#sharde thomas

[myvinylplaylist]

Samantha Fish: Belle Of The West (2018)

Ruf Records

[slack-wise]

Surface of a kidney stone.

Thomas Deerinck: image taken under SEM (scanning electron microscope)

[that-one-tired-tiefling]

Another one done.

Trigger warning: uncanny valley.

So, I'm still not done with all arts for DnD campaign that are necessary for the main plotline to properly kick-off. I mean, of course, shards of broken god that are inspired by Thomas Sanders's YT show, Sanders Sides. Today we have - Virginia, the shard of fear.

In her mortal form, she is just a small, very young black tabaxi girl, around 6, maybe 7 years old. Her abilites resolve around striking fear in hearts of her opponents, making them see and experience their biggest nightmares and deepest fears. She also has some sort of clairvoyance, when she can randomy see evets that are either happening or about to happen, in her dreams. Those are always connected to her and/or other shards.

Her god form, however... welp. I initially wanted to make a mix of spider momnster with gaping mouth reminding a puppet, but after struggles and some soul-searching I decided to just go uncanny valley route. It scares the living shit out of me, so draing it was a nightmare for me as well. I can't draw realistically, so I used general photos of human eyes and human teeth, so it's even worse.

Hopefully, this post is already long enough that you'd have to unroll it to see the rest of the post and the photo, because I really don't want to jumpscare people.

So, behold - Virginia.

Not my best piece but I think it's good enough. And yes, the anatomy is supposed to suck.

And again, DeeSkakuna is one of nick furry nicks.

[whoviandoodler]

[Image description: a digital drawing of Thomas from Transatlantic holding Varian's hand and kissing his fingers while crying. We only see Thomas's face and their two hands covered in dripping blood. Behind them are black shards with designery red eyes on them. The pieces is coloured in desaturated blues with red accents. End description.]

We all have blood on our hands.

[jimmybramlett]

I Need More Perversion

I didn’t read as many books as I wanted to this year. I always have this illusion that I will be that pretentious motherfucker who just reads and reads and reads and will be really fucking insufferable about it. But no. For the most part it was me trying to hide myself from the world while watching stupid Youtube videos. As always. Yup.  But I did manage to complete two books I had always wanted…

[elikajinnie]

Cold Touch, Sharp Mirror - P.S

P: Dead By Daylight Killer!Sunghoon X Survivor!Reader (recommended age 17+)

Warnings: Death, Murder, Suggestive Content, Blood/Injury, Obsession, Chasing, Fixation, Temperature Play?

Synopsis: You’ve always liked snow, but you never liked the idea of being chased through it—too loud, too slippery. Luckily, the Entity’s maps were more muddy than snowy. That is, until a new killer arrived, bringing with him a snowy map. And it seems like he’s fixated on finding the perfect beauty to complement him and you're exactly what he’s looking for.

a/n: im so happy my pookies @aceheexx and @concerned-terrapin got dbd :3 also i went a bit overboard with the ending???

heeseung version | jay version

now playing: like a dream by thomas larosa | frzzn by ozzie | chills -dark version by mickey valen

--

Now, normally, you loved snow. Back before you were taken by the entity, you’d always be thrilled when it snowed—watching the snowflakes drift from the sky, each one unique and delicate, settling on the ground and transforming it into a soft, white wonderland. It felt comforting, like nature’s own little gift. But time doesn’t follow the same rules in the entity’s realm. Seasons don’t change, and winter becomes a distant memory, a concept rather than a feeling. You haven’t felt real snow in what feels like forever.

So, when you first saw it again you felt a flicker of joy. You landed on the ground, expecting that chill on your skin, the cold air filling your lungs. But instead, you were met with something... wrong. The snow didn’t fall naturally, but seemed to be pasted onto the world, cold only in appearance. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t alive. The snowflakes didn’t twirl through the air, and the ground beneath your feet felt too solid, too still. No crisp bite in the air, no damp chill seeping through your clothes. Just a hollow echo of the winter you once loved. The excitement quickly faded, replaced by a bitter disappointment. It wasn't real. It never was.

You didn’t expect much when you were called for a trial. They were all the same at this point—different maps, same routine. But as soon as you arrived, something felt… off. The air was sharp and biting, your breath fogged in front of you, and a chill ran down your spine as you took in your surroundings. You were standing outside a massive manor, its roof blanketed with thick snow and sharp icicles hanging from the edges like teeth. Snow drifted lazily from the sky, it was quiet and the crunch of snow under your boots felt too loud. You hugged yourself against the cold, shivering as it nipped at your skin.

This was new.

Your eyes scanned the manor, its grandness both stunning and foreboding. You didn’t recognize it from any previous trials, and that only made your chest tighten. This map was new. And if it was new, there was only one explanation.

A new killer.

You took a hesitant step forward, your nerves on edge as you climbed the steps to the manor’s entrance. The door creaked open with little effort and your heart sank as you took in the strange décor. The walls were lined with mirrors—some shattered, their jagged shards glinting menacingly, others cracked just enough to distort your reflection. A few were pristine, their surfaces smooth and unbroken, but something about them felt wrong. The reflections didn’t look quite right.

Your breath came out in quick puffs, the cold seeming to seep through the walls themselves. You forced yourself to keep moving, knowing you had to find a generator. The sooner you started, the sooner this trial could be over.

Your search led you to a massive ballroom, and your breath caught in your throat. It was unlike anything you’d seen before. The floor was a sheet of ice, polished to a mirror-like shine, and the room seemed to stretch endlessly. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling, but instead of glass, it was crafted entirely from icicles, their razor-sharp points glistening as they swayed ever so slightly. The windows—or where the windows should have been—were replaced with cracked mirrors.

You stepped carefully onto the icy floor, your boots slipping slightly as you made your way further in. The cold seemed to deepen here, clawing at your skin and making you shudder uncontrollably. You glanced around, half-expecting to see a generator, but there was none in sight.

You huffed in frustration as you slid across the icy floor, your footing unstable. The sharp cold gnawed at your fingers and toes, even through your clothes. Just as you steadied yourself, a scream tore through the air, slicing through the quiet like a blade. It was distant but blood-curdling, the cry of a survivor encountering the killer.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you moved forward, walking through a pair of wide, icy double doors that led to a balcony. The scene that greeted you stopped you in your tracks.

Below you stretched a massive, frozen garden. Rows of tall hedges loomed like the skeletal remains of a long-dead maze, their branches brittle and crusted with frost. The labyrinth twisted and turned, the pathways obscured by fog that clung to the ground like ghostly tendrils. Scattered throughout the garden were ice statues—figures frozen mid-motion—but the distance made it hard to tell if they were just art.

Movement in the maze caught your eye. You squinted and leaned over the balcony’s edge. It was Nancy. She was running through the labyrinth, her hands flailing as she waved desperately in your direction. Panic was written all over her face, her wide eyes darting between you and something behind you.

It took a moment for you to process what she was trying to convey. That’s when it hit you—a cold breeze that wrapped around your body like icy fingers. Your breath caught as you shivered violently, your teeth chattering. Slowly, as if against your own will, you turned around.

And there he was.

A tall man loomed behind you, unnervingly still, his presence so cold. He was clad in a tailored suit, though it was torn and frayed in places. An icy sheen coated the fabric, frost clinging to him as if he were part of winter. His hair was white, and the tips seemed frozen, as though frost had begun to consume him from the edges.

But it was his face that sent chills down your spine.

The left side of his face was hauntingly beautiful—sharp, elegant features carved from pale skin, veins of icy blue tracing faintly on his neck. His lips, pale and slightly blue, parted slightly as a frosty mist escaped with every breath, and his eye, an unnatural, glowing blue, fixed on you with an intensity that rooted you in place.

The right side of his face, however, was hidden beneath a mask of cracked mirrors, the shards reflecting distorted images of yourself. The fragments shifted slightly, catching the dim light as if they were alive, twisting your reflection into a grotesque parody.

In his right hand, he held a massive shard of glass, its edges jagged and sharp, covered in frost that glittered like deadly diamonds. Ice crawled along the surface, spiraling down to the hilt where his gloved hand gripped it tightly. His other hand, bare and pale as death itself, hung loosely at his side, frost coating his fingertips.

He tilted his head slowly, the motion unnatural. You couldn’t tell if the sound you heard was the creak of his neck or the faint crackle of ice forming in the air around him.

Your breath hitched as you took a shaky step back, the icy floor beneath you making it nearly impossible to find stable footing. The cold wasn’t just external anymore; it was inside you, crawling through your veins almost like a parasite.

The killer took a step forward, the shard of glass dragging across the ground, leaving a thin trail of frost in its wake. The sound it made was sharp and grating, like nails on a chalkboard.

The only thought screaming in your mind was run.

And you didn’t hesitate. Your survival instincts kicked in, and you pushed off the icy floor, sliding awkwardly toward the edge of the balcony. Without a second thought, you vaulted over, your heart leaping into your throat as you braced for the impact below. The landing was rough but the adrenaline forcing you to ignore the ache.

As you straightened up, you glanced back over your shoulder, just for a split second, and froze.

He was leaning over the balcony, his hand resting on the icy railing, his head tilted again. He wasn’t rushing after you. He wasn’t angry or even fazed. Instead, he watched you with a cold calmness, like a predator confident in its prey’s inevitable capture.

That made it worse.

You didn’t wait to see what he’d do next. Turning on your heel, you took off running into the labyrinth, the snow crunching loudly beneath your boots. Every step a reminder of how exposed you were.

You didn’t know where you were going—just away. Away from him. Away from the cold and the glass shard that promised pain and death. Your breath came in quick, visible puffs as you ran, your lungs burning from the freezing air.

The labyrinth was a maze in every sense of the word, the fog making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. You turned left, then right, your boots sliding on patches of ice hidden beneath the snow. Your mind raced as you tried to recall the layout you’d glimpsed from the balcony, but it was no use. Every path looked the same—dead and endless.

Another scream rang out, sharper and closer this time. Your heart sank. You couldn’t tell who it was, so you forced yourself to keep going, your legs burning with the effort of running on the uneven, frozen ground.

Your legs burned, your lungs screamed for air, and the cold gnawed relentlessly at your skin. You finally skidded to a halt, leaning against the icy hedge for support. The snow beneath you crunched as you shifted, each breath coming out as shaky puffs of mist. You sniffled, shivering as you tried to gather your thoughts.

That’s when you saw it.

To your right, standing innocently against the frozen hedge, was a tall mirror. It was pristine, untouched by the cracks, the frame was silver, almost shimmering, and frost curled delicately along its edges like it had been painted there. The glass itself was so smooth it reflected everything perfectly, capturing your wide-eyed, disheveled image with startling clarity.

You tilted your head, your breath hitching as you stared. It had been so long since you’d seen your reflection—so long since you’d stopped to even think about what you looked like. The sight was strange, foreign even. You didn’t recognize the exhausted, frost-bitten figure staring back at you, but something about the mirror pulled you in.

Your feet moved before your mind could stop them, carrying you closer. You stood before the mirror, your breath fogging the glass slightly as you studied yourself. Hesitantly, your hand lifted, trembling as your fingertips hovered just above the icy surface. You shouldn’t touch it. You knew you shouldn’t. But something about it was calling to you, drawing you in like the lure of a siren.

The instant your fingers brushed the glass, it happened.

A sudden force yanked you forward, your breath stolen as your vision blurred. You didn’t even have time to cry out as the cold wrapped around you, dragging you into the mirror. The world flipped and spun, shards of glass and light flashing all around you. Your reflection fractured into countless pieces, each one distorting your image—your face twisted, stretched, broken in ways that made your stomach lurch.

When you finally came to, the spinning stopped. You opened your eyes, but the sight that greeted you was nothing like the labyrinth you’d been running through.

You were inside the mirror.

The world around you was endless and disorienting. Shards of glass floated in the air, twisting and turning, each one reflecting a fractured image of you. Some pieces were small, no larger than a coin, while others were enormous, towering over you like walls. Each shard seemed to hum faintly, a sound that vibrated through your skull and made your head throb. You reached out to steady yourself, but there was nothing solid to hold on to—just the endless, shifting glass.

You felt dizzy, your legs weak as you struggled to comprehend where you were. The reflections moved strangely, showing parts of yourself that weren’t in the same position as the rest of you. It was like watching a puzzle where the pieces didn’t quite fit.

Then, a voice.

It cut through the humming like a blade, low and smooth, with an icy edge that sent a chill straight to your core.

“Oh, you poor thing,” the voice purred, dripping with mockery. “So eager to touch what you shouldn’t. Did you really think the mirror was just for show?”

You whipped your head around, searching for the source, but there was no one there—just more glass reflecting your panicked face.

The voice chuckled, soft and cold. “Do you like it in here? It’s my little masterpiece. Every broken shard tells a story, you see. And now, you’ve become part of it.”

You spun in place, your breaths coming faster. “Where are you?!”

The laughter grew louder, echoing all around you, each shard vibrating with the sound, but he did not answer you.

Instead the glass around you began to shift, the shards rearranging themselves into new patterns. They moved closer, boxing you in, the reflections multiplying until it felt like you were being watched by a thousand versions of yourself—and something else.

In one of the largest shards, his reflection appeared. The killer.

He stood just on the other side of the glass, staring at you with a calm expression. Slowly, he raised his gloved hand and pressed it to the glass, the icy surface fogging slightly under his touch.

Your breath hitched as you stumbled back, you moved until your back hit something solid—the mirror you’d touched before.

Before you could process what was happening, the glass behind you pulled you in again. The world spun, shards flying past your vision as you felt that same sickening tug. A freezing chill washed over you, and then suddenly—

You were out.

Your feet hit solid ground, and you collapsed forward onto your hands and knees, gasping for air. The disorientation left you dizzy, your head pounding as you tried to steady yourself. The cold still clung to you, biting at your skin like a lingering phantom of the mirror world.

You forced yourself to your feet, legs shaky and unsteady, your breath coming out in frantic clouds. As you looked around, you froze.

This wasn’t where you’d been before.

Instead, you were in a dark, underground section of the estate. The air here was thicker, heavier. The walls around you were frozen, their icy surfaces glinting faintly.

Above you, sharp icicles hung dangerously from the ceiling. They were long and jagged, some as thick as your arm, and looked as though they could fall at the slightest provocation.

You took a cautious step forward, the crunch of snow under your boot echoing unnaturally loud. Your eyes darted upward, watching the icicles sway ever so slightly. You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening. One wrong move, one too-loud sound, and those deadly spikes could come crashing down.

“Stay calm,” you thought to yourself.

You continued forward, your steps careful and measured. The way revealed more of the icy corridor ahead, branching off into several paths.

Then you heard it.

A faint, distant crack.

Footsteps.

Your blood ran cold. He was here.

You turned, your eyes darting around for any sign of an escape, but you were offered nothing more but dead ends.

Then his voice cut through the air, smooth and taunting.

“You can’t run forever.”

You turned sharply, picking a path at random and running, your boots sliding on the slick ground.

Behind you, the footsteps quickened, you didn’t dare look back, the sense of him closing in enough to keep you moving forward.

You rounded a corner and skidded to a halt.

A dead end.

And the only way out was the way you’d come. You spun around, your back pressed against the frozen wall, your breath ragged as you watched the corridor you’d just come from.

The footsteps stopped.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, slowly, he stepped into view, his towering frame filling the narrow passage as he took a step forward.

You pressed harder against the wall, your fingers numb from the cold, your mind racing for a way out. But there was none.

He stopped just a few feet from you, his breath visible in the icy air.

He tilted his head ever so slightly, his gloved fingers brushing along the edge of the mirror shard in his hand and slowly, his gaze began to travel downward, starting at your face, moving over the trembling rise and fall of your chest, your arms clinging tightly to yourself, and finally down to your legs and boots, still trembling slightly from your desperate run.

A low hum escaped his lips, soft and almost contemplative, a sound that sent chills crawling up your spine, as if he were truly appreciating what he saw.

“You’re exquisite,” he murmured, his voice smooth. He took another step forward, closing the already-small distance between you. You pressed harder against the frozen wall, your entire body stiffening as he leaned closer.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

His pale hand rose slowly, as if to savor the moment. You flinched as his fingers brushed against your cheek, and the touch was so cold it burned. You froze entirely, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as your teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. The air left your lungs in short, visible puffs as your body tried in vain to fight the cold spreading from where his hand lingered.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly, his tone almost... tender. He tilted his head again, his lips curving into a faint, chilling smile. “No need to be afraid, my dear. I wouldn’t dare ruin something so... beautiful.”

You stared up at him, wide-eyed and trembling, your body refusing to obey your frantic thoughts screaming at you to move, to run, to do something. But the cold was paralyzing.

His hand trailed along your cheek, the frozen burn spreading as he brushed his thumb over your jawline, tracing the edge of your face with unsettling care. “Your face... so delicate. So perfect.”

His cold breath brushed against your face, his voice no louder than a whisper. “Your eyes...” His thumb stopped, resting just beneath one of them, his frosted breath clouding in the air between you. “So full of life. So bright, even now. You’re unlike any I’ve seen before.”

You couldn’t respond. The cold had stolen your voice, your teeth chattering too hard for you to form words. He didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he appeared amused by your silence.

“You’re trembling so much,” he murmured, his hand shifting to brush a strand of hair from your face, the motion almost... gentle. “Is it the cold? Or... me?”

He leaned in even closer, his lips almost brushing your ear as he whispered, “Perhaps both.”

You wanted to scream, to shove him away, to do anything, but all you could do was stand there, trapped in his icy grip. You felt like you were being frozen alive.

His hand moved to your neck, his fingers grazing your skin as he chuckled, his breath like a biting winter wind. “I could keep you here forever,” he mused, his tone almost dreamy, as if the idea truly pleased him. “Frozen, perfect, untouchable. Just... mine.”

His words sent a wave of panic crashing over you, momentarily snapping you out of the icy haze clouding your mind. Your body twitched, an instinctive attempt to break free, but his grip tightened slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you just how powerless you were in this moment.

“You’re frightened,” he said, his tone shifting to one of mock sympathy. “Good. Fear suits you.”

And just as the tears began to sting your eyes from the cold and helplessness, his fingers left your skin, and he pulled back slightly. He studied you for a moment longer, as if committing every detail of your face to memory.

Then, in a soft, almost wistful tone, he murmured, “Run.”

Your heart skipped a beat, your mind barely processing the command before his smirk widened and he stepped back, his hand once again gripping the icy shard at his side.

“Go,” he said, his voice sharper now, like the crack of frozen glass. “Let’s see how far you can get.”

The moment your body allowed it, you bolted, stumbling past him and into the freezing corridors, his cold laughter echoing behind you like the toll of a bell.

Your legs carried you forward, slipping and stumbling over the icy ground. The sound of his laughter followed you, echoing through the frozen halls. It was as though it bounced off the very walls, coming at you from all directions, mocking your panic and desperation.

The floor beneath you shifted unexpectedly, the ice slick and uneven. Your foot slipped, and you went sprawling to the ground with a sharp gasp. The impact jarred your body, pain shooting up your arm as you braced your fall. For a moment, the world spun, the sound of your ragged breathing filling your ears.

“Don’t tell me you’re giving up already,” his voice called out, closer than it should have been.

Your head snapped up, and you realized the light above you had shifted. You turned your gaze slowly upward, and there he was, standing just above you.

“You’re quite resilient,” he mused, his icy voice calm, almost teasing. “But you’re slowing down. The cold is catching up to you.”

Panic surged through you, overriding the pain in your arm as you scrambled to your feet. You bolted again, ignoring the way your legs screamed in protest.

Then you spotted it.

A faint glow ahead—warm and flickering, like firelight. Fire.. fire meant heat, warmth and safety.

The glow grew brighter as you neared it, and you realized it was coming from an arched doorway. Beyond it, you could see the orange flicker of flames. You practically threw yourself through the opening, your body collapsing in front of the roaring fireplace in the center of the room.

The warmth hit you like a wave, washing over your frozen skin and sending sharp, painful tingles through your fingers and toes as the feeling began to return. You gasped for air, curling into yourself as the heat began to thaw the icy grip that had taken hold of your body.

But the relief was short-lived.

You turned your head slightly, and your stomach dropped. The room wasn’t empty.

Surrounding you were tall mirrors, each one angled slightly toward the fireplace. They reflected the room in perfect, chilling detail. And in every single one, he was there, standing behind you.

Your breath caught in your throat as you whipped around, but the room was empty.

The mirrors, however, told a different story. He stood just behind your reflection, his piercing blue eye meeting yours through the glass.

“Did you think the fire would save you?” his voice echoed around the room, no longer calm but mocking.

The flames in the fireplace flickered violently, the warmth suddenly waning as frost began to creep across the floor toward you. The temperature plummeted, the ice spreading like veins across the room and snuffing out the fire entirely.

You stumbled backward, heart racing as you turned to face one of the mirrors. He was no longer just standing there—he was moving. Slowly, deliberately, his reflection stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and yours.

Before you could react, a hand shot out of the glass, his icy fingers gripping your wrist with inhuman strength. You screamed as the cold burned your skin, his grip dragging you closer to the mirror.

“Don’t fight it,” he said softly, his voice echoing in your ears as the shards within the mirrors began to hum again. “You belong with me now.”

You struggled against him, your free hand clawing at the icy surface of the mirror as it began to pull you in. The frost crawled up your arm, spreading rapidly as the world around you began to distort, shards of glass spinning wildly in your peripheral vision.

With one final yank, he pulled you through the mirror.

The last thing you saw before everything went black was your own reflection, frozen in terror, staring back at you as the shards swallowed you whole.

You jolted awake with a gasp, your body trembling violently. The cold was overwhelming, gripping you like an unrelenting vice, and as you looked around, your heart sank. You were back in the mirror realm.

The shards around you showed you in unnatural ways. Every angle of yourself felt alien, wrong, like the mirror was trying to break you down piece by piece.

“No,” you whispered, voice weak and trembling, your breath fogging up the air in front of you. Your legs were shaky, but you forced yourself to stand.

There was no time to waste. You spotted another mirror—a whole one this time—standing pristine just a few feet away. Summoning every ounce of courage, you stepped toward the mirror. This time, you didn’t pause to study your reflection. You didn’t let yourself think. You pressed your palm flat against the cold, smooth surface.

The pull came instantly, like an icy wind yanking you forward. Your body jerked as you were sucked into the mirror’s depths once more. The same nauseating sensation returned and you clenched your teeth to keep from screaming.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

You stumbled forward, your feet catching against a thick rug as you fell to your knees. You blinked, the room slowly coming into focus.

It was another part of the manor, entirely different from where you’d been before. The walls were still coated in frost, but it was quieter. You looked up to see a grand fireplace crackling with warm, golden flames. A luxurious couch sat nearby, its velvet cushions looking inviting, though a thin layer of frost clung to the edges.

You didn’t hesitate. The fire called to you like salvation itself.

You dragged yourself to your feet, stumbling toward the fireplace. The warmth hit you in waves, and you let out a shuddering breath as you collapsed onto the rug in front of it, stretching your trembling hands toward the flames.

The heat seeped into your frozen skin, painful at first as the biting cold fought to stay. You held your hands closer, rubbing them together desperately as you tried to thaw yourself.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to relax. Your body still shook from the adrenaline and cold, but the warmth was soothing, grounding you.

You took a glance around the room, taking in your surroundings. It was richly decorated, though the frost and time had dulled its once-luxurious beauty. A massive portrait hung above the fireplace, but the frost obscured the faces in the painting, making it impossible to make out who—or what—it depicted.

The couch loomed nearby, its plush cushions tempting, but you didn’t dare sit. You couldn’t afford to let your guard down for long, not when he could appear at any moment. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, despite the fire’s warmth.

You stared back into the flames, your mind racing. The mirrors... they were clearly part of his power, his trap, but they also seemed to be a way to move through the manor.

But even as you thought that, the sound of footsteps echoed faintly down the hall.

Your heart leapt into your throat, the warmth of the fire suddenly feeling far too distant. You froze, every instinct screaming at you to move, to hide, but your body refused to obey.

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You could feel the chill creeping back into the room, the warmth of the fire retreating as if it couldn’t stand him.

“Found you,” his voice purred, low and laced with amusement.

Your body tensed as you slowly turned your head toward him, your breath hitching in your throat. He was closer than you expected—far closer. You hadn’t even heard him cross the room, but there he was, towering over you.

You gasped, your back pressing harder against the rug as though you could somehow melt into the floor to escape him.

He reached out, trailing dangerously close to your face, but he stopped just short of touching you. His icy breath curled in the air as he tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over you from head to toe.

“I should end this,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, but there was an edge to it—an emotion you couldn’t quite place. “You’re the last one left. There’s no one else. No one coming to save you.”

Your stomach dropped at his words. The others were gone. Nancy, the others—they’d all fallen to him. You were alone.

He crouched suddenly, leaning over you with a grace that felt almost unnatural. His free hand came to rest on the floor beside you, pinning you in place with his sheer presence. You tried to scoot back, but the icy chill radiating from him seemed to freeze you in place.

“But…” he continued, his voice softer now, contemplative, “I can’t bear to ruin something so… perfect.”

His words caught you off guard, and your eyes widened as he his hand brushed your jaw, his cold fingers gripping gently but firmly. You sucked in a sharp breath, expecting the freezing touch to sting, to burn like the cold always had before.

But it didn’t.

Instead, his touch was… comforting. The cold seeped into your skin, chasing away the ache from the fire’s heat. It was strangely soothing, like the cool side of a pillow on a restless night, or the air of an early winter morning.

Your body reacted involuntarily, your tense muscles relaxing slightly despite the fear coursing through you.

It all left you disoriented.

“You see,” he murmured, his fingers tightening slightly against your jaw, tilting your face up so your eyes met his. “There’s something about you, survivor. Something… different.”

His gaze roamed your features with an unsettling intensity, his icy breath brushing against your face. You tried to look away, but his grip kept you firmly in place.

“You’ve caught my attention,” he continued, his voice dipping lower, almost intimate. “And that doesn’t happen often.”

You didn’t even respond—couldn’t even respond.

“Tell me,” he whispered, his voice soft but commanding, “are you afraid of me?”

Your heart thundered in your chest, but the answer wasn’t as simple as it should’ve been. Fear clung to you, yes—but so did something else. Something you couldn’t quite name.

When you didn’t answer, his lips curled into a faint, chilling smile. “No matter,” he murmured. “I’ll find out soon enough.”

His hand trailed down to your throat. The cold seeped deeper now, sending a shiver down your spine. His grip was firm but not constricting.

“You’re lucky,” he said softly, pulling back slightly to meet your gaze again. “I’ve decided to spare you. For now.”

“But don’t think for a moment that you’re free,” he added, his voice colder now, sharper.

Before you could even react, his cold, strong hands gripped your waist. A startled gasp escaped your lips as he hoisted you effortlessly into the air, slinging you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

“W-What?” you stammered, your breath hitching as you felt the solid, cold muscle beneath his tattered suit.

He didn’t talk, nor did he falter as he began walking, his movements steady. You squirmed slightly, your hands pressed against his broad shoulder in an attempt to push yourself free, but his grip on you was firm, unyielding.

It was then that you noticed something strange—the ground beneath his feet was transforming. With every step he took, the floor froze over, leaving a trail of ice in his wake.

Behind him, the mirror shard he dragged in his hand left another trail, the jagged glass carving faint grooves into the icy floor. It gleamed faintly, catching the dim light of the room, but it was the strange magic in it that drew your attention. The frost along the edges seemed alive, swirling and shimmering in ways that didn’t seem natural.

And the mirrors along the walls reflected your current state back at you. It was almost unrecognizable.

Your hair was dusted with frost, strands glittering like they were laced with snowflakes. Your lashes and brows were coated in icy crystals, and your lips… they looked pale, almost blue, like the color had been drained by the biting cold. Even your skin had taken on a frosty tint, its natural warmth replaced by something delicate and ethereal.

You blinked at the reflection, your breath catching. For a moment, you almost didn’t look like yourself. You looked… otherworldly, like you belonged here, in this frozen hellscape he commanded. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, and not just from the cold.

“I see you’ve noticed,” his voice rumbled, deep and laced with amusement. You jolted slightly at the sound of it, and your gaze darted to the back of his head.

“What—what’s happening to me?” you demanded, though your voice came out shaky, far weaker than you intended.

“It suits you,” he said simply, his tone calm, almost admiring. “The frost, the cold. It brings out something… exquisite.”

His words sent a strange mix of emotions coursing through you. You weren’t sure whether to feel flattered or horrified.

“Let me go,” you hissed, though there was little force behind your words.

“No,” he replied, almost lazily, as though the very idea amused him. “Not yet.”

His footsteps echoed as he carried you deeper into the manor. You couldn’t tell where he was taking you, but the icy walls became thicker the further you went.

The air felt colder than ever when he suddenly stopped, and without warning, he threw you down, the impact rattling through your body as you hit the frozen ground. A hiss escaped your lips at the cold biting into your palms, but the sting didn’t linger for long—because that’s when you saw it.

The hatch.

It was right in front of you, its familiar wooden frame stark against the glistening frost around it. Your heart leapt in disbelief. He was letting you go.

You looked up at him, confusion and suspicion warring within you. Was this some sort of trap? But when your eyes met his, he was already staring at you, his calm, piercing gaze sending shivers down your spine.

He crouched down, his movement eerily graceful, and brought his hand to your cheek once more. The coldness of his touch was no longer unbearable—almost like your skin had adjusted to the frost.

“You survived, little one,” he whispered, his voice soft and low, laced with something unidentifiable.

His breath curled in a frosty mist around your face as he leaned closer, his lips just a whisper away from your ear.

“I’ll see you real soon.”

Before you could say anything—before you could even think of a response—he rose to his full height, turned, and walked away.

You didn’t wait to see if he would change his mind. Scrambling forward, you gripped the edge of the hatch and pulled yourself in.

The cold vanished immediately as you fell, the icy chill replaced by a strange weightlessness. For a moment, you floated in nothingness, then, with a thud, you landed on the soft, familiar dirt of the survivor’s camp.

Warmth washed over you instantly, and you sucked in a deep breath, relief flooding through you. You looked around, the familiar sights of the campfire, scattered supplies, and makeshift shelters grounding you. It was over. The trial was over.

But as you sat there, staring into the fire’s comforting glow, the memory of his voice lingered in your mind. His words. His touch. His frost.

He had let you go.

--

Your next few trials were nothing short of a nightmare—though, what else was new? First, it was The Trapper, he had almost caught you at the exit gate, but a perfectly timed flashlight save from one of the other survivors gave you just enough time to slip away.

Then, there was Ghostface. His knife had grazed your back once, almost claiming you as you worked on a generator, but somehow, you managed to outmaneuver him, staying just steps ahead of his blade. The trial ended with you sprinting through the exit gate, heart pounding and lungs burning.

But just when you thought you could catch your breath, the Entity had other plans.

The next time the fog swallowed you up and spat you into a new trial, the familiar chill hit you like a slap to the face.

Your boots crunched against the snow as you took in your surroundings, your breath already visible in the icy air. Dead, frostbitten hedges towered around you, stretching into a labyrinth.

Your stomach dropped.

His map. Again.

You took a cautious step forward, trying to steady your breathing as the icy wind bit into your skin.

It didn’t take long before the sound of a generator humming faintly reached your ears. You turned a corner in the maze, spotting one sitting in the center of a small clearing. A teammate—Claudette—was already crouched by it, working diligently.

Relief washed over you as you made your way to her. If you could stick together, you’d have a better chance of survival. But as you reached her side and knelt to help, you couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched.

Your hands trembled slightly as you worked, the cold making it hard to grip the wired properly. Then, without warning, Claudette stiffened beside you, her eyes widening in panic.

“Run,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the howling wind.

You didn’t need to ask why. The frost on the ground spreading, creeping toward you like a living thing, said as much.

You turned your head just enough to catch a glimpse of him.

The Frost Warden. At least that is what you and the other has started calling him.

You bolted at the sight of him, the snow crunching loudly beneath your feet as you tore through the maze. The icy wind whipped at your face, stinging your skin, but you didn’t dare look back.

The sound of Claudette’s scream echoed faintly behind you, and guilt clawed at your chest, but you couldn’t stop now.

You turned another corner, your lungs burning from the cold air, and skidded to a stop, nearly stumbling when you saw it—a generator, partially hidden by the frost-covered hedges. Relief mixed with panic surged through you. You had no idea where the others were, but you couldn’t let this chance go to waste.

You ran to it, skidding slightly on the icy ground, and immediately knelt by its side. Your fingers, stiff and numb from the cold, fumbled as you began working. The gears groaned faintly, resisting your touch, but you forced yourself to focus, biting your lip to keep your hands steady.

The sound of the Frost Warden’s footsteps had faded behind you, but you knew better than to assume he’d given up the chase. He didn’t need to run to catch you. This map was his domain, and you were just another mouse trapped in his frozen maze.

The generator sputtered as you fixed another wire, the hum growing louder with each successful connection. Your breath clouded the air in front of you as you worked, the sound of the engine beginning to mask the distant howling wind.

But then, a faint shimmer in the corner of your vision made you freeze.

You glanced up, heart sinking, and spotted a mirror embedded into the wall of the hedges just a few feet away. Its surface rippled faintly, like water disturbed by a pebble, and your reflection stared back at you—pale, frostbitten, and wide-eyed with fear.

For a second, nothing happened. The mirror was still, almost taunting you. But then, the rippling grew stronger, and your blood turned to ice.

You didn’t wait to see what would come through. You turned back to the generator, frantically working to finish it, but your trembling hands slowed you down. The gears groaned again, protesting against your haste.

Behind you, the mirror shimmered one last time, and then the unmistakable sound of footsteps crunching through the snow filled the air.

Slow, deliberate, and far too close.

“Fixing something, are we?” The Frost Warden’s icy voice was low and calm, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

You whipped your head around, your heart leaping into your throat. He stood just a few feet away, his tall figure looming over you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. His piercing blue eye studied you, sharp and calculating.

“I have to admit,” he said, taking a slow step closer, “I enjoy watching you struggle. It’s... captivating.”

You scrambled to your feet, hands trembling as you backed away from the generator. He tilted his head slightly, his calm expression never faltering, and took another step forward. The frost beneath his feet spread outward with each step, creeping across the ground and curling around the base of the generator.

You wanted to run, to put as much distance between you and him as possible, but your legs felt like lead. The cold seemed to seep into your bones, rooting you in place as his icy gaze bore into you.

“Go on,” he said softly, gesturing with the shard. “Run. Fight. Survive. That’s what you do best, isn’t it?”

His words felt like a taunt, and something inside you snapped. You turned on your heel and bolted, the sound of his low, icy chuckle following you as you disappeared into the labyrinth once more.

Your boots slipped slightly on the frost-slick ground as you sprinted deeper into the labyrinth. Every turn you made felt like the wrong one, the frozen hedges looming high around you, cutting off your sense of direction.

You refused to look back. You couldn’t.

Panic clawed at your chest as you skidded around another corner, narrowly avoiding an ice-coated statue that seemed to glare down at you like a silent sentinel. Your breath was visible in the air, coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

A faint light caught your eye—another generator. This one stood in the center of an open clearing, its dull hum barely audible over the wind. You didn’t hesitate. Sliding to a stop, you crouched beside it, your trembling hands fumbling as you grabbed your tools.

Your fingers were numb, making it even harder to work, but you forced yourself to focus. The wires were stiff and brittle, like they might snap under too much pressure, but you managed to connect them, one by one.

The generator sputtered to life, its engine coughing loudly as it struggled against the cold. You winced at the noise, glancing over your shoulder, half-expecting to see him standing there, watching. But there was no one. So you took that chance.

Standing up up you sprinted back through the labyrinth, turning sharply around a frozen hedge, when a faint hum caught your ears. Another generator. Your heart leapt with a sliver of hope, and as you rounded the corner, you saw him—Bill.

He was hunched over the last few wires of the generator, his rough hands expertly finishing the job. Sparks flew, and the machine roared to life just as you skidded to a stop nearby.

"Bill!" you gasped, barely able to get the word out as you stumbled toward him, your breath clouding in the icy air.

He looked up sharply, his cigarette dangling from his lips, and his eyes widened when he saw you. "Kid, what the hell are you doin'?" he barked, but before you could answer, the faint crunch of footsteps made both of you freeze.

You didn’t need to say a word. Bill’s face hardened instantly, his sharp instincts kicking in. “Go. Now,” he growled, stepping between you and the sound of approaching frost.

“Bill—”

“Don’t argue with me! Get your ass outta here!” he snapped, pulling his flashlight from his belt.

After a moment of hesitation you turned and bolted, your feet slipping slightly on the frozen ground as you took off deeper into the maze. Behind you, you heard Bill shout, “Come on, you bastard! You want someone? Come get me!”

You risked a glance back just in time to see the Frost Warden emerge from the mist, his tall figure cutting an imposing silhouette. His icy blue eye locked onto Bill.

“Come on dammit!!” Bill yelled, his voice fierce.

You didn’t look back after that. You ran, your legs burning as you pushed forward, weaving through the labyrinth. The sound of their confrontation grew fainter with each step, replaced by the distant hum of generators and the faint howl of the wind.

It wasn’t until you burst through a gap in the hedges and saw the glowing lights of the exit gate in the distance that you realized you were finally in the clear. Your chest heaved, your lungs burning from the effort, but you forced yourself to keep going.

As you reached the gate, you found one of your teammates already there, working frantically to pull the lever. They glanced at you, relief washing over their face as the gate screeched open with a metallic groan.

With one last glance at the icy maze, you stepped through the gate, the warmth of safety washing over you.

--

You hated the smug, talkative killers. The ones who couldn’t just do their job silently but instead had to taunt, flirt, or throw out some sarcastic quip every chance they got. It wasn’t enough for them to hook you or slash at you—they had to make it personal, priding themselves on the mental games they played.

Killers like that were rare, but when you encountered them, you dreaded every moment of the trial. They made it unbearable, turning what was already a desperate fight for survival into a drawn-out performance where they were the star of the show.

The worst part? They always had that air of superiority, acting as if they were untouchable. They thrived on your frustration, your fear, and sometimes even your silence.

“Aw, don’t run now. We were just getting to know each other!”

You could hear their voice ringing in your ears even now, a mocking lilt that made your skin crawl. Some of them flirted, their words dripping with twisted charm as they chased you through the trial, their weapons raised.

“You look so cute when you’re terrified.”

Others just talked endlessly, like they needed you to know how clever or sadistic they were. They’d narrate every move, every mistake you made, as if you weren’t already painfully aware of how close you were to getting caught.

“Really? That’s the best you can do? You should’ve vaulted back there—might’ve lasted a bit longer.”

And then there were the ones who wouldn’t shut up when they hooked you, leaning down like they had all the time in the world, their breath hot against your skin.

“Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. It’s just business… though you do make it so much fun.”

You hated them. All of them.

It wasn’t just the humiliation—it was how they got under your skin, how their words stayed with you even after the trial was over. You could still feel the phantom weight of their hands brushing against your skin as they carried you, hear the mocking laughter as they walked away from the hook, leaving you there to struggle.

And yet, even if he wasn’t as insufferable as the others, he still had that pridefulness about him—this confidence that made him believe he was better than you, better than all of you. He didn’t need to taunt or jeer with endless, childish words like some of the others, but when he spoke, his voice carried weight. His words lingered, cutting deep, mocking you with a sly edge, and worse, when he flirted… it wasn’t just for show.

There was no humor in his tone, no casual arrogance like the smug Ghostface or the loud-mouthed Trickster. When he spoke to you, it felt like there was intent behind every word. Like he meant it.

That’s why, when you dropped into the Hawkins Lab, you let out a quiet breath of relief, assuming the Demogorgon was the killer this time. The mechanical hum of the underground facility echoed faintly, and you thought maybe you’d gotten lucky for once.

But then you felt it—the subtle, growing thump of your heartbeat.

You froze.

The air changed. A chill crept over your skin, one that was unmistakable.

The frost.

Your breath hitched as your eyes darted around the dimly lit corridors, and when you saw the faint mist curling along the ground, your stomach dropped.

It was him.

He was the killer this round.

Your pulse quickened, the memory of your last encounter with him flooding your mind. You didn’t know if you were ready to face him again. But ready or not, he was here. Somewhere.

And he was already hunting.

You crept through the winding halls of the lab, the flickering fluorescent lights casting eerie shadows on the steel walls. The chill in the air followed you, prickling at your skin as if a warning.

Finally, in a quieter part of the lab, tucked into a dead-end room, you found a generator. Relief washed over you as you crouched beside it, letting your fingers hover over the familiar knobs and wires. You could do this.

Your hands worked quickly, tightening bolts and rewiring panels, the sound of the generator humming softly beneath your touch. But then, from somewhere deep in the lab, a scream pierced the silence.

It was sharp, panicked, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

One of the others had found him—or, more accurately, he had found them.

Your instinct screamed at you to stop what you were doing, to run and hide before he got too close. But you couldn’t afford to waste time. You couldn’t leave the generator unfinished, and there was no guarantee you’d find another quiet spot like this again.

So you stayed.

Your fingers trembled as you twisted the last wire into place, forcing yourself to focus on the task. Every tick of the generator felt like an eternity, each movement of your hand making your heart pound harder.

And then you felt it—the subtle change in the air.

The frost crept in, curling along the edges of the room like icy tendrils reaching for you.

Your breath fogged as the chill kissed your skin, and your stomach sank just as the generator roared to life, cutting through the silence of the lab.

And then you saw it.

To your left, just beyond the doorway, the faint red glow.

Your heart sank.

The telltale light killers carried with them—always a warning, always a death sentence if you weren’t fast enough. And just past the glow, you saw him.

He stood there, completely still for a moment, then his head tilted slightly, almost curiously, before he took a single step forward. The frost beneath his feet deepened, spreading faster across the floor, as if it were alive and hungry to reach you.

"Impressive," he murmured, his voice smooth and cold, yet carrying a dangerous edge. "You finished the generator all alone? Clever little thing, aren’t you?"

Your legs finally obeyed you, and you stumbled backward, your shoulder hitting the wall as you tried to put distance between yourself and him. But there was nowhere to go—no other exits, no windows to climb through.

He stepped fully into the room now, the red glow of his presence bathing the small space as he closed the distance with unnerving calmness.

"Did you miss me?" he asked, his lips curling into the faintest smirk as his free hand reached out, his frosted fingers brushing lightly against the wall beside your head.

"I’ve been looking forward to this," he whispered. "Don’t disappoint me now."

Well.. he said it.

With your back against the wall and his towering figure leaning in too close, you knew there was only one way out of this.

Before he could react, you drove your knee up with all your strength, slamming it into his stomach.

He staggered back, a sharp groan tearing from his throat as his hand instinctively moved to his abdomen.

"Really?" he hissed, his voice low and laced with irritation.

But you didn’t stick around to hear what else he had to say. The moment you saw him falter, you bolted.

You sprinted past him, your boots skidding slightly on the frosted floor as you rounded the doorway and darted back into the dimly lit hallways of Hawkins Lab.

You could hear him behind you now—not running, but walking. Slow, deliberate, as if he wasn’t worried about catching up.

And that made it worse.

You risked a glance over your shoulder and immediately regretted it.

He was there, just a few meters behind you. “Running again, are we?” he called out. “You should know by now—you can’t outrun the cold.”

You turned sharply around another corner, your breath hitching in your chest, but suddenly—bam!—another survivor came barreling around the corner.

“Watch it!” they hissed, just as panicked as you. It was Meg, her red hair sticking to her sweaty forehead, her eyes wide with fear. But before either of you could exchange another word, an icy gust cut through the hallway, and Meg’s eyes widened further.

“Run!” she shouted, but it was too late.

With a flick of his wrist, the shard slashed across Meg’s side, cutting through her jacket and drawing a scream from her lips.

You stumbled back, gasping as you watched in horror.

“Pathetic,” his cold, deep voice echoed, reverberating through the hallway. He stood over Meg, who writhed in pain at his feet, clutching her wound. “So flawed… so imperfect.” His tone was cutting, condescending, as if she were beneath him.

“You’re not worth my time,” he added, tilting his head as he stared down at her, his frostbitten fingers twitching.

Meg groaned and tried to crawl away, but he pressed the tip of his shard into the ground beside her, the ice creeping out in sharp, jagged patterns. He didn’t strike again, though—he didn’t need to. His words alone cut deeper than the shard itself.

“You’ve already been broken,” he sneered, stepping away from her as if she were nothing more than a discarded object.

From his side, he produced a small shard of mirror, its surface gleaming. He turned it in his hands with a strange gentleness, his icy fingers trailing along the edges of the shard as if it were a delicate treasure.

Meg whimpered, flinching as he tilted the shard toward her face. The distorted reflection that appeared in its surface made your breath hitch. It wasn’t just her face—it was a fractured version of her, revealing her deepest insecurities, her doubts, and fears. Her lips trembled as she stared at the cruel image, her reflection seeming to cry out silently as if begging for release.

"You see," he murmured, his voice quiet yet cutting, "this is what you truly are. Flawed. Fragile. Broken beyond repair."

Meg tried to look away, but he held the shard steady, forcing her to confront the image.

And then, with cold, unflinching precision, he drove the shard into her chest.

Her body arched with a strangled cry, her breath coming out in shallow gasps as the mirror shard pierced her heart.

Meg's movements stilled, her eyes glassy as the frost crept across her skin. He remained kneeling over her, watching as her life slipped away, the satisfaction in his expression subtle but unmistakable.

Standing slowly, he looked down at her lifeless body, his frosted hands carefully wiping the shard clean. He inspected it briefly, as if ensuring it was free of imperfection before tucking it away.

Then, he turned to you.

His icy blue eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

“You however,” he said softly, his voice like frost creeping over glass, “are nothing like that.”

Your heart thundered in your chest as he began to move toward you, his steps slow and deliberate.

“So perfect,” he continued, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “But even perfection can be elevated.”

He stopped just a few feet away, his presence overwhelming as he tilted his head. “How much more beautiful you’d be…” His voice dipped, a cold whisper that sent shivers down your spine. “…as part of the ice.”

Before you could move, before you could even think, he was on you. His cold hand pressed against your shoulder, driving you back until your spine hit the wall with a muted thud. The opposing sensations—his cold and the warmth your body clung to—warred within you, leaving you frozen in more ways than one.

His gloved hand remained firm on your shoulder, holding you in place, while his other hand brushed against your cheek. The frost that followed his touch bloomed across your skin like a winter’s kiss, cold yet strangely… soothing.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice low and hypnotic, each word curling around you like an arctic breeze. “The warmth of life… fighting so desperately against the cold I bring.”

He leaned in closer, his breath brushing against your skin like a whisper of frost. “It’s beautiful… the way your body responds. How it resists, yet…” He tilted his head, “you don’t pull away.”

Your teeth chattered as you tried to speak, but no words came.

“You’re so… fragile,” he continued, his voice soft yet laced with a dangerous edge. “So alive. And yet…” His hand moved from your cheek to trail along your jawline, his touch featherlight but freezing. “…it would take so little to turn you into something eternal. A perfect sculpture of ice.”

Your chest heaved as you struggled to keep your composure, the weight of his words sinking in. He leaned in closer, his face mere inches from yours now, his cold breath mingling with your warm exhalations.

“But not yet,” he whispered, his lips curling into that same pleased smirk. “Not when you’re this… captivating.”

His hand lingered for a moment longer before he suddenly stepped back, releasing you. The frost clinging to your skin and the wall behind you melted away almost instantly, leaving you trembling.

He turned away without another word, his presence still heavy in the air. For a moment, you thought he was leaving you, but then he glanced over his shoulder, his icy gaze piercing through you.

“Run,” he said softly, the word laced with chilling intent. “Let’s see how long that warmth of yours can last.”

Your breath hitched as the word settled in the air like a command, and without hesitation, your body obeyed. You pushed off the wall and bolted.

A sharp whoosh cut through the air, and you instinctively ducked, feeling the chilling breeze of his mirror shard slicing the air just behind you. It didn’t hit you—no, it never did—but it was close enough to send shivers crawling up your spine. He wasn’t trying to injure you. He wanted you to feel the cold, to know how close he was, to remind you that you were his to chase.

You rounded a corner, vaulting over a low counter in a desperate attempt to create some distance, but when you landed on the other side, his red light loomed just behind you. A low, cold laugh followed, echoing in the empty halls.

You made a sharp turn, vaulting over another obstacle, and finally, finally, you saw someone. A flash of movement—another survivor! Relief flooded through you as they ran toward you, their eyes wide with panic.

It was Jake.

He looked at you, then past you, his expression hardening as he realized who was chasing you. Without a word, he stepped forward, drawing the killer’s attention as you scrambled to the side, ducking into another hallway.

You hesitated for just a moment, watching as the killer’s calm gaze shifted to Jake. He didn’t speak this time, but there was something in his posture as if he were almost… displeased at the interruption.

Jake shouted, waving his arms to draw the killer further away. “Come one!” he yelled.

With one last glance, you turned and sprinted in the opposite direction, the sound of their footsteps fading behind you.

Eventually you found a dark, quiet corner where you could catch your breath.

You slumped against the wall, your body trembling from adrenaline and the lingering chill of his presence. Jake had bought you time, but you knew it wouldn’t last forever.

You stumbled into another corridor, your heart still racing as you scanned the area. The faint hum of a generator reached your ears, and you followed it like a lifeline. Turning a corner, your eyes landed on a half-finished generator sitting in the middle of a secluded room. Relief washed over you.

Quickly, you moved to it, crouching down and setting to work. Your hands shook, partially from the cold and partially from the lingering adrenaline, but you forced yourself to focus.

You flinched at the sudden distant sound of a scream. Someone had gone down—it was hard to tell who in the chaos of the trial—but you couldn’t think about that now.

Finally, the generator sparked to life, the room lighting up with the mechanical glow and you allowed yourself a small, shaky exhale of victory.

But then, the warmth in the air shifted.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end as the icy feeling grew stronger. You froze in place, barely breathing, your eyes darting around the room.

The ground near your feet began to frost over, thin trails of ice spreading across the floor.

Panic surged through you, and your eyes scanned the room desperately. There—a locker, tucked into the corner. Without hesitation, you sprinted for it, careful to avoid making too much noise. You slipped inside and shut the door as quietly as you could, pressing your back against the wooden wall.

You bit your lip to stop yourself from making a sound, every muscle in your body tensing as the steps grew louder, closer. The frost crept higher on the walls, spiderwebbing like cracks in a mirror.

You crouched lower in the locker, your eyes fixed on the small gaps in the slats. Through them, you could see his figure moving closer, the frost trailing in his wake. It spread across the walls, over the floor, and finally, onto the locker itself.

You could feel the chill seeping through, making the air inside colder and colder. Your breath hitched in your throat as you tried desperately to stay silent, but the icy metal at your back made it nearly impossible to stay still.

Through the small gaps, you watched as he stopped right in front of the locker. He stood there for a moment, his back partially turned, scanning the room.

You thought he might leave, but then he turned back, facing the locker directly, standing perfectly still, only inches away from where you were hiding. For a moment, he seemed to just stand there, listening, the silence pressing down like a weight.

The frost continued to spread, climbing up the locker door and along its edges. The cold bit into your skin, making you shiver involuntarily. And that was your mistake.

The faintest sound of your breath slipping past your lips was enough.

His head tilted slightly, his sharp blue eye narrowing as he leaned forward. From the small gap, you could see his mouth curl into a smirk.

“I know you’re in there,” he said, his voice a soft, chilling whisper that made the frost seem warmer in comparison.

You stiffened, pressing your back harder against the frozen wood as he tapped a single finger on the locker door. “Are we playing hide-and-seek now?” he continued, his tone laced with amusement. “I thought you’d know by now—” he paused, leaning closer, so close that you swore his frosty breath was fogging the slats, “—I always win.”

For a horrifying moment, you thought he was going to rip the door open, his hand hovering close. But instead, he straightened up, taking a step back.

You let out a shaky breath, thinking for a second that he might leave. But then he raised his mirror shard and dragged it lightly against the edge of the locker door, the screech of ice making you wince.

“You know,” he began, his voice smooth and quiet, almost too calm, “there’s something about you… something that exhilarates me.” He let out a low chuckle, dragging the shard along the door one last time before stopping. “I’ve encountered many survivors, and they all blur together after a while. But you…” He paused, leaning closer so his breath frosted the slats of the locker. “You’re not like that.”

You could barely breathe, your entire body frozen—not from the cold, but from his words. The way he spoke wasn’t like the other killers you’d faced. There was no mockery, no irritation at your defiance.

“You’re so... special,” he murmured, the shard now resting against the locker as if he were caressing it. “Every time I see you, it’s like I’m looking at something perfect.” He chuckled again, low and chilling. “It makes me want to keep you forever. Preserve that beauty. Make it mine.”

Your heart stopped as his words sunk in, your breath caught in your throat. Before you could think to do anything—before you could even try to scramble or scream—the door to the locker swung open.

“Caught you,” he said softly, as if this was nothing more than a game.

You gasped as his arms reached in, effortlessly grabbing you. The frost where his hands touched your skin seeped into you immediately.

“Struggling won’t help,” he said, almost teasingly, as you tried to push against him. “Not that I want you to. I quite like the way you tremble.”

Before you could protest, he hoisted you up with a strength that made your attempts at resistance seem laughable. Your world tilted as he threw you over his shoulder, his grip firm but not painful. Before he started walking through the lab, while you squirmed in his hold, but it was no use.

--

Before you could fully comprehend what was happening, he shifted you off his shoulder and set you down with surprising care onto a cold, metal control table in the center of the lab. The frost beneath his boots crept up the legs of the table, spreading like spiderwebs across the surface and surrounding you in a halo of icy mist.

You tried to sit up, but he leaned forward, his hand pressing against your shoulder to keep you in place. “You’re quite predictable, you know,” he said, his voice low and smooth, with a tinge of amusement. “Always fighting. Always running. But here you are under me again.”

His lips curved into that same faint, knowing smirk that made your chest tighten. He shifted slightly closer, his free hand resting on the edge of the table, boxing you in.

“You’re the last one left again,” he murmured, almost like he was savoring the words. “Everyone else has fallen. And yet… here you are. Stubborn as ever.”

Your stomach twisted at his words. The others were gone. You were the last survivor again, and there was still one generator left to finish.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath, your pulse thundering in your ears as you glanced around the room, searching desperately for some kind of opening, anything to get away. But his body blocked most of your view, and the frost on the walls behind him seemed to spread as if sealing off any potential escape.

“Such a mouth,” he teased, his voice almost a whisper now, his frosty breath grazing your lips. “But I like your fire. It makes it so much more satisfying to snuff it out.”

His hand moved slowly to rest on your chest, the chill of his touch sinking deep into your skin. A shiver ran down your spine as you watched in wide-eyed disbelief. Frost spread outward from where his palm met your chest, intricate patterns blooming like frozen flowers across your skin. It didn’t feel painful—it was cold, yes, but strangely gentle, almost mesmerizing. You couldn’t help but stare at the crystalline designs etching themselves over you.

“You see?” he murmured, his voice low and velvety, laced with a quiet satisfaction. “Perfection.”

Your gaze snapped up to meet his as he stepped back slightly. His free hand rose, tugging at the edge of his cracked mirror mask. With a deliberate, almost theatrical motion, he removed it, letting the light fully illuminate his face for the first time.

He was… beautiful. His features were sharp and striking, carved with the same precision as the frost he wielded. A few thin scars adorned his face, faint but noticeable. His eyes glowed faintly, studying you intently, as though you were some kind of masterpiece he’d just completed.

“You complement me so perfectly now,” he said softly, as his eyes lingered on the frost spreading over your skin. His gaze was equal parts admiration and possessiveness, as if you were a creation he had shaped with his own hands.

You wanted to speak, to tell him to stop, to push him away, but the words caught in your throat. There was something about the way he looked at you that made it impossible to move.

“You’re so beautiful” he continued, his cold fingers tracing a line along the frost-covered patterns on your arms. “Now… now you’re mine. A canvas perfected by my touch.”

Your breathing hitched as his hand paused, his icy fingertips resting just over your racing pulse. His face was so close now that you could feel the frost in his breath, mingling with the warmth of yours.

“You’ve always stood out,” he said, his tone softening, almost tender. “Among all the others, you are the only one worth keeping.” As his hand rested on your chest, he leaned closer, his lips curling into a faint smile. “I wonder,” he mused softly, his voice almost a whisper now, “how much more beautiful you’ll be… once the ice fully claims you.”

Before you could react, he leaned in, his cold lips pressing against yours. The icy chill of his kiss sent a jolt through your body, and you gasped sharply, the frost on your skin seeming to tighten as if it were alive, responding to his touch. His lips, though cold, were strangely soft it left you reeling, unsure whether to pull away or melt into it.

His hands moved swiftly, capturing yours as your instincts kicked in to push him away. He intertwined his fingers with yours, locking them together. His grip wasn’t forceful, but it was firm, as though he was making sure you wouldn’t escape. The frost from his hands seeped into yours, spreading the intricate, shimmering patterns further up your arms.

When he pulled back, his lips hovered just inches from yours, and you could see his breath crystallizing in the cold air between you. “You even sound so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate, as though sharing a secret meant only for you. His thumbs brushed lightly over the backs of your hands, sending another shiver coursing through your body. “I could get used to hearing the sounds i could get out of you.”

You tried to tug your hands free, but his fingers tightened slightly, holding you there. “Why fight it?” he whispered, tilting his head, his tone almost coaxing. “You belong here. With me. Look at yourself—you’re already becoming part of the ice.”

Your gaze flickered downward for a moment, catching the glittering frost climbing your arms, wrapping around your wrists like delicate, frozen chains. It was as if the cold itself was claiming you, binding you to him.

“Don’t you see?” he continued, his voice filled with a chilling certainty. “No one else could ever understand your beauty the way I do. No one else could ever deserve you.”

His hands tightened just slightly around yours, pulling you closer as his lips brushed against your ear. “Let me show you how much you mean to me,” he whispered, his breath icy against your skin, sending another shiver down your spine.

His hands suddenlt slid to the hem of your sweater, the cold of his fingers making your breath hitch as he slowly pulled the fabric upward. The icy chill wrapped around you like a second skin, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

As the fabric bunched up, exposing more of your skin, you felt his lips brush against your stomach—a fleeting, ghostly kiss that left a trail of frost in its wake. His kisses were cold but delicate, as if he were crafting something beautiful out of your very existence. The frost spread wherever his lips touched, etching intricate, crystalline patterns onto your skin like a frozen work of art.

You shivered, your teeth threatening to chatter as the frost claimed more of you, but the chill didn’t burn.

“You don’t even realize how perfect you are, do you?” he murmured against your skin, his lips grazing along the curve of your collarbone. His voice was softer now, almost tender. “Each mark I leave… it suits you. Makes you mine.”

His hands trailed along your sides, the frost blooming under his touch like winter flowers. You gasped softly as his lips pressed against your chest, leaving behind more intricate frost.

“I could cover every inch of you,” he continued, his voice deepening as he leaned back to admire his handiwork. His eyes sparkled with an unearthly glow as they traced the frosty designs now covering your skin. “You were made for this. For me.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, but the words caught in your throat as he leaned in again, his lips brushing yours so faintly it was maddening. “Don’t fight it,” he whispered, his voice as chilling as his touch. “You’re already mine.”

The frost tightened its hold on you, the cold sinking deeper into your skin as if binding you to him, you couldn’t tell whether it was fear or something else entirely keeping you from pulling away.

a/n: my mom is sick so i was filling up a hot water bag but i squeezed too tight so i spilled the water on my chest :p pray my piercing dont get irritated...

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[ourfoxgod]

39 books to read if you liked ARCANE

CAITVI SHIPPERS –

1. a study in scarlet women by sherry thomas 2. the lady's guide to petticoats and piracy by mackenzi lee 3. plain bad heroines by emily m. danforth 4. the unbroken by c.l. clark 5. iron widow by xiran jay zhao 6. crier's war by nina varela 7. the drowning empire trilogy by andrea stweart 8. the priory of the orange tree by samantha shannon 9. the midnight lie by marie rutkoski 10. the bone shard daughter by andrea stewart

JAYVIK SHIPPERS –

1. vicious by v.e. schwab 2. if we were villains by m.l. rio 3. the secret history by donna tartt 4. the song of achilles by madeline miller 5. the picture of dorian gray by oscar wilde 6. a marvelous light by freya marske 7. the magpie lord by kj charles 8. fever syndrome by angela slatter 9. the gloaming by rory power 10. boys, beasts & men by sam j. miller

TIMEBOMB SHIPPERS –

1. six of crows by leigh bardugo 2. war girls by tochi onyebuchi 3. this savage song by victoria schwab 4. the knife of never letting go by patrick ness

JINX & VI'S RELATIONSHIP –

1. we hunt the flame by hafsah faizal 2. girls of paper and fire by natasha ngan 3. the ones we're meant to find by joan he 4. burn our bodies down by rory power 5. sawkill girls by claire legrand

GENERAL ARCANE VIBES –

1. the aeronaut's windlass by jim butcher 2. foundryside by robert jackson bennett 3. gunmetal gods by zamil akhtar 4. cyberpunk: neuromancer by william gibson 5. frostheart by jamie littler 6. the broken earth trilogy by n.k. jemisin 7. black sun by rebecca roanhorse 8. rebel seoul by axie oh 9. we ride the storm by devin madson 10. the drowned cities by paolo bacigalupi

[batmanlovesnirvana]

— ‘our love still remains.’

BRUCE WAYNE X FEM!READER

ONE SHOT | angst, death, murder, depression, drugs, suicidal thoughts.

synopsis : A year had passed since you died, but grief lingered, clinging to Bruce like the ash of a fire long extinguished.

A/N : This was inspired by this haunting scene between Thomas Shelby and Grace’s ghost. It’s one of my favorite moments—so raw and emotional—and I couldn’t help but feel it resonates deeply with Bruce. The weight of grief, love, and unresolved pain feels like a perfect fit for his character.

English isn’t my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes!

WAYNE MANOR had never seemed so empty.

A place once filled with quiet purpose, with the steady rhythm of lives intertwined, was now a mausoleum—a tomb for memories that Bruce could neither escape nor embrace.

You had been dead for a year, and with you, everything human in him had begun to rot.

He was barely functional. No. That wasn't right. He wasn't functional at all. 

A ghost of himself wandered these halls, sat in these rooms, wore his skin, but it wasn't him. 

Not anymore.

The fire in the study crackled weakly, but its warmth never reached him. It flickered, casting trembling shadows on the dark oak walls, as if mocking his inability to burn with anything but guilt.

Bruce sat hunched in his chair, his head low, his shirt disheveled and sleeves rolled up. 

The man who had once stood as Gotham's unshakable guardian, a force of sheer will, was now a fractured thing.

His eyes, sunken and bloodshot, stared into the flames, but they saw nothing. He didn't need to see. He had already memorized the way the world looked without you in it.

The decanter of whiskey shimmered in the firelight, its amber liquid untouched at his side. He had never been one to drink—not before. But since you'd been gone, nothing was the same.

Tonight, though, the glass remained full. Not yet. Not for this. 

He couldn't dull the edges of this particular torment. He had to feel it, let it pull him under, heavy and unrelenting, like a stone tethered to his chest, dragging him to the depths.

His hand hovered over the glass, fingers curling tightly around it, the tension in his knuckles sharp and pale. The tremor wasn't from the cold but from the brutal weight of his own restraint. His mind hissed its merciless refrain, over and over, unyielding:

It should've been me. Not you.

Me. Not you.

Me. Not you.

The glass gave way with a brittle snap, the shards biting into his palm, the sound cutting through the suffocating quiet like a scream. He didn't flinch. The brief sting was insignificant, a pale shadow of the raw, festering wound buried deep within—a wound that time had refused to heal, a wound that still bled.

He craves the burn. Craves the searing pain, the consuming fire that might finally match the inferno raging inside him—the fire that could never touch you the way it's devoured him.

The night presses close, suffocating and merciless, but he doesn't move.

He doesn't patrol. He doesn't sleep. He doesn't eat.

He simply exists, caught in the liminal space where grief and guilt coil around each other, tightening like a noose. Waiting—for the silence to break, for the weight to crush him, for something, anything, to drag him back from the edge of this endless void.

The door sighed as it swung open, the faint creak swallowed by the oppressive stillness.

Alfred entered, a silver tray balanced in his steady hands, its polished surface catching the flickering glow of the fire. Every movement was deliberate, quiet, as though the room itself demanded reverence. He set the tray down with a soft clink, his weathered face composed, but his eyes—sharp and searching—betrayed the concern he could no longer contain.

"Master Wayne..." His voice was soft, hesitant, like stepping onto fragile ground.

Bruce didn't stir. His gaze remained fixed on the fire, the flames reflected in his eyes like ghosts of battles fought and lost.

Undeterred, Alfred took a step closer, his measured footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. "I thought you might need something to eat. It's been... some time." His tone was calm, but beneath it lay a quiet plea.

The silence stretched, vast and unyielding. Bruce remained a statue, motionless, unhearing—or perhaps unwilling to hear.

Alfred lingered, his hands clasped behind his back. He studied the man slumped in the chair, once an unshakable force—a sentinel against the darkness, a man who bore the weight of Gotham like it was his birthright.

But now?

Now, he was something hollow.

A shadow consumed by grief, its edges blurred, its substance eaten away until nothing but silence remained.

"No patrol tonight, then?" Alfred asked, though he already knew the answer.

Bruce's hands trembled faintly—not from the cold, nor from the blood still drying on his knuckles—but from something far deeper, raw and unrelenting.

The old butler sighed.

Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew a small glass vial and placed it on the tray with deliberate care. The gesture was quiet, pointed—a subtle admonition wrapped in concern.

"I'm worried, sir," Alfred said, his voice thick with the weight of restrained emotion. "About the medicine. You've been relying on it too much."

Bruce's eyes flicked to the vial, his fingers curling involuntarily, but his lips remained sealed.

His gaze turned distant, unfocused, as though he were retreating into some unreachable corner of his mind. The flicker of firelight played across his expression, but it gave nothing away. The silence, though, spoke volumes.

The fire crackled softly, its warmth feeble against the icy void that seemed to envelop the room.

"She wouldn't want this," Alfred ventured at last, his voice trembling at the edges. The words came haltingly, heavy with pain. Saying them was a struggle; even he found it difficult to speak of her. "I know it's hard, but—"

But he faltered.

What could he say to a man who had lost so much? To a man who believed the one constant in his life—the one light in his endless night—had slipped from his grasp because of him? What comfort could Alfred offer someone who carried the unbearable weight of guilt and grief and punished himself for it, day after day?

Not even the ever-thoughtful Alfred had answers for that.

He lingered for a moment longer, his weathered gaze heavy with unspoken worry, before letting out a quiet, resigned sigh. Stepping back, he retreated as softly as he'd entered, unwilling to disturb the fragile stillness any further.

The door closed behind him with a muted click, leaving Bruce alone once more in the oppressive quiet, the firelight casting shadows that danced like ghosts around the room.

Bruce didn't move. The tray remained untouched, its polished surface glinting dully in the flickering firelight. The room seemed colder somehow, emptier, as though the flames themselves were losing the will to fight against the encroaching dark.

The silence pressed down, heavy and suffocating.

His hand moved slowly, hesitantly, reaching for the vial. His fingers trembled as they closed around the cool glass, the faint quiver betraying the storm raging beneath his impassive exterior. He held it up, watching the liquid swirl under the amber glow of the fire. For a moment, he hesitated—then tipped his head back, letting the bitter contents slide down his throat in one unbroken motion.

The burn was sharp. Familiar. Almost comforting.

But it fixed nothing.

The ache inside him remained, raw and unrelenting. He stayed rooted to the chair, unable to move, the weight of his grief pinning him down. His eyes drifted to the shards of glass scattered across the carpet, their jagged edges catching the firelight like cruel reflections of his fractured soul.

With a sudden, violent motion, he hurled the empty vial into the flames. It shattered on impact, the fire greedily consuming the fragments until nothing remained.

His head dropped into his hands, shoulders curling inward as though trying to shield himself from the crushing weight of everything he couldn't escape. The room fell silent again, save for the crackle of the fire, each ember rising like a ghost of what once was.

And then, it happened. Just as it always did.

The impossible.

You appeared.

Bruce's cold, detached eyes flickered, his breath hitching as the warmth of an illusion—one he neither welcomed nor could let go—took shape before him.

You were perched on the edge of the canopy seat by the window, your silk pajamas catching the soft firelight in a way that felt achingly real. One leg was tucked beneath you, the other dangling lazily, your toes grazing the rug in that familiar way that sent a sharp pang through his chest.

Your hair spilled loose around your shoulders, soft and untamed, just as it had on those stolen nights when dawn would catch you both mid-conversation, the rest of the world forgotten.

And then there was the smile. That quiet, tender smile—the one that had unraveled him every time, breaking through walls he hadn't even realized he'd built.

The billionaire swallowed hard, his voice hoarse when he finally spoke. "What now?"

Bruce's bitter smile wavered as you tilted your head, amusement flickering in your eyes like embers in the fire.

"What am I, a genie?" you teased, your voice light but carrying an undercurrent of something deeper, something unspoken. Your gaze darted to the flames, where the shattered remnants of the vial had disappeared. "Summoning me with your little bottle of dope?"

His laugh was dry, almost inaudible. "I take it for the pain," he murmured, the words heavy, fragile, as if they might shatter under the weight of his grief. His eyes found yours, softening in a way that made him feel utterly exposed. "To keep warm."

You moved then, gliding across the room with that effortless grace he had memorized, your bare feet soundless against the carpet. He stiffened when he felt your fingers ghost across his shoulder—a touch too warm, too tender to be real. Yet he didn't pull away.

"Is that what it's for?" you asked, your voice wrapping around him like a balm for a wound that would never heal. "The warmth?"

Bruce closed his eyes, his head dipping forward slightly as if trying to catch just a moment more of the phantom sensation. "The warmth," he echoed, his voice breaking. "All this time..."

You moved again, slipping into the space beside him on the couch, your presence as vivid as the firelight dancing in his peripheral vision.

He turned toward you, and for the briefest, most treacherous moment, it felt real—your scent, your nearness, the way you looked at him like you could see straight through to his soul.

He leaned in, his breath catching as he inhaled the memory of you, his eyes fluttering shut in the desperate hope that he could hold on just a little longer. Just a little longer.

But deep down, he knew.

It wasn't real.

It never was.

The realization struck like a knife twisting in his chest, but he clung to the illusion all the same. He would take anything—anything—to feel you again, even if it was a cruel lie conjured by his own fractured mind.

To touch you. To kiss you. To lose himself in you, the only solace he had ever known.

Since your death, there had been no one else. No empty arms, no fleeting connections. He didn't want anyone else. Couldn't. It was always you. It would always be you.

"I know," you whispered, your hand brushing his cheek in a gesture so gentle, it nearly broke him. His breath hitched, a tear slipping free.

"Our love still remains," you said, your words a quiet promise in the suffocating silence.

And you were right.

Because no matter who tried to step into his life, none of them could ever compare to you.

Bruce's head bowed, his shoulders trembling as he pressed his forehead to the illusion of your hand.

He didn't speak, didn't dare. He let the hallucination linger, let it fill the gaping void inside him for as long as it would. When it faded—and it always did—the cold would return, and he would be alone once more.

They lingered in that fragile silence, heavy with the weight of unsaid words, the room echoing with everything neither could bear to voice.

At last, you broke it, your tone steady yet tender. "But you have to listen, Bruce. To the voices you hear. To what they're telling you."

His brow furrowed deeply, his eyes squeezing shut as if to block out everything but you. "There's too much to do," he whispered, his voice trembling, breaking under the strain. His breath hitched unevenly. "The kids... the city... it never stops."

When he finally opened his eyes, they met yours, glassy and filled with unshed tears. "I need to say goodbye," he confessed, his voice a raw whisper, hoarse and fractured.

He rubbed his face with trembling hands, weary to his bones. "I need to sleep... just for a little while."

Your hands cradled his face again, grounding him in the moment, as real to him as the warmth of the fire. "Then think, Bruce," you urged, your voice a mix of unwavering love and quiet strength. "Think about what I would tell you. About what you need to do."

A tear slipped down his cheek, his body trembling as he leaned into the phantom touch. He tried to form words, but they came out as fractured pieces of his anguish. "It's too much... I can't... I should've..."

His voice cracked and faltered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should've protected you. I should've saved you."

"You don't need to apologize," you said softly, your voice cutting through his despair like a light in the dark. "I was never angry with you, Bruce. I never could be."

His chest clenched painfully, a fresh wave of tears spilling free. "But I failed you," he choked out, his voice barely audible.

"You didn't fail me," you replied, your words sharp yet soothing. "But you're failing yourself."

You moved in closer, kneeling in front of him, your hands lifting his face so his eyes met yours.

There was a love in your gaze that steadied him, but also something more—a heaviness, a truth he couldn't yet name. "This isn't the way, Bruce. I won't let you destroy yourself like this."

His grief overtook him, his entire frame trembling with the force of it. "I can't let go," he admitted, his voice breaking as fresh sobs racked his body. "Not of you. Not yet."

Your smile returned, soft and filled with sadness. "Then let go of the pain," you said gently. "Let go of the guilt. Let go of the past. I'm here, but I can't stay. Not like this. Not while you're lost in the dark."

His heart shattered again, the pieces cutting deeper, but he couldn't deny the truth in your words.

"Please," he whispered, his voice raw, pleading, desperate. "Please don't leave me. I can't do this alone."

But you were already slipping away, your warmth dissipating like smoke, fading from his grasp.

He reached out, his hands trembling, but there was nothing there—nothing to hold onto. The room grew colder, your presence vanishing into the shadows, leaving him alone in the silence.

The fire crackled softly, its flames flickering weakly against the oppressive darkness. The emptiness of the room settled over him, pressing down with a weight he couldn't bear.

"I'll never let go," he whispered, his voice fragile, a shattered promise he knew he could never keep.

But you were gone. And the silence consumed everything.

Bruce's hand lingered on his cheek, still warm from where you'd touched him, but it too began to cool, slipping away too quickly.

Long moments passed before his voice cracked through the stillness, breaking the silence like glass. "I'll think," he murmured into the void. "I promise."

Even as the words left his lips, they felt empty—hollow echoes in a room full of nothing. 

As hollow as the man who spoke them.

go check [ TU’BURNI (Bruce Wayne fic) ]

Little thing while I write the next chapters of TU’BURNI :)

I’ve been considering publishing one of my Tommy Shelby fics, so if anyone’s interested, please lmk.

[saintmuses]

❝𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙮𝙚𝙩 𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙮 𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙣❞

Pairing:

Soft!dark!Thomas Shelby x Ada’s BSF!Reader

Summary:

Thomas was alone in his office with his thoughts, his regrets and desires after the night she was gone.

Warning(s): brief sexual themes. Tommy being down bad and obsessed with Reader. flashback in italics. Hints of violence. Minors, dni! Note: this is a mini series, so there will be one more part.

Word Count: 1.1k

It started out in the small kitchen after he came home from the war under the watchful eyes of his, the feeling that sent electroshock waves to his heart when she sat at the table as he came in.

It festered in the narrowed hallway after she left Ada’s room when there was no room for them to pass each other without brushing.

His obsession with her didn’t start small. It engulfed him like trees engulfed in flames, like wildfires. He watched her from afar, wanting and loving her from afar whenever he could. 

Then it became all too much the more sunrises and sunsets passed, his hands used to be the sole company of his cock in the middle of the night.

The sun was dimming below the horizon when he knew that it was Isiah when he knocked on the door quietly.

That was his signature knock, and based on the time that chimed on the grandfather clock, it was time for their meeting.

“Enter,” he called out, a soft thud was heard setting aside the glass tumbler on the ordinated desk he was nursing his emotions with. “What do you have?”

When he found out she had left while the streets were silent a night ago because his men reported back to him that she had brought the luggage with her into the vehicle.

That was when he knew, even though he did not have any evidence, but his instincts were rarely wrong.

Anyone who was a beggar in the streets would find remnants of broken shards of glass he had shattered that night.

“I found her, sir.” 

He raised his eyebrow, beckoning Isiah to continue with his statement.

“I was able to trace her to London. They stopped by a church,” he swallowed down the poisonous emotion at the mention of church. Isiah noticed it, but continued. “The preacher caved after I showed him a wad of money…” he trailed off, leaving the implication in the air.

They eloped.

There was a tic in his jaw, anger simmering in his veins, but he made sure to keep his expression empty. “Where is she at?”

“At Eden Club.” 

Of course, she thought he would stay away from his enemies’ territories unless he had a plan. Well, he had a plan and it involved her.

“Thank you, Isiah.” He said curtly.

“I’ll leave you to it.” With that, Isiah turned on his heels and walked out of his office. 

He waited until the door was closed with a soft thud before lifting the tumbler and chucked it against the wall with a curse under his breath.

Even when she was running, she could not escape from him forever.

He made an easy call, not expecting the foundation to crumble so quickly, so soon the moment she stormed into his office with ferocity in her gaze.

He had no intention of scaring her, making her realize that her best friend’s brother hadn’t seen her as Ada’s friend, instead he saw her as a woman. He hadn’t expected things to get out of hand so quickly, especially when his primal desire was to touch her in any way, the distance he permitted himself to have.

Fuck, even through the layers of clothing, her cunt felt glorious on the pad of his fingers and that noise that escaped from her throat sounded so…

Never he would’ve imagined that things would escalate.

Her husband was a threat to them, an obstacle that prevented him from being able to have her. All of her to himself. 

She was supposed to be by his side, not Edward’s. She was not supposed to be searching for a man especially when he was there, she was not supposed to use her husband as a reason why she refused to even see him.

It began to unravel whatever left of sanity he had.

And when all he had was sleepless nights induced war memories instead of having her, he drank those hours away with Irish whiskey held in a fancy crystal decanter that resided in his office. 

And if she was around, he never felt the need to drink more than his usual because he had her soothing his soul.

After what happened that day when she found out what he had done, he drank heavily since then because he could not get the look in her eyes out of his head.

Her glassy eyes welled up with tears that did not fall. The sight of them seared through him with pain because he never wanted to be the one to cause her pain, to be the reason why her beautiful eyes were holding a glint of devastating betrayal.

The stinginess of her tears meeting his heart, it was still throbbing, still aching, but all he could think about was he needed her to look at him. To only focus on him, ignore everything around her but him that was taking her away, that was keeping her away from him including herself.

He just wanted her to look at him.

Either way it would end up where they were at this moment.

He needed to remind her that she was his, no matter how far and how long they were apart. It still didn’t change the fact she was his until the end of time or whenever the world chose to burn. Whichever came first.

It had been a month since he had felt her lips despite he barely touched them with his and how he was bold in his approach with his touch. How he missed her. 

It had been a month since he had heard her voice since she ran out on him.

The moment he laid his eyes on her again in the kitchen two years ago, he knew she was more than the sun, the moon and all the stars in the universe.

And his brothers and his sister remained oblivious to what had just transcended in his soul. The longing to have her rose from nothing and it seared him like celestial fire branding him, marked him to love someone like her until death was ready to knock on his door.

Even at the risk of losing it all, he would not let that stop him. After all, he was a gambling man. He may have been selfish, but she was the only thing that kept him together. 

He closed his eyes.

“Oh.” Her eyes lit up. “Welcome home, Tommy.” He swallowed thickly as she whispered, peering at him. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of her beaming smile.

“Welcome home, indeed.” He murmured, looking down at her, unable to pull his gaze away.

The memory of her stirred a primal yearning within him, aching to be with her and keep her all to himself.

Opening his eyes, his hand already reaching for his weapon to place it in his holster.

He was going to remind her with a bullet in her husband’s brain, his upper lip curled in disgust and jealousy for the last time at the reference.

After all, time and tide wait for no man.

act i | ❝𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙡𝙚 𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙝 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙣❞

act ii | ❝𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙮𝙚𝙩 𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙮 𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙣❞

act iii | ❝𝙙𝙞𝙙 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙙❞

[salty-autistic-writer]

Whumptober 2024 Day 19: Blood Trail

Title: Like a Rubber Band (Until You Pull Too Hard) (AO3)

Summary: Tommy is hyper-independent and wants to do things on his own. Buck wants to help and take care of Tommy. Tension rises.

1

Something is wrong. Buck can’t put his finger on it. Not yet. But he can feel it. He can feel the tension.

It’s like a rubberband being stretched in the silence between them. And Buck has a feeling it might snap soon.

“You know you could have asked me to help you with this, right?” Buck asks, running a finger over Tommy’s freshly painted living room wall. “Like. I would have loved to paint the walls with you. Might have been fun.” He smiles.

“Thank you for the offer,” Tommy says, scratching the back of his head. “But … You had a long shift. And I was doing fine on my own. Do you like it?”

“Yeah. Hm. You said the same when you repaired the roof. And when you had that new fridge delivered. You bruised several of your toes while trying to carry that massive thing by yourself,” Buck says dryly. “You do know you don’t have to do everything alone, right?”

“Of course,” Tommy says.

But … Buck has the feeling he doesn’t really mean it.

“Tommy?” He asks uncertainly. 

Tommy’s eyes flicker up to meet his. “Yeah?”

“Is there anything we should talk about?”

Tommy scrunches his nose in confusion. “I don’t think so?”

“Okay,” Buck says. “Alright. Great.”

And the mental rubberband in his head gets stretched a little bit more. 2

The tension is not there all the time. 

Sometimes Buck just forgets about it. Like now, while he’s having dinner with Tommy and they are laughing about something that happened during a call. They both had long shifts but now they finally can spend some quality time together and Buck is really looking forward to that. After he had a good night’s rest. He knows Tommy is exhausted too. His boyfriend is hiding hearty yawns behind the back of his hand and sometimes his eyes are drooping a little.

Since they are both exhausted, Buck thinks it’s only reasonable to share the necessary household chores and then go to bed.

But after dinner, Tommy gets up and reaches for a plate. “Gonna do the dishes,” he mutters.

No way. Buck stands up as well and grabs the plate as well so that they end up each holding an end of it. “No. Give it to me. I’m going to do the dishes. You already made dinner and set the table. Let me take care of the rest. You’re just as exhausted as I am. Relax.”

“No,” Tommy says, not letting go. Something defiant flickers in his eyes.

Buck blinks, baffled. “No?”

Tommy exhales slowly like he has to ground himself. “No. You don’t have to help. This is my house and I can do this on my own. Sit down and … and do something.”

“But … I want to help you,” Buck says, his confusion mixing with irritation. And there’s also a pinch of pain. My house?  

“You don’t need to. Let go,” Tommy repeats, pulling at the plate.

Buck narrows his eyes. He doesn’t let go. This is not only about the plate or the stupid dishes anymore. “Tommy. Why won’t you let me help you?!”

“I already told you, Evan. You don’t have to help me. I’m fine doing this on my own. I’m an adult!” Tommy exclaims.

Buck shakes his head. “That’s not what this is about. Of course, you’re an adult. But I’m an adult too. I won’t let my boyfriend do all the work! I want to help you. So let me!”

Tommy scowls. “No. Now give it back.” He pulls at the plate again. Firmer.

“No. You give it to me!” Buck demands, pulling as well.

“Let go, Ev - Buck!” “You let go first, Thomas!”

What follows is kind of inevitable, really. Buck’s fingers eventually slip. Tommy’s slip as well. And somehow, between their irritated scowls, the plate drops, shattering on the ground.

Silence.

The silence is stretching. Like a rubber band.

Tommy blinks at the shards. Then, he turns on his heels and storms out of the room. Without a word.

“Jesus, why are you so stubborn!?” Buck yells after Tommy who doesn’t stop and slams the door.

Buck stares at it. At the closed door. The silence is too loud. He can hear his own breaths. Dumbfounded, he glances at the mess on the floor. What the hell just happened? Not that long ago, they were talking about Buck moving in and now? Now Buck isn't allowed to do the dishes? He shakes his head and starts to clean up. And while he's picking up the broken pieces of the plate, he anxiously wonders if he did something wrong. 3

Buck slowly starts to put the pieces of his tension puzzle together.

Tommy never asks for help. But Tommy also never accepts any help. He wants to do everything on his own.

He is always there for Buck. But he doesn’t let Buck be there for him.

And it’s really starting to go on Buck’s nerves. The situation is hurting him. He has this deep urge to do nice things for Tommy. He knows they have to talk about it.

But after the plate incident, Tommy has been withdrawn and Buck wants to give him some space. So he goes to sleep at the loft and decides to address the issue after his next shift.

He also talks to Hen about it. “Like, he doesn’t want me to help him with anything! He also doesn’t want me to do “any great gestures”. Just told me I don’t need to make an effort. I don’t get it, Hen. Why would Tommy be that defensive about me helping him or doing something for him? Like … That’s what you do in a relationship, right? You’re taking care of each other! It’s not meant to be a one-sided thing, right?!”

Hen hums thoughtfully. “Maybe he’s scared,” she says calmly.

“Scared?” Buck asks, frowning. “Why would he be scared?”

“Maybe he never really had anyone who wanted to take care of him before,” Hen says. “Maybe he learned to take care of himself very early in his life and now it’s a habit. He might think that he has to be this independent strong person, you know? If that’s who he had to be for a very long time, it might be hard to let that go and accept help. Or care.”

“Oh.” Buck swallows. He remembers everything he learned so far about Tommy’s past. Which … really isn’t that much. Fuck. Tommy shielded him from that too, didn’t he?

“Thanks, Hen,” he says, already reaching for his jacket. “I have to go and talk to him.”

“Do that. You and Tommy are going to be alright, Buck,” Hen says, smiling at him. “As long as you talk to each other honestly, the hurdles aren’t going to be too tall for you to overcome.”

4

When Buck opens the door, something feels off.

Tommy’s house is silent. Too silent. There’s light, but Tommy is nowhere to be seen. Or heard. Buck frowns. He takes off his shoes and jacket, calling, “Tommy? Are you home?”

Nothing.

Maybe Tommy fell asleep, Buck thinks. He has a habit of taking naps. Especially after he had a shift. But Buck still feels like something’s not right.

He goes into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. And then he sees it. The blood.

Buck freezes.

It’s on the counter. A bloody almost perfectly shaped hand-print. 

“Tommy,” Buck gasps, his chest being flooded with icy fear. “Tommy!” 

His call echoes from the wall. There’s no answer.

But he sees more blood. It’s like a trail. Blood on the freshly painted wall. Blood on the floor. Leading up the stairs …

Buck follows them, his heart pounding in his chest and his blood rushing in his ears. That’s a lot of blood, right? No. No, no, no. Please. Don’t let him be … No. He can’t think of that. The trail leads him to the bathroom. The door is closed. And when Buck approaches, he can finally hear a quiet groan.

“Tommy!” Buck calls out, reaching for the door handle. 

There’s a gasp. “No … Don’t come in!”

But Buck is already ripping open the door. His heart seems to miss a beat.

Tommy is a heap on the floor, with his back leaning against the toilet, pressing a towel against his right arm. It’s already soaked in blood.

“Tommy. What the hell happened?!” Buck asks, crouching down beside his boyfriend and pulling out his phone.

“I … I wanted to install a board for your spices. In the kitchen. I wanted to get the wood into a proper shape. But then I cut myself with the saw and it won’t stop bleeding,” Tommy croaks, trembling and staring at the bloody towel. “Please. Don’t call 911,” he adds and it sounds close to begging.

Buck swallows, putting his phone to the side for now. “Let me see,” he says as calmly as possible.

Tommy lifts the towel. Buck curses as he sees the cut. It’s long and jagged. But it doesn’t seem to be too deep. Still …

“That needs stitches and proper cleaning,” he says. “I’m going to wrap it up and drive you to the ER.”

Tommy groans. “Is that really necessary? I … I might be able to -”

“Please don’t say you want to do the stitches yourself,” Buck says, raising a finger and narrowing his eyes. “Just don’t.”

5

The drive home is silent. Tense.

Buck can feel Tommy glancing at him a few times, where he’s sitting in the passenger’s seat, cradling his bandaged arm to his chest.

Finally, Buck can’t stand it anymore. He parks the car at a quiet corner, clears his throat and says, “I could have helped you with that board, you know? Like I could have helped you with everything else. The paint. The fridge. The dishes. And I still can't believe you didn't call me when you cut yourself... Tommy. We really have to talk about this. Because I can’t … I can’t go on like this. I want to take care of you. And I feel like you won’t let me.”

Tommy sighs. “I’m used to taking care of myself,” he mutters. “I know. I know you are. And you’re doing a great job. Um. Not counting what happened today of course ... But you being able to take care of yourself doesn’t mean you can’t let someone else take care of you once in a while, don’t you think? Especially if that person loves you and wants to take care of you?”

Tommy swallows. He looks at Buck, wide-eyed. “You love me?”

“Yeah,” Buck says, chuckling. “Of course I do.”

“I love you too,” Tommy breathes. “God. I do. I … I’m sorry, Evan. It’s not you, I promise. It’s all me.”

“Help me to understand?” Buck asks quietly.

Tommy takes a deep breath. “I can try. It’s just … I’m used to taking care of myself, you know? I’ve always done it, in a way. My Dad … He was a drunk. So he either was at a bar or he was asleep on the couch. And my mother … Well. She was depressed. She wasn’t doing much either. And I was an only child. So I was on my own pretty much all the time. Then, later, in the army, it wasn’t much different. It was kind of expected from soldiers, you know? To not ask for help or care. We had to be tough and independent. It just continued like this. I was living alone. So I did things on my own all the time. If I didn’t know how to do something, I learned how to. And now … Well. Now you’re in my life. And it’s the best thing that happened to me since … I don’t know since when to be honest. I’ve never been in a committed relationship before, Evan. Which is pretty pathetic for a guy as old as me …”

“I don’t think you’re pathetic,” Buck breathes, reaching for Tommy’s hand and squeezing it gently.

“Thanks,” Tommy says and squeezes back. “What I wanted to say … I’m not used to living with someone. I’m not used to someone wanting to take care of me. And I think I just … I kind of had a fight and flight response to it, you know?”

Buck thinks back to what Hen assumed and nods. “Yeah.”

“But I can learn. I know I can. And I want to,” Tommy adds. “Because I do want you to help me and take care of me. I … I really love how the thought, the idea, makes me feel. I just … I’m just a little scared, I guess. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Buck says, smiling at Tommy. “If I’m being honest, I probably was trying a bit too hard. I was pushing you to allow me to help you. I should have been more thoughtful and should have given you a chance to explain it to me like you did just now. I’m sorry. But now we can work on it together, right?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says and smiles as well. “I’m sorry too.”

“You can start by letting me help you repaint your living room walls,” Buck says with a wink. “Since it now wears your bloody handprint.”

Tommy groans. “Right … Here we go again. But we are going to have to buy new colour first …”

“Does this mean we are going to Ikea?!” Buck gasps in delight. “I’ve never been to Ikea!”

Tommy laughs. “Well. There’s a first time for everything. Yeah. We’re going to Ikea and since I’m gravely injured, my strong boyfriend is going to carry all the bags, right?”

“I can’t wait,” Buck says with a chuckle and starts the motor.

[loveanddeepspice]

𝕋𝕖𝕞𝕡𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝔾𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕖

✞ synopsis:  you've come back to the small town you grew up in for a visit. though your relationship with the catholic church and faith in general have been strained since you were younger, you find yourself drawn back to the church... or more specifically... the new priest... you aren't ready to share your secret sin with him... but you may not be able to help yourself.

✞ pairing: sylus x curvy fem!reader

✞ rating:  18+ (minors do not engage)

✞ cw:  religion (catholicism), priest, lapsed faith, adultery, priest kink, suicidal mention, dead parent, sex, masturbation, drugs (marijuana), drinking (more will be added when/if they arise)

✞ disclaimer: this fiction explores a romantic relationship between a lapsed Catholic and an unconventional priest. it is not designed to be inflammatory or critical. catholic authors were asked to participate in the process. we hope you enjoy it, but we know that these topics can be sensitive, so please skip this fiction if it will in any way offend you.

✞ chapter:  1 / ?

✞ co-authors:  redbriony, confuseddoughnut (they do not have tumblr)

✞ ao3 link:  here Please respond to this post if you want to be added to the tag list for upates!

The crisp smell of autumn was something you missed about the small neighborhood you grew up in. Pieces of golden yellow, burnt orange, and honey-brown leaves scattered over the gray cobblestone walk, making it look like a beautiful quilt. The street felt warm as afternoon crept up to greet you after a whole morning of heavy grocery shopping and last-minute errands.

And…your dad needed to go to confession.

You didn't have an understanding relationship with religion. You felt tense as you stood in front of the church from your childhood, a relatively small building with arched windows that probably had more than one glass shard smashed by a local kid.

"How is Father Thomas anyway?" You found yourself asking. The memory of your mother on her deathbed flooded your head. Your mom had her problems, and she was stricken with her faith even in her dying moments. And when you had asked the priest if she could be saved, he had reassured you that she was already in the arms of God. 

"Why is he taking her?" You had asked, feeling powerless and exhausted, hugging yourself tightly in an attempt to hold back all of the anxiety and sadness.

Father Thomas had given you, at the time, the most religious bull crap you've ever heard in your frustration. "God never condemns the innocent to suffer. Even if God seems to have turned His back on her...He was actually just loving her enough not to let her get away with it."

That didn't answer your question. It sounded like comfort. But how many people found peace after drunkenly crashing her car and injuring another man in the process?

You should've kept your mouth shut.

"Father Thomas left." Your father told you, yanking you out of your memories and into the chilling Fall breeze. "Father Sylus took over a year ago."

You frowned and took a deep breath, nodding. "Have fun, then. If you need anything, I'll be in the car."

"You coming in?" Your dad pushed his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker.

"No," You replied firmly. "I don't have anything to confess." You had plenty of secrets, none of which you ever intended to discuss, especially not with some out-of-touch priest whose homilies preached forgiveness even as he judged his parishioners - another Father Thomas clone. "Besides, what do you have to confess? Piss off the neighbors again?"

He ignored your sarcasm. "You can come if you want."

After your mother's death, it had become clear that all she ever had was religious guilt. And when you thought about it now, nothing made sense. What part of God's divine plan included drunk driving, death, divorce, depression, drugs, or illness? 

But you couldn't ignore that pull, the way those ornate doors called to you from an insatiable hunger inside yourself. Like the secrets only whispered within the walls of the church. The whisper of your mother telling you just to suck it up and go in.

"Yeah, sure," you forced a smile. You could glimpse something you have missed in the structure before , maybe . For the past few years, you had been trying to spot miracles and tried to find an explanation as to why your mother had died before your eyes that wasn't backwashed with the usual sentiment. 

When you walked through the doors, you paused. It was like time and life had stopped. This chapel gave off an eerily peaceful feeling. With thick wooden pillars reaching up and gently hugging the ceiling, you remembered what it felt like to truly be a child of God—just for a moment, anyway.

Your eyes fell on the apse hosting the Marian shrine, surrounded by candles, many already lit. You recall every candle you lit for your mother, first praying to let her be well, to let her set down the bottle. Then, you prayed harder as she lay in the hospital. You lit a piece of your soul afire with every wick.

And all of it amounted to nothing. Ashes only. Like your mother, sitting in an urn on top of the mantle of your childhood home.

Along the back wall trailed the line of bored parishioners waiting for their turn to confess. You take your spot at the back of the line with your father, settling into the familiar routines of the sacraments.

As the line moves, crawling slowly along the back wall of the nave, you scroll through your phone, or at least start to.

So much of this place reminds you of Father Thomas — the smell of incense, the sound of muffled coughs echoing off the vaulted ceiling, the tinkling sound of the baptismal font in the entryway. 

But there is a presence here that feels nothing like Father Thomas. 

Was it appropriate to compare the new priest to the old one?

This new person sat behind the wooden barrier, shrouded in darkness. Something about him arrested your attention. Your phone sits, ignored, in your hand. 

You know he is the person who would wait for the words you speak in confession, without judgment, and to whom you had no obligation until the moment you would open your mouth. 

"Forgive me Father , for I have sinned. It's been three years since my last confession," you spoke in a quiet, solemn tone. You didn't believe that much had changed since you moved away. Well, except for the one thing that happened - but there was no way you were going to tell him that.

Unbidden memories came to mind. Memories of steamy nights tucked away in hotels, illicit meetings that you knew were wrong because he belonged to someone else already, but you just couldn't resist…

No. You couldn't tell him about that. You were far too ashamed. No, you had to think of something else to say. Anything else to say. 

Tilting your head towards the floor, you lowered your eyes, fighting back any self-loathing emotions in your mind. For a long time, you told yourself that life happened, and in the meantime, there were other things to experience besides faith. 

You had almost forgotten how this all worked and what was supposed to happen next. You heard a shift, the sound of wood creaking. 

"Tell me your sins." The voice of the new priest was soft and smooth, in a way that made the hairs on your arms stand. Father Thomas had never sounded like him, ever reminded anyone what they were supposed to do during confession. In the deep recesses of your mind, you felt there was something unsettlingly familiar about that tone, that cadence. 

Closing your eyes, you tried to bring up literally anything else that could be considered a sin. "I - I told my dad he was an asshole this week." 

Was there really nothing else you could tell him? It felt like a lost cause. He would most likely repeat some bible verse you already knew and admonish you for 'sinning' as much as you had while also claiming the salvation of heaven was all yours for the taking. But that was your burden to shoulder and not his. 

"Why did you call him an asshole?" 

"Sorry?" You weren't sure what was happening. Confession was a place of absolution, a place to listen, not encourage further action or rationale. At least that's how Father Thomas always - 

"Why did you call your father an asshole?" The question was asked again, a little louder as if you hadn't heard it. The more you thought about the question, the less you could discern its intent. Was he looking for something you didn't know?

"Uh, he forgot to pick me up from the airport." You sighed, but the conversation didn't end there. When you paused, you heard him shift again. If you had to guess, he nodded in that kind of stiff way priests do. He probably did it every time you stopped talking, even when there wasn't any vocal confirmation or cue. 

"How long did you wait?" 

"Two hours." You quickly said, trying to imagine a face to match the voice, failing to identify even a bit of the man behind the screen. "I almost got hit by some guy's truck." Another pause made you think back to that moment at the airport when you had gotten so frustrated at your father on the phone. "When Dad finally showed up, he said the fees for the parking garage were too high and made me walk to his car." 

Perhaps this Father Sylus was a lunatic, clearly used to the rich and holy roller types that confessed to him daily. Perhaps his interest in your story would wane. Instead of offering any indication that he cared, he only shifted again. 

When he finally spoke again, his voice soothed any anger brewing. "The Lord teaches us that before we judge others, we should measure ourselves - Proverbs 28:13. 'Whoever conceals their sins does not prosper, but the one who confesses and renounces them finds mercy.' Three Hail Marys and 1 Our Father. And apologize to your father."

You found yourself unsure of how to respond before bowing your head again, "Thank you, Father."  

[katskitoshi]

"CERTIFIED SOFT MOMENTS!" with the INAZUMANS from GENSHIN IMPACT.

synopsis: just some soft, sweet moments with some of the inazumans.

characters: ayaka, kuki, gorou, yoimiya, thoma, ayato, kazuha, and tomo (mostly separate) x gn!reader

includes: poly! kazutomo (i love them so you will too), sweet moments with some inazuma men and women!! ♡

--just watching ayaka dance. time seems to stop, the air seeming to cool around the two of you. she giggles nervously before slowly stepping into the water. drawing her fan out, she begins her angelic movements with little snowflakes and ice shards trailing her. your eyes follow her as she moves, love glazing them over. ayaka, your girlfriend, your future wife, seems so perfect in these moments that when your eyes meet, you can't draw them away -- and neither can she.

her dancing stops, but the world doesn't resume nor does the air warm. never breaking eye contact, ayaka slowly approaches you, and she takes your hand in her own. her usual ice-cold fingers feel so warm in your embrace. she leans in, then to your lips. a kiss that resumes time itself, warms the air, and sparks love once again between you.

--kuki, who rarely gets free-time from playing the gang's brain, finally finds comfort and relaxation with you. you take her to a secluded part of an inazuman forrest, where only you and her can exist. a little picnic is set up, all her favorite dishes and desserts presented before her on a soft blanket. when you show her, she's speechless, almost as if she doesn't like. perhaps you did to much? was it not enough? maybe she didn't like-

all the thoughts of what could have made her silent suddenly come to a close when her lips meet yours in a gentle moment. you hadn't even notice she'd taken off her mask. but since she did, you can see the clear smile on her face. "thank you so much for this, love. i guess you can really tell when i need a break." kuki begins to walk to the blanket, lowering herself on it before she pats the area besides her. "aren't you going to join me?"

--it's almost as if gorou is always busy or free, but never when you need him. he loves you dearly and always tries to make time for you but all his soldiers and kokomi work him like a dog. which is totally unfair! but you understand and try to help him out when you can. whether it's with his work, or a nice massage and meal when works done. he loves what you do for him, but gorou can't but feel guilty. he felt like he was the one working you! so, he decided to treat you to a nice night in the city once a festival rolls around.

each stand that catches your eye, he'll let you wander and stare as long as you want. and don't even think about pulling out your mora! gorou is sponsoring the whole night. any food or item you wish for he'll buy and carry for you. once the night is over, he'll drag you outside your little cottage and lay you down on the soft grass. you two can watch the twinkling stars, in silence or in conversation, but at some point gorou just turns to you and stares. the admiration in your eyes as he stares at the stars and the admiration in his eyes as he stares at his star.

--yoimiya who obviously brings you on dates to make, test, and watch her fireworks -- but also loves telling you stories during the process. she'll always bring you your favorite foods with a smile on her face as she drags you to some far off area from the village before gushing on about anything any everything. oh, did you see that butterfly? let her tell you a story she heard the other day about one she saw that was almost as beautiful as you!

just as you reach the mountaintop, the stars start to glimmer especially bright. yoimiya takes your hand and drags you close to the edge where she takes a seat and waits for you to accompany her. she sets the fireworks, and you two relish in the few silent moments before the loud booms start. crackles of [favorite color], red, orange, and pinks all explode against the dark sky.

your eyes focus on the fireworks, but yoimiya's eyes focus on you. she couldn't look away if she wanted too. of course the fireworks are beautiful, but your beauty alone surpasses anything she could make. yoimiya kisses your cheek and smiles before pulling your head to rest on her shoulders. the night quiets around you, the crackles and booms of the fireworks make a lovely melody in the background to aid the picture perfect moment yoimiya and you have created.

--the life of a nobleman's retainer seems to never come to a halt, but thoma will always put work to a pause for you. one day, he'll bring you out to the komore teahouse. taroumaru will greet you with loving barks before he leads you to a secluded room of the teahouse, where thoma awaits you. a shy smile is etched on his lips, and the table before him is covered in an abundance of dishes that makes your mouth water. as you take your seat across him, thoma thanks you for coming and tells you to help yourself.

as the night advances, his initial nervousness melts away. he'll start a conversation on just about anything; the weird odd jobs he's been doing, disputes he's resolved, even little secrets he's never thought to tell anyone! when he's with you, he stops being a retainer or the fixer, he just becomes thoma: your boyfriend. and he loves not having the additional weight of everything else on his shoulders.

--ayato never has free time but he'll sure as hell make some for his lover. perhaps you can join him in his office while he works for a bit? he'll let you rest your head on his lap, and if one of his hands are free, he'll even rub little shapes into your arm, or back, or whatever part of your body you'll let him. if you're not fancy to laying his head in his lap, perhaps you can sit on him instead. he won't mind. and, if that's also not to your liking, he's free to offer you to sit by him and let him rest his hand on your thigh. t

hese moments are sweet in itself, but this is just a little warm up for what he has planned later. once he's done working, he'll pick you up, and use one of his delicate gloved hands to cover your eyes as he leads you somewhere. soon enough, you're off the estate grounds and in the nearby forrest. he removes his hands from over your eyes, and behold: a tea party is set up. some sweets imported from across teyvat lay on the small table with

the finest inazuman tea already steamily brewed. off to the side there's a record player, playing some nice music the set the scene. still holding you, ayato gently places you in the seat across from his own, but does not seat himself. he notices you about to go for a pastry and dabs your hand away.

"allow me, darling." he grabbed the pastry you were going for and tilted your chin up with his other hand. "say, 'ahh~'" and you do, he places it in your mouth and you take a bite. his hand holding the pastry places it on the plate infant of you but he never lets go of your chin.

"ayato..?" "you have something right..." his pointer finger flicks a crumb off her cheek. and then he leans in and licks your lips before kissing you. ayato doesn't stop until you're nearly breathless. he chuckles as a string of saliva connects you before promptly snapping. he lets go and sits on his side on the table. "..there."

--besides for their travels, tomo and kazuha aren't ever that busy. with them, every moment is a soft moment. each mini cooking competition as the two compete for which of their dishes is best. each cuddle session, that started as a stargazing date. each time kazuha would write you a poem or make you a love letter and make tomo jealous. each time tomo would make a meal that puts master chefs and kazuha to shame, or plants and gives you flowers, or grooming and taking care of his cat, mimi. every moment was worth it with these two. even as tomo might not always be there because of each odd job he picks up. or kazuha might just take a moment to run off on his own. but at the end of the day, you all are together, and thats what matters.

[artemisadore]

Hi, I'm currently working on a Catwin fake dating college AU loosely inspired by the song Mama's Broken Heart by Miranda Lambert. Here is an unedited snippet from the first chapter!

---

"What in Heaven's name do you think you're doing?" Edwin asks, hands on his hips in the way Crystal says makes him look like a 'cunty British Karen.'

This, at last, startles the man into dropping the shard of glass onto the pavement with a clink. "Fuck!" he shouts as he jumps to his feet. "Can't a guy trash his fucking ex's car in peace?" He whirls on Edwin with the gracelessness of a man who is fully and utterly trashed.

Edwin, for some reason he cannot fathom, is startled by the man's appearance. The first thing he sees are black-lined eyes the color of honey, the golden hue almost glowing in the streetlight. From there, Edwin processes everything else all at once -- the running makeup, the unkempt curly hair, the knee-high stiletto boots with a missing heel, the all-black skin-tight outfit lined in what Edwin thinks might be feathers, the baseball bat discarded behind him.

Edwin has severely miscalculated, because the vandal is fucking gorgeous.

For all that Edwin has been assessing the stranger, he is being sized-up in equal measure. Revenge plot seemingly forgotten, a mischievous smile tugs at the corner of his wine-red lips. "Well hello there," he practically purrs. Edwin feels his treacherous cheeks heat up against his will. "My name is Thomas, but you can call me anything you like." Thomas does make a valiant effort in sauntering over to Edwin despite the crunching glass and missing heel, but Edwin holds out his hand firmly.

"Absolutely not," he quips. "I came out here to tell you to take your vandalism elsewhere, not to take part in whatever," he gestures vaguely with his hand, "this is."

If Thomas processes what Edwin is saying, he makes no indication of it. "Tall, posh, n' fucking British," he laughs, swaying a bit as he gets even closer. "What do I have to do to get into your bed tonight, handsome? Beg?"

[robin-evry]

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐔!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 ❄️🌙

Former Sword Champion of the Luofu, and the creator of the Cloud Knights' legends of undefeated might. Now, her name has been wiped from the records, and she is a traitor of the Xianzhou walking on the fine line between sanity and mara-struck.

< part 1 > < Part 2 >

( English is not my first language )

After managing to bypass the nation of eternity storm, the ship is docked at ritou and the sailors are taking care of matters of getting the cargo into the city.

During this moment, it was already night and everyone was already asleep and only a few soldiers were active and yet they still lack concentration.

Jingliu!reader uses this opportunity to sneak into the city, They steal laundry from one of the houses in ritou and endow themselves in it as well by wearing a straw hat to cover their face.

During sunrise, they stroll the inazuma city, it was peaceful and beautiful. This aching feeling of bloodshed, their mara is acting up again.

They made their way out of the city, not before bumping into certain blonde housekeepers of the kamisato clan. Before he could react, the person was already a few miles away from where they bumped into him. He realizes some of his clothes have some ice crystals in it.

On the coast of a beach, jingliu!reader is standing trying to meditate to keep themselves sane before her mara takes place, multiple nobushi approach them.

Nobushi : HEY YOU.

Jingliu!reader : ...

Nobushi :ARE YOU DEAF, WE WERE TALKING TO YOU-

Jingliu!reader : QUITE....

A burst of cryo burst out the ground sending smoke and shards of ice circle around them and when the smoke cleared all of the nobushi had been frozen completely.

"so loud" jingliu!reader soon leaves the area not until stealing the money of the nobushi for themselves. as well the now corpse of the frozen nobushi falls down, revealing they're inside have been frozen completely.

Behind a bush, thoma was watching the entire scene unfold, he knows that random stranger wasn't some normal ronin, so he got a hunch to follow them

Suddenly he noticed someone looking at him, the ronin was looking straight at him and continued walking their path leaving a trail of icy foot prints.

Jingliu!reader rented a room in an inn for the past few days using the money they stole from the ronin. It was by far a small room with only a futon and coffee table plus lamp but it could work. They sit in the middle of the room and started to meditate.

Suddenly they send an ice dagger towards the paper door and it pierce someone, they open the door and reveal a shuutmasuban spying on them.

Later on, in the kamisato residents, a commotion happened and the clan head and his sibling have to get out and see what happens. Jingliu!reader standing in the courtyard with the shuutmasuban that was spying on them, they throw the body of the ninja towards the stair and then look at ayato.

Jingliu! reader : you know, it's rude to spy on people

Ayato : my apologies, it was just a procedure to make sure you're not a threat.

Jingliu!reader : *look at thoma* so you're the one that ratted me to your masyer

Ayato : it was just a procedure we usually do to make this city stay safe

Jingliu!reader : hmm, are you afraid I might kill you people. You have more love for your people than your own god.

Ayato : if that may be the case, I guess I have no choice but to eliminate you before you forward your plan of massacre

Multiple shutmasuban appear and point their blade on their neck

Jingliu!reader : hmm you got guts, but you don't need to worry about me... I'm not planning on staying at your nation for long.

Jingliu!reader Walk away from the estate

After that confrontation, no more of the shuutmasuban is spying on them.

Usually sometimes at night jingliu!reader would go out to hunt for monsters or some criminals. On one particular night the corpse of a hundreds frozen of rift hounds are laying on the ground with slashes in their body as well being paled by spikes of ice, the ground they're standing on is completely frozen as well the atmosphere around them amidst a cold mist. And jingliu!reader standing there and holding a sword made out of ice.

Suddenly a young man started to walk over the corpse of the rift hounds as well walk past the icy mist without getting frozen as well clapping their hands.

This man is exceptionally beautiful like a doll,His attire consists of black shorts and black sandals, and a large hat with four upwards-curving hooks along the circumference, and what seems to be his mask on the center. he stops Infront and looks at them

Scaramouche : I presume you're the person that helps you in their fight against osial correct.

Jingliu!reader : that's correct...

Scaramouche : you're much stronger than you look, originally when you landed on inazuma I've been following you, I originally presumed you were blind until I realized your movements. You're not blind are you

Jingliu!reader : I have never claimed I was blind

Scaramouche : you wild the power of ice Without wielding a vision, your swordsmanship is fast, swift, unpredictable and powerful. Even tho you hide yourself under this reserve and weak person, I realized that you're pretty sadistic.

Jingliu!reader : .... What do you want with me

Scaramouche : how about you meet our majesty, the Archon of Snezhnaya.

Jingliu!reader : ...

[naurimastaur]

Seeing them for the first time, again

Summary: losing a lung and your friends to wkcd meant Gally had a pretty shit year. What’s the harm however, in seeing a familiar face?

Pairing: Gally (maze runner) x nb!reader

A/N: this is so cringe but I’m so obsessed with him Idc if this flops with the dying tmr fandom// also this is my first attempt at angst so go easy on me

———————————————————————

“Hey everybody relax, we’re all on the same side here,” Gally called out amongst the chaos. The faces of his old friends turning towards him in apprehension. The familiarity of his voice momentarily pausing their act of rebellion, the concealment of his face enhancing their confusion.

“What do you mean, we’re all on the same side? Who the hell are you?” Thomas, ever the skeptic, interrogated.

Gally’s eyes weren’t focused on him however, for lingering in the back was the reason he joined the right arm to begin with; y/n. Wretched and messy but all in one piece, they stood in front of him.

It was like seeing them for the first time, all over again.

———————————————————————

Gally had heard the familiar siren of the box’s arrival. He wasn’t remotely interested most of the time on seeing who came up with it. On this day however Gally had overworked himself, and the idea of joyfully revelling in a greenie’s newfound terror seemed like a treat.

Towering over the box he spotted a figure hiding amongst the supplies, crouched like a caged animal, eyes wild and ferocious. He had to admit his curiosity was peaked, most greenies were crying at this point. This one however had looked at him in rage, a hand lingered behind their back.

“Where the hell am I?” They snarled, chest slightly heaving, the only real indicator of their fear.

“Your new home,” Gally had replied, a sarcastic smile on his face. His gaze never left the greenie, whose eyes had regarded each and every teen boy in front of them with predatory caution.

“Why can’t I remember anything?” They questioned, eyes never focused on one person.

“All part of the glade’s charm,” Gally said, before he had reached out an arm for them to take. His admiration controlled his limbs before his brain did.

The greenie considered his offer before they had hauled themselves up, and bolted towards the maze doors. Gally hadn’t bothered to run after them, leaving the job to someone who actually cared like Newt. He had however returned his gaze to the supplies, noticing one of the crates was missing a shard of wood, no doubt a fault of the greenie’s.

He had to admit he was enamoured from that point onwards.

———————————————————————

Now they stood adjacent, mirroring their first encounter. Y/n was looking at him with rekindled fury, this time paired with their tainted memories. Their gally had died back in the maze, physically and figuratively. This version was a stranger; a defying act against fate.

The fire within them was awakening once again, where it was quieted by the nature of the glade, it now burned with the raw desire for revenge.

Their wrath was overcoming their joy. For where their heart was aching for the comfort of Gally, for the ease of his embrace, the overbearing rage was all-consuming.

Wkcd had taken Gally, that much they were certain of. This was a trick, a taunting illusion created from the depths of their imagination and wkcd’s tampering. Their time confined within wkcd’s laboratories meant they were forever trapped in their own mind, never knowing for certain what was real.

What was real was that there was a time when Gally had been theirs, when his company mellowed their temper and gave them faith. But those feelings had died with him, things were different now. They were both different; no longer two sides of the same coin but two puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit anymore.

( why did I write this cringe corny ass ending)

———————————————————————

A/n: might write a part 2 if I’m feeling silly. Also, why did I describe y/n so animalistic? Bc I’m so crazy and quirky and I can do what I want!!!! If you’d like to leave a request for any character for me to write, feel free I’m open to any! To my Weasley twin enthusiasts I will write them again don’t sweat it, I’m going through a phase<3

@thescrunkler despite you not being in a tmr phase, you’re getting tagged anyways x

[ppleasexanny]

the puzzle's new pieces in the wake of jigsaw's death, a new killer emerges, mimicking his twisted games

warnings: blood, suicide, death (lmk if i forgot about anything) wc: 1.4k

the entire country is abuzz with fear over the return of “jigsaw,” a notorious serial killer whose reign of terror was thought to have ended with his death. yet, despite the original jigsaw's demise, the killings persist, leaving the people of new jersey gripped in paranoia. everyone is scared, the whole new jersey state is talking only about this topic. 

“it’s just stupid, meg!” you shout to your friend and co-worker. “some old guy kills people because they ‘don’t appreciate’ their lives, then he dies, his accomplice amanda dies—and somehow the murders still keep happening! we don’t even know who’s behind it!” you fling the papers in your hands across meg’s bed, frustration boiling over.  

meg sighs heavily, exasperation creeping into her voice. “he’s not killing people. they’re killing themselves.” she swivels in her chair to face you, the exhaustion plain on her face. “the whole ‘jigsaw mantra’? it’s about making them face their own guilt or whatever. anyway…” she spins back toward her desk, rifling through documents. “john kramer was in contact with amanda. we know that. amanda was in a relationship with matthew sturniolo. we should talk to him in the morning.”  

“yeah, we’ll do that.” you return to the documents and photos strewn across the room, letting the silence settle for a moment before a thought strikes.  

“play the tape again.”  

⸝⸝

another victim of john’s traps wakes up in a small, cold and dimly lit room, chained to the floor. above them, suspended from the ceiling, is a massive, razor-sharp pendulum with a blade that swings back and forth. the victim is positioned directly in its path, but they are not immediately in danger. in front of them is a large, heavy metal door, locked shut with a complex mechanism. they are so confused, frightened, their breath gets more rapid and before they know it, tears run down their cheeks.  

“help! someone help me! please!” they yell, hoping that someone will hear them, but they know that no one is going to come here and save them.  

suddenly, a mechanical whir echoed through the room causing them to look in the direction of the sound. a small tv flickered on, and the image of a puppet with hollow eyes and a chilling grin appeared. then, the voice spoke.  

"hello thomas. you are here because of the choices you’ve made. choices that haunt you, that weigh on you. you thought you could run from them, but now, there’s no escape.  

a pendulum, sharp and unforgiving, swings above you. each swing is a reminder—reminder of your past, your mistakes, and the consequences of them. you are chained to the floor, but your freedom lies behind a door. a door that you can only unlock if you confront what you have done.  

in front of you, you’ll find several objects. each one holds a piece of your past. only one holds the key to your escape. you must choose carefully. the wrong choice will not only keep you trapped—it will cost you your life.  

the key to the door is within a steel block. it can only be freed by burning the right object. but beware... time is running out. the pendulum swings closer with each second you waste. if you don't act soon, it will end your story.  

live or die, thomas.  

make your choice.”  

the screen went dark as the pendulum began to swing faster. thomas’s eyes darted to the small pile of items scattered before him: an old photograph of a woman holding a baby, a screwdriver and a set of car keys. his breath caught in his throat. each object was a shard of his life, broken and fragmented.  

the photo. the photo of his loving and kind wife, who tried her best to make thomas happy, chained to the bed’s leg. next to her was their daughter, who had to listen to them yelling at each other every evening, also chained to the bed.  

the screwdriver that he used to unscrew a nail from a pencil sharpener and hurt himself with the blade.  

the car keys reminded him of hitting a stranger while driving.

his mind raced. “what do i do? which one?” he stared at the items, his hands trembling. the pendulum swung closer, its blade slicing the air with a whooshing sound. he had to burn the right object to release the corrosive liquid and free the key, but what was the right choice?  

his heart screamed for him to grab the car keys. that accident had started it all. it was his deepest regret. he seized the keys and threw them into the furnace nearby. the heat surged, flames licking at the metal, but... nothing. no liquid dripped, no key emerged.  

the pendulum inched closer.  

thomas’s screams filled the room as he fumbled for another object. the photograph. he grabbed it with shaking hands, hesitating for a moment as he looked at the faces in it—his wife and child. he clenched his jaw and shoved it into the fire.  

the furnace hissed. this time, a dark liquid oozed out, burning through the steel block. the key fell onto the floor with a clang, but the pendulum was already dangerously close. its blade sliced the air just inches from his chest.  

with a final surge of adrenaline, thomas grabbed the key and reached for the lock on his chains. his fingers fumbled, slick with sweat and trembling. the lock clicked open, and he scrambled to his feet, but he wasn’t fast enough.  

the pendulum swung down, its sharp edge catching him in the back. the man gasped, the pain blinding, as it sliced deeper with each pass. he collapsed, blood pooling around him. his vision blurred as he stared at the open door just a few feet away, freedom tantalizingly close yet forever out of reach.  

his last thoughts were of the photograph, the faces he’d burned away, and the life he could never reclaim.  

the pendulum swung one final time.  

⸝⸝

“it doesn’t sound like jigsaw at all.” meg spoke up as she stared at the puppet on the screen. “a voice changer,” you said with no emotion in your voice as you bit on your pen, completely zooned out. finally, meg took her eyes off of the screen, tilting her head in your direction. “someone tried to sound like jigsaw, so they used a voice changer. send it to jasmine.”  

meg nodded and clicked a few keys on her laptop, sending the recording to jasmine, the department's forensic audio analyst. she leaned back in her chair, her eyes narrowed in thought. "if someone’s impersonating jigsaw, it’s not just about the traps. they want people to believe it’s him. that means whoever this is-"  

"-is obsessed," you finished for her. "or trying to use the fear of jigsaw to cover their own agenda." you exhaled sharply and leaned back against the wall. "this isn’t just about making people appreciate life. this is… something else entirely."  

meg gestured to the case files scattered across her desk. "we’ve got a connection between kramer and amanda. if we’re chasing leads, matthew sturniolo’s our best shot. kramer groomed amanda; who’s to say amanda didn’t groom someone else before she died?"  

the thought made your stomach churn. the idea of this violence being passed down like some twisted legacy was almost too much to bear. "what do we even ask him? 'did your dead girlfriend turn you into a serial killer?' he won’t talk to us unless we’ve got something solid."  

"that’s why we play nice at first," meg said. "let’s see what he says when we bring up amanda."  

before you could respond, meg’s phone buzzed on the desk. a text from jasmine:  

“you got it”  

“i’ll send the results tomorrow”  

"jasmine’s on it," meg said, showing meg the message. "if the voice changer gives us anything—an accent, background noise, whatever—we might have a starting point."  

meg glanced at the clock. "it’s late. let’s get some sleep and visit sturniolo first thing. whoever’s behind this, they’re escalating. if we don’t move fast, there’s going to be another victim."  

you nodded, gathering up the files. "escalating or not, they’re sloppy. whoever this is doesn’t have kramer’s precision. that might be their undoing."