#cw brief gruesome description

[hom3landr]

Madeleines

18+

After a hard day, Homelander enjoys his favorite baker's voice in his ear a little too much.

CW: Brief descriptions of gore

Homelander is seething as he leans against the alley wall. The heady scent of iron hangs thick in the air and gore from some unlucky pickpocket drips from his glove onto the dirty ground. The gruesome red mass of blood and bone that was once a human is still steaming in the cold night air. He pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a growl of irritation. His fingers leave a sticky crimson smear across his skin. Usually taking out his frustration on some random criminal helps ease some of the tension in his shoulders but he feels no better than he did before he put his fist through the man’s spine.

How dare Edgar? How dare he?

He stomps on the mutilated remains next to him for good measure, imagining it to simultaneously be every person who is dedicated to keeping him down. Starting with that uppity bitch Edgar appointed to the Seven without his permission. Who did she think she was? The way she stuck that camera in his face like he was some kind of zoo animal and smugly hid behind the protection of the faceless nobodies commenting on the screen like a bunch of shit flinging monkeys had his teeth grinding. 

He thought he’d straightened things out with Ashley after his little demonstration with Blindspot but apparently the universe seems intent on mocking him. He curses himself for draining the last bottle of milk earlier. He should have saved it. He couldn’t help himself and on top of everything else shitty about the day, he now has one less piece of her around. It took them a year to begin the renovations on her office and seeing it bare was an all too painful reminder of her absence. He wishes he didn’t miss her. She doesn’t deserve his love after what she did, the way she lied. But he loves her all the same. 

He sniffs, blinking away the sudden shameful tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He needs a win. 

He reaches down to touch his hip where the newly sewn pocket holds his phone. Ever since he gave you his number, he can’t seem to go anywhere without it. He had wardrobe redesign his fucking suit just so he’d have a place to keep it safe. The ribbon he still wears tucked into his waistband. A phone can be replaced if it falls out during a flight, the ribbon can’t.

The thought of you is finally what seems to snap him out of his bad mood. The kiss was two months ago but it seems so much longer. He remembers the warmth of your kiss and the softness of you against him on the couch as the two of you ate gingerbread and watched Christmas movies. He’d wanted to take you so bad, fuck you raw against the counter until you dripped with him, hoping that maybe it would take and give you your own little Christmas miracle. He’d had to take a break and jerk himself off in the bathroom just so he could think straight. Even now, his stomach flips at the memory.

He’d been a good boy. He’d behaved himself. He acted a perfect gentleman and there was no way you could have known his depraved thoughts when he swept you up to slow dance to a Frank Sinatra record. The singer wasn’t half bad actually, maybe he’d originally judged him too harshly. You’d blushed and swooned and when he had to leave he gave you one last gingerbread scented kiss, the stars reflecting in your eyes as you leaned over the fire escape to wave him goodbye. 

After that night things mostly returned to normal. With Transluscent’s funeral fast approaching and the new Saving America campaign about to take off, Homelander had been too busy to even think about seeing you. He’d catch you staring at him in the halls sometimes and his heart beat faster every time. Now that he knows you feel the same, he’s almost at a loss as to how to proceed and it’s easier to bury himself in his work where he can rely on dependable fantasy to get his fix of you.

But after the fucking day he’s had, he’s tempted to fly straight to your apartment and kiss you stupid.

Fuck

There’s an idea… no one said it had to be your mouth

His pants grow tight instantly at the thought and the rush of arousal is a nice balm to his wounded ego. It barely takes a second for him to unclick his belt and pull himself free. He groans lowly in relief as he strokes himself nice and slow. The blood still staining his glove provides an easy glide until his cock is standing at full attention and dripping onto his boots. He keeps his touches nice and light, a little tentative, the way he imagines you would. His free hand reaches for the ribbon, holding it to his nose so he can catch your scent. His cock twitches in his grip and he thumbs his slit as he arches into his fist.

He groans your name before releasing his cock to cup his balls, tugging gently to tease himself, imagining your face looking up at him as he plays with himself. The wall behind him cracks as he throws his head back in pleasure.

A tinny jingle breaks through the haze of his arousal and he immediately fumbles to get his phone out of his pocket, recognizing the tune he’d picked for you so he’d always know who was calling him. The ribbon is promptly tucked back away as he slides to answer the call. His cock feels even heavier in his grip as he anticipates the sound of your voice. It’s like you knew what he was doing. This was the first time you’ve ever called him and your timing couldn’t be more perfect.

The first thing he hears is the clang of utensils and he knows instantly that you must be baking. He bites his lip to keep from grinning at how predictable you are. He can almost smell the sugar through the phone.

“Hi! I hope this isn’t a bad time. I’m trying a new recipe from this french cookbook I picked up and I always get nervous the first time I bake something. I figured you could help me take my mind off things while the cookies are in the oven.” Your voice is so sweet and he has to pinch the base of his cock to keep from shooting his load like some pathetic schoolboy. It feels so illicit to touch himself while you are so innocently seeking his company on the other end of the phone. You probably have flour on your cheeks and your strawberry apron on and the thought causes him to throb painfully. He gives himself an experimental tug and his fucking knees almost buckle.

“It’s never a bad time for you to call.” He replies warmly, trying to keep the rasp of pleasure out of his voice so you don’t suspect. You go quiet for a moment and he knows you’re blushing. He bets that if he were there that the smell of you soaking your panties would be filling the room. You get wet so easily. He remembers your phrase from the second time he spoke to you. You have a “nervous disposition” apparently but he knows what really has you trembling and it’s something a lot filthier than a little anxiety. 

“Thanks, that’s very sweet of you to say. I meant to call sooner but Ashley has been running me ragged for weeks with all the prep work for the funeral. I’ve barely had any time to myself.” You reply with a huff and the clear annoyance in your voice has him both amused and indignant on your behalf. He’ll have to have a firm discussion with Ashley about being respectful towards your time. The thought that you could have been calling him for weeks has his teeth on the verge of grinding again so he teases the throbbing vein on the underside of his cock until he relaxes into the pleasure again.

“I can’t have you exhausted at work. I’ll talk to Ashley about giving you a break. You deserve to rest.” He coos at you as his hand quickly finds a rhythm that feels right. 

“I’ve been thinking about you a lot. I miss you.” Your voice softens longingly and he can picture the wistful look in your eyes perfectly. 

You want him so fucking bad.

He thrusts into his fist, briefly removing his phone from his ear and biting into the soft leather of his glove so you won’t hear him moan like a whore. He wants to be good for you. He wants to be your gentleman lover. He wants a romance like the old movies and he wants you to picture him that way. 

But fuck

You want him and it seems pointless to stand here and jerk off to your voice in a blood-soaked alleyway when he could be buried in your sweet little pussy. You’d get over your shyness once he was bouncing you on his cock until you were soaking and shaking so hard that he’d have to hold you steady. He’d take you on every surface until he was sure that he’d fucked all traces of your “nervous disposition” right out of you. 

He has to pinch himself again to hold himself back. He doesn’t want this to end so soon. He tucks his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he gropes at his chest. He really wishes his suit wasn’t so fucking hard to get off so he could tease at his nipples and imagine you mouthing at him. He’d make sure you knew every inch of his body.

“I miss you too.” He answers truthfully, leaning back against the wall and bracing his feet wide so he can really fuck into his fist the way he imagines fucking you. 

Have you ever even had your pussy licked? He hopes not, he wants to see your face the first time you feel a tongue on your pretty little clit. He wants you to gush all over his face till it soaks into his suit and he can smell you for weeks after.

“Maybe once things calm down, we can hang out again.” You sound so hopeful and the soft noise of rustling fabric makes him realize that you must be fiddling with the hem of your shirt. You kissed him first and yet you still seem unsure of his returned affection. You still worry that his voice will turn to a harsh rebuke again.

“I’d like that. Y’know, maybe I could fly us to Paris so you can do some first hand research. A cookbook will only get you so far. I’m sure Vought could arrange a meeting with a pastry chef.” His cheeks flush as he imagines you beaming at him under the glow of the Eiffel tower, soft and pleased with him as he leans down to kiss you tenderly. You’d appreciate what he could do for you. He wants to do so much for you.

His balls tighten up at the fantasy and he finds it a little strange how the innocent scene has him closer to coming then all the filthy scenarios he could muster. 

“Oh” 

You sigh, and he can hear the flustered wonder in your voice at the thought.

Oh

With a strangled groan he comes, hot thick ropes of come covering his fist, his suit, dripping to the ground in milky white puddles that fuse with the crimson aftermath of his earlier rage.

“I’ve never been to Paris.” You reply breathlessly in a way that almost mirrors his own ragged panting. 

He takes a moment to catch his breath as he strokes the last remaining remnants of his pleasure out of his tender cock, whimpering at the almost too much ache of sensation.

“I guess it’s a date then.” 

_______

Later, once he’s back home and clean and snug in his bed, he sleeps well for the first time in weeks. He dreams of the Paris sky and the stars in your eyes as you look at him like someone you could love.

[milla984]

A Million Reasons

Summary: after a phone call from Penelope, Reader teases Spencer about a potential love interest and things don’t go exactly as planned.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Category: fluff with a little angst

TW/CW: a little bit of angst, brief mentions of food, self-doubt, mentions of anxiety, kissing

Word Count: 1.2k

Thank you @drgenius-reid for taking the time to beta-read this!

The following work is my entry for @andiebeaword's 3,000 Follower Celebration Writing Challenge (prompt n. 12) and is also part of the series Spencer Reid, my beloved

Spencer scooped out of the paper cup what was left of his ice cream before he finished recounting the events leading to the arrest of the unsub the entire BAU team had been successfully tracking down in Seattle during the past few days. 

“He’ll be charged with ten counts of murder, one attempted murder, and unlawful possession of multiple weapons. He’s facing ten life sentences without parole.”

“Way to go, Justice League!” you cheered, enthusiastic. 

He tucked his hair behind his ear with a cute chuckle. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow so you caught a glimpse of his wristwatch reflecting the light of a lamp post standing along the edge of the walking path; from the bench you were both sitting on you could see the illuminated dome of the US Capitol rising up against the dark mid-summer sky. 

Despite being within walking distance of a major street in the southwest quadrant of Washington, the park was quiet and uncrowded and the nearby gelato shop was one of Spencer’s favorites. 

You took the last sip of your drink, acting very casual. “And that’s all that happened?” 

He shrugged, unsure about which crucial information could have been missing from his story since he was under strict instructions not to fill you in on the most gruesome details of the cases he’d worked.

“Uhm, graphic descriptions of tortures and mutilations are not—”

“I’m talking about a certain homicide detective… the one you gave your number to…?” you explained and his jaw dropped instantly.

“What?!”

You nudged at him with your elbow. “Garcia called me from the Original Starbucks in Pike Place. I couldn’t tell if the hype was about your new admirer or being there.”

“I don't understand how this is such a big deal!” he blurted out in a high-pitched voice. “She showed an interest in what we do so I gave her my card.”

No profiling skills were required to detect his firm intention to avoid discussing the matter, yet the words came out of your mouth like a river in spate. 

“Any chance it wasn’t only a professional interest?”

The way Spencer looked at you, disappointed and hurt, hit you worse than a punch in the liver. 

“What’s with you, guys?! Are– are you all so invested in my personal life because you’re convinced I’m chronically unable to have one without your help?” he snapped, something you’d never seen him do. 

“I’m s—” you tried to reply, even though he was still too angry to let you apologize and cut you off again.

“Or maybe it’s just that I’m no Derek Morgan, so the idea of someone noticing I exist is pathetic or funny to you?”

“Seriously?! An IQ of 187 and this is the best inference you can come up with?” you snorted, upset by the subtle insult he’d thrown at you - even if you had to admit you deserved it.

His brows furrowed. “Then why did you bring this up?” 

“I didn’t mean to pry, I’m sorry. I truly am,” you admitted, “but I would never ever think that people hitting on you is pathetic, give me some credit!”

He remained silent for a while, quite aware that Penelope’s inability to keep her mouth shut generated from genuine excitement about what she perceived as good news; sharing such personal information with you meant you had been put to the test over and over and, in the end, deemed worthy of her trust. 

The peaceful atmosphere around you served as an amplifier for the sound of splashing water and Spencer indicated the fountain at the center of the large, round basin in front of you with a jerk of his head. 

“I read a book about the architectural history of D.C. on the way back. This piece was created for the 1876 Centennial International Exhibition in Philadelphia, the US Congress acquired it in 1877 and placed it at the base of Capitol Hill. It was dismantled in 1926, then it remained in storage until 1932 when they moved it here.”

The pedestal held three twin iron-casted sea nymphs wearing wet tunics, with their arms raised above their heads to support a shallow vasque; on top was a group of kneeling child tritons, and the base was decorated with turtle-like aquatic creatures.

“It’s beautiful,” you mumbled.

The fact he’d for sure started and finished said book in less than fifteen minutes was among the 999.999 entries in your list of reasons to crush over SSA Reid.  And so were his three PhDs, his crooked ties, his passion for Star Wars, chess and Halloween.

“I don’t talk much about my private life. Especially outside of work,” he confessed after a pause. “A lot of times I have a hard time discussing personal issues—”

“Spencer… you know you don’t owe me an explanation, right?” you rushed to clarify.

He nodded and you did the same in response, to confirm you had no intention of pressuring him into opening up if he felt uncomfortable but were also ready to listen to anything he had to say; even in dim light, you could see the sadness veiling his beautiful hazel eyes.   

“I’m sorry I overreacted. Garcia was being Garcia, with her ‘look at the world through rose-colored glasses’ scenarios. Except, in this case giving my card to a homicide detective to discuss behavioral sciences was just what it sounds like. I understand where she’s coming from, I never told her…”

Your whole body tensed up, courtesy of a rush of anxiety triggered by the possibility of him being already involved with someone he had never mentioned, not even to his closest friends; you wondered if he could hear the butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

Luckily for you, Spencer didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m trying to come to terms with something I’ve been feeling, for weeks now. And I’m worried, because of what happened in the past and I can’t let go of…” his voice broke a little, so he swallowed. “Deep down I’m afraid I'm not the type of person who gets to live out happily ever after.” 

Refraining from hugging him on the spot and holding him close to your heart had gotten increasingly difficult lately, so you settled for a peck on his temple in a clumsy attempt at a comforting gesture.

Spencer jolted, befuddled, and for a moment you feared for the worst; you certainly didn’t expect him to lean forward to cup your face in his hands - big hands.  With slender, elegant fingers he tenderly brushed over your cheeks.

You both held your breath, waiting for the distance between you to vanish until your foreheads touched and the tips of your noses rubbed together. 

“... are we really doing this?!” he whispered, sending shivers down your spine.

You smiled. “Don’t make me wait for another six months.”

Spencer squinted, an indication he was browsing countless data and events stored in his memory; when he eventually pinpointed the exact moment you fell for him he squeaked in surprise. 

“Christm—”

You pressed your palm on the nape of his neck, guiding his lips over yours for the kiss you both had been longing for. 

Reason number 1.000.000: Dr. Reid had a crush on you, too.

@thisiscalmanditsdoctorreid, @pretty-boys-book-club, @spookydrreid, @f-me-reid, @foxy-eva, @scorpiofangirl1109, @a-potato-wearing-plaid, @cynbx, @reidsbookclub, @nagemasstuff, @hotchsdharma, @reidmainbitch, @lizzylynch1, @will-grahams-eyes, @padawancat97

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[merakiui]

yandere!Azul thought 3: the line between employer and employee blurs as an all-consuming infatuation spells trouble for you. 

(cw: yandere, female reader, nsfw/suggestive themes, office au, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, kidnapping/captivity, power imbalance, workplace misconduct/harassment, obsession, implied murder/death, brief descriptions of blood, suicide mention, pregnancy mentions, violence, thalassophobia, misogyny/sexism, alcohol consumption/intoxication, non-consensual photography, non-consensual touches/kisses)

Someone once compared you to a bird with splintered wings. Cowardly and flightless, yet uniquely intriguing nonetheless—an earthly specimen who remains caged by old, gnarled roots and a compliant temperament. Despite all of the darkness that has cropped up in your life, you try (and fail) and try again until, eventually, you succeed. And though you lack wings and may be fearful of every gruesome thing that lurks in both nightmares and reality, you find creative ways to work around the disturbances in your life. Some are easier to deal with than others, but you wish you wouldn’t have to endure a challenge every single day at work. 

Though your job wouldn’t really qualify as ‘work’ if it was devoid of complications. 

Exhibit A: Floyd Leech—your spontaneous coworker who can’t sit still for the life of him, always waltzing through the office in search of his next unfortunate plaything. It just so happens that he’s enjoyed using you as his means of entertainment for the past few weeks, for he always manages to find you even when it’s a busy day. No one can punish him for procrastination because, by some annoyingly consistent miracle, he always has his work finished before the deadline. Every spreadsheet analyzed, every paper filed, every client directed to Mr. Ashengrotto. He works in bursts of energy and will only ever complete his tasks for the day if he’s feeling it. 

As a result of his unpredictability, you’ve had to plan around him, lest he interrupt your carefully crafted schedule with his antics. If only Jade would keep his brother on a tighter leash. If only your boss would take the time to properly scold him. If only he wasn’t so shameless when it came to pestering you. Everyone has some sort of persona they adopt while in a professional setting, but this doesn’t apply to Floyd. No matter what environment he’s placed in, he acts in the same noisy fashion, undeterred by the strange looks or annoyed huffs that are boldly directed his way.

“So you were in here after all.” He towers over you, nearly pinning you to the wall like a butterfly on an entomologist’s board. His expression may be dark, but there is light in his eyes. You know at once that he’s here to tease you, which eases some of the tension in your shoulders. At least he won’t threaten you today. Your salary and employment are always things he holds over your head despite not being your boss, and you’re inclined to bow to him because of the harsh reality that’s perpetuated the office for ages now. No one would believe you if you said anything, so why bother? “Aren’t you supposed to be working, shrimpy?”

Had this been your first day in the office, you might have shrunk in surprise, cowed into submission by his forthrightness. But you’re used to this behavior; it’s to be expected with the unpredictable force that is Floyd Leech. He says and does whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and has no regard for those who receive his ridicule. 

You indicate the tea you had prepared for your boss. “This was for Mr. Ashengrotto, but since you’re here you’re more than welcome to have it. I’ll just make another.”

Floyd takes the cup from you, removes the lid, and fixes the rosy liquid with an intense stare. You’re counting every second that passes, each moment so taut it seems to stretch into infinity. Eventually Floyd releases a disgruntled huff and takes a measured step away from you. 

“Stupid.” The playground insult barely reaches your ears and you have no chance to react before he jerks his arm forward and the tepid beverage sloshes out of the paper cup, soaking into your white blouse and leaving a dark, tea-scented stain in the aftermath. “I’m not feeling tea today. You should’ve known that.”

He crushes the cup in a resolute fist and then tosses it into the trash, a victorious smirk adorning his face when he lands his shot. Then he glances back at you, drinking in your frozen stupor with childish glee. 

“I... I’m sorry,” you mutter, touching the wet spot with a trembling hand. “I’ll do better next time.”

Floyd’s cruel chuckle breaks through the static of bygone memories, effectively halting any recollections of the past before they can tear into you with razored teeth. “No need to look so down, shrimpy. It’s not like it burned you. You’ll live.”

“You’re right.” You know you have to look at him, or else he’ll pick up on your apprehension and it’ll incite more trouble. So you lift your head like a robot on rusted hinges and grin through the shame. “I’ll live.”

“By the way, that bra you’re wearing is ugly. You should wear something sexier next time,” he calls out to you as he exits, humming an upbeat tune. “Otherwise no guy’s gonna wanna stick it in you.”

“Hah. Yeah...”

Brushing the offhand insult away, you grab at your shirt to analyze the damage. There’s an extra set of clothes in your car. Perhaps you can rush there, change, and then return before your boss realizes the delay. But will there be enough time? You were supposed to be back with his tea by now and he’s probably wondering what’s taking you so long. 

The solution to Exhibit A: Accept everything that comes your way. And when a smile annoys him, don’t react at all. In the end, it looks like a lose-lose situation when you juggle his mood swings. 

With a defeated sigh, you reach for a fistful of napkins and pat down your blouse in an effort to minimize the spreading liquid. Pathetic—that’s what the display is reminiscent of. A sad, feeble attempt of desperately trying and failing to pick up the pieces of your fractured morning.

As if things couldn’t get any worse, they do. 

“Oh dear. What a waste of perfectly good tea.”  

Exhibit B: Jade Leech—Floyd’s twin brother and Mr. Ashengrotto’s most trusted secretary. You take the title of second place and are only ever tasked with little things. It’s Jade who handles the bigger, more important aspects of secretary. If anything, you’ve been demoted from a diligent employee who actually completed real work to a mere errand runner for Mr. Ashengrotto and Jade. Not only does that twist the knife deeper into your pride, it forces you to come to terms with your own useless nature. Anyone can run errands. You’re just here because your boss chooses to keep you around due to your past achievements within the company, which have marked you as a shining example of an honest worker. If it weren’t for that, you’re certain he would have cast you aside the moment he took on the role of CEO.

Jade isn’t as bad as Floyd, but if you put both of them on a scale their peskiness would amount to equal weight. You hate Floyd’s degrading remarks, but you despise the pity in Jade’s voice more than anything else. You’ve never really cracked the code to dealing with Jade. Just how can you possibly interact with someone who only ever smiles and treats everyone with respect even if all of his words are secretly sharp? How do you combat faux kindness?

“I’m going to change, so please excuse me.” You try to move past him, but he remains in the doorway, casting an intimidating shadow over you. “If you would excuse me...”

He gazes down at you, eyes flicking from the stain to the outline of your now visible bra and then back up to your face. “Azul sent me to fetch you. You’ve yet to return with the tea he asked for—” Jade pauses to check the time on his luxury watch— “ten minutes ago. I believe it shouldn’t take that long to prepare a cup of tea.”

“I spilled it and was in the process of brewing another, but I’d like to change out of my blouse first. I don’t want Mr. Ashengrotto to see my mistake.”

“An unkempt appearance suggests an unprofessional mindset. You would indeed do well to change.” He finally steps to the side, allowing you passage. Before you leave, however, he shrugs his blazer off and holds it out to you. “I shall brew a new cup and bring it to him in your stead.”

You almost reach for the jacket, but you stop yourself when you remember what he’s like. As polite as he may seem, Jade will want something in return for aiding you. You’re already indebted to him for running the errand you were meant to complete, so having to owe him twice doesn’t sound very appealing. 

“I’ll be okay. Thank you, though.”

“I insist,” he says with a patient smile. “You can return it to me once you’ve changed.”

“I appreciate it, but I don’t need it.”

“Then is it safe to assume you’re content with others looking at you in your current state?” He takes a step towards you, his body blocking the doorway once again. The light from the hallway frames his figure in an oversized halo, bright and overbearing. When he places his palm on the damp stain on your chest, you’re reminded that he is far from an angel. “It’s not very professional. Our boss would not approve of such...inappropriate distractions.”

Before he can grope you outright, you stumble away from him, disgust flashing in your disbelieving stare. “I didn’t do this on purpose!” you snap, snatching his blazer and stuffing your arms through the sleeves. You make sure to button it all the way until the stain and your bra are no longer visible. “There. I took it. Are you happy?”

“Immensely.” As you shuffle past him, Jade ventures deeper into the room and opens a cabinet containing various tins of tea. “Next time, do take caution not to spill.”

Your mouth twitches, but you keep your remarks to yourself as you depart. A creeping revulsion prickles your skin. Jade’s cologne clings to his blazer, a fine scent that reminds you of fancy dinners and glittering sports cars—materialistic opulence that whisks you into another world entirely. The thought of smelling like him for the rest of the day is unbearable, so you pick up your pace as you make a beeline for the elevator and, after descending the floors, the parking garage.

The solution to Exhibit B: It lies in your avoidance of Jade. If you happen to run into him, it’s best not to trap yourself in any strange situations.

But knowing that Jade is cut from the same cloth as Floyd, you’re certain his own unpredictability will sour that solution at once.

Your boss, the marvelous, hardworking, benevolent Azul Ashengrotto, does not spare you of the workload in the following weeks. The company has taken on another important project, which has proved to be a major monetary investment and a time commitment. Jade conveniently informed Mr. Ashengrotto of your willingness to sit in his place and take notes for every meeting.

At least this is one of the two favors you owe him and it isn’t even that difficult to complete. It’s tedious and you’d rather be on phone duty than suffer through boring meetings, but you’re relieved to be getting the first favor out of the way. When you had returned Jade’s blazer to him, he’d held it as if it was radioactive filth—as if the gentle wash cycle you put it through wasn’t enough to erase traces of you from the fabric. You’re not sure why you even bother sometimes. Jade isn’t your friend; you’re not sure you could consider him an acquaintance either. But you couldn’t just leave his blazer sitting in the back of your car, so you resolved to clean it so that he was spared of the chore.

Perhaps you should have returned it as it was. Or maybe, if you really wanted petty revenge, you could have dirtied it a little. Perhaps that would earn Jade’s ire, but it would satisfy your growing hatred of him and this horrible workplace. The more you consider it, the more you realize just how futile resistance and revenge are. If you offend Jade, you’ll be offending Floyd and then Mr. Ashengrotto, and then your entire employment will be on the line because you’re not a worthy pawn on your boss’s corporate chessboard. So you’ll just have to imagine these possibilities and enjoy all of the candy-coated revenge in your sweetest dreams.

“And that concludes my reading of the meeting minutes,” you announce, setting the stack of papers on Mr. Ashengrotto’s desk. “If Jade wishes to see them, please forward them to him for his perusal.”

“Will do.” He picks the stack up and rifles through a few sheets at random. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. If that’s all, I’ll return to my—”

“One moment.” He withdraws a folder from the cabinet in his desk and opens it to reveal sheets of paper with colorful prints. “I’d like to ask your opinion on these logos. One of them will be used by our marketing team, but I’m not sure which is best.”

My opinion? Does it matter? you almost ask, but instead you say, “They look very nice. I like this one.”

“Why’s that?”

“The colors and composition are aesthetically pleasing and easy on the eyes.”

“Anyone can see that this logo is superior and will therefore sell. But what’s your honest opinion on it?”

You stare at the pale seashell with the word ‘Mostro’ spelled beneath it in dancing cursive and hum thoughtfully.

“The minimalistic design—”

“No.” His expression softens when you meet his gaze. “I’m referring to your thoughts. Not as an employee. Not as a consumer. I want to hear what (Name) thinks.”

Do people actually like these designs nowadays? If you were bold, you might have actually verbalized that question. But instead you can only offer your most intelligent, “Um,” and a weak shoulder shrug.

Mr. Ashengrotto leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. “I’m curious and would like to hear your feedback.” He senses your apprehension and chuckles. “I won’t take any offense, so please feel free to be as brutally honest as you’d like. And while you’re at it, have a seat. I’m in no rush to send you away.”

You’re so used to balancing Floyd’s nonsense and being outshined by Jade’s brilliance that you often forget how kind your boss usually is. At least he’s not as vicious as the troublesome twins. Part of you wonders if he ever notices their treatment of you. Does anyone in the office notice it? Do they see how much you struggle to get by in this setting? Maybe they do and have chosen to keep their lips sealed. Why would they care anyway?

You pull a chair up to his desk and lower into it, awkwardly glancing at the octopus paperweight sitting atop a stack of files. Its tentacles writhe in a curling mass of obsidian, full of life and energy. Mr. Ashengrotto follows your wavering gaze and raises a brow.

“If I’m allowed to say anything,” you say slowly, testing the waters, “I think your paperweight is more appealing than the logo.”

An amused breath slips past his lips. “Is that so?”

“I think something’s lacking in the design. It just feels too plain and boring.”

“Do you have any suggestions that would make it more eye-catching?”

“What if there was an octopus living inside the shell? Most people look at shells and expect to see a snail or a crab or some other animal living inside it, right? What if the logo consisted of that same shell with an octopus emerging from the shadows and its tentacles were twisting into the letters to spell ‘Mostro’?”

“Hm.” He surveys the paperweight and then the design variations on the page, humming in contemplation. “It doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

“Maybe it is,” you blurt. “A bad idea, I mean. It’s probably not the best. I don’t know. I just thought it would look cool…”

“You’re quick to invalidate your ideas.”

“I guess so.”

“Well, you shouldn’t. Your opinions are very valuable. Had it not been for your creative mind, I wouldn’t be considering these designs from another angle. There are no bad ideas here. Please take care to remember that.”

“I will.” You rise from your seat. “If that’s all you need, I’ll return to my work.”

He nods, shutting the folder and tucking it away in its rightful place. “That will be all.”

On your way to the door, you debate the pros and cons of telling your boss about the twins’ behavior. On one hand, you might be able to score some sort of change. On the other, you could just be making more trouble for yourself. The twins wouldn’t like it if you snitched and you’re certain they’d become even more of a nuisance than they already are if they learned of your loose lips.

Your mouth moves without meaning to and once the inquiry is out in the open there’s nothing you can do to take it back.

“If an employee was being harassed and they came to you about it, what would you do?”

You refuse to look at him, so you glare holes into an abstract painting of a warped clock-bird hybrid as you await his response. A low thrum starts in your chest, and you straighten your posture to regain some of your diminished confidence.

“Why do you ask?” And then he adds in a serious tone, “Is there someone you know of who’s currently being harassed?”

“N-No.” You swallow a lump of nerves, unable to spend another second in this stifling room. The walls are too small—too bland and unassuming. You’ve been shoved in a professional box and there’s no way out, and you can already imagine the twins’ mocking laughter as they stand on the other side, peering in to witness your struggle. “No one at all. Have a good afternoon, Mr. Ashengrotto.”

Before he can utter another word, you’re pushing the door open and slipping out into the serene hallway, greedily inhaling a mouthful of oxygen once the door shuts behind you. The familiar ringing from phones and the click-clacking of fingers on keyboards brings you back to reality. Those noises remind you of the busy atmosphere within the office—a place where you can lose yourself in the mundane hustle and bustle of work.

It isn’t until you sit at your desk and view your laptop’s motivational background that your heart finally ceases its frantic beating. You inhale a long breath, hold it, and then release it, vowing to focus on the list of tasks you’ve written up for the day. If you can direct all of your time and effort into that, you won’t have a chance to ruminate on the failed conversation in your boss’s office. You were almost there—had merely scraped the surface of the issue—but you had lost courage as fast as you’d gained it.

It’s not like telling him will do anything, you think as you begin your research for the spreadsheet your coworker sent to you. He’s close with the Leech brothers. I’m not part of their circle, so he’ll definitely side with them if I try to tell him the truth.

For the rest of the day you power through your checklist, shunning the gloom that hangs over you like an invisible rain cloud. You forward most of your completed work to Mr. Ashengrotto for his review and then you organize the contents of your desk during your break. Floyd doesn’t make an appearance at all while you pick at a salad and watch amusing cat videos online. That would normally fill you with joy, but you can’t help worrying that he’ll pop up eventually. Like some foreboding rash or a sudden sickness or ringworm. 

The tension in your posture dissipates when a message brightens your phone screen. It’s from your boyfriend of two years; he wants to know what you’d like to eat for dinner. With a fond smile playing at your lips, you type your reply. Whenever he’s on your mind, all of the suffering you’ve endured at the office becomes meaningless and you’re able to think about every good thing that exists in your life: a loving boyfriend, a stable job, a comfortable home, and so many things that you deserve. Your therapist once said it wasn’t right to deny yourself of these things because you’re just as entitled to good fortune as everyone else. Briefly, you find yourself wondering if you’d benefit from seeing her again. Maybe it would help ease some of the anxieties that have begun persisting ever since the company found itself under new authority.

Mr. Ashengrotto isn’t a bad boss. You like working for him, but you wish he’d reconsider the people he chooses to keep close. Perhaps one day he’ll realize this. You know it isn’t right to leave this up to chance or time, but they’re your only options. You can’t tell him directly or else you’d be catapulted into the twins’ radar. And if you attempted an anonymous confession, they might sniff you out regardless.

Either way, the scenario ends with humiliation and regret. Perhaps you lose your job and are labeled as the hateful woman with the insincere tongue.

You can’t allow that to happen, which is why you’ve decided that you’re willing to do whatever it takes to stay afloat in the corporate ocean. That’s why your smile is brighter than light itself when you’re called into Mr. Ashengrotto’s office later that evening. The sun is well below the horizon now, and the sky is stained in colors of orange and purple. Pleasant pinks and blues have faded away, stomped out by the encroaching sunset. The large windows behind your boss showcase a view of the glittering cityscape: skyscrapers with dozens of windows—all sturdy metal and reinforced glass. Buildings that most likely house people who are going through similar struggles. Workplace misconduct, harassment, weird and annoying coworkers…

Jade is standing beside you, a quiet presence you’re forcing yourself to ignore. As the silence mounts to an unbearable level, you sigh and open your mouth, allowing easy words to sprinkle out like a dusting of snow.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Ashengrotto?”

“Both of you, as a matter of fact.” He addresses you and Jade with a polite smile. “I’m certain we would all like to call it a night, so I’ll get right to the point. I’ve recently been invited to a luncheon with an important client and his associates. Seeing as the both of you act as my secretary, I would like to extend the invitation to you.”

“A luncheon?” you parrot, blinking owlishly. “Uh. Okay. Sure. When is this happening?”

“This Sunday at approximately three o’clock. If you’re able to join me, I expect you to dress appropriately and be prepared for business discussions.”

You worry your lip between your teeth. “I have dinner arrangements with my partner two hours after three. How long will the luncheon last?”

Mr. Ashengrotto stares at you for what feels like an eternity, his pale eyes boring into your flesh like maggots burrowing deeply in a rotting corpse. The look in his eyes is unnerving to say the least. It’s as if all color has drained from his pastel hues—as if something has died in his eyes and you’re observing a hollowed version of your usually charismatic boss.

It’s Jade who draws your attention when he clears his throat and says, “I’m certain your plans will not be affected in the slightest. Despite the leisurely circumstances in which we will be meeting, this is still an important occasion with plenty of potential for new partnerships and deals. Not only would it look acceptable if the both of us accompanied the boss, it makes it easier to network. Wolves hunt in packs, do they not? This is essentially the same.”

“Right…” His sharp smile drives a stake through your chest. You glance at Mr. Ashengrotto, whose gaze flicks between you and Jade, and his vacant eyes brighten when they settle on you. “I suppose I can make it.”

“Wonderful. I assume you’ll be joining us without issue, Jade?”

“I have no prior engagements.”

“Then it’s settled. The three of us will meet at the harbor thirty minutes beforehand and then we’ll—”

“Sorry. Did you say the harbor?”

“Is there a problem?”

“N-No. I was just clarifying, sir.” The rest of your sentence shrivels in your raw throat, dry and cowardly.

Mr. Ashengrotto nods slowly, as if your behaviors are an explosive he must handle with care. “As I was saying, we will meet at the harbor. I expect the both of you to be punctual and well-equipped to deal with the client and those he’s brought along. Jade will look into their background and anything else that might help establish rapport and he will forward his findings to you, (Name).”

“All right. Is there anything I should do?”

He pauses to consider your question. “You can continue to look your best. That’s all I require from you.”

“Oh. Okay then.”

I’ll do some of my own research so that I’m prepared.

A tiny voice in the back of your head says otherwise. You just want to seem useful.

“If you have any other questions, you’re more than welcome to email me.” He glances at the watch on his wrist, an expensive thing made of silver and chips of diamond or some other fancy stone—it’s hard to tell. You’ve never really gotten a good look at it, but you’ve heard it’s quite the rarity. “That’s all I wanted to say. Both of you are free to go.”

“See you Sunday, sir,” you say as you shuffle out of his office. Jade follows behind you and once the door closes the both of you are in the hall. Together. Alone. You force yourself to look up at him—to challenge him with an unyielding stare. “Have a pleasant evening, Jade.”

He smiles at you, but there’s a faint hint of amusement in his mismatched eyes. “You’ll have to excuse Floyd. He’s known to be very…enthusiastic around those he finds curious.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“I took the liberty of keeping him occupied today, so I believe I am no longer indebted to you. If you attend this little retreat with Azul, I will consider it the second favor you owe.”

“Second favor? Oh, that’s right. Your blazer. Sorry, I completely forgot.”

“Well, if everything’s clear I shall be on my way.” He strides past you and you catch the cloying scent of sandalwood and some other delicious fragrance as he departs. “Enjoy your evening, (Name).”

He turns the corner and you’re left with your thoughts in the dimly lit hallway.

With a groan, you rub circles into your temples. I have got to stop apologizing for every little thing. Ugh… What a mess.

At least Jade is known to be a man of his word. Usually.

In hindsight, you should have declined the minute your brain registered the connection between harbor and luncheon. But that had been the least of your troubles as you looked into the client’s background and exchanged boring emails with Jade regarding extra information. The days went by in a blur and before you knew it you were donning your cutest spring dress and following the directions to the meeting place Mr. Ashengrotto had detailed in his email.

He’s sitting under an umbrella, separated from the crowds and focused entirely on his mobile phone. You weave through a group of tourists as you approach him, noting his black turtleneck and the pale jacket that hangs off of his shoulders in a way you’d never be able to pull off, lest it look uncomfortable and awkward. The distant shrieks of seagulls and the hush-hush of the waves unsettle you, but you force your fears to the side and keep your eyes firmly glued on your boss. You know that the moment you glance at the ocean beyond you’ll lose your nerve and someone will have to drag you to wherever this luncheon is taking place.

A harsh breeze rustles through the beach. You forgot how chilly it often gets near the shoreline, and you wrap your arms around yourself in an effort to stay warm.

“Good afternoon, sir!” You slip into the seat across from him and grin when he finally looks up to acknowledge you. 

“Ah. Good afternoon to you, too.” He pockets his phone. “You look nice.”

“I’ve been waiting to wear this dress. I’m happy I can finally put it to good use.”

He chuckles airily. “I imagine it’s quite the excitement.”

“It is.” You scan the crowds and nearby storefronts. “Where’s Jade?”

“He couldn’t make it, I’m afraid. Something about a culinary disaster… I haven’t the faintest clue what he was going on about in his email. His hobbies are beyond me.”

“You don’t say…”

His words from a few days prior resurface: If you go on this little retreat with Azul… Of course he found a way to weasel out of this since you’re the one who’ll be doing all of the work in his place. This is your second favor, paid in full.

Thanks, Jade. Truly.

“Oh, it’s almost time to board. We should be on our way.”

“Board?” Your head snaps over to him. “Board what?”

“The boat, of course.”

“The… The boat. As in—” You turn to face the harbor and all of the vessels that are currently docked. Ice crackles through your bloodstream when you see it. A hulking cabin cruiser is sitting there in the water, awaiting passengers, and groups of people are already beginning to line up for entry. Beyond it, the expansive, glistening ocean lies. “N-No. No, no, no…”

“Is something the matter?” Mr. Ashengrotto’s face is a portrait of pure befuddlement.

“I can’t…” You swallow thickly, but the saliva does nothing to coat your sandpaper throat. “I can’t do boats. I really can’t. T-There’s no way—no. I can’t.” You grip the table with clammy hands, struggling to brace yourself as you attempt breathing exercises. The sea air invades your nostrils with its briny fingers and it reminds you of so many things—of the water that filled your mouth when your head was forced under, of the ocean that currently surrounds you, of the boat that will undoubtedly become your grave should it sink down, down, down into a blue abyss. “I… I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I—”

His hands move to cover yours, warm and soft. “You’re okay.” It’s all you can hear; every other noise has faded away into nothingness. You stare at him, unable to stop the tears that well in your eyes. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Y-You don’t understand… I can’t… I really—” You shake your head wildly. Everything is muffled, as if cotton has wound itself around the world, and your heart is gripped in Death’s clenched fist. There’s nothing you can do to escape the reaching ocean, the reaching hands, the reaching insults. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I don’t think I can do this...”

“Don’t look anywhere else,” Mr. Ashengrotto murmurs, smoothly redirecting your attention even though your pupils are flitting from him to the umbrella to the ground. His thumb strokes the top of your hand in what you assume is consolation. “What are your favorite things to do during winter?”

“W-Winter?” You pull your hands out from under his to wipe at your teary eyes, confusion overtaking fear. “I… Um. I like…to bake sugar cookies and drink hot chocolate. If it’s really snowy, I’ll w-watch movies and my boyfriend will drape a fluffy blanket over my shoulders and we’ll sit on the sofa together to watch them.”

“And what about autumn?”

“Autumn is… Well, I don’t know. I guess I like to take walks.” Your brain is whirring in an attempt to differentiate critical thinking and panic-induced nonsense. Suddenly, fight or flight doesn’t seem all that necessary when you’re looking into Mr. Ashengrotto’s sincere eyes, hearing his calm voice as he asks you simple questions.

This isn’t the end of the world. This is an easy-to-answer questionnaire from your boss. 

“Walks are nice. I’m especially fond of the leaves.”

“M-Me too. They’re really pretty and crinkly.”

It’s okay. You’re okay, your mind repeats. It’s a newspaper’s headline, printed in big, reassuring letters. The ocean can’t get you. It’s not here. The boat can’t get you either, nor can the people from your past. You’re in the moment with Mr. Ashengrotto. You’re going to be okay. You’re safe.

Your boss is going on about autumn activities when the sound slowly starts to trickle in. You overhear nearby conversations. Everyone’s still here. The sea hasn’t swallowed them whole. And you’re still in one piece, too. You’re not in the jaws of a shark, you’re not drifting on a current, you’re not sinking into a deep, dark trench. You’re on the land, in your spring dress, talking to your boss on a sunny day. Another breeze combs its soothing fingers through your hair and you shiver involuntarily at the chill that settles under your skin.

I’m safe.

“Are you all right?”

“I…am. I think.” Your face scrunches into uncertainty. “I’m…sorry you had to witness all of that. Thinking about b-boats and the sea… It’s a lot.”

“There’s no need to apologize.” He sends a sympathetic smile your way. “It’s okay to be scared.”

“Thank you.” You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Thank you so much. Your voice is really nice, Mr. Ashengrotto. It calmed me down faster than I thought it would.”

“Really? Then I’m pleased it could provide some comfort.” But then his expression hardens and he faces the cruiser in the distance. “Although this does put us at a slight disadvantage...”

“I can force myself to go. I should be okay as long as the boat doesn’t leave the harbor. M-Maybe.”

What am I saying? I can’t step foot on that thing.

He peers at his watch and frowns. “We haven’t got much time.”

“Sorry, I’ll think of something. Um...” You rise from your seat and gaze at the shops behind you, hoping their colorful window displays will provide you with a foolproof solution. Normally, you’d rely on your boyfriend to act as your shield if you had to get near the water. His presence is always enough to soothe you; you’d trust him with your life. But Mr. Ashengrotto isn’t your boyfriend and you don’t know him well enough to confirm whether or not your life is secure in his hands. “Uh...”

I can’t think of anything! This is the worst. What if he fires me over this? What if I can’t find another job after this one? 

“I’ll go by myself.” He’s standing now, adjusting his jacket as the wind attempts to snatch it from him. “It wouldn’t be fair if you were uncomfortable during the luncheon.”

“No, I’ll go!”

If I don’t, I’ll still owe Jade a favor. And I don’t want this to be the reason I’m fired. I need to act professional. Get it together, (Name).

Mr. Ashengrotto studies the desperation painted on your face and sighs. He pushes his glasses up before they can slip down the bridge of his nose and says, “If you intend on accompanying me, I’d like to know what I can do to make this easier for you. I can’t guarantee whether the boat will remain docked, but I can assure you that it’s completely safe inside.”

You inhale sharply as a dark vision sparks to life within your head—one that consists of your own body filling with water until, eventually, you submit to the frigid depths; and they send search parties to look for you, but no one knows anything and they can’t locate your body. So your funeral is empty and there’s no corpse, and your boyfriend and your family—everyone you know and cherish—are all left to craft theories on your whereabouts. And when they remember you, they only ever think of death and the ocean and not the happy person you were in life. And your body remains on the sea floor, where the marine life feast on your flesh until each chunk is ripped away to reveal bloated organs and skeletal remains.

“I need to make a phone call!” you blurt, fumbling to withdraw your phone from your purse. “P-Please excuse me, sir.”

All it takes is a quick chat with your boyfriend, where his consoling voice validates every danger and fear that’s uttered and you’re feeling just slightly more confident than you were before. He offered to come down to the harbor to see you, but that would mean he’d have to leave work and you really don’t want to trouble him. So you promise him that it’ll be okay and that you’ll only focus on the fact that the boat isn’t to be feared—it’s what lurks beneath. But you won’t think about that.

And if you ignore the water and all of the creatures it houses, you can enjoy the luncheon and complete this task. After this, you’ll never come to the harbor again. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come down there?” your boyfriend asks just before you hang up. “I don’t want you to force yourself into a situation you can’t get out of.”

“I can do this,” you tell him, face set in grim determination. “I promise I’ll be fine. Boats are…safe. A-And I’ll be with my boss. It’s not like I’ll be alone.”

For a minute his silence scares you more than the vastness of the ocean and you trace a wobbly circle into the sand with the toe of your heel. “Okay then. I believe in you. Knock ‘em dead, my love.”

A bashful smile blossoms on your lips. “I’ll do my best.”

“I’ll see you in a few hours, okay? Don’t forget about the plans we made.”

After exchanging sweet farewells, you tuck your phone back into your purse and wander over to Mr. Ashengrotto, who’s gazing at you with good-natured admiration.

“Let’s start over.” You hold your hand out. “I’m looking forward to today’s meeting, sir.”

He smiles and fits his hand in yours. The handshake lasts longer than it should have, but you aren’t bothered by it.

“If at any point you feel unsafe or uncomfortable, please tell me and we can leave.”

“That won’t happen. I can do this, so don’t worry about me. Just focus on the meeting.”

His stare lingers on your face before he shrugs. “Very well. Then let’s be on our way. There’s no time to waste.”

There are many challenges that come with your job. Never in a million years did you think you’d ever board a boat in your time as a secretary. Yet here you are, climbing the ramp with stiff, brittle legs and a slowly crumbling resolve. Once you’re inside the vessel and Mr. Ashengrotto has notified the hostess of the name for the lunch reservation, you admire the bright interior. Tables dot the dining area, covered in crisp tablecloths and polished utensils. As you follow the woman leading you to your designated table, you notice the napkins have been folded into delicate shapes. This entire place feels like any other fancy restaurant on land and if you focus hard enough you might be able to con your brain into thinking so. 

Unfortunately, your table is by a window and you have to look away in order to avoid peering at the sea. 

You’re here for the meeting. Don’t look. Just focus, you remind yourself, wiping your sweaty palms on your dress. 

“Who do we have here?” someone asks, his voice tinged with playful intrigue. 

Mr. Ashengrotto pulls a chair out for you and you’re grateful he’s taking the window seat. There’s no way you could sit there, so close to doom. You sit down, acutely aware of the eyes plastered on you, and meet the stare of the only other woman at the table. She returns your shy smile with a curt nod. 

“This is my secretary.” Mr. Ashengrotto lowers into the seat beside you.

“It’s a pleasure to meet all of you. My name is (Name).” As an afterthought, you add, “I’ve heard many things about you.”

“Only good things I hope,” the man says with a hearty chortle. You recognize him as the client and he’s just as piggish-looking as you imagined he’d be. The others are his associates, all of whom have yet to strike any deals with your boss. You’re certain that’s his goal. Luckily, you’re equipped with all the information in the world, which makes communication easy. “In any case, I haven’t heard anything about you, sweetheart.”

The pet name cuts into you like a hot knife through a block of butter and it takes all of your self-restraint not to openly cringe. Jade wasn’t kidding when he said this guy was fond of women, especially those who lack autonomy and power. You already hate him and his irritating ego, but your boss is observing and you mustn’t act out in his presence.

So you lean forwards, simpering, and say, “I’d be happy to talk about myself, but that’s not the reason we’re gathered here today.”

The man frowns. “How unfortunate.”

Once the others have introduced themselves and drinks have been ordered, Mr. Ashengrotto talks with the woman sitting across from him. She looks positively charmed as he slips a few smooth compliments into his speech. His client happens to be sitting across from you and, as he ogles at you, his foot moves to find yours under the table, cold leather tracing up the length of your leg.

Your smile tightens and a shudder electrifies your body. The man’s lips quirk upwards in a lazy smirk. Filled with disgust, you lift your leg and search for his foot. And once you’ve located it, you drive your heel into the expensive shoe, putting as much force and anger you can muster into it. From the way he grimaces, barely suppressing a pained grunt, you can tell you’ve hit your mark. His foot withdraws from your leg immediately and you catch yourself hoping he’ll leave here with a ghastly bruise or a broken toe. 

“I‘ve heard that you and Mr. Ashengrotto have history,” you say in a tone that’s sickly sweet. “I’m happy to know that the two of you get along so well.”

His eyes narrow into a dark glower and it’s then when you realize they don’t quite fit on his face. It’s as if he’s been assembled from a mashup of spare doll parts, each limb forced on in an effort to dress a factory reject in sparkling silver. 

“I don’t suppose he keeps you around for more than secretary work,” he grumbles. “Worthless bitch.”

What a child, you think. I’ve heard worse, old man. If you’re going to play in the sandbox, you’d better throw rocks, not sticks.

Before you can come up with a kind sentiment to combat the sour barb, the man sitting beside the client indicates the bottle of wine on the table. “Would you like another glass? I noticed you’re almost done with the first.”

You glance at your glass and marvel at how quickly it was drained. Perhaps drinking is all you can do in this situation. When faced with unfamiliar company, all you can do is down wine until the waiter returns to take everyone’s meal orders.

At this point, you almost wish Jade was here. You’d rather put up with him than the superficial people at this table.

“Oh, I’m fine. Thank you, though.”

“Come on! Where’s the fun in a single glass?” The bottle is swiped from the table and your boss’s client is pouring a generous amount in your glass before you can voice another objection. You stare at the inky liquid with contempt brewing in your cold eyes. “Drink up, sweetheart.”

Your fingers curl around the thin handle. “Thank you.” Those words char your tongue, bitter and resentful.

For the rest of the luncheon, you speak with the others at the table while Mr. Ashengrotto makes conversation with the client. How he can tolerate him is beyond you, but that’s the beauty of a customer service smile and a confident attitude. You pick at your food, alcohol clouding your brain. You’re not sure how much you’ve had to drink, but it’s definitely enough to warm your entire body. At least the intoxication shoos your phobia to the outer edges of your mind.

By the end of it, it’s been an hour and thirty minutes of suffering and you’re clinging to your boss as he leads you off of the ship. He waves to the group as he departs with you in tow, promising to follow up with them through email. Through your tipsy haze, relief comes flooding in. You’re glad to have survived that, even if you’re coming out of it inebriated. It’s been a while since you’ve drank so much, and if you were sober you might have felt flustered when you abandon all thoughts of professionalism in favor of stumbling into the crisp, evening air, freed from the stuffy confines of the cruiser.

“Be careful. I don’t want you to slip.” Mr. Ashengrotto has hooked his arm around your waist as he aids you in your staggering, zombie-like stride.

You ignore the water that sloshes beneath the ramp and the boardwalk, not quite registering what would happen if you were to fall in.

“That stupid, piggish client… I hate him!” Your hands clutch Mr. Ashengrotto’s jacket, fingers curling into the fine material in clenched fists. “He’s gwoss.” Your brows knit together at the mispronunciation and you will your heavy tongue to try again. “Gross.”

Mr. Ashengrotto’s melodious chuckle has you staring up at his face, admiring his side profile with glazed eyes. “He’s unbearable, isn’t he? I can’t stand him either.”

“Azul.” Your serious tone catches him by surprise and his blue hues flick towards you. A giggle rises in your throat. “I just wanted to say it. Aaazul. Azuuul. It rhymes with jewel and cool and…mewl. It’s really cute.”

“I…” He clears his throat. “I’m glad you think so.”

“Hey, what time is it? Time… Right. Need to get going. I’ve got this thing planned.” The more you ramble, the more troubling it becomes to speak, and your sensible sentence structure soon falls apart. “Take me home, ‘Zul…”

“I don’t know where you live, (Name).”

“Your place. Take me there. Duh.” You break away from him to fish through your purse, clumsily searching for your phone amidst the other items inside. “I’ll text my boyfriend. He’ll understand. Or maybe he won’t. I dunno. Just need to go home.”

Your heels click along the wooden platform as you swipe through notifications, glaring at the too-bright screen. Just as you locate your boyfriend’s contact, your foot catches on a raised slat and the ground is suddenly approaching at a rapid speed. Before your face can kiss wood, Mr. Ashengrotto seizes your wrist and yanks you towards him. Unfortunately, the suave gesture doesn’t strike your drunken heart because the new weight is unaccounted for and he falls backwards. You go down with him, landing on top of him in a heap of sprawled limbs.

“Ow…” You place your hands on either side of his face to lift yourself off of him. Mr. Ashengrotto looks up at you with his eyes blown wide. “How’d you get below me?”

“We… Ahem. We fell.”

“In love?”

“Yes. Ah, wait. No. Just—” He breaks off with a loud sigh and pushes you away from him, cheeks burning brightly. He’s shoving your phone in your face before you can utter another embarrassing remark.

You take it from him and rise to your feet on shaky legs. There’s a crack running along the screen from top to bottom, evidence that it didn’t survive the tumble or the impact. “Home is…nearby. I think. Uh…” You’re struggling to see past the unsightly crack and with your unreliable sense of direction and spinning vision it makes it all the more difficult. “Damn it.”

“I can replace it,” your boss is saying, but you don’t hear him as nausea overtakes you.

You stumble towards the edge of the boardwalk and, dropping to your knees, empty the contents of your stomach in a mess of bile and wine. Your reflection warps in the murky water and you, throat burning, don’t recognize the ocean that’s haunted you your entire life.

Maybe that’s good because you also fail to notice your boss’s conflicted expression as he discards a grocery list of risqué ideas.

The jagged crack in your phone is, without a doubt, discomforting. When did it get there? How did it get there? More importantly, what were you doing that caused injury to your screen? These questions race through your brain as you make the short journey to your boss’s office. On the way, you cross paths with Jade and he acknowledges your existence with a close-lipped smile. If you could, you’d smack it off his face.

Memories of the luncheon are fuzzy and, like the strange sensation that twists your stomach into knots, outrageously tangled. You’ve tried and failed to unravel them, only to end up more confused than before. You remember that repulsive client, the bottle of wine, and the excessive drinking. You remember the abhorrence in his voice when he insulted you under his breath. You remember slamming your heel into his foot and feeling very satisfied with his pain.

And that’s as far as the timeline goes. It breaks off in a dizzying scribble and you can’t quite figure out when you left the boat or what happened after that. But the following morning, when you had woke from a deep slumber with a soul-crushing hangover, your boyfriend was there to scold you for skipping the plans he had made. You could recall the dinner you were meant to attend, but you couldn’t piece together how you managed to get home or where you had spent the rest of the evening.

“Where were you? You didn’t show up to dinner and I didn’t hear you come home last night,” he’d said when you stumbled into the bathroom to view your exhausted appearance in the mirror. “You didn’t answer any of my texts either. You left me on seen.”

“I don’t know,” you had told him, genuinely bewildered as you attempted to comb through the shoreline of your memory. “I really don’t know…”

So perhaps your fear of the crack in your screen isn’t so foolish after all. It’s been four days since the luncheon and you’ve only been able to come up with an innocent explanation for its existence. Short, sweet, and safe—you dropped your phone. But can a crack that big come from a simple fall? What if its origins are more violent? What if you did something despicable while drunk and that crack is proof of your potential crime?

What happened that evening?

“You wanted to speak with me, Mr. Ashengrotto?” You shut the door to his office, not at all ready to confront him. You’re too busy contemplating cracks and fragile screens to bother with a conversation. “If it’s about the monthly expenses in regards to the project, I’m working with Jade to—what’s that?”

You gaze at the rectangular box lying innocently on his desk.

“It’s for you. Go on. Open it.”

You approach his desk as if it’s a sleeping beast that will wake at the slightest sound and grab the box. You recognize it immediately.

“A phone?”

“A new phone,” he corrects you, pride dripping from every syllable. “It’s the latest model. I figured you were in need of an upgrade.”

“Is this coming out of my pay?” You slap a hand over your mouth to prevent anymore sudden accusations from slipping out.

It doesn’t seem to offend him because he laughs at your startled reaction, humor crinkling his eyes. “Not at all. Consider it a gift.”

“I can’t. I mean, it’s nice and I’m grateful you’d do this for me…”

“But?”

“But my phone still works perfectly fine.”

“You never know. It might be time to switch.”

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think it would be appropriate if I accepted this.”

“And why’s that?” He sounds more curious than betrayed by the suspicion in your voice as he leans forward, elbows propped on his desk. “Do tell me.”

“It doesn’t feel…fair. If I’m the only one getting this phone and the other employees find out, it wouldn’t look right. They might misinterpret your generosity for something else.”

“I see…” His gaze shifts, eyes darkening with a veiled emotion. “Very well.”

“Speaking of phones.” You withdraw yours from the pocket in your blazer. “I was wondering if you knew how my screen cracked. I’m pretty sure it was during the luncheon, but I can’t remember.” You recall your inebriation and frown. “And I apologize if I did anything inappropriate while intoxicated.”

“You fell.”

“I fell,” you repeat dumbly, not quite understanding what that means. And then horror strikes you across the face and you gasp. “I didn’t fall in the water, did I?”

He shakes his head. “You tripped on the boardwalk and dropped your phone in the process. That’s all.”

“Oh… That’s good.” You realize all of your worries have been for nothing and you heave a relieved sigh. “N-Not that it’s cracked. I’m glad it wasn’t anything life-threatening.”

“If you won’t accept this phone, please accept my thanks. The luncheon was a success and it’s all due to your courage in choosing to go through with it despite your apprehension.”

“It wasn’t a problem, sir. I’m still very sorry for the outburst. It won’t happen again.”

“Nonsense. Fear is a normal emotion, (Name). If I were to fault you for your fright, that would be like expecting you to be fearless. And you’re not. No one is, so don’t fret over it.”

You nod mechanically, still ashamed that you nearly lost it that day. Maybe you really should see your therapist again. “I was also wondering how I got home. I don’t remember that.”

“I drove you home.”

“You did?”

Great. Now I’m indebted to my boss.

“It was difficult learning the way because you were too far gone to articulate the directions.”

“I’m so sorry. I can pay for the gas fee or…something. I didn’t intend to drink so much, nor did I want you to become my babysitter for that evening.”

It was that idiotic client of yours who kept filling my glass! you think, scorning him with all of your fiery might.

He laughs as if he’s just read every thought that manifests. “It’s no trouble. I enjoyed seeing a new side to you. It was very entertaining.”

“It’s not a side you should have seen…” you mumble. “A-Anyway, thank you again for looking after me. If we’re done here, I’ll get back to my work now.”

As you head for the door, you spy the abstract painting again and you ponder its meaning. A woman who ran an art gallery gifted it to him a few years ago. You weren’t his secretary then. You weren’t even anyone important, but you had been the one tasked with delivering it to him. The woman had complained about it, claiming that she wanted to be the one to hand it to him in person. At that point, she might as well have wrapped herself along with the portrait if she was so desperate to see him.

You’d told her that, received a backhanded slap that stung like a wasp, and Mr. Azul Ashengrotto had seen it all. Apparently he wasn’t in his office like you’d thought. He’d been returning from a meeting, caught wind of the argument in the lobby, and had come down to view the spectacle. A few days later, he promoted you to secretary and that woman was never allowed to step foot inside the building again.

“I didn’t mind looking after you,” he whispers just as the door shuts behind you.

You’re thrown back into the fray and, unfortunately, Floyd just so happens to be there. Of all the people to run into in this office, he’s the last one you’d want to meet.

“Hello, Floyd…” Your dubious gaze trails down to the bag in his hands and the knots in your stomach tighten.

He grins at your unease and takes another step closer until he’s backed you against the wall. And then, without explanation, he’s grabbing at your blouse to undo the buttons.

“H-Hey!” You angle your body away from him, but he catches your arm before you can cover yourself. Your voice lowers nervously. “Whatever you want… Can you please not do it right outside Mr. Ashengrotto’s door? Please?”

“Relax, shrimpy. I’m just looking to see what color you’re wearing today.” He peers at the opening in your blouse with glee. “Do you think white suits you? Are you pure, shrimpy?”

“Are you?” you shoot back, irritated. “Now let me go. I have work to do.”

He laughs and pinches your cheek, nearly cooing at you in a high-pitched tone. If you could act without consequence, you’d whack him upside the head until he really sees white. “Aww. I wish I was your boss. Then I’d get to squeeze you all the time.” His fingertips brush along your chest, dangerously close to slipping under your bra. “Maybe it doesn’t matter if I’m your boss… Oh! But I did get you something special. Look here.”

He pulls away and shakes the bag, its contents rustling. You stare at it as if it’s a severed head, and the smirk grows on his face.

“Guess what it is.”

“I don’t know. Can we talk about this later? I really need to—”

“It’s…” He lifts a garment from the depths. “Ta-da! A new bra!”

Your hands shoot out to cover his mouth. “O-Okay! Okay! I get it. Please be quiet.”

The bra is hardly a bra. If anything, it’s two scraps of heart-shaped fabric held together by a flimsy string. Floyd chuckles and produces the other half of the lingerie set from the bag: a pair of violet panties with lace trimming. 

His murmured words reach you, and for once you’re thankful he’s the only one nearby. At least no one else is subjected to his embarrassing statements. “And they’re crotchless for easy access. See? Isn’t this much better than that lame bra you’re always wearing? If you wore this, I could bend you over your desk and—” 

The door swings open at that moment and you shrink away in alarm. Floyd, unfazed, continues to lean over you, the lingerie dangling in his grasp.

“Floyd!” Mr. Ashengrotto snaps, standing in the doorway and glaring. “I would appreciate it if you could be quiet when...” The rest of that sentence dies when he notices you and then the lingerie. “Am I interrupting something?”

“So boring,” he says with a pout. “I was in the middle of giving my shrimpy a gift.”

Your boss looks at you with a raised brow. 

Heat claws up your face. “N-No, this isn’t what you think! I’m not accepting it and I don’t know why he thought to purchase this for me.”

Not good! Not good! you’re thinking, tearing up from the humiliation. Is he trying to get me fired?!

Mr. Ashengrotto analyzes your panicked expression for a moment longer before sighing. “What a shame. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to intervene.”

Floyd tilts his head, but the amusement radiating from him makes you think he knows more than you do. He probably does. “You’re in trouble now, shrimpy,” he sings, drawing out each syllable in an effort to sound menacing. “Good luck.”

And then he slinks away, taking the lingerie with him.

“S-Sir, I’m not sure I—”

Your boss holds the door open wider. “Step inside.”

A biting chill races up your spine when you walk into his office. Its bland walls and minimal decor remind you of a hospital room that’s carrying the bare essentials, and you feel as if you’ve just been admitted to it, diagnosed with some incurable illness you do not have. But if you could brave the terrors of boarding a boat for lunch, you can brave whatever mood your boss is in. And judging by the frown he’s wearing, it doesn’t seem to be a pleasant one.

“I was willing to overlook your misconduct during the luncheon for obvious reasons, but it appears my lenience was misplaced.”

“My misconduct? I’m not following. What do you mean?”

“I shouldn’t have to spell out every rule you’re meant to follow. They should be common sense.” He fixes you with a disappointed stare. “You should know better than anyone else that it isn’t right to act salaciously around my clients or your coworkers.”

“But Floyd came to me first! I never approached him!”

“Distractions are similar to weeds. Once they’ve dug their roots into you, it’s nearly impossible to break away. If you continue to bother Jade and Floyd—and anyone else for that matter—I will have to eradicate the source of the problem. If weeds aren’t taken care of, they will spread their poison until everyone’s infected. You should know this.”

“But I wasn’t… I never…” You can’t think of a plausible explanation, especially not when he has the story completely twisted. What can you possibly say that will convince him otherwise? “Mr. Ashengrotto, I promise you that I’ve never once done anything to intentionally distract those around me. I’m here to work.”

“Are you? Because it certainly doesn’t seem like it.” He crosses the distance to his desk, opens a drawer, and withdraws an envelope. Before you can argue your innocence, he dumps its contents onto his desk and what you see tears your resolve in half. “I suggest you consider your next words very carefully, for they will determine whether you’re still worthy of your position.”

You stagger over to his desk, eyeing every photograph in silent horror. The gravity of the situation dawns on you when you spy yourself backed into a corner in the office kitchen, where Floyd’s towering form blocks your anxious expression from the camera’s red-eyed view. And then there’s a photo of you and Jade, where it looks like your hand is the one guiding his arm towards your chest—when in reality you had been trying to stop him from reaching further. There are other photos, too—past instances where the twins have cornered you or touched you or stood beside you and it all seems like you’re the catalyst. Like you’re the one to blame.

You commend yourself for staying composed even when the evidence indicates guilt, but you want nothing more than to disprove every photo with your own rationale. He watched the security footage. He must have in order to get these photos. So why isn’t he seeing that you were helpless to disobey? Why isn’t he seeing that the twins are the ones at fault here?

Why are you the bad one?

“I can understand if you meant no harm the first time, but to have testimonies from my client and your coworkers and photographic proof to back up such claims... Well, I’m sure you know that I can’t ignore this. What’s more is that my client personally reported your misbehavior during the luncheon and I was not impressed to hear it. Playing footsie under the table will not be tolerated. I’m lucky he’s an understanding and forgiving man, but not everyone is as saintly as he is. I expect better from you, (Name).”

“You’re lucky…” you mutter, allowing the information to sink in. Inside, you can hear strings snapping, ice breaking, glass shattering. “You’re lucky. You expect better from me. Is that right?”

“It is, and I hope that you’ll reflect on your behavior after this discussion.”

You’re kidding. You can’t be serious. Do you think I’d actually do any of that? Why would I endanger my job for something so stupid?! 

“I’m...terribly sorry for all of the problems I’ve caused.” You lower your head in submission. Tears blur your vision and the urge to scream your hate at him claws at your throat, ripping it into bloody ribbons. Your next words are thick with grief. “It won’t happen again.”

But it will because they can get away with it.

Your boss has the gall to smile as if he didn’t just wrongfully accuse you. “I hope to see an improvement in the coming weeks. Now then, you’re free to go. Consider this a warning. I won’t be so lenient next time.”

You drag yourself out the door, feeling as heavy as an anchor. The conversation replays in your mind, over and over, until all you can hear is the same phrase as it’s nailed into your cortex. I’m lucky. 

You’re lucky he didn’t fire you. You’re lucky Jade and Floyd have only gone as far as groping you. You’re lucky that disgusting man didn’t shove more false blame onto you.

The bathroom stall shuts and locks with a click, and the tears come falling shortly after. 

More importantly, you’re lucky you’ve survived this long in the office. 

The twins do not bother you for two weeks. In fact, they don’t even walk past your cubicle anymore. This would have been a blessing if it weren’t for what had transpired before they decided to stop interacting with you. This is unlike any sort of discomfort you’ve felt before; this is wrong and crooked and sickening, so much so that it unearths a slew of devastating memories. You want to scream, but your voice has been snatched and muted in a crowd of dozens. You want to tell someone, but you don’t want to drag them under the turbulent tide.

So you keep your mouth shut because it’s all you can do. 

The gloomy sky is threatening to open up and spill its own doleful tears when you glance out the window. As you make your way to your floor, you debate the pros and cons of resigning. If you did that, you’d never have to deal with your boss or the twins or anyone else who may hide wicked intentions behind charismatic connections. But then you would be forced to search for another job and you’re not keen on throwing yourself into another new space when you’ve finally managed to grow accustomed to this one. And if you stayed, you’d remain miserable and meek, unable to fight for your own justice as it’s chipped away in bits. 

It feels like you’re trying to battle fire with fuel—pointless and dangerous. 

You sit at your desk with a grumble. Your night was spent in fictional hell, trapped in dreams that left you drowning in a bottomless sea—grasping for assistance, struggling to cling to your slowly draining life. Whenever someone did catch your hand and you were yanked from the cold depths, you’d lock eyes with Floyd and then it would be Jade and then it was your boss. Then it was his client, your boyfriend, and the people from your past. And they’d all tell you the same thing: “You’re lucky.”

You couldn’t stand your reality; it was unfair and unsafe, but your dreams were just as unfortunate. Perhaps the ocean was better, even if you were destined to sink to the same forgotten resting place many shipwrecks wind up. Alone, waterlogged, and broken. Accumulating grime and barnacles. Perhaps the crabs could make a home out of your rib cage and then you’d finally be useful. 

In the end, you couldn’t get any proper sleep. You kept twisting and turning in bed, sweating buckets, until your boyfriend would shake you awake and insist that everything was okay. But that was a lie. Things weren’t okay; you weren’t okay. 

Sliding your laptop out of your bag, you place it on your desk and stare at its sleek top. Maybe you could pull a Floyd and skip out on work for today. Maybe no one would notice your absence if you hid in the office kitchen or went down to the lobby. Besides, wouldn’t it be better if you isolated yourself? That way, your boss can’t fault you for seducing everyone with a pulse and you’d be free to do whatever you wanted. 

It’s not worth it, you think and yank your desk drawer open to grab a pen. Your hand freezes when you spy the beige folder lying atop the scattered stationery. 

Your full name is printed on the cover and in smaller letters the word Background rests beneath. Confusion ignites within you and you pry the folder open with bated breath. Part of you can already guess what you’ll find, but that doesn’t make it any less frightening when your suspicions are confirmed true. There are many documents paper-clipped to the file, some of which are photographs and others are prints from old newspaper articles. You take each page out and set it on your desk until it’s covered in a collage of your past, all intricate strings and traumatic recollections on display. 

“No way...” you mutter, placing your palms on the desk to steady yourself.

Amidst the pile, one particular article stands out. There’s a photo of a familiar beach underneath the mouthful of a headline, which reads: Local Girl Found Unconscious Near Shoreline. Suspects Unidentified. A distinct cold washes over you—something akin to a bucket of ice spilling on you from above. Your blood freezes, your body grows stiff with shock, and a sick feeling travels up your throat. 

You thought you’d left that mess in the past. Why has it come back now? 

“The perpetrators were never apprehended.” Jade smiles comfortably, observing your trembling form from where he stands outside your cubicle. “That article is about you, is it not?”

“Why are you here?” you spit, venom staining your tone. 

“Someone was thorough.” He nods towards the pile and you throw yourself onto the desk to obscure his view. “Perhaps an admirer? Perhaps a novice sleuth? What do you think?”

“This has nothing to do with you. Stay out of my life.” You crumple the article into a ball and glower. “You and your brother. All you’ve done is harass and antagonize me. I never did anything to you. Why can’t you let me work in peace? Why am I the scapegoat? I just want to do my job!”

Jade frowns at your rising tone. “Perhaps you should take a break. If you need any help—”

You slap his reaching hand away. “I don’t need your help! I just need you to leave me alone!”

A few heads pop up from their respective cubicles, their focus straying, but you could care less about how loud you’re getting. You don’t see Jade when you look through him, past his tall stature and mismatched eyes. You see all of the people from your childhood. People whose fingers had curled around your arms and forced your head into the ocean, leaving you to struggle against the push and pull of the current. People who thought leaving you to fight against the rolling surf would make for a wonderful joke. People who were never punished for their actions because no one would listen to you. 

“I don’t know who’s responsible for this—” you gesture wildly to your desk, chest heaving as panic muddles your sensibility— “or why they think it’s necessary to dump it on me, but it’s not going to work. I’m not going to sit back and take it.”

“(Name), please calm down. I’m just as lost as you are in regards to the—”

“Calm down? Calm down? Why should I when you’ve done nothing but make my life difficult? I could’ve lost my job with those accusations!” You snatch up a handful of papers in a clenched fist and shake them. Jade steps back when you advance and you can see the gears turning in his gaze—can sense him trying to work out a suitable explanation for your meltdown. “And this—this isn’t helping!”

The first tear slips down your cheek and it isn’t long before more fall, cascading like spilled milk. Shouting at him doesn’t accomplish much, but it’s cathartic to say everything that crosses your mind, blissfully ignorant to the consequences that will surely follow. You shove the wrinkled documents at his chest as you stride past him.

“Fuck you and your brother. I hate you.”

He blinks at you, momentarily stunned. But as you’re departing, you catch his measured chuckle as he tells the onlookers, “It seems mornings are not for everyone. Please don’t worry and continue working as you normally would. I will sort this matter accordingly.” 

You’ve never been known to break down at work. In past jobs, you’ve remained strong even when facing rude and entitled customers who’d hurl insults faster than you could keep up. But as of late, you’ve felt so drained and hollow as you drag yourself through the molasses that has become your daily life.

You really are a bird with fractured wings. They were ripped from your back long ago and you’ve been too cowardly to regrow them.

A quivering breath escapes your raw throat as you trudge to the bathroom, feeling your pocket for the outline of your cellphone. It’s not there and, with another fresh bout of tears, you lament having left it in your bag. So you continue your walk of shame, head lowered, and weep the rest of the way.

“(Name)?”

You look up to find Mr. Ashengrotto at the end of the hall. His phone is angled away from his ear, hand covering the microphone to muffle his voice. You’re not sure who’s on the other end, but you can’t be bothered to find out.

“Mr. Ashengrotto,” you say with a sniffle, wiping at the tears that seem to fall in endless, salty streams. You’re certain your mascara is running down your cheeks in dark streaks and your eyes are probably red and blotchy. “H-Have a good morning.” You turn to head in the other direction, deciding that it’s easier to deal with Jade and a room full of your coworkers than the one in charge of your employment status.

“Wait!” He bites his lip as he considers something and then addresses the caller. “I’m sorry. I’ll have to call you back. We’ll converse over email regarding the designs I submitted. Yes… Yes, okay. Thank you for your understanding. Goodbye.”

And after he’s hung up and has slipped his phone into his pocket, the both of you stand on opposite ends of an invisible line, not daring to cross the threshold.

You meet his eyes and regret slams into you like waves along a rocky shore. “I’m sorry…”

“What for?”

“Everything.”

He frowns. “I assume you have a specific destination in mind, yes? If you’d be willing to take a detour, would you be able to step inside my office for a brief moment?”

You don’t want to, but it’s not like you have a choice in the matter. So you nod, sniffling pathetically, and follow him back to his office like an animal being led to slaughter. He holds the door open for you and this time it’s a welcoming gesture. When you drag a chair over to his desk and sink into it, the consequences of your actions begin to surface. This is it, isn’t it? An emotional employee is not useful in an emotionless setting. The minute you prove your undesirable flaws is the minute you’re replaced.

Mr. Ashengrotto sits across from you at his desk, sympathy contorting his handsome features. “I’m not a therapist,” he begins, coughing awkwardly into his hand, “but I’d like to do my best to help you through…whatever it is you’re going through.”

“Don’t give me false hope. If you want to fire me, do it now.” Your eyes brim with fresh tears. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“I’m not going to fire you. I’d never do such a thing.” His voice is uncharacteristically gentle. You recognize that soothing tone from when he helped you calm down when you were on the verge of a panic attack at the harbor. It doesn’t do much to ease your frazzled nerves now, not when you remember that that same voice harshly reprimanded you for something you didn’t do. “It’s obvious you’re struggling. If you’re comfortable telling me about the issue, please do so that I can work to resolve it.”

“I’ve just been stressed. It’s nothing you should worry about. I don’t want to trouble you, sir.” You swallow your rising sob and wring your hands together, hoping the movement will distract you enough to cease crying. “I’ll be okay.”

“That is the most obvious lie I’ve ever had the displeasure of hearing,” he says with a tut. “I want my employees to feel content here and as of now you’re not happy in this environment. Therefore, I want to do everything I can to remedy that.”

“You say that and yet…” You inhale another rattled breath. There’s so much you could say, but you know that verbalizing the problems wouldn’t make a difference. He’d just turn it on you, finding a clever way to frame you as the villain. “I mean nothing to this company. I’m only ever your secretary when there’s a lot of work that needs to be done. It’s Jade who handles the actual work. I’m just your errand runner.”

That’s a start, the tiny voice in your head pipes up encouragingly. You can do this. He’s not as scary as the ocean.

But when he holds full control over your corporate fate, he might as well be the monster dwelling in the darkest trench.

“And I… I can’t just nod my head and pretend like I’m fine with it. I want to be useful, but when you tell me to get you tea or to continue looking my best it feels like I can’t apply my skills at all. It feels like I just exist without any purpose.” The more you talk, the more distraught your voice sounds. Every strangled syllable reaches your ears and it hurts more than physical pain. “I’m lucky to even be in this position, but every day spent with this company feels more like misfortune.”

His hand twitches as if he intends to reach out and pat you. “I wasn’t aware you felt that way,” he admits. “For the record, I never saw you as my errand runner. You’re so much more than that and I should have made that clear from the very beginning. Secretary work should be split evenly between you and Jade, not skewed in the latter’s favor. From now on, I will ensure you’re given the recognition and respect you deserve.”

“Okay. Yeah. S-Sure…”

He slides a magazine across the desk and your eyes follow it. Home Decor is written on the cover in bubbly script. 

“I’d like to give you your own office space and I want you to choose the furniture for it.”

The admission slaps you across the face, raw and real. “My own…office.”

“No strings attached. It will not come out of your pay.” He hazards a tiny smile. “If I’m to truly appreciate you and the work you do for this company, you should be given a space where you can work without interruption.”

Even if this revolutionary news implies you’ll never have to run into Jade or Floyd unless it’s absolutely necessary, the taste it leaves in your mouth is more bitter than sweet. You don’t want an office. You want a proper apology. You want Jade and Floyd to be punished for all that they’ve done. You want to be treated like a human being. 

You want all of those papers detailing your past to shrivel into ash in a gruesome blaze.

“But I… I snapped at Jade this morning. I caused a scene. I’ve been a terrible employee. I don’t deserve a private office.”

“Who said one bad day was allowed to dictate what you deserve? We all have our fair share of rainy days.”

“This was more of a thunderstorm…”

“May I ask what prompted such a storm?”

I have to tell him my side of the story before Jade can twist it. I can do this. It’s just a conversation. I can handle a simple conversation.

“There was a folder in my desk. Its contents were…disturbing. Jade happened to be nearby. I sort of... Um. I sort of lost it when he offered to help.”

“Disturbing content?”

“It was… W-Well, it’s not important. It’s just stuff from my childhood. I thought I’d gotten away from it.”

“Would you mind elaborating? Only if you feel comfortable doing so.”

I don’t, but my job’s on the line right now.

Most of your tears have dried, but you still struggle against the lump in your throat. It’s been years since you last recalled that day, but it’s as fresh as bakery bread in your head.

“There was an incident,” you start, “w-when I was nine. I didn’t fit in at my school. I was bullied frequently. I…couldn’t tell anyone about it because no one wanted to listen. I guess they finally decided to listen when they found my unconscious body on the shore.”

Mr. Ashengrotto looks at you as if you’ve just sprouted ivory wings. "You were bullied, too?” It’s a murmur so soft it’s practically wrapped in clouds. 

“The story was big news in my small town. Everyone wanted to know what happened.” You gaze at your lap, unable to bear the weight that’s been crushing you ever since you stepped into his office. Mr. Ashengrotto is not your therapist; you shouldn’t have to spill such a traumatic story to him solely because he’s curious. But if you don’t, your behaviors will be taken out of context and you’ll be branded with an unsavory label. “It’s not every day a little girl washes ashore, right?”

“I...” He clears his throat and suddenly he looks small in his leatherette chair, as if your retelling of the event has forced him into a box. As if the horror of it has struck a chord within him. “I suppose not.”

“A friend led me to the beach. He wanted to play and I trusted him.” Your hands curl into tight, trembling fists. If only you’d had the strength to use your fists back then—to defend yourself against everyone who ever threw an insult or a stone your way. “I couldn’t swim, but he and his friends still managed to convince me to get in the water. And once it was up to my waist... W-When I was deep enough...” You rub furiously at your eyes, shaking your head as the memory replays itself in horrifying detail. “I’m sorry. I can’t... I really can’t…”

“It’s all right.” His blue hues sparkle with understanding. “I can tell it’s a rough subject for you.”

To give your hands something to do, you grab the magazine and open to a random page. The photographed display distracts you for a moment, replacing all images of the sprawling ocean with potted plants and comfortable cushions. Mr. Ashengrotto remains silent as he observes you. Eventually, you exhale slowly and force yourself to look at him.

“Do... Do you have a pen?”

“A pen? Yes. Yes, of course.” He’s quick to hand it to you, nearly fumbling in his hurry.

“If you really won’t fire me, I guess I’ll choose some stuff for the office.” A box of tissues is held out to you next and you pluck one from the opening. “Thank you, sir.”

He nods while you dab at your eyes and blow your nose. There’s a certain comfort that envelops his office while you sit there and mark the magazine pages in scribbles, circling various things that catch your eye. When you locate a glass paperweight in the shape of a bird, you glance at him.

“It’s like your paperweight, only it’s a bird.”

“Are you fond of birds?”

You shrug. “I think there’s more life in your paperweight. This bird paperweight looks...dead.”

“Is that so?” He lifts the octopus from the desk, tapping at one of its curling tentacles. “I suppose you’re right.”

Unable to continue the conversation, you say, “I think I’ve finished looking.” Setting the magazine and pen on his desk, you rise from your seat. “I don’t know if any of it is useful in an office and you don’t have to get any of it, but I’d like to thank you for giving me my own space. Even if it’s empty, I’ll still accept it. So thank you for giving me another chance, Mr. Ashengrotto.”

Adoration blossoms on his face, but you mistake it for sympathy. “I’ll always give you another chance, (Name). Please take the rest of today off. Use this as an opportunity to recuperate.”

“I couldn’t possibly—” you start to say before realizing something. Why are you going to stay here any longer if he’s allowing you to leave? “Then I’ll see you on Monday.”

Bright and early. A fresh start. A new week.

A knock at the door causes you to flinch and you turn to view Jade as he walks in, carrying your bag with a polite smile. You’ve had enough stress for the day, but seeing your things untouched and packed neatly provides some closure. Besides, you’re in the presence of your boss. Jade wouldn’t try anything unless he was a fool and he is anything but foolish.

“I’ve cleared your space of the offensive materials and will look into who was responsible for printing them and placing them inside your desk. As of now, no one else has received a copy of the documents.” He holds your bag out to you. “Your things.”

“Thank you. And… Um. I apologize.” You’re not actually sorry, but it feels like the proper thing to do in this moment. “For saying that to you. I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s water under the bridge.”

As you drive back to your house, feeling both relieved and exhausted, you lean towards the passenger seat and pull your messenger bag onto your lap. With one hand on the wheel and your eyes glued to the road ahead, you reach into the cluttered confines in search of your phone. The only person you wish to hear from right now is your boyfriend, and as your fingers fish through the inside it dawns on you that it isn’t there at all.

“Don’t tell me I left it on my desk,” you mutter with a groan. “Seriously, where is it?” 

By the time you’ve made it home and have emptied the contents of your bag onto the counter, you can firmly conclude that your phone is missing.

I guess I’ll have to get it next week, you think. I’m definitely not driving back there. Not after what happened. I’ll look like an idiot.

You trudge into your shared bedroom to change out of your work clothes, already having made up your mind to nap the day away until your boyfriend returns home and you can confide in him.

But as the hours drag on and the sun sinks into Earth’s pocket, your boyfriend does not arrive. You sit on the sofa, flicking through TV channels, when you’re hit with an intense feeling of loss. You know it’s not because you’ve misplaced your phone. There’s more to it than that. It feels like you’ve just lost the most important thing in your life and you’re not sure why.

Before you can spiral, the door knob rattles and your boyfriend enters, holding a bag of carry-out and wearing a proud smile.

“Work ran late, but I brought your favorite.” He shakes the bag. “So I hope I’m forgiven. You weren’t answering your phone. I thought you were mad at me.”

The sight of him pushes your anxieties away, and you jump up from the sofa to throw your arms around him.

“I could never be mad at you. I misplaced my phone, so I couldn’t read any of your texts. But thank you for getting food. I love you.”

“N-No problem, love.” His pride ebbs away until all that’s left is the bashful grin that stole your heart two years ago. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

You nod enthusiastically, ready to put this day behind you. “Let’s eat.”

“Your phone?” Jade seems to mull over its whereabouts for a few seconds before shaking his head in dismay. “I’m afraid I didn’t see it on your desk when I gathered your things. Perhaps you put it elsewhere and didn’t realize?”

“I looked at home, but it wasn’t there. I know I left it here. I’m positive.” You glance at Floyd, who’s rocking back and forth on his heels and licking at a peppermint-flavored lollipop. “You didn’t take it, did you?”

“Nah. You wouldn’t have anything interesting on it anyway,” he says and chomps down on the candy. It shatters from the force of his bite. “Besides, what am I gonna do with your phone?”

“Good point.” You’re still not over the lingerie incident or the fact that his childish mischief resulted in the harsh tongue-lashing from your cold-hearted boss, where your employment was severely threatened. But you have to ask both of them about it because they’re your top suspects. “Did anyone else come near my cubicle while I was gone? Was anyone here over the weekend?”

“Beats me. I never go over there unless you’re in.” Floyd bends the lollipop stick until it snaps and then tosses the pieces in the waste bin.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to check the security footage,” Jade offers. “As of now, we have a few possibilities. One: Someone did indeed take it and there’s a chance the camera caught them in the act. Two: It could still be in your possession and you don’t know it. Three: Someone found it and turned it in for safekeeping until it’s claimed.”

“And where would they turn it in?” You hold your hand up to silence Jade’s response as the answer finally comes to you. “The place that’s most secure here—that would be Mr. Ashengrotto’s office, right? Either that or security.”

He nods. “If your phone isn’t with him, we can rule the third possibility out.”

“In that case, I’ll go see him now.”

“You can’t.” Floyd steps in front of you. “Azul’s in a meeting, so you’ll have to wait.”

“But my phone—”

“The world isn’t ending, shrimpy. Relax. You’re as spooked as a guppy caught in the midst of a feeding frenzy. Honestly, is your phone really that important?”

It’s not as if it connects me to my friends and family and emergency services. No, Floyd, it’s not important at all.

“I’ll wait until he’s finished with his meeting. Do you know how long he’ll be?”

“I’d say another thirty minutes or so,” Jade replies. “I do hope you’ll find it.”

“Me too. I’m not usually this forgetful.”

“Considering the meltdown you had last week, I’d say it’s not that surprising.” Floyd’s comment is met with a sharp glare from you and a disapproving tut from Jade. He snickers in response. “I bet it was a real sight.”

“I’ll just get some work done while I wait.” You snatch the coffee you had prepared from the counter and stride towards the door. “Please don’t bother me today.”

“You’re no fun,” Floyd mutters as he watches you go. 

A few invasive stares follow you to your cubicle, but you do your best to ignore them. Once you’ve settled into your chair, you open your laptop to the document you started on last night. The cursor blinks back at you, awaiting more letters. Slowly, you tap each key until a sentence has been formed and then, with a dissatisfied huff, you delete it. Thirty minutes doesn’t feel like a lengthy wait, but sitting at your desk, lacking motivation, is all it takes for the seconds to feel longer than they actually are. You try to distract yourself by opening a new tab to play a game, hoping that the sight of the pixelated T-Rex jumping over cacti will cure your impatience. 

Instead, you allow the poor dinosaur to run headfirst into a prickly cactus after reaching four-hundred points. Its eye widens in shock just as Game Over flashes on the screen. You glance at the time; only three minutes have passed since you left the office kitchen and sat down. Three measly minutes. 

I can’t do this, you think, clicking out of the tab. I’ll just peek inside, look around for a bit, and then leave. Mr. Ashengrotto won’t even know I was there.

Content with your decision, you head for his office, careful to avoid crossing paths with the twins. It might not be the smartest thing to do, especially since you’ve been on thin ice ever since your boss called you into his office to scold you, but you need to find your phone. Who knows what someone might do if they have your password. The thought of a stranger peeking into your private life unsettles you more than being caught, so you reason that your decision isn’t entirely foolish.

Your hand closes around the door knob and you inhale a nervous breath before entering. 

So much for a secure office... 

After shutting the door, you analyze the empty room. The blinds are open, casting odd shadows along the floor, and you turn the light on to brighten the space. There’s a small aloe plant on his desk with a ribbon tied around the pot. You disregard the succulent and move to stand behind his desk. A stack of papers rests under the octopus paperweight, which is positioned beside a cup of pens and a stapler. Your gaze crawls to the cabinets and drawers and you reach for the nearest handle. It doesn’t budge no matter how much you pull. 

Locked, huh? He probably has the key.

You take a few steps away from his desk until your legs bump into the swivel chair he always sits in. 

“If I was my boss,” you mumble, brows knitting in concentration, “where would I keep the key? I’d keep it on me, but in the event that I left it somewhere... Or if I misplaced it... That’s it! A spare key!”

You snatch the cup and dump the pens onto the desk without ceremony. Unfortunately, a key doesn’t fall out amongst the pile, so you turn your attention on the aloe plant. Its verdant leaves seem innocent enough, as does the soil it’s growing out of. You doubt he’d bury the key, but you still lift the plant to check under it. 

Sighing, you glance at the clock on the wall. Nine minutes have gone by since you left your cubicle. 

Maybe there isn’t a spare key after all. 

But just as that thought occurs to you, you glimpse the paperweight again and something clicks within you. When he had picked it up that day and tapped on it, it made a hollow sound. Again, your eyes dart towards the door and then the clock before falling on the paperweight once more. You test its weight in your palm before giving it a gentle shake. Something rattles inside, bouncing around within the ceramic walls, and your chest fills with hope. There’s a rubber stopper in the bottom and you force your fingernails under it. Unfortunately, the stopper won’t come free from the ceramic as easily as you had hoped and you struggle to yank it out for a few minutes. 

Eventually, it becomes clear that you’re only wasting time, so you give up on the stopper altogether and resolve to use another method of extraction. Drawing your arm back, you move away from his desk until you’re a considerable distance. And then you pitch it directly at the opposite wall, watching with great pleasure as it shatters into shards of black and purple ceramic. 

“I’ll buy you a replacement,” you tell the air as you rush over to the debris, sifting through it for the object that was inside. It fits into your hand, small and cold. A brass key. “Yes! I knew you’d have a spare!”

Ignoring the ticking clock, you turn towards the cabinets and begin the tedious process of fitting the key into every hole until one of them unlocks. You find where it goes after a few tries, but to your surprise it doesn’t unlock any of the filing cabinets. It unlocks his desk drawer, which is a slim space that houses more papers, file folders, an unopened package of pens, and a tape dispenser. You grab the files and set them on his desk before peering inside, desperate to find any hint as to where your phone might be. 

Did someone actually take it? Why? It’s cracked. The battery is going bad. It’s not even a good phone. 

Frowning, you lift the file folder and are about to slip it back into the drawer when the word scribbled onto the tab catches your eye. In elegant cursive, your name meets your puzzled stare. For a moment you stand there, stunned, as your brain attempts to comprehend your discovery. 

“Shouldn’t this be filed in one of the cabinets?” You flinch at your timid tone, having been so lost in the moment that the quiet began to feel pleasant. 

You’ve snooped through his things, damaged his paperweight, and broke into his desk. What’s one more offense added to the list? Although as soon as you open the folder, you wish you hadn’t. The article about the incident from your past is at the very top, as are some of the other documents that were part of the file you received, and as you flick through each of them trepidation crawls up your spine. 

A sheet of lined paper rests under everything else and you set the other documents down. Your name has been written in the center, circled in black ink that bleeds onto the page, and an entire network of lines extend outwards. The diagram reminds you of something you’d see in a biology class, where students would label parts of the body and its functions. Notes about you clutter the margins and some of the writing has been scratched out and corrected. You read assumptions and facts about your fears, your boyfriend, your personal life. Even the color of your underwear has been catalogued: White, according to Floyd. Black, according to Jade. The back of the page is just as alarming. He’s compared himself to you, marking every similarity and difference in an effort to determine overall compatibility. 

The realization digs into you like a shovel cutting through soil to hollow a grave.

“He’s obsessed,” you whisper, horrified. “He knows all of this information. Hell, I don’t even remember my meals and yet he’s... He’s documented all of them for every single day, down to the total caloric intake.”

You’re quick to pocket the evidence before turning your attention on the last two pages in the file, both of which have been stapled together. You separate them with trembling hands, desperately wishing for a sign that all of this is just one terrible joke and nothing more. But when you read his detailed plan on how he intends to kidnap you, where he’ll potentially keep you at various locations, and what your future will look like you can’t help the bile that rises in your throat. He wants to marry you, start a family with you, live with you for many years to come. He never saw you as his secretary to begin with, and he’s been planning to make you his for a while now. Years, as the writing suggests.

Years of a secret love that spiraled out of control, growing rapidly and stifling all forms of reason and logic. A sick obsession he’s managed to hide under many meticulously crafted layers. Layers you never thought to peel back and question.

The gross feeling only persists when you read the plan he’s penned for your boyfriend. In his usual curling script, he’s listed ways in which he can dispose of him and each one is more terrifying than the last.

Apparent suicide - Gunshot to the head (too messy; traumatic for angelfish should she discover his corpse).

Apparent suicide - Hanging (also traumatic, but not as bloody). Will need suicide note.

Kidnapped and killed elsewhere - Lost at sea? Drowned? Reported missing but never found? May need electric saw to scatter remains. Will have to separate him from angelfish. 

Suddenly, as you stand in the silence of your boss’s office, finding your missing phone isn’t your top priority. 

This can’t be real, you think, shaking your head in disbelief as you read over the words once more. Mr. Ashengrotto is so upstanding. He’s not like this. He’s running a business. He doesn’t have time for…whatever this is. There’s just no way.

You hazard a glance at the clock and gasp. Fifteen minutes have passed, and you scramble to put everything back where it was before you’re caught. If you can scurry back to your cubicle, Mr. Ashengrotto will never know you trespassed and you can take your evidence to anyone who’ll listen. Because they definitely will. It doesn’t matter if the world is his oyster; these receipts will prove his danger level and then you and your boyfriend will be safe once he’s locked in a cold, dark prison cell. Someone will hear your desperate voice. 

You gather the ceramic shards in your hands and throw them in the rubbish bin beside his desk. It’s impossible to put the key back in its original place, so you stuff it in your pocket. It’s practically burning a hole through the fabric of your blazer as it rests alongside the folded papers. After arranging the top of his desk to resemble how it looked when you first walked in, you smooth the nonexistent wrinkles in your pencil skirt and stride towards the door. Inhaling a sharp, anxious breath, you will your nerves to relax and then you reach for the door.

It opens and your entire body stills when you make eye contact with your boss, who looks equal parts surprised and confused to see you.

“Can I help you, (Name)?” he eventually asks, brows quirked. “Are you looking for something?”

“A-Ah. Um. I am. Well, I was a minute ago. I mean—” You swallow thickly as your composure cracks.

Shit. I can’t let him know that I saw everything. He can’t know. If he knows…

“I… I was looking for—um—for you!” You’re wrapping your arms around his neck in a hug that’s much too tight before you can stop yourself. He stiffens in your hold and you take this as your opportunity to pull him into the office, kicking the door shut with the tip of your toe. “Because I’m so grateful. I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me, so I waited for you in your office. I know that probably wasn’t professional or polite, but I just couldn’t wait to see you.”

“R-Really?” His arms snake awkwardly around you. 

“Yes! I feel so ashamed for my behavior that I wanted to take the time to let you know that I’m really happy to have you as my boss. You’re so forgiving and kind. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You pull away from him and force as much gratitude into your wide grin as possible. Mr. Ashengrotto’s hands linger on your waist for a mere moment before he allows them to fall to his sides. You’re ready to excuse yourself and run as far from his office as you can get when he suddenly steps forward, arms darting out to seize your wrists. Before you can register what’s happening, he’s pushed you down onto his desk.

“I hate to sour such a genuine moment, but snooping is not something I can forgive so easily.” He gazes past you at the empty space where his paperweight once sat and breathes a hollow chuckle. “I see. So that’s how it is.” When he peers down at you, there is darkness in his eyes—pure, unbridled darkness. You lose yourself in the abyss that is his gaze, failing to sense his tightening grip or the way his lip curls in annoyance.

You’ve never seen your boss look anything less than perfect, but in this moment his expression is fraught with an anger that doesn’t quite fit on his handsome face. He looks monstrous in the light.

“Whatever you think I saw, I didn’t see it,” you say, but the obvious fright in your tone betrays you. “I promise…”

He scrutinizes you for what feels like forever until, eventually, he releases you and steps back to straighten his tie. “If that’s the truth, then I’ll have to kindly ask that you leave. I’m very busy at the moment.”

“R-Right! Of course!” You peel yourself off of his desk, heart beating so fast it’s gone into overdrive, and beeline for the door.

“Before you go, I would like you to empty your pockets.”

“My pockets?” You pivot slowly. “I don’t have anything in my pockets.”

“I’d rather not dig it out myself. I’m not a barbarian, so spare us both the trouble.”

“Mr. Ashengrotto, I really don’t have—”

“Your pockets, (Name).”

For a minute you hold his glower before promptly surrendering. Exhaling a defeated sigh, you reach into your blazer and withdraw the papers and key, sheepishly offering them to him like a kid whose hand was caught in the candy jar.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“If I were you, I would be conscious of the mistakes you make from now on. Curiosity is known to kill pesky felines who can’t keep their noses out of other people’s business.”

“O-Of course. It won’t happen again.”

“I know.” An easy smile tugs at his lips as he gestures to the door. “Now get out.”

You don’t have to be told twice.

The rest of the week passes in a blur of sleepless nights and tiresome workdays. Your boss carries on as if nothing ever transpired in his office, even going so far as to leave the new phone he bought you on your desk with a note that read: I’m sorry you couldn’t find your old phone. Please accept this one as a replacement. Part of you expects Mr. Ashengrotto’s plans to come to fruition the moment you lower your guard, so you’ve started reading up on self-defense techniques and how to fend off a stalker. Because that’s what he is, right? A stalker. Or maybe a pervert. Perhaps he’s both and you’ve been doomed from the very beginning.

He’s definitely going to kill us, you had caught yourself thinking when you woke at midnight and glanced at your sleeping boyfriend, who was wrapped up in a peaceful dream. One day he’ll break into our house, chop us into pieces, and cover everything up like an expert killer. He has the resources and money to get away with it. We’d end up as another murdered couple who fell victim to an unknown killer. Would anyone even bat an eye?

As a result of your constant overthinking, old nightmares have started to resurface and, in order to fight the clutches of sleep, you’ve resorted to drinking more coffee than you normally would. Your boyfriend thinks you’re being overly paranoid, but you know your fears are justified. If your boss has been hiding this side for a while, it’s only a matter of time before he reaches his breaking point. The same goes for you. You can only lose so much sleep before exhaustion pulls you under and you falter.

But what can you do to stop him? What are you supposed to do in this situation? You can’t go to the police without solid evidence. They’ll just assume you’re a scorned woman trying to dirty her boss’s promising reputation and then no one would take you seriously. You can’t tell your boyfriend about it either because you don’t want him to complicate this matter more than it already is. As of now, you’re stuck harboring this soul-crushing secret, witnessing the weeks fly by as your sanity thins.

When the plans he’s painstakingly orchestrated bloom, what will become of your current life? What happens when he kills your boyfriend and then sets his sights on you? He has so much to lose. Surely he wouldn’t risk his life just to make a mess of yours. 

Maybe he isn’t serious. Maybe those documents weren’t written by him and were instead created by the same person who shoved them in your desk. You highly doubt that’s the case, but you want to hope that that’s all this is—that he’s just holding it as evidence. That he’s not actually obsessed with every aspect of your life. 

Despite your boyfriend’s reassurance, you feel so small and alone in his house—a mere ant cut off from its underground civilization. A bird that has fallen from its nest. A human on a desert island. And Mr. Ashengrotto is the foot who will crush the anthill, the hands that will pluck the bird’s feathers individually, and the creature who lurks in the ocean, meters from the shoreline. And when you drag yourself into work, you feel like the world’s going to collapse on you. 

You rub at your eyes and take another gulp from your bitter, lukewarm coffee. Your laptop screen blinds you when you stare at it, but you continue to work in spite of the brightness. You’re not sure if the office is the safest place to be at night, but at the very least the security cameras will serve as your witness should anything happen. As wearisome as it is, you’ve been spending most of your evenings in the office under the pretense of working overtime. And even though that’s partially true, you’ve been wanting to find a way back into Mr. Ashengrotto’s office so that you can secure the evidence and be on your way. Then you’ll show it to the authorities and they’ll have no choice but to turn their attention on your boss. If he hasn’t destroyed those papers yet—and you’re truly praying he hasn’t—you might have a chance at bringing him down. Maybe. You have no idea whether your idea will work or if it’s any good. You’ve never had to deal with a creep like him before. 

But the odds are in your favor. He’s left for a business trip in the next few cities over and he won’t be back until tomorrow. You couldn’t get into his office yesterday because Jade had stayed late to finish some paperwork, but tonight the coast is clear. You have a chance; you can do this.

Your phone brightens in the dimly lit room and you glance at the pristine screen. You almost miss your old phone and its dwindling battery life and ugly crack. Leaning back in your chair, you snatch your phone from the desk and unlock it to view the text. The message doesn’t quite register at first until you read it again and the breath sticks in your throat. 

we need to talk. 

There’s a picture that accompanies the sentence. In it, you’re sprawled on a bed in a dark room, illuminated by the phone’s flash, and your dress has been hiked up to reveal your underwear and thighs. You look completely out of it in the crisp image, eyes screwed shut and lips parted in a daze. You zoom in on the photo and your heart plummets into your stomach. The spring dress you’re wearing is the same one you wore to the luncheon, and its straps hang loose on your shoulders, nearly exposing your chest to the camera. You can’t understand why or how this picture came into your boyfriend’s possession and you don’t want to know the explanation for its existence.

Another message pops up under the image: where is this picture from? have u been cheating on me?

That evening flashes through your mind in a whirlwind of sound and color until it all circles back to when you asked Mr. Ashengrotto how you managed to get home. He claimed he had driven you back, but that’s not true. He’d taken you to another location before that, and as the photo suggests he brought you to his place and then he...

With a hammering heart, your fingers type out a rapid reply: that’s not what it looks like I promise!! I would never cheat on you. Never.

The ellipsis pops up, an indication that he’s writing a reply, and it remains like that for eternity until it disappears altogether. Without wasting another second, you slam your laptop shut, stuff it into your bag, and sling it over your shoulder. 

I was drunk!!! you’re typing, fighting the urge to cry. Eventually you delete your message and call him instead. The phone rings twice before he answers and you don’t give him any time to respond before diving into a hasty clarification. 

“That’s me in the picture, yes, but I was drunk. I was passed out! I don’t have any memories of that night. You have to believe me. I’d never dream of cheating on you. I love you!”

You stumble in your heels as you click down the halls, no longer interested in breaking into your boss’s office. You finger taps impatiently at the elevator’s call button and once the doors part you throw yourself in, press the button for the parking garage, and wait in silence as you descend. Your boyfriend doesn’t say anything while you rant about your innocence, and it doesn’t occur to you that he hung up until you move your phone from your ear and stare at your background instead of the outgoing call screen. When you attempt to call back, it directs you to voicemail. 

Gritting your teeth, you lurch out of the lift, listening to the automated message as it plays. And then you break into a run as you make your way through the parking garage, stumbling under the sickly glow of a yellow light. Your steps echo in the shadows and as you talk into your phone your voice comes back to you in a distorted waver. 

“I... I’m sorry. Please just call me back. I really need to talk to you.”

Shoving your phone into your pocket, you dig through your bag for your keys and search through the gloom for your car. It lights up when you unlock it, emitting a faint beep to help guide you. Your brain is whirring with thoughts as you walk, heart pounding out a terrifying rhythm. 

Is this his plan? the tiny voice muses. To make you seem unfaithful so that your boyfriend abandons you?

What could he possibly gain from all of this madness?

You.

Just as you reach your car, your fingers curling around the handle, someone’s strong arms emerge from the darkness to wrap around your waist. Your mouth opens to scream, but someone claps their hand over your lips to muffle all sound as they yank you against them. You thrash wildly, kicking out in a blind panic, and attempt to recall the few self-defense tips you read online. But everything turns up blank as the primal urge to survive overrides all coherent thoughts and it’s impossible to remember every step one must take in subduing an opponent. Your elbow digs into your assailant’s stomach and their hold loosens for just a moment, but it’s all you need to wriggle out of their arms. 

With a shuddering gasp, you stumble away from them, feeling around for your car. Your heels skid against the concrete, sending you tumbling to the ground. Everything is happening so fast and you hardly have time to react when someone kicks you back down, digging their foot into your backside. 

“P-Please!” you hear yourself cry out, voice thick with terror. “Take my money o-or my car. I’ll give you my keys! Please just let me live.” You drag yourself as far from their foot as you can manage, squinting up at them in the darkness. Their tall figure looms over you, silently watching. 

“Do you want more? You... You can take my laptop and my bag! Everything’s yours! I promise I’ll hand all of it over without a fight!”

Their leg retreats into the shadows and you heave a relieved sigh. You feel around for your bag and its spilled contents, and when you grab your phone you hold it out to the stranger. The screen brightens with another message and it bathes their face in a fluorescent glow.

You recognize him at once.

“W-Wait. What are you—”

That’s as far as you get because he brings his foot down on your ankle with so much force that you hear the bone splinter and crack. The howling comes next. It’s a sound that shreds your throat, so foreign and riddled with agony that you hardly recognize it as yours.

Floyd glares down at you. “You’re really annoying, you know that? Just shut up and—” another cruel stomp— “fall asleep!”

When he gathers you in his arms and lifts you from the cold concrete, your consciousness soon starts to fade away. You’re certain it’s because of the sharp pain that races up your leg and the anxiety that has thrown you into survival mode. Floyd sets you down in the backseat of a vehicle that smells too sterile for your liking, but you don’t have any energy to fight back. Tears stream down your cheeks and you reach out for him, hoping he’ll reconsider.

The door slams shut and a few moments later he returns with all of your belongings, which he drops haphazardly onto the passenger seat. Floyd slips into the driver’s seat, buckles in, and turns the key in the ignition.

“You ready for a road trip, shrimpy?”

The half-whimper, half-groan you grind out is the only reply he receives, and once he’s exited the parking garage you’re sinking into an ocean of unconsciousness. And this time no one’s there to rescue you from the depths.

Every muscle in your body screams in protest when you sit up in bed, but nothing smarts more than your leg. It’s unbearably sore and the slightest movement has you grimacing. When you pull the blanket off of you, you find that it’s been bandaged tightly. That’s not the only befuddling thing. The bedroom you’re in isn’t yours, and the king-sized bed is far too big for one person. You swing your legs over the edge, mindful of your ankle, and slither off of the bed. Pain seizes your ankle when you put your weight on it and you flop onto the mattress with a hiss.

“Okay, take it slow,” you mutter through grit teeth. “Slow and careful. You can do this.”

You lift yourself from the bed and limp towards the door, only pausing to grip onto the bedpost to steady yourself. As you catch your breath, you observe the sparsely furnished bedroom. Despite the grand vanity and its matching stool, you recognize some of the other decorations strewn about. When you approach the desk, you find something peculiar. The glass bird paperweight from the home decor magazine you looked through is there. That feels like such a distant memory now, even if it’s only been a few weeks since. A houseplant sits on the windowsill, where the sun shines through in bright rays, and you hobble over to the window. It doesn’t budge when you try to force it open, so you peer outside at the lush lawn that seems to go on forever.

“Where am I?” you ask the houseplant, running your finger over one of its leaves.

It takes a few minutes, but you manage to drag yourself out of the bedroom and into the hall, which stretches onwards and breaks off into multiple rooms. The path dizzies you as you travel down it, counting every door you come across. You emerge in a monochrome kitchen, complete with a granite island and a hanging light fixture, and continue through the doorway into what you assume is the sitting room. The man lounging on the L-shaped sofa catches your attention, framed by the morning light that spills in from the expansive windows behind him. He’s focused on a tablet screen, feet propped up on a fluffy pillow, and is dressed in an oversized sweater and a pair of sweatpants.

“Mr. Ashengrotto?” You lean against the wall, half expecting him to vanish if you blink hard enough.

His gaze snaps up to meet yours. “How’re you feeling?” He sets the tablet down on a circular coffee table before coming over to assist you. “It’s best that you avoid putting weight on that leg.” His narrowed eyes and furrowed brow match his aggravated tone when he adds, “That brute. What am I to do with him? I made it very clear that you weren’t to be injured. My deepest apologies, dear.”

As soon as his fingertips brush your arm, you stagger away. Last night comes back to you in a flash—the messages, the struggle with Floyd, and the sickening crack of bone. All of it comes crashing down on you like a massive tidal wave.

“D-Don’t come any closer!”

Mr. Ashengrotto rolls his eyes. “Be reasonable, (Name). If I wished to harm you, I would have done so already. You’re safe here.”

“No… No, you kidnapped me. You—you’re crazy!”

“Right.” He folds his arms over his chest. “Okay. Since I’m so ‘crazy,’ I won’t move from this spot. Does that make you feel better?”

“What do you want from me? I… I’m not someone worth kidnapping… Please think about this, sir.”

Abhorrence twists his deadpanned expression into something frightening. “Azul. That’s my name. Use it.”

Your back connects with the island and you realize he’s been advancing while you retreat towards the kitchen with slow, cautious steps.

“A-Azul...”

His first name feels far too casual in your mouth. Awkward and not right, like a shirt that just barely fits. If you were back at the office and you’d addressed him in such a way, you’d feel so unprofessional. After all, you’ve been calling him ‘Mr. Ashengrotto’ and ‘sir’ for so long now. Anything other than that is difficult to stomach. But you’ve already crossed the line of a healthy employee-employer relationship and have fallen off the precipice into a perilous pit.

“I don’t expect you to understand or accept my reasoning, but I hope you’ll listen to me.” He counts the years on his fingers with a delighted hum. “It’s been five years since I took on the role of CEO, hasn’t it? I believe I met you a few months after that. Do you remember that day?”

You muster the courage to nod. “T-The painting. I was supposed to bring it to you.”

“If I’m being honest, I didn’t think you were all that spectacular. You didn’t stand up for yourself, you let that woman raise a hand to you, and you were the one to apologize in the end. Truly pathetic.” He sighs and his voice takes on a dreamy undertone. “We’re the same, you and I.”

“We are most certainly not.” You glare at him. “I don’t care what you wrote on that stupid chart. We have no similarities at all!”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” He takes a bold step towards you and grabs your hands. “You’re not made of steel. You were bullied. You cry. You make mistakes. You’re so naturally vulnerable. And I… I can relate to that sort of helplessness.”

“I’m human. Those are human traits.”

“And that’s what makes you so fascinating! Even when Jade and Floyd pushed you to breaking, you picked up every piece and continued on as if it didn’t bother you. Even when I brought you into my office and scolded you for such obvious lies, you still apologized and went on with your day. I really wondered how far I could push you until you cracked. Perhaps it was a little mean to subject you to so much stress, but these tests were all necessary stepping stones.”

“Hold on. You knew I was innocent?” When he doesn’t answer, you rip your hands from his grasp. “Are you serious? Do you know how shitty I felt afterwards? Do you know how much I suffered while your lapdogs got off on it? How much they touched me. Harassed me. You don’t, do you? Because you were too busy writing an entire thesis paper on my meals!”

“Speaking of that, your diet will change to accommodate mine. If we’re going to be compatible—”

“We’re not compatible! Mr. Ashengrotto, you can’t act like all of this is okay. You put me through hell. You let me get drunk at that luncheon—that same luncheon that I hated because every minute was horrible and I was so scared, but I endured it for the company’s sake—and then you took advantage of me! You sent that picture to my boyfriend and now he thinks I’m a lying cheat!”

He scoffs. “I only positioned you for the camera. I’m not a monster who preys on incapacitated drunks.” He frowns when he notices the disbelief etched on your face. “That’s the truth. I needed a prop for the final act and at the time it felt reasonable. A young couple, divided by damning evidence, and the heartbroken boyfriend disappears shortly after his devastating discovery. It’s a little cliché, but you have to work with what you’re given.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Consider yourself lucky I deviated from my original plan.”

The craziness of this entire situation has yet to truly land. You’re unable to absorb everything he’s saying and all you can gather is that he’s been obsessed this whole time, so much so that he’s gone to insane lengths just to get to this moment. You’re moving on autopilot when you pull the largest blade from the knife block, brandishing it before you as if it’s a sword and you’re a valiant knight ready to slay the dragon.

“Let me go. If you don’t, I’ll kill you.”

He gazes at the blade, unflinching. “You’re shaking.”

“I’ll still kill you.”

“Angelfish, think logically. Who else will be here to ferry you on and off the island if you kill me? Who will feed you? Who will care for you? You’ll rot in here alongside me if you bury that blade in my heart. I imagine the sight and the smell won’t be very pleasant.”

“The…island?”

“That’s right.” His lips twist into a smirk so sharp it rivals your blade.

Still gripping it in a resolute fist, you limp past him. He trails after you. When you make it to the window, you stare out at the sprawling landscape, searching for any indication that this house rests on a strip of land in the middle of the ocean. It’s hard to believe, but knowing how wealthy Mr. Ashengrotto is you’re certain he can afford it.

“Allow me.” He opens the door and offers his arm. You push past him, hissing with every step. “You’re only hurting yourself.”

“Don’t care,” you snap. Your legs carry you across the lawn and down a steep slope, where a dreadful seascape awaits you.

“At first I thought you were fearful of ships,” he says, stepping into your line of sight with the grace of a cat. “But then I truly considered it. You’re scared of the ocean, aren’t you? I came to that conclusion once I learned of your past. Your thalassophobia is not ideal for you, but it benefits me greatly.”

The wind grabs at you with cold fingers, threatening to drag you down the hill and into the yawning mouth of the water. You swallow around a lump of nerves. “Why would you… I… The ocean…” You sink to your knees in the grass, staring at your lap and the knife in order to dispel the sea from your mind. “I’m on land. There isn’t any ocean. It’s not here. I’m…here. Land. G-Grass and dirt. This isn’t the ocean.”

No matter how much you repeat those lines, they don’t stick. You can’t fool yourself this time and the same voice that was once so comforting has become an unsettling horror.

“And to think I considered selling this property…” He bends down to your height and places his hand on your shoulder. “You won’t have to lift a finger while you’re here. I won’t force secretary work on you either. We can live in peace together. Just you and me. No one will disturb us. No bullies. No troublesome clients. No distractions.”

You heave a shuddering breath just as the tears start falling. The thought of being confined to a chunk of land with no means of escape is downright terrifying. But what’s scarier is the ocean that surrounds you, its deceptive depths calling to you—reminding you of your childhood and the days spent cooped up in a humid classroom, too nervous to leave in fear of the bullies lingering in the courtyard.

And the only connection you’ll ever have is with your boss—the only one who knows you exist here.

“Why?” you’re whispering, voice snatched by the greedy sea breeze. “Why are you doing this to me? I… I can’t live here. N-Not if the ocean is… No. No, no, no! I can’t! Please take me back to the mainland! I need to be on r-real land. Please, I’ll do anything.”

He pulls you in for an embrace despite your initial aversion. His hand rubs soothing circles into your back while you remain still, glassy eyes confronting the sea. The waves roll in from afar, smashing against the rocks below in a spray of surf and salt.

“‘Anything’ is a strong word, angelfish. Be mindful of the things you say while wrapped up in your emotions. If you aren’t, I might just take advantage of your willingness to do anything.”

“P-Please.” You clutch his sweater with shaking hands. “It’s too close. If I’m in the house and the tide rises… If it swallows me—” You break off with a gasp, shoulders shaking. “I can’t swim. I’ll drown. I—”

The first few drops of rain land on the tip of your nose. Slowly, you pull away from him to peer up at the cumulus-spotted sky. Despite the drizzle, the sun remains bright, mocking you with its happy shine.

“You’ll get used to it.”

“Will I?” Just as he opens his mouth to respond, you shove him away, overcome with a sudden, adrenaline-fueled frustration. He stumbles on the too-perfect grass. “Because I don’t think it’s possible to ‘get used to it’ when the one responsible for this is my fucking boss! I trusted you and you let all of this happen to me! And why? Because you think I’ll fall for you if I’m shoved into an expensive house? Is that it? Do you think I’ll like you if you swoop in like a prince and admit that everything was done for my sake? To protect me? Am I supposed to accept that?”

Mr. Ashengrotto’s eyes travel to the knife and, though you’re trembling and crying and sucking in breath after breath, he doesn’t move, mindful of the threat.

“I’ll never love you. I have a boyfriend.”

“Not anymore.”

“What?” Once you comprehend the meaning of those chilly words, the breath sticks in your throat. “W-What do you mean?”

“You read my notes. I’m certain you can guess.” He holds his hand out to you, tutting. “You’re in no state to be wielding a knife. Hand it to me and we’ll head inside before it starts raining harder.”

But you’re not listening. You’ve buried your face in your arms and pulled your knees up to your chest as countless sobs rack your body. The knife is still gripped in your hand, but it’s trembling along with your cowering form. That intense feeling of loss returns, an old sensation you thought you’d buried, and all you can picture is your boyfriend as he’s held under the water just like you were. And all of the demons from your past did to him what they couldn’t do to you: They killed him.

You’re not sure what you can do anymore. It’s too late to act on any plan you might have been formulating whilst still on the mainland, and you certainly can’t play hero to a corpse.

Mr. Ashengrotto lets out an impatient huff. “Two years are not that remarkable.” When that fails to get through to you, he risks moving closer, still conscious of the hysteric wails coming from you and the weapon in your possession. “You’ll be happier here. Once you overcome your thalassophobia, I’ll move you to a new location. That’s fair enough, isn’t it? If anything, I’m doing you a favor.”

There are so many emotions swirling within you that you’re not sure how you’re meant to feel anymore. Most of all, you’re filled with grief as you mourn all of the mistakes that led up to this point. If you stayed home, perhaps Floyd wouldn’t have kidnapped you. If you found some way to schedule another group of meetings right after he returned from the short-lived business trip, perhaps you wouldn’t have woken up in this hollow house on this strange slice of earth.

What’s worse is that the ocean surrounds you, a deadly reminder that there won’t be any escape unless you find a way to cross it. And you have no idea how far the mainland is or if you’re even still near the city. Although it’s not like you could ever hope to leave this place via the water. You can’t swim and you have no idea how to pilot a boat—if one even exists on this island. Just how big is it anyway?

You lift your head to view him through tear-filled eyes. He smiles at you and it’s so lovesick that it twists your insides.

“Please let me go.”

“Begging won’t serve any purpose here, and there will be no negotiation on that subject either. This will be your life now.”

He reaches out to wipe your tears away with his thumb and you react on impulse, instinctively swiping at him with the knife. It almost happens too fast, for you’re unprepared to confront the slash on his palm or the cyan blood that rises to the surface. You freeze when you see it.

It’s blue.

“Angelfish...”

“H-Hey…” You scoot away from him while he observes the laceration in disapproval. “I didn’t mean to do that. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. It was just… Just a reaction.”

Why is it blue?

His fingers close into a tight fist and he inhales a steadying breath. “Of course. A reaction. Right.”

You can’t tell if he’s angry or genuinely accepting of it, but when he towers over you and holds his other hand out with the same expectance of a schoolteacher admonishing a student for stealing you have no choice but to relinquish the knife. Some of his blood has gotten on the blade and you stare at the foreign hue in awe. The sun shower is quick to wash it away, and you force yourself onto your legs, avoiding the ocean and focusing solely on the house. It’s a typical modern design you’d expect from someone with Mr. Ashengrotto’s wealthy tastes: all glass and wood, bathed in colors of white and black and brown. If anything, it looks like the houses you used to see whenever you searched for ‘fancy homes’ online.

“I’ll…go back inside.” You suppose the house is better than the ocean. It’s your only other choice and as of now it’s the lesser of two evils. “C-Can you help me walk? My ankle really hurts…”

Wordlessly, he sidles up to you and wraps his arm around your waist. You grab onto him, relieved that you’re no longer putting your broken ankle through a world of agony. He climbs the hill with you, and the only sounds that follow are the crying seagulls circling above, the fierce howling of the wind, and the crashing of waves along the rocky shore. You catch sight of a boardwalk once you’ve made it to the top, partially hidden by the trees.

With Mr. Ashengrotto’s support, you manage to make it inside before crumpling on the sofa, heaving exhausted breaths as your ankle tingles painfully. He disappears into the kitchen and it’s a while before he returns, but when he does his hand is wrapped in bandages.

After draping a blanket over you, he holds it up for you to see, a delighted glint in his stormy blues. “Now we match.”

Your nose wrinkles and you curl into yourself on the sofa, gaze shifting to the wide aquarium in place of where a TV ought to be. Fish of all sizes and colors swim within, ignorant to your predicament but just as caged. Your heart won’t stop its frenzied beats and, beneath all of the hopeless sadness, an underlying fear remains. You’re not sure if you’re more scared of the ocean or your boss, but when he sits beside you on the sofa and pats your head you think it’s the latter.

No sane man could act this way in a situation that’s far from normal.

“I should let you know that if you try anything that may cause harm to either of us you will find yourself restrained. I’d rather not treat you like an animal, so please don’t make this harder on yourself.” He curls a lock of your hair around his finger, toying with it as if the two of you are actually lovers relaxing on a rainy morning. “It hurts to see you so distraught, dearest, but you must realize that I’m doing this for us. I’m protecting you.”

“You k-killed my boyfriend. You kidnapped me. You’re sick.”

“I didn’t kill him.” Mr. Ashengrotto tucks the strand behind your ear, still smiling down at you like you’re the most precious thing in his world. “Although I might as well have the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Oh,” you mumble brokenly, and it sounds more like a defeated sigh than an actual word. “I don’t know what else to say. You’re so…” Whatever hateful adjective you intended to verbalize dies on your tongue.

Your thoughts are dyed in a blue so deep it calls forth the surging tide, washing over your emotions and swallowing what’s left of your tears. You want to think this is a dream and that when you fall asleep you’ll wake up in the office, in front of your gleaming laptop, at the crack of dawn. But even the dream world you slip into is not as promising as your current reality, for it is tinged in the same blue that colors Mr. Ashengrotto’s blood.

“Get some rest, my dear.” He presses his lips against your forehead and you don’t have any energy to retaliate. 

There is no boat by the dock, but there is an office that overlooks the empty space where it ought to be. Out of the many rooms in the house, this is the one that has been furnished according to the scribbles you made on the magazine. The tall windows lack curtains and the desk faces them, so you’re forced to confront the ocean through the trees. It’s a room you refuse to enter, even if Mr. Ashengrotto has told you it’s yours to use however you’d like. But there’s not much you can do with it when it’s lacking all forms of technology. Does he expect you to doodle on sheets of paper with crayon? Does he want you to sit in there and contemplate the benefits of reciprocation? Now that you’re no longer his secretary, that room is about as useful as your ankle right now.

Maybe you’ll storm in there and break things in a fit of rage. One day. It won’t be today, but you’re certain it’ll happen the longer you spend trapped inside, allowing frustrations to build and swell. Once your ankle heals and you’re no longer stuck under the soothing thumb of painkillers and stacked pillows, you’ll utilize your newfound mobility to scope out the rest of the property—should you manage the courage to do so—and conjure ways to escape.

You’re secretly happy there isn’t a boat. It means Mr. Ashengrotto is just as stuck as you are and that fact satisfies you. Neither of you can leave.

You’re not sure how long it’s been since you woke in this abstract house, where your daily routine consists mainly of bedridden boredom, in which Mr. Ashengrotto dutifully brings your meals to you on a tray and insists you maintain a balanced diet while you bicker with him and ignore your hunger cramps. He’ll read from books, newspapers, and magazines while you fix your stare on the houseplants in the bedroom (He adds a new one with each passing day, and you haven’t the faintest clue where they’re coming from). You never listen to any of the stories he relays, but he still tries. He still reads on. You hate that about him—his persistence. He’ll hum a soothing melody while he changes your bandages, pressing kiss after kiss upon your slowly healing ankle as if that’ll speed up the process.

And then he’ll help you walk around the house, allowing you to lean on him and the cane he’s provided for you. It’s supposed to be exercise or something akin to very early physical therapy, but it just succeeds in hollowing your soul. Mr. Ashengrotto likes these walks the most because he gets to hold you, guide you, praise you. You’ve observed him in this private setting long enough to realize the Mr. Ashengrotto you interacted with at the office is so very different from the Azul who’s patient, tender, and loving.

When you began to show some progress with your scheduled walks, he put a record on and offered his hand to you. For a slow dance, of all things. You don’t want slow dances and sugared soirées. You want your freedom. But you’d accepted his invitation, unable to do much aside from rest your head on his chest and sway with him in the emptiness of the living room, basking in soft, crackling jazz. You never knew he had a penchant for collecting antique records.

And you hate to admit it, but Mr. Ashengrotto is a good dancer.

The more time you spend examining the house when you aren’t resting in the bedroom, the stranger its design becomes. Doors open to cold, slanted rooms—most barely furnished—and the halls are thin and lengthy, stretching like taffy. There are hardly any decorations on the walls, so it feels more like you’ve stumbled into a house that’s been put up for sale rather than something inhabited by another person. Then again, Mr. Ashengrotto did mention something about his considerations for selling the property. Oh, how you wish he would’ve gone through with it.

Instead, he reassures you that he’ll do all that he can to make this place more cozy for you and him. 

You’ve seen your fair share of thrillers, and kidnapping is always a terrifying what-if that would have you sitting as far from the TV as possible. Your boyfriend used to comfort you—tell you that he’d never allow any of that to happen to you. It feels like an empty promise now. But all this time spent in captivity isn’t as bad as you thought it’d be. Perhaps it’s because you know Mr. Ashengrotto doesn’t intend to hurt you. Even so, you hate thinking that this situation is boring when you ought to be relieved it’s not worse. At least he keeps you fed, washed, and clothed. He could very well do whatever he wanted and you’d have no choice but to obey out of fear and the animalistic instinct to survive.

Instead, he’s tending to a bird’s broken wing, nursing it back to health until it’s ready to fly again. And when that happens, he’ll clip its wings and the cycle will repeat.

Sighing, you shake your head to dispel those thoughts and continue hobbling through the main living room with Mr. Ashengrotto in tow. You’ve only traversed the first floor. Mr. Ashengrotto told you he doesn’t want you climbing the stairs unless he’s there to help you, and since you want to ease the pressures applied to your ankle you’ve settled on investigating the floor you’re currently confined to. Everything about this house feels so vacant and lonesome. There is no personal touch. There isn’t even evidence that it’s been thoroughly lived in. The master bedroom, which is where you’ve slept for the past however many days, is the only room that has a semblance of life to it, but that could just be due to the abundance of plants spilling out the door. Mr. Ashengrotto has resolved to sleep on a futon beside the bed, insisting that he’ll only sleep with you when you’re comfortable.

Comfortable. Right. Like you’ll ever find comfort in this situation. You hate that he’s genuinely trying to acclimate you to this new environment. Most of all, you hate that it’s slowly starting to work. You hate that you’ve begun enjoying sitting at the dinner table with him because he’s the only one who will indulge you in lighthearted chatter, as one-sided as it usually becomes. You hate it when he reads fairytales before bed, hoping that by providing you with enough candied fantasy your dreams will be just as sweet. (And, much to your displeasure, they usually are.) You hate how careful he is with you. You hate his eyes and the love that threatens to spill out when he admires you. You hate his warm lips. You hate his smile. You hate him.

Do you really?

There’s one room on the ground floor that you’ve yet to peer into. Its door is unlike anything you’ve ever seen: a solid hunk of metal with an accompanying keypad and a retinal scanner. You’re not sure what he’d need to hide that would warrant such drastic security measures. Just thinking of all the possibilities is enough to root you to the floor. Your boyfriend could be in there, just barely clinging to life. That could be your prison within a prison when you act out of line. He could have corpses piled high behind the door. Or maybe not. You haven’t smelled anything. This house is always so clean and crisp, reeking of the sea (a constant reminder that dredges up old memories and fears), and you’ve worked with Mr. Ashengrotto long enough to know how much he values tidy spaces.

A hand on your shoulder shatters your train of thought, and then his smooth voice invades your ears.

“You’ve been admiring this door for quite some time now.”

Your ankle has improved over the course of a few weeks—has it already been weeks? It’s still awkward to walk on, but you’re no longer in need of Mr. Ashengrotto’s shoulder to lean on. You suspect he dislikes this newfound freedom of yours, for he always frowns when you avoid the arm he offers.

“I’d like to know what’s inside.”

“Someone’s curiosity is getting the better of them.” He chuckles, but the circumstances are far from humorous. “Are you that desperate to know?”

“Not desperate,” you say, folding your arms over your chest. “But knowing would ease some of my anxiety. I walk past this door every day and I’m worried that…”

“That…” he prompts with a sly smile. “That something terrible lies within?”

You nod and chew your lip.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to show you. They say transparency is important in relationships. Although I would’ve preferred to unveil this when you need it most.”

Where was this transparency when you let me suffer at work? you think, glaring at him as he moves over to the door.

He bends down to meet the retinal scanner, briefly removing his glasses so that his eyeball can be analyzed by the red beam of light produced by the scanner. After it flashes green, he fits his glasses back onto his face and types a code into the keypad, which releases a soft beep and grants him the access he requires. The door slides into a thin crevice in the wall on automatic hinges, humming with hidden machinery, and you don’t have any time to prepare yourself for the sight that burns itself into your brain. Light illuminates a padded room that’s been furnished to look like a nursery, complete with a small bed, a crib and its matching mobile, and all of the essentials a pregnant mother and her child might need. Boxes of diapers, empty milk bottles, breast pumps, stocks of baby food in glass jars, vitamins, towels, a first aid kit, and more line the bookshelves that stretch up to the ceiling, arranged with such precision you’d think this was a display for a magazine.

“This once functioned as a panic room,” Mr. Ashengrotto says as he strides inside, ever so nonchalant. You watch him in horrified silence. “But, as you can see, I’ve converted it into a nursery. It’s fully soundproofed and there’s no way to truly hurt yourself in here.” He glances at you. “So in the event that postpartum depression strikes you, your environment can’t be weaponized.”

“W-Why?”

It’s a foolish question. You know why, but you don’t want to confront the answer.

He smiles shyly and you wish you had the courage to lunge at him. But fighting won’t accomplish anything, and if you seriously injure him—if you kill him—you’ll be all alone, forced to turn to the sea for a way out. So you wrap your arms around yourself and inhale a deep, shuddering breath.

“I’d like to start a family with you.”

“A… A family.” Your nails dig into your sides. “Mr. A-Ashengrotto, I’m not—”

“Azul,” he corrects.

“I’m not…” Not your lover. “I don’t want to start a family with you.”

“I figured you might say that, and that’s all right. Love takes time and creating a family is a big commitment. We won’t rush into it right away.”

“But this isn’t love.”

It will never be love.

“Don’t say that, my dear. You know very well how much I treasure you. You’ll come around eventually. We’ve been making progress so far.” His hands are clutching yours moments later and he pulls you into the nursery. You gaze at the empty crib. “You’ve complained about how desolate the house feels and I agree. It’s much too bland. Wouldn’t a child liven the atmosphere? I’ve already penned dozens of names. We can look at them during breakfast.”

His hand trails along the length of your arm until it gravitates towards your stomach, where he rests his palm against it. You stiffen under his touch. You’d read his note about his wishes to have children with you, but you never thought such a desire consumed his every thought. To go through all the trouble of creating a nursery, of gathering every supply needed for a healthy pregnancy, of contemplating possible names for a child that doesn’t even exist yet (and will never exist, so long as you have anything to say about it)… His dream is your encroaching nightmare.

“It’s a thought that’s lingered in the back of my mind for a while now. I’ve always wondered how you’d look with my child growing inside of you.” His finger traces a heart into your clothed stomach and you shiver in disgust. “You’d look so pretty. So round and sweet and domestic... We’ll build such a happy family together. Just you and me.”

“I don’t want that. I’ll never want that,” you whisper and take a wobbling step away from him. His hand pursues you.

“You will. We just need more time.” 

“You’re delusional if you think I’d willingly have your child.” You swat at his reaching arm. “I’d rather die.”

“Surely you don’t mean that.” The vitriol burning in your fierce glower has him sighing. “Angelfish, stop avoiding me. Let me hold you.”

“No!” You stumble backwards, grabbing onto the doorframe for support. “Get away from me! I’m not having your kid and that’s final!”

“But you’ll be so much happier!” he insists, spreading his arms, palms up, as if he intends to show you a materialization of such joy. The desperately hopeful look in his eyes births raw unease within you. “Think of how wonderful it’ll be! If it’s the nursery you’re worried about, I can always allow you time outside—like how we’ve been doing our walks through the house. We can make this work. Just consider it for a moment and then you might—”

“I don’t want that! Mr. Ashengrotto—”

“Azul.”

“Mr. Ashengrotto, I don’t want any of this! I just want to go back to the mainland!” Frustrated tears gather in your eyes. “I never did anything to deserve this. I put up with the unfairness at the office. I sucked it up and smiled and worked because that was my job. I never misspoke or caused any trouble. I’ve never once complained. So what did I do to offend you? What did I do to you that would make you want to do any of this to me? If all of this is just some crazy form of revenge, then please tell me what I did and I’ll apologize.”

“Angelfish, you didn’t do anything wrong.” His features soften despite the abhorrence shimmering in your glassy eyes. “I’m aware that this situation isn’t ideal, but you’ll find comfort in it eventually. You’ll love me soon enough, and when you do we can finally start a family. Then it’ll be as if all this strife never occurred!”

“That’s never going to happen! Do you honestly think I’d ever want to spend the rest of my life locked up in this stupid house with a stupid criminal?! You can’t act like this is a normal relationship when you kidnapped me and killed my boyfriend. You took me away from my life. You ruined it. I’ll never love you. Not even a little bit. Not in a million years.”

“You’re just speaking out of anger, darling. You don’t mean these things.”

But you do, and that much is obvious in the way you clench your jaw and tighten your hands into fists. Everything about this situation is unfair and sickening. Mr. Ashengrotto’s true colors are much darker than you would have ever imagined. But you couldn’t imagine—not when you were busy fighting humiliation at the hands of the twins. You’ve spent so many years of your life working in misery, but now that you’ve made it to this point all of that suffering feels meaningless when compared to this twisted arrangement. 

“And what about work? You’re the CEO. You don’t have time for family or me or...any of this.” 

“That’s nothing you should concern yourself with.” 

“But people will have definitely noticed we’re not showing up to work. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together, sir.” 

“Ah, so you think someone’s reported us missing? The truth is that we let you go. Your behaviors haven’t been very collaborative or appropriate in recent months, and since I have the final say in these kinds of decisions... Well, no one’s going to question the word of the CEO, right?”

A proud smirk sprawls on his lips. Of course he’d have this planned out, you think as you recall the notes he kept hidden in his desk. He’s had this excuse tucked away since the very beginning. Everything has always been in his favor. It’s because of his status and power that he’s able to get away with such a terrible thing. It’s because no one bothers to question him. It’s because you mean so little when pitted against him—an insignificant, flightless bird versus the vast sky that houses it. 

“Besides, it’s not that challenging to leave this island. I can come and go as I please, but you, my dear, cannot. I hate to break such tragic news to you, but your absence doesn’t impact the company in the slightest. A shame, considering you’ve always done such good work. But that’s expected of the spineless yes-man. Would you have eaten glass if I had told you that doing so would earn you a raise? Would you let Jade and Floyd go further in their exploratory touches if your employment status was threatened? Would you have gotten on your knees for me if it meant you could continue to work as my secretary?” He chuckles, cold and cruel. “That’s all right, though. I love every side of you, even the most troublesome ones.”

His every word is as grating as nails on a chalkboard, and the last fraction of your contented soul disintegrates when he paints your nature in harsh wording. You are a yes-man. You’ve always been a yes-man, even when you were a child. You’d willingly agreed to meet up with your bullies because you didn’t want them to hurt you if you’d said no instead. You willingly apologized to the gallerist and accepted her slap without standing up for yourself. You’ve been submissive to Jade and Floyd, fearing termination should you speak out, and it’s allowed them to harass you for so long now. Even if it was an elaborate act orchestrated by your boss—a scheme meant to snuff your spirit and drive you into his waiting, outstretched arms—that doesn’t excuse the fact that you never did anything to change their treatment. You took it all as you’ve always done.

You feel so filthy listening to him as you stand just before the threshold of the nursery, not daring to cross it and get closer to the monster who lingers within. Under the too-bright light, in a room meant for permanent captivity, he looks...

“Ugly.”

The smug glint in Mr. Ashengrotto’s pale eyes drains at once, and his posture stiffens as the word digs into his composure, cracking it slowly like a stone that’s been dropped in still water, ripples expanding on the surface of faux tranquility.

“(Name), sweetheart, what do you mean by—”

“You’ve always been ugly.” You wipe furiously at your eyes as the haunted admission hangs heavy in the air, filling the space with its toxicity, like the poisonous spines on a pufferfish. Expanding, expanding more, until it pops and catches you in the fatal undertow. “You lie and you cheat and you put others below you so that you can stay on top. I can’t believe I actually thought you were nice.”

I can’t believe I thought your voice was calming.

He grits his teeth. “I am nice,” he declares, but the way he practically hisses it says otherwise. “I’ve always been nice to you, haven’t I?”

“Last time I checked, doing all of this for the sake of ‘love’ isn’t nice. Pushing me to breaking isn’t nice. Accusing me of things I didn’t do isn’t nice.” You cross your arms and fix him with a nasty scowl. “You’re mean and ugly.”

It feels childish to insult him, but it’s all you can do. You can’t fight him. You can’t run from him. Your only weapon is your tongue, sharp and malicious. His features sour—almost unnaturally, as if he’s a creature testing various expressions in order to pass as human and dissatisfaction is one that can’t fit on his face—and there’s a broken tremble in his intonation when he speaks next.

“Don’t… Don’t say that. I’m not those things.” An unsteady laugh rises from the depths of his throat, but it doesn’t sound right. It sounds strangled, as if he’s trying to get past the object lodged in his throat and can’t quite force the sound out clearly. “T-Tell me I’m nice. Please, angelfish… Please take it back.”

“Why should I? I’m not going to sugarcoat an obvious lie, but you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Lies are easier to stomach.”

“I’ve done all of this for you, so why must you be so ungrateful? I’ve shown you immense kindness. I’ve cared for you, I’ve fed you, I’ve helped you. I only want to protect you. I just want to love you. There’s nothing ugly about that,” he rants, and the sudden uptick in volume alarms you. Before you can react, he’s seized your wrist and yanked you into the room. He shoves you so hard the breath is nearly knocked from your lungs, and you’re sent tumbling into the bed. “But if I’m as ugly as you say, then you can stay here and reflect on your own undesirable qualities!”

You hardly register the sting in your ankle or the fact that he’s moved swiftly to the other side of the threshold when you catch sight of the door as it slides shut, and the last thing you see before you’re locked inside is the grieving countenance of Mr. Ashengrotto. The sorrow he wears fits perfectly on his face, and you wonder if he’s always looked so...sad. So lonesome and small. Perhaps you’ve never noticed it because of the lofty grandeur that drapes itself over him in the forms of expensive suits, luxury colognes, and money-making smirk-grins.

As soon as you’re on your feet, you throw yourself at the door, bringing your fists down upon the metallic surface with panicked haste.

“Wait, don’t go! Don’t leave me here! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. Mr. Ashen—no, Azul, I didn’t mean any of that. I… I’ll love you from now on, so please open the door!”

Ironic as it is, he doesn’t answer those ugly lies.

Your frantic cries are met with silence, and you press your ear against the door in hopes of hearing something. But this room is soundproofed. No one could hear you even if you screamed your throat raw. Your panting breaths fog the reflective surface and you peel yourself from off of it.

You’re alone in the nursery.

“It’s fine,” you murmur, shuffling over to the bed and lowering onto it. “I’ll be okay. He… He’ll come back. He has to. T-To feed me. To change my bandages. He’ll come back.”

He doesn’t.

You remain on the bed, sometimes lying down and staring up at the ceiling, sometimes sitting up and counting the many items he’s stocked the shelves with, and Mr. Ashengrotto does not return. That door remains closed, trapping you inside as if you’re nothing more than a bad memory he’s chosen to seal within his panic room-turned-nursery. Hunger descends upon you and it only grows more insatiable as the hours pass. You’re not sure how much time you’ve lost while stuck here and you’ve resorted to snacking on the baby food he’s kept on the shelves, if only to give yourself false hope and a momentary respite from the horrors of isolation. At least you had some form of freedom in the bedroom. Now you’re successfully stuck, enclosed on all sides, and it doesn’t seem like your captor is going to rescue you from this room anytime soon.

Despairing, you curl into yourself on the bed and allow fresh tears to fall. The salty liquid follows you into your dreams, and this time you can’t fall asleep to Mr. Ashengrotto’s melodic voice as he reads from a page in a book of fairytales. You drift in a dark sea while the waves wash over you, cradling you, before swallowing you. You’re held just above the surface by a lurking beast, your nose and lips inhaling brief quantities of oxygen, and then the water sloshes over your face again. It’s like you’re a boat being rocked to and fro, just barely drowning.

You wake to the jarring crash of glass upon a tiled floor. It almost sounds like it’s come from your own dreamscape, a muffled sort of note that electrifies your every nerve. Snapping your eyes open, the lights are dimmed and the door that was once fastened shut is now opened wide, revealing the darkness that presses in on the windows outside, painting the hall in grey shadows. Another sound pierces the air—this one distinctly moist. Like a lump of tongue spattering on the floor, cold and wet and slippery. You almost expect the door to slam and lock you in when you get off of the bed, gathering bits of your bravery as you step out into the hall. There’s the faint glow of light at the very end, spilling out into the empty corridor from the kitchen. 

Something else smashes to the floor. More shattering glass, which is then succeeded by a slew of unhappy curses, and you feel along the walls as you guide yourself through the dark. You’re not sure what sight awaits you when you peer into the kitchen, but the mass of writhing tentacles, sleek obsidian appendages that wind and curl, unfurling from a well-built form to reveal dozens of suckers lining the violet-hued underside, momentarily stuns you into a frozen stupor. A single, choked breath sticks in your throat and the creature’s head snaps towards you—so inhumanly fast that you don’t even realize you’re backing away until one strong tentacle shoots out to twine itself around your waist. 

He’s trembling as he grips you firmly, not hard enough to splinter your skeleton—though you’re certain a creature of his size and strength could easily do so if he wished—and you shiver in his unyielding grasp, unable to pinpoint whether it’s a byproduct of your fear or his shaking frame. You realize two things in that moment. One: This is unmistakably Mr. Ashengrotto. His icy eyes cut through the dimness in the kitchen and his glasses have been crushed under a thick tentacle, one that writhes uncomfortably on the floor, twitching bonelessly. And two: He’s crying. Muted sniffles wrack through his body, tears slipping in salty globs. You’re not sure if you’re more terrified of his emotional state or this new form or the fact that you have no idea what to do or how to act. You’re helpless as you gawk at him, opening and closing your mouth as the words wither on your tongue. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally admits, forcing it out like it’s an impossible phrase. But you can hear the anguish that thickens his voice, and he raises a tentacle over your eyes, blocking your view of him. “I’m so sorry... I... I pushed you and...locked you away. I could have—no, I did hurt you. I’m very sorry, angelfish…”

“It’s… It’s okay,” you whisper, though somehow your voice comes out louder than intended.

His suckers brush your face, not quite affixing themselves. Now you understand what must be done to placate him. You can deny and fight and cry all you want, but it won’t sway Mr. Ashengrotto. It won’t change the fact that you are, undeniably, permanently, trapped. But you can at least change what lies ahead with honeyed half-truths. You’re downright terrified of him in this moment—that’s a feeling you can’t choke down no matter how hard you attempt to do so. Still, you try because it’s all you know how to do. It’s all you’ve ever done.

Slowly, your hand searches for part of him. It isn’t a difficult task, for he’s everywhere. Your fingers brush slick skin, and the picture paints itself in your mind. Glasses of water, tipped over to provide just enough wetness to keep the gills along his sides from drying out. He’s almost…clumsy in this form. Your boss, the always perfect, never faltering Azul Ashengrotto, is struggling. It would have satisfied you if you weren’t so gripped with fear and a tentacle that tightens out of some emotion that’s currently foreign to you. Is it desperation? Fear? Disgust? Regret? He’s rigidly stiff under you, but he allows your hand to wander and trace soothing patterns into his skin.

“What do you like to do in the summer?”

Mr. Ashengrotto hiccups through a strangled sob. “S-Summer?”

“Do you like summer, Azul?”

“I… I suppose it’s an enjoyable season.” He clears his throat in an attempt to build himself from the ground up, still just as guarded and defensive as before, but the tentacle around you loosens its possessive hold slightly. “I’ve always wanted to try that thing… What was it? Movies in the dark of night, sitting in the back of a car, wrapped in thin sheets and…smelling of citronella. And there’s an abundance of junk food. The stars are brighter than light itself and the sky looks so expansive…”

“Oh, a drive-in cinema. I’ve never been to one.”

“Really?” Lighthearted shock replaces sorrow. “You’ve never been? I would have thought… Ah. Well.”

“I’d like to go to one.”

“As would I.” He coughs awkwardly when your fingers curl into his tentacle and adds in a discontented grumble, “I never should have gotten careless. This is what happens when I lose track of time.”

“We can have our own cinema here. Just you and me.” Your other hand pries the tentacle from your eyes, and he cowers when you look at him. “It’ll be our first date. I’m sure the stars are much prettier out here than in the city.” You smile at him and his shoulders tense and relax all at once. “How does that sound? A movie date under the stars. We can even put little plastic ones on the ceiling since I…can’t exactly go outside anytime soon. The ocean is…s-still there and…”

“That sounds wonderful!” he blurts and then flusters. Surely he’s not this easy, but if you can delude yourself into thinking otherwise then Mr. Ashengrotto can easily do the same. “Ahem. I mean. Well… I… I look forward to it.”

You exhale through your nostrils. “I’m sorry for arguing with you. We can start a family someday. Not today or tomorrow, but one day.”

Those words don’t feel as empty as you would’ve hoped, for you know that he’ll get what he wants eventually. All he has to do is exercise patience, and Mr. Ashengrotto is immensely patient when it comes to long-term investments.

He smiles, real and raw, and relieved tears gather in his pearly eyes. “Thank you… I’m also sorry…that you have to see me like this. I didn’t intend on—ahem. Well, in any case, I’ll change back and explain everything as soon as I—”

“It’s okay.” You cradle the tentacle in your arms, nuzzling it with the same gentleness of a mother, and he melts under your careful touch. “I’ll like all of your sides, too.” It’s another lie. There is no side to him that can be liked, for he’s made himself so cantankerous. “Even the ones you like to hide. That just means I’ll have to uncover all of you for myself. If you’ll allow that, Azul.”

His name, spoken so sweetly, in a tone you’re certain he could only relish in his deepest dreams.

“Of course,” he whispers, weepy with joy, fully submitting, and you know you’ve hooked him. For now, at least.

Now it’s your turn to toy with him much like how he did to you throughout your years at the company. And luckily for you, you’re very familiar with the high-stakes chessboard Mr. Ashengrotto adores playing on.

[submissive-and-readable]

The Eyes are the Best Part by Monika Kim

Release date: 25 June 2024

Genre: adult psychological horror

If you like:

Female serial killers

Female rage

Revenge

Cannibalism

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐💫/5

Synopsis

Ji-won’s life tumbles into disarray in the wake of her Appa’s extramarital affair and subsequent departure. Her mother, distraught. Her younger sister, hurt and confused. Her college freshman grades, failing. Her dreams, horrifying… yet enticing.

In them, Ji-won walks through bloody rooms full of eyes. Succulent blue eyes. Salivatingly blue eyes. Eyes the same shape and shade as George’s, who is Umma’s obnoxious new boyfriend. George has already overstayed his welcome in her family’s claustrophobic apartment. He brags about his puffed-up consulting job, ogles Asian waitresses while dining out, and acts condescending toward Ji-won and her sister as if he deserves all of Umma’s fawning adoration. No, George doesn’t deserve anything from her family. Ji-won will make sure of that.

For no matter how many victims accumulate around her campus or how many people she must deceive and manipulate, Ji-won’s hunger and her rage deserve to be sated.

CW book cover with eye related gore under the cut

Content warnings

Violence

Blood, gore, body horror

Cannibalism

Racism, fetishisation of East Asian women

Misogyny

Sexual harassment

Pedophilia (brief)

Stalking

Psychosis

Hospital/medical content

Alcohol consumption

Review

Thank you to NetGalley for an ARC! 🔪👁️🍽️

I loved this so much!

The chapters are rather short and the writing was accessible, which made this a quick and easy read, although at times I found some of the dialogue to be a little awkward.

I am not easily grossed out, but the writing and the descriptions of some of the gory bits were legit gruesome, but also impossible to look away from.

I loved how Ji-Won's descent into madness/cannibalism/serial killing was portrayed. The way her internal narration was written, of growing obsession and paranoia and justification of her actions, paired with the dream sequences, creates an immersive atmosphere of unreality that was unnerving to read.

I found myself relating a lot with Ji-Won's struggles to make and maintain friendships, as well as her struggles to handle all the changes in her life. Although she's manipulative and does some truly awful things (outside of murder), I can't help rooting for her.

I wished Ji-Won's attraction to Alexis was explored more. Given how much the book focuses on male entitlement and the fetishisation of East Asian women, I think it would have been interesting to see how Ji-Won navigates her own feelings of attraction towards women (or just one particular woman) as well as how this attraction affects the way she is viewed by men/society. But I understand that this is not the focus of the book so its fine.

The way the different elements of the story come together and culminates in that ending was sooo satisfying to read.

I know this book is a standalone, and I am not one to advocate for sequels to things that wraps up by itself, but I would LOVE to read a sequel to this.

[ekdarnellbooks]

Jury Duty: Part 1 of 7

A spicy sci fi romance novelette in seven parts.

TW/CW: non-graphic descriptions of a court case where someone described as a "young boy" was tortured and murdered, graphic description of another murder, double penetration, double vaginal penetration, alien MMC, human FMC, tentacle smut.

MASTERPOST

NEXT PART

Eleanor Wade sat in the jury deliberation room, arms crossed over her chest, wishing she could get sucked into the taupe carpet. The hum of the rickety air conditioner buzzed in her ear like an incessant fly, yet did so little to quell the sweltering summer heat. Was this purgatory?

No, this wasn’t purgatory. Just jury duty.

Three weeks. Three weeks of jury selection, opening statements, evidence presentations, and witness testimony. Three weeks of gruesome details about the most heinous of crimes, the torture and murder of a young boy, who must have experienced utter terror in the last few days of his too brief life.

It made Eleanor sick. And to pile on to this entire shitty situation? A deadlocked jury. Over twenty-four hours of deliberation and they still couldn’t come to a final decision. The judge had already admonished them once for failing to reach a verdict. If this final vote didn’t prove unanimous…

Well, that would mean they were a hung jury, which would mean a mistrial, which would mean this piece of shit gets another chance to beat the charges he was so obviously guilty of. A man who showed absolutely no remorse for his brutal crimes, not even as the boy’s parents sobbed in the courtroom.

Yes, Eleanor was sick of it. Sick of this entire world. Always death, destruction, hatred, prejudice; it just wouldn’t end. For every kind soul, there were a hundred people who would rip you off, who would step over your body as you lay dying in the street. Fucked up is what it was.

This trial, this endlessly infuriating trial with these endlessly infuriating jurors was just the icing on the shit cake.

Eleanor locked eyes with Nathan, his brows furrowed in that look of serious consternation he always wore. Nathan Gardner, Mr. Presiding Juror with his handsome face and dark hair. He was the only thing holding this damn jury together at this point, and she was grateful for that. She certainly couldn’t have done a better job with these bozos.

Wait? Why were her ears ringing? Eleanor stood up, a throbbing headache developing suddenly as if the murderer had stabbed her through the skull with an ice pick. White light dotted her eyes, cries and moans of her fellow jurors filling the space. Was there a fucking gas leak?

A bright light flashed through the room, like one of those scenes in a movie that made you wish you brought sunglasses to the theater. Searing pain, a piercing scream.

Then, nothing.

*

Cold.

Silence.

Eleanor fluttered her eyes open, trying to adjust to the dimly lit room. The last thing she remembered was the pain, and then a blinding flash, so bright she thought it might have burned straight through her retinas.

Where the hell was she? The pain was gone, thankfully, but she was freezing her ass off. Eleanor glanced down, just barely able to move her head and yes, well, the cold made sense now. She was naked. Why was she naked?

And why was she strapped to a table? Dark belts secured her to the cold metal, across her arms, torso, legs. Fuck, there was even one across her neck, so she could hardly examine the dim room. Fear gripped her chest as she tried to figure out what the hell was going on.

Out of the corner of her eye, Eleanor glimpsed movement, and her heart rate skyrocketed. She was warm, sweating despite the chill, as a large presence approached her. Adrenaline pumped through her as the being stopped next to the table, any struggles against the tight restraints essentially useless.

Eleanor’s eyes widened with horror, her only possible reaction with the straps digging into her skin, restraining her. She wanted to run, to scream, to throw her arms up to defend herself, but she just watched as the monster leaned over her, looking her directly in the eyes.

All the breath left her lungs as the thing examined her. Confusion almost overrode the fear coursing through her, trying to understand what she was looking at.

This monster, or whatever he was, was huge, towering over her like some sort of giant. Two red, almond-shaped eyes stared at her, insectoid and shining. If he had a mouth, she couldn’t see it, and she supposed that was for the best. Maybe that meant this thing wouldn’t eat her.

With jerky movements, his head roved over her body, goosebumps breaking out as he passed over her small breasts, her soft stomach, her… Why did she just feel a twinge somewhere deep in her core? And who the fuck was this pervert?

Now that the monster had moved, Eleanor could get a better look at him. The thing had a body of a man, humanoid of sorts, though with strange ridged indigo armor or… flesh? A clawed hand brushed her stomach and Eleanor jolted, a shot of pain ringing through her back as she jerked against the solid table.

“Who the fuck are you?” she hissed, annoyed by the pain this stupid thing had involuntarily caused. If he was going to eat her, why didn’t he just get it over with? At least that would mean she’d be done with jury duty.

The creature turned to face Eleanor, and it was then she finally noticed his mouth. A mouth that was curled into a vicious grin, baring large fangs that caused her hair to stand on end. Oh, this motherfucker was definitely going to eat her.

“I am Enzi. I am in charge of extermination in this sector.”

Well, that explained exactly nothing. His voice was gravelly, a low growl that seemed to emanate from his chest. But at least he could speak English. Wait, how was he speaking English?

“Enzi,” Eleanor repeated, unsure what else to say. And wait, what did he mean by extermination?

Enzi moved in close, his face mere inches from hers, hot breath on her cheeks as he spoke.

“You have been deemed fit for duty. Your instructions will be explained when next you wake.”

What did that mean? Duty? Instructions? Eleanor sensed something pressing against her inner thigh and she was drowsy, so drowsy. With heavy lids, she closed her eyes, an image of the purple monster dotting her vision before she faded to oblivion.

*

Eleanor awoke with a start, the soft bed a stark change from the last thing she remembered. No, no cold, metal table here, just a bare room with a small bed, no windows, and two doors. She sat straight up, scanning the small room as if the purple monster, Enzi, would jump out at her at any moment.

No, Enzi wasn’t here. She was alone this time. Eleanor got out of the bed, somehow back in her jury duty clothes. Black pencil skirt, lavender button up, black suit jacket, and black flats. God, she’d just about kill for a pair of sweatpants right now.

The first door opened when she turned the handle, revealing a small bathroom. Eleanor used the facilities, who knew when she’d get a chance again, and went to try the other door. This one also opened, which was… curious, leading to an empty hallway. A long curving corridor with silver walls and ceilings and a soft, carpeted floor.

Eleanor peeked out, unsure what she should do. And where was Enzi? Not that she was eager to see him, not with those vicious claws and cruel grin. She just wanted an explanation, some answers, that’s all.

Voices, yes, there were voices coming from down the corridor.

With one tentative step after another, Eleanor made her way down the empty hallway, the bright lights nearly blinding her. The voices intensified until she rounded a corner and saw, yes, humans!

Janet, Lorenzo, Amber, and yes, there was Nathan! Nathan’s eyes widened as he saw her.

“Eleanor!” Lorenzo called, and she waved at the group as she walked over.

“What the hell is going on?” she asked, and was met with shrugs. Clearly, this wasn’t some jury duty instruction that she’d somehow missed. You know, the step where a big ass monster kidnaps you and strips you naked before you do your final vote.

“We’re trying to figure out where we are,” Nathan said as he sidled up next to her, casually grasping her hand.

Well, that was new. Perhaps there had been some flirtations between them, but damn, straight to hand holding with the first sense of danger? And in front of the other jurors too. Before Eleanor could shrug him off, a deep voice sounded behind them.

“You will move to the room now.”

Everyone’s eyes shot to the voice as one. Enzi. But no, it wasn’t Enzi, at least Eleanor didn’t think so. But a monster like him. This one had come from the same direction she had and was gesturing them towards a door she’d passed just a moment ago.

Eleanor took in so many more details now that she was seeing one of them in the bright light of the halls. Indigo skin or armor, still unsure there, with strategic magenta streaks covered his humanoid body. The same oblong face and red eyes that Enzi had, though she noticed two pink antennae extending from the back of his head.

The strangest thing was the fleshy pink tentacles that seemed to come from various parts of his body, some appearing like tails, and others extending from his sides and arms. They roiled together, tangling and wriggling like worms in a bait cup. Viscerally disgusting, and yet something stirred in Eleanor. She pushed that feeling down, deep down, locking it into a box and throwing away the key.

Nathan dropped her hand and stepped in front of her, Mr. Presiding Juror taking over. “Why are we here? What do you want from us?”

Eleanor gathered from the scared, but unsurprised reactions that they’d all had a little nude dalliance with a strange purple monster man.

“Everything will be explained once all are present, little human.”

All? Was the entire jury here? The judge? The lawyers? The murderer?

The monster gestured for the door once more and Nathan hazarded a glance back at her.

“We don’t really have a choice,” Eleanor said, and it was the truth. No way they could fight this thing, not with the claws, and the fangs… and the tentacles. Plus, she was pretty certain it wasn’t Enzi, which meant there were at least two of them. If not more.

Eleanor stepped around Nathan, heading for the door. What else was there to do? The monster marched next to her, and for a moment, she thought he was going to touch her, but he just placed a clawed hand against a small interface next to the door. A second later, it whooshed open and she walked into the room.

[beepbeepbeepjeep]

previous / next

[cw: brief description of accident, death, and injuries; experiences that can be likened to dissociation and hallucination]

/— 5: Erasing the Edges —/

As gruesome as it is, Savannah is pulled toward the overturned jeep. They walk to it with bated breath. A few feet away from the crash, officers attempt to get rid of the crowd. She steps right past them and ducks under the caution tape.

The back of the jeep is open, putting them all on display. She could still see hints of the mess under the shrouds.

Reality steadily begins to seep in, like blood staining pure white cloth. Metal cuts through their bodies, still shining. Still sharp. 

They shut their eyes and take the rest of it in. The clamor, the heat, the sharp scents of blood and gas. It’s all familiar, but not like the low crackle of a fireplace. It’s more like the ear-piercing booms of fireworks still ringing after they’ve long dissipated. It’s haunting, like war, like tragedy, like death.

Something unlocks in her. She slips back into a dream.

They're falling, faster and faster. There's a chorus of screams, but no faces to connect it to. It's too bright to see anything. Are they staring straight into the sun?

She can't turn to see where they're landing. No—she can't move at all. They've gone limp like a rag doll, limbs fluttering hopelessly above them.

Then it all stops. Her vision cuts to jarring darkness. She hears frantic voices bouncing around, discussing… something. They're unsure what, but they just know they're a part of it. It's as if she's sitting backstage, waiting for her cue.

They want to stay and finally figure out the meaning of all this, but they feel their grip on the vision fading. They wait and wait, and it’s almost time for their entrance, but…

She finds herself back in the jeepney—the magic one, where everyone’s in one piece. Her head hurts, and she still feels a little lost.

Cato’s the first one she notices again. “Is everything alright? You seemed dissociated. You wouldn’t leave the scene of the accident. We had to guide you back here.”

“Yes, I’m alright.” She pauses. “What about you? It must have been horrifying seeing how exactly you…”

His brows furrow. “I’m fine.”

And they fall into silence. Savannah sighs. Cato clearly isn’t alright. Who would be after seeing their own corpse pulled out of a car crash? 

Then again, she wasn’t very honest herself. Maybe she can encourage a little more communication.

“Actually, I’m quite shaken up,” they blurt. Cato only slightly turns toward them, but they take this as enough of a sign to continue.

“I’ve been seeing—hearing? No—sensing things.”

Now this has his full attention. “Things only you can sense? Like hallucinations?”

“I wouldn’t call them hallucinations.” She purses her lips. “They’re more like… flashbacks? Like I’ve felt them all before.” 

He stays quiet, so she elaborates. “I’ve been having these visions—well, they’re more than just visions, but you know what I mean—I think they’re related to the accident. I get these feelings of falling, and I hear these voices that I know I’ve heard before, but I can’t put names to them.”

Cato’s face is tight with concentration. “Do these come with any other symptoms? Anything you think is related?”

Symptoms? Strange way to put it, but sure. She gives it a good think. “I get headaches. The visions make me dizzy. And I have trouble sleeping.”

“How long has this been going on for?”

“I’m not sure… I’ve had these visions for as long as I remember.”

“Have you had similar experiences in life? Traumatic events?”

“No…”

“You don’t need to get into the specifics.”

“There are no specifics.” They shrug. “I’ve never been in any accidents this severe and… Well. I guess I won’t be in any other ones now.”

He looks away, deep in thought. “Flashbacks, but not connected to any actual events…”

“Well, they feel real. Like I’m connected to them somehow.”

“Are you taking anything?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I mean medication. Drugs. Of any kind.”

“No?” She doesn’t like where this is going.

“I won’t judge.”

“I really don’t take any medication.”

"Well, what about—”

“You know you don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Hide.” She bites on the inside of her cheek. “I came here looking for a conversation. Not a doctor’s appointment.”

“Oh.” He’s silent for a bit. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay!”

Cato looks at her weirdly. “There’s something wrong with me. How is that okay?”

“Well, I think there’s something a little wrong inside all of us.” Savannah’s eyes drift around the jeep.

Cato does not stop looking at her weirdly. “That’s not exactly comforting.”

“No, it isn’t, but you know what is?”

“What?”

“It means you’re not alone.” They lean over a little to bump shoulders with him. “There are people you can talk to. They’ll understand. Or listen at the very least.”

He breaks eye contact to contemplate this.

“You don’t have to share right now if that’s uncomfy. We all just saw a lot of it, anyway,” she adds. “My point is that we have all the time in the world.”

This is great. Savannah is going to get a good grade in friendship: something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve. Cato will be so befriended by the end of this.

Finally, he turns back to them. “Fine.”

A smile breaks out on her face. This is going so great.

“But for the record, if you need anyone to talk to about your episodes—”

“Visions.”

He sighs. “Visions… I’m here to listen.” Savannah’s shoes happily tap away on the metal floor. “Thank you.”

previous / next

[crimewavezx]

Chapter 4 -- Questions.

pairing: dano!riddler x reader. 18+ Minors DNI

Edward leaves you a riddle to solve, while the death of the mayor sits heavy in your mind.

Chapter 1/2/3/ao3

cw: explicit descriptions of murder.

word count: 2.6k

a/n: lmao, this originally started a short filler chapter but ended up being quite lengthy.

<?>

It's the morning after Halloween. Edward had left hours ago.

And there is little to silence the conflict in your mind.

Edward was distant last night. His thoughts un-tethered from anything you knew. He spoke only from some world inside his soul, somewhere you could never be. You wish you could understand, to be able to peer inside him if only for a moment. You’ve slowly been piecing together an Edward you know, but how much of that man is Edward at all? It’s all just fragments.

His ‘goodnight' was chill, brisk, and spoke between his clenched teeth. It rips at you. Tears at you. You want him to be happy. You’ve seen him happy, why couldn't you both just hold onto that? You’ve known Edward for a few months now, every night you see him, and every night you wish you can selfishly have just a little bit more of him. You believe that he must feel that way too, or at the very least feel how much you care about him. You care about his happiness, his pain. It doesn’t seem fair that you feel like you’re being pushed away for it. If only you could understand more of what he meant last night. It's like another one of his riddles, it feels like the truth is right in front of you, you’re just not getting it. It frustrates you to no end.

You focus on the sound of the rain. It is always raining here. It does well to calm you, at least for a moment. The news drones softly in the background, it's covering the rain and some movie coming out soon. It bores you.

You look at the few patrons who sit around the diner. They look just as bored as you, just as sore, aching from whatever ache there is to feel from living in Gotham. There is always something to be sorry about.

Your thoughts move to Edward's hands. How soft they looked last night, how gently they held you. The veins along his outer hand, the skin around his wrist, so pale, so soft. You think about his hand, how it often trembles, trembles in his lap, around the warmth of his coffee. Trembles when you pass him, trembling when you touch him. He is so frail, you think. Weak. It pulls you in.

You wish you could be with him more, see him more, the light through his hair on a sunny day, the presence of him lingering in the small hall of your apartment, him sitting at your table after you cook him dinner. The thought of him in your apartment draws you into the idea of what Edward’s home could be like. What does he come home to? He seems lonely so he most definitely lives alone, but does he have any pets? Does he collect anything?

What does he even do for work? What about his—Your thoughts are interrupted by a loud tone as a flashing alert appears on the TV. "Breaking News" covers the screen and two grim news reporters fade into view. "We are sorry to disturb your regular morning coverage, but the news just broke that Mayor Don Mitchell Jr. was found murdered in his home late last night. His wife and child discovered his body at the scene late after trick or treating. What you are about to see may disturb you--"

They began to show brief images of his face wrapped in duct tape, the writing on the walls, the blood. There is so much blood. You have to look away for a second, to see something that isn't red. The gruesome quality of the photos, with their heavy flash and thick shadows give a surreal quality to the scene. The news clearly isn’t shy in showing the gruesome details. There is so much anger in the violence, so much cruelty. The writing on the walls, on the mayor’s face, spoke against his lies. So much bitterness, so much hate. The lies.

Lies.

People are angry. The news cuts to the emerging threads beginning to form of people agreeing with the sentiment. The online groups spoke heavy and loud, tired of the lies, tired of the corruption. The blind eyes.

You look away from the screen, burying your head into your hands. You are tired. So tired. You wish your shift could be over already.

As you have your head lowered you notice the green from the corner of your eye. Tucked away with your belongings beneath the counter is a green envelope. You stare at it.

Gingerly you pull the envelope out. The paper is a rich, dark green, and scribbled onto it is your name in familiar handwriting.

Edward already left long ago and you swear he didn't leave anything for you. When could he have left this? Especially without you noticing? He must have come in on your break, and left this for you. There wasn’t any other way. You shake your head in astonishment.

Opening it you see a very old looking card, it's paper a faded yellow. It depicts a small black cat stuck in a tree, the thick type font expressing ‘I'm lost without you.’ You feel along the paper, the font imprinted into the page. It feels nice under your touch.

You open the card with a smile. Inside the cat looks to you with a small grin, ‘but you are here to guide the way.’ Scribbled beside the card's sentiment is more of that familiar writing—

'I am the oldest in my family, but hardly the wisest. I might be the tallest, but I am the shortest in reach. I am known to cover by a western creek, and I seldom see the true light of day. Meet me here when the sun shades me most.'

Edward.

A riddle for you. You giggle with excitement. Edward left this card just for you.

His handwriting is unique, the letters spaced from one another, and he wrote with a heavy hand. You feel over the writing, imagining him writing it with his beautiful hands.You hold a hand to your face to cover your blush. You were getting sidetracked. This is clearly meant to guide you somewhere, somewhere to meet Edward. Outside the diner. You can only smile wider at the thought.

You turn the card over again to look at the cat in the tree. That had to mean something. You look inside again. Western Creek. Are there any creeks in Gotham?

You pull your phone out and start searching for the kind of creeks or rivers that could possibly be in Gotham, then looking for some to the west. There are a few. You look to see which were adjoined with a park, or a public lot of some kind. Seems the most likely.

You find one that is adjoined with a park. Goose park. It had the oldest tree in Gotham within it. Of course. The tree is protected by a Gotham nature conservation project. The project didn’t seem to make it very far from its birth, only managing to conserve a few parks in the Gotham area. Goose Park is one of the last remaining parks protected by the project. It's a very small park and not too far from here.

Now for the last part. The sun shades me most. So in the afternoon some time, maybe when the sun's at its highest. That makes sense right? You knew the location, just the time would be hard to get right. You'd just have to find out.

You finish the last hour of your shift with the news still playing softly in the background. You were excited to meet with Edward, but the news about the Mayor still has you unsettled.

You didn't feel so sure about anything anymore.

You thought about what Edward talked about last night as you walk to your apartment. About justice, about truth and vengeance. What did he know about any of it? Did it have to do with the Mayor's death? It could be coincidence, that terrible assurance, that he spoke of the same bitter sentiments. You don’t know him as an angry person though, passionate, sure, but never angry. For months you’ve known him as placid and strange. As harmless as a fly.

Last night was the first time you'd ever seen him angry. The agitation was so clear in his words as he spoke with venom.

You look at the buildings which tower around you. The light starts to hit their surface, but they all seemed to eat away at it. The light never seems light enough to penetrate the walls here. It reminds you of where you are. Where you live. The city built on blood, misery. You could never forget where you are.

You think of his sweaty face, his wild eyes. You shiver. None of it felt right to you. The thought weighs heavy on you. The doubt, the fear, the frustration. 'What if' is a terrible thought. It won’t leave your mind. Even this afternoon, where you're most excited to see him, you're sure you’ll only be able to think, what if?

You just have to wait. The truth will come out and you’ll be better for it. See you are right. That you are capable of being right in seeing the better of someone.

You enter your apartment, the door opening with a click. Standing in the entrance, you bury a fist into your hair with a sigh. Your eyes feel heavy and tired from work, you can't bear to turn on the light. You walk into the darkness.

Your black out curtains did a fair job in protecting you from the morning sunshine. You couldn’t see his dark body against the curtains rich material, nor his eyes as they followed you through the apartment.

You move over to your bed adjacent to the window. The same bed he'd laid in while you were away. It's a twin, small enough to fit just a single body. His body then. He fit into the imprint you'd left in the bed from years of use. He had fit so well. He could only imagine he was laying into the warmth you'd left behind. But it was cold then.

You start to strip away the layers of your clothes, thankful to be free of them. Off you took your diner clothes, your undershirt, down to just your underwear. He watches you linger on the band of your underwear, lining it around with your finger. Teasing him.

You sigh a breath of relief as you throw the clothes into your hamper. Free of the day. At least in body, in spirit you still wore the fatigue. Edward still hasn’t left you. Why did he make you feel so weighed down?

It isn’t as though he is a burden, some ball and chain which you drag behind you, no, he is so much more than that. You are overwhelmed with your desire for him, the desire to care for him, to see him. You can’t recall the last time something felt as strongly as it does now.

You sink into your bed, letting your duvet swallow you fully. The ceiling is all you can see as you aimlessly walk around in your thoughts, walking away from Edward. It’s all starting to smother you.

Edward watches you lay there, still and quiet. He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

Edward wants you so badly, the urge seizing him as he watches you. It hung onto him like a terrible ache, feeling it through him every time he thought of you. The thoughts were intrusive, violent, often while he worked his day job. The numbers which droned on his screen at work summoned you into his thoughts. It put him in a daze he couldn’t break.

He just can't concentrate. He wants to be surrounded by you, engulfed in you, between you.

It wasn't always like this. At first, at first it was easy to push aside the thoughts which struck him, tell himself they were just like the others, intrusive, knocking, begging but not strong.

It's like how he feels for Bruce Wayne. The man who rots in his mind, the name invoking a string of hurried, angry thoughts. Nights spent alone, hunched over the images of him, the images plastered and fed through the press. Fed into him.

The nights so consumed by his hatred for him, he couldn't get off to anything else. The anger for him is a desire, a passion. It burns through him, hot and angry. The gilded prince perched on his tower, safe and warm. Warm, away from the empty halls, the halls which rebounded the cries of suffering children.

Yes, he felt it in his body. The reverb of their agony, their haunting symphony calling for him, for him to save them. Not the batman, not the rich, not the G.C.P.D— they can't hear them. Not like he does. Not from their perches, not from their golden benches, their pockets lined with cash, their ears stuffed with lies.

The Batman. The batman, night hero, cloaked and daggered savior, hidden in the recesses of night. The batman. The batman. He lingers in his body, feeling him, eating him, burning him.

That's all he had for a long time. A long time. Years spent being eaten alive by it. Then you.

You come to ease him into some other sweet dream. Only for now, just for now. He is content now. With these fleeting moments with you. Just for now.

What sits so heavy in your thoughts as you lay there? He can't see your face very well, but you toss and turn in fits of agitation as you try to settle in.

He is sorry if he upset you last night. He’ll get a proper chance to tell you this afternoon, but he needed to see you before then. To know you better before the trials ahead. Know if you can bear it.

Edward watches you slowly fall asleep, drifting into some fit of sleep, deep in your own consciousness that he can't be a part of. What is the substance of your dreams? The extent of your fantasies?

He knew his own fantasies. Knew they mostly involved you now. It’s new. You are so new to him. He inches closer to your body, the wooden floor creaking beneath his boots. You stir lightly. He stops himself from moving any further. A wave of heat passes through him. You are like a dream to him, a fleeting relief from this life. Something better to think of.

What has he become because of you? So much of you.

So long ago he was just a boy, born into a horrible world, a world which promised him renewal. Renewal. The moment he knew what he must become, must be reborn into, fitted into for its need— Renewal. Renewal. Renewal. Rebirth for him. Hundreds of him. Gathering, no more promises, no more lies, no more hell, no more emptiness. Making them pay. Making them learn, making them know like he knew.

You made a promise to him. It’s going to be okay, you said. It’s a lie, such a sweet, bitter lie. He doesn’t like lies, especially not from you. Maybe you really did believe those words, could he fault you? Scorn you for your ignorance? The thought strikes him, hard and fast.

He’d make them hurt to understand, it's the only way, he knew the only way, but you, you were heavy in his mind. What about you? What fists does he bring against you? What fist at all?

He looks around your apartment, looks at how much of you exists here. Your space. Your mind, your beautiful, inviting mind. How much of him would burn through it all?

Edward moves to stand before your sleeping body. He reaches out to touch you but he stills his hand to his side.

Just enjoying with his eyes for now.

<?>

[whumpingcrow]

Pt.26 "The Great Escape"

Cw: tics/tourrettes, injury description, blood, PTSD themes, infection mention, vague medical whump, past noncon mention (vague), past captivity/past abuse discussion, description of wounds being bandaged up, past collar whump, conditioned whumpee, drugs/alcohol, stockholm syndrome mention, restraints, knife mention, Elias's really shitty relationship with his parents is talked about quite a bit and it's all pretty horrific, death mention, food mention (let me know if i missed anything!!)

“I think that’s good enough, Eli.”

“They have to be clean. Trust me, it sucks when they get infected.”

Tyson watches Elias flinch to himself, sickening remembrance crossing over his face, recollection of a time when he’d been fucked up like this and he hadn’t been able to clean himself up. He shakes his head at the memory of the gruesome infection, how badly it burned, how much he’d groveled and begged and ultimately allowed August to do whatever he wanted to him just so that he’d call his ex-doctor friend to fix it. After he was cleaned up and given antibiotics, he almost couldn’t tell if it had been worth it to give himself up in exchange for the medicine. To try and focus on something, anything, besides the ghost of August’s hands around his throat and a burning in his veins from his vile blood, tainted and poisoned by the filthy violence around him, he reaches for the first aid kit again and rips open another antiseptic wipe. Tyson has to bite back an amused laugh.

“Baby, they’re clean now.” He takes Elias’s wrist before he can press the wipe against a particularly large cut on his shoulder, which he’s cleaned already, just like the rest. Elias looks around the backseat of the car where they’re sitting, at all the bandage wrappers and bloodied wipes chaotically thrown around. When Tyson grabs the antiseptic wipe and tosses it aside to join the rest, Elias lets out a long sigh.

“Well...c-can I just…” His voice is nervous again as he trails off, it’s been bouncing back and forth between panicky to just fine for the last half hour. Tyson feels bad, he told Elias when they first pulled into the empty parking lot that he could fix himself up if the blood bothered him (especially after they first parked and Tyson mentioned cleaning the nearly all cried away bloody heart off of his face only to realize, at his sudden pallor and shaking hands, that he hadn’t even known it was there, sending him on a brief spiral of who’s blood is this is this my blood am I hurt what happened to me where am I bleeding? And such), but Elias was insistent that he wanted to help him. He’d grabbed the first aid kit away from Tyson as soon as he pulled it out and said “Let me do it, let me help, Ty” and so Tyson let him. But now, when Elias is looking up at him with teary, clouded over eyes, Tyson regrets allowing him to even see the mess of injuries under his ruined scrubs. It’s too similar to his own scars, they both know that without even having to say anything about it, and Tyson feels like something of a monster allowing him to treat the nearly identical evidence of August’s carelessness.

“Can I just put a - fuck - a bandaid on it? It would ma-make me feel better.” As he speaks, he’s tracing his fingertips gently over the rest of the bandages on Tyson, each one meticulously and carefully placed. “Last one, I promise.”

It’s only then that he realizes that Elias is doing for Tyson what no one ever did for him: mending his wounds. He’d been so worried since he woke up and saw that August had mutilated him in the same way he’d done to Elias, worried that Elias would see his mirrored injuries and it would cause a tailspin, that he wouldn’t be able to look at him without thinking about his own abuse. He didn’t even think that this might be borderline therapeutic for him. Maybe as he was cleaning off Tyson's blood and gently smoothing bandaids over each cut, Elias was simply projecting the care and comfort that he never received onto Tyson.

Tyson's voice only breaks a little when he says, "Yeah, put as many as you think you should, Eli."

The sunlight is soaking Elias in a deep, golden light as he leans closer to focus. His hair is turned into a messy cloud of yellow, the streaks of blue a bright contrast. He's done this every time he's placed a bandage on, leaning close and holding his breath so his hands will be steady enough to carefully press it down over the injury. Every time Tyson also holds his breath, but only because of how angelic and close and alive Elias is; he feels like if he breathes the wrong way Elias will disappear. This time, just like every time before, Elias bites his lip and his fingers avoid the most tender areas around the cut, because he knows this injury well, he knows it in a way that makes Tyson sick with empathy. Elias approaches the pain like a god damn old friend and Tyson feels horrible that he couldn't stop him from getting so well acquainted with such an insidious aching. He repeats the routine of smoothing down the bandaid, and then inspecting it closely to make sure it’s flush against his skin. But this time, unlike every other time, when he's finished he looks up at Tyson, hands hovering against his skin questioningly.

"Does it hurt, Ty?" He whispers, words coming out in shuddering, uneven breaths.

Tyson has to compose himself before he speaks, throat bobbing up and down as he swallows. His gaze is fixed on Elias, he's momentarily caught off guard by the rare eye contact, the astonishment is evident in his whiskey dark eyes. But then he smiles, shakes his head just a little. "No, not anymore. Thanks, Doc."

Elias blinks at him, still nervous in his demeanor. Then, by some sort of miracle, a small smile spreads across his face and he begins to giggle to himself. With an amused shake of his head, he starts to gather all of the trash from the first aid kit that’s surrounding them both. Tyson starts to help him, which prompts Elias to look up at him again, just as a reflex, and he starts to laugh harder.

“Oh shit,” he snorts out, “I went way overboard with the bandaids. Jesus.” He says this like he'd been unaware of his reaction, of his over-the-top determination of fixing up every single scratch on Tyson, and was just now realizing it.

Tyson laughs as well, looking down at his bare torso and his arms, at his skin riddled with bandages and injuries. He tries not to focus on the fact that these will scar, just like Elias’s did, and he will have to be reminded of this day forever. Instead he thinks about how Elias did a great job of cleaning the dried blood off, with the limited supplies he had. Suddenly, Elias’s hand is creeping into his line of vision, pale fingers grabbing loosely onto Tyson’s forearm. “Hey,” he mumbles, now turning his head away as Tyson looks up at him, “I uh...I’m sorry, about today. I’m sorry you got hurt because of me-”

“Don’t do that.” Tyson cuts him off, grabbing his face and forcing him to look back up at him. There’s fear in his eyes, just as there always is when Tyson is a little too quick or loud or rough, but this time Tyson doesn’t loosen his grip, doesn’t want to keep letting him get away with punishing himself for things out of his control. Especially because none of this nightmare would have happened to either of them if Tyson never brought Allen home from the hospital. This was his fault, if anything. “I don’t want you to apologize to me for shit like that anymore. If anyone’s to blame for this mess it’s me, so I want-”

“No, Tyson! No, don’t fu-fuck-fucking - fucking cock! -don’t s- ouch, fuck- don’t say-!” He can’t even finish his broken up sentence, something August would make fun of him for, something he remembers his own mother used to tease him about. But at least this time when his words are cut short by a string of curses and gasps, Tyson is there to pull him into his arms, grip loose enough to be comfortable without being constricting.

“It’s ok, Eli. It’s done now, everything’s gonna be alright.” Tyson’s voice is back to it’s normal softness now, his fingers carding through Elias’s golden hair as he tries to talk him down, so that he can breathe normally again. It takes Elias longer than usual to come down from his hysteria, Tyson can’t even imagine how exhausted he is from how much he’s been holding his tics back the entire day. So at some point Tyson simply holds him close and whispers tiny words of reassurance every so often. He does this until Elias is reduced to a trembling, gasping body, limp in his arms, succumbing to his exhaustion. When Tyson pulls away just enough to check on him, Elias’s far-off, distant gaze drifts up to look at him. His eyebrows twitch into a frown as he takes in an unsteady breath.

“Are you ok, love?” He asks timidly, even though he can tell by the disconnected fatigue on his face that Elias isn’t ok, that thinking that he could be ok after the day he’s had is a pretty outlandish idea. He pushes some of Elias’s hair away from his face as a reflex, to be able to see him fully.

When Elias nods his head, it’s slow and not altogether present. “Just...just please don’t say that anymore. Please.” He doesn’t tell Tyson that he doesn’t like to think about him being to blame for this in any way because of the lies August told him, he doesn’t bring up how painful it was to try and even exist around Tyson for a while because Elias had been convinced that Tyson did this to him on purpose, just to be with someone else. In his broken mind, all he could think about when Tyson tried to take some of the fall for the situation was how he’d surrendered himself so fully to August because he believed it to be true. And then he would feel the same heaviness of being unwanted, unloved, by everyone except for a monster who only loved him enough to destroy him for his own sick pleasure.

But he doesn’t tell Tyson that.

Tyson hums in agreement. “Yeah, I think maybe we gotta stop trying to blame ourselves for August’s actions. It’s uh...it’s not really getting us anywhere, you know?”

“Uh-huh. You’re right.” He rests his head against Tyson’s shoulder, this time just to be close to him, not because he’s too upset to pull away. “You’re always r-right.”

After that, Tyson finds a hoodie and a pair of sweats he keeps in a duffel bag in the back for days that he works doubles and needs a change of clothes, or for days when his boyfriend’s crazed stalker turns him into a cutting board, and he puts them on before he and Elias climb back into the front of his car. Elias is quiet, no doubt drained beyond belief from everything that’s transpired that day, but he holds tightly onto Tyson’s hand as they drive and occasionally pulls his arm closer to place gentle kisses over his numerous bandages. And then he falls asleep, clutching Tyson’s wrist with both of his hands to keep him close.

Only then, when Elias is sound asleep and isn’t able to look at Tyson anymore, he allows himself to react to the atrocity he went through. Whether Tyson would ever admit it or not is debatable, but he’s terrified of August. He has been ever since he’d seen how broken Allen was the first time he’d fallen into August’s unforgiving claws.

That time, Tyson hadn’t seen Allen in a few months. They’d officially called it quits long before they stopped seeing each other, mostly because Allen was in the worst of his addiction and Tyson wasn’t good at saying no to drinks and drugs and angry sex in bar bathrooms. So when Allen didn’t show up for a long time and Tyson heard that he’d moved on, he was more or less happy for him, albeit a little jealous, a little hurt that he was just a placeholder for Leo while Allen was at his worst. He ended up being wrong about most of it: Allen didn’t stop randomly showing up for short-lived benders with him just because he was with Leo, and the time he spent with Tyson was most definitely not his worst.

Back then, none of them even knew August, by name or by face. Allen claimed that the few weeks he’d first spent with him, August and the rest of the men who had held and tortured him had worn animal masks, never using their names around each other or him. Tyson never got a full explanation as to why Allen ended up being brutally attacked and shoved into the backseat of a truck, just that it had something to do with a shady dealer and a ransom. Tyson saw him a few days after he was rescued, and he was absolutely appalled at the state he was in. He’d never seen someone with so many bruises and cuts all at once before. Then, he and Leo got engaged weeks later, something about life being short and seizing the moment.

But the horrors of August didn’t end there, of course, and Allen ended up back with him several times. Later, Tyson found out that a handful of times he was taken back against his will, but on a few occasions he found himself there during a drug binge, or, when he and Leo weren’t getting along, Allen went back as a form of self-punishment. Tyson hadn’t ever seen stockholm syndrome before, but Allen sometimes thought that he needed August to survive, to function, and if that wasn’t almost the textbook definition Tyson didn’t know what was.

And then he had to watch Elias go through the same thing. Twice, now.

When Tyson met Elias, his immediate favorite thing about him was the fire of his spirit, the way he approached every feeling and situation with ferocity and intensity. He’d yelled at him for almost hitting him with his car the first time they saw each other, and on their third date he’d laughed so hard at a joke Tyson told that he couldn’t even respond with actual words. And then August got a hold of him, and somehow he was able to damage that part of him so horribly that Tyson thought it was gone forever for the longest time. It’s only now starting to come back, but there was a rough patch in his recovery when Tyson thought that the only thing Elias knew how to feel anymore was fear, and everything else was turned off. He hated August, he had even before he had a name, even before he’d seen his face. But after seeing how deep the destruction went, how he was able to take a person and mutilate them in both body and soul, until they were just a shell of a person, just a toy that he could use without argument, Tyson was absolutely terrified of him.

And then he woke up at the other end of his merciless knife. Tied up, alone, couldn’t move if he wanted to. When August had started talking about taking Tyson instead of Elias, or maybe both of them, there was a brief second where Tyson remembered the videos and pictures of he’d been teasingly sent before. The next few seconds after that he tried to swallow his fear of ending up in one of them, being torn to shreds by the devil as he whispered compliments into his ear. Looking through a haze of tears at Elias now, sleeping in the passenger seat, he realizes that he’s a lot stronger than Tyson is, because even the idea of being the subject of August’s twisted films makes his lungs tighten with panic, and Elias has survived them.

Tyson inevitably has to stop for gas, and he pulls his hand away from Elias as gently as possible, not wanting to wake him up. Elias’s exhaustion is on Tyson’s side, because all he does is wrap his arms around his stomach and continue sleeping. Relief washes over Tyson in a huge wave, and it takes him a second to blink away overwhelmed tears before he shuts the car door as soft as possible and starts pumping gas. He also takes the minute he isn’t in the car with sleeping Elias to call the person he’s driving to.

“Tyson!” His mother sounds surprised, voice cracking in excitement through his name. “I haven’t heard from you in forever, what have you been up to, son?”

Tyson’s heart sinks in guilt. He knows that he should’ve been keeping in contact with his family this entire time, but things with Elias and August had gotten so overwhelming that he just couldn’t force himself to carry a normal conversation with any of them, and it felt too complicated to try to explain to anyone what was going on. “Hey, Ma,” he croaks out, voice still gravely from screaming, “I uh...I know I’ve been MIA for a while. I’m sorry.” He starts to fill the gas tank, looking in through the back window to see if Elias is still asleep.

His mother laughs, unaware of the severity of any of this, of the phone call, of Tyson’s apology. “That’s ok, Ty. I know you’ve been busy with work. Are you still seeing that boy?”

“Yeah, yeah that’s uh...that’s sort of why I called. I need your help, Mom.”

Now, she must sense some of the urgency in his voice, and the line is heavy with static silence as she tries to process it. “Of course, honey. What’s going on?”

Tyson tries to explain it to her in a way that wouldn’t make her panic, tells her that he got mixed up with some bad people and needs somewhere to stay for a bit, so that they can stay safe. She instantly offers for them to stay with her, which Tyson expects, but that doesn’t make it any less difficult to tell her: “I don’t want to jeopardize your safety, too, Mom.”

He can tell that she wants to yell at him for that, just like she did when he was in high school and she caught him getting high for the first time. She wants to scold him for putting himself into a bad situation, and she should, but she doesn’t. Instead, she just sighs heavily. “Ok. Well how can I help you, Tyson? What can I do?”

“The cabin, up in Oregon. I know Dad wants to rent it out, but we have to get out of the state, Elias isn’t...we aren’t safe here.” Even he can hear the panicked urgency in his voice, and he feels guilty all over again for putting all of this onto his poor mother. It’s all he can do and more to choke back his tears. He spills a little bit of gas next to his shoes as he puts the nozzle away, and as he leans against the car, he stares hard at it, to have something to focus on, to not have to look at blood on his shoes. “Please, Mom.”

“You can come pick up the keys tonight.” He nearly sobs with relief, but before he can thank her she says: “But Tyson. You’re going to explain this more to me when you get here.”

“I will. I promise.” He turns and looks back into the car, Elias is waking up, sitting up and looking around in confusion when he doesn’t immediately see Tyson. He taps gently on the window to get his attention, waves at him when he looks over. The tension drops from his shoulders and he waves back with a tired smile. “I’ll be there soon. Thank you.”

Elias is stretching out a little when Tyson gets back into the car, rubbing his eyes. “Who were you talking to?” He asks innocently. After Tyson starts the car and pulls out of the gas station, he reaches over to take Elias’s hand again, and it makes him smile to himself.

“My mom.” He laughs tiredly, shaking his head to himself. “I forgot to ask, do you wanna go meet my family?”

Elias’s hand tightens around Tyson’s just a little, anxious at even the thought of it. “Uh...well the situation i-isn’t...ideal…”

“I know, love. But I have to go there so I can get the keys to the place we’re going. And they all want to meet you. I think my mom has for a while.” He steals a quick glance at Elias, huffing at his nervous wide-eyed stare. It’s only on occasion that he sees this look on Elias anymore, and almost every time in the past it’s been because of a nightmare or a panic attack or something August-related. And Tyson hasn’t seen it on him in a while because he’s doing better. Was doing better, that is, until today. Even before Elias had shown up earlier, there was no doubt in Tyson’s mind that seeing August again, regardless of how things could’ve ended there, would make Elias relapse, at least a little. “Elias, it’s ok. We’ll only be there a minute, alright?”

“I want to meet them!” Elias protests. “I-I wanna...I wanna sit down and meet them and talk to them but not...not like…” He brings his free hand up to his throat, fingers pressing down just enough to feel the weight of something there, and he’s hit with instant nausea as he realizes what he’s doing. He can barely finish the rest of his thought in a broken whisper, “not like this, Ty.”

Tyson’s jaw clenches, he turns his eyes back to the road quickly. Elias is thinking about his collar, Elias is thinking about how he isn’t a person, Elias isn’t Elias anymore, Tyson is going to lose him again. He let’s go of Elias’s hand and steers off to the side of the road, throwing the car into park as quickly as he can.

“Wh-what are you-?”

“Get in the back, Eli.” Tyson orders, flings his seatbelt off of himself before opening the door. He takes a few deep breaths of fresh air to calm himself. It’s late afternoon, the sun hasn’t even gone down yet. It somehow feels like it’s been days since he left work earlier that morning. And they still have an hour to drive to his childhood home, then another ten or so until they get to Oregon. Stopping like this is only going to stretch that time further, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s got to fix this before it gets worse, before Elias stops eating, sleeping, and talking again.

Thankfully, Elias is already in the back when Tyson pulls himself together enough to open the door, staring at his hands in his lap with a frown on his face. When Tyson slides into the seat next to him and shuts the door, he flinches.

“Are y-you mad at me?” He grumbles, trying (and failing) to sound annoyed rather than dejected and scared. He’s not so good at turning his fear into anger anymore, a few swift kicks to the ribs and several bloody noses fixed that issue pretty quickly.

“No, angel. I just wanna make you feel better. Can I?”

Now, Elias snaps his head up to look at Tyson, like the tenderness in his voice frightens him more than the muted slam of the door seconds ago. “But I’m fine.”

Tyson reaches past him to grab the first aid kit again. Elias can’t help but look down at his body to check for blood, there’s been quite a few times he’s been injured and just failed to realize it until someone pointed it out, so used to living in pain that it all blurred together. He blinks as Tyson reaches up to turn the light on, since it’s gotten a little overcast since they were stopped earlier, and moves closer. “You got to fix me up, it’s your turn now.”

“I-I’m not hurt, Tyson.”

“I know. Can I take off your shirt?” He can see Elias’s eyes flick down to check Tyson’s hands, only to see them unmoving, not reaching or grabbing yet, actually waiting for Elias to answer.

“What are you talking about? You’re confusing m-me.” Tyson only gets closer, Elias almost jumps away from him when he reaches out to brush his fingertips against his cheek. Elias trembles at the touch, at the closeness. “Ty?”

“Just trust me, Eli,” he whispers, then, even softer and in a way that forces all of the air from Elias’s lungs, “you know I wouldn’t ever hurt you. Trust me.”

That’s all it takes to get Elias to offer up a weak nod, and Tyson slips his shirt over his head and drapes it over the headrest. He mimics the way Elias bandaged him up earlier, focusing hard and being extremely careful as he applies bandaids over Elias’s most visible scars. At first, Elias is stunned into silence, simply watching Tyson fix up injuries that hadn’t ever seen such gentle tenderness, that were now long healed. Except, maybe they weren’t actually healed, because as Tyson continues, Elias swears that there’s a pain deep underneath his skin that feels like it’s melting away with each fleeting touch. Or maybe he was hurt by August today too, just not in the same way that Tyson was, not in a way that either of them could see. Then Elias cries, just in quiet sniffles at first, and after that soft whimpers and occasional sobs. Tyson lets him, doesn’t say anything except “I know, it’s ok”. When he’s finished, Tyson sets the first aid box aside and pulls Elias a little closer, pressing his lips over the sensitive skin on his throat. He can feel him gasping feebly as he does. He tells Elias he loves him, because that seems to snap him out of his poisoned thoughts sometimes. Elias can’t even respond right away, so Tyson pulls off of him entirely and hands him his shirt.

After he’s covered himself up, he leans against the door and looks at Tyson, his face a mess of tears, his hands shaking just slightly. Silence between them at times like these makes Tyson’s insides ache in self doubt. Did he say the wrong thing? Did he make Elias feel worse? But then Elias is wiping his tears away with the sleeves of his shirt and pushing himself away from the door so he can wrap his arms around Tyson’s neck and get closer, and he’s kissing him right on the mouth and he’s smiling and he’s saying he loves Tyson right back (but he’s an idiot for wasting all the bandages), and everything is ok in the world, for those few minutes.

-----------------------------------------

When Tyson pulls into the driveway to his childhood home, he can’t help but feel a little bitter that it’s under these circumstances that he’s visiting his family, bringing Elias to meet them. He’d always imagined it differently, maybe over a nice dinner or during a holiday, not on the run from August and covered in cuts. There isn’t any doubt in his mind that his parents will love Elias, but he worries that the situation will taint it, and they won’t ever get to do this over, and he can’t believe that August was able to somehow ruin even this for them.

“If you really want to, you can stay in the car.” He tells Elias. He doesn’t seem as overwhelmed anymore, although when Tyson looks over at him he is fiddling nervously with his seatbelt, like he isn’t quite sure if he wants to take it off or not. “I know that this is a lot-”

“I want to meet them, Ty. I want to.” He looks up at Tyson, his huge blue eyes scanning his boyfriend’s features anxiously. When he finds Tyson staring back at him with the same amount of uneasiness, he pointedly throws his seatbelt off and leans toward him. “It’ll be ok,” he murmurs softly, reaching out to try and comfort Tyson with his fingertips trailing over his jawline, “I know this sucks, but at least we’re together. And...and everything is ok cause we’re together. Right?”

Tyson smiles at him, feels his heart swell at Elias’s newfound optimism. “Thank you, Eli. That’s exactly what I needed to hear.” He relaxes, earning him a grin from his boyfriend. He’s still covered in bandaids like Tyson, despite no new visible injuries, his eyes are red rimmed from crying, and Tyson is sure that he feels a lot worse than he looks, physically. And yet, here he is, comforting Tyson as best as his nervous voice will allow him.

When Tyson’s mother throws open the welcoming robin’s egg blue door, Elias feels like he wants to turn and run. He’s discouraged that it only takes about a second of a stranger’s eyes on him to make him spiral back into the familiar aching to hide himself away from everyone, never let them see the mutilated monster August made him into. But, he reminds himself, this isn’t a stranger, it’s Tyson’s mother. This is the woman who put his favorite person in the same world as him, the woman who’s probably responsible for the kindness and patience that Elias is grateful for (and undeserving of, if he’s being honest), every single day. In the end, the burning desire to shut himself away from any consuming eyes is nothing compared to how badly Elias wants to meet her.

Upon seeing both of them in their exhausted, miserable states, her brow draws into a tight frown, and she lets out a disdainful huff. She doesn’t voice the very obvious scornfulness, though, instead she steps forward, her tight curls bouncing slightly as she does, and draws her son into a hug.

Elias winces for Tyson, knowing how his mom is undoubtedly reigniting the pain of all the injuries she can’t see. She doesn’t know better, it’s not like he told her beforehand that he was hurt, and Elias can’t stop himself before he mutters out a weak: “C-careful.”

Her deep mocha eyes, the same color and shape as Tyson’s, he must have gotten that from her, are directed at Elias now, and there’s a brief second he expects her to scold him for trying to tell her what to do.

“You must be Elias,” she says through a smile, “I’ve been so eager to meet you. Tyson never stops talking about you. That is, when he has the time to call.” She throws a teasing look at Tyson, and Elias hears him chuckle weakly. “Come in, I’m finishing up dinner right now.”

Elias follows on Tyson’s heels into the house, looking around at the pictures of Tyson and all his siblings hung up on the wall, the trophies and art work and someone’s diploma. There are other decorations too, things that don’t look like they have any personal value but are just placed here and there to look nice. It looks like a home, where people are together and happy that way. Elias tries to remember his childhood home, where he lived with his parents before they surrendered him to the state. He doesn’t think it looked like this, really all he can recall from that place is being told to never touch the surplus of needles lying around and trying to help his parents to their bed when they nodded off on the couch. He remembers the fridge being empty always and the electricity off often. He doesn’t ever remember that dark, empty place as home, it was more of his introduction to the nightmare life could be. Elias feels like he vaguely remembers the feeling of being inside of that house the day he died, right before he saw Tyson, seconds after August’s face was blotched out of his vision. Or maybe it was minutes after that, really Elias didn’t know how long he’d been out for, it simultaneously felt like years and less than a blink of an eye.

“Eli?” Tyson asks him in a hushed voice, snapping him out of his wide eyed, tortured gaze scanning the house. He realizes then that his shoulders are tense and high, his hands balled up into tight fists. He doesn’t relax when he realizes, like he usually would try to do, he just keeps himself rigid and focuses hard on his muscles, on keeping them still. He’s biting his tongue, he can feel the shadow of a scar when it touches his molar. “Are you alright, love?”

Tyson’s mother is looking at him now too, she looks just as concerned as her son. Elias flinches under their stares. “I’m… fine. But uh.. I just...j-just….um, bathroom? P-please?”

His nervous stammering and trembling voice immediately coaxes Tyson to grab his hand gently, and Elias can hear his mom gasping softly when Elias jumps away from him just a little. “Shit, sorry. Sorry!” He cringes hard, ducking his head.

“I’ll show you where it is,” Tyson mumbles gently, and he’s smiling when Elias looks up at him, and this time he doesn’t flinch or move when Tyson reaches out to touch him, fingers trailing over his cheekbone. “Come on, this way.”

Elias can only nod his head a little, and then he’s following Tyson down a long hallway as he tells his mom that they will come to the kitchen in a few minutes. They eventually come to a door, and Tyson opens it and flicks the light on for Elias, then stops him in the doorway. “Elias, are you sure you’re ok? If you want to-”

“I’m fine!” He insists, wincing at the very obvious desperation that taints every syllable. “I promise I j-just need a sec-shit-second, please.”

So Tyson gives in, steps out of the way, and watches Elias close the door. He hopes he doesn’t find a razor in there, then feels guilty for even worrying about that, because Elias has been doing so well. He knows that if he stays at the door he’ll worry himself sick, and he might make Elias worse if he acts like he can’t do something as simple as going to the bathroom on his own, so he steps away slowly and goes to find his mother again. While he looks for her, he searches his head for ways that he can give her some sort of explanation without so much gory detail.

Elias emerges from the bathroom minutes later, hovering in the hallway before he actually commits to finding Tyson. The pep talk he was giving himself in front of the mirror is proving to be less than effective, now that he’s no longer safely behind the locked door. He can hear soft voices carrying from the kitchen, he wonders what Tyson’s mom is going to think of him after learning he caused all of them so much turmoil by going with August to France. He wonders if she’ll hate him for leading that monster right to her son. After all, he hates himself for it, so why wouldn’t she? But he figures that if she does hate him for it, it might be best for him to start his apology now, and so he stalks down the hallway with his posture dragged down by guilt.

“-I’m just so tired of worrying that I’m going to lose him,” Tyson is saying when Elias finds him. He’s sitting at the dining table with his mother, his head in his hands as she rubs his back. Neither of them notice him standing in the doorway, but it feels wrong to interrupt such an emotional moment, so he just freezes up and listens. “I want to take him somewhere safe, where we don’t have to think about it anymore. He deserves that, he deserves to feel safe.”

“You both deserve that.” His mother answers, and Elias notices that her voice is breaking up and her eyes are wet with tears. “And your dad and I owe it to you to help you two in every way we can. You know that. But you have to tell us what’s going on before it gets to this point.”

“I-I know.”

It knocks the breath out of Elias’s lungs when he realizes that Tyson is crying, too. He can’t hide in the doorway anymore, blowing his cover by stepping forward and brushing his fingertips against Tyson’s back. His mother pulls away from him to allow Elias more access to his boyfriend, and before Tyson has the chance to turn around, Elias wraps his arms around his broad shoulders and hugs him close. He can hear Tyson sniffling, trying to clear his throat, and Elias kisses his cheek softly.

“I love you, Ty.” He forces out in a mangled whisper, pulling away enough to allow Tyson to turn around and look at him. Elias takes a deep breath before wiping his tears away with trembling fingers. It makes Tyson smile, and that’s all that Elias can hope for.

Sitting through dinner after that is painful. Elias keeps looking through the doorway of the kitchen to the front door, expecting a bloody August to kick it down any second and ruin things all over again. Tyson isn’t exactly invested in any conversation, either, he feels just as on edge as Elias looks. Neither of them can find it in them to eat around the burning pits of anxiety in their stomach, Tyson’s mother doesn’t say anything about it as she collects their plates.

“Are you sure you boys can’t stay for just a little longer?” She asks them as she rinses off the dishes from their meal. “It’s been so long, your father should be home in an hour or two. I’m sure he’d like to meet Elias, too.”

Again, Tyson is nearly suffocated by the guilt of doing this to his poor parents; dropping such an intense bomb on them after months of hardly any contact only to disappear right after is the last thing he wants to be doing. But August wasn’t fatally injured, and staying in the same spot for too long was the same mistake that led him right to them the last two times. It just isn’t a risk he’s willing to take, especially not with his parents.

“I’m sorry, Ma, I really wish we could.” He grumbles, pushing the chair away from the table to stand up. Elias jumps at the sound of the chair scraping against the floor, then he stands as well. “It’s a…a long drive, we should probably start before it gets too late.”

Tyson’s mother sighs, drys her hands on her jeans, and then steps around the table to hug Tyson. “You call me as soon as you get there, ok? And if you get tired you stop somewhere and rest, the last thing you need is an accident.” She pulls away and watches her son nod, then she turns her focus to Elias.

He straightens out his spine just a little once her eyes are on him, and then he clears his throat awkwardly. “Thank you, Mrs. Banks-”

“Mrs. Banks?!” She laughs, shaking her head to herself. “Please, darling, we’re family now, you can call me Ma or Mom or Kathy. Mrs. Banks just makes me feel old.”

Elias only stares at her, lip caught in between his teeth as he tries to process the idea of calling anyone Mom. It makes his chest ache, he wants to punch a hole through a wall, he wants to tear his own skin right off the bone, he wants to find his own mother and scream right in her face and make her feel just as shitty as he does. Instead, he finally settles for just nodding at her, and then before he can shove any more of the painfully raw feelings to the back of his brain and move past it, she steps forward and hugs him.

Elias hadn’t ever realized before that he has no memory of his mom hugging him.

He waits until they’re back in the car and far away from Kathy to cry, and even then it only comes out in a few measly tears and a soreness in his throat that he can’t seem to breathe around too well, so he’s able to hide it from Tyson. After that, he focuses on the road, the music Tyson is letting play softly through the speakers, and the idea that, soon, they will be far away from August.

[ladynightmare913]

Red Rose, Blood Moon

Greetings and welcome to Chapter 13! I apologize for the long wait but, reality got in the way of my story weaving. I have been doing much self-reflecting and I wasn't content with how it portrayed me. But after much deliberation, I decided to change the appearance of my blog until it showed what I felt is my reflection and made me happy. But do not worry, I have returned and links have been updated on the Masterlist.

This is an original story inspired by the tale of Red Riding Hood. As always, I would like to a special thank you to my best friend Olivia (@asunshinepuff ) for joining me in writing this world onto paper.

CW: This chapter contains a brief mention of gore, gruesome descriptions, creatures, fire, and things you can imagine in your nightmares! You have your warning!

This story contains only original characters created by Olivia and myself. For those who want to be tagged, feel free to send an ask to me or Olivia on her blog. If you have any questions, theories, or curiosities about any of our characters or how the story will progress, send them to the ask box!

Now without further Adieu!

Chapter 13: A Burning Night

The group gathered their belongings and traveled to the port of the river. The ferry they managed to secure passage from was not the most pleasant looking. The lumber was mellow and dull. It was fairly large, able to carry a hefty number of passengers, including a few horses.

Felis grumbled as they boarded the boat. Making comments here and there, saying his ship was far superior and making the occasional snarky remark. He would not allow the comparison of his “child” to this wreck of a boat, thank you very much. Who on top of it all, most probably had an inadequate captain. Cassandra simply rolled her eyes each time with a shake of her head, agreeing occasionally with Felis in order to finally get him to stop grumbling.

Rosabella walked behind the bickering couple, ensuring that neither Felis nor Cassandra was lost in the crowd. She would occasionally look behind her, not trusting Red to fade away into the crowd the moment she got distracted. She looked ahead, it made her uneasy, the way he would lag behind, and every time she turned to look at him, he would be looking right back. As if he was rather unimpressed that her consistent need to check on him was an offense.

Still, she supposed, Red still hadn’t made any mention of what occurred in the springs, to which was eternally grateful, she doubted she could live with the embarrassment. She would be mortified if anyone knew. Reluctantly, Rosabella hasn’t omitted to acknowledge that he has been acting like a gentleman about it. Now Rosabella prayed that it would remain that way.

Once they boarded the ship, along with their horses, there were few cabins so Cassandra and Rosabella would share one. Felis and Red would loiter about on deck. The ferry took sail just before the sun began to rise. Felis took to friendly conversation with fellow passengers, trying to get more intel about the missing persons and if anyone else had seen strange creatures. Red took to watching from afar. After getting a few hours of sleep, Cassandra and Rosabella joined the men when meals were offered.

The meal was noisy, but none of the lot weren’t used to it. Picking up a few choice words from the fellow passengers about mysterious figures walking in the woods at night. They would never respond to anyone’s calls.

“The strangest thing about them, I swear is their eyes. Glowing red they were.” One traveler revealed, “Twisted looking things, I bet it be another form of those thirsty bloodsuckers.”

“Do you mean the Night Stalkers?” Rosabella offered. She knew many creatures that feasted on human blood.

“I mean Vampires.” The man corrected gruffly. Unease when she spoke to him with ease. “You don’t suppose they moved into France do you?” he asked the other men.

“Oh, they’re already here.” One man commented. Some men choked on their food. Rosabella thought it best to not say anything. Felis and Cassandra’s silence was answer enough. Red scoffed. Sapphire eyes followed him as he rose from his seat before he left. After the meal, Rosabella searched for Red. She found him leaning against the wall, staring out to the water. She didn’t bother to announce her presence, she knew he would have heard her approaching long before he saw her.

“Will you not sleep?” She asks softly, stepping closer.

“Not if I can help it.” Only his eyes moved to look at her. “I don’t trust others, so I don’t sleep.”

“Surely you don’t doubt that we could keep watch while you slept?” She inquired.

His head tightly towards her, his eyes were scrutinizing her. “Is there something you needed?”

Rosabella did her best not to feel affronted at his shift in tone. She sighed deeply, she extended her arm, his cloak in her hands. “I simply wanted to return this to you.” Though she doubted he needed it, she could feel the heat burning off of him from where she stood.

His gaze relaxed, wordlessly accepting his cloak, and put it on before he carried on looking out to the river.

“And to thank you, for not saying anything about what happened.” She said sincerely, he didn’t say anything in response.

Rosabella placed her hands behind her as she leaned back to the wall. She was a respectable distance away from him. Looking out to the river, they stayed there in silence, and snow began to fall.

“Have you encountered vampires before?” Rosabella spoke gently.

“Yes.” He shifted, crossing a leg over the other.

“When?” She asked.

“Not that many years ago. Contrary to what people believe, vampires are not an old race. They’re new.”

“Really?” Her eyes blinked in bewilderment. “How do you know?”

“I’ve traveled far, I’ve met creatures older than myself. Vampires are young compared to the rest of us.”

She frowned at that. “Most people say they are terrifying, creatures of seduction and immense power.”

“I know of more powerful and terrifying creatures, Vampires are just overgrown mosquitoes. Vampires are entitled children, who play with their food. Get offended when their food supply fights back. ” He chuckled dryly.

“Do they fight you?”

“No, they didn’t stick around long enough to find out. They usually avoid us.” He looked to Rosabella.

“Us?” She leaned forward, her head faced towards him.

“The other old creatures and I. The oldest vampire would only be roughly three hundred years old.”

“I heard of wolves and vampires fighting each other. Is that true?”

“Yes. The vampires have no qualms about fighting any wolf that isn’t me.”

“Sounds like you don’t like them,” Rosabella nodded slowly, looking back to the water, “the other wolves.”

“To be frank, I don’t like anyone. Why would I make them the exception?” He eyed her skeptically.

“Because they are your kin?” She offered with sincere eyes.

“They are not my kin. I want nothing to do with them.” He replied coldly.

Disconcerted, she paused. “I would give anything to have kin,” she leaned back to the wall, her eyes solemn, “It’s the only thing I have ever wanted more than anything in my whole life. To not be alone.”

Red frowned, “What about your grandmother?”

“She adopted me.”

Red said nothing, only gazing down at her with an assessing gaze. “What about your friend Cassandra? She-”

“Will marry Felis. They will have a family. They will want to live their lives, and I will not interfere. Cassandra wouldn’t let me, but it wouldn't be right if I did.” She interrupted, her head turned to look at Red. “And I will be left to my own devices, they would never mean to leave me, but it is to be expected.”

“You sound like you’ve resigned yourself from finding your own pair.” He assessed. “Which is strange for women your age. You seem certain of it.”

“I am. I am something that men would find improper of a wife, and when they learn the truth,” she paused, looking back to the river, “I don't even know what I am. No one knows. I suppose that is why I have been searching for my kin for years, hoping that they would have answers.”

Rosabella looked down. They stayed silent for a long moment, staring out at the river. Red’s lips parted to speak before Rosabella interrupted.

“Goodnight Red.” She stepped away from the wall, walking to her cabin. Nox looked back to Red from his perch on her shoulders, ears perked up. Red stared out to the river. Rosabella went to bed, Nox curled beside her.

A monstrous roar resonated in the chill of the air. A scream. A struggle, and the sound of glass shattering to the ground. Flames spread across the ferry. Rosabella woke to the smell of smoke. Her sapphire eyes wide at the state of their cabin. Cassandra was already out of bed and standing, Lumi clung tightly to Cassandra’s arm as she hurriedly gathered what she could.

Rosabella was quick to her feet, Nox curled tightly on her shoulders, chirping as the women escaped their burning room and froze at the sight of the ship, Rosabella recoiled at the stench of burning flesh and the agonized screams of the ferrymen as they fell into the water. Stricken at the sight of the men, the women pushed themselves to flee. They came across Felis, whose eyes locked onto Cassandra. The pirate rushed spotting them over the sea of panicked passengers and rushed towards them.

“Cassandra!” His frantic eyes, his hand gently cupping her cheek. “Are you alright?”

Cassandra gives a meek smile, eyes softening briefly at the frantic look in his eyes, raising her hand to his on her cheek. “I’m alright. There’s no need to fuss, but we need to go.” Grasping the pirate’s hand, she pulled him along to find a way off this burning ferry.

“Where’s Red?” Rosabella called out as followed the couple.

“I don’t know, I ran to look for you when I saw the flames,” Felis responded.

Rosabella glared at Felis’ head. “You left him alone?!”

“Well excuse me for coming to your aid and leaving a grown man alone for a minute!” Felis replied as he turned a corner.

“And you didn’t think for one moment that leaving the Father of Werewolves to his own devices was a bad idea?!”

“To his own devices?! This wreck of a boat is in flames! I doubt he could do anything in this chaos!” The pirate retorted.

“When this is over, remind me to slap him, Cassandra,” Rosabella said.

Cassandra grinned. “Will do.”

The group turned at the final corner, stopping when their path was blocked by the creatures from back at the hot springs in Mirstone, in flames. Rosabella blanched.

“What are those things?!” Felis sneered at the smell of burning flesh. “They smell like fish vomit.”

“Fish vomit?” Cassandra asked in confusion. Looking back and forth at the burning creatures and the pirate.

“How did they even get on the ferry?” Rosabella muttered to herself.

“Don’t know,” Cassandra grimaced. “I hate that they're on fire, and they reek of dark magic!”

“We should probably abandon ship now,” Red spoke from behind the group. Catching the three off guard.

Rosabella sighed in relief. “Where were you?” She asked as Red walked toward them.

“Helping passengers and horses off.”

“By helping, do you mean throwing them overboard,” Felis interjected.

“Do you recommend they stay on the ferry and burn?” Red glance at the pirate.

“Alright, right now is not the time for this!” Cassandra yelled as she leaned over the railing, frowning. “They took all the lifeboats!”

“Oh great, now what are we going to do?” Felis exclaimed with a slight roll of his eyes.

Red looked at Rosabella. “I really hope you know how to swim.”

“What?” Her brows creased in confusion.

Red moves his arm under Rosabella’s legs and the other supporting her back, then lifts her with ease. Her eyes widened in shock. Red turns quickly and tosses her overboard. Rosabella let out a small yelp as she fell into the freezing water.

Red turned to look at the pirate and sorceress. Cassandra immediately backed away from the wolf.

“Don’t you dare. I’ll throw myself off, thank you.” Cassandra glared as she climbed over the railing, and jumped into the river.

Felis turned to Red. “After you.”

“Ladies first.” Red smirked as he pushed Felis off, Red climbing over just as the creatures reached where they stood.

The group swam until they reached shore, and watched as the ferry sunk below the freezing river.

“It’s f-freezing.” Felis stuttered out as he shivered as he stomped out of the water, his arms crossed as he sat on a log.

“It’s the m-middle of winter, w-what were you e-expecting?!” Cassandra retorted, rubbing her arms as she walked towards the shivering pirate. Lumi swimming close behind her, and shaking off his fur once he reached dry land.

“Cassandra, p-please light a fire.” Rosabella looked at her sister while she soothed the horses that reached the shoreline before they did. Nox curled tightly on her shoulders for warmth.

The sorceress nodded before walking to the log Felis sat on. “Felis, I need your seat.”

“Find your own log.”

“Do you want to warm up or not?” She gave a pointed look.

Felis grumbled as he rose from his seat and watched as Cassandra crouched down, placing her hand above the wood, after a few brief seconds it ignited into bright purple flames.

Red walked out from the river and didn’t stop until he reached the trees.

“Where’s he going?” Rosabella asked her comrades.

“Probably to get away from the horses. They smell.” Felis answered

Gypsy gave an offended nicker. Felis stuck his tongue out.

“Leave him be for now. Handling one man-child is enough.” Cassandra teased, pulling her hand away from the fire as she stood up.

Rosabella sighed, taking a seat next to the burning log, warming her hands and petting Nox’s head. Cassandra sat close to the pirate. Lumi began snarling at Felis, who in turn hissed right back at the little ermine. Rolling her eyes, Cassandra scolds the two, prompting them to behave.

“Are you my fiancé or my child?” Cassandra inquired.

“At this current moment, probably your child.”

They sat in silence for a long while, finally warm and dry. Red still had not returned. The silence ended at the sound of grumbling. Cassandra, Rosabella, and a few horses all turned to look at the pirate.

“... What? I’m hungry. Swimming works up an appetite.” Felis admitted.

“Definitely a child.” Cassandra sighed as she rubbed her temple.

Rosabella smiled softly as she rose to her feet. “While I’ll go find us something to eat, I’ll look for Red.”

“Can we have venison?” Felis asked, Cassandra elbowed him.

Rosabella laughed softly as she walked into the woods. Nox happily trotting behind her. Both woman and sable walked for a long while, finding a few berries and mushrooms that weren’t poisonous. But no deer. Rosabella hummed in thought, she looked down to Nox.

“Well it looks like I’ll have to hunt as a wolf now won’t I?”

Nox gave a chirp, Rosabella accepted it as affirmation. With nothing much left to pick from bushes, Rosabella shifted into a wolf. She was far larger than any of the horses back at the campfire. Nox quickly climbed onto the wolf’s back, and off they went in search of food.

It didn’t take long for the she-wolf to find a wandering stag. Nor did it take long for her to claim her prize. Carrying the dead stag in her jaws, she trotted back to camp. Nox chirping happily on her head.

Nearing the clearing of the forest, Rosabella turned back to her human form but froze when caught Red’s scent. Her eyes darted to the blonde man, who stood beside a large oak tree. There he stood, eyes wide.

“You’re a wolf?”

Tag List: Let me know if you wish to be added!

@waltzintherain @spookypotato @purple-amaranthe

[spencersstrawberryjello]

Potential Lead (Chapter Two)

Chapter Two - You Might Be Right

Previous Chapter < - > Next Chapter

Summary: After a four am call with Spencer, Lex rushes into the local police station to help him out with the case. 

Warnings: Descriptions of graphic violence!!, swearing, mentions of the Tobias Hankel case (season two), and brief mentions of psychotic breaks and mental instability

Word Count: 3433

A/N: Here’s a link to the crime scene diagram that I drew up! (CW: More descriptions of violence, as well as a visual depiction of a map of a crime scene - no actual blood or gore, just red pen and a house floor-plan). On the side I wrote out some further information on cause of death that wasn’t mentioned in the chapter.

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I planned to call Dr. Spencer Reid in the morning to get an update on the case. He said they were speaking with Brian, and I was far too invested in what that scumbag had to say for himself.

What I hadn’t planned for, though, was to receive a call from the very same Dr. Spencer Reid, around four in the morning.

“Lex? Are you up?”

“What the fuck - Dr. Reid? What time is it?”

“Like four or something, I don’t know; listen, I’m sorry to wake you, but I think you might be right.”

“As much as I love to hear that, I’m gonna need you to be more specific.”

“Right about Brian, about your sister, the murder, all of it. I think you might be right.”

“Well shit.” I was fully awake now, sitting up in my bed as I’m sure he paced in front of a whiteboard somewhere downtown.

“Can you come in? Like, to the police station.”

“Now? Dr. Reid, you are aware that it’s four in the morning?”

“Lex, please just call me Spencer. And I know, I know and I’m sorry, but you’re our best lead on this so far. You saw what your sister’s marriage did to the both of you, and you know what you’re talking about. Like I said, I think you’re right. But we need to prove it.”

“What does the rest of your team think about this?” As much as I was already dying to jump back into this mystery, I really didn’t want the wrath of the FBI on my ass.

“They’re at the hotel right now, I couldn’t sleep - I’ll explain everything to them in the morning, but right now I need your help.”

“Spencer… why is this so urgent? What aren’t you telling me?”

“We had to let Brian go.”

“What? That douchebag killed someone and you let him leave?”

“We didn’t have any cause to keep him in holding! We have to let people go after 24 hours -”

“I know how the criminal justice system works, Spencer. Do you think there’s a chance he’ll kill again?”

“I - there’s a chance. Based on some stuff we found at the crime scene -”

That was all I needed to hear. If there was a chance this asshole could kill someone else, I wasn’t going to go back to sleep. “Fucking hell - I’m on my way.”

As much as my exhausted body protested, I practically jumped out of bed, pulling on a t-shirt and some jean shorts before grabbing a jacket and gym shoes and heading out to my car. It was pitch black outside, the streets of Tallahassee surprisingly quiet for a Saturday night. The hot air hit me the second I left my building, and I internally groaned, speeding up my walk to my car so I could reach the safety of the air conditioning.

I sped out of the parking lot, air conditioning cranked despite the lack of sunlight outside. There was a little voice in the back of my head telling me that I should’ve spent more time on this outfit, or put on a bit of makeup, but I pushed it away, filling my head with thoughts of the case instead. Spencer wouldn’t care if I looked a little bedraggled.

Not that I cared what Spencer thought, of course.

The police station was about twenty minutes from my apartment complex, but I got there in fifteen, swinging into the parking lot and shutting off my car before making my way to the front door. I considered knocking, but I wasn’t sure who else was working this late. So I opted to text Spencer instead.

I still had his number from when he called me earlier, and I shot him a quick text to let him know I was here. No less than a minute later, he was at the front door, opening it up to allow me inside.

“Hey - I’m sorry about this, I really shouldn’t have called you so late. Honestly, if you want to go home, I’d understand; I don’t know what I was thinking, there’s no reason to make you -”

“Spencer. You didn’t ‘make me’ do anything. Trust me, if I didn’t want to help, I would’ve told you as much. I’m not one for secrets.”

He smiled a bit, and I offered him a reassuring one back. “Well, I’m still sorry,” He said, “But the case information is all in here. Follow me.”

He led me back through the main hallway that Penelope Garcia had walked me down yesterday, but instead of turning right at the fork to go to the interrogation rooms, he went left, leading me to a series of empty conference rooms. One of them had multiple large rolling whiteboards up against the farthest wall, most of which were covered in pictures and writing. That was the room that he walked towards, before he turned and blocked me from getting through the doorway.

“Ok. So, I know that you know your sister is dead. And I know you know she was most likely murdered by her husband. But… you haven’t seen the crime scene. You haven’t seen exactly why we were called in. We don’t just get called in for regular homicides. There has to be a specific behavioral element, something that would make the local police believe they’d have more luck solving the case if they had a profile on the killer.”

I knew a bit about criminal justice, and behavioral science, from a couple classes I took my senior year of college. But I didn’t know much about the BAU, and the dead serious look on Spencer’s face was making me uneasy.

“So what you’re saying is… this isn’t gonna be pretty.”

“In layman’s terms, yes, this isn’t gonna be pretty. So I want to make absolutely sure that you want to help, that you’re ok with seeing stuff like that. That you’re ok with seeing your sister like that.”

Yes, I fucking hated my sister. But I was still hesitant to enter that room. Spencer could tell, because he followed up with.

“If you’re not comfortable with that, if you’d rather not have those images in your head, you can go home right now and forget I ever called you in here. We’ll update you on the results of the case, and you don’t have to be involved. It’s up to you.”

I shook my head. As hesitant as I was, there was no way I could leave now. I was far too invested. “No, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? 100%?”

“Yes, Spencer. I’ll be ok.”

“Ok.” He nodded, turning around and heading into the room, making a beeline for the boards. I followed him, trying to figure out what could possibly be so bad that he would need to give me that kind of warning.

Now, I consider myself to be a pretty tough person. There wasn’t a lot that could phase me, I generally took a ‘go with the flow,’ nonchalant approach to life. But when I saw the crime scene pictures stuck to that board, I felt my face pale.

“Holy… fuck - you really think Brian is capable of this? I mean, he’s a dick, and I can fully believe he’s capable of murder, but… god -”

The pictures in front of me depicted a brutal scene… honestly, I’d never seen anything like it. They centered around one image: my sister, dead, on the kitchen floor. Her body was slumped up against the island, blood pooling around her. The other pictures also showed most of the blood spattered on the lower cabinets across from her body, but it was still pretty much everywhere around her. She appeared to have been stabbed multiple times, and yet, despite all the blood, there wasn’t a single fingerprint, footprint, hair - nothing that could point to the murderer. Nothing that I could see in the pictures, at least. I felt my heart start to pick up as I studied the scene, and I turned away, steadying my breathing and trying to fight back unexpected tears that pricked the corners of my eyes. When I glanced over at Spencer though, he wasn’t even looking at me. He was reading a file in front of him, responding to my question as he read.

“Well, I know that our prevailing theory is that he killed her in a fit of rage. But based on the overkill at the crime scene, I feel like something inside him might’ve snapped when he committed the murder.”

I regained control of my breathing enough to ask, “Like, a psychotic break?”

“Something like that, yeah. Which is why I’m so concerned. With this level of brutality, there’s a high probability that he’s already mentally devolving, and he could potentially go on to target other women who haven’t been able to follow through with their pregnancies.” He put the file down and finally turned to look at me, noticing my expression as I steadied myself on one of the conference table chairs.

“Lex, are you ok?”

“I’m fine. It’s just more gruesome than I expected it to be. I’ll be ok,” I insisted when his face fell, “It just caught me off guard.”

“I know, that’s why I warned you - are you sure you’re alright? Do you want… a hug? Or water, or something? I don’t know -”

I smiled a bit, my heart warming against my will at his concern. But my mind quickly dipped back into a territory that was a familiar distraction, and I smirked.

“As much as I’d love your hands on my body, I think I’ll have to take you up on that offer another time.”

He blushed, and I laughed, taking in a deep breath before returning my attention to the pictures on the board.

“Ok. So, what all do I need to know? Like, what’s going on here? Because from what I can tell, she was stabbed, and this guy - assuming it’s Brian, of course - fucking knows what he’s doing. No fingerprints, footprints, anything?”

“Nothing. The CSI team searched the entire house. The only noteworthy thing that we found were trace amounts of the victim - Sarah, sorry - her blood in the bathroom sink, in the bathroom across the hall from the kitchen. But there’s nothing at the crime scene that can directly connect the crime to anyone specific.”

“So how the hell are we going to prove it’s him?”

“Well, we always try to come into every case with no suspects in mind, so that it doesn’t impact our profile at all. Brian was the police’s prime suspect, he has been since the beginning - the husband almost always is, in these scenarios, unless they have a really good alibi - and I think he looks good for it now, but we didn’t know that when writing this.”

He handed me the file he’d been reading, open to a page that was a written account of their original profile.

“This is where I feel like you can help us most; I mean, you met Brian, didn’t you? Like, you attended their wedding, at the very least?”

“I met him a grand total of one time, at the wedding. I wasn’t in the wedding party, but I met him when I was talking to Sarah. He pretty much avoided me the whole time, which in retrospect, should’ve been a red flag, but I guess I didn’t really notice. When I did talk to him though, he was really rude. Like, he’d give me curt, one word answers, and then directly after disengaging from conversation with me, he’d turn around and start whispering to some of his buddies that were in the wedding party - the best man and all that shit - and gestured towards me. I still have no idea what he was saying, honestly.”

“Perfect - I mean, not perfect that he treated you like that, of course, that’s awful, and I’m sorry; I said ‘perfect’ because it means you can confirm that he matches up with the profile behaviorally. My mind kind of jumped ahead -”

“Spence, calm down. I understood what you meant.”

I felt a blush creep up the back of my neck at the accidental nickname, and I saw the same thing happen to him as we both came to an unspoken agreement to ignore it.

“Right. Ok. Um, anyway, would you mind reading over the profile and seeing if you think it sounds like a good description of him? Since you have the most experience with him outside of an interrogation room.”

I agreed, turning my direction to the profile I had in my hands.

The unsub is most likely male, and based on the overkill at the crime scene, most likely someone with a personal connection to the victim. Based on the disorganized nature of the kill, he is probably younger - late teens to early twenties - and has probably never killed before. However, there is a high probability that he is someone with deep rooted anger issues, and that may have caused him some problems in his life before this. He may have a history of issues at work or school from lashing out over small frustrations, and it’s most likely gotten him in trouble throughout his lifetime. Sarah was small, so it wouldn’t be hard to overpower her, but based on the blood spatter patterns, we do know that the unsub is right-handed, and slightly taller than the victim.

I skimmed the rest of the paper - which just contained concluding notes and instructions for local police - before looking back up at Spencer, who was staring at me as I read.

“It definitely sounds like him. I mean, based on what I know about him at least. Like I said, he generally avoided me - though there was this one time when they first started dating, before Sarah cut me off entirely,” The memory came rushing back to me, and I was shocked I hadn’t thought of it sooner, “I had already gone to my room for the night when I heard her return from a date with him. She was crying. I was going to go ask her what was wrong, but my mom beat me to it, seeing as both of my parents were in the living room watching TV when she got back. I heard her telling them that her and Brian had gotten into an argument. I can’t remember what they were arguing about, but the gist of it was that it was something completely ridiculous. And yet, she was crying like he had really hurt her. My parents were consoling her, so I just went back to bed, but honestly it sounds like he could’ve been aggressive, and that’s why she was so upset - I don’t know anything for sure, I only know what I overheard. But it would make sense.”

“But you’re immediately making assumptions to make him fit the profile; that’s exactly why we don’t go into cases with any suspects in mind. It’s an interesting conversation, and I’m happy you remembered it, but we can’t assume he was being aggressive just because your sister was upset.”

“That’s true… so where does that leave us?” I plopped down in one of the chairs, throwing my feet up on the table and laughing when Spencer gave my action the same look of disgust that he did when I put my feet up in the interrogation room.

“Do you think that he fits the profile?” He asked. I nodded.

“The age is a bit off - he’s 27, so it’s more late than early twenties - but everything else fits what I know about him perfectly.”

“Age is the hardest thing to profile, so it would make sense if that’s a little bit off.”

“So you really think he killed Sarah?”

“I mean, all signs point to him - I feel like we at least need to find a way to keep tabs on him. If he is the killer, then he’s devolving. Despite the lack of evidence at the crime scene, the crime itself would still be classified as disorganized, and disorganized crime scenes usually point to the unsub being more unpredictable, unstable. Like I said, I think he might’ve snapped when he killed your sister. Which means that other people could be in danger.”

“Well if people are in danger, then why don’t you tell the police chief or something? We need to get Brian back in here, or at the very least we need to get someone to stay up to date on his location. I don’t know what you guys have jurisdiction to do.”

“I’m not sure we’re going to be able to get him back in here without any actual forensic evidence… I’m calling Hotch right now. Give me a second - hey Hotch,” He had his phone up to his ear, and he filled Hotch in on his thoughts about the case. He paused his profiling for a minute to defend why he was still awake and working, but after about five minutes he hung up the call, turning back to me.

“The team’s on their way.”

“And they know I’m here?” I had heard him tell Hotch that I was, but I wasn’t sure if he was going to tell everyone else.

“Yes; I’m assuming Hotch will fill them in, at least. Your confirmation of the profile is what made him agree to come in - having Brian as a confirmed prime suspect gives us grounds to move forward.”

I nodded my understanding before asking, “When do you think they’ll be here?”

“The hotel they’re staying at is only about five minutes away - we always try to stay in hotels near the police stations in the cities that we’re staying in, that way we’re able to move quickly if we need to. I mean, there was one time where the team stayed directly at the unsub’s house, but that was an… exception.” His face slowly fell as he finished the sentence, almost as if he regretted saying it, but I was too intrigued to wonder why.

“Directly at the unsub’s house? Holy shit - what happened on that case?”

“Well, uh, I actually got kidnapped?” He phrased it like a statement, but the way he said it sounded more like a question. Probably questioning whether or not he should even be telling me this.

“Oh my god, Spencer, I am so sorry.”

“No no it’s fine, it was about two years ago at this point,” He was trying to shut down the conversation, but I’d be lying if I said that finding out that the man in front of me had been kidnapped wasn’t concerning information.

“Two years is not that long… are you ok?”

“I’m fine. I mean, I’ve gotten counseling… there are still days where I - you know what? My traumatic past isn’t important right now. You - you don’t need to be worrying about me; I’m sorry that I brought it up, I was just talking and not processing what I was saying and -”

“Spence.” He was rambling now, his hands moving quickly as he spoke, anxiety clearly clouding his mind. I grabbed his hands to still them, stopping him from speaking. “It’s ok. I asked what happened, you don’t need to worry about me worrying about you. Honestly, I just wanted to make sure that you were alright, that sounds fucking awful.”

“It was.” He looked like he was going to say something else, but he glanced down at my hands holding his, and cleared his throat, a blush coloring his features as he pulled his hands from mine. “It was. But I really am ok now. Trust me.”

“Ok,” I nodded, trying to ignore the way that my heart stung when he practically ripped his hands from mine, “I’m glad.”

He gave me an awkward tight-lipped smile, something I’d noticed him do a lot, and I was about to start another conversation when I heard the conference room door open. Both of our heads snapped in the direction of the sound, and we turned to see the team pouring in through the door.

“Lex Raymond, I assume?” Hotch asked. I rose from my seat, nodding and accepting the handshake he offered me. The rest of the team took seats around the table, and I noticed multiple of them desperately chugging coffee out of disposable paper cups. Someone passed one up to Spencer, who was standing in front of the board still. I took my seat again, and a man sitting near the back of his table leaned back a bit in his chair before addressing Spencer.

“Alright pretty boy, tell us what you got.”

[whumpingcrow]

Pt.10 "The Gruesome Aftermath"

CW: gun mention, nightmare/ptsd/panic attacks, character death mention, murder mention, low self worth, emotional whump, brief medical mention, drugs/alcohol/cigarettes, tics/tourettes, injury description, past noncon/dubcon mention, aftermath of sexual abuse, begging (let me know if I missed anything!)

"You left me," August spat, the gun shaking in his hand. He was pressing it to his own temple, tears of anger were streaming down his face. He was going to hurt himself, he was going to hurt himself horribly and it was all Elias's fault and he couldn't do anything to stop him. "You needed me, you stupid bitch! I took care of you and you left!"

"August please!" Elias sobbed. He didn't know when or how he ended up there, but he was on his knees, hands clutching desperately at Augusts shirt. He couldn't move more than that, his body aching and weak. He wasn't entirely sure what happened to put him here, but he could put the pieces together. It was often that he was left in this position when he was with August, bruised and bloody and hurting. "Please don't do this, I'm so sorry! I won't ever leave again! Please!"

"You are nothing without me. You are made just to amuse me. So I'm going to show you what it feels like to be nothing, you'll never see me again."

"August no!" Elias screamed, bolting up out of bed. His chest was heaving quickly, every time he took a gasping breath images of blood and brains clouded his vision. He flinched away from the hands that reached out of the dark and grabbed his shoulders, crying out in fear. When the light flickered on, he saw Tyson facing him, his eyes wide.

"You ok?" He asked, his voice rushed and panicked, unable to think of anything else to say after being jolted out of his sleep.

"I'm ok," Elias sobbed, wiping furiously at the tears on his face, "I'm sorry I woke you up."

Tyson frowned at the apology, as if it was Elias's fault that he had a nightmare, then shook his head. "Hey, it's ok. Are you hurt?"

Elias looked down at his body to try and find any new injuries. There wasn't any new pain, at least, he could only feel a dull aching from the old bruises that tightened at every gasping breath. "No, I'm ok," he repeated. Even as he said it though, his breathing was still quick and he was choking on his tears.

Tyson nodded slowly, taking a deep breath to gather his thoughts. Elias wasn't hurt, he was safe, nothing bad was happening. "Come here," he whispered, holding out his arms to him. He was pleased when Elias crawled over to him and nestled into his chest, allowing Tyson to hold him close. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

"Please just hold me," Elias murmured, "just tell me it's gonna be alright."

Tyson did just that, holding him close and placing kisses against him here and there and rubbing his back gently, whispering that "its all ok, Eli. Everything is gonna be just fine."

"I killed someone Tyson," Elias whispered abruptly, his hands suddenly clutching at his shirt. "He made me shoot him in the face. I fucking killed hi...him." he wasn't sobbing anymore, just speaking in shaky, fragile words.

Tyson was shocked into silence for a good minute. He tried to imagine the trembling person in his arms holding a gun, pointing it at a living person, adding pressure to the trigger. Even the Elias that he knew before August could never do something like that, he thought. Sure, he was short tempered and rough around the edges sometimes, but he couldn't picture even that version of him killing someone. "Oh Elias..." He murmured softly, prompting him to start whimpering out broken cries of guilt again.

"I didn't want to!" He insisted, like Tyson would ever believe otherwise. "They pushed me in the pool and shot at me and when I got out he made me shoot him. I begged him not to Tyson, I swear I didn't want to kill him!"

"I know baby," Tyson said, "of course you didn't want to. It's not your fault."

"He ruined me. He made me into a fucking monster." He curled closer into Tyson's grip, squeezing his eyes shut. "He made me hideous."

"Hey, stop it, Elias. You've done nothing wrong. He's the monster, not you." He pulled away and took his face in his hands. He wiped his tears gently, holding him with a softness that often overwhelmed Elias with how little he felt deserving of it. "You're perfect, you're just hurting right now. It's gonna be ok."

Elias bit his lip and leaned into his touch, wanting to believe that he was telling the truth, but not able to escape the harsh feeling of dread he still felt. He stopped crying after that, leaning against Tyson's chest and listening to his breathing, his heart beat, the rumbling in his chest when he spoke. He fell back asleep after awhile, feeling safe and comfortable being held, being protected.

He woke up the next morning soaked in the sunshine bleeding through the window, he could smell weed and Tyson's cologne in the air around him and he felt at home, safe. He stretched a little, huffing when his body was still tender and sore, then sat up. Tyson wasn't in the room with him, but he could hear him speaking to someone in the kitchen. Great, more strange people who he had to let stare at him and try to look pretty for despite his ugly injuries. Maybe he would just stay in bed. Maybe he could just ignore every problem until it was just him and Tyson. But then he was hearing his own name dropped into the conversation, and he felt like he was being summoned, so he stood up rather quickly and rushed out of the room, stopping in the doorway of the kitchen.

Tyson was leaning against the kitchen counter, Allen and Leo were standing across from him, and they all looked up at him as he stumbled in. He regretted leaving the safety of the room the minute all of their eyes were on him, he wanted to go back to bed, crawl under the covers and pretend he didn't exist.

"Good morning," Tyson smiled at him, holding a joint in between his fingers. Elias grimaced at how it reminded him of August smoking. He could picture the way he would take a drag and close his eyes, looking focused and calm and almost harmless until the exhale. He remembered how his eyes would get red and puffy and he would grin at Elias and look very relaxed. That relaxation would often turn to him sitting on the couch, forcing Elias to his knees in front of him and undoing his pants. Elias would feel so embarrassed and disgusted in himself that he couldn't help the tears streaming down his face and the saliva dripping down his chin. August would hum to himself and he would say such sweetly vulgar things to Elias when he looked like that.

Instead of allowing those memories to bother him, he stepped forward and took the joint from Tyson, taking a long drag. Tyson didn't say a word as he watched him, but he did grab his wrist gently and rub his thumb against him.

"Morning," Elias finally coughed out, "why didn't you wake me up when you got up?" He kept his voice quiet, refusing to look up at anyone but Tyson. He knew that it would give them permission to stare back, and he didn't want that.

"You were sleeping so peaceful, I just wanted to let you rest." He took the joint away from him, grinning playfully. "You gotta be careful, lightweight." Elias smiled at him as he ruffled his hair, leaning into his touch.

Allen couldn't help but stare at Elias, or rather Elias's visible injuries, from the second he walked in. He felt sick to his stomach at the reddened bruises on his neck and the barely healed ones around his wrists. One of his hands was mangled with purple and blue splotches, and when he got a quick glace at his face his eyes were incredibly bloodshot and the bags of his eyes were scarlet with popped blood vessels. He could only imagine what he was hiding under his sweatshirt, Allen had hidden under a hoodie for a long time, too, and knew the secrecy of it all too well. He knew the way the fabric would sometimes rub painfully against burns and scrapes, he knew that people often would touch or grab injuries they weren't even aware they were hurting and all he could do is wrinkle his nose and try to breathe through the pain.

He felt Leo's hand on his own, and when he looked at him he was met with concern. "You ok?" He mouthed. Allen forced himself to nod, then reached for his pack of cigarettes with nervous hands. As he searched for a lighter, he saw Elias moving toward him. When he looked up he saw that he was holding a lighter in his hand, looking up at Allen with wide eyes.

"Can I join you? I'll share this," he wiggled the lighter at him, offering a dull smile.

"Yeah, of course," Allen said politely, stepping to the side to let him lead the way outside.

Elias looked wistful as he held the cigarette to his lips, staring off at something that Allen couldn't see. His eyes were sort of droopy from the weed, and Allen felt a little jealous. He wasn't allowed to get high to numb the pain that August caused him, why could Elias? He shook his head at the stupid thought, lighting his own cigarette.

"They think it'll help if we talk to each other," Elias mumbled, "about what happened."

Allen nodded slowly, surprised when Elias turned to look at him. "Yeah, Leo was saying that."

"Do you....do you think it would help?" He whispered, his voice suddenly small and broken.

"I think...we've both gone through things that no one else would understand. Even Leo and Tyson, they were scared and hurt too, but they don't know what we went through."

Elias was tearful suddenly, and he cleared his throat to stop the tears. Allen was looking at him closely, waiting for him to break. He had to, didn't he? He'd been with August, after all, and Allen was well aware that Elias had to have been pushed past his breaking point long ago. Yet here he was, smiling and joking and acting fine. If Allen couldn't see his brutal injuries, the physical evidence of what he'd been through, he would really think he'd just been having a hard week.

"I feel so ugly now." He finally choked out, his hand shaking as he brought it up to wipe at his eyes.

All at once, Allen could feel the weight of Elias's aching, the turmoil that he had been so good at hiding moments ago, right inside. He had been through a horrific amount of pain all alone with no comfort or support, he was so much younger than all of them, he wasn't equipped to handle that amount of violence. He had been killed, had been considered medically dead, at only 19 his life had come to a screeching halt and then was jump started again.

"I know," he breathed in understanding, leaning toward him and placing his hand over Elias's, "but you're not. And that feeling will go away overtime, I promise."

"I uh...did he ever tell you that you weren't a person? He told me I was made just for other people's entertainment. I'm no one if I'm not used."

You are just a worthless toy, a piece of meat. You exist just to amuse me.

"He's a liar, Elias. He would say anything to make you easier to manipulate." He took a deep breath as he chose his next words carefully. "You are more than what he told you. We are both more than what he tried to turn us into."

Elias broke down in pained sobs, barely resisting when Allen pulled him into a hug. "When do you stop-" he choked on a cry, clutching at Allen's jacket, "stop being scared?"

"Oh, Elias..." Allen cooed, like he was talking to a hurt puppy. "You... You don't. But listen to me, he's gone now. He can't hurt us anymore."

"But I can't handle it! I can't stomach the fear, it's eating me alive!"

"Hey, hey!" Allen hushed, pulling him closer. "I promise you it's going to get easier. You've got Tyson, he's so great and he really cares about you. Like, a crazy amount. Trust me, it's a little ridiculous how much he cares about you. And you have me and Leo, if you need us. You're not going through this alone and it's going to get easier."

Elias pulled off of him all at once, wiping his tears away quickly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cry all over you. I'm sorry."

Allen sighed, reaching out to pay his back with a shaky hand. He knew what Elias was feeling, the dread that came with crying, waiting for the shouting or the pain.

Why are you crying like that? I've hardly even done anything yet. Pathetic. I can't wait to see just how hard you cry when I actually hurt you.

"You're allowed to cry," he assured him, "nobody's gonna hurt you for it."

"How do you do that?" Elias whispered. "I mean, how do you just tell yourself that and believe it? I keep waiting for Tyson to swing at me. I feel like...like I'm hoping he does."

Allen nodded slowly. "Yeah, I felt like that for awhile, too. You just stop wanting that pain, eventually. You realize that you don't actually deserve it."

"Ok," Elias mumbled, putting out his cigarette and then immediately lighting the next one. They sat outside and talked for a long while after that, both of them cried a bit at the overwhelming comfort and simultaneous horror of being understood. Elias was so relieved to find that he hadn't been the only one August was horrible to. Allen, in a way, felt a sick sense of pride that August had been senselessly violent with Elias, it meant that Allen had behaved better. He hated himself for thinking that way, knew it was just August's own twisted words in his head, but he couldn't help it.

They must have lost track of time, because soon Tyson was opening the door and peering out at them nervously. For a long time, he just stared between Elias and Allen, taking in their matching red puffy eyes, evidence they'd both been crying. He noticed that the looks that passed over their faces when he opened the door were identical, a timid hopefulness that was akin to begging to be told their doing something right. "Please tell me I'm good. Promise me that I'm not doing anything wrong, that you won't punish me", it said. Allen only had it for a split second, like it was reflexive, and then he seemingly soothed himself down to relax again. It only got worse with Elias, though, every second longer that Tyson stood silent, observing him, was another ounce of desperation added to his face.

So, with lungs weighed down by the sympathy pains he felt through the both of them, he forced out: "You doing ok? Been out here a while."

Elias nodded, standing up with a huff. "Yeah, I think I wanna go lay down." He kept his distance from Tyson, still freaked out from what they had talked about, still not ready to be touched. He leaned away from Tyson as much as he could as he passed him to go inside, like they were two magnets, like the idea of the comforting touches Tyson would inevitably offer was enough to repel Elias. His throat was raw as he did, he could almost feel Tyson collapse when the person he ached to protect and comfort shrank away from him like he was the one who had given him all of the ghastly injuries. It wasn't his fault, right? Elias just had to have time to heal. Allen let Leo touch him now, Elias just had to heal a little before he'd let Tyson touch him again, right?

Still, it was difficult not to take that shit to heart.

Allen followed them both in, watching Elias sink down to the couch with a pained expression. Once he was relaxed, he focused his stare at the floor, and all at once he looked vacant and far away. Allen cringed, wishing he could just reach in and pull the poor kid out of those torturous memories, ones he knew all too well. Leo must've been waiting for him to come back in so they could leave, because he was ready to leave by the time they all came back in, and they hastily said their goodbyes. They had to get on with their day, after all.

"You and Allen were gone for awhile," Tyson remarked after they were gone, sitting next to Elias. "Did it help?"

"Um...I think so. A little." His voice was just a soft murmur as he sat up and moved closer to Tyson, nervously leaning in, like he was waiting for Tyson to jump on him. Tyson could tell he was thinking hard about something, that whatever he was debating saying was dancing right on the tip of his tongue, and he wasn't sure if he should say it or just choke on it instead. "Hey Ty?"

"Yes love?"

"Did you ever think about...about having sex with me?" He looked down at his hands, suddenly ashamed. "I mean, before all this, before I got all used up-"

"Elias." Tyson said firmly. Elias cowered a little, when his name was said that like that it sounded like a curse word. He told himself that this was it, that Tyson was finally going to hit him, tired of his brainless questions. But then he was talking again, his voice soft and patient, just as it always was. "You aren't used up. You're a human being, you have value outside of what he did to you."

"You didn't answer my question," Elias whispered, despite how afraid he was to push Tyson any further into frustration, "did you want me or not?"

Tyson sighed, leaning toward Elias until they're shoulders were touching. "I want you, Eli. All of you, you as a person. Of course I desire you, but I want it when it's the right time."

Elias looked up at him, glancing down at his lips as he reached forward and ran his fingertips over his cheek. "Can now be the right time?" He asked.

Tyson was reminded of the first time Allen got back from August, how submissive and trained he was, how he offered himself up just to feel like he was doing something right, just to be praised. Tyson didn't understand the weight of his damage then, and now he'd have to walk with the guilt of foolishly sleeping with Allen in that newly broken state. He was smarter and more in control of himself this time, though, he couldn't possibly take advantage of Elias like that. "I don't think so, baby. You're not in the right mindset for it."

"Please, Tyson," he breathed, closing the gap between them until their lips barely brushed, and Tyson dropped his frigid shoulders a little at a time. "I want to know how it feels when it's with someone I...someone I care about."

All that Tyson could think of was that it would be so perfect to hear Elias begging like this, if it wasn't because he was practically rewired to plead for attention, for touch, for a distraction from the pain. He wasn't able to fully enjoy the way his hands nervously brushed over Tyson's clothes, or his shivering breaths against his skin, or the barely audible desperation in his voice. Not that it wasn't ravishing to hear him so desperate, so close to bothered without anything having happened yet, not that it wasn't mouth-wateringly enticing, but because it wasn't for him, not really. It was Elias's trained need for reassurance, to get affection in any way that he could get it.

"Elias, I can't do that to you. Not right now, not while you're hurting." He pulled away from him, watching his face fall to a dejected frown. It was gut-wrenching to see him look so pained by the rejection, but Tyson was more worried about the ugly alternative if he gave in.

Elias felt suffocated, he felt like he could still feel August's hands all over him, his stare burning into him and his body pressed close enough to crush him. He didn't want to belong to him anymore, he didn't want to exist feeling like some used up toy. "You don't understand," he whimpered, "I feel so filthy, I need you to clean me."

Tyson sighed heavily, looking up at Elias as he crawled into his lap, arms looping around his neck. "You're just not in the right head space. I'm not gonna take advantage of you."

With a dismissive shake of his head, Elias pressed himself closer, kissing gently at his neck. "Please," he gasped, eyes welling up with tears, "please, Ty. I don't want to feel like this anymore."

Tyson pushed him away, taking his face in his hands. He inspected his bloodshot eyes, his pale face and his purple stained skin. He was so fragile, so breakable, so weak. Tyson was afraid if he touched him the wrong way he would crumble and die. "I can't take that feeling away, and you know that. Doing this would only help for a second, and then it will be worse. Trust me, baby, it's not worth it right now." The way he spoke had an air of finality, one that told Elias that he was going to get absolutely nowhere by pleading with him.

Tyson didn't want him that way, Elias was meant to just fester in the filth that August left on him. While the idea of that made him sick, he tried to console himself as best he could with the reminder that any type of emotional turmoil here was better than all of that pain August put him through. At least here he was with Tyson, safe. Unwanted, but safe. He would just have to live with it that way.

After a moment of thinking, Elias swallowed back his tears, nodding slowly. "Can you at least kiss me?" He tried one last time, obviously afraid of the answer.

It was a request Tyson could do, it was innocent enough, so he pulled Elias close and kissed him gently, holding his face as he did. Elias was submissive in this way, too, making himself pliant in his arms and following whatever Tyson was doing, simply melting into the kiss. When he pulled away, Elias was breathless and had a new wave of tears in his eyes, this time accompanied by a light blush.

"Thank you." Even though he spoke in a hushed mutter, it was earnest and full of emotion. He smiled when Tyson kissed him one last time, then slid off of him and onto the soft couch. Tyson stroked his thigh lovingly a few times, reaching for one of the nearby blankets to hand to Elias when he yawned.