#this book is so “go to the light” by murder by death

[j4mboree]

blood meridian but theyre all cats. instead of being called the kid, hes called the kit cuz the kid would be a kitten in this. not like a very young kitten but like 6-8 months old type kitten

[killjoy-prince]

When Soichiro spelled out Mello's name and revealed he found out his real name was Mihael Keehl, Mello should of been allowed to say "What the fuck?!"

[lighting-and-shadow]

Ikigai, Part 9

Summary: You’re desperately in love with a man who already belongs to another.

Ikigai (n.) (Japanese): "A reason for being," the thing that gets you up in the morning.

Trigger Warnings: brief mentions of suicide, romanticization of suicide, mentions of cannibalism, mentions of murder

Part 8, Part 10

“Have fun.”

His voice is light, teasing like it usually is. But you can tell there's something more underneath that facade. Even as Sylus hands you his black card, you know there's more there.

He’s unsatisfied with something. He wants something.

It's the way he looks at you. Like he's craving. Hungry. You don't see this side of him often, but it usually comes out during when you need to dress fancy for some party or gathering.

Don't dwell on it. You have work to do.

You snatch his card from him, careful to not even graze his skin. His touch has a way of distracting you. And those kinds of distractions are the last thing you need.

“We shall.”

Sylus gives you a strange look. You just stare on forward, beckoning him to give you the card. Then he chuckles and his eyes soften to that special gaze that makes your heart melt before he hands it over. God are you glad things are at least semi-normal between the two of you.

You lean into Miss Hunter, loop your arms through hers, and begin to walk away.

“Me and Miss Hunter are off. Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on her and make sure she isn’t too good of bait.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Miss Hunter mutters.

“And I am hardly a babysitter,” you smile at her. “I’m merely looking out for my new friend because she’s clearly a trouble magnet.”

Miss Hunter scoffs at you. Sylus just watches the two of you with a smile that speaks to something deeper in you.

“And you? Who will keep an eye on you, sweetie?”

“Everyone,” you reply with a smirk. “Because that’s my job.”

That’s why he called you Gamayun, after all. Because you bewitch and charm people with the words from your mouth. Sometimes you told truths, hidden prophecies and tales of the past. Sometimes you told lies, dark exaggerated whispers and catatraphizing things from the smallest details.

Gamayun wasn’t just an empty promise of Sylus’ love. It's more than that. It’s your story. It’s you. And that’s why you love the nickname so much despite the pain it causes.

You exchange a look with Sylus before he leaves to deal with the traitor. His carmine eyes and heartfelt expression draw you in. For a moment, he’s the siren between the two of you.

But than the god of death that he is, and the origin of your own nickname for him, claws its way to overlap that beautiful face of his. That part of him is struggling to come out right now. He doesn’t want to become that fearsome person, and just remain in his other state.

He stays loyal to his duty, though. Much like you do. You wish you both didn't have to.

You focus on Miss Hunter in order to drown out those thoughts. Watching her go wild with Sylus’ card, after you encouraged her multiple times to do so, brings a smile to your face.

But, at the same time, you can’t help but mentally check out. Your mind drifts to simpler times. Times before you were in love with a taken man and the two of you were just boss and employee.

The hostess of the gala stands out in her intricate blue dress. Crushed seashells along her trim dazzle like diamonds. Her deep blue makeup perfectly complements her pale skin.

Just her getup alone reminds you of the mermaids you've seen in books as a kid. Her flickers make the semblance all the more obvious.

Flashes of tattoos on her face and a scaly tail where her legs should be. They bring with them a hum in the air, and the scent of salt. But they vanish just as quickly as they come.

She's beautiful in both states. Beautiful and deceptively fragile.

Because if someone was just looking at her for the first time with no context, they couldn't imagine the sheer amount of blood on her hands.

Kai is a delicate woman, small and unassuming. But you know better from the stories you’ve dug up and the ones your boss has told you.

”A woman with an ice-cold heart,” all the rumors said. Sylus just said she’s a ruthless cockroach unwilling to die, which he could respect.

She seems so untouchable. You and Sylus make your entrance to her gala, you in his colors and arms locked, yet she doesn’t even spare a glance. She just talks. Talks and ignores all gazes that turn to the new people in the room.

She may ignore your presence, but you can’t ignore hers. Not with that color that bleeds into her thread. Not with the stain of death that hangs upon it.

A dead soulmate, her thread reads. One that took his own life.

It’s the rarest of threads for you to see. Because most tended to follow their soulmates. A soulmate’s love is the most treasured love, after all. And to live without that love isn’t a life worth living in the eyes of most.

Maybe that’s why she has such a vicious repetition? Maybe that’s why she’s known for having such a dead heart? Because people sensed there was something fundamentally wrong with her, much like they do with you.

You chase those cursed thoughts away as soon as they come. They only bring misfortune, and tonight, you need anything but that. You need Kai’s fortune.

”This place is rather stuffy,” you comment loudly enough for the hostess to hear once you’re close.

Kai’s expression doesn’t change, but the look in her eyes do. They shift to one of curiosity and inquiry.

Most people wouldn’t dare to insult a party to straight to the hostess’ face. Especially when said party is being thrown by her. So as you've hopedd, she's drawn to you, even if she's unaware of that.

From what you've researched about her, she is a woman who values honesty. So while it may pain you to be so blunt, being forthcoming is the best way to sway her. That, and if you can find her single weak point.

Because someone like Kai doesn’t do all this without reason. You need to find that reason.

Of course, there were rumors. Secret children. Dying parents. But, seeing her in person confirms only one: a spouse.

Kai doesn’t wear a ring on her finger. She doesn’t even have a tan-line to indicate that she wears one outside of work. It’s her thread that tells you of another. You don't get the details. But this person, this mystery spouse, is kind. With a heart so warm it thawed even Kai's.

That’s who you need to find.

”Apologies, Mrs. Kerr,” you plaster on a genuine smile. “Didn’t know you were so close. I may look like a dragon at the moment, but I assure you, I do not possess the eyes of one.”

You fiddle with the fake, but realistic, horns on your head as you say this.

”Seems you got my gift,” Kai’s voice is smooth, but absent of any emotion.

”Gift, you say? That’s what you’d call this?” Sylus gestures to you and him.

For whatever reason, Kai decided to make her gala themed. Non-humans, to be exact. And you and Sylus are dragons, fiends, according to what she sent you alongside the two invites. Said invite had clear instructions on how you wouldn’t be let in if you weren’t wearing your designated outfit.

You knew from the second you saw the outfits (after getting over you initial shock that she had your measurements for some reason, and knew of your employment under Sylus so quickly) that Sylus wouldn’t be in a good mood during this gathering.

He’s already glaring daggers at anyone who dares to gaze at him for too long. And he’s touched his horns so many times, you’re surprised they don’t have handprints in them.

However, he still manages to keep that same arrogant smirk and carefree attitude. Or, at least, he manages to fake it enough to make it seem that way. You know better due to your power.

Kai seems to know better as well. She keeps her eyes locked onto Sylus as she briefly greets and waves off other guests. Her face remains blank, but her eyes and thread tell of amusement. She notices your boss’ discomfort just like you do.

”Of course it’s a gift, Sylus,” she casually says his first name when others would say it in fear or would just use his last name. “What else would you call this?”

”You don’t want to know what I would call this, Kai,” he spits out her name like it’s an insult.

”You’re right, I don’t. Maybe your new employee can tell me what she thinks of her outfit? Everyone else has just given me the best of compliments, so I’d like to hear something honest for a change.”

The two most dangerous people in the room give you their full attention. You take it in stride, relying on years and years of practice not to shrink under their judging gazes.

Starting to feel like we’re not on the same side, you think as Sylus’ eyes in particular bare into you.

”I find them quite telling, Mrs. Kerr.”

”Telling of what?”

”Telling of your relationship to my boss, and why he decided to drag me here of all place for our first outing,” you give your full attention to Sylus before you continue. “Speaking of which, said boss needs to make himself scarce if he wants this to work properly.”

Sylus tilts his head at you, leaning to whisper in your ear, “What do you think you’re doing?”

”Setting you up for success. Now shoo,” you whisper back into his ear.

”How demanding you are, Miss Negotiator. And here I thought I was your boss.”

Sylus’ tone is the same as ever, but the glint in his eyes tells a different story. One of how he doesn’t appreciate you ordering him around and disrupting your dynamic. One of danger and cautioning you not to cross a line.

You soldier on, “You brought me here to work. So mind your ego, and let me, because she and you clearly have bad blood and I’d rather not have to navigate that all night.”

Rather than taking offense by your blunt words like a normal person, Sylus just gets more amused.

”What makes you think we have bad blood? This could just be our way communicating.”

You scoff, glancing quickly to see if Kai noticed, but she's already back to greeting guests.

”Don’t insult me, boss. Even a blind and deaf person could notice how much you two want to rip into each other.”

A thought suddenly pops up in your head after you say this.

”Why in the world do you want to do business with a woman you clearly despise, and who hates you in return?”

”Ever heard of keeping your friends close, but keeping your enemies closer, sweetie?”

You jab him in the arm for the stupid nickname, one you’ve told him repeatedly not use on you because that sort of nonsense should only be used with his soulmate. He’s ignored you every time, too entertained by your flustered reactions.

”Business requires mutual trust, does it not?”

He laughs. “Not here, sweetie. Here, business can come about merely because two people want to spite someone else.”

He looks you dead in the eye with a sinister smirk, “Or because the desperation to live is just that powerful.”

Sylus finally walks away once he says that. Shivers run down your spine. His words are a reminder of why you’re really here, on why Sylus decided you persuading one of his enemies to work with him was your first task.

He’s measuring your worth. He’s seeing if he should keep you around.

For all that you two joke and banter, there’s always a voice in the back of your head that wonders if he’ll change his mind about sparing you. You may not have known what your old auction house was doing precisely, but there may have been others that died there that were the same.

You’re here to prove that you were different than those buried in the rubble. And prove it you would.

Kai turns back to you, “Finished?”

”Of course, Mrs. Kerr. Apologies for my boss’ behavior. Listening to reason isn’t his strong suit.”

You feel a bit guilty about insulting Sylus, but than you remember his numerous threats during your first week at his base and immediately brush that off.

”I get the feeling you and I know that better than anyone.”

”Tell me about it,” you roll your eyes before schooling your expression to a more serious one. “And now that he’s gone, how about we talk business?”

”Bold one, aren’t we?”

”I was under the impression you valued honesty, Mrs. Kerr. I’d rather not insult your intelligence, and instead would like to negotiate in good faith than deceit.”

”Good faith? From Sylus?” She sneers, the most emotion she’s shown thus far.

”Not Sylus. Me.”

”You work for him. Isn’t that the same thing?”

”If we were remotely the same, I highly doubt you’d give me the time of day.”

”Maybe I’m giving you the time of day because you’re similar,” Kai takes a sip of a drink someone had offered her, frowns, and than says, “Because at least Sylus is never boring. Two of him equals twice the fun, right?”

You laugh, “Two of that man would drive me insane. And I'd imagine that would be the same for you, no?”

Kai shakes her head in humor, face still as blank as ever.

”No, you’re right. Just the image in my head of that is nightmare fuel enough. Two of him means twice the explosions every time we meet, and I don’t think my people would want to deal with that anymore than I do.”

Her words give you pause for concern.

”Explosions? That’s a theme with him?”

Kai gives you a questioning look for you to continue.

”The first time we met he blew up my old workplace. Granted, my old boss deserved it, but still… didn’t think that was an every day occurrence for him.”

”I don’t know about every day, but he tends to explode something every time I meet him. Usually me. Granted, this is usually after we’ve had another… disagreement.”

She sounds proud of herself. That pride is wiped away in a second, and she levels you with a harsh gaze.

”He knows we aren’t friends. Or allies in any capacity. And that we’ll turn a gun on one another for the right price. So why has he sent you to me?”

That ice cold gaze of her beautiful eyes would freeze anyone else. Years of customer service and dealing with others far more trigger happy than her allows you not to waver.

”Because he’s testing me,” you decide not to beat around the bush. “Getting you of all people to work with him will prove my worth.”

Kai isn’t fazed by your words.

”And you think you can do that?”

You shrug. “Why not? You’re a woman of extreme intelligence, and you’ve worked with him in the past for the right price. I just need to find out what price will make you stay and what it entails.”

Silence falls between the two of you. And you almost believe you see the ghost of a small fall on her lips. But her face is back to its usual blank expression before you can even blink.

”Ya know,” there’s a drawl in her tone, an accent leaking out that wasn’t there before. “Most people are never this upfront. Even when being honest or acting in "good faith" like you claim."

”I worked at an auction house before Sylus hired me. Trust me, I’m well aware. But I find such conversation to be desperately dull. Much like most parties.”

”I hope you’re not including mine.”

”We shall see,” you glance around, looking for a certain something for a moment, but you spot your destination easily. “Aw! There’s something to spice things up.”

You gesture to her open bar.

”I wonder who suggested that? It stands out from the usual things at these gatherings.”

”My spouse,” you’re a bit surprised at Kai’s admittance; it isn’t public knowledge that she’s married, after all. “Sylus knows I’m married. And even he didn’t, you’d of all people would’ve figured it out.”

”You flatter me.”

The two of walk to the bar. Many eyes follow you, but no one dares to approach Kai.

You see Sylus in your peripheral vision, sipping on some expensive drink you’ve seen your old boss drink occasionally, and surrounded by people who talk at him. Sylus just looks at them bored out of his mind. His signature smirk is plastered on for appearance's sake.

There’s desperation in those people. For his attention. For his cooperation. For his money. And he just stands there with that familiar, arrogant, expression.

His eyes flicker over to you. You put on an award-winning smile, and that smirk of his deepens to a real one. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand upright.

Because he’s judging you, studying you in ways you didn’t think possible. This is the first job where you had any danger from your own boss; the others hired you under different circumstances.

You brush him off as soon as you get to the bar. You had a plan to enact, after all.

When the woman behind the counter turns to you and Kai, you give her a sweet smile.

”Why not take a break, honey?”

The woman gives you a look. Kai doesn’t react.

”I’ll take over. I was a mixologist not long ago, and I believe your employer wants a drink more to her tastes. You seem tired, and I’d hate to put any pressure on you when I’m the one being so nosy.”

Kai tilts her head at you before she addresses the woman, “Do as she says.”

The woman thanks you profusely, and practically sprints out of the ballroom. You walk yourself to behind the counter, scanning the spread of high quality ingredients with a keen eye.

My old place was never this decked out, you think to yourself as you search for just the right things.

You get to work pretty quickly, Kai watching as you fly around from shelf to shelf. But you avoid any alcohol like the plague. From what you dug up on Kai, and your observations of her thread, she hates alcohol.

Her father drank so much to the point where she had to raise herself and her brother alone. On his rare days of coherance, he'd throw bottles at the siblings, screaming how Kai's brother murdered their mother.

Her soulmate used to use it on their bad days before their death. Alcohol is symbol of dread to Kai, a painful wound that will probably never properly heal.

You can relate to that somewhat, with you aversion to romance. Not on the same level, but that’s what empathy’s for; you don’t need to have the same experience to have an idea of what she’s been through. That, and you can read her soul.

There’s turmoil as she watches you work, curiosity and a bit of fear mixing together to make a cocktail of emotions in her heart. Outwardly, she doesn’t show any of this. Her inner world is locked away.

Another thing you two have in common. You’ve been burned by the world far too many times to trust it with your fragile heart.

And it’s why you’ve been so truthful with her so far. Kai and you’ve been lied to and lying your entire lives. Shedding that skin and becoming someone that isn’t like that for her, someone she can trust… that will do far more good than any savvy business proposal or story.

So you work to give her a flavorful drink she’ll love, reading her thread and working in your experience to create the perfect blend. The second she takes a sip of it once you slide it towards her makes all the effort worth it.

”Not bad, Miss Negotiator,” it’s as much of a compliment you’ll ever get from the woman, and you'll take it gladly.

”Why thank you for the kind words, Mrs. Kerr.”

You give a little bow as begin your next drink. No one’s ordered yet, but some of Kai’s guests are curious and look at you.

The waiters obey your orders, delivering each personalized drink to correct person. An arms dealer here, and a jewel thief there. Each have varying reactions from mirth to shock to almost a little bit of fear over the strange woman who entered with Sylus knowing them so well.

Speaking of your boss, you save his drink for last. Both for the drama and because than that puts him into the spotlight once more. The mysterious bartender and her boss… eyes will turn to the both of you.

But, eyes are apparently already on your boss. And not for anything good. You watch the last waiter go with his drink and spot the towering man in a scuffle. He stands with his arms crossed, clearly having the time of his life. You can barely see him, but that much is obvious.

Now the woman that stands in front of him is anything but that. Her face is scrunched up in ways you didn’t think possible. And judging by how she looks, she’s screaming at him. Her getup suggests a rich heiress, and there’s only one of that here from what you remember of the guest list.

Miss Andrea Crimson, the only child and heir of one of the many gangs in the N109 zone. But the Crimsons were different; they’ve been here the longest, have one of the farthest reaches, and are infamously ruthless to the point where even Sylus and you cringe.

People have died by that girl’s command for the smallest infractions. Her father gives into her every whim. And there were rumors of there being a second child that was pushed out of the family because of her jealousy.

She also has a history with your boss. Once in love him, now full of a hatred you can almost admire for how deep it runs. To Sylus, she’s a nuisance he can’t get rid of; to you, she’s yet another obstacle for you to conquer.

You politely excuse yourself to Kai, who waves you off while sipping her drink. She watches you go, though. From interest in what you’re doing, or the commotion you’re going to, you don’t know. Either way, that little bit of attention she’s paying to you will work out in your favor.

Once you arrive at Sylus’ side, you’re not given much of an opportunity to speak.

”What?” Andrea spits at you. “You his new toy, now?”

That pisses you off. Originally, you were going approach this woman with kindness, respect. A little firmness, but nothing too crazy.

That goes out the expensive, decorated window to moment she addresses you as a toy. Maybe because of that phase you had as a late teen, throwing yourself at anyone as some poor way of getting the love you crave? Maybe because you’ve worked in several places that saw you as a mere decoration?

Or maybe it’s because of what she said says about Sylus? Your new boss is harsh, but fair. Terrifying, yet reliable. And hearing her say that, imply that he treats lives and people so cheap, chips at your very soul.

Moments like these make you wonder if your lack of soulmate makes you care so much, or you were stripped of one because you’d care for others more than them.

”Oh, get a hold of yourself, Andrea. I and many others do not have the time for to interrupting important business because this man would not fuck you.”

That shuts her up quickly. But you’re not finished.

”I get that you’ve gotten everything you’ve ever wanted in life until he said no to you. The drugs. The money that keeps coming despite all your failed businesses. The multiple affairs, some of which whose spouses are here. Even the murder of your own sibling was covered up for you." 

You speak these words with certainty and authority as you get closer to Andrea. Her expression drops, and the blood drains from her face. Her dark skin doesn’t blush, but you can practically feel the warmth from her body.

”How did you…”

”I know more, Andrea,” you speak quieter, in her ear. “I know that you’ve stolen every little accomplishment from them. I know you framed them as the problem child while you were the perfect daughter. I know you stole their voice from them. And I know why you’ve really come here.”

”Why…”

”Do you really want me to spell it out for you? Surely there’s enough of a brain in that head of yours to not want to hear it?"

She trembles, and you relish in it.

”What do you want?”

”Leave my boss and me alone, and I’ll consider keeping my mouth shut. Because you have a treasure trove of secrets that I’ll be happy to spill if you don’t.”

Andrea shuffles away, head still hung up high despite her embarrassment. You can respect her for that much.

A slow clap from behind you causes you to drag your eyes away from her.

”Nicely done, Miss Diplomat,” Sylus’ ever present grin both amuses and frustrates you.

”I wouldn’t have had to do that if you’d have learned to keep that mouth of yours shut.”

”What would be the fun in that, sweetie?”

You internally roll your eyes at the foolish man before you. But, you plaster on your best customer service smile on the outside.

“Anyone ever told you that you’re far too aggressive?” Your tone is sickly sweet.

“Any suggestions I don’t consider are filed under “never heard of it”. Besides, you handled yourself quite well.” 

“Only because I must in order to keep your organization from collapsing and from you being constantly on everyone’s most wanted list. And if anything I tell you to do is in that “never heard of it” file, I will being killing you myself.” 

Maybe your conversations with Kai have made you stupidly bold. You mentally scold yourself for being so… insolent. But Sylus just seems to find the whole thing hilarious, so you relax.

At least you can have fun with your new boss. Even if he does tend to like threatening you. A lot.

“After all that effort you went through not only to get me to let you work with me, but also today?” 

“It’s all a part of my elaborate scheme.” 

“What scheme?”

“One filed under “Sylus is not privy to this.” Deal with it.”

He chuckles at you. Then, his tone takes on a more serious one.

”How do things with Kai fare?”

”Swimmingly, all things considered.”

”And what things are you considering?”

”You,” you say before leaving. You can hear Sylus laughing again as you do.

The journey back to Kai is a quick one, with people already back to their normal business as if nothing had happened. Perhaps because most of them see drama like this every other day.

”Apologies,” you say to Kai as soon as you get behind the bar again. “But I simply could not let such a woman make a scene at your gala. And my boss certainly wasn’t doing anything to stop her.”

”It’s fine. I invited Sylus because he attracts drama and entertainment like that. For some reason, people are too afraid to say things like that to my face."

Because you’re far more dangerous than even Sylus, you think.

Kai’s reputation is even more brutal than Sylus’. Drowning entire companies in deserts. Creating jewelry from the bones of those she’s killed. Driving people to suicide with her voice alone. Even rumors of cannabalism.

The woman is deadly, terrifying. But, for good reason.

”Well… no matter how entertaining he is, there’s a limit to how much I’m willing to stand being thrown at him. He may not be swayed by anyone’s opinion of him, but I sure am.”

Your words are flowery, targeting what you know of what Kai feels towards her spouse. There’s tinges of worry in her thread. There’s brief flashes of her mystery spouse being a doormat, and the fear that incites. Time after time, the person she loves lets their family walk over them.

Your words strike that cold heart of hers. Strike at the very core of who she is, and honestly, who you are: a protector. Because those flowery words weren’t just that. They were the honest truth.

You’re grateful to Sylus. You’ll never say that to his face, but you are. For this new job. For the freedom he allows you. For the bits of kindness he shows like ordering things you like to eat to the base or giving you the latest tools for jewelry making or giving you a rare gem or entertaining your drink mixing hobby.

Because despite how he threatens you, he still manages to treat you well. Which is far more than any of your previous bosses did.

”You care an awful lot for a man you haven’t worked with for long.”

You don’t ask how she knows this. Kai probably has an extensive information network, and she’s not stupid. With her history with Sylus, if you weren’t new, she would’ve met you sooner.

So you don’t ask that. No need to insult a woman who would, without hesitation, smash the glass in her hand to slit your throat and stain her pale skin a deep red. She’s killed over less.

”Do I need a reason to care for another? It’d be a lonely existence without it.”

”Yes it would,” she mumbles with the most emotion you’ve heard from her all night.

Once again, you tap into Kai’s deeper feelings. There’s a sense of loneliness that permeates her thread. An aching, festering, loneliness not unlike your own.

There’s a weight to that loneliness. One of responsibility. One of duty. And one of longing. Again, so similar to you, yet so different.

Part of you thinks that this why your boss and her don’t get along. Because they feel like they’re staring into a mirror.

You, on the other hand, take that similarity in stride. It’s another way for you to connect to your target.

”Why’re ya taking such an indirect approach to getting what you want from me? After all, ya clearly know ye way around getting to know people and their secrets. Why not use mine against me?"

Kai’s voice is back to her usual flat tone. Her body language is lax, but blank. She gives nothing away to normal people.

But you aren’t normal people. You see her thread, a piece of her soul leaking into your field of vision. And it tells you the real story.

It tells of wariness, of woman scorned and burned by kindness in the past. It tells of broke promises and what that did to her family. 

It tells of hopefulness, of her praying that maybe you’ll be different from the rest. It tells of how the logical side of her wants to squash that hope and snuff it out before it can see the light of day.

You appeal to that part of her, “Such methods aren’t needed here.”

”Why?”

”Because a deal made with you that’s not in good faith isn’t a deal at all. And as I said before, I'd rather our deal come out of one of good faith than deceit. That, and because both parties already have bad blood, and you deserve more than some silly scare tactics.”

”Besides,” you laugh a bit. “I doubt such a thing would work on someone like you. Andrea has nothing real in her life, nothing for her to hold on to, hence why I scared her. You do, Mrs. Kerr. And that makes you all the more fierce and all the more respectable.”

”Still on with te flattery, ya?"

She hides it well, but you can tell she has a storm of emotions at how well you read her. Fear for her spouse. A bit of awe at you and your continued boldness. Skepticism.

”It’s my greatest weapon,” you smile. “And it’ll work on you, I’m sure.”

Kai swirls the rim of her drink with her fingertip.

”And why do you believe that?”

”Because you and Sylus ultimately want the same thing: change to the N109 zone.”

Kai finally finishes her drink and turns her full attention to you.

”Why do you think that of someone like me? Surely you’ve heard the rumors?”

You almost laugh at her words. Because despite her coldness, her endless cruelty, and the way Kai carries herself... you know what she really wants.

You know her type well. You know how scarred her heart is. You know how much the child in her cries with every person she protects.

Because why was there no one like her when she was a child? Why did no one protect the little girl who grew up too fast?

”Simple. Because you’re capable of love.”

Kai has nothing to say after that. Her face is still cold. Her body is still relaxed and not giving anything away. But you know you’ve struck a chord with her.

She keeps her eyes away from yours. Perhaps because they’re so expressive despite the icy chill she tries to keep in them?

You follow her eyes. You follow her eyes as they follow someone in the gala, one that walks not too far from where the two of you sit..

They flicker. They flicker like Kai did earlier that night, and the night you first met Sylus. But they don’t show draconic traits like your boss did, nor the scales or tattoos the woman before you did.

No. This person flickers with machines. Armor and mechanical wiring crawling across their skin. Black, deep black, twined with silver. A destructive weapon in their hand.

A voice calls out from them.

”Run X-02,” it calls. “Run.”

You blink, and it’s all gone. Vanishing in a flash, but still so disturbing that it makes you feel nauseous. Because while Kai and Sylus flickers were shocking, they weren’t so… empty.

Devoid of any feeling. A machine. A weapon. A being whose parts were carved out time and time again until nothing remained but the single order to obey.

You could feel your heart pound despite your effort to calm down. You focus on the current details of the person: dark skin, black hair with streaks of silver that remind you of the stars.

No calm comes from looking at them. Because Kai has decided to make them a cyborg for their themed outfit. That, coupled with you and Sylus’ own get up, made you wonder if she knew. If she knew of the shapes certain people's souls once held. If she knew that person was an android once, just like Sylus was once a fiend.

”You seem awfully distracted.”

”Apologies.”

”No, it’s fine,” Kai waves you off, tilting her head before the whisper of a smile appears on her lips. “You’ve had to deal with a lot for your first outing with Sylus. Why not visit the gardens? My spouse takes great care of maintaining it.”

You want to take her up on the offer. To escape into nature and just settle down your thoughts and racing heart. But you can’t. You have a job to do.

”As much as I appreciate your offer, I—“

”I insist. You wouldn’t want to disobey an order from your host, now would you."

”No. No I would not, Mrs. Kerr.”

”Good.” 

She gives you the directions to the gardens. And you memorize them easily.

As you leave your station to go where she commands, you notice her glide her way to Sylus and other guests. And judging how their threads behave, you figure Kai’s in a good mood.

You think about her as you meander around her mansion. Priceless artworks are casually on display in the hallway, all of the same artist. Rafayel. You recognize his style from your auction days.

The second you see the garden, you let out a huge sigh. It’s gorgeous. Sprawling rows upon rows of flowers that you were sure were extinct. 

Towering trees that reach to the sky, their branches home to many birds. You swear you see Mephisto among them.

Whinding pathways that are easy to follow, but you can get lost because of the sheer beauty that surrounds it.

You’re in awe that such a place can exist in the N109 Zone. There’s no sunlight for these plants to gain nutrients from. So how are they growing?

Placing a hand on one of the trees, you dig into them. Plants don’t have souls, or at least, not in the way that humans and Wanderers do. They have no threads of fate. They have no real desires, fears, or secrets.

But you can speak to them on occasion. If they’re old enough.

You’re drawn to one tree, and it’s the one you place a hand on. All you get is the flashing image of the person you saw earlier, the one Kai was staring at and the one whose past emanated such emptiness.

You see them and another tending to this garden. The only thing you can make out from the other is they’re a man and he feels like sunshine. He and the person from the party are what made the plants grows.

You wander further into the garden. Birds chirp. Foxes scatter about. Gentle winds sway. And, eventually, you run into another person. It’s the one from the tree’s memory, and from the party. It’s the former android. They’re crouched on the ground, grass and dirt crawling up their fancy clothes.

The moment you see them up close, you feel bad about your early assumptions and how you let their past life cloud your judgement. Because this person has one of the most beautiful souls you’ve ever seen.

They feel like nature itself. Like all the plants, animals, and maybe even planets themselves have been meshed together to create one person. They’re thread glows with a kind of compassion and gentleness you’ve never seen from another.

Their thread is weaved together by sorrow, love, and hope. And in that love lies someone familiar: Kai. This is her spouse. This is the person she’s willing to do anything for.

Every plan you had for this meeting goes out the window. They stare at you with their tender blue eyes for a moment before they reach into their pocket for something. 

A pen and notepad comes out. You’re left there, just watching this person write something down before they rip off the slip and hand it to you.

”I’m sorry if I frightened you,” it reads. “I’m Alex, and this is my garden.”

Alex stays on the ground. You introduce yourself with your own name, and they nod.

”Can I help you? You seem in need of some assistance.”

Alex blinks at you. You offer a shaky smile. They think for a moment before standing, and you’re able to see into the bushes they were previously sheilding.

A wolf cub, hardly old enough to be away from its mother, trembles in the bushes. Clearly injured—one of its ribs is poking out of its side—,malnourished, and dripping wet. In short, its condition is horrible.

Alex is writing again. You let your palm out from them to give it to you once you see they’ve finished this time.

”I found her a few hours ago on a trip outside the zone. Poor thing was on her own and stuck under the corpuses of her slaughtered family, probably for days. She was unconscious, and her rib ripped through her skin when she woke up in a strange place. I’ve tried calming her down, but nothing seems to work.”

The sorrow in Alex’s words is evident, even if they aren’t using their voice. Their expression falls, eyes downcast and fists clenched in frustration. They’re so open with their emotions. It’s a sharp contrast to their wife’s way of doing things.

”How about I try? You’d have to relay my intentions, but I’d like to think of myself as quite good at persuading others.”

Treating a wolf cub like any other customer or dealer wasn’t something you thought you’d ever do in your life. But, the poor baby needs help. And it’ll make Alex happy.

Already attached to them within 30 seconds of meeting them.

Another paper is put into your hands, "Why?"

”Because I’d hate to see her suffer more. She deserves some kindness after what she’s been through.”

Part of you wonders if you’re still speaking about the wolf cub. And judging by their reaction, Alex thinks the same.

Deep down, you believe the same about Kai. A girl forced to step up at a young age and raise her little brother.

A woman who became a monster to protect those she loves and what remains of her people.

A woman who time and time again has forced herself to carry insurmountable burdens.

And maybe, you too, can relate to this. Maybe you also deserve some kindness after all you’ve been through. And maybe, just maybe… that’s the real reason you got this job.

To distract yourself, you do what you do best: you talk. You talk and Alex relays and repeat. Until, finally, the little cub walks out and into Alex’s arms.

They get to work immediately. You use the little one’s soul to soothe her, guiding the pup to sleep while Alex mends her fur and resets her bones.

They also summon a large falcon to perch on one of their arms. In its beak it carries a milk bottle that Alex lets the little one drink from when you coax her out of a deep sleep.

You two stand in silence for a bit. The falcon occasionally squawks.

It takes the notepad into its beak, and Alex writes, “Would you like to stay longer? I’m sorry, but I really should be heading back.”

”As should I. My foolish boss might be making a mess again.”

Alex smiles, and you both begin your walk back. They still cradle the wold cub in their arms. The falcon flies just slightly overhead. The trees and plants seem to lean and reach out to Alex as the two of you walk by.

More animals begin to join. A white tiger follows closely on their heels. A polar bear walks beside you (and it takes everything in you to remain calm). Both a crocodile and an alligator walk in front of you.

As a result of this, your re-entrance to the party turns many heads. Some afraid. Some in shock. And one enraged: Andrea. She says nothing. She just glares at Alex while they look down in embarrassment.

You reach your boss and Kai quickly. The falcon swoops down again with the notepad, Alex writes, and hands it to Kai. She reads it quickly.

She taps a fork on her glass, "Alright. I'm calling an end to tonight’s gathering. Get the fuck out before I feed you to one of these fine creatures."

Kai pets the head of the tiger and polar bear as she speaks. People hurry out. But the gaze that Kai and Alex give you and Sylus roots the two of you in place.

Kai turns to Sylus, “I’ll work with you.”

He immediately turns to you and whispers. “Seems your first job went well.”

”I told you my method would work,” you grin.

”Aww, but mine’s more effective and time-saving, sweetie. We’ve been here for far too long.”

”It hasn’t even been an hour, you big baby.”

His eyes widen at the insult, "You've become quite bold."

”I just talked to a supposed cannibal who also happens to be someone with a body count many times higher than yours and who’s been killing since she was mostly likely around the age of 5. I’m allowed to have a little bit of attitude.”

”Whatever you say.”

”And about your “method”… mine’s clearly superior to it. And better in the long run. Evidenced by how a woman who hates you is now working with you.”

”And how exactly did you do that?”

”Through her spouse. A spouse you didn’t tell me about,” you lightly gesture to Alex. Kai and them are too busy chatting to notice you do so.

”Forgot to mention them."

"No you didn't," your whisper becomes harsher with annoyance at his obvious lie. "And you did that on purpose."

Sylus' grin widens, "And why do you think that?"

Your own smile mirrors his, “It’s written all over your face.”

Sylus just laughs.

”You finished?” Kai calls out, eyebrow raised.

You two turn your full attention to her again.

”Good,” she continues. “Now, we have one condition for our business deal to go forward.”

Sylus crosses his arms. “And that would be?"

”She will be our communication. Our liaison, so to speak,” and she points at you. You snap back to the present when a hand touches your forearm. It’s Miss Hunter, and her haul of protocores.

“For someone who was so hesitant not so long ago, you’ve spent quite a lot.”

Miss Hunter ignores your words, worry lining her expression. “You okay? You were spacing out…”

Her eyes look you up and down.

“I’m not going to collapse again, sweetie. I’m quite alright.”

You give her a smile to sell the whole thing, your little act. Because what else could you tell her? That you were drowning in memories of a simpler time?

I’m fine, Miss Hunter. Just thinking about the past, before I fell in love with your soulmate and I was just an employee under him.

You couldn’t say that. For so many reasons.

Due to those reasons, you try to focus on the world around you, and anchor yourself in the present. People dancing around you, minding their own business and lost in their own worlds.

You have half the mind to join them. That is until some men start badgering Miss Hunter. And, strangely, you’re thankful for it. They’re a welcome distraction.

You quickly place yourself between the men and Miss Hunter, shielding her from their eyes and their grabby hands. However, you don’t get even a word out of your mouth before a familiar voice interrupts.

“Her schedule’s full.”

Sylus comes up behind the men. They scatter upon his arrival. Their departure allows you to get a good look at your boss. He looks pissed.

Arms crossed tightly against his chest and scowl evident on his face, he watches the men leave you all in disgust. He looks like an animal ready to pounce. The dragon in him is bubbling to the surface, appalled and enraged someone dared to get so close to his treasure.

Will he be that way with me in future? Or is he already that way, raging at the mere idea of me being near his soulmate?

You speak because any more thoughts like that, and you might begin to cry.

“That was quick."

Sylus' expression relaxes upon hearing your voice, “You know how I detest wasting my time on boring things. The meeting was predictably that, so I wanted to speed things up.”

“You sure that’s not because you were worried?”

You say the words in jest, but part of you truly hopes he was worried. Not for you, but for her. For his soulmate. For his destined love. For his sorceress and the only woman worthy of him. Because if that’s the case, well… you have all the more reason to leave.

You can justify that voice in your head that screams at you to run if he cares for her. If he cares for her more than you, that is.

“Worried about what, sweetie? You can handle yourself just fine. And I know a little extra baggage won’t hinder you.”

Miss Hunter, for some odd reason, doesn’t comment on his obvious dig. You give her a look. She looks away, almost like she’s embarrassed.

There’s something going on between them again.

You brush it off. Last time you got involved in their drama, it didn’t end well for you. No use in you sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.

Because of how lost in your thoughts you are, you almost don’t hear Sylus’ next words, “Care to dance?”

You don’t look at him because you expect his hand to be stretched out to Miss Hunter. You do look at her again because she’d need someone to hold her bunch of protocores. But she just gestures her head at Sylus, and you turn to him in confusion.

Sylus hand extends to you . Not his soulmate that carries a mound of protocores.

You hesitate. But something in his eyes compels you to take his hand, so you do so in the next moment. Sylus gives you a precious look as he whisks you away. Miss Hunter gives you a small thumbs up, and you don’t know how you feel about that.

Sylus and you easily fall into a rhythm with one another. Years and years of familiarity shadows all your earlier turmoil. You can just embrace his touch, his scent, and his care with no reservations. Each step to the music, choreographed but comforting.

Sylus leans in to whisper in your ear, “Sherman has been taken care of, Gamayun.”

That brings a smile to your face. A sick, twisted, and evil smile that you tend not to show. But Sherman had it coming.

He betrayed you. He hurt Miss Hunter and took her family from her. He got himself into this mess. And you only wished you’ve could’ve been there to rip out his soulmate thread, one attached to a woman who was long gone.

“Good. You better not have been quick about his punishment. Otherwise, I’m going to have to drag him out of his grave.”

Sylus spins you, and pulls you close for a moment.

“So aggressive.”

“I’m taking your advice: anything I don’t consider is filed under “never heard of it”, and I definitely don’t consider myself aggressive.”

He releases you and you step back.

“Then what do you consider this?”

“My bleeding heart acting up again.”

The two of you step into the back and forth dance again, box steps and making circles around the dance floor.

“Your bleeding heart gets you into far too much trouble.”

“Better than the trouble your loose lips gets us both in.”

“And what trouble are you referring to, exactly?”

“Kai,” you begin to list off. “That old records dealer in Siberia. That one arms dealer in Canada. James.”

Sylus’ face makes a strange expression at James’ name.

“Still hung up on that man?”

“That man,” you tease, speaking directly into Sylus’ ear when you get closer. “Would’ve been quite a help to our business.”

“You sure your interest in him isn’t personal?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he sounded jealous. But a quick glance behind him at Miss Hunter, protocores taken away by some of Onychinus men, gets you to give up that idea.

Why would he be jealous when he has her?

“Guess we’ll never know,” is all you can get out.

You and Sylus dance in silence for a bit longer, a beautiful display of your synergy. You keep looking for Miss Hunter at any given opportunity. Her presence reminds you of your place. She reminds you that despite the inherent intimacy of this dance, you will never get more.

You’ll never get what you truly want.

“You see, this is why I worry whenever your bleeding heart acts up,” Sylus suddenly says.

“Why?”

Your voice sounds airy. You cringe at the sound, hoping Sylus doesn't notice how it wavers.

What is wrong with me?

“Because despite me being right in front of you, your eyes are focused on her.”

You feel so hot. Your head is in such a fog.

“And you care about that because…”

Sylus pulls you in close, closer than any other previous time. You two no longer dance, and his arm is tightly wound around your waist.

When he begins to lean in, your heart pounds and your stomach flutters. It's a thumping bass that drowns out all other conversations and music around you. All you can hear is your heart. All you can smell is his cologne.

All you can see is him.

Warmth flutters and circulates through your body. A warm that whispers comfort and safety. A warmth that draws you into Sylus just as he draws into you.

This warmth calls to you. Beckons you. It smuthers all the guilt, denial, and determination to stay the course.

It says, kiss him, kiss him.

“Don’t you know by now that I adore you?” He mutters into your ear.

The two of you just stare at one another. The world stops dead in its tracks. Because did he really just say that? With his sultry voice that glides over your ears and sends shivers down your spine and makes your legs tremble and causes you to be so very weak? With a softness in his eyes you’ve never before in your life?

No. I’ve seen it somewhere.

It’s how Kai looked at Alex and vice versa. It’s how James would look when he talked about his lost love. It’s how so many soulmates would look at their other half.

But, that couldn’t be true, could it?

Your eyes are deceiving you. Because Sylus is leaning in closer to you. His scent becomes stronger and your body become warmer. You don’t care about anything else around you. All that matters is him and you and your pounding heart.

It’s like you’re waiting for something, studying him to be prepared for what it is. You’re still, as if any movement will scare him off or make him change his mind about whatever he's about to do.

And, for a moment, you swear you see him glance at your lips. You stop yourself from breathing. You, stupidly, lean into him.

Your brain screams at you to stop. Your heart sings for you to move faster, to get what you've wanted for so long. You listen to your heart.

You cup Sylus' cheeks. You tilt your head to the side. And that heart of yours—that foolish, foolish muscle—is so very loud that it consumes all your senses.

All you feel is your heart. All you see is your heart. All you taste is your heart.

What would Sylus taste like?

The thought is indecent. It's a fantasy. It's a trap. It's something you should never want, never think about, never wonder about.

But it's the siren song that pulls you in. It's what makes you tenderly glide your tongue against your lips as Sylus draws you closer.

That seems to break Sylus out of whatever trance he’s in, and his hand leaves your waist. You drop your hands from his cheeks when he does.

And just like that, the warmth in you is sucked away, as if his hands were the supplier of it. Your heart still envelopes you, consumes you. But no longer do you think about the taste of Sylus.

You perse your lips together, your mind conjuring the image of something else pressing against them. You blink several times, still in awe at all that did—and didn't—happen.

Am I… disappointed?

That’s ridiculous. You knew from the moment you fell for Sylus nothing would ever happen between the two you. You knew that, and you told yourself that everyday when your urge to kiss him or cuddle him especially close or flirt with him became too much.

To distract yourself, you ask, “How long until the bombs go off?”

Sylus doesn't seem affected by the strange atmosphere that was between you two. He gives you that familiar arrogant and confident smile.

But there's a glimmer in his eye. A glimmer that tells you so much and so little. You don't dare look at his thread in case there's more confusion there.

“Why do you assume I’m doing that, Gamayun?”

Because, unfortunately, I know you all too well.

“Because it’s you, Sylus. Now, when do they go off? I need to warn Miss Hunter.”

A sudden explosion is the last thing she needs. You couldn't bare to see her buckle under the weight of such panic, of such grief and pain.

Miss Hunter hides her grief well. But, it peaks out occasionally. Sometimes when she laughs just a bit too much. Other times when she looks at Sylus, for some reason.

Her suffering is palpable to everyone at the base. You've all collectively decided to pretend you don't see it and let her shield her fragile heart.

Because, otherwise... she'll shatter. She'll shatter and break and fall apart into so many pieces that not even expert crafters like you and Sylus could put her back together.

And no matter how her existence breaks your heart, you could never—will never—wish such a thing on her. No for any reason. Not even if she begins to hate you. Not even if she turns you in to the Hunter's Association.

And certainly not even when she ineviably takes away the man you love for good.

Sylus' response brings you out of your spiral, “I’ll come tell you when it’s time.”

He brings you close one last time, pressing a kiss on your forehead and murmuring, “I do love that heart of yours.”

You speed walk away. Body and mind in turmoil. Frustration. Embarrasment. Hope.

You can't control yourself. It feels odd, considering how composed you normally are. Control is everything to you. Control is literally your job and your life.

Right now, you're anything but that. You're flustered from head to toe, still feeling the ghost of Sylus' lips on your ear and forehead. You have to actively stop yourself from touching those places.

His lips were so soft. Softer than you ever imagined on those rare days you let yourself indulge in the fantasy of a future with him. How much softer would they have been against your own? Would he kiss you gently with those lips?

Or would he be rough, possessive? Like he's trying to claim your lips as your own?

You feel hot all over again just imagining it: his arm on your waist becoming tighter, his other hand gripping the back of your head, his hot breath against your lips when he dives in for more...

You want to scream at your own vivid fantacies. Thoughts and images so vivid, you can almost feel them.

His arm around you, muscles tensing on your hips as he tries to pull you impossibly closer to him.

His hand on your back, fingers spread wide and holding you in place, but featherlight as to not hurt you.

His other hand on the back of your head, making sure he's getting the perfect angle to kiss you.

His lips on yours, trying to mold them to his. Tongue in your mouth, eyes with blown pupils on you when he backs up for air, and whispered sweet nothings that only you can hear that spill out for a moment before he dives in for more.

For more of you.

What the devil is wrong with me?

Your walk to Miss Hunter feels like an eternity with the company of your delusions.

The moment you’re by Miss Hunter’s side, your embarrassment multiples. You were just fantisizing about her soulmate, her other half, and the man she will one day marry.

She wears a shit-eating grin.

“Sooo, what was that about?”

“What was what about?” You attempt to deflect.

“Don’t give me that,” she rolls her eyes at you. “I may not be as smart as you, but I do have eyes.”

“Don’t insult yourself like that,” your defense of her comes out before you can really think about it.

“You’re dodging the issue.”

She turns to face the dance floor. Or, rather, where Sylus stands near it. Just the sight of him makes you feel all warm and fuzzy again.

”Don’t you know by now that I adore you?”

”I do love that heart of yours.”

And just like that, you’re flustered again.

“Dance with me,” you blurt out, escaping from Sylus’ line of sight and dragging Miss Hunter behind you.

Miss Hunter giggles, grin still on her face. You can practically hear the teasing questions and words that beg to fall off her lips.

Is this what it’s like to have friends?

Your social life took a dive years ago, far before you met Sylus. After your best friends in high school ditched you for each and their new love, reaching out for companionship was… hard, to say the least.

Kai and Alex filled that void for some time. The three of you stopped talking about a year ago for some reason. Kai’s been very quiet in the “business” world since then. And Alex has always preferred to stay out of the spotlight, so you didn’t worry much when they dropped off the grid.

They were, and still are, probably two of your closest friends. People who get not only the lighter side of you—the one with a bleeding heart—but the dark side, the lonely one with a cynical out look on love.

But, as much as you love them, they are anything except normal. Kai’s killed more people than anyone you’ve ever met. Alex prefers the call of nature to the voices of humans. They both carry pains you couldn’t even begin to understand.

You love them. You love Sylus. You love the twins. But, you need some reprieve from your bloodstained world.

Miss Hunter appears to be the key to that. Someone who reminds you of the good in the world, rather than the bad parts you’re determined to destroy. Someone who reminds you of that innocent little girl you once were before you got your powers (ironic, given that she’s more or less a symbol of everything your powers have taken from you).

She’s a kind and gentle soul, one who hasn’t been stained by the world and still believes in good. She reminds you of Alex.

But unlike Alex, Miss Hunter is fierce. Unwavering. And because of that, you couldn’t ask for a better soulmate for the love of your life.

Imagining her and Sylus together still hurts. It still claws into your heart and shreds it without mercy. But, in a little corner of your heart, there’s joy. There’s happiness for your new friend and the man you love.

Because no one else could make each other as happy as the other will. You’ve seen it time and time again.

As for her other soulmates… well, they aren’t your problem. You’ll deal with that problem too once you come to it.

“Still thinking about your boss?” Miss Hunter pipes up, her tone teasing and lighter than you’ve ever heard it.

Yes.

You still feel his touch, phantom imprints. You still want more of his touch, the ghost of his taste still on your tongue. You want more and more and more.

But you will never have it. You need to remember that. All you'll ever have is the dreams and nightmares of that with Sylus.

And your dreams are meant to be crushed. They're meant to be broken beyond repair. Why should someone deemed by the universe unfit for love be able to dream?

Why should they be able to wish, to wonder?

Why am I allowed to live?

“What ever are you talking about?”

Stepping into your usual role is all you can do to make the thoughts stop.

“Seriously? You’re pretending not to know again?”

No. I just don't want to know. I don't want to remember my mistakes and my errors and my stupidity, and my—

“Why don’t just spit it out?” You quip back with a smile.

“Fine,” she huffs as you twirl her. “You and Sylus—well, mostly Sylus—it’s obvious you're in love.”

“You’re still on about that?”

You thought you cleared this up earlier. Your stomach twists at the thought. Having Sylus’ soulmate believe the two of you are in love, and not just extremely close is a problem. A huge problem.

“And you’re still in denial about that? I mean, come on! He looked like he was going to kiss you. I had my imaginary popcorn out and everything!”

“You’re ridiculous,” she giggles as you pull her close. “Preposterous. Delusional.”

“I know what you are, but what am I?” You roll your eyes at her.

“His friend and employee. Not his soulmate.”

The word “soulmate” causes a shadow to fall over her eyes.

“How… are you so sure?”

You want to laugh.

Because I can see it. I see how your souls are tied together. I see how he’ll love you and only you through every lifetime. I see how I’m merely a footnote in your love story.

You, of course say none of that, and can only say, “I just do.”

The cheery and playful atmosphere dissipates between the two of you. You stop dancing and you guide her away from the dance floor to somewhere more hidden. You don’t know what to say.

The airy and warm feeling you had early is gone, sapped away by your own stupid words and your own stupid love. Why, oh why, did you have to do this to yourself?

Maybe part of you loves the pain of a broke heart?

The tap on your shoulder comes as a welcomed distraction.

“60 seconds,” is all his whispers in your ear before he goes off to talk to other people.

For once, you’re grateful for Sylus’ tendency to do big shows of power. The ensuing chaos and combat will keep your mind occupied.

“What was that?” Miss Hunter inquires, tilting her head at you.

“A heads up I requested,” her expression pushes you to answer further. “Sylus has a flare for dramatics. And those dramatics tend to involve explosions.”

You continue in a much gentler tone, “I know an explosion took your family. Springing one on you isn’t very polite, so I asked Sylus to give me a heads up.”

Miss Hunter trembles. You hold her close.

“Thank you,” she whispers, trying to sound brave.

“No need,” you check your phone for the time. “We have about 30 seconds. Ready?”

“Does it matter if I’m not?”

You sigh. “I suppose not.”

The seconds tick down. Miss Hunter’s breath is shaky. You feel her heart pound in her chest. You squeeze her even closer to you. You count each breath, and remind her to stay calm.

Then, it comes. Multiple explosions rock the building. People scream. Some are crushed, while others die in a blaze. Others still are picked off by the twins or Sylus himself.

You don’t focus on them. You focus on keeping Miss Hunter shielded and calm. Her heartbeat is out of control, so you mess with her threads a bit. Just small nudges to keep her tranquil, to remind of her of better times.

The whole thing is done in an instant. Sylus casually walks over to check on her.

“You alright, sweetie?”

“She will be. Give her time,” you snap.

Sylus laughs, sticking his thumbs into his pockets, “I meant you, silly.”

He takes a hand out to flick your forehead when he says the stupid nickname.

“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

You brush him off because today has been just a bit too much. Your hear has always been weak to Sylus, but you've never had such real... material in your mind.

You've never thought of how he would kiss you. You've never thought about how he would touch you in throes of such intimacy. You've never let your thoughts get so far.

But that look in his eyes when you two danced. That look he gave you before you went to Miss Hunter... it gives you ideas. Foolish, unrealistic, and dangerous ideas.

“Because I seem to recall you prioritizing helping our guest over your own safety.”

He leans over Miss Hunter who was still buried in your arms, and tilts your head so that he could get a better look.

“Look, your face is bleeding.”

His touch makes you feel hot all over again. It gets worse when you remember how it made your imagination run wild.

You can almost pretend you're somewhere else. Somewhere private. Somewhere where this simple touch on the chin to look at your cuts and bruises could become something else.

Your knees almost buckle. But you hold it together.

“Minor cuts, you fool. I’ve had worse.”

“And that makes that better because…?”

“…Shut your mouth.”

“Or else what? You’ll shut it for me?”

You flush at the implications. Sylus’ smirk tells you that he meant it in the way you’re thinking of. Your heart rate picks up again. You’re warm all over. And there’s this sense of… anticipation and hunger as you stare at one another.

That warmth is back. It begs to take a chance, a leap of faith. It screams at you to just grab his neck and finally have what you've craved for so long.

“Could you please not flirt so close to me?” Miss Hunter mumbles.

You almost scream. But the crushing guilt keeps you silent. Her words remind you of your place, of the line you've been treading far too close to.

You step back from Sylus. Miss Hunter is no longer buried in you, so she doesn't follow.

You ignore her question because you have no way of really responding, “How are you holding up?”

“Fine,” she grumbles. “Let’s finish this.”

You guide her to the rooftop, glancing at Sylus to be sure he follows. He shakes his head.

“I’ll clean up here. You go.”

“I seem to recall that she’s your guest.”

He shrugs, “she likes you more.”

You splutter. Then, you let yourself hug him and whisper in his ear, "Be safe, Morana."

You follow Miss Hunter up to the rooftop as quick as you can. The sharp winds in your face make the burn of emotions dampen down. That, and the giant Wanderer that roars above.

“Stay back!” She yells over the racket, shooting at the foe. “You don’t have an Evol, right?! It’s dangerous!”

“Ever the diligent Hunter, protecting civilian, eh?”

“Now’s not the time for jokes!”

“The only joke here is that you think me,, of all people, need protection!”

The fight against the Wanderer is short. After all, Wanderers were once people. They had souls and threads for you to mess with. So you help her, weaving threads and shooting after she handed you one of her guns.

You hand it back as you walk to the pedestal that held the Aether Core, beckoning her to that the power that belongs to her. And you watch her threads react.

You never really paid attention to Miss Hunter’s Aether Core, not when they were more pressing issues at hand. None of this issues exist now in this moment.

Now, you can. Her glitching threads that emerge from it. The strange energy that flows from it, an energy that seems to call to you. It tries to drag you in, to swallow you.

You don’t know why.

And when the energy from the new core begins to leak out into her, the very universe shifts around you.

You hear her heartbeats, and your own heart seems to sync with it. Thump. Thump. Thump. A resonate of sounds that are so familiar yet so foreign.

And underneath those thumps, there’s a hum. A song. A whisper of melody you’ve never heard before and can’t describe despite how it echoes in your brain.

It’s beautiful.

The sound is like home. Like a gentle kiss from your mother or the safe embrace of your father. Like the boisterous laugh of the twins or the comfortable touch of Sylus.

It brings a tear to your eye. With that tear comes visuals. Planets. Stars. Galaxies. They all lay over your eyes and block the vision of Miss Hunter taking the power of the new Aether Core.

So, so beautiful.

You think you can stay here forever, basking in that wonderful melody and the sights that it brings. But the moment the energy flow into Miss Hunter stops, it ends. A blip in time. A small moment of absolute peace.

Quickly wiping your face before she turns around, you snap out your trance. There’s things to be done, after all.

You do all the things needed to be done: help Sylus and the twins clean up, settle Miss Hunter, and escort her out of the N109 Zone.

“You should come visit me,” she says, bright smile on her face.

“Maybe I will…”

After all, what better fresh start is there than the city of the woman who drove me out? You take my place at Sylus’ side… maybe I’ll take yours in the Hunter Association.

It’ll be a sick, twisted, heartbroken exchange. One not equivalent in the slightest. For how can you compare a woman loved by many to one loved by none?

Author's Note: Also, please go to the original blurb to ask to be added to the taglist (it's impossible for me to keep checking every part every time I update).

2nd Author's Note: How long is too long for a chapter?

Taglist: @eolivy, @rafayelridesfisheatsfish, @animegamerfox, @jasperjokester, @schrodingerskimdokja, @just--crys, @snowdynasty, @shi-thats-kiera, @mansonofmadness, @dwuclvr, @ameilli, @katiedoesstuff101, @everythingistaken00, @napa-the-yappa, @hanaluxx, @lovesick-sylus, @tenaciouszombiewombat, @ladyparamount, @applepi405, @midnight-reverie, @69-gojos-wife-69, @bellagrayson-wayne, @phisen, @idkmanimjusthorny, @munchychuusy, @autumn2534, @poptrim, @sillyfreakfanparty, @zaynesfirefly, @flamedancer13, @thissmartdumbass, @mrsllawliet, @jeondyy, @ssetsuka, @dels-page, @that-lost-one, @johnnysactualgf, @mariquitas-en-verano, @toelady, @sinnamon-bunn, @yesbiaswrecked, @doggyteam2028, @little-rays-of-darkness, @albatrossblue, @vyntheria, @silverianni, @browneyedgirl22, @tiklestar, @beaconsxd, @pepperushia

[space-ace-in-the-space-race]

I’m gonna talk about Dead Boy Detectives for a second, specifically Charles and Edwin’s deaths.

Edwin died in a basement and Charles in an attic, and Edwin went to Hell and Charles was presumably meant to go to Heaven. Edwin died by fire (demons from Hell) and Charles died by ice (hypothermia). Edwin was targeted for his queerness and Charles for the color of his skin, the country his mother came from. Edwin never seemed to get along with the boys who would kill him but Charles called his murderers friends until they turned on him. Edwin died by supernatural means while Charles died by run of the mill racist teenagers. They died more than 7 decades apart.

When you look at the details there are so many differences but the story is still the exact fucking same. Two boys who died at the hands of a group of their classmates who decided that they did not fit with the rest of them and therefore must pay the price. Two boys who died on the same grounds of the same school, whose deaths were brushed aside and covered up by people who held the same titles. More than 70 years apart and not a single thing has changed, Charles’ death didn’t get any more attention than Edwin’s, because more than 70 years later the same fucking story happened again.

Edwin’s death didn’t change a damn thing, and it could happen again now because Charles’ death didn’t change a damn thing either. And then the ghosts of two 16 year olds decided that if the adults, if the living weren’t going to change anything then they fucking would. If the living would not grant them justice and would not grant them change, then they fucking would.

Because there was a difference, in the end. Edwin was murdered, and so was Charles, but while Edwin died scared and alone Charles didn’t. Edwin died in a cold, dark basement, but Charles died in warm light of a lantern, even if that warmth wasn’t enough to save him. Edwin died to the sounds of his own screams, his own voice pleading for mercy that would not come, but Charles drifted off to sleep to the sound of a kind boy reading him a book.

The living won’t change. The story could and will keep on repeating because the living will not make sure it doesn’t. The living are messy. But the dead, for all the ways they will never change, will never get any older, they can change the story, at least a bit. Charles and Edwin can’t make sure that no other boy dies at that school, but if the story repeats itself yet again they can make sure the victim is at peace. They can solve the murders and find the lost items and release the spirits who are trapped. The living won’t help the dead, but they can help each other.

So they call themselves the Dead Boy Detectives, form an agency and get an office and help who they can, because they didn’t matter to the living, and many of their clients don’t either. But they matter to the dead.

Their clients matter. And Charles and Edwin matter too.

[gynnnicsworld]

You know Sterek has been frequently 'cancelled' and attacked for basically being the most popular ship in the TW world, right?

Because of the age gap between them, right? Well, I have to complain about it, because it really pisses me off that they're discarding the beautiful, slow-burning love story that exists between Stiles and Derek in CANON. Because damn it, they liked each other.

It bothers me that they tarnish Sterek's image for things like being a "pedo" ship when NO, they're not. They're trying to lump us all into a "sick shipper" category.

If we're being honest, Sterek has probably been the story with the most backstory, where we've seen how each season has seen the closeness between Stiles and Derek grow, where they've gone from 'hating each other and having to deal with each other because of Scott' to genuinely caring for each other to the point where Derek would take a bullet for Stiles or Stiles would go against the entire FBI to protect and get Derek out of whatever mess he was in.

They care deeply and genuinely for each other, so much so that Derek preserved and fixed Stiles' Jeep, keeping it in his garage as a sort of memento or anchor for him.

It bothers me so much that they talk shit about Sterek when this couple exists:

sorry but parrish/lydia was a canon pairing between a teenager and an ADULT and if that wasn't enough, an adult from the sheriff's department.

Why aren't people talking about this more? Why are they attacking Sterek instead? Sterek: a couple that wasn't canon during the show's run, and we only got confirmation of feelings for each other through the actors and through obvious hints in the show. But directly, it was never a canon couple between a teenager and an adult guy. They were together.

I put the adult that way because Derek's age was never confirmed as such. At the beginning of the series, Stiles says Derek is only a couple of years older than him and Scott. So at the beginning of the series, Derek was between 18 and 19 years old. But later on, they address the fire, so they change the age again, but they never say exactly how old he is, so canonically Derek could be 2 to 5 years older than Stiles. You choose what age gap to give them.

While Lydia, about 17, and Jordan Parish, over 20, are a CANON couple.

Anyway, hypocrisy and homophobia, right?

But there is a VERY important theme between the Derek/Stiles relationship, which if you ask me made the possibility of a relationship between the two of them impossible while Stiles was still a high school student and perhaps only when Stiles was older could something exist between them.

The existence of this damn bitch and what she did to Derek.

I hate her as much as you do, and it disgusts me to have to watch Teenage Derek with her.

But it's important to what I wanted to say; it's why I think Derek repressed his feelings for Stiles.

According to the Teen Wolf book, Kate was Derek's substitute swim teacher, who used certain hormones and scents to attract the teenage Derek to her. YES, that was not only a relationship rife with manipulation, power imbalances, and pedophilia, but she also ended up orchestrating the murder of Derek's family at a moment of vulnerability for Derek because Paige's death hadn't happened long before.

We all know Derek blames himself for the death of his family, and he hates Kate. He knows what she did to him. He knows he was manipulated by an older woman and that he fell for her.

Derek has serious trust and self-confidence issues.

He doesn't believe he's worthy of love or peace.

His anchor until Season 2 was anger because his life was infested with anger/hate/rage.

So he sees himself as something bad, something that hurts, someone who destroys what he loves. He's a victim of sexual abuse, even though he doesn't admit it.

But Stiles became that little glimmer of light annoying, but a light in his dark life filled with negative things. Stiles earned his trust. Stiles fought every step of the way and broke down that wall Derek built around himself to keep people away from him, because trust means giving someone the power to hurt you. Oh well, Derek's mind worked that way. Unbeknownst to him, Stiles earned that trust.

And that's where we have this scene.

This is where Derek lets us see how important Stiles has become to him, Stiles became his anchor.

At this point, it's undeniable that Derek already has feelings for Stiles. He trusts Stiles blindly. But then, why didn't Derek do anything to have Stiles? Because Derek is a victim of sexual abuse by a woman who took advantage of him in high school. And Derek never dealt with that trauma, or we were never shown to have it that way.

Derek dates women, of course—Jennifer (who also manipulated him), Braeden, etc.—whose relationships didn't end well or were never serious.

But not with Stiles, because Stiles is like that extremely important thing where he can't ruin that connection they have, he can't taint or sully this relationship he has with Stiles. It's too important to Derek. Plus, the untreated traumas surrounding his abuser are a clear impediment to starting something real, something serious. And everything seems to indicate that Stiles is THAT person his unconscious heart has chosen.

That is, to start any romantic relationship with Stiles, Derek has to face all of his demons, all of his traumas first, in order to give Stiles what he believes Stiles deserves.

Kate ruined Derek's heart and mind a lot, plus Derek already had a wounded and bleeding heart since Paige.

So, a relationship as such didn't exist in the series between S/D, and it was quite unlikely that it would, but the feelings were always there.

That's why I don't understand why they keep attacking a couple who has SO MUCH backstory, and who if they ever dated, it was definitely when they were already adults and able to deal with their own issues.

The sheriff's line about the jeep and Derek always makes me think that the sheriff was always aware and noticed everything. He never disapproved; on the contrary, he supported them, because he knows there's no one who deserves each other more than those two. It was also a clear confirmation that Derek always had feelings for Stiles, complicated feelings he didn't know how to address, but whose feelings led him to treasure and fix Stiles's jeep.

[clickityquacks]

Alignment chart of dark academia books, emphasis on the academia. I have read them all and this is my take on it all.

Is the novel a dark academia because it takes place in a school and there are a lot of "dark" themes or is it a dark academia because the atmosphere is grim and the characters are pursuing knowledge.

Also book recommendations, I think people would like the books that fall in the same quadrant.

Books under the read more.

Top Left: My favourite corner where I just want the author to flex their niche knowledge.

Piranesi - Susanna Clarke

The Historian - Elizabeth Kostova

If We Were Villains - M. L. Rio

Emily Wilde's Encyclopedia of Fairies - Heather Fawcett

Ninth House - Leigh Bardugo

The Raven Boys - Maggie Steifvater

The Secret History - Donna Tarte

Babel - R. F. Kuang

Bottom right: The intersection between lots of deaths and some niche knowledge. This one is a bit more hand wavey so here are some explanations.

Blood Over Bright Haven - M. L. Wang: Often compared to Babel but has way less niche knowledge and more transactional deaths.

Harrow the Ninth - Tamsyn Muir: This one is a sequel but the convoluted plot lives in my head rent free and it’s Dark (Goth) Academia.

Bunny - Mona Awad: Lots of allusion to literature and mythology. Also lots of dark, bunnies and swans.

Bottom Left: Takes place in a school that people are trying to survive.

The Magicians - Lev Grossman

Vicious - V. E. Schwab

Legendborn - Tracy Deonn

Ace of Spades - Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé

Atlas Six - Olivie Blake

Deadly Education - Naomi Naovik

Top Left: Happens in a school and pretty light on death but has “dark” themes.

The River King - Alice Hoffman

A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder - Holly Jackson

The Initial Insult - Mindy McGinnis

A Study in Drowning - Ava Reid

To Shape a Dragon’s Breath - Moniquill Blackgoose

Never Let Me Go - Kazuo Ishiguro

You Feel It Just Below the Ribs - Janina Matthewson and Jeffrey Cranor

[kingkat12]

... had a hunch (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: sex, piv sex, vampire sex, rough(?) sex, slight choking, light gore, angst, breaking and entering, Roman being creepy (ofc), stalking, blood, reader needs to lock her damn window

summary: in the light of the murder of Brooke Bluebell, you are starting to get paranoid-- is someone watching you? and if so, who is it?

word count: 11,472

never have I ever: ← previous chapter

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*book 1 masterlist

a/n: this chapter has been SO FUN to write AHHH!!! and this is also the hottest gif ever, shoutout to Niki<33 ENJOYYYYY!!<3333

I was used to being lonely, which is why it was so odd to wake up with a feeling that I wasn't alone.

Rubbing my eyes with haste at the sound of my alarm clock going off, I blinked over and over to make sure that the chair in the corner of my room wasn't occupied. Had I seen a shadow just now, or was that just the remainder of sleep in my eye? 

The chair was empty. Still. Perfectly still in the corner, just as it had been ever since the day I bought it. Nonetheless, I stayed sitting upright, covers twisted at my waist, heart thudding without a clear reason. There was nothing wrong-- not really. My door was shut. My window cracked just enough to let in the night air, same as always. Everything was where it should be, and yet, I had the distinct sense that someone had just slipped out a second before I stirred.

It must've been all the talk about the serial killer from Iowa, surely. Maybe even a touch of vargulf. Roman's manic ramblings must've gotten to me. If I was having nightly vampire dream-sex, I wouldn't dismiss my mind making up similar spooky things while awake. 

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, toes brushing the cold floor. A whisper of chill breeze clung to the air like it hadn't had time to fade yet; autumn must be right around the corner, now. I didn't usually get scared in my own room, I didn't get paranoid, but something about last night, calling him, had loosened something in me I couldn't put back together.

My eyes drifted back to the chair. It was empty, unmoved, yet the vague impression of warmth, or presence, still curled around the corners of the room like smoke. I shook my head and stood up, brushing it all off-- it had just been a dream. Or was it a guilt-hangover from calling Roman like that, so late, so needy? Ugh, what the fuck had I done? How was I supposed to face him at school today?

With a light groan, I stepped toward the bathroom, but something made me glance down.

The faintest imprint, a scuff maybe, or the softened shape of a shoe, was pressed into the carpet just beside my window.

... Oh. 

I didn't let myself stare. I didn't let myself believe it. This was paranoia. A killer was on the loose in Hemlock Grove after all-- of course I was going insane. This was just my imagination. Hysteria?

I knew what could calm me down; my favourite little detour on my way to school.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The usual hues of sunlight shone through the thickness of the trees as I kicked at a nearby chestnut-- this had almost become a ritual whenever I came to Richmond Park.

I wasn't here often, but recently, this place had become a shrine to what had been, and what could've been; staring ahead at the tree where I had carved mine and Roman's initials all that time ago, I brought the cigarette to my lips, committing to my new smoking addiction, completely alone in the outskirts of the forest with a killer on the loose. Reckless. If I were dying on the inside, then I supposed that the monument of my love could join me in death. Kamikaze, bitches.

Last night's phone call lingered in my brain, making me cringe. What had I done? At least I got it confirmed that Roman still thought of me, dreamed of me. As I kept staring at the tree like a complete lunatic, I remembered the last time I was here with him...

"I'll be better for you," Roman's green eyes met mine, his grip around my waist loosening before he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me flush against him. "Whatever Letha says about me, I need you to not believe it. I'm asking you to kill me, in a sense."

"What?--"

"I want you to make me so sick that I die in your arms," Roman let out a shaky breath, leaning his forehead against mine as his eyes closed shut. "I think it'd make me feel good. I don't want to be so bitter and angry all the time... and I feel good with you. Really good."

My heart swelled as I brought my hands up to cup his face, my thumbs stroking over his cheeks as we stood still. There were leaves rustling in the distance, and a sweltering breeze that passed us briefly, but all in all, it was just Roman and I in this deserted area of the park. I could easily agree that it felt good, that it felt right-- just my pretty boyfriend and me.

I got up on my tippytoes, pulling Roman in for a gentle kiss. It made my heart swell, made the tips of my fingers burn as I felt his cold breath against my cheek when he exhaled through his nose.

Roman's hands pushed against the small of my back, drawing me in as close as humanly possible. The kiss deepened with every breath, with every pull of the other-- "Choose us," he pleaded, mouthing his words into my lips. "Me and you. Us."

I shivered-- if only I had listened to him.

My cigarette was halfway burnt, the ash curling dangerously close to my knuckles, but I couldn't even feel it anymore. My head was spinning, my heart was aching-- I just wanted everything to go back to how it was, to the time when I would fall asleep with Roman's head on my chest, my fingers stroking through his hair, with his arms wrapped around me... fucking Letha.

But then, amid my sulking, I heard it; the crunch of leaves behind me. 

I froze.

It wasn't soft or casual, like a jogger or someone out for a walk. It was deliberate, heavy, like weight shifting from paw to paw.

I whipped around, my heart stalling in my chest, cigarette tumbling from my fingers. My eyes scanned the dense line of trees behind me, but it was already darker there, the canopy of trees hiding what little light the gray sky would give. The shuffle of leaves murmured quietly behind me, and suddenly, every rustle sounded like it was breathing. Maybe Roman was right? Maybe there truly was a vargulf on the loose?

The more I searched, the less I found. I concluded that it was nothing, as always-- still, something about the air had shifted. It was thicker now, watching me; I hated how quickly my brain fell for Roman's stupid wolf theories. 

I told myself it was nonsense, but I suddenly couldn't stop imagining it. Was this the same thing I had sensed in my room this morning? The yellow eyes, the saliva, the torn skin-- why did Roman's great-grandfather's drawings have to be so grotesquely detailed? Damn the darn Godfreys.

Another sharp crack of a branch-- my whole body flinched. "Jesus Christ," I huffed, stomping down on an innocent leaf before quickly making my way back to my car. Of course there was no such thing as a vargulf, or werewolf, or whatever, but...

I wasn't about to risk it.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

For the first time in a while, I was excited to get out to school; it would hopefully distract me from this odd morning.

The parking lot was already filled up when I pulled in much later than usual, the early morning sun slanting hard across the windshield and making everything look too bright. I killed the engine and just sat there for a second, gripping the steering wheel, trying to decide whether it was stupid or brave to ask Roman to come today. Was he going to? Would we talk? Would he end up sticking his tongue down some girl's throat in front of me again? I hoped not. God, how I hoped not. 

Dread and excitement piled up in my stomach as I stepped out, trying to dig the car key out of my pocket and lock the door before I could overthink any of it. I was so deep in my head, I didn't even notice the sudden giggles rolling through the lot until it was too late.

Why would a bunch of girls be giggling to themselves with delight at 08:13 in the morning? I should've known.

There he was, Roman Godfrey, walking like he was above gravity, like he didn't belong to the pavement under his boots. His backpack hung loosely over one shoulder, his dark jacket falling open just enough to hint at the grey Henley beneath it-- collar loose, like he didn't care how indecently good it looked on him. His brown hair kissed his forehead, gelled like he didn't have time, like he didn't give a damn, messier than usual, catching the morning light in just the right places.

A group of girls buzzed around him; cheerleaders mostly, the usual gang. Lips glossed, laughing, one of them gripping his bicep as she giggled at something he didn't say. He wasn't even looking at them-- he didn't need to. Actually, Roman looked annoyed as hell. I wondered whether the group of girls sometimes felt like the paparazzi; they certainly never gave him a moment's worth of peace. Did some part of him like it, though? I bet. 

And then, somehow, Roman's piercing green eyes found mine through the noise. 

Of course.

He saw me through the sea of laughing girls, and everything else just... vanished. The parking lot, the cars, the sound-- gone. I stood frozen by my car, clutching my car keys, lips parted as my heart abused the inner linings of my ribs. 

Roman didn't smile, didn't blink. His gaze was so still, so direct, that it felt like being pinned in place by something invisible, like he could hear everything I was thinking. Nothing in that darn upir book said anything about mind-reading, so I concluded that I had to be safe from that, at least. However, I knew for certain that he could hear my heart. Fuck. 

And standing there, in the middle of a crowded high school parking lot, I felt it all hit me like a second heartbeat-- hot, aching, shameful. I wanted him back. God, how I wanted him back, how I wanted it to not be like this, how I wanted to go back in time. Why were the cheerleaders clinging to my Roman? I wanted to rip them to pieces, limb by limb, every single one of them, systematically. Shouldn't they be in mourning over their captain, Brooke? Shouldn't they be sobbing in a corner somewhere, and not slobbering over Roman? I was honestly two seconds from tossing my car keys at the blonde bimbo to his left-- maybe I'd manage to jab the metal into her temple? Sideways lobotomy. Was that a thing?

As my wrath came to a simmer, and as my heart threatened to explode at the sight of Roman's full mouth, his big eyes, the broadness of his shoulders, the way he carried himself, the fact that he was here, that he had showed up, that he had done this tiny little thing for me, someone said his name and touched his other arm-- he looked away, and just like that, the spell snapped.

I exhaled so suddenly that it made me lightheaded. Roman kept walking, swallowed up by the crowd; the pom-poms followed, their voices rising again like nothing had happened, like I wasn't standing here as though struck by lightning. 

And just as I realized that the parking lot had nearly emptied, that I had stood here simmering in the aftermath for a bit too long, and that I was about to be late to class, an unexpected voice cut through the fog; "I wonder who forced him to come in today,"

Jolting, I turned toward the sound.

Letha stood there, leaning against my car with her arms crossed over her chest, sleeves pushed up on that stupidly expensive lilac sweater she always wore when she wanted to look soft-- she didn't look soft now, though. Quite the contrary, she looked like something had scraped her out from the inside and left just the shape behind; her eyes were sunken, her skin was paler than usual, and she had a quiet look about her that I hadn't seen before. Usually, she was a flame that burned bright, but now?

None of that mattered. 

I didn't care if she was sad. I didn't care if she was haunted. Snorting, I stuffed my car key into my backpack, refusing to keep looking at Letha. "You have quite the nerve," I hissed. "Go away. I don't want to talk to you."

"Aunt Olivia doesn't really have any influence over Roman anymore," Letha continued as though she hadn't heard me. "So it can't have been her. Was it you? Are you two talking again?"

"Fuck off," I adjusted my backpack before rounding my car, avoiding walking past Letha, yet she followed. Her expensive boots clicked lightly against the pavement as she trailed after me, not fast enough to be chasing, but close enough to make my skin crawl. I didn't look back-- I wouldn't give her that much.

"You know," she went on, voice quieter now. "It's kind of poetic. You dragged him out of bed and into the sun... That's a big deal for a upir."

"Shut up," I snapped over my shoulder-- I didn't want to have the upir conversation with Letha again, and especially not this openly for anyone to hear. All she ever did was lie, anyway.

"I mean it," she continued. "Roman listens to you."

"He can be in the sun," I spat, clutching my backpack harder.

Letha hummed behind me, shrugging to herself; "Yeah, I know. But I'm just saying, despite everything that's happened, he obviously still loves you, so... I can't have messed everything up that bad?" 

The disgust that tore through my body was indescribable. There was something so vile, so insensitive, so disgusting about the way her words were formulated, like she had been waiting all week to find the perfect moment to ambush me and try to wash herself free of the guilt that was clearly ravaging her-- no. 

Balling my hands into fists, I turned around on my heel, stopping in my tracks, and watched as  Letha did the same with a bit of a wince, like she was convinced I would strike her if she moved a muscle. 

"Oh, you little piece of--" I stopped. Inhaled. Squeezed my eyes shut. Through gritted teeth, I continued; "If it is sympathy you're looking for, I suggest you start rummaging through the trash. You fucked up. Face it."

Letha blinked at me, and I quickly noticed the smear of mascara under one of her eyes. Her mouth parted like she might say something else, something apologetic, or worse, burst into tears. "I didn't ruin everything," she breathed, mostly to herself, like a chant that would calm her down. "This is fixable. You and Roman still have a chance."

I had no pity to offer. No consolation, none whatsoever. "Roman and I weren't supposed to only have a chance," I echoed. "We were supposed to be forever. Fuck you for meddling with that."

Letha's glossy, green eyes stuck to me like the cigarette smoke I had grown to depend on-- ugly and clinging, and something I'd smell on my clothes for the rest of the day. 

I adjusted my backpack over my shoulder, sniffling before landing my last blow; "Honestly, Letha? I wish it had been you that night, and not Brooke."

Something in me shifted-- I hadn't expected to blurt that out. I didn't want to see the aftermath of that sentence, along with the look of shock on Letha's face, so with all the hatred I could muster in my body, I turned again and walked toward the school. 

Thankfully, Letha didn't follow.

She probably didn't want to anymore.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

I wasn't paying attention-- of course.

Mr. Deacon was talking about monks in the Middle Ages that I didn't give a crap about, but all I could think about was Roman's haunting eyes in the parking lot. With my elbow propped on the desk, with my head in my hand, I wondered whether I'd catch a glimpse of him in the hallway after this period, whether he was still avoiding me, or worse, not avoiding me-- maybe I just didn't interest him in the way I did before? Maybe my pathetic phone call last night had given him the ick?

However... he had mentioned that he dreamed of me too.

Nothing upir related, though, I was sure of it-- or was I? Perhaps we were having the same dream? I doubted that, but amid my severe boredom (and trying to distract myself from my earlier run-in with Letha), this was the only topic that distracted me well enough to tune out Mr. Deacon's voice.

It was the second-to-last period; my chances of speaking to Roman today were running out. At this point, I'd settle for walking past him in the hall, another look, a brush of his shoulder against mine as he nudged his way through the crowd-- honestly, I would take anything to keep from feeling like he had slipped entirely through my fingers.

The tip of my pen hovered over my notebook, and I was about to try to sketch something, maybe his eyes, until suddenly, the intercom buzzed; it crackled overhead like it had been zapped alive. 

"Attention, students of Hemlock Grove High. Please remain calm,"

... Oh no. 

My stomach turned, my head tilted up as the entire class stilled, and Mr. Deacon turned toward the speaker like he wasn't sure he'd heard it right.

"Due to an ongoing investigation, school will be dismissed immediately. All students are required to gather their belongings and make arrangements to go home. Teachers, check your emails for further instructions,"

The air went thin. For a second, no one moved-- it was like everyone was waiting for someone else to react first. Then, within the blink of an eye, chairs screeched against the floor, backpacks zipped with urgency, and phones were already out, faces glowing in the blue wash of screen light as everyone hurried to get out of the classroom. There was an odd atmosphere in the air, where people were unsure whether to be happy about the dismissal or worried about the reason why, and as I followed the stream out into the hallway, I tried to pick up on the chatter;

"What happened?"

"Oh my God--"

"-- They found a body in that park!--"

"Another girl?"

"-- In the woods, check Twitter!"

My brain scrambled to fill in the blanks. I had a bad feeling about which park the new girl could've been murdered at. The worst part was that I felt like I already knew; I just knew, in that same cold, nauseating way you know something before anyone says it out loud. Could it have happened in the same woods where I had been less than four hour ago, where the trees were thick enough to swallow sound, where I had stood with a cigarette in hand beside that stupid fucking tree with our initials carved in it?

... Were my suspicions correct? Was I being watched?

With these questions in mind, my heart thrummed in my chest, my chest aching as I clutched my phone, feeling it vibrate. Then the most damning thought landed, hard and unshakable; what if I was supposed to be next?

Just as I was about to properly spiral, now pressed from all sides in the crammed hallway, halfway to a proper panic-attack, I got nudged with a force so harsh, I let out a whimper of pain and spun to face the violent perpetrator; "Hey!" I barked, taking a few steps in the other direction of the swarm around me. "Watch where you're going, jackass!"

But the second the nudger turned around fully, the incoming words snagged in my throat.

It was Peter.

Only, it wasn't really Peter; not the one I knew. Not the same, sarcastic Peter who always had a smartass comment cocked and ready-- this version of him looked half-gone. His dark, soft waves were flattened with sweat or sleep or both, his skin waxy and tight across the bones of his face. And to make it even more eerie, his eyes were rimmed dark, hollowed out like he hadn't closed them in days. All in all, he looked like someone who had seen a ghost and never quite recovered.

Then, without warning, Peter grabbed my shoulders, his fingers digging in hard enough to make me flinch, like he needed to anchor me in place. His grip was cold and trembling as he spoke; "You need to go home now,"

"I'm-- yeah, I'm on my way now, but what's?--"

"Don't try to investigate anything, okay?" Peter panted. "Keep Roman in check, and just-- where's Letha?"

With the mention of her name, I wafted Peter's hands off me, huffing as I shivered. "Fuck off, dude! What's wrong with you? I saw Letha a few hours ago, but she's not the one who was!--"

Peter stared at me like he wanted me to shut up, so I did. But then, just like that, he shook his head; "Never mind," he muttered, twitching. "Forget it. Just-- be careful, okay?"

Before I could argue, he turned and melted back into the chaos like smoke. No explanation, no real answer-- Peter left me standing there, stomach hollow with unease. 

The crowd of students was making me claustrophobic, their chatter buzzing against my ears like a swarm of flies. I pushed through, elbow-first, heart still slamming against my ribs as I moved toward the parking lot, barely feeling the cold air when I finally shoved the door open and stumbled outside. 

Had another girl seriously been killed? Was this a rumour, was this real? Who could it have been? 

My fingers were trembling as I unlocked my car, the weight of what Peter had said, along with what he hadn't said, dragging behind me like a shadow. My keys slipped in my grip, clattered once against the side door, and when I finally got them in, yanked the handle open, and sat down in the driver's seat--

Knock, knock, knock.

The harsh tapping against my window set me off, and I'm embarrassed to admit that I screamed-- actually screamed.

With one hand over my heart, I leaned over, panting as I rolled my window down. "You scared the shit out of me!" I barked, clutching my chest as I glanced up at my intruder. 

Roman didn't flinch at my yelling, but he didn't apologize either-- he didn't usually do either of those things. He leaned into the open window like he owned the air I was breathing, one hand braced on the roof of my car as he looked down at me with that sharp, pissed-off expression. His green eyes were darker than usual, and his hair caught the last gasp of sunlight like a halo of obsidian. "You pulled into the parking lot late this morning," he said, low, deliberate. "Where the hell were you?

I blinked, still trying to breathe. "Are you kidding me, Roman?"

"No," he said, voice flat, green gaze unmoving. "Where were you?"

"... I took a bit of a detour," I didn't mean to sound defensive, but it felt somehow unavoidable; "Not a big deal. I've been doing that all week, not that you'd care to notice."

Roman's fingers twitched where they gripped the edge of the car, glaring down at me with that patronizing look I loved and hated. "Where?"

I sighed; "Remember where I went crazy and carved our initials into that tree?"

"Richmond park?"

"Yep. But I had this weird feeling that someone was watching me while I was there, and now... now someone's dead,"

"... Fuck," Roman pulled back just an inch, like my confession had knocked something loose in him. His jaw clenched, and I could see the pulse ticking in his neck-- could he hear mine right now? "That's where they found the new girl."

"Crap. I knew it," I breathed, shifting in my seat to make myself more comfortable; that was almost impossible in the presence of the beauty of my ex-boyfriend. "Do you know who it was?"

Roman sighed, folding his arms against my window ledge, resting his chin there as he stared back at me with that focused look I knew too well, green eyes gazing back at mine. "No, but I'll find out,"

He said it like a promise, a promise I loathed for his sake, but there was something heavy underneath-- it was almost as though he didn't believe it had happened again, and that we hadn't gotten far enough in our investigation to stop it. For a second, just a second, he didn't look like Roman Godfrey; the heir, the nightmare, the heartbreaker. Now, he looked like a boy too young to carry everything he did.

"Rome..." I tried, softer now. My fingers hovered near the window ledge before I slowly reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead. It was wind-tousled and glossy, catching the last of the light like black silk. I don't know what made me do it-- habit, maybe. Care. Stupidity?

I felt Roman tense beneath my touch, but he didn't pull away; that gave me enough hope to go on. His big, green eyes rounded out like he couldn't believe he was letting me do this, so I chose my next words wisely; "You should be careful," I murmured, thumb brushing the line of his temple. "I know you have that direct line to the police intercom, but... I told you I don't want you to do this alone. What if you hop in, and I can take you back to my place, so we can check it out together? My parents will only be happy to see you, and you can stay for dinner, and--"

Roman recoiled like I had struck him.

Not violently, no-- just quick, sharp, like his body had made the decision before his brain could. He straightened fully from the window, tapping his hand twice on the roof of my car before he took a step back. "Don't," he said. The word was quiet, but it hit harder than a shout. 

My heart clenched in a manner I was way too used to these days; "I wasn't-- I didn't mean--"

"I'll go figure out who it was," Roman said, shaking his head once, twice. "Get home safe, okay? Text me when you get there."

"But--"

"I know it takes sixteen minutes from here to your house, so if I don't get a text by that time, I'm calling your mom to confirm that you're home," 

I gasped; "Roman, what the fuck?!--"

He cut me off with a swift, dismissive motion of his hand, no longer the brooding, impossible Roman I knew, but someone who just needed control, order, and something to hold onto in the chaos. "Just stay put," he ordered, his green eyes locking onto mine. "I'm going to be careful, but only if you go home with no detours."

Blinking, I didn't know what else to do than nod. There was no way in hell I'd go through having one more conversation with my mom about why Roman and I broke up, which I knew would be triggered if he called her. 

"But you two were so perfect for each other!" Oh, I know. "Did he do something wrong?" Well... "I bet he'd take you back if it was somehow your fault, you two just need to talk to one another!" Too late for that. "Young love... unnecessarily complicated. I don't miss it." No shit, mom. 

I sighed; "Ugh, fine... Just please don't call my mom, because then she's going to think it's okay to call you and ask you to come over for dinner all the time, and... I don't need my mom playing matchmaker in the middle of this," 

With that, Roman smirked-- just the faintest crack in his armour as he took a step back, his eyes never leaving mine. "Deal," 

Then, without another word, Roman turned and disappeared down the parking lot, leaving me alone with my racing heart and a sudden appetite for dinner. I did my best not to stare at him as he walked away, scanning the broadness of his back, how good his legs looked in those light jeans--

Oh, I needed to sink my teeth into something, alright.

... Preferably Roman's shoulders, but dinner would do for now.

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"Why would anyone love a monster?" Roman whispered-- and that was when I knew I was back in the dream. 

However, there was something new about the way he moved tonight, with slightly hesitant strokes, like he didn't quite trust himself. I could only whimper against Roman's shoulder, clinging harder, like I could pull the doubt out from his back with my fingers, like I could dig deep enough to reach the part of him that still believed he was capable of goodness, of true love. 

But then, in the midst of the daze, in the midst of my pleasure, the dream diverted and diverged down a different road, one it had never taken before--

"Because," I breathed. "You're not a monster."

Roman stilled, like the sentence had stunned something vital in him. His breath caught, hot and shallow, before he pulled forward and kissed me like I had blasphemed, like I had dared to call the devil a saint, and he wanted to make sure no one else heard my sin. "Gonna-- Gonna keep you safe," he murmured against my lips. "Gonna love you-- forever."

Forever.

Even dream-sequence Roman knew our magic word; touché.

His thrusts deepened, bucking into me like he couldn't help himself, like nothing could ever drag him away from this pleasure. This was nothing like he would usually fuck me in my dreams, with confidence, with decisive control-- what was happening?

Then, with a ragged breath, he slowed and pulled out to flip me in his arms; not rough, not urgent, but reverent, like he was reorienting the dream around something more sacred than dominance. Was reality perhaps infiltrating my dreamland? Roman lay behind me now, one of his thighs nudging mine open again, his chest pressed to my back, his hand sliding over my hip to guide me back to him; I could only gasp as his cock entered me again, letting out a shaky moan as the usual stretch sent shivers up my spine. In this position, it was impossible not to notice how massive Roman was compared to me, how small I felt in comparison, and it made my brain buzz. 

We moved like that, spooned and aching, his mouth close to my ear, his breath ghosting down the column of my throat as his thumb circled my clit in lazy motions. I arched against him, feeling an odd type of purr building in me from the comfort-- seriously, what the hell was happening to my upir sex dream?! Was this just a sweet, normal one, this time around?

But then, of course, I was proven wrong.

Then, like he had been waiting for the right moment, like he was done buttering me up, Roman's hand slid up from my waist to my throat. Not tentative, not cautious-- claiming. His fingers spread beneath my jaw, thumb pressing gently under the hinge, while the rest of his palm flattened over my pulse like he wanted to feel my heart beat for him, like it turned him on to feel my heart. My breath hitched instinctively, but I didn't pull away; I couldn't. Not when his cock was still inside me, slow and thick, grinding deeper like he was trying to anchor himself inside my body, like he wanted me to feel how overpowered I was in his presence. 

And then Roman's voice, no longer warm or tender, cut through the silence, low and feral, close enough that it felt like it came from inside me;

"Mine,"

It wasn't romantic. It wasn't reassuring.

It was a threat.

I felt it in my chest, in the base of my spine, in the part of me that the tip of his cock brushed against over and over. Roman's grip didn't tighten, but the intention was there, like this was a reminder that he could snap me in half if he wanted to, and that knowledge alone made me clench around him.

Roman could kill me. Roman was a upir.

"Don't you fucking see?" he whispered, his fangs brushing the shell of my ear, the words so viciously tender they made me shiver. "You're the-- only thing I want, the only fucking thing in this world that isn't rotten, and if anyone tries to touch you-- tries to take you-- from me--"

Did he mean the vargulf?

I didn't get any time to think about it-- Roman cut himself off with a grunt, and in one fluid, brutal motion, he pushed himself deeper, past what he knew I'd allow in real life. I gasped, my fingers flying up to grip the forearm pressed firm against my collarbone, trying to ground myself as his cock dragged inside me over and over, the pressure making my toes curl. "Rome-- a-ah, I--" There wasn't much I could do with my body pressed up against him like this, with one big, strong hand around my throat keeping me flush to his chest, so I allowed myself to succumb to the pleasure of it all.

Then, Roman's fangs grazed that fragile tendon at the base of my neck, and I could feel the restraint in him fraying-- so thin, so threadbare, that it was a miracle he hadn't already sunk his sharp teeth into me. "I'll rip their goddamn hearts out," he snarled against my skin. "I'll tear the world apart, limb by limb-- anyone that tries-- to hurt you."

His possessiveness wasn't sweet; it was brutal, like I was being fucked by an instinctual animal. Of course. I was getting fucked by a upir-- what did I expect? "Love you," was all I managed to say, letting my head rest against him, feeling my body buzz from the unrelenting circles around my aching clit. 

At that, Roman pushed his hips harder, dragging guttural moans from my throat that I had never emitted before. "Say it," he demanded, the fingers on my throat twitching like he wanted to squeeze and kiss me in the same breath. "Say you're mine. Say it, or I swear to God-- I'll fuck it out of you, ngh--"

My breath hitched; I tried to speak, but all that came out was a broken, desperate sound, too wrecked to be a word. Roman groaned against my skin, savage and triumphant, like he knew exactly where he had me-- it was unlike him to be so... rough? 

Upir, upir, upir.

... But not a scary one.

"Yours," I breathed. "Yours."

Roman's big, protective arm wrapped around me like a hug from behind, and he let out a quiet moan into my neck, careful not to be so loud, in typical male fashion. In real life, he knew I loved to hear him. He knew, he knew-- knew what it did to me to hear him wrecked by the sensations. I wanted to go back to that, wanted the real Roman to come to me so, so bad, to kiss my neck without me fearing he'd pierce it. 

And then, as if he had heard me; "I'm full tonight," he murmured, almost as though he was comforting me. "Wake up, now."

My breath caught. "What?"

"Come back to me. Wake up and tell me that," Roman pressed a soft, reverent kiss to my neck, slowing down his thrusts, his motions around my clit-- "Wake up and tell me you're mine."

Something in me cracked; with a loud, all-taking sob, I awoke.

I sat upright fast, sheets tangled around my legs, sweat cooling over my skin in clammy patches, and I immediately reached for my neck.

There was nothing there, of course. No bite marks, no bruises. My fingers skimmed the soft skin just below my jaw where Roman's hand had been, half-expecting to feel the echo of his palm still stamped across my pulse, a reminder of my beating heart. It was stupid, it was impossible, and yet the ghost of him lingered-- the warmth, pressure, that trembling, protective hunger he'd held me with. God.

I let out a low, broken sound and rubbed the side of my neck harder, trying to shake the feeling. I swallowed and finally let my eyes adjust to the dark in my room, realizing I couldn't see anything. Scooting toward my window with a groan, I pulled my curtains apart just a smidge to allow some moonlight to shine in-- and that was when I realized my window was open.

My breath caught in my throat as I remembered this morning.

The footprints. The shadow. The park. The new death.

My whole body went cold-- there was no sound, not even the hum of my fan, not the rustle of the wind outside. Just the paralyzing quiet of something unnatural in the room with me, something that shouldn't be there, something that had no reason to exist outside the dream I had just left.

Slowly, I peeled my fingers off the curtain and twisted on the bed. First my shoulders, then my spine, reluctant as ever as my eyes dragged across the room in pieces, shapes blooming out of the dark one at a time; my desk, the corner of my bookshelf, the faint glint of light catching the edge of my mirror--

-- and then I saw it.

Him.

Roman.

Sat in the same chair as this morning, his body was relaxed in that obscene, deliberate way villains are when they know they've already won-- elbows balanced on the armrests like he had been waiting hours. He tilted his head the barest inch, studying me like someone with fangs might study a wound before biting deeper. The moonlight caught the angle of his cheekbones, the unholy stillness of his jaw, and his green eyes, glowing, sharp, and awake, like lights flipping on in the dark, immediately locked onto mine with predator clarity. No blinking. No hiding. He was here, and he was making himself known, this time.

It was as though he had been posted here to guard me.

Still, that didn't startle me any less. What did, was what I noticed he was holding. 

Two small glass vials swung lazily between his fingers, catching the light like tiny haunted ornaments. One filled with his blood. One with mine.

With a loud hitch of my breath, I pulled my sheets over my body, my blood running cold with the shock. "Fuck!" I yelped, my eyes welling with tears-- that always happened when I got properly scared. I lowered my voice, careful not to wake my parents, hissing; "Roman, what the fuck?!"

I saw the slight rise of his chest, heard the soft creak of the chair beneath his weight. And then, slowly, too slowly, Roman's fingers unlinked, pulling the vials into the palm of his hand. "Must've been quite the dream," he pondered out loud, cocking his head again, that same quiet, morbid interest in his face as he watched the vials. "You were practically humping your sheets."

"And you've just-- you've been watching me?" Horror washed over me, culminating in yet another aggressive hiss; "How long have you been here, you perv?!" 

"Long enough," Roman scanned me, brows drawing together as he saw how I was clutching my sheets over my body. He looked like he couldn't piece together why I was hiding from him; he had already seen everything he could've possibly seen before, right? But then, he saw it. "Oh, so that's where that went?" he said. 

I hadn't caught up, still shifting in my bed, trying to still my breath from the scare. "What went?"

"My t-shirt," Roman mumbled, pointing to the big, white Levi's tee I was wearing with the same hand that held the vials. "When did you manage?"

"That's not important!" I hissed, letting the duvets drop, yet my fingers remained clutched around the fabric as though it might save me. "How did you find the vials? Why are you in my room?!"

With a shrug and a sigh, Roman spread out in the chair as he avoided my first question. "Just... making sure you're alright,"

"What?" 

"I don't like the thought of you all... helpless and sleeping," he mumbled, put on the spot. "Vargulf on the loose, and all."

... Oh.

My fingers twitched around my sheets before I let them go, folding my legs and rubbing my eyes. There was something quiet and reserved about Roman's tone, yet something so painfully real-- he hadn't allowed himself to get to this level of depth with me since we broke up. "I'm fine, Rome," I tried, the nickname slipping past my lips before I could stop myself. "But you can't just... show up like this. How long have you been sitting here?"

Roman shrugged, no longer looking at me. "Not too long,"

"... Rome--"

"Stop calling me that," He fidgeted in the chair, much less composed now. "You're usually asleep by one in the morning, so I came by around one-thirty. Your moaning has kept me up, though."

"... Usually?"

Roman didn't answer that-- not right away.

Instead, he turned his face toward the window like he was studying the moonlight, or refusing to meet my eyes. His fingers closed around the vials, protecting them, and when he finally spoke again, his voice was lower, rougher; "I found out who it was,"

That stopped me cold. "Was it Letha?"

"No...?" Roman mumbled, shooting me a sideways glance.

"Okay, good,"

"... Why?"

"Because I told her this morning that I wished it had been her," The confession was a lot more vulnerable than I had thought it would sound out loud. "That night Brooke died. And I just wouldn't want to actually jinx anyone, that's all."

Roman clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth; "Right..." he started, nodding slowly to himself before his gaze darted back to the vials, pressing them together until they made a clinking noise. "No, it was Jasmine."

My breath caught in my throat, and I shifted in my bed, feeling my head throb. "Fuck," I breathed. "I hated that bitch."

"I know," Roman didn't blink, didn't move. "I hated her too, for what she did to you. Remember how she smashed your phone? Cut up your hands with those shards?"

"Yeah, but--"

"Your pretty, little hands..." he echoed, lost in thought as he watched the blood inside the vials move from side to side. "If anything, I might've been the one to jinx her. I wanted her dead. I think I even tried to kill her, in my own way."

I inhaled deeply; "I know,"

Finally, Roman's green eyes darted up to meet mine. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the vials still glinting in one hand, and his hair fell forward a little, casting shadows across his face. "You know?"

"Yeah, I know," I mumbled. "I remember watching you in the hallway telling her something, and then when you left, she started slamming her head into her locker. She bled a lot. She got a concussion. It's a bit blurry, but I know that was you. It took me a while, but... yeah."

Roman blinked, unsure how to react. Tongue-tied, he could only swallow. "You must've--" He cleared his throat, avoiding my eyes before continuing; "You must've been scared when you figured it out."

Well...

"Honestly, Roman?" With a sigh, I scooted forward on the bed to get closer to him. "Now that Letha isn't telling me fake crap in my ear about how dangerous you supposedly are, I find it kind of hot. It was kind of sweet to figure out that you were... seeking revenge for my sake. Is that sick of me?"

Roman let out the faintest snort, more a breath than a laugh, but there was something like relief in it, like he'd been holding his breath without knowing. "Definitely," he muttered, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Sick and twisted."

I smiled, small and crooked; "Takes one to know one,"

His eyes flicked up again, slower this time, like he was studying me instead of just glancing. "Oh, what's this? You're not scared of the big, bag upir?"

I tilted my head, giving him a look he knew too well. "You know I love you to death,"

"Not to death," Roman corrected, his jaw ticking. "You're not dying. Not on my watch." With that, he put the vials down on the table next to him, following them with his eyes. Something told me that the thought of me dying made him beyond anxious, and shortly after, his right leg gave in to a bounce. 

A chill settled over the room like fog as I let out a quiet sorry. My eyes flicked to the open window, then back to Roman's silhouette in the dark. "Well..." I started, shivering in the cold leaking in. "It's a shame about Jasmine, although she was a bitch. Did you hear anything about it over the intercom?"

Roman shrugged, disassociating; "It's the exact same situation as Brooke. Torn up, mangled, but just that Jasmine had one leg intact,"

With that image in mind, I gagged, clasping a hand over my mouth as I looked away. That was vile, that was horrid. It's an odd thing for someone you know to die, no matter who it is. And for it to be so brutal? No, that was gnarly. "Poor girl," I breathed, shuddering. 

Roman watched me react, confused that it was hitting me like this; something told me that he was so deep in this manic state that he didn't think too clearly about how gruesome the details were, and how someone else might react to it. "Do you... perhaps know anyone that was targeted by these girls?" he eventually asked. "Because so far, the vargulf has only killed cheerleaders. You used to be a part of Letha's gang, so... do you remember anyone that could've hated both Brooke and Jasmine?"

Oh. I had suppressed this part of my past. "There were a few girls, yeah," I mumbled. "I don't remember any specific names, though, so I'll have to dig a bit and come back to you on that one. But could the vargulf be a girl? Is that possible?"

"I really hope so,"

"... Why?"

Roman swallowed, rubbing his palm down his thigh to alleviate his anxiety. "That's for another time," he mumbled. "I've kept you up for long enough."

I blinked, surprised by the abrupt shift in him, and the way his tone closed off again like a door quietly latching shut. "You don't have to go," I tried, quicker than I meant to. My voice was soft, too soft, and even I heard the thread of something whiny in it. "It's late. You're already here."

Roman got up, rising to his full height. He didn't meet my eyes this time. "That's exactly why I should go," he muttered, brushing his hair back with one hand, balling up the other. "This, whatever this is, gets confusing whenever I stay too long."

My throat tightened-- I stayed on the bed, sitting up straighter, fighting the instinct to reach out and stop him physically. Then, it came flowing out of me before I could stop it; "How long do you usually stay, then?"

Roman froze, turning slightly, his silhouette outlined in the moonlight that streamed through the window. "What?"

"When you watch me sleep," I breathed, feeling my heart thudding against my ribs. "That's why you didn't come over last night, right? When I called you at three in the morning?" The more I thought it out loud, the more my heart abused my inner linings, and my next words came with a whisper; "Because you had already been here at one thirty?"

Roman didn't move, didn't breathe. His eyes were wide, too wide. Not with anger, not with fear-- just guilt. Guilt, like a kid who had been caught doing something he shouldn't, doing something he swore he wouldn't. "You're too smart for your own good," he mumbled.

"And you've worried yourself sick," I said. "You don't have to sit here and watch me to make sure I'm alright. I'd rather you slept."

"I just-- I hate this," Roman hissed, turning away to gaze at the open window, and my curtains flowing away from it with soft motions. "I hate that you had to go and trust Letha instead of me. I hate that I'm so mad at you, because... this timing is awful. I'd rather we were okay, so I could keep you safe without this being so fucking complicated."

"You have all the right in the world to be mad at me, Roman,"

"I don't want to be,"

"But you are,"

"I am," he echoed, and the way it left his mouth felt like it had taken something from him, like saying it out loud stole air he couldn't afford to lose. He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing a single, restless step toward the window. "Don't be sympathetic," he chanted, mostly to himself. "Hate me too. Come on, now."

My heart ached at the sight of him; "I could never hate you,"

"Well, I could definitely hate you," Roman snapped his head toward me then, eyes rimmed in moonlight, green irises glinting sharp, glossy, and angry. "You told me that night that you had thrown out my fucking vial, and I spent three hours--" A heave. A pointed finger my way, wavering. "I didn't know what to do with myself that night you found out about me, so I spent three hours walking back and forth to school along the highway, just in case you had thrown it out of your window on your way home. Three. Hours!"

Three hours. 

Alone. 

On the highway.

"Rome," I tried, but it was a breath, not a word. 

"I wish you hadn't called last night," he breathed. "I wish I didn't know."

My throat burned. My eyes were hot. The tears didn't fall with ceremony-- they just slipped out, one after the other, down the slope of my cheeks, falling straight from the wound he'd opened and didn't know how to close. 

Wake up and tell me you're mine.

"I'm so sorry," Wake up and tell me you're mine. "I hid it because the blood was affecting you," Wake up and tell me you're mine. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I wouldn't do that to you on purpose," Wake up and tell me you're mine. "I love you. I'm yours. And you are free to do whatever you want with that information. Discard it, tear it up, forget it... You don't ever have to forgive me. No one is forcing you to do that. But you need to give it back to me."

Roman turned his face halfway, enough that the downturned line of his mouth was visible. It looked wrong, strained, haunted, like it quivered to sob and kiss me all at once. "What?"

I held out my hand; I saw what he was clutching in his, what he thought he had gotten away with. "I'll take care of it," I breathed. "Give me the vial."

Roman didn't move right away. His head dipped slightly, chin angling toward his chest like he had just taken a blow; not a hard one, but the kind that makes you sit with yourself for a second. His shoulders sank, and for a moment, he just stood there like he was holding onto one last shred of resistance.

Then, he huffed. A small, tired sound, not angry, just... disappointed. The moonlight caught the edge of his face, and when he finally looked at me, I saw it clearly; he hated how well I saw through him.

"Oh well," Roman muttered, opening his palm and holding the vial of my blood up by the chain, the glass swinging faintly between us; "So much for subtlety." He stepped closer and dropped it into my hand with a faint clink of metal against skin. "Happy, now?"

I sighed, my fingers curling around the vial. "You gave it a shot, Robin Hood,"

"Oh, I wasn't planning on giving that to the poor," Roman mumbled, watching as I put it away on my nightstand. "Was gonna wear it while jacking off to French postcards of your mother."

Horrified, I could only gasp. "What the fuck?!" Oh, if looks could kill, I'd have a dead upir on my floor. I grabbed my pillow, throwing it at Roman in hopes of muting that damn inappropriate smirk of his.

With ease, he caught the pillow against his chest with a lazy arm and didn't bother to throw it back. His smirk faltered before it ever really settled, like he knew it was a low blow, like he knew he wanted me to laugh, but didn't have it in him to be funny.

"I'm sorry," Roman said, barely beneath his breath.

I didn't answer-- I didn't know how. I just watched him, watched the way his eyes dropped to my nightstand, like the vial still had gravity over him even now that it was gone from his palm, wondering whether he'd try to have a go at stealing it again. "Why do you want it back so bad...?" I asked, genuinely curious. "Is it the scent?"

Roman's jaw ticked. A muscle flexed in his cheek, like he wanted to argue, but didn't have the energy to lie. His green eyes didn't leave the vial while he spoke; "You have a very particular one, yeah,"

"Oh...?"

Roman looked over at me then, finally, and his eyes were quieter than I expected. No fire-- just that low-burning thing that lived beneath it. After a moment, he took a step back. Then another.

He turned toward the window, brushing the curtain back with a hand that lingered just a second too long. "I can't--" He stopped. Corrected. Glanced at me with that torn look that would haunt me for days, and finally spoke; 

"You smell like hope."

Before I could answer, before I could stop him, Roman was already lifting himself over the ledge, already halfway out, the night air catching in his hair. My hands caught the duvets, pulling at them as my words choked me, halfway to a cry. 

The room felt colder the second he was gone, like something had been sucked out of it, of me, and left nothing but the echo of where he had previously stood. The window, still open, let the wind crawl over the floorboards. It whispered against the curtains like it was mocking me, and I wanted it all to go away, to stop, to fuck off to where it came from. 

With a lone stream of tears rolling down my cheek, I got up, feeling like my whole body was made of cement as I fetched my pillow. Heavy as stone, I crawled back into bed, my ribs shaking with my building sobs, and I eventually let my body give in to the urge to give up. Pressing my face into my pillow, I ached, I cried, and soon it was warm with my breath; if only it had been warm with the body of the man I loved.

Stupid, stupid, stupid Roman. Stupid fucking bastard, watching me sleep, stealing my stuff-- oh, how I loved him. How I loved him, like my lungs loved air. How I loved him, like my veins loved blood. Stupid, beautiful, violent, cursed Roman. Was he gone for good? Would he never be mine again? Was this how this would be from now on?

Then...soft.

So soft I almost imagined it; the faintest scuff against the floorboards. Not wind. Not night. Something human, something deliberate.

I stopped breathing.

Turned.

He was here.

Framed in the moonlight again, half-shadow, half-boy. One foot in the room, the other still on the sill, like he hadn't made up his mind even now. His chest was rising like he had run back to me.

Roman didn't speak.

His eyes flicked over me; first the curve of my knees drawn up under the blanket, then the way I was blinking too fast, too wet. And then he just... stepped down into the room, slowly, like something in him might break if he moved too quickly.

I sat up a little, the blanket still clutched like armour. I was afraid to speak, afraid to push him away, afraid to say the wrong thing and make him run. Blinking through the tears, I felt my heart thrumming with nail-biting tension. "I-- I thought you left," I whispered, voice hoarse.

"I did," Roman breathed. 

Fuck. 

Then, he moved.

Not a lunge, not violent, just sudden. I didn't even see the decision happen, didn't see the switch; it must've happened outside. One second, he was standing in the quiet, and the next--

Roman's knees dug into the soft fabric as my back landed against the mattress, and his broad shoulders caged me in as he hovered on top of me, staring down at me with that look I knew too well; the one he had when he couldn't stop himself anymore, when he couldn't contain the urge to have me. 

And just as I remembered it, he lowered himself just enough for the tip of his nose to nudge mine, and I let out a shaky sigh against his lips; this was my Roman. This was how I remembered him. This was us. This was the ritual. This was sacred. 

Roman didn't kiss me right away; he hovered close enough that I could feel the heat of him, the trembling restraint in his body. His hair fell forward, a dark curtain that brushed my cheek, and his breath was warm against my mouth, shallow, like he was afraid to exhale.

My fingers slipped into his hair, pulled him closer without thinking, scared he might leave. His weight came down gently, careful not to crush me, and I felt his hand slip behind my neck like he needed to keep me tethered, like I might vanish too. 

Then, gently, so gently, it happened; Roman's lips met mine. He kissed me like every shape and angle of my mouth was familiar and holy-- and God, he was soft. His lips were plush, slow-moving, barely parted; they pressed, then hovered, then pressed again, tentative like a first time, and yet sure like he had done this a thousand times before.

My breath hitched.

He smelled like wind and night, but his skin was warm, so warm, and when his hand found the side of my face, I leaned into it instinctively, like I had been built for that palm. The pad of his thumb grazed the corner of my jaw, and his mouth, still on mine, shifted just slightly, tilted, fit better, knew better. Roman knew how to kiss me-- oh, how he knew. 

The way he moved wasn’t greedy, but reverent, and something in it was so heartbreakingly familiar, like curling into your own bedsheets after months away, like exhaling into the collar of your favourite shirt; this was him. This was my Roman.

Wake up and tell me you're mine.

But then I felt it; the shift. The subtle tightening in his shoulders, the way his hand softened its grip on my face, like he was already letting go, and Roman sighed against my lips, just barely-- it was the kind of sound you make when something inside you caves.

Slowly, he pulled back. My hands in his hair melted, unsure whether to hold on or let him slip away once again, and I felt my eyes well with tears all over again. 

Roman's green eyes opened, searching mine in the dark, and for a moment, I thought he might lean in again-- but he didn’t. His hand slid from my face, down my jaw, briefly brushed my shoulder, and then, he rose, careful and reluctant, as if detaching from me hurt; as if my body had become part of his, and leaving it would leave a mark.

"No more detours," Roman breathed. I couldn't see him in the darkness, couldn't read him, and my heart raced as he continued; "I could get a PI on you at any moment, so you better fucking behave. I want you safe. I need you safe."

Sniffling, I sat up, watching him slide off my bed. "Just don't do anything stupid," I breathed. "Promise me that you won't."

Roman paused at the window, one hand curling around the frame. The wind ruffled his shirt, but he stood still, like something in him didn’t want to leave.

He glanced back at me over his shoulder, a shadow cut in moonlight. His mouth tilted-- not a smile, not a smirk. 

And then, Roman slipped out into the night without a promise, without a trace.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The next day at school was more somber than the other-- I was getting used to this. 

A second girl had been killed within a week, and the atmosphere was filled to the brim with scared kids, and ignorant assholes making jokes about brutal murders. 

"Who's gonna make the podcast?" Peter huffed, squinting against the lighter’s flare-- he was the prime example of said assholes. "We could get a lot of money if we monetized this. It would be, like, live updates on a live case! Imagine the cash."

I shot him a glare as I took the cigarette from his fingers. “You’re disgusting," 

Why had I said yes to yet another meeting of the dirty mistress club?

“Disgusting and broke,” Peter said, unbothered. He leaned back against the brick wall behind the gym, his shirt collar up against the chill, eyes flicking toward the empty field beyond the fence. “Anyway, I wouldn’t be the host. You’ve got the voice for it. You could narrate murder like you’re reading bedtime stories.”

"Oh, fuck off,"

"Or, if you read it like it's a really dirty story, I bet we could get Roman to fund it! Bet he'd love to hear you moaning out the details of some gory murder,"

"Fuck off!" I smacked Peter's arm, grimacing as he laughed. "Roman isn't turned on by this bullshit!"

"He isn't...?" Peter reached for the cigarette we were sharing before I was ready to give it away, and he took a protective step back just in case I were to reach for it again. "I'd have thought he was walking around with a constant boner. Girls he's been with getting bloodied? Come on, now. Bet your upir is enjoying this to some extent."

I shivered; I had forgotten that Roman had screwed both Brooke and Jasmine. Why was the love of my life such a manwhore? "He's not enjoying it. He's worried sick," I mumbled, staring longingly at the cigarette. "He was in my room last night."

Peter's thick eyebrows jumped, his grin souring as he exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “Oh, he was, huh?”

I gave him a look; “Don’t,”

“I’m not saying anything,” he said, raising both hands like he was innocent. “I’m just saying if he were in my room the night a second girl turned up dead, I might be checking for fang marks in the morning.”

“Roman didn’t bite me, Peter," Only in my damn dreams. "He told me he thinks the vargulf is a girl. He was very adamant that he hoped it was, and... honestly? I'm convinced this thing is real, at this point."

Peter shifted beside me, suddenly quiet. His mouth opened like he had something to say, but he just nodded, sucking down another drag with slightly more force than usual. The humor had drained from his face, leaving behind something tight in his jaw, something almost... guilty.

I narrowed my eyes. “What?”

“Nothing,” he huffed. The lie was so thin it practically floated. “Just... girl vargulf, huh? That’s new. Makes sense, though. Girls are fucking crazy.”

I didn’t laugh-- neither did he.

For a second, all I could hear was the wind scraping dry leaves along the pavement and the faint drone of morning announcements spilling out from the cracked gym window. Then, I squinted at Peter, but he didn’t meet my eyes. “You looked really fucked up yesterday. I mean, you always look a little fucked up, but... you were being really weird when I saw you in the hallway yesterday,”

Peter snorted, but it didn’t have any bite. “We’re smoking behind a high school during a murder investigation. Everyone’s being weird,”

"What happened, though?" I asked. "Why were you looking for Letha?"

"I was worried," he bit back. "Someone was dead, and I was looking for my girl."

"You guys aren't together anymore. She's not your girl,"

"Neither are you and Roman, yet he's breaking into your room and hunting a wolf for you," Peter finally handed me the cigarette, squaring me up. "Letha's always gonna be my girl, just like you're always gonna be his."

The lit cigarette between my fingers were somehow symbolic of how Peter's words lit something in my stomach. Roman's girl. After how he had kissed me last night, it seemed he agreed. With a small smile rising across my lips, I inhaled a drag before holding the cigarette out for Peter to take, passing it over. 

But when he didn't take it from me, I glanced up at him, brows drawn together. 

My blood ran cold; Peter looked like he had seen a ghost. His eyes had gone wide, locked on something just past my shoulder. I turned slowly, like I already knew what I’d find, and there he was;

Roman.

This was becoming a deja vu. 

He stood at the edge of the gym wall like he had materialized from the shadows, his shirt billowing in the morning wind, eyes locked on Peter with a look I had never seen before. He held his own cigarette, unlit, probably coming here to smoke too. There was no snark in his green eyes, no jealousy, no wounded boyish glower-- just murderous rage.

Roman scoured the scene before him; his on-and-off girlfriend with his ex-best friend, sharing a cigarette. This was bad. This was so bad. 

Before I could speak, before Peter could even register what was happening, Roman was moving, storming toward us like a force of nature. The cigarette slipped from my fingers and hit the pavement with a hiss, and Peter turned just in time for Roman to grab a fistful of his collar and slam him back against the brick wall. The thud was brutal, a sick crack of spine and mortar, and I flinched, letting out a sound between a squeak and a yelp; "Roman!--"

"Oh, you piece of shit!" he yelled, green eyes glowing with fury.

“What the fuck, dude?!--” Peter started, but Roman shoved him harder.

“Shut up!" 

Roman's hand was twisted in Peter’s collar so tightly that the fabric was stretching at the seams, pressing him into the bricks like he might put his old friend through the wall.

“Roman, stop it!” I shouted again, stepping forward instinctively. "This is not what it looks like!"

He didn’t look at me-- not even a flick of his eyes. He was locked on Peter, jaw clenched, pupils blown wide, and for a second, I thought I saw his lips twitch like he was fighting the urge to bare his teeth. "We had a deal!" Roman yelled. "You and your filthy fucking paws were going to leave us alone! What the fuck have you done, man?!"

Peter tried to speak, but Roman shoved him again, and this time Peter’s head knocked the wall. “No, stop it!” I shouted again, panic creeping into my voice. "We were just smoking, it's not what!--"

"Fuck you, I haven't done anything!" Peter spat, launching at Roman's hands; neither of them were hearing me. His brown eyes were wild now, not just angry-- scared. "Are you fucking serious right now?! Who do you think I am?--"

"I don't know you anymore!" Roman shouted, tightening his grip around the collar. "You are not my business, I don't give a flying fuck about what you do, but this has gone too far!"

Peter twisted, snarling; "What are you accusing me of?!--"

"Why are you turning against the moon?!" Roman spat. 

My stomach turned. What?

"You said you never!--"

“Yeah, I don’t!” Peter shouted, his voice cracking. “I never fucking do that, are you out of your mind?! Jesus, are you listening to yourself?”

Roman shoved him again, pinning him like prey. "All the girls that are going against Letha right now are dying one by one, and you smell like blood! You think I don't know what a rabid animal smells like?!" 

My head felt like it was about to blow. What was he saying? Rabid animal? Blood? The moon? "What is going on?" I begged, taking a step closer to grip Roman's arm, hoping it would yank him back to his senses.

At that, Peter's big, brown eyes shot toward mine, silently telling me to back off. Who was I to go up against an angry upir? With my breath stuck in my chest, I backed off, watching the crackling intensity shooting back and forth between them. 

Peter swallowed hard, his hands clenched into fists over Roman's grip on his collar. "Watch it, now," he hissed. "You really think I have that in me?"

Roman’s grip tightened, and I could hear the faint creak of stretched fabric. "You're the only one with a tail to tuck between your legs," he spat. "I don't know any other werewolves in town."

I stared between them, something sharp catching in my chest.

For the first time, I wasn’t sure who I should be afraid of.

(a/n: omg this is getting juicy, FINALLLLYYYY!!! thank you if you've read this far!!<33)

never have I ever: ← previous chapter

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*book 1 masterlist

lovely little taglist:

@strmborns @eugsposts @ellie1725 @amidthechaos

@likecherriesinthespring @lussuria-zephyr @kittydiarys @4everangelblogger

@go-fuck-yourselfs-posts @dreamxaboutxsomethingxnice @sweatyconnoisseurstrawberry @burningmiraclekingdom

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[akixxsstuff]

Dating L would be like...

Death Note L Lawliet x gender neutral reader

(I'm aware that the picture says girlfriend but the gender of the reader is not specified in the fic. The pictures were also edited by me).

Fluff // One shot

Summary: L was more like a machine than a human, he was cold, calculated and a "no fun and games" type of person aside from the occasional sarcastic or dry humored comment. L never lost his composure and would repress any emotion he had as a intimidation tactic. He was blunt and wouldn't allow anything or anyone to dethrone him.

However around you, L wasn't quite that...

The task force had suspected you and L were a couple, but whenever anyone asked about it, L would quickly shut down the conversation and went back to his work, saying that it wasn't any of their business. You and L were a couple but he just wanted to keep things secretive and professional since doing otherwise made him feel vulnerable.

He couldn't let his suspect Light know how much you meant to him just in case he used it against him, plus it was just in L's nature to be serective.

However as soon the doors were closed and the task force was gone, he would be nuzzling into your shoulder, whining for attention. He would never stop clinging onto you until he got he's way because in his own words, "I'm also childish and don't like to lose".

Like today for instance:

"Not now Lolly, I've got an appointment to book", you said sighing while L continued kissing your neck and nibbling your ear from behind. "I love you but I do not appreciate your lack of cooperation" L then grumbled.

Lolly was your main pet name for L since it sounded like it was short for lollipop, (and we all know how much L loves those) and sounded similar to his real name, Lawliet. Panda was also another common one since he reminded you of one with his dark eyes and pale skin.

He then kneeled in between your legs with his head resting on your thigh, looking up at you in annoyance in an attempt to guilt trip you, (however he couldn't mask he's pleading eyes). "Lolly I already told you I'm busy, just 10 more minutes okay my love?" you cooed while stroking his cheek. But L didn't care, he picked you up bridal style from your chair and tossed you onto the bed. "Lawliet, you should know of all people how important it is to not have any distractions from your work" you said rasing an eyebrow. "You make a fair point" L says with his thumb on his lip, "But I'm not feeling very empathetic tonight" then he proceeded to smother you with kisses.

Your dates were either cafe hopping, picnics in the park, or L trying to teach you tennis. You would always try to get him to wear shoes but he would refuse, saying "I don't like how they feel". "I know but I don't want you to step on a piece of glass and hurt yourself" you would say while kissing his forehead. "I will live" L would reply while blushing from your kiss. You would then sigh and take off your shoes, "Fine, if that's how you want to play" and you both would walk around barefoot.

Another thing L wouldn't budge on is removing all the cameras and wiring taps from your room, if someone broke in and tired to hurt you he needed to know immediately who was responsible so he could toss them in jail forever. He valued your life way more than his, afterall, he did challenge Kira to kill him live on broadcast.

L absolutely loved when you taunted his number one suspect Light, in fact it was his love language.

"I'm not Kira!" Light would yell.

"You're not a very convincing actor Light, but hey! Maybe they'll give you an academy award in prison just for trying. Light Yagami! Mass murderer tries playing innocent victim!".

As a detective, L would always be analysising people's behaviour and you were no expectation.

"How was your day darling?" L cooed.

"Fine. I'm going to my room".

You say that you're fine Y/N yet you're tone and lack of physical affection would indicate otherwise. Could you be trying to deprive me of your attention as an indirect punishment? What could have I done?

However, you did mention how your work load has increased because of the lack of empyoees, were you stressed from that and simply avoided me to avoid talking about it? I should confront you instead of making any assumptions, it could make matters worse because you might believe that I am deliberately ignoring you.

"Love, I believe I have done something to upset you, please tell me what it is was so I can correct my behaviour. Will you accept this piece of cake as a initial peace offering? If I'm not to blame then please tell me who's bothering you so I can potentially sue them".

[koooobi]

Devil Town | 01

pairing: ot7bts x reader

genre: mystery, haunted, ghost!au, historic, supernatural (read warnings)

summary: She eagerly stepped into her new home, filled with excitement and a sense of newfound independence. Unbeknownst to her, the house held a hidden secret, as seven ethereal beings lingered within its walls, trapped in a realm between the living and the dead. Their presence would soon intertwine with her life, revealing a haunting tale of mystery where she would be forced to free them, bringing them back to the land of the living.

warnings: mentions of ghosts&demons, mentions of death, murder, blood, haunted house, horror, smut, fluff, angst, jump scares, bts haunt y/n… (warnings will be at the start of each chapter)

authors note: this was meant to be a lot longer but i just needed to get something out... pls ignore how bad this is it’s just the start so it’s kind of like a filler? idk ? AND IM GETTING THERE SORRYYYYY 🥹🥹🥹 also don’t be a silent reader and lmk ur thoughts 💛

word count: 4.1k

tag list: ( open) @comicnerd557 @sanya823 @v4ksk4tz @uniquecutie-puffs @borahaetelevision @trouble-sistar @sathom013 @uniquetravelerone @cbtmeee @11thenightwemet11 @minimonimi8

series masterlist | teaser | 01

The moving truck groaned to a halt in front of the house, its engine rumbling as if reluctant to let go of the cargo inside. You stepped onto the cracked sidewalk, clutching your coat tightly as you looked up at the house that was now yours. It stood at the end of the quiet street, its weathered exterior bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun. The shutters sagged slightly, and ivy crept up one side, giving it a certain charm that had called to you the moment you saw it. It was a house with history - a place that felt alive.

The movers began hauling your furniture and boxes into the house, grunting under the weight of your belongings. You directed them inside, navigating the maze of boxes and half-assembled furniture.

It didn't take as long as you expected, and soon enough, all the boxes from the truck were now somewhat neatly placed inside your home, ready to be opened and emptied, a task you couldn't wait to begin.

The house was a huge catch, and you couldn't find the words to explain your gratitude to the universe for helping you come across it. It was perfect. Two stories with a basement and an attic. What more could you possibly ask for? The only downside was that it was a little old and uncared for, the grass at the front and even at the back was far past being overgrown, in desperate need of being cut and the inside of the house had an even more antique and rustic look to it. It would take a lot of work to bring it right to your standards.

A newfound surge of excitement and independence coursed through your bones as you basked in the glory of your home, skipping up the steps of the porch and looking out at the neighbourhood. Your eyes caught sight of your neighbours standing across the street.

A man and a woman stood on the curb, their faces unreadable as they watched you. The man whispered something to the woman, who frowned and shook her head. You waved, offering a polite smile, but they didn't wave back. Instead, they turned and walked away briskly, their murmured conversation carrying on the wind.

You didn't think anything of it, not everybody was friendly at the beginning. Shrugging, you made your way inside.

Your first few days in the house were a whirlwind of unpacking and organising. You carefully placed your favourite books on the shelves, hung up curtains that caught the light just right, and arranged cozy touches that turned each room into a small sanctuary. Boxes lay scattered, slowly dwindling in number as you added pieces of yourself to the space, arranging and rearranging until it felt less like an empty shell and more like a home.

By the time you were finished, you sighed in satisfaction, leaning against the worn wooden banister that framed the staircase. It was quiet--almost too quiet-but the kind of silence that felt peaceful, wrapping you in a sense of calm.

You didn't notice it at first, the faint sounds overhead, until you settled onto the couch with a cup of tea and heard a soft, rhythmic tapping drifting down from above, coming from the attic.

That first night, you dismissed the noise as nothing. "Old house, old noises," you reassured yourself, pulling a blanket tighter around your shoulders. But as the hours passed, the tapping continued. You could almost convince yourself it was just the wind, until you realised it had a pattern.

The second night, the noise returned, louder and more persistent. This time, curiosity overcame your unease.

Finally, with a deep breath, you set your cup aside and rose, casting a glance up the dim stairway. You grabbed a flashlight, though you weren't sure why; something about the attic's shadowy corners unsettled you in a way you couldn't quite explain. Still, you found yourself climbing the stairs, the air growing cooler with each step, a hint of something stale lingering in the air.

At the top, you hesitated before pushing open the attic door, half expecting dust and cobwebs, maybe a few forgotten boxes. But as your flashlight's beam swept across the room, you froze. Across from you, lined up along the far wall, was a row of portraits. Each one was framed in intricate, dark wood, perfectly preserved but muted in haunting gray tones.

Heart pounding, you stepped closer. Seven faces, frozen in time, gazed back at you—young men, each expression somber and strangely intense, as though they had secrets hidden just behind their eyes. The photographs were stunning in their detail, each capturing a distinct personality, a different mood. They wore vintage clothing that seemed pulled from another era, their gazes seeming to follow you, almost as if they were watching, waiting.

Chills prickled down your arms as you moved down the row, taking in the portraits one by one. A strange familiarity tugged at you, though you couldn't quite place it. You didn't know them, but something about them felt almost... known.

As you leaned in closer, the silence shattered. A whisper, barely audible, brushed past your ear. You spun around, flashlight trembling in your grip, but the attic was empty. The air seemed to thicken, the temperature plummeting as if an unseen presence lingered in the corners. Turning back to the portraits, your heart raced, the weight of their stares pressing down on you like a physical force.

And then, your eyes caught onto something else. Each portrait bore a small brass plate, each engraved with a single name, each name once again oddly familiar, but now feeling strange and haunting in this setting. Seokjin. Yoongi. Hoseok. Namjoon. Jimin. Taehyung. Jungkook.

Your breath caught as you stared into their eyes. For a split second, you thought you saw the faintest glimmer of movement—did they just blink? You stumbled back, heart pounding, questions swirling through your mind. Why were they here, preserved in this lonely attic? And what did it mean that you had found them? The whispers began again, soft as a breath, as if the walls themselves murmured secrets you weren't meant to hear.

Panicked, you turned and fled down the stairs, the lingering image of their eyes etched in your mind. Yet as you descended, the unnerving feeling wouldn't leave you. No matter how you tried to shake off the encounter, you couldn't help but feel you had disturbed something hidden, some mystery that lay just beyond reach, waiting for you to unravel it.

You could practically hear your heartbeat thumping against your chest, rapidly gaining speed and causing a rush of blood to run through your body. You held a hand to your heart in a futile attempt to calm it down, taking deep, laboured breaths and closing your eyes for a second.

Although you managed to calm your heart down, your mind continued to wonder, causing a throbbing ache to grow inside of it.

That night, sleep refused to come. You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning as the weight of those portraits pressed onto your mind. Every time you closed your eyes, their faces hovered in the darkness.

At some point, exhaustion finally won, pulling you into uneasy dreams. Shadows slithered through your subconscious, whispers curling around your ears like tendrils of smoke. In the dream, you stood in the attic once more, but this time, the portraits were empty. The frames remained, perfectly aligned, but the faces; gone. You turned your head, and instead of them being frozen in time in the portraits, the seven of them stood with their unmoving eyes watching you, until a loud thud yanked you from your sleep.

You sat up, heart hammering against your ribs. The house was silent again, but the sound had been real. You knew it.

Swallowing your fear, you swung your legs over the bed and stepped into the dimly lit hallway. The floorboards creaked beneath your weight, the air colder than it should have been. You followed the unease settling in your bones, your feet carrying you forward before you could second-guess.

As you passed the staircase, something caught your eye. A shape—a figure—just at the edge of your vision.

You froze.

Someone was standing at the bottom of the stairs.

Your breath hitched. The shadows clung to them, obscuring their features, but you could make out the silhouette of a man. He stood completely still, head tilted slightly, as if observing you.

Your fingers loosened around the barrister, your voice caught in your throat. A scream threatened to rip out of you, but something was stopping you from doing so. Hesitantly, your feet pulled you towards the light switch, flicking it on without turning away from the figure before you.

And just like that, it was gone.

The air around you felt heavier now, pressing in on your lungs. You knew fear. You had felt it before, in the attic, in the dream, in the weight of those stares. But this? This was something else.

Gathering whatever courage you had left, you descended the stairs slowly, each step measured and careful. The wooden boards groaned beneath you, but the house was still, too still. The silence felt unnatural, charged with something unseen.

Then, from the living room, the record player clicked on.

A soft static hummed through the air before a hauntingly slow melody crackled to life, its sound eerily distorted. The hairs on your arms stood on end. You didn't own a record player.

Your pulse pounded in your ears as you turned toward the sound. The living room was empty, but the record player spun lazily, its needle gliding across the vinyl.

A voice spoke out.

Soft, low, and undeniably real.

"You're not supposed to be here."

It came from behind you.

Ice shot through your veins. You turned, pulse roaring, eyes darting across the dim space. There was nothing. No one. But the air was charged, as if something unseen had just been there.

The melody from the record player warbled, slowing, distorting into something unnatural before cutting out entirely.

The silence returned, deafening in its weight.

You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, but deep down, you knew you were not alone in this house.

Millions of thoughts raced through your mind. Was this somehow connected to the paintings? It couldnt be, right? Your heartbeat pounded unnaturally fast, breath hitching as your entire body trembled. A violent sob tore from your throat before you could stop it.

Without thinking, you bolted up the stairs, desperate to reach the safety of your room. But just as you reached for the door, it slammed shut in your face.

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, throat tight with unshed tears. Your gaze darted frantically around the dim hallway before you lunged for the handle, yanking it open.

A ghost? A spirit? No. That thought had long been buried. This wasn't some supernatural force—this was real. Someone had broken in.

You threw the door shut behind you, heart hammering as you stumbled towards the bed and snatched up your phone. Your fingers, trembling and slick with sweat, tapped out the first numbers that came to mind.

911.

Seconds dragged unbearably long as the ringing tone buzzed in your ear. You sank onto the bed, one leg bouncing uncontrollably, hands clenched into fists. Until, finally, a voice called out from the other side.

"911, what's your emergency?" A woman's voice. Soft. Steady.

You sucked in a shaky breath. "I— There's s-someone in my house. I think they broke in. I—I'm pretty sure they're still here." The words spilled out, tripping over themselves.

"Okay, miss. Take a deep breath for me. What's your name and address?"

You answered quickly, throat tightening as you waited.

"Stay on the line with me. Can you tell me what makes you think someone broke in?"

Your fingers clenched tighter around the phone. The memory surged back, ice-cold and unmistakable.

"I saw a man," you whispered. "They spoke to me."

The line crackled for a moment, filling the silence in your room with static. Then, the dispatcher's voice returned—calm, controlled, as if she hadn't just heard the most terrifying thing you've ever said.

"They spoke to you?"

You swallowed hard. "Yes."

"Can you tell me what they said?"

Your mind raced back to that moment—the voice, the way it seemed to slither into your ears like a whisper only meant for you. You could still hear it, low and deliberate, replaying over and over.

You're not supposed to be here.

You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that would make it go away.

"They said I—I shouldn't be here.," you managed, voice barely above a whisper.

A beat of silence. Then, "Y/N, are you somewhere safe?"

Safe.

Your eyes flickered toward the door, the flimsy lock on the knob. A thin piece of wood separating you from whoever, or whatever, was out there.

"I don't know," you admitted.

The dispatcher's voice softened. "Help is on the way, okay? I need you to stay quiet and listen carefully."

A rustling sound echoed from outside your room. Footsteps. Slow. Measured.

Your blood turned ice cold.

"They're still here," you whispered into the phone.

Another pause—this one heavier, more urgent. Then, the dispatcher spoke again, voice low and firm.

"Lock the door. Now."

You lunged for the knob, twisting it until you heard the soft click of the lock sliding into place. You barely had time to step back before a thud sounded from behind it.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Something had just pressed against the door.

The phone shook in your hands. The dispatcher's voice was still in your ear, but you could barely hear her over the blood rushing in your head.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A slow, deliberate knocking.

Your stomach dropped.

The voice from the other side was familiar.

"Let me in."

It was the same one from earlier.

Your breath hitched.

Every fiber of your being screamed at you to move, to do something, but you were frozen in place, your body paralyzed by sheer terror.

"Let me in."

The words slithered through the door, slow and deliberate.

Your entire body went rigid. You knew that voice. That painstakingly low, guttural tone that had sent a chill down your spine the first time you heard it. The kind of voice that didn't just speak, it crawled under your skin, wrapping around your bones like something cold and suffocating.

It was him.

The man from earlier. The one you'd tried so hard to convince yourself wasn't real.

And now, he was standing just outside your door.

The phone nearly slipped from your grip. Your fingers clenched around it in a desperate attempt to hold on, but the tremors in your hands made it feel like you could drop it at any second. Your breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, chest rising and falling too fast, too erratic.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words tangled themselves into knots at the back of your throat, choking you. Finally, you forced them out in a ragged whisper.

"T-There's—" Your voice faltered, barely audible over the pounding in your ears. You swallowed hard, forcing down the rising panic threatening to consume you. "There's someone outside my door."

The silence that followed was thick, almost unnatural.

"They're—" You sucked in a sharp breath, gripping the phone so tightly your knuckles turned white. "It's the same one from earlier."

The moment those words left your lips, the air in the room changed.

On the other end of the line, the dispatcher hesitated. It was barely a second, but you felt it. The carefully measured calm in her voice cracked, just slightly, but enough to tell you that she knew that something wasn't right.

"Y/N," she said, slow and deliberate. "Is there anyone else in the house with you?"

You shook your head instinctively before realising she couldn't see you. You swallowed again, throat dry and tight.

"No," you whispered.

Another pause. Another moment of silence.

Until the handle rattled.

Not violently. Not in an attempt to break in. It was slow. Controlled. Testing it.

Your breath hitched, a sharp, strangled sound catching in your throat. You staggered backward, nearly losing your balance as your legs collided with the edge of the bed.

And then it spoke.

"End the call."

The voice was different now, more soft. Too soft. It shouldn't have made your blood run cold, shouldn't have sent that horrible, skittering sensation crawling up your spine.

It sounded like a recording played back at the wrong speed, stretched and warped just enough to feel off. Just enough to make your body reject it, to tell you that whatever was on the other side of that door wasn't supposed to exist.

The dispatcher's voice was tighter now. Urgent. "Listen to me. Stay where you are. Do not open that door. Officers are on route. Can you find anything to barricade it?"

Your brain struggled to process her words, to latch onto them through the growing fog of terror. Your eyes darted around the room, searching desperately for anything to use as a barricade.

The desk. The dresser. The chair in the corner.

Could you move them in time? Would it even matter?

"You're not supposed to be here."

Your stomach twisted violently, nausea clawing its way up your throat.

The rattling of the door handle combined with the knocking managed to drown out the comforting voice on the other side of the phone. 

And then, silence.

The knocking stopped. The rattling ceased. The presence outside the door just... vanished.

The air in the room felt heavier now, thick and unmoving, pressing down on you from all sides. It was as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting.

The dispatcher's voice crackled through the phone, but it felt distant, muffled beneath the deafening ring in your ears.

"Miss? Are you still there?"

You couldn't answer. You couldn't move.

Because your gaze had drifted—just slightly.

The door was still closed. Still locked. But, behind you, the closet was open, creaking slightly as it continued to open until finally, it slammed against the wall.

The closet door slammed against the wall with a force that sent vibrations through the floor, and your breath caught in your throat. The silence that followed was suffocating, a thick, unnatural quiet that pressed against your ears like cotton.

Your body refused to move at first, the sheer weight of the moment rooting you in place. Your eyes locked onto the darkness beyond the threshold of the closet. It wasn't just darkcit was void, an abyss that swallowed the faint glow of your bedside lamp before it could reach inside.

Then, something shifted.

A presence.

At first, it was subtle—a slow, creeping awareness that prickled at the back of your neck. The unmistakable sensation of being watched. A deep, bone-chilling cold seeped into the room, frosting over your skin and sinking into your muscles.

"You're not supposed to be here." The voice from the beginning called out, slithering through the air like an icy tendril, curling around your ear in a breath that wasn't entirely human. It was layered, distorted almost, as if spoken by multiple voices at once, each one slightly out of sync with the other.

Your body reacted before your brain could. You stumbled backward, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as your heel caught the edge of the rug. Your legs buckled, sending you crashing onto the floor.

The phone slipped from your grasp and landed beside you, the dispatcher's voice buzzing through the speaker in broken static.

"Officers... on their way... stay with me—"

You barely heard her.

Because something moved in the closet.

A figure.

It was impossible to make out, but it was there, a mass of shifting darkness that loomed just beyond the threshold. Not quite human, not entirely formless. It seethed in the black, pulsing with something unnatural, something wrong.

And then it stepped forward.

Your breath turned to ice in your lungs.

The air itself seemed to warp around it, bending and distorting like a heat mirage, but cold. Unfathomably cold. The shadows clung to its frame, shifting and unraveling, like the edges of its form couldn't quite stay together.

Then, the hand shot out; long, spindly fingers, impossibly thin yet unnervingly strong, clamped around your wrist. A chill unlike anything you had ever felt surged through you, locking your muscles in place. It wasn't just cold, it was absence, a void where warmth had never existed.

The grip tightened.

A sharp, excruciating pain shot through your arm, like icy needles burrowing beneath your skin. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you let out a strangled scream, instinctively yanking back.

It held firm.

The thing in the closet didn't move, didn't lurch or stagger. It simply existed, an unrelenting force beyond the grasp of reason.

Slowly, deliberately, it began to pull.

Your heels dug into the floor, desperate to find purchase, to fight against the inhuman strength dragging you toward the black maw of the closet. Your free hand flailed wildly, knocking over a lamp, sending glass shards scattering across the hardwood.

A scream tore out your throat, thrashing against the tightening grip.

But just as suddenly as it had grabbed you, it released.

You fell back hard, the impact rattling through your bones as you gasped for air, clutching your wrist. The skin there was ice cold, a deep, aching numbness settling beneath the surface.

The room was still.

Too still.

The figure had retreated.

But the closet door remained open.

The dispatcher's voice crackled through the phone, sharp and urgent.

"Y/N, are you safe? Are you safe?"

You couldn't answer. You couldn't breathe.

Because just as the sirens outside wailed closer, flashing red and blue against your window—

The closet door clicked shut.

And in the heavy silence that followed, you swore you heard it again.

That voice. A breath against the shell of your ear. It was hard to make out what it said, but you could feel its lingering presence all over your body—like hands roaming over you.

Another scream ripped from your throat, raw and unrelenting, as sobs shook your entire body. Your mind struggled to grasp the impossibility of the nightmare unfolding around you, but reality felt fractured, distorted beyond comprehension.

Somewhere in the distance, the dispatcher's voice crackled through the phone, urgent and persistent, The shrill noise of the sirens blended with the dispatcher's frantic calls, layering over the ringing in your ears. A flicker of red and blue light pulsed against the windowpane, flashing in rhythmic bursts, casting eerie shadows across the room.

But you couldn't form words, you could barely even breathe properly. The weight of fear pressed down on your chest like a vice, suffocating, paralyzing.

Your fingers dug into the cold wooden floor, grasping for any sense of stability. With trembling arms, you pushed yourself up, legs wobbling beneath you. Every movement felt sluggish, as if you were moving through water, but you forced yourself to stand.

Help was finally here, but you didn't feel any safer than you did before. What could they possibly do now? There was something much more deeper, darker happening here that the police would not be able to solve.

Deep voices, commanding shouts joined the chaos outside, overlapping with the howling sirens.

Short, rapid breathes left your throat in an attempt to calm yourself down as you slowly took steps towards your door which was still surprisingly locked. Your quivering hands reached out, clasping onto the metallic handle and twisting the door open. A violent banging sounded from downstairs, causing you to flinch in fear, before realising it was just the police outside. They continued to shout, and you managed to make out the sound of your name frantically being called by someone.

Your feet dragged you down the stairs, as you wiped your face, removing any trace of the former tears that had fell from your swollen eyes. Before you could open the door, it was already being pushed open and officers rushed inside. 

Two officers stood in front of you, the other two had taken on the task of exploring your house, checking if there truly was a burglar -- an invader -- lurking inside.

You carefully explained the previous events that had occurred before their arrival, and they listened intently, nodding along to everything you said. Soon enough, the other two joined in with a concerned look etched on their faces.

"There's.." one of them began, all eyes on him. "There's nobody here. We checked every room." He clasped his hands behind his back, glancing towards his colleague. 

"There wasn't a trace of anybody.. But you did leave the front door unlocked." the other added.

"Oh, it must've slipped my mind..." you trailed off, mentally facepalming at your stupidity. You never left the door unlocked. Ever.

Noticing your sullen expression, the female officer spoke up, "Hey, don't worry. We'll do one last check, right?" she looked over at her peers, causing them to nod along, followed by a chorus of 'yes'.

You muttered out a quick thank you, hands clenching into balls in your lap as you watched them make their way back up the stairs, in search of someone you were no longer sure had ever been real.

[carlislefiles]

meet not-so-cute | fushiguro toji, fushiguro megumi, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kong shiu, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, yuuji itadori ╰►sorcery aside, how might you two meet? what organic ways do you cross paths? and how long will he allow this little meet-cute to go on before he asks you out? 6.7k words

a/n: hello!!! this was actually a request I got in my inbox and I had a lot of fun writing it, so thank you anon :] super fun idea, I thought. I included more characters than I usually do because a lot of the headcanons are shorter than usual. I kind of lost the plot with some of these. meet cute is kind of an umbrella term that I loosely followed for these headcanons. one day, I should go more in depth into my writing process with these, but basically, I usually try and make them as individualistic as possible, so each character feels like it's own oneshot. I did still try to do that with this, but I tried not to focus too much on length. I wanted these to be short and sweet. hope you like them <3 warnings: mentions of murder/death, cussing, kissing, use of my singularly detested term "y/n."

megumi thrived in the university library. three evenings a week, like clockwork, he clocked in at 4:00 and out at 9:00. no noise, no drunk roommates, no sweaty basement parties—just the steady hum of fluorescent lights and the smell of old paper. it was quiet. predictable. he liked that. he didn’t like much else about university. the loudmouths, the frat boys, the posturing. but the library? the dewey decimal system? that was his sanctuary.

he’d seen all kinds pass through. coughing stem majors who hadn’t slept in three days, loud econ guys using the back tables to scam freshman girls into dates, study groups that dissolved into tinder swiping. occasionally someone genuinely cool wandered in, someone who treated the books with care, read for pleasure, maybe even respected the quiet rule. but those people were rare.

which is why you stood out. he was mid-shelving—a tattered copy of the brothers karamazov in hand, scowling because who the hell willingly read dostoevsky in college—and then there was your voice. “is that the brothers karamazov?” he blinked and turned. you stood a few feet away, clutching your backpack strap like you’d been walking the aisles for a while.

“uh,” he glanced at the cover. “yeah. it is.”

you lit up. lit up. “I've been looking for that forever! I thought it was checked out or something.” and then you were smiling at him—really smiling—and he was malfunctioning.

“uh—yeah, it was. but it’s back now. I mean—obviously.” he handed it to you before his brain could sabotage him any further. you took it like it was a gift from the gods.

“thank you,” you said, so sincerely it made his heart squeeze. “seriously.”

he opened his mouth to say something, anything clever or smooth, but what came out was: “you’re welcome.” flat. useless. he was great at this. you wandered off before he could embarrass himself more, and he stood there for a moment longer than necessary, trying not to look like he’d just seen a mythological creature. it should have ended there, but it didn’t.

he finished shelving the rest of his cart and was heading back up front when he saw you again, tucked into a table in the back corner. a warm cup of tea beside you. laptop open but ignored. three books sprawled out: two obviously your own, littered with tabs and notes and your handwriting in the margins. but the one in your lap? that was the brothers karamazov. you were flipping through it like it was the most engrossing thing on earth. your glasses were slipping down your nose. you pushed them up absently. you looked soft. focused. smart.

megumi refilled his cart and wandered toward your table under the flimsy excuse of returning some books nearby. how had he never seen you before? he lived here. he breathed this place. and yet—you were new. fresh. gorgeous. he slowed his walk, pretending to skim the titles on his cart as he passed you. he saw the pen twitching in your hand as you hesitated over the library book. “you can—you can write in it, you know?” he said quietly, hoping he didn’t sound like a total creep.

you looked up, startled. then you smiled. “isn’t that considered vandalism?”

he gave the smallest smile back. "I won’t tell.”

you laughed, and megumi felt something uncoil in his chest. like maybe he wasn’t going to die alone after all. “I'm y/n,” you said, casually. “you work here?”

“yeah,” he replied, straightening a little. “megumi.”

“nice to meet you, megumi,” you said, and he nearly floated off the floor. you chatted. about the book. your major (literature, he was right). the annoying freshmen who always talked too loud. it was easy. natural. he didn’t feel like an awkward lump of bones for once.

then your phone buzzed. you glanced at it and winced. “shoot, I've got a meeting. I gotta go.” he nodded, trying not to look visibly crushed. “I'll be back tomorrow, though,” you said, smiling again. "I like it here.” you left with the book hugged to your chest, and megumi spent the next hour thinking about ways to casually die and be reborn as someone cool.

the next day, he wasn’t supposed to work. but his coworker, yuuta, owed him a favor, and megumi was suddenly very motivated to collect. you walked in right on time. cardigan today. worn jeans. hair up, soft tendrils falling around your face. you looked like you belonged in the pages of the very novels you read. effortlessly poetic.

megumi had gone full nerd. he’d pulled a few other books from the stacks—ones he thought you’d like. similar authors, maybe some translations. he told himself it was just good customer service. he caught your eye and walked over, awkwardly offering the books like a cat dropping a dead bird at someone’s feet.

you beamed. “you brought me more?”

he shrugged, face heating. “thought you might like them.”

you motioned to the seat across from you. “well then. you should stay and tell me which one to read first.” he sat. you talked. again. books and music and weird professors and the best study spots on campus. it was casual and fun and somehow flirty in a way that didn’t make him want to crawl into a hole. you were honest. kind. ridiculously smart. he was trying not to fall in love on the spot.

eventually, you glanced up from your tea. “so, megumi,” you said slowly. “you ever hang out outside the library?”

he blinked. “sometimes?”

you laughed. “would you want to? like—with me?”his brain short-circuited. but his mouth worked faster. “yeah. yeah, I'd like that.” you smiled, and he liked that.

toji knew this hit was going to be a bitch. rich politician. high-end steakhouse. twice as many bodyguards as brains. shiu had warned him—these weren’t the type of guys you take out clean. no, they came with backup, surveillance, and bulletproof everything. but toji wasn’t losing to a security system. he was losing to a guy built like a refrigerator. they’d gone two rounds already. the alley behind the restaurant was littered with blood, broken glass, and toji’s pride. this last bodyguard was a tank—fast, brutal, and apparently immune to concussions. toji wasn’t about to admit defeat, but the bruises forming on his ribs were saying otherwise.

he was about to cut his losses, pull a classic “abort and call shiu like a little bitch” move, when—crack. the sound was sharp and final. something heavy slammed into the back of the guard’s skull. he dropped. toji hit the ground too—knees giving out, breath ragged, knife still clenched in his fist.

you were standing over him. tall. calm. a black bodysuit clinging to you like shadow. hair pulled back. tire jack still raised in your hands like you’d done this before. like this wasn’t even your first alleyway knockout of the evening. toji blinked up at you, bloody and blinking, heart pounding from the fight—or maybe not just the fight. “…huh.”

you arched a brow. “that all you’ve got to say?”

"I usually have a better opener, but I'm concussed,” he grunted, propping himself up on one elbow.

your eyes dropped to the blood on his shirt. “looks like more than a concussion.”

he smirked. “still breathing, aren’t i?”

you didn’t laugh, but something about your mouth twitched. like you were tempted to. like you’d enjoy it if he kept talking. “you alright?” you asked, voice too casual for the situation.

“peachy.”

“good.” you turned away. “because I'm not carrying you.”

he let out a short laugh—painful, but real. “didn’t realize I was your type.”

“you’re not.” that shut him up.

but not in a bad way. no, it lit something up behind his ribs. he liked women who could kill him—liked them more when they didn’t fawn or fuss. you were the opposite of delicate. you didn’t even offer him a hand. toji leaned against the alley wall, watching you disappear through the side entrance like smoke. you didn’t look back.

by the time he made it to the other side, limping and pissed, the hit was done. clean. efficient. bullet to the skull in the bathroom. silenced. silent. he was halfway to sulking in the shadows when you emerged again—cool and composed, slipping a pistol into your waistband like you’d just clocked out of a shift at the office.

the client was already waiting, briefcase in hand. “name?” you didn’t hesitate. you tell him. he hands over the money. toji clenched his jaw. six figures. gone. and then—you brushed past him. no smug grin, no lingering glance. just a whisper of perfume and your fingers ghosting briefly over his chest.

he didn’t even register it at first. just stared after you as you vanished into the night like you belonged to it. three minutes later, he was slouched in the passenger seat of shiu’s car, grumbling and cursing and trying to find a position that didn’t make his ribs scream. “you look like shit,” shiu said, not looking up from the road.

“feel worse.” toji shifted—and felt something odd in his inner pocket. he fished it out. thick envelope. heavy. inside: the cash. most of it. he stared. then pulled out the folded slip of paper tucked beside the bills.

shiu whistled. “guess someone felt sorry for you.”

“you know her?” he asked, casually. too casually.

shiu shrugged. “seen her around. heard good things. tell me if she’s looking for work—I'd hire her in a heartbeat.” toji didn’t answer.

later that night, after the stitches and the cursing and the bottle of whiskey, he found out where you lived. two days later, half the cash was back in your mailbox—stuffed in an unmarked envelope. along with a slip of paper of his own. toji. xxx-xxx-xxxx.

the next morning, you found it. you rolled your eyes. smirked. called the number. “hope you’re not just looking for a thank-you,” you said.

on the other end of the line, toji’s voice was rough and amused. “nah. I'm asking if you’re free friday. wear something that won’t get blood on it.” cute. in a criminal sort of way.

gojo satoru was beloved. that was just a fact. teachers liked him because he was smarter than he let on. students adored him because he was charming, funny, and hot enough to make skipping class feel worthy of the punishment. waitresses at his regular spots knew his order, his quirks, his usual table. baristas at the corner café? knew him by name and drink.

which was why, when the to-go cup handed to him tasted like battery acid and death, he blinked. “what the hell—” he muttered, peeking into the cup. black coffee. no sugar. no cream. just three shots of death with ice.

he turned back to the counter just as you stepped up. hoodie sleeves too long, voice soft as you said: “sorry, I think there was a mix-up. this…isn’t mine.”

he took you in with one glance. pretty. like really pretty. the kind of pretty that made his brain go a little sideways. “actually,” he said, stepping up beside you, flashing a grin like it belonged on a billboard, "I think I've got your drink.”

you turned your head, eyes wide. blinked up at him. that was when it hit him. you weren’t giggling. or playing with your hair. or leaning into the flirtation. you looked…startled. a little confused. blushing, yeah—but more out of discomfort than delight.

“I'm so sorry,” you said, placing the actual sugary masterpiece he’d ordered back on the counter and pushing the black coffee his way. "I didn’t even look. that’s on me.” it wasn’t. he knew it wasn’t. but you were still taking the blame like it was second nature. his gaze flicked to a lone backpack at a corner table. your table.

“well,” he said, picking up both drinks, “seems like fate wants us to chat.” you looked horrified. and then he was walking, sliding into the seat across from your things before you could protest. you hesitated. stared. but eventually followed. sat slowly, unsure. gojo leaned his chin into his hand, sipping his coffee—your coffee—and pretending not to wince. “this is evil,” he said conversationally. “are you okay? do you hate yourself?” you didn’t laugh. just looked at him, expression flat.

conversation came easy for him. he asked about your major. your music taste. your hair routine. the specific reason you were drinking a war crime in a cup. your skincare. your favorite color. how you felt about pancakes. you answered with as few syllables as possible. you weren’t shy—you just didn’t care. you weren’t flattered. you weren’t amused. you weren’t impressed. 

it drove him insane. because gojo was used to being liked. he was used to being the sun, and people orbiting him with giddy smiles and heart eyes. but you? you had no orbit. you had gravity. heavy and still and unmoved. you didn’t need to be charmed. you weren’t looking for anything. least of all him. he loved that.

after the twentieth question in under five minutes, you set your pen down. “what’s your goal here?” you asked bluntly. “are you just really bored or something? because I don’t have time for this.”

gojo blinked. grinned wider. “let me take you out.”

you stared. “like…on a date?”

“mm-hmm.”

“why?”

“because you’re beautiful, clearly immune to my overwhelming appeal, and I like a challenge.” he lifts your cup. “I'll take you somewhere they serve things better than this war crime in a cup. there's this place uptown—prix fixe, white tablecloths, the whole shebang.” he gives you the name of the restaurant he has in mind. 

you blink again. “dinner at that place costs more than my laptop.”

he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I'll cover it.”

you raised your eyebrows. “there’s zero chemistry here.”

“you think so?” he asked, cocking his head. “because I feel a spark.”

“there’s no spark.”

“there will be,” he said confidently. “eventually. you’ll see.”

“no,” you say, quick. not sharp, but not hesitant either. “no, thank you.”

there’s a beat. a breath. he deflates—not dramatically, just slightly. like he expected it. like this was how it was always going to go. “fair enough,” he says. he leans back in his chair, looks up at the café lights with something too soft for someone wearing sunglasses indoors. then he looks at you again. “I'll be here tomorrow. same time. I'll get your drink. still think it’s gross, though.”you huff—almost a laugh, almost—and stand. you don’t say yes. you don’t say no. and gojo watches you walk out like he’s watching a star slip below the horizon. because maybe you didn’t want his fancy dinner. but you still might want him. and he’s got time.

it starts with a dare. a dumb one. your friends are three shots in and bloodthirsty for chaos. loser has to kiss a stranger. that’s the rule. you lose. you pick someone fast—because thinking about it too long will make you chicken out—and the first person you lock eyes with is a boy in a grey hoodie, laughing with friends near the kitchen. he's cute. sweet-faced. his smile looks like sunshine distilled. takuma, your friends tell you his name is. 

you walk over. "hey," you say, tapping his arm gently. "weird question. can I kiss you?"

he blinks. "huh?"

"I lost a bet," you explain, already wincing. "and the consequence is kissing a stranger. you’re very cute. but I totally get it if you don’t want to—"

"no, no—it’s okay!" he blurts, eyes wide and pink creeping up his neck. "I mean—uh. sure. if you're okay with it."

you grin. “okay. I'll be quick.” except you’re not. because as soon as your hands fist in the front of his hoodie and you pull him down, it spirals fast. the kiss is hot. messy. decidedly not pg. someone somewhere yells for you to “get a room!” and then laughs fade into static as your mouth moves against his.

he tastes like mint and strawberry soda. his lips part and yours follow. he grips your waist like he might float off otherwise. it lasts a lot longer than fifteen seconds. when you pull back, you’re breathless. his eyes are glassy. you smile—bashful now. “thanks,” you say quietly. and then you’re gone, swept back into the crowd like a fever dream.

takuma doesn’t even catch your name. but he thinks about you constantly. your perfume haunts him. warm, floral, clings to the fabric of his hoodie like ghostly fingers. he wears the same sweatshirt three days in a row. maki notices. “seriously?” she asks on day four, watching takuma sniff his sleeve like a lovesick freak. “you kissed one stranger. let it go.”

“I'm trying,” takuma mutters, curled on the couch. “it’s not working.”

he replays it in his head at least twice an hour. the way your lip caught between his. the breathy little sound you made. the way you smiled—soft and kind, like you were shy even after that feral, earth-shattering kiss. he’s down bad. and he knows it.

the next weekend, there’s another party. takuma throws it, mostly because he’s hoping, maybe…and there you are. in a different outfit, with different friends, but unmistakably you. you see him before he sees you, and when your eyes meet, you freeze. like a deer caught mid-escape. then you’re stumbling over.

“oh my god,” you say. “hi. I—I didn’t know this was your apartment again. I didn’t mean to just like—last week—if that was weird or—”

takuma shakes his head fast. “it wasn’t weird. at all. I mean, it surprised me, but, uh. in a good way.”

you pause. blink. “really?”

“really,” he says. then, braver: “I've actually been hoping I'd run into you again.”

your breath catches. “oh.”

“and, um,” he adds, scratching the back of his neck, “if you're not doing anything tonight, maybe we could actually hang out? like talk. you know. with our mouths off each other.”

you laugh, cheeks warm. “yeah. I'd like that.”

you spend the whole night on the couch together, feet tucked up, drink forgotten on the side table. he asks you everything—your major, your favorite movie, whether you like cats or dogs more, whether you’ve always been this quiet.

you remind him of nanami. a little guarded. thoughtful. reserved. not cold, just self-contained. but unlike megumi, you don’t scoff at everything hopeful. you listen with wide eyes and small nods. takuma finds himself talking more than usual, because you actually make him feel heard. and you surprise him, too. you say dry, clever things that make him snort into his cup. you have this crooked smile that sneaks out when you least expect it.

he’s officially toast. by the end of the night, he doesn’t want to say goodbye. “so…” he says, hands nervously wringing together. “would you wanna go out sometime? like a real date. somewhere I can impress you.”

you raise an eyebrow. “are you planning on kissing me again?” you say, as if you weren’t the one who kissed him in the first place. 

"I mean—only if you want—”

you laugh. "I was hoping you would.”takuma’s face goes red. he beams. “then yeah. I'd really like that.” and he means it. he likes you, a lot. and he’s already planning ways to prove it.

shiu’s on his way to work. not the kind of work that comes with a suit and 401k. the kind that involves shady offices, burner phones, and blood in the back seat if fushiguro doesn’t show up on time. he’s either heading downtown to his dingy little hideout or sitting curbside waiting for a client to bring the kind of mess no one else wants to clean up.

he doesn’t see exactly how it happens. one second he’s turning at a green light, and the next a shiny black tesla is gunning it across two lanes like it’s trying to break the sound barrier. and then—crash. metal. glass. crunch. his car takes the brunt of it. slams into the tesla, and somehow still clips you too.

he jerks forward with the impact. the seatbelt leaves a nasty burn across his chest. his baby—hot rod, his beautiful, custom-tuned, low-riding sweetheart—is groaning from the front end. hood buckled. front bumper dangling. engine coughing like it’s on its last breath. he’s pissed. he’s out of the car before the airbags deflate, already stalking toward the tesla like he’s going to drag the driver out through the window.

but then—you're already there. apologizing. repeatedly. like it was your fault. and the asshole in the tesla is loving it. he’s rubbing his neck, already prepping for the insurance scam, and smirking down at you like you’re a wounded puppy. “it’s alright, sweetheart,” he drawls, all fake charm and condescension.

shiu sees red. he steps in, all six-foot-something of muscle and rage, shoves tesla guy back with a hand to the chest. “you kidding me?” he snaps. “she wasn’t at fault here. you blew the light. you were speeding.”

tesla guy protests, something about his neck and a green light. shiu silences him with a glare. he knows his type—slick, greasy, and probably calls his mother’s maid “toots.” not happening. meanwhile, your car’s got a scratch and a ding, tops. his car? getting towed away in pieces. and still—you’re turning to him, soft and apologetic, offering your insurance info like you had anything to be sorry for.

he grabs your arm, not rough, but firm. directs you gently but unmistakably away from the mess. “don’t apologize,” he says, voice low. “not to that dickhead. you didn’t do anything wrong.”

you blink up at him, startled. he really gets a good look at you for the first time. you’re…pretty. real pretty. a little disheveled from the crash, still in work clothes. kind, clearly, even to people who don’t deserve it. that kind of kindness doesn’t survive long in his world. “you headed somewhere?” you ask, glancing at the wreckage of his car as it’s hooked to the tow.

“work,” he says, automatically.

“want a ride?” you offer. "I just got off a night shift. I'm free.”

he hesitates. his line of work isn’t…civilian-friendly. but you don’t need to know what’s behind the unmarked door he’s getting dropped off at. it’s just a ride. no big deal. and besides—he doesn’t like the thought of letting you disappear just yet. so he accepts.

it’s been a long time since shiu kong has ridden shotgun. but your car? it’s spotless. immaculate. it smells like you—floral, soft, sweet in a way that clings. the steering wheel is pink. there’s a little plush charm hanging from the mirror. it’s all so not his style. but he likes it anyway. you drive with one hand on the wheel and the windows cracked. talk a little, laugh quietly. you don’t ask too many questions. he likes that.

then your car pulls into his lot. you hesitate. the building is sketchy. unmarked. windows tinted, graffiti peeling. a place people walk past fast with their heads down. you glance at it, then at him. but you don’t ask. you just say, “want me to come back and get you when you’re done?” he stares at you for a moment. surprised. you don’t know him. you don’t owe him.

but you’re looking at him like you want him. like you see him—and you’re not scared. or maybe you should be, and that just makes him want you more. he shakes his head. “won’t be necessary. I'll have the car thing handled tonight.” shiu without a car is like a shark without teeth. just wrong.

but before he gets out, he pauses. glances at you, hand on the door handle. “give me your number,” he says.

you blink. “what for?”

he shrugs, casual. “just ‘cause I don’t need a ride…doesn’t mean I don’t wanna see you again.” you smile. kind. a little wary. but you hand over your number anyway. and shiu kong, criminal consultant and part-time getaway driver, walks into his back-alley office already planning when he’s going to call you.

nanami works in finance. suits. deadlines. numbers that won't stop blinking at him. hiromi higuruma’s law firm shares the building. their companies partner often—legal and financials always tangled—and nanami’s walked the same halls as their employees more times than he can count.

you, though. you’re new. he’s seen you a few times. usually with your nose buried in a stack of paperwork, always moving with purpose. paralegal, he’d guess. he catches snippets—your name in passing, your voice on late-night calls echoing through the stairwell. you’re polite, focused. never unkind, but busy. too busy to notice anyone else. which is fine. he prefers to observe anyway.

it's late. the building is near-empty. everyone’s gone home except the usual suspects—higuruma still holed up in his office across the hall, nanami finalizing projections with an exhausted sigh, and you, curled up on the floor of the breakroom surrounded by documents, legal pads, and a cold, half-eaten sandwich. a storm rages outside. not just rain—sheets of it. thunder that rattles the glass. nanami packs up around 9:45. he pulls on his coat, briefcase in hand, and steps into the hallway right as you do.

you’ve got your hood pulled up and your tote bag slung over one shoulder. he nods at you out of habit. polite. respectful. his hand already on the door handle when he sees you hesitate, peering through the glass at the torrential rain. you sigh. adjust your coat. mumbling something about the mile-long walk to the station. nanami pauses. “pardon me,” he says, voice even. “are you headed toward the station?”

you look up at him, surprised. “yeah. I'm just hoping I don’t get struck by lightning on the way there.”

he doesn’t laugh. but the corner of his mouth quirks. “I'm parked out back. I'd be happy to offer you a ride.”

you hesitate. he sees it. but your eyes soften as you take him in: the tailored coat, the neat briefcase, the calm, steady presence of a man who never raises his voice and always holds the elevator door. “…you sure?” you ask. "I don’t want to be a bother.”

“it would bother me more,” he says, “to watch you walk through that storm.”

you blink. then smile. small. grateful. “alright. thanks.” he leads you to his car—a sleek, black luxury sedan. immaculate interior. smells faintly of cedar and clean laundry. he opens the passenger door for you, of course. it’s quiet for a moment once you're inside. the rain patters against the roof like static. you glance around, a little sheepish. “nice car.”

“it gets me where I need to go.”

“still. very…bond villain of you.”

that earns a ghost of a smile. “hopefully less villainous.”

you chat lightly on the way. he learns that you're not from the city. that you’re working while putting yourself through night classes. that you're tired—he can see that—but proud. you ask him what it is he actually does, because finance sounds like a broad umbrella.

he tells you. you listen. actually listen. it’s simple. it’s nothing. but it’s been a long time since someone has looked at him like you do. interested, engaged, without a trace of performance. he pulls into the station, and for a second neither of you moves. “thanks again,” you say, finally unbuckling your seatbelt.

“of course.” then you’re gone. rushing through the rain toward the platform, hood up again. nanami watches you go, hand still on the gearshift, mind curiously quiet.

but after that night, nanami is…resolved. he’d like to get you back in his car. but this time, for dinner. somewhere quiet. classy. you in a nice dress, him with his sleeves rolled to the forearms. maybe afterward, he’d take you to that little dessert café he only ever goes to on sundays. maybe, eventually, he’d take you home. not just a ride. a night. a morning after.

the thought surprises him. the intensity of it more than anything. he doesn’t act on impulse. never has. but he asks hiromi about you—just once. casually. hiromi doesn’t buy it for a second. “you?” he says, raising a brow. “since when do you flirt?”

"I wasn’t flirting.”

hiromi laughs. “alright. sure.” nanami doesn’t respond. but he’s thinking about you again before he even leaves the office.

two weeks pass. late nights. brief glances. passing hellos. it doesn’t rain again—until it does. a quiet friday, near closing time. thunder rolling in low and steady like a warning. he finishes his work deliberately late. watches the sky darken through the high windows. waits. and when you appear in the lobby, your coat too thin and no umbrella in sight, he’s already there. already standing beside you. already holding the door open with quiet expectation.

“it’s raining again,” he says. "I can give you a ride.”

you blink up at him, surprised. “oh—really? that would be… really nice, actually. thank you.”

you step into the car, brushing water from your sleeves. he turns the heat on a little higher, makes sure your seat warmer is on. you compliment the vehicle absently—something about how it smells nice, or how clean it is—and he simply says thank you. he says he’d be happy to drive you home, not just to the station. you assure him he doesn’t have to. he insists. 

the drive is mostly quiet. comfortable. your voice cuts through every now and then, soft and curious. you ask about the building he works in, if he likes the coffee on the third floor, how long he’s known hiromi. normal questions. friendly ones.

and nanami, steady as ever, answers all of them. carefully. thoughtfully. when he pulls up in front of your apartment, you start unbuckling, murmuring another round of gratitude. but before you go, he says, without looking over, “I'd like to see you outside the office sometime. if that’s something you’d be open to.”

there’s a pause. a small, confused silence. “like—help with something for work?”

his hand stills on the steering wheel. “no,” he says. “just dinner. if you’d like.”

you stare at him for a second. then smile, a little sheepish. “oh. um. sure. yeah, that sounds…nice.”

nanami nods once. keeps his expression neutral. but after you close the door and disappear into your building, he lets out a quiet breath—just a little longer than necessary—and smiles, just a little softer than usual.

sukuna doesn’t usually wander the human world. it's tedious. soft. full of noise and smell and weak little creatures with short lives and even shorter memories. but today, he’s feeling… strange. restless. so he ends up in a museum, which is somehow worse and better at the same time—like walking through a graveyard of things he already buried.

he’s passing through a wing on ancient warfare when he hears your voice. “—and this particular design was popularized during the late kamakura period, though its origins likely trace back to—”

“that’s incorrect,” sukuna says flatly.

you glance over at him. “I'm sorry?”

he steps closer, hands tucked into the sleeves of his coat, eyes scanning the blade behind the glass. “the craftsmanship. that curve. the hamon. it predates kamakura.”

you arch a brow. “well, most scholars disagree.”

he shrugs. “they’re wrong.”

you smile tightly. “and how would you know?”

"I was there.”

there’s a pause. then you laugh, a single breath through your nose. “you were there. in the thirteenth century.”

“earlier.”

you blink. “right.”

he doesn’t elaborate. you don’t ask. the middle schoolers you’re touring shuffle awkwardly, sensing something off, and you keep moving with a practiced ease. sukuna follows. silently, at first. then he speaks again when you pause in front of a replica scroll. “that’s not how it looked.”

you sigh. “let me guess. you were there, too?” you think you’re playing into some theatrical joke. of course he wasn’t there…right? right? 

he hums. “not there. but I remember who drew it.”

you give him a sideways look. “well, if I'm getting all of this wrong, feel free to take over.”

"I would, but your delivery’s not terrible.” you don’t realize that’s a compliment. you just nod, like you’ve decided he’s one of those eccentrics who know a lot and talk a lot more. 

the kids leave, eventually. ushered out by a second staff member. but sukuna stays. you glance back and find him still behind you, hands clasped, eyes sweeping the room. “you’re not part of the tour,” you say.

“I'm aware.”

“then why are you still here?”

he shrugs again. “nothing better to do.” that’s not true. he’s killed for less boredom than this. but you…you’re interesting. not because you’re beautiful, though you are. not because you’re clever, though you are. but because you’re confident. steady. you stand in front of him like you don’t realize what he is—or maybe like you don’t care. either way, it fascinates him. 

you make another offhand remark about a historical treaty and he corrects you again. it’s barely even a correction. just a detail. a preference. he knows you’re not wrong. he just likes disagreeing with you. you glance over, amused now. “do you have a degree in this or something?”

“something like that.”

you roll your eyes, good-natured. “well, if you are a reincarnated warrior from a thousand years ago, you could at least be a little less smug about it.” he doesn’t smile. doesn’t correct you. you’re only human. maybe ninety years if you're lucky. you don’t know what it means to be alive forever. you wouldn’t believe him if he told you. so he doesn’t. he reigns himself in.

“what’s your name?” you ask eventually, still half-suspicious. he lies. gives you a simple one. something borrowed. you nod. “well, thanks for the impromptu history critique, I guess.”

“I'll be back,” he says, almost without meaning to.

you snort. “try not to heckle the next time.”

he watches you walk away—back through the staff hallway, badge clipped to your belt, keys jingling in your hand. he watches the way the museum lights flicker just slightly as you pass. he reminds himself that he doesn’t like humans. but maybe you’re not like most. 

he returns two days later. lingers near the entrance like a shadow. you notice him immediately, lips twitching in some combination of fondness and exasperation. “you again?” you say, meeting him halfway.

“you never corrected the kamakura exhibit,” he replies.

you roll your eyes. “let me guess. still wrong?”

he nods. then, after a beat: “there’s another museum. less modern. more...accurate. you should see it.”

you hesitate, trying to gauge if this is another one of his strange quirks or an actual invitation. “you want to take me to a museum?” you ask.

“to set the record straight,” he says. “nothing else.”

nothing else. not the way he wants to see how you light up when you talk about things you love. not the way your voice sounds when you're unsure but keep speaking anyway. not the way he could maybe—just maybe—show you things no one else can.

you tilt your head. “alright. but if you start arguing with the exhibits again, I'm leaving you in the feudal era.” he doesn’t smile. not quite. but his eyes burn a little brighter.

yuuji waltzes into the er like it’s a casual wednesday. arm bleeding, shirt clinging to his skin, and a cocky little grin that’s doing a poor job of masking the fact that he’s very much in pain and maybe just a little dizzy. he did not mean to get this hurt. he also did not mean to walk into the trauma bay and immediately fall in love.

but there you are. clipboard in hand, blue scrubs, hair tied up, calm as a monk. you glance up at him and blink like, oh great, another idiot. and yuuji? he’s a goner. full-body, soul-leaving-the-chat goner. you’re beautiful. so beautiful it makes his teeth hurt. like, he thinks he might be bleeding more just to get your attention a little longer. and you’re cool. collected. you haven’t even smiled once and he already wants to marry you.

“looks deep,” you murmur, taking his vitals. your hands are gentle. professional. efficient. you don’t even flinch at the mess of his arm.

he tries to play it cool. “yeah,” he says. “you should see the other guy.” you don’t laugh. not even a pity smile. okay. fair. he’s bombing. but he can recover. 

you pull on gloves and start prepping the tray. “you need stitches. a lot of them.”

“sweet,” he says, because his brain is goo and he doesn’t know how to talk to pretty girls when he’s not also actively leaking blood. “do you do this often?”

you glance at him again, dry. “stitch people? it’s kind of my job.” right. yes. obviously. cool cool cool.

he shuts up for a bit while you clean the wound, staring at the ceiling and trying not to faint. from blood loss. or how close your face is. either/or. she has really nice eyes, he thinks. is that creepy? probably. don’t say anything about her eyes, man. don’t do it. don’t be that guy. you lean in closer to check his pupils with a tiny penlight, and yuuji’s stomach flutters like he swallowed a whole nest of butterflies. he can feel your breath on his cheek. smell your shampoo. his brain whites out for a second.

“you feeling lightheaded?” you ask, scribbling something down.

yes. because you exist. “nope. all good,” he croaks.

you’re stitching now. he winces. “sorry,” you murmur.

“no, no. it’s cool. you’re doing amazing. like, if I ever get injured again—which statistically I probably will—could I request you?” you glance at him like you're not sure if he’s joking. he is. but also, he’s not. and then he starts blatantly staring at you while you work. he can’t help it. he’s trying to memorize your face. commit this moment to memory. you in your element, brow furrowed in concentration, lips pursed in a way that makes his chest hurt.

you finish the last stitch and start taping gauze. “all done,” you say.

already? he sits up too fast and wobbles. you steady him with one hand. he’s in love. “do I get a sticker or something?” he asks, a little dazed.

you raise a brow. “do you want a sticker?”

“I'd keep it forever.” and there it is—a tiny laugh. barely a breath. but it counts. it’s the greatest sound he’s ever heard. he wants it as a ringtone. you start typing something into the chart on the monitor, clearly wrapping up, and yuuji panics. fast. “actually, uh—wait. I think I'm still a little lightheaded.”

you pause, peer over your shoulder. “you stood up fine.”

“yeah, but like, internally. I'm dizzy. maybe nauseous. blurry vision. could be internal bleeding.”

you squint. “from a forearm laceration?”

he nods, very serious. “anything’s possible. medical mysteries happen all the time.”

you sigh, come back over with your stethoscope. “alright, dr. house. let’s check you again.” he lets you, thrilled to be buying more time. you check him. everything’s normal. his pulse is a little fast, but that might be from the way you're touching his wrist. “ino,” you say slowly. “you’re fine.”

"I might throw up,” he tries.

“you won’t.”

he pouts. “can’t I just like…hang out here for a bit? make sure I don’t collapse outside?”

your lips twitch. “the waiting room’s that way.”

he winces. “so cold.” you’re already back at the chart again, wrapping things up for real this time. and now he’s desperate. time’s running out. so he blurts, “do you wanna maybe go out sometime?” silence. you glance at him over your shoulder, amused. exasperated. fond, somehow.

you don’t say yes. but you don’t say no, either. just shake your head, smiling despite yourself. and when he’s walking out of the er, still a little loopy, he’s already planning how he might maybe get injured again next week. nothing major. just…a mild concussion. or a broken finger. something small. just enough to see you.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Another Ending - 1 | Bucky Barnes

Character: ex!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: It was supposed to be a short week watching over your niece, who loves romance books. She thought you were just a normal aunt, but it turns out you have secrets.

Tags: Spies, action, threat, offense, fight scene, violence, romance.

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , End .

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

By the way, I publish my book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing on Kindle.

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

The weight of the assassin's body presses down on you, pinning you to the ground as his sword hovers dangerously close to your throat. Every muscle in your arms strains as you hold your gun up, barely keeping the blade away from your neck.

The cold metal of the sword gleams under the dim light, a stark reminder of how close you are to death. His eyes, hidden behind the mask, are unreadable, but you can feel the murderous intent radiating from him.

Sweat drips down your forehead, mixing with the dirt and blood on your face as you grit your teeth. With every ounce of strength, you manage to growl, "You're dead to me."

For a split second, you see it—hesitation. The assassin’s grip falters, his focus wavering. That’s all you need. With a desperate shove, you push him off, the sword sliding away from your neck as you scramble to your feet. Your heart pounds in your chest as adrenaline takes over, and you start running, not daring to look back.

The echoes of your past, the regrets, and the pain are left behind as you sprint away. You know that you’ve bought yourself only a few precious seconds, but at this moment, it’s enough. You leave the assassin behind, along with everything that once bound you.

🥀🥀🥀🥀

The lodge is warm and inviting, nestled comfortably by the edge of a tranquil lake. Large windows allow sunlight to pour in, casting a golden glow across the rustic wooden floors. The living room is cozy, with a soft, earth-toned sofa positioned near a stone fireplace. You push the sofa slightly, adjusting its angle to better face the window, where the view of the lake creates a peaceful backdrop.

As you finish, the sound of the doorbell rings through the house. You straighten up, smoothing a hand over your clothes before heading to the door. When you open it, a smile crosses your face.

Standing there is Lori Grant, your niece. She’s dressed in a green shirt and black pants, her short hair with bangs framing her face beneath thick glasses. A pink backpack is slung over one shoulder, and she’s dragging a suitcase that looks far too big for her small frame.

“Hello, Aunty,” Lori greets you, her voice bright with excitement.

“Where’s your mom?” you ask, glancing past her.

“She just left,” Lori replies, stepping inside and immediately struggling with the weight of her suitcase. She lets out a frustrated “Ugh” as it catches on the doorstep.

You can’t help but chuckle softly. “Let me help you with that.” Gripping the handle, you lift the suitcase easily, though you wonder why a 13-year-old needs so much luggage.

As you bring the suitcase inside, you ask, “Are you hungry? I bought some tofu for you.” Your older sister’s voice echoes in your mind, reminding you of the strict health-conscious diet she keeps Lori on. She’s made a name for herself online with her healthy recipes, and now she’s on a book tour promoting her new cookbook.

Lori looks up at you, her eyes filled with a mix of relief and hope. “Aunty, I’m so excited to be here. I can finally get away from the food my mom makes.”

You laugh, a warm, understanding sound. “Oh, thank goodness. How about fried chicken or lasagna?”

Lori’s face lights up, her hands clasping together as if in prayer. “Why not both?” Her eyes shimmer with anticipation, almost teary at the thought of indulging in something she’s missed.

“Yes!” you reply with a grin, already planning the feast.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

The two of you cook together, filling the kitchen with the mouthwatering aroma of fried chicken and lasagna. The sizzle of the food and the warmth of the stove creates a cozy atmosphere, and before long, you’re both sitting at the table, enjoying the meal.

Lori, barely looking up from her book, eats with a hearty appetite, tearing into the fried chicken and savoring the lasagna.

You glance at her, amused by how engrossed she is in her book. It’s refreshing to see someone her age so absorbed in reading rather than staring at a screen. She’s been glued to that book ever since she arrived.

“Is it a good book?” you ask, taking a sip of your water.

“Yes. The best,” she replies without lifting her eyes from the pages.

You smile and ask, “What’s the book about?”

At that, Lori snaps the novel shut and looks at you with excitement blazing in her eyes, as if she’s been waiting for this moment. “Oh, Aunty, this is the best book! It’s full of adrenaline, mystery, and romance.”

You raise your eyebrows and nod slowly, recognizing the same spark in her that your older sister often has. “Let me guess, a royal romance?”

Lori shakes her head enthusiastically. “No. It’s set in modern day. It’s an enemies-to-lovers story where both are spies from different sides. They have to decide between love and their duty.”

You nod again, your expression thoughtful. “That’s impossible in the real world.”

Lori huffs, rolling her eyes playfully. “That’s why it’s fantasy, Aunty. Geez, you sound just like my mom.” She returns to her book, burying herself in the story again.

You chuckle softly, setting your glass down as you gather your plate and stand up. “Well, usually betrayal happens in those stories.”

Lori looks up, her eyes wide with enthusiasm. “That’s right! There’s a part where the male character betrays the female character.”

Your hand slips, the plate clattering into the sink, but thankfully it doesn’t break.

“Aunty, are you okay?” Lori asks, concern in her voice.

“I’m fine. My hand just slipped,” you say, brushing it off with a smile.

Lori gets up, carrying her plate to the sink. “I’m already done. I’ll help you with the dishes.”

“Thank you,” you reply, appreciating her help.

As you both wash the dishes, you ask her about life at school. Lori tells you all about her friends, her classes, and the things that make her happy.

“Do you have a crush at school?” you ask, a teasing note in your voice.

Lori hesitates, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. “Well… there is one boy. His hair and smile remind me of the male character from the spy book.”

You nearly drop the spatula but manage to catch it just in time. What’s gotten into you today?

“What about you, Aunty?” Lori asks, her tone curious.

“Me?” you respond, a bit caught off guard.

“While living in this lodge, have you ever met a farmer with a six-pack, a cute café owner, or a cool police officer?” Lori asks, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

You gasp, her question catching you by surprise. “Your mom mentioned you’ve become quite the chatterbox.”

“Aunty, your life is a dream. You have it all—except a boyfriend,” Lori says matter-of-factly. She doesn’t fully understand what you do for a living, but she knows from her mom and grandparents that you’ve traveled the world and are now enjoying the fruits of your hard work.

You place your hands on your hips, eyeing her with a mock sternness. “How long have you been staying with Grandma?”

“Three weeks,” Lori answers, wiping a plate dry with a clean cloth.

“That explains it,” you say with a chuckle, ruffling her hair playfully. Your mother has a habit of prying into your love life, and you’ve overheard her sighing over the phone, saying, ‘I’m afraid she’ll die single.’

“But seriously, Aunty, why are you still single?” Lori asks, her eyes wide with innocent curiosity.

You look at her, a sigh escaping your lips. “When you’re older, you’ll understand that life is complicated. There’s no guarantee of a happy ending.”

“Seems like you don’t believe in romance anymore,” she says, her voice soft but probing.

“Lori…” you begin, but her words strike a chord in you. Kids have a way of getting straight to your feelings. You head to the living room, trying to shake off the conversation and turn on the TV. With a sigh, you throw yourself onto the couch.

Lori follows you, still determined to rekindle your belief in romance. But then, something catches her eye. “Aunty, what’s on the second floor?”

“Just a storage room. Full of dust and spiders,” you reply, waving a hand dismissively.

“Can I go up there?” she asks, her enthusiasm barely contained.

“Go ahead,” you say, smiling at her eagerness.

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you hear her running feet thudding up the stairs. You shake your head, chuckling to yourself. What happened to the little girl who was afraid of spiders? Maybe the influence of that action-packed novel, the fantasy world, pulled her in.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

Lori’s eyes lit up with excitement as she explored the second floor, her steps quickening with each new discovery. It felt like a treasure hunt to her, the dusty corners and forgotten items fueling her curiosity.

She opened old boxes, sifted through forgotten knick-knacks, and rummaged through piles of clutter. Her heart raced with the thrill of the search, every creak of the floorboards adding to the sense of adventure.

Then, tucked away near the Christmas decorations, she spotted a plain, unassuming box. It didn’t look like much, but something about it caught her attention. With a soft gasp of anticipation, she opened it and found an old, bulky laptop inside. The device was covered in dust, its once sleek surface now dull and scratched.

“Wow,” Lori whispered, her eyes widening in awe. She lifted the laptop carefully and opened it, running her fingers over the keys. “Clicky, clicky. Love this keyboard,” she said, delighting in the tactile response of the keys beneath her fingers.

Unable to contain her excitement, Lori ran downstairs to find you, clutching the laptop in her arms like a prized possession. “Aunty, look what I found! This is so old, and I love the sound it makes!”

You glanced up and your eyes widened in surprise. “Where did you get that?” you asked, a mix of surprise and concern in your voice.

“Near the Christmas decorations. Can I turn it on?” she asked, her eyes shining with eagerness.

You shook your head, a hint of hesitation creeping into your tone. “It’s been a long time since I turned it on,” you admitted, memories flickering at the edge of your mind. You had pretended the laptop didn’t exist for so long that it had slipped from your thoughts entirely.

“I’ll throw it away,” you said, reaching out to take the laptop from her.

But Lori quickly pulled it back, guarding the laptop protectively. “Even if it’s broken, I could use this for throwback videos,” she argued, her determination evident.

You sighed, seeing the pleading look in her eyes. “Fine. You can have it,” you relented.

“Thank you!” Lori beamed, her smile so bright that any irritation you felt melted away. She hugged the laptop close and dashed off to the guest room, eager to play with her new toy.

Inside her room, Lori’s excitement was palpable. She carefully plugged the charger into the old laptop and pressed the power button, holding her breath in anticipation. But the screen remained dark, the laptop unresponsive.

Her enthusiasm waned slightly, but she didn’t give up. Determined, she searched online for ways to fix old laptops, flipping the device upside down to look for a serial number or brand name. But the markings were too faded to read.

Her hope began to crumble as she realized the laptop might never work again. With a sigh, she set it aside and opened her suitcase, revealing stacks of novels inside. This was the real reason she had wanted to stay with you—to immerse herself in her books without anyone bothering her.

As the night wore on, the clock crept closer to 10 p.m. You yawned, feeling the weight of the day settle in, and turned off the TV. Before heading to bed, you decided to check on Lori. When you peeked into her room, you found her already fast asleep, curled up with a new book clutched in her hands.

You smiled softly, understanding now what was in her suitcase. With a gentle chuckle, you carefully adjusted her sleeping posture and tucked her in, whispering, “Good night.”

As you left, you saw the old black laptop still plugged in, silently charging in the corner. It had been nearly seven years since you last thought about it. You shook your head, a mix of relief and resignation washing over you. It was better if that thing stayed dead, buried in the past where it belonged.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

The next morning, Lori woke up feeling cozy under the blankets. She glanced around, realizing she must have fallen asleep while reading her book again. The comforting silence in the room was a welcome change from the usual yelling of her mother.

This is why staying with you was such a great idea. She turned her attention to the old laptop, remembering she had left it charging all night.

With renewed hope, she quickly jumped out of bed and moved to the laptop. She pressed the power button, but the screen remained stubbornly black. Disappointment settled over her like a heavy fog.

Then, she heard it—the faint hum of the laptop’s fan. Her eyes widened, and a gasp escaped her lips. She clapped her hands together in excitement. “Yes!”

Just then, you called from the kitchen, your voice carrying cheerfully through the house. “Lori! You’ve woken up? I’ve made breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry yet,” Lori replied, her focus still on the laptop, waiting for the screen to light up.

“It’s bacon and eggs,” you added, a hint of a smile in your voice.

The mention of bacon and eggs immediately captured Lori’s attention. It had been ages since she’d had a breakfast like that. “I’m coming!” she called out, her voice filled with enthusiasm.

Without another thought, Lori dashed out of her room, leaving the old laptop to continue its quiet struggle to turn on. Her excitement for breakfast had completely overshadowed her frustration with the laptop, and she hurried to the kitchen, eager for the delicious meal you had prepared.

After breakfast, Lori returned to her room, and her excitement about the old laptop reignited. As she entered, she was stunned to see that the laptop had finally powered up completely.

Her eyes widened in disbelief as she stared at the outdated app icons, which looked dull and unappealing. Despite their lack of charm, something else caught her eye: the email application.

Curiosity piqued, Lori navigated to the email app and discovered a list of old emails. She wondered if the laptop could connect to Wi-Fi. To her delight, it could. She connected it and noticed a new notification. Her heart raced as she clicked on it, only to find a single new email dated five years ago.

“This is like something out of a novel,” Lori whispered to herself, her fingers trembling slightly as she opened the email.

Her gasp was audible when she realized it wasn’t spam or a work email—it was a love letter. She read the email with growing excitement:

Subject: An Apology and a Request

Hi,

I hope this message finds you well. I’ve been carrying a heavy heart and wanted to reach out, even though it’s been a while. I left the organization and have started a new life, but I’ve realized that it won’t feel complete without you.

I’m deeply sorry for everything that happened and for the pain I caused you. I know that I have no right to ask for anything, but if there’s any chance for us to meet and talk, I’d really like that. I’m not expecting anything, but I hope we can find some closure.

Yours,

B.B

Lori’s eyes sparkled with excitement. This was even better than the romance novels she had read. She couldn’t believe her aunt had an ex who had been missing her all this time and had finally reached out after five years.

Feeling a burst of inspiration, Lori unplugged the laptop and raced downstairs to find you. “Aunt! Look! Look! Someone sent you an apology letter!” she exclaimed, her voice filled with excitement.

You were busy preparing to head out to your bee farm, dressed in your suit. The sight of the old laptop suddenly turning on and Lori’s enthusiasm about the email caught you off guard. You knew exactly who had sent it, and it brought a wave of mixed emotions.

With a sigh, you closed the laptop, noticing Lori’s disappointed look. You knelt to her level, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Lori, sometimes it’s best to leave the past where it is.”

“But…” she started, her voice trailing off.

You stood up, adjusting your head protection for the farm. “Just enjoy your time here,” you said gently, then headed out of the house.

Lori sighed, her heart heavy with the sadness in your voice. She could sense the pain behind your words and felt that maybe this person was someone special to you. A sudden idea struck her, and she rushed back to her room, placed the old laptop on the table, and began typing a reply.

With her knowledge of romance novels, she crafted a short but heartfelt response:

Subject: Re: An Apology and a Request

Hi B.B,

Thank you for your message. It was a surprise to read your letter after all these years. I appreciate your honesty and the courage it took to reach out. I’m still processing everything, but I’m grateful for your apology.

Maybe one day we can talk, but for now, I hope you find the closure you’re seeking.

Take care,

Y/N

Satisfied with her words, Lori clicked “Send,” feeling accomplished. She hoped her reply would bring peace to her aunt and the sender.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

A few days passed, and Lori grew increasingly nervous. She kept checking the email, but no new notifications appeared, only that eerie computer-generated voice. You noticed her restlessness; she fidgeted with her fingers and paced around the room.

“What’s wrong? Feeling bored?” you asked, trying to lighten the mood. “We could go out for a while, get some fresh air.”

“Eww… no,” Lori replied, wrinkling her nose at the thought of the hot sun and heavy gear. She enjoyed the freedom of staying with you, but she wasn’t enthusiastic about adventures.

“I’d rather stay here, curled up with my book—” Lori was cut off by the familiar, unsettling notification sound.

You flinched at the sound too, a chill creeping down your spine. Lori quickly ran to the laptop, her heart racing with excitement as she saw the red dot notification. She opened the email and skimmed the reply: "I received your message. We need to meet. I’ll find you soon."

“Aunty, look! This person wants to see you. Isn’t it romantic?” Lori said, her excitement palpable.

Romantic my ass, you thought, feeling a cold shiver as you read the email. You abruptly shut the laptop and started packing Lori’s things. Your sudden, frantic movements startled her.

“Change your clothes. Wear something practical and put on running shoes,” you instructed, your voice taut with urgency.

Lori’s eyes widened with concern. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Forget the books. We have fifteen minutes, Lori. Now!” You dashed to your room, grabbing essentials with swift, practiced motions.

Lori, bewildered but obedient, quickly followed your orders. Fifteen minutes later, both of you were ready and in the car. You sped away, your face set in grim determination.

In the passenger seat, Lori clutched the seatbelt tightly, her voice trembling. “Aunt…”

“Lori, did you not hear me? Some things are better left in the past,” you said, your tone cold and firm.

She nodded slowly, her anxiety mounting. “But why?”

Before she could ask more, a deafening explosion rocked the car. “BOOM!” The blast made Lori flinch as she turned to see your house engulfed in flames. Her face pressed against the car window, eyes wide with shock.

“Oh my God. Is that your house?” Lori’s voice was barely a whisper.

You kept your gaze fixed on the road, your face pale and determined. “This is the reality of espionage. The hardest part is when someone tries to kill you.”

Lori gasped, realization dawning on her. “You’re a real spy!”

You didn’t answer, but the silence was deafening—a resounding confirmation.

“And the person who sent the email is another spy!” she exclaimed.

“Yeah. But unlike the novels, we’re not looking to fall in love. We’re trying to kill each other.” Your words sent a shiver down her spine, the gravity of the situation settling in with chilling clarity.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

At the gas station, you and Lori were picking up essential supplies. Your disguise—a dark hat, sunglasses, and a coat pulled tight—wasn't exactly subtle. But Lori's eyes sparkled with excitement.

“This is so cool!” she exclaimed, her voice brimming with admiration.

“It’s not,” you muttered, your voice strained as you tried to mask your growing unease. The thrill of the moment had been replaced by a harsh reality. “I’m taking you to your mom.”

Lori’s enthusiasm faltered as she noticed the tension in your body. “But Aunt… why are you running away if this person wants to see you?”

You sighed heavily. “Because—”

Your words trailed off as a shiver ran down your spine. You felt eyes on you and slowly turned to face the source of your unease. There he was, striding towards you with a purpose.

The man stood tall and lean, his dark hair tousled and his leather jacket catching the dim light of the gas station. His face was striking—handsome in a rugged, intense way. His presence radiated strength and determination.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Bucky didn’t break stride or acknowledge you. His pace quickened, and your instincts kicked in. You reached for your gun, but before you could draw it, a loud BANG! shattered the tense silence.

“Kyaaa!!!” The sound of the gunshot set off a wave of screams from everyone inside the store, including Lori. The chaos erupted around you, but you and Bucky remained focused.

You threw yourself in front of Lori, protecting her with your body. Bucky did the same, his gaze locked on the threats.

“You—” you started, trying to catch your breath.

“We don’t have much time,” Bucky cut you off, his voice a low growl. He grabbed your arm, pulling you up, and snatched his own gun. Without another word, he started firing, taking out the shooters one by one.

You joined him in the fray, your movements sharp and efficient. Bullets flew and bodies hit the floor. Bucky’s sharp eyes and quick reflexes contrasted with your precise, practiced shots.

“Your aim’s getting rusty,” Bucky grunted as he took down another opponent.

“Shut up,” you retorted, focusing on the task at hand.

In no time, the immediate threat was neutralized. You both made a break for your car, adrenaline surging. Bucky took the driver’s seat, his expression grim and focused.

“Wait…” you began, but Bucky cut you off.

“Just put on your seatbelt first,” he said tersely, glancing at you with an intensity that brooked no argument.

You complied, snapping the seatbelt into place as Bucky threw the car into gear. The ride was tense, an awkward silence hanging between you and Bucky. Lori, however, was brimming with curiosity.

She tugged at Bucky’s leather jacket, causing him to glance at her. The way she looked at him, her eyes wide with awe, reminded you of how she had always romanticized the world.

“Are you the one who sent that email to my aunt?” Lori asked, her voice tinged with a mix of excitement and expectation.

Bucky’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t respond, turning his attention back to the road.

Lori turned to you, her eyes glowing with revelation. “I get it. Both of you were spies! But you couldn’t be together because of your jobs! A forbidden love! This is so romantic!”

"!!!!!"

Your jaw dropped, and Bucky’s expression shifted to one of utter disbelief. The two of you exchanged a stunned look, unsure whether to laugh or feel embarrassed by Lori’s innocent but surprisingly accurate guess.

The air in the car seemed to crackle with the weight of her words, as the reality of your intertwined past and present hung in the balance.

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[reiding-writing]

hi author your writing is great btw i just wanted to see when you would post part 2 of copycat??

copycat [ s.r ] | 2 |

The replication of a disturbing 2004 serial murder case calls for the BAU to get involved with the assistance of none other than the original killer themself. And whilst Spencer didn't work the original case, he was eager to learn every detail about it, including its offender.

WARNINGS: relationship between spencer and reader is not inherently romantic, sociopathic reader, graphic details of murder, graphic eye descriptions, mentions of spencer’s addiction and overdose, morgan and reader really don’t like each other, child abuse, childhood addiction, death by overdose, suicide

s3!spencer/gn!unsub!reader || mystery || 14.3k || masterlist!!

part one !! , part two !!

unsub!reader masterlist!!

a/n: after a whole 22 days of writing this, it’s finally finished 😭 sorry for making you all wait for so long this one was a nightmare to finish-

taglist (slashed blogs couldn’t be tagged): @devilsadvcte @marvellover98 @evvy96 @arlovesper @h3rt8k @pathologicalreid @sideshow-b0b @sunflowersndpeaches @mera3luna @madameparkerreid @fandom-mania @melaninsugababy @meyaareads

“Let’s go Doctor. I’m ready to get out of this beige abomination.”

You push yourself off the table and leave out of the same door that Morgan had, Spencer following closely behind you.

He was oddly grateful about your decency to respect his title, and it only made him want to read you like a book even more.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The coroner's office, whilst not as bland and beige as the police station was still extremely muted, with light grey walls and a smooth tiled floor that was so shiny you're sure you could see your face in it if you focused enough.

“The second I see a change in your features I am booting you out of the mortuary understood?” Morgan’s tone held nothing but contempt for you as he walked step in step with you like you’d disappear if he looked away for more than a second.

“You keep speaking to me like that and I’ll shove the next rose I get down your throat.”

“Did you just threaten me?” Morgan’s contempt fizzled into a rising frustration, his eyebrows knitted into a tight line and his arms crossed tightly over his chest as if trying to puff himself out like a peacock to look more intimidating.

“Threats hold no value,”

“We should go inside now,” Spencer’s voice was much less confident than either yours or Morgan’s, but it held enough volume to be heard over your argument.

He was seriously beginning to question whether inviting you to come along was a good idea. He knew Morgan despised you, and yet he’d asked you to come along anyway out of his own selfish want to crack open your brain like a book and read your neuron pathways like pages.

He just hoped you’d actually find something valuable in the victim’s autopsy so that all of your arguing with Morgan wasn’t in vain.

“Ah, you must be the agents working on the case, I’m Dr. Toth,” The doctor introduced herself politely as Spencer opened the mortuary door, and Spencer gave her a small nod of recognition as the three of you entered.

“That’s right, thank you for allowing us here,”

“Of course,” The doctor walked her way around the autopsy table, where you assumed the body of the most recent victim was lying, covered by a blue sheet from head to toe and leaving only the silhouette in its place. “I should warn you in advance, due to the damage caused to the eyes whilst removing the rose stems, we had to excise them from the body during the autopsy,”

“Do you still have them?” Your question seems to strike a nerve with Morgan, probably thinking that you want to see the victim’s eyes as a part of a sick fantasy running through your mind, but he bites his tongue to keep his mouth shut so that he doesn’t accidentally air the fact that they’d brought a serial killer into a coroner’s office and freak out the pathologist they’re talking to.

“We do yes, they were professionally removed and placed in hypothermic storage, I can retrieve them for you if you’d like,”

“That won’t be necessary for now,” Morgan’s interjection elicits a roll of your eyes. You weren’t interested in seeing them because it would get you off or whatever, you wanted to see what kind of damage they went through to the point where they had to be fully removed from the victim’s body.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, but if you need my assistance please don’t hesitate to ask,”

“Thank you,” Spencer, the peacekeeper that he is, gives the doctor a polite smile as he picks up a pair of latex gloves and pulls them over his hands, and you and Morgan follow suit after him as he takes place at the end of the autopsy table.

“You’re looking for differences, not entertainment.”

“Yes yes, I get it, Jesus Christ.” You scoff at Morgan’s tone, tugging the sheet down from the victim’s head until it was halfway down his torso.

“His name was Alexander Youlier, age 22, died of blood loss with the roses believed to be inserted post-mortem,” Spencer read through the autopsy file as you examined the boy’s face.

He was pale, much too pale for a normal person, but you suppose that’s what happens when you barely have any blood in your body, and the blood that he did have completely lacked oxygen. His cheeks were sunken, his lips almost blue from the lack of oxygen, and of course, in place of where his eyes would be, there were instead two holes lined with a dark reddish pink muscle that made it look like the cavity was much deeper than physically possible.

The minute you looked at his face you felt like you were going to throw up. So much for being ‘entertained’.

“Oi.” Morgan’s voice ripped you from your state of disassociation. “What did I just say, you’re here to identify the differences not get off to the victim’s body in your head.” He turned his attention towards Spencer with a disapproving look. “I told you we shouldn’t’ve brought them here,”

You didn’t respond to Morgan’s chastising with anything more than a tiny twitch of your eyebrows as you tore your eyes away from Youlier’s face.

“Are you okay?” Spencer’s voice was considerably softer than Morgan's, his eyes big and round, glistening with worry underneath the overhead light in the room, and his eyebrows furrowed in concern at the way you’d suddenly shut down.

“I don’t want to be here anymore.” The end of your sentence is marked by you tearing the gloves from your hands and leaving them in balls on the floor as you retreat to the door of the room.

“What do you think you’re doing? You’re not allowed to just leave. You wanted to be here. You chose to be here. So you’ll do your goddamn job.” Morgan’s anger falls unrecognised as you open the door and slam it behind you after you leave, and he begins to follow after you only to be stopped by Spencer at the door.

“I’ve got it,”

Morgan’s glance is unconvinced, and Spencer reiterates himself once more. “I’ve got it, I promise, they’re less likely to get angry if it’s me and not you,”

Morgan doesn’t get the chance to argue before Spencer runs off down the hallway to catch up to you, leaving him alone in the mortuary to continue his analysis of the autopsy by himself.

“Hey!” Spencer calls out to you as he jogs in your direction, catching you right as you open the door to leave the coroner’s office. “Wait up a second-” You don’t stop at his callings, but he can tell that you’re also not trying to deliberately get away from him, your pace slow and even as you leave the coroner’s office with him hot on your tail.

He’s very clearly out of breath by the time he reaches your side, but he pays no attention to his lungs’ cry for him to take a second to breathe and supply them with more oxygen as he begins questioning you. “Are you okay?”

“I‘m fine,”

He’s not at all convinced by your statement despite your tone conveying genuity. You looked paler than usual, any natural flush was gone from your cheeks and your lips, and you were absentmindedly picking at the nail bed of your thumb with your middle finger, something he assumes is a self-soothing act for you.

People getting disturbed at the sight of a freshly dead body wasn’t exactly something for Spencer to be astounded at. It was a natural human reaction to the incomprehensible knowledge of death that your brain desperately tried to work out with no results.

But you didn’t exactly fit the definition of ‘normal’. You were a sociopath. So for you to be put off by the sight of a dead body was something for Spencer to be astounded at.

Sure he was aware that sociopaths could still feel things like dread and fear of the unknown, but you weren’t just a sociopath. You were a sociopath who killed eighteen people.

You’d seen your fair share of dead people, manic episode or not. So why was this body making you react like you were?

He supposes it’s just another layer he’ll have to peel from your mind like the skin of an onion.

“Did you know that sociopaths have heightened emotional pathways? Every emotion sociopaths experience is allegedly 3 times stronger in intensity than that of someone without it,” He didn’t exactly know what to say to you considering you’d shut down any attempt to talk about how you were doing emotionally, and so he fell back on what he always did, niche facts and statistics.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Your hardened expression didn’t falter, nor did the underlying monotony in your tone, but you did finally look him in the eye.

“I always feel more at ease when I fully understand whatever I’m dealing with,” Spencer smiles at you softly with a shrug of his shoulders, attempting to empathise with you the best he could.

“I already knew that fact,” You take a seat on the small half-wall lining the outside of the coroner’s office, gripping the edge of the brick with your hands. “And it doesn’t make me feel any different,”

“Well…” Spencer purses his lips slightly as he takes a seat next to you, running through things in his head that might hold some sort of value to you. “Did you know that roses symbolise different things based off of their colour?”

He was definitely grasping at straws now, but he didn’t want to end your conversation yet. He wanted to know what had you so perturbed that you felt the need to leave the minute you got a close look at the victim’s body.

If anything he’d expected you to follow Morgan’s accusation about getting some sick gratification from the body, not actually feeling sick because of it.

“Why do you think I used white roses? I’m not stupid you know,”

He’d never thought of that. “You used white roses for a specific reason?”

You shrug, swinging your legs back and forth over the edge of the wall. “When I was younger we had a dog, and when it died my parents planted a white rose bush over where they buried it,”

Your tone is rather emotionally removed as you divulge this little snippet of your past to him, like you were recounting something you’d read from a fictional story rather than an event that most children would find extremely distressing. “Mom said that the roses were white because they symbolised mourning and new beginnings, something about how it would help him pass over into heaven or whatever, and I guess even in my episode I held that knowledge subconsciously,”

“You don’t believe in heaven?” Spencer’s eyes scanned your face as he tried to decipher your micro-expressions, noting the small softening of your eyes once you brought up your parents. Looks like you did indeed still have some humanity.

“Do you believe in heaven Dr. Reid?”

No. Maybe? He knew that once your brain functions stopped working your consciousness was permanently ended and that was it. “I thought I saw the other side once,” His admission shocked himself more than it shocked you. Great, he was spilling his traumas to a sociopath he’d known for less than a week. What a riveting social life he had.

He could see the flicker of intrigue in your eyes at his sentence, and he pursed his lips into a line before deciding to continue. “I uh- 11 months ago I was kidnapped and forcefully injected with Dilaudid, and I- was overdosed…”

He could see the cogs turning in your head as you connected the fragments of earlier conversations with him in your mind to form a cohesive story, and you nodded at him as if encouraging him to continue with his story.

“I blacked out first, but it felt… warm? and I could see the beginnings of a light and I honestly still don’t know what to think of it,” He could feel himself squirming from the recollection. He was a man of science. Someone who only believed in what he could physically see and test. But that brief moment where he was sure that he’d died and was experiencing an afterlife that he didn’t think existed had carved a hole into his brain and settled itself into the back of his mind.

“I hope there’s an afterlife,” Your tone continues to carry that same monotonous drawl, but he can see the genuity in your eyes and the way your hands clench around the edge of the brick wall.

“Me too…”

It’d be easy for Spencer to forget you were a serial killer in moments like this. Sure you were still extremely emotionally stunted, but you felt human. And he’s sure that that’s the real difference between a sociopath and a psychopath.

Psychopaths were born without human ‘defects’. Sociopaths were made.

“Were your parents good to you?” Spencer’s question was full of hesitation. He didn’t want to assume anything, after all, your parents were the one topic you seemed to treat with genuine care in your words, but he knew something had to have happened. Something had to have made you the way that you are.

“My parents were perfect.” Your eyebrows knit into a small line, as if defensive at the fact that Spencer would suggest your parents were anything other than the perfect model of what two caregivers should be.

“What about your biological parents?” He could feel himself retreating back into his own mind the further he pressed for answers out of you, his conscience begging him to just stop talking before he accidentally crossed a line and ruined any branch of communication he’d formed.

“I don’t remember them,” You shrug lightly and your expression cements your nonchalance.

“You’ve never wanted to… seek them out?” It wasn’t entirely surprising that you don’t remember your biological parents. Most children who get adopted really young don’t.

“They’re dead.”

Oh.

Right.

Spencer’s eyes widen slightly at the revelation.

By this point, he’s completely forgotten about the fact that he’s supposed to be convincing you to go back into the mortuary to continue looking at the victim.

You had a great adoptive family and a pair of dead biological parents. Was that what broke you? Was them dying what caused your mental state to shatter and rebuild itself as a fragmented version of its previous state?

Maybe that’s why you didn’t remember them. Maybe your brain had built a wall in your memories to protect you from your own trauma of losing your parents. But he wasn’t sure it was enough for you to have a mental break like you did. There had to be something more.

“I can do some digging on them if you want,” He airs the suggestion like he’s not going to do it even if you say no.

“I have no interest in learning about them,”

Oh well. He’d get Garcia to do it anyway. Maybe you’d find more interest in the topic once there was actually something for you to learn.

“Are you- feeling alright now?” Spencer knew he was going to have to bring up the topic eventually. They couldn’t stay out here for too long both for the sake of the investigation and because if they did Morgan would probably jump to the conclusion that you’d killed Spencer and run off somewhere.

“I told you I was fine,”

“I don’t think I believe you,” Spencer could see the small shift in your expression at his hesitant accusation. But it wasn’t anger this time, it was something else. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. “Something caused you discomfort, and in order for you to be able to help us we need you to be relaxed,”

You turned your face away from Spencer as he spoke, eyes fixed on a bird flying overhead and then on the cloud that was behind it.

“What was it that caused you to feel like you didn’t want to be there anymore?” There was clear caution in Spencer’s tone as he questioned you, although that had essentially become a staple of every conversation you had with him by this point. “We can fix it,”

Spencer’s compassion for you left you feeling a little confused. You were a spree murderer. He was supposed to dislike you for that. That’s how the human mind works is it not? People are supposed to have a distaste for those who break the moral codes of society, and you did it 18 times over.

“I… don’t know,” It felt like every second you allowed yourself to be confused the feeling multiplied tenfold until you weren’t even sure that you could remember your own name if somebody asked you for it.

Your emotions were written all over your face, not like you really had the capacity to hide them even if you wanted to, but it was clear as day just how internally confused you were with your own feelings about the situation at hand.

“Let me help you figure it out then,” Spencer’s tone continued to carry that gentle compassion in it and it wasn’t helping you sort out your thoughts.

“I don’t need your help, I can figure it out on my own,” You knew enough about Psychology to be able to figure out your own thinking processes. At least you thought so. You didn’t go through three laborious years at university wishing during every hour of it to be doing something else to not even get anything useful out of it at the end.

Spencer took that as a direct invitation to shut his mouth and just let you think to yourself, although his eyes continued to scan your expression and your body language as he waited for you to come to your own conclusion on how you were currently feeling and what exactly made you feel that way.

“Will you stop staring at me?” Despite your gaze focused downwards towards the pavement your frustration at his lingering gaze made it sound like he was making direct eye contact with you.

“Sorry,” Spencer averted his eyes from you immediately after your order, flickering them around the parking lot of the coroner’s office and absentmindedly reading all of the number plates he could see from a distance so that he didn’t frustrate you anymore than he already had.

You gave up psychoanalysing your own mind after a few minutes, partly because it was an effort you didn’t want to expend and partly because it felt safer for you to just lock your emotions behind a wall of glass and leave them for another day.

Instead, you turned your gaze back to the doctor sitting next to you and watched him as he watched his surroundings.

“Your eyes are very alive,”

It’s an odd thing to say Spencer thinks. The concept of his eyes being ‘alive’. Of course, he’d heard the term ‘dead eyes’ before in reference to the lack of emotion shown on someone's face. He’d consider you to have rather dead eyes if he was thinking about it. Although he’s not sure if you’re referring to his eyes in terms of expressiveness or genuinely being ‘alive’ in a physical sense.

“Alive?”

You give him a short nod. “They have a lot of life in them,”

“Thank you?” He chooses to take your odd statement as a sort of compliment. Surely having ‘alive eyes’ couldn’t be a negative thing, right?

Now that he’s thinking about it you really did seem to have some sort of fixation on people's eyes. You constantly chased eye contact with the people you spoke to. You apparently had a habit of studying people’s eyes and how ‘alive’ they were. You pierced roses into the eyes of your victims.

Spencer’s gaze focused on you as he came to the conclusion in his head. You’d become uncomfortable in the mortuary because you couldn’t see the victim’s eyes. Because instead of being able to judge him based off of the look in his eyes you were instead greeted with a blank slate where they were supposed to be.

But why? Why was your judgement of somebody based off of what you could see in their eyes? Something had to have caused it.

“Why did you put roses in your victims’ eyes?” He could see the flicker of intrigue in your expression at his question, although he was unsure whether it was conscious or not.

From the way you’d spoken earlier about your discomfort, it seemed that your apparent fixation was unknown to even you, a subconscious thought process that even you were unaware of for whatever reason.

“I told you this already, I held subconscious knowledge about what they represented.” You furrow your eyebrows at his question, one that you’d answered a little over five minutes ago. Why was he asking you again? “I thought you had an eidetic memory.”

“I do-” Spencer’s not sure whether to be surprised that you remembered that small snippet of information or not. “I mean, why did you put them… you know, in their eyes specifically?”

A small amount of discomfort seeped into Spencer’s tone as he asked the question. As much as he’d become desensitised to the gruesomeness of what his job held, actively thinking about having somebody’s eyes being physically pierced with a blunt object was something that anyone with two functioning eyeballs would feel uncomfortable about.

“I don’t know, I just did,”

So it was subconscious. Something that the dark void in the back of your mind was aware of but wouldn’t let your conscious self have any knowledge of.

“Would you like to help me analyse the victim’s eyes? The pathologist said they were still being stored,” Your eyebrows turn from furrowed to raised, clearly confused by Spencer’s sudden fixation on eye-related things.

“They could be a useful asset to the investigation,” Spencer shrugged softly, lips pressed into a line, an awkward smile present on his face as if his suggestion was completely unrelated to the conversation.

You found yourself agreeing to Spencer’s suggestion despite that lingering discomfort in the back of your mind, and as the two of you stood up to re-enter the coroner’s office, Spencer pulled out his phone to send an email to Morgan.

‘Cover the victim’s face.’

Morgan had clearly read the message before the two of you arrived back at the mortuary, shooting Spencer a glance of confusion as you entered the room ahead of him, eyes already locked on Youlier’s body as if you were drawn to it by some unexplainable force.

Of course, with the blue sheet now placed back over the victim’s head, you couldn’t actually see anything, but you still had the image of his face in your head, causing a sense of unease to remain in your stomach, although not as bad as when you were originally presented with it.

Spencer gave Morgan a small shake of his head as if to shut down this conversation for later, leaving your side to seek out the pathologist so she could retrieve Youlier’s eyes from storage.

He returned not two minutes later, freshly gloved with a glass jar in hand, two vaguely spherical shaped objects floating inside it.

Morgan saw them before you did, his expression widening and then furrowing at the sight of just how ripped up these eyes seemed to be. “How on earth did they end up like that?”

Morgan’s question is enough to pique your curiosity and rip your gaze away from the victim's covered-up face, walking up behind Spencer to look at the jar over his shoulder.

“Dr Toth said the damage was from the thorns on the roses,”

You examine the jar as Spencer explains how they ended up in the state they were in, and you had to agree that Morgan’s bewilderment was right.

They barely even looked like a pair of eyes anymore. They were more ovular than spherical, with two gaping holes where the pupil and iris should be, and countless tear lines all over the scleras, presumably where the killer had struggled to push the stems through the eyes from the resistance of the thorns. Although, you couldn’t deny that seeing them somehow ailed any lingering discomfort in your stomach.

“Well that’s just stupid,”

Spencer jumped from your statement like he hadn’t even realised you were standing behind him, almost fumbling the jar out of his hands in the process.

“…maybe you’re just stupid…” Morgan’s muttering doesn’t go unnoticed, and you shoot a glare in his direction that he mirrors right back at you with just as much venom.

“What’s stupid?” It takes Spencer a second to regain his bearings, but once he does he turns his attention to you with round eyes and a slightly tilted head, eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly.

He watches as your focus shifts back and forth between the eyes in the jar and his own as if you were trying to visualise what he’d look like with the ripped-up excuse for a pair of eyes instead of the ones he currently had.

“Obviously you should de-thorn the roses first,” Your tone carried your phrase like you were telling him that you shouldn’t put metal in a microwave rather than de-thorning a rose before piercing someone’s eye with it. “This guy’s on what, their fifth victim? You would’ve thought they’d figured that out by now,”

You take the jar from Spencer’s hand to get a closer look at the remnants of the victim’s eyes from a better vantage point.

“I mean come on, I figured it out after my first try,” You’re edging into a rant about the intricacies of how to most productively pierce somebodies eyes with rose stems now, and it was beginning to remind Spencer that you had in fact actually done all of these things and it wasn’t just hypothetical. “It literally takes like ten seconds per rose if you know what you’re doing and then saves you five minutes of effort,”

Morgan takes the jar from you like you’re a child with a bottle of bleach, a scowl still etched on his face as you give him an incredulous look.

“I’m not going to like eat them or whatever, god-”

“Knowing your track record I wouldn’t be surprised if you did,” Morgan places the jar down on the small table by where the victim is lying.

“One, that’s disgusting, two, what the fuck?” Spencer finds your bewilderment at Morgan’s suggestion that you might eat the victim’s eyes quite amusing on a surface level, your response sounding like something a high schooler would say rather than a prolific serial killer.

“What? You’re the type of sick bastard that would probably get off on that sort of thing,” Morgan shrugs his shoulders as he turns back around to face you once more.

“I was experiencing a manic episode, I’m not some weird sadist who has a fetish for eyeballs,”

‘Not a fetish, but something,’ Spencer chooses to keep to himself during your squabble this time, walking over to the autopsy table to hike up the blue cover sheet and check for other injuries lower down on the body.

There’s nothing truly substantial, with no defence wounds courtesy of the blow to the back of his head before the attack, another staple of your spree to keep your victims complacent. The only thing of note was the two gashes across each wrist, severing both radial arteries, the source of the bleeding-out portion of his death.

He had to give you props on that part. The average time it took somebody to bleed out was only 3 and a half minutes, meaning it was a pretty effective way to kill somebody with minimal effort and ensure they were completely dead before any first responders might have time to arrive even if they were called immediately after the gashes were made.

It was very controlled, much more of an execution than a murder if he was to really think about it, especially considering all of your victims were unconscious when it happened and therefore probably didn’t even feel anything aside from the original blow to the head.

For a serial killer, it was actually very humane. Even if you did go out of your way to desecrate their eyes afterwards. But was the real harm in that, they were already dead anyway, it’s not like they felt it.

It ruled out any sort of sadism from your spree, one of the reasons he thinks your story of a manic episode was so easily accepted in court. You weren’t killing people for the fun of it. You didn’t drag it out or make it unnecessarily painful. It was like you were just following the steps of how to kill somebody with as minimal effort as possible to satisfy whatever violent urges you had in your head at the time and then fulfilling the apparent subconscious fixation you had with eyes by covering them with roses.

“Wow, this guy really has no idea what he’s doing-” You again cause Spencer to almost jump out of his skin as you appear behind him once more, looking at the gashes over his shoulder.

You reach out to touch one of them, stopped by a harsh hand on your wrist from Morgan, who continues to glare at you like you’d set his house on fire. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Checking out the shitty incision work from this stupid ass copycat?”

“Put some gloves on you idiot,” Morgan drops your wrist with a scoff, walking across the room to pull out a pair of latex gloves from one of the boxes and shoving them into your palms.

You roll your eyes at his attitude but tug on the gloves anyway, making a show of raising your hands up in his face once you had them on. “Happy now?”

With a swat of your wrist away from his face Morgan concedes to stop antagonising you for now and let you focus on whatever you were originally doing, which you turn to do immediately like you’d completely forgotten about Morgan’s existence as soon as he exited your peripheral vision.

“What is it?” Spencer’s eyes follow yours down to the victim’s left wrist, and he watches as you prod at the gash with your gloved fingers as if trying to pry it back open.

“This is probably the shittiest attempt at bleeding someone out I’ve ever seen,” You bend down with narrowed eyes as you examine the wound. “It’d probably take like 20 minutes from a cut this shallow,”

Spencer can’t help but agree with your assessment. The cut was extremely shallow, so much so he’s sure that this victim probably could’ve survived it if he’d gotten immediate medical attention. He checks the other wrist just to be sure, and he’s granted with the same sight, an extremely shallow cut for somebody actively trying to kill people.

“So, what? He just sat around for twenty minutes whilst Youlier bled out so he could put the roses in his eyes?” Morgan furrowed his eyebrows at the revelation. “What sense does that make?”

Can they be sure that they were inserted post-mortem?

Spencer walked around the table towards the autopsy report to re-read the file in case he’d somehow missed that detail whilst reading it the first time.

Alexander Youlier. Age 22. Died of blood loss with the roses believed to be inserted post-mortem.

He hadn’t missed anything. But then that didn’t make sense. There was no way that the killer would just wait around for almost half an hour for somebody to bleed themselves dry, especially considering that Youlier was found under an open gazebo in a dog park. That would just be reckless. For it to work the roses would have had to be inserted whilst he was still alive.

“Having an epiphany over there or something?” Spencer turns his eyes upwards at your comment, leaving the report on the side table as he walks into Dr Toth’s side office without giving you an answer.

You and Morgan share a glance at his sudden departure, probably the most civil interaction the two of you had ever had, fuelled by the joined want to know what was running through Spencer’s mind.

The door of the office opened less than a minute later, Dr. Toth leaving her office with Spencer hot on her trail. “-reports from the main office so that you can cross-reference them all,”

You only catch the end of their conversation as they enter back into the mortuary, and Dr Toth leaves the room to assumedly go and gather whatever ‘reports’ she was on about from the main office, leaving you and Morgan blankly staring in Spencer’s direction with confused expressions.

“I think that our unsub might be inserting the roses into the victim’s eyes whilst they’re still alive,”

The revelation that the unsub was purposefully dragging out the death of their victims made the team have to rebuild the profile from the bottom up.

Spencer took the opportunity to do some digging. Or more accurately have Garcia do some digging.

He had her pull everything humanly possible regarding your biological parents, their life, their death, and most importantly, how they treated you.

They were 29 and 32 when they died, you having been born when your mother was only 23. They both had a history of substance abuse, and according to their autopsies, both of them had lethal levels of diazepam in their bloodstreams at their time of death.

What was interesting about their deaths though was that they were dead for three days before they were found, rotting in their own house with a six-year-old left living with them. Now that was something that could cause a mental break. A six-year-old, left for three days with the corpses of their dead parents and only found when the neighbours complained about the smell.

The file Garcia had faxed over also happened to have images from the scene when the bodies were recovered, and they were just as disgusting as he’d imagined they’d be. The two were sat paired on a couch, skin pale and turning slightly grey with the beginning signs of decay, small insects roaming on their skin, and the clothes they were wearing.

But the selling point for Spencer was their eyes. Wide open and staring blankly into open space with clouded pupils and ruptured irises. It freaked him out and he was looking at it through a piece of paper. He couldn’t imagine how it made a six-year-old child who lived with them like that for three days feel.

There was the origin of your eye fixation, and he honestly couldn’t blame you for covering the dead stare of your victims so you wouldn’t have to relive that.

The more he read the more devastating the report seemed to be. When asked why you didn’t call for any help from neighbours or the police you stated that you “just wanted them to sleep for a while,” and that your mother would “give me the sleepy pills when she wanted me to go to sleep, so I did the same for her and daddy,”

In an effort to get your parents to go to sleep so they would stop presumably treating you horribly, you’d unintentionally overdosed them both.

You were in a paediatric rehabilitation centre for almost four months after you were recovered from the house. A six-year-old. Being rehabilitated for an addiction to diazepam because your parents would solve any blip in your behaviour by feeding you sleeping pills instead of treating you like the child you were.

All of a sudden forming an addiction at 25 didn’t seem all that detrimental anymore.

He supposes that’s how you knew right off the bat. Addiction recognises addiction and all that. Although by the look of it, you’d made a full healthy recovery by the time you were adopted into your new family.

You’d been diagnosed with ASD after you were removed from the house, and Spencer is surprised by the fact that the mental impact it had on you only seemed to be acute, although, he’s sure that in hindsight the psychiatrist that diagnosed you would’ve made sure to be more thorough in their examination of your mental state.

Still, what happened had happened, and although Spencer nor anyone else could do anything to change that, he could form a greater understanding of who you were and why you did what you did.

Except he still didn’t really know why, he knew the origins, but what was the trigger that caused you to deteriorate mentally until you were back at your lowest possible point?

That wasn’t important right now.

He needed to focus on the actual case at hand and not the closed case of a serial killer from four years ago. It didn’t matter how much of a fascination he’d formed with your psychology, he needed to focus so that no one else had to die.

It was insane to think about, just how distracted he’d get with uncovering your past like it was a mystery novel that required the reader’s involvement to solve.

But now he really needed to knuckle down and actually put his intelligence forward to help the team find the unsub they were looking for or else earn a chastising from Hotch and up to 13 more victims if they followed your pattern to a T.

Why you though? Why was this unsub following your crimes specifically? Sure some people were mentally deranged enough to want to gain the same notoriety as the killers they replicated, but your case was in a small city and didn’t even make national news. Not only that, it was new. Really new.

Most copycat killers replicated national or even international-level crimes that had decades to form a legacy and settle into the back of people's minds. Your case wasn’t like that. Not to the full extent anyway. The state of California had recognised you as a prolific killer but in any other state your name was unknown.

So why you?

Spencer watched intently as the team scribbled down notes and ideas on the whiteboards taking up most of the room, leaving him sitting at the head of the conference table with his files on your background and you engaging yourself in the pass-time of making origami cranes out of discarded bits of paper to stop yourself from getting bored.

A serial killer replicating your crimes almost step by step. Bleed out the victims, put roses in their eyes, move on. Same victim pattern. Same time frame. But still with distinct differences.

This unsub bled their victims out considerably slower than you did. They used red roses instead of white roses like you did. They left the thorns on the rose stems when you pruned them beforehand.

Why did this unsub not de-thorn the roses first? After five separate murders, why would they not make their process easier by discarding the thorns to stop them from tearing up the victim’s eyes?

‘I figured it out after my first try.’

“Hey uh-” Spencer turns his head up towards you, tapping his pen absentmindedly against the table. “Do you remember what happened to your first victim? After your parents?”

“What?” You furrow and then raise one of your eyebrows at his sudden question, especially because he’d been sitting in his own little cocoon for the last thirty minutes.

It was quite a long shot of a question if you had been experiencing mania at the time, but you seemed to be remembering select details about your spree, so your first victim surely should be present in your mind at least somewhat.

“How did you… You know-” Spencer’s roundabout question was half amusing and half frustrating from your viewpoint, and you take a break from your paper crafts to indulge in it.

“Well…” You drag out the word and you divert your eyes from him to stare upwards towards the ceiling like it’ll aid your memory. “I incapacitated her first, with a… brick I think? It might’ve been a regular rock I’m not sure-”

“Him.” Morgan’s venom seeps into his correction of your account. “You killed eighteen people and you don’t even have the decency to remember the gender of your first victim? Seriously?”

“I do know my own victim pattern thank you very much,” You override Morgan’s correction with just as much ferocity. “ And it was definitely a woman. I chose her specifically because she’d be easy.”

“That’s not what our files say.”

“Then your files are wrong? What do you want me to do about it?”

Spencer runs over your victims in his head. Your first filed victim’s name was John Brandy, found lifeless on a park bench after a woman walking her dog called it in to the police.

He tried to remember any other things he’d read about your case that might indicate that Brandy wasn’t your first victim. Nothing. John Brandy was the only thing he could affiliate with the identity of the first victim from your spree. And most notably, Brandy was very male.

“…What did you do after you incapacitated her?” Spencer slowly edges his way back into a conversation between you and Morgan, mind on full alert as it continues to run through all of the details he knows about you and your case.

“I moved her against the like wall of the street we were down and then did the rest of it,” You shrug your shoulders in mild scepticism of Spencer’s sudden interest in this specific kill of yours. “You know, cut the wrists, wait a few minutes, then stick in the roses. Although I’m pretty sure I got one rose like half in because the thorns were being difficult and I gave up when she started twitching,”

You exhale exasperatedly. ”That’s probably why she’s not ‘in your files’, because the rose I did try and do wasn’t even fully inserted and probably just fell out or something,” You glare pointedly at Morgan, tilting your head back and forth in condescension. “It was my first time alright? Everyone’s gotta start somewhere.”

Sure everyone’s gotta start somewhere. When it comes to working a job or starting a hobby. You don’t usually ‘start somewhere’ when it comes to murdering people.

It’s the fact that you say it so nonchalantly that gets to him, talking about your murder spree of eighteen people like it was you learning how to bake a cake. Nineteen people. You’d actually killed nineteen people in your spree, and your poor first victim probably didn’t even get given the light of day that the rest of your victims did when it came to justice.

“Morgan,” Hotch’s voice proved to pull Spencer out of yet another spiral consisting of endless questions surrounding your psychology, even if not directed at him. “Call Garcia and have her pull up any unsolved murder cases that involved two slit wrists and trauma to the eyes in Malibu during the time they were active as a killer,”

“On it,” Honestly, Morgan would’ve taken any excuse to get out of your presence for a few minutes, feeling the overwhelming urge to punch you square in your face grow stronger with every snippet of information about yourself that you shared out loud without a single care in the world.

Did it have anything significant to catching this copycat? No. But that victim deserved just as much justice as any of your others.

One profiler down, the rest of the team turned back to fleshing out the profile, and you turned back to your half-finished paper crane, muttering to yourself under your breath about something that Spencer couldn’t quite hear.

“Okay, so we’ve ruled out mania as a possible cause of the kills because of how long it took for them to bleed out, we’ve ruled out paranoia because of the victim pattern following the original to a T instead of being random, it could be some form of ASD but that doesn’t really make sense with the rest of the profile-” Emily scans over the notes of the whiteboard as she speaks, picking absentmindedly on the red polish covering her nails and leaving small flakes of it all over the table by where you’re sitting.

“Would you stop doing that?” You make a show of wiping the table with your hand, and Emily doesn’t respond to you with more than a glance as she stuffs her hands in her pockets.

“Alright babygirl thank you,” Morgan sends a kiss through the phone before hanging it up and putting it away in his pocket and you swear you almost gag at the sight of it.

“Nothing,” Morgan shrugs his shoulders half out of resignation and half out of frustration as he takes a seat opposite you on the table. “There are no unsolved murders matching the description you gave us,”

He glares into your eyes like he’s trying to burn them right out of your eye sockets. “So? What is it? You get a kick out of lying or what?”

“Do I look like the type of person who makes the effort to lie? Because news flash, I don’t, it’s not like saying I killed one more person than I actually did benefits me in any way,” You furrow your expression with a scoff, leaning back in your chair to rest your ankles on the table.

“Right, sure, because someone like you totally doesn’t care about how they’re perceived by other people,”

“Why would I want to say I’ve killed more people than I actually have, it just makes me look more crazy than you already think I am-” You weren’t backing down on this. You were adamant that this person was your first victim and that you weren’t lying to him.

“Then why isn’t there any file of her whatsoever?”

“What if she’s still alive?” It’s like all of the puzzle pieces fall into Spencer’s mind at once, and he interrupts your arguing with Morgan yet again, except this time it’s not about keeping the peace.

“You said you gave up because ‘the thorns were being difficult and she started twitching’, was she alive when you tried to put the rose in her eye?” Spencer turns his gaze towards you, a completely different air surrounding his expression than the mildly awkward and apprehensive one you’d gotten used to.

“I don’t know, maybe?” You shrug like his question was absurd, watching as he stands from his seat to look over the whiteboard detailing the autopsies of each of the victims.

“Reid?” Hotch’s raised eyebrow asked a hundred different questions, and Spencer answered every single one of them with a single phrase muttered under his breath.

“…PTSD by proxy-”

He takes a second to study the photos on the board before continuing. “It’s a psychological disorder where victims of PTSD will project their trauma onto others,”

He pulls a few of the images from the board to lay them out on the conference table. “Of those who develop PTSD from traumatic incidents, roughly 2% then go on to try and satiate their trauma by projecting it onto other people,”

“If what you remember about your first victim was true and she survived, then there’s a high chance that the new killer we’re looking for is that first victim,” He arranges the autopsy photos in two groups, with one of the wrist gashes and the other of the eye damage.

“The victims bled out slowly, which in a lot of cases with first-time murder or murder attempts happens unintentionally because the killer doesn’t know how deep a cut like that has to be for it to be fatal,” He points towards the photos on the left first.

“And then the eyes would be pretty self-explanatory,” He turns one of the photos towards where you and Hotch are sitting. “If your first victim was in fact alive when you tried to pierce her eyes then that could explain why these victims were also still alive when the roses were inserted,”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Emily chimes in with her two cents as Spencer gives his explanation. “We’re in a completely different city,”

“And it’s been three years since the original spree,” Rossi swirls the coffee in his mug with a furrowed expression.

“Well Las Flores is only an hour's drive from Malibu,” Spencer moves from the table to go back over to the annotated map on one of the boards, marking an invisible line with his fingers. “Maybe she decided she needed to get away from her trauma, 46% of individuals who experience life-changing trauma do,”

“But why now?”

Spencer’s eyes turn back towards you at Rossi’s question, as if you held all the answers to what the stressor was for this sudden murder spree. Your answer of course was nothing more than a shrug and an expression that asked ‘How am I supposed to know?’, which put a halt to Spencer’s theory.

That, and the fact that they hadn’t even confirmed if this woman was still alive let alone living in Las Flores.

“Alright,” Hotch cut through the team’s conversation with a wave of his hand. “Morgan, ask Garcia to track down women who went into the hospital for ocular injuries three years ago and have moved to Las Flores since then,”

Morgan gives him a determined nod as he leaves the room once more, Hotch then turning his attention towards you.

“What have you done in the last few months that would’ve been told to the public?”

“I don’t know?” You give him an exasperated expression and raise your hands in a defensive manner. “Why would I know that? It’s not like I have someone telling me when I’m on the news,”

Hotch furrowed his eyebrow at your immediate defensiveness, reminding himself to be patient and bear with your short fuse because it technically wasn’t your fault.

Although it didn’t make it any less frustrating either way.

He turned his eyes towards Spencer, gesturing towards the door and then towards you as a silent order for him to speak to you privately outside.

If anyone was going to be able to get a piece of information out of you, consciously or subconsciously, it would be Spencer.

It took him a few seconds to compute Hotch’s message, but as soon as he did he stood from his seat, mug in hand.

“I’m going to make some more coffee, do you want some?” Spencer gives you a small and slightly awkward smile as he looks at you, and you raise an eyebrow in his direction.

“You don’t know how to make my coffee,”

“You can show me,” Spencer raises his eyebrows enthusiastically, lips pressed taut into a line as he silently prays for you to take the bait. And you do.

You don’t respond with more than pushing your chair away from the table to stand, but Spencer follows after you as you leave the meeting room nonetheless, gaining a small nod from Hotch that he returns with one of his own.

In the break room, Spencer watches you prepare your coffee, taking mental notes of the precise amount of creamer and sugar you add. He's careful to keep the conversation casual, asking about your preferences and subtly steering you towards the topic of recent events.

"I got a new therapist a few months ago," you admit, stirring your coffee. "She recommended having me moved into psychiatric care." The implication hangs clearly in the air.

"Psychiatric care?" Spencer echoes, his mind eagerly piecing together the information.

“Mhm,” You give him a small nod and you leave the teaspoon on the counter, taking a sip of your coffee.

Now that was something that might’ve been made public. If you had been recommended by a specialist to be moved out of a high-security prison and into a psychiatric institute the local news was bound to know about it.

"You being moved to a psychiatric facility would definitely make the news," Spencer mutters, drawing your attention back to him. "That could be the trigger point for our unsub,"

“Me going to a hospital? Seriously?” You scoff like that being a motive is pathetic.

“Yes, seriously,” Spencer replies, his expression serious. “It could signify a turning point, a change in your situation that the unsub might interpret as you escaping justice. It could be the catalyst that pushed them into action.”

He abandons his coffee mug on the counter as he ushers you back into the meeting room with the rest of the team, and all it takes is Hotch getting a single glance at Spencer’s expression to know that there was indeed a trigger for this murder spree.

“A few months ago, their therapist recommended moving them to a psychiatric facility," Spencer shares the information as soon as you both re-enter the room, "That could have been publicised, potentially triggering our unsub-”

“We found her,” Morgan interrupts Spencer’s explanation as he hurries into the room, phone still pressed against his ear as he reaches over to scribble down the name and address Garcia had recovered.

Louise Nueves, aged 29 was born and raised in Malibu, never having left the city for more than a week her entire life. That was, until she was hospitalised for three days for a severe ocular injury to her left eye.

She left the city less than a week after she was discharged, and supposedly never returned as she settled down in Las Flores instead.

She settled down, got married, started working in a small bakery, and overall just seemed to have a well-rounded and stable life after the trauma that she had endured back in her home town.

Morgan knocked harshly on the front door of her house, gun held firmly in his hand just in case Nueves deemed the threat of their presence as an incentive to act violently. “Louise Nueves, this is the FBI,”

The silence from the other side of the door seemed only to heighten the adrenaline running through the veins of the team.

It didn’t take long before Morgan was looking for permission to force the door open, and once he gained a nod from Hotch that’s exactly what he did, kicking the door handle loose and forcing the door open as the team filtered into the house to search for their suspect.

You were an exception of course, being confined to the entranceway with Spencer as your personal babysitter in case you managed to get yourself into any trouble or think about running off.

You hear an echo of ‘clear’s from the group as they sweep the house, seemingly completely devoid of any human presence outside of the FBI team. Until…

“You guys might wanna come see this,”

Emily’s voice sounded from upstairs, and she backed out into the stairway as she gestured for the team to join her up the stairs.

You give Spencer a look before walking over to the stairs, and his curiosity overrides his need to try and keep you in the entrance as he follows after you with the rest of the team following closely behind.

“This little bitch-“ The sight you were greeted with would’ve been extremely disturbing under normal circumstances, a corpse of a man - presumably Nueves’ husband - lying in its first stage of decay on the bed of the house’s master bedroom, a red rose resting on his chest.

Instead, your response was more angry at the blatant lack of originality in the way he was killed.

"Copying my kills is one thing," you spat out, your eyes burning with rage. "But having no innovation or creativity of their own? That's just pathetic." You crossed your arms over your chest, your gaze fixed on the lifeless body in front of you.

"Unique or not, it proves our hypothesis of who the copycat is," Morgan retorted, his gaze hardening at your callous words.

You rolled your eyes, huffing in annoyance. "Great."

Ignoring your sarcasm, Hotch spoke up, "We need to find Nueves before she kills again. Morgan, Reid, you're with me. We'll check her workplace. Rossi and JJ I want you to track down some of her friends, maybe they've noticed something off."

As they left, Emily turned to you, her eyes scrutinising. "What about them, Hotch? Do we just leave them at the station?"

"No," Hotch replied without missing a beat. "They’ll stay with you as you monitor the area. Keep an eye on them. We don't know how they might react now that their 'legacy' is being threatened."

With that, they left you in the company of Emily, the silence in the room amplifying the eerie sight of the corpse on the bed.

The tension was still very apparent despite you and Emily having no previous background, and you could tell that she wasn’t exactly thrilled with your company as the two of you left the house just as the authorities arrived, presumably called by Hotch as they left the scene.

“How does it feel to babysit a grown adult instead of doing something important?”

Emily shot you a sideways glance, her lips forming a thin line. "I'd like to think that keeping an eye on a serial killer counts as important, don't you?" she retorted, her voice icy.

“You’re supposed to be finding a serial killer, I haven’t done anything in years, what makes you think that I’m the threat?” You can’t help but scoff at her intonation as she speaks to you, it feeling oddly derogatory considering that you couldn’t even remember what her name was. “That’s some audacity alright,”

Emily narrowed her eyes at you, a flicker of annoyance crossing her features. "You may not think so, but your presence here is still a potential risk," she said, her tone sharp. "And until we know more, I'm not taking any chances."

She quickened her pace, leaving you to catch up as you followed her out of the residential area and into a nearby public park. Emily’s eyes scanned the area like a hawk as she walked, making you roll your eyes. “You really think she’s just going to be hanging around right next to her own house?”

Emily's gaze flickered toward you, her expression unyielding. "We're not looking for Nueves herself. We're looking for any clues, any signs of her recent activity or whereabouts," she explained tersely. "Every detail matters in a case like this."

She continued to lead the way through the park, her pace steady and purposeful. Despite your scepticism, you couldn't deny the intensity in her demeanour, the determination to solve the case weighing heavily in the air between you as you reluctantly tailed her like a toddler on a leash.

As you walked, Emily suddenly halted, her eyes narrowing as she caught sight of a lone figure sat on one of the park benches with their back to the two of you.

“Oh come on, it’s the middle of the day, of course there are people in the park.”

“Be quiet.” Emily approached the individual with her words barked out between her teeth. As you drew closer, you could see the figure was a woman, her head bowed and shoulders slumped. Emily called out to her, her voice firm yet cautious. "Excuse me, ma'am. Are you alright?"

The woman looked up, her eyes red-rimmed and filled with tears. "I-I'm fine," she stammered, quickly wiping at her cheeks. "Just... just having a moment." Her eyes seemed to flicker downwards towards Emily’s vest in confusion but she didn’t make any move to mention it.

Emily studied her for a moment longer before nodding, her hand slowly retracting from her weapon. “Alright. Just be careful out here, okay?” she advised before motioning for you to follow as she continued on the path.

You glanced back at the woman, her eyes following you in a mix of her previous sadness and confusion, seemingly unsure of how she should feel at an apparent FBI agent approaching her out of nowhere and then advising her to ‘be careful’.

“It’s you.” The new voice turns both of your heads in its direction.

Standing a few feet away was a woman and her dog, her demeanour tense yet strangely familiar. She looked at you with a mixture of surprise and recognition, her eyes lingering on Emily’s vest for a moment before returning to you.

“Excuse me?” You raise an eyebrow at the bluntness of her recognition of who you were, furrowing your eyebrows dismissively like she didn’t have the right to have recognised you in whatever way she had.

“You don’t know me?” Her tone carried a clear betrayal, as did the furrow in her eyebrows as she took a step towards you, one which Emily retaliated to by forcing you behind her with a heavy grip on your arm, one which you did not appreciate whatsoever as you pulled yourself from her grasp.

“Mrs Nueves?” Emily’s voice held a mix of apprehension and concern as she spoke, and she reached into her back pocket to thrust her phone into your hand before holding her fingers ready over her gun holster.

“You don’t remember me, do you? The woman ignored Emily completely, her voice tinged with bitterness as she stared at you, her features filled with betrayal as she realised you weren’t even looking at her, too preoccupied with trying to figure out why Emily had given you her phone.

“Mrs Nueves, my name’s Emily, I’m with the FBI, I understand that what you’re going through right now is extremely difficult but-”

“Shut up!” Nueves’ voice was harsh and drenched in ice as she spoke, holding her hand up dismissively. “I don’t care about you or your FBI friends-”

You had your back to the two by this point, and after a message had come through from Spencer about Nueves not being at her workplace you figured that the reason Emily as given you the phone was to get backup from the team.

oh. Right.

‘shes in the park by her house’

Of course she was. Because she was continually proving to be one of the stupidest people you’d ever encountered. Who decides to take their dog for a walk in the park two minutes from their house whilst being actively pursued by the police? Stupid people, that’s who. God, couldn’t the person copying your crimes at least be a competent one?

‘We’ll be there in ten minutes. Hold tight.’

“Look at me!” Nueves’ raised voice caused multiple heads to turn from the people wandering the park, including your own, and you turn your eyes away from the phone screen with a furrowed expression of annoyance.

“Do you have any idea what you did to me? How much I suffered because of what you did?” Nueves’ outbreak was very quickly garnering an audience from passersby, and could could practically feel the tension rolling off of Emily in waves as she tried to figure out what to do.

“You lived, get over it,” You were not helping.

The look on Nueves’ face at your words was almost incomprehensible, like she didn’t know what emotion she was supposed to be feeling at your nonchalance about what happened. Like you hadn’t ruined her entire life and caused her eternal suffering.

“Get over it? Look what you did to me!” Nueves barked out her words as she brought her left hand up to her eye, pulling at it until the sclera fell into the palm of her hand, leaving a dark pink void in its wake.

Your eyes immediately widened at the action, eyebrows furrowed in clear distaste for what you’d witnessed and that uncomfortable feeling that you’d experienced in the coroner’s office rising in your stomach the longer you looked at her.

“This is my life now.” She held up the piece of glass in her hand. “This is what I have to live with because of you.”

“Mrs Nueves-” Emily took a small step forward in her direction with both hands raised to appear as not threatening as possible.

“Don’t move-” Nueves dropped her dog’s leash at Emily’s advance to pull a small kitchen knife from her pocket, similar to one that would be used to cut vegetables or peel a potato.

Emily’s shoulders tense at the emergence of the weapon lips pursed into a tight line, and you’re sure that you might’ve been mildly concerned yourself if the knife blade wasn’t smaller than its handle. It didn’t make her look as intimidating as you assume she thinks she is, more like a teenager who carries around a switchblade in an attempt to make themself look tougher than they actually are.

Then again, this woman had actually killed people. Just not very well.

Still, if she thought that was a ‘big’ knife then her husband must’ve not been very satisfactory when it came to the bedroom.

"Put the knife down, Louise," Emily's voice was stern yet calm, her gaze unwavering. "We can talk about this, help you get the help you need. But first, you need to put the knife down."

Nueves seemed to consider this for a moment, her grip on the knife wavering. But then, her expression hardened, her eyes filled with a cold determination. "No," she stated firmly, "I won't."

“Mrs. Nueves,” Emily tried again, her voice laced with a calm authority, “you're not a killer. You're a victim, and we want to help you.”

Nueves let out a bitter laugh at this, her gaze never leaving Emily's. “A victim?” she echoed, her voice filled with scorn. “I stopped being a victim the moment I stopped letting them control my life.” She thrusts her arm forward with the knife in hand to point it in your direction, thankfully too far away for it to actually be anywhere near harming you. “You left me alive and it ruined everything.”

“I had to live with the pain, the nightmares, the constant fear. I had to watch my life fall apart while you just moved on to your next victim and left me without so much as a footnote in your confession." Nueves continued, her voice shaking with barely suppressed rage. "You think I'm the one who needs help? You're the monster, not me!”

“You had a hard time. Boo-hoo. But guess what? You're not the only one who's had to deal with shit. You're not special, Nueves.” You replied, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

Nueves' eyes flashed with anger at your dismissive words. "You don't get to talk to me like that. You don't get to belittle my pain. You don't get to decide how I should react to what you did to me."

"Actually, I do," you retorted, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'm the one who put you in this position. I'm the one who made you who you are today. And you know what? I'm not sorry. Because without me your life would’ve been completely insignificant.”

“Maybe I am a monster. But you, Nueves, are just a sad, pathetic little girl pretending to be a serial killer.” Nueves' face twisted with rage at your words, her grip on the knife tightening. But before she could react, Emily stepped in, her voice calm and authoritative.

“Enough,” she commanded, her gaze fixed on Nueves. “This isn't helping anyone. We're here to bring you in, Louise. To make sure you get the help you need.”

“I don't want your help,” Nueves spat back, her eyes still fixed on you with burning hatred. “I just want them to pay for what they did.”

“They are Louise, they’re paying for their actions every single day in a high-security prison,” Emily stated, her gaze unwavering as she shook her head gently. “They’re getting their punishment, you don’t have to do this, please, just put down the knife…” Emily’s eyes caught the SUV that parked on the side of the road as she talked. Looks like she’d managed to buy enough time for backup to arrive.

For a moment, it looked like Nueves might actually consider following Emily’s suggestion. But then she glanced back at you, her gaze hardening at your stare of indifference. “No,” she said, her voice filled with determination. “I won't let them get away with this. I won’t let them have control of how I live my life anymore.”

Nueves’ ramble deemed her oblivious to the agents approaching her from behind, ushering the few lingering witnesses to a safe distance away so that they could contain the area, and your eyes caught Dr Reid carefully scooping up the leashed dachshund into his arms after it’d scampered away from Nueves in her fit of rage.

“You don’t remember me?” Her eyes turned from seething to desperate in the split second she looked at you, voice raised as she tried to force your attention back onto her from your seeming uninterest in the confrontation. “You will.”

Morgan didn’t even have time to un-holster his gun before Nueves utilised the knife in her hand. Not on Emily, nor on you, but on herself, impaling the blade of the knife directly into her operational eye and forcing it deeper by slamming the palm of her hand into the wooden handle until it was almost completely encapsulated into her eye socket.

The sight was ghastly, blood spurting out of her eye as she fell onto the ground, convulsing from the pain and shock. You watched, a morbid fascination in your eyes as Emily quickly called for medical attention, her gaze flitting between you and the dying woman on the ground.

As the medics rushed to stabilise Nueves, Emily looked at you, her face pale. “You-” She said, her voice barely a whisper, “stay here.” She then hurriedly joined the medics, leaving you behind. You watched as the medics tried to recover her, but it was clear that her chances were slim. The sight of her writhing in pain, the blood pooling around her, was oddly satisfying to watch. A small, twisted part of you felt a sense of triumph at the confrontation's results, if not a little discontented with just how dramatic this woman proved to be.

The rest of the team moved to properly secure the area now that it was officially a crime scene as Emily, still with the medics, was applying pressure to Nueves' wound, her hands smeared with blood.

As you watched the scene unfold, a bizarre sense of calm washed over you. This chaos, this pain, was a result of your actions, your legacy, and despite the horrific circumstances, you couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of satisfaction.

From a distance, you could see Hotch talking to Emily, his expression unreadable. Emily nodded, her eyes briefly meeting yours before diverting away. She looked shaken, the dark red of Nueves’ quickly oxidising blood on her hands a stark contrast against her pale skin.

You tried to imagine the emotions she was grappling with. After all, she was a part of a team that had sworn to protect innocents from people like you. And now, because of you, she had blood on her hands.

The medics finally lifted Nueves onto a stretcher, rushing her towards the waiting ambulance. Emily stood there for a moment longer, watching as the ambulance sped away, before finally turning her eyes towards you, unfocused on how Morgan was gently trying to usher her towards another pair of EMTs so that she could be checked over.

There was zero chance Nueves was going to make it to the hospital in time.

Emily’s gaze was hard, filled with a mixture of anger, confusion, and something you couldn't quite place. Fear, perhaps? Or maybe disappointment? Regardless, it was clear that the events of the day had left a deep impact on her.

As you watched them walk away, the satisfaction from earlier began to fade, replaced by a strange emptiness. You were alone again, left with nothing but the aftermath of your actions. And as you stared at the spot where Nueves had fallen, the blood still fresh on the grass, you couldn't help but wonder if this was all worth it.

But then, you remembered the look on Nueves’ face, the horror in her expression at her own pain. And you knew, without a doubt, that it was. Maybe she was right, you just might remember her for that stunt she pulled, although most definitely not in a positive light.

“Are you alright?” The ever-calm voice of Spencer Reid pulled you away from mulling over your own feelings, and you give him an animated sway of your head back and forth as a silent communication of you not falling in either emotional direction.

It truly was fascinating how removed you were from everything, and as twisted and convoluted as it might sound, Spencer wasn’t looking forward to your departure from accompanying the team. It meant that he didn’t get to speak to you anymore. Didn’t get to slowly peel away the layers of protection you’d built over your psyche so that he could pry at your inner workings.

And he didn’t exactly mind having you around. But that was something he was going to keep to himself for a multitude of reasons.

“It’s all too over the top for my taste,” You shrug your shoulders nonchalantly, stretching your arms above your head. “Here, it’s the one with the ponytail’s,” You hold the cell phone out between your thumb and index finger like it might give you a disease if you hold it properly.

“Why-” Spencer starts his question and is immediately interrupted by your answer. “She gave it to me to message one of you where we were,”

So it was you who’d messaged him then. He thought the punctuation was different.

“Right, that makes sense,” He takes the phone from you with an awkward smile as he puts it away in his back pocket. “Thank you,”

You give him a short hum in reply, crossing your arms over your torso and leaning back and forth on the balls of your feet like you were becoming bored with just standing around. You’d just been a potential hostage at knife point and then watched someone graphically commit suicide specifically to gain your attention and less than five minutes after it was over you were looking for something new to capture your attention.

It utterly fascinated him. You were fascinating.

And you were leaving.

Literally.

You were walking away, obviously having had enough of Spencer’s silence and wandering off to find Hotch and maybe experience something more enticing.

“Hey-” Spencer called out to you as you began to walk away, and you stopped with a glance over your shoulder and a raised eyebrow. “What are you feeling right now?”

You stuff your hands in your pockets at his question, turning 180 degrees to face him once more with a slightly furrowed expression as you tried to figure out the motive behind his question.

“I wonder if she saw the afterlife.”

Spencer’s shoulders drop at your admission, his expression morphing into a mix of understanding and confusion, contradiction written all over his features.

You seemed more objectively curious than humanly concerned, but you still were curious nonetheless.

That was another fascinating part about you, or just about sociopaths in general, he supposes. But he wasn’t speaking to every sociopath in existence, he was speaking to you. So it was less about sociopathy and more about you specifically.

“Do you think she saw the afterlife?”

“Logically, she didn’t have any eyes so she wasn’t ‘seeing’ anything, but metaphorically I’d like to believe so,”

Spencer has to stifle a surprised laugh at your morbid joke about Nueves’ condition, pressing his lips into a tight line with a small nod as he tried to focus on the second part of your statement. “Me too,”

There was a small sense of deja vu surrounding your conversation as the two of you fell into a mutual silence, hastily interrupted by Hotch calling the two of you to gather with the rest of the team now that the case was officially over.

You noticed the distaste in Emily’s gaze immediately, looks like you’ve gained yourself another detractor. She and Morgan stood side by side with matching expressions as the two of you joined them, although neither had time to make any comments as the team loaded up in the SUVs to head back to the station.

It was rather hard to believe it’d only been six days in Las Flores, but dates don’t lie, and by the time you stepped back onto the BAU’s private jet, it felt like you’d only left it for a matter of hours.

Nueves’ face was fading from your mind by now, as was her name, and as you plopped yourself down on the same seat you’d occupied on your flight from Quantico, you’d almost forgotten that she even existed.

Your mind was more preoccupied with what was going to happen next. You were going to fly back to Quantico, be recovered by California state officials, and taken back to the concrete hell of the California Correctional Institution until your appeal to be moved to an inpatient psychiatric care facility was considered and ultimately rejected because they still deemed you ‘too dangerous’ to be around vulnerable individuals despite sharing mental issues with a lot of them.

Spencer gave you an awkward wave as he walked down the aisle of the cabin and stopped at the seat opposite you, hoping the movement would grab your attention.

“Do you-” He half gestures to the seat facing you with his hand, and you dismissively wave him into it as you return your attention to the window. “Thanks…”

You give him a hum at his politeness but otherwise remain uninterested in his presence, fastening the seat belt over your lap as the jet pilots prepare for the five-hour flight back to Quantico.

“What’re you thinking about?” Spencer abandons his original plan to sleep through the entire flight the second he sees the pondering in your expression.

You glanced at Spencer, contemplating whether to confide in him about your concerns. Out of everyone, he was probably the one person you’d met on the team who seemed genuinely interested in your experiences. He was one of the few who could understand the complexities of your situation. With a sigh, you decided to open up a little, "Just thinking about what happens now. Back to the concrete hell of my enclosure I guess.”

“I thought you were appealing the decision? That’s why you agreed to help, isn’t it? So the officials are more likely to accept your appeal?” Spencer tilts his head slightly in your direction, raising an eyebrow in your direction as he curled his legs under him in his chair.

“You really think that it’s actually going to do anything?” Your voice is dripping in sarcasm as you let your head fall back against the seat. “They’re seething enough that I didn’t get the death penalty, there’s no way they’re going to cut my sentence,”

“I don’t see why they shouldn’t,” Spencer blinks at you with a mildly furrowed expression. “You’re not an active threat to anybody, and having the help that you need could greatly improve your quality of life,”

“Yeah well you’re not the person who’s going to be analysing my case, so your opinion doesn’t really matter in the greater span of things does it, Dr. Reid?” Your tone carries no malice in your statement, although it comes off much more rude than he’s sure you mean it to be.

His opinion could matter. He knows that as a part of the evaluation you’ll have to go through Hotch will have to write a report on how you acted during the case. Maybe he could put in a few extra things he’d experienced with you. He’s sure that the psychiatrist assessing whether you were actively violent would benefit from knowing how much you adored your parents, how you wondered if your childhood pet was in the afterlife and how you engaged in a genuine emotional conversation with him despite all of your social stunts from your disorder.

You obviously still had your humanity, so he didn’t see why they wouldn’t allow you to have the facilities to improve your mental state to a point where one day you could possibly be a functioning member of society, or at least be in a position to help researchers understand more about your condition.

“Having optimism about an upcoming situation has proved to actually affect the outcome of said situation, with 36% of people who had been optimistic about negative situations physically affecting the outcome of those situations based on their outlook alone,” Spencer presses his lips into a line, another one of those awkward smiles that you’d become used to over your time with him.

“I prefer realism, but I suppose I’ll take that into account,”

“That’s all I can ask,” Spencer gives a soft exhale at your inadvertent agreement to take his advice, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “I’ll visit you once your appeal has gone through,” The statement fell out of his mouth without any real thought behind it, simply a reflection of his brain deciding he wasn’t quite done with your company yet despite the case officially being over.

“Of course you will,”

Spencer gives a short laugh of mild embarrassment. “Of course I will.”

[covenofagatha]

A dance with death (and her wife) (Part 2)

A look into Agatha and Rio's home life, and you are reeling from having The Witch and Lady Death in your motel room

Word count: 4200

Warnings: mentions of murder, manipulativeness, light gaslighting

The same morning you get called to Westview, Agatha Harkness wakes up to find her wife, Rio Vidal, staring at her. 

“If you were going to kill me, how would you do it?” Rio asks, and Agatha raises an eyebrow. 

“Good morning to you, too,” she groans, propping herself up on her elbows to get a better look at Rio, who is lounging in the chair in the corner. “How long have you been watching me sleep?” 

Rio shrugs. “You make it sound like I’m some serial killer who’s about to murder you.” Her eyes widen conspiratorially and Agatha snorts before plopping back down. 

“She’s getting here today, you know,” Agatha says and she can hear Rio’s breath hitch. 

She leans forward in the chair. “When do you think she’ll come see me?” The eagerness is evident in her voice, and Agatha knows how she feels. 

“Once we pull off our little ‘Welcome to Westview’ stunt tonight? I bet no time at all,” Agatha answers. 

Rio grins, seemingly satisfied with the answer, and picks up the skeleton mask sitting on the dresser. She fiddles with the strings and holds it up to her face. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that Miami director books the appointment himself. Do police detectives usually include a business card to their wife’s therapy practice in their information file to the FBI?” 

“Better hope he doesn’t just pull her off the case,” Agatha remarks, ignoring the question, and finally gets up out of bed and walks past the bouquet of purple azaleas on the vanity. “He’s pretty serious when it comes to protecting her. Especially after…” 

“No,” Rio cuts her off and Agatha looks at her wife in surprise. Rio puts her mask down, stands up, and walks over so she’s face-to-face with the older woman. She reaches a hand out to put it gently around Agatha’s throat, who doesn’t even flinch. Rio smirks and drags her hand downward so it’s resting over her heart. “We’re finally getting what we want. Do you know how long we’ve been waiting for this? For her? I’m not letting her go.”

Agatha tilts her head to the side, thinking for a second. “If I were going to kill you, I’d fill a syringe with air and inject it into your bloodstream under your toenail. The death would mimic a heart attack and the track mark would be almost impossible to find. I’d tell the authorities that you were under so much stress as a therapist that it eventually took a toll on your body,” she says slowly, clinically even, watching Rio’s hazel eyes get dark. 

She hums and looks down at Agatha’s lips. “You really know how to make a lady swoon.” Rio gives her a quick peck and leaves the room so her wife can get ready for work. 

On her way to the kitchen, Rio steps into the spare room in the hallway and takes a deep breath, feeling the tension seeping from her muscles. The table in the middle of the room is covered in vials, all Agatha’s doing. They don’t call her The Witch for nothing, Rio thinks. She picks up her own dagger and twirls it between her practiced fingers while she admires the handiwork on the left side of the room. 

From ceiling to floor, the wall is completely covered with you. Every single case file you’ve profiled for, pictures of you from now all the way back to your childhood, transcripts from Quantico and college. Rio’s favorite photo hangs front and center, the one of the scar you got from dealing with the Scarlet Killer, all rough and jagged. 

Rio would’ve made it prettier. 

Patience, she reminds herself. 

The trap has been laid. All that’s left to do is wait. 

***

You turn the entire motel room upside down, scourging for anything else the killers may have left behind: a camera or a listening device, or maybe even a clue. 

Nothing. 

And then you kick yourself for touching everything because now you can’t even test for prints. Plus, it’s a motel room so you’re not sure you’d be able to narrow it down. 

The phone is in your hand dialing Tony back before you can think. He doesn’t answer and you slam it down on the bed in frustration. 

They were here. The Witch and Lady Death were in your room. 

You draw the blinds and deadbolt the door, making a mental note to ask the front desk to change the locks. How did they get in? How did they know you were going to get food? 

A cold feeling sinks into your bones. They must be watching you. 

And what’s to stop them from coming back? This time though, when you’re in the room? 

Anyone could be next. Agatha’s words echo around in your head and you didn’t realize just how true they are until now. 

You don’t realize you’re hyperventilating until you feel dizzy and gag. Then you run to the bathroom and puke into the toilet. Wiping a hand across your sweaty forehead, your mind spins with what to do. 

You could call the police, but you don’t think they would do any good, especially after you’ve tampered with evidence. There were no cameras in this motel, you had already checked. 

Pacing back and forth, head in your hands, you try and try and try to think of what to do. 

And finally you think of something. 

You punch in the number and hold the phone up to your ear. 

It rings three times and then there’s a click. 

“Dr. Rio Vidal’s office, if this is an emergency please hang up the phone and call 911. If not, this is Dr. Vidal, how can I help you?” 

You take a shaky breath and press your fingers to your forehead to stave off the incoming headache. “Um, yes, hi, I was calling to see if I could make an appointment? The sooner, the better.” 

There’s shuffling and then tapping of keys on a computer. “What’s your name?” When you say it, you hear a sharp inhale and then a cough. “Sorry about that. How does 1 pm tomorrow sound?” 

You blink. You didn’t realize you’d be able to get in that fast, but you suppose in a small town like Westview, not many people are going to therapy. “Yeah, that would be great. I’ll see you tomorrow then. Thank you.” 

“Bye, Agent Y/L/N,” she says. You frown. You never told her you were an agent. But you figure it’s been announced that you’re coming, so you brush it off. 

You take a quick shower and then get into bed, trying to relax and maybe get some sleep. You promised Tony you’d get five hours a night, but you’ll be lucky if you even get one. 

At every groan and creak, you jump and grab your gun, sitting up completely alert. It’s always the wind or a tree branch or the building settling. 

You lay under the sheets, hand gripped around your weapon, and you don’t sleep a wink. 

When you get to the station the next morning, the first person you see is Agatha. She looks up at you, takes in your new outfit, and smiles brightly. 

The killers replaced all your clothes so you had no choice but to wear the new ones until you’re able to go shopping. You wouldn’t be surprised if they laced the fabric with something and you end up dead before lunch, but it’s snowing today and you had nothing else to wear. 

“Have a good first night in Westview?” She asks and you cautiously glance around the room. 

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” You ask urgently, voice low. Concern flits onto her face and she nods and stands up. She pulls you into the evidence locker. “They were at my motel last night,” you hiss. 

Agatha’s hand flies to her mouth. “The killers? Are you sure?” 

You nod furiously. “I had left to get food and when I came back, the door was open and they had packed my suitcase with all new stuff—” You motion down at your body and she checks you out again. “—and perfume and then they circled ‘lovers’ on a sticky note I had to tell me their relationship and they left the flower on my table!” 

“Slow down,” Agatha says and you realize you’ve been talking so fast that you haven’t taken a breath. She puts her hands on your shoulders. “Did you see them? Did they come back?” 

“No, not yet at least. I don’t understand, if they wanted to kill me, why not just wait until I was there? Or asleep?” 

“Maybe they didn’t want to kill you,” Agatha suggests. “Maybe they just wanted to send you a message or something. It’s pretty big news that we have a profiler from the FBI here to help stop them.” 

You frown. “So they wanted to let me know they’re not scared of me?” 

She shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. Who knows what they’re thinking. But the most important thing is that you’re okay. We can send over some officers later to test for evidence, if you want.” 

“It’s no use, I tore the place apart last night,” you say, shaking your head at your own stupidity. She squeezes your shoulders. 

“Hey, don’t worry. Like you said, if they wanted you dead, you’d be dead. Let’s go out there and work on catching them so you and everyone else in Westview can sleep easy, yeah?” 

You nod, feeling a little better but then you pause. “Agatha, are you afraid?”

Something flickers in her eyes before it's quickly replaced by humor. “I think they know better than to break into the home of a decorated detective such as myself,” she says haughtily and you can’t help but to laugh. She chuckles too, but then something in her face changes. 

Before you can ask what’s wrong, she leans in and sniffs up your neck. You freeze and find all the air in your lungs gone. 

“New perfume?” She mutters. 

You had put it on this morning without even thinking about it as your usual had also been taken. Thanatos. The Greek personification of death. 

Or as Freud defined it, a person’s urge to die. 

“Yeah,” you stutter. Agatha finally pulls back and her blue eyes are dilated. You find your gaze dropping down to her mouth again and you want to feel her lips on yours. 

“You said they packed your suitcase with all new stuff,” she says in a hushed voice and your heartbeat picks up. “Did they give you that too?” 

“Yes,” you whisper, and instead of looking disgusted, like you thought she would, she looks excited. 

She leans back in and presses her face into your neck and are you imagining her lips ghosting against your skin or is that really happening? It feels like your entire body is on fire. 

They trail up, light as a feather against your jugular vein, and she’s at your chin when the door slams open and you jump back. She winks and then she’s turning on her heel and walking out. It’s an officer, trying to book evidence, looking very confused. 

“Making friends, Miami?” He jokes and your face flushes before you quickly leave the room before finding Agatha and the rest of the detectives back in the room with the case information. 

You tirelessly pour over every single detail for the next few hours to no avail. You toss out theories but Agatha always finds something that doesn’t add up and you’re always back to square one. 

But then it’s time for your therapy appointment, so you drop your pen down to the table and gather the pages of your chicken scratch to throw in your bag. 

“I have to head out,” you say hastily and Agatha glances up. 

“Hot date, superstar?” She teases and the memory of her mouth on your neck burns through you. 

You shake your head. “Just uh, going to the doctor.” 

She raises an eyebrow daringly and smirks. “Have fun.” 

You give her a tight smile and then you’re in your car driving to the office. There’s people walking on the street on your route and you can’t help but wonder which of them might be the next victim. 

It’s always been hard to not get too attached to the people in the towns you work at. Looking at them, knowing tomorrow they might not be alive, it takes a toll on you. 

That’s part of the reason you get so attached. The waiting, the not knowing. It eats away at you. 

Dr. Vidal’s office is tucked away in the corner of a string of workspaces in a building, and you feel something weird in your stomach as you walk up the steps. For the third time in the past 24 hours, your scar sears with a pain you haven’t felt since right after. You have to stop and breathe deeply before opening the door. 

A woman sits at the front desk typing on her computer. She barely even looks at you and you stand at the desk for a moment before clearing your throat. 

“Um, hi, I have an appointment for one? I’m Y/N,” you say and it’s like she’s finally realized someone’s standing there. 

She hums in acknowledgement and scrolls until she finds your name and clicks. “The doctor will be with you shortly.” 

You tap the desk and go sit down, wiping your palms on your pants. It’s only a few minutes before a door opens and your name is called. 

Walking into the room, the first thing you notice is the thick smell of nature. And then you see plants everywhere. Bookshelves line the walls, full with books and pots of every type of plant and flower you’ve ever seen. Your eyes narrow, but you don’t see anything purple. 

And then you see Dr. Vidal sitting behind a large desk. You tentatively take a seat in one of the chairs across from her, squirming under her intense gaze. She’s an attractive woman, hair pulled back into a tight bun and brown eyes that seem to stare into your soul. There’s not a hair out of place on her desk; everything is meticulously organized and right where she needs it. 

You clear your throat. “Big plant lover?” You say, and it’s an incredibly awkward way to make a first impression. You’ve never been good at therapy, or with uncomfortable silences. 

But she doesn’t seem to care, finds it almost amusing. Her tongue pushes against the inside of her cheek and she settles forward. “So, what brings you to therapy?” 

You don’t even know where to start. “I just got to town, and um, oh – I’m a profiler, by the way, for the FBI. I’m here working on the case with The Witch and Lady Death.” 

“Lady Death?” Dr. Vidal asks, giving you an intrigued look. 

“Oh, we figured out that there’s actually two killers. That’s what I nicknamed the other one, because apparently she’s been seen with the bottom half of a skeleton mask on her face. Wait, this is all confidential right?” 

“Of course,” she assures you, voice smooth as honey. “Anything you say here doesn’t leave this room unless you threaten to hurt yourself or someone else. So, you’re here about the case?” 

You nod, playing with the hem of your sweater. “Yeah, you could say that. I sort of have some obsessive tendencies when it comes to cases like these, and I just wanted to get ahead of them before I spiraled again.” 

“What does a spiral look like for you?” 

Chewing on your nail, your gut twists and you can feel Wanda’s knife jabbing into you. “I stop eating, stop sleeping. The work consumes me, I can’t take a break. I don’t want to take a break. There’s just this overwhelming need to catch the killer and I won’t stop – I can’t stop – until I find them. It can be dangerous.” 

She nods and writes something down in her notebook. “Why did you become a profiler?” 

“To help people,” you answer immediately. “I like reading the killers, figuring out what they’re thinking, getting inside their heads and beating them at their own game.” 

“When did you start knowing you wanted to do this? Why not just become a detective or something?” 

This one takes a bit longer to think about. “I don’t know, I just remember being a kid and wanting to…” You trail off, suddenly feeling confused. “I’m sorry, I don’t really know what I was going to say.” Something is weird, wrong even. What were you thinking of? 

“No, don’t apologize,” Dr. Vidal says, laying her hands on the desk with wide eyes. “You wanted to what as a kid? What happened that made you want to think like a killer?” 

A dull ache starts to throb against your skull the harder you try and think about it. “I don’t know,” you repeat, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’m not thinking like a killer, I’m figuring out the way their brain works. So I can catch them.” 

She leans back and crosses her arms. “What do you feel when you think like them?” 

“What does this have to do with–” But you’re cut off by a blinding burst of pain and then glimpses of something you can’t quite explain flash through your mind. 

Snow. 

Trees. 

A clearing in the woods. 

Red birds flutter from the branches, startled by something. 

You hear your name and the images are gone. Dr. Vidal is watching you closely, breathing heavily. “What was that?” 

Shaking your head, you try to make sense of what just happened. Memories or hallucinations? “Um, sorry, I don’t know. What was the question?” 

Her eyes are dark and they remind you of Agatha’s in the evidence locker. How she had leaned down and smelled the perfume you were wearing. You shift in your chair. 

“I was asking what your coping mechanisms are for when you start to feel yourself spiraling,” she says, and you’re still a little foggy, but you’re pretty sure that’s not what she asked. 

You think you might be going crazy. “My boss back in Miami was pretty good about recognizing when I needed to take a step back. I’m trying to not get too involved and make sure I’m eating and staying hydrated and sleeping enough. And I’m here, so I think this should help.” 

“That’s what I’m here for,” Dr. Vidal says with a smile. “If you ever start to feel too drawn in, take three deep breaths and then do the 5-4-3-2-1 technique. Are you familiar?” 

You almost roll your eyes. That’s exactly what they told you to do during your mandated therapy. Name five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste. It was meant to ground you and reduce your anxiety. 

“Yeah, I’ve tried it a few times, but it didn’t really work for me,” you admit and she waves dismissively. 

She quickly scribbles something down and rips out a chunk of paper, sliding it across to you. “This is my cell,” she says. “Call me anytime, day or night, if you ever need to talk. Sometimes that’s the best way to calm down. I know you’re new here, but do you have anyone else, maybe someone you’ve been working with that you could talk to if you need to?” 

“There’s this one woman I work with that’s pretty nice. She’s the main detective on the case, so I think I could reach out if I really needed to,” you say and she looks pleased. 

“Detective Harkness?” Dr. Vidal asks. 

In a small town, people are bound to be familiar with each other. “Um, yeah, do you know her?” 

She smirks. “Very well. She’s quite attractive, don’t you think?” 

The question catches you off-guard. Is everyone in this place weird? “I mean, sure, of course. Are you allowed to say that?” 

“Well, she’s my wife so I would hope so.” 

Your mouth drops open. Her lips on your skin, ghosting along your neck, filling you with heat and a need for more. “Oh, I’m so sorry for saying that, I had no idea, obviously. We just work together.” 

“Don’t be, doll. I’m sure the two of you would make quite the pair,” Dr. Vidal says, and you ignore the possible unprofessionalism at the pet name. She doesn’t seem offended at all, only fascinated. 

You shift in your seat again while trying to figure out what to say. “Well–” you start, but she cuts you off. 

“Let me guess, she’s been flirting?” 

Fuck. What do you even say? Is Dr. Vidal going to be mad, say she can’t treat you anymore? It’s not your fault, you hadn’t done anything. 

She scoffs. “You’re such a pretty young thing, I can’t blame her. You’ll have to come over for dinner with us some night.” 

“Um, is that allowed?” You ask, blinking slowly. You have absolutely no idea what is going on. Is your therapist suggesting a threesome with you and her wife and woman you’re working with? 

“Getting a meal with your support system? Why wouldn’t it be?” When she phrases it like that, it’s hard to find an error with her logic. 

You shrug. It would be nice to be able to talk freely about things. And you’re sure Agatha has told her about the case already. “Yeah, okay.”

“Is there anything else you want to talk about?” 

The question weighs on your mind as you chew on your lip and debate whether or not to tell her about the images you just saw. You don’t remember ever being in those woods. “Do patients ever, I don’t know, see things while they talk to you? Like false memories or something?” 

This gets her attention. “What did you see?” 

“Snow, and woods, and a flock of birds. I don’t know, it felt familiar but I’ve never…” You try to put it into words, but you don’t know how. 

“What happens when you try to follow that memory?” She asks and you close your eyes, but there’s nothing. 

“I–I can’t. There was like a pain in my head when you asked about what made me want to think like a killer, and then I saw it, but it’s not happening now.” You sound defeated, a testament to your frustration. 

Dr. Vidal frowns. “Do you know what repressed memories are? And I never asked you that.” 

It’s like the floor tilts under you and you stare blankly at her. You can only focus on the latter part. “No, you did, I remember…” You start to breathe heavily, panic rising in your chest, and she comes over to rub at your back. “I don’t understand.” 

“It’s possible you’re feeling a little overwhelmed by all this. I think you need to go home and get some rest. Did you sleep last night?” 

It makes sense to you now. You didn’t sleep at all, your brain is just playing tricks on you. “No.” 

She nods. “Go home. Take a nap. Let’s book a follow up, though. See if we can get to the bottom of those images.” 

You choose to come back in three days in the afternoon again and then you drive back to the motel. Your exhaustion suddenly weighs a ton and all you have to do is stumble in your room, collapse on the bed, and you pass out. 

The snow crunches underneath your boots as you trode through it. Branches claw at your legs through your pants and the wind whips your cheeks. 

It’s cold, but you can’t feel it. 

Where are you going? You don’t know, but your legs do. They take you through the woods into the clearing. 

You stand alone for a few minutes and then you hear someone – something? – approaching. 

A purple wolf. 

You crouch down to your knees and it saunters up to you. One eye is a piercing blue, the other is hazel. 

So familiar, yet otherworldly. You don’t understand. 

It opens its mouth to say something, and you’re leaning in to make sure you hear it, when –

Your phone rings and it jolts you awake in a cold sweat. You roll over in bed to find you’ve been asleep for hours. You reach for your phone when you realize that you’re completely naked. 

How did that happen? 

When you were younger, you know you had problems with sleep-walking, but you would always keep your clothes on. You file that away to talk to Dr. Vidal about next time. 

“Hello?” You say groggily, not even checking who’s on the other line. 

“It’s Agatha,” the voice says and it’s like a bucket of cold water gets thrown on you. “There’s been another murder.”

[dustandthought]

Abigail from RDR2

She gives me such mixed feelings. Judgment. Respect. Hatred. Admiration.

Probably the most controversial and complex character for me.

Let’s start with the cons:

A terrible mother.

2. A completely unremarkable person.

1. ⚘️ Mother.🤱

Let’s start with this: when you bring a person into this world, give them life — you carry responsibility. (Many might judge me for criticizing a beloved character, but I speak as a mother .)

I won’t criticize Abigail for her early “job,” where she serviced men. That’s her business. But the fact that she willingly slept with anyone — knowing it could lead to pregnancy — and still got pregnant and gave birth… There’s no excuse for that. Not her age. Not life circumstances. It was completely her responsibility, her choice. (I’m not talking about John here — this post isn’t about him. But yes, I have no fewer complaints about him either — and no excuses.)

It’s terrifying to think that with the number of men she was with, literally anyone could’ve been the father.

And then, when she realizes she’s pregnant, she’s already in the gang, and she tells the potential father — and he refuses to take responsibility.

Okay. So what does Abigail do next? She stays in a gang full of criminals and killers with a child. She raises her son in that environment.

The first thing that surprised me when I played Chapter 1 and got to camp was: “What’s a kid doing here?” I thought maybe he was an orphan they took in or something like that. Because he stayed on the sidelines, didn’t hang around anyone, was always on his own through so many chapters…

And then I realized — this child has a mother. And a father. A father who doesn’t even acknowledge him.

And in my head, I immediately thought: What are you even doing here, woman???

Why would you drag a 4-year-old, dressed in rags and light clothing (while you’re dressed warmly), into the mountains, into snow and a blizzard, where all of you could’ve starved to death if not for Arthur and Charles?

Are you a wanted criminal? No. Do you need to hide? No. Is your child a wanted criminal? No!

Then why the hell are you dragging him into this?

Because of a man who’s ignored you and your child for four years? Because of some fake sense of family with people you used to partially service?

So what’s more important… Your own child, who didn’t ask to be born and was your decision? Or a group of murderers you hang around with, who put your child at risk?

HE DIDN’T ASK TO BE BORN!!! HE DIDN’T ASK TO BE PART OF THIS LIFE!!! HE DIDN’T ASK TO SEE DEATH, STARVATION, THREATS, CRIME, SHOOTOUTS, OR THE ITALIAN MOB!!! HE JUST WANTED TO BE A CHILD — WITH A MOM, A HOME, AND BOOKS!!! 🤬🤬🤬

GIVE HIM A LIFE, NOT JUST SURVIVAL!!!

I was furious at the moment when Abigail told Jack he was wearing rags — then asked Arthur for $5 to buy him clothes…

But then she talks with Grimshaw. Susan says they need money, hints that Abigail should go back to her old job.

And what does Abigail say?

“I don’t do that anymore.”

She refuses. Wants to be better.

Okay… WHAT??? 🤨

Woman, your personal values — that’s admirable. But you have little Jack. He’s hungry. He needs clothes. Not torn boots. BOOKS!

You used to sell yourself when you were hungry — But when your child says, “Mommy, I’m hungry,” you suddenly become moral and above all that?!

Any mother should be willing to do anything for her child — You should go above and beyond, but he shouldn’t have to cry from hunger!!!

And then this moment…

When Jack says he’ll grow up to be a gunslinger — and she tells him he’ll be a lawyer…

…Oh sure, growing up in a gang hideout, of course he’ll be a lawyer…

The only truly selfless, right decision she could’ve made then — Was to leave the gang. Cut ties. Escape. Try — at any cost — to give Jack a better life.

No matter what people say about how hard life was for women back then, about how “there were no jobs” — There WERE jobs. !!! Yes, they were few. Yes, hard. But they existed.

Take Tilly as an example — she got a job as a governess with rich people. You could work in the fields, on a farm, or even still be a prostitute, for all I care — But it would be safer than handing your child over to a mob boss like Angelo Bronte, And after getting him back — doing NOTHING. Not even saying, “That’s it! We’re done here!” No, you go on — keeping him in that nightmare.

2. ⚘️ Wife and Person. 🧘‍♀️

Let’s skip to the epilogue. Abigail, John, and Jack. No more gang. Years have passed.

If in the first half of this post I was completely judging her — Here I’m just… confused.

Why doesn’t she grow as a person? Why doesn’t she learn to read? Why doesn’t she learn to cook? Why is she still making Pearson’s stew eight years later, and still doing it badly?

She knew Pearson way less time than she’s been cooking his damn stew after the gang fell apart!

I never saw any ambition in her. No drive to grow in any area. To become better, to be a role model for her son… Even when she had the chance.

But now — the Pros. Admiration.

Yes, despite everything, Abigail has strong qualities, and I want to highlight them:

1. Even if it took eight years — she goes out and gets a job.

.......................................

And she works! It makes her happy, and it makes me, as a player, happy. Because I am proud of her choice. She starts small, but she earns an honest living, she tries to leave the past behind. She grew up. It’s like watching a messed-up kid finally decide to get their act together. And you think: “Now you’re doing it right. Now — good job.”

2. She chose her child over a man.

......................................

That was the moment I truly respected her. She leaves. She doesn’t want Jack to see death. She doesn’t want that fate for him. Yes, it’s late, but she realized it. She left John, clearly stating what she wants. She didn’t choose herself, or John — she chose Jack. And finally — she acted like a mother.

3. The Ranch.

...........................................

She set a goal. She realized she deserved more than to be a whore or a camp maid. She wanted stability. And she was ready to fight for it. She’s strong. She can do it.

100% respect.

4. She loved John.

..........................................

Madly loved him. This woman was ready to do anything for him. And she did everything she could. Loyalty. Courage. Patience. And the ability to look past flaws for the sake of love. It’s crazy. It’s foolish. But in our cruel world — it’s also precious.

5. The dialogue before “American Venom.”

..............................................

I wanted to punch John. Seriously. When he ignored his woman, when she was begging him through tears, and he still walked away to do his thing.

Revenge? Settling scores? The past? I understand John — the need for justice, closure to old pain…

BUT I UNDERSTAND HER TOO.

Anyone who judges Abigail for “throwing a fit” in that moment — Are you serious?! That was a tiny meltdown!

WOMAN, YOU SHOULD’VE KICKED HIM IN THE BALLS.

What kind of man hears his wife cry and still walks off for revenge, risking EVERYTHING? EVERYTHING they built together. Risking making her a widow, and Jack — an orphan.

MIKA COULD’VE WON!!!

Conclusion.

If you compare Abigail Roberts and Abigail Marston — they are two completely different people.

Yes, at the start she fills me with rage and horror. But by the end — I see growth. I see a woman who — late, but still — tried to give Jack the best she could.

She’s not perfect. She’s — just like the rest of us.

And that’s exactly why her character is — beautiful.

I love her. 🩷🩷🩷

(This analysis is only about RDR2, without considering RDR1 events.)

[wafflefries13]

Murder on the Mr. Bluebird Express (TWST x Reader)

Summary:

It's your birthday! To celebrate, Malleus has scored you and all your friends tickets on the famous Mr. Bluebird Express. As you all board the train, isolated with no cell service, the night can only go well, right? ... Right?

Warnings: Slight depictions of blood and gore (?), character injury, happy ending (I promise, guys, I can't follow through with angst to save my life), can be read as platonic or romantic, afab reader with she/her pronouns

Cross posted on my AO3 TheGhostInTheKitchen

Author's note: I've always loved mysteries, so this is my first try at actually writing one. Not sure how good it actually is, but if you never practice you'll never get any better at it. I got the idea from an episode of Detective Academy Q, if anyone has ever seen that anime. Thanks for reading!

“Your birthday is soon, isn’t it?” Malleus asked as if he hadn’t marked the date on his calendar months ahead of time. “You must tell me what you would like for a present. No object is out of reach.”

(Y/N) waved her hand at him. “No, don’t worry about it. It’s on a weekend, which is good. Having the day off is pretty much all I really want. Well, you know, as much a day off as I can get. I’m sure Crowley will find something else for me to do.” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Ooh, maybe we can go into town. I wouldn’t mind if you get me lunch from that one cafe in Foothill Town.”

“Nothing would make me happier.” He said, putting a hand to his chest and bowing regally. (Y/N) laughed, shoving him playfully. Green fireflies swirled around them, the only light accompanying the stars on the moonless night. Although it was late, Malleus and (Y/N) had become more than accustomed to their late night walks at this point that they were both wide away at this time of night no matter what.

“Oh, don’t let me forget,” (Y/N) said suddenly. “Sebek lent me a book the other day. Would you be able to give it back to him for me? We don’t have any classes together tomorrow.”

“Of course. What book was it?”

(Y/N) spread her hands wide in front of them, as if displaying the title. “Midnight Rose. It’s a murder mystery about the bookworm daughter of a crazy professor. There’s a bunch of mysterious, animal attack-like deaths in their small country village, and her father is blamed, so she has to find the real murderer while teaming up with a local nobel with a dark secret. Apparently it’s a classic here. I used to love reading mysteries back in my world. My favorite classic author was Agatha Christie. She had amazing stories and I loved trying to guess the end.”

“Do tell,” Malleus said.

“Let’s see. She had a bunch of really famous ones. And Then There Were None is about a bunch of seemingly unrelated people being invited to an isolated island before mysteriously dying off one by one. Murder on the Nile is a locked room mystery on a boat during a newlywed party. Crooked House has this big sprawling mansion and a ton of suspects. Oh, one of my favorites is Murder on the Orient Express. That one’s on a train and it’s really cool because the culprit is-” She cut herself off with a sly smile. “Well, spoilers for a book that came out, like, a hundred years ago and you’ll probably never be able to read, but still.”

“It sounds like a thrilling experience.”

“Oh, yeah. I think that one’s my favorite because it all takes place on a train. A lot of other countries in my world have these really extensive train networks with all these fancy cars, but it’s not too common in my country. I guess I like to romanticize something like that. Even with the murder.”

Malleus’ eyes twinkled. “Ah, I see. Unfortunately, my dear child of man, we may have to reschedule dining at the cafe. I believe you’ve given me a much better idea of how to celebrate your birthday.”

And that was how a gaggle of Night Raven College students found themselves waiting in a train station, late evening light casting long shadows across the marble floor. The station was almost empty this time of day, only open for the specialty train they were waiting for. (Y/N) looked around her group of friends, giddy that they had all agreed to come on such short notice. Even Leona and Idia, who she knew would rather avoid most responsibility or social situations, had somehow been wrapped up in attending.

Everyone had dressed up for the occasion, as based on the proposed dress code that had been attached to the ornate invitation Malleus had sent out earlier that week. To (Y/N), it reminded her of old Roaring 20’s glamor, suits with detailed beadwork, fancy hats, suspenders, glittering accessories, and slicked styled hair. (Y/N) had found her own flapper-style dress in one of the many abandoned rooms of Ramshackle. A doting Professor Crewel had volunteered to revive the painted silk dress for her special day, including lending her an elegant strand of pearls she looped several times around her neck. Apparently, the style was to reminisce about when the train first came into service during the golden age of non-magical transportation. Whatever the reason, it made (Y/N) feel daring and fancy, like she was a secret princess about to escape into an elegant speakeasy.

“(Y/N)!” Ace called her. She walked over to the Heartslabuyl group standing in front of a large mural depicting their train and the route it would take.

“The Mr. Bluebird Express,” Grim read out. “What a weird name for a train.”

“Is it?” (Y/N) asked. “I always thought trains were like race horses, they always have crazy names. The California Zephyr, the Twilight Limited, the Flying Pussyfoot.”

“I think it’s cute,” Cater said, catching the last of the dying light to get the perfect selfie. “It’s a really famous luxury line. My sisters were super jealous when I told them we were coming. Happy birthday, (Y/N)!” He pulled her into another picture and she smiled and waved.

“Of course, we’ll only be on part of the line tonight,” Riddle said, tracing his finger along the diagram for the scenic ride they were taking for dinner. “Thank you for including us on your birthday.”

“Of course! I wouldn’t want to spend it with anyone else!”

“I’m impressed we were able to get so many tickets last minute,” Trey said. “But, well, I guess Malleus is Malleus.”

“Who cares about scenery!” Grim said, jumping off (Y/N)’s shoulder to hover in the air. “A fancy ride like this probably has super fancy food! When do we get to eat?”

(Y/N) laughed, reaching forward to readjust Grim’s new bow. “The train should get here soon. You won’t starve.”

“Says you. Ugh, I’m fading already. Head, fuzzy, everything going dark.” He dramatically put a paw to his forehead, rolling his eyes and drooping in the air. (Y/N) caught him, holding him close and scratching behind his ears until he perked back up and purred.

They all looked up as a train whistle sounded off in the distance, rapidly approaching. Each dorm group made their way out to the platform, necks craning down the track to watch the train pull into the station. It was a beautiful almost pearlescent dark blue with gold filigree swirling and dancing around the engine and cars. A tall smoke stack on the engine car blew out white steam that twinkle with starburst sparks. Mr. Bluebird Express was written in elegant, swooping golden script along the side of the train. The train hissed to a stop at the platform, a side door clicking open.

Malleus stepped forward, dark and elegant in his black and forest green suit. He held out a black glove clad hand. “Happy birthday, dearest (Y/N).” He said. “After you.”

Kalim whooped behind them. “Happy birthday, (Y/N)!” That started up a round of applause and well wishes from the crowd, even the more reluctant and serious members.

(Y/N) smiled at her friends, heart swelling. She couldn’t believe how incredibly lucky she felt at this moment. The people who mattered most to her in this world, who she had been through so many trials and tribulations with, who she had seen grow and change and had grown and changed with them. Even in this strange world, she knew she wouldn’t want to be or with anyone else. She blinked back happy tears, turning back to Malleus and taking his hand, stepping up the small stairs into the train car.

Her feet immediately sunk into the plush maroon carpet of the train car. She spun around to take in the beautiful interior. The dining car had large rectangular windows, dark wood booths along one side with elegant white dishes and sparkling silverware. There was a bar curving along one end of the car, stocked with crystal glasses and all manner of bottles. A three-tiered blue and white birthday cake sat on top, sparklers fizzing from each tier.

“Wow,” (Y/N) breathed. Malleus stood next to her, eyes sparkling and smiling so wide his fangs were visible. “Hornton, you really pulled out all the stops.”

“I’ll admit,” Leona said, sounding reluctant as he fell into one of the overstuffed leather chairs, putting his hands behind his head and closing his eyes. “It’s not too bad.” (Y/N) thought he looked like a prohibition mob boss.

“I haven’t even been able to secure tickets for the Mr. Bluebird Express before,” Vil said, admiring the detailed work on the wainscotting. His hair was swept to the side, dressed in an elegant dark purple suit that went from fitted around his chest and arms to sweeping, almost skirt-like, around his legs.

“So this is what it feels like to be rich,” Ruggie smirked, standing next to the bar that seemed to have one fewer expensive bottles of bourbon than it did before. “I can see how you can get used to it.” He readjusted his fedora, ears poking out to twitch at the sides. As everyone filed into the dining car, the door clicked shut behind them.

After a moment, they felt the movement of the massive wheels below them, the train pulling away from the station with another whisted from the engine.

“Should there be staff?” Jamil asked. “A conductor or ticket taker?”

“We have the entire train reserved for ourselves,” Malleus said. “While the usual route has staff to attend to guests, as this is a shorter trip the train is limited to only the necessary attendants in the engine. Anything else we would need is supplemented by magic.”

As if waiting for his cue, sparkles swirled around the plates, food appearing and glasses filling out of nowhere.

(Y/N) slid into a booth at the far end next to the bar with Grim, Ace, and Deuce. Each booth was occupied by another group of four. Next was Riddle, Trey, Jamil, and Leona. Second was Kalim, Cater, Lilia, and Ruggie. Past them was Malleus, Sebek, Vil, and Rook. Fifth was Idia, Ortho, Floyd, and Epel. In the last booth were Azul, Jack, and Silver. The car filled with conversation and laughter, people frequently leaning over other booths to talk to the different groups. At one point, Floyd and Ortho started confiscating everyone’s salad forks to build a complicated tower by linking all their tines. Once everyone had finished each course, the remnants would be magically whisked away and replaced with the next, much to the annoyance of Grim who kept trying to lick his plate clean.

Finally, it was time for the centerpiece dessert. Both Jack and Rook held up the cake on its round silver platter, bringing it from the bar to (Y/N)’s table. Some of them slid out from their booths to crowd around (Y/N)’s table, the others standing or watching from their own. “Happy birthday to you~” Everyone started singing.

The train whistled, sharp and loud, reverberating down the train.

“Happy birthday to you!”

Outside the train, the twilight scenery went black as the train entered a tunnel, the only light the glow from the magical floating lamps and sconces in the car.

“Happy birthday, dear (Y/N)~”

The lights flickered, a few voices faltering to look up at the quivering illumination.

“Happy birthday to-”

The dining car plunged into darkness. Every light snuffed out at once, even the flares on the cake fizzling out at the same time. There were a few gasps of surprise, low murmurs of confusion.

“Hang on!” Cater called out. He already had his phone out, filming the song. With a quick swipe and tap, his phone light was on, sweeping it around the room. “I got it… huh?”

The train barreled out of the tunnel, blue evening light flooding back in through the windows at the same time the interior lights clicked back to life. There was a collective sigh of relief, the terror of uncertainty in the dark banished once again.

“That was weird,” (Y/N) said.

“Who cares?” Grim said, eyeing the cake. “Let’s eat!”

“Easy,” Deuce said. “(Y/N) gets the first sli-”

Kalim screamed. Everyone spun around to look at their booth. Kalim was half way standing in his seat, back pressed against the glass. His eyes were wide, locked in place on something next to him (Y/N) couldn’t see as it was blocked by the back of the booth. Jamil immediately darted forward, vaulting himself over the chair of his own booth to practically tackle Kalim out of the way and onto the floor. Jamil forced Kalim to look away, the latter's eyes bubbling with tears and he started sobbing into the formers’ dress shirt. Ruggie yelped, tripping over his own feet as he tried to quickly back away. He fell on his back, hat flying off his head.

“What?” (Y/N) said, panicked, standing. “What happened?”

Malleus turned to her, hand out and eyes wide, already pale face even paler. “(Y/N),” He said, and she could feel the seriousness of the situation from his use of her real name. “Don’t-”

But it was too late. A jerk of the train caused her to stumble closer to the far booth. Her arms pinwheeled out, trying to regain her balance. Still, she stumbled and fell on her knees in front of the booth. With the sound of Kalim crying behind her, and the gasps, strangled screams, and yells of the others in the group, (Y/N) looked up, straight into the cold ruby red dead eyes of Lilia Vanrouge.

The clatter of screams, shouting, and horrified rationalization dulled to an incoherent roar in her ears. She stared up at Lilia, brain slowing down, trying to rationalize what she was seeing. He was slumped over in his seat, face turned to the side to stare out unseeing, arms dangling limply at his sides. A silvery thin round disk protruded from just below his neck, lodged in his spine, blood dripping down the back of his white dress shirt. Shaking, her hand reached out, almost without her own volition. Just before her fingertips could tap Lilia’s hand, arms wrapped around her from behind, hauling her up and away. Deuce lugged her dead weight down the train car, depositing her back in a far booth facing away from Lilia’s body.

Lilia’s body. Lilia’s body. (Y/N) suddenly jerked up, head whipping around. “Where’s Silver?”

Jack rubbed the back of his neck and pointed with his chin. Silver was sitting in his booth, head tilted back and eyes closed, asleep. (Y/N) wasn’t sure when his narcolepsy had taken over, but she hoped it was before they went through the tunnel. Ortho was sitting next to him, holding his hand. Idia stood between Ortho and Lilia’s booth, blocking his little brother’s line of sight, although he kept casting worried looks over his shoulder, whipping his head back down immediately after. Grim practically threw himself into (Y/N)’s stomach, burying his head into her middle. She clutched him tightly.

Leona came up to her booth, Ruggie close at his heels. “(Y/N),” Leona said. “Stay close to me, okay?”

“Okay.” She almost didn’t recognize her own trembling voice. Malleus was standing nearby, his back to her, staring out the window at the passing scenery. His shoulders were back, tense, hands clasped tightly behind his back.

“Hornton?” (Y/N) asked, hand reaching out to touch his arm. “Are you-?” Are you what? Are you okay? Of course not, no one was. Her mind zipped through a thousand possibilities of what to say, what might possibly be the right thing, but everything fizzled on her tongue. He looked at her, once, expression unreasonable, before turning to walk farther into the car.

“We need to call the engineer,” Malleus said, voice breaking through the icy tension in the room. “We’ll need to stop at the nearest station and contact the authorities.”

“I’ve got it,” Azul said, tugging his gloves down farther on his trembling hands. He cleared his throat before reaching for an old fashioned corded phone on the wall by the door to the next car. Everyone’s eyes were locked on him as he waited for the other end to pick up. After a moment, Azul’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. He looked down at the phone, then pressed the dial flip a few times, phone back to his ear. “The line is dead.” He winced at the phrase.

“What?” Sebek snapped. His eyes were red. Beads of blood dotted his lower lip from where he was biting it to keep from wobbling. He marched forward and shoved Azul out of the way, jerking the phone up to his ear. After a frustrated second, he snarled, slamming the phone back on the receiver. “Then we’ll just have to go tell them in person!”

“Are we able to go up through the train?” Riddle asked.

“There are fewer cars than normal,” Malleus said. “But we do have access to the entire train. I’m sure the engineer wouldn’t be expecting us, but I believe they’ll understand our circumstances.”

“This car is at the very end,” Jade said. “I believe there were three others between us and the engine.”

“We don’t all need to go,” Jamil said. He still had an arm around Kalim, who had tears silently tracking down his face. “There’s too many of us to move quickly. And some of us should stay with…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence.

“Two groups, then,” Jade said. “Enough to stay here and make sure the crime scene is preserved, and another to go to the front. That way we’ll have plenty of extra eyes watching our backs.”

“Crime scene?” Riddle echoed. “You’re not suggesting that we - that one of us is responsible for-”

“Who else? Razor sharp plates don’t just appear in people of their own accord.”

“I think,” Trey said. “It’s from the cake.”

“The cake?” Ruggie balked.

“It’s to separate the tiers, I think.” Trey nervously adjusted his glasses, falling back into something familiar to ground himself. “Bakers use them to keep the tiers from sinking into each other. Usually they’re not made of metal like that, of course. Look, the middle tier is already going down.”

They all looked over to the bar where the cake had been abandoned. Sure enough, the middle tier was leaning on one side, falling further into the bottom. There was a smear of frosting from where the separator plate had been yanked free.

“You didn’t make the cake?” Deuce asked.

“No,” Malleus answered for Trey. “I had it ordered to be delivered on board before we arrived. It was made by a local bakery near the station. I didn’t mean it as a slight, Clover. I didn’t want to distract anyone with work.” Trey lifted his hand, brushing away the concern.

The group quickly decided who would go up to the engine and who would stay behind. Malleus, Sebek, Vil, Jade, and Jack would go through the three other train cars up to the front, battering down the engine room door if they had too, while the rest of the group stayed.

“I don’t like this,” Ace said in a quiet voice to (Y/N). “Splitting up, I mean. It’s like no one’s ever seen a horror movie before.” Still, the group headed out in a solemn mood.

Someone had draped Lilia’s dark blue and lime green pinstripe suit jacket over him. It bulged awkwardly over the plate stuck in his spine. (Y/N) swallowed hard at a sudden wave of nausea.

The dining car was quiet, filled with the sounds of the wheels chugging underneath them and the whispered conversations of those left behind. Every once and a while there would be a muffled cry and sniff. No one really seemed to know what to do with themselves, ever switching before sitting stone still, fidgeting, or pacing around the car.

(Y/N) spotted Cater sitting on the floor near the door where they had entered, legs spread out in front of him, eyes locked on his phone. His forehead was creased in concentration, teeth worrying his lower lip. She tapped Leona’s arm so he could let her slide out of the booth and walked over to him.

“Cater?” (Y/N) asked.

Cater didn’t look up from his phone. He kept tapping it, dragging his finger to restart a video, watching, then rewinding it again.

“Cater?” She said again. This time he startled, looking up.

He flashed a warm smile that felt out of place in such a dour setting. “Hey, yeah, what’s up?”

‘What’s up?’ (Y/N) thought. Out loud, she said, “What are you watching?”

He showed her the screen as she sat next to him. “It’s the video I was taking earlier, when we were singing to you.”

(Y/N) felt a lump form in her throat. She watched everyone’s happy faces on the tiny screen, dread sloshing in her stomach in anticipation of what she knew was coming. The flickering lights, the black out, a murder in the dark. Right on cue, the screen turned black. She almost felt like she could see movement from the camera swinging around in confusion, the lens rapidly trying to adjust to the new lack of light. She closed her eyes hard, fighting back a lightheaded feeling.

Cater drew his phone back. “Sorry, I get that you wouldn’t want to see that.”

“I don’t understand,” She said, voice cracking. She sat down hard next to him. “Who would do this? How, even? He’s on the same level as Hornton, magic wise, I can’t imagine anyone sneaking up on him. And why?” Hot tears bubbled along her lashes. Cater put an arm around her and pulled her close. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” Cater said. “That’s why I was watching this. When I had my flashlight on, I thought I saw something weird. I’ve been trying to find it again. Maybe it could be a clue. Do you…Want to see?”

She pressed her lips together hard. Finally, she gave a stern nod. Cater shuffled closer, holding the phone back up to play the video from the beginning.

The camera swung up as the video started. It swept over the car, showing everyone smiling and jovial. A few of them stood, taking their positions as Jack and Rook collected the cake. (Y/N) saw Lilia catch the eye of the camera, giving a wink and waving. She gulped hard. Their singing came out in low, tinny volume from the phone speakers. (Y/N) felt strange as she watched the lights flicker, knowing what was about to happen, watching her own face blink and look up in confusion. Even though she knew it was coming, she still startled a little as the screen suddenly went black. The camera swung around in the dark, black shapes against a black background. Cater’s phone light turned on, sweeping across the room to briefly illuminate blurred figures. Shortly after, the lights came back on. Cater had focused back on (Y/N)’s table. She could see the smear on the cake frosting already, even though it was still being held up. Her heart dropped in her stomach as she heard Kalim’s scream. The camera whipped around to Lilia’s booth, just in time to catch Jamil leaping across to drag Kalim to safety. She saw herself fall in front of the booth, looking up at Lila. The camera focused on the scene for a handful of chilling seconds, before dropping down to the floor and cutting out.

“Did you see something?” She asked. She pointed at the screen, just after the phone light came on.

“Maybe? I think so, that’s why I was watching it back. I just can’t figure it out.”

“Well, two pairs of eyes are better than one, right? Play it again.” Cater pulled back on the recording. The video played out the same two more times. On the third, (Y/N) stopped him.

“Wait!” She said suddenly. “Go back! Just a few seconds.” Cater slowly pulled back the replay, the dark scene reversing frame by frame. “There! See?” She jabbed a finger at the screen.

Cater squinted. “I don’t see anything.”

“Exactly! That’s Lilia’s seat! He was there before the lights went out, and he was there when they came back on, but he’s not there when it’s dark!”

“Oh!” Cater said, excited. His face fell again. “What does that mean?”

“I… Have no idea. But it has to be important right? Was he still sitting at the booth before he was…” ‘Say it,’ (Y/N) thought. ‘If you’re going to have any chance of finding out what happened, you have to say it.’ “Before he was killed? Does that mean that someone moved him?”

Cater looked back down at the screen. “The lights were only off for-” He checked the video timeline. “Eleven seconds. I turned my flashlight on after about 6 seconds, here, see?”

“So not a very big window of time. And look, Kalim is sitting next to Lilia by the window and Epel is standing on the outside next to him. How would they have not noticed if he was moved?”

Cater bit his lip again. “You know,” He said slowly. “There’s something else that I-”

“Did I miss eating cake?” Silver said. He was rubbing his eyes, blinking at everyone’s shocked stares.

“Silver,” (Y/N) started, after several moments of tense silence. She felt responsible, somehow. That because it was her birthday party, she was the reason Lilia had been put into the exact right, or wrong, circumstances that lead to his death. She stood, holding her hands up as if she was going to confront a terrified animal. “It’s… I’m sorry, Lila is…”

“Father?” Silver asked. He stood, looking around the room. “Is he with everyone else? Where did they go?”

“No, Silver, I don’t know how to say this, but, but he-”

“(Y/N)!” Cater hissed, jumping up, fingers digging into her arm. She turned to him, Cater pointing frantically to the booth where Lilia’s body was. Or, rather, where Lilia’s body had been.

The seat was empty. Lila was gone.

Everyone immediately started looking around. (Y/N) knew it was useless from the beginning, but joined in anyway. What else were you meant to do when your recently deceased friend disappeared from a small room with only one door out?

“It’s just like the video!” She said. “Maybe this is the way he was moved during the blackout.”

“What video?” Jamil asked. (Y/N) and Cater told everyone about Lilia disappearing before, everyone crowding around the phone to see the video.

Silver gasped at the end, showing Lila’s body. “That…” He started. He shook his head. “No, that’s not real, it can’t be. Father wouldn’t-” He started blinking fast, looking around. “I need to find him.” Silver pushed his way out and barrelled through the door to the next car.

“We should go find the others anyway,” Riddle said. “To let them know about Lilia.”

“I’ll go,” (Y/N) volunteered.

“I’m coming with you,” Leona said. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I don’t want you or anyone else alone.” Ace, Deuce, Cater, and Epel also volunteered.

The next car was a viewing car. The entire upper half was made of glass with a series of swiveling round backed chairs lining the sides. It would have been a beautiful place to spend the evening counting stars and watching the moon rise. The dark night outside seemed to encroach on their group and they rushed through the car to the next. The next car was a luggage car, stuffed with packages and cases from previous voyages. The lights were off. Leona flipped the switch several times, clicking uselessly.

“Watch your step,” He said.

The luggage car was stuffed with crates and pallets among other suitcases and hat boxes. A rough path had been cut through the center, and they had to walk single file. The light was hazy, only filtering in through the small windows in the doors at the front and back of the car.

“So,” Ace started, trying to break the unnerving silence. “Any idea how Lila could have been moved?”

“Maybe there’s some sort of hidden hallway?” Deuce theorized. “Or like a service entrance?”

“Isn’t that kind of a trope?” Epel said. “Secret passages?”

“That feels more like an old mansion sort of thing than a train, like Ramshackle,” Deuce said, “I can’t imagine there’d be any room.”

“I’ve found a couple, actually, in Ramshackle” (Y/N) said. “There’s one behind the bookcase in the guest room that leads upstairs. I think I might make it a second guest room, too, since it-” (Y/N) was cut off as she tripped. She caught herself just before she tumbled down. “Careful,” She said, looking back and aiming her phone flashlight to see what she had tripped over. “There’s something-”

She stopped short, words withering in her mouth. Her light trailed up a shoe, leading to a leg that ended abruptly at a crate. She took a sharp step backward, crashing into a luggage cart. It rattled behind her, something heavy and warm falling against her arm. Her heart already thundering, she turned to push it off. Only to be met by Jade’s face, lips going blue, eyes frozen open in shock, cut off at the waist in a pool of dark red, placed precariously on top of a suitcase.

She screamed, throwing herself backward, Epel clumsily catching her as they both stumbled away from the corpse. Panic quickly overtook the group as, between yelps and thundering hearts, they sped through the rest of the car, throwing open the door at the other end and launching themselves across the divide and into the next car. Ace pressed his back tightly against the door of the car, as if he could physically bar the image of Jade’s bifurcated body from their minds.

“(Y/N)?” Vil said, looking over the blundering group. The rest of the first team that had left to find the engineer looked back at them, confused. Vil took in their smaller group, the wide eyes and gasping mouths. His expression flitted between a mix of frustration, concern, and terror. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s- It’s Jade!” (Y/N) said, hot tears spilling down her cheeks as her voice scratched her throat. “We found his body!”

“What?” Jack said, ears going flat. “He just left. Are you sure?”

“Yes, we’re sure!” Ace snapped. “He was cut in half!”

Malleus’s hand on (Y/N)’s tightened as he helped her stand. “That’s not possible. We only sent him back to you all a minute ago.”

“The engine is empty,” Sebek said gravely, waving his hand at the door at the other end of the car to the engine room. “Jade was going to go back to the dining car and let you all know.”

“What did I say?” Ace said. “You can’t let people split up like this.”

“Wait,” (Y/N) said, looking around. “Where’s Silver?”

“He’s not still asleep in the dining car?” Sebek asked.

“He woke up and we told him what was going on,” Epel said. “He, you know, didn’t take it well. He ran out of the car this way to try and find you guys and we came after him.”

“It’s not like there’s anywhere else to go,” Deuce said. “He couldn’t have vanished into thin air between the dining car and here.”

“Speaking of disappearing,” Ace said. “Where are Cater and Leona?”

“Maybe they went the other way out of the car? Back the way we came in?” (Y/N) said.

“I told you!” Epel said. “There has to be some kind of secret passage! Maybe they went the same way whoever took Lilia went.”

“Who took Lilia?” Malleus asked.

(Y/N) tried to quickly summarize what had happened after the first group left, from Cater’s video, to Lilia’s body vanishing, to Silver charging ahead, to detailing finding Jade’s body in the luggage car.

Vil sighed sharply and ran a hand through his hair. “As much as I hate to admit it, Ace is right-”

“Hey!”

“We shouldn’t stay split up. Let’s regroup in the dining car. The train has to stop eventually. Either we can contact the police when we stop at the next station or if we pass through an area with cell service.”

(Y/N) clutched Grim to her chest at the idea of going back through the luggage car. She felt oddly ridiculous, like a child with a well loved stuffed animal asking their parents to check the closet for monsters. But how could she not feel the rising panic bubble in her chest at the thought of seeing one of her friend’s bodies again?

She jumped as Malleus brushed his fingers against her shoulder. He gave her a small smile, offering his arm. “Close your eyes and we’ll go through quickly,” He said in a low voice.

(Y/N) swallowed hard, threading her arm through his and pulling close, Grim clasped so close the heat from the blue fire in his ears warmed her face.

Whatever quiet conversation there was ceased immediately as they stepped back in the dark car. Phone lights came out, casting ghostly search lights across the car, bouncing on and over the clutter of bags and boxes. (Y/N) closed her eyes tight, pressing her face in Malleus’s arm.

“Jade’s not here,” Jack said.

(Y/N)’s eyes snapped open. “What?” She looked around the dark and cramped space. Sure enough, every body inside was breathing. She let go of Malleus’s arm and took a step forward. “No, wait, he was right here. He was like, half way though, right? I tripped over his legs right here.” She pointed to the floor where Jade’s legs had been splayed out. Only… No, wait, was that the same crate she had seen before? She scanned along the narrow walkway through the car, trying to find the familiar box, but she couldn’t find anything that matched the morbid memory in her head. The cogs in her brain churned. It was dark, but had these boxes been moved? Was this the same path they had taken through the car the first time? She turned back to the other first years. “You guys saw him too, right? I’m not just imagining things?”

“No, he was definitely here,” Deuce confirmed. “And besides, you still have some, uh, blood, right here.” He tapped his shoulder.

(Y/N) lifted her hand, touching the spot Deuce had indicated. Her fingers came away sticky, a sheen of red coating them in the low light. Jade’s blood must have dripped when his upper body fell against her. She felt her stomach clench and flip.

“Jade wouldn't be the first person to disappear tonight,” Epel said.

As they made their way through the observation car, with still no sign of Cater or Leona, (Y/N) felt her panic rise in anticipation of what might greet them in the dining car. Her heartbeat roared in her ears, muting any other sound. She felt clammy, breaking out in a cold sweat as Sebek reached for the door to the next car.

“There you all are,” Azul said in a relieved sigh. “What did the engineer say?”

No one said anything, the group who had stayed staring at the group who returned until the silence stretched and stretched, taught and uncomfortable.

Floyd’s head poked out from a booth, where he had been playing a card game with Riddle, Ortho, and Idia. “Where’s Jade?” No one answered. Several of them started shifting uncomfortably. Floyd frowned, eyebrows coming together. He stood. “Where’s Jade?”

“He-” (Y/N) started. She felt like she had a responsibility to break the news.

“We don’t know that,” Sebek interrupted. “He wasn’t there.”

“Lilia’s not here either,” Ace snapped. “But we’re pretty sure he’s dead, too.”

Azul stumbled back, going green, Floyd jumping up, teeth gnashing. The car exploded in a cacophony of raised voices, panicked questions and sharp words flying around. With a sinking feeling, (Y/N) realized Cater, Leona, and Silver weren’t present. They had vanished, too. And, if the only other ones who had disappeared were dead, what did that mean for them?

“I need some fresh air,” She murmured. She let go of Malleus, stumbling to the door at the back of the car. She pushed it open, standing on the tiny balcony as the rushing wind pulled at her hair and dress. She gripped the intricate wrought iron fence around the balcony until her knuckles went bloodless. She took deep, gulping breaths of the cold night air until her lungs hurt. She slumped forward, pressing her sweaty forehead against the cool metal.

She nearly jumped out of her skin as a hand touched her back. She whipped around to see Ace holding his hands up.

“Sorry, sorry,” He said. “Should have said something first.” Deuce stepped out behind him, sliding the door closed.

“It’s okay,” She sighed. “I just… needed a second.” The two of them stood on either side of her, quiet as they stared out at the rushing landscape, train tracks blurring together into a solid road beneath them.

“Here,” Deuce said, offering her a handkerchief from his blazer pocket. “For the… blood.”

“Right, thanks.” She dabbed at the spot, trying to think of a way to explain to Professor Crewel how the dress he had worked so hard on had been stained. Even if it was able to be cleaned, she wasn’t sure she would ever want to wear it again. Her mind wandered for a second, until her hand froze, pressed against the damp spot on her shoulder. She pulled the handkerchief back, staring at the red stain. And then licked it.

“Whoa!” Deuce exclaimed.

“(Y/N)! Gross!” Ace cringed.

“It’s not blood,” (Y/N) said. She shoved the handkerchief at them. “See? It smells and tastes sweet. It’s like some kind of syrup colored red.”

Ace cautiously leaned forward and sniffed. “I’m not going to pretend I know a ton about merfolk biology, but I don’t think they have corn syrup for blood.”

“Did you lean against anything else?” Deuce asked.

“Not that I noticed.” She groaned, head falling into her hands.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Ace muttered.

(Y/N) drummed her fingers against the railing. She stared down at the tracks rushing below them. Her eyes unfocused, trying to make her mind go blank instead of having every body and disappearance and unusual circumstance bounce around her head. Dirt and dust clouded behind the train, kicked up by the heavy wheels. Except… Suddenly, she jolted up so fast both Ace and Deuce jumped. “I need to check something,” She said. She spun around marching back into the dining car, the two boys close behind.

There were a couple of curious glances as she knelt by Lilia’s booth, everyone else keeping a wide berth from it. She looked underneath, running her hand along the bottom of the table, then across the booth seat, checking for any seams or latches. Her hand brushed along something soft on the edge of the table, where there was a smear of blue frosting.

“There was something in the video…” She said to herself. The idea itched in her mind. There was something missing, something she knew Cater must have noticed. Is that why he had been spirited away? But she had watched the same video with him multiple times. Wouldn't she have seen whatever clue she was sure was there?

Unless… The ideas crashed together all at once, almost too cluttered for her to organize them. Cater had been the only one with a light, the only one able to see around the darkened car. So, what if he saw something in the dark, something that wouldn’t show up on camera? Then, watching it back, the discrepancy would have subconsciously stuck out.

She pulled herself out from under the table, chewing on her bottom lip. She scanned the room. Her eyes passed over then jerked back to Jamil, setting down an empty glass on a side table. Tiny white sparkles flitted around the glass as it magically refilled.

Her hip jammed into the table as she whirled around, pulling her phone out of her bedazzled clutch. She grabbed a discarded glass from the table and drained it in two gulps. As she set it back on the table, she hit the record button on her phone, holding it close to the glass. The sparkling magic swirled around the glass, just as it had been doing all night.

“(Y/N)?” Riddle asked, confused.

She replayed the video, only a few seconds long. Sure enough, she watched the glass refill, but the magic around it was invisible.

Without a word, she whirled around and marched to the door to the observation car.

“Wait!” Ace called at her retreating back. “Come on, what have I been saying about splitting up?”

He, Deuce, and Grim followed behind her as she quickly moved through the next car to the luggage car.

“Epel was right,” (Y/N) called over her shoulder to them. “People don’t just vanish.”

“So you think there are secret passages?” Grim asked.

“Not exactly.” She pulled her phone out as they stepped into the luggage car, tapping her light on. She swept it around the room, dust motes floating in the air. “Back in my world, movies use a lot of cgi for special effects. But there are some older ones that use practical effects, puppets and makeup and stunts. They take a lot more work, but audiences also really like them, and they generally look better since they’re tangible, really there with the actors. Recently, some movies have been combining the two, computer generated images with physical props.”

“So?” Ace asked, confused.

“So,” She said. She stopped in front of a pile of luggage. She pushed them aside, not caring as they clattered in an untidy heap on the floor. Behind them was a wooden crate, a thin line of sticky red smeared along the bottom. “I think we’ve been thinking about this the wrong way. Whoever has been doing this is using a combination of methods, both magic and non-magic.”

“Magical murders?” Deuce said. “That’s like what the Arcane Special Defense Unit investigates.”

“But if they’re using magic to commit the murders,” Ace said. “Why use non-magic, too?”

(Y/N) crouched down, turning the crate around. Her heart clenched in her chest as she revealed a hole cut into the cut just above the bottom. “I think I might have an idea, but…” But she didn’t want to say it out loud. She didn’t want to admit she was suspecting one of her friends. She didn’t want to admit that one of them might, in fact, be capable of something like this.

Grim groaned. “Why does this kind of stuff always happen to us?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Ace said.

“I mean,” Deuce said, rubbing the back of his head. “He’s kind of right. There’s Overblots, that monster in the mines, kidnappings, that one Halloween in the Spectral Realm, that other Halloween in Fleur City where our magic got eaten, the VDC, that one time there was a magical virus and we all got turned into kids, not to mention all the potion accidents in alechemy class-”

“Wait!” (Y/N) shouted. “Say that again!”

Deuce looked confused. “Uhh, that we kind of seem to attract trouble everywhere?”

“No, about Halloween! That’s it! I’ve got it!”

“You know who the murderer is?” Grim asked.

(Y/N) was grinning way too big for such a morose topic. “Yes! And I think I know where everyone who disappeared is. But I need help from you guys. Have you ever heard of a parlor scene?”

(Y/N) explained her revelation to the boys, quickly giving them instructions to meet back with her in the dining car later. Separating, (Y/N) stopped in the observation car, taking a deep breath. Then, she flung the door open, striding into the room.

“Alright, everyone!” (Y/N) said sternly. “It’s time we wrap this whole thing up!”

“You know who killed Jade and Lilia?” Azul asked, eyes red.

“In a way,” (Y/N) said. She clasped her hands behind her back, walking through the room. “Let’s start from the beginning of the night. First, we all board a train with no conductor. The cake is made with a dangerous metallic disk, brought on board before all of us arrived. The lights just so happen to all go out at the exact moment we enter a dark tunnel, giving the murderer the perfect opportunity to strike. The crime, then, must have been planned ahead of time by someone who knew the exact route, timing it perfectly to when the cake would have been closest. Then we’re separated, leading to a locked room where Jade is murdered. Not just that, but cut in half and placed in such a way that should have taken way longer than the brief time he was unaccounted for. And none of that accounts for the disappearances, of both the deceased and the theorized living. We’re on a moving train, the only entrance and exit carefully monitored by those in the car, so it would, or should, be pretty obvious if anyone were trying to sneak out, especially if they were carrying someone.

“Our culprit, then, is someone who has had complete and perfect control of the train and those on board the entire time we’ve been here. Someone who not only smuggled the murder weapon in, who knew we were isolated, who knew when the train would enter the tunnel, who purposefully separated us to orchestrate the second murder, and who has the ability to make multiple people vanish into thin air.”

Everyone was getting restless, shuffling and looking around, casting suspicious looks at the only person (Y/N) could be referring to. (Y/N) took one more steadying breath. Facing the culprit straight on, she lifted an accusing finger. “The only possibility is you, Malleus Draconia!”

There was a collective gasp as Sebek jumped up, inserting himself between (Y/N)’s allegation and his prince. “How dare you!” He shouted.

Malleus’s eyes were steely cool as he looked down at her. “Oh?” He said. “That’s quite the accusation, child of man. I do hope you have evidence to support your theory.”

(Y/N) looked at Malleus with a scowl, hands on her hips. Before long, her lips twitched as she started to laugh. She whipped away a stray tear with the heel of her hand. “Hornton, you really have a twisted sense of humor, you know that?”

Sebek’s head whipped back and forth between the two, Malleus joining in with her laugh. “Wait, what? My lord, you, did you really…?”

“It might seem pretty complicated on the surface, but it’s actually pretty simple, just like a lot of old fashioned murder mysteries,” (Y/N) said. She turned, shouting out, “Okay, come on in, boys!”

Through the door that led to the end of the train, Ace, Deuce, and Grim burst in, dragging Lilia, Jade, Cater, Silver, and Leona with them.

“Hello, everyone!” Lilia said jovially. “I do hope you haven’t been having too much fun without me.”

There was a blur of teal and black as Floyd launched himself across the car, tackling Jade in a squeezing hug. He started sobbing, fat, dramatic tears now freely flowing down his face.

“My,” Jade said, eyes touched with compassion, petting his brother’s hair. “I wasn’t expecting such a welcome.”

“Jade,” Azul said, trying to sound stern despite the crack in his voice. “If you ever do something like that again, I’ll fry you up and add unadon to the menu.”

Jade placed a hand to his chest. “Aww, you do care.”

Kalim was jumping between Cater and Lilia, hugging them close, holding their faces to double and triple check they were unharmed, and babbling through tears.

“So,” Leona said, carelessly dropping into a booth, hands behind his head, a smug smile on his face. “I guess everything went according to plan?”

“Does anyone want to fill us in on what is going on?” Idia asked desperately.

“Gladly,” (Y/N) said. “That’s the point of a parlor scene, after all, pointing out the culprit and explaining exactly how they committed the crime. First, we need to establish that almost everyone who disappeared was an accomplice.”

“Almost everyone?” Jack asked.

Cater shyly raised his hand as (Y/N) said, “Cater was the odd one out, but I’ll get to that in a second. Before we even got to the train station, Malleus had recruited Lilia, Leona, Silver, and Jade to his plan. He’s the one who had the metal disk brought in with the cake, a cake he specifically ordered. And speaking of the disk, Lilia, do you still have it?”

With a smirk and a flourish, Lilia produced the silver disk, bloody colored corn syrup cutting across it in a gorey line. He ran his finger along the edge before pressing an almost invisible button in the middle. The side of the disk suddenly compacted, retreating in so the disk became a half circle.

“I’m guessing it’s some kind of stage prop,” (Y/N) continued. “It looks perfectly solid and deadly until you activate the hidden mechanism. Lilia himself was the one who retrieved the disk from the cake, since he has amazing night vision. There was a smear of frosting under the table where you must have brushed your hand after getting the disk, Lilia. But, this was also the reason Cater got involved.” (Y/N) held out her hand and Cater handed her his phone, the incriminating video already pulled up. (Y/N) held the phone up, panning it around the room so everyone was able to see. “Lilia wouldn’t have been able to simply walk over to the cake, he was boxed in by Kalim and Epel, not to mention everyone else standing around. So, he teleported. But there’s a problem. When Lilia or Hornton teleport, there’s these magic green sparks. Since Cater was already looking around to film, he would have seen these sparks. But he wasn’t paying close attention to such a small detail while we were all in a panic with the lights going out. When he watched the video back, they would have stuck out subconsciously in his mind and it would have been confusing as to why the video didn’t perfectly match up with his memory. And that’s because those kind of magic sparks don’t show up on camera. Eventually, Cater would have connected the discrepancy, possibly revealing the whole plot early, which is why he had to go.”

Cater shrugged. “I literally figured it out as soon as we got in the luggage car. Too bad Leona here tackled me out of the way.”

“I can’t believe you went along with one of Malleus’s plans,” Ruggie grumbled, casting a strong side eye at Leona.

Leona shrugged nonchalantly. “It gave me a chance to get a nap between everything. And I thought it would be really funny.” He grinned at Ruggie’s glare.

“If you’ll remember,” (Y/N) continued. “It was Hornton who suggested we separate and go try and find the engineer, an engineer he knew from the beginning wasn’t on the train. The whole point of splitting up was to get the next murder ready. Back in the dining car with the rest of us, Silver ‘woke up,’ when in reality he had been awake this whole time. He was meant to serve as a distraction, giving Lilia a chance to teleport away and set up Silver storming out to find the other group. At the front of the train, when everyone realized we were the only ones aboard, Jade would volunteer to go back. He and Silver would meet up in the luggage car and stage the next scene for us to find. There were boxes with holes cut out. Silver hid in one with his legs sticking out, exactly in the middle of the path so we would trip over them, and Jade stood in one so only his upper half was visible. The lights had been tampered with beforehand so it would be too dark for us to pay close attention, not to mention the added panic of thinking we had just found another one of our friends dead.”

Azul smacked Jade’s arm. “Why in the deep blue sea would you agree to something like that?”

“Oh, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be dead,” Jade said with a smile.

“Ace, Deuce, Grim, Epel, and I all ran one way,” (Y/N) continued.

“While I’m guessing Leona grabbed Cater and went the other. As for how they disappeared, I’m guessing Lila had something to do with it, too.”

Lilia clapped his hands. “I did! I was waiting in the luggage car for you all. You wouldn’t have seen me hanging from the ceiling. Once you all had left, I grabbed the others and we teleported out to our hiding spot!” He stretched his back. “I had to make a few trips, though. These old bones aren’t as spry as they used to be.”

“But,” Ortho asked. “Where did you all go?”

“That’s the last secret,” (Y/N) said. “There’s a secret caboose car! When I was out on the balcony outside this car, I noticed that the dust jumping around was behaving oddly. If you paid close attention, you could see the dust and dirt swept up by the train bouncing off something invisible. My guess is there was a secret 5th car added to the end of the train that everyone was waiting in. That’s where I sent these guys,” She waved to Ace, Deuce, and Grim. “To find everyone.”

“You’re lucky we like you so much,” Ace said. “It was insane jumping off the back of the dining car when I couldn’t see where I was landing.”

“But…Why?” Vil asked, perfect mouth pulled into a perfect frown. “Why do all this? Why put us through all this stress? Why make us think we were trapped with a murderer?”

(Y/N) snapped her fingers. “That’s what I kept getting caught up on, too. When I started figuring everything out, that was the only part that didn’t fit. I couldn't, wouldn’t, believe that Hornton would intentionally hurt any of us. But then Deuce said something that made it all click.”

“Yeah!” Deuce said proudly. “What did I say, again?”

“Halloween! More specifically, the first Halloween I was at NRC. After we got rid of the Magicam Monsters, do you remember what happened?”

“We all went to the Spectral Realm,” Sebek said slowly. “Where we thought people had been kidnapped and possessed by ghosts.”

“Which turned out to be Malleus pretending to be possessed to gather us all together for a Halloween party,” Riddle finished.

“LIke I said,” (Y/N) said. “A twisted sense of humor.”

“But a murder?” Trey said, fiddling with his glasses. “That’s still pretty extreme.”

(Y/N) sighed. “And that’s the last part. This whole thing might be my fault. I’m guessing I gave you the idea, Hornton, when I was talking about that mystery novel from my world, Murder on the Orient Express?”

He smiled wide, eyes glittering in pleasure. “I thought it would be a fine surprise. Anyone can read a mystery. It’s another matter entirely to be in the middle of one. But there is one more thing you didn’t catch.” Malleus snapped his fingers. The blurring scenery outside warped and spun, like sand being shaken in an hourglass, before settling back down. He opened the door, revealing the train station they had all boarded from. “We never actually left the station.”

Everyone clambered out of the train, some much more quickly than others to put as much distance between themselves and it as fast as possible. Inside the atrium, there was a new cake, sans trick metal disks, with candles flickering gently. The cake was quickly sliced up and served as Malleus directed everyone back to the train platform. As the group ate cake, fireworks burst in the sky, casting glorious multicolored lights across their faces.

“Thank you, Hornton,” (Y/N) said. “This is beautiful. But-” She suddenly punched his arm, her face as serious as she could make it. “If you ever make me think that my friends are hurt or in danger again, I’ll make you regret it.”

“Of course, dear child of man.”

“Don’t ‘of course’ me. I’m threatening you. Be threatened.”

“Of course. Happy birthday, (Y/N), and many more besides.”

[pricesgirl]

Mary Janes

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.☁︎

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵

6

Jinx

“What an absolutely fucking tragic story.”

“Boy meets girl,” I say, flipping the book open and letting it smack the table with a loud thwack.

“They swap a couple of lines, maybe a little eye-fucking across the room, and then bam—marriage, murder, and melodrama. Honestly, Romeo and Juliet is just horny teenagers making bad decisions with a death toll. Kinda iconic, but also… pathetic.”

Y/N’s trying so hard not to laugh, but that little twitch at the corner of her mouth gives her away.

She glances down at her notebook like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world, but I know better.

I always know better.

“Come on, admit it,” I press, leaning closer.

“This whole thing is just Shakespeare projecting his wet dreams onto paper. I mean, would you throw yourself into a coffin for someone you just met?”

Y/N looks up, her face a little red, and gives me this look—half-exasperated, half-amused. “It’s supposed to be romantic,” she says, her tone just a little too patient.

“Oh, sure,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Nothing screams romance like poison and stab wounds. That’s hot. Super sexy.” I lean back in my chair, grinning.

“Although, I guess dying for someone is one hell of a flex. Bet Juliet was into some kinky shit.”

“Jinx!” she hisses, her eyes wide as she glances around the library, like the ghost of Shakespeare himself might pop out of the shelves and strike me down.

“What?” I ask, throwing my hands up.

“You think Romeo was all sweet talk and poetry? Nah, that guy was definitely whispering filthy shit to her under the balcony. Bet he was like, Juliet, you light up my world—now get on your-”

Y/N lets out this strangled noise, somewhere between a laugh and a groan, and covers her face with her hands. “You’re impossible,” she mutters.

But I can see her shoulders shaking.

“Impossible, but not wrong,” I say, leaning forward with a smirk.

“You know I’m right. Horny teens and bad decisions—they go hand in hand. Speaking of…” I waggle my eyebrows at her.

“You ever had someone wax poetic about you? Or, I don’t know, climb a fire escape to declare their undying love?”

“No,” she says firmly, her voice muffled behind her hands.

“Shame,” I say, tapping my chin. “You’re missing out. Although, honestly? If someone pulled that shit with me, I’d probably just drag them inside and—”

“Jinx!” she whisper-yells, her voice high-pitched and scandalized.

Her face is so red now I’m almost worried she’s going to combust.

Almost.

I grin, sitting back in my chair and crossing my arms. “What? I’m just saying. Life’s short. Might as well enjoy it. Or are you more of a ‘tragic, yearning stares from a distance’ type?”

She gives me a look.

The kind of look that says I’m pushing my luck.

But I catch the tiniest flicker of amusement in her eyes.

It’s faint.

But it’s there, and it’s enough to keep me going.

“Can we please focus?” she says, her voice trembling with suppressed laughter.

“Sure,” I say, picking up the book again and thumbing through the pages. “But I’m warning you now, I’m not letting Romeo off the hook for being the patron saint of bad decisions.”

Y/N leans back in her chair, pressing her lips together like she’s trying desperately not to laugh.

Her cheeks are pink, and there’s this quiet glow to her that tugs at something in my chest.

I ignore it.

“So,” I say, flipping the book open again with an exaggerated flourish.

“Are we supposed to write some revolutionary take on this mess, or is it just vibes and clichés? You’re the genius here, enlighten me.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s that little curve to her lips, the one that makes her whole face soften. “Themes,”

“We’re supposed to analyze the themes, connect them to modern relationships, and explain why the story is still relevant.”

“Relevant?” I snort, leaning back. “Oh, sure. Because every teenager I know is out here marrying strangers after one dance and dying for them two days later. So relatable.”

“You’re impossible,” she says, shaking her head, but her voice is warm, light, teasing.

“Thank you,” I say, grinning.

She picks up her pen again, her focus shifting back to the notebook in front of her.

Naturally, I lean over, because how could I not snoop, but she slams it shut before I can even get a glimpse.

“Oh, come on,” I groan, clutching my chest like she’s mortally wounded me. “What’s the big secret? Writing a love letter? A sonnet? A tragic ode to unrequited love?”

“It’s not a secret,” she says firmly, though the way her fingers tighten around the notebook tells a different story. “It’s just not finished.”

“Uh-huh.” I narrow my eyes at her, my grin sharp and unrelenting.

“You’re not secretly crushing on Romeo, are you? Or maybe…”

My voice drops, dripping with mock drama. “Maybe you’ve got your own Romeo? Someone you’re tragically pining for?”

Her cheeks turn a brilliant shade of crimson, and her eyes dart everywhere except at me.

“Oh my God,” I say, sitting up like I’ve just cracked the biggest mystery of the century. “You do! Who is it? Come on, spill. I need to know everything.”

“There’s no one!” she protests, but her voice is high-pitched, and her fingers fidget with the corner of her notebook.

“Liar,” I say, my grin turning downright devious.

I tap my chin like I’m deep in thought.

“Is it someone in our class? That broody guy who always acts like he’s too cool to care? Or…” I pause, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe it’s a girl?”

Her pen freezes mid-air.

For a second, she looks at me like I’ve uncovered her deepest, darkest secret.

Bingo.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿

Y/N

I can feel my heart picking up its pace, a strange fluttering in my chest that has nothing to do with the subject matter at hand. Jinx’s words echo in my mind, her teasing lingering far longer than I’d like to admit. The way she looked at me, the mischievous grin on her face—it’s enough to make me squirm, but I won’t let her see that.

“No one,” I reply firmly, hoping the edge in my voice sounds more convincing than it feels. “I’m not—there’s just no one.”

She raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but she leans back in her chair, crossing her arms with a soft chuckle. “Alright, if you say so.”

I focus on my notebook, flipping a page with deliberate care. The task at hand should be enough to keep me grounded, and yet the thought of her knowing something I’ve never fully acknowledged myself unsettles me. It feels as though she’s pierced a part of me I’m still figuring out, and that makes me more uncomfortable than I’m willing to admit.

Still, I refuse to let that show. Instead, I straighten up, refocusing on our assignment. “Regardless, Romeo and Juliet is still a farcical tragedy,” I begin, keeping my tone calm and collected, but there’s a subtle bite to it. “The impulsiveness, the poor decisions—it’s a pattern in a lot of Shakespeare’s works. It speaks to the nature of youth, to desire, rather than rational thought.”

Jinx snorts, clearly unimpressed. “Oh, sure, I’m sure that’s exactly what Shakespeare was going for. Desire, right? More like he was just a horny old man trying to sell sex on the page. No wonder those two idiots killed themselves over each other.”

I nod, careful to keep my composure. “Yes. Desire, more than love. They acted on passion rather than considering the consequences. Shakespeare’s portrayal of love is often hyperbolic, exaggerated to the point where it’s almost abs-"

I get cut off by another snicker from her followed by, "You damn nerd."

I pause mid-sentence, blinking at her. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she says, tilting her head, her grin widening. “You’re such a nerd, Y/N. Who even says ‘hyperbolic’ in casual conversation? It’s like you’re auditioning for a Shakespeare reboot.”

I huff, sitting up straighter. “It’s called having a vocabulary,” I reply, my tone clipped but teasing. “Maybe you should try it sometime.”

She gasps dramatically, clutching her chest like I’ve struck her through with a dagger. “Wow. Coming at me with the intellectual smackdown, huh? Careful, or I’ll start quoting Shakespeare back at you.”

“Please don’t,” I say quickly, holding up a hand like I’m warding off some impending disaster.

Jinx grins, leaning forward now, her elbows on the table. “Oh, but wouldn’t you love that? Imagine me up on a balcony, all, But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?” She pauses, fluttering her eyelashes for effect. “You’d swoon. Admit it.”

“I’d laugh,” I correct, refusing to give her the satisfaction. “And then I’d shut the window.”

She cackles, the sound sharp and chaotic, and it’s impossible not to smile. “Cold, Y/N. Ice cold. No wonder you don’t have a Romeo climbing fire escapes for you.”

I roll my eyes, flipping a page in the book to feign disinterest. “Not everyone needs a grand romantic gesture, Jinx. Some of us prefer substance over theatrics."

Jinx leans back in her chair, propping her boots up on the edge of the table like she owns the place. Her smirk is sharp, eyes glittering with mischief.

“C'mon, Y/N,” she drawls. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t want someone to show up, grand gesture and all, declaring undying devotion? Maybe a little dramatic fainting thrown in for good measure?”

I snort. “No. Definitely not. I’d find it mortifying.”

She tilts her head, feigning innocence. “What about some spicy poetry? Like, Oh, Y/N, your... uh, unparalleled intelligence leaves me trembling.” Her voice dips into a breathy almost smutty tone, and I roll my eyes.

“You’re insufferable,” I mutter, flipping through my notes.

“And you’re boring,” she fires back without missing a beat. “Where’s the fun, huh? You don’t think Juliet was secretly hoping Romeo would skip the iambic pentameter and just pin her to a wall?”

I look up, feeling my cheeks heat. “Jinx.”

“What?” she says, her grin downright wicked now. “I’m just saying. The whole woe is me, tragic romance thing might’ve been for show. Behind closed doors, she was probably like, Enough about the stars, Romeo, let’s talk about your sword.”

And I falter, my laughter bubbling up uncontrollably before bursting out so loud that it shatters the quiet of the library. The sound is obnoxious, and I can’t stop it, even though I know I should. Mrs. Clark, the poor librarian, scurries over to us, her face draining of color when she realizes it’s me—me—who caused the disturbance. Her eyes widen in horror, and I shrink back in my seat, wishing the floor would swallow me whole.

“Y/N,” Mrs. Clark says sharply, her voice quivering with disapproval, “This is a library. I expect more from you.”

I swallow, my throat tight, and I can barely meet her gaze. The silence that follows is suffocating, broken only by the scratch of Mrs. Clark’s pen as she writes us both a detention slip. “After school,” she mutters, her voice tight. She hands us the slips, one by one, and I want to crawl under the table, but I can't. Not with everyone staring.

I take the slip, my hands trembling, my face burning with the weight of the embarrassment. Jinx’s laughter, the one that started all this, has quieted, but there's still a mischievous glint in her eyes. At first, it seems like she's enjoying my discomfort, and I can't help but wish she’d be quiet for just a moment, let me process this in peace.

But then, her smirk fades. She glances at me, her expression softening as she catches the way my shoulders slump, the way I'm trembling. I try to blink back the tears threatening to spill, but they’re already in my eyes. It’s stupid, it’s just a detention, but the humiliation is unbearable.

Jinx doesn’t say anything at first, but I can feel the weight of her gaze on me as I struggle to hold back the tears. She slides out of her chair, slowly stepping closer, crouching down beside me with a quiet seriousness I’ve rarely seen from her. Her voice, when it comes, is low, almost soothing.

“Hey,” she says, her words gentle, like she’s trying to reach through the storm inside me. “It’s not that bad, okay? Detention's just... it's nothing. It’s temporary.”

I don’t respond, but I can feel the tears starting to burn in my eyes, and I just can't stop them. I keep my gaze fixed on the floor, trying to hide how I’m trembling.

Jinx doesn’t back away, though. Instead, she reaches out, her hand soft as it rests on my shoulder, the touch surprisingly warm and comforting. “Come on toots, let’s go,” she says, her voice so different from the usual teasing tone, like she’s saying it for me, not for her. “I’ll take you somewhere... just let’s get out of here, okay?”

I nod, my throat tight, and let her guide me out of the library. The hallways feel colder now, like everything around me is a reminder of how utterly humiliated I feel. But Jinx stays close, walking beside me, her presence steady and unwavering, like she’s determined not to let me fall apart alone.

She leads me into the girls’ bathroom, the door shutting quietly behind us. It’s quiet, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, and for a moment, everything feels still. Jinx leans against the counter, watching me with a softness in her eyes that I’ve never seen before. She doesn’t say anything at first, just lets me breathe, lets the silence settle between us.

I break.

The tears come without warning, and I retreat to the corner, curling into myself, trying to make myself smaller. I press my hands to my face, desperate to hide the rawness of what I’m feeling. The sobs are quiet at first, but they soon escape in harsh, ragged breaths. The shame, the embarrassment—it’s overwhelming, suffocating. I feel completely exposed, fragile, and utterly out of control.

I don’t want her to see me like this. I don’t want anyone to. But she doesn’t leave.

There’s a quiet moment, just the sound of my breathing, of me trying to stifle the sobs. And then Jinx moves toward me, her steps slow, careful. She crouches down next to me, not trying to force anything, not speaking. She just watches me for a moment, her eyes filled with something tender, and then her hand reaches out. Her fingers brush through my hair, slow and soothing, the soft strokes almost enough to make me forget everything else.

"Shhh," she murmurs, her voice quiet, barely above a whisper. "It’s okay."

I can’t stop the tears. I don’t even try. But the sound of her voice, the feel of her fingers weaving through my hair, so gentle, so careful—it’s grounding. She doesn’t rush me, doesn’t tell me to stop crying. She just stays there, her touch like a balm for the rawness inside me.

After a long moment, she shifts again, her hand moving to wipe away the tears that have soaked my cheeks. Her fingers are gentle, each movement deliberate, as if she’s treating me like something fragile but important. Her touch is steady, patient, and it’s like she’s saying, without words, that I don’t have to hide. That I’m allowed to feel, to break.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿

Jinx

"C'mon, toots—it’s only an hour, alright? No big deal." I glance at Y/N, tucked behind me like a little puppy, her hand in mine.

It’s like she’s trying to disappear into the floor, and I don’t... I don’t know what to do with that.

I peek into the detention room, Mr. Wheeler’s already there, half asleep

Of course he is.

His glasses are dangling off his nose, like he forgot they even exist.

He’s ancient—like, fossil-level ancient—but whatever.

Doesn’t matter.

I yank the door open.

And there he is. Boy savior himself, sitting in the corner, all quiet and broody.

I waggle my free hand at him. Big, dumb wave. Like, hi, notice me!

Ekko’s head pops up.

His face twists into full-on confusion. Like, what the actual hell?

His eyes dart to Y/N behind me, all tucked in and quiet, and I can practically hear the gears in his head grinding.

I can see it.

The way his gaze softens, just a little, but then hardens again.

Like he’s trying to figure out how to act, what to say, how to breathe, maybe.

And I get it. I do.

Because once, a long time ago, it was the three of us.

Ekko. Y/N. Me.

Best friends.

And now?

Now we’re... this. Whatever this is. Unspoken crap hanging in the air like a bad smell.

After what happened—Vander’s death, Vi’s wrongful juvie sentence, and Silco taking me in...

Shit hit the fan.

Everything snapped.

The three of us? We used to be inseparable.

Me, Boy Savior, and Y/N. We were the kind of trio that people envied—always laughing, always plotting, always looking out for each other.

But after everything fell apart?

That trio was gone. Just... gone.

Ekko and I? We managed to reconcile. Somehow. It wasn’t easy, but we put the pieces back together.

Mostly.

But Y/N and him?

Never.

Whatever they had? Whatever we all had? It just crumbled. And they never found their way back to each other.

The air feels heavy. Like it’s pressing down on us.

Y/N’s hand squeezes mine. Tight. Too tight. Like she thinks if she lets go, she’ll just... vanish.

I glance back at her. Pale. Shaking. Her eyes darting everywhere except him.

Ekko.

The Boy Savior.

He’s staring at her like she’s a ghost. Or maybe a grenade. His jaw’s tight, hands fidgeting like he doesn’t know where to put them.

Say something.

Do something.

But he just sits there. Quiet. Staring.

It’s unbearable.

“Gonna sprain something, Boy Savior,” I snap, too loud, too sharp. “All that thinking’s dangerous, y’know.”

His head snaps up. Eyes narrow. “Jinx.”

That tone. Even. Calm. Like he’s the adult in the room.

Which he's not cause fucking Mr Wheeler's old ass is at the desk asleep now.

“What?” I throw my free hand up, grinning like a lunatic. “Just saying. You look like you’re trying to solve the meaning of life or some shit.”

Still nothing.

He glances at Y/N again.

And she flinches.

I can’t. I can’t with this.

“Seriously? We’re doing this? Now?” My voice comes out sharper than I mean. “It’s detention. Not a goddamn soap opera.”

“Jinx, stop.”

Her voice.

Soft. Cracked. Barely there.

I freeze. Look at her. She’s hiding behind me, eyes on the floor, her face red like she’s about to cry again.

My chest tightens.

Ekko’s watching us, his expression... weird. Guilty? Concerned? I can’t tell.

“Whatever,” I mutter, pulling Y/N further into the room. “Let’s just sit.”

I drag her to the far corner, away from him. Away from everything.

We sit. She tries to pull her hand away, but I don’t let go. Nope. Not happening.

“Uh-uh, toots,” I whisper. “You’re stuck with me.”

She doesn’t argue. Just wipes her face with her sleeve, all quiet and miserable.

Across the room, I can feel him watching.

Always watching.

And I hate it.

I hate all of this.

I hear a grunt and then...

"The hell is she in here for?"

Ekko’s voice slices through the tension like a blade.

Y/N stiffens beside me, her hand still in mine, like she’s trying to hide behind me.

“Y/N’s here because—” I start, but I don’t know how to finish that.

The fuck should I say?

“Because I laughed too loud,” Y/N mumbles, barely loud enough to hear.

Ekko blinks.

“You?” he says, voice full of disbelief.

“Apparently.” Y/N pulls her hand away from mine tucking them into her sleeves like she’s trying to hide.

I snort, rolling my eyes. “It’s ‘cause Mrs. Clark is a total cunt.”

Ekko’s eyes narrow.

His face hardens a little—like he’s getting pissed off, not at us, but at the absurdity of it. “She really gave you detention for that?” His voice drops, angry now. “For laughing? That’s... that’s fucking ridiculous.”

I nod, crossing my arms. “Told ya. Stupid.”

Y/N looks down, trying to disappear into the floor like she can avoid everything.

So, of course, I’m not having that.

I grab her hand. “C’mon, Y/N. Detention? Are you seriously gonna sit here like some sad sack when we could be out there making actual trouble?”

She gives me the side-eye, clearly hesitant. “I’m not sure—”

“Stop thinking, and just do,” I snap, tugging her toward the window. "I’m done with this place, and you should be too."

She hesitates again, her face a mix of nervousness and confusion. I roll my eyes. “Detention’s for losers, Y/N. And you’re not a loser. You’re a rebel just waiting to burst out.”

Ekko’s already halfway through the window, a grin plastered on his face like he’s got nothing better to do than burn this place to the ground. “C’mon, this is way better than sitting in that crap hole. You don’t want to miss it.”

I lean out the window, breathing in the night air like it’s the first breath of freedom I’ve had in ages. “You’re seriously gonna let this lame-ass detention keep you locked up? Or are you gonna live a little?”

She’s still stiff, unsure, but there’s a flicker in her eyes.

She’s fighting it.

I see it. She’s craving a reason to break the rules, but she’s scared.

I pull her closer, voice low but firm. “Look, it’s just one little jump, Y/N. What’s the worst that can happen? Get caught and get another detention? Big deal. You can always blame me. I’ve got it covered.”

Finally, after what feels like forever, she steps up.

Slowly at first, but then quicker.

She's in.

I laugh, watching her climb out. “That’s my girl,” I mutter, watching her face. There’s a spark in her now, and I can feel it.

She’s gonna love this.

We all slide out the window, landing in the cool night air.

Ekko shoots me a look, like we're all in on some big joke. “Now this is how you do it,” he says, grinning ear-to-ear.

Y/N looks at me, her face still a little stunned, but now she’s definitely feeling it. “I can’t believe we just did that,” she says, breathless.

“You bet your ass we did,” I say, with a grin that could cut glass.

“Best decision of your life. Welcome to the rebellion, toots.”

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.☁︎

authors note: the friendship has begun to progress slightly, more where that came from ;)

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