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anglingforlevels · 20 days

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Love & Cruelty: Yandere Bully Victim x Bully Reader

I thought I’d write a piece for the first day of the year, just something mild to start the year off, but I slept through and cleaned most of the day, so instead I wrote it for the second day in the year, huzzah.

CW: Yandere, bullying, depiction of domestic violence and abuse, mention of alcoholism, violence (against reader), not proofread, dead dove

Minors DNI

Present Time

You had done something unforgiveable.

Everywhere you went, you were reminded of it. You saw it reflected in your parents’ eyes and teachers’ disappointed glances, heard it in your classmates whispers and murmurs, the way they’d avoid you, the way you’d spend lunches alone, the way they’d warn other students not to go near you, and most of all, you saw it in Elias.

The guy you had been relentlessly bullying for years.

Ten Years Ago

It began in elementary school. Your hometown was too small to have any more than one, so everyone were familiar with each other. It was a sense of comfortability, the trust and familiarity carried the brunt of most conflicts, thus, the atmosphere always felt so light, even amidst the middle school dramas and awkwardness.

Then a new kid from another town enrolled. In hindsight, the discomfort had perhaps just been the introduction of something new, something foreign, because even that first day – the air had felt stifled.

“This is your new classmate, Elias.”

He was small and scrawny, like the wind could knock him down without any notice. You had taken notice of the glasses he had worn, held together by tape, concealing a pair of pale blue eyes, to how baggy his clothes had been, and how his brown hair looked so messy and unkempt.

Even without anyone needing to say a word about him, the atmosphere around him felt heavy.

“Please take the empty seat.”

That was all the teacher said, as if he had been in a hurry to get it over with. So, unceremoniously, Elias took the single empty seat there had been added to the room and kept his head down low.

Even if the air felt off, there was a certain buzz as well. Everyone was curious, how could they not be? So once the bell rang, everyone all but flocked to his desk, asking about where he came from, why he had moved, what did he like to do, any question they thought of.’

You remained in your seat, your head in your arms as you watched the interaction.

Elias struggled to keep up with the barrage of questions, though he weren’t given much time to answer any of them until a new one popped up. Still, he’d always take a second to look thoughtful, as if he genuinely gave thought to each question, even if it was clear the excitement would overwhelm any possibility of a reply.

“Enough.” The teacher’s voice had rung out sharply. “Go hold your own break.”

In other words, leave him alone.

Deflated, everyone moved away. Looking around, you disliked the way everyone’s shoulders were slumped and the awkwardness. Tipping in your chair, you let yourself fall back, catching everyone’s attention.

“Ah, I was paying attention!” You cried out in fake alarm, to which everyone laughed.

“As if, you were totally asleep!”

“No, no. I was definitely awake and paying attention.” You denied.

“Pfft- It’s break already, y’know.”

“Gah-“

Like that the bitterness dissolved and the classroom was once again familiar, warm, and filled with laughter. Even the frigidness of the teacher melted away as he shook his head and rolled his eyes with a small smile.

With normality restored, the break proceeded as it always did. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Elias’ solitary figure.

Though that moment had been dealt with, the rest of the day kept its spotlight on Elias, as rumors began spreading.

“My moms were talking about him the other day, so there must be some big deal about him.” Sophia had shared, and many others similarly could share anecdotes on how their parents had been whispered about him.

“We all know our duty, I trust.” You said, even though your parents hadn’t given any hint of knowing something about Elias. Everyone nodded, taking their self-decided job of detective seriously; there was a secret and none of you were content with letting sleeping dogs lie.

You were eager to go to school the following day, in case of any breaks in the case. In your case, it seemed your parents genuinely didn’t even know a new student had begun, though they were always too busy with their own matters to pay attention to that kind of thing.

You came up with all manners of ideas and scenarios, while tossing and turning in bed, though most of them grew outlandish, if not outright impossible, by the fourth idea. Though, you quite liked the idea of it being an intergalactic exchange program.

When morning came, you happily obliged the alarm, a fact there seemed to be so unlike you, that your mother jokingly checked if you had a fever. But nothing got the blood pumping like a mystery, so for once, you got seated at the breakfast table without needing any help.

Your little brother was much less willing, groggily trailing after your mom who had woken him up, though he apparently still had the energy to both watch cartoons and list up the entire catalogue of characters from said cartoon.

“Will dad be home this weekend?” your little brother asked when an ad break had given them a breather from his enthusiasm. The corner of your mom’s smile trembled slightly.

“Maybe.”

Before your brother lifted his head from the bowl of oatmeal that had held his attention – or rather, the fruit pieces he tried to single out – to look at mom, you distracted him. “His boss is like one of those villains from your cartoon, she might make him work through the weekend last minute.”

“The villains in my cartoons are way cooler than that.” He argued, preparing to explain the personality of each villain, you assumed. You didn’t doubt it. Though perhaps they were more honest, monologuing their plans out loud, regardless of what the truth would break.

“Well, they’re bad guys and so is his boss – my comparison still tracks.”

Your mom ruffled your hair with a soft smile. “I’m sure it does, but you need to begin eating if you wanna make the bus in time.”

At that, you began shoveling food, briefly considering whether chewing really was necessary – and being chided by your mom when you predictably began harking and coughing.

“I’m off!” You yelled out once you had gotten your shoes and jacket on.

At school, it seemed that everyone’s parents had been reluctant to share the secret, and so had the faculty, favoring silence instead, leaving everyone to simmer in curiosity, scrutinizing Elias’ movements.

You had boldly strolled up to him, asking “So, why are you here?”, but had been told to bugger off by the teacher himself, who didn’t seem to approve of any of the current attempts to interact with the kid. Perhaps, if you had done it in the break, you’d have gotten an answer, but now that the teacher was aware of the snooping, he dedicated ten minutes of the lesson to scolding the entire class.

But secrets often broke before silence did.

The next day, everyone had heard the whispers and rumors about Elias and why he was here, from older students in the hallways or parents who caved in. How he had been removed from his home, how he had been abused. No one knew what to say, he became a presence that was hard to acknowledge but impossible to ignore.

Elias seemed resigned to it, or maybe he just didn’t notice the difference between sitting alone as a new kid or sitting alone as a taboo subject.

“Jay, start us off.”

Jay, who had been rereading the German text furiously, stood up so abruptly that the chair almost fell over in the process, to the bemusement of his fellow students and the annoyance of the teacher. Jay looked too nervous to even be sheepish, even after the teacher remarked that there was no need to stand up to read out loud.

“Sein Bla, er, I mean. Sein Bl-ick ist vom, no, no, I mean fom!”

You were following along his clumsily pronounced words, in order not to lose track of where in the text he was at, as he kept stopping to try and repeat words, though he seemed proud whenever he caught himself making mistakes.

After another line, the teacher raised a hand to stop him, before coolly adding; “That’ll do. Next time, try practicing a bit before class, alright?”

Jay hung his head, hiding his annoyed frown. Ellie, who sat behind him, reached out to pat his back.

“Elias, please continue from where Jay left off.”

“Ah, um…” He looked around cluelessly, until the teacher sighed and gave his copy of the text to Elias, pointing at where they were at. Elias complied, clutching unto the paper. “I-ihm,” he swallowed, “est, ist, uh, a-als orb-“

He stuttered and stumbled nervously over the words, the reading becoming so intelligible that Sophia, who was next, wasn’t sure where to begin her section. And the teacher didn’t say anything. Even though he told off Jay, who put in way more practice…

When it was your turn, you stood up – earning a scoff from the teacher. “N-n-n-n-nur m-m-manchmal-“ You loudly read out, your exaggerated stuttering earning breathless chuckles and snickers across the room.

“That’s enough, that’s not funny. Sit down.” With that dry remark, the teacher let the subject fall. Your eyes fell on the back of Elias as you sat down, you noticed the way he was trembling slightly. Then Jay caught your eyes, grinning behind his book, and around you everyone else was also laughing, and Elias’ weak trembling was soon forgotten.

For the first time today, the atmosphere felt light.

During lunch, Elias was sitting alone again, with what might be the saddest sandwich you had ever seen. Two incredibly thin slices of cheap bread, encasing a single and even thinner slice of ham. The dryness and how loose the sandwich was made you think there wasn’t a hint of butter or condiments to it either.

You looked down at your lunch. You could probably afford to give away one or two things. Your mom always were generous with portions, so you probably wouldn’t be too hungry if you gave something away.

“Hey, Elias!” you waved him over. For a moment he just stared at you with uncertainty. You nodded enthusiastically and gestured for him to come sit. Elias’ eyes betrayed a sense of disbelief, but he quickly complied, hurrying to your side.

You proudly slid your beloved egg-salad sandwich towards him. “My mom made way too much for me today, but she’ll be super annoyed with me if I have leftovers. So,” you clapped your hand together. “Please help cover for me!”

The others always loved it when you put on a little show, to seal the deal you sighed theatrically, the type of sigh that could only be performed tongue-in-cheek or by overeager drama students.

Elias examined the sandwich carefully, as if he thought it would be yanked away from him should he make any sudden movements. Around you, the others stiffened.

“Uh, yeah… Take one of mine too.”

“And my apple…”

The others around you began providing their own offerings, but their eyes were downcast, as if a weight hung around their necks. You furrowed your brow at that. They clearly didn’t want to give away their food.

You thought Elias would look anxious, being the center of the most painful give-away session, you had witnessed. Instead, he looked at you wide-eyed – he reminded you of a duckling with the way he looked at you, expectant yet hesitant.

It irked you. If he wasn’t uncomfortable, then why didn’t he spare a glance to everyone else who was? Somehow, lunch had become a painful event.

“Hm, nevermind.” You suddenly declared, cutting through the quiet pity, and simmering discomfort. You snapped the sandwich out of his hand. You felt everyone’s eyes on you as they waited to see where you were heading with this. “Clearly, you’ve got more than enough.”

You looked pointedly at the disjointed mix of pity-encrusted offerings. After a beat, Elphie nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, actually this is too much for one person.” And took back the apple she had given. The others followed suit, retracting their offers, and taking their food back.

The mood was improving but the stare of Elias felt like shackles, tying the mood to a subpar level. If he was going to take from you, then you’d need to even the scores.

You scoffed before smiling. “Yeah, it’s way too much for one person. But we’ll help you out, new kid.”

And with those words, you took the last thing away – the pitiful sandwich Elias had brought.

The others laughed in disbelief, throwing in light-hearted “aw, that’s mean” between giggles. Everything was restored as laughter filled the room again, and Elias was left behind.

Present Time

Trailing along the river and jumping over the thick branches, you understood the fact that you had committed a cruelty that couldn’t be taken back.

How could you forget, when no one else did, save for the one guy being bullied. He still rushed up to you, wide-eyed, even when you didn’t call for him. You didn’t really understand him, who’d wanna spend time with their bully?

Part of you felt creeped out by his eagerness, even though part of you understood he might just be scared that things would escalate if he didn’t, or even worse, that this was a survival tactic he had learned from home.

It had quickly become the school’s worst-kept secret, that Elias had been removed from his physically abusive dad’s care. Even though you never got violent, perhaps this was how Elias had learned to keep peace?

You felt disgusted with yourself, for your actions, your lack of perspective, and for, even now, seeking him out, because by the river, stood Elias, feeding the ducks. You wanted to turn tail and run away – but even if you couldn’t make amends, this was something you had to do.

Eight Years Ago

You woke up in the middle of the night and wished for nothing more than to succumb to sleep’s sweet embrace, but a dry throat proved the better negotiator, prompting you to sneak through the hallway as to not wake anyone up.

As you neared the kitchen, the sound of hushed voices proved those considerations null.

“Erik, you don’t bring that shit to my house.”

“Oh, so now it’s your house?”

“Well, I’m the one sleeping here every night-“

“Ugh, would you quit it?! I was just sleeping over, she’s a friend!”

“Uh-huh, a sleepover, was it? I’d sure like a friend like that, if this is what a husba-“

Biting your lip, you purposely stepped on the floorboard you knew creaked, and forced a yawn as you entered the kitchen. Your mom and dad straightened up, the guilty look on their faces made you think of the face your little brother pulled when he was caught trying to sneak another snack.

“Hi honey, why’re you up?”

“I’m thirsty. Can I have something warm to drink?”

They visibly relaxed at that. You wondered why they thought you wouldn’t notice that kind of reaction. “Of course, honey. We’ll make something for you.”

In the end, it didn’t matter. For a brief moment, your parents were smiling and everything was normal again.

The next day, after braving the harsh coldness of winter, you made it to school, where everyone else seemed much less well-rested than you.

It seemed everyone was bummed out about the upcoming test scores, suggesting nobody was particularly proud or confident in their own work. Then again, they were probably concerned, given it was only last year you had all graduated into middle schoolers.

Even though it was still in the same building, it felt like a big deal.

You remembered last time a test had gotten the better of everyone’s nerves, that you had “accidentally” spilled your water bottle all over yourself, that had worked like a spell, everyone too busy laughing and fretting over you to worry about their grades.

This case was particularly nasty, though. Your light-hearted jabs doing nothing to penetrate the armor of stress and anxiety they all wore.

“Anyone up for some pizza after school?” You asked, when you weren’t met with excitement, you added. “My treat.”

“That sounds good but I’m not sure my stomach can take it, if I get a bad grade.” Jay said, his anxiety clearly having turned painful and was clutching his stomach with a groan. The others weren’t much better off.

Your eyes fell on your water bottle, once again reminded of your efforts last time. But you couldn’t repeat the same old thing, complacency was the enemy of comedy.

“Elias sure doesn’t seem bothered.” Sophia noted with a hint of envy, at that, the attention shifted to Elias, who true to Sophia’s words, appeared to be enjoying a normal school day, bereft of any added stresses from the test scores, though it felt more like apathy to you.

You weren’t sure if he actually cared about his grades at all.

“He didn’t look worried at all under the test either.” Jay murmured.

“Whaat, so he was confident? Coulda offered some pointers then.”

…

You loosened the cap on your bottle and stood up, interrupting the quiet mumbling of your classmates.

“Hey Elias.” You called out, gaining his attention. He was quick to close his notebook, clutching it closely to his chest, as he hurried to your side. He was always so eager, as if you hadn’t thrown spiders or played tricks on him almost every time you called on him. “I can’t get my water opened, the others were total weaklings and failed too. Be my knight in shining armor, ‘kay?”

You held your bottle out to him, and he swiftly grabbed it, but you didn’t let go at first. You waited for a beat, so that he’d stumble slightly, and gravity would remove the already opened cap. The force made the water splash all over Elias, surprising him enough to let go of the bottle, thus leaving it in a freefall that left Elias even more soaked, as he desperately tried to keep his notebook dry.

“Wow, if I had known you were this strong, I’d have stepped back first from the splash-zone.”

The others laughed at the display, and Sophia pulled you towards the tables and away from the soaked Elias. “You’re way too nice, you’re always looking out for us.” She had said to you.

You had taken those words to heart, in a way, you considered it a duty, looking out for them and the status quo. So, you continued.

From tripping him, leaving messes when it was his turn to clean the classroom, making fun of him, playing pranks on him – everyone was laughing.

Four Years Ago

Over the year, as you all got older, the laughter began to still and the others would begin suggesting other things to do whenever you spotted him. You thought your efforts were lacking, but even though you tried harder, the gleam in their eyes were missing and their laughter rang out hollower, the sound empty and muted.

Soon they began excusing themselves from you, growing infinitely busier whenever you were in the vicinity. Were you being too mild? Maybe that was simply what happened in comedy, complacency made it boring.

So, you’d hide his stuff, steal his lunch, whatever you could think of to take it up a notch, so that you could help reclaim normality, so everyone else would smile and laugh again.

Everything came to a head during a self-study period. Having gotten up from your seat, you sauntered over to Elias.

“Lemme take a look.” You said, trying to peek at his worn-out notebook. Normally, Elias let you do anything, but this time, he closed the notebook shut. You tried to pull it out his tight grip. “Hm? What’s the big idea? Hidin’ something?”

“Just stop it, I’m telling the teacher!” a voice rung out behind you, startling you. It was Ellie, one of your classmates, who crossed her arms angrily. You had never seen her angry before.

“Uh, sorry. I wasn’t trying to actually cheat. No need to get a teacher.” You tried to clarify.

“As if that’s what we’re talking about.” You were surprised to see Jay interject. “You’re… a bully.”

…

“A what?” you blinked in disbelief. “C’mon, that’s not funny-“

“You’re not funny.” A third voice interjected. Looking around, you saw a sea of disapproving faces. “Leave him alone, honestly what did he ever do to you?”

“C’mon, we all had fun goofing around.”

“This is not goofing around. We were kids, we stopped. You didn’t.”

You stood silently for a bit, unsure what to say, until you grabbed your bag and unceremoniously left, skipping the rest of the day. You didn’t spare a single glance for Elias – worried what his expression might reveal.

How were you a bully? You couldn’t be. That was ridiculous. Everyone else had always laughed along, they always loved it. This would all blow over soon once everyone calmed down enough to talk it out.

But the next day, not a single person spoke to you. The teacher didn’t pick you or call on you either. It was as if you were invisible. The only one to look at you were Elias.

It annoyed you.

During the break, nobody welcomed you to their tables. A few even telling you to fuck off, explicitly. You wondered if this was going to continue, as you spent your break feeling sorry for yourself.

When you got home after school, you took a deep breath and put on a smile, hoping it looked genuine and carefree. But when you entered, it wasn’t normality embracing you but heated voices.

“If you spent even one weekend actually at home then-“

“Oh, so this is my fucking fault?!”

This early today?

You let your bag hit the floor to make their argument halt, before seeking them out to ease the atmosphere. “Hey mom and dad, playing that dumb quiz game again?”

You smiled at them but not even the excuse on a silverplate eased their expression.

Huh? Why do they still look so upset?

Your mom had her arms crossed and donned a frown, while your dad looked troubled.

“We got a call from your school today.”

Why would they receive a call from the school? Though you didn’t want to acknowledge it, Jay’s voice replayed in your head. “You’re… a bully.”

This... No, this wasn’t right.

“Ah, about my last test? Gah, I really screwed up with-“

“No. This is about your classmate, Elias.”

Your forced smile froze. Were they going to call you a bully too? Elias was the one who kept taking from you, your classroom, your classmates, and now your parents?

Their expressions were broken, as they seemed to decide between staring intently at you and being unable to look at you. You think your dad had wanted to weep, his eyes teary the entire night, but your parents weren’t good as sadness – so they settled for anger.

You still continued going to school, though it was the only excursion you were allowed for the foreseeable future. The school itself did nothing once the call had been made, happy to ignore any issues there’d reflect badly on them.

But the word had spread even further, to other grades and every teacher, and you felt the way people fell silent when you entered a room, the way they’d put their bags on empty seats to show you weren’t welcome.

During your breaks, your new routine became to retreat somewhere in solitude, after all your attempts of joining a group at lunch failed. It felt almost voluntary if you went somewhere lonesome. But it didn’t remain that way today, as Elias showed up.

“What are you doing here?”

“I thought,” he said, his own nerves seeming to leave him breathless, as he got closer “you’re alone at lunch, so we could-“

“Great, I’m being pitied now?” you sneered. “You got some nerve; this is your fault to begin with.”

He kept taking and taking.

Elias, stilled for a moment, before resuming his careful approach, as if you were a wild beast. He was within arm reach of you, and still approaching.

“Get the hint already.” You said and shoved him. You didn’t mean to push him to the ground, you just wanted to get him away from you, but even so, he landed harshly on the ground, hissing out in pain.

You stared, frozen.

You noticed the way his elbow had been scratched and was bleeding.

With no crowd, you were faced with the simple reality. No one was laughing, you were just hurting someone – there was nothing else to it. Wiping your teary eyes with quivering hands, you left.

Two Years Ago

“Today, a new student begins.” There was a ruckus in the classroom, excited murmurs, and whispers. “I expect all of you to welcome her with open arms.” Your teacher didn’t even pretend that he wasn’t looking at you, at the last part.

You kept your head down, pretending not to be paying much attention.

The town was still small, and newcomers were still a rarity, this girl being the first one since Elias – so you couldn’t help your own curiosity as well, watching her introduce herself. She said her name was Ann, she wore bright-colored clothes and had a lot of freckles.

She seemed sweet, and impressively unaffected by speaking in front of strangers. You accidentally made eye contact, and she smiled sweetly at you. You replayed the moment over and over in your head.

When break came, she was crowded as expected, but you thought you’d shoot your shot – it had been a long time since you had a friend, so you felt anxious. Your mouth was dry, and your legs felt like cement, but you had to do it.

On three, you’d get up and say hi.

One.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You heard Ann ask about the ones still seated.

Two.

You opened your eyes, putting your hands on the table. “The guy in the front is Elias, he’s not very sociable, so don’t worry about him not coming over.”

Three.

“What about them?”

“Oh, them. They’re a bully, you should stay away from them.”

You were half-way up from your seat when you heard it. It felt as if being doused by ice water, breaking the illusion, and you sat back down.

Present Time

You swallowed, before drawing attention to yourself. “Elias.”

He turned around, shocked at your approach. Whether he was startled or was surprised at the fact you did the approaching, you couldn’t tell. Your hands felt sweaty and clammy.

“You’re-“ his voice wavered as he took a step closer to you. You held your hands up, to show you came in peace, but he came to a halt at the gesture.

“Listen, I… Shit.” You dug your nails into your palm, trying to steel yourself. “I’m sorry.”

Elias’ creased his brow. “You’re sorry?”

“Yeah, I know that might be hard to believe or, y’know, sound super sketchy coming from me but, I really am. I’m so sorry for everything I’ve done, I know no words could ever- Nothing I say could…” Your rambled, clumsy words fell apart, you had been unable to pen down anything appropriate to say before coming here, and now your tongue seemed to fail as well.

His eyes widened and his body stiff, he donned a stunned expression.

But that was only natural, wasn’t it? Expecting him to even want to hear your apology to begin with… It was nothing but arrogance.

“I… Sorry.”

You turned around to leave but he grabbed hold of your wrist. When you looked at him, you were caught off guard by the desperation in his eyes, he was crying.

“What do you mean sorry?!” His hold on your wrist was beginning to hurt, as he got closer. “It wasn’t wrong, I’m still here. Don’t say you’re sorry!”

“I- I understand you’re probably feeling a lot of different things right now, words aren’t enough, I understand that, but…” You felt his nails digging painfully into your wrist and wondered if it’d bruise tomorrow. “Please let go of me.”

“Don’t leave me alone. Don’t abandon me.”

“W-what?” You attempts to tear his hand off your wrist came to a halt at that. You were noticing the way blood droplets were pooling around his fingertips, but you doubted that he did. “T-then, we can be friends, it doesn’t have to be so mean, I promise to spend time with you.”

Elias expression fell, and for the first time, you saw a frown on his face, and his voice was quiet.

“Don’t stop.” Elias grabbed onto your shoulder, leaving almost no room between the two of you, and his voice rose into desperate yells, almost cracking. “Please! Keep going! It doesn’t matter what everyone else says, our way is definitely right. Mock me, kick me, just keep going. Don’t ever tell me sorry!”

His grab on you had weakened for a moment when tears became weeping, and you took the opportunity to rip your arm out of his hold. “You’re fucking crazy!”

Maybe there was a kinder response, even with your bleeding arm you felt bad about it, but somehow that was the only response your shock and fear could bring out. You turned to leave, vowing to yourself that you’d at least reach out after someone who could provide the help he clearly needed.

It hadn’t occurred to you that Elias could ever be a threat, as you without hesitance turned your back on him, when you felt a searing pain in the back of your head, and the world went dark.

From an early age, it was apparent to Elias’ what true cruelty was.

Apathy.

When he was young, his mother had suffered a stroke and passed away. His father didn’t take it well, seeking peace at the end of bottles. Most nights he might as well have been dead, as far as the world was concerned.

He saw nothing and wanted to feel nothing too.

This left Elias alone.

No matter how much he cried and begged, it only drove his father further into despair on the few occasions he took notice of him, and further into the arms of alcohol’s sweet oblivion.

He tried cleaning the house, making it look nice. Tried cooking dinner, he had burned himself a couple of times, but his dad never noticed that nor the meal. Nothing worked.

So, he began saying things his dad couldn’t and wouldn’t ignore.

“Mother was weak to die over something so small.”

“I’m glad mother is dead; she was an awful parent.”

“It’s your fault she’s dead, she was overworked.”

It never failed to draw a reaction, angry yells and stomps, arguments, even slaps. And that – that was attention! His dad was paying him attention!

Elias had finally found his perfect home life. He’d break plates on purpose and his dad would get angry and tell him. He’d mock his mother’s death and his dad would slap him. Even as the dad’s eating habits decreased, replaced by more and more bottles, Elias felt truly happy.

“I’m surprised you haven’t moved on from someone that ugly.”

Slap.

Elias was happy to start the day like that, and was ready to begin preparing breakfast, when the sound of sobs caught his attention. His dad had collapsed to the floor, weeping.

“Am I the kind of person who hits other when I’m angry, is this all there’s left of me?”

What?

Far worse than indifference and apathy, his father - the same one who only loved when prompted – cried in regret over loving him, no prompting needed. Elias smashed one of those forsaken bottles right next to his dad, causing glass to splinter, nicking his dad.

“What’s that supposed to mean, old man. Are you that useless, that you can’t even love your kid?” Elias released a bitterness that he had always swallowed and accepted.

Why did he always need to work for attention? Why was he the only one putting in effort? He smashed another bottle, this time right next to his dad’s head. Maybe the third one would actually hit him, but as Elias’ lifted another bottle, he was interrupted by a punch to the face.

Oh. This is it.

Crumbled on the ground with a broken nose, Elias felt truly loved for the first time. He hadn’t tried to make his dad do this, that meant it was genuine and almost unprompted. He had received attention, far harsher and more impactful than before.

However, the sound of broken bottles had attracted the neighbors in the apartment complex, as Elias hadn’t taken sound into consideration in the heat of the moment.

Of course, there was only one conclusion they could draw, walking in on this scene. A child on the floor with a broken nose, broken bottles amidst many, many empty ones.

Without much fanfare, Elias’ father was convicted, and Elias was taken away. But he held onto that moment of love, maybe one day when his father was released, they’d reunite and be a happy family again.

Elias got a new start in a new city but was left on his own. He felt the adults look at him with pity, and as always, pity meant being ignored and brushed aside.

He had learned it during his mother’s funeral, that grownups hated not knowing what to say or do, they hated not being able to fix a problem – so when they couldn’t, they’d look away. Soon, as his classmates learned, they began averting their gaze too.

Except for one.

Elias found what he had been looking for all this time. Without any prompting, they had shown him love. They were a shining light in the dark, the kindest person among brutes. Without fail, they’d shower him with attention and love, and they did it so boldly in front of others too.

Elias thought that this might have been what heaven felt like, but he was sure that in the future, they’d forge a genuine paradise together. He wondered who would take whose last name, and often doodled drawings of them in his notebook.

He even borrowed a book of wedding rituals from across the world, so he could draw them in all kinds of wedding attire. Then – a crack in paradise.

“You’re… a bully.”

Were they that stupid? Or maybe they were blind. If they didn’t see the love he shared with them. They pulled back after that, even when Elias tried to seek them out. They had asked if he couldn’t take a hint, but of course he could.

Their classmates told the teachers and everyone that they were a monster, and like idiots, the entire school believed it. If he didn’t want them to be expelled and separated from him, like his father, they needed to hold back, until it all blew over.

So, he didn’t poke and prod, he didn’t push. Even as they ran from him, he didn’t mind. They weren’t leaving him behind, being together like this was probably just too much for them. They really were a romantic.

Even if it took years, he waited. Graduation was going to be soon, and after that, they could be together, unrestrained. So, when they approached him, he felt delighted. Ah, they couldn’t help themselves?

How cute.

He had also felt more and more impatient, the closer graduation came – like always, they were united in their feelings. They were even stumbling over their words nervously, it was an adorable and exciting new side to them, one he had never seen.

“I’m sorry.”

…The hell did they just say?

No, that wasn’t right, that wasn’t okay – please, keep looking at him, he needs them to keep looking at him. “Then – we can be friends, it doesn’t have to be so mean, I promise to spend time with you”? Don’t make him laugh, don’t promise apathy coated with sugar-lies.

It’s no different than the others “that’s mean, we should be nicer to him”, “let’s play nice from now on”, “leave him alone, honestly what did he ever do to you” all ends the same, he’s alone and ignored. The sight of their back turned to him, was the only reason he needed.

With a nearby branch, he lunged at them.

You opened your eyes, the world blurry for a while before beginning to take any shape there made sense to you. A headache rung through your head, with heavy thuds, and your body felt stiff.

“Ah, you’re awake.” Elias’ voice sounded cheerful behind you, but it was first when you tried to turn around, that your slow, pained mind realized you were tied to a chair. “Don’t worry, I’m not mad anymore.”

You felt his hand on your head, and thought his touch was gentle, the weight was still enough to make you hiss in pain. Elias came into view, standing by your side.

“This is my fault, I realized. I got it all wrong, and then you got the wrong idea. I thought I needed to do things differently this time, so we weren’t separated like me and my dad, so I held back all this time, I didn’t push.

But then you kept ignoring me, no matter how much I tried to talk to you. I thought I’d wait, just like you wanted. But I was wrong. When you apologized, I was so confused and heartbroken, but I understand now! It was my fault; I didn’t get your hint.”

“Hint?” Your voice sounded slow and distant in your ears. Elias nodded enthusiastically.

“I’ve been selfish this entire time,” his words almost drowned out by the ringing in your ears, still managed to clearly fill your heart, a dreadful, unwelcome intrusion. He crouched next to your tied up form, a gentle smile on his lips and a crinkle in his eyes.

Then he harshly grabbed onto your hair, forcing your body upwards, in an awkward position due to being tied to the chair. “Love is about giving,” he let go, letting you and the chair crash towards the floor with no way of breaking the fall. “But all I’ve done is take.”

You were trembling, as you attempted to shift to a position there’d at least let your current threat remain visible. A hard kick forced your head against the floor until it felt as if your bones would shift beneath the weight.

“But that’s no good, not if I want to keep receiving.” The pressure increased, as you felt snot and spit pool together. Then – a loud crack and the blood poured.

“It’s about time I give.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #cw bullying #cw violence #yandere bully victim #cw abuse #dead dove do not eat #minors dni

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anglingforlevels · 24 days

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Ahh, seeing this was such a surprise, that I've ended up not giving any reaction, but I've been smiling like an idiot over your reblog for days.

Being reblogged by a blog I've been following is really an honor, I've always enjoyed your work, particularly your original ones! I'm happy you enjoyed my silly story

You can count me as one of your wives among your many spouses lol

Open House (Yandere House x Reader)

When people say the housing market is a nightmare, is this what they had in mind? (The story goes out to me because I’m trying to get an apartment and it is Suffering. Please pretend this count as yandere.)

CW: not proofread, unconventional captivity, swearing, I accidentally had too much fun writing Abby and forgot the point of the story-

Minors DNI

When you proudly had reached the saving milestone to buy a small house in the countryside, you had opted to spend some of that money on a real estate agent, figuring it was a good investment, hiring a Ms. Abby Bardot – who, over the phone, had insisted heavily on being called Abby rather than Ms. Bardot – who had twenty years of experience in the field.

Quite quickly, you realized that perhaps she wasn’t the most conventional real estate agent.

Ms. Abby, you quickly noticed at your first meeting, was all hand-wringing and nervous sweating, though she seemed sweet enough, having clutched a tin of home-cooked cookies in all shades of black and almost-not-black, and had heartily insisted you’d take as many as you’d like (which was zero).

She had insisted on bringing you to an open house for what she had called a hidden gem of a house, that it would be a private tour. To you, once she mentioned it would be at 1 p.m., it was quite obvious that “private tour” meant, “no one else has or will be showing up”.

Ms. Abby had also enthusiastically shown pictures of the place, pictures she had ready-at-the-go on her phone, presumably she really needed a buyer for the house.

“Ms. Abby.” You had said, interrupted with a small interjection of, Oh please, just Abby. “Ms. Abby, that’s not quite a house and more so a small manor. I went over my budget with you when I hired you.” Ms. Abby had quickly recovered from the rejection and puffed out her chest proudly.

“Why that’s the best part, this is within your budget!”

You had sent her a dubious look at this. “Are the pictures… How do I put this delicately? Are the pictures recent and unedited?”

Ms. Abby deflated so quickly that it almost felt impressive, almost urging you to clap as if it was a circus performance. Of course, it felt mean had you clapped at her dejected look.

“It’s well-kept, I assure you. These pictures are all recent, I’ve updated them every year for almost my entire career!” She said proudly, and you almost felt pity at the fact she didn’t seem to realize her own slip-up but instead paraded it around like a badge of honor.

Though, all-in-all you were charmed, and somewhat endeared, by the honesty. But not very much by the house at all. “I think I’d like to look at other options, it’s awfully big for just one person.”

“Ah, wait!” Ms. Abby said urgently. “Please, before we continue with other options, let’s first try out the open house this Friday.”

“Is this protocol, Ms. Abby?” Ms. Abby’s lips wobbled at this and… “Are you crying?!”

“No, I’m a professional. Real Estate Agents don’t cry, I’m simply sweating, is all.” Ms. Abby sniffled, dubbing her eyes with a handkerchief, presumably you were meant to believe her eyes were suffering heat stroke on this fine autumn day.

“…Alright, I’ll go to the open house. Just give me the address.” You eventually relented, if only to avoid seeing the pitiful sight of a teary-eyed Ms. Abby.

That’s how you ended up before a grand house out in the middle of nowhere, the closest town was an hour-long drive away. Forest and fields were most of the surroundings, which was why the house was in such stark contrast, standing as a sole presence, the forests and fields shying away to make room for it, leaving a vast vacancy around it, stretching on for at least fifty meters.

It really was a pristine house, when comparing it to the pictures, it seemed to match right down to the placement of every rock and plant in sight. As if someone had consciously placed each leaf and pebble.

The plants and trees of the garden donned vibrant colors despite the season. You wondered how often Ms. Abby came by, or if she had hired a crew for maintenance, as you could not spot even the slightest hint of dirt or spiderwebs.

The only thing that looked aged was, unfortunately, the “For Sale” sign.

It felt a little unnatural, but you chalked it up to currently being a display house, and thus not lived-in either. You took notice of the way the trees beyond the reach of the garden were withered and wrinkled, and the grass yellowy, dry patches, barely hiding the dirt beneath.

“Some more forest could really do this place some good.” You mumbled. You hesitated for reasons you didn’t fully understand before stepping beyond dead plants clinging loosely to your feet and entering the garden.

You felt a prickling sensation behind your eyes the further you traveled, the door felt so far when the weight of something cloyingly attentive seemed to drag you down as if to prevent your advances.

“You’re here!” A delighted Ms. Abby yelled out before the sound of pitter-patter was interrupted by a loud thud against the door that rattled the frame. With her energy dampened, a sheepish Ms. Abby appeared behind the front door, simply saying; “It opens the other way.”

Right, something attentive could only have been the attention of the overzealous Ms. Abby.

“Come in, come in!” She invited, all but pulling you stumbling into a most decadently, lavishly decorated foyer. From distasteful stuffed animal heads to the ruby red furniture and mosaic glass tables, it felt quite uncomfortable, all sharp angles and very little homeliness to it, like an ornate display of wealth rather than a welcome into a household.

“Not very welcoming, huh?” You commented, which Ms. Abby elected not to respond to, though the small “eep” suggested she had heard the negative impression.

Looking the room over it was impossible for your eyes not to rest at the centerpiece of the foyer: A huge painting above the staircase. A solemn-looking guy stared out into the air, curly locks framing his face. Old paintings always looked miserable, yet you couldn’t help but feel there was a glint of genuine misery in his eyes. Noticing your attention had wandered, Ms. Abby followed your eyes.

“Oh, that was an owner of the house who had it commissioned back during the Renaissance, they wanted it right here, in the heart of the house.” She explained though you couldn’t say you agreed to a decadent foyer being the heart of a house, and if it was, that wasn’t boding well for Ms. Abby’s already poor sales chances.

“I’ve never understood why someone would want to pay money to look miserable in a painting, like you’re paying for it, at least make yourself smile or something.” Your jab was met with Ms. Abby’s impressive ability to carry on like you had said nothing negative at all.

“You know, the owner claimed it was a Jan van Eyck-original too.” Ms. Abby said as if letting you in on a secret, or town gossip. “Really, we’ve had it appraised.”

“And the appraiser confirmed it was a Jan van-whatever original?”

“…The owner really loved art; you’ll see plenty of paintings throughout the place.”

So that was a no. And speaking of no’s:

“Listen, Ms. Abby, I don’t exactly have the budget for a big house, as I already said. I especially don’t have the kind of budget that the kind of person who’d commission an artist to paint them for their foyer would have.”

Abby laughed nervously. “Well, you see, the value’s dropped as I mentioned. We haven’t been able to sell it for a long time, so the price just kept falling.”

“Right. But even so, it can’t have fallen that much.”

At this, Abby avoided eye contact, wringing her hands before, after a big breath, blurting it out. “The person in the painting was the last person to own the house.”

…

“Is this place built on top of an oilfield or something?”

Ms. Abby laughed a hearty if a bit shrill, laughter, before sighing and mumbling. “If only.” She clapped. “But! This is a charming house, why, let me show you the many rooms!”

“Ms. Abby, have you ever considered a field outside of sale?” You asked dryly but nonetheless followed along, eager to leave behind the painting, as you felt watched. The house consisted of many sprawling hallways, enough to almost make one dizzy, and you struggled to remember where everything was.

The house had many rooms, none of them particularly inviting, reading more like a historical display room lacking any warmth or heart (and perhaps even worse, any semblance of renovation despite old age), and all absolutely clustered with trinkets, knickknacks, and in the case of the walls, paintings – leaving very little free space.

It really did read like a historical display, as some rooms seemed older than others, suggesting partial renovation must have been done on some of the rooms. You’d like a word with whoever had been in charge of that lackluster, nonsensical effort.

Perhaps the lack of replaced furniture or renovation was why the house periodically seemed to creak and moan in odd ways, at times you almost confused it as Ms. Abby groaning or sighing, only to realize it was the sound of the house itself.

As for Ms. Abby, she remained undeterred regardless of how many snide remarks you made, which you had to commend her for, though the charm you initially had felt from it was quickly wearing off. Ms. Abby actually seemed increasingly happy, humming to herself. She didn’t think the sale was going well, did she?

“How much of the house is there left to see, Ms. Abby?” You asked, increasingly impatient and tired, having been dragged through an unreasonable number of rooms, which inexplicably, almost all were bedrooms (and yet, you had yet to see more than a single bathroom).

“Well, we’re still missing a couple rooms like the kitchen, oh! I know, how about the master bedroom since you’ll be spending every night there.” She said with a beaming smile.

“That’s awfully optimistic, Ms. Abby.” You noted, at this you received a good-hearted chuckle.

“Oh, this place is too lovely to pass up on, I think it likes you – it’s a match made in heaven. If you don’t like some of the features or decorations, it’s easy to change those, so it would be a waste not to live here.”

“I can’t imagine a house as empty as this holding much affection, and I’m not up for a big project.” All you wanted was a small but cozy house, a simple place. You felt exhausted just thinking about the amount of work you’d need to pour into a house like this to make it feel like home.

“Well, it’s perhaps not an easy house,” Ms. Abby admitted, her cheer at this point an unshakeable force, as a sense of confidence seemed to have sprouted in her. “But that’s why when that rare fit comes by one must take the leap and hold onto it.”

You’d feel insulted by the suggestion you were a good fit for this distasteful and unpleasant house, had Ms. Abby not already shown herself as incompetent but well-meaning. You simply sighed, giving up the conversation, figuring you’d find another real estate agent when you came home.

“Well, take me to the master bedroom then.”

Ms. Abby led you through the foyer again, the bedroom apparently at the other end of the house. Your eyes were drawn to the painting once more, its eyes felt more sunken in than before, shadows forming beneath, to which you tiredly sighed. “Me too, buddy. Me too.”

The master bedroom seemed to be at the stopping point to the sprawling hallways on the right. You were just aghast at the fact you had gone through another set of sprawling hallways, you wondered who had come up with the confusing layout of the place.

Ms. Abby tried to imitate a trumpet to build up suspense but trailed off after you shot her an impatient look. After a weak cough, she simply said “Tadaah” and opened the door.

You stopped up, your right foot hanging in the air, about to cross into the room. A sense of foreboding filled you; it was a bit different from the first time, however. The prickling sensation you felt and the cloying attention, it felt smothering, less like a shove away and more like… Being held in place.

Ms. Abby waited patiently inside the room, not commenting on your hesitation, though you had been snarky and displeased the entire tour, so perhaps this just seemed like more of that. You swallowed and ignored the pressure as you put your foot down and entered the room.

The air felt different here. You had hoped the odd sensation would disappear if you just carried on, like when you entered the house, to begin with, instead, it worsened. The air clung to you, terribly heavy and sticky. It took you a moment to actually focus enough to realize Ms. Abby had spoken, so when you finally snapped back to reality, Ms. Abby was standing in the hallway.

“-tively spellbound already. I’ll give you some time to look around and get acquainted together, one-on-one.” And then she closed the door in your face. The room was, oddly empty, compared to every other room. Nothing but a big, red bed, the empty walls that you could’ve sworn were further away when you entered, and that feeling of being watched, lodging into your skin like stitching.

Nothing except an almost empty room that didn’t feel empty enough.

That’s it. Ms. Abby had officially used up all her pity points, you were leaving. You opened the door, a tad more aggressively than what was perhaps called for, but Ms. Abby was nowhere to be seen in the hallway.

For how annoyed you were with her at this point, you found that you missed her company as you walked down the hallway, nothing distracting you from the odd sounds of the house that seemed to have increased. It felt as if the floor beneath your feet moved and rumbled slightly, the velvety carpets uneven and bumpy, as if walking on something breathing, something living.

You wished that Ms. Abby had given you the floor plans, as you struggled to remember how to return to the foyer through the hallways and occasional rooms you had to cross seemed to hold no real rhythm and didn’t feel as if it obeyed any rules about directions.

At one point you could have sworn you turned back, only to be in another room than where you had emerged from originally. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you found the foyer again. Even in your rush to find the door, your eyes were drawn to the painting, though you continued to rush by it. In your haste, it almost looked as if the painting’s colors were smudged.

You attempted to open the door but found it didn’t budge. It was an odd choice to lock the door, but you were certain that was the reason, it had to be. A locked door was no issue from the inside, but even after hearing the click of the lock, the door didn’t budge when you attempted to open it.

You attempted to kick, pry, tear, and even throw your body weight at the door, but with no luck.

Settling in the foyer after your final attempt at prying the front door open, you huffed, out of breath. You laid on the stairs, trying to settle your heart and pulse, when your eyes landed on the painting again.

…You rubbed your eyes and sat up, thinking what you had seen was owed to your tiredness and the upside-down angle, but no. The painting really did look smudged. Like someone had blurred colors and borders together, the hair’s vibrant color having lost its radiance.

And the mouth, it was oddly smudged between the lips, that it almost gave the impression of a mouth being pried open.

…

No, that was silly, you were being silly. The painting was smudged out, which was already creepy enough on its own, or rather, the house was already creepy enough on its own – your mind was just working overtime and was making up new things to get scared over.

“Well brain, if you like overtime, I guess I’ll have to put you to use and think of an escape. But you don’t have a union, so it’s unpaid hours for you, I’m afraid.”

If the front door was a bust, then you’d find a window. You struggled to recall any windows on the ground floor, but surely there had to be some. Or… That’s right! The kitchen, it had a glass door. You never got around to seeing the kitchen, having mainly been shown the upstairs so far, but you recalled Ms. Abby mentioning it back when she had given her pitch for why you should show up.

You hadn’t been on the left side of the house, at least not on the ground floor, so you figured that was a good direction to begin, in your search for the kitchen. You opened the door, urgency in your steps, only to find you weren’t in an unfamiliar room.

Instead, you were back in the empty master bedroom, which somehow felt much more crammed than any of the other rooms. But… That didn’t make sense. The master bedroom was upstairs, you had fought through a confusing hallway to find the foyer, so this… this didn’t make sense at all.

The air felt oppressive in the room as if your heart would be forced to a halt from the sheer weight of it, like a physical presence. This time you were sure that the walls were closer than they had been before. A bed table had been added next to the bed, and the part of you still delusional enough to hope thought maybe it meant that Ms. Abby was still around. As if this was an elaborate prank.

You tried to swallow despite how dry your mouth felt, your heart hammering painfully against your chest. This was ridiculous. You slammed the door open again, the door shaking on its hinges. Beyond the door, it revealed a hallway, but even if the hallway was confusing, you had been through it twice by now, you could do this, you could find the kitchen or a ground-floor window.

Hurrying along the hallway, it felt as if the floor and walls shifted and moved. Were you dizzy, or was this actually happening? The restrictive air of the master bedroom followed you, as you dragged yourself through.

“Huh?” you furrowed your eyebrows when you opened one of the doors. You were sure this was the one you had gone through before, but the room behind was unfamiliar. Cold dread filled you as a horrible thought crossed your mind.

No, no, no. You ran to the next door but behind it was another unfamiliar room. Were the layout… Changing? Your hand trembled as you tried to open a third door, and you felt like crying when all it revealed was the master bedroom again.

A lamp now stood on top of the bed table. Were new things going to be added each time you returned to the room? You thought back to the cramped bedrooms Ms. Abby had so cheerfully shown off. You weren’t sure what to make of it but felt sick all the same.

“I don’t have time for this.” You had to snap yourself out of it. You could spiral and panic later, but for now, you needed to get out. So, turning on your heel, you returned to the hallway. You’d go through each door that didn’t lead to the master bedroom, hoping to somehow find your way downstairs.

You almost cheered audibly when you finally saw the staircase, rushing to it. Once again, as you passed it, your eyes were drawn to the painting.

The painting no longer looked the same as before, the person it had been long erased by smudged and changing lines. You couldn’t tell what it was changing into but felt your heart race with familiarity all the same.

The mouth was a gaping hole by now, outstretched awkwardly. You thought it might have been a smile, but it looked much more like a pained grimace to you.

You only took this as further encouragement to get out of there.

When you failed to find anything of use, you realized there was one room that you seemed to always find. So, as counterintuitive as it seemed, you walked upstairs again, and as confusing as the changing layout was, it didn’t take you long to find it.

You saw the familiar bed, the bed table, the lamp, and the newly added clock on the wall (which didn’t seem to be working) and closed your eyes for a moment. You took a deep breath. And then you decisively walked in to grab the lamp, shivering a bit as you brushed against a much-too-warm wall.

If you couldn’t find the kitchen or a window on the ground floor, then fuck it, you’d find one up here. Whatever broken bones or bruises you’d get from the fall, you’d accept. Finding a window upstairs proved much more doable, as one would line the walls every now and then.

You threw the lamp against the window and braced yourself for impact.

But nothing happened.

The lamp fell to the floor with a hollow thud. When you opened your eyes, you found not a single scratch on the window. So, you tried again. And again. You tried punching the window, earning nothing but a stinging fist.

Yet you continued. At some point, it became more of a tantrum, an expression of your desperation colored in violence, than an attempt to escape. Hitting the window, kicking the wall. “Why-“ you hated this house. You hated it. Hated, hated, hated it. You just wanted to leave. Your ears rang, whether it was from your headache, or the way the house’s groans and creaks had grown in severity, you didn’t know, didn’t care, couldn’t care.

Already unsteady on your feet, your final kick caused you to lose balance entirely.

Stumbling and falling onto the floor, without realizing it, you found yourself by the stairs, and face to face with the painting. Your blood ran cold as you stared into your own lifeless eyes staring down at you from above.

Quiet had fallen over the house like a blanket, only the slow rumble throughout the house bellied any activity. In the heart of the house rested a painting, donning a toothy smile and a certain glint in their eyes.

A satisfied Ms. Abby removed the “For Sale” sign out front and drove away with a hum.

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anglingforlevels · 1 month

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Another Generic Slasher (Yandere Slasher x Reader)

Don't mind me, accidentally deleting this story and having to repost it. It was my first attempt at writing gore, so nothing too egregious in here.

CW: Graphic Death Scenes, Character Death, Violence (A Little Against Reader), Gore, Yandere, Swearing, Reader is referred to as “handsome” but not in reference to a gender, Dead Dove, Not Proofread

Minors DNI

Life was far away, and you hoped it wouldn’t catch up to you anytime soon. So, you thought, as you arrived at the summer getaway you and your friends had planned. When the car stopped, everyone jumped out and, perhaps inspired by their own anticipation, began unpacking without missing a beat.

“Ah, let me help you with that, Ms. Browning.” Jake said, already grabbing some of the boxes that Ms. Browning had brought with her.

“Why thank you, how reliable. What a good kid.” She hummed, pleased. Ms. Browning was the lady who owned the lovely house out in the wood that you and your friends had rented for vacation. She wore her red hair in a tight bun, and donned black, thick glasses.

“No problem. Ms. Browning.” Jake smiled. That sap was always offering to help people out, so he no doubt meant it. He had never minded a bit of hard work even on his days off. You, however, were happy to leave him to do the heavy lifting.

You had come here with three of your buddies to get away from the city and enjoy your time-off with some extra flair. Jake had suggested it back when you helped him dye the tips of his brown hair a lighter shade.

You had jumped at the idea, and begun calling up the others, so much that you had forgotten about the dye for a moment, leaving Jake’s tips white, which you had insisted contrasted well with his brown hair and dark skin (though he continued pouting, not entirely convinced).

Someone gently tapped your shoulder. Looking over a bespeckled, freckled visage greeted you, as she waited patiently for you to give the go-ahead to talk. “What up, Aisha?”

She hesitated for a moment. “…Is there anything I can help with?”

You had the feeling that wasn’t what she had been wanting to say, but didn’t want to push her, so instead, you simply nodded with a grin. “Yeah, for starters, you could bring your luggage inside?”

“Right. Of course.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, a little worried for her. Your attention was called elsewhere when Sara, the finale member of the group, yelled out, her voice echoing in the forest. “Jake let’s race to see who gets their box inside first. Loser has to make dinner tonight.”

Sara emerged from the hood of Ms. Browning’s car, with two boxes stacked in her arms. Which seemed impressive, had you not seen a pillow peeking through one of the boxes. The only disadvantage was the lack of visibility, but given Sara’s buzz cut versus Jake’s long bangs, it didn’t count for much.

“You wanna race in that long dress?” Jake asked dubiously.

“Scared?” Sara smiled that crooked smile she always did when she got competitive, and Jake rolled his eyes, despite eagerly getting in position. Those dorks.

“I’ll do the countdown.” You offered. “On now. 3. 2. 1.” You kept them waiting in suspense for a moment before shouting. “NOW!”

They both kicked off and… “I won.” Aisha’s voice rang out, and there she stood with a small box in the doorway, with a little smile on her lips.

“Whaaat?” Jake exclaimed. Sara shook her head in disapproval.

“Judge, I call foul. Aisha was already by the porch.”

“We never agreed to a starting line.” You pointed out, having seen Aisha moving toward the porch mischievously while you did your countdown.

“The judge and Aisha are clearly cooperating. Outrageous.” Then, Sara smiled a cat-like smile. “Then, we’ll just have to make sure the judge comes in last place, right Jake?”

“Huh.” You said, but by the time you processed the words, they had already taken off. “Hey now!” You ran after them, but predictably lost.

“Lookin’ forward to tonight’s meal.” Jake said, looking mighty satisfied with himself. You shook your fist at them playfully.

“The energy of youth really isn’t to be overestimated.” Ms. Browning laughed, entering the house with the last of her boxes.

“Youth? Tell that to my lower back, please.” You sighed, earning an eye roll from Jake who had been subjected to that specific complaint the most, as your go-to carrier.

“At my age, anyone under forty seems young.” Ms. Browning placed her box on the table and clapped her hands satisfied. “There, that was all of it. Again, thank you for helping me carry the boxes, that’s no trivial thing. It’s been years since I’ve rented this place out, so I thought I’d replace a couple of things.”

“It was no problem, Ms. Browning, you let us stove our stuff in the car too after all. And we’re just excited to vacation somewhere so beautiful.”

“That’s true. Beautiful places seems to make the spirit brighter, don’t they? It’s like I always say, trivial is as trivial does, and ugly things are trivial.”

…

Exchanging looks, none of you knew how to respond to that, to your luck, Ms. Browning simply continued on, allowing all of you to push past it as well.

You began zoning out of the conversation, your eyes idly looking at the interior. When your eyes flew past the open door, you thought your heart would stop for a moment. You could have sworn that, for just a second, you saw a man, an impossibly tall, large man. But after blinking, he was gone.

You relaxed, certain it had probably just been your mind playing tricks on you, and that it had merely been a tree.

Sara and Jake was busy discussing who had actually been the fastest runner between the two of them, so much so that most of Ms. Browning’s introduction to the place went on deaf ears, as she prattled on about the privacy and view. Something about how it was one out of only ten buildings in the entire forest.

As you looked over the place, your eyes drifted over a dresser there seemed a little too far from the wall. Something about it piqued your curiosity, though you weren’t sure what it was, but approaching it you were awarded for said curiosity with the discovery of uneven, barely eligible letters scratched into the wall.

“Trevel?” you read out loud. Jake, who was losing the argument against Sara, eagerly joined to see what you had found, none of you noticing the way Ms. Browning shifted uncomfortably.

“It’s a name, dear.”

“A name? I’ve never heard it before.”

“Well, that makes sense. It’s an ugly name, fit for ugly boys.” You were caught off guard by the harshness of her words. Then she smiled at you and Jake. “And trivial is as trivial does, and ugly boys are trivial. Something like that would be out-of-place with such handsome kids.”

You were distracted by a loud noise outside before you could reply. A look outside revealed the neatly stacked firewood having collapsed, and by the time you looked away, Ms. Browning had already moved on from the conversation.

Before leaving us to ourselves, Ms. Browning diligently gave us a run-down over where everything was, from the firewood outside by the woodchipper, which we were allowed to make use of for fires, to the rooms, even considerately telling how far away the nearest doctors, police, and firefighters were, most being quite far with the exception of a small, local police station, so small it couldn’t even be considered small-town cops but rather forest rangers.

With our ride gone, we began packing out and taking inventory, in case something was missing, and we’d need to call a taxi for shopping. By the time all the boxes had been sorted through for the most crucial stuff, it had begun to grow darker outside.

“Man, I’m starving.” Sara grumbled.

”We could tell by the fact you only unpacked the food.”

Sara playfully stuck her tongue out at you, but even with that rude display, you obediently began collecting ingredients. Jake looked over your shoulder.

“Yellow onions are better for stews.” He commented, as he threw one of the red onions from hand to hand.

“And the red one carries more whimsy.”

“I can carry that whimsy to the pantry and get some yellow onions instead.”

That was promptly rejected. As he examined your other chosen vegetables, you got out a cutting board.

“Not gonna handle the meat first?” he asked.

You sighed. “What happened to ‘loser cooks’ that you forced me into?” you asked with a hand on your hip. Jake conceded and stepped back. The others had begun getting out the new plates that Ms. Browning had brought along.

“Remind me again, why exactly are you getting plates out already? We haven’t even begun the fire, I’m only at the prep-part?”

“Explain why you began the prep-work before the fire-“ they were interrupted by a loud crash. A plate had slipped out of Aisha’s hands, and now laid shattered on the floor. Aisha stood frozen, her eyes wide.

“I… I’ll clean it up..” She said, her tone sounding a little off.

“I think Ms. Browning mentioned that there’s a broom closet in the hallway.” Sara said, before Aisha even left, you got distracted by Jake crowding you again. By the third interjection (or advice, as he called), you put down the peeler you had used for the carrots.

“Ugh, Jake, you clearly want to do the cooking.” You said. Jake opened his mouth but seemed to think better of it and decided not to protest your words. You sighed. “You and Sara are way too competitive; you’ll even fight for a loss. I’ll go get some firewood for the fire; you get cooking duty.”

“Deal!”

You walked outside, hoping that the firewood wasn’t too damp, as you really didn’t want to cut new firewood, even if there was an axe available. These contemplations were lost as you found Aisha sitting on the porch.

“Trouble finding the broom?” You asked lightly, making Aisha jump a little, startled.

“Just needed a bit of fresh air.” She said, this time you took notice of her tone. She seemed downcast but you couldn’t quite place your finger on it. Not quite sad but definitely not happy either.

“Hey man,” you scratched your neck awkwardly. This stuff weren’t your strong suit. “don’t sweat the plate. We’ll just get Ms. Browning a new one.”

Aisha hummed in agreement, still looking at the sky. Your eyes flickered between her and the sky, trying to think of something more to say. “Uh, you know, I mistook a tree for a person, like some kind of horror movie. Which, well,” you trailed off. “What I’m trying to say, it’s more embarrassing than the plate-thing, so don’t worry about it.”

Aisha smiled at that. Whether it was your words or your clumsy attempt that made her smile, you weren’t sure. Aisha sighed, “Sometimes I wish it was a horror movie.”

She looked at you with a surprised expression, as if she hadn’t expected herself to say that either. “I don’t want to be in a horror movie, of course. Not actually. It’s just nice sometimes to imagine.”

“Escaping the jaws of death?”

Aisha was silent for a bit, as if contemplating whether to say her next words. “No. In the horror movie I meet my end. It’s not dragged out, maybe I’m one of the first ones to go. In either case, by the end of the movie, I’m dead, and when the credits are playing, they forget my name. But that’s just running away.” She looked at you and then at the ground. “I’m sorry, that’s a lot to hear.”

It was. You weren’t sure what to respond but you could see Aisha was suffering, you didn’t like seeing that at all. “You’re away from everything right now, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I am. And I really want to enjoy this, I do. I really do. But I didn’t come here to enjoy myself, I came here to run away, somehow I can’t bring myself to relax at all. I’m sorry.”

…You scooted closer to her. “You’re out here talking with me though, that’s not running away.” Even being able to share something, however small, was still something. You thought for a moment, trying to find the right words:

“Listen, you’re… good.” You’re good? It didn’t get any clumsier than that. “Er, I guess that’s not really what you wanted to hear-“Aisha laughed, the sound comforted you.

“No, no. that’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

“Really? Uh,” Gotta keep up this momentum somehow. “Maybe we’ll go on a trip together again, next year. It’ll be like running away from running away. No, wait, that doesn’t make sense.”

“Pfft, you’re so bad at this.” Aisha laughed, this time her laugh felt a little more genuine and unrestrained. “How am I supposed to feel melancholic with that kind of cheering up? Let’s definitely go on a trip next year. And…Thanks for coming out here and talking with me.”

She stood up, and the air felt a little lighter around her.

“Well, I should get some firewood going.” You said, begrudgingly, and stood up as well. Only for the both of you to be distracted by rustling from the trees and bushes. You blinked. You were from the city, so you weren’t used to a place with wildlife, and while you could hear the sound of birds and insects nonstop as a reminder of their existence, other types of wildlife had been forgotten by you.

You felt as if something watched you from the trees, meaning the animal probably still was there. You crouched and held out your hands, in what you hoped was a disarming gesture.

“Hey,” you said gently, “Sorry did we frighten you? It’s okay, yeah?” Your hushed words seemed to cause a stop in the rustling before the animal decided to outright leave. Your attempts to soothe apparently left a lot to be desired.

You sighed, only to be faced with Aisha staring at you in disbelief. You looked at her questioning.

“Why are you trying to befriend a wild animal? You know there’s coyotes in some parts of the forest, right?” at that you just rolled your eyes.

“Not this part of the forest, else Ms. Browning wouldn’t be renting out a vacation home.”

“Seriously…” Aisha didn’t seem any less exasperated by you. “I’ll help gather the firework, since if a beast attacked you, you might try to talk to it.”

While you didn’t appreciate her claim, you did appreciate the company and additional helping hands, the broom long forgotten. Especially once you arrived at the scattered firewood. While a pain to fix back into a neat stack, it was a relief to feel how dry and crisp the wood was, as if newly cut.

This meant the axe leaning against the woodchipper, would need no use.

“Can you grab the basket?” Aisha asked after having selected the, in her opinion, finest firewood. You looked around but couldn’t find any. “Hm… Maybe we can carry it ourselves?”

At that, the both of you took one look at the firewood you had picked to last throughout the entire night and decided against it. “I’ll go grab something to carry with.” You volunteered.

You slipped inside, your presence going unnoticed by Jake who was too absorbed with cooking and Sara who was busy crying over newly cut onions. Basket, basket, basket… Satisfied you managed to find one in the living room, by the fireplace, which in hindsight felt a little obvious.

You looked out of the window, rolling your eyes playfully after spotting the way Aisha was sneakily rearranging your half of the pile. She had felt it wasn’t neat enough, while you had argued it would all be thrown into a basket either way.

A large figure emerged from the woods, and you froze. The impossibly tall frame, the one that had you convinced it had to have been a tree, there was no way you wouldn’t recognize that. The figure was huge, in every sense of the word, a bulking presence, enveloped by a long jacket.

He turned his head towards the window, and you duck, panicked. But you swore you had seen nothing but white for a moment. You barged into the kitchen once more, catching the attention of Jake and Sara, but any jokes about your explosive entrance died out when they saw your expression.

“What’s wrong?”

“I saw a stranger outside.” You swallowed. “I have a bad feeling about this, he’s-“ Dangerous. You could feel it, if not feel it, you could certainly tell he was capable of being dangerous from his build alone.

“Where’s Aisha?” Sara asked concerned, seeing as she not only hadn’t returned earlier, but wasn’t with you. You confirmed her fears.

“Outside.” You heard a mumbled “fuck”. You wanted to panic and swear as well, but you needed to do something. “Alright, you two, call the police. And I’ll get Aisha back inside.”

“What about the guy?”

“I- he didn’t attack or anything. If I keep acting like I don’t know he’s there, Aisha might be able to get inside. I just have to act natural.” You hoped you sounded confident and reassuring, but even if you didn’t, there wasn’t many other plans being thrown around, so all of you nodded, before you returned to the main entrance.

You opened the door askew, so you could see out but couldn’t be seen.

You needed to call Aisha inside but found yourself hesitating. The words struggling to make it past the lump in your throat. He hadn’t done anything yet, so if you acted like before, then maybe he’d do nothing, it was your best shot at least. Even so, you hands grew clammy as you thought to keep your voice from shaking.

“Hey Aisha!” you called out, watching her from the creek of the door. You worried that if she could see your face, then she’d be able to see your fear, barely concealed. “Could you come help find the basket?”

“Did you check by the fireplace; it might have one?”

“Uh, yeah, I did.”

“Maybe there isn’t one, then? Just come out and we’ll carry i-“

“No! Um, I’m sure, yes. Ms. Browning mentioned a basket at some point,” you interrupted hastily. Worry crept up that you had let panic color your voice in a far too obvious way. You swallowed. “It’ll drive me crazy if I just give up, please, just a quick look?” You pleaded.

“Alright, if it’s that big of a deal to you.” Aisha shrugged. You held your breath as she approached, only able to breathe once she was inside, no looming figure following as far as you could see. She opened her mouth, but you didn’t even let her form words before you spoke.

“Aisha, there’s someone outside.”

Maybe there was more delicate ways to share this fact. Ways that didn’t make her bemused expression shatter like that. But you didn’t have time to navigate that kind of delicacy. Aisha furrowed her brows, tentatively glancing at the door.

She looked back at you, as if hoping to find a trace of insincerity or joking but faltered as she found nothing of the sorts. Neither of you said anything else as you locked the door and joined the others in the living-room.

They had finished their call already and was standing back-to-back. You assumed it was to avoid getting snuck up on, though they were left with two blind sides.

Any words one might have ushered, choked in the tension, and instead all of you stood together silently, anxiously.

None of you knew how long time went before the cop arrived, though it couldn’t have been long. Even so, each moment felt like an eternity, as frazzled nerves turned every sound of the forest into a foreboding sign.

So, at the sound of wheels, all of you hurried to the door. A cop car that looked like something from a period piece, revealed what must have been a lackluster budget at the tiny station. Out of the car, a middle-aged man stepped out, using his hand to move his long hair aside.

“Hey kiddos.” He greeted them as he approached, stopping a little past the firewood. His voice had a condescending tone to it. “I’m Mr. Davidsons, so y’all say you saw a perp?”

“Well, we saw – or, well, they saw – a strange man walking around here.” Aisha explained, stumbling over her words. At this Mr. Davidson lifted an eyebrow, glancing at you briefly.

“Did anyone else actually see someone? Or was it just this one there?” He laughed, it was a somewhat unpleasant sound, grating in the way only an adult’s dismissive tone could be, doubly so given all of you were adults.

“Sir, I’d be happy if it was just me being paranoid but…” Your eyes darted around nervously scanning the area. You wondered if the car alone might have scared him off. “I saw a man. He looked really big and strong.”

Those words didn’t seem to do much in the way of convincing. “You guys city folks? Out here in the country, especially this lively piece of forest, there’s plenty of critters. You probably just saw an ugly bear.” He snorted.

Sara looked about ready to school him but all of you froze when he appeared. This time he didn’t simple stand or walk aimlessly around, he was heading straight towards them, though you couldn’t see his face clearly from his red hair and hunched posture, you spotted glimpses of a white mask.

Mr. Davidson noticed the way all of your attention had shifted, and following your eyes, he faced the hulking mass making his way towards them all.

“Sir, this is the police, stay where you are.” Mr. Davidson said. He was much more serious now that he realized there was someone. He was on guard, his hand ready to draw out his gun, you noticed the way his hand shook, and felt any sense of security vanish, as you watched the pale, sweaty cop attempt to talk down to what felt like a monster of a man.

Similarly, he didn’t seem very convinced by Mr. Davidson either, as he only made a grunting sound and continued his slow gait forward, stray pieces of firewood being kicked out of the way. “Sir, I’m serious. If you continue moving, I’ll consider it contempt of a police officer.”

But he only got closer. Mr. Davidson held out his gun when the man was within arm-reach. A proximity that left your guts churning. However, the man did stop, a fact that made Mr. Davidson breathe a sigh of relief, as the man spread out his arms. Perhaps it was the way it made him look bigger and emphasized the sheer size of his arm muscles and shoulders, but you felt more threatened by it, though Mr. Davidson just nodded in approval at what he perceived as a sign of submission.

And then an axe nestled into Mr. Davidson’s neck.

Someone shrieked, a shrill and piercing sound. Then you realized it was yourself. The man grabbed the axe’s handle, but instead of nestling it free, he forced it to slice through the rest of Mr. Davidson’s neck, freeing the axe.

Mr. Davidson’s head thumped to the ground, rolling slightly.

You felt a pull on your arm, flinching until you realized it was Jake pulling you the last few steps toward the door, before shutting it close, and locking.

“Oh my god, oh my god-“Aisha was breathlessly chanting, intercut with small “what the hell”, unable to provide anything more poignant. Sara, who had been no worse for wear, straightened up at this. She took Aisha’s hand, and though nothing else was said, Aisha seemed to be reeled back to her senses, enough to break up the broken chant.

“We don’t have time to waste.” You said, fishing out your phone. Your hand shook so badly that it took a few tries to unlock. “Call the police?” you asked, which Sara scoffed at.

“Right, that turned out great last time.”

“They didn’t take us seriously last time, but now we got a dead cop on our hands. Who else are we gonna call, the fire department?”

“Please just make the call, before he gets in.” Aisha requested, anxiously looking around, Sara relented with a nod. You only got halfway through dialing the police’s number before it was interrupted by a call, which you accidentally accepted.

“Shoot.”

“Well, hello to you too.” Ms. Browning responded drily.

“Ah, Ms. Browning. Sorry, this isn’t a good time. Actually, could you call the cops?” The less time they had to stay in one place, the better.

“The cops?”

“Yeah, there’s some crazy freak out here, Ms. Browning. He killed a cop!” Jake said panicked. “It’s some huge dude with a mask.”

“After all this time. He’s still…” Ms. Browning didn’t sound surprised, only forlorn.

“What does that mean? Did you… know about him?” At this, Ms. Browning laughed joylessly.

“I left him here in the woods, decades ago. Anyone else would have died. Ah, but not little Trevel. Instead, he grew.” She was quiet for a beat before continuing pensively, her voice distant, “These woods are… Unusual. Things don’t grow right here. Why, my little Trevel was my height by the time he turned five.”

“Trevel?”

“I wasn’t ready for a baby, you see. That’s why… I figured the next year, when I prepared this place for renters, it would be over, no corpse left, no baby left. Just life back to normal. But it wasn’t. He was still here.

He’d stare. Just following dumbly along, staring at everything I did. I couldn’t stand those inquisitive eyes, I didn’t ask for any of that, you know? When he was four, to avoid seeing those cursed eyes, I gave him a mask, told him never to take it off, and what would you know? Seems he grew up right along with the mask.”

“Grew up along the… Huh? Ms. Browning, we’re not following?”

“It couldn’t be taken off, as if it had grown into his face. I suppose it might have, what with his growth spurt and all.” Was all the clarification Ms. Browning gave, as she continued recounting, as if in a daze. “At first, I was… Startled. But you can get used to all manners of things, when the surprise settled, I was just relieved. The mask didn’t have a mouth, so, surely he’d starve to dead.” She lamented. “But no, oh no, not my little Trevel.” There was a bitter edge to her voice. “He was always a good-for-nothing kid, couldn’t even do something as trivial as die.”

Somehow, disgust was all you could feel for Ms. Browning.

“That’s… Horrible.” Aisha said quietly. All of you looked at each other for a moment. Evidently, Ms. Browning agreed to Aisha’s words, sighing deeply.

“So, it is. This was a mistake, returning here like this. I won’t make it again; this’ll be the last time this house is used.”

“You’ll call the cops, right Ms. Browning?”

“Some things are better kept hidden, kiddo. I’m truly sorry but… Goodbye.” And then she hung up. All of you stood in stunned silence for a bit. But you didn’t have time for stunned silence. You began dialing the police’s number again but stopped in your tracks at the sound of weight violently thrown at the door.

“Are you kidding me,” Sara whispered, “We wasted what little time we had on Ms. Browning?!”

As if to answer her question, you were blinded for a moment, as an axe nestled into the door. Then another hit. None of you waited till he was able to enter through the destroyed door, before running. You and Jake hid behind the dresser, while Sara, still holding Aisha’s hand, pulled them into the small pantry-room.

You looked once more at the clumsily written “Trevel” but didn’t have long to look at it before your focus was forced elsewhere, as Trevel himself emerged from the hall, with the sound of his axe dragging against the floor.

You held your breath, as thudding footsteps carried the guy through the room. Your close proximity allowed you to make out that the dirtied jacket enveloping his figure seemed to actually be multiple articles of clothing, sewn crudely together, or… Not sewn, that wasn’t quite right.

There were no stitches or strings to see, despite the clumsy, crude nature, rather, it looked as if the clothes had simply melted together. He turned around, allowing you a clear look at his face.

Or it would have, had his face been visible.

The white you had spotted earlier seemed to have been the mask, which covered his entire face. A white, round mask, decorated only by dirt. You couldn’t see where the mask ended, and his face began.

You felt your phone vibrate against your leg. Taking it out, carefully using your hand to cover the light of the screen, you saw a text from Sara.

Cop car still here. Sneak out.

Right, that’s right. It was still out there. You could drive away. You and Jake were close to the entrance, it was feasible that you’d be able to sneak out as long as Trevel didn’t turn around. The harder challenge was for Sara and Aisha, the pantry-room further into the room.

You shot a quick text back. Me and Jake will go when you reach the dresser.

Slowly, you saw Aisha and Sara emerge from the pantry. Carefully placing each step to avoid the creak of floorboards, trying to move whenever Trevel took another thundering step, to mask their own sounds. Trevel flipped the couch, and you flinched.

Sara and Aisha rounded a corner and reached the kitchen island, receiving a natural cover. Once they made it past the kitchen island, they’d almost be by the dresser. It would be doable to get away. Trevel turned around, and your heart sank as he got closer to the kitchen island.

You still had your phone in your hand, so you tossed it. When it hit the wall, it caught his attention, causing him to stop up and turn around. They just needed to wait, hopefully he’d walk towards the sound… Wait, what are they doing?

Sara tugged on Aisha’s hand, and they began sneaking away under Trevel’s inattentiveness, an arm reach away from him. Trevel lifted his foot, and you felt relief, he was going to investigate your bait. The relief was visible on Jake’s face as well, Sara had made it past the kitchen island, Aisha not far behind, and then…

A crass, clicking sound.

Aisha had stepped on the remains of a shattered plate.

A large hand shot out, grabbing Aisha’s face, forcing her glasses to shift awkwardly and press into her face. When he lifted his arm, you witnessed the way Aisha’s entire body were left to dangle helplessly in the air, forcibly separating her and Sara’s hands, and then… He tightened his grip.

The glasses bent and broke, glass and frames cutting into her skin, and her skin seemed to cave under his fingers, blood pooling around them as they sunk into flesh, white bones protruding through skin as if pushed away from their rightful spot.

Aisha’s whimpers and cries of pain were replaced by a painful gurgling as her nose caved into her mouth. After a while, her body stopped moving at all. And he simply let go of her, her limp body falling to the ground awkwardly.

It had all happened too fast for any of you to react, but the sound of her body hitting the floor brought you all to action, running as fast as you could. Though he pursued, it was a relief to know all of you were faster.

You swung the doors open once you reached the car, able to see Trevel’s silhouette move through the windows of the entrance. “What’s the hold up, Jake?”

At that question, Jake looked up at them. “There’s no key.”

What. If it wasn’t in the car, then that meant…

Instinctively all of you looked at Mr. Davidson’s headless corpse. And only a few meters behind, stood the hulking figure of Trevel, having reached the door.

“I’ll go get the keys.” Sara said, to which you and Jake shook your head furiously. “Please, back in the kitchen, I pulled Aisha too fast, and she… Let me do this, okay? I am the fastest, after all.” She said with a weak smile. You didn’t have the heart to point out the tears in her eyes.

Sara made a dash towards Mr. Davidson’s body, basically throwing herself at him. Trevel, similarly, made his way towards her. It was true that Sara was faster than him but that meant very little with such a small distance.

She fumbled through Mr. Davidson’s pockets, when he descended upon her. A sickening crunch as his foot crushed her ankle. Sara howled in pain. Then he moved further up, delivering a stomp to her back, pressing her against the corpse.

You could have sworn you saw the mushy flesh of Mr. Davidson give in, but maybe it was just your imagination adding to the wet, snapping sounds mixed with that same sickening crunch. Even so, she still desperately clawed at Mr. Davidson’s pockets.

You didn’t have time to react when he had gotten Aisha, but there was no way you’d just watch now.

You jumped out of the car, and though you didn’t look, you could hear the sound of Jake following along. Finding one of the larger wood pieces, you charged at him.

You swung the wood at him with all your might, but he barely seemed to notice, instead shoving you away like a pesky fly. You were flung to the side, and crashed into something hard and metallic, the sudden loud humming noises suggested it had been turned on.

You felt a sharp pain in your foot, having landed on it wrong, and struggled to stand up again, leaning against the machine, that turned out to be the woodchipper, for support.

Meanwhile, Sara had fished out the keys but with Trevel looming above her, reaching out, she didn’t wait for his next move. It wasn’t a meaningful act of defiance or defense, but an act of someone too close to the jaws of a predator to escape, but close enough to rip and tear. Sara flew towards Trevel, grabbing onto the edges of his mask.

Trying to tear the mask off. You didn’t know what had gone through Sara’s head as her fingers to the corner of face – and you assumed, the mask – you only knew that she gasped and let go as if on instinct. “But… It’s a mask?” she feebly whispered, confusion on her face.

Though Sara had lost her grip, there was no chance of falling as Trevel held onto her, drawing her closer. Sara struggled but was rendered immobile by the tight grip. Even from the sidelines, it was easy to see the way the grip tightened, to hear the sound of metal bending as Sara’s accessories caved under the pressure, the way her breathing grew ragged and wheezing, hear the sounds of bones and joints snapping.

You had managed to get up but was struggling to keep balance, that wasn’t the case for Jake who was ready to rush at them. Sara, through ragged, bloody breaths, yelled for him to stop, forcing her awkwardly bending arm to shoot out, throwing him the keys.

Jake looked between Sara, who had taken to wildly flailing, punching, clawing, till her fingers were left bloody, and you. He stood there for a second before, with a conflicted expression, running to you, Neither of you looked as Sara’s pained sounds turned to gurgles, or when she stopped making sounds altogether, instead Jake dragged you to the car.

” We’ve been outrunning that freak the entire night, so…” He swallowed and steadied his breath before continuing, trying to be strong, as if he wasn’t as shaken up as you were. “If we just make it to the car, everything will be okay. If we can outrun him on legs, then we can outrun him on wheels.”

Even as you heard Sara’s body being dropped, Jake didn’t let go of you, making sure you got into the car. He didn’t even circle around the car, simply crawled over you, and into the driver’s seat. He put in the keys. You could see Trevel’s bloodied mask, the remnant of Sara’s vomit.

The engine coughed. Jake hit his hand against the steering wheel. And then, the car started. You laughed, not out of joy but from the adrenaline pumped relief. The car moved backwards, Trevel’s charging figure growing smaller.

“Fuck yeah!” Jake hollered out. “An old, stubborn car but you got the job done, hah!”

None of you mentioned Sara. None of you could bear to. Not yet.

“Jake, we’re going to have to turn around.” You said, looking behind at the countless sturdy trees. It was a narrow, winding road. They wouldn’t be able to do it backwards. Jake cursed under his breath.

“It’s okay. I don’t need to drive all the way back to the house to have enough room, just a bit closer.” He said reassuringly, you weren’t sure who he was trying to reassure. The dull, warm pain in your foot only seemed to grow.

Jake drive forward but before the house even came back into view, from the shadow-covered bushes, a large figure emerged, only meters away. You weren’t sure if Jake intentionally rammed into him or weren’t able to stop the car in time, but the hood of the car hit the figure with a loud thud.

And he hadn’t budged. You could vaguely make out a huge dent in the now-still car, and the small, sad stutters the car made from the impact. The large figure reached behind his back, but his body remained completely still, fixated on them.

Jake’s hands were shivering; “Jesus chr-“

“No time for prayers.” You interrupted, shifting in your seat to grab the reverse gear and stump on the brake pedal, pain shooting up your leg, the car moved backwards in a sudden jolt. Trevel held up his axe. He lifted it into the air, and as the car began to move away, he swung it into the hood.

The car were making concerning wheezing noises but by now, Jake’s adrenaline had returned to spur him into action, and he forced the car to continue. To your shared horror, the car didn’t budge. The wheels spinning helplessly as the car was kept in place.

Then he pulled the axe closer, dragging the car closer with a screech. You and Jake didn’t even exchange glances as you both flung your respective car doors open, jumping out. Jake couldn’t make it over to you, without Trevel who stood in front of the car, making it to you, so you both ran on your own, even as your foot ached and bent oddly, a searing fire spreading.

But you noticed, Jake hadn’t run away from Trevel and the house, but towards the house. It was a long travel to make it to any actual road and it was getting very dark, was that why? But even so, Jake had a phone on him, still – unlike you.

You didn’t know why he hadn’t run that way, but you changed your own course, rushing to him. You couldn’t be separated now. Not after Aisha and Sara. Jake, disorientated from the crash, was losing his speed advantage, the distances between the two far too little for comfort, as Jake had reached the firewood pile.

You made eye contact with Jake, whose eyes widened. “What are you doing? Run away, I’m buying time!”

So that was why. He had just hoped you wouldn’t notice in time. But the moment of distraction meant Trevel, who was steadily becoming the fastest of the two, caught up to him. He grabbed onto him, and you half-expected him to crush him like he had Aisha and Sara, instead, he shoved Jake against the woodchipper.

As Jake’s arm and shoulder disappeared into the machine, his face twisted into a pained grimace, and a red mist of blood, minced meat, and viscera descended from the machine with splintered bone shards like macabre snowflakes. You didn’t even think as you continued running, you should have had half-the-mind to at least curse yourself out for wasting the sacred seconds he had sacrificed.

Yet all you could think was you needed to get him out. Only as his face were pressed against the machine, did you stop up. You felt your stomach churning as the metallic smell coated the air. Trevel seemed to spend a moment just looking at the shredded innards and minced remains of Jake.

Then he flexed his finger around his axe and turned towards you. So, you ran.

But you had gotten too close, so running in the opposite direction of him meant running towards the house. Going past the house would mean venturing further into the forest, further away from any civilization. You didn’t fancy your chances with coyotes, and you didn’t fancy your chances with Trevel.

Maybe that instinctive desire to escape to something civil made you run into the house to hide, you’d like to think it was a strategic choice, somehow. But you knew that wasn’t the case, you just sought the familiarity.

Inside the house, you dashed upstairs, worried he’d be able to break down a wall or window in any room downstairs. You could hear him by the time you closed the door, and for a second debated if it was best to be silent and hide, but then again, you didn’t have many hiding places in this room.

What you did have was a dresser. So, knowing how it would lead him upstairs, you desperately pushed the dresser in front of the door. Then the bed. Anything you could get hold of in the room was pushed in front of the door.

And then you scurried to the other end of the room, trying to ignore the fiery burn of your foot. You heard his approach but still jumped when the axe cut into the wooden door. Your breath grew ragged, as his masked face showed through the cracks.

You didn’t know what you had hoped for from this barricade. It wasn’t a surprise that filled you, when the furniture moved along as he shoved the door. Even so, the world seemed to blur out the second he stepped into the room, from ruined and moved furniture that now seemed more a barricade for you than him.

Your heartbeat rang out, thump thump. He was closing in with heavy footsteps. Thump, thud, thump, thud. Even with the mask, you felt his eyes on you. Thump, thud, thump, thud. You could see his fingers flex around the axe.

Grasping at straws, you shifted between staring at him and around you, for anything you could use. Behind him, a now ruined dresser stood. Its familiar look made you realize it was identical to the one downstair. “It’s an ugly name, fit for ugly boys.”

…It was worth a shot, right?

“My,” your voice were shaky, “What a handsome guy you are.”

Was that how she said it? He stopped dead in his tracks. He was so close; you could touch him if you reached out. The air felt crushing, under the weight of silence. Then, he crouched down. Your shivers stopped, frozen.

He leaned closer. His free hand on the floor to support his weight as he leaned closer. Your eyes flickered to the axe. He was still holding it.

“I,” your voice cracked but you forced yourself to continue, “I didn’t get a good look before. But, really, you are handsome. Big and strong.”

He was close. You could smell the lingering scent of sweat and pine. Hear the deep rumbling hum he made. Feel his warmth breath. From where it came, you weren’t sure.

God, what else? What else did Mr. Browning say?

Suddenly, a hand reached out and you flinched. He had let go of the axe. And yet, you had seen what he could do with his hands. Your breath were stuck in your throat, as you braced yourself. But his hand only lingered near your cheek.

Not quite touching, but close enough for you to feel the warmth of his fingertips. This… Was a good sign, right? He was hesitating, he didn’t do that with the others. He didn’t do that with Aisha. The anxiety buzzing didn’t ease, the gory memory playing relentlessly in your head.

In your mind you envisioned the way his hand could still decide to grab onto you harshly. So, gently with fingers that shook far too much, you touched his hand. His head made a sharp movement, causing you to flinch, but he didn’t stop you.

So, you lead his rugged, scarred hand closer to your cheek, closing the small gap. His fingers stiffly on your cheek, which was better than lingering above your face. Like playing dolls, you hoped positioning him into a less hostile position would have any effect.

You looked at each other for a while in deafening silence. You were worried about losing the temporary fascination, the stiffness of his body warning you that you weren’t quite safe yet. What is it that worked so far? What does he want to hear?

…

“You’re good, Trevel. You’re good.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond or react. Then the touch seemed to melt, his finger brushing against your cheek. Not pleasant or even soft, but you could tell he was trying, or maybe he was just exploring? You didn’t dare to move, worried you’d set him off.

By the time his hand dropped down, light had begun to filter through the tree leaves, and exhaustion clinging to you. Trevel seemed placated, simply staring wordlessly at you.

Cautiously, you stood up. You could feel the way he followed your every movement. But it felt like a curious gaze, like a dog equally confused and curious about its owner’s actions. You weren’t sure if he’d be okay with you leaving, but if you could buy yourself some time, perhaps you’d be able to get to a road and hitchhike.

“I’ll just go fetch something, if that’s okay?” You asked carefully, taking a demonstrative step towards the door.

Swish

Past your head, the axe flew, nestling into the door. Before you even could look back at him, he grabbed your wrist and tugged you toward the floor, a little too harshly for your injured foot, where he returned to simply stare at you, growling whenever you moved too much.

Life was far away, and by god, you hoped it would someday catch up to you again.

#yandere #yandere x reader #dead dove do not eat #tw death #tw violence #Tw gore #Yandere slasher #Self-reblog

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anglingforlevels · 1 month

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Non-Human Yandere Thoughts

CW: Yandere, Monsterfuckery, Light Body-Horror, Suggested Death of Pet. Just some quick thoughts i had floating in my head.

Been thinking about trying to express affection in human ways by something so decidedly not human. By something that loves in ways you don’t understand, and in turn, doesn’t understand you.

Something that seems to recognize when you respond positively to something, but they just can’t seem to figure out why.

You bring home an object that creates heat but sweats and faints when the walls, ceiling, and floor do the same.

You eat meat but throw up when your vegetables start bleeding as you bite into them.

You close doors but cry when the openings disappear, cry even harder when they make new openings appear throughout the place, never mind the fact they were across ceilings and floors, leading nowhere.

You keep plants that wither and regrow but seem frightened when your pet withers before your eyes only to greet you again the next day.

You place a sharp blade on your nightstand but bleeds when they fill every surface with sharp edges.

You seemed to love your pet but keep it at bay now – have you grown bored of it? Then why do you weep when it doesn’t regrow the next day?

You react well to soft, flowy blankets yet shriek when your teeth take on the same texture.

You’ve stopped eating altogether and you look worn out – are you withering too?

They don’t understand but they keep trying nonetheless and how you wish they wouldn’t.

#yandere #yandere monster #scribbles #just a thought i had #tw body horror #tw pet death #AnglingThoughts #yandere teratophilia #monsterfuckery

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anglingforlevels · 2 months

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Title: Illuminated.

Pairing: Yandere!Apollo x Reader (Greek Mythology).

Word Count: 1.0k.

TW: Stalking, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, No Specified Gender For The Reader But They Are A Hunter Of Artemis, and Implied Kidnapping.

[Commissioned Piece. Donate To Palestine's In Gaza Here.]

“You, my love, are the poet’s demise.”

You stiffened at the sound of his melodic voice, shrinking into yourself before thinking better of taking on such a mouse-like posture and straightening. Still, you failed to stop yourself from crossing your arms over your chest, pulling your knees up and hoping beyond hope that the silvery water would be enough to hide your form from his unfaltering stare. You thought it’d be safer to bathe at night, apart from your sisters, when the softened moonlight protected you from his burning gaze, but you’d been naïve to think that any hour could be late enough to spare you haven. During the day, you lived under the burning gaze of his blazing chariot, busied yourself with shooting down hawks and ravens carrying gifts in their beaks, and at night, he had no burdens to keep him from closing the distance between you using less... ancillary methods.

“I’m afraid you must be mistaken, my lord.” You forced yourself to laugh, glancing over your shoulder. Sure enough, Apollo stood on the river’s opposing bank, his tanned skin nearly radiant in the darkness. If the sight of him hadn’t brought you such dread, you might’ve thought him beautiful. “As of late, my aim’s been so poor that I can hardly call myself a stag’s demise, let alone a man’s.”

You were quick to look away from him, but you could still hear his gentle hum, picture the way his lips would lilt upward as he shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s deathly true,” he went on, taking a step forward. The water rushed to part as he stepped where it had once been, and in turn, you scrambled for the robes you’d left on the shore, barely managing to pull the ashen cloth around yourself before Apollo came to stand in front of you, his light quickly doing away with what little protection the shadows offered. It was only after you were haphazardly dressed that you considered it might be considered an affront to hide any part of yourself from divinity, but the worry was quickly forgotten. It was only natural to want to create yet another barrier between you and him. Even insects knew to run from their betters. “For even the most talented bard would struggle beyond words to describe your beauty. They could be chained to their desk for an eternity, study under the Muses’ own tutelage, and still be unable to write a single line.”

He held out a hand to you, but you pretended not to realize he meant for you to take it. “You’re far too kind. If you have a message for Lady Artemis, there’s no need to bribe me with such—”

“My love,” he cut in, his smile unwavering. “If I had any desire to speak to my sister, your help would not be necessary.”

“A prophecy concerning our next hunt, then? If there’s something we mustn’t do, I ought to get the Huntmaster, she’ll—”

“My love.” You felt your throat tighten, your mouth go dry. “Although your voice is sweeter than honey and lovelier than birdsong, I’ll admit – I do find myself rather irritated when it’s used to employ such thinly veiled excuses. Any more, and I might think it better to encase your tongue in gold. At least, then, I might have something charming to admire while you lie to me.” His fingers grazed over your jaw as he moved to cup your cheek. It was not a gesture you had the luxury of ignoring. “You know why I have come here.”

Oh, how you wished you’d gone with your sisters.

“I… I can’t, my lord.” Unlike his, your voice was perfectly capable of trembling, of shaking, of plummeting into the sort of jarring, unsteady downward inflections that would’ve been the death of any proper storyteller. “My vows are to Lady Artemis, and—” It was your turn to smile, now, to lilt your head to the side apologetically. “—she’d never forgive me if I broke them. Especially with you.”

For the first time, his good humor seemed to ebb, giving way to not anger, but a melancholy sort of disappointment. “I suppose you’re right,” he relented, his golden glow dimming ever so slightly. Suddenly, it did not hurt quite so unbearably to look at him. “It’s a terrible thing. Me and my sister never did learn to share.”

Relief nearly managed to overshadow your revulsion. “I really am sorry. My desire is not to insult you, but—”

This time, when he interrupted you, it was not with a teasing remark, a nectar-dipped pet name, the vague implication of an affection he expected you to return. Rather, there was a sudden brightness in his golden eyes, a sharpened point to his smile, and then, his lips were pressed into yours. The kiss was shallow, but lingering, and when you tried to draw back, the hand on your cheek kept you firmly in place – his hold not crushing, but steadfast, resolute. His unoccupied arm wrapped around your waist, his hand finding its place at the small of your back as he sapped the last of the breath from your lungs. It was only when your palms pressed into his chest, your blunt nails burrowing into his bare skin in a silent plea for air, that he pulled back. Panting and flushed, you made a desperate effort to pull away, to escape back to your encampment, back to your sisters, back to your goddess, but he only cooed, his bowstring calloused fingertips fanning over your cheek.

“Such a terrible thing,” he muttered, and you considered, briefly, that you might’ve been the first mortal to realize just how wretched his voice truly was.

“How fortunate it is, then, that you’ve caught the attention of such a selfish admirer.”

#donate to palestine #yandere greek gods #yandere #yandere-daydreams #Your writing never miss #especially when it comes to tone and dialogue #the words sweet like nectar and flowing like poetry #yet drapes over you unpleasantly from the unwanted sweetness there feels sickeningly and sticky #as if it gets under your skin with no easy way to wash it away #wonderful piece #always adore some greek mythology #and I really respect that you've put your writing to use for such a good cause

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anglingforlevels · 2 months

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Escape Measures (Reader x Female Yandere)

Just a very short scribble, both to remind me to actually write something soon and to procrastinate from preparing to move.

CW: Yandere, reader is implied to be kidnapped and chained up, implied physical harm to reader, needle-mention, non-con touching, not proofread.

Minors DNI

In hindsight, you shouldn’t have expected tonight to be good – or rather, tolerable, given your new living situation didn’t exactly allow you to have many genuinely good days.

Rosie always seemed to have something new in mind whenever you began feeling even slightly comfortable or used to things, as if she was just waiting for when she could push things further. It was like a practiced punchline each time, predictable and obvious.

Even so, your heart sank when she entered the room with the air of a kicked puppy or a lover forced to sleep on the couch, carrying a small box, which she quickly placed on the vanity before facing you.

You didn’t ask what was in the box or why she seemed almost guilty, you didn’t want to know, you wanted just a few more moments of peace. Rosie, however, seemed to take your silence as a question in itself.

Her smile was almost apologetic, in the same sheepish way someone would smile when they forgot to bring their wallet to a night-out. “You see, baby, to make things last here I have a couple of measures to take, just to ensure you stay right where you belong.”

You watched her carefully, the chains around your hands rattling a little in response to your small movements, she paid your caution no mind. She heaved a sigh as she began playing with the edges of the oversized shirt, she oh-so graciously had allowed you to wear after seeing you shiver from the cold the first couple of days.

“You’ve been so good for me baby,” she crooned, leaning closer to nuzzle into you, her unpreoccupied hand began drawing circles around your knee, her touch felt warm and unpleasant, like an intrusion that stuck in the skin. “Almost too good, I really hoped I could have waved this off as a punishment. I hate having to be the bad guy, I feel so mean.”

The pout in her voice felt cloying and acidic all at once, it had been the same pout she had sported when she relented on the shirt, but you couldn’t pay attention to that, your thundering heartbeat drowning out almost everything once you heard the word punishment.

“W-what?“ Your voice, cracked and chipped by the dryness of your mouth, was barely above a whisper. She straightened up, having all but crawled into your lap, and smiled at you, maybe the smile was meant to be soothing, but it looked wolfish to you. All teeth and sharp edges.

“Wouldn’t it be neglectful if I didn’t take precautions? I might as well be throwing you out on the streets myself.” She kissed the top of your head, “But don’t worry your sweet little head about it, I came prepared.” At that, she sprung up, hurrying to the small vanity there was out of reach for you, not that you could reach much more than the bed with your restraints.

Opening the small box, she gingerly picked out a small needle and a hammer. “It’ll only take a moment, sweetie.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #female yandere #minors dni

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anglingforlevels · 2 months

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Mera you finally let our “strawberry-picking with Riddle” dreams come true! And even more incredible, Riddle finally got a w after taking so many L's, and how lovely he was in this fic!

I really love the shift in how Riddle’s thoughts and feelings are described, more professional and clinical (but no less genuine) in the beginning, tenderness being measured out to appropriate amounts, logical amounts, Riddle’s inner world is built on rules, and sensibility – to our Riddle later on experiencing much more passionate emotions, rules and logic overridden in a flurry of emotions.

The difference between the Riddle who tamps his urge to look at you versus the Riddle who refused to give you up and instead made a run for it is so wonderful, seeing the journey to reach that point was so lovely when he begins to rationalize his affections and actions as part of his duty to care for you, only to later abandon his duties for the much more important duty of continuing to care for you!

Seeing his schedule and efforts, I love seeing how it's not just reader learning to grow comfortable with Riddle, but also Riddle learning to grow comfortable with this new sense of peace and touch.

And Rook once again proving himself to be the huntsman, letting his prey leave – when he cornered Riddle and I realized you were letting Rook follow his own fairytale, I gasped, it made me so happy

(Also Riddle saying he won’t fly too close to the sun but do things according to the rules, only to willingly fly straight into the sun’s surface by breaking the law)

Needless to say, I loved this piece. Hurray for Riddle-era!

fairy-tale felicity.

yandere!riddle rosehearts x (female) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, unhealthy relationship/behaviors, obsession, horse hybrid!reader, age gap (reader is 20/21 and riddle is 31), brief mentions of past abuse and neglect, codependency, kidnapping note - the lab has rescued a horse hybrid, and riddle is tasked with rehabilitating her. he bites off more than he can chew when, as his relationship with you progresses and the program boasts promising results, he finds himself getting attached.

As soon as Riddle clocks into the facility, right on time as usual, an assistant researcher barrages him like a freight train. Her entire demeanor kindles concern, a cloying, clawing sort that gives way to uncertainty and, subsequently, confusion.

Before he can ask, she interrupts in a clipped tone: “Dr. Crewel’s called you to the exam chamber.” She hurries along so quickly that he struggles to keep up, soles squeaking against too-clean linoleum.

“What’s happened?” He matches her pace and fixes her with a sharp stare. “Is everything all right?”

“There’s this horse…thing he found and—well, it’s hard to explain. I’ll let you see for yourself.”

Riddle doesn’t push the matter further, sensing he’ll know soon enough. Crewel’s assistant wastes no time in leading him even though he has the lab’s layout memorized. It must be severe, whatever this horse-thing is. If it requires his specific presence, surely there’s a sensible explanation. After all, science prides itself on explaining the unexplainable.

He’ll take his chances and prepare for the worst.

The door is shut and the glass is frosted, indicative of privacy, but Riddle doesn’t hesitate to knock. At his superior’s command, the door slides open on smooth hinges. Riddle swallows hard and steps through with steeled nerves.

He was expecting this horse-thing to be distinctly centaurian or monstrously grotesque, so he’s surprised to see a woman lying on her back on a metal examination table, arms and legs outstretched and tied down. Her eyes are shut, and she’s dressed in a thin hospital gown. Riddle is about to ask what’s so odd, but then he sees your ears and legs.

So not a centaur. Perhaps something akin to the fabled faun he’s read so much about?

But that’s not what’s so surprising. What is, actually, is the rough state you’re in. There are bandages wound tight around your arms, legs, and throat, and Riddle theorizes scratches, bruises, and lacerations are hidden beneath those clean fabrics.

“A timely arrival,” Crewel comments, looking at him from a handful of documents.

Medical reports, Riddle assumes, watching veterinarians flit about to take vitals and run tests to gather heart rate, blood type, and even the status of your fertility. Invasive, yes, but the lab is thorough—a facet Riddle is most proud of. He shuffles closer, hazarding a glance at your bandaged legs. Ghastly chips and cracks run up and along your hooves. He notes you’re without horseshoes and grimaces.

“Dr. Rosehearts.”

“Yes? You called for me, Dr. Crewel?”

Taking one final look over what appears to be data on your current health, Crewel finally addresses Riddle properly. “I have a task for you.”

“Involving this hybrid?”

“Correct. If I recall, you mentioned you’ve dealt with horses before.”

“That’s true, yes…” He knows the path Crewel is treading and he’s dreading it. “In my youth, I participated in competitive horseback riding. One of our responsibilities in the Equestrian Club was to care for and look after our horses.”

“How many years was that for?”

“Eight or so. Admittedly, it’s been some time since I’ve kept up with it.”

“I see. Then I assume you’re aptly aware of their biology?”

“To an extent, yes. I know their diet and habits. How to handle one. How to calm one. How to ride one. Etcetera. I’d say I have my fair share of experience.”

Toeing the line of piqued curiosity, Riddle keeps his eyes pinned firmly on Crewel even though the doctors’ hushed chatterings reach his ears. He tamps down the urge to turn and watch the hybrid.

“Internal structures are intact. Minor fracture in the left wrist,” one observes. “We’ll insert the microchip between her shoulder blades soon. Be prepared to move the specimen.”

“What’s the plan after rehabilitation? Are they going to sell her off to a farm? Is it morally right to put her in a livestock show?” another adds, detached but inquisitive.

“Not just that. Is it possible to breed her? If she’s more human than equine, does that not qualify her as a beastfolk? Although most of them are centaurs, right?”

“Yeah, but Dr. Crewel’s calling her a hybrid.”

“There’s a difference?”

Riddle wonders that, too.

Crewel clips the pages together before handing them to Riddle for his perusal. “We responded to a call regarding her.”

Her meaning you, the hybrid. Riddle leafs through the documents, scanning each with his discerning greys. Calls weren’t uncommon; most of them were usually false, the result of people who didn’t understand that the meaning of a rehabilitation lab is found in its title and that they can’t just call to report their friend for being a fool in need of treatment (which was almost always untrue). But sometimes there were genuine calls—the ones in which hybrids needed help or rescuing or intervention of some sort. This seems to be the latter case.

“And does that explain the state she’s in?”

“Mostly. What we know so far is noted in the report.”

He finds it then—the official reasoning behind your condition. “Physical abuse and neglect,” he reads, running down the list as it grows longer and sadder with every word.

“I suspect she’s become averse to humans as a result of this severe maltreatment. She was given a sedative via tranquilizer dart. It was the only way we could cut her free from the cuff without harming her.”

“The cuff?”

“The shed she was locked in. Cuffed to a post—nearly frostbitten, poor thing—and fed scraps.” Crewel’s eyes narrow with disdain. “Rotten mutts, the lot of them.”

Riddle hums, speechless. What a tragic situation.

“Were the ones responsible caught?”

“Most of them.” Crewel brushes past Riddle to observe the hybrid up close. “She’s the result of unethical breeding, which isn’t as uncommon as we wish it was. But the case is in the hands of the authorities now. I’m not going to trouble myself with the misdeeds of a few bad dogs.”

“What will become of her? I imagine rehabilitation is our top priority?”

“Precisely. This is where you come in.” Crewel gestures to the slumbering hybrid. “You’re one of our best good boys, Dr. Rosehearts. As such, I’m entrusting you to look after her.”

“Look…after,” he parrots, tongue heavy in his mouth. “I’m sorry, what? You can’t possibly mean—”

“The lab is no place for her. Not in her current disposition. You’re in charge of rehabilitating her from home. Prove to her that humans aren’t all naughty pups in need of proper discipline. You’ll report your progress and findings directly to me.”

“I… I can do it. Naturally.” Confidence swells within him; he’s satisfied to have been chosen for such an important duty. But rehabilitation from home, in which he won’t have all of the helpful tools the lab carries, is daunting in its own right. “I can’t guarantee I’ll have willed her fear away. She might always fear humans.” He gazes sidelong at the hybrid and straightens his posture. “With all due respect, I’m a scientist, not a therapist.”

“I don’t expect you to be one.” Crewel turns away, tailored lab coat swishing with the motion. “You aren’t required to work miracles. That’s not within your job description. Besides, an ambitious pup will never succeed if he adopts Icarus’s mindset.”

Riddle scoffs around a laugh. “I have no intention of flying too close to the sun. I’ll do it in accordance with the rules.”

That earns him an approving nod, which is really all the validation he currently needs, before Crewel steps back to watch the vets prepare you for the microchip. Riddle stands beside him, hungering for more information.

“Aside from her past with humans, is there anything I absolutely must know? How old is she?”

“We’re thinking somewhere between twenty and twenty-one in human years. A fully mature adult by equine standards.”

He cringes at the gap. “I’ve no idea what the youth are like nowadays, especially not one who’s yet to be integrated into society.”

Crewel chuckles, folding his arms across his chest. “Will that be the foundation for your method of approach?”

“Ideally, I’d like to establish some form of connection—whether that’s by appealing to her human traits or simply appearing non-threatening. I can’t treat her like an animal. She’s human, too. But then… Well…” He shakes his head, sighing. This is a difficult equation with an unclear solution. Normally, Riddle adores these problems—the ones that get his brain turning. But this is troubling, and he can’t be clinical about it as if it’s something mathematical. He peers at the file once more. “She’s a thoroughbred? Huh. Vorpal was the same.”

“So you’ve experience with thoroughbreds.”

“I have experience with thoroughbred horses, not thoroughbred horse hybrids. But perhaps her thoroughbred nature matches that of Vorpal’s.”

Riddle worries his lip between his teeth. Thoroughbreds are notoriously hot-blooded. This may prove to be more challenging than I thought.

It’s not the first trial he’s been handed, and it won’t be the last. His entire life has been one big trial, lived out rigidly and righteously, and he’s learned to weather the difficulties by conforming to the long and often unspoken list of rules prescribed by his mother. There are rules for everything. Rules for when one should sleep if they wish to get a full eight hours. Rules for when one should speak if they wish to follow the guidelines for group etiquette. Rules for when one should have a certain flavor of tea or tart depending on the occasion. For thirty-one years of his life, he has followed all of them near-perfectly.

This circumstance is no different. The task has been assigned and, as he has dozens of times prior, he’ll follow the rules to see it through to the end.

But what exactly are the rules in dealing with a damaged hybrid? It’s the only word he can think of when he looks at you, however offensive it may be. It’s an objective observation: You’re damaged and alone, certainly afraid. He doesn’t want to picture the horrors you’ve endured—the dehumanizing experiences you’ve been subjected to at the hands of humans.

Riddle is human, and so this is very conflicting. How can he, a human, help a hybrid, who fears them like they’re nightmarish monsters? And they definitely are to you. If anything, he’s less of a human and more of a cruel beast in your eyes.

“Wouldn’t it be better to keep her here?” he ventures. The vets sedate you once more when it becomes clear the drugs are wearing off. Your tail swishes, fingers twitching, and then you fall still once more. His eyes track the IV tube to the needle pricking the top of your hand. “Safer, too. There are too many variables in my home. It wouldn’t be a suitable environment.”

“It’s separate from the lab, though—a fresh, stress-free space. Less chances of running into us, and we’re the last people she wants to see.”

“She won’t want to see me either.”

“One is better than a roomful.”

Riddle can’t refute that.

“I’ll do it,” he says, “but on the condition that you refrain from interfering directly. If I’m to rehabilitate her, then it is only me she’ll see. For now, at least. Before she can interact with other humans, she must first learn to trust one and that will be me.”

“Very well. Those are acceptable terms.”

“And I’ll need a week to prepare.” Crewel considers the request before nodding. “A week gives me time to study her further, so I’ll agree to it.”

I’ll need to hybrid-proof the house, gather textbooks and information on horses and horse hybrids, look into dietary needs, write up daily and weekly schedules, research phobias and ways to treat them, draw up a plan of action… A backup plan, too. Just in case.

Surfacing from his inner ruminations, Riddle fixes Crewel with a stern look. “You’re going to study her in a way that isn’t hurtful, yes?”

“Of course. This requires patience and tact.” He leans over the examination table to peer at your ears as they twitch. Still sound asleep. “Rest assured, Dr. Rosehearts. No harm will befall your hybrid.”

“S-She is not my hybrid.”

“She is for the time being. I’ll give you one year.”

“A year is a long time to provide room and board for a hybrid. Besides…” He hesitates to think the logistics over before adding, “You’re asking me to shape my life around her needs. Not that I’m unwilling, mind you. It just feels…long. We can’t even be certain of the results.”

“If you’d prefer I send her to Dr. Hunt—”

At the mention of the morbidly eccentric researcher, Riddle shakes his head, a flicker of possessive fidelity sparking in him.

“There’s no need. I’ve already agreed.”

“Good boy! Then I’ll take this week to collect more data, and by Friday morning we’ll deliver her to your doorstep.”

“I’ll be ready,” he says, but he doesn’t believe it.

Just how ready can one possibly be for an assignment as sensitive as this? He supposes he’ll find out in a week’s time.

In classic Riddle Rosehearts fashion, he drives himself mad with preparation.

If his meticulous schedules and plans are worth anything, he’s about as ready as he’s ever been. He feels as if he’s about to welcome a glass sculpture rather than a hybrid into his humble home, what with its many precautions. Corners have been covered with rubber guards, dishware and utensils have been locked away and swapped with paper and plastic, and he’s blocked off the second story with a safety gate. The type used for pets and children. It was the only thing he could think of while he debated whether he should lock the medicine cabinet or just move everything upstairs.

For one year—that’s exactly 365 days—he’ll live out his life on the ground floor of his home. And he’s ready.

Is he, though?

He pored over the files day and night, reflected on new data from Crewel, and drafted dozens of plans in preparation for your arrival. Most of these plans ended up crumpled and tossed in the rubbish bin, accompanied with a groan and a muttered complaint, but last night he reached an epiphany after finishing his third read of a psychology textbook on phobias.

Anthropophobia is the fear of people, he’d jotted in a new notebook just as the clock struck midnight. For many phobias, exposure therapy is a useful and valid method of treatment. Seeing as I’m not a licensed therapist, CDT is not a possibility and I can’t bring her to a therapist myself. That would involve its own setbacks and hurdles. Therefore, I’ll keep track of her progress as I attempt exposure therapy.

The textbook recommended he try approaching it with harmless hypotheticals: Imagine you’re interacting with a few people. At first he thought it might work, but in order for you to even listen to him you’d have to trust him. And you can’t trust someone if you’re fearing for your life. For a moment, he considered purchasing a horse costume and masquerading as one himself, if only to ease your anxiety, but that would constitute a dishonest practice.

Now, sleep-deprived and uncertain, Riddle attempts to bolster his confidence. He stands at his front door like a prisoner awaiting punishment, tapping his foot against the floor out of nervous habit. A grandfather clock ticks behind him, calling out seconds and minutes in low, slow, foreboding tocks. He flips through his notes to refresh himself even though there’s no need for that; he’s already reviewed five times since he woke up.

You’re overdoing it, he tells himself. But is he? It’s better to be overly prepared.

The sudden rap at the door startles him. He hurries to open it, almost tripping on the hardwood. Inhaling a steadying breath, he holds it for a moment and then releases it. He’ll be okay. He’s a scientist. A scientist in hedgehog slippers, but a scientist nonetheless. He can do this.

“Good morning, Dr. Crewel.”

He’s not sure what he was expecting when he peers out at his snow-dusted lawn, but it definitely wasn’t this. You’re bundled in a thick coat, boots yanked up to your calves, and a woolen hat is pulled down over your eyes. To hide your equine features, he realizes. Hybrids are something of a taboo subject, especially those who can’t be classified as standard beastfolk. The divide that separates both is a slippery slope.

“She’s sleeping now, but I suspect she’ll wake in an hour or so. Her left wrist is still healing, so do be mindful.”

Riddle frowns. It’s not very kind to drug her every time you need to transport her somewhere…

The week and its events were rough on you. He knows this because he was there for the briefing. Riddle’s seen needles and pills forced into you more times than he’d like to admit, and he’s heard Crewel’s trademark, “This is the only way to keep a pup docile,” so often it’s become a haunting mantra. The first rule, he decides right then, is that there will be no sedation unless absolutely necessary.

How else is he to rehabilitate you if you’re unconscious for most of it?

Crewel steps through the threshold and lowers you onto the sofa. Riddle stands rooted to his spot, observing him as he ducks out momentarily and then returns with a suitcase.

“Clothing,” he explains, setting it down in front of Riddle. “As well as a few sedatives and sleep aids. Prescribed medications and supplements. Nothing you’re not already familiar with.”

Thank the heavens, he thinks with great relief. I didn’t even think about purchasing clothes for her.

“I won’t need them.”

At least not the sedatives and sleep aids.

“Whether you use them or not is entirely up to you. It never hurts to resort to old tricks when training a dog.”

For once Riddle’s glad he’s the one in charge. Crewel views everything through the lens of a behaviorist and Rook Hunt is…Rook Hunt. Obviously, by process of elimination, he’s the most qualified for this job. Who else is going to advocate to get you fitted for new horseshoes?

“Would you like me to come into the lab at any point during this?”

“If you deem it necessary. If not, you know how to reach me. I expect an email detailing her progress every two weeks.”

“Right…” His gaze pans over to you. “What will happen after the year’s over?”

“The higher-ups will decide.”

As they have for every other case we’ve dealt with, his brain fills in the blank. Riddle doesn’t like that. Crowley does his research most of the time, but it doesn’t seem fair to send you off to Queen-knows-where if you’ve just started opening up to humans. Riddle recalls the furtive mumblings of the vets—Are they going to sell her off to a farm? Is it morally right to put her in a livestock show? Is it possible to breed her?—and feels himself growing ill.

“All right. Sure. Yes,” he babbles dumbly, shaking those thoughts out of his head. “I won’t let you down, Dr. Crewel.”

He’s not sure that’s possible anymore. Not when the stakes are so high. This is an expectation, not an experiment he can toy with as he pleases.

The last of Riddle’s withering courage goes out the door with Crewel, swept up in a flurry of snowflakes. He heaves a sigh and then deflates, exhausted even though the day has just begun.

“What have I gotten myself into?” he mumbles, wringing his hands to calm himself.

He considers removing your boots and coat but thinks better of it. For a minute, he simply lingers. When it becomes clear that you aren’t going to wake anytime soon, he resolves to get started on breakfast to pass the hour. He may not be a five-star chef, but he’s had enough practice to know how to cook passable, edible meals. Although passable is not perfect, and even though he knows he should devote more time to cooking he’s never had that chance. He’s up before the sun’s risen, lukewarm coffee poured in a travel cup, and then he’s off to the lab. An unhealthy habit he ought to snuff.

Now that he’s homebound, he should make an effort to try a little harder. After all, he has a guest now. Riddle wants to impress, if only so he can finally hear someone other than Trey tell him his cooking is good. Genuinely good. He knows Trey only says so because good is a safe word with many interpretations, which is almost always succeeded with a line about how he’s willing to share a few pointers for improvement.

For now he settles on something easy, keeping all of your dietary needs in mind: oatmeal, diced fruits, an assortment of nuts, toast, and scrambled eggs. It’s less cooking and more arranging, but it’s the best he has to offer right now.

He’s in the process of setting the table for two when he realizes it’s highly unlikely you’ll be joining him. Gathering your plate and cup, he brings both into the next room over and sets them down on the table alongside a napkin and plastic utensils. With his hands on his hips, Riddle surveys his handiwork and beams.

It’s better than nothing.

His eyes find the suitcase then. It looks fit to burst, bulging with clothes. Crewel must have overpacked, but then that makes sense. Fashion is his passion, and he’d sooner shrivel than send you out into the world, which is currently limited to Riddle’s house, with plain attire. He wonders if any of the contents were designed by him or simply selected from the racks with taste and style in mind.

Riddle supposes it’s not important right now, so he drags the suitcase down the hall and into his room. Technically, it’s his study. But it will serve as his bedroom for the duration of this program. Your room—the eternally empty guest room—is right across the hall. The bed is small, but it’s cozy enough. He thinks you’ll like it, if only because it’s better than the dull lab with its hard tables and blinding lights.

He’s about to begin unpacking when a jarring crash pierces the air. Startled out of his skin, he stagger-runs out of the room just in time to see you splayed on the floor, plate overturned and food spattered. He opens his mouth to snap at you and then stops short. You notice him then, your eyes blown impossibly wide, nostrils flaring, and you scurry back as if burned.

“Wait!” he exclaims without foresight. “You’ll hurt yourself!”

He surges forward, intending to come to your aid. You make a noise that sounds like a gasp and a squeal, your breaths coming in panicked huffs and puffs. He watches you curl into a cower and his heart aches at the sight. Gathering his composure, Riddle peers at the mess and then back at you.

Distance, he reminds himself. And patience. Take it slow.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice.” He issues you an apologetic smile that sits awkwardly on his face. His tone is soft, an even approximation of tenderness. “I’m not going to hurt you. You may not believe that, but it’s the genuine truth. My name is Dr. Rosehearts and I’m here to look after you. You remember Dr. Crewel, don’t you? The researcher with the black-and-white hair.”

Paralyzed, you blink back at him.

“W-Well… Ah—um. Ahem. Starting today, this will be your home.” Riddle risks another step towards you and promptly stops when your arms fly up to shield your face.

What did the book say? Proceed with caution, use an indoor voice, let the subject approach you… I don’t expect her to warm up to me right this very second. Still, there has to be some way to show her I mean well… If it was Vorpal, I’d adopt a calm demeanor and make myself appear harmless. Standing too tall would make me seem like I’m a predator. But that might not work. She’s human, too.

“I know you’re scared. I’d be the same if I was in your place. That’s perfectly understandable. You don’t know much of this place or who I am—and you might think it’s scary right now—but I promise this will be good for you. This place is nothing like the ones you’ve been at before, okay? It’s safe. Nothing will hurt you here. I’m not going to get any closer. You can stay there if that’s what makes you feel comfortable.”

Minding your skittish temperament, he retreats to the kitchen. When he returns, he notices you’ve pulled your hat over your eyes and shaped yourself into a ball in the corner of the room.

Gingerly, he sets his plate on the table.

“Breakfast,” he says. You don’t say anything. “It’s good for you. The most important meal of the day, actually. Studies show that eating a healthy breakfast improves—” He swallows the rest of the statistic, flustered. Now is not the time, Riddle. “T-That aside, eat only if you’re hungry. I won’t force you, but it’s here in case you want it. I’ll be in the room just down the hall if you need me.”

Riddle departs for his study-turned-bedroom. He sits at his desk, opens his notebook, and takes a pause.

Was that the right method of approach? I introduced myself in an amicable manner, I was patient, and I didn’t show any signs of hostility. Despite everything, she probably finds my mere presence hostile… I shouldn’t have shouted like that.

With a regretful groan, he pens a reminder: Keep voice and tone in check. Always.

On some level, he understands. Or he’s trying to, at least. Every time he puts himself in your shoes, he winds up back in his childhood home, sitting at a desk piled high with thick texts on every core subject. And the one responsible for his entrapment in youth? A woman who is more warden than mother. His life has been a predetermined fairy tale since he was conceived. Even now, sitting successful in a relatively cushy position at the lab, he still feels like someone else is writing his story.

They’re holding the quill, scrawling his existence onto mystical pages, and he’s stuck following the script, bound by rules both known and unknown.

By the time he’s finished jotting notes, an air of dissatisfaction falls over the room. He should take a walk, clear his head, do something thoughtless. Anything to distract him from the encroaching bitterness of a bad mood. Riddle catches the time on the analog clock. An hour has passed. It’s been eerily silent. He doesn’t worry because he knows there’s nowhere for you to go.

Still, it doesn’t hurt to check.

Unsurprisingly, you’re still plastered to the corner like a fly caught in a spider’s web. Grey eyes sweep over the room, finding the breakfast he left you untouched and congealed. He’s about to frown when he notices something peculiar. The floor, which had once been a mess, has been cleaned. Riddle’s thoughts stall out into confused static.

Did she eat the contents off the floor?

Perhaps it’s not so farfetched. If that’s how you’ve been conditioned to eat, it’s only natural you’d follow that habit. He knows about routines well enough, for his entire existence has been lived out in strict, demanding routine, but this habit is one that fills him with an immeasurable pity.

You shouldn’t have to do that here. In fact, you shouldn’t have had to do that at all. No one should.

“I hope it was delicious,” he says, allowing a smile to bleed into his inflection. “I’m not much of a chef, but I’ll do my best to make sure you’re fed delicious, healthy meals. You won’t have to eat anything off the ground anymore.”

No response. He wasn’t expecting one. He knows you’re capable of speaking, for he heard your voice in the lab during the moments where you were kept awake for important procedures. Truthfully, he’d prefer to hear your voice when it isn’t filled with sorrow, fear, or a mixture of the two. But this is just the beginning. He doesn’t expect results within a day. A start is a start, and patience is a virtue.

“Dr. Crewel tells me you’re afraid of humans.” At that, your ears flatten on your head. “I can’t begin to imagine the things you’ve been through for that fear to have developed.”

Riddle hesitates, unsure of the point he’s attempting to make.

“I understand—sort of, I think… Well, not exactly. But, to a relative extent, I understand how it feels to be alone and misunderstood with no one to turn to. Sooo.”

Not even a day in and I’m ruining it. At this rate, I’ll just look foolish and she’ll never want to trust me, let alone other humans.

“I’ll always be here if you need me. My study is right down the hall, and across the way is your bedroom. Dr. Crewel’s left me with plenty of clothes for you, so you can take that coat off if it gets too warm. Your boots and hat as well. Oh, and I’ve also got your vitamins and supplements. Those are important to take. I’ve yet to arrange them, but once I know when and how often you’re intended to take them we can start there.”

He needs this rigidity. It’s comforting. It’s familiar.

“The bathroom is at the end of the hall. Um… You can use it at your leisure. The same goes for everything else here. You’re free to explore this floor or grab something from the cupboard if you’re hungry. I won’t mind.”

It occurs to him then, standing there and watching you huddle, that familiarity is one of the best medicines when taken in healthy amounts.

Inspired, Riddle rushes back to his study, plops down in his chair, and opens to a blank page. He’s got it—the perfect schedule. And it’s all formatted around familiarity! He writes like he’s coming up on a deadline, pen soaring across lined paper in a blind rush. His handwriting may be illegible, but the messy scribble is his and his alone. He understands the intent in the chicken scratch.

Adjusting my approach slightly. Going forwards, I’ll build our routine around familiarity, reads the concluding statement of his newly improved three-page plan. He tucks the journal away in a drawer, feeling more ready than he’s ever been.

At first, time felt slow and sluggish—an agonizing crawl into a far-off future. But before Riddle realizes it it’s already been one month, and he’s spent that time dutifully following his schedule. He wakes at seven, showers at eight, and begins breakfast at nine. You sleep on the floor and eat your meals in the sitting room, wordless and anxious. He learned you won’t eat if he’s watching you, so he’s taken to having his meals in the kitchen. It was awkward at first trying to gauge just how quickly you’d eat so that he could clean up—and one time he walked in on you scarfing down your lunch in a rush, which had given you such a fright that you almost choked—so now you have a little handbell you ring whenever you’ve finished.

Since you first started living with him, you’ve taken to eating from plates and bowls rather quickly. Riddle surmises he’d be the same if he just learned there are cleaner surfaces to eat food from. But he’s happy with this development. He wasn’t expecting you’d take to plates and utensils so rapidly.

In the beginning you regarded most of your meals with suspicion, so Riddle would take tentative bites out of his portions to prove the validity and safety of each. He’d say the same thing every time—“It’s very delicious. I think you’ll like it.”—and you would submit with flattened ears, feasting with your hands. He attempted to teach you how to use the plastic cutlery, but you’d been too fearful to let him get any closer and so he put that plan on pause.

Now, after plenty of dedication and determination, familiarity has been established. You’ve since shed your coat, boots, and hat—though they’re kept close in the corner; you won’t let him touch them—and now you dress in the clothes Crewel provided. He moved the suitcase into the room when it became clear you only ever get up to use the bathroom, allowing you to pick and choose outfits as you please.

Riddle wasn’t expecting it, but you’re surprisingly self-sufficient. You bathe without complaint and you clean up after yourself, stacking your paper dishes to make collection easier. You even take your vitamins and supplements without pitching a fit! He’s honestly impressed; his expectations were, admittedly, rather low when he watched you kick and scream in the lab. But this space is different. It’s nothing like the lab. Maybe you recognize there’s some sort of comfort in that.

You’ve yet to venture into the guest bedroom, but he won’t push it. This is already good progress and it’s only been a month. You may be nervous around him, hiding at every sudden, loud sound and trembling when he strays too close, but at least you’re somewhat receptive to him and the things he provides.

So it’s a surprise when, on a mostly unremarkable Tuesday evening, you call out to him.

“Dr. Rosehearts…”

He forces himself to act normal, replying from the other room in the calmest tone he can muster, “Is something the matter?”

“Are… Are you really not going to hurt me?” The question is uttered so softly he almost misses it.

“I would never.” He rises from his chair, monitoring his noise level, and creeps closer. “May I look at you?”

“Um… S-Sure. That’s fine.”

He peeks around the corner and waves. “Hello.”

You flinch. “H-Hi…”

“Do you have a name? I’m afraid I don’t know what to call you.”

“I don’t, sir.”

Riddle blinks, taken aback by the formality. “There’s no need for ‘sir.’ Just call me Dr. Rosehearts.”

You avert your eyes and drag your knees into your chest. Taking a few deep breaths, you mutter a cursory apology.

“It’s all right. If you’re not opposed to it, may I give you a name?”

“Okay.”

He pauses, reflecting on the ones he’d written in his notes based on his observations. “How does (Name) sound?”

You nod your approval. “T-Thank you…for the name.”

“Don’t push yourself if you’re scared or uncomfortable.”

“But I… I want to talk! Ah. S-Sorry for being loud…”

“It’s all right. What would you like to talk about?”

“I… Um, sorry. I don’t… Um.” You bury your face in your knees. “I… I can’t look at you… I’m sorry.”

Riddle can’t believe it. You’re willingly engaging in conversation. It’s only been a month—not even, actually—but you’re talking! He wonders what’s working because something must be if you’re already trying to overcome your discomfort to speak. Is it the schedule? Is it the routine and all of the little things in between that help make it easier for you—the handbell and the distance and the patience? Or is it positive social contact you crave, so much so you’re shrugging off the fear in order to make a connection?

You don’t have much of a choice regarding socialization, considering he’s the only other living creature here, so maybe this was inevitable. Still, it’s amazing progress. He’s already itching to notify Crewel of this development.

“I think I can talk if I’m like this. Looking at someone’s eyes is too much for me.”

“Are you certain? I don’t want you to push yourself.”

“I’m sure. It’s not so scary if I’m looking at the floor.”

“All right.” Riddle gazes at your empty plate. “Dinner was good?”

“Very good. Thank you.”

“Really?” He can’t stop himself. The question falls free. “Do you really mean that? You’re not just saying that?”

“I mean it. It’s delicious.”

Riddle smirks, feeling very accomplished. You can’t compare his cooking to anyone else’s, aside from whatever they fed you at the farm, and so that makes his the best. It’s an honor, even if said honor is awarded by default.

“I’m…not known for my cooking prowess, so I’m glad you find it enjoyable.”

“I do. I’ve never had anything like it before.”

He quirks a brow. “What have you had?”

“Round and red thing. Um… Orange thing with a green stem. Bland foods. Dry stuff.”

“Red… Apples?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a fruit. They’re sweet. Very nutritional.”

“Oh, that’s what it’s called? I never knew that. I like them a lot.”

“I’ll have to buy some then.”

“Will you really?”

“Of course. It wouldn’t do you any good if you were forcing yourself to eat something you hate.”

I should know. My mother’s cooking isn’t the most delightful cuisine.

Unseasoned some would call it. Ridiculously healthy, down to exact portions and perfect calorie counts. Riddle’s since learned to be more lenient with his meals, eating until he’s full rather than following the strict parameters he was once held to. Instead, he eats what he enjoys and keeps his health in check. He hopes to impart the same wisdom to you. You’ve already lived a nightmare. Now he’d like you to start living a wondrous dream.

“Oh. Um… T-Thank you.”

“There’s no need. I’m just doing my job.” He smiles even though you’re not looking. “I’m aware you’re not very partial to human interaction, but if you’re willing I’d like to help you get comfortable with it.”

“I can’t.”

An immediate rejection. No surprises there.

“Would it be okay if we start small with just me? You don’t have to agree. I can leave you alone if you’ve had enough.”

“I…can try. You’re not very scary and you’re not mean. You’ve never forced me to do anything either…”

“I’m here to help you. I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

“You’re not lying? You… You won’t trick me later?” You lift your head to look at him, warily eyeing his face to search for a fib that isn’t there. “You won’t send me back to the farm or that cold place with the humans?”

I can’t promise that last one. Anything but that, he thinks. Once the year expires, you’ll be handed over to Crewel, where he’ll determine what to do from there under the jurisdiction of the higher-ups. But Riddle can’t share confidential information with you, especially since it’s something you won’t want to hear.

“I won’t do any of that. You have my word.”

The entire point of this program is to treat your fears and get you accustomed to humans. By the end of the year, you’ll probably be begging him to let you see and meet others. At least, that’s what he hopes will happen.

“And you won’t make me take any sleep medicine?”

“No needles or pills. I only ask that you continue taking the other medicines as prescribed.”

Nodding your acquiescence, you rise to your feet and take a reluctant step towards him. Silence stretches between the both of you. He watches, anticipating. But then you shake your head and take three steps back, pressing yourself against the wall.

“S-Sorry. I thought I could… Never mind.”

“You’ve only been here a short while, but you’re already making an attempt to communicate with me despite your apprehension. You’re very brave, (Name).”

“W-Well, you haven’t given me any reason to be scared. So… So I think I can trust you. Maybe…”

Trust is a powerful thing. A responsibility and a privilege all in one. Therefore, he won’t squander it.

That night, while in the process of drafting an email to Crewel, Riddle listens to your hooves on the hardwood as you move down the hall. He glances past his monitor to the small sliver of space between the door and wall, wondering if he imagined it due to his lack of sleep, but then he hears the guest room door creak open and shut softly.

Unbelievable, he thinks, stunned into silent amazement. She’s sleeping in the bedroom.

It feels too fast and too slow. Major progress on a minimal timeline. Again, he thinks he’s dreaming and so he steps out of his study to check the sitting room. It’s empty. You’ve even taken the suitcase with you. His mouth hangs open in muted shock.

Is she starting to feel comfortable here?

What felt like an impossibility at first is gradually becoming a reality.

The schedule worked.

Good things only ever come to those who wait. Perhaps this is a plausible proverb worth its salt. As the weeks pass and you continue to interact with him, Riddle begins to take note of your personality. You’re not nearly as fiery as Vorpal was, but you are very lively—so much so that it’s almost hard to keep up with sometimes. Riddle wonders if this is a side effect of the circumstances you came from. Forced to live a life of solitude, in which you were condemned to exist in silence and act as if invisible, you’ve taken to the idea of companionship rather swimmingly.

As the old saying goes, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. Riddle has done everything in adherence with his own set of regulations, strict in his dedication to personal forbearance. And you’ve made miraculous progress, a testament to his persistence. Crewel seems to approve of the results, voicing his opinions in emails worded with pleasant praise. Riddle couldn’t have predicted where he’d be by this point, but with this steady stream of improvement he theorizes you’ll be more than ready by the end of the arrangement.

He told himself he’d keep a healthy distance, if only to avoid feeling even more sympathy and thereby compromising this study, but he can’t help it. You’re growing on him.

In the wake of everything, he’s managed to amend his own schedule. Riddle thought he could sleep at his desk and all would be well, but you didn’t seem to like that he was neglecting his health in order to look after yours. To his surprise, you nagged him: “You’re a doctor, aren’t you? It’s your job to know someone’s health, so don’t forget about yours.”

Aiming to placate you, he made the sofa in the sitting room his bed. He does that a lot—placate you. It’s not his intention to be a doormat—and he’s not—but he doesn’t like seeing you in pain or upset. Once, when he tried to slip out of the house to go grocery shopping, you interrogated him as if he was guilty of some serious crime, fearful that he’d leave and never return. No matter how much he assured you, you didn’t believe him and so, wanting to keep your eyes free of tears and your heart unburdened, he decided to order groceries online and have them sent to his doorstep. It was simpler and it chased away any thoughts you might have had regarding an abandonment that would never come to pass.

Riddle doesn’t take issue with it. You’re learning as you go, and he’s realizing that hybrids are much more complex than he once imagined. Of course they’d be, though. They’re half-human, too, possessing much of the same emotional intelligence as complete humans. And sometimes you prove to be more insightful than he is—he, the researcher who spent the majority of his early twenties shackled to his schoolwork.

He wonders if you have any goals for your life. Any important items on a bucket list you might want to cross off. Or maybe you’ve never had the pleasure of indulging in these kinds of musings, for you’ve never been allowed that happiness.

Riddle stares at his reflection in the milk, stirring what’s left of soggy cereal with his spoon. It’s New Year’s Eve, but this will likely be the first year she’s ever felt truly free. Twenty-something years of nothingness… I can’t imagine what that’s like.

But he can. Partially. He lived it, grew up with the hollow in his heart—a void that needed to be filled with validation (and sometimes still does today). He was only ever whole when his mother recognized his efforts and told him what was right from wrong.

He’s not like that anymore, but some days it really does feel like he’s falling back into inherited habits, a caricature of the imperfect.

A paper plate drops down onto the table. Riddle flinches out of his spiral to find you lowering into the seat across from him.

“I hope it’s okay to sit here. It’s just that… Well, you looked sad and lonely eating by yourself. I thought I’d keep you company. It gets boring sitting in the next room over.”

“Right. Yes, of course.” He coughs, coltish. “I’ve finished here, so you don’t need to force yourself.”

“Who said I was forcing myself? I want to sit here. If it’s okay, that is.”

“Oh. All right then.”

You beam at him, eating as if nothing’s amiss. He sits in silence. This is the first time you’re eating with him. Crewel will enjoy hearing about that in the next email.

“We’ve an hour until the new year,” he says, still awkward despite having known you for a little over three months now. It’s occurred to him that what he lacks in socializing he makes up for in logic. Although sometimes he envies those who can have stupid, mindless fun and not have to fret over reputations and repercussions. “Do you have any resolutions?”

“Resolutions for the next year… What’re those?”

“They’re like goals. Things you hope to accomplish throughout the year. There are all kinds of goals—personal and social and financial.”

“Wow. That’s a lot.”

“New Year’s resolutions are notorious for being forgotten or discarded. Most people usually follow them within the first week before giving up.”

“Why’s that?”

“There’s appeal in wanting to fix something you’ve been putting off. Sometimes we need excuses to do the things we don’t want to.”

“Do you have anything like that?”

Riddle hesitates around his answer. I should call my mother. It’s been some time. I should also reorganize my study. It’s starting to look a little cluttered. I should get better at cooking. I should learn new recipes…

“Not exactly,” he says instead. “My only resolution is to help you.”

Your ears perk up at that, and your tail swings freely from side to side. He cracks a small smile at this visible sign of merriment.

“I want to help you, too! I’ll talk more and I’ll help you in the kitchen. That way you’ll never be sad or lonely again.”

“Did I truly look so distressed?”

“It doesn’t fit on your face. I like seeing Dr. Rosehearts when he’s in a good mood, so please feel better.” You hold your hand out. “You’re the first human to be nice to me. I want to return the favor.”

Riddle peers at your outstretched arm. You’re standing up and leaning over the table in order to reach him. It’s an endearing sight. “I’m just doing my job. It’s nothing special,” he admits, modest.

“But it is to me. So… So thank you. I hope all of your resolutions come true, even if you don’t know them yet.”

He nods, finally closing his hand around yours. It’s warm in his grasp, a rightful fit that fills him with felicity. This is what life is all about, he soon realizes. It’s not just endless studying or mundane days spent cooped up in the lab. It’s about simple, slow pleasures—about little joys savored in peaceful solitude. It’s getting swept up in the sweetness of housebound happiness.

Riddle thought this was the stuff of legend, an impossible, idealistic fairy tale. Now he knows that’s not true because he’s living it, and it’s the most flavorful dream he’s ever encountered.

“Oh, that reminds me! They’re playing the New Year’s program on TV. Shall we watch the last few minutes together?”

You gasp, your eyes bright with wonder. “Can we?”

“Absolutely. I think you’ll like it. Do be warned, though. There may be fireworks. I know loud sounds aren’t exactly comforting for you.”

Riddle recalls the first time you heard the grandfather clock announce itself with its booming chime. You hid in the corner, trembling all throughout the night. At the time he could only try to talk you through the fear, unable to offer physical comfort. But now you’ve grown accustomed to the clock and its sounds.

“I think I’ll be okay. You’ll be with me, right? And you can just turn the volume down if it’s too loud.”

Humming his agreement, he stands from the table. He aims to be suave and falls short, the feeling bleeding into surprise when you release his hand and dash into the sitting room. He clicks his tongue and follows after you, amused.

The room seems much brighter when you’re in it.

“Hurry! Hurry! You said there’s not much time left. I wanna see the countdown.” You pat the sofa insistently.

Riddle claims the space beside you, grabbing the remote and turning the TV on. He flips through the channels before landing on the right one. Just in time, too. It’s two minutes to midnight. With your stare pinned on the screen, Riddle’s free to admire you in secret. You’re practically vibrating with excitement, shifting and bouncing in one place. It’s impossible to imagine anyone wanting to hurt you when you’re too good for this world and its humans.

Perhaps that’s what makes it unfair.

The host holds a champagne flute in one hand and a microphone in the other, lifting it towards her co-host as they practice a playful toast. One minute left and then this tumultuous year will be behind him. He could spend it reflecting on every notable event from every month, on past years lived and lost to loneliness, but that would be futile. Nothing can compare to the time he’s lived with you, for those months are priceless and precious.

A timer displaying ten seconds flashes on the TV, descending through the numbers one by one. You stare, transfixed by the lights and sounds. Riddle watches you, drinking in your wide-eyed expressions like a man parched. The New Year is welcomed silently under his roof. No boisterous celebration needed. Distantly, just beyond his house or within the scene on TV, fireworks resound in joyous, explosive bangs. He intends to wish you a happy New Year, but you lean over and rest your head against his shoulder. He flinches, almost moving away out of instinct, but he remains seated. The contact is new but not terrible.

Opting to bask in the quiet alongside you, he clicks the volume down and watches what’s left of the program until you’re dozing. He’s never known peace quite like this before.

And while he guides you, sleepy and disoriented, to your bedroom, he wonders why he was ever trying so hard to stay impartial.

Three weeks into the New Year, Riddle’s woken at the ungodly hour of two in the morning. He blinks through the groggy haze of sleep, blindly feeling around for the switch on the coffee table. Lamplight casts the space in a pale yellow glow. You’re standing in the hall, fidgeting from hoof to hoof. He blinks, certain he’s dreaming, but you remain.

“(Name)? It’s late. What’s going on?”

“H-Hot,” comes your reply, thick and raspy.

Alarmed, he throws the covers off and sits up on the sofa. You flinch back, the reflex engraved into your being no matter how long it’s been.

“Sorry… Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Just—ah. Um…” He swipes his tousled fringe out of his eyes, clumsy and half-asleep. “Come to me instead. It’ll be okay.”

You hesitate for a beat before staggering towards him, knees wobbling all the way. He listens to the shaky clip-clop of your hooves on the hardwood. “Feels weird,” you elaborate. “My head is all foggy…”

Upon closer inspection, Riddle realizes you’re sweating as if you’ve just run a grueling race. Now he’s wide-awake and worried. A potent combination.

“Let me check.”

He makes sure you see his hand first before he reaches to touch your neck, assessing your pulse. It’s pounding beneath his fingertips, a wild thrum of barely restrained ardor. He moves to touch your forehead next, but you seize his wrist. He stares at you, bewildered.

Shuddering like a leaf in autumn, you guide his hand to the space between your legs. Riddle’s breath hitches when he feels the wet patch soaking through your shorts. He stumbles away in his shock, tearing his arm out of your hold. You shrink back, looking hurt and betrayed.

“Fuck,” he breathes, dazed while he watches you rub your thighs together.

Not good.

He knew this was coming, or he thought he knew. Admittedly, it was one of the last things he considered when making plans to house you. A major oversight that’s come back to bite him.

“W-What’s wrong? Is it bad?” You peer at him through lust-lidded eyes, your speech on the verge of slurring. “Am I gonna overheat and die?”

“What? No. No, of course not. It’s—you’re in estrus. I… I should’ve known better, but I didn’t and now—”

“Estrus? This isn’t sickness?”

“Have…” He swallows hard, palms unnaturally clammy. “H-Have you not experienced this before?”

“Mm, not that I remember… No, I usually—round things. A…pill. I was given pills,” you ramble in between high, reedy breaths, lashes fluttering. “Dr. Rosehearts, I can’t take it… S’hot all over. Make it stop. Please.”

Suppressants, he thinks and drags a hand over his face. It’s been put off for so long and now that you’re no longer on them it’s crashed into you all at once.

“I see. All right then. Well…” Riddle peeks at you through the cracks in his fingers. “I’m sorry. Had I known… If I was more adequately prepared, I’d have made sure to get you something… S-Something to help with…it…”

“You… You know how to make it go away, r-right?”

Riddle inhales sharply. “I…”

Riddle Rosehearts, don’t you dare, he reprimands himself. You know better.

Does he, though?

His mouth moves faster than his brain, sparing him the consequent morality crisis. Before he can slip into that debate, he instructs you to sit down and spread your legs.

“A-Are you sure that’ll help?”

“I promise,” he whispers, stressing the syllables. You take another moment to watch his face before nodding and obediently following his commands. He lowers to his knees like a sinner on trial, holding yours apart before they can close. “I’m here for you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, body tensing.

“Relax. You’re okay. It’ll pass.”

“When?”

“It’ll be a few days. The estrous cycle for a mare usually lasts around twenty-one days. There are two phases—you’re in the first. You’ll feel like this for about a week, but I’ll do my best to help where I can.”

If I can.

You whine when his fingers drag against your skin. They hook around the waistband of your shorts and he slides them down.

Sensitive, he notes, lips curving up into a tiny smile. Cute.

He knows he shouldn’t go any further than this. His thoughts are enough to scandalize even the most open-minded researcher, and he can’t possibly include this in his biweekly report. Just what would Crewel think of him? What would any of his colleagues think? You’re a specimen, the focal point of his research, and he’s kneeling before you with a head full of obscene imagery. Riddle really should stop before he crosses the line between right and wrong and surpasses the point of no return.

There’s no coming back from this—no chance of returning to the dynamic of scientist and subject.

But what else can he do? Leave you in this state, where you’d feel sticky and miserable throughout the week? At the very least, if he’s going to throw morals aside and embrace depravity, he might as well relieve you of this biological burden. He can deal with his own later.

If he wanted to be clinical about it, he could dress in his uniform, don a pair of rubber gloves, and put on a surgical mask. Perhaps that would ease his guilty conscience. But he’s already come so far; it’s too late for any of that.

“Just breathe. You’re all right.”

You do so, inhaling and exhaling in shaky intervals. His dick, half-hard and yearning, throbs against his pajama pants. Pressing two fingers to the damp outline of your pussy, he feels your slick soaking through the fabric and knows it’s pointless to try to will his erection away with bland, boring thoughts. He couldn’t even if he wanted to—not when your voice is in his ears, your every gasp more alluring than the last.

“Please…” You grab at the blanket, throwing your head back against the sofa. “Please.”

You don’t even know what it is you’re begging for, but you’re begging nonetheless. Riddle finds the sight adorably addictive. He pokes and prods, tracing your folds through your underwear to estimate the exact shape and size. He’s proven correct when he peels the sodden garment away, tossing it over his shoulder.

“You’re very pretty here,” he observes, the ribald remark coming out more refined and flattering than he intended. “Like a rose in bloom.”

You shiver and whine impatiently. “Hurry… Make it go away—please, Dr. Rosehearts.”

He wants to take his time exploring, the researcher side of his brain infinitely intrigued. But that’s not feasible when you look just about ready to melt into a puddle of sweat. So he does away with any ideas of foreplay, abandoning the thought of building tension when it’s already at its peak, and slides two fingers along your puffy slit. You gasp and shiver when those digits circle your clit, massaging the area generously. He’s not sure what he’s doing at first, the motions foreign to his clumsy fingers, but he’s studied so many anatomy diagrams in his time and it boosts some of his confidence. That’s really all that guides him along. There’s also the lust, but he’s ignoring it. Sort of.

Not really.

Riddle slides his fingers deeper, amazed at how easily they’re sucked in. You cry out and buck your hips up to meet his hand.

“M-More—oh!”

“Greedy thing,” he mumbles, but there isn’t any bite to the non-insult. “I’ve only just put them in and you’re already feening for more.”

“Sorry. Sorry… I—haa—I can’t help it.”

“It’s all right. Only fair, after all.” He glances up at you and smiles angelically. “This is to be expected. It’s your first heat.”

“First heat… You mean there’s more?”

Riddle’s breath catches in his throat. How should he explain it—that this will happen every breeding season and there’s nothing to stave the inevitable? Unless, of course, medicine is used to tamper with hormones and cycles. Riddle wonders if Crewel would send some over if he asked, but that would require telling him about this and he doesn’t want to risk being too grossly candid.

“It’s…complicated. You don’t need to concern yourself with the specifics right now. Let’s just focus on getting through this one, okay?”

“Okay.”

His other hand rubs appreciatively along your inner thigh. “Good girl.”

You smile and sink back against the sofa. Riddle sets to work driving his fingers in and out, curling them every now and then to stretch you and admire the way your pussy weeps. It’ll be a pain to clean the couch, but it’s not like he’s particularly attached to it. He’s due for a new one anyway. Your gasps fill the room with pretty pitches of pleasure. He gazes at your face as it flickers through desperation and desire, both blending together to make you look perfectly blissed-out. If you had any thoughts in that head, they’re all but pomace now. Surely, otherwise you’d be more coherent in between shameless moans.

There’s a side of Riddle that knows, and it takes all of his willpower not to address it. It’s just part of any animal’s biological clock. Of course you’d be thinking about it, whether consciously or not, during your heat. At the very least, if not your brain, your body recognizes the imperative to sink down on his three fingers all at once as if they’re a cock.

But he can’t lose in his internal war with ethicality. Because if he loses it’ll end with you pumped full of as much cum as he can possibly give, and then he’ll be known as the man who knocked up his hybrid specimen. It’s tempting like the worst drug, a sure-fire way to distort his linear logic. It’s bad; he knows. But it would be so much better to replace his fingers with the real thing and fulfill mutual urges in unison.

I wish.

He can’t, so he won’t fall prey to the charm of concupiscence.

It takes a few more determined thrusts and a pinch to your clit, and you’re squirting on his fingers with a pornographic squeal. He stares at the mess dampening the blanket in muted astonishment.

Riddle didn’t know a reaction like this was possible.

He’s humiliated at his inexperience. His lessons in anatomy have always been strictly scientific, and he’s never explored anything outside of that box. He’s never been horny enough to masturbate to porn either. To think the human body is capable of such a feat when caught in the throes of ecstasy… Just what else can you do?

You’re panting when you come down from your orgasm, eyes pinned on the ceiling. He knows you’re nowhere near satiated and so, after determining you’re okay, he continues his ministrations. He’s just being greedy now. Can you blame him?

“Dr. Rosehearts, I want—” your fingers wrap around his wrist, testing his restraint, but he resists the temptation— “I want more… Deeper. Bigger. Please…”

“I… I can’t,” he manages, the words strained with regret.

He wants nothing more than to plaster you to the sofa and rut into you with reckless abandon, hard and fast and then soft and slow. Enough times to ensure you’d be staggering on unsteady hooves come morning. He’d do so in a heartbeat if not for the repercussions and the rules, an entire novel’s worth of them reminding him of the facts. He can’t win in a match against nature. It’s impossible.

“I’ll be good. I won’t ask for anything ever again. So please—”

Riddle heaves a mournful sigh. “I want to help, but this is as much as I can do—as far as we can go. I’m sorry.”

The risks are greater than the reward. I can’t.

But he wants to.

I could lose my job. I’d be outcasted. They’d never look at me the same.

You fix your lips into a despairing moue and pat the space beside him. “Then… C-Can you come up here? Sit next to me.”

With his fingers still thrust up inside you, he rises from the ground and moves in to kneel on the cushions beside you. His arm wraps around you to keep you steady while the other remains between your legs. This newfound proximity allows you to cling to him, and you fall back onto the sofa with him on top. Riddle adjusts the position to straddle you, trapped between your legs as they close around his waist. He props himself up with his other hand, placed right beside your head. You loop your arms around his neck and drag him down, endeavoring to pin your bodies like priceless art on a wall. He doesn’t object, allowing himself to be pulled.

Riddle peers into your glossy eyes. Fairy-tale tears cling to your lashes, trickling down your cheeks in delicate droplets.

“How do you feel? Any better?”

“Still the same,” you grieve, chest heaving. Your eyes trail down to the very obvious tightness in his pants, and you quickly blink overstimulated tears away. “You… You’re in estrus, too?”

He almost cums right then when you press your palm against his crotch. Momentarily stunned, he bows his head and tamps down a gratuitous groan.

How, pray tell, is he supposed to win the war when he’s the weakest soldier of all, tethered to his restraint by a flimsy set of morals?

“No, not estrus. No, this is—” He hisses through his teeth, his brows furrowing. “H-Hold on. If you touch there…”

As he says it, he rocks against your hand. You squeeze him through his pants, and the hand that had been diligently caressing your cunt stops for a brief second. He can’t get carried away, but he’s already on the verge of cumming and you’ve only touched him twice. Not even skin to skin but through fabric! That must be a new form of pathetic.

“I wanna help you, too.”

“Yes—right, I understand. But it’s not—”

Riddle swallows the rest of that sentence, breathing hot and heavy. His attempt to feign composure is weak. He knows there’s no point to it, but he tries anyway. A wasted effort. Before he can think any further, he reaches down to grab your hand. He lifts it to his lips, hesitates, and then presses a gentle kiss to your knuckles. You watch him through hazy eyes, warming beneath him like cinders in a hearth.

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

You grip his hand with renewed affection. “Are you sure? You don’t look fine.”

Riddle can feel the blush setting his face aflame. “Perfectly fine. This is normal.”

His fingers delve deeper, searching for that special spot within, and the discussion ends there. Your protests taper off into lewd incoherency. He decides then that he’ll buy you a few toys to make up for tonight.

Better bloodless silicone than something with real risk, he concludes, watching you twitch and writhe.

He’s made up his mind.

Or so he thinks.

You reach for his cheek, brushing your fingertips along his jaw. He smiles and leans into your touch. It’s fleeting, a mere few seconds of sweetness, and then that same hand is at the back of his head. You yank him down with surprising force and smash your lips against his. He freezes like he’s just fallen into arctic waters, his fingers halting inside of you.

It’s Riddle’s first kiss at thirty-one.

He doesn’t outwardly panic, but his mind is a muddle. He should kiss back, shouldn’t he? But he’s never kissed before! How does one even go about kissing? Is there a technique he should practice to perfection? Does that even exist? He’s drowning in so much distracting doubt that he almost misses the way your tongue slides across his lower lip.

If there exists a method to his madness, this is surely it.

Riddle kisses you like he’s dying. There’s no rhythm to the exchange. It’s a mere meeting of mouths and minds, brought together for the singular purpose of hedonistic indulgence. His thoughts are all but dumb mush by the third kiss. Not that he really needs to think about anything at all. You’re teetering on the edge once more; he can see it on your face. Your ears twitch at every new sound he makes, curious and content. You’re not afraid.

He’s so relieved. You trust him, and he trusts you.

Gasping into your mouth, he pulls his hand from between your legs and grabs hold of your hips, dragging you closer. He doesn’t need to look to know he’s already soiled his underwear, cum dampening the fabric. All at once he feels like less of a level-headed adult and more of an insatiable adolescent who’s just learned of sex for the first time. Which, technically, this is his first time. Yours, too.

And he’s ashamed. Not because he came from kissing alone, but because he didn’t get to do it inside—and it’s a dangerous thought like this one that stokes the shame in his belly until it’s near-volcanic. Despite this, he can’t stop himself from rutting against you, still fully-clothed and achingly stiff.

“Dr. Rosehearts…”

“What is it?” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your forehead.

A sob shakes through your body like a seismic tremor. “Please… Please just put it in. I can’t take it anymore. Hurts.”

“Next time. For now…” He swallows the lump in his throat. It’s not wise to make promises like that, but he’s come so far already. “This will have to suffice. I’m sorry.”

You nod even though you look like you want to argue. To make up for it, he peppers your face with quick kisses until a dreamy grin sprawls on your face.

“There we are. A pretty smile for a pretty lady. No sadness, okay?” He brushes your clit again and you’re gone, tipped over the edge into a mind-numbing climax. “Just relax for tonight. You’re in capable hands, my dear.”

The hours stretch on into a vicious cycle of hot and cold. You emerge from the haze long enough to snack on apple slices and toast before you’re inevitably pawing at his arm for assistance. He suspects the days that follow will be the same, exhausting not only his body and its physical and mental capacities but his patience as well. It’s nothing he can’t handle. He didn’t survive years of higher education just to lose to his dick. What sort of researcher would he be if he allowed that to happen?

Embarrassingly, the first item on Riddle’s list for next month’s necessities is a box of condoms. I won’t need it, but it’s important to be prepared, he reasons. Just in case. But even he knows that’s a bald-faced lie.

So he decides he’ll get two boxes.

Partway through the program, Riddle receives a benumbing email. Notwithstanding the upbeat, jazzy notes spilling from the record player, the melody doesn’t put his frazzled nerves to rest. If anything, it serves as background music for his worries.

I’ve been in contact with the higher-ups. They’re quite impressed with your results. If all continues to go well, we might just be able to find a home for her. A few buyers have already expressed interest. Keep up the fine work, Dr. Rosehearts.

- Divus Crewel

Riddle must have read those five lines a dozen times before he decides to confront the truth. The lab is making plans to sell you after rehabilitation.

“There’s no feasible way… What is he thinking?” Riddle mumbles, scrolling through old emails to distract himself. “This is a process. He can’t just—he can’t shove her into society and expect all to be well! She’s not some pet to be sold off either.”

He lowers his head onto his desk, fighting the urge to yawn and simultaneously filter through the stages of grief. It’s late. He should get to bed. But how can he sleep with this weighing heavy on his mind?

“Ridiculous,” he snaps with a scoff, returning to the email once more. “Risible, even. I won’t allow it.”

His fingers tap the keys one by one, hesitant at first. Eventually, he types a harsh, angry message that reads more like a rant than a respectful email. Riddle simmers in that tension while he deletes every word. It helps a little—grounds him enough to start drafting a real email. He types in time with the energetic sax and drums, each blending together to form a seamless flow. Relaxing in his office chair, he taps his foot to the rhythm.

Just then, his door opens. He sees your ears over the top of his computer and pushes away from his desk to take you in from head to toe. You look comfortable in your satin nightgown, tail frizzy and tangled from rolling around in bed. He’s reminded of the times he’d brush Vorpal, smoothing down his coat with even strokes.

“Dr. Rosehearts?” you mumble, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Did I wake you? Sorry… I’m a little busy with work right now and I lost track of the time.” He glances at the record player. “I’ll stop this so you can go back to—”

“Oh, no! No, please don’t. I like it.”

“Ah, is that so? In that case, come closer. Let’s listen together.”

He lifts the tonearm to play the song from the beginning. Music soon filters out of the turning vinyl. You hurry to his side, placing your hands on his desk and leaning in close to peer at the record player. He watches your tail swish languidly.

“Amazing… How does it do that?”

“Play music?” You nod eagerly, and he smiles. “The needle runs across every groove on the record, and from there it takes the vibrations from the moving record to make sound.”

“Wow. That’s so fancy.”

Riddle chuckles. “Actually, it’s a bit dated. I’ve had it for quite some time. Nowadays, everyone’s streaming music from their phones because it’s easier.”

That’s what the youth do, right? he thinks desperately, as if you might correct him.

“But this is so wonderful! I’ve never seen anything like this before. It’s like…magic.”

“Is it really?” Riddle doesn’t realize he’s propped his elbow against his desk, his cheek resting casually in his palm. He snaps out of the daze moments later and clicks the email away even though he knows you can’t understand it. “Here—pull up that chair. You can move the books.”

You do as you’re told, dragging it over and plopping down without hesitation. “So what’s this song called?”

“It’s a classic. ‘Fly Me to the Moon,’ to be more specific.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a metaphor of sorts. He’s singing about how much his loved one makes him feel—that he feels very happy whenever he’s with them. Up in the clouds. On the moon. Of course this is an impossible feat for just anyone to accomplish—flying to the moon, I mean—so that alone is supposed to describe just how elated he is with his lover.”

“Lover? Is that like you and me?”

He knows you don’t mean it in that context, but he still flusters. Awkwardly, he coughs into his hand. “N-Not exactly… This is a love song. A romantic love song.”

“Ohhh.” You gaze at the record as it spins, head cocked to the side. “I don’t get it.”

“It’s like—” Riddle pauses, unsure of how to properly explain the concept of romance when he himself has never understood it. His mother and father are not a romantic standard by any means. Still, he has to make an effort. “There are different kinds of love. Romantic love is…love in which you can share intimacy and affection with another person. Like kissing or holding hands. Dating and marriage. At least, I think it’s something like that…”

“Then what about that time you helped me during my heat? Is that also romantic love?”

Riddle shakes his head, recalling that night with ferocious clarity. “That’s a little different.”

“How so? We kissed, didn’t we?”

“Y-Yes… But that was just a physical way of expressing desire.”

“Desire?”

“You don’t have to be in love to kiss someone. Sometimes it’s a matter of physical attraction. Besides, you weren’t thinking clearly that night.”

Neither was I, but that’s besides the point.

“Oh. But, Dr. Rosehearts, I like you because you’re nice. I think you’re very smart, too. And you’re always here to help! Physical or not, you’re amazing.”

Riddle blinks back at you. Your bold, plain-spoken nature never fails to surprise. He exhales a long breath, as if he’s losing air and slowly deflating, and places his hand on your head. You allow him to pet you, your eyes falling shut. He scratches behind your ears, carding his hand through your scalp. A wave of intense sorrow washes over him. In just two months, you’ll be on your way out the door and he’ll never see you again. He can’t allow that. But what else is he supposed to do to prevent that? He has a job to do and rules to follow. What he really needs is more time. More months to stall the inevitable.

A year passes much too quickly when it’s lived out in serenity. He’s gotten too used to living like this—to the beauty and bliss of friendly coexistence.

“Thank you for saying so,” he murmurs, his hand sliding down to your face. You lean into his palm, eyes flicking open to watch him. He runs his thumb over your cheek.

In just two months, he’ll lose the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

The song swells once more before trickling into a joyful conclusion. His arm falls to his side.

“Let’s listen to another one, yes?”

“Can we really?”

“We can listen to as many as you’d like.”

“You’re the best!”

With a chuckle, Riddle rifles through the many records on his shelves, each organized by decade and genre. He skims through them until he lands on one in particular, pulling it free from its confinement. He admires the design on the sleeve for a short moment before taking the record out and exchanging it with the former. It’s packed away in its original casing, placed back on the shelf in its rightful spot.

“This one’s good, too. I think you’ll like it.”

“What’s it called?”

He sets the tonearm down. “‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.’ Another classic.”

You sit and listen to the music alongside him, absorbing every honeyed lyric. And then, after the instrumental has reached its excitable peak, you grin knowingly. “You sure like your love songs.”

Riddle laughs sheepishly. “It does seem like that, doesn’t it?”

Some of his first records were albums and single songs purchased from his time abroad. He can’t remember what compelled him to poke his head inside the little record store set into some obscure, hole-in-the-wall location in a quiet corner of the city. Maybe it was curiosity or a longing for a new learning experience. He’ll never forget the wise words of the shop owner, though: “Music is special in that it’s like food. There’s something for everyone. And if nothing else, music brings us together and allows us to forget our troubles for a moment to soak in the song itself.”

Since then, Riddle’s developed an affinity for collecting records. New and old, they’ve filled the shelves in his study over the years. The shop owner’s words are abundantly clear now. Sharing music is a lovely thing. Sitting with you, delighting in the stories and messages woven into beautiful instrumentals, Riddle realizes he’s never known this feeling before. This gentle connection. Maybe he’s happy someone else can appreciate these songs alongside him, or maybe there’s more to it than simple enjoyment.

“Love songs are so beautiful…”

He hums his agreement, basking in the singer’s whimsical voice as he admits, “‘And let me love you, baby. Let me love you…’”

You fall silent then, and he assumes you’re listening and imagining all sorts of fluffy scenarios to pair with the tune. But when he turns to check if you’re still sitting there, he finds you staring at him.

“Is this one no good? I can change it. Would you like to hear something from another decade or in another language? We don’t have to stay in the fifties and sixties.”

“No, this is fine. I’m just looking at you.”

“May I ask why?”

“You looked so peaceful. The Dr. Rosehearts I know usually looks stressed or sleepy.”

Now acutely aware of the dark circles under his eyes, Riddle winces. He does have that look about him, doesn’t he? The gloomy, sleep-deprived sort that puts into question whether he’s the sociable type.

“I’ll make an effort to fix my schedule.”

“Please do so as soon as possible. You have to promise.”

He snorts, amused. “I promise, Dr. (Name).”

Your once-serious expression softens, and you giggle. “You’re the doctor here, not me!”

I’m not a very good one, he thinks. Good doctors don’t feel these things for their patients.

Frankie Valli fills the quiet with his heartfelt declarations: “I love you, baby. And if it’s quite alright I need you, baby, to warm the lonely night.”

He’s not sure what he’s doing when he leans forward. The tug is magnetizing, tension budding and blossoming in time with the rhythm of the song. You meet him halfway to close the gap. It’s an innocent peck. Nothing as libidinous as last time. You drift away slightly, still staring into his soul. If he felt like it, he could move in for another kiss.

“C-Can we—”

And he does. Unlike last time, his lips mold to yours naturally. He’s still not very confident in his technique, or lack thereof, but this time he’s led on by a desire more potent than bodily cravings. Riddle places his hands on the chair to cage you in. You reciprocate in this manner, grabbing his shoulders to drag him closer. The both of you kiss each other breathless, unable to keep away. You dig your fingers in his hair and melt into the messiness. Riddle knows he’s not dreaming. That assumption withers into nothing after the fifth kiss.

It’s when the song has ended that he pulls back, his heart in his throat and his eyes blown wide. A single strand of saliva connects your mouths, snapping when you move further back. The feeling that courses through his body, electrifying his nerves with pinpricks of anxious excitement, is exhilarating.

“Yes,” he manages, hoping you’ll understand. His fingers interlace with yours. “Yes, we can.”

The tonearm is lifted from the record, but that’s as far as he gets before you’re seizing his wrist and yanking him towards your bedroom. He just manages to snatch a handful of condoms from his desk drawer on his way out.

Rather impatiently, you shove him down on your bed. He stares, stunned by your intrepid temperament, so much so that he’s almost boneless when you make quick work of his clothes. They’re thrown aside in your haste. You strip yourself of your nightgown next. The frilly fabric pools at your hooves. He’s not sure why his first instinct is to give you privacy, shielding his view. But then you’re crawling onto the bed and pulling his arms aside. You peer down at him, smiling hopefully.

Lying flat on his back, Riddle thinks he just went to Heaven and met an angel.

You palm him through his underwear, and he’s ashamed that he’s already hard and leaking pre-cum. You don’t seem to mind. In fact, he watches your tongue as it darts out to wet your lips. The one thing he deprived you of in the midst of your heat when you needed it most, and now you get to have it. He’d be a fool to try to deny the fact that he’s also just as eager to sink himself inside you and make good on a promise he uttered long ago.

He squeaks when you seat yourself on his lap and wiggle your hips like a slut. Despite the fabric preventing raw skin to skin contact, he can still feel the outline of your pussy pressing against his erection. He’s dizzy and overwhelmed, still in disbelief that this is even happening.

“I think about you a lot,” you admit suddenly, and his eyes flick from your waist to your face.

“What?” he mutters oh-so-smartly.

“When I’m in the bath, I think about that night you helped me and I—” You bite your lip, coy and shy and so cute. As if you couldn’t get even more appealing. Oh, you’re driving him wild. “I touch myself and pretend it’s you. I use the toys you got me, but it’s not the same. It’s not you.”

Riddle’s eyes widen to a comical size. “Does…” His mouth dries up. “Does it have to be me?”

“Yes, it has to be you. Who else?”

His fingers dance along your bare stomach, tracing a path towards your breasts. Indeed, who else? Who else if not him, the only human qualified to care for and protect you?

“You should’ve told me sooner. I would’ve helped.”

“Why didn’t you before?”

“It was reckless. I couldn’t…”

You rock your hips. He hisses through his teeth. “I don’t care about risks and consequences.”

But I do.

Does he, though? Does he, Riddle Rosehearts, really, truly, honestly care about those things? He thinks he does—knows he ought to—but he doesn’t. Not this time.

He’s still going to use a condom. So maybe he cares a little. He’s not that impetuous.

It takes some persuading, but he manages to convince you to get off of him long enough so he can pull your panties off. His underwear goes next. He intends to switch to missionary, hoping to be romantically memorable, if not predictably traditional. But you push him back down. He doesn’t object to this. Witnessing you take charge is more fascinating than anything he had in mind. Most of his ideas for tonight are plainly vanilla. He’d probably cum if you traced the palm lines on his hand.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” he asks, fumbling to unwrap a condom. He’s impressed when he rolls it on one-handed. He practiced that same trick weeks ago, determined to master it then and impress you later. It’s not a useful skill by any means, but it looks attractive. “If you’d rather we take things slowly—”

“I can’t wait any longer. Please,” you beg, querulous. “I need you right now or I’ll die!”

He laughs at your dramatics. “Well, in that case, we best not delay.”

Riddle drinks all of you in as you wrap your hand around him. He sucks in a shuddering breath, tensing on instinct when you line yourself up. The head of his cock prods at your folds. Suddenly, he has no idea what to do or where to put his hands.

“Relax. It’s okay,” you murmur, squeezing him for good measure. He throbs in your hand. How is he going to restrain himself when he’s already on the precipice? You’ll be the death of him.

Your face contorts with concentration, brows knitted and lips pursed, and you bore down slowly. He doesn’t want to miss a moment of this, so he forces his eyes open. Awkwardly, he searches for your hands and, finding them, holds on tight. You offer him a wobbly smile, your fingers curling sweetly around his. It’s a slow process. You don’t seem to be in any rush and neither is he. Inches are swallowed gradually. He’s certain it’d feel better without the protection, but that’s something to consider for the future. Right now he’s focused on you, on the way you gasp and dig your nails into his hands, on the way your walls clench around his cock in a slick, sinful embrace.

“You’re doing so well.” One of his hands slides from your grasp to rub your hip. “Take your time.”

“Dr. Rosehearts—” you place your hand over his, flustered— “Dr. Rosehearts—”

“Riddle,” he blurts. “My first name.”

“Riddle… It’s lovely just like you.”

He flushes scarlet up to his ears. “Is it?”

“Mhm. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I… I don’t know. I guess—” he groans when you shift on his lap— “guess it never occurred to me.”

I was trying to distance myself. If I’m Dr. Rosehearts to you, it’s easier to avoid the obvious. He sighs, but it comes out pleasured instead of wistful. What even is the obvious?

He can’t admit it outright because then it would be real—more so than a passing thought. He can’t even be sure if you feel the same! Why ruin a good thing? Riddle wonders if that question matters as much as it used to. After all, none of this will mean anything in two months.

“I’m gonna start moving.”

Your voice brings him back to the present. Why is he even looking ahead in the first place? Two months is plenty of time. Even though he soothes himself with this fact, he knows it’s not enough. He’s acting greedy and spoiled, coveting more than just temporary tranquility.

He’d grouse that it’s not fair, but it’s never been fair. He has no room to voice his complaints, and even if he does he’s certain he won’t be heard. This is a reality he must accept.

You lift yourself off of him and slam down in one quick motion. Throwing your head back, you gasp in unison with him. It’s snug and warm, but it’s perfect. You squirm and search for the right pace while he encourages you with a patient smile. Within no time, you settle into the rhythm, fucking yourself on him like a natural, and he can only admire your figure from below, his hands permanently laced with yours. You look and feel soft. It’s the only adjective flitting about in his head while he follows your bouncing tits, entranced like they’re the most fascinating thing on the planet. And to him, a virgin at thirty-one, they most certainly are.

The hand that had been petting your waist glides over to the space between your legs. He marvels at the way you’re stretched around him, inches sliding in and out with your gyrations. Loud, bawdy moans spill from your parted lips. Finding his confidence, he grinds his thumb into your clit to watch you come further undone. It prompts more whines from the depths of your throat.

“Yes! Oh, thank you, Dr. Rosehearts. Please keep touching me there!”

“Unless you tell me, I don’t intend to stop.” He didn’t even know his voice could reach a pitch as deep as it does, tinged thick with a ravenous lust. “You’re such a pretty girl… So sweet for me.”

“It’s—ooh!—just like the song.” You tilt your head at him, eyes glittering in the dimming dark. “I can’t take my eyes off of you.”

Riddle thinks he’s losing his mind because, though it’s so far from funny, he giggles like an infatuated schoolgirl. “‘You’re just too good to be true. Can’t take my eyes off of you,’” he quotes, beside himself with euphoria. He meets your plush ass halfway, bucking his hips up into you. Your grip on his hand tightens. “Do you remember the rest? ‘Pardon the way that I stare…’”

“‘There’s nothin’ else to compare.’”

“‘The sight of you leaves me weak. There are no words left to speak.’”

“That’s it!” A bright smile blesses the beautiful face that’s left him besotted. It’s taken time, but you’ve blossomed under his care. He’s proud of you. “I’ve got good memory, don’t I? I only listened to it once, but I remembered the line.”

“You have excellent memory,” he praises, rewarding you with another gentle massage to your clit.

“Will you—mmh, haa… Will you play more love songs for me?”

Riddle hesitates. It’s just music. There doesn’t have to be any deeper meaning involved, and he doesn’t want you to get the wrong idea. He thinks he should distance himself, dig a cavern before he falls any further, but that’s impossible when your bodies are so closely connected. And he likes sharing slices of his life with you. It’s like marriage but without the legalities or ceremony. You’ve never had a surname of your own. You could take his and the unofficial could become official within the confines of this little paradise.

“O-Of course,” he answers around a groan, his composure cracking.

The conversation falls apart when you set to work fucking yourself on him. It’s salaciously slapdash, the way the squelch of skin on skin reverberates in the room. He’s nearing the edge of ecstasy, as are you, and he feels free. Unbound by the rules, if only for tonight.

He allows himself to wade through passionate waters, his body ablaze with unquelled vehemence. Time trickles onwards. He rubs you to your peak, witnesses you squirt with a noisy cry. You call out for him and something in him snaps. His fingers dig into your hips and he drags you down on top of him. Riddle fucks you through your orgasm, fueled by your tearful gaze. You babble senselessly—how good it is, how you never want him to stop, how it’s too much and too little and just enough all at once. It’s not long until he’s reaching his apogee. Eyes shut, lips pressed in a thin line, he holds you still when he spills over.

Riddle comes back to himself seconds later, blinking through the fog. You pet his hair fondly, flopping beside him. Instinctively, he brings his hand up to your head to return the gesture. The two of you are a tacky, breathless mess, reeking of sex and sin. It’s an invigorating smell, waking him right up.

“Again,” you plead.

You shimmy enough for his cock to slide out. Riddle doesn’t know his limits yet, but he expects to be mostly flaccid. So it’s a pleasant surprise to find he’s still somewhat hard. Vibrating with a woozy sort of giddiness, his stomach a butterfly garden, he removes and ties the condom filled with his spend. He almost doesn’t believe it. His first time with you. More than just fingers and kisses. Sex.

He pulls you closer, flipping the position so that you’re caged beneath him and he’s on top. “Give me a minute and then we’ll go again.”

You open your mouth to demand more, so he grants that unspoken wish with a kiss. Your fingers wrap carefully around his cock while you lick languidly into each other’s mouths. It’s dangerous, the hold you have on him; he ought to have a new condom within reach. Just in case.

“You’re not tired?”

Riddle grins, smug. “I should be if I want to fix my schedule.”

You pout. “Do that tomorrow.”

“Doctor’s orders?”

“Doctor’s orders.”

The night is long and sleepless, but, tangled in your arms, it’s the most bliss he’s ever known.

Like a dreadful harbinger of calamity, destined to descend at the expiration of two months, Crewel arrives a day earlier than what Riddle was expecting.

“Shit,” he mutters, carding his fingers through his hair. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“Dr. Rosehearts?” You peer at him, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“This isn’t what we agreed upon,” he’s rambling to himself, pacing before the door. “I specifically said I would bring her in tomorrow. We still have one more day. This isn’t—this is completely unfair!”

“Dr. Rosehearts?” You tap his shoulder and he startles.

“Oh, (Name)! Hello. Did I worry you? I’m a little…troubled. It’s nothing I can’t handle.” He smooths his hair down. “Can you wait in the bedroom? I’ll be back. I just need to talk to someone. I won’t be more than a few minutes.”

Riddle flashes you a soothing smile that’s mostly forced, but it does the trick. You linger for a moment before turning and retreating down the hall. Inhaling a steadying breath, he grips the handle and steps outside. The door shuts softly behind him. He feels brittle, like he’ll break at the slightest tap.

“Dr. Crewel, this isn’t what we discussed.”

“I thought I’d come a day in advance. That shouldn’t be a detriment to the results.”

“It is, actually. I haven’t had time to tell her about…” He shakes his head. “You can’t take her. Not today. She isn’t ready.”

“If your emails are any proof, I’d say she’s plenty ready.” Crewel folds his arms and eyes Riddle dubiously. “Furthermore, I don’t believe this is the proper place to hold a private conversation.”

“I urge you to reconsider. She’s—Dr. Crewel, it’s only been a year. She’s not ready for other humans.”

“But she’s at peace with you.”

“And she won’t be with you—or anyone else, for that matter.” He steps in front of Crewel when he strides forward to grab the door knob. Riddle bristles, threatened. “I refuse to throw her back into an unsafe environment. We can’t even be sure the buyers will treat her well.”

“Of course we can. Background checks exist for a reason. She’ll go to a good home.”

“She doesn’t need a ‘good home.’ This is wrong, Dr. Crewel. I agreed to rehabilitate her. That was all.”

“And you’ve done just that. Nothing more and nothing less.” Crewel sighs. “Dr. Rosehearts, I understand your attachment is coming from a place of sympathy, but a good trainer knows to separate himself from the pup he’s looking after.”

You’re wrong.

Riddle opens his mouth to object, but Crewel’s eyes narrow. “Before you speak, I advise you to take your surroundings into account.”

With a stiff nod, he submits and opens the door. Crewel steps inside and peers around the interior in search of you. It’s then when Riddle notices the pack slung over his shoulder. It reminds him of a medical kit. His heart drops into his stomach.

“Who are these buyers? Are they safe? Trustworthy? Do they have any criminal offenses noted on their records?”

“The Felmiers are a reliable lot. They run a family-owned apple orchard in Harveston. They have a son around her age. I’m certain she’ll get along with him. Arrangements have already been made to deliver her by next week or so. Should all go well, I intend to follow that schedule.”

Riddle stares at him, gutted like a goldfish.

“You…” He barks out a hollow, disbelieving laugh. “You’re serious?”

“Did you think I wasn’t?” Shrugging the pack off, Crewel sets it on the table. He slides on a pair of latex gloves before procuring a syringe from inside. He flicks the needle before turning towards Riddle. “Now then, is the hybrid around?”

“Are you mad?” he hisses, intercepting Crewel on his way down the hall. “No needles. No sedatives. She’ll go peacefully if you give me time to talk to her. With all due respect, Dr. Crewel, your sudden arrival will stress her out. She’s not expecting you. She’s only comfortable with me.”

“That’s why I plan to put her to sleep. We can avoid most of that.” Crewel gestures to the syringe. “Would you prefer to do it instead?”

“I’d prefer to do it another way.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have time for that.” Crewel brushes past him. “I’d like to be back at the lab before noon.”

Riddle grits his teeth, frantically scraping his brain for a solution. There has to be something he can do—anything! He’s a researcher; it’s in his blood to be innovative and intelligent. But what else can he do? He has to protect you. He has to comfort you. He’s supposed to do all of these important tasks, and Crewel’s ruining it. Putting hard work and progress aside, he doesn’t want to destroy the trust you’ve placed in him.

Before he can get swept up in a panic, your frightened whinny pierces the air. His heart crumbles in his chest.

“Dr. Crewel, wait!” He hurries into the room just in time to find the lead researcher gripping your arm. You lock stares with him from where you’re cowering in the corner, tears running down your cheeks in salty rivulets. The uncertainty flashing in your eyes is almost tangible, spotted with flecks of fear. “Don’t panic. It’s okay! He’s just—we’re bringing you back to the lab for…tests. You’ll be okay. He won’t hurt you.”

But that’s a lie. All of it is.

You attempt to yank your arm back, but Crewel holds firm. “Be a good pup and listen to Dr. Rosehearts.”

“No! Let go of me!” You thrash, kicking out with your hooves and narrowly missing Crewel’s ankle. You glance fiercely at him, your expression broken and betrayed. “Dr. Rosehearts, you promised! You said you wouldn’t—you promised!”

He did, didn’t he?

With a clenched jaw, Riddle turns his back on you. There’s nothing he can say or do to make it better. You fight Crewel with everything you’ve got, crying out when the needle pierces your skin, and you continue to struggle up until the sedative takes effect. Eventually, your sniffles and sobs grow silent and your body falls still, breathing evening out into something peaceful. Riddle frowns at you when he turns around.

“You care. That much is apparent,” Crewel comments as he gathers you in his arms, passing Riddle the empty syringe. He stares at it, frigid and unfeeling. “But I expect you to exhibit just a little more professionalism next time.”

“Of course. It won’t happen again,” he grinds out, stepping aside to allow Crewel passage. “I’ll pack the suitcase and then we can be off.”

The drive to the lab is made in stifling silence. Riddle follows behind Crewel, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles blanche. By the time he’s made it to the facility, he’s a numb husk.

I should’ve done something.

But what can he do? This was unavoidable.

Like an empty puppet, he walks woodenly beside Crewel. He’s back where he began: the examination room where he first encountered you. Only this time it’s not for a meeting but, rather, a departure. Crewel lays you down on the metal table, delegating orders to the few lingering assistant researchers. They spring into action and strap you down. It’s the same rigmarole as before. Nothing new.

“The Felmiers… Have you met them in person?” he asks, absentmindedly skimming the file on the family in question. He reads what he can stomach and, though he hates to admit it, they really do seem like a safe match for you.

“We’ve talked over the phone a few times.” Crewel studies your hooves, checking each in case you’re in need of new horseshoes. Unlikely. Riddle made sure to reshod you two weeks ago. “You’re welcome to accompany me to their farm. I’m sure the hybrid would appreciate a familiar face.”

“I’ll consider it.” He sets the file down on the counter before reaching into an open drawer to procure cotton swabs, gauze, and antiseptic wipes—among a few other useful items. “I would like a moment alone with her once she’s awake.”

“I’ll give you ten minutes to clear the air. Is that enough?”

Riddle considers the speed at which his deft hands work. “Twenty would be better. She’ll be disoriented and frightened when she wakes. She’ll need time to settle down so that I can properly explain her situation.” He glances over his shoulder at Crewel. “I’ll need a sedative in case she lashes out.”

Crewel nods towards an assistant researcher. “Get that for him, will you?”

She nods and speeds out the door. By the time she’s returned, the rest of the researchers have finished their assessment of you. Crewel smiles approvingly.

“She’s much healthier than she was a year ago.”

“Aside from correcting her eating habits, I made sure she took her vitamins and supplements.” Riddle rifles through another drawer for a scalpel and forceps. “We exercised regularly. Walked laps in the house. Stretches in the morning and at night.”

“Good.” Crewel runs a gloved hand through your tail. “I assume you used the special shampoo I recommended?”

“Of course. (Name) enjoyed it. Said it was very gentle on her hair.”

“You named her?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to let her live nameless under my roof,” he snaps, feeling around for the bottle of enzymatic detergent in the very back of the cabinet. He places it beside the growing pile on the countertop, pauses to reflect on what else he’ll need, and then crosses the room to grab a few cups from another shelf. As he pours the substance, he adds, “Did you expect me to call her ‘hybrid’ for the duration of her stay?”

This should be enough, he thinks, dropping the surgical tools in to soak.

“No. Although it did surprise me. There’s no mention of that name in your reports.”

“I wrote them in accordance with our protocol, hence why she’s referred to as the hybrid specimen.”

“I see. In any case, good work, Dr. Rosehearts. You’ve done well.”

“I always do.” Riddle smiles thinly. He doesn’t feel proud. He feels filthy—a liar who’s broken his promise.

You don’t deserve this. He gazes forlornly at you. You shift in your sleep, your ears perking as if listening.

Crewel notices you jerk in and out of slumber and snaps his fingers. The assistant researchers file out at once. “Twenty minutes,” he reminds Riddle as he departs. “Keep her calm.”

Riddle nods, watching the door slide shut behind Crewel. And then, after he’s disappeared around the corridor, he bounds over to lock it. The glass frosts over. Privacy at long last.

He yanks another drawer open in search of latex gloves and a surgical mask. Finding them, he heaves a relieved sigh and dons both.

“You… I trusted you,” you croak, struggling weakly on the metal table.

Riddle pivots on his heel. “I’m sorry. I—” He surges forward and stops when you squeeze your eyes shut in fearful anticipation. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You already did.”

“And that’s inexcusable. I shouldn’t have lied to you. I should’ve told you sooner. But I—” He hesitates, frowning behind his mask. “I’m going to fix things, okay? You have to trust me on this.”

You shake your head slowly. “I can’t. Because of you, the other human… You let him… The needle and the sleep medicine—”

“I know. I know and I’m sorry.”

“You promised, Dr. Rosehearts.” Feeble like a foal, you tug against your restraints. “Please don’t send me back… I’m begging you…”

“I won’t! (Name), I’d never. I’m here to help you.” He taps the needle twice. “We’ll talk later. I don’t have much time. Please cooperate.”

Your eyes slide from the ceiling above to the syringe. That’s when the real struggle begins. Animalistic, driven by instinctual dread, you thrash on the table. Your shrieks are shot through with stress, each whinny a reminder of unpleasant pain.

“Stay away from me! Get away! Don’t come any closer! Dr. Rosehearts—Riddle, please don’t…”

He hardens his resolve, wipes the area on your arm with a prep pad, and holds tight. “I’m sorry, but I must do this. You’ll understand soon enough.”

The needle pricks your skin. You hiccup around a blubbery sob.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, rubbing the area to soothe you. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m going to be here every step of the way.”

“No… No, please don’t. Riddle, I wanna go home. Take me home.”

“And you will. Soon. I promise.” He stands dutifully at your side, watching the sedative run its course. Time drags on. Your eyelids flutter shut and snap back open. You’re desperately trying to stay awake. “Rest well, (Name). You won’t feel a thing.”

Your fight seeps away just as your body grows sluggish and still. “Don’t hurt me, Dr. Rosehearts…”

He smiles even though you can’t see it. “That’s a good girl. Just relax. I’m here for you.”

And with that, you fall.

He works swiftly, undoing the shackles and flipping you over onto your back. You slump like a limp, boneless fish, arms hanging loosely. If the circumstances were different, he’d be a bit more careful in handling you. But he’s working on a tight time constraint and there’s no room for error or struggle.

Calm down. You can do this. Steady hand. Steady mind.

He exhales softly and then reaches to undo the tie at the back of your gown. The clothes you originally arrived in are packed away in a bag. He hopes you aren’t particularly attached to them because they’ll likely be left behind after he’s finished.

I think I could work at a coffee shop, he muses while wiping you down with another pad. Or I could do freelance work. Something low-profile.

His fingers waltz across your back, pressing down in search of a bump. He finds it right where he expects it to be: between your shoulder blades. He’s about to do something bad. Something against the rules. But, as he retrieves the tools from the cup and dries them off, he knows this is for the best. You can’t survive on your own in some quiet corner of the world. It doesn’t matter if Harveston is safe and peaceful. It doesn’t matter if the Felmiers will take care of you.

You belong with Riddle. He’s meant to look after you. It’s part of his job as a researcher. It’s because he’s the first human to have ever treated you with compassion that he’s allowed to do this. What may look like a bad thing to everyone else is just a step in the right direction. This is good.

He needs you just as much as you need him.

Riddle cuts into soft skin with precision, slicing along the area in which the microchip is contained. His heart is thudding in his chest, but he doesn’t let the idea of getting caught and punished deter him. He knows it’s wrong. He knows there will be severe repercussions. He knows he’ll never be able to show his face around the lab ever again. But if that’s the price he must pay in order to protect you from dirty, deceitful humans, he’ll gladly forsake his lofty station.

Anything to be able to spend the rest of his life with you.

He unearths the chip and plucks it out with the forceps. It comes free with minimal resistance. After setting it aside, Riddle pats the bleeding wound with cotton gauze. Crimson seeps into pristine white as soon as it makes contact. With a resigned sigh, he leaves it to soak up as much as possible before crossing the room to retrieve the sutures and remaining tools. It’s not a clumsy operation, even if he currently feels that way. Regardless, he would never do anything sloppy—no matter how important or inessential it may be. Although, if he were to admit to the truth, he works faster than he normally does, stitching you up with expert, unfaltering fingers.

Riddle’s not sure how much time he has left when he dries and bandages the area. He isn’t looking to find out.

“Let’s get you up,” he mumbles after tying your gown. It’s awkward, more struggle than success, but he manages to drag your unconscious body off of the table. Steadying you in his arms, he glances around the room to ensure he isn’t forgetting anything. It’s surreal—the last time he’ll ever find himself in this environment—but he’s ready. He has to do this.

If he doesn’t, he’ll never see you again. And who can say you’ll enjoy your life in Harveston? Who can say you won’t immediately call out for him when you wake in an unfamiliar home, greeted by unfamiliar people? He’d never forgive himself for abandoning you.

Riddle only hopes your grudge can be soothed. He’s not like the other humans you’ve feared your entire life. He’s shown you he’s different, and you believed in that—in him.

It’s not wrong. It’s a rescue mission, he assures himself, but the delusion doesn’t stick.

Instead of wallowing in his crime-in-progress, Riddle drapes your arm over his shoulder and, tucking the scalpel away, helps you over to the door. He staggers more than he walks, having to account for the dead weight, but he doesn’t let this hinder him. Worst of all, it’s not even the fear of getting caught that bothers Riddle.

It’s the fact he left the examination room a mess! The guidelines are there for a reason, but he completely ignored them and neglected to clean up after himself. That’s tantamount to stealing the specimen!

Not really. It does feel like it, though.

Riddle pokes his head out the door, glancing down the empty hall stretching on either side. He’s actually doing this. He’s breaking the rules—the law!

It’s worth it, he realizes. Every moment spent with you is a dream come true; he’s never been happier in this idyll.

Down the hall he goes, his lanyard swaying with every step. His keys jingle noisily, but he presses onwards. There’s no way around the cameras or the guard at the front of the building. He can bypass the latter with a smooth lie—so long as nothing stands in his way—but he can’t do anything about the mechanical eyes peering down at him. Riddle reckons it’ll only be a few minutes before the facility’s put on lockdown and Crewel gives the command to apprehend him and secure the hybrid subject.

To no one’s surprise, that’s exactly what happens minutes later. The intercom crackles to life and with it comes Crewel’s threat-tinged inflection: “I do hope this isn’t a blatant display of insubordination, Dr. Rosehearts. I’m willing to overlook this slight if you return the hybrid at once.”

So much for cryptic getaways… He’s almost certain Crewel suspected this from the beginning. Perceptive even in the midst of surgical chaos.

Riddle stops halfway down the hall, stares into the red eye of the CCTV, and raises his middle finger. The surgical mask conceals the nasty glower scrunching on his face.

And then the lights flick from blindingly white to deep, dangerous vermillion. The sirens come next, angry blares that nearly burst his eardrums. Riddle’s relieved you’re unconscious. The sounds and sights would have definitely startled you.

He sets off half-running, half-stumbling the rest of the way, narrowly ducking around the corner just as three guards rush past. For all of his adrenaline-laced courage, the thought of surrendering never crosses his mind.

Holding you close, Riddle takes a tentative step into the hall and yelps just as something zips past his face, nearly grazing his cheek. His arms wrap around you with a possessive firmness. A tranquilizer dart lies on the tile. Riddle’s certain it would have embedded itself in his neck had he been just a centimeter closer.

That can only mean one thing.

Rook Hunt missed on purpose.

“I must thank you for the glorious chase, Roi des Roses. It was as invigorating as it was enjoyable!” He beams and, rifling through the pockets of his lab coat, produces another dart to load into the barrel. One shot. This one, Riddle knows, will hit its mark. “I’m afraid this is where our paths must finally intersect.”

As a last-ditch effort to have some parody of the upper hand, Riddle draws the scalpel out and points it at Rook. “I’m not going to fight you,” he says, his tone a smidge louder than necessary. “I just want to make it to the exit.”

“You’re more than welcome to without the extra baggage. I’m sure you of all researchers should know how important the little trickster is.”

“And I’m sure Dr. Crewel’s told you to use any means necessary to subdue me.”

He smiles an odd, secretive smile, the type of which betrays any and all sentiment. “It truly pains me to turn my arrow on a fellow companion. What indescribable woe!”

Riddle stands unyielding, holding you as far from Rook as possible. He considers his options. Hand you over to Rook and face the severe consequences for equally severe actions, or attempt to escape even though it may be impossible by now. Any other researcher would have proven significantly less difficult, but this is Rook Hunt. He knows how to corner and capture his prey with unapologetic swiftness.

Riddle’s more miffed that he got so far and still failed. Was he doomed the minute he met you? Forever fated to never know another ounce of felicity ever again?

He looks down the hall, his hardened features set in grim determination. Even if failure looms on the horizon, he lives to beat the odds. He’s Riddle Rosehearts! It isn’t in his nature to fail. He always overcomes adversity. This is no different than a perplexing equation he studied to death in grad school.

“I understand it’s wrong,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “I know what I’m doing and I’m content with my choice. I can’t let you take her from me.” He turns his fiery stare on the researcher, unaffected at being held at gunpoint. “I’m resigning, and she’s coming with me. I’m not going to compromise, so I’ll have to ask you to stop standing in my way.”

It’s as simple as that.

Rook’s sharp gaze softens into something sympathetic and, much to Riddle’s shock, he lowers the tranquilizer gun. “You love her, don’t you?”

Oh.

That’s the emotion he could never place. One he’s ignored for so long. All this time, Riddle Rosehearts, who thought himself incapable of it, is in love.

“I do,” he confesses, a strain in his voice. He holds your unconscious body close, one arm wrapped securely around your waist. “I love her, Rook. And I—there’s no way I can allow this. You have to let me go.”

“I intend to.” Rook tucks the gun in its holster and holds out a brass key and a folded slip of paper. “I only wanted to see what you’d do when faced with a challenge. As expected, you aren’t so easy to sway once your mind’s made up.”

Riddle peers at both, suspicious, and glances at the security camera mounted high in the corner. Rook follows his line of sight.

“It’s been disabled, courtesy of moi. I can’t say for how long it will remain so, but we’re free to talk at our leisure for now.”

Riddle wonders if he’s telling the truth. There’s no time for deliberating. The emergency lights fulgurate; sirens scream. He has no choice but to trust him.

“Why?”

“Love is a marvelous, mystical thing. To take that from another person—to bury it when it’s only just beginning to blossom—do you not find that unfair?”

“I… Yes, I suppose so. But—”

“I only wish to bear witness to the beauty of love in all its forms. Your love is a spectacle worthy of an audience.”

“But this is…” Riddle lowers his voice even though it’s drowned out in the wailing alarms. He’s not sure why he’s trying to get Rook to debate him on it. “This is illegal. I’m stealing.”

He laughs. “Aren’t we all? Whether stealing hearts or tangible materialism, we’re all thieves.”

That…is not how that works.

“You’re really going to let me go? You’re risking your job, Rook. Everything.”

“So be it. How else can I call myself le chasseur d’amour if I’m not willing to put everything on the line to do so? If I were to falter here just because of a little danger, I wouldn’t be able to observe your romance.”

“I…see. Well, thank you. Sincerely, thank you.” He swipes the key and paper from Rook. “And this is for…”

“An address to an unused residence.”

Riddle’s brow furrows.

“Vacation homes. We use them sometimes. This one hasn’t had company to fill its walls in a while. Perhaps you’d like to stay there with your amour?”

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch at all! The house is small but secluded. No one will suspect a thing. Your secret is safe with me.”

“And you’re just…giving this to me?”

“I’m not using it, and you can’t return to your current residence. Where else are you to rendezvous if not the countryside?”

“I appreciate it. If there’s anything I can do in return—”

“Oh, Roi des Roses, you’re much too formal! All I ask is that you live happily with her.”

A faint smile pulls at his lips. “I will. That’s a guarantee.”

“Then please don’t let me stop you. Be on your way. I’ll buy you some time.”

He nods and pockets the items, keeping his eyes on Rook while he hobbles past with you at his side. The promising enchantment of a bright future looms distantly ahead.

If there’s one thing Riddle misses most about his old life, it’s the music. Late nights spent holed up in his study, relaxing to slow, soulful notes or tapping his foot to match the tempo of a fast, fluffy falsetto. Sometimes he wonders if the bushes out front are trimmed or if the flowers crawling up the trellis on the side of the house are getting enough sunlight and water. Sometimes, if he flicks through the people in his life like channels on TV, he wonders what they’re saying.

As far as anyone’s aware, Riddle Rosehearts is no more.

He’s since built himself up as a phony, bleached his hair a pale, cool-toned white-blond, and changed his identity. Rook helped where he was needed, a self-proclaimed master of disguises. Riddle doesn’t go out much, but when he does it’s in a small corner of the country—an area with sprawling farmlands, where neighbors are nonexistent for stretches. The town is tiny and quaint. It’s quiet here. The ideal getaway.

And it’s all his. A comfortable life filled with nonstop joy.

He really wishes he had his music, though. It’s just not the same turning the dial on the radio in hopes that one of the stations will reach and have a good queue.

It was difficult adjusting to the change, the scenery, the environment of a new house. You slapped him across the face when you woke up, called him a liar and hid from him. He deserved it. Mostly. It was with great patience that he explained the situation, insisting he never had any plans to hand you over to Crewel or the Felmiers. You came around after the third day, plodding into the kitchen and wrapping your arms around him from behind. You made him promise a real promise, one sealed through hot, heady kisses. One that couldn’t be broken so easily.

For the hour the pasta bake sat in the oven, he vowed to never lie again. Over and over, a record on repeat, Riddle spoke those words with sincerity. They punctuated each thrust, pressed into your mouth like a delicate tongue tattoo.

It’s been a year since then and Riddle, for whatever reason, has yet to confess to a very important truth. By this point, he assumes it’s evident. An unspoken understanding. But then you haven’t said it either. He wonders if you know how.

Does he know how?

“I was thinking,” you mumble, sitting pretty in your floral-print sundress. The window’s cracked slightly to let in a spring breeze. It brings with it thoughts of damp earth, fresh produce, and budding flowers. Backdropped by reflective glass, where a plot of empty garden waits just beyond, you’re a reverie taken and transplanted in reality. “We should plant something in there.”

Riddle sets his cup on its accompanying saucer, following your gaze to the soil outside. “What would you like to grow?”

“Strawberries. Definitely strawberries.”

Briefly, he imagines picking a basket’s worth of strawberries with you. Standing side by side in the kitchen, mashing them into paste to make marmalade or syrup. Baking dozens of tarts with them. Dipping them in chocolate. Eating them as they are. Truly, strawberries are one of the best fruits.

“We can do that.”

“Wouldn’t that be so cool? We could have an entire backyard of strawberries! You’d never have to worry about going to the market again. Not for strawberries, at least.”

He chuckles. “I like the sound of that.”

Humming your agreement, you lift an apple slice to your mouth. Riddle watches you nibble with a smile. Whenever he looks at you he feels weak and wordless, dumbly entranced. An infatuated fool.

You lick your fingers clean next, seeming quite pleased with yourself. Riddle moves thoughtlessly, leaning over the tea table and taking your hand in his. You blink up at him once and then his shadow is eclipsing you. The gap closes; mouths press together. A wind chime sighs, caught up in a breeze. Riddle moves around the table to get closer to you, resting his hand on your thigh. You grab at every part of him—his shoulders, his arms, his back. Fingers creep along your leg, brushing your dress up higher and higher. You hum against him, your body warm even though the house is relatively cool.

In the crisp, sunny afternoon, you taste like apples and green tea. He savors it with every kiss, chasing after it like it’s to be his final meal.

As if unwrapping a gift, he slides your dress from your shoulders. Bare skin winks back at him, a soft, unmarked landscape begging to be tilled and filled with love. He’ll never get over the sight. It always leaves him breathless. You respond in kind, tugging at his clothes and whining impatiently.

He nudges at your clit, rubbing you through your panties. You slacken against him, gasping around the tongue tangled with yours. He’s not sure how much time the both of you spend kissing and fondling, but you’re perfectly dazed when he tugs your underwear down. It’s soaked through with your slick. He marvels at you—beautiful, blissful you. Sweat sticks to your body, but with the sun pooling in through the parted curtains it looks more like a delicious glaze.

He’s hurrying to pull himself from his pants when he stops. “I shouldn’t. Your heat’s scheduled to start any day now. I really shouldn’t…” Foolishly, he attempts an escape, but you grab his face and hold him still. Looking at you now, Riddle realizes he doesn’t want to leave your embrace.

“It’s okay. Don’t hold back for my sake.”

“Are you sure? What if you—”

“That’s the whole point of why I go into heat, right?” you murmur against his mouth. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were in heat now with how you burn holes into his eyes. “Why wait until then when we could do it now?”

“But do you—” He frowns, suddenly self-conscious. Life has been too comfortable lately. Surely he’s in for something terrible… “Do you want this?”

You give him a strange look. “Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?” Your thumbs brush along his cheeks. An affectionate giggle falls from your lips. “I love you.”

“Yes, I’m aware, but even so I worry. Without proper planning… Not that it’s risky or anything… I just want to be prepared for when—” The rest of that sentence cuts off abruptly. He stares at you, dumbfounded.

Your laughter is musical. “I love you, Riddle.”

A wide, toothy smile claws at his face, lifting it with a boyish jubilation. He feels silly, but he’s happy. So overwhelmingly happy.

Riddle wraps you up in a hug. “So do I! I love you—so, so much.”

You match his enthusiasm with celebratory laughter, drunk on abundant emotion. He said it and it came easy. He said it and he means it.

He said it and you reciprocated.

Oh, what a magical thing love is! To be wrapped up in it as if it’s a blanket fresh from the dryer—it’s refreshing and joyful. Warming his soul, melting the ice in his heart. He’s smiling so much it hurts, but he can’t help it. He’s in love and it’s so freeing. So weightless and wonderful. Like floating down the sweetest stream, living the love from his dreams. It’s everything he’s never known, and it feels good.

What comes next is a rush of wandering hands and never-ending kisses all over, stamped into each other’s skin. He doesn’t bother to strip you completely, and you’re much too desperate to pull him out of his clothes. Everything’s messy, a theatre for the half-dressed.

It’s to a relieved sigh when he finally enters you from behind. Relief trickles into tears, and the both of you are crying through your moans. He plasters you to the windowpane, unbothered by the noisy debauchery of it all. Soft breezes filter in and mingle with the scent of salt and sex.

“I love you,” Riddle confesses again, leaning over you to grab your chin and turn you towards him. You kiss him desperately, clawing at the windowpane for support. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

It’s an addictive, spirituous phrase.

“M-Me too—ooh! So much! I—mmh!—love you so much!” you babble, ears pricked forward. A delirious smile curls on your lips.

He peers at your reflection in the window, admiring the bunched ruffles in your sundress and the way your palms press against the glass. He wonders what he’d be doing if he hadn’t met you. Perhaps he’d still be the same Riddle Rosehearts, enduring lonely, cyclical days. Working for a purpose he thought he’d lost. Bent over a metal table, dissecting all kinds of stuff for his research. Feeling the empty void grow larger and larger with every passing year.

There’s no need to entertain those dismal recollections any longer, though. He has a purpose now. He’s fulfilled.

Riddle doesn’t need to look too far into the future to know he’ll be content. Whether it’s tomorrow, next week, or years from now, he will always know happiness when he’s with the one he treasures most.

Pinned to the window, you’re falling first. Riddle runs his fingers through the soft strands of your tail, cooing at you like one might a pet: “That’s it. Go ahead and cum for me, my dear.”

Obedient thing that you are, you heed his command.

He rubs your hip encouragingly. You’re on the verge of collapsing, so he grabs your wrists and yanks you back up against him. He ruts into you with more force, knocking you against the window like you’re nothing more than a boneless doll. And then he’s driving home in a final thrust to flood your gummy walls with his spend.

Blinking through your tears and panting heavily, you float back to reality. He steadies you when you stagger on wobbling hooves, feeling only slightly bad that he’s to blame for that. But the prideful part of him relishes in having fucked you so good that you can hardly stand.

He kisses your cheek. “You did so well.”

“I wanna go again…”

He slides out, much to your displeasure, and helps you sit down. “Let’s take a break. Can I get you something to drink? Water? Another cup of tea?”

Stubborn to a fault, you pout at him. Sitting grumpy in that chair with your ears flat on your head, looking a right mess, you’re the cutest, most darling sweetheart he’s ever seen. It almost convinces him.

“Come now. We have all afternoon to waste away.” Riddle cups your cheek. You turn from him with a huff. He watches you scowl at nothing in particular. “Don’t look so glum. I never said we couldn’t go again.”

“But I can go again now! I don’t need a break.”

“You almost fell over. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

You cross your arms over your chest, refusing to dignify that with a retort. He takes your chin in a gentle grasp and guides your head towards him. You hold his stare with unwavering resolve.

“My pretty girl,” he whispers, leaning down to close the space. “That dress suits you.”

“It’ll look better on the floor.”

“Will it?” he asks, playing along with a raised brow.

“It will and you know it.” You throw your arms around his neck, your voice tickling his ear. “So take it off properly this time, okay?”

Riddle intends to do just that.

#merakiui #yandere twst #yandere riddle rosehearts #n/sfw

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anglingforlevels · 2 months

Text

Sweet Valentine [wri0thesley OC Lucas x reader]

Title: Sweet Valentine [@wri0thesley OC Lucas x Reader]

Synopsis: It's Valentine's Day and Lucas has some sweet surprises planned, but things don't go as well as you'd hoped.

Word count: 3164

notes: Yandere, kidnapped reader, mentions of cannibalism, abusive relationship, mentions of violence, non-graphic descriptions of noncon and dubcon sex, reader is implied to be afab

“You… want somethin’ special for Valentine’s Day, sweetheart?”

Lucas’ voice is low and tender, and when you look up at him, you see a faint blush dusting his cheeks. It’s a familiar sight. He always gets like this, when it comes to romance. Or what he thinks is romance, anyway.

You think it’s all that vulnerability that comes along with romance; the possibility of rejection, as if you were stupid enough to outright reject anything he wanted to give you. Not unless you wanted to meet the sharp end of a glare

(Or an axe.)

But it’s there anyway, that vulnerability. In the way he sometimes glances away or the way his cheeks gain a deeper tint or the lilt in his voice. He gets awkward and when you’re feeling dark and low, you sometimes wonder what he’d do if you didn’t thank him for his gifts, if you didn’t lean into his arms when he opened them, if you wiped away his kisses, if you were as ungrateful and awful as you were currently too afraid to be.

The answer always comes swiftly: He’d kill you, moron.

Maybe not right away. But you’d chip at his goodwill, such as it was, bit by bit until nothing was left but raw steel. And where would that raw steel go? Right into your skull, stupid.

You’re a lot of things. Scared. A liar. Helpless. But you’re not stupid.

So you return his blush with a practiced meek gaze. The kind where you glance up at him and then look quickly down, and cross one arm (but never both, that’s too petulant) over your chest.

Shy, that’s what you are; or rather, what you’ve become in order to survive here.

If he thinks you’re shy and quiet and meek, it seems easier for him to brush aside the way you tremble; the way you flinch; the way you sometimes find yourself begging him to wait, just wait oh please, you’re not quite ready to go all the way yet.

And if you have to debase yourself by taking his length into your trembling hands, by letting him touch you until you trembled and came on his fingers, it’s what you’ll do to put off the inevitable for another day.

“Nothing special,” you say, voice crackling with the dryness of the morning air. He doesn’t respond. He’s disappointed, you think. Nothing special isn’t good enough for Valentine’s Day. So you add, quietly but quickly: “But maybe… If it’s not too much trouble… some chocolate?”

You glance up at him and he’s got an almost goofy smile on his face now. It makes you relieved--it makes you sick.

“Or--or we could watch a romantic comedy?” You suggest. You bite your lip then, a holdover gesture from your old life. “Oh, but you don’t really have any, so I guess we could just--”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that.” He pulls you close without giving you a choice and you lean your head against his shoulder, just like you ought to do. “I’ll find you somethin’ in town this weekend. Gotta go get some supplies anyway.”

You smile and press your face towards his chest, so that he feels the curve of your lips against his shirt. “Thank you, Lucas. Really… really any movie you like is fine, but if you can find one, that would be okay.”

He sighs and presses one large hand against the back of your head, trailing it down past your neck--he could snap it so easily--until he’s rubbing your back.

“You’re the sweetest, you know that, angel?”

You don’t answer, because you don’t need to, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

You were good. You behaved well. You did what he wanted. Did it matter that you didn’t want chocolates or to watch a movie with him for Valentine’s Day or any day at all? Did it matter that at home, your real home, you were loud and brash and your mother would have pissed herself laughing if anyone called you shy?

No. Of course not.

If only the truth wouldn’t get you killed.

You don’t want chocolates or a VHS copy of some outdated romantic comedy.

The only thing you really want for Valentine’s Day is to go home.

The chocolate isn’t great, but it’s not awful, either. There was even a cherry cordial--your favorite--and Lucas’ eyes had lit up when you told him so.

It was a nice surprise.

After all, the cynical part of you imagined Lucas showing up with a dusty box of chocolates that tasted like stale sweetness; the kind you find overpriced at drugstores, boxes that forgetful husbands pick up on the way home from work on the day-of.

But when he came home from town, he’d sheepishly handed over a bouquet of colorfully dyed flowers. A mixture of carnations that were an impossibly vivid pink and daisies with bright blue petals. It was just the kind of bouquet you used to pick out for your mom when you were a kid, because you were drawn to the pops of unnaturally colorful simple flowers more than you were ordinary red roses.

“Know you like, uh…” He’d held out the bouquet and waited for you to take it from him before continuing. “Know you like this kind of pink, so…”

You held the bouquet to your chest and felt something that might have been pleasure. It was nice to have something familiar. Something you might pick up at a supermarket on the way home from work. Real flowers were beautiful, of course, and you’d grown to love the sight of them surrounding the cabin.

But these couldn’t be found in the wilderness in which you were now settled. They were a sign that people still existed out there, people that weren’t you and Lucas and the ghosts of people who came before you.

And that made them more special.

“Honey?”

“Angel?.”

“Darlin’.”

It’s the darlin’ that yanks you out of your disassociation. How long had it been going on? You glance down at your fingers and realize you’re holding a half-eaten chocolate bon-bon. Your elbow feels stiff, you must have been holding it up for a while.

You shakily set it back down on the box and force yourself to look over at Lucas, who is cuddled up next to you, holding you in a firm but warm grip, with his arm slung around your shoulder keeping you close.

He looks irritated. Like you said something wrong again. Only you weren’t saying anything, but that might be the problem; ignoring him was just as bad (sometimes worse) as doing the wrong thing.

“You don’t like the movie?” His voice is gruffer than it should be today, of all days.

The movie?

Oh shit.

You blink and blink and slowly details around you come back into focus. The dim lighting in the cabin, to set the mood. The flickering light of the TV and the soft whir of the VCR that could only be heard faintly under the movie itself.

And the movie…

The movie was almost over. The VHS he’d found was of a vaguely familiar movie you remember seeing on TV a few times. It wasn’t a classic but it wasn’t a stink-bomb, either.

“Angel…”

He turns toward you and after a moment, takes your chin into his hands. You quickly glance down--meek, shy, feeble thing that you are--so he doesn’t see the fear that must be blinking through the back of your eyeballs by now.

“You don’t like the movie, do you? Did I pick the wrong one?” There’s none of the usual sweet compromise in his voice, though, that makes you think saying “yes” might be an option. Instead, you get the sense that he’s laying traps for you to step on. Traps meant for someone ungrateful who completely zones out during what was supposed to be a romantic evening snuggling on the couch.

Dumbass, you think. I’m such a dumbass.

“Do you…” You speak suddenly and swallow hard. Talking is awkward with his fingers holding your chin, but he doesn’t let go. “Do you want a chocolate?” You offer up the box that’s half-empty by now. The cherry cordials were gone, and maybe you should have offered him one since they were your favorite. But there’s nothing to be done about it, so you hold up the last caramel-filled piece towards him.

Maybe he’ll appreciate the gesture.

He finally lets go of your chin and huffs out a snort through his nose. That’s good, usually. A sign he’s calming down. But he doesn’t smile at you, and you can feel the heaviness in the air, a sort of sick pressure that you need to relieve before it gets worse.

“I’m not much for sweets.” He says this like you ought to know. And you do, actually, it’s just… you don’t know what else to do.

Your lips quirk downward. You lift the piece until it’s close to his mouth.

“I know, I just--wanted to share. Please? One bite?” It’s almost a reversal, really; the way he sometimes has to nudge you to eat, when your stomach is all twisted in knots from anxiety or when you can’t shove away the thought that what you’re eating is almost certainly not an animal. Sometimes he feeds you just because he’s in a particular mood, a mood where you need to be more fragile and helpless than you are, which isn’t saying much.

Lucas’ eyes widen then and he finally smiles softly at you. His voice is low and gruff but you think, not quite as irritated as before.

“All right, angel. A bite.”

He opens his mouth and you slide the chocolate forward until it’s under his teeth. He takes a bite and you pull away, caramel dripping from the half-eaten chocolate that you set back in the box.

Lucas chews with his mouth closed (he has impeccable manners when he’s not murdering people, thank God for that) but then there’s the thought of the chocolate and caramel being chewed by the same teeth that just ate a “steak” for dinner--what if there’s a stray piece of meat left in his molars and they mix?

It’s enough to make the sticky sweet flavor of the cherry cordials rise in your throat, acidic and sour from the chocolate digesting in your stomach.

“Sorry,” you murmur, nuzzling closer to him like an apologetic pet as he finishes chewing. “I didn’t mean to get distracted earlier.”

Lucas hums and pulls you tighter against him, harder than normal. He presses a kiss against the side of your head. A hint of caramel wafts in the air.

“Mind you don’t drift often again, honey.”

Lucas is still upset with you. Although you can’t quite call this “still” upset, because this is different from earlier. He’s not still annoyed that you were distracted during the movie or, at least, that’s not the real source of his irritation.

But what--what did you do? You thanked him for the flowers and chocolates. You kissed him (on the lips!) after he gave them to you. You snuggled on the couch and yes you fucked up during the movie, but you made up for it, you thought.

You set the table for dinner without being asked, you ate without hesitation and complimented his cooking… you were quiet, you helped him clean up the eggs, you made a joke about Dolly the chicken needing a Valentine’s Day card from him and he chuckled at it.

You didn’t argue when he insisted he scrub you up during the bath, even when his hand dipped between your legs and lingered on your chest. You quietly let him brush your hair and pick out your pajamas (a pink nightie, tonight) and did everything you thought he wanted.

So what in the hell did you do wrong today that has him practically glowering at you as you both sit on the bed? You’ve re-read the same page in your book a hundred times while you tried to figure it out. You can’t go to bed like this, wondering if he’s angry, wondering if you’ll wake up in the morning to find him hovering over you with a glare and a weapon. Or maybe you won’t even wake up at all.

“Angel?” There’s a gruff edge to the word tonight that tightens your chest.

“Yes?” Your voice is squeakier than you intended. You tuck a bookmark into your pages and set the book down on your nightstand, and look up at Lucas with practiced meekness that is made all the more real through the gnawing fear in your belly.

Lucas hesitates before he speaks. Emotions shift on his face. Irritation, disappointment, even something you think is sadness. They only make the feeling in your chest worse. What did you do? Why is he acting this way?

“I… wasn’t expectin’ nothing fancy, you know. But I thought you’d at least make somethin’ for me today.”

Make something for him?

Oh.

Fuck.

In all your worries about behaving perfectly, you didn’t even think about getting Lucas something for Valentine’s Day. Making him a card or throwing together a quick embroidery hoop or--something. That’s what a good spouse would do, right? It’s what he would expect from you, on today of all days. Sure, he wasn’t big on presents, and he’d told you a few months ago not to worry about Christmas (you’d embroidered a scene outside the window of his bedroom, the trees and snow and a little silver rabbit) but this was different.

It was a couple’s day, and you were part of that couple.

And you’d fucked up.

He’s not done, either.

“I went outta my way to get you everything you wanted. Drove all the way into town… An’ you didn’t even pay attention during the movie.” If you weren’t increasingly terrified, you might be able to snort at how petulant he sounded, complaining that you didn’t watch the movie well enough. But there’s nothing funny about the way his voice is starting to raise or the way you can practically feel his muscles getting tenser by the moment.

“Did you even appreciate any of it?” It’s more to himself than to you, and that scares you more than anything else has in recent memory.

Your mouth comes up with a plan the exact moment that your brain does. You’re not sure if your brain would have let you go through with it, if it had more than a split second to think.

“I did get you something!”

Lucas shifts on the bed and looks at you questioningly. He doesn’t look convinced. Not yet. There’s a swift moment in which you have to convince him and you jump into it, feet first.

“I… I just didn’t know how to wrap it, that’s all.” Your throat bobs when you swallow and you look up at him with a soft expression that’s part nerves, part hope.

“I don’t know what y’mean, darlin’.”

His eyebrows furrow and you take a deep breath before you reach over and take his hand. You give it a squeeze and shift on the bed yourself, this time leaning backwards on the pillows.

“My gift is…” Oh, you don’t want to; but you have nothing else you can give him now. You swallow again and fiddle with the end of your nightgown. It’s a flimsy thing, isn’t it?

“I’m ready to… that is--I’m ready to…”

You can’t finish the words but you don’t need to, because both of Lucas’ eyebrows raise before his lips curl into a delighted smile as he realizes what you mean.

He looks giddy. He looks drunk, despite not having a drink tonight. He looks like he’s going to devour you, and you can only be mildly grateful that it’s not in the way you normally fear.

“Oh, angel.”

In moments, he’s shifted above you, his body looming over your own, filling up all of your space with his size and warmth.

“This is the best gift you could give me.” He presses a chaste kiss to your lips, then again; a kiss to your cheeks, to your eyes that close so he can kiss the lids. “I’m sorry I doubted you. Oh, honey, you must have been thinkin’ about this all day. No wonder you were so distracted.”

There’s nowhere to go, if you wanted to go. Nowhere to run, if you were capable of running. He’s here and you’re here and this is going to happen now.

No more putting it off, no more gentle pleas, no more convincing him that you can do that and not this, not yet.

All because you forgot to make a damn Valentine’s Card.

His hands hold the edge of your nightie and begin to lift it up, exposing the soft cotton underwear underneath.

“I love you so much. You know that, sweetheart?”

He doesn’t take the nightgown off; instead he bunches it up against your neck, exposing your chest.

“I love you too,” you murmur, because you’ve had enough of your own stupidity today not to answer his declarations.

Your eyes flick up to the ceiling as he begins pulling down your underwear.

It’s going to happen now. He’ll fuck you. And once that happens, well. It’ll keep happening. Every night? Every other night? You don’t know, but he’ll expect it. Things are changing and you can’t stop them. All you can do is try to scramble for what little pleasantries this isolated, captive life can give you.

Like not-bad chocolates and bunnies outside the window.

Lucas’ hands grip the meat of your thighs and pull them apart with little resistance on your end. You don’t want to make it worse, do you? And it was your idea, you can’t even pretend to be anything but meekly nervous, can you?

He murmurs something in appreciation at the sight of your naked sex and your fingers clutch the sheets underneath you in anticipation.

You don’t want to look down. It’s like being at the doctor’s--looking away when they give you the shot. You hear the sound of his trousers being pushed down. But he doesn’t push into you just yet.

Instead, he leans down, pressing a hot, wet kiss to your mouth that opens without argument.

There’s a faint taste of peppermint toothpaste and a hint of lingering caramel--he didn’t brush his molars well enough, maybe--in his mouth.

“Love you,” he whispers against your lips. Maybe he sees the nervousness in your gaze and for once, is fine with it. It’s normal to be anxious about your first time, after all. “It's gonna feel good, I promise… I know what I’m doin’.”

Damn, you think vacantly, stomach lurching against your thoughts when you feel the unmistakable press of something hot and hard and wet against your naked thigh. I wish I saved the second cherry cordial for tomorrow.

#yandere #other's ocs #this was fantastic and dreadful in all the right ways #all the normal couple things and gestures automatically twisted by games of pretend and tiptoeing #and having to finally cross that final line in desperation #i always enjoy lucas-pieces #there's such a unique sense of dread to them paired with genuine danger of being disposed of #and you always convey lucas and the atmosphere so well #especially the dissociation #lovely piece

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anglingforlevels · 3 months

Text

Consolation Prize

Yandere Nobunaga x Reader

Synopsis: Nobunaga takes it upon himself to take in Uvogin's darling after his death.

Warnings: fem reader, kidnapped reader, nobu being weird about his dead best friends gf, only slightly proofread

3.2k words… tagging everyone in the comments

Nobunaga closes the door to Uvo’s place behind him. The place is familiar, and it’s as if Uvogin could come back at any moment. There are a few day-old beer cans on the living room coffee table and one of his large jackets thrown over the sofa, waiting to be worn again. If he was any less jaded, he might have thought Uvogin was still alive.

The house, alas, is empty. It’s an older building on the outskirts of its nearest town. It’s one of many slightly run-down homes that are left (mostly) unoccupied in the area. It’s not derelict by any means, but it's probably seen better days. He isn’t here to judge the foundations of the house though, how there are some cracks in the wall from where the door was slammed with too much force or how there are weak spots in the floor. No, he’s here for you.

You, who's down in the basement, are probably still waiting for Uvogin. You, whom he’s only met a handful of times, spoken to even less. He’s jerked off to you more times than he’d like to admit, something Nobunaga would have never admitted to Uvogin, not when the man was so finicky over you. Nobunaga continues to walk through the home, a chapstick tube catching his eye on the counter. It was placed with some spare change, sunglasses that certainly belonged to Uvo and various keys. He pockets the keys, assuming he might need them later. Holding the chapstick in his hand, he examines it more closely. This was probably yours, based on the ‘Vanilla Apple” flavoring. With almost no shame and a mild sense of entitlement, he applies the chapstick to his lips. It’s like an indirect kiss. He puts that as well in his pocket.

His mind continues to linger on you as he takes his time looking around. He wonders how he’ll break the news to you, he isn’t sure what approach to take. He wonders if you’ll cry, or if you’d even believe him. You two have seldom spoken with each other, Uvo did most of the talking for you on the rare occasions you were present when Nobunaga visited. The longest conversation Nobunaga ever had with you probably didn’t even last ten minutes, and it consisted of him asking questions while you gave very short responses. Uvogin had always been in earshot. As if daring one of you (mostly Nobunaga) to say something out of line. It previously hadn’t been an issue if the two of them went after the same woman, but now all of a sudden Uvo was so uppity about if Nobu even looked at you for too long.

Nobunaga can remember feeling a sense of annoyance at your very existence in the beginning. It ebbed and flowed, but it was always consistent. The more time Uvogin spent with you, the less time Nobunaga got to spend with him. In addition to the fact that Nobu couldn’t make a suggestive joke about you without Uvogin snapping at him, it didn’t make Nobunaga particularly fond of you. He hadn’t even met you yet and already had a soured image of you. It didn’t help that it seemed like everyone else had someone to return home to, meanwhile, all Nobu had been his right hand.

The day Nobunaga did get to meet you, he still didn’t see what it was about you that had Uvogin so worked up. You were cute, sure, but he couldn’t point out anything remarkable, other than that you had particularly nice legs. Maybe whatever it was about you was something only Uvogin saw. You didn’t say anything to him, which he was fine with. You were probably just shy. Uvo joked later that you didn’t like him very much, which couldn’t have been true. Nobu hadn’t made that bad of a first impression, surely. It was only in the coming weeks that his distaste for you would warp into something else. You were cute, and something much more tangible than the women in erotic magazines. A thought crossed his mind that he’d probably be as uptight as Uvo was about you if you were his. Maybe if Uvo wasn’t so strict about who you got to interact with, you’d give Nobunaga a chance.

He idles about for a few minutes, a strange suspense hanging in the air that only he can sense. He wonders if you’re still down there or if you somehow escaped. Maybe you’ve withered away. He wonders if you think about him or even remember him. As he stands in front of the heavy basement door, he supposes it’s time to see what all the fuss over you was about.

If you had to guess, you’d say it’s been about a week since you last saw Uvo.

The basement isn’t so bad. It’s got an old television to keep you entertained. It only works half of the time, but it’s the thought that counts. There are a few blankets and the mattress you sleep on is comfortable. Uvogin left you with some water bottles and food (mostly snacks) to keep you from starving to death, though he usually wasn’t gone for more than two weeks. Even then, you were only resigned to the basement if he was going somewhere far. You never knew where he went, and it all seemed to be pretty last minute when he did go, but he always told you when he’d come back. He should have come back days ago.

Part of you hopes to see him again. All things considered, he wasn’t the worst. If you can look past the obvious (the threats of violence if you ever stepped out of line, which you stopped doing months ago, and the kidnapping and the inability to ever leave), Uvo wasn’t so bad. He went out of his way to make sure you didn’t go hungry. He brought you gifts and anything you asked for. He made you happy.

Maybe being forced to be a violent man's live-in girlfriend for 11 months has taken a toll on your mental health. But you were alive. The few bruises he gave you were long faded. Uvogin was good to you, surely he wouldn’t abandon you in his basement now. Wouldn’t he have given you a heads-up? Had he gotten bored? Have you been too good? Maybe you should have acted out more. You haven’t been able to sleep much. Every noise would wake you up in the dead of night because of how much you wanted to see Uvogin again.

Your head perks up at the sound of the basement door slowly opening. It’s not Uvogin, it can’t be. You would have heard his heavy footsteps, and he would have announced himself somehow. Instead, you’re met with a man who is only faintly familiar to you. He’s tall with a face that’s on the gaunt side, though not outright unhealthy. His clothing doesn’t stand out, with beige pants and a green long sleeve. His most distinct feature is his hair, which is long and slightly greasy from what you can see.

“You’re still here, that’s good.” He says nonchalantly, as if you had anywhere else to go. Nobunaga’s eyes drift to the chains around your ankle. “You must have given him a lot of trouble if he had to chain you up.” He remarks, trying to ease up any tension with what was meant to be a joke. It isn’t working. You stare at him blankly, scanning his face. You’ve seen this guy before, but at the moment, his face isn’t recognizable to you. Nobunaga sighs, looking you over. You look sick, and he isn’t sure if you actually are or if it’s the unflattering lighting of the basement. Once locating the light switch, he flicks it on, and you don’t look much better. There are dark circles beneath your eyes, your lips are cracked, and your complexion is dull and lifeless.

Nobunaga comes closer, crouching down next to the mattress. He takes the chain into his hands, eyeing it over. It isn’t particularly thick or very heavy. It attaches to the wall, and there’s a cuff around your ankle to keep you from going far. He hadn’t found an obvious key in the basement, so he settles for using his strength (and nen) to simply break the metal chain without warning. The way you flinch doesn’t go unnoticed, but at least you’ll be able to walk out of here now. You scoot away from him, sitting up and against the wall rather than laying lethargically on your side.

“Hey, come on, we’ve met before,” Nobunaga says, the discontentment in his voice thinly veiled. He fishes your chapstick out of his pants pocket. “Look, here. This is yours, isn’t it?” After a few seconds of warily staring at him, it finally clicks. It’s your kidnapper's equally strange friend, whose name you barely remembered. You tentatively take the chapstick from him, untwisting the cap, and apply some of the chapstick liberally, and there’s an awful fluttering feeling in Nobunaga’s chest. He wonders if you’d somehow notice that he just used it minutes earlier. He averts his gaze, suddenly remembering the key ring he pocketed away. Again, without warning, he grasps your ankle, holding you in place as he tries out the different keys on the cuff. After some trying, it eventually comes off. There's a slight imprint of the cuff on your skin, but it hasn’t torn or broken your skin.

“You’re Nobunaga.” You croak out, finally remembering his name. He grins, relief audible in his voice. “There you go, I knew you couldn’t have forgotten me.” You don’t smile back. Something must be wrong if Uvo was letting someone else get so close. Nobunaga’s gaze meets yours again, and he waits for you to speak. He’s expecting some sort of thanks for his good deeds. “Where’s Uvogin?” His expression falls slightly. Right, he forgot that you still think Uvogin is going to come home at some point.

“He’s dead.”

There’s a heavy pause after he speaks. Nobunaga stares at you, waiting for you to emote, but you only stare back. He had hoped, expected, that if anyone else were to outwardly share in his grief it would be you. He stifles a frustrated sigh. The other members of the Spider grieved for Uvogin, nobody was thrilled about his death, Nobunaga knows that yet he can’t ignore the feeling that none of them truly understood. He chalks it up to shock, surely you’ll properly react to Uvogin’s death in the coming days. He wastes little time, not wanting to sit around in the dusty basement any longer. Without warning, Nobunaga takes you by the wrist and pulls you up, forcing you to stand on wobbly legs. He’s all too eager to have you lean on him for support as you get used to walking again. The days of being chained to the ground hadn’t done your muscles any good. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

Nobunaga’s words replay in your mind, yet they never truly stick. For half of a second, you’re relieved that your kidnapper is dead. Not arrested, dead. On the other hand, you’re now left with an equally dangerous man. What exactly was going to happen to you now? You weren’t clueless about Uvogin’s crimes, far from it. Uvogin boasted about the stealing and killing he did. At first, you thought it was a scare tactic, something to keep you from acting out, but he was truly proud of his proclivity for violence. Would you be killed? Surely the Troupe wouldn’t just let you go, it’d never be that easy. As if Nobunaga could see the cogs turning in your mind, he speaks up again. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you from now on.” His voice takes a softer tone, trying to be reassuring. Each step up and out of the basement only makes the pit in your stomach deeper, to the point where you’re starting to feel sick.

Nobunaga barely picks up on your inner turmoil past what’s written all over your face. In his mind, him coming for you should be a great relief (and in a way, it is. You might have withered away in the basement if nobody bothered to come for you). Aside from the obvious fact that he can't let you go free, he doubts you’d be okay on your own at this point. You’ve been dependent on Uvogin for anything like food or attention for nearly a year. As far as Nobunaga is concerned, you wouldn’t do well if you were thrown back into the real world and forced to take care of yourself. You might as well be a bird that’s had its wings clipped. Besides, it’s not like anyone else in the Troupe was going to take you in. Some of the other members had their own partners to occupy themselves with, Feitan even suggested outright killing you since you probably knew too much about the Troupe. It was only right that Nobunaga got to have you, he was the only one who was willing to anyway.

Besides, Chrollo did say that he could make the final decision about what happens to you.

He gets lost in his own thoughts; so caught up in his fantasies about his soon-to-be domestic life with you, that he almost doesn’t notice the way you dig your heels into the ground once he’s got you out of the basement and back on floor level. Nobunaga looks back at you, the corners of his lips twitching downward. “Come on, it’s fine. I told you that you’re safe with me.” He says, an impatient edge to his voice as he continues his firm hold of your wrist. “Do you want to bring some of your things with you?” Nobunaga says it as if he’s extending an olive branch. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion and you blink at him. “What?” “We aren’t going to be staying here.” Nobunaga says like it’s obvious. “You’re coming home with me.”

The apartment is quiet, save for the new pitter-patter of rain outside. You stand there idly, watching Nobunaga go through your and Uvogin’s belongings in the bedroom you used to share with Uvo. What right did he have to put his hands on your things? He shouldn’t be here, you think. You hold your tongue, the words not coming easy to you. You don’t attempt to help him or give any input on what clothes you want to take and what you want to leave behind.

“I don’t believe you.” You say abruptly, still standing in the doorway. Nobunaga goes through the closet with his back to you, looking for a backpack or spare luggage. For half of a second, he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. “Are you sure he’s dead?” You ask, which answers the question that was on the tip of his tongue. His expression falters slightly, but he doesn’t turn to meet your gaze. “I’m positive.” Nobunaga says with a strange finality to his tone. He’s found a decent backpack now, more focused on deciding what belongings of yours to bring and which to leave behind. As far as he’s concerned, you two will have all the time in the world to talk about Uvogin once Nobunaga just gets you back to his place. It doesn’t even cross his mind that you wouldn’t be 100% thrilled at the prospect of being transferred over to his care.

You aren’t willing to drop the conversation topic though. You don’t want to believe Uvogin is gone, but there’s no way he’d willingly hand you over to this guy, right? “How? How did he die?” You press for answers, wondering if this is some prank. Nobunaga sighs, still not bothering to turn back to face you. “We can talk about that later.” He says, taking your clothes out of the room’s dresser and putting them in the backpack. “You’re probably hungry. Why don’t you go get yourself something to eat? I’ll finish up here.” He says dismissively, effectively shooing you off. You tentatively leave the bedroom doorway after about a minute of silence, surprised that Nobunaga is so easily letting you out of his sight.

Wandering over to the kitchen, you numbly go about making yourself something to eat. It feels like muscle memory at this point, you’re so used to fixing up a sandwich for Uvogin. Today, though, most of the ingredients you’d usually use aren’t at your disposal. The lunch meat that was in the refrigerator expired last week, and there’s no cheese left. All you’re able to come up with is a sandwich with mayonnaise and some tomato slices. You eat slowly, your appetite diminished from the turn of events and from how bland your sandwich is.

Your eyes shift to the front door, and you can just barely hear Nobunaga back in Uvo’s bedroom. Maybe if you timed it right, you could get out of here. God knew if the front door was locked, but if you didn’t at least try, then you’d never know. You can hear the rain outside more clearly now. You’d be risking getting sick by running out in the rain, but that’s a small price to pay for freedom. What would you even do, though? Where could you go that the Troupe wouldn’t follow? By the time you gather the nerve to take a few steps out of the kitchen, Nobu’s finished packing. “Do you feel better after eating something?” He asks, his voice catching you by surprise. He doesn’t comment on the quality of your sandwich. You choose not to answer him.

The rain picks up, now it’s impossible to treat it as a soothing white noise. It’s loud and you can hear the roaring winds with it. “I guess we can just stay here until the rain dies down.” Nobunaga proposes, and he motions for you to follow him. He sits on one of the two couches in Uvo’s living room, expecting you to sit next to him. You take your seat on the second couch, and Nobunaga’s able to hide his disappointment well enough.He takes the remote and turns the television on, keeping the volume low. The news channel only talks about the current storm, it seems like you’ll both be stuck here for at least a few more hours. You focus on the news reporter, not wanting to look at Nobunaga. You can feel his staring, you know he’s waiting for you to talk to him.

“What’s going to happen to me?” You finally break the silence, and Nobunaga seems just about amused at your inquiry. “I told you, I’m going to be taking care of you from now on.” He says it slowly, as if you didn’t understand him the first time. His answer is too vague for you to do anything with, or maybe it’s the brain fog from not eating much in these past days. Nobunaga continues to look at you as if you were a beloved houseplant while you think over what he’s said. After a long pause, you finally respond. “I want to go home.” Once again, his smile falters and his voice returns to a more neutral one. “That isn’t going to happen. Your best option is to come just with me.”

Nobunaga waits for you to say something, to give any indication that you at least understand your circumstances. You don’t though, rather you choose to pretend that you’re invested in anything the news anchor is saying. He’s confident that you’ll come around, though; it’s not like you have anyone else to rely on.

#yandere hxh #yandere nobunaga hazama #nobody writes nobu like you #nasty nasty man #the conflict between being glad your captor is gone and the terror of having a new #much less known captor #and im sorry reader but this one is probably way worse than uvo #i really loved getting a peak into both their minds #nobu's delusional exceptations about your grief and relation to him #versus reader's actual thoughts and feelings #theres also the fact that reader is already somewhat mentally broken from almost a year's captivity #that might change how they deal with nobu #great piece

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anglingforlevels · 3 months

Note

🎉Congratulations to your mom!!!🎉

(sorry, just saw your comments lol should have messaged sooner)

I hope you had fun, and I hope there was no ✨drama✨

Your writing is delicious as always, keep up the good work! And if you find any good horror movies, send them my way ❤️

Thank you so much, it was a very small ceremony with only the closest people, so it was without drama or stress, just a good time! And no worries about not writing till now, I'm notoriously bad at responding in a timely manner so I'll never judge a late reply, and life keeps one busy!

Your writing is also so good, I feel it somehow keeps getting better and better, so it's always a treat to read your works. I'm also super glad you recommended Dead Meat, it's been running nonstop whenever I've been home

#personal #i drop level one loot #sweet asks

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anglingforlevels · 4 months