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Halloween has to be one of his favorite holidays.
The pickings are just simply too easy.
Wear a mask and no one will question it, follow the kids around and everyone else assumes you’re the chaperone. Pick up a fussy gremlin and take them to the nearest bathroom, and plenty will just think the poor thing ate too much candy and needs to puke it out.
He could dress up, of course, and play into the spirit of fun and festivities, but an orange hi-vis vest gives him a 1 with the parents. The adults too easily assume he’s some public servant guarding the crosswalks and dark streets, but the real cheat here is that the children will automatically flock to him should they get lost — all according to what their well-meaning parents teach them.
He fingers the capped syringe in one pocket and checks the battery of his phone in the other. Wouldn’t do to end the night with no souvenirs from a once-a-year event.
There’s a bounce in his step as he walks down the lively streets, turning a corner into a park for a shortcut that leads to a busy neighborhood. Laughing children pass by him in droves, like little cute sheep. He thinks he even spots one dressed up as a lamb, among the other colorful costumes of tiny-fanged monsters and glittering fairies.
Adorable.
(He can’t wait to peel the costume off, feel the fair supple skin underneath.)
Too engrossed in his imaginings, he almost misses the lone child sitting on the bench.
Lone. Vulnerable.
And oh, doesn’t he look so sad?
What a treat this is, to have one practically present itself all wrapped up in a pretty red cape that’s practically a bow.
Like a concerned adult who’s only looking out for a lost child, he kindly steps up to the boy, careful to not invade far into his personal space and set off any alarms. Just in case, he tips his hat down so others don’t look so carefully at his face.
“Hey there, where are your parents? Did you get lost?” he asks.
“No… I was supposed to meet my friends. It’s been an hour, but they’re still not here yet. I think they forgot about me.” The boy sniffs, fiddling with the handle of the woven basket in his lap.
Oh, that’s real cute. Is he dressed up as little red riding hood? A boy at his age? He doesn’t look more than fourteen, fifteen at best.
But the kicker here is the round, teary eyes that look up at him — pleading and pitiful — and that little quiver in his lips. He’s just begging to be gobbled up, isn’t he?
“Oh, no. That’s terrible. Do you want to go back home? Do you know your address?” He has no intention of walking him all the way back, of course, but he can easily find an excuse or a detour on the way. And if the kid’s already got someone to pick him up, he can convince him to stop by somewhere for a treat while they “wait.”
“I don’t want to go home yet — I, um.” The boy fidgets, glancing away like he’s mulling over a secret to tell. “I have a hideout. I think I’ll just hang out there for a little bit then go back. I would look stupid if my parents found out my friends abandoned me.”
He raises his eyebrows, trying not to laugh at the opportunity. A secret hideout? Where no one else would think to come at this hour? Damn, this night’s just getting better and better.
“But it’s getting really dark, and I’m not sure if I can get there by myself. Do you — do you think you can walk me there? Please, ahjussi?”
“Of course.” The man measures a restrained smile, offering a steady hand. This just may be the best Halloween he’s ever had. “What’s your name, by the way?”
Maybe it’s the excitement or a flicker of the streetlamps, but something slithers across the boy’s eyes. Blink, and it’s gone. Eh, whatever.
“Kim Dokja.”
Halloween has to be one of his favorite holidays.
The pickings are just simply too easy.
Wear black and blood and no one will question it, wander out alone and everyone else assumes you’re lost. Sit down at an empty bench in a busy park, and plenty will either think you’re taking a break from the festivities or are simply waiting for your friends to come.
Kim Dokja dresses up, of course, and plays into the spirit of fun and festivities, for a dainty costume that would seem unfitting for a teenage boy is sure to attract eyes. The normal adults too easily assume it’s a dare from his friends, but the real cheat here is that the unsavory kind will take the bait that’s dangling in front of them and snatch him up in a heartbeat — all according to the low voice whispering in his ear.
He slips his hand into the basket, wrapping his fingers around the sharpened kitchen knife and slides it neatly across the man’s throat as soon as he turns around. Wouldn’t do to let the screams attract unwanted visitors, even if they are in an abandoned building.
The man falls onto his knees, uselessly clinging to his gushing neck and choking on his own blood. The blood had sprayed with the neat cut along his vocal cords, but Kim Dokja doesn’t pay any mind to the red splattered across his own face; he doesn’t enjoy the taste of it, but he knows of one who does.
There’s a bounce in his step as he circles around the dying man, turning on his heel when he gets behind him. One hand forcefully yanks the man’s head back by a fistful of hair, the other wields the knife and aims straight for the chest. Kim Dokja drives the sharp edge into a soft spot right beside the sternum and twists, hearing the bone crack and feeling the grating sensation through the handle. He misses the heart, naturally, as that wasn’t his goal, but judging by the blood spilling out he thinks he gets a fat artery.
Adrenaline kicks in, probably, as the man realizes his impending doom, for he lets go of his throat to claw up at Kim Dokja, his wild face all shades of red fury.
Funny.
“Hyung.”
The man is forced down, face and body slamming down onto the concrete floor with a wet crack. Sounds like a skull fracture to Kim Dokja. The blood oozing from the nose probably means a brain bleed, too. Whatever the man tries to yell out comes out in bubbling, red gargles from his mouth, but Kim Dokja can guess what he’s trying to say by his livid, desperate blood-shot eyes. There’s confusion there, too. And panic. Quite a lot of it.
(Kim Dokja can’t wait to pluck those eyes out, feel the vitreous gel ooze over his fingers.)
He looks pathetically scared. But so did everyone else before him.
Kim Dokja offers a polite smile, not for him because the likes of him don’t deserve it, but for the shadowy tendrils that keep his prey locked in place.
What a treat this is, to have his next offering all wrapped up in his hyung’s dark coils that’s practically tied like a bow.
Like a playful child who’s about to toy with his food, Kim Dokja walks over the man and sits on his back, lightly poking the tip of his knife into the meat of a shoulder.
“Since I’m little red riding hood, you thought you could be the big bad wolf, didn’t you?” Kim Dokja says, slowly sinking the knife under the shoulder blade. “But sorry, I don’t like dirty dogs, and” — he tilts his head to the side, toward a shadow licking his face — “hyung doesn’t like to share.”
Despite the muted screaming, Kim Dokja’s lips bubble with a small laugh when the shadow brushes against his ear, tickling. He shrugs his shoulder, trying to get it to stop, but he only manages to persuade it to slink down his neck where it slithers all down his spine.
His grip on the knife goes tighter, hand stopping, when he feels something cool and slimy ooze down his lower back. “Ah-hh, stop. I’m trying… I’m trying to work — hhh, here…!” he gasps, shivering.
Is this why hyung wanted him to wear a dress? There’s nothing much in the way down there.
A cold squeeze has him grinding down on instinct, and oh oops —
Kim Dokja realizes too late what he’s done, and the man’s head goes pop.
Like a gross pimple.
He stares down at the shards of bone, soft tissue, and brain matter splattered across the floor. There’s an eyeball across the empty room; seeing how far it is, hyung used quite a bit of force. What a silly thing. He knows how sensitive Kim Dokja is; it’s the stupid god’s fault for getting jealous over a consequence he sowed himself.
Kim Dokja huffs, pulling back his knife with a rough tug only to stab it straight back in the spine, letting the vertebrae keep it in place for the time being.
“That was your fault. I told you I was working, but you couldn’t wait!” Kim Dokja chastises. He pouts, closing his eyes and turning his face away from the coiling mass erupting from the shadows below. “Now the offering’s ruined, and I have to find someone else for you…”
Something cool pats him on the cheek. Hyung can’t quite talk yet, but Kim Dokja understands the messages trying to be conveyed.
[Apology.]
[Jealousy.]
[Love.]
Kim Dokja clicks his tongue, unable to stay upset. He peeks open one eye and looks up to see the half-formed body, patches of shadows and darkness making up for the incomplete form. Really, sometimes he wonders why he’s putting in so much effort. Hyung — Yoo Joonghyuk, Kim Dokja named him (Secretive Plotter’s kind of a dumb moniker) — doesn’t need a physical vessel as far as Kim Dokja’s concerned, but such is the price of love for an otherworldly god. If Yoo Joonghyuk wants to fully manifest in flesh and bone, then Kim Dokja will have to keep hacking and slashing until they get there.
“Okay, okay, I forgive you. Help me and eat all this up? There’s still time tonight, so I should hurry — oh, hey!”
Shadows topple him over, rolling him in more blood and viscera, leaving him only a few feet away from the head-splattered corpse. His head lands not on the concrete but on pillow-soft tendrils cushioning him from the cold floor, but cool smoke is already making its way up the skirt of his costume, rolling over bare thighs and caressing his skin.
He blinks through the darkness, trying to make sense of shadow and light and limb.
[No.]
[Love.]
[Now.]
Cold pushes at his lips, prying them open with little effort, and a bittersweet flavor coats his tongue and slides down his throat.
So pushy.
Still, Kim Dokja lets his mouth go slack, arching his chest into the chill that prods and squeezes at him. When the darkness clears just enough, he sees Yoo Joonghyuk’s face above his, black smoke flowing from his mouth and a mismatched eye glowing in the shadows. Viscous ichor oozes from the small patches the body is still missing, a sparkling void blinking with stars in their place, but Kim Dokja would run his fingers across the edges of them if he wasn’t tied down by the thick tendrils.
For a god who wants a complete body so badly, he’s quite the self-sabotager. Kim Dokja could be out there right now luring in their next prey, but Yoo Joonghyuk seems to have other priorities. The god hasn’t quite learned how to use his facial muscles yet, or maybe he simply doesn’t have the capacity yet, but Kim Dokja can feel his single-minded focus as the shadows curve and bend all across his skin.
When the tentacles form, fat and heavy and slick, Kim Dokja can’t help his excited shudder. Being coated in blood and guts while being pinned down in an abandoned building, the corpse of a fresh kill a glance away… He has to laugh a little.
Yoo Joonghyuk withdraws from Kim Dokja’s mouth and throat to allow him to speak, and he tilts his head, not quite understanding the reaction.
[?]
After he killed his own father, it had taken Kim Dokja too long to realize that his horror wasn’t because he murdered his own flesh and blood but because he missed the sick thrill of having warm blood on his hands, of feeling the easy glide of the knife and the soft give of organs. He had been disgusted with himself, accepting everyone’s fear and revulsion thrown his way as a type of penance — until he finally cracked.
Who knew he’d stumble upon some horror that would not only accept him as he is but need him as well?
So, yes, Kim Dokja liked Yoo Joonghyuk just as he is, as well, in his broken, disjointed form that would surely frighten anyone else right into the grave. He’d even love it if Yoo Joonghyuk stayed like this forever, but he knows the god has other plans.
Just, at the pace they’re going, Kim Dokja fears that he will reach the grave before he can make those plans come to fruition, if he doesn’t get caught first.
It’d be nice to get a few helping hands…
Oh, but that’s an idea. Isn’t this how the movies go, anyway?
He could start a cult, just like the stories. Yoo Joonghyuk’s got a knack for mind-controlling, and Kim Dokja’s quite good at luring people; it shouldn’t be too hard.
“So how about that?” he asks, letting Yoo Joonghyuk roam in his mind and peruse his thoughts. He leans up, craning his head and kissing the black veins across his hyung’s jaw. “We can spend more time together, too.”
And look at that, something even softens in the god’s stony face. Nothing like a little motivation.
[Good.]
[Together.]
Yoo Joonghyuk nuzzles against his to-be-cult-leader’s cheek, the beastly growl behind his unmoving mouth a delighted purr in Kim Dokja’s ear.
So what if they spend the rest of the night in this bloodied-up building? Soon enough they’ll have a little army offering up corpses left and right in the name of their god.
[Consort.]
Okay, okay, correction. Soon enough they’ll have a little army offering up corpses left and right in the name of their god and his consort.