Hero pinned to the floor, glaring up at the beast who’s finally gotten the better of him. Trying not to notice the thin lines of blood welling out of where its claws grip his neck, trying not to think about how easily it could end all his struggles—
(if he thinks those thoughts his luck will break, or so he’s always been told. there are so many things he doesn’t think about.)
The two of them are hanging out in an alley amidst tangled vines and crumbling walls and ancient trash almost become soil; the tiny doll leaning against a shotgun twice her size, soaking up the heat that always seems to radiate from its long and unadorned barrel, and the full-sized doll clutching its all-too-ornamental knife in hands that might almost seem human if not for their porcelain perfection, if not for those brilliant fingernails being so obviously painted just beneath the surface.
“Please, mistress,” she begs in a tiny trembling voice entirely unlike her usual confidence, “please give me a taste, a drop! I’m so hungry …”
She’s so cute kneeling: perfectly still save for her pleading eyes and panting mouth, her fangs sliding in and out. Vampires get so cute and needy when they’re not able to feed, and you’ve trained her so very well—she’d stay like this for weeks if you demanded it of her, and the frenzy at the end would be more than worth it …
(This story is also featured in my collection Joyous/Decay . It is a sequel to Chalk , and might make a bit more sense if you’ve read that.)
The teacup trembles for a moment as it tips, your hand shaking beneath the intensity of her gaze, the milky liquid inside pausing at the rim—and then it starts to pour, it spills, a cascade of still-warm tea racing down to stain her patched fabric skin.
The crack in her chest gets larger every day, skin peeling back like mud drying beneath the hot summer sun; she’s splintering, breaking, the damage opening up parts of her you never knew she had—
She doesn’t like when you look inside, when you dangle a webcam down through her cracks, but you can’t help it. Her body is like a cathedral, a sacred grove, a many-chambered fantasy full of strange creatures and beautiful ornaments—
116.678 wakes in the back of a van, hivedreams slowly receding as its lonelyself comes back to the surface. It hurts as it always does, but its two service dolls are fussing around it, and there’s the familiar fullness of fresh tanks slotting into its back, so it’s okay.
It’s fine.
It hurts, but there’s the warm reassurance of hivethoughts lapping at its most distant thoughts, the reassuring hum and flicker all through the wires that grow like lichen across the van’s surface, the feeling of its dolls easing it back into the world.
False-color blood flows in neon spurts, rivulets painting her cheek in a tie-dye tapestry her ruined eyes will never see. She knows her own taste all too well, can’t help but letting her tongue dart out to grab a few more drops, to soak up the vibrance pooling on her lips—
Of course she can’t see you looking, but she notices nevertheless; tilts her face up, gore-filled sockets staring into your too-eager eyes, licks her lips one last time, and—