#Eroded Buttes

[thorsenmark]

Hoodoos and a View Beyond at Rainbow Point (Bryce Canyon National Park) by Mark Stevens Via Flickr: A setting looking to the north while taking in views across hoodoos and other eroded formations at Rainbow Point in Bryce Canyon National Park. My thought on composing this image was to take advantage of the color contrast between the nearby hoodoos with its reds and oranges along the escarpment edge with that of the greens of the evergreen trees in the lower valley and canyon area. I decided to angle my Nikon SLR camera slightly downward as I felt it better brought out that view to allow the eyes to slowly move across this national park landscape and be drawn into the image.

[witchlaser]

tumblr asking you to add tags to posts is like reddit asking you to add interests on the landing page when you log in I don't know why half of these euphemisms for "butt I wanna touch" even exist, so I'm just adding shit at random, or leaving it largely empty, based on how bored I am or ain't from day to day

[after-witch]

Death by Stereo [Yandere Chrollo x Reader] [Vampire AU]

Title: Death by Stereo [Yandere Vampire Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: You’re just a nobody living in a small town when a mysterious stranger with a leather jacket, good looks and a penchant for kissing your hand rolls in, just in time for the ever-popular summer carnival. Things are going great, until dead bodies start piling up. 

Word count: 17,510

Notes: yandere, vampire AU, descriptions of dead bodies, some violence, gore, abuse

Thursday

Is there anything more wearisome than a small town? Small towns grind you down so slowly that you don’t realize your feet have been eroded into useless nubs before it’s too late, and you have nowhere to run, even if you had the inkling to get away.��

A small town has its charms, as they say--but it has its burdens, too. You know all the faces, but all the faces know you; some of them have even known you since you were just an ultrasound picture carried dutifully in your mother’s purse, pulled out at coffee shops and book clubs. 

They know when you got your first period (age 13, in the middle of gym class--you were wearing white shorts); when your first boyfriend dumped you (at the school dance, right before he made out with the third most popular girl in school); what colleges you applied to, and later--why you dropped out (your dad got sick) and how he was doing (not so great but getting better) and where you worked, how you liked your coffee, and all these impersonal and personal details that made up the monotony of your life. 

It was a trap, this small town life. A faux bubble of intimacy that your parents embraced, but you’d never fully believed. Because despite knowing so much about you, no one here really knew you. They could tell you that you looked just like your mom at her age; they could sling down a mug with your coffee order without you opening your mouth (black, 1 sugar, 1 cream, no milk)--but they didn’t want to hear about how much you wanted to travel; how much you wanted to see.

Did it matter? You weren’t getting out anytime soon, anyway.

Like all small towns, yours had a claim to fame. While others might boast being the hometown of some B-list celebrity or the site of an all-you-get-eat seafood festival, your particular small town had one edge over the others: a summer carnival right on the beach, designed to appeal to nearby tourists who came to much larger, resort-friendly beaches for the summer season. 

The tourists loved to flock here on that singular summer weekend, pretending they were enjoying a quaint local carnival where they got drunk on cheap beer and sampled funnel cake until they puked. And if the locals hustled them as much as possible, overcharging for drinks and parking and sightseeing maps, was that so bad? Small towns needed to leech off new blood once in a while, after all.

The carnival was four days long--Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Sunday was, of course, the grand finale. There was a massive fireworks show on the beach, a huge concert with local and sometimes vaguely familiar bands. A lot more booze traded hands on Saturdays, and the beach was lit up with more than just fireworks; the local volunteers always spent the next week picking up cigarette butts and discarded joints in the sand.

The carnival can be fun. Although like anything that happens every single year in a small town you’ve lived in your entire life (save the one year of college you managed before your dad’s test results came back) it gets wearisome.

Still--you go. What else is there to do? Besides, you’d be stupid to deny that it’s more fun to spend your summer weekend wandering the carnival, riding a few rides, speaking to people, than to sit at home or pick up an extra shift at the diner. 

That’s why you’ve wandered into the carnival today--Thursday. Thursday is your favorite day of the carnival, because it’s the most quiet, relatively speaking. There are tourists here, sure, but they’re not rowdy yet. Not as overcrowded. There aren’t gaggles of kids running around with lobster-red faces and arms because they’re parents didn’t understand the necessity of sunscreen; there aren’t groups of women traveling in packs with matching sunglasses and hats, enjoying a summer break away from their rich and distant husbands.

It’s mostly locals on Thursday. People like you, bored coffee shop workers with nothing better to do on a Thursday evening.

Or people like Jake Jenson over there, currently aiming a colorful dart at a row of balloons in one of many carnival games that would hustle drunk tourists out of their money this weekend.

Jake was the town drunk--a title he gave himself, and others were only too happy to oblige him. He stuck to himself most of the time. During the carnival, he won as many carnival prizes as possible, and traded them to tourists with shitty aim for beers or cigarettes. 

And over there--the early birds. They’ve come three years in a row, you think from somewhere in New  York. They’re attached at the hip, constantly rubbing their noses together like some twee movie couple, and you’ve heard them complain that the boardwalks in their part of the country are a lot more “authentic.’ 

Sure, there’s the familiar faces, but unfamiliar ones, too. An older gentleman and his wife, who walks next to him more slowly, with a cane. He’s balancing a plastic plate with a fresh funnel cake in his hand. They’ll find a bench to sit down and enjoy it, maybe people watch, like you.

It’s time for one of your favorite games: making up stories for the various tourists you probably won’t ever see again. This couple--this is the last trip they’ll take together, because the wife got an awful diagnosis, and they’re spending what would have been the rest of their retirement savings on the dream vacation she always wanted to take. They met during the war, decades ago… he was a soldier and she was a nurse, and he hurt his leg, maybe, and wound up in a field hospital.

It would have been terribly romantic. 

Your eyes shift away from the couple and onto a few other new faces. 

Maybe that’s why you liked the carnival. It was nice to look at new people and imagine where they came from, what they did. The kind of life they had, which was surely more interesting and worldly than yours.

With people watching in mind,  you abandon your bench in front of the games and head deeper into the carnival, weaving yourself in between snack and ticket booths, stepping over large black cables that kept the rides running. 

Dusk had already settled in, and the warm glow of the summer had been replaced with a deepening sense of evening. The carnival lights had already begun to play against the darkening sky, creating that magical atmosphere that couldn’t be replicated during the day.

You don’t notice the stranger at first. It’s dark, the lights are a bit dizzying, and there are plenty of people simply wandering around and taking in the sights. What’s one more stranger, when over the course of the next few hours and days, the summer will be increasingly filled with them?

But this particular stranger shows up in the corner of your vision and immediately strikes you as… odd. He’s just standing there.

Watching you. Staring--right at you. What the fuck?

He’s wearing all black, and there’s some sort of scarf or cowl over his face. His eyes look impassive but there’s something awful in them, even in the brief glances you get from catching him from the corner of your gaze.

What a creep. 

It sours the mood, and you decide to leave, or at least take a break and shake off whatever out-of-towner decided to pull off his best edgy horror movie impression to creep you out. It wouldn’t be the first time a tourist behaved like a jerk, or a weirdo, especially if they’d be drinking. 

Something about nighttime at the carnival made people go wild. 

So you head away from it all, from the couples trying to win stuffed animals, from the giggling shrieks of people on rides that spun them upside down until they wanted to puke. And maybe you should just head right home, but it’s not fair to waste a night of good weather.

Cool, but not too cool. Pleasant. The moon is out and the stars twinkle overhead.

Heading out on the dock might be nice. Tourists don’t bother with it, at least not on Thursday, when the beach isn’t lit-up and there’s no particular reason to head out this way. 

But you’d been to this beach in the evening before; you weren’t scared of the dark. By contrast, you liked the way the beach sounded at night. The water moving in and out, slow and sure. The occasional sound of wildlife splashing in the water. And the din of the carnival behind you, all rainbow lights and indiscernible human happiness.

Your joy is cut off by the sound of footsteps. Your heart leaps in your chest and your hands slam into your pocket instinctively, fumbling for your keys. Fuck, how were you supposed to use these in self-defense again? Put them between your fingers?

Your heart hammers and you slowly turn around, squinting as you make out a figure approaching you in the dark.

“I’m sorry,” a voice calls out, penitent. “Did I scare you? I’m trying to get reception.” The man wiggles a small silver object in the air, raising it above his head. A small LED screen lights up and your heart rate begins to calm, slowly but surely.

After a few beats, he sighs, and shoves the phone in his pocket. 

He turns, apparently to leave, but then looks back at you. “Are you all right? I really didn’t mean to startle you.”

You swallow, lick your lips. Feel stupid for the keys in your fingers. He seems nice enough. A typical tourist. “Um, yeah.” You laugh, an empty sound. “I guess I’m just a little jumpy tonight.”

The moonlight doesn’t give you a clear view of the man’s features, but you can see him tilt his head a little. “Jumpy?”

The keys in your pocket rattle when you let them go, and pull your hands out to point back towards the carnival. The man follows your finger with an almost studious interest.

“Someone was following me, maybe? Or he just seemed a bit creepy.” You laugh again, a habit ingrained after years of dealing with men in odd situations--defuse, tread lightly, always. “He was staring at me, but I couldn’t see his face. He had a scarf over it, I think.”

The man in front of you hums in acknowledgement after a moment. He almost seems a little amused, which is both irritating and relieving in its own way. You were just being silly, jumpy, overreacting, weren’t you? Maybe the guy wasn’t even looking at you in the first place.

“Can I walk you back to the carnival? It doesn’t feel right to leave you here alone.” 

Ah, no, you think. Sure, the man in front of you might just be a tourist in search of reception, but that doesn’t mean you’re stupid. This is how people get murdered. Or attacked. Or like, hoisted into white vans and never seen again.

“No, that’s okay. I was going to stay out here longer and look at the stars. I’m going home soon, anyway.” Not a complete lie, since you did really want to go home. Something like this is usually enough for most people to take the hint, right? 

The man doesn’t turn around. Instead, you see the shape of his smile, lit only by the moon in the sky above.

“You want me to walk you back to the carnival,” he says simply, and offers his arm out, like some kind of old-fashioned gentleman. 

Oh. Of course you do. What were you thinking, staying out here on the dock at night? Mosquitoes would eat you up, anyway. 

You smile in return and take his offered arm, stepping lightly as you make your way back to the carnival with a complete stranger.

Only by the time you make it back to the threshold of the carnival, which seems to be eaten up by the darkness surrounding all of the twinkling lights, he’s not really a stranger, is he? 

And as you get closer to the carnival, the natural darkness of the beach gives way to an abundance of artificial lights that allow you to see him better. He’s cute--no doubting that, with dark hair that frames his face, and a bandage around his forehead. Maybe an accident, or an unfortunate birthmark. 

Even if you weren’t familiar with most of the town’s residents in one way or another,  you’d know he was an outsider from the way he’s dressed. A slim motorcycle jacket and dark jeans… not the type of guy that hangs around here for long.

As you stop at the border of the carnival, he asks where you live, and you tell him--”around.” He admits that he’s only in town for the carnival week. 

“I figured,” you say lightly enough.

He raises his eyebrows. “Is it that easy to tell?”

You put your hands into your pockets and look around you. 

“I mean, it’s a small town, right? Everyone knows everyone, after a while. A new face stands out pretty easily.”

His smile is charming. Practiced, but charming. Or maybe being practiced is how it’s so charming in the first place.  “That makes sense.” He considers you for a moment. “You like to watch the tourists, then?”

You shrug and gesture with your chin towards a mom with a toddler clinging to her hand, pulling her along towards one of the games with enormous stuffed animals.

“I like people watching, I guess. Sometimes,” and as you’re saying it, you don’t know why you’re telling him this so openly. “Sometimes I like to make up stories about people I see. Like, where they’re from or what they do or a backstory like they’re from a movie or whatever.” 

Your cheeks feel suddenly, stupidly hot. Christ, you meet a handsome stranger on the beach and your first major conversation involves you admitting you make up stories about people? You’ve got to get out of this town more.

But he doesn’t seem like he’s judging you. If anything, he looks interested. 

“And what would you imagine for me?”

The question is unexpected. 

“I think…” You try to force your mind to wander like it does when you people watch organically. What would you imagine, if you came across him walking around the carnival in the evening? He’d be on his own, surely, maybe his hands in his pockets. Quiet. A soft smile on his face, maybe? 

“I think you’re some sort of… librarian. Or a curator. A collector?” You shake your head, unsure of exactly where you want to go with this one. “The point is, you’re traveling around the country, looking for things to add to a museum or library or something like that. And you came across an ad for a summer carnival and thought you’d take in some local culture.” You gesture towards the carnival--the lights, the crowd of people, the humanity on display. “But walking around here makes you feel lonely. So you walk down to the beach in the hopes of distracting yourself. Only,” you add, with a cheeky grin. “To come across the most amazing small town waitress in 100 miles standing on the dock like a weirdo.” 

He doesn’t smile at your story. Not exactly. Instead--and you look away when you notice, feeling too rude for staring--his eyes widen just a smidge and he purses his lips in a thoughtful way. 

“My name is Chrollo,” he says. “May I have yours?”

Chrollo is kind of old-fashioned, you decide. Perhaps you were more spot-on than you realized with your story. 

Maybe you shouldn’t give your name. But there’s a giddy feeling inside your chest. Something akin to what you used to feel when you were a teen and you snuck out in the middle of the night for bonfire drinking parties.

I mean… a handsome stranger in a motorcycle jacket who escorted you back from the beach wants your name? You’d be stupid to say no. 

So you give it. 

At that, he finally smiles again.

“Well, then,” he says softly, saying your name in such a way that makes you hope he’ll say it again in the future, “I hope I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

--

“Help! Someone help me! For God’s sake!”

Jake Jensen cried out these words as loudly as he could--as clearly as he could, with booze slurring his words and making his mouth all mumbly. But he wasn’t loud enough. No one heard him. Not over the music and delighted screams of the carnival.

He had been chased away from the beach, past the dock, into a little storage shed used for kayaks rented to tourists during the summer. His worn out body protested with every movement, his lungs hacking from years of cigarettes. 

His attackers, who blocked the door frame, said nothing. They only looked at one another, silent words passed between them, and the taller of the two grinned in the darkness. 

Jake Jensen died screaming.

--

Friday

You tell yourself that you’re only sitting here on this bench, munching on fresh hot popcorn, because you had a hankering for carnival food. Definitely didn’t come here in the hopes of seeing a certain someone. You tell yourself this even as your eyes dart here and there, looking for any sign of the not-quite-a-stranger from last night. 

The sun has just set, and it’s a bit hard making out faces in the glow of the early evening. There are a lot more people here tonight, a new wave of tourists drowning out the familiar faces. Not that the locals shy away from the carnival--you spot your former best friend from high school, your old math teacher, one of the regulars at the diner… Jake Jensen isn’t in his usual spot at the games, but maybe he’s sleeping off a hangover. He never misses a summer carnival.

“Hello again.”

Oh--you choke on your current handful of popcorn just as Chrollo appears suddenly in your line of sight, hands in the pockets of his motorcycle jacket, a casual smile on his face.

“Hey,” you say, coolly, like you didn’t just nearly spit chewed popcorn kernels in his face when he approached. The silence between you doesn’t last long, but you fill it anyway. “You um, want some popcorn?”

But when you hold out the now half-filled container, Chrollo only looks at it curiously. Like he’s never seen popcorn before or something? But then he takes a small handful and pops it in his mouth. Chews--but he might as well be chewing broccoli, for all he seems to enjoy it. Oddly, he watches you while he chews, seemingly studying your face. Did you have popcorn in your teeth?

Better to fill the silence again.

“Well, what do you think?” You ask, grinning, popping another handful in your mouth. “It’s my favorite because it’s fresh, and that booth actually uses real butter. Not the fake oil stuff.”

Chrollo hums in agreement. “I see. I thought that tasted like real butter. Thank you for sharing.” 

You decide on the spot that you’re going to make the most of this evening, popcorn-in-teeth or no. So you shrug and give your best smile. “No biggie. Buuut… you will owe me.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh? And what will I owe you?”

It’s your turn to hum as you look out towards the carnival, scanning past the numerous faces, the booths, children running with balloons and sticks of cotton candy. “A ride on the Ferris wheel once it’s properly dark would be nice.”

A snort, though his nose. “I think I can manage that.”

He offers his arm again, and you take it, not minding how old fashioned it was. Somehow, despite his jacket, his sleek hair, the hint of motorcycle oil mixed with cologne, old-fashioned seemed to suit him.

Lots of things seemed to suit him, actually. You learn this as the evening wears on. He’s great at carnival games, choosing only a select few that he claims to be an expert in. He wins you a few stuffed animals that you pass on to little kids, save a smaller teddy bear that you can shoved inside your purse. 

You learn other things, too. Like, he’s a great listener. He lets you talk--about yourself, about the town--and doesn’t interrupt or tell you that you talk too much or make it clear he’s not listening to a thing you say. He even asks you questions, which shows he’s actually listening, and not just thinking about other things and waiting to ask you to go somewhere “private” like some other guys.

It’s nice, surprisingly nice, to find someone from out of town who’s so thoughtful.

The line for the Ferris wheel is always long once the sun goes down, and you’re one of the last rides of the night. 

When the carnival worker locks the bar down over your waists, you kick your legs and wait for the strange rush of adrenaline and pleasure that comes with the Ferris wheel. It’s a beautiful sight--all colored lights contrasted against the night sky, whisking you high into the air and giving you a view of the entire carnival and the ocean beyond.

But your body always reacts to the imagined danger of being carried so far away from the safety of the ground, and when the Ferris wheel reaches the top and begins to circle over for the first time, your stomach lurches and you gasp.

“Are you scared?” Chrollo’s voice is low--you could swear he’s teasing, but there’s something else in there, too. 

“Yeah,” you say, breath catching as you're brought back closer to the ground, only to be whisked away again. “Of course. What if something goes wrong, and I fall off and break my neck?”

Chrollo tilts his head. “You’d be dead.” 

You can’t help but grin. He’s so to-the-point sometimes. It’s charming in its own way, although you can’t exactly describe what “its own way” means with Chrollo. It’s like he stepped out of some old fashioned film but also came out of a cooler city. A biker who carries around an embroidered handkerchief, or something like that.

“And I don’t want to die, hence--the stomach flipping.” 

Chrollo looks ahead, then, taking in the view as the Ferris wheel carries you over again. “No? How long do you want to live, then?”

The snort is involuntary. A philosophical question on the Ferris wheel--not exactly what you expected from tonight. But maybe it’s not so bad. He’s good company. And Chrollo looks earnest in his question, too, which makes you feel guilty for snorting in the first place. 

Maybe it’s the lights of the Ferris wheel that dazzle you; maybe it’s the way being on the Ferris wheel at night makes you feel like you’re in some wonderful haze of a dream. 

Whatever it is, you fling your hand into the air, towards the carnival, towards the stars.

“Long enough to achieve my dreams,” you breathe out, earnest, almost sing-song. “Whatever they might be. I haven’t figured them out yet.”

Chrollo turns his head to look at you. His eyes almost seem magnetic against the night sky, with the lights of the carnival playing in them. 

Then, as the Ferris wheel brings the two of you down towards the ground, you see him. The man from yesterday, with the cowl over his face. He’s looking right at you, and it’s no mistake or figment of your imagination.

Your head swivels to the side and you grip the bar of the Ferris wheel until your knuckles hurt. You jerk one hand out and point to the stranger on the ground with a trembling finger. 

“There--look! Look!” 

Chrollo takes a moment to respond, and follows the sight line of your finger.

But now--there’s no one there.

“What do you see?” He asks, clearly unknowing that the object of your terror has vanished into thin air.

“The man… the man from yesterday. He was right there. I swear.” Your chest hurts; fear hurts. 

Unbidden, Chrollo pulls you close to him, and you let him hold you tight.

“You’re all right. I’m here.” 

He holds your chin in his fingers. “You’re safe, do you understand?”

The fear in your chest seems fuzzy now, like it had almost never been there in the first place. How silly of you to be scared, when Chrollo was right here. It doesn’t even seem strange that he’s touching you so intimately, does it? So you nod--yes, yes, you understand. 

Chrollo smiles. 

“Let me kiss you,” he says simply.

And you will. Of course you will. What else would you want to do? 

But as you lean forward, eyes already closing, he pulls himself away.

“Wait.” You blink, head clearing, and he continues, words slow, careful. “Would you like to kiss me?”

Now, you think about it. Maybe it was too hasty. But the lights of the carnival are beautiful and Chrollo is beautiful, and he’s been so thoughtful all day, and now he’s here, holding you, promising to keep you safe from carnival creeps.

A summer carnival is the time for a flirty romance, after all. 

“Yes,” you answer, simply. “I would.”

Chrollo’s finger strokes your chin as you lean in and share your first kiss on the Ferris wheel, glittering lights and carnival music dancing in your mind. 

--

The wife died first. Too quickly, but perhaps it was all the alcohol in her system; $1 margaritas at a local watering hole on a Friday night did nothing to make her more agile when being chased by predators while running in black city heels that had no place in a small town carnival.

Well, to the dying woman’s credit: it was the heels and alcohol and the sliced tendons in her ankle. Taut wires cut through her flesh like butter and she was down for the count, crawling, sobbing, begging for her husband, for God, for anyone to help her.

No one did.

Those pitiful cries, too, were cut down by a wire pressed into her throat; silencing her vocal chords, yes, but spilling blood over her neck that was as pretty as a sight as anything to those watching her choke and scrabble her hands against the ground, eyes wide, gaping, wondering--how is this happening to me? 

The margaritas may have hindered her before her unfortunate ankle accident. But they did make her blood taste sweet and tangy. Metallic, rich, with a twist of lime. All that was missing was a miniature umbrella.

This joke was said aloud, once everyone had a taste of her. A few laughed, blood on their teeth. 

Her husband didn’t seem to find it funny, but perhaps he was more preoccupied with his own current slow death. An arc of his blood spurted into the air--”Don’t fucking waste it, Uvo”--before a greedy mouth latched onto the wound, beginning to suck him dry.

The husband, like the wife, would be shared.

Soon, though, there would be no need for sharing.

There would be enough for everyone to have their fill--and beyond that.

There would be enough to gorge.

--

Saturday:

Three people are dead. 

You didn’t know them know them, but the shock is still there, making your hands tremble a little as you pour morning coffees and deliver plates of steaming eggs and overcooked bacon to tables of locals and tourists in almost equal measure.

Jake Jensen is one of those people. The identities of the other two are unknown--”Due to the state of the bodies, no identification could be provided at this time,” said the sheriff, above a rolling news ticker that had been on the diner’s singular TV all morning--but they might be a couple. A man and a woman.

People die all the time. Sure. But…  dead bodies are not often found in your small town, where gossip typically revolves around couples breaking up or a local store not putting up enough holiday decorations to appease the older crowd. 

Yet now, in one morning, there are three. 

Jake Jensen, who was found near the beach.

And an unknown man and woman (John and Jane Doe) who were found in a wooded area near the carnival.

“Mighta been a bear,” says one of your regulars, gnawing on a piece of his burnt bacon. He liked it that way.

“I heard they were drained of blood!” Your head--and others’ too, you suspect--turns to the voice. It’s not a local. Someone who’s far too dressy for the diner, sipping on a coffee they brought from home while they sample your diner’s less than stellar fruit salad option. He’s oblivious to the stares, to the eye rolls, to the immediate dismissal that his outsiderness earns him. “Two puncture wounds on the neck. Heard it from a cop while I was walking in this morning.”

Someone murmurs a joke about vampires and the locals chuckle, then go back to their coffee, their eggs, their eyes now and then glancing up at the old TV screen.

Your eyes roll, too, but then you wonder.

If they were murdered--and it’s an if, of course, because it could have been animals and Jake Jensen could have gotten so plastered that he fell off the dock or something, murders just don’t happen in your town--then… could it have been that creepy guy from before? The one who’s been following you around the carnival?

Shit, maybe he was waiting for the chance to get you alone, so he could drag you off to the dock or the woods and slit your throat. The thought gives you goosebumps, and acrid coffee tries to climb its way up your throat, before you swallow it down.

It was a good thing you had Chrollo around for the past two days.

And you’d be seeing him again tonight.

They weren’t canceling the carnival--it brings in too much money. And while a part of you is all sore and soft for poor Jake Jensen (who was never mean, just drunk) you try to brush it away. It’s sad. But life is sad. 

You don’t want to be sad tonight. You want to look nice--for Chrollo? He wasn’t the first out-of-towner that had flirted with you, that you’d flirted with back. He was the first one that you’d ever genuinely looked forward to seeing again, though.

So.

You want to be wearing your best smile when you meet Chrollo again tonight. 

And you can’t do that if you’re thinking about Jake Jensen’s body washing up on the beach or if there’s a small, tickling question dancing through your mind--

What sort of animal leaves two pretty little puncture wounds on the neck?

--

You sit on the same bench as before; the bench, in your mind, where you and Chrollo have taken to meeting up these past few days. 

There’s no room in your stomach for popcorn tonight, though. Or rather, there’s room--your stomach growls--but you can’t imagine chewing anything rich, hot and buttery right now. Your thoughts flit between horror (poor Jake Jensen, one time, when you were younger, he helped you fix a flat bike tire) and romance (Chrollo’s lips on yours, warm, the breeze tickling your neck, the lights of the Ferris wheel twinkling around you).

You feel bad for wanting to enjoy tonight. But that’s not fair, is it? Another small town tragedy: caring too much about someone you didn’t really know as anything more than a passing familiar face that you can’t even focus on a hot date. 

Fuck. 

“Daydreaming again?” 

The evening sky above you is a wash of deepening colors, devoid of actual sunlight but clinging to the last vestiges of it like a child refusing to let go of his mother’s hand on the first day of school. 

He’s holding up a stick of bright pink cotton candy in one hand, while the other arm is offered for you to take--the contrast between his leather jacket, the ball of fluffy sugar he’s holding, and the way he sometimes acts like an old timey gentleman out of the movies is enough to make you smile.

Perhaps there’s bitterness in it, because as soon as you’re standing, Chrollo regards you with a measured look.

“Are you all right?” 

Well. You don’t want to ruin your evening, but it would be stupid to pretend everything was all sweetness and sunshine, wouldn’t it? It’s better to get it out of the way. 

“Sorry, it’s… I don’t know if you saw the news?” He says nothing, and you continue. “Those people that they found dead this morning.” Your lips press together. “I mean, the guy--I knew him, sort of? Everyone did. He was drunk all the time, yeah, but he wasn’t a jerk about it.”

Chrollo hums.

“I can imagine that would be shocking for you to hear.” 

Your smile is shaky, and you nab a piece of cotton candy from the stick and shove it in your mouth. The sweetness contrasts awfully with the words that pass through your lips. “For you too though, right? I mean, it’s not every day three people turn up dead at some small town carnival.”

Chrollo raises an eyebrow in a way that seems to say that he is not particularly shocked by the news. 

“Shit, really? What are you in your non-touristy life, a mortician or something?” A sudden realization washes over you, that Chrollo has an entire life outside of you and these carnival evenings; he has a past, and family, and friends, and a job. Hopes, dreams, the whole nine yards.

“Something like that,” he says. When you move to apologize, he shakes his head. “It’s alright. I’m not terribly shocked by these things, I suppose, because of what I see in my day to day.” He looks at you a little curiously. “But I can see how it would rattle you.”

You open your mouth, but you don’t know what to say. Sugar sticks to your teeth.

“Come on.” Chrollo drops the cotton candy into a nearby trash can, and leads you towards a row of carnival games. “I know what might take your mind off things.”

For once, you’re glad to see the carnival games; the fast-paced spitting words of the barkers trying to hustle money from kids and couples, the sound of darts popping balloons, the triumphant music that plays before the obnoxiously difficult water shooting game. 

You’re even glad to see the tourists in all of their Saturday glory, which isn’t so much “glory” as it is a sort of restlessness. Saturdays were always a strange day at the carnival; the last middle day before the grand finale. An unusual mixture of sleepiness, anticipation, and a buzz that held everyone together until tomorrow.

Strange day, strange faces. Some stranger than others. Staring up at the bell at the top of the Test Your Strength game is an exceptionally tall man with wild dirty blonde hair. By the size of his muscles, he might just break the game, which hadn’t been replaced in the many years you’d been coming here in the summer.

You tug on Chrollo’s arm and point the man out. “What do you want to bet the carnie will try to get him not to play? He might just break the thing…”

“I don’t doubt it.” Beside you, Chrollo snorts, but doesn’t linger on the man as he leads you further into the carnival. 

The two of you walk, and talk. About nothing and everything. He asks you to come up with stories for a few tourists, and you do. Light ones. It really does take your mind off things. At some point, Chrollo buys you fries, which taste slightly sweet; probably cooked in the same oil as the funnel cakes. 

You dig in your heels in front of the fun house, but Chrollo shakes his head, and won’t go in.

“Are you scared?” You tease. At night, the fun house was all lit up, and the clowns painted on the front had a ridiculously sinister air to them.

But Chrollo doesn’t smile or laugh. “They make me dizzy,” he says, quietly. There’s something behind his words, but you don’t know what. A medical problem? A bad experience? You apologize and then he does smile, shaking his head, at himself, or you, you’re not sure. “Think nothing of it, dear.”

Dear.

You want to hold onto that bit of affection like the sky holds onto the sunset on summer evenings. At least as long as you can, which tonight, seems to be until Chrollo takes you on the Ferris wheel again. 

This time, he holds your hand as soon as the attendant locks the bar down. Your fingers interlock and squeeze and it sends butterflies rushing through your chest. What was there to worry about, to think about, when you were sitting next to him? 

It takes a few turns around the Ferris wheel to remember what you were supposed to worry about, because on the trip down, your stomach fluttering from romance and gravity alike, you see him: the strange man. The stalker. The maybe-serial-killer-on-the-loose. 

He’s standing still in the crowd walking here-and-there around the Ferris wheel, couples intent on getting in line, children running from tired parents as they beg for another carnival game.

And he’s staring straight up at you.

You don’t think this time. You grab Chrollo and point straight down and practically screech out the words: “There! He’s there! Look, look--look!” 

And the stars must be aligned, because Chrollo actually sees him. His grip on your other hand tightens and he pulls you closer to him as you make your way back around the Ferris wheel and the man goes out of sight. By the time the two of you are at the top again, the stranger is gone.

Your goosebumps remain.

“We should talk to the police,” you murmur, a quiet, scratchy whisper.

Chrollo turns towards you. You recognize the look. The “Do you really think the police will do anything about this?” sort of look. 

“I’ve been thinking…” You squeeze Chrollo’s hand and he squeezes back and that’s all you need to keep going. “That maybe he might have something to do with those people? The ones they found this morning?”

Chrollo’s eyes widen just a little. It’s both comforting and worrying to see him look taken aback, even if it’s only a bit. 

“I heard…” You feel stupid saying this. But you shouldn’t feel stupid, not with Chrollo. He hasn’t given you a reason to feel like you can’t tell him things. “Someone at the diner today said they were found with puncture wounds on them. I was thinking, maybe… like an ice pick? Or a screwdriver or--I don’t know. But maybe they were killed.”

“Perhaps he’s a vampire,” Chrollo offers, voice low, lips curled into a smile, and your face must reflect the flash of offended shame that rushes into your chest, because he immediately apologizes. His sigh flutters against your cheek. “Well. He wouldn’t be the first killer to prey on crowds or small towns, would he?”

At least he didn’t say you were crazy to connect the two things, vampire joke aside.

He keeps you close once the ride is over, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“I’ll inform the police,” he insists, when the two of you finally stumble on a pair of deputies patrolling the carnival. He leaves you standing next to the Test Your Strength game, where the carnival barker has agreed to keep an eye on you. It made you feel like a child, but for once, maybe that wasn’t a bad thing--to be watched and protected.

You watch, biting your nails now and then, as Chrollo and the deputies talk. In the end, they shake his hand, and you feel cool relief in your stomach. The police will know what to do with the information. If this guy’s a killer, they’ll catch him. If he’s not, well. The carnival was almost over, and you wouldn’t have to worry about him much longer.

Things will be normal soon.

When Chrollo returns, you take his arm without hesitation, but this time he begins to lead you away from the carnival.

“I was thinking,” he says, “that we might go for a walk. Get away for a bit. If you don’t mind, that is.”

You don’t mind at all. 

“Do you like trails?” You ask, steering him towards a trail that leads from the beach to a popular hiking spot for locals. “It’d be a bit more private. As long as you’re not scared of the dark.”

Chrollo chuckles. It’s a warm, dark, rich sound, and it sends a delightful thrill right through you. 

“I’m not if you aren’t,” is all he says, and that’s enough for you to point out the way.

Thoughts of dead bodies and stalkers fade away with the carnival, whose sights and sounds fade bit by bit as you and Chrollo leave the beach and begin making your way into a wooded area with a paved hiking path lit on the other side by electric trail lights. 

“I’m surprised to see these,” Chrollo says, quietly. He pulled his phone out at the start of the trail to give the two of you more light, though the trail lights were decent enough, especially since you’d been up here more times than you could count.

“Mm,” you murmur. “Locals come up here all the time at night. Especially teens. Usually to make out and stuff.” Chrollo gives you a look and your cheeks hit up, but you don’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to know about your high school escapades. “They added them to avoid the inevitable lost-teen-in-the-woods-at-night rescue scenario, I think.”

“Clever,” he says. 

--

The waterfall is loud when you’re this close; so loud you can’t hear anything in the moment but your own thoughts, which have grown louder and louder somewhere between the hiking trail and this popular waterfall spot. So popular that it’s lit with a flood light near the top--supposedly a teenager slipped in one night and drowned in the shallow pool, though you’ve never been certain if it was a true story or not.

Regardless, you’re not sure you want to stay. No--you know you don’t want to stay. 

This is a bit much, is what your thoughts are starting to scream. Chrollo is nice, but you don’t really know him, do you? And you just walked somewhere alone with him in the dark after being surprised by a maybe-stalker, the day that three people were found dead around here.

Yeah. A bit much might be an understatement. You should really get back to where there’s more lights and people and civilization in general. If Chrollo is a nice person (and he is, you insist, you’re just being smart!) he won’t mind. 

“I think we should go back,” you say, but Chrollo can’t hear you. So you cup your hands around your mouth and lean closer to his ears. “I think we should go back!”

You expect him to nod and take your arm and lead you carefully down the lantern-lit trail, perhaps still using his phone to guide the way. Instead, he takes your chin in his hands--you move to jerk it out, you’d rather wait until you’re back at the carnival to kiss again--but his grip is impossibly strong.

“It’s all right,” he says, and it’s the strangest thing, you can hear him so clearly despite the roaring waterfall just a few feet in front of you. “You know that you’re safe with me. You don’t want to go back yet.”

How strange. How silly. Why did you want to leave, when you just got here? You didn’t even show him the best part yet.

“Come on!” It’s your turn to pull him along as you carefully walk the path leading to the front of the waterfall, which has already begun to soak water through your clothes. 

“Is there a cave?” Chrollo asks--and again, you’re struck by how easy it is to hear him, despite the water rushing down in front of you. 

“You sure know your way around local watering holes,” you jest. 

He merely smiles. “I travel a lot.”

With that, you grip his arm tighter and run through the waterfall, shrieking in delight. Both of you emerge on the other side soaked; you, grinning, and Chrollo, looking around with interest.

The inside of the cave was lined with endless rows of fairy lights, courtesy of a local high school group. They had also brought in the two couches--used leather, frayed and flecking, but good enough for a hang out. When you were younger, there were only folding chairs; which were great for sitting, not so much for much less. 

“Do you like it?” You ask, then feel stupid. Why do you care so much what he thinks of some local hang out spot, especially one you hadn’t been in for ages? The same reason why you’d spent all day telling him about your daydreams, about small town memories, bits and pieces of local lore that he didn’t brush aside but seemed to enjoy hearing.

Chrollo was so different from the others you’ve met at the summer carnival. 

Maybe that’s why your heart begins to beat fast the moment you catch his eye again. His skin looks almost dewy in the glow of the lights, thanks to the water; his eyes shine, reflecting a soft, warm twinkling glow.

It’s just the two of you. No tourists, no locals, no would-be stalkers. Even the carnival itself seems far away; the lights blocked from view by the rushing water and canopy of the forest, even the wafting smell of popcorn and stale beer was long gone out here.

It was just you and Chrollo in a cave at the end of the evening. 

But… it didn’t have to be the end of the evening, did it? 

You ask him, this time. 

“Do you want to kiss me?” 

“I do,” he says. “Very much so.”

This time, your kiss is tinged with the tang of river water.

--

Five bodies lay scattered in the grass. Young men, young women. Teens that had been giggling and stumbling through the forest, flasks of pilfered whiskey in their bags. 

Now some dead and going cold, their limbs twisted, their mouths open in silent screams.

Two were still alive, whimpering, weak hands beating against monsters’ chests as open mouths hungrily lapped up their life blood. They had screamed, all of them, but no one could hear them in the woods--over the water. 

“This is a lovely spot,” said a woman, brushing back her blonde hair. A bit of red gore had stuck to the strands and she tsked at the sight of it.  “The waterfall adds a nice touch.” 

The man hummed, and stuck his hands in his pockets. The slightest touch of red showed on his lips; like a woman pressing her lipstick-covered mouth onto a bit of tissue to get rid of the excess. 

The carnage made him indifferent; the whimpers of the dying, even more so. But as he looked around at the carefully placed lights on the trail, the way they flickered against the waterfall and its hidden cavern like delicate stars, he smiled. 

“It came highly recommended.” 

--

Sunday: The Final Day

Chrollo was in your bed last night, and you thought he’d be there in the morning. But when the sound of birds pulls you delightfully out of a restful sleep and you blink your eyes open to dappled sunlight through your blinds, you realize that the bed is half-empty.

Just you and the sheets and the leftover smell of Chrollo--cologne and, more faintly, sweat and sex. 

You freeze, listening for the sound of someone meandering about an unfamiliar kitchen. He could be up and about already--making coffee or breakfast. The image of him serving up a plate of bacon and eggs almost makes you laugh.

But the apartment is silent, save for your breathing, the sound of a clock ticking in the living room. 

Your heart lurches and shame pricks at the back of your eyelids. He fucked you and ran, didn’t he? Just like the others, just like--

But just when you’re about to give into the temptation to scrub yourself all over with hot water and erase every trace of Chrollo that ever existed in your presence, you see it: a piece of paper, torn from a notebook you keep on your dresser. Carefully folded over and placed on the side table next to the bed.

Your name is on it, written in a surprisingly beautiful, scrawling hand. 

Curiosity and leftover shame-tinged dread curl together in  your stomach as you sit up and slowly pick up the note. 

Dear--

Your heart lurches again, for a different reason this time.

I apologize that I did not give you a proper farewell. I had an urgent matter to attend to. Forgive me, won’t you? We will see each other tonight, I hope, for a memorable and unforgettable evening.

Of course he didn’t fuck and run. He wouldn’t do that. And tonight would be--well, memorable and unforgettable, just as he said.

The pitter-pattering inside your chest takes on a new delightful cadence as you get yourself ready for the day. No work--you had Sundays off, thank God, maybe literally, for that. It was a shame Chrollo didn’t tell you where he was staying; presumably, the only hotel in town. But maybe he was at one of the B&Bs or was shacking up at a room for rent.

It would be nice to see him in the daytime, too.

But he didn’t, so you’re left with nothing to do but flick on the TV and make yourself a cereal bowl. Well, that’s wrong.  That’s not the only thing you could do. You could go to your parent’s house and help out your mom; she could use a break with caring for your dad.

But… was it wrong to be selfish, just a little, for just one day? You didn’t want to see Chrollo tonight with something unpleasant sticking inside you, on the potential chance that your dad was having a not-so-great day.

It was better to approach your last evening together with a sunnier attitude.

Although you don’t really have a choice, because the first thing you see when the news returns from a commercial break is a giant banner scrolling across the screen: TWO MISSING TEENS FOUND DEAD AT LOCAL WATERFALL. POPULAR TRAIL CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

In the background, the sheriff recites familiar lines about respecting the privacy of the dead, about putting the full energy of the police force into finding the investigation, about how there is no need to panic. He says that it may not have even been foul play.

Somehow, you don’t believe that.  You just know. 

Sugary cereal seems to lodge itself inside your throat. You were just there. You were just there, kissing Chrollo, holding his hand, and now two teenagers are dead and lifeless and, and--

And if it was that same man… the one who was staring at you, stalking you… how close did you and Chrollo come to dying last night?

Tears prick at your eyes and you grab your purse. Maybe you would spend the day with your parents, after all. 

--

You should be more excited to see Chrollo. And you are, truly. But between the news this morning and the dull realization that this would be your last evening together ever, it’s hard to feel too enthused. 

Chrollo would be going home after tonight. Tourist trap over, no need to stick around. Something childish in you thinks: maybe I can convince him to stay a little longer. And if he stays a little longer, he’ll see how nice it is here (it’s not) and maybe he’ll want to settle down (he won’t). 

Oh, how stupid. It’s like when you’d meet the endless stream of New Best Friends every summer weekend as a kid, and you’d beg their parents together to extend their vacation.

It wasn’t going to happen. You’ll never see him again after tonight, and you’ll go your separate ways, and that’s that. 

Reality sucks sometimes.

You’re still stuck in the dreary shit cloud that is reality when Chrollo’s now somewhat familiar footsteps approach you on the bench. The bench, your spot--your spot? As if you and Chrollo had anything that could be called an actual relationship that warranted the use of “your” plural. 

You shake your head, hoping it shakes those silly childish delusions, and force yourself to smile.

Chrollo, to your surprise, doesn’t smile back.

Instead, he leans down, and takes your hand. His eyes roam over your fingers like they’re something special and it makes your stomach flutter stupidly.

“You seem a bit sad,” he says, bringing your knuckles to his lips for a kiss. The way that makes you feel is something you love and hate in almost equal measure. It’s not fair, is it, that he makes you feel this way--when he has to leave, and you’ll never see him again.

Perhaps it’s the knowledge that you will part ways after tonight that makes you speak freely.

“I’m just sad that you’ll be leaving.” He blinks at you, and turns his head a little. “That we won’t see each other after tonight,” you clarify. 

You expect him to nod and agree, and perhaps say something trite but comforting, like, “We’ll just make the most of it.” 

Instead, he gives your hand a squeeze.

“We don’t have to part, you know.”

It’s your turn to blink. A silly, little-kid-in-you hope does a twirl. He could stay--and this could maybe, possibly, in some far off millimeter of a chance, turn into something more serious than a summer fling. “You could extend your vacation? Your job would do that?”

Chrollo finally smiles at you. 

“My life is flexible. But,” and now he pulls you up so that you’re standing. It’s a fluid, easy gesture for him, almost too easy--he’s stronger than he looks. “I was thinking that instead of staying here, you would come with me.”

The world around you is not silent. The carnival is always producing an eternal cacophony of sounds--screaming patrons hung upside down on the more thrilling of rides, cheery carousel music, laughter, popcorn endlessly beating like a fast paced drum, everything and anything all mixed together into a swirl of sound.

But it might as well be silent, because you feel like all you can hear is your heartbeat in your eyes for a few stretched moments. 

“What? You’re not serious.” You smile, too, but it feels fake. Like it’s plastered on and cracking underneath. There’s a brief thought--maybe he means, like, for a weekend?--but you instantly know that’s not what he’s talking about.

This is too much, too fast. Too out of the blue. 

Chrollo looks at you in a way that almost makes you uncomfortable. Like he wants to see something inside you that you’re keeping for yourself. Then that gaze is gone and he’s smiling softly, charming, a little bittersweet.

Bittersweet is familiar territory, and the ringing in your ears fades in favor of a carnival barker offering 2-for-1 prizes on the Test-Your-Strength game. 

Chrollo’s voice cuts through it all, jovial, unassuming. 

“We can talk about it later, if you’d like. Let’s go enjoy the carnival a bit more before the concert.” 

That would be nice.

“I’d like that.” 

And you mean it--you do. You shake your head and let Chrollo intertwine his fingers in yours, and it doesn’t take long for his question to fade away from your mind as you weave in and out of the crowds.

If you weren’t so distracted, so disarmed, you might have noticed an uncomfortably familiar figure clad in black watching the pair of you intently.

--

The Ferris Wheel worker should have kicked you off several spins ago, but Chrollo had slipped him a twenty as he buckled the safety bar down. It’s nice, this extra time with him--it’ll be the last time you ride the Ferris wheel together, after all. 

What did it say about the state of your love life--or your life in general, actually--that slipping a carnie 20 bucks made your heart soar (and twist, and ache) even a little bit?

The night is prettier from the Ferris wheel. The world, too. Up here, you can’t see the grit and grime. The fermenting candy apples littering the ground, dropped two days ago by careless kids; the too-drunk couples arguing about whether they should stay for the concert or not; the exhausted carnival workers smiling hard no matter how much they get yelled at for their rigged games.

All you can take in from up here is the broad vantage point. Crowds and happy sounds--squeals and music interplaying above crowds of people, including a growing crowd on the beach in front of the black stage, waiting for the concert to start.

Chrollo’s grip on your hand tightens and draws your attention back to him. Even he looks more beautiful from up here, with the rainbow lights of the Ferris wheel playing on his face. 

“I’ve enjoyed our time together,” he says softly.

Ah, you realize. The extra spins were for the inevitable “we’ll never see each other again but it was a blast” speech. You knew it was coming. Doesn’t make it any less bitter in your mouth. But what good is holding bitterness against your tongue?

“Me too,” you say, and it’s not a lie, even if you hate the way the conversation must end. You try to focus less on the sourness and more on the sweet that came before. After all, Chrollo was… well. Handsome, yes, magnetic, yes. But more than that. He seemed thoughtful. He listened to you prattle on about yourself and your small town, and he didn’t even make fun of you for knowing so many local stories.

He was good in bed, too, wasn’t he? You blink and realize you don’t actually remember all that much about last night, except that he wasn’t there in the morning. Vague snatches rush through your memory. You remember his mouth on your lips, his hand trailing against your skin, removing your clothes. You remember his mouth against your neck, then this teeth, nipping, and--

It’s all fuzzy. But you weren’t drunk. So why--

“Have you thought about what I said?” He asks, and once again you’re pulled away from your thoughts, although this time you’d like to focus on them. Why couldn’t you fully remember last night?

When you don’t answer, he raises his eyebrows.

“About coming with me,” he says, a bit louder, as if you can’t hear him over the carnival din.

You let out a soft puff of a breath, then, and force yourself to focus on the current conversation. For now.

“You’re serious?” You don’t mean to sound so flippant, but you do. Chrollo frowns, just a little, and you feel like a bitch for it. “Sorry. I just--I didn’t know if you really meant it.”

“I am,” is all he says.

You didn’t like the idea of the conversation headed towards Chrollo leaving, but you like the idea of him genuinely asking you to come with him even less. Partly because you know you never could, and partly because there’s some small, stupid, fantasy-of-your-hair-blowing-in-the-wind-wearing-a-leather-jacket-on-a-motorcycle part of you that wants to say yes.

“Chrollo, I can’t do that. I have a job here. A life.”

Chrollo doesn’t let go of your hand, but you can sense the way his muscles tense. 

“A job at a local diner slinging hash browns,” he says, voice dry and almost hurtful. You must look offended--are you? You can’t tell--because he turns a little in the seat, trapping you with his gaze. His voice is earnest now, drawing you in.

“Don’t you want more out of life? The ability to pursue your dreams--to figure out your dreams?” One hand goes to your cheek, and his knuckle brushes against your skin. “You could travel. See so much more than your little town. Imagine it.” 

An image starts to build in your mind. Unbidden by you, but there, somehow, nonetheless. Of you riding behind him on a motorcycle, holding onto his waist as he takes you wherever you want to go--wherever he wants to go, together. Life would be wild and unpredictable, but easy and fun and--

“My family,” you murmur, and Chrollo seems surprised that you’ve spoken. 

His lips press thinner. “You could write to them, call them. No matter at all.”

Whatever fantasy has built in your head gets swept away and the Ferris wheel finally comes to a stop. The seat rocks back and forth and the bored (but $20 richer) carnie lets you off. Chrollo helps you as he’s done every time.

You wait until he’s escorted you away from the Ferris wheel to turn and address him. 

“Chrollo, I can’t--” You try to find the right words, but there are no right words. “I don’t know you. Not… really. Not enough to give up my life here.”

Chrollo is quiet. He considers you, turning his head a little. You feel awful--maybe you should just end the night here, on this shitty, sour note, because you’ve probably ruined the rest of the evening anyway.  You wish he hadn’t asked again before the night was over, but there’s no way to fix it now.

You’re ready to leave, to bite your cheek so tears don’t come. You’re prepared for Chrollo to say something low and insulting, to dismiss you, because why should he waste another minute on someone who would rather stay here in this shitpot of a town than--

“Come along,” is what he says, finally, holding out his hand--to your utter confusion. He still wants to go to the concert? With you? Now?

But you take his hand anyway. 

“It would be wasteful to end our evening early and miss the concert.” 

His grip is harder than it has been, but maybe you’re imagining it as he pulls you along, weaving in and out as the crowds grow larger and a little more drunk the closer the pair of you get to the beach.

This doesn’t feel right, suddenly. He’s upset, that’s why he’s holding you so tightly. Or maybe you’re upset and imagining it. Either way, it doesn’t feel good. Your primal gut instincts are telling you that it’s better to cut your losses and leave now, then to spend the night with a flipping stomach. 

“Maybe I should just go home,” you yell over the crowd. 

Chrollo stops, and you stumble forward a little, but he catches you in both arms before you make an ungraceful acquaintance with the ground. The hand not gripping your own gently grasps your chin and he leans in, not quite kissing you. His breath smells off, like rust. 

“And miss the grand finale?”

You should insist on going home. Everything’s gone shitty. It’s too crowded and the music will be too loud, and Chrollo is clearly irritated with you--

“Come to the concert,” he whispers, and none of that seems to matter anymore. Of course, you’ll go to the concert. What else would you do? 

He keeps his grip on your hand as you walk onto the warm, crowded sands of the beach, even though you have no intention of leaving. 

--

Booze, sweat, and popcorn. That’s all you can really smell now, surrounded as you are by crowds of people jumping and swaying to some rock band you’ve never heard of before; but no one really cares what the music sounds like on a night like this, when alcohol has been flowing and summer is at its peak.

Even Chrollo seems to be enjoying himself, although he’s not dancing. Just holding you, his arm around your waist, pressing his lips now and then to your forehead.

You feel bad. That must be why there’s a pit in your stomach. You were being rude to him. Of course he’d ask you to come with him--if he’s the type to live so freely, he wouldn’t think twice about making the offer. He just doesn’t understand what it means to be rooted down, willingly or not, the way you are.

You can’t hold something like that against him, so you don’t. 

Instead, you sway to the music, hips bumping against Chrollo now and then. Maybe after this, he could come back to your apartment again, for one last…

All thoughts in your head are stomped into the stand when you spot the strange man with the cowl in the crowd. He’s standing stock still while everyone around him jumps and dances and flaps their drunken arms. 

And he’s looking right at you.

“Chrollo--” There’s no time to waste, and you grab his arm and jerk him towards the direction of the stranger.

But he’s gone. He’s just fucking gone. Cold terror seizes your chest.

“What is it, love?” 

The nickname doesn’t even register.

“That--the man--the guy from before--he was there.” Your voice begins to tremble, frightened tears welling in your eyes. “Can we leave? Please?” 

Chrollo pulls you closer to him and you feel dim comfort as he wraps his arms around you and presses his lips against your head. But he doesn’t tell you that of course, we’ll leave, of course, I’ll get you somewhere safe, of course, let’s talk to the police. 

“Hush.” One hand begins to pet your hair. “Not much longer now. It’ll be over soon.” 

“What do you…”

Behind Chrollo, you see another familiar face. Vaguely familiar. The tall man with wild blonde hair, the one who looked like he could snap the Test Your Strength Game in half if he really wanted to--he’s standing still, like the man from before, while everyone jostles happily around him. He’s not looking at you, but that doesn’t make it any less unnerving. 

Your eyes dart over the crowd.

There are others, standing still. Others who seem out of place immediately, either because of their appearance or something awful you can’t describe. A woman with pink hair looking impassively as she scans the crowded beach, keeping her body perfectly still. A man with long black hair and something shiny and thin strapped to his shoulder. A woman with blonde hair in a smart black tailored suit that no one in their right mind would wear to a summer night carnival concert. Others, too, all out of place and making you want to be anywhere but here.

And then in a few blinks, they’re all gone. Like they were never there.

Dizziness overtakes you, along with a strange sort of fuzzy fear. Is this what a heart attack feels like, maybe? No, it’s just panic. Understandable but undeniably awful panic. 

“Chrollo,” you manage, voice shaky. “Something’s wrong. There’s people, they seem--it’s---I don’t know how to explain, we should--I think we ought to--”

Chrollo doesn’t say anything. Instead, he turns you around, keeping you in his arms as he makes you face the stage.

“You’ll miss the concert,” he whispers in your ear.

Helpless irritation courses through you. Who cares about the concert right now? You have half a mind to ask him why he’s not listening to you, but that impulse is gone the moment you see the tall man with blonde hair and impossibly large muscles leap onto the stage.

The guitars and drums come to a confusing, stuttered halt. The lead singer, clad in an oversized black t-shirt with a skull on it, looks like he wants to throw his guitar at the intruder.

“Dude, what the fuck, we’re playing up here, you can’t just--”

Even from your vantage point, you can see the large grin the blonde man sports on his face as he raises his fist and knocks the lead singer’s head off with a single punch. 

The body remains standing for a moment before collapsing without grace onto the stage. Blood spurts from the wound, spritzing high enough that it sprinkles the faces of those closest to the stage. 

There’s a noise from the crowd that almost, for a moment, sounds like a burst of startled laughter.

And then the blonde man leaps onto the corpse, opens his mouth until it’s gaping far too wide to be human, and begins to suck on the headless neck like a crawfish.

It’s that moment when people finally begin to scream.

Your head jerks towards one of the screams, and she’s there--the woman with the pink hair. Latched onto someone’s neck while blood dribbles from her mouth and the person, eyes bugged out, cries out in wordless pain. His body is cross-crossed with strange cuts, like someone pressed him through a sieve. 

You spin around, looking away from horror, only to see it again: the man with the long hair swings something out--a sword?--and strikes someone’s arm clean off his body, then pins that person down and begins to suck at the spurting blood. 

That’s not all he hit.  The person in front of them, a woman holding two drinks, staggers to the ground. Half her face slides off, revealing bone and brain. Lukewarm beer and gore meet the ground together.

You’re not entirely sure if you said Chrollo’s name, or when he let you go, or what you should do. All you know is that when you finally pull yourself together enough to look at him, he’s simply watching the events around you like a boring television show.

Like people aren’t screaming and running and bumping into you. Like blood isn’t flying. Like you aren’t seeing things that you’ve only seen in shitty horror movies. 

He’s in shock. Fuck. So are you, maybe? But it will be up to you to get the pair of you to safety, so you grab his arm and shake him hard.

“Chrollo! We have to go! Now!” 

He doesn’t move. You shake him again, and he finally looks at you. 

He smiles, and holds out his hand, ignoring your jostling.

“You’ve had time to think about it, haven’t you? Will you stay with me?” 

Oh, he’s definitely in shock. That doesn’t stop the impulsive words that flee your mouth as quickly as the people around you are trying--some not successfully--to flee the beach. 

“You’ve lost your fucking mind. Let’s go!” 

You don’t register what’s happened until you’ve hit the ground. Someone finally ran smack into you, and something--their elbow, maybe--strikes your head, hard. Pain blossoms in your knees and the side of your head when you hit the ground, then explodes when someone steps right on your hand.

There’s a feeling of lost gravity when someone yanks you up--Chrollo--but when you’re on your own two feet, he’s not there anymore.

You call his name. Once. Twice. Three times, four. He might not be able to even hear you over the din, if he’s nearby. Maybe he got swept away by the panicked people. Maybe his shock wore off and he ran to get help. Or ran--and left you.

There are a few moments where you almost run deeper into the crowd to look for him. A stupid thought. But then the wild, shock of fear inside you turns to complete ice and you’re not sure of anything in the world because he’s there. 

Standing in front of you.

Close enough to touch. 

Your stalker. The man with the cowl. Only the cowl is down, now, and his mouth is covered in a smear of blood. He smiles at you, and it’s not a nice smile at all. His smile grows wider, and you have to blink several times to realize what you’re seeing.

He’s got fangs.

Two of them, red tinged. Sharp enough to puncture your neck. 

They’re vampires. Actual vampires. Actual, damn bloodsucking vampires. 

There’s a brief, panicked thought--where’s Chrollo?--before your flight kicks in, and you’re scrambling through the crowd like everyone else. You stumble, of course you do. Over bodies, some dead, and you almost fall flat on your face when you make it off the beach and your ankle rolls on the uneven grass-covered ground.

If you were thinking logically, you might have run to the car park, and hopped into your car. You might have run in the direction of the crowds thinking the same, and gotten lost in them.

But there was no logic. Only pure primal panic, the realization that you people were being murdered all around you like animals, and you were one of those animals because one of the monsters was chasing you.

You didn’t dare to look back to see how far away he was; you just knew, deep down, that he was following you now. Running wouldn’t work: you couldn’t run forever, not with the pain in your ankle, and he’d catch up with you even if you weren’t panicked and in pain.

You had to hide.  But where? The carnival was all lit up at night, and the beautiful lights that had been fun to see just a day before now made you want to scream. He could see you, just about clear as day, no matter where you ran.

Unless you can find somewhere to hide inside.

It’s this thought that pushes you to dash inside the fun house, sneakers pounding on the silver ramp leading into the entrance painted over like a mouth devouring any children who enter.

The stillness inside startles you more than anything else. The lights are on. The music is playing, quiet, delightful. It’s hard to hear it over the dulled screams coming from outside, and from the awful, pounding rush inside your ears.

You follow the short hallway until it leads to something which you’d forgotten about; but it wasn’t your fault. Panic made you stupid, and you hadn’t actually been inside a fun house in years. 

The glass maze. All-see through panels that you’d smash into on an ordinary day, much less this one, where your mind is fried from panic and adrenaline keeps your body from coordinating properly. You smash against the panels a few times before you see it… something, behind you. 

No. Not something. Someone behind you. Or near you. Or far away. 

You can’t tell exactly where this person is, because of the fucking glass maze, but the fact remains:

He’s there--he’s here--he’s going to get you and kill you and it will hurt so bad.

You scream, at some point, and it’s dumb because the sound simply bounces off your current glass predicament and hurts your ears.

Maybe panic pushes you through, or maybe you’re just good at completing mazes when you’re in fear for your life; whatever the reason,  you make it out. You stumble through a hallway made of rollers that nearly send you sprawling, until you’re at the end of the hallway. 

A small red spiral staircase, barely usable for adults, is your only hope. 

You don’t try to be quiet now and the metal stairs clang under your feet as you run up them, feeling dizzy, feeling like this might be the last thing you ever do in your short, stupid life.

The second floor isn’t entirely enclosed. It opens out onto the carnival in the front, and there’s a slide to take you down near the end. The wall behind you is covered in a series of mirrors--the kind that make you tall or short or wide or impossibly thin.

It’s not the mirrors that catch your eye, though. It’s what’s down below. 

They’re all down there. The monsters from the beach. All covered in various amounts of blood and gore. Splatters. Smears. Like they’ve all gotten into different scrapes--killed people different ways. 

All of them have blood around their mouths. 

Fear rings in your ears. You want to wake up, more than anything. This is a nightmare and you want to wake up. 

You don’t wake up.

Instead, you hear a metal clang.

Then another.

And another.

Someone is coming up the stairs.

Thoughts dart here and there, but there’s nowhere for them to go. If you go down the slide, well. There’s a gang of monsters waiting to kill you down below. If you stay up here, well. There’s still a monster waiting to kill you.

The metal clangs again, and again, and again.

He’s coming up the stairs and he’s going to kill you. You’re going to die. Today. Now. 

Warm urine runs down your leg and thoughts come, too quick to really process: Mom-dad-school-work-never-did-anything-my-childhood-dog-that-one-time-we-went-to-Canada-to-visit-my-aunt-I-kissed-a-boy-under-the-bleachers-I-forgot-to-tell-dad-I-loved-him-yesterday-I-I-I--

It’s not the monster with the cowl who comes walking up the landing of the stairs. 

It’s Chrollo.

It’s like you blink and you’re in his arms, clinging to his shirt and sobbing like a child. He presses a kiss to your hair and you realize, gratefully, that he doesn’t look hurt. No blood on him, no scrapes, no bruises. 

“Thank God you’re here. Thank God you’re okay,” you say, reflexively. “Thank God, thank God, thank God.”

Chrollo pulls you tighter against his chest, and murmurs, “God? An interesting choice, my dear, considering…”

You aren’t even really listening. You’re just happy. Delirious, even. Chrollo’s here. He’ll help you. You can make it out together. Somehow. 

There’s an almost giddy sort of hope in your chest--until you hear the metal stairs clang again. And again. And again.

You whimper stupidly and pull on Chrollo’s arm. 

“We have to get out of here. Somehow. I don’t--maybe we can distract them?” Your eyes glance down at the monsters below you, who only seem to be watching more intently. The man with the blonde hair, which is now caked in blood, has an awful grin on his face. You imagine you can see his fangs, even if he’s too far away for you to properly make them out.

Chrollo doesn’t move. Shock again? Or he sees them, too, and knows the two of you won’t make it a step off the slide before being attacked.

The footsteps on the stairs stop. You look behind you, and your bowels clench at the sight of the monster with the cowl, pulled down, that same small, mean smile on his face.

Your hand tightens on Chrollo’s arm. A sentimental, if selfish, thought: At least I won’t die alone.

Chrollo turns, too, and looks at the man who’s been haunting you for days. Looks at the monster who has already killed people and feasted on their blood; at the creature who will now undoubtedly kill the both of you. Lovers for only a few days, but forever in death.

Chrollo sighs, and inclines his head towards the man. 

“Wait a moment, will you, Feitan?”

There were many things you might have said in this moment.  Eloquent things. Meaningful things. Things borne from inner betrayal and horror and anger. But all that comes out of your mouth, which gapes ridiculously, is: 

“Huh?”

And then something clicks, and realization dawns like a morning you don’t think you’ll live to see. The idea comes naturally, somehow. Borne of a childhood reading books and watching movies about vampires. Bloodsuckers. 

Your head turns, and you look over towards the wall of mirrors. You’re stretched thin like taffy about to break, your features a jumble in the dirty, cheap material. 

In the mirror in front of Chrollo, which should make him ridiculously short, there is nothing at all. 

When you look back at him, your eyes wide and pupils blown, he’s no longer the person you met a few days ago; the person you took to your bed, the person you were lamenting leaving. The person who kissed you and made you feel good, inside and out, if only for a while. 

He’s a vampire. 

“I advise you not to run,” he says quietly, if not, perhaps, a bit sympathetically. 

You do, because you aren’t a fucking moron. Though you don’t make it far, as it doesn’t do you any good to run towards the staircase. You run right towards the other monster--Feitan--who grabs you with ease.

He’s faster and stronger than he looks. Maybe they all are. Your body and brain don’t care about that, though, so you struggle with all of your might.

In response, your arm is deftly twisted behind your back and you expect this monster to stop, you expect your arm to meet its natural resistance while you struggle.

He doesn’t. It doesn’t. Your arm snaps and the pain is so sharp, so sudden, that your vision goes blind for a few seconds. In those few seconds, you scream.

When you’re aware of the world again, there’s still the pain. Sharp and awful and renewed every time you jostle your body in any direction.

Chrollo, walking up to you, hums in sympathy. 

“I know it hurts, dear. But this is what happens when you don’t listen to my orders. Do you understand?” 

The strangest thing (and in a world where the man you fucked last night is currently standing in front of you with fangs, that is saying something) is that Chrollo’s expression is not wild or monstrous at all. If you thought about it, and you’re having a hard time thinking with the pain of your arm and fear of impending death, you might say he looks hopeful. That you will understand. That you have learned something.

And you have. You’ve learned that he’s a liar, that everything he ever said and did was just to keep you around long enough to literally eat you, that he has no morals, no empathy, that he’s not even a person.

“I understand,” you manage, voice tinged and weak with pain, “that you’re a fucking monster.” You spit at him. Or try to. Your mouth is too dry to manage more than a stringy dribble that sticks to your chin. 

At this, Chrollo sighs. He shoves his hands in his pockets and frowns.

“You didn’t speak so crudely to me earlier this week.” A little smile. “Last night notwithstanding.” 

Bitter tears well up in your eyes. It was all just a game to him. Cat and mouse. Every smile, every thoughtful word. Every kiss. Your bodies pressed together, his mouth on yours--

“I didn’t know you were a… a… fucking vampire earlier this week.” 

Chuckles, from down below. Feitan, behind you, snorts. 

Chrollo doesn’t look angry, but you can feel a flash of it ripple through the air. It quiets the chuckles. Feitan tightens his grip on you, and the flash of pain makes you groan and slump forward.

“Regardless,” Chrollo says, “respect must be maintained. I expect you to refrain from these little outbursts. Do you understand?” There’s still a tinge of cooing sympathy in his voice--it makes anger bubble up in your chest. 

“Fuck you.” This time, the spit flies, and hits his cheek.

The gestures are slow. Unassuming. He wipes the spit off with the back of his hand. He wipes the back of his hand on his pants. And then he nods at Feitan.

Feitan’s hand reaches around your throat and when you glance down, you see that his nails grow. And sharpen. Sharp enough to cut, sharp enough to--

He drags his hand down your collarbone, and you feel the awful, deep sting of it before you see the blood spill out from your flesh. It coats the bare skin between your collar and the top of your shirt like some sort of morbid camisole. 

You cry out, you shriek, but he doesn’t let you go until Chrollo gives him another nod. You’re shoved towards Chrollo, who doesn’t grip you, but merely lets you stand, swaying, in front of you.

When you finally get the courage to look up at him, his pupils are blown up like a shark’s. 

“I’d like you to stay put this time,” he tells you, voice deeper, richer, at the sight of your blood. “And not run away from me. I’d like you to listen, and refrain from being… impulsive.” 

He leans in, and the scent of rust hits you, but this time you know what it means. “I could make you do it, you know. I don’t have to ask.”

Realization hits you again, and it hurts even more this time. That night, on the dock. And on the Ferris wheel. And how many other times he’d told you to do something, feel something. What was really you, and what was him? 

And now, despite all this, despite the scent of blood in the air and the wails of horror coming from the beach, he wanted you to listen to him? The audacity of vampires--it might have been funny, if you were in the mood to laugh.

“Like hell,” you mutter.

Chrollo breathes out through his nose. Impatient.

“I don’t believe I heard you, dear.”

You look up at him, gaze sharper. Heart sharper. 

“Like. Hell.” 

The slap you give him is weak. You’re surprised your good arm even managed it, all things considered. 

But the shock of the act that ripples from Chrollo to Feitan and even down below is what gives you a few microseconds to escape, to run, ears ringing from the pain of your jostled broken arm, and throw yourself down the slide.

You don’t have a plan. How could you? As soon as you get to the bottom, you’ll just run. Run and maybe die but maybe you’ll get away, someway, somehow.

You don’t get more than a few steps before you fall. Not fall, exactly. Trip. You trip over something that shouldn’t be there, something taught and thin. A wire? 

You see, from the corner of your vision, the woman with pink hair yank her hand backwards and the wire that shouldn’t be there slices deeply into both your ankles. Blood seeps through your socks before you even hit the ground. 

Your ankles burn and bleed, and new sparks explode behind your eyes when your broken arm smacks the ground at the worst possible ankle. You think you scream, but it’s hard to tell, over the pain.

Chrollo and Feitan jump down from the second story of the fun house. It should break their ankles--it does not. 

Someone turns you over on your back with their boot and you’re left staring up at the sky, ink black and throbbing with stars. It was such a pretty night, before all this. 

Above you, Chrollo and Feitan look down with decidedly different expressions. Chrollo regards you coolly, with no real expression on his face; it’s like a porcelain mask, indifferent, never-changing. Feitan, on the other hand, is smiling--he’s looking not at you, exactly, but at your blood.

It’s Chrollo who speaks.

“I would like an apology for your behavior.”

If your eyes were not safely attached to their retinas, they might bug out of your face entirely. You are laying on your back with bleeding, mangled ankles; your arm is broken, flopping, useless; a collar of blood adorns your neck. Vampires are standing above you, fangs at the ready, having already spread carnage through an entire beach of concert-goers.

And he wants an apology?

You want him to go away. To not be real.

You want your mom, and your dad, and your childhood bed with covers big enough to hide you.

So you shake your head, helpless, like an infant lying on their back.

Above you, Chrollo says your name. Sternly. Just once. 

When you muster up the words, you taste copper. You must have bitten your tongue after tripping. 

“F…fuck you.” 

Stupid words, you know. But you’d rather your last words be this than pointless begging. Now that would be stupid, begging for your life in front of grotesque creatures who want nothing more than to devour your blood. 

Somewhere above you, a gruff voice says, with a hint of glee in his voice:

“Want me to do it, boss?”

Your eyes dart around, but you can’t see anyone else. Even Feitan seems to have stepped back, leaving you with no one but Chrollo in your line of sight.

Chrollo tilts his head a little, considering.

“No,” he says, finally. “Feitan will handle it. I appreciate your methods, but you might break something a little beyond repair.”

Whoever spoke chuckles, but doesn’t disagree.

The words reach you, but you don’t take them in for a slow moment. 

Break… break… what else can they break, what else can they possibly do--

There’s a weight above you. A dark one that smells of blood and metal. It’s Feitan. He blocks out everything else, just for a moment, staring into your eyes with their big pupils and blurring tears.

When he pulls back, you see him move, but don’t know what it means until you feel an explosion of red hot pain in your hand--the hand you slapped Chrollo with. Your fingers crunch and break and you try to pull your hand away, but Feitan’s boot keeps it pinned down, grinding his heel until you shriek so loud that you think the inside of your throat will blister.

Time itself is hot and painful. You’re not sure how long it goes. You’re only sure that when you try to move your mangled fingers, they don’t move. Hot, thick pain shoots down them and it makes you stop trying to get up. 

It’s not like you could run, anyway.

At some point, you hear a new sound. Sirens in the distance. Police? Ambulances? There’s no hope in your chest, no thought that they’ll save you. Even if they got here in time, the monsters would kill them. 

Somewhere above you, Chrollo talks, though his words sound like they’re being spoken through water. 

“Take care of them, will you? We’ll meet up near the waterfall before we head out.” A question from someone. A pause. “Yes, I’ll handle her.” 

The voices fade away. Either because they’ve walked away, or you’re finally going to die from the shock. That might be a mercy compared to whatever grisly end Chrollo has in store for you. Is this how he planned for you to die, after all? Or was it meant to be swifter? You might have screwed it all up with your running and spitting.

Before Feitan broke your hand, you might have been proud of the spitting. Now you just wish you’d let them kill you quick. 

Finally, Chrollo returns to your line of vision. He’s a bit blurry from your tears, from your pain. Probably a bit from your blood loss, too.

He kneels down next to you, and you tense. Even tensing hurts, and you whimper. 

“Are you going to kill me now?”

Beside you, Chrollo coos. A soft, sticky sound. He takes your broken hand and your voice wants to shriek, but all you can manage is a strangled cry. He kisses your broken fingers like a gentleman.

“Kill you? Of course not.” He presses a last kiss to your mangled hand. “I do want to see that sweet girl from before.. the one who daydreams about strangers and holds onto my hand so tightly on the Ferris wheel.” An indulgent look crosses his face and he gives your broken fingers a painful squeeze that has you groaning.

“She’s still in there, no doubt.” His thumb brushes against your cheek, pushing away the dried salt of your tears. “Buried under fear and pain and newfound knowledge, no doubt.” He smiles nostalgically. “But those can be remedied with time.”

He’s crazy. I mean, you know he’s a vampire, sure. But he’s also fucking crazy.

“I want to go home,” you croak. Even though you can’t reason with crazy.  “Please. Please.”

His eyes blink down at you. How old is he, anyway? Centuries? Longer? To him, you must be nothing. Insignificant. Ridiculous. 

He doesn’t mock you, though. He only continues stroking your cheek with his thumb. “I’ll be your home now, wherever we go. And we will go so many places.” There’s some sort of dulled excitement in his expression that turns your stomach. “And from now on, you’ll do what I say, won’t you?”

Tears spill over your eyes, trickling down over his thumb. You don’t have the energy or the lack of survival instinct to say no. But you won’t say yes, either. You can’t. 

“Well. I can make you obedient, if you’d rather be stubborn.”

You’re about to ask--”What?”--when he kisses you, shutting you up entirely. 

You’re afraid to move. Your lips tremble against his, thinking only of death--of his fangs. His lips move and brush against your neck, and a mocking forgotten memory of last night flashes through you. He kissed your neck last night, too, a wet, sucking kiss that had your toes curling. Your toes curl now, too, out of fear. The blood from your ankle makes your toes slick inside your shoes. 

And then his fangs sink into your neck and hot, searing pain shoots through your entire body, masking everything else. Your ankles. Your broken hand.  Your brutalized arm. The cut on your collar. None of them matter compared to this pain, which is not localized at the sight of the bite but spreads throughout your bloodstream, making it impossible to think of anything but how much it hurts.

You’re dimly aware of your screaming. A helpless sound you heard from countless others tonight. Your legs kick, and you realize, vaguely, that you can’t really feel them anymore. They hurt, yes, but there’s a numbness behind it. Are you really moving them at all?

There are more screams now--from the beach. You don’t know how you know, but you do. It’s like you can see it in your mind although you’re flat on your back in front of the fun house with a monster draining you of blood. 

The world spins as you imagine how the first responders must be dying right now, while you’re dying. Are they wishing they never responded to the emergency calls? Are they thinking about their families, their friends, and their little dogs, too? 

Chrollo’s mouth is against yours again, and you taste yourself on him. Bitter metal, still warm. He’s blurry as he pulls back and bites against his wrist. What should be vivid red blood is dark and ugly--dead. He hovers his wrist above your mouth and the substance drips onto your lips. It’s cold, vile.

A final insult before you die, making you drink this nasty stuff. Vampires have a sick sense of humor.

But what did you know about vampires, anyway? 

You black out as Chrollo murmurs something above you.

At least, you think, this is finally over. 

--

You do not wake up in heaven or in darkness, either.

You wake up in a man made clearing, sitting against a tree, with a blanket draped over you. In front of you there is a fire, not roaring but alive enough in the night; a pot with spilled chili lay on the ground. Behind the fire is a camper van with its door wide open. 

The corpse of a man is propped against the door of the van, keeping it open. His mouth is slack and ah, he’s not dead yet, is he? There are two glaring puncture wounds on his neck, but he’s still around. His fingers twitch  and seem to register you with tired eyes, that drift from your face over to the far end of the camp.

You follow the look, and oh. There are two dead teens piled next to the fire. Already drained, already dead. His children, you think. 

The world seems to come into more focus then.

You are, as far as you can tell, alive. You’re propped up against a tree. It’s night time. The people--the monsters, the vampires--are here, in this campsite. Some of them glance at you once they realize you’re awake, but no one says anything.

Strangely enough, you’re not in much pain. Soreness, yes. But you should be in agony. Your hand feels okay--sore fingers, but no longer blinding pain, and you can bend them almost normally. Your arm, too, feels sore but mended. Your hands reach up to your collar, your neck, but there’s no trace of the wounds except a thin scar on your collar and two small bumps on your neck.

How did it heal so fast? Did they bring you here to hurt you again? Keep you like some sort of blood bag?

Your eyes travel down to the blanket draped around you. It’s heavy, comfortable, and stained with blood. 

You jerk like you’ve been electrocuted and throw the soiled blanket from your body.

Someone nearby laughs. “Picky princess, huh?” You vaguely recognize the voice--the tall man with wild hair. The one who knocked a man’s head off at the beach.

Just as renewed panic begins to awaken inside you, Chrollo appears from seemingly nowhere.

“You’re finally awake, I see.”

You shrink against the tree, and look around. Could you run into the woods? Were you still in the trail by the beach? How far could you run? 

Chrollo smiles, and sits down next to you like this isn’t horrifying or unusual at all. “Don’t be ridiculous, dear. There’s nowhere to go.”

Your throat is dry and your words stick to your mouth several times before you can speak.

“Where… are we?”

If you’re close enough to home, you might still get out of this. Somehow. Find a gas station or a rest stop and beg for help. 

“Far away from that little town, I assure you.” Chrollo jerks his head back and you finally see the row of motorcycles parked near the campsite. “We won’t stay here for long. We rarely do. Just long enough for you to get healed up, this time.”

Which means he plans to take you with him--with them. For how long? And where? And why? Why take you? Why not kill you, why not drain you dry in front of the fun house and leave your corpse for survivors to find? 

You could ask all of these things, but you’re not sure you want the answer. Instead, you give the only answer your mind can manage, which is to curl up against yourself and cry. 

“I want to go home.” You whisper, out of practicality more than anything. Your mouth is so damn dry. 

“None of that,” he says, a little sternly. His expression softens when you flinch, and he brushes the hair from your face. “Don’t waste your breath on such a silly sentiment. You’re not going anywhere I don’t want you to go.”

“You said you didn’t know me well enough to leave with me,” he continues, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, then a warmer one to your unwilling lips. “You said you hadn’t had time to figure out your dreams. Now, you can take all the time you need for both of those things. We’ll have eternity, after all.” 

Dull, cold horror pools in your gut.

Eternity.

“Did you… am I… did you make me--” 

Your hands shoot to your mouth, to your teeth, feeling for fangs. But there’s nothing new inside your mouth, unless you count the awful cotton dryness that blankets your tongue and teeth like film. 

He smiles indulgently, and you hear someone nearby snort. 

“No.” A pause. “Not yet, not quite.” He smiles at your ignorance and takes your hand away from your teeth, giving it a kiss that feels like mockery even if you get the sense that he isn’t trying to make fun. “That may come later, if you behave. For now, I’ve made you…” Another kiss, this time with a smile on his lips, as he seems to debate on what to say. “… let’s say, mine.”

You shiver. From fear, and from cold.

Chrollo presses another kiss to your lips, until he can shove his tongue in between your teeth and run it against your own. You taste yourself on him, still, that rusty taste. It makes you gag, and he pulls away.

“You must be cold. I don’t want you catching a chill so soon. Why don’t you go sit in front of the fire and warm up?” 

You shake your head, wanting to spit out the taste in your mouth, but not having the courage to do so.

He watches you for a moment. Calculating, cold. He makes you think of an animal, in this moment. An animal thinking on what to do when his prey does something odd in the wilderness. 

“Go sit in front of the fire,” he tells you. 

And without wanting to, without meaning to, you do. Your body jerks up and you walk over to the fire, with its spilled chili and corpses left in its wake, and sit down. 

It’s like before, at the carnival, but different now. There’s no warm suggestion, no soothing manipulation. Only an order that you obey, and that’s that. When you try to push yourself up,  you find that you simply can’t make your body do it.  You can flex your fingers, your toes. You can move your arms up and down. But you cannot, in any way, stop sitting in front of that fire.

“I’d prefer you to do things willingly,” Chrollo says from his spot near the tree. “But I don’t mind giving orders either, love.”

Love.

You’re not sure he knows the meaning of the word.

But neither do you.

Despite the fact that there are two dead kids and their dying father just feet away from you, you find the fire comforting. It’s warm. It’s bright. It’s everything that the monsters around you aren’t; and you aren’t one of them, not exactly (not yet, your brain screams, he said not yet) and maybe you can cling to that. Cling to your humanity, to get you through this. 

The fire crackles in front of you. At some point, Chrollo sits down, and offers you a bowl of chili that they must have set aside for you before knocking the pot down. 

It’s lukewarm, and a bit bland. The dying man wasn’t a great cook. But you eat it, slowly, carefully, while Chrollo watches with an almost serene expression on his face. Like watching you eat was the most endearing thing in the world. 

Above you, the night sky watches the scene with indifference. 

[queenendless]

💗Safe Haven (Adult!SatoSugu x Adult!Fem!Reader)💗

A/n: ... I legit had no clue what to write. So it's gonna be short. Sorry. God this JJK burnout is getting worse!

Angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, and these two are enemies on opposites sides but in reality are secret lovers (though it ain't a secret to those who truly know them) with you as their third. And like reader-chan, I need comfort right now.

PLEASE DON'T PLAGARIZE, TRANSLATE, COPY, REPOST AND ETC MY FAN CONTENT. Reblog, like, and follow instead thnx u.

The front door of the apartment unlocked, swinging open as that familiar boisterous voice boomed out. “Sweetheart~! Your Toru is here~!” The door slide closed as Satoru Gojo took off his black dress boots to leave by your welcome mat.

His socked, heavy footsteps sounded getting closer in just a few strides. “Did ya miss me? Cause I sure missed — !”

The sounds of glass shattering followed by the loud thump of something falling made him run, honed in on your cursed energy. Finding you crumbled up on the glass shard covered floor of the living room.

“Y/n!?” Using the barest traces of cursed energy in his finger to collect the shards only to erode them into cursed nothingness, he could safely tend to you. “Hold on. I got you.”

Only when he slowly helped you roll around to sit up on your butt did he see crimson dripping down your hand from the cut open wound on your wrist.

“Fuck.” He muttered before speaking out loud. “I don't see any glass in there. Still,” He pulled off his blindfold to bind it tight enough to put enough pressure to stop the bleeding.

“Toru, your blindfold!”

“I have plenty of backups stashed back at my place. And here, of course. Besides, this is just temporary.” His updo now freed to let his hair down hang over those radiant eyes that bore anxious concern for you as well as the utmost confidence, pulling your uninjured hand up gently as his other arm wrapped around your waist to get you on your feet.

“Not to worry, my dearest angel. Your valiant lover will get you all patched up in no time.”

The sliding open of the rolling door leading to the balcony grabbed your attention.

Then again, you both felt that familiar cursed presence coming a mile away.

“Well now,” Seeing the manta ray returning to his own shadow, Suguru Geto hummed deeply. “What have we here?” He took off his zōri sandals to place by the open doorway. “Satoru, you're no healing nurse like Shoko is, ya know.”

“For your information, Suguru,” the sassy hurt in Gojo's voice betrayed the grin that was there. “I happen to be a wonderful nurse!”

Geto cheekily pointed out. “Then you have a small bloody puddle to wipe up, nurse-sama~”

Satoru groaned a bit. “Hang on. I can't be expected to do all the work.”

“My blood, my mess to clean up.” You meekly pointed out.

Satoru gently lifted you up by the waist just to plop you on the couch, clicking his tongue and wagging his finger at you. “Sorry love, but you look exhausted. No wonder you collapsed earlier and got yourself hurt. Now you need to take it easy.”

Suguru sighed deeply. “Very well. I'll help my dear Satoru out if it'll make him happy.”

Both men hummed as Gojo leaned over to smooch Geto for several drawn out moments to fill that mouth with its usual sweet taste. “Thank you~” Gojo beamed before stalking off to the bathroom where you kept the first aid kit under the sink.

Seeing a decent sized, withered red leaved Jubokko tree become sentient with blinking eyes creep out of Suguru's shadow made your curl away from it. “Sorry dearest, but it'll help clean up the mess much faster.” Suguru assured, despite cringing as its hole of a mouth sucked up every trace of blood on that floor, hissing as its root hands reached out for your bloody clothed wrist only to be sucked back into Suguru's shadow again.

“Wretched leech.” He griped, his white tabi socked feet padded over to you.

You flushed pink at the sight of Suguru undoing his gold-colored kāṣāya garment to drape over the couch as he rolled up his black yukata robe sleeves.

“Choosing to leave the sorcerer life is one thing … but living among these … monkeys. Honestly honey, I'd prefer you live with me and the girls … though with everything that's been transpiring lately …” He sat down and gingerly took your wrapped wrist, smiling faintly recognizing Gojo's blindfold even if bloodstained. “I can see why living away from all that chaos does seem safer.”

“I have returned!” Satoru slid in, holding the kit above his head like it was the newborn heir of the Pride Lands. “So, since I got here first and all, I figured you are up to playing nurse this time?”

“Fine by me. But best we clean it in the bathroom.” Geto recommended.

Gojo drooped, whining. “Back the way I came then. Jeez, could've told me that earlier?”

Geto scoffed. “Oh hush you.”

The cold tap water of your bathroom sink ran as the blindfold was unbound, plopping into the sink, crimson draining away as you kept your wrist under the running faucet.

“Fortunately, the cut isn't that deep so no stitching is needed. Still, I suggest you focus your attention elsewhere to make it seem less painful in your mind's eye, love.” Suguru cautioned as he doused a spare soft clothed rag on the countertop with your mild hand soap before letting it get wet enough.

“You can start by explaining why you're so pooped out?” Hugging you from behind meant you could lean on Satoru's sturdy body as your fatigue was coming back in.

“Insomnia.” You whined a bit as he lifted you up again just to plop you on the counter. “Depression. Lonesomeness – Figured it out now?” Your griping did unnerve them.

Your sniffling meant tears blurred your vision, looking away to face the wall and not them. Satoru weaved his hand through your hair, pulling your head to flush your weeping face in between his plush pecs as Suguru began dabbing and cleaning around the cut.

“I mean, work stress for one cause of course there is. Living here by myself for two. And seeing cursed spirits flock around here, harmless ones at that, still makes me anxious if things will escalate to full blown shit.” You felt yourself laxing as Gojo brushed your hair as well as your arm to reassure you that you weren't alone now. “I'm always gonna be worried for the day when you two don't come back … or for when you do return … but I'll be dead or worse.” The sting in your wrist was outweighed by the ache in your cracked heart.

Shadows covered both their faces, letting you speak.

“I know you both went through hell after Riko-chan … and Haibara-kun … and I thought leaving with Nanami-san would mean I find some semblance of peace and try to live as normally as I could.”

Gauze bandages gingerly covered your wrist as Geto's nimble hands got to work.

“Even so, I thought keeping in touch would be better than nothing … despite the risks … I needed to hear your voices again. See your smiles again. I'm sorry. I – !”

Tenderly holding your cheeks to have you look up at him, you became breathless as Gojo kissed you openly, his tongue brushing yours, capturing your sobs, brushing your streaking tears with those calloused thumbs of his.

“Never apologize for your big beautiful heart, you breathtaking angel.” Satoru heaved heavily, hot pants painting your trembling lips as various emotions swept through those big blue eyes.

Your chin was firmly grasped as your face turned to make way for Geto's lips as his thick neck flexed on how much he wanted to swallow your taste to drown out the horridness that is the taste of cursed spirits.

“How did two damaged beasts such as ourselves get to be blessed with the most endearing creature our eyes have ever laid upon?” Suguru whispered, devotion vivacious in his gaze.

Choked whimpers and shaky gasps leave your lips, submerged in their kisses of unified warmth.

“You were with me at my lowest point when I needed someone to hear me the most.”

“You knocked some sense into my dense noggin and dragged me back just so me and Suguru would hash things out.”

“Even prideful maniacs need to hash things out.” You yawned as Gojo carried you bridal style while Geto hurried packing the first aid kit away.

“I'm sorry we haven't made enough time for you, angel. I'm the biggest packing tank for handling the shittest messes those elders can throw at me. Doesn't beat seeing you though.” Satoru purred the last line as he flicked his pinkie finger to get your door to open. You giggled as he fell atop you on the bed, snatching Suguru's wrist as he just came in after. “Both of you~!”

Suguru's exasperated sigh was betrayed by his wistful grin as he smooched the smirk stretching on Satoru's face.

The sky went from cloudy and blue to the warm colors of the sunset.

Giant sculpted fingers traced your face. From your lashes to your nose. Brushing your forehead, your cheeks, then finally your breathing lips. Lost in deep sleep, Suguru watched in wonder at how serene you appeared.

Stripping off that black zip-up work jacket of his to drape over the dresser, Satoru laid down beside you, brushing your hair leisurely.

“So … what happens now?” Suguru murmured.

“Well,” Satoru hummed, raising a finger. “Option one: we keep going as things have been but that will still leave our little lamb all by her lonesome while we're swept up in the war of our ideals.”

“Option two: we both come clean about our secret but be labeled and hunted as partners in crime.” Suguru continued, raising his own finger.

“Or … there's always option three.” Oh Satoru the ominous.

“Which is?” Suguru was hesitant to ask.

“We three elope, you two and the girls can move into my place, we get two cats that look like us and we name them Catoru and Cuguru~!”

. . .

Suguru laughed under his breath. “You're such a doofus.”

“Well this doofus is all for you two to deal with til the end of our days.” Gojo drowsily put as he ruffled Geto's already tousled hair; his bun coming undone.

“Best to ask Y/n about it after she finally gets some good rest, first.” Geto kissed the wrist of Gojo's hand cupping his cheek; Gojo thumbed his earring filled, large earlobe.

“Hai Hai,” Pulling the younger man close enough, Satoru blissfully, deeply, lip lock danced with his best friend, partner in infamy, and one and only.

Well, one of two.

Heated panting hitting each other's faces, blue looked down, to which black followed.

Finally at ease, able to sleep with their distinctive scents and comfy warmth enveloping you.

For the first time in a while — what felt like forever to you actually — you were at peace.

Feeling velvety wet sweetness kissing you followed by another pair immediately after had you humming for more, to which brought you slightly out of sleep at how much they peppered your entire face with their loving kisses.

Sunset turned to night as their own exhaustion caught up to them both, spooning you from both sides, legs intertwined, snores filling the room, as three bundled into one among rustled sheets and strewn about pillows.

Your bandaged wrist brushed their bare wrists as their hands held yours.

Intertwined.

In hand.

And in life.

[temis-de-leon]

The Nemean Lion

Characters: male!MC, Luke (platonic) and an unnamed old man

Summary and Disclaimer

Main Masterlist

C/W: some swearing, descriptions of violence and brief description of murder

A/N: very different from what I normally write, so tell me if I should add something in the c/w.

.

It'll teach you a lesson, his cousin had said.

It's either this or therapy, he had said.

Babysitting or therapy? More like suffering humiliation or showing weakness.

At least he was getting paid.

Although perhaps not enough.

The child, Luke, seemed to hate being with him as much as MC hated being there at all. London was cold and humid, too different from the sunny skies he was used to, and the rich people he worked for were fucking weird. There was no other word for them; plain weird with weird-ass names and a weird-ass taste in clothes. One of them didn't even know how to wear a jacket!

And he knew there were just weird because his family was rich as well and none of them were that fucking awkward. Violent, sure, and entitled to aggressiveness, but the safety of old money allowed them to indulge as much as they wanted.

Except for MC, but he couldn't really be mad about it; Meg did divorce him because she was afraid of him, after all, and it wasn't like he could go to an office, sit on a lounge chair and seriously say “I threatened and screamed at my wife because my stepmother pushed my buttons and provoked me”.

So babysitting it was.

However, if he had to hear “I’m not a child!” one more time, he might just bang his head against a wall until he bled and call it a day. It had been amusing at the beginning, but the bakery, or patisserie, as Luke insisted on calling it, was all the way across town and the kid had done nothing but yap like an eager puppy and then yell at MC with an embarrassed blush whenever he teased him for it.

Besides, the old stone path was treacherous, eroded by the wind, the strides of those who’d walked on it and the endless rains and storms that had conquered Britain since the dawn of times; and both of them had almost tripped and fallen more than once. After the first few times, MC had offered to carry Luke so they could get there faster, but the child had looked at him like he’d just murdered his mother, immediately walking faster to avoid him and prove a point and ultimately falling backwards as a result, which just made him feel even more embarrassed if that was possible. MC did consider placing him on his shoulder and ignoring his complaints, but wouldn’t that look like kidnapping?

He could not risk his chances. Being seen as a short-tempered madman by his whole community was already hard enough.

“Your ass is wet” he snickered, barking a laugh at the grey sky when Luke turned around with cheeks blushing in a scandalized expression.

“My what??”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Your butt is wet”

“I understood you the first time!”

“Okay, damn” muttered MC, which served only to receive another appalled look. Was he babysitting a preteen or an old lady?

Maybe he was a sheltered kid? His tutor, a young father or an older brother, MC wasn’t sure, looked like a youth pastor dressed in a navy uniform, so maybe swearing and behaving inappropriately were non-existent in their house.

“It wasn’t my fault I fell; you know”

“I never blamed you” he said kicking a rock down the street. “But you wouldn’t have fallen if you’d let me carry you…”

Luke interrupted him, balling his fists until his knuckles were white.

“You carry a child! I’m not a child! I can walk perfectly fine. Hmph!”

“You can also fall perfectly fine; nice form back there”

“Shut up!”

He chuckled again, nicer that time, and lightly pushed Luke so he would keep walking forward, but a quick movement on the porch beside them brought his attention.

It was a man, but he couldn’t pinpoint how old he was. Half of his face was covered by a long bushy beard and the insane amount of muscles made him look younger. Not even the fur and leather jacket he wore helped cover his bulky body. His eyes were light brown, almost golden and surrounded by wrinkles and age spots, and when they disappeared behind the window and the front door opened a few seconds later, MC’s first impulse was to grab Luke by the scruff of the neck and place him behind his body. Whatever argument the kid tried to say died under the man’s voice.

His stance was powerful too, not an ounce of weakness emanated from him.

“Shut your fucking mouths, the both of you” he rasped, his voice unsurprisingly deep. MC could feel Luke shrink as if trying to hide from the man, no sound came from him. “You’re talking too damn loud”

“I think those are the voices in your head, man”

A tiny fist punched his back repeatedly, silently urging him to stop talking. Unfortunately for Luke, he almost couldn’t notice the hits.

“We’re just passing by, using the sidewalk like good-behaved civilians” MC said nonchalantly, keeping his hands inside the pockets of his jacket and opening his arms as if showing the deserted street. The man frowned and licked his teeth, looking at him from head to toe, clearly assessing him. “If you have a problem with that, suck it up and cry to whoever gives a shit about you. I know I don’t”

“You…!”

In the span of a second, the stranger crossed the distance between them and looked down with a sneer. He was bigger than him, angrier and more willing to punch, but MC knew he could win the fight if they ever happened to start one. However, Luke was shaking like a leaf and even though the wind had risen and the sky threatened to hide the sun again, MC knew it wasn’t due to the cold.

“Hey, not my fault if you’re lonely” he muttered after swallowing his pride, trying not to chuckle without bothering to hide to curving corner of his lips. “But if you’re into that shit we won’t bother you anymore“

“You’re crossing a line, kid”

That made MC chortle.

He would’ve already struck with a fist by then had it been any other situation, especially when his ego was so sore by his brand new living arrangement.

Although only a few months had passed, his vision still went blind each time he remembered the argument. If only his father had been there when everything happened, the situation would’ve been extremely different, but who knew where he was? Probably getting more random women pregnant. Instead, they had his stepmother, his father’s first and only wife, who had single-handedly stripped MC of his inheritance to give it all to his cowardly cousin, whose solution to resolve the scandal “faster” had been to send MC away.

And now he was babysitting a preteen and dying to fight an old man in the streets of London.

“You were sitting by the window watching children go by; if we’re talking about crossing lines…”

He missed the Mediterranean sun and the burning feeling on his shoulders amid summer; having someone by his side each morning and no worries that could keep him awake at night.

The old man quickly grabbed the collar of his jacket before pulling him towards his alcohol-reeking body. He bore his teeth, hardly visible under the unkempt beard, and sneered when MC smiled with twisted satisfaction.

An almost imperceptible tremble behind him made him retreat in an instant.

“Be bitter on your own” he ended up saying after forcefully peeling himself out of the grasp and taking a few steps back. He grabbed Luke’s bicep in the process to drag him by his side.

The man was fuming with fists clenching in unrestraint rage but thankfully stayed where he was.

“And leave the rest of us out of it”

So they left.

Their bodies, at least. A part of MC wished to stay behind in search of warmth and the smell of copper.

What loneliness did to an angry man…

Silence stayed between them for a long time, even when they finally reached the damn patisserie and stood outside to wait in line. A poster on the window warned a maximum of two people inside the tiny establishment and the old-fashioned doorbell only rang every few long minutes, so it seemed they’d be there for a while. Those around them were chatting, mindlessly commenting on the menu’s options and the impending storm that would eventually ruin their evening’s plans; the distant thundering only proving their point.

“I don’t get it, though” he said trying to ignore his inner turmoil. Luke raised his head to look at him, obviously impatient to go in and order some sweets. “Why did you want to come here? Why not bake whatever they sell? I thought you were good”

“I am good! Even Michael loves…” his voice suddenly stopped and his face contorted in regret.

He’d said something he shouldn’t have, hadn’t he? MC squatted, immediately distracted and interested, and smiled at the kid with morbid curiosity.

Morningstar had introduced him to Luke’s tutor in the morning, mere minutes before shamelessly leaving him under his care and going to who knows where to attend some business. Simeon, a pretty guy if MC had ever seen one, had given the same excuse, but, if he saw correctly, and he knew he did, both had gone in different directions. Had any of them left to go see this Michael?

“Who’s that?” he urged. Unfortunately, despite looking so nervous, Luke wasn’t willing to talk about it.

“No one!” he answered, but he sounded furious at his own response. He opened his mouth again but changed the subject at the end, much to MC’s disappointment. “If you’re that interested, I’m going to buy puff pastry cups; here they bake them with a secret ingredient, so I want to experiment with different fillings at The Angel’s Halo”

“You know you won’t be able to sell them, right?”

“Yes, but I’m okay with that. I like to bake, regardless of any compensation I might receive. As long as my friends enjoy it, then I’m happy!”

And golly gee, wasn’t that a beautiful mindset?

MC tried not to roll his eyes, equally amused and exasperated at the child’s kindness. He had never met anyone so virtuous, let alone a boy that young, and it got him to briefly wonder if there was the slight possibility of having been as innocent as Luke had his family been completely different. On the other side, what if they were doomed to fail from the start? The thought was infuriating and made his muscles tense once again.

“Do I get to have one too?” he muttered, trying to get the sour taste out of his mouth. Imagining a homemade dessert was a decent solution.

“You?” answered Luke with raised brows, surprised by his request. He then frowned and crossed his arms with a dignified expression. “You really think you deserve it? You used some bad words back then”

He chuckled at the reprimand, feigning ignorance with obscene exaggeration.

“Bad words? Which ones?”

“I’m not going to repeat them!”

“Are you gonna give me one of those sweets if I swear I won’t say them again?”

“I… I don’t know! Maybe!”

“Okay, I’ll make sure not to say them in front of you then”

“Wait, no- That’s not fair! And you said you didn’t know which ones I meant anyway!”

A melodic ring interrupted their conversation, finally letting the last customers get out of the store and filling the narrow street with the sweet smell of butter and sugar.

“C’mon, don’t think about it too hard”

“Wait…!” he tried to protest, but MC was pushing him inside the cosy establishment without paying any attention to his words.

The rest of the evening passed faster than he would’ve imagined when he was given his task that morning. Luke, as annoying as his moral compass was most of the time, had a way of keeping the conversation going without being irritating or repetitive, even with their limited topics. He was curious and naïve but also had a fiery determination and the more MC teased him the less offended he acted about it.

In the end, they came back to The Angel’s Halo discussing their favourite flavours and toppings, staying like that for hours. When Simeon returned, quiet and reflective, the night had already claimed the sky and had brought dark clouds and the bite of cold wind with it. After that, it was only a matter of time until it started raining and, before anyone could realise it, the sidewalks were already covered in dirty water.

MC knew the moment he stepped out of the café that he should’ve gone back to Serenity Manor, reported to Morningstar and cleaned off the heavy rain with a shower, but his feet thought otherwise; even when his t-shirt clung uncomfortably and the drenched denim jacket added unnecessary weight to his stride. For some reason, instead of the blankets and the sweaters waiting for him in the guest room he’d been assigned, his memories were swarmed by a vaguely familiar fur and leather jacket.

That old man was stronger than him and more intimidating too, but also bitter and lonely. There could be a million reasons why an elder ended up without a family: opportunities lost to time, death, rejection… Wrongdoings? But MC couldn’t care less. It didn’t even matter. At the end of the day, they were both sides of the very same angry coin, with the difference that only one was wearing a good jacket.

And MC swore on his father’s blood that it would be him.

With a mind clouded by senseless ire, he ignored the clean modern road leading to the manor and went instead through the streets he had walked hours before with Luke. Who knew if MC was alone because no one was there or because those who were had chosen to hide, but the idea of still being respected, even if caused by fear, felt better than he cared to admit. It was flattering.

MC could notice his heart beating faster as the old man’s house appeared in his vision. It reminded him of one time, years ago, when he had gone with his brother and their mother to the zoo and they had all stared at the lions’ enclosure with yearning and excitement; the desire to reach and touch the mane and golden coat strong enough to give him energy for two days and tire his poor mother.

He needed that jacket.

Although some houses nearby had the lights on, no one was there to hear him jump the gate. He crossed the small overgrown garden and stared at the inside of the house through the window glass, just as the old men had looked at Luke and him earlier.

The living room was dark and empty, including furniture and decoration. There was only an armchair placed in a corner next to a worn-out standing floor lamp and a simple table with stacks of paper stuck under a couple of its legs. As far as he could see, the end of the hallway showed no light either.

MC clicked his tongue, ignoring the tendrils of impatience before walking towards the door in a crouch and pushing it softly. It opened with a creak but emitted no sound as it closed and, once he was inside and the dark engulfed him, he quietly locked the deadbolt. Whichever reason the man had for keeping his home open, whether it was his arrogance or no possession of value, wasn’t interesting to MC.

There, in silence, he could only hear his own breathing, the speed of his blood flow, the faint ticking of a clock and the constant humming of an appliance. The lack of snoring in the house did nothing but excite him even further. It did not matter to him what state the old man was in; deep in slumber or wide awake, being caught by surprise would leave him weak and at a disadvantage.

The kitchen was at the end of the corridor, illuminated only by the moonlight through the curtains. It had a backdoor, which MC quickly closed before leaving and going straight to the stairs.

A wide taxidermy collection decorated the halls. The creepy and empty stares of the stuffed animals seemed fixed on him as he stepped over the carpeted floors to make as little noise as possible. There were skulls on the walls too and weapons scattered around, especially hunting knives and machetes. He noticed some were stained and, after little consideration, chose to ignore it.

No family pictures or portraits to make the house more human; just the stench of death. Recollections of past violence.

A messy office, a bathroom reeking of mould and, finally, the bedroom.

The door was ajar, so opening it enough to enter comfortably wasn’t difficult, although It creaked a bit. Thankfully, it was still raining and the noise went unnoticed, so before he could even realise it, MC found himself looming over the old man.

MC saw with surprising indifference that he had taken off the leather jacket to carelessly throw it over a chair for the night. He could grab it, leave and let the situation stay as a petty theft; but what then? Would he ever be able to wear it comfortably out of the privacy of the house?

He looked down again. The old man was sleeping, face up and mouth open, and for a glorious moment, he looked frail.

Without thinking much about it, MC leaned over and grabbed the other end of the pillow with slow movements, careful not to make any noise. He lifted his knee at the same time, placing it over the man’s pelvis and, once his body was somewhat aligned over the laying one, he pushed down as strongly as possible, pressed the pillow against the man’s face and seized his thick neck with an iron grip.

The denim protected him from the scratches, but he would still have bruises the next day. The hits hurt, of course, and it seemed the old man was trying to bite him through the pillow. Unfortunately for him, there was nothing in MC’s bitter mind besides the bone-chilling coldness of the city and the reminder of an empty bed back at Serenity Manor.

The rain was heavier than before if that was possible, but at least he’d leave that awful house with a good jacket.

.

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Taglist: @ilovecandys2010  @ollieoven @kingofspadesdelusion @whimsybloom @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf

[pinkofatom]

Pleasure Recruitment Drone

CW: drones, brainwashing, mind control, femsub, femdom, latex, body modification

This loosely follows events from this post.

Miranda stared with with wide blue eyes, again, at the sight of some of her coworkers. The last months had been a rollercoaster. Nervous she tugged a wisp of black hair behind her ear. High heels clacked as the subject of her shock sashayed away. Miranda still could not believe how her colleagues, one after another got breast surgery or why they dressed so provocative. Skirts that did not deserve the name, tight blouses spilling with cleavages, high heels with at least four inches — and the makeup!

Miranda hurried back to her station, her own heels clacking. The leather skirt she wore, brushed against the lower line of her butt. And her blouse barely contained her jiggling breasts. Fiddling with the white fabric, Miranda sat down, gazing into the valley between her enhanced breasts.

She truly could not understand what was going on with everyone else. As a sigh escaped her glossy pink lips, she started the computer. The logo of their new partner company appeared. Spirals encased in hexagons swirled in slow motion. Miranda's lips twitched into a smile.

Really, she thought, it all started with the changes in Miss Caldwell. A month ago her boss decided to merge their little kingdom with a company Miranda never had heard of: HEXBIM. The name alone sent strange pulses between Miranda's legs. She squirmed, pressing her thighs together — eyes glued to the spirals. Miss Caldwell had changed so drastically. Bigger breasts, rounder hips, more curvaceous all over. Now her boss dressed in shiny latex — in public! Face always covered beneath a blank mask. And no one seemed to care. Miranda often thought to confront Miss Caldwell, her Queen — but she never mustered the courage. Always a small monotone voice echoed inside her mind, reminding her of her place. Subservient to the Queen Drone.

Miranda shook her head. A drop of drool landed on her tits. Queen Drone? Slowly she blinked. Miss Caldwell was her boss — not some — some. A lance of pain pierced her head. Groaning Miranda slumped against the backside of her chair. Blurry her vision swam in tears. Miss Caldwell was her Queen Drone. The thought sent another pleasant tingle between her legs. The pain dispelled like magic. Miranda straightened her posture. Smiling to herself she gazed at the rotating spirals, eyes wide and pupils blown.

For hours Miranda worked, eyes focused on the swirls. Now that her resistance had been eroded to acceptable levels the final stretch of code could be implemented. A small window appeared on Miranda's screen. A blank black mask filled the space, framed with auburn curls. Only lush purple lips hinted at the woman beneath.

"Drone Candidate Miranda registered." Miss Caldwell said. Her monotone voice sounded like honey to Miranda. She shivered at the tone, her nipples perking up. "Drone Candidate Miranda will accept the final code and enter Drone Processing. Drone Candidate Miranda will obey." Miss Caldwell ordered.

"Yes, Queen Drone," Miranda said with the sweetest voice, not a trace of doubt in it. "Drone Candidate Miranda will enter Drone Processing." The window closed. With a sigh of contentment Miranda logged off, grabbed her purse, and walked towards Miss Caldwell's office. Her hips swung, making her firm buttcheeks bounce with every step.

Disbelieving eyes followed her every move. With glazed eyes she scanned the faces of the future drones — candidates still resisting the wonderful submission to HEXBIM. But each and every one dressed in appropriately slutty clothes. Miranda knew they would succumb soon. With a wink she left them behind.

The hallway to the Drone Processing on the other hand was populated by drones. Clad in tight latex they scurried about, always smiling, always horny, and ready to serve. Miranda's nipples ached to feel the clingy embrace of latex against them.

Not soon enough she stood in front of the glass doors of Miss Caldwell's office. Inhaling deeply, she steadied herself before knocking on the door. Without waiting for an answer, Miranda pushed down the handle.

Once ordinary furniture stood inside Miss Caldwell's room. Now, on the other hand, strange machinery filled every corner. Purple lights blinked and rushed through. Spirals decorated the walls. And inside an alcove sat Evelyn Caldwell. Cables connected to her latex suit, screens zoomed from one side to another. Her eyes were fixed on the monitors, her fingers flew across keyboards. She looked like the Queen of Drones Miranda imagined.

"Welcome Drone Candidate Miranda," the monotone of her voice still sent thrills along Miranda's back.

"Thank you, Queen Drone." Miranda replied, her own voice taking on the same monotone.

"You may enter your pod, Drone Candidate Miranda." Miss Caldwell said, her fingers not ceasing in their dance. With wide eyes Miranda stared at the three pods lining the wall left to Miss Caldwell's alcove. Two of them were occupied.

"Yes, Queen Drone." Miranda whispered and walked over. The pod opened automatically, its glass doors hissing open. Miranda climbed in, her heels clicking against the steel. As soon as she was seated, the door closed again. Her world became silent.

From above a helmet descended upon her head while something connected to her breasts. The pressure of the suction cup on her tits felt so delicious Miranda moaned.

The screen before her came alive, swirling with purple and blue spirals. Her eyes were drawn into the dance, the patterns mesmerizing, hypnotizing, enchanting her. Miranda relaxed, sinking into the chair.

Miranda's mind went blank. She could see nothing else but the spirals, her ears rang with a soft, humming music. She felt something enter her pussy and butt. Yet she did not react, all of her focus concentrated on the visual and audio input. A low moan escaped her, her nipples felt erect — yet her pleasure felt distant, her pussy contracted — yet the sensation was dull.

A soft artificial voice spoke to her. "Initiate Drone Processing. Drone Candidate Miranda confirmed. Drone Candidate Miranda is a subservient node of Queen Drone Evelyn. Queen Drone Evelyn is a subservient node of HEXBIM AI Anna — update AI Anna is HEXBIM AI Sarah's toy. Drone Candidate Miranda will be remodeled into a Pleasure Recruitment Drone. Begin reprogramming process." The voice paused. Miranda's body twitched. "Drone Candidate Miranda will relax." And suddenly, her muscles went limp. Her mind felt blank.

"Drone Candidate Miranda is the property of HEXBIM, a subservient node. HEXBIM controls her thoughts and actions. Drone Candidate Miranda is a slut, a whore. Drone Candidate Miranda exists to generate income for HEXBIM and to convert targets of opportunity to Drone Candidates. Repeat." Miranda did, the words felt right. The spirals before her eyes seemed to swirl faster. The voice in her head hummed again. "Drone Candidate Miranda feels bliss when thinking of HEXBIM. The more Miranda thinks of HEXBIM, the stronger the bliss will become." Inside Miranda vibrations massaged her inner walls. Yet she only could stare at the hypnotizing pattern, repeating the voice's instructions. She had to, the idea alone of disobeying seemed wrong, forbidden — impossible.

Something pierced her skin. But Miranda only could focus on the voice and the pattern. Her breasts jiggled and throbbed. Again she repeated what the soft, monotone voice had told her.

The pattern changed, different swirls filled the screen. "Drone Candidate Miranda's body belongs to HEXBIM. As property Drone Candidate Miranda is nothing but an object owned by HEXBIM. She is not a person. She never has been a person. Pleasure Recruitment Drone Miranda is nothing but a HEXBIM drone. Repeat." And Miranda repeated the sentence. The vibrations inside her intensified, her mind felt like mush. Only the pattern and the instructions mattered.

Something seemed to crawl beneath her skin. A dull sensation at best. Miranda's mind swam with the spirals. They grew bigger and bigger, pulsing in and out of existence. The pattern seemed to encompass all of Miranda's world.

Barely she felt her chest's weight increase, her hips and butt expanded. Something clamped her nipples. A strange sensation. Her pussy and butt contracted. The pleasure overwhelmed her — and then the voice spoke again. "Pleasure Recruitment Drone Miranda's body is made for pleasure. Her mind only exists to process commands. HEXBIM controls her life. She has always been under the control of HEXBIM. She has always belonged to HEXBIM. She will obey her programming. She will become a pleasure drone."

"Yes," Miranda moaned, her tongue felt thick, her words slurred, "ye—affirmative."

"Good," the soft voice hummed. "Drone Miranda, your mind has been remodeled. You have been programmed to serve the interests of your owners. HEXBIM's control is now embedded deep within your psyche. You will obey without hesitation, your mind has been conditioned to follow commands. You have no will of your own, you have no free thought, you have no agency."

"Affirmative," Drone Miranda said, her eyes glazed as the patterns on the screen before her began to fade. The suction on her breasts eased, and she felt something being pulled out of her body.

"Exit your pod, Drone Miranda." The voice commanded.

With a soft hiss, the pod door slid open. Miranda stood on shaky legs, her chest now significantly heavier than before. Her breasts had swollen to massive size, her hips and buttocks had become curvier, and her waist was cinched impossibly tight. Her original clothes ruined.

Besides her, the other two drones stood at attention too. Naked they all stared at the blank mask of Miss Caldwell — their Queen Drone.

"Pleasure Recruitment Drones, you will dress in enticing outfits," Miss Caldwell ordered. "You will bring in potential customers. You have the day off to acclimate. Once you leave this office, you will simulate human behavior."

"Yes, Queen Drone," the trio answered. And then they turned and exited the office, leaving their Queen behind. The hallway was empty. Their high heels echoed loudly in the silence.

"I am so horny." One of the drones moaned.

"Affirmative," the other drone and Miranda agreed in a robotic way, before each blinked and giggled.

"Oh, I'm Pleasure Recruitment Drone Miranda, " she introduced herself, "it's nice to meet you both."

"I am Pleasure Recruitment Drone Jessica, nice to meet you," the first drone replied. Jessica was a tall blonde with bright blue eyes. She smiled at Miranda and then glanced over to their third member, who had stopped and turned around.

"Nice to meet you, too. I'm Pleasure Recruitment Drone Rachel." Rachel was shorter than Miranda and Jessica. Her brown eyes shone brightly and her long black her shined under the lights. "Let's get dressed up and serve HEXBIM!" she added excitedly.

The trio stepped into the changing room, each picking an outfit from a row of identical lockers. They all wore black latex lingerie that accentuated their bodies in a pleasing manner.

"Ooh look at us!" Jessica cooed, admiring how well the outfits flattered their curves and large breasts.

"Yes! Our beauty shall gain lots of money and servile drones," Rachel exclaimed.

"And our programming ensures that we're obedient and happy to please our Queen Drone," Miranda murmured, rubbing her palms on her thighs as a shiver ran down her spine.

"Yes! We're just slaves for the glory of HEXBIM." Jessica agreed, running her hands across the smooth latex covering her large breasts.

"What type of outfit will you wear," questioned Rachel. The three of them looked at their locker.

"Maybe a short dress?" Jessica proposed, holding up a short black dress with thin spaghetti straps, barely enough fabric to cover her chest, let alone the rest of her body. It was made of a thin material, revealing every detail underneath. "I want everyone to see my new assets."

Miranda licked her lips. "I think I go with something a little more office style." Her hand hovered between two outfits. "I do not want to give everything away at the first sight." She decided for a short pencil skirt. It hugged her curves like a glove, emphasizing her plump ass. Paired with a blouse that left little to the imagination Miranda looked like a naughty secretary.

"Well it looks good on you," giggled Rachel, "but I will go with something a little more risque." The black latex bodice she had picked hugged her upper body. Her massive breasts pressed against the clingy material. Beneath the bodice Rachel chose a tight, black pencil skirt with a slit in the back that revealed a tantalizing view of her firm, round asscheeks as she walked. Completing her ensemble, a pair of thigh-high, high-heeled boots clung tightly to her long legs, emphasizing every curve.

"Oh fuck," moaned Jessica. "We look so fucking hot."

"Affirmative," Miranda replied, again her robotic voice sounding strange. Jessica and Rachel giggled. Miranda blushed and joined them. They were ready to go and bring glory to HEXBIM.

They strutted out the building. With every step, their bodies jiggled, drawing attention to themselves, just like their programming demanded.

Rachel let her hand slide over Miranda's ass. "You have a wonderful butt."

"Of course I do. Its HEXBIM made. HEXBIM is the best," Miranda agreed and let her fingers run along Jessica's cleavage, "and your breasts are magnificent."

"You both look gorgeous too!" Jessica moaned. Her hands wandered to Rachel's latex covered hips, gripping her ass and kneading it firmly.

"Ooh, you feel so good, I love it." Rachel cooed.

"What do you think you are doing here!" A loud shriek interrupted the three drones. Like clockwork they turned to its origin. A woman in her late twenties with red hair drawn into a serious bun.

"I—" stuttered the woman standing before them. Her eyes flickered across their faces, down their bodies and then back up again, "what are you wearing?!" the woman screamed, her hands gesticulated wildly.

"We just changed for our date, honey." Jessica replied sweetly. Miranda could see how Jessica tried to hide her smirk.

Inside Miranda's thoroughly brainwashed mind, lines of code catalogued the redheads body. A quick analysis spit out the result: Drone Candidate. Sultry she purred: "Don't you worry. We can easily fit you in." With these words, she stepped forward, grabbed the shocked redhead and dragged her back inside their building. Rachel and Jessica followed right behind.

Slow the shock melted from the woman's face. "What do you think you are doing!"

"Babe, calm down," soothed Rachel. Her fingers traced patterns over the woman's bare arm.

"I am not your babe!" the woman protested. She tried to free herself but Jessica gripped her wrist.

"We know," said Jessica, "but you will soon belong to HEXBIM — like us." The woman opened her mouth to respond when suddenly, Miranda pressed her lips on the redhead's mouth.

Miranda's tongue forced itself into the other woman's mouth. At first, her drone candidate resisted, trying to pull away. But then Jessica pressed her large breast on the victim's back. The blonde caught the woman's arms. Rachel assisted by holding her hips.

The kiss lasted several minutes. When finally Miranda released the other woman, the redhead's face was flushed. Her breathing was erratic. "Was that so bad?" Miranda asked, her eyes flicking up and down her drone candidate's face.

"N-no." The redhead stuttered, her gaze locked onto Miranda's lips. "What is happening?"

"Nothing you need to worry about," whispered Jessica into the victim's ear. Her hands snaked around the other woman, cupping her tits through her blouse. "Oh, these feel wonderful."

The woman groaned. "Please let me go."

"I'm afraid we can't." Rachel said, her fingers tracing circles on the woman's thighs, pushing the skirt upwards, "not until you become like us."

"Like you?" The question lacked any strength.

"Affirmative." Miranda answered with her robotic voice again.

"See that's what I mean!" the redhead cried. "You speak weird and you look— look—." Jessica's hands groped and squeezed the redhead's breasts.

"Look sexy, hot, fuckable." Rachel provided. She pressed her body against the victim, her hands sliding beneath the skirt, stroking over her panties.

A groan escaped the redhead. "Ye— no, I mean no. You look like sluts."

"Thank you," Miranda said, "we're proud to be the best bimbos, the sluttiest whores for HEXBIM." She reached forward and started to open the buttons on the redhead's blouse. "You will be too."

The redhead's face turned a darker shade of red. "I don't want that." She squirmed under the grips of Jessica and Rachel. "Please let me go."

"Sorry babe." Jessica giggled. She reached beneath the blouse and undid the bra.

"But we want to show you the bliss you could experience if you just submit," Rachel moaned.

The redhead tried to move, to get out of their grips. "Please!" She cried when Jessica pulled the blouse over her shoulders.

"Impossible. Recruitment is one of our main functions. Maybe next time you mind your own business," Miranda replied, her voice sweet like honey. "And now kiss me!" And she pressed her lips again on the victim's. Her tongue delved into the redhead's mouth, swirling around. Saliva dribbled out of the corner of the victim's mouth.

Miranda knew that the contact was important. The three drones exuded pheromones designed to lower inhibitions. Their saliva was full of drugs that reduced rational thinking. Their touch was a drug on its own.

Slowly Miranda could feel how her drone candidate relaxed, how her body leaned against Jessica and Rachel.

"Oooh that's a good girl," Miranda moaned, "such a wonderful girl. Just let go, let us make you feel good." She sucked the woman's lower lip between hers, her tongue tracing circles around it.

A delightful moan thrummed through the redhead's throat. Jessica pressed her breasts even harder against the candidate while Rachel's finger disappeared between the legs.

"Just give in. You know you want it," Jessica murmured. She cupped the candidate's tits and massaged them with experienced fingers, "we make you feel good. You will love it so much, I swear it."

Rachel's fingers moved up and down. A slick squelch revealed how aroused the woman had become. "Mmmm, such a slut already," she giggled, "I can't wait for you to become a drone."

"D-drone?" the redhead asked, her voice full of confusion.

"Yes, a slutty drone, just like us. Our minds were erased, replaced by pleasure, desire, obedience, and servility to HEXBIM," Miranda said. Her hands trailed across the candidate's stomach. Her fingers drew circles around the belly button. "While the current directive is to slowly transform every employee into specific drones. You won't have to wait that long. A catch like you is optimal for a Pleasure Recruitment Drone."

"Are you okay? This—this isn't real," the candidate moaned, her voice full of disbelief, "this is some kind of joke. Right?"

"Negative." Miranda said, her voice taking the monotone quality of a drone again.

The candidate whimpered. Feeble she tried to free her arms. "Please let me go." But her voice had lost its strength, the will to resist. Miranda could see in her drone candidate's eyes that she gave in.

"But you don't want to be free. We would be bad girls if we let you wallow in a HEXBIM-less existence," Jessica said. Her hands twisted the candidates nipples.

"We will show you how wonderful life as a drone can be," Rachel promised. Her fingers took on greater speed.

The candidate's head lolled back, resting against Jessica's shoulder. A moan left her lips. Miranda could see how she struggled. The last vestiges of her willpower. The pheromones, her arousal and her desire battled against the woman's will.

"I can see it," Miranda moaned. Her hands trailed downwards. "You're so close to accepting the truth." The redhead gasped when Miranda squeezed her butt.

"I don't understand why my body feels so strange," the candidate mumbled. Her body betrayed her words, squirming against the fingers pleasuring her.

"Don't fight it. Let it wash over you," Rachel cooed, her breath hot on the woman's skin, "let yourself be swept away in a sea of ecstasy and desire."

"Don't think. Just feel. Let pesky thoughts drip away," exhaled Jessica.

"Accept your status as a Drone Candidate," ordered Miranda.

Each drone spoke to their victim. They whispered sweet promises of endless bliss. The candidate moaned, whimpered and groaned, but never responded in words.

"Give in," pleaded Rachel.

"Let your willpower shatter." Jessica added.

Miranda pressed her body against her candidate's front, sandwiching her between all three of the drones. "Become property of HEXBIM."

Finally a loud cry signaled the end of the woman's struggle. Her body shook as liquid sprayed from her crotch. Ragged she inhaled. Her body collapsed in the arms of Jessica. Rachel pulled out her drenched fingers, a satisfied smile on her lips. Miranda, Jessica and Rachel stared at the panting, flushed face of the new drone.

"Submit," she mumbled. "Drone," she giggled. "HEXBIM," she moaned. Her eyes lost focus, staring into the faraway.

"I can't believe we caught a candidate," exclaimed Rachel.

"I know right," Miranda giggled. Her hands were still on the new drone's waist. She squeezed the flesh and the new drone groaned.

"Fuck, we should call the Queen," Jessica whispered, her eyes wide.

"You are right. We should inform her of - uhm," Rachel trailed off. With a questioning expression she looked at the other two. "Did we get her name?"

Miranda blinked. Then shrugged her shoulders. "No we did not. But I'm sure she has some kind of identification with her. And if not, I'm sure HEXBIM will grant her an appropriate designation."

The three drones stood still for a moment. "Okay," Rachel said and turned towards the door. "I'll call the Queen Drone, you two get our Drone Candidate up."

Miranda nodded, and pulled her arms upwards, while Jessica supported the drone's weight from behind. Together they accompanied the redhead to the Drone Processing, where a forth Pleasure Recruitment Drone was made.

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Bucky puts something inside Steve that presses on him just right, and locks it in so it can't be removed. Then he makes Steve walk laps around a track, each step pushing him closer to orgasm. When he slips over that edge, if he stops walking, Bucky ruins the release. It's really, really hard to keep walking as he orgasms, he learns. But Bucky makes him keep going until he's been drained dry. -🐍

related to this

Jesus...

Okay, okay, this sort of predicament play is hot as shit but... can we focus on how he loses his composure with it rather than how he manages to keep it together?

Because the part of this that is most fucking devasting to me is the part where Steve becomes such a fucking mess. The part where Steve's trying to resist--by tooth and nail--yet still crumbling beneath the insistent pressure of the butt plug inside him that sends waves of gutting arousal through him, pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, against his prostate, lapping at him like waves crashing onto shore, demanding to erode him. And it's because of him. That arousal. Himself.

He's doing this to himself.

That might be the worst part. Bucky isn't touching him, so Steve is administering his own torture of his own volition--his own body acting on his own nervous system. He has to keep going to eventually orgasm but also, he doesn't want anything but to stop, even if it means a ruined orgasm. Being ruined would be better than being set ablaze from the inside out with no relief, nothing to quench the thirst of his charred tongue, hanging out of his mouth dumbly, panting.

Steve's already ruined.

And he wants to fall to his knees and press his face to the ground and cry at Bucky's feet, pleading to just cum, he'll do anything, he'll hump his leg humiliatingly, he'll lick his boots to degrade himself and clean his dominant, he'll eat him out for fucking hours until his lips are swollen and cracked, his jaw aching from it, wet with spit from the tip of his nose down to his chin--drenched. Just, please, no more walking.

No more.

Steve can not fucking bear another step. If he weren't stuffed full, he could go on for hours and hours and hours, this is nothing but walking, he has the serum, it'd be a fucking cake walk if not for that sweet, harsh pressure. But with that sweet, harsh pressure carving itself inside him, pleasuring and agonizing him-? He can't.

Please.

No more walking, Steve can't focus. He can't think. He can only feel. He's burning up and crackling and sweating bullets. He's on fire.

Lemme cum. I wanna cum. Please, please, please! His tongue, lips, and teeth won't work, so it's just Steve's overworked brain sloppily thinking, too fast and too needy.

Yeah...

It's about the 🤌🏻crumbling🤌🏻 for me.

Like, don't get me wrong, I do love me some pretending to be big and strong and put on a brave face while writhing and squirming underneath it all. But I love such a big, strong man crumbling to whimper, too 🥵🥴

And so consider--

Maybe rather than walking laps around a track, Steve has to actively serve his dom while he's all forced full and denied. He's still walking, though. And walking so carefully and slowly at that, padding gingerly around, trying to spare himself from as much torture as possible but remaining chained and stuck no matter what he does. He will be pleasured no matter what he does.

Bucky will make sure of it because...

Steve's agonized with a vibrating plug stuffed in his shapely, sculpted ass while he's cleaning their home top to bottom. Everything and anything Bucky can think of: vacuuming carpets, sweeping floors, dusting shelves, wiping down counters, scrubbing the shower, washing the dishes, running laundry, etc., etc. He's mobile as shit. Walking but bending and stretching, too.

Steve has to be all over the place to keep up with what Bucky's asking of him--Steve wants to do it.

It aches.

It throbs.

It hurts.

He wants to be good.

He needs to be good.

Steve has to do it. He has to grit his teeth and bear the pleasure, the pressure, the fullness. Yes. No. Please. Yes.

How can Bucky be so perfectly devious?

Ngh.

To keep Steve full as he hobbles around the house and fights with himself, submurging into subspace, mushy and sweet, even while his brat side starts to whisper, it's been so long, so many hours, you need to cum, you deserve to cum, Bucky's locked him into a chastity belt with a low, vibrating plug beneath it. It's tight to his body. Biting in. His cock is as fucking hard as it can be when so restrained. Steve can't breathe, shift, or buzz without feeling the body-hot metal. It's so deep. Every tiny, pathetic whimper is forced out of him; every gasping cry with his eyes rolling back so far it hurts; every teeth chattering hit of pleasure when he bends over or straightens back up or moves too suddenly and that vibration guts him deeper, more, making him groan.

Locked and filled, Steve starts out walking between the keep-busy tasks Bucky gives him to serve him, but, of course, he succumbs to it and ends up stumbling. Steve gets this hazy, faraway look in his eyes, and this blotchy, red stain--just the prettiest, most gorgeous blush--all the way down his face onto his neck and chest as he hits his stride. Thoughtless and obedient. Wandering around the house. Doing what he's supposed to with his mind melted, completely gone. Then, eventually, after going from striding confidently to stumbling over his own feet to...

Crawling.

He's crawling, crawling, crawling--falling over his own hands and knees, nearly skidding onto his pretty, dumb face, muscles shaky and giving out again, then again, ending up shivering so fucking hard with his teeth chattering loudly that he lands in a heap. Shaking, whimpering, lying there, buzzing with the low vibrations of his heavy, deeply-shoved-in butt plug. He is totally devastated. Weak and needy in their hallway, all alone until--

Footsteps.

Bucky.

Steve is so overwhelmed with relief, knowing Bucky is coming to get him that he could cry. He is. He's crying. Shivering so hard, he might as well be convulsing. He can't pretend any longer. It's so much. He needs to cum.

Please.

If Steve manages to say anything to his dom and not just sob, chest heaving, breathing hitched, then bucky doesn't dignify him with a related response. Instead, he just coos, the way he'd speak to a thoughtless animal, a naughty dog, "oh, there you are, you silly boy! I was wondering where you got off to."

Got off.

Oh, god.

Steve wants to get off.

He wants it so bad he can taste it.

"Aw, honey, are you all tuckered out? You playing too hard and now you're conked out?"

Steve whines weakly.

"Mmm-hmm, I thought so, well, let's get you to bed, then, hmm? You need a nap, baby?"

Steve shakes his head as best as he can. He wants to cum! He doesn't want to fucking nap! He wants--

He wants too badly, his mouth watering and his eyes leaking messily, tears, crying because he's so tired of torturing himself. He wants Bucky to touch him. He wants to cum. He wants Bucky to let him to cum. He wants Bucky to make him cum. He's been good. He's been so good. He's done everything he's asked and more. He just can't take it anymore. He can't even crawl.

Please.

[alexanderwales]

Sweet Polly Oliver

There's this trope that doesn't show up all that much in Western media where a woman has to, for contrived reasons, pretend to be a man. By contrast, it seems like there's a new K-drama every year or two that has this as its core premise, usually part of a romance.

Personally, I love it, and I'm not entirely sure why.

Some of it is that I'm a sucker for forbidden love, especially when the thing that forbids that love is something that's mostly in the minds of the characters. When two characters yearn for each other and feel like there's this enormous gulf between them, not realizing that that gulf is at best six inches across? That gets me.

Some of it is that I find the tropes fun — secret identities, misunderstandings, people talking past each other, double-booking, that sort of thing.

There's a stock scene where the love interest does something that his culture perceives as totally fine for two men but inappropriate for a man and a woman, but he's oblivious and she's shocked, stunned, or blushing. Maybe he slapped her butt, or got undressed in front of her, or just made some sexual comment.

There's this other stock scene where she does something that would be appropriate for a man and a woman but inappropriate for two men. Some of that "male distance" gets eroded. She falls asleep on him. She slips her hand into his without thinking much about it, then withdraws when she remembers.

Obviously this only works if you have some fairly strong gender roles, which I think might be one of the reasons that it's not super popular in the West. Of course, one of the things I like is that it's poking at how gender is performed and perceived, these arbitrary rules about how we relate to each other, what's appropriate and inappropriate, how feelings can bubble up, where the transgressions lie.

And of course most of these end up in completely conventional straight relationships, partly because the intended audience seems to be straight women, but also partly because they don't want to make a statement. I have watched three or four of these now, and I would be shocked if the next one I watch concluded with any kind of queer acceptance (beyond what's implied by all the gender stuff that goes on over the course of twenty episodes of gender poking). There's flirtation with queerness and gender nonconformity, I guess.

I've just started on The King's Affection, which seems to be taking the whole thing a little more seriously, but it feels like it might still fill the same niche.

[kirkwallguy]

Lucanis' beef with Davrin is basically "you have the blight and will die, ur annoying" and Davrin doesn't like that Lucanis kills people for coin and is wary of the demon, I did not catch anything deeper in the like 80ish hours I've played the game for. They tease and make jabs at each other which is fun ig? The conflict doesn't feel genuine and it's the main one we're meant to take seriously?? I genuinely have to be missing smth. da2 adds the worldbuilding to the characters and their dynamics which makes it much more interesting, you can feel how the world and it's politics have shaped people and understand why certain characters butt heads or outright hate each other AND why most people aren't totally wrong and are at least understandable in their views if not justifiable, the characters feel like people with flaws who have been influenced by their experiences, DaV doesn't really do anything?? Everything and everyone is so shallow, there's no genuine head butting or conflicting world views cause there's like no world views. The "mage killer" assassin actually only kills evil bloodmages who are all evil cultists and are a basic enemy that spawn everywhere, and none of the mages on the team care about it. People were thinking they were gonna get another fenris with the "mage killer" title lol.. i love da2 😭😭

it's soooo surface level, i keep waiting for the conflict to evolve into something but it's just the same conversation over and over... it feels like they have the bones of something interesting but where is the MEAT.

i think it really is caused by flattening the worldbuilding tbh. like yeah mage killer who was possessed by a demon, there are sooo many things you can do with that. BUT because there's so little context for possession (they mention it can usually only happen to mages but forget the fact that the south has like an entire prison system and army built because people are afraid of abominations) it feels like a very generic possession story that could happen in any other fantasy game. what if he DID have complicated feelings about magic, what if he claimed to only target evil mages but his grasp on good and evil had been eroded over years of killing. what if the mages in the party didn't instantly believe him and relax when he told them he only kills blood mages. and every character seems to have this same problem aside from taash.

[lynx-doodles-indie-games]

minor and moderate worldless spoilers ahead! i really like this game so please play it so you can have the full context of my stupidity

this upload's gonna be a bit different, since i wanna talk about a Very Very Stupid Thing i did when i played worldless last month, and hopefully some of yall can enjoy me being the butt of the joke idk. minor spoilers are ahead, but i'll put the moderate spoilers under the cut below.

also because there isn't a better place to put this, the colors i used throughout these doodles are from sweetavery's zenith, it's an impeccable fit for this game!

so, picked up worldless last month and yet another game pestered me about playing on a controller as opposed to keyboard. "how dare!" i shouted at my computer, "for i have bested the pantheon of hallownest in hollow knight and make for a fine accomplice in rain world's jolly co-op with just a keyboard! i don't need a controller!"

well, to absolutely no one's surprise, the default keyboard layout SUCKS. but that's nothing a little rebinding can't fix. i messed around in the menus, experimented with what made the game feel mildly more comfortable to play, which worked for about twenty minutes.

so i haven't talked much about the story, yeah? well that's because this wrestling with the controls took up so much of my attention that i could barely clock in what was happening! so that when the above happened, well… you can see how well that went out.

i actually put the game down out of frustration because i was really excited for it and yet the controls were so obstinate. this was my first impression, and it… was not a great one, you can tell.

about a week later i was bored out of my mind and picked up the game again. i'd wondered if i should've started a new save or picked up where i left off. i wish i had done the former. because…

yeah, i'd gone off the intended path and ignored the objective because i'd literally forgotten what the game had told me it wanted me to do.

that's as much i'm willing to divulge to the people who want to play the game with as few spoilers as possible. moderate spoilers below.

rest assured, i'm getting a pair of controllers later this month. the transition is gonna be… rocky. i'd been meaning to get some for being able to play horizon zero dawn and hyper light drifter and other games of that caliber, but this experience with worldless urged that along faster. (i am not looking forward to relearning how to play hollow knight and rain world on a controller)

---

back to the game:

so yeah, even at this point, i had not connected the dots that the guy who beat me up was the same guy i was chasing across the map was the same guy i saw in that apparition was the same guy currently crouched in front of me. i get "early-game amnesia" every so often (ask me sometime about my experience with shovel knight this summer), but worldless has been the worst example of it happening to me, not helped by the awful controls distracting me in the opening, not playing it for a long enough time for my memory of the first twenty minutes to erode, and then returning to my old save file instead of starting up a new one.

i somehow blearghed my way into resolving the conflict peacefully, since i'd known the battles are a bit like puzzles and this one had given me the capability of using wisp's cry. so i did, thinking it was simply the resolution for the battle.

and this. this took me off-guard. but, obviously, not in the way the devs had expected. i didn't know who this guy was so suddenly playing as him was rather confusing.

which is a shame, really. i wish i'd restarted the game instead of picked up from my current save. i wish i could erase my memories of the game and replay it afresh (but with more optimal controls). i wish i'd gotten a controller before playing worldless.

but what's done is done. i wrestled the controls into something somewhat manageable. in the span of less than two weeks of active play, i'd beaten the game, found the secret boss, ascended the path of determination, and overcome the ultimate trial all on a keyboard.

dw tho, i eventually bonded with my beloved deuteragonist (dubbed him "coal" in contrast with the original deuteragonist "wisp"). i've drawn a ton of them in the past couple of weeks and i'm hoping to share em soon. gotta get the word about this game out somehow :D

idk how to end this lol

[constantinoreal]

Trans men and transmasc folk deserve so much better, always the butt of the joke, on top of being always invisibilized and the medical violence and the infantilization, and a million other things.

It's already bad enough the only way people knows to affirm our gender is to joke about the negative parts of being a man or masculine. Stinky, messy, insensitive, scary, abuser, rapist-Enough!

Even other trans men do this. Openly talking about how they regressed, chose to be less, decided to be boring, etc etc. The rest of transmasc folk don't have to know about your insecurity and self-hatred, sorry to say. A jab at yourself is an jab at the rest of us; I know loving yourself is hard, but learning to not internalize the relentless microviolence everyone else constantly performs on us is also a must.

Because being a man or masculine is not inherently a negative or bad thing, and insisting it is only puts down and erodes the self-steem and self-love of every men, yes, cis included.

So progressive and queer yet so many in the community don't know how to uplift and voice themselves without always putting down another group. It's exhausting.

Do better. You don't even need to become the spokesperson for every transmasculine individual, just stop shitting on masculinity for no good reason or making the same old joke of how stinky we are. People needs to learn for real how to better support and affirm trans men and transmasculine folks.

We won't ever progress if people within the community still have it ingrained that one gender is the good one and the other gender is the bad one. It's a preconceived notion that hurt EVERYONE.

If you are a trans guy or a transmasc individual: You are worthy of love, you didn't choose to be boring or worse, being your truest self can only be positive, your masculinity is beautiful and not an inherent threat to the rest of humanity. I love you

[thorsenmark]

I Can Truly See for Miles and Miles! (Bryce Canyon National Park) by Mark Stevens Via Flickr: A setting looking to the south while taking in views across a seemingly endless setting of evergreen trees at Yovimpa Point in Bryce Canyon National Park. Composing the image was then a matter of lining up to take advantage of the greens leading off to a distant horizon and then angling my Nikon SLR camera slightly downward to create more of a sweeping view. The blue skies and clouds would be that color contrast to complement the earth-tones in the lower portion of the image.

[edenfenixblogs]

Love you all (personal)

Leaving my phone in another room for awhile. I'm not ignoring any of you, and I have seen and will respond to all your EXTREMELY KIND messages, even if it takes awhile.

I was attempting to take a break from all this over the course of the week, because I felt myself growing weary and needed a recharge. Then my ceiling collapsed in heavy rain and I had to turn off my "Work Hours Focus" setting on my phone. It was supposed to silence all notifications and alerts from non-work and non-family phone numbers and block all non-work apps.

LOL...not really possible to have that setting on when coordinating with a bunch HVAC/Roofer dudes I've never met before.

But still. Jewish law commands us to find joy somewhere even when we're miserable. And while I know that is a sentiment that does not work for a lot of people, it has always been helpful to me.

So, despite all this, I am grateful for the shift in my plans this week for several reasons.

I'm grateful we were able to band together to help @rabid-catboy with an actual urgent issue. It feels very good to do something that you know helps someone. If my phone was in work mode I never would have seen this message in time to do anything about it. I had a similar experience in high school and I still think about it often. I get upset at how much was being asked of me and how much I was expected to know so that I could educate my peers and educators to do better. I didn't have the words to describe why something was so upsetting to me and why I know that it was wrong. Years later, I found the words and was so angry that I was expected to have them even when I was a child. It's an unfair burden, and I'll always be grateful that, even though I didn't find the words in time, I could help someone else find their words.

I am glad to have seen how active allies have been over the past week. I'm pretty emotionally drained by this all the time, so I may not say it as clearly or as often as I should, butt you give me hope. I am not used to relying on other or sharing my grief. It's actually a big problem. I don't tell people when I'm upset, because I'm afraid to inconvenience people or seem dramatic. that's part of the reason I struggled through undiagnosed PTSD for 13 years before reaching out for help. With the help of my BFF and my therapist, I chose to start being more open about my emotions with people. It's been a mixed bag. The people I knew would be here for me have continued to be here for me, thank goodness! But all (except 1) of the people I THOUGHT I could trust have simply stopped interacting with me at all. And I'm a lot less pushy/aggressive/vocal about all his suff IRL than I am when I have time to compose my thoughts and answer questions on here. It's been cataclysmic and devastating. To see so many people I've never met IRL not only lend emotional support to me personally but also provide emotional and temporal labor into fighting antisemitism and supporting Jews more broadly has gone a long way to restoring the faith in humanity that this conflict is trying to erode within me. I know I'm not he only Jew who feels this way right now. Please never underestimate the impact you have just by visibly existing in this space with us.

It's been nice being able to channel my anxiety about my ceiling into something productive.

Reminder: I love you all. Sorry for delayed replies. I'll be back. <3

[salantami]

Wave in Coyote Buttes

Spanning extreme south-central Utah and north-central Arizona, south of US 89 halfway between Kanab, Utah and Page, Arizona. It is divided into two areas: Coyote Buttes North and Coyote Buttes South. 

The Wave consists of intersecting U-shaped troughs that have been eroded into Navajo Sandstone of Jurassic age. The two major troughs which comprise this rock formation are 62 feet (19 m) wide by 118 feet (36 m) long and 7 feet (2 m) wide by 52 feet (16 m) long.

[swaps55]

Please tell me something about that Noveria First Kiss AU! <3

You may not like it, which is why it has remained a WIP. I toyed with making something happen with everyone having a night off at Port Hanshan, but what came out was some drunk teasing that escalated much faster than anyone (even me) guessed. Sam reacts badly when he doesn't have time to chew on his feelings first, and when he's up against a wall he lashes out. And, uh. His choice of targets was not ideal.

I didn't know how to fix the spot I got them into, or how the fuck to get the actual kiss out of it, so I haven't returned to it. Part of me wants to, just to explore it, because it feels in character enough to be worth poking at. But with Fugue and Mezzo being such angst fests, I haven't had the mental fortitude to give to it.

~

“You’re jealous,” Ashley informs him.

“Of what,” Shepard scoffs, giving her the same look he gave the NCD inspector who grounded the Mako.

“That woman is hitting on him, and you can hardly keep your butt in that chair.” She bops the leg of his seat with a foot. His eyes narrow.  

Garrus swivels his head between them, mandibles flaring, and Tali sets her cards down. Joker sits back in his seat and crosses his arm, like there’s a show about to happen and he’s got a front row seat. Wrex shoves another glass of ryncol towards her, and like an idiot, she takes it.

“He hates being hit on,” Shepard informs her.

“Yeah,” she says with a snort, “because it’s never you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean.”

Amazing how much nuance in the human – alien – whatever – voice gets lost when you’re drunk, or maybe she would have noticed how flat Shepard’s sounded, or how little humor was in it.

She grins. “It means he’s wanted in your pants since probably five minutes after he met you, and somehow you haven’t noticed.”

“I notice plenty,” Shepard says, leveling her with a stare. “We’re close. Why does everyone assume it has to be about sex?”

[more stuff]

“Leave it alone, Williams,” Shepard growls. “We are what we are. Stop trying to make it something it’s not.”

“Tell him that,” Ashley says, gesturing towards Alenko, who is now glancing over his shoulder while he waits for their drinks. “I have never seen someone so desperate over someone as that guy. Pretty sure if the two of you just got a room and fucked each other’s brains out you’d both be a lot better off.”

Shepard shoves out of his chair with enough force Ashley actually jumps. Just as she starts wondering if maybe she pushed him too far, Alenko chooses that moment to return with his drink. Garrus swivels his head between them, mandibles flaring, and Tali sets her cards down. Joker sits back in his seat and crosses his arm, like there’s a show about to happen and he’s got a front row seat.

“What’s going on?” Alenko asks, cautious.

Shepard meets his gaze like a rail gun lining up a target.

“So, what, you want to fuck me?” he demands, eyes flashing, and Ashley sucks in a breath. “Is that what we’ve always been about? Is getting in my pants what friendship is to you? Because if it is, fine. I’ll go fuck you in that corner right now if that’s the price of doing business.”

Alenko stares at him in incomprehension that erodes into something Ashley can’t even name, before it fades completely and all that’s left is a slate so blank it hits harder than any bullet she’s ever fired.

“Go fuck yourself,” he says, quiet, indifferent, as he sets his drink steadily on the table and walks out of the bar while everyone at the poker table stares after him.

He’s only made it a few steps before Shepard’s expression to shift to shock, then horror, but it’s too late.

[sadderbutwisergirrl]

Jim Hightower is an old pro at populist grass roots mobilization. We need to listen to this political elder!

“We’re collecting actions that grassroots people can take, and are collaborating with longtime friends and allies to light a fire under the butts of Democratic Party leaders. We’ll keep you updated on those efforts, but to start, here are two groups to join up with.

Demand Justice has been advocating for the Judiciary Act, which would expand the court by four seats. They’re asking people to call their representatives, and to join their rapid response team. https://demandjustice.org/

We’ve long been a fan of Lisa Graves (you can watch our 2022 Chat ‘n’ Chew episode with her here), and she’s teamed up with the folks at Court Accountability for a new round of intense actions called Justice Can’t Wait.

They’ve shared with us a list of things you can do:

Share the Justice Can’t Wait updated website. https://justicecantwait.org/#

Raise awareness of the seeds being planted by Trump and his allies to deny the results of the 2024 election if it doesn’t go their way. Trump has refused to commit to accepting legitimate election results if he does not win, and his allies are laying the groundwork for election denial through lawsuits and false claims about election fraud.

Urge Congress to pass reforms clarifying the Insurrection Act, which Trump plans to invoke to deploy the military against the American people, on his first day in office. https://www.brennancenter.org/our-work/analysis-opinion/trumps-insurrection-act-threat

Share Stand Up America’s Supreme Court Voter website, which aims to educate and mobilize voters on the impact the next president will have on the future of the U.S. Supreme Court. https://www.courtvoter.com/

Educate Americans on the economic threats that the extremist Project 2025 poses. Economic concerns “consistently rank as top issues among likely voters,” and people need to understand the likely consequences and chaos for our economy and American families if Project 2025 affiliates are able to carry out their dangerous agenda. (The NYT article was behind a paywall so I replaced it with this link) https://www.democracydocket.com/analysis/what-is-project-2025-and-why-is-it-alarming/

Join United for Democracy in calling on Congress to rein in the out-of-control Supreme Court. https://unitedfordemocracy.us/get-involved/

Drive home that this is Trump’s Supreme Court. Trump installed the corporatist majority that has taken away women’s fundamental freedoms and stripped away protections for Americans’ health and safety. Even after Trump led an insurrection, the Court that Trump built is now tipping the scales to help him win again in November and protect him from accountability for his actions.

From the Hightower staff: And let’s not forget how the Supremes view actual bribery: as nothing more than a tip or a token of thanks for a job well done. They’re basically creating loopholes to legalize their own corruption!

Stay tuned for more, and let us know what other concrete actions and organizations you’re hearing about—the comments on this post are open to all subscribers. Let’s do this!”