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thorsenmark · 2 months

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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.

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witchlaser · 11 months

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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

#butt #tight butt #great butt #big round butt #huge butt #just a stupdendous fuckin ass #a tremendous quantity of cake #these cheeks have an ozymandian hubris but have yet to be eroded by the sands of time

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after-witch · 2 months

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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.

#yandere chrollo #yandere chrollo lucilfer #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere #afterwitch writes #this fic is my baby /wraps it in a blanket

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queenendless · 5 months

Text

💗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.

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loolingz · 1 year

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Hi, hi 👋 👋 I am not really sure if you are taking requests at the moment , if you don't that is totally fine. For the last week I have been reading your works and they had me hanging by a thread, I have read them several times now cause they are that good. That being said can I requests sae-nii with a little stepsister that has a petite body(small boobs/butt) that has seen her big bro being surrounded by mature women, and him not making a move to push them off, so that makes her so insecure : ( , so she starts to distance herself and hide her body from him because she thinks she is not attractive anymore. So after a week of sae confronting her and she just giving him the silent treatment, he corners her while she was changing and she just breaks down and tells him about her insecurity. Sae can not believe what kind bs his little stepsis is thinking so he throws her on her bed and starts eating her out while telling her he is not gonna stop till he hears her saying she is a pretty girl. The stepsis is stubborn and on low confidence so he ends up overstimulating her till she begins shaking and crying and is trying everything to take him off her while still refusing to admit she is beautiful. Suddenly she turns and tries(keyword :tries) to crawl away but Sae is quick to pin? her hips and continue. Poor stepsis can not hold on any longer and sae does not shows any signs of stopping so she caves in and chants that she is the most pretty girl and finally sae stops and tells her she will be punished more if she will ever think that again. I hope it made sense ? It is totally fine if you do not want to do it though : ). Do not forget to take breaks and have a great night or day !

hihi! 1) i really loved this ask oh my god, it’s absolutely stunning and 2) requests are always open unless stated otherwise so tysm for that! i really hope you enjoy this & have a great day! <33

it truly did hurt. you felt terrible watching your nii-san with such developed women, whenever one of them clung to him, flirting and pushing their breasts against him. of course, he didn't notice - such matters were insignificant to him, so you didn't dare to tell him how you felt. it was intimidating to open yourself up in front of so many people who admired you and your stepbrother.

all it took for you to snap out of your thoughts was to hear sae call out your name, lightly rubbing circles on your shoulders. you quickly looked up, plastering on a smile. “sorry? i wasn't focusing, my mind was.. elsewhere.” you drifted once more to your train of thoughts, barely registering his words.

you could tell he mentioned going to the second party of the night, but you quickly informed him that you were exhausted. that was a lie, but he didn't know that. he gave you a nod before excusing himself and escorting you to his car. “is everything okay? you appear to be out of it.” he spoke quietly, but loudly enough for only you to hear.

“just fatigued, like I said. i'm sorry you had to end your night early; we had more parties to attend.” you sighed apologetically, your gaze fixed on your lap. pulling on the edge of your dress, you felt even more miserable than before. he bought it for you while he was abroad, the dress. you could feel his cold gaze on you, but he said nothing. to be honest, you preferred the pleasant silence of the ride home. it was preferable than talking when you were upset.

( O1 , O2 )

( O3 , O4 )

( O5 , O6 )

( 8:OO PM )

six days. that's the amount of time that has passed since the party incident, if you can even call it that. that's also how long you've been avoiding your stepbrother, sae itoshi. sure, it was stupid. but you didn't want to bother him and bring him down when he could be having the time of his life. he approached you more than usual, so you could tell he noticed.

even though you tried to avoid him, he managed to corner and chase you down like an animal.

“how long were you planning to avoid me for?” sae snarled quietly, his patience eroding from annoyance. “why the fuck are you avoiding me?” he continued asking questions, hovering over you. his gaze dug into you, his arms by your sides. “i've been trying to be a nice brother and check in on you, but it's been difficult because you keep hiding from me.”

“i wasn't trying to avoid you! i've just gotten busy!” you almost immediately responded, a shaky laugh exiting your lips. “why would i want to avoid you?” you played with the edge of your shirt, hardly able to squeak out your words.

“that's what i'm curious about.” he snarled. his arms now crossed over his chest. “you don't appear to be too busy for rin, but you are for me?” every word he spoke sent goosebumps up your spine and caused nervousness to rise within you.

“i don't know what you're talking about, nii-san,” you blurted out before pushing past him, a smile on your face. “but I really need to get going now, bye!” little pants were snatched from you as you ran to your room. you hadn't run far, but you were terrified. i was afraid he'd find out that you were envious of the women he hung around with. how you felt insignificant in comparison to the company he kept. hearing him shout your name and walk to your room was your cue to lock the door and bite your lower lip anxiously.

sae knocked twice on your door, and when all he received was silence, he sighed and walked away. as you fell onto your bed, the sound of his footsteps disappearing made you feel better. you sat in silence with your head buried in your pillow, the only sound bothering you being the buzzing of your phone.

“hello?” you reluctantly answered the phone before instantly regaining your composure when you heard your mother's voice. she mentioned taking you and your stepbrothers out to dinner to celebrate her nth anniversary with their father. you accepted her request without paying attention to what she truly wanted, thinking only of your previous encounter with sae.

“yes, sure, sure.” you waved to no one in particular before hanging up and unlocking your door. you often got thirsty from conversing when you didn't want to, so you strolled to the kitchen for some water. rin caught your eye from the opposite side of the room, and you smiled. “oh, rin, hurry up and get ready. mom invited us to dinner with her and your father. remember to tell sae!” you called out as you walked back to your room after your drink, running your fingers through your hair. it wasn't too messy, so you could easily style it. you shut your bedroom door and turned around, letting out a small yelp when you noticed sae in your room.

“sae! what are you doing here?” you asked, hands behind your back. he only stared back, his arms crossed. when you didn't get a response, you sighed and headed to your closet, trying to shake off his continuous stare at you. you felt a hand closing in on your wrist as you uncomfortably removed your shirt and attempted to put on another. you turned to face him, which was a mistake. you didn't know how fast he was, gripping your chin with his free hand and drawing you closer to him. you could feel his hot breath on you with your faces inches apart. “what's the matter? why are you avoiding me?” he murmured softly,

sae made sure his hold wasn't too tight to hurt you, but yet not too loose. “and don't say it's nothing; i'm not the moron you think i am.” he gently scolded you. your bottom lip quivered as you tried not to cry in front of him. he observed your reaction and continued coaxing you while stroking your cheek. that last move was the final push you needed to start sobbing while holding to your older stepbrother. “i just,” you cried, fiercely wiping away your tears. “you're usually with these women who are prettier and better looking than I am! when it comes to curves, i look and feel like a child in comparison to them, and that makes me feel like i'm embarrassing you."

as you opened out to him, you began muttering and sniffling silently. You felt horrible. when you didn't hear sae reply, you looked up at him, only to be met with the most bewildered look you'd ever seen. “sae?” you muttered gently, trying to read how he felt.

"you—" he halted for a second, staring at you. "Do you think I prefer those women over you?" Sae couldn't help but laugh as he leaned in closer, your back now brushing against the closet door. "Of course I do," you said, avoiding his gaze and glancing at the ground. "Have you seen how I look next to them?"

Sae looked at you and scoffed, speechless. "You truly are an idiot, aren't you?" Your eyes welled up at that line, and you bit your lower lip, trying not to cry any farther. It was only natural he would choose them over you, you were his stepsister—

"I'm not interested in them; I'm interested in you." He drew you in, your lips now just inches apart.

“don't make that joke, it's not funny.” you tried shoving him away with little force, your cheeks steadily burning up. “do you think i'm kidding? let me show you that i'm not.” sae leaned in close and kissed your lips in a frantic and passionate kiss, drawing you in closer than before.

to say it stole your breath away would be an understatement – you felt as if you had everything you could possibly want, as if you were on top of the world. sure, it was stupid, but you liked the idea of having him all to yourself. call it selfishness, but you were relieved he preferred you above the others. sae carried you from your thighs and dropped on the bed, with you now beneath him, exactly as you caressed his cheek and deepened the kiss. he panted silently, attempting to regain his breath. “stop dismissing yourself; you're much more attractive than those girls.” his remarks caused a crimson flush to appear on your cheeks, and you scoffed, not believing him at all.

"oh, no, that's not true!" as he removed your skirt, his cold and hard grasp on your thighs made you squeal. "stop lying; it is true. i won't stop until you admit that you're the most beautiful of all of them at the party." the way he stared at you told you that he wouldn't stop what he was about to do until he heard you speak those words, even if you dismissed them as a joke or a humorous threat. "yes, absolutely." you were ready to make another sarcastic remark when your breath hitched as you felt sae's tongue delicately lick your clothed cunt. when his eyes met yours, you could notice a dark cloud of lust in his.

“well, i guess you'll have to take it the hard way.” you backed away as his teeth pulled down your panties. he'll definitely give up soon, right? there's no way sae would continue until you said the words.

wrong.

the moment you uttered those words, sae's tongue sucked on your clothed clit, making you gasp out in shock and pleasure. you squeaked, squeezing your eyes shut and blushing heavily as he swirled his tongue round and round, teasing you with casual flicks; he was ravenous, fingers drawing circles on your chest, running his tongue over your clit and sucking hard.

sae pushed your cute tiny panties out of the way and threw them someplace, not caring about them right now despite your protests claiming that it was your favorite. “will you admit you're the most beautiful? we don't have to do things the hard way.”

hoping you were wet enough, sae pulled away and lowered his hand, his palm gliding over your stomach and between your legs, fingers sinking down and brushing against you where indeed, he came in contact with your slick and smirked, teasing your damp folds with his fingertips and observing how you shivered and shuddered under his touch.

you whimpered his name weakly, refusing to confess and he just drank in your shallow breaths as he continued to lazily suck on your tits whilst slipping two fingers in and out of your hole. sae was mercilessly teasing you, watching your reaction to his torturous actions. mind going hazy, you were a whimpering mess, squirming over the mattress.

a strangled gasp left the back of your throat and you threw your head backwards into the pillow, back arching; he could tell you probably weren’t able to take much longer and released you with a wet pop, panting slightly.

“sae?” you murmured; reopening your eyes, you glanced down to see that he had positioned himself between your legs.

you blinked wide-eyed as he gently eased your legs apart and with a firm grip on your thighs, lowered himself even further, his face level to your pussy. although he’d done this to you before, your heart was pounding heavily, your nerves getting the best of you. he could see your pussy even clearer more than ever, your cunt wet and shiny with your slick and he carefully spread your lips.

sae looked up and your eyes met - you swallowed down and glanced to the side, blushing heavily and he said, “look at me. I want you to see what I’m doing to you.”

You slid your gaze to him and he smirked, leaned in, his hot breath fanning over your bare flesh – and suddenly you were aware of how close he was - before he buried his face into your cunt, his tongue flicking across your clit, gently at first.

immediately, you attempted to draw your knees to your chest but he held on, his grip on you tightening and your fingers scrunched into the sheets underneath as he sucked you with more force, groaning as you instinctively began to buck your hips further into his face, wanting to feel more of his tongue on you, his hair tickling your inner thighs.

his lips were glued to your cunt and sae kept you pinned in your spot, occasionally glancing up to see your reaction and listening to your little pants and desperate moans as your legs quivered by the sides of his head.

“sae,” you squeaked out. “i can’t take much more…”

“Yes, you can,” he murmured, and your response was a defeated whine as you threw your head back. you could hear the quiet wet noises coming from his mouth; he had moved his tongue to your sopping entrance and after one final suck, started tracing the sides in a teasing manner before he shoved his tongue in.

you gasped, fingers clawing at his hair as he persisted. all you could do was lie still with your legs hiked over his shoulders, wailing helplessly as you sank your hands into his messy hair, trying your best not to roll around over the mattress.

with a moan, your brows squeezed tightly together as he slowly loosened his grip on your legs and your first instinct was to automatically draw your legs to your chest once more. he slid his palms over your thighs, his eyes boring into yours.

“i’m close… please sae..” you moaned helplessly, throwing your head to the side and grabbing onto the corners of the pillow as you came with a shaky breath.

( 12:OO AM )

and it continued. he pulled countless orgasms from you, so much that you both lost track of time and count. you sobbed, begged and pleaded for him to stop. but he didn’t. you hadn’t uttered the words he wanted from you, and it was currently, what? midnight? you had been going at it for four hours now, you sure were stubborn.

but you began to crack.

“pleasepleaseplease—” how long had you been begging for? you forgot. but the pleasure was too much, you couldn’t take it anymore. “you know what you have to say, just say those words and i’ll stop it.” he whispered, mouth still attached to your dripping cunt.

and you tried, you tried so hard not to but your body couldn’t. “i’m sorry, i’m the prettiest and the most gorgeous girl there was, i’m sorry! please, please—” you cried out, covering your face with one hand.

you felt a small smile form on his lips and he got up, finally letting your body rest as your chest heaved. “that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he mumbled, kissing your lips lightly. you could taste yourself on his lips — of course you did, he spent hours going down on you.

“we should call your mum and reassure her.. as well as take a bath and change the sheets.” he suggested, picking you up in a bridal style.

only then did he realize, that you had fallen into a deep slumber. he didn’t mind though, he’d love to take care of you. it’s what he always tried to do, even if his attempts seemed cold and ruthless in ways.

and when you awoke later on, you were in his hands, his lips on your forehead as he slept.

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constantinoreal · 7 months

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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

#“it's only a joke”#its the same joke from many individuals every day for years #anyway vent i expect nobody to read #im a tired trans man tired of being put down #and tired of other trans men putting themselves down for simply being men #terfs fuck off

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edenfenixblogs · 4 months

Text

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

#an eden original

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swaps55 · 8 months

Note

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.

#swaps replies #cr-noble-main #mememe #meme replies #snippet

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rabbitcruiser · 8 months

Text

Monument Valley, AZ (No. 25)

Perhaps nothing better symbolizes the American Southwest than Monument Valley and its iconic scenery, along with its extraordinary collection of buttes. These buttes are located in the present-day Navajo Nation (the largest American Indian reservation). The two most iconic buttes are perhaps East Butte and West Butte. They are free to visit and have long captured the public imagination. They have become ingrained in America's mythic "Wild West" and shape the perception of the Southwest.

The buttes of Monument Valley tower around 1,000 feet above the desert floor below. According to Navajo legend, they are the carcasses of long-defeated monsters. The buttes are made of red sandstone and are isolated hills with steep sides and a flat top. The buttes have been exposed over the eons as the valley has been eroded.

The rocks of the valley are mostly sedimentary, dating from between the Permian to the mid-Jurassic. In total, they represent around 192 million years of Earth's geologic history. There are three main formations making up the monuments - the Organ Rock Formation (formed from the sediments), the De Chelly Formation (formed from ancient dunes of deserts), and the Moenkopi Formation.

The oldest of the formations show that this area was once submerged as a marine environment. Ancient seas came and went throughout the geologic history of Monument Valley. Additionally, there are some locations with Igneous rocks cropping out. These are the plugs of ancient volcanoes.

Source

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snackbyte · 2 months

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let's talk abt video games - dark souls

(aka snack's messy thoughts abt Dark Souls: on persistence, purpose, and perpetuality)

happy easter! today is a day where a dude flipped tables, came back to life, and was suddenly missing in a cave, so naturally we're thinking about the cyclical nature of death and rebirth and pain and suffering and absolution

- spoilers for dark souls, bloodborne, and dark souls 3 -

dark souls, along with its predecessor, demon's souls, the dark souls of dark souls games, is notorious for making you die over and over again with its punishing core loop, where if you die, you are sent back to your last checkpoint, and you need to make all the way back to where you were again… which actually sounds like any video game that came out in the 90s

but really, what makes the Dark Souls series so different from any other video game? it's nowhere near as hard or brutal as the original super mario bros, and it shares a lot of combat DNA with its ancestor game, Monster Hunter, with extremely tight animation control, even more so by Bloodborne where the focus shifts from the original Dark Souls' less linear map design and moves towards boss and enemy mechanics.

I think the key difference lies in is its commitment to their core themes in all of its aspects, ranging from design to narrative, etc.

The first Dark Souls game flips what we usually see of medieval fantasy end-of-the-world stories from “everybody is dead” to “btw nobody can die anymore?” anyone that can't die no matter what eventually loses their mind because life is meaningless and existence is suffering and pain is eternal. given infinite chances and immortality, and faced with the sheer dauntingness/impossibleness of a task, people break and give up and become Hollow, essentially mindless zombies. i really like the idea that “zombies” in dark souls happen because your sanity the first to go, eroded over an infinite amount of time.

The only thing that makes you different from all of the random schmuck hollows you fight is that, lost as you are, even if you don’t know the plot or what the heck is going on, you move forward because you, the player, know there is an end. Whether in the narrative sense of “yes i will link the flame and end undying apathy and insanity” or in the “there’s gonna be a final boss eventually and i will kick his butt” mechanics sense.

This is reflected heavily in its core loop. You will die. You will come back. You will learn the enemies, you will try different things. But the most important thing is that you will push forward even if you’re a wrinkly ugly zombie. “Don’t go hollow” is a recurring theme in the game. Because the only way a player will truly go hollow is if they’ve given up on the game and lost their resolve.

The sidequests of many characters revolve around this same optimism in the face of adversity, that only holding on to our humanity keeps us sane and gives us the resolve to keep going. Solaire, Siegmeyer, and many of the characters in the game believe in a better world no matter how meaningless it seems. Even Patches finds the fun in being a dick. And that sometimes we just need a little bit of joly cooperation!

Dark Souls talks about that persistence for a goal in the face of an unending task. Similarly, in its sequel, Bloodborne, Hunters must perpetually hunt the beasts that plague Yharnam. When they die, they simply wake up to return to the hunt, as if in an unending dream. Hunters are born with that purpose, and you, the player, must commit to that purpose. Fear the old blood.

Bloodborne adds to the themes of the DS1’s original argument: That goal must be yours and yours alone. Your purpose is the reason why you keep going and must come from you. Unlike when someone in DS1 becomes Hollow when they go insane, in Bloodborne, it’s the opposite. Hunters go insane when they are consumed by bloodlust and ambition, blindly slaughtering the beasts of the night or becoming monsters themselves by consuming their blood.

(this is my only photo of my bloodborne playthrough as innsmouth skadi arknights)

And the game doesn’t just tell you this, it lets you experience this (and question your own sanity) through gaining powerful insight as you progress. This is where Bloodborne’s linearity and railroadedness actually aids its storytelling in contrast with Dark Souls’s openness! I won’t get too into it here, but I think anyone that’s played Bloodborne knows what mechanic I’m talking about HAHA.

The other Hunters you see in the game are generally already driven insane and will try to kill you on sight. Some retain their human form, and some have become monsters. You even get to see one other “good” NPC in the game succumb, as he beats down a “monster” into nothing but a pile of blood and mush. Before he dies.

In contrast, a (retired) Hunter named Djura will shoot you on sight, not because he’s insane, but because he found new purpose in protecting the people of Old Yharnam, who are pretty much zombies and beasts at this point. He refuses to let them die or give up on them so long as there’s a chance that they might have retained their humanity or may regain it. Another hunter, Eileen the Crow, is a Hunter of Hunters, who kills those who have gone mad.

I think my favorite example of this theme in action is through the character of Ludwig. A lot of the item descriptions in the game talk about Ludwig, one of the Healing Church’s greatest hunters and its leader. He’s described as a truly good hunter who simply wanted to stop the spread of evil using holy weapons and Being Good.

When we get to the Old Hunters DLC, we finally see Ludwig himself. Like many hunters, he was pushed beyond the brink and all we see left of him is a horselike beast. But fascinates me most about his boss battle, is that in the middle, he remembers his true purpose, not the one given to him by the Church, not the violence and blooodlust and rage stemming from his underlings that fell to beastlike tendencies, but his true mentor, his guiding moonlight that allowed him to retain his humanity: Hope and goodness, never falling to the temptation of bloodlust and insanity. It is then that Ludwig gets up from his monstrous self and fights like a human one last time, wielding his old greatsword.

Bloodborne is filled with many brilliant, subtle storytelling bits about the same persistence in Dark Souls but argues the necessity of finding our own meaning in our struggle. These themes/stories-in-mechanics work in Bloodborne because you already know what you are from the start. You’re given the purpose of eradicating monsters. You want to end the night. You will gain powerful insight. You will have eyes on the inside. Killing is extremely visceral and satisfying. Violence is the best way to stay alive in a battle. A hunter must hunt, and by progressing you are fulfilling this purpose. And by fulfilling this given purpose, we are driven mad.

Dark Souls 3 takes those themes of purpose and brings us to all the places we went through in DS1, both literally and figuratively, changed through the incomprehensible flow of time. Every location you’ve seen in the first game is now a completely different place. Or not. Same same, but different. We have to link the first flame again, and end the cycle of people not dying and going insane (again). And this works to its advantage!

DS3 tackles the (even more meta) cyclical nature of this persistence and purpose. Not in the cycles of “we die, we respawn, we persist”, but the very idea that this will happen again, even if it’s not within our lifetime. The idea of revisiting DS1 fits exactly with what it’s trying to say.

One of my favorite things in DS3 is that most, if not all, the questlines end with the death and absolution of its related character, breaking their own cycles having found their purpose. It’s a marriage and contrast with the main themes of DS1 and BB, where they “live” in their final moments, ultimately choosing the way they die.

This all comes together in the game’s final boss and endings. In DS3’s last battle, you face the literal personification of everyone has that finished Dark Souls before. Everyone who, in the past, has linked the first flame. Everyone whose struggle we know and have experienced. When you defeat them, you can continue the cycle and maintain the status quo. Or, you can attempt to break the cycle with the Firekeeper, and change the world! Or you can take the first flame for yourself.

DS1, BB, and DS3 all build on their predecessor’s themes to reflect on maintaining our purpose in the midst of never ending and changing hardship. But despite their glum, dreary worlds, there is always hope. And people will always fight. Because our humanity and persistence will always be our greatest weapons against struggle, no matter where, when, or how it manifests.

---

note: i dont include ds2 bec i think its direction is so different it doesn’t really fit with what these games try to discuss. the overarching design is more of cheap “difficulty” jabs than the level and narrative design we get from the miyazaki-directed games. kinda like if you draw a line in both game design and themes from ds1 to ds3, bb fits more than ds2 does

#snack eats #dark souls #dark souls 3 #bloodborne #game design

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thorsenmark · 1 month

Video

flickr

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.

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dwellordream · 3 months

Text

“In the last decades of the 19th century, Native Americans continued to be herded off their lands and forced into reservations. There, both men and women tried to maintain their intimate and cooperative relationship with the land, but reservation officials discouraged them from establishing cooperative farms and instead encouraged them to farm individual plots. As a result, Native American women gradually lost control of the land, and their social power within their tribes diminished. The equal relationship between Indian women and men changed and began to resemble the marital relations of the white settlers, in which a husband held economic and social power over his wife.

As their way of life eroded, both Native American women and men were forced to enter into a servile relationship with white settlers. Indian women, and some men, washed clothes and dishes and did other household chores for settlers. Some Indian women worked as nursemaids for white women. As their lands were scooped up by non-Indians eager to wrest a profit from the land, Native Americans’ communal, agrarian way of life vanished--and with it, the Native American women’s prominent tribal role.

…In the 1870s, Hispanic villages remained almost untouched by the growing presence of white, or Anglo, settlers. Some Hispanic men performed seasonal work for Anglo settlers for extra cash, then returned to their villages. This extra income enabled Hispanic farmers to purchase additional livestock or to open a store. By the 1880s, however, an expanding railroad system brought more white settlers to the Southwest. As more Anglos arrived, they forced their cultural values and business practices on Hispanics. They imposed the notion of private property, the use of property for commercial gain rather than for subsistence, and an economy based on money instead of barter.

Most important, they simply took land that had been commonly owned by Hispanic villagers. Lacking sufficient pastureland, villagers could hardly sustain their agrarian way of life on their small individual plots. Gradually, Anglos gained control over the local village economy throughout New Mexico, Arizona, and Colorado. With insufficient land to support themselves, Hispanics had no choice but to work for the new landowners. Hispanic women were no longer able to help support their communal life. They began to work for whites as seamstresses, cooks, launderers, domestics, hotel keepers, and even prostitutes. Like Native American women, they worked as day laborers for someone else instead of as farmers for their own people.

…In the mining camps of Butte, Montana, as well as in the desert outposts of New Mexico, women worked as prostitutes and owners of brothels and saloons. Women became prostitutes for a variety of reasons--to rebel against strict parents, to experience the adventure of a mining camp, or simply to earn a living when no other choice of work was available. Some women prospered and turned their earnings into lucrative real estate investments, but many women felt socially outcast and were at risk of contracting venereal diseases, which were often fatal, or of being physically abused by male customers. Prostitution was a lonely, insecure life spent mostly in dark, shabby hotel rooms.

A shameful chapter in the settling of the West concerns Chinese women who were sold into prostitution. These unsuspecting young women were either kidnapped in China and smuggled into American ports, or they were deceived by agents posing as matchmakers who lured them to America. Either way, they became virtual slaves, forced to service the sexual needs of Chinese immigrant male laborers working on the railroads and ranches of the West. Some found sympathetic support from female missionaries who sheltered them in special group homes and trained them to be wives and mothers. But the missionaries pressured them into entering marriages that were not always happy or compatible, and these unfortunate young Chinese women still had little control over their lives.”

- Harriet Sigerman, “‘I Wish I Had Many Hands”: Toilers on the Land.” in Laborers for Liberty: American Women, 1865-1890

#harriet sigerman #laborers for liberty #gender #american #history #indigenous #1860s #1870s #1880s

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vergess · 10 months

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One day the 'pronoun pipeline' jokes won't make me feel like I'm the fucking butt of the joke for being a disabled they/them but not today.

Bad enough that nonbinary and GQ identities are always presented as a rest stop in the middle of 'real' transition.

But then the person in the middle always has such obvious depression that gets alleviated by 'truly' becoming male or female.

I'm so.

At least in the original meme the middle person looked happier than the start point, a trait that followups forget about and. I just.

I dunno. It's hard to explain. It erodes me.

To constantly be...

You all understand why it's weird to refer to bi as 'midway from gay to straight' right?

It's the same thing. It's weird to refer to nonbinary identities as midway from cis to Real Binary Trans, too.

I'm so tired.

#i miss when people regularly assumed nonbinary identites are complete stops not stepping stones

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thetransintransformers · 1 year

Text

Megop Week 2023

June 16th, Day 6

Atonement

His upcoming trial spurs Megatron to visit the grave of an old beloved one. An attempt of clearing his consciousness before he is judged by all of Cybertron.

(takes place in the TFA continuity but loosely, with some more of my own mixed media timeline)

The trial of Megatron was on the horizon. Currently, the warlord sat alone, in a hex cell onboard the Magnus’ flagship. A gaudy thing of Autobot ingenuity, and he proclaimed that with the least amount of respect, he could. Up ahead flying this godforsaken contraption was Optimus Prime, The little dropout who managed to down and arrest him. His co-pilot, Sentinel Prime, joining him just to ensure he “did his job right” even Megatron would have to argue in the blue mech’s favor. He would almost be impressed if it wasn't for the sheer prejudice he was about to endure at his trial, and later the stockades. Or perhaps the populace would be so enthralled in their hatred of him, that they’d order his execution right on the spot. Either way, Megatron was far over his defeat, simply watching the stars pass by. Rather, as he was placed infront of the populace during his initial capture, he thought to himself, all the past millions of years of fighting, and planning; it all seemed so empty now that he was placed behind bars. It was always meant to end like this, or dead, but death couldn't be entirely ruled out. Iacon was a long enough way, the autobot team having returned to earth to clean his mess, leaving their leader alone. Megatron’s tired optics closed, speaking up for the first time since he was placed back into his cell. “Would you, as a Prime, grant a dying mech a final request?” Optimus tilted his helm, “You're not slated for execution.” Sentinel just had to butt in, sneering. “Not yet.” Optimus glared and spoke. “After all you’ve done, there’s really no reason for us to take any request of yours.”

Ah but still, even at his most merciless, Optimus was never completely without it. He sighed and spoke, “State your request and we’ll consider it.” He laid down the ground rules. Megatron hummed and stirred quietly. After a few moments of carefully considering his words, he spoke. “I’d like to visit the Iaconian Memorial Cemetery.” He tilted his helm. “There is a section dedicated to casualties of the first few years of the war, correct?” He knew he was, but he just wanted the confirmation. If they lied, he would know well enough. Sentinel, of course, had to fulfill that theory. “Any causality that old is gone. Faded out of history, just like you’re going to be.”

Optimus grimaced, “Sentinel.” earning a look of confusion from Sentinel. “What? Im helping.”

Optimus rolled his optics and asked, “What business do you have visiting a cemetery you created?” Not exactly correct, at least not in a literal sense. Megatron answered simply. “There’s someone I’d rather like to visit before I am to be put to trial.” Optimus considered his words, Sentinel snickering to himself. “Yeah right,” “Granted.” “What?!” Sentinel erupted, optics wide with confusion, shock, and abject anger, Optimus repeated, more in detail. “Granted. We’ll be at the Iaconian Memorial Cemetery shortly. You’ll have at most 5 cycles to visit whoever you need to, and that is it.” Despite his ability to even allow Megatron his request, Optimus retained a firm disposition. Megatron was a war criminal after all. Said war criminal only smiled. Not a smirk, not of a feigned sense of thanks, just a small sad smile. “Thank you, Optimus Prime.” The Prime did not respond at that, only focusing on the path ahead, and tuning out Sentinel’s angered remarks. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- The flagship landed a few cycles away from the cemetery, not daring to be any closer lest the worn metal and stone of the desolate area be eroded. The landing bay opened slowly, Sentinel pushed Megatron forward. “Move it!” He barked, followed by Optimus. Megatron was taken out of his stasis cuffs and allowed to walk more freely beside the two guards armed and ready to strike him down if he attempted anything. Luckily for them, Megatron was far beyond that. Though it was hard to believe, the warlord would not dare attempt something in a cemetery of all places. This place deserved quiet respect and worship; not a warship and a sudden burst of escape.

Sentinel crossed his arms as they crossed the cemetery threshold. “Go on, go see whoever.” He muttered to himself. Infront of them was a large statue dedicated to a fallen autobot General Megatron had slain himself. Sentinel pointed out, as they walked a few feet behind him. “Is that who you wanted to see? To gloat, you sick bast–” Sentinel didn't get to finish, as Optimus elbowed him hard in his abdomen area. “Knock it off Sen.” He whispered harshly. Looking up after their small altercation, Sentinel was rather surprised to see his remarks go unfulfilled; Megatron had walked right past the statue, in fact, he walked right past the entirety of the Autobot cemetery. No, he was going to the back, where civilian casualties rested.

Optimus and Sentinel followed, till they both stopped in their tracks, Megatron clear in their vision. The warlord stood infront of a smaller, elegant grave. Etched into the worn marble was a faded relief of a young mech and under it, the simplest indicator of just who was there.

Orion Pax

Archivist of Iacon

Nothing more. Nothing less. Not even a death date, as if so much about this “Orion Pax” was lost to history. Sentinel and Optimus certainly knew nothing about him.

But clearly, clearly, this little grave meant the world to Megatron, as he kneeled down gently. “Hello, Orion.” He whispered, tracing the edge of the grave with taloned servos. Almost like caressing the cheek of a long-lost loved one. For Megatron, this moment was exactly that.

“I see you’re in good company. They placed you as a civilian my dear.” He couldn't help but chuckle looking around. “You’d kick their afts for that I know. You contributed far too much to be marked a civilian” He sighed. The normalcy of a civilian after such an era of pain and destruction should have been a blessing. How wrong he was, to assume Orion would want normalcy after their time. He thought for a moment, “Perhaps, I could get away with being buried as a civilian . . .” he paused as if he was expecting an answer. “I know, I know, ridiculous. But it be nice . . . I could be buried right here.” He placed a servo down gently on a patch of open land next to Orion’s headstone.

Megatron’s laugh died down, smile fading as he traced his servos gently into the imprint of Orion’s name. “I’m . . . I’m heading for trial. All this time, and I’m meant to finally be brought to justice for what I’ve done.” He confessed. “And I’m ashamed.” He let out a pathetic laugh. “For a lot of things, really. For the war, letting it get so out of hand, for losing my own narrative, for letting you get hurt, for . . .” the words hitched in his intake, red optics shining with the threat of spilling over. He clutched the grave for a moment. “For not visiting you until this very moment.”

Megatron let his breathing grow ragged, servos shaking, reality setting into him all over again. It hurt. He wasn't just talking to his headstone. Not far below him, Orion was laying there. Had been laying there for Primus knew how long. Still covered in the wounds that killed him, the wounds Megatron could have prevented time and time over and never did.

Was he restless? Had he been waiting for this moment, that Megatron would visit him? Or had he moved on, thoroughly done and over with the warlord and his destructive downfall?

Megatron blinked, and for a moment he no longer saw that accursed headstone. No, instead he saw familiar bright optics. Smiling so gently, as if his horrible influence hadn't ruined his beloved archivist yet. Another blink and those eyes were gone, a fading ghost from his vision. And another that finally let the tears building in his optics flow. Megatron, having no strength, leaned his helm against the stone, closing his optics. “Im so . . . I’m so sorry, Orion. Im so sorry . . .” He repeated, over and over. Not by much, but still, Optimus and Sentinel found themselves some of the only mechs who would ever see Megatron lose face in such a way. Five cycles had gone and passed, but Optimus couldn't find it in himself to cut the moment off. He never, well, no one could have ever expected something so tender, so heartbreaking from Cybertron’s grim reaper like this. All of this? For an archivist, history couldn't care enough to remember the death date of? Sentinel was less than moved, rolling his optics as he called. “Alright, times up. We're leaving.” But a quick arm from Optimus stopped him from making any other move. Megatron breathed in, composing himself as he spoke. “One . . . one more request, please. That’s all I ask.” Sentinel was about to object before Optimus stepped infront of him. “What is it?” Sentinel grumbled, “Are you kidding me?” But his words were lost on Megatron’s reply. “My swords. You confiscated them didn't you?” Optimus nodded, “We did.” Megatron hummed, speaking again. “Bring them to me.” A bit authoritative for a captured war criminal, but his words were not from a place of giving orders. “I won't be needing them anymore, I’ll deposit them here.” Sentinel pipped again. “Optimus don't.” He snapped. “I’ve taken enough of watching this sappy scrap, can we just get the prisoner and–”

“Go, Sentinel.” Optimus cut him off. He was never in the mood to hear Sentinel but now, especially now he wasn't about to put up with it. “You know where we kept them locked up.” Sentinel stared in utter disbelief, storming off to the ship.

It gave a few moments of Megatron and Optimus alone. Optimus made no move to get closer, but still, he found himself a little more open to speaking. “. . . Who was he?”

Megatron stayed quiet as if trying to piece together the best answer to provide. “Everything to me.” A bit dramatic, so he gave him a more simple answer. “Orion Pax, an Iaconion archivist. We grew close when I was still a gladiator before any mention of Decepticons came to my mind. I loved him.” He turned back to the grave, whispering more softly. “I love you.” Optimus couldn't help but feel his spark ache at the display. Sickening almost. He wouldn't pity Megatron. He shouldn't, couldn't. After everything? One little display of care towards a grave wasn't going to change that. It wasn't.

In the distance, he could see Sentinel approaching, a large cloth in his arms, wrapping around the twin swords Megatron was so infamous for. It hit Optimus at that point, if he was so sure he wouldn't feel pity for Megatron. Then why had Optimus allowed his last rites to go on for this long?

Sentinel stood there, a low glare cast at Optimus as he dumped the swords on the ground next to Megatron, not a single shred of decency in him. Megatron grabbed onto the swords, one in each hand. The two primes only watched, it was a lie to not assume the worst. Optimus already gripping onto the Magnus’ hammer, while Sentinel laid a hand against his shield. Megatron stood up, swinging both swords before stabbing them down into the ground, one on either side of the Archivist’s grave. He let go of the handles, kneeling back down. “To protect you, in the next life. The way they should have in this one, my dear.” Optimus cleared his throat, loosening his grip as the moment came to an end. He spoke up. “Megatron. Time to go. Now.” He tried sounding firm, but Primus, this was too much to bear. Megatron only nodded, turning to face the grave one last time. “It’s too kind to assume I will see you again in the well of all sparks.” He traced the edge of the marble. “Goodbye Orion.” After that, he stood up straight and strong despite his betrayal of emotions. He turned wordlessly, once more being escorted out first by Sentinel. “Yeah yeah, time to face the music.” Optimus walked behind them once more, casting one last glimpse at the grave and relief, before following them out back to the flagship and off to Iacon.

Optimus was meant to keep a certain bias during the trial so Megatron could be defeated entirely, once and for all.

But casting a glance at the warframe in the cell, he felt that spark ache again. Optimus was worried he couldn't keep that unbias anymore as he stood and walked over to the cell. He leaned against it, speaking idly. “. . . Would you tell me more about Orion Pax? You know, something of an effort to preserve more names from the war.” Megatron felt a sad tired smile pull at the corner of his lips, once again. “Ofcourse.”

#megop week 2023 #megop week #megop #transformers animated

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whilereadingandwalking · 1 year

Text

My take-a-selfie-every-day goal actually is eroding at my need to feel perfect in photos. Not much, but a little bit. It has helped, and that’s all I really wanted, is to encourage myself to see and appreciate myself on days where I’m butt-tired and in pajamas, not just the days I’m dressed up and feeling cute.

#self compassion #self love #bookworm #bookish love #bookish aesthetic #selfies

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