#fic wrap
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...and that's another year of writing done!
Happy New Year's, everyone! Can't believe we've gone through yet another year of a pandemic (despite what government's around the world tell us about it being over).
This year was a strange one. The later half of the year feels like such a haze for me, days bleeding together, much like they did in 2020. Why? Because, after two years of being as safe as possible, I caught Covid. And not only did I catch Covid in early May, I was one of the lucky ones to get Long Haul Covid, and with that I have spent the last half of 2022 on a medical leave.
It's been a difficult year for me. There are very few things about 2022 that went according to plan--between catching Covid and simply not having the money, my plans to move to Ireland at the end of this summer didn't happen, and while the plan is to postpone my move, to when is still to be decided. I have also let my sewing and portfolio building fall to the wayside, largely--again--because of my health.
However, there are some things to be happy about and this post is my chance to look back and celebrate my writing victories.
sagemoderocklee's 2022 Fic Wrap
Absolution: Part IV (WiP)
While the goal had been to end the year with another update, tragically it was not in the cards. My health being what it is and my focus being on completing other projects, and Absolution being the huge piece it is, I felt it made more sense not to try pushing out Part V. However, I am very happy I was able to start the year with an Absolution update as this fic is very much one of my faves. The fourth part of this fic was a bit of a challenge to write, especially in the middle, but I finally hit on the beats I really needed. A big complication with Absolution was that the remaining 6 chapters, which I had fully planned and plotted, needed tweaking... which is to say Absolution needed to be longer. So I had to move all the plotting I had from Part IV on and rebuild and entirely rewrite each chapter/scene-by-scene breakdown. I'm pretty solid at the moment with Parts V through VIII in terms of plotting, and now I think I can safely say this fic will be a total of 13 chapters (the last one being an epilogue), but that could change since I still have to finish all the restructuring. I know all the key beats and the end goal, but sorting out the getting from one point to the next is really the big issue. However, all that being said, I do want to start the new year with Absolution, so that will be my top priority for January!
Pomegranate Sun: Ch1 (WiP) Co-authoring with @ghoste-catte
The first chapter of this fic I started writing a couple years ago, sometime after I got the prologue from @ghoste-catte. And then, of course, I stopped and didn't touch it again for... ages. But with the Naruto-Run last December and @ghoste-catte wanting to have a special fic for the big milestone of 100 GaaLee fics, it was time to work on this baby again. It is absolutely no surprise that when I get to worldbuild I'm in my comfort zone, so even though it took a while, once I got into working on this (while sick with covid, no less) I was happy. And this is going to be such a fresh piece of worldbuilding since we're bringing in OCs from the far west of Wind Country!
Plus One (COMPLETE)
So, I signed up for a bingo challenge and ended up writing a slightly spicy one-shot. Certainly not the spiciest thing in the world, but I very much enjoy writing flirty!Gaara. I have a LOT of feelings about the way fandom and even the canon blank period treats him surrounding sex/sexuality, and it's really informed a lot of how I view and approach Gaara as a gay male character. This wasn't like a huge piece (though I have an even sexier sequel planned), but it was so much fun.
It Eats Your Heart: Ch2 (WiP)
Chapter 2 of IEYH took me about a year to write. I was struggling. It gave me writer's block. It made me wanna throw my computer. My roommate helped me workshop it a bit. And it still took me forever to finish it. Then finally--FINALLY--I hit on what was missing. This chapter was a fucking bitch, but gotdamn was it worth it. I'm so happy with how this turned out and I'm so looking forward to finishing this fic in the new year.
Pearl-Filled Lungs: II, III, IV, Epilogue (COMPLETE)
My beloved enemy. This fic sat for three years, untouched and miserable. I'd started chapter two... last year? The year before? I don't remember, and it languished. I think it was just the first scene--maybe just part of the first scene. But god it was a struggle. I signed up for the WiP BB last year, but dropped. Signed up again this year and... committed. Largely because of the artist who, though unable to complete art for this fic, was such a huge inspiration. The WIPs they sent me... I wish I could share them because they were stunning. When they were unable to continue, I really thought I'd give up, but once again @ghoste-catte inspired me to continue, thanks to their generous offer to make banners for my fic--and the banners are truly such a work of art! And someone... I got through this fic. I think my original vision comes through, despite how much I bitched and moaned during the process. I wanted to write a fairy tale, and I did. And honestly, I am happy with P-FL. It's not my most popular fic, by any means, but it will always hold a special place in my heart.
My Home is Your Home: Ch1 (WiP)
And here we have a fic that was meant to be a one-shot. I was gonna try and get this done in under 10.5k for an event challenge, but then I talked with my roommate and... they looked at me like 'bitch who the fuck do you think you are' and you know what, they were right. I was foolin myself. This fic wasn't a one-shot. I'd come up with an idea for something much bigger than a one-shot, and I'm glad I listened to them. So instead of an event challenge, I reworked everything and turned this into a fic for the @puregaalee Horror Fest, and I am sooooo excited that I did. Paranormal Romance isn't a genre I've dabbled in, and I'm stoked to try weaving the horror genre with RomCom elements. This fic not only ended up being a much bigger piece than I'd intended, but it also has a planned sequel! Because I wouldn't be me if I didn't add more WiPs to my docket than I subtract.
Blood on the Branches: Ch1 (WiP)
Talk about a fic that was pulled out of my ass at THEE last minute. For Horror Fest, I was struggling to come up with an idea. I knew what prompts I was vibin with, but damn I couldn't think of a single thing. And then one night, laying in bed I came up with an idea.... An entirely different idea from this because with only days left to finish, I scrapped everything I had (and by scrapped, I mean moved to a different document) and came up with something completely new! And so instead of straight horror, I leaned into what I'm good at and now I have a horror/adventure story! While the original concept for this fic is good, I am way more excited about this! Once again, taking my worldbuilding to new heights as we leave Suna and head to the south of Wind! I don't know exactly when I'll be able to get the next chapter out, and I really need to sit down and plot this in full, but I am so excited to write this story!
The Corn Maze House (COMPLETE)
Well, it was a bit of a slog towards the mid-point, but I got through it. I honestly worried I wouldn't, but in the end I'm really glad I didn't give up or give in to feeling negatively about the writing process for this piece. I'm not fully happy with it, but I am happy it's done. The premise for this fic, in my entirely unbiased opinion, is very good, even if I'm still not sure of the execution. I may end up going back over this fic in the future, but regardless I'm happy to have a completed horror fic under my belt, and also to not be adding another WiP to my roster. Definitely very light on the GaaLee, despite being an established relationship, but that was kind of how it had to be, so I'm sure this won't be like a crazy popular fic, necessarily. But I still think this was good practice with the horror genre.
Return to Sender: Ch1-11 (COMPLETE)
Talk about a fic I never expected. RtS was meant to be a simple, cute lil RomCom. A dash of miscommunication, a whole lot of comedy of errors, and just a smidge of drama... The ask prompt that started this definitely did not make any indication that I needed to write a 90k+ drama about homophobia in the shinobi world or about the mistakes you make when you're terrified of losing someone important to you. But I simply am the person I am, and I am the writer I am. This was the direction that felt right, and honestly, I'm so glad because I am so happy with how this story turned out and the reception this fic has received is truly astronomical. I dove into it following completing chapter 1 of PomSun and in between working on P-FL because P-FL was the struggle it was. RtS gave me a much needed break and the first three and a half chapters were such a breath of fresh air. When I say those first three chapters were a breeze to write, I mean I think it took me less than a week to write them. This was (sort of) the first time in over a decade I've had a fully completed multi-chapter fic that I can post on a schedule, and GOD it felt so good to just post chapters weekly. RtS Sundays were the highlight of my week, and even though towards the end there were a lot of complications, it was truly such a joy and has made me want to work harder to get fics done before posting. Also! Not only did I have a ball writing this fic, but I also had a lot of fun making the images that I included in it and the soundtrack to go with it. While some of the images are... less exciting than others, this fic just felt like the perfect opportunity to do some mixed media stuff, and I do really enjoy making soundtracks for fics. I have to say, though I love so many of my fics, RtS will now have a very special place in my heart. The reception, surpassing 1million with it, and just the way it all fell into place... I am truly so filled with joy by how this fic went.
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Total WiPs at the start of 2022: 16
Total completed works: 4
Total new works: 5
Total updates: 21
Total new words: 186,296
Total words (Ao3): 1,011,369 (-2,521 PomSun = 1,008,848)
Total WiPs at the end of 2022: 17
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2022 Resolutions
The difference between this year's writing and last year's is kinda wild ngl. All that time on medical leave and not sewing really gave me a lot of time to write, (though I do wish I'd been healthy enough to sew more). Looking back at my writing resolutions from the start of the year to now, I can definitely say I'm proud of what I've accomplished, even if it seems like I didn't reach that many resolutions. The two biggest resolutions (1million words and finishing P-FL) were reached, and honestly hitting those two goals was the greatest accomplishment of the year.
So, while most of what I'd had planned for this year was updating fics from last year's Naruto-Run to 1K which didn't happen, I still think this year was a success!
Reach 1million words--168,358 words to go!✅So, the math I did at the end of last year for how many words I needed was actually wrong. I needed closer to 178k, but despite this minor math mishap, I not only reached 1 million words, I surpassed it! I have been trying to hit this overall word count for the past three or so years, and I am utterly shocked, amazed, and proud of myself for making it happen this year! Admittedly, I think this goal was reached because I ended up getting long covid and have spent June through the end of the year out of work and home. Still, this is by no means a small feat, especially given the number of words I needed to reach this year while also being disabled by covid. Long haul is no joke and the brain fog--ohhhh lemme tell you! that shit got me so fucked up, so managing to power through and find joy in writing in spite of that struggle was really important. Writing was one of the few real joys I had in my days these past months, and I could not be more thrilled to finally say I've surpassed 1 million words. Truly, I owe most of that to RtS, the most unexpected fic of 2022.
Write the sequel to Flyweight Love❌Not Reached. Part of me was sure I'd get this done at the end of the year, following Horror Fest, but RtS became priority #1 instead, so HB3 will be on the docket for next year!
Finish IEYH❌Not Reached. While I didn't reach this goal, I did manage to update this fic, finally. Chapter two was a difficult journey and actually caused a lot of writer's block for me between the end of last year-early this year, so while I didn't finish this fic I did still make progress and for that I am very happy. My hope is to accomplish this goal in the new year now!
Finish Pearl-Filled Lungs✅REACHED! This is a pretty big one because it's been hanging over me for... long time. Three years, in fact. But I signed up for the WiP Big Bang and managed to actually get all four chapters written, edited, and published! It always feels like such a relief to be able to cross something completely off my list, but especially something that's been weighing on me the way P-FL was. In many ways, I wasn't happy with the journey, but I am happy with the end of it. I think P-FL is a lot better than I give it credit for, so I am really proud of it and proud that I got this finished.
Finish The Passing of Things❌Not Reached. I was actually really hoping to get this done, so I'm going to make this a goal for next year!
Update Absolution (Ch 4-6)✅❌❌Partially fulfilled. While I did not get three updates in for Absolution, I still got one so that's a partial win for me!
Update TAoL (Ch12)❌Not Reached. Sadly, this update was not in the cards for me this year, which is truly a tragedy for me because it's been two years since the last time I updated. But unfortunately, this next chapter has a lot of issues that need fixing, so getting through has not been easy. However, it is a top priority in the new year!
Update TBotDatP aka the Ballad❌Not Reached. Another fic I was hoping to update, but alas, not this year. But the first chapter is very much underway, so with any luck, I'll be getting a Ballad update out in short order!
Update WNNBYT aka the Hanahaki fic❌Not Reached. While this is a fic I'm excited to work on, it has lost priority in favor of other fics. Maybe next year, but I don't want to make it a resolution since I have fics I'd rather focus on over this.
Update Pomegranate Sun (Ch1)✅ Reached! Amazingly, I was able to get chapter one of this fic out, though it did take a while. However, I'm very proud of how that first chapter turned out and excited to continue this fic with @ghoste-catte in the new year!
Update 13S❌Not Reached. I did get a good chunk of the next update for this worked on, but tragically the amount of worldbuilding needed for this chapter put a wrench in my plans to move forward. However, the worldbuilding has been done in large part, so I am looking forward to getting this fic updated next year!
Edit Alliance❌Not reached. In general, Allied Nations has not been on my mind or at the top of my list. I think, more than likely it won't be until I get TAoL finished, as that's a similarly huge project, even as a stand alone story.
Update Honor Bound❌Not reached. Similar to the above. And while I do have the first three chapters written, I don't want to dive into posting any more chapters of this fic until I've edited Alliance and made the changes to it I know are needed.
Resolutions Reached✅: 3.5
Resolutions Not Reached❌: 9.5
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2023 Resolutions
With 2022 at an end and a lot more writing done than I expected, I'm hoping to carry that energy into 2023, regardless of other things. I do hope to move to Ireland and get back into sewing regularly, but as my health has changed much of my life, I'm also anticipating more time at home as I shift into working from home. So with that, I hope I also find more time and energy to focus on writing.
This is a lot, and I do not expect to get all of this done, but the goal is to get as much of it done as I can. I have a lot of motivation, so here's to a successful writing year in 2023!
Complete IEYH
Complete Absolution
Complete MHiYH
Complete TPoT
Update 13S (3-6)
Update TAoL (12-15)
Update PomSun (Ch3)
Update TBotDatP aka The Ballad (Ch-4)
Update TEA (Ch1)
Update TCoS (Ch1)
Update BotB (Ch2)
Publish the sequel to Flyweight Love, HB3
Publish The Beautiful Beast of Cāngdì (Ch1)
Publish A Cat's Guide to Finding Love
Complete at least three more MFBingo squares
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ooh!! numbers 8 and 12 for the writing meme? ✨
8. What fic made you feel the happiest to work on?
THIS WAS SO HARD TO CHOOSE
I keep forgetting how much I posted during 2022, I swear there were like three years in it lol. After a lot of thinking on it, Hair-Trigger for @/majestictortoise's checkmate series. Not only did I have so much fun sending her fic snippets like "so im definitely not writing that kim and porsche rescue pov but what if--" but I also just really love writing Kim and Porsche together. They're such a fun duo because they're actually extremely competent individuals, more than anyone else in the show even, but they also each have their own brand of chaos that just goes off the charts when combined. They're still getting shit done mind you, but now with twice as much destruction in their wake XD
A very, very, very close second to Hair-Trigger is gone fishing tho. It was a bit of a fever dream ft a lot of loving roasts in friends' DMs because it was written in like a day or two, but it's also like a mini love letter to a lot of what I love about Kim and Chay individually and together. I just always smile when I think of it, so ❤❤
12. What were you go-to writing songs?
None. I don't listen to music while I write; anything with lyrics sounds too much like someone trying to call my attention while I'm focused (even for lyrics in other languages, rip TTwTT), and i usually find purely instrumental stuff through shows and those come with all sorts of very distracting emotions. I'm not particularly inspired by music anyways, so it's not something I usually think about when I write either. If I need some good background noise, I almost always turn on rainymood or some similar storm rumble.
.❤.
send me a fic ask!
#<333333333333#inbox games#fic wrap#i never remember my tag for these things lmao#ANYWAYS#ty friend <33
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Thanks for the tag @nyamadermont! A belated sort of year in review whose questions I thought were interesting.
1. Number of stories posted to Ao3: 46 added or updated in 2022
2. Word count in 2022: 508,999
3. Fandoms I wrote for: Avatar: The Legend of Korra and Avatar: The Last Airbender
4. Pairings: Iroh II/Asami Sato (25) and a smattering of other pairings in dribs and drabs like Mako/Korra (3) and Jet/Ty Lee (2)
5. Stories with the most:
Kudos: Severance, the Irosami ghost story
Bookmarks: Smoke, the Equalist Asami Irosami story
Comment threads: Also Smoke, followed by Severance
Word count: Same as above. So clearly it was a year of two long fics. I’m thrilled people gave them a chance.
6. Work I’m most proud of (and why): I think it might be The Return, a Korra/Asami/Iroh II story. The premise is that Iroh and Asami marry and start a family sometime before book four, but he’s killed when he ignores Raiko’s order to surrender to Kuvira. Asami eventually gets together with Korra to raise the kids, only to have Iroh return from a secret POW camp years later. I’m proud of the story because I hardly ever write poly and had to really think through what that dynamic would be like between the three of them, the kids who didn’t know Iroh, and how they’d all react as the family changed. It wound up being much more about Korra and Iroh’s relationship than I expected. I got some very nice comments from people who don’t typically like Iroh/Asami as a ship, too.
7. Work I’m least proud of (and why): All the ones I haven’t finished yet!
8. Share or describe a favorite review you received: I love and treasure every single comment I get, but I’d like to leave a special shout out for @myargalargan and @devildogdemon for leaving long comments on every chapter of some of my multi chapter fics. It’s so amazing that they spend time and effort on that and I’m glowing.
9. A time when writing was really, really hard: Isn’t it always? But the end of Smoke is killing me. This fic is going on three years and I know what needs to happen and it’s really hard not to mess it up.
10. A scene or character you wrote that surprised you: Hiroshi and Yasuko Sato in How I Always Loved You are an absolute fucking delight and also such a surprise. Hiroshi Sato in canon is a kind of one-dimensional asshole who serves the purpose of being a villain (heck, I’ve written him like this myself) and Yasuko is just a photograph we see once who is usually assumed to be a carbon copy of her daughter, Asami. Getting such strong personalities for both of them has been so much fun, especially when it turned out both they and their ship dynamic was so different from Irosami.
11. A favorite excerpt of your writing: I wrote a sequel to an Irosami vampire AU I’d written the year before. There are lots of parts of it that I like, but really liked seeing Iroh balance the human and more animalistic vampire urges. I did a ton of research for this fic because I decided vampires are like leopards with territories and stuff.
“I found it,” Iroh said lamely. He let the ball drop to the ground in quiet submission. He didn’t want Asami to take it away. His scent might be everywhere, but this was technically still her territory. Everything in it belonged to her. That was another thing Iroh had noticed. Concepts that before he’d only attributed to animals, like “prey” and “territory,” now seemed perfectly natural.
He saw Asami stiffen slightly at the tone of his voice. She looked suddenly wary.
“You can have it,” she said slowly. “I haven’t seen that ball since I was a kid. It’s probably been out here twenty years.” A slight pause. “Do you play?”
Iroh let his body relax; a signal to her that he wasn’t a threat. “Not since the Academy,” he said. “And that was mostly a bunch of us blowing off steam. Not a lot of kemari on ships. It’s too easy to lose it overboard.”
He saw Asami mimic his posture as she studied him from across the flat grassy area where he’d been playing. A de-escalation of sorts. Good. Not that Iroh had intended to challenge her. In truth, he wasn’t sure what he’d intended. It was only a ball. He was a guest here. Republic City was Asami’s to hunt… wasn’t it? And never mind that he was larger and fit and, an embarrassingly sexist thought, male. None of that mattered. Or it shouldn’t. Spirits, what was wrong with him?
“Do you?” he asked. The words seemed to have more weight than they ought.
12. How did you grow as a writer this year: This (Avatar) fandom can be really hard on people in a lot of ways, and one of those ways is with a certain ideological purity that seems to pervade a lot of it and which is meant to dictate who can write what, and what can be written. This year I wrote a character with a physical disability (Tis the Sea Sun for Love) and I did a lot of research for what was a rather lighthearted holiday fic. I think a year ago I’d have been too scared someone would come screaming at me that I wasn’t allowed.
13. How do you hope to grow next year: I find ending multi-chapter fics difficult. I feel like a lot of them go on too long and kind of fizzle out. So I’d like to work on my endings.
14. Who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer or beta or cheerleader or muse etc etc): my discord server is a pretty awesome group of internet humans, I must say. Love u absolute cracky gorgeous degenerates.
15. Anything from your real life show up in your writing this year: I’m sadly susceptible to dares. The Only Thing I Ever wanted was bet you can’t write a soulmark AU, The Spares was bet you can’t make Korroh work, Big Fish was bet you won’t really write mermaid smut, Do You Have a Better Idea was bet you can’t make Iroh/Asami/Kuvira smut, etc. I’m very much like this in real life, too.
16. Any new wisdom you can share with other writers: Your characters are people! Do what you can to get to know them as individuals and their unique dynamics in relationships. Think about their quirky likes and dislikes and weave those in. Know what they’re afraid of and what they want more than anything but tell no one. Imagine what they’d pick out at a store, or how they’d behave at a party, or what they’d be like in a group at a board game. You may never use the content, but it will help you find their voice and distinguish them from everyone else. There should (in my opinion) be very few plots that work the same for multiple ships.
17. Any projects you’re looking forward to starting (or finishing) in the new year: I have a couple of big fics that I really want to start, but I have to finish some big fics first. If I can do that, the two I’m most interested in are one about the Equalist trials and another about 20-30 years post canon as the question of whether Raava can still reincarnate comes into question.
18. Tag some writers whose answers you’d like to read:
And anyone else who wants to!
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There was a teen in the cave.
A teen no one knows and looks like he could be a wayne, stands in the cave.
"Actually, I'm a wayne." He says with a shrug.
Bruce, Batman, carefully thinks of the implication.
"Not yet," The teen, Danny, doesn't say anything. Simple smiles. "You're not a wayne, yet. You will be. But not yet."
Then Bruce sighs, dropping the batman mask in order to take in the teen.
"Does future me know of the time travel?"
Dannys smile grows into a grin, deciding to take pity on the man. "You, grandbat, have..." He makes a vague gesture. "Theories, which none of your children ever confirmed."
The bat's mind short-circuits at the choice of words
Dick is sputtering incomprehensibly, there are Baffled expression all around.
Because.
Because that child isn't Bruce's, but one of theirs.
"Who is it?" Jason demands, hand clenching his gun uselessly.
Danny continues to smile, a hint of mischief now peeking out.
The cave is filled with theories, some yell, some sob, yet all eyes leave danny.
All but one pair.
She had known the moment his body language switched just enough for her to read.
She had known the moment he disappeared before the clan.
Had known when his hand found hers, shoulders bumping.
Her heart clenches, throat dry and memories of her childhood flooding to mind.
So she asks, voice soft and hesitant.
"Am I a good mother?"
And danny looks up at cass, adoration and pride laid out plain for her to see and accept.
"You're the best."
And so they both watch the clan together, silent and comfortable.
(Cass doesn't question when she finds him, how and why. All she knows is that she's more attentive when out on patrol, looking and waiting.)
(This is how Cassandra Cain-Wayne returns one night from patrol, a child, barely out of toddler stage and clinging to her form.)
(This is how the Batclan officially meets one Daniel James Cain-Wayne, freshly washed and clothed, a cookie in hand and hiding shyly behind Cass.)
(When they meet, all they say is "Welcome home, danny," and "Good to see you again.", Danny doesn't necessarily get it, but that's okay. Maybe his new mom will explain it one day when he's bigger.)
#dcxdp#dp x dc crossover#dpxdc#fic prompt#writing prompt#dc x dp prompt#cassandra cain is dannys mom#time travel shenanigans lead to conspiracy theories#half of the batclan think jason is the dad#or dick#damian and tim are outruled just bc age and tim denying it with no one protesting#alfred knows#danny moves like cass#he gave them both a cookie in the shadows#danny won him over by calling him great grand bat#he tells him of all the mischief they got up to bc no one would believe the baby had alfie wrapped around his finger like that#theyre just in denial#theyre all wrapped around the finger#danny “i mastered how to wrpaonize my cuteness” cain-wayne
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Read Chapter 11 here!
A hall of old bones and fresh wounds, abandonment and rot. The music plays but all that can be heard is static, a soundtrack for sickening implications.
It looks just like home.
#fanfic:PermissionSlip#fnaf security breach#fnaf moon#fnaf gregory#a storm knocked out the internet while i was wrapping it up#im uploading this via hotspot#EVENTUALLY I wanna have covers for all the chapters#but this one especially i wanted to get done#so you can tell things in the fic are going great#art
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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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🕶 with Barbatos please??👀 also yes on MC! (sorry for being specific, you can ignore it if you want but can it be directed at mc i'm not normal about Barb)
"I saw a little thing I didn't like you tried to hide." - Barbatos/MC
content warning: blood, reference to torture/gore
Barbatos has a reputation.
It is one that you remind yourself of at times, when you get lost in his sweet words and even sweeter treats. Those soft smiles, his ever-readiness to serve, his meticulous attention to detail so that things were always perfect for you – he would insist you had him wrapped around your finger, but sometimes you wonder if it truly isn’t the other way around.
After all, while you loved that side of him – one that few had the privilege to witness – you could not help but be intrigued by the part of him that reigned in the shadows.
The part of him that delighted in the slow torture of a traitor. The part of him that could use a knife to cut up a bleeding-heart artichoke just as deftly as an actual bleeding heart. The part of him that could drive someone mad just by warping the space around him, damning them to experience eternity in a matter of seconds.
Perhaps you were a bit too intrigued, your morbid curiosity having led you now to wander the dark halls of the Demon Lord’s Castle in search of him. He was supposed to meet you at the foyer earlier, but when the ever-punctual demon was nowhere to be found, you decided to take matters into your own hands. You wanted to see if you could catch the consistently composed butler off-guard, unprepared.
A fool’s quest.
You pass an archway and stop in your tracks, swearing you heard a faint scream from down below. A metallic scent pervades, your stomach churning as you take a step, and then another, and yet another – slowly descending the stairs, unsure of what you’ll find at the bottom.
It’s dimly lit, torches along the walls flickering with magic flames. Your eyes adjust, and your heart nearly skips a beat as you see Barbatos in the distance. You dive behind a wall, peering around the corner to observe.
He seems to be talking to someone, though you can’t see who. A cell, you think, as you notice the iron bars gating certain areas. The light catches on an object in his hand, something silver, and you realize he’s cleaning it off with cloth. Your own hands fish out your D.D.D., opening the camera function to zoom in and get a clearer look.
Oh.
He’s splattered with blood, standing in a pool of it. It’s a sight to behold, and you’re unable to tear your gaze away from him. Slowly, your finger goes to the capture button, taking a photo of the scene. You duck back into the passage, checking to see how the shot turned out – and chills run down your spine as Barbatos seems to be looking straight into the lens.
“Tsk, tsk.” Gloved fingers tightly wrap around your wrist, forcing you to turn around to meet a dark gaze that you knew all too well. “I saw a little thing I didn’t like you tried to hide.”
“B-Barbatos!” His name leaves your lips in a squeak. You don’t know how he got to you so fast, but you do know it’s better not to question it. “I-I’m sorry, you didn’t show up earlier and I got curious and wanted to look for you so I ended up down here and then I found you but I didn’t want to disturb you and –”
He puts a halt to your rapid explanation with a single finger against your lips, his gaze softening. “I’m sorry, my dear. It’s not like me to forget or lose track of the time. I must make this up to you immediately.” He lets go of your wrist, examining you once over before taking a step back. “But first, I need to freshen up. Shall we go upstairs?”
With a nod, you follow him back up to the brighter hallways of the castle, though he pauses once you’re at the landing. “...And what are you going to do with that photo?”
“Oh.” You can feel the warmth rush to your cheeks. “I, uh … just kind of wanted it for myself.”
“Is that so?” You can hear the amusement in his voice, see the way his lips twist into a smirk. “Well, if that’s the case, I suppose I can let your little reconnaissance slide. Next time, however,” he leans in close, breath ghosting your ear. “Just ask.”
#SORRY this is late#wrapping these up for real now#will finish up the last couple this week#but yes we're also not normal about barb totally understand#obey me#obey me!#obey me swd#obey me shall we date#omswd#obey me barbatos#obey me barbatos x mc#obey me barbatos x reader#om! barbatos#obey me nightbringer#obey me fic#obey me drabble#writings#4000 follower celebration#the all encompassing [mod] cosmos
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part one, part two, part three. this a part four. this is so accidentally long but hickies as promised, w a brief return out touch starved steve <3 mwah!
Eddie is sure his kiss tastes of uncertainty.
He can’t help the way his lips betray his nervousness in their obvious restraint. He knows he had been far more enthusiastic last night, eagerness behind every kiss. This kiss is… softer. Shyer.
He can’t help it. Because even though Steve said yes, had maybe flattened Eddie’s heart by adding a please, Eddie’s still… unsure. Still worried. Still waiting for a punch to come because that’s what happens to boys who kiss boys.
But… Steve’s hands are still holding onto Eddie’s wrists, keeping them in their place where they cup Steve’s face so gently. When Eddie had leaned in, lips grazing Steve’s, he had felt the other’s tightening grip like a silent prayer, saying come close, stay close. Even now, the grip around Eddie’s wrists holds firm.
Though it’s the last thing he wants, Eddie breaks the kiss. He draws back, savouring the moment — the sweetness of Steve’s lips for what might be the final time — with his eyes shut tight. Did I do it right this time? He thinks, he hopes. Can I kiss you and keep you?
“I’m…” Steve starts, his voice a whisper. Eddie’s eyes open. His fingers flex along Steve’s jaw instinctively. “Really confused.” Steve admits quietly.
His face is reserved. Only slight ripples of anxiety peek through. The crinkle between his brows speaks of his abundance of confusion. Eddie’s eyes drink in every expression and he can’t stop help how his eyes catch back on Steve’s lips. He stares when Steve speaks.
“I thought you— I thought you didn’t want…”
“Didn’t want this?” Eddie echoes, with a tone of incredulity, eyes darting back up to look Steve in the eye. He punctuates the last word with another touch, the pad of his thumb touching Steve’s bottom lip bravely.
Steve shivers. His eyes flutter for a moment, in a way Eddie has come to know means his strange aversion to touch is flaring up but — but Steve’s hands keep Eddie from moving away when he tries. Steve nods slowly.
Eddie swallows — tries to push down the ache to kiss him again. They’re still twisted; Steve still doesn’t get it.
Neither does Eddie though. He can’t even imagine what Steve came over to apologise for. What mental gymnastics he had put himself through to somehow be the one who needs to apologise in this situation.
“Where the fuck,” Eddie breathes softly, with an appalled chuckle, letting Steve know he wasn’t mad. Wasn’t in the slightest bit annoyed, only confused. “Did you get that idea?”
Beneath his hands, Eddie can feel Steve’s cheeks grow hotter. The colour soon follows, a glorious crimson that fills the apples of his cheeks. And sure, fine, okay, sue Eddie if he enjoys the sight a little too much. Steve all flushed in the face, ears definitely warmer than they were a second ago.
Steve starts to stammer. “You— You sounded annoyed when I was leaving.” His brows are nearly touching in the middle, drawn together in concern. “I thought you were regretting—“
Eddie interrupts to clarify, suddenly aware of where they’d gotten so muddled. “I sounded annoyed because you were leaving, Steve. Not…”
Not because you asked for a kiss. Eddie’s throat dries up. He can’t say it aloud, not just yet. The words dance on the tip of his tongue. Eddie doesn’t trust himself not to fumble them.
Even though, Steve’s sudden departure had been due to a genuine misunderstanding, Eddie can’t— he’s not… He’s got to be realistic with himself, just in case. Not say too much too soon.
Steve reads into the silent lull in Eddie’s words and in an instant, his eyes are widening in understanding. Somehow, his cheeks glow even warmer.
“Oh,” Steve says, the word doused in relief, in understanding. “Oh my god—“
The rest of his sentence is lost as a car drives by, tires groaning loudly along the tar road. It serves as a quick reminder of where they are. In public, in such close proximity. Eddie steps back instantly, hands ripping away from Steve as a lick of panic runs up his spine. His eyes track the pale blue car down the road.
They were covered by the van but, still.
“C’mon,” Steve says softly, calling to catch his attention.
The panic wavers wildly for a moment before eventually relenting, Eddie dropping his shoulders as he turns back to Steve. He’s delighted to find Steve is no less red in the face.
Steve clears his throat, “We can call a tow back at yours.”
He gestures to his car, an invitation, with a smile. Eddie’s not even sure he’s meant to say something so reassuring; a mixture of the use of we and the implication Steve would come back home with him. Would come inside.
Eddie can’t help how he ogles at Steve. He’s doing another once-over to make sure Steve isn’t a mirage about to fade. Maybe Eddie had actually crashed his van when the engine spluttered on him and all this was a weird and extremely vivid coma dream.
Except, Steve doesn’t look perfect — not like a dream would.
Eddie can tell from the flatness of his hair, he likely didn’t sleep well. He’s got a tired but kind smile on. It’s shyer than Eddie’s ever seen before.
He’s still wearing that bright green Family Video vest for Christ’s sake — if Eddie was in a coma, he had some serious self-reflection to do if his brain picked this as his dream-Steve fit.
“Yeah,” Eddie says, with a nod and a smile of his own. “Lemme, uh, lemme just grab my stuff.”
Eddie turns to hide his face before Steve can see it grow into a wild frenzied smile, too gleeful to contain. He pops the driver’s side door and scurries around, grabbing all the essentials; cigarettes, lighters, and tapes with actual good music on them.
Steve’s waiting for him, still in the same spot when he slides the door shut. Eddie works the rusted lock to lock it up. No, Eddie thinks gleefully, this is not a dream.
-
Steve is surprised it’s not more awkward.
Not that he wants that— honestly, this sweet in-between phase where Eddie keeps glancing over at him, brown eyes longing and like he was checking if Steve was still there, as he talked on the phone, suited Steve just fine. More than fine.
And yeah, okay, maybe Steve swooned a bit when Eddie started twirling the cord of the phone, so much like a lovey-dovey teenage girl that Steve nearly laughed aloud. He wasn’t sure if Eddie even realised he was doing it. Just leant up against the wall, stealing glances at Steve — his fingers fiddling with the cord til they began looping it over and over.
Steve wouldn’t though— laugh at Eddie, that is. It feels pretty much impossible to do anything except sit with all his giddiness, just knowing that… his feelings for Eddie are mutual.
That Eddie hadn’t regretted the kisses in the slightest. That Eddie had wanted Steve for just as long.
It’s achingly sweet to look back on that first hug Steve had asked for — knowing they had both been toeing the line, trying desperately to keep their pining to themselves. Idiots, Steve scoffs to himself affectionately, they were both idiots.
Rerunning the memory of his hasty exit last night is less of a breezy memory. Steve doesn’t want to think too hard about what malicious ideas Eddie’s brain might have spun up to taunt himself.
He must’ve thought that Steve had left for entirely worse reasons. That the reason Steve hadn’t been able to look at him because he thought Eddie was… that he regretted… Steve shakes his head. None of those thoughts are pretty.
And, more importantly, they were untrue. Steve very much liked those kisses. His only regret that night was leaving the way he did. Honest, Steve would have more kisses if he could.
Something scorches across his heart delightfully because he can have more kisses — he just has to ask.
“Okay, thank you so much,” Eddie says appreciatively into the receiver. He dashes another look over at Steve, an apology in the form of his sorry grimace. He focuses back on the phone. “Yeah, I’ll be in tomorrow to see the damage. Thanks, again.”
He sets the phone back in the cradle and for a moment, Steve can’t see his face. Can’t see any of the nervous contemplation. Eddie finally seems to grasp his courage and spins, fixing Steve with a smile.
“Um,” He says, a nervous chuckle leaking through. Eddie moves closer but he moves all skittish, one of his sneakers catching on nothing. He stumbles just a bit, taking a quick seat on the couch arm beside Steve.
“Wh—“ Eddie starts to say. He huffs another nervous chuckle, one hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. “This might be a stupid question but what… now?”
Steve thinks for a moment. He’s considering how to go about this when Eddie blurts out in a hopeful tone— “More kissing?”
There’s an unspoken please. Steve revels in the blush that follows the words.
He smirks up at Eddie, eyes tracing the bloom of pink on his cheeks. “What? On the couch, like I’m some common whore?”
“You seemed to have no problem with it last time, my liege.” Eddie points out dramatically, all with a grin.
“And I have no intention of repeating last time.” Steve counters. Then frowns.
“Well, except for the good part.” He corrects himself. “The first part! Just- Christ, can we go to your room instead, please?”
Eddie’s on his feet in an instant. He brings his hand up to his forehead and gives a salute with enough force to rip his arm off. Then marches down the hall and disappears into his room without waiting for Steve.
Steve thinks the nerves might be getting to him.
He walks the steps he’s walked a hundred times before, crossing into Eddie’s room and pressing the door shut behind him.
Eddie’s sat on the bed, criss-cross apple sauce style. He’s kicked his sneakers off — one’s by Steve’s foot, the other on the other side of the room.
Steve swallows and toes off his own shoes. He approaches the bed, climbing on gingerly and folding his limbs to match Eddie. That familiar swoop of nerves sits oh-so present in the pit of his stomach. Steve tries to think of it as a good thing — it’s good to have something so good that he’s nervous in his excitement.
For a moment, they just sit. Staring at one another. One of Eddie’s fingers is digging into the rips of his jeans, toying with the loose strands. It gives away his restless energy.
Steve waits. He asked last time and he knows — he knows Eddie wants to kiss him. But a small part of him…
“Why is this so hard?” Eddie blurts out all of a sudden. Like before, the words seem like they’ve come out without Eddie realising, but he barrels on. “Shit, I’m so fucking nervous. You make me so nervous, Steve.”
Eddie’s eyes won’t settle. They dart around. Move from Steve’s eyes to his lips, down, to the bed sheet beneath them. Like he still isn’t sure if he’s truly allowed to look. His admission makes Steve sorta wanna roll over and scream into the pillow. In a good way.
“I’m— Me too," Steve admits, a smile curling at his lips. “The- fuck, the way I feel about you honestly scares me shitless.”
Eddie seems to be both chuffed and relieved at his words.
“But I… want to kiss you,” Steve says assuredly. The next sentence he poses as a question, words a little more hesitant. More nervous. “And… and you want to kiss me?”
Across the bed, Eddie grabs a piece of his hair, twisting it nervously as he pulls it to cover his face. His usual nervous tell. Steve can’t help how he breaks into a grin when Eddie nods fervently.
“Cool.” Steve breathes. Then mentally smacks himself for saying cool. He tries to recover but Eddie beats him to it, with a question of his own. “Can I kiss you now?”
Steve answers by shuffling closer, til their knees are touching and then — like beside the road earlier — mimics the touch Eddie had given him.
Hands on either side of Eddie’s face, gentle as they curl under his jaw. Steve can feel the curls of his hair tickling at his fingertips. Another inch forward and he’d be burying his hands in Eddie’s hair. Steve bookmarks that urge for later.
Eddie looks nervous. Steve is undoubtedly making it worse, taking his time like this. But he can’t help it.
He wants to look — wants to stare, wants to devour every detail of Eddie’s face. Commit it to memory so he can picture it with his eyelids closed. What Eddie Munson looks like while waiting for a kiss.
The amount of affection that swells in Steve’s chest hits like a sucker-punch, enough he sucks in a tiny breath. He can see the smallest quiver in Eddie’s lip.
“You gonna stare all day, Harrington?” Eddie teases, but it lacks conviction when the words wobble a bit.
“Just enjoying the view,” Steve remarks, and then, finally, he kisses Eddie.
It’s the floodgate. It’s a frenzy, kiss after kiss after kiss, the softness of them slipping away in lieu of making up for missed time. Steve kisses every apology onto Eddie’s lips and he receives forgiveness a dozen times back. It’s bliss.
Eddie’s a very enthusiastic partner, to say the least. He’s a little messier with his kisses, hands gripping the front of Steve’s shirt tightly, pressing forward in a way that pushes Steve back— but Steve certainly doesn’t mind. He removes his hands from Eddie’s face to lower himself back, elbows against the comforter as Eddie follows eagerly.
For a moment, a sprout of doubt pulls them apart. Eddie hovers, not getting too close. “This is… this is okay?”
Steve grabs him by the collar and tugs him down, meeting him in the middle for another kiss. It’s a fat unanimous yes. Something glows hot in his chest when Eddie smiles into the kiss. Grins even. In fact, he has to take a moment to cheese it out, his face tucked into hiding against the crook of Steve’s neck.
Steve doesn’t mind. His hand strokes idly over Eddie’s hair, twisting in with the curls. He lets him take his time, lets Eddie work back up the nerve to kiss him again, except— with a gasp, Steve squirms at the sudden kiss on his neck, hot and soft.
“I think you were the one overdue for a hickie,” Steve breathes, hands threading through Eddie’s hair gently. He doesn’t pull him away though; lets Eddie figure out the best way to scrape his teeth against Steve’s skin as best he likes.
“Uh huh,” Eddie murmurs, barely heard. He’s too distracted.
“Eddie,” Steve tries, but it comes out far too close to a sigh. He tries again, this time with a proper tug to pull Eddie back from him.
It’s a bit of leftover King Steve the way he manoeuvres the both of them, rolling deftly so it’s Eddie upon his back and Steve hovering above him. Eddie manages to look both impressed and disgruntled at once.
Steve doesn’t let him get a word out. The pale stretch of skin down Eddie’s neck has been calling his name for too long and Steve is hungry for it. He grants Eddie one, two, three more kisses on his lips before he’s moving down.
He’s just getting started, lips pressed to hot skin when it happens. Eddie’s hands move up, skirting barely up and under Steve’s shirt, fingers searching. The unpleasant aversion prickles under Steve’s skin.
He locks up. He’s unable to do anything but; it feels helpless even as he tries to shake it off but he knows, he knows Eddie can feel it as he grows rigid under the touch.
It’s worse when Eddie tries to reel his touch back in. Steve wants to cry with frustration because it’s not Eddie— it’s fucking him.
“Don’t,” Steve pleads, his hand diving down to catch Eddie’s wrist and holding it there. He knows Eddie’s watching him closely, even as Steve’s eyes scrunch shut and he fights to fend off the uncomfortable feeling attempting to make home under his skin.
“It’s…” Steve wills himself to look Eddie in the eye, hoping the sincerity bleeds through his words. “It’s not you, Eds. Just— fuck, just… give me a second, okay?”
He releases Eddie’s wrist. Eddie nods, a minuscule motion. His brown eyes are watching Steve closely, darting all over his face wildly and after a moment, they still on his lips. Eddie makes a decision and pushes forward, planting a tender kiss on the corner of Steve’s mouth.
“S’okay,” He assures. Then gives Steve another kiss, this time on the lips, slow and sweet. Steve drinks it in, tries to savour the feeling of being kissed by someone who wants him. Wants him in every way they can have him. It's maddening.
Eddie’s hand moves an inch cautiously, testing the waters as his fingertips trace the skin of Steve’s tummy. He doesn’t flinch when Steve stiffens up again.
Like he can sense the frustration building up in the other boy, he captures Steve’s lips with his gently. Whispers against them again as soothingly as he can. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
It’s like the words run across the raised hackles of Steve’s soul, soothing and seeping out the tension from every muscle. Steve can feel himself relax under the words. Feels something inside him wobble and then tip over, finally soothed, finally settled.
This time when Eddie’s hand grazes along his waist, Steve shivers in a good way— and leans in closer, kissing back. His hands clutch back at Eddie’s hair, raking through to grip it sweetly. He tugs, jerking Eddie’s chin up and exposing his throat.
“Can I…” Steve begins. It’s a tease.
“Shut up,” Eddie grinds out, hands fixed on Steve’s waist. Now he knows he can touch, that Steve isn’t tensing up or flinching away, his hands are rabid. Hungry. They crawl across the skin, leaving hot scorch marks behind that tingle delightfully. “This hickie is so overdue.”
Steve grins wolfishly.
Eddie’s neck is a thorough shade of violet by the time he’s done, chest heaving. He looks devilishly handsome when Steve pulls back to admire his work and he barely gets a moment before Eddie’s back on him, lips hot against Steve’s own.
“My go.”
This time when Steve’s getting ready to leave, he half-heartedly pulls on his shoes. It’s a pitiful attempt to slow down the inevitable. He can’t believe leaving is harder this time; maybe it’s more to do with the hickies adoring his own neck and collarbones.
“Hey, I-“ Steve starts, already feeling flush in the face. Eddie’s watching him pack his stuff up, still pink in the face, but so evidently content with himself. He’s laid back on the bed, arms crossed behind his head. He’s showing off the dark lovebites on his skin, neck craned proudly.
“Mm?” Eddie hums, a cheeky smile on his face.
“When I— Robin.” Steve says, flashing a hand to his neck. “She’s- she’s probably gonna ask.”
Steve swallows. He somehow gets the feeling Eddie already knows what he’s going to ask — that he’s waiting for him to say it. Eddie’s grin says as much.
“And when she does, I—“ Steve continues, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. The kisses on it tingle beneath his own touch. “Can I… call you my boyfriend?”
Eddie glows. It’s the only word for the excited laugh that punches out of him, like a gleeful goblin.
Steve thinks he might just be falling all over again when Eddie rolls over and buries his face in his pillow. He pretends for Eddie’s sake not to hear his muffled shout that’s almost a squeal. His cheeks are ruby red by the time he sticks his face back out, his grin so wide it makes his eyes crinkle in the corner.
“Yes,” Eddie says, voice giddy. “Yes, please.”
And Steve’s so fucking glad he asked for that stupid hug way back when, because got a gremlin-level of affectionate boyfriend now to show for it.
-
and that's likely a wrap on the can i series for now ! i had an inkling of an idea for future but tbh i wasn't supposed to write this i like have 7 other fics callin my name. but alas! thank u so very much for the love on this, whether sending kisses to my touch starved self or talking bout needing a hug too in the tags <3 hopefully this heals all the right places <3 mwah my loves
tags below:
@original-cypher @maya-custodios-dionach @uwujinniee @attic-cat-blog @immortal-iratze @anaibis @orangeandthefairroadkill @etaka @silversnaffles @invisibleflame812 @eddie-hero-munson @jesskier @princess-eddie @impeachy @estrellami-1 @bloomingconflagration @newtstabber @iwouldsail @sundead @darksmistress @sydstroons @leethegay @superchellerific @eddielives1986 @jinxjinn @breealtair @steddieassheg0es @loopholesinmydreams @savory-babby @alittlegreyfish @izzy2210 @em9515 @killjoy-patrixtump @mrspasser @spectrum-spectre
#posting this cos i need to study and it's driving me insane i need it DONE#its been at like 96% finished for the last 2 days#FINISHED THIS MORNING#FINALLY !#hopefully on that fun touched starved moment that the whole first piece was based on#yet again#gay ppl in my phone.... i love u#hope this feeds u good#steddie#ruby writes steddie#steve x eddie#steve harrington#eddie munson#steve harrington x eddie munson#steddie fic#steddie ficlet#touch starved steve harrington#can i series#and that's a fookin wrap dear god i need to do other things#if u like this u should come and tell me so we can kiss#on the lips#prommy <3
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boothill thinks it’s fun to play around with his synesthesia beacon. turn it to a million different pitches or inflects just to see what irritates you most. sometimes, he’ll even do his best to recreate the voices of your boss and coworkers to watch you jolt out of your skin. to him, it’s hilarious and a worthwhile endeavour.
but your favourite is when he keeps it closest to his voice. when he tunes it just right to sound like himself after he’s done messing around. you like it when he’s himself as he hums and sings along to different songs, his favourites to sing being ‘Tiffany Blews’ mindlessly, ‘Before He Cheats’ when he feels like being annoying, and ‘Something About You’ while he’s playing with your hair (you introduced him to bedroom pop one night to break his whole only country and rock mindset and it surprisingly grew on him).
he’ll wrap his arms around your waist and perch his head on your shoulder as he twirls a couple strands, “she looks just like a dream, the prettiest girl i’ve ever seen,” with his sweet southern accent and smile. it’s almost enough for you to forget that he’s a wanted man and stole the last piece of bread that morning… maybe next time, boothill.
#chattering on soft boothill#idk i think getting all domestic with him would be real sweet#imagine drinking iced tea on a wrap around deck with him lawl…#sobs… why can’t i have it…#i’ll post a whole nasty boothill fic soon i promise im sawwy#boothill x reader#boothill x you#honkai star rail x reader#honkai star rail x you#hsr x reader#hsr x you
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Hogwarts: A History (Hermione's Version) by Lizzie_carlile - M, 38 chapters, Words: 141,828 - Lord Voldemort has been defeated, and the children of the Wizarding War are thriving. When the heir to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black is adopted and takes her place in the family with her loving fathers, a new trio is formed. With her best friend and her brother by her side, Hermione Black is thrust into a world that she never knew existed. Will whispers from the past threaten to destroy the world she knows? Or will love once again conquer all? Another take of the Nice Things AU. What would happen if Draco asked Hermione to the Yule Ball before Ron Weasley had a chance to?
Teach Me How to Forget by scullymurphy - E, 20 chapters, Words: 109,646 - Hermione Granger is 27 years old when her life falls apart. Cheated-on, flatless, fed up with her job, she decides to change one thing she can--take a class and try for some career advancement. But change is never easy, especially when an old enemy is the catalyst. And the class instructor. "Just as the minute hand clicked over to the hour, the doorknob twisted and a figure slipped into the room. He was tall, a bit windblown. Hermione had a general impression of crisp cuffs and polished leather, and then a more specific one of the most beautiful grey coat—highlighting his shoulders and eyes, skimming to just the right place on his knife creased trousers. His movements were precise and confident. He was wearing the softest-looking gloves. He was not Professor Belinda Rowle. He was Draco bloody Malfoy."
The Order of Serpents by bl_crtz - E, 44 chapters, Words: 193,506 - During the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry Potter walked into the forbidden forest, died, and walked out with crimson eyes as the new vessel of the Dark Lord. Since then, Hermione Granger served as an elite member of the True Order, isolating herself from other Order members and going on missions alone, not only haunted by the loss of her best friend, Harry, but Ron who had run away after the battle. Three and a half years later, Draco Malfoy shows up with his two year old son on the Order’s doorstep seeking to switch sides. Together, Draco and Hermione are forced to deal with not only each other, but their own past and confront who they’ve become because of the war.
The Contender by rubykrishna - E, 9 chapters, Words: 58,875 - Hermione stopped walking. Her eyes scanned back up the roster until they found the name that she initially mistook for a typo. Draco Malfoy….Beater. She could comprehend the words, the name and the meaning. She understood that his name being on the roster meant he was the starting Beater for England’s national team, but for whatever reason, when her eyes ran over the black ink, her brain could not articulate any emotions or reaction.
Sincerely Yours by LovesBitca8 - E, 10 chapters, Words: 40,759 - A smile tickled the corners of Hermione’s mouth as she clicked Send. She listened to the whoosh of the message and then turned off her computer. When the ping! had come in, she’d had one foot half-out the door of her flat. She’d dropped her coat and darted for her computer desk, a wide grin blossoming at her inbox. You’ve Got Mail.
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Steve hates mixtapes, always has. He's made some for girls before, went all out, spent hours making them. But he doesn't get it. He doesn't understand why people like them so much, why people think the effort is worth it.
He remembers how those girls had smiled when he'd given them the mixtapes, remembers how sweet they'd been on him after, how they kept talking about it. Even though it's just some songs he thought they might like. He was never sure how to make any of them romantic, didn't know if they expected any input from him between the songs. He's pretty sure he'll never really get it, but…
He wants to make one for Eddie.
Eddie has been trying so hard to get him to like metal or rock or anything 'alternative'. And Steve doesn't know how to explain what he does or doesn't like, doesn't know how to explain why he likes Sabbath Bloody Sabbath but can't stand T.N.T.
He's tried to explain it. Tried to sit down with Eddie and explain that there is a happy medium betweent he ones too loud and the ones that are just… boring. And Eddie tries to listen, is so clearly trying.
But Steve can't explain it, doesn't know how to. Not without sounding like an idiot, anyway. Telling Eddie that a lot of AC/DC songs don't have enough going on to make his ears feel happy would ruin whatever thing the two of them have going on.
Which is why he's sat on the floor, desperately looking through the tapes Eddie has been forcefully lending him, trying to find the right songs for a mixtape. If he can't explain it to Eddie, maybe he can show him instead.
He refuses to acknowledge to odd bubbling excitement building in his stomach. Eddie is his friend, this isn't romantic. Eddie wants to show him his music, wants to share something he enjoys, there's nothing for Steve to be getting so worked up over. For all he knows, Eddie is straight.
It takes him three weeks to make the mixtape.
"Eddie!" Steve jogs to catch up with him. It's the third time they've run into each other by accident, outside of the kids or Robin. It's the first time that Steves had the mixtape in his pocket, ready.
"Hey Steve," he raises an eyebrow. "What's got you in such a good mood?"
"Day off," Steve lies. "And I'm done with the shit I need to do. Uh, anyway, I have- I mean, it's not… fuck. Ok, here, just…" He awkwardly holds the mixtape out, shifting when Eddie carefully takes it, like it's something precious. "It's, uh… I know you've been, like, struggling to figure out what metal songs I'm into or whatever so… these are the, uh, type. Things. I guess."
Eddie is smiling, small and soft. He hasn't looked up from the track list since he turned it over.
"I'm already noticing a theme." His voice is so gentle, almost adoring, that Steve feels his face heating up. It's only worse when Eddie looks up, turning that smile directly on him. "Thanks Steve."
"Uh, yeah, no worries?" Steve bites at his nail.
"I hope you know that I'm making you one," Eddie raises an eyebrow, smirking. He slowly starts walking around him. "After I'm done with this shelf for Wayne, I'm making you one. I'm gonna rock your world, Harrington."
Steve laughs a little, hopes it doesn't sound as awkward to Eddie as it does to him. "Look forward to it."
Eddie gives him a two finger salute, turning to walk a little faster to his van.
Steve waits until he turns a corner, looking around to make sure no one can see him and doing a little fist pump.
#stranger things#steve harrington#eddie munson#steddie#steve x eddie#ficlet#steddie fic#technically??#had no idea how to wrap this up but it was meant to go on longer than this. writers block bb#fluffifc
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Wings AU ; requested by @justwannabecat!
“Are you sure it looks good?” Duke asks for the sixth time in an hour.
Tim sighs and says, yet again, “It looks fine. Just give it to him! If he doesn’t love it, I’ll beat him up for you.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“I could! But you’re right, I wouldn’t. I would just psychologically torment him until he broke.”
“Don’t do that, please. I’d like to actually have a chance with him, even if he hates this.”
“He won’t,” Tim says. He actually stops typing to give Duke a severe look. “Go and give it to him. If you don’t go now, he’s going to think you bailed.”
Duke glances at the time, then jumps. “Shit! Thanks for your help, man!” He’s out of the door before Tim can say another word. He doesn’t bother with the front door, or even going down the hallway. Instead, he opens the nearest window and flings himself out of it, unfurling his tawny wings to catch the wind beneath them and ride them into the city proper.
He briefly considers stopping for a moment to change into his Signal outfit so he can fly above civilian jurisdiction, then decides that it’s far easier to just bend the light around him so he’s invisible. He wouldn’t want to be late meeting Danny, after all. Especially not for this.
He hadn’t been expecting Danny to be into traditional courting methods. Most people tend to go the more modern way of dating, but Danny had mentioned once or twice that he thought it was romantic. He had blushed, mumbling the words, but Duke heard them and went into researching courting methods to see which ones Danny might like best.
Sure, he could just ask Danny out on a date like he normally would if he liked someone, but if Danny wants to be courted, then Duke is going to court him!
It’s why he’s been planning this out carefully, gathering his primaries after his wings molted a few months ago so he could string them together into a thin wing covering.
Admittedly, this courting method isn’t super common, but the thought of giving Danny his feathers, making it look like their wings are one and the same, has kept Duke up some nights, wanting it so badly.
Besides, he thinks Danny will like it. Considering the state of his wings after the Accident…
Duke holds his handmade wing covers closer to his chest, flier lower as he leaves Bristol and enters Diamond District. The streets are busy, full of people. Most tend to stay on the ground, wings tucked close to their bodies, but there are plenty still flying above cars and buses that Duke has to carefully fly around.
It takes another twenty minutes to get to Robinson Park, where Duke drops down to the ground and takes a moment to make sure all his feathers are straight and neatly displayed. Then he walks into the park, heading towards their usual meeting place.
For once, it’s a nice, sunny day in Gotham. Everyone’s taking advantage of it. The park is full of couples and families, walking around slowly, and kids dart through the air, still unable to go very high with their wings not yet fully grown in. It’s nice to hear the laughter and general chatter of people wandering the park.
Duke doesn’t spend too long walking the paved paths through the park. He steps off of it near the second water fountain on the path, then heads into the trees, passing two moms on a picnic with their three kids rolling around the grass nearby.
Tucked away in this corner of the park is a small clearing surrounded by thin trees. The tile is dirty and cracked, no one maintaining it at all with it hidden away.
He sees Danny’s wings first, with long feathers that trail onto the ground, a black that shines dark blue in the light. He follows the lines of his wings back to his body, where Danny sits on a bench, leaning his weight back against his hands as he lifts his head up into the sunlight, basking in the warmth.
He really is so pretty. He insists that he isn’t, but Duke regularly spends time with the Wayne family, all who have modeled before, so he’s got a better idea than most about what pretty looks like, and Danny fits the bill.
“Hey,” Duke calls out softly, watching as Danny slowly blinks his eyes open and turns to give him a warm smile.
“Hey! I’m free for the rest of the day, which means we have so much time to complain about things today.”
“I didn’t keep you waiting, did I?”
“Nope,” Danny says. “I wouldn’t mind waiting, though. I like hanging out with you.”
Heart pounding in his chest, Duke walks forward. He doesn’t know if there’s something specific he has to say when presenting his gift, if there’s a courting tradition involved that he didn’t learn about. He’s terrified Danny’s going to reject it. He’s praying that Danny accepts it.
“Are you okay?” Danny asks, standing to get a better look at him. “You seem tense…” He trails off as he catches sight of what Duke holds in his hands, breath stuttering.
“I’m fine. I, um.” Duke steps into the clearing, entering the sunlight, and holds out his wing covers. “I made them for you. You mentioned before that you thought courting traditions were romantic… I don’t know if you like wing covers, but I thought you’d look good in my feathers… Only if you want it though!”
He’s trying so hard not to cringe away in embarrassment. He’s flirted with Danny before, half jokes and half serious, always playful. Duke was smooth then, delighting in how flustered it made Danny before he hit back with his own flirting. Now he’s a hesitant, stuttering fool, tripping over his words and struggling to find the perfect things to say. Maybe he should have thought up a speech, or something. Memorized a few lines to speak his intentions with this courting gift. Done literally any prep for giving the gift instead of focusing only on making it.
Danny doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move either. He just stares, wide-eyed at the wing covers in Duke’s hands.
That’s a bad sign, isn’t it.
His hands lower just a touch, and he quietly prompts, “Danny?”
Just as he’s about to pull back, step away and try to fix things, messily attempt to salvage their friendship because clearly Danny doesn’t want to be courted by Duke, Danny’s hands snap out whip-fast and latch onto his wrists.
“This is… for me?” he whispers, awed.
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s for you.”
“And you’re courting me? Like, for real?”
“Yeah, definitely courting you for real. Do you accept?”
Danny throws himself into Duke’s arms, careful not to crush the wing covers between them. “In what world would I say no?” he laughs, bright with joy. He pulls back a second later, not giving Duke time to hug him back, and turns around, carefully stretching his wings out. “Put them on for me?”
“Of course.”
He starts by smoothing out some of Danny’s feathers. He doesn’t get to do this often; Danny hates having his wings on display for anyone, with how they spasm occasionally, and have empty patches where feathers will never grow in again. The Accident, all that electricity coursing through him, it permanently damaged his wings. There is no healing to be done.
His wings are lacking too many flight feathers and primaries for him to fly. He’s stuck on the ground now, unable to use his wings for more than a minute. Old burns are still visible closer to his spine.
Danny prefers hiding his wings away. He hates thinking about the Accident, hates how it’s taken his wings from him, how it’s changed him completely.
But Duke loves his wings. He loves the softness of Danny’s lower feathers, how they shine in the light, how they always puff up when it gets windy. He’s only gotten to preen them twice before, and he treasures those memories more dearly than anything else.
This easily outshines both those moments.
He gently combs his fingers through Danny’s feathers, straightening them out, then lays the first wing cover over his right wing. His own brown feathers drape over the top of Danny’s wings, hiding the featherless patches from view. He does the same to the other wing, then adjust both until they lay perfectly on Danny’s wings.
As soon as he lifts his hands away from Danny’s wings, Danny is spinning around with a grin, flaring his wings out.
“How do I look?”
“Perfect,” Duke answers. He was right; Danny looks good in his feathers.
He watches, fond and amused, as Danny spins, keeping his wings flared, admiring his new look. “I’m never taking these off,” he says. “I love them so much. I can’t really make one for you, though…”
“You don’t need to.”
“I can’t just accept this and not give you something in return!”
“Well… There is one thing you could give me. Something I’ve been wanting for a long time.”
“What is it?” Danny asks, leaning towards Duke. He’s eager, ready to please, so delighted to be courted.
Duke smiles. “A kiss.”
“Done.”
He doesn’t have time to react before Danny is pouncing on him, hands fisting the collar of his shirt as he tilts his head up and kisses Duke. He pulls back before Duke can kiss back, blushing and unbearably cute.
And all Duke manages to say is, “Cool.”
He’s so good at this.
Danny rightfully laughs at him, then grabs his hand and pulls him down to the bench. “Come on, I promised to complain about my teachers today and I intend to deliver. And maybe later, I could take you out on a date? If you want.”
“Danny, of course I want to go on a date with you. I’m courting you! I thought I made my feelings clear!”
“I’m just making sure!” Danny shouts over him, and Duke can’t resist the urge to pull him closer and pepper kisses along his cheek. “Okay, okay, I got it. You’ve made your feelings clear. I’m going to date you so hard.”
“You better. It’s about time you put some work into our relationship.”
“Excuse you?!” Danny gasps in mock outrage, and they start bickering lightheartedly as they always do.
Even with their feelings come to light, even with a courtship started and a date promised, it doesn’t feel like anything between them has changed.
It’s just them. Just as it always has been.
Duke couldn’t be happier.
#ghostlights#dc x dp#dp x dc#dcxdp#dpxdc#dc x dp fic#prompt fill#my writing#this was going to be longer bc i got into worldbuilding but then it got TOO long so i scrapped all that to focus on duke and danny#first time writing wing fic.... the amount of thought i put into how this world works had my head spinning#like this one: most people sleep in hamocks or have beds that are off the ground so they can stretch their wings out#regular beds like ours exist but mostly for kids/senior citizens/people with damaged wings who cant fly#like danny. so he has a normal bed and duke has a hammock which means the cuddling situation is Difficult#usually it ends with danny on his back and duke on his chest or danny completely wrapped up in dukes wings#just picture that. youre welcome :)
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I keep imagining this one scene- usually its Jason or Tim or Damian, or all the Batboys or the Batfam sitting there with cultists or the league trying to summon the ghost king- but put it as just Dick who is a little surprised that he passed the requirement of having died so he can be used to summon this eldritch being that rules the dead.
And when he's bound, placed in front of a Lazarus pit and everyone is still trying to reach him, the being is summoned- and Danny just lurches through the pit hacking and spitting and cursing because this ectoplasm is nasty, what have you people been doing to it?
And the cultists are expecting Pariah Dark. They demand he takes them to the real ghost king. And Dick just has to watch this being with snow white hair and glowing green eyes start to float up and take this sheen of other to him as he goes "yeah no".
And Dick is maybe a little drugged, and has a concussion, but he feels he has an excuse for what comes out of his mouth.
"Nightwing, come in. What's going on?"
"B, I think I found your next kid. I'm gonna marry him. Even if he climbed out of a Lazarus pit and looks a little spooky."
"-what?!"
#danny phantom#dp x dc#batman#fic ideas#dick grayson#danny fenton#the funny part of this is that i just imagine clockwork in the background watching this and going#ah yes this is going to be funny#danny has no clue and is just concerned about the gotham vigilante they tried to sacrifice#the bat clan just shows up to see a clingy dick grayson wrapped around a glowing being who looks a little panicked#danny is on the phone with his own team just asking how to handle this#tucker and sam: get some danny#danny: get some? ice? meds? what?#valerie in the back: another one falls for his charms and he is unaware how is life fair#jazz with the other three braincells of the group since danny has only the one rn: alright the first step is to check for confusion
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LOVER — RORONOA ZORO
roronoa zoro + i take this magnetic force of a man to be my lover
content: gn! reader
request a character and prompt for my spotify wrapped event here!
dinners between pirate crews don’t usually occur since your alliances are fragile and you’re all prepared to fight at a moment’s notice. but given the collaboration between the strawhats pirates, the heart pirates, and the kid pirates, it’s safe to say that you’re all a bit more reassured that no one’s about to slice someone’s head off.
you accept another glass of wine from robin as usopp rambles on about how he took out at least thirty marines in your latest high-sea tussle. across the table, zoro snorts and gives you a dead-eyed stare that has you giggling behind your cup.
you and zoro have been dating for quite some time, having begun only a few weeks after you joined luffy’s crew. neither of you have been inclined to tell the rest of your friends in order to avoid merciless teasing as well as mitigating the damage should your relationship go south. if it does, only the two of you will know about it and stew over it — the least amount of risk, you both agreed.
franky glugs down another stein of beer, laughing jovially, “alright, alright, i’ve got an idea!”
“oh? and what’s that?” robin asks, resting a hand on her chin.
“let’s play a game. gotta spice things up!”
“hey!” usopp protests. “my stories are super spicy!”
“yeah, right,” kid snickers, “they’re also lies.”
usopp glares and is about to retort but franky beats him to the punch, saying, “truth or dare!”
“really?” deadpans law. “isn’t that for kids?”
“aww, you need to loosen up, cap!” shachi says, nudging law. “i’m down.”
franky says, “i’m sure everyone knows the rules. only thing is if you refuse to answer a truth or do a dare, you drink!”
luffy perks up. “yeah, alright! that sounds like fun! zoro! zoro! truth or dare?”
your boyfriend smirks. “dare. do your worst.”
“i dare you to eat one of your swords.”
zoro’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. “no way!”
“gotta drink then,” you say to him.
“not a problem.” zoro lifts his stein to his mouth and you watch with appreciation as his bicep flexes and bulges under the tight t-shirt he’s wearing. he easily chugs down his beer, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
zoro dares sanji to throw out his collection of dirty magazines that he found under sanji’s bed; sanji asks nami who she would date if she could date any crew member (“ew, none of you.”); nami gets bepo to perform one of uta’s songs and bepo asks franky what’s the best kept secret he’s held from you all.
franky smirks at law and says, “alright, law, truth or dare.”
“truth.”
“if you could hook up with anyone on the deck, who would it be?”
law frowns at the question and you’re sure he’s going to drink instead but when he says your name, the ship erupts into chaos. nami and ikkaku elbow you, their grins suggestive and encouraging; sanji glares at law; shachi, penguin, and bepo gape; and kid and luffy howl with laughter. you sit there in stunned silence, your face on fire, and you can’t look at law.
you chance a peek at zoro and find that, in all the ensuing chaos, he’s nowhere to be found. you catch the door to the belly of the thousand sunny swinging closed and you immediately stand, heading downstairs. you ignore everyone’s questioning shouts in favor of searching for your boyfriend.
“zoro?” you call. “zoro!”
you wander the halls for a few minutes, checking the kitchen, the men’s quarter, the gym. you find him quickly, though, inside the energy room. he’s sitting on a crate, expression sour, and you plop down next to him. “you okay?” you ask.
“i’m fine.”
you study him — his profile, the slope of his nose and the sharpness of his jaw, the way the low light of the room makes his tan skin look golden. you sit quietly with him for a few moments, listening to the engine of the ship run. zoro holds himself rigidly, unnervingly still, but you can feel the irritation rolling off of him, can still see the tension in his body.
you reach over, brushing your hand against his brow to smooth out the furrow. he looks over at you, still scowling but a little less intensely now. you say, “i’m guessing what law said bothered you.”
he shrugs. you sigh, “it’s just a game, zoro. i’m sure he didn’t even mean it, probably said the first name he thought of.”
zoro grunts derisively, “he definitely meant it. look at you.”
you can’t help the pleased feeling the rushes through you but you don’t let it show as you let your hand fall to his shoulder. “it’s just a game. doesn’t mean anything.”
“yeah,” zoro says. there’s a beat and then he says, “i hate hidin’ this.”
“really?” you can’t hide your surprise. zoro’s the one who initially brought up keeping this from everyone.
“i’m sick of it,” he says. “sick of the fuckin’ love cook always saying shit to you. i hate when guys flirt with you and i can’t fuckin’ do anything because the rest of the damn crew is there and luffy’s makin’ me watch his scarf down twenty plates of roast beef.”
you snicker at the memory, which pulls a small smile at of zoro. you rest your head against his shoulder and he mutters, “hate that the fuckin’ doctor said you.”
“we could tell them, you know. i think it’s okay now.”
“yeah?”
“yeah,” you say. “i’m, like, super in love with you so you’re stuck with me.”
zoro snorts, “yeah, yeah. love you too.”
“are you ready to endure all the teasing from franky, robin, and nami?”
“for you, yeah.”
you tilt your head up and kiss his jaw. zoro grins, leaning down to catch your mouth with his.
When you break apart, you ask him, “I would’ve placed money on you going to the gym. Why’d you come here?”
“Oh. I got lost.”
“You two okay?” asks robin as you and zoro resurface. the game seems to have finished and everyone’s back to drinking and chatting, though they all turn to you when they hear robin.
“yeah, we’re good,” you tell her. “we actually have something to tell you.”
“what is it?” nami asks.
“we’re together,” zoro says. “have been for a while.” and then, unexpectedly, zoro’s arm wraps around your hip and pulls you close.
the ship erupts into the chaos again with you and zoro in the middle. somewhere among all the yelling and gasping, law taps your shoulder and apologizes, which you wave off with an easy smile and zoro gives a firm nod.
nami shakes her head. “i can’t believe you two kept this from us!” and then, she turns to you. “zoro? really? you could do so much better.”
you wind yours arms around zoro’s waist, crushing him in a sideways hug. “nope, i don’t think so. he’s all mine!”
nami gags and robin smiles calmly. “i’ve always known.”
you and zoro stare at her. “what?”
#.𖥔 ݁ ˖ kaiijo writes#kaiijo's spotify wrapped event#one piece x reader#roronoa zoro x reader#zoro x reader#one piece x you#roronoa zoro x you#zoro x you#roronoa zoro imagine#roronoa zoro fic#zoro imagine#zoro scenario#zoro fic#one piece imagines#one piece scenario#one piece fic#op x reader#op x you#op zoro
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I was craving a sugary HorrorDust, 🥺🥺
It turns out that Black (Coffee) & Blue (Berry Syrup), by ohjustdisarmalready , has the perfect formula!!
It is, at the same time, a love letter to Kasbaka's Checks & Balances, because that's how I imagine the relationship of these lovebirds
😭😭😭❤️❤️❤️❤️
Dust belongs to Ask-DustTale
Horror belongs to Sour-Apple-Studios
Inspired in Ao3 fics :
(⚠️+18) Black (Coffee) & Blue (Berry Syrup), by ohjustdisarmalready
(⚠️+18) Checks & Balances, by Kasbaka
#aoi-kanna#my art#undertale au#random stuff#horror barista#Dust's first time trying a macaron baked with intention#he loves it#Horror thinks it's a tragedy#he wants to pick up Dust from the streets like a lost cat#wrap him in a burrito and give him lots of delicious pastries.#I want to hug them!!!#I love those fics
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Corrupted by Design CH 1 | Feyd-Rautha x Reader
After generations of pillaging and destroying their ecosystem, you are assigned by the Emperor to work on with the Harkonnens to improve their planet’s agriculture as Imperial Ecologist. However, Giedi Prime is far from welcoming, and you must fight to survive the horrors you endure at the hands of the Harkonnens. When you catch the eye of the Baron’s youngest nephew, and most prized possession, you step into a world complicated by politics and revenge.
Tags: Unbeta'd, AFAB Reader, multiple OCs, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, enemy to friends to lovers/enemy lovers, slow burn, fake science, blood, violence, gore, body horror, cannibalism, uncle/nephew incest (implied), eventual smut, etc.
A/N: I’ve never read the books, so this is a combination of the Villeneuve films, the Dune Wiki, and a heavy dose of just making shit up lol. I try my best to make Reader as nondescript as possible, but there are mentions of having periods and body hair in later chapters. As a warning up front, this will not have a Happily Ever After ending, but maybe more like Happy For Now?
Please mind the tags; this is very dark, but that comes with the territory.
Chapter One: Like Meat (Spoiled)
Previous Chapter ⦾ Next Chapter
When you first arrived at Giedi Prime, nothing could have adequately prepared you for the shock the harsh environment brought.
Approaching the planet, dark, heavy clouds of pollution choked its atmosphere, seen even from your descent into the atmosphere. Any hope you’d had on your mission here began to wither as you saw the goliath manufacturing plants and landfills that scarred the horizon on all sides. Even the advanced Sardakaur technology on this ship couldn’t soften the harsh winds. Could this be the reason why they accepted you— a last-ditch effort to salvage whatever was left of this godforsaken planet…?
When you landed, you rose unsteadily to your feet and grabbed your luggage. Two large bags and one satchel tied at your waist. The rest unloaded off the ship, full of your tools and plants. Your entire life packed away, always ready for the next move. An escort accompanied you off ship, the rest staying inside. Not that you would blame them; if it was not required of you, you would not leave, either.
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#dune fic#feyd rautha#feyd rautha x reader#feyd rautha x you#afab reader#austin butler#austin butler x reader#feyd rautha x oc#i'm not a scientist but there is some science fuckery afoot#i listened to so much dark techno and gregorian chants while writing this lmao my spotify wrapped is gonna be fucked up#i wrote 14k words in like 1 week to say i have feyd brain rot would be an understatement#welcome to the wonderful world of me not knowing how to shut up!#feyd x reader#betty writes#cor#corrupted by design
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