#This is. Probably what marrow was trying to warn me about | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

retrievablememories · 4 months ago

Text

marrow | dpr ian

summary: you're not the only eater. many of your kind exist, but you have always tried to avoid them, continuing to play the charade of the normal, boring life that you can never truly have. until one day, someone shows up at your door.

pairing: dpr ian x black fem reader

genre: horror, angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn romance, bones & all au, 1980s au

word count: 22.9k

marrow (noun):

a soft, highly vascular modified connective tissue that occupies the cavities of most bones

the choicest of food

a/n: this is a “bones & all” au, so if you didn’t like the movie/book you probably won’t like this. based off both the book and movie but with some changes.

please heed the warnings; there are strong HORROR elements in this fic. (i mean, people are eating other people…) if you’re not interested in reading about these particular concepts, please just scroll on by, make use of your filter settings, or block me.

as we all know, this is just fiction...it doesn't claim to be an accurate/real representation of anyone.

dividers: here | here

1985

You smell him before you can see him.

It comes as somewhat of a surprise: You don’t realize you’re smelling something different, something other than Alicia’s perfume, the cigarette tray, or the stale, woody air of the motel’s office, until it’s right up on you. It makes your body stiffen with fear. Not that you have any right to be afraid.

After a few long minutes, though, no one walks in. You don’t see the familiar blinding sight of headlights flashing in the windows as a car pulls up. And yet the smell remains. Despite your apprehension, you get up from your chair behind the desk to see if anybody is outside, walking to the windows facing the expanse of the parking lot. That is when you see a figure lying on the ground, somewhat obscured by the shadows where the office’s lights don’t reach. It looks to be a man, though you aren’t 100% sure.

From what you can see, he’s covered in blood. Large stains of it ruin the white of his shirt and the blue of his jeans. You could guess that it’s probably not his own. Your mind jumps ahead of you, trying to create the image of him feasting on the body of some unknown victim, of him carrying a bloody bag filled with someone’s clothes and trying to find somewhere to hide it…

It’s a terrible thing to think. Maybe he’s an innocent person, severely hurt. He probably used what little strength he had left to drag himself here for help.

But the smell never lies.

You quickly grab a flashlight sitting in one of the cubbies on the wall. Then you open the door, the jingling of the bell loud in your ears, and give the parking lot a quick sweep before stepping outside, seeing nothing but the same cars that’d been parked at the same motel rooms earlier. With it being a one-story motel, there wasn’t much area you needed to scan.

Standing out here now and pointing the flashlight into the shadows, you can see he’s still breathing, at least. But now you can also see the dried blood around his mouth and down his neck, which makes you want to promptly walk back into the office and lock the door behind you. Turn out all the lights and pretend no one was ever here.

There’s a big blood stain in one area near his abdomen like he was stabbed; you can see that the fabric is torn. Whoever he ate clearly didn’t go willingly. But when do they ever?

Again you think about going back inside—maybe telling Alicia to call for an ambulance. You think of calling the police, and shame immediately follows. How could you call the authorities on him knowing you and him share the same crimes? You’re unsure of which action to take, but it’s a little late to make the decision now. You see him begin blinking from the light you’re shining directly in his face; you hadn’t paid attention to where you were pointing the flashlight as your mind raced with options. He raises a bloodied hand to shield his eyes, the movement causing him pain.

You shift the light away, pointing it in the vicinity of his torso again. Only now do you pay attention to the numerous tattoos covering his skin. Unsure what to ask or say, you can only come up with a broken “...Hey.” You haven’t used your voice in the last hour.

He doesn’t reply. Instead he pushes himself to sit up, his hand hovering over the presumed stab wound.

“What…uh, what are you doing here?”

He looks at you like he’s deciding whether he ought to be suspicious of you or not. The irony. “I need water,” he finally says.

“Water? I think you need a lot more than water.”

With effort, he starts getting to his feet, and you can’t help flinching away. It feels stupid to act this way, to still be so afraid. As if being afraid could allow you to pretend that you are more human than you really are.

And what timing—Alicia appears at that moment after being locked up in her room sorting paperwork all night. The door bell sounding off behind you makes you jump hard, the wooden beads on your braids all rattling against each other. You spin around to look at Alicia, who’s too busy staring at the man in front of you with concerned eyes.

“What the hell? Are you okay?” she asks, her voice loud in the relative quiet of the parking lot. The motel being located on a less-frequented stretch of highway means things are often quiet like this, with only the sounds of cicadas and frogs and occasional passing vehicles to fill the late hours.

“I’m fine,” he says, disinterested in her concern.

Her eyebrows rise at his accent. “You ain’t from around here,” Alicia says, as if that intrigues her.

“But you’re not fine. Haven’t you been attacked?” you argue, gesturing toward the wound he can’t keep his hand away from. He lets it drop to his side then.

“I’m fine. I bandaged it. I just need water.” His tone and the dark quality of his expression don’t leave much room for you to object.

You and Alicia look at each other for a long moment; when she sees the tension in your face, you both come to a silent agreement. Strange people and motels go together like thunder and rain, but that fact often keeps you in something of a hypervigilant state. Unbeknownst to Alicia, you are certain you know why this man has shown up here bloody and wounded, insisting he only needs water and not even asking for medical help—which would entail needing to be admitted to a hospital—and you conclude it’s best to get him off your hands as soon as possible.

Once you do, you can start trying to forget about him and the smell of blood clinging to him. After not encountering it for so long, its return makes that familiar taste of iron rise up on your tongue like it’s encoded in your DNA, activating your salivary glands from just the memory of eating, and you feel like an animal for it.

Alicia relaxes her shoulders and puts on a gentle smile. “Well, okay. There’s a bathroom in the office. You can get cleaned up in there. And we got plenty of bottled water too, though it ain’t the fancy stuff like Evian.”

So you let him in.

You listen to the water running in the bathroom while you sit with your back rigid in your desk chair, like you’ll need to spring into action at any moment. Alicia doesn’t bother to speak, knowing the walls are too thin to get away with it, and leans next to you to write on a page of your notepad instead. You watch her small lettering fill the white space:

He looks fucked. We’re probably more dangerous to him right now than the other way around. You think he walked all the way here from town bleeding like that? Maybe someone dropped him here.

You realize with a jolt that Alicia thinks it’s all his blood. You shake your head but give no explanation. After a pause, she shrugs.

Still, you know where the gun is.

“Please…” you choke out, not wanting to think about having to use it tonight—or any other night, for that matter.

You don’t know if he’ll be a danger, considering he clearly ate not too long ago. But you can never say that for certain. Every cannibal’s appetite and impulses are different.

When he comes back out cleaned of blood, Alicia casually slides the notepad out of sight and stands up straight again. The shirt he was wearing is balled up in his fist, leaving him standing there with nothing but his jeans and shoes on. Seeing people in various states of undress, especially in the South during the warmer months, is nothing new. Still, his nakedness feels oddly misplaced in this macabre situation, and you don’t know where to put your eyes. You end up fixating on the bandaging around his middle, which is all stained through with old blood. It needs to be changed, but that’s not your problem.

Alicia blinks for a moment, the side of her mouth quirking up slightly.

“Of course—silly me. You’re probably wanting some new clothes, ain’t you? We might have something in storage. I’ll just be a few minutes.” Alicia takes a pair of keys from one of the desk drawers. You want to grasp her arm and tell her not to go, but she just directs her eyes to the notepad; you nod reluctantly and watch as she heads to the back door of the office and out to the storage building a couple yards away. It’s a spacious outbuilding that holds everything needed in the running of a motel, including the commercial laundry machines.

Now that the man is somewhat calmer, he looks at you like he recognizes you. You turn away from him when you see the change in his gaze. It’s strange to be seen and known by another eater. Though it’s happened several times, it always unsettles you. You don’t know anything about him, but you’re suddenly, maybe irrationally, worried that he’ll reveal your secret to Alicia.

“I’ve never met another one like me,” he says.

There are several things you want to say. Why didn’t you say it sooner? Have you really never smelled another eater until now? Who did you eat? Will you just leave already? None of these questions are what comes out. “Never?”

“Never. But I suppose I don’t stay anywhere long enough to find them.”

Then please leave soon.

“When was the last time you ate?”

You bolt up from the chair. There’s nowhere for you to go, though, so you stand there wiping your sweaty palms on your pants and glancing at the back door, hoping Alicia returns soon. “Don’t ask me that.”

You still won’t look at him, but he tries and fails to meet your darting eyes. You find a different part of his body to focus on. This time it’s his hand resting on the desk counter and the intricately designed tattoo that covers it.

“You must get hungry sometimes.” He leans closer, but the tall counter overlooking the desk keeps you separated. “Are you gonna tell me you’ve never had the urge to have a bite of her?” He gestures his head toward the back door. “It’s so fucking lonely out here, maybe no one would notice if you did.”

“Shut the fuck up.” You surprise yourself with the force of your reply, though your voice shakes. “I-I have self-control.”

And then he laughs. Like you two are old friends catching up—like you didn’t just curse him out. It makes him wince immediately, and his hand goes to his wound again. He sighs. “Sorry, darling, but I don’t think it’s about self-control.”

You ignore the name, though it irritates you and reminds you of the sleazy men that often make their way to the motel looking for midday entertainment in harassing young women. “We’ve both been born infected with it,” you say, your voice tight. “It can’t go away, but it’s something that should at least be minimized—not just given into whenever.”

“Is that how you think of it?”

“How could you not feel bad about it?” Despite yourself, you feel tears stinging your eyes. “Each one of them was a person with a life and dreams. We’re the ones stealing that every time we give in.”

“Feel bad about it?” He seems to consider that for a moment, his dark brown eyes far away. “The only thing you can do is get used to it. I would think that at some point, after you’ve eaten enough, it wouldn’t be shocking if it didn’t feel wrong to you anymore. Or if you started enjoying it. You’ve never felt that?”

You don’t answer his question, too disturbed and mentally exhausted to continue arguing and unable to agree with him. You wish he’d never crossed into this part of town, that you’d never met him. His presence makes your head and your chest hurt. He is everything you are and everything you don’t want to be, facing you head-on so that you cannot ignore it.

He’ll go away like the rest have, you try to reassure yourself. You’ve never befriended any of the other eaters you’ve met; at most, you ran into them a couple more times but never saw them again after. But even as you think it, it feels like a lie.

You sit back in the chair with a stilted movement just as Alicia returns, feeling like the precarious little life you’ve built is suddenly on the verge of collapsing. All the effort you’ve put toward modeling the spectacularly average life of the everyday human being—gone.

“Sorry that took a while. I figure you can’t put new clothes on with all that—” she gestures to the bloody bandage “—going on, so here you are.” Alicia hands him a small stack of clothes and a first-aid kit. “I hope that’ll do you some good, mister….?” She looks at him expectantly, and you realize that you haven’t known his name this entire time.

You feel his eyes on you when he answers, but your mind is elsewhere.

“It’s Ian.”

—

The next time you’re struck by the familiar smell of another eater, it happens in the early morning hours when you’re helping an older couple check out of their room.

It causes you to stumble and break in the middle of your sentence as your mind blanks, and you have to take a moment to remember what you were saying. The two elderly folks look at you strangely, their previous neutral-at-best demeanor now giving an air of annoyance. But at least they’re on their way out. You tune out their unsubtle mumbling about young people and their drug use as they finish up and step out the door.

You watch the front windows with a rising panic in your guts, wanting to run and hide but unable to move your feet. What horrific luck do you have to encounter two within the short span of three weeks? It seems that whenever they smell you, they come to you—whether it’s to size you up or attempt to make an acquaintance.

And a few minutes later, there’s a beat-up sedan, a gray Renault Alliance, pulling up in one of the parking spaces.

What you don’t expect is for the person to be Ian.

The ground has been kicked out from under you. You think maybe you’re suffering from acute vertigo. Your breaths and heartbeats are simultaneously too slow and too fast as he gets out of the car, wearing a button-up shirt that he only bothered to button halfway and black pants. He’s pristine this time—no blood, no torn shirt with an open wound, though his movements hint that he’s still healing. His eyes are shaded by sunglasses, but he takes them off as he walks to the door, making eye contact with you from the other side of the glass. That look sends cold water down your spine.

In another life, if he wasn’t like you and you weren’t like him—if you both didn’t share this bodily pestilence, this cursed impulse—maybe you would’ve felt some spark of interest. Maybe you would’ve thought of him as handsome, giggled with Alicia about it later, a brief respite from your mountains of paperwork. But in this life, you don’t feel anything but repulsion and fear.

You’re momentarily blasted with the unbearable summer heat when the door opens. It’s quickly chased away again by the air conditioning, causing your skin to prickle. Ian gives a close-lipped smile as he stops in front of you.

“Why are you back here?” you whisper.

“Checking into a room. That’s allowed here, right?”

If he’s a paying guest, you can’t really turn him away. He hasn’t done anything yet to warrant that. Even if he does eat other people on a regular basis.

You look past him to the car sitting outside. “Why didn’t you drive last time?”

“I just got it.”

“From which dealership?”

He taps his fingers against the sunglasses and glances down before answering, his voice low. “I think you know.”

Some part of you wants to know who it was in a futile attempt to keep their memory alive if only in your own mind, but you don’t ask. You don’t even know what type of person they were, after all; maybe he’d rid the world of some domestic abuser. It could be…understandable, in that case. People die everyday, you try to remind yourself—a useless platitude you have always told yourself after the act is over. It never absolves the guilt. They would’ve died someday anyway only goes so far when their blood is underneath your fingernails.

“And why come back here, of all motels? There are others in this area that don’t have mold in the bathrooms and roaches in the walls.”

He pauses after hearing that information, like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re pulling his leg. “I thought I’d be in pretty good company here, you know.”

“I don’t want your company,” you say wearily, watching him as he starts taking cash out of his wallet. “Do you think I’ll let you stay here just because—?”

“Because we’re the same? Because you’d cover for me?” he says, voice even lower like he only wants you to hear. That doesn’t matter anyway. Alicia is busy cleaning and preparing one of the newly vacated rooms, and it’s just you two in the office. There would’ve been one more person present if anyone had answered your For Hire ad in the paper, but it still remains only you and Alicia running this joint. “My God, darling. Forgive me for thinking you’d have a little mercy on a fellow cannibal. Anyway, I wouldn’t be so obvious as to do it here.”

You give him a look of disdain. In all sensibility, you should turn him away. You have no obligation to help him or break the law in doing so. The circumstances of his last appearance were already outrageous, and now he shows up with a stolen car. Who knows if someone might come here searching for him and making you and Alicia complicit in his mess? And ultimately, you want nothing more than for him to stop bringing up the whole cannibalism bit. Deep down, you are afraid that these mentions of it—maybe even the simple proximity to him—will reawaken the urge you haven’t felt in over a year now.

You’ve stayed silent for a beat too long. In a mess of movements, he shoves his wallet back in his pocket, slips his sunglasses back on, and brushes a hand through his hair, disappointment visible in his expression. “Okay, then. I’ll go elsewhere.” Something about his reaction makes your stomach twist. Maybe the sheer resignation in it. You shouldn’t care where he goes after this, if he has anywhere to go. He’ll be miles away from you again, just like you want. But…

It comes rushing out of your mouth as his hand reaches for the door handle, and you have no idea why you say it. “How many nights?”

—

It’s been a few days since Ian checked into the motel and you haven’t heard anything from him since then, but sometimes you spot “his” car in its parking space when you go to see about one of the other rooms. Whenever it’s not there, you can’t help but wonder where he’s gone and what he’s doing.

Without seeing him, you would almost be able to forget that he’s there, if not for the smell. It constantly keeps you on edge, more than you already tend to be. Alicia picks up on your restlessness but of course doesn’t know the origin of it—meaning she’s left to come up with a new guess everyday.

“Well yeah, he was surely strange…but maybe he appreciated us helping him out and just wanted to return the favor?” she’d suggested on that first day when he returned and you’d let her know with a less-than-thrilled attitude. “It ain’t like he’s the first weirdo to come around.”

“Maybe you just ain’t getting enough sleep. That’s enough to turn anybody’s mind out. Hope somebody replies to that ad soon so we can have some more help…” she’d said the day after that.

“You missed him earlier, but he came by the office this morning. Had an extra one of those breakfast muffin thingies and left it here. Ain’t that nice? He’s pretty cute, actually. You sure you ain’t just crushing and feel weird about it ‘cause he’s a paying customer?” Alicia laughed one afternoon, the third day of his stay. “Worse things have been done at this motel, Y/N.”

“No, Alicia,” was all you could muster up, and your stiff reply was just as good as an actual confirmation in her mind.

Sometimes, even though you are deeply ashamed of it and try never to acknowledge these rare moments after they happen, you stare at Alicia with her long curly brown hair and her sinewy limbs and her shining brown eyes, taking in the full breadth of her humanness, and you wish she were like you. Even though it would take away her normalcy and happiness…if she could smell that blood-curdling aroma that only you can—if she could understand the weight of this secret—if she knew what it was like to feel the rough grind of bone fragments between her teeth—

—maybe everything could be easier. You wouldn’t have to live with an imagined cowl of judgment, which she had yet to even bestow upon you, always blanketing your mind. And though you’ve always thought it better to have fewer eaters in the world than more, maybe navigating this existence wouldn’t be so isolating.

—

One muggy evening, the motel office phone rings, and you see on the caller ID that it’s from Ian’s room. You have to take a pause to steel yourself, letting it ring for several moments before you pick up the receiver.

“Hi, how can I help you?”

“Hey, yeah, um, the sink faucet has started leaking quite badly…not sure how that happened. It wasn’t like that last night.”

You sigh quietly, knowing you’d suggested changing all the faucets to Alicia a while ago, but the budget wasn’t quite there to do so. The summer festivals will be starting up soon, though, and festivals mean a higher number of travelers, so maybe there will be more money for it by the end of the season.

“...I’m sorry about that. I’ll be right there.”

“Right. Thanks, dear.” Your mouth twitches, but you don’t reply; you just nod as if he could see you. Neither of you hangs up. For an awkward stretch of quiet, punctuated only by the shuffling sound of movement, it seems like he wants to say something else. There’s an intake of breath like he will. You slam the phone down before he can.

You find the toolbox in its usual spot and take your umbrella from the stand before heading out the door. It’s raining lightly outside, the force of the droplets picking up and then dying back again every so often, but the humidity is so high that you feel uncomfortably soggy by the time you get to his room.

When Ian opens the door, there’s a cigarette burning between his fingers.

“Um, hello.”

You don’t like the way he smiles at you—like you’re co-conspirators on some big scheme. “Hi. You know where it’s at, yeah?”

You resist rolling your eyes. “Of course.”

He lets you in and then leaves the door propped open so he can stand outside and smoke. At least he won’t be breathing down your neck while you work like some other guests do.

Some game show program is playing on the small box TV; it looks like Press Your Luck. The sound of the TV and the rain falling outside accompany you as you set the toolbox down on the sink counter and start making the necessary fixes to the faucet. Situations like this one, though annoying, do give you a tiny bit of reprieve; you become too engrossed in the work to think about all your life’s problems.

That is, until you realize the problem with the faucet is too convenient to be caused by any natural malfunction or wear and tear. No he didn’t…you think, though part of you is still trying to convince yourself that your eyes and brain are deceiving you.

When you’ve successfully repaired the faucet, you straighten up and are startled to find Ian already leaning against the bathroom door frame, the cigarette now gone.

“Uh—well…works like a charm now.”

He acknowledges your work with a small nod. Before you can say anything else, he immediately says, “How do you experience it? The hunger.”

You could swear that your heart ceases beating. Your words come out in a shaky rush of breath. “Please stop.”

“You’re the only other one I’ve met, and I have to know what it’s like for someone else.” His voice and expression are genuinely pleading, and this takes you aback. “Please try to understand where I’m coming from.”

You put the tools back in the toolbox with trembling hands, your mind racing with things you should and shouldn’t say. “It doesn’t happen often,” you finally admit, your voice so small that he has to step fully into the bathroom to hear you. “There are usually months or years between occurrences. But when it comes…it’s oppressive. It’s like I’m being gnawed on the inside, like I have to do it or I’ll die. The last time was before I met Alicia.” The blurred memory of it causes you physical pain; it’s impossible to escape the self-hatred and disgust you feel, enclosed in this small room with him.

“Who was it?”

You shake your head. The thought of recounting what happened—no, what you did—makes you shudder. You refuse to let the barbed words leave your mouth for fear of being cut by them and bleeding out, but you find yourself mentally back in the scene anyway; you can almost hear the lapping of the lake and the distant sound of her voice if you concentrate. “Her name was Marygold. That’s it.”

He nods, left to accept that you don’t want to talk about her. “Years…hmm. The urge comes every few weeks for me.” He smiles sarcastically. “Lucky one, aren’t I?”

“...I thought you said you enjoyed it,” you murmur.

“Look, dear: What’s not enjoyable is always having to cover your tracks—or making too big of a mess and having to leave the area because of it.” He crosses his arms. “The guy whose car I have? He was just some lonely grocery store worker. You probably want me to say something noble, like I ate a fucking axe-murderer or something. No—I just needed a car again, and he was convenient. That’s how it is.

Maybe I could try to ignore the urge, put it off, but I don’t. When I feel it, I just go and find someone to satisfy it. Does the average person debate about whether they should eat a meal when they feel hunger? No, they just eat.”

You groan, your stomach lurching as you clutch the edge of the counter. “I-I can’t believe you messed up the faucet to get me in here to talk about this. What if Alicia had come instead?” For a second, you allow yourself to consider the danger in that implication—if Alicia had been in here with him alone…

He gives an airy laugh at your mention of the sink. “So I wasn’t very clever, then.”

Trying to gather yourself, you pick up the toolbox and glare at him. “I’ve told you plenty. Don’t ask me about this anymore.” In reality, you haven’t said even half of what he wants to know about, but getting anything else from you is impossible at this point.

Ian steps aside to allow you to leave the bathroom. You grab your umbrella from where it’s resting against the dresser and hurriedly open it.

“Please don’t call again unless it’s a serious problem. One that you haven’t purposely fucking caused.”

He raises his eyebrows. “That’s unfair. Staying here means I’m also paying for your services, you know.” Then he adds, “Not that I believe in superstitions, but I thought it was considered bad luck to open umbrellas indoors.”

You roll your eyes, already halfway out the door. “That’s ridiculous. And it’s not like I was born with any luck to begin with.” You let the lock click behind you, not bothering with a goodbye or goodnight.

—

Guests continue to come and go as the season rolls into the beginning of July; they mostly consist of travelers from outside of the area, contract workers, and truckers. You and Alicia work yourselves to near exhaustion with upholding the motel’s operations. You have often thought it lucky that you found her when you did, as she’d just fired her previous two employees for stealing funds when you answered her ad. You don’t know how she would’ve done all this alone, owning and upkeeping this motel after her divorce from her husband; but she always carried herself as if she were just happy to be doing something entirely of her own volition, without him ordering her every move.

Amidst this rush, Ian’s been at the motel for several weeks now. You wonder if he plans on living here, as it seems he has nowhere else to stay. But he’ll need to eat soon, won’t he? Guilt begins gnawing at you as the days pass. You’re putting the other motel guests’ lives in danger just by having him here.

But he’s been doing this just as long as you have—and with greater frequency. He should know by now to avoid eating too close to home. In those quiet moments when you have more time to ruminate, you find yourself hoping that he’ll go somewhere farther out, maybe to one of the bars or a nightclub. As long as it isn’t here.

But you don��t know why you debate with yourself over this or wish such a morbid thing. Someone will have to die either way.

—

The last person you checked in had been hours ago, and the cut-off was at 10:00 p.m. No one else would be coming through here tonight. With that, you’d mentally prepared yourself for another night of getting things in order for the next morning. A half-empty cup of coffee sits on your desk as you go through the budgeting again, the computer’s light illuminating your face and straining your weary eyes. New bathroom faucets, I’m coming for you…you think.

Alicia’s floral perfume swirls around the room as she goes about tidying up the lobby area, switching out the magazines for more recent copies and sanitizing every hard surface with cleaning spray and a cloth. A couple with kids had been through earlier in the day to check out, and their kids had great fun making a mess of things, to the chagrin of their tired parents. Neither one of you had gotten around to cleaning it up until now.

You’re closing out of the budgeting spreadsheet window and about to move onto something else when your stomach twists and aches. It’s been so long that for a few precious seconds you don’t recognize the sensation, but then dread smashes into you when your brain registers it.

The smell of Alicia’s perfume is suddenly too loud. The smell of her body, soft and muscled and warm, is too loud. Your eyes drift to her tanned legs revealed by her shorts, and you’re overwhelmed with the need to sink your teeth into the fat of her thighs, the muscles of her calves. You swear you can already taste the blood running through her veins; you imagine how it’d feel on your lips. You want to sob from how badly you want it and how badly you don’t.

Your eyes sting with gathering tears as you breathe hard, your panic increasing. You should get up and go to the door, run outside and get the hell away from her. Even if you have to run into the highway and surrender yourself to death by speeding car, you should leave and spare her of this nightmare, but you’re incapable of making yourself move anywhere but toward her. Your body acts without your volition.

That’s how you find yourself rising from your seat, pressing your body against the desk counter as you take a couple of strained steps in her direction. Her body is angled away from you as she finishes wiping down an end table, and you see her cheeks rise as she grins in satisfaction at her own work. You understand innately that this smile will be the last, and a terrible ache swells in your heart. You know you’ll regret not seeing it fully so that you could imprint it in your mind.

“Alicia…” you moan, anguished.

She turns to you in alarm, and you want to scream when she walks over to you. “Y/N! What’s wrong? You look like you’re in a world of hurt.” Her breath is warm, and beneath the scent of spearmint, you can still smell a hint of what she’d had earlier. Some frozen TV dinner of mashed potatoes, meatloaf, and peas. You yearn to share her meal—suck her tongue into your mouth, chew it into pulp.

The sights and scents are all too much, and you are so, so hungry.

“Are you ill?” Alicia asks, brows furrowed as her hand clutches your arm. In your hypersensitive state, you feel each individual finger, the lines on her palms, and the swirls of her fingerprints. Though they are hands you have thought about many times before, it’s as if you know them intimately now—like you formed them and carved all the lines yourself. “I knew it. I’ve been putting too much stress on you, ain’t I? You coulda told me, Y/N.”

Tears drip down your cheeks as you shake your head in denial of her words. “I...I’m sorry.”

Alicia’s expression is soft and remorseful, her mouth downturned. “I should be telling you that.”

Her selfless words only worsen your guilt, even as you lean forward—your body controlled by a force you can’t deny—and press your lips to her neck.

When it’s over an hour later, the only things that remain are her bloody clothes. Physically, you feel frighteningly satisfied with your hunger now alleviated. Your reward for it? A shower of blood. The vinyl floor surrounding you is covered in red. Drops of blood streak down the front and side of the wooden desk, with more on the wooden wall behind you. There are probably more microscopic drops of blood all around the office that you’ll never be able to find. The air is filled with a mingle of odors; the cleaning fluid she used earlier, your unfinished coffee, iron and flesh, the ever-persistent woody, rustic smell of the office itself—and much farther in the background, Ian.

From your place on the floor, you drag yourself up onto your desk chair and fumble the phone receiver with slick hands. It’s difficult to see the buttons with the tears blurring your vision, and you futilely wipe them away, which just smears more of Alicia’s blood across your face. You have to think for a moment to remember which room number is his, and you desperately hope it’s correct as you punch it in.

You think you could faint when you hear his familiar accent. “Hello? That you, Y/N?”

“Help me,” you cry, your voice strangled from the tears and hyperventilating. “God, fucking help me!”

He hangs up a second later. You don’t know what you expected, but that wasn’t it. You begin resigning yourself to your fate as you slump into your seat, the receiver clattering on the desk. Some guest will find you here tomorrow and call the police, and you won’t be able to prove either innocence or guilt. What could you say—I ate her, all of her? You could open my stomach for the evidence; I don’t want to live anymore anyway? Despite what you tell them, the police will think you insane and continue searching for a body that no longer exists. That’s how it often is; another eater had told you this many years ago.

A fresh wave of tears bursts forth, and it causes you to miss the figure rushing past the windows and flinging the door open.

When Ian comes up to you with concern in his eyes, his hands reaching out to steady your shoulders and hold your bloody, tear-drenched cheeks, you don’t know whether he’s your demon or your savior. You feel a perverse relief at his presence, knowing that only he can understand your situation; and you resent him enormously for the casual way he can do the same thing and hardly think of it. It’s this curse you share, borne differently.

“We can clean this up,” he insists as he kneels before you, eyeing all the blood around him like he’s done this a hundred times before. You shake your head and begin to mumble a rebuttal, and he grasps your cheeks more firmly to regain your focus. “Darling, listen to me. It can be like it didn’t happen.”

“It did happen,” you retort, voice strained with anger. “Even if no one else knows it, I will. I can’t stay here and work here everyday knowing I—” your words break, “—that I killed Alicia.”

“You can do it, Y/N. You can get used to it. You have to get used to it, learn how to clean it up and move on. You don’t want to live a life constantly on the run—believe me.”

You practically snarl at him through the tears. “I can’t run a fucking motel by myself.”

He pauses, and then says, “I could do it with you. It’s not like I have shit else to do.”

You scoff. “And what when you need to eat? What then?”

“I could—”

“Start eating the guests, and this will become known as the motel where people go to disappear. How long do you think you’ll get away with that before the authorities come?”

“I’ve already told you I wouldn’t do that,” Ian insists. You think he might continue trying to argue with you, but then he says, “Okay. Okay. If you want to be done with all this, then we have to get the fuck out of here.”

“And leave it like this?” you groan, glancing at the bloody floor.

Ian finally lets you go so he can stand up. “Of course not. We have to clean everything. How many hours do we have until this office is supposed to open?”

You two spend the next several hours meticulously scrubbing every surface in the office. You try to turn yourself into an automaton—focus on the motions your body needs to perform and empty your mind. You aren’t successful. Too many times, you find yourself sniffling and averting your gaze from Ian’s direction so he doesn’t see your teary eyes, which is ridiculous in hindsight; he’s already seen you sobbing and covered in someone else’s blood. Held your face while you did so, like you were a small child. It doesn’t get much worse than that.

When the cleaning work is done, you stuff Alicia’s clothes, your bloody outfit, and the stained rags and brushes into several plastic bags you dig out of storage. Ian promises to stop somewhere so you can burn them all later. Everything else you take is more clothes to wear, some essentials, and your birth certificate folded small and stuffed in one of the pockets of your traveling bag—your only form of ID, and the only memento you have left of your birth parents.

Before abandoning the motel, you remove Ian’s name from the guest ledger to make it seem as if he never stayed there; his motel room looks untouched by the time you’re both done getting his things out of it and fixing it back up. You return his room key to its designated place on the wall of keys and then hurry out of the office, unable to spare another look at the place you’re leaving behind. You and Alicia lived and worked here for so long, spent so many exhausting nights and early mornings keeping the motel going even when it seemed like it might not survive, but there’s nothing left for you now. In just one hour, you destroyed it all.

So in the early morning hours when the motel guests are still asleep and there’s no one to witness but the gradually lightening sky and the cicadas, you and Ian hit the highway in his stolen Renault Alliance.

Once you’re a few miles away from the motel, you roll the window down to get some fresh air, and the warm breeze is one of the few things that helps hold you together. You almost want to stick your head out the window. Maybe if you fill yourself with enough oxygen, it’ll replace all the remnants of Alicia inside you. But you don’t want that to happen, either; you have nothing else left to remember her by but some bloody clothes that will be destroyed anyway. Only the memories of her smile, her sunny demeanor, her melodious Southern accent, and her perfume will remain in your mind, vulnerable to the passing of time. And eventually, those too will begin to fade and lose their clarity, gone to the same murky place within you that the other victims reside in, revived occasionally by your unpredictable nightmares.

“Where are we going?” you ask, and it’s the first thing either of you have said since you left.

“I’ve already been through most of the North…and I’m not really eager to go back soon. So unless you want to hang around the South a bit longer, it should probably be out West.”

“...I’d prefer the South. What kind of trouble did you cause up North?” you ask, your voice devoid of any meaningful emotion.

Ian glances at you and taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “Some…people saw me eating someone. I took someone to this broken-down house, looked like it had been abandoned for years and I knew people rarely came through that area, so I thought it was safe. But some fucking teenagers came there to do their graffiti and shit, and…”

“What did you do?”

“I ran. I hid out in the woods until night, and then I got the fuck out of the state.”

“Which state?”

“Pennsylvania.”

You nod slowly. “And then you come down here and get yourself stabbed. By the person you were eating, wasn’t it?”

Ian chews on his bottom lip before saying, “Yeah.”

In another context, you would make some comment about him being sloppy with it even after his years of experience, but you’re too drained to engage in the back-and-forth that would cause. You sigh and sink deeper into the seat.

“I’m not from this town either, you know. I’ve already done my fair share of running. But with the urge being so infrequent, it’s easier to stay in one place for a while. And even if I do give in to it, sometimes…I can pretend as if I didn’t. Buy myself some more time. Not much evidence but clothes, after all. And clothes are easy to get rid of.” You’re silent for a few moments. “But Alicia…” You close your eyes. “I can’t pretend.”

—

The beginning of your new life is exhausting. You’d forgotten how stressful it is to live like this; you’d gotten used to having one place to live in, the promise of running water everyday, and consistent meals that didn’t come out of a convenience store or vending machine.

You gladly watch Ian flirt with waitresses or waiters at the restaurants you stop in so you can get discounted meals. It doesn’t take much negotiation for him to get cheaper stuff at the occasional farm stand, either; the vendors are quickly enamored by his smile and his charming manner and those pet names he likes to lavish on every living creature. You don’t know where he got all of his cash from—probably that poor grocery worker’s house—but you do remain cognizant of how much of it is left every time you both have to buy something. You haven’t even touched the money you took from the motel safe yet, but that won’t last forever either. Your mind always remains ten miles ahead of where you are in the present, making it harder to focus on anything.

Sometimes you find an abandoned or empty house to sleep in for a few nights, left standing alone by the homeowners who are on vacation—whether permanently or temporarily. Entry is easier thanks to your lock-picking abilities. But most often, you two sleep in the car. Ian lets you have the entire backseat, which made you feel awkward at first. “Are you sure?” you’d asked.

“Quite. Why not?”

“...You don’t have to be so courteous considering we still barely know each other. I mean, you…” you faltered.

He’d given you this sarcastic smile and said, “How sweet of you to think of me, darling. I could sleep back there with you so neither of us has to deal with the front seats—”

“Nevermind. I’ll take it.”

And other times, he chooses someone at random—a bearded man at a gas station, an older woman at a grocery store, some sluggish-looking twenty-something eating lukewarm scrambled eggs at a down-home eatery—and spends a few days watching their movements. He’ll follow them at an inconspicuous distance in the sedan and find out where they live; subsequently, there will be hours of mind-numbing car-camping nearby as you both wait to see their vehicle turn down the road at the break of dawn or the onset of afternoon. Another day means more opportunities for observation.

But not everyone owns a car. Sometimes he’ll become interested in someone who’s traveling on foot, and he’ll leave the car to you while he trails after them for hours. You hate it the most when he does this.

He has enough decency to tell you a specific place where you can both meet at again in a few hours—maybe a park, or a drugstore—or he’ll say something about meeting you back here later.

“Later” is an unknown to you. Not knowing exactly when he’ll be back and not wanting to sit in the same place all day drives you mad. You might go to a local trinket shop or an outlet store or some boutique downtown to try to ease your anxiety. But sooner rather than later, you end up in your agreed-upon meeting spot, watching for his reappearance in the side mirrors.

Whether he walks or drives, you’re always left waiting on him once he decides to eat them.

The very first time he played this game, he’d told you to “come back later,” front door open and one leg already outside the car. You’d both been tailing a man for a couple of days already, and he had been none the wiser. He’d just returned home from work not too long ago; the sedan had rolled in after, and you both watched his house from your distant spot among the trees—waiting for something to happen? You didn’t know. The sun was setting, making way for the dark of twilight to paint the world; through the trees, you could see the glow of the house’s lights in the distance.

“What? Wait, what are you doing?” you hissed. You impulsively reached for his arm to pull him back in the car and then thought against it, retracting your hand. But you didn’t need to bother with pulling him back, because he leaned into you like he was telling you something confidential.

“Trying to give you a break. I would ask you to join, but I know you hate this and all, so just come back in like, two hours.”

You were unsure how to respond. You stared at him, knowing what he was about to do and wanting to stop him but understanding that your efforts would be futile. “Ian, what if I can’t find my way back here? It’s going to be pitch fucking black.”

He took your hand in his and squeezed it. If this was meant to comfort you, it did nothing of the sort. “You will. Just remember the street names.”

Then he’d left. You didn’t stay to watch him approach the house; you climbed into the front seat and carefully navigated the car along the path that wasn’t really a path and back onto the road. You waited the two hours, your eyes twitching to the car’s dashboard clock too many times as you drove aimlessly around the town with your palms sweating, hoping not to seem suspicious. All the while, you repeated the street names in your mind so that you could get back easily.

When the time came, you did find your way back—just as he said. The door was already open as you walked up the grassy path to the porch, your legs trembling from what you might find. Ian stood there with the yellow glow of the interior outlining his form, and as you looked past him, you saw that there was nothing amiss inside. There were no signs that any death had ever happened here, carefully scrubbed and cleaned away.

And that is how you ended up with a new home to stay in for a little while.

You’ve never seen him consume anyone, and you don’t ask. But sometimes you wonder…after he makes himself known to them—what does he do? Force his way into their house? Play whatever innocent persona that would give him a good reason to be suddenly on their doorstep, in their driveway? Does he press his lips to their neck the same way you do, the last gentle touch before the ravaging, or go for another body part—or does he kill them through some other method before ever sinking his teeth in?

Deeper down, you always wonder if maybe this will be the time he fails. That maybe he’ll change from hunter to hunted, or that he’ll be caught again.

He seems to have a preternatural skill for picking the types of people who no one would really miss, though. People who live alone and often in homes or trailers that sit off on a densely wooded and scraggly piece of land, separate from any houses nearby. Too far away for anyone to hear screams for help. Sometimes they’re the type of people who’ve burned all their bridges with their loved ones and whose calls for a savior would probably go unanswered anyway. This ability of his deeply unsettles you, but you never admit this aloud.

Once, you ask Ian why he even puts in so much effort—why he goes this far just to find someplace for you two to lay your heads at night that isn’t the worn material of the car seats. You aren’t expecting some virtuous or sappy answer, but you don’t quite anticipate his actual response either.

He hesitates for a moment, as if wary of how you’ll respond. “I like it—that’s all. That slow pursuit and the inevitable ending…somehow, they taste better that way.”

—

Initially, you weren’t sure if it mattered to have some sort of disguise. You’d crossed paths with hundreds of people at the motel and wondered if you might someday be recognized, that they would somehow know what you’d done, why you left the motel, and expose you to the national papers. (Some regional papers had reported on the motel’s sudden and unexplained abandonment, you find out later, but they proffered no clear answers for it or your and Alicia’s whereabouts.) But you didn’t know if those largely brief encounters would be memorable enough for anyone to recall you months later.

Either way, you end up taking your braids out not too long after you’ve been on the road. They were beginning to frizz to an unmanageable level anyway, and your chances of having them continually refreshed is virtually zero now. In a way, it’s a relief to not have them anymore, as if you have somehow transformed into a different person—a stranger you could look in the mirror at and not recognize as an eater—by letting your hair free. You burn the hair and all of the wooden beads inside a fire pit at a camping site, watching them die nestled in the flames.

But there are always occurrences that refuse to let you forget. Because on that same campground, you catch wind of another eater a few days after your arrival.

Their scent makes your stomach drop, as it always does in the presence of another eater. You wonder if they have purposely decided to stay at this site because they smelled you and Ian, or if they’re merely passing through. How will the encounter unfold this time, with three of you present?

When you go to talk to Ian about it, you find him by the river, where he has managed to catch a few fish. They sit nearby in a cooler. The midday sun beams down on the both of you with no relief, and you have to shield your eyes from the water’s reflection.

“I hope you know how to gut those, because I’m not doing it,” you say, frowning.

“It’s fine, babe. I’ve got it.” You scoff and roll your eyes, unimpressed.

“Can you smell that?” you ask him abruptly, quieting your voice.

He looks at you thoughtfully, but you continue shading your eyes from the sun and trying to appear casual and not at all disturbed. The continuous tapping of your foot gives you away, though. Ian glances around to see that none of the others near the river’s edge are close enough to hear, and eventually murmurs, “Yeah, I can.”

“Okay. Okay, maybe—”

“You’re nervous?”

You return his gaze then. “You’ve never met other eaters. I have. Let’s just boil it down to this: It’s often better for us to stay out of each other’s way. Us being dangerous to everyone else doesn’t mean we aren’t a risk to each other, too. Not because we feel actual hunger for each other—I’ve heard that isn’t possible. More strange genetic shit no one can explain. But some will feed on other eaters just because they can.” You shift uncomfortably. “Some see it as like…a conquest, I guess.”

“Is that why you were so eager to see me gone back then?” You don’t expect him to say that, and it takes you aback for a moment. He smirks, but the expression doesn’t have a genuine quality to it—like he’s only showing levity because he assumes you will be repelled by him without it.

“No, it’s…not why.” The real reason feels too vulnerable to disclose, so you don’t. Again, you find yourself unable to meet his eyes, and you return your attention to the blinding waters. “Look, I just wanted to tell you so that you’re—aware. I’m not saying we have to up and run away, but…”

Ian’s face becomes hard to read; you don’t know whether he’s feeling apprehension or whether he’s neutral about the possibility of meeting another eater. Or maybe even fascinated by it. “I get it. Let’s just see if they make the first move or something. And if they show themselves as dangerous to us, then we can leave.”

You don’t love the idea of sitting and waiting for something to happen, but you aren’t fond of the thought of packing up and hitting the road again either. You are beginning to enjoy this campsite; it’s not so remote that you feel isolated, but all the campers are spread out enough so that you can avoid feeling crowded in or watched. Or like you’re exposing others to danger. “Fine. Let’s see.”

—

You and Ian sit outside at the fire pit after eating, listening to the cacophony of frogs at the river and other night sounds as your after-dinner entertainment. You hear a train in the distance and wonder where it’s going. You imagine hitching a ride on it and traveling someplace where you can settle down without the prying questions of new neighbors and the requirements of real estate agents—buy a house and live in one place for the rest of your life like normal people get to do.

You scrub your face with your hands and sigh. Ian perks up at your heavy exhale, a question in his eyes.

“When I mentioned genetics earlier…” you try to order your words correctly, “...I think I got this thing from my mother. I was told that I was given up for adoption as soon as I was born, as her parents didn’t think she would be fit to raise me, and they didn’t want me either. They didn’t specify why she couldn’t raise me, but I always assumed it was because of that.” This is more personal than anything you could’ve told him earlier, and you aren’t sure why it comes spilling out now. “I don’t think either of her parents were eaters. I think it can skip generations, but I’m not really sure…I don’t exactly sit and have tea and reminisce about family trees with other eaters.”

You’d been passed between many foster homes as an adolescent, never truly feeling like you belonged in anyone’s home or that any of your new “family members” loved or cared about you. At best, you were tolerated or left to your own devices. At worst…you’d once lived with a strictly religious older woman who was half the cause of your constant feelings of guilt. She never found out that you are an eater, but there was plenty more than that for her to convict you about. The lectures about hell and brimstone still come back to mock you if you let your mental guard down for too long.

During the time when you’d been traveling through the world on your own, you only took shelter in churches—abandoned or not—if there was truly no other suitable place to camp for miles. The large windows always reminded you of eyes peering down on you, seeing inside of your soul and cursing you for the blood you’d spilled.

Ian leans back on his hands. The flames of the fire pit illuminate his face, and somehow, he looks different. Like the act of reaching so far back into the past is making him into someone younger, softer, and newer to the world.

“...I guess it would be my dad, then. I never knew him, and mum would never talk about him. I don’t know anyone else in my family who would be. Family secrets always stay so well hidden.” He begins chucking little sticks and other debris into the fire pit, and you watch them spark as they hit the flames. “Mum tried to hide mine once I started, but I felt like such a burden to her…I just went out on my own as soon as I could.”

“So when did you start, then?”

“When I was starting high school. What about you?”

“I was still in the single digits…eight or nine, I think…” I’d snuck out to my friend’s treehouse at night even though I wasn’t allowed to, and the hunger came without a warning. Despite the blood inside the treehouse, no one could ever figure out what happened. The missing posters all over town haunted me. The finer details are gone now, but you still remember the basics of it. These things arise in your mind but you don’t say them, wanting to avoid the sting of voicing what you did.

“So it’s not the same timing for all of us? I’d thought it was some fucked-up symptom of puberty that none of the other kids at school had gotten or something…” Ian says, his voice trailing off. After a moment of silence, you laugh and keep on laughing, though it’s more an expression of your incredulity at this situation—at your lives—rather than true amusement. Ian laughs alongside you, though he sounds more light-hearted about it than you do. “I’m serious.”

“Ah…yeah. I guess it kind of is, in a way,” you whisper, just enough to be heard over the fire popping and the forest’s sounds. “A coming-of-age type of thing. You can never be the same after it happens.”

“That first time was scary for me, but mostly because of mum’s reaction when I told her.”

“What about before you told her?” you ask, wondering if you’ll regret this question.

Ian tilts his head back and stares up at the stars for a moment. “Physically, I felt…complete. Like…I don’t know, sort of like something in me had been starved and empty my whole life and I didn’t realize it until I finally ate.”

To your surprise, you feel some measure of envy at this, wishing it could be that straightforward for you. If you could eat only to satisfy the need, to achieve wholeness, and not feel any particular emotion about it—least of all the normal combination of negative emotions that crash down on you afterward—things could be so different.

This and all your previous conversations together might be the most time you’ve spent talking about the urge with any one person. That realization cools your blood and makes you want to draw back again. You’ve told him about your relatives and nearly spoke of your first time, and now you find dangerous words itching in your throat: I think I envy you. Maybe it’s all too much to lay in his hands and trust him with—even though you had no choice but to trust him with your life at the motel.

Trying to restore the emotional distance between you, you get up from your spot on the log and promptly announce, “I’m, uh, gonna go piss.”

Ian’s eyebrows crease in the middle, and a short laugh bursts from his mouth. “Uh, sure, be my guest.”

You walk off into the trees, trying to tell yourself that the physical distance is enough for now—even though you feel like you’ve splayed your chest cavity open before him and let him scrutinize your every cell.

—

You wake up in the tent alone the next morning, pulled out of sleep from the sound of voices nearby. It’s not unusual for Ian to wake up before you; with you not needing to get up at dawn hours anymore to run the motel’s affairs, you take every opportunity to sleep as long as you can.

Within seconds of waking, you realize the smell of the other eater is much stronger, which raises alarm within you. You peek your head outside the tent’s opening to see what’s going on, adjusting your scarf on your head. Outside, you see Ian talking to someone else at the picnic table—someone who you can only assume is the other eater. She has strawberry-blonde hair that reaches the middle of her back and skin that’s been tanned from weeks in the sun; there are freckles across her face and chest, and her eyes are a clear blue. She seems engrossed in the conversation, and though you can’t see Ian’s face, he must be the same way; this is the second eater he’s met after knowing none at all his entire life. You’re reminded of the almost desperate way he’d appealed to you in that motel bathroom, and all your internal organs wince at the remembrance.

And then she glances over his shoulder and sees you sitting there yards away. A small smile shifts her expression, but it doesn’t have the same energy of the friendly smile you get from a passing stranger in public. It says I know what you are, and we both know you cannot hide it from me. It creates that familiar unease in you.

Ian notices the change in her face and turns to look at you as she gets up from the table to walk over to the tent. “Hello there. We were just having a nice little talk; it’s not often I meet other eaters who’ve never encountered their own before. You caught yourself a rare one.” She smiles with her teeth now. “I’m Sherry. What’s your name?”

You tell her a fake name, still cautious about your identity. You wish you’d been awake earlier to catch the beginning of their conversation, but it’s too late to ruminate on that. “What did you talk about?” you ask, shuffling out of the tent now. You’re only wearing a tank top and sleep shorts because of how hot the tent can get when you’re both in it; you don’t know how the hell Ian puts out so much body heat.

“You know, the things every person talks about…the weather, things to do ‘round here, favorite foods.” Sherry cocks her head at the last phrase, as if amused by her own words. You’re unable to muster up a smile to match hers. “Personally, I like to feed every month…I think Ian would agree. It’s too bad you don’t indulge as often, I hear? You could eat plenty more—not just when the hunger tells you to.”

It’s clear that he’s said more than he needed to. You shoot him an annoyed look, and Ian smiles weakly before biting his lip.

“I’m fine,” you say curtly. “Really. A few times a year is more than I could ever have asked for.”

Sherry nods, her smile never becoming less amused. “You’re one of those eaters who’s not fond of the whole deal. That’s charming. Maybe you were gifted with more compassion than the rest of us. Or maybe you’re just…repressed.”

A blurred montage of all the people you’ve previously consumed flashes in your mind, along with the lives they lived, and you don’t know whether to feel angry or defeated. “Better some compassion than none, I would say.” Even with the annoyance behind your words, it seems useless to say this; there’s nothing you could say to make her see things your way.

“To each their own.” Sherry shrugs, nonchalant despite your irritation. “But I suppose I should be going now to get my day started, so—nice meeting you two.” You both watch her depart, Ian giving her a wave before she disappears into the trees. You sigh deeply, trying to tamp down the boiling in your chest as you begin picking out something to wear for the day from the small pile of clothes you own.

“Alright, look—she came up and said hello, said she had smelled us, and I…I was curious about her experience,” Ian says.

“I don’t know why you’re explaining anything to me; you’re grown and can talk to who you want. No one was chewed to pieces, right?” you say sarcastically. “That’s pretty much a win.”

“Because you’re obviously annoyed.”

You stand up straight now, gesturing angrily with your clothes as you speak. “Maybe because you should’ve left me out of your conversation. I didn’t even want to talk to you about this shit at first, do you remember? But you kept fucking begging me. Now some stranger knows about my situation without me ever sharing it with them?”

Ian smooths his hair back with both hands and sighs. “Okay, I can see how maybe that was fucked up. I shouldn’t have said anything about you to Sherry, but do you realize she would’ve known you’re an eater anyway?” You glare in response. “I’m sorry, alright? But it’s hard for me to get used to you being so closed-off about it when all I’ve ever wanted was to know I’m not alone in this shit. It doesn’t make any bloody sense to me!”

“Because I never cared about being alone in it,” you say, and a tiny flare of guilt pricks you from the dishonesty. “I didn’t think about who else might experience it. I was too busy trying to hide what I was. Even if I did consider it, I didn’t want to be around anyone else who could’ve been—like me.”

Deep down, you realize that despite what you’d sometimes fantasized about Alicia—that if she were an eater too, she’d understand you without judgment and you wouldn’t have to live under such stressful circumstances—the reality is nothing of what you thought it would be. Living your life with another eater hasn’t relieved you of the condemnation and shame you always feel, and you wonder if maybe the emotions have been ground too deeply into your soul to escape them.

The darkness in Ian’s gaze reminds you of the way he’d looked at you and Alicia when you confronted him in front of the motel office. “Stop bullshitting, I don’t believe you. People get lonely about smaller shit everyday, but you didn’t care whether you were the only cannibal in the world or not?”

Before you can respond, you hear the sounds of foliage rustling and feet shuffling; there’s a small group of people walking one of the trails yards away and laughing about something. You can make out flashes of their clothes through the tree branches and bushes. Sweat springs up on your body.

You lower your voice, hoping they haven’t heard any of your conversation. “I don’t give a fuck if you don’t believe me. Your experience isn’t the only one there is. Just stop telling others my business. You don’t have that right. For all I know, you could’ve slipped something about the motel.”

Ian’s eyes widen. “I didn’t say a damn word about the motel! All I mentioned was that sometimes the urge takes years for you, and that you hate it when it happens. You think I’m that unreliable, after all I’ve done to help you since then?”

You know he’s right about the motel, at least. You’re still somewhat incredulous that he dropped everything to help you clean up and escape unseen when he could’ve stayed in his room, acted like nothing happened, and left you to be hauled off by the law. But you’re angry, and though it may be petty, you don’t want him to be right about this. “What am I supposed to think of you? I don’t fucking know you like that. In case you forgot, we were perfect strangers not too long ago.”

“And I try to know more about you so that we aren’t strangers, but you never want to talk about anything. Last night was something rare, but does that even matter to you?”

Your conversation from last night is like a distant memory, the personal details you shared with each other now dust in the wind. You wish you could take all of those words back, embarrassed from the vulnerability you allowed yourself. You wish you’d never known about him being a kid in high school, not knowing what to make of the new life that was waiting in his DNA, and that you hadn’t felt some measure of sympathy for him after hearing that story. You wish you’d done a better job of keeping him at arm’s length.

You gather your clothes close to your chest and shove your feet into your shoes so you can head for the river. “I’m starting to think it was a mistake. That’s all I know.” You walk past him without waiting to see if he’ll reply, trying to ignore the hurt in his expression.

—

The next morning is similar in that you are awakened by the sounds of voices again, but this time they are alarmed. Shouting, searching. Farther away, but approaching your area.

Ian’s next to you sleeping this time, his back to you as you sit up; at the start of this camping excursion you both had agreed to sleep facing away from each other, mostly for your own comfort. But it’s also convenient in this current situation when you’re still pissed at him.

You climb out of the tent to get a better listen, standing in the early morning air that’s already becoming too hot. You realize now that the shouts are someone’s name—Michael. The distress and pain are palpable in the voices of the people calling for the presumably missing person, and your stomach begins hurting with dread as your mind fills in the blanks about what might’ve happened. Not in such a public space…

Ian pokes his head out of the tent a few moments later, his long hair covering his eyes. “My God, what the hell is going on?”

“How would I know?” you scoff, squinting through the trees. You see a middle-age man and woman heading your way; there are other individuals spread farther out in the forest, still calling that person’s name. You catch glimpses of them through the foliage, their hands cupped around their mouths and heads swiveling like owls. When the couple reaches your camping spot, you notice the tear streaks on both their faces.

“H-have either of you seen this boy between last night and this morning?” the woman blurts out, holding up a picture with shaky fingers. The person depicted is a gangly blonde boy with a bowl cut who looks to be fifteen at the most. His wide smile shows his metal braces, and he’s holding up a large catfish. “We can’t find our son, p-please. He l-likes to go out exploring by himself even when we warn him not to, even at night—and he didn’t come back this time—he must’ve went out last night and got hurt or something, b-because some other campers found a patch of bloody grass…” The mother collapses into incoherent sobs.

The father tries to pick up where she left off, though his brown eyes are also wet and red and troubled beyond measure. “S-some other campers found this area of bloody grass in the deep woods away from the marked trails, so we—we thought maybe he got hurt and wasn’t able to find his way back—this is our first time camping here—b-but…”

“There…there was so much blood,” the mother gasps, shaking her head and clutching the picture so tightly you think it might rip.

“I-I’m…sorry,” you say, your throat feeling choked with a guilt that’s not yours to bear. “We haven’t seen him, or anyone else. We went to bed pretty early and only just woke up, so…” You ate dinner in silence with Ian last night before heading to bed earlier than usual. He’d stayed out by the fire pit smoking a cigarette for a while longer before coming in beside you.

The father nods, though your words seem to be another weight on his shoulders dampening his hopes of finding his son. “Thank you,” he mumbles, gently tugging the mother along to the next camping area.

“Jesus…” Ian mutters. It’s hard for you not to get lost in a rabbit hole of thinking about that boy and his apparent love for fishing and what he might’ve become if given the chance and the time. If only someone had had some kind of mercy on him. If only some otherworldly force had saved him. If only someone had simply not chosen him as their meal.

You walk away from the tent, trying to settle your nerves and corral your thoughts. You don’t know where you’re going, and you don’t respond to Ian’s call of your name, but you let your feet carry you away until you’re standing at the shore, looking out over the river. You listen to the tiny waves splash against the shore and feel the cool water run over your feet and try to let it ground you.

Maybe you shouldn’t care. Not when you’re capable of the same; it’s too hypocritical. Still, you can’t stop thinking about it as you dig your toes into the mud, trying to block out the sounds of the search party in the far distance. You’re almost ready to crouch down and put your hands over your ears when a hand touches your shoulder. You whip around to see Ian behind you.

“What?” you ask, voice coming out louder than you intend.

“Relax,” he murmurs. “It’s not like anyone thinks it’s us.”

“Why would they? And who cares about that?” you snap. “A boy is dead, and you’re sitting up here—of course it wasn’t us. But we do know—”

“We don’t know that he’s dead, and we don’t know that either.”

“You don’t think she did it?”

Ian sighs. “Should we assume that? If she did—it was always gonna be someone, Y/N. If not him, someone else. No one gets spared when you have to live like we do, you know that.”

“You two seem quite similar, honestly,” you say, exasperated. “Maybe it’d make more sense for you two to be together like this instead of us. I just can’t understand how you think.”

Maybe you’ve made a huge error. Not by accepting his help, or even by renting him the motel room—you’d have to go further back than that. You shouldn’t have even gone out to check on him that night. You could’ve avoided this all if only…

One decision. The difference between you being in this campground-turned-crime-scene and you standing at the motel desk taking yet another stranger’s information was just one decision.

…But you still would’ve eaten Alicia, wouldn’t you have? The hunger is always beneath the surface, just waiting to reemerge. If not then, it would’ve been later.

You’re spinning out of control. The thought comes to you suddenly: There’s no way you can sustain this strange relationship with him, in which you travel endlessly with no destination and you try to pretend like he doesn’t eat other people and like you don’t have the same craving. Your talk at the fire pit should’ve shown you that; how can you ever be on equal ground with him in the way that another eater like Sherry could? And why should you want to? You’ve been trying to outrun this desire to consume for as long as you’ve had it; you won’t let him make you think this is normal.

Even if your thoughts are anchored more in your current emotional frenzy than in reality, you’re unable to regulate yourself to see things differently. A vise of panic grips your body and crushes you between.

There has to be a way out of this.

“Y/N. I don’t think you’re in the right state of mind right now,” he says more gently, noticing the frantic vibe emanating from you. “If you’re that concerned, we can leave, okay? Remember, we said we’d leave if things didn’t feel right?”

“Right…” you murmur, though your mind is elsewhere, planning. “Tomorrow. We can leave tomorrow.”

When night falls, Sherry returns to your campsite. To your knowledge, the search party is still out there somewhere, pushing out to the very edges of the campground’s boundaries to cover all the bases. All of the other campers who didn’t get involved in the search have either decided to stay to themselves or leave.

“Hey, friends. I come with gifts.” Her smile is big and white in the dark of night as she holds up some beer cans and a pack of cigarettes.

That’s how the three of you end up sitting around the fire pit, smoke from both the flames and the tobacco curling through the air. Your beer can sits nearly empty in your lap; you’d taken a few apprehensive sips at first, and then more, in an attempt to numb yourself out. Sherry leads the conversation, talking about her travels and the exciting things she’s done and never once bringing up anyone she’s preyed on. You don’t know if she avoids the topic for your comfort. You highly doubt she cares. You say little to either of them, too lost in your own mind to engage.

But eventually, amid a lull in the talking, she sighs as if burdened and then smiles. It’s an odd contrast.

“I’ve always preferred to feed on males,” she announces. “I like to pretend each one of them is my father. I guess you could call it daddy issues, but I don’t give a fuck.”

Your heart quickens. “Your father?”

“‘Course. He’s the one who gave me this little gift. Then tried to kill me for it. Ain’t that something? Didn’t even do me the dignity of eating me; he tried to strangle me with his bare hands like some kind of brute.”

“That’s so fucked up,” Ian mutters.

“If I didn’t fight him like a bat outta hell, I’d be dead. I didn’t eat him after. I just ran away from home and never came back. But shit, sometimes I wish I had eaten him.” She chuckles, taking a drag from her cigarette.

“So, the boy…” you start, but don’t know how to finish.

Sherry leans her head against her palm and studies you before saying, “Take a guess.” Ian raises his eyebrows.

“But why him?” you ask, voice cracking. “Why in a place like this, with so many others around? Don’t you think it’s dangerous?”

“It’s not if you know what you’re doing.” Sherry shrugs. “Besides, he was curious, easy to lure, and outside at night when he shouldn’t have been. They never expect danger to come from a sweet little thing like me. You should take advantage of that.” Sherry gestures to you, grinning again. “Use your feminine wiles and all that shit.”

You pour the last bit of your beer into the grass and stand up from the log you’d been sitting on. “It doesn’t work like that for me.” You walk back to the tent feeling chilled despite the humidity of late August. You try to ignore the sensation of two pairs of eyes following you.

—

That morning, you wake up much earlier than Ian does. You check to make sure he’s asleep, his chest rising and falling evenly, as you crawl from under the covers. You’re as careful and quiet as can be as you gather your things in the tent and strewn around the campsite—though they are thankfully few—and shove them into your traveling bag.

Once you have all your belongings together, you slip back into the tent. Ian’s jeans are folded in the corner with his other clothes; you know the car keys are in one of the pockets. As you slowly search through them, you hope that he won’t awaken. You watch his face for signs of consciousness, and as you do, the sight of him lying there scratches at something deep inside of you. It arouses a sentiment you don’t want to think of as sympathy. Are you betraying him in some way by doing this?

The feel of metal against your fingers causes your heart to race. You slide the keys out with as much control as you can muster. Then you back out of the tent, telling yourself this is the last time you will see him, before letting the flaps close and obscure your view of him.

You don’t breathe properly again until you’re in the parking lot, clutching the strap of your bag and the car keys like you’re being hunted. You falter in your steps, however, when you see Sherry in the parking lot too, messing with something in her car—a boxy, dark red Chevy. She isn’t the only person out here—there’s a man and his small child at their own car, the man tiredly searching for some beloved toy in the backseat while the child whines—but somehow you feel cornered.

You try to ignore her as you shove the key into the lock and throw your bag into the passenger seat, scanning the trees as if Ian might be there, shouldering his way out of the foliage. There is no one.

“Leaving so soon?” You turn at the sound of Sherry’s voice, unsure when she got over here and how she moved so soundlessly. “It’s probably for the best; there’s rumors the park rangers are gonna be temporarily closing this site.”

You shrug, your body stiff. “And?”

Her eyes search the car as if looking for something in particular. “Doesn’t look like enough stuff for both of you. You’re leaving Ian behind?” She laughs, her face simultaneously surprised and amused.

You don’t owe her an explanation, you tell yourself. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I won’t. When I think about it…you two probably wouldn’t have made it very far together, anyway.” She throws her hands up in a casual what can you do? motion and makes for the treeline, calling over her shoulder. “Maybe you’ll change your mind about eating one day.”

“Maybe not,” you mutter, sliding into the front seat and starting the engine.

—

Summer fades into fall, though the weather doesn’t yet reflect this change.

You drive for miles and try not to think about many things—most prominently, Alicia or Ian. Yet, your version of not thinking about Ian involves a lot of ruminating on whether you should’ve left, what happened to him after, where he might be now, whether he decided to tag along with Sherry or just ended up alone again. You feel sick whenever the last possibility crosses your mind.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. He was alone before me, and he’ll be fine after me. We were never really going to work anyway.

During your worst times, you wonder if you were purposely setting him up for disaster; you’d told him yourself how dangerous other eaters could be. You know you would never try to feed on him, but what about Sherry? The guilt threatens to make you implode; sometimes you want to fly back down the highway and find him again somehow, and say…what? What could you say to make it less horrible? Whenever your mind turns down that road, you attempt to convince yourself that it doesn’t concern you anymore. Whatever happens to him, good or bad, is no longer your business.

Not thinking about Alicia involves a lot more open wallowing and feeling sorry for yourself while simultaneously hating that you feel any pity for yourself. You deserve no one’s sympathies. But that doesn’t stop you from curling into the backseat and recalling past memories through sobs, dragging your fingernails down your arms until you bleed and scar. Even when you’re asleep, your dreaming brain conjures terrible scenarios in which everything is normal again, you’re working at the motel again and you’re laughing at some silly comment she’s made, shying away from her as she tickles your arm or pinches your side, and it feels so real that it’s physically painful when you awaken.

So you spend your days like this, hoping to somehow purge the trauma from your system by ignoring it—and doing a terrible job of both. You go entire days without speaking to anyone, walking through parks or down busy sidewalks without regard for the people around you who buzz with life and excitement. You count the money you have left every night and begin shoplifting to try to slow down your spending. You even consider finding a job again, though you still don’t trust yourself to be in such close proximity to other people for hours at a time; you just have to find a city you like enough to live in first. Somewhere populous enough for you to be insignificant, and fast-paced enough for you to have plenty of distractions from your oppressive thoughts.

You ponder this idea one early morning in a small diner; there are a few people here for their breakfast, but not an uncomfortable amount. The other diners are too sluggish or disinterested to regard your presence—or each other’s presences.

The atlases for several different states lie on the table in front of you; you flip through one on Georgia. You and Ian had collected many of them while traveling. Maybe you could work somewhere that doesn’t require you to be around too many other people. A call center, perhaps. But you’d still have coworkers. Maybe a typist job; you’d spend all day behind a computer filling in spreadsheets and taking tedious phone calls. It wouldn’t be much different from what you used to do. You could sew clothes in the backroom of a tailor’s shop, or take some mind-numbing factory job…

You just need something to occupy your mind. Being left alone with nothing but your thoughts and the road ahead of you is wearing you thinner each day. Was it even this bad during the time you spent alone after Marygold? You can’t remember. Maybe your brain is blocking the memories for your own sanity.

As you place your tip on the table for the waitress, she stops in the middle of gathering your dishes and observes your face. You catch her gaze and stare back, wondering if she knows you from the motel. You’re beginning to mentally spiral when she says,

“You look like a girl who’s lost to love.”

“Love?”

She puts a hand on her hip, looking at you like you’re the saddest thing she’s seen all year. It makes you uncomfortable. “You have that lovelorn look I’ve seen a thousand times before. Poor thing. Who would think of breaking your heart?”

Myself. “I don’t love anyone,” you mumble, chest aching as you say the lie.

“Everyone loves someone,” the waitress says. “I believe you’ll find someone new, if that’s what you’re yearning for. Don’t be so down.”

You shake your head, wanting to escape this diner and this conversation. “I’m a little too fucked up for that.” Your voice fractures on the last words, and you hold your body still in an effort to stop yourself from crying. If you hold your breath long enough, maybe your body will shut itself down and forget that it was about to break.

“Everyone’s a little fucked up, too, girlie. But that’s why you find that special someone who can put up with your crazy—or someone who has the same wild hair up their ass.”

You swallow hard and let out an exhale; there’s still a sheen of tears on your eyes, but the drops haven’t fallen. Your lips form a miniscule smile at her turn of phrase, amusement briefly flitting through you.

“Anyway, I don’t mean to be nosy. I just didn’t want you to leave here looking so depressed.” You probably look more disturbed than you did when you first entered the establishment, so you’re pretty sure that mission has failed. But some part of you appreciates that this stranger took the time to even speak to you, to care that you looked upset and want to do something about it.

She smiles and places her hand over yours. You allow yourself to take comfort in the touch for a moment; warmth spreads upward from where your hands meet, sparking something in your chest. But in an instant, the vault door in your heart slams back closed from where it’d cracked open, and the fears rush back in, spiking all your senses into anxiety. You’re soon pulling away, slipping out the front door and into the morning sun.

—

You’re not sure how to feel when you smell him again.

The scent comes to you while you’re in a grocery store, debating whether to pay like all the other customers or just steal the few essentials you need and leave. The end of October is days away, and the vibrant Halloween decor and packaging are in full force throughout the store.

Many emotions race through you at once. You become hyperaware of your increased heart rate and the sweat that prickles your body, and you can’t figure out whether you’re afraid of or angry at his presence. Or relieved. You wonder how he managed to find you again—probably the same reason why you know he’s here without laying eyes on him, though that seems unlikely. You don’t think any eater can pick up smells from that kind of distance. Then you consider that maybe this is just a coincidence, the two of you arriving in the same place. Or some sick variant of fate. Could the universe be that cruel?

You think about dashing out of the store before he can see you, though there’s not much point. Why should you run? You were here first. If so-called fate has decided that this reunion was always going to happen at some point, then you don’t want to spend the rest of your life running from him. So you wait for him to come to you, trapped in a tornado of emotions.

You’re in the vegetable aisle trying not to get sprayed by the misters suddenly cutting on when you see him. You shake droplets of water off your hand and then you glance up and he’s there, approaching you like he only intends to leave this store with one thing: you. For a split second, you wonder if it’s really him; his hair is unkempt under a baseball cap, and he’s wearing a pair of yellow-tinted glasses you’ve never seen on him. His bag is slung over one shoulder.

You can feel the anxiety pouring off of him when he stops in front of you; his fingers tremble as he fidgets with his rings. He has the air of an older brother—or what you’d imagine one to be like—annoyed and afraid after you’ve run off without him in the store and gotten lost, and you don’t know whether to laugh or cry or curse.

“Didn’t expect to ever see me again, huh, darling?” Ian keeps his voice mostly even, but it sounds like that requires significant effort. “Not the way you drove off with my fucking car, I bet.” It was never your car, you think.

“How did you even find me?” you ask, voice small.

“Think about it. The atlas.”

You do think about it. And then you remember; you’d talked about the next place you’d travel to after staying at the campground. You both agreed on a random town named Hendersonville, which is where you are now—but only after months of directionless hopping around from city to city. How would he think to come here now, months after the fact, when it’s possible that you could’ve already been through the town and long gone, or decided to never visit Hendersonville at all? Terrible fate…

Something else catches your attention before you can reply to this. Despite the agitated state you’re both in, you realize that you’re picking up on his scent and no others.

“Did you and Sherry…?”

“She’s dead,” he says.

That’s the last thing you expected to hear. “What?”

He pulls down the collar of his T-shirt. There are many scars along the junction of his neck and shoulder that weren’t there before, and it takes you a moment to notice that some of them resemble teeth marks.

“So…” Your throat seizes up, and you have to clear it a couple times to speak again, though you avoid speaking too loudly. “...she tried to eat you?”

He lets his collar go and nods with a jerky movement. “After only a month. I had to kill her or she would’ve done me in. It was close.”

Your words haunt you yet again. Us being dangerous to everyone else doesn’t mean we aren’t a risk to each other, too. And for that reason, you don’t understand why he’s returned to you, a fellow cannibal.

You are shocked again when you register that there’s a small part of you that feels sorry for Sherry. You think of how she tried to regain control after her father’s attempted murder of her by preying on so many other men, doing to them what she wished she had done to him, only to end up dead by another man in the end. There’s something terribly unfair about it all.

“I…see.” You realize you’ve been holding a bell pepper for an awkwardly long time, and you waffle between getting a plastic bag for it or setting it back down. Frustrated, you toss it back with the others.

“Then I ate her,” he continues. You resist the urge to recoil.

“And you’re back here in front of me because…why? You’re not worried I might turn on you the same? I did take ‘your’ car.”

His laugh is colorless and dry. “You’re fucking joking, right? I know how you are. You can barely stand to talk about it, and I’m supposed to believe you’d eat me?”

“Shut up.” You’re more offended by him saying I know how you are as if he understands you so intimately after only a few months. It angers you to think maybe he could know you��know all these unpleasant things about you and still want to return for you. You begin walking away from him then, though there’s no real urgency in your movements to get away from him.

“You shut up. You may have tried to throw me aside, but we both know we’re not finished with each other.” He follows you into another aisle; there’s an old woman pushing a cart coming from the opposite direction, and he waits to speak again until after she’s gone. “We’re some of the few who know what it’s like.”

You suck your teeth, feeling foolish. “But…that’s why I left you. Thought you’d gravitate to Sherry, fit better together.”

“You see how well that turned out. What does it really matter that we feel differently about it as long as we’re not trying to fucking kill each other?”

You don’t know how to respond to that, because responding would mean admitting you’ve put yourself through months of emotional torment on the basis of a false and impulsive assumption. You want to bury the guilt chewing at your organs but it only worsens when he says,

“I just—fuck’s sake. I don’t want to be alone again.”

You stare at each other as those words settle in the air, though you struggle to maintain eye contact and soon look away with a wince. The most unbearable part of it is the pain in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I fucked things up when I shouldn’t have. I…misjudged.” Your words fade at the end, as you are left with nothing else to say to remedy the situation. Ian rubs a hand across his face, shifting his glasses up as he does so, and you pretend like you don’t notice the redness around his eyes. The both of you continue walking down the aisle, slower this time, the silence between you thick. Neither of you feels any better than you did before this meeting, but at least there aren’t thousands of miles between you anymore.

Finally, he says, “So. Are you gonna get anything, or will we just walk around until closing?”

“Well…I don’t know. Do you have a car? How did you get here?”

“I’ve been hitch-hiking. And walking. But mostly hitch-hiking.” As if to prove it, he slides a wad of cash halfway out of his jacket pocket.

“Oh. I—was thinking of finding a job,” you blurt out. It has nothing to do with your current conversation, but you feel like you’ve lost your ability to talk to him in his absence. You reach for anything to stop from thinking about the reason why he was gone, why he had to hitch-hike with total strangers. “To get more money.”

“And staying here?”

“No…there isn’t anything in this town for me. But maybe somewhere else.”

“Gotta find somewhere to live, then. I’m guessing you aren’t counting on having a roommate.” His voice is cynical, and you know he probably expects you to abandon him again.

“It was just an idea,” you mutter. “I haven’t even tried to look for anything.” You find that you’ve walked back around toward the entrance of the grocery store. A life-size skeleton grins at you open-mouthed from where it’s been propped against a display bin, all 32 teeth showing. You shake your head and sigh. “Let’s just get out of here. I’ve been in here long enough.”

The sky is turning dark blue with the onset of night as you walk outside; the streetlights have already come on. You go to the driver’s side of the sedan and gesture for Ian to get inside. He hesitates for a moment like he might reject—your heart nearly ceases—then throws his bag into the backseat. Exhaling, you get behind the wheel. For a moment, you just sit there with your hands slack on the wheel as he gets in beside you and lights a cigarette with shaking fingers.

You almost miss his quiet words when he speaks at the same time you start the engine up: “Did you even miss me?”

You don’t know if you can admit that you did—or that “missing” him felt more like something had been scooped out of you, your insides painfully scraped clean afterward. You chalk it up to your inherent loneliness, the reason why you’re drawn to him despite not wanting to be. You wish your heart hadn’t reacted so painfully at the possibility of him deciding to leave you after all, and yet you have no one else. Not your grandparents who abandoned you, your cannibal mother lost somewhere in the world, or your father who died before you were even born.

“I…regretted it.” You don’t look at him, occupied with pulling out of the parking spot. “Yes, if it makes a difference for you to know…I regretted it all the time.”

He says nothing for a while. You wonder if your reply was enough, if he expected more. It feels like there’s a third thing in the car with you, sitting in the space between your bodies and preventing you from fully accessing each other—everything that remains unsaid.

“Where are you staying now?” he finally asks.

“An abandoned barn near here. Seems like the owners just up and left all their things. Still smells kinda like horse, but…the loft isn’t so bad.”

“...Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

—

“You never did tell me exactly how you showed up at the motel that first night,” you tell Ian. “I deserve to know that much, at least. What brought you into my life.”

It’s the second week of November, and you’re still in Hendersonville.

You gaze at the large pond before you, your view broken every so often by Ian walking through the overgrown grass around the pond—treading an aimless path but never venturing very far from the car. The engine is still warm underneath your butt where you’re half-leaning, half-sitting on the hood, and you try to enjoy the warmth while it lasts.

The pond is about 10 minutes from the barn where you’re staying, and you’d driven here several times when it was just you. But you’ve only been here during the light hours; seeing everything at night is much different. Something about it feels overly familiar in a way that unsettles you. The scene threatens to dredge up old memories of your nighttime swims with Marygold—right down to the nearly full moon, huge and clear in the sky. You have to fill the quiet with your voice if you have any hope of outrunning the dark thoughts.

Ian crosses his arms and sort of side-eyes you, like maybe he’s skeptical about you initiating a conversation like this after the fallout of the camping excursion, and you mimic him until he breaks with a small, barely-amused laugh. Better to focus on his past issues than your own, you figure—as fucked up as that may be. You don’t move your gaze from him as he tells the story, watching him continuously flick around a few loose strands of his hair on his forehead.

“Right. Well…I tried to eat this young farmer guy—saw him at this country bar, or he saw me, and I guess he liked what he saw…I ended up going home with him, because I was hungry. That’s why I’d gone to the bar that night. Told him I was living on the streets and had barely eaten in days. Made him feel sorry for me. And then I tried to eat him…but when he started fighting it, I didn’t realize he had a pocketknife, and he got me pretty good before I ended up killing him. Too much commotion alerted the neighbors. I only had enough time to try to bandage it before I had to get the fuck out. Walked through a fucking corn field…then eventually I reached the highway, and you know the rest.”

“So you killed someone and didn’t…finish them.” The thought of that almost bothers you even more than the eating itself. It just seems senseless. The man could still be alive now, but his life was ended and went to complete waste; his body didn’t even serve its purpose as sustenance. You realize that this isn’t even the first time this has happened, thinking back to that time he was caught while up North.

He doesn’t seem offended by your shift in mood—maybe just weary. He rubs his eyes. “It happens. But I aim to make sure it happens as rarely as possible.”

You turn away and look across the pond again, your mind getting lost in the dark copse of trees on the other side. Being outside at this time of night is not the most comforting thing in the world, but in truth, is your nature really that different from whatever dangers lurk in the woods? “I wonder, then…how are we any better than the average serial killer?”

“We kill because we have to.”

“Being chained to our physiology doesn’t get rid of our blame.”

“I never said it did,” Ian replied. “And that’s your problem. Eating doesn’t need to be innocent or pure or blameless in order for you to accept that it’s a part of yourself…it just is.”

You can’t muster the will to counter him, and he doesn’t press the matter, likely not in the mood for yet another round of verbal sparring. He resumes walking his circles, wearing trails into the grass. You continue sitting on the hood long after the engine has cooled, watching the moon’s reflection tremble on the water’s surface and imagining what you’d tell Alicia and Marygold and all the others if they could hear you, somewhere in the universe.

I’m sorry. It’s just who I am.

—

With Hendersonville behind you, you’re back to sleeping in the car many nights. Among the various things you see as you travel through urban cities and rural areas, fall festivals are common occurrences everywhere.

There’s one coming up in the distance now; you’ve been idling in evening traffic for minutes, and it becomes clear that this congestion must be because everyone’s heading to the festivities. You press your face closer to the car’s window glass to see. The bright lights of the numerous booths, rides, and decorations illuminate the late evening. Countless people walk or run around, some wearing elaborate outfits.

You’re just coming from a mom-and-pop restaurant where the wife of the owner had called you darling even more than Ian does. She’d assumed you both to be lovers and gave you a free slice of pumpkin pie to share, and neither of you bothered to correct her if it meant treats you didn’t have to pay for.

As you observe the festivities, you see that there are two booths set up on either side of the festival’s main entrance; one claims to offer some type of spiritual readings, denoted by a large sign of a purple crystal ball. But your eyes catch on the bone-white trailer sitting on the other side of the entrance. It has been converted into a mobile booth with a large sign with red and blue lettering that asks one question: Are You Going to Heaven? An older man with graying hair sits in the booth, hands clasped together as he watches groups of people entering the festival grounds. It’s too far away and too dark to be entirely certain, but you don’t think you’re imagining the cross hanging up behind the man on the trailer’s wall or the thick book resting near his hands.

“Looks like they’re having fun,” Ian says, face illuminated in red by the taillights of another car, one hand on the wheel.

“Mmhm…” you answer, your mind still hung up on that booth and sign as the car finally drives past. Memories of your former life knock at the door of your consciousness, but you don’t let them in.

You’re unable to ignore your discomfort later that night, though, when you and Ian return to the safe parking spot you’d found days earlier and settle in to go to sleep. The cold has finally become a permanent fixture as the months venture deeper into late autumn, and you clutch your blanket tightly to your body as you drift off in the backseat.

In your dreamscape, you wake up in Alicia’s bed in the living quarters of the motel office, blood dripping from every part of you—hands, arms, face, chest. The sight of your bloody hands splayed out in front of you makes terror spike through your body, your breaths coming short. As you turn to look at your surroundings, you see the remains of Alicia lying on the bed next to you, her torso almost completely hollowed out. Her brown hair is streaked with new and drying blood—same as the red-dyed ivory of her broken rib cage. Her dead eyes look at you with a frozen expression, pained and imploring. Begging, even. Why did you do this to me?

You have the sensation of screaming, feeling it emanating from your body and hearing the sound pierce your ears, but your mouth isn’t open. You try to scramble off the bed and away from the mess you’ve made of the woman you love, but no matter how hard you fight, you have no leeway; it’s like the sheets are holding your limbs hostage, sucking you in like quicksand. Sweat pours from your body and stings your eyes.

In the next moment, you’re no longer struggling, and Alicia is no longer next to you. You’re not in her bedroom at all anymore; you’re sitting at a kitchen table you don’t recognize. The kitchen has a rustic and homey appearance, as if it belongs in a country homestead. Lacy floral curtains frame each side of the window above the farmhouse sink, allowing the dark orange evening sunlight to stream in, and the black wood stove a few feet away from your chair has a steady fire burning inside of it. Someone’s cooking, then, or preparing to cook. Who?

Ian turns to face you from where he is standing at the counter—when’d he get there? You didn’t notice him before—with two porcelain plates in his hands and a delighted grin on his face. Have you ever seen him look so happy before? You smile back at him as your eyes shift from his face to the plates; balanced on top of each is a perfectly bloody heart, the muscle thick and hardy and still beating although it’s attached to nothing. The kitchen floor around you both is stained with large swathes of blood, which have sunk deep into the wood’s fibers, though you hardly notice this.

Ian sets the table and sits in front of you, and neither of you bother with utensils as you pick up each heart with your hands. You hold the heart against your lips, feeling the slickness of it and letting the blood smear across your mouth, marveling at the constant pumping motion of its ventricles. It’s endearing, you think. How it tries so hard to maintain life when it’s fruitless anyway.

Then you bite into it.

You both eat ravenously, blood staining your mouths and hands the deep shade of carmine. The taste of the raw flesh is better than any food you have ever consumed, and innately, you know this is what you were made for. You laugh at how good it feels, glancing up at Ian with pure mirth. The indulgence is so sweet that you don’t notice the wood stove growing hotter and hotter in the corner of the room until the wallpaper behind it catches fire.

By the time you finish eating and regain enough wherewithal to realize what’s going on, the entire room is ablaze, and you are alone. The fire crawls up your chair and then engulfs the table. There’s nowhere safe for you to run, but you try anyway as the flames catch hold of your feet and then your legs, eating their way up your body. You stumble through the house screaming, the heat raging around you at an incomprehensible level.

Your skin begins to slough off and you scream endlessly for it to stop, but it never does. There is always more skin to replace what’s being scorched off of you; it grows back with an unbearable itching sensation as it knits together, only to burn right up again. You collapse to the ground on your hands and knees, though it’s excruciating to put weight on any part of your body.

Through the brightness of the fire and the heat haze, you make out a strange white and blue pattern on the floor in front of you, and you realize that it’s shards from the porcelain plates. Together, the broken pieces spell out:

Are You Going to Heaven?

You wake up in a flurry of limbs and blanket, hitting Ian who’s sleeping in the reclined front seat. The accidental violence combined with the sudden rocking of the car is enough to startle him awake. His voice floats out somewhere in the chaos, but you don’t really register it as you fling the car door open and stumble out of the sedan. You walk a couple yards away from the car—just enough to let the cold night air spear through your skin and convince you that you’re no longer trapped in a much hotter place. You hear the front car door open behind you and footsteps on the grass as Ian steps out. He calls your name, and you pretend not to hear as you stare at the ground and then toss your head to the skies, hands on your hips for some sort of stability. Your stomach aches badly, but you can’t get sick now.

“What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?” he asks when he gets closer.

It takes you more than a minute to work up a response without the possibility of a scream or vomit tumbling from your mouth, and he waits patiently as you do. “Y-yeah. It’s…probably not that big of a deal…I was…” The next words spill out before you can think to keep them inside. “Just a bit…freaked out by a…sign.”

“A sign?”

“The sign at the…festival. The white booth…” You wave your arm, unable to say much more. A steady throb is starting to take over your skull, and it’s too much effort to keep talking.

Ian thinks for a long moment before he seems to realize. He takes another step towards you. “Babe, look at me; it’s okay. Nothing bad is gonna happen to you. You’re fine. I know it feels bad in the moment, believe me, but you’re here now, and you’re safe.”

“You can’t guarantee that,” you murmur. You can’t imagine the look on your face right now, but your eyes feel dry and painful, like you’ve actually been in a fire pit for hours. Maybe he can safeguard you against the physical dangers this world presents, but he can’t hold your hand into the afterlife. If there even is one.

He grasps your upper arm, but only lightly so as not to make you more distressed, and draws you into his side—his head leaning into yours, his hair tickling you when the wind blows through it. You find yourself sagging into him even though you hate yourself for doing so. You don’t deserve this show of affection, not after how you left him behind and not even before then; you desperately want to preserve the distance between you, and yet you want this touch, too. You’re unable and unwilling to tease apart those feelings, though, as the only things that register in your mind are that he is warm against you, he is doing his best to comfort you, and his smell—the smell of him, not of being an eater—has become familiar to you in a way that disarms some frantic part of your brain. Because of all those things, you allow him to put his other arm around you and silently hold you in that grassy lot.

And for the first time since you met in that grocery store again, you feel like whatever’s between the two of you isn’t broken beyond repair.

—

1986

The next time you eat someone, it happens at a nightclub in January.

Going to this club is Ian’s idea, although you agree to it when he brings it up. In hindsight, you can’t say what possessed you to do it. You’ve never been a fan of crowds of people because they could readily create a catastrophic situation if your hunger comes. Maybe it’s how fresh everything still feels after the New Year passes—the sensation of anticipation it brings. Maybe it’s the blanket of stars that appear extra luminous tonight, rivaling the shine of the city buildings around you. Maybe Ian has just gotten better at using his powers of persuasion on you, or his recklessness has rubbed off on you, similar to how you feared his desire for flesh would increase your own when you first met him.

No matter the true reason, you find yourself amidst a scene of sweaty strangers boxed in by the small club’s four walls. The other people’s proximity to you quickly spikes your anxiety, driving you away from Ian and back to the outer edges of the room, though he tries at first to persuade you to dance with him. You give him a slight smile and an eye-roll and let your arm slip through his tattooed fingers.

“Go dance,” you mouth to him before heading toward one of the many booths lined up against the far wall.

You sit there watching everyone dance for a little while, working up the nerve to rejoin the crowd. There are so many bodies, all moving to the sound of In My House playing over the speakers at what must be max volume.

“Did you come here alone?” a feminine voice shouts from your left, startling you. You turn to find a woman with softly-waved hair that touches her shoulders; she wears a dress with big swirls of color, the flared skirt stopping just past her thighs. Your gaze goes all the way down her pantyhose-clad legs to her high heels and back up again. The pink and purple lights framing her from behind make her seem like she’s glowing.

“Uh—” Awkward pause as you try to figure out how to respond. “I…didn’t, but the person I came with is just my friend, so…” You shrug. It feels somewhat odd to refer to Ian as a friend, even after all this time. You are two people traveling in the same direction, lashed together by your fatal flaw, but you suppose “friend” is as accurate as it gets.

She smiles amusedly, undeterred by your awkwardness. “So that means you’re free to dance with me, then?”

You think about how you rejected Ian’s offer and chuckle to yourself. Ironic. But you find yourself not wanting to say no to this woman with her sweet brown skin and dimpled smile, despite your inner sense of judgment trying its best to pull you back. So you accept, still feeling embarrassed as she slides her lace-gloved hand into yours and guides you onto the dancefloor again.

Her perfume contains different notes, but as you dance together to another uptempo pop song and the aroma encircles you, it reminds you of Alicia’s signature scent all the same. You try to put that reminder out of your mind, though it’s difficult. Instead, you make an effort to focus on her shining face under the lights, the long gold earrings dangling from her ears, the sway of her black hair and dress as she moves.

You Give Good Love comes on afterward, and before you know it her body is pressed to the length of yours, virtually no space left between you as she tucks her face into your neck. You put your arms around her and sigh at how she fits against you, thinking you might like to do something like this more often. All the time, really. It feels good in a way you don’t quite have words for, even though you’re still surrounded on all sides by a bunch of sweaty and excited people. Just by the movements of your bodies, you could close your eyes and be spirited away to some other realm where everything is right—where you are not the monster you’ve come to believe you are.

You are finally beginning to relax a bit when your stomach twists painfully.

All your organs freeze from the shock of this unexpected sensation. You have paused indefinitely, and you watch your body from above as you and the woman continue moving together, two dark figures flashing in and out of the strobing lights. And yet, you simultaneously feel yourself still in her arms. Her breath is on your neck, warm and smelling of alcohol and some fruit—lemons. The muscles of her back are beneath your hands; you want to peel her skin away and see what they look like underneath, run your fingers across the striations. Her soft cheek is pressed to yours, so soft that it makes you want to tear into it like the flesh of a plum and swallow it. Your mouth twitches with the desire to consume.

“No!” you shout, pushing her away from you so fiercely that she falls back into someone behind her. You turn and begin shoving a ragged path through the club-goers. The sights and smells of pure humanness are overwhelming, begging you to tuck your face into the nearest neck or arm joint and just bite. There are too many hearts beating in one space, too many lungs expanding with wet and bloody life. You begin to cry, but you force your body to continue moving until you’re stumbling through the club’s back exit.

In the dank alleyway behind the club, you splash through a puddle and collapse behind a dumpster, pressing yourself into the corner and hoping that the smell of garbage will disappear your appetite, though you know it doesn’t work like that. You tuck your head between your knees and try to breathe evenly. The music is only slightly less loud out here; whereas it was simply an overzealous volume before, you feel like you’re being crushed by the sound itself in your overly sensitive state.

You don’t know how long you sit there shaking, the hunger ripping your stomach apart and forcing a long whimper out of your mouth, but your whole body jumps when you hear the exit door slam open. When you look up, Ian’s stepping out of the doorway and fumbling with the limp body of a man, his hands clasped around the man’s arm and waist.

You watch with terrified eyes as Ian lowers the man to the ground in front of you, leaning him against the wall so that he won’t slump over. “No—what are you doing—”

The man in front of you is too drunk to put a sentence together and barely seems to know where he is. His sweaty brown hair flops in his eyes, and his bearded mouth moves with nonsensical speech.

“No,” you cry again. “I can’t do this. Don’t make me do this!” Ian crouches beside you.

“Darling, you have to eat.” His hand is on the back of your neck, not forcing you toward the man but trying to ground you in your body. He’s so close that his words reverberate within your nervous system. Eat. You shake your head, but you’re becoming lightheaded from the sheer hunger. The smell of alcohol from the man is overpowering, but underneath it you can still detect his vulnerable fleshiness, and you need to know how it tastes. As if once again disembodied, you watch your hands reach for the man’s shoulders, Ian’s own hand slipping away from your neck, and bring him closer so that his throat is bare to you.

You mouth at the sweat on his neck, the saltiness intensifying the taste of his skin; you lick his Adam’s apple and savor how the ridge of it slides against your tongue. Then you bite down.

The tears continue to roll down your cheeks as you devour the man. Ian doesn’t leave you to dine alone, however.

He reaches into the mess of the open chest, digs between the deflated flaps that are the lungs, and tugs out the man’s heart. Takes a bite of it. You watch as he does, horrified but unable to look away even as you crush part of a rib between your molars. He offers it to you—tears the muscle in half and gives you the unbitten part. You accept it with eager hands and eager mouth, chewing through muscle fibers like it’s a delicacy. Ian licks the blood from his fingers, a smile playing at his lips, and goes back for more.

It’s too much like the dream, and it frightens you. You half-expect a portal to hell to open beneath you both and send you free-falling into a lake of fire. But you are unable to make yourself stop. Neither of you stop until an hour has passed and the blood and a pile of crimson-stained clothes are all that remains.

You find a still-intact plastic bag in the dumpster and place the clothes into it before tying it thrice and shoving it as deep into the trash as you can.

Using an old rag from the dumpster and another puddle of water at the back of the alley, you both do your best to remove the blood on your hands and faces. It makes you feel disgusting, but it’s the best you can do for the time being, and you can’t go inside the club or onto the streets like this. Then you shove the rag back underneath the pile of trash, too.

As you and Ian emerge from behind the dumpster and walk down the sidewalk to find the sedan, despair envelops you. You accept it inside of you—let it spread throughout your bones and blood without much of a fight. You are defeated, understanding fundamentally that you can never be like the people in the club, the people walking these city streets, no matter how many of their human peculiarities and normalities you try to adopt. The knowledge hollows you out.

On the way back to the house you’ve been squatting in, you steal a cigarette from Ian’s pack and turn the radio to several different stations before choosing some talk show discussing nothing you care about. Emotionally, you’re floating somewhere in the space between numb and wounded.

But people die everyday, right?

Like with Alicia, Ian tries to prevent you from becoming lost in your grief about it. There isn’t anything said between you during the car ride. But once you get to the house, he wipes the fresh tears that spring forth, runs the shower for you, and makes sure you have clean clothes for afterward.

“Are you good?” he asks before you get in the shower, standing in the bathroom doorway with you. He brushes your cheek with the same hand that plucked the heart out. There’s still blood underneath a few of his fingernails and staining the cross on his ring. For a few seconds, you feel an unfamiliar comfort in knowing that he has seen you destroy another person and feels no animosity or repulsion toward you because of it.

“I’m fine,” you murmur, shifting your face into his palm. But the moment passes, and the chill overtakes you again. You step away from him and shut the door, letting the bathroom fill with steam.

—

Your feelings toward Ian have always hovered in an odd limbo, going from distrust to tolerance to something that can be called companionship. But just like the seasons transition into each other, something inside you starts to shift after that night at the club.

Your eyes begin lingering on him when he lifts his shirt to wipe away sweat or strips it off entirely when the heat becomes too much. Your gaze can’t help but be drawn to the way his long hair sticks to his damp, darkly-inked neck, or how his cigarettes fit between his full lips like they were made specifically for his mouth. When it’s the last few weeks of winter and you have no choice but to sleep together in the backseat for extra warmth—the car’s HVAC system on its last leg—being smushed into that small space with him isn’t unpleasant like you once assumed it would be. Far from it.

When you and Ian go to a theater one day—one of those matinees in the middle of the week that only elderly people attend—and end up watching a random film that you didn’t know was a romance, you are startled when you have the sudden thought that you want him in the same way. That you wouldn’t mind him holding your face in his hands again but kissing you this time, or walking down a street hand-in-hand, or lying next to him in some stranger’s bed and listening to him talk until you fall asleep. You try to send those thoughts somewhere far away, but days pass and they keep coming back, and that wanting in your chest only grows.

You’re reluctant to think of your feelings as love—at least not yet, with your heart still grieving the woman perished by your own hand—and you know he can’t save you from this reality that you must live in until your time ends. But as imperfect as everything is, you feel like he knows you in some inutterable way. You begin to believe that this could be enough. Maybe you’ve always subconsciously understood that the world of love is no home for monsters, proven by the multiple times it has expelled you from its viscera, leaving you shaking and bereaved. But maybe whatever this is now could be enough to escape its view and its judgment—two monsters together to leave the humans to their softer affections.

And though he doesn’t say anything outright, Ian notices your newfound attention, smiling knowingly whenever he catches you looking. His hand stays on yours for longer than it needs to whenever he passes you items, his fingers trailing away from your skin like they regret having to leave. When he shoplifts supplies when the money is low, he swipes silly little trinkets that he says he “thought you would like.” You catch the way he always presses his body closer to yours when you’re sitting together on a pier, on the hood of the car, on a random bench—anywhere. The tension builds between you for what seems like forever, drawing so tight that you’re almost afraid you both may get hurt when it snaps.

When it finally does, it feels natural to do, this dance that unfolds in the backseat of this sedan he stole over a year ago. You both know the hunger for flesh intimately even though you experience it in such different ways; instead of it being a grotesquerie that would repel a normal lover, it’s a bond that has inextricably tied you together, for better and worse. In that sense, the joining of your bodies is just another type of desire for you two to tease out the intricacies of.

The catalyst is one question posed to you on a humid summer night. “...Darling, answer me honestly.”

Ian’s eyes are heavy with some mix of want and curiosity when you turn to look at him. You’re both sitting in the backseat as you study a map from one of the atlases; you’ve spent a half-hour trying to figure out the best route for your next destination in Georgia, tracing the lines illuminated by the car’s dome light. Maybe you’ll both try settling down this time; find that new job like you said, and live in one singular place for a few months. Someone else’s house you can pretend is your own, someone else’s car you can drive around the city. Years are too heavy to think about, but months…you can do months.

But it’s clear your decision-making is over. Your attention had broken every time you sensed his eyes shift to your face and stay there for a little while, searching for something, before moving back to the map. Now, you let the map lie forgotten in your lap.

“What is it?”

“Would you hate it if I asked to kiss you?”

Your body temperature rises, but you reply to his question with a question. “Have you thought about that before?”

“Many times.”

You swallow hard. You want to ask him about the first time that thought crossed his mind—did he realize it around the same time you did?—but you say, “And why do you think I would hate it?”

“Things will change between us.”

“Things have already changed between us, several times.”

“This is different,” he insists, and you notice that the space between you has decreased, bodies subconsciously drifting even closer together. “If we go down that road, I don’t want us to go back. I don’t want you to have to wonder about whether I care for you. I want you to trust me.”

You lean your forehead against his, a small smile forming on your lips. “I already trust you, Ian.” You have never vocalized it before, but you find that you really do mean it.

Then you move forward, doing yet another thing that would’ve been utterly absurd to you this time last year—pressing your lips to his. Your insides feel like they’re melting, but not in the uncomfortable way that comes from the summer heat. It happens in a way that makes you think that, maybe if you both melt down into your very basic parts and become nothing but atoms, you might blur together completely. Ian’s reply is immediate in how his hand comes up to your nape, his mouth separating from yours for one painful second only for him to kiss you deeper. The map slips between you and to the car floor. It’s strange to indulge in this close proximity with another person without the threat of death, without the underlying worry that you’ll become hungry in the worst way, but it’s also freeing to a degree you didn’t know was possible.

That’s why you allow yourself to become submerged in his body heat, his mouth, his hands—everything.

Afterwards, you both climb back into your clothes only halfway; your shorts are left somewhere underneath one of the front seats, and Ian doesn’t bother putting his shirt back on—though it stays off most of the time anyway. Your bodies are sluggish but satisfied as you rest your head against his bicep, tracing your fingers along the tattoo under his sternum. They come away damp from the sweat that shines on his body. You still feel all the places on your own body where his lips and fingers touched, as if your skin has been imprinted, and you wonder if it’s the same for him.

The window is rolled down to let the smoke curl out as Ian takes a drag from a cigarette. A soft rock station plays on the radio, and he taps the beat of the song on your knee with his free hand. For the first time in many years, your mind isn’t crammed full with constant thoughts of guilt and contempt about being alive and being what you are. Even if it only lasts for tonight, for now, you can just exist.

#dpr ian x reader #dpr ian imagines #christian yu imagines #christian yu scenarios #dpr scenarios #black reader #x black reader #female reader #fem reader #black fem reader #x black fem reader

91 notes · View notes

morganski-19 · 6 months ago

Text

Chills Right to the Marrow Part 25

ao3 link| part 1 . . . Part 22, part 23, prev part

Before Wayne can even make it through the hospital doors, someone is whisper screaming his name. He turns to see Steve waving over to him. Calling him around the corner of the hospital. Where Jim and that Wheeler girl are standing. Looking serious as hell.

“Don’t be mad,” Steve starts, making Wayne nervous, “but I told them about the problem with Eddie’s bills not getting covered.”

Wayne crosses his arms. Giving him a chance to explain himself. “Alright.”

“It’s just. I called the contact that I’ve been talking to about all this, and that got me nowhere.”

Nancy rolls her eyes. “Because you screamed at them for ten minutes and then hung up expecting them to do something about it.”

“I was very persuasive,” Steve defends.

“Hit them with your charm, did you?” she asks, annoyed.

“Jesus Christ,” Hopper groans. “Point is. Steve called me in because I’ve dealt with them before and should be able to get them to hand over the funds for Eddie’s treatment. All of Eddie’s treatment. The surgeries, the physical therapy, the checkups for at least a year. Everything.”

Wayne’s taken aback. When Steve said that the government should be covering the expenses, he thought that was an exaggeration. That they would really just throw a couple hundred dollars at him and call it a day. Give some shitty consolation for the damage the town did to his kid.

Because if this were really just an earthquake, there would be nothing to payout. Maybe a little for the false charges and the man hunt. Possibly a little to give Wayne a steppingstone, along with the rest of the people who were severely injured or lost a home, as a nice gesture. All of it though, that seemed impossible.

“Why would they do that?” Wayne finds himself asking. Ripe with disbelief.

Steve scoffs with all the annoyance in the world. Not at Wayne, at whoever he’s been screaming at over the phone. “Cause it’s their fucking fault we’re in this mess to begin with.”

“Steve,” Hopper warns. Nancy doing the same with her hardened stare.

“What,” Steve almost snaps. “He deserves to know after all he’s been through.”

“I get that,” Nancy’s voice, full of the same sympathy she showed him that day in the trailer park, cuts through. “But we signed away our right to.”

Wayne’s starting to realize that all of this is so many layers deeper than he originally thought. He already knew that the bullshit excuses the nurses gave him when he first arrived at the hospital couldn’t be true. There was a difference between getting hurt by falling rubble and getting skin torn apart by animals. And Eddie’s scars were too similar to bites to be hidden by shotty excuses.

Their argument gets hushed to whispers. Steve getting more annoyed at the second. Continuing to gesture to Wayne, or inside the building, as he continues to make his case. Poorly, Wayne assumes. With the way that Jim and Nancy keep aggravating him. Making point after point on how Wayne can’t know the real reason his son his hurt. Suffering in his hospital bed.

May continue to suffer the rest of his life.

“Could you all just cut the shit and tell me somethin’, anythin’.” They all look at Wayne, startled that he’s raised his voice beyond the acceptable volume. Getting on the verge of bringing excess attention.

Their mouths start to open, probably filled to the brim with excuses Wayne’s too tired to hear. Ones that already fill his mind. Keeping him in the shielded innocent that hurts more than the actual truth would.

“I don’t care for the excuses, so don’t even try. I just want to know why my son almost died. Why I found that girl mangled like that in my home. Those aren’t images that just go away, I’d like to know why they were there in the first place.”

Nancy and Steve make eye contact, looking like they��ve come to an agreement. She opens her mouth, starting to talk when Jim cuts them all off.

Jim, who understands Wayne’s pain more than either of them do. Who looks hardened like a veteran, tired of all this damn fighting. Wanting to live a life filled with peace, but having a soul that can’t let him. Someone who’s fought more battles than people know and isn’t given credit for it.

He’s been kind to Wayne, while keeping the real truth in reserves. Either out of pity, or out of protection. Maybe that’s what he’s doing now. Or maybe he’s finally stopped caring about dried ink, and instead about the people it’s stained.

“It started with the lab,” he says in a hushed whisper.

“Hop, you don’t have to,” Steve cuts in. “You’ve already done enough.”

Jim shakes his head. “You kids don’t need them hunting you down for this. They’re already pissed at me, what’s one more thing?”

What shit did Eddie get himself into this time?

After a deep breath, Jim continues. “The Hawkins Lab wasn’t a normal lab. You know they caused that gas break a few years ago that caused a few people to die. And the news said they shut down, but they didn’t. In secret, they continued to do their experiments, expanded them onto animals, and even as far as people. One escaped along with some animals and started killing people. That’s what happened over spring break.”

It sounds so surreal that Wayne’s debating the validity of these statements. Whether they’re real truth or carefully spun lies. So close to the real thing to be believed, but not close enough to be entirely correct.

But he wanted to know. He wanted to believe that this was true. That the answers were finally given to him.

“What about Victor Creel?” Wayne was so sure that was the answer. Was so sure that the crimes were identical.

“It was his son,” Nancy interrupts before Jim can keep talking. She looks at Hopper, tired and determined. “You’re not the only one going down for this. I was the one who exposed them in the first place.”

“Some of the animals got lose near Eddie,” Steve adds to the story. Filling in the pieces that Jim wouldn’t know. “He was looking after Dustin while Nancy, Robin, and I were going after Creel. He got Dustin to safety, getting the animals to follow him so they didn’t come after us.”

Wayne has the intense need to sit down. Feeling like his feet have been knocked out from underneath him. His world rocked on its axis, almost turned upside down. The truth much worse than anything he could have imagined.

He can almost feel the sensation of teeth ripping through flesh. The pain Eddie must have don through, just to protect his friends. To make a sacrifice that no one asked him to.

Everything he’s heard through clipped sentences and brief explanations finally make sense. The picture coming into focus in his head. The pain crashing over him all at once.

And he’s angry. Angry at the recklessness of his nephew. At the lab for starting all this shit to begin with. At the people who left him behind and couldn’t stop him. Because he knew that Eddie would run into the face of danger a million times to protect the people he loves. Anyone with a shred of knowledge about him would.

The thing he’s angry about the most though, is how damn proud he is of this kid. It’s the one emotion that comes to the forefront in all of this. He’s never been prouder of Eddie in his life.

Wayne raised Eddie to be more than himself. To think and care for others the way his father didn’t. He’s proud that Eddie protected these kids. Angry that he did it in a way that almost killed him. Feeling like it was his own fault that he raised Eddie to be so reckless with his own life.

But he looks at the people in front of him. Sees the guilt imbedded in Steve’s eyes, and the regret in Nancy’s face. The sorrow that Jim shares. Remembers the way that Dustin sat at Eddie’s bedside for days on end, thinking that he was the cause of it all. When really, it was the most Eddie thing that Eddie could have done.

next part

tag list (capping at 100, only 4 spots left): @the-they-who-nerded, @insteviewetrust, @croatoan-like-its-hot, @jettestar,

@tinyplanet95, @steddie-as-they-go, @slv-333, @littlecelestialmoth, @thatonebadideapanda,

@fandomsanddeath, @marismorar, @wonderland-girl143-blog, @glass-bottle03, @gutterflower77,

@here4thetrama, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @jaytriesstuff, @cryptid-system, @manda-panda-monium,

@resident-gay-bitch, @anaibis, @xxsutherlandxx, @forevermineliv, @mugloversonly,

@gregre369, @n0-1-important, @different-tale-student, @spectrum-spectre, @tartarusknight,

@devondespresso, @swimmingbirdrunningrock, @cheertain, @anti-ozzie, @autumncrocusandladybug,

@greeniebean911, @cr0w-culture, @stillfullofshit, @connected-dots, @daisynotquake,

@morgannotlefay, @a-little-unsteddie, @dolphincliffs, @maskofmirrors, @me-and-my-sloth,

@papergrenade, @waelkyring, @sweetheartprincess28, @katouasobj, @astercomoasflores

#chills right to the marrow fic #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #wayne munson #wayne pov #he's finally starting to get some answers yall #even if they aren't entirely correct #steve harrington #nancy wheeler #jim hopper #eddie munson

117 notes · View notes

sugarakis-p2 · 1 year ago

Text

Diavolo's dark desires

art by vellatrelle

Did you know curiosity is a sin? Diavolo becomes worried for a you who is consumed with asking questions and seeking answers. Despite the belief that you will not be missed, the importance of justice is always on his mind. The question arises of what punishment awaits you if you are caught pursuing your curiosity.

WARNING: 69 (Sex Position)Tentacle Sex Anal Fingering ,Anal Sex, Anal Play, Double Penetration, Foursome - F/M/M/M, Alternate Universe - Prison, Loss of Virginity, Mutual Masturbation, bl touches, Oral Sex, Oral

Happy valentines day! Extra filthy for you!

Stepping into Devildom was a complete culture shock that you faced with eagerness. After all, the tales of the stunningly beautiful fallen angels had spread far and wide. Despite the massive implications of living in a tri-dimensional reality, the world refused to accept the presence of the other realms that co-exist with us.

Demons and angels have long been enshrouded in mystery of the two concealed worlds they inhabited, with the religious implications being the most controversial of all. Unraveling the spiritual aspect of this emergence was unquestionably the most significant challenge. Yet, gazing into this extraordinary new universe changed life as you know it, rendering it impossible to turn away. If for no other reason than because the rumors of the beauty of the fallen angels were legendary.

Diavolo's presence was as alluring as it was disturbing. He was beautiful, but at the same time, his existence felt like a looming threat. The first day he answers the question on every human’s mind. Is religion correct? His cryptic words cause tension and curiosity.

"I am Diavolo the current lord of the underworld. They are right and wrong from what lore I do know," he said laughing. "There are so many versions it will take me a hundred of years to compare to what I have experienced. My mission is to bring balance to the worlds. Welcome, and let us learn from each other."

His enigmatic answer only amplified the unease pervading the air, inviting more questions that you hoped it might be willing to answer. What exactly does 'bringing balance to the worlds' mean? Is something out of balance therein? What consequences could unfurl? You were eager to discover the answers to these inquiries yet fearful of what the truth might entail. It doesn't sound like anything good to you.

Trying to communicate with the demons is absolutely petrifying. With salacious lust in their voices, they discuss how delectable mortals appear to them. Not with a hint of amusement or in a fun sexual way, but instead with a sinister plan to eagerly consume their prey's sweet, tender flesh. Detailing their craving for the sound of crunching bone and sucking out the marrow from within, they scheme of devouring hearts and licking the squishy eyes out and popping them like grapes between their fangs. Their longing for delicious human flesh is undeniable. Whispers of how they could probably eat one, and no one will notice. Yet they vigilantly respect Lord Diavolo's edict and never fail to obey his orders. This is always followed by a shudder when his name is mentioned.

The fallen angels are as sinister as the pure-blooded demons, ready to pounce and easily provoked. Somewhat ominously, they have a curious affectation towards their resurrected sister spirit, with whom they indulge in a profoundly uncanny courtship; they embrace her like a beloved, yet their embrace is that of a niece with their sister's spirit indelibly embedded in her. You couldn't wrap my head around what you were being told. The thought of it is simply too disturbing to comprehend. The avatars of sin live up to their names.

The angels may appear pleasant, but the air has a definite chill. Any questions about their past are met with a wall of silence, creating a feeling of distrust. Trouble finds them at every turn. Last but not least, the others. The strange beings can only be called chaotic, which makes sense because the classes are also chaotic. The history of devildom is sterile and makes little sense. Devildom's mysterious origins only add to the bedlam, creating a swirling hurricane of chaos.

After months of struggling to adapt, you were summoned to Diavolo's office. With a smirk of satisfaction on his dark face, his assistant Barbartos served tea as you warily took your seat. Diavolo seemed jovial, but you knew the devilish wheels in his head were turning.

"So, tell me what the problem is." He pauses, and you tell him nothing is the problem. Then, slyly suggested employing a Devildom liaison. Instantly, a chill ran up your spine as you vehemently rejected his suggestion. You could feel Barbartos' prying eyes on you, and your stomach dropped as he handed Diavolo your diary. The cloying scent of the tea was oppressive as the silence stretched between you.

"Is it because you have some reservations about Devildom?" Diavolo asked. The hollow thump in your chest echoed ominously, and you gulped down the bitter brew in your cup. Your fate was in Diavolo's hands.

"Where did you get that?" You ask, a hint of unease creeping into your voice. Diavolo gives a sinister chuckle as he abruptly opens it and reads the contents out loud.

"Very ardent pejorative opinions," Barbartos says ominously.

"Indeed. You seem uneasy," Diavolo purrs with a menacing gleam in his eye.

"I'm fine," you reply hastily. Diavolo arches one dark eyebrow and studies you intently, knitting his fingers and looking concerned.

Barbartos sighed deeply. After all the blood, sweat, and tears they put into retrofitting Devildom for humans, he couldn't help but wonder if they had done enough. But the inquisitive gleam in Diavolo's eyes was undeniable.

Before Barbartos had the chance to voice his concerns, Diavolo declared with a vast grin, "I think the best thing for you, little guest, would be to experience Devildom for yourself! And I'll escort you!" A thrill of excitement coursed through Barbartos at the idea, a hint of a smile spreading across his face. Because he knew what was to come. Before you could collect your thoughts, the moment was gone. He was pulling you away, not giving you any time to argue. You were frightened but also, somewhere deep within, excited. You had no idea where you were going, but you knew it would be amazing. The next thing you knew, you were in the air with the wind in your hair. The thrill of the unknown filled you as Diavolo swooped you away on an incredible adventure. You had no clue where you were headed, but you had never felt so alive. His grip was firm but gentle, and you knew that wherever you would go, he would be by your side. You were so excited about the adventure ahead!

He took your hand in his. Your heart raced, filled with adrenaline and warmth. You had thought he was deceiving you with a fake smile, but the look in his eyes told you he was sincere. Wrapping his arm around your waist, he twirled you around the mall, admiring all the extravagant displays of the latest fashion trends. You couldn't help but laugh at his child-like fascination with the new, modern inventions of humans. As he grabbed some cotton candy, he studied the wispy sugar cloud before placing it in his mouth. He was adorable as he tried to understand where it went when he put the sugar cloud in his mouth. Onlookers stared, your cheeks flushing with color. You giggled, and Diavolo looked at you with a seductive smile before he brushed your hair off your face. Diavolo's eyes pierced through yours as he leaned in, brushing his lips against your forehead in a gentle kiss. You couldn't decipher what you felt, just a flustering, warm sensation. But as you looked away, you noticed the dark glint in his eyes, and you couldn't help but wonder what else he was capable of.

As you walked, he entertained you with funny anecdotes and stories of his days creating the school. You listened intently, your attention never dwindling. They stopped in front of a jewelry store, and he pointed out some exquisite diamond pieces to you, asking your opinion about what looked best.

You proceeded to try on the different pieces, and when you chose a sparkling necklace, his eyes lit up and he said, "That one looks perfect on you. You should definitely keep it," with a mischievous smile on his face.

You protested lightly, of course, but eventually gave in and said, “how could I resist your sweet gesture?”

He shook his head and said, “You can’t, and I knew it!” You both laughed before he led you to the register, where he paid for the necklace and presented it to you with a grand gesture. You two shared a brief laugh before he moved to the register. With a grand gesture, Diavolo gave it to you. Your heart fluttered as you opened the box, and the necklace shimmered in the light. Speechless, you put your hand to your mouth. In awe, all you could whisper was, "Wow."

"It's not as beautiful as you," Diavolo said with a mischievous glint. You thanked him, feeling a tapestry of emotions ripple within your chest. Hand-in-hand, the two of you walked out of the store with heartfelt smiles. The air was alive with bliss and anticipation as you looked forward to more dates.

I hope you made up your mind to stay. His penetrating gaze fixed upon you as he spoke earnestly and passionately.

"It is important for you to keep your grades up. Tell me, what you wrote in your diary—were those your true feelings?"

A tremor ran through your body as you struggled to keep a brave expression. Still, you could feel every bit of your being burning under Diavolo's penetrating gaze. You shift under that intense gaze of those strangely appealing eyes. You felt forced to answer.

You reluctantly admitted, "Yes, those feelings had been true then." His gaze suddenly sharpened as he stepped closer, staring intently into your soul. His stern voice demanded an answer.

"Will you vow to stay and put those thoughts behind you?" he asked as something shifted in his presence. Instead of this being like a romantic date, it feels like a wolf that has isolated a sheep. Your pulse started to skyrocket as you felt a trembling in the depths of your being. The magnitude of this decision was immense, and you knew you had to choose what was best for your future. Could you summon the strength to give your reply?

You are about to answer when your breath catches as you detect a slight, almost imperceptible shift in his presence as he spots something beyond you.

"Stay here. I saw someone that should not be here," Diavolo orders before striding off, leaving you feeling both scared and excited. He disappeared into the crowd, mumbling how he wanted one moment for himself. He left you to contemplate if you wish to stay. Before this, you would have instantly begged to go home. But perhaps not everything is as bad as you thought. This is culture shock; you know you're not adapting well. As he fades out of view, you realize you have the opportunity to explore a world that most don't see. A world of mystery and danger that can prove even more thrilling than you originally thought.

As these thoughts ran through your mind, something grabbed your attention. A movement out of the corner of your eye. Had that alleyway always been there? Were you standing here before? You question yourself. You look down the alleyway and shudder. It was like looking into the abyss, and it had looked back. A strange and powerful force pulled you down that alleyway, shocking you out of your trance. You hear faint whispers, which seem to guide you further down the path. You sense that you are getting closer to something important that could give you many more answers than you could have imagined.

You slowly take a deep breath as you venture into the void of the alleyway. You were aware that something strange was happening, and your heart began to race. You took a deep breath and felt the adrenaline rush through your veins. The air was thick with the smell of mystery and anticipation. You could feel a strange energy around you and wondered what this new path would bring. Your curiosity was enough to make you take a few steps forward and find out what lay beyond. You could feel your skin prickling with mystery and anticipation, your heart beating faster and faster as you slowly moved closer to the unknown. You were ready for the adventure that was about to come. Carefully navigating through the uncharted darkness, you notice how the pleasant stone buildings become harsh and imposing. The texture changes under your touch as you keep going. You find yourself standing in the middle of a courtyard, surrounded by towering structures of flesh, their walls pulsing with a feverish heat that you can almost feel seeping into your skin. The chill of the night dissipates in an instant, replaced by a warm and inviting sensation that invades your senses as if you are being enveloped by the heavy breath of the buildings. The chill of the night air is replaced by a warm and inviting energy that emanates from the walls themselves. Alarmed, excited, and intrigued, your gaze turns to the center of the courtyard, and you realize that the darkness here is far from false - in fact, this place is alive. There was no false sky here. Here, there was a fast darkness as one looked up.

The streetlights barely illuminate the darkness, and you feel a sense of apprehension with each step you take as you use your hand to guide you along. As the end of the alley looms, colossal structures are made of shifting flesh. You feel a tingle of excitement and slight fear as you take in your new surroundings. Your eyes settle on the figure in the center of the courtyard.

His presence is commanding, yet he guards carefully over the area. His mere presence is enough to keep any intruders away. You see his lips move ever so slightly as if he were reciting a chant under his breath. As he notices your presence, he stares back. You feel as if time has suddenly stopped, and each second stretches on forever. You are paralyzed with fear, but as his gaze passes over you, he gives you a slight nod of acknowledgment, and a tentacle slithers out to grab your ankle. You are dragged to the powerful demon. Its name is YaalNalgroth and its presence fills your mind with an undercurrent of danger and anticipation as its forked tongue snakes out to lick your face.

"How...How do I know your name?" You squeaked, trying to control the fear and shivers that ran down your spine as his tentacles caressed you lewdly, ripping your clothes off and leaving you to squirm and struggle. Yaal smirked, amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Such a curious little treat. Always asking questions. Always wanting more. Looking for answers. You know that's a sin?" he said slowly, his tentacles wrapping tightly around you as he slithered into your mind. "You’re craving to taste the forbidden fruit that is knowledge is delicious and tantalizing. It reminds me of the first. Diavolo wasn't in being and may not be aware of his deep-seated yearning for you," Yaal savors you again. His long, forked tongue lathing your flesh. Yaal savors you again, his lips parting against your skin, sending electrifying shivers coursing through your body. His moans of pleasure speak the truth. His long, forked tongue tantalizingly trailed over your body, teasing, and tasting every inch of you, intensifying your craving for knowledge and feeding his desire for you.

Yaal pulled you close as he purred softly in your ear. "Can't you feel it? You are the forbidden fruit here. He won't notice if I take a larger sip of your sweet nectar, my love." He carefully lowered you to the hot, writhing mass of bodies below. As you lay there, you soon realize that they are not in the act of pleasure anymore but instead in pain, for they are shapeless lovers in a perpetual state of ecstasy. As Yaal feeds you knowledge, you can feel yourself slowly ripening, as if anticipating the forbidden fruit of knowledge before you. Suddenly, you both are cast back to the moment when YaalNalgroth was born, when the first woman sunk her teeth into the lusciously soft flesh of the illicit fruit.

Just as Yaal was about to take a sip, you writhed, ready to let him. You are poised in front of his lips when you cry out in surprise and are suddenly faced with the formidable presence of Barbatos. Yaal's invading memories flood your mind as part of his ripening. Barbato's wasn't there to save you.

Barbato's' voice was stern and firm as he commanded Yaal, "Duke YaalNalgroth. Please, stop corrupting what is not yours." Yaal immediately released you and stepped back, clearly overwhelmed by the power of Barbato's' voice.

Diavolo suddenly appeared, an intimidating sight in his true form. He was magnificent and fierce and stood tall, staring down at you with pity. His horns were broad and curved inwards, adorned with gold decoration. His four wings were a dark red and black mix, the ends sparkling with golden embellishments. Over his shoulder draped a black-furred shawl, upon which sat a striking gold pendant with multiple bat wings, the center emblazoned with a red jewel. On his arms were six rows of golden triangle patterns punctuated by black vertical markings across his torso. He wore black harem-style pants, with two gold chains and a set of red jewel pendants on each side, draped in a white cloth with a pattern of golden designs. His whole appearance made it clear that he was an entity to be reverenced.

Diavolo's voice turned sinister as he conversed, an unsettling calmness in his tone. "I distinctly recall telling you to leave her to me," he hissed, his eyes narrowing in discontent. But, just as quickly, his expression softened into one of worry, his brows furrowing in false concern. He tried to mask it with a gentle smile, but the blazing fire in his eyes betrayed his true intentions.

"My apologies, sir, but I simply cannot stand idly by as such a delicate and alluring creature slips through your fingers," Barbatos pleaded, his voice trembling with emotion. "I fear that your gentle nature will lead you to release her, and I cannot bear the thought of her being lost to us forever. I know you only wish for peace and harmony within our realm, but I could not help but intervene. I did not seem to overstep my position. But perhaps what I say next might. The risk is worth it, for I cannot bear to see you lose her." Barbatos was saying as he reached into Diavolo's pants. Barbados’s words and touch sent a delicious shiver down Diavolo's spine. He knew he should push him away, but the forbidden pleasure was too irresistible. Little did he know this moment would change everything. His words felt like they were caressing his soul. Barbatos delved deeper into the forbidden territory of Diavolo's pants. The thrill of potentially overstepping my boundaries only fueled the desire in the air.

Your mind is drowning in a sea of overwhelming knowledge, causing you to feel lost and disoriented. Reality seems to be slipping away as you struggle to understand it all. Just as a question form in your mind, the answer floods in, overwhelming you further. It's almost as if you were set up for this chaos. And indeed, you were. Barbatos had orchestrated this situation, his calculating hand at play figuratively and literally as he continued to sensually play with Diavolo's hardening wood. And for what? For his master, the one who stood above you with a tantalizing glint in his eye, his desire palpable as he watches your tender body quiver under his gaze. Barbatos stroke his ever-growing bulge. All of this was for his own twisted pleasure, and you were nothing but a pawn in their wicked game.

"That's true," Diavolo gasped, the words dripping with a primal need. Pre-cum dribbling from his engorged head. "My goal is always at the forefront of my mind, consuming every waking moment. I've had little time to indulge in my deepest desires." Diavolo let out a tortured moan as his throbbing length was expertly caressed by Barbato's slick hand. The hunger in his eyes was palpable, his desire for you a constant ache in his demon heart. The intensity of his longing sent shivers down your spine, igniting a fire within you that burned as fiercely as his own.

"And yet you deny yourself any pleasure," Barbatos’s voice cut through the air like a whip, causing Diavolo to flinch. "When was the last time you took something for yourself, sir? Something purely for your own satisfaction?" Diavolo remained silent, his guilt evident in his trembling body. His duty as the ruler of the underworld had always been at the forefront of his mind, leaving little room for his own wants and desires. But Barbatos refused to let him continue this self-destructive path.

"You are a demon, sir. A demon with primal needs and urges," the butler's voice dripped with urgency and longing. "And this young, nubile body before you is a delectable treat waiting to be savored." At Barbatos's encouragement, Diavolo's resolve crumbled, and he collapsed between your legs, his hot breath fanning across your skin as he hungrily gazed at your body. With Barbatos's loving guidance, he positioned himself at your entrance, his rock-hard cock throbbing with need. But even in this moment of passion, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of disgust towards Barbatos, whose devotion to Diavolo bordered on obsession. You knew he was nothing more than a simp, jerking off his own master in a desperate attempt to please him.

"Dammit! You monsters!" You scream, tears stream down your face as you struggle against their tight grip. "How could you do this to me? I trusted you!" Your heart aches as you realize the magnitude of their betrayal. "I just want to go home!" Diavolo's features shifted instantly, a wave of sorrow washing over his usually proud expression. But you knew deep down it was all just an act. You could see it in how his eyes didn't quite reflect the sadness in his words.

"Breaking a contract with a demon is a grave mistake," he continued, his voice laced with disappointment. "And yet, you dared to venture into forbidden territory. Now, you can never return home. A contract is a contract, such is the law of devildom, and now you must face the consequences." His words hit you like a ton of bricks, crushing any hope of escape.

"I can't believe I fell for your lies," you whisper, defeated. "I never stood a chance against your magic."

Your eyes shift to Barbatos, who calmly strokes his master as if nothing is amiss. You glared at him, defiance burning as they loomed over you. But your anger was soon redirected as Barbatos, the mastermind behind this situation, caught your attention. His hand expertly stroked Diavolo's length, a smug smile playing on his lips as he saw your reaction. Your glare intensified, but Barbatos merely brushed it off with a wave of his hand. Your protests were silenced, just like your chances of ever leaving this cursed place. Panic sets in as you realize the full extent of their power. They are demons, after all. Diavolo and Barbatos exchange a satisfied smirk before turning to you with dark intentions. You know you will never be able to return home at that moment. This is your new reality - a cruel and manipulative demon world ruled by those who tricked and betrayed you. As they hover over you, a sense of dread washes over you, and you can only hope to survive in this hellish new existence.

“That’s right, master. She can’t be allowed to leave after everything she has seen. Listen to me, Master," Barbatos spoke with a sinister glint in his eye. "She cannot be allowed to leave. She has witnessed our forbidden world and willingly indulged in our secrets. She is a treacherous sinner who succumbed to temptation. She chose to break the rules. No one made her. She's a sinner who gave in to temptation. Now, we must decide what to do with her. Maybe we should wait until Master Diavolo has had his fun to punish her properly."

He parted your lips, readying you for Diavolo's upcoming pleasure. The demon prince himself seemed to be struggling with conflicting thoughts.

"Yes, I wanted her in my own way, but this...it feels wrong," he mumbled, his gaze fixed on you. Suddenly, his eyes widened with a predatory glint as he saw something that made his mouth water. "She's a virgin," he exclaimed, drooling, and licking his lips. "I cannot force myself upon her. It goes against everything I stand for."

The atmosphere grew thick with tension as Barbatos and Diavolo contemplated their next move. The fate of the innocent young woman lay in their hands, and they had all the power to decide her demise. For a brief moment, hope blooms in your chest. With an intense gaze that seemed to pierce through your very being, Diavolo's eyes remained fixated on your exposed sex. There was an unsettling aura of dominance and desire emanating from him, leaving you chained to the spot with a mix of fear and anticipation. You couldn't help but shiver at the thought of what he might do next, with his unwavering stare holding you captive in a moment of intense vulnerability.

"My lord, wait until she is fully prepared. I comprehend your desire. It has been an eternity since you have indulged in such a luscious prize. Humans are no more than mere rabbits in this age. A virgin, my dear lord, is an exquisite and scarce delicacy," Barbatos purrs seductively into his ear. A sly grin spread across his face. "Do not deny yourself the pleasure of savoring every last drop of her innocence and submission." Diavolo's eyes darken with a lustful hunger as he bears his fangs, ready to claim you as his own. "Patience, my lord, for the ultimate reward will be worth the wait."

The anticipation builds as Diavolo's dominant aura fills the space between you, sending shivers down your spine. Your body trembles with both fear and desire, knowing that you are at the mercy of this powerful demon lord. Time stands still as you wait, your body aching for his touch. The air fills with an electric tension as Diavolo's hand slowly reaches out to claim you as his possession. The moment has finally arrived, and there is no turning back.

"There are other ways to punish her for her sins. There are countless avenues to exact vengeance upon her for her grave transgressions," Diavolo chuckled darkly, his predatory instincts taking over. His thirst for justice consumed him. "We shall leave no option unexplored. For it is my birthright. My duty as the merciless enforcer of punishment," he snarled, his gaze smoldering with fiery intent. "She shall suffer for her insolence, and I shall revel in my dominance over her. She shall witness the consequences of daring to trespass into our realm with wickedness in her heart, attempting to disrupt the balance by divulging our sacred secrets."

You trembled at the thought of what they had in store for you. Your blood ran cold at the mere thought of what lay ahead. The powerful demons, their dark intentions hidden beneath their deceptive beauty, had you entirely under their control. As they whispered amongst themselves, a sense of terror consumed you, battling with the enticing rush of arousal surging through your body. You had never intended to sabotage the balance. You simply wanted answers for your own sake, but now you were at the mercy of their twisted desires. Dread knotted in your stomach as you recalled your foolish mistake of meddling with their affairs. You had only sought answers, but now you were at their mercy, a mere plaything for their sadistic desires.

Barbatos, the cruelest of them all, leaned in close, his sharp teeth glinting in the dim light. Barbatos leaned in close to you, his voice dripping with malice. "You should have known better than to meddle in our affairs," he sneered. "Now, you will face the consequences for your curiosity." With a swift movement, his clawed hand gripped your neck, his grip tight and unyielding. Your heart raced as you watched his demon eyes glint with sadistic pleasure. You couldn't even find the strength to speak as he grabbed you, his claws digging into your flesh. Yaal's laughter echoed in your ears as they reveled in your fear. In that moment, you knew that you were truly at the mercy of these creatures from the depths of hell.

"I am about to break the crippling silence spell, for my master relishes in the sound of his lover's voice – be it pained screams or blissful moans. Do not dare to be a nuisance and attempt to rationalize your way out, for I warn you, I shall invoke a most unpleasant consequence," Barbatos murmured coolly, his voice dripping with a menacing undertone.Diavolo, the most feared demon in all of devildom, stepped closer with a sinister grin on his handsome face. Yaal's long, slimy tentacles encircled you, holding you in place as Diavolo's deep, rumbling voice filled the room.

"You see, my dear, your fear is a delicacy for us demons. And I assure you, Yaal here knows exactly how to prepare it perfectly." His hot breath tickled your ear, and you could feel the heat of his body radiating towards you. Your heart raced as you realized the true extent of your situation. A cold chill ran down your spine as Diavolo ran his sharp claws across your exposed neck. The only thing keeping you from falling to the ground was Yaal's firm hold on your body. You were entirely at their mercy, and there was no escape.

"This is just the beginning of your punishment," he growled, his voice laced with a dark promise. "Consider this a taste of what's to come until I fully decide how to make you pay." As his fingers trailed down your exposed body, you couldn't help but shudder at their menacing touch. You could do nothing but shake at their intimidating presence, trapped in a forbidden world with no escape. You knew this would be a night you would never forget. A night of sin and punishment, of forbidden and dark desires. An innocent soul drawn into the dangerous world of demons.

Yaal bent you to expose your pussy to Diavolo, who pressed his body to yours. Gripping your ass, he parts you wide. You scream in terror that he is going to eat you. But as he chomps down, you realize he is not eating you as you had expected.

A wicked smile spread across Yaal's face as he was ordered to reveal your exposed pussy to the powerful demon, Diavolo. Your heart pounded as Yaal bent your legs, exposing a tantalizing sliver of your delicate folds. Your calves were spread apart, one on each side of Diavolo's massive body, as he pressed himself against you. The intensity of his presence made you tremble with fear and desire. With one hand gripping your ass, Diavolo spread you open, baring you completely to his hungry gaze. A bloodcurdling scream escaped your lips as you imagined the imminent attack on your vulnerable body. But to your shock, Diavolo's sharp teeth did not pierce your skin. Instead, he devoured your fear and pleasure with a savage hunger, leaving you trembling with a mixture of terror and intense ecstasy.

As Diavolo ravished your body, every nerve in your body was on fire with pleasure. His tongue and fingers explored every inch of your tight hole, igniting sensations you had never experienced before. Tears streamed down your cheeks as you surrendered to the overpowering pleasure, a mix of surrender and desire filling your mind. At that moment, you knew that you would never be the same after this encounter with the Devil himself. As he ravished your body, you were overcome with wild desire, moaning and begging for more of his merciless devouring. His tongue and fingers delve into your tight hole.

With a gasp, you felt Diavolo's horns digging into your hips, the rough edges adding to the intensity of his touch. His face was pressed against your hot dripping pussy, his moan filled with longing and desire. The throbbing heat of his cock rubbed against your face, making your heart race and your body ache with need. "It's been too long," he groaned, his voice laced with desperation. Your blood rushed through your veins, heat pooling between your legs as you felt the overwhelming desire for him coursing through you. His hot throbbing cock is in your face as you feel all your blood rushing to your head and cunt. With each gasp and moan, your body trembled with excitement as Diavolo continued to ravish you with his tongue. His hands gripped your ass possessively, his horned head bobbing with each movement, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

"Put that mouth to use. Open wide and suck your Master," Barbatos says, shoving Diavolo's cock in your mouth. It's hard to breathe with his large length stuffing down your throat. Your cheeks are hollow, and your eyes water, but you can only moan in response as Barbatos uses you for his and Diavolo’s pleasure. You are nothing but a mere plaything, helplessly at his mercy, and you embrace it with unbridled fervor. Every touch, every command, ignites a chaotic desire within you, leaving you trembling with a thirst to be claimed by him. It's inexplicable, this unwavering pull towards him and the conflicting emotions it stirs. Despite knowing the danger, you can't resist the allure of being his possession. It incites a burning inquiry in your mind - how can something so devastating also be so irresistible? You should despise this captivity, but instead, you crave what it brings.

"Submit to your Master's desires," Barbato's demands, thrusting Diavolo's cock even deeper into your mouth. You can feel the overwhelming power and dominance radiating from him as your senses are consumed by his taste and smell. You try to pull back, but Barbatos holds your head firmly in place, making you feel completely helpless. The pain and pleasure mix together as you are forced to take in every inch of Diavolo's throbbing length. Just when you think you can't take anymore, Barbatos releases the hold on your head, and you gasp for air, only to have another explosion of Diavolo's hot juices hit the back of your throat. You can't help but moan in ecstasy as your Master marks you as his own. But just when you thought you couldn't take it anymore, he pulled away, leaving you aching and unsatisfied.

"You're not done yet," he growled, his intense eyes daring you to deny him. And like a flame igniting, all the pent-up desire and longing exploded within you. His voice was a low rumble, his piercing gaze holding you captive. But instead of fear, all you felt was a fire igniting deep within you. It was as if his words were a trigger, unleashing all the repressed desire and longing that had been simmering beneath the surface. Yaal pushes you back onto the bed of writhing flesh, Diavolo's hand grazing your skin and sending shivers down your spine. Diavolo strode towards you, his aura radiating danger and temptation. You couldn't resist the pull, lurching towards him and wrapping your arms around his neck, craving his touch like a drug.

"Why do I feel so drawn to you?" You couldn't help but ask, your voice trembling with want. But Yaal just chuckled wickedly, his eyes gleaming with mischief and knowing.

"Oh, she still hasn't learned her lesson," he smirked, reveling in the dangerous game unfolding before him. And you couldn't deny it because, at that moment, you were willing to play with the Devil himself, consumed by an insatiable hunger for more.

With a wicked smirk on his face, Diavolo stands before you, a demon who has cunningly prepared you for your impending punishment. Your heart races in fear as he pounces on you, his body pulsing with dark desire. He thrusts himself into you with brutal force, violating your innocence as he revels in the feeling of your tight and raw walls clenching around him. The pain is intense, and you can't help but gasp in shock and pain, raking your nails down his flesh in protest. But Diavolo only moans in pleasure, his eyes rolling back in pure ecstasy at the power he holds over you.

"Behold, little human," he purrs, his voice dripping with malice. "This is what happens to those who dare to threaten the balance in my kingdom." He uses you to satisfy his urges, reveling in the control he exerts over your body. He believes this is for the best, for it keeps his darker desires in check. But for you, it is a nightmare as you realize the true monstrous nature of the demon before you.

Your bodies moved in a primal rhythm, a dance of passion and need, as you both gave in to the overwhelming desire that consumed you. In that moment, nothing else mattered. The world could have burned around you, and you wouldn't have cared as long as you were lost in this fiery embrace with the powerful and seductive demon before you. It was a passionate and intense moment, a battle of wills and desire that left you breathless and fulfilled.

"But why?" your mind questions. But you pushed those thoughts aside as Diavolo finally claimed you as his own, his possessive growls and desperate thrusts filling the room as he finally allowed himself to indulge in the pleasure he so desperately craved.

Despite the overwhelming pull towards his ultimate goal, Diavolo couldn't resist the alluring temptation of your body. Every touch, every kiss, every thrust was a fleeting taste of bliss that he couldn't get enough of. With a lustful desperation, he surrendered to the pleasure, his body and soul consumed by the insatiable hunger for you. At that moment, nothing else mattered but the intoxicating sensation of your body against him, driving him to the brink of ecstasy. As he surrendered to the raw and carnal urges, Diavolo couldn't help but wonder if this was what true desire felt like, a primal force that could bring even the most powerful demon to his knees. He needs to temper his urges.

The depth of Diavolo's wickedness knows no bounds, as his most nefarious impulses are rooted in a twisted desire for power and domination. Like a puppet master pulling the strings of his unsuspecting victims, Diavolo thrives on instilling fear and using intimidation tactics to manipulate those around him. His tyrannical reign is further fueled by his disdain for humanity and its perceived weaknesses. With a merciless gaze, he reveals the differences between species, relishing his power over them. But harnessing fear as a means of control is a treacherous game that consumes even the most diabolical of minds. It is a trait that speaks volumes of his depravity and lack of empathy, a dangerous combination that threatens all who dare to cross his path.

"Ah! Oh, oh, oh, please. Why?" you moaned.

"Barbatos. I can still see some defiant questioning in her eyes. I like her other cute noises better. I have some questions myself. Do you know what will look cute? I think Barbato's cock in your mouth might be cute? What do you think, Barbatos?" Diavolo asked looking to Barbatos. Barbatos nodded slightly, clearly understanding the unspoken threat in Diavolo's words. Fear and intimidation were Diavolo's favorite weapons, and he reveled in seeing the terror in others' eyes. His judgmental attitude towards humans only fueled his desire to control and manipulate them, relishing his power over their lives. And as you lay there, trembling with terror, you couldn't help but wonder if there was any humanity left in this diabolical creature.

As you watched Diavolo's cheerful expression morph into a cruel sneer, a sense of unease washed over you. Despite his charming persona and love for fun, it was clear that there was darkness lingering beneath the surface. With a commanding voice, he barked at you to obey his every command without hesitation. He saw himself as a superior being and expected others to bow down to him. You couldn't help but feel a chill run down your spine as you were suddenly thrown to the ground, your hands forced behind your back. Tenacles wrapping around your throat and upper body, lifting your front.

Diavolo towered over you, his rich crimson eyes burning with a menacing glint. It was then that you realized how terrifying he could genuinely be. His carefree nature was just a facade, masking a ruler's dangerous and calculating mind. Your heart pounded in your chest as Diavolo leaned in close, his hot breath on your neck as he hissed, "How dare you question me, mortal."

His grip on your wrists tightened, and you winced in pain as he snarled, "I have no tolerance for insolence. You are nothing but a mere toy in my game, and I will not hesitate to dispose of toys that do not obey." The fear in his voice sent shivers down your spine, and you knew that you were at the mercy of a powerful and unpredictable ruler. At that moment, your innocent curiosity about Diavolo gave way to a deep-seated fear and realization of the true extent of his power. You were just a player in his grand scheme, and you could only hope to survive as a plaything in a game controlled by a dictator.

He exuded an aura of dominance and superiority, his very presence commanding obedience and submission. You couldn't help but feel a chill run down your spine as you watched him mercilessly exert his power over those around him. There was no denying that Diavolo had a thirst for control, and he wielded fear and intimidation as his weapons. You could see the traces of his tyrannical tendencies lurking beneath his charming facade. It was a dangerous combination that could bring about destruction and chaos at any moment. Desperate for guidance and salvation, you turned to Barbatos, hoping for some glimmer of humanity in this cruel realm. But all you received was a blank, emotionless stare mirroring Diavolo's coldness. Even his most loyal advisor seemed to share the same heartlessness and lack of mercy. And as you reluctantly opened your mouth to do as you were told, you couldn't help but fear for your future in this dark and twisted world.

"YaalNaGroth," Diavolo's voice boomed through the dark. The demon lord's golden eyes gleamed with admiration as he gazed upon you, his loyal follower, kneeling before him. The flickering light of the torches cast shadows across your face, contrasting with the wicked smile that played upon Diavolo's lips.

"You have proven your loyalty to me time and time again," he continued, his voice dripping with admiration. "And for that, I shall grant you a most exquisite treat." A wave of anticipation washed over you at his words, your heart racing in anticipation of what would come.

"As a reward for your unwavering loyalty, I offer you the ultimate pleasure," he purred, his hand trailing down to grip your chin and tilt your head up to meet Barbato's smoldering gaze. He grips your jaw to open your mouth wider for the Butler. "Unleash your wicked tentacles upon this pure and innocent maiden's untouched flesh." A wicked grin spread across his face as he gestured to your trembling form, your eyes wide with fear and your delicate features twisted in terror. Your mouth went dry as you realized the true extent of Diavolo's intentions. Gripping your chin tighter, Diavolo leaned in to whisper in your ear, his breath hot against your skin.

"Her virgin asshole," he murmured, his thumb circling the tight ring of muscle. You gasped, both in fear and arousal, at the thought of what was to come. Diavolo's hand slid down to your hips, holding you in place as he roughly thrusts his cock back into your sore and bruised pussy. The combination of pain and pleasure sent shocks of arousal through your body, your blood boiling with a heady mix of emotions. But amidst the chaos, Diavolo's following words gave Yaal pause.

"Listen carefully, YaalNaGroth," Diavolo's voice was filled with amusement as he leaned in closer to you, spitting on your ass and causing you to flinch from the warm liquid trickling down your crack. "This particular one is not to be broken like the others. She is a special plaything for me," he continued, gleaming of mischief in his eyes. He gestured towards you, his thumb still inside your tight asshole, as he spoke.

"Once you finish, I intend to have fun with her. But do not mistake my words. I will not tolerate any excessive cruelty towards her. If she proves unworthy, I reserve the right to punish her severely." Diavolo's lips curved into a wicked smile as he watched the anticipation and desire flicker across your face.

"But do not let that discourage you from using all your tentacles to fully ravish this innocent creature," he added with a playful chuckle, thrusting his thumb in and out of your ass for emphasis.

Without a moment's hesitation, Yaal summoned his tentacles. These sinister appendages were seemingly alive and eager to explore the depths of your body. With a sadistic smirk, he watched as your body trembled in fear and pleasure. His dark eyes were filled with a hunger that could not be satiated. This lust could only be satisfied by indulging in his most twisted desires.

Meanwhile, Barbatos thrust himself between your swollen lips, his leaking cock easily sliding down your throat. You gagged and choked, but he paid no heed. His mind solely focused on dominating and claiming his pleasurable reward.

"She does look cute with my cock in her mouth," He panted as if he was pondering the aesthetics seriously. His hands held your head in place, forcing you to take every inch of him until your mouth was overflowing with him. As Barbatos ravaged your mouth, Yaal's tentacles began their merciless assault on your body. They slithered and coiled around your limbs, wrapping tightly and leaving red marks in their wake. They moved with a purpose, seeking out every sensitive spot on your body and causing you to cry out in both pleasure and pain.

But it was not just your limbs that Yaal's tentacles explored. They also delve deep into your most intimate areas, finding and stimulating every hidden nerve. Your moans and cries only spurred them on, urging them to push harder and deeper until you were writhing and begging for more. The two demons continued to pleasure you. You could feel Diavolo's eyes on you. His amusement at your predicament was evident in the wicked smile on his face, and his approval only fueled the demons' desires. With every thrust of Barbatos and every squeeze of Yaal's tentacles, you were brought closer to the edge of ecstasy. Your body was a playground for their twisted desires, entirely at the mercy of their insatiable hunger. And when the combined efforts of the two demons finally pushed you over the edge, you were overcome with a mind-shattering climax, your body spasming uncontrollably as you surrendered to their wicked desires.

Diavolo's thrusts were forceful and unrelenting, his hips slamming into yours with a primal need. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air as his fingers dug into your hips, holding you tightly in place. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body, building up an intense heat within you. But it was Yaal's tentacles that indeed drove you over the edge. The slimy appendages wrapped around your body, trailing over every inch of your skin with precise and calculated movements. Their slippery touch sent shivers down your spine as they toyed with your sensitive flesh, amplifying every sensation and heightening your pleasure to unbearable levels, consumed by their insatiable lust and twisted desires. The mixture of Diavolo's powerful thrusts and Yaal's relentless tentacles was overwhelming, taking you to the brink of ecstasy with each passing moment.

As the onslaught continued, your body was pushed to its limits. The pleasure was almost unbearable, but you couldn't bring yourself to ask for mercy. Asking questions can lead to more punishment. You wanted more, needed more of this intense and forbidden pleasure. And then, just as you thought you couldn't take anymore, Yaal's tentacles tightened around you, focusing their attention on your most sensitive areas. The pleasure was too much to bear, and with one final thrust from Diavolo, you were overcome by a mind-shattering climax.

Your body convulsed in pleasure, writhing and quivering as the waves of ecstasy washed over you. Your moans and cries filled the air as you surrendered utterly to the delight these wicked creatures had brought upon you. You were nothing but a vessel for their insatiable desires, unable to resist the overwhelming pleasure that they bestowed upon you. And as the tremors of your climax subsided, you were left spent and panting, these demons who had taken you to heights of pleasure you never knew existed.

The night was consumed by unbridled lust, your tentacles ravaging every inch of the mortal woman's body until you were shaking and completely spent. You could feel a sense of pride and satisfaction at having pleased your powerful Master, Diavolo, to such an extent. But even as you lay panting and dripping with sweat and cum before him, you were not done. Three insatiable demons descended upon you, their relentless desires tearing through you in an intoxicating frenzy of pleasure and sin.

When it was all over, you were left as a convulsive, exhausted heap, filled to the brim with the remnants of their lustful desires. But even then, your Master's attention did not wane as Barbatos swooped in to care for you, treating you like the most precious of Diavolo's treasures.

He created a prison of comfort for you, manipulating time itself so that you would not even know how much had passed. As Diavolo indulged in his human concubine, you were kept safe and cared for by Barbatos, ensuring that you would never escape or feel neglected. Barbatos' words echoed in your mind as he stroked your hair gently, soothing you after your intense ordeal.

You are a human concubine chosen by the Prince of Devildom himself. You were subjected to unimaginable pleasures and pains every night, all at the mercy of Diavolo and his servants. With each passing night, you found yourself becoming more and more lost in the frenzy of passion and debauchery, unable to resist the temptations and pleasures that surrounded you. Under the guidance of Diavolo and his experienced demons, you were trained to become the ultimate pleasure object, fulfilling every desire and whim of the prince's insatiable appetite.

But this night was different. As exhaustion finally overtook you, you were overwhelmed with pride and fulfillment. You had pleased your Master, and that was all that mattered. And as you lay trembling and covered in their cum, you couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction at being able to bring such pleasure to powerful demons. But the night was far from over. As if sensing your heightened state, Diavolo signaled for his two companions, the powerful demons Lucifer and Mammon, to join in. You were mercilessly ravaged by the three of them, unable to resist their commanding presence and insatiable lust. Amidst the frenzy, Barbatos remained by your side, his gentle touch comforting you as he watched over you.

A prized possession of Diavolo and his trusted servant, and as you drifted off to sleep, fatigue and contentment washing over you, you couldn't help but wonder what pleasures awaited you in the coming nights.

Barbatos reported, a hint of a sly smirk on his lips as he looked down at you, satisfied with his work. Diavolo was grateful for Barbatos' efforts to make sure you were well taken care of in your captivity. Diavolo chuckled, a dark and possessive gleam in his eyes as he ran a hand through your hair, his touch sending shivers of pleasure through your body.

"She looks so beautiful, completely ruined, and yet still begging for more. I knew she was the perfect choice, Barbatos. I could never tire of such a devoted and insatiable lover. She keeps the others in line waiting for a taste."

You couldn't help but moan at Diavolo's words, feeling a renewed surge of arousal at his possessive hold on you. As he claimed you once again, you couldn't help but feel grateful to be at the mercy of such powerful and passionate beings. When the night finally ended, you were left exhausted and covered in marks and bruises but also fulfilled and satisfied in a way you never thought possible.

"Yes, Master. There is a reason we make sure all the humans have no family looking for them," Barbatos agreed. As you fell into a deep and contented sleep, you knew that you had found your true purpose and pleasure in serving your Master and his demons, willing to do whatever it took to please them and be by their side. They both held you with love and care.

#obey me diavolo #diavolo x reader #jjba diavolo #obey diavolo #obey me #obey me fanfic

45 notes · View notes

greyspirehollow · 8 months ago

Text

They will return with more disturbing facts ! [Request]

request by @plushtoad

Pairing : Quaestor Valdemar x Liam (my mc) - Platonic ! Fandom : The Arcana visual novel Warnings : disturbing facts? (like two, because I'm too lazy to do research)

Summary : How does one try to get closer to an unhinged surgeon? Try and be creepy yourself !

It had started during the years of the Red Plague. Liam had just become Julian's apprentice, and he'd been warned about Valdemar multiple times.

But that didn't stop the necromancer from wanting to be friends with them (or at least get them to warm up to him somewhat). And so, like any kid that is told 'don't do that', he did exactly that.

Although he took his time... He'd observe from afar, and take mental notes during each interaction he'd have with them ; their mannerisms, what they'd talk about, etc, etc... And the plan in his head seemingly started taking shape, and he couldn't help a mischievous smile from playing on his lips (even if it was hidden by his plague mask).

One day, he spotted Valdemar working on one of their corpses -as usual-, and he stood in the doorway for a moment. Liam then approached them, standing on the opposite side of the operation table. They didn't look up from the body. "Yes?" they inquired nonchalantly. Liam stayed silent for a few seconds, then just -

"Did you know, according to cannibals, the tastiest part of the human body is the palm of the hand?"

silence. They blinked, looking up at him, trying to comprehend just why Liam had just said that. Had he come here simply... for that? Their brows were subtly furrowed, and Liam stood there in the uncomfortable silence for probably a hot minute. However, he soon dashed off ; "Until we meet again !" accompanied his escape. Valdemar watched him go, a little more confused. After standing in silence for a hot minute themselves, they went back to the corpse with a little shrug "well, that's nice to know...."

Unbeknownst to Liam, he'd soon get a taste of his own medicine... The following day, he was getting done with a patient's diagnosis under Julian's supervision, when the plague doctor went to order files in his office. The necromancer was left alone for a few minutes ; but that was enough. He felt someone's breath right at his ear and stiffened. "Did you know, it's actually your bone marrow that fabricates your blood cells..." Liam's mouth opened in a silent gasp, as Valdemar's words echoed in his brain "nooo..." he whispered, drawing a chuckle out of the demon "until we meet again~" they said ; "you can't just do that !! you can't- come back here!!" before leaving the poor magician all too aware of his bones, despite his protests.

From then on, it became a casual inside joke between the two of them, as they tried to out-creep the other (even though Valdemar constantly won), much to Julian's despair. But Liam's plan had worked, in the end : Valdemar had warmed up to him.

Three years later, when they saw him quite literally come back from the dead only to investigate on Dr. 069's possible involvement in Lucio's murder they were... Surprised. And ready to investigate. They'd approach him while he was in the library, and well, he hadn't seen them coming.

"...did you know" they started, making him jump and turn around. There was a brief bit of silence before they went on "...that according to cannibals, the tastiest.." "...the tastiest part of the human body is the palm of the hand" the necromancer finished, a flicker of recognition flashing in his eyes he smiled and chuckled "I have a feeling we're not exactly strangers, Quas... Quaster..." ; "Quaestor Valdemar" they confirmed, nodding, the smile on the necromancer's face widening. Liam chuckled and shook his head "you gave me a real scare ! I thought you were about to skin me alive ! -That can be arranged -No don't-"

Even if Liam didn't remember the whole context of their "friendship", they had to admit, he wasn't exactly a nuisance.

#the arcana #the arcana game #quaestor valdemar #the arcana courtiers #the arcana visual novel #ask #the arcana valdemar #fanfic #valdemar #the arcana mc #spoiler #the arcana oc #the arcana apprentice #short #imagine #canon x oc platonic

24 notes · View notes

randomingoftherandomness · 1 year ago

Text

Fic: Love is when you try to place it out your mind

A/N: For @lovesickfolly and based on their deliciously wonderful plot bunnies :) The title is based on Mona Lisa by Dominic Fike

Fair warning, as of writing this fic, I'm on episode 10 of the show but I'd been Tumblr-watching it while it was airing so I have a gauge of what's what. If there are some discrepancies with the details or whatnot, *handwaves* consider this a Canon Divergence?

As a whole, I hope I did the prompt I chose some proper justice. This fic is not betaed. Enjoy!

It happens a little like this:

Fang Duobing holds on a little tighter just to keep Li Lianhua from running away. Li Lianhua uses some sleight of hand to keep him at a distance. Fang Duobing falls for it but only for a moment, before he catches the corner of his sleeve, holding on just long enough to say, "I love you, I have loved you for the longest time. I can't live when you aren't near, yet I can't breathe when you are away from my side."

"You frustrate me, you drive me insane, but there's no one better for me. In this life, I want no one else. I've never had to beg anyone for anything but, please..."

"Fang Duobing, I think you've drunk too much tonight."

A gentle push at his wrist that he doesn't fight is strong enough to have him stumbling back. Hurt lances through his heart at the way Li Lianhua's dark gaze lifts and meets his own unwaveringly. Like two bottomless pools in a moonless night, there is little he can do but to listen to his heart break when Li Lianhua says, "I'll forget everything you just said. Bury this deep and never think about me like this again."

It ends a lot like this:

Li Lianhua leaves him behind without a second thought.

It has been a year since he last saw him.

It feels very much like this:

An ache in his heart follows him closer than a shadow, far more familiar than his own skin, settling deeper in his marrow than his own blood. He cannot eat, he cannot sleep. The best wine is tasteless, the finest dishes are ash on his tongue.

For the first month, he knows his mother spends sun up to sundown cursing the jianghu. It takes his youngest Aunt coming to his room to hold him by the hand as she'd used to do when he was little and ill from a bout of sickness, tearfully pleading with him to please, just eat something, just one bite, one sip of water, just do something instead of staying in his room like he'd lost all his will to live.

(if he only climbs out of bed because his mother and aunt threaten to bring this case up to the whole of the jianghu, if he only takes his first bite of food because they bring Fox Spirit to his side to comfort him, that's something for him and him only to know)

By the time the seasons change, his mother only kisses his cheeks in goodbye and tells him to take care of himself on the road when he leaves to roam the jianghu and carry out his duties to the Baichuan Court.

And through all that, the ache settles in like an old friend. His aunt says that heartbreak will take time to get over. Fang Duobing doesn't know if he wants to wait to find out.

He's probably cursed at this point, but there's nothing much to be done about that.

The first time he hears that Li Lianhua is back is half a year since he spilt his heart out and it is through gossip he overhears in a tavern in the middle of escorting a criminal. There's a twinge of instinct like a cut-off nerve ending that still feels sensation even when it shouldn't, to get up, ask those men where they heard such a piece of news and chase that man down by hook or by crook.

Instead, Fang Duobing takes a deep, calming breath, swallows down his mouthful of food, and takes another breath.

In the months after, it's as if he is seeing ghosts.

A glimpse of a lotus leaf hairpin on someone, the scent of herbs and fire on another, the sight of red ribbons floating in the wind. The touch of warmth on his wrist as he walks in a crowd. Despite all these, Fang Duobing trudges on. Smiling when he has to, laughing because he wants nothing but to put the frown off his mother's brow, joking when all he wants to do is scream that the withered and dying heart in him is so hollowed out that nothing matters.

Not helped is how the rumour of Li Lianhua's return was anything but an exaggeration.

Everyone seems to have seen him. Everyone but him.

The masters of Baichuan Court had a meal with him a week ago. Su Xiaoyong managed to corner him for tea a day ago and Qiao Wanmian is having him over for lunch in a week. Sometimes, if he comes back at the right time, he spies Fox Spirit's food bowl filled with his favourite snack that only Li Lianhua knows how to make.

He swallows down the bile and keeps trudging on. Pulls himself up by the boots and solves case after case, making an empty glory for himself. Runs himself ragged so that at night he can just fall into bed and sleep. It is a small bliss when he doesn't have to think about how Li Lianhua hates him so much that he won't even seek him out to show him just a glimpse of the hem of his robe.

What goes around comes around. Or so the saying goes, and no good deed goes unpunished. Fang Duobing would call it a relief when he slips up enough that a rogue swordsman can get an upper hand long enough to stab him through and through with a blade, pinning him up just enough that he can get away.

As the darkness takes him, Fang Duobing wonders if he can sleep this time without dreaming of Li Lianhua.

"You fool."

The ceiling he wakes up to is not his own. The bed he wakes up in is familiar in a way that makes his heart stutter and skips a beat in pain. He must have groaned because deft hands are quick to be at his shoulder to settle him down. Fang Duobing gasps. Gropes through the breathlessness at a thin wrist, looking up to meet eyes that watch him with undisguised worry.

"You con artist..."

Li Lianhua sighs, the corner of his lips twitching. "I probably deserve that."

"You absolute mother--"

"Hey, no need to bring my mother into this!" Li Lianhua laughs, trying to pull away, only for Fang Duobing to hold on to his sleeve.

"I..." He tries, licking his dry lips. Blinking rapidly, he looks around him. "Where am I? What happened?"

"You got stabbed. The fogeys at Baichuan Court brought you to me, telling me to help." Fang Duobing can taste the familiar acridness of rejection creep up the back of his throat. Letting go of the sleeve in his hand, he huffs a soft chuckle.

"So that's the case." Fang Duobing swallows thickly. "You're only helping Baichuan Court."

A silence grows and sits between them. Eventually, he hears Li Lianhua drag a stool closer to the bed. "Fang Xiaobao, look at me."

He closes his eyes, turning his face away with great difficulty. "My apologies Physician Li. I am sure this is a great inconvenience to you that I am here. Let me rest awhile and I'm sure I'll be well enough to leave by then. I do not want to bother you too much."

"You-- Fang Duobing, you fool, look at me!"

He pulls the covers over his shoulders. "That's not necessary--"

"Fang Duobing, look at me, please..."

The thread of pleading is thick in the syllables, and by the gods above, Fang Duobing has never mended his walls to protect him against Li Lianhua. So, he opens his eyes, slowly turning back to look.

And sees the red-rimmed eyes. Then sees the long grey hair that is a shade away from white. He sees the lines on Li Lianhua's face that have deepened in the year that they've not seen each other.

"Li Lianhua..." Fang Duobing starts, heart pounding like a war drum when he reaches out to run his fingers through his hair and finds that instead of pulling away, Li Lianhua is leaning in.

Pressing his cheek into the palm of Fang Duobing's calloused hand, he lets out a shaky breath, as if he is releasing all his worries in that one exhale. "I don't deserve you, Fang Duobing. I never have."

"You came into my life and you made yourself home like you've always been there. You didn't care for how much hurt I inflicted, you didn't care that I pushed you away. You stayed when all others left." Li Lianhua lifts his hands to keep Fang Duobing's hand to the side of his face. The curtain fall of his hair wraps itself around their hands, tangling black to grey on the bedspread. "Every time I tried to hide, you always knew where to find me. Every time I ran, you followed. You've bewitched me, body and soul."

Li Lianhua sighs, turning his face into Fang Doubing's touch. Giving into an impulse, he reaches out, ignoring the twinge of pain. Carding his fingers through Li Lianhua's hair.

Softly, he whispers, "Please don't say things you don't mean."

The hurt that colours the browns of Li Lianhua is tinged with regret. But with a blink, it is replaced with a steely determination that has Fang Duobing reeling when he barely has a moment to process how Li Lianhua swoops in and slides their lips together.

"Li Lianhua--"

He shakes his head, lips still pressed to the corner of Fang Duobing's. "I'm a normal man now. I have nothing to give you. Everything that you have loved about Li Xiangyi, everything that you idolised about the man I was, I am not that anymore. That's why I couldn't reciprocate your feelings that first time. I didn't even know if I was coming back. That's why I ran."

"And what's this?" Fang Duobing asks, the words tripping over themselves as they burn their way into the air between them. "Did you do all this because of, what? Guilt?"

Li Lianhua looks absolutely gutted at that. He shakes his head, eyes begging him to believe him. "No! Never! I... I came the moment I received word that you were injured." Ducking his head, he presses his lips to the jut of their joined hands. "I knew I couldn't stay away from you. I know now that I shouldn't have."

Fang Duobing lets himself process this. Sniffling a little and not fighting Li Lianhua when he smiles wetly as he wipes away the tears that make tracks down his cheeks.

"You hurt me."

"I did." Li Lianhua leans in again. This time, Fang Duobing moves back so that there is space on the bed for him to climb into.

"You really hurt me."

"I know, but if you're willing," Li Lianhua says, the light of the sun catching in the pale strands of his hair as he pledges. "I swear on everything good and true, on everything I have left, on the love you have given me, I, Li Lianhua will be good to you, will spend the rest of my life making it up to you for every moment you were hurt by me."

Fang Duobing feels himself smile genuinely for the first time in a very long time. Lifting his hand to cup at Li Lianhua's face, he rubs his thumb over the dark circle under his eye. "Liar. You can't promise me the rest of your life if we aren't married."

This sparks a gleam of mischief in Li Lianhua's eyes that curls something warm in his gut. Something alive that he wants to chase and pin down with joy.

"You did promise to take my name if I could bring a dead man back to life." Li Lianhua murmurs, plush lips curved upwards. "Haven't we been married since then?"

And really, who is Fang Duobing to deny that? Especially since he has the rest of their lives to figure it out.

The hurt isn't gone. Not by a long shot. But as Li Lianhua willingly takes strands of their hair, braiding them together with a smile before carefully kissing his shoulder and laying back down beside him -- the weight of him so very real, so warm to the touch, and here because he wants to be -- he can feel the space where his heart is start to come back alive.

And that, if nowhere else, is a good place to start again.

#mysterious lotus casebook #蓮花樓 #fang duobing #li lianhua #li xiangyi #duohua #fanghua #what's their pairing name anyways #fang duobing x li lianhua #gab writes stuff #lovesickfolly #mysterious lotus casebook fic

37 notes · View notes

grumpygreenwitch · 1 year ago

Text

Fanfiction 17-18-19

WARNING FOR IMPLIED BODILY HARM. Fortunately, when you're very, very, very old, you tend to have very, very, very old friends, too. About ten chapters to go, so maybe 2-4 weeks.

Buy me a Ko-fi?

1-2-3 + 4-5 + 6-7-8-9-10 + 11-12 + 13-14 + 15-16 + 17-18-19 + 20-21 + 22-23 + 24-25 + 26-27

"They're moving him to the Refuge tomorrow," Evie told them all when she came into the meeting room of her Boston offices. "Which tells me he was telling me the truth. They've not been able to get anything useful out of him."

"I don't want to sound the asshole," Gevaun rumbled quietly. "But the sunflower's an angel, he's not even three centuries old. How, in the name of every place under the sun, is he standing up to an archangel rooting through his brain?"

"He's probably not." Jean was coiled in a seat, staring out the window at the snow-clad Boston Common grounds. His jaw was clamped down so tightly the muscles of his jaw made his face look even leaner than it was. "Raphael’s likely pulling it all out of him. And all of it is numbers." He shook his head minutely, flicking his fingers at his own temple. "Angel accountant. A secret language no one else in the world knows."

"They'll fry him for trying to, the rest of them," Gevaun realized.

Jean buried his face in his hands.

"I'm sorry, Jean."

"Not as sorry as I am," the older vampire said roughly. "I should've known this was what he was doing. I should've seen it. I should've trusted him. I should've -"

"Should've what, gone with him?" Evie cut him off tartly. "To Archangel Tower, crawling with Guild Hunters? So someone could recognize you and collar you?"

"I'm his Second!" Jean sprung to his feet and shouted at her. Evie and Gevaun both stared; never once in all the time they'd known the vampire had he been able to so much as look an angel in the eyes for more than a few seconds. But there was no fear to Jean at the moment, only rage. "I'm his safety. I'm his shield. I don't care what it cost me, I should be there with him."

"See, this is why he locked you up."

"Aside from the obvious issue, Jean, they would've just used you against him," Gevaun pointed out.

"He can't stay there. He can't - They can't take him to the Refuge. I won't let them. If they hurt him, I hurt them."

"One, don't go feral on me, "Evie said calmly. "Two, actually, we want him taken to the Refuge." When the vampires stared at her in disbelief, she went on impatiently. "There are no Hunters in the Refuge! There are no humans! No one to ID Jean! Do you think Kliman hasn't been thinking about how to fix this already?! How can you both be this dense, you're supposed to be good at your jobs!"

"Can Kliman get him out?"

"Not alone. You're both going to the Refuge."

"When?" Jean was already out of his seat.

Evie offered him a thin smile. "Now."

Alyss woke up and immediately curled up into a ball under his wings. Every inch of him hurt and the roar of the nearby engines wasn't helping. It throbbed in the tattered marrow of his bones, it pounded through the shattered remains of his skull, it left his heart dancing erratically, each piece to its own tempo. He felt as if he might be sick but there was nothing in his stomach to bring up.

He was in one piece, for the most part, though it didn't feel like it. There had been nothing kind about his interrogation at Archangel Tower. It didn't surprise him, really; he was technically guilty of the second most heinous of crimes within angelic society. He'd expected to be treated as a criminal. He'd expected to be killed out of hand once Raphael had what he wanted. He'd never, in his wildest dreams, expected to be right.

But he had been right. The pipeline did not exist in his mind as locations and names; it was numbers. Expenses against inflow, laundering processes, spikes of statistical activity. Mileage measured not by the mile, but by the cost of fuel. Safehouses tallied not by their location, but by the sum total of the bills when it came to their upkeep. Supporters kept not by name but by donations, taxes, net sums, expected interests. He'd surrendered everything, he'd been a wisp of breath before the storm that was the Archangel. Alyss doubted Raphael had even noticed the meager fight the young angel had put up.

But the Archangel understood nothing of what he'd gained from Alyss. And that understanding, he couldn't force from the angel's mind. It was instinctual, a thing as true to Alyss as his breathing or the beating of his heart. He'd always known numbers; it was human languages he'd had to learn.

"Here," a man's voice said. Alyss peeked through the ruin of one wing, and saw a gloved hand holding a bottle of water to him.

"I don't think it'll stay down," he admitted in a hoarse little groan. "But thank you."

The man walked away and Alyss stared after him. He'd never been on a plane, there had never been a reason for him to fly under anything but his own power. But his parents were technically under the oversight of Archangel Michaela. And apparently when Raphael had contacted them with news of his treachery, their immediate reaction had been to call the steward for Michaela's lands.

Aegaeon was an Ancient, his idea of judgment and justice very different from that of the Archangel who was holding Alyss. The young accountant was entirely unaware that Raphael had flatly refused to execute him; further, he’d refused to give Aegaeon access to Alyss, calling his motives suspect – a very reasonable accusation but one that had further inflamed the Ancient’s temper. Aegaeon had demanded access by proxy; Raphael, for the sake of diplomacy, had agreed. By the time someone had realized the vampire had been sent to savage Alyss’ wings so he couldn’t escape, the damage had been done. It had been another good reason to move the young angel to the Refuge, under the watch of someone less entangled than the two Archangels.

The man returned, combat boots coming into Alyss' line of sight a moment before he crouched down. He was an older man, powerfully built, some salt in the close-cropped pepper of his hair. He had a square face and seemed to find nothing particularly enthusing about the world around him. He wore urban fatigues and was one of a dozen men and woman settled at regular intervals around the angel. Not a vampire; there were no vampires on the massive cargo plane. Raphael would not risk potential sympathizers helping Alyss escape.

Which meant, the young angel knew, that there were sympathizers. That others knew the system was broken, and since no one who could was stepping up to fix it, Alyss had. And so they'd come to this impasse. It was a small relief, to know the pipeline would survive, that others would pick up the fight. It was terrifying to think that it would do so without him. And it was heartbreaking to know that, where he was going, he was alone.

"Not gonna die on us, are you?" the man asked.

"Oh, is that an option? I didn't realize," Alyss replied wearily.

The man chuckled a bit. "You've got heart to spare, angel, I'll give you that."

"No, no. I'm a coward. Very much not a fighter, me. If I were I wouldn't be here."

"If you were you'd still be here," the man clarified ruthlessly, but without malice. "Just in more pieces."

Alyss couldn't deny that. "Is it very long to the Refuge?" he asked. "No offense, I'm sure your plane is very nice but it's rattling my bones right out of me."

"You don't run out of manners, do you." The man shifted a little. "A few hours still." When his prisoner moaned, he couldn't help a little grin. "Want that water?"

"Do you have a blanket?"

One brow went up. "You're cold? I thought angels didn't get cold."

"Someone neglected to pass that memo along," Alyss said tiredly. "But I think I'll take the water, thank you."

After that, under a plain and scratchy blanket, he dozed, exhaustion making up for comfort. He snapped awake a few times, when the ragged places where the vampire's knife had gone right into the meat of the wing smacked into the plane's structure, but otherwise Alyss slept, his nightmares full of words he didn't want to hear and couldn't escape.

Do you trust me?

I thought I could!

The landing roused him to a panic, and his heart was still beating a harried march when he was escorted out of the plane. There were people waiting for him on the ground, none of whom he recognized. An angel, red-winged and dark-eyed, gasped when he saw Alyss. "What did you do to his wings?!"

"Us, nothing. This was done on orders of Archangel Aegaeon back in New York. He sent one of his own people to do it, too. Forbade any sort of medical attention to be tendered." The man who'd offered water, a blanket and a bit of kind conversation, offered the angel the transfer documentation. "Take it up with him, god knows I want to."

The angel yanked away the paperwork, scowling. Alyss was taken, on winding and well-hidden paths, back to the only place that had even come close to being a home, though it had never fully felt like one. No place ever had, not until Maine. Not until the lodge.

No place anymore.

He walked until he nearly fell, light-headed with pain and exhaustion. Someone caught him and he mumbled an apology. He was carried to a spare, empty room, and he frowned at the open balcony of it, trying to figure out why his mind balked at it. It took his weary, aching brain a long time to figure out why: the view was completely unfamiliar. "This isn't Michaela's ward."

"No," the red-winged angel replied, his expression guarded. "It's Elijah’s."

Alyss couldn't even begin to figure that answer out, and he shook his head against the tide of questions. He regretted the gesture immediately. "May I have water, please?" He gripped his temples, trying to convince the pain to go away. "To wash up."

The red-winged angel hesitated visibly. On the one hand Aegaeon's dictum left no room for doubt: he'd commanded no succor of any kind be offered to the traitor. On the other hand the young angel looked like someone had gone at him with a hacksaw. It hurt Mateo to even look at him. Add to that the fact that no one was entirely clear on who the young angel looked to. Yes, his parents in theory dwelt with and answered to the Archangel of Central Europe, but neither they nor Alyss had ever sworn such a vow regarding the young angel’s service. And with Michaela in anshara still, Aegaeon was enforcing his will based on rights-by-proxy that were in and of themselves coasting on parentage, not actual fealty. On the other hand Alyss' crimes, if they could be proved, had mostly happened within Raphael's territory. The Archangel of North America had already contested before the Council Aegaeon's right to summarily pass judgment on Alyss. The ensuing squabble was another reason neither of them was holding onto Alyss. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you," Alyss said. There was a shelf, wooden and bare, affixed to the wall on one side of the room. Otherwise there was nothing. It had been darkened and polished by age and use, and Alyss laid down on it and slept. There seemed to be little else he could do, and in the dreamless darkness Jean's accusing words and the doubt in his green gaze couldn't chase after the angel and break his heart a little more.

He woke up to very quiet, gentle whispers. He turned on the shelf, banged one of his battered wings on it, and fell right off with a cry of pain.

"Alyss!" It was a familiar voice, that much he knew at the moment, but everything else was a wash of white, ringing noise. Strong arms picked him up, helped him sit on the shelf.

"Sorry, sorry," he muttered inanely. "I must look a fright, I'm sorry."

"What you look like, that's what worries you?"the same familiar voice asked in disbelief, and Alyss finally roused out of pain and shock to recognize it.

He looked up into eyes of of violet and indigo to match the angel's wings. "Kliman!"

"Oh, sweet child." When he clung to her, the old angel wrapped her arms around him and held him tight, rocking him lightly as he wept like a youngling. "Oh, shh, shh. It's alright. It's alright."

Once the storm of his emotions was spent, Alyss pulled away, rubbing fretfully at his face. "Ah, yes. You put me in a little bit of trouble and I turn into a toddler once again."

"All things considered, I think you're allowed," Kliman told him dryly, taking his hands in both of hers and cradling them close. "You'll be alright, Alyss. I'll make sure of it."

"I forgt you were here in the Refuge," he said tiredly. "And if they start asking questions... Maybe you should leave. Or Sleep. Everything else is safe, it's just me on the line. So that's alright."

"That is absolutely not alright," Kliman told him sharply. "What happened to your wings?"

"Oh, my parents look to Archangel Michaela. And I never took an oath to any Archangel, any Court, so with her gone, um... When Raphael followed up with my parents I guess they called Aegaeon. He decided if I couldn't be killed out of hand I was a flight risk. How did you even know I was here? How did you find me?"

"Alyss, everyone knows you're here. I don't know who leaked the story out but you've torn us in two. I never would have thought so many angels would be on our side; I always thought I was a rarity, as were you. As for how I got to you," she glanced to the other angel in the room. "I asked an old friend for help."

Alyss turned to look at the other angel, and gasped. She'd kept as much distance between herself and them as she could, giving them what little privacy a few steps could afford. But angel or not she was unmistakable, the indigo wings shimmering when she moved, the rich gold of her eyes startling in a face so delicate it seemed spun glass, tinier even than Alyss himself. Sputtering something unintelligible between a greeting and an apology Alyss tried to stand up and bow, simultaneously. Bereft of the counterbalance of his plumage and entirely unable to do so many things at the same time, he nearly went down on his face.

The two angels caught him. "Child, one angel does not bow to another. We hardly even bow to Archangels."

"My lady Hummingbird, if I don't bow to you there's no one to bow to," Alyss stammered.

Sharine offered him a wry little smile. "Do you know me or of me, young one?"

"Doesn't everyone know of you? What are they even teaching children these days?" he protested wanly as they led him back to the bench.

"Ah, I'm sure they're learning all sorts of things and having all sorts of adventures, as one should at that age, but I'm not a creature of the Refuge these days. Now." She sat before him on the shelf, catching his hands in hers. "Kili brought a few things she thought you might need -"

"… Kili?"

"- and she's going to clean your wings."

"But Archangel Aegaeon said -"

"I don't care," Sharine said with rather more energy than Alyss expected of anyone with the Hummingbird's reputation, "what Aegaeon said. He is not your Archangel. She's going to clean your wings, and if he doesn't like it he can bite my whole ass."

From the look Kliman was giving her it was obvious to Alyss this was very un-Hummingbird language, too. Sharine beamed at them both. "I've made new friends since I took charge of Lumia. They're quite delightful. They’re teaching me all sorts of exciting things. In any case. She's going to clean your wings, and to distract you from it you're going to tell me everything."

Alyss looked at Kliman over one shoulder, and the angel nodded at him. Alyss turned to face the Hummingbird and drew in a deep breath. "I never meant to be anyone important," he began.

Alyss would have been mortified to know that some very important people were discussing him and his work that day and night. A little pleased, perhaps, to know that a few of them agreed with him. But mostly mortified.

Raphael's compound was still reeling from the shouting match between him and his Consort, even though it had happened electronically. Titus, who'd been content to remain neutral on the matter, had grown increasingly less so after hearing from the Hummingbird. Aegaeon had made no friends among the Cadre with his outdated beliefs, even less with his behavior, and though no one could fault him for passing judgment, no one approved of the way he’d gone about it. The rest of the Council had not had much interest in the matter until details had begun to surface, questions begging to be answered, facts to be acknowledged. Too many of them were Ancient, yes, but none of them were the sort to hide from the truth. Or to take kindly to others trying to hide that truth from them.

"We've bought a little time," Hannah told Sharine and Kliman when they met in a small den in Elijah's compound, a room appointed for small, cozy meetings and for lingering over a good book next to the vast, sunny windows cut into the stone. "But the Council's very torn. They don't want to hear him out." She spread her hands. "Elijah pointed out that it would be different if they were Archangels of our time. But too many Ancients sit at Council. In their time the cruelty your young man helps the vampires escape would have simply been their lot."

"Caliane has voted to hear him out," Kliman protested.

"Caliane has private reasons for wanting to hear him out. As does, I suspect, Raphael," the Hummingbird told her gently before turning to Hannah. " And Titus tells me Alexander is torn. He was never once for casual cruelty. He never saw a problem with how vampires were handled, but I don't think he realized the sheer scope of the problem. I don't think most of the Ancients do. The world was a much smaller place when they were awake last. He and Zanaya have asked Titus for advice, and I think they will vote to listen."

"If they do, that would be a majority vote. But we won’t know until they do." Kliman rubbed her face angrily, shoving her pale blond hair back. "Well, if you'll excuse me, and against everything we're hoping to achieve here, I'm going to go punch a vampire." When Hannah gasped a little Kliman told her tartly, "Oh, believe me, he earned it." She stalked out of the room.

Sharine gave Hannah a timid, wary look. "Elena?"

"Incredibly angry. She's taking this as a personal offense against her, against the Guild." When the Hummingbird made a tiny, unhappy sound, Hannah sat by her. "This is the crest of her emotions, Sharine. She will move past it. She might not want to, but she will listen to what Alyss has to say. And his story speaks volumes."

"He's just one voice, though." The Hummingbird tapped the tips of her fingers to her chin, looking thoughtful. "Do you think... Could we possibly... How hard would it be to give him allies?"

Hannah's eyes went very wide when she understood. "I think we lose nothing by trying. What did you have in mind?"

Sharine smiled. “I know just the person.”

Kliman, meanwhile, barged into her own quarters within Raphael's ward. She knew she was incredibly lucky that the Archangel was not looking at her too closely; she didn't know if it was kindness or indulgence but she also knew it wasn't going to last. Alyss might not give her away by name, but his association with her was very likely to damn her.

At the moment she wasn't overly concerned with that. She was very, very concerned with the fact that the young angel's heart was broken and bleeding worse than his wings had been. Aegaeon's man had known exactly what he was doing: the damage was not enough to merit amputation and regrowth, but just enough to make recovery painful and long.

She couldn't punch the Archangel.

She could absolutely punch Jean.

Long, angry steps carried her into the inner chamber where her tiny court was waiting for news. Everyone sprang to their feet as soon as she threw the door open, but by then she was already before Jean. Her arm shot out, her fist connected with his jaw and he staggered back, tripped on a knotted rug, and went down.

"You neglected to mention a few things from your last meeting with Alyss," Kliman growled at him.

"Kliman -" Gevaun began.

"Oh, bugger his delicate sensibilities!" she snapped. "No one here could be soft on him even though he deserved it. He bought kindness with each and every one of those scars, I absolutely agree. And none of us could give it to him, none of us were in a place where we could give it to him. And then, when he finally finds someone who can, who does," she whirled around to glare at the fallen vampire, "you can't even be bothered to trust him?!"

Jean's stunned expression went to shame. "I don't have an excuse," he strangled out.

"Find one!" she shouted at him. "Because the idiot down there still loves you! Still trusts you!"

"Oh, god, no." Jean sat up and buried his face in his hands. "No, he can't."

"He does. And he's hurting so bad it makes me wanna wring your neck."

"I just... I heard him say one thing and it all went wrong from there. I've always known he's not a fighter, that I'd be the one to do all the fighting for him. So I thought..." Jean couldn't catch his breath. He didn't even feel the sting of the punch; everything else hurt too bad. Worst of all was the knowledge that he'd failed after all. "The only reason angels leave is when they're running," he managed to say at last.

"I bloody wish he'd run!" Kliman's wings worked restlessly with her anger. "Evie asked him to run! He knew they'd tear the pipeline apart looking for him if he did. He chose to stay, and they might well kill him for it!" Her voice broke. "They might kill him!" Gevaun caught her then, and though she swatted him angrily for the daring, in the end she clung to him. "Gev, they're gonna kill the little goldfinch," she wept.

He kissed her forehead and held her, knowing better than to lie to her for the sake of empty comfort.

Jean ran his hands through his hair, the words hammering against his skull, against his heart. He could feel his heart beginning to gallop in a familiar, erratic pattern in his chest, he could feel his nightmares rousing, trying to drown him in darkness. The vampire found he didn't care. What, out of all his memories, could be worse than knowing Alyss was dead and he hadn't stopped it?

The voices of his past turned into unintelligible whispers and faded to a background, dim hush. He felt someone draw close and didn't have the energy to flinch. Lilah crouched by his side. "I can't do anything, can I?" His voice was lost, his face haunted. "I can't do anything to help him."

"I don't honestly know," she admitted. "But I'm not giving up just yet. Are you?"

"No," Jean stared sightlessly at the room all around him. "No, I'm not. You tell me what you need, Lil, and I'll do it." He gave her a hollow, wounded look. "No matter what it is."

"It won't come to that," she assured him.

"Can I see him? Please. Just to apologize, just to tell him that I was wrong, just to -."

"Oh, like you're the only asking that question," Kliman said dryly when Lilah was distracted by a ping on her phone. "Half of the Refuge wants to see him. The other half isn't asking because they're not here yet."

"Did he really say that he... That he..." Jean couldn't get the words out.

"Say it? No. He didn't have to." She reached into a pocket of her comfortable pants and offered him a single feather, no bigger than her palm. Though it wasn't the real thing, it was flawlessly amber-colored, only the tip dipped in blood already dry. "He sent this for you instead."

#alyss and jean #angel #vampire #nalini singh #guild hunter #male on male #my writing #fanfiction #fantasy #urban fantasy #modern fantasy

6 notes · View notes

boilingrain · 1 year ago

Text

Okay so I decided to make a new post about hypokits so that I could add some art examples. Additionally, I'll also be doing hypoparents!

Hypokits: Open

Hypoparents: Open

I don't have many rules for these, but the rules that I do have apply to both

The Rules:

Don't send in a ship that is closely related, I will not do it. I'll probably give you the benefit of the doubt though, because the Erins do love to retcon in random familial relationships. Probably. But if you knowingly send in a closely related ship I will eat your bone marrow.

You can send in as many ships as you want, as many times as you want. Do be aware that I might not do all of them, though

Don't spam request. If you send in the same ship a ton of times, I'm not going to do it. Yes, the reason will at least partially be out of spite.

Rarepairs are okay! As long as you're not breaking any other rules, you don't have to justify to me why you ship two characters who have rarely, if ever, interacted. I'm encouraging you to get creative and also I'm giving you a little kiss on the forehead

I will not do OC x OC (at least right now). I might do Canon x OC, but don't get your hopes up too high

You're free to keep/use the designs if you want, but if you use my actual art you need to credit me

And that's it for rules!

Again, there's not many, so go nuts.

If there's anyone reading this who doesn't know what hypokits/hypoparents are, or doesn't know what the difference between them is, I'll try to explain

Hypokits - "What if [Character A] and [Character B] had kits?"

Hypoparents - "What would [Character C] look like if their parents were [Character A] and [Character B] instead of [Character D] and [Character E]?"

Does that make sense? I hope it does, because I'm admittedly not the best at explaining stuff

I'll be looking up family trees for ships to make sure they're not super closely related because I also sometimes miss when the Erins randomly retcon in families. With as many cats as there are in these books, it's basically impossible to remember off the top of my head exactly who is related to who.

Do be warned that I'll be using my own personal designs for any canon characters being shipped, so they might not be entirely accurate to what a kit from their canon designs might look like (for example, my Leafpool design is a tortoiseshell tabby even though she's canonically just a brown tabby)

I'm going to put some art examples under a cut so that nobody has to scroll super far to pass this post if they're not interested in it.

I've only done one hypoparent ship so far, so here's a Firestar x Sandstorm version of Tawnypelt

I've done several hypokits at this point (& still have a few requests in my inbox as of writing this... if you're one of the people who sent me a request I haven't done yet I promise I'm working on it), so here's a few of those

Have fun requesting stuff, and Rarepair shippers please remember that I'm giving you a nice warm beverage, tucking you into bed and giving you a little forehead kiss

#warrior cats #hypokits #wc hypokits #wc hypoparents #hypoparents #rain's art corner

3 notes · View notes

percontaion-points · 9 months ago

Text

Heartless chapters 23 & 24

Today's review might be difficult for some; reader discretion is advised

Click to see the rest of the snark & image descriptions

Click here for the rest of the series!

Chapter 25

Didn’t matter that the alpha soldiers had probably told him they were going to string me up by my cheating, worthless tail.

Is it cheating if he forces you? I’m not sure that I would call what happened “rape” (Because I’m not sure that ANYTHING sexual happened???), but it sure wasn’t goddamned consensual.

Because a very shaky Clan Alpha was glaring across the cave at us all.

Chapter 25 summary: Theo is waiting for Vail outside of the cave. He wanted to warn her that the others are angry and upset that she left abruptly. Vail is only glad that literally a single person cares enough about her to warn her like this, even if there’s nothing he can do to help her after that. He tells her not to go inside, but she’s desperate to see Jasper.

Inside, the alphas kind of gang up on her, and refuse to believe her side of things. However, since what happened was from her POV, we obviously know that she’s telling the truth, even if they refuse to accept the fact that Cal would have sold out the wolves for the Barakats.

But then one thing leads to another, and Vail ends up using her own “alpha” cat power on Cal. And surprise! Much like how Vail is a wolf/cat combo, so too is Cal. He’s forced to shift into his cat side, and then runs out from the caves with embarrassment.

Reed then turns to Vail and tells her that he knows about the blackmail Cal held over her, because he saw the video footage from the camera in the other cave. He was simply trying to catch her in more lies. Which is really fucking shitty, but what else is new.

They then start to question her on if she’s actually mated to Jasper or not. But then Jasper himself shows up to confirm that the two of them are indeed mates.

Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty-Six – Jasper

Once again, the chapter headings at the start of the book kind of gave away the ending.

I looked at my friend. “What you do best, Alphason. Plan for a party, but prepare for war.”

Chapter 26 summary: Jasper has shown up, and the first thing he does is to call every single “alphadouche” out on their fucking shit. Which… good. This is seriously getting out of hand.

He then takes Vail back into the pool room, upon Liam’s insistence, where he gets Vail naked. He says that he felt Vail bite Trey, which he thinks woke him up. But he’s also of the opinion that Vail’s wolf can be mated to him, while her cat can be mated to Trey. Which… why the fuck not. His wolf also hasn’t returned, but he plans to focus on bringing him back, no matter what.

After he settles Vail down to sleep, he meets up with Liam. The bodyguard has no news on Cal’s whereabouts, but “there’s only so many places he could go”.

Then Reed shows up with an invite to a fancy party hosted by Vail’s murder grandfather, and a letter from Jasper’s mum. The letter is like “I think an alliance between our two clans would be good for everything!” Reed tells Jasper that he’s with him, no matter what he decides. And Jasper decides to go to the party, but to “prapare for war”.

The book ends there. But on the next page, the author is promoting a new book series about Vail’s Marrow cousins. That we’ve never met. Which… NOBODY WANTED THAT.

#heartless (hma 3)#hunter moon academy

0 notes

heart-songs · 2 years ago

Text

"Tell me, lover," you whisper, "What do you dream about?"

"If you really want to know, I’ll tell you," I reply. "But fair warning —MY DREAMS AREN’T EXACTLY POETRY…"

Even in sleep, I’m tired. I’m tired, but I can’t stop moving. I’m moving, but I’m slow. I’m slow…and time is fast. I can’t catch up. I’m trying to write a poem while doing laundry but the washing machine is leaking sludge that reminds me of my brain fog. I’m mopping up the mess and trying to write a poem in between answering emails I can’t read because the letters are as jumbled as my half-washed clothes. I’m trying to write a poem while tending to old wounds. I’m trying to type a poem but the keys keep getting stuck under the weight of my feelings. My hands are slippery and stained a hue of watery red. I’m cutting tomatoes—chop chop—but it sounds more like knock knock— That’s not the setup for a joke. It’s him. The wolf. He’s at the door again, and I forgot to lock it. Again. I can hear him polishing his teeth on the welcome mat and notching his name into the post. I should have locked the door. Would it have even mattered if I had? I was trying to write a poem when I read that wolves are clever enough to pick locks. No, that’s not it… Maybe it was something about how they pick your bones from their teeth after they devour every last drop of marrow that made you who you are. Maybe I should just get it over with. Let him in this time. I have aspirations too. He’s so beautiful with those insistent paws and wild hungry eyes that stare only at me. Maybe I’ll be able to tame him. I’ll teach him to sit and stay and beg for his supper. He’ll lick the salt from my face while I try to write a poem. He’ll roll over on demand and lap last night’s leftovers from the palm of my hand. I know eventually he’ll snap—probably claim a few fingers and a good portion of my heart in the process. Until then, I’ll get bragging rights for being the only one in the world to have conquered him. I’m trying to write a poem, and he’s already inside. Wait—is that the smoke alarm howling in my ear? I forgot about the toast. I wonder if the medics will find me before he swallows me whole…

- Cora Finch

#poetry #prose #prosetry #dreams #nightmares #anxiety #life #ramblings #my writing #cora finch #heartsongs #poem #181 #What do you dream about?

0 notes

sergeant-angels-trashcan · 11 months ago

Text

CANNOT believe I didn't think about Ollie in this universe omgggggggggg @lumateranlibrarian

Ok so like. Through a poorly made bet Wayne Enterprises acquired a division of Queen Enterprises (textiles). Kate is the reason they got it for a song, and she's also still Bruce Wayne's assistant, so naturally she's at the bigwig CEO meeting where Oliver learns that because one of his operating officers is a sexist toolbag, Wayne is getting one of Queen's divisions for a price so low its going to be like chum in the water. Their stock is going to be doing fucking absurd things for MONTHS.

Bruce is trying to be somewhat polite. Kate does not give a shit. There's a TV on so they can watch the stocks go haywire and it cuts away to a story on Green Arrow

And Ollie is like wow that's sure interesting! Turns the topic to Batman. Bruce is not thrilled. He's starting to seriously suspect Kate suspects he is Batman and he's not sure enough that she's probably Hawkeye to just let it out so he tries to turn the convo back to Green Arrow (two can play at that game OLIVER)

"I wonder what his draw weight is?" Kate muses.

"Oh probably at least a hundred pounds,. Think I heard a hundred and twenty five once." Ollie says, fully expecting Kate to be impressed, if she knows what a draw weight is she'll know that's impressive

And Kate

FUCKING LAUGHS

and says "that's cute."

Oliver is going insane.

And Bruce is like, look, if he strokes out because of you I'm going to have to fire you. Can we PLEASE have a normal interaction with ANYONE at this company. Why are you SO BAD at this??

Bad at WHAT, Kate wants to know. They're playing the stupidest game of chicken ever.

BAD AT A SECRET IDENTITY Bruce wants to say but he can't and his eye twitches. "Bad at being normal."

"Well, I'm not normal, you knew that when you hired me."

So anyway Batman and Hawkeye are tooling around later, WHAT A STRANGE COINCIDENCE YOU ARE HERE TOO HMMM WHATEVER BROUGHT YOU HERE. (STUPIDEST GAME OF CHICKEN. EVER)

And Green Arrow, STILL gnawing over his earlier interaction with Kate, asks Hawkeye what her draw weight is. She tells him it's 250lbs and he laughs. "That's the stupidest thing to lie about," he says. "Is that bow even yours, or is it just for show?"

Batman, who has worked with Hawkeye long enough to know what's coming, lays a heavy hand on her shoulder both to keep her in place and warn her that he can and will bodily remove her from the situation like she's an angry chihuahua. Hawkeye and Batman exchange communicative glances.

Hawkeye shrugs, and offers the bow to Green Arrow which sets off many loud and colorful alarms in Batman's head. "Okay then tough guy, give it a go."

Batman is attempting with all his might to beam the words don't do it let it go into Green Arrow's head. It doesn't work. He takes the bow, draws it, and immediately swears and dry fires it on accident.

"Hey!" Kate snaps. "I don't go around fucking up your weapon!"

"I didn't mean to! Jesus fuck why do you need that much draw weight? There's no reason for that!!!"

"I don't know, man, you'd have to ask the other Hawkeye that, it was his bow first! Everybody thought he was dead and I was given the Hawkeye name and also the bow--"

"Oh my god there's more of you?" Green Arrow interrupts.

"You're very rude," Hawkeye informs him. "Anyway I've been using this bow since I was 16, I'm not going to change it now."

"You were drawing this bow. Like this. When you were 16."

"Yeah, and?"

Green Arrow doesn't know if he's in love with her or hates her to his marrow. Both? Both is good. Are she and Batman a thing? He's thinking not. Green Arrow wants her to step on him, just a little.

Also, I don't know which I like more: if they know who the other is, but thinks the other doesn't know who THEY are, or if the just Strongly Suspect until a very specific detail is noticed (like an injury, a scar, Kate painted her fingernails) and I've only been thinking about this revelation coming as civilians but also very funny is this happening while they are tracking a drug dealer or something in full costume

Anyway.

Someone is attacking the Wayne Industries office building.

Okay, it's not someone, it's Lex Luthor, and Bruce and Kate are hiding in his office as he tries to convince her to let him go do something stupid.

"Kate, you don't understand. I can handle this. You need to stay here where it's safe."

Kate stares at him, slightly open-mouthed. "What? No! That's such a bad idea, dude! I will go!"

And they're friends right now because Kate never calls her boss Mr. Wayne dude.

"Kate, please, I need you safe. I can take care of this."

"How are you going to explain that, huh? People already expect weird shit from me, half of the press thinks I'm CIA or some shit! Sit your ass down, I will handle this!"

Bruce settles his hands on her shoulders and shoves her back down. He has never, ever used his strength against her like this--

"I'm the only one who can do this," he says. "Because I'm Batman."

This is clearly a big moment for him and he's expecting a bad reaction of some kind and Kate definetley ruins it.

"Yeah!" she snaps. "No dur!"

Bruce blinks at her very slowly. "I'm serious. I'm Batman."

"I know," she hisses. "You're also stacked, and the best way out of here involves the ceiling and the walls, and you won't fit! I also have more experience climbing through air ducts and jumping down elevator shafts than you do."

Bruce slumps back against his desk, rubbing his forehead. "No dur?" He repeats softly. "No d--"

"Do you have any weapons in here?"

Bruce moves to the bookshelf on the side of the room, pressing the nose of a marble bust and letting his face get scanned. A few drawers push out from the carved wood with a hiss and he pulls out the top one. There's batarangs nestled in thick foam and a grapple gun--

"Sorry. This is probably more your style," he says, tugging on the drawer underneath.

It's got the same thick grey foam but instead of...bat-gear, it's--

A matte black bow, two batons framing a quiver with a compliment of arrows, and a sword.

"Not sure if the batons will be the right weight," he says casually, before he catches her slack-jawed stunned-fish expression. "Kate, please. Give me some credit."

Also of COURSE he is in love with her he just doesn't realize that's what That Feeling is. Alfred knows. You don't get a hand-dyed, hand-woven, hand-embroidered camel-and-silk scarf custom made for a PRANK. You don't commission works of art and put together an entire art show for someone you work with without something else being there. Alfred may have been born at night but he wasn't born last night. Lucius knows. Rachel knows. Literally everyone knows.

What was suggested: dick grayson/kate bishop

What is being written: Kate gets stranded in the Nolan Dark knight universe and through luck and sheer bloody-mindedness becomes Bruce Wayne's personal assistant. To do this, she thinks about the most take-no-bullshit-from-idiot-genius-billionaires she knows, and creates what she calls her "pepperpottsona"

whenever anyone from Kate's universe finds out about this, their first response is "oh, yeah, that makes sense" followed immediately by "so is he in love with you yet?" Tony and Pepper and Rhodey think this is the funniest thing btw

#kate bishop #hawkeye #bruce wayne #batman #dc brainrot #my stuff #your honor they are so stupid i love them.#GORDON KNOWS #like he knows there's something between the bat and the hawk #paddling my kayak

180 notes · View notes

i-arch-my-backula · 3 years ago

Text

Slashers with an s/o who makes and wears bone jewelry

I know this is specific but I made some bone jewelry with some animal bones today and I kept thinking about my bone boys. So I thought this would be a cute little headcannons I hope you enjoy

Warnings: murder, dead animals and bones mentions

Includes: Lester Sinclair, Thomas Hewitt and Bubba Sawyer

Lester Sinclair

When he first met you and he saw the bones on your necklaces rings bracelets earrings etc he fell in love

He’d make some stupid joke like “You’ve got nice bone structure.” Or something dumb like that

Once you start living with him he’ll be eager for you to make more things with his bones, cause I feel like this man just has them laying around.

He’d wear whatever you make him all the time. Necklace with a part of a raccoons jaw? Wearing it right now darlin. Ring with some deer teeth? Oh boy he’s wearing it like a wedding ring.

If you make earrings you might find this fucking himbo trying to pierce his own ears too. Bo is also a himbo dont @ me

He’ll give you whatever supplies you need and even drive into town for them. If Bo comments in a negative way on your jewelry Lester is quick to defend you. “Well you’ve always got that damn tacky ring on but ya don’t see me commentin on it.”

Thomas Hewitt

This man would first see you sitting at the table with whatever bone jewelry you have on. I like to think you’d be wearing a necklace and he’d pick it up while you’re wearing it and look at it.

Once he knows you’d be staying he’ll always be watching your jewelry. He loves how it looks and moves and how at home it makes him feel around you.

He’ll start to give you supplies to make things with like jump rings and pliers and chains. Also well small bones too. He’ll drill holes in them if he has to. He likes the idea of nothing in the house going to waste.

If Hoyt or Monty poke fun at you for it he’ll stick up for you. They mess with him enough but they won’t mess with his s/o.

He’d also probably saw up bigger bones for things and he might start to use the bone marrow in the food.

If you made him anything he’ll wear it but keep it hidden. He adores you so much and he loves that you’d do that for him.

Bubba Sawyer

He would absolutely not kill you when he sees your bone jewelry. He always is trying to show off a feminine side to him because of his genderfluid identity but his brothers are fucking cocks so he can’t really do much. But with you he can have some fun.

He’ll bring you small animal bones and teeth and whatever else you need. He’ll even convince Drayton to get you more supplies if he can find them.

He’ll watch you while you make them. Looking at the process and watching your hands as you work with the wire and chains and bones, making it into art. Kinda like how he turns faces into masks for art.

I feel like if you have Jewelry to Bubba he would never in a million years take it off. He doesn’t care what his brothers say to him he love it so much and the fact it was made by you makes it even better.

He’ll probably ask you to make some for Nubbins too because I feel like he’d be the most supportive brother out of all of them and kinda show support for Bubba with a little tooth bracelet.

Bubba will probably also steal bones from the road kill Chop Top and Nubbins find just for you.

#lester sinclair #lester sinclair x reader #Thomas Hewitt #thomas hewitt x reader #bubba sawyer #bubba saywer x reader #house of wax #texas chainsaw massacre #texas chainsaw the beginning #slasher #slashers #slasher x reader #slasher fanfiction #slasher community

434 notes · View notes

bump1nthen1ght · 3 years ago

Text

Out of the Woods (Werewolf x Reader) Part 2

Pairing:Fem!Reader/Male!Werewolf

Genre: Rural Fantasy, Slow Burn, Fluff

Warnings: Mention of blood, Small mention of animal (specifically coyote) death, mentions of guns

Word Count: 6082 words

Summary: You begin the slow journey of sheltering a werewolf. Whether that’s a smart idea, you’re still unsure. But the two of you are stuck in this together, like it or not.

A/N: So……part two is here!!! (What do you mean its been 7 months since I’ve updated shhhhh)

But seriously, thank you for all the support over my impromptu hiatus. I was hit with pretty severe writers block on top of general life stress. I found myself disliking everything I wrote and hating the anxiety I had when I didn't. But the break has actually helped ALOT. I’m so happy with this piece and I think y’all will like it, I know you have been waiting a while! Enjoy!

(Side note, I'm thinking of writing some little vignettes about this relationship in the future. Let me know if y'all would be interested!)

Taglist: @ileavechaosinmywake @wannabewolf

@sorryimnotcreativeatall

As Heath scarfs down a whole rotisserie chicken by himself, you wonder how long your groceries are going to last.

He eats with his hands, like a drunk person desperate for a salty snack in the middle of the night. You can see that even in his human form his canines are elongated and extra sharp. They tear through the meat like a hot knife through butter. When he finds a particular piece is too hard to get with his mouth, he flicks out his claws and scrapes it out.

He’s still handsome as hell, though.

His long hair falls elegantly over his shoulder, drawing attention to his sharp clavicle and the definition of his shoulder muscles. It’s shiny and thick, surprisingly well-kept, as if he hadn’t been living in the wilderness for the last few months.

“Here,” You take the scrunchie off your wrist, sliding it across the table, “Take this.” Heath pauses his little massacre to quickly tie his hair up, just out of the way enough so he can eat unabated.

So he does know what hair-ties are.

You add that to the “What The Werewolf knows” list in your mind; His unabashedness about nudity and lack of social graces would indicate he hasn’t lived in civilization for a while, but his general know-how of kitchen appliances and a first aid kit seem to say otherwise.

“So…” You mutter, tapping your fingers on the table. Heath doesn’t even look up from his chicken. “Do you know why the hunters are after you?”

Heath shrugs, cracking a chicken bone and sucking out the marrow. “Sort of,” He says, chicken rib still in mouth, “Been told a lot about this place. This town’s got more people who know about the supernatural than usual and they have a long line of Hunters. It’s kind of known as a ‘Do Not Enter’ zone for us werewolves.” Once he’s finished with the bone, he tosses it to the side of his plate, some grease flying off and dotting your place mats. You nod, still trying to absorb the new status-quo yesterday brought.

“And you came here for?”

Heath finally stops eating, looking up at you with a big smirk. His shining canines have bits of chicken still stuck in between them, but it doesn’t make the fangs look any less menacing.

“I’m a risk taker. Ain’t no pack to hold me back, just living life out in the woods, I need to get my kicks somewhere. Plus,” He takes his last bite of chicken, wiping the excess carnage off his chin, and flexes his biceps, “I’m not a push-over.”

You roll your eyes and take a sip of your coffee, not willing to debate with his showboating. It was probably a coping mechanism anyway, given he was bleeding out on your porch less than a day ago.

“Damn, that was delicious. Got any more?”

You almost choke on your tea, eye the full carcass on his plate, and then look at him.

He’s a big guy, guess that makes sense.

“There’s some chips in the pantry. But we’ll have to wait on chicken.” Heath's face lights up at the talk of snacks, pushing himself up and jogging to the pantry. If he was a wolf, his tail would probably be wagging.

Heath has to lean down to comfortably reach stuff in your cabinets and you jerk your eyes away, forcing yourself to not look at his (very, very nice) butt. You wipe tea off your chin. “I have some chicken pot pies for tomorrow, but it’s best to hold off for now. I probably shouldn’t head back into town until we know those guys won’t come back and kill you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Heath waves, letting out a little ‘yes!’ when he finally finds the chips. “I’ll probably leave tomorrow.”

Your mug bangs against the kitchen table as you whip around to him. “What?”

Heath shrugs, mouth semi-full of chips. “I’ll be right as rain by then. Might as well get a head start.”

“But, But, the guys-”

Heath squints, his face going cold. “I’ll outrun them.”

“You’re going to outrun three F-150’s on a bunch of back roads in their home turf? Not to mention Robert’s dirt bikes; Those guys use them all the time to hunt rabbits.” Heath rolls his eyes and you clench your teeth. You really hate it when he does that. “Just...stay here a couple days. The excitement will go down and I can tell them you took off in the middle of the night. Make the trip out of here as easy as possible.”

Heath sets down the bag of chips. “You said it yourself, you don’t have enough food-”

“I didn’t say that. I said-”

“Why do you care so much anyway?” Heath points an accusatory finger at you, “I’m not some charity case you have to worry about. Sorry you feel like you have to be the hero here, but you don’t; I’m a big boy, I can handle myself.”

The hardwood squeals as you leap out of your seat, your chair roughly pushed against the table as you point back at Heath. “I care because I like my chickens, hate those damn coyotes, and don’t want to be stuck burying your dead ass when it winds up on my property, got it?” You walk towards him, forcing Heath backwards into the counter. “Now listen,” you stick a finger into his chest, “I don’t appreciate you talking to me that way. And if you’re going to stay here, I’d like us to be on good terms. God knows it would be a lot easier for me to throw you out right now, but I won’t. Because despite that snark of yours, I’m a good person, no hero-worship needed.”

The air is thick, hot as you two stand inches from each other, chest to chest. Heath looks down, his face furrowed, before he looks to the side.

“...Fine.” Heath mutters.

You let yourself breathe. A part of you wonders if God amped up your boldness today; ____ from last week probably wouldn’t have confronted several men with guns and a werewolf on the same day. You brush back your hair and sigh, moving away from Heath to clean up his dishes.

“You should probably go to bed, you’ve had a long day.”

Heath doesn’t say anything, walking past you to the bedrooms. You tell yourself to not look back at him.

---------------

The next day, you barely see Heath at all; He keeps to his room, only peeking his head out for a quick breakfast, lunch, and an afternoon shower. An afternoon shower that completely clogs your drain with thick, white fur.

You let him have his space, the spat the two of you had leaving a sour taste in your mouth. But the next morning you wake up to a mess of dishes in your sink, another clogged shower drain, and a whole chicken skeleton on your countertop, and decide it’s now time to set some ground rules.

You knock on his door that night, oven mitts and an apron in hand. Heath opens, wearing the same pair of sweats you had given him, shirtless.

You can feel your face flush as your eyes inadvertently skirt over his defined chest, but force yourself to look into his eyes. It’s just like having a roommate, that’s all, nothing’s there.

“You hungry?”

Heath makes a half-motion to say no, but the loud growl that comes from his stomach says otherwise. He scowls a bit and you hold in laugh as he looks as he grabs his abdomen.

“.....Yes”

You nod, biting your lip and handing him the oven mitts.

“Good, because I need some help.”

---------------

Heath’s quick to learn how to properly peel and mince after a quick lesson, but he still keeps quiet throughout the whole process. You try to find the words to make small talk, but nothing seems to come to mind. Asking about werewolf stuff still feels invasive and you doubt the go-to’s of “Where’d you go to high school?” and “What do you do for work?” will help you in breaking the tension.

Still, Heath doesn’t seem angry, or even resentful. Just...quiet. You notice that he’s begun unconsciously bobbing his head to the music playing over your speaker; Even shimmying his feet back and forth. You think several times that you could ask what music he likes, but by the time you work up the courage he’s already made himself a plate to quickly devour.

You had gone with something a little heavier tonight, knowing how much he eats, but his portion still seems significantly smaller than last dinners. You hope he doesn’t feel like he has to eat less because of what you said about groceries; You don’t want him to starve.

But he cleans his plate, walking back to his room with a quick ‘Thanks’.

As you wash your dishes, you try to come up with a new plan to make him more comfortable.

Damn, this is going to be difficult.

---------------

You never love waking up in the middle of the night, especially when you're thirsty. It feels like walking around kicks you out of that sleeping sweet-spot, right on the edge of unconsciousness. Not to mention how creepy your hallways can be in the pitch-black. But the cottony-feeling in your mouth forces you out of your room, stumbling into the kitchen for a cup of water.

You’re still in a little bit of a daze, just opening the cabinet door when you hear a commotion outside that jolts you awake. It starts with quick clicks of nails on your back porch, followed by a sickening snarl and a thump as something hits your outside wall. It devolves into several yelps and growls, making you grab that faithful knife from its block and run outside.

When you open the door, there’s a final snap as you see Heath rip open a coyote's throat, thick blood splattering against your porch, reflecting the moon light.

It’s odd to say you’re relieved by the sight, having feared the absolute worst (Robert, all those men, Heath’s poor body splayed out on the hardwood). Even as Heath digs into the now-carcass, sort of gruesomely, you feel the relief wash over you.

But wait, why was he outside in the first place?

“Uh, you good?”

Heath jolts a bit, jerking away from his meal, his snout painted red. But he visibly relaxes when he notices it’s you. He gives a little nod, then goes back to picking at the remains.

You set down the knife on your porch side table, leaning your head forward to peer into your chicken coop, which lays not two feet away from your porch.

All of your girls are huddled up in the corner, feathers still fluttered, but they seem far more relaxed than you would expect. Their wobbly heads keep peaking over each other to keep an eye on Heath, who has made quick work of the coyote. He swipes his paw over his snout, barely getting any blood off as he wrinkles his nose.

“Thanks so much. I really appreciate this. But, you know…” You gesture toward the half-eaten coyote left on your porch steps. “I think those other ones will get the message, you could probably just go to bed.”

Heath just looks at you, eyes just as unreadable as when he’s human, and walks over to the coop. He plops himself in the grass, laying down his head and tucking his tail.

You’re gonna take that as a ‘no’ to your sleeping inside offer.

You sigh, about to make the long walk back to your bed when you notice a little movement from the bundle of chickens.

Georgette, your bravest girl, begins to strut away from the safety huddle. The other ladies cluck as she tentatively trots over to Heath, head bobbing as she gets closer and closer to the chicken wire. With a poke, the tip of her beak sticks in between the holes, head twitching as she eyes up Heath. One of Heath’s ear twitches, but he keeps his eyes closed, sighing as he preps for a long nap.

Georgette, satisfied with her expedition, shuffles her wings and plops next to the wire, settling downfor her own sleep. Georgette likes her chances, what with her guard dog being so close.

The rest of hens, still moving as a big flock, slowly waddle over to her and Heath. They eventually settle down, eyes closing as they press up against the wire.

The sight makes your heart nearly explode with cuteness and you regret not grabbing your phone when you hopped out of bed.

Speaking of which, a winter breeze reminds you of how underdressed you are, so you move back to the warm inside. Not before pulling up your recliner, a quilt, and a cup of water up to the back door, keeping it cracked just a bit.

You just mean to watch them for a bit, enjoy the night air and the peace. But you find yourself dozing off rather quickly, head tucked into your quilt, falling into an easy sleep.

Heath pops one eye open, watching your snoring figure curl up into the recliner.

His tail wags, just a little bit.

---------------

The next morning, you wake up with a sore neck and a cup of hot tea by your side, the sound of some dishes in the kitchen. Heath either moved to the bed last night or woke up very early, your chickens back in their hutches.

Breakfast is quiet as usual, same as the rest of the day, but when night comes Heath is back out on your porch and you're in your chair. You had the sense to bring your Switch with you this time; Not wanting to bother Heath with chit chat but also not willing to risk another crick in your neck from sleeping in your recliner.

You try to keep the volume down, not letting out your normal amount of expletives as the boss kills you for a second time. Heath’s ears are just too good however, and he turns his head when he hears you mutter a ‘fuck’.

You shrug, mouthing a ‘sorry’, and Heath just rolls his eyes. He stands up, shaking out his limbs before he nudges open the back door with his muzzle. His wolf form stands about as tall as the side of your recliner, his chin resting on the arm as he looks at the console.

“Not much going on today, huh?”

He huffs, giving the closest approximation to a ‘yeah’ as he sits down, head still resting on the arm chair. You turn back toward your Switch.

“Have you ever played this game before?”

Another huff, a ‘no’, you’re getting pretty good at reading his signals.

“It’s not that hard, I just suck ass at video games.” A cutscene starts as your character enters the battleground. You turn up the volume, the deep voice of your enemy congratulating you on making it this far. You laugh, “Bet you wouldn’t say that if you knew this was my third time, bud.”

The battle starts, background music and the clicking of buttons filling the silence. You try to keep your focus on the fight, you really didn’t need any handicaps for this boss, but you can’t help glancing over at Heath every once in a while. While you had expected him to watch, find something to pass the time, you didn’t expect his gaze to be so…entranced. His pupils were dilated and his ears flicked back and forth with the music. The boss lands a pretty gnarly blow on you and Heath sucks in a breath.

You’ve lost almost half your health and are out of healing potions. You might’ve given up at this point, ride out the rest of the battle half-heartedly and hope for a better next-time. But your audience spurs you onward, finger muscles beginning to ache as you furiously press the controller.

There's a collective sigh as the dramatic ‘GAME OVER’ flashes across the screen, then tension in your neck loosening as you set down the switch. You stretch out your fingers, knuckles red from the stress and the cold breeze blowing in from outside. A wet nose pushes against your wrist and you look down at Heath.

He’s clearly trying to mitigate his excitement, but his wagging tail tells all; He’s invested in this fight now too, and he wants you to give it another go. You smile, brushing a hand over his muzzle. Oddly, he doesn’t push you away.

“Do you want a shot?” Heath’s brow furrows, shooting a quick look towards the door. “Nothing’s come all night, I think we can spare boss battle.” Heath huffs, almost a laugh, before taking his head off the arm chair. He shakes his shoulders, body and fur already begging to ripple with the shift. Your face darkens as a blush creeps up. “Uh, you might need some clothes there, bud.”

Heath rolls his eyes but trots off to his room anyway, tail leisurely swinging behind him.

He comes out in a t-shirt too small and sweats too big and you look away before you can check him out; Stupid stubborn werewolf, being stupidly handsome.

You hand Heath the Switch and sit on the arm of the recliner, throwing the blanket over you both as he settles into the chair. The position you're in cranes your neck and spine in an awkward way, but it’s the only way you can see the screen without snuggling with Heath.

You give Heath a short run down in controls, pointing out the save area he can practice a bit in. Heath just gives you a playful smirk.

“No offense, but I think I’ve seen you lose enough times to figure out my strategy.” You respond with a little punch in the shoulder, which doesn’t move him an inch.

“Alright, hot shot. Do your worst.”

The boss music plays as the character walks in, probably wondering why they’re trying this for the fourth time, and the battle begins.

To his credit Heath is already doing way better than you. His long fingers allow for quicker reaction time and he already understands a lot of the bosses' attacks. You want to be annoyed by it, but you're too focused on the fight to even care.

“Fuck, watch out for the sentries!” You whisper-yell, Heath way ahead as his character rolls out of the way. Both of your heads crane forward when the battle moves into the second phase; It’s uncharted territory and who knows what will come next.

“How does this jackass-” Click “-have so many goddamn-”Click Click Click “-minions! God, fucking-” An unusually devoted lackey stabs Heath in the back, another attack from the boss depleting the rest of the health. “-shit!” Heath and you fall back into the chair, another “GAME OVER” flashing on the screen. Heath growls a bit, hearing the boss bid a snide remark before he respawns outside the battle.

“Oh my god, you were so close.”

“Seriously! Next time, I’m going for those minions fucking throats. No mercy.”

You chuckle, head lolling to the side and onto Heath’s shoulder. The adrenaline rush is slowly fading, your eyes feeling heavy, and you unconsciously snuggle yourself closer to his side. Heath’s body radiates heat, like a warm quilt or a space heater.

Heath nearly flinches as your hip pushes into his rib cage, the smell of your freshly-washed hair floating across his senses.

Maybe it’s the fact it’s getting late, or that he’s too exhausted from the abrupt ride of the past few days, but Heath finds he doesn’t mind it that much. It’s nice, it’s relaxing, it’s….comfortable.

The next battle is just as intense, you giving commentary to Heath’s frustrated playing. But as it goes on, you sink deeper and deeper into the chair and closer to Heath’s side, going from relaxing in the arm to sharing half of the seat. You don’t seem to notice or care too much, but Heath is aware of every moment.

It’s hard to focus on the boss with your side pressed up against him, soft and so careful. It might be the softest touch Heath has ever felt in his life, his mind overloading with how to deal with it.

He loses, swearing as he sets down the console.

“Jeez, how can you even-”

Heath turns to look at you, shocked by your head resting against his shoulder, even closer than he realized. You seem to have just slid into sleep, your breathing slow and even as your head lulls downward. Heath instinctively lags it back against his body, his heart stuttering when you snuggle deeper into him.

You’ve had a long two days as well. He’ll let you sleep.

---------------

The next morning you wake up, tucked into your bed. You don’t remember falling asleep, nor putting a cup of water on your nightstand.

All you remember is warmth, a familiar smell of pine and fur, and the feeling of someone rubbing your back.

The blush comes before you can stop it.

Oh god, I am so fucked.

---------------

At breakfast, Heath cracks the eggs, toasts the bread and cleans the pans. You toss everything together and make a semblance of a meal. It’s enjoyed in a peaceful quiet, watching the rising sun before you start your chores.

When you finish for the day, you see a tidy living room and three steaks set out to defrost. Heath sits on the couch, trying once more to beat the boss.

You give him a thanks, he says “Don’t mention it.”

The two of you sit out on the porch at night, kitchen cleaned and bellies full. Your chairs are close, close enough to share a blanket and your Switch. You show Heath some simpler platformers and a colorful rhythm game, but the two of you eventually make it back to the boss. You both lose, again.

It’s easier to fall into a routine than you’d thought; You have breakfast, get your chores done, eat lunch, then hang out until dinner and guard duty. Sometimes the two of you just sit in the living room, doing your own thing, sometimes you banter and bicker for hours on end about nothing.

You offer to brush his tail one of those afternoons and although he hesitates at first, he gives in rather quickly. You hum a background track from your favorite video game as you do, telling him all about the new method which should help you kill that boss. Heath scoffs.

“Fuck that, I could do it only my own.” He says, recline back onto the pallet you set on the ground. You roll your eyes.

“Last night says otherwise, but okay.”

Heath shifts onto his elbows, glaring at you.

“Are you doubting my abilities?”

“Yes, yes I am.” Heath throws one of the pillows at you. You laugh in shock and throw another one right back at him, hand still firm on his tail. “It isn’t good practice to threaten the one with the weapon, now is it?” You taunt, shaking the brush in your hand. Heath dramatically whimpers and pretends to cower in fear.

“Oh no, whatever shall I do.” You throw another pillow at his face. “Hey!”

Heath offers to collect the eggs and clean the hen pen in the mornings, with the excuse that it’s a way for him to get some sunlight and let out some energy. But you can hear the way he coos and makes nicknames for the ladies. Although the chickens stutter around him at first, soon they're eating out of the palms of his hand.

What a lady killer. You simper, letting yourself fall deeper and deeper.

On the fourth night you guys forego pretending to be on guard duty, throw cozy blankets and a bucket of popcorn on the couch for a movie night. Heath’s movie knowledge is tragically low (for you at least), and you intend to change that, starting with Back to the Future.

“Y’know, they actually cast another guy for Marty Mcfly.” You mutter, busting out what might be your fifth fun fact of the night.“They actually got up to six weeks of filming before they cast him. They even reused some shots and just added some close ups of Michael J. Fox to make it seem like he was in the scene.”

Heath hums, stuffing his face with another handful of popcorn. “Only you would study up before watching a movie, nerd.”

You throw popcorn at Heath's face, which he smugly catches in his mouth. You flip him off as he laughs and uses a pillow to block himself from incoming popcorn attacks.

There’s a barrier that’s been broken, whittled down over shared meals and video games. Heath doesn’t even react when you fall asleep on his shoulder near the end of the movie, your snoring surprisingly cute.

He thinks he can get used to this; You, him, the chickens, and this house. Same scenery day by day, not constantly wondering where his next hunt will come from.

If he was going to survive tomorrow.

The credits roll and Heath doesn’t move. He pulls up the quilts and runs his claws through your hair, admiring your peaceful expression. Heath let’s himself rest, let’s himself feel peace for the first time in a while.

It’s on the fifth day that the hunters come back.

---------------

You're taking out the trash when you see the pick up truck. The blue, far too big and rusted to all hell pick up truck that Robert loves to the moon and back.

A part of you says to run into the house, another says that would be too suspicious. Another part wonders if Heath is within shooting range from the kitchen window, doing the dishes as your speakers blast.

It's with trembling hands that you close the trash can, walking towards your front porch, trying to act like you aren’t about to have a panic attack. You stop at your front door and keep your hand poised on the knob. Robert steps out of his truck and you try your best to fake a polite smile.

“Morning, Robert. Dreadful weather we’re having, ain’t it?”

Robert gives an agreeable hum, brushing off his jeans before he sticks his hands in his pockets.

“Yup. Farm work’s been a bitch this week.”

His eyes glance around your porch and if you were more naive you’d think he was admiring your yard work. But you know what he’s here for, who he’s looking for.

A cursory glance to his windshield says he came alone, nobody hiding in the back or even stowing away in the truck bed. Unless he has an inside pocket or a side holster, he’s not armed either. You’re not in hot water, yet.

“Bummer. I know when-“

“Is he here?”

A vice grips your heart, hand frozen. You take a breath and lie.

“Who?”

Robert sighs, afraid that you would say something like that.

“You know who, ____”

You’re tempted to lie, lie badly, again. But you're not sure how stalling would help; Heath is in the kitchen and it would be too suspicious for you to shout. It’s time to rip the bandaid off.

“And why does it matter? This is my house, isn’t it?”

Robert rubs his forehead, a cloud of breath chilled by the morning air.

“I know what you think, but you need to listen to me.”

“Who my guests are is none of your fucking business, Robert. Not if they haven’t done anything wrong. So,” You turn the door knob, opening it just the slightest, not giving Robert a view inside the house. “Unless you come back with a warrant, I think we are done here.”

The doorframe shakes a bit when Robert slams his hand on the door, stopping you from going any further. He at least has the decency to look ashamed when you flinch, pulling yourself away from him and pressing your back against the frame. His hand relaxes, but doesn’t leave the surface of the door.

“I know you're a good person, ____.” Robert whispers, eyes darting from you to inside. “I know you think you’re doing the right thing, but that sweet heart of yours isn't helping right now. You need to hand him over.” Still keeping an eye on your house, pupils shooting back and forth for the dangerous werewolf inside, Robert takes a step back. You let yourself breathe for a second. “We’ll take care of it, it’ll be over soon and you can get him out of your house.”

The cold air brings color to your shaky breath, your shivers from fear and the cold morning slightly rattling the frame behind you. You take another trembling breath, finding it hard to look Robert in the eyes. He’s a good guy, you know he wouldn’t hurt you.

But my god, you are so fucking angry,

“Thanks for the advice, Robert.” You spit out, staring at his dirty steel-toed boots in contempt. “Anything else this poor sweet heart needs to know? Anything else I’m too stupid to see, hmm?“

You can feel heat traveling up your collarbone as you glare at Robert, feeling a tinge of satisfaction when he takes another step back. “____, I didn’t say that-”

“I know damn well what you 're trying to say, Robert. Unlike what you and your boys seem to think, I’m pretty damn good at reading between the lines.” You take a step away from the frame, losing how grounded the wood behind made you feel. Everything feels red, feels hot, and you’re too pissed for caution anymore. “So how about you tell this sweet heart exactly what she’s missing, huh? What else about my life do you know so much more about me anyway?” Robert’s boot heel crunches in the frosty grass of your lawn, looking up at you from the top of your porch steps. “Tell me what that poor man has ever done to you. Tell me that while he’s been watching over my chickens, helping me do the dishes, and enjoying the first warm meal of his life that he’s been moonlighting as a big bad wolf!” Your slippers stomp down the steps as you stick a finger into Robert's chest. “How about you tell me what else my sweet heart has blinded me too, or else I’m gonna start thinking you're telling me all this hullabaloo has been over nothing. That some dumbasses who call themselves heroes worked themselves into a fit over a rumor, and now are trying to drag me into their shit. So you better start telling some really juicy stuff right now.” You don’t know it, but you’ve pushed Robert almost all the way back to his truck, wetting your sweatpant bottoms with dew. “Because unlike you folks, I’m not going to throw anybody out in the cold and shoot them for a piss-poor reason like that.”

There’s a certain quietness to the morning. Even as your chest heaves with anger, breath pouring out in steamy clouds, the lack of birds chirping and your faucet running brings a certain peace to the scene.

Robert’s eyes are wide, his body laying it’s weight against the hood of his truck when you take your finger off his chest. His hands are clenched shut, his knuckles white and his fingertips bright red. Your anger slowly simmers back down your body and back into your chest, Robert exhaling a breath as you give him his space.

“I, I didn’t-” He mutters and you’re ready to hear another excuse. But his hands unfurl, his body slumping against the truck as he refuses to meet your eye.

The pause is long enough that you begin to feel the chill deep into your slippers, goosebumps peppering across your skin when a cold breeze goes by. Robert finally meets your gaze.

“We only saw the wolf, not him, not the man.” He whispers. “You’re the only one who knows what he looks like.” Robert straightens himself up, fidgeting with his coat and tucking his hands back into his pockets. “I can tell the guys that I chased him off, that he-he turned tail and ran when I showed up.” You see Robert's hands fidget in his pocket, pulling out his truck keys. He tosses them a bit in his palm, a fish shaped can opener looking extra bright in the sun.

“Just, come up with something. If you set the groundwork, slowly, then he could be safe, at least in town.”

You nod, taking a step back and gesturing towards Robert’s truck. He wets his lips before walking to his truck door.

You mouth a “Thank you” as Robert drives away. His smile is a tiny, sort of sad; For who, you’re not sure.

The walk back to your house might as well have been a mile; The adrenaline and the screaming has finally left you and all that’s left is exhaustion. Your hands tremble with the thought of what you just did, both from anxiety and delight. Either way, you could really go for some hot chocolate right now.

“Why?”

You’re jolted out of your own thoughts by Heath, standing in the entryway to your kitchen. His hair is tied back into a loose ponytail, his hands still wet from washing the dishes. Your brow furrows.

“What?”

“Why, why did you do that? You could’ve-” Heath’s voice is shaky, but it slowly rises in volume, “You could’ve gotten hurt, ____! He could’ve had a knife, or one of those guns, he could’ve attacked you!” Heath runs a hand through his hair, his dark claws scratching against his scalp. “You should’ve just-You could’ve just-” Heath throws his head in his hands and you can see the hint of his tail behind him. It flicks back and forth, anxious and agitated. “I don’t know what I’d do if he hurt you. What would happen to the chickens, the house? Why didn’t you just let him take me?”

You take a couple steps forward, having heard this all before. You don’t want to fight, you don’t have the energy for it. Heath is too lost in his own mind to notice you approaching. “I can handle him, any of them. It’s my fault they're here. I’m strong enough, I can protect myself. I can protect us. So why did you-”

Your hand brushes against Heath’s cheek, enough that he pauses his rant and focuses on you. You can see the slit of his eyes fading into yellow, the pupil widening into a circle when he looks at you.

With a quick movement you grab the back of his neck, pulling him down to your height and kissing him.

It’s short, a messy mash of a peck that ends as quick as it started. You can feel your cheeks burn as you look into Heath’s eyes; They’re hazy, a bit in shock. Before you can lose your courage you lay your forehead against his, whispering.

“Because I care about you, you idiot.”

There’s a heavy breath, refusing to back down from his gaze, despite the crawling nerves on your shoulders. You’ve already made the first move, finally admitted the bubbling feelings that have lingered in your heart these past few days. You can’t back down now. “I understand if you don’t feel the same way-”

To give Heath credit, his surprise kiss is far more graceful than yours.

It’s longer, his lips molding to yours without even clacking your teeth together. His hand runs up the side of your neck, pulling your bodies even closer together. You separate with a tiny pop, chests still pressed up against one another.

“I do. I do and I, I will-” Heath gathers himself, a frustrated growl leaving his throat as he tries to find the right words. “No one’s ever done anything like that for me before. But I swear to you, I will pay it forward a thousand times.”

You smile, admiring this mountain of man laying out his heart for you, acting as if he isn’t the toughest person you know.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.” Heath smiles, that same cocky smile that waltzed into your town and almost got himself killed. Maybe it should be annoying, but it sets your heart ablaze. “But I want to.”

#my writing #werewolf x reader #reader insert #female reader insert #female reader #fluff #slow burn #werewolf

480 notes · View notes