Chapter 2: First Kill
Freshly turned, Violet Young hunts down her first kill under the moonlight.
The night was cold. A man panted as he darted down the sidewalk, slipping beneath streetlamps that illuminated the dark street. His frenzied breath was visible. His feet pounded against the concrete, his tattered shoes becoming even more beat up as he sprinted. His bald head was soaked with sweat. It ran down his face, and stung his eyes. He gripped a weathered knife in his left hand, his knuckles white from squeezing the wrapped handle. He became far too tired, and slowed his pace, his breath coming out heavier. The street was quiet. In the silence of the moment, he remembered her.
A woman had staggered towards him, while he was moving down his usual haunt. Her green eyes were wide and wild, focused entirely on where his pulse quickened under his neck. She was soaked in blood from a deep wound on her neck. It looked like a bite mark. He recognized her freckled face and messy blonde hair. The woman hunting him was the drug addict he threatened under the bridge. Something had happened, between the time where he chased her off and when he saw her again.
She was now seeking revenge, and he was going to pay for the transgression.
He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, moving beneath an old, flickering streetlamp. The sharp, metal blade glinted each time the light hit it. His brown eyes scanned the graffiti-covered brick buildings and the trash-covered alleyways, transfixed on the shadows. The man knew he wasn’t alone.
He was correct.
Violet was perched above him, clinging like a lizard to a wall in the darkness of an alleyway. Her limbs were splayed, her newfound strength pushing her up by the balls of her feet and her fingertips. She opened her mouth, and took a deep breath. Violet could smell his fear, the delectable scent wafting through the air, mixing with the heady smell of the blood pumping under his skin. The hunger ripped through her gut, becoming more intense, but she waited. He was under the light, and too close to the street, where a car could pass by. She needed to lure him into the shadows.
Violet opened her jaw, and made an unholy screeching noise. The man whipped around, almost jumping out of his skin. His heart raced, and he took off again. Violet followed just behind him, leaping from wall to wall, clambering over the buildings like a spider. Her torn brown jacket fluttered behind her each time she jumped, catching the breeze. They raced together, the man moving further and further from prying eyes. In a panic, he turned into an alley, sprinting towards a dumpster that was pushed up against a grease-stained wall. He grabbed the metal lid, and pulled it open, nestling himself inside. His body squeezed between the trash bags. His shoes hit the bottom of the dumpster, splashing the water softly. He slowly closed the lid over his head, being careful not to make a sound.
Little did he know, Violet was attuned to every little sound he made, and they heard his warm body rustle the plastic bags that surrounded him.
She moved down the wall, face first. She landed in the alley, leaping down into a squatting position. Her eyes were fixed on the deep green dumpster, her heart beating faster with excitement. Violet pushed herself up and moved towards his hiding place, her steps making no sound against the cracked concrete. She stood beside it for a moment, her pupils dilated. Violet grabbed the edge of the lid, and slowly lifted it, inch by inch. The prey inside panicked. He launched himself upwards, his skull hitting the top and pushing it out of her grip. He clutched his knife in both hands, and quickly located her chest, pushing forwards and driving his blade deep into Violet’s chest. The pain tore through her, and she made an inhuman hiss, stumbling back. The man watched her, waiting for her to collapse.
Violet never did.
Her eyes trailed downwards to the knife jutting out of her chest. Her breath came out in clouds, panting heavily. Violet grabbed the blade with her hand, and with a growling noise, tore the knife from her flesh. Blood slowly sputtered from the wound, deep and red. She tossed the knife away, the sound of it clattering down the street hitting the man like a gunshot. He let out a bloodcurdling scream, and tried to launch himself from the dumpster. Violet was on him instantly, grabbing his shirt and pulling him from his hiding place, slamming his back onto the pavement below. He let out a gasp, his back arching from pain. He squirmed beneath her, his arms pushing against her wound, Violet’s blood coating his open palms. The movement was futile. Violet opened her mouth, her fangs catching the moonlight above them. It was far too late for him. His fate was sealed.
Her head moved downwards, and her teeth wrapped around the man’s neck. She clamped down on him, her fangs piercing into his sweat-soaked skin, blood welling up and into her open mouth. The taste flooded her tongue, the warmth of his life essence sliding down her throat in frenzied gulps. The man’s struggling got weaker and weaker beneath her, his hands limply pressing against her torso. His pained grunts faded into the background, as Violet’s eyes fluttered shut.
Memories came to her. She pictured her family dinners as a child. Violet, only eight years old, sitting at the table between her parents. Their hands were clasped together in prayer, and her mother was petitioning God in her soft, sweet voice. She prayed for comfort, for safety, for the creator to bless the warm steak they were about to eat. Her father’s glasses slipped slowly off his nose, as he kept his head bowed. Violet’s tiny hands were pressed together, her fingers wrapped around each other. The smell of dinner wafted into her nose, well done steak, cheesy potatoes, and grilled vegetables. She was at peace, safe and warm, well-fed and cozy between her parents.
Slowly, the sensation faded. Violet pulled her fangs from his neck with a wet popping noise. She looked down at his face. His eyes were rolled back, his face gray and twisted into a pained expression. Violet’s breath quickened, her eyes scanning over the corpse going cold in her grasp. In a panic, she pushed the cadaver away. It slumped against the wall across from her, and slid down onto the pavement. Violet shakily got to her feet, looked around, and raced off into the night, leaving her prey to cool in the night air.
In the midst of a dysfunctional family, you would be the rock that Bubba Sawyer would need. Screaming, hitting walls, and arguments are common in the house he was raised in. Bubba didn’t grow up with the concept of peace, until you came around. You were like a safe place in the midst of a storm that he didn’t realize he needed. You weren’t violent in the way that the Sawyers were. You like spending quiet moments with him. Calm cuddles, reading together, and meals shared in silence are commonplace with you. Whenever you’re playful, it’s never rough and rude like his family could be. It’s always verbal teasing softened with romantic pet names and genuine shows of affection.
It’s jarring at first, but he eventually comes to expect it from you. He can close the door to his room, and shut everything out but the quiet affection you bring him. Family means everything to him, but you bring tranquility that truly brings you both together. N
Thomas Hewitt, your dear friend, has invited you over for dinner while his family takes care of business out of town. You don't know what he's planning on serving, but you're not going to miss an opportunity to be alone with him.
Tags: g-re, c-nnibal-sm, held h-stage, m-nipulation, dark romance, friends to lovers, animal death, corruption, sadism, horror
You were a new face around Fuller, Texas. You were a lifelong city slicker who seemed rather out of their element in rural Travis County. Making the transition from flashing neon signs to deep, starry skies hadn’t been easy, but to you, it was necessary. The cost of living had gone up in the city, and your landlord had raised the rent. It was becoming harder to pay for what you needed, even with your training as a veterinary technician. No urban practice pays enough to give you a comfortable life. So, in a fit of frustration, you broke the lease on your mold-infested studio apartment and moved out to Texas, looking for a lower cost of living. You quickly found a job with a practice that specialized in livestock. You settled into a cheap plot of land, on which you parked a used trailer. It wasn’t much, but you owned it, and that was already leagues better than just renting in the big city.
However, you took the good with the bad. Fuller was incredibly boring. You went from having a movie theatre and your favorite boba place within walking distance, to absolutely nothing surrounding you but tall, golden grass and a completely flat horizon. When you weren’t working, you found yourself consumed by restlessness. There was absolutely nothing to do except make yourself a glass of iced tea and question whether or not you wanted to make the hour’s drive to the nearest shop, just for something to do.
That was, until you met Thomas Hewitt.
Thomas, or Tommy as you called him, worked as a butcher for one of the slaughterhouses in Fuller. You were in the middle of prepping saline injections, when the phone at your practice rang. The slaughterhouse manager was on the phone, telling the vet about a possible outbreak of Bovine Respiratory Disease from the newest shipment of stock. The cows seemed depressed, they refused food. They also had some nasal discharge, and a couple of them had been coughing. It sounded like a pretty textbook case. You and the vet loaded up your supplies, and drove down to the slaughterhouse, braving the afternoon Texas sun. You and the vet spent hours administering antimicrobials and anti-inflammatories to a large herd of poorly transported cows, in an attempt to save the slaughterhouse’s profits. During observation, you heard a crowbar leaning on the wall topple over and hit the floor. Your head snapped up and looked over, and that’s when you saw him.
A tall man, built like a tank, was standing around the corner. He was all muscle, wrapped in a protective layer of fat. His tanned forearms were scarred, his large hands covered in cuts and calluses. His hair, dark and wild, fell loosely around his shoulders in tight waves. The lower half of his face was covered in a brown leather mask, but his eyes were uncovered, and they smouldered like coal, staring directly at you. You instinctively took a step back. He looked intense, and you had no idea how long he had been standing there. He was definitely an employee, his standard-issue stained apron and name tag let you know he was supposed to be in the slaughterhouse at least. You were about to harshly confront him for staring, until you noticed him shuffle more behind the corner, the dirt kicking up around him as he dragged his work shoes on the barn floor. His massive frame moved deeper into the shadows, hiding from your gaze.
You realized he was just shy.
You both stared at each other for a moment longer, until you slowly closed the distance between you. You introduced yourself in a cheery voice, and confidently held out your hand to him. He stared at your open palm for a while, until he moved his hand into yours, and gave you a firm handshake.
From the moment his thick fingers closed around yours, you felt an instant connection, and your friendship had begun.
You had never heard Tommy speak before, and he didn’t know sign language either. When he had something to tell you, he would write it down if he couldn’t communicate through body language. His grasp on grammar could be lacking, and his handwriting was messy, but you couldn’t see him as unintelligent, he beat you at poker too many times not to be clever. When you weren’t playing cards in your trailer, you were sitting next to each other, having a cool drink, Tommy would settle into the couch next to you, drinking from his glass while you read a book out loud. When that got old, you’d turn on the radio. Tommy never danced, but he seemed to like watching you move to the rhythm of whatever the highway radio deemed appropriate to play. He made the long, hot, and lazy days easier to bear. It was always a treat when he could come over for the weekends.
You never went over to his place. Apparently, his family was rather strict, and he wasn’t quite ready to introduce you yet. You didn’t care, as long as he was allowed to come over and spend time with you.
Today, he couldn’t come over. His work went longer than yours. Your vet insisted that work should end early on Fridays when there wasn’t an emergency, the practice closing at three in the afternoon. He always worked through to five, and was usually too tired after work to make the trip to your trailer. You got home at three thirty, putting your stuff down to the side of the secondary screen door and moving towards your fridge for a cold beer after a long day’s work. You barely popped the cap off, before you heard a van coming down the loose dirt road. You pushed your cream colored curtains aside and looked out the window. The mailman was pulling up to your house, heading for the cheap mailbox that you hastily drove into the earth when you first moved in. He parked the van, grabbed his bag, and walked over to the mailbox. He didn’t seem to be thinking, and he grabbed the metal handle with his bare fingers. He let out an embarrassing yelp, shoving his raw, reddened fingers into his mouth. The surface was still hot, the sun hadn’t gone down enough yet. You reacted instantly to the unfortunate situation, and you rushed to stifle a laugh. You hated that dark piece of you, the part that found other people’s pain funny. You only slipped up once in your life, getting dirty looks from laughing at a nasty car crash back in the city. You were a teenager then, and the societal shame pushed you to do more to shove down your amusement whenever someone got hurt in your presence.
The mailman cursed under his breath and fumbled with your mail, shoving it into the slot and angrily slamming the lid. He hurried back to his van, sitting under the cooling fan perched above him, and flicked on the ignition again. You watched him make a U-turn and drive down the road, kicking up rocks as he went. You moved away from the window and grabbed a towel from the rack, walking out into the sun. You wrapped the towel around your fingers and pulled the mailbox open,. You reached in and grabbed the mail, avoiding the hot sides of the mailbox. You walked back inside, your eyes flicking over the letters. Every single one was junk mail, until you saw Tommy’s name and address, written in his usual scrawl. You closed the door behind you, the screen snapping shut and locking. You moved over to a drawer and pulled out a butter knife, using it to slice into the envelope. You pulled out the letter, which was just a couple of sentences on a scrap piece of paper. You read it over.
“Come to dinner tonight. Family is out of town on business. It’ll just be us. - Thomas.”
You raised your eyebrow. It wasn’t often that the Hewitt matriarch and patriarch, Sheriff Hoyt and Luda Mae, took the leap and went anywhere besides the general area of Fuller. Tommy must be eager to capitalize on the newfound privacy. You set the letter down on the table with the rest and got ready. There was no way you were going to let this opportunity pass.
You took a cold shower and changed out of your scrubs into a comfortable cotton shirt, a pair of indigo jeans, and your new pair of Western-style boots. You checked yourself over in the mirror, before deciding you looked presentable. You locked up the trailer and walked out to your old, beat-up truck, hopping into the driver’s seat. You fumbled with your keys for a moment, before turning on the ignition, pulling out of your makeshift driveway, and heading down the road. You heard a call and looked upwards. A gaggle of vultures was circling overhead, waiting for your car to pass so they could descend upon a splattered mess of roadkill, settled in the dirt. You pulled your car to the side so you wouldn’t drive over the corpse, and looked out the side window at the remains. You absorbed the gruesome sight without flinching, and you turned back to look out the windshield as the scene passed. As soon as you did, the vultures descended, using their large wingspan to catch what little wind was there, landing around the kill and digging in. You didn’t look back, and kept driving, making your way to the Hewitt residence.
You knew where it was, you had passed the property on the highway when you first moved into town. It was a two-story, sun-bleached, solid old house that you suspected was Victorian. It was certainly in a state. It wasn’t maintained over the years. The building was allowed to rot under the humidity and heat. Many homes in Fuller were in a similar state, you probably had the most modern building in the whole town. It looked rather spacious from the outside and was paired with an old barn to the side of the house. You watched as the sight of the home broke the horizon, coming up on your right side. Sure enough, Hoyt’s cop car was nowhere to be seen. You pulled onto the property, slowing your speed. As you got closer, you saw Tommy on the porch, his dark eyes following your car as you pulled up to his place, for the first time. You parked and locked the parking brake. You swung your legs over the side and hopped out, closing the door behind you. You turned and started walking up to the porch.
“Hi Tommy!”
You said, heading up the creaky steps onto the porch next to him. Tommy responded with a simple nod. He turned and grabbed the worn-down copper door handle, turning it. He pushed the door open. You walked inside and he followed behind you, closing the door and turning the lock, the doorknob making a sharp click. He gestured for you to walk ahead of him and move into the kitchen. You followed his instructions, moving towards the back of the house.
“Thanks for inviting me to dinner. I bet it’s gonna be good.”
You said, the floorboards whining from your combined footsteps. The hallways were a bit cramped, and you were relieved when the kitchen opened up more. It was a simple kitchen, nothing overly fancy. The kitchen was equipped with sturdy appliances from the 1950’s, all painted white and stained from use and time. The cabinets were the same shade. The paint was chipping and peeling off the wooden surfaces. The hardware looked like it was iron. The cabinets went up to the ceiling, glass and porcelain dishes piled up behind one cabinet with windows. Rows of glass bottles and jars were lined up in the windows, either empty or containing some mystery substance you couldn’t quite place. There was a small pantry in the corner, just taking up a sliver of space. The door was stained with a faint pink substance around the handle. You were slightly unsure about the cleanliness, but you trusted Tommy. A table in the corner, perhaps used for extra storage, had a faded yellow gingham print tablecloth over it, two chairs pulled up to the darkwood. Tommy walked over to the chair against the wall, and pulled it out, gesturing for you to sit down.
“Well, thank you very much.”
You said, taking your seat. He pushed you in, the chair scraping against the grooves worn into the concrete floor. He hung over you for a moment, and you looked back at him. There was something about the way he looked at you that made you chuckle nervously.
“What’s with that look?”
You asked. He stared into your eyes for a moment, then slowly slid his hand from the back of your chair, down to your forearm, moving his hand gingerly over your skin, before gripping your wrist. He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket, and slapped one end over your wrist, tightening it to your size. He looped the other end around some visible pipes on the wall and used a small key to lock you in place. He carefully let you go, standing back. You stared at the handcuffs for a moment, before pulling on them. The pipe was slightly bent, but didn’t snap, keeping you from moving from your spot at the table.
“Tommy?”
You looked over at him, your blood running cold. He didn’t respond. He walked over to the fridge and opened it. He pulled out a large jug of lemonade and grabbed a glass from the cabinet. He poured you some refreshment, and set it on your free side, adjusting it so you didn’t have to move far to grab it.
“Tommy? This isn’t funny. This really isn’t funny. Unlock me right now.”
You said firmly, forcing yourself to believe this was just some joke, that Hoyt had left his handcuffs behind and this was Thomas’ idea of a prank. Instead of helping you, he ignored you, and walked away, leaving you alone in the kitchen. Your breathing became sharper, and you grabbed your arm, pulling hard on the handcuffs. The pipe creaked under the stress, but still didn’t snap, holding firm. You looked around, hoping there was something in reach you could use to pick the lock. He had predicted an escape attempt and made sure there wasn’t anything you could grab, except for the glass of lemonade by your side.
“Tommy?! Tommy!”
You called. In a frenzy, you stood up out of your chair, the force making it topple over. You kept pulling, hoping that the pipe would snap. Instead, it stubbornly hung on, no matter how hard you pulled. You heard footsteps approaching again, and you grabbed your seat off the ground, using one hand to pull it back up so you could sit down, just as Tommy walked into the room. He stood in the doorframe for a moment, his eyes locked on the handcuffs. When he was content that you were still trapped, he held out what was in his hands, showing you as if he was proud of it. Wrapped in plastic, leaking red, thin juices that collected in the bottom of the bag, was a human thigh. It was cut off from where it connected at the hip, and sliced again just above the knee. The cuts were clean, created with a sharp knife and an experienced hand. The skin had been cleaned of the upper layers. What remained was thin. The red coloration of the flesh and muscle was on display. The artery, which was supposed to run up the inside, was pulled out of the flesh, leaving a long divot running up the thigh. The stench hit you. It smelled like iron, the scent of a freezer, something vaguely human. It hadn’t rotted, no signs of decay. Your eyes became as wide as dinner plates, and your jaw dropped, hanging open. Tommy watched your expression for a moment, then walked over to the countertop, grabbing a sharp cleaver and a cutting board. The plastic rustled as he pulled it back. The smell became even more intense.
“What… is that?”
You knew exactly what it was, you didn’t want to believe it. As usual, he didn’t respond to you. He gripped the handle and swung the cleaver downwards, the blade making a squelching noise as it sliced through juicy layers, landing against the wood with a sharp thunk. That thud resounded through your entire body, and you couldn’t help a sharp gag from leaving your throat. Tommy didn’t react. He just shifted the slice around on the board, trimming gristle and fat like it was any other cut of meat. The juice sprayed slightly, running off the cutting board and down the countertop, the pink streaks dripping down the chipped white cabinets and onto the concrete floor below. Tommy looked back at you, tense in your seat, and gestured to the lemonade sitting on the table. Your eyes trailed down to the glass. You reached out and took the glass in your shaky grip. You brought the lemonade up to your lips, taking a sip. You spilled, the sticky liquid running down the expanse of your neck. His eyes followed the lemonade as it ran downwards on your body. He grunted and turned away, adjusting his hold on the cleaver and swinging it, cutting into another layer of tough fat. You set the glass down, making a small hiccup from swallowing it wrong. Tommy set the cleaver in the sink, and moved over to another cabinet, pulling out a pan. He grabbed the butter, and a few herbs, and put them all in the cast-iron skillet. He set it on the gas stove and flicked the knob, the ignition clicking before the gas lit, activating the burner. He placed the pan squarely on the flame to preheat. You let out a pathetic whimper, pulling on the handcuff.
“Oh my God… Tommy…”
It finally hit you, in a burst of terror. You knew what you were having for dinner.
“Tommy, Tommy wait. Tommy, no.”
You launched out of your seat, the chair toppling over again. You started pulling on the handcuffs again. The chain made melodic sounds as tension was created. The pipe made harsh squeaking sounds and bent more and more under the pressure. You ignored the pain of the cool metal biting into your skin, resisting your struggle.
“Tommy no, Tommy no!”
You begged and pleaded with him, your eyes locked on the pipe, watching the old metal struggle to remain intact. Your head started swimming, your vision fading slightly. You were hyperventilating, and your head began to swim from the lack of oxygen. Suddenly, you felt something firm and wet touch your shoulder. You froze in place, shaking like a leaf. You felt a warm breath hit the back of your neck. Tommy had moved over to you, standing behind you, a bloodstained hand nestled securely on your shoulder. You froze, the sharp smell of iron, sweat, and laundry detergent filling your nose. He picked up the chair and set it in place. He gently guided you back down, applying just enough pressure to help you sit. He let you settle and leaned in, his leather mask brushing against the skin of your neck. He reached his hand over to the lemonade by your side and picked it up. Tommy lifted the glass to your lips, and gently tipped it, helping you drink. You felt the cool liquid slosh down your throat, grounding yourself to the sensation. He brought the glass from your lips and patted your shoulder. He lifted a hand, and let his fingers brush through your hair, pulling a couple of strands back and behind your ear. Once he was satisfied with his work, he walked away. He wrapped the thigh back up in the plastic, and walked it back out of the room, his footsteps fading. The pan was left over the low heat, the butter climbing up to the proper temperature, the herbs beginning to roast and let out a scent that filled the room.
You stared directly at the table for a very long time, your eyes tracing over the pattern in a certain spot. You felt like you were going crazy. The contrast of being handcuffed to the pipes, yet handled so softly and patiently was maddening. You were an honored hostage, a literal captive audience while Tommy did something truly evil, expecting you to partake.
Maybe you had a bit of a sadistic streak, but you weren’t a cannibal.
Tommy walked back into the room, standing in the doorframe. His eyes flicked over to you, watching the way you stared at the tablecloth, your limbs too slack. He walked back over to you, and caught your chin in his grasp, angling your chin upwards. He was firm, but not mean, breaking you out of your silence.
“I don’t want to.”
You made a silent plea for mercy. He shook his head, ran his hand through your hair, and dropped his grasp, walking over to the cast-iron skillet to check on the butter. Your fist clenched, muscles going tense against the handcuffs. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. He was determined to feed you, and you couldn’t do anything about it.
Tommy picked up the slab of meat from the cutting board, and turned up the heat, slipping it into the pan. There was an instant sizzle, and the smell of cooking meat curled in the air. If you didn’t know any better, you would have assumed he was cooking a steak. You weren’t put off by the scent, on the contrary, it smelled almost… delectable. Tears welled up in your eyes at the realization, and you pulled on the handcuffs.
“I’m a good person… I’m a good person Tommy…”
You muttered, looking up at him. Tommy turned to look at you and walked away from the meat. He walked over and put a hand on your cheek, wiping your tears away with his thumb, your smooth skin catching slightly on his calluses.
“I’m a good person. I promise, I’m a good person.”
You repeated, your shoulders shuddering under the weight of your misery. You looked up at him. His gaze locked onto yours, holding the weight of your stare with a patience that made your heart jolt behind your ribcage. It was almost like he was waiting for you to give in, the pressure on your wrist mixing with the expectation of letting go. He wiped more tears off your cheek, his rough fingers making your skin warm under the friction.
“Don’t make me do this…”
You pleaded. Your words fell on deaf ears. He briefly shook his head. He allowed you to settle for a minute, your sobs softening and your back resting against the chair. He gestured to the lemonade with a single, large hand. You looked over at it and picked it up. You gulped down the sweet liquid, finishing off the last of the lemonade. As you set down the glass, Tommy walked over to the fridge and grabbed the pitcher. He walked back over and poured you a fresh glass, slowly and carefully. You watched his wrist tilt as he controlled the liquid with the same precision he used to cut the meat. He looked at you for a moment longer, then traced a finger across your jawline, gathering the leftover wetness from your tears. He looked his finger over for a moment, then licked your tears off his touch. Your eyes widened as you watched him savor the saltiness of your distress. His tongue curled around the tears like it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. Tommy watched your shocked expression and made a soft chuckle.
Your eyes continued to follow him as he stepped across the gray concrete, and over to the pan. He used an old spatula to flip the meat, letting it sizzle on the other side now. The sun outside dipped lower and lower, closer to the horizon. The natural light in the kitchen lessened, the smell of meat cooking becoming more intense, circling you and squeezing like an anaconda. Your stomach did flips in your abdomen, the anticipation building as Tommy finally took the meat off the plate, unceremoniously slapping it on the stark white porcelain. He crossed the small kitchen and set the plate down in front of you. The meat was browned perfectly on the outside. The meat was seared around the edges. In the center of the meat was an oblong piece of femur. You could see the marrow within. Before you could comment, Tommy grabbed a fork and knife and started cutting into the flesh, the sinews snapping with each sawing motion.
“No… no…”
You pleaded, angling away from the plate as far as you could reach. He didn’t react to your hesitation, and sliced a small bite off the side, getting some skin on the fork. He moved the utensil towards your mouth, but you refused to open it. His free hand started tapping against the table, fingers bouncing upwards against the hard surface. You continued to clench your jaw shut, and he pushed the bite against your lips, smearing just the faintest bit of taste against them. He let out a disappointed sigh, and reached across the table, grabbing your jaw in his palm and fingers, and tugging downwards, wrenching your jaw open for him. The fork pushed past your lips and into your mouth, forcing you to take the bite between your teeth and begin chewing.
It didn’t taste bad… In fact, it tasted rather… good.
Your eyes widened slightly, as the meat melted against your tongue. It was cooked to perfection. The meat absorbed the flavor of the butter and herbs like a sponge. It tasted like any other red meat, with the faintest hint of iron that was neither overwhelming nor undetectable. You continued to chew, your teeth ripping apart the flesh under the pressure. Tommy nodded, his thumb massaging your jaw, as if encouraging this new sensation. You were of two minds about this, the guilt of eating a person warring with the toothsome meal. You held the flavor in your mouth for a second longer, then swallowed, feeling the meat slide down your throat. Tommy watched the bob in your neck, satisfied by your compliance. He cut another piece, and another, and another. You devoured the corpse bit by bit, your eyes never leaving his face. The center was rarer than the outside, the texture shifting and the iron taste becoming more prominent. You didn’t complain. In fact, you preferred that sensation. The meat dwindled, bit by bit, until there was nothing left on your plate other than smears of juices and the remainder of the femur bone, lying on its side, off-white against the plate.
The weight of your sins weighed heavily on your soul. That wasn’t just a delicious meal, that was a person. You had allowed a murderous cannibal to feed you a piece of human thigh, and you didn’t resist. You ate the entire plate.
Tommy watched the guilt rise from your chest, and appear on your face. He leaned down closer to you, his eyes dropping to your lips, looking at the flavor still resting on your flesh. He set down the utensils and raised his arm, circling it around you. Tommy carefully used his other hand to lift his mask. There was damage on the side of his face, a scarred crater that moved slightly over the corner of his mouth. You didn’t have time to react, before he leaned down, and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to your lips. You could feel the emotion behind it, the pride that was welling up in his chest. The feel of his lips around you was like a reward, one that made butterflies rise in your stomach, mixing with the flesh you just consumed. You tilted your head, and deepened the kiss, accepting his praise as if it were the only thing you ever needed. The sun lowered down beneath the horizon, bathing the kitchen in a deep blue hue. With the disappearance of the sun, darker thoughts rose in your mind, while your body focused on the carnal sensation of Tommy’s warmth against yours.
You didn’t mind eating more, if it made Tommy kiss you again.
My second favourite suit to draw on Victor. This is an early-to-mid 2000s menswear, relaxed formal suit fantastic choice for a parlor room or lounge setting. A crisp white shirt against the dark jacket would pops nicely but I like the maroon more and I think it fit him.
thanks @mothersfavourite for being with me in this mess 💅it's was meant to be.
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snowghoul
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