Because it's the 13th day, let's do something with a little depressing ending instead of the usual happy fluffy stuff!

WARNING: IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH GORE/VORE/ETC, PLEASE TURN BACK NOW. UNLESS, OF COURSE, YOU WANT TO CHALLENGE YOURSELF OR SOMETHING. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

Warnings in this fic to look out for: Graphic depictions of murder, cannibalism, blood drinking, excessive fapping, dubious consent!narcissism, long-distance sexing, black magic, major character death.

So, uh. Enjoy it, if you can.

Long, long ago, back in the era of kings, lords, fiefs, knights and fear, a little village in the outskirts of a small kingdom was completely wiped out—not a single soul was alive when the knights had arrived there, save for a little boy standing in the middle of the carnage, his beautiful green eyes glazed over, staring unseeing at the men as they stepped around mutilated bodies left and right, blood painting the dirt bright red, the odd mound of flesh here and there, a scattered organ still intact, bones ground to a fine powder.

They had brought him immediately to a church, had the boy blessed and then cleaned up, and a kindly couple agreed to take him in as their own.

As the boy grew up, he was different from the other little children—withdrawn, always quiet, unresponsive and stoic as a wall, so the little boy was always avoided like the plague, whispers laced with the poison of doubt and fear wrapping around his uncaring self.

"Witch," they had called him in whispers, "Changeling."

The boy paid them no heed and grew up into a very delicate young man with a beautiful, pale face in the shape of a heart, his lips full and pale pink, his eyes a pair of big, beautiful, glimmering emeralds. His body had grown slim and petite, and he was much shorter than all the boys, and was almost as delicately-shaped as the girls he grew up with.

He was beautiful, alluring and quiet, just like a rose.

The English Rose soon was tagged to the young man's name as he came of age, and he remained passive to all around him as suitors who were either called foolish or brave enough to try for his affections showered him with unreciprocated, cold hard inattention.

It made him all the more enchanting; a beautiful, unbowed flower in the edge of a flower garden in full bloom, more enchanting, more magnetic than that of all the other flowers showing off colourful petals to catch the picker's attention. He was hard to get—the flower, stubborn and unmoving, high and out of reach way above anyone's heads, only reachable by sight and nothing more.

Innocently sitting there, in view of everyone's line of sight, beautiful blood red petals covered the thorns it had beneath.

Once, a young girl had decided to brave asking for his affections.

She had prepared to give him a dove, a lovely white little thing in a pretty white cage, a deep green ribbon tied to its handle. Nervously she walked up to him, sitting by himself under a great oak tree not too far from his home. Holding the birdcage in her small hands, she strode up to him, determined to speak with him, when as she approached, the boy looked up from his book to stare right into her eyes.

His cold green eyes bore into her soul and sent a chill down her spine. She bristled, and the wind's direction changed, blowing strongly at her back, sending her hair flying in her face, blowing her forward as above them the skies changed from sunny to cloudy as the winds brought with them the dark grey clouds heavy with water.

"Oh!" she cried, dropping the birdcage onto the earth as she scrambled to gather her bearings, the birdcage with the little dove in it rolling down the inclined plane of the land until it hit a nearby rock with a sickening crack. Her eyes widened upon hearing the crack, and she turned around to try and reach for the birdcage, when the wind blew harder and her hair flew around her, disorienting her more.

Suddenly there was a cold hand on her shoulder and the wind stopped completely. She blinked as her hair and dress calmed down, and she turned to see the green-eyed boy standing beside her, his hand on her shoulder.

She opened her mouth to speak, her cheeks tinting pink—had he decided to give her a try?—when he lifted his hand and pointed at the smashed birdcage next to the nearby rock. She gasped, and ran towards it, hot tears spilling from her eyes in mortification. She fell to her knees next to the birdcage, where the poor dove lay, weakly twitching, and a bar from the birdcage poking out from its breast. She gasped in horror, covering her mouth as it fell open as she began to sob.

The young man knelt down next to her and inspected the dove. He reached out and pulled one of the wings gently—the creature let out a pained cry.

"Oh, his wings are broken," the girl moaned, as he leaned close to scoop the bird into his hands, pulling out the bar that had pierced through it with a wet shlick, rich red blood spilling from the wound, tainting the dove's pristine white feathers. "Oh, the poor thing,"

"You did this to him," the young man spoke up, his voice gentle and smooth, a total opposite to what he was telling her. "He's dying,"

"Oh, no, I—it was an accident—"

The young man gave her a stern glance.

"This is as good as dead," he said, and without warning, his thin, elegant fingers moved and a loud crack sliced through the air. The girl's eyes widened and looked down at the dove in the boy's hands to see its head angled so oddly it was a wonder it still stayed attached to its body, its neck fully snapped so the bones flew right apart.

It died in the young man's hands.

She gaped at him, horrified, and he merely lifted the dead bird and walked away into his house, his book pinned under one arm to keep his hands from staining it, to wash his hands.

When everyone had heard this tale, (with much sobbing and wailing from the girl, no doubt) the villagers had avoided the young man like a plague, more so now, than ever before.

His presence would send mothers reaching for their children and hiding them behind them, and fathers turning his head away or leaving to find something else to do, all to keep their minds off the beautiful menace living in their peaceful little town.

His back story came back to light again after that, now intensified as rumours spread about how he was the one to wipe out all the people in his home town, and that they were next if they didn't do anything about it.

The mayor of their town refused to have him banished, for even he had fallen for the mysterious beauty. He decided to have himself married to the beautiful youth to keep people from chasing him out of their city.

The young man took all of this in stride—or rather, he was completely impassive about the entire affair—as the mayor declared his love for him, before having him sign a marriage certificate. The young man remained silent throughout everything:

"And do you take the man's hand in marriage?" the priest asked, and the entire room fell silent to hear his reply.

None came.

"Oh, just get on with it," the Mayor nervously laughed, and awkward, the priest did as he was told.

The wedding night was, in a word—utterly disappointing, for the Mayor at least, as his new bride merely walked right past him and climbed into the armchair, picking up a book on the table next to it and read. He tried speaking to him, used sly, seductive words that whispered dirty promises, but the young man moved not a muscle, steadfastly sitting there by the fire, reading the night away.

The Mayor went to bed alone, defeated.

It went on like this for several years, the man's young bride not uttering a single word at him, merely burying his nose in his books and writing, not at all paying any attention whatsoever to the man who forcibly married him.

One night, he had enough.

"My dear, why won't you come to bed with me," he sighed, and of course, there was no reply, merely silence, as his bride wrote, and wrote and wrote. "What are you doing?" he asked, walking up to him, "What is it you're so absorbed in about?"

At this, his bride lifted his head, and a positively wicked smile spread across his face.

"Would you like to find out?" he asked, the first words out of his mouth to his husband was sweet music to his ears, as slowly, the young man's elegant hands smoothed down his clothes, catching onto the hem of them, and at this the Mayor's eyes widened.

Yes, he thought, he had finally bowed the English Rose!

Oh, how wrong he had been.

Young Arthur Kirkland was a different sort of fellow, one who never talked to anyone, more absorbed in the books he was reading and his writing to pay any true attention to other people, other than the one that plagued his mind.

Ever since he had been born, Arthur has been dreaming of a young man—beautiful golden blonde hair and crystal-clear summer-sky-blue eyes with a bright smile showing rows of perfect white teeth, with big warm hands and a broad chest that looked like Arthur fit there perfectly, tall and handsome, like any prince would be.

It hadn't always been like this, really, when he was little he had dismissed his dreams to be completely normal—back then he had dreamt of a little boy, still with the same golden blonde hair and alluring blue eyes and perfect smile. They were playing together in a field, all bright laughter and innocence, without a care in the world.

When Arthur started growing up, however, things changed.

When he was a little boy, he had dreamt the boy in his dreams was being taken away from him, tears streaming down his face as he ran after the blonde, hand outstretched, screaming for him to take my hand, take it, don't leave me here, please, I need you—

But then the boy was gone and Arthur woke up bloodied and covered in entrails, a knight leaning over him, his detached voice asking him if he was okay.

The only thought in his mind, as he looked down at the unrecognizable bodies around him, was my God, what have I done?

He grew into a secluded young man, his dreams about beautiful golden blonde hair and blue eyes fading into memory as he developed, as he learned to read and write, and when he had mastered the art of language, the dreams had come back.

Only this time, it became apparent that the both of them had grown.

Gone was the innocent smile, the naivety in big blue eyes, the soft warmth of small hands, now replaced by a coy grin, knowing blue eyes that conveyed dirty promises of naughty escapades, as big, phantom, calloused hands ran up and down Arthur's body in his dreams, driving him wild with lust and wanting, as he found himself begging for more.

He soon fell in love with the man he met once upon a dream, and night after night, they would entangle themselves in each other's love, Arthur's heart racing and his entire pale body flushing in the heat of their passion, only to wake up in the morning feeling cold, his shame still sticky between his legs.

Arthur began to write. He wrote about the man he loved, every day and every night, alternating between writing and reading, lacing fantasy after fantasy up, escapades and adventures both of either kind: sexual or platonic, and soon they filled parchments and empty books and diaries as the years passed by.

Arthur had no eyes for anyone but the man in his dreams—still nameless, still without identity, but he could spare no glance at anyone who vied for his attention.

Soon he caught wind of something every person in his town feared—magic.

He was drawn to it, intoxicated by its sweet call of his desires being fulfilled—

The moment the once-dead dove twitched to life in right before his eyes, while all around him hundreds of white candles burned unholy green light, the chalk pentacle beneath his knees was smudging his clothes dirty white as his hands shook, once again stained with blood, like earlier when he had snapped the bird's neck.

It shakily got up onto its feet, hopped around for a while, its head lolling left to right like a loose sack of flour as it tried to get its bearings around, the skin still holding the head to its body stretching and straining to keep it attached.

Arthur, eyes wide with curiosity, held the head between two fingers, squeezing it softly, intrigued at how it still felt dead and cold.

The bird tried to hop away, get its head away from Arthur's hold, when suddenly there was a sickening sound of ripping skin, and the next thing Arthur knew, the spell broke and the green flame of the candles abruptly turned back to yellow-orange, and he was staring down at the dove's head still held between two fingers. The body lay almost a foot away, lying down on its side as dark viscous dead blood oozed out from the hole it made when it tore away from the head. In the dim light, Arthur could make out the edge of the broken vertebral column and remnants of the torn pharynx, cut blood vessels and spilt muscle fibres. With his other hand, the young man curiously reached out and brushed his fingers against the snapped jugular, wetting his fingers with blood. He pulled his fingers back, rubbing the blood between his index finger and thumb, before curiously sliding his fingers into his mouth.

The sharp tang of metal stabbed at his tongue—and an interesting aftertaste followed suit.

Arthur smiled around his fingers, his lips smeared with blood.

It was delicious.

The Mayor did not scream when Arthur drove the knife into his throat. He couldn't.

The sharp blade cut right through the thyroid cartilage in front of his larynx, not too wide as to sever the carotid artery and the internal jugular vein, but completely destroying his thyroarytenoid muscle, tearing through his vocal cords like a hot knife through butter.

Arthur's smile never left his face as he pulled it violently out, causing blood to spill on him in spurts, as his blade nicked the side of the right carotid, reddened oxygenated blood spilling down from the Mayor's throat in small rivers that braided together as they approached the man's clavicle and pooled together there.

The Mayor gasped silently, bringing up his hands to push Arthur away, but his movements were slow and sluggish as more blood spilled from his cut artery, lessening the blood going to his brain. The flow grew in intensity as his heart rate increased, fear gripping him, I'm going to die, die, diediediedie—

Arthur calmly pushed the man down on the bed—their bed, ironically—and clambered on top of him, straddling his hips.

"You're going to help me find the man I met in my dreams," Arthur dreamily said, before stabbing the knife into the man's biceps on both his arms. He let out a silent cry, his mouth falling open as pain seared through him, blood spilling onto the sheets, staining them a beautiful burgundy.

"The book had said I needed blood," he continued saying, slicing a y-incision on the man's chest, two lines running down from the end of his shoulders and meeting at the bottom of the sternum, and then one line running down to his navel, where Arthur had deviated the end to the left side slightly.

From here onwards, Arthur worked quickly. Blood was everywhere, but Arthur didn't mind, pulling out a small flask with a leather holder and flicking the lid open. Without so much as batting an eyelid, Arthur took hold of the folds of the man's skin and pulled them apart, cutting at the dermis until he could see the man's ribs.

"Open wide," he cooed, and forcibly pulled them apart, wide and open, where the Mayor's heart still beat underneath the pericardium. "Oh, yes, this will do," he nodded, before cutting away at the peritoneum, revealing to him the beating heart.

Humming softly, he sliced the aorta, spilling bright red blood, and quickly, he brought in the flask to collect the blood as it pumped out of the man's heart. Below him the Mayor's breathing had begun to slow down.

"This will be over soon, love," Arthur giggled slightly, watching the glass bottle fill up. When it overflowed with blood, he took it away and capped it, before setting it down on the bedside table. He looked back at the Mayor, who was now looking at him through half-lidded eyes, death soon coming to him.

"Now, I know I've stolen your heart," Arthur said, patting the man's face. "But I'd like to steal it again." He smiled, and that was the last thing the Mayor ever saw.

Arthur looked down at the body, before cutting off the blood vessels connected to the heart. He pulled it out of the pericardial cavity, and inspected it in the dim light from the fireplace. A pleased grin spread across his face. Yes, this will definitely do.

He opened his eyes, letting out a gasp as he sat up abruptly, his breathing shallow as his heart thundered in his chest.

Tonight's dream had been dark, too dark, but it had felt oh so good.

He sighed, running his hand down his face, slumping backwards onto the headboard of his bed. He lowered his hand and looked at his two hands, clenching and unclenching them as he tried to get them to stop shaking—not from fear, but from some taboo excitement that was rushing through his veins.

Alfred Jones, second year astronomy student studying in Harvard, groped around in the dark for his glasses, slipping them on after he found them, groaning, before fumbling for the light switch of the beside lamp. He found it and flicked it on, a warm orange glow bathing himself as he inspected himself—he was sprawled eagle-spread, legs twitching as between them a tent stood tall and proud.

He grits his teeth, before reaching for himself under the sheets, reaching under the waistband of his shorts. His calloused hand grasped his length and he hissed, and slowly he began to jerk up and down, arousal spreading through him as he thought back to his dream—a beautiful sandy blonde-haired young man, straddling him, covered in blood and giggling as the dark red liquid stained his full pink lips that looked absolutely delicious to kiss, a heart in one hand and the other a flask filled with blood. His blood. His heart.

Alfred imagined leaning up and capturing the blonde's lips in a fierce kiss, the blonde's sweet rose-like flavour, sweet and aromatic like a lovely red rose, not too deeply red and not too lightly pink. The sweetness would be stabbed by the sharp metal taste of blood, jarring him to reality, giving him some semblance of control, as he thrust his hip upwards.

The blonde would moan into his mouth, a sweet little wet sound as he ground his hips down onto Alfred, sweet pert arse rubbing against his hard cock, mewling like a kitten as needy hands would drop the two bloodied items on the bed and wrap around the back of his neck, bloody hands squelching behind him as they grasped his nape—

"Shit!" Alfred swore, coming hard, hot and fast into his hand. He fell back, panting, as he waited for his heart rate to slow down. Groaning, he got up and made his way to the in-room bathroom to clean himself up. On the way there, the blonde looked at the alarm clock on his study desk. It blared in neon red numbers: 3:00 AM. He sniffed. Witching hour again, huh?

He stepped into the shower and gave himself a cold shower, shivering under the coldness that washed away his cum down his toned legs. He stayed in there for a long time, trying to clear his mind of beautiful blondes with vibrant green eyes that were covered in blood. And lots of it. And it was even his.

He finally made himself get out of the shower stall and he looked at himself in the mirror, still dripping wet. He grimaced. He looked like a dog that got caught out in the rain. He shook out the water in his hair, not caring that the water droplets flew everywhere.

He glared at his reflection. He wasn't supposed to be getting off at the sight of blood. Pretty boys, okay, maybe, but blood was a big no-no.

A small nagging voice in the back of his head said otherwise.

Nonetheless, you still loved it.

Alfred growled, burying his fingers into his hair and pulling at his golden locks.

"No, no, no!" he yelled, before punching the wall, ignoring the images of his beautiful blonde eating the heart from a chipped porcelain bowl.

He had masturbated again in the shower later, when he was getting ready for classes, the image of his beautiful blonde riding him in a frenzied manner, moaning loudly, wantonly, as their bodies slid together, the lewd sound of skin slapping against skin as they melded their bodies together in a searing heat—

Alfred had come harder than usual. With a groan, he hit his head on the tiled wall of the shower stall to clear his mind.

It hasn't always been like this, really.

Ever since he had been born, Alfred has been dreaming of a young man—lovely sandy-blonde hair and stunning bright green eyes with a cute shy smile, with small warm hands that fit into his so perfectly he never, ever wanted to let go.

He had dismissed his dreams to be completely normal—back then he had dreamt of a little boy, still with the same sandy blonde hair and alluring green eyes and sweet smile. They were playing together in a field, all bright laughter and innocence, without a care in the world.

When Alfred started growing up, however, things changed.

When he was a little boy, he had dreamt he was being taken away from the boy in his dreams, hearing him pleading, but he couldn't speak, couldn't talk, like as if his throat had constricted so tightly he could even barely breathe.

Take my hand, take it, don't leave me here, please, I need you—

But then he woke up to the sound of his family home burning down.

He grew up into a determined young man, determined to never ever let what happened to him in his dream happen to him in reality, training himself to grow stronger, faster, smarter, his dreams about soft sandy blonde hair and green eyes fading into memory as he grew up, and when he had finished his third grade, the dreams had come back.

Only this time, it became apparent that the both of them had grown.

Gone were the innocent smiling, the naive chattering, the soft warmth of small hands, now replaced by a coy grins, surprised green eyes that begged knowledge of dirty promises he had whispered like sweet nothings as he ran his hands up and down that sweet lithe body in his dreams, driving him wild with lust and wanting, as his phantom lover begged for more.

He soon fell in love with the man he met once upon a dream, and night after night, they would entangle themselves in each other's love, Alfred's heart racing and his body heating up in the throes of their passion, only to wake up in the morning with a sense of yearning, his tent of an erection standing proud and tall under his bed sheets.

Alfred began to work himself hard. He did his best to try to block out everything, engrossed himself in studies, extracurricular activates, friends, projects, all that he could get his hands on—he became the golden boy of his school, but whenever he returns home, the inevitable happens—he is dragged back unwillingly pliant to his deep black secret—his dreams.

His dreams had increased in eroticism as time passed by, lovemaking more intense than the night before, and still he could not get enough of that beautiful voice spilling out wet sweet moans of pleasure; or when the blonde would sweetly smile and laugh with him during one of their more less-lust-driven dreams.

Alfred soon had no eyes for anyone but the man in his dreams—still nameless, still without identity, making him unable to handle relationships, none of them lasting longer than a month at a time.

He was beginning to think he was going crazy—

Especially when one night, he had dreamt that his beautiful blonde was performing black magic, animating a dead dove with a snapped neck.

It was supposed to be dirty, taboo, unholy, but Alfred found himself enthralled, exhilarated as epinephrine coursed through his veins, giving him a high as he watched the blonde through his eyes tear off the dove's head and breaking the spell.

Alfred found himself enjoying the blood a little too much, but he couldn't let it go.

"Do you think you can teach me how to get a lucid dream?" Alfred asked, walking alongside his best friend Kiku, as they made their way to a class that they had shared. The Japanese transfer student looked up at him, puzzled, and cocked his head.

"Why would you want to find out, Alfred?" he asked, his accent thickening his pronunciation as he spoke. The Psychology student leaned into his face. "Is there something bothering you?"

"N-nothing is," Alfred denied, "I was just curious."

Kiku frowned at him, and shook his head. "Oh, alright. I'll tell you about it later after lunch."

Alfred needed to control his dreams, somehow manage to stop his lovely blonde from doing all this nonsense with blood and carnage.

Alfred gave it a try every single day, as he watched the blonde go on with his everyday life. It hurt him to know that his lovely blonde was now married to someone, but he had no idea what had happened to the man.

It was like as if… he had disappeared from the face of the earth.

Arthur found himself more unresponsive than usual, lingering for more than necessary in front of mirrors and surfaces of water, just staring into his reflection.

He would catch himself staring into his own eyes, a longing feeling rising in his chest.

How strange. The book didn't say anything about this.

He had done the ritual as instructed by the black book; blood of a married man, drawn in a pentacle, and the heart in unrequited love, chopped and mixed with red rose petals, and a bit of blood.

He had stood in the middle of the pentacle, holding the bowl of his husband—ex-husband's—heart, chopped finely and dripping with blood and rose, softly murmuring the spell. When the candles' flame had turned a deathly green, he scooped up the viscera with his free hand and brought it to his mouth, eating it up, licking the blood and bits of rose petals off his fingers.

The flames extinguished themselves and Arthur fell to the ground on his knees as a searing heat pulsated through him. His flaccid cock suddenly stood to attention as he keened, leaning back to land on his arse as he spread his legs on top of the blood pentacle, his hands reaching under the hem of his clothes to grasp himself.

Arthur moaned as his hand wrapped around his throbbing member, his other hand, blood, rose juice, mucus and saliva-wet, reaching further below him to press against his entrance, fluttering at the contact; hot flesh against cool wet limb.

He mewled loudly as he began to stroke himself slowly, imagining the blonde man in his dreams watching him from the darkness all around him, as he pleasured himself, pressing his fingers against the clenched ring of muscle around his hole. Letting out a shuddering breath as tears of pleasure spilled from his eyes he forced his index finger in, the entrance unclenching as his finger slid in to the first knuckle.

"Ah!" he gasped, bucking against the air, desperate for friction that wasn't there, as he imagined the man fingering him open instead of himself. He pushed his finger in further, undulating it to pry himself open wider, and when he deemed himself relaxed enough, he inserted a second finger, the burn in it so sweet a loud long wanton moan ripped from his throat as he was stretched wider.

He imagined that it was the girth of he man's cock prying him open, Arthur gasping as he pushed inside him further, body coiling in pleasure as he felt his fingers filling him up from inside.

"Yes—yes, oh!"

He gasped, as he hooked his fingers—the tips brushed his prostrate, and he let out a loud squeal of ecstasy as he abused it, his strokes on his cock going faster and faster, and—

"Ah!"

He came hard, white ejaculate streaming over the blood pentacle, a stark white streak amidst dark burgundy. Panting, he pulled his fingers out of his entrance as he waited.

He didn't have to wait long. The pentacle glowed and absorbed his cum, white disappearing into the floor beneath him, as he pulled himself together, panting heavily like a dog.

It should have worked.

Why wasn't he with the blonde man now?

Arthur had managed to avoid suspicion—apparently the ruckus he had caused the night before was enough to convince the townspeople he now cared enough for the Mayor to refuse anyone who wanted to see him. The Vice-Mayor took over for him as Arthur went by his daily doings, silently wondering to himself why hadn't the soul binding spell worked.

It had worked, actually, just not in the way Arthur had expected it.

A few days later, Arthur fell asleep and found himself sitting up in an unfamiliar bed, in a room that looked far different from the ones in his village.

It was small, with four smooth, plain white walls. There were two doors; one was brown and the other, white. Dotted around the room were strange devices Arthur had never seen before. Fear gripped at him and he shuffled backwards—until he hit a wooden frame behind him. He couldn't see anything clearly, no matter how hard he tried to squint. Panic rose up in his throat like bile—

His eyes widened and he lost control of himself for a moment, his hand darting out to grab something on the right side, and something was put over his eyes. Suddenly his vision cleared and he could see the room he was in properly in the dim light of a lamp next to him. He looked at the lamp next to him. It looked so much more different than the ones he had back at the village, with a cone on top of it to alleviate the light downwards.

Suddenly his body moved of its own accord and he was walked over to the white door. He opened it and inside was a pure white room, with square panels all over the walls and floor. He shivered. They were radiating coolness, and under his bare feet they were cold as snow.

His body walked forward until he reached a pane that looked like a large mirror—and his eyes widened at who it was staring back at him.

It was the blue-eyed, golden-blonde haired man haunting his dreams. Joy filed his heart. The spell had worked!

… Wait, he was looking at a mirror. How…?

Slowly, cautiously, Arthur raised his hand to his face. The man did the same. It was a mirror, meaning…

Arthur touched his face, and ran his hands all over his body.

His body was so much different, larger than before—Arthur froze.

He was in his lover's body. He was in his lover's body, just like in his dreams, only now, he had the power to control what he was doing.

Longingly, Arthur looked into the mirror. "I love you," he said, and he jolted upon realising even his voice had changed. It was the man's voice, slightly deep and warm-sounding. Arthur felt himself melting slightly in pleasure as he leaned forward, touching his fingers—the man's fingers—to the cool surface of the mirror.

Alfred was horrified. He had no control over his body as he felt himself leaning in towards his bathroom mirror, his fingers spreading across the glass, the heat of his body fogging up the areas around his fingers.

His breath ghosted over his reflection, fogging it up, as he stared into his own eyes.

He was supposed to be afraid, supposed to be not doing this, supposed to be back in his bed, thinking about banging some poor fellow, but he couldn't pry himself away from his reflection, like he was enthralled by it.

His heart rate quickened. Much to his shock his cock stirred to life.

His body closed the distance and he pressed his lips to his reflection's lips, moaning as one of his hands pulled away from the mirror to grasp his cock, already leaking with precum. He used it as lubrication as he stroked himself slowly at first, as he kissed himself in the mirror, tongue darting out to lick at himself in the mirror. He moaned, as his strokes grew faster, and faster, as he panted into the mirror, resting his forehead against it as his gut clenched and—

"Ugh!" he gasped, coming in his hand. He felt the restraints holding him back from controlling his body dissipate and he sank to his knees, panting.

"… What the fuck was that all about?" he looked up at the mirror, still fogged up from where he was breathing into it.

Arthur woke up with a start, cheeks stained red as he pressed his thighs together, the tell-tale squelch of his cum spread all over his inner thighs telling him what he had just done was not a dream.

Giddiness took over him.

He had actually touched the man this time around.

Immediately after Kiku had taught him how to have lucid dreams, Alfred did his best to do as he was told.

He was successful at times, sometimes he would gain control of his blonde while on his day-to-day routines, managing to stop him every once in a while to stare at himself in the mirror, much like what happened to him a few nights before. Before he could do anything, however, he would lose control and the blonde would continue doing whatever it is he was doing.

Alfred got the hang of lucid dreaming pretty quickly enough, until one night; he fell asleep to find himself standing alone in front of a decomposing body. He had wanted to scream, to run away, to get out of there, but his body was calm, cool and collected as he looked down at the body.

Alfred did a double-take and looked down at the surprisingly well-preserved corpse. His torso was wide open, skin open in flaps—a y-incision, from the looks of it, but even with Alfred's limited knowledge in post-mortem examinations, he could tell that the incision was delivered before death, judging from all the blood that had caked around the cut.

He froze when he saw the man's face.

Wasn't this the man his blonde had married? Then that means…

He looked away from the body and turned around to find himself standing in a bedroom that looked like it stepped out of a drawing from history books. Alfred gaped at the sight around him, and stepped around the corpse to find a familiar-looking bottle standing quietly on top of the bedside table. Alfred picked it up—and almost dropped it when he saw his hand was smaller than usual, more frail, long and elegant…

This was his blonde's hand.

Intrigue spreading through him like wildfire, Alfred rushed to the mirror (by this time he knew where it was, since he had always managed to stop the blonde and stare at him there) and found the blonde staring right back at him.

Glee took him over and he walked closer to the mirror, touching his soft face, memorising the feel of silky smooth skin under soft fingertips.

"Oh, you're so beautiful," he sighed in the blonde's voice, shivering in delight at how utterly wonderful it sounded in his ears. "So, so beautiful. I want you," he told the reflection, even if the reflection was mouthing the same thing he was saying. "So, so badly, I love you."

Alfred began to strip himself of clothes and bared it all in front of the mirror, cataloguing the look of his blonde's beautiful, slender pale-skinned body, sticking long elegant fingers in his mouth as he did so, laving saliva over his fingers generously. The reflection in the mirror was so terribly erotic Alfred was sure the look was burned into his mind. Turning around and spreading his legs and arse's cheeks after taking his thoroughly-wet fingers out of his mouth, he memorised the feel of his blonde's dusky entrance, smiling as he ran his saliva-coated fingers over it, the crinkled texture of the ring of muscle delightfully sensitive as it fluttered under his touch.

He felt it run up his spine, a delightful shiver of pleasure racking through him, as he stimulated it again and again, running his fingers over that tight ring of muscle.

The body he was in let out an involuntary moan, delicious and sweet, and Alfred mentally smiled as he continued to tease it until it loosened up and allowed him to push a finger in.

"Oh, yes," the breathless moan escaped his lips, but he knew it wasn't his. He felt it too, the pleasure, running up his spine deliciously. His other hand let go of his arse cheek and snaked around his front to stroke himself, still baring his arse to the mirror so he could see it over his shoulder. He pushed in his finger further, moving it around slightly to loosen it up.

He groaned as the pleasure shot up his spine and he pushed in another finger, scissoring it around, stretching himself as another strangled moan involuntarily escaped his mouth.

He hooked his fingers—and his vision went white.

He went crazy, bucking uncontrollably back on his fingers as he attempted to fuck himself on them, abusing his prostrate over and over. Alfred spared a glance at the mirror, where then and there, he almost came, seeing the blonde's face flushed red, back shining with a thin sheen of sweat, and his sweet pert arse's cheeks were parted, his legs parted so wide, to allow him view of his blonde's fingers up his entrance, pleasuring him, making him moan loudly like a whore that loves his job.

"Fuck, yes," Alfred hissed through the blonde's mouth, as he felt the pleasure sweep over him like a tsunami, wave after wave of it washing him wild with a carnal need.

His strokes grew erratic and grew in pace, and suddenly with twin gasps, he and the blonde came as one. Panting, he sank to his knees and lifted his head to see the corpse sitting quietly at the foot of the bed.

A small, high-pitched giggle escaped his lips.

He just had a mind-blowing masturbation session in front of a dead guy. How charming.

Alfred woke up with a grin on his face and a dark patch on his crotch. He thought back to the amazing experience he had the night before—he actually finger-fucked his lovely blonde. It felt amazing.

Somehow, all sense of propriety went out the window after that night, and he found himself longing for more, more, more, more, moremoremoremore of the blonde, a dark, carnal need to touch growing in him, eating away at him every day, growing more skittish, his hands growing twitchy as his desperation grew.

Lust was a dangerous thing, if left too long unattended to.

"Alfred, there's something wrong with you," Kiku spoke up, closing Alfred's dorm room door behind him, looking up worriedly into his friend's eyes.

"There's nothing wrong with me," Alfred pressed, "Why can't you leave me alone?" he growled, turning onto the smaller man, eyes flashing dangerously.

"Alfred, you were exhibiting signs of a mental illness, or trauma," Kiku pressed, "This isn't good for you!" he yelled, and Alfred's eyes darkened.

"Love is never bad for you." He growled, and Kiku blinked at him.

"Lov… you're in love, Alfred?" he asked, incredulously. "Why—your behaviour is telling me otherwise!" he replied, "It's like as if… as if, you've gone ballistic or something!"

"Maybe I have," Alfred said, his voice low, inching towards Kiku, the smaller man shrinking back, fearful. "Maybe I have gone crazy. Say all you want, Kiku," he growled, pushing the smaller man down onto the floor with one hand, the other curling around the handle of his baseball bat on the study desk. "I, Alfred Fitzgerald Jones, am not crazy." He gripped the handle tightly. "I am in love."

"I doubt it," Kiku replied, face stern, "I haven't seen you with anyone for the past few years, Alfred! How can you be in love?"

"Once upon a dream," Alfred replied, before bringing down the bat onto him.

Arthur sat up in bed, gasping, when he heard someone entering his house. Panicked, he stood up and grabbed his knife from the bedside table, running towards the door, past the Mayor's dead body—

Only he was too late, and his sister-in-law stepped into the bedroom, a stern expression on her face.

Of course, it immediately fell the moment her eyes laid on the dead body of her brother.

She didn't even have the time to scream as Arthur jabbed his knife straight through her jugular, carotid and larynx, panting heavily as she dropped like a stone at his feet.

Alfred remembered to stop when he couldn't see anything past his blood-coated glasses. He blinked, lifting his hand to his glasses and wiping his fingers against it, wiping a streak of blood off them to reveal to him Kiku lying down in front of him, motionless, covered in blood.

Alfred stared at him for a while, before looking down at the baseball bat in his hand that was covered in blood and bits of broken bone and muscle tissue.

It took him a moment to put two and two, and when he did, he grabbed his hair and screamed.

Tears were running down Arthur's face when he finally stopped bringing down the knife over and over again into his sister-in-law's head, his hand falling lax against his side as he stared blankly at the opened cranium laid out in front of him, blood oozing out from the stabs he had put into her at full force.

Panting, he blankly stared into space for a moment, and when the weight of what he had done settled over him, he dropped his knife, buried his blood-splattered face into his bloody hands and sobbed.

Alfred had screamed his throat sore, and when he couldn't speak anymore, he sank down next to Kiku's corpse and his eyes slid closed.

They opened again and his vision was blurry, tear-filled.

"Love, why are you crying," he spoke out loud, and he felt his blonde wipe away his tears to reveal to him another person's dead body—a woman.

"I want to stop this now," his blonde sobbed, "Why did I have to fall in love with you?"

"I want to ask the same question too," Alfred replied, "My love, I want to see you again."

His blonde stayed silent for a moment, before getting up, bringing Alfred's presence with him as he walked out of the bedroom.

"I never knew what your name was," his blonde said, and Alfred smiled, his blonde smiling along with him.

"It's Alfred. What's yours?"

"Arthur."

Arthur. What a lovely name.

"Arthur, where are we going?"

"Away," the blonde replied simply, walking out of the house, not caring if anyone saw him, covered in blood. "Away from this world."

"… That's nice." Alfred nodded, and Arthur ran to a still river, looking down at the water to stare at his reflection.

Alfred melted at the sight of Arthur—still so beautiful, so delicate; despite being covered in blood and gore.

"I love you," Alfred said to the reflection, the reflection mouthing his message back at him.

"I love you too," Arthur said, his lips curling into a smile. Alfred smiled along with him.

Alfred leaned forward to kiss the surface of the water—leaning too far forward, and the both of them topped into the river.

When the police had gotten to a report from a dorm room at Harvard, they found two boys kneeling down next to each other—one was beaten to death, blood sprayed all over the room, and his beater (unharmed) knelt down next to him, dead, with a message written in blood on the floor next to him.

We met, we loved,

Once upon a dream.

That was the most tiring fic I have ever written. Please understand if I'm rather... incapacitated.

Sooo. I may have (somewhat) attracted everyone with all the sweet and cheesy things in the past 12 days, but now, I think with this fic alone, I might just scare you all off.

Please don't hate me.

/sobbing

S-see you all tomorrow for the last day... (/;m;)/