King's huge frickin' book of randomness galore:The ultimate

The Reaper and the Vixen

"Hey, hey! Not so handsy just yet. Still in public." The boy teased, on a night like any. They were particularly fond of the night, and all that it wrought, riveting, when the atmosphere nourished the most to someone of their clime. 

"You're a real tease, y'know that?" 

The boy only smiled, coy and inviting.

"That's what keeps you hooked, handsome~" He winked, internally cringing at himself for saying something so corny. Surely they could do better than that, right?

"Not wrong, not wrong at all..." They mused, getting rightfully handsy regardless of their "warning."

Before he knew it, he felt hot breath, pulsing on his neck and enveloping his senses. 

 Tearing and pressing, a one-man symphony of demanding sensation that left him in a starry-eyed haze, unable to find the words to approve nor protest, and soon....

"I...I..."

"You what? Not getting shy on me are you?"

"D-don't insult me...."

"Didn't think so. Oh, is it going to be a treat tearing into yo-"

SHNK!

They wouldn't have to.

"GUH!!!"

Just like that.

Just like that, the symphony had it ended as quickly as it begun, coming to a screeching halt of torn strings and crushed anticipation.

"Kehehe...."

Then came the laughing.

"KAHAHAHAHA!!!!!"

That piercing, guttural cackle, ripping through the air and strangling the atmosphere. 

"G-guh....guuuhhhhh...."

The gurgling was sickening, pronounced in the most pitiful way possible, that familiar crimson fluid dripping this way and that, spraying the boy like a hydrant.

He couldn't scream. He didn't have enough time. All he did was watch, behold, take in the sight in front of him.

The blood, the pierced chest of his nightly lover, torn asunder by a curved slab of sleek metal, staring the victim right in the face as the stained tool lifted him from the ground, bits of crimson and flesh pooling around both the blade and the wound, staining the ground and the boy before his very eyes. But the sight was nothing compared to it's cause: A giant, towering figure, dark as ebony and dressed in black rags, torn this way and that, caked with dirt, grime, and blood, both new and  old, brown, red, and black dancing together in a crude, unhygienic conga of filth. 

He saw no features but these, the ever reliable night limiting his terror, and thus allowing him faux courage in the form of a pitiful, wheezing shout, knees buckling and soul shaken before he had even began. "H-hey buddy!" He forced out, mentally slapping himself for it all the same, drawing the figure's attention. 

The night, the ever-caressing dark, worked not only for the boy but for the figure, dressed in it's shadows like a fond shawl, face unreadable under it's cover. With a sharp, practiced movement their arm shot out, whipping at a visually painful angle, sure no doubt to cause much worse to the boy, squeezing his eyes shut as his jaw set itself of it's own volition, determined not to go out screaming. 

Only.....

They didn't go out at all. Instead of what guaranteed a sharp slice was a wet, crashing thud, the sound of the now mangled form smashing against the concrete, zipping toward the boy in a splattering rush that flipped his stomach every which way. If they'd found moving difficult before, their feet were guaranteed glued to the ground now. plastered firmly in a paralyzing grip that grew only stronger as the figure lurched once more forward, their midnight black boot flying toward the skull of their newest victim, reducing what remained of the already mangled head discombobulated by the concrete to a dented mess, then a broken, morbid vase, before promptly devolving into a bright paste, organic soup create by the heel of theirs truly, who grinded their soles harshly against the concrete with a low whistle. They then took a no-doubt proud moment to admire their handiwork, before the dreaded event had come: the figure's attention was set on the boy.

Ever so slow were his movements, as he crept toward him, bending down to truly give the boy a good look in the eye, his own like a vast brown desert, the center a bright, shining ruby buried within, boring deep into him and taking him in entirely a razor-sharp grin flashing onto the killer's face. "I can tell what you're thinking," They said simply, their voice heavy and rough, a feral growl, a tone like the roar of a monster stretched and agonizingly contorted into speech, yet sickeningly casual, further cementing the chilling reality that this was indeed this person- no, this /thing's/ voice. "this was your fun for tonight." They went on, chuckling softly, breath once again tickling his face. "Mine too~" They cooed, letting out a little giggle, which rose to a high-rising chortle, nearly choking himself from a fit of hysteric laughter. The boy had half a mind to run for it now while he was still rocking back and forth, but by the time he could will his heels to turn the killer was done, gripping the boy's shoulder. The killer's eyes once again bored into the boy's, and he finally took in his face against the dark. It was masculine and defined, but not in a way like so many others. His still had an odd....youth to it. Masculine but not overly manly....this was definitely a young man. It has to be. Suddenly, fear vanished from the boy as he snorted, nose turning up at the stranger.

"You're a teenager."

Most would be surprised by such a sudden shift, but the killer looked delighted, nodding slowly. "Sure am. 18 this July. You?"

"17. Same age as you this November." He replied, mentally slapping himself for talking to a guy who just killed someone right in front of him like a new friend.

  "Huh." The killer hummed, tilting his head upward, before promptly extending his hand, rough and scarred, black rags and bandages coating his hands. "King," he said, giving a little grin. "You?" 

"Spike," he replied, scrunching his nose. "That's a weird name by the way."

"And Spike ain't? Sounds like you should be in a damn kennel." He replied smartly, yet without a hint of malice. He smirked, able to recognize his own clime: a natural wiseass, something he could appreciate despite the situation. "Sounds like your parents were compensatin' for somethin' since you were born." He threw back, earning a hearty laugh. "Hah! Good one! Though I gotta say, sure you ain't lyin' about your age, puppy? Seem a little small for 17." He said. Another jab, one he ducked under expertly. "I'm fun-sized, you giant. If anything, I'd feel bad for you. Y'know what they say about big guys." He said, smirking again, rewarding a coy smile from the killer. "You ain't never met a guy like me." He said frankly, suddenly walking off, tossing his head for the boy to follow him. Stuck, he once again yelled at himself, as he barely hesitated to follow. "But I'll be honest," he said, chuckling softly. "It smells like yah have. You reek, lil' puppy boy; like a brothel." He said, his words sharp and blunt. What the hell did that mean? "What's that supposed to mean?" He asked pointedly, merely receiving a shrug in return.

"Means what it means." 

"I do what I do, and I'm not gonna have some....criminal calling me out-"

"Oi." He grunted, spinning on his heels, catching the boy's jaw between his long, weathered fingers, extracting a small strained squeak, which sent a noticeable shudder down the killer's spine. "Means what it means. No more, pup, no less. Don't piss off the guy with the scythe." And with that, he let go, continuing on. "Don't drag, Spikey. I'm still thirsty." 

....Alright then.

"Where we goin' first, your majesty?"