eros!

HIS NAME had been Alaric.

Poor, innocent Alaric who had cried and begged for you to spare him. Twenty four year old Alaric who was three years younger than you, who had a whole life ahead of him to lead. His poor sister who had wept piteously when the newspapers spoke of his death; when they put in the details — a suicidal event; falling from a balcony; no, there were no security cameras, and multiple cuts on the deceased’s arms with a history of depressive episodes — and his poor father who had roamed around the streets, bottle in the hand. A string of feverish words had left his mouth in a daze; why, why, why my young son.

You had smiled at first, thinking of the way Alaric’s warmth had left your hands. His blood that had stained your skin, reassuring and sticky in a way that made your cheeks blush. You had caressed his skin as he had twitched, looking at you like you were a monster.

“How dare you.” You had spoke so softly, so sweetly. Two days ago you had caught him with another woman. “I gave you everything.”

“In hindsight, you stalked me,” he had moaned in pain, the clockwork of death ticking closer, “You ruined my life! I never should have agreed to go out with you!”

His hand had tried to slap you, but because of how weak he was — an endearing trait, you thought with amusement — it resembled an oscillating pendulum instead, moving back and forth uselessly. His tone, redolent of desperation and anger, made you laugh merrily; it was the most emotion he had showed you in a while.

“Your life has always been mine,” you had cooed, “you are mine.”

And you hadn’t even — murdered Alaric. You had merely guided him slowly; he had been the one to kill himself, had he not, staring at you with such acrimony and hostility that your heart had skipped a beat. He had rushed to the balcony feverishly, shaking his head, spewing dirty vulgarities at you. They were melodious words to your ears; soft, mellifluous. You had listened, mesmerised.

“Go on, jump,” you had murmured sweetly. You thought he wouldn’t have done so, because dear, pitiful Alaric had been so rebellious in your relationship with him, refusing to do your bidding. He had all this strange paroxysms of weeping, weird times where you would wish to help him but he would merely break down or howl. Ah, the mystery of human minds: Alaric never seemed to understand your efforts.

But he did. At twenty four, right before your eyes, Alaric had stared straight into your eyes, filled with roaring, beautiful anger; and his body had toppled right over the edge.

And you had watched it deadly, in veneration and reverence; that thump sound that followed had been godly.

**

Over the course of a few days that feeling had died, turning insipid and tasteless. You thought of Alaric, who you had goaded into dying. Essentially, you were a murderer. Essentially, you were evil.

You thought of Alaric’s bright laughter. The sallow complexion he had following the days you had become his boyfriend.your breaths coalescing.

Pity, pity, pity.

This empty feeling must be grief, you thought. You were never that good with emotions, naming them after poring over textbooks. Doctors had said you would never understand them, but Alaric had been you understand. Your feelings with him must have been love.

And now there were perforations in your soul. You had longed for the sublime; for the peaceful, tranquil feeling you had gotten when you had let love corrupt you. When you had allowed its brutal nature to swallow you whole.

What did people do when they grieved? You searched it up online. They went to psychiatric hospitals, they went to therapy. You thought those were fancy words for the doctor. You stumbled upon posts explaining how to deal with insurmountable grief and read countless aching stories of people who lost their loved ones in freak car accidents, who lost their husbands and wives and mothers and fathers from old age, from cancer, from brain aneurysms that struck one day have never gave them mercy.

Not one of them had murdered their loved one. Online forums and posts are not helping, you thought, as you shut your laptop down. You clicked your tongue, tapping your table listlessly.

A doctor. A doctor would be the cure. Yes, that would work.

**

HIS NAME was Joseph. You found him on the internet, under glowing reviews that spoke of his honeyed tongue, of how readily he had helped them; of how he was so charming, so gentle. You had studied his profile, deciding that he would do just fine. The expensive sessions were nothing to you; you weren’t particularly rich, but you didn’t have a desire to save money. Life was fickle, and you went about it as you pleased. You didn’t eat much, choosing to opt for a box of cigarettes and perhaps an apple or two. The juices would haemorrhage your tongue, and you would frown in displeasure.

“Expunge this sadness within me,” you had told Joseph during the first meeting with him. He was tall, well built, had brown hair swept into a clean, tidy hairstyle. His features were beautifully handsome, and you suspected they had helped with the numerous of illuminating reviews.

“You say you’re grieving,” Joseph said calmly, studying you with intelligent, thoughtful eyes. “When did the deceased die?”

You thought long and hard. His spirit had died a while ago, but his body had died about two weeks ago. Or was it three? Or four? You couldn’t remember. All you could feel were your feelings, raw and ambivalent, bubbling within you.

“Maybe four weeks ago?” You guessed.

“You don’t know?” He asked, curious.

“Not really,” you shrugged easily. “I saw online that grief does that to someone. Messes with you. Alaric was so precious,” you sighed.

The vestiges of his name lingered in your tongue. It felt bitter. Awful. You frowned again, and your breath rattled.

“Oh, Alaric,” Joseph spoke slowly, “he was my patient. Surely you don’t mean Alaric Rivers?”

“I do.”

“What a small world,” he had smiled pleasantly. “The man you spoke of visited for me for reasons related to depression.”

“Isn’t there a clause for confidentiality?” You asked, mystified, and also rather surprised at this coincidence.

“My patient is dead,” Joseph chuckled.

You thought he was a light hearted doctor. Acquaintances had rushed to wish you condolences, all viewing you cautiously like you were a time bomb about to go off. They told you that they were there for you and they were so sorry and they knew loss could be incredibly hard on an individual — but Joseph did none of those. It was like he had seen death in its very essence; everlasting, forever. It was like he had ripped mortality open and had seen its finite, fickle nature.

You decided he was a doctor that was good. You could rely on him. You did like how he laughed at it, just like how you had smiled so widely when Alaric had first jumped off the building. Who could blame you? Alaric had always been disobedient — and then he had went on to jump. Was there not a touch of mirth in the situation?

At least the doctor could understand!

“I thought it was a coincidence at first, when you said your name was Y/n,” Joseph said, “Alaric mentioned you. You must be the esteemed boyfriend.”

“He talked about me?” You asked, pleased.

“Of course.”

“What did he say?” You asked eagerly, the words tumbling out of your breath, “tell me, tell me!”

Joseph’s eyes softened, and he laughed. “That’s for another day.”

After the session, you booked another.

This man was useful. This man was one of the real doctors, not the ones who prescribed you pills and medicine that only made you throw up.

This man would help you eviscerate the sadness within you. Oh, right. The correct term would be grief.

**

In the next session, Joseph told you that Alaric said that you were an incredible boyfriend. That you clearly adored him.

You nodded. Joseph spoke the truth; you had loved him so dearly. You had gone so far so as to break his legs so Alaric didn’t need to go for that work event he didn’t want to go for, right?

Alaric had always been so ungrateful.

**

“You are one of the most intriguing patients I’ve ever had,” Joseph smiled. He did a lot of those, but they varied. Some were light, charming. The ones that made the nurses at the front desk giggle and fall over their feet. Most were unsettling, but you liked them those were genuine.

This was session six. The grief was leaving you. You thought of Alaric with fondness, and consoled yourself with the fact that he had loved you back. That was what Joseph had said. Doctors could not lie to their patients. Alaric had been swathed in depression and sadness; of course he would jump. Maybe you weren’t a murderer, after all. These sessions really were working; you were grateful to Joseph for everything he had done for you.

“Really?”

“You feel no guilt,” Joseph murmured, “you don’t even know yourself.”

Now, that wasn’t the fairest thing to say, you thought, offended. Where was this even coming from?

“An interesting specimen indeed,” Joseph continued softly, “you said you locked Alaric up, broke his legs, and threatened to kill yourself if he ever left you. You said he would cry and shake whenever you two slept together, and he was constantly ridden with nightmares. You say you gave him sleeping pills which you carefully crushed in his water so he wouldn’t know.”

“He had a plethora of problems he went through,” you said sadly. How upsetting for Alaric. You hoped that in his final comments, he got some peace, some closure.

“No guilt,” Joseph repeated, his eyes gleaming, “none whatsoever. A psychopath.”

“Calling him a psychopath is a little too much,” You said.

Joseph blinked.

Then he broke off into laughter — into peals of laughter that left his body shaking, leaving his body doubled over. He laughed so hard that tears pricked his eyes, and he continued doing so; uproarious, genuine, full of mirth. You wondered if Joseph had gone crazy.

And when he finally looked up at you, his eyes were murky. And so full of — what was that — ah, amusement. Joy. Affection.

And if you had squinted closer, you would have seen something blooming within. Something that, similarly, bloomed in your own eyes.

(Obsession.)

“My darling Y/n,” he laughed and laughed, “I wasn’t calling Alaric a psychopath. My dear, I was calling you one.”

**

How offensive!

“If that’s your idea of a joke, I don’t want to hear it,” you said. “Take your words back, doctor.”

“Y/n,” he cajoled, “this is our sixth session; shall we leave the formalities behind? Call me Joseph.”

Something had switched in his tone, in his behaviour. You ruminated upon it, trying to think. What was it? It mirrored your own behaviour, but then again; you were bad with naming emotions. Whatever; it would come to you later. You would search it up.

“That wasn’t a very nice thing to say, Joseph.” You said, chagrined.

“Let me tell you about some things, Y/n,” Joseph said, “I know you killed Alaric.”

**

“He jumped off,” you said, “out of his own will.”

“You brought him to,” Joseph replied merrily, “you murdered him.”

“I didn’t,” you furrowed your eyebrows, “what are you even saying?”

“My darling,” Joseph begun, still smiling, “Alaric came to me about you. The minute I saw your name — and then it was confirmed when his name left your mouth — I knew you were his boyfriend. Well, his ex boyfriend. He did not say he loved you. He was terrified of you, Y/n, he hated you. I lied, Y/n, because I was so amazed at how unbothered you seemed by it all — by his death —"

“I was grieving —"

“You were not,” Joseph said, leaning forward, “here’s what I think. Shall I hazard a guess? You were happy when he died, because it felt like you had control over his last moments. And then you felt emptiness, because you no longer had a victim. You no longer had someone to fixate over. And you mistook that for grief.”

“I did not murder him,” you said at last, your eyes blazing, “I did not do any of those things.”

“I have files, transcripts,” Joseph smiled at you gently, “all of which will point to you as his abuser; and it would reopen the case. You could get arrested. You would get arrested, if I sent them in.”

You looked at him, eerily calm. You tilted your head. “And would you?”

Something within you disappeared, completeiy effaced. The grief, gone. The guilt, gone.

Nothing within you. An empty husk.

Joseph’s eyes glittered. “As it appears, I’ve taken an incredible interest in you. Fondness.”

“Wonderful.” You said dryly.

“We are one and the same,” Joseph said, “twin flames. I have my obsessive tendencies, you have yours. We latch onto something and tear it apart until it becomes ours. Until its ruins belong to us.”

“Is that so?” You looked at Joseph.

“I thought I had gotten over it a long time ago,” Joseph laughed, “but then you came…and something tells me you won’t break as easily. Not that I intend for you to break.”

“Not that you can break me.”

“I’m sure you, even in your unbothered state, would not wish to rot in prison.”

“Are you threatening me, Joseph?”

“I am giving you a choice,” Joseph said sweetly, “choose me; give me the reins of your body and spirit and heart — or I send the evidence in.”

It sounded like a vow, a marriage proposal. And maybe in a way, it was.

“That’s very little of a choice,” but your heart was starting to speed up — thumping wildly against your chest. The feeling of being alive again.

Joseph laughed. “It is.”

And then he had pulled you towards you, and —

**

At home:

Google; what does it mean when someone has an unhealthy or compulsive preoccupation with a single thought, feeling, or person? It completely fills your mind, often making it difficult to stop, think logically, or let go…

The screen loaded for a blip of a second. You thought of Joseph, who had started to fill every inch of your thoughts.

Obsession.

You had gotten the word for it.

You thought of the blackmail; the way his desire reached deep within the roots of your soul, the way it had corroded him. The way his hands had curled around your waist; around the expanse of your skin. It’s unrelenting, brutal, brusque nature.

You traced the marks left on your collarbone; harsh, painful bite marks. The bruises littered on your skin. The way he had claimed you, salacious and wanting, the way you had felt obsession entrench you again, this time all consuming, darker, wilder.

Malicious, malignant, malevolent, you thought. And so the two of you would waltz to death together, intertwined. The inevitable march towards fate, towards hell. Sins layering and building slowly upon each other.

Let’s destroy and tear each other apart.

Two can play the game.

**

hope everybody enjoyed!!! it’s been incredibly long since I attempted any yandere x yandere. hope this didn’t disappoint!

Arranged marriages are never popular — true love has been romanticised of late; and there’s the horrific scenario of marrying someone whom you hate.

It helps that there’s a war plaguing your nation, and everyone is eager for a distraction — the libraries are now packed with people engrossed in romance novels; who desire to plunge their head in some sort of whirlwind, fairytale romance that inevitably finishes off with peace and riches and perhaps a tender kiss.

But you can’t say that you mind it terribly — arranged marriage, that is — as even though your parents have married you off to a respectable general officer, who works at the frontlines of the war, and who is fairly well off. The first meeting you shared — his name is Dorian, you learn, aristocratic on your tongue, the two syllables weighted and heavy — had been cordial, unassuming. Both of you had been polite, and he had opened the door for you, had cut your steak into tiny pieces for you to eat easier — had overall been a dream.

I’ll treat you like royalty, he had promised, his tone silky, unhurried, filled with reverence, like a prince, Y/n.

It was a heavy promise — one that belonged to those romance books that condemned arranged marriages and left it all up to fate; to the mingling of souls — but you had taken it anyway, full of mirth and delight that you had gotten so lucky. Newlywed couples struggled to obtain new houses, but perhaps because Dorian had high social standing now due to the war — but he had swept you gaily along to a mansion sequestered within his land — land that sprawled along the expanse of a forest. Inaccessible to many places, but he had kissed you on the forehead, reassuring you that this place had everything you ever wanted, and you suspected that the everything he referred to was him.

It was a normal marriage at first; a surprisingly amiable, beautiful one given the fact that it had been arranged. Dorian returned home with blooming flowers that tickled your nose, he kissed you on the forehead with great tenderness and affection — and similarly you returned this love readily, grateful to your parents for obtaining such a wondrous match. You’ve heard horror stories of violence; of bloodshed within the walls of people’s homes; and you’ve shuddered, thanking the gods that you’re so lucky.

Lucky, lucky, lucky.

That is, until the day he hit you.

**

Your first thought is that it is going to leave a scar; Dorian is powerful, first of all; owing to his military training, owing to how well built he is. And so when the blow connects to your face; when you feel the innocuous tendrils of pain bloom on your cheek, burning and searing through the veins of your body, you choke.

Blood drips from your mouth; you must have bitten too harshly on your tongue. All you can think is: it might leave a scar; it’s so painful and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts terribly.

You think of the events that transpired before that, of Dorian’s sallow expression, his anger slowly rising, irritation spilling over the boiling point; the nascent of his emotions that led to this. His inordinate anger.

“What’s this talk about you going to the library?” Dorian had said, when he had kissed your forehead and had set the groceries down. You hadn’t noticed then, the cracks in his demeanour already; the perforations that littered his attitude as his eyes glittered and watched you. Observed you. You had been blissfully none the wiser: unaware of how Dorian held you askance.

“It’s been a while since I went there.” You had answered casually, studying the groceries he had brought home. Always of the highest quality, which reminded you how privileged you were, cooped up within his embrace with nothing but the finest. Dorian had made good of his promises. “I miss everyone; Joy, Malcolm — I haven’t stepped out of here in a while.”

“We have a library here,” Dorian had said, spitting the words out with surprising vitriol, and you had jumped: “I built one for you, did I not, darling? Because you said you loved reading.”

“Well, yes, but I do miss the social aspect of it.” You blinked your eyes, surprised at his tone, redolent of anger and not the gentleness you were always so accustomed to. “Meeting my friends.”

“You have me,” Dorian said quietly. The calm before the storm; equanimity before violence. If only you knew sooner, you could have ducked. You could have avoided his brutal, malicious blow.

“I do,” you said softly, “but I miss them, too —"

And then that’s when he had hit you; a swift, decisive blow — one that sent you crumpling to the floor, wheezing and holding your battered cheek, eyes tearing up. Your breaths came out ragged, your voice came out hoarse as you managed to stutter a what, and Dorian looked down at you, posture imposing, eyes sharp.

“You have me,” he repeated, and then smiling, seemingly taking pleasure in your perilous, pernicious state, “you have me, Y/n. Why miss other people?”

You stared at him, unable to believe just what you were seeing. A monster, a monster, a monster.

“Now, don’t overreact.” Dorian reached out towards you, clicking his tongue irascibly when you flinched away. His gloves caught your side of the face, and pain shot through your spine, lumbering, slow, as he brushed away your tears. “I married you. We are husband and husband, tied together. Your time is unalienable; it cannot be transferred to others, and I wish not for it to be. You are mine,” he said consolingly.

You had choked. A pained, grievous sound had escaped your lips. Perhaps the slap had been extra painful because the wedding ring he had on his finger, glittering, expensive, and proud had been the one to hit your cheek. Dorian always had his idiosyncratic moments; moments where his voice was too soft, insidious, dangerous — moments where you saw the promise of violence but it never came true. Moments that were lurid, shocking — but there would be a swift kiss in your cheek, a devoted sigh, an enamoured expression.

But now it did, you thought in despair, and the first bite of acrimony hit you then; the pure fear and rage and anger — and now it did.

Four months into a blissful, happy marriage, and everything had crumbled down.

**

You can’t remember how long it has been; this insidious, insipid cycle — or when it’s started. But everyone is a slave to something, and in this case you’re a slave to this very marriage, which has been tossed to the ground, upended on the streets. There is only bitterness that fills you. The nasty, unholy feeling you must purge.

Dorian never apologised. No; he truly saw it as part and parcel of your marriage. He was a paranoid man, steeped in fear that one day you would leave him for another, terrified that you would one day be desecrated by someone else. But ironically, it was this paranoia that made you want to run; to fill your incredibly lonely self with human connection, because you missed your family and friends so dearly.

But each of your attempts to run had been stymied by him. Each time your cold, clammy hands reached for the extra key in his jacket that hung loosely by the side — he would appear, imperious, chuckling, amused at your temerity, at your sheer courage. He would say, in a sonorous tone, you just never learn, do you, Y/n, and then the cycle would repeat again: the violence, your shudders, the comfort that followed afterward that made you feel debauched. His personality was a rupture of the otherwise sublime, angelic beauty he had.

You are foolish, Y/n, he tells you when you two are in bed, and he is holding you, and there is a brief moment of respite that betrays your mind — you are foolish. I am in control.

**

The thing about humans is that they are tenacious beings. You do not give up, because general or not, violence or not: you must stop this. You must end this now, before you douse a bottle of gasoline on yourself and self immolate. At least then you will die of your own terms, not by nursing your forever open wounds and groaning and not by his hands.

It’s the advent of the war party — this marriage has lasted through the whole war, and now Dorian is receiving a prize for contributing as one of the heroes — that makes you plan. It’s custom that a spouse would follow the other to the party, but Dorian, of course, would rather leave you here than bring you outside, to the wandering eyes that would look at you, to the gazes that would tear you down. He calls this an altruistic act for you, but you beg to differ. But you nod your head. Look adoringly at him, despite the pernicious ache that tears you apart inside.

But this is your chance. You have been waiting for this day forever, have been counting down the days, looking at the calendar — because you’ve made a copy of the key out of clay; and you plan to use it. Clay made from the soil of potted plants; water taken from the taps — all melded and left outside to harden and to become a perfect replica. All done in the areas that cannot be caught by the cameras that litter every expanse and inch of the room. You’ve memorised where they are by now; some hidden slyly between couch cushions, some in plants.

Your heart is beating fast. This is it; this is it; this is it. The words are a mantra, dancing in your head. You feel sick, beyond anxious, but you hide all of those feelings when you kiss Dorian goodbye, congratulating him and even coyly patting the front of his uniform — an act he so dearly loves. You can see what he’s thinking; that you’ve finally become docile. That you’ve finally become good.

Be good, he says before he leaves, like it is a reminder.

You nod your head again.

**

Your plan nearly works; oh god, it does. You’re already out of the house by then — fleeing, running, not allowing to get your hopes up but shit, it’s so close; the exit — and you’re running fast and your heart is burning and your lungs are choking — and —

So close

So close

So close

“Now I am the foolish one,” this utterly furious, ravaged voice is what tears you from your thoughts, throws you into the deepest despair and solidifies your descent into this perennial cycle of violence once more — “to leave you alone. You’ve gotten smart, have you? If I was a second later, you would have left.”

It’s raining, cold and bitter, and you’re shivering, hair damp, clothes drenched. Your thoughts are turning delirious, bereft of reason, bereft of hope.

Doom awaits you.

Dorian

Dorian

Dorian

“You will regret,” Dorian says, and his voice is so soft, so quiet. But in it lies terrible, terrible anger that you will not be able to coax out of him, that you will not be able to negate. The anger he had at the past escape attempts cannot be compared to this; it is disparate — because for this one he had trusted you. “Oh, Y/n, you will regret.”

So far

So far

So far

**

This time round he makes sure the punishments stick to you.

This time round the agony is so painful that you feel yourself shrink, turn timorous, turn into a coward.

This time round the anger is so sharp, like it’s been sharpened to a needlepoint — that you accept it, let it corrupt you.

This time round you give in to him. To his veneration, appetence. To his hunger, that scoops you hollow, that makes you anew. To his control.

This time round you become fully his.

**

“Do you wish to go out?” Dorian hums, “it’s a sunny day, isn’t it, Y/n? Don’t you want to go to the library?”

Your thoughts are a soft murky spot in your head, swimming between broken fragments and torn memories. The bruises lay on your skin; scars littered across every orifice. Dorian holds you sweetly, kissing your forehead.

“I have you,” you tell him, “why would I ever need that for? And we have a library.”

He laughs; and oh god, you love that sound. So melodic, so assuring, so comforting. (Surely the shiver down your spine is because it makes you giddy with happiness. There are some things the body cannot unlearn.)

“I was prepared to get you the wheelchair.” Dorian says gently, “but we can stay here, if you’d like.”

Of course you’ll love to stay here. Your legs don’t really work the same anymore — all broken, battered, crushed to bits — and it’s Dorian who attends so well to you, despite the fact that you can’t move around the same anymore. You don’t remember what caused that, but it doesn’t matter: you are still loved by your husband. The vows are still there; til death do us part.

This, in the end, is still a fairytale romance.

—

**

He doesn’t remember the ruin; the blood soaked fingers that thread through his hair. Softly, gently, lovingly. He doesn’t remember his trembles beneath him, the soft, strangled moans, the claw marks left on his back. Y/n didn’t remember any of it — his memory is closed and bottled and gone and his mind is a mess. He remembers scratching at the door of the church for mercy, and being welcomed.

Y/n remembers first meeting him, the man clothed in white; the man with silky golden hair and cerulean blue eyes. The man who was so devastatingly and damningly beautiful that people stopped to stare at him; the man with the gentle smile that swallowed your rage. The man named Anton.

“Poor thing,” Anton had told Y/n, and his fingers had been warm then. Y/n would’ve mistaken anything for warmth; he was so horribly starved of touch and affection that even the simplest of words could feel like the sun to him. And so he basked in it. “Poor thing,” Anton said quietly, “you are at the mercy of God. At me.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Y/n choked out. He knew the emptiness gnawing at his brain. Chewing at nothing, with a bottomless hunger that had yet not been satiated. His fingers had clutched at the priest’s robes; he had nearly cried out from reprieve at seeing another human; another life form. He had stumbled on the bare roads alone. Something about the priest had seemed so familiar and it filled Y/n with indescribable relief.

“You’re trembling,” Anton had murmured softly and gently in return, his fingers brushing Y/n’s cheek. “How fortunate, then. You have stumbled upon the one place that you can be saved. The only place you will be saved.”

Y/n had drunk his words in at the point of time. He had been — ah, what’s that word? He had been docile, yes he had. He had been so painfully and ridiculously pliant to the priest’s needs then, so much like a lamb that had been reared for him, the shepherd — that he now laughed at the absurdity of it all.

The priest, who had been so charming at first, was a vicious monster. The smile never left his face; that ineffable mannerisms he had that was so graceful; so powerful, so divine…and yet Anton robbed people of their lives so easily; with a careless flick and a sanguine, saccharine smile. His fingers were bloody when they traced Y/n’s back, when they touched his face…when they left a crimson, unforgiving trail.

He will kill me, Y/n always thought, he will kill me one day. He will murder me; like he has murdered so many of his foolish believers who throw themselves at his feet…

“When will you kill me?” Y/n had begged once, after the thirty eighth slaughter, after the last of the flames had been snuffed out and burnt carcasses lay on the floor again. “Why did you welcome me? Why did you — why did you let me live and why do you treat me so well? Why do you treat me like I’m special — when you are simply going to kill me?”

Oh, yes, Anton treated him so differently. During service Anton rebuked those who tormented Y/n for being a new believer. Y/n watched as others poured their savings out for Anton and he didn’t bat an eye at them. But with Y/n…why? Y/n’s memories had not yet returned; and he was beginning to accept the bleak reality that it would never do so. And so now he was left to spiral here, in this crazed madness where the priest ruled this place like a cult and he had no answers and only him —

I should never have come, Y/n found himself thinking over this all the time, I should never have been on that path, walking towards the church. This is not holy: this is not divine.

“Oh, Y/n,” Anton sighed. “Oh, Y/n.” He stalked towards Y/n; his large strides making Y/n flinch and cower and summon the last vestiges of his strength to bare his teeth; like a dog that had yet not been tamed. The priest’s hands were cold this time round as he tipped the (h/c)-haired boy’s chin up. “You will never die. You are the Chosen One. The one who is my most beloved ordained proxy. The heavens have chosen you. I have chosen you.”

His words were sweet, coated in so much honey that Y/n wanted to vomit.

“You kill all of them,” Y/n choked out, “you -you cannot possibly believe that what you’re doing is —”

“You don’t understand,” Anton said sadly, “not yet; it seems.”

“Murder,” Y/n finished, “it’s fucking murder- do you hear me? I can’t believe I ever listened to you- I can’t believe I ever thought I would — kill me, just kill —”

“You were like this before,” Anton’s tone had hardened, but it held that tone of wistfulness from before. Almost stern; like a beguiling parent chiding a naughty child. “Then I went through all that trouble to do that…and still you rebel; still you fight. How many lessons do you need to learn?”

“Fuck you,” the words had slipped from Y/n’s throat before he knew it, “fuck your murderous tendencies and your cult and your deranged —”

Anton had taken his arm then, in a grip so tight it bruised, and had forced Y/n to stare at those unsettling eyes of his. Y/n had swallowed; Anton had looked hungrily at him; with thinly veiled desire and fondness and reluctance.

Reluctance…?

“It pains me to do this,” Anton said calmly, his voice soft. “But it seems punishment is needed for you. I shall not do something as extreme as what I did the last time…but you do need to learn a lesson.”

“No,” Y/n whispered.

“You will be declared holy. You will be consecrated. You will be freed from sin.”

The lessons would be the start of despair; of torment.

**

Y/n remembers his attempts at fighting. He remembers clawing at locked doors that won’t budge; the endless darkness that he was drenched in, the protest of not eating food and water. He remembers the corpses lined up in his mind, relentless and determined to make him miserable. He remembers screaming; until his throat is hoarse and until he is sure the Gods have grown tired of his misery. He remembers cursing God at his pain; at his situation.

“Will you surrender yet?” Anton asks softly. He holds a starved Y/n; his arms the only flicker of warmth. Y/n’s head, on his lap, the hallucinations driving him mad. He looks at the priest; he stares. He feels emptiness, hatred.

Starving himself had not worked; he had been forcibly fed. He had tried to stab the priest with a knife, and it had melted into a puddle of wax.

“Sin is resistance,” Anton tells him, smiling so serene, so beautiful. “I will purge you of it. You are Chosen, Y/n: remember that. I will allow no one to taint you; no one to touch you.”

Y/n remembers slipping into a haze. He remembers lips against his own. He remembers being too weak to fight back.

**

Days become weeks; and weeks — they become something completely indecipherable; slipping elusively through the cracks of time. Y/n doesn’t remember Anton ever harming him — not physically, at least; but Anton torments him. Anton bathes him; dresses him in all white, and prays over him with hands that linger too long on the throat. Y/n feels the anger dying in his mouth: but it is so bountiful, so full that it wriggles between his gum like cavities. Anton’s obsession is so sweet it rots Y/n’s teeth.

He speaks of the prophecy; at how they united together through divine matrimony — “You belong to me,” Anton says sweetly. He whispers quietly and presses their foreheads together while Y/n squirms and sobs.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Y/n says deliriously, “I cannot. I cannot — I cannot accept this: I cannot — I cannot live like this. Let me go, Anton. Let me go —”

Who was he before this? Has he ever been a person? What had the outside been like?

I am utterly isolated, Y/n realizes and he weeps; he weeps big, grieving, loud cries. I do not know anyone else except for him; why has Anton imbued me with only the knowledge of him?

Anton tilts his head and his voice is flat as he speaks. “You still choose to rebel.”

“I —”

“Was everything I did for naught?” He says tonelessly. He looks at Y/n. “I have gone to this extent and you want me to let you go,” he says. His tone is terrifyingly dark and Y/n is shaking, and oh god, the mantra of please let me go repeats in Y/n’s head and he’s stumbling and crying and —

“I declared that I would make you holy,” Anton says, smiling. But it is without mirth; it is completely empty.

“And so I will,” Anton says, “perhaps it’s time to purify you.”

Anton takes Y/n’s hand; very very gently. He pulls Y/n away; for once Y/n is out of that dark attic and he winces when light meets his skin and he wonders if the word purify has a negative or positive connotation to it because he’s free, and he’s seeing the outside world, and —

Oh.

There are hands tearing at his robes, there are harsh kisses pressed to his collarbone and Anton is undressing and there is an — altar; an incense burning in a censer and its smells sweet…Y/n hallucinates a lute playing; a pipe…

“After this I will give you a choice,” Anton says cruelly with a smile; “to leave. If you can walk, that is.”

**

Y/n learns that his moans are loud; strangled, like his screams. Or perhaps his moans and screams are blending together and he doesn’t know which is which; but he does know that they are ripped mercilessly from his throat and at least the constant thing in his life is that he is offered no mercy.

“This is what I was supposed to do,” Anton says, his voice a sigh. His eyes are impossibly dark and his expression is so cold and terrifying and warm at the same time…his fingers ghost over Y/n’s body and he shivers; he feels the touch glide up to his nipples and he feels teeth rest at the curve of his throat.

I can feel his pulse, Y/n thinks. I can feel him…entering me…breaking me…all of him.

Y/n knows his scream is loud when the priest pushes his large cock into his body; when he feels his walls tighten around painfully around him like they’re welcoming him, the traitorous hardening of his own cock that is left untouched. He feels delirious, delirious with painful pleasure when the thrusts become forceful and Anton is moving, he’s moving and pushing into him and each time Y/n accepts him, Y/n’s hands go to his back and they scratch and claw.

Their kisses are ravenous. They are dotted with sin, lined with pleasure and desire that should not exist. It is the forbidden fruit; they are falling from the Garden of Eden and Anton has claimed him. There are bottomless pools of blood in Y/n’s vision when he looks at Anton; when he cries for him to stop! And yet his own body aches; wants more. Y/n arches his back still, feels the delicate curve of his spine bending in submission and he twitches his hips while Anton takes more; he takes more and more and he does not stop.

“You will not leave,” Anton says in between his thrusts; as he nips Y/n’s ear. He smiles victoriously above Y/n’s body. “After I’m done…you shall be complete; perfect. I have held back for you.”

“Anton,” Y/n cries out. The name is stuck in his throat, hoarded in his mouth. Why is it all he knows? Where are his memories? Where is the past, the before? Where is his identity — is Anton right; does it rest with him?

(Chosen; chosen, chosen. You are the Chosen One. Why run away?)

“My darling,” Anton says; and he laughs. “Do you want me to continue? You want choices, don’t you? There it is. Do you want me to continue?”

Y/n whimpers below him. “Anton,” he repeats. His mind is broken; he cannot think but god everything is empty and the church is all he has, and —

“Beg,” Anton says, his voice stern. His fingers thrum against the expanse of Y/n’s flesh. He waits to take him apart, to peel him like a fruit and to devour him whole. The bruises on Y/n’s hip have a dull sort of pain. He cannot think.

“Do it, Y/n,” Anton coaxes, tone gentler this time. He kisses the tears off Y/n’s face. “Be good for me. You can do that, right? You can be so good…”

“Please,” the word leaves Y/n’s mouth. “Please ruin me. Please purify me. Please save me.”

Anton crashes his lips onto Y/n; drunk off his declaration; his plea, his piteous, soft cries. He knew Y/n would come around one day. He knew Y/n had to; he knew it was their fates intertwined, their destinies together melding into a singular line. The sex that follows is even more overwhelming; but it is glorious, it is divine.

After it is over, after Y/n is sprawled on the stained sheets and the sweet smell of the incense continues to permeate Y/n’s nostrils… Anton cradles him; soothes him after it’s over.

“Do you still wish to run?” He asks. Then, a more brutal question; “Can you still run?”

**

Y/n is given a choice. He remembers the ruin; the divinity; the purification. He is sanctified, he is pure, he is holy. He is made new.

Anton smiles. “Darling; do you still want to leave?”

Y/n feels a barrage of soft kisses on his forehead. The priest is gentle. The priest is kind. He is chosen.

(Forgive me, Y/n thinks to whatever God who has ignored him, Forgive me, for I no longer wish to be saved.)

**

PAST

“You disobey me,” Anton said quietly. “You slit your wrists; you run away. I have no choice but to start over; to erase your reality. To start from point one.”

“Stop,” Y/n screamed, “do you have enough of this? Do you have enough of —”

“I shall erase your memory,” Anton said, sounding pleased with himself. “Yes; that will be brilliant.”

“I will always run,” Y/n told him through his despairing tears, through the haze of pain and through the priest’s clutch on him. “I will run from you.”

Anton stared at Y/n, before he laughed. He laughed for a good minute; before he stared at Y/n like he had said something so painfully amusing.

“My darling,” Anton shook his head, “my dear. You will never stray from the divine path. You will find me. You will be helpless; you will knock on my door and you will beg for me.”

“No,” Y/n choked out, “I will not. I will kill myself before doing so.”

Anton looked fondly at Y/n. “You funny thing. I will bring you from the dead. You cannot run from me.”

The priest kissed Y/n for the last time; the (h/c)-haired male struggled viciously, but eventually slumped in the priest’s arms.

Anton smiled. Ah; yes, Y/n was his. Nothing could tear them apart; he was God; he commanded the will of the universe. He would wait. He would wait to purify him; to make him stronger; to make him holy…

To sanctify him.

**