#seraphina... thinking abt eating stiles once again...

[saintvampe]

 —   from:   @lesziye​ ...   the leshy brings with them the scent of rot. it sticks to the back of his neck, attracting flies and crows too. the latter linger on the roof, awaiting promise and awaiting food. the leshy waits for the same. and when they drudge into sera’s shop with the gloom which keeps them shivering and the hunger which keeps them sick, it is with these companions that she finds her guest. stiles sinks into a chair at her kitchen table without waiting for invitation and slumps so sharply, it is difficult to not imagine the snap of their spine with the motion. they do not speak, but rather hold out a palm even in their prone position. and in it, a handful of teeth still bloody with spit. his fingernails are stained in similar fashion. a gift for the host.

IT IS ALMOST SOMETHING SHE CANNOT STAND:     THE EXISTENCE OF THEM.          his rot and its familiarity,     the way it infects the corners of this little back room quicker than her meat can even think about molding before it’s time.     she hears the murder outside before she smells them,    the rustling of wings a few stories up,    perching themselves on telephone wire and concrete.    She is working in - shop today:    a second kitchen in the very back of her store,    slabs of meat fresh and hanging by hooks,    blood fresh on the floor.     her nostrils fill with copper,     the tongue flickers towards cheek,    towards a droplet of red red and red.        when the rustling began,    she had changed her task and begun to prepare Them   (   rotten and filthy and enough to feed Her for a decent while,   )   something to eat   ––––    he would be hungry,    she is sure.

when he arrives,    all puppet - bones and hollow skin,    skin that refuses to sit right on a body that is more corpse   –––   she lifts her gaze.

❝   TELL YOUR CROWS TO STOP SHITTING ON MY AWNING.   ❞      she says,    tongue in cheek.      she hears the slump of a body against furniture,    the small scraping of chair against wood floor,    the violence of bone  [  tense and worn as a coat  ]  confined in poor flesh.     at the counter,    Her counter,    she chops at the dismembered shoulder of a hearty lamb,    makes cubes of the red flesh,    leaves the bones and the blood.      for a moment:   she imagines they are across her cutting board.      ❝   i do not enjoy having to clean up the messes of pests.    if you’re going to drop by without notice,    the least you could do is be polite.   ❞     chop,  ᶜᴴᴼᴾ,  chop.

SHE TURNS AROUND FROM HER COUNTER,   WALKS TOWARDS HER GUEST WITH A PLATE OF FLESH.       the gaze flickers downwards to their open hand,       and the stench of saliva   (  strong and distant,   both at once  )  rises and intermixes with metal - red.       her stomach threatens to turn.     her hunger threatens to consume her whole.      ❝   what is that ?    what the hell am i supposed t’do with some teeth,    huh ?   (   ...  )   here,   give them to me  ––  i’ll embed them into your skin,    give your puppet costume a new accessory to show off.  ❞