she creepy my pasta til im afraid

“Love” is a heavy word. 

The memory of it often floats in the back of your mind, the haunting of a feeling that defines all living beings─you are alive because you are loved, and you love because it's the way to live. The simplicity almost makes it sound pretentious, but love is a feeling that adapts, changes and twists beyond recognition. It’s always there, the root cause of mankind’s maladies. 

Your mother once said that love carries a bittersweet hint to it, but the affection she gave you was like honey dripping off a spoon, soft and crunchy like a chocolate pearl wrapped in silk with intricate and colorful patterns. Back then, you believed love to be a reward for good behaviour. It was only when she left died that you could finally taste that bitter aftermath, with love lodged inside your mouth, pushing against your gritted teeth. Your esophagus clogged with the impossible density of her love─or rather, the sudden absence of it─with a rough texture like needles against glass. Prickling sensations along your throat every time you dared speak. Spikes that refused to be ignored and forgotten, sinking deep into your trachea, hooked into you in like a poor fish dangling over the water, nothing to do but wait until its sharp end pierces your brain.

But in the end, you did. You swallowed and ate love through tears.

Ever since then, it nests somewhere deep inside your body; in your chest, hidden under lock and key as to avoid acknowledging it, even as it leaves soft caresses and gentle kisses along your ribcage, as it sucks on the wretched organ that you call a heart while promising your downfall and your ascension into personhood in equal measures. You never know if it means to drain or pump you with life. It’s in your tummy, fluttering along in erratic and violent movements, pushing the confines of your stomach lining so that you’ll let it out, regurgitate half-digested feelings into a hot pulsating mass of vomit on the cobblestone below for all to see.

Behold! A man that does not know how to love! A man that has desecrated the sanctity of everything that is good and righteous and kind! A vile beast! A monster that eats and, like an ungrateful child, spits that which he’s given freely! 

No, the things you do are much, much worse. 

You’ve gorged on the flesh of saints and sinners alike and called it love. You’ve stuffed your mouth with fresh feelings torn from their tender insides in search of something you can’t understand let alone name. Your charming smile conceals a monstrous maw that pierces through innocence like a butcher’s cleaver. Your lying tongue laps greedily at the blood that spills forth while parroting everlasting promises and sworn oaths meant to be ushered in the quiet of night, under thin sheets as bodies become one with Hydaelyn as witness. 

Menphina, Goddess of that which you desecrate, would weep at your poor simulacra of everything she holds dear. You wish that her tears would turn into the spear that finally ends your life. You wish for the moment in which consciousness ceases altogether, for your body to dissipate and return to the Lifestream, never to form someone─something─like you ever again. You wish that the next time you close your eyes will be your last. 

But your eyes flutter open anyway, heavy with a thin layer of dried tears. Gods don’t bother with the dirt that stains the soles of their shoes, after all. 

Like every other night, you suppress the impulse to tear yourself bloody and instead move to lay on your side─the sight that welcomes you is familiar, a warm body lies next to you. Alive. Breathing. A man whose faint silhouette you drink in with the same idle hunger and thirst that has been plaguing you for decades, a pain and longing so mundane by now that you barely process it, because the thing that sets you off and jumpstarts your heartbeat into an arrhythmic mess is the comfort he brings. It’s terrifying. His chest rises when he breathes, there’s the small twitch of his ear: every minute and minuscule detail hits you like the relentless waves of the Lord of the Whorl, and you feel like dying on the spot as a way to atone. 

For what? You’re not sure. Guilt is not meant for creatures like you, exempt from rules and moral codes.  

Your eyes are wide open, a flash of something wild flickers in them when you feel his tail tug at yours, woven together lke an umbilical cord that connects a parasite to its host. It’s hard to tell─or maybe you don’t want to examine what this says about you─but at some point, you’ve snuggled closer to him, enough to feel the soft exhales from his mouth on your skin. Darkness has always been a sore spot for a Seeker like you, but even in the total absence of light, you can easily imagine the curve of his nose, the patterns across his face, every scar and freckle. You know that it would be almost too easy to lean forward and find the exact spot between his eyebrows with your lips. 

And that is precisely why you don’t. 

The hunter within seeks the unfamiliar and the unknown, that which it can’t see or figure out, the rawness of one’s soul that hides from the world and, most importantly, from your salivating mouth. You hunger for the underbelly of emotion and surface politeness. The things that no one wants to bring into the light, anything that causes those furtive looks of implicit understanding and judgement in a crowd, whatever shakes the rigid structure you’ve molded yourself into. It takes you another moment to realize you’ve been clawing at your own face: three sharp nails that trace the memory of faded scars, the very same that he gifted you who knows how many moons ago. This is the gift you treasure the most among all the millions of trinkets he insisted on making for you. That and … 

What was it that he said to you that night? It’s a stupid question, only meant to stall for time in case your brain decides to catch up with your heart. This is his bed and his room, and yet he welcomes you each and every night like you deserve it. Acting like you can’t remember is a disservice to that moment in which he ripped his chest open for you to gawk at and pick apart through tears and snot and hiccups. 

Back then, you held his hands instead of his guts, nuzzling and kissing at the inside of his scarred wrists with the very little kindness that the world allowed you to keep. A dog apologizing, just barely conscious of your crime of biting too hard. He spoke of his family and loss and death, and worst of all, he spoke of love. What were you supposed to do but speak back with foolish dreams and childish nonsense like merging your souls together so that he’ll never ever be alone again? What comfort is he supposed to take from you, a child yourself wrapped in the skins of wolves and monsters? A slip of the tongue, you tell yourself to save face. On good days, it even works. 

You can’t help but make it all about you. His pain, his misery, his wasted time. His─.

The mattress shifts under the weight of his body curling into himself, curling into you. The fluff at the base of his ears tickles when he nestles his head right under your chin. His nose raises goosebumps when it rubs against the naked skin of your neck, right where your Adam’s apple struggles not to bob up and down lest you disturb his sleep. With his full torso against yours, it’s impossible to deny him. Your body melts against his, welcoming him like it was made to do so, two worn pieces of a well-loved puzzle─the colors don’t match, the picture you form may not be anything at all, and yet it clicks together all the same. Is that your heartbeat or his? Are you breathing along with him in perfect unison out of fear of being caught or because your stupid existence can’t help itself? 

It’s fine. This is fine. This is what you’re supposed to do, he’s shown you that it’s okay to hold him like this. Wrapping your arms around him is second nature for you by now, finding the perfect spot to rest your hands and rub idle circles with your thumb along his freckled skin.

Slowly, carefully, you try relax and breathe into his hair. He doesn’t know this, and you will never speak of it, but you can catch the smell of fire and metal on him. It’s so very faint, clinging to his soul like a splatter of ink. You know it all too well. It’s the scent that brands everyone that the Garlean Empire fails to subjugate, it manifests in years of hollow eyes and sunken expressions, lost languages and traditions scattered throughout the realm. It will follow the two of you forever. He doesn’t know because you haven’t told him, not yet─not ever, if possible─but a part of you wishes he knew of this thin yet taut noose that hangs around both of your necks. Neither of you can reach out and save the other without risking it all, but you can acknowledge it for what it is: a home lost, pathways and landmarks that will only live on in your mind, words of wisdom passed from generation to generation, each time slightly different until they can’t be traced back to its origins. Children of war and conflict. 

Something in your chest stirs painfully when a younger version of him manifests in your mind, small and alone and with nowhere to go but as far away from home as his legs will allow. It hurts enough to feel the sting in your eyes, always so easy to well up with tears. He survived that and more just to end up in bed with you, in the arms of a good-for-nothing bastard that drove him into the sweet and familiar release of a sharp blade against thin and trembling nerves─but he fought back, a voice in the back of your mind reminds you, he fought back through pure instinct alone. How could you forget? How could you, when the proof of his life are so clear on your …  your face …?

Gods. Godsamnit. Gods fucking damnit.

What the fuck is wrong with you? What is happening in that rotten brain of yours to forget such simple and absolute truths? Did you believe it could get better? Gods forbid you forget to torture yourself for more than one minute.

There is no proof of his will to live─the only thing someone like you could offer─your body is frozen in the exact moment you gave up on yourself. While his body is littered with rough and uneven textures,, becoming a museum full of untold tales carved on skin, you are nothing but a mirror: there’s no cracks on your perfectly polished surface, they won’t allow you the privilege of putting your own misery on display, and your hands are too shaky to point the knife inwards. Your undoing can only come from someone else’s hands, and the choice to shatter you into pieces lies is entirely his and his alone.

He should’ve hurt you more. It has to hurt. Otherwise, it doesn’t count.

Breathing becomes harder and harder the longer you think about this. 

He should’ve dug until his nails found bone. All you can offer. All you deserve. 

Your grip on him tightens, clinging onto him like he can singlehandedly silence all the noise in your mind.

Present yourself on a silver plate, ripe for the picking, arms wide open to welcome every punch like a kiss and every stab like an embrace.

Maybe it’ll be fine if you just hide your face in his hair, with those blond streaks that resemble the oceans of gold from the wheat fields in Limsa Lominsa. That little runt with the crooked, broken tail and lopsided smile could never learn the difference between fear and thrill, need or want, love and hunger. But you do, you drew the lines and established the boundaries with your own hands. You need to move, you need to decouple yourself from this delusional cloud of warmth and comfort that he offers. You only want because you’re dripping with dissatisfaction, the whole world could lay at the palm of your hands and you’d still seek out something else, something that’s special. Your mouth waters at the promise of punishment. Your eyes water with what-ifs and wishes.

You wish the scars stayed. You wish you could show them off proudly. You wish he had hurt you instead. You wish you could hurt him enough to force his hand. You wish he let go of you, you wish you could let go of him. You wish you could just eat him and be done with it, you want to savour every bit of him in your mouth. You want to crawl into the deepest, darkest part of him to whisper heartfelt apologies directly to his heart and lungs. You need to know the perfect words to turn him inside out and needle at his pride for his own good. You need to lose yourself in his eyes, as bright and green as the lush forests of the Twelveswood. You need to hear his voice. You need to wake him up. You need him to see the wreck that you are.

The moment your lips part to speak, a knot forms in your throat and a sudden dryness renders your tongue completely useless. Instead of words, a choked whine comes out and it takes everything in your power not to start crying. It’s easy to hold back the tears once you remind yourself that you made him cry, not once but twice─you’re keeping score, of course, it’s only fair to keep count of your increasing list of crimes. 

The one you’re about to commit will put the rest to shame, however. This ends tonight; you’re awfully at ease holding the blade that will separate you, the sickly tumor, from him, the host. Practiced words that teeter at the edge, rehearsed with as much vitriol as you can muster. 

“...Did I ever tell you ‘bout this flower back home?” 

Your voice echoes in the dark. The script is all wrong. What are you doing?

“Not somethin’ you’d notice right away but still a pretty little thing. My dad he─the big boss would trade some of our best stuff for it, though. Even when food started goin’ scarce, he’d try to have as much as possible around.”

You’re losing your mind, that’s what! This isn’t how it should go!  He doesn’t want to hear any of this, whatever poor excuse at an apology you’re building up to soothe your sorry ego!

“Turns out you can make some damn good tea with it, yeah? All the people in the tribe loved it. Said it helps ‘em relax, get the jitters outta their bodies. Tasted sweet, like caramel I think. When people started goin’ missin’, me and the girls had to share a cup, so at best you’d get─what, a sip or two? Still pretty good.” 

He’s not even awake. He can’t hear you. Stop. Stop. Why do you want him to know this? Who are you saying this for?

“I think you’d like it. I─I would’ve let you have a sip. I dunno, maybe I would’ve let you have all of it, I don’t think little Ozzie could’ve said no to a face like yours. You’re sweet, so you probably like sweet things. That’s how it usually goes. ”

Oh, Gods. You don’t want to leave. You can’t leave. Against all reason, you want to stay until your presence becomes unbearable and indigestible to him. You want him to be the one to say goodbye. Your greed is sickening. Your selfishness is disgusting. Of course you’d do something like this. It’s in your nature.

“Might be good for you, y’know, after the uh─everythin’. If I pull a few strings, I could…Hm, yeah, I guess I could. I know a guy or two. Shouldn’t be too hard to cultivate here, I can teach you. If you wanna.” 

There is something about him that softens the rough edges of your meticulously crafted persona when you least expect it. When did you start carding your fingers through his hair, dragging them across his scalp with a kindness you didn’t think yourself capable of anymore? You’re nuzzling into him, cheek squished against the top of his head, trying not to smile and hum with bliss when he does it too─and then, he purrs, an involuntary gesture that means the world to you. You know his body inside out, and yet you yearn for more and more and more all without giving anything back.  

Perhaps the hardest impulse you have to fight is the need to whisper his name like he can save you from yourself. Like you can offer something he’ll take with him long after you two part ways, something that doesn’t hurt to remember. 

His name used to roll off your tongue with ease, and then there was a shift: he’s your bunny now─at least until that silly nickname earns its own weight and gravity, forcing you to run away from it and find yet another term drenched in thick irony to hide behind. Because his name is loaded with unspoken and unseen possibilities. He’s the better bard of the two, surely he feels the same about this as you do: trusting you with something so precious, like the string of sounds that encompass everything that he is, only invites tragedy. 

Poetry and song run through you both, it’s how you can justify these dramatic bouts of nonsense late at night. He would understand. It’s the reason you keep that single letter that predates your own name: without it, you are nothing. If Ozzie were to utter this name outloud, twirl it around inside that monstrous and hungry maw, the spell would unravel and break, and your bunny would be left with nothing but the pain you continue to inflict on him. 

You can’t bear to take that away from him. 

“Elinor” is a heavy word.