🎵 You’ve Never Had Chocolate Like This~

coloured this page from chapter 11

Can we please get a fic about possessive/yandere Jack tunneling/tormenting his darling during a match? Something akin to the snippet of him we saw in the Emil and badly injured s/o headcanons. That bit had me barking, I need more of y'alls Jack 🙏🥴

thank you for enjoying that tidbit, detective! i am a very firm believer of slandering jack as much as possible but immediately making him attractive in the worse ways i could <3 he's a horrible man and i love that in him! please enjoy this food, and do bark more. if you do so, he might buy you a collar and leash. - mod orpheus

request: yandere!ripper tunneling/tormenting his darling headcanons pairing: [the ripper] yandere!jack x gn!reader warnings: general yandere behaviour, descriptions of blood & injury, near death experience

jack the ripper

to be the apple, or may i say rose, of his eye is a death sentence in of itself.

the ripper does not do “obsession”, or so he thought. it was a useless endeavour, to be so taken in by something or someone temporary, especially with what he does for a living. he assumed, be it person or item, it will leave and perish over time in his presence. more than anything, the only thing he ever thought he’d be obsessed over was his work. something he was very much okay with.

that all changed when he met you

everything about you captivated him; from your appearance, your movements, down to the way you speak. he was drawn to you, like a moth to flame, desperate to have you at any cost. he spent days, absent from matches, in his room. the curtains drawn, the lights dimmed, paint splattered across floors and canvases. art pieces, abstract, stylised, realistic, all pieces with you as its muse. with each brush stroke, his obsession grew, and grew, and grew. neither survivors nor hunters knew this was what he was doing in his absence. the survivors, more than anything, were relieved about him being gone for the time.

you were warned about him by both factions. you were warned greatly. jack, but we mostly call him the ripper, says the perfumer, was a ruthless hunter. his very presence struck fear in those who opposed him. he hunted with skill and precision, but at the same time was sickeningly nonchalant about it. he plays with his food, that disgusting man, whispered emma to you. a monster through and through, he even has the gall to flirt with some of us in the middle of hunts. every warning sickened you and made you fear the day you’ll have to match against him. that was why his absence was a cherished moment by both survivors and hunters. however, such a thing cannot always stay permanent.

eventually, the ripper returned, and everyone saw it was with a renewed gusto. a bad thing, stated the seer. he had his mind set on something, or shall i say, someone. you.

your first encounter with him was outside a match. the way he peered at you, eyeing you like you were a slab of meat for him to slice and cut open than a human being; it made you understand why even some hunters were uneasy [a great understatement] about him. though some hunters weren’t human, either changed or lived that way their whole lives, the ripper was a different level. he was... human, but he didn’t feel human. not even someone like the hell ember made you feel like that. something about him was uncanny, even if all he did was brush past you with a wicked promise of meeting once more. preferably in the near future, little rose, he chuckled out.

for a while, you thought that was an empty promise. wicked and terrifying, sure, but empty. the matches you joined within those days were with other hunters. you haven’t seen jack in a match with you for a few days at least. you thought he was just scaring you with that talk about ‘near future’- he’s had to be scaring you, no? that’s what a hunter like him would do.

you grew familiar with what arms factory looked like in the time you spent here. it was a ‘starter map’, as other survivors said. good kiting spots, fairly spread out rocket chairs, strong pallets. it’s the perfect place for newcomers, though you have long since shed that little nickname from the others. you, alongside the gardener, doctor, and perfumer, all sat at the table together, excitedly talking about what plans you may have for the upcoming off days. “i think i’ll spend time with coordinator,” vera tapped her chin in thought, “she mentioned wanting some tips for makeup. i’ll help her out then.” “sounds fun!” emma nodded her head and giggled, “i’ll just tend to the gardens again, as i always do. emily should join me!” the doctor laughed politely, a hand over her mouth as she did, eyes crinkled with content, “yes, i think that sounds fun. what about you?”

you paused in thought and shrugged, “didn’t really think about it that much, but i’ll probably find something to do sooner or later.” “you can help with the gardens too!” the gardener suggested, “the manor could always use more green thumbs.” “oh, yes, you could come with,” emily nodded in agreement along with the perfumer. the conversation was stopped by a smooth, honeyed voice humming from behind the curtains. all four heads turned to face it. silver blades pushed the cloth aside as the towering figure of the ripper spun through, bowing down in front of the table. attached to his back was an evil looking scythe, black and sharpened with flicks of smoke curling off of it.

your heart lodged itself in your throat in a bad way when the ripper lifted his head to look at you.

the game began.

right off the bat, he was ruthless. the ripper roamed the map like a wretched, evil, fog. he was playing with the doctor, it was clear to the three of you. he chased, he hit, and then he simply just waited nearby emily. you knew he’d be able to catch her easily if he just tried, but he was waiting. waiting for something, even if it costed him a cipher or two. the moment the second bell rang throughout the match, it was like the realisation struck all four of you. he was farming for presence. he wanted full presence.

it was like the mist through the factory thickened significantly as that happened. the ripper turned his back on the doctor and stormed through. even if he passed any of the other two women there, they were unbothered. perhaps shaken, a little scream from his chilling fog that brushed past them, but nothing more than that. after all, he wasn’t there for them. he was there for you. and you were made violently aware of it when you saw a sudden bend on the pole of your cipher. slowly, you lifted your head, fingers trembling over the keys, sweat sticking to the back of your neck. the fog shifted, unwrapping itself around its commander.

there, standing so casually over your cipher, and you by extension, was the ripper. he tilted his head, eyes squinted in delight. “hello, little rose,” he crooned. you slammed your hands firmly onto the cipher and lunged away, nearly missing the button to ping the girls. the hunter is near me!

the cipher in factory was finished, but the basement was there. however, nowhere else was safe for you to kite, as nearby would be one of your three teammates decoding a cipher. you had to take the risk. you had no other choice. you felt your heartbeat thrum loudly in your ears as you ran across the map, the ripper right on your tail. your legs screamed at you; a split of stop running, it hurts too much and keep running, he’s going to kill you. you had to dodge a foggy blade, seeing the black mist hit the wall and disperse right beside you. you stumbled in your steps, nearly tripping over your feet and falling. but you managed to catch the metal railing in the factory, using it to boost yourself some more distance away. not like it did much, as the ripper stepped through the fog and slipped past the door with an increased speed. he never downed you, no matter how close he was to you as you vaulted the window or a pallet for a terror shock. it was like he enjoyed seeing your discomfort, as you vault, as you run, his hand or claw ghosting against you lightly.

two ciphers later, the last one was on standby with the perfumer. both doctor and gardener waited at the gate close to the factory. but he still hasn’t downed you, let alone hit you once. it wasn’t like he wasn’t trying too much; he aimed his blades carefully in a way that would hit you if he was just a bit more accurate or if you were just a bit more sloppy. however, with the blood rushing through you and adrenaline pumping through your veins, you couldn’t afford nor even try to be sloppy. especially not against the ripper of all hunters.

seeing as he was doing nothing more but stalling at this point, you had to do it. focus on decoding! if only you did it a bit later, perhaps when you were in a more safer position...

the cipher popped, and it was like a switch was flipped in the ripper. with a manic exhale of his breath, you knew you made your first, and final mistake. you gripped the windowsill as you lifted your body over, a vault in progress. but as you did so, his claws raised, the blade wrapped in black fog before he swung harder than he would have usually. the black smoke that wrapped around you momentarily made the sting worse. through your clothes, your fabric ripped, and you felt a searing pain across your back. from the corner of your eye, you saw splatters of blood, but you knew there was more gushing out. your back was wet. warm, cold, wet. you crashed into the ground, a nasty, filthy scrape digging and ripping up your skin and irritating it. a scream ripped throughout your throat; one so loud and pained that you thought your chords were about to burst and split. it was a scream louder tha emily’s. it was a scream of true pain.

blood was rushing everywhere as you gripped your leg, yet that strained the deep gashes across your back. you knew he hit deep. it was painful. it was hell. tears streamed down your face as you sobbed and cried, choking up on tears as you looked at the ripper. he stuck his legs on the windowsill, vaulting over casually as if he didn’t just damn near break your back in half with one hit alone. he peered down at you with a cruel smile, head cocked to the side as he crouched down beside you. the lack of glowing red eyes didn’t excite you as much as it would have any other time. you only had enough strength to ping that he had no detention before you had to go back to crying out in pain, head turning away from him.

you couldn’t even bring yourself to a crouching position to crawl away, you could only drag yourself on your stomach bit by bit to try and gain even the most insignificant amount of distance to the ripper as you could. he let you do so for a while, but eventually gripped your leg with his unclawed hand. you were relieved at that. he was going to chair you, and your teammates were going to escape.

but he instead yanked your leg and twisted you, forcing you to slam against your back. the earth dug into the open wounds and you threw your head back with a pained scream. there was so much blood. on the ground, on you, on everything you feel. the ripper’s hold on you loosened, and you were subjected to his ghosting touch as he caged you in beneath him. “my, my, look at you,” he whispered breathlessly, very obviously happy with his work. he tilted his head aside, fingers brushing from your scraped leg to the inside of your thigh, reveling in how you turned your head away with a pained sound.

“now now, little rose,” he chastised lightly, but gripped your hair with a strength so tight it nearly ripped off your scalp, “look at me.” a breathless gasp left your lips as you looked at him, one eye barely able to open from the pain and stinging tears. “s.. stop... l.. let me go...” you sobbed. he haphazardly let go of your head, making you lightly slam it against the ground by the sudden loss of support. the ripper bent his back down, claws tapping against his face, chuckling as he gazed at you with a crooked grin, “just listen to that. what a precious, beautiful sound.”

he twirled your hair in his unclawed fingers, tugging your head up before abruptly slamming it back down again. “just like those fucking whores,” he snarled, “you cute, pretty, little thing... those breathless cries, those ragged shrieks, the last time i heard those were in the alleyways of london, my hands wrapped around some broad’s fucking neck as i break it backwards. my darling, what i wouldn’t do to gut you right fucking now. your insides, organs, everything, spread open on the ground for me, and only me to see.”

you could barely thrash away, sobbing and crying as you see the blurry figures of your teammates running to try and help you, only to stop abruptly at the bloody sight. “r.. run..” you force out through gritted teath, “get.. get out of here..!” “n.. no- no, emma has to help!” the gardener tried to run forward, but she was pulled back by the perfumer and doctor. “stop- stop it, what are you doing?!” emma cried, “we can help them! we- we can help- he has no detention!” “we have to go, emma,” emily urged as they began pulling her away. you saw the ripper start to grin at the desperate sight of the gardener thrashing and kicking, trying to run towards you. emma reached her hand out, screaming your name, sobbing just as, if not even harder than you have been as you see her figure get smaller, smaller, and finally, gone.

“now, do scream out as loud as you can. if you satisfy me, i might let you crawl your way out of here, whore,” he whispered the filthy nickname for you in such a sickeningly excited way, “let’s have some fun, shall we?”

[ art credit - unknown ]

Ily Nikolai you're our pookie wookie baby girl pls become real

it's a crime that nikolai isn't real smh smh

he is the cutest

Akito Shinonome x GN!Reader: Late Night headcannon (not as fancy as normal as it's more of a hella early morning head cannon, aka time of writing this is 3:36 AM :D) (Ps for you my bestie boo bear @noverenia )

Akito Shinonome. The man who had confessed to you after one of Vivid Bad Squads performances where they hadn't done as well as they normally do, but to him just seeing your face after coming off the stage still look at him like he was the best performer ever no matter how much he messed up was like and all year round gift that he would *never* regift.

Akito Shinonome. The boyfriend who seems like he hates everything and never wants to do anything, but is the most happy late at night, staring up at his celling thinking about the smiles you gave him when you had "pressured" him into doing some stupid shit with you.

Akito Shinonome. Who will introduce you to his sister, just to realize that the two of you will become best friends in no time and then he starts getting jealous when you come over to visit her when he's at practice.

Akito Shinonome. Who loves interlocking pinkies, he's not very good with a lot of physical affection but something small like that is so much in his heart, it's more of a symbol that you are with him, and that he is good enough to have you.

Akito Shinonome. Whose learned a lot about random things from his sister and past experiences, so he absolutely adores brushing/playing with your hair no matter what time, but don't forget to not leave him out of the fun.

Akito Shinonome. While he may not be the most amazing boyfriend when it comes to showing love outwardly, will make up for it in simple things like, you hate taking out the trash? well he'll do it as long as you wash the dishes instead, and always rembering tiny things about you like that one time you said that you really liked a certain color that nobody had every heard of? Well now there is a bracelet in that exact same color laying on your bed when you get home from school.

Akito Shinonome. Who would do anything for you and may not always have a smile on his face while doing it, but his heart sure is hell is wearing a smile<3

minor writing smut , hand kink [?]

Luca whose hands are, to put it plainly, dirty. Oil and grease can be found underneath his fingernails from the constant work on the cipher machine, while dirt finds its way in the cracks and slivers on his palms.

Luca whose hands are littered with small cuts and scars from the electricity that bolts through him, refusing to settle down for even one moment before another currency charges through his body.

Luca who uses these same hands to worship your god like body in front of him. His fingers, smeared with black from being burnt poke and prod at the curves and blemishes on your body. The inventor finds it all so incredible how you let his hands, stained with blood, find your most sensitive area. How you let his hands gift you the pleasure you oh so deserve. And how you let him witness your fall into pleasure all over again.

note: consider this my apology for the lack of a proper fic lately, things have been busy. I’m working on two right now, and I hope to get them both out in the coming weeks.!

© fishermanshook — no stealing , translating , plagiarizing or reposting my work on other any other sites + reblogs adored !!

Hello hello i really love your writing like so much i cant even explain. Do you mind writing for vivid bad squad first kiss with GN!reader like the one you wrote with wxs ? Thank you !!

A/N: wahoo thank u!! Ego boost wheeheehee

Prompt: none

Pairing(s): An Shiraishi x reader, Akito Shinonome x reader, Kohane Azusawa x reader, Toya Aoyagi x reader

CW: Akito gets a bit jealous???

Notes: gn!reader, slight hurt/comfort on Toya's

summer baby!!

adrenaline rush

Bright, neon lights flashed over the crowd, your girlfriend jumping onstage to the beat. You hadn't seen a solo event of hers in forever, but the bass thrumming in your chest, and the cutting sound of her voice made it feel like you never really left.

The crowd went wild, bobbing up and down with her to the beat, singing along. Even though it was a smaller venue, the atmosphere was unmatched. No one cared about the humidity, nor the cramped space, it was just them, and the music.

You were, thankfully, not in the mob of people, instead opting for a safer spot backstage. It had a great view of AN, but you weren’t getting squashed between the eventgoers. And, as a bonus, was perfect for being the first person to hug her after a performance.

Speaking of, here she came! Eyes glittering, and lips stretched wide, she bounded offstage, hooking her arms around your neck.

Almost instinctively, you wrapped your arms around her waist, spinning her around in a tight circle. You could feel energy resonating throughout her body, and the heat it brought to the surface of her sticky-slick skin.

As soon as you let go of her, she let out a cheerful laugh, letting herself bask in the afterglow of her performance. It had only been a moment after letting her go, when she pulled you closer again, eyes sparkling with glee.

"Kiss me!"

"What?!"

"You heard what I said, kiss me!"

You didn't know who kissed who, but now your lips were together, in a fast-paced, but chaste kiss. Heartbeat thumping loudly in your ears, you could feel the same from her.

If you'd looked closer, you could tell her ears were becoming increasingly redder, but alas, the butterflies batting at your ribcage was enough to distract you from your surroundings. Her lips tasted of cherry chapstick, and peppermint gum, her warmth contrasting starkly against the cold kiss.

She pulled away, adrenaline finally calming down a little, embarrassment seeping onto her cheeks. "O-okay, let's go! Mizuki gets off work soon, so we should hurry!"

autumn boy!!

a little bit of jealousy never hurt anyone

"Akito! What's wrong? You've been a grouch since this morning!" You asked, tucking your phone away to look at your boyfriend.

AKITO's frown deepened, creasing the skin between his brows. "I'm not being a grouch."

"Are too!" You pressed him harder. "Did something happen at home again?"

He shook his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. "No... well, unless you count my sister eating the last slice of cheesecake yesterday-"

"Oh, hush, you do that to her all the time too, dummy!" You pinched his cheek. "What's got your cute face all scrunched up like a pug?"

"Wha- I do not look like a pug!" He huffed. "I've just been doing a lot of events."

"Are you sure that's all? You're just tired?" You leaned closer to him.

“Yes.” He turned his cheek, a tint in his face betraying his gruff demeanour. “But…”

“But?” You repeated, looking at him intently.

He grumbled something incoherent, going redder in the face, a shade off from the topping on those raspberry cheesecakes he liked so much.

“Hm? What was that?” You asked curiously. “You’re mumbling again.”

“I said…” he took a breath. “You… kissed An on the cheek this morning. And…”

You laughed, grinning at him. “Is that what it is? You’re jealous of An?”

“I—I’m not—”

“Why didn’t you just say so?” You cut him off. “Here, I’ll do you one better!”

Cupping his jaw, you leaned forward, his skin impossibly hot under your touch. His breathing hitched as your eyes flicked up to his for a moment, before you pressed your lips to his.

His muscles tensed under his skin, relaxing again when you stroked his cheek with your thumb. He melted against you, leaning into the kiss eagerly.

You were the first to pull back, watching him jump back with a heavy blush after you.

“I—I’m gonna go, uh, to meet Toya, and the others.” He stumbled over his words uncharacteristically, walking off.

“See you tomorrow!” You laughed, waving goodbye at him.

“Uh, yeah.” He waved back. “Bye!”

flowergirl!!

just a little taste

"KOHANE..." You dragged out your girlfriend's name sweetly.

You'd gone to the rooftop to eat, and since Minori was out with a cold, the two of you got to be alone together; a school-date! Totally adorable, but not so fancy that she gets nervous.

"Hmm?" She hummed, swallowing the bite of the sesame ball she was eating. "Yes?"

Leaning in closer, you batted your eyes at her. "Can I have a bite?"

“Oh…” she paused, looking down guiltily at her container; empty. “I’m sorry, that was the last one… do you want something else?“ She quickly pushed her bento onto your lap, shifting her weight onto her other arm to support her while she did so.

When she looked up, she seemed to notice just how close she was, as did you. Your breathing hitched for a moment when you looked at her eyes, before she moved away promptly. “…no, no I’m fine, no need to give me your lunch! Heh, you’re so thoughtful, Kohane!”

"I–I'm just trying to be a good girl–girlfriend!" She stumbled on the word, still getting used to it. "Plus, after you paid on our last date, it feels wrong to just..."

You smiled, leaning closer again to catch her gaze. "It feels wrong? I guess if it's feels wrong, I can take a taste like this, right?"

Leaning forward, you laid a gentle hand on her leg. Surprisingly, she didn't budge, in fact, albeit looking a little embarrassed, she seemed to gravitate towards you as well.

The kiss was short lived and chaste, but it still managed to leave your heart pounding. Her lips tasted like the strawberry chapstick she always kept on her, and the sesame she had just eaten. It was sweet, and soft, just like her.

She was the first to pull away, covering her face with both hands, reddening significantly.

"There, now..." you paused, regaining composure. "Now I got a taste, so you can stop feeling bad about the date I paid for, right?"

winter winds!!

kiss of comfort

Rubbing at your boyfriend's back, you frowned in slight at his current condition. TOYA laid in your lap, face buried in your sweater. He wasn't crying, but he wasn't speaking either, claiming he just wanted to sit with you for a moment.

He'd come to your home earlier, didn't utter a word upon entry, but rather opted to wrap his arms around you at the door. It was only when you tapped him to get him to explain, when he finally spoke.

"I'm sorry. I just wanted to see you."

You watched him turn around in your lap, laying on his back to look skyward. His eyes seemed clouded over, before they landed on your curious face.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong? I don't want to pressure you, but I want to know if you're okay." You finally spoke, breaking the silence.

He took a breath, before humming a yes. "I'm alright. I was just a little upset, and the arcade was closed... so I came to the next best place."

Though he looked the same as always, he had that troubled look on his face from whenever something went wrong. He was gorgeous, as always, but in a somber, delicate way, that made you want to kiss him better.

He welcomed the gentle touch of your lips, first on his forehead, down to his nose, and one feather-light, lingering kiss to his lips. It was bittersweet for a first kiss, but oddly fitting.

When you pulled away, he cracked a small smile. "What was that for?"

"For that smile of yours, of course." You matched his grin.

The Red Means I Love You (Edgar×Reader)

AN: This was supposed to be finished and posted on Valentine's Day. However, as you can see from the word count, that was a fool's errand. I wanted to delve more into yanderes since I find them fascinating in writing, and now, here we are. Staining White Day red, I present to you the most generic title for an Edgar fic you will ever see. (Btw, I apologize to Edgar fans- I might've massacred your boy but I swear I tried my best.) Word count: 4.9k words TW: Blood, violence, murder, yandere themes, and blackmailing. Summary: Accepting the invitation of a dubious letter sounds just about as bad as it actually was. Oletus manor is not a name spoken without notoriety, after all. Was that where it all began? Was this your first mistake? No, it was further down the line, wasn't it? Yes, perhaps it was when you became the muse of an artist with no inspiration.

Reality has disappointed you time and time again. The expectations of a life of peace was crushed easily under the hands of society. So, you fled. You fled inside your head, transporting yourself into worlds of fiction. Romance, mystery, fantasy, and the likes kept you alive. It was the only thing you could really call safe.

Among many genres, you favored one above the others. 

Horror.

There’s a certain comfort that comes from these fictional tales. You know they aren’t real, that the killer can’t find you, that these psychopaths don’t exist. Are there people similar to them? Sure, but they aren’t in your life. Thus, they merely stay as silly little people within a book.

But, it’s not quite enough. The thrill of words upon a page cannot compete with the real deal. While you weren’t stupid enough to seek out murderers or the like, you were still dumb enough for Baron DeRoss, apparently.

The envelope is white as a dove, a blood red stamp sealing it shut. It whispers promises and praise, false hope and rewards. It’s an enticing offer, truly. Would you let it guide you astray?

Well, you were never one to turn away from the call of the abyss.

-

“I really don’t get it. I know it’s game changing, but it’s not helpful for anyone else but me! Why do they want me to team up with them?” You huffed, resting your face on your palms. Edgar merely rolled his eyes, flicking his wrist. Focused on the canvas in front of him, he let the brush streak red through white.

“You said it yourself, your abilities are game changing. We don’t even know the full extent of your abilities– who knows? Maybe you could completely uproot the current meta. Besides,” He smirked, peering at you from the corner of his eye. “The hunters are terrified of you.”

You paused, letting your arms fall flat against the table.

“Scared? Of me? I’m just another survivor– what do they have to be afraid of?”

Edgar hummed, tapping the handle end of his paint brush against his lips. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t quite fancy being stabbed.”

Okay, yeah, that was fair.

Most survivors didn’t possess the ability to fight the hunter, not really, yet here you were. When Jack had first chased you, he had the reckoning of his life. You wince at the phantom feeling of stabbing steel into flesh and bone. That was, admittedly, not what you had expected to be your special skill.

You pouted, cheek against the cool wood of Edgar’s table as you glanced around. His room was an odd combination of an art exhibition hall and an actual bedroom. It was big and extravagant, but you wouldn’t expect any less from him. 

Well, kind of.

Edgar confused you. Intriguing, even among the sea of other unique characters within the manor. You suppose that’s why he’s your favorite comrade and closest friend, if you could call him that. He’s never kicked you out of his room or flat out yelled at you, so safe to say he didn’t hate you, at least. 

He’s neutral on all matters within the manor, composed regardless of what he faced. All he cared about was his art, nothing more and nothing less. Perhaps that was how he was unaffected by everything.

You suppose that’s natural for an artist. You can’t claim to understand it perfectly, but in a way, you truly understood.

“It’s like… you’re a moth drawn to a flame, right? Art is something you’re willing to give your life to, dedicate your whole body and soul to. Even if you have to sacrifice your time, energy, or health, for the perfect outcome, you’d do it.” You had said it off handedly, not thinking much of it then. In some respects, wasn’t his passion for art just like your obsession with thrill?

But then he had grabbed your hands, looking into your eyes with such fervor. His gaze burned, a certain desperation flickering within it. What was he seeking so fiercely? What was making Edgar, apathetic, snide Edgar, act like he had found an oasis in the desert?

“You get it?” He whispered, almost pleading. 

“Maybe,” You responded.

That had been enough for him. 

Since then, you and Edgar had become an odd pair. Not quite friends, but too close to be acquaintances. You gravitated towards him, as he did to you. More often than not, you’d ask him if he’d like to team up for matches. More often than not, he’d say yes.

You suppose that’s another reason why other survivors regard you with care.

Edgar isn’t the most difficult person to work with, but definitely not the easiest. He’s all too much and too little: haughty and snide, distant and cold. He’s a reliable teammate, not a likable one. 

Still, the playful sparkle in his eyes as he led the hunter straight to you made you beg to differ. You’d curse him out as you ran, glaring at him after the match was over, before begrudgingly thanking him for supporting you with a painting or two.

However odd it was, you wouldn’t trade your friendship for the world.

-

There’s a letter in your mailbox. 

That isn’t especially weird, considering that’s what a mailbox is for. Letters, mail, packages, whatever. Still, you can’t help but pause as you stare at it. A white envelope with a lovely red seal, the stamp itself in the shape of a camellia. The embossed flower is outlined in gold, shimmering softly in the low light of your room.

Gently, you pry open the seal, careful not to damage it or the envelope. Once you’ve successfully extracted the letter without destroying everything, you stare at it with uncertainty. 

It seemed like this was a love letter from the presentation alone, yet you couldn’t help but feel a bit unsettled. You couldn’t understand why, however. It was beautiful, but simple. It wasn’t overwhelming, nor alarming. So why, from the depths of your heart, was your subconscious screaming at you to run? As though you were about to open Pandora’s box?

You unfold the letter and read.

-

Edgar gives you the nastiest side eye you’ve ever seen. Perhaps you deserve it after the stunt you pulled. Then again, what else were you supposed to do? He was going to be sent back to the manor if you hadn’t let yourself go down.

In the end, thanks to your sacrifice, the potential tie had turned into a win. Sure, you were the one sent back to the manor instead, but a win was a win! Though, Edgar seemed to disagree.

“You’re an idiot.”

You would be offended if it weren’t for the fact that he was wrapping your wounds. The tender touches were barely there, like the flutter of a butterfly's wings. He was being careful, making sure you didn’t feel even an ounce of unnecessary pain. The concentration he was putting into taking care of you was something you had only seen when Edgar was painting. 

The subtle quirk of his lips, eyes barely narrowed, and relaxed shoulders expressed more to you than any words ever could. The guilt that pooled into his chest, made evident by the quiet sighs he’d let out, seemed to manifest itself as kindness and gentle care.

It made you really want to tease him.

“Ow!” You hiss, flinching slightly away from the man. Edgar freezes, staring at you with concern.

“Shit– sorry, I didn’t mean to.” The sincere remorse in his voice immediately makes you regret your decision.

“Wait, wait, wait, no, I– gah, sorry. I was just messing with you.”

The painter’s formerly soft expression faded into a scowl, a glare sent your way even as he finished wrapping you up. Edgar immediately stands up, leaving you scrambling to do the same as he leaves the infirmary.

“Ahhhh, wait, I’m sorry! Wait, Edgar, I’m sorry, I swear I won’t do that again! C’mon, don’t leave me like this! I–” You trip on something, stumbling as you lose balance. You fully expect to kiss the ground, what with one of your arms in a cast, when lithe arms catch you.

You glance up at Edgar with a sheepish smile, gazing upon the apathetic look upon his face. Apathetic, to anyone else but you. You can see the little curl of his lips, the faint swirl of amusement in his eyes.

He helps you reorient yourself, hands on your shoulders. Once you’re safely standing, Edgar turns and continues down the hallway. His steps are slower than usual. It’s probably the closest you’ll get to an invitation.

You grin, chasing after him once more.

“So does this mean you forgive me?”

“No.”

-

“How do you manage to stay sane, painting the same thing over and over again?” You ask, half dangling off a couch. Edgar’s room is still as grand as ever, but you can see the changes. It seems more lived in, more homey. There’s a table that isn’t covered in paint, brushes, or other art supplies. There’s shelves with books instead of art supplies. Then, those cabinets have, wait for it, something other than art supplies.

It seems like a small shift to others, though that’s probably because they don’t visit Edgar half as often as you do. The first time you saw the couch, you thought you were hallucinating. 

The Edgar Valden, using something other than a stool? Incredible, revolutionary, absolutely groundbreaking.

He did not appreciate your dramatics, or so he claimed, but you knew he was covering his mouth to hide his smile.

“I’m not painting the same thing, and I am, in fact, going insane.” Edgar responds, frown deepening as he mixes a few colors together. You hum, peeking at the canvas as much as you can from your position. From the sketch, you could tell it was a portrait. A rare occurrence, considering Edgar preferred landscapes.

“Why the sudden interest in portraits?” You ask, sitting more comfortably on the couch. Glancing at the shelves, you skim through the books. Edgar wouldn’t mind if you read one of them, right?

The man pauses, his expression almost bashful. It’s so bizarre you can’t help but raise a brow. Edgar has never been afraid to draw attention to himself. He’s no pushover, willing to fight for what he wants while still remaining relatively neutral. To see him like that, a dust of what can only be blush upon his cheeks, twists something in your heart.

Before you can untangle what exactly you were feeling, the painter coughs.

“Well, I tried talking with Victor about expressing oneself. He suggested letters, or other mediums I’m comfortable with. So…” Edgar stares at his canvas, his smile more so a grimace. “I’m trying out his suggestion, I suppose.”

You tilt your head, humming to yourself as you nod. Sliding off the couch, you grab one of the books on Edgar’s shelf. “Well, then I wish you the best of luck.”

His eyes linger on you, closing softly as his expression relaxes. When he opens them again, he starts creating new hues with more focus.

-

“I’ve been getting letters recently.” You mention, flipping another page in your book. Edgar paused, turning to look at you.

“And?”

You closed your eyes, contemplating. This really wasn’t something you had to tell him. But, well, nothing too interesting has been happening lately. The matches have finally grown duller, the thrill fading as you stayed longer. You were running out of things to ramble about, so why not?

“They’re love letters. Nicely decorated, with neat handwriting. If I had to guess, someone born into privilege.” You think Edgar flinches at that.

“It’s really sweet, honestly. A shame they’re anonymous.” You skim over the words on the page, brows knitting themselves tight. The main character was oblivious to the danger so close to them. How frustrating. 

“A shame, really.” Edgar echoes back, delicately brushing shadows along the red camellias. His painting seemed nearly finished, if you only stared at the beautiful flowers. The rest of the canvas was rather barren, a figure still not yet painted whole.

“C’mon, theorize with me! Who could it be? I put my bets on Jack.” You sighed dramatically, head thrown back with your hand on your forehead. 

You received no response, however.

“Hear me out! He called me darling, dear, and tried to kill me. Obviously, he fell for my sick kiting skills and great looks. I rest my case.” Still, nothing.

You were getting really worried with how unresponsive Edgar was being. Usually, when you started overexaggerating like that, he’d make a snarky remark. Something like “please, you get terror shocked at 5 ciphers” or “you make amphibians look appealing.” 

The silence was really getting to you.

“I mean, he’s got confidence in spades so it probably isn’t him. Still, I kinda hope it is, he’s rather attrac–” SNAP!

Your head snaps up from your book, turning to Edgar so quickly you nearly give yourself whiplash. There, in his hands, are the remains of a broken paint brush. Blood oozes from his tightly clenched hands, slowly trickling down his palm and under the cuff of his shirt. That was reason for concern as is, but the most startling thing of all was his eyes.

Blue, like the sky. Blue, like the sea. Blue, like the wings of a morpho butterfly.

Blue, like the swirling vortex of the night sky.

You rush over, grabbing the first aid kit you know he keeps for you, before standing next to him. You’ve never seen him like this, eyes so dark and blank. It’s honestly scaring you a little, but that means nothing when he’s hurt.

So, you kneel, pulling out tweezers, disinfectants, and bandages. Gently prying his hand open, you discard the larger pieces of the brush. With the tweezers, you pick out splinters of wood embedded in his skin. You whisper apologies as you do, knowing this definitely hurts, but he doesn’t so much as flinch.

By the time you finally disinfect his hand and wrap it, Edgar seems a lot more like himself than before. He gazes at you with quiet consideration, blinking slowly. Languid, calm, almost cat-like.

“Are you okay?” You ask, holding his hand. In all the time you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him react like that. The kinder side of you hopes it’ll never happen again, if only so he won’t needlessly hurt himself like that. The morbid side of you wants to see him like that again, what you can distinguish as cold, searing rage threatening to consume him whole.

Edgar leans his head forward and onto your shoulder. The scent of citrus, chamomile, and something chemical tickles your nose, brushing against you as the painter sighs. He seems… tired.

“Let me rest my head, just for a bit.”

You don’t have the heart to say no.

-

The next few letters you get are… odd. Passionate as always, but far more obsessive. The first few had been sweeter, more tender. This was escalating in a weird direction, and as much as you loved yourself a good horror story, romance and horror never mix well. They were starting to threaten you, saying they’d hurt the people around you, and that was where you drew the line.

So, you start ignoring them. It sounds foolish, especially for a connoisseur of all things freaky, but life is more mundane than fiction. If this person doesn’t have the guts to confess to you, does it make sense that they’d have the guts to actually go through with their threats? Logically, no. 

Besides, even if they did, the people of the manor are strong. They can hold their own. Even if they can't, that person will get outcasted for hurting a survivor, regardless of if they’re a hunter. “No violence outside of matches,” that was the first rule both factions set.

So, it was safe to assume you had nothing to worry about. You have more important things to deal with, anyway, especially with a new survivor arriving. His name was Orpheus, a novelist. You were thrilled, especially since he was the author of some of your favorite series.

You were busy with preparations, practically skipping with joy. The other survivors poked fun at you, both for your enthusiasm and the lack of a certain painter at your side.

Edgar was concentrating on his art, as per usual, and you didn’t want to bother him. He seemed a little lonely, though, so you tried to convince a few people to talk to him. They all just looked at you as if you grew another head. 

“Are we… looking at the same person?” Mike asks, smile strained. You frown, turning away from the banners you were fixing. 

“Yes! Edgar Valden, our resident painter, our sassy rich boy, our lovely old friend. I say he is lonely, and I think you should talk to him. I mean, you’re easy-going, fun, and silly. Who wouldn’t like you?” Even if half of it was an act. Still, Mike was one of the people Edgar tolerated better than most. Perhaps it’s because he’s another form of an artist?

“Why can’t you just, I don’t know, talk to him yourself? You guys get along just fine.” Mike looks away, fiddling with his hands. You narrow your eyes at the sight.

Mike Morton, local funny man, someone with dedication and deceit running through his veins, nervous? It’s not faked, the sweat rolling down his neck and the faster breathing all indicating he was genuinely nervous. Maybe even scared.

“Edgar, I really do love him, but he needs more friends. I think the only people who talk to him on a regular basis are Luca and I. Adding a few more people to that list would be nice, so…” You bring your hands in front of you, clasped tight as if you’re about to pray. “Could you please talk to him?”

Mike deflates, sighing as he nods. You smile brightly in response, promising to make it up to him.

-

“Hey bestie! You excited for the new survivor?” Demi croons, grinning as she tosses an arm around your shoulder. You laugh in response, leaning into her.

“That’s about the dumbest thing you could ask me. Of course I am! He’s written so many good books. God, I don’t know how I’m supposed to act around him. He’s made some stories that have basically shaped who I am now!” You sigh, smiling so widely your face hurts.

“Well, don’t forget your boyfriend in all the excitement! I can see he’s basically seething with envy.” 

You pause, turning to look at Demi.

“Who?”

Now, it’s Demi’s turn to look confused.

“Uh, you know, Edgar? Are– are you guys not together?” She asks, genuinely shocked. You feel your face heat up, your hands itching to cover your blush. 

“Wh– no! We are not! Why would anyone ever think that?”

Demi gives you a deadpan expression in response.

“You two are basically glued to each other’s side, go into every match together, hang out almost every day– Hell, you’re the only one Edgar has allowed in his room without it being necessary!” 

Well, that’s news to you.

You furrow your brows, blinking in shock. Sure, you two hung out a lot, but it wasn’t like you guys were friends exclusively with each other. You had Demi, Mike, Melly, and even Violetta while Edgar had Luca, Victor, Andrew, and Galatea. It wasn’t like you… hung out… every… day…

“Oh fuck, we really do look like a couple.” You mutter, having half a mind to smack Demi as she laughs. She’s completely unapologetic about it, struggling to breathe as slowly calms down and giggles.

“So, you two aren’t dating?” She asks, wiggling her eyebrows. You huff, fighting back a smile.

“Nope, not at all.”

“Then in that case, I’m allowed to flirt with you as much as I want!” Demi cheers. She spins you around, causing a laugh to bubble up from your throat. The two of your twirl around in a silly dance, the faint sound of Frederick playing the piano the only background music.

At the end, she dips you down, smile upon her lips. She leans close to your ear as your smile is wiped away.

“Be wary of him.”

-

With Edgar, it’s like you’re taking three steps forward, then five steps back. Just when you think you’ve got him all figured out, he throws a curveball at you.

That desperation he had in his eyes the day you became his friend, flickering like a brilliant flame, you understand it now. However much he claimed he didn’t need people to understand him, how he didn’t need to understand others, it didn’t mean much. He still craved it, to be understood. To not have to be questioned, to not be approached with dishonesty, with intentions that lied beyond just him being him.

You suppose that’s exactly why you got along. You wanted to understand him, and he wanted to be understood. A match made in Heaven, you suppose.

It’s why it miffed you a bit that you really can’t understand Edgar at the moment.

He hates drawing portraits, yet he draws a figure, the same exact one, in every one of his new pieces. They look familiar, a lot like you, but you’re pretty confident Edgar would rather die than paint you. You’d tease him to Hell and back, all while he complains and swears up and down he’s never being nice to you again.

The landscapes, adorned in reds of all shades, always have that figure in each one without fail. Is he in love with someone? That would explain why he’s so weird lately.

Edgar’s odd behavior was already messing with you, but on top of that, the letters were getting worse. Instead of being slid into your mailbox, they were flat out in your room now.

Normal people would think someone just slipped it under the door. Reasonable assumption. However, unless that person has not only a very thin arm, but a long one, you don’t know how they’d manage to get it all the way to your desk.

You stare at the white envelope, stamped shut with a red seal in the shape of a camellia. The outline of the flower is in gold, though the beauty of the letter and the seal means nothing. Not when it got into your room. Not when it clearly has a splotch of dark red glaring at you.

Your hands are shaky as you open the envelope, a familiar curl of thrill fighting with your new found protective instincts. The letter is white as a dove, the red tainting it made all the more stark.

With adrenaline coursing through your veins, you read.

‘I didn’t imagine love would be like this. Wonderfully warm, like the rays of the sun in winter, and unbearably painful, like a knife in my heart. Do you just like hurting me? No, I know that isn’t true. After all, you always look at me with concern when I’m injured. Still, it’s hard to believe you’re this dense.

These past few weeks have been driving me mad. Your attention has been solely on the arrival of the new survivor. You’ve been ignoring me so much I can barely stand it. Can’t you spare even a moment for me? Is that novelist really that important? Seeing you look at him with stars in your eyes… it makes me want to rip his head off his shoulders. He doesn’t deserve your attention, nor your admiration, not like I do. I’ve known you longer, loved you for longer. He doesn’t deserve anything from you, yet he gets everything I could ever want and more.

Did you know? When you’re excited, your smile turns bigger, more genuine, till dimples show. Your eyes crinkle just a little, your hands moving to curl in front of your chest. You stand taller, you shine brighter.

It’s such a beautiful sight, I hate that I have to share it. Sometimes, I wish I could just put you in a cage and never let you go. Then, you wouldn’t look at anyone else but me. You wouldn’t think about anyone else but me. But, that’s not how you should live. You deserve to be free and happy. So, I’ve decided to get rid of anyone that doesn’t deserve to be around you.

I think I’ll start with that novelist.’

Your blood runs cold.

Fuck.

FUCK.

Just who is this? Who are they and just why are they so obsessed with you? Get rid of those who don’t deserve you? Who gave them the right to decide that!?

You take a deep breath, desperately trying to calm your nerves. Your heart is racing, and for the first time, the thrill in your heart turns into true fear.

You’ve never minded being the one hunted. In fact, you practically adore it, the addicting rush of adrenaline pumping through you. It’s why you came to the manor. But your friends? They’re not the same, and you wouldn’t want them to be. You want them safe and happy, not hunted down by some freak who thinks they “aren’t worthy of you” for whatever sick reason.

“Fuck, fuck… Orpheus, I need to find– no, it’s probably too late for him, there’s blood on the letter. Okay, okay, stay calm, stay fucking calm. Who would be the next victim? Mike? Melly? No, it’s probably Ed–” You pause.

Almost comically, everything clicks in place.

Camellias.

Red.

Ignoring them.

Edgar.

You bolt out of your room.

-

Normally, you’d knock. You know Edgar hates it when people barge into his room. However, considering the circumstances, you think that’s the least of your concerns.

You can’t help but pray in your mind. To whom? You don’t know. You don’t think anyone can truly help in this situation. It couldn’t be anyone else but Edgar, but still, you prayed. You hoped against all hope that your conclusion was wrong. 

Edgar would scold you for barging in, sigh, before smiling and asking if you were really that desperate to see him. Everything would be fine. It would all be just a cruel joke.

But just as life is more mundane than fantasy, reality is far cruller than fiction.

The large windows to Edgar’s room let in the light of the falling sun, casting the room in many shades of gold and orange. In the middle of the room, in all his glory, is Edgar. His back is to you, paint brush in hand. You’re hit first by relief, then with the heavy scent of iron.

You shake, hands covering your mouth as you finally process what's around Edgar. Orpheus, drained of blood, head sat on a chair, body left haphazardly on the ground. Jack, ghastly white and face twisted, his horror eternally memorialized in death. Demi, eyes closed and serene, seemingly asleep if not for the purple veins that roam along her arms.

You fall to your knees, the shock hitting you so strong you can’t stand up any longer. He was your secret admirer. The one who kept sending letters. The one who went into your room just to place them on your desk. The one who threatened to kill your friends. The one who did kill your friends.

Edgar, finally, turns around. His cheek has splotches of blood on it, his hands no better. It’s startling just how much of it is on him, but worse yet, you know not all of it is on him. There’s a lot of blood in a human body, much more in two, so where was it?

When he smiles, it’s just as sweet as it was yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. Was this really your friend, or a demon in disguise?

His smile, ever so sweet, only serves to unsettles you, looking more like a nightmare.

“Ah, you’re here! Come, I need to show you my newest masterpiece.” Edgar steps closer to you, dragging you by the hand to a canvas you hadn’t noticed before. He was standing in front of it, so it was only natural.

You numbly follow, heart in your throat. You’re grateful, distantly, that the “masterpiece” is not the corpses of your friends. You think you’re going to throw up, eyes trying to look at anything but them.

So, you gladly look at his so-called masterpiece.

You really wish you didn’t.

There, on the canvas, is a portrait. This time, it’s so painfully obvious it’s you that you can’t even deny it. Surrounded by red camellias, hands curled in front of their chest, with a smile so genuine, dimples showed. Eyes crinkled, back straight, and God, did it have to be so accurate?

The red of the camellias are familiar, as is the red of your blush, the colors of your clothes, your hair. 

It’s all been painted using your friend’s blood.

Edgar comes behind you, his arms circling your waist. A content sigh leaves him, his chin resting on your shoulder. His hold is gentle, but firm, possessive in a way you never thought him capable of. His lips brush against your neck, a kiss much like a collar pressed into your skin. You can feel them curl into a smile.

“What do you think, my muse? The red means I love you.”

for a friend

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