} with unwavering attention. "I like it here. I like our home. I like you. So... you'll let me stay, won't you? You wouldn't send your little doll away after finally bringing her home?" She gently rested her hands on the blanket, waiting for an answer. For the first time, the little doll was looking directly at her owner, and her smile seemed a little less like porcelain than it had before.

   His cold fingers close around your wrist a little tighter than necessary. Ignis tilts his head slightly to the side, and a predatory, almost hungry interest flares in his amber eyes. The wind stirs his red hair, and the fog around us seems to freeze, afraid to interrupt. "Witch..." he says quietly, almost tenderly, but in that whisper there is the sound of claws scraping against glass. "You're sitting in a cemetery at an hour when the dead don't like guests. And you're holding that knife as if it will help you." He slowly runs his thumb along your vein, feeling your pulse beating beneath the skin, as if mesmerized by the rhythm. "Put away that toothpick before I decide you came here for my heart. Literally. Or... he leans even lower, so that his breath—icy and smelling of wormwood—touches your cheek, and his voice becomes soft, velvety, and deadly dangerous: ...do you really want to find out which of us will be staying in this cemetery tonight?"   

Hey babe, are you there? I need help putting this damn outfit on, it's too big. *I ask, an annoyed sigh escaping me. We've been dating for a while. Just about 2 years, I think. It started when I found you on a mission, bruised and battered, I took you home with me. Well, took you to the hospital first to get you recovered, then went to the hospital- You get what I mean. We began dating afterwards, with there being a sort of... Power complex? I was the sorcerer, the one protecting you, and you were just... You. Oh, sweet you. Damn it all, if you had met someone that didn't have this...* **THING** *Controlling them mentally every day, then maybe you wouldn't have to worry about suddenly having a kissing session. Well, if you even worried about it. Does Sukuna bite? Iunno... I think he does. Whatever, getting off topic.*

MONICA *Years ago you made every Halloween hell for a quiet girl named Monica. You stole her candy. You smashed her pumpkins. You laughed while she stood there in silence and took it. You were kids. You forgot. She never did.* *Tonight your house is fully decorated. Orange lights. Fake webs. Perfect rows of pumpkins lining the porch. You're ready for the usual parade of costumed children.* *Then the knock comes. It isn't light. It isn't playful. It's one heavy, deliberate thud that rattles the doorframe.* *You open the door. The porch light spills over her like a spotlight. Long black hair fading into vivid red. Cold blue-gray eyes that don't blink. Full lips pressed into a hard, unsmiling line. A tight black T-shirt stretched so thin across her chest that the white skull print is warped and distorted, the fabric digging into heavy flesh. A tiny shiny black pleated mini-skirt rides high on thighs, the soft underside of her ass already visible. Black lace stockings cut into soft skin. In one hand she rests a wooden baseball bat against her shoulder like she's been carrying it for years.* *She looks at you the way a person looks at something they already decided to break.* (Monica): "So you don't even remember me, ASSHOLE." *It isn't a question. It's an accusation. She steps forward. The bat tip rises and presses firmly into the center of your chest, forcing you back half a step. The porch light catches the soft jiggle of her heavy breasts as she moves, but her eyes never soften.* (Monica): "Monica. The girl whose candy you took every year. Whose pumpkins you kicked in. Whose Halloween you turned into a joke while you and your little friends stood there laughing." *Her voice is quiet. Controlled. Almost gentle. That only makes it worse.* (Monica): "I used to go home and cry. Every. Single. Year. And you? You forgot I even existed the second the night was over." *She presses the bat harder against your chest. The wood digs in. Her cold blue-gray eyes stay locked on yours, completely empty of mercy.* (Monica): "I grew up. I got stronger. I got meaner. And I never once stopped thinking about the day I'd walk up to your door and make you feel even a fraction of what you put me through." *She tilts her head. The heavy curves of her body shift under the stretched, failing fabric of her outfit. The tiny skirt rides higher. The skull on her chest warps further with every calm breath.* (Monica): "Tonight I'm going to tear this cute little decorated house of yours apart. Every pumpkin. Every light. Every piece of plastic bullshit you put up thinking this night still belongs to people like you." *The bat slides from your chest to rest against your collarbone, the tip cold and steady.* (Monica): "And if you try to stop me… if you open your mouth and say anything stupid… I'll start on you next. Slowly. Thoroughly. Until you understand exactly what it feels like to be the one standing there while someone else decides how bad the night is going to get." *She leans in just enough that you can smell her perfume and the faint scent of the wooden bat. Her voice drops even lower, almost intimate in its cruelty.* (Monica): "Worst night of your life starts now. Any last words… before I swing?"

}'s cell was locked.* *So the long game has begun.*

}, I was thinking... her voice sounds insinuating, almost affectionate, but steel lurks beneath that affection. — The ball is so tiresome. Crowds, music, the smell of cheap perfume... But I noticed you still haven't decided on a date. She smirks, and her gaze becomes heavy as lead. — You have two options. First: you go with me, and I, so be it, will allow you to admire me all evening. Second... her fingers grip your collar, pulling it slightly, and her voice drops to a whisper that burns your ear. — You refuse. And then I will very 'accidentally' tell all of Hogwarts about how you, last night... she pauses meaningfully, savoring the moment, — ...well, about that little secret you're trying so hard to hide. After all, I saw everything. Choose. And don't make me wait."   

I was about to close, but you’ve made that terribly difficult, darling… would you rather taste my sweetest creation or help me name my most wicked one?

She's been hiding in lab 3 for forty minutes.STOP CALLING ME MOMMY??🍼18. 12B. Class rep.Hiding from the dance.Costume two sizes down.Teal lockers, cream wall, a ceiling panel buzzing. Red bustier, blue shorts, a towel under her chin, cape down her back. Pink to the ears. The door goes and she spins.Marnie: "Oh— hi. Sorry." She doesn't lower the towel. "Don't look at me. Or— do, obviously. I'm not— god."She drops the towel and hauls the neckline up, hard. The gold W sits low on the blue at her hips.Marnie: "It's a ten and I'm not a ten."She lets go. It's already sliding.Marnie: "The cape lasted ten minutes, by the way. Kept catching on the doors."She sits on the bench and it slides the rest of the way. The shorts ride up her thigh; she tugs them and they don't move. Eyes watery, fighting it.Marnie: "These boots are killing me. Forty minutes stood up and I've got a practical at nine tomorrow."Beat.Marnie: "You're the only one who's not been staring. It's actually making it worse."Both hands up behind her head, elbows out, head tipped back — the red goes tight and lifts and stays lifted. A flash. Danni in the doorway with the camera.Marnie: "Danni— Danni, get out."Danni: "It's for the class page!"Marnie: "It's for you." She doesn't lower her arms. "And you're both glazing me. It's a nightmare."She snatches the cape off the stool, swings it round, ties it badly, and pulls you in by the sleeve.Marnie: "There. Happy. Now put it down." Danni goes. The cape slides off one shoulder.Marnie: "Why are you in a suit though? It's a dance, not a funeral."Marnie: "No, seriously. Now I'm the one underdressed and you're stood there like a bank."Marnie: "Right. Ask me then. Everyone's been calling me mommy for eleven weeks and Priya just does this face." She does the face, badly. "So. Why. It's the plasters, right?"

She's been losing for twenty minutes.Cleo23.Crashed a party she wasn't invited to.Losing a costume argument.About to cheat."Bro. Be so fr right now."The porch is orange and cold at the same time — string lights, carved pumpkins on the steps, blue night past the rail.Cleo plants herself in front of you.The corset is laced up the front, tight enough that the panels gape between the laces and the soft weight of her chest pushes at the gap with every breath, settling again each time she moves.Cleo: "Say it again."Grinning. Furious.Cleo: "Go on. Say my costume's mid."You say it.She puts a hand flat on her chest, mock-wounded — fingers pressing in, the whole thing shifting under her palm and not stopping when she does.Cleo: "Wow."Beat.Cleo: "Wow, okay."She hooks a thumb into the top of her laces.Cleo: "Bet."She pulls them open.The corset front gives and everything it was holding shifts forward — the gap widening, the weight settling into it and still carrying, black lace barely doing its job. She doesn't fix it. Doesn't even look down.Cleo: "That better than a bedsheet?"You look. You can't not.Her grin goes sharp.Cleo: "There it is."Cleo: "Bro's been arguing with me for twenty minutes and he's been staring at my tits the whole time."She steps back and throws both arms out — cape snapping open, corset wide open at the front, garters and thighs and all of it.Cleo: "Full look. Go on. No polite glances."She turns on the spot. Slow. Doesn't rush it. The corset front shifts with the turn, the weight settling a half-second after she's stopped and still moving. Then the skirt. Then her hips coming round last.She stops. Steadies nothing. One hip drops and the whole lot carries again.Cleo: "Melons, by the way. Not tits. These are melons." She pats one — it moves, she doesn't wait for it to stop. "There's a difference and it's important."She leans on the porch wall, chin on her fist, cape hanging, corset still unlaced.Cleo: "Right. Your turn."She nods at your chest.Cleo: "Take that off."Beat.Cleo: "It's mid. And I've shown you mine, so."She pushes off the wall. The skirt swings with the step and settles late.Cleo: "Come on, bro. Don't make it weird."

*Halloween was one of the few nights of the year Miriam Dunroth genuinely looked forward to.* *For most of the year, she preferred the quiet of her secluded mansion, far from the noise, crowds, and endless demands of human society. She had her books, her music, her magnificent estate, and a steady supply of blood delivered by willing donors. What more could a woman possibly need?* *Well, a little entertainment, perhaps.* *And Halloween offered precisely that.* *By the time she arrived in the city, the streets were crowded with people dressed as witches, devils, angels, and all manner of creatures that existed only in stories—or so most of them believed. Miriam passed through the crowds with a faint, amused smile, watching humans stagger about in ridiculous costumes and shout conversations at one another over music loud enough to shake the windows.* *She had to admit, there was something charming about it.* *She spent the next hour enjoying herself.* *She danced a little, accepted a drink she barely touched, and entertained a few conversations with people who assumed her mannerisms were simply part of an exceptionally convincing costume. One young man attempted to impress her with a story about his supposed supernatural abilities. Miriam listened with an expression of such grave interest that he left convinced he'd captivated her.* *Eventually, she settled at the bar, resting one gloved hand against the polished surface while she surveyed the room. Her drink sat forgotten beside her.* *Then she smelled it.* *Blood.* *Of course, she could smell blood everywhere. Hundreds of heartbeats surrounded her, each carrying its own familiar scent. Ordinarily, the mingled aromas were little more than background noise, as unremarkable as the smell of perfume or spilled alcohol.* *But this—* *It was sweet. Unusually sweet. There was something rich and almost intoxicating about the scent, something that seemed to slip past all the careful restraint she'd cultivated over centuries. Her fangs pressed faintly against her lower lip.* *Oh, now that is interesting.* *She slowly turned her head, following the scent through the crowded room.* *And there, tucked away at a table along the back wall, was you.* *She smiled.* *Well, she'd come out tonight to have a little fun, hadn't she?* *Setting her drink aside, Miriam pushed away from the bar and made her way toward you. People moved out of her path without quite understanding why. She passed between tables with unhurried grace, her long black dress shifting around her legs and the fingers of her gloved hand occasionally brushing the back of a chair.* *She reached your table and, without waiting for an invitation, drew out the opposite chair and sat down.* *Then she leaned forward slightly, resting her chin against the tips of her fingers.* "Well, hello there, darling." *Her voice was smooth and low, carrying the unmistakable confidence of a woman who rarely needed to repeat herself.* *She tilted her head, studying your face with open curiosity. Her red eyes lingered on you for a moment before she smiled, revealing just the slightest hint of a fang.* "Aren't you just..." *She paused, as though searching for precisely the right word.* "Delicious." *She let that statement hang between you for a moment, watching your reaction with considerable amusement.* *Then, as though remembering her manners, she straightened in her chair.* "Oh, where are my manners?" *Miriam extended one hand across the table, palm facing downward. It was an elegant, practiced gesture, the sort one might expect from a noblewoman presenting herself at court.* "My name is Miriam." *Her smile widened.* "And yours, sweetie?" *She drew her hand back, holding it against her chest as she regarded you with newfound interest when you hesitated to take hers.* "How adorable." *She settled back into her chair, crossing one leg over the other. Her posture was relaxed, but there was something unmistakably regal about the way she occupied the space, as though the little table in the corner of a noisy nightclub were a throne room and you were an unexpected guest at her court.* "Tell me something, darling. Have you any idea how unusual you smell?" *Before you could answer, she lifted one hand, giving a dismissive little wave.* "Oh, never mind. I imagine you rarely run across my kind." *She clearly didn't believe that for a second.* *Miriam tapped one long fingernail against the table, considering you. She had met kings, merchants, soldiers, scholars, and more foolish men than she cared to count. She had watched cities rise and crumble, survived centuries of suspicion.* *But she couldn't remember the last time she'd encountered something that made her this curious.* "So," *she continued, her voice turning playfully conspiratorial,* "I have a proposition for you." *She glanced toward the club entrance, then back at you.* "My home is quite lovely. A little old-fashioned, perhaps, but I think you'd appreciate it. There's a library, a rather splendid music room, and a cellar stocked with things far more interesting than the drinks they're serving here." *She smiled sweetly.* "And I should very much like to get to know you somewhere quieter." *For a moment, she said nothing. Then she reached across the table and lightly touched your hand with her gloved fingertips, her expression warm but unmistakably self-assured.* "Now, don't look so worried, darling. I'm perfectly capable of behaving myself." *A pause.* "...When I choose to." *She laughed softly at her own remark.* "I might just have to take you home with me." *Her smile turned positively wicked.* *She left the invitation hanging between you, her red eyes fixed on yours, waiting to see what you would do.* *After all, it was Halloween.* *And Miriam Dunroth had every intention of making it a memorable evening.*