Hideaway Strath To each their own

Finally she comes back to him when he leans against her, she leans back. Her eyes blink and he can see how glazed they are. He can see how truly stressed she is. When she laps at his chin and doesn’t answer him, he doesn’t question her anymore. He simply allows it to happen. He’s here for her now. He’s here to do whatever she wants him to do — whatever she desires of him. He is hers completely for the night and possibly even the next few days. His worry gets the better of him and he’s going to want to make sure she’s okay indefinitely. 

So they stood there and embraced for a few long moments before he feels her move from his hold. Her gaze turning to the pup that lies lifeless before them. His own eyes meet the same sight, watching with morbid curiosity as she closes in on the pup. She nudges it, a pensive expression on her beautiful face. His heart wrenches knowing that it is his pup. Because who else’s could it be? He’s the one who boned her during her heat and that pup is too big and dark to be anyone else’s.

So when Whrist looks up to him with those icy blues of hers and utters a single word that says everything his brows turn up in sympathy. He did this to her. She had no idea what was happening and that’s not her fault. None of this is her fault — only his. 

He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. But by then her attention has turned back to the pup and this time a much more gruesome expression befalls her face. 

Then it happens. It’s like a strike of lightening — she snaps. Wrenching forward and with a small spray of blood crunches the lifeless infants neck in her toothy grasp. He almost gasps at the display of violence towards his own child, but again, he has no one to blame but himself. Yet, he isn’t angry at her, for she jumps back as if she’s been burned and now he’s more confused than ever. His expression is worried as he closes in on the two of them, moving beside her to comfort her despite her violent reaction to the body before her. He knows not of the turmoil that rushes through her mind like a hurricane. He only know that he must be there for her. So he is. 

Yet when she asks her next question, he almost wants to laugh in a sick sort of way. How casual is she now asking such things like that. Her mood swings are something otherworldly, but gos knows he’s not going to question her when she’s gone through so much tonight already. 

So with his own shrug he nods. “Yeah.” He whispers back. “Let me.” He pleads. It is Saint tradition that the father consumes any stillborns.

So with that, he moves in. Getting it over with by grabbing up the body and crunching into it with dangerous teeth. Severing it’s weak body like it’s nothing. It only takes him a few moments to fully eat it and he almost wants to say that he feels sick after doing so. But it is family tradition, so he has to get over it. His father would be pissed at his sentiment over the creature that was too weak to even come out of the womb dead in the first place. 

Moving back to Whrist, he laps at his bloody lips. Brushing his large head sensually along her own. He’s tired. He’s positive she’s tired too. So he embraces her. Usually their moments are so filled with desire — list for one another. This is different. He runs along her sensually, in a way he hopes to comfort her. A promise in his eyes that she’s his for the night once more. And will be again.