So this girl's out back, behind the bar, she's a "good girl," she called a car

Between Reclaimed Roots and Sundance Grove

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She gasped.

She breathed.

Pulling herself upwards, the woman emerged, blue eyes wide, darting.
 Where was she?

Gazing around, she panted, fur slicked and wet, as if she'd been swimming; drowning. Fighting the currents with snapping jaws and lashing talons.

 She laughed.
  Of course.

Of course it was her who ended up in this forest. No way back, and honestly.

She had never been happier.

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Leaving things vague since his starter post hasn’t been finished <3

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After his awakening, he realizes that being alive again is just another form of torture. Just like it had been the first time he lived. He feels uncomfortable in his own skin — like bugs are skittering around beneath it. Walking is a task all on its own — ruined ears twitch at the feeling and his teeth yearn to bite and tear his own flesh off.

He had laid, there on his back, in the middle of the rain for hours, eyes unblinking and wide — unseeing. Images of his fiery prison are locked in his mind. Hunger coils in his belly, eating him from the inside out, but he does not satisfy it. He doesn’t hunt. He doesn’t eat. He lays there. Not thinking, hardly breathing.

And now, all of a sudden the sun is coming up and his bloody, scarred eyes squint with the brightness of light that he isn’t used to. It disgusts him. He wants the dark. He wants to be surrounded by the quiet blackness again — somewhere that even his thoughts, as rare as they are, don’t even need to materialize in his fucked up brain.

The soft heat from the light in the sky makes him itch. He wants the numbness of the cold. It makes his burn marks ooze and light up with pain. He relishes it. Gate keeps it. It doesn’t comfort him — nothing does — but it’s familiar, not that it matters.

Nothing matters.

So he walks. Aimlessly wanders. Eyes half-lidded, crazed, and dead. Worrying — terrifying — to whoever looks into them.

And then, as he moves out of a patch of tall shrubs, when his eyes finally lift up and off the ground he walks on he sees something.

Someone.

They’re not far away from him, probably only a few meters. His eyes widen, pupils shrinking into pinpricks. He stops moving all together and stares, the look of a rabid animal reflects in his eyes. He doesn’t know what to do — it’s been so long since he’s interacted with anything. But he doesn’t wonder what to do, his mind is blank, frayed, and wild — damaged and broken.

His teeth itch. He should kill it.

That’s the only thought that moves through his brain and it’s hardly even a thought — it’s instinct. He grinds his jaws together as a forked tongue licks across them to soothe the itching.

But the bugs under his skin distract his frazzled mind. And even if the other has seen them, which he would be hard to miss, he’s snarling suddenly. Lips pulling back into savage, angry snarl he’s dropping his head, almost bowing his upper body, and placing his paw out in front of him on the ground. His teeth attack his own flesh — where he got burned earlier. They nip and bite, blood blooms…he tastes it. All while he’s growling and dripping saliva down on his arm — he snaps at the flesh, feels one of his teeth puncture and catch. That white-hot pinch of pain blooms and finally the itch is satiated.

But he stares, wide eyed and manic, at the spot for a few seconds before lifting his head back up. Looking back at the animal he saw his ears twitch and he shakes his head jerkily. The demon’s lip is twisted into a snarl, lopsided and distracted as red orbs look back towards the other in his presence.

His teeth itch again.
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Someone.

Standing, staring, watching.

Their eyes intent on her.
 Would he kill her?

The woman scoffed, though quickly turned to disgust as he-

No.

 What.
  The.
   Fuck.

He tears at his wounds, crimson bubbling under the surface. She was going to gag, she thought, but she stood.
 Stared.

He looks at her, gaze filled with ember and rage. Fuck off. She stayed silent; he, with a stature of a king, of a warrior, was to large for someone like her.

But she wouldn't run.
 Oh, no, that's where he was wrong.

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His name was Banesteppe. That he knew. For he is the bane of his own existence. Living is torturous. Dying is torturous. So what’s the difference in him being dead or alive?

There is none.

He already looks dead, so who cares. Not him.

But this thing in front of him…they look alive. Coat wet and flat, but light — lighter than his own is some places, but just as dark in others. They have a look on their face — in their eyes. What is that look? Disgust? Fear? Irritation? He can’t tell and he doesn’t care.

But they stare each other down. Their eyes never leave his own and, that alone, is a challenge. His instincts drive him — his dominant side taking that as a nonverbal fight.

His black tongue flicks over dark lips. His teeth chatter together as he opens and closes his mouth to ease the itching of his teeth. Grinds them together after that. His eyes are unblinking — dry, burning.

He’s the one to take the first step forward. It’s slow, like he’s stalking, even though he’s right in their line of sight. And he would keep like that closing in slow — appearing as if he has no idea what they are and he’s frighteningly curious. But there’s nothing in his eyes showing this because in this moment he doesn’t feel anything. All he feels is the itching of his teeth, the pressure that builds beneath them as he clenches his jaw. He feels the bugs — fuck! The bugs crawl and crawl I’ve this flesh. He resists the urge to bite off his own skin again.

If allowed, and the other doesn’t move away, he would come nose to nose with them. Head level with broad shoulders, body wound tight, saliva dripping from expressionless, now smoothed out, lips. He would stop a foot away from them unless they moved.

If they move, he’d stay in that exact spot. If they don’t, he would move to their right, lean in dangerously close, and sniff. Short, quick puffs of breath — taking in their scent.

His mind is blank. He should kill it. Satisfy the itching — stop the itching!

But he doesn’t. Not yet.
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He's a creep.

A weirdo, if you will.

 He stalks, comes nose-to-nose with her;
  Breathes her in.

Though she wouldn't dare retaliate, she favoured her life – unbeknownst to her – unlike him.

She stands, flicking her tail occasionally as he leans towards her side. The woman almost stops breathing out of fear, though she isn't scared.
 Careful,

  For this man could very well be her end.

All is quiet. Uncomfortably so, until she breaks the silence, her tone a mere whisper.

“What are you doing?”

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They don’t move. He takes the opportunity to breathe in their scent. Something watery, sweet. It makes his nose scrunch up, his lips wrinkle. Absentmindedly, he notices the flick of her tail. Doesn’t look into it much more than that, but the barely there movement makes him want to bite — to catch it, crunch it in between his teeth. He wants to know what it tastes like, fur be damned, he’ll eat that too. He’s never been picky.

As he sniffs them, his ears twitch. His shoulders twitch, his sides too — like a horse trying to remove a fly. It’s the bugs, they’re irritating him. Make him clench his teeth — they creek as he does so.

What are you doing? It’s a question, a faint whisper — a careful one. They speak soft like talking normally will set him off like a fucking bomb.

Little do they know, it has the same effect either way.

But not on her.

His body completely stiffens. Muscles flexing and lips pulling back within a blink of an eye. He whips away from her, probably almost hitting her with his own head as he curls his body into a tight ‘c’. His teeth, dripping and splitting saliva, bite at his own ribs. A throat snarl rips from his throat, guttural and savage. Just like he bit at his leg earlier.

It’s quick, he’s only gnawing at himself for two seconds tops before he’s whirling back around to face her. The demon’s lips snarl, pulled back fully as a deep, dominant bark is ripped from his throat next. Body language no longer skulking and stalking, his head is lifted high, towering above her as he takes that fateful step towards the other wolf. He snaps right at her face, intentionally missing and only clamping down on the air inches away.

He doesn’t know why.

He has no idea.

His brain just doesn’t work right.

His entire body — the dead vacant, yet snarling look in his eyes — says submit or die.

But he doesn’t know why he does it. Never knows why.

But the bugs under his skin still crawl — they nibble and bite at his flesh and he wants to skin himself. He wants his teeth to stop itching. He wants to eat — he’s hungry — always is. Will this animals death satiate that hunger?

Maybe. But he knows it never does.
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He twitches as he smells her. The woman is terrified, yet her gaze rests placidly on his pelt.

The beast hardens like stone, whipping away from her, and she jumps back, narrowly avoiding his head.
 He eats himself.

Bites at his ribs as if they were his prey.
 Fortunately, he does not maim himself.

Xióngmāo stares on.

He turns to her, a newfound dominancy thrashing through the ichor that oozes from his skin and burns. She refuses to shiver, though takes a step back, believing that it was just enough for him to miss her face as he snapped forwards.
 She wanted to scream.

Dropping, crouching, tail tucked in an act of submission.
 Leave me alone.

  Her mind begs.
   Leave me be.

She whines, acknowledging the opposing wolf as stronger. She couldn't win, not against him. Will he eat her?

What scared her most, was that she didn't know.

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He doesn’t witness her horror as he bites and chews at himself, only to whip back and snap dangerous fangs in front of her face. It’s then his nose catches the scent of fear.

The bugs stop crawling.

She’s clearly startled by his sudden outburst. lowering her body to the ground, but not completely falling. Why isn’t she showing her belly? He wants to bite at it — drag out her entrails and roll in them. Mark himself in the scent of death. But this will do. He takes her in, tail tucked tight between her legs, and those eyes…they speak wonders. They speak exactly what the small whimper that slips from her lips says.

He isn’t dumb. Mindless, yes. Dumb — stupid — no. He can read emotions, but just doesn’t feel them. He lacks empathy. He can’t put himself in another’s shoes — he can’t relate. And he fucking doesn’t know what it’s like. He doesn’t know how to because he simply cannot find it in himself to care. He knows that she is fearful, but he has never felt that. He’s never felt fear. He doesn’t fear his own death — he welcomes it. Wants it even.

But she doesn’t. He can tell her fear keeps her safe. She wants to live.

He doesn’t know what that’s like…to want to live.

Never has. Never will.

But as he watches her cower, satisfaction, though subtle, blooms in his chest. The boyish, naive idea to play with his food surfaces. Though he is hungry, starving actually, he decides he will not eat her.

But what’s a little taste?

He drops his head, slowly, down to her own. The hellhound is no longer snarling and spitting. His lips are wrinkled, showing a sliver of teeth, but not as aggressive as he was a moment ago. He steps closer, towering over her. Gingerly, he brings his snout to her forehead, those same quick puffs of air meet her flesh as he sniffs her all over again. And surprisingly enough, a large, flat, forked tongue would lap a thick stripe over her brow. But it’s gone just as quick as it happens, for he’s shifting his nose over to her cheek and then ear. Sniffing, sniffing, sniffing.

And if she doesn’t move, his jaws would snap at the edge of her ear quickly. It’s lazy, giving her time to daringly move away. But if she doesn’t he would attempt to leave a neat notch on the edge of her ear, waiting for it to bleed.
the staff team luvs u

Loving the dark themes, also ty for the stardust!

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She's... okay. Physically unscathed, surprisingly.

He didn't do it.
 Instead, he cranes his neck down to her level.

  She shakes, briefly frightened, until;
   He... grooms her?

No... that can't be right.
 He tastes her. That was more accurate. There was no empathy, nor apology or love behind the swipes of his tongue. Pure curiosity. Hunger. He aims to snip at her ear, yet it flicks out of the way instinctually, and part of her worries.

She didn't mean to.

Would he kill her over something she couldn't control? That sounded ridiculous, and she would've laughed, if she wasn't so terrified.

If he continued prodding and poking, she would roll on to her side, eyes squinted in the anticipation of pain.
 Why was she doing this?

  She.. didn't know.
   She thought it would keep her alive, and that was enough for her.

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the staff team luvs u

I will cry :’) thank you so much And same to you

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He wants a taste. He wants blood, flesh, fur, anything! Her reactions are not enough! The hunger within him grows — never ending and insatiable. He wants to consume. To eat her alive while she squeals, thrashes, and fights. To open up her stomach, shove his maw in, and eat her from the inside out. Only to watch the life slowly — eventually — vacate her soulful, frightened eyes.

He controls her right now. He decides whether she lives or dies. And though he is no god — he is equal to the devil. And just as mean.

He notices the flinch when he laps at her face. He pays it no mind. What he does pay mind to is the twitch of her ear that prevents him from drinking his fill — prevents him from tasting. But he sees the way she cowers further, a growl erupts from his maw. The hellhounds head rushes forward, butting into her shoulder with a surprising amount of force which has her knocking over and splayed on the ground.

Stepping up and over her, but keeping his lower body off to the side, he catches her in with strong forelimbs. Snarling in her face, saliva stringing off and into her fur, he looms over her threateningly — daring her to move again.

And he only gives her a moment of contemplation before he’s snapping out at her cheek this time, just beside her jaw. It leaves two identical cuts the same width as his two top canines. They’re not horribly deep, but they do bleed.

And that’s what he wants.

His eyes widen, crazed, and manic — hungry, all consuming — as he hones in on the welling blood. Drinking in her reaction, even daring to shift his gaze over to her own. The scars beneath his eyes looking like bloody tears running down his face — they mock him. There’s intelligence in his eyes, but nothing that she wants will be there. No mercy, no sympathy — nothing but the darkness of his pure, instinctual, animal fury.

His elbows bend, his arms flex as he shifts down to lap that same tongue over her shredded flesh. It’s warm, wet, leaves a trail of saliva as he goes over it a second time, third time, fourth time. Even going as far as to tilt his head every which way as he goes. Lips still wrinkled, brows furrowed. He’s not fervently lapping at her, no, he’s lazy about it. He’s tasting. What’s the rush?
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Note to readers: PP has been welcomed against Xióngmāo!

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She knew this would happen.

She knew he'd get angry for one small little movement.

What she wasn't expecting, though, was to be rammed in to.
 She was left splayed on the floor, giving a small gasp.

“It wasn't on purpose–” She tried to insist, before his fangs pierced her cheek.

The girl let out a cry, tears welling in her eyes as her face was left cold, stinging, a wound that felt horribly empty.
 He laps up her blood.

  And she writhes, trying to get out of his grasp.
   “Let go of me–!” She cried, eyes squinted as tears rolled down her cheeks.

She continued to try and fight, calling and crying, hoping someone could find her... and free her.

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the staff team luvs u

Thank you for annotating the power play! I got caught up in writing and forgot :’)

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The woman thrashed bravely, only to end up with his fangs still piercing her cheek. But her blood tastes good enough for him to ignore her voice. And ignore it he does, lapping his tongue over the wound and rumbling low in his chest — a mix of a pleasured hum and a growl.

She gasps, he flicks his eyes over to watch tears well in her eyes. His brows pinch further. Why is she crying? He hardly hurt her. Is it the fear? Is she scared? It irritates him. It makes his skin crawl and itch. And then, she cries out. Actually cries out this time. Demanding him to let her go, screaming for help and probably hoping someone hears her desperate pleas.

That same growl rumbles in his throat. The ember of irritation in his chest ignites into a flame.

Lapping a tongue over his teeth and lips he shifts his head right in front of her muzzle, noses almost brushing, as he pins her down with a threatening stare.

“Silence. No one will come for you.” He’s growling — bluffing — speaking for the first time in her presence. His accent thick and rolling, his voice ashen and raw from never using it.

After silence takes the scene, probably save for her whimpers or cries, his eyes would follow the trail of those tears down her face. Again, something inside of him hungers. His eyes empty and emotionless, except for the fiery irritation swirling through their bloody depths.

And again, he wants a taste.

Moving to the side of her muzzle, a wide, flat tongue rasps on her cheek, over her eye, and onto her brow. If the situation was different and if Banesteppe was probably anyone else, the motion would seem sweet — comforting even. Like wiping away a loved one’s tears. But Banesteppe is nothing but a devil and he is anything but sweet. No, he’s hungry. Hungry for everything — power, death, blood, flesh. He wants it all.

But if he cannot consume, then what’s the point of being here? That same boyish desire to play with his food? No. Perhaps the satisfaction of seeing another creature in pain — scared for their very life? Maybe. Although he enjoys the fear, the crying, the tears — as sadistic as he is — there is nothing for him here.

Maybe he’d let her live. Just so he could hunt her down again. Instill that fear that he would lurking around every corner. To make her feel as if she’s being watched — hunted — despite him being nowhere near. The thrill of the hunt whenever he decides to track her back down again and end it all.

That’s satisfying in a different type of way. But will his mind take the bate?
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No problemo :)

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He spoke. As she was pinned under that terrifying gaze.. He spoke.

On any other day (though, probably never, after this) she'd say he had a handsome voice.
 But now?

“Silence. No one will come for you.” She only hisses in response, still trying to break from his gasp.

He swiped his tongue over her face, lapping up her salty tears.

It was terrifying.
 Something that would be seen as kind...

  Compassionate, even...
   Turned vile.

“Please let me go..” Her voice was a whimper, exhausted and week as her cheek bled.
 The pain was non-existent as her heart seemed to burst out of her chest.

Tears continued to fall.


She was... tired.




Would she die here?

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She seems to stare right at him as he speaks. He can see the light leaving her eyes, being replaced by tired hopelessness. Good. Funny of her to think she ever had a chance. But Bane doesn’t have a sense of humor. As long as he can remember he’s never had a reason to laugh or smile. Even when it’s in regards to his sadistic nature. He’s witnessed other men laugh when they’ve killed others, but Banesteppe’s not that kind of man. He suffers, and has suffered, too much. It’s just not programmed into his brain.

As so he laps at her tears, merciless and vile like the disgusting man he’s grown into. And he relishes the whimper that slithers from her lips as her tears fall in endless streams. She’s limp now. Tired. Banesteppe watches the emotions play out on her face.

What he does next is not him being merciful. It’s not him guaranteeing her life back because now it’s just a matter of when and where he will torture her next. He has her scent memorized. He knows her face. Knows she will submit. But submission only satisfies a small portion of his desire. He wants a fight. He wants pain. He wants her to try and escape. But she probably knows what would come with actions like that. Her own pain and impending death would be on the line if she did that.

She likes to play it safe. Noted.

But even as he slips his split tongue back into his maw. He feels unoccupied. He feels…the bugs. Whenever his mind isn’t busy they always come back. It drives him crazy. And so long, pointed ears twitch characteristically. His lip twitches too. A hardly there shake of his head comes next. All leading up to him snapping his head to his arm with the burn mark on it — the one he mutilated earlier.

The quick motion would probably spook her. She’d probably think he’s going for her instead. But just like the second time, he barely misses her. Dropping his head and bending his elbows to get closer to the wounds that burns hot and painful— itches with skittering, tapping feet and pinchers that drive him up the fucking wall.

Terrifyingly so he takes his entire wrist into his jaws, gnaws and chews on his own flesh with his molars. Eyes wide and distracted, crazed at the way his skin feels draped over his body like this. A sickening crunch sounds out as he pierces his own flesh, a harsh, hissing intake of breath follows at the pain that strikes up his arm.

The itch is gone and he soothes his tongue over the gaping, bloody wound his own teeth created along the burn mark. Shaking his head vigorously above her his ears continue to twitch, a savage growl falling from his lips as he swings his head the opposite way to nip at his shoulder. A new desperation evident in his eyes, he snaps and bites at the bulky muscle there. His ribs expand and fall quickly and, then, all of a sudden he’s stumbling over her, almost stepping on her as he goes.

Quickly snapping at a few other spots on his body until turning his attention to her and biting in her direction. Not close enough to actually get her, but enough to show the manic, dangerous warning in his eyes.

“Go! Before I eat you alive.” He’s growling savagely, head twitching in a way that shows he wants to shake his head again.

And he does so a second later, only to swing around and snarl at the burn mark maring his hip and biting at that too.

Fuck! The bugs — they won’t stop! He’s going to tear his fucking fur out. He wants it to stop!
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He'd stopped for a few moments, before leaping. She thought this'd be it, she braced herself, but no, he went for his wounds once more, picking and peeling and eating himself.

She felt her throat close up.

The crunch that comes along with him sinking his fangs into his flesh makes the woman shiver, similarly to the feeling of bugs that crawled along his own fur, though without that burning itch.

He stepped over her.
 A chance to escape?

  Or...
   Was it all a rouse?

“Go! Before I eat you alive.” She nodded, standing just as he aimed another snap at her face.

It would be silly to thank him, but part of her was thankful for a non-existent mercy he appeared to posses.

 And so, she ran.
 Aiming for the mountains. Aiming for anywhere but here.

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Fade?

the staff team luvs u

Yes, fade! It was super fun! Maybe they could meet again sometime hehe ‘:)

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She cringes when he tears his own flesh. It’s to be expected. He doesn’t though, but it’s like the other times. He still itches! Why the fuck won’t he stop itching?! Why won’t the bugs stop crawling?!

It’s driving him mad.

And so, unwillingly, he stumbles away to shamelessly mutilate himself. While he’s itching, scratching, and biting, she watches him contemplating her escape.

He confirms it for her. Warns her to leave. He doesn’t want her in his presence any longer. For if he cannot consume her, she is useless. Himself on the other hand. He swears he’s about to chew his own fucking limbs off and swallow them whole.

She’s getting to her feet quickly. Her head nodding wordlessly at him just as fast. And for a second he watches her run, run, run away. He contemplates the chase. Contemplates it so fucking hard that it has his heart speeding up. His instincts scream at him to go after her — to tear her up like he tears himself.

But he doesn’t.

Instead he aims for his own flesh, growing madder and madder by the second. Until he lies on the ground bleeding in multiple places and raw. His eyes wide and dry, blood vessels flaring.

Why is he alive? It’s something he wondered when he was alive the first time and it seems nothing has changed from the second.

When will he die for good?

It’s a question no one can answer. Especially not himself.
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