minors DNI| my little murder/nsfw corner| age in bio or youre getting blocked anything works, but you can use they/them if you want| 19 | absolute disaster | other blog is wayward-friend935 and cryptids-corner-art
idk its like 1:30 am but have some Oliver lore that i created in about an hour or 2
it'll be under the cut cause.... its a wall of text
(cw: blood, knives, general violence, murder, gore)
There's always been something off with Oliver. Whether it's the reactions to things around him, the sometimes vacant expression, the scars on his face from an accident, or the feeling that something lurked beneath the surface, there was something off. At least, if you spent a lot of time near him, which tended to happen at schools, whether it was wanted or not.
Elementary school kids can be ruthless, and Oliver was perfect. Oliver became their favorite subject of attention. Oliver didnât mind, in fact, at first, he almost reveled in the attention they gave him. He craved the attention he got, but hated how it was given. Soon the attention had lost its shine, and after that he resented it completely. Sometimes things would go too far, and it wasnât uncommon for him to get into fights, in which he was always at fault due to the other parents and teachers' judgement. Eventually he learned to take whatever they threw at him, eventually most got bored, though a few persisted.
He thought graduating high school would end his worries, but it didnât. It seemed he was bound to be followed by the same problems until the end. Day after day, it wore on him. No one seemed to stick around, no matter what there was always something he was doing wrong or too much. It wasnât long before he stopped trying, living in a little apartment alone, going out only for work and necessities. He was dogged by the same few people in this small town that seemed to get off on putting him down. It wasnât until he was sitting alone in his apartment, nursing wounds left by uncaring and cruel hands that he finally realized something. He had been deemed a monster, and no matter how much he tried to fight it, no matter where he went or what he did, that's all he would be. And you know what, if that's what the world thinks, then why change opinions. Why not live up to expectations. If this cruel world wanted to watch him fight alone like an animal caught for its entertainment, then so be it.
The first murder was the hardest. It was relatively clean for untrained hands and didnât take too long. But it kept him up late into the night and followed him like a bloodhound hot on his trail. Â He still remembers where they are buried, the weeks of people searching, the bullshit stories about how kind they were, how theyâd never hurt a fly. It made something deep inside Oliver churn, made it boil and fester. He sat with it for weeks, listening as story after story, of the fond memories, the person they knew, they're habits, the things they kept secret, the things they showed people, and especially how kind they were. Every story was the same, they talked as if the years of torment that was forced on him never existed. Something dark was sown in his chest, and grew rapidly over the span of a week. He studied his marks, created a mask, knew that he could only do so much before he was caught, but in the end it wouldnât matter, since he would be free from them for good.
Four down, two left. It had been almost three years since the first, and in that time he had bought a small house with a basement, and turned the basement into an almost dark playroom for him. It turned out to be a great stress reliever, and usually lasted a few months before needing a replacement. And the woods outside of his house made the perfect place to escape from the silence, whether that be walking a trail, or going on a hunt. He always made sure that he chose carefully, like shits that had put him through hell. Those four, however, that was a special case that involved careful planning and not just a quick murder in the woods like the rest. The shortest time he had one was nearly three months. The most recent two he caughtâŠwell they both lasted a year and a couple of months, kept at the same time, forced to feel the same helplessness that Oliver was forced to endure for years at their hands. He now understood why they did it, the power he held felt so natural, it felt right, to control them and hold their lives in his hands. The same reports still came in about how they were perfect angels, and it fed the thing that festered inside Oliver, reminding himself everyday that he was a monster.
And then it all came to an end. What had started as Oliver's carefully planned hunt turned into an ambush. Oliver managed to kill one of them, but had forgotten the other. He felt pain blossom deep in his ribs as a knife was plunged into him. It mustâve been the shock of it all that made them stay put, locked in Oliver's stare, as Oliver laughed uncontrollably, pulling the knife slowly out of his side. He had always loved the pain, whether it was his or someone else's, and the sheer power he could have on someone, watching them squirm and struggle under him. In a matter of moments, Oliver had sprung onto his attacker, tearing him apart. As his excitement died down, pain took its place, as blood poured from his side. He knew it was bad, but all he could do was stumble through the woods. Something drew him in deeper and deeper, until he came upon a clearing. Stumbling, he dropped to his knees in the center, looking at the cold moon that stared back at him, the last and only witness to his struggle and pain and triumph and all of the things he had done in those woods.
He closed his eyes drinking in the sound of the night around him, when they suddenly went quiet. He knew he wasnât alone, he could feel their eyes watching them, could feel them standing behind him. He couldnât move, the blood draining fast from his wound, leaving him barely conscious. Then a voice spoke to them, a whisper, smooth and sweet, and dangerous. It asked âWhat is it that you want most?â Oliver answered back, the only thing he could think of.
âI don't want to dieâ
âWhat would you give for this?â
He wasn't sure how to respond, but something almost told him what to say, and too tired to fight back, he said âAnything. My heart and soul. My body if needed. Just don't let me dieâ. The thing behind him chuckled, he felt it move to stand in front of him, blocking the moon's unfaltering gaze. He opened his eyes, but could only make out a silhouette towering above him. He could see inhuman eyes, glowing back at him like some animal in the night, looking him over like he was their dinner. He felt their hand plunge into his chest, pain wracked his body and etched itself in his face, but no scream left his open mouth. They chuckled again and cooed at them.
âIs this not what you wanted? Is this too heavy a price? âHeart and soul and body tooâ is what I remember you saying.â
They pulled their hand out, showing him his still beating heart as his vision faded. The last thing they heard was a faint heartbeat, a chuckle, and words as sweet as honey and covered in poison that said âDonât worry, you sweet precious thing, our deal will be keptâ. He realized all too late that he had picked the forbidden fruit from the tree, and what a waste to not eat it.
What he remembers
Oliver awoke in a clearing to the bright blinding light of the sun. He sat up looking around. He was caked in dry blood, as was the grass around him. Was this his blood? He couldnât remember. He looked at his hand, blackened clawed fingers which slowly turned to normal dull fingertips. He walked a somewhat familiar path, he didnât remember why it was familiar, but he knew it was, to a house. He knew it was his, knew how to get in and where everything was, but did not remember it at all. The only evidence he found of his âformer lifeâ was his phone, a few post it notes on the bathroom mirror, and a wallet. He knew he was a monster, that no one trusted monsters, at least that's what the post it notes said. He learned to take care of himself, learned to talk to others, what was accepted and what wasnât. No one remembered that he lived out there, but every once in a while, someone would tell a story of being saved from an attacker by a creature wearing a ram's skull. The details were always different, save for the ram's skull, and that a few days later, their attacker's face would be posted on missing person fliers.
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