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eddie-overholt · 5 months

Text

Savior

Content Warning: Implied sexual abuse, implied forced relationship, death

The mist is dark and heavy, and he cries out for help, but none comes. The woods are not the woods he entered, and as he makes his way through, he calls, wanting someone, anyone to hear him. Hoof beats echo through the trees, and he wants to be found. He races towards them.

A man, tall and gray upon the horse looks down at him like he is the scum of the Earth, startling blue eyes piercing through him, cutting him to the bone. He is thrown onto the horse, and he wraps his arms around his savior, nuzzling his face into his back. Is this love?

The castle is cold as he wanders, trying to find the dining hall, but every door he opens leads somewhere he's never seen. Loud footsteps click along the hallway, and he panics, but his heart flutters, maybe it's him-

He smiles as he comes into view, Silas, his savior.

He has a frown, and he looks so weary, and he debates on pulling him into the side door, into the study he just opened into and helping him truly relax. Silas stops in front of him, holding out his hand and his blue eyes hide an emotion he cannot place. "The Master requests you for dinner, Vance. Let's not keep him waiting." The two walk, arms linked. It's so gentle. Is this love?

He stutters over the vows, jolting as something brushes his ankles, before remembering he is not in pants, but a white dress. “I do,” the words crackle over him, sending his nerves alight with the urge to run. A cold hand brushes against his face as the veil is slowly lifted, sharp claws scratching against his skin, revealing crimson eyes. The thing before him smiles, and he shudders as he watches his mouth, mind already flashing him pictures of those white teeth dripping with red blood.

A hand touches his arm, and he replies, “I do.” He glances at the audience, the other inhabitants of the castle, all grinning at him. They know what comes next. Silas clears his throat. “I now pronounce you king and consort, you may kiss the groom.” Those cold lips smile as they press to his, and he hears cheers as he's whisked away. Is this love?

He's so cold. He is alone, in the too large bed. His fingers reach up to touch his neck, and he winces at the pain, feeling the two puncture wounds, but no blood. The Master is out, gone to his study to continue his search. The bed is cold, just as it will be forever more, until he is cast out and the Master finds a new plaything.

A knock at the door announces an arrival, the door gently swinging open. He's so cold and gross, and he sobs as his savior arrives. Silas slowly helps him up, a warm pity on his face as he helps him to the bath, filling the tub with warm water. He eases him into it, and he sighs.

His muscles ache, and it's so nice to be warm, he only wishes it was warm skin he was pressed against last night, and not the cold hungry beast that consumed him. A hand runs through his hair, gently untangling knots.

"Is this love?" he croaks out, throat sore and raw from the abuse he had taken last night. The fingers still, before continuing.

He doesn't get an answer.

#Implied sexual abuse #sexual abuse #forced relationship #death #vampire #queer writing

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eddie-overholt · 5 months

Text

Consumption

Trigger Warnings: Implied Sexual Content, Intense PDA, Cannibalism

As the sun sets over the fields, a cool wind blows against them, making their clothes billow around them. They pull their shirt closed, hanging the long fork up before petting one of the new calves. She had been a hard birth, but they smile as she nuzzles into their hand, before her mother moos, and she runs off. They sigh, weariness pulling at their limbs as they head over to the dog laying off to the side. They snap their fingers, and it sits up, trotting behind them as they head back into the house, their bare feet crunching through the gravel. They glance back once more, and see him, looking into the forest, and they continue in to prepare.

He watches as the sheep all head into the barn, shutting it closed, latching the heavy iron pole into the ground and turning it so it locked into place. He glances across to the woods, eyes gleaning back at him, shining through the darkness. He smiles, knowing the creatures would never get their prey, and turns back towards the warmth of the house, spotting them walking in. He follows, dreaming about what he’ll make tonight.

They frown as he walks in, but he clicks his tongue sharply and they fall in behind him, following him up to the bathroom. They strip and step into the shower, the warm water running down their back, rinsing the dirt and sweat from their body. He left, and they're alone, hurrying along their shower to get to the end and what comes after. Their hair is dull and damp as they step out, they dry off their body before wrapping up their hair, keeping it from dripping down their back as they redress.

First they slip on the undergarments, pale yellow, and they sit there for a moment, taking stock of their body before continuing. Next comes pants, deep blue jeans come on first, with a simple tight fitting black shirt being tucked into it. A soft leather belt paired with matching boots almost completes the look, and they take off the towel, brushing out their hair. They always find the hairdryer too overwhelming, too loud and hot and too much everything, and so they simply brush out their damp hair, setting their black cowboy hat on top.

He takes more time with his shower. He sets up their shower, making sure everything's perfect, and then he heads to the other bathroom. He turns on the water, allowing it to warm up as he strips, the work of the day falling away and letting him relax for just a moment. He steps in, and first is the hair, shampooing, then he washes his face, a nice sugar scrub scented strawberry, and then he rinses, sighing as the water massages him. He lathers the body soap, homemade vanilla, and begins washing his body, rubbing the crust and dust off, making himself clean again. He dips his head under the water again, taking pleasure in the act before turning the water off, grabbing a soft towel to dry his body, taking his time to make sure everything’s dry before he pulls on his boxers and begins to dry his hair, brushing it out as the warmth blows across his scalp.

He moves to his closet, pulling out options of shirts and pants, unsure which will work best until he sees them. He chooses a simple pair of light jeans, pairing them with a red button up, taking care to match the glossy black of the buttons with his belt buckle. He brushes out his hair once more, taking the time to braid the long strands by his face and tie them back into a low ponytail. He grabs his white hat, looking in the mirror as he carefully settles it on his head.

They begin to prepare the kitchen for him, grabbing pans and utensils and setting them on the counter top. Their boots make a comforting stomping noise as they move to the storage room, careful to keep to the clean path so as to not mess up their clean boots. The hounds can tell it's nearly dinner time, barking from their room, and they relish in the sounds of creatures as they retrieve the dinner for tonight. First the raw beef, ground up themselves, before adding in dried chicken feet. Next comes a bone broth he prepared a few days back, drizzling it onto the meal before peppering on blood flakes and cracking a duck egg in each bowl. They head back in, taking the bowls in and setting them carefully spaced apart in the dog's dining room. They whistle, and the sound of claws clicking across hardwood fill their ears as the dozen dogs come in, rushing to their meals. The dogs tear at the bowls, and they watch with hunger, longing to join them in their ferocity.

He heads down dark steps, the homemade wooden stairs holding his weight with soft creaks, the light switch deeper in, but he doesn't need it. He just counts his steps, the same thirteen each time, and takes the seven more steps to reach the table he had laid out tonight cut of meat on a few hours earlier. He grabs the bagged meat, hefting it up onto his shoulder and then heads back upstairs. He grins as he hears the clacking of claws before he sets the ingredients down on the kitchen counter, turning to grab his apron, clicking his tongue once more.

They walk to the kitchen, watching him as they grab their apron as well, watching as his hands tie his own apron before they turn and allow him to tie theirs, shivering as his hands graze their back. They turn, locking eyes with him. They look away quickly, moving to the fridge, pulling out ingredients and heading to the cutting board. He lingers as he ties, wishing to hold them closer, but it must wait, and he watches them with steady eyes before they turn, and he begins slicing the meat into thin cuts. Time speeds up and slows down as he moves, pulling out the flour and garlic powder, coating the meat in it before moving to a skillet, heating up oil.

They move as if in a dance, grabbing a heavy knife from the block, looking up at him for just a moment, the thought racing through their mind but gone in an instant, and they cut into the vegetable, a thick crunch coming from the red and white treviso. It seems unnatural in their hands, and they trace their fingers along the bone white veins that bleed into crimson. He cooks the meat in the oil, frying it to a beautiful golden brown, placing them carefully onto a plate where the oil is soaked up into a napkin. They place the treviso in a bowl, moving to grab the homemade orange vinaigrette from the fridge, drizzling it on before shredding cheese. He begins to cook a thick gravy, adding in peppers and onions.

The two work together in perfect harmony, creating and crafting the meal perfectly, and end up at the table, a gorgeous feast in front of them. They serve out the salad while he lays the meat and gravy onto their plates, garnishing with parsley and adding mushrooms to the gravy. The two sit across from each other, the table stretching long, if they spoke they'd have to raise their voices a bit just to be heard clearly. The glasses are full of wine, one red and the other white, and they each sip before they begin to eat, eyes locked on each other.

They eat in silence, as the ritual always goes and has been, and they watch each other. The steak is cut, a beautiful reddish brown before the gravy drips down, dripping onto the plate as it's lifted to mouths and eaten. The mushrooms add a wonderful change of texture, and pair perfectly with the warmly cooked onions and peppers. The salad is crunchy, a bitter tang cut through with the vinaigrette and calmed by the cheese. A sip of wine is dry and washes it away, and the two lock eyes once again before he stands, and brings out dessert.

This is simple, made the other night in preparation. Cherry pie, his favourite of their desserts. He takes a knife and begins to slice it, red oozing from the centre as he pulls a slice away, a small drip of red landing on his hand. They stand, moving to take the plate from his hands, but he looks down on them, and they feel so exhilarated. A rush of air leaves their lungs, and he grins, handing the plate over before cutting his own slice. The two begin anew, forks dipping into red, and then being lifted to mouths. Soon enough, it's not enough, there needs to be more, and then its hands, fingers being dyed red as they're thrust into the pie. The two stand and draw close, encircling the rest of the pie not yet devoured, and they feast. Red drips down chins, coating hands and mouths, messing up their clothes.

Soon the pie is gone, and the two are reaching for each other, lips pressing together as they crawl over the ruins of the pie. Pulling them between their legs as they sit on the table, his hat is knocked off, but he doesn't care. He knocks theirs off as he gets his arms under their legs and carries them easily. The two bump along, unable to control themselves as they make their way down the hall, and the bedroom door slams shut behind them.

Their hats lay together on the floor of the dining room, leaning on each other as if for support.

The body lies in the freezer. Deep in the basement, past heavy doors it sits, the cold making it frost up. It is mostly together, an arm in one bag, the other missing, but the hand sits right where it should. The torso is intact, but the head has been opened, and no brain remains inside. One leg remains, no longer attached to the hip, in its own airtight bag. The other leg is currently digesting in the stomachs of the two upstairs, who are now asleep curled into each other. Tomorrow comes the ritual of the hunt, in which the body will be moved into the ground, alongside the dozens of others buried beneath the land, before being replaced with a new body. For now, its eyes gaze sightlessly into the darkness of the freezer, any life once in them long gone.

#short story #queer writing #cannibalism

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