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Explicit depiction of sexual acts.
Features non-consensual sexual acts.
Depiction of severe mistreatment of children
Depiction of self-harm
Depiction of suicide
Depiction of torture
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Kit found himself enjoying the brick wall in the alleyway as two large men with identical looks on their identical faces strolled past him. For a moment, he nuzzled his cheek against the wall, liking the way it felt so rough and sore and, if he tried enough, he would break his skin open – like a chrysalis. He would emerge from his human husk and become a beautiful butterfly, a thing that was above hanging out in dimly lit alleyways to get what they wanted.
Kit pressed his face into the wall and breathed hard before groaning out loud. He was wanting and withdrawing. He was up and down. He was sweaty, but cold. He felt like he could mug and stab someone, then break down and cry because how fucked up the world was.
This alleyway only led to more fucked-upness. He knew that. But he also knew his cure was down here. He finally pulled his face away from the wall, unbroken, just slightly scratched, and adjusted the sleeping bag under his arm. A woman walked past him, holding hands with something he couldn't see.
His hand tried to fumble for a knife slickly, subtly, but his hands were shaking and he was clumsy at the best of times. The folding knife was freed from his belt, but slid across the cement before he could correct himself and grab it.
A very tall man smoking a very small cigarette caught it under a heavily booted foot and sneered at Kit.
"You snatchin' for skop, skiet en donder?" The voice growled from a mouth trailing smoke.
"Nope, nope, no lock," Kit shook his head, not agreeing to any deal. Not that he was sure what the man was saying – the unique slang in this alleyway puzzled him, with its mix of English, London Patois, German, Afrikaans, and occasional Dutch. But never French. French was a weird language, in French, the numbers even got fucked up and -
Shit. He had chased a thought again. He needed his knife back. It would be unwise to transverse the seven kilometre alleyway unarmed. Although, unlike some, at least he actually had arms. And he had a stunker, a billy club, pressed against his ankle, but it would be an arse to get to if a scout found him. The knife, the knife would be easier.
With a heavy sigh, he searched his equally heavy head for the slang that the dark-coloured man would understand the best.
"The knife. Quote me the sun." He may have gotten that slightly wrong, but the man's thin eyes lit up. Literally. Like flashlights, focusing on Kit, who lifted his arm to protect his eyes.
"The sun…" His voice drawled over the term. "It is the stars I want." He teased the fact that Kit was obviously unused to the area, and still stumbling over their natural slang. His eyes scanned Kit and saw nothing that appealed to him in honesty. His lip curled in disgust at the fact Kit was more than a little dirty, and the brick-burn on his face did nothing for his unkempt beard.
"I could lose a piece of me to you," Kit murmured huskily, narrowing his eyes and taking a slightly wider stance. The man grimaced. He had seen far nicer at the Meat Market, and for far cheaper.
"Go piss, kitlet, you're not worth the shit on my shoe," the man growled, uninterested in what was in Kit's pants, unless it was…
"Jack me some Bloom," he ordered, his flashlight eyes now staring at Kit's sleeping bag so as not to blind him further. Kit felt his face burst into a grin. "Oh man! If only you knew, I already had a plan – I have a house on fire!" He said, proud of both his situation and his remembrance of the slang.
The man shrugged, not moved by Kit's sudden change in emotion. He finally moved his boot off the knife and picked it up in an unnaturally large hand, staring at it with slightly dimmed eyes. To him, it was barely worth keeping – blunt, and well worn, with something sticky on the handle and something rusty on the blade. But to Kit, it was clearly worth something.
"Then it's a graft," the man agreed, nodding. "Bloom for your persuasion."
Bloom was what Kit had been planning to get anyway. Bloom – Bloom was the cure. Bloom was the beautiful drug he had discovered amongst all others – Gloom, Twinkle, Enigma and Fluff all did nothing for him. But Bloom, Bloom, Bloom – oh, did she ever live up to her name. Kit could practically feel himself photosynthesising at the thought of how Bloom made him feel, and how Bloom would fix everything.
How Bloom would make him forget and help him sleep, and how he could follow a conversation, and follow his own thoughts, and, and… He'd done it again. Staring blankly at the man in front of him who was waiting for a reply, a guarantee. Kit's brain had been on another plane, thinking of flowers, and butterflies, and freedom.
Now he was back in piss-alley, and the tall man was looking rather impatient. His flashlight eyes had turned to red. A dull red, but a red none-the-less.
"It's a lock!" He agreed now, nodding sharply and spinning on his heel, hoping he wasn't running too late and that the alleyway wouldn't suddenly change its length or reveal new passages. It did that every now and again. Especially if someone was running late, or if someone innocent to its behaviour came along. The alleyway, even with its friendly bricks, liked to mess with its more human visitors.
So, Kit walked quickly, with purpose, like he had been here a hundred times before, when it was probably more like… more like less than the digits on his hands. If he stared too long at his hands, sometimes some of his fingers disappeared and it showed the exact number of times he had entered the alleyway with a desperate hunger – he wondered what would happen when he came here over ten times. Would he be granted more fingers? Could he keep them? He knew someone in the Meat Market who would be keen for spare fingers and would exchange it for Bloom or a blow.
But today, he didn't look at his hands. He balled them to fists at his sides, and tried not to mentally count his digits to assure they were all still there. His head filled with vague memories that Bloom pushed away – that guy, sitting, staring at him, questioningly, but curiously. At a bar, after an awkward introduction; at work, maybe? A strange, short time stalking him on social media, when Kit could access the internet. Then the kiss, the first kiss ever, tasting of a cocktail he was drinking but couldn't even remember the name of. Dammit.
The Bloom withdrawal may have sucked physically – Kit couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't stay warm, couldn't get cold, could fight the world and then burst into tears over a stray kitten – but mentally, it hurt more. It hurt more to remember him, in the doorway, standing there, being him. It hurt more to hear him again, in his memories.
"I'm sorry, Kit. This isn't working. You can't just… burst in here and graffiti on my walls. You can't burn experimental blue rice in the kitchen and, at the very least, not clean up after yourself. I didn't appreciate that time you set the toilet on fire. And I really didn't appreciate the time you pretended to be dead.
I can't do this, Kit. I love you, but… I don't need you."
Those words hurt a lot. The guy he thought was the love of his life, pointing out all his flaws in one deep breath. People here, this alleyway, he heard them calling him 'loskon' - someone with no emotional control, someone with their brain rattling with a thousand bad experiences and no filter on their anger or sadness or grief. That hurt, sometimes, but not as much as his partner saying, saying, saying… there was love, but there was no need. The amount of love didn't weigh up against the amount of crazy. Kit couldn't change what was him, and that sometimes hurt the most.
But, as Kit had discovered recently, the best way to get over somebody was to get into somebody else.
He found them waiting on the corner, like they had been the last several times he had ducked in. But this was the first time he had gone as far as to approach them. He put his sleeping bag down in the most dry corner he could find, but kept his backpack on, in case this turned out to be a mocker – he couldn't afford losing anything else to a conman. Or woman. Or some unidentified third gender.
He ran a hand through his hair, which didn't do much for the building grease, but made it look vaguely more tamed, and cleared his throat, forcing it into a husky purr.
"I caught speak that you wanted a boy-ya. You know what I'm jonseing for, right? Go on, quote me the sun… stars, shit, whatever."
He fucked up the last bit and lost whatever sex appeal he was trying to give. But they still turned to him regardless, head tilted, looking at the man on offer. Humans, they so rarely made it this far, and the being was rather thirsty. They were not entirely sure that this human would taste of much beyond salt and grass, but the chance to experiment with someone new was hard to turn down. Slowly, one eye pushed itself forward from the empty face, and opened wide to reveal a Magic 8 ball that simply said the word 'Yes'.
Kit was beyond pleased, but tried to keep his cool, to keep what he felt was a mysterious, alluring air, unaware that the being in front of him was just thirsty and curious enough to effectively humour the young grifter.
"Then it's a lock, knock, boss," Kit said, fist curled to gently knock himself on the head – an effective way to seal the deal when the creature you were dealing with had no hands to shake.
There were certainly no hands, but suddenly, there were a thousand tongues. Kit felt his dirty clothes pulled off by them, curling their muscles into tight, intense grips. His breath tightened in his chest, and for one lucid moment, he thought -
"This was the worst idea I've ever had."
But luckily enough for Kit, his lucid moments were fleeting, and the awareness of his naked form was just as quick. Or, what was left of his form, anyway. He felt like he was bobbing along in an ocean, a bundle of nerves; a jellyfish. The tongues were tracing him, and he could feel it shuddering throughout him, taking over the electric pangs of withdrawal. A gasp formed from a mouth that felt a million kilometres away – it could be a million kilometres away, it could be on someone else's face, it certainly didn't feel like it was on his own. His dick twitched from flaccid to curious, and his eyes stared blankly as suddenly his sight was robbed from him. Piss-alley was gone, and darkness welcomed him. A cold darkness, but the tongues, the thousands of tongues probing him and following his mismatched contours, they kept him warm.
The creature was tasting him. Testing him. Depriving him of his sight, his own static body, and leaving him naked and limp. Well, not so limp now. Kit felt a shudder drive up where his shoulders should be as a tongue licked along his spine. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. He couldn't be enjoying this. Dammit all, he refused to enjoy it! Kit bit his lip and tasted metal as his teeth became suddenly, inexplicably sharp, and the blood ran down his chin. His body was forming back. He was still a bundle of nerves, he was still on fire with sexual arousal and lust and a curiosity that disgusted him, but he was back in, or with, his body.
The tongues stopped in their licking, and Kit could suddenly see under the hood that had hidden the face before. There were orifices all over the otherwise blank face of the creature, and each seemed to have a different design – some were jagged like scars, others were perfect lines, and other more had lips of various textures and bodily variations. Kit felt like he swam forward to greet a sideways smile with his own lips, pressing close, exchanging tastes. Kit tasted like tobacco and blood and salt – the being exploring him tasted like petrichor, luck, and candyfloss.
As they tasted each other, Kit felt the world spin around them, splitting into a constant changing mass of colours - a kaleidoscope of every shade one could think of, and then some more. When their lips parted, their bodies flew through the air, slowly, smoothly – stuck together. Tongues held his legs against the formless figure, and Kit arched as something wet experimentally toyed with his lower back.
They were suddenly on a bench, a park bench, visually as far from piss-alley as they could possibly be, with the words 'tempus fugit' engraved on it. Time really did flee, in whatever realm they found themselves in – Kit felt like he had been here forever and five seconds, all at the same time.
Suddenly, he knew where he was.
He was inside the being. This was their realm. This was their brain, this was their sex drive, this was their version of sex. Whatever was beyond the hood, whatever he didn't see when distracted by all the lips, had pushed him inside this being in the most literal way possible.
"Shit," Kit exhaled, softly, staring at the park around them. Then he realised something else. This wasn't any old park. Minus the bench, this was the park where him and his first love had their first time. This thing really was testing him. Dragging him to a place he never wanted to be again, dragging him to the place where Bloom made him forget.
And then, the formless creature was bending down in front of his naked body. Their unique shape flickered, its outline changing colours from silver to red to purple. His favourite colour. How much was he inside the being – and how much was the being inside of him? Kit wanted to say no, that he had changed his mind, that even Bloom wouldn't fix this memory, but then the being took his curiously twitching dick into one of its many openings. The orifice was velvety and had a ribbed spot that his head brushed against. Other tongues worked their way into playing with his balls, with licking his thighs, with exploring what they could get to on his body.
Kit dug his hands into where the wobbling outline of the body would have had shoulders. Fuck, this was so great, but just over the bobbing head between his legs, he could see himself. He could see himself and he could see his first time. He could see them rolling on the picnic rug, knocking over the wine, staining the grass, laughing it off. He could see the exchange of nips and love bites, the marks of ownership.
Just as his first love sunk his teeth into other Kit's neck, the creature working on him suddenly bit down too – not hard, but with the pulsing sensitivity in his cock, it felt intense. It was teasing him. It was bringing his attention back to what was going on right then, even though it was the one that had brought him back to the past. Greedy bastard. It wanted it all, it seemed – attention, and inattention. Distraction, and focus. Just like with withdrawal, and tweaking out. Two sides of the same coin.
Kit was painfully aware of the sound and feel of his own pulsing heartbeat, and the sky changed its shade of blue very slightly on every beat. It was hard to concentrate on what the being was doing, when he couldn't tear his eyes away from a much better time in his life. The being withdrew from its job, and somewhere from its body came a mutter that sounded like, in tone, it could have been a curse. Then suddenly, the surroundings changed. The bench settled itself, with them in their same positions, in the middle of a room with walls that were a swirling mass of unknown shapes and random objects.
The being couldn't bare the taste of bitter things. And Kit's taste had been nothing but bitter when faced with his first time. Most humans had something like that – a bitterness, or a sadness, or a guilt, whenever they revisited their first time within its realm. But if they didn't, if they were at peace with their own self, then the taste was better than anything the being could have otherwise, and it would be satiated for days. It was worth the risk, but now the being set about getting the horrible taste out of its mouth in its blank canvas room of emotion-free colours and shapes.
Kit, meanwhile, felt like he was getting the best head he had ever had. His breathing caught and his neck jerked back. Sweat trickled down his neck. He had to focus, he had to get the words out.
"Lick my iliac crest," he found himself begging, his hands still digging into the spongy form that was the being. He wasn't even sure what the lilac crest was, but something was telling him with sharp pangs that this was what he needed. Was the being telling him what to say, and what to think, and what to need? Whatever it was, he felt like he was slowly losing a piece of himself, moment by moment, losing something every time he saw that head bob. He felt tired from the experience, even though his arousal won outright.
As one of the tongues gently worked its way along the sharp angle of Kit's hip bone, where the iliac crest lay, he felt all power to focus leave him, and all the blood leave his head. He was done, spent, quickly now. The being's throat worked quickly, achieving that final taste, the gold it had been digging for. Not so bad. Spicy. A little sour. It would work for a couple of days.
And then, they were back in the alleyway. Kit was dressed, though his fly was down, and he felt comfortable - relaxed. The being looked the same as it did before, despite the power now racing through its equivalent of veins. It had stolen what it needed from Kit, and now Kit needed his payment.
Before that could be offered, Kit took a breath. "I need a cigarette. Do you want one?"
The woman man thing moved its non-fully formed head towards him. It had many gaping orifices, but none of which could be called a mouth, and nothing inside that could be called lungs.
"Just me, then."
As Kit lit up and clumsily did his fly up, sprinkling ash on his groin, the multi-orificed being in front of him opened one of its many holes. This time, not taking, but giving. Kit's eyes lit up as at the purple, ribbed innards, and he reached inside to grab the packets laying temptingly inside.
"Thanks, boss," he murmured huskily, breathing smoke into where its face should be.
One lip on the creature's lower limb curled into a grimace of distaste as Kit turned, left the alleyway, left his sleeping bag, and fucked right off into his world of Bloom.

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