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the haunting cry of a hollow heart

the haunting cry of a hollow heart | E | 8.6K | Read here (or below cut)

Castiel, despite his interest in all things other, despite his favor for the fantastical, his love for reading stories and fairytales, despite his faith and religion, he didn’t believe in the supernatural. --

Though, regrettably, much to his chagrin, perhaps if he had, he wouldn’t have been so unprepared. --

He believed in the afterlife, believed in God, angels (he was named after one, after all) and demons, Heaven and hell. But that was where his belief both started and ended. He didn’t believe in those creatures the very stories he loved to read warned him about, the creatures that shape-shifted, or sucked humans dry. The creatures that feasted on dead flesh, or came from other lands, other universes.

Though, regrettably, much to his chagrin, perhaps if he had, he wouldn’t have been so unprepared. However, less regrettably, it did put him in the position of crossing paths with a man who, by all accounts would have never known he’d existed, a handsome athlete who ran in completely different crowds—or so he presumed originally—a man who he only knew in name until the very object of his disbelief brought them together.

Castiel was working late in the library that night, when he heard Charlie’s bright voice greet him from a distance.

“Yo, what’s up?” She had a grin on her face, of which he could hear before he even saw her.

Not that it was very hard, even over the stacks of books he was carting around, and through the thick bindings of ones already shelved, her bright red bob could be seen coming across campus.

“Charlie.” He said in lieu of a proper hello, but his tone was no less fond.

“Look at what I found.”

Castiel didn’t have time to ask before she was thrusting a piece of paper to his chest, a smug look on her face.

“And by found, naturally you mean…” he asked skeptically, pulling the paper away from himself and reading it.

“This is a flyer for the gala. The same flyer that’s been posted to the events billboard since the beginning of the semester.”

“Okay, so I might have taken-“

“Pilfered-“

Charlie playfully shoved his shoulder, and shot him a glare, without any of its usual bite, had it been directed toward anyone but him.

“-Taken,” she repeated, purposefully ignoring his correction, “from one of the boards, yes, but there’s so many of them, it’s not like they’ll miss one.”

Castiel hummed disapprovingly, but let her continue.

“I thought we could go!”

At that, Castiel furrowed his brow. “Go? To the Valentine’s Day gala?”

“Yeah! C’mon, it'll be fun. We’ll stuff our faces with free food, and watch people get shitfaced and make fools of themselves on the dance floor. Think of all the blackmail.”

“And with whom are you thinking of bringing as your date?”

“You, silly, duh! We’ll go together. As friends of course. Because you’re dreamy, but definitely not my type. Seeing as you’re not a girl.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “You’re not my type either.” He muttered, handing her back the flyer.

The ‘seeing as I like guys’ went unsaid, but Charlie smiled anyway. They both knew this of one another of course, having been friends since freshman year, when Charlie bounded into his life uninvited but no less welcome, but Charlie liked to bring it up every now and then, “as a reminder” she had said once, flourishing it with a wink. Though, it was her odd idiosyncrasies that made her so likable by even someone like Castiel himself—not that he was entirely lacking in those either, except, people usually steered clear of him for his.

“And who knows, maybe there’ll be some hot people there we can hit on. Wins all around the board.” Charlie added jovially, taking the flyer back, only to wave it about the air as she gestured excitedly.

“You make it sound like we’re already going.”

She smiled at him guiltily, and Castiel couldn’t help but sigh.

“Charlie…”

“Don’t be mad, okay? Promise you won’t be mad?”

“That depends. What did you do?” He asked, though by the look on his friend’s face, he was certain he already knew the answer.

“About that…I…might have already…bought us tickets. To go.”

“Charlie…” Castiel said again, not bothering to hide the weariness in his voice.

“You said you wouldn’t be mad!”

“Actually I said it depends. But that’s not the point. You never asked if I would want to attend.”

“Well, that’s because I knew you’d say no.” Charlie snorted, not looking all that sorry for it.

Castiel knew she wasn’t.

“You don’t do anything fun unless we make you, and this is me making you. Besides, you can’t say you’d rather be working late hours in the library of all places, all by yourself, again, when you can be hanging out with the coolest people on the planet! And you know I’m right.”

Castiel sighed again, this time in, albeit reluctant, acquiescence. Not that Charlie would take no for an answer, anyway.

She grinned at the droop of his shoulders, knowing full well that was him giving up the fight. The queen, per usual, proved her right to the title; Castiel was no stranger to loss when it came to arguing with Charlie. He was certain no one was. She got her way in the end, eventually.

“Fine.”

“Yes! No one deserves to be alone on Valentine’s Day, Castiel. Even jaded history majors with a work study in the university library, such as yourself.”

“I’m not jaded,” he defended, turning back to his long since forgotten task of shelving the returns. “My people skills are just…rusty.”

“Unless they learned to talk back, which would be super cool by the way, burying yourself in work with books as your only company isn’t going to help.”

That, Castiel surmised, was a lesson he knew all too well.

Ever since her reveal that they would be attending the gala, courtesy to none other than herself, Charlie hadn’t shut up about it. Every chance she got she talked about it with the excitement erring on that of a small child, that Castiel couldn’t help but allow it to bleed into himself, despite his earlier grievances. He still had his doubts of course, feeling rather under qualified for a social occasion such as a dance, but it really did beat staying in library, or worse, in his dorm, all by himself, with nothing to do whilst his friends had fun living life—he’d also rather not have to hear the couple in the room beside him have raucous sexual relations all night. He, too, has learned that lesson the hard way.

“We should go shopping this weekend, make it a whole thing.” Charlie suggested to the table, before stealing some of the fries off Castiel’s plate, having finished her own minutes prior, and popping them into her mouth.

Gabriel snorted. “What makes you think we don’t already have outfits?”

Meg, who was pretending not to listen, but so clearly was, looked up from her phone with a smirk. “We’ve all seen inside your closet, that’s what.”

“I’ll have you know that everything in there is peak fashion.”

Meg raised a manicured brow. “To whom exactly? The dead guy you inherited it second hand from?”

“Hey! Thrifting is very efficient, and cost effective. You know, for a college student.”

“You’re a graduate student, mastering in business management, I hardly think you need to be frugal.” She argued, and Gabe crossed his arms, pouting.

“Cassie, you’re just going to let her be mean to me?!”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Meg didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

Gabriel gasped, looking thoroughly offended. He shook his head, and sullenly turned back to his own food.

“Don’t worry, Gabe, we’ll pick something real nice for you. Oh, we can even do a montage!”

“Sorry, Red. You may be able to get me to tag along at the mall with you, but I’m not going to be participating in that.” Meg said defiantly, her mind already made.

“But…montage.”

Gabe scoffed, muttering into his lunch. “Forget trying to convince this one, Charles, she’s stubborn. Like a mu-OW!”

Meg glared at Gabe, who was now rubbing his shin, from across the table. “Finish that, and die.”

“We’ll be there.” Castiel said suddenly, interrupting his friend’s antics. “Unless you’d rather show up naked.” He said this to his brother.

“Ew. Don’t give him ideas.” Charlie scrunched up her face in disgust, and Gabriel let out a laugh.

“Hey! There’d be a lot of people who’d enjoy that kind of show.”

“In your dreams.” Meg said, at the same time of Castiel’s, “not if it got you kicked out.”

“You lot are so boring.” Charlie whined, finishing off Castiel’s fries too. “Regardless of whether or not you guys are doing a montage, I’m making you watch me do one.”

The four of them set out that weekend to go shopping for outfits, and, although they shared their initial reluctance at lunch all those days prior to their outing, Charlie did, in the end, get her montage(s). Castiel, despite feeling foolish whilst modeling his various selection of outfits—all chosen meticulously for him by Charlie and Meg because he “couldn’t be trusted to put together a coherent look that both fit properly and wasn’t a boring color”—couldn’t have denied his red headed friend in the first place. By the two additional shows they got alongside his and Charlie’s, he figured it was much the same for Meg and Gabriel too.

Castiel wouldn’t be incorrect in presuming that Charlie already knew this, but he’d be damned if he told her that she was right, that he had fun, of course he did, in time that would have otherwise been spent in solitude brought upon by no one but himself, lest he inflate her ego any further.

With four new outfits under their metaphorical belts, they left their shopping spree in good spirits. It was only natural then, that the overall good mood wouldn’t last, and the playful camaraderie established between the friends would change the second they got back to campus, to blue and red flashing lights.

“What…do you think happened?” Charlie asked, her expression mirroring what Castiel was sure all their faces looked like in that moment.

He shook his head in lieu of answering, and swallowed down the bile rising in his throat.

As they neared the quad, they merged silently with the ever growing group of onlookers, most of whom were peers and faculty, whispers amongst the sea of people seeming all too loud over the eerie blanket of quiet. The cops, separated from them only by a thin barrier of police tape, stood just along edges of the area they cordoned off, no doubt keeping the crowd at bay. They offered no explanation, though Castiel could barely make out the murmured “stay back”s over the dread in his gut.

He did hear the sharp inhale beside him, however, that was Meg, he was certain, closely followed by a gasp, Charlie, and when he looked over, he saw why.

There, lying just beyond, was a body.

The grass was dark, no doubt stained crimson from blood, and the large gaping wound, from where the skull was bashed in, from which could be none other than its source, was still seeping, still fresh. The eyes stared out, wide and unseeing, as Castiel stared back in abject horror.

That was when he saw him. Jaw set and arms crossed, just across the way on the other side, stood Dean Winchester.

The man looked determined, not surprised at all to see the dead body of a classmate, in fact, and Castiel couldn’t help but watch, watch as Dean seemed to assess, seemed to study the crime scene in front of them, as if he was filing it away for later. Castiel recognized that look, because it was one he shared whenever he was trying to solve a puzzle.

Dean looked up then, like he could feel Castiel’s gaze on him, and their eyes met. The moment they did, Castiel remembered—albeit rather shamefully—the way stomach flipped for an entirely different reason than the horrific sight before them. Gabe’s iron grip on his arm was the only thing able to pull his attention away, and so he took the time to check in on the well-being of his friends, but by the time Castiel got the chance to look back, Dean was already gone.

To say the suicide—it was classified as a suicide—stirred up the atmosphere on campus, would be an understatement. Castiel couldn’t remember a time where he’d felt so shaken in his faith, so rocked to the core, raw and open and vulnerable. It was on everyone’s minds, and on everyone’s lips, and it was all anyone heard about the next few days. They didn’t cancel classes, or work, the world still went on—even though their fellow classmate’s’ was cut short, Castiel reminded himself—everything proceeding as normal, as if someone hadn’t just died, and perhaps that was worse.

Castiel didn’t know what he expected, or why he thought it would go differently, but he prayed and prayed and prayed for peace for the lost soul. Still, he couldn’t get the image out of his head. Nor could he get a certain cutting figure, but that was neither here nor there.

The very little information he had was acquired secondhand from the tail-ends of gossip, at work in the library. Apparently, or so the running theory was, the young woman, in a bout of madness, bashed her head against the tree until she dropped. Another student on their way back to their dorm found her and called the proper authorities. Castiel couldn’t imagine being the one to find the body, and he’d seen it for himself that night. He also heard that the woman’s boyfriend was beside himself with grief, most understandably, that not even he believed she would kill herself, that they were happy. She’d begged him to take her to the gala and he’d agreed.

Castiel also heard that her brains had been sucked out, but he was certain that was just hearsay; she had severe head trauma, after all, it probably only seemed like her brains were gone, when in reality they were just…well.

Shaking his head from his musings, if they’d even be called that, he got back to work, trying to lose himself in the repetitiveness of routine. Charlie had been unnaturally quiet the past few days, the dance quickly overshadowed by the recent events that transpired, and none of them felt it right to change the subject either. Castiel understood, for he was much the same, but he relished in being able to escape feeling for however long his shift was.

“Uh, hey, do you have any books on Gaelic mythology and folklore?”

Castiel paused what he was doing, and turned to greet the voice—definitely not Charlie this time—only to meet a pair of recently familiar, but quite beautiful up close, green eyes.

“Oh. Hello, Dean.” He said dumbly, but was rewarded with an amused smirk.

“Heya, Cas. Well, do you?”

Castiel furrowed his brow. “What.”

Dean chuckled. “Have books. On Gaelic folklore.”

Castiel inwardly cursed his ineptitude, and allowed himself to blink, forcing his basic motor functions to, well, function.

“Yes. We do. You know who I am?”

Dean regarded him curiously, brow raised. “Well, yeah. You’re friends with Charlie. We’ve never had the pleasure of meeting before, but she does talk about her other friends.”

“Oh.” He said again, finding himself at a loss for words.

Dean didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he still seemed rather amused by it, much to Castiel’s displeasure.

Instead of dwelling on it, however, Castiel abandoned his cart and gestured to Dean for him to follow, leading the other man to the section where he’d find what he was looking for.

“If you need anything else, let me know.”

He didn’t ask why an engineering student would need a book on Gaelic folklore, nor did Dean offer up an explanation.

“Awesome, thanks Cas.”

The nickname stole Castiel’s breath away with a familiarity he wasn’t aware they had, because they didn’t, not really—Dean was just friendly it seemed—also did he say he knew Charlie, she never said anything why didn’t she say anything—and he stood there, lingering longer than he should, awkwardly shifting in place.

“I’m…going to go…now.” He announced unhelpfully, and Dean had the decency not to comment on it.

“You do that.” He replied with a smile, and turned his attention to the shelves.

Castiel, released from whatever hold the other man had on him the second his gaze was elsewhere and no longer pointed at him, quickly made his way back to finish his work, lest he embarrass himself further.

“I wasn’t aware you knew Dean Winchester.” He grumbled to Charlie at dinner that night.

“Dean? He’s my handmaiden, of course I know Dean.”

Gabriel snorted. “Handmaiden?”

“There’s a story to that, I can tell.” Meg said, amused.

Charlie chuckled, a welcomed sound that the group hadn’t realized they missed until they heard it.

“There is, but I’m not telling. A queen’s gotta have her secrets.”

Meg clicked her tongue disapprovingly, and Gabriel groaned, complaining about “being edged, and not in the fun way” which promptly earned a smirk from Meg, a loud, boisterous laugh from Charlie, and a look of disgust from Castiel.

There was another ‘suicide’ reported that night.

Castiel was in the hall heading to his religious studies class when he next ran into Dean Winchester. He couldn’t fathom how he went his entire college career without so much as seeing a glimpse of the man, and now he saw him thrice in a matter of a few days. All because their peers appeared to be being picked off one by one.

There were now an accumulated three deaths since the first, and Castiel’s doubt had steadily increased right alongside the creeping uptick in body counts. He detested his wavering faith in the police, but there was only so many ‘suicides’ exacted in the same manner that they couldn’t be categorized as ‘suicides’ anymore. Two could possibly pass a coincidence, but three was a pattern; he knew that much. He had pondered, however, the reluctance in which the police seemed to label the ‘suicides’ as ‘murders’, but was only met with unease. For there to be murder, which Castiel was already (mostly) convinced was the case, would naturally mean for there to be a murderer.

But wouldn’t he want to know if his life was in danger? He wasn’t sure which option was scarier, but he was positive he’d rather be afraid and knowledgeable than ignorant but afraid anyway. So it was a dangerous doubt, Castiel surmised, since the only conclusion it led to was the authorities withholding the truth, regardless if it was due to their own incompetence or ulterior motives.

Dean looked furious, expression blazoned with a fierce determination, fiery and bright, even from the distance where Castiel stood. It was a devastatingly beautiful look on him, he noted sourly, seeing as his stupid heart couldn’t have picked a worse time to seek out another, and form a ridiculous infatuation that, Castiel knew, would go nowhere, regardless of their connection with Charlie.

He was talking with a much younger man, though, with the boy’s height, one wouldn’t be able to tell at first glance, and immediately Castiel knew this was Dean‘s little brother, Sam Winchester—a freshman in pre-law. Castiel recalled seeing him about, since a lot of their classes were in the same building.

“I’m pretty sure I know what it is, I just don’t know who it is.” Dean growled, crossing his arms in a posing figure, much like the one on the night they first met.

“We’ll figure it out, Dean. We always do.” Sam reassured, looking all the worse for wear as he said it, however.

Like he was trying to convince himself too.

“Yeah, but how many people have to die before then, Sammy?” Dean replied wearily, a horrifying dark look casting a dark shadow across Sam’s face.

Castiel’s chest seized in terror as he witnessed it; he’d never seen such a look on anyone’s face before, a look that, with resounding clarity, should not have ever had a place on the younger Winchester brother’s face.

“Oh hey, Cas.” Dean greeted as he noticed his approach, shooting a look at his brother before his face slipped into an easy grin.

Castiel noticed he did so with practiced familiarity, as if he was used to putting on a mask, but didn’t mention it.

“Cas?” Sam questioned, at the same time Castiel himself said, “hello, Dean. Sam.” With a cordial nod.

Were they actually investigating the incident? What business did two brothers have in a series of deaths? What could they do that the police already weren’t?

He didn’t think it wise to ask them any of these questions either.

“Hey, Castiel.” Sam said with a little wave, a small, friendly smile smoothing out his expression the same way his brother’s did.

“Just dropping off my baby bro to class.” Dean lied, just as easy as the rest of him, and reached across to ruffle Sam’s shaggy hair.

Sam squawked indignantly, knocking Dean’s hand aside with a rising blush to his cheeks. Dean chuckled at his brother’s embarrassment, which was an action definitely more genuine than anything else previously had been. Castiel had experience with this, after all, being a little brother himself, to Gabriel especially.

“You heading off to one of your smarty pants classes too, Cas?”

Castiel raised a brow. “I’m not sure what you mean by that, but I’m heading to my religious studies class, yes.”

Dean chuckled. “‘S’nothing, Cas. Just teasing you. Y’know, cuz you and Sam are both nerds, attending all your boring nerdy classes.”

Sam shot a glare at his brother, and Cas tilted his head to the side, curiously.

“Interesting. You seem to regard us as nerds, but you too are one. Perhaps not in the same way, but I would consider you a nerd most of all, considering your area of expertise.”

Sam snorted, his glare morphing into a smug grin as Dean spluttered. Apparently he had not expected Castiel to come back with such a lethal rebuttal.

“Damn, Cas.” Dean whistled, and Sam nodded his agreement.

“I’ve been telling him that for years.”

“Unfortunately I’ll be late if I stay any longer. Goodbye, Dean. Sam.”

He nodded his apologies as he said goodbye, and passed them by on the way to his class.

“See ya, Cas.” Dean said after him, before grunting in what Cas could only assume was an elbow to his side from Sam.

“Cas, huh?” He asked, amused.

“Shaddup!”

“I can’t believe we’re still going to this damned dance, after everything.” Meg mused, wrapping a long, thin section of her brunette hair around her curling iron.

Gabriel snorted, adjusting the cuffs of his creme colored blazer, as he stared at himself in the mirror. They were all getting ready in Charlie’s room, their hangout spot more often than not, since she bought out the double as a premium single (which meant more space and privacy), and could reasonably, and comfortably, fit them all. Though, Castiel shared the sentiment, and often wondered too, why they still planned to go.

It made him uneasy to think that it was just another excuse to sweep things under the rug and pretend everything was normal by the administration, since, aside from the plethora of grief counselors at their disposal, they hadn’t really done much in assuaging any actual grief by divulging in some sort of explanation why people were dying (read: being murdered, he begrudgingly admitted to himself, because people didn’t experience the same bouts of madness that drove them to suddenly kill themselves, all in the same exact manner as the one that succeeded them). He wouldn’t have believed it if he didn’t see it himself.

Safety, Castiel thought sullenly, apparently came second to whatever the reason was for the university’s decision to proceed as if nothing happened.

He was also still unsure what the Winchesters had to do with any of it.

“You don’t sound too displeased.” Gabriel commented, smoothing invisible creases on his maroon turtleneck.

Meg shrugged. “Do I like that people are dying? Of course not. But I suppose being distracted by a dance is better than focusing on the fact that life is short, and death is inevitable.”

Gabe groaned, and Charlie made a sound of discontent.

“Okay, yeah, bummer. I mean, at least we have each other, right? It can still be fun…”

Meg grinned, cat like. “Oh I definitely plan to still have fun.”

“Get laid you mean?” Gabriel teased, which only emboldened her.

Meg turned around, arms opened wide as she presented herself, devastatingly gorgeous in a satin crimson dress, with a black, mesh overlay, and a, in Castiel’s opinion, leg slit dangerously close to her upper thigh. It left little to be desired, but he couldn’t deny she looked amazing in it. Of course it wasn’t a surprise to any of them, since she’d chosen this particular dress during their shopping trip, that seemed so long ago now, rather than just last week.

“Have you seen me? Getting laid is half the fun. The remaining survivors won’t know what hit ‘em.” She all but purred, and Gabriel shook his head.

“Can’t believe you’d think about sex during these hard times.”

“Oh, and you aren’t?” Charlie quipped back, and Meg laughed.

He was glad his friends could find light in the darkness, but it didn’t sit right with him to participate. He did have the heart to. It didn’t feel right, when a guy lost his girlfriend, and then another girl lost hers. When another person lost their partner right after. And then, just the other day, another guy lost his boyfriend. It didn’t seem like the right time for anything, let alone love.

“Clarence, you okay? You’re awfully quiet over there.” Meg asked, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“I know it sounds kinda fucked up, but the situation is kinda fucked up.” Charlie added, reaching over to pat shoulder.

He loathed to be the one to bring down the mood so he forced a smile. “I know, it’s alright. I’m…okay.”

It was a lie, on every account, and they all knew it, but thankfully none of them pressed him further.

“Well, it’s settled then. We’re gonna go to the gala, just like planned, and we’re gonna have fun, stuff our faces, make fun of drunk people, and maybe get our flirt on.” Charlie said with a determined air of finality, and the rest of their group nodded.

“Are we all ready?” She asked, having been the first to finish, but looking nothing less than graceful in her fuchsia pantsuit.

Castiel looked down at himself, feeling a bit self conscious in black, slim fitting slacks, and a dusty rose colored dress shirt, his blazer a matching black with light, pink floral patterns, but both Meg and Charlie assured him when he tried it on, that he looked ‘hot’ in the outfit. He wasn’t all too sure he would have used those words, nor did he have desire to look ‘hot’, but he accepted the praise for what it was, and bought it with encouragement from all three of his friends.

He nodded reluctantly, and they all filed out of Charlie’s dorm, looking ready to take on the night. He tried not to imagine the walk to the campus ballroom as a death march to the gallows. Tried to ignore the impending doom settling deep in his gut, to think positive thoughts, about spending time with his friends having fun at the dance, what had been Charlie’s original selling point, when she approached him at work—which seemed like forever ago now—and proposed the idea of going to the dance in the first place.

He failed.

Castiel didn’t know precisely when it happened, but, at some point during the night, he and his friends got separated. He had excused himself to get some air outside in the hallway, away from prying eyes and warm bodies, tightly packed together on the dance floor, at cocktail tables, and hidden in not so secret corners.

He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall, when the sound of distant thudding reached his ears, just under the sound of the music, like an undercurrent to the pulsing bass of whatever was playing in the ballroom.

At first, he attempted to ignore it, truly he did. But it continued, louder and louder and more aggressive; it was too far to discern anything, so, in what must have been a fit of insanity, for the serious lapse in judgment, he pushed himself off the wall and walked toward the sound, curiosity getting the better of him.

What Castiel witnessed then was no short of terrifying. He rounded the corner, and nearly lost all his breath, watching in frozen terror as someone bashed their head repeatedly into the glass window of a classroom, his knees almost buckling at the wet crunch of their skull cracking against the surface of the glass, icy fractures running up and out like veins in a splintered web as it, too, broke under pressure.

The person was crying, screaming really, hands cupped over bloodied ears, begging for someone to “make it stop, please just make it stop!” When, seemingly all at once, it did.

With one last sounding thump, they slid down to floor, smearing blood and brain matter against the pane of glass, and Castiel was helpless to do anything but watch, an unfortunate bystander to such a vile display, like an out of body experience that rattled his very soul, whilst his real, tangible body, this corporeal form, stay firmly rooted where it was.

But nothing, and he meant nothing, would have ever prepared him for the absolutely repulsive, ghastly looking, free-floating creature that materialized out of nowhere, before it stuck its long, equally repulsive tongue into the stranger’s head, and (honest to god) slurped their brains out. If Castiel thought what had just transpired was hard enough to stomach, it was nothing compared to watching this…this thing feast on someone who, only minutes prior, had been a living, breathing human.

Eyes wide and full of fearful tears, mind screaming at him to “move, just move, get out of here, run!” Castiel managed to take a step back. Unfortunately for Castiel, the movement was enough to rouse the monster from its food, dead, milky white eyes zeroing in on him and once again stealing his breath away. Choking on a silent gasp, Castiel had just enough time to see it unhinge its jaw, before he finally forced himself into a sprint back the way he came, stumbling only when an ear piercing shriek sounded from behind him, so loud it shook the walls.

An unnatural mist he hadn’t noticed before, sluggishly seeped from the tiled floor, surrounding his ankles, pouring endlessly up and out, creeping along the walls and pooling across ceiling, and out of it came the screaming beast, somehow right in front of him, blocking Castiel’s path. He cried out in pain as it screamed even louder, the sound reverberating in his skull, causing his vision to blur. He reached up to cup his ears, his heart lurching at the warm fluid he felt trickle against his palms.

He realized that, and perhaps a bit too late, but again with resounding clarity, that this was what had killed all those other people. That this was what was going to kill him.

“Hey, you ugly son of a bitch!”

Castiel snapped his eyes open—when had he closed them, he couldn’t remember—and watched the creature tear its attention away from him, snarling toward the intruder.

“Get away from him!”

Castiel flinched at the sound of a shotgun round, heard the shells clatter to the floor as the shooter reloaded, but was unable to look away from the thing in front of him as it dissolved into whatever before his eyes, just as quickly as it appeared. And yet, Castiel dared not take a breath, in fear that it would return because he had.

“Is…is it dead?” He asked, realizing the screaming had stopped, despite the residual ringing in his ear.

“Unfortunately, no. Only pure gold can kill these things.” Dean answered, guiltily.

“Right.”

“But not to worry. Rock-salt rounds are enough to stall them for a bit. Banshees take longer to recover than other spirits, so we have some time.”

Castiel said nothing, and Dean looked over at him, worry in his expression. He reached out, a comforting hand on Cas’ shoulder.

“You okay, Cas? I know that can be…a lot your first time.”

“First time?” Castiel muttered, brow furrowed.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean had the gall to appear abashed, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “Y’know, your first encounter with the…supernatural.”

Castiel hated how he noticed how good Dean looked, even like that.

“The supernatural…” he parroted, as if trying it on for size.

And suddenly it all clicked in place. He glanced down at the gun, a sawed-off shotgun to be precise, in Dean’s hand, the one that had been used to blast away the banshee. He’d called it a banshee, a spirit, a malevolent fae spirit, from Gaelic folklore. Dean came to the library asking for a book on Gaelic folklore. He’d caught Dean and Sam talking about the murders after that. He remembered the ease at which Dean wore his mask then, how the lie came as free as breathing. The fierce determination radiating from both men, a look that Dean held close to his heart the very moment their eyes locked across the quad on the night of the first, and one Castiel noticed every time they ran into one another thereafter.

“Cas?”

“Dean.”

“Y-yeah?” Dean furrowed his brow, looking a bit put out by the lack of tone in Castiel’s voice, probably because he couldn’t read the situation anymore, but mostly concerned for, and about, Cas.

“You were investigating. The deaths.” A statement, not a question.

“Uh, kinda? Me and my brother we…hunt the supernatural.”

Castiel recalled how comfortable Dean looked when using the shotgun, the speed in which he reloaded after taking a shot, and hummed.

“A banshee. Did you hear it too then? You knew what it was.”

“Not exactly. I knew what it was because of the nature of the kills. Only its targets can hear its scream.”

Castiel closed his eyes and swallowed against the lump in his throat. “I heard it…”

“…”

Castiel opened his eyes, taking in the knowing look on Dean’s face, seeing the guilt and concern and anger—the latter not directed at him—there, all at once, wrapped into one gut wrenching expression.

“Am I going to die?”

“No.” Dean snapped immediately, sounding so sure that Castiel couldn’t help the flare of hope in his chest.

“Their screams are usually a death sentence, Dean. I watched…I watched that person get their brains sucked out. After they…killed themselves. It’s how the others died too, isn’t it?

“Fuck,” Dean cursed, shaking his head, “sorry you had to see that, Cas. It’s true I was too late to save them, but I will save you. I promise.”

Castiel didn’t feel like reminding Dean not to make promises he couldn’t keep. He really hoped that he could.

Castiel was in the middle of contemplating how mad his friends would be if he didn’t get to say goodbye, if he just left and disappeared without a word, when the walls of the hallway he and Dean retreated to (further, and at a safe distance, away from the ballroom) began to rattle. The lights flickered angrily, and the same mist from before returned, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Castiel heard its screams before anything else, however, and already knew it was back.

It materialized behind them, and all for Dean’s fast reflexes, he was still a tad too slow to react, and certainly felt it as his back made contact with the floor a good few feet away, after the banshee tossed him aside without even touching him.

“Dean!” Castiel called after him, only to be brought to his knees by the shrieking to his left, its rancid breath curling against his skin, and raising the hair on the back of his neck.

He grunted in pain, his ears ringing anew, and blindly struck out with the iron poker Dean had lent him, slumping when it, just as Dean said, disappeared. The relief was momentary, and it quickly reappeared beside Dean, who was still trying to grasp his bearings, looking downright pissed at being thwarted again.

“Son of a bitch-“ Dean’s curse was cut short, or rather, drowned out by another rattling screech, right in Dean’s face.

It reached out and pinned him down, and he turned his head, trying to wriggle out of its grip.

“Ugh! Ever heard of breath mint, lady?”

“Dean…” Castiel breathed, exasperated. He never ceased to be amazed by Dean’s tenacity to joke in the face of danger (literally).

Dean knocked their foreheads together, catching the banshee off guard, and managed to toss it off him, quickly grabbing his shotgun and taking a shot before it had time to recover. It exploded in a fiery cloud of whatever it was made of, and Castiel managed to pick himself up off of the floor, helping Dean up after making his way over to him.

“Thanks.” He said breathlessly, giving his hand a squeeze.

Castiel nodded, and didn’t fail to notice the way their hands lingered, before they dropped back down to their collective sides.

“Did you and Sam ever figure out why it’s here?”

Dean snorted. “Yeah. Our friendly neighborhood banshee is killing people because she’s jealous.”

“Jealous? Of whom?” Castiel asked, trying to make sense of it.

“Us. You know. Lovers, halves of a pair. Whatever. Guess Valentine’s Day stirred up some resentment, some bad memories.” Dean clarified with a shrug.

Castiel knew it wasn’t what Dean meant, when he said ‘us’, but he tried not to blush all the same.

“That’s why they were all people in a relationship?”

“Bingo. Banshees hunt in a particular place until there’s nothing left, and a college campus is basically a feast of couples, so our friend would have been well fed on us for a while, if it wasn’t for Sammy and I.” Dean sighed.

“Just wish we figured it out sooner.”

“You can’t blame yourself for that, Dean. But if what you said is true, why is she after me?”

“Eh, you got in her way. That, or you’re in love.” He said wryly, and at that Castiel did blush.

“Plus Charlie told me she signed you all up for the gala. Everyone who died so far was on that list. Could be a coincidence but…” Dean trailed off and shrugged again, but shot a smile over to Cas.

“You look really good by the way. Sorry you got caught up in all this. You got all dressed up and now you’re missing the dance, trying to hunt a banshee with me. You didn’t even know this stuff existed until now, and all you’re getting out of it is a ruined outfit.”

Castiel snorted. “And my life. I think surely that’s worth more. Along with everyone else’s life. I couldn’t care less about an…outfit. It was nice though.”

Dean chuckled. “Makes sense.”

“Besides, I didn’t even want to go. To the dance. Charlie made me. My only regret is that I didn’t let her know where I would be. But would you believe me when I’d say I’d rather be hunting a banshee with you, than in there with all those people?

“What, not a people person, Cas?”

Castiel shot him a deadpan look that made him laugh, and, despite himself, Cas found himself laughing along.

“Yeah. M’not either. Not really. Sure I talk a big game, but there’s only a few people who I can be real with, y’know?”

Castiel opened his mouth to reply, when the light above them exploded, and the banshee flew into them, dragging them across the hall and throwing them into the wall on the opposite end of where they had been standing. They crashed into each other, the impact stealing all the breath from his lungs, and they tumbled to the ground in a pile, the banshee’s resounding cackle rumbling the building like an earthquake.

Castiel rolled off of Dean, looking sullenly at their weapons that had clattered to the ground and skidded across the tile just out of reach.

“Damn, this bitch is really getting on my nerves.” Dean grunted out, almost a growl.

“I think I’m starting to share your sentiment.” Castiel managed, glaring at the imposing figure of the banshee, as she floated above them.

This time, when she screamed, both Cas and Dean cowered away from the sound.

“Really wish I had a golden blade right about now.” Dean joked, and Castiel groaned.

“Dean!”

“Sorry.” He apologized, though he didn’t sound that sorry to Castiel at all.

The banshee reached out and grabbed the lapels of Dean’s jacket, as if reminding them she was there, and picked him up off the ground. He scrambled for purchase, struggling in her tight grip, but his efforts were fruitless, and, as she raised them higher, her screaming never faltered.

Castiel reached up, wincing as the pads of his fingers pressed against the weeping wound at his forehead, and shakily lowered them again.

“If you wanted a dance, all you had to do was ask.” Dean quipped, which worked well in keeping her distracted.

“But any more than that I’ll have to politely decline. Don’t believe the rumors about me, I need to be wined and dined a least once before I put out.”

With a vindictive screech, Dean went flying again, but this time he was expecting it, and tumbled out of his fall. It wasn’t graceful by any means, but it still impressed Castiel.

He managed to grab the poker, his shotgun stuck between him and the banshee, and swung it as she charged at him. The moment she disappeared, Castiel scrambled up and tossed the shotgun to Dean, before ducking behind him.

Grateful that the attention was off him, he got to work, as Dean wildly swung at the banshee, her attacks becoming more ruthless as his hits became more predictable. He glanced up at the two of them, the mist acting as a smoke screen as she disappeared and reappeared, swirling around the poker as Dean used his baseball prowess to hit her every strike and lunge. It was ineffective in the long run, and hardly a long term solution, especially as Dean’s stamina wore out, but it helped Castiel by keeping her distracted once more.

When he finished, he stood up, fixing the banshee with a hard glare, the movement drawing her gaze to him.

“When it’s two against one, make sure to have eyes on both enemies.” He growled out, and as she charged after him, knocking an exhausted Dean off to the side, Castiel slammed his hand down on the blood sigil he made, activating both it and its copy on the opposite side of the hall.

It glowed bright, and in a matter of seconds, the banshee was dragged backward, and trapped against the wall, bound by the line of sigils. She roared, struggling against her invisible tether, mist swirling angrily, lights flickering like crazy, but she remained trapped, her fretting useless against the Celtic blood trapping spell.

“Holy shit, Cas!” Dean exclaimed, both pride and awe in his tone.

“You may be a hunter Dean, but you’re not the only one who reads.”

Dean grinned. “Awesome. How did you know that would work?”

“To be fair, I didn’t. But I figured if banshees were real, then the magic used to trap them must be too. So, while you kept her distracted, I drew the sigils with my blood.”

“Awesome.” Dean repeated, and Castiel couldn’t help but smile back.

Then, startling both of them out of whatever moment they were just about to have, the banshee suddenly burst into flames with a cry, crumbling like burnt paper into floating, ashy debris, until there was nothing left.

“What-“

The trill of Dean’s phone signaled an incoming call, interrupting whatever Castiel was about to ask, and he looked over curiously as Dean fished the device out of his pocket.

“It’s Sam.” He explained before picking up. “Sup, bitch. Took your sweet old time salting and burning the body, didn’t you?”

Castiel’s eyes widened. Salting and what-ing the body?!

“Yeah, fucking thing almost took out me and Cas…” he blushed and glanced over at him, before quickly looking away, and lowering his voice.

“Uh, yeah, that Cas. I mean there’s no other, is there? Anyway Sammy, don’t change the subject. What took you so long?”

Dean snorted. “Excuses, excuses. What? Oh…uh…I don’t know if he’d be up for that.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “Well would you if you just got attacked by a banshee?”

The features then smoothed from his face, and he grinned once more. “You shoulda seen him Sammy, he used his blood to draw these badass sigils and trap the banshee, it was awesome.”

Castiel felt the heat rising in his cheeks, unsure how he felt about the Winchester brothers talking about him whilst he was right there, and only able to hear only half of the conversation, but mostly he was just embarrassed.

“Yeah yeah, alright, I’ll ask him. Bye, bitch.” Dean hung up and fondly rolled his eyes, before walking over to Cas.

“Sorry about that. Sammy had only just finished digging…uh well, you don’t need to hear about that, haha, the less you know the better, but the banshee is banished for good now, and he should be on his way back, thank fuck, but he suggested that after we clean up, maybe we catch the end of the dance together, if you-mmph!”

Castiel surged forward, most likely encouraged by the adrenaline still pumping through him—if not for that, he’s certain he would not have been that bold—and sealed their lips together, cutting Dean’s rambling short.

“Yes.” He whispered between them as he pulled away, Dean blinking away the surprise as his brain rebooted and processed what just happened.

“Uh…yeah?” Dean said dopily, a smile tugging at his lips.

Those lips Castiel just kissed.

“Yes.”

“Even though you said you’d rather be fighting a banshee than go to the dance?” Dean asked, sounding amused.

“We fought the banshee.” Castiel replied rather seriously, earning a chuckle from Dean.

“True. Guess we do deserve a reward after that.”

“Besides,” Castiel started with a sigh, “I disappeared without saying anything earlier. I’m sure Charlie, at the very least, is worried about me.”

Charlie was indeed worried about him, but so was Meg and Gabriel, in their own way. After he and Dean cleaned up, including making themselves semi presentable, they entered the ballroom only looking slightly rumpled, and no less for wear than they had already. The trio bounded up to him right away, once they found him, but Charlie couldn’t admonish him for long without acknowledging the man beside him—rather excitedly, might he add.

She jumped up and gave him a hug, which Dean happily returned, only wincing slightly as his sore muscles tugged and flexed to compensate for the weight and movement. He put her back down not too long after, and the second her feet touched the ground, the three of them were on them like a pack of hellhounds.

“You two came in together?” Gabriel asked, smirking.

“Where did you go? Why didn’t you tell us?” Charlie punched both of their arms lightly, and pouted.

“You two came in together?” Gabriel said again, looking even more smug, if possible.

“We looked everywhere for you and couldn’t find you! We thought you might have left, but then you didn’t say anything, or tell anybody if you got back to the dorm safe or not!” Charlie continued, shaking her head in blatant disapproval.

“You two came-ow!” Gabriel rubbed the back of his head, and pouted at a smirking Meg.

Castiel, who was scowling at his brother, felt his face smooth out, and Meg rolled her eyes rather dramatically.

“We get it, Gabe, they came in together. Did you fuck?”

Dean laughed, and shook his head. “No, we definitely didn’t. Cas is too good for a quick fuck like that, anyway.”

Meg nodded her approval, and Castiel groaned, hiding his face in his hands. Gabriel and Charlie both grinned.

“He just went out for air, when I happened to pass by on my way back from the auto-shop. I wasn’t sure I wanted to come to the dance, but then I saw Cas standing there looking like that, well.”

Charlie squealed excitedly, waving her hands in the air. “This is so awesome! I told you the dance would be fun, did I not say the dance would be fun?”

Castiel and Dean shared a look, a brief moment of silent conversation only they would understand, and Castiel let out a sigh.

“You did.” He confirmed, though ‘fun’ was a vast understatement, and certainly not how he would describe the dance—not that he’d experienced much of it, fighting a malevolent Gaelic fae spirit, and all.

“Aw man,” Charlie said with pout, as if she had a sudden revelation, “Cas is way ahead of us you guys! He wasn’t even here and managed to bring a date. Wait, you guys are here as a date right?”

“Yes, Char, we’re here together, as a date.”

Charlie squealed again, muttering how she “totally shipped it” whatever that meant, and turned back to their group with more fervor than ever that they “needed to catch up”. This time, however, when they separated, it didn’t bring the sense of dread it did when Castiel first encountered the banshee, and thought for certain he was about to die, without ever having said goodbye.

“I never did thank you, Dean. For saving me earlier. I truly thought I was…well. I didn’t think I would still be here, and I probably wouldn’t have been, if it wasn’t for you.”

“Dude, don’t thank me. You held your own against the banshee too. It was pretty hot.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, but smiled. He caught Charlie’s eye across the dance floor, and she gave him a thumbs up. Gabriel caught his eye next, but made a rather lewd gesture that would have appalled him, had Dean not also caught it and snickered, finding it amusing. Meg shoved him, and Castiel smirked as Gabriel flailed about, silently thanking her for once again reprimanding his brother on his behalf. She winked at them before turning away, and Castiel tilted his head to the side, thoughtfully.

“It’s strange to think that not too long ago we were fighting a supernatural creature, and now we’re back at the dance, spending time with our friends like it didn’t happen. There’s literally a body down the hall.”

“Eh, Sam’s got that taken care of. And nobody will know you were there, or what we did at all. They’re safe, and that’s what matters. That’s the job.”

Castiel hummed, and turned to Dean with an appreciative look. Dean looked back, blushing slightly at the attention, but smiled softly regardless.

“What?” He asked, and Castiel shook his head.

He kissed Dean in lieu of answering, and Dean eagerly kissed back.

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freak-fortress · 1 year

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first blood.

// gun , blood

#tf2 #team fortress 2 #tf2 oc #tf2 sona #tf2 tenth class #tf2 angst #tf2 fan character #oc angst #tw: blood #tw: gun violence #tw: implied/referenced murder #oc backstory #saviorscribbles

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miramilocamimira · 7 months

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A Past Remade

The Prequel to The Sky Holds Secrets From Long Ago, exploring Zeus’s life before he went to save his siblings and in combination to The Very Real and Accurate Tales of Ypirétes tou Zínona as Documented by Stamatia

Chapter 1: A Mother’s Love (Is Earned Not Given)

Chapter 2:

Chapter3:

#pjo zeus #pjo rhea #mylo writes #mylo wrote #pjo Zeus x original character #pjo Zeus & original character #child abuse #abuse #violence #blood #implied referenced r/pe #tw beating #tw cursing #tw swearing

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comment-exchange · 9 months

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303. Refined for Fear (Khyber Shards)

Title: Refined for Fear

Link: AO3, Squidgeworld

Creator: YellowMagicalGirl

Work Type: Fanfic

Fandom: Khyber Shards

Rating: T

Pairing: Arlo Fletcher/Thora Tavin

Word count: 2007

Warnings: Dubcon Kissing, Implied/Referenced Aphobia, Implied/Referenced Canon-Typical Violence

Number of comments: 1

Completion Status: Complete

Short summary/description: Attending an academic conference away from Stormreach was a mistake. Thora won’t let Arlo be hurt the same way she was.

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aftgficrec · 11 months

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anonymous said: I’d like to rec you ought to give me wedding rings by absolutelithops on ao3 to anyone whose looking for a good andreil proposal! Here’s a link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30371577/chapters/74874351

Sure, friend, here you go! - S

you ought to give me wedding rings by absolutelithops [Not Rated, 11398 words, complete, 2022]

Andrew has the damn thing for a year before he makes any use of it.

Three times Andrew almost asks a very dangerous question, and the one time he does.

tw: implied/referenced suicide attempt, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: animal death, tw: implied/referenced violence, tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: blood, tw: implied/referenced kidnapping

#reader submission #rec #neil josten/andrew minyard #universe: post canon #theme: fluff & angst #theme: hurt/comfort #theme: proposals #theme: established relationship #tw: implied/referenced suicide attempt #tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon #tw: animal death #tw: implied/referenced violence #tw: implied/referenced abuse #tw: implied/referenced kidnapping

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wildjuniperjones · 2 years

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OC-tober 1: Bat

Day One of @theworldofprompts‘ OC-tober is starting off with a ... bat!

(See all of the OC-tober and Inktober challenges here!)

All the trigger warnings! Abuse, magical headfuckery, stalking, implied r*pe... Yeah, I don’t know where this all came from, but here it is. Have I mentioned that my content is not for minors?

If you’re still with me, let’s have a peek into Anya’s past.

Sere never asked Anya about the baseball bat that stood behind the door to their apartment, and even if she did, Anya wouldn’t really explain.

Because how can you explain the fear, the gut-wrenching paranoia that this would be the night, that fae’d come back with friends this time, that all the screaming and crying would amount to nothing in the face of faer. That anything, anything they could do to put space between themself and faer would be better than any other outcome.

It had started innocently enough, just mutual attraction, flirtation, casual sex, followed by the occasional request by either one of them for a repeat performance. Then somewhere along the way, Anya became occupied by other things, focused on their work or another partner, and fae… fae kept pushing. Fae would show up at Lusti’s offices bearing flowers and that same charming smile that melted the hearts of every receptionist that stood between faer and Anya.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that faer charming smile had the force of magic behind it, although faer good looks and vibrant personality went a long way as well. Rakish turquoise hair, lime green eyes, tanned skin, and the only trace of faer true ancestry, a whisper thin tail with a tuft at the end. Faer body moved like a cat, sinuous and graceful– and just as prideful. Faer desires were open, obvious, naked in their boldness against the muted backdrop of duplicity and manipulation.

Anya had told faer no, that they were through, that they didn’t want to see faer anymore, but fae kept coming. Once a week, fae’d wait outside their building on the off-chance that someone would buzz faer in, and head straight for Anya’s door. Locks were nothing to something like faer, but fae was nothing if not polite, and would knock three times before letting faerself in. Once inside, Anya’s memory would end, only to begin the next morning– alone, sore, and desperately in need of a shower.

So they took a detour on their way home one night. Thought they’d try out for their job’s softball team, they told the clerk. It was inexpensive, that tiny feeling of control. The warm wood beneath their hands. They loved the way it felt to swing the bat with the raw power of their rage at the batting cages. So what if they never hit a single pitch? That wasn’t the point. Don’t laugh, don’t cry, don’t let anyone know why you’re really here.

The next time fae came around, Anya was ready for faer. Thirty-three ounces of maple upside a fair folk’s head would do the same as it would to any mortal, with the banishing hex burned into the wood adding an extra kick for faer extraplanar side. The heavy crack when it made contact, the way faer crumpled at their feet, only to dissolve into dust and fade away as the hex glowed lime green in the late night gloom… It all served to make sleep come that much more easily. Finally.

But banishing spells don’t last forever, and so the bat stands behind the door, next to the umbrellas and the costume cane, beneath the mail sorter and the mirror where they check their makeup before leaving the apartment. Sometimes, when they think Sere isn’t watching, Anya will touch the pommel of the bat lovingly, with a strained smile.

#tw: violence #tw: stalking #tw: abuse #tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon #tw: memory loss #tw: rape #cw: violence #cw: stalking #cw: abuse #cw: implied rape #cw: rape #oc-tober #oc-tober day 1 #bonds of trust vignette #neopronouns can be a pain to write with but i love them nonetheless

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silverdragon-imagines-blog · 2 years

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Distorted Reflections - Chapter 1 - Waking Nightmare

[It's finally here and ready! This fic takes place pretty much immediately after Counter Clockwise. In this fic, I will try really hard to list every possible warning at the start of each chapter with any spoilers related to the tag/chapter summaries at the end of each chapter. That’s gonna be more the case with AO3 than Tumblr as this site is not super easy to use. I can't promise perfection tho, so if I make a mistake in tagging here or on AO3, feel free to correct me. With all that said, I hope you enjoy this chapter ^u^]

Read it on AO3

Warning(s): referenced character death (from Counter Clockwise), referenced/implied claustrophobia, referenced/implied violence, some spoilers for Phantom Hourglass, Dark Link being creepy and manipulative, some more major spoilers for Hyrule Warriors, and the antagonist for this fic is creepy and implied to have done messed up shit. The antagonist is the whole reason that this fic is going to be far darker and more intense than Counter Clockwise.

For a more complete version of tags and content warnings for the whole fic, see the AO3 link at the top of the post.

Warriors could feel the change in the air as he exited the portal, the way it pressed down on him and made him tense. He looked up to see a sky full of stars, though it brought no comfort. All around him were Keep walls and the smell of dust and decay from a familiar battlefield. He stood near the entrance, watching as his companions exited the portal and curiously looked at the decrepit walls. No one spoke, Warriors only acknowledging each hero as they appeared. Minutes passed, and he almost assumed that the portal would close and leave three of their companions behind, but as soon as the thought entered his mind, Hyrule and Four stepped through with Time close behind them.

The Smithy didn’t say anything, just kept his eyes fixed on the cracked ground, but that was fine. He had gone through a lot. Warriors cleared his throat, most of the group flinching and then looking his way.

“We’re in my Era. I recognize this area,” he explained, looking over the group, “unfortunately, we aren’t safe here. This Keep is too open.”

“Is there a better place for us to set up camp for the night?”

Warriors looked out at the barren wasteland that made up the valley, mapping the battlefield in his mind. Most of the keeps had three entryways, and it would be difficult to protect the camp adequately and allow the others ample opportunity to rest and recover. Only one was easy to defend from inside, though the chances of the Great Fairy letting them seek refuge inside her fountain was very low. At least, it would have a cost he was unwilling to pay. They were in the now-abandoned allied keep, the next safest one was hours away at most, but it would be safe.

“There’s a Keep to the Northeast that may suit our needs. It has two entrances, easily defensible, but we’ll need to double up on watch shifts,” he explained, fidgeting with the strap of his sheath, “it’s a bit far, though.”

“Wars,” Time spoke up, the Captain snapping to attention, “we’re all exhausted. How long do you think it would take to get there?”

He paused at this, going over the map in his head again.

“It would take maybe two hours to reach. If we hurry, we could cut that time down, but,” Warriors bit his lip, glancing at each hero’s face and how they practically sagged with exhaustion, “I don’t know if we’d be able to make it there fast with everyone dead on their feet.”

“We’ll have to try.”

There was no argument over the long trek; everyone gathered their belongings and made their way out of the abandoned Keep. Warriors stayed behind, counting heads as they passed. Two, then four, then six, then eight, and he followed behind as the ninth. He made his way to the front, leading the way to the safe place he had mentioned. The battlefield was just as he remembered it, dusty and barren fields with weapons strewn about in a mockery of a gravesite. He led the way past the gnarled and decaying trees and over a rickety bridge that spanned a small canyon, purple mist concealing the bottom. A second bridge was across the small expanse of land where a few small patches of grass clung to life. He tried not to pay attention to how the other heroes whispered amongst themselves as they observed the oppressive land around them.

Everything was near-silent, only adding to the uneasiness they all felt in the air. Each step through the dusty red ground echoed, leaving some heroes to pause and listen for foes. It was eerie as Warriors recalled the massive numbers that had once littered this area, and the lack of even a footprint kept him on edge. No monsters ever appeared, not even a grunt or groan of the bokoblins or bulblins that had been here, and it left everyone on edge and tense as they trekked onward. A sudden weight settled on Warriors’ shoulder, the hero flinching as he reached for his sword and faced the threat.

“Whoa, Wars, relax, it’s me,” Time stepped back, holding his hands up in surrender.

It took a minute to register the absence of a foe, and Warriors thanked whatever deity was listening that he hadn’t fully drawn his blade. He glanced at the rest of the group, making sure that all was well, then fell into step beside Time.

“Are you alright? You seem on edge.”

Warriors sighed, fully expecting that question at some point.

“Later, okay. Not now,” Wars spoke quietly, inclining his head toward the rest of the group.

Time nodded, and they continued in silence. They crossed through a dilapidated tower, inside hollowed out and flattened, and to a Keep near the bottom of the looming valley temple. The heroes all filed into the space, some immediately beginning to set up their bedrolls for the night. Warriors counted heads again, first two, then four, then six, then eight. Everyone was accounted for, and relief filled him. He glanced at the open gated entrances, hinges rusted from a long period of neglect. He wasn’t surprised, but he had hoped there would have been a way to make the camp easier to defend, but this was bound to be the outcome. As he looked toward the tired heroes beginning to set up camp, he came to a decision.

“I know everyone is tired, but we’ll need to set up watch shifts. I’ll take the first one. Who wants to join me?”

No one answered, exhaustion weighing them down as they only spared him a glance. Time approached him then, armor still on and sword drawn in front of him, the end of the blade stuck into the ground. With no one else standing, Warriors nodded.

“Time and I will take the first shift. Who wants to take the next one?”

“I’ll take it,” Twilight spoke up, raising a hand slightly as he set his belongings down near his bedroll with the other.

“I can take it with him,” Wild responded.

Warriors took up position next to the open gate leading out to the open field in front of the stone structure. He listened closely as the heroes’ breathing became heavier as sleep pulled them down. It was relieving knowing that despite the difficulty they had faced back in Termina, they could all still sleep relatively peacefully. As time passed, Warriors could feel Time’s focused gaze on the back of his neck as time passed, making him fight the urge to make himself smaller.

He knew that the older hero wanted to talk about what was happening, and he usually would be okay talking about what was happening so that there wouldn’t be any surprises when there was information that could help them all. And yet, being here in this place only weighed him down, binding his tongue and unable to speak. Truthfully, Warriors was sure that Time knew more than he let on if he had been there during the war. The hero approached, standing next to Warriors and leaning against the gate’s hinge. It was quiet between them for a moment, only the wind kicking up dust and the soft breaths of their sleeping company.

“Do you think you’d be able to speak about what’s been bothering you, Captain?”

He didn’t reply, watching the field before him as the wind threw red dust into the air. The shapes they made in the air created scenes from the past. He could almost hear screams of soldiers and monsters, weapons clashing, and their foe’s laughter from the highest point in the valley. He shivered, dragged out of his reverie by a hand on his shoulder. Time held a question in his eye, though he seemed concerned as well. Warriors sighed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Sorry, got caught up in memories.”

“Nothing happy, I imagine.”

He chuckled humorlessly.

“You’d be correct. This place only holds bad memories for me, unfortunately. Normally I’d have us head for the nearest village or city, but I’ve had a bad feeling since we’ve gotten here like there’s something we need to do or see further in.”

“I see…” Time trailed off, and Wars glanced at the elder to where he was looking toward the sleeping heroes.

They stood silent for a while, watching the other Links sleep. Sky and Legend were further away from the group, almost propped up against the wall, but angled toward them, hands never far from their weapons. Wild and Twilight were similarly faced toward the others on the opposite side, closer to the group and each other with weapons not far away. Wind was near the middle, with Hyrule and Four behind him. Wind was curled up, small, and closed off from the others, far from how he usually slept sprawled near one of the other heroes. Hyrule and Four cling to each other in their sleep, offering comfort to keep the nightmares at bay. Warriors tried not to pay too much attention to the swelling and red-colored skin under the Smithy’s eyes.

“I know I did wrong by him,” Time spoke, almost reading Warriors’ thoughts and breaking the silence between them. Warriors saw how the older hero looked guilty, slumping over slightly as he continued, “But we had very few options. I just chose what I knew would work. And he paid the price.”

It was quiet again as their conversation ended. Time returned to his post by the other entrance, standing stalwart facing the outside of the keep. Warriors stood at attention, keeping his focus on the field. His ears twitched every so often, catching small noises that weren’t the white noise of the wind shifting dead plants and dirt or the quiet breaths of the slumbering heroes. He glanced over his shoulder, a frown making its way onto his face. A soft whimper met his ears, and he abandoned his post, carefully making his way toward the sleeping heroes to find who was having a nightmare.

“It was a bad situation. I don’t blame you for that. You did what you thought was best.”

A louder cry and the shifting of fabric led him to Wind’s side, the Sailor trembling as he was caught in his nightmare. The Captain kneeled, gently placing a hand on the Sailor’s back to rouse him from the night terror, to no avail. He could hear the mumbling of a name, but he ignored it, trying once more to wake the youngest hero.

“C’mon, Sailor, it’s just a dream. You gotta wake up.”

Warriors could feel helplessness building as he failed to wake the other hero, frantically looking between the heroes for someone to help him, to tell him what to do. Time stayed in his place, seeming to be equally unsure what to do. At that moment, a soft groan met his ears, whipping his head around to see Legend starting to sit up and make his way over to him. He said nothing, but Warriors moved out of the way, watching as Legend leaned over Wind and gently ran his fingers through the sleeping boy’s hair.

“It’s just a nightmare, Bambino; it’s not real,” the Veteran spoke quietly, patiently as he continued his gentle motions, “Come back to us. Everyone is safe, I promise.”

Wind slowly came to, opening his eyes yet not seeing what was in front of him. He reached for Legend’s hand in his hair, holding it for a moment and feeling the rings on his fingers. He breathed in, moving his hand up Legend’s arm as if searching for something, then breathed out when his hand met the other’s shoulder. He sat up, blinking as tears fell from his eyes and looking at Legend’s face. The Veteran looked at him softly. Gone was the usual snark and sass that often appeared on his face; instead, a kind smile took its place.

Wind seemed to regain awareness, rubbing his eyes with one hand and moving the other on Legend’s shoulder back to his hand now at his side.

“Everything’s okay now, I promise,” Legend said.

Wind shook his head, moving toward Legend and wrapping his arms around him as tears trailed down his face. Legend ran his fingers through Wind’s hair again, keeping the young hero close to him. Warriors could only watch as Legend was able to do what he couldn’t. He could feel something building in his chest at the sight, jealousy perhaps or envy at the ease that Legend was able to wake and comfort the youngest of their group. Legend looked up at him briefly, face not betraying whatever he thought before he looked back to the Sailor.

“I’ll take the next shift.”

“What?”

“I have a feeling that I’m not gonna be sleeping anytime soon, and I’m sure the same is true for our Sailor as well,” Legend nodded toward the Sailor, the hero tucked under his chin, “You can tell whoever was supposed to go next that they don’t need to anymore.”

“If you say so…” Warriors trailed off, looking up at Time as the older hero started to approach, “Our watch shift is done. They offered to take over for us.”

Time nodded, starting to take off his armor and putting the Gilded Sword within reach of his bedroll. Warriors sighed, leaving the two heroes where they were and setting up his bedroll in the corner of the Keep. He lay on his back, staring at the red sky, knowing that sleep would not come easy.

So he listened to the hushed conversation between the two on watch even if he couldn’t make out their words. They created a lull, whispers mixing with the whistling wind outside their small safe space. He could feel himself drifting slightly, and he tried to fight it, to stay at least somewhat awake in case of danger. But he was fighting a losing battle as his eyes closed and his thoughts went quieter.

The darkness was comforting, quiet. He felt safe for the first time in what felt like so long. He wanted this moment to last forever, to simply be . Away from all the responsibilities of a hero, away from the heavy burdens of an army leader, and away from the thoughts that invade his mind and memory. He was safe here, and it was the best feeling in the world.

Of course, the darkness couldn’t last forever, and a sudden feeling of being watched forced him to his feet. He was in a void, yet he could feel the ground beneath his feet. At first, nothing seemed to be near him, yet he could feel eyes on the back of his head.

“What do you want with me?”

“Feeling nervous? Powerless?” Dark's voice echoed.

Dark appeared before him, smiling.

“You’re in your own era, aren’t you happy about that? Finally home after so long. Don’t you just love how all the memories start rushing back?”

He stiffened, images and memories flashing before him. Feeling claustrophobic as glass walls restrict his movements. Looking over his shoulder every night when traitors started to show their true colors. The smell of fire and brimstone mixed with blood as he fought for his life. The vile taste of dark magic as he watches dark mirrors of himself rise from the ground. The sounds of screaming, yelling, pleading for their lives as he killed those who wanted him dead and countless others who did not.

Warriors bent forward, heaving for breath as the assault on his senses faded. He flinched when a hand met his back, stumbling back and onto his rear as Dark stood over him.

“Aw, I thought you would’ve enjoyed a trip down memory lane. Maybe it wasn’t to your liking? Here, I have something you might enjoy more.”

Dark smirked as he waved a hand in front of Warriors, new images flashing in front of him.

The stage of his greatest downfall was before him, doors opened to a dark void, yet it beckoned toward him. He was drawn to it, though all of his instincts screamed at him to run away. Hands came from within the dark, encircling his wrists like shackles. He tried to pull away, back up, and tear their hold on him, only for them to grow tighter and start dragging him into the darkness. He felt fear pool in his chest, the urge to scream for help building and building. Cries and screams that sounded all too familiar echoed as the hands dragged him inside.

Warriors woke up with a gasp, shooting upright and reaching for his blade next to him. He had fallen asleep, yet he felt the need to go back to bed, pulling at his limbs and beckoning him back down. He shook it off, standing to survey the campsite and see where everyone was. Wild had set up a small fire in the center with wood that he must’ve had previously, cooking fruits over a low flame. Twilight was standing near one of the entrances with Time, though the two didn’t seem to be talking. Wind and Legend sat together, leaning against the wall and looking through their bags. Hyrule and Four were in a corner, not talking but enjoying each other’s company. Sky was approaching him, rubbing at his eyes as though he had just woken up himself, and Warriors stood up from his bedroll to meet him.

“You alright, Captain?”

Warriors grit his teeth, steeling himself and burying the lingering fear and unease that clung to his mind. He tried to seem calm, as though he hadn’t had a nightmare.

“I’m fine. What’s going on?”

“Wild is trying to cook us something to eat before we head out, but there isn’t much left stored in his bag, according to him. We might need to stock up the next time we get to a town or village.”

Warriors nodded, making his way over to the cook.

“How are you holding up?”

Wild glanced up at him, smiling slightly.

“Doing okay so far. Food supplies are a bit lower than I’d like, but we should be fine for a few days.”

“That’s good, at least. Once everyone has had their fill, we should start heading out.”

Wild nodded, pulling bowls out of his bag and spooning portions of the fruit into them, handing Warriors a few to pass out. It was a quiet affair, giving Hyrule and Four one each with quiet thanks from both. The other heroes gathered by the small fire, taking their bowls from Wild and beginning to eat in silence. When everyone had a bowl, Warriors took his meager meal to the gate leading out to the large field, leaning against the post as he ate.

Truly, he couldn’t feel the slightest bit hungry, thoughts swirling in his mind about the strange nightmare he had the night before. If it even was a nightmare. There was a reason he felt off as soon as they ended up here, and he had a feeling that what he saw while he slept had to have something to do with it beyond just bad memories. He was trapped in a way, with no good options and worse outcomes if his fears of the past were to be realized once more. He snuck glances at the group, and images of what could happen to them all filled his mind. But she was dead. She had to be. So then, why did he feel as though they were all in danger? It was maddening, and yet, it was necessary. Dark was crafty, and he would bet that they would not be able to leave until they made their way there, even if every instinct screamed at him to stay far away.

As the meager meal finished in silence, Warriors stood and cleared his throat, gaining the attention of everyone present.

“I have a feeling that we’ll need to reach the Temple of Souls that is past this valley. While we haven’t run into any enemies thus far, stay vigilant. I wouldn’t be surprised if we met resistance on our way there.”

“Any idea what we might run into?”

“Bokoblins mainly, but there have been Moblins, Lizalflos, Dinoflos, Darknuts, and Stalfos previously,” Warriors listed off, starting to reequip his sword, shield, and other gear, “Stay on your guard.”

There were nods of understanding, and then Wild started the clean-up process, taking everyone’s bowls and scrubbing them down as best he could. They figured they would wash them properly when they got to a patch of clean water. Everyone quickly gathered their gear, equipping swords and shields as they left the Keep. Warriors led the way through the open field, dust swirling at their feet as they trekked onward. Past tall twisting trees, strange lights settled in their branches, and strange formations of rock resembling hands poised to grab any moment.

Out of the corner of his eye, Warriors could see the entrance to the fountain, doors ajar with a brazier burning away near the mouth of the small cave. He shuddered as he passed, though no one seemed to notice as they looked all around the barren battlefield and began to climb the first set of stairs that marked the entrance to the Temple. It was still unbearably quiet as they passed through the open gates, only the wind causing a howling noise to echo through the neglected stone sculptures around them. He directed the group left, across the worn brick path, and up another set of stairs that led to another empty Keep. Warriors noted that not even the bomb flowers that had once surrounded the Keep had grown back as he led them out and then up another set of stairs to the right. Then he led the way to the right again up a final set of stairs. He chuckled a bit as a few group members started panting as they climbed.

“What’s with the stonework?” Warriors flinched at the sudden question, looking behind him to Wind, looking up curiously at the arches above the top of the Temple, “Why does it look like an eye?”

“I’m not sure, to be perfectly honest,” Warriors shrugged, falling into step with him, “When the war was happening, and we fought here, it was just sort of like this. It could have something to do with magic and focusing it, but that’s just a guess.”

Wind hummed, glancing at the area around them as they reached the top. It was quiet once again as they all stood in the center of the central room, looking around on edge at the still quiet area. Legend cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably as he observed the site.

“I would’ve thought there’d be something at least.”

“You and me both, Vet.” Warriors sighed.

There wasn’t much at all at the summit, not that Warriors was complaining. He was relieved that it had been easy to get to this point, but he was still on edge despite that fact. He pushed on, gesturing for everyone to follow him as he walked past the center of the eye and toward a series of small mountains. There was not much of a path, but they made do with Wild and Twilight helping others along over the more challenging terrain until they came to a pathway between two rose bushes.

And then they caught sight of the statues.

The statues of a younger Sky, sword raised in a skyward strike, and an even younger Time, posed with an ocarina raised to his mouth, came into view as soon as they crossed through the bushes. He could feel questioning gazes on his back as he led the way through the garden. He knew that the others could tell that something was off about this place, and he was thankful that none approached him to ask about what they saw. But Warriors still braced himself as the statue of Wolfie came into view. When Twilight caught sight of it, he could hear a quiet gasp and a pause in movement. He could hear the whispered words of Wild checking to see if Twilight was okay. He didn’t wait to listen to what the others had to say, instead leading them up the stairs.

The Temple was just as he remembered it. However, without the presence of corrupted magic, it seemed more like a several-stories-tall mansion than a jumbled mess of buildings. It did little to calm his racing heart as he stood before the doorway, his hand twitching with the instinct to have his sword in hand as he approached danger. He resisted, and as the group joined him at the door, he took a deep breath and opened it.

At first glance, the entryway looked the same, a portrait of himself placed front and center at the base of the staircase leading up with a single light from above illuminating it. Hallways that led to different rooms were on each side and what little Wars could see of the upper level looked the same. Warriors motioned for the group to enter, and as he stood in front of them, he felt a shiver run down his spine. The door slammed shut behind them, and he knew something was wrong.

A figure he hadn’t seen at first moved into view, the light above the portrait catching the silhouette and causing Warriors’ blood to run cold. She looked the same as she had before, dress hanging off her in a way that would have been seductive if not for the slightly unhinged way she stared at him. Warriors acted on instinct then, unsheathing his sword and dropping into a readied stance.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” Cia laughed as her eyes moved over each of them, taking in the sight of the group.

“You were dead,” Warriors spoke, fighting the waver in his voice.

Cia laughed, covering her mouth with a hand.

“Oh, dear hero,” she sighed, smiling as she stepped closer to the group, some of them drawing out weapons, “I hate to disagree with you, but I am very much alive.”

She summoned her staff to her side, twisting it around and opening two portals. Nine dark links stood at her side, and Warriors felt himself move as she extended her staff to point at them. He rushed at Cia, dodging the dark reflections that moved to attack him and bringing his blade down upon Cia. She easily blocked his strike with her staff, the force and weight behind the attack changing nothing. Warriors bared his teeth at her, forcing his weight to move the staff away from him, but Cia only smiled. He could hear the sounds of fighting behind him, but he didn’t turn to help, intent on ending the problem at its source. But when the clashes turned to cries, he knew they had lost, and the sorceress’ smirk only further confirmed his defeat.

A hit from behind caused him to gasp, and Cia smiled wide as Warriors fell to his knees before her. His sword was knocked away, arms pinned behind him and a hand keeping his head still. She leaned down to tilt his face up toward her, forcing him to face her with a predatory grin on her face.

“Now then, isn’t that better?”

Warriors was stuck looking at her, fear threatening to overwhelm him as he was held in place. She seemed satisfied, and Wars could see her looking over the rest of the group as though she had won the greatest prize. He wouldn’t be surprised if that was exactly what she thought. She stepped past him then, and he craned his neck to look back, fearing for them all, making him watch his mistakes unfold.

She stood over Wind, the Sailor glaring up at her from the floor. He had been knocked on his stomach, his sword just out of reach, and pinned by one of the Dark Links kneeling in his back. She hummed, turning away from Wind to walk toward Legend, the Veteran hero laid out on his back with a blow to his head, rendering him unconscious. Then to Hyrule, who had been forced to his knees and restrained in much the same way as Warriors. And finally, Four was on his back with his sword out of reach, and a Dark kneeling on his chest and holding his arms in place. She huffed, twisting the staff in her hands to point toward a hallway, the dark links responding by moving the four heroes at her command.

“I have no use for damaged goods. Take them away.”

Wind started yelling and cursing immediately as he was hefted up to his feet, his arms pinned behind him in a way that made Wars wince. Hyrule and Four made no sound as they were herded away, though Hyrule kept glancing at Legend, worried now that he had not reacted to being dragged along.

Warriors saw Wild struggling to tear his arms away from the dark at his back, growling and kicking at the shade as much as he could. The rest of the heroes struggled then, trying to break free and follow after them, but a loud slam of Cia’s staff on the ground stilled their movements. Warriors held his breath, worried she would take out her anger on them. Instead, she walked between the heroes, making her way to Wild and tilting her head at the sight of him.

“L-let them go!”

“I’ve never seen you before, but you must hold the Hero’s Spirit as well, correct?”

Wild opened his mouth as though to speak, but no noise left him. He looked frustrated for a moment, then tried again.

“W-what’s it t’ you?”

“Hm,” she looked at him consideringly, then waved him away, gesturing toward the same hallway where Four, Legend, Wind, and Hyrule had disappeared.

Warriors tried not to focus on how the Champion didn’t struggle as he was led away. She then walked between the heroes, humming to herself as she looked them over. Sky cringed under her gaze while Twilight glared harshly. Time’s face betrayed nothing but stoic silence, but Warriors could tell he was masking his true emotions as he was appraised like an object. She nodded to herself, pleased with whatever she found.

“Well, I don’t think I care much. You can go.”

“Very good,” she smiled and gestured with her staff to the other hall, the Dark Links following unspoken orders to lead them off.

Warriors felt the air grow tenser, and he couldn’t help but shiver as Cia turned to look his way.

“And now it’s just us,” Cia chuckled as she sauntered over to Warriors, glee casting her face in an unsettling light, “Did you miss me, my love? I can tell you can’t keep your eyes off me.”

“Not even the Wind Fish would grant you that dream.”

“Hm, pity. I thought we’d be able to spend more time together, but no matter. We have all the time in the world now,” Cia smiled wide at the thought.

“You should go get ready, dearest. I wouldn’t want to be late to our first dinner together after so long apart,” Cia hummed, directing the Dark Link pinning Wars’ arms to his back to lead him away toward where Cia sent Time, Sky, and Twilight to, “But don’t worry, the others will be allowed to join us too.”

Her delighted laughter and humming echoed in his ears as he was led away, a pit in his stomach as he mulled over her words.

All the time in the world.

He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

#linkeduniverse #linked universe #implied violence #violence #tw: emotional manipulation #tw: claustrophobia #mentioned/implied death #nightmares #referenced character death #trauma from previous adventures #dark link being creepy and manipulative #HW Cia #linkeduniverse fic #linked universe fic #threatening darkness #distorted reflections #distorted reflections fic #silver writes

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ohanahoku-ao3 · 6 months

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Whumptober Day 19

Just something short for this one.

Teen & Up - Gen, F/M - Stranger Things

History Repeats Itself

It's curious, isn't it? The way that history repeats itself like a looped cassette tape? Time moved on, but life always seemed to come back around to the same old plot that it had used before. So there Mike stood at the edge of the quarry, staring down at the drop that plagued his nightmares since he was twelve.

Behind him, Troy stood with the other bullies he'd recruited since they started high school. There were enough of them to hold both El and Will back, knives held at their throats as Troy taunted Mike. "Your girlfriend can't save you this time, can she, Michael?" He jeered as El cried, and Will struggled against the boys holding him back. "Now, do it! Jump, or we cut them, and I'm not talking teeth this time."

"Mike, don't! You can't, Mike!" Will shouted, pleading with the others to let them go as his friend shuffled closer to the edge.

"Mike!" El screamed, desperate and terrified, as she tried to reach out for the powers that had disappeared after the Mind-Flayer incident. "It won't work, Mike, stop!"

"Now, Wheeler!" Troy spat, tightening his grip on El's hair and making her gasp in pain.

That was all it took. Mike had once stepped off the quarry's edge for Dustin's sake, and now he'd do the same for El and Will. Without a word, his throat too tight and his thoughts in shambles, Mike took the final step off the cliff.

At the top of the cliff, someone screamed his name, just barely heard over the wind in his ears, and then, because history does love repeating itself, Mike stopped falling. He slowly drifted upward, his eyes wide as he reached the top and saw not Eleven but Will with his hand outstretched.

Blood was pouring from Will's nose, his face was pale, and his eyes were haunted, but he had an intense look of concentration on his face that didn't fade until Mike was placed gently on his feet. Around them, the bullies lay on the ground, unmoving, unbreathing.

"Will?" Mike murmured, and Will collapsed to his knees, his hands shaking as he stared at them before bursting into tears.

Why couldn't their lives ever be normal?

#whumptober2023 #no.19 #i'll take one final step all you have to do is make me #stranger things #fic #death tw #violence tw #bullying tw #implied/referenced suicide tw #read on ao3 #fanfiction #ao3 #ao3 fanfiction #ao3 link #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #mike wheeler #will byers #eleven stranger things

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spncompostheap · 8 months

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"Castiel!"

Cas Novak jolted awake, unable to shake off the vivid dream of his mother's voice still echoing in his ears. Slicing through the air like lightning, electrifying his senses, Cas’s mind reeled as he spiraled back through time to that fateful night, just after his ninth birthday.

Tightening his grip on the blankets pooling at his waist, a chill ran through Cas as he surveyed the dimly lit bedroom. His eyes strained against the darkness, as an unmistakable sense of disorientation overtook him. As his most intrusive memories surged forward, Cas suddenly felt too helpless to fight against them as they relentlessly pushed their way into the forefront of his reality.

Cautiously, Cas swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. Within moments, he’d been overwhelmed by a tidal wave of pain, fear, and loss—everything came crashing back, threatening to consume him until he fled the confines of his bedroom completely hoping to escape into the kitchen instead.

Raised voices filled his mind coupled with the sound of shattering glass, and his mother's desperate, unanswered pleas for help.

Pressing a trembling hand against the cool countertop, Cas’s mind etched every detail into his consciousness amidst his futile attempts at grounding himself. Pinching the meat of his outer thigh and intentionally digging in his fingernails, Cas was unprepared for the sensation of utter numbness which followed. As his heart raced, and breathing became ragged, Cas began to abandon all hope of remaining tethered within reality.

His mother's eyes were wide with fear as she had pleaded with him directly. “Just go back to bed, Castiel! Please, just go back to bed-”

Cas’s gaze shifted towards the refrigerator, as he longed for the familiar heaviness from having consumed a large but satisfying meal. Tension filled the air, pressing down on him. Despite the cool rush of air and the bright light that flooded the small kitchenette as the refrigerator door clicked open, time seemed to fold back upon itself. In that moment, Cas felt overwhelmed, knowing that he couldn't stop any of it now.

His father materialized before his eyes, face contorted with rage, as he had pinned his terrified wife against the wall with sheer brute force and the imminent threat of more violence to come.

Cas’s hands were already instinctively moving without his consent as he located last night's leftover pizza, a package of mini powdered donuts and the brand new box of Cookie-O’s cereal Anna had just brought home from the store. A quick scan of the freezer had revealed a gallon of vanilla ice cream his Aunt had tried to place just out of reach. Shoving aside frozen broccoli and healthy choice TV dinners, Cas had easily freed the ice cream from its hiding place before finding a spoon and spreading his entire cache of food items out across the counter.

He felt so very small as his father turned to face him, momentarily loosening his grip on his wife’s slender wrists.

The lid discarded without a second thought, Cas had attacked the gallon of ice cream with a large spoon, shoveling vanilla into his mouth as fast as humanly possible. Spoonful after spoonful, the cool sweetness of the ice cream mingled with the bitterness of his memories. Each bite was another desperate attempt to drown out the echoes of that night and chase away the pain before it became too unbearable.

His mother took advantage of her husband��s distraction and tried to make a break for it. Cas’s heart jumped into his throat as his father spun around, grabbing his mother by her hair, with his unyielding strength.

Before too long, Cas’s spoon hit the bottom of the ice cream carton. Dazed by the perceived loss, he raised the empty container to his lips, gulping down any residual melted goodness until nothing remained.

His parents scuffled until his father finally succeeded in overpowering his mother once more, pushing her down face first in one complete gesture. Cas’s mother lost her balance and fell to the ground.

With a heavy sigh, Cas forced himself to keep eating, his eyes now fixated on the leftover pizza before him. Driven by ravenous phantom hunger pains, Cas devoured slice after slice, the flavors of greasy cheese and savory toppings providing a momentary distraction from the torrent of haunting images flooding his mind.

Cas glanced down in horror at his mother’s now motionless form. A steadily growing puddle of blood had begun to engulf her body, seeping through her cotton nightgown.

Cas's fingers moved with a frenetic urgency, searching for something, anything, that might keep the demons away. His hunger persisted, clawing at his insides, refusing to be silenced as he grabbed the mini powdered donuts off the counter, tearing the packaging away.

Cas fled his father's rage, desperately seeking safety. He rushed into the bathroom, fumbling to lock the door behind him. Collapsing inside the bathtub, Cas curled into a ball, wrapping his arms tightly around his knees while trying to shield himself from the terrors of the outside world.

White powdery residue clung to Cas's fingers as he had shoveled all twenty-four miniature donuts into his mouth in rapid succession. Sugar coursed through his veins, eliciting a brief thrill of endorphins. Chewing mechanically, Cas was distantly aware of his increasing physical discomfort. One hand dropped to his waist absent-mindedly as he pushed the elastic waistband of his pajamas pants farther below the curve of his overstuffed belly.

His father’s panicked cries permeated the air in the aftermath of what he’d done. His voice sounded alarmingly unhinged until he remembered his son and shifted focus towards trying to bang down the bathroom door.

Ripping into the massive box of Cookie-O's cereal next, Cas extracted the interior plastic lining before casually discarding the empty cardboard box onto the floor. Proceeding to cram fistfulls of miniature cookie-shaped pieces into his mouth, Cas desperately tried to stave off the intensity of unshed tears, fearing they would consume him.

When he finally ran out of food, a flicker of realization crossed his face as the room around him started to lose its form, and the once-familiar surroundings began to merge into a disturbing kaleidoscope of unreality. When the floor beneath him shifted before melting away, he felt the distinct sensation of treading water as if some powerful current were trying to drag him below.

“I know you know where she hid my gun, Castiel! You need to tell me where your mother put it right now or so help me I’ll be forced to-!”

Frantically searching through the shelves for more food amidst the chaotic emotional replay of his most traumatic memories, Cas was overtaken by fear until his hands had landed on the bottle of cooking oil his aunt kept near the stove for frying things.

Cas was acutely aware of his father’s ability to rip their house apart down to the floorboards until he found what he was looking for.

Although Anna’s economy sized Canola oil was an unusual choice, it was technically considered a food item. Still caught in the past and too far outside of his own body to function, Cas sought out whatever means necessary to physically weigh himself down. So he unscrewed the cap, as his fingers closed around the thick plastic bottle and took a big sip. As the viscous, oily liquid coated his tongue and slipped down his throat, the act of drinking something so thick and filling began to serve its purpose.

When the gun went off, it was louder than anything Cas could have ever possibly imagined, yet still did little to drown out the subtle thud of his father's body hitting the floor.

Cas continued to drink until the thought of consuming more left him dangerously close to vomiting. Cradling his overfull stomach, Cas stumbled into the adjacent living room, slumping hard against the couch. Then slowly, returning to his body once Cas’s eyes tilted downwards as he palmed the sturdy firmness of his distended belly. As his anxiety and emotional distress faded into exhaustion, Cas allowed himself to accept the rush of comfort flooding his senses. Although Cas knew he should probably feel guilty, or at the very least disgusted with himself, for surrendering to his unhealthiest of coping mechanisms. Having been on antipsychotics for over a year now, it had become that much harder to hate himself, even amid times of crisis.

***

As light filtered through the kitchen windows, casting a gentle morning glow, Anna Milton appeared already dressed in her nursing uniform. Surveying the small kitchenette and adjacent living room, Anna’s gaze settled upon her loudly snoring nephew and the remnants of yet another midnight feast, the third one this week by her count. With subtle concern etched into her features, Anna approached Cas where he slept, balled up on the living room couch.

Anna paused to observe Cas as he rested, noting how one of his arms pressed tightly against the worn polyester upholstery, while the other clutched his rounded midsection as though he were experiencing discomfort. Ignoring the beads of sweat dotting across Cas's forehead, Anna bent down slowly before reaching out and carefully freeing one of her nephew’s arms. Gently pressing two fingers against Cas's radial artery at the pulse point, she made a conscious effort to avoid touchinging the angriest of his vertical scars. After counting to sixty twice just to make sure, Anna released a deep sigh, exhaling a torrent of breath she hadn't realized she’d been holding in.

Taken aback by her nephew's striking resemblance to her late sister, Anna felt further compelled to alleviate all the hardships life had thrown Cas’s way. While the continued nighttime binge eating was far from ideal, it stood out in sharp contrast to Cas’s ongoing struggles with anxiety, depression, and PTSD. Having nearly lost him several times throughout his short life, Anna treasured every day she had parenting her eccentric young nephew. She was also profoundly grateful for her continued collaboration with Dr. Mia Vallens, a psychiatrist whose expertise had been consistently demonstrated over the years through her innate ability to help Cas navigate his traumatic past.

Sticking to a strict routine of weekly therapy sessions alongside a carefully prescribed regimen of psychiatric medications seemed to be, at last, proving effective in keeping Cas's intrusive suicidal thoughts under control. So, even though moments of grief still crept in from time to time, when she missed the boy he could have been, Anna had learned to value Cas’s enduring resilience above all else.

"Time to wake up and take your meds, Cas," Anna whispered, keeping her voice intentionally low to avoid startling him.

Cas woke up slowly, his blue eyes blinking in the morning sun. He stretched, sat up, and then managed a small, tired smile that Anna suspected was meant purely for her benefit.

"Hey there, sleepyhead. It seems like you had quite the culinary adventure again last night," Anna said, pausing when she noticed Cas looking somewhat bewildered.

“Maybe you had bad dreams last?" Anna suggested placing a comforting hand on Cas's shoulder.

"I, uh, I don't entirely remember, but it seems like I might have gotten carried away again. I'm so sorry, Anna," Cas confessed, fidgeting with the fraying hem of his shirt.

"Oh Cas, you don’t have to apologize for anything. Just remember that you can always wake me overnight if you need to, alright? I'm here to support you, Cas," Anna said, trying to reassure him.

"Thank you Anna, I truly appreciate that," Cas said quietly, still looking away.

With a gentle squeeze of her nephew’s shoulder, Anna made her way back to the kitchen, determined to help him start the day on a positive note. She retrieved Cas's weekly pillbox, checking over each compartment’s meticulous organization. It was a testament to the structured routine they had both had a part in while trying to manage Cas’s ongoing mental health. Filling a tall glass with cool, filtered water, Anna placed it neatly beside the box of medications on the countertop. As she arranged these items, a soft smile crept across Anna’s face, a quiet reflection of much progress Cas had made in just the last year alone. Soon he would be turning fifteen at the end of the summer, and while the passage of time was evident in his growing maturity, her unwavering support for him remained constant in their shared journey towards happiness and well-being.

Removing a clean bowl and spoon from the dishwasher, Anna searched high and low for the recently purchased box of cereal. While she was well aware that Cookie O's probably wasn’t the healthiest choice for her nephew, his meds still needed to be taken with food. Additionally, the familiar childhood favorite always seemed to help, even during Cas's most challenging days. As her gaze swept across the kitchen, Anna frowned momentarily, giving in to disappointment over the now-empty cereal box laying discarded on the floor. Taking a deep breath, Anna tried to center herself, before refocusing her attention back onto Cas. Forcing herself to remember that Cas’s progress always came in small steps, could not be rushed, and that setbacks were a natural part of the journey.

***

Cas had woken up slowly, still grasping at details of what exactly had transpired overnight. Although he’d already figured out that he must've overdone it again with the eating thing, given Anna’s persistent hovering rather than her getting ready for work. While Cas genuinely tried to avoid all the negative shit that might push him into a bout of overthinking, he couldn't ignore the signs of having had another episode. Summoning the will to stand, Cas couldn't ignore how much heavier his body was getting. Touching his lips, he found them and his fingers to be smeared thickly with grease. The hint of acid reflux burned down the back of his throat, and there was considerably more tension gathering in his lower back from carrying so much new and extra weight. All these strangely familiar discomforts combined could only mean one thing, and judging from Anna’s increased weirdness around him, Cas hardly needed to guess what.

"Well, I guess we're out of cereal again," Anna said, her voice thick with annoyance as she paced around the kitchen.

Cas glanced up from taking his third pill out of five. His aunt was standing in front of him, her eyes closed, as she hugged an empty cereal box closely against her chest. Cas watched her for a moment, then went back to taking his piss. Studying his last one intently before swallowing it down with the remainder of water from his glass. There was no question how majorly his current medications were impacting his health both in positive and negative ways. This is especially true now that Dr. Vallens had increased all his dosages to accommodate his increased weight.

While Cas wasn’t terribly concerned about side effects like increased appetite or nighttime eating, he understood why Anna was so concerned. Not so long ago, he’d gotten very depressed, to the point where he couldn't even get out of bed or even go outside. Everything had felt impossible and he’d regrettably shut Anna out completely. Instead withdrawing further into himself, Cas made peace with despair, and had almost given in to his darkest, most impulsive desire.

Having survived long enough now to have begun processing his trauma and accepting his continued existence, Cas knew he couldn’t afford to slip back into his previous headspace. Food had always been there for him though, no matter what challenges he faced. So, while consistently overeating probably wasn't the healthiest way to deal with his stress, Cas figured it was a pretty good trade-off considering the alternative.

Flitting around the kitchen, Anna offered to make Cas scrambled eggs only moments after he’d resigned himself to frozen waffles instead. Even though the waffles were the extra healthy whole grain kind that tasted like cardboard, Cas knew better than to enable Anna when she was already cutting it close to being late for work. Busying himself with finding a clean plate and grabbing the peanut butter, Cas ignored the way Anna’s eyes followed him as she pretended to refill her already full coffee to-go mug.

Cas was well aware of his aunt's increased worries about his health, even if she never specifically said anything out loud. Mostly because It was usually a lost cause to convince her otherwise, and since he’d started steadily packing on more weight over the last couple of months, the whole issue had become a pretty awkward topic for both of them. Sometimes, Cas wished he could press a magical button that would make him normal again. Maybe then Anna would calm down long enough to try and relax.

"I want you to promise that you’ll do something for me today." Anna said, stopping abruptly while locating her car keys.

"Okay, and what would that be?" Cas snapped, failing to mask his sudden defensiveness.

"Relax, Cas, it's nothing too serious," Anna said, pausing briefly to select her words with care.

"I'd really like it if you could spend some time outside today while I'm at work,"

"Fine." Cas said, rolling his eyes with dramatic intent.

"Oh, come on, Cas," Anna teased, her eyes sparkling playfully.

"Fresh air and vitamin D can do wonders for the soul!"

Although he remained skeptical, Cas always found it hard to resist Anna's infectious enthusiasm. They had been addressing his avoidance of going outside in family therapy for a while now, and Cas was fully aware of his tendencies toward agoraphobia. Now that summer was nearly in full swing, he had exhausted all of his weather-related reasons for staying inside.

"Here's an idea," Anna continued, her voice carrying a mischievous tone.

"If you’ll agree to set foot in the backyard for just ten minutes today, I'll treat you to cheeseburgers and fries for dinner."

Cas's resistance wavered as his lips had twitched into a faint smile. Even though he knew Anna was only trying to sweeten the deal, he needed her to know that he could manage this one small task on his own, without added incentive.

"It's alright, Anna," Cas said eventually .

"You don't have to bribe me. I'll go outside if that's what you want."

Anna's eyes softened with gratitude as she pulled Cas into a quick hug.

"Thank you, Cas," she said, her voice filled with warmth.

"I appreciate this more than you know."

As Cas watched Anna heading to her car, he made a mental note to try to embrace the outside world at some point during his day. Little did he know how this decision would profoundly change everything about life as he knew it, forever.

#supernatural fanfiction #wip #angst with a happy ending #eventual destiel #high school au #tw: domestic violence #tw: PTSD flashbacks #tw: binge eating #tw: implied / referenced past suicide attempt and self harm

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hp-hcs · 6 months

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on a slytherin high rn so I'd be interested to see your take on yandere enzo berkshire? (on his own or poly with mattheo or theodore because there's no such thing as too much of the theo's) or just any sort of enzo x male reader.

~yanxidarlings; why you should make your writing blog a primary blog (case study)

poly bc i love my theo boyos ☺️

i tried real hard on this one i swear, just none of my words are wording right 😭

really? nobody has a single request? 🤨🤲

detention — yandere! poly! lorenzo berkshire & yandere! poly! mattheo riddle & yandere! poly! theodore nott x male! hufflepuff! reader

TWs: possessive/obsessive/toxic behavior, referenced homophobia, implied past repeated homophobia, homophobic slur, implied past bullying, references to past violence, graphic threats of violence, sexual innuendos, implied sexual activities

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“…really, I don’t know what you were thinking. Here, this is the detenti- Mr. Riddle! Mr. Nott! Get off of those desks!” McGonagall scolded, snapping her fingers and casting a wandless spell that made them both fall off of their desks and safely into their chairs.

You hover awkwardly at the doorway of the classroom-turned-detention-room, feeling the sudden piercing eyes of three Slytherins on you.

McGonagall huffs in disappointment, pats your shoulder, and leaves without a word. The boys all share a look you can’t quite decipher.

“Well, well, well. What’ve we got here?” One of them drawls, putting his feet up on his desk and crossing them at the ankle. “A pretty-boy Hufflepuff got in trouble?”

You rock back and forth on your feet, biting your lip nervously.

“Aww, he’s nervous,” another Slytherin cooed patronizingly. “What’s wrong, little badger? Afraid of a few snakes?”

The first boy stands up, sauntering over to you with an obnoxious smirk. He holds his hand out for you to shake.

“Mattheo Riddle, darling.”

You slowly take his hand and shake it, your grip loose.

“Nice to meet you,” you say softly. “I’m Y/N.”

“Y/N,” the second boy purrs, joining the first, Mattheo. “Lovely name for a lovely boy. I’m Theodore, sweetheart.”

You swallow thickly, the two taller boys standing over you.

“Leave ‘im alone, guys,” the last boy speaks up. “I’m calling dibs.”

“W-what?” You squeak, your eyes darting between the three as they all share another wordless look.

“Come along, little badger,” Theodore grins widely, predatorily, slinging an arm over your shoulders. “We don’t bite.”

“Unless you ask us to,” Mattheo adds on, joining your other side and wrapping an arm around your waist.

Your cheeks burn with the innuendo and all of the attention. “Er…no, I’m alright. Thank you.”

“If you ever change your mind…” Mattheo shrugs, leaving the offer unspoken.

The third boy finally stands up, swatting away Mattheo and Theodore. They both, surprisingly, acknowledge him and step away from you.

“Ignore these idiots,” he says fondly. “They think only with their dicks and never their brains.”

The Theos™ immediately break out into loud protests at the accusation. The third Slytherin rolls his eyes.

“I’m Lorenzo, but most people call me Enzo.”

“What do you call yourself?” You ask, voice still soft and almost getting lost in the clamor of the two other boys.

“What?”

“You told me what people call you…but what do you call yourself?”

He blinks.

“Uh, Lorenzo, I guess.”

You nod. “Lovely to meet you, Lorenzo.”

“I have a feeling that it’s lovelier meeting you, Y/N.”

~~~ “So why did you get detention?” Theodore asks, looking up at you from where he lays on the floor of the library, the spot you four had chosen to further converse at after your sentence was served. “You don’t seem like the type to really do…anything wrong.”

You wince, closing your book and relaxing further into the comfortable couch. “I uh, tried to ask this guy to Hogsmeade this weekend-” The boys all sit up at this, a dark look passing over each of their faces. “-but he uh…did not reciprocate,” you laugh humorlessly, running your fingers along your orbital bone.

They can barely see it—it’s still too early—but a definite bruise is starting to form. It’s going to turn into a hell of a black eye by tomorrow.

“He hit you?” Theodore asks, his voice low.

You shrug. “Comes with the territory of being the uh, ‘Puff Poof’, as they call me.”

“Creative. Put a lot of work into that one.”

“Tell me about it,” you grumble.

“Wait, how did you get in trouble then? If you were the one who got beat up in the first place?” Mattheo asks, his face scrunched up in confusion.

“Oh, I called Dumbledore a uh…‘batshit crazy abuser with a sanctimonious attitude and a god complex’. As it turns out, he did not like that.”

They all stare at you for a moment before bursting into laughter.

“Holy shit.”

“Talk about misjudging someone, damn.”

Your laughter eventually dies off and the conversation comes back around.

“So, Y/N, uh, what was this guy’s name?” Lorenzo asks sweetly, innocently. “Just..curious, is all.”

You huff, rolling your eyes. “Cormac McLaggen.”

They all collectively grimace.

“I know, okay? No need to rub it in.”

“You have terrible taste,” Mattheo scowls. “Asking out fucking McLaggen when we’re right here.”

“Yeah, don’t need to worry about him anymore, sweetheart,” Theodore says, sitting up from his spot on the floor and moving over to settle between your thighs and rest his chin on your knee. “We’re enough, aren’t we?”

Your cheeks burn at their words.

~~~ “What’re you all doing, bringing a Puff in here?” A fourth year jeers as the boys lead you through the Slytherin common room to the dorm they all share.

Theodore stares at the kid with his dead eyes; unnerving to everyone in the common room.

“If you even so much as look at him again, I’ll carve your eyes out in your sleep.”

The threat comes not from Theodore, but Lorenzo.

You gape, bewildered, as Lorenzo leads you down the hall, humming to himself like nothing happened.

“Same goes for you, you know,” Mattheo leans down to murmur in your ear. “Don’t even think about looking at another boy, got that, lovely?”

You reach their dorm and are roughly pulled inside, the door being slammed shut behind you all. Theodore pushes you up against the wall, pinning you in place.

“Ours, understand?”

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stickyspeckledlight · 8 days

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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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