Work Text:
Four months. That’s how long you sat and made the conscious decision every day to chat to honest-to-god serial killers. Anything for the novel. You tell yourself, sweep it under the rug like the rest of the progressively worse decisions that you keep on making. You scoff, typing away at your old, patched-together laptop with even more fervor than before. The ancient relic was a gift from your nana to make it easier to get through your journalism degree. It’s been years since then, and your nana is now watching you from above as you chat up velvet voiced, murderous women with that degree of yours. God rest her weary soul.
You sigh, saving your work before closing the myriad of tabs you’ve previously opened. You can feel your computer physically sighing in relief as you take the burden of 100 tabs on acid vats and cute kitty reels off of its shoulders. You smile at the thought, knowing tomorrow will bring yet another 100 tabs on some gory, non-descript topic. Alas, you’re taken out of your mind palace by an email notification. You physically jump out of your chair at the sight; you swear you’ve forgotten what the icon even looked like from the dryness of your inbox. With trembling fingers, you click on the notification and a wall of text greets you with warmth. You sigh, rubbing your temples with your left hand. Line breaks aren’t everyone’s friends, it seems.
Instead of the usual spam email about some underground online fashion store coming in clutch with some never-before-seen discounts - not that they help your broke self one bit - you’re surprised to see an actual interview offer from Shhhowtime, and the interview? Maria de la Rosa. You celebrate so loudly that you’ll surely hear from your neighbors and/or the police soon enough for a noise complaint, but in that moment? You couldn’t give less of a shit. You’ve always followed Maria de la Rosa. First it was the covers...Vogue, Vanity, Noir Mode, then came the beauty tutorials: “Bold Looks for Daring Nights” and your personal favorite: “Red Lips, No Mercy” . You were not much of a makeup enjoyer, your friends were lucky to see you with your hair down and a lazy cat-eye eyeliner on special occasions, but her voice, smoky and velvety, guided your brushstrokes most nights before showers. The concept of parasocial relationships was absolutely terrified of you.
Fingers trembling above your phone, you actually make sure to put the date down on your calendar app, setting up not one, not two, but THREE reminders for the day before. You were ready. You were excited.
You were nervous.
Despite not eating much throughout the day - by choice, of course, definitely not because of the paralyzing waves of nausea that washed over you every time you were reminded that in a few hours, you’d be interviewing Maria de la Rosa, one of two women you’d happily allow to strangle you - Oh God. You’re becoming one of them, the esteemed members of the Slaughterhouse server. You shiver at the thought, shooing it away with one quick prayer aimed at no one in particular. God forsook you years ago when you first typed “girls kissing” in the Youtube search bar.
You sigh, looking down at your obviously new attire that you hoped Maria would not notice was bought just for today’s interview. You nervously fix the collar of your linen shirt, when your computer’s screen adopts a familiar shade of blue, and you physically feel your amygdala coming close to combusting.
CALL CONNECTED.
The universe decided against you in that moment, as it doesn’t even give you a moment to compose yourself before an actual angel blesses your screen. You gulp, cursing at your ancestors and the gay gene your girl-kisser of a mother must’ve passed on.
“Hi! It’s so nice to hear from you!” Her mesmerizing voice resounds through your quaint, albeit cozy apartment, and it instantly warms up your heart, so much so, that you can’t help but genuinely smile at her.
“Likewise! Hello!” You cringe internally at how obvious it was that you were… simply put, excited! And to add fuel to the fire, her cherry lipstick perfectly frames a smile that you swear was chiseled onto her face by Michelangelo. A few moments pass, not that you notice since you’re particularly entranced by a certain blonde in front of you. You don’t even notice how her eyebrows slightly twitch in slight confusion, how her smile falters a little bit when you respond.
“You sound… so familiar!” She chirps, instantly switching back to her tooth-rotting sweet self. “Now, where have I heard you before?” You chuckle at the inquisitive look on her face, not even paying any mind to the essence of her words, before it hits you all at once, like a truck ramming directly into your chest.
Oh?
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
That’s fucking Angel. The Heartsick Angel.
You bite back the urge to just stand up and leave the room, and instead, try your hand at a joke.
“Would you believe me if I told you I was a serial killer?” There it was. Your one-way ticket to hell. You signed your name on it with blood, and it wasn’t even a marriage certificate to this absolutely gorgeous, cannibalistic psychopath. No, it was your very own death sentence that you had orchestrated yourself. You almost let out a sigh burst from your throat before your train of thought is interrupted by her angelic - No! Bad! She’s an actual honest-to-god serial killer! - voice.
“Would you believe me if I told you I was one, too?” Your heart stops for a full second, barely avoiding cardiac arrest by a hair strand. Your cheeks are ablaze, and you silently curse at yourself for your reaction.
Dejected, you whisper, “Yes...actually.” Not expecting her to hear you, but by the giggle that soon follows your remark, you suppose your microphone was better at picking up sounds than you originally thought. Your swooning doesn’t go unnoticed either, but like the professional you are, you take control of the conversation and ask her the most awaited question that day:
“Can you tell me about yourself?” When the sound of your own voice hits your ears, your hand tightens on the mouse as your cursor hovers over the big, red X icon. She was so ethereal, her words so carefully picked, her voice so...perfect. And then there’s you. Barely coherent.
“Absolutely!” She smiles once again, and for half a second, you forget that she murders people in her free time. You tend to do that a lot when talking to her anyway, and this time, you make sure to make a mental note of the fact that it may actually not bother you all that much. “For the uninitiated, I’m Maria de la Rosa. I’m a model, an influencer, and I do a few other miscellaneous things on the side.” You nod at her, drinking in her words like wine. Like murder people. You think to yourself, a small smile making its way onto your face as you attentively listen to her. “I’m so happy to be here!”
“And how do you feel about working for Top Model Management?”
“I love the work. It’s so fulfilling. I can’t imagine myself doing anything different.” You nod once again, but you just know better than to believe her. As much as she loves her line of work, you know exactly how she feels about the industry, especially about the questionable managers they somehow keep hiring.
“Well then, Miss de la Rosa, I take it this Christmas must be incredibly busy for you.” Her left eye twitches slightly before she composes herself, her signature smile soon making its way back onto her face before she opens her mouth to speak once again:
“Oh, not at all!” She beams, pulling her knees up to her chest, the way you’ve heard her bump over her microphone time and time again, and your heart swells at the sight. You take in a sharp breath, remind yourself that today, you come in front of her as a reporter, not some love-struck teenager that cannot get a hold of their hormones, and focus on her voice, her goddamn velvety, smo- Enough. You breathe out. “My manager, Finian, has been especially kind. He’s been motivating me through the tough holiday season, and I have everything to thank him for-”
Finian.
You scoff, without even thinking twice about it, and this captures Maria’s, no, Angel’s attention, slowing her down to a halt.
“Excuse me? Did I say something off… or?”
“Uh. No, sorry, it’s just that this Finian sounds like a real piece of work…” You blink hard. Twice.
“What? What have you heard? He’s perfectly... kind…” She trails off, her blue orbs shining with something unknown to you, before continuing, “I’d know…”
You smile at her and fix your voice, making the deliberate choice to sweep the awkwardness under the metaphorical rug of journalism. After this interview is over, you were sure to make a beeline for the university just to hand in your Bachelor’s degree. You were simply not worthy.
“Is there anything else you want me, or the world, to know, Miss de la Rosa?” Her name rolls down your tongue effortlessly, and you have to make the physical effort to swallow down the feelings that threaten to burst from your throat, the very one that the angel in front of you would not hesitate to slash if she ever were to find out you were not what you made her believe you were. You are a mere reporter and an aspiring writer, certainly not a serial killer. To your shame, you’re even deathly afraid of bugs, leaving their fates to the hands of others. You are simply not made to kill. Must be the reason why you are not, as the kids say, killing this interview.
That’s it, today is my last day on Earth.
You are taken out of your self-deprecating train of thought by the soft look on Angel’s face. It manages to stun you momentarily, only for her to resume playing her persona and chirp at the screen gleefully:
“No!” She giggles and it’s too manufactured, too perfect. You only manage a small smile back. “Only how grateful I am to have had such a kind host. Thank you for being so sweet…goodbye!”
“Thank you for joining me today, Miss de la Rosa. Bye!”
Your call disconnects and you gasp like a fish out of water, clutching at your chest like you’ve just gone through a whole Triathlon. The reality of the situation dawns on you. You’re royally fucked. Angel might just know who you are. And if she doesn’t, she is THIS close to finding out you are no serial killer, just a disappointment of a reporter, and an even worse writer. If she doesn’t kill you for lying to her, she will definitely kill you for her improper characterization in your edgy novel.
But then... the messages start pouring and your heart drops.
Private message from your one and only @Angelic. Private channel. A single heart emoji followed by, “You looked cute in your linen shirt today, very professional of you.”
You pause, fingers trembling above your phone. Royally, fucking fucked. All that you can think about during this time is that, some cops will have to call your mother and tell her that you, under no obligation to anyone or threat to your life, willingly joined a dark-web serial killer server, fell in LOVE with a flesh and blood murderous WOMAN who just so happened to stab you 24 times in the stomach and cannibalize the right hand you used to write your lies with.
Then came another: “Meet me tonight at 42.085953, -80.140486, if you know what’s best for you darling 🤍 ”
Your gut told you no. But whichever part of your brain handled decision making whispered yes.
Lush doesn’t even begin to describe it, the coordinates The Heartsick Angel kindly offered you brought you to a cozy little house overgrown with vines, and adorned with colorful lanterns that swung in a sleepy breeze. You step carefully past the pots of blooming night jasmine, and lo and behold, she’s already there, waiting, sizing you up and eyeing you down. You feel like prey under the scrutiny of those eyes you have come to adore.
“Angel.” You breathe out.
A vision in a long, puffy coat cinched at the waist, dark lipstick framing a smile that’s just a little too perfect, God, you were in for a ride. The city lights paint her in silver and scarlet, and to your shock, her smile softens, not for the camera, not for her most devoted followers, but for you.
“You came.” She says breathlessly.
Your voice is small, but you manage all the same, “I almost didn’t.”
“Well, for one, I almost hoped you wouldn’t.” She laughs and it knocks the air right out of your lungs. It’s beautiful. She’s beautiful.
“Then why ask?” You whisper, barely intelligible through the gusts of wind that tore at your already rosy cheeks.
Her gaze lingers on yours, curious, dangerous. “Because I wanted to see if you were the kind of person to take accountability.”
She takes a step forward and your knees buckle. You can smell her perfume - roses, something citrusy and soft decay. It fit her to a tee.
“Tell me something,” She murmurs. “what do you think will happen to you next?”
You swallow. “I don’t suppose you’ll kill me with kindness?”
One moment she’s laughing, arms clutching at her sides as she tries her best to take back control of her breathing. Then the next? Her lips are on yours, and what once felt dangerous, like poison ivy, now just feels as soft as the coat you took the liberty of holding on to with all of your might. She was shorter, and her nose was cold and it bit at your right cheek, but you could not care less. Angel is kissing you with those plush lips of hers, and you wanted to scream.
But all you do is kiss her back. It’s the gentleman thing to do.
Months pass, time tends to do that, you guess, and Angel, or as you’ve come to know her, Maria, sweeps you into her world with alarming ease. One moment you’re watching her from behind a screen; the next, you’re in her penthouse, brushing shoulders with stylists and models at twilight galas. Of course, she holds your hand through it all like an anchor wrapped in silk.
The server? Still in uproar. Most of them took the news well when the two of you got a tad bit too drunk on rosé and made one too many jokes with homosexual subtext. They cheered you on from the sidelines while Ronin, the Butcher of everything good and nice, only rolled his eyes.
Long story short, you do NOT move in, but also kind of do. There are two toothbrushes in her sink, two wine glasses on the table, but you do come back to your dingy apartment every now and then to water your plants and pet the resident cat of the neighborhood. You sigh. “I am nothing if not a statistic, a lesbian of the common variety.” You whisper to yourself and Angel stirs from beside you.
It’s safe to assume you are as in love as they come. You’re addicted to this force of a woman. You’ve come to know her, to understand her in the most profound ways.
You know exactly what’s going on in that brilliant mind of hers when she’s quietly watching someone across a room. When a voice irritates her just enough to make her pause, when she disappears into the bathroom for ten minutes and returns radiant, cheeks flushed, with a killer smile on that seems too relaxed, considering the hellish circumstances.
You don’t ask, you just know.
And one night she shows you something you happened to not know about. A part of her you had yet to discover and adore like any other.
The secret itself? You wouldn’t call it exactly hidden, but you have to twist a specific perfume bottle on her vanity for the secret door to open and it makes you feel that much more important and interesting, and holy fucking shit, you’re in love with her and her dorky ass skeletons she seems to keep in hidden closets.
Inside that room, you’re met with red velvet, polished guns and lots, and lots of photos pinned with tiny golden studs, some marked with lipstick X’s, some (yours) with hearts. You momentarily swoon before your eyes dart back at the X’s.
Angel steps beside you, arms crossed, chest puffed out.
“I don’t expect you to understand.” She says, watching your face intently. You almost crumble under her gaze.
You look at the smiling faces on the wall, most you don’t recognize, but there are a few that you do. Influencers. Critics. A makeup developer who once publicly accused a friend of Angel’s of stealing a formula. Didn’t she go missing a few weeks back?
You say nothing.
But then she kisses you, and it tastes like a thousand variants of ‘Do you love me?’ and ‘Will you have me as I am?’.
You kiss her back with ardour and hope it tastes like ‘Gods above, yes.’
Despite everything, the relationship feels oddly... normal.
Sure, now you model in one of her shoots and land your first feature in Harper’s Weekly. You remember one time, she accidentally called you “my muse” in a video, and fans exploded with theories. But it’s your normal now. You live on the edge of her world - half-influencer, half-lover, half-keeping-a-murderous-and-very-illegal-secret. You still binge her flawless tutorials about dewy cheeks and clean girl aesthetics, sometimes even with her in the room, no matter how many times she throws cushions at you to stop you from embarrassing her further.
Hell, the night you say "I love you" isn’t even dramatic, you’re both just brushing your teeth.
She spits, glances over and asks incredulously: “What?”
“I said I love you.”
And you remember it fondly, clear as day, how she just stands there frozen, before her eyes glisten with the power of a million stars.
“Say it again.”
And you don’t hesitate to do as she asks.
After all, the first thing you’ve learned was that Maria de la Rosa always gets her way.