The Corner Garden

Side garden for platonic (yandere) OCs and short drabbles.

[aloe-cinders]

Welcome to my little neck of the woods. 🍀

This is just a small sideblog for platonic and parental yandere OCs and small drabbles I use for writing exercises.

While I am well above 21yo, nothing here will go into R18 (sexual) territory. I will, however, properly mention any caution/warnings necessary for more sensitive topics.

Soft yandere fics will be marked “#aloe: soft yandere” Dark yandere fics will be marked “#aloe: dark yandere” The tag “#.aloe seedlings” will be used for asks. The tag "#.tending cinders" will be used for anything not drabble/writing or ask related.

Masterlist

I do not do (user) taglists. If you want me to make a story tag for a series to follow, I can. Just ask.

If I forget anything let me know, I don't bite.

[aloe-cinders]

I’ve got a weird question about the bees. What would happen if they put the human in like an empty egg or something. Would their body start changing to be more be like or would it just make them attuned to the bees’ pheromones and scents?

Depends on several factors and, then, how deep into body modification aspect of it you wanna go lol. They wouldn't put you in an egg, though, it would be the honeycomb cells that egg/larva/pupa are raised in.

As an adult, the changes are subtle and minor for the most part if they ever did place you into a cell. Think of, say, a narrow and isolated chamber in the ground and that would be similar enough to the image of it -- a place deep and safe in the belly of the hive, a new honeycomb cell made just for you where their long arms gently lower you down no matter how much you kick and fuss. The walls are too high for you to climb and the wax too hard to carve any footholds. Bee hybrid kids are sustained on either honey, a mix of pollen and carefully prepared berries, or royal jelly (reserved for queen hybrids). You, due to your .... unique constitution and the wounds they believe you suffered in the fire, would likely be given mostly royal jelly in hopes it would heal you. It's a slow process, yes, and you would lose track of the days trapped down there, but there are minor changes. You become more susceptible to pheromones, for one. Their buzzing hurts your head less. You find you understand their clicks and chirps better, but not entirely. You're even more susceptible to the cold. The loneliness when not surrounded by the bees becomes a crippling, unbearable thing you can't process or fight.

You don't physically change. Not unless they kept you down there for decades, which they couldn't bc you would honestly sooner go insane trapped down there alone as more and more royal jelly built up in your system.

If you had fallen into their grasp as a child, however, then yes there would be physical changes. If they took your small child self and placed you in that deep, deep cell and fed you nothing but royal jelly, there would be physical changes as well as mental.

[aloe-cinders]

Whalesong

Characters: Humpback whale Mers, Reader

Warnings: (Dark) Platonic yandere. Minor character death. Blood and injuries.

Notes: Part 1 of 2. Word count 4k. Mostly rated dark for minor character death, not for yan action just yet. Another piece setting up the yans so it’s subtle here again. I just wanted this out of my system so I could work on other stuff o|-< tried spacing the paragraphs out a little more since I can’t format here like I can on ao3. Woe.

The wise would have called it Fate. 

But to you, it was just an accident — happenstance. 

It was drizzling, the first brush of storm upon open waters, heavy with a threat any experienced sailor knew better than to test. You had pulled up alongside your uncle's boat, cursing under your breath when he did not answer your calls as you tied to his craft with the fender sandwiched between. 

Damned old man, it was his insistence that dragged you out to sea with him, some fevered slew of words you could barely parse about some creature. Just another one of his fisherman's tales, just like your father, and their father — both dead and gone, but the old tales linger on like the echo of a siren in your uncle's ears. 

You've no love for the tales, but you know better than to challenge nature, especially the sea. 

Rain drums a light melody on your raincoat as you carefully cross from your boat to his, your uncle's name a sharp, frustrated sound on your lips. The only answer is the patter of the rain on the deck and the … wriggling mass caught in the fisherman's net, the line still attached to the winch. The net was filled to bursting of carp and a few other, smaller fish, their scales dull in the deck lighting against the netting. But they shouldn't be moving, writhing like the last throes of a beached whale. 

Odd. 

Odder still that your uncle, wherever he disappeared beneath deck into the cabins below, was still not answering. Beneath the darkening gray sky overhead and cradled in the sway of the boats upon the waves, a strange tension hangs in the air — thick and suffocating, a heavy thing that covers the deck like tar and clings to your soaked coat. Wrong — the warning blares at the back of your mind, unsettling in its clarity. 

You grab the landing pole hung by the cabin door and take a tentative step towards the net, squinting as the raindrops impeded your focused stare. One step, then two timed with natural ease to the boat's swaying, your uncle's name forgotten for a brief moment as the mass of fish writhes and the net strains. Raindrops thrum in your ears, amplified by the hood of your coat — the storm's own melodic pace coaxing the stumbling, startled rhythm of your heart to tremble. Each step only heightens that warning still blaring in the back of your mind, a voice coiled and frightened. You stop, just out of arm's reach from the netting and flick the landing pole around, net at your elbow and butt end of the pole poised at a small opening woven in the netting. It's a slow, gentle pressure you nudge the net with, wriggling between the limp fish to prod at the center beneath. Just barely does the end of the pole disappear in the darkness between the fish when you feel resistance. 

Firm, unyielding. 

You tug weakly, thinking perhaps you caught it on a fold in the net or a fish's maw somehow.

Foolish. A pull, sudden and strong enough to force a stumbled step forward to catch your balance and a second step to brace yourself. Faintly — more felt than heard over the din of the rain and the pounding of your heart — somethingcrushes the metal end of the pole buried in the mass pile and yanks you another inch closer. Instinct flares in your blood, heart frantic in your chest as your arms react before you even think — muscles tensing with strain to yank the pole back rather than the safer, simpler action of release. Whatever writhed and lay buried in the mass of fish within the net did not yield, it held fast to the pole and even drew you and the pole closer. 

In the distance, lightning flashes — the first break of the storm on the horizon too close for comfort on open waters. Thunder rumbles almost immediately, loud and booming, but you do not register it as the white lightning lit up the deck of both boats. Shadows withdrew for a breath and in that brief flash of luminance, you saw two brilliant blue rings narrow in black abyss. 

Eyes. 

A chill, deep and ancient — primordial almost, the way it sinks down to the very marrow of your bones and hollows you out. A fear, instinctual, claws its way up the deck's floorboards and crawls like knives sinking into your legs as it aims for your lungs. Even trapped like it was did not diminish the overwhelming pressure rolling from the thing buried in the netting, whose eyes you could still see in the shadowed depths. 

You are small, insignificant, and foolish. A shadow easily swallowed by the waves and drowned. 

Whatever cursed hell your uncle fished up, it does not belong up here. 

Nor does it belong ashore. 

"Gods damnit," you curse, bitter and aggrieved as the waves roll and break against the boat, slicking the deck worse than the rain itself. You're going to beat your uncle to Sunday and back for this — tie him up by his toes and tan him for … whatever the hell he caught. 

As the thing pulls upon the pole again, aiming to draw you even closer, you quickly let go and backpedal to the winch until your back slams against the walls of the cabin. You don't dare turn you back on those eyes, still a frightening brilliant hue in the shadows of the mass now that you know they're there. They narrow, blue slits in the black shadows, and the distance you've retreated feels insignificant — a worthless, pitiful effort in vain as that gaze pierces you, a fragile butterfly beneath a guillotine's blade. The pole in it's grasp flails, swinging in wild arcs as if to swipe at you or drag you back closer, but the net limits its movements and you're well out of its reach. Your hands scramble as you press yourself against the wood of the cabin's walls, the metal of the winch beside you is slick with rain but you know this stupid machinery by heart — spent countless years learning its workings out on open waters as a child. You don't need to tear your attention from the creature as you release the lock and tension on the winch, the corded rope falling slack against the deck. 

Whatever cursed thing your uncle fished up notices immediately, the pole in its grasp flailing wildly as the mound of fish and scales shifts beneath the slack rope. The fish writhe and shudder, shifting beneath the net, but though the winch released the tension, the rope remains cinched at the top of the net's opening. Lightning flashes across the sky once more, thunder rumbling and shattering your eardrums immediately after, drowning out the crunch you know the metal wailed as the pole snapped off near where it disappeared into the fish pile, the metal warped and crunched as if it were paper. A sound, sharp and unfamiliar pierces the air — grating and disturbing at all once, unsettling in the way it chills the blood in your veins. A shadow darts out, small and thin as it claws at the netting madly — blindly. Even the rain and the wind do not dim the deck's lighting enough for you to remain ignorant — that arm, disturbingly human in shape, glistens with dark blue scales speckled white, delicate webbing between each finger spread wide on display as the creature clawed at the net. All the while, that brilliant, haunting blue hue of its eyes glare at you from the darkness. 

Legends. Monsters. 

They are called many things. 

Creatures of the depths better left as whispers over cups of ale while safely anchored ashore. 

Another hand, swathed in the same blue hued scales, claws at the fish pressed against the net, blood and entrails smearing against the rope as the creature tears at the net. Rain washes the crimson away, coils it like a noose across the deck towards your feet. Again that piercing, sharp sound fills the air, cutting through the clamor of the rain and the waves still crashing against the boat. With each fish sliced and torn to shreds, more glimpses of that creature becomes visible — thin forearms in a mottled mixture of white and soft blue scales that bleed into a darker, almost greyhued blue as they blend up into the biceps. 

Lightning pierces the sky once more, the storm rolling closer as the deck heaves beneath the waves and you press yourself against the cabin walls to avoid being thrown to the bloodied deck. You're running out of time — you need to get this goddamn accursed thing off the boat and hightail to back to port before the storm capsizes both boats. The creature in the net still flails, shrieking in that strange tone that splits your ears, and you dare not get any closer. Fear churns your thoughts, runs them rabid in circles as you frantically glance around the boat's deck for something, anything to shove that horrid thing overboard. 

You feel it before you ever hear it. The faint vibration beneath your fingers, unsteady as it is you do not register it until the cabin door beside you flings open. Steps — uneven and heavy as they stumbled up the stairs and onto the deck. Your uncle emerges from below deck, his hair plastered to his scalp by rain and sweat, his skin pallid and his eyes sunken. Rather that the rain coat and oilskin he always wore at sea, he wears only a long sleeved white shirt and loose pants — ill suited for the sea chill and the storm winds. You see, before the rain begins to soak into his clothes anew, the crimson bright and vibrant along both forearms and across his chest — deep wounds that weep, weep, weep in the rain framed by the claw marks torn into his shirt. In one hand, your uncle carries the large butcher knife your father often used when gutting fish while out to sea for a small meal — it gleams eerily in the deck's flickering light. 

"Uncle?" You call, still pressed against the cabin wall, a warble of fear in your voice you can't shake. You watch as your uncle ignores you, or maybe he didn't hear you at all as he murmurs under his breath and stumbles forward, nearly thrown down as the boat rocks against the waves. You call for him again, voice sharper and urgent as it cuts through the drum of rain, but your uncle does not respond. He steps, stumbles and sways towards the writhing mess of fish and guts on the deck where the creature still claws at the net that is gradually, so gradually opening at the top. 

The knife in your uncle's hand glints like a guillotine in the flash of lightning that strikes in the distance, the roll of thunder drowning out your cry as you lunge for him. 

It's a mess of limbs and salt water spray as you grapple him, your boots slick against the deck as you try to haul him back, away from the net. "What the hell are you doing!" 

Your uncle thrashes in your hold, the knife in his grip arcing wildly and you have to duck and readjust your hold to avoid its blade slicing across your face. He yells, voice hoarse and wild, "Let go, brat! I caught it!" There's a strange note in his voice, one you have not heard before. Frantic, maniac, devoid of the warmth you once knew when he would speak long and fondly of life at sea — memories of his weathered, calloused hands ruffling your hair as a child chilled and washed away in the storm. It's a foreign thing, the way he stares past you with unfocused eyes, blood oozing from his forearms that the rain quickly washes away in pink hues. "It's mine, mine!" 

"Stop!" You falter, jerking away as your uncle swings his empty fist at you. Your hands leave his shirt, a brief breath of distance as he wildly swings his knife. There's an odd uncoordination to his movement, erratic and mad, which makes them slightly slow enough to dodge but the rain hinders your sight and the slick deck heaving beneath the waves does little to help. The blade arcs, slicing across your cheek as you retreat another step. In the tussle, you've unconsciously positioned yourself between your uncle and the creature in the net. You do not feel the blue eyes boring into your back, but you do feel the baleful unfocused glare of your uncle's as you lunge forward once more when he stumbles from the boat's rocking. 

He yells, the sound loud and sharp in your ears as your hands find purchase once more in his soaked shirt and your full body weight knocks him off balance. You both fall in a tumble of limbs to the deck, the wind knocked from your uncle's lungs in a rattling wheeze as the knife clatters out of his grasp. 

Your heartbeat is a wardrum in your ears, the rain thundering against your coat as you gasp for breath above him. "What the hell," you grunt and gasp for breath as your uncle struggles beneath you, "is wrong with you? Forget the catch!" 

"No!" He yells, twisting as you struggle to keep him pinned. Still that frantic look in his eyes, which refuse to focus on you — still that unfamiliar edge to his voice. His words blend together, a frenzied murmured rush lost in the roar of the storm that still rocks the boat. Too fast, too jumbled — the words blur together before they reach your ears, but you do manage to parse two words intermingled that chill your already frozen body: 'flesh' and 'eat'. 

The image of that thin arm, eerily human-like despite the scales as it reached for your between the net webbing flashes before your eyes. 

Bile rises in your throat, fear and revulsion alike churning in your gut. The boat tilts sharply as the waves churn and roil, salt water and rain alike sting your eyes as you shift your weight atop your uncle, determined to keep him pinned for the moment. "Let it go! We're going back to sh-"

A noise cuts through the roar of the storm and sea. Unfamiliar and chilling — a rending that instantly chills the blood in your veins. Then is the sound of wood punctured, sharp and quick and getting closer. It happens in the span of a heartbeat — too quick to blink, to react, to think. 

Something heavy settles upon your back, firm and solid. A chill seeps through your rain coat but it is a warm breath that brushes against your ear that knocks the wind from your lungs. Prey instincts flare, deafening as you freeze, a tremble settling into your limbs in the wake of fear that hollows you out. Something brushes up your side, grazes over your ribs and reaches out from under your arm. 

A thin, scaled hand tipped with claws reaching towards your uncle. 

The creature presses against your back — heavy, heavy, heavy. You feel its other hand brush over your sternum, claws scraping through the fabric just under your collarbone. Warm, warm, warm the breath against your ear feels like fire, too hot and too close. A brush, the faint sting against your skin as the creature's face brushes against the side of yours — the scrape of chilled scales against delicate flesh, too close to the still bleeding cut from your uncle's knife.

Your thoughts scatter, heart pounding in your ears over the rain. Be still, be quiet, don't move, don't breathe — an instinct ancient and long buried claws to the surface and smothers all else. 

Beneath you, your uncle stills for a moment, eyes wide as he stares at the creature over your shoulder, before he moves. He shifts, intending to struggle as his mouth opens — to yell? To murmur more nonsense? You're not sure. He doesn't get the chance. That hand tucked under your arm lashes out and wraps around your uncle's neck, claws sinking into the delicate flesh. Crimson blooms, the words in his throat garbled and wet as a single crunch rings loud above the storm and echoes in your ears. Trapped beneath the weight upon your back, and your own arms trembling to support yourself where they pin your uncle's to the deck, you can only watch as the crimson bubbles between scales claws — how the red, red, red of it fades and washes to pink hues beneath the rain. The way the words trapped in your uncle's throat become a single, wet wheeze before he falls silent. Limp and motionless beneath you, unfocused eyes turning glossy as they stare unblinkingly at the blackened sky. 

Bile once more rises to the back of your throat, fear heavy on your tongue as the creature releases their hold — your uncle's head hits the deck with a heavy thud, tilted at an unnatural angle as the rain pools in the gored holes of what used to be his neck. You try not to look. 

Your gaze instead locks onto the bloodied, clawed hand that hovers in front of you, blue scales washed from red to to pink and then cleaned entirely by the rain — as if your uncle's body wasn't quickly growing cold beneath you. The creature pressed against your back shifts as your heart leaps up to your throat as you feel something thick, heavy — pure corded muscle brush over your legs and settle atop them. Warm breath brushes against your ear again, the creature trilling in a noise you're not sure how to parse — not over the pounding of your heart, not over the fear that locks your muscles into place as you cower in the shadow of it. 

The hand pressed against your sternum flexes, claws shredding your rain coat and several layer of clothes with frightening ease as they scrape against your now bare skin. Blood beads and pebbles around blue claws, the creature trills again in your ear, a sharper note this time as their other hand glides back under you and curls along your side, webbed fingers slotting against your ribs.

Can it feel the way your heartbeat thunders in your chest, more frantic than the rain drumming onto the deck? Can it feel the way your lungs shudder with each breath — too fast, too short, too weak as fear rattles your bones apart at the seams? 

"Please," your voice is a tentative, quiet and fragile thing when it breaks over your lips, lost in the clamor of the storm as the boat rocks. Does it even matter to this creature that you had tried to toss it back to sea? Is there any difference to it between you and your uncle? Memories of warm summer days, his laughter along with your father's filling the air at sea burn across your eyes when you glance at your uncle's cold, colorless face — still staring at the storm above. Tears cloud your eyes and mix with the rain carving rivers down your cheeks, a chill still pulses in your veins. You're cold, so cold. 

"Go home," you beg, voice little more than a broken whisper as lightning and thunder split the skies — too close. It's too late. Much too late. The storm is here and you're far from shore, trapped in the shadow of a monster you're too afraid to turn and look at proper. "Go back…" 

The creature pressed against your back quiets, the stillness that settles into them unnerving. A chill still seeps from their body, bleeding into yours as if soaking up all the warmth you offered. Their hand over your sternum twitches, claws digging further into your skin — the pain, sharp and clear, catches your breath. You feel their gaze on you, burning a hole into the side of your face but you do not dare to turn your head. The warmth of their breath against you burns, burns, burns and the chill that sweeps in the moment they lift their face up towards the sky nearly rattles your teeth. 

A noise, sharp and clear rings out. Not a cry, not a trill like before. Long, deep. Like a call. A melody. A siren.

You feel the vibrations of their voice roll through their chest still pressed against your back, the ripple of the noise rattling down your spine. Dread fills your lungs. It hollows you out, drains the blood from your face and pulls your gaze up from the lifeless chest of your uncle. 

A round face, covered in soft grey-blue scales that blend to white near the mouth and the mottled white that trails down thereafter. Bright, deep blue eyes in black sclera that narrow to slits when the creature shifts its attention back to you. There's some semblance — uncanny though it is — the curve of cheeks, a soft chin, the faint slope of a brow and nose bridge, bright eyes. Covered in scales and something oddly resembling grey flesh, but not a single hair. Human-like enough it seems wrong. 

The creature smiles, a flash of sharp teeth in too may rows. 

Nearby, too close — much too close — an answering call splits the sky, cutting through the roar of the wind and the waves. It's deeper, louder, rumbles in a way that seems to rattle your bones like an earthquake. The waves seem to swell, cresting over the side of the boat and you're tossed from side to side. But the creature's weight keeps you pinned, even as the boat sways. It lifts its head up once more, letting out that eerie siren call. 

It's beckoning something… 

The answering call comes again, louder. Closer, and the blood in your veins seems to drain out of your body and soak into the deck. Trapped beneath the creature, you do not see the colossal shadow that glides beneath the two boats, but you do feel the way the waves swell higher than they should — the way the sea water foams as it breaks over the deck and soaks you to the bone. The creature on your back trills, a happy noise, you think but the dread coiling in your gut blares a warning loud and clear. 

Waves swell, black waters churning as they rise and curl upon themselves. But it's not a wave that breaks the surface water too close to the boat, the sound of it breeching the surface rumbles like thunder. It's not a shadow, which your brain foolishly tries to tell yourself at first — your instincts know better. Large, colossal in shape as the black waters roll off its contours and nearly capsize the boat. From the darkness, two rings of blue appear, brilliant and bright in the black abyss cradling it. 

Eyes. 

Just like the creature's plastered to you back. But much, much larger — the seer scale dwarfing you. 

The creature on your back trills again, their claws sinking into the soft of your flesh. They shift, your blood pebbling over their claws and washed away in the rain as they seem to pull you close to their chest. Fear bubbles up your throat as you hold the gaze of the colossal towering off the portside. Again that crippling, ancient fear — instinctual, a prey's frantic survival ingrained into the very strands of your DNA in the presence of a predator your people long forgot. 

A rush, the roaring hiss as the sea water swells with something much too massive once again breeching the surface. You hear it, feel the way the sound of it rattles in your ears like a death toll. You are small, insignificant — you dare not break the stare the colossal has on you, those blue, blue, blue eyes too large as they bore down upon you. But then you feel it — the absence of rain drumming on your coat and the deck, the silence that rolls in as the storm pounds against the seawater alone. 

The creature on your back wiggles and trills, and you ignore the pain of their gasp digging into delicate flesh as you tear your gaze away from the colossal and look up, up, up. What hovers overhead is not the darkened stormy clouds. Faintly, you see the outline of it, black as an abyss against the clouds but your mind struggles to process it, to accept it. Only when lightning flashes once more, the accompanying thunder drowned out in the frantic pulse of your heart do you clearly see it. 

A hand, webbed and clawed, sheltering the boat effortlessly from the rain as it slowly descends down towards you and the creature still pressed against you. 

You watch, frozen and helpless, pinned as the creature leans back and pulls you along with them pressed to their chest. That large, colossal hand descends upon you both, fingers curling around you in a cage. 

And the world goes dark. 

[aloe-cinders]

Long live the bee hybrids!!! They're such sweeties!!! I bet they give the fuzziest, softest hugs!!! How young do they think reader is? Do they know them? And you said the reader and the queen have history?! - 🐝 Anon, if that isn't already taken

🐝-nonny is open. If you're the same bee nonny as prior, then you and (if I haven't scared them off with my illiteracy last time) 👻☕️ anon are the only ones who have stopped by.

They do! Quite a few of them are constant huggers, which can be a hassle trying to move around in the hive when a giant bee hybrid is plastered to your back — or they just scoop you up, nearly burying you in the warm fuzz of their chest as they continue on their way. The younger ones like to press themselves against the reader’s legs; the reader is soft, soft, soft and so warm, which both fascinates the younger hybrids and brings them a lot of comfort.

The bees prefer to sleep in cuddle piles, so more often than not the reader is dragged into one of those piles and smothered. It’s warm and soft, to be sure, but there is very, very little chance of escaping the pile unless another bee hybrid pulls the reader out.

As for how young the reader is viewed, that’s a two-part answer. The Queen recognizes the reader and sees them as their child, regardless of the fact that the reader is an adult. The Queen herself has little interaction with humans and isn’t really… aware of how humans age/grow. Most of the current bee hybrids (workers and drones) see the reader as someone in a bastardized stage between the larva and pupa stages. The reader obviously has some limbs and defined features, which is more akin to the pupa stage; however, the reader lacks the second set of arms, the abdomen, antennae, wings, tuff/fuzz, etc that are part of the pupa stage. Most of the hybrids attribute it to damage from the fire, basically the reader just looks different because they were “burned” in the fire, but the reader is still their younger sibling and is treated as such. Reader’s lack of ability to communicate with the majority of the hive is also seen as a side effect from the fire and the fear/trauma from the ordeal.

There is one bee hybrid (224) in the hive that sees the reader as the adult they are but still treats them as a younger sibling. However 224 has no intention of correcting the rest of the hive’s view of the reader or helping them escape.

So to answer your question, the Queen and 224 are the only ones left who have previously met the reader prior to 468 and 573 bringing them back to the hive. The rest of the bees assume the reader is just a sibling that was injured in the fire. Reader smells like them so they must be family!!!

Full details on how the Queen first met the reader will likely end up in part 3, as will more info on 224. 🐝

Thanks for your interest in the bees, by the by. 🫶💕 it means the world.

[aloe-cinders]

Mmmm...yum...cozy bee cuddles...free honey...yummers...yes...Fuzzy bee smothering cuddles...indeed...oh yes...how I crave.

Is this a way of asking for part two of platonic yandere hive? Yes. Is it a weird way to do so? Also yes. Will I still send it on like this?

Absolutely.

It's in the works, I promise hun. 🐝

I honestly had no idea it would get as much attention as it has. Currently, I'm fleshing out details for the hive a little bit, both in operations and inhabitants -- adding info to 468, 573, as well as 224 and 209 (neither of whom you've met yet). Plus history between the reader, the hive, and the Queen. Am I over-thinking all of it probably? Yeah. But I want the platonic yan vibes to make sense and have a rather... rooted origin? If that makes sense.

If you have specific questions I can try to answer them in the meantime while I work on it.

With the bare bones skeleton plan I have though, there's at least two more parts that will come from it. However, you (reader) are trapped in the hive for the foreseeable future, and with the damage from the wildfire still fresh in their minds, they don't like to let you out of sight.

I can't speak to how soon it will be done, though, since work has picked up and every time I write lately the flow feels very clunky to me... 😔

The bee series will remain in the soft (☀️) category, if anyone was curious.

[aloe-cinders]

The last 2 days have taught me that, apparently, many of you like bees....

I'll see if I can't outline a continuation later, but hello newcomers.

[aloe-cinders]

For Hive, For Home

Characters: Bee Hybrids (x2), Reader

Warnings: (Soft). Parental/platonic yandere. Kidnapping/abduction and mention of forest fires. Misunderstandings/miscommunication from language barriers.

Notes: Word count 3k. the bee hybrid no one asked for!! Written in one sitting as a practice drabble turned out much longer than intended. Reader works as a national forest ranger; bee hybrids are among the more reclusive types and tend to have little interaction with humans except for certain circumstances.

"No good deed goes unpunished."

It was something your grandmother used to mumble beneath her breath any time her outstretched hands got her bit — or worse. It never stopped her from reaching out with kindness, but you never quite forgot the way she sighed those words as if defeated every time. Or the way she curled herself smaller and smaller each time — the way she eventually came to expect the pain of teeth sinking into her outstretched hand.

In a way, perhaps she was right. 

You were kind at the right moment to the wrong person. 

Perhaps if you had kept your mouth shut instead of volunteering to replace James, whose bad knee had been acting up — if you had just nodded along when Roth assigned you to man the station — you would be tucked safely in bed at home. You would fall asleep to the gentle lull of your wind chimes instead of the unsettling constant buzzing of wings. You would be wrapped in blankets and that one quilt gifted to you by Ranger Anne before she retired instead of smothered in black and golden fuzz. 

You would be safe at home, by your definition of the word and not theirs. 

Instead, you opted to cover James' assigned section, the western sweep north of Boulder Creek. Now that the wildfire had been officially extinguished, surveys needed to be conducted, damage assessed, and any stray animals that didn't make it out tended to. Over a hundred and forty acres gone — charred and ashen. Now that clearance had been given, it was time to put boots back to the soil and work. You volunteered, assuring Roth that James was more comfortable with the radios than you were and his knee was still recovering. Roth listened. 

He shouldn't have. 

You had packed your bag, checked the handheld radio, and pocketed a compass before you set off for Boulder Creek. Normal. Routine. Even surrounded by the burnt, charred forest — a hole scorched into your chest as you navigated the ruins — you knew the land. You knew your way around. The sweep shouldn't have given you any issue. 

But it did. 

Because you noticed. Because you stopped. Because you were kind. 

You notice them only by happenstance, a shift in the sunlight through the thin clouds overhead caught on something iredecent and frail — unusual and forlorn framed by the scorched, bare trees that crumbled like weathered tombstones. It pulls your attention and beckons your feet from the path you knew by heart. Only as you near, soot framing your footsteps, do you realize what lay crumpled upon the ashen forest floor. Four arms, covered in fine black hair, curl tightly around a broad chest of golden fuzz and two similarly black legs pulled in close. That black fuzz, so close to fur, covers their hips and sweeps out in banding arcs across the abdomen that protrudes from their lower back. Four gossamer wings shudder ever so faintly on their back. You don't need to see their head, tucked into their arms and pressed into the soil, to know what they are. 

A bee hybrid. 

One that is certainly over double your height, judging by the length of their limbs — which isn't uncommon for the bee hybrids. They tended to be unnervingly tall, all long limbs and stark blacks against bold golden hues with a droning buzz that could split your head open if too many of them got aggitated in a small space. A colony or two were known to reside in the far recesses of the park, nestled into corners of the woods where humans and other hybrids would not bother them. They were a reclusive people. 

As far as you knew, both colonies had been warned when the fire broke out and then urged to leave once it became evident the flames could not be easily contained. The wildfire burned for nearly two months, violent and unquenchable. Had they not left? Had they braved the flames or, like you, had they only just now returned to stand in the wreckage of what remained? 

Worry furrows your brow as you knelt beside the hybrid — close but not close enough to touch with your shorter reach, you know better than to startle a bee hybrid. The soft shifting of soot beneath your boots seems to register to the hybrid, evident in the flinch of their claws across their ribs and the weak buzzing flutter of their wings. They do little else aside from their weak attempt at threatening, however, too weak to otherwise move. 

"Can I help you?" You ask softly, your hands open and flat on the ash covered soil in front of you: unarmed, harmless. 

The hybrid shifts, a twitch of antennae as their gaze, a deep brown nearly lost in black sclera, blurrily tries to narrow on you. The buzzing of their wings falters and picks up, faint but determined — the noise settles like a minor headache at the base of your skull. The black and golden hairs covering their body stand on end, puffing up and making the weakened creature seem even larger. A scowl pulls at their lips, a flash of white fangs visible. 

"Are you hurt?" You ask, your attention drifting from their face down to their torso. Ashen soot covers their body, discoloring the bold black and golden hues, but you do not see any burns. Blood should, likewise, be a rather stark contrast against their coloring but their fuzz could also easily hide it, depending on the severity. You're not an expert on hybrids by any means, but the Rangers did give you a few small pointers on the extremely rare chance you ever encountered the territorial bee hybrid residents. "Do you need anything?" 

The buzzing falters as your gaze drifts away from their face and slowly settles into something just barely softer — still there, vibrating a faint pressure at the back of your skull. But it's subdued, cautious. The hybrid shifts the upper pair of their arms, unwinding them from their torso and bracing against the ground, yet they do not move to sit up. Faint, barely audible — you think you hear a series of soft clicks and the hybrid pauses, as if waiting for something, before they scowl. When they speak, their voice is a raspy, rough thing — a shuddering, vibrating noise as if dragged over a fraying rope, "Drink." 

The single word sinks heavy between you two for a moment before it registers as an actual request. You fumble, reaching instinctively for your pack slung over your shoulder only to pause when your quick movement causes the hybrid to flinch and the buzzing picks up pace once more. "You're thirsty, right?" The hybrid does not answer, but their brow furrows further. It's hard to tell in the black sclera but you feel their gaze drilling a hole into you, unfocused though it may be. "I'm just going to get something out of my pack." 

This time, you make sure your movements are slow and easy, patient enough to allow the weary hybrid to follow the motion. The pack slides from you shoulder and you make a point to keep your gaze on it as you pull out the electrolyte drink you'd brought for your sweep. Pure sugar water would be better, you think — if you remember correctly, at least — but something is better than nothing. As you twist the cap off and place the bottle down on the ground, intent to gently nudge the bottle into the open space between you two, you hear the soft clicks once more. There's a lilt to it, curious and confused. 

You don't know what it means, if anything, so you simply push the bottle forward and retreat. 

The hybrid stares between you and the bottle for a long moment, a single click tumbling from their lips as their brow furrows into something softer. The buzzing dies down as the lower pair of arms unwind and reach for the bottle before they take a long drink. As the last of the electrolytes slips down their throat, the buzzing has stopped entirely, and a sharpness returns to their gaze. They shift, legs drawn in close as their upper pair of arms braces them fully against the ground. Their wings flutter, sweeping up a gentle gust of wind as they rise and stand to full height, his shadow fully swallowing you in its shade. Still clutched in one hand is the bottle, which they hold out to you, mindful claws careful not to puncture the plastic — there's a hint of disgust in the way only the tips of their claws hold it. 

"468, Drone," the hybrid says suddenly, tone even and calm, as if stating a fact. 

Drone… that's what the bees called the males of their species, isn't it? What did the number mean? 

"Thank you. Did you need another one?" You stand slowly, shouldering your pack and taking the bottle from his black claws gently. Your gaze drifts up from his still proffered claw to the golden fuzz of his chest covered in soot before it lifts to his face. Even now he is dwarfs you, his shadow completely encases you in its shade. Yet it is silence that hangs between you, empty of the buzzing from before and instead burdened with his gaze heavy on the crown of your head. 

The hybrid is quiet for a long moment, his head tilting this way and that. Behind him, his wings flutter quietly, but it's his arms that have your attention. Both pair hover, inching closer only to pull back — they drift near the top of your head, linger by your hands, one of them stretches to almost encircle your back as if seeking something. Again, he softly clicks at you, the furrow in his brow deepening when you merely stare up at him. His voice is still that rough tone, a faint vibration in the undercurrent of it, "Hurt?" 

"Oh, are you?" Your pack slips from your shoulder as you rummage through it once more, "I have a first aid kit with me, if you show me—" 

Cold, firm. His claws wrap around your upper arm, stopping you. He clicks and chitters once more, quick and hurried, his brow creased and a frown on his lips. There's something in his gaze you can't quite catch, though it's likely because you're unaccustomed to a bee hybrid's features. There's an edge of frustration to his tone you can read, however — a faint ripple of urgency. His wings flutter behind him, restless, as he tries again in a language you understand, "Lost?"

A flicker of panic nestles in your chest the longer his clawed hand cages your bicep — so easily swallowed in his grasp. You shift your weight, gently testing the strength of his grip, only for his hold to tighten and that flicker of emotion in your chest kindles into something brighter. It's instinctual, the way it vibrates in your lungs and shudders in your throat. A part of you seems to realize, innately, the difference in strength. You bury it, suffocate it beneath logic and reason: you're fine, he's just disorientated, you've followed every rule in the guidebook to make yourself as nonthreatening as possible, plus you should not be anywhere near his Queen. It's fine, you're fine. 

"I'm not lost," you explain, eyes downcast to his hand on your arm. The first words tumbling from your lips tremble a little but as they flow, your voice evens out. You're fine. You're fine. "I'm with the Rangers; we were just surveying the damage from the fire. If you're turned around, you're right by Boulder Creek. The lake is 30 degrees northeast of here." 

More clicks and chitters. The hybrid places a hand near the back of your head and suddenly bows low to lean in. You feel his breath brush against the top of your head, the faint skim of his antennae brushing over you and your heart leaps up to your throat. His firm grip on your arm is the only thing rooting you in place, effortlessly containing the visceral flinch that ran through you. Warnings blare across your mind — safety precautions, distance to keep, their speed, the deadly force of their strength, the sharp gouging edge of their stinger. Partial questions break upon your lips as you try to duck down, away from him but his grip is firm and unrelenting as his head follows — smelling, scenting, searching. 

His claws release you suddenly as he stands back to full height and you do not miss the opportunity to fling yourself away, scrambling until your back slams into the crumbling remnants of a burnt tree. Soot and ash flake off, coating your clothes and dusting your hair, but you pay it no mind as the hybrid stares long and hard at you, motionless save for the faint fluttering twitch of his wings.

You peel your tongue off the roof of your mouth, heart hammering in your chest, "What—" 

He points one clawed hand at you, his voice rough and firm, "Stay." 

Before you can argue, or even demand an explanation, his wings spread wide and kick up a gust strong enough you have to close your eyes against the soot it stirs up from the soil and trees. The bee hybrid flies off in a whirlwind of ash and soot, leaving you coughing and choking on the air left in his wake. You stumble away, eyes watering and throat rough with each cough that rakes through your lungs. Only when you put enough distance between yourself and the spot where you found him does the air settle enough for you to catch your breath. 

What the hell was that about? 

You pull out the only remaining water bottle from your pack and take a few sips before unclipping your handheld radio. When you radio back to the station and inform James to report a dehydrated bee hybrid, his voice is tinged with concern. Were you hurt? Was the hybrid hurt? Were they alone? Any sign of the Queen? You field his questions as honest as you can, leaving out the bee's strange behavior and promise to check in once you finish your sweep. Exhaustion settles in, a faint echo in your bones, as you return your radio back to your pack and sling it over your shoulder. 

Just finish your survey and get through the day. The hybrid was likely just… disorientated and dehydrated from the fire; many of the water reservoirs were damaged or contaminated and the creeks didn't fare much better. He likely hadn't seen a human before and wasn't sure whether you were friend or foe. He was just… confused. 

It's fine. You're fine. 

Before you can take a step forward, the sky overhead darkens and a sound fills your ears — buzzing. Loud. You snap your head up to see it wasn't a cloud overhead but a shadow — two shadows. Your heart sinks down to the soles of your feet, instinct flaring to life once more, the primal urge to flee igniting in your blood. Soot and dirt crunch underfoot as you take a single, instinctive step back, still swallowed in their shadow. With a shrill buzz, they dive down — a blur of black and gold that land with a gust of wind in front and behind you. 

Two of them. 

The bee hybrid before you is slightly slimmer than the drone you’d found, who now lingers nearly pressed against your back, the thrum of his wings passing through his chest and rattling your bones as all four of his hands find purchase on your arms. They both click and chitter at you, the one in front tilting his head to the side and the one behind you bows his head to nuzzle into your hair. Soft buzzing fills the air, needling at the back of your skull. 

You're shaking, shivering — heart in your throat. "I'm sorry, I—" 

— didn't know? Don't understand? 

The words tumble and collapse on your tongue, choking you. Did you make a mistake? Did you offend them? You were trying to help. You gave him something to drink so he could fly home. That's what people did to normal, little bees, right? 

The bee hybrid in front of you chitters and steps closer, claws plucking at the front of your shirt as if trying to grab your attention or pluck strands off it. When they speak, their voice is similar to the drone's, rough and deep with a vibration to it that sounds off to your ears. "Calm, calm," he soothes, the buzzing of his wings softening a fraction as his claws brush against your cheeks. "468 guide us. Safe, child." 

"Please let me go," your voice cracks as you flinch away from the hybrid's touch, cold and uncanny against your flesh. You struggle, dropping your weight and pulling against the drone's grasp, but he curves himself around you even more, his claws digging into delicate skin as his buzzing picks up in fervor. You feel him nuzzle against the crown of your head, his antennae brushing against you. 

You feel the other hybrid's touch again, ghosting over your cheeks and down your throat. "Child, confused." Their claws lightly scrape against your bare flesh, "Fire, hurt. Body, wings — bare, gone." 

A pressure builds at the back of your head as the buzzing increases, the drone's grip shifting to completely embrace you is the only warning you have before he curves himself even closer and presses you against his chest. Ash fills the air once more as the wind kicks up, swept up by the beat of the hybrids' wings, and the ground drops away. The hybrid hovering in front of you presses their palm against your mouth, muffling the scream that tore from your throat when the safety of the ground was torn from you. As the buzzing fills your ears, the pounding in your head swells — darkness, fueled by panic and pressure you are not built to withstand, bleeds into your vision before it swallows you whole. 

You do not hear the hybrid murmur a soft series of clicks as his hand withdraws from your lips, The Queen missed you, child. 

[aloe-cinders]

Home’s Origin

Characters: (Gila Monster Hybrid) Thirty-Seven, Reader

Warnings: (Soft). Platonic yandere, subtle as it’s the groundwork of it. Hybrids treated as property. Mentions of torture/abuse. Hybrid is unable to speak due to reasons explained in later parts.

Notes: Part 1 of […]. Word count 3.8k. This is the cursed thing I rewrote 4 times and I still can’t fully frame it as done bc there’s an urge to rewrite it again but I need to move onto other WIPs. No real yan tendencies yet but that’s bc it’s establishing you as someone Safe in 37’s mind, which is what sets off the protective yan tendencies later.

Thirty-seven.

You knew his number long before you ever learned his name.

He must have had one, once. Something given to him by those who loved him, a sound distinctly his — each syllable woven with care, framed by love, and emboldened by simple joy. A sound to follow on his heels from the mouths of friends and family when mischief flared. The chorus of syllables that ring out when he brought laughter or surprise, a grin splitting his lips wide with mirth. A sound that told of belonging. A name distinctly his own. But the memory of it — the notes of warmth it carried — have long since suffocated in cold, dark cells buried in man-made hells beneath the soil. 

Just another piece of him that the Underground erased. 

Perhaps, though, if it could be taken and erased so easily then it never had worth to begin with. A name does not keep him warm; it does not feed him nor keep a roof over his head or knives from his throat. It is simply a sound, and in the Underground, sounds are just noise lost in the clamor of the audience's roars for violence. The first lesson beaten into all fighters within the Underground is simple: Anything not fit for survival is discarded. 

So when the authorities finally sniffed out a location with ties to the Underground, and when those black metallic boots stormed those stone halls far beneath the earth, it wasn't a person they recovered. It was a number. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Back into the ring. 

Simple, resigned. Those are the only emotions that flicker through Thirty-seven when the Shelter's escorts fetch him from that cold, empty room and haul him across town to a worn apartment building with the buzz of electric batons a constant itching threat the entire time. Thirty-seven doesn't mind. He is simply, once again, trading one cage for another — from the cold, dark cells of the underground, to the dank and humid ones with the authorities, then the sterile and empty ones at the shelter, and now here. This calm lingers in his chest, even when the floor number hits double digits and the two shelter escorts drop him unceremoniously upon your doorstep in a flurry of paperwork and rushed words before you can even object. 

Thirty-seven isn't what you were expecting.

It's the silence that stretched taunt and cautious when he remained as the Shelter escorts left him, head bowed and gaze downcast as he held the thick, heavy metal chains that shackled to wrist cuffs flecked with blood. It's the weight of your gaze that lingers on his face where the metal muzzle cages his reptilian maw, and how it drifts down his broad shoulders to linger on the bundle of his own leash he carries silently. It's the way your shadow, the only thing his downcast eyes dare to trace the edges of, presses against the doorframe as if hiding. It is the damning weight of words bitten back choking the air. 

Being unexpected is advantageous in a fight, less so when misaligned with an Owner's desires. 

There is little option left to him, however. To move without orders is an act of defiance, one met with more than just bruises and broken bones. To speak without permission is insolence, a price he paid in full and a lesson burned into his mouth in youth. Weapons do not act or make a single noise whatsoever without permission and numbers have even less freedom. Thirty-seven is both, so he remained head bowed and silently awaited orders. If you commanded it, he would remain standing without complaint in the hallway until you deemed him useful, as he was trained. 

Instead you sigh, soft and quiet, as you step aside. The light spilling from the doorway crawls across the floor and brushes against his feet, gentle and unfamiliar. Your voice follows next, patient and devoid of the barbed tones he grew accustomed to at the Shelter, "I thought the Shelter treated people better than this. Come inside, let's get those off you." You pause, a sound on your lips too kind to be what he has always associated to the word 'laughter', "Mind the doorway, yeah?" 

Thirty-seven's gaze lifts only once your shadow retreats from the entryway, the sound of your footsteps little more than a faint noise against the laminate. Only then, in the absence of others outside a fight, is it safe to lift his gaze from the floor. What frames the doorway is an unfamiliar sight, too cozy and warm by far: coats hanging on hooks by the entryway; shoes fraying at the heel tucked close to the door; a small calendar decorated with wildflowers hangs halfway down the entryway, some days crossed off in black and others circled in red; a clustered group of photographs color the wall near the end of the hallway; the grounding chestnut hues of the couch, cushions wrinkled in soft lazy folds, lounging in the room just beyond the hall. Warm lights and rounded edges — soft, cozy, a nest. 

It unsettles him. 

Thirty-seven ducks low to enter your apartment, his movements silent even with the chains — a habit beaten and burned into him long ago. He hears noise just beyond the entryway to the left, the scraping of chairs and the hiss of a faucet as you busy about but Thirty-seven lingers just a heartbeat in the entryway as he closes the door behind him. There, tucked behind the door and easily out of sight is a crowbar resting snugly in the corner. The door itself, the knob comically tiny in his claws, is a poor excuse of wood; the hinges creak and moan but it bears the weight of no less than three different kinds of locks. Thirty-seven inventories every item in the entryway as he passes through — every little thing that could hinder or aide. A coat to blind or distract, the crowbar with its versatility, the door just barely hanging onto the hinges, the hook upon which the calendar hung, the glass from the picture frames. Of course, his chains were the best aide, currently. Thick, heavy, a cold weight around a fragile neck or flicked like a whip across the head could bring low the majority for a moment — that was all he needed in a fight: a moment. 

That is what Thirty-seven does: surveying, categorizing, strategizing for the next fight. 

The Underground taught him many things, lessons burned and beaten into every tender spot until it calloused over and he learned. The fighting never ends — the arena simply changes locations.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

A bodyguard. 

The words sink in but barely register over the sensation of touch brushing against his scales. You're speaking, soft voice gentle by his ear as you fiddle with the mechanism for the muzzle, and he should really, truly be listening. You're his Owner now, your word is law, so he must bend knee to every syllable and carve it upon his flesh. But his thoughts and focus scatter as the warmth of your fingers brush against the black and orange speckled scales covering his neck — warm, warm, warm and so soft it makes his skin itch. Tension coils in every muscle, waiting for the agony of pain to follow in the wake of your touch. 

It never does.

Only warmth. Only a softness that leaves him hollowed. 

How is he to handle this? To process this? Was there ever a time the touch of others did not bring pain? He can't recall — there has only ever been the Underground, there has only ever been the roar for violence thrumming in his ears and the sharp crack of the whip whenever he faltered. Owners are not gentle…

Thirty-seven sits on the slightly chilled floor of your kitchen, the table and chairs pushed up against the wall to allow him space. In his arms, he cradles the bundle of chain still attached to his shackles, claws sinking into the interlocking links searching for purchase — something, anything to ground him. He's too large for your small apartment, a fact that unsettles him the longer he remains in these walls so vastly different from the cells he called home. Too many soft, fragile, delicate things decorate the space and he is foreign, bold and wrong as bloodstain — an ugly, ruinous thing. Thirty-seven tries, subtly and minutely, to make himself as small as possible — to infringe as little as he possibly could in this space so alien to him. Even sitting with his thick tail curled close, his tall stature reaches just below your eye level as you stand behind him, the warmth of you soaking into his back and boiling his blood.

The lock clicks open with a sound that rattles around in his head, scattering his thoughts and deafening your voice that he still has trouble parsing. The muzzle drops away and he reacts only pure instinct, hands moving faster than his thoughts to catch the muzzle before it can clang to the ground and his claws grip the metal muzzle like a lifeline, gaze downcast as his thoughts stumble over each other. Why? Why did you take it off? His Owners always had an unspoken rule to never remove it unless the audience demanded something more entertaining than mere claws and weapons — when the thrumming demand for violence shifted to cruelty and they cheered as venom and blood alike dripped from his maw. 

But there is no opponent to sink his fangs into. There is no roar of the audience or shrill shriek of the bell signaling a fight. 

There is just you, soft and gentle and warm as you fuss around him. There is just this space, too small for him and built for someone much more fragile. 

"What the hell did they do to you?" Your voice is a grumble beneath your breath and Thirty-seven tenses, buckling down and remaining motionless so as to not flinch. He feels your fingertips brush just under where the muzzle had lain, the warmth of your touch an odd sensation against the chill that needles at the freshly exposed, wounded patches of skin. A distinct line of crimson shadowed the form of the muzzle, an echo of damage left behind by the metal tied too tightly, a trail of damaged scales and discolored skin vibrant against the black scales. 

If you expected an answer, Thirty-seven does not offer it. Instead, he clamps his jaw shut tight, head bowed and gaze downcast. He knows better than to open his mouth. 

You sigh, more-so perhaps to yourself but Thirty-seven tenses all the same, waiting for a blow that does not come. As you circle around to stand in front of him, your hands pluck the muzzle from his grasp and toss it to the side with more than a little disdain. "Let me see your hands," you ask and Thirty-seven responds out of reflex more than anything else, offering up his hands with his claws curled in. Even as you bow your head, your hands so much smaller than his as they brush over the shackles, searching for the keyhole, Thirty-seven keeps his gaze low. 

He watches the way your fingers brush over the cold metal, how they cradle the tiny, silver key he has known all his life as it sinks into the keyhole. A soft click sounds, one he feels vibrate against his wrist more than he hears, as it is your voice that has his focus — so much easier to parse the words when your fingers aren't brushing against his neck. 

"I expected the Shelter to be more humane than this. All that talk about equality and they chain you up like this?" Your grumbling pauses as the first shackle unlocks, a crack splitting down the metal like a wound. With a click of your tongue, your fingers dig into the crack and pry the shackle open, the metal unrelenting like a hunter's trap around prey. 

The sharp intake of breath that fills your lungs at the sight of his bare wrist is a crisp, bated thing. Beneath the metal lay ashen, discolored skin, bruised and raw with dried flecks of blood traced where the metal edges of the shackle tore scales from flesh. Few and less scales protect his bare wrist, worn and torn off as they have been by the shackle over the years. Instead, scars mar the discolored flesh, stark against bare skin. Thirty-seven feels the way your gaze traces each batch of scars on his wrist and follows the path up his arms and lingers near the ones close to his neck now that you now their color, subtle but distinct from the black and orange scales. Some were the thin sharp cut of a blade, others were serrated, and still more were the patches of discoloration subtle amidst the scales — old burns from flame and electricity both. 

There is a weight to your gaze upon him the longer you stare at the history of battle and failure carved and beaten into his skin. He's not quite sure what to call it, this heaviness to the air that strains at the edges. It doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel safe. 

Your voice is fragile, delicate whisper when it finally breaks the silence. "Who did this to you?" 

Thirty-seven does not answer. 

"Right, sorry," you clear your throat and the weight of your gaze leaves his bowed head as your attention shifts to his other, still bound hand. "Not an easy thing to talk about, I'm sure. We'll patch you up for now, though." Your voice continues on, carrying a conversation in the silence as you unlock the second shackle as if unconcerned he has yet to answer a single question of yours. You do not flinch or hesitate this time when his battered wrist is laid bare, but you do hiss quietly, "How could they just leave you like this?" 

Thirty-seven does not understand. 

What are you doing? Did he miss a command? Is this a test, some trial to see if he can perform in an enclosed, unfamiliar space? What other reason could you possibly have for removing his restraints? 

Thirty-seven remains motionless, muscles coiled tight, as you lift the chain link in one hand, testing the weight — the thickness of a single chain link is larger than that of your own fingers. Your sigh falls into his lap, "These are more like industrial chains, aren't they? How heavy is this whole thing?"

Thirty-seven does not answer. Chains are chains, and these are the only ones they ever bound him in.

"They shouldn't have put you in these at all, and yet they made you haul these around all the time? No wonder your wrists are all beat up." The metal clinks, chains rattling as you cautiously release it back into the pile on his lap. Your voice fills the room as you turn away for a brief moment and Thirty-seven steals those precious few seconds to snap his gaze up from the floor. His sight trails up from your shadow and along your legs to burn a hole into your back as you fuss with something on the kitchen table. You're speaking, still, commenting on 'tossing out' his restraints and buying 'a better first aid kit'. The words register but he doesn't understand, and as you turn back towards him, Thirty-seven snaps his gaze back to the floor. 

Your bare feet enter his view as you return to stand in front of him. A heartbeat of silence thrums for a moment before, to his panic, your knees and thighs enter his view as you kneel down on the floor. Thirty-seven tears his gaze away, bowing his head further and narrowing them upon the chains in his arms. His wrists remain as you left them, offered palm up with his claws curled in. Tension coils in his muscles but Thirty-seven knows better than to let his limbs tremble — he waits, his breath a subtle, short thing rattling around in his lungs. 

When he hears the soft rustle of your clothes as you shift, he fully expects to feel the cold, heavy weight of the shackles bite into his skin again. He expects this confusing, foreign feeling needling at his heart to end, suffocated once more beneath metal. Instead, your fingers brush against the back of his hand, warm and soft — it takes every ounce of his control not to flinch, to jerk away and tuck his hands far, far from you. Your hand settles under his, cupping his left hand gently and he can't help but stare at the way his claws — scarred, scaled, brutal ugly thing — dwarf yours so effortlessly. 

"Can you look at me? Please?" 

A request, not an order. But Thirty-seven follows it as if it were a command all the same. Slowly, cautiously like an animal fearful of reprimand, his gaze lifts from your hand under his to your face. Soft. That is the first word that burns to the forefront of his mind. A small smile pulls at your lips and glimmers in your eyes. Tired, the second word Thirty-seven ascertains as his gaze lingers on the dark shadows beneath your eyes and the worry etching lines into your brow. 

"There we go." Again that sound he is unfamiliar with, too light and pleasing to be the 'laughter' he has always heard from the audience. A pleasing note, one that sinks beneath his scales and warms his bones. "I don't know what they told you at the Shelter or wherever you came from, but you're free to relax here." 

Relax? 

Thirty-seven does not understand. He neither answers nor moves, to which you tilt your head to the side. 

A name. Yours, offered to him effortlessly, as if the weight of it didn't leave him breathless. Owners are owners, he could never call them anything else — was never permitted anything else. Yet you offer yours so readily — the sound of which nestles in his lungs and rings in his ears. "And you…?"

Thirty-seven blinks.

"The paperwork didn't really," you pause and Thirty-seven watches the scowl that tugs at your lips. "They didn't really list anything. Do you have a name you go by?" 

Thirty-seven shakes his head, a short clipped movement — the first and only response he could provide. Numbers are numbers, they are not given names. 

An emotion flashes across your features, one Thirty-seven is unfamiliar with. It pulls your lips into a faint frown and furrows your brows — there's a weight in your gaze, too, something shimmery and heavy. Your gaze drops to his wrists and lingers overlong on the scars and dried blood flecked there. You voice is a quiet, muted thing that tumbles from your lips, "They really…" 

You shake your head and take a deep breath as if to steady yourself, though Thirty-seven cannot tell what might have upset you. He remains still as you shift, withdrawing your hand under his and fiddling what has remained in your lap, cradled by your other hand, this whole time: the first aid kit and a wet washcloth. Your gaze remains bowed, attention on his still proffered wrists as you swipe the wet cloth over his inner wrist, cleaning it as gently as possible. "We'll get you patched up for now, at least." 

An odd feeling needles at his chest as he watches you, his attention drifting from the crown of your head to the soft sweep of your lashes and the gentle slope of your nose, down the arc of your neck and along hint of your collar bone peeking over the collar of your shirt. He finds it's easier to observe you like this, while your attention is so focused on his wrists — even though a tension still lingers within him, ready to snap his head down should you lift your attention even the slightest. 

You're speaking, still, though it's harder to register your words with the warmth of your hands on his and the chill of the cloth swiping over bruised and battered skin. Yet he listens, straining to clutch at every note and syllable — not just because you are his owner but because there is a softness to it that he cannot understand. So he listens as you speak of various things — of the blankets you'll fetch from the hall closet, the food for dinner tonight, the plants in the communal backyard that you've been growing, of the various locks you've set up around the apartment, the errands you still need to run this week. 

You pause only when both wrists are cleaned and bandaged, the white stark against his black scales. The moment your attention shifts, lifting up to his face, Thirty-seven immediately snaps his gaze down and keeps his head bowed. He feels the weight of your attention on him, how it lingers on his face and your hands still cradle one of his. Warm, warm, warm — it's too warm, too soft. It doesn't feel right, too many needles sinking beneath his scales with an unbearable itch and burrowing into his lungs. 

"I'd like to ask you something," your voice breaks the silence, tentative and patient. There's a firmness to your voice, an earnestness that rings in his ears as you gently squeeze his hand in both of yours. "I promise not to treat you like the Shelter or," a scowl pulls at your lips as your gaze shifts ever so slightly to the marks still left behind by the muzzle, "whoever you were with before. Nor will I make you fight. I'd actually prefer as little violence as possible." 

If you do not need a weapon, why was he brought here? 

"I just need protection for a little while," you explain. "It would just be… going places with me. Keeping an eye out, making sure no one breaks in. A bodyguard." Your hands fidget, fingers brushing over his knuckles as your gaze drifts elsewhere, away from him. 

Thirty-seven recognizes this emotion, at least. Nervous. Fear. Unsettled. It thrums in the small movements of your hands and chases the path of your gaze that falls upon the narrow window above the sink and the latch firmly in place against the sill. Thirty-seven follows the path of your attention and as he eyes the window latch, he is reminded of the crowbar tucked out of sight beside the front door and the three different types of locks bolted like a prayer into the wood. 

"Are you.. ok with that?" Your voice lowers as it returns to his face and he drops his head to keep his gaze lower. 

Strange that you would ask, as if he had any permission to give. Stranger still that you would think he had any use beyond violence. 

Thirty-seven eyes your hands on his, how small they are in comparison yet how warm, warm, warm. Soft and gentle. He does not understand you. Yet you are his Owner, so he nods — a single, subtle and clipped movement. 

Whatever you need. 

[aloe-cinders]

Still here. Obsessed with idea of gila monster hybrid raised as an underground fighter (bc gila monster poison is no joke) becoming platonically yan & overprotective for soft reader who asked for bodyguard. I've rewritten it four damn times and it's still a mess.

Started this garden to practice smaller writing so I would stop getting hung up on overworking longer posts yet here I am, with long fics I keep fiddling with. ⚰️

[aloe-cinders]

Möbius Loop

Characters: (Homunculus Priest) Luvillius, (reincarnated!) Reader

Warnings: (Dark) Platonic yandere, Mild tension that comes from being watched/stalked. Brief mention/description of broken bone and blood (not directly inflicted by the yan).

Notes: part 1 of a series. Word count 5.3k. Yan tendencies subtle here because this part is more so to set up the stage for Luvillius’ obsession in following parts. However, still tagging it as (Dark) because the reader does get badly hurt and Luvillius has an inadvertent involvement with it. This wasn’t supposed to be this long but I’m a goddamn idiot. Do note that most of the following parts for Luvillius will likely be (Soft)!

Prayer is taught. 

Weathered hands guiding younger ones, one voice to echo the other. The soft, patient steps of guidance, paving the way and defining the unexplainable. It is knowledge and practice handed down, cradled gently from one to another. 

People are not born knowing how to pray. 

But, if anyone — perhaps he alone was born to worship. 

It's the way the evening sun reflects off stained glass and sunlight glistens in long white hair, highlighting the awe and perhaps something akin to grief's relief that glistens in his gaze like stardust across an empty sky. The way his empty hands fumble, clawing up the fabric of his black long sleeved shirt to twist his fingers into the cloth over his heart, white-knuckled and trembling. The way his lips part, words dying on his tongue yet trying to form to their shape all the same before a weak smile — wavering, as if the gesture only just surfaced after decades of absence — curves upon his lips. It's the simple, honest way he hovers in the doorway of the church as if on the precipice, an ardent longing in his gaze that outshone even Icarus' love of the sun. 

"Welcome back," the priest's voice is a gentle greeting, but too warm and heavy to be a mere pleasantry. It coils against your shoulders and nestles at your feet — weighted with something you cannot name. 

You pause, glancing over your shoulder but only the empty dirt road winding down the mountain path back to the village lay behind you. When your gaze drifts forward once more, the priest had silently closed the distance — too fast for the distance that had yawned between you and the church's front steps, a ripple of fear shudders in your throat. 

"Oh, no. I'm—" the words catch in your throat, weak in the echoes of unease lodged in your throat. "I'm not…—" 

"All are welcomed home in the Creator's halls," he smiles, even when you inch back in vain to regain some space. When he erases that, too, your eyes flick down to the metal prosthetics that delicately curve in intricate silver loops from mid-thigh and weave down to a fine pointed heel. His hand arcs up in a graceful sweep, pulling your gaze up from his legs as he places his hand lightly over his heart — as if he hadn't nearly torn holes into the fabric just moments prior — and offers a subtle bow. His smile widens, a crinkle in the corners of his eyes that seems too sharp for the priest's gentle expression. Before you can correct him, he continues, "You arrived with the hikers. Set to head up the mountain trail tomorrow morning, if I recall?" 

"Yes," you once more inch back, angling half away from the priest. He doesn't erase the minuscule difference this time, but you don't miss the way his gaze narrows as he tilts his head to the side, white hair tumbling over his broad shoulders. Perhaps this unease lodged in your throat, sour as bile on your tongue, wouldn't linger so if he did not naturally tower over you. The way his shadow falls over you in the setting sunlight leaves a chill at the base of your neck despite how kind he appears.

Something's wrong — unnerving like a single colorless puzzle piece perfectly nestled amongst a vibrant mural. But the longer you stare at him, the more harmless he appears, all gentle tones and soft edges. Rationale begins to smother instinct. This priest is merely greeting you, an outsider, and although his appearance may not be entirely what you are accustomed to, that's no reason to distrust him. Any unsettling feeling you have is just a side effect that radiates from certain people when they've been secluded from the rest of the world for too long. Excuses pile up and bury that feeling still needling at your gut, prickling tender skin at the back of your neck. 

"What brings you all the way up here, little one?" The priest's voice is soft, rounded as if coaxing a child. "The only thing up here is me."

You take a breath, swallowing back the sour taste on your tongue. There's nothing wrong — not that you can concretely define — yet you cannot bring yourself to relax your posture. Even so, your reply is pulled from your lungs like butterfly wings through a spider's web. "The trail… the guide said the entrance was up here." 

The priest hummed, eyes crinkled as if in amusement. "Indeed it is, but no one is allowed up the mountain after sunset." He tilted his head to the side, his smile widening a fraction — sharper. "And you are here all alone. It is … unsafe." 

Traversing the mountain path in the dark wasn't on your list; you had enough experience under your belt to know the dangers of hiking at night on an unfamiliar trail. No, what spurred you to meander up this dirt path rather than remain with the rest of the group and settle in for the night at the humble, old barn-turned inn the villagers used to house outsiders, was a simple urge. A passing thought that viewing the sleepy, isolated village from a hilltop would be quaint — charming, relaxing in its honest simplicity. 

A chill lances up your spine, biting and frigid as it shatters your thoughts. The priest's hand is upon your elbow, and you startle at the space he had erased while you were distracted. 

"I am sure Meredith warned you as much as well," he says, not giving you a chance to explain. His hand gently but firmly guides you around and his other hand finds the small of your back as he turns you away — facing once more the direction from whence you came. Cold, cold cold — his touch feels like ice, heavy with the somber stillness of winter on a frozen lake. It sets your teeth on edge and, once more, that uneasiness coils at the back of your tongue — sour and bitter. The faint pressure at the small of your back urges your feet down the subtle slope of the dirt path. 

Your feet stumble beneath you, dirt crunching beneath each step — you cannot hear the sound of his heels behind you but you feel the shuddering gasp of space between him and you."Wait—" 

Something soft brushes against the nape of your neck and it is the only warning before his voice slithers over your shoulder, his breath a cold brush against your ear, "I am not ready for you quite yet, little one. Return to the others and rest for now." The hand on your elbow peels away, the evening air seemingly burning against your chilled flesh with it's absence. 

The hand on your back gives a small nudge before it, too, falls away. Gravel crunches underfoot as you spin on your heel, words sharped and barbed on your tongue. But only your own lengthening shadow greets you as the final rays of sunlight slip beyond the mountains jagged on the horizon. Quickly, your head snaps up, tracing the dirt path up to the steps of the church.

The church's doors are firmly closed and not a single light reflects in the dark colored glass. 

Something's wrong. 

Instinct, wild and unsettled, thrums in your veins like a rabbit caught in a iron trap — cold metal sinking into soft flesh. The night begins to settle around you, shadows stretching out between the trees and slithering across the dirt path. There are no street lights or any outside lighting aside from small oil lamps hung by the front doors of humble houses far, far down the path where the village lay. You'd best return before darkness fully descends upon you. 

You turn back towards the village, your steps a little too quick and your pulse a little too high. The priest is gone but the places he touched still burn with a chill that rattles your bones and hollows the breath from your lungs. As you quickly make your way down the sloped path towards the village, a weight settles upon your shoulders — sharp, heavy, too warm, warm, warm in the autumn evening air. 

The weighted pressure of a gaze upon your back… 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

"Did you get a bug bite?" Emily's voice cuts through your thoughts, startling you. When you stare at her blankly she sighs softly and pries your hand from the back of your neck gently, "You keep scratching at your neck. Look, it's rubbed raw here." 

"Sorry," you murmur to your friend, gaze downcast to avoid her worried attention. Your fingers twitch in her hold, aching to dig at the needling sensation burning at the back of your neck. It hasn't left you since sundown yesterday and it burned against your skin the entire night, festering at the edge of dreamless sleep like smoke smothering you. "It's nothing." 

She hums in thought but Manuel, the leader of your little hiking troupe, hollers from further up the sloped trail where the mountain trees begin to encroach on the church's grounds. His face alight with a wide grin, he waves his arm to beckon you two, "Wake up you two. We have a mountain to conquer!" 

A few steps behind him are Jose and Dustin already bantering — flirting, if you ask Emily — and Quinn lingers further down the slope with a gaze curious but patient as they wait. Beside Quinn is Meredith, your local guide, her tight brown curls tamed by a headscarf and her worn jeans still caked with dirt from morning work on the farm. You feel her gaze on you as you and Emily quickly clamber after the group. 

To your right, the church sits dark and quiet as you pass it by. Even so, it snags your attention as you step onto the mouth of the trail, the laughter of Manuel, Jose, and Dustin muffled in your ears as if filtered through glass. The image of that priest from yesterday burns in your memory like a hot coal, scorching against the back of your neck. Without thought, your hand returns to your neck — scratching, scratching scratching. Something lingers in the darkened windows of the church, but Emily calls your name as her hands pry yours away from further marring your skin.

An ill feeling settles upon your back as you turn away from the church, but you quietly follow your group as the trail slopes up, curling around the mountain in a gentle incline. Trees fence the trail to your left, and to your right is the ever increasing drop of the mountain that overlooks the church grounds, the humble white chapel a solitary guardian at the foot of the mountain with a small wreath of graves nestled in its shadow. You don't notice how often your steps pause, your gaze snagging on that little building as the needling sensation upon your neck burns and burns until the trail begins to curve away from the grounds to wind deeper into the mountain. Trees and bushes begin to block your view of the shrinking building but still that unease lingers in your stomach. Still that burning weight presses like needles into the back of your neck. 

"Yer worried 'bout the priest?" A deep voice, rough as stone but gentle in its own way snags your attention. Meredith eyes you carefully, the vibrant greens of the forest framing her bring out the warmth and subtle amber hues in her brown eyes. A small frown tugs at her lips, but she shakes her head and motions you to continue on with a wave of her hand, "He didn't stop us, that's blessin' enough to let ya through." 

Dirt crunches underfoot as you scramble up the path beside her, gaze flicking further up the path to catch glimpses of your friends woven between the trees. The trail itself has begun to fade, the dirt patchworked amongst grass and foliage. Though a path has been worn and pressed into the soil, few and less venture far up the mountainside and the dirt path is slowly, gradually being swallowed by nature the further you climb. This hike wouldn't be possible without Meredith to guide you once that worn trail finally disappears amongst the greenery. Surrounded by the forest and burrowing into the mountain, the sounds of your companion's chatter is almost muffled. It's an eerie thing — not the usual quiet that you've grown accustomed to on a trail. There's a weight in the air, charged and heavy, that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. 

You spare one last glance over your shoulder back down the trail, hoping to spy the church between the trees and foliage. But all you see is green, green, green — nature all consuming. That unsettled feeling bristling on your neck does not abate even with the church now out of sight. If anything, it worsens. A shadow flickers in the underbrush behind you, snagging your attention when you started to turn back towards the trail. However, all that stares back at you in the darkness when you focus your attention on it is shadows, seemingly harmless and as natural as the trees surrounding you. The back of your neck burns. 

You hurriedly face forward once more and scramble after Meredith. "What do you mean?" Your voice is a quiet, cautious thing as you step in line beside her. "He's the one who picks who can go up the mountain? Not your… village head?" 

Meredith's short chuckle sounds more akin to a scoff but the smile on her lips is genuine. "Naw, Harold may be the one tellin' you outsiders, but it's that priest givin' verdict." She deftly steps around small rocks and upturned roots where instances of rainwater rushing down the mountainside disturbed the trail, her attention already on the vibrant snatches of your companion's clothes peeking through the trees up ahead. There's fluidity to her movements, as natural as breathing as she navigates the path that is gradually fading in the embrace of nature. Yet there's kindness, too, as she pauses and adjusts to your pace far behind the rest of the group.

You don't miss the way she casts a glance further up the path, where it bends slightly amidst the trees and your companions start to blend into the forest. A sigh tumbles from Meredith's lips, "Some o' yer lot may be a bit overeager, but ya ain't bad kids."

So focused on your feet, determined not to twist your ankle as you follow her up the uneven portion of the trail, you almost miss her passing comment, candid and offhand — tossed over her shoulder like someone flicking water droplets from their fingertips. "The mountain knows, an' he can tell. He was made to." 

Something small lodges in the back of your mind, sticks there like a stone between cogs. You don't even notice the way your feet still and your brow furrows until Meredith is several paces ahead and she half turns back to check on you with a quirk of her brow. Blurry in the distance and nearly lost in the sea of trees behind her, you briefly catch a glimpse of Quinn's purple jacket. 

"S-sorry," your voice stumbles as you scramble up the path, unsettled but unable to name why. As you near, Meredith turns and manages to take one step before your voice, quiet and unsure gives her pause, "I… don't understand."

Meredith's gaze is a heavy thing. It settles on your face like pressure on water's surface — a quiet brush to test boundaries, lingering without breaching. Then, it shifts with all its weight down to your neck rubbed and scratched raw. When it finally slides over your shoulder and lingers on the tree line behind you, a quiet thought wonders if she's gazing back towards the church — the mere thought burns at the back of your neck. Silence stretches for a heartbeat, then two, and then three. 

Meredith turns away from you and begins once more up the trail. For a breath, you don't think she'll speak any further, but as your foot takes the next step, soil and twigs grinding underfoot, you hear her. There's an absence in her voice, a levelness that wasn't there before. 

"Folk are made o' clay, shaped by the river an' blessed by God. But he came from the mountain itself," she says, the words gliding over her shoulder and burrowing into the soil between you. It's a quiet, unsettling thing, like something freshly unearthed. "He ain't quite like you an' me, different in a way ya can't name." She makes no sound as she steps and neither does her gaze return to you, even when your steps falter and cease in the shadows of the forest. "But the old folk figured anythin' that could build a house o' God couldn't be all that bad. So they let `im stay."

One step becomes two, then two becomes three, then four. Meredith pauses at the top of the incline where the trail begins to bend and weave around the trees. Her curls sway as she lifts her head to the canopy above, the way the sunlight filters through the treetops distorted as if underwater. From the canopy down to the sturdy tree trunks beside her, then flowing to the roots her attention drifts. When her gaze glides over the forest floor across the distance where you've fallen behind, rooted, her voice rings oddly in the quiet. "He guards the mountain — both it from us an' us from it." 

Her words settle like stones at the bottom of a lake, heavy and solid — their passing casting ripples that spread an odd chill over your skin. Once more a reason tries to smother instinct. It's not an uncommon belief of certain groups. There's nothing strange or odd about it, these people have lived off grid and uninvolved with the innovations of the rest of the world. To them, the priest is simply someone entwined with their older beliefs. It's common. 

It's fine. You're just overreacting to something — some small nuance you can't even name. It's fine…

Something in the underbrush beside Meredith's feet shifts, the shadows coiling in a manner distinctly unnatural. A scream bubbles in your throat, a warning sharp and panicked — but you blink and the thing is gone. A gentle breeze rustles the thicket's leafs causing the shadows to shift and sway, harmless and empty. 

The back of your neck burns, burns, burns. 

"Come on," Meredith's voice shatters your thoughts, and when your gaze tears from the underbrush to meet hers, there is something firm and heavy in it that unsettles you. "It's jus' th' wind," she says with a voice too measured and even, watching as your attention flicks back down to the thicket not far from her feet. Her gaze remains on you as you carefully pick your way up the path to stand beside her, your attention flicking through the underbrush nearby. Her hand, large, calloused, and warm, pats your back as if too soothe you — to brush away the needling feeling still festering under your skin. She nods her head towards the trail and sets off once more, her pace just slow enough to give you a breath before you scramble after her.

Tucked into the shadow you leave behind, hidden in the cradled roots of a tree, a small pale shape shifts and merges with the soil — following.

Your companions come into view once more as you round the trail's bend, their soft chatter clearer now. Manuel still stood at the head of the group, bright eyes focused on the faded trail's end crumbling into vegetation and vanishing. Jose and Dustin loomed over Emily who knelt beside some flowers blooming at the base of a tree. Quinn, ever attentive, had kept their gaze behind them, waiting for you and Meredith to round the bend.

Meredith's voice cuts through the din of their chatter, stern as she warns Emily not to touch the blue flower she knelt in front of. There's a frown on her lips as she walks to the front of your group, her boots stopping right on the edge where the trail vanished into foliage. Her attention shifts from Emily to sweep across everyone in turn, her voice oddly clear as it cuts through the forest, "Be mindful of yer hands," she warns. "Ya got permission to tread, not partake. The land remembers both good an' ill, an' it does not always forgive." 

Emily sheepishly rises from her crouched position, brushing the dirt from her pants and tucking her hair behind her ears. Jose and Dustin both pat her shoulder with teasing smiles, while Manuel simply offers Meredith a thumbs up and a cheery, "Keep all hands inside the vehicle, got it." 

The scowl she levels him with could curdle milk. Manuel, for better or worse, doesn't seem to notice, his eyes too bright and his grin too wide in his eagerness to venture further up the mountain. He simply rocks on the balls of his feet, fidgeting as he waits for her to finish her warning spiel so she could lead the way. 

Meredith, for her part, heaves a sigh and mutters something under her breath you do not catch. Whatever original warning had been on her tongue dries up, worn out by the restless energy of the group's leader perhaps. Instead, she half turns towards the forest, stepping onto a trail only she knows. "Stay close behind," she warns, her narrowed gaze weighing on each of your companions in turn. "But keep this in mind," her gaze lingers overlong on you, something too sharp in her attention that needles beneath your skin, "Whate'er ya think yer seein' in these woods, the only one yer to follow is me." 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

An accident. 

You didn't intend to fall behind the group, thoughts weighing upon your limbs — worry and doubt nibbling at the logic and reason you repeated to yourself to explain away the unsettled feeling coiling in your gut. You didn't intend to stumble so frequently, upturned roots seemingly clawing free from the soil to tangle upon your boots every other step. You didn't intend to lose sight of the group, your attention so focused on the ground beneath your feet as your palms scraped across tree bark time and again with each stumble. 

But you did fall behind. 

You did stumble. 

You did lose sight of the group and, more importantly, your sole guide. 

Silence settles upon the mountain forest, stifling and unnatural — too heavy and suffocating with baited breath. The chatter of your friends has long since been swallowed up by the mountain, no sign of Quinn's purple jacket or Dustin's ungodly orange beanie flashing between the trees. Beneath your feet lies only green, green, green — there is no trail to follow, no landmark to guide you, no hint of whatever path Meredith knew by heart. 

There is just you, a sea of trees looming like soldiers at your side, and that damning burning, burning, burning against the back of your neck. 

Shadows shift out of the corner of your eye as you brave a path through the forest, clawing at your heels only to vanish in the underbrush soon as your attention turns to focus on it. They make no sound, and that's the horrifying realization that deafens the rational, more logical half you. Animals make sound, the forest itself sings with the melody of all its creatures. 

But there is no sound in this forest. No rustle of rabbits in the underbrush, no chirp of birds in the canopy, no crunch of twigs and foliage by larger predators. 

There is just you — your breathing short and clipped as you trip and stumble over tree roots that seem to grow and twist to claw at your feet. Blood pebbles on your palms, scraped raw by tree bark as you scramble to stay upright each time something snags at your boots. The back of your neck burns and when you scratch the raw skin, more than a little frustrated and tired, bright red stains your nails. 

You're lost. 

Stupidly, foolishly. 

This isn't your first hike, not by a long shot, but something is wrong.

Wrong with the forest. Wrong with the shadows that inch too close. Wrong with you. 

Your breath shudders, rattling around in your chest and snagging on your rib cage as you lean against a nearby tree and close your eyes. You're fine, you're fine, you're fine. You've hiked before. You know the procedures and protocols. There's snacks and water still tucked away in your pack strapped to your back. There's a compass tucked into the outer pocket, its needle could point you back southwest, where the village should lay. You're fine. You're fine. 

When you open your eyes once more, the first thing you see is the rich brown bark of the tree you had pressed your forehead against. Your attention shifts as you slowly push away from the tree trunk, gaze habitually drifting down to the base of the tree. It is then that a scream lodges in your throat and your muscles freeze. Small, nestled at the base and leaning upon the thick roots of the tree was something pale and unnatural. At first glance, it resembled a clay doll: a smooth, rounded head and body with arms and legs too stumpy and short for any functional use beyond balance. No mouth was carved into its face, but two black holes lay where its eyes should have been — the sockets deep, deep, deep as if gouged out. 

The small creature stares up at you, unblinking. The weight of its eyeless gaze is eerie, unsettling like rot — sour and vile. 

It tilts its head to the side, the movement sharp and jerky. 

Pure instinct forces your limbs into action and flings you away from the tree, feet stumbling over roots as you backpedal away from the creature. That scream in your throat bubbles and festers, crawling like knives up your throat but something more primal sews your mouth shut — survival instinct silencing. The creature does not move even as you scramble away, tripping over roots until your back presses against the firm bark of another tree. 

Your heart trembles in your chest, pitiful and rattled as it slams against the brittle cage of your ribs. It is the only sound you hear — your pulse, frantic in your ears. You do not think to grab your compass from your pack, nor do you stop to remember the warnings you have heard countless times about moving recklessly within a forest when lost. No, the only thought in your head is run. 

Before reason can try to rationalize, your boots crunch against the soil as you bolt from the tree. You do not see the way the creature shudders and collapses into the soil or the way the earth itself seems to roil and follow in pursuit. No, all you see is the blur of greenery and earthen hues rushing by. All you hear is the pounding of your heart as tree branches claw at your arms and rake through your hair. Unturned roots crunch and snap like bones beneath your boots as you leap and stumble over their clawing grasp. 

Small flashes of white, pale as bones and stark against the forest's hues, haunt the corners of your vision. Brief glimpses of those creatures standing on the thick tree limbs overhead, clinging to the rough bark of trees, peeking from the thickets at your feet, and sitting upon the upturned roots. Sometimes there is only one, but increasingly their numbers grow by the pair as they follow you with those deep, deep, empty sockets. 

The back of your neck burns, burns, burns. 

An accident. 

A single misstep bound to happen when panic overrides all else. 

But it doesn't feel like an accident when a sharp sound cuts through the frantic pounding of your heart in your ears, crisp and too loud by far — heavy with the finality of a maw snapping shut. It doesn't feel like an accident when something firm and rough wraps around your left boot. It doesn't feel like an accident when the soil beneath your feet shifts and the world tilts with it. 

The scream that finally tears from your throat is a raw, pitiful and bloodied thing as you tumble down the mountainside in a mess of limbs and soil and roots. Something firm still clings to your left boot, its grasp stubborn as the world spins around you. It's all you can do to tuck your head behind a poor shield of your battered arms. Roots and thickets claw at you as you tumble down, down, down, rocks slamming into your side with a bruising force that knocks the breath from your lungs. It is only when the earth falls away, soil and trees dropping away to frame a pebbled and dried riverbed, that the grasp on your boot tugs taunt. You feel the snap more than you hear it, the finality of tendons twisting and bone breaking as the grasp of whatever ensnared you tries to pull back. Pain, white hot and blinding, sears your vision as you tumble over the edge and onto the rocky dried riverbed below. 

The ground that greets you is cold, hard, and unforgiving as it knocks the breath from your lungs, bruising your ribs in the process. Your arms provide a poor shield for your head and you swear your thoughts scatter like dust in the wind when the back of your head hits stone. You lay a crumpled mess upon the smoothed pebbled bed, heat engulfing your left ankle and a wet ache at the back of your head that your thoughts can't process the reason for. Black spots cloud your dimming vision and all you hear is the still frantic pulse of your heart. 

Hurts. It hurts. 

On the edge of your vision, stark against the encroaching black in your sight, those small creatures stare down at you from the ledge high above where tree roots still twist in the soil as if searching for water that has long since run dry. There is a cluster of them now, tilting their head this way and that with those empty eye sockets, and one of them leans too far over the ledge. It tumbles down, shattering to clumps of soil upon the hard, cold riverbed only to reform in a shuddering lump a moment later. You watch with a fading vision, too hurt and battered to move, as it totters over towards you. 

Something cold settles beneath your skin, the contrast to the burning pain at your ankle and the needling at the back of your nest so drastic it made your stomach churn. The creature stops just a breath away — too close, too close, too close — and tilts its head to the side as it stares. Those empty sockets stare back at you, deep and dark. 

As something bubbles up your throat — a scream or bile, you couldn't tell — you hear it. 

The soft clink of metal on stone behind you. 

The burning on the back of your neck intensifies as your skin crawls under the weight of a gaze too heavy, heavy, heavy. 

"There you are, my dear," a voice soft and warm, warm, warm crawls over your shoulder like a lover. 

You know that voice, even if only briefly. 

The creature in front of you tilts its head up to look behind you as a gentle breeze brushes against your back, swept up by movement behind you. 

"Thank you for waiting, everything has been made ready." 

Cold, cold, cold — ice sinking into the very marrow of your bones as a hand slides beneath your head and under your knees. Black swallows your vision, more than just the blurred edges of burdened sight as black fabric nearly swaddles you. 

"Let us go back," the priest's voice is soft as a prayer, his lips brushing against your bloodied temple. "Together." 

[aloe-cinders]

Several drafts in the works but thought it would be fun to cast a vote for one of them: picking monster type for parental yandere Mother.

Only caveat I’m giving you is her husband, who initially picks you up, is a Dullahan.

What type of monster/cryptid should she be?

Drider

Chimera

Nachtkrapp (Night raven)

Tulikettu (Northern lights Firefox)

En’enra (smoke yokai)

Voting ended onNov 10, 2025

[aloe-cinders]

Reminder

Characters: child memory eater, reader

Warnings: (Soft), platonic [familial] yandere. Memory manipulation/erasure. Wouldn’t entirely call it gaslighting but it’s not not there, subtly.

Notes: Had a whole bunch more to this kid but then remembered the goal is NOT writing 4k for things I mean to be small shots. There will be more parts to this later on.

You forgot again. 

You've forgotten a lot lately. 

Stress, the doctor says, coupled with fatigue and dehydration. Normal, she says. Natural. But it doesn't feel normal. There is nothing natural about the way gaps yawn in your memory like perfectly carved graves, noticeable only by the clean cut absence of what should have lain there. If it were mere stress and fatigue eating away at your memories and attention, then you would forget the little things: where you placed your keys, what day it was, what you had for your last meal (if you even ate at all), or losing track of what you just entered the room to fetch. Simple things, small things. Easily brushed off and set aside as a simple working of your life if you could not recall them. 

But such common things are not what you forget. Instead it's whole conversations with friends, dates planned for outings. It's the name of your coworker who has suffered the agony of the workforce alongside you for two years. It's the blind date you went on last Tuesday and rather enjoyed, only to stare in confusion at the name and number saved to your phone that you do not recognize. It's the promises you make to family to visit, only for them to call you, frustrated and hurt, when you did not show. It is the stray cat you fed for two months vanishing from mind and memory until your neighbor asked where it went.

And now, it is the date and time scrawled and circled thrice over on a sticky note shoved into a book you brought home from work. Two weeks late and not a single whisper of memory as to what this reminder was for. 'Don't forget!' Your writing warns in the corner, just above the date — but you did, you did, you did. You turn the note over, hoping in vain for some clue, but it is as blank as your memory of it. It had clung to the small makeshift bookmark a third of the way through, parchment bright yellow against the white pages. Honestly you had forgotten you'd taken the book to work to read during lunch break when you finally got your hands on it. A second glance at the cover jogs a faint memory: you had been excited to read this, once. So why did you forget it until today? It was pure chance that work finally slowed down enough you could clean up files and papers piled high on your desk, unearthing the book buried beneath. Sure, work has been stressful lately, but that alone shouldn't have been enough to erase the anticipation you'd had when you first held it in your hands. Skimming the bookmarked page doesn't jog any memories either and, distressingly, the further you read the more you realize — 

You don't remember a single thing of the book. 

One page back, then two, and three. Nothing. None of what's printed here is familiar. 

But that can't be right. You know yourself. You would have devoured the first half, if not the first third on the same night you got the book. There's no way you'd forget the story, not in so short a time — a year maybe, but two weeks? Wiped from your memory as if you'd never poured over the pages before? 

The sticky note crinkles in your grasp as you stare holes into it. 

Something's wrong. Something's —

"What's wrong?" 

The voice jolts you from your thoughts, startling like ice raked down your spine. The note crinkles in your hand as your head snaps to the side. There, in the doorway is a small child, golden eyes wide in black sclera as he watches you carefully. A third eye — always closed, you can't recall a time you've ever seen it opened — lay nestled in the center of his forehead and half buried in black curls so unruly they also nearly hide the curved horns at his temples. 

"Rem," you sigh softly, placing a hand over your stuttering heart. A gentle smile finds its way to your lips, "Did I wake you?" 

You'd left him asleep on the couch, carefully bundling him up in blankets before you left and wandered down the hall to grab your work bag from the kitchen table. Oddly, not a hint of childish drowsiness lingers in the corners of his eyes or shadows the space beneath them. Too sharp, too bright — his eyes are locked on the small note in your hands. 

"What's wrong?" He repeats, small bare feet pattering against the tile as he crosses the room to bury his clawed hands into the folds of your clothes. Even through the fabric, you feel the chill of his touch. Something rolls off him in waves — it needles against your skin like static in the air. Anxious — he's nervous about something, you think, and the way he's glaring a hole into the note in your hands it's not hard to guess the source.

"Nothing," your voice is gentle, soft as spring sunlight on flower petals as your fingers gently ruffle his curls. Your gaze drifts back to the note in your hands, your tone quieter as you murmur, "I just… forgot something." 

Rem studies you for a heartbeat — then two — before he hums. His claws on the hem of your shirt tighten, threatening to tear holes into the fabric, and he presses himself against your leg as if both seeking comfort and offering it. "If you forgot, then it wasn't important." 

No…. 

Rem always says that. He means it as a comfort, you think. A child's logic to soothe an ache he doesn't fully understand. But that's not true — not always. Not lately. Not this time. 

Your silence is a heavy thing, lodged in your throat as you stare at the note in your hand — praying, digging, scraping every corner of your mind for some hint of a memory. Anything. But you are left with only the crumpled yellow parchment in your hands, an outdated warning scrawled across. This was important, you know — as sure as iron in your veins.

Attention so focused on the note and trying to scrounge up memories, you do not notice the way Rem's eyes narrow on the sticky note in your hands or the way his lips tug into a frown. His claws twist in your shirt, a flicker of something too sharp in his gaze before it vanishes as he tugs purposely on the fabric for your attention. He blinks up at you, all wide eyes and innocence, "Can I see it?" 

"Sure, little man." You offer him the note with a weak smile, thoughts churning over again as they wander. Is something… wrong with you? The doctor visit a few days ago did little to assuage your worries. It's not stress; there's no way this could be merely stress. But if something is wrong with you, then what? Your gaze lingers on Rem — the way the pale blue shirt you bought him hangs off his wry frame, how small and fragile he looks even when you try to bundle him up in layers and fret over him. He's just a child. What happens to him if someone is wrong with you? Where would he go? You still remember that evening framed in the sickly yellowed lights of the police station — the way dirt caked his skin and he was nothing more than bruised skin and bones. Even the werewolf officer said—

—She said….. 

You pause, your hand in Rem's curls freezing mid-comb. 

What… had she said that day? She said… something. She must have. And you responded… didn't you? Rem was… quiet? Or was he upset? 

Why can't you remember?

Is it even normal for a human like yourself to take home a—

Ice pierces your skin, violently derailing your thoughts — Rem clings to your free hand in one of his, the chill of his skin like a rusted knife against your palm, "Hey!" His brow furrows, a small pout on his lips. "Don't ignore me…" 

"I wasn't, I wasn't," you soothe idly, attention chained back on the child. What were you thinking about just now? You can’t recall… it must not have been important. "You were saying something?" 

His grasp on your hand tightens as his other one, balled up into a fist, tucks behind his back. Rem rocks on the balls of his feet as he hums and swings your hand in his like a toy link — a rope, an anchor. A chain. Tilting his head up at you, he smiles shyly, "Can I have some apples? I'm hungry…" 

"Of course," you chuckle, slipping your hand from his — his grasp reluctant to let go, claws curling against your skin and nearly scratching — and ruffle his hair. You're already turned away from him as you begin to bustle around the kitchen, grabbing a knife and bowl. "How about we split one with some peanut butter?" 

Rem hums and immediately you hear the soft patter of his feet as he trails behind you. His cold claws find their way to the hem of your shirt again, the child pressing against your leg on the opposite of side your hand wielding the knife. You pay him no mind as he clings to your legs, head tilted up as he stands on his tip toes to see on the counter. It's only when you finish slicing the apple and placed a scoop of peanut butter into the side of the bowl that your gaze drifts down to him once more. 

In one of his hands, crumpled up into a ball almost too large to hide in his hands, is a yellow note. Did he have that a moment ago? 

"Whatcha got there?" You ask, amused huff on your lips as you offer his own bowl of apples to him. 

Rem tears his gaze from the bowl to the crumpled note, then back up to you. He smiles, wide and bright, "It's a note you gave me in case you forgot," he answers and stuffs it into his pocket, out of sight, and reaches for the bowl. "It says you promised to take me to the park this weekend." 

"Oh!" You ruffle his hair, mindful of his curved horns, and smile. "Good thing I gave it to you, then, huh?" 

Rem nods as he clutches the bowl close to his chest with one hand and sinks the other back in the folds of your clothes. His smile is warm, warm, warm — adoring and honest. "I'll help you remember the important stuff! Promise!" 

[aloe-cinders]

As a small heads up, these are the current wips in my bin. All of them are considered (Soft).

Homunculus priest, platonic

Fallen angel guardian, parental

Memory eater, platonic

Brina p2, parental

Shadow p2, parental

Jeremiah & Naga partner, platonic

Soulmate + hanahaki verse, parental yan vs platonic yan

[aloe-cinders]

(Soft) parental yandere that panics the first time blood blooms on your forearm, framing the delicate petals of verbena flowers. Their voice breaking as they quickly pull you over to the sink, cold water washing away the crimson stain to reveal the true pink hue of the small flowers falling from the sudden gash yawning down your arm. Their questions fall upon you in rapid succession, woven together in a hurried breath that leaves you little room to respond.

No, you weren't doing anything dangerous. No, you weren't by the knives -- you were reaching for something in the fridge. Nothing should have sliced you open like this.

Only when the bleeding slows and they pressed a towel to your wound, verbena flower petals scattered like shattered glass in the sink, do you both realize the true origin for your wound. There, sliced clean in half is your soulmate mark, a portion of whatever pain your partner suffered transfered to you.

A heavy silence settles, laced with a chill that makes your stomach churn. Parental yan's gaze is locked on your soulmate mark and the angry, red wound marring your skin -- a coldness in their eyes that hollows you out.

They don't say much about it as they delicately apply medicine on the wound before bandaging it, but there's a tension in their movements. It becomes an untouchable topic. They were already touchy about the soulmate mark on your skin, forcing you to cover it every time you left the house, but now that you were injured because of it...

Perhaps if it was just once, you could have soothed them to forget your mark, but it happens again, and again, and again. The last time, you coughed blood and petals, the tang of iron mixing with the light acidity of the verbena that made you dry heave.

Your soulmate is sick, ill with something you cannot name. The thought of them suffering, perhaps alone, twisted at your heart. Hopefully they were in a hospital, or somewhere that help was nearby, but as you cough blood and flower petals into the sink, you can only fear for your soulmate.

Parental yan that begins to confine you within your room, stressing that you must rest and recover. Even the doctor they dragged in for a house call, agrees the strain on your body from your connection to your soulmate is concerning. Parental yan that fusses over you, forbidding you to leave, and constantly checks your mark for any further wounds. Parental yan that uses connections to hunt down your soulmate, not to save them, but to find a way to sever the mark's connection. Even if it means the death of your soulmate.

Your health comes first.

Any emotional pains from... loss... will heal in time. That's what parents are for: helping you through hard times, right?

[aloe-cinders]

Shaded Cradle

Characters: Shadow creature/cryptid, Reader

Warnings: (Soft) paternal/platonic yandere. Slight tension/suspense.

Notes: Written in one go before bed again bc I’m unhinged. New Soft/dark tags and warnings set up so please see pinned post. Nothing bad in this one, shadow friend just steals your things and tries to care for you.

Shadows do not crunch, snapping with all the heavy finality of a rib cage. 

They may twist and bend, stretching to crawl over horizons and shrinking down to crawl into cracks. But there is no sound to them, no echo left in their wake. 

These shadows are different, however. Sure, they sprawl across the walls and dance as the light shifts — just like any other shadow. They retreat into the folds of your clothes and under furniture when the sun shines directly overhead at noon, only to unfurl like an avalanche down the mountainside in the fading sunlight. Normal. As natural as the sky's changing hues. Or, they were — once. 

Not anymore. 

It was subtle at first. A shifting blur in the corner of your eye you could blame on a trick of light or something in your eye. There and gone. Slowly, gradually — quiet and minuscule, grains of sand filling an hourglass — it grew. Shadows lingered in the corner of your vision, small black voids that only fully receded if you turned to face them. They began to stretch, clinging to the far corners of the ceiling and shriveling into crevices as you moved throughout the house. They deepened, swallowing the moonlight and certain dim, flickering nightlights you hadn't bothered to change. 

You could ignore it for a while. Pretend it was just the house settling, your nerves fraying, or the sunlight shifting as the days shortened with the arrival of autumn. When small things vanished, only to reappear later in odd places and different rooms, you wrote it off as your own forgetfulness. Work has been stressful and you had only just moved into this old house. Perhaps living alone was getting to you, perhaps you were just tired. That's why you kept misplacing your house keys, your bus pass whenever you needed to run errands, and your fully charged phone that you could only ever find once the battery was dead. It was you. Just you, and your foggy memory blurred from lack of sleep and stress. 

When fruit started appearing on the counter — apples, usually, occasionally a small cluster of grapes — you couldn't just blame your memory anymore. 

Then the noises came.

The first night it happened, you swore it was merely the echo of a dream. Soft, muffled through the haze of sleep, the first noise you registered was a slow rend — burdened, like the sound of a bandaid peeling lazily from skin or the unfraying of cotton fabric down a tear. Purposeful but restrained by something weighted. It came from above and fell upon you like a fog, barely there — noticeable in the dark only by the chill it left on your skin. Then the rustling, your sheets pulled up, up, up from where they had bunched around your hips. You feel as the warmth of it glides up your shoulders and pools around your neck. A snap, sharp and crisp — a wishbone breaking — is what shatters the last tendrils of sleep from your mind. You hear it the same moment you feel a light pressure along your back, the fact that the pressure had been akin to tucking the blanket in fails to register as you thrash in bed, throwing the sheets off and bolting upright. 

Wild eyed, you scramble to turn on the lamp beside the bed, heart racing in your chest. But all that greets you when the soft yellow light flicks on is your ordinary room and its shadows.

You don't sleep much that night. 

Much of the next morning is spent crawling under every furniture, shining your phone's flashlight into every crevice and corner, looking for something — anything. You felt something last night, heard it. Shadows don't make noise. But every corner you bathe in light only frames the simple, common, everyday spots you've grown accustomed to in the house. There's nothing under your bed, or in your closet. Nothing crawls beneath the couch in the living room or slinks across the ceiling when the lights are turned off. 

Nothing, nothing, nothing. 

For two days, at least. 

On the third night, you hear it again. A soft rending and a heartbeat of silence before the rustle of your sheets fills the room. You force yourself to remain still, muscles locked — coiled tight with a tension that makes even your jaw creak. It becomes difficult to hear the rustle of your sheets over the way your heart pounds a frantic rhythm in your ears, but it's there. The warmth of the sheets crawls up your arms and settles around your shoulders once more — then silence. 

You wait.

And wait.

And wait. 

But there is no snapping, no crack of bones shattering as pressure traces your form. Only silence and the soft wheeze of the house settling around you. When you crack open your eyes just a sliver — then wider when a breath passes in safety — all that greets you is darkness and shadows. 

Safe. 

Your fingers find purchase in the sheets cradling your shoulders and pull them closer, wrapping them around yourself as you curl up. You do not sleep deeply, but it is sleep nonetheless. 

When morning comes, for a long moment you sit with your hands clutching the sheets as you stare holes into the fabric. You'd like to write it off as a dream, a trick of the mind — blankets can't move on their own so you must have grabbed it half asleep and forgotten about it. But it happens the next night, and the next, and then again. The same soft rending, the same tug on your sheets that forces them up to cover you when the night chill has just begun to wake you from slumber. 

You can't just write it off anymore. 

Your phone goes missing more often now. It doesn't matter if you leave it in your pocket, or clutch it tightly in your hands. The moment you take your eyes away from it, attention snared by a sound elsewhere in the house or the soft chime of the stove signaling your food is ready — it's gone. You only find it, hours later, in odd places: under your bed, shoved into the bathroom closet between the towels, hidden behind the potted plant you keep by the windowsill. Always, always, the battery is drained completely dead. 

Your house keys, too, often wind up missing but only when you're almost out the door on your way to meet a few friends. You've lost count of the times you've nearly pulled your hair out scrambling to try to find them only to give up when a glance at the clock glares a silent warning. There's only so many times you can be late before even your friends would get frustrated. More than once, you've rushed out the door, muttering prayers and pleas to any god that would listen to please have mercy and not let your house be robbed while you were away because your keys had mysteriously vanished. You never noticed on those days, as you stumble and rush down the street, the way your shadow curls a bit closer to your heels — too deep and too dark, stretching in odd angles whenever you round a corner. 

It becomes routine, in its own way. Fruit on the counters that you never bought, your belongings disappearing when you need them to leave, and the odd nightly ritual of your sheets adjusting to keep you warm. The original sense of unease and fear that had needled beneath your skin begins to fade in the habitual comfort that settles in. Routine. Safe. A little unusual, sure, but ultimately harmless. 

As autumn shifts to winter, the cold begins to roll in. You find pairs of socks out in the open — on the countertop, on the table, on the edge of your bed — whenever you get up and wander the house first thing in the morning barefoot. Grapes turn to oranges and other winter fruits. You find scarves you buried in the closet and forgot about every time you lose your keys. 

It happens on the last rainy storm of the season, the final struggle of autumn rain before winter's chill rolls in with snowstorms. Lightning flashed in the windows, thunder rumbled in the distance and you had curled up in your bed for the night. A mixture of thunder's rumble, the traces of humidity, and a restless dream had you caught half awake most of the night. If the rain had been consistent during the storm, perhaps the white noise could have lulled you to sleep. But instead you were pinned in that foggy, disorientating state between dream and waking. 

Between the intermittent fall of rain against the windowpane, you hear that familiar soft rending. Then the gentle tug on your sheets, guiding them up your body. It's a pure whim that has your eyes fluttering open as the sheet brushes up your arms. It's pure chance that, in that moment, the storm roils and lightning flashes across the night sky, bathing the room in pale silver light. 

You see it then, for the first time. 

Shadows that aren't shadows. 

Darkness that isn't darkness. 

A void splintered across your ceiling and the long, jagged limb that stretches down from it. Not an arm, not really — bent at all the wrong angles, edges too sharp and fractured like barbed memories. Something too eerie to be fingers but too akin to be called anything else are delicately pinching at the bedsheets, frozen in place as the storm’s light recedes from the room. 

It lasted a moment. Only a breath. A flash and gone. 

Your room is bathed in darkness and shadows again but your eyes linger on where you saw the … limb poised above you. Silence settles, heavy and suffocating in the room. There's a choice, you realize, and whatever lingers in the dark is allowing you the first pick. 

Unease coils on the back of your tongue, slightly bitter, but you swallow it down and slowly, slowly — so slowly, a careful choice — lay back down and curl up on the bed. You wait, quiet and still. 

A heartbeat. Then two, before you hear the soft rustle of your sheets again and feel them pulled up towards your shoulders. Something shimmers in the air, prickling at the back of your neck — a question unspoken. Your quiet silence is taken as consent, and you hear the sharp snap — still crisp as bones breaking that makes your body flinch on pure instinct — as a gentle pressure nudges at the sheets near your back. Then once more, a cracking noise as a light pressure nudges the sheets around the cradle of your hands. 

Tucking you in. 

[aloe-cinders]

Since I've somehow managed to kidnap a few of you, here's a question. Would you prefer a tag or special mention in the intro summary that denotes if something is more soft-yan or dark-yan?

As a quick ref: the programmed devotee fic would be considered soft and the painter fic would lean moreso dark.

Add a soft-yan & dark-yan label marker for quick identification

yes

no

Voting ended onSep 22, 2025

I tend to default to soft-yan, but I want to be sure to warn someone (aside from the usual trigger/caution warnings) if they would prefer not to see it at all while I experiment here in the garden.

Please do know that most of my stuff will likely lean more on the soft-yan spectrum bc that is my default and the dark-yan stuff will typically be fewer in number since they are short experiments. 🫶

[aloe-cinders]

Sgraffito

Characters: Painter, Reader

Warnings: (Dark) platonic yandere. Implied torture. Brief mention of gore. Brief mention of mutilation and really bad injuries. Escape attempt.

Notes: Written in one sitting right before bed so apologies, lol.

Should have kept your mouth shut. 

Should have just admired that painting in silence — a simple hum of bewilderment lost amongst the crowd, just one more faceless visitor. 

Should have just ignored the stranger boring holes into the side of your head. Should have walked away when his voice crawled between that casual distance from him to you and clung to your skin like tar, molten with a heat you couldn't name. 

But you didn't. You didn't, you didn't, you didn't. 

And now here you are, a fool time and time again as you cower in the shadows of a tree hollow. Dirt smears across your cheeks as your hands cover your mouth and nose, trying, trying, trying to muffle the way your breaths tumble frantic from pale lips. There's dirt and mud on your clothes from where you stumbled one too many times, the soil from this morning's rainfall still damp. You're leaving a trail, barefooted and bleeding from the soles of your feet in your haste, the taste of freedom too strong to ignore. They'll find you, you know this — the earth and its plants were never your companions, not when they were used as his materials. Pigments, just like you are. 

A color too vibrant to be left alone in the world, he said. 

You press yourself into the bark, the rough, hard wood digging into your back and shoulders as you pray for the shadows to swallow you. Just a moment, a tiny window is all you need. The river is right there. 

Leafs crunch underfoot, sharp and crisp. It sounds like bones snapping. It sounds like the iron collar clicking tight around your throat once more. A black clawed foot slams down on the soft undergrowth, the sound of foliage crumbling rattling akin to a shattered rib cage in your ears. The claw shudders, wisps of tendrils coil around the limb, bleeding like ink in water and the way the tree hollow frames the scene like a picture frame makes you ill. 

The creature shifts and you can see the way its leg shudders and fades as it steps, corporeal only in bursts. Unstable — a rushed painting. But it's still enough to drag you back, claws digging into soft, vulnerable flesh as you claw the earth, the stones, the walls — anything, everything. It didn't matter. The only deterrent, no matter how slight and momentary, was—

You close your eyes, heart a frantic staccato in the bruised cavity of your chest. Count. Steady, long counts as your nails dig into your jaw. Quiet, quiet, quiet. One. Pause. Two. Pause. Three. Pause. Count and count. Measured, controlled. Until the footsteps of the beast fade just enough you can pry your hands from your mouth. Inch by cautious inch, timing each shift of your weight with the fading crunch of footsteps just in case. Your hands dig into the bark of the hollow's opening — your gaze does not linger on the puncture scars in the center of both hands. If you had half the mind to spare, you would have liked to think it is merely the narrow vision of your focus rather than the ugly, more honest truth that you are acclimating to … him and his …requests. 

It's a miracle you could use your hands at all after the metal had pinned you to the rotting corpse — a butterfly on display. He had nursed you so carefully afterword, cradling your bloodied, mutilated hands in his as if you were a delicate flower, a treasure.

But now your thoughts are on the river. Water. 

Freedom is so close. 

One step, and then another — you wait until the creature is far enough away and time the moment you dart out from the tree hollow with the faded sound of its next step. The sound of leafs crunching under your bare feet is loud, loud, too loudbut you do not stop, do not falter. Not even when you hear the roar of the painted creature shattering the night air as its body twists inhumanely upon itself — twisting and collapsing on itself only to reform in a coil of black that bleeds into the shadows. 

Your heart pounds in your ears, roaring — screaming. Trees rush by, bare limbs from autumn's final breath scrape against your bare arms but you do not notice the sting as blood pebbles and trickles. No, your only focus is on the path ahead, the way soil gives way to rocks and pebbles, and how the trees peel back like flesh framing an open wound. The river sings, the current a steady and strong thrum as you run and stumble your way to the edge. 

There is no time to hesitate. Your feet hit the water, mindless of the way rocks cut into the skin — but the chill that laces up your spine does steal your already shuddering breath. Coughs rattle in your lungs, your teeth already clattering as you wade through the river as the water steadily climbs, climbs, climbs up your shins and your thighs and laps at your waist. The current pulls at you, saps every scrap of strength you have and you can do nothing but press forward as the river nudges you downstream. 

The creature finally reaches the river's edge behind you, its garbled roar turning pitiful as it steps into the water only to dissolve like watercolor in the currents. It pulls back and howls at you, its form rippling and fading as the black ink composing its body twists and dissolves.But it dares not cross the river. 

Just a little further. You're halfway across the river, shivering and shaking, as you try to focus on the fighting the current from dragging you undertow rather than the way the soft silt and algae beneath your feet remind you of unwanted memories. Of a time when he forced you to stand for hours upon a bed of mutilated flesh and organs, the way the warm, squishy texture squeezed between your toes and ruptured. All for a painting — a vision. 

For a moment the memory overpowers your focus — you're right back in that room, the smell of iron heavy on your tongue and the warm, warm, warm blood soaking into your skin — and you stumble, almost slipping as you dry heave. Focus, focus, focus! The other side of the riverbed is in sight. Close, close, close! You just need to reach it and run, run, run. 

Before that creature's howls reach him. 

Before he has the time to paint something more stable. 

Just keep moving. Keep running. 

There's a shift, subtle but you notice the way the disgusting texture beneath your feet switches back to the firmer stability of pebbles as the other bank of the river nears and the waters drop from your waist back to your thighs in gradual increments. Almost! Almost!! The strength is quickly fading from your limbs, stolen by the cold waters, the current still clawing at your feet, and the long, long night behind you. You stumble as the water level drops down to your shins, palms scraping on the ground as the river kisses the front of your chest, soaking you even further down to your bones. 

Crawl. Crawl! Keep moving, keep running. Your fingers dig into the moist soil as you haul yourself up the riverbank, a scramble of trembling limbs pale from the biting chill. Coughs seize your lungs, making you nearly convulse as you try to catch your breath and claw your way towards a nearby tree. Spots dance in the corner of your vision, black and blurry, and your heart is a loud, pitiful thing shuddering in your chest. 

Keep moving. Keep running. 

The creature on the other side of the riverbank still howls as it prowls up and down the bank. It's so noisy, noisy, noisy. You need to go. Hurry. Hurry! 

Your fingers dig into the bark of the tree, snapping off fragile chips of the bark as you claw for purchase — an anchor, to pull yourself up. Too focused on trying to stand and the way your lungs seem to deflate — forcing each breath to be too short, too dry — you don't notice. Not over the steady roar of the river. Not over the pounding of your heart in your ears. 

It's not until a shadow blocks out the full moonlight that you notice — too late — you were too slow. 

Something sharp pierces your shoulders, puncturing straight through and pinning you to the tree. The scream that tears from your throat shatters all other sound in your head, the pain whiting out your vision. You do not notice the gust of wind as the large ink bird behind you beats its wings. All you know is the pain as it jerks its talons from the bark of the tree but leaves your still skewered as another scream, ragged and bloodied, is torn from your throat. Black tendrils shift on its leg, a new claw forming and solidifying as it curls under your arms as if to support your weight. 

Wind whips at the trees along the riverbank as it stretches its great wings wide and takes flight. Blood pools around the black talons and streams down your clothes. Yet you're thankful — bitterly so — that his creations can shift like that, the absence of your full body weight against the wound a blessing, however minor. 

But you watch in despair as the creature tilts it's great body to the side and turns back around to the direction you fled from. Below, on the riverbank, the hulking creature that had hunted you across the forest floor melts into a puddle of black ink, marring the soil like a bloodstain.

You close your eyes. 

Perhaps you should have lingered longer in that tree hollow. Perhaps you should have let the river's current carry you away. Perhaps you should have fled to the east instead of the west and taken your chances with the cliffs. 

But you didn't. You didn't, you didn't, you didn't. 

And now you're sent back to the start. 

Back into arms stained with blood and ink and acrylics. 

You do not open your eyes when the wind kicks up, and the piercing black talons lodged through your shoulders melt away as warm arms pull you into an embrace. Nor do you open them when he nuzzles against the crown of your head, your blood staining his hands and clothes alike. His voice is too soft, too gentle for the way his grip sinks into you like an iron brand — sizzling flesh, molting and mutilating. 

"There you are, my little Muse."