#Destroyed Onset
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Sunrise, Sunset, My Destroyed Body in the Onset [Yan!Aventurine x GN!Reader]
The cotton in your mind protects you.
Ao3
word count: 10.5k
TW: Stockholm syndrome, implied/referenced noncon, suicidal thoughts (not detailed but reader does mention having them and thinking about the act), mild gore (little actual gore but the prose uses gory language), reader goes through it and let’s just say aventurine is a terrible influence, tonal whiplash for my own sanity, wow aventurine are you really this emotionally constipated
Note: My first ever yan work! This is a bit of a mess, but I’ll bet five dollars and janitorial duty at Taco Bell that it’s a good mess 👍
(Written before 2.1)
The sun sets as you both bask in the afterglow. Clouds streak the baby blue sky, hued in soft yellows, calm oranges, and blushing pink.
(And it reminds you of his eyes)
Sights like these made nights spent in a casino a bit more bearable. You take a deep breath, sighing in contentment and exhaustion, and you wish you could shut your eyes and stretch this moment for an eternity. To remain in the setting eye of the sun, softly breathing as you hear the gentle beating of his heart. To have his hand lazily draped over your waist, the other caressing your head, fingers softly entangled with your locks. Your tears have dried, too. Yes, you’d like to live in this singular moment, divorced from everything else.
But as you’ve learned during your time with Aventurine, time is a rapid to move with.
You shiver a bit, and he pulls up a thin blanket. The difference is small. But still, the serenity of the moment is shattered. The soft silk is meant to cage you in for whatever happens next. You don’t mind, anymore. Or, when you’re more lucid, when you let the torrent that is your mind flow, that’s what you decide.
You’re not stupid, but you wish you were. If you were stupid, you wouldn’t ever be forced to trek away from your home. Wouldn’t grab the attention of anyone smart and shrewd (though you did hear about one ‘Dr. Ratio,’ committed to remedies of ignorance). Even if you somehow did and ended up where you were, maybe your mind would be filled with cotton rather than thoughts. That you could enjoy everything all the time.
But you’re not stupid, nor are you a genius who could hope to outwit the man who holds the aventurine of stratagem. Knowing how normal you are compared to him only makes you more hopeless, so you do your best to fill your mind with cotton again. You feel your inner voice berate you for your willing ignorance but it also cries at its necessity.
Cotton. You needed to fill your head with cotton, because if you didn’t in time (and that time was short when you were with Aventurine) you might just sob again then and there. You think too much. So you won’t think. At least around him. Because…you still don’t want to acknowledge it in your mind. You protect yourself from the brunt of it and effectively live a lie.
“You’re clenching your jaw,” Aventurine’s voice possesses a perpetual drawl, but in moments like this it softens a little. Almost like he’s talking to a person and not something to use. “Just what could it be you’re thinking about?”
Could you even be called a thinking creature right now? Cotton absorbs color, and right now the sun, so big it could engulf you, is so beautiful. You tell him the truth. “The sunset’s beautiful. Really, really beautiful. A lot more beautiful than the others.”
He hums. He knows you’re not lying, but you haven’t answered his question. “You’ve made your affinity for the sight quite clear,” he says, and you only notice that odd edge in his voice from your sheer exposure to this man. Whatever Aventurine has against this sight, you’re not sure. He seems to like sunrises, though, if you can trust the times you’ve woken up and see him watching it. And whenever there is no sun, you wake up to him gone or kissing you awake. Though lately, you’ve been steadily receding from your habit of oversleeping. The hand in your hair tightens, and there’s a small tug, firm but not painful, at your roots. He still wants his answer.
Your mind, chosen to be wrecked with cotton, doesn’t know what to think. You say the only other thing in your absent mind. “This one looks like your eyes.”
You think he likes that because you feel him shift to look at it. You can’t see his face, but you assume he’s taken off his usual smile. Smiling all the time sounded torturous, and you rub your cheek at the phantom pain of your own imagination.
“Hmm…” and you feel him shift again, and you really have no idea what he wants. From the intonation, he’s about to do something either mischievous or ‘flirtatious.’ “You know, sweetheart,” that word is heavy on his tongue. He shifts, dropping you on the bed and if this were earlier in your relationship you’d fantasize about ripping his throat for robbing you of the sunset. His hair is messed up, his smile soft but still unreadable. The sun shines on the mark on his neck, and something about the sight makes you a bit…happy. And angry. He takes your face in his hands and locks your eyes and you tense a bit out of instinct—you make a note to yourself to do more work on hammering it away—Aventurine’s full attention on you was intense and overwhelming; the bit of dried blood on his lips is proof of it. Your heart feels like it will burst. From apprehension or anticipation, you’re not sure. “If that’s the case,” one of his hands trails down your jaw, the ghost of his touch fluttering against the marks he’s painted on your neck. He’d have no issue finding more all around your body. He softly, lovingly holds your neck like he’s prepared to snap it and equally prepared to drown you in his affection, “Why not take in the real thing, hm?” His thumb finds and lightly presses on a mark. He drew blood when making it, and you blink back a wince at the pain. He notices, eyes softening before moving his thumb and kissing the irritated skin. “Sorry,” he says, but it’s said the same way a cat licks a mouse’s carcass. An empty apology made after the fact. But you don’t mind. You’ve made sure you don’t mind a lot of things, and it’s made you equally content and miserable. Though, maybe you hold onto that latter feeling in stubborn defiance, because losing that shred of yourself would turn you into something that You wouldn’t necessarily hate if it were anyone else, but it’s You becoming that; and that, that, You hate.
You hum because you do enjoy being close like this. But Aventurine is perceptive, and though his head is below you, you feel as if you’ve been chained up when you once again lock eyes. “I can hear your thoughts, darling,” He returns to his former position, “I hate seeing you all stressed out,” he says, as if his veins weren’t running with anticipation when you were saddled with debt and when your parents got hit with unfortunate ‘accidents’ that insurance couldn’t cover and he didn’t love the day you became his. “Didn’t you say that open and honest communication was important in a healthy relationship? I’m rather fond of our little romance, and I’d hate for it to crumble.” He nearly pouts—doesn’t surprise you much anymore, but there’ll always be a little bit of whiplash that doesn’t quite go away. Though, You feel a slight hint of bitterness—crumble? Some cotton burns away. Did he mean that for himself? …Or might it have been a vague threat to you…? You think, but you’re quick to fill your head back up with cotton. The process isn’t immediate, however.
“Our relationship is the furthest thing from healthy,” you point out. You don’t add in that you never sought out romance in the first place, “and it hasn’t exactly been built on a sturdy foundation.”
“You’ve got me there,” He chuckles. “Well, let’s put it like this,” he brushes a lock of hair from your face, “I see that my lover’s been saddled with all these thoughts, and it’s gotten them so awfully quiet,” Lover? No, that’s hyperbole. He tucks his fingers underneath your chin, stroking the soft, unmarked skin; the only area spared from his assault. “Makes a guy worry, you know? The last time you were this quiet was when you first moved in.”
Yes. It was mostly because You spent the majority of your free time sobbing, leaving your voice all but spent by the time he got back. And it wasn’t like you could be the goofy and sometimes witty and sometimes not buffoonish person You were when You were so miserable. When you wanted to do everything you could to retreat into your own skin—but Aventurine simply ripped you out, exposed, bloody, and sniffling. After that thought, the cotton has completely grown back.
“…And…?” Through the cotton, you can only wonder what he’s talking about.
His smile becomes sharper, and you wonder if he might feel insulted. Does he think you want to leave him, see him get what he deserved and some actual help like You used to? “C’mon don’t you…” you blink a little vacantly, and he seems to realize something. “Or, maybe you’re…” but his voice suggests something knowing. Suggests experience. And the gears in his mind click. “Oh, I know that look!” He laughs, delightedly or derangedly, you don’t bother to differentiate. Either way it makes you shiver.
“Huh? What look?” You asked, filtered through cotton. He doesn’t answer and cuts to the chase.
He playfully flicks your forehead, and you imagine a bullet going through it, “Riddle me this: what do you want, sweetheart?”
You blink. What do you want? When you first got here, it was security and his or your death. After some time had passed, it was peace. But now…you want whatever storm that’s inside of you to stop. But he doesn’t need to know what you want deep in your soul. So you tell him the truth, filtered through cotton.
You do something that would’ve been unthinkable to You, and worse, it’s subconsciously without a second thought. You push him down on the bed by laying on him—flopping on him like a fish, You think, for your mind is such a silly little thing—lay your head over his heart, and take in the sunset. The sun’s nearly below the ground. “…If it’s fine, and only if you want…” you ask, because You detest the idea of being controlling, “I’d like you to…” you flush, “…h-hold me, um, like you are right now, until the sun’s down and, um…” your heart is going to burst and there’ll be a hole of viscera through your chest and maybe Aventurine will admire your pathetic, desperate corpse before burning it, “we can take a bath. And,” you look up at him, “I’ll look into your eyes, as much as you want…” You tell yourself its because you need to appease him, and easy on the eyes to boot. But you know of the primal thing that lives in your chest.
It’s true. But Aventurine puts it perfectly.
His smile speaks of years of clawing his way up with honeyed words and masked expressions. “You’re not lying. Thank you. That’s such a sweet wish,” he says kindly (you’re no longer scared of his kind voice), stroking your head like you are an obedient dog, one that he adores and veers on despising, and then wraps his other arm beneath your thighs, “but you know I’d like the truth.” He then says, primally, ready to carve out a space in your body to inhabit, “To know what storm’s brewing in that little head of yours,” he takes in a shuddering breath, and his eyes light with perverse excitement, “if it’s begun to…crack and burn up.” He sits up and carries you away. You’re slightly disappointed you won’t be seeing the sunset in its entirety, but you’ve gotten good at forgetting. Aventurine sighs wistfully. “But…” he grasps your chin, forcing you to look at him, “I don’t mind that second proposition of yours,” his voice is husky, and he kisses you. You flush, and the cotton is the only thing that prevents you from tearing into him with your canines.
As the sun moves further and further away, You think yourself a fool for thinking it would engulf you. Aventurine wouldn’t leave anything left of you, whenever he decided he was done with you.
—
This is your only choice, and it was everything you could do to not shut down the instant you realized.
You were in denial, at first. It was all just a coincidence, right? You’d always feared this sort of thing—financial struggle—and so getting hit with it should be something you take in stride, and come out of it either in a wreck or just barely getting by. And, if you wanted to get a little nerdy, capitalist economies have to crash into recession eventually, so maybe now was just that time of the era. No place was hiring you, and your parents were getting buried in bills they couldn’t pay.
But, if anyone with half a brain took a step back, they’d call out the bullshit excuse you concocted in your mind, to deny the ridiculous truth. Because whatever recession was happening, it seemed to only affect you. The truth that you, you, were the apple of someone’s eye (for lack of a better term—you aren’t delusional—you’re just as disposable as the next person, as much as you wish for the universe to cease operating like it).
Preposterous! Scandalous! You, a complete idiot, catching someone’s fancy? How the fuck did that happen?! Were pigs flying now? …You take that back, there are indeed flying species of the hog persuasion gallivanting about. But this does not detract from your point. One might say “bimbo vibes,” but you know for a fact, even taking into account your own bias and self-perpetuation of your self-esteem issues (which makes you still having them even worse, but you’ve already gone down that spiral more than you could count), that you do not have anywhere near enough bimbo energy to attract anyone with that kink. Or the looks. This was your knee-jerk reaction to when this crossed your mind. And to an extent, still is, because thinking about it like that gives the situation a bit of levity you desperately need. You can’t wrap your head around it in the slightest. But you can’t dispute fact. And the fact is that you are wanted by someone else, and you can’t even begin to understand why. Least of all the person who wants you.
The man who hides behind the name ‘Aventurine.’ That fact alone already makes you not want to be so closely associated, and it makes everything more insane and stupid. An IPC executive has no use for you. If he wants to extort you for unpaid or cheap labor, he’s already got a vast selection of underpaid grunts to do his bidding. If there’s one thing the IPC knows how to do, it’s keeping those desperate enough or arrogant enough trapped. You’re not either of those things; though you admit you’ve adapted the former trait in light of recent bullshittery, but you digress.
Most of what you come up with is met with an easy counter. Aventurine, a sleazy businessman obsessed with sex? He has money—he can just hire someone actually knowledgeable in it AND hot. Aventurine, a man with insatiable greed? Again, he’s already rich as fuck, and the only way he’s getting any more money is if he looks up the pecking order. Aventurine, a gambler who loved seeing his opponents fall into ruin? That was actually plausible to some extent, but you’ve made it very clear you’re no gambler (not in tangible matters at least, but you keep your card close to your heart). Then maybe he wants to try and push you over the edge? Try to make you take a risk bigger than yourself?
So, you’ve settled for this: Aventurine, a man who cannot stand to be sober from the drink called “power.” Desiring complete domination over someone. A personal matter, and briefly you hear the echo of a quote: “We desire that which we do not have.” What doesn’t Aventurine have?
…A relationship? Well, you shoot that down easily. Whatever kind of relationship this leads to ends with you ruined and him hunting after his next prey.
He’s a bit like a serial killer, you muse, and you just so happen to meet his criteria for victimhood. But unlike a killer, he’s merely going to make you wish you were dead. If you wanted death, it’d have to be at your own hands. If he gave you that option at all. Another thought you have is that he might use you for snuff. That’s…you haven’t pursued the thought any further.
You’ve been robbed of much of your control, but you still control the hand that knocks at the door. If you’re going down, it’ll be on your own terms. This is your last, desperate attempt to pretend you have any control at all. You make sure your bangs cover your eyes.
You just wish your heart didn’t feel like it would explode. You wish that you weren’t actively holding back going on a complete breakdown. You wish you were made of the same steel heroes were, but you cannot be what you are doomed to not be.
Aventurine opens the door, giving you a grin that makes you retch. He’s still dressed in his usual peacock-esque finery, and something about it makes you frown. Maybe it’s because he’s dressed in the colors you love, and it feels so wrong for something that wants to destroy you to be clad in them. “Sweetheart!” he coos out the wretched (and cringe-worthy) pet name with faux surprise; it propels you to roll your eyes even now. He knew you were coming; otherwise, you’d be detained by hotel staff. It didn’t quite help that you didn’t really bother to dress up either. It made you stick out like a sore thumb, and you’re glad that this is the only time you’ll be at a gaudy hotel. “You’ve come to visit little ol’ me! I’m charmed. Aren’t I a lucky man?”
You fantasize about his guts strewn about on the floor, accompanied by your maniacal laughter and sobs of elated despair. “...You could say that, Mr. Aventurine,” you aren’t foolish enough to be curt, so you settle for polite and cordial. Professional and businesslike, and you know that gives him a slight advantage. “There’s something I wish to discuss with you. I think that’s best accomplished behind closed doors.”
He clicks his tongue playfully. “No need to be so cold. We’re friends here, aren’t we?”
“I suggest you drop the ‘sweetheart,’ then. Friends don’t call each other that, Mr. Aventurine.”
He raises his hand in mock surrender, and you want him to get to the fucking point before you lost your nerve. “Oh, fine. Then,” he gestures to the lion’s den. If only he were the gentleman he was pretending to be, “Walk on in, darling.” You cannot suppress the groan that comes out of you. His smile widens; you're sure he gets some kick at riling you up.
You don’t have the energy to deal with him, and you certainly don’t have enough to suppress the sigh of irritation you let out. He seems to look like…some sort of positive emotion that you don’t know what to name. You’re not sure if you want to name it.
The sunlight catches his predatory yet enrapturing eyes. His eye twitches, clearly trying not to shut. Maybe, you muse, the sun hates him as much as you do. It brings a weak smile to your face. You make sure to take your sweet time to enter. You won’t take off your shoes, either. He can deal with a bit of tracked dirt, you think, but then you remember that he’s wearing his shoes. And you thought he was monstrous enough.
But when the door shuts, any semblance of levity you could summon dissipates, and you’re reminded of what you’re here to do. Aventurine’s hand snakes up on your shoulder, and you want to rip it off and feed it to the birds. Thankfully, he just leads you to the living room. The sun is cast overhead.
“So,” he circles till he’s in front of you, “What could be so important that you’ve come to see me this time of day?” He’s playing with his food. It makes you abandon courtesy for curtness.
“Don’t act like you didn’t cancel some business meeting to make this happen.”
“Oh! You’ve got me!” he chuckles, “My, you’ve already gotten to know me so well. Don’t you think we’re like two peas in a pod?” He teases, and you know he specifically means for it to piss you off. To his credit, it works.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you spit, and his hand lets you back away from him. “I was thinking about…” you take a breath—you can’t lose your nerve now, “...the ‘deal,’ you gave me a little while ago. The gamble, to be more precise.”
His smile stretches so wide it seems to crack his face, and you feel phantom pain radiating along your own mouth. His eyes, those alluring and dangerous rims of pink and electric blue, spiked with adrenaline. You wonder if his eyes are dilating, but you don’t want to look at his eyes any longer than you have to. “I knew you would come around. But I see it in your eyes—you want to discuss the terms, right?”
He’s right. “Yes.”
“Admirable,” he says lazily, “but before you start, you should know that I’m not budging on my reward.”
“I know,” you bitterly say, “this is about my reward.”
Interest ignites, the blue of his eye burning hot with intrigue.
“If I win, then I want you to reimburse my family, and then some, for all of the shit you’re making them go through. And then I want you to leave them the hell alone and not harm them.”
You can’t tell if he looks more interested or disappointed. “That’s hardly different from our original deal. The only difference is that you’re not getting any compensation.” At least he doesn’t deny that he’s the one the source of your family woes this time. Likely because you two already jumped through that point. You may not be sharp, but there are things even you can’t be gaslit on, and you think Aventurine realized this and decided not to bother. “Do you really hate the idea of getting money from me? You do remember that I told you that you can use me however you want, right?”
You hate how he wants to use you, and you equally hate using anybody. “Yes. You made that very clear. I know what I’m doing. Now, come on.”
“Don’t be so hasty. I’ll have to modify my will so—”
“No need. Get the gun already.” You aren’t too worried anyway. Businessmen like him know to honor their deals anyway. He’ll probably dismiss it easily and assume you’ll either donate it to charity or give it to your family.
He laughs, not so dissimilar from nails digging into a chalkboard, “You’re that eager to kill me? And you were so against it too! I wouldn’t have expected your morals to shift so quickly.”
You bite your lip. “You don’t seem to be all too worried about dying,” you point out, “You were the one who proposed this in the first place.” Another reason you don’t want to associate with this man. He treats his own life far too callously, and it doesn’t take a genius to know that the package to unpack is bursting at the seams. Normally you would’ve been sympathetic, but this is the manner of man that wants to seize you. You don’t want to know what would happen to you, under his dominion.
Still, at least you know that he prizes adrenaline above all else. Why else would he risk his life for a hit of it? It’s useful info and also the only wrinkle in your plan…but you’re not banking on this entirely.
Aventurine doesn’t respond, but his eyes accentuate his mirthful grin. It reminds you of yourself, when you tell a joke to yourself. You do like inside jokes, but you cannot say the same for the ones you’re left out of. No matter how demented this man’s humor is, knowing what he finds funny would at least give you more to glean on him. A part of you does enjoy piecing together puzzles, even ones you can’t solve.
He produces a simple revolver from his jacket. Sleek and as dark as a moonless night, even you can tell that its craftsmanship is more than deserving of admiration. But your anxiety has spiked, and you want to dig a hole and suffocate, to feel your lungs burn like lava and to have your fingers raw when you have second thoughts and desperately try to claw your way out. You blink back tears, but you know what you must do.
He takes his sweet time with the gun, but you don’t pay attention. Your eyes are trained on the ground as you try and fail to psych yourself up. You know what you're doing. Your parents would tell you this was a bad choice, and you agree, but you weren’t given very many good choices.
A shot rings out. Glass shatters from behind you. The coffee table. You do not breathe, and something searing and hard digs into your chin, forcing you to look up. Your gaze is misty from the pain, and you’re more resilient to the cold, not the heat.
“Sweetheart,” he smiles kindly, “I don’t like being ignored.” Despite your best efforts, a tear has rolled down your cheek. You need to get this over with before your mouth starts to uncontrollably twitch into a frown. “Aw…” he coos, and begins to lean in, “there’s no need to cry, dear.”
You can’t stop it. You let out something that sounds like a growl, and shove him off of you. “You don’t get to touch me,” you hiss, a sound you didn’t know you were capable of, “Hands to yourself,” For some indiscernible reason, another tear falls, “you haven’t won anything yet.”
He’s not fazed. “Ah, I suppose I’ll have to concede there,” for now, “Here you go then, friend,” the gun is lodged away from your chin, and despite his claim of concession he yanks your arm up and forces it in your grip, “Let’s see who luck favors.”
You shake, a little, but you’re not shaken enough to lose all your rationality. “Is there still a bullet in here?”
“Yep,” he pops the p, like you two were old pals, “though I suppose I should roll the chamber again. Give me a second.” He takes the gun away and gets to work. You’re both thankful and sobbing on the inside. At this rate, your ribs will be dust from how your heart hammers into them.
It’s back in your hand after what feels like an eternity and a microsecond. “Now there shouldn’t be any problems. Feel free to start shooting,” he purrs, adjusting it to point toward his chest. He begins to grip it, and you must act now. You’re shaking and you want to die—
Ah.
Good.
You won’t lose your nerve then.
“Actually,” your words shake with imminent tears and ramping fears, “there’s another term I wanted to discuss.” Your words aren’t threatening, but it’s ominous enough that Aventurine pauses. He’s given you the inch, and you’re taking the mile. You take a deep breath. It could be one of your last.
You’ve forced the gun against your forehead. You’ve either gasped or Aventurine’s breath has hitched. You feel tears welling up, but you’ve made it too far for things to end here. You will yourself through your terror. “If I get shot, I win. If I don’t, you win.”
A tense silence whistles about. The air is almost electric from shock. But you know what you’re doing. You know it’s stupid, but you’re hopeless and this is the closest thing to a shred of hope you can grasp. See, you did a bit of research (on a library computer; you weren’t taking your chances). You found out that there are a few stories about Aventurine doing this—and even more about how he’s made numerous casino goers lose everything. In other words, he’s a lucky bitch.
And you’re not that lucky. You doubt your luck is good enough for a regular gamble, but for your life? You treasure it, and sealing the gun to your head leaves you on the cusp of a breakdown. This is what you’re banking on: you’re not lucky enough to win a gamble, but you’re unfortunate enough to lose your life over something so inconsequential. Your parents would murder you if they saw you. Say you owe them nothing, and you do agree—but you can’t shake your habit of overpaying them. You’ve left a note at home for them to dig up, but it wouldn’t be an apology. If there’s an afterlife, you’ll apologize for eternity. You think the only way you can apologize is by searing your soul in the hells till nothing is left of you.
You do have a more selfish reason for taking this approach, but it’s also incorrigible and unreasonable. So obviously it doesn’t need to be dissected.
You think he’ll take it up. Sure, maybe the adrenaline he’ll get won’t be as great if he were the target, but so far he’s been the type to take pleasure in pushing others down a peg. He smiles at your distress, you’re sure. Surely your quivering, sniveling form is giving him a kick? Surely, he’ll want to see your eyes glassy, your expression forever contorted in a fearful, desperate sob?
But Aventurine’s voice is missing its usual lilt. It’s hard, no longer deceptively light. Not playfully pushy but demanding. Maybe this is how he speaks to his enemies, and you want to crawl into yourself. “…What?” A shard of ice is lodged in your back and makes your heart skip a beat from the surprise. But you can deal with the cold.
“I said what I said,” you push the terrifying thing harder into your skull, “these are my terms.” You’re more adamant than ever to not look into his eyes. You fixate on your shoes. You won’t speak more than necessary.
He seemingly contemplates for a moment. You’re about to push it when he finally speaks. “Do you remember what I said when I first proposed this gamble?”
Your mind is too fear-stricken for recollection. “You say a lot of things. C-can’t remember all of them.” Shit, your mouth has twitched a bit.
Shockingly Aventurine doesn’t poke fun at that, and is unusually focused. “I don’t take deals where I’m on the losing end. You’ve skewed this far too much in your favor.”
No. Oh, no. You were wrong about something. Lava starts to sting at your eyes. If you were wrong about this, then what else were you wrong about?!
“W-what? You’re not the one risking your life!” You exclaim, and it makes you look up at him, “How are you on the losing end?!” You shriek, because you aren’t a composed person at heart.
His eyes, lifeless and intense, widen as they bore into your own, pinning you down. If you squirm, you think he would stab knives in them to keep you down. He isn’t smiling and your knees want to shake. “Let’s go through this one by one, so you understand. One: what do I want?”
“W-wha?”
He repeats himself, harsher. “What. Do. I. Want?”
You settle for the safest answer. Your heart feels dead. You’re sure it will wither to dust. “M-me?”
“Bingo.” It scares you that he’s not saying that with a lilt. It scares you that he’s not trying to manipulate you. It scares you how there’s only a thread between him ripping you in half. “And here’s something very, very important to know about me,” his hand caresses your cheekbone, positioned to catch any tears that fall, or to crush your skull, “I do whatever it takes to get what I want.”
“Then how is this different?! You’re still taking the risk of not getting what you want no matter how you slice it!”
The smile he gives you is all at once angelic and biting. “I don’t like it when I don’t get what I want.” His pupils dilate. Your eyes well up looking at malice and…something that plunges you in ice. “If I can’t get what I want…hm, how do I describe it?” his voice begins to regain its lilt, fueled by your increasing distress. He smiles like he’s teaching a child a lesson, but you swear his eyes are growing duller. “Well, it’s like being trapped in a land without dawn,” his other hand softly holds your shoulder and it feels so wrong because you swear he’s holding back from brutalizing you, “there are chains around your neck, ankles, wrists, waist, eyes…” he chuckles sardonically, and a vindictive grin spreads as he leans in, till you can feel the ghost of his breath, “your life is a living hell, but the cold of the metal seeps down to your very bone.” You yelp; his grip has tightened. “Something stirs in your chest,” the hand caressing your face comes to rest over your heart, “begging to destroy everything and everyone that’s made you suffer.” His fingers dig into your chest, as if he’ll rip out your heart. “Tell me, my friend, do you want a man like that alive?”
You want to close your eyes so badly. Your mind is an inky landscape, blackening every single thought you hold. A soft flutter to your cheek knocks you out of your stupor. You register expensive perfume, something tickling your skin, and soft lips kissing away your tears. Immediately you shove away the opportunistic beast and stumble in your escape.
You’re in too deep. You need to make this work, because as much as you're terrified, something deep within you purrs at the weakness he’s given you.
But it’s good to know how spiteful he is. You already feel much better about your own plan. Both parts of you purr in delight: one knows you must twist the knife, and the other has been waiting for the opportunity.
“Coward,” your mouth is faster than your mind, “you coward!” Your meager wit and anguish over the past few months begin to tumble out uncontrollably, “I don’t care about your shit—you’ve hardly given me any say about anything. You’ve had the upper hand this entire time, and now you want to backpedal? This is too much risk for you?!” You heave, and you’re too enraged to care about how disgusting you must look, “You said to me there’s nothing you like more than a good gamble. Well, I’ve got a GREAT gamble for you, and if you’re upset you’ve got no one but yourself to blame! You wormed your way into my life, you orchestrated its steady decline, and you pushed me right here! You don’t get to back out of this like a coward!” You’re breathing heavily, and your vision is watery red, and you throw the gun in what you think is his general direction, and your vitriol spills out of you, “Take it and take whatever fucking risk exists! Languish for a month or a day or an hour because you didn’t get what you want like a little baby! If I’m going down, you’re coming down with me!” You’re heaving at this point, and you absently lean on the couch so you don’t collapse. Your composure is in shambles, but you’ll try to save a complete breakdown for when your choices catch up to you and you’re choking on your own blood.
You hear a slow, rhythmic clap, and it shocks you that your ears aren’t flooding with blood at it. You hesitantly look up to see Aventurine grinning like a beast.
“You, dragging me down…” the lilt has come back, and you realize that he likes something about this; that he’s schemed a part of it, “...so I see.” He drawls. He tilts his head, regarding you with the interest one has in a zoo. “I’ll admit,” each slow step he takes toward you makes you sink further into the couch, “I was expecting you to cave with that. Yet you still insist…sweetheart,” should you be glad he’s calling you that again? “Let me be the first to tell you that it’s a great honor to push people like you into a corner. You were correct to fear me to try and avoid this.” So you were right on one thing, but it’s only a single thing. He’s inching ever so closely, and before you can start getting away he’s pounced on you.
You yelp in surprise and begin to thrash, “You—get, get off of me!” You attempt to be intimidating, but your intense terror makes you seem like nothing more than a child scared to get a shot. Perfume burns your nostrils. More tears are shed, but he’s merciful enough to not lap them up just yet. He still lets you look away.
He giggles and just pins you down. He waits until you're humiliated and exhausted before continuing. Your mouth twitches, and against your better judgment a sob brews in your chest. Your mind floods with ink, now. You try to tell yourself to keep it together, but the more you repeat it the more terrified you become. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d change the terms like this,” you squirm and look away—you don’t have the bravery to look at him directly right now. He lets you. “I was sort of expecting you to try and stand up for yourself, or maybe even demand I put in two bullets…but, you’ve run counter to my expectations. For one, I didn’t have you pinned to be this spiteful, nor this willing to give up your life.” You flinch and make a hateful sound as he starts to pat your head, continuing on as if this was the most normal conversation in the world, like he was the most normal person in the room, as he smiles so warmly—you’re a frog being boiled, but you’re too tired and afraid to retort, “Heh, this must’ve taken all of your guts to do, right?” The affection in his voice forms a lump in your throat. “I’m proud of you. Take pride in that,” he wipes away a tear, “and you’re right.” Suddenly, all warmness is gone and you’re blasted with heat. His grin shows his teeth, and for a moment you think you’ve really died. “I’ve always loved the thrill of going all in.” He laughs, a depraved sound of hedonism and complete despair, “If I win, it’s the jackpot. I get you, and you get me.” Get him? “And if I lose,” your head is tipped up by the barrel of the gun to look into his eyes—
You whimper. The only thing that registers in your mind is that you’ve found yourself in a fox’s jaw about ready to clamp down.
“I live with my loss at the hands of a nobody. And it’ll gnaw at me from the inside…” he says breathlessly, “Yes, that’s a risk I can see myself getting behind,” Ink has made your soul quiver further. “And only taking deals on the winning end…I do that enough for business. That's to say…” he suddenly pulls you up, causing you to stumble and lean into him. He chuckles as your addled mind and body reorient, but the arm slung around your waist prevents you from straying too far. It’s the pillar you must rely on, but one wrong step and it will crumble to dust.
It scares you.
But.
There’s another side to your fear. What sort of things do we fear? These months have taught you that people hate that which they fear. When the fear amps up, so does the hate. You aren’t blind to how he looks at you. He’d vivisect you if it got him what he wanted. Your teeth grind. Oh, you hate him, you hate him so much. But your hate doesn’t burn, nor does it freeze. It’s a part of you, hums through your veins, thrums with the beat of your heart. There is nothing special about what is merely a fact of life. You are its vessel, and for that it sustains you.
You won’t see the fallout of your victory, but the mere idea sends a wave of ecstasy through you.
The barrel of the revolver presses against your heart.
“I accept your terms.” His voice edges with adrenaline and delight, but, and rather exquisitely, your instincts think, an edge that he must be the one to win this gamble—that in this moment, for him to live with loss is completely undesirable. But unfortunately for him, you’re not lucky enough to avoid a stupid death. You quiver, but not with fear. Though a part of you wonders if he’s just been testing you with his easy agreement. Should you be glad if you get full marks? Or should you hope you’ve failed?
Still, a brief feeling of levity blooms in your chest, and you seize it immediately.
You did it. And unexpectedly, rather than further terror, relief washes over the heat and ink, because now that you’ve felt dead so often in such short time, death is salvation. But just as quickly as the water came, a blizzard freezes the sea.
Click. His lips are against yours.
Of course. He wouldn’t let your final moments be pleasant.
He takes advantage of your inexperience to entangle your tongues, and his hand pushes you deeper and deeper as he tries to devour you. You gasp and tear up when he bites and bruises your lips. You’d like to fight back, but you want to get this over with. Even if it means being taken advantage of in your last moments, mother death’s repentance is merely a chamber or two away.
But still, no matter how demented you are in the moment, you are human, and the instinctual desire to survive makes you recoil. The eye contact exacerbates it. His eyes hold a sea. On the surface, you can freely see the coral and starfish, difficult to understand but beautiful. But deeper, where the sunlight does not shine, the predators have taken to hunting one another, having wiped out the prey. And when only one is left, then it can only move up and up, until it’s the only thing left standing. And now it looks to consume you to satiate its unending appetite. Your lungs burn.
You’d love to shut your eyes, but doing so feels like losing. At least when you do so, you can see yourself be devoured. Your awareness of yourself is the only agency you have right now.
Click. He pulls away, and you take in a greedy breath. Your heart beats and a tear trickles; you’re not dead yet. That’s ok. You’ll be dead in a moment.
“You look so certain you’ll win,” he observes, “it’s a good look on you.”
You scrunch your nose. “Pull the trigger. I’m getting sick of looking at you.”
“But, if I do, then you might breathe your last,” his eyes narrow, though you’re not sure if it’s predatory or softening, “can’t I take the sight of you in?”
“Ha!” You cough it out. “For a man who dresses to the nines, you sure have bad taste.”
“Aw, don’t demean yourself like that,” he mockingly reassures, “I’ll have you know you’re perfectly enchanting.”
You decide to play along, because banter is banter and no matter how spiteful you are, you’ll take comfort and levity where you can find it. “And you’re a Knight of Beauty.” Absently, you wonder how terrible you must look. You feel your eyes still well with tears, and you’re still sniffling back bits of snot every now and then.
You’re not sure if everything’s just catching up to you, or if the thought has propelled you to the realization, but you’re so, so, so tired. It does make your tears dry, a little, and your muscles relax.
You see he’s starting to lean in again, and you immediately put a hand between you and his lips. “Don’t.” You growl. “Just…just shoot,” you sigh in exhaustion, “I’m tired. Just shoot. If you’re not satisfied, then you’ll have my corpse.” The implication is disgusting but he’s disgusting, and you really just want to sleep. You’re pretty sure he would’ve done it even without you saying.
“Can’t say the image is pleasant.” Is his voice colder? Or are you finally losing it?
“I’m already a teary mess. It’ll just be colder and a little stiff.”
He scoffs, “If I wanted someone steely, you wouldn’t be here.”
You bite your cheek and look at your feet. “Shoot.”
There’s a pause in the air. You wonder if he’s contemplating on saying something to you, or just getting it over with. Both would make sense. You close your eyes. You will yourself to not think, because you know if you do that your life will just flash before your eyes. And if that happens, you’ll die completely miserable.
Click.
You’re breathing. His hand is on your waist. The gun’s pressed to your chest. Nothing’s changed. Why aren’t you on the ground choking on blood?
“I win.” You hear. You shut your eyes when sunlight gets into them.
Oh. Oh. Oh.
You’re still here.
It didn’t work. It didn’t pay off. Your knees give out as you finally are no longer to keep your tears at bay. You feel fluttering around your eyes, and you dare not open them. Shhh, shhh, you hear, but you only cry more. Everything has come to impale you, and you cry as you feel your organs spill. You’re his. You’re his. You want to die. Everything is coated in ink. You process nothing but the terror and rage and fear and despair and laughter and anything and everything you’ve ever experienced. You try to curl in on yourself, but you’re stopped.
“Shhh, it’s alright…” a hand strokes you to soothe, but it’s more akin to sandpaper rubbing on raw skin, “Let it all out…we have plenty of time. I don’t have to hold back and neither do you.”
You heave and sob. All you can think about is the unknown future which awaits you. You barely register being placed on a plush surface.
When your sobs finally quiet, you’re forced to look into his eyes. There’s a flush on his cheek, a slight inconsistency in his breathing, and his eyes have dilated with adrenaline and…and…you’ve never seen that emotion before, whatever it is.
You wonder what face you’re making, as he smiles ferally. “You were right. That was great,” he hisses with elation, and laughs. “Oh, you’re beautiful.”
The world spins. You’re laying, and he’s on top of you.
Oh…oh no…You begin to flinch and twitch uncontrollably. You aren’t thinking. You flail, kick, cry, but he doesn’t budge. You need to get away get away get away get away—
“One last thing, to really seal the deal,” he smiles, insidiously kind and horrifying, “to commemorate my victory and your defeat.”
He bites into your neck, and you scream.
The fox swallows you whole.
—
He lets you roam freely, whenever he’s gone. To say you were baffled about it was putting it lightly, and you refrained from taking advantage of it in fear he had something up his sleeve. In fact, when you found out his spaceship-apartment-thing was mounted with surveillance in every nook and cranny, you found a cramped closet to hide in for a few days. Curling into a ball all day wasn’t easy on the joints, but you were taking any semblance of privacy you could get. But Aventurine, petty and cruel, forced you to seal off your haven with your own hands before he tore into you. If he wants you in his sight or roaming about, he should just make up his mind already.
But, for this one occasion, you choose to abuse this privilege. You usually come back around the same time he does to appease him, but you finally decided you needed a vacation after he forced you into one of his stupid gambles and forced you to fulfill another of his especially perverted fantasies; on top of forcing you to help him get acquainted with a gacha you played—and then caused your cake to burn. Sure, there are those big moments where lava and ink converge, but it’s the little things which sting and nick that pile up. The real kicker was when he forced you two to share a plate of pasta and when, of course, you two landed on the same noodle, he had the brilliant idea to suck it up at the speed of light so you guys could kiss. How romantic, kissing someone with half-chewed food in their mouth, you truly could not commend this man’s genius enough. You couldn’t keep up, which was how you ended up with pasta sauce in your eye. And there were pepperoncinis in there.
Yeah, you’re no fan of how he fucks you mentally and literally. You gladly made this choice, and all the risk it came with.
“So, this is where you’ve been.” You think he’s still a little surprised, just as you are. You haven’t done much in the way of defiance, both because you wanted nothing more than to remain within yourself, and because you feared his retaliation. The few risks you have taken never pay off. And you didn’t even go to see your parents. You tried to tell them the horrible truth and because they deserved to know their child’s fate, but every time you approached their house, something stopped you. Shame, fear, embarrassment, sheepishness…you don’t know. You almost laughed. To think, a quarter of why you’re here is because of the danger they were placed in, yet you can’t even muster the courage to talk to them. You dismiss them from your mind because you have to deal with Aventurine. You wonder if you’ll forget them, if you cast them out of your mind enough. “I’m charmed. Our special place.”
You scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself. This was mine before you ever came here, and it still is.”
You met each other here on a moonlit night. You couldn’t see each others’ faces, but it didn’t stop you from conversing. You don’t bother to think about it more, because what started as a memory that made you feel warm now enshrouds you in a volcanic blizzard. You’ve already mulled over it plenty anyway—on how such a mundane conversation started all of…this.
Now, the sun is setting. It calms you down.
“Darling, this is a national park. You don’t own it.”
You tsk. “Shut up. I don’t feel like dealing with you right now. And you literally called this place ‘ours,’ you conniving bastard.”
“Unfortunate,” his arm slings across your shoulders, “because it’s been such a lonely week without you…” the other cages you by the waist. You imagine his body rupturing and exploding, and you’d dance in the blood shower. Or would you soak yourself in his organs, to savor his defeat? Maybe you’d open your mouth, let your mouth and throat be coated in his blood so you—
Huh. Something’s off again. You are no stranger to violent thoughts, but lately, at rare times, your fantasies get accompanied by something strange you can’t quite put your finger on.
You make a face, as you look at him over your shoulder with a deadpan glare, “And you’ve let me parade about.”
He giggles. “What? I had no clue you were here till a few hours ago! Honest.”
“Says the surveillance freak.” You wave your phone, “And I’ve so conveniently kept this tracker with me.”
He drops the act. “You didn’t even try to cover up your tracks.” He sighs, “I must say, your defeatism is probably my least favorite part about you. Can’t say I really understand.”
Then why does he still keep you around? It’s already been nearly half a year.
“You and I have no illusions that I can escape you, and I lost a bet. I try not to be a sore loser.”
“And yet you so often cry when you lose our games. Kick and scream sometimes.”
Your chest feels hollow, and you hate the feeling so much that you want to die right then and there. “What, should I be jumping for joy when you rape me?”
Silence. You can almost think he’s a little remorseful. But then his fingers are snaking to pull at your collar. Peeling back your skin, to try and coax you out of it. More like tear you out, you scoff.
“Seriously?” Your voice carries a mix of disappointment, anger, fear, and despair. It cracks, “Hardly three minutes and right after I—”
“Relax,” he’s so soothing that your muscles tense up and your heart beats to the nines—he’s so good at this! He continues his ministrations until he has a good view of your neck, and hums in pleasure, “you haven’t been that bad.” He brushes a spot at your neck. It’s the spot he first bit you in, and thinking about it still makes you shake in pain. And he’s always sucking or biting at it to stake his stupid claim. You brace yourself. And right on cue he’s latched on, and your scream is muffled by your hand. You’d like to say you’ve gotten used to it, but you’ve never had a good tolerance for pain. And against your wishes, you’ve cried. Aventurine lunges on the opportunity, sensually licking them and leaving behind a disgusting trail of slime to dry. “You really are a crybaby…” his voice is like crawling spiders in your ear.
You desperately rub them away with your sleeves, mostly because you know shoving him away doesn’t work when he gets like this. And then your short lived adrenaline fades.
“Shit!” He’s drawn blood. Again. And you liked this shirt! But you can see why he doesn’t—it was a high collar and a long sleeve, able to cover the mural of bites and bruises he leaves on your body. He doesn’t want others to see, but in private he can’t keep his hands off.
“Sorry,” he kisses the spot, but each kiss burns you. You don’t understand why he bothers to say the word when you both know he’s not capable of feeling remorse, at least, not for you.
You groan, blinking back mist. “You’re making it worse.”
“Sorry,” he repeats, giving you a bloody peck on the cheek, “but can you blame me? You’re not wearing any of my gifts. Makes a guy a little jealous, see?” He kisses your cheek again, firmer to imprint his bloody kiss.
“Yes, I can blame you for making conscious decisions,” you coldly snap, but you’re already tired, “Once again, jewelry is overrated and I reaffirm that your taste is shit.”
“I recall my jewelry and clothes were some of the first things you complemented.”
“Aye,” it’s true, but you see an opportunity for levity and take it, “but I have since evolved from my follious self.”
He’s getting that feral look in his eye again. Why?! You didn’t even do anything! You snap. “What is it? Spit it.”
“You’re doing it again.”
You can’t stand his touch any longer. “Doing what?” You hiss, shoving him away from you so you can face him.
He whistles. It feeds your frustration. You assume that it’s what he usually wants from you. “If this is some weird sexual innuendo then it’s fallen flat on its ass, you affluent horndog.”
He blinks in brief shock, before laughing—his canines shine in the orange sunset, “No, no no, not this time around. Let’s put it this way, and I’ll be very clear, just for you,”
As he calms down, an angelic smile spreads in his face, and you know you’re looking straight at damnation.
“I’ve learned that defeatists succumb to themselves. Pushing them past their limit helps, but it’s not necessary.”
…In the back of your mind, you make a horrific realization.
You have tilled fields, so You may eventually sow them with cotton.
—
What does your face look like, right now? But for once, you think it might be bestial. You know your eyes are wide open and not flooding.
In an unexpected subversion, it is you who pins Aventurine to the ground. You don’t pay much mind to his expression: parted lips, breathless, glimmering interest and fulfilled desire in his eyes; it’s unusual and you would’ve drank it in if not for the tornado in your mind. It’s torn through some cotton, leaving the field barely alive.
“What. Were. You. Thinking?” You do not recognize your own voice. You feel your body shaking and find that you’re breathing heavily.
He smiles. “You watch me gamble all the time, dearest.” His head tips in faux questioning, “I don’t see how that’s gotten you so worked up—and you’ve been so sweet lately.”
You grind your teeth. He hasn’t answered you. “You played Russian Roulette.”
The body of his opponent is slumped on the table across from you two. Their blood continually drips, crying out in defeat. You couldn’t care less about that, because there’s a thought playing on repeat in your mind.
That could’ve been his body.
His eyes twinkle as he smirks, “Are you jealous?” He cruelly teases, “Did you want to kill me, or were you hoping to take the bullet yourself?”
“No.” You’re not being sensible. The cotton in your mind is shredding. You want to balk at the idea, and You want to jump at the opportunity. “Answer my question.”
“Mmm,” he hums, and his nonchalance makes you shake, “well, I suppose I’m in no position to refuse. It was a good gamble with a good thrill, of course! I thought you knew this.”
He’s right. You know just how much pleasure he takes in putting everything on the line. Your question is answered, but for some reason it’s still not satisfied. The few surviving patches of cotton are still in your way.
That depraved feral look in his eyes only grows at your internal battle, and his gloved hand cups your cheek. “What’s wrong?” He goads. “Or have you finally come around to just how irresistible I am?”
For a moment, cotton has come. But then the scent of blood wafts to your nose, and all of your senses have increased tenfold.
Hell hath flourished, and it burns the cotton to dust.
You begin to unravel.
“I want to hollow out your chest.” You admit, maddeningly and you wonder how much your insanity bleeds out. “And burrow into it, so I can listen to your heartbeat and feel the expanse of your lungs pressing into me with your every breath,” you think your breath has grown more erratic, “I want to breathe in your blood, taste your heart, blood, sustain myself on nothing, on nothing but you!” You’ve leaned closer, your breaths fanning on each others’ faces. Small patches of water begin to drop onto Aventurine’s face—his face that is so breathtakingly and satanically beautiful without the cotton obstructing it—your breath hitches and your mouth twitches, as you take in a quivering breath. “If you die…I might just join you, because…there’s really nothing else for me…” and then something ugly sparks in your chest. “If you die…I’m pulling the trigger, not some random sap in a casino.”
The puddle of blood begins flowing toward you.
It completely burns the cotton, and that is the moment You are no longer safe. But hell is beautiful, you find, and you so gladly drench yourself in its flames. You are still painfully aware of how wrong it all is…but, the storm within you is starting to calm, you don’t cry with your every free moment and you no longer agonize about your parents. You…you think this is peace. To harbor obsession for the man who trapped you in this hell and tortured you and then drowned you in affection.
You sob, a sound of euphoric despair, and you confess the terrible truth,
“I love you, Aventurine,” you take in a shuddering gasp, “I love you…” you cough, no longer able to hold back as you break down, “I love you, I love you,” you hiccup and sob, “I love you I love you I love you I love you.” You’ve collapsed, curling in on yourself but resting your head atop his heart. “Don’t throw me away…don’t l-leave me…I need you, and it’s your f-fault I’m like this…please, please Aventurine, tell me you love me and won’t ever let me go!” Oh, you feel so ugly and you feel so much lighter and, and—
His breath shudders, and then swiftly takes you in his arms. You stumble, but his grip doesn’t cease, like he wants your bodies to meld into each other. He sits up, shifting so you’re straddling him. Red dusts his cheeks, a similar shade to the crimson pooling beneath you two. His eyes hold a hunger satiated and a new voracity, gleaming with animalistic intent that makes you shiver.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he shudders, holding back all he wants to do, “that was beautiful—you’re beautiful,” he’s panting, “how could I refuse such a heartfelt and adorable confession?” Your heart soars. “You’re so perfect. You’re the other side of my coin…yes,” he groans, “I’d love to bring you down with me, and to tear you apart if I’m back in that dawnless land.”
As the dawn shines on you both as he kisses you, it clicks.
He wanted someone just as desperate as him.
The whisper against your lips is almost reverent, “I knew you were the one,” His eyes are like a meadow, where you dance and sing and never leave, even as your feet howl in pain brushing against poison ivy and oak hidden amidst the grass and flowers. And now you recognize the emotion that drowns in them. That all consuming affection which threatens to erase your existence to everything but it. “Thank you, for destroying yourself for me. It’s truly an honor, sweetheart.”
Your tears flow, but the corners of your mouth twitch upwards. Insanity has sunk its claws into you, your stress and limits explode in a desperate supernova, and your very being trembles with ecstasy. Aventurine joins you, standing up and spinning you around in his firm hold as you both laugh and laugh in the dawn’s sunlight, with red not trailing too far behind. This is a spectacle you burn and freeze and drown in, witnessed by your spectator in rot.
You're devoured, but you’ve grown your own claws and fangs.
Driven by nothing more than instinct, in the throes of your tryst, you bury your head in the crook of his neck,
And bite.
#yandere#Yandere aventurine#yandere hsr#yandere hsr x reader#yandere aventurine x reader#aventurine x reader#yandere honkai star rail#Yandere x you#tw noncon#if you’re this far into the tags then hello welcome to hell#How are you? I’m chillin out it’s pretty nice#Dreading the day I must finally become a proper tool in capitalism (re: get an actual job so I do not starve to death and deprived of—#—basic human necessities. Like nestle water)#Ha didn’t expect capitalism depression in the tags of a yandere work didja well to that I say SIKE BITCH I’ve got you#But also every other post has espresso depresso abt capitalism so it’s kinda the norm at this point#Marx is rolling in his grave#Anyway go get a drink of water it’s very very important to be hydrated#Also you do not know how hard it is to not write good girl/boy in this FR—#Destroyed Onset
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The Art of Reassurance and Reframing
My "agenda"? My "aim", you ask? Well, Asmodeus. It's always Asmodeus.
Pairing: gn!reader x Asmodeus (every brother’s closeness with you is expressed, but it’s princess Mo’s golden hour <3; no established relationship, yet, but confessions take place)
TW: some theatrics, slight suggestive content, some clinginess, toe shoe slander, snippet of Asmodeus baby talk (I cry from laughter when he does this to Belphegor in game), some possessiveness and jealously, some hurt/comfort, mentions of violence, brief use of pact, uhh I think that’s it! If anything is missing, let me know. Ty!
Word count: ~4,800
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It was nice meeting you. I had a really good time! Be safe heading home :-)
You send the text before setting your phone onto the counter, careful to avoid the small puddle forming as water droplets drip down your jacket sleeve. As much fun as your date had been tonight, the downpour had cut your plans short. You're home much earlier than you anticipated and admittedly, a little bummed out. You had been pretty excited to scope out the pastry shop they swore was one of, if not the best, in your area.
It's too bad, you think, as you shrug off your jacket.
You hang it onto the back of a nearby chair to dry, pointedly ignoring any mess that might be accumulating on the floor in favor of changing into drier clothes.
You grab your phone before heading into your room. As you plug it in to charge, a notification pops up that causes you to smile and shake your head softly.
Home safe! Thanks for coming out with me, I really had a good time. And if it's not weird or anything, I would like to hang out again! We can go to the cafe I mentioned, and maybe you can show me a place you like?
Ah! Sorry to text you if you never planned on seeing me again, that's totally fine! You were just...a lot cooler than I expected
Your friend gave you a head's up about your date's social anxiety, but that didn't trouble you at all. In fact, they were quite charming once they stepped out of their shell. Never had you met someone so devoted to the art of restoring furniture that they upholstered nearly every piece in their home. Even going so far as to woodwork new legs for the pieces they had collected when dumpster diving. It was cute how passionate they got about their interests, and how intently they had listened to yours. You haven't had a conversation like that in some time, not since...
You snort to yourself, lips curling upwards as Leviathan comes to mind.
Sounds like a plan, I'm already thinking of a place or two I'd love to show you. I'll let you know when I'm free next week!
You send the text back in record time, not giving them a chance to spiral into a bout of overthinking. You'd mastered the art of reassurance and reframing during your time in the Devildom.
Your eyes flicker over to the clock and you sigh through your nose. You still have about another two hours before one of the brothers will check in with you. You suppose while you wait in the meantime, you could watch a movie or mess around with the games still downloaded on your D.D.D.
You walk over to your dresser, pulling out a pair of pajamas to change into. Once you're finished, you throw your damp clothes into the hamper and move to open your sock drawer. Although it serves little use here, your D.D.D. can still send and receive calls and texts. This little blessing, however, soon became a point of contention during your first week back.
You rub at your temples as you recall how your D.D.D. began to ring at odd hours with creative excuses as to why it was absolutely necessary for you to pick up the phone at four in the morning.
"Wait, wait, don't hang up! C'mon human, you're my lucky charm. Ya gotta tell me what I should call, red or black? I got 10,000 grimm riding on roulette, but no pressure! Go with yer gut."
"What?! No! You can't go yet! I haven't even told you about what happened to Mammon when Solomon and I caught him trying to pawn off one of his tools! Oh, won't you stay on a bit longer with me? You don't have Devilgram out there, so how else am I supposed to keep you updated on all things Mo?"
"H-hey, you can't go to sleep now! I've been trying to plan out my panel attendance order for the convention, but no one gets how important the sequence is like you do! S-speaking of events I need your opinion because there’s a TSL group meeting on Saturday, but the Dreaddit House of Sorrow Fanclub Meetup is scheduled at the same time. So now I don’t know if -"
"I was eating a burger and thought of you...are you making sure to eat over there? Ah, good I'm glad. Oh, that sound? No, it's just my stomach. I got hungry thinking of the human realm food you've been sending pictures of. Could you send a recipe or two? Satan promised to recreate some if I stay away from the cat food he hides in his room. Yeah, I tried it. Hmm, it was actually pretty tasty."
"If you fall asleep on me now, I'll just have to visit you in your dreams. Who cares if I'm yawning? I'm always yawning. I want to talk to you, so tell me about your day. A botanical garden at night? Was it as nice as ours? Just different...hm, I guess it wouldn't be too bad if I got to see it with you. Human world fireflies don't suck up light, right? Then what do they eat?"
"Don't worry, I took care of Mammon; he won't be calling you anymore tonight. Oh, I didn't harm him, we just had a talk. No, no, I'm not upset anymore. Speaking with you calms me down. Are you enjoying the book I sent you? I'm relieved to hear it. What do I think? Well...I find myself thinking of the lead often. They sit by the ocean every day, at the same time, waiting for their lover to return. After 5 years, it seems illogical to believe they'll just appear one day. Yet, I think I've come to understand that sort of irrational thinking. Ah, what am I doing? I'm just as bad as Mammon. You're tired; I'll take my leave."
"I've handled the matter, so please get some rest. How did they take it? Hmph, surprisingly well when they realized how they've exhausted your patience. I sound tired? Your patience is not the only one which has been exhausted this week. Yes, things have been going well. Diavolo remarked earlier this evening that the Devildom has dimmed in your absence; I am inclined to agree with him."
To preserve peace within Lamentation and give you breathing room, Lucifer forbade his brothers from contacting you at unreasonable hours or at unreasonable rates. With your input, he established a strict calling schedule: three nights a week set aside for a private call with one of the seven brothers.
But not a day has gone by without someone messaging you. Even Solomon continues to contact you through your D.D.D. despite having your human world number.
He had caught you by surprise earlier, calling you while you and your date were halfway through dinner. Although the timing wasn't ideal, you should have expected it. You haven't checked your D.D.D. all day and someone was bound to over speculate the reason why.
You pull the device out from under the socks you've tucked it between for safe keeping and raise a brow in concern as the screen turns on.
A stack of messages from the group chats is nothing out of the ordinary. But 16 texts from Asmodeus alone is a bit excessive.
Heeey!!
C'mon cutie, don't ignore me
Ugh, you don't have your D.D.D. on you, do you?
I can't stand it! Answer me as soon as you get back!
I hate that you're so far!! I'm so worked up that I walked all the way up to your bedroom door before I remembered you're not here...
I was so gonna scold you!
You know more than anyone I hate being neglected like this, especially by you <3
It's no fair! If you don't answer me, I'm gonna barge into the castle and demand they let me go check on you.
Ok, I'm totally bluffing. There's no way Lucifer would let me reach the castle to ask Diavolo anyway!
But, it's my job to protect you...
I mean a little punishment wouldn't be too bad, right? It sounds kind of exciting!
Aren't you honored a beauty like me would risk it all for you?
We finished dinner and now I'm tucked into bed, but I'm freezing under the covers without you beside me to keep me warm.
What am I supposed to do, MC? My most precious person won't acknowledge me, I'm heartbroken...
You have to take responsibility for this!
I miss your voice.
You roll your eyes at his theatrics but can't stop the smile that tugs at your lips. Asmodeus could be frustrating at times, but you miss him.
You chuckle as you recall countless memories of him barging into your room, insistent on spending his allotted quality time with you. How if you couldn't indulge him right away, he'd lounge on your bed, scrolling through his D.D.D. until you were done studying.
He could be even worse than Mammon when the mood struck, but you can't deny the pride that puffs up in your chest as you acknowledge how content he is just to be in your company. It feeds your insatiable heart, gluttonous for the selfish satisfaction that thrums in your veins whenever you hold his attention.
You feel it coursing through you now as you reminisce about late-night cuddles shared beneath his room's rosy canopy, face mask slipping off as you laugh uncontrollably at his nightly facial exercise routine. You reminisce about the way he'd cling to you as you walked to and from school and how he would hang off your arm, fingers pressed against plush lips, when he couldn't hold back his laughter.
If you picture it for long enough, you can still feel the phantom touch of his hugs. Lithe arms embracing you, pressing your body against his as his head comes to rest into the crook of your shoulder...
You sigh, dragging a hand down your face.
Ok. You really miss him.
Warmth blossoms in your chest as your eyes scan over the texts again. Even realms apart, he still makes you feel adored.
I'm not ignoring you, Mo. I was just busy today. Are you doing alright?
No sooner than you send the text, a call comes in. You click to accept it before holding the receiver up to your ear.
"Hey Mo, wha-"
"You love me, don't you?!"
You pause for a moment, trying not to laugh as his petulant tone crackles through.
"Course I do."
"Then, where were you all day? No one could get a hold of you, and you wouldn't answer anyone's texts. I mean I get it when it comes to the others, but to not answer my texts! How could you?" You can hear him shuffling around, a slight splash of water following the movement.
"Asmodeus, are you taking this call from your bath?" You feel his sigh roll through the receiver, puffing up against your skin.
"Don't try to change the subject. You're the reason I'm in here, you know? Stress damages the skin! I had to calm down somehow." Continuous splashing only accentuates the image of him building in your mind, frantically gesturing at you before crossing his arms with a pout.
"I'm sorry I got you all worked up. How can I make it up to the lovely princess Mo?" You bite your lip as his infectious giggle tinkles in your ear.
"Well," his tone turns coquettish, "you could start by telling me what you're wearing?" The question drags an exaggerated groan out of you, but it's all in good humor.
"Are you aware of how insufferable you can be?"
"Yes," he gloats, "but that's when you admire me most!" A stupid grin plasters itself to your face, one you picture him to be wearing too.
He's right.
Over the time you've spent with him, you've come to find his forwardness more silly and endearing if anything. He's made it too easy for you to be carefree around him, and if he asked it of you, you'd bare to him the darkness locked within your heart without batting an eye.
"I'm in pajamas." You offer him a bite.
"Aw, cute! I'm wearing nothing." He takes it and swallows it whole.
"Yes, I think we've already established that." You snicker at the huff he lets out.
"It would be way more interesting if you had worn something into the bath with you." You laugh into the transmitter.
"Like that one time you came back from partying with succubi after finals! You were so drunk I thought you were going to strut straight into the shower with your pretty high heels on." A slight squeal has you pulling the receiver away slightly.
"Aaah, so you do remember the red bottoms! Oh, oh! Darling, can I confess something about that night?" The water sloshes back and forth in the background with his excitement.
"Mhm, what is it?" You hum.
"I actually changed into those before I came home. The pair I left with got stomped on at the club and looked so gross!" He lets out an exasperated sigh.
"It's a pity that some demons have no rhythm, but it's unforgivable that they have no shame ruining the dance floor for everybody. I mean, so many people came out to celebrate me and I had to greet them like that! Can you believe it?!"
Some more sloshing spills through the receiver, but it sounds more like he's wading through the water than disturbing it.
"What an embarrassment! There wasn't a hope in hell I'd let you see me like that." You hear him shudder.
"So, I stopped at a late night boutique and when I saw the red bottoms I just knew I had to buy them. After all, you're the one who said they would look gorgeous on me!" He pauses for a moment, a loud splash sounding, before he speaks again.
"I've only ever worn them that night," the lilt of his voice makes warmth rush to your cheeks.
"Just. For. You," he teases. "Did I look good?"
"You looked like you always do, " you mumble. But he catches on quick.
You've caught him alone in his room once, and only once, with tears prickling his glassy eyes, shaken and unsure of himself. You didn't know where you stood with the demon you had only recently formed a pact with at the time, but you pushed down your apprehension, refusing to leave his side unless he pushed you away.
But, he never did.
So, you stayed. Bracingly conveying to him all the ways you found him to be breathtaking inside and out. You can recall the alarming rate at which your heart palpitated as he curled up into you under the covers, his tears dampening the shirt beneath your RAD uniform as he sobbed into your chest. It was daunting to toe the line of a confession you weren't ready to deliver, especially to a demon just beginning to respect you. But your desire to soothe his self-doubt had won out.
You regret nothing. You two have been inseparable since.
"Then what a sight I must have been." He sighs, dreamily, tearing you away from your thoughts. "Lucky you!”
A wicked little idea comes to mind.
"I have something to confess too." You suppose you'll play along some since he wants to be such a tease tonight. Tired of standing in front of your dresser, you go lay down on your bed.
"And that would be?" You hear a door open and shut, confirming that bath time is indeed over.
You fake a deep sigh. He seems to be ruffling through something that you suspect to be his wardrobe.
"Today, I tried on something new. Agh, it's a bit embarrassing, Mo. I've...never felt this bold." The sound stops for just a moment.
"Oh." What sounds like hangers clatter in the background.
"There's no need to be shy! You know you don't have to hide anything from me. No matter how depraved you might seem to others, everything, well - you - will always be endearing to me."
You almost feel bad for starting this anticlimactic buildup...almost.
"You swear you won't think differently of me?" Immediately, he lets out a cry of indignation.
"Oh, never! If anything, I'll only fall for you more."
"Ok..," you pause for dramatic effect, "Today...I wore toe shoes. It took some time to get used to each toe pocket, but my feet have never felt so free!"
"Very funny, dear," Asmodeus mocks. "But seriously don't even joke about those things, just ew! Your feet deserve so much better, you shouldn't disrespect them like that. What would you even wear with those abominations?!"
He cuts you off before you can reply with something stupid.
"Don't you dare say cargo shorts and a t-shirt! I forbid you from ever wearing such a fashion disaster!" Yeah, there's no stopping the laughter that peels out of you.
"Forbid me?! They can't be that bad." Again, he sighs.
"Darling. If you truly love me, promise you won't wear something so treacherous." You finally begin to calm down, taking in shallow breaths.
"I promise, cross my heart!"
"Good."
You hear what you think is the phone being plopped onto the bed before there’s more shuffling, albeit further away this time. It lasts more than a moment or two, so you figure he's changing. Surprising, since he sleeps in the nude whenever you're not with him.
"I can't say I'm not disappointed. Here I was thinking I would get to hear about you trying on something more," he hums a coy little tune, "fun."
"You know I'd adore you in anything that makes you feel confident," he purrs. "But something cute and risqué like that should only be seen by me."
You can't place it, but something about his tone doesn't sit right with you. Shifting up on your bed, you recline back onto the pillows holding you up against the headboard.
"And who else would have seen it?" You scoff.
"Hmm, I wonder. Oh, what about that human you went on a date with today?" Your mouth parts in shock.
Oh, indeed. You feel your heart drop as his tone twists into something sour.
"How did you...?" It hits you, your call with Solomon. You sigh, for real this time, running a hand up and down your thigh as you try to process how to best explain this to the impassioned demon.
"How much did Solomon tell you?"
"Enough." You can hear the slight waver in his voice.
"Is that why you sent me all those texts today?" He's silent, but you hear a slight sniffle.
"Have you mentioned this to the others?" Your chest freezes at the thought. You don't want this to get out of hand. The last thing you need is a livid horde of demons, or worse, crows, appearing at your doorstep.
"No." You breathe a sigh of relief. Ok, you can fix this.
"Not yet. Can you imagine how it's going to break their hearts?" He laments.
"Leviathan nearly summoned Lotan on me this afternoon when I asked him to switch days with me this week. He'll set him on that human the minute he finds out, you know?"
A snarl rips through the speaker, sending sparks down your spine. You try to say anything to calm him down so you can explain, but you can't get a word in.
"It's not like me to get so angry, but I can't stand the thought of some filthy human putting their hands on you and dirtying your beautiful skin. Hah, I could just-" Your heart speeds up when you hear what sounds like the rapid flapping of wings.
"You belong with us." He hisses. "We never should have let you go back there! Ugh, I won't let anyone take you away from me!" Petulance dips down into a deep, dark growl. A low rumble drones in your skull and buzzes beneath your skin; the work of Asmodeus's infernal curses that no human ear can decipher.
"You are the only being in all three realms I love more than myself." It's not the first time he's said this, but this time it feels different.
"I won't share you with some stranger who has the gall to approach you! You're mine." You feel your brows jump up as the word leaves him with a snarl. You've never heard Asmodeus so wound up.
"I'm...yours?" The words tumble out before you can stop them.
"Yes, my precious little human," he croons at you and your heart leaps in your chest from an emotion you can't place just yet. Somewhere between hope and concern, you think.
"And I'm yours." Your mindless repeat seems to abate some of his hostility. As his admission sinks in, your skin begins to flush everywhere.
"Mo-"
"Mm, maybe I should request to go to the human realm after all so I can bring you home," his cold clipped tone makes your body shudder from the conflicting sensations he plucks from you, unable to keep up with his favor and fury.
"I don't blame you, dear. Of course someone would come to adore you during your time there. Who wouldn't? You even managed to woo me!" The flapping doesn't stop, but it slows down considerably.
He sucks in a shaky breath before he robs you of yours.
"What do they offer you that I haven't, that I can't?" He spits the question out, voice warbling.
"You told me that I was enough for you as I am. Did that mean nothing?" You need to stop this before it escalates further.
"Asmodeus, listen to me. I need you to calm down."
Even through the phone, your authority carries over and activates your pact. You place a hand on your chest, taking deep breaths yourself as Asmodeus's panicked breaths finally mellow out. He'd only ever sounded that shaken up that one night, long ago.
"Yes, I did go on a date with a human today." Another frustrated snarl rips through the speaker, but you push forward despite how your body screams at you to flee.
"But, I have no romantic feelings towards this person. I went on a blind date with a friend's coworker. They've only been on one or two dates before and were nervous to re-enter the dating scene - that's it. We are only acquaintances, maybe we'll become friends, but I promise you that's it."
You can't help but fiddle with your pajama shirt as he stays silent, your head racing with the revelation that the flirtatious demon's teasings have meant more than you let yourself believe.
It excites you, makes your heart thud against your ribcage, and your chest feels as light as a feather. But, it also terrifies you. The weight of the words wears you down, tipping you over the line you've toed for so long, completely unprepared for the fall.
He can try to suppress them, but Asmodeus's muffled sniffles resonate through the receiver and claw at your heart.
"You're someone, I mean you, I love you more than anyone in the three realms, worlds, too." You start, cursing at how you fumble your words.
You grip your shirt tighter as his breath hitches.
"I meant everything I said then, that night, and now - I mean I still mean it now. You were right, I admire you, adore you, even. My life here in the human realm, world, whatever, it's fine. But even with the sun shining on everything, it feels dimmer here than it was when I was in the Devildom with you."
You're starting to put all the pieces together as the words fall out of your mouth.
"I hate that I made you feel this way. I didn't mention it because I didn't think it was important, that it was something that would matter to you. Demons are vying for your attention all the time; humans aren't for mine."
"Those demons don't matter." He finally speaks, voice soft. "The only being whose attention I want is yours. My heart can't take the thought of someone taking your eyes off me. I need you to see me."
You take a deep breath.
"I do see you, Mo. You have always been enough, and I'm sorry that my actions caused you to think differently. I've missed your voice too, you know?" You feel pressure building up behind your eyes as tears start to form. He really wants you. You want him to know you've wanted him too.
"I-," your voice cracks some.
"I think about you guys all the time. I think about you all the time. Whenever I have a cupcake at a party, I wish I could share it with you. Whenever I go shopping, I think of what you might like best. When I watch movies, I wish that you could be there on the couch sitting next to me. When I crawl into bed, I wish I could curl up with you. I just wish that I was with you. Even right now, I wish I could hug you and tell you this face-to-face." You wipe at your eyes, unable to hold back the pure love you have for this utterly ridiculous demon.
"I-I love you too, Mo. Seriously, I see you." The feelings hidden behind sweet little jabs or subtle teases aren't enough for you two anymore.
"Why can't you be here right now?! It's not fair!" Asmodeus whines into the phone.
"Solomon said you sounded like you were having such a good time. I love hearing you're happy, but it hurts when you're not happy because of me."
You sniffle, chuckling into the phone.
"Silly, I'm always happy cause of you. Even right now, I mean yeah I'm crying, but I'm really happy."
"Oh, that's it! I really need to come see you as soon as possible. I'll beg Lucifer if I have to! I can't let all those tears dry out your skin. Make sure you drink water - I'll be furious with you if you let yourself wake up with a headache tomorrow."
"Can you show me how you do that face thing again, when you come?" Tension begins to fade from your tired muscles. Finally, things feel fine again.
"You shouldn't underestimate the wonders of facial reflexology and its endless benefits! Wait - are you seriously laughing? You stop that! Ugh, oh I'll show you when I get there alright!"
Actually, things are way better than fine.
You glance over to the clock as you feel your eyelids begin to droop and wonder how three hours passed by so fast.
You’re still on the call with Asmodeus, catching up on what’s happened in the house and what the rest of his plans are for this week. Planning his trip to the human world has now moved to the top of his agenda.
"Hm, darling? Are you alright? You're too quiet."
"Yeah, Mo. Jus'shleepy." You can feel yourself fading out, head drooping back onto the headboard.
"I guess it's time to say goodnight."
Tired as you are, you can't fight the blush that rises as Asmodeus begins to make obnoxious kissy noises into the phone.
"Aah, I mwiss you so much my pwetty wittle huwman. So sweepy."
"Asmodeus, please. Anything but the baby talk!" You groan in embarrassment.
"Sorry, darling, I couldn't help myself. You sound so precious. Mwah, I love you and I promise you'll see me soon."
"Yes, see you soon. G'night, love you." You end the call, getting up to go put your D.D.D. to charge. A notification startles you as you drift along in your sleepy stupor.
You crack a small smile as you click on it, opening your chat with Asmodeus. He's sent you links about facial reflexology and the importance of doing skin tightening exercises.
Brush up on it, beautiful. You will have a set routine by the time I'm done with you!
#Asmodeus is only second to Diavolo is my endless brain rot#Asmodeus lovers we ride at devildom’s dim dawn#Forgive the amount of italics they were necessary#That night you confessed all these things to Asmodeus amounted to the onset of a courtship in his mind that’s why he’s absolutely destroyed#Given my personality and humor Asmodeus is someone I would be very comfortable with#I want everyone to be able to enjoy him as much as I do#n the most recent event I lost it when he said “There’s not a hope in hell [heart emoji]”#Third funniest brother on my list#I also never mention this but I leave the relationships semi-ambiguous so whether you’re poly or not enjoy to your heart’s content#Asmodeus x reader#Reader x Asmodeus#Obey me x reader#obey me reader#obey me reader insert#Obey me asmodeus#Obey me mammon#Obey me beelzebub#Obey me leviathan#Obey me satan#Obey me lucifer#Obey me solomon#Obey me thirteen#Obey me diavolo#text fic#obey me#obey me one master to rule them all#gn reader#omomtrta#asmodeus x y/n#secret note: not sure how I feel about this fic but its the only one that i've ever teared up writing
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an extensive list of things Hidan will not do in a manic state:
1. change religions.
#✧. ┊ ― hc .#✧. ┊ ― ᴊᴀsʜɪɴɪsᴍ. ( holy. holy. holy. )#( that's it. that's the list.#anything else you can imagine. ANYthing. especially if it's either#self-destructive or insane/bound to throw him into the worst sort of trouble#and destroy his life. irreparably. irreversibly.#he... there is SOME likelihood that he might do it.#the ugliest and worst? especially if the onset of an episode is due to stress?#he's most likely to do.#it's neither fun nor funny. and he'll curse and loathe himself after. but... that's how it is. )
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it's hard to describe the shape of my grief when I consider how much the actions of - primarily - 3 people and the stress they caused me have disabled me for life. I've lost the ability to do things that bring me joy without debilitating pain flares and a bone deep fatigue.
I just wanted to do a group project with my friends.
#like... i can reconcile with knowing my genetic lottery was never in my favor#i can reconcile with injuries from poor safety or poor luck#but ultimately the harm this group of former friends have caused me will long outlive the time in which I'll know their names#and i never learned why they did what they did - they denied to a one any responsibility#even as they lied to anyone with power and claimed me impossible to work with#as i struggled through the rapid onset of symptoms destroying my life
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oh im being paranoid am i?? by following the science and doing everything in my power to avoid getting a disease that is proven to wreak absolute havoc on literally every organ system in the body and shorten your lifespan even if you're fit and healthy?? well have fun with your 5th bout of covid and your inevitable long covid since every infection dramatically increases your risk of long term ongoing damage
#was not wearing a mask worth it?? worth increasing your chance of stroke and heart attack ten fold?? of risking early onset dementia??#of risking me/cfs?? of risking destroying your lungs?? of your hair and teeth falling out?? of setting off autoimmunity??#of passing it onto someone vulnerable who could become severely ill and even die of it??#was your so-called 'freedom' worth that??#covid 19
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.
#oh god sudden onset of missing him as a friend but things were so completely destroyed that i can't ever reach out#i know i handled it terribly i was terrified and i handled it awfully and i want to say that i want to tell him i'm sorry#but i know he hates me and i know he thinks i hate him and i can't ever reach out no matter how hard i want to#no matter how much i want to tell him how truly sorry i am. that i wish i could have been open. that i was scared#that he was a good friend and that i still care and that i hope he's okay but there's nothing i can do. there's nothing i can Do#so i just have to sit here and mourn the fact that i couldn't have been a better person and handled it like an adult#i don't know why i'm even thinking so much on it really it's pointless. nothing is gonna come of it or be solved#none of this will be seen and none of this will matter but i can't stop myself! i can't!#oh my god i can't ever put this ghost to rest i can't. i don't know how.#i can't move on i can't let it go but i can't turn back. i'm so sorry.
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What I Want You To Know About Long COVID
Well lads, I've been suffering from Long COVID for over a year now. My life is at a complete standstill. I'm 25 years old and I'm too sick to go back to school, I can't work, I had to move back in with my parents and I'm still stuck here.
Here are just a few things I wish people knew about Long COVID, including things I didn't know myself until I got it.
COVID destroys your immune system. Yes, even if you don't have Long COVID. Are you getting sick more often now? When you get sick, does it last longer? There are many studies showing that COVID causes t cell depletion, even in mild COVID cases! T cells are how your body remembers how to fight off infections you've had before so losing those cells? Bad news.
Your initial infection can be mild and you can still get Long COVID. Right from Yale Medicine, "Most people with Long COVID had mild acute COVID." (This is also a good link for a basic Long COVID overview).
There can be a gap of time between when you "get better" from the initial COVID infection to the onset of Long COVID symptoms. Some people get sick with an initial COVID infection and never get better. Some get better and then weeks or months later start developing Long COVID symptoms. Long COVID symptoms can even fluctuate over time, can go away for months and then suddenly come back.
So many people have Long COVID and don't realize it. Do you feel more tired lately but no matter how much you sleep, nothing helps? Is it harder to concentrate at work or school? Can you just not think like you used to? You could have Long COVID and not even know it. Even mild post-COVID symptoms are still Long COVID.
COVID can do anything to your body. Long COVID has over 200 recognized symptoms and can affect basically any part or system of your body. There is no one mechanism or cause of Long COVID which unfortunately also means there's no one cure either.
The effects of COVID are cumulative. Each COVID reinfection increases your chances of developing Long COVID. COVID is also affecting your body in other ways, yes, even if you're otherwise young and healthy! "Repeat COVID-19 infections increase risk of organ failure, death".
Once you have Long COVID, repeat COVID infections will make your symptoms worse. "80% [of Long COVID patients] saw their symptoms worsen [from reinfection]. In 60% of people who were in recovery or remission from Long COVID, reinfection caused a recurrence of Long COVID."
There is a lot more I want to say about Long COVID but I want to keep this post at least somewhat manageable to read. Like how when COVID is contracted during pregnancy, those COVID-exposed fetuses have a 6.3-fold increased risk of motor developmental delays, or that another study found 50% of babies exposed to COVID in utero had developmental delays.
You need to keep caring about COVID, for others around you and also for yourself even if you're "healthy". Everyone is at risk. And don't forget 40-60% of COVID infections are asymptomatic, which is why masking even if you feel fine is crucial. The only way right now to not get Long COVID is to not get COVID in the first place. It's not too late, if you've stopped masking it's never too late to start again! I know it's easy to get distracted by things in your life that seem more real than the possibility of getting sick some time in the future, and the peer pressure to not mask can be intense. But it only feels less real or less important until your entire life is having Long COVID. Trust me.
I know this is a complicated issue, many people can't afford to stay home when sick even if they want to because of their jobs, there are disgusting policies trying to ban wearing masks, but please if you can. Keep masking. Masking works, masking saves lives.
This post got a bit longer than I wanted so below the cut is a non-exhaustive list of my Long COVID symptoms and some of my experiences as one of the "healthy young people" who got "unlucky". cw brief mention of suicidal ideation.
Welcome to the Thunderdome that is my body with Long COVID. Keep in mind these are just my experiences and symptoms, Long COVID can cause any range of symptoms at varying severities.
Dysautonomia: Exercise intolerance, Post-Exertional Malaise (PEM), fatigue, and heat intolerance. What do those things mean? Here's some specific examples. Absolutely terrible circulation I am so cold all the time but also, if I get a little too warm I will pass out. Eating hot food makes my heart rate spike, I sweat, my body feels heavy. Blood pooling and pins and needles in my feet when I walk. Don't even think about exercising past walking, it's impossible. I used to work out an hour a day 4 times a week and now walking up one flight of stairs makes my heart pound and I can't breathe. Can't take even just warm showers anymore or I will pass out. Heat rashes from being in the sun for 10 minutes.
Digestive issues: Honestly too many to name but: constant bloating, extreme nausea, constipation, slow motility, lack of appetite, just so much cramping and pain. I lost 18 pounds from Long COVID, as someone who was already considered underweight their entire life, and almost had to get a shunt put into my chest to deliver nutrients because I was nearly completely unable to eat. For the first 6 months of Long COVID, if I could manage 600 calories a day, that was a good day.
Histamine intolerance: Oh boy. My worst symptoms, I don't even know where to start with it. If you know Mast Cell Activation Syndrome (MCAS) it's very similar. I can only eat 19 foods. If i eat a single bite of something not on that list, it's 48 hours of absolute hell. Coughing, migraines, itchy eyes, such extreme nausea I cannot even describe it, panic/feeling of doom, racing heart rate, derealization, rash, uncontrollable muscle tremors. I only learned about histamine intolerance 5 months into having Long COVID so before that, I was experiencing these symptoms nearly every single day. Terrifying isn't even a strong enough word to describe how it felt to experience all this and have no idea what it was, how to stop it, or if it would ever stop. Really dark times.
Neurological issues: More of that derealization. Inability to concentrate. Anxiety. OCD-like symptoms such as thoughts getting "stuck" in my head, repeating 24/7 completely unable to stop them, genuinely felt like my brain had cracked open and I had lost my mind. Constant dizziness like I'm on a boat.
Sleep issues: I sleep like garbage. I have insomnia, I wake up dozens of times every night and every single time I sleep I have intensely vivid dreams. I can't sleep longer than 7 hours total no matter how exhausted I am. It is exhausting. I'm exhausted, I'm so so tired.
And finally. Just. Really intense suicidal ideation. My body, my health, my entire life has been stolen from me because someone else decided my life was worth less to them than wearing a mask or staying home if they feel sick. Before I got Long COVID, I was preparing to go to South Korea to teach English, then on to a PhD in neurolinguistics, I was supposed to meet my long distance partner and had already booked plane tickets when I got sick. All of that has been destroyed.
Most of us with Long COVID are stuck in a cycle of being extremely sick, then if you're lucky you'll slowly get better over months, just to get reinfected and go right back where you started or worse. Honestly, I'm not scared of dying from COVID. I'm scared of living for a long time, suffering from Long COVID the entire time. This isn't living.
I don't know how to end this now. I'm still fighting, I'm trying experimental treatments, I'm not giving up yet. I hope everyone reading this stays healthy and well.
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#╰ ✩ 〉 introspection ⎰ for women who are difficult to love .#╰ ✩ 〉 adoration ⎰ wrapped in glittering barbwire and explosives .#╰ ✩ 〉 countenance ⎰ beauty is nothing but the onset of terror .#╰ ✩ 〉 delineation ⎰ bound to you in leather and chains .#╰ ✩ 〉 characterization ⎰ seeking to destroy all that you cannot control .#╰ ✩ 〉 games ⎰ grasp the fallacy of the world .#╰ ✩ 〉 outof ⎰ make something gross feel romantic .#╰ ✩ 〉 stereo ⎰ drums will blare in rhythmic harmony .
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The assault on Al-Shifa, though, seems to be motivated by reasons Israel has not explicitly disclosed. It appears that Israel is leveraging this genocidal war, supported fully by the U.S. and Western allies, to expel Palestinians from the Gaza Strip. The current situation in Gaza City and northern Gaza marks the onset of a process of expulsion and uprooting, reminiscent of the 1948 Nakba.
To fulfill this objective, Israel is targeting institutions critical to Palestinian life in Gaza City, with Al-Shifa hospital being a prime example. Al-Shifa, a sprawling complex, includes numerous hospitals, clinics, and centers offering essential services to Gazans, especially given the blockade and restricted access to medical treatment abroad.
But Al-Shifa is more than a hospital. In times of crisis and conflict, its central location makes it a gathering place for ordinary Gazans and journalists, a venue for press conferences (during this war, Palestinian children held a press conference outside the hospital, pleading for an end to Israel’s bombardment), a site where families receive the remains of loved ones, and a sanctuary where the injured find care.
During aggressions on Gaza, Al-Shifa becomes a crucial hub for Palestinians to connect and check on one another. In this war, the hospital, due to its size relative to other structures in Gaza City, has sheltered thousands of displaced Palestinians, either those whose homes were destroyed or who were expelled from their neighborhoods.
By seizing and ravaging Al-Shifa, Israel signals the end of life in Gaza City as Palestinians have known it for decades. Removing the hospital from Gaza’s healthcare equation also obscures the extent of casualties and injuries among the hundreds of thousands of Palestinians who remain north of Wadi Ghazza.
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20 December 2023
Journalist Ismail Al-Ghoul reports that the IOF have bulldozed and razed Sheikh Shaaban cemetery, destroying graves and leaving the desecrated bodies to rot. Journalist Fadi Al-Whidi has documented this practice as well at another site.
The purpose of this act is likely three-fold: to terrorize and dishearten the population, to erase traces that Palestinians ever had a society in Gaza, and to expose the people of north Gaza to disease vectors from decaying corpses. Dr. Tamer Al-Najjar has previously documented that the amount of unburied bodies, combined with the collapse of waste and water systems, as well as the onset of flood from heavy rain, pose a significant risk to public health.
I will not post Ismail Al-Ghoul’s video here because parts of it are graphic and disturbing. However, I will post a link to it here for anyone who wants to verify.
Source: Ismail Al-Ghoul on Instagram
#Ismail al-ghoul#north gaza#gaza genocide#gaza strip#gaza#text#gaza under attack#free gaza#sheikh shaaban cemetery#from the river to the sea palestine will be free
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Waxing, Waning, My Unraveled Body Beheld By the Moon [Yan!Aventurine x GN!Reader]
The sun is not always shining. But the moon can only shine because of the sun.
A companion piece to Sunrise, Sunset, My Destroyed Body in the Onset. This fic assumes you've read it, so I heavily recommend you read it first before reading this. It'll make more sense if you do.
Ao3
Word count: 15.4k
TW: Implied/referenced noncon, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt, mild gore, violence against reader, choking/strangulation, Stockholm syndrome, Aventurine's Past shows up, EXTREME tonal whiplash due to the beginning (but frankly it's so you can brace yourselves...the calm before the storm), Reader needs a hug, Ratio where are you my man needs therapy NOW, twisted "happy endings" my beloved
Note: This got so out of hand. Aventurine is the most potent brain worm I've had in a while. Poor reader though. They used to be such a cringefail, now they're a poor little meow meow 😔
(Written before 2.2)
You stand on the top of a tower.
It’s a modest and small thing, but every second and breath you’ve taken is in its service. Time is its mortar, and actions are its bricks. It is stable, for you’ve built it straight up; a wide and strong base, with little deviation. If it had a shaky foundation, then you wouldn’t even bother.
You have no plans to construct it into something grandiose and spectacular. It’s best to keep your ambitions realistic, for it is so very easy to use and dispose of those with dreams bigger than themselves and small enough to be crushed in the palms of those atop skyscrapers. Your tower is modest, and you will keep it that way. You will have to become a cog in the machine for that to happen, but you can meagerly control the stability of your cog.
It is cruel that it has to be that way, but you aren’t capable enough to change the way things are done. You might as well make the most out of this.
You know this song and dance, by now. The park is closed at this time of night, but, and it might be your greatest achievement of them all, you found a way to sneak in undetected. Granted, there wasn’t anyone to stop you, but you were always good at being quiet, so rarely are you noticed.
You park your bike, well hidden in the bushes and trees. This is the noisiest part of your visit since the bike is heavy and you can’t suppress your soft grunts as you weasel it into its spot. But it’s worth it. After that, you walk along the trail, and when you’re far enough away, you stop trying to silence your steps and enjoy the sound of your boots falling onto dirt. It’s a soft but firm sound, and it brings you a sense of peace. You hike until you reach it. A little trail to the side; few sets of feet have paved the dirt, and even those who decide to pursue it usually turn back at the impenetrable foliage. But, you know there’s a stop. It’s tucked away, discovered by a much younger and adventurous you. You’re not sure if you found this place because you wanted to pretend to be a fairy princess or a heroic knight who saves the princess, or if you might’ve always been a little bit lonely. Whatever the case, you found this place, and it has since been your reprieve whenever things become too much.
You know the area like the back of your hand, so you turn off your phone’s flashlight as you make your way. It’s a small clearing of forest, but it’s perfect. Bushes and trees surround you in a half-circle from behind, and in front of you is the ledge of a cliff. From here, the sky has a clear view and it is always lovely whenever there’s a sunrise or sunset. Sometimes, when your mind wanders, you wonder how long you’d fall if you tripped over the ledge. But those are just musings you have no intention of acting on.
The moon does not grace you with its shine, but that’s alright. You’re here to see it shine on everything else. You’ll bask in the darkness, and admire the silver sheen on the rest of the world; the world which gets a fraction of the sun, even at night. You settle into your spot against the tree trunk, shaped so it nearly encircles you in its embrace. A silly thought crosses your mind: has this tree loved you? Of course not, but it’s just that: a silly little thought.
You’re not here for any especially soul-crushing reason or anything. It’s the usual: schoolwork ramping up and deadlines creeping up. And the accompanying existentialism of what comes after. It’s just another peaceful night during a stressful time. It will soothe your soul, the comfort within shall ebb and flow, and then it will all fade away when you’ve returned to the world blanketed in the sun’s golden sheen. When it all piles up again, you know you can always come back here: your special place, where you can curl into yourself as much as you want to. And as always, you will fight the urge—so tiny that it’s insignificant but still so omnipresent—to sink your head fully into your stomach and become a mass of unthinking flesh. Becoming smaller and smaller until you aren’t even a speck.
The wind picks up. The cold doesn’t bother you much, but your so human, and instinct propels you into nuzzling into your cotton scarf. It does mean you have to wash it often, but the inconvenience outweighs the comfort it provides. Yes, tonight will be a lovely one, spent doing nothing but staring at the moon from the shadows, alone with your thoughts and nocturnal critters that may tussle in the shrubbery. You hear a series of quick rustles—squirrels, maybe? Two of them, considering the frequency of rustling and the fact that it’s their mating season (well, you’re pretty sure spring is mating season. It could be wrong, but it’s useless trivia anyway, isn’t it? In the back of your mind, you imagine someone berating you). Another rustle plays, and you sigh wistfully. And then—
“…Hello,” A voice, shrewd and low sounds out.
Ink makes your vision go black and the only reason you don’t gasp or scream is because you’ve always froze before you ran. But even if you were a runner, where was there to go? You don’t know who this person is, where they are, why they are in your special place and why they’ve come here like a malicious boy kicking down a toddler’s sand castle or could they be here to prevent you from ever coming back to your special—
You swallow your panic and look for an exit before it forces itself back up. It’s not the first time someone’s noticed you, but you never really had to worry; you could just slip into here, and they’d give up when you couldn’t be found. But this is uncharted territory. More importantly, if anyone else were to know about this place, it would be a ranger. And you aren’t very interested in counting empty donut boxes and coffee cups during a run-of-the-mill interrogation.
Slowly, and as quietly as you can, you make your move. Your hands are clammy, and each step feels like it will cause the earth to crack and you’ll fall into its molten core. You’ll be melted down, and the idea that you may be reforged sends another surge of panic within you. You cannot let a single brick crack.
“I’m not here to hurt you if that’s what you’re thinking,” the voice says, much much much closer now. The words themselves should be of relief to you, but the fact that he’s closer means he knows where you are—in fact when you turn to look behind you, you can see a vague silhouette. Still, the few seconds you took to turn around also made it so that rather than relief and panic nulling each other, somewhat cool relief washed over you. Even if this entire situation is very, very, very weird.
Should you just leave? He could just be lying to you. You weren’t great at figuring out people’s intentions, but you’d think that the most likely one in this situation leaned toward the malicious. However, you didn’t even notice his existence until he spoke. The fact that at the very least, he could weave through mostly undetected. If he could do that, then you think it’s not very likely you can just get away.
You accept that defeat, so you decide to do something a little stupid. You talk to the stranger. In the event he’s a serial killer or something, maybe a conversation will let you get a good enough handle on him that he might just…let you go. Your heart hammers and you want to do nothing but shake, but you will yourself into a blizzard. If you are there, then you might be able to freeze and delay the ink that begins to drip.
“I’m pretty shocked,” you mutter. Your voice is still a bit disconnected, still reeling, “I’ve never met someone here. How’d you find this place? Why’d you come to this place?” You ask these questions, and you won’t mind dying as much if they’re answered.
“Work,” he cryptically says. You just barely pick up on a sardonic lilt.
“So you’re a park ranger,” you deflate, and you nuzzle into your scarf as you brace yourself. But levity is powerful, and you’ll tap into it. “Here to arrest little ol’ me, then? You could’ve waited, at least until the moon started to dip. It’s a pretty solid night, methinks.” Your heart feels a little numb from hammering into your ribs so much.
The ranger hums, “Moon’s the moon. It’s not bad, but the sun’s always pretty nice. But you’re right. It would’ve been better to wait till the sunrise. Alas, my schedule as of late has been a horribly rigid thing. I’m sure you know how it is.”
“Hmph,” you frown. It feels like he’s a cat playing with a mouse. You sigh with defeat, “Oh well. I’m not exactly known for being slippery, so I’m not even going to try and outrun a ranger of all people,” you extend your hand lazily, “Just get the cuffs already,” you decide to pout, to turn the situation around to something more comical and less soul-crushing, “Any longer, and the suspense’ll bury me six feet under. The records might call that cardiac arrest, but I call it embarrassing—the thought of dying like that is a real heartstopper.” Ha, look at you! A true punster, you little rascal. There is no reason for you to defame or attack a guy just doing his job, so if you go down, you’ll at least go down with a slow-witted joke or two. Across from you is a law-abiding Joe, and you are the evil thief mothers warn their children about. Truly, it cannot be more black and white than this, so it’s best for everyone that you don’t make too much of a fuss. See? You are capable of ethics! Or maybe that was more like philosophy? Eh, what’s the difference? You’re still fucked, and you very much want to die.
“Arrest you?” The ranger’s voice teeters toward, um…you think it’s some mix of sarcastic, mocking, and—oh wait, you’d call it ‘teasing.’ “Do you want to be arrested?” He teases, but it feels like the way an owner would talk down to a beloved puppy. You don’t appreciate it.
You frown. “No. Why would I want to be arrested?” You deadpan, “Can you please stop skirting around the issue?” More ink blots your sight, as your palms start to clam with unwanted anticipation. You think they could be gushing with your blood, if this guy keeps dragging your arrest out like this.
The ranger laughs. Laughs. You aren’t sure if you want to join him or shove him off the cliff. Whatever the case, now you know that there is a nonzero chance this ranger has a bit of a sadistic streak. Instinctively, you take a few steps back, as if that could save you from disaster, from plummeting over the edge of your tower.
“…Please tell me you aren’t planning anything…” The words you were thinking of saying suddenly elude you, but you’re already speaking. You have no choice but to see what haphazard replacements you make, “…goofy silly. Or something.”
The ranger clicks his tongue. It seems he’s fully dipped into a playful veneer; whether that’s his true self, or the mask he thinks you’ll best respond to in the way he wants, it nudges you a little further to the edge. You defensively nuzzle into your scarf, trying but failing to calm your nerves. You’ll give yourself one point, though: you thought you’d be more inclined to be screaming or crying. That’s probably because you are technically doing something illegal, so there’s really no one but yourself to blame for this predicament. Really, why do you still come here like this, when you know it’s against the rules? It’s not the first time you’ve asked yourself that question, but it’s certainly the first time it feels sort of tangible.
“‘Goofy silly?’” The words seem all at once perfect and dubious when carried in the ranger’s voice, “Hm…you know what? I do feel like I’m in a ‘goofy silly’ mood!”
Oh. Well, guess you’re double fucked. It was a good life, the clean record, you suppose. But what is life if not change? You’re entering a new era now, hardened criminal you. Crime will be your lifeblood; anything scared shall disintegrate into something depraved at your touch. You’ll do it all: tax evasion, defamation, shoplifting, parking offenses. Society will not be free of your crime sprees—all will fear the Suburban Terror. Karens will cower before you, the neighbors will hate you, the teenagers will prank you, and the children will scream with fear at you. All because the consequences of your actions caught up with you at the behest of the actions of some guy who just so happens to be able to arrest you.
“So, about that arresting,” the ranger continues, “I won’t be doing that!” he peps.
Everything stands in place. “What?”
“I’m not gonna arrest you!”
“W-well, I heard that,” you stammer, “but why? You literally said you’re here for work!”
You can practically sense the ranger’s lighthearted shrug, “I am. And I’m not arresting you. Simple as that!”
Everything feels like it's going too fast and too slowly. Whiplash isn’t good for the soul, in your opinion. “But…but the law…”
“Who said the law needs to be followed?”
“The government and state…” and then something clicks, “Hey, if you’re a park ranger, then aren’t you working for the government? Is this corruption?”
You imagine the ranger smirks. “What is corruption but a tool of the game?”
“What does that have to do with this conversation?” You find yourself deadpanning. “And why aren’t you answering?”
“Life’s a game,” he breezily purrs, “and conversation is a part of life, so really, it has everything to do with this conversation.”
“I think I’d rather go through a physics textbook than deconstruct that sentence,” but you find yourself smiling. The ranger has a good sense of humor, you find. You take a few more steps, no longer teetering on the edge. In the back of your mind, you think that he could just be lowering your guard, but honestly? Maybe you shouldn’t doubt a person’s goodwill, even if it’s technically illegal. Well, you don’t care about what’s illegal and not; if hairless monkeys with godless monkey brains are imperfect, then the things they make are imperfect too. Regardless…you don’t know his face, and he doesn’t know yours either. In other words, you’re both complete strangers. If you ever meet each other, you won’t even recognize each other, won’t ever truly register each other’s existence outside this singular shared moment.
That anonymity, the opportunity to exist without future consequence…it entices you, and you’re drawn into it. Drawn into levity and shedding your superficial guard.
“Careful, you might insult a doctor of physics or two,” the ranger says with an insinuating lilt. Perhaps he knows a physicist or a student suffering with their doctorate thesis. Information that is all at once useful and impeccably useless. “You might just get a piece of chalk lodged in your skull.”
You shrug. “I’m living my best life while they’re stressing over the mechanics of a rat yawning and how that like. Affects the physics of the air or something.”
That gets a soft huff, like he breathed out a laugh, “I say that too, but then he starts going on about quantum mechanics and wormholes…probably a lot more than that, but the stuff’s so incomprehensible I tune out.”
“Your friend sounds…well, like a scientist,” you unceremoniously blurt. “Sure, they’re called nerds, but for good reason. They can talk your ear off, all the while you nod without understanding a single thing…and then they sigh to go talk to someone who actually knows what they’re talking about.”
“‘Talk your ear off’ is a bit of an understatement,” the ranger says, “though I think it’s better to say ‘gives a tongue-lashing.’”
You wince at the image. “Oof. Sorry about that.”
“I’m used to it,” the stranger says. “Besides, I have a quip or two to throw back.”
“Oh.” You aren’t sure how to react. “That…that sucks.”
“‘That sucks?’” his tone isn’t accusatory; it’s curious, with a hint of what you believe is wariness.
It flusters you a bit, for some reason. “W-well,” you stammer, “if you’re used to it, then that means you get, uh, ‘tongue-lashings’ a ton, right? I don’t think people should be getting a ton of tongue-lashings…”
“But what if I do things that deserve a tongue-lashing?”
“Well, then you’d get a tongue-lashing. But, I dunno. I don’t think people should be mean to each other all the time, I guess,” you try, practically rambling, “Maybe it’s just cuz I know I’d just be on the floor in a sobbing heap if someone so much as raised their voice at me…but…but…w-well, you know what I mean!” You raise your hands, making desperate gestures as if you could telepathically communicate with them. Unfortunately, you do not live in a sci-fi with magical reality-bending wizard monk powers, not unless you devote yourself to a singular concept. “There’s always plenty of room for, um. Positive reinforcement, yeah! In fact, let’s practice!” Shit, your cheeks are heating and at this point you’re just incoherently blabbering but now that you’ve started you just can’t stop oh dear Aeons save you— “Uh…you…you follow your heart! By choosing not to arrest me out of…out of principle or, or, or pity…um, well, point is, you have defied the law of your own choosing, which is a pretty uh, gr~eat show of your super strong will! Your beliefs! They say within all delinquents lies a heart of gold, after all! And you know how to be sneak of super! I mean sneak super! I mean super sneak! Urgh, I mean suppppperrrrrrr sneaky. And I bet that’s really nice and I know that’s really cool! It’s a super power on par with that of uh. Uh. An Aeon? Yeah, an Aeon!”
You’ve lost your steam, and now you’re left blinking. The embarrassment flusters you, and now you’re something in between a fish being choked in the hand of a cruel fisherman and a wonderfully eloquent failing car engine. You truly are the epitome of grace and elegance. There was no way the ranger wasn’t at least cringing. Maybe he’d change his mind and just arrest you; after all, how else to fix cringe if not rehabilitate it? Well, if he did arrest you over this, you’d be back to haunt him with like, cheese, or something. You’d jump that hurdle when you got there.
Hm…but you think you kind of wanna crawl into a hole and die…but that expression is too cliche, so instead, you think you wanna crawl into a hole and start a society of mole people. It’ll be like LARPing, except you wouldn’t be role-playing! …Actually, yeah…someone should just kill you right now before you start to laugh and then cry as your embarrassment transitions into self-conscious despair……..that’s how it usually went when you got like this….
It’s a good thing you can’t be seen.
You think the ranger will laugh, stand in baffled silence, mock you, or just walk away, but he chuckles. “Hmmm…you know, I could get used to this; hearing people stumble over their words to compliment me!”
You’re a little dumbfounded, but you’re decent enough at rolling with the punches. You can come up with a headcanon or two on the spot. “Yeah! That’s the spirit! Now that’s what I call some good old-fashioned character development!”
He lets out a soft whistle, “That so? What trope would you say I embody, out of curiosity?”
“Hm…” you tap your chin in thought. You’re in a forest, and there’s a moon, and you get an award-winning idea. “Maybe…hrmmmm…a mysterious vampire, here to whisk the unassuming protagonist away to a forbidden romance, sustaining your very being on their essence…”
“Oh? Am I really that charming even without a face?” He teases.
You laugh. “Well, you are pretty charming, but I was just kidding. I couldn’t just let that opportunity slip away,” your laugh calms into a soft chuckle. “No, I’d say…a mysterious stranger, with a past unearthed and a charming veneer, but beneath it all lay an affable man…who may or may not heed the word of law.” Sure, it’s cheesy, but you don’t care about if he likes cheese or not. You like cheese, and that’s all that matters in this cruel world! If the world doesn’t like that, it can kiss your ass! (You think all of the is while very aware that the world can just as easily kick your ass)
“So…you’re just saying you don’t have a single clue about what my deal is.”
You feel a little offended. In hindsight, maybe you wouldn’t have been great at terrorizing Karens. “I mean, I’ve only known you for like, half an hour. All that I know about right now is that you’re some flavor of anarchist. Probably. Maybe.” But the same applies to him! He knows nothing about you! “But if you’re so confident, then it’s time to prove your mettle!” You point towards him challengingly, even though again, he cannot see you, “You tell me what character trope I am!” (And you briefly realize that you feel light and happy, that your smile is wide)
And at that moment, just at the cusp of truly extraordinary conversation (a claim which may or may not be exaggerated), an annoying thing happens. Your phone vibrates and your screen lights up; your alarm has gone off. Your phone always has the best timing, and you don’t want to scream at it and crush its sorry little body into itty bitty pieces.
“Oh…” you awkwardly exclaim. You’re wearing a light jacket, so the ranger can see the soft glow just as you do. “That’s…yeah, that’s sorta…alarm. Yeah. It’s my alarm. Not me alerting the IPC or the CFSS or something. I…have to go.”
“I see,” the ranger’s voice is light and airy, entirely unaffected. “A shame. I really did enjoy our conversation.” Your mind tells you it’s all empty, but your heart is aching to soar to heights unseen. Because you are only human, those with lone hearts die first.
You want to ignore it so badly, to just converse with this ranger a little bit longer but…but you really can’t. You must abide by it if you want to mitigate your suffering in the morning (re: you’ve run out of energy drinks and coffee at home and it’ll be hell to start your morning without slugging around like a zombie). And just like that, the ranger and your conversation will fizzle away into a distant memory. And you’ll still live, the same as you’ve ever been. And because you’re both strangers, there is no reason to ask each other for anything. Because if you do, then you will both have to live with the consequences of your words. And who knows? Maybe the ranger has only spared you this night because he was in a good mood. Maybe he won’t be so affable the next time you meet.
But there’s something to it. Some allure—no, the same allure of your special place. So you offer something, and you think your face might melt off, with how your cheeks fluster to the point its searing.
“...I come to this place a lot. It’s like…my special little place,” you awkwardly offer. “If…if you were curious about that, er, sorta thing. Yeah. Bye, have a good night.” You stutter awkwardly, stiffly and uncertain. And then you walk away, simultaneously desiring and afraid of hearing what his response to that would be. Of having your fear being validated with rejection.
If there was one moment you could point to that sealed your fate, it wouldn’t have been that conversation by a longshot, nor was it your second, third, tenth, or even your final conversation before he revealed himself to you; it was your offer. After all, people only think fate is immediate whenever it comes to hit them straight in the face. In truth, fate is gradual, of many bricks stacking up into a skyscraper. That offer led you to swim in ink; to traipse into fields of cotton; to weather against frozen infernos; and then finally, to dance in a flowering meadow, your feet raw and bleeding, sanded against the soft blades of poison ivy and oak.
—
He sees you’re on the balcony.
(Only right after when he woke up and felt that you weren’t in his arms and nearly tore apart everything and anything with a scream and that you were gone and had left him like everyone else—)
He’s rather taken aback by this. He was sure you wouldn’t even be able stand come the dawn. But you still unwittingly find ways to surprise him even now. You should really give yourself a pat on the back! Even if it seems like you’re leaning onto the railing for dear life.
The moon covers you in its silken silver sheen. The breeze tussles your hair and makes your robes softly billow. It’s a heart-throbbing serenity, and he finds an iota of respect within him to make his ambush on you gentle. You’ll squeak, pout, insult him, banter, and hiss before you resign and then he can hold you in peace. It’s a predictable song and dance, but he hasn’t tired of it. Seems even he can surprise himself.
(But oh, it’s because it’s something resembling something warm which has become so familiar…and a sturdy rock he can hold onto)
The smile spreads on his face easily (but whenever he’s around you, it’s a little less weighted, a little less about pitiful survival), “Sick of me already?” he adopts his signature lilt, albeit weighed by sleep, as his arms encircle your form. “We’ve only been a couple for a few of months.” You squeak, comically so, and violently flinch as he settles his head in the crook of your neck. Your reaction almost immediately invigorates him, like he’s wide awake in the sun. Your heart rate beats more rapidly, but your tensed muscles relax, just a little. You’ve been practicing, he thinks, to lessen your own burden rather than increase his pleasure. Maybe there’ll come a time when you can mold yourself however you please, and he’ll be none the wiser in your embrace when your hand snakes into his back.
(Don’t do that. Please, he just asks that you melt in his touch, melt right into him and stay—)
He inhales—his chest expanding into your back, and he feels your own breath hitch as if it slices into you—taking in your scent, all at once overwhelming and (newly) customary. A pungent ink comes to burn his nose at first, but underneath it comes moonlit snow, fresh and cool; dancing within a floral and earthy aroma, a dusty cedar scent with wilting flowers; and the afternotes of a decaying musk, passionate and vying for an end. He hums in appreciation, exhaling with contentment. You shudder in disgust because it’s him and you still aren’t used to the way his breath feathers and scratches your skin, over the bits of dried blood speckled over your neck.
“Aw, nuts…” you softly curse, but there’s no surprise to be found. Your words are laced with sleep, but there’s something else to them, he’s noticed. Your words still drip with vitriol (though it’s always been measured with ink, and it makes him purr in delight and it makes him feel even more empty—), but they’ve gotten softer, for lack of a better word. Exhausted, the same way one is when they’ve walked through a blizzard or sandstorm for long enough. How one gets frozen in the bowels of hell’s fires, or how one burns in solitary inferno in the frigid arctic.
And still, you haven’t reached your limit and killed him.
Surprisingly, you turn to face him, and he turns down the urge to lean in and kiss you. For now, at least. He’ll take it when you’ve said your piece.
You probably think yourself expressionless, but there’s a certain way your mouth subconsciously curls in displeasure like you want to scream or vomit your organs. Your eyes can host anything from enraged clarity to dull acceptance. The latter has only appeared a few times, but he anticipates that it will be a common sight as the months pass by. He wipes that look from his mind, and smiles wide as he looks intently into your eyes. The scent of ink burns his sinuses. Right now, your eyes are exhausted, disgusted, and a touch confused; nothing he isn’t used to. His smile goes soft, for he is more than willing to swallow poison you gift him. And as lovers, you’ll have to reciprocate, won’t you?
(Stop. Let him apply thinner to that ink, let him wash it all away and please please stop drowning in it)
“I was sick of you the moment you revealed yourself as the orchestrator.” you bluntly say, as if it’s an obvious fact—and it is—and for a moment he feels like he’s touching ice. You shake your head and sigh, looking back to the moon. You don’t want to discuss the matter, so you move on to another. “I just woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep. It’s nothing personal. Happens all the time.”
“‘All the time?’” He echoes and slides his hand into one of yours, where you lean on your arms against the railing. Your hands have been clamming; gosh, he really was something, to get you so worked up in a matter of minutes! His self-restraint is already on a thread when it comes to you. He gives in and gives you a chaste peck. Your lips slightly pucker with disgust, like you’ve sucked on a rancid lemon. But the kiss was meant to be brief, so that’s not an issue he’s too hung up on in the moment. He’ll just work on it with you, later. He trusts that you’ll cooperate, anyway.
(That you do not immediately hurl in his mere presence is miracle enough. He’ll take what he can get, and work from there. That’s how he got here)
He tilts his head boyishly and gives your cheek a playful pinch, “I mean…lately, you’ve been able to fall asleep without medicine—” your eyes widen and your cheeks flush as you’re caught off guard—but he doesn’t cut open your stomach or slice at your ribs to let your own body be the weapon which kills you—and he’s, his goal is always to win, but that doesn’t mean you have to fight. Right now, he’s merely having a heart-to-heart with you, sweetheart. So he doesn’t bother to point out the red on your cheeks, because he knows you hate it. Knows you understand it on a logical basis but still hate it so, so, so deeply and intricately. He doesn’t mind pushing you, but he would rather not see you bashing your head on the wall, crushing your skull and mind into lumps of grounded flesh, to try and ‘fix’ it. He sees that you’re mentally dismembering yourself when you locate the opening you gave him anyway. He doesn’t really need to try with you sometimes; it’s not an insult, it’s the truth, and he still loves you so very much. “These nighttime stirrings of yours aren’t going to be the norm, you know. If you’re able to fall asleep in my arms once, you can do so twice.”
Your eyes flit through a captivating kaleidoscope of disgust, intrigue, disgust again, pungent ink, and then victorious confusion. You scoff, but you don’t entirely deny what he said. “Waking up in he middle of the night and not falling asleep is a common thing. You shouldn’t misconstrue these sorta things y’know. Makes you seem desperate.”
“‘Desperate?’ Coming from you, should I consider that bonafide or just another desperate act?”
You frown. “I was only desperate because of you. The shit you pulled gave me no other choice.”
“Really?” He smirks, letting out a mocking huff, “You weren’t desperate before that?”
You scoff. “If you’re talking about school, then fine, I guess I was desperate to graduate as soon as possible.”
“Errr,” he mimics a buzzer, “two strikes.”
“Are you just projecting?”
“Make that three.”
“Bruh.” You deadpan. You’re quite amazing to be able to momentarily take yourself out of reality, he muses. “I’m not desperate,” you insist, practically hissing the words.
(He’s a bit jealous)
“If you weren’t desperate, then why’d you blindly befriend someone whose face you didn’t even know?”
“…I don’t know my online friends’ faces,” you weakly respond. You’ve conceded, and all you did was for show. For him or for you or for you both. He’s not sure either.
“Alright,” he pretends to concede, “Putting aside that they could just trace your information and learn everything about you…” his hand strokes your neck, goosebumps blazing in its wake, “They wouldn’t have been able to just…snap your neck, with you none the wiser,” He presses a kiss to your uneven pulse with a soft huff of laughter.
“It’s not like I didn’t think that,” you shoot back, “I figured at the time that if you could sneak up on me like that, then I’d be helpless to your whims.”
“Ah, but then…you offered me something: another night, in your special place, underneath the moon…who’s to say that I wouldn’t have been able to carry out any malicious actions? To continue to gain your trust and then stab you in the back?”
You frown. “Well…I…”
“Cat caught your tongue? Well, as I’ve said, the word you’re looking for is ‘desperate.’”
You swallow, and then you say, meekly, softly, like your voice is about to crack, “…I guess. And in the end, you did stab me in the back.”
He did, it’s true. That same iota of respect emerges, which makes him gently kiss you instead of speaking. Anything he’d say would only dampen your mood. You both may know about how disposable—
(Yet when it comes to you, something unpleasant twists his tongue, whenever he calls you disposable and he can’t truly come to vocalize such a statement)
—the two of you are. Nothing more than dots in the universe, nothing more than pawns in another’s game. The hand that moves him is the IPC, and it’s only natural he’s found a pawn of his own: you. Even if you’re not particularly valuable on the grand chessboard.
[Do you even want them on the chessboard in the first place?]
“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises. But you don’t believe him.
“You can make it up to me by never showing your face to me.” Ice encases his hands, stabbing into him; but it also roots him right at his spot. He is unused to the ice’s painful cold, but for as much as it is a deterrent, ice has a tendency to trap.
“Hmmm…how about no?”
“You half-ass…” You groan, tired and defeated. He feels a thread fall. “Seriously, people like you who use others to make promises you can’t and don’t keep are just…well, you know just how much you disgust me.”
(But he admits. He admits that your vitriol is tiring. He admits that he wants to hear you whisper in his ear, the same way he does to you, that he wants you to harbor the same carnal adoration he has for you—that he wants you to tear into him and expose him and then kiss and embrace him and that he wants to feast on you devour you consume you infuse you with his heart and soul so that he knows you’re here and will always be h—)
His jaw expands and closes down. Blood spreads along his tongue like wine, bitter, salty, metallic, and well-aged. You let out a scream of pain, and he only bites harder so that he burns himself into your skin to prove that he has you and that he is hu—
“Ah—ow…ow ow ow owwww—” you hiss, muddied by a sob, “W-why…?” You whimper, “When you already—AH!” His mind is blank, excited by the sweet flesh, only focused on devo—
“S-s-stop! Please!” You beg, and he feels you struggle uselessly, “H-hurts! I-I, what d-did I do to—?! Gh!”
Satisfaction and triumph weave into him. Your screams mean you’re here, means he’s carved himself into you, means he’s indulging in wine.
(But that’s a bit of a leap. He wishes he was as calculated as he makes himself out in front of you when it comes to you)
He pulls away. You breathe laboriously, looking at him with hate and terror, cradling your weeping neck with your hand. You aren’t completely exhausted, but he has made you even wearier if such a thing was possible. “Sorry,” he emptily apologizes, and presses a soft kiss to irritated skin, before moving on to your tears. Blood quickly smears your skin.
You growl, the pain making way for your unfiltered words. “You keep doing it, and it’s always so fucking painful.”
“It doesn’t help with how irresistible you are, sweetheart,” he smiles, and you bristle. “You know it’s because I love you,” he says, to rile you up a little. It helps that he means it.
(So you don’t notice the fact that he was in a hypnotic daze)
“‘Love.’” Your voice shakes. Your eyes are wide, angry, disbelieving, and blank.
“Yep.”
You shake slightly with anger. “Eat shit.” You spit. “Whatever the fuck this is, don’t call it that. Don’t you dare twist that word like that.”
He blinks. It’s not the first time you’ve lashed out over the word or the admission, but he still doesn’t quite know how to answer you. He settles, then, for what he’s always said. “Then what is it?”
“I don’t know. Obsession. Hate. Sadism. Loneliness. Whatever it’s called, it’s one hell of an insatiable beast. All that matters is that it’s hurting me.” You grunt, and bury your face into your hand, sighing blearily. “It’s late. Let’s…let’s not,” you exhale, tired, “Let’s not,” you repeat as if it were all a hopeless prayer. It might be more fitting to see you as a beggar, however. Leave me alone, you beg. Get buried beneath the sands already you Sigo—
“Why don’t you come back to bed?” he softly mutters, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and presses a kiss to your cheek. The lingering blood on his lips blossoms into a weeping flower, a venomous and invasive species. They can be found throughout your skin, dried and wilting, but they’ll always blossom back. “You can sleep in.” Translation: he’ll still wake you up, but only for a kiss before heading to work. Though you’re still hesitant to exercise any bit of freedom he offers you. To be fair to you, you’re so very well aware of where your freedom and “freedom” lie. One has been crucified, and the other is merely its poorly preserved remains.
His mercy isn’t lost on you, but the hope in your eyes is quickly simmered by your hesitation and dread. You look away and grunt, likely hoping he’ll just shrug and walk away. Or at least delay the inevitable. You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for, you know. So painfully aware of your complete lack of power, so painfully aware that any outright resistance just isn’t worth it; isn’t worth risking the pain you fear so, so, so much. But that doesn’t mean that a reminder is remiss. Hesitation is fatal for the gambler, after all.
He hums and grins. He pulls you back and flips you around so that you lean against the railing, slightly hiked up so the tips of your toes just barely press against the ground. It grants him an unfettered view of your expression, almost comical shock morphing into fear as you register your newfound positions. You may not be entirely dangling over the railings…but you’re still at his mercy. You don’t hold onto his hand for dear life because that’s just what he’s decided. And you don’t want him to pursue that option or even fancy it.
[You mean…you want to point a gun into their heart, again?]
Fortunately, he has other plans. As much as he loves staring into your eyes, it’s the only thing he likes about you. He moves his head against your chest, right against that sweet heart of yours. It misses a beat before it resumes its cacophonous rhythm. “Wha…what?” your mortified tongue manages to get out. “Put…put me down!” He gives a content hum in response, nuzzling further into your heartbeat, tracing patterns into your back with one hand and securing you by the waist with the other. His silence only intensifies the cacophony, but he could never bear to shut down any sound of yours. He chuckles. You shiver. He can see you fight not to struggle, fearing that it would send you plummeting.
“It could be so much worse. You know that, don’t you? You live without chains and in a land where dawn shines, but that’s all my choice.” He finally speaks, when he’s decided you’ve had enough. Sure enough, the sound of screams and crumbling cities joins the cacophony. He pushes so he may discover all of the cacophonies your heart plays. He giggles, to twist the point further, “Relax! You haven’t done anything to warrant that! Yet.” You take a sharp breath. “But you still do things. Small things, but still bad things,” you quiver. “I’ve had a few thoughts. A tattoo,” your heart skips a beat, “of a peacock’s feather, maybe, tickling your thigh, or an ace of spades. Nothing too extravagant. Hm, although,” you’re frozen in place, so he moves his hand up to drift around your chest, clutching your waist tighter, “maybe we can just have my name, somewhere here…or…” he hums, for any and all matters pertaining to you need great care and thought, “....maybe we can just go with them all!” He exclaims.
(What is he doing what is he doing no he knows what he’s doing yes he needs to see and feel and taste your ink he’ll take what he can get but what is he doing why is he doing why why why is he doing but why’s he asking it feels so so so good to be the one towering above)
He resists the urge to look up at your expression. Not yet, he’ll save it for when it’s truly exquisite, for when ink burns up into his skull. “Oh, and now that I think about it, maybe something fancy on your back? Ah, haha, but it can’t be super big. It has to complement you, not overtake you! On that note, a piercing or two. Your ears are a no-brainer, but…” he takes on a teasing lilt, like he’s a boy unsure how to act around his crush, “...where~ else~ do we go? The belly button? That’d be pretty cute! Or…” his hand drifts further along your chest, “here…” he giggles, “that’d be so awfully adorable, wouldn’t it?” Your unease rolls out in waves. His grin widens further, foxlike, silently thanking you for giving him so many openings. “Ah, but doing all of that’s like saying you aren’t enough, isn’t it? I’m sorry for implying that,” he purrs the faux apology, “and maybe those kinds of accessories would get in the way of your full resplendence.” He sighs, similar to the way he does whenever he’s done talking. After a few moments, the cacophony quiets down, the ink merely stings, and you breathe close to steadily. Poor thing. You think he was done? “Clothes, too.” Your heart plunges into the depths. His hand teases dipping into your robes, “Why have a wardrobe when it can’t possibly do you justice?” He clicks his tongue. “That just~ won’t~ do~,” he singsongs, and then transitions into a friendly tone, “and hey! You can just think of it likeeee…going full-on commando!” He feels you seize up with disgust drawn out from the very depths of your soul. “That’d be pretty fun, wouldn’t it?” He laughs, “And comfy. A self-proclaimed couch potato’s dream is to endlessly lounge away the days, right? So, then,” he slightly dips his fingers, featherlight against shadowed skin and bitten gifts, “you really should just spend all day in bed. It’s not like you could go outside anyway. And just think about it—” An image pops into his mind, widening his smile, “Wrapped in my blankets, tangled in silk, entrapped into a web of it…” he slides a hand around your trembling wrist, his thumb rubbing over your thundering pulse, “this would look so beautiful, in red ribbon,” he presses a chaste kiss to your thundering pulse, “your ankles, waist…a mess of them over your chest…” he sighs, but he isn’t a negligible man, drifting his touch to lovingly wrap his hand around your neck, “and that pretty little neck goes without saying. You’ll be just like a little gift and I’d really . And,” he chuckles, “I don’t imagine you’d want to leave, either.” You shudder, tremble, make a sound a cross between disgust and a gasp choking on ink. “Hm, actually, that’s a good question,” And then he finally looks up. He is not disappointed in the slightest. You are choking, and completely pale and the only signs of life on your frozen face are your infrequent blinks and quiet breathing. “Do you want to leave me?” He wonders: what will you do? Say? You both know the answer, but for him to ask it would have you second-guessing yourself on what to say. Should you be honest? Should you give him the answer he wants to be true? Should you merely say that the two of you know that already? Or do you just say nothing, as ink clogs your throat?
[Do you really think you’re playing a game? With them of all people? How do you think they even ended up here in the first place?]
The cacophony of your heart cracks and twists the earth into pieces. You shake like a leaf, slowly but surely devoured by a caterpillar. Soft and innocent at first glance, but it only knows how to feast and gorge itself. Your breath comes out in short gasps, as burning ink drips through them and into your stomach. It forces itself out violently, as your sensitive skin clams up, as it painfully inches out of your skull, to thrust itself out through your eyes.
You’re beautiful.
It’s an honor, he thinks.
(And stand so highly elevated)
Although your terrified silence was anticipated, he doesn’t quite appreciate having a one-sided conversation, sweetheart. It seems you need a bit of encouragement, but he’s more than happy to provide. Regrettably, that means fully raising his head, but at least he won’t have to strain his neck to get a look at your face. He hikes you up, and you shriek in with fear, vaulting to wrap your arms around his shoulders as you struggle in vain to give yourself any semblance of contact with the ground. But the tips of your toes just barely graze the smooth concrete. “Dar~ling~,” he sing songs, “don’t keep me waiting, now.”
He smiles kindly. He takes your left hand into his own, gently rubbing in soothing circles. Your heart beats louder, as you’re forced to rely on him even more. You take in a sharp breath, stifled by a flood of ink. He leans his head down, over that nigh-on unbearably beautiful mark on your neck, placing his lips on it like a fleeting feather brushing past. He looks up into your eyes, blackened and blurred, while his own are rounded and soft. He coos and kisses the few that fall, a delightful flavor of vulnerability flowering on his tongue that he can’t get enough of. He tilts his head when he’s done, his expression lovesick and deviously innocent, and goes caress your cheek, to chain you to place. You stay still so that it doesn’t go from choking to cutting. He gives your hand a maliciously reassuring squeeze.
“I’ve got you,” he reassures, “you’re safe, with me.” The words are heavy and loaded yet he says it like he’s holding you close in the afterglow, whispering sweet nothings that mean everything into your ear. Impressively, a scoff is drawn out of you, yanked out through a sea.
(It reassures him, in some strange way)
You clutch at him harder, almost pulling him flush against you in an effort not to fall. Adorable. You’re still enveloped in ink, so looking up at him, you seem little more than a trembling newborn fawn.
Something dark flickers in your eye; the same dark thing he saw on the luckiest day of his life, as the sun shined so brilliantly on the gun held against your forehead. That dark thing which he didn’t foresee, and hadn’t seen since that day, until now.
You tremble, but you purse your lips, and, as resolutely as you can, give your answer.
“Yes.” And then you lean back. Your feet do not touch the ground.
His instincts are far more trained than yours. Pulling you away and into the room is a simple affair. You whimper in pain, struggling against his hold, but it only takes a slight twist to your wrist, an effortless suggestion, for it to cease.
(It’s his whole body that trembles, but you never seem to notice, when you tremble so much yourself and are so often a prisoner in your own mind)
“My friend,” he says, dropping any semblance of emotion in his voice. You nearly shriek as you’re engulfed in an inferno, hyperventilating in vain as smoke from your own burning body clogs your lungs. You’ve brought this upon yourself, though. Trapped in the fox’s jaw, you have nowhere else to go but right here. He smiles emptily, knowing that it makes you want to die. “Why don’t you come back to bed with me? And we can have a chat.”
(He hides his arm behind his back)
Just before he opens the balcony door, a drop of rain hits his cheek. The clouds obscure the moon, sealing its light shut. The sun will not shine on you two.
—
You aren’t shoved onto the bed, to skid across it like a sea of sharp rocks, or anything like that. That makes it worse, you think. Though, with how heavy your mind is, with how much ink fills it, you could see a blossoming flower and think that doomsday was nigh.
Trapped in his hold, out of endless possibilities, Aventurine elects to merely guide your forms to sit on the edge of the bed. He releases you, but whatever relief you felt was burned away when he slots your hand with his own, the other held behind his back. Like this, you two must look like a normal couple. One that had a fight, but then cooled down enough for them to sit and have a serious conversation; to communicate their feelings to one another, leading to a gentle reconciliation and promises to do better. But Aventurine…you’re sure that he holds a butcher knife, hidden behind his back, in moments like these.
You almost don’t hear him over the pounding in your ears eyes heart and lungs and everything. “Just what were you thinking, acting like that?”
Thinking? Thinking? Why would you tell him that? Actually, thinking? Did you even think? You feel your hand get squeezed like a lion clamping its jaw into a gazelle. “I—I, I…I,” you stammer.
“‘I don’t know?’” and you almost demand for how he was able to guess your answer. He hums and leans in further and further, boring those terrifying eyes right into you; you fear that he’ll bore a hole right through your eyes and fill it with himself. So that even in death, a part of him would always infect you.
Your mind, badly addled, nods.
He hums again, betraying no emotion, “I know what you were thinking. And you will, too. I’m sure the two of us are eager to get back to sleep, so it’s best to cut to the chase.”
“Cut…to the chase?”
“To the takeaway.”
It happens slowly, or quickly, or something, you don’t know you don’t really know at all everything drowns in ink—
He leans toward you, and gently pushes you on your back. You reactively scramble, but it doesn’t take much for him to make your struggle useless—and he wraps his hands around your neck and squeezes. Softly, then firmly, then roughly, then chokingly. He doesn’t butcher you, doesn’t spill your blood, doesn’t dismember you and put you back together, doesn’t meticulously carve himself into your skin, he just simply squeezes. That might’ve been the truly shocking thing about this. But you can’t think about that when you breathe and nothing comes in. You gasp, but it comes out as a silent, dying wheeze. You kick, but it’s useless. You try and pull his hands away. Useless. Useless useless useless everything is useless your future and very being are an endless abyss devoid of hope and life and everything you do have done will do is useless meaningless meaningless meaningless you’re dying you’re going to die you are dead you are hopeless and miserable and scared and dying dying dying dying dying he’s bored of you sick of you hates you he hates you hates you hates you hates you hates you stabbed you in the back choking you choking you you cry cry cry cry cry but your tears are searing ink that burns your flesh you’re burning burning burning burning there is no sunlight or moonlight—
You think and think about everything and nothing. You think about your cotton scarf. You think about your parents. You think about your degree and how useless it’s been. You think about the tiramisu you made earlier, and how it needed to set in the fridge overnight.
But no matter what you think about, or what you stop thinking about, you cannot stop thinking about Aventurine.
It hurts, but you can’t say that. It hurts so much, and you feel that your neck will be sliced off your head. You must look so ugly. You feel your eyes bulge, expand from out of your sockets, just a few seconds away from popping out and hanging by a nerve that could so easily be cut and gushing blood that Aventurine will lap up before throwing your corpse out of the window, to throw the trash out of the house. Your nose uselessly tries to inhale, but all it does is marginally slow the hideous mucus that leaks. Your mouth is equally useless, and it isn’t long until you give up and your tongue ungracefully lolls from your mouth. You feel all at once overwhelmed—the tears from your eyes burn your flesh, your eyes will become weights that shake with every movement, the snot will leave behind anguishing trails of acid, your tongue feels like a dumbbell crushing your face—and floating. You decide to float. You think about your cotton scarf, nuzzling—
You dimly realize you’re nuzzling into the grip that’s killing you.
Your body becomes lead.
Aventurine’s expression betrays nothing. But you feel something shake—your body? It’s surprising because you can hardly even blink, let alone move. It’s mostly around your neck. Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen. Your hands have gone limp, uselessly falling to the side, but you haven’t died yet. Aventurine is still busy killing you, and looking at you like you’re nothing and that he couldn’t care less about your reaction. You don’t want to look at him anymore. You don’t want to die with his face as the last thing you see. You’d rather die looking at the moon. But against his ironclad grip, your head doesn’t move. You struggle, but Aventurine’s face remains. Your mind begins to fill with cotton, and your eyes start to glaze, but it's burned away by a particularly forceful squeeze, which quickly lightens, but the damage has been done.
Your tongue is drying. Your vision spots. Not with black, not with the shade of ink you’ve grown used to, but it spots with light. Sunlight. You’re being cradled in the sunlight. Warm and soft, but you’re wretched out of that false sense of security when your body begins to blaze.
And then he lets you go after what feels like years. Something burning and cold and wonderful enters your nostrils and mouth—air, air, air air air air you need air air air air air—
The air doesn’t come rushing in like you’ve seen described in books. It painfully pumps into you, but it’s vastly preferable to the pain you were experiencing just a few moments ago. Your head slumps, turning to the moon's salvation—but you see only the clouds.
When your lungs stop burning, and your breathing returns to normal, Aventurine gently pulls you up into his lap, where he leans against the headboard. A single arm draped over your waist confines you to his chest. His other hand is out of sight. When he’s sure you aren’t getting away, he takes a breath, and his hidden hand comes to tip your head up.
His eyes all at once resemble an aphotic ocean and a flooding dam. You aren’t sure where it comes from, but you realize that, for this brief moment, he has dropped his facade.
“If you want to die,” he says, quietly, softly, almost vulnerably. You must have brain damage, if this is how he sounds. “this is how it’ll happen. By my hand. By my choice. And trust me when I say it’s infinitely better than anything you could do with your own hands,” he removes his hand from your chin to intertwine it with your own, all at once invasive and sweet, “I promise, (Name).”
Your chest begins to flood with a sob. It comes out wrangled and inhuman, but he only clutches you closer. Strangely, he doesn’t lap up your tears. Like many nights before and to come, you pass out, weighed by the agony of living with a man so obvious and indecipherable.
Your last thought before finally shutting your eyes is that Aventurine won’t be throwing you out anytime soon. You do not celebrate the thought, not entirely, anymore. It’s only much later that you realize why: he finally succeeded in forcing a small part of him into you.
—
When you pass out from complete exhaustion, Aventurine quietly tucks your head deeper into his chest. He thinks about yanking apart his ribcage, forcing you into it, and then pinning you there as he forces it to close. It’s begun to rain outside. It pitter-patters, booming in his ears, and nearly shreds his ears apart.
[But a part of you likes it when you drag them down to your level, right, Kakavasha?]
—
His master swirls a glass of red wine. It may as well have been blood; bought by blood, drank in the wake of blood, and spilled into blood. Kakavasha pursues his lips, to not scream in agony as the wine sears his wound; but it will be okay. He is used to weathering the sun, trudging through heavy sand, with his mouth drier than the environment. He can withstand this searing heat. He’s already withstood iron-hot metal pressed into his skin for minute after agonizing minute, no matter his involuntary cries and tears and pleas to stop.
But that was an exception. The desert has long dried his tears.
Besides, this is a ‘reward.’ For triumphing yet again. For surviving yet again. So the master sees it fit to briefly lavish him in luxury. At least it’s fitting for the occasion, Kakvasha thinks, the wine puddling out like blood. He waits for it to end. He’s already battered and bloody, beaten down, and he doesn’t need his neck chaffed and bleeding. Every yank of his chain evaporates energy he cannot afford to lose, cannot sacrifice or else there won’t be a bet he can emerge lucky from.
And, he admits. He’s a little (no, very) afraid of being brought to the edge between life and death again. He doesn’t want to be chained to the wall again, and have the chain around his neck pulled further and further away—
A sneer that would get him tortured spreads across his face. His face is already forced to the ground, so he’s not too worried.
“My lucky hound,” his master drawls, “stay with me. You did pretty well; it’d be a shame if I had to reevaluate you if you pass out just from this. C’mon, gimme a lil’ bark.”
He wipes his sneer and looks up with a practiced expression: defiant, but sanded down with fear; feisty, but compliant. Just enough fight to entertain, but not enough to be a nuisance. “Alive and kicking,” he grunts. It’s a strange mix of genuine and manufactured, biting back his cries of pain. It took him a bit to figure out what his master liked, but all that matters is that he got there. It’s fine, he tells himself. He doesn’t need to know how much he’s using him, too. “And savoring your gift.” He’s sure it’s the right answer, but the slight tremor indicates the awful anticipation he has for the results. If it isn’t, then everything he’s done to get here would all have been for nothing. He cannot afford to fumble his gamble now.
Luckily (ha!), it was the right answer. He’s given something his master can poke and prod at, and he’s gladly taken it. “I thought I asked you to bark,” he snarls, and the flaming wine ceases. But it’s for a reason, as he soon gets a kick to the stomach. It knocks the air out of him, but if his master were truly offended, he would’ve done much, much worse. Kakavasha coughs, just enough to suggest that he’s sorry and begging for forgiveness, but not enough to seem desperate and begging for a release and to stop stop stop— “Speaking is for humans. Honestly, I don’t even know why you Sigonian hounds were born with mouths. Universe’d be a better place if slaves like you were born with their mouths sewn shut—by the Aeons, do you disgust me!” he scratches before a smirk twists his face, “Though, ‘suppose that would mean I wouldn’t be able to hear the dogs whimper.” A shoe grinds into his stomach. He wants to see Kakavasha’s face then. “So, you gonna bark, or what?”
Kakavasha doesn’t need to act much, this time. His face falls into grim acceptance; the face he made when heat emanated from his neck; the face he made when the doors to his cell closed; the face he made when he saw the sand bury his sister’s body. Although the expression this time isn’t genuine, it’s not quite fabricated, either.
It’s fine. It’s fine. This is but one gamble. Acquiesce to his whims just enough, and then strike.
Soon, wine pools at his feet. But the wine in his master’s hand hasn’t all spilled, yet. Memories flit by in his mind: his master, flaunting his wealth in front of him.
“Humans wear clothes, accessories, and jewelry…dream all you want, but an animal can never become what it’s fated not to be.” His master’s voice echoes.
His limp and cold hand is adorned in rings. His still wrist holsters a beautiful watch and tasteful bangle. Kakvasha takes a sip of the wine. It burns, dripping down his throat. It leaves his tongue rancid and as dry as the desert.
He supposes that’s what it means to be human, then.
—
When you wake up, pain radiates throughout your neck and legs. Absently, your hand goes to your neck to relieve it but meets soft cotton. Gauze. Did he disinfect your wound (brand, that bastard branded me get him out of me I’ll—) when you passed out?
You close your eyes and try to fall back asleep but to no avail. With a moan, and then a hiss of pain, you roll over on your side. You see a note, a couple of pills, and a glass of water have been placed on your nightstand. With concentrated effort, you sit up and read the note.
Darling, dearest, love of my life, (you’d scoff if it didn’t hurt like hell to even breathe)
A painkiller. One every three hours. I suggest you take it if you want to get through the day comfortably, so please don’t spend your day staring at them in contempt like they’ve killed your dog. Contrary to what you might think, I do care for your comfort. (You feel a jolt of anger through your spine) I’ll try to be back a half hour or so earlier, but if fortune’s on my side, I’ll be back to you a full hour earlier. Wouldn’t that just be amazing? Actually, let me do a coin flip to gauge today’s fortune—oh! Look at that! Seems that it’s an hour. You won’t be lonely for long, I promise. (You frown) Business is wrapping up, so we’re leaving today, but I’ve already packed your bags. Focus on yourself, sweetheart, and get plenty of rest. And before you start overthinking things, I’m not worried at all. You won’t be forgetting anytime soon, and you’re not going anywhere. (You grit your teeth)
Use lots of ice on your neck! It helps a ton. And eat soft foods that go down easy; broth, oatmeal, the works. Now that’s what I call a good excuse to gorge on ice cream; not too much though, you *might* just throw up. And no, you can’t break the windows. Literally. I know you have your impulsive moments, but you’ve gotta be conservative with your energy today. I’ll make sure you are. If not…well, you like guessing games, right? Haha, now I really do have to go. I can’t believe you got me writing such a long letter! Alright, see you later, sweetheart.
Love, Aventurine.
You stare at the signature. Love, Aventurine sounding over and over in your mind, hitting the walls and coming back in a cracking echo. Love—a knife impales you—Aventurine—and you’re eaten alive.
Love, love, love, love, love.
You force yourself to look at the painkillers. You have no reason to believe him, but he doesn’t have any reason to lie to you. You decide not to take them.
Instead, you take a few slow sips of water, letting it coat your throat and tongue thoroughly. Then you force your sore body to the kitchen. You stumble, you trip, but you still make it to the countertop. It’s not complicated. Your mind can’t process complexity in its current state anyway.
It’s simple. You yank a knife from the block and plunge it into your chest, through your ribs, and into your heart. Blood gushes out like a waterfall, glistening like a ruby in the light of the dawn. You grin, pain wobbling your mouth, and swiftly cut open your stomach. Bile creeps up your throat as you gag violently, until you finally retch on the elongated mess of your intestines, unraveling into a bunch. You laugh hysterically when you notice that it looks like a horribly butchered plate of spaghetti—hilarious. It’s all nearly too much to bear, but there’s more work to be done. You’re still thinking; that just won’t do. You raise your knife, the tip shining in the sun and sparkling through your tears, and slam your forehead into it, finally putting an end to your existence.
That’s what should’ve happened. But the knife hasn’t taken that first plunge, yet. You will your arm to rectify the mistake. It shakes harder. And then everything from the night before rushes to your head, and ink clouds everything and everything and—
You can’t do it. Not by your own hand.
You violently throw the knife into the sink and collapse to the ground in a brutal sob.
You never attempt it again.
—
He was wrong about something. Your shattered limit would never end with his demise—it was yours.
(Is he really surprised? Or was he in denial this whole time?)
He’s not sure how to feel, that you’d rather destroy yourself than kill when backed into a corner. But he can at least understand that urge of yours to take someone else down with you; only, that person isn’t him, this time.
The wall you have built crumbles, and he wonders if you care if your destruction ends up killing another unintentionally; if that part of yourself has been killed, or if it has been twisted so you are born anew. But that’s a bit silly. You can destroy yourself, but you won’t ever lose yourself, even if you become fractured. That’s what experience has taught him, and it is both excruciatingly painful and relieving.
You’ve pinned him down. Your eyes are wide and dilated, and that spark of life within them is just nearly dimmed out; and yet, beneath that spark, something awful and alive pulsates. They hold an unabashed focus, yet they also look past him. For a rare moment, he is completely taken aback, and cannot conceal his surprise and dubious, almost hesitant delight. But he drops the hesitation. It’s fatal for him.
(His heart nearly stops. Is he pinned to the ground, or is he looking into a mirror? He almost feels like he’s been turned inside out)
“What. Were. You. Thinking?” It’s your voice, but he can’t help but think it takes on a cadence similar to his own. He can see that awful creature brandish its claws.
As much as he enjoys seeing such a creature, he cannot allow himself to be ripped apart by it. He’ll assert his control, and you’ll back off, the same as it’s always been. But he doesn’t quite mind being pinned down by you, so he’ll allow it for the moment. “You watch me gamble all the time, dearest.” He tilts his head, knowing just how much it pisses you off. “I don’t see how that’s gotten you so worked up—and you’ve been so sweet lately.”
Your jaw trembles, like a dog, he thinks, on the verge of barking and biting an intruder. Yet, a part of him also tells him that isn’t quite right. “You played Russian Roulette.” Drip, drip, sounds the blood of his challenger, but such a sound has been white noise all his life.
He smirks. “Are you jealous?” he teases, “Did you want to kill me, or were you hoping to take the bullet yourself?”
You, ever so slightly, begin to shake. “No,” you respond, without any sense of the word. “Answer my question,” you demand. He’s a little surprised because you so rarely make demands. He can see the beast grind its teeth, gnashing at the mere idea of his flesh, drooling its filth in gluttonous anticipation. But he knows you so, so, so very well. He can smell your fear—but of what? Fear that you might not be able to personally exact vengeance? He’s a little lost, for once. But he’ll know soon enough, he supposes. He continues with his usual demeanor.
“Mmm,” he hums nonchalantly, making you shake in agitation. “Well, I suppose I’m in no position to refuse. It was a good gamble with a good thrill, of course! I thought you knew this.” He knows you don’t believe that entirely, having spent so much time with him. The look in your eyes tells him it was the answer you were expecting. But you still aren’t satisfied. You still haven’t strewn his guts about the floor, to join the foolish challenger.
You do not respond, remaining as still as you can be. He decides to encourage you; you can’t just lead him on like this, you know.
“What’s wrong?” he goads. “Or have you finally come around to just how irresistible I am?”
The blood’s aroma has wafted over. Your eyes glaze impossibly further. The beast breaks its chains.
“I want to hollow out your chest,” you admit. His heart stops, and it’s only through years of practice that his face doesn’t instantly break out in shock. “And burrow into it, so I can listen to your heartbeat and feel the expanse of your lungs pressing into me with your every breath,” you shake, nearly violently, and you take each breath as if it’ll be your last. His own heart begins to beat erratically; he’s excited, he doesn’t know what’ll happen, but whatever it is he needs to have have have it— “I want to breathe in your blood, taste your heart, blood, sustain myself on nothing—” Aventurine feels a thread be pulled apart. “—on nothing but you!” You cry out, leaning in closer as you collapse to your knees and elbows, practically exchanging air. You’ve finally begun to cry, and with it, the beast has come—
No, he thinks. It’s already ripping apart his flesh. Your tears fall onto his face. His heart beats faster and faster; just as fast as when he ran away into those bloody puddles all those years ago.
“If you die…I might just join you, because…there’s really nothing else for me…” you sob, face contorting in a way he finds so breathtakingly pathetic and beautiful. For a moment, your mouth curls down, not maliciously, but with a determined promise. “If you die…I’m pulling the trigger, not some random sap in a casino.”
Oh. You…you remembered. Of course, you did. You never would forget. You couldn’t ever forget. His chest feels numb with how brutally his heart has beaten it.
He feels something cool seep into his pants and legs.
He is well acquainted with the touch of ice. How could he not? The time spent with you feels like a (fragile) eternity, and in it, he has glued himself to you; and you’ve, however unwittingly, froze him in place. Even if he’s always been able to force you into the desert with him, there are still those moments when a nigh unbearable cold seeps down into his bones, threatening to kill him, to preserve his dead body to be dusted ogled at whenever the master of the house needs to showoff their private collection to guests. But he feels it melting. He feels the cold you’ve desperately embraced crackle.
You sob a sound of euphoric despair that has him resisting his every urge to cradle you, and confess the truth; confess your want.
“I love you, Aventurine,” you take in a shuddering gasp.
His heart explodes. It is then he realizes that he, too, has gasped, and is breathing irregularly. That his composure has shattered without his realization.
“I love you…” you cough, no longer able to hold back your breakdown, the volcano of your emotions erupting in a destructive blaze that killed a part of you; the part of you that’d been holding on. Flora and flowers burn, snow becomes hellfire, and any and all life is replaced by a hungering beast desperate to keep itself satiated.
But only Aventurine can satiate it. A blush dusts his cheeks.
“I love you, I love you,” you hiccup and sob, repeating the mantra like a prayer (to a devil in velvet), I love you I love you I love you I love you.” And then you finally collapse on him, a pile of bricks and rubble and dust. You curl into his chest, over his violet heartbeat. “Don’t throw me away…don’t l-leave me…” he immediately secures your waist. It’s a disgusting implication. Why would he do that to you of all people? “I need you,” and his heart soars. A smile finally cracks his face, shattering something deep inside of him.
[No, no, Kakavasha, that’s really quite wrong. You haven’t been whole for a very, very long time.]
And then something brief surfaces in you, a small piece of useless reasoning, “and it’s your f-fault I’m like this…” That’s very true, which is why he needs to take responsibility. Which is why he has to continue keeping you, caring for you, and brutalizing you. The blood has trailed down to his back.
And then you’re back to sobbing, and practically howl, “Please, please Aventurine, tell me you love me and won’t ever let me go!” you beg, and entirely break down into a concentrated sob, distant from reality. You blabber, likely unaware, utterly lovely and incoherent words. The blood has reached his head.
His entire body shudders, rapturing him into a pile of broken flesh. He can’t hold back. He holds you tighter than before. It snaps you out of your daze, your body instinctively flinching away, but his grip doesn’t cease; it can’t cease, because if it does you two may never truly meld with one another. He sits up, positioning you so you straddle and completely rely on him for support. He looks at you. His long-lasting appetite has finally been satiated, but now a new one takes hold of his shaking form, his excitement electric and bloody.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he shudders breathlessly, just barely keeping himself from pouncing, “that was beautiful—you’re beautiful,” he pants, as his hunger grows painful, “how could I refuse such a heartfelt and adorable confession? You’re so perfect. You’re the other side of my coin…”
[Took you long enough.]
“...yes,” he groans, “I’d love to bring you down with me, and to tear you apart if I’m back in that dawnless land.” Because you aren’t leaving him, nor could you survive if he plummets back into that land. But you’re still coming with him because you need him (and so does he).
The dawn shines on the two of you, and finally, he kisses you. You’re too dazed to reciprocate, but you offer no resistance at all. But it’s a (relatively) chaste kiss, as he pulls back to whisper against your lips, wholly reverent. “I knew you were the one,” he confesses, and he sees your blush deepen, your eyes widen, “Thank you, for destroying yourself for me,” he brushes your cheek, “It’s truly an honor, sweetheart.”
You blink, eyes wide with tears, and just as he’s about to caress them away your mouth twitches—almost like you’re glitching as if the very expression was some bug in a game—and then you laugh. And it isn’t crazed, it isn’t weighed by madness, nor does it carry that familiar undertone of despair and fear he’s become so used to hearing from you—it’s warm like the dawn has cut through the rain to shine on him.
It’s that lovely laugh which the sun shines overhead and erases any shadow of doubt:
You’re insane. You’ve frozen over in hell, and have shattered yourself into pieces to melt into it.
If ‘I love you, Aventurine’ was the straw that broke the camel’s back, then your laughter is what made the camel burst and seep into searing, soulless sand.
It makes sense. Only someone destroyed and insane could love Aventurine.
(Kakavasha was dead. His hands are sticky, his chains rusty with blood and his throat burns)
[Is he? Or do you just need him to be dead? No matter how you slice it, I still see that same boy who clung to his Big Sis till the very end.]
But he’s a selfish man. If you give him your love, then he’ll gladly take it.
[Tsk, tsk. A desperate man, Kakavasha.]
But more importantly, there’s a feeling in his heart. It’s the feeling of a peaceful day beneath the scorching sun, of when he wins a game, of when he and his sister were just themselves with each other. All of it coalesces into something he hasn’t felt in—no, something he may have never truly felt until now:
Happiness.
[The closet thing you can call happiness, you mean.]
And is that feeling that has him lift you up, and spin and twirl with you in his arms. It is sheer elation, a hedonism that is so self-serving yet selfless all at once—sheer bliss—that fills him this: this is what he wants to feel. Your laughter is infectious, permeating his body and sapping it of rationality, but he does not try to fight this virus. For he is happy. The corner of his eyes crinkle; he is unused to the feeling.
He laughs and laughs with you. His clothes and shoes are tracking blood. Normally the thought of even rain getting on his clothes disgusts him, but now, all he can think about is basking in this crimson victory. The dawn shines on you both, commemorating your unholy union.
You really are perfect for him, he thinks. Because he must be insane too, when he laughs like a crazed dog—the same dogs he nearly drowned in bloodied water to get away from.
—
You both deserved a treat. He whisked you away to a room—he can deal with the casino room later, call on a few favors—because you deserve his utmost attention, as he does yours. The prospect of your complete attention, entirely unfettered, excites him.
It’s a fine room. The bed is large and soft, the bath is large and pleasant, and the view is utterly breathtaking. But neither of you cares about that. You could be rolling in sewage and shit and you’d still look at him the way he looks at you, still enter demented laughter and twisted joy, still parade under that veneer of love.
He gets his fill, as do you—but you both know neither of you will ever be sated, not when you two can’t be joined together in the ways you want to.
The dawn is rich and bright, shining on the waking and sending the begging crawling away into the shadows. You breathe softly, utterly exhausted. A complete 180 from just a few moments ago, too. Your arms wrap weakly around him, tucking yourself into him snugly. His kisses, imprinted with your blood, create a field of flowers on your face. As does his own. …He makes a note to tip room service extra for the bloodied sheets. There’s a reason he doesn’t dress (as) extravagantly for when he needs to get his hands dirty.
Perhaps after this, he’ll gift you something truly special, he thinks. His earring’s twin has just been gathering dust. And it would be quite romantic to get your ears pierced by him, too. His heart beats at the thought. He’s sure you’ll agree to it if it’s by his hand. Maybe, after this, you’ll wear his gifts of your own accord. Small things, for when you go out, a modest bracelet or watch, a tasteful necklace (of ownership). Nothing overt so as to not draw any thieving eyes, but something to signify to those that know what to look for that you aren’t to be messed with. As for when you’re inside and home…he still remembers how red your face got, and the curses you threw at him. And you’ll finally concede that his taste is actually pretty solid (but, and he will clarify just for you, it's not a sore spot in the slightest! He’s more mature than that).
He feels a bit of pride at your exhaustion (“I…erm…wanna…well, I can d-do some of the work,” you said, flustered and embarrassed by the mere admission. He found it endearing, that you could confess your desire to burrow into him and then stammer when asking him for something. You really did hate the idea of using him, didn’t you?) The remembrance of that moment makes him smile.
(He doesn’t bother dissecting what kind of smile he makes)
However, a single moment is on repeat in his mind. His hand absently drifts to the crook of his neck, weeping but a few minutes ago. Your teeth, sinking in so deeply, intimately, just on the verge of ripping a chunk of his flesh out; you were practically dining on him. It sent him over the edge.
When you pulled away and looked at him, he was again taken aback at what he saw.
Your lips, slightly parted and utterly breathless, speckled with rouge. Your cheeks were red hot with adoration. Your eyes, brimming with love and care and everything he couldn’t believe someone besides his own family could direct toward him.
(But your love is very different from his family’s. They wanted to nourish. You want to devour. But he sees nothing to criticize there—indulge, and he will gladly indulge back, until there’s nothing left of either of you)
But what truly pushes him over the edge, is the smile you give, softly stained in crimson. It is pure and untainted, angelic and sweet, soft and warm like how the dawn kisses his cheek. It is as if this love of yours was born not of a tower’s rubble but of whispered secrets and touches shared in the shadow of moonlight. It’s as if the love you show him now would’ve been what he got if he was a more selfless man (if he were any other man). You both know he does not deserve the love in your eyes—it is the last thing you owe him. Yet you give it to him anyway.
You are utterly insane. And now that he knows what insanity on you looks like,
He wouldn’t have it any other way.
But before he can shut his eyes for an hour or two of respite, there’s something he has to do. He promised many things as you both feasted, but there are two absolute ones he has to reaffirm. Two absolute ones you wanted so badly that you unleashed a frozen inferno.
“I’ll never leave you,” he promises, “And never would. I admit, it stung a bit for you to fear that from me, but…I’ll make it up to you tenfold, sweetheart. I’ll make sure you don’t feel that way ever again,” He kisses your cheek gently. He pictures your response and giggles. “Yeah, I’m being sappy, but you’re,” he boops your nose with each following word, “just~. As~. Guilty~.” You stir, groggily groaning but it’s not enough to rouse you. After a short while, you nuzzle your head further into his neck with a sleepy sigh. Something tells him that even asleep, you’ll somehow know what he’s telling you. Your lips come to rest on the gift you gave him, as if even in sleep you’d rip him apart. His heart flutters. “You’re so sweet…” he exhales with a shudder, “seriously, how do you manage it? Not that I mind, of course…” he plays with a strand of your hair. Candy and clouds and raw flesh burst on his tongue all at once, and he can’t get enough of that flavor of sickly sweet rot. He smiles, a soft and predatory thing, and his lips drift to his favorite spot.
But don’t get him wrong—every part of you is lovely and he would kill to vivisect you if only it didn’t mean killing you and putting you in extreme pain. It’s those two latter thoughts that quell his desire to do so.
(Maybe he would enjoy it, but only for a moment, only for so as long as the euphoria and awe of seeing all of you lasts. If you did die—especially with cries and shrieks of pain—he would sob, curling around your body…and then he would take you with him, so when he goes to that place, you’d be with him on that very first step)
It’s where he first bit you on the luckiest day of his life. It’s bruised and tender, red and ugly and scarred. Renewed countless times, it is beyond repair. Moments ago it held a crimson sheen, but its been smeared throughout your collarbone and shoulder. The way it smears makes it appear like a red mist, like a curling wisp of smoke that dirties clouds and infects rainwater. He brings you impossibly closer, to keep you from becoming red mist. At the same time, should he squeeze just a bit too hard, then away you go into the mist.
(As if to keep you far, far, far away from the rainwater which had swirled with a thick, red mist—to keep you from breathing in it, from having to hide so you didn’t become like the cold bodies which floated beside you)
His lips seemingly slot in with the spot perfectly. It only makes sense. It was today where you’ve melded yourself to him.
(And he’s melded himself to you for a long time. Against his better judgment and sense, he melded himself to you; at the time it was only the idea of you, but it didn’t take long for it to be you.
He sighs in content, but he still has another promise to make.
“We’ll be together, you and I. Two sides of a single coin can face away from each other, but they can’t exist separate from each other. You’re pretty smart, so I’m sure you get it,” yes, he has plenty of faith in you, sweet thing, but he can’t help but ramble, “and it’s because I love you, (Name).” He says it so tenderly, your name, and unexpectedly (or very expectedly) something he thought he’d never feel ever again invades his chest, and it forces itself out, “I love you, I love you,” he thinks his grip has tightened and that his heart has started to race and that he’s shaking but he doesn’t care about that right now and he doesn’t care if he has been losing composure without his notice. “I love you I love you I love you. You have no idea just how much I want to devour you, just how much I want you tethered to me. How much I need you to be unable to live without me. If I’m alive, you’re alive. If I’m dead…you said it yourself. You’ll follow me. It just needs to be by my hand, and you’ll follow me. You won’t have to worry about being alone, being without me. And it’s all because…
I love you.”
He dimly realizes that something salty has trailed to his lips. Are you awake? Or are you having a nightmare? Either way, he moves like he has so many other times, to remind you that he’d be there, even at your most vulnerable. He goes up to kiss your eyes and lick your cheek, but nothing’s there.
Something flutters against his cheek. You’re awake, and he feels something warm and wet travel on his cheek. He’s not sure what he feels, when he looks up to you.
(What does his face look like?)
You blink, eyes bleary with sleep and weighted with content. But tinged with the sleep and contentment, there’s another thing, which makes everything within him burn. Which makes him shake and his heart nearly explodes.
Dimly, he realizes that your destruction didn’t just kill a part of you. He’s buried beneath the fire and rubble, too.
[And it’s lovely.]
And then (at that moment), for some reason (for all the reasons), he buries his head in your chest (into your heart),
To sob in the sunlight, soothed by the hands that unraveled him.
#yandere#yandere hsr#yandere aventurine#destroyed onset#aventurine x reader#yandere aventurine x reader#yandere x you#yandere hsr x reader#tw noncon#tw suicide#next fic is gonna be sitcom esque#the calm before the storm 😉#and also because i need to write the reader being happy in a#not fucked up way LMFAO
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The WOKE TRANSGENDER MOB is taking yet another FEMBOY ICON
Fucking bullshit. Fucking BULLSHIT. The woke mob is now saying that beloved femboy icon, CatboyBiologist, is trans and will be medically transitioning. First brisket and now this? Why doesn’t everything conform to the image that I formed in my head for my own benefit? This is forced diversity at its finest.
Look at these absolutely deranged quotes that they’ve CLEARLY forced him to say:
“I didn’t like being masculine from the onset of puberty, and being a ‘femboy’ was a valuable part of figuring out what exactly I wanted to do with that feeling. I’ve been figuring things out for a while, and I currently have appointments lined up to start HRT by the end of this month (August 2023).”
Have they no limits? Have they no shame? CLEARLY this is a fake flag by the sjw communist animal farm 1984 alphabet soup mafia elites to trans the gender of the most cisgender person in existence. It’s abundantly clear that once you represent your gender expression in a particular way, it is completely static and never changes. Exploration is strictly off limits. You’re only a real transgender if your mother gives birth in the endocrinologists office and you get your HRT prescription at 23 seconds old, otherwise you’re a filthy AGP cuck.
As we all know, femboys exist so that I can jack off to men and claim “it’s still straight if it’s femboys bro”, allowing me to ignore my deeply repressed bisexuality. If no femboy is safe from the transing of the genders, then how will I be able to have an outlet for my attraction to men? Finding community and healthily expressing it in a way that doesn’t involve me fetishizing gender nonconformity and unhealthily bottling up my queerness? Fucking disgusting.
We all know that there’s absolutely no precedent for using gender nonconforming cultural trends to explore ones identity before transitioning. That’s why every drag queen has always been a 100% cis man and none have ever pursued transition ever.
Clearly the goal here is to erase feminine men and convert boys into the alphabet mafia. As a someone who regularly jacks off to femboys, I have personally appointed myself as the authority on all things related to gender nonconformity, and I refuse to bow down to the wokeness that is queer people who actually go outside. As this authority, I know from my depths of experience mindlessly scrolling through anime femboys online that femboys are a completely different thing than the lgbtqiaabcdefg rabble, and that they’re based whereas real gay people and gender nonconforming people are cringe. Absolutely no overlap exists between trans people and the gender nonconforming cis people whatsoever. With this authority and knowledge, I have pledged to personally divide and destroy any semblance of queer unity present in the online microcosms I find myself in. And because of this, I have to speak out against this trans agenda.
BULLSHIT I say. They’re transing the genders of the femboys and I won’t stand for it.
#if it wasn't obvious the transphobia is a joke#however me transitioning in the near future is not lol#this was the funniest way I could think to do it#I'll make a more serious post about it but this idea has been stewing in my head for a while lol#femboy#trans#transfemme#cw mock transphobia#cw transphobia
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All Funk, No Punk - Still Hobart Brown
Gold chains instead of silver spikes. Gator shoes in place of thrifted boots. And an afro bigger than Hobie's -
Spider-Funk is Hobart Brown - Earth 831
Hobie Brown maybe Artie's chiller, rougher, and louder self - but somehow, they get on like a cop car on fire (or whatever the saying is).
And Artie Brown maybe Hobie's cockier, flirtier, and flashier self - but they just tell people they're twins.
Or at the very least - they call each other 'brotha' and 'bruv' all the time.
When people ask about the accent thing - you know, Artie being American, they say 'Ever seen The Parent Trap?'
[A LONG ASS post - Below is Artie's Origins, Fighting Style, Relationship to Hobie, and how he got recruited - All About the Brown Bros! Artie & Hobie, FunkPunk!]
It's Hobie 2 - Electric Bugaloo!
And just when Miguel thought he could only stomach one of them.
Though he calls himself the older brother, being born over a decade earlier, Artie is Hobie's less mature, more materialistic, but just as kind variant.
He's a pacifist instead of an anarchist - Full of Soul instead of bursting with Rock.
And he still hates cops.
Origins:
When Artie was drafted for the Vietnam War in 1969 - the first thing he did was burn his draft card. Then he joined the Black Liberation Army.
He wasn't the only one - Artie was part of the almost half a million draftees to do so.
And then President Osborn was elected.
To fill the gap in enlistment, Osborn came up with a solution.
V.E.N.O.M - A highly toxic, unfeelingly aggressive, and wildly bloodthirsty symbiote. A solution to the protests and draft dodgers.
Engineered by Oscorp - if you didn't induct yourself as a soldier, the V.E.N.O.M would make you one. And suddenly his friends were disappearing one by one.
A subtle but sudden-onset disease, the V.E.N.O.M variant was nearly undetectable, very persuasive, and incredibly effective.
More primal than animalistic, the symbiote's function didn't raise one's bloodlust, - instead it lowered, and at worse cancelled, your empathy.
The symbiote subtly normalized dehumanization - attacking neurons in the cerebral cortex to destroy one's capability of empathy, compassion, and at times - recognizing faces. Able to follow commands without a second thought - the perfect soldier.
Convincing the host of necessary order and their own biological superiority, over the course of 72 hours the host would lose their ability to recognize the people around them as anything other than sub-human.
In 138, V.E.N.O.M turns you into an animal.
In 831, V.E.N.O.M turns everyone around you into an animal.
It could make anyone into an unfeeling, unrelenting soldier - no guns needed.
The best of them got sent overseas to the War - and the rest, he turned on the people, hunting down all those who dared to dodge their call.
While on tour in DC, Artie was bitten by a radioactive spider, as he attempted to burn draft papers at a government facility.
He burned the papers. Plus he got some sick powers out of it. Plus Plus he gets to beat up The National Guard on a weekly basis. Ain't that a score.
And Hobie may hate the name Spider-Punk (or so he says), but Artie loves being Spider-Funk.
He calls them Funk & Punk. Hobie calls them that too, but like in a cool ironic way.
Artie & Hobie:
Personality:
Hobie knows that Artie is going through his 'Pavitr Phase', so he cuts him some slack. Artie's only been Funk for a year and some change.
He's got more Ws than Ls, so he's always one to be a bit cocky and reckless - though never at anyone's expense.
He's more talkative than Hobie - and WAY more flirty than Hobie, ready to wink at anyone willing to stare.
Like Hobie, Artie has his own groupies. And the pair on campus do get stares (and whispers. and giggles); Two 6'5 dudes with enough hair to cause an eclipse, walking around in loud ass boots, they're sure to draw attention.
Something Artie loves.
Artie considers himself a Ladies' Man. And a Man's Man. And what gender you have to offer really. (He's still a 'Hobie' - he doesn't discriminate)
He's got a waterbed in his boathouse, shag carpets, and wine at the ready. He loves sweet-talking people, and showering them in compliments. Whereas Hobie's love language is Physical Touch, Artie's is Words of Affirmation.
But all Hobie has to do is open his mouth and Be British and suddenly Artie's date is swooning and he's like 'Brotha, I'mma need you to shut the hell up for a second right quick.'
If you hang out with them, get ready for Hobie hanging off your shoulder, while Artie is in your ear complimenting your outfit.
Fighting:
Artie's fighting style is a lot more fluid than Hobie's with a lot of martial arts involved - similar to blaxploitation movies of the era.
Hobie thinks he looks bloody ridiculous meanwhile Artie is like 'if dem damn jeans weren't so tight maybe you could get like me and have some flair in your fight, my man.'
He also has an INCREDIBLY MEAN backhand.
Ideology:
The two of them are fairly close, hanging out with each other a lot. Though the two of them are fairly different. Artie is far more pacifist than Hobie, but that doesn't mean he's above violence.
He's just not one to talk about it, or threaten it. He's more of the 'let people talk - don't start none, won't be none'. Camp - and he'll almost never throw the first punch. Though he absolutely considers intimidation, selling hard drugs, and fucking with the general population 'starting some'.
Their ideology may clash heads everyone once in a while, but they hardly ever fight. At all. Instead, they have frequently heated, in-depth debates.
Artie may not be as radical or educated on things as Hobie, plus Hobie has ten years of extra history to pull from, but the two of them do it often, and it keeps them spry.
The only problem is, they get so into it, it SO HARD to understand what they're saying. Accents, slang, cutting each other off, roping other people into the conversation to back them up. It's WILD.
Artie is a lot more materialistic than Hobie. Not as critical of capitalism, Artie likes to game it rather than complain about it.
Unlike Hobie, Artie LOVES the finer things in life, and spoiling those around him. He likes gold over silver, and wears more rings than spikes.
He's a bit full of himself, and he carries a rag in his pocket to whip blood off his nice white boots. Something Hobie wouldn't be caught DEAD doing.
And Hobie clowns him for it everytime. Artie doesn't care. 'True playas never play sloppy.'
But how can he afford all of this? Well,
He's not as uhh,..honest as Hobie. But he has a heart of gold (get it?). And he never lies just to lie - if he's doing it, it's probably for work, or to Miguel, because he does not respect Miguel.
Artie be stealing. He's a master at sleight of hand. If it's a big corporation, it's free game. He never steals money - but to put it concisely: He's a smooth mfer.
He likes gold - he thinks it looks nice. But he knows for a fact that the worth of it is completely manufactured my human and capitalism, and that it's literally just a pretty metal.
He knows that paying hundreds for a chain or gold is exploitative, especially when it's stolen to begin with. So to him, it's justifiable, gimmie.
He also does it mostly for fun, a magic trick - in the same way Hobie makes stuff 'disappear' while talking to Miles, and doing hand tricks.
Artie does that, but more often, and more skillfully.
He doesn't do it all the time, but the first time he did it in front of Hobie - snatching Hobie's homemade watch of his wrist - Hobie was genuinely surprised.
Mostly he does it to make things disappear from your hand, parts he finds lying around, and playing pranks on people like Miguel. Generally, just being a lil shit.
He's a sweet-talker and a big steppa.
Unlike Hobie, Artie knows better than you force his way in. Artie slides in. He can talk them in to anywhere.
He'll pretend to be someone else, pretend to know someone else, steal passes and key cards to get in, and try to attack from the shadows when he can.
In battle, Spider-Punk is the louder, chattier, more immature one. And Spider-Funk is the chiller, sarcastic one.
Like twins, the two of them have their own in-jokes, and they hang at each other's places all the goddamn time. Though they live in different universes and decades, Artie & Hobie are kinda a package deal.
They may not always be together - they both got their own shit to do and they're not actually brothers - but if you hang with one, it's only a matter of time before you meet the other.
"Why is your brother American?"
"Divorce." - "Adoption."
........
"Adoption." - "Divorce."
"One of you or the both of you are lying."
Diane & Artie & Annie -
[This section is about my main OC Disco-Spider Diane, and her variant Annie P. Disco-Spider is Hobie's....something and they are happily....a something]
Every Hobart needs his Diane, and Artie is no different.
Artie & Diane:
And like usual, it all starts at the beginning.
Diane was the one to recruit Artie - because of course she was. And Lyla had told her two things: He was a guitarist, and his name was Artie. That's all she needed to know.
Lyla wanted it to be a surprise.
She snuck back stage to his show, brushed off the nearly palpable feeling of deja vu in the air, broke into his dressing room, and then tried to flirt him into joining the Society. Easy peasy.
Diane is a very oblivious woman. They spoke for nearly 10 minutes - and Artie decided to hear her out. He sat down on the couch in his dressing room, pulled back his hair and-
Diane goes -
"Hobie??? Is that you?! Oh my goodddd, you look so cute! Your hair!! Hobarrrrt - Why you ain't say nothing, had me standing here doing all this."
Speech completely forgotten. Mind you, she still hasn't explained anything. Diane is destined to freak out every Hobart she meets.
Artie is starting to think he should stop flirting with weird ass groupies that break into his dressing room.
Diane takes out her watch, the watch he doesn't know she has. She pulls up Lyla, the AI he doesn't know she has. And Diane asks her -
"Lyla! Does Artie stand for-"
"It does!"
"Oh my god!!! That makes this SO much easier! You're soo sweet, awww!!"
"You know I saw the mission and thought of you-"
"Am I on drugs right now?"
Needless to say - Diane's recruitment was successful.
Diane and Artie actually get on well, really well. Like weirdly well.
Artie and Diane are both extroverted, flirty, and a bit full of themselves. They're expressive, and more into their hair than they're willing to admit. They're perfect for each other - and people notice.
And Diane finds it a TAD BIT WEIRD
I mean, the differences between her and Hobie is what Diane loves about them - they're like sugar and spice, PB and J.
Sometimes Artie and Diane may accidentally finish each other's sentences - and Diane will be like 'Hey don't do that :)'. Other times, Artie will playfully be like 'Why are you standing so close to me, mama?' Just to piss her off.
Of course, Diane thinks he's 'cute'. But not Hobie Cute. And unfortunately, he 'speaks American'.
Besides, Hobie is the only Hobart for her.
Artie is definitely into Diane, but more in the 'she's a catch I would go for' kinda way. He did hit on her a couple times early on in their situation - but once she made it clear that she was 'seeing Hobie', he took the hint.
There's no jealously there - Hobarts are incapable of it. In fact, he's kinda proud the only other guy who could pull the hot girl is ..another him.
Now, Artie is a lot more like a big brother, kinda like the ones Diane grew up with in the Panther's house.
He's protective of her, in a 'Be mean to her and I'll deliver an ass whoppin on a plate' way. He thinks she's cute in the way a platonic sense, and finds her groupie mode to be as amusing as it is adorable.
It's ironic though that his ACTUAL girlfriend is - well, Diane's Opposite.
Artie & Annie:
[This section is shorter, and will be longer in Annie's post]
Diane Pastors is Annie P. is Mod-Spider.
Artie's girlfriend, Annie is the farthest thing from Diane while somehow still being just as big of a diva.
An avid feminism campaigner and modern woman, she would never be caught DEAD hanging off of Artie like that. And she can't stomach Diane all that much.
Hobie, Annie HATES. And not in a coy way. She thinks he's obnoxious - she calls him a poseur. She thinks he's a scrub.
Her & Artie are in a committed relationship - officially boyfriend and girlfriend. And instead of Annie, Artie is the one who wears her name on a chain.
Just like Diane and Hobie, Annie and Artie have a musical duo - called ModFunk.
We're almost done I PROMISE.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Random Details:
Artie's design is an inverted version of Hobie's, but it's also inspired heavily by Jimi Hendrix, mainly this photo on the left.
Right is an example of Artie's Style. His universe has a paint-marker aesthetic, a lot more colorful and soft than Hobie's, with dripping paint and splatters, but it tones down a lot - like Gwen's.
Artie plays Soul, Jazz, and Funk.
He has a band with his version of Daredevil, Felicia Hardy, and Captain Anarchy.
Artie has killed cops - and soldiers before. But he doesn't see it as a big deal. He hates cops, but he doesn't focus on it. He doesn't discriminate. Ass Whoopin's for everybody.
He DOES pull his hair back, his face isn't covered all the time. Maybe 80% of the time.
He can get around with Spidey Sense, so he doesn't care much - he loves his fro and is always picking it out.
He Pavitr are like best friends. Pavi and The Brown Twins get LOUD AS HELL when all together.
Gwen thinks he's an absolute goofball - So Artie tries his best to make her laugh. She seems like she needs it.
When not on stage and in battle, he prefers to play an acoustic guitar, which Hobie doesn't like playing. His acoustic is also blue.
Him and Hobie can play on each other's guitars, but it sounds very trippy, and VERY VERY weird, abnormally so.
If their heads are covered, or hair done like each other's, they can seamlessly pass as each other.
Hobie SUCKS at an American accent - but somehow, he can mimic Artie's perfectly.
It's the same for Artie - sucks at British, but can speak like Hobie.
He loves chocolate candy bars, Hobie likes fruity candy.
They do write songs together and go to each others shows, though they don't ever really perform together.
They wrestle A LOT
Artie is a genius as well, and they work on mechanics together, Artie is great at math specifically.
He and Hobie do each others hair care and help oil each other's scalps.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So uh.....that's Artie :) The guy
If you made it this far THANK YOU THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ENTERTAINING ME - Artie platonically gives you a red rose.
ALSO TELL ME Why I tried to draw him like Jimi Hendrix But he looking like the Jackson 5 IM SO SORRY YALL
Here's OG Hobie as a thank you! Just imagine two Hobarts standing on either side of you both tall and with big hair and touchy and talkative as fuck Diane is living the DREAM let your OCs be happy
Bye.
#Here's my special guy#I tried giving Jimi Hendrix but I got Jackson 5#NO PROOFREAD NO IM NOT DOING IT!#IM SOOOO HAPPY TO BE DONE WIHT ONE OF THESEEE OH MY GOOODDDDDD#spiderman#atsv#spider man#marvel#across the spiderverse#hobie brown#spider punk#spiderpunk#spidersona#spidersonas#hobie brown x oc#hobie x oc#hobie brown sona#discospider#disco spider#funk spider#funkspider
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I'm having incoherent thoughts about clone danny again from the clone/clone^2 au (when am I not?) but more specifically I'm thinking about his reaction to finding out he's a clone. The standalone clone au digs into that a little more than clone^2, which is more focused on Danny and Damian's relationship. But neither (so far) really get into Danny's issues about finding out he's a clone after 15 years of thinking he wasn't.
Because he resents his parents for not telling him for so long. He resents the way he found out; through a trivial school project rather than a sit-down talk. He resents the fact that, apparently, they had meant to tell him sooner. But forgot. He resents the fact that they never told him because finding out feels like something was stolen from him when it had the chance to not be.
Danny Fenton, just fifteen, cloned not even half a year ago, knows what that personal violation of autonomy feels like. He knows what it's like to be cloned and while he loves Ellie, he does, she's his sister, and in this au his twin. But he is still left with that feeling of unsafety after realizing he'd been cloned. Being cloned is violating. The onset realization that it's so easy to get DNA without the other party noticing, and that what was stopping someone from trying to clone him again?
Followed only after with the rest of the inexplainable mix of feelings of being cloned, the rest of that inner conflict and panic that's an ugly mocktail of emotions that range from horror to fear. Trying to imagine what it's like to be cloned from the cloned party, and I imagine that it leaves you with the feeling of needing to crawl out of your own skin with discomfort.
And then he gets put on the other side of it. Danny Fenton, only fifteen, was cloned not even half a year ago, finding out he is a clone. And reactions, I imagine, can vary from person to person. But to him, it feels like something got stolen from him, like someone took a hole puncher and stuck it right into his chest and stole a chunk of himself from him.
It changes nothing about him and yet it changes everything. It's a betrayal on it's own to just find out he was a clone and they didn't tell him for fifteen years -- it shouldn't mean anything, because he's still Danny, and yet it means everything. It's him, it's him, it's about him. It's his personhood. It's about the fact that a load-bearing rock in his identity just crumbled beneath his feet and now there's a rockslide.
Because then he finds out that they used the wrong DNA. Its like pouring salt in an open wound. He's not even related to his parents or his sister, when for years he thought he was. It's the fact that pieces of his identity that he's been so secure in for so long just got ripped away from him in an instant. Then they tell him -- only through his own horrified prompting -- that the person whose DNA they used -- Bruce Wayne -- didn't even know he existed. That they accidentally used the wrong DNA, then didn't tell the person whose DNA they used.
The betrayal of being lied to for years turns really quickly into horror at his own existence. Something very similar to the horror he felt at being cloned and the skin-crawling discomfort that made him feel like his own skin wasn't really his. And then its not. It's actually not. Nothing but his own name feels like it belongs to him anymore -- not his hair, not his eyes, not his heart or his lungs, nothing feels like his anymore and he didn't know what that felt like until it was gone.
It's a question of Nature Vs. Nurture -- where does the line of "nature" begin and where does the line of "nurture" end? What of him is actually his? What of him is Bruce Wayne's? It's not logical, it's not supposed to be. It's a load-bearing wall on the house of his identity being destroyed and now everything else is caving down in on him. What belongs to Danny, what belongs to Bruce Wayne?
#dpxdc#dp x dc#danny fenton is not the ghost king#dp x dc crossover#dpxdc crossover#dpdc#clone^2#danny fenton is a clone#its a combination 'oh my god i've been cloned too i know how violating that feels holy fuck' empathy and also the horror of finding out tha#the things you knew about yourself that you thought were unchanging was all WRONG.#its the fact that tragedy is always one step away from comedy. they're twins for a reason. the humor of finding out you're a clone through#a silly school project and the *horror* of finding out you're a clone from a silly school project instead of a proper conversation#danny goes into his room after he's done talking to his parents and he vomits into the garbage can under his desk. utterly horrified#and he calls sam and tucker crying. it shouldn't change anything he knows this and yet it changes EVERYTHING. he doesn't feel like himself#he doesnt feel like himself any*more.* this might be cause for him to do a closet overhaul. something to make himself feel like he's#in control of himself again. piercings. temporary hair dye. *something* to feel like he's in control.#its no wonder why he never wants to tell bruce wayne he exists because he *knows* how violating that feels and he's *afraid.*#it makes him takinh in damian a little more remarkable bc it undoubtedly made#his identity issues worse. but thats a child and a child who needs help and danny is *kind*
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Why, Dorian?!
*SPOILERS*
Why does Dorian kill Basil? We’re not given much of a reason beyond mad passion, a random onset of hatred:
Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything.
We’re not explicitly told why Dorian suddenly feels such hatred for Basil, but here’s my theory:
At this point, Dorian has well and truly gone off the deep end. The state of the portrait makes that clear (and remember, the description we’re given is of the portrait before Dorian murders someone). He’s an evil person. And Basil finally realizes that, once it sinks in that the picture is the same one he painted.
So, what does Basil do? Does he run and scream? Does he curse Dorian? Express regret that he and Dorian ever met? These are the reactions that Dorian is expecting. He’s probably gotten such reactions before, from other people whose hearts he’s broken. Remember, Dorian’s been taught to be cynical by Lord Henry, so, Dorian’s cynicism is deeply-entrenched by now. He values beautiful things because he does not value people, and maybe assumes that everyone is as bad as he is deep-down. I think he expects Basil to hate him.
Instead, Basil encourages Dorian to ask God for forgiveness, to redeem himself. That demonstrates that Basil still loves Dorian, and that Basil himself is willing to forgive Dorian. He’s also not a cynic -- he believes that everyone deserves a chance at redemption, as a Christian is supposed to. And Dorian recoils a bit. “What? I can’t be redeemed, Basil! I’m Evil with a capital E!” And, as if to prove it, Dorian stabs him. Dorian experiences the wild hatred for Basil in that moment because Basil’s reaction is dissonant. It contradicts Dorian’s worldview, and maybe makes him feel guilty for the first time in a while. Rather than deal with that, Dorian kills the last person who sincerely believed he could be better.
Also, I love the image of Dorian idly sniffing the flower and then crushing it in his hand -- he enjoys Basil’s passion for him in an indifferent and detached way, then casually destroys it.
#dorian gray weekly#dorian gray#the picture of dorian gray#basil hallward#oscar wilde#gothic literature#gothic lit#literary analysis#literary criticism
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a few more prompts
This crime is going almost too well?
Can you play with my hair?
Of all the people to body swap with. Of all the days.
This is no time for cute cat pictures and heart emojis!!!
And ANOTHER THING. Zombies-
Hey. Honestly? [deep breath] [SCREAMS]
Nothing like yard sale drama and intrigue!
I did not see your text. Actually I can't read. It's very sad. Sudden onset adult illiteracy is very real-
Do not put it in your mouth!
I know I got in trouble for buying them a very cool toy last time, but hear me out.
Bite me. You gotta.
I am not eating this raw, actually. Nope.
How long did it take you to make that for me? NO I am not crying
You drive me insane. Obviously I would go to hell for you
What does this button do? I gotta know
Sword fighting is even more charged than I expected and I was not prepared
I know you grew up in a wet cardboard box all alone but I cannot believe you have not experienced this. I think we have to, right now, immediately
We both showed up alone to the couples cake decorating class, so obviously-
Oops! Run
It hurts, but it rules
After a bad day, what we really need is some chocolate and violence.
Meow? Are you kidding me?
Oh don't even get me STARTED on monsters-
Pick your battles. As in let go of some of them please I swear you cannot fight it all
You know that object from the thrift store we thought was haunted? Haha so guess what,
Good chances we all die. Counterpoint, everyone who lives gets ice cream with sprinkles, so gear up!
I think I pretty explicitly said not to get it on the carpet.
So your mic wasn't off,
Please dress up with me? Please please please?
It isn't my blood. Don't get it twisted
Can we kiss behind the mini golf windmill one more time?
Magic is real, it just looks fake.
Quick! Propose to me! Also, what's your name?
We have to get you a new super costume.
You're enchanting. You're resplendent. You're a little bit on fire,
I gotta be honest. I have no idea what's going on and I think I waited too long to say so. Sorry?
Why do they have cat ears? They're supposed to be DEAD
I have normal feelings about this. And regular opinions. And I'm vibrating a reasonable amount.
Help, help, I'm not supposed to be in this universe!!
I will help you ruin your hair, obviously, but you have to tell me what's going on.
You wore that to the funeral??
Baking is science. Wizardry is science. You know what isn't science?
Tired, angry, and covered in spaghetti sauce, and here I am at your door. But I can explain?
Bear. Seriously
gonna destroy you and end your legacy forever xoxo <3
Nothing could possibly make me laugh right now. Don't you dare start doing silly voices at me.
You know what this giant fancy crystal is good for? Blunt force head trauma
I know it's super dangerous but when your eyes glow like that I can't focus on the battle at all…
Life finds a way?
Fighting? No, no, we're having a great time arguing about this.
#writing prompts#writing ideas#prompts#prompt list#rp prompts#rp ideas#creative writing#writing inspo#writing inspiration#otp prompts#roleplay prompts#prompt meme#writing prompt#story ideas#rp starters#romance prompts#writing#writeblr#story prompt#trope prompts#fic inspo#fic inspiration#fanfic inspo#fanfic inspiration#fanfiction prompts#fanfiction ideas#for ise <3#setting#setting prompts#drawing prompt
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