A SOULMATE AU FOR THE MURDER AU

"Please stop, you're scaring me."

"Goddamn right, you should be scared of me."

✗✗✗✗✗

He had started to keep track of the people he took out with a piece of white chalk.

That was on the cinderblock wall of his bedroom, one with the hanging mirror that was turned around. He turned all the mirrors around. He couldn't stand staring at his own self anymore.

It was crazy.

Even for him.

✗✗✗✗✗

Tyler "Mad Gear" Joseph glanced down at his arm.

In deep black ink, a shadow painting his arm, were the words "Please stop, you're scaring me."

The words made Tyler sick to his stomach. Every single damn time he looked at his tattoo, the color would drain from his face. His heart would beat faster, or not beat at all. He felt faint. He felt like he had just dry-swallowed a pill. He felt sick.

Tyler shook his head and raised his eyes from his tattoo up to the road in front of him. He gripped the steering wheel with one hand, and raised a cigarette to his lips with his other.

A song was playing on the radio that day. What it was, Tyler didn't know. He didn't care. He had never heard it; he didn't even know what it was called. A girl was singing it—her voice wasn't smooth like others were. It was dark and rough, cracking with emotion and passion.

Tyler was obsessed with it.

As the leader of the most notorious gang in the United States, Tyler had some weight on his shoulders, some weight on his mind.

He had some weight on his arm, too. His left arm specifically. Those words tattooed on his forearm seemed to seep into his bloodstream, infecting his brain. Those words were a black storm cloud looming over his head every single minute of every single day.

Tyler took another smoke of his cigarette, blowing out a grey puff of smoke into the air.

It was extremely early in the morning. No cars were on the road. Everything was silent except for the hum of Tyler's engine speeding down the lane.

Tyler sucked in a huff of his cigarette and glanced down at his watch.

2:21 a.m., it read.

February 14, 2018

✗✗✗✗✗

When Tyler arrived back at headquarters, he rushed to his room without uttering a word to anyone.

He grabbed the nearest writing utensil he could find—a wet black Sharpie—and ripped out a yellowed sheet of his notebook.

Please stop, you're scaring me, he wrote over and over and over again on the page.

He didn't know why.

Sure, it was his tattoo.

And sure, the words haunted him day and night.

And sure, it has something to do with some soulmate bullshit.

But why was Tyler hunched over his desk, desperately scribbling on the paper like a student scrambling to finish a test?

His mind made him do it. Every word he wrote would outlive him after he was dead, and that's just how his mind wanted it.

After he was finished, after he could fit no more words on that page, he signed it at the bottom and plastered it up on the wall.

Sincerely,

Villains that live in my head.

✗✗✗✗✗

"Th-They're all gathered, Mad Gear, s-s-sir."

Tyler violently startled at the sound of a quiet voice in the hall. He noticed that he recently started jumping at the slightest of sounds. It was insane. He was insane. More so than he already was.

Tyler turned, eyes glaring daggers, and prepared for the worst.

Paranoia nipped at the edges of his mind.

The voice grew louder.

"S-Sir?"

What, or who, Tyler saw when he turned around calmed his buzzing nerves.

It was the ever-energetic, unusually optimistic and cheerful Youngblood. A protégée of sorts to Tyler. A cute little guy. (Of course, he'd fight anyone who'd call him that).

"Youngblood." Tyler smiled, and it sent a shiver up Youngblood's spine. "The Clique. The initiation. It's all ready?"

Youngblood nodded eagerly, a small smile on his own face.

"Yes sir," he answered. "Like I said, everyone is gathered and ready to go."

"Excellent. I can hear them already." Tyler cracked his knuckles. The sound made Youngblood cringe.

"Should I tell them to, uh, sh-shut up, sir?" He stuttered.

"No, let 'em sing all they want. And stop calling me sir, Youngblood. Makes me feel old."

"Yes si—I mean—!"

Tyler laughed at the shorter man standing next to him, a flustered blush coloring his face. Tyler watched as he fixed his black fedora and adjusted his glasses nervously.

"Alright, who's the one being initiated tonight?" Tyler questioned as he started walking down the long, dimly lit hallway that lead to pit.

"I'm not exactly sure, to be honest." Youngblood struggles to keep up with Tyler, as he was walking much faster—almost bouncing—down the corridor. "I didn't catch his name. Good looking kid, though."

Tyler slowed his steps and raised an eyebrow. "Kid?" He asked, his lips slowly forming the word.

"Yeah, kid," Youngblood responded. "At least that's what Mr. Benzedrine told me, anyways."

Tyler simply nodded and resumed his speed-walking. A hundred thoughts rolled over and over again through his mind.

Mr. Benzedrine had said this morning he picked up someone, and he would be ready for initiation that night.

At least the kid was quick to adjust, Tyler thought. Usually anyone they grabbed was scared senseless.

When the two finally reached the heavy metal door at the end of the hall, Youngblood took a deep breath, as if preparing himself.

On the other side of the door, Tyler could hear his Clique raging to the deafening music blasting through the speakers. Whoever the opening act was must've been pretty good.

Suddenly, Tyler felt a sharp, hot breath on the back of his neck. He wasted no time in jolting around and yanking the gun out of his belt.

The hallway in front of him echoed and groaned, but not a soul was in front of him.

"Mad Gear?" Youngblood asked and took a step forward.

He made the mistake of putting his hand on Tyler's shoulder.

Tyler spun around and pulled the trigger of his gun, and a deafening BOOM sounded through the corridor.

Youngblood almost fell down to his knees and thanked God Tyler had missed.

The two remained silent. The only sounds for a long, long time was the muffled shouts on the other side of the door and the two men's heavy breathing.

Youngblood slowly raised his sparkling blue eyes to meet Tyler's brown ones.

"Sir, you're scaring me," he whispered, though he didn't sound afraid. His voice was monotone, dead, serious. He wasn't playing around.

But neither was Tyler.

A cold wind, the supernatural kind that chilled you to your very bones, seemed to fly past Tyler. The presence was colder than his home, his cinderblock bedroom.

He ignored it, whatever it was. A spirit? Those he had killed? His own demons?

"I should be," Tyler stated simply, and, putting his gun back in his belt, turned and yanked open the door.

✗✗✗✗✗

It was obvious to everyone—everyone—that Tyler was getting worse.

It was well known he had demons. Everyone had demons, and Tyler was no exception.

The only difference was that he was meaner than his demons.

More evil.

✗✗✗✗✗

"Alright, listen up!"

Instead of quieting down as Tyler had intended, the crowd of Clique members screamed louder.

Tyler stepped away from the microphone, laughing. He stuck his cigarette in between his smile and inhaled that sweet, sickening tobacco.

With amusement he watched the Clique go wild on the pit floor beneath him.

As he watched, he tapped his foot on the stage and counted how many times the glowing white microphone swung back and forth.

When he was finished with his cigarette, he grabbed the microphone and yanked it over to him.

"Here's what we're gonna do."

"You're gonna shut up."

✗✗✗✗✗

Tyler got no sleep.

He was exhausted

Physically.

Mentally.

The shadows in the echoing, groaning house turned into monsters.

And those monsters came into Tyler's room at night.

That's why he got no sleep.

He would cry.

"They're coming for me."

But no one would hear him.

That's why he got no sleep.

He tried, God knows he did.

He tried to keep his thoughts and his songs and everything inside, but he couldn't hold them.

He couldn't hold all the secrets inside him.

His mind was slipping away from him.

He had lost his grip on it long, long ago, but now it was worse.

Now he mind was long gone.

His mind was diseased.

His mind was a disease.

A deadly one.

That's why he got no sleep.

That's why he got no sleep.

That's why he got no sleep.

✗✗✗✗✗

"Shut up and look at me. Listen to me, dammit."

The corner of Tyler's lips tugged up into an evil smirk.

His Clique obeyed him, and he loved that.

Tyler glanced over his shoulder and peered into the darkness of the stage. The entire room was eerily silent; the Clique has quieted and the "Kid" was speechless.

The red plastic of the inflatable hamster ball glinted in the soft light of the glowing white microphone.

Tyler's smirk grew as caught a glimpse of the Kid.

God.

He was shirtless, just as Tyler had instructed. No pants or shoes either. Just boxers. (It hurts more with less clothes, you know).

His chest and arms were built, tight with muscle. His right arm was dark with a brilliantly colored tattoo sleeve. His wild punk hair flew up in all different directions. A few stray fluffy wisps fell in front of his misty, terrified hazel eyes.

He had another tattoo on his left forearm, some sort of words, but Tyler couldn't make it out.

Tyler felt a spark ignite his body, his heart, when he stared at that kid. Some kinda bullshit that was, he thought. Love.

He glanced down at the inky black words on his forearm and licked his lips.

Shaking his head to push away the thought, he grabbed the microphone and gripped it so tightly his knuckles turned pale white.

He looked up at Kid once more, and when he saw the terror gleaming in his misty eyes, he let out a satisfied, delightful sigh.

Oh, how attractive pure terror was!

Tyler bit down so hard on his bottom lip he drew blood as he dropped his cigarette and crushed the tiny flame underneath his boot.

"I'd like you all to give a nice, warm, Clique welcome to the newest addition," he said in a sing-song voice into the microphone.

The crowd cheered.

Tyler kept his eyes locked on the kid as he spoke.

"His name will be Missile Kid, and anyone who calls him otherwise has to deal with me, got it?"

Tyler sucked in a sharp breath as he let the microphone slip from his hand and strolled over to the hamster ball.

The kid's eyes grew wider as Tyler approached. Tyler was taller than he was, dressed all in black—a loose black tank top, tight skinny jeans, and combat boots.

His. Fucking. Eyes.

They glowed in the inky blackness of the darkened stage. Literally.

The Kid shivered as those glowing eyes bore into his very soul. He felt self-conscious, standing there half-naked in front of this man.

Tyler fully approached him, leaning his forehead against the cool plastic of the hamster ball.

He smirked as the he saw the Kid visibly shutter under his stare. He could tell how afraid he was. He could see how attractive he was. Tyler couldn't lie, he wanted him. His smirk grew, baring his sharp, crooked teeth.

An awful energy shot through Tyler's entire body as if adrenaline had just been injected into his veins.

The Kid spoke. His voice was deeper than Tyler would've expected. Rough. Low. Just as Tyler liked.

"Please stop, you're scaring me."

Tyler's heart seemed to stop beating. The whole world stopped spinning, the Clique stopped screaming.

The words pounded in his mind, and he almost cried out. He nearly screamed and attacked him, right then and there.

But he got ahold of himself.

He licked his lips and slowly tilted his head back, staring at the Kid with half-open, half-closed red, demonic eyes.

"God damn right, you should be scared of me."

✗✗✗✗✗

"Tyler?"

"Yes, Josh?"

"You believe in all that soulmate bullshit? Y'know, the first words tattoos?"

"Are you seriously asking me that? Do you even remember how the fuck we met?"

"Another thing, Tyler."

"Yeah, Josh?"

"After all these years, I still don't know."

"The fuck are you talking about?"

"Who is in control?"

✗✗✗✗✗

Happy Valentine's Day. ;)

-Liz.