Do I Have A Problem For Simping To Older People? YES

I have to make 6 outputs for our journalism but here i am reading angst and i feel numb.

THE DEVIL WORKS HARD BUT WRITERS WORK HARDER 😭 GYAT DAMN

Damn.. 😦

The Quite Ones

Pairing: Mona Wassermann/Reader

Words: 3.9k

Summary: She said it was love when she asked you to move in. You didn’t notice the walls closing in until they felt like home. Now there’s another girl wearing your old fear—and you, draped in silk and power, wouldn’t have it any other

Warnings: Toxic Relationship, Manipulation, Moral Corruption, Being Controlled But You Like It, Suicide (not reader), kidnapping

AO3

AN: This did a complete 180 from what I expected it to be, Oopsies. Enjoy Xx (Requested by: @luvpone)

The eggs are already plated when you wake.

Soft-scrambled, just the way Mona likes them—creamy, a hint of chive, barely touched by heat. The toast is dry, cut diagonally. The grapefruit has been halved, segmented, dusted with sugar.

You blink the sleep from your eyes and sit up slowly, like you’re afraid to shift the balance of the morning. The sheets are still warm beside you, though she’s long gone. You smell her perfume before you see the tray. Sharp. Floral. Unmistakably hers.

A folded note rests beside your water glass.

Remember your pills. Wear the blue sweater today. I’ll be home at six. Don’t make me come looking.

– M

You stare at the handwriting for a long moment. Neat. Severe. Looped just slightly at the tail ends, like she wants to seem softer than she is.

You do exactly as she says. Not because you’re hungry, but because she’ll ask. And if she finds the plate cold and untouched when she gets home—no. Better not to find out.

You chew mechanically, gaze drifting across the apartment. Her apartment. All clean lines and pale marble, glass so spotless it reflects the sky, not the city. Everything in its place. Just like you.

There’s a faint hum of music playing through the built-in speakers—one of her old jazz records. Mona likes music in the mornings. She says silence makes you brood.

Your phone buzzes once. Then again. You already know who it is.

Have you eaten? Send me a photo.

You don’t hesitate. You snap a picture of the empty plate and send it without comment. The read receipt pops up within seconds.

Good girl. Now the sweater.

You rise, dutiful, and make your way to the closet. Not yours—hers. Everything you own now fits into a curated space of her choosing. The blue sweater is already laid out on the ottoman. You didn’t put it there.

It still smells like her. You slip the sweater on. It’s soft, expensive. Cashmere, probably. Mona doesn’t buy anything that isn’t the best.

It still fits perfectly, even though you’re sure you’ve lost weight. She says that’s good. Says it makes you look “kept.” Like you’re being taken care of.

You sit on the edge of the bed, sweater clutched around yourself like armor, and let your thoughts drift—just for a moment—back to before.

Back to the beginning.

Mona had been kind, then. Overwhelming, yes—she swept into your life like a storm with perfect posture—but kind. She asked questions no one else thought to ask. Remembered the name of your cat, your mother, your favorite wine. She touched your arm when you were nervous and said things like: “You don’t have to be afraid with me.”

And you believed her.

When she offered her guest suite, just for a while, just until things “settled”, you didn’t think twice. You were out of work. The lease was ending. She looked at you like she couldn’t bear the thought of you struggling.

You told yourself it was temporary. She told you, gently: “I want you safe. That’s all. Let me give you that.”

You never even noticed the moment your keys stopped working. Or when she started answering your phone. Or when your old clothes vanished, replaced with carefully chosen alternatives. Mona said they “didn’t suit you.” She said this with a smile, holding a silk blouse to your chest like a gift.

And maybe it was. Maybe that’s what’s so confusing.

She loves you. She tells you so every day. She holds your face in both hands like it’s precious. She kisses your temple when you’re quiet too long and murmurs things like: “You’d fall apart without me, wouldn’t you?”

The worst part is—she might be right.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The lock clicks at exactly 5:58 PM. She never rings. Never knocks. This is her home. Her space. Her rules.

You’re already sitting on the couch, sweater smoothed over your lap, a book open but unread in your hands. You’ve been in that position for twenty minutes, heart fluttering with anticipation you’d never call fear.

She walks in without hesitation. A black coat draped over her shoulders. Lips painted like blood and wine. Hair perfectly set, not a strand out of place.

Mona Wassermann doesn’t rush. She arrives. “Darling.” Her voice is warm, velvet-thick. “You wore the sweater.” You nod, managing a smile. “You said to.”

She hums, low and pleased, and crosses the room in heels that echo like punctuation. “You listen so well,” she murmurs, and cups your jaw in one hand. Her thumb strokes your cheek, her touch feather-light. “That’s what I love about you. You know how to be cared for.”

You swallow. “I made tea.”

“I’m not thirsty,” she says, still smiling, still touching. “But I’ll sit with you.” She takes the book from your lap and sets it aside—delicately, like it’s fragile. Like you’re fragile. Then she sits beside you and pulls you into her side, your body folding against hers out of habit more than choice.

Her arm curls around your shoulders. Her lips brush your temple. “There,” she whispers. “Isn’t that better?”

You nod again. Because it is. It’s easier than questioning. Safer than pushing back. And besides, Mona’s warmth is real. Her grip, firm but comforting. Her attention, intoxicating.

If this is what love looks like, you think, maybe you can learn to want it this way. You close your eyes and let her hold you. And you don’t ask why the door locks behind her with a soft mechanical click.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You don’t notice when you stop checking the time.

Mona keeps the clocks set fast by exactly six minutes, she says it keeps you sharp, but you don’t need them. You know her rhythms better than your own now. You wake when she tells you. Eat when she expects you to. Breathe easier when she walks through the door.

You used to wonder if this was normal. If it was healthy. Now you just want to make her proud.

She’s sitting at the dining table with her glasses perched low on her nose, reading something dense and contractual. You curl up beside her on the floor, rest your head against her hip. You don’t say a word. You don’t have to.

Her hand slips into your hair like it belongs there. “I could get used to this,” she says absently, still reading. You tilt your head up. “To what?”

“This. You. Obedient. Quiet. Sweet.” You beam like it’s praise. Because it is. “I just want to make you happy,” you say. She sets her papers down and looks at you fully, her expression unreadable.

“You do,” she says. Then softer, almost to herself, “You really do.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

She still tells you you’re beautiful, but now it’s in the same tone she uses when approving a purchase order—decisive, possessive. Her hands roam absently when she walks past you: a hand at your waist, a gentle grip at your nape, a brush down your spine that makes you shiver in ways you pretend not to understand.

And when she kisses you, it’s with a kind of ownership that leaves no room for doubt.

One night, you whisper to her in the dark, just as sleep starts to take you both: “I love you.” You feel her go still behind you, just for a second.

Then her hand curls around your middle, pulling you closer. Her mouth finds the curve of your shoulder. “I know,” she murmurs. “I love you too.”You smile, eyes fluttering closed.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You meet for coffee because Mona said you could.

She picked the café. Chose your outfit. Had the driver wait half a block away. “Let her feel free,” she’d said with a smirk, lips brushing your cheek. “It’ll make her easier to ignore.” You’d laughed. She kissed you again.

Now you sit at a small table by the window, sweater sleeves neatly pushed to your wrists, hands folded in your lap the way Mona likes. You’re early, of course. You always are.

When your friend arrives, she looks different. Or maybe you do. She hugs you too tightly, too long. She smells like a life you used to have—street food and secondhand bookstores, not rose oil and Mona’s Chanel.

“You look…” She hesitates. “Good.” You smile. “She takes care of me.”

“Yeah,” your friend says, pulling off her coat. “That’s what I wanted to talk about.” It starts softly. Little questions. How have you been? Are you still painting? Do you see anyone else? Do you ever go anywhere alone?

You answer like you’ve been coached—because you have. “She just wants what’s best for me,” you say. “She’s protective.”

“Protective,” your friend echoes. “Or controlling?” You blink. “What’s the difference?” She stares at you. Her expression shifts—fear, maybe. Or pity. You hate it.

“She’s cut you off from everyone,” she says quietly. “You used to call me when you couldn’t sleep. You used to laugh more. You used to talk about leaving.” You stiffen. “I don’t want to leave.”

“She doesn’t love you,” your friend says, voice flat. “She owns you.” You flinch like she slapped you. “No,” you say. “No, she does. You don’t understand her.”

“I understand you,” she says, leaning forward. “And I know when you’re not okay.”

You push back your chair, carefully. Not angrily—Mona taught you better than that. You gather your coat, your phone, your bag. Everything Mona picked out for you.

“I’m fine,” you say, voice even. “I love her. And she loves me.” She grabs your wrist. “She’s conditioning you.” You yank free.

“She saved me,” you say, quieter now. “When no one else did. I’m not going to apologize for being loved.”

Your phone buzzes. A single text: Time’s up. Car is waiting. You don’t look back. You leave with your head high, pride stiff in your spine.

That night, you curl against Mona in bed. She brushes your hair back and kisses your forehead. “She’s worried about you,” she murmurs.

You nod against her chest. “She doesn’t know what we have.” Mona hums. “No,” she agrees, stroking your back. “She doesn’t.” She holds you closer. You don’t see the way her eyes stay open long after yours have closed.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The friend doesn’t stop.

She starts texting. Calling. Leaving voicemails that pile up unheard in your phone’s hidden folder—Mona showed you how to mute her without blocking. “Cruelty,” she’d said, “is giving them hope.”

At first, you ignore it. Then, you listen. She sounds tired. Worried. Pleading.

This isn’t you. You used to fight. You used to have your own mind. I’m not going away.

You play the last message twice. It ends with silence, then a quiet, broken whisper: Please come back. You delete it.

Later, you tell Mona. She’s in her study, barefoot, swirling a glass of red wine. You sit on the arm of her chair, your hand resting gently on her shoulder. “She won’t stop.” Mona doesn’t look up from her book. “Then block her.”

“She was my friend.” Mona hums. “And I’m your future.” You hesitate. Then: “She said I’m not myself anymore.” That gets her attention. She closes the book. Turns to face you fully.

“And what self would you rather be, hm?” Her voice is soft, slow. Seductive in its certainty. “The one who cried herself to sleep in an empty apartment? The one who begged for scraps of affection from people who couldn’t give a damn?”

You’re quiet. She leans closer, brushing her lips over your jaw. “Or this version? The one who’s loved. Protected. Chosen.” You nod. But something cold settles in your chest anyway. It starts to show.

At lunch with Mona’s acquaintances—never your friends—you speak less. But when you do, it’s with precision. You echo Mona’s cadence, her sharpness, her subtle threats wrapped in silk.

Someone makes a joke at your expense. You smile, cool and unbothered, and say: “Careful. Mona doesn’t like people touching her things.”

Their laugh falters. You finish your drink. Mona beams.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You dream about locking the doors behind her. You dream about telling someone they’re not allowed to leave. You wake with a sick flush of guilt—and something else. Something hotter. Thicker.

You bury your face in Mona’s shoulder. She strokes your hair and doesn’t ask what the dream was. She knows.

Your friend corners you outside the florist’s. You don’t know how she found you. “You’re scaring me,” she says. “You’re starting to sound like her.”

You look at her—really look—and realize she’s smaller than you remember. Not physically. Just… less. You tilt your head. “She’s not hurting me,” you say calmly. “She’s making me better.”

“She’s changing you.” You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The look in your eyes says it all.

That night, Mona kisses your neck and murmurs, “My sweet girl. You’re learning.” And you are. You just don’t know if you’re becoming what she wants—or something even she should be afraid of.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The friend comes back. She looks worse now—drawn, desperate, tired of begging but still clinging to the idea that somewhere beneath all this, you’re still you.

You open the door without hesitation. “Come in,” you say smoothly. She hesitates, but steps over the threshold. The lock clicks behind her.

You lead her to the sitting room, where the lights are low and the air smells faintly of Mona’s perfume, amber, spice, smoke.

She doesn’t sit. “I just want to talk.” You nod. “We will. But not yet.” You cross the room and pour a glass of wine, watching her in the reflection of the cabinet mirror. She’s uneasy already. Good.

You hand her the glass. She doesn’t take it.

“Mona will be home soon,” you say softly, brushing a stray hair from her shoulder. “You should stay. Since you want me so badly.” Her brow furrows. “What?”

“You keep saying you want the real me back.” You smile, all teeth. “She’ll want to see that.” She takes a step back. “This isn’t funny.”

“Oh, I’m not joking.” You move closer. Not threatening. Not yet. Just present. “You chased me down. You barged into my life. You said you weren’t leaving until I came back.”

You lower your voice. “So stay.” You motion toward the couch. She doesn’t move. You don’t force her. You just watch. “Let’s see what Mona thinks of your loyalty.”

When Mona arrives, the energy in the room shifts instantly. She closes the door, tosses her keys on the side table, and pauses when she sees the two of you.

Her eyes land on your friend. Then flick to you with a slow, dangerous smile. You stand and walk to her, all grace and control, and press a kiss to her cheek.

“She wants to save me,” you murmur, just loud enough for your friend to hear. “Tried again.” Mona’s eye glint. “How sweet.”

“She’s staying,” you add. “For now. Since she misses me so much.” Mona looks at your friend like one might look at something pitiful on the street.

“How generous,” she says, curling an arm around your waist. You lean into her easily, effortlessly. Your voice is silk. “She doesn’t understand yet. But she will.” Mona kisses your temple. “She won’t like what she sees.”

“She never does,” you reply. “But that’s not our problem, is it?” Your friend stands frozen, uncertain if she’s still here to help—or if she’s already become part of the performance.

You smile, slow and cruel. “Don’t worry,” you say gently. “You wanted to see the real me.” You lace your fingers with Mona’s, lift them to your lips. “Well. Here I am.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

She stayed. Not by choice. But she stayed.

It was supposed to be a confrontation. A rescue. But one look at Mona, one long, bone-deep silence between the two of you, and your friend lost her footing. You saw it in her eyes—the moment her resolve cracked.

Now she sleeps in the servant’s room. You didn’t even know the house had one. Mona called it “practical.” She doesn’t call her by name anymore. Just “the girl.”

“She’s useful,” Mona says with a wave of her hand. “Good hands. Quiet. Mostly.” You don’t ask her to leave. You don’t apologize.

Instead, you hand her empty teacups. You set your shoes by the door and let her clean them. You watch her as she dusts the shelves you used to daydream beside, and you feel…

Nothing. No guilt. No ache. Only power.

Mona sees it in you. The way your shoulders don’t hunch anymore. The way you speak with weight. The way you look at her like you’ve finally earned her.

And when she fastens your necklace in the mirror, she speaks low against your ear: “I’m proud of you.” Your eyes flutter shut. You lean into her touch. You’re warm all over.

She still tells you when to sleep. What to wear. Where to sit. And you let her. You want to. Because every time she buttons your collar closed or brushes her thumb over your lip to wipe away a crumb, your body reacts before your mind does.

Heat. Obedience. Desire. You used to wonder if it was wrong. Now you just want more.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

One evening, you catch your reflection as you pass the mirror in the foyer. You pause. Step closer. Study yourself. The posture. The lipstick. The velvet around your throat.

You turn, slowly, admiring. Behind you, the girl—your friend—sets a tray on the table. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t meet your eyes.

You watch her in the mirror, then shift your gaze back to yourself. “Mona,” you say casually as she enters the room, “do you think she’s in love with me?”

Mona raises an eyebrow. “She’s afraid of yoi.” You smile. “Same thing.”

Mona laughs, low and delighted, and crosses to you. She kisses you slowly, possessively, not caring that the girl can see.

And you melt into her, fingertips grazing the curve of her waist. Because fear isn’t love. But it keeps people close. And that’s all you’ve ever wanted.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It’s raining the day the girl tries to leave.

You find her in the foyer with her old coat and a canvas bag that still smells like the life she used to have. She’s trembling, soaked from the open door. Eyes darting, frantic.

She doesn’t speak at first. Just looks at you like she’s begging without words. You don’t say anything either. You just close the door. Quietly. Then you call for Mona.

The aftermath is silent. No shouting. No threats. Just the door locking. The coat taken. The bag burned.

Later, Mona wraps an arm around your waist as you sip wine by the fireplace. The girl kneels at the edge of the room, eyes fixed on the floor, hands folded neatly in her lap.

“You handled that well,” Mona murmurs, brushing your hair back. “I knew you would.” You smile. You should feel triumphant. But what you feel is settled. Like the final piece of something has clicked into place.

That night, you lie in bed with Mona’s hand at your throat and her breath in your ear, and it hits you: You’re not afraid anymore. Not of her. Not of what you’ve become. Not even of what you’re capable of.

You want her power. You want to share it. And you know now—you were never her victim. You were her creation.

The rain has stopped. There’s a stillness in the house that’s almost sacred. No birds, no wind—just the faint hum of quiet obedience in every room.

You pad barefoot into the kitchen the next morning, Mona’s silk robe wrapped around you like armor. It still smells like her—amber, smoke, power. You don’t bother tying it.

The girl is already there.

Kneeling by the oven, scrubbing the tile. Her movements are too fast, too frantic, like if she works hard enough she might disappear.

You stand in the doorway for a moment and just watch her. The tremble in her spine. The quick glance over her shoulder. The way she immediately ducks her head again.

You love it. Not in the way you used to love. Not the soft, giving kind. This is something deeper. Sharper. Almost holy.

You walk to the counter and sit. She stiffens when she hears the stool scrape the floor. You let the silence stretch. Then: “Coffee.” Your voice is low. Even. Calm. But it cuts through her like a blade.

She stumbles to her feet and obeys. Hands shaking. You don’t help. You don’t thank her. You just watch.

When she sets the cup in front of you, you reach out—slowly, deliberately—and take her wrist. She freezes. You don’t squeeze. You don’t threaten. You just hold her there. Make her look at you.

And when she does—when her eyes meet yours, wide and frightened, pleading—you smile. “I could’ve been you,” you say softly. “You know that, don’t you?”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. You release her. Take a sip. It’s perfect. Behind you, you hear the soft click of Mona’s heels approaching.

She enters without a word and leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you. You meet her eyes. She’s beaming.

There’s something almost tender in the way she looks at you now. Something reverent. “Look at you,” she murmurs. “You’ve found your footing.”

You glance back at the girl, who has quietly returned to her corner. Head down. Knees bruised. “Fear,” you say, swirling your coffee, “is a kind of worship.”

Mona crosses the room and kisses your forehead. “I knew you’d understand,” she whispers. You rest your head against her shoulder, looking out at your kingdom. The kitchen, the house, the girl. All of it. Yours. Hers. Forever.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It happens on a Tuesday.

You find her slumped in the servant’s room—wrist pale and open, sheets stained a dull brown. She must’ve done it hours ago. No note. No drama. Just quiet defiance. Or maybe desperation.

You stand in the doorway and look at her for a long time. You don’t cry. You don’t scream. You just sigh.

“She couldn’t even finish the floors,” you say that evening, curled in Mona’s lap, her fingers idly combing through your hair.

Mona hums in mild irritation, swirling a spoon through her espresso. “I told you she wasn’t built for longevity. All that conviction—useless without structure.”

You stretch, slow and catlike, lips brushing the underside of her jaw. “We’ll have to place an ad.” Mona groans dramatically. “Ugh. Interviews.” You laugh softly. “Can we get one that doesn’t cry?”

“Or pray.”

“Or try to save me?” Mona tightens her grip around your waist. “You’re not in need of saving,” she murmurs. “You’re perfect.” You smile into her throat.

Later that week, a new girl arrives. Young. Eager. Nervous. She calls you “Miss.” You offer her a drink. Something calming. She takes it with both hands.

And from the top of the stairs, Mona watches you with pride gleaming in her eyes. You’ve learned to play her game. No—your game now.

And the house? The house remains hungry. Always hungry.

Need her tongue to swipe my [REDACTED] [ELIMINATED]

Desperately need more Patti fanfics

I REALLY HOPE THE GWEN FANDOM WILL BE ACTIVE AGAIN WHEN S2 OF SANDMAN COMES OUT 😭😭😭😭😭😭 also i was FLABBERGASTED when she appeared in severance its like im going back to my phase again HAHAHAHAHA

just decoded the deseret and now im sobbing 😭

Organs in the Wash Ch. 7

Miranda Hilmarson x Reader

Authors Note: Thank u v much to my beta baby @bri-sonat <3 This chapter is a little intense so please take care of yourself during and after reading <3 but if you wanna skip and come back for ch. 8 that's okay too :) I left part of some Deseret untranslated. I wonder if one of you can figure out the translation...

Warnings: Kidnapping, serial killers, blood, torture (cutting), and psychological abuse

Relinquishing his grip on your hair, the killer backed away, retreating back to a workbench. Now given the opportunity, you were able to glance around the room, taking in your surroundings. Concrete floors, walls lined with aged bricks, and the only light sources were a few dangling bulbs. Old metal shelves lined the walls, containing old paint buckets, tools, and miscellaneous housing fixtures that he had probably used to fix things in your apartment at one point or another. If you had to guess, you believed you were in the basement of your apartment building. But why would he choose to stay so close to where he had taken you from?

“You know... I always thought I was going to be a doctor. You can see by my handiwork that I have a steady hand. Maya was an interesting case... I bled her first. Hung her from the rafters above you and let it all run down the drain.” His tone was so casual, like he was describing his last trip to the grocery store. At the mention of Maya hanging from the rafters, you glance upwards and see a chain dangling overhead. The clinking of metal against the workbench draws your attention back down to him, “Washing the organs was the fun part for me. It really gave me an up close and personal look at each of them. After I called the police, I knew I had made a mistake by putting the organs in the wash.”

The effort to talk makes your entire body ache and your voice cracks as you speak, “...So you killed Abbey?” 

He turns around to look at you, delighted you were willing to have a conversation with him, “Exactly. I disemboweled her. I’m keeping her organs nice and fresh in some ethanol on the shelves over there.” He then gestured to the metal shelf with the paint cans that you now realized were filled with human organs, not paint, “She struggled so much. It was so annoying. The police will be lucky if they get an ID on her with what I did to her. With some patience and experimenting, hydrofluoric acid isn’t that hard to make yourself... The internet really is wonderful.”

He crosses the room, approaching a different workbench. Well, you thought it was a workbench, but the straps hanging off of it told you it was where he planned to torture you. Tears welled in your eyes. You didn’t want to show your fear, but this was your nightmares come to life, “And why me?”

He paused what he was doing, only for a moment, to think. He resumed preparing the dissection table for you as he spoke, “At first... proximity. It was easy access, but in the end, it was for the challenge. I would have thought you had recognized my voice, but from the look on your face earlier, you really didn’t know it was me, did you?”

“No...”

“Of course, you didn’t... Girls are so stupid... You did surprise me with your ability to understand the Deseret Alphabet. I wasn’t particularly connected to the language, but every serial killer needs his thing, ya know?” He smiled fondly and gestured wildly with his hands, clearly passionate and remorseless in his killing, “You’re special. I’m going to let you choose the phrase I carve into you. Maybe we can write a sweet letter for your boyfriend to read when she finds your corpse.” 

------

“Repeat those phrases from the letter back to me again.” Robin requested as she moved slowly about your apartment, checking every nook and cranny for anything unusual other officers may have missed. 

Miranda pulled the notebook from her jacket, flipping through the pages to find the translation to the letter, “‘The answer is so near, yet you are blind to the possibilities. Many of these old buildings hold more secrets than you can even imagine.’ And it was also signed, ‘your neighbor.’”

Robin only hummed in response, her eyes trailing along the baseboards for anything that could indicate ‘secrets’ like hidden doors or passages that could have given the killer access to the apartment. Her eyes stopped when confronted with your bookcase and she called over to Miranda to help her, “Here, help me move this bookcase.” 

Tucking the notebook back in her vest, Miranda took two long strides to grasp at the bookcase, pushing while Robin pulled. The blonde huffed as she heaved the bookcase out of the way, “Do you think there is a hidden door or something?” 

“That’s what makes the most sense to me...” Robin shrugged, glancing around the bookcase to the exposed wall to find nothing out of the ordinary.

“Nothing... Robin... What am I going to do? I need to find her. I-” Miranda’s hands move up to her hair, ranking through the locks roughly as to take her aggression out somewhere. She began to pace across your apartment, her chest beginning to heave from the stress and panic that was setting in. The sound of Robin’s ringtone made both of the women stop in their tracks. 

“Just-” Robin pulled the phone from her pocket and glanced down at Adrian’s contact glowing on her home screen. Before she took the call, she looked at Miranda intently, providing her with a couple comforting words, “We will find her. She will be back with you in no time...” 

Answering the call, Robin placed it on speakerphone so she wouldn’t have to relay all of the information back to Miranda later on. Adrian spoke before either of the women could get a word out, “Get back down to the station. We caught him.”

Robin let out a light laugh, unable to believe Adrian could be talking about the serial killer they had been searching relentlessly for, “Caught who?”

“The killer. There is no reason for you to be in Ms. L/n’s apartment any longer.” Adrian’s voice was tainted with annoyance. 

Miranda’s eyes widened and she snatched the phone from Robin’s hand, holding the speaker up to her mouth. The way her voice filled with hope made Robin’s heart ache, “Is Y/n there? Is she with you? Can I talk to her?”

“We haven’t tracked her down yet. We are interrogating him right now to get her location. He keeps feeding us this bullshit that he doesn’t know who we are talking about. We are checking his ‘so-called’ alibis, but we are sure they will fall through.” Miranda’s face immediately fell at Adrian’s response, a scowl returning to her features. Robin and Miranda exchanged a glance, hesitant to believe they had found the killer so easily. The women were so confident in their suspicions the killer was still in the building that they doubted the other detective’s abilities. 

Robin took her phone back from Miranda with a roll of her eyes, “We are going to continue with our theories until you confirm or disprove his alibis.” 

“Waste of time, Griffin. I want you both-” 

“Yeah, we will finish up here and get down to the station when we are done.” Robin noticed the way Miranda’s face fell at the imminent order from their superior, so she opted for the path of disobedience. She cut off Adrian mid-sentence and hung up when she ended her sentence. The brunette smirked at her partner, “Let’s find a killer.”

-------

“Now... Don’t be causing any trouble. You are going to get on this dissection table without any fuss or I’ll really make you regret it, hmm?” He spoke to you like you were a toddler which was incredibly infuriating. If you were going to die anyway, wouldn’t an attempt at escaping be worth the try? On the other hand, if you were going to die, would trying to escape be worth the additional torture? 

He pulls the dissection table to your side, a horrible scraping noise accompanying the action from the metal sliding against the concrete floors. 

“After you, I think I’ll move on to Brisbane... They have the medical school there. I’m sure with all of my experience, I could really impress them with my talents. University of Queensland Mayne... I could be a surgeon.” He situated the table meticulously and moved to fetch a large overhead light he would no doubt use to accurately carve his letter to Miranda into you. His delusional mindset made your brow furrow, “Think of all of the good you will be doing by allowing me to practice on you. This is very altruistic of you.” 

Monotone and dripping with sarcasm, you couldn’t help yourself, “Happy to help.” 

Flicking on the light, he adjusted it over the table and you were then blinded by the LED bulbs, “I knew you would understand. Now, let’s get you all set up here so we can get started.” 

He squatted in front of your chair, untying your legs and continuing his friendly chatter, “I could even continue my extra-curricular surgeries for practice when I’m in Brisbane, ya know? After we are done here, I have a little timer set up to burn this apartment building to the ground. I can collect on that insurance money and buy a couple properties in Brisbane, rent them out maybe? I have time to figure it all out.”

“Oh, sure.”

Circling the chair, he began to untie your hands, reminding you to behave before he continued telling you about his master plan, “Now, no running... I made pretty good money with the laundromat and as a landlord, but you really need to follow your dreams.”

From the moment the rope slipped from your wrists, you bolted, scrambling away from him as quickly as possible. He must not have been expecting you to run as he stumbled and tripped over the chair you had been sitting in. 

You really had no clue where to run, but you dashed past his work bench, pausing momentarily to lift the far side of it and send the tools crashing and skidding across the floor. Hopefully, if you made enough noise, someone nearby would be able to hear you calling for help. You screamed for help, calling out Miranda’s name, and calling out your own name for any passerby to hear. 

As you moved through the basement, you could hear his angry shouting behind you, “Get back here, you dumb bitch.”

Glancing back over your shoulder, he wasn’t any closer, but you figured you should keep throwing things in his path. Passing by one of his beloved shelves of organs, you yanked the shelf to the floor, taking seconds longer than you should have when you saw him sprinting even closer. The horrible smell of preserved organs and ethanol filled the air when the cans burst open upon hitting the floor. 

Continuing down a hallway, you realized the opportunity for you to be trapped was growing high. He groaned in frustration behind you, pausing momentarily to look at all of his hard work undone by your action. You attempted to rattle the handle on two different doors to only find them locked. Further down the hallway, there was a final door and metal bars moving up the wall, leading to a hatch in the ceiling. 

You could hear the sound of his feet hitting the floor- he must have jumped over the fallen shelf, resuming his pursuit of you. Ignoring the door, you assumed it would be locked like the others, so you choose to climb the ladder instead. Your heart dropped when your foot slipped on the second step, knowing you had wasted a split second and the odds of him grabbing your legs and pulling you to the floor was high. 

You made it up another two steps when your foot slipped again. The adrenaline and anxiety from being caught was making your entire body shake. A glimmer of hope shone through when your hand grasped the latch of the hatch, pushing upwards. It was beyond heavy, but you were able to shift it upwards an inch. 

A hand around your ankle causes you to yelp out a final cry for help through the small opening leading to the outside world. His other hand came to grasp the back of your shirt and he gave you a yank backwards and you were filled with self-disgust when your hands slipped from their places on the latch and ladder. He sent you flying to the floor, your head hitting the brick of the basement wall. 

The last thing you heard was the hatch slamming shut under the weight of itself. 

----

Miranda was trying her best to help Robin, but the pressure of finding you was starting to get to her. She began pacing back and forth across the back wall of your apartment while Robin continued searching for anything out of the ordinary. The shorter woman shot her partner an annoyed glance, wishing Miranda could set aside her feelings for you to make headway on finding you, “Miranda! Can you help me here?”

“I’m doing my best, Robin! Get off my ass!” Miranda shouted, stopping in her tracks and stomping her foot in defiance. A hollow sound from beneath her echoed from the strike of her boot. Furrowing her brow, Miranda glanced down to the floor, repeating the action once more and receiving the same response. Shifting over a meter, Miranda threw her foot down once more to hear solid ground instead of the echo. 

“There is no need to throw a tantrum, Hilmarson. We will figure this out.” Robin must not have noticed the change in noises like Miranda had as she rolled her eyes at the blonde. The brunette’s phone began to buzz in her pocket once more and she huffed in frustration at seeing Adrian’s contact once more. Accepting the call and shoving the phone to her ear, Robin was less than welcoming to her boss, “What?”

“Where the hell are you?” Adrian shouted into the receiver of his office phone. 

Robin glanced over at Miranda kneeling on the floor, her fingers dancing around the edges of floorboards, attempting to lift them from their place, “...investigating a lead.”

Miranda studied the floorboards, noting a different wear pattern at the edge of where the hollow noise began. Pulling a pocket knife from her vest, Miranda wedged it into the boards, prying up the board enough for her to push her fingers under it and lift. A group of boards were attached to one another, revealing a hole in the floor, a ladder lining one of the walls. 

“The suspect’s alibi is airtight. The dental records came back on the second victim. Her name was Abbey Moore.”  Robin was only paying partial attention to Adrian’s words as she watched Miranda. “Both the victims and this kid all have something in common; they are all tenants of the same landlord. We are thinking the landlord could be behind it all.”

At the sight of the secret tunnel, Robin’s eyes widened, a satisfied smile spreading across her face in knowing they had been right. It all made perfect sense that the landlord had been the one to frame his male tenant, kill the two women, and kidnap you. While she didn’t know his motive, he had the opportunity and access to harm his tenants, “It’s him. The landlord did it.”

“We need to- You knew?” Adrian couldn’t hide his shock at his detective’s statement. 

Robin crossed the apartment, filling Adrian in before she and Miranda continued their investigation, “We followed Hilmarson’s theory. Send backup back to the apartment building. She found a hatch leading somewhere. We are going to follow it down and see what we can find.”

Adrian barked an order, but it was no use. The constable and detective were too determined to save you and catch a killer, “Get out of there, Griffin. Wait until I get down there with a couple more constables. We don’t know what we are up against here.”

“There is no time. We will leave the hatch open for you to find, Adrian.” Robin shook her head, knowing if she or Miranda were to get hurt due to her continuous disobedience, she would be put on desk duty for the foreseeable future. Robin hung up and shoved her phone in her back pocket, “Okay, Hilmarson. You want to go first, or shall I?”

-------

The horrid agony of a scalpel digging into your forearm brought you back to consciousness. You could sense the blinding LEDs before you even opened your eyes. Your head throbbed and there was a tightness across your chest and legs. Straps held your body in place and your head hitting the bricks earlier had left you with a large gash in the back of your head. You attempted to cry out in pain, but your voice was muffled by a rag that tasted of wood stain causing a burning sensation on your tongue. 

Glancing up from his work, he now donned a pair of magnifying glasses to make sure his work was neat and tidy. He was using a rag doused in hydrogen peroxide to add an extra sting whenever he wiped away the blood,wanting you to suffer as much as possible, not giving you the opportunity to regain your breath between cuts, wanting you to suffer as much as possible, not giving you the opportunity to regain your breath between cuts, “You shouldn’t have done that. Now you wont get to choose the little note I leave on your corpse.”

He had only made his way through two words, 𐐔𐐨𐑉 𐐣𐐮𐑉𐐰𐑌𐐼𐐲, and tears had already flooded your eyes and were pouring down your cheeks. His movements were short strokes, making sure to leave enough room on your forearm for everything he wanted to say. If this experience were to be reflective of your death, this was going to be a prolonged and harrowing experience.

💗💗 couldn't post the other one cuz its explicit and im shy

Just a funny normal art doodle collab with @akilikesaxolotls!!

Daniela's reaction broke my heart and spirit when Alcina announced her relationship with MC 😭

++ my top 3 fav routes

1. Miranda

2. Bela

3. Alcina/Donna (it's a tie rly)

OH GREAT HEAVENS

I'm not gonna lie, she looks so fine in this outfit. 😮‍💨😮‍💨

Literally insane that I saw they’d elected a new pope and the first person I thought of was Joan fucking Ramsey