#hunter fic

[crosshairlovebot]

scents and steam / hunter x gn!reader

pairing: hunter x gn!reader. reader is not present but heavily mentioned.

description: hunter returns home to you early, but you're not in your apartment. so he takes a shower to pass the time as he waits for you to arrive.

word count: 1,353

warnings: NSFW 18+ male m*sturbation. heavy scent kink. plot only if you squint.

this is so, so incredibly out of my comfort zone. i don't know what happened. hunter shower thoughts possessed me and i couldn't be stopped. i have never written smut before so i hope this is okay!

also posted this on ao3. feedback is welcomed, reblogs are appreciated. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Hunter punched the door code with the gloved tip of his finger with a little too much force behind each press. He was much more tired than he would admit, he could feel the heaviness weighing down his body, shoulders hunched as he scrubbed a hand over his face, the other holding his helmet. The lock clicked and the door slid open. When the door closed behind him, he felt his senses relax, picking up on the familiar scent that he hadn’t felt in so long. It was a feeling of relief. He looked around the small apartment, one single yellow lamp lit by the window, he didn’t sense anyone else in the space.

They weren’t home yet. That didn’t surprise him, his arrival had been a surprise for him too.

He rubbed his eyes before making his way to the single bedroom in the apartment. The scent of them was even stronger in here, and he felt his nerve endings tingle and tighten with the recognition. His fingers twitched and he felt his stomach tighten. His body knew that when he was here, he was more than just content. He was home.

He stood in front of the window, looking out over the bustling Galactic capital as he took off his armour, unclipping his shoulder pauldrons and sliding off his vambraces and thigh gauntlets, stepping out of his codpiece – he placed it all on a neat pile before padding his way to the adjoining bathroom in just his blacks. Even though crawling into the bed was tempting – the need to be completely surrounded by the smell of them overwhelming he had to hold himself back – he knew he needed to shower first. He was filthy, and the last thing he wanted to do was dirty the bed.

He flicked the light on, and the blub buzzed for a moment before it stopped. He looked in the mirror and breathed deeply. It was so strong in here, that he felt heat pooling through his body before concentrating in his lower half. He groaned before opening the shower curtain and turning the water on, cranking the dial to the left for hot water, steam already rising.

Hot water was a scarce commodity aboard the Marauder. With four men, all of whom ran around completing gruelling missions day in and day out, when there was time for a shower, the water was rarely warm enough to be comfortable. And since Hunter always let his brothers go first, he seldom had a warm shower.

But here? He would make the most of it.

He stripped himself of his blacks until he was completely bare. His whole body tingled as he kicked them off to the side somewhere before he slipped his bandana off, leaving it hanging over the basin. He checked the water with his hand before stepping in, letting the water wash over him.

He moaned as the warmth of the water seeped deep into his bones, relieving the aches and pains that came with being a soldier. It felt incredible. He faced away from the water, leaning his head back to wet his hair. He closed his eyes as the water teased the edge of his hairline before he wiped a wet hand across his face. He stayed that way for a while, moving his head so that the water flowed over his shoulders, cascading down his chest, the rivulets forming paths in his chest hair before falling past his belly button and down his hips and legs.

Hunter turned around and placed his hands on the wall, letting the water hit the back of his neck as he let it hang forward. Then with one hand still on the wall, he took his cock in his hand and stroked it gently, his eyes squeezed shut as his groan echoed off the tile.

The entire shower smelt like them. The smell of their soap lingered as if it were painted on the tiles themselves. Bathing in it simultaneously felt like heaven and torture. After so many long months of being without them, now he was surrounded by them. He couldn’t ignore it, his whole body going into overdrive. He’d been deprived of it for so long that his senses were trying to compensate for all the time of being without it. It sunk into his skin, his bones, making his cock twitch in his palm.

Where were they? The scent in the shower wasn’t enough, he needed to breathe it in off their skin – right in the space where the neck met the shoulders, that’s where it was strongest.

He couldn’t wait for them to return. He quickly grabbed the bar of soap and rubbed some on his hand, breathing it in before resuming his position. He moved his hand up and down carefully, building the pleasure slowly as he felt himself harden.

He was tired, but he so rarely had the opportunity to let himself go like this. Privacy was as scarce as the water, and the tiny shower in the Marauder was too cramped to really enjoy any kind of pleasure. And holo-sex was out of the question too. All he’d had was his memories and a five-minute window every few days.

He clenched his fist on the wall, and he moved his hand in slight twists up and down, drawing it out. He pictured their naked body, sprawled out just for him, and moved his hand a little faster, pleasure building. Their soft skin, their smell, he imagined it all. He imagined kissing up and down, using his mouth to pleasure them, and the way they squirmed when he moved his tongue just right. He gasped, moaning loudly as he felt his body tighten.

He’d missed them so much, he hoped they didn’t take too long to come home. He really should wait, so they could help. But the possibility that they could walk in on him like this gave him a slight thrill.

His hand moved faster now, he was so, so close. He had memorised the sound they made when he would bite their shoulder or the inside of their thighs, and he played it over and over in his head. He muttered out their name as he quickened his wrist. He’d make sure he made them make it again and again when he returned.

He tightened his hand on himself, and he jerked, crying out as he thought of the way they clenched around him. The way they mewled for more as he moved inside them; begging for me, telling him how good he felt inside them.

Soon. Soon. Soon they would be here. Soon he would feel it again. The thought of it was driving him crazy.

He was so close, practically on the edge. His breathing was laboured as he imagined the way they could cry out his name upon their release, nails clawing into his skin leaving crescent moon carvings. He panted harshly as he felt himself draw up and he made a choked-out sound as he stiffened as his release hit him.

He groaned loudly as the pleasure unfurled in his body – no need to squash the sound with his hand. He imagined the sound of them coming, the loud way they moaned his name, crying out with how good it felt. He threw his head back as his body shook as months of pent-up frustrations fell out of him. He opened his eyes to his release hitting the tiles as his hand drew out the rest until he was spent.

Hunter caught his breath, pressing his forehead against the tiles. He laughed lightly to himself as he straightened up. He was still half-hard, and he felt warm all over – not shower warm, a different kind of warm. He washed away his release then grabbed the bar of soap and moved it all over his body, smiling at the thought of smelling like them too. He hummed to himself, his deep tenor filling the room. He couldn’t wait to see them.

banner art by @vimse thank you for reading! <3 again, this is my first time writing something like this so feedback (delivered kindly) is really appreciated!! if you want more fics like this let me know...it's good writing practice for me even tho i primarily write fluff/angst pieces!

🏷️ @starrylothcat @sinfulsalutations @32rotations @moodymisty @nahoney22 @freesia-writes @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @bobaprint @crosshairsnose @jesseeka @thegalaxys-edge @chopper-base @wenalena @shredderwest @leavingkamino @r2d2staser @beckbucket @pb-jellybeans @mylifeisactuallyamess @padawancat97 @littlecrowtime @jedipoodoo @ezras-left-thumb @lovelycurls @fruitsaladtree @literallydontlook

TAGLIST FORM

if you're a regular on my tag list but haven't been tagged, it's bc your age isn't in your bio/have said you prefer sfw fics.

[freesia-writes]

Hunter Fic Master List

Want to join the tag list? Message me for a Discord server invite or fill out the form here. COVER ART BY @pinkiemme!!

Sneak Peeks:

No one makes a double entendre around Echo and gets away with it

Hunter and Lyra's first date vibes

Crosshair's advice is less than helpful

Gettin a little hot n heavy... but with whom?

Family discussion about a mysterious flower

Mood Boards Linked Here

Fanart wish list (scenes to be drawn should it spark joy)

Artwork (links and credits below!!)

Hunter and Lyra on the Beach - by @amalthiaph

Hunter in the Cave - by @perfectlywingedcrusade

Family Dinner - by @nika6q

Hunter in the Kitchen - by @snotbuggle

Hunter's Butcher Shop - by @nika6q

Hunter and Lyra's dance - by @perfectlywingedcrusade

The Cave - by @the-little-moment

Hunter in a Rain Shower - by @the-little-moment

Hunter Tries Yoga - by @matookahitaki

Hunter in his Fancy Suit - by @marymunchkiin

Hunter and Lyra on a Fathier - by @ve-ti-ver

Hunter and Lyra - by @raevulsix

Tiki Bar with Luciana - by @clownbloody

Something To Be Revealed - by @clownbloody 😂

Hiking to the Waterfall - by @acryliccassetteart

[gloomwitchwrites]

Cantina Mistake

Hunter (Bad Batch) x Female Reader

Content & Trigger Warnings: fluff, humor, misunderstanding, mistaken identity, brief mention of alcohol

Word Count: 986

A misidentification of a target lands Hunter in a messy entanglement on the floor of a cantina.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // fluffuary 2024 masterlist

The lights are low in the cantina. It is dark, and the only source of illumination are the purple neon lights and bright ads that run the length of walls. Some of it is Imperial Propaganda, but the majority of it pushes new products or services.

This cantina is a routine spot. A place to rest and recharge. A layover between jobs for Cid.

But there is also someone they’re supposed to look out for. Cid was not specific, giving the specs to Tech instead of Hunter, but even Tech seemed a bit confused by the instructions, insisting that the briefing held very little descriptive information on the target.

Hunter leans against the bar, arms crossed, a drink clasped in one hand. Surveying the large room, he finds nothing of particular interest. Everyone in the bar is preoccupied with something, and no one appears on edge or suspicious.

Omega is not here. Hunter usually doesn’t allow her to come. She is on the ship with Gonky. Hopefully she’s sleeping and not staying up late to tinker with one of Echo or Tech’s little projects. Omega loves picking things up to understand and explore how they work. She’s constantly looking over someone’s shoulder asking an absurd number of questions.

Wrecker is arm wrestling for credits in the corner, taking on every drunkard who thinks they can unseat him. It’s amusing because no one is going to win. Not against Wrecker. Even the droid that takes a seat before the big guy goes down quickly. Wrecker lifts his arms up high, punching the air.

“It seems we’ll be eating well tonight because of Wrecker,” notes Tech, adjusting his goggles.

Hunter smiles into his cup and takes a long drink. Whatever it is, it’s kriffing strong, burning as it goes down.

“Won’t matter if we can’t locate the target,” mutters Echo.

Tech shrugs. “Cid’s instructions were unclear. Even after calculating all possibilities, I am at a loss for what or who we’re looking for.”

Echo glances across the bar and smirks.

“What is it?” prompts Hunter, turning in the direction of Echo’s lingering gaze.

Tech pushes off from the bar to glance around Hunter, peering in the same direction, his eyebrows furrowing slightly.

“You don’t see it?” asks Echo.

Hunter frowns and turns back to Echo. “No,” he says, a little annoyed. “I don’t see it.”

Tech matches Echo’s smirk with one of his own. “I do believe that woman is watching us.”

“Watching Hunter,” corrects Echo, sipping on his drink before setting it down on the bar.

Hunter whirls around, searching every face in the cantina for a second time. He doesn’t see what they see, and that only frustrates him. Aren’t his heightened senses supposed to help him in situations like this one? What if this woman is the target Cid is sending them after? Hunter needs to be alert. He needs to kriffing focus.

But then a tug forms in the back of his head. Like a string tied to his brain, pulling taut, dragging his attention toward the far side of the room. Hunter sees you then, lingering near a table. Alone. You are alone and fiddling with your drink, perhaps out of nervousness. If anything, you appear rather innocent. Just a civilian. But years of military training and field experience tell Hunter that he cannot leave anything to chance.

Sometimes the most innocent and demure individuals can be the deadliest.

“Could be the target?” jokes Echo, shaking his glass slightly in the air.

Tech’s mouth opens slightly as he turns to his brother, a response forming on his lips, a bemused expression on his face.

But Hunter is not listening. Hunter is moving like his namesake, weaving through the crowd, gunning for you.

“Hunter!” calls out Tech, but Hunter ignores him.

You’re looking down at the table, not realizing that Hunter is closing in fast. He silently urges you to look up. He wants you to notice him. To know that he’s coming. That he is on to you.

When you do glance up, and your gazes lock, there is a brief flash surprise that passes over your face before it morphs into shock.

Hunter leaps, tackling you to the ground. Everyone standing around shrieks or yells, stumbling out of the way. His chest heaves, and your faces are so close. Your eyes are wide and round and—

Wait.

“Hunter!”

He’s straddling your hips. Hunter has your arms trapped above your head, both wrists locked under one large hand while the other rests against the base of your throat. You are stiff and unsure beneath him, eyes darting in their sockets.

“Hunter. Hunter get off of her.” It’s Tech.

Echo is right behind him, alarm on his face. “I was kidding, Hunter.”

“Kidding?” splutters Hunter.

“I meant a target to buy a drink for,” replies Echo, hands outstretched at his sides.

Oh. Oh kriffing hell.

Hunter looks down at you. “Sorry,” he murmurs softly, swinging his leg from over your hip. “I’m sorry,” he says louder, more quickly, holding out his hands in an offer to help you off the floor. You take them and your palms are so warm.

Hunter eases you off the cantina floor, and then delicately assists you to standing.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. You’re just as perplexed. Just as startled.

You laugh, and the sound is lovely. “How about you buy me a drink?” You nod toward the overturned table. Hunter immediately grimaces. “You spilled my last one.”

“Sorry about that,” mutters Hunter. He holds out his hand as if a simple handshake will fix everything. “I’m Hunter.

You clasp it, shake it, give him your name.

Tech and Echo start creeping backward, giving the two of you space. Wrecker comes barreling over but the two clones hurriedly herd him away before he can make the situation worse.

“Now, how about that drink?”

taglist:

@padawancat97 @foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @sweetbutpsychobutsweet @singleteapot @garfunklevibes2012 @tiredmetalenthusiast @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @kayden666 @cherryofdeath @enfppuff @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @beebeechaos

[soka-writes-things]

Two Hearts Beat as One

hunter x soka

word count: 1.9k

summary: times are rough and a mission gone wrong seems to be the breaking point for hunter and soka. apart from each other, they struggle to regain peace, but together it seems like the galaxy may have gone to sleep just for them. their beating hearts remind them of their humanity and that sometimes, sometimes it’s necessary to cry.

warnings: mentions of ptsd, panic attack, sensory overload

authors note: ✮⋆˙ this lil snippet is apart of a bigger story that focuses on soka (my personal character) and her adventures with the bad batch throughout the three seasons of TBB. the current working title is "A Senator with a Spark", so if you're interested in following soka's story, just make sure to keep an eye out in the fairytale library <3

p.s happy valentines day! (though im two days late to the party lol)

They had finished the mission successfully. 

Good. 

Great.

...not so great. They had gotten their pay and had eaten some Mantell mix as a reward, but something was still nagging Soka. After the close run in, everything started to seem too much. Everything was so loud, so strong, so deafening to her. She could smell every scent, feel the slightest of tremors, hear everything and even her own breathing was starting to bug her.

She gulped to try and force air down her throat but the sound was so loud to her ears that she had to forcibly restrain her hands from clawing at her throat.

She stood up from her seat in the cantina, the Batch around her barely acknowledging her movements. Tech and Echo were whispering about something over a tablet, Hunter was sat at the barstools and leaning over his datapad, Wrecker and Omega were laughing loudly as they chewed obnoxiously on their Mantell Mix and the sound of the beeping console as they tried to beat each other at d'jarik and everything was just so loud.

Soka passed by Wrecker and Omega, swiping a small amount of Mantell Mix and forced it down her throat, trying to prevent herself from closing the hole with her own hands.

She made her way over to the Marauder and clambered up the opened steps, not bothering to make sure that it closed behind her. Soka slipped into the cockpit and sunk down into the corner closest to the door, breathing in the dark smells of metal and oil. As disgustingly terrible as the smells could be sometimes, she found it to be very soothing at that moment.

She let herself crumble into the wall as she calmed herself, the noises from the engine now seeming to be lulling and the overwhelming darkness at the edge of her mind had calmed into a soft grey.

Everything was finally at peace and Soka mentally scolded herself for making such a big deal about a sensory overload to the point where she had to leave everyone. She usually could get over it in the presence of others without alerting them, so she didn't know why she felt the need to seclude herself in the cockpit.

The soft thrum of the engine, the smell of metal and oil and a bit of dirt from their missions, the faint dust that lingered in the air, the sound of her own breathing and the dark sky outside. Beautiful, slow and quiet... just for her.

Soka stayed in her place on the floor as she stared outside at the planets and stars that littered the sky. She was so immersed by the multitude of colors, she didn't notice the sound of the ramp opening and someone stumbling inside.

The door to the cockpit opened, making Soka tense and snap her head up at the intruder. She slumped once more when she realized it was Hunter, only to find that he seemed to be so shaken by something, he barely noticed her presence.

He stumbled over to the pilot's chair and pushed himself into it, curling on himself and holding his legs with his hands.

Soka's eyes widened as she watched Hunter's breathing become faster and faster and faster and- her eyes snapped to his hands, watching as they shook intensely.

His whole body was shaking actually, and his eyes were flicking back and forth between some of the buttons on the board. Soka frowned as she watched him, before realizing that he was having a panic attack.

ᯓ★

Hunter slouched over his datapad at the bar, his finger tapping against the table in a fast motion. Everything was so loud and it made his head pound in protest.

The edges of his vision were rimmed in shadows, the darkness threatening to swallow him whole. He could hear every heartbeat, every breath, every movement, smell every drink, every food, everything.

The electromagnetic waves from the datapad and holograms and holotables just kept his headache pounding and pounding as if it was trying to escape.

He couldn't handle it. It was too much, but why was it too much? Was it the mission? He could tell it had also bothered the others but why was he so particularly affected by it?

Hunter heard someone rustle behind him, sounding like they grabbed some Mantell Mix and he listened as their footsteps retreated from the cantina.

A dash of teal hair caught his vision and Hunter stared at the door Soka had just left out of.

Too much. Too much. Too loud. Too noisy. Too smelly. Strong. Super strong smells. Why, why was it affecting him so much today?

Hunter's finger picked up the pace on the counter, drilling a dent into the metal as he continued to tap at an annoyingly fast pace. The usually enjoyable environment felt sour today, as if everyone's eyes were watching his every move as he continued to panic from everything.

Hunter abruptly stood up, making his batch mates briefly look over at him at the random movement. Hunter stared back at them, trying to make sure that they couldn't see how much he was panicking. Upon realizing he was okay, everyone turned back to what they were doing.

A shaky breath escaped him and he left the cantina as fast as he could without looking suspicious.

He practically ran to the Marauder, every step he took sounded so loud to his ears, making him feel dizzy and sick at the sound.

A small part of him was relieved that he remembered his way to the Marauder in his state of distress, and once he got close enough, the ramp moved down to open for him.

Hunter raced up the steps and practically burst into the cockpit in his panic. He noticed a shadow jump in the corner of his vision, but ignored it as he stumbled over to the pilot chair.

He sat down roughly in the seat, dragging his legs up to his chest and clutching them like it was his lifeline. He felt silly like this, like a child who was scared of the imaginary rancor under their bed.

Hunter's fingers pinched into his legs, trying to make him feel anything to distract him from everything. His heartbeat thudded in his chest and he leaned his head back and tried to force some air down his throat but it only made him want to vomit.

Stop.

Stop.

Stop!

Hunter's fingers raked across his legs, tugging and itching at the armour. His vision dimmed and he struggled to get a proper breath in. Too much. Too much.

Hunter's eyes flicked back and forth between random buttons that blinked innocently at him. His breathing became faster and faster till he wasn't even breathing, he was trying to rid the air of his system.

A hand landed softly on his shoulder, making him jump in his seat and swat at the hand in self defense.

The hand moved and a shadowy figure kneeled in front of him, a murky voice speaking to him, "...nter. Hunter."

Hunter's eyes focused, the darkness retreating to the edge of his vision again and he recognized that Soka was kneeling in front of him.

Hunter swallowed thickly, his eyes bouncing between her irises, taking in her every feature. "..yeah?"

His voice cracked as he spoke, struggling to get the word out. The air continued to sprint through his throat and his fingers didn't stop twitching and scratching and itching, but his gaze remained on her.

"Hunter, I think you are having a panic attack, most likely started by a sensory overload."

Hunter didn't answer but continued to stare at Soka, his body shaking.

"Hunter, I'm going to need you to try to breathe while I walk you through your panic attack, okay? Just squeeze my hand to respond." Soka put out her hand, letting Hunter's shaky hand grasp it and squeeze it tightly.

"I'm going to need you to do something that might trigger your senses again, but it's going to help with your panic attack." Hunter squeezed Soka's hand again.

"Okay, I'm going to need you to name three things you see." Soka nodded encouragingly at Hunter.

A raspy voice replaced Hunter's usual strong, deep one as he mumbled, "You... the buttons... the chairs."

Soka smiled warmly, squeezing his hand lightly. "Good. Now name three sounds you hear."

Hunter squeezed Soka's hand tightly as his eyes widened slightly, panicking that his senses would go overload again. Soka swiftly moved her available hand to Hunter's chest, right above his heart. "Listen to my heart, and tune it with yours."

Hunter took in a shaky breath, regaining a slight control of his breathing, and tuned into the steady beat of Soka's heart.

"I hear your heart." He muttered, the soft thudding calming him almost immediately. Soka smiled, a breathy chuckle escaping her. "Good."

"I hear your voice and your laughter." He continued before peering up at Soka through his lashes like a bashful child. At times like this, is when Soka remembered that mentally, all the clones were super young compared to their physical features.

"Finally, I'm going to need to you move three parts of your body." Soka said, making Hunter squeeze in response.

Hunter shifted his leg, moved his arm that was holding Soka's hand, and breathed in deeply as he rolled his head.

Soka softly nodded her head, moving to get up but Hunter tugged at her hand lightly.

"It still smells so strong." He whispered, eyes dropping to stare at her nose in embarrassment. Soka leaned back down again, before placing her hand gently over his nose, releasing the calming pheromones that Zeltron's use to soothe others.

Hunter's breath tickled her hand as he breathed in lightly, his tense body relaxing as he leaned into the chair.

After a few moments, Hunter moved his head away from Soka's hand. "Sorry." He muttered, looking down at his hands.

Soka shook her head gently as she tilted Hunter's face to look at her. "There's nothing to be sorry for. You had a sensory overload which formed a panic attack and I suspect you might've regressed in your time of panic. Counting the PTSD and anxiety issues I've noticed from the Batch, you have all the more reasons to need time to collect yourself, or need someone to help calm you down."

Hunter breathed in deeply, and let out the breath. He slowly nodded, squeezing Soka's hand in a thank you manner. "Would you like for me to stay?" She asked, her warm hand continuing to be a comfort.

Hunter nodded after a moment, and shifted in the small cockpit chair to allow Soka to sit with him. Even with his sensory issues, Soka and her warm hands were very calming and Hunter didn't mind her presence.

They sat together in silence as they stared at the stars in the galaxy out of the cockpit window. Soka's eyes were drooping and her head lolled, dropping forward as a breathy sigh came from her. Hunter glanced over at Soka, noticing her slumped position that threatened to pull her from the chair.

Hunter brought his hand to the back of Soka's head and gently guided it to his shoulder, her hair and breath ticking his neck. He placed his own head on hers, listening to her slow heartbeat, and it lulled him into a sleep as well.

[zoeykallus]

Hello!

First or all, I hope you are doing fine and having a wonderful day✨. There's something I truly like about your blog, and it is that you always try to do it the most respectful that you can, it says a lot 🙌. I really love and enjoy your work; specially your headcanons, I think you've nailed the way the boys would be 💕. By the woul like to know if i can be added to your tag list 🥺.

I wasn't sure about doing this request, but i really got stuck the idea. I was wondering If you could write something about HunterxFReader (angst/smut), taking as reference that scene in The Proposal (with Sandra bullock and Ryan Reynolds) when they crash and fall to the ground, after she comes out of the bathroom 😂.

Sorry if I made a mistake in my writing, I'm not a native speaker 😅.

Aloha!

Thank you so much for your kind words! Much appreciated!😊💗 Added you to the tag list a little while ago when I first read you ask. I read them all right when I get them. The requests itself I have to work through from bottom to top, though, cause there are a lot of requests still waiting to be done. But finally, today, I made it to where your request was waiting. So sorry for the long wait!

Ah, yes, I know that movie, let me give this a try and my own little twist 😁

Hunter x Fem!Reader One-Shot - I Don't Hate You

Warnings: Strongly Suggestive/Angsty/Sexual Content/18+

____________

Hunter is assigned to be your bodyguard for a while. It seems like you and Hunter don't get along at all. He is a clone soldier, and you are a senator's daughter. You both succumb to your preconceptions of each other, which causes some friction. But quite unexpectedly, you get snowed in at the shelter you're hiding in for the duration of the mission. In a confined space with little privacy and dependent on each other, shreds fly at first, but ultimately so do sparks of unexpected affection.

_____________

Hunter was angry and stressed, being snowed in with you was the last thing he needed right now. The speeder was on the fritz, just wouldn't start, it was too cold, the next supply shuttle wasn't coming for at least two weeks, and you two kept clashing.

"I can't stand that woman," he growls as he spreads after shave balm on his cheeks and chin.

He had just showered in the only bathroom you shared in the cabin, and shaved. His eyes wandered over the thousand vials, jars, and other paraphernalia you had spread out there. Hunter couldn't understand at all why you needed so many cosmetics. In his eyes you were a pretty if annoying girl, all that stuff didn't make it any better or worse.

"Unnecessary nonsense," he grumbles to himself, "What is all this stuff?"

Annoyed, he pushes aside a few of your cosmetics with a sigh to make room for his few utensils.

When you wake up, it is still very early. It is dark outside, but the moonlight illuminates the perfectly white world outside.

You sigh, tired and annoyed. The weather has thrown a wrench in your plans, you were actually going to another safe house where you would have had more space and privacy, but thanks to the snow, you are now stuck here.

It's quiet in the cabin, except for the low hum of the heater, nothing can be heard.

You guess that Hunter is still asleep on the sofa in the living room. You half-wrap your naked body in the bedspread and swing yourself off the mattress, making your way to the bathroom.

It happens too fast for your tired mind to react. The door of the bathroom opens right in front of you, before you even touch it. Along with a cloud of warm, humid air that smells of Hunter's aftershave balm, Hunter steps out of it and right into you.

You collide, Hunter, who is also completely surprised, steps on the much too long blanket you have wrapped around yourself, which then slips away from you. You become entangled in the blanket and in each other in an attempt to keep your balance. In the end, you both fall, you backwards and Hunter forwards on top of you.

Hunter fortunately catches most of his weight on his hands and arms. Lying over you, he stares at you, and you stare back.

The towel he has tied around his hips has half come loose and hangs down on him.

"You're naked," he notes, a little perplexed.

"So are you."

For a brief moment, there is absolute silence and your thoughts are racing. Finally, you growl at him, "Get off me!"

Hunter hastily stands up, dropping the towel completely to the floor by accident, and he stands naked in front of you as you scramble up with the blanket. You can't help but stare at him. He's incredibly well-built, hard muscles standing out under his tanned, tattooed skin. Your gaze drifts down, and you can't help it, the words just slip over your lips, "Woah, not bad."

Hunter raises his brows and looks at you, puzzled. As you realize what you just did and said, you feel your face get hot.

A smirk suddenly appears on his lips, instead of reaching for the towel and covering himself, Hunter crosses his arms in front of his chest and looks at you challengingly.

"What was that?"

"I said nothing," you say, startled.

Hunter doesn't let you off the hook so easily, though.

"Oh yes you did, you said something while staring at my naked body".

Defiantly, you look at him and say, "Put something on."

Hunter laughs softly, "That's not even close to what you said"

The heat just won't leave your cheeks and you stare strained into his face, trying not to stare at his body again. He just stands there, doesn't even try to pick up the towel to cover himself. You blink, not quite able to grasp what's going on. The smile on his lips is adorable, everything about him is suddenly incredibly attractive.

In your mind you call yourself a fool, convinced that his beautiful body has befuddled your mind. Slowly, Hunter reaches out to you, grabbing a corner of the blanket you have wrapped around you.

"Shouldn't we maybe even out the circumstances?"

Very gently he's tugging at the blanket, it's not urgent, more questioning and maybe a little challenging.

"You want to see me naked?" you ask softly.

He shrugs slightly, his smile almost shy as he says, "Wouldn't that be fair?"

"I guess," you reply, letting go of the fabric, whereupon he pulls it off your shoulders and the blanket slides to the floor.

Your heart pounds hard in your chest as you watch his gaze travel down your naked body. His expression changes, surprise is in it, a certain fascination and dreaminess. You don't even begin to guess how much he likes what he sees.

"Gods, you are beautiful"

His hand still hovers close to your shoulder, where he has pulled down the fabric of the blanket, as if frozen in his pose.

On impulse, thinking back to the last few days of you and him arguing and bitching, you say, "Too bad we hate each other."

He blinks, looks at your face and says seriously, "I don't hate you".

"We haven't really been getting along in the last few days."

Hunter says quietly, "That still doesn't mean I hate you. Do you really hate me?"

You shake your head.

"No, you've been bugging me, with your snappy military ways and all your rules…. but I don't hate you."

Hunter shows you his gentle smile again and says, "Those rules exist to protect you, not to annoy you."

Basically, you know that, of course, but you don't like being bossed around, and Hunter is used to applying the commanding tone.

He clears his throat, licks his lips, and you can see that he's thinking things over and weighing them up.

"I shouldn't look at you like that, but I don't want to stop either," he finally says quietly.

"Like what?"

He takes a deep breath before saying, "Desirous. It's not my place, and in fact it breaks several rules imposed on me"

Bolder than you actually feel, you counter him, "We're alone, snowed in, for a few more days. If you don't tell anyone, then I won't tell anyone."

Hunter sighs, "You shouldn't tempt me."

"Why not?" you ask curiously.

"Because I actually want a lot more than just to look at you. That statement is like an invitation"

He steps closer to you, so close that you can feel the heat radiating from his body, but he doesn't touch you.

"I want to smell you, taste you, feel you."

When you look into his eyes, they are very dark, almost black, his pupils widely dilated.

"Through your senses you can already smell me, can't you?"

He nods and says in a smoky voice, "Yes, I smell among other things that the thought of being touched by me pleases you, at least your body reacted immediately to my words"

Startled, you press your thighs together as if to prevent him from smelling your arousal. He smirks, his gaze twitches briefly to your thighs, then back to your face. Of course, your reaction has not escaped him.

"That thing you're trying to hide from me right now is exactly what I'd like to taste".

Your breath catches in your throat for a moment, your heart leaps, and even more heat spreads through your body. Hunter tilts his head, his face comes very close to yours, then your lips touch. First the touch is gossamer, gentle, then testing, curious, demanding. His tongue glides once over your lips, his lips close to yours he whispers, "Let me in mesh'la".

You don't think about it, your mouth opens, and his tongue immediately goes in playful search of yours. The first velvety collision is like fireworks. Your hands that previously hung uselessly at your sides greedily grab his shoulders, seeking contact. Feeling his broad, bare, muscular shoulders under your fingers is almost unbelievable at first. The heat that lurks under his skin passes over to you. His arms wrap around your body and slowly, as he kisses you, he pushes you back to the bed.

The back of your knees bump against the bed, and you almost fall, but Hunter holds you, gently lowering you onto the sheet and climbing over you. Hovering over you, leaning on his arms, he says softly, "Tell me if I go too far, Mesh'la."

Your first thought is that this man can't go too far at all, you are completely taken in by him, wanting to feel everything.

"I want more"

Hunter smiles.

"Good girl" he purrs.

He engulfs you in another heated kiss as your naked bodies lie pressed together on the bed. When he pulls away from the kiss, you're a little dizzy, the excitement, your pulse, your breathing.

Hunter kisses your neck, "Relax, Mesh'la, don't pass out on me yet."

You take a deeper breath, collect yourself, then feel his lips move down your body. Along your shoulder, to your breastbone and the mounds of your breasts. Playfully, he sucks a nipple between his lips and lets his tongue do a delicate dance on it, getting faster and faster.

You moan and your legs open automatically, expectant in desire and pleasure for more of him.

He keeps whispering to you, "Such a good girl, look at you, so beautiful, so willing. I will reward you, sweet Mesh'la".

He travels further down, from your breasts to your belly and slowly further and further, to your open thighs. His gaze drifts upward and meets yours.

"Can I have a taste?"

His hands slide to your thighs and grasp, holding them a little farther apart. Just feeling the strength in his hands makes your juices gather in your pussy.

"Yes, please," you say softly, to which Hunter smiles slyly at you.

His face hovers over your pussy. He takes a deep, shaky breath, closes his eyes, and opens them again. He seems to be in a trance as he places a gentle kiss directly on your swollen pearl, eliciting a small whimper from you. Shortly after, he drags his tongue through your folds, from top to bottom, several times, finding your heated, sensitive entrance and slowly sliding his tongue in circles inside you.

Your mouth drops open and a hoarse, long moan comes from your lips, louder than you expected, but as you put your hands in front of your mouth in shock, he lets go of you and says, "Let me hear you, Mesh'la, don't hold back, no one can hear you here but me."

Slowly you put your hands back down, letting out a moan of arousal as he drills his tongue into you quite abruptly with much more eagerness than before. His tongue is deft, strong and fast, you haven't experienced anything like it before. Your breathing gets faster and faster as he tongue fucks your pussy.

Your hands grip the sheet and tug at it, looking for stability.

A soft curse comes over your lips as he takes one hand off your thighs, his fingers find your clit and begin to stroke and massage it as his tongue continues to lick out your pussy, twitching through your cleft again and again.

Your body glows with arousal, your thighs begin to tremble, your moans and breaths quicken. Hunter hums softly, pleased with your reaction, he knows he has you ready in a moment. With a hoarse cry, your climax rolls over you, radiating from your center to your toes and hairline, as your pussy twitches around his tongue and your clit pulses violently under his fingers.

Hunter gently works you through your orgasm until it ebbs and finally lets go of you, climbing back over you, upward, until your faces are back at the same height. As he kisses you, you smell and taste yourself on him.

Breathing heavily, he finally leans his forehead against yours. His hard cock rests on your pubic, twitching impatiently every now and then. You can feel how much he pulls himself together, how much strength it costs him to hold back. Very slowly, very gently, after a while he begins to rub his swollen length over your pubic.

"I know I shouldn't ask for this," he says breathlessly, "But would you be willing to go further?"

You don't hesitate for a second.

"Yes, I'd love to."

Hunter's eyes widen, surprise, relief and pure lust are in his expression. You already know this is a night you won't forget.

Ko-Fi (If you feel like giving me some coffee)

@rintheemolion

@andyoufollowyourheart @clone-whore-99

@brynhildrmimi @kaliel2310

@misogirl828 @tech-deck

@meshla-madalene

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[arctrooperechy]

help beloveds!!! i was trying to recommend a fic to a friend and can’t find it anywhere on here :(

i *think* it was called no regrets, it was hunter x reader and it was them finally hooking up after a long time of liking each other! i want to say reader had been hurt and they’d been waiting for her to heal????

[doydoune]

maybe we were never meant to be older than nine

caption from there is time to kill today legit one of the best aa fics out there please please go read it

version with text + close up

[johnwickb1tsch]

Put your year and your first fandom in the tags!

[sheerakk]

[smallpapers]

Commission I did a few months back for @gracefulsouffle ‘s Hunter-centric time loop fic, Again and Again, (Chapter 17!) Go check it out!!

[crosshairlovebot]

woven comforts / hunter x gn!reader

pairing: hunter x gn!reader (no y/n). reader has a nickname.

description: hunter comes home after a long day, and you're there - as always.

word count: 1,309

warnings: none. it's soft hunter at his softest.

this is a request from a lovely twitter mutual who asked for some cozy post-work relaxation/stress relief! i got a little carried away and actually wrote two pieces for this. this is the second one because I didn't think the first was cozy enough! but I will definitely still post the other one because I love it too. soft hunter is so nice to write. i hope you enjoy it!

also posted this on ao3. feedback is welcomed, reblogs are appreciated.

The Pabu sun streamed in and warmed the side of your face as you scrolled through the datapad on your lap. You heard the front door open and close from your spot on the couch, and you smiled when you turned and saw Hunter stroll in, his body slightly hunched.

“Hey,” you stood up, placing the datapad on the caf table. “You’re back later than I thought.”

Hunter stretched his neck out, eyes drifting closed before he forced them open again. “A couple of the boats broke down before they left the dock, slowed us down.” He smiled tiredly at you after running a hand down his face.

“Sounds stressful,” you commented before meeting him in the open kitchen.

Hunter shook his head, downplaying and evading his troubles as he often did. “It was nothing.” He moved closer to hold your arms and gave a lingering kiss on your cheek. “How was your day?”

“Fine,” you smiled, leaning into his kiss. He kept holding you, like if he didn’t he wouldn’t be able to stand upright. You took his hands as you surveyed his appearance. The bandana that kept his hair in check was askew, and his hair was knotted from the sea breeze. His clothes lightly smelled like sweat and the brine of the ocean, and his strong hands were slightly red and his palms calloused. He needed to relax, but he would never ask for it. You tucked some tangled hair behind his ear. “Why don’t you go shower and change, and I’ll make you some food?”

“It’s my turn to cook tonight,” he protested weakly.

“Don’t worry about that,” you said, cupping his cheek with one hand and kissing the other. “Just go and clean up, cyare.”

Hunter smiled, evidently too tired to argue and softened by the endearment. He pulled you in for a gentle kiss that almost made you forget your name before pulling away from you and going to shower. You smiled as you heard the door close and the water turn on.

The water running quickly became a comforting kind of white noise as you made Hunter a sandwich with the Pabu’s famous seeded bread that he loved so much. You just finished cutting the sandwich diagonally when you heard the water shut off and the bathroom door open a few minutes later. Hunter emerged with loose pants hanging low on his hips and a sleeveless undershirt, wet hair stuck to the skin around his collarbones and neck. He looked a little more refreshed, his tattooed face a little brighter as he ran the towel over his wet hair.

“Better?”

“Much,” he draped the towel around his neck as you pushed the plate with the sandwich across the bench. He smiled at you with such gratitude you would’ve thought you had done more than just make him a snack. “Thank you,” he took the plate.

You returned the smile. “You’re welcome.”

You poured him a glass of cool water and then you both made your way over to the couch to sit down. You pulled your legs up under you to face him as he leaned forward to eat over the plate he’d placed on the caf table. You watched the tendons in his neck move as he took a bite, he hummed in enjoyment, making you smile. “Good?”

He nodded. “Thank you,” he repeated after swallowing. “Tell me about your day?” he asked eyes meeting yours in genuine curiosity as he took another bite.

You launched into a retelling of your day; a trip to the market and the bakery for the bread with Omega before dropping her off to help Tech and Phee with cataloguing the Archium, then helping an elderly neighbour with her pruning since her hands often locked up before coming home and tidying things up after Omega stayed with you both last night. She tended to hop around to each of her brothers’ bungalows, but this was her home base.

Hunter listened intently as he ate. You watched him as you spoke, almost getting distracted by the way his hair fell in his face as he leaned over the plate so it would catch any crumbs. You reached out and placed some damp hair behind his ear, curling it gently. These moments between you were so practised that you often didn’t notice them anymore. Both of you just moving with each other automatically. You didn’t notice touching Hunter’s hair, softly running your fingers through it. You didn’t notice when he offered you a bite of his sandwich wordlessly, and you took one mid-sentence, covering your mouth as you talked around it while he took a bite where you just did.

There was an ease with Hunter that meant these moments, however insignificant, made up the pattern of your intertwined lives. Both of you weaved together effortlessly as if you were always meant to.

After Hunter finished eating and his glass of water was empty, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned back on the couch, closing his eyes. You shuffled closer and ran your fingernails over his scalp. “Today was pretty tiring, huh?”

Hunter peeked open an eye and nodded. “Since Shep opened up the surrounding islands for settlement, there’s always shipments coming and going, things to load and unload. Today felt longer than others.”

You smiled sympathetically. “You’re doing good, you’re a great help to everyone.”

Hunter smiled and reached to grab the hand resting in your lap, squeezing it as his thumb caressed the back of it. “Thanks, mesh’la.”

You smiled and gently tugged him closer and guided his head down, so his head could lay down in your lap. As soon as he realised what you were trying to do, he scooted down so he was comfortable and closed his eyes, sighing with content. You chuckled and looked down at him. “Comfortable?”

“Extremely.”

You laughed again and continued running your fingers through his damp locks, which were already starting to curl up as they dried in the setting sun’s heat that permeated the bungalow.

Instead of talking, you let him rest, watching his rest rise and fall. You adjusted yourself carefully under him, angling his head slightly so you had more access to his hair. You combed through it gently with your fingers before sectioning it in two, and then into three smaller sections on each side, braiding his hair. You softly tugged the hair as you weaved the strands together, watching his face and body slowly relax from the movement of your hands against his scalp. He loved it when you played with his hair. It soothed him in a way nothing else did.

You finished off one side before starting on the other, and by the time you were done with the braids, Hunter was asleep, his breathing deep and even. You smiled, gently brushing the bare side of his face with the back of your fingers, warmth filling your chest at the sleeping man of yours. You were glad he could finally rest.

Hunter stirred a little from the touch, reaching up to cradle your hand to his face.  He cracked one eye open. He was always a light sleeper.

“Sorry, go back to sleep,” you whispered, gently caressing his cheek with your thumb.

“Closer,” he mumbled still half asleep, tugged your hand, making you smile.

You both readjusted, him lifting his head so you could get out from under him before he pulled you down, so you lay with him, head resting on his chest. Hunter’s arms went around you, one of his hands running up and down your arm as if soothing himself back into a slumber. You relaxed too, his steady heartbeat under your ear. Soon, his touch stilled, turning limp as he fell asleep again. You smiled before closing your eyes too.

thank you for reading! i have a few requests to get through so keep a look out for more soft clone pieces!

banner art by @vimse

taglist: @starrylothcat @sinfulsalutations @moodymisty @nahoney22 @seriowan @thrawns-babygirl @bobaprint @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @crosshairsnose @wreckerswife @leavingkamino @jesseeka @thegalaxys-edge @snarky-mans-gf @mylifeisactuallyamess @cloned-eyes @chopper-base @wenalena @bluebird-dreams @pb-jellybeans @a-streakofblue @rexamongthestars @r2d2staser @theawkwardartist12 @freesia-writes

please let me know if you'd like to be removed/added

i'm gonna make a taglist form one of these days trust

[freesia-writes]

Hunter Fic Sneak Peek #5

or, The Shenanigans of Family Dinner

“That does appear to be quite a number of unfortunate misunderstandings,” Tech agreed. “Anyway, remember that blossom you received in the cave?” 

“Smooth transition,” Phee said with a smile. 

“Apologies for any insensitivity,” he muttered, trying and failing to stifle the urge to roll his eyes. “However, Hunter is no stranger to things not going as anticipated.”

“Low blow,” Crosshair chipped in. 

“Alright, well, I am sorry for your pain, Hunter. As for the blossom, Phee and I worked on deciphering its runes for quite a while, and then, to be honest, it was somewhat forgotten as we tackled a new endeavor together.”

“Is that what you’re calling it nowadays?” Echo asked with a suggestive eyebrow.

“If you are referring to intercourse,” Tech answered, unfazed, “the answer is no. We call it intercourse.” 

“He really knows how to set the mood,” Phee murmured, winking at Echo as he choked on an ill-timed sip of water. 

“Anyway,” Tech continued, exasperated at the repeated derailing of his train of thought. “We consulted one of the Xyloan elders, who responded to the somewhat supernatural news of its origin with virtually no surprise, and she read the message on the petals with ease.”

“And?”

“It is still somewhat cryptic, but it describes a pool here on the island that feeds into a waterfall, and if the blossom is placed into the waters and its owner bathes in the cascade below, he shall receive insight into his deepest fears or conundrums.”

“Sounds like some weird Dathomir tale,” Wrecker muttered.

“Perhaps, but the unique circumstances in which Hunter received the flower, reminiscent of our adventure on Skara Nal, suggests that there may be more to it than a simple children’s fantasy,” Tech said.

“Well? Gonna check it out?” Wrecker asked, looking at Hunter as he glowered in the corner.

hmmmm. There's a bit of a mystical air to the lovely island of Xylo, it seems.

And, if I'm honest, while the entire story focuses on Hunter and his [tumultuous] path to happy ever after, writing the family dynamics is probably one of my favorite parts. 😂

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Tag List: @lightwise @sweetcream-coldfoam @clonethirstingisreal @have-a-hiddles @roam-rs @littlemissmanga @dystopicjumpsuit @523rdrebel @solstraalaa @skellymom @internm0thb0y @sunshinesdaydream @photogirl894 @reader6898 @jedi-hawkins @moonstrider9904 @hipwell @lamiliani @catoo @ilarrion @totallyunidentified @padawancat97 @yve-barr @lucyysthings @flowered-bicycles @maddiedrmr

Master List of Hunter Fic Goodies

Want to be on the tag list? Message me for the Discord link or fill out the form here.

[bwabys-scenarios]

CAN YOU PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DO PERV ILLUMI i do not think there is enough perv illumi content on this app

He’s a perv

Perv!Illumi x Fem!Reader

A/N: sorry this is short and may resemble my other perv writings… but I hope y’all like it! Join my server

warnings: pervy Illumi, yandere behavior, masturbation, panty stealing, he’s kind of yucky, breeding, pregnancy

NSFW: @lightshowerrr @jungtoast @nenggie @pannacottababy @aliceattheart @atransmuter

‼️If you want to be added to the taglist, please check out the taglist information then comment what you want to be added to! Make sure you have your age in your bio and that your blog can be tagged/mentioned!‼️

Illumi had never experienced sexual attraction before. Had he gotten some morning wood once or twice? Yes, but he rarely felt the urge to jack off.

That was… until he met you.

He wasn’t quite sure what made you so appealing. You looked ordinary, at least… you should have. Illumi had been surrounded by the worlds most beautiful women since he was but a boy… yet here he was, getting hard over a girl he had barely met.

Maybe it was your soft curves, or the ways your hips swayed when you walked… it could have even been your sweet voice, and those pretty, glossy lips that made him want to pull you in and taste the shiny lipgloss you were wearing…

Whatever it was, ever since he first laid eyes on you, Illumi’s body had been acting strangely. Even a whiff of your perfume could have his cock twitching, standing at attention and ready for you… it was quite embarrassing, or it would have been if Illumi had any shame.

No, the only reason Illumi his his overwhelming desire for you was because he wanted these feelings to go away as quickly as possible. He couldn’t fall for some nobody Hunter with nen weaker than all the other applicants that had passed with you. No, Illumi was supposed to marry the best of the best, a woman whose womb could bear a strong heir.

But… that didn’t stop him from acting on some of his urges…

Unfortunately, Illumi couldn’t seem to let you out of his sight. It was annoying, following you around as you did your little daily chores in town. He could hardly get any work done when you looked so cute. You didn’t even realize your panties were showing when you bent over to pick up a coin…

When he couldn’t be constantly watching over you, Illumi would steal little trinkets from your home to… keep him satiated. Used panties, your lipgloss, and clothing items that smelled like your perfume.

He’d wrap your panties around his cock as he jerked off, your cardigan pressed against his face. If he really focused, he could imagine your pussy tightening around him, your plump thighs pressing against him as he bounced you on his cock…

He’d cum buckets into your panties, then break into your apartment and drop them off on your floor, like a cat leaving a dead mouse as a gift.

After a while, his urges grew and grew, until your panties just weren’t enough for him anymore.

Wooing you wasn’t too hard, and getting into your pants was easier than he would have though. The fact you were a virgin was very surprising… but welcomed. After all, he was a virgin as well.

The second his cock sunk into you, he immediately knew that he could never let you go. To hell with a strong heir, he wanted you, and only you. You were the only one that could make him feel this way… soft, vulnerable, and so goddamn horny.

Poor, poor you, having Illumi fuck into you for hours on end, unable to pull out of your pretty, warm cunt. He fucked so much cum into you that you felt so swollen and full…

Even after he was done, he didn’t pull out. Instead, he held you close, kissing the top of your head. “You’re all mine, darling. I’ll have wedding preparations ready within a week.”

You were much too exhausted to argue… and you weren’t sure you could say no to Illumi Zoldyck… so you just slept, accepting your fate. You’d be taken care of, and would never have to worry about anything ever again.

Shortly, Illumi would have his now pregnant wife in his home, where she would be safe, and where he could ravish her whenever he felt like it.

[berrieluv]

<3; aaron johnson x reader (i think i didn't use pronouns but it's mention that the reader has a vagina) summary: you know damn well, you horny friends. kiki says: this fits contains unprotected sex, oral (female receiving), cheating kink, the feel of guilt that it's never enough to make him stop, i think this smut it's very light, just trying to keep you fed while i work in the angst. also english isn't my first language so i apologize for the bad writing.

me and your husband.

For the public, having you involved in the movie Kraven with Aaron after Bullet Train was just a normal occurrence, two actors working together more than once, nothing that hasn't happen before and nothing that won't happen again.

For Aaron, it was just his masterplan working. He craved you near him, he needed you there. He couldn't function properly anymore without you, without your body and the way your legs wrap around his neck.

His blue eyes are long gone by now, so full with lust he can not think of anything else. He already made you cum three times before you had to take a shower and attend a date, and now here you are again, seizing the day like you started it, with his tongue inside your wet cunt.

He kisses your thigh softly, his hand behind your knee, his mouth marking every inch of your skin with kisses, smelling your dripping pussy and looking amused at the wet spot on the beige sheets.

"You bought them for me?" He moans, looking at your lingerie next to him, the one he just took off the moment you walked back from dinner, his face buried between your thighs, you didn't. You bought them because they were pretty and expensive, and you could afford them "You look so pretty" He says.

His wife is sleeping in the next room, if you get close enough to the wall you could hear her sleep, which was weird, an expensive five stars hotel with thin walls, you must think they would be soundproof for the price. Or maybe it was your guilt, your senses sharpened in shame, making sure you never forget he's a married man.

But maybe you weren't better than that, but why should you. He wanted you, he needed you and loved you even more than you found him attractive, which was to say much.

"Fuck..." You moan when Aaron's tongue was inside your pussy. His hand grabbing your underwear and placing it on your thigh again, grabbing your skin and the lingerie along, the other hand over your belly, keeping you grounded.

Aaron licks the sides of your pussy, his tongue gently going through your folds, he teases your sensitive parts, hitting the right places, he knows how to use his tongue, and it feels like it has been wasted all this time.

Your moans grew louder when two of his fingers are inside you without any previous notice, moving them in and out, his tongue sucking on your clit and you feel yourself getting lost in pleasure.

"Is this good?" He asks out of breath, a big smile plastered across his face, almost like he thought he didn't need anything else but the sweet scent of your dripping cunt.

Was it good? It was fantastic.

"Hold for me, princess?" He asks softly, your legs curled up while your hands keep them up grabbing behind your knees.

He touches your ass, his hand traveling all over every part of your body, his lips are all over your sweet wet cunt, eating like a starving man, making sure every single drop of your wetness goes into his mouth.

"I need you..." He moans against your folds "Fuck, I need you so much"

Aaron takes all of your release, drinking it all, when he looks up his chin is all wet and a spark of proudness in his eyes.

He doesn't even look this proud when he's on a press conference.

"Keep holding your legs" He orders, taking off his jeans and boxers "Good girl" He praises with a smile when he walks back to bed.

You remind silence most of the times, your words consumed by your moans and whimpers, you want him so badly.

"Please..." You finally find the way to speak, your breath heavy and your heart beating faster than it should when he starts thrusting into you. His right hand holding himself on the mattress to not lay all of his weight on you.

His left hand massaging your breasts, treating it like it was a stress ball.

"Shit, princess" He moans, his eyes closing even if he tries to fight it, he loves watching you. He loves the look in your eyes and how they roll, going all blank when he starts thrusting faster.

"Oh!" You moan, and he smirks like a bastard, enjoying knowing he's the one making you feel like this "Oh, God! Fuck, fuck, fuck!" You cry, almost chocking in your own pleasure.

"Sh, sh..." He coos "Baby, you're chocking, princess" He chuckles, enjoying your desperation "I'm not even near your throat"

He caresses your cheek with a soft smile, moving slowly down to your throat, applying just the right pressure to make you gasp for air, shutting your moans.

"Don't be so loud..." He demands, it was meant to be teasing, but his voice sounds dominant, his expression is serious and his eyes darkened with lust and need of control "You know Sam is in the next room"

Sam, he doesn't refer as my wife anymore. She stopped being my wife a few months ago, just a few weeks after you became my everything. The air he breathed, not only his wants but his needs.

You feel a warm sensation running through your insides, a loud groan when he lets it out, his cum painting your cunt and dripping down your skin.

"God, I love my little masterpiece" He chuckles, watching your thighs covered by his cunt. "You're tired?"

He asks softly and you nod, his phone starts ringing at the same time you hear his wife walking around their hotel room, you wonder if he hears her.

"Your phone..." You say with your eyes closed when he ignores it and walks to the bathroom.

"Can wait" He says without hesitation.

"What if it's your wife?" You know is her.

"She can wait" Aaron says, it's almost like he doesn't care and a part of you knows he doesn't. "I'll clean you up first, super star"

[after-witch]

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

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

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

Word count: 17,510

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

Thursday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It would have been terribly romantic. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a creep. 

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

Something about nighttime at the carnival made people go wild. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I figured,” you say lightly enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what would you imagine for me?”

The question is unexpected. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you give it. 

At that, he finally smiles again.

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

--

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

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

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

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

Jake Jensen died screaming.

--

Friday

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

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

“Hello again.”

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

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

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

Better to fill the silence again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There--look! Look!” 

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

But now--there’s no one there.

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

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

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

“You’re all right. I’m here.” 

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

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

Chrollo smiles. 

“Let me kiss you,” he says simply.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” you answer, simply. “I would.”

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

--

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

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

No one did.

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

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

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

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

The husband, like the wife, would be shared.

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

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

There would be enough to gorge.

--

Saturday:

Three people are dead. 

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

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

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

Yet now, in one morning, there are three. 

Jake Jensen, who was found near the beach.

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

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

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

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

Your eyes roll, too, but then you wonder.

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

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

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

And you’d be seeing him again tonight.

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

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

So.

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

Fuck. 

“Daydreaming again?” 

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

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

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

“Are you all right?” 

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

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

Chrollo hums.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear.

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

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

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

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

And he’s staring straight up at you.

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

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

Your goosebumps remain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things will be normal soon.

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

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

You don’t mind at all. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Clever,” he says. 

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He merely smiles. “I travel a lot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You ask him, this time. 

“Do you want to kiss me?” 

“I do,” he says. “Very much so.”

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It came highly recommended.” 

--

Sunday: The Final Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

Reality sucks sometimes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, he gives your hand a squeeze.

“We don’t have to part, you know.”

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

Chrollo finally smiles at you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That would be nice.

“I’d like that.” 

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am,” is all he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you take his hand anyway. 

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

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

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

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

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

“And miss the grand finale?”

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he’s looking right at you.

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

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

“What is it, love?” 

The nickname doesn’t even register.

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

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

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

“What do you…”

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

Your eyes dart over the crowd.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Chrollo! We have to go! Now!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Standing in front of you.

Close enough to touch. 

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

He’s got fangs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unless you can find somewhere to hide inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All of them have blood around their mouths. 

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

You don’t wake up.

Instead, you hear a metal clang.

Then another.

And another.

Someone is coming up the stairs.

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

The metal clangs again, and again, and again.

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

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

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

It’s Chrollo.

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

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

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

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

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

You whimper stupidly and pull on Chrollo’s arm. 

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

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

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

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

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

Chrollo sighs, and inclines his head towards the man. 

“Wait a moment, will you, Feitan?”

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

He’s a vampire. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chrollo, walking up to you, hums in sympathy. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like hell,” you mutter.

Chrollo breathes out through his nose. Impatient.

“I don’t believe I heard you, dear.”

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

“Like. Hell.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s Chrollo who speaks.

“I would like an apology for your behavior.”

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

And he wants an apology?

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

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

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

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

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

“F…fuck you.” 

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

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

“Want me to do it, boss?”

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

Chrollo tilts his head a little, considering.

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

Whoever spoke chuckles, but doesn’t disagree.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not like you could run, anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you going to kill me now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what did you know about vampires, anyway? 

You black out as Chrollo murmurs something above you.

At least, you think, this is finally over. 

--

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

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

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

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

The world seems to come into more focus then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re finally awake, I see.”

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

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

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

“Where… are we?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dull, cold horror pools in your gut.

Eternity.

“Did you… am I… did you make me--” 

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

He smiles indulgently, and you hear someone nearby snort. 

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

You shiver. From fear, and from cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love.

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

But neither do you.

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

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

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

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

[zoeykallus]

First off I love your fics!

If you still do requests. Can you write a fic with a Non Jedi! Fem reader x Hunter, and the reader used to be Arc trooper fives is girlfriend before he died and it's the anniversary of his death and the reader has been distancing herself all day and she's been crying in her bunk while looking at Fives helmet which she kept and Hunter starts to notice and checks up on the reader and he comforts her and covers her in kisses and tries to be funny to cheer her up, because he learned from Echo Fives used to do that to cheer the reader up and after Hunter cheers her up, he brings her snacks and they cuddle and watch a holomovie, and Omega walks in and also cheers the reader up🥹

Thank you very much if you write this!

Hi! Thanks a lot! I still do requests, yes. I just need longer than anyone else, I guess, because I never closed them and they keep piling up. But I love to do them, and I'm always eager to read my followers ideas :))

This is sweet and sad, I think I can do something with this. Sorry you had to wait, I hope you'll like it!

Fem!Reader x Hunter One-Shot - In Loving Memory

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort

________

You've been in your room all day, Hunter sensed something was wrong, but he held back for now. Sometimes you just needed time alone, maybe this was one of those times. But in the meantime, he was worried because you didn't come out of your room once.

"Echo?"

"Hmm?"

Echo looked up from his work and looked into his brother's face. He could see immediately that something was wrong, and he could guess what it was. Echo had known you longer than Hunter.

"Don't tell me. You're here because of Y/N?"

Hunter nodded and frowned.

"How do you know?"

Echo sighed, sounding almost a little melancholy.

"It's the third anniversary of Fives' death."

"Oh. Sorry, Echo, I didn't know that."

"That's okay, I can handle it better than she can," Echo said.

Hunter knew you were with Fives long before you met Hunter, he knew what happened to him too, but you've also only been a couple for six months, so he didn't know how this anniversary affected you.

Hunter sighed and asked, "What can I do to make her feel better? What did Fives do to cheer her up?"

Echo giggled, "Fives used to make stupid jokes that only she could laugh at and be cuddly and tickle her and silly things like that. Always worked."

"I see. Maybe I should try that too"

Echo shrugged and chuckled again.

"Maybe you should talk to her first, let her know you really care about her before you start acting like a clown."

Hunter smirked and nodded.

"Good point, Echo, as always."

You sat on your bed, with Fives' helmet in your hands, looking at the visor. The thought that his head would never be in this helmet, his cheeky smile never hiding behind it again, filled your eyes with tears once more. It felt like a heavy rock was sitting on your chest, it was the same every year since Fives was gone. You just couldn't cope with how you lost him. So cruel, so unfair. He did the right thing, knew it all along, and they killed him for it.

It's not like you didn't feel loved with Hunter, it's just the sheer weight of injustice concerning his death that kept bringing you to your knees on this day.

It knocked on your door and shortly after, Hunter carefully peaked inside.

"Hey, Mesh'la. May I come in?"

You hastily wiped the tears off your face with your sleeve.

"Sure", you said hoarsely, clearing your throat.

With a heavy heart, you put Fives' helmet aside and watched Hunter come in. He sat down on the edge of your bed, leaning towards you a bit. He took one of your hands, squeezing it softly in his.

"You think about Fives?"

You nodded sadly, saying, "It's just the memory of how he died, that keeps flaring up in my mind. He was such a good soldier, a wonderful man. He didn't deserve what happened to him"

Hunter nodded in agreement.

"Echo told me all about it. You are right, he really didn't deserve such a cruel fate"

You took a deep breath, wiping away a few new tears.

"You know I love you, right?", he asked you.

Nodding you said, "Yes, of course, I love you too"

"I'm always here for you. You don't have to retreat, I'd love to hold you and be there for you. If you want to be on your own, that's fine with me too, just know I'm always there for you if you need me"

You felt warmth spread through your stomach and chest, butterflies in your tummy. If anyone, it was Hunter who could still make you feel this way.

But then he started talking, confusing you.

"A clone, a Jedi and a bounty hunter walk into a bar..."

"Wait... what? Where is this coming from all of a sudden?"

Hunter scratched the back of his head and said, "Well, Echo mentioned jokes might help to cheer you up"

You couldn't help but cackle, "And you decided to go with that kind of joke? Oh, Hunter."

Grinning, he shrugged and said, "Hey, you just cackled about it, that counts!"

Hunter lied down next to you, covered your face in soft kisses, melting the grip of sadness around your heart. Softly cupping your face in his hands, pressing his forehead to yours, he said, "I love you, Cyare"

You reply, whispering, not daring to talk louder to not disturb this perfectly tender moment, "I love you too"

"Hey!"

You both jump up, startled.

Omega comes in, a holo-projector and at least a dozen movies in her arms.

"Echo said someone needs some cheering up, so I grabbed a bunch of comedies and the projector"

She smiled broadly at both of you. You couldn't tell her to leave again to give you some space, you would have liked to, but Omega was so happy to help you and neither you nor Hunter could bring themselves to turn her away.

Hunter kissed your cheek and rolled out of your bed, saying, "Well, let me set up the projector. You girls get comfortable"

Ko-Fi (If you feel like giving me some coffee)

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