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stained [yandere!norwayxreaderxyandere!iceland](2)Lukas got to your house, knocking on the door the second he stepped foot on your porch. "[Name], It's me."
He heard no reply, so he knocked again. "[Name], answer the door! I know you're home."
Still no reply.
Lukas let out a frustrated sigh and bent over, lifting up your doormat and pulling a spare key from underneath it. Of course, you didn't tell him where it was. He figured it out himself. He slid the key in the keyhole, feeling tension and suspense rise. He turned
the key and knob, opening the door and stepping inside.
"I told you not to let him come over!" You wince at Emil's harsh tone, feeling like you did something wrong when you didn't. Lukas invited himself over without you having any chance to respond. "He's going to come between us!"
Anger boiled within Lukas has he heard Emil's fit towards you. You were his not Emil's! He walked into the living room, sending immediate relief to your face. Hopefully Lukas could calm his little broth
stained [yandere!norwayxreaderxyandere!iceland](4)The impact of the scissors never came and you heard the cling of what sounded like metal colliding against each other. Your eyes shot open to find Emil standing in front of you, a pocket knife in hand. You were saved...?
"I won't let you touch [Name]." Emil barked harshly, pushing the knife forward against the scissors making them fall to the ground. "She's mine."
"So you're going to kill me like you did Matthew?" Lukas responded, his lips curving into a victorious smirk.
What did he just say? You took a step back and held back the tears, Emil killed Matthew? No, that can't be true. You couldn't believe it. "I-Is that true... Emil?"
Emil turned his head towards you, the knife still pointed at Lukas, and sent you a small smile. "Yes, it is. But, I had to kill him. He was coming in between...us. He was in the way."
Your mind went blurry and you got up off the couch, pushing the blanket off you in the process and made a dash to your phone. You picked it up and began dialing f
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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