Between Aeaea and the Rocks of Scylla

TW: gore, sexual situations, cannibalism

Your eyes are drawn to her the moment she walks through the door, white blouse tucked into high-waisted trousers that accentuate the flare of her hips. Her hair is down, like it is every day, dark brown streaked with white that curls in little ringlets around her face. She smiles when she sees you and you notice, not for the first time, how sharp her teeth are. You ignore the rush of heat to your groin at the sight. She saunters to the counter, the dull thump of her boots on the wood floor matching the beating of your heart. The sun shines through the glass door and creates a halo of light around her body in front of you. Angelic.

“What can I get for you?” you ask, willing yourself not to choke around the words.

“Same as always, love.”

You blush. She knows your name, it is written in your cramped handwriting on the nametag pinned to your apron. You hope she never uses it.

“Would you like a pastry? They’re fresh.” You made them this morning, making sure to make one tart with the apples she liked. Ambrosia apples.

“Hmmm,” she says, yellow-green eyes scanning the glass case. When she notices, she smiles. “Is that for me?”

You knew she’d notice, she always does, but the way her voice drips down your spine like honey draws the blood to your face. “Yes.”

“Sweet boy.”

She hands you a twenty dollar bill and you hope she can’t see how hard you’re shaking. The tips of her fingers are warm when they touch yours, her long, filed nails leaving the faintest pink lines on your hand as she pulls away.

“Keep the change, angel.”

You nod, refusing to blink until she’s sat down at the table nearest to the floor to ceiling window. From her bag she produces a large book, the binding old and falling apart, and presses her face between the pages. You can see her chest expand as she inhales the scent of the ancient pages, a wide grin appearing from behind the book as she sets the heavy-looking tome on the worn oak table. You shake yourself and adjust your trousers beneath your apron, hoping the distraction of brewing her drink will provide you ample time to calm yourself down. The monotony of your movements allow for your mind to fill with images of her, weeks and weeks of her luminescence plaguing your every thought. You wonder what she does outside of the sanctuary of the shop, what kind of life she lives, to be able to come here every day for hours drinking cup after cup of hot, black coffee.

The timer beeps and you use your weight to gently press the grounds, pouring the freshly brewed liquid into a dark green mug, the worn porcelain stained with barely visible veins of decay. On a matching plate you place the tart, dripping honey over the top of it in long, iridescent strands. You beg your hands to stay still as you carry the items over to her. She’s engrossed in her thoughts, chewing lightly on the end of a pen, soft lips resting on the gnarled plastic. From the ashtray on the table she places an already lit cigarette into her mouth and draws in a breath, allowing the smoke to seep through her teeth and into the air. You wonder what her mouth tastes like. You wonder if she'd let you lick the honey from her teeth.

She looks up the second the plate hits the table, quiet as you were trying to be. Her attention is unwavering and you can see every shifting hue that dances in her eyes with precision. Your eyes flicker to her mouth, bottom lip slightly red from her teeth. She sees this and smiles. You thank god you’re wearing an apron.

“Thank you, love.”

“You’re-” you choke around the word and feel your cheeks heat once more. Her gaze turns predatory. “You’re welcome.”

The bell on the door rings and a tall, scrawny boy shuffles in, eyes trained on a notebook gripped tight in his hands. You know him well. She’s still looking at you.

“I’ll bring you another coffee when you’re ready.”

You turn, the struggle of pulling yourself away like swimming upstream. She catches your wrist in her hand, calluses rough on the soft skin of your arm. Her hands are big, bigger than yours, and her fingers overlap around the joint.

“You look very pretty today, angel. I like that color on you.”

You can’t focus on anything other than the searing heat of her skin on yours and it takes you a few seconds to register the words. You’d worn this for her, you always dress for her. She compliments you every day and you wonder if she knows that your wardrobe was cultivated for her pleasure.

“T-thank you.”

Her hand shifts, cupping your smaller palm in hers, and she presses a kiss to the back of your hand. Her lips are like silk, like velvet. You repress a shiver.

“Anytime, darling.”

The memory of her touch feels like a brand, even after you return behind the counter. He is waiting, focus still caught by whatever knowledge he was frantically trying to consume.

“Eumaeus.”

He looks up. “Ah! Sorry! How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long. What would you like?”

“Earl grey with a bit of that honey I like. The lilac.”

You crouch to scan the cupboard beneath the counter, eyes flickering over the small honey jars until the label you’re looking for comes into view. His attention has returned to the journal when you rise again.

“Anything else?”

“Do you have that thing, you remember don’t you? The green one with the little patterns in it.”

You chuckle. You made a batch of the biscuits that morning, your friend predictable enough after so many years.

“I do, just for you actually.” His face brightens, grin slightly lopsided, and digs ink-stained fingers into his trouser pockets. You reach over the counter to stop him. “My treat today.”

“You spoil me, my friend. I owe you an eternity of debts.”

“You’re dramatic. Go sit, I’ll bring it to you when it's ready.”

He leans over the counter and places a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“My love for you knows no bounds, dear.”

You push his face away with a chuckle, squishing his cheeks so his lips purse comically.

“Mine does.”

He rubs at his face when you grip loosens, scowl contrasted by the gleam in his eyes. He blows you a kiss and retreats to the corner of the shop, hunching over his book with rapt attention. You laugh to yourself at his idiocy and your gaze lands, once again, on her. She is staring back, a look on her face you’ve never seen before forming a tight knot in your chest. There is a fire in her eyes and you swear the green turns to orange and back the longer you look into them. She looks angry. She looks possessive.

By the time you finish his drink and bring it to him, your presence ignored, she is standing at the counter again. You quirk your head. This is not normal. She’s never done this before. She orders, sits, you bring her coffee, try not to drop to your knees every time she looks at you, and then she leaves. This is not normal. You try to push the worry to the back of your mind as you round the counter’s edge and stand behind the register, your neck craning to look at her, as it always does. There’s something in her eyes you can’t read.

“Is there something else I can get for you?” Your voice shakes. “Another coffee?”

“Do you like museums?”

The question is unexpected and it takes you a moment to remember the answer. “Um, yes. Why?”

“There is a new exhibit that just opened. You’re coming with me.”

There is no question, she doesn’t ask you anything. She tells you. Orders you. You stifle a whine and hope she can’t hear the noise catch in the back of your throat. You know she can.

“Okay.”

Your gaze catches on the way her freckles shift on olive skin as she smiles that same, devastating smile. She takes your hand in hers, turning it over to write something on his palm, the cap of the pen dented with marks from her teeth. It's her phone number. She’s written her name beneath it. Peisinoe. You can’t stop staring at her small, looping handwriting only coming to when you feel her breath against your cheek, lips inches from your ear. You have no idea how she got so close and can’t find it in you to care, pressing your hips against the counter to try and hide your steadily tenting trousers.

“Call me when you get off, angel. I’ll be here.”

You nod and her lips brush your cheek as she pulls back, hair framing her face a waterfall of brown and white. Her hips sway hypnotically as she walks back to her table, grabs her bag, lights a cigarette, and walks out of the shop. She doesn’t look back and you wish with everything inside of you that she did.

…

Every tick of the clock makes your heart race faster and faster, hammering against the inside of your chest so hard you can feel it. You look at the clock on the wall. Three hours until you can close up the shop. Eumaeus asks for another tea and you make it for him. He tries to start a conversation with you, saying something or another about beauty and rapture and a word you don’t think he pronounces right.

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” he asks. “I find it fascinating.”

“Oh, yes,” you say, pretending you were thinking about anything other than the way her hair brushes the base of her spine. “Fascinating.”

He stands. “I hate to say it old friend but I must be off, things to do, gentlemen to please. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes. Tomorrow. Of course.”

You lean in to the kiss he presses to your forehead on instinct, his chapped lips cold against your hairline. You miss her heat. The bell on the door sounds as he leaves. You check the clock. One more hour. A young couple walks in, voices low and bouncing back and forth between each other. One of them giggles as the other presses chaste kisses across their face. You notice a yellow-green bruise on both of their necks, diving beneath shirt collars. It looks like her eyes.

“What can I get for you?”

They flip through the laminated menus, your little drawings and descriptions faded as the years wore them down. You don’t remember the last time someone new came in. Their voices sound like nails on chalkboard compared to hers. You check the clock.

“I’ll have the orange cardamom tea with the saffron honey,” says the smaller one, their hair a bright yellow that hurts your eyes. Her hair doesn’t hurt your eyes. “And he’ll have the, babe what was it?”

“I’ll have that vanilla fig latte you got here,” the taller one points to the scribbled writing on the menu. “Biggest size you got, for both of them.”

“Alright. Anything else?” If you squint you can trick yourself into thinking that she’s still sitting there, at her table, drinking black coffee and chain smoking. When you blink, she is gone.

“No, sir, that should be all.”

“Total comes out to $10.71.”

The tall one hands you a wad of one dollar bills. There are only ten there. You ignore it.

“I’ll have those right out for you.”

They spot the threadbare corduroy loveseat in the back corner of the shop and squeeze themselves into it side by side. Their bodies intertwine, one head becoming two, two becoming three, three becoming four, infinitely multiplying to the incessant ticking of the clock. You blink again. Forty-five minutes.

You like making drinks with more than one step, like using the variety of hand-me-down tools from a chosen family that are long gone, pictures of them still lining the wall of the small coffee shop. The saffron honey smells like home. The fig butter tastes like safety. The cups you pour the drinks into do not match, none of them do, but the chip on the lip of both line up perfectly.

You watch their faces as they sip at their drinks, matching pink tongues darting out to lap up the last of the liquid that sits, dew-like, on their lips. You relish in their smiles, but the feeling is hollow. Their teeth are not sharp enough. Their low, murmuring chatter dulls your senses, still loud enough to be heard over the piano echoing from well hidden speakers.

“He’s cute, isn’t he? I like that shirt.”

“Do you see his collarbones? Good god, what’d I’d give to-”

“Glaucus, please. A little bit of respect for the man.”

“Don’t ‘Glaucus, please’ me. You’re undressing him with your eyes.”

“Should we?”

“Should we what? I can’t read your mind Circe, you’ve gotta give me more context.”

“Should we ask him? You know… about being a third?”

“You’re really dead set on exploring my bisexuality, aren’t you?”

“And you’re not?”

“Touché.”

You chuckle under your breath, wiping brass machines with a rag until you can see yourself in the shine. You wish it was her staring back at you. You’re not surprised when someone approaches the register. It’s the tall one. They’re taller than she is, but not by much. Craning his next to look at them feels sacrilegious.

“Can I get you something else?”

“Actually,” they say, trying very hard to look you in the eye. There is a flush high on their cheeks that accentuates hazel eyes. You’re surprised you find them as attractive as you do. “I was wondering if maybe… God I don’t even know how to begin to phrase this.”

You look at the small one and then back to the one in front of you. They’re pretty when they’re nervous, both of them are; you see the small one bouncing their leg up and down, the strap of their dress falling off their shoulder from the motion. Their auburn hair is braided on both sides, small flowers- baby’s breath- tucked into the spaces between. The tall one is well built, wide shoulders filling out a well-worn button up, tucked into a pair of trousers not unlike your own. They don’t look like her. She is never nervous.

“You see, my partner and I,” they gesture to the little one over their shoulder, “have been looking for someone to possibly- join our relationship.”

They wince as the last few words fall from their lips, immediately trying to fill the silence when you don’t reply.

“Not in a weird way of course, we wouldn’t just want sex. We’re just trying to open things up and you’re very attractive and-”

What would she do if she found out you said yes? What would she do if you fell into the arms of another? Does she think about you the way you think about her? You look at the clock. Twenty-five minutes.

“I’m sorry,” you say, cutting off their anxious babble. “While I’m flattered, there’s someone else I have my sights on. You’re both very attractive, mind you, but I wouldn’t forgive myself if I gave up now.”

The normal charm you exude when around others bleeds into your words, the same rose color staining the little one too. You wink at them and it looks like they’ve stopped breathing. The tall one opens and closes their mouth a few times before speaking again. You cannot do this to her.

“Oh! Good luck then, I suppose. I’ll just-” they look around, for what, you don’t know. “Would you mind if I left my number? Just in case?”

Twenty minutes. You slide a piece of receipt paper and a pen across the counter and they grin. Why aren’t their teeth sharp enough?

“Thank you!” they say, writing quickly and handing the both items to you. “Call me. Or us I suppose. If anything changes.”

You nod, feeling the left side of your face turn up into a crooked grin. They smile in return, meeting the small one by the door. Their hands move in unison as they wave a goodbye and you raise your hand in return. The bell on the door rings when they walk out and you’re alone again. Seventeen minutes.

…

Your hands shake as you pull your phone from your pocket, the action of flipping it open like rolling a boulder up a hill.

Hey, you say. Store closes in ten minutes.

You look around to find something to do, but the shop is clean and the street outside is empty. Your own words stare at you from the tiny, glowing screen. You look at the clock.

I’ll be there in five.

The breath that had caught in your chest releases and you feel like you’re floating. You take your apron off and hang it on the hook screwed into the door to the store room. There is one other apron there, faded from use, a size too big. The face of who it belonged to flashes in your mind. It’s gone as quickly as it came, light hair and dark eyes fading into oblivion. You look at the clock.

Your face is flushed in the bathroom mirror, the ruddy color following the line of skin from your ears to your chest. The back of your shirt is untucked and you fix it quickly, checking to see that the waist on your trousers sits the way she likes it to. You turn the light off and open the door. The cologne you know she likes in your apartment upstairs. When you enter the shop again, the door to your apartment locked, she is there. You look at the clock.

A chorus of angelic voices ring in your ears the moment she walks in, your heart beat providing the rhythm to lead the choir. There are small golden cuffs wrapped around braids that glint from within her mass of curls that match the glow of her eyes in the slowly setting sun. Her teeth are sharp and everything is right again.

“Are you ready to go darling? We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

She extends her hand for you to take and you do so, resisting the urge to thank her for allowing someone like you to touch what should be worshiped. Every spiral of her finger prints feels like fire on your skin and you hope that when she lets go, she stays seared into your flesh. You smile up at her. The look she gives is one of hunger. You no longer look at the clock.

“Come on angel. Don’t forget to lock up.”

You let her pull you outside and you do as you're told, flipping the ‘open’ sign and turning the key in the lock until it clicks. Your bike is leaned up against the sidewalk and she follows your eyes as they flick over to it.

“That yours baby?”

You nod.

“Take me for a ride then.”

You nod again, body moving on its own, following the motions you know by heart. You only have one helmet and you give it to her. Instead of her arms around your waist, you feel her hands. When you look down they’re almost touching, inches apart from your clavicle. You swallow and hope she doesn’t notice how tight your trousers have gotten.

The streets are empty as you ride through the town, the world hazy in a purple twilight. She's rubbing circles into your skin with her thumbs, pressed flush against your back. You count how many lights there are to go. Four. A finger dips down below your trousers, hot skin meeting cold, and you stifle a whimper. Three. The hand not otherwise exploring beneath your belt closes around your thigh, moving up, up, up until you know it can’t be ignored. Two. She rolls her hips against your back, the friction drawing a low moan that you can feel in your chest. One. Long, nicotine stained fingers dance across the bulge in your pants causing little cries and sighs to force themselves through your teeth. Zero. The bike stops and she stops with it, drawing her hands away from you with a slow, measured precision. You’re breathing heavily, your face feels like it's on fire, and your heart swells as she pulls the helmet off.

The museum is empty too. You’re grateful for it as it provides ample time for her to put her hands all over you, keeping up a constant dialogue about the exhibit with a huge palm against your back.

“There’s something about art, isn’t there love? Draws you in, captures you, traps you in its jaws and never lets you go.”

You nod, afraid that if you open your mouth it won’t be words that tumble out.

“History lives in paintings created hundreds of years ago by people who are no more than dust in the Earth. Our lives are captured in stills, the human experience cultivated through oil and ink. People want to live forever. Their ultimate wish is immortality.”

Her voice takes on a somber tone and she cups your jaw in her hand, bringing your faces close until barely an inch lies between you.

“Immortality is a curse. They would all learn that in the end. Death is the greatest mercy the Gods have ever gifted.”

When she kisses you her mouth tastes like blood and cigarettes. When she kisses you her fingers clench tight to your waist and you pray the bruises stay forever. When she kisses you, you feel like you’re dying. It is the greatest mercy she’s ever gifted. She pulls away and you’re panting.

“You’re beautiful, you know that? You’re the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

You can’t speak so you whine again, high in your throat. Her pupils widen, black soaking up the viridescent hues surrounding it. She straightens back to her full height, hand returning the small of your back. Everywhere she touches you feels like flame licking at your skin and you relish the burn.

She guides you from room to room, speaking ever so often, her voice gravely and echoing in the vast, cavernous building. By the time they reach the exit again you can’t think of anything other than what her teeth would feel like in your skin.

“Hop on angel, I’ll drive.”

You don’t argue, figuring it was more likely she could ride a bike than that she couldn’t. You give her the helmet again and she takes it. You miss her immediately, pressing your face against her back with arms wrapped around her waist. The world around you blurs with motion, familiar streets turning to unfamiliar until you stop in front of a small house just outside of town. The lights in the windows are the only ones for miles.

“Night’s not over yet sweetheart, go ahead and stand up for me.”

You do, legs shakier than they should be.

“Good boy.”

She knows what that does to you, the grin on her face going cheshire as the ever present flush on your cheeks grows darker. You follow her into the house, taking a moment to look around before you’re pressed against the door. Her hair falls around your face like a curtain, blocking out everything but you and her. Your eyes are closed even before her lips touch yours, the press of her mouth the holiest of feelings. Her tongue slips past your parted lips, dipping in even further when you moan against her. Your mouth is slack. It's not that you don’t know what to do, it’s that you know this is what she wants you to do. She wants to use you and you? You want to be destroyed. She trails a line of kisses from the corner of your mouth to the joint of your jaw, sucking a bruise just beneath it.

“Are you going to let me have you angel? Are you going to be mine?”

You nod against her tongue as it drags a hot, wet stripe to the base of your throat. You know there will be a constellation of bruises painting your skin and you feel yourself grow harder at the thought. She bites down, drawing blood, and the sound that comes from you is inhuman. It spurs her on, more and more of your skin dripping from the points of her teeth. She kisses your mouth again and the blood you taste is yours.

Her hips grind in slow circles against yours, the bulge beneath her trousers rivaling your own. You’re panting into the air, chest heaving, and the breaths you try to take are stolen by her lips. You try to say something and it comes out as a moan, her hips pressing just right against you.

“Is there something you want, sweet boy?”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Want you. Please.”

“You have me right here angel,” punctuated by a roll of her hips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“No, no. Want to taste you. Please. Need it.”

She grins against your mouth, picks you up with her hands under your thighs, and carries you into a dimly lit bedroom. Your knees hit the floor as she gently lowers you, putting you at eye level with her hips when she sits down on the edge of the bed. You’re salivating and it's tinged red when it hits the ground.

“Go ahead baby.”

You pull her from her trousers with unsteady hands. Her hand slides through your hair while the other feeds her length into your mouth, the weight of her thick on your tongue. She is in control as she moves your head up and down, a willing participant for her to use for her own pleasure. The sounds you are making echo around the room, punctuated by a soft moan from her as she sinks further into your throat. Her skin smells sweet when your nose presses against her stomach, sweeter still is the sound the movement pulls from her lips, caught between pointed canines.

“Such a good boy,” she says, petting your head and leaving you blinking tears away, every inch of her tucked down your throat. “Look at how pretty you are.”

You think you might be crying but can’t tell as every roll of her hips brings a new wet line down your cheek. Every breath is taken heaving through your nose and you’re on your knees in front of your God. She presses in as far as your mortal body will allow and stills, pouring herself down your throat. The taste of her is sweet, like nectar, and you swallow down every drop. Your throat feels empty when she pulls herself from you but her eyes are full of something you don’t know how to describe.

“You’re perfect angel, and all for me.”

“For you,” you say, voice broken from worshiping her.

“You’re mine, aren’t you.”

“Yours.”

She pulls you up from the floor and lays you down flat on your back, removing your clothes as she trails down your body. Every inch of you is stained crimson and her lips are a paintbrush, blotches of purple and blue the evidence of her skill. You are her masterpiece and you writhe beneath her tongue. Bare and heaving, you watch as she removes layer after layer of her clothes, each new section of skin making the heat in your chest grow to boiling.

“Do you want me angel?”

“Please. Want you so much.”

She leans forward and presses a kiss to the crown of your head, reaching over to retrieve a bottle from her bedside table. When she returns her hands cup the backs of your legs, bend your knees and press them to your chest. Slowly, so painfully slowly she stretches you, soothing every ache with a kiss or the soft wetness of her tongue. You can’t keep quiet, a myriad of noises filling the room with the evidence of your pleasure. You speak in tongues and hope she knows you only speak of her. The pressure builds. It builds and builds and builds and breaks, the space behind your eyes going white as warmth coats your chest in shallow pearlescent pools.

“You’re doing so well sweet boy, just one more. Gods above, you’re beautiful like this.”

Above you she fills your vision, every inch of your world becoming the soft curls of her brown and white hair, the olive tones of her skin covered in freckles that spread from her nose to the tops of her breasts. Her fingers play you like an instrument, pressing and stretching and pushing into you, making a space for herself. You know you’ll never feel full without her. Not after this.

“Are you ready?” she asks, one hand resting next to your head and the other resting herself lightly against you. “You going to be good for me?”

“Please. I’ll be good. Please.”

She smiles as she presses into you, inch after inch, destroying you for her pleasure and you feel better than you ever have. You really are crying now, soft, whiny sobs that bubble up in your chest. She licks the tears from your cheeks and presses her hips to yours, finally joined. Finally together. Your body convulses and adds to the mess pressed between your chest and hers and she kisses you through it, rocking back and forth, in and out. You can feel her in your stomach, the shape of her visible through your bruised and bloody skin. You press a hand to the swell and see her face tighten with the pleasure of it. You do it again, rubbing circles against her through your body, giving her every last bit of yourself. The slow pace becomes faster, every movement of her body shoving her farther and farther into you until the taste of her is in your throat. Again you feel the crest break and she never ceases, never slows as you cry and beg and plead for her to make you hers. To eat you whole.

“Going to keep you forever, like this. Never going to let you go.”

Her voice is the same sickly sweet harmony that it always is and it drips down your spine and into the heart of you. Time slows and speeds up and slows again. She is everywhere and nowhere and you are infinite within her arms. She is huge inside of you and nothing that once was remains, you’ve become hollow, wet and wanting. You feel her body tighten around you, pace becoming erratic, murmurs of praise and exaltation breaking on her lips.

“Please,” you say, begging in every language you know how. “Please.”

You want her to fill you with everything she is. You want her to pulse in you, to saturate you, to cover you in her so that you’ll never be anything but hers again. She tucks her face into the crook of your neck and bites, teeth tearing into your skin and filling her mouth with your life. You whine and moan and plead for her to take you, to wreck you, to leave you nothing without her. She shoves herself deep, deeper than you thought possible, and stills. Warmth floods your body as her gift fills you to the brim. You’re swollen with your devotion to her and your body shakes with unending rapture.

“All mine now,” she says, keeping every bit of herself tucked away in the welcoming cavern of your flesh. “No one else can have you.”

You nod. Of course they can’t, not with the entire universe exploding in your chest at the relentless pressure of your goddess within you. You’ve barely the strength to whine when she removes herself from you, a flood of infatuation pouring from the place she made for herself. She kisses you and kisses you and kisses you and you're sharing the same air, the same space, the same time. Her embrace is heaven and you’ve given all you are to her. You would give more if she asked. Your heart thunders in your ears. Her chest is quiet, empty, a void as you press your face to her. Why is it so silent? Where are your prayers?

Her skin smells like salt as you nuzzle against it, so different from the dark, smoky sweetness from before. She drags her hand across any part of you she can touch and you feel like you’re burning. Do you hear that? Under your heavy, struggling breath. Under her steady, constant praise. Something is not right.

“I have never heard a song as beautiful as yours, my love,” she says, the tracks her fingers follow on your skin turning dark. “Your voice is so sweet, just for me.”

“Just for you,” you say, hypnotized by the way your body contorts to her will, still distended and open. “Only for you.”

“If only I could keep you.”

You don’t think you hear her right, but when she doesn’t repeat herself you feel your muscles stiffen. You gave her everything. She took everything. Was it still not enough? Did she still need more?

“No, please. I thought- You said-”

She presses her thumb to your lips and you wonder if her touch will stain your mouth the way it did your body.

“Shhh,” she whispers, stroking your hair. “Don’t worry my love. Everything is going to be alright.”

You release the breath you were holding, nuzzling closer to her chest. She chuckles, snaking her hand between your body and hers to wrap around your wrists. You are putty in her hands as she rolls you over and pins your arms above your head. She looks hungry. Your heartbeat quickens. Why does she still look hungry?

“I wish I didn’t have to do this sweet boy. I really do. I wish I could lay here with you forever. I wish your love for me could keep me sated.”

Her eyes darken and her skin goes cold in an instant.

“But it can’t.”

You struggle around her grip as she leans in, teeth growing sharper and sharper the closer they come to your flesh. You try to speak but it's too late, her mouth is latched to your throat and it is barely an effort for her to tear it out. You’re choking on your blood and she’s chewing on your muscles with a gleam in her eye that tells you she’s enjoying it. Her jaw widens around the mouthful and she swallows, your slowly closing eyes following the lump of you moving down her throat. She bares blood stained teeth and tears away another piece, and another, and another, too slow for you to ignore the pain but too fast for you to bleed out before the next chunk is ripped from you. Your body is no longer a body at all, but a mass of bleeding, twitching muscle, a feast laid out for she who hungers for your flesh. You smile at the sight. You did give her everything, in the end.

“I love you,” you choke out, speaking through the impossibility of your still remaining consciousness.

A tear, dark red, slips down her cheek and mixes with the gore and viscera that drips from her mouth. How are you still alive? How can you still watch her swallow your liver whole, slurp your intestines down, suck on the putty marrow in your bones?

“Stop looking at me,” she growls. “Stop watching me.”

You can’t though, as much as you want to. You say it again, more for you than for her.

“I love you.”

Her shoulders shake as she shoves more and more of you into her mouth, heaving sobs masked by the grotesque sound of tearing meat. Her stomach is distended and bulging, your mass filling her up and leaving you a squirming pile of bones and blood. Only your heart remains and her eyes are locked on it, crimson tears dripping into the mess of you that stains her skin. You are still alive.

“I can’t,” she cries, but she will. She knows she will and so do you. “I can’t do it anymore.”

“I love you.”

She is pleading towards the sky for damnation, hands pressed together as you drip down her arms and onto her chest. You are still alive. She is pleading to the ground for castigation, face pressed against the bed, hair soaked in you. You are still alive. She is pleading to you for redemption, your sinew and viscera and tendons a heaping pile in her embrace. You are still alive.

“I love you.”

With shaking hands she picks up your heart, still beating, pumping your life out of spasming aortas. There is no part of her that is not covered in you and you wonder if she is comforted by that. If she can feel you seep into her skin. If she can feel you fill her belly.

“I love you,” she says, and swallows it whole.