Prologue: Intrusion and Illusion

Warnings: (M) Suicidal Themes, Talks of Suicide, Gore, Suggestive Content, Mentions of Abuse, etc.

Rating: (T-M) Not for Kids.

Pairings: Original Female Character (Aurelia)/Kakashi Hatake, Etc.

Summary: Aurelia wasn't expecting some company on her last day planned alive. Or, 21-year-old ANBU Kakashi Hatake fucks up a mission, triggers some Jutsu that hurls him into another dimension, and somehow becomes her therapist lover. - [Dimensional Travel]. (Character falls into our world trope.) OC-insert.

A/N: What the fuck is this? I should be updating my other stories, not whatever this is. In any case... I hope you guys enjoy whatever this is. I have nothing to say except Happy Halloween. Oh, and that this was half-assed. I did this in the span of thirty minutes.

Also sorry if it's super vague guys and past tense. It's um. Well you know. Anyway!

Edit: My dumbass sister deleted the story after someone commented that Reader-inserts aren't allowed, and I couldn't get a chance to PM them a thank you. So, my friend, if you happen to come across this story again, please be aware I'm thankful for your comment. If you guys want to read the reader-insert version of this story, it's posted on my Ao3. I go by the same name.


[. . .]


"Damn. He's sort of hot." - Aurelia when she's delusional.


[. . .]


Prologue

Intrusion and Illusion


[. . .]


Aurelia was in the middle of writing when she heard a harsh crackle that arrested her in place immediately. She didn't understand why she stopped since noises like those are usual, but she did. Feelings of both affliction and need burst inside her, almost like a string that compelled, pulled, and dragged her away from her near end. Like a sixth sense, almost.

Almost.

Because the emotion is inhumane, warped, and odd. It's not normal. It made her feel—something she's truthfully been lacking for the past two years—and it begged her to move, and she heeded because she had nothing else to do.

She had nothing. Just this abrupt inclination to see just what it was that made her react.

When she walked onto her front porch late one winter night, she hadn't expected to find someone. Let alone someone who looked terrifyingly dead, in all honesty.

She first expected to see the light winter creases of snow slowly covering her outdoor furniture and wooden floors. Perhaps rain, because the weather was so bipolar it mocked her existence sometimes she swore, but not this. Not this.

Instead, she found someone dead. Or dying, because after staring for a few seconds in gathering shock that she really shouldn't feel, she scrambled forward and checked their pulse for any sign of life—thankfully (and oddly) discovering a very steady rhythm. Instincts from years of taking care of shitty, careless siblings kicked into overdrive for likely the first time in years, and her phone—never prone to leave without it—was the first thing she turned on and quickly input the emergency number.

Except, when she had pressed to call and stood up to gather supplies, something knocked the phone off her hands and shattered it against the wall. A sharp sting marked her thumb but she hardly noticed.

It took a second for her slow mind to register that yes, her phone suddenly flew from her hand and that yes, the culprit behind it all was the supposedly unconscious gentleman that looked like a government spy with a love for hypothermia. Who was now awake, staring almost through her with a lone, glowing red eye that, she was quite sure, was very real.

His gaze, so deepened into her pupils that somehow coarsed her to freeze, was unnervingly different.

If she was any less dead inside she would've screamed. Hell, if she was a normal person with a stable mind and heart, she would've probably passed out. As a normal person. But she didn't.

Instead, to her credit, she inhaled sharply and felt her heart stutter into a terrifying split, that, again, wasn't something she should be feeling. Feeling things wasn't normal for her. She's been lifeless long enough to know that.

She remembered putting her hands up, hoping her gesture would placate this... was this a killer? A hitman? Some form of... fucked up government experiment made to look human? A damn weirdo? With the way he looked at her, dazed and hostile, she was beginning to think it might've been some mentally ill patient escaping through a cosplay crowd.

Because this guy looked really fucking close to something she remembered from years ago—well it hardly mattered now with comparisons. Here he was, barely conscious, trying to fight her. She didn't know what this guy was.

She hadn't known then.

Right after his little stunt that cost her a few hundred dollars, he passed out, leaving her to question whether or not she had the motivation to help this poor bastard. Was she willing to play the hero and risk herself against wherever it came from, or to leave it outside for any association to take and leave her be? Was helping this man a good thing for her to do?

A complete stranger, who she had no idea how he came to her cabin farther out from the city—a potential threat? Was it stupid, maybe? Or was it right?

One answer was easier than the other.

Another answer was also morally correct.

Numb, and not just from the cold, she decided. With a sharpened edge of something, she felt the urge to protect just whoever this was. Animal or not—experiment or not, perhaps there was a reason this thing decided to pass out on her porch.

Because it made her feel. It made her feel something and it was manipulating her mind through too many variables to make sense. It was just an urge she received. An itch that she wanted to scratch. This behavior of hers, after being alone and striving for lonesomeness...

This... Was not the standard.

And yet.

She remembered her arm's skin being torn apart when she reached under him and felt him nonetheless react—seriously, what the fuck was he on?—with his hand attempting to dig into her flesh with some little metal star that she questioned just where he pulled it out from. His methods were sluggish, poured upon by cement. Lethargic enough not to dig deep, but just enough of a warning for her to discern that this man was dangerous.

The wound stung and burned. But she hardly felt it, to be honest.

It hurt. A lot, far too much, but.

It was just sort of there now. And her? The crazy, desperate person she was—still helped him. Still took him in.

And he had stopped struggling when she bled, allowing her to carry him through her home and onto her unforgiving couch. She wasn't going to ask herself just why he weighed so damn much. A man's business was his business. Though that was just a nice thing to remind herself that she... didn't even care.

Right now, while she numbly ran into her basement, she had things to do. This whole thing might've been a dream. Hell, a nightmare, even, but...

If it was, this was probably better than what she was about to do before he so abruptly interrupted her last moments.

Blood leaked from her wound and her clothes kept making it feel like a lemon over a paper cut thrice painful. And yet she still moved to gather a blanket, some bandages, a small water jug, and a few rags for her ungrateful guest.

The unforgiving rope that taunted her from the corner of her eye as she made her way back up was dutifully ignored.

For once, she had something to do other than live.

For once something happened in her life.

She wondered, still, in the darkest corners of her mind, what was this?

What was this, indeed?


[. . .]


A/N: This is so bad. But I just. Dunno. Put it up. I might go back and fix it tbh. Eh. We'll see where the fuck this goes. I wrote this while I was having some writer's block for my jujutsu/naruto crossover shit.

Toodles~

Ana.