desc : this is about my ocs, lola and henry — a 1950s couple who look perfect to everyone else but have a… darker side. it follows them from letters and longing while he’s at war, to nights at home, public admiration, and deadly dinners. love, obsession, and blood all wrapped into one.
warnings : graphic violence, gore, cannibalism, murder, dark romance, trauma, sexual content (erotic undertones)
1948
Lola wakes up early before dawn. The house is still, the air filled with humidity, the faint smell of candle fumes from last night lingering over the curtains. She emerges from the bed quietly, not disturbing the empty rooms. Each step on the wooden floorboards is deliberate, cautious, as if the house itself will pass judgment on every mistake. She brushes back her short, black hair in the mirror, watching the strands of it shimmer with the first light. She is colorless, lips parched but slightly chapped, but her eyes — her eyes shine, burnish. They wander the empty rooms, the wisps of dust moving within the morning sun's beams, and she draws deep breaths, feeling isolation and a wild, strange expectation of what the day will be.
The desk remains, as usual, in wait for her, the stack of letters beside her kept tidily. She raises her pen and brings her hand to hover over the page, her thoughts remembering henry, dreaming of his smile, the callouses on his palms.
‘Dear Henry,
The mornings are quieter in their day than at nightfall, and the house seems to sleep more slowly as morning comes. I like that better. It looks as if it is listening to me, keeping my secrets. The garden grows untamed in summer sunlight — tomatoes red and heavy, basil uncurling in fragrant waves. I caress the leaves and think of you caressing my hand, firm and warm, as if to reassure me that some things remain sure, even though the world feels so far off.’
She writes with painstaking slowness, curving the letters out in the familiar swoops he never grew tired of. Even here, where silence folds itself around her like a cloak, in the small, isolated house, she imagines him reading every word, feeling every tremble in her hand as his own beat. She pauses, caught for breath, and brings the pen to paper again.
‘I think about you a lot, Henry. You walk through the house as if it had always been occupied. At times I am sure I hear your footsteps, soft on the wood floor, and I turn, aching to see you standing there. It is foolish, but it comforts me.’
The candle flickers, shadows stretching across the room like fingers. She sits there observing them, imagining them reaching towards her, not threatening but soft, a projection of the way she aches for him. She sets down the letter and rises, bare feet on the cold wood. the kitchen calls — the smell of hot bread she baked the day before lingers, mixed with herbs from the garden, the sharp reek of iron from the small trap in the back.
The rabbit she killed the day before hangs in a quiet corner, already plucked clean, already dressed. She kneels to it with a whispered apology, fingers combing its soft fur as if to calm it. Famine has taught her serenity, famine has taught her that life and death are tied in a rhythm only she can maintain now. She does not recoil. She does not cry. She dresses it deliberately, washing, cutting, salving. The smell fills the kitchen, bitter and coppery, but it's near sacred. She whispers low and soft, a whistling air henry used to sing on summer nights.
Once the meat is secured, the garden needs to be tended. She crouches amidst the soil, her fingers buried in the ground, planting, weeding, watering. Sun on her back, sweat running down her spine. She breathes in the scent of earth, the leaves, the slightly decaying blossoms. It is life, and it is food, and it is necessary.
Afternoons slip by. She sits on the veranda, stacks of letters beside her, sipping lukewarm tea that has cooled too rapidly. The world outside is stirring — children screaming in the distance, a next-door dog yapping, the faraway clatter of a passing car — but inside, it is quiet, warm. She sits and writes again :
‘The house awaits you, Henry. Every room, every shadow, every corner has been formed by my hands, by my love. I am stronger than the loneliness would have shattered me. I await you, for the return of your arms, for the weight of your hand on mine.’
At times, she goes to the traps in the woods behind the house, checking them slowly, methodically. Birds, rabbits, squirrels — she apologizes softly to each of them, says the words under her breath as she works. Her hands are rock-steady. The initial flutter of fear that hit her has now become a subdued, controlled beat. She carries each animal back to the house, prepares it carefully, marking, stowing. She glides through this ritual like a dance, fluid, precise. There is something beautiful in it, and silence she cannot find words to tell.
Evenings bring the most quiet moments, when the sun sets deep and the house curls in on itself. She lights candles, lets the flame swirl off the walls, and sits at the table, fingers tracing the rim of her letters. The air is thick with the smell of wax, of herbs, of iron, of earth. She imagines Henry coming back, imagines the curve of his mouth, the warmth of his hands. She talks to empty corridors : Soon, sweetheart. Soon, you'll see.
‘You'll forgive me, won't you, Henry? You always said I was resourceful.’
‘Always yours,
Lola’
1953
The gravel crunches under wheels, breaking the five years of silence that have been filling the house. Lola stops halfway through a step, apron dripping with watering the flowers, chest tightened with anticipation. The sun falls low and golden across the porch, soaking the white paint with warm, soft, almost gentle colors. Her fingers tremble ever so slightly. Five years. Five years spent waiting, dreaming, hoping.
Henry steps out of the car. The uniform is stiff, but dust clings to its surface. Down-at-heels boots, rimmed eyes, the soft cording at the edges of his mouth hint at what he has witnessed. But when he turns to her, that cording relaxes. His smile is slow, intimate, hers alone.
Lola wishes to run, to leap into his arms, to sense the heat she has fantasized about for so many years. But the house is burdened with things it doesn't inform her — the jars, the traps, the unspoken rituals she has learned. She swallows, breast heaving and falling, unaware of what he can take.
Henry notices the uncertainty. He tilts his head, smirk tugging at his mouth as if he already knows, as if he can sense the pulse of her fear and need in a single look.
"Lola," he murmurs, voice low and rasping, full of road and the sound of distant guns.
She swallows once more, voice trapped in her throat. "I… I prepared the house. For you."
He smiles softly, mirth and kindness mingling. "For me?" He steps onto the porch, walking by her, near enough she can feel the warmth radiating from him. He lowers himself, kisses her temple. The small, soothing action makes her shiver.
“As I always knew you would”, he goes on, eyes scanning the kitchen where the jars are lined up neatly, the smell of dusty herbs and salted meat filling the air. He does not wince. Does not query. Just looks at her, wonder and something tougher glittering in his gaze.
Her breast contracts. She had prepared herself for disgust, fear, rejection. Instead, he embraces it — the house, pedantic order, the quiet of her survival — as belonging to her genius.
Night falls. Candles light on the counter, their dancing lights casting shadows on shiny floors. Henry follows her to the kitchen, fingertips tracing hers as she moves to lay out the dinner. The brush sparks fire in her, a gentle sting between them.
"Show me," he breathes, pointing at the jars on the counter. Not accusatory, not repulsed — curious, intimate, adventurous.
Her heartbeat quickens, but she continues, opening the jars, revealing the cured meat, the careful work of months. She expects a pause, a grimace, maybe recoil. Instead, his lips curl into a wicked, admiring smile.
"Resourceful," he whispers. "as always I admired."
Relief washes over her. She edges in closer, his hand guiding hers, fingers tracing the outline of the cuts of meat, rows of perfectly straight jars. Side by side, they work in rhythm — chopping, slicing, arranging — every movement close, a dance. Their touches linger a moment too long, fingers brushing against one another, palms pressing tightly, breaths entwining. It is risk, erotic, pulsing.
The night wears on. The quiet sound of knives striking boards, the gentle warmth of the kitchen, the meld of candlelight and the sweet metallic odor of preservation — it creates a world unto itself. Lola watches Henry, her stomach knotted in want, her heart beating in time with his movements.
They finish their work. He wipes his hands on a towel, glances at her with that same dark amusement. “We’ll survive,” he murmurs, voice low and almost a purr. “together.”
She leans against him, his chest heat pressing against hers, fingers interlocked. She can feel his pulse in the hollow of his palm, the weight of his hand, firm, even, grounding. Five years of missing, of fearing, of silent fixation boiled down to this one moment.
"I missed you," she says, shaking, on the brink of breaking.
"And I, you," he breathes, lips against her. Slow, deliberate. His fingers map the curve of her jaw, the shape of her neck, sending shivers she has spent five years waiting to feel.
They fall into the ritual of touch, the closeness of survival and desire melting together. She senses his breath against her ear, warm, a low murmur, and in the stillness, in the jumping candlelight, the house appears to wait with them, to approve.
Henry shifts back a little, dark eyes, reflecting candlelight and something untold. "We make a good pair, don't we?"
"The best," she breathes, her heart racing. "perfect, aren't we?"
He smiles, his fingers brushing her hair from her face. "And dangerous. Always dangerous, but together… unbeatable."
Lola shudders at the words, relishing them, letting them sink deep into her bones. Danger and love entwined. Darkness and devotion. The life they have built apart now combined, inexorable.
1955
The celebration recedes behind them, the plaza now a still section of cobblestone and candlelit lanterns. The laughter, music, and applause grow dimmer, fading into night, leaving only the whisper of leaves and the occasional thud of late stragglers making their way home. The air is filled with the scent of fresh autumn leaves, woodsmoke, and the hint of cider — sweet, soothing, but bearing a stinging tinge that reminds lola of what has ever been lacking.
Henry walks beside her, his hand brushing along hers with a tenderness that is also electric. "Three shifts this week. Rejected," he growls, voice low. "All three. Veteran. Untrustworthy. Too much hassle." His jaw is tight, the frustration honed over five years of war, orders obeyed, discipline, and now a world that rejects him even as it exacts perfection.
Lola squeezes his hand, a dark smile curling at her lips. “Then we’ll make our own rules,” she whispers. The thrill of rebellion, of survival on their own terms, coils in her chest. They are alone together, and nothing else matters.
The first victim emerges from the dark alleyway — a drunken man, careless, staggering too close to the alleyway edge. His footfalls echo off the empty buildings. Lola feels the sting of hunger, burning and lingering. Henry glances at her, the tiniest smile line creasing his mouth. The dance begins.
They move in unison. Henry's hand steadies the man; Lola's knife glints, biting, intimate, quick. The strike is clean. The body falls gently into the shadows. Adrenaline hums in her veins, mixed with the pulse of need. This — the act they share, the high, the shadows — binds them together tighter than any kiss.
Henry strokes a strand of hair from her face, lips against her temple. "We own each other," he whispers, low, reverent. "and tonight… we belong to staying alive."
Another shape towers — a solitary vagabond, exhausted and wild, drawn by the far-off glows of lantern light. Henry leans in; Lola's eyes darken with lust. The movement is flawless, rehearsed. He resists, she attacks. The act is brutal, effective, in its nearness, chilling. They drag the corpse into the shadows, their breath together, hearts drumming as one. The high is spinning, the bond irrevocable.
Lola tastes again, savoring the primal satisfaction, the fulfillment of instinct and necessity. Hunger, frustration, and love intertwine with danger, intimacy, and adrenaline. She shivers, brushing her hand against Henry’s. “We’ll be fine,” he murmurs, voice low, reverent, proud.
The shadows deepen. Lanterns groan, casting long shadows across the roads. They move in silence towards home, hands held, fingers entwined, eyes meeting in shared understanding. The jars, the stored tradition, the secrets honed over years — all pulse in their heads, a rhythm now accelerated with the taste of mastery and power.
Henry leans in close, lips against her ear. "Nothing can stop us," he whispers. Lola shivers, a shiver running over her spine. "Together," she breathes. "always."
The quiet alleyways suffer the weight of their secret. The town watches perfection, magic, and smiles. But here, in the shadows near home, they live, in time, terrifying, and unfettered. The shadows pulsate in their veins, hunger and desire wrapped around one another, a rhythm that will dictate their love and their lives.
Finally, they go into their house, closing the door on the night. Outside, the night is quiet, the lanterns fading away into mist. Inside, the throb of life and death and love courses through them. The first cannibalistic moves, the explosion of control, the close-sync — they are theirs alone. They are unstopppable, bound by blood, need, and devotion.
Henry's fingers trace her jawline. "We are unstoppable," he breathes.
Lola leans against him, heart afire with adrenaline and longing. "Together," she whispers. "always."
1955
The doorbell sounds, crisp and polite, cutting through the warm hum of the night. Lola smooths out her apron, looking over lace curtains at the guests who are coming in : the mayor and his wife, two councilmen with their wives, the wealthy grocer and his unmarried sister, the local editor and his wife, a couple of neighbors — all properly dressed, all smiling.
Henry leads the way first, expansive, charismatic, hand extended to each in succession. "So glad you could come," he breathes. Smiles, handshakes, gracious bows — an impeccable display of family propriety. The living room glimmers : burnished wood, bobbing candles, crystal glasses flashing golden lamplight.
Henry escorts visitors to chairs while Lola moves smoothly from stove to counter, stirring, basting, tasting. Roast smell clings to the air, heavy with rosemary, fat that's melted, something darker, deeper. She smiles, unruffled and unblemished, but memory clings to her skin, a heartbeat she can't hide.
There was a time..
The first victim stumbled drunkenly into the alley, humming a silly song under his breath, oblivious to danger. Henry's fingers clamped his wrists; Lola's knife flashed moonlight like a thin, gleaming thread. The first slash below the jaw was surgical, practiced. Eyes puffed, gasps were abruptly cut off, but Henry bore down, soft but relentless.
Lola pulled skin off in sheets, laying it aside. Tendons sliced cleanly, limbs separated with the rasp of the old-fashioned butcher's saw. Muscle yielded with a dull impact ; their fingers met, pulse twining around each other. Thrill, fear, lust, closeness — all in a flawless, deadly rhythm.
The other man, careless in the woods, had mocked them as harmless. Henry cornered him ; Lola's knife cut precise lines. Skin stripped, organs sliced out and inspected, fat rendered for cracklings. Limbs were hacked off, sawed, and wrapped. The intimacy of their routine, hands touching, eyes meeting, hearts thudding together, was a secret thrill unseeable anywhere but in the cellar.
The third victim — a vagabond salesman cornered by the creek — had also been clever, too clever, squirming, trying to get away. Henry's fingers closed him tight, Lola's knife cutting true, every cut practiced. Organs torn apart, meat sliced, skin slid off, bones split. Lola hummed a soft tune, a warped lullaby, Henry's fingers touching hers, sharing heat, tension, love. The smell of blood and iron stuck to them, covering the adrenaline high and love.
Back in the here and now..
The visitors converse, laugh, bless the house. Lola weaves amongst the tables, carving, pouring wine, smiling. The platters arrive, meat glistening, full of richness and tenderness, fragrant with rosemary and something unnamably deep.
The mayor takes a bite, shuts his eyes. "Exquisite," he mutters. His wife smiles, satisfied. The grocer savors each bite ; his sister breathes softly in amazement. The editor leans forward to his wife, whispering criticism. Lola glances at Henry. A secret spark flashes between them. "From the market," Henry says smoothly. The truth pulses in their eyes, secret and charged.
Another flash : The basement. Fat charred, skin seared over fire, meat salted, stored. Knives cleaned, rags burned. Lola creeps close, fingers brushing against Henry's. He kisses the corner of her mouth, iron and heat on his tongue. Survival, rush, closeness — all part of love in that room.
As dinner wears on, forks go up, glasses ring out, laughter flows. Lola answers questions, pours wine, distributes seconds. Guests praise flavor, richness, tenderness. Below all the words, all the gracious laughter, visions of cutting, sawing, peeling, rendering — the first victim, the second, the third — hum beneath her skin.
Fingers brush against the surface beneath the table. Henry's touch glides along hers. Pulse is racing. Adrenaline twists in her stomach. The juiciness of the meat sings copper, iron, heat, excitement. Their eyes meet across the candlelight. Everything is rhythm, and they own it themselves.
Another flash : cracklings fried, bones discarded, organs prepared, meat simmering in rich cream. Lola tastes a morsel, coppery. Henry catches her glance ; intimate spark reignites. Their proximity, their fatal timing, moves just beneath polite talk and clinking knives.
The visitors' gaze drifts to respectful contention. The councilman leans forward, the editor whispers ; Lola smiles, pouring wine, ironing napkins. Every glance measured, every gesture poised. But beneath it all the buzz of violence : the alley, the cellar, the rasp of saw on bone, the heat of blood, the familiarity of common labor, the thrill of survival.
The mayor puts down his fork again. "Absolutely wonderful," he declares. His wife nods, going on, "So tender. I hardly believed it." Lola and Henry exchange sidelong glances — the pulse of the secret beating between them. No words required. Thrall, intimacy, risk, love — all involved in that glance.
Another flash : Lola cuts fat, wraps muscle, jars labeled. Henry assists, hands sweeping over hers. Memory of blood on her fingers, warm and slick, coursing through her veins, combining with current domesticity. She hums softly, an inner lullaby, piecing their day's atrocities onto the smooth surface of polite society.
As the dessert is served, guests compliment presentation, thank hosts, laugh politely. The editor's wife inclines towards her husband, whispering. The grocer's sister looks at Lola a fraction of a second too long. Lola smiles, pours the wine, carves cake. No one sees, no one suspects.
The last carriage creaks down the street. Henry and Lola stand together at the window, clasped hands. Night smells of wax, herbs, with a hint of blood and iron. Memories vibrate just beneath the surface : alleys, basements, heat, thrill, closeness.
Henry traces his finger along her jaw. "We are unstoppable," he says. Lola trembles, heart in overdrive. "Together," she says. Promise, danger, dark pleasure in one word.
hiii ! this is the first ever story i made and publicly shared, so please share some feedback with me :P. if you have any questions about lola or henry (or both of them), i’d be happy to explain ! have an amazing day, honey. <3
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