#angsttttttt

𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐖𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐖–𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃  𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 (red rooms, haunted pasts, and a heart stitched together with quiet violence)

the  doorway  is  pried  half  open  at  first,  brows  pinched  together  with  @straysupe  drooping  at  the  edge  of  her  bed,  shoulders  rounded  with  her  head  lowered.  she  looks  desolate–  more  crestfallen  than  her  usual  quiet  brooding,  folded  in  on  herself  like  she’s  trying  to  make  her  world  smaller  by  sheer  will  alone.  she  didn't  want  him  to  see  her  like  this.

"...They were using you," Sypha said simply, grimly. A retort, a sputter of smoke emitted from the empty air once before the blackened space became engulfed in an inferno that highlighted the twisted paroxysms of horror marring the faces of the murderous vampire coven that had been a night away from destroying an entire town. Maybe to Lydia it might've seemed simple, or obtuse, but it didn't matter. What did was that Sypha's name had wandered away too far, and with it, the vicious desire to eliminate the one who had been the progenitor of far too many generations of vampire hunters. As Lydia looked on with pensiveness, discomfiture, and barely restrained shock, it was Sypha who looked on dully as their bodies became alight in fire and began to burn.

Turning away from the carnage, Sypha glanced once at Lydia before retreating down the hall.

You felt the coarse shorthairs and it drew a noise of shock. You assumed that a cat would naturally have some sort of sheen, some softness to offset the yowls, sharp claws, and hissing.

It had been a while since you last had a cat, you tried to convince yourself, maybe I forgot what they felt like.

It had been your first week in Twisted Wonderland, maybe your senses had been skewed especially considering that you were nearly fried twice, a glassheaded monster in the Mines swinging a pickaxe, growling and burbling, and now you have Ace resting in your dorm since there's a guillotine in the Heartslabyul...

Your eyes burn.

You should sleep.

Grim doesn't purr when you pet him. He doesn't meow. He doesn't smell like a cat either, like what an old, abandoned fireplace smells like; soot and memories and the elements. The smell of fish clings to him as his fire clings to his ears.

You wonder what would happen if his fire went out. Not in a malicious way, more of your childhood memories of charmander and how it's fire is tied to its life.

You cling to him, just as his fire clings to his ears, just as the scent of fire and memories cling to him.

Grim never mentions his past.

Why would he? He's one track minded, focused on grandeur and food, as long as he's got those two things on his mind the notions of nurture and those who raised him, where he came from, or how he was conceived never matters.

You wish you could be like that.

You wish you could disregard your past.

You wish you didn't miss your family or friends or the stores you frequented with no thoughts on the mind and pocket change juggling in your pocket.

You wish you forgot what it felt like to have a home. To feel love even when you wanted to hole up in your room and cry over things that have become trivial in the face of...

In the face of— whatever new life this is.

You wish you could forget instead of wondering if your family forgot about you or if time had passed so far into the future that any semblance of your life had been washed away.

Your chest aches and you—you—

You struggle to swallow that burning lump in your throat.

Castiel

Castiel