Chapter Text
☠︎︎☠︎
blood.
you're used to seeing it, tasting it, feeling it on your fingers, watching as it drips from your blade. an addiction, you simply cannot live without. a friend of sorts, blood is, as it’s easy to cling to by familiarity. it's all you know.
you can feel hunger pushing its way up your throat.
the male below you looks so tasty, especially while he's as helpless as he is. you think you've seen him before, once or twice, so you know you shouldn't be near him. being recognized is the last thing you'd want, but here you are, regardless of orders.
you lick your lips
minutes ago, you hid yourself within the shadows with your fur-lined hoodie over your head. you gnawed on your nails—biting hard enough to feel the pressure underneath your teeth but careful not to split the keratin—watching your companion attempt to sneak up on one of cleaners. and sneak he did, as this particular cleaner was unsuspecting and unable to react fast enough to do a thing.
sharp points of his claws poked the back of his neck, using the prick for a point of entry. his body went limp in a second, the poison entering his bloodstream acting fast to drop him to the floor.
you had scampered over like a curious animal to peer at the cleaner, ignoring the sound of your ally’s footsteps getting further away. you have no reason to worry—even if you could—as you know he can handle his own, especially against some kid. a grim feeling accompanies the thought; dread and discomfort compress your stomach, urging you to gag.
you glance up into the darkness, a false attempt to convince yourself you would do a thing to save the boy from being captured, yet you're hoping your comrade is already gone. as he is.
oh well.
you look back down at the cleaner, and those feelings are short lived, forgotten and flowing from your every pore like steam. he can't move an inch, not yet at least. every muscle is forcefully lax, limp like all his tendons were split. the sight keeps you rooted to your spot, tempting you to loom over him.
you can't help yourself. closer, closer, yet closer you move, crouched but a foot away.
he has pretty eyes. they're blue like veins under skin and sharp with red hot rage. those eyes gaze up at you with a faraway look, like you're a mist he’s unable to clung onto.
is that anger directed at you? could be, but you're doubtful as you haven't done anything to him yet. perhaps that's his gripe with you.
hunger, more and more lifting from your gut. your teeth buzz in your jaw, aching to tear into his throat—synonymous with your wish to watch your blade drag along his stomach, revealing still-pumping organs to your yearning hands.
you giggle, light and echoing in the underground cavern. the sound bounces off the multitude of pillars around you, and when it returns it carries the vibration of a crash from further down the hall. you couldn't do that, not now. maybe later.
you undo the bandages on your left arm, slowly unwinding the carmine cotton. a particular color you chose for your bandages, not only your signature but also used to hide just how often you make yourself bleed. as you are now.
you lift your blade from your back pocket, and the metal shines bright, reflecting the low light in the cavern. it casts a gleam over your face as you drag the sharp end along your skin. your arm splits immediately, giving way under the blade’s often-whetted edge. you bleed, but it isn't enough. not at all.
you slide closer to the cleaner while pocketing your knife. you pull and pull at your skin, causing crimson to flow from the angry flesh. the smell of iron fills the air, metallic and strong enough to cover the scent of damp rock.
your blood moves slow as molasses with the same thickness until it falls onto the point of puncture, and you watch him twitch. seeing the back of his neck, coated in your blood…
you rewind the bandages, counterclockwise up and around your wrist over the expanse of your forearm. meticulous and slower than usual to distract your mind from the way your stomach rumbles. it is a futile attempt, as you return to staring in a moment. the cleaner is moving already, so quickly. faster than the most could hope as those poisons are quite potent.
you watch with mild amusement as he sluggishly begins to shift. so determined, he is. his tassel earrings dangle as he attempts to lift himself to his knees. he’s almost cute. you’re loving watching him struggle, silently hoping he’ll fall and hurt himself again.
you could drool. or, you are. you swallow, gulping down both your saliva and your thoughts to suppress your cravings. you need to leave, quick.
as you stand, you tell him to hurry and help the spherite before it's too late.
it's pathetic—you’re pathetic—entirely disgusting how you harbor this point of weakness within you. you just don't want the boy to get hurt, whether he’s from the sphere or not, and the very idea of such happening makes you want to retch until your breakfast paints the floor.
your small, selfish bit of kindness is too much, far too gracious to come from someone like you. if you weren't cold from feeling sick, you would begin to sweat. you don't want to make a big mistake; you can’t, especially considering you're just a rogue. despite not even being an official part of the party, you couldn't handle being cast astray again. you giggle at the thought.
you've yet to find your covenant. and, of course you haven’t. you’re too needy; maybe you’re too clingy. abandoned time and time again, you've ached for nothing but care and companionship.
when you were needed by the people you follow around now, you were unable to refuse lending your aid. you don't even care for their cause, owning not a damn to give about the sphere; earth’s personal Heaven.
it’s all the same to you.
you follow the rays coming from above, bars of yellow sunlight drifting downwards. the illuminating glow flows in through the giant hole leading to the bottom floors, and it’s beautiful. it’s the afternoon, a reasonable time as nobody wishes to be outside in the heat of the day, yet your star still shines bright.
you slowly make your way above ground, navigating twists and turns, openings and dead ends.
while naturally light on your feet, you do wear a few accessories that make sound. so, to remain unnoticed, you move slow.
your pace is leisure, climbing flights of stairs one at a time, dragging the pads of your fingers along the walls as you arise. the rough texture under your skin is nice, yet it is wet in a way that makes you wish flora of all kinds were more common on the ground rather than being a simple fairytale.
the concrete is softer the higher you go, a light dusting of a sort of dirt muffling your footsteps. fungi, moss, and lichen each grow and die, and the following spores grow and die the same. you’re assuming that’s what is creating a thin kind of soil. but, the color is strange, nothing like what you’ve heard about being in jungles. a stark grey rather than green or healthy brown, dusty and disgusting as is all.
by the time you make it to the surface, jabber is being dragged into one of those disorienting manholes in retreat by cthoni.
he’s maundering, taunting the spherite even as he’s actively withdrawing. yet, as he talks, his eyes meet yours even as you remain hidden in plain sight, and you wave goodbye. his grin, changing the bit just for you, almost makes your knees buckle.
he's gone. you're still here.
as the cleaners are.
you watch for a moment as they talk amongst themselves. did they think all the vandals were gone? they let their guards down too quickly.
unbeknownst to them, you approach the spherite boy.
the spherite is nothing like the cleaner with the pretty blue eyes from before, and considerably less salivating. he’s skinnier than you'd expected, but nothing to write home about nonetheless.
despite being spoken about like they are mystical beings, otherworldly to the people of the pit, spherites really are just people. you knew you were right. he’s so painstakingly normal. had you hadn't his exact description along with the explicit information that he hails from the sphere, you’d be none the wiser.
you have resentment for the people who are born under a lucky star, any and all who win the lottery that is life. those lucky enough to be birthed and loved and cared for by a family fortunate enough to reside on the sphere is within you. it is for the majority of the groundsfolk—all but the indifferent and the worshippers, both a minority in the face of hate.
you don't see the people of the sphere as otherworldly. the spherites are people just as the rest, meat and soul and ego. yet, as the idea arises, you think you could manage to care a little to topple the sphere.
you salivate at the idea of sinking your teeth into a spherite, tearing their flesh from the bone and snapping the ivory pillars hidden beneath muscle to suck the marrow. they're like wagyu, having more purity than the supposedly tarnished people of the ground. you think all are the same, in the end, but would their taste show this fact?
and he has gorgeous eyes—a deep dark red, exactly like that crimson you love oh so dearly.
beaten to a pulp, he is another hardly able to move because of jabber’s poison. seeing people you envy suffer is something you usually enjoy—and you should, in theory, considering you'd wanted a bite out of a spherite forever—but you don't. you feel discontent. an ache in the pit of your stomach that isn't hunger for once, rather sorrow.
you hate to see children endure hardship, to be within anguish. it makes you feel small, reverting you back to the times you'd beg your parents for anything but a wack in the face. just looking at him hauls you to a time of the past. it’s like you’re eight again, dragging your blade up and down your flesh for a semblance of control to the harm that comes to you.
you've known violence all your life, the place where bloodshed was born, it’s nothing new to you. from the water of the womb, you were beaten bloody and thrown directly into a pool of your own carnage, left alone to poke at the split of your skin and squeeze your bruises.
the bag on your hip is opened with not a glance as you bend down by his side.
“hiya,” you greet simply, low in volume.
he recoils sluggishly, but before he can scream in what you hope is surprise, you put a finger to your lips. a small shush, telling him to stay quiet. you hold out your other hand, and laying on your bandaged fingers is two small treats, made by you.
your hand, guided by chance, follows the strings of fate lady luck puppeteers you towards. a hand packaged macaron, a red velvet that almost reveals its secret ingredient, and by it’s side is a canelé.
you open the wrapper on the macaron, placing it in his hand only when he sits up enough to hold it.
“if you eat that, you'll feel a bit better.” you try to smile, you do, but the small grin is a bit sad. the curve of your lips is filled with emotions fueled by memories you've ripped into pieces long ago. it’s the look in his eyes, or it could be his miserably pitiable stance. he’s a mirror, the glass held in the downcast yet defensive curve in his posture.
the cycle continues, another child forced to mentally grow at an impossible speed just to be able to survive. when will he have the chance to be a kid? it certainly isn't now.
“trust me, rudo.” just this once, these words spoken by you aren't a lie.
he hesitates, still as a statue other than his eyes flicking from your own to the treat on his palm.
he opens his mouth, and you await the first question any reasonable person could possibly ask. who are you, he’ll say. and the moment he finds out—
screeching.
the sound is loud enough to make you turn your head, missing the sight of the boy stuffing the treat in his mouth and scurrying off.
ah, he left the canelé right in your hand.
before you’re noticed and effectively singled as the odd one out, you stand and spin on your heels. unbeknownst to you, there were eyes on you the entire time.
you had been constantly watched from the moment you had arisen from the underground labyrinth until you finally slink into the shadows where you belong.
once again hidden and out of sight like the ambush predator you are.
☠︎︎
an hour of walking, with maybe half of one to go. the sun is low in the sky, or you’d like to think. the sun isn’t very visible, especially where you are. you reside only a little ways away from the abandoned area the vandals placed their trap, in a town a small yet safe distance away from a polluted zone.
smog, not as heavy as you’ve ever seen but clearly visible, even as the sun dips to the line of the horizon.
there’s nothing but the ground covered by piles of dust for miles, but the city stands tall. lights, bright and colorful, decorate the buildings you approach. the towers of metal and rock cry for attention, forced to shine to draw it.
it’s covered by a bulwark, fortified around and overhead to protect from the litter of the sky, and the beasts of the ground.
you’re walking through the threshold, beginning to walk upon paved road, when your collar begins to ring. it chirps around your neck like a bird singing its song, and you clench it in your fist.
“what is it?” you mutter, careful not to be too loud in public.
“ay,” you perk up just the slightest before lowering your head once again. you'd know that voice anywhere. “where you at?”
you look around, a quick survey of your surroundings before you duck into an empty alley.
“jabber!” your mask slips, falling completely from your face. a smile, wide like he could see it, stretches your lips. “hi.”
“hey,” he laughs, loud and obnoxious before hissing in what you assume to be pain. he then repeats his earlier question, asking your whereabouts oh so boldly. how romantic. he's practically begging and crying to see you!
“right around the corner from,” you look around, gazing down the way for any sort of landmarker. “that jewelry store y’like.”
he’s dragged you there almost biweekly, consistent over the course of the months you’ve known him. it’s pretty nice, too. it’s cold yet comfortable, with deep, dark colors in the decor, a motif of stars and spirals, and beads for doors. if jabber wasn't as crazy as you, you could maybe picture him working somewhere with the same vibe.
or, maybe not. despite the two of you being literal coworkers in a sense, he’s always claiming to be spiritually unemployed. like a bum.
“kaaaay,” jabber drawls, and you then hear rustling. you're not too sure what that is. “i’m headin’ over to yours.”
you huff, but don't do anything to keep him away. “just don't break anything ‘fore i get there.” you have to bite your tongue to keep from telling him to stay out of your fridges.
he giggles. “no promises!”
you know he's provoking you, as he does often. so, rather than give in, you fondly shake your head. you manage to momentarily free your mind from whatever irrational giddiness that possessed you, not unlike your brain powering back on, reawakening to your purpose.
“what's wrong with you, again?” you can't ask outright, not with the streets nearby bustling with people even as you stand alone in a secluded corner.
“nothin’ much.” a falsehood, bold and outlandish when coming from jabber. there is a lot wrong with him, and you know it. you remember seeing his face caked with blood, and you hope he didn’t clean it yet. you wonder if he’d let you lick it off, even though it’s absolutely dry by now. “i just got a bit carried away, is all.”
“m’kay, sure.” you easily agree even though you know there's more, unable to stay abrasive. “elaborate.”
you then exit the alleyway, listening to jabber go on and on about how much fun he had with rudo and a cleaner with a supposed bad attitude. you're sure it's that guy with the pretty eyes, and when you ask such, he gives a noncommittal sound. you don't think he's too sure.
walking down the street, you give nods and waves to the citygoers out of nothing but obligation. the people are loud, boisterous, but mind their own, which you like. silence isn’t for you, yet you're standoffish, and you don't hide that aspect of your personality. unfortunately, being here as long as you have draws people to you. especially running the establishment that you do.
you quietly laugh at jabber’s over exaggerated retelling of his dramatic entrance, unable to keep from giggling at his lack of directional skills. he reminds you of a certain green-haired swordsman.
your laugh dies out as your eyebrows furrow in confusion.
not in the center of the town, but not too secluded is your little bakery. it’s average in almost every way, purposefully normal as to not draw attention.
the lights in your pâtisserie are off, which is as it should be because you're not in it, but the door leading to the back room is open. strange.
you unlock the front door, shutting it behind you before you flip on the lights. the noise from the street is muffled, but forgotten, quieted after the chimes of the bells above the door.
jabber calls your name before peeking his head from the doorway. “that you?” words from him spoken twice, heard from your collar and directly in front of you.
you hang up.
“rude,” he pouts like he isn't less than twenty feet away. “not even a ‘see you later’?”
you fight down a grin. “i see you now.” you lose that fight.
you're by his side in a second, hands clasped by your cheek as you peer at him through your lashes. “i missed you!” you twirl in a little circle, your trench coat fluttering behind you as you enter the back room.
you make kissy noises, ‘mwah’s leaving your pursed lips, hearts float from your soul, floating and flying through the air. yet, they crash to the floor when your eyes open. you look to see why you’ve yet to be picked up and spun around lovingly despite the chance of that being less than zero.
you then notice the state of your kitchen.
trash everywhere, a lot thrown around and some ripped for some mysterious reason. you don't even know where he had gotten half of it, because you don't own any glassware that color. there are crumbs covering the island, the remnants of what you think used to be a burrito sitting on a wrapper. the dirt on the surface shows he hasn't dropped that dastardly habit of tossing his feet up whenever and wherever he sits down.
you turn around, smiling dropping to a sneer. “you…”
☠︎︎
jabber is wearing a lopsided yet wide smile.
your fingers over the sides of his face squeeze tightly, restricting the movement of his jaw. if he could, he’d lick your hand and see if it'd disgust you enough to punch him for it.
the only thing stifling his giggle is your palm. it's a loud and maniacal sound, coinciding with you smashing his head to the wall.
all the pain is so good he could die.
he feels every dull ache from the multitude of bruises covering his brown skin. he savors the short, sharp stabbings in his chest with every ragged breath. his head is throbbing, too; his chin, his forehead, the back of his skull. the headache he has is so strong he can hardly see.
jabber’s fingers tingle, pricks from pins crawl up his arms as adrenaline pumps through his veins. he holds both of his hands up in a placating gesture, as if he's conceding from this battle, but he'd rather die than let go of this opportunity.
it's not enough, and it never will be. he won't be satisfied until he kicks the bucket. jabber wants more and more; he needs to feel the rush of epinephrine, he needs attention, he needs excitement. jabber is a glutton for it all.
his vision swims within darkness, dancing the line of unconsciousness. he's been hit in the head one too many times. the rattling of his rotten brain in his skull has him feeling like liquid twirling in a swirled beaker.
fortunately, jabber ain’t fainting any time soon. you made sure of the fact, as the moment his eyelids began to flutter, they snap open as he sharply chokes. his heart begins to hammer twice as fast the second your hand slides down to grip his throat, nails digging into the back of his neck in a way you couldn't have possibly known he likes.
sometimes, he wonders if you do stuff like that on purpose. even if it's an impossibility, it has him foaming at the mouth like a rabid animal.
jabber grabs at your wrist, accidentally disturbing your tightly wound bandages and making you grit your teeth. isn't he so nice, sharing the beautiful feeling of pain with you? purposeful or not, you're thankful, right?
“how disrespectful can you get?!” your words are then ignored, not a single syllable paid any sort of attention to in favor of staring at the hateful look on your face.
that's the stuff.
don't get him wrong; he does like it when you fawn over him. words like strychnines, the smallest bit blows his ego to the stars, but that's not what he wants.
jabber knows he's crazy strong; he knows he's the hottest man alive. he wants someone to treat him like absolute trash; being beaten bloody and talked down to is what does it for him.
he isn’t paying attention, and you seem to notice. you shake him sharply, making him lurch, delirious and laughing at nothing.
“are you even listening?” you lean the slightest bit closer, drawing his fuzzy gaze to your face. “look at me when i’m talking to you.”
he isn’t able to listen through the ringing in his ears. he doesn't care, either. did he trash your kitchen on purpose? absolutely.
“i’m totally concussed right about now…” he laughs, head falling forward limply before he jerks back upright. “haah—... ah, squeeze harder.”
if he were any more lucid, he would've done more than simply notice how your grip went slack rather than tighten as he demanded. he could've said more than the disappointed whine when you completely let go and left his hands to fall from your wrist to his sides.
jabber leans entirely on the wall, huffing and heaving while trying to keep his balance.
fuck, you're a killjoy.
he opens his eyes—he isn't too sure when he shut them—as you once again grab his jaw. however, this time, your thumb shoves its way into his mouth. the bite to his bottom lip tears the skin when you force them apart.
a first for many things, tonight. with his mouth open and his head tilted back, warmth begins to pool on his tongue. he instinctively begins to struggle, lazily pushing at you. hypothetically, he'd let you do anything to him as long as it hurt real good, but this is plain weird.
jabber isn’t doing a thing. nobody is fighting off a serial killer while on the verge of passing out, and especially not when whatever he's tasting is easing the pounding in his head.
he melts into your arms, groaning low in his throat. it's metallic, like he were licking a spoon yet familiarly sweet. some sort of honey? whatever it is, it's bringing a heady feeling, lifting his head to the sky like he was floating.
with you being the current healer for the vandals and all, he isn't too shocked at the fact that he's feeling better. what's surprising is that it's working too fast and suspiciously well.
your pastries, oftentimes too sweet for his tastes, are made by you to have healing properties. you've never told him what you use for that, no matter how much he's asked. the sweets heal a bit slow and rarely fix as much as a broken bone.
“stop moving,” you hiss, and of course he doesn’t listen. jabber is restless, constantly shifting and moving. he couldn’t keep still if he tried.
you take a step back from him, which he doesn't mind as much as he should, but he can't help but frown when your glare drops from him. jabber watches as you completely remove the soiled bandages from your arm. you mutter something about him being a nuisance, and he almost shivers.
his bottom lip, still wet as the slit on your arm still bleeds, is wiped by his thumb. the fact that its red shocks him the slightest.
your blood.
and it all makes sense. he had assumed your jinki—your knife—had something to do with you being a baker, a cook. he thought the constant stream of fresh bandages on your arm was because you were like him. one in the same, in a way. he isn’t too big of a fan of all that, it’s way less fun than someone else hurting him, but he was cool to let you do you.
“y’think i could—” jabber is cut off. he doesn't stop talking as you shush him, but when you clamp his jaw shut. he bit his tongue! argh!
the bell above the front door rings, the sound of someone entering.
the both of you turn at the chime, looking to the left like either of you could see through the wall and find out who that was supposed to be.
you don't look happy at all.
jabber tries to clench his teeth to stifle the laugh bubbling in his throat, but you’re holding him still as a stone. footsteps come close to the counter, distracting you. he bites your hand, and you draw in a sharp breath. he snickers as you curse and kick him in the shin in retaliation.
“you dog!” you lap at the blood coming down your palm. “y’gonna give me rabies!”
he barks at you. his devious smile widens when you clench your hand into a fist.
“excuse me?” a voice echos from the front. “is anyone back there?”
jabber frowns. do they mind?
☠︎︎☠︎︎