Ihatesunfl0wers - Vivi - Tumblr Blog

“He had the recordings. If he wanted to, he could see the Pharaoh now.”

Kaiba reacts to footage of the tournament he held in Dark Side of Dimensions - the very same night after it happened.

Inspired by an emotional fic, “Security cameras” , written by @odette37odair for the DPOD Discord August Challenge ❤️

video essays about horror, fear and dread

Films That Feel Like Bad Dreams

The Nightmare Artist

Fear of Big Things Underwater

Control, Anatomy, and the Legacy of the Haunted House

House of Leaves: The Horror Of Fiction

The History of Insane Asylums and Horror Movies

The Saddest Horror Movie You’ve Never Seen

Fear of Forgetting

Slender Man: Misunderstanding Ten Years Of The Internet

The Real Reason The Thing (1982) is Better than The Thing (2011)

The Bizarre Clown Painting No One Fully Understands

The Little Book of Cosmic Horrors

The Disturbing Art of A.I.

Fear of Depths

Goya’s Witches

David Lynch: The Treachery of Language

The True History That Created Folk Horror

The Existential Horror of David Cronenberg’s Camera

more under the cut

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do you think maybe Kevi is so obsessed with the Trojans because every year they win his mom's award? they play the game how she created it. "how it was meant to be played." ☹️

Don't Threaten Me With a Good Time!

This is a response to this anon request: Hii can i request wind breaker boys : bofurin and shishitoren with a reader that love to flirt and hard to flustered although they tried to do it back? Thank you

Author’s Note: Thank you, Anon, for being my first Wind Breaker request! I feel like we were on the same wavelength because I was planning on doing a flirt fic/headcanon, but you beat me to it! Unshy and bold is how I like to write my readers, too!

Content Warning: Fem!Reader x Characters. Not smut but highly suggestive in some parts. Use of the word slut in the beginning background piece, a brief examination of the word and scenarios in which it’s weaponized. If you’re not into that, feel free to skip that part. But I’ve seen what some of you all are into and seen some of those reblogs—you know who you are, so spare me. You’re also a major flirt. Like, you’re at a 10 on the flirt scale. Go, you! Nothing too explicit, but here’s what we’re working with: mention of panties in Sakura’s. Kaji needs to learn to keep items inside of his mouth…unless? Suo intends to punish you so pick a god and pray. Hiragi needs you to chill out…but say more, please. Umemiya is too shy to ask you to call him Daddy (please call him Daddy). Togame tells you what you’ll be sitting on by the end of the night (also mention of alcohol in his). Nirei is a cute little bean <3. Minors Don’t Interact.

As always, I appreciate comments, reblogs, and likes. Requests are as open as my legs are for Haruka Sakura’s dick.

Word Count: 2.8K

Dividers by Saradika. Story banner by me.

Background: How You Got Here

You’ve always hated the word ‘slut’

It’s not that you wouldn’t personally consider yourself one. Depending on your ideologies, reclaiming the word can feel liberating and you find that to be true for yourself. 

You consider yourself to be naturally flirty, sexy, bold, and charismatic. You can also be a bit of a tease and have slut-like-tendancies in the bedroom, so, sure, a slut. And for the right person or people, if you’re feelin’ nasty, you’re willing to be whatever they want you to be. 

You’ve just grown to hate the word because slut is often used to mischaracterize a woman that men often can’t understand. 

They can’t, or choose not to, understand a woman who is vocal about who she wants and how she wants it. 

They call women sluts who do the chasing.

They call women sluts who fuck on the first date. 

They call women sluts who don’t fuck on the first date. 

The word slut has lost all meaning.

Patriarchy issues aside, this wouldn’t be a problem if you didn’t also have a mouth on you. So when some low-life-loser cat calls you from across the street, asking if you got a man and then calling you a slut because you chose not to answer in front of his five loser friends, you turn around and yell, “Sorry, buddy! Experiencing disappointing sexual experiences isn’t on my bingo card for tonight!”

“What the FUCK did you just say to me?”

And contrary to what some may say, you aren’t fucking stupid. You know what happens to women when a man hates them and decides that you’re the object of their rage.

So, you often find yourself running in situations like this. Running until your lungs are about to explode and the only thing keeping you going is adrenaline and the fear that that word—and your mouth—might get you snuffed out. 

You’re looking over your shoulder as your assailants close the distance, painfully aware that this can’t go on for too much longer when you collide with someone’s chest. Strong hands grip your arms, anchoring you in place. 

You look up, expecting to see one of the men from the group but you’re instead taken aback by the stranger in front of you. He seems like the kind of boy you’d let call you a slut—-his close-mouthed smile disarms you, and even though it doesn’t reach his eyes, you’re almost certain he’s someone you can trust. You don’t have too many options right now, anyway!

His tassel earrings swing as he raises his head from looking down at you, and his eyes follow the sound of running feet emerging from the alley. 

“Oh? You look like you could use some help. Stand over there for me?” He tilts his head when asking you the question, but part of you feels like he’s not really asking, so you nod and watch with bated breath as the young man methodically mows down every one of the men. 

Afterward, he turns to you, pristine and perfect, “I can’t let you walk home alone after that.”

“Sure,” you say, taking his outstretched hand. What’s your name? I have to know the name of the person who just saved me.”

“Oh, I guess that’s a fair point. My name is Hayato Suo. It’s nice to meet you despite the circumstances.”

It’s not long after that event that you fall into the protection of the Bofurin & Shishitoren men; your natural charisma quickly gets you in their good graces and earns you a special spot among their ranks. You give off mascot vibes—if mascots were cute and didn’t have gigantic, scary bodies!

Hanging out with them means being yourself without experiencing judgment or retribution. Your laid-back persona and flirting are met with laughs, blushes, and even sometimes flirtation in return. You’ve never felt more at home than with them. 

Haruka Sakura

Flirting with Haruka Sakura is like flirting with a brick wall; either he notices and chooses to ignore the situation as his face turns a crimson red, or he’ll yell at you for being a pervert in public. And both of those reactions are equally cute, so when one day you’re sitting at a booth at Cafe Pothos—-with Sakura, Suo & Nirei—-you decide that this is the perfect environment to get him riled up.

You gently knock your shoe against Sakura’s, which earns you an eyebrow twitch as he continues to shovel food into his mouth. Oblivious as always. 

You do it again to prove that it wasn’t an accidental nudge. Sakura’s eyes shoot up to yours, frantic because this is something you would do. His eyes are met with your innocent smile and subtle shoulder shrug.

As you all continue eating (excluding Suo, who enjoys a cup of tea), you gradually move your foot up his leg until it rests between his thighs. Sakura is trembling like a leaf, eyes darting between the faces of your friends, who could very well notice that you’re trying to get him to play footsie under the table. What if they notice? 

The meal concludes; Suo and Nirei exit the restaurant, and you and Sakura linger for a bit. Part of you hopes that he’ll call out your behavior, but he’s doing his best eye-avoidant routine. As you rise to leave, Sakura stops you, grabbing you by the hem of your sleeve and pushing you into the last booth at the back of the restaurant, where the line of sight is blocked.

Sakura climbs on top of you, your bodies crammed into the leather booths in a way that feels deliciously intimate. His hands are holding your arms at your sides, and his knee settles in between your thighs—and you are now more than ever painfully aware of how high your skirt has bunched up as his knee is dangerously close to brushing up against the seat of your panties. 

“Y-you can’t control yourself in public, can you!?” Sakura practically spits out. He’d sound angry to anyone else, but that’s not what you see in his eyes. 

You look up at him, mesmerized by his vulnerability and the proximity of his well-placed knee. "Do you want me to stop, Haruka?”

He again avoids eye contact with you, but the way he bites his lip gives him away, “No, I-i didn’t say that.”

Akihiko Nirei 

“Have you added anyone else to that book of yours, Nirei?”

Nirei beams at you. You’re one of the few people who takes an interest in the compendium of facts and stats he’s collected about the others. He flips through the pages and starts pointing out information he’s added since you’ve last spoken.

You nod along, taking a genuine interest in what he says; you barely notice your hand moving up to brush away a strand of hair that had fallen out of place. His cheeks tinge pink, and he stutters as he continues to read to you.

After he’s done hyper-fixating, a comfortable silence sits between you.

“What do you have about me?” you say, leaning closer to him. You’re teasing him; you don’t exchange blows like the subjects in his journals, so there’s no practical reason for him to collect information on you. That’s what you think until he reaches into his back pocket and brandishes a small notebook with your name on the front. 

“I-i uh have the basic demographics, but uh…still need the more personal things like your favorite color and food.”

“What about my bra size?”

“B-bra….” The pencil in his hand snaps, and he looks everywhere but at you. “I uh… s-sure! I’ll take that if you’d like me to!”

You laugh; you genuinely find him endearing. “I’m kidding! We haven’t even had our first date yet, Nirei!”

He looks at you, pulling out a new pencil from seemingly nowhere. “Well, once I find out what food you like, I’ll add the anniversary date of our first date here, too.”

Ren Kaji

Flirting with Kaji feels dangerous, but you do you, friend. You, as an individual, and the way compliments flow easily from your lips makes Kaji uncomfortable, and he admittedly doesn’t understand why someone as gorgeous as you gives him the time of day. It isn’t until you somehow become closer that the absence of your flirting with him sets off blaring alarm bells. 

Are you ok? 

Who did this to you?  

Who does he have to kill?!

As you thumb through the vinyl at your local record store, you feel a bump against your shoulder. You look up and see your favorite platinum blond guard dog; his headphones are settled around his neck, heavy metal pouring from the earphones. His piercing gaze is a clear indication that you might be in trouble. Oops. 

“You mad at me or somethin’?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, “Mad? Why do you think that?”

“You haven’t been pestering me lately, and it feels…odd.”

You can see him chewing on the inside of his cheek, even with the round sucker placed snugly in his mouth. 

“Ohhhhhh, no, Kaji! I was giving you a break, but if you insist on flirting, how about-”

“Shut up,” he pulls the sucker out of his mouth and presses it against your lips, watching as you purse your glossed lips and kiss the candy. Neither of you breaks eye contact; an unspoken threat between you dares the other to yield first. His eyes narrow as you poke your tongue out and stroke the sides with intentional, slow licks.

“Tch!” he turns quickly, marching away from you. Despite his back being turned, you can tell by the way his arm raises that he’s now placing that saliva-soaked sucker in his mouth. 

Hayato Suo 

Suo might be one of two people on this list who might be a worthy opponent for you. How do you flirt with someone who is perpetually unbothered? Good question! I see your flirting as back-and-forth quips, playful jabs at one another that get increasingly sexual and oddly specific throughout the day.

If you meet up with the group and one strand of your hair is out of place, Suo chirps, “Bedhead, huh? What were YOU doing last night?”

If you see Suo break a sweat after an intense fight, “Wow, Suo! You really need to work on your stamina. I can imagine a few ways to help with that.”

Sure, it’s all in good fun, but there’s a sexual undertone to it all; between the smiles and sarcastic comments, you’re both participating in your special version of foreplay, and you have never been more turned on. 

Everyone around you thinks you should get a room, and as sunset approaches, you two do exactly that.

“Ready to work on that stamina, Suo?” you chide as you push him against the wall in your apartment. You know you’ll pay for man-handling him later, but that’s part of the fun, isn’t it?

His earrings sway back and forth from the force, but he gazes down at you with smoldering ruby-toned eyes. Every smart-mouthed remark you’ve said that day replays in his head, contributing to his desire to make you atone for your brattiness.

“Yes, Y/N and I promise I won’t let you out of bed with your hair a mess like I did this morning.”

Hajime Umemiya

The complexity of Hajime Umemiya should be a case study. You’ve witnessed his laid-back nature as he jokes with friends, and you’ve seen the scary side of him that bubbles over when anyone threatens those he’s closest to. 

You’re truly attracted to both sides, but when it comes to you and the way you tease him, running manicured nails through his gelled hair and scratching gently at his scalp, he’s putty in your hands.

One of your favorite ways to experience Umemiya is meeting him in his element: his garden. It allows you to bond with him, and he often shares information about his life. Somewhere, Sugishita is biting his fist. 

“Big brother,” you whine as you plant okra, “am I doing this right?”

Umemiya’s eyes widen, and he looks at you across the garden. In what feels like seconds, he’s kneeling in front of you, your hands cupped in his own. “Y-you can’t call me that!”

You blink, confused, “you tell everyone to call you that.”

“I don’t want YOU to call me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s weird when someone you…like…calls you big brother. It’s worse than being called a friend!”

You snort, but when you meet his eyes, you quickly straighten. Oh! He’s serious! 

“So, not into me calling you big brother even during our ‘private moments?’ What about ‘Daddy?’ How do you feel about that?”

He laughs loudly—not because he thinks that was especially hilarious—but because you just make him nervous. 

“You can call me Hajime or…’my boyfriend?’ Yeah, let's stick with my boyfriend!”

“Not Daddy?”

“I won’t stop you! Now, how about that okra???”

Toma Hiragi

“You’re a pain in my ass.”

Hiragi’s simultaneously rubbing a knot out of his neck while chastising you. You found yourself in an all too familiar situation, running errands when a drunken man approached you and began to hurl “that word” in your direction when he didn’t find your reaction to his advances to be appropriate: same shit, different day.

As you were looking for an escape route, Hiragi rounded the corner and snatched the man by the collar—it was almost comical to see the drunkard's feet dangle feverishly off the ground. With a scowl and a threat from Hiragi, he was stumbling off.

You sigh, “I don’t mean to be a burden, Hiragi. But something on my forehead must read, ‘fuck with me’ because this is becoming a common occurrence.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he grumbles, “I just find myself worrying about you too much. Might give you my jacket to keep these creeps at bay.” 

Before the last syllable leaves his lips, he’s stuttering and trying to walk the statement back, “I mean uh…or any Bofurin jacket! We have boxes of these somewhere! Not mine, per se.”

You smile, placing a hand on his toned bicep. “I’d love to wear my protector's jacket.”

You need not say more. He removes his oversized jacket and places it over your shoulders. The smell of him and the warmth he left behind makes your heart flutter. You give him your best grin, “you know you’re never getting this back, right?”

“See? A pain in my ass. With a mouth like that, I’m goin’ to have to teach you how to fight.” 

You lean into his arm, “With a mouth like this, you might have to teach me more than how to fight.”

“Jesus.”

Jo Togame 

Jo Togame is the other person on this list who’ll give you a run for your money when trying to flirt. He may seem turtle-adjacent, but his rebuttals to your flirtation attempts are quick. 

You’ve been shooting Togame smoldering glances for the entirety of the night, and even though Shishitoren men surround him, he’ll catch you looking, give you a lopsided grin, and then turn his attention back to the group,

You lick your lips. The draw of his signature sweatpants, black, loose-fitting tee, and Shishitoren jacket is doing something to you. 

And maybe it’s because you’re on your fifth shot of mystery concoction, and the music they’re playing at the house party makes you feel bold and think that what you’re about to do is a good idea. 

With all the courage you can muster, you walk up to Togame. He tilts his head in your direction, but you can see amusement in his jade-colored eyes.

“Took you long enough. Thought you were never gonna get tired of starin’ at me.”

“Dance with me!” you yell over the music. You can feel everyone in the group sizing you up and waiting to hear how Togame responds. 

He puts his beer down and takes your hand. You pull him to the center of the room, where a makeshift dance floor has been constructed. You allow the music to move you before you can talk yourself out of whatever is happening. Togame puts his hand on your waist and allows you to grind against him and to the beat. 

“You like the idea of making me nervous, huh?”

You stand on the tips of your toes to get as close to his ear as possible, “You caught me! Is it working?”

He chuckles and shakes his head, “No because I know exactly how this night is going to end.”

Your heart picks up a bit as his hands slide down from your waist and rest above your ass.

“How?” You squeak.

“With you grinding just like this on my dick.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he presses his lips against yours, his kiss hot and hungry. 

Your eyes flutter closed, and you agree that this night will likely end how he prophesized.

video essays about horror, fear and dread

Films That Feel Like Bad Dreams

The Nightmare Artist

Fear of Big Things Underwater

Control, Anatomy, and the Legacy of the Haunted House

House of Leaves: The Horror Of Fiction

Monsters in the Closet: A History of LGBT Representation in Horror Cinema

The History of Insane Asylums and Horror Movies

The Saddest Horror Movie You’ve Never Seen

Fear of Forgetting

Slender Man: Misunderstanding Ten Years Of The Internet

The Real Reason The Thing (1982) is Better than The Thing (2011)

The Bizarre Clown Painting No One Fully Understands

The Little Book of Cosmic Horrors

The Disturbing Art of A.I.

Fear of Depths

Goya’s Witches

David Lynch: The Treachery of Language

The True History That Created Folk Horror

The Existential Horror of David Cronenberg’s Camera

Seguir leyendo

Feel free to ignore this if you want, but i need you to know that although i haven't watched Yu-Gi-Oh since i was like 11, all the cute art you've been reblogging has me in a chokehold. I've been devouring puzzleshipping fanfiction for the past week and even dreaming about these nerds (affectionate) that being said, any good blogs or fanfiction you'd recommend?

OH BOY DO I!!!!!!!!!! (apologies in advance if i get pronouns wrong i tried looking for them and i could not find some of yalls)

the last puzzle by @tenderwulf (my current all time fave i have drawn so much for them in an attempt to convey my deep adoration for their work)

chained to you by saijspellhart (atem is a shadow creature with a petty little grudge against a plushie blue eyes and its delightful)

anything by @alectoperdita (i loooove their puppyshipping dynamic)

immovable/unstoppable by @unfriendlyamazon (once again puppyshipping and ough. ough. it gets me so bad)

@duelistkingdom (warriors bond over the rarepair poll)

@kisaraslover (love love love your art)

@tea-stylus (GORGEOUS colors and detailing i want to put them in my mouth)

@kizunagatari (this post lives in my head rent free i love yamiyu being a pathetic wailing blob; they are consistently so fucking funny)

@2012-04-18 (this art permanently altered the way i color yugi and atem in my own work)

@teatitty (love faer posts, i have a backlog that i want to draw; based/funny/correct/etc as hell)

@kohrokke (once again another hugely inspiring artist and i am puttingtheir compositions and colors in my mouth in an attempt to absorb something)

@liannnn77 (absolutely iconic. love their art so bad the way they convey pining and ground characters in a scene is so good)

there's probably a bajillion more people im forgetting right now but this list is getting long so <3 love u guys ur all icons to me in my heart

A Rock and a Hard Place

Hisoka comes across a wayward darling

Hisoka x reader (with tiny bits of Chrollo x reader)

Warnings: gore, blood, graphic depictions of violence, murder, asphyxiation, kidnapping, manipulation, abuse, mentions of captivity, mentions of potential noncon

Word count: 10.8k

Dusk had long since fallen when Hisoka boarded the train alongside a dozen others, some already looking weary as they anticipated a long and boring journey that would take over the next few hours, and others not looking as bothered as their stop wasn't too far away.

Hisoka was among the group that would be on the train for a while; his destination was several hours away across the Saherta border, and as the magician settled down in an open seat, his unhappy mood could be seen by anyone as he leaned his head against the headrest.

Today had been a disappointment.

He thought he'd found an interesting fighter, as whispers of a formidable man within the Irnamur region had reached his ears. A man who was able to manipulate parts of his own body and turn his flesh and bones into blades or claws or whatever he saw fit, in essence turning himself into a living weapon. Someone like that should've been a worthy opponent, one who would give Hisoka that thrill he constantly sought when he found nen users who were exceptional.

It turned out to be a farce.

The instant Hisoka revealed himself the man ran away, and once he had been cornered, the man begged for his life and explained that his power wasn't what it seemed: he couldn't actually manipulate his body into weaponry, the only thing his ability could do was make his victims see what he wanted them to see, and all of it was just a scheme to con non-nen users out of their jenny and to keep them from going to law enforcement when he threatened them. He'd never intended on someone actually proficient in nen to confront him.

The sight of the con artist crying and begging for his life combined with the fact that he had pissed himself from fear had Hisoka's mood hit rock bottom, and he left the man where he was, though not before taking one of his cards and slicing it through the man's eyes for wasting his time. The magician left the pathetic man writhing on the ground as he clutched at his bleeding face.

Hisoka pulled out his phone to scroll through it as he waited for the train to start moving, other passengers walking by and not sparing more than a glance in his direction as they looked for their own places to sit. The type of clothing he usually wore normally turned a lot of heads, but since Hisoka had his hair down without his makeup and was dressed in a casual outfit of hoodie and jeans, he was easily able to blend in with the rest of those on board.

In a few hours, he would have returned to the place he currently called “home”, and from there he could forget about this whole incident. Hopefully the next individual to pique his interest would be someone more worthwhile of his time.

Or perhaps he might see Chrollo again.

At the thought of the illusive leader of the Phantom Troupe, Hisoka opened up his text messages. Machi was usually the one who contacted him when the troupe was meeting up, and though there weren't any new messages from her, he wanted to get a look at the last time she had gotten in touch.

It was a few months ago, he saw, looking at the date next to the message she had sent. It was hard to tell based on that alone when the troupe would reconvene. He could easily receive a message tonight telling him to meet the following week, or it could be several more months before he would hear anything in regards to a new job. While Hisoka could message Machi to ask about any upcoming work, she never responded to any of his texts. And ultimately, it was useless to ask her as the only one who knew for certain what would be coming next was Chrollo.

All Hisoka could do was wait for the next message to be sent.

Placing the phone back in his pocket, he couldn't help but let out a disappointed sigh as he settled into his seat, staring out at the window next to him while a majority of the other passengers were still milling about. He could always see if Illumi was up to anything interesting, he noted to himself.

A few minutes later the train began to move, and as the speed steadily picked up and the moon shown down on the grassy plains outside the window, Hisoka closed his eyes as he decided to rest a little during the journey.

Unfortunately, only a few miles in his rest was interrupted by one of the worst things anyone could encounter on public transport:

A crying toddler.

Though it sounded more like wailing and screaming, and the sound of the child's voice carried throughout the entire train car while the child's parents seemingly did nothing to try and console them. Perhaps they allowed the child to continue as they were just to give everyone else a taste of what they dealt with on a daily basis.

Hisoka was inclined to say that he could tolerate quite a lot and was generally unbothered by such things, but today he didn't feel quite as patient this time, finding himself becoming more than a little irritated at all of the noise. When the child continued to cry for a period of several minutes without any sign of losing breath, Hisoka felt that his limit had been reached. He got out of his seat, grabbed his bag and walked into the aisle as he headed for the car behind him.

Once the door shut and the crying could no longer be heard, Hisoka let out the smallest sigh of relief, happy that the enclosed area between the cars was largely quiet, as was the next car he walked into. The new problem he now faced was that there was no room for him there, with all of the seats being taken up, and so he continued to the next car only to find a similar situation.

When he made his way for a third car was when there was something that was slightly of note: a man standing in the area between the carriages was making a phone call. The brunette with messy shoulder length hair looked over to him when the door opened, then turned away, his voice becoming a bit more hushed while Hisoka took the time to close the door behind him.

“They haven't noticed anything,” Hisoka overheard the man say.

Though the magician was barely paying attention and already halfway towards the next door, having walked by the man on the phone without even a second glance. His focus was on the widow that lead to the next car. That one didn't seem to be as full; hopefully there would be no screaming children in-

“Yes, Chroll – uh, I mean, Mr. Lucilfer.”

The utterance of that name had Hisoka stop in his tracks, and he looked back to the man on the phone who was currently nodding along to whatever was being said to him.

The likelihood of anyone other than the Chrollo he knew being on the other end of that line was less than one percent.

It wasn't as though it was a common name.

Hisoka stepped to the side, pulling out his own phone and acting as though he was also there to make a call so as to avoid arousing suspicion from the other passenger. Putting the phone up to his ear, the magician glanced back again to the man, who was speaking again.

“The train got a little delayed at the last station, but they didn't seem concerned when I last checked on them,” he said, “as long as there aren't anymore delays, we should pull into Merchester at 9:30 – er, 21:30.”

The man's voice was even more hushed when he next asked “you'll have it with you when we get there, right?”

Whatever was being said now, Hisoka couldn't hear. A shame. He really wanted to know what Chrollo was telling him. But with the distance between them, Hisoka heard nothing and watched on as the man was nodding along again.

What exactly did Chrollo want with him?

Hisoka looked away, still acting as though he was waiting for a call to get through while he wondered over what exactly was going on. To his knowledge, Chrollo would on occasion hire random people for jobs, usually ones that he knew he could control by offering them large sums of jenny. The reason the boss did such things tended to be that the tasks were simply too menial to bother the other members of the troupe with, but sometimes there was purpose beyond that.

As he was only able to hear one half of the conversation, it was hard to tell why exactly this man had been chosen by Chrollo. Or why Chrollo was in contact with him to begin with.

Only a few moments later, the man had put away his phone and was heading into the car Hisoka had been heading for. The magician felt the man's gaze in his back as he passed by, though that ended when Hisoka began to speak, acting as though his call had finally gotten through. The man left shortly after that, not saying a word.

Waiting a few moments after the door slid shut, he took a step back and looked into the next car through the window, watching as the man walked down the aisle.

He caught the moment when the man turned his head to look at someone sitting in one of the seats towards the middle of the car. Even from his vantage point, Hisoka was able to note that the man gave that person an encouraging smile before he continued along his way. Despite not knowing exactly what was happening, the magician was intrigued.

If it involved Chrollo, he wanted to know more.

When the man had reached the end of the car and taken his own seat was when Hisoka entered. Now luck was on his side as there were plenty of open seats available. Better yet, the area where the man had paused moments before seemed to be free of people, with the exception of the person the man had looked at, of whom Hisoka could only see the top of their head from where he currently stood.

The disappointment that had weighed him down when he first got onto the train was now forgotten as Hisoka walked forward, curious as to what exactly he had stumbled across.

He continued until he neared the point where the man had stopped, and then he saw you.

Hisoka's first thought was that you were unremarkable.

The second was that you looked tired as you leaned against the window, clutching a backpack you had resting on your lap. There was a slight frown on your face and your eyes seeming distant as you looked out at the landscape that went by. Though you weren't as distracted as you appeared to be as you turned your gaze towards him once you realized he was there, and it was impossible to miss the guarded look in your eye.

Hisoka acted as though he didn't notice while he took a seat in the row opposite you. Your gaze stayed on him for a few moments longer while he set his bag on the seat next to him, and from the corner of his eye, he saw the way your eyebrows furrowed. As if you were trying to remember where you had seen him.

Oddly enough, the magician had a strange feeling as though he had seen you before as well.

Hisoka kept his eyes on the phone that he pulled out once again until he sensed that your gaze had shifted once more, and when he looked back, he found you staring out the window again. Though you didn't seem to be a nen user, you were aware enough to keep an eye on your surroundings, glancing around your general area every now and then, although the glances may not have been as subtle as you thought they were.

Leaning back into his seat, Hisoka mused about you, still uncertain about the whole situation. You were clearly nervous, looking up at everyone who occasionally walked past you and acting guilty just sitting in your seat. Almost as though you were expecting someone would eventually show up and you would need to make a run for it.

“They haven't noticed anything”

The words the man spoke earlier came to mind, and now he wondered: did you even know you were being taken to Chrollo? It was hard to tell based on that alone, but your behavior combined with what he had overheard earlier made it seem like a possibility.

But what for?

Did this have to do with the troupe? Under normal circumstances Hisoka may have thought that was the case, but he had actually showed up to the last meeting and there had been no mention of bringing anyone in. And as far as he knew, there hadn't been any meetings after that one, so he didn't think he had missed anything.

If it wasn't for the troupe, then perhaps it was personal reasons.

But what sort of personal reasons could Chrollo have that involved you?

Hisoka kept an eye on you. And the longer he did so, the more the nagging feeling that he had definitely seen you before grew on him.

Minutes passed by with nothing happening; you didn't move from your seat, the man hadn't checked in on you, and the cogs in Hisoka's mind were still turning as he tried to understand what exactly was going on. Your gaze was still on the view outside, dark circles beneath your eyes while you listlessly watched through the window.

That expression on your face….. He had definitely seen it before.

But where?

The answer to that question continued to elude him.

Then half an hour went by. As much as he wanted to ask you for details on what was going on, he chose to keep quiet for now, waiting to see if your companion would join you at any point and he might learn a bit more about what was going on that way. So Hisoka kept an eye on you while you grew more tired, becoming less alert as time went on. Still, you fought to keep alert, shaking your head every now and then as if to keep the sleepiness out of your brain. Your companion stayed where he was.

After minutes of nothing happening, Hisoka checked his phone for the time. In less than an hour, the train would reach Merchester, your apparent destination where Chrollo was waiting for you.

At that point your companion moved, getting up from his seat with his phone in hand as he walked by where you sat again. While you didn't say anything to him, the two of you made eye contact as he passed by. You gave him a hopeful smile which he returned, and as he walked back to the area between the cars, you seemed a bit less tense, like a wave of relief had washed over you as you leaned further into your seat. In doing so, a bit of your clothing shifted, allowing Hisoka a clear view of your neck. From where he was sitting, Hisoka could clearly see the markings on your skin. The discolored blotches that decorated your neck and went up too high for you to cover completely. Hickeys that had been left in such a way so you couldn't cover them up.

You were very aware of that fact, as only a moment later you sat up straight, your hand going to cover your neck while you nervously glanced over at him. Hisoka once more feigned obliviousness, and while you did relax slightly, you were back to how you had been when he had first entered the car: tense and on guard.

When your hand finally left your neck, you wrapped both of your arms around your backpack while you turned your head downwards, and in that moment, there were two very clear emotions coming through in your body language and the look he could see in your eyes:

Shame and helplessness.

And with that, a memory returned to him.

He was right. He had seen you before.

Back at Heavens Arena.

The elevator on the 200th floor had stopped for him, and much to the magician's surprise, Chrollo had been standing in the car. Two others were there as well: Shizuku, and you. You were standing in the far corner with your head facing down with one broken arm hanging in a sling. Though Hisoka barely noticed either of you when he stepped through the elevator doors as he was much more interested in how he had managed to run into Chrollo so unexpectedly.

The two members of the troupe seemed just as surprised to see him, and while Chrollo had given the magician a polite greeting, Shizuku ended up carrying on what became a conversation regarding Hisoka's history at the tower, which then managed to transition into a discussion about make-up and how well the brand he used lasted in fights. Since there had been no way to get to Chrollo in that moment, Hisoka had obliged, the time during the long ride down being the longest he had ever spoken to her.

All the while Hisoka felt taunted by the fact that Chrollo was right there and he couldn't do anything about it.

He'd noted that something felt a bit off about Chrollo, however. While Shizuku seemed to be acting normal enough, it felt as though something was simmering beneath Chrollo's cool exterior. Something that possibly resembled anger.

You went largely unnoticed by him still, and if he had bothered to think much about you, Hisoka's only assumption would have been that you just happened to get onto the elevator before the other two did.

So it was a surprise when the instant the elevator finally reached the ground floor Chrollo reached back to take the hand of your uninjured arm and led you through the doors. The way he had grabbed you had also been far more forceful than he ever would have expected from the Phantom Troupe leader.

Your eyes met his for a moment when you glanced over as you passed him, and the emotion he saw in them was that of pure misery.

“Who is that?” Hisoka had asked Shizuku as Chrollo led you away.

“Someone boss is invested in,” she replied.

“Is he? He doesn't seem very happy with them.”Shizuku simply shrugged in response.

While he had gotten the sense she was withholding information, he ultimately didn't care about you. Hisoka assumed that you were part of some smaller scheme being carried out by a few select members of the troupe; perhaps a hostage or someone being carted off to Feitan for information. Either way, you weren't important.

Or so he had thought.

Because here you were all this time later, still alive and on your way to Chrollo.

Chrollo, who, as Shizuku had said, was invested in you. And if boss really was the one who had made those marks on your neck, the reasons he wanted you were more personal than he initially realized.

They haven't noticed anything

The man's words from earlier replayed in his head as he put all of the information together and Hisoka smirked to himself as he now understood what was going on:

This was a runaway attempt by an unwilling lover, one in which you had reached out to someone that you thought was outside of Chrollo's sphere of influence. But your trust had clearly been misplaced as the man had sold you out, and now this escape of yours was going to end in tragedy once you stepped off the train and found your kidnapper waiting for you.

If it stayed the current course, that was.

Hisoka collected his bag as he stood back up.

You looked up immediately when he did that, and when Hisoka tossed his bag across the way and sat down in the seat opposite yours, worry overtook you. You sat up straighter still, clutching at your backpack while you looked him over, trying to figure out what was going on.

The look of worry on your face only worsened when he smiled at you.

The two of you stared at each other for a few moments before you finally spoke up.

“Do you need something?” you asked, though you kept your voice down, likely for the sake of not drawing attention to yourself.

“Not especially,” he answered, also keeping his voice low as he continued with “I wanted to sit here.”

“Weren't you already sitting?” you asked, your brow going up as you looked at him suspiciously.

“I decided to move over here. Is that so strange?”

“This late in the journey? Yeah, it is.”

You kept your eyes on him for the most part, though he noticed the quick glances about you, like you thought someone else would come and trap you.

“I thought you could use some company,” Hisoka said, “you seem rather lonely.”

“I'm not,” you answered, “I was actually enjoying being by myself.”

“Ah. I misread the situation, then.”

“Guess so,” you said, “you can go back to your original seat.”

“No.”

Hisoka made a point to sink lower into the seat as he said “I'm comfortable now, so I think I'll stay.”

You didn't look happy when he said that, and you looked toward the aisle, seemingly in the hopes that your companion would come by and help you. Unfortunately for you, the man was nowhere to be seen, and so you stayed where you were for now, your eyes darting back and forth as you tried to figure out what to do in this moment.

Hisoka was in the same boat in that regard, questioning on if he should reveal the scheme you were caught up in now and see your reaction or if he should play with you a little bit longer.

The combative look in your eyes had him choose the latter.

“What has you traveling this late?” Hisoka asked.

You didn't answer.

He ignored that fact as he continued with “you don't look as though you're traveling for leisure. Are you meeting up with someone? Is it family? Friends?”

Once more you didn't reply.

Hisoka's lips curled into a smile as he then asked “boyfriend?”

Although you continued to remain silent, he saw the subtle reaction that word brought out of you. A brief stiffening of your facial features before the slight frown on your lips set in just a bit deeper, your eyes glaring at something invisible in the space in front of you while you clutched at your backpack just a bit tighter.

“Ah, so that's who you're going to see, is it?” Hisoka asked, smiling good naturedly as he added “though it's a bit of a shame for me. I was hoping I might have a chance with you.”

You rolled your eyes while you scoffed, now looking more annoyed.

“That's a pretty rude reaction,” he said.

“It's also pretty rude to keep bugging someone after you learn that there's another person in the picture,” you replied.

“So you're loyal to him? That's very cute.”

That time you glared at him.

Hisoka tilted his head as he feigned confusion, asking “did I say something wrong?”

“I'd really like it if you would go away,” you told him.

“I told you: I'm comfortable here.”

The scowl on your face worsened, but you now seemed determined to ignore him, leaning your elbow on the armrest as you kept your gaze on the outside once again. The frown on your face and your furrowed eyebrows remained, however, and he saw you fighting the urge to glance over in his direction.

Your companion had yet to return, so he was most likely still on the phone. Though probably not with Chrollo. Hisoka doubted that Chrollo would want him away from you for too long, so whoever he was speaking to was most likely someone outside of the situation.

Careless. But at least it worked in the magician's favor.

Hisoka began to speak to you again, asking more questions that were designed to get beneath your skin. But this time there was no response to anything he asked as you were determined to ignore him. After about a minute of getting nothing out of you, he pouted.

“You're being boring,” he said.

“Good. Maybe that'll make you leave me alone,” you said, “feel free to go away.”

“No.”

You shrugged as you said “then I guess you need to sit there and be bored by me.”

“How heartless,” said Hisoka, “and here all I was trying to do was be friendly.”

“Now that's a fucking lie.”

He couldn't help but smirk a little at that response of yours. You were trying to keep it suppressed, but he saw that little bit of fire in you whenever you snapped at him.

He was starting to like you.

And as he looked at those marks on your neck again, he thought of a new way to rile you up.

“Really, though,” he said, bringing your attention back to him as he continued with “what does your boyfriend do to you?”

You snapped your head back in his direction, breathing in harshly as you looked like you wanted to hit him.

But you restrained yourself.

Adjusting the grip on your bag, you made a move to get up and leave – but the area between the seats were small enough and Hisoka's legs were long enough that he was able to stretch one across and block you in. You stopped and looked back to him. While you could probably get over his leg if you really wanted to, you seemed to want to take back some sort of control in this situation and make him get out of your way.

“Move,” you ordered.

“No,” Hisoka answered. He couldn't help smiling when your glare worsened.

“Are you stupid?” you asked, “there's a lot of people around. You really want me to get everyone's attention and expose you for being a creep?”

“It wouldn't be a good idea for you to go that far.”

“And why's that?”Hisoka smiled as he said “because if you make too much of a fuss, it'll only be worse when Chrollo collects you.”

At the sound of that name, you stilled.

Your eyes widened as you looked at him in shock, your mind no doubt racing as you struggled to understand how a random bystander could know anything about you or the person you were running from.

Eventually you forced yourself to reply.

“… I don't know what you're talking about,” you said, though your voice was barely above a whisper.

Hisoka laughed.“If you're going to lie you need to respond faster. The fact that it looks like your soul is ready to leave your body doesn't help, either,” he told you.

You frowned, though the look of shock didn't leave you.

“You're being serious?” you asked.

“I am.”

“…… Is he here?”

“No. But he is waiting for you at the next station,” Hisoka answered.

You fell against the back of your seat, trying to keep your breathing level as you processed this new information.

“Chrollo couldn't know about this,” you said, “Nevin and I…. We were so careful. We made sure we covered our tracks. He can't know.”

“He does,” Hisoka answered.

“How do you know that?"

“I heard your friend talking to him on the phone earlier.”

“What?”

You looked gutted when you asked that.

“You heard me. Your friend is setting you up,” he told you.

A new wave of shock swept over you, though this time it was quickly followed by denial.

“That's a lie,” you said, shaking your head as you added “he wouldn't do that to me. Nevin wants to help me.”

Hisoka shrugged, saying “if that's what you want to believe, then fine. But don't blame me when Chrollo collects you.”

The magician then moved his leg away as he continued with “do as you please.”

You were caught off-guard by that reaction, and you looked to the now unblocked path before looking back to him. It didn't seem as though you knew what to do and you were still uncertain if you could believe him or not.

“Do you have any proof?” you asked a moment later.

“Proof?”

“Do you have anything other than your word?” you reiterated.

“How in the world would I have proof when I only just learned of all this?” Hisoka asked back.

Before you could answer, Hisoka interjected to say “but ask yourself this: who do you think Nevin has been speaking to every time he leaves the car to take a call?”

“….. Chrollo?”

Hisoka nodded.

“Your friend is probably still on the phone with him; if you want to know for certain, go and check,” the magician added.

Once more, you looked to the path that Hisoka now allowed for you, your mind now racing as you went over your options, thinking to yourself on if you could trust the word of a stranger or if you should keep your faith in your friend. While Hisoka had no proof, the fact that he knew of Chrollo and your connection to him should have been enough to give you pause.

It seemed that you made your decision when you stood. And after slinging your backpack on, you stepped past him and into the aisle.

But you didn't go to where Nevin was.

You went in the opposite direction, away from both your friend and Hisoka as you walked down the aisle at a fast pace. The door to the next car slid shut after you, and Hisoka watched through the glass windows as you went further and further towards the end of the train. There wasn't any stop between here and Merchester; you couldn't get off before then. Not without taking a rough landing.

Would your companion notice before then?

As if on queue, the sliding door at the end of the car opened, and Hisoka glanced behind to find that your friend had reentered. He seemed calm as he placed his phone back in his pocket, though it looked as though his mind was on other things as he walked back down towards his seat as there was a distant look in his eyes.

That changed when Nevin reached where you had been previously, and once he saw the empty seat, he stopped.

“Wh-where's-?”

The man stuttering forced Hisoka to look up at him, and Nevin managed to compose himself a bit as he asked “the person who was sitting there – d-do you know where they went?”

Hisoka shrugged.

Nevin seemed annoyed, but he didn't bother saying anything more to the magician as he began walking again, heading to the other end of the car in search of you. He didn't seem worried at the moment – there were innocent explanations for your absence, but no doubt he'd been given strict instructions to keep an eye on you at all times. Whatever payday he was hoping to get from Chrollo wouldn't come if he failed in any part of his task.

When Nevin failed to find you in either of the bathrooms next to the car, Hisoka noticed when he began to seem more nervous. He stepped in for a brief moment to grab his own bag that he had left sitting on his seat and then took off at a hurried pace as he went to hunt for you.

Hisoka checked the time.

Forty five minutes.

Hisoka counted to ten before he got up as well, taking his time as he followed the same path the two of you had taken. You might be gone already, in which case that man would no doubt turn into a wreck as he contemplated trying again to hunt you down or phoning Chrollo to tell him that he had failed. But if you were still here, what would he do once he found you? Talk you into believing him? Or use physical force to keep you on board for over half an hour?

Would you try to get off the train before he made it to you? Or would you confront him? What would you even be able to do if you confronted him?

And what did Hisoka hope to gain from this?

Truthfully, he hadn't even thought on that in the beginning. All he knew was that Chrollo had some involvement and therefore, Hisoka needed to know what was going on. But now that he'd involved himself and alerted you, what would happen from here? Was there any way this could lead to that fight he wanted with Chrollo? It didn't seem as though any of the troupe would be present with him, so it was as good a chance as any.

Although that didn't mean that the station setting would be a good one. While the late hour meant that there would be fewer people at the station when you got off, there would still be people regardless, and if things were too public, law enforcement would end up being called. Should he wait until you and Chrollo were away from the station? But doing that would mean following him, and while Hisoka was good at tailing people, Chrollo was just as skilled at sensing when he was being followed.

Maybe Hisoka should take you before the train reached Merchester, tell your friend where he would be and let the message be passed on to Chrollo. Then all he would do was wait until the leader of the Phantom Troupe arrived for you. If you had value to Chrollo then using you as bait would be easy. And once he had arrived, Hisoka could let you go. Hell, he could let you go after your friend got the message; you weren't needed for anything else.

But how would Chrollo react if you were killed?

The thought suddenly struck him, and Hisoka's mind began to race as he wondered: if he used one of his cards to slice your throat open and let you bleed out, what would the boss do?

If you died right in front of him, would Chrollo be moved in any way?

…. He was getting ahead of himself.

Right now Hisoka needed to focus on the present: that meant finding out where you were.

The answer to that question was revealed when Hisoka found his way to the back of the train. In one of the baggage cars, he found you and Nevin. You were keeping your distance, your hand ready to grab at the handle of the door on the other end while Nevin was speaking to you as he slowly began to close the distance. Nevin looked over when he heard the door open, and when he saw Hisoka walk in, his expression became confused.

“You – why are you here?!” he asked, his tone accusatory.

Hisoka once again shrugged, leaning against the nearby wall as he waited to see what the outcome of this confrontation would be like. The two of you made eye contact when he looked to you, and though you were still wary, his presence seemed to have given you some sense of security.

You got your friend's attention when you said “Nevin, tell me the truth.”

Your friend turned back to you, asking “truth? What are you talking about?”

“Tell me what's really going on,” you demanded.

Nevin froze when you said that, and Hisoka could see the sweat forming on the back of his neck.

“Wh-what do you mean?”

The lie was obvious.

There was anger bubbling in you now, and your tone reflected that as you said “is it true that you set me up? Is Chrollo really waiting for me at the station?”

Nevin seemed shocked, stuttering out “I-I, I don't-”

“Answer the question!” you yelled.

After a few moments of seeming lost, the man's shoulders sank.

It took him a moment to gather himself before he said “please, you need to understand. My mom – her illness came back. I didn't know what to do, and then Mr. Lucilfer said he would give me all the funds I needed to help her.”

He sold you out. Hisoka had told you the truth.

That revelation hit you hard, and you needed to place a hand on the door you were leaning on to keep yourself upright as despair took you over. That was likely the point in using your friend for this: to teach you that no matter who you went to, Chrollo could control them.

Such a discovery would break the spirits of most people, and it seemed to have broken yours.

Excuses and explanations came spilling from your friend's mouth, about how his parents' savings were decimated last time, how they were never good at saving, how the options he had to help them were limited. How you should understand that he couldn't stand by and let his mother suffer. That you should understand that he had no choice. That you would do the same if you were in the position he was.

You weren't responsive to any of what he said; your mind appeared to only be focused on the fact that you'd been tricked and that there had never been any chance of you escaping your captor. As a result, you stared off into nothing, your movements looking robotic as your hand reached inside your backpack to grab at something, meanwhile your companion was repeating the same drivel, desperately trying to get you to empathize with his family's plight. The longer you went without reacting, the more distressed Nevin became.

“Please, think about this logically,” he pleaded, “there's actual good that can come of this: you going back can help save someone's life. That's worth it, right? My mom is worth that, right?”

You didn't respond.

Then he added “besides, Mr. Lucilfer doesn't seem that bad. I get that he's weird, but all he wants to do is love you, right? It's not like things would be that awful for you if you went back to him.”

Nevin clearly didn't believe the things coming from his mouth now, and all of it was part of that effort to make you stay where you were. But your breath hitched when he said that, and at that moment all that could be seen was a dead look in your eyes.

Your friend was still talking, you weren't doing anything, and the time was slowly ticking away.

Hisoka found himself becoming disappointed in you.

After he'd bothered to warn you, were you really going to do nothing? You were really going to fold so easily and go back beneath the watch of your captor? The confirmation that Chrollo really was waiting for you was enough to extinguish any fight in you?

Disappointing was the only word that went through his mind.

Ah, well. At least it made his choice easy. He'd go with what he'd initially thought of and use you as a way to lure Chrollo. He would decide later whether or not to kill you.

Hisoka stood up and began to walk towards the two of you, which brought Nevin's attention back to him.

“Listen,” Nevin began, “I don't know who you are or what you want, but you need to leave us alone.”

Your companion placed a hand on your shoulder as he continued with “the guy we're going to see isn't someone you want-”

You stabbed him in the eye.

Hisoka had seen it coming. He saw the way you had looked at your friend and how fast you had pulled your hand back out from your bag. He'd seen the pen clenched tightly in your fist and how you aimed for the head, piercing through the side of his eye. He'd seen the cold look in your own eyes when you did all of that.

Yet it still managed to catch him off guard, and Hisoka stared at you in awe as you pulled your hand away and stumbled backward, the pen jutting out of your friend's skull while the blood dripped down his cheek.

A certain sense of exhilaration filled him now as he stared at you; it was the same sense he would get whenever he found a worthwhile opponent. Yet it managed to feel even stronger with you, and all he wanted in that moment was to take you for himself.

Though he wasn't allowed much time to take it all in.

Only a second had passed by before Nevin started screaming at the top of his lungs.

Or rather, he had begun to.

The instant Nevin began to scream, Hisoka activated his ability. With one movement he had covered up Nevin's mouth and nose. His cries of pain could still be heard, but they were now muffled through the layer of Bungee Gum that had now cut off his air. Confused and in pain, Nevin attempted to grab at what he only knew as an invisible force around his face, only to get his hands stuck as well, all the while the pen stuck out of his bloody eye.

The next moments were that of a mad panic: still in pain and without being able to even see what was now suffocating him, Nevin stumbled forward as he began to flail about the train car, pulling himself forward to bash against the walls while the noises coming from his blocked mouth began to sound more like screams that were stuck beneath water. All he was doing was hurting himself, but he likely couldn't feel it in that moment, far too panicked from all that was happening.

Nevin lunged at Hisoka, to which the magician sidestepped him and allowed him to tumble to the floor. The Bungee Gum wrapped around his head now kept him stuck to the smooth surface, and he continued his wailing as he tried to use his feet to scramble back up.

Hisoka turned back to you then.

You looked fearful. There was a disturbed look in your eyes as you saw just how much blood had managed to spatter across the walls during Nevin's rampage, and that disturbed look remained when you looked at him in his current state. Your lack of nen meant you couldn't see Hisoka's ability, and therefore you were just as confused as to what was keeping him stuck like that.

And yet, even though he could spot the fear and even pity in your eyes for your former friend, Hisoka felt certain that he saw a part of you that was satisfied.

That man betrayed you. He deserved it.

Hisoka stepped forward and that was when you looked to him once more. Based on the face you made when you saw him, he must not have been doing a good job at hiding how excited he was, and you quickly turned to open the door behind you and make a break for it.

He followed, slamming the door back open with no thought given to the man who continued to writhe against the floor behind him.

Hisoka wasn't going to let you leave.

You had already reached the door to the outside as you fumbled with the handle. It took half a second for Hisoka to calm himself, and as you were about to pull the exit open, he called to you.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

The sound of his voice caused you to stop. Turning to face him, you pressed yourself up against the door as you watched him slowly approach you.

“Well?” Hisoka pressed as he stopped in front of you, asking “where exactly do you think you'll be going from here?”

“….. I don't know,” you answered, “but I can figure out something as long as I leave now.”

Hisoka raised an eyebrow as he asked “and you think that will be enough to get away from Chrollo?”

“He-he doesn't know what's happened, right? And we still have time before we get to Merchester. Enough to give me a head start, at least,” you insisted.

“A head start to where?”

Your mouth opened to answer that question, but then you faltered, remaining silent as your mind struggled to formulate an response.

But what could you even say? What solution could you come up with as the limited amount of time grew smaller and smaller before Chrollo would inevitably confront you and whisk you away once again? Everything about your planned escape had no doubt heavily depended on your friend – what could you do now that you were on your own? Even if you jumped off now and made a run for it, how long would you be able to go on like that before Chrollo found you? And how much worse would it be for you when Chrollo inevitably did find you?

It was hopeless and you knew it.

“Well? What genius plan can you come up with to get away from Chrollo?” Hisoka prodded.

You hung your head in despair as you quietly asked “why are you doing this? Who even are you?”

He laughed.

“I know we didn't speak to one another at Heavens Arena, but with the way you were looking at me earlier I thought you would've remembered me by now.”

“Heavens…..”

Your voice trailed off, and at first, it didn't click for you. Hisoka almost thought he would need to spell it out even further when he saw the realization take over your face, and suddenly you looked even more terrified.

“You're one of them,” you breathed, “you're part of the troupe. Hisoka.”

Hisoka smiled as he said “I'm flattered that you know my name. Did boss tell you?”

“…. I don't understand. Why tell me what was going on and do what you did to Nevin if all you were going to do was hand me off to – oh.”

Your shoulders sank after you cut yourself off and you somehow managed to look even more miserable.

“Oh?” Hisoka repeated.

“This is just you trying to get better standing with Chrollo or something, right? Chrollo never talked about you, but I heard enough from the others to know that not many of them trust you.”

Your expression was bleak again when you said “are you going to tell Chrollo that Nevin was going to betray him and that you stopped in order to earn his trust?”

The bleak look left your face and turned into confusion when Hisoka chuckled.

“That's an interesting thought, but no,” he told you.

“What do you want, then?” you asked.

“What I want, hm?”

The magician stared down at you, and you in turn looked up at him nervously.

“At first I thought I wanted to fight Chrollo,” Hisoka began, “and that I would use you to get to him.”

The way he said he would use you only made you more distressed, but you stayed still where you were, and there was some sense that you knew you wouldn't be able to run from him even if you tried.

You must have learned that the hard way with Chrollo.

And as he thought of the boss, Hisoka's eyes went back to the marks on your neck.

The marks that Chrollo made.

Hisoka wondered what it had been like when Chrollo made those marks on you. Had you fought back and forced him to restrain you as he did what he wanted, or did you lie down and let it happen, having learned that there was no point in struggling against him? How long had you taken whatever he did to you, and what had been your breaking point that forced you to attempt escape?

What made Chrollo choose to do any of this?

For someone as strange as Hisoka admittedly was, he couldn't help but be curious as Chrollo was even more of an enigma of a human being. Things that the troupe stole generally ended up being sold some months after, with Chrollo rarely if ever becoming attached enough to keep anything, only holding onto the items stolen from their heists long enough to appreciate whatever qualities of beauty or value they had. The only thing that seemed to have any true value to him was the troupe itself; anything or anyone outside of that group could and would be easily discarded.

Yet the man wanted to keep you, enough so that he allowed you out for the sole purpose of teaching you the lesson that escaping him was impossible.

What was it about you that he liked? Was it purely a physical attraction or did he like your personality? Maybe it was a combination of the two? How had you come to meet him? Had he taken you forcibly like almost everything else that ended up in his possession? Or had you been tricked with sweet words and the veil lifted once you weren't in a position where you could get away as easily?

What was he going to do to you if he caught up with you?

Hisoka then smirked to himself. That last part didn't matter.

Hisoka saw something in you that he liked, and for that reason, Chrollo wouldn't have you again.

He placed his hands on either side of you while he leaned in, and in that way he kept you caged against the door. As much as you tried to back away into the glass of the window behind you, you had no way of putting any distance between you two. You were stuck with the magician leering down at you.

“But now that I've thought it over,” Hisoka then continued, “I've decided that I'm going to keep you for myself.”

Your expression went from nervous to terrified and you stood there, staring at him in silence.

Hisoka smiled.

“Scared?” he asked.

You nodded slowly.

“You shouldn't be,” he said, moving his hand so he could stroke your cheek. The action made you shudder while he continued.

“I like you, so I'll keep you safe.”

Hearing that did little to please you.

“…. I'd rather you didn't like me,” you whispered.

“Oh? So you want to end up like that one?” Hisoka asked, nodding with his head towards the other car.

You shook your head.

“I just want people like you to leave me alone.”

He smirked as he repeated “people like me?”

“You and Chrollo,” you said, “both of you hurt others for the sake of your own wants and you don't care about the lives you ruin in the process. Just as long as you get what you want, nothing else matters.”

“Ah, is that how you see it?”

“Are you saying I'm wrong?”

Hisoka conceded with a shrug of his shoulders as he replied “no, I can't find any reason to disagree.”

“But I can't find any reason to care, either,” he added, saying “feel free to think whatever you like of me, but it's like you said: as long as I get what I want, I don't care about anything else.”

His hand slid from down your cheek and to your neck, his sharp nails brushing against your skin as he focused on the marks left on your skin, already thinking about the way he would cover them up with his own.

You looked defeated as you asked “it doesn't matter if I try and fight you, does it?”

“It would be a useless endeavor,” Hisoka confirmed, “but if you truly can't stand the thought of being mine, I'll let you go. Though my question from earlier still stands.”

That was a lie. He wouldn't let you go no matter what you chose.

But pushing you to pick him was fun in it's own way.

You remained quiet, and Hisoka prodded you again as he said “it's your choice: you can try to escape on your own and inevitably end up back with Chrollo, or you do as I say, and I'll see to it that you have an easier time.”

You began to tremble as you stared at nothing in front of you.

Then Hisoka watched as your hand went to grasp at your arm. The same arm he'd seen in the sling that first time he'd met you. Tears were welling up in your eyes as you were no doubt remembering something unpleasant.

“He broke your arm, didn't he?” Hisoka asked, “when I saw you that time in the elevator, you were being led away for a further punishment, weren't you? After going through that, what do you think he'll do once he has his hands on you again?”

The way you bit your lip had him believing that he was right.

Then you shook your head.

“He didn't break it,” you answered softly.

“Oh? Who did?”

“The…. The black haired one, with glasses. Shizuku.”

Hisoka hummed as he asked “and what exactly happened that resulted in her breaking your arm?”

“….. The window was open and I….. I tried to push her out of it.”

The grip on your arm became tighter when you added “I was too slow and she grabbed me too hard.”

“What did she do to you?” Hisoka asked.

“Nothing. She hadn't even spoken to me. But…..”

He raised an eyebrow, silently encouraging you to continue.

“….. It's not easy to hurt Chrollo,” you began, “he doesn't care if I destroy his things, and he's too strong for me to do anything to him physically. Even if I tell him every day that I hate him and that I actively wish for someone will tear him limb from limb, it doesn't phase him.”

“But he cares about the troupe. He cares about their well-being, and even if he tries to hide it, you can tell that he's upset whenever something happens to one of them,” you continued, “on that day, when I saw her standing next to the window on a floor that high up…… All I saw was my chance to hurt him. That I could make him finally regret all he'd done to me once he saw her splattered on the ground.”

The memory was replaying itself in your head. And as Hisoka gazed into your eyes that currently had a far-off look to them while you relived that memory, he caught a glimpse of bloodlust within them, one that was similar to the look in your eyes when you had stabbed Nevin only minutes ago. An urge to kill that he was intimately familiar with but was still so new to you as that feeling didn't last long within you. Your brows furrowed and your gaze became more pained while you kept your grip on your arm.

Despite all that had been done to you, you still felt guilt for trying to kill someone, even if it was someone who had hurt you.

But the fact that you'd been driven to such lengths was impressive to him.

He wished he could've been there, present in that room and able to watch for the moment where you caught sight of Shizuku innocently standing by the window and your morals were tossed to the side. He wondered if the expression on your face when you decided that you wanted to end her life was similar to what he had seen earlier: cold and unfeeling. Or had your expression been one of rage? Of the quiet individual who had been pushed too far for too long? Or were you panicking when you rushed towards her, looking ready to cry as you tried to commit an act that at the time was unthinkable for you?

“Tell me,” he said then, “what did Chrollo do to you after that?”

“…… It was a long time before I got to see sunlight again,” you mumbled. You didn't offer any more information than that.

“The fact that Chrollo let you live after you tried to kill one of the troupe is a miracle in of itself,” Hisoka told you, “he must truly love you to keep you even after that.”

“…. I don't want him to love me.”

“Well, you don't have much choice in that, do you?”

There wasn't any response you could give to that, and you bit your lip in frustration. You were crying now while your hand continued to squeeze at your arm. Whatever would happen once you were back with Chrollo would be bad. That you had continued to defy him by running after the punishment you received for the stunt with Shizuku meant that Chrollo's methods weren't effective enough. Hisoka idly wondered if Chrollo had wanted to give you the opportunity to get into contact with your friend as a way to test you, or if you managing to make contact was an oversight on his part.

Though just like before, it didn't matter.

Hisoka hadn't checked his phone in some time, but a considerable amount of time had passed since he had last looked. There could only be thirty minutes left until the train reached Merchester at most. Either you were going to agree to go with him or he would knock you out and take you.

It seemed as though you sensed the time limit as well as you finally spoke up to ask one last question.

“You won't hurt me?”

Your voice sounded far weaker than he'd ever heard it, and you wavered halfway through the question while tears continued to run down your cheeks.

He reached up to wipe them away with his thumb.

“I can't promise no pain,” he began, “but I can assure you that I will never hurt you on purpose.”

You were frowning at that, but the way you averted your eyes as you turned your head down seemed to indicate that you knew even that was better than going back to your previous captor.

He grinned when you made your choice.

“Okay.”

Hisoka grabbed you by the hand and pulled you away from the door, opening it without any hesitation. The noise from the wind and the wheels on the tracks were overwhelming as the two of you stepped out onto the small platform at the back, and despite your apprehension in regards to him, you clutched at the hand that held yours anyway as you looked out at the tracks beneath you and the darkened night beyond.

You were so desperate to get away from Chrollo that you would do anything and turn to anyone to achieve that goal. Even if it meant turning to someone like Hisoka for help. Even if it meant committing heinous acts yourself. As much as you wanted to admonish Hisoka and Chrollo for the way their actions, you must have realized that you were beginning to imitate them in that sense. That you were determined to get what you wanted even if it meant hurting other people.

Perhaps some of your misery came in realizing that fact.

The magician then remembered one last thing he needed to do before the two of you left, and he let go of your hand in favor of patting you on the cheek as he told you to wait for him. The noise outside made it hard to hear, but you seemed to understand him.

He was pleased when he went back inside the train and saw that you did as you were told.

The disappointment he had felt from earlier in the day was long-since forgotten, and now Hisoka counted himself lucky that he had stumbled onto you, and all of it was because of random chance that had him in the right place at the right time to hear the exact information he needed in order to make you his.

Chrollo stared out at the tracks, his eyes following along the long metal lines until they became impossible to see. A fog had fallen since the train had pulled into the station, and the flashing lights of the police cars behind him illuminated it, switching the gray of the night into blue and red in rapid succession.

Beyond the fog and the tracks was darkness.

And beyond that, somewhere, was you.

Chrollo began to walk towards the tracks, away from the crime scene you had left behind. He had seen it already. After the train staff had called for help but before the police had arrived, Chrollo had no issue getting on board and using one of his abilities to keep the staff out of his way as he looked over the body that had been discovered in the baggage compartment.

He wasn't truly surprised at the scene, and yet he did need to admit that it was bloodier than he had anticipated. The struggle that had occurred there had left bloodstains strewn about the walls and the floor, and all of it led to the body at the center of the car. Nevin's body was instantly recognizable, as was the pen that had been sticking out of his eye socket, one that Chrollo recognized as being in your possession.

As expected, once he saw that your friend was dead, there was no sign of you anywhere. Upon entering the very last car, Chrollo's gaze had gone to the door that led to the outside, and it was easy to imagine you climbing over the railing at the back and jumping off before you disappeared into the night.

When the police sirens were close enough to be heard in the distance, Chrollo left, though not before collecting the cellphone Nevin had used to frequently contact him from before.

But it had been then that he saw something that made him pause.

Chrollo continued to walk as he thought on it: one of Nevin's hands was more damaged than the other, to the point that the skin at the tips of his fingers and a few of his fingernails were missing. They'd been torn off, to be exact, as Chrollo noticed them soon after on the other side of Nevin's head. Imprints of his bloody fingers could be seen not far from where he had been laying, as though he'd been trying to pull himself up. The dark marks left on the floor from his shoes also indicated as such.

How had you killed him for that to be the end result?

Had you even killed him?

Chrollo had seen first hand that you could be driven to unexpected lengths when you were pushed far enough, and the pen that had been left behind was definitely yours.

But something about the scene didn't feel right. The torn flesh of the fingers didn't make sense, and neither did the fact that there was little if any blood in the last train car. If you had killed Nevin in a violent struggle, there would have been signs of your escape in the form of a bloody shoe print or perhaps some injuries of your own. That there was nothing back there made no sense.

What had happened there?

While the theories on potential scenarios ran through his mind, it was impossible to tell with such little information.

And so the bad feeling stuck with him.

The bad feeling would grow shortly after, when he would discover that even his furthest reaching abilities couldn't locate you. And even later when some of the troupe would lend their assistance in locating you, the belief being that you couldn't have gone far – you had left the jenny in your friend's wallet behind and you didn't know the area. Yet there was no sign of you.

The bad feeling would become worse later on still when Chrollo would learn the results of Nevin's autopsy report and find that the man had died from asphyxiation, and he would be forced to again wonder what exactly had gone on in that car between the two of you. There was nothing found within the car that had been used as the murder weapon, and even if there had been, it still didn't explain the torn skin of his fingers.

More possibilities came to mind, more thoughts on who or what had killed your friend as he felt more and more certain that you hadn't been behind that.

Which meant that another, unknown party had inexplicably become involved. And the grim days would continue to pass for Chrollo as he searched for you, who seemed to have been plucked off the face of the earth.

But for now, in the middle of that foggy night while he walked along the tracks, the bad feeling remained relatively minor within him.

As he continued along his way, he looked out into the distance beyond the fog as he frowned to himself.

“Love,” Chrollo said aloud, “just what have you gotten yourself into now?”

never played a card game in my life

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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. 

I'M. SO OBSESSED WITH THIS MEME NOBODY GETSIT.

an aftg playlist i've been working on:

contender for my most self indulgent post yet but who caresss man. smth smth andrew in drag by the magnetic fields

crazy to think that alcoholism for kevin is actually genetic. we know that wymack's dad was a drunk, and that wymack himself probably struggled with drinking. alcohol wasn't just an unhealthy coping mechanism kevin got from the nest, it was an actual problem that ran in his genes. do you think kevin had to be super strict with his kids when it came to drinking in highschool and college to make sure that the cycle never repeats? So that they never get trapped in a never-ending battle for sobriety like him and the generations before him?

it's insane how unwell for each other they are, which in turn makes me insane about raven!reader leaving the nest not too long after neil does. I can't imagine riko reacting well (reader leaving AND going straight to kevin/signing with the foxes? brutal)

ohhhh anon you’re opening my brain like an orange

riko tears his room apart when he realizes you’re gone.

he rips pictures off of the walls, pushes his bedframe over with a crash and the splintering squeal of metal scraping against hardwood. he screams until his throat is raw and sits down in the wreckage.

he feels empty.

two weeks later he sees your name in the news and has to blink to make sure he’s not going crazy. somehow he’d convinced himself you were dead—you’d run away, disappeared. but this news station introduces you as the newest player for the foxes, and riko wants to claw his own ears off when he hears it. he wants to die.

you should be here, in the nest, with him. but you’re not.

Kevin unintentionally growing out his hair becomes a Problem when Neil and Andrew physically cannot focus during practice. Kevin thinks they hate it and is about to cut it, until he suggests doing so one night in bed.

Andrew tugging at it until Kevin is a blissed out wreck and Neil petting his hair after redirects his thinking.

need to share this call because I haven't stopped thinking about it since remembering it exists a couple of days ago

THE THINGS WE KEEP

Summary: Part two to One More Chance, you find yourself back in Saltburn with something that could ruin you.

Warnings: pregnancy(?), pregnancy symptoms (?), talks of abortion, period- fertility talk, sorta dark??? Now that I'm realizing it?? Handjob, voyeurism, public handjob-sorta??, arguing, Oliver.

Notes: Will there be a part three? Maybe if you guys are super, super nice to me and leave nice comments that aren't just asking for a part 3s 😁 this is nearly 6k words, i was gonna make it even but i was starting to feel like i was talking in circles... Erm feel free to tell me if i missed any warnings, I'd real appreciate it!

“If it's a girl, can you name it after me?”

You run a hand over the bare skin of your stomach, you pinch at the fat, at the roundness that's a little firm. “I’m not pregnant.” You murmur, glaring at Annabel through the mirror. The girl is splayed across your bed, head hanging off the edge as she passively reads through a magazine. “And it's not an ‘it’.”

Annabel looks up, her eyes squinting as she smiles. “Can you name her after me? Sweet little Annie. That'd be cute, wouldn't it?”

“The test was negative.” You say. Though your hands keep to your stomach then to your breasts that look bigger and feel heavier, tender almost. “The test was negative so why do I feel pregnant?”

“‘Cuz you're pregnant.” The girl states, trying to seem serious but she's upset down, smiling at you— her eyes on your belly. “That’s what happens when you fuck without a condom and off the pill.”

‘But the tests were negative.’ You think again with a frown. You've taken three of them dreading to see that double pink line or the big bold letters proclaiming you're pregnant but negative. All of them were negative. “It was only twice.” You say and Annabel snorts, not believing you. You can't blame her, not when it was clear on some level you have forgiven your ex-boyfriend who could now be found at your side at almost any hour of the day. Farleigh had spent days making it up to you; bending you over at parties, going down on you in the library, even fingering you through a lecture once. He hadn't cared who could see in certain situations, didn't care who could hear and Annabel’s snort is proof of that, she's caught you with your legs wrapped around his head more than ‘two’ times. “Maybe it's just stress.” You try, faking a smile at the mirror. Annabel gives you a look through the glass. “Finals, you know? The studying and maybe going to Saltburn this summer–”

“Or you're pregnant.” Annabel interrupts.

But you couldn't be. You think almost hysterically, that the tests were negative and tests, no matter how cheap, couldn't lie to you. It's illegal, you go to rub a hand over your stomach and then draw it away with a deep breath, “Anna, babe. I love you but– but I'm trying not to freak out and you're freaking me out.”

She sits up instantly, the smile falling from her face faster than the magazine falls from her hands. “Sorry, sorry. When was your last period?”

You think back, teeth pulling at the skin of your lips as you pace the length of your dorm. “Erm– I think– I think before I fucked Farleigh? Yeah, it was like a week before.”

“You banged him raw during your fertile week?!?” She screams, hops from your bed, and throws your shirt at you. “Come on, we're going to the market.”

You rush to pull the shirt over your head, you scramble over to your slides as she puts on her jacket and shoves you hers. “My fertile week-?”

“You’re lucky, I like you.” She says seriously. She throws you a look, then looks down at your stomach again with a frown. “And you're lucky we're going to a pharmacy out of town, we can't be recognized. It's going to be a long ride and I'm going to explain how majorly you fucked up.”

After a three-hour car ride with Annabel telling you ‘Fertile week’ is just another word for ovulation and switching between cursing you out for being so dumb and making you promise to name the baby after her, you arrive at the pharmacy and it's dark. The pharmacist gives you both odd looks when you rush in, then it switches to a nauseating look of understanding when you approach the counter with four different brands of pregnancy tests, a 24 oz Gatorade and Levonelle— the UK’s Plan B. The two of you lock yourselves in the bathroom and nearly forty minutes later, you get the answer you already knew.

You're not pregnant.

But Annabel makes you take a morning-after pill anyway. The walk back to her truck is almost silent, she's muttering to herself as she unlocks her doors and tells you to get in first as she digs through her messy jeep and she finds what she's looking for and a crumpled pamphlet is shoved in your hands as she gets in the front seat. You read the bright pink words across the top of it and nearly drop it, swallowing back the pity that bubbles in your throat.

“Another thing we'll have in common.” She tries to joke but she's not looking at you, her knuckles white around the wheel. “Lucky you get a choice in this.”

“Annabel–”

“I don't want to talk about it.” She says quickly, then she smiles, facing you. There's a faraway look in her eyes and you shift in the seat, choking down guilt. Yet another secret of Felix’s you're forced to keep. “I know you think you're not pregnant, I know the test says you aren't but… just keep this, okay? ‘Cuz those pills— they don't always work. In case you want to go in person and get a check-up, it couldn't hurt, yeah?”

“Yeah,” You agree quietly. “I could go before I fly back to America for the summer.”

Annabel frowns. “Thought you were going back to Saltburn?”

“I can't go like this.” You say a hand with a hand over your stomach. “I need to figure out what's going on. Maybe I'm just gaining weight from stress and school, maybe it's nothing and maybe I'm– I'm– you know.”

She nods, then. “What are you going to tell Farleigh?”

“Nothing.” You say quickly. You lick your lips in thought, your eyes drifting away from her. “It’s not his business what's going on with me. Just because we're fucking again doesn't mean he's my boyfriend.”

Annabel lets out a long hum as she starts the truck. The ride back to campus is silent for a while and then, “If it's a boy, do you think it'd have his gigantic head?”

“Oh my god–”

You blocked Felix's number again.

You think this is the kinder choice; instead of telling him to his face that no, you will not be going to Saltburn even though you and Farleigh were on better terms, you'd be going home to see your mother again, you haven't seen her in two years and calls and emails were not enough. Then you backtrack because you don't have to justify where you're going to him— he's a friend and you use that term loosely. The things you know about that man make him the least deserving of your kindness even if he acts like he's God's gift to everyone, you've seen what's under his smile, what he keeps in his closet and you've seen what makes him tick and explode. So, no you're not going to Saltburn, you probably wouldn't have even if you weren't—

You pause. You weren't, what? Pregnant? You're not, you're just… sick. Yeah, you're sick, and being at home with family could help you, fix you.

The point is, you're not going to Saltburn. You have an appointment at a clinic two hours before you need to catch your flight and Annabel promises you the staff there is very in and out, you'd be out with time to spare regardless of your results. You just had to get off campus undetected by Farleigh and his cousin who seem to be searching for you.

You almost run straight into Farleigh twice but you are quick to blend in with the crowd of students crossing the courtyard, you nearly bump into Felix when his back is to you and he's chatting to some girls in your year asking if they've seen you and you quickly turn on your heels and dip into a nearby building. You press your body flush against the cool walls and close your eyes as nausea builds in your gut from all your running around and hiding. You feel warm, a slight sweat beading on your brow.

“You’re hiding from them again.”

You jolt, eyes flying open to look at Oliver who stares back curiously. His blue eyes dart all over your figure and it makes your skin crawl, the way he takes you in— he's looking for something and he frowns when he sees it. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” You say quickly, your throat pinching. You swallow and rub your palms against the front of your shirt and his eyes follow the movement, his frown deepening. You clear your throat and smile, though it's small as you change the subject, “I heard by the way- I'm sorry about your dad.”

Oliver blinks and it's like he was never picking you apart with his eyes, his frown lessens into a confused little pout. “Felix– he– he told you?”

Your smile twitches. No, Farleigh told you but you don't admit to that. “Yeah, I heard you were going to Saltburn.”

“And… and he told you I was going just because my Da’ died?” He asks. Again you wipe your hands but his eyes don't follow the movement, he's waiting for you to answer. Farleigh told you Felix felt bad for leading Oliver on and invited Oliver to Saltburn to see where things went and when pressed Felix said the same. But that night when Farleigh was drawing patterns on your back, he had whispered how both Felix and Oliver had made out whilst drunk and the next day Felix had all but dropped him till the news of his dad's sudden death.

“No,” You lie, after a pause. You let your smile grow bigger, “No, I'm sure he didn't mean it like that, Ollie. He would have invited you regardless, I phrased it wrong.”

“Oh… okay.” He swallows and you think the conversation is finished but when you go to pass him, he grabs your arm and yanks you back. You'd usually curse him out but you feel so sick, the sudden stop has your stomach lurching, your lips clenching as you swallow the saliva that pools in your mouth. He pulls you closer to him when he speaks, “I’ll see you there, right? Felix said you're going.”

“Yeah, yeah... you'll see me, I just have to pack up my dorm and–” Distantly you hear your name being called by Farleigh and shudder, the last thing you need right now is to be caught with Oliver's hands on you. “I have to go before the patrol sees my stuff still in there and they give me a fine.”

This time Oliver lets you go and you speed walk away, a hand pressed tightly against your mouth. You will not puke, not when you can still feel Oliver's eyes on you.

You miss your fucking flight.

But that's not the worst part of today. First, you lose your phone. You don't know when, you don't know how but you do know when you go to grab it, it's not in your pocket or your bag. You rip apart what's left of your dorm room and can't find it— you can't find Annabel either, you think she's ditched the school earlier and when you trudge your way down to the student pay phones and see the lines, you know there's no way you could stand there and wait for your turn. So you slink out of the campus with all your bags and catch one of the taxis loitering outside the campus and tell the driver where you need to go.

Then, the taxi breaks down. You're about halfway to the clinic when the motor starts to sputter, the driver curses and pulls off to the side of the road just as the engine gives out and the two of you sit in stunned silence.

“You– you can fix that, right?” You ask in disbelief, your bag clutched tight to your body. The driver presses his lips tight together, it's an attempt to smile but it falls quickly as he gets out of the car and pops the hood. You're no expert on cars or how they work but you're pretty sure it shouldn't be smoking. You watch, heart pounding till you decide— fuck it and you get out of the car and go to search your bag for your phone, if you could find it you could get another taxi and get to your appointment on time and–

“Ma’am you have to stay in the car.” The driver says the second you round the vehicle.

“What?”

“If someone comes by and hits you it's my fault,” He explains and you give him a bewildered look and then look to the British countryside. If someone came by maybe they could save you from this nonsense. “If you get hurt and file a claim, I'm done for– I could get fired and I need this job. So just sit in the car till I get this figured out, yeah?”

You frown, you don't want someone to lose their job because of you but can't just miss your flight. “Can’t you just call someone?”

“No.” He answers so quickly, it has you startling back. He's growing a bit pink in the face but he's still trying to smile, “Don’t worry ma'am, you're in good hands, I promise. I'll have this fixed in under an hour or two–”

No, no. You'll miss your flight and you don't have money for another– you could barely afford the first ticket, “I can't sit here for an hour or two, I'm expected somewhere! Can't we just use the phone in the taxi-?”

“It doesn't work if the engine doesn't work.” The man says tightly, his eyes darting away from you and to the still-smoking engine then back. “I understand your frustration but you just have to bear with me–”

“Do you have a personal phone I could use?” You interrupt, trying to keep the panic out of your voice. “So I can– I can call another taxi, I'll even call the number on the side of this one so it's someone from the same company and we'll both get help–”

“Ma’am.” The man says, loudly interrupting your rant. “I can fix this, you just have to give me a chance, please get in the car and wait. If it is beyond my capabilities I'll give you my phone and you can call whoever you want and I'll give you a refund and a coupon.”

“A–A coupon?” You ask, your voice shrill. “You want to give me a coupon? I'm going to miss my fucking flight!”

The man opens his mouth but you're not hearing any of it. your hands are shaking as you climb back into the taxi because what else could you do but wait? You don't know the countryside like you know the city and don't know how far away you are from the clinic. You have no choice but to wait for the car to start working again or for the man to finally give up and give you his phone. You swallow back the nausea that creeps up your throat and place your head against your knees as you fight the urge to scream and cry. Why couldn't things go right? Why did you have to go through all this? A pregnancy scare, a keeper of a Cattons’ secrets, and school you could barely even afford. What was the point when none of it went your way?

You're crying by the time the driver gets back in the car. He clears his throat awkwardly and hands you his phone. The time on the screen makes your eyes water all over again, you missed your appointment, you missed your flight. You're stuck in England with nowhere to go and when you try to call Annabel first, she doesn't pick up. But you don't expect her to, she doesn't answer numbers she doesn't know and neither does Farleigh. So, you dial the next best number. The phone rings once, twice, and then–

“Felix?

Saltburn looks like it's haunted when it's dark.

It's foggy, only lit up by the moon and there's a warm mist that clings to the air as you arrive— You shift in your seat, peering out of the window, and see there's only one or two lights left on in the castle-like house. The place looks empty but if you squint, shadows are moving within the darkness, the servants of the house, you assume. Trying to go unseen as they clean and prepare for the next day. You sit back in your seat and glance at the center console to read the time and it's nearly nine, you've missed dinner and know that Sir James and Elspeth have probably retired for the night and think great, those are two fewer Cattons’ you have to deal with.

But that leaves the three waiting on the stairs.

You're barely out of the car before Venetia is on you. She's throwing her arms around your neck and pulling you close, forcing you to bend to her height as she hugs you and you return the hug softly, a sigh leaving your lips, “Hi, Netia.”

“Felix is pissed.” She murmurs against your ear. She hugs you closer, and your eyes dart up the stairs and to the two Cattons’ coming down them. “Farleigh is…hurt. But he didn't let Felix blow up about it.”

You pull away from the hug, just a little— your hands settling on her arms as you take in her face. She's looking at you with a small smile but her eyes are a little misty, “And you?”

“I get it.” She replies softly. “I don't know all of what happened but I wouldn't come back here either. I just wish you would have emailed me or something.”

Your stomach twists with guilt. “Ven–”

“It’s fine.” She says quickly, her lips quirking up. She's already stepped away, her eyes flickering to Felix. “Incoming.”

“Nice of you to finally join us.” Felix all but hisses as he gets closer, Farleigh is grabbing at his arm, saying his name thick with warning but Felix only shakes him off. “What were you thinking?”

You scowl at him, shrinking away from his gaze. “I don't have to explain myself to you, Felix.”

“You promised.” He says, “Promised Farleigh, promised me– then, then you lie to Ollie and say you're coming–”

You roll your eyes at the mention of Oliver, of course, he snitched. “Sorry, I didn't want to spend another summer at Saltburn–”

Felix scoffs, “Oh, real cute–”

“–Sorry I wanted to see my family for the first time in two years.” You spit then take a breath. “Look, Felix. I'm not going to apologize– not for wanting to go home but thank you for getting me. I appreciate it.”

Felix's lips are tightened like he's fighting the urge to frown. “Yeah, well, that's what family does for each other.” You swallow thickly as he shakes his head— he's already turning away, shoulder-checking Farleigh and Venetia is quick to follow. She offers you one last smile before she rushes after him, leaving only you and Farleigh.

You open your mouth and Farleigh levels you with an aching look, “Don’t.” He says, his voice cracking. He takes a breath, his tongue darting across his lip, “Not tonight, okay? We can– we can talk in the morning.”

“Okay.” You say, “You can go up– I'll get my bags and–”

“Baby,” Farleigh starts, he takes a step forward— his fingers looping with yours. “Let the workers get it. Let's go to bed.”

Your heart trips in your chest, “Together?”

Farleigh presses a long kiss to your forehead. “Yeah, babe. Together.”

Waking up with Farleigh was easy.

He'd always curl into you, whisper in your ear to stay in bed for just a moment longer— he'd pepper kisses along the side of your neck, his fingers would dance across your stomach to pull you closer and his hips would push into your backside and he'd ask if you were up for a little fun.

Today was no different, though you twist before his hands could go near your stomach and face him, he smiles at you softly, blinking in surprise at the sudden movement but a small moan is pushed from him when you lean closer, sliding your lips over his. He kisses you back easily, eagerly but he is the first to pull away with a small huff, his eyes squinting through the dark room to see you better. “Are we going to talk about it?”

You don't answer and Farleigh doesn't ask again, his warm eyes watching you curiously as you shift lower in the bed— you're no longer at eye level with your ex-boyfriend, you give his chin a small kiss as your hands slide down the length of his half nude body. Farleigh had tossed his shirt claiming it was too hot to sleep with it on but had no problems climbing under the covers with you later that night. Your fingers tease the band of his shorts and you feel his stomach clench in anticipation. You crane your head up just a bit, your lashes fluttering, “Can I?”

Farleigh swallows, “Yeah.”

You slip a hand down his pants and Farleigh jerks when you wrap a hand around his dick. He hisses your name in shock when you tug at it, watching with wide eyes as you quickly withdraw your hand and spit on your palm. Farleigh gasps as you grab for him again, his head ducking in search for your lips once again as you work your hand over his dick— he's all but gasping and moaning into your mouth during the kiss, humping into your closed fist as your other hand ghosts back up his body, to his nipples. You tease them, giggling when he trips to nip at your lips, you trace the outline of one before you pinch, twisting it gently as you lean back and watch as he groans. You go to kiss him again when someone knocks.

“Go away,” Farleigh tries to order but his voice breaks when you begin to pump him faster. Farleigh swallows back a moan and humps into your fist faster. You're snickering at his dizzy expression, he's biting his lip and letting out short little moans for your ears only. The person knocks again and Farleigh groans, mouth opening to shout but the handle jiggles, and the large oak door creaks open with a hard push. Duncan peers into the darkness of the room and Farleigh nearly freezes, his eyes wide as he looks over your shoulder. He's heaving, panting but his hips still slowly roll into your closed fist— one of his hands disappearing under the cover to keep your hand on him. “He can't see us,” He whispers so softly, that you have to shuffle closer.

Duncan clicks his tongue stepping into the dark room. The man, thankfully, bypasses the light switch in favor of going towards the curtains, “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

You give Farleigh a test jerk, squinting to see him bite his lip as his lashes flutter. You shuffle closer to Farleigh, your forehead resting against his shoulder as your thumb sweeps over his weeping tip. Duncan is shuffling behind you, he's surely getting closer to the curtain but Farleigh hooks a leg around yours and presses into your fist so hard it has him hissing out a choked curse. Duncan, of course, thinks it's directed towards him.

You can hear the scowl in his voice as he fumbles with the chord of the curtains, “Everyone is already downstairs waiting for you and we can't find your lady–”

“Uh–huh...”

“–And you're sleeping in without a care in the world–” Duncan continues as Farleigh whimpers against your ear. There's a light, near faint squeaking that fills the room, Farleigh is going to cum. You feel it in the way he moves, how his breath stutters. It's a surprise he isn't begging for it but you blame it on the fact that he doesn't want to alert the butler to what he was doing or your presence. Farleigh’s free hand grasps for you, pulling you into a bruising kiss as he cums, he groans into your mouth, fingers curling against the base of your neck as he slowly rolls to a stop in your hand. Duncan pulls the curtains open and light floods the room and you can barely pull away in time to duck under the cover as Duncan sputters behind you.

“M-my lady–”

Farleigh laughs, pulling the covers over his head to hide from Duncan's accusing gaze. “We’ll be down in a few minutes.”

Duncan nods, clears his throat, and speeds from the room. The two of you are still giggling for a moment, exchanging kisses when—

“We still have to talk about it,” Farleigh says and you frown, pulling away to look at him. The man raises a brow, his lips quirking just a bit as he presses another kiss to the corner of your lips before he gets out of bed. “Sex isn't going to make me forget you tried to leave.”

You roll away, burying your face in his pillow with an annoyed groan. Your response is muffled and Farleigh comes back to the bed and you lift your head when he asks you to repeat what you said. “I wanted to visit my mom, I told you guys that last night.”

Farleigh hums, he doesn't believe you but he doesn't outright say it. He just looks at you like you're something tragic, like you're made from broken bits of glass that's been stuck together again, “You ignored all my calls.”

“You would have stopped me.”

Farleigh frowns, shaking his head and when his curls bounce it makes you realize he went to sleep without a hair cap. “I would have asked ‘why.’ Why now, why when we're working things out, why when we're getting back together–”

“We’re not.” You say so quickly, you nearly bite your tongue. Farleigh blinks, his lips thinning but you continue, “Just because– just because we fucked doesn't mean we're back together.”

“Right.” He says slowly, his eyes already rolling. “You’re not my girlfriend but you just gave me a handjob. You're not my girlfriend but just last week I had you cumming on my dick–”

“Oh fuck off, Farleigh.” You hiss, pushing yourself out of bed. You start to look for your jeans that you took off last night and Farleigh clocks it immediately.

“Where are you going?” He asks, he's stepping in front of you. “We have to talk about this, this isn't fair.”

“Like you care about what's fair.” You spit. It's a low blow and you know it but you’re trying to get away from him, trying to get him to back down from the argument and just let you go but Farleigh doesn't, he grabs your arm and makes you face him.

“Don’t do that. We can't keep doing this– fucking each other and then arguing or– or running away. This shit isn't healthy.” Farleigh stresses but his voice is soft, hurt. “You say we aren't together but last night you asked to come to my room and before, you promised to come to Saltburn.”

You know he's right. It's not fair for either of you but you don't know how to tell him the truth— how to open yourself back up to him after what he did. You think if this happened before he cheated, you would have told him instantly. You think that maybe it would have been the both of you sitting in your dorm room’s bathroom— he would have paced as you sat on the toilet waiting for that line to appear. But… things happened, he strayed and even though he came back, even though he's proving himself to you time, and time again, you find yourself on a different path than his but always looking back. You must have been silent for too long because Farleigh gently, teasingly, tugs on your left ear lobe. It's enough to make you blink and he smiles, just barely and you sigh. “I’m sorry. I'm– I'm just going through a lot, Farleigh, and I want to tell you but–”

“You don't trust me.”

“I’m trying to.” You swallow, you blink twice as a wave of nausea hits you and your hand finds your stomach and you rub your hand on your belly before it quickly drops when you see him start to follow the movement. “I want to trust you, I want to give you another chance. I love you, Farleigh. But sometimes when I look at you, I just remember what you did and– and it kills me.”

Farleigh is nodding his head, “I can work with that. We can work with that.” He lets you go and his hand twitches as it falls to his side, “Your pants are over there.” He nods his head to your pants crumbled in the corner of his room and you quickly turn and scramble to grab them and pull them on. Farleigh watches for a moment before he looks away as you make your way to his door, you're nearly out of the room when he calls your name. You turn to him as he says, “I love you too, by the way.”

You bite back a smile as you duck out of the room. You're rushing back to your room with a small grin on your face and it only grows when servants passing by greet you with the use of your name. You find your room easily, your door is already cracked and curtains are drawn and you pop into the room only for your grin to falter.

There, on your bed is your phone.

The phone that went missing back on campus. The phone that cost you your flight and your appointment. You linger by your door in shock before your screen lights up and you're scrambling to grab it.

70 texts, 28 missed calls, 10 voicemails.

You blink, your hands shaking as you unlock your phone. The first dozen messages were from Annabel, she questioned your whereabouts multiple times, she asked if you made it to your appointment and when you didn't answer within an hour she assumed the worst and tried to call you— your eyes search through your call log, twelve times. On the last call, she leaves a voicemail:

“Bitch,” She hissed through the phone. “You better fucking call me when you land, you hear? This isn't funny, that's my niece you're carrying— sorry, not funny. But CALL me, I'm sweating from this stress!”

Your mom had texted you thirty times and called nine times. She left two voicemails and the first is worried— though you can tell she's a bit pissed you bailed on her and the second wasn't even your mom, it was your grandmother ranting about how England had snatched your soul and pierced your heart, she croaks out that she's praying for your redemption and you hear your mother in the background tell her to get off her phone. You shoot a quick text to her first, explaining the situation as best as you can, and promise to call the moment you are free as you look at the other messages.

Farleigh had called you the last seven times and left you the last seven voicemails, each of them longer than the last. You can barely get through one when you hear his voice break as he apologizes softly into the phone— he asks you to just call him to make sure you're alright and that's where you cut the voicemail, your eyes watering. Jesus. You clear your throat as you scroll to the most recent messages,

Unknown.

Hey.

It's Oliver, I hope you're okay :-)

You blink. When did you ever give Oliver your number? Frowning, you search through multiple messages threads and see the only time Oliver is ever mentioned is when Annabel talked about almost fucking him. Felix, you think, must have given him your number when he realized you weren't going to show up, and ignoring how annoyed that makes you feel, you drop your phone back on your bed and rush to change into fresher clothes. You already missed dinner, lord forbid you're any later to breakfast.

Elspeth greets you enthusiastically. She jumps from her seat at the sight of you, pulls you into a crushing hug, and presses several kisses to each of your cheeks. She tells you she missed you and Sir James is quick to say the same as he offers you a quick kiss on your hand before Farleigh pulls you away with a snide comment. Both Catton elders wave him off without so much as a blink and you're sat next to Farleigh and next to Venetia.

The girl grins at the sight of you, leaning into bump shoulders with you and she snickers when her mom calls for attention again. She introduces her friend, Pamela— a willowy redhead who greets you with bleary eyes and a tight smile. She is sat at the opposite side of the table at the very end and two empty seats are keeping her away from Oliver and Felix. She leans forward, her neck extending to be seen and she asks, “And who are you, exactly?”

The question makes the table fall silent, Farleigh is frowning at Pamela and Felix is chewing his toast with a smug smile on his face as he watches.

“Oh, darling, she's Farleigh’s girlfriend,” Elspeth says when the silence persists. She's smiling, her blue eyes twinkling, “She’s practically family!”

Felix snorts and Farleigh kicks him under the table. Elspeth’s smile begins to drop, obviously catching the movement but Oliver is suddenly sitting up in his chair, “Are you feeling well?”

You blink when you realize the question is directed at you, “What?”

All eyes fall on you and Oliver, and he begins to shift, nibbling on his lip. “I mean, are you feeling better? I know with the baby and everything–”

For a moment, there's silence. You see Oliver's lips moving but you don't hear him then there is chaos. Felix chokes, Sir James drops his fork and knife, and Elspeth lets out a squeal. Venetia turns to you, her eyes wide and searching, “What baby?” She asks, her voice shrill. She calls your name but you're quickly pushing away from the table, stumbling as you try to catch your footing. Farleigh is on his feet just as quickly, he's behind you— steadying you but his hands feel scorching and you fight the urge to push him away.

“What–” You start and your knees nearly give out from the adrenaline pumping through your body, Farleigh is gripping your elbow like his life depends on it but you refuse to look at him, you're glaring holes into Oliver. “What the fuck, Oliver?”

Oliver makes a face. “Our luggage got mixed up, I saw the pamphlet and I thought–” He looks around at the chaos he caused, and his lip twitches. “I thought everyone knew…?”

You swallow and this time, you don't think it's enough to keep back the bile building in your throat. You yank your arm free from Farleigh and wheeze out a quick, “Excuse me.” and rush from the room. You don't know where you're going but all you know right now, is that you don't want to be found. You're out the side doors in seconds and disappear into Saltburn’s maze, ignoring the calls of your name.

honestly the best thing about yu-gi-oh is how healing fucking hurts. nobody has an easy time becoming a better person. it sucks. kaiba has to be in a months-long nightmare coma to become 3% less evil. jounouchi still has the same dangerous enemies and shitty family life he always had but now those enemies think he's easy pickings. bakura's boldest attempt to stand up for himself and his friends gives him a permanant scar through his hand. these kids are killing themselves to be better people in a world that has given them nothing

Scarlet King Chained

Really satisfied with the design!

SCP-2317 - A Door to Another World by DrClef: https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-2317

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Check Out Time is Eleven [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Title: Check Out Time is 11 [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: You're invited to a hotel for a warm meal and a place to sleep by a mysterious stranger. Soulmate AU.

Word count: 7100ish

notes: yandere, kidnapping, mentions of drugging, a really useless and non-philosophical reference to My Dinner with Andre

The red thread on his finger loses slack for the very first time in his life, and for the smallest of moments, Chrollo Lucilfer forgets himself. His steps falter, expensive, stolen shoes nearly scuffing on the sidewalk, and a startled breath quivers through his chest. His mouth gapes, ever so slightly. 

In surprise.

In trepidation. 

In realization.

The red thread was, had always been, attached to you. His soulmate. Whoever you were. The gentle tugging of the thread meant that after years of fruitless searching, you were finally somewhere nearby, close enough to reach. Probably, given the tautness of the thread, even within walking distance. 

How lucky for him. 

How unfortunate for you. 

You were finally discovered. You were finally within his grasp, fingers itching, warm satisfaction blooming through his skin. How often had he ruminated over the fact that you had yet to belong to him? How often had he wondered what you would look like, how you would feel under his touch? And what you might do to him when he had you in person? Would he find himself changed, however slightly, as the others in the Troupe had been? Or would he mold you with his own presence, looming over you like a shadow?

The mere thought of you is enough to get his heart racing, bring a bead of sweat to his neck. It was so unlike him, and wasn’t that a thrill? 

And then, just like that, the moment is over. He recollects himself and his mouth closes and his mind whirs back into focused gear. 

He needed to find you, first thing. The rest of the logistics could come later. 

His eyes track the movements of the thread, and without missing a beat, he turns on his heels to follow the direction of the movement. It was possible--no, highly probable--that you were close enough to reach on foot. Within the city, certainly, and he didn’t mind the exercise. 

As he continues to walk, the cold gleam of the business district turning into rows of glitzy restaurants and downtown attractions, he’s glad that you weren’t too close. It gives him more time to think about what he wants to do with you. 

The Troupe members that had already found their soulmates--and Chrollo feels a surge of pride in his chest, counting himself among them now, fulfilled in that goal--had taken on different approaches. 

Some merely kidnapped their soulmates and kept them in secure locations. Simple, effective in terms of security, but that would ensure it would take him a long time to win you over. And he knows that he will do just that, eventually, no matter how he decides to keep you. Others took their time, attempting to strike up something of an ordinary relationship before revealing their knowledge of the red thread, and persuading their soul mates to come with them for safety (and romance)’s sake. Surely the more appealing of the two options, but it did come with the downside of expended time and energy. 

What he would do with you depended on so many factors. Did you live in some stationary location, or were you prone to travel? What did you do for a living? Were you already in a relationship, some inferior partnership with someone who could never appreciate you the way that he could, as your only soulmate? 

All of these questions circle heavily in his mind as he walks, following the thread that was becoming tighter and tighter between the pair of you. The ritzy downtown buildings were now gone, replaced by rows of old buildings that had seen better days. In place of fine dining were small cafes and diners that practically exuded grease, laundromats with blinking signs, and the occasional busted out window. The scores of people walking, gabbing, waving around fancy handbags were replaced by only the occasional person walking with clear destinations in mind, eyes in front. 

As the thread becomes even tighter, it leads him down an alley that most people would have surely avoided. But he doesn’t worry about the glances of the people leaning up against heavy exit doors, or the people crouching on the ground with needles against their arms. He thinks about you. Will he find you here, perhaps, curled up in the arms of a drug dealer pumping you full of toxic chemicals that flushed you with endorphins and heat? Or you might be on the other side of the needle, pocketing cash and going on your merry way? 

But, no. Perhaps not. Instead of leading him further into the den of seedy dealings, the thread brings him away, feet crunching on broken bottles, towards some type of fenced-in parking lot. Or it had been a parking lot, once

From a short distance through the metal fence, he can see burning barrels, tents, carts. The smells of cooking grills waft over, greasy foods, easy to cook outdoors. It wasn’t a new sight, in this city or otherwise. Chrollo had seen worse. Had lived worse.

And then, there--at the end of the red thread that weaved in between one of the fence’s metal honeycombs: you.

He sees you for the first time and knows, with a burning intensity that threatens to knock him over, that he needs you. He needs you now. He needs you always. You have something that he lacks and perhaps possessing you will give it to him. 

Is this what the others felt, when they first saw their soulmates? Or is it something unique to you and him? Some unfathomable bond that has shaken him to his core? Not for long, of course, never for long. He regains his senses within moments and catalogs the feeling away for later analysis. 

It’s you that he focuses on, now.  And the fact he will have you, as soon as he decides on the where, when, and how. He wouldn’t be the leader of the Phantom Troupe if he wasn’t skilled at taking what he wanted. 

Today what he wants is not a gallery of paintings or a rare gruesome artifact, but a person. 

You.

What to make of you? 

You’re standing in front of one of the burning barrels, rubbing your hands together. They look red and chapped, even from his vintage point. Behind you is a shopping cart filled with odds and ends. On the side nearest the fire, you had clearly laid out clothes over the edge of the cart--wet ones, from rain or maybe you’d had the opportunity to wash them. Your current ensemble is a simple hodgepodge. Clearly, you wore whatever was cleanest, whatever was warmest, whatever you could find. 

He remembers such a living. 

You appear to be on the outskirts, avoiding the groups scattered around the encampment. No one approaches you and you don’t approach them. A loner… by choice, or not? You wouldn’t be alone for long, if it wasn’t by choice, and in time you might be grateful for it. If it was by choice, well, there were ways to tame feral cats. 

It doesn’t take much analysis to decide what to do with you, to decide how best to approach things. He’s glad that he wore something casual today. Just some simple slacks and a nice sweater. If he was overdressed, it might be more difficult. Not that he couldn’t manage it, but he enjoys advantages when he can get them. 

With no hesitation, he walks through one of the ragged gaps in the metal fence and begins to approach you. 

Your head jerks towards him the moment that his steps become even remotely close. He doesn’t mind. It’s only natural, especially for someone who has been living the way you surely have. There’s a tugging somewhere inside him--memory of himself and connection with you.

He smiles, not broadly, but in a way meant to disarm. 

“Hello,” he says, stopping a few feet away from you. 

You stiffen. 

“I’m Chrollo,” he continues. His voice is undisturbed and calm. As if he was meeting you on a sunny afternoon in the park while you were both buying ice cream from the same cart. That might have been a more charming meeting, he muses, but this one can work to his advantage just as easily. “Won’t you tell me your name?”

You snatch your hands back from the barrel and step, refusing to turn your back to him, behind your cart.

“None of your business,” you say. 

And oh, he thinks, it would be heaven if he could somehow bottle the first time he hears your voice and listen to it on demand. But he supposes, he has the rest of his life--and yours--to hear you speak.

“That’s all right.”  He gestures towards you, the cart, your life. “I see you are in need.” You frown at him, but he continues. “How would you like to go somewhere warm?”

Your lip pulls back in a sneer and you move yourself on the other side of the cart.

“I don’t do that. Fuck off.”

Ah. You thought he wanted you to--well. It wouldn’t be the first time people took advantage of others in less fortunate situations. There had been enough of that in Meteor City. 

“No, nothing like that,” he says, voice going soft. “I should have clarified. I’m a… missionary of sorts. I look for people in need and offer what help I can give. I’d like to buy you a hotel room for the week.” He notices your wary expression. “Or even the day, if that would be more comfortable for you. Somewhere you can get some safe sleep, a shower, something to eat. I wouldn’t even be there.” 

He recognizes the look on your face all too well. Wariness. Suspicion. The face of someone who knows that people are tricky and greedy and cruel. That people will take things that they haven’t earned. Oh, yes-- he knows all of that so well, from both sides.

And he also knows how to get your guard to drop enough for him to accomplish his goal. Sure, mistrust is essential in an environment like this. But mistrust can always be overpowered when there’s something essential within reach. Like comfort. Or food. A warm place to stay, even if it’s just for a few hours. A private bathroom, a toilet, a tub.

“I don’t know,” you say, finally, having given him the appropriate stare down.

He nods his head.

“I understand. I would feel wary myself, in your position. It’s perfectly reasonable.” It is more than reasonable, he thinks, but you don’t need to know that. You just need to believe that coming with him will be worth your while, worth ignoring what he’s sure is a growing pit in your stomach. 

“What I would like to do is accompany you to a hotel where I often book rooms for those in need. It’s a private room, of course. And I will pay for your meals.” He sees the gears turning in your mind at the promise of a bed. The promise of food. “I have my own room in the hotel, but it’s on a different floor, and I won’t have to see you at all,” he adds, and this is how he will make you step over that cautionary line. “I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Everything is pre-paid on my card, of course, and you’re free to order whatever you’d like. What do you say?”

He lets his words hang in the air, wafting like smoke from the nearby barrels. 

You wet your lips. You glance around at the people around you. A few of them have taken notice of Chrollo, perhaps as a mark, perhaps more; but he pays them no mind. He could kill them in a fraction of a second and whisk you out of here just as easily, if he needs to… But he hopes it will not come to that. 

“All right,” you say suddenly, softly. “If… you’re just going to give me a room and feed me, then all right.”

Chrollo smiles. It is, he thinks, perhaps close to a genuine one.

“Wonderful. Follow me, if you please.”

--

The hotel is expensive, but thankfully not terribly ostentatious. Chrollo would hate to put you off by throwing you into some gilded lion’s den. But the hotel is more reserved, classy. Comfort and luxury without any of the ridiculous trappings that often come with them. 

Chrollo does bring you with him to the front desk, if only to reduce the chances that the security will kick you out for looking out of place. And you do look out of place, but perhaps that’s for the better. It will make you appreciate what he’s going to do for you more, won’t it? 

You’re quiet all the while, but that’s to be expected. You only hold tight to your backpack, where everything you hold dear has been crammed, and let him do the talking. A reservation is easily made under the guise that only you are to know the room number--you certainly don’t need to know that he’ll swing back and reserve the connected room next door--and the key is given without fanfare from the polite desk clerk who gives you curious glances but nothing more. 

Chrollo walks you to the elevator, ever the gentleman, and hands you the key. You stare at it. The uncertain expression on your face is unbelievably precious, he thinks. He hopes he can see more of it before it inevitably morphs into shock and anger and fear. 

“Would you like some new clothing?” Chrollo asks, after he pushes the button on the elevator for you. “I can have some sent up from the hotel’s boutique. I’ll tell the front desk, so they can give the concierge the room number. Ah, and I’ll need to know your size, if you’re willing to give it.” 

“You want to buy me clothes?”

You almost splutter out the words, and he has to restrain himself from kissing you right then and there. You are terribly cute, and there’s a slight disturbing tinge to how much he finds everything about you enticing so quickly. The way you furrow your eyebrows at his question. The slight look of embarrassment, the twitch of your lips. 

He needs you so much, and he’s only known you for a few moments.

You tell him your size, then glance at him before staring at the glossy metallic doors. “Um, I need something warm. No useless stuff.” Your head gestures back towards the hotel lobby, where a few women are walking on the arm of male companions, dressed in sleeveless dresses and likely heading for the restaurant. 

“Of course.” Chrollo does not tell you that he can envision you wearing all sorts of useless things in the future his mind is creating, brick by brick. You would look heavenly in something strapless, something slinky. Something that hangs off your shoulders. He would drape a fine wrap over them, were you behaving enough to go out with him--no one else but him will be privy to such delicacies. 

For now, though, he resolves to send you the clothes he knows you want. Things will be a little more seamless if your guard isn’t entirely raised. 

The elevator doors open.

Chrollo steps aside, and gestures for you to enter. 

“This is where I take my leave. I will let the restaurant host know your name, and you can order whatever you’d like. It’s on my card. Please, don’t feel the need to hold back.”

You take a step inside the elevator and ah, there it is. Just the slightest hesitation. The slightest jerk of your head as you look back at him. Do you feel bad, leaving him in a lurch when he’s giving you charity? Do you feel beholden to him in some way?

“I guess it’s okay if we share a meal. You’re paying for it, anyway. It’d be awkward otherwise.” You stare down at the elevator carpet as you say the words, and Chrollo realizes that he’s perhaps misjudged the gesture. Your sense of shame, maybe, outweighs your desire to be rid of him and his potential alternative motives for assisting you.

That might come in handy.

He nods, as you turn around and make brief eye contact with him. 

“Well, then. How about we meet here in 5 hours for dinner? I can send something dressy to your room, if you’d like.” 

You shrug your shoulders as the doors close, which is as good as assent in his view. The string on his finger rises with the elevator, but now there is no fear that he’ll lose you. The string, something which had been maddening in its slackness for so long, is now something of a treasure itself. A little leash, keeping you to him, wherever you go.

Which, for now, is your hotel room--meaning he needs to get moving. He won’t pick anything too flashy out from the boutique; something modest, something simple. There are delicate steps to take to avoid making you feel ashamed without offending your sense of dignity all in one go.

Thankfully--for you and himself--he’s attuned to such needs. 

5 hours. That would give you enough time to take a shower or bath, to change into the fresh clothing he’ll send up, to take a nap. Perhaps you’ll stare out the hotel window at the view or curl up in the bed, rolling on the fresh sheets. 

Five hours would give you time to freshen up and relax, yes. And it would give him enough time to get hold of Shalnark and procure anything he needs to make your removal from the hotel as smooth as possible.

--

The shower is running again. He doesn’t blame you. He remembers days where a hot shower was a luxury beyond imagining. 

He keeps his side pressed against the door connecting your rooms--not that you know he is on the other side with a key to yours, of course--and holds back a contended sigh as he watches the red string on his finger twirl and shift with your every movement. 

What are you thinking about? He wonders. Are you thinking about how long it’s been since you had a hot shower? Are you thinking about slipping the shampoo bottles into your backpack?

Perhaps more inviting… are you thinking about him?

He knows what’s on his mind, and has been for the last few hours now. You. 

What were you like, deep down, underneath your layers and justifiably guarded stance? Maybe you liked to read, maybe you once had a dream of being a dancer before life went to hell, maybe you were shy, maybe you liked to get drunk and sing your favorite songs at full volume. 

What would  you be like, once you were fully his? 

The thread bobbles again. Are you stepping out of the shower soon, or still scrubbing yourself? You’re so vulnerable, naked and unawares, just a few feet away from him. The water running is a delicious sound to his ears, because he knows that you’re underneath it. 

What do you look like, underneath all of your clothing? What has nature and nurture shown fit to bestow upon you, your skin, all those secret places you keep hidden? 

He imagines what you might look like naked. He imagines what sounds you might make, underneath him, gasping and--

Oh, but he’s getting ahead of himself. He smiles and shakes his head at the rush. He should slow down, yes. Slow down and savor it all.

He clenches both of his hands. In one is the duplicate key, in the other is a syringe. Both go into opposite pockets, awaiting their respective time to shine.

--

The dress that arrives at your door with a prim knock from a porter is not quite what you expected--which is a relief. You expected the stranger to send up something ridiculous. Something slinky and glittering, maybe with only a half shoulder. 

But instead it’s a simple dress with a flared skirt, all made from dark blue fabric. The sleeves are elbow length, the neckline isn’t too low, and there’s a matching black belt to go with it. He’s even sent up a pair of nylons, which are something you haven’t worn since you were a little kid, desperately trying to mimic your mother’s fancy outfits. 

He also--and maybe this is overkill--sent up a few pairs of shoes in different sizes, along with a transcribed note instructing you to call the front desk if none of them fit, or simply wear your own shoes if you are uncomfortable with it. 

This stranger--Chrollo--is awfully accommodating. And kind. And considerate. 

Which is exactly why, when the dress is on and your nylon-clad feet are resting in the shoes easiest to run in, you tuck your switchblade into one of the dress pockets for safekeeping. 

Maybe he is just kind. Or he’s one of those people that makes themselves feel better by occasionally being charitable; he’s harboring some sort of guilt that can be alleviated, however temporarily, by buying a person a sandwich or two. 

But maybe he’s not. You’ve known people who have been hurt or killed or sometimes worse by so-called charitable people. People that lure you in with showers and hotels, meals and clothing. People that slit your throat before or after they have their way with you.

Life was dark and life was shit, and you weren’t born yesterday. If this stranger had any nefarious intentions, you certainly weren’t going to walk into them like a bleating lamb. 

And yet, and yet… some part of you wanted to believe he had good intentions. You’re not sure why, exactly. You weren’t the type to look on the bright side or always see the good in people--or at least,  you hadn’t been that way since childhood. Yet something about this Chrollo made you hope that he was a good person. That you’d have a nice conversation and he wouldn’t do anything more than give you a nice afternoon and a place to sleep comfortably for a bit. 

It was an almost primal feeling, which made it all the more stranger. Your gut feelings usually told you something like: this place is dangerous, this guy’s probably got a gun, that alley’s too notorious to use as a shortcut. 

Your gut didn’t give you silly notions, like wanting to trust someone, hoping they would talk to you during dinner, wondering if they’d be pleasant to be around for longer. 

At least, not before today.

--

“And the lady will have the cailles aux raisins.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Quail,” Chrollo says, allowing the waiter to take the leather-bound menu from his hands. As if your issue was with the choice of food--okay, you didn’t know what it meant, but still--and not that he ordered for you. “Stuffed with shallots, grapes, liver, and ah, I believe, some cognac, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That’s correct, sir,” the waiter says, not giving you a second glance--you didn’t even get a menu, which irked you, but considering you had nothing to pay with and perhaps the hotel staff knew it, it was a practical snub.

Your lips twist into a frown, although you suppose you can’t complain. The dish does sound good.  Not that you’ve ever had quail. But it can’t be that different from chicken. Or duck. You had duck, once, as a kid. Your mother brought you to a hotel just like this for a Mother’s Day brunch and you sat at a table with an embroidered cloth and wore a pair of your mother’s white gloves, so that you would look extra fancy.

“I apologize,” Chrollo tells you. “I should have asked your preference first.” The strangest part is how sincere he sounds, like he really didn’t want to offend you. Like he actually might be interested in what you want to eat. Part of you can appreciate that, and part of you wants to finger the handle of your knife inside your pocket.

“It’s fine.” You shrug it all off. Because you can, and you choose to--but also because you’re famished and the smells wafting from the other tables is enough to make your stomach growl. “People usually don’t order things like this for me, anyway. If they do give me anything.”

Chrollo tilts his head slightly, looking at you like a particularly interesting painting on a wall. “No?” 

You smile thinly. “Nope. I’m lucky if I get someone’s leftover fries from a fast food shop.” 

“What a shame.” He places both hands on the table, clasping his fingers together. His gaze bores into yours. You look away, briefly, but find yourself wanting to look back. How odd. “I’m sure,” he begins, talking slowly, measuring out his words, “that must be demoralizing--to be treated as lesser-than.”

You can’t help the snort that comes out your nose, or the quick words that follow. “Yeah? And what would you know about that?” Your eyes rake over his outfit, your mind whirls over how much money he’s spent on you alone, as if it was nothing. A drop in the bucket. Some rich man playing with his money. Or daddy’s money, depending on the circumstance.

Of course, you expect him to get offended. You expect him to call you ungrateful and cancel the order and ship you out of here like yesterday’s trash. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has gotten angry that you didn’t play into their savior fantasies. Your muscles even prep to stand, your face goes stony, ready to block the anger that he’ll throw your way.

Only... none of that happens.

His face looks--it’s hard to describe, really. It’s almost like it glitches for a moment, and you see something you weren’t meant to see. You’re not even sure if he realizes it. And then his expression gets so remote and so quiet. He looks away from you for perhaps the first time, looking instead, at his hands.

“I know a lot about that, actually.”

It’s not offense in his expression but… sympathy? No, that’s not it either. You know “sympathy face” like the back of your hand, for all the good it does you. 

It’s empathy. Trace, but there. A shared experience between you. Maybe that’s why you’ve felt inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt all day. Why you went with him in the first place, hunger pangs aside. 

“So you’ve been…” You begin, but is there a need to finish. He’s been homeless, or something like it. Downtrodden. On the bottom. 

He nods.

“Sorry.” The word comes out blurted but soft. Well, I’m an asshole, you think. 

He smiles at you, a soft, thin thing--almost like a gloss that covers up his previous expression. “No, don’t be. You had no way of knowing, dear.” 

Dear.

The word hangs between you silently, as if it’s being dangled on some sort of invisible string. He opens his mouth slightly--maybe to apologize--but shuts it when you don’t say anything. Instead, he simply blinks, and watches you.

Perhaps a minute ago you might have bristled at the nickname, might have sought to cut it right down, in fact. But for now, you brush it aside. He’s being nice--he knows what you’re going through. And sure, there’s some sort of guilt relief in his actions, but it’s not coming from the place of a rich man making himself feel better. It’s coming, you think, from a place of not just knowing where you’ve been but having been there himself. 

Before either of you can speak, the waiter returns with your appetizer and despite the guilt in your gut, your hunger practically sings at the sight of the plate of bread and butter. It’s fancy bread, already cut, gleaming with what smells like garlic butter spread over the top. 

The flavored butter is shaped like a rose and it’s only after you childishly dip your bread right into it and take a loud, chewy bite of the delicious goodness that you realize you’ve committed a faux-pas. There’s a tiny butter knife on the plate, obviously meant to delicately smear the butter onto your bread. And here you are, gnawing on the piece like some sort of medieval peasant during a bad harvest. 

A pang of shame tingles over you. It’s a silly kind of shame--inconsequential, really. Who cares how you eat bread at some hotel you’ll never step foot in again in your life? But it lingers terribly. Until Chrollo picks up a piece of brand and dips it right into the butter, too, taking a chewy bite with far less graciousness than you imagined with his sophisticated appearance.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” He asks, not even bothering to cover his mouth.

You smile. You almost-snort. And the shame dissipates like ice crystals on a sunny day, as you and Chrollo both finish off the appetizer. He lets you eat more without saying a word, which you appreciate.

There’s a lot to appreciate about him, really. He’s been kind. He hasn’t been terribly condescending, dinner order notwithstanding. And he seems to know how to approach you with actual empathy and not just the sticky, coddling sympathy that most people do.

And you won’t lie--he is nice to look at. He even smells nice, but with the amount of money he had to spend on the clothing he sent up to your room, he can likely afford to buy expensive cologne.

If he notices you staring, he says nothing. Instead, he half-closes his eyes and appears to be deep in thought. Over… you? Or dinner? 

He hums a bit under his breath, and you realize: it’s the music. It’s a delicate song being played by a small group of musicians set up on a stage in the corner. It’s familiar… your brain strives to catch up with your ears. 

“You like this song?” You ask, because the silence has stretched too long, and the bread is now gone.

Chrollo opens his eyes and regards you with a sober smile. “Yes.” He pauses, then. “It’s--”

“Elgar's Chanson de matin,” you blurt, before he can. “I know it.”

His eyes widen, just a tad. Enough to show that he’s curious. A funny bit of pride thrums through you. It can be retribution for the quail earlier, you decide.

“You’re familiar with his work?”

You feel your cheeks heat up, even though you don’t get the sense that he asked to be cruel. He seems actually interested. Like he wants to know you. It’s nice, and confusing, and a little startling. 

You nod, wishing there was more bread to break up the conversation. “What, you think someone like me can’t be interested in classical music?

“Of course not.” He answers swiftly, resolutely.

 He reaches his hand towards yours and grasps it before you can think to pull away. It seems silly to yank your hand out of his, so you don’t. Even if the way he looks down at your interlocked fingers makes goosebumps dance up your arm. 

His expression is so strange. He looks… lonely. And desperate. And relieved. But why? 

Both of your gazes meet for one electric moment and for that moment, you feel like he sees you. And you see him. Not as clearly. But you see something inside him that is not quite on the surface. Something which does make you pull away, but not with distaste. You withdraw your hand from his slowly, like he’s a wild animal that you don’t want to startle.

The waiter, impeccable timing as ever, arrives with the main courses just as your hand makes its way into your lap. 

And just like that, the spell is broken. Ripples of water dash whatever it was between you, and he’s speaking charmingly to the waiter, who appears swiftly again with a glass of champagne for each of you. You weren’t intending to drink, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt. It could calm your nerves.

Neither of you talk much for the rest of dinner. It’s not tense, exactly, but you can tell there’s something in the air. Questions unspoken, maybe, or just an awkwardness between two strangers who seem to both understand and misunderstand each other in equal measure.

The hotel’s restaurant begins to thin out after your main courses are taken away. A dessert menu is brought, and Chrollo orders a simple slice of cake for both of you. 

Real vanilla bean frosting is on your lips when you ask your question. Quiet, but with most of the other guests gone, he has no trouble hearing it.

“So you were… homeless, before?”

You’re not sure why you need to know this. To confirm that he’s not some rich boy playing with his father’s money? To see how much he can really understand you? Maybe the champagne went to your head. You don’t normally drink, it wouldn’t be impossible.

His fork stalls as the question comes out. He glances up at you and there’s nothing offended or hurt in his eyes. He seems to weigh his answer before he gives it. It doesn’t really surprise you; he could be just as mistrustful of you as you are of him, couldn’t he?

“Something like that.” He rests his fork on his plate. “I suppose you are trying to decide just how much I can sympathize with your… situation.”

Heat floods your cheeks, and you’re grateful the water brought another glass of champagne that you can sip from to loosen the tightness in your chest.

If he notices your flushed countenance, he doesn’t remark on it. You like him better for it. He continues speaking, looking at you with a measured expression. Like before, his words come slowly and carefully, given to you with something akin to grace.

“Our situations were not exactly similar. I don’t find it terribly useful to compare them. Better in some ways, worse in others. Like anything.”

“Better?” You dab at your mouth with a napkin. 

“Ah.” He seems to weigh his next words with even more scrutiny before he decides on them. “I had something you didn’t, which surely benefited me.”

“Which was?”

There’s something wistful in his voice now. It makes you lean forward over the table. With most of the other guests gone, it feels strange to talk so openly about clearly delicate matters. Chrollo mimics your lean, and while he doesn’t take your hands across the table into his, you get the feeling he’d like to, if you let him.

“Companionship,” he says simply. The word settles in the air like a brick that seems to land right on your chest. You blink and feel the beginnings of tears in your eyes. You really did have too much champagne, and this is all getting to be a lot. You start to lean backward when he speaks again.

“Aren’t you lonely?”

“No,” you lie. The shock of the question does make you lean back fully. Then, to be spiteful. “Are you?”

He doesn’t answer. He only looks down at his hands and the empty spot where yours used to be, and then back at you. 

Nothing more is said on the matter. He pays for the meal and leaves a nice fat tip for the waiter--who has, you think, been lurking nearby either to witness your drama or to make sure no one swipes his tip from the table--before escorting you back to the elevators.

Shame slams back into you while you’re standing in front of the elevator doors.

“I’m sorry.” Sure, he asked it first, but fuck--you hate being rude. If you were rude. It was hard to tell how Chrollo felt about anything. The champagne making your head fuzzy doesn’t help. Not at all.  

He tilts his head a little. “What for?”

Your eyebrows furrow together. “You know, for asking… for being…” You wave your hands around a little. It’s too hard to put into words. You’re tired, you feel out of sorts, and you’re tipsy bordering on drunk. You can give yourself some forgiveness in a lack of coherency in this matter, at least.

Chrollo regards you for a moment before he shakes his head, scoffing a little as he smiles.

“For being yourself? Or at least showing some small part of it to me? I don’t mind.” He holds out his arm and you, unsteady champagne fuzz in your head, take it. “I’ll escort you to your room, if that’s all right. I don’t feel comfortable letting you go there alone.”

You should tell him that you’ll be fine. You should. But the champagne in your brain and the way you feel drawn to him--however slightly--makes “should” fly out the window. So you nod and let him lead you into the elevator, where the ride up makes you dizzy enough that Chrollo has to steady you carefully, and you mumble out another apology. 

He only chuckles a little and helps you walk out of the elevator without stumbling over the threshold. Your room is just down the hall and he keeps a steady grip on you the whole way, even though you’ve told yourself that you won’t stumble anymore. It feels weird, to have someone so close to you; to smell his cologne and feel the warmth of his skin.

It feels weird, yes, but giddy too. He is handsome. And he did buy you dinner. And clothes. And he’s not as shitty as you thought he might be at first. The way he ate the bread in solidarity with you earlier--you can’t forget that, can you? It was… cute, even. If someone like Chrollo could be called cute.

Is it the champagne, the newness of this stranger-but-not-entirely, the rich disarmament that comes with a full stomach and freshly washed face? All of the above? Whatever it is, it’s got you thinking too much about Chrollo as he gently takes the key from your hand and opens your hotel room door.

A gentleman, he only sees you just inside before taking his leave, promising to meet you for breakfast in the morning--if you’d like.

You would like, you tell him, and the door shuts and locks swiftly afterwards. Chrollo’s cologne lingers in the air, or maybe it rubbed off on you from all the steadying he had to do. 

The hotel room is just as you left it. Clean and pristine, smelling vaguely of lemon. Your duffel bags and personal belongings are shoved in the corner. Maybe you’ll try to read one of your books tonight, before you sleep? It would be the first time you read on an actual bed in ages. Maybe you could even call for room service? A little midnight snack? It’s not like Chrollo would mind, or at least, he probably wouldn’t. It’d be something small anyway, nothing wild. 

Unless you wanted a bubbly nightcap. 

Full of ideas, you take your giddy champagne self back to the bathroom to change into pajamas that he sent up earlier, humming Elgar’s Chanson, thinking about bread and quail and… Chrollo. The knife in your dress pocket gets left on the bathroom counter. It was silly to bring it, now that you think about it. 

Still humming, you flop on the bed and grab the menu for room service. It wouldn’t hurt to order some extra dessert. And another glass of champagne. Maybe two… 

You’re so out of sorts that at no point for the rest of the night, before your weary head hits the soft pillow, do you stop to wonder how Chrollo knew your room number.

--

There are few things Chrollo truly regrets in his life. One of them, he knows, will be that he couldn’t plant himself in this town for a few months in order to properly court you; to introduce you, gradually, to the concept of nen. To the knowledge that you were his soul mate.

But it can’t be helped. He has to leave tomorrow night, come hell or high water. And he certainly won’t let you drown here a moment longer. It’s for your sake. You’ll come to realize that eventually, just as you will--in time--come to forgive him for what he must do.

You’ll no doubt regret letting down your barriers in the morning. But if you hadn’t been so keen to trust in someone, to trust in home, then he wouldn’t have gotten to see something of the real you underneath all of that built-up survival instinct. And didn’t you see something of him, too? He thinks you did. Just a moment, a spark, but it was there. 

You sweet thing. He could hear you humming through the door earlier; heard you order room service (champagne and desserts) and he regretted not having Shalnark swoop in during dinner to set up some security cameras. 

The key to your room feels heavy in his hand. On this side, he is simply himself, staring ahead as the red thread of his soulmate leads away from him. But once he turns it into the lock and quietly opens the door, there will be nothing between you but sleep.

He opens the door and relishes in the way the thread sags even further downward. If only you could have seen how beautiful the thread looked during dinner, all tangled up as he clasped your hand in his. That’s how the thread was meant to look. Not tight and taught and unforgiving.

You’re fast asleep when he silently enters the room and unlocks the deadbolt so that Shalnark can help him remove you from the premises. Curled up underneath the covers, you look like you’re in bliss. It’s likely the first restful sleep you’ve had in a long time. Months? Years? 

How awful for you, to wake up tomorrow and realize that you’re no longer in the hotel bed. And that he’s the one to blame for it. How awful for him, too, to lose his grasp on the tentatively pleasant and revealing evening you had together. But he doesn’t think you’ll be empathetic on that matter. Not for a while, anyway.

He sits down on the bed next to you and it takes a considerable amount of self-control not to curl up against you. It’s not worth the risk of you waking, although the tranquilizer in his pocket could be jabbed into your thigh early, if need be. 

Besides… you’ll have a lifetime of nights together after this. 

There’s no need to rush what is finally his to keep forever. 

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