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Bile stings Vector’s tongue, but it does nothing to deter him from pouring more down his throat from the stomach clutched in his hands. He hisses through the discomfort, moans after the final swallow. Delightful, delicious, the pain is worth the delicacy. He allows the boar’s stomach to slip from his fingers, collide with the remaining intestines with a wet, juicy plop.
Meat. He needs meat before he indulges in the soft, plush viscera before him. He grabs at the open belly of the boar and sinks his pointed nails under the skin, which he rips apart with feral desire. Raw flesh meets his eye, illuminated by the moonlight, and he bares his teeth.
From what he can discern from the flashes of gorey memories that make his stomach gurgle and mouth water, he would usually take the time to ritualistically butcher before digging in. Whoever he was before had delectable taste—the gentle flesh of the young and innocent intrigues him the most.
Vector tears into the boar’s belly meat, mouth first. This is what the others are forcing him to miss by cooking their meat all the way through? This is what he’s being deprived of? He’ll kill them, he’ll rip them open, feed them each flesh from their abdomens, so they can know heaven before the lights go out.
A twig snaps behind him. He whips his head around to snarl at the intruder, only to catch Yuma in the glow of the moon. Yuma isn’t armored; he has no weapon. He’s vulnerable. He’s afraid.
Vector’s stomach, despite his partaking, rumbles. He remains kneeling before his prey. Yuma, young and innocent, takes a step back. Vector twitches but holds back his instinct to pounce.
“Yuma,” Vector purrs, wipes away blood from his lips and chin, “what are you doing out here by yourself?”
Unarmed. Unprotected.
Yuma tries to smile but it comes out as a grimace. “Um…are you okay? I heard moaning.”
“This far away from camp?” Vector thought he was distanced enough to not be interrupted.
“You were gone so long, I was worried,” Yuma says, fidgets his fingers together, “so I came to look for you. Just to make sure you were okay.”
So sweet. Sickening.
“I’m fine,” Vector says, a huskiness escaping into his voice, “go back.”
“You should cook that. You could get sick.”
Vector smiles. “Go back to sleep, Yuma. I’ll be back later.”
“But—”
“I won’t repeat myself, Yuma.”
Yuma tenses, nods, turns and scurries away into the trees. Vector looks down at the skin, hair, and flesh under his nails, runs his tongue over the same contents stuck in his teeth. There’s no lying his way out of this one, but that’s a concern for later.
Vector returns to eating. The boar no longer tastes as sweet, is no longer as satisfying. It’s not a feast, it’s a resignation. It’s not enough.
Yuma will be enough. Yuma will be dessert, savored, left for last, a prize at the end.