calren & amilía » the night's lovely already
Story: RPG Storyverse (maybe potentially possibly future Canon I guess?)
Genre: no idea what this is supposed to be tbh
Rating: 18+ (tbf this specific of writing is more like 16+ but this entire relationship probably should just not be perceived by minors for their own safety)
Characters: Calren & fool_with_dream's Amilía
CN: Character being followed/watched without knowledge/consent (no bad intentions though, it's a guardian angel watching over someone); romanticization of a toxic/fucked up/violent person/relationship; (supernatural) blood/murder/gore; hints at torture, trauma, trauma bonding, self-destructive tendencies, supernatural resurrection; mentions of religion/deity/The Lord(TM)
Author's Note: Oh my god, did I really mention a part 2 being in the making, AND THEN ACTUALLY FINISHED AND POSTED IT??? (she's so insane for this) ((read part 1 here))
»That was you, wasn't it?« Amilía’s voice reverberates in the hollow darkness of the catacombs, and she doesn't turn around; not yet. She does, however, slowly raise one hand, pausing to lick some of the blood she's practically drenched in off her index finger. At first, she doesn’t get an answer from the seemingly empty space behind her, so she adds: »And not just this time, either.«
Calren shouldn’t have intervened, he’s well aware. Especially not this time, but not any of the other times, either. He was explicitly asked not to, he knows it's morally wrong, and she doesn’t even need his help anyway; the heap of indiscernible blood-red mass at her feet - the sheer extent to which a single flick of her wrist just destroyed what was once a human body - is proof enough of that. Amilía belongs to the shadows, she always has, and her darkness is both a strong enough shield and a sharp enough sword that she won’t ever need an angel of light to swoop in and save her.
»I don’t know what you’re talking about«, Calren says as the veil of invisibility lifts, revealing his most human-like shape. His hand is signing on instinct, even though he’s making her hear his voice in her head at the same time since she's still not looking at him. »Your attacker made a mistake, and you helped yourself. As you always do.«
Amilía scoffs. »You’re a lousy liar, Cal. Always have been.« Finally, she turns around, and at the sight of him, her lips part, letting out what could have been a gasp if she hadn’t long suspected something was going on. A soft breath of air escapes instead, almost a laugh, just enough of a semblance of amusement to leave a vague smile playing on her lips. »You've been watching over me, haven’t you?«
Calren freezes. He can’t admit to that, even if he wanted to, so he doesn’t reply, just blinks at her, trying to keep his face neutral.
It’s in your eyes, he remembers her saying. Back then, it was another new city, another attempt at starting over, another place where they would desperately try to settle down while being painfully aware it could never last. It was a different time, a terrible time of uncertainty and unrest, and yet he still remembers it fondly in a way. It barely even matters that you can't speak, you know. Your eyes tell the truth for you every single time.
»Why?«, she asks now, looking him up and down with narrowed eyes and slightly widened pupils, making her eyes appear pitch black.
He has asked himself that very same question countless times. Why won't he resist the gravity surrounding her that keeps pulling him in time and time again? Is it because he still misses her, needs an excuse to see her? Is it because, deep down, after all they've been through, he doesn’t trust anyone else to take care of her? Is it because, strangely, after being tortured by her for so long, he has developed a sickening taste for his own suffering, and sometimes tends to resort to torturing himself?
Whatever the answer is, it’s unbearably clear that Amilía is not in need of saving; he needs this, he’s not doing it for her, but for selfish reasons, and somehow, that makes it even worse.
»You know why«, he sighs.
»Do I?«, she retorts.
He’s sure she does, but does he even know himself?
»If anyone does, it’s you.« It's an admission he didn't intend to speak aloud, but it slips out before he can do anything about it. All the tension in his body, and he still can’t stop himself from spilling feelings and words that should have been under lock and key since an eternity ago.
»Hmm.« Amilía tilts her head, pretending to ponder. »I knew human you inside out, yes. Mentally. Physically. I know exactly why the fragile boy I once knew would throw himself in front of me to save my life any time of the day.«
She doesn't need to say it; they both know. The words hang so heavy in the sinister silence that they’re impossible to ignore.
Because I broke him. Because I messed him up so bad he’d happily give his life just to thank me for destroying him. Because I made him that way, and now he's mine, intrinsically and irrevocably mine, with every fiber of his delicate, desperate being.
»But what you are now?« She shakes her head. »Far outside my realm of expertise, I'm afraid. At best, I can take a guess.« She taps her bloody index finger against her lips, gaze wandering down. »Shouldn't your kind protect guys like him« - the dead guard on the floor - »from people like me, not the other way around?«
Calren's lips press together in a hard line. »Don't you know? The Lord moves in mysterious ways.« It's the blanket answer he's supposed to use when mortals ask him for explanations he's not permitted to give. Amilía is not a mere mortal looking for divine enlightenment, though, and Calren is definitely not supposed to use those words to protect himself from the vulnerability that would come with telling the truth about his own actions.
Amilía chuckles. »I'm sure he does. And I'm equally sure The Lord had nothing to do with this.« She takes a step towards Calren, then another, her dark eyes lingering on his features, drinking up all the little telltale signs he can’t hide. Seeing right through his lies, as always. Barely an arm's length away, she stops, and Calren realizes that he’s holding a breath his immortal body doesn’t even need to take; that he’s been doing so ever since she started inching closer and closer.
»You can project your voice now«, she remarks. »Your entire being feels so different.« She reaches for his collarbone, as if that were normal - as if he hadn't been craving that kind of touch for decades, dreaming of the day he might feel her skin on his again, knowing damn well that’s the last thing he should be wishing for, because with her, it's never just one gentle touch; it always comes with a silent implication, an unspoken threat, a wordless promise of something far more sinister. Her fingers graze his skin ever so slightly, tracing a pale scar showing just beneath the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, and he can't help but shiver, stare at her, his lips parting uselessly, devoid of words anyway.
A satisfied smirk tugs at her lips. »All angelic and holy, yet you still have my marks all over you.«
Calren swallows hard; it takes all of his willpower not to react. He wonders if the thunderstorm of emotions crashing over him is showing in his eyes, just like Amilía claimed so long ago. If she can see the melancholy-drenched memories flashing in his mind, sense the nervosity and tension rumbling like thunder, guess that he feels flustered and embarrassed, yet weirdly proud at the same time.
»I didn't think they’d let you bring souvenirs to heaven.« Her words are but a whisper, and she's very close all of a sudden, so close Calren can sense her breath, each syllable brushing over the exposed skin of his neck as she looks up at him inquisitively. »Or is The Lord just not merciful enough to release you into the afterlife without all those reminders of the torment you endured on earth?«
Calren sighs. »The wounds tied to the end of my human life are gone.« It's still strange to think about, let alone say. The end of his life. His death. It feels so surreal, but the memory still cuts viciously, like shards of freshly broken glass piercing through skin and flesh. He shakes off the thought of his last hours as a human - shrouded in darkness, reduced to a useless waste of life unable to express anything at all -, and shifts his focus back to Amilía instead. »The others … all the old scars? I asked to keep them«, he admits begrudgingly. At least he doesn't speak the full truth that keeps echoing in his head: I wouldn’t feel like myself without them.
Her eyes search for his, and even though her gaze is so intense he can barely stand it, he doesn’t look away; gets lost in those deep brown eyes all over again, wondering if she even remembers the scars she left him. If she could name them all without looking, like he can. What her fingertips would feel like tracing every single one-
»Good«, she says, finally, breaking the tension, interrupting his thoughts. »Would’ve been a shame if my work got erased, don’t you think?«
By God, he could swear there’s that certain hunger lurking in her eyes - if he didn’t know any better, he’d guess she was genuinely considering ripping his clothes off just to check if her marks are really still there, all of them, and then add some fresh ones for good measure. His thoughts run wild, way too wild, and in too many ways; so much that he almost forgets what the conversation was even about. He manages to put the pieces together in his blurry mind just in time to nod in reply to her question. Is he panicking? Is he blushing? His face feels uncomfortably hot, but he’s not sure if he can blush in this shape, and for the sake of his dignity and sanity, he sure hopes he can’t, isn’t, won’t, not ever, not in front of her.
»Does your body still scar like it used to?« Her fingertips leave traces of that poor guard's blood on his pale skin, trailing up his neck, caressing his cheek.
The intimacy her touch invokes hits him with all the tenderness of a devoted lover and all the brutality of a vengeful enemy; the familiarity - the affection - cuts so deep he kind of feels like he could faint any moment.
»I'm not sure«, he replies, truthfully, although he knows he shouldn’t. With her, it's always like that: He shouldn't. He doesn't even necessarily want to. But somehow, he still does.
And suddenly, she looks at him like that. Not just with seething hunger, like a predator waiting to strike. There's more to it. Almost like maybe, after all this time, he could become something worth breaking all over again. Like he might still be a prized possession, not just a walking, breathing reminder of a strange past long gone.
»We should change that«, she states simply, as if it were nothing, but he could swear there's the slightest tremor in her voice at the thought of what that would entail. »Not tonight. But soon.«
The space left between them is paper-thin, and so is the tense silence they fall into for an incredibly long moment before Calren manages to clear his throat.
»I should go.« His lips are trembling, the softest sigh passing through. »I can't be here when you … do whatever you came here to do.«
Amilía puts on an exaggerated pout. »You're avoiding the topic, and you're not sticking around for the show?«
Whatever it is … no one comes down here and wanders off that far into the catacombs for an innocent reason, that much he knows. No one slaughters a guard without hesitation, unless they're up to no good. And Calren can't know about that, let alone witness it. He can't.
»You know I can't do that.« He shakes his head and takes a step back, escaping the suffocating intimacy of being so unbearably close to her. For now. »Have a lovely night, Amilía.«
And with that, he vanishes into thin air; as if the space behind her, the space she turned around towards and talked to, the space she touched so tenderly, had been empty all along.
There it is - the gasp her body was half expecting to release without yet knowing what for. It was not his presence, nor his sudden absence.
He realizes it the same second she does: It was the way he said her name. He never did that before, never could. Without even noticing, he let it slip from his thoughts into her head, and now he can't take it back, like an impulsive confession of everything he never wanted to feel.
Amilía smiles into the darkness, and she might not see Calren anymore, but she knows he's still close, feels him still listening. »Unexpected bonus bloodshed and a visit from my guardian angel?«, she whispers, and despite everything, his heart still clenches at the sight of genuine joy lighting up her face. »The night's lovely already, Cal. You know it is.«
Genre: no idea what this is supposed to be tbh
Rating: 18+ (tbf this specific of writing is more like 16+ but this entire relationship probably should just not be perceived by minors for their own safety)
Characters: Calren & fool_with_dream's Amilía
CN: Character being followed/watched without knowledge/consent (no bad intentions though, it's a guardian angel watching over someone); romanticization of a toxic/fucked up/violent person/relationship; (supernatural) blood/murder/gore; hints at torture, trauma, trauma bonding, self-destructive tendencies, supernatural resurrection; mentions of religion/deity/The Lord(TM)
Author's Note: Oh my god, did I really mention a part 2 being in the making, AND THEN ACTUALLY FINISHED AND POSTED IT??? (she's so insane for this) ((read part 1 here))
»That was you, wasn't it?« Amilía’s voice reverberates in the hollow darkness of the catacombs, and she doesn't turn around; not yet. She does, however, slowly raise one hand, pausing to lick some of the blood she's practically drenched in off her index finger. At first, she doesn’t get an answer from the seemingly empty space behind her, so she adds: »And not just this time, either.«
Calren shouldn’t have intervened, he’s well aware. Especially not this time, but not any of the other times, either. He was explicitly asked not to, he knows it's morally wrong, and she doesn’t even need his help anyway; the heap of indiscernible blood-red mass at her feet - the sheer extent to which a single flick of her wrist just destroyed what was once a human body - is proof enough of that. Amilía belongs to the shadows, she always has, and her darkness is both a strong enough shield and a sharp enough sword that she won’t ever need an angel of light to swoop in and save her.
»I don’t know what you’re talking about«, Calren says as the veil of invisibility lifts, revealing his most human-like shape. His hand is signing on instinct, even though he’s making her hear his voice in her head at the same time since she's still not looking at him. »Your attacker made a mistake, and you helped yourself. As you always do.«
Amilía scoffs. »You’re a lousy liar, Cal. Always have been.« Finally, she turns around, and at the sight of him, her lips part, letting out what could have been a gasp if she hadn’t long suspected something was going on. A soft breath of air escapes instead, almost a laugh, just enough of a semblance of amusement to leave a vague smile playing on her lips. »You've been watching over me, haven’t you?«
Calren freezes. He can’t admit to that, even if he wanted to, so he doesn’t reply, just blinks at her, trying to keep his face neutral.
It’s in your eyes, he remembers her saying. Back then, it was another new city, another attempt at starting over, another place where they would desperately try to settle down while being painfully aware it could never last. It was a different time, a terrible time of uncertainty and unrest, and yet he still remembers it fondly in a way. It barely even matters that you can't speak, you know. Your eyes tell the truth for you every single time.
»Why?«, she asks now, looking him up and down with narrowed eyes and slightly widened pupils, making her eyes appear pitch black.
He has asked himself that very same question countless times. Why won't he resist the gravity surrounding her that keeps pulling him in time and time again? Is it because he still misses her, needs an excuse to see her? Is it because, deep down, after all they've been through, he doesn’t trust anyone else to take care of her? Is it because, strangely, after being tortured by her for so long, he has developed a sickening taste for his own suffering, and sometimes tends to resort to torturing himself?
Whatever the answer is, it’s unbearably clear that Amilía is not in need of saving; he needs this, he’s not doing it for her, but for selfish reasons, and somehow, that makes it even worse.
»You know why«, he sighs.
»Do I?«, she retorts.
He’s sure she does, but does he even know himself?
»If anyone does, it’s you.« It's an admission he didn't intend to speak aloud, but it slips out before he can do anything about it. All the tension in his body, and he still can’t stop himself from spilling feelings and words that should have been under lock and key since an eternity ago.
»Hmm.« Amilía tilts her head, pretending to ponder. »I knew human you inside out, yes. Mentally. Physically. I know exactly why the fragile boy I once knew would throw himself in front of me to save my life any time of the day.«
She doesn't need to say it; they both know. The words hang so heavy in the sinister silence that they’re impossible to ignore.
Because I broke him. Because I messed him up so bad he’d happily give his life just to thank me for destroying him. Because I made him that way, and now he's mine, intrinsically and irrevocably mine, with every fiber of his delicate, desperate being.
»But what you are now?« She shakes her head. »Far outside my realm of expertise, I'm afraid. At best, I can take a guess.« She taps her bloody index finger against her lips, gaze wandering down. »Shouldn't your kind protect guys like him« - the dead guard on the floor - »from people like me, not the other way around?«
Calren's lips press together in a hard line. »Don't you know? The Lord moves in mysterious ways.« It's the blanket answer he's supposed to use when mortals ask him for explanations he's not permitted to give. Amilía is not a mere mortal looking for divine enlightenment, though, and Calren is definitely not supposed to use those words to protect himself from the vulnerability that would come with telling the truth about his own actions.
Amilía chuckles. »I'm sure he does. And I'm equally sure The Lord had nothing to do with this.« She takes a step towards Calren, then another, her dark eyes lingering on his features, drinking up all the little telltale signs he can’t hide. Seeing right through his lies, as always. Barely an arm's length away, she stops, and Calren realizes that he’s holding a breath his immortal body doesn’t even need to take; that he’s been doing so ever since she started inching closer and closer.
»You can project your voice now«, she remarks. »Your entire being feels so different.« She reaches for his collarbone, as if that were normal - as if he hadn't been craving that kind of touch for decades, dreaming of the day he might feel her skin on his again, knowing damn well that’s the last thing he should be wishing for, because with her, it's never just one gentle touch; it always comes with a silent implication, an unspoken threat, a wordless promise of something far more sinister. Her fingers graze his skin ever so slightly, tracing a pale scar showing just beneath the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, and he can't help but shiver, stare at her, his lips parting uselessly, devoid of words anyway.
A satisfied smirk tugs at her lips. »All angelic and holy, yet you still have my marks all over you.«
Calren swallows hard; it takes all of his willpower not to react. He wonders if the thunderstorm of emotions crashing over him is showing in his eyes, just like Amilía claimed so long ago. If she can see the melancholy-drenched memories flashing in his mind, sense the nervosity and tension rumbling like thunder, guess that he feels flustered and embarrassed, yet weirdly proud at the same time.
»I didn't think they’d let you bring souvenirs to heaven.« Her words are but a whisper, and she's very close all of a sudden, so close Calren can sense her breath, each syllable brushing over the exposed skin of his neck as she looks up at him inquisitively. »Or is The Lord just not merciful enough to release you into the afterlife without all those reminders of the torment you endured on earth?«
Calren sighs. »The wounds tied to the end of my human life are gone.« It's still strange to think about, let alone say. The end of his life. His death. It feels so surreal, but the memory still cuts viciously, like shards of freshly broken glass piercing through skin and flesh. He shakes off the thought of his last hours as a human - shrouded in darkness, reduced to a useless waste of life unable to express anything at all -, and shifts his focus back to Amilía instead. »The others … all the old scars? I asked to keep them«, he admits begrudgingly. At least he doesn't speak the full truth that keeps echoing in his head: I wouldn’t feel like myself without them.
Her eyes search for his, and even though her gaze is so intense he can barely stand it, he doesn’t look away; gets lost in those deep brown eyes all over again, wondering if she even remembers the scars she left him. If she could name them all without looking, like he can. What her fingertips would feel like tracing every single one-
»Good«, she says, finally, breaking the tension, interrupting his thoughts. »Would’ve been a shame if my work got erased, don’t you think?«
By God, he could swear there’s that certain hunger lurking in her eyes - if he didn’t know any better, he’d guess she was genuinely considering ripping his clothes off just to check if her marks are really still there, all of them, and then add some fresh ones for good measure. His thoughts run wild, way too wild, and in too many ways; so much that he almost forgets what the conversation was even about. He manages to put the pieces together in his blurry mind just in time to nod in reply to her question. Is he panicking? Is he blushing? His face feels uncomfortably hot, but he’s not sure if he can blush in this shape, and for the sake of his dignity and sanity, he sure hopes he can’t, isn’t, won’t, not ever, not in front of her.
»Does your body still scar like it used to?« Her fingertips leave traces of that poor guard's blood on his pale skin, trailing up his neck, caressing his cheek.
The intimacy her touch invokes hits him with all the tenderness of a devoted lover and all the brutality of a vengeful enemy; the familiarity - the affection - cuts so deep he kind of feels like he could faint any moment.
»I'm not sure«, he replies, truthfully, although he knows he shouldn’t. With her, it's always like that: He shouldn't. He doesn't even necessarily want to. But somehow, he still does.
And suddenly, she looks at him like that. Not just with seething hunger, like a predator waiting to strike. There's more to it. Almost like maybe, after all this time, he could become something worth breaking all over again. Like he might still be a prized possession, not just a walking, breathing reminder of a strange past long gone.
»We should change that«, she states simply, as if it were nothing, but he could swear there's the slightest tremor in her voice at the thought of what that would entail. »Not tonight. But soon.«
The space left between them is paper-thin, and so is the tense silence they fall into for an incredibly long moment before Calren manages to clear his throat.
»I should go.« His lips are trembling, the softest sigh passing through. »I can't be here when you … do whatever you came here to do.«
Amilía puts on an exaggerated pout. »You're avoiding the topic, and you're not sticking around for the show?«
Whatever it is … no one comes down here and wanders off that far into the catacombs for an innocent reason, that much he knows. No one slaughters a guard without hesitation, unless they're up to no good. And Calren can't know about that, let alone witness it. He can't.
»You know I can't do that.« He shakes his head and takes a step back, escaping the suffocating intimacy of being so unbearably close to her. For now. »Have a lovely night, Amilía.«
And with that, he vanishes into thin air; as if the space behind her, the space she turned around towards and talked to, the space she touched so tenderly, had been empty all along.
There it is - the gasp her body was half expecting to release without yet knowing what for. It was not his presence, nor his sudden absence.
He realizes it the same second she does: It was the way he said her name. He never did that before, never could. Without even noticing, he let it slip from his thoughts into her head, and now he can't take it back, like an impulsive confession of everything he never wanted to feel.
Amilía smiles into the darkness, and she might not see Calren anymore, but she knows he's still close, feels him still listening. »Unexpected bonus bloodshed and a visit from my guardian angel?«, she whispers, and despite everything, his heart still clenches at the sight of genuine joy lighting up her face. »The night's lovely already, Cal. You know it is.«