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It starts in the dark. It always does, just like the first time.
It starts with his vision going dark. His feet fall out from under him, and then his feet connect with the hard bricks of the tunnel. He stumbles this time; he doesn’t always stumble. Sometimes it changes. Sometimes it’s different.
He knows where he is, but he can’t break the control it has on him as he moves in slow motion. He lifts his head and peers into the darkness. The air is stale; he immediately knows he’s somewhere underground. It’s damp. It’s rotting. His only light is the fungi growing in the cracks in the wall, and something far, far down the tunnel from him.
He knows what happens next. He remembers it in a clarity that shocks him to his core. He knows what happens next, but he still can’t stop it as he feels a presence behind him. Cellbit turns to see the empty eyes of Cucurucho itself. He sees the bear smiling; ever smiling, ever forced to grin and exude friendliness to all it encounters.
Fear strikes him still. The bear’s grin seems to pull at its still lips, like a stuffed toy come alive to torment him.
He knows what happens next. He knows he’s powerless to stop it.
The chainsaw revs, the sound echoing down the tunnel. He feels the blades cut into his body. They bite into his shoulder, white-hot pain ricocheting throughout his body. The shock holds him still, even as the blades cut deep into him, until his arm goes numb and it slumps at his side. The chainsaw revs again behind and his body finally gets the message to run.
Cellbit throws himself forward with a shout and he sprints down the tunnel. It doesn’t feel fast enough. The chainsaw never gets any further. Cucurucho’s presence never leaves his back. He knows what happens next, but he has to run, he has to escape, he has to get out!
He stumbles again, the ground shifting under his feet as the pit opens up before him. He twists, shouts, and tries to grab onto something to catch himself. But he’s too late. He’s already falling backwards, and the roots slip out of his hands when he tries to grab them. The spikes below pierce into his body, sharp points of pain that force a shout from his lips. He jerks upwards, but that only pushes him deeper into the pit. He gasps for breath, but his lungs are pierced, his body is pierced, he’s– he’s bleeding out. He’s bleeding out… He’s…
Cellbit groans into his hand, the blood on his lips enough to bring him clarity, to bring him back to the cooling warmth of his bed. He blinks in the darkness, the dim and flickering candles his only light. He breathes out slowly, starting to uncurl from the fetal position he woke up in. It’s late, judging by the moon, and he can feel the lingering touch of the dream. He groans again as he shifts and comes to a horrifying realization that only becomes more apparent as he tries to move around.
He’s hard.
“Fuck, ” he hisses into his hand. A spike of pain makes him twitch and he holds his hand out to the light. He’s bleeding; there’s a bite mark in his hand, where the skin split open under his canines. He can taste the blood in his mouth, the iron lingering on his tongue. He tastes it every time he breathes, and he pulls it back in with a familiar kind of desperation. He presses his hand to his mouth; it burns in the back of his skull, but even that doesn’t stop his tongue from darting out to taste it.
His breath shakes as he tastes his lifeblood and he presses it harder against his mouth. It hurts when he matches the indents to his teeth. It hurts more when he bites down again, but then his head goes hazy with the taste of himself.
His eyes fall shut and he’s there. He’s back to the dark tunnel, to the damp, rotting air. It tastes stale in his mouth, but when he breathes in, all he tastes is blood. It’s like heaven when he shoves his free hand down to hold himself. He’s hard, firm, and throbbing. The first stroke is dry and his breath hitches. He switches hands, his desperation growing by the second. The blood trickling down his hand makes the slide better, smoother, and he groans as he rolls into the slickness.
In his mind, he feels the chainsaw connect to his back and he nearly cries out. He flinches as he tastes another flood of blood in his mouth; he bit through his lip in the effort to not make a sound.
He presses his hand to his mouth, staining his hand with more blood. He thinks to rip open his flesh, make himself bleed out until he’s able to find his release, but he knows that even as he sleeps, the server does not. He can hear voices in the distance, carried on the wind. If he bleeds out now, they will see and they will question.
He’d rather not die from embarrassment too.
Cellbit resists the allure of his flesh in his mouth, and wraps his hand around his cock again. His blood is swiftly cooling in the air and he gasps into his hand as the sensation takes hold. His hips move on their own, and he swipes his thumb over his leaking slit. It helps, his precum mixing with his own blood, and he moans softly as he falls back into the fantasy.
He feels Cucurucho at his back, its smile boring into his flesh like a drill into the earth. He feels its hand wrap around his own, and he hears the distorted voice tease and taunt him. It laughs and it points down at the pit that drops out before them. Cellbit chokes off a moan at the sight of his corpse, mangled and twisted. It’s warped, the spikes impaling him through the shoulder, the stomach, the arms and legs. His one arm is hanging by just a thread, and he’s bleeding out.
He’s bleeding out and it’s gorgeous. He’s bleeding out and he jerks into his hand with an aborted shout. He watches as the corpse moves with him, mimicking his movements. He understands now, he’s aware the dream is a fantasy that he relives, and he understands that’s him bleeding out.
Cellbit moans into the bloody mess of his mouth, the rivulets of red staining his hand and the front of his undershirt. But it barely matters as he feels the tension coiling in his guts release like a snapping rope. He jerks with a shout, and cum splatters across his stomach, across his bed sheets. He’s left panting, gasping, shaking as he stares at the flickering lights. He presses his hand to his mouth, lapping at the mess of cum and blood cooling on his flesh. It tastes like heaven when he tastes himself.