• imagines, fanfiction, one-shots and drabbles reuploaded from my tumblr and ao3 @p1nkcanoe
!! CONTAINS MOSTLY SMUT AND OTHER NSFW, TREAD CAREFULLY
right now I'm writing for:
• ghost characters and personas
• ghouls
• papas
• reader inserts
!! I d...
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dewdrop x aether angst
Dew can't sleep. His head won't let him rest. The clock on the bedside table blinks red: 00:00. Casts eerie shadows into the textured ceiling of the hotel room. He's suffocated by time.
It's been days, turned weeks, turned months since he's been able to sleep, even rest his eyes for more than a half hour, and now it's become a nightly habit to stare into the dark and try to make sense of the patterns in various hotel rooms. Sometimes it's the texture of the carpet, the symmetry of the bathroom tiles, the print of the wallpaper... he stares until he's memorized every centimeter and each imperfection. Tonight it's the ceiling, stippled with plaster in irregular swoops and swirls. He tries to find clouds, petals of flowers, maybe even a strange resemblance of an animal, but no matter how hard he reaches he always sees him.
Everything reminds him of him. He sees him in everything. Feels his phantom touch when he walks through the fog of the bathroom, when he fixes his belt in the morning... He's always there, yet never at all. A million miles under the ground. Unreachable.
They'd arrived late in the same town where they'd all celebrated only a year ago. The same hotel, the same halls, the same copied rooms placed side by side with nothing to distinguish them but a number. The same people, just two gone and two to replace them. A hole in the band patched by another body, but a wound in Dew's soul that refuses to heal over like it has for the rest of them. It burns, hurts more than anything he's ever felt before, and he hopes he never recovers. He wants to bleed forever. Spill, and bleed, and leave a trail so that everyone is reminded of what they took from him. Who they took from him. He can't just move on like the rest of them. He's already lost him once, losing the memory of him would surely kill him.
There's a ballroom on the ground floor. A grand room with tall windows and chandeliers adorned with a thousand crystals each. A year ago they'd gathered there together as a pack with their papa, adorned in expensive suits and finery. They'd danced in the hall, drank together until they were bubbly and loose, and at the end of the night he'd retreated back to his room with him, and he'd asked him to be his mate.
Tonight the rest of his pack had done the same. They'd dressed up in their best regalia and danced together in the ballroom. Dew didn't go. He couldn't make himself pull the suit from the hanger on the back of the door. He couldn't push himself from the suffocating grip of the sheets. Even when they'd knocked and knocked and knocked on his door and asked him if he was coming he ignored them. Eventually they stopped asking altogether and he listened as they all left in a cluster to celebrate. The hall had been quiet for many hours until they slowly started filing back into their rooms, drunk and high on the night.
The halls were quiet again now. They had been for a long while. The clock blinks red. The numbers are persistent: 00:00. They scream at him even when he puts his hands over his ears and squeezes tight until his head hurts. Dew's lost all track of time. He aches with grief.
