[JESSE]DISCLAIMER: Some Vioilence]
Nine days. He’d had to wait nine whole days for Clover to leave the apartment; he hadn’t wanted to say anything to her because he didn’t want her to feel judged, or that he didn’t like her staying home. He was of two minds, honestly; he felt somehow like he’d become her captor, the apartment was her cage, her guilt and shame the lock and key that kept her from getting out. He didn’t know whether she was happy or sad and he left often enough to go and tend to the plants and make sure everything was okay at Serpentine, but he always came back. In fact, he brought some of his work home with him – the commissions he needed to do, anyway – and he sat at the dining room table to get things done. Not that they particularly needed a dining room table, but it was there, and it worked.
He enjoyed walking around barefoot. He always told Clover where he was going and kissed her goodbye, and greeted her with a kiss when he came home. Though when they went to bed he waited for her to initiated the contact, the holding. Jesse had patience, but after the eighth day he was starting to get worried. He really did feel like a captor; he felt like he had to say something, do something to get her out. Not just because he had plans, but because he was afraid she was going to become some kind of hermit and never leave ever again.
He'd gone out to get some blood; the fridge in Limbo was running low, and he tried to keep it stocked for those that lived there, or those that passed through. The prices were steeper these days, and the soldiers were like an infestation. It was harder to buy the blood and get home without being rounded up and questioned. Or shot.
When he entered the apartment after about an hour gone, he called out to Clover. He checked every room twice before he did a subtle dance of victory. He checked his phone to find a message from Laya, who was super furious with her ‘master’; he was constantly making her do things she didn’t want to do. And following after his wife was severely low on the thrall’s list of things to do for ‘fun’. It was just for tonight, however, the purpose two pronged. Laya would let him know when Clover was on her way home.
Out in Limbo, Jesse had stashed numerous boxes, which he now hefted and dragged into the apartment. He had to work fast. He didn’t know how long Clover would be gone. When he opened the first box he was hit with the stale scent of wax. His eyes gleamed.
It took about two and a half hours. Hundreds (it felt like hundreds) of candles had been spread all over the apartment, on every flat surface he could find. They were in the kitchenette, in the lounge room, all the way down the hall. They were in the bedroom, in the bathroom, on the dresser, the cabinets, the side tables. Everywhere he could put them, he did. And then he had to go around and light them all, one by one. He sincerely hoped he wouldn’t set the place on fire. They were all lodged in little glass cups, so wax wouldn’t get all over everything; they would all last at least ten hours. By the time they’d burnt out, it would be day time. And he would hope that Clover would be home by then.
As soon as they were all lit, he turned off every light, and every switch. Even the standby lights on the television and the microwave were off. Once the apartment looked like it was legitimately on fire, he raced downstairs to the green room and picked as many flowers as he could – blue ones, scarlet ones, whatever he could find. He’d wanted clovers, but not knowing when she would actually leave the house, it would have been hard to keep them fresh. Back in the apartment, now warm due to the dozens and dozens of candles, he left a trail of flowers and petals all the way to the bedroom. The bed had been shoved up against the wall to clear a space in the middle. There, he’d placed a single dining room chair. There he would sit, leg bouncing.
It was only when he got a text from Laya that he pulled the handcuffs from his pocket. They weren’t fluffy. They weren’t a toy. They were real. He clipped them to one wrist before winding his arms behind his back, behind the back of the chair he sat on. He clipped the other wrist, then, and he waited. Like a prisoner, waiting for his captor to arrive home. On the dresser were laid out numerous tools; fabric to be used as either blindfold or gag or neither, or both. Several knifes of differing length and sharpness.
He would be hers. Completely. Utterly. And she could do what the **** she wanted to him.
[CLOVER]
Hours had passed. When Clo returned home, she returned home in different clothes, barely clothes at all. She wore a woman’s long shirt and a man’s bomber jacket, just things she’d collected from her second business, her crematorium. The place always seemed like the last resting place for random belongings, not that she minded. Clo kept what she wanted and trashed the rest. She didn’t have any pants, skirts, or dresses, so she worked with what she had. Anything seemed better than going home caked in blood. Nine days had passed and she’d already broken the promise she’d made to herself. She’d been unable to surrender her serial-killer ways; in fact, she’d gotten worse. Where once she acted with cool calculations, she became sloppy. She slaughtered men right in the streets, prepared for the thrill of being discovered, the thrill of the hunt. Sometimes, she purposely let the people get away; sometimes, she captured them on the spot. If they reacted with fear, she drank in that fear, drank in that terror. Clover wanted nothing more than for humans to fear her. Their terror made her whole again, when she felt so broken. Nine days, and she’d succumbed to her old ways. Nine days, and she’d descended further into madness.
She’d thought about finding Trigg and torturing him, force turning him. She’d managed to combat those thoughts and ignore those feelings. He had nothing to do with her dry spell, nothing to do with the river of blood she left in her wake. To torture him would have been a mistake. To force turn him would have been an error. She wasn’t stalking him anymore. She didn’t know exactly where to find him anymore. She’d seemingly severed one major part of their connection.
Clo ran her fingers through her hair and tugged at the roots. The tiny bit of pain did her a great deal of good. Her ring dug into the flesh of her left ring finger, reminding her that she had yet to return home. And she’d seen the woman following her all night. She’d been followed throughout most of her playtime, she’d decided. The only explanation was Jesse, most likely that he either didn’t trust her or he’d worried about her. She chose the second option. She would have done the same. After so many days holed up in the apartment, he probably worried she’d gone out to do something stupid. But hadn’t she done just that?
Barefoot, her hair still damp from the quick cleanup she’d done with a hose, Clo crossed the edge of River Rock and began the journey through the wilderness. She saw flashes of shadows, mostly likely fae just waiting for her to step off the path, just waiting for her to enter their territory. She might have gone that route, had she been unable to find an alternative way of hunting, but she’d found another way, a more violent way. She enjoyed ripping the soldiers apart. She enjoyed the exploration of her slaughterhouse. Where once she’d handled her victims with care, she handled them with something raw, something as cold as ice. Clo couldn’t pinpoint the part of herself she channeled when she went on her rampage, but the lack of words and the lack of understanding meant very little when her methods worked. Who cared what dark side of herself had surfaced, out to ring in a new era? Her body still hummed with unspent energy. She probably could have kept going all night, but that would have been too extreme. Where they were supposed to be cutting back on their violence, keeping to the shadows, she’d thrust herself into the spotlight, even did a little number.
When she stopped outside of Circle, she decided not to tome inside. The entrance worked just as well. And as she entered, she remember a time when they’d been on the lawn, when they’d had their gatherings. Clo remembered a time when more of Fforde was active. She missed some of them. They never stayed. The people she wanted around never seemed to want to be around. At first, it had hurt, but the hurt had faded it nothingness. The numb moved in and overtook most of those nerve endings. Nothing fired anymore, not for the feelings attached to those people. In her mind, they’d abandoned her. In her mind, she’d been loyal and they’d done wrong.
The elevator creaked as she rode it to Limbo, set on going back to the apartment. When the doors opened, she slowly made her way back to the apartment, the one she shared with her husband, the love of her life. Nothing mattered more than forcing him to give her attention, dragging him into the bathroom, sharing a nice bath together. But when she entered the apartment, she felt as if she’d entered into her own personal sunset. There were candles everywhere, as far as she could see, and something inside of her melted. The cold that had accumulated during her hunt had quickly turned to warmth.
Clo checked the bathroom first, but she had no luck. Not on the couch. Not at the table. That left the bedroom, and she crept toward it as if she expected him to jump out and surprise her. In a way, he did. He did surprise her.
“What are you doing?” She frowned at him, her head tilted to one side as if her question required a gesture to go along with it. She loved him. But sometimes, she loved him.
[JESSE]
Jesse wasn't sure how long he sat there with the cold metal clasping his hands together behind his back. The metal didn't warm against his skin; there was no warmth in his skin to transmit. But then, nor did he suffer cramps, as the vampire body wasn't set up to suffer such human trivialities. His phone had been tossed onto the bed, and even if he'd had it on his lap there wasn't much he could do with it, given no fingers to work it with. It occurred to him that he could have put some music on in the background, but silence had always been one of his favourite things. It didn't mean Clover particularly enjoyed the silence, but c'est le vie. She could put some on if she felt like it, once she arrived.
Patience was one of Jesse's virtues -- at least when it didn't regard his thirst or lust for the sight of blood -- and he was happy to wait. How long was it? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? It didn't matter. He listened to the tiny crackles of the numerous flames spread out around him, stared at one particular candle and into the heart of its flickering soul. He lost himself to his thoughts; he wondered whether Clover would like this surprise, whether this was anything like what she wanted. If it wasn't the same as how she treated her victims, couldn't it be something different? Something better? He was loathe to mention the word 'sacrifice', but it's what he wanted to be. She was the goddess, and he was the lamb up for slaughter. He idolized her. He worshipped her. And this was his gift. His own flesh and blood.
When he heard the door open and close, he held his breath. His body came to attention, feet secure beneath him, shoulders squared. He was still wearing all his clothes -- jeans, a t-shirt, though he did have bare feet. He had debated on stripping down, but she could unwrap him if she desired. If that was her intent. He was hers to unwrap. He heard her footsteps as she looked for him. For someone. For something. She hadn't called out. When she reached the bedroom door, Jesse peered at her, his smile tense as he waited for her reaction. It faltered when she frowned, when she asked what he was doing. She hated it. She thought it was excessive. The cuffs clinked and jangled as he shifted in the chair, as he cleared his throat.
"I'm yours," he said. He nodded to the implements and tools on the dresser. "Do what you want with me. To me. Punish me, like you would one of your victims. I'd spill all my blood for you..."
[CLOVER]
Clover didn’t know what to say then. His words had silenced her in the way that she hadn’t been silenced before, in the way that drove her mad. He wanted her to treat him like one of her victims, and her mind instantly flashed to the soldiers she’d slaughter, to the crude amputations and the muted screams. Clo would never approach Jesse with such hostility; she could never hurt him in such a manner. And yet he wanted her to treat him like one of her victims. He couldn’t have known her most recent adventure. No, he meant like one of her other victims, the victims she’d drawn in using her body as bait. Hadn’t they just agreed that she would stop hunting in that manner? Yet he’d given her permission. He’d offered her the ability to use such behaviors to lure him in, to torture him him. But could she do that to him? Hurting him was foreplay to them, and she adored their foreplay, but what he wanted her to do was beyond foreplay. He really wanted to know what it was like, didn’t he?
Silently, she removed her bomber jacket and tossed it aside, watching as it bounced off the wall, missed some candles, and landed on the floor. Her aim had been perfect. She approached him, looked him in the eyes, and then lowered herself onto his lap. She leaned her head in, burying her nose in the side of her neck, and took in his scent. The way she’d treated her victims. Clo felt as if she’d closed the book on that part of her, as reopening the book and flipping through the pages took such a great effort. If they were playing, she meant to really play. “I love your eyes,” she began. She’d since pulled back and then resumed staring into his eyes. “They’re one of my favorite. I could gouge them out, keep them for myself. Would you give them to me, give me your eyes?” Her hands found his cheeks and she stroked her thumbs over his skin.
Clo removed herself from his lap and approached the dresser. Sometimes, she gagged her victims, but she preferred not to blindfold them, if possible. She wanted them to know, to see. Blindfolding them deprived them of the show. Clo selected a blade right in the middle, one with a good length and a straight edge. Sharp, like she needed. “Open those pretty eyes wide.” She might have gouged out the eyes of her victims, but she couldn’t bring herself to gouge out his, not when she loved them so much. So she avoided the right eye and cut his forehead and his cheek, barely missing the eye itself. Clo stared at him, as if she were analyzing her work, and then she repeated the same to his other eye. Not shallow cuts, cuts that approached bone, that had her smiling. Perfect. He looked amazing.
“I can’t have you deprived of your sight” she smiled. She barely tasted his blood, her tongue running over the dull side of the blade, but she’d never enjoyed the taste of vampire blood. Too much made her sick to her stomach. Clo dug the blade into his shoulder and twisted. “Tell me how beautiful I am.”
[JESSE]
She didn't walk away. She didn't start blowing out all the candles. She didn't knock them over and set them both on fire. He'd not voiced his uncertainty but nor had she confirmed it. When she settled on his lap he sighed, relief. It was lined with a subtle growl. When she buried her face to his neck he did the same, eyes closed, taking her in. The default reaction would have been to wrap his arms around her waist, to de-clothe her, but his hands were secured. And he coudl do nothing. He was hers to do with as she pleased and, though he could probably stand and walk away, he wasn't going to. He didn't want to. He had no need to.
She'd asked whether she could have his eyes and he nodded. It wouldn't have been the first time someone had gouged his eyes, though it had never been done with care. It had never been donw with the intention of keeping them, to preserve them. There was an eager gleam in their depths, the ice-blue vibrant even here amidst all the warmth and flame. Perhaps he should have included a spoon amongst the tools she could use, but all she would have to do is go out to the kitchen to get one. He wanted to feel the ache as they were lovingly sliced from his skull. No spoon was required, however. No spoon was sought. Instead, Clover brought back a knife. And with each slash, each new deep gash, Jesse's breathing intensified. He didn't need the air, but it kept him from crying out. He bit his tongue so hard that it bled, and even when the blood started to drip into them, he kept his eyes open. He kept his eyes on his love. He watched her every move, not with anger, but with pride.
He'd been so distracted by the concentration in her own eyes that he hadn't paid attention to what she was doing with the knife. As it dug into his shoulder, he couldn't help himself; the cry curled from his throat, jagged and husky. It was followed by a laugh, his toes curling into the carpet. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he said, finally. "You are the flame that I love so much, manifest in a flesh and bone body. You are ethereal, a goddess," he said. He'd meant to make her feel worshipped, to sacrifice himself to her. The ultimate sacrifice. He'd meant to say these kinds of things, though he'd not known how genuine they would be; how honest. He meant every single word.
[CLOVER]
He’d made such a beautiful noise, one that made her whole body thrum with pleasure. He’d made that noise just for her, and unbidden. Had they been doing anything else, his words would have broken her and she instantly would have led him to the bedroom. She would have removed his clothes and showed him how much she appreciated his words, how much she cared for him. Instead, after he said those words, she coaxed him to open his mouth. She examined the darkness within. His tongue. That’s what she could take. She could sever the annoying thing; she could treasure the annoying thing. And yet, she’d have no more words. She loved those words.
Clo walked back over to the dresser and exchanged knives, going for a smaller one, a sharper one. “I’m your goddess,” she played along, looking down at him with soft eyes. “Now stick out your tongue for me. I’ll be quick. I’ll be so gentle. You won’t even know it’s missing.” She spoke softly, how she might have spoken to any number of her victims. Clo reclaimed the seat on his lap and she stroked his left cheek. “I want to keep you forever. I’ll take good care of you. I’ll take such good care of you.” After she said those words, she leaned forward and ran her tongue along his other cheek, slowly, as to savor the taste. And then she laughed, an unsteady laugh that came from the same darkened corridor that housed the monster that had only just come out to play. When she brought the blade down, she brought it down in one swift motion.
“You’re mine,” she whispered. “I’m good to you, aren’t I? Nod for me. We’re having fun, aren’t we? Nod, Jesse. Nod for me.” She spoke the words softly, right by his ear, and then she placed a kiss against the outer shell of his ear.
[JESSE]
Jesse watched Clover with an avid curiosity; he remembered what he'd asked her to do. He remembered that he requested she treat him like she treated her victims, and now he was just unfathomably intrigued. The way she looked at him, the way she spoke -- it was gentle, and it was different. It was new. This was still his Clover but on another level. But were her victims so accommodating? Could they have been? To be more authentic, he could have struggled. He could have pleaded, no. He could have, but he wouldn't. Because he wouldn't want Clover to think he actually wanted to stop. Because he didn't want her to stop. He was enjoying this every bit as much as she was. Did that make him twisted? Did it make them twisted? He honestly didn't care.
He wanted to tell her that he loved her, but instead he obeyed. Knowing what was coming next, he obediently held out his tongue. Yes, his tongue. Did she know how eager he was to give away his tongue? He hated that thing. If only he couldn't heal, and it would be gone forever. If only he could choose not to heal that part of himself. Could he do that? By willpower alone, could he...? He doubted it, but there was no harm in trying. And regardless, it was going to take a few days, he assumed, for the complex muscle to grow back of its own accord. And when the knife sliced so easily through tendon and flesh, blood spilled fresh into the now-open cavity of his mouth and he gasped, moaned as the pain caused stars to dance behind his eyes. He swallowed his own blood. Over and over again he had to swallow to keep it from spilling out the sides of his mouth, but it did that anyway. Blood stained his chin, but he didn't complain. The groan turned into a growl of satisfaction. Did her victims ever growl with satisfaction?
He nodded, yes. She was good to him. He hated speech. He hated talking. How often had he said he'd prefer to be mute? And she'd given that to him. It was the best gift she'd given for a long while (though she was notoriously good at giving gifts). He nudged his cheek against Clover's, pushing his head against hers the way a cat might affectionately push its head against its master's leg. He was showing his appreciation. He was seeking her lips. He wanted to kiss her, blood and all.
[CLOVER]
Just as much as she deprived him of speech, she deprived herself of his speech. Furious. Disappointed. Thrilled. Dozens of emotions ran through her, but one finally surfaced from amongst the rest: Clo felt incredible. He leaned his cheek against hers and she wanted to pull away, but she didn’t. If he were really a victim, he never would have received such treatment. She graced him with a kiss, a kiss mixed with his blood. If Trigg tasted both sweet and sour, then Jesse tasted thick and rich, as if she had discovered something too overpowering. She couldn’t stand it because she couldn’t handle him. He reeked of strength, stunk of power, and she partook of the feeling in the way she couldn’t partake of his blood.
The noises he made had made her feeling something akin to pleasure. Instead of switching knives, she made a few strategic cuts to his shirt and freed him of the piece of clothing. The pieces of fabric joined the bomber jacket on the floor, unwanted, useless, and Clo ran her hands over his exposed flesh. She traced over his tattoos with one hand, the knife still in her other. With no further pause, Clo tightly grasped the handle in her fist and lowered the tip down against his flesh. She carved a C into the skin on her chest, making sure the blade dug down deep enough to produce enough blood to coat the tip and spill over his flesh. She meant to carve her name into his skin, and so she did. Each letter, she was closer and closer to creating her masterpiece. And then she made a Y incision with dotted lines, as if setting herself up for later. The top lines of the letter hugged the outer edges of her name and then joined in the center to form the bottom.
“Let’s break some bones,” she said, almost gleefully. Clo hated to leave him, but she had to go. She replaced the knife on the dresser, gathered the cloth meant to act as a blindfold, and went back to wipe the blood from his chin. Her behavior showed nothing but careful consideration. And that’s what she showed her victims. She wanted them to see her as someone awful, and yet someone good, as if they ever had a chance of talking her out of her ways and walking away. Clo gagged him then, just so the cloth would soak up some blood from between his lips, and then she pressed her chest to his. She reached down behind him and began breaking his fingers. “One,” she proclaimed, breaking his right thumb. “Two.” There went the right index.
[JESSE]
With each carve of the knife into his flesh, Jesse took a sharp breath. Every time the tip of the knife was released from his flesh, the breath rushed from his nostrils in a subtle hiss. His chest rattled; he'd swallowed a lot of his own blood, and it was enough to make him feel just slightly ill. But he was too intrigued by what Clover was doing to pay much mind to himself, or to what he was feeling beyond the immediate pain caused by split flesh. The all-encompassing Y had Jesse wondering if Clover intended to break his ribs and pull out each of his organs, like a surgeon might. He wondered if it would kill him, if every organ was removed? He was already feeling a little dizzy. How much blood could he lose before he lost it all? The letters she'd carved were obscured by the blood as it bubbled from them, spilled over his chest like a quiet, thick waterfall. A bloodfall.
It should have concerned him that he was starting to tingle, that he was a tiny bit woozy. The body works hard to protect itself from pain, and from death, and his body was on overdrive. It felt ******* amazing. He was on a high. He was high. He couldn't consume drugs or alcohol, but he could experience this. And it was oh, so much better. If he was going to be honest, though, he preferred knives and bullets to broken bones. Broken bones resulted in aches, dull, and... well, bone deep. Aches were not as glorious as the instant pain of broken flesh, the nerve endings screaming as they were opened to the air. Broken bones were different.
But he didn't have the heart to tell her no; he didn't have the tongue to tell her no. He barely had the wits to indicate anything and, as she returned to his lap and leaned over to reach behind him, the embrace was almost loving. He didn't understand why she had gagged him, but it muffled each moan after each broken finger, his whole body jolting with each snap. His skin was cold, the loss of blood and the constant agony causing a fever-like chill on top of the usual vampiric cold. At least he could press the broken stub of his tongue against the gag. At least he could stem the bleeding, and quit swallowing his own blood. He relaxed -- whether by choice or because his body was getting weaker, he didn't stop to analyse. His forehead rested on Clover's shoulder.
[CLOVER]
What if she’d broken him? He rested his forehead against her shoulder, and she had to wonder. What if she’d gone too far? And yet she wanted to continue. Selfishly, she wanted to drain him dry, to hang him in the way she hung all of her victims, to slash his chest and belly open and watch everything fall out. What if she’d broken him? That question rang, clear as a bell, through her mind. On eight, she stopped, just shy of his left ring finger and pinky. Pulling back, just far enough to see his face, she tried analyzing his condition by looking into his eyes, but they were tainted by blood, obscured. How much blood could he lose before he lost himself to delirium, to death? Clo knew the answer varied by the person, and that thought alone kept her from continuing.
“Have I broken you?” She ran her fingers down his chest, her nails raking over the fresh wounds. His blood smeared, violent against her pale flesh. “We can stop,” she spoke, voice quiet. “Just nod if you want me to stop.” Clover had claimed his voice, so she had to think of other ways to communicate, sometimes creative, sometimes not. In that case, she’d fallen back onto a simple yes or no response system. Some part of her wanted him to stop. She wanted to take care of him, to soothe him. And some part of her, the darker part of her, the part she’d already acknowledged just moments ago, wanted to continue.
“You’re so ******* beautiful,” she sighed, resting her palms on his bare shoulders. She smeared his blood there. She aggravated the wound, the nice wound she’d created when she’d twisted the knife into his flesh. “I like playing in my slaughterhouse. I like amputating arms and legs. I like slicing open their throats and listening to them choke on their own blood. I just want to play with you, Jesse. Can you handle my game?” She allowed a beat of silence. “We can play something else,” she offered. Her hands trailed down over his chest, down his stomach, just to the top of his jeans. In all honesty, she wanted to keep torturing him, but she would have settled for sex. Between the two, sex came in at a close second, practically a photo finish.
