chainsaw…”

That crimson, deer-eared asshole teased you in front of all of Hell! No way that wasn’t at your expense, an inside joke for all to hear. The man was an absolute goblin. An utter terror. A little shit.

And you found yourself chuckling.

The soulless eyes of Vox’s sharks stared you down as you waited for the Overlord to arrive. You and the sharks were in the midst of a staring contest you were losing.

Was their water as cold as the room? Was that even water they swam in? Real sharks were cold-blooded, but these guys (gals? Fishy pals?) looked partially electronic. Luckily, you remember to dress in a sweater and thick tights under your skirt, although the fluff on your tail wasn’t full enough. It swished behind you in agitation, fur on end.

The door flew open and you blinked, cementing your loss to the predators. Vox strolled in, a big and nearly sincere smile on his screen as he approached you. “Temerity! You’re looking lovely; how are you fairing this fine, Hellish day?”

Business mode turned on. You smiled back. “Right as rain, Vox darling.”

Pleasantries, pleasantries. Vox guided you to sit, hand to the small of your back. He leaned one hand on the table, towering over you. “My dear, I noticed the phone I gave you was out of service. What happened there, doll?”

Your eyes rolled on their own. “Our ‘mutual friend’ happened. I know, I know, it's so hard to believe. Alastor’s such a technophile.”

He scoffed, an electronic effect frying the sound. “The regressive bastard can’t even let his friends decide if they want to embrace modernity. Fucking typical. I’ll send another one.”

“You don’t need to do that—“

“Nonsense! After all, I need to be able to contact you in a manner much more efficient than snail mail, don’t I?”

There was no weaseling out of phone ownership so long as you partnered with the Vees. Oh well. You’ve heard of hackers able to bypass the spying system. You’d have to look into that. And ask Angel to show you how to use the damn thing. And hide it from Alastor.

You smiled unctuously, chin on your laced fingers. “Well if you insist, I can’t refuse. Both our time is valuable, no sense in wasting it.”

His digital eyes glimmered with satisfaction, a nod that said “Very good.” Vox pushed himself off the table. “Temerity, there’s two reasons I called you here today. Velvette needs to fit you for the dress you’ll wear on the red carpet. However, with her meeting running behind, we have time to discuss the second matter at hand.”

A crackle of electricity in his hand manifested a small remote. He pressed a button and summoned a projector screen. “I heard last night you found yourself in a bit of an… altercation.”

Another click of a button played a video of last night’s club brawl, the footage taken from a hidden security camera. Dust and debris obscured most of the fight, with the occasional limb chucked across the dance floor like a macabre game of horseshoe. Then, when everything cleared, you were amongst your friends, slicing through men like holiday hams.

You glanced at Vox, brow raised. “I assure you I didn’t start that fight, but a lady always makes sure to end one.”

Vox laughed. “Oh, my dear, I didn’t bring you here to admonish you. We haven’t gone public with our partnership yet! There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve got to say you are quite the spitfire.”

A smolder deepened his gaze, a soft heat in his eyes. Your smile quirked. “Vox… Do you charm all your business partners like this?”

“Just the ones I find lovely.”

A gasp from you, playful and exaggerated. “Scoundrel! This is a place of business.”

He grinned, showing you those shark-like teeth. “Anyway, no harm done. I’m sure you won’t make a habit of bar-fighting potential clientele.”

Ah, and there it is! The admonishment you expected. The message was clear: mind yourself.

Your gaze narrowed slightly. Did he mistake you for some shortsighted teenager who needed the obvious pointed out? The condescension in his voice was doing him no favors… even if his voice was kinda sexy.

“Besides,” he added, not noticing the gleam of annoyance in your eyes, “your little scuffle made you quite popular.”

Vox hit the button again. Up popped one of the pictures you took with Angel last night from his social media (and don’t ask you which— they were all the same to you). He had an arm around your shoulder and another around your waist as you pressed into his side. Both your smiles shone bright and fierce. From the high-up angle of the shot, your cleavage was on full display, breasts spilling out of your dress and the picture. Of all the pictures for Vox to pull up so quickly it had to be this one…

Vox scrolled through the comments. “Searches for your name and your businesses have gone up exponentially since last night, which is wonderful exposure. There’s no bad publicity, in your case anyway.”

He droned on about the cultivation of your public image and other technobabble you didn’t understand. You hardly heard him as you read the comments. What in the holy Hell did “bark bark bark mommy/hj” or little pictures of eggplants next to water droplets mean? Moments like these reminded you how old you really were.

You leaned forward, face twisted in confusion that bordered on contempt. “This is great and all, but should I even want to know what 'show me dat raccoon gyatt’ means?”

“It's all positive, I assure you!”

Your least favorite Vee sauntered in, wings wrapped around his spindly form like a robe, unaware or not caring that he was interrupting. Oh, and of course this ass had a Robotic Fizzaroli trailing behind like an awestruck puppy, carrying two drinks on a platter.

Bile congealed in your throat at the sight of him. Your eye twitched, and your headache was coming back. Wonderful.

A century of practice kept the disgust off your face, but you couldn’t help but recoil at the smell of pheromones oozing from his every pore. You had no time to hold your breath as the moth demon traipsed past your chair and sat on the table between you and Vox. The aphrodisiac burned the sinuses of your sensitive nose.

All relaxed, Valentino regarded you with a sharp smile that didn’t meet his eyes. He held out his hand and the Fizzaroli-bot handed him a drink and the other to Vox. ”So you’re the little minx who stole Voxxy away from me and had me let Angel act in your little play?” He chuckled, but it held no warmth.

He said the word ‘play’ like you would say ‘anal warts’ or ‘Valentino.’

Vox introduced you two. Ever the professional, you reached out your hand to shake his. “Valentino, it’s a—”

He took your hand and pulled it to his lips in, what you thought, was to kiss it. Instead, he pushed up the sleeve of your sweater to lick you, knuckles to elbow. Electric needles stung in the trail of the slimy appendage.

Your smile soured as you cringed hard enough to crack your ribs. ”…pleasure.”

The smug man smirked at you, dropping your hand, satisfied. “Aren’t you just the most adorable little trash panda~”

He grabbed your face with one hand and inspected you like a bug under a magnifying glass.

Don’tscratchhiseyesoutdon’tscratchhiseyesout, that’ll prove his point, don’t—

“Tell me mapache, why do I recognize you?” He chuckled again, toxic breath washing over you, smoothing out the wrinkles on your brain and replacing all thoughts with static.

Unease colored your laughter, the sound more unconvincing than you wanted. The cliche, “I have one of those faces,” tumbled from your mouth somehow.

Vox sat at the head of the table, looking cross with his partner. “Val, is there a reason you’re here?”

“I had a minute free and wanted to see what you were up to… and with who, mi cariño.” A playful flick to one of Vox’s antennas. “Am I interrupting your private meeting? Were you planning on giving her one of your… oral reports?”

Vox’s screen colored adorably. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped when his phone vibrated inside his jacket pocket. Excusing himself, you were left all alone with the moth demon. He busied himself with finishing his drink and lighting a cigarette in a slender black holder, saving you from small talk, at least for a moment.

Valentino’s smoke wafted over you, making your stomach turn in a mix of nausea and excitement, the act a disgusting reminder of an old memory.

“Are you sure you haven’t done porn before? It couldn’t have been for me, I’d never let a cutie like you go.”

When you laughed politely he added, “No, I’m serious. I’d shoot you right between your pretty little eyes if you tried to leave.”

He said it lightly like he was flirting. It’d be easy to assume he was joking, but many truths were said in jest.

You could play that fucked up game.

In a move that surprised you, you stood, knee sliding on the table as you leaned into his space. You fixed him with a dangerous grin, fangs flashing.

“Valentino…” you drew out his name as your fingers walked up his arm. Your hand reached his chest, warm through his winged robe. “I’d slit your goddamn throat before you ever got the chance.”

He blinked, caught off guard. Then chuckled, low and throaty, venom drooling down his chin. “Mmm… you’re a feisty one. I can see why Vox is so… interested in you.”

Your chest heaved as you took deep, shuddering breaths. The smell of his smoke, him, was intoxicating, revolting, and dizzying all at once. You had the horrifyingly intrusive thought to see for yourself how he tasted, to drink sweet poison from the source.

Shiiiiiiit.

You eased away, biting your lip. A fang pierced the flesh and you tasted blood, the metallic taste guiding you back to your senses.

The air was thicker around the two of you now, heavy with a tension you never wanted with this demon. With the smug look he was giving you, he was more than receptive to it.

Shiiiiiiiiiiiiii—

To your massive relief, Vox returned. He shooed Valentino back to his studio, then escorted you to Velvette’s workshop before taking off to do more work.

Velvette was… abrasive. Under different circumstances, you might’ve liked her, but her type-A energy combined with her accent reminded you too much of your mother. Not to mention how she mass-produced date rape drugs… The source of those drugs you just had prolonged exposure to. Your mind was still foggy, your skin burned cold.

You were grateful that Velvette could change and adjust several dresses with a snap of her fingers. As a girl, you hated being poked and prodded all over, hated how the seamstresses manhandled you to size you for dresses you hated. The loose garments of the Roaring Twenties were a welcomed change.

In your current state, being manhandled would be rather enjoyable, which was the last thing you wanted right now.

Velvette snapped again and examined the outfit you wore with harsher scrutiny than you thought necessary. “Do a spin for me.”

You did as asked. The VoxTech blue (or Vlue™) dress was long yet revealing, shimmery with delicate silver chains and scant red highlights. It was gorgeous, but you weren’t in the right headspace to appreciate it.

Velvette nodded, approaching you. “I'll do some touch-ups. As for your choker…”

She reached for it and you pulled away. “No.” You touched it, fingers brushing over the pulsating eyes sitting in place of a jewel. “It’s sentimental. It stays.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. I can make that work.”

Finally, you were out of that nightmare tower.

After struggling for so long to keep your head above water you stopped fighting. You let yourself slip under the water of your induced heat, the cruel and apathetic ocean sweeping you away.

It made you sick. Your stomach churned with anxiety and unwanted arousal. Many sinners with animal features experienced estrus and ruts. Yours was always unwelcomed. In recent years, there were pills available to dull it, which you popped like Tic Tacs.

You knew others chose to ride it out or embrace it, but you never did. You hated feeling so out of control of your own body. Denying your cravings and suppressing the feelings put the reins back in your hands. You weren’t a stranger to enjoying the temptations of the flesh (duh), but you couldn’t enjoy it when your mind and body weren’t in agreement. And you voted with your mind every time. It’d be too easy to get hurt or taken advantage of. You couldn’t let that happen again.

And you couldn’t go back to the hotel. You couldn’t work like this. You couldn’t let anyone see you like this.

You couldn’t let Alastor see you like this.

The simple thought of him was enough to drive you wild, your brain drowned in the flood of a hundred sensual scenarios. His clawed hands on you would feel like paradise, his weight and warmth against you divine. Lord that mouth, his perfect fucking mouth. He’d devour you. Literally, metaphorically, whatever. Either way, you’d let him.

You slapped yourself and swerved back onto the road, dodging most of a pedestrian. You’re not yet delusional enough to think seeing him while in this state would be anything other than a death sentence for you. He’d be disgusted with you. Revolted.

You’d sooner die than throw yourself at Alastor like a rutting animal. You’d sooner crash your car into that dragon statue in front of the hotel than—

Foot to brake, your tires screeched like mad. Your car skidded straight into the statue. You pitched forward, head slamming into the steering wheel. Glass exploded. The world turned black. When you came to, you sobered long enough to stumble out of the car.

While the statue was fine, the front of your beloved car now resembled a smashed soda can. Blood dripped from your hairline and down your temple. Shattered glass pierced your skin and tore your tights.

The static of distress invaded the space between skin and bone. If your heart was pounding before, then it was throbbing now. It pounded like a steel drum against your rib cage. Everyone in the hotel could probably hear it.

The hotel. Someone was bound to come out and see what all the commotion was. Help was behind the doors of the hotel... but so was Alastor.

It took all your strength to turn and walk away, your bones more liquid than solid and your brain more gas than liquid. You needed to get away to safety. Away. You cling to the idea like a life raft, trusting it to keep you afloat.

Heartbeat in your eyes blurring your vision, you staggered your way through the streets of Hell.

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♥︎Taglist♥︎

@forbidding-souda

@mo-0-o

@joumi13

@the--rebel--fae

@babesway22

@maychay

@mullet-mother

#alastor x reader #alastor x oc #alastor x female reader #alastor x you #hazbin x oc #hazbin x reader #hazbin x you #reader #reader fic #reader insert #alastor fanfiction #alastor #hazbin vox #valentino

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spacetimewithstuartgary · 6 months ago

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Shrouded in axions

Physicists show that neutron stars may be shrouded in clouds of ‘axions’ – and that these clouds can teach us a lot

A team of physicists from the universities of Amsterdam, Princeton and Oxford have shown that extremely light particles known as axions may occur in large clouds around neutron stars. These axions could form an explanation for the elusive dark matter that cosmologists search for – and moreover, they might not be too difficult to observe.

Earlier this week, the new research was published in the journal Physical Review X. The paper is a follow-up to previous work, in which the authors also studied axions and neutron stars, but from a completely different point of view. While in their previous work they investigated the axions that escape the neutron star, now the researchers focus on the ones that are left behind – the axions that get captured by the star’s gravity. As time goes by, these particles should gradually form a hazy cloud around the neutron star, and it turns out that such axion clouds may well be observable in our telescopes. But why would astronomers and physicists be so interested in hazy clouds around far away stars?

Axions: from soap to dark matter

Protons, neutrons, electrons, photons – most of us are familiar with the names of at least some of these tiny particles. The axion is lesser known, and for a good reason: at the moment it is only a hypothetical type of particle – one that nobody has yet detected. Named after a brand of soap, its existence was first postulated in the 1970s, to clean up a problem – hence the soap reference – in our understanding of one of the particles we could observe very well: the neutron. However, while theoretically very nice, if these axions existed they would be extremely light, making them very hard to detect in experiments or observations.

Today, axions are also known as a frontrunning candidate to explain dark matter, one of the biggest mysteries in contemporary physics. Many different pieces of evidence suggest that approximately 85% of the matter content in our Universe is ‘dark’, which simply means that it is not made up of any type of matter that we know and can currently observe. Instead, the existence of dark matter is only inferred indirectly through the gravitational influence it exerts on visible matter. Fortunately, this does not automatically mean that dark matter has no other interactions with visible matter at all, but if such interactions exist their strength is necessarily tiny. As the name suggests, any viable dark matter candidate is thus incredibly difficult to directly observe.

Putting one and one together, physicists have realized that the axion may be exactly what they are looking for to solve the dark matter problem. A particle that has not yet been observed, which would be extremely light, and have very weak interactions with other particles… could axions be at least part of the explanation for dark matter?

Neutron stars as magnifying glasses

The idea of the axion as a dark matter particle is nice, but in physics an idea is only truly nice if it has observable consequences. Would there be a way to observe axions after all, fifty years after their possible existence was first proposed?

When exposed to electric and magnetic fields, axions are expected to be able to convert into photons – particles of light – and vice versa. Light is something we know how to observe, but as mentioned, the corresponding interaction strength should be very small, and therefore so is the amount of light that axions generally produce. That is, unless one considers an environment containing a truly massive amount of axions, ideally in very strong electromagnetic fields.

This led the researchers to consider neutron stars, the densest known stars in our Universe. These objects have masses similar to that of our Sun but compressed into stars of 12 to 15 kilometres in size. Such extreme densities create an equally extreme environment that, notably, also contains enormous magnetic fields, billions of times stronger than any we find on Earth. Recent research has shown that if axions exist, these magnetic fields allow for neutron stars to mass-produce these particles near their surface.

The ones that stay behind

In their previous work, the authors focused on the axions that after production escaped the star – they computed the amounts in which these axions would be produced, which trajectories they would follow, and how their conversion into light could lead to a weak but potentially observable signal. This time, they consider the axions that do not manage to escape – the ones that, despite their tiny mass, get caught by the neutron star’s immense gravity.

Due to the axion’s very feeble interactions, these particles will stay around, and on timescales up to millions of years they will accumulate around the neutron star. This can result in the formation of very dense clouds of axions around neutron stars, which provide some incredible new opportunities for axion research. In their paper, the researchers study the formation, as well as the properties and further evolution, of these axion clouds, pointing out that they should, and in many cases must, exist. In fact, the authors argue that if axions exist, axion clouds should be generic (for a wide range of axion properties they should form around most, perhaps even all, neutron stars), they should in general be very dense (forming a density possibly twenty orders of magnitude larger than local dark matter densities), and because of this they should lead to powerful observational signatures. The latter potentially come in many types, of which the authors discuss two: a continuous signal emitted during large parts of a neutron star’s lifetime, but also a one-time burst of light at the end of a neutron star’s life, when it stops producing its electromagnetic radiation. Both of these signatures could be observed and used to probe the interaction between axions and photons beyond current limits, even using existing radio telescopes.

What’s next?

While so far, no axion clouds have been observed, with the new results we know very precisely what to look for, making a thorough search for axions much more feasible. While the main point on the to do-list is therefore ‘search for axion clouds’, the work also opens up several new theoretical avenues to explore.

For one thing, one of the authors is already involved in follow-up work that studies how the axion clouds can change the dynamics of neutron stars themselves. Another important future research direction is the numerical modelling of axion clouds: the present paper shows great discovery potential, but there is more numerical modelling needed to know even more precisely what to look for and where. Finally, the present results are all for single neutron stars, but many of these stars appear as components of binaries – sometimes together with another neutron star, sometimes together with a black hole. Understanding the physics of axion clouds in such systems, and potentially understanding their observational signals, would be very valuable.

Thus, the present work is an important step in a new and exciting research direction. A full understanding of axion clouds will require complementary efforts from multiple branches of science, including particle (astro)physics, plasma physics, and observational radio astronomy. This work opens up this new, cross-disciplinary field with lots of opportunities for future research.

#science #space #astronomy #physics #news #nasa #astrophysics #esa

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messinwitheddie · 1 year ago

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Squee "Nny!! It's been, like, 45 minutes! It's a tiny-ass mobile home! What are you still DOING in there?!"

Nny "Right now, I'm sitting on the ugliest crushed velvet couch I've ever seen while eating a big bowl of the best slow cooker chili I've ever had. I can't wait to learn this recipe in the future. On that note, I should invest in a slow cooker."

Squee "Come on, man! You haven't found ANY physical proof he's not the future you yet??"

Nny "I mean... Other than the alarming number of empty tequila bottles left all over the place."

Squee "Ok, well, you never drink, so he's not you. Mystery solved. Let's ho home, please?"

Nny "Eh... I've started worse habits.

Future me is supposedly dying. Maybe I just stop caring."

Squee "Jesus, Nny, really?"

Nny "He lied about having wife. I haven't found any kind of medical bills or ID or photos or anything-"

Squee "Maybe he keeps his ID and important papers on him at all times, because, you know, cops are dicks."

Nny "Maybe, but-- The fuck--? Future me has a vintage dough boy salt shaker... And it's filled with baby teeth!"

Squee "What?"

Nny "Baby teeth, some shiny rocks and a Canadian dime?... I'm going to draw on it. See if I notice."

Squee "Don't draw on his shit, man."

Nny "Seriously, what's with the teeth?

I found a JAR completely filled with gold-capped teeth in his bathroom cupboard. I found a 25 lb bag of powdered lime in his pantry-"

Squee "Oh God..."

Nny "Yup. Just like the one in my pantry--

A chest filled with jewelry-- pirate booty shit."

Squee "That's kind of neat--"

Nny "And a BIRD WATCHING diary filled with nothing but terrible doodles of the local bird population. NO WORDS."

[Previous page

(Excuse any and all spelling mistakes. I always overlook one or two.

Oh, the invasion of privacy. Poor Mr. Casarez. Don't shit on his hobby, Nny lol.

To me, one of the funniest things Nny does, at least according to Twitter what I recall, is break into peoples' homes and helps himself to their stuff before killing them (because it's all fiction!! To be clear. I wouldn't think it was funny if it happened to a real life neighbor or real life person in general.)

Also, now I really want chili, but it's almost well past 3 AM and I have no ingredients for good chili. My fridge is all condiments at the moment. Been a rough year...

Finally, Noise is born!! Sorry, @psycho-doughart for the slow crawl to his debut. Poor little guy doesn't have a voice yet.

Again, I really appreciate any reblogs, comments or tag-comments I've received from previous strips. Tugs my heart strings.]

#jthm #nny #squee #nny's looper #au #oc #noise #dough boy

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satoshi-mochida · 9 months ago

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Emio - The Smiling Man: Famicom Detective Club announced for Switch - Gematsu

Following a teaser last week, Nintendo has announced mystery adventure game Emio – The Smiling Man: Famicom Detective Club for Switch. It is the first new Famicom Detective Club story in 35 years, following the previously released first and second installments in the series. It will launch both physically and digitally on August 29 worldwide for $49.99.

Here is an overview of the game, via Nintendo.com:

About

Investigate a brutal death and its connection to an urban legend. A student has been found dead! His head was covered with a paper bag with an eerie smiling face drawn on it—much like the victims of Emio, the Smiling Man—a killer of urban legend who is said to place such a bag over his victims’ heads. As an assistant private investigator, you are tasked with helping police solve this crime, which is reminiscent of a series of unsolved murders from 18 years ago. Has a serial killer returned, or is this the work of a copycat? Are these crimes inspired by the Smiling Man story, or the origin of it? Discover the answers to these questions and more as a member of the Utsugi Detective Agency in this intense story of suspicion, isolation, and fragility.

Explore an Interactive Drama Full of Interesting Characters

Continue the adventures of the Utsugi Detective Agency with the return of familiar characters—including the returning protagonist from previous games, and Ayumi Tachibana, who is now playable in certain sections of the game for the first time in the series! Playing as the investigative duo, you’ll need to learn a lot about the personalities and backstories of the other characters if you want to discover the truth. Who is harmless, and who is keeping important secrets? Ask questions, reference your notes, and make connections—you’ll have to order your thoughts and examine your leads carefully to draw the right conclusions.

Watch a video message from producer Yoshio Sakamoto below. View the first screenshots at the gallery.

A Chat With Producer Yoshio Sakamoto

English

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Japanese

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#Emio: The Smiling Man: Famicom Detective Club #Emio: The Smiling Man #Famicom Detective Club #visual novel #adventure game #Nintendo #Nintendo Switch #Gematsu #Glad this one is actually releaseing physically unlike the other 2.#Youtube

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scribbleseas · 2 years ago

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Straight Laced, Chapter II: To Be A Decent Friend…

Description: After the London’s Royal Ballet company’s prima ballerina goes missing within a string of mysterious disappearances among the ballet’s young ballerinas, you finally get your chance to debut in the leading role, taking on the position’s physical toil and immense social pressure. Although this role was supposed to be your grand jeté into the spotlight, it is quickly complicated when these disappearances catch the eye of Ciel Phantomhive — the Queen’s Guard Dog. He is a captious and shrewd man who also happens to be one of London’s most eligible bachelors.

For enough profit for you to secure your freedom for the first time, Lord Phantomhive double casts you as both his accomplice to solving these dancer disappearances and… his pretend lover. While debuting as London’s new prima ballerina, you must perfect a brand new routine: deceiving all of the nation’s polite society while actively searching for a serial killer — all while being an immigrant from France with a dancer’s reputation.

What could go wrong when you realize this off-stage performance of yours may not be an act at all?

Story Warnings: detailed description of gore, pain, and violence, detailed death, smut & explicit sexual scenes, objectification, prostitution, allusions to under-aged prostitution, smoking, drinking, eating disorder tendencies (food restriction, frequent references to wanting to maintain a certain weight, over-practicing & exercising), infidelity, fake courtship, swearing

Author’s Note: I have nothing to say for myself, except: I started a summer job & also three new fics. Two of which nearly have debut chapters that are set to come out very, very soon. Get ready, Levi fans. You’re getting fed. Soon.

I digress; I hope you all like this chapter! It took way longer than I wanted, and I’m so serious when I say that finishing up what I had done 2 weeks ago took like a 2-hour sitting. Yikes, but at least this one is heavily edited!!

Happy Reading,

Dan

MASTERLIST

⇐ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇒

Early October, 1895

The Royal Opera House, Backstage

You couldn’t seem to escape Ciel Phantomhive, though it had been about a week since you last encountered him. There was a paper clipping adhered to your vanity mirror reading presumably, his office’s telephone number and his initials: CP. No matter what you tried, you couldn’t seem to scrape the paper off. All you managed to do was pick uselessly at the edges of the clipping.

It was his means of mocking you, reminding you of your perceived selfishness. You were not selfish. You were reasonable. You were looking out for yourself— something a woman of your age and stature had to.

You watched your reflection in the mirror as you began to retouch your ballerina bun (it was somewhat loose from the performance’s first three acts) as you reflected on that exchange. The terribly patronizing conversation that transpired between you and the noble lord. The insufferable noble lord who was the product of European society favoring wealthy men.

“You need to realize that these dancers — who are either dead or abducted — are from your company! Or are you too content in your new role to care?” Ciel demanded.

Of course you cared! How could he accuse you of such selfishness? Because of his warning, you were hypervigilant when you left the theater, wary of new subscribers, observant when it came to other company member’s attendances.

In fact, it was your newfound caution that led you to realizing Amélie had not been present in days. The last you saw of her was Sunday’s night performance — she went home, and according to Natasha, had been suffering from some kind of stomach ailment.

After tonight’s show, you planned to check on Amélie. Throughout the years you knew her, she was a kind friend to you, from growing up in the same dance school to moving to Britain together. Even if you were reluctant to consider her your friend, since you last interacted with her about a month ago— even if she was from home.

You had no inkling of what you might do if you were about to find her dead. Call the Yard? Given that you were a ballerina, there wasn’t much else you could do. How could Ciel possibly need you to solve these disappearances if all you could do was make a call in the instance of finding a corpse?

There was nothing you could do that Ciel couldn’t himself, as much as you hated admitting so. At the end of the day, caring did not save lives. Solving real mysteries took real logic and precision that went beyond flawless composure on a stage. After all, this wasn’t some idealistic book where the heroine is merely reluctant to step into the light. All you were was yourself— a dancer who grew squeamish at the sight of blood and enraged at the thought of another privileged noble taking advantage of you.

And yet, Ciel’s telephone number continued to etch itself into the front of your mind. Without meaning to, you had the digits memorized.

You shook your head, chastising yourself. You only had a few moments left before the final act of the night. There was no room in your mind for any other concerns. It was a perfect performance and you refused to lose focus now. All you needed to do was finish the night perfectly, and you would be able to check on your…friend.

Midnight

A Small Townhouse in Birmingham

“Amélie, it’s Y/n,” you tapped your knuckles against her room’s door. She shared a townhome with a number of other dancers her age— though not all of them worked in London’s Royal Opera. One of the roommates let you inside, though she warned you that Amélie hadn’t left her quarters all day.

“We don’t know her enough to just barge in, but we were gettin’ worried— headaches don’t last for more than a coupla days. Thank you for comin’ by.” the roommate shrugged her thin shoulders before showing herself back down the old stairway. “Help yourself to anything. I need to get to rehearsal,” she added before proceeding down the stairs.

Headaches? You were told she was suffering from a stomach ailment.

Technically, you didn’t know Amélie well enough let yourself into her bedroom either, but she hadn’t picked up the house telephone nor sent word to Natasha. You couldn’t help but worry after Ciel told you why so many company members were disappearing.

“Yes. Thank you for allowing me inside,” you replied after roommate. She acknowledged your gratitude with a thin smile, a gesture of goodwill. The expression was slightly colder than a smile you would offer a patron.

“Lock the door on your way out!” The roommate’s distant voice reminded you, interrupted by the sound of a closing front door.

“Amélie!” You turned back towards the bedroom door and raised your voice. “I brought you ginger tea and a loaf of bread,” you reluctantly twisted the doorknob. It was unlocked. “From that bakery by the opera house. They can help calm your stomach…or the warmth with your head, I suppose…” You waited another few moments before fully twisting the knob and opening the door. The old hinges rasped, complaining because the townhouse had to be built decades ago. You weren’t sure it even had a washroom.

Her room was neat, everything in its rightful place— there was nothing more like her than a tidy living space. It only took moments for you to note her mess of brown hair on her pillow, the frizzy waves motionless as if she wasn’t respirating. She laid on her side, face shrouded by her riotous hair.

“…Amélie?” You took tentative steps closer towards her bed, a sense of dread gnawing at your stomach. The closer you were, the more noticeable the foul scent in the room became. One of your trembling hands reached out and pushed some of the dancer’s hair out of her face with a newfound urgency.

Moving Amélie’s hair revealed her slack face; her hazel eyes glazed over and bloodshot. Her skin, once sunkissed and tan, was ashen with death. She had deep bruising against areas of her body that pressed against the pillow or the mattress beneath her.

In tandem with your shocked scream, you dropped the bag containing her gifts. You removed your hand from her body as if it were burning. Your breath came to you in short, panicked, bursts as you forced yourself to squeeze your eyes closed. Your other hand flew to your mouth, your gag reflex more than triggered by your incidental staring contest with your childhood friend’s corpse.

This cannot be real, this cannot be real. This. Cannot. Be. Real…This cannot be….

“No, no, no, no,” you repeated the word so quickly that it began to resemble the French equivalent, non. Your frenzied voice matched the horrified thoughts voiced in your mind. Your eyes welled with tears as you choked on a sob, wary about vomiting but nearly unable to fight the rising bile and excess saliva in your throat. It hurt to look at her, but you couldn’t seem to force yourself to look away.

She was dead. The only part of home you had with you was dead. The only person you would consider a friend was dead. Finished. No more. She was dead because someone killed her.

Someone killed her.

“You need to realize that these dancers — who are either dead or abducted — are from your company!” Ciel’s words repeated once more, forcing another sob to rip out of your chest. Your tears fell in steady streams, warm and salty. They blurred your vision as you continued to stare into her eyes, the whites stained with blood. Could you have prevented this? Were you just as guilty as the true perpetrator because you refused to help the investigation?

“I am— s-so…sor—...so sorry,” you managed, your trembling hands unable to wipe your tears fast enough. You squeezed your eyes closed and tried to collect your thoughts. How could you have the audacity to cry, in the first place? After you stopped being her friend to focus on your professional career, you hardly had the right to grieve. Truthfully, you could hardly recall her surname. Was it Langston? No—Langford.

Even if you did grow apart, it was still beyond difficult to be in the same room as a decaying corpse. There was only nothingness behind her eyes but they continued to watch you, unable to move elsewhere. They reprimanded you and forced you to mull over whether or not you could have helped prevent her death.

You reluctantly closed her eyes for her, sighing when she looked more like a sleeping figure, rather than a decaying corpse.

In search of help, you noticed a candlestick telephone on Amélie’s nightstand. The roommates must have allowed her to keep it in her room for the duration of her illness, in the event she needed a doctor. The receiver was off its hook, motionless as it hung next to the nightstand. The knot in your stomach only clenched harder at the thought of Amélie being in a medical emergency and reaching for the telephone, only to die before the call could go through. Medical emergency. Could she have been poisoned? You didn’t believe in coincidences enough to think that Amélie’s illness was an instance of accidental food poisoning. Not after Ciel’s warning.

Hesitantly, you held the receiver to your ear and used your free hand to dial the number you memorized. There was an ebbing doubt in the back of your mind that no one would pick up. It was nearly midnight, after all. The Earl had to have retired for the night already.

Despite the time, there was a confirmative click that indicated that someone answered the call.

“Is-is someone there? I need to speak with Ciel Phantomhive. My— I… it’s Y/n Y/l/n. Please, I need to speak to him,” you managed to keep your words steady until you finished your piece — your voice weak and nasally from crying — but you burst into a fresh sob afterwards.

Lord Phantomhive, the corrective thought surfaced briefly. What difference did it make? You found a dead body. A corpse. A corpse that you very well could end up like, if this killer continued.

“Lord Phantomhive.” A serious, yet drowsy voice chastised once you managed to control your crying, minimizing it to staccato inhales through your mouth. Your crying clogged your nose too much. “What is it, Y/n?” he asked boredly, as if you would be calling for a trivial issue in the middle of the night.

“My-my friend is dead,” you glanced back over your shoulder to look at Amélie as if you were confirming that she was truly gone. There was a throb of guilt in your heart when you referred to her as your friend. “I just found her, and I don’t know who, or if someone killed her, or if there was an accident, but…I—” you rambled, explaining all of the events of the night. Ciel listened silently, and there was a soft rustling over the line as he wrote down the townhouse’s address.

“We will be right there. Do not call the Yard, and do not touch the body. Stay there, Y/n. Do you understand me?” Ciel asked sternly. You could hear his scowl over the telephone, it was a look so distinguishable that you could paint it in your mind with only a few words.

“I said: do you understand me? I need you to answer the question and stop blubbering.”

“I… yes. I understand, but— please do not end the c—” you started to beg, despite yourself.

“Good. Stay put.” The line died.

While you waited, you opted to sit on Amélie’s fire escape and light a cigar. After checking for an even light at the cigar’s foot, you took a long drag of it. The familiar feeling of smoke filling your mouth caused your eyes to flutter shut, comforted by the bitter taste on your tongue. Your head pounded from the stress that finding her body put on it.

You removed the cigar from your mouth and drew the smoke into your mouth. Watching it flow out of your mouth and into the dark atmosphere in front of you was almost as therapeutic as a standing ovation.

Amélie was dead. You were the same age as she was. You grew up together, mastering your pirouettes in the same classes and having your first kisses at fourteen. You let her become a minor character in your life because you felt that the only person there was room for in your life was yourself. If you cared more, you would have checked on her days ago, and she might have been alive. You could have helped her.

Or if you accepted Ciel’s offer, you might have been able to help stop the murders with Janet. Why did you refuse so vehemently? The guilt gnawed at your conscience like a rabid, starving dog.

You watched another lungful of smoke billow out into the night sky.

If, if, if….

“It is unladylike to smoke,” Ciel’s disdainful voice said. It came from behind you, causing your head to jerk back in a panic. In your surprise, you dropped your cigar, forcing you to crush it under your heel. What a waste of a good cigar. He arrived sooner than you thought he would— only a handful of minutes passed since you perched on the outdoor stairway.

“There are more important matters to concern ourselves with, are there not?” You smarted, rubbing any fresh tears from your eyes. You weren’t aware you were still crying, but your body indicated that for you now that you were back to your senses, forcibly removed from your thoughts.

“I suppose,” Ciel replied flatly, too calm, too bored for someone summoned to a crime scene. He took a glance over his shoulder, checking in with his butler in a wordless exchange. His head tilted down in a subtle nod. “We have everything we need from the scene. The Yard will be here promptly and I would like to make my leave before that happens.” He said the police force’s name like a curse.

“Everything you need?” You questioned, shifting on the stair before pulling yourself to your feet. Having to crane your head upwards at him was too awkward, and even with the gesture you could barely see him. Save from the bedroom behind Ciel, it was almost completely dark outside. You could hardly see the Earl’s face.

“Yes,” his gaze followed your body, analyzing the graceful way you carried yourself, even when you were distraught. It was instilled into you, worked into your muscles like forged steel.

“Are you able to get yourself home?” Ciel asked, an uncharacteristic gesture of empathy. He opened the door and let himself in, leaving a hand on it to make room for you behind him. “Or at the very least, someone we may call for you?”

Your first instinct was to ask him to call Natasha, but he doubted he would comply, given his clear contempt for your director. She was the only person you trusted. You had systematically removed everyone else from your life to focus on your career.

That didn’t make you selfish; it made you smart. If you were a poor friend for the sake of your career, that was perfectly—

The face of Amélie’s corpse flashed into your mind as you stepped back inside her room. The butler covered her for the time being, but that didn’t stop your guilt from continuing to eat at you. It was painful and terse, too real for you to ignore.

“No, there is not.” You took a trembling inhale, coming to terms with why you felt this guilt.

You were selfish, to a degree. Ciel was not entirely wrong in his assessment of you, a vain person who had and only expected to rely on herself. You were self-made down to your core. No one perfected your dancing for you; no one moved you from France; no one handled your suitors for you.

“Then I suppose…you may join us in the carriage. If you would like,” Ciel said, noticing your look of confusion. He didn’t care for your well-being; you were a commoner. Why pretend to? “It is unsafe for a lady to travel alone at this hour.” He hurriedly explained, causing you to nod your understanding. It was past midnight, after all.

Before you could respond, Ciel’s butler returned to the bedroom, briefly sizing you up before addressing his master. “My Lord, I was able to confirm that the young woman was indeed poisoned. Dimethylmercury,” he pronounced the chemical’s name perfectly and without a hint of hesitation. “It is a strong neurotoxin, a colorless liquid and easily absorbed through the skin.”

The Earl’s lips pulled into a grim line, but he didn’t seem surprised. That secured the incident as a murder. And your fault, directly.

“Did she suffer?” You asked before you could stop yourself. You doubted you wanted to know the answer.

“Miss Y/l/n, this particular poison attacks the body’s central nervous system, but it is incredibly slow acting. Your friend was likely infected weeks ago, and only recently started feeling the symptoms…blindness, difficulty hearing, paresthesias, dysarthria….” Sebastian explained, his handsome features creasing into an expression close to pity. He made a pointed effort not to directly answer your question, but it was safe to assume that the short answer to was yes, she suffered immensely.

You couldn’t imagine losing your sight and your hearing gradually over the span of a few weeks, much less any of the other symptoms Sebastian named. You didn’t know what they were— you weren’t a doctor — but you imagined they were just as horrifying.

Tears welled in your eyes as you looked at the sheet that covered Amélie once more. You thought of the guilt pooling in your stomach, crushing your heart, and crowding your mind.

The back of your dominant hand aggressively wiped the tears away.

It wasn’t too late to be a decent friend. To join the investigation and take down the bastard who brutally killed her and so many other company members. A new m fire burned bright in your heart— not a desire to find out what happened to other missing dancers — a need.

Their families deserved the truth. Your surviving colleagues deserved to be vigilant. The victims deserved justice. Amélie deserved some friendship from you. You owed her this.

“Ciel,” you said quietly, taking stabilizing breaths. For a moment, you squeezed your bloodshot eyes closed, giving yourself the courage you needed to say the next few words. On either side of you, your fingers clenched and unclenched with uncertainty, and with a new vehemence you struggled to express. You swallowed with difficulty.

“How may I be of use to your investigation?”

In his surprise, the Earl didn’t even correct the way you addressed him. Instead, his exposed eye widened, replacing the stoic expression that his elegant features normally settled into.

The Next Morning

The Phantomhive Estate’s Dining Table

There was an impressive spread laid out on the table in front of you— more food than you had ever seen in one place. Potentially, more food than you consumed in a week. Even so, you convinced yourself you were full after scooping out a few spoonfuls of sliced strawberries and a half a croissant. You hated yourself for the croissant, and then you hated yourself for focusing on your diet when you needed to listen to what Ciel was saying.

You are not hungry, Y/n. That pastry was plenty, Natasha would tell you. Then, she would suggest you practice for an extra half hour to make up for it. You made a mental note to do so after Sebastian brought you back to your home.

“I need you to be discreet. I want to find patterns: which ballerinas are getting killed, who are their patrons?” He explained, putting a generous smear of butter over his croissant. You tried your best not to cringe at the addition, more than aware of how much butter was used to bake the pastry to begin with, and how much fat Ciel was adding to an already fattening delicacy.

You took a short sip out of your café serré, comforted by its familiar bitterness. For a British man, Sebastian made the drink rather well.

“At this point, we are assuming all missing ballerinas are dead, yes?” Your voice wavered at the question, because it would indicate that ten company members have been murdered at this point. It made you sick, a feeling that you nearly embraced for two reasons: keeping yourself from eating the other half of your croissant, and to punish yourself. That number could have been nine if you agreed to help sooner.

But logically, you knew that wasn’t true, either. Sebastian distinctly said that Amélie was poisoned weeks ago— before Ciel approached you. Before you turned him down. There was nothing you could have done, besides be there for her…

You didn’t do that, either.

“Yes. This killer does not hesitate, clearly,” Ciel replied, unsure of how to comfort your crestfallen expression. He settled on ignoring the look. “You need to keep a close eye on all of the ensemble. Gauge their relationships with their subscribers, with your director, and if anyone misses so much as a practice, tell me no matter what she tells you.”

“Rehearsal,” you corrected automatically, causing Ciel to scoff. You knew what he was thinking— if you couldn’t deign to address him correctly, why should he employ accurate terms for your profession? You could tell him why.

“If you are going to be my patron, you should be aware that we call our Nutcracker practices rehearsals,” you reminded him. Ciel had suggested he continue posing as your only subscriber in an effort to both keep you safe (if a particular patron was the killer) and keep Natasha from growing suspicious— though you doubted she was. All Natasha was concerned with was maintaining the company’s perfection. You had never met anyone so unaware of any insidious agenda because she, like you, had no room for anything else in her life. Not even her marriage.

“Minute details such as that are irrelevant. No one will question us,” he answered without missing a beat, the double meaning in his words as clear as day. ‘No one will question me.’

No, of course not. Who would question the Lord Ciel Phantomhive? A God amongst men? You thought you kept the words to yourself, until you noticed the sour look the Earl was sending you from across the table. Uncertain, you tilted your head, biting back a sarcastic smile. You tried to purse your lips into neutrality.

“Pardon me?” Ciel asked, raising a disdainful eyebrow. “You should understand that we are not courting. Whether or not I refer to your dancing as practice or a rehearsal is entirely irrelevant,” he insisted, more offended than he was willing to express because it goaded you. However, making a mockery of his title made you feel more like yourself. A bit lighter after what you endured last night.

“I still think you should have a basic understanding of the arts, Ciel,” you shrugged dismissively.

“You must refer to me as Lord Phantomhive!” Ciel snapped, raising his voice for the first time that morning. You assumed he was attempting to be patient with you because you had finally agreed to fulfill his intended role for you. “You are a commoner. We are not friends. We are—”

“On a first name basis,” you interrupted, raising your voice to effectively cut off his tirade. “If we are investigating these murders together, we are doing so as equals. I will not stand for being degraded when you came to me, asking for my help!” You retorted, exasperated. You both held steely eye contact, both unwilling to back down.

“I am the Queen’s Guard Dog. I am no one’s equal, save for the monarchy itself,” came his predictably insufferable reply.

“What you are, is one of the most arrogant men I have ever had the misfortune of meeting!” you exclaimed. This investigation was going to take several years off of your life, truly. Perhaps, you’d be seeing Amélie sooner than you expected— and for reasons unrelated to her killer. “You need to think about your priorities, Guard Dog,” you ordered.

“Now, I am looking forward to our partnership. Thank you for the meal, I will show myself out.” You added rapidly, standing from your chair and pushing it back in with a vengeance that nearly tipped it over.

“Report back to me every other night!” He yelled at your back as you left the dining room, smiling wanly at his servants. The three of them made a weak effort to appear busy, as if they hadn’t been listening in on your conversation for the past half hour. You wished them a good day before replying to their master, shouting your reply over your shoulder.

“Fine!” You’d see what the next two days had in store for you and for once, do as told.

For Amélie.

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