A long table, adorned with crimson, velvety cloth and a handful of lit candles, sat before Gabriella in this otherwise dimly lit dining room, but that wasn't all that lay before her.
Laid up on the table top was a Human, a self-proclaimed hunter of some sort who had made the poor decision to try and kill Gabriella days ago-- it was an act that was doomed to failure in more ways than this human could have ever imagined, and an act that would spell their ultimate end tonight.
Bound, blindfolded, bare, and mostly unconscious atop an oversized dish surrounded by various herbs and vegetables, the Human was what they appeared to be; they were a meal, a main course of the highest order.
"Are they to your liking, Gabriella?" Jin is heard before he is seen, his voice a haunting echo that filled the room, yet one that was not without its charm; his voice was so calm, so liquid.
The human on the table squirms at Jin's voice, only for a light breeze to flow through the room, and for Jin to then appear at the human's side like an apparition, a hand placed against their throat.
"I told you I had ᴘʟᴀɴꜱ for this one."
Jin leans in closer to the barely conscious, bound Human on the table, his hand moving up to their face, where he almost begins caressing it.
"It's called 'Valentine's Day' in this modern age, but long ago this day was known as Lupercalia, and longer before that, Lykaia."
Jin's mouth nears the Human's throat, bearing his teeth, teeth that were the likeness of razor blades-- long, sharp rows of terror that practically glistened in the faint candlelight.
"In those ancient eras, sacrificial rituals were performed on this day, and at times, individuals would feast on the flesh and blood of their fellow men."
Soon enough, the razors of Jin's maw pierce the soft flesh upon that Human's throat, the pain of which prompts them to faintly shake and cry out. At first, Jin's wrenching into that Human's throat draws out blood, a great deal of it in fact; a crimson mist covers sections of the wall behind him, not to speak of on his clothes or face.
In the moments that follow, however, something more flows from that Human's throat, something crimson yet illuminated, something that hummed with faint hints of delicious power-- traces of the Human's Reiryoku, and their Soul.
A few more seconds go by, seconds filled with the vicious sounds of Jin's feasting, seconds filled with the cries and futile thrashings from the Human before him, but it is mere seconds nonetheless.
"I see this as a return to form," Jin says as he pulls away from the Human, and casts his gaze toward Gabriella, his eyes glittering crimson and his face-- most especially around his lips-- a grinning, blood-speckled mess, "and a ritual of our own to cement on this so-called holiday."
Slowly, Jin then approaches Gabriella, trailing a hand along the table as he does, a hand that inevitably finds its way onto her shoulder once he's standing there behind her chair. Jin's touch, though laden with still fresh blood, carried with it a longing, a faint tenderness, and a sense of desire that was likely all too familiar by now.
"What better way to spend this day ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ?"
Jin kneels somewhat, positioned at Gabriella's side, and from here he points at the Human on the table, beckoning the winds of his Doll to lift them up and bring them closer.
The still-living Human thrashes about weakly in the wind's hold, but their strength fades as they are set down on the table in front of Gabriella, presented to her more like a gift than a meal, but a meal they still were all the same.
"They are all ʏᴏᴜʀꜱ," Jin says to Gabriella in a more hushed tone now, leaning over briefly to press his lips and teeth against her throat, leaving a devilish bite behind, though one that failed to break her skin, "their flesh and bones anyway; be sure to leave the rest for ᴍᴇ."
With a snap of Jin's finger, the winds of his Doll remove the blindfold covering that Human's eyes, allowing them to see him and Gabriella, the harbingers of their destruction on this night. The Human, though partly delirious, looks on in terror, especially as Jin approaches them from the side once more while saying to Gabriella,
"Guten Appetit, Meine Tollkirsche."
Gabriella had not moved when Jin appeared. She sat poised at the head of the crimson-draped table like a queen awaiting tribute, one elbow resting lightly against the arm of her chair, fingers curved with idle elegance against her cheek. Candlelight flickered across her emerald eyes, catching in their depths and making them gleam with something older than simple hunger. The room smelled of herbs, warm wax, and fresh blood—the last of which had begun to dominate everything else, thick and metallic, clinging to every breath. Her gaze lingered on the hunter’s body as Jin fed. She watched the way he opened the throat, watched the arterial spray paint the wall in fleeting violence, watched the light leave the hunter’s body in trembling fragments of crimson luminescence. She did not flinch. She did not look away. Her expression softened, if anything, not with pity, but with appreciation. For the ritual. For the offering. For him. He had remembered.
Lupercalia. Lykaia. Older names for older hungers. Older devotions. When Jin approached her, she tilted her head ever so slightly into his blood-slick touch, her eyes sliding closed for a brief moment as his hand came to rest on her shoulder. His blood was still warm. She could feel the fading pulse of the hunter’s essence clinging to his skin, to the air around him, to the space between her ribs where that nameless force inside her stirred in quiet, attentive approval. His lips found her throat, and she inhaled softly—not in surprise, but in acceptance. The bite he left behind, though shallow, sent a slow current through her body, one that pooled low and deep and patient. Her fingers curled faintly against the arm of her chair, grounding herself in the sensation, in him.
When the hunter was placed before her, the witch leaned forward slightly. She did not rush. She studied him. His eyes wide, wet, and full of terror, met hers, and in them she saw the same thing she had seen in so many others across her long and winding existence. Not righteousness. Not courage. Recognition. The understanding, at last, that he had never been the predator here. Her lips curved faintly. “You shouldn’t have come for me,” she said softly, her voice calm, almost gentle. There was no cruelty in it. Only truth. Her fingers reached forward and brushed against his chest, trailing slowly downward, feeling the faint, stuttering rhythm beneath bone and flesh.
Still alive. Still warm. Still hers.
She glanced back at Jin over her shoulder, her eyes dark and luminous, reflecting the candlelight and the blood and him all at once. “You always did know how to choose the perfect gift,” she murmured. Her hand returned to the hunter’s chest, and this time her fingers pressed in more firmly, feeling the frantic, desperate hammer of his heart beneath the fragile cage of ribs. Her touch was almost tender, palm flattening over him as if to soothe him, as if to quiet the terror he could not escape. The force inside her stirred. Hungry. Expectant. She leaned closer, her golden hair spilling forward like silk spun from moonlight, veiling the moment in intimacy. Her lips brushed his sternum first, a mockery of affection, a lover’s gesture turned sacrament.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she whispered. Then her hand sank in. There was no hesitation. No struggle in her expression. Her fingers pierced flesh and parted it with unnatural ease, guided by instinct older than language. The hunter’s body jerked beneath her, a broken sound escaping him as her hand slipped past bone and sinew, deeper, deeper still, until her fingers found what they sought. His heart. It trembled in her grasp, frantic and defiant even now. For a moment, Gabriella simply held it there, her head bowed slightly, her breathing slow and steady. She could feel its rhythm against her palm, could feel the fading heat of his life pulsing into her skin.
Reverence. That was what filled her expression. Slowly, she drew it free. The sound was wet and final. Crimson followed in its wake, cascading down her wrist and dripping onto the white porcelain beneath him. The hunter’s body slackened almost immediately, whatever light remained in him flickering and dimming. The witch lifted the heart between them. It beat only once more. Then it stilled. She turned her head toward Jin, her emerald eyes luminous, reflecting candlelight and something deeper, something darker, something that belonged only to them. Blood traced the curve of her arm, pooled in the hollow of her collarbone, painted her fingers like lacquer.
She rose from her chair then, slow and deliberate, closing the distance between them. The heart rested in her palm like an offering, like a vow made flesh. “For us,” she said softly. Her free hand lifted to his face, fingertips brushing along his jaw, smearing a faint streak of red there—not to mar him, but to mark him. To claim him within the ritual he himself had begun. She leaned in, pressing her lips to his—not a violent kiss, but something slower, deeper. Their mouths met with the taste of blood still lingering between them, the shared flavor of death and devotion. It was a kiss that spoke not of hunger alone, but of recognition. Of union. Of something that had begun long before this night and would outlive countless more.
When she pulled back, her forehead rested briefly against his. Then she brought the heart between them. Her teeth sank into it first, slow and deliberate, breaking the surface and drawing forth what warmth remained. She did not devour it alone. She turned it slightly, guiding it toward him, her blood-slick fingers steady, inviting him to share in what had been given. What had been taken. What was now theirs. Their eyes met as they fed together, as the ritual completed itself in the only way it could through shared consumption, through shared hunger, through shared reverence for the offering laid before them.
When at last it was done, when nothing remained but the echo of its warmth and the blood that marked their hands, Gabriella leaned into him once more. Her lips found his again, softer now, stained crimson, sealing the ritual in silence rather than words. Her hand came to rest over his chest—not to harm, but to feel. To remember. “A perfect ritual,” she whispered against his mouth. Her eyes held his, unwavering, eternal. “And a perfect night.”
Happy Valentine's Day! // @windestanz
