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Grotesque.
Every time she looked at herself, every glimpse of her own reflection, she felt that word writhe across her bones like a curse. Grotesque, malformed, unnatural. Purple skin stretched over muscles she barely recognized, veins branching like dark roots under a sickly canopy, sinew and fat mingling in a gauche harmony, a body that no longer belonged to her. She hated it. Hated the way it moved when she twitched, hated the way it breathed when she did nothing. Every nerve screamed with shame, every joint throbbed with disgust, and every time she tried to peel it off with her nails, it was like stabbing into her own very soul.
Her fingers itched constantly, nails longing to dig past the surface, hook into the flesh beneath, and tear it away layer by layer until nothing remained but raw, bleeding muscle and the faint taste of iron in the air. She could almost imagine it—flesh peeled back, quivering, still warm, like a roast taken fresh from the fire. She would rather have no skin at all than live trapped in this monstrosity.
Aurethia always stood behind her, a shadow of light and dark, wings ragged and white as old bone, fingers brushing against the exposed curves of her arms, her shoulders, the ridges of muscle beneath her purple skin. “You can’t hide from yourself, Vanessa,” she’d whisper, voice silk threaded with steel, tongue forked and glinting in the pale light. Her fingers would trace along the tiny punctures Vanessa had left behind from her compulsive scratching, collecting the tiny beads of blood like an attentive diner savoring the first bites of a meal. Every stroke sent shivers down Vanessa’s spine—disgust, revulsion, and something she refused to name, crawling and gnawing in her belly.
Her reflection wavered again, and for a moment she imagined tearing it from the surface of the water. Tearing herself from it. Eating it. Consuming it to erase the grotesque truth of her own flesh. And yet, Aurethia’s hands never left her. They pressed against her small, raw fingers, curling around them with a possessive patience that made her stomach twist. Each touch was precise, intimate, violating. She whispered along Vanessa’s ear, murmurs of desire for skin that Vanessa herself could not bear, a soft litany of admiration that gnawed at her self-loathing.
Vanessa could feel her own heartbeat, pulsing like a drum made of marrow and blood. Each thrum seemed to echo against Aurethia’s fingers, against her teeth grazing near the thin patches of exposed flesh. She could taste the tang of copper in the air, the faint metallic hint that made her stomach roil, and yet it called to something inside her. Something ravenous and unnameable.
The urges had only grown stronger since Devil Eruption. Dark, gnawing instincts that whispered with each heartbeat: pin her down, bite her from throat to belly, gouge open her chest, taste the warm, trembling heart beneath. Maybe then she’d understand. Maybe then she could see what Aurethia saw in her. Taste it. Own it. But she couldn’t. Couldn’t give in. Not yet.
Her reflection in the foggy lake swam, fractured. She traced the purple ridges with her eyes, imagining peeling them away in thin slices, letting the raw flesh beneath glisten under the misty moonlight. Aurethia’s hands followed every movement, trailing along scars, pressing her bony palm against ribs that trembled beneath the skin, whispering promises and desires that were sharp enough to cut through the bone. Vanessa felt every feathered wing brush her back, a suffocating, beautiful weight that pressed her into herself. It was intimate, invasive, and impossible to resist entirely.
The raw meat Aurethia sometimes offered remained untouched. Vanessa refused it, pressing her hands against her own chest, trying to choke back the strange, gnawing hunger that flared with every look, every whisper, every forked tongue along her puncture wounds. She had tasted herself, tasted what the urges demanded, but she had refused to taste the gift of flesh Aurethia presented. Pride, fear, revulsion—they tangled in her gut, and she pressed them down hard, letting only the shame and fascination slip through.
Her body screamed to follow those urges, to give in, but she resisted. Every part of her wanted the touch, the taste, the thrill of submission and violence mingled together.
She sometimes found herself frozen, staring at Aurethia, fascinated and horrified in equal measure. Aurethia herself was grotesque in a different way. Maroon skin clashed with a pine undertone, bone-white wings shredded and ragged. And yet she moved with ease, with pride, with a confidence Vanessa could not summon. She envied that. She longed to feel that ease, that disregard for her own image, to wear her body as Aurethia wore hers.
She pressed herself against Aurethia once more, letting her clawed fingers run through her tangled curls. Letting her breath, her teeth, her wings close around her like a predator’s embrace. If she had to give a piece of herself, a bite, a portion of flesh just to feel something other than self-loathing, she would. Let her feast, let her taste, let her consume. Even if it shredded something vital inside her.
Her own body screamed with sensation, every nerve alight with the contradiction of pleasure and disgust. The reflection in the water seemed to pulse with her heartbeat, twitching as if alive. She imagined letting herself be carved open slowly, piece by piece, like a sacrificial meal. Let Aurethia taste the purple, the sinew, the faint tang of copper that lingered in every pore. Let her swallow it all until Vanessa felt only emptiness and relief. Even if it shredded something vital inside her, she would endure it. Even if her mind screamed in protest, even if the metallic tang of her blood made her retch, she would let her.
And yet, even as she trembled, even as her skin prickled and burned beneath Aurethia’s touch, she hated *herself*. Hated the way her body responded to the teeth, to the whispers, to the invasive intimacy. Hated the hunger she could not suppress, hated the fascination that gnawed at her, hungry and unrelenting. But Aurethia never left. Hands, wings, voice—they pressed on, patient, insistent, inescapable.
Vanessa wondered if she would ever be whole again, if her body would ever feel like her own, if she could survive the grotesque hunger gnawing at her bones. Or if she would always be prey and predator at once, trapped in an endless, terrifying cycle of flesh, blood, and desire.
All she knew was the cold press of Aurethia’s hand on her spine, the weight of wings folding her close, the whispered promises in a tongue that tasted of teeth and iron, and the slow, impossible hope that maybe—just maybe—she could find something human, buried somewhere beneath the meat and blood. Something that reminded her she was alive. (lol no u aren’t)