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[JESSE]
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.

[JESSE]
Had she broken him? Jesse had to think about the question. His brain was sluggish. Had she? No. He didn't think so. He'd been worse off than this before. When he'd walked from the tree in his sleep and plummeted to the ground, his insides exploded and so many broken bones that he'd been bed bound for most part of the week. It hadn't been pain or punishment he'd been seeking, then, so much as death. Here, now, he wasn't looking for death. He simply enjoyed the pain. But he couldn't see the shadows creeping up on him. He'd died so many times, he knew what it felt like to be on the brink. He knew when the last blow would be the last blow. So when she leaned back to peer at him, when she asked, truly, for an answer he shook his head. Very clearly not a nod. He did not want her to stop.

This was good for them. Jesse was the right amount of twisted that this was enjoyment for him. But he knew he was not the norm. He knew that her victims couldn't have enjoyed this. They'd have begged and sobbed, their eyes would be filled with tears as well as blood. They might have passed out by now. He wanted to ask what she liked better; whether she liked it better when they begged and sobbed, or did she prefer this? Did she prefer the quiet, bloodied determination in his eyes, the certainty in the shake of head. No, he didn't want to stop. Even when her fingers trailed down his chest and had him squirming in his seat when they reached the hem of his jeans, he shook his head. Sex? He'd just have to lay there and do nothing, unable to touch her in the way he was accustomed. She may as well keep going. Though his vision was blurred, he could see her silhouette -- like a goddess of shadows, framed by flame. He glanced down between them, at his jeans that were still secured. The shake of his head was now sharp. Negative. She could cut him wherever she wanted and he wouldn't complain, he would not kick up a fuss. But if she took a knife anywhere near his nether region, he would complain. He'd complain a lot.

He might have told her, too, that he didn't have to breathe and so would not be choking on his own blood. The chain of the cuffs clinked as he forgot he was wearing them, wanting to caress Clover's cheek with fingers he forgot were broken, no doubt now sticking out at odd angles. Would they be stuck that way, if they healed? Or would they slowly start to pop back into place? Even the edges of the wounds on his chest were starting to pucker, wanting to stitch themselves back together. His head fell back, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. Almost begging for her to slice his throat open, just like she had threatened.


[CLOVER]
They played a different kind of game, like a remixed version of what she usually played. She enjoyed every move, but every move felt different, foreign. Instead of going left, she went right. Instead of going up, she went down. He’d shaken his head though. He’d given her the sign she needed to really continue, to continue without an ounce of doubt, and yet she still found herself hesitating. Maybe she just didn’t have it in her anymore. Maybe they’d simply grown stagnant. His sounds were muted, even moreso with the gag in his mouth, but she didn’t want his blood spilling out of his mouth and ruining her pretty designs. And she intended to cover him in designs. She wanted her name on his arms, on his hands, on each individual finger. Clo wanted to mark him in ways he might never have imagined. Even if those wounds faded, even if those wounds healed, he’d know. He’d remember.

The only reason he still had his arms was because she wanted him to remain cuffed. He wasn’t going to touch her, not when none of her victims earned the opportunity to touch her. Only future childer gained ground. Only her husband had full reign. He bared his throat to her and she had to make her way back over to the dresser for a different knife, the third of three knives. The blade came with a serrated edge, so she’d get to saw at his throat, to really dig the blade into his skin and relieve him of his blood. She imagined severing vocal cords, sawing directly through to the other side. Instead, she climbed back onto his lap, cradling the back of his neck with one hand, and placed the knife flesh against his throat. “This may pinch a little,” she smiled. And she pressed on the knife until blood bubbled to the surface and stained the silver a crimson red.

Clo felt as if she were punishing him, even though he’d done nothing wrong. You’ve been bad, she wanted to say, just as much as she wanted to tell him to scream, to tell him to moan, to tell him to make some sort of sound to please her. But he’d seemed to steel himself. Inhaling. Exhaling. Blinking. Clo put too much force behind the blade and cut too soon, but her mistake made no difference. She left a jagged line in her wake, one she widened with her sawing motion, one she’d deepened with her sawing motion. The mark extended by several inches, and the blade had to go down, further staining the name she’d carved into his flesh. Her fingers poked and prodded at the wound, until they dipped into the deep cut. What if she hollowed him out completely? What if she removed everything that made him Jesse? “Pants on?” She stopped, waiting for his nod or the shake of his head.


[JESSE]
Jesse had asked for it, so he couldn't complain. He had not excpected the serrated knife. His eyes widened just a little as she brought it over, as she pressed it to his skin. And he could hear it, every severed sinew and nerve; the tendons snapped and coiled and all he could do was twitch. If he groaned this time, it was because he wondered if Clover actually intended on sawing all the way through. Did she actually intend to behead him? To kill him? Did she know that if she did, her fun would be over? His body would be ash and she'd have nothing left to play with. If she killed him, then he would be angry. If she killed him, then she will have gone too far. The muffled groan itself was severed, vocal chords taken out of action by the vicious knife. Now, there was no gag to stop him from swallowing his own blood. Now, his lungs filled with it regardless. It was habit to breathe, to suck in that breath that only got caught in his mangled throat, his lungs expanding then wanting to expel the liquid within.

She'd asked him a question but Jesse was too busy convulsing, his hands were tied and he was pinned to the chair, but as he tried to cough the blood surged from the jagged gouge across his neck; it spattered from his mouth, from his nose. Instinct told him to try take another breath but he squeezed his eyes shut as he sought to gain control of himself, of his body. He focused on the pain. He made it his own. He leashed it, like a dog. If he were one of Clover's victims, he'd be dead by now. Whatever she did after this point... well. Did he want to know? Or did he want her to stop? A sucker for punishment and too curious otherwise, Jesse shook his head.

Beforehand, he'd pointedly stared at his own crotch and shook his head because he refused to allow her to immasculate him. But would she? He trusted that she wouldn't. So he shook his head. If she was so determined to make him hurt all over, if she wanted to take his pants off, then she should take his pants off. This wasn't his rodeo. Not anymore. Rather than ask him the questions, she should just do what she wanted anyway. This was his gift to her. Complete control over a willing devotee. There wasn't much of his skin to be seen beneath all the blood, but his cheeks were sunken, the ink stark against flesh that was turning the unhealthy grey of a day-old corpse. The blood was almost all gone.


[CLOVER]
He looked awful, but only beneath the beauty the blood provided, only underneath the cuts. Yet she found him more beautiful than ever. She loved ruining him. He’d given himself to her and all she wanted to do was make a mess. Making messes. She’d done the same thing as a child: She’d pressed her whole hands onto plates covered in finger paint, and then smeared the paint across the paper, across the walls. Clo always had a thing for making messes, even when she tried to keep things clean. Their game felt like no game she’d ever played, both due to her own satisfaction and her own disappointment. She didn’t want to push the limits too far. She didn’t want to watch him die. But she wanted more, from herself and from him. Clo wanted so much more from him.

Though she should have replaced the knife on the dresser, should have begun to remove his pants, she did neither. Clo remained on his lap. She raised the blade to her mouth. Her tongue darted out to lick around the sharpened edges, to taste the blood there. Not too much. Just a taste. “You know,” she began, always so chatty with her victims, “I’m going to cut off your leg next. Right or left? I always pick the same one. You pick,” she smiled, nudging his shoulder. “You pick this time.” But he’d lost the ability to speak. If it hadn’t been the removal of his tongue, it had been the severing of his vocal cords. “Fine,” she frowned, “then I’ll pick. Let’s go with the left. I always have so much more luck with the left.”

And if he bled out? And if he turned to ash? Clo licked her lips, her determination wavering. He really wasn’t just another victim, never had been. She’d admitted to feeling as if she’d manipulated him, lured him right into her web, but that had been at the beginning of their relationship. It seemed so long ago. Even as she thought, she found herself standing before him, ready to wrestle the jeans from his body, ready to take the steps necessary to sever the leg from his body. Was the gift for her or for him? What had he hoped to obtain? Love? Forgiveness? He hadn’t done anything, hadn’t forced her to do anything. Was he trying to get them even closer together? Was he interested in what she did with her victims? That thought had her back at the dresser, selecting the same knife she’d used to threaten him the first time their little game began. A good length. Good sharpness. She’d need to put force behind her motions, but the blade would hold. When she went back to Jesse, she had to tug the jeans from his legs, freeing him of them, and then she eyed both legs as if she were selecting a cut of meat. And then the gag came off.

“I wonder,” she thought aloud, “how much more of this you can actually take.” And with that, she made a shallow cut on his left thigh, just to mark the starting point. “I want to cut you open too. I have so many plans, and to have you die -- well, I don’t want that. So don’t die.” Then she began cutting.


[JESSE]
She told him she was going to cut off his leg and all Jesse could do was hiccouph. They'd had disagreements in the past about taking each other's limbs. The tongue he could handle. The tongue he wanted to be without. The fingers could be snapped back into place. The gashes would stitch themselves back together and he could go about his nightly business with no issues. A missing leg, though? They had been over this before. Hadn't they? Hadn't he drawn that line somewhere once before? No limbs. But his brain was barely there, and he could have been imagining it. No, he had never said the words. He'd never said no limbs. He was too focused on trying not to breathe, on trying to make the room stay still, that it was too late before he could tell her no.

The blade cut into the bared skin of his thigh and his whole body tensed. Again, his head fell back and the skin tore at the corners of the cut that resided there. So his head fell forward again, blood gurgling from both neck and mouth as he went to moan, to groan, to shout as the blade sliced through muscle and hit bone. His body shook involuntarily, a reaction to the severity of the agony now harassing him from every angle. The blood he had swallowed was like poison and he wanted, needed to throw it back up again but it got stuck. His body convulsed. But he took it. He didn't struggle. He didn't say no. He couldn't say no. She would take his leg and it would turn to ash, it would disappear. He'd have to wait a week for it to grow back again. What had he been expecting? He'd asked Clover to treat him like she did her victims, but had he actually expected her to go this far?

She mentioned death and he almost wished for it at this point. He couldn't tell her that, though. He couldn't tell her that if she cut him open he would be gone. Dead. That would be her surprise, over with. He couldn't tell her to make sure she blew out all the candles before going to sleep so that she didn't burn the apartment down. Though it was made of brick. What damage could really be done? There were a lot of wooden furnishings, though. Not just in here, but out in limbo. He liked fire, but he didn't particularly want to burn his own place down. Without the faculties to communicate, however, Jesse just hung there, limp. His body was bereft of blood, riddled with near-fatal wounds. She had him, hook line and sinker. And now he didn't know how to tell her to stop.


[CLOVER]
His body convulsed, and she knew she’d taken it too far, as if that act alone snapped her out of her reverie. But could she stop? Would his body simply knit itself back together? She’d nearly gone through the bone. The words he’d said were to treat him like one of her victims, but she’d promised herself she wouldn’t, she couldn’t, go that far. And she had. She’d wrecked him. He’d offered himself to her, and she’d destroyed him. Clover imagined the trust that went with the gesture. She’d cut him open plenty of times and they’d had no problem, but that was different. Her victims experienced something different. Her victims experienced decapitation, amputation, cremation. Her victims experienced everything she said he’d never experience. But she’d led him down that road anyway. How many times had she fallen down the rabbit hole? Once? Twice? A dozen times? She wanted to feel embarrassed, but she felt differently. Clo felt like some type of monster. She’d torn her partner apart and expected him to enjoy himself. He’d probably loathe her. He’d probably look at her through new eyes. Clo couldn’t stand herself. She wanted to hurl the knife at the wall, to take the journey out of the apartment, to leave him there, just so she didn’t have to look at him anymore. She just couldn’t look at him anymore.

Leg half-amputated, Jesse still looked beautiful. Maybe he’d always look that way. What the **** had she done? She recalled so many different memories, so many times that they’d spent together, and then she had to ruin his surprise by ripping him apart. She’d gone too far. She’d overstepped boundaries. Clo wanted to apologize, to beg him for forgiveness, but she took one step back, took two steps back, took three steps back. The look in his eyes spoke volumes. The knife went back on the dresser. That became her first move. Not to cradle him, not to uncuff him. She just couldn’t take the feel of the knife in her hand.

Nine days, and she’d dissolved into something she didn’t like, into someone she just couldn’t recognize. Nine days, and she hated herself.

When she approached him, she fell upon her knees in front of him. “I’m so sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say. After those words, she remembered the handcuffs, she remembered the thing binding him to that position. Maybe he meant to punish her, and she would have let him. Monsters deserved punishment. Monsters deserved no sympathy. At first, she fought to remove the cuffs, so she went back to the dresser, retrieved the smallest knife, and went back to pick the lock. **** the key. **** the time it took. The cuffs popped open and she scrambled to remove them. She’d take care of him. She promised herself it’d be okay. He’d forgive her. He just had to forgive her. But would she had forgiven him, if the tables were turned? No.


[JESSE]
Jesse had been prepared to suffer, to wait it out. He was even kind of curious himself, how far his body would take him. Could she cut him open? Could he survive that? If he could go into any kind of battle knowing what he'd already survived, he would be invincible. But, the urge to stop was stronger, the urge to keep his leg was stronger. He dwelled upon what he would prefer more than he dwelled on his curiosity about his own limitations; and it almost seemed as if Clover had read his mind. All of a sudden, she stopped. The blade slid from the folds of his broken flesh and Clover stood. Jesse lifted his head, eyes following her every movement. The blood on his face had dried and had cracked, his vision no longer obscured by the blood. She'd stopped not because she'd changed her mind about how best to torture him, but because she'd changed her mind regarding the whole thing. She'd stopped, not to move on to some other limb, having suddenly decided that the left was not good enough, but because ... because? She knew. She knew, just like that.

She put the knife down, and Jesse welcomed the reprieve. She came back to drop to her knees in front of him. The carpet beneath would have to be replaced, or miraculously cleaned. Why hadn't he thought to put down some plastic? He knew what their twisted foreplay was like. He knew there would be blood. He knew this wouldn't be some lame-*** fifty shades of grey fuckery, where the whips didn't even break skin. She apologised and he slowly shook his head. He wanted to touch her, to tell her not to be. But he couldn't. He could just look at her. And then she was up, she'd moved away. She picked up a knife and he wondered if she'd changed her mind again, if the apology was part of the torture. But she went around behind him and removed the cuffs. The skin was broken and bleeding where the metal had dug into his skin; he'd apparently tensed and struggled against the confins more than he was aware. His arms ached when he brought them around to his front -- but most his fingers were crooked, and he could do nothing with them. He went to stand -- to go where? -- didn't matter. The deep gash that had cut through half his thigh wouldn't hold his weight. He collapsed, straight to the ground. He rolled onto his back, careful to avoid the candles. He searched for Clover with his eyes. He reached for her with broken fingers.

Everything was okay.


[CLOVER]
Nothing was okay.

Clo tore her eyes away from him. She turned her back on him. When he fell, she heard the thump; when he fell, she knew he fell. She told herself not to look, but her eyes betrayed her. Her whole body betrayed her. Everything about their little game made him look weak, and Clover hated that she’d made him fall so far, that she’d taken him on such a journey. No, everything wasn’t okay. He reached for her, but she couldn’t let him touch her. She felt as if his touch would awaken the same monster, as if she’d want to continue tearing him down. Neither of them needed such a thing. His touch was unwelcome. She wanted to tell him not to touch her, to yell at him that she was disgusting, that she was contagious. But what came out sounded entirely different.

“I could have really hurt you,” she whispered. “I could have killed you.” And it hurt to say those words. And it killed her to say those words. She sunk onto the floor and lowered herself onto her side. She curled into him as if she were a child all over again. Clo pulled on his arm, lifting it so that she could curl against his chest. Fingers traced over the place where she’d carved her name. Fingers explored the blood crusted on his chest. “I’m so sorry, Jesse. I’m so sorry,” she repeated, voice low. The apology lingered on her tongue, the taste as vile as could be imagined. But she felt the need to repeat the words over and over again. “I don’t want to play anymore.” He wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready. Despite him reaching for her, she still had no idea how he felt about her display, what went on in his mind. There could have been disgust, which had blossomed in the shadows of his mind, dominating corners he didn’t know existed. There could have been anger, which he hesitated to display.

“We don’t have to do this again.” Her stomach hurt. Her heart hurt. Everything hurt when she said those words. Imagining not performing their foreplay again made her wonder if they would stagnate, if they would slowly become a relationship without physical intimacy. “I feel,” she stopped and swallowed, “I feel like I might disgust you, like maybe you didn’t know what to expect. I wish you’d chosen sex. I wish I hadn’t gone so far. And now I can’t even have a decent conversation with you because I lost control. I really wanted to keep going. I wondered what it would be like to kill you, and it scared me. I never want to hurt you in the way I hurt my victims, because you’re so much better. You’re so much more. But if you ever do this to me again, if you tell me you want to be treated like my victims, what happens if I can’t stop? What happens if I take your body parts? What happens if I take your life? Why didn’t you stop me? Why didn’t you tell me no? Why didn’t you do something?” She grew angry then, right near the end of her questions, but she didn’t pull away from him. She couldn’t, the total opposite of how she’d felt in the beginning.


[JESSE]
Weak. He supposed he was weak, though it hadn't crossed his mind to be aware of it. He was with Clover, who'd seem him at his weakest -- not only in body, but in mind, and in spirit. he wasn't afraid of her, even if he should have been. He wasn't. This was their safe place. It was theirs. It was why, if she'd killed him, his only thought was of the candles. Housekeeping. Keeping her safe. What was death, anyway? Just a boring, week-long sabbatical in a place of shadows. In this moment it would take a single well-placed blow and he would be gone for good. It didn't bother him until he fell, until, when he looked for Clover, it almost looked like she was going to walk away. Was she ashamed of him?

She proclaimed that she could have really hurt him, though he would have argued she already had. She said she could have killed him and he nodded, and he tried for a smile, as if it were a huge joke. In the moment, he had cared. If she had proceeded, if she had killed him, he might have been irritated. But that's all it would have been. An irritant. He'd have come to terms with the fact that this was something that he had asked for. he would have admitted to her that he hadn't thought she would go that far, but also that he should have expected it.

And then finally she joined him, and that was all that he wanted. He could touch her like he wanted to. He could already feel the bones trying to fuse back together in his fingers; they were stiff, now. She played with the blood on his chest, the gentle caress near so many gouged wounds tickling, after so much agony. She talked; she released her fears and her worries and he couldn't speak to reassure her. He couldn't say anything. And then her tone shifted from worry and shame to anger, as if it were all his fault and he just rolled his eyes. The muscles in his abdomen clenched. It hurt him all over to even try to move, but he did. First, he brought his arm around Clover and, right by her ear, right in front of her face, he did his damnedest to straighten out all his broken fingers. The bones cracked and flicked and he flinched with every single splinter, but he got to the end. One, to eight. The skin was bruised, but it would heal. The bones were better aligned. Only then did he use the strength of his hip to throw his injured leg over Clover's, now properly wrapping his arms around her, smearing her with his blood. He pulled her in, tight and close.

Everything was okay.


[CLOVER]
He couldn’t speak. She longed for the vibration in his chest and in his throat, his pronunciation of every word. But he preferred the silence. Whereas she felt like she’d lost something, he felt like he’d gained something. Her left palm flat against his chest, she waited for the vibration. And she waited. And she waited. Oddly enough, she felt even worse than she had only moments before. When he pulled her close, when he draped his leg over hers, she thought back to her apologies, to every negative thought that had crossed her mind. Nothing mattered, because she’d stopped. She hadn’t gone so far that she couldn’t turn back. She hadn’t killed him.

He couldn’t speak, but she understood. He didn’t need words to communicate that they were fine, that he was fine. He didn’t need words to reassure her that he still cared for her. He wasn’t afraid of her. He wasn’t disgusted by her. What kind of person would dare to hold her if he felt such fear or such disgust? But if she longed for his words -- and she did -- she also longed for his gestures. He held her close, and she touched his cheek. She let her fingers travel along his jaw. She traced her fingertips over his lips. She’d lost control. She could have killed him. She treasured every moment she took to touch him, to feel him. “Did you think I treated my prey differently, that I held back or treated them with some sort of genuine kindness?” She didn’t wait for him to nod or to shake his head, not when she wanted so badly to kiss him. The taste of his blood made no difference. When she pulled back, she licked her lips, just to savor the taste. How he hadn’t drowned in his own blood became a mystery. Even if he didn’t need to breathe, didn’t he need clear lungs? No, he didn’t need the oxygen even to speak. He couldn’t speak.

“Do you want me to clean you up?” She paused afterward, just giving him time to respond. “We can take a bath and I can help you bandage, or stitch, what hasn’t healed yet,” she offered, wanting very much to take care of him, to help him. Being responsible for his situation, Clo had the same responsibility to make things better. Yet it went beyond responsibility. In sickness and in health. Clo chose that moment to recall the words from their wedding. Their lives always contained violence -- they were violent people -- so those words meant a great deal. They were probably the most important words spoken. “Next time, we’ll have a safe word.” And she pressed another kiss to his lips.


[JESSE]
She asked questions and Jesse was glad he didn't have to answer them. He couldn't even write them down; his fingers were still healing, and were still too broken to be able to grip a pen with. Did he think that she treated her prey differently? Maybe. Maybe he'd assumed she treated them like she treated him, before sex. Their foreplay was twisted and obscure by normal standards; it oftentimes included the use of knives, the spillage of blood. He didn't like that she would treat them like that; like it was some kind of foreplay. But now he knew differently. Exhausted and aching, he knew that this was a bit too much. Sex was almost an impossibility, given how utterly spent he felt, his body still reeling from trying to protect itself from agony. He lay there and he focused; he tried replenishing some of his own blood, though he could only do so much. By the time he tried to heal even one of the wounds he had no magical energy left. That was it. He would have to wait for them to heal on their own, or wait until he'd regained some of his strength.

He slowly nodded when she asked whether she should help clean him up, a smile blooming across bloodied lips as she mentioned the use of a safe word. Had he had the chance, he would have told her that, if a safe word were to be used, she'd have to let him keep his tongue. The tongue that he didn't want. That was one wound he hadn't focused on healing. It was the one wound he was still urging to remain.

Although he had nodded, he still lay there, unmoving. He lacked the will to get up right this second, and they had time to linger. If she wanted to linger. They could wait. Wait until an hour or so before sunrise, and then get cleaned up. Then they could fall into bed. And the day time hours would claim Jesse; this time, he would sleep. He'd sleep like the dead -- and heal like the supernatural.