What: Reveal When: Sins plot Warnings: Well, he was the cannibal. It won't be pretty.
Predator, that’s what he had been.
He had been ripped wide open by the intoxication, mind and eyes and heart. He had been a monster with all-black eyes shining darkness and lies, searching for victims underground and in the sky. He had pretended to be an old friend and a good boy, and he had smiled and blushed and teased and touched. He had been gluttonous to his core, never satisfied and never quite finished. He would have eaten his way through half the men at that party if some unknown hand hadn’t forcibly removed him. The bit of the monster that remained deep inside him was furious that it hadn’t finished that last meal. The man, though – his whole body felt so weak with relief when he came around to his old self that he collapsed in the street outside of his house.
The asphalt scraped patches of skin off the heels of his hands and grated holes in the knees of his tight black jeans, which he half-expected to find still drenched in the blood of his… dinner. Fortunately, he was clean. His plain black t-shirt had returned from wherever it had gone in the transformation, and he was free of those horrible claws. One hand flew to his mouth and he groped around his teeth for a while before he was finally reassured that the fangs were gone, too. No more tearing at fleshy tongues and lips, god -
- he could still taste the blood. It sat heavy in his stomach and lined his throat, and he wanted to throw it all up and get it out out out of him but fuck what if the neighbors saw him? He was laying on the street with his hands all cut up and his head swimming and big, hot tears streaming down his face. He was a mess. He was a monster.
After a few minutes or a few hours he managed to haul himself to his shaky feet and make it all the way to his gate. He fumbled around in his pockets until he finally found the electronic card, and swiped it across the keypad with a hand that had gained a serious tremor. The rest of the trip inside was slow and labored because he had to stop every few feet and fight the urge to vomit, catching his breath and squashing down the inevitable panic attack that loomed on his horizon.
He felt like an old man when he finally made it through the front door, and he fell to his knees again right there in the front hall. He couldn’t even think about the stairs that led up to the second floor, so he settled for crawling into the guest bedroom and the en suite. He barely made it to the toilet, wrapping his arms around the porcelain unit and holding on for dear life as he expelled the warm, sour contents of his stomach. Pint after pint of blood and chunks of half-digested flesh came rushing up into the bowl, making his nose and eyes burn as violent sobs continued to wrack his body.
He was a monster. He was ripped open. He had killed people. Eaten them. He had unhinged his jaw and swallowed them whole, skull to soul. Was it possible that they had been spared when the bell tolled, just like he had been rinsed clean of strangers’ blood? Had his evil and his hunger and his depravity been wiped clean, too? Seven didn’t think so. He thought he was going to hell.
In a dark corner of his mind, Gambit was hovering like a nervous mother. The Cajun was quiet and subdued for once in his life, entirely lost when it came to the concept of trying to comfort or reassure his Vegas counterpart. He had spent most of his evening playing tricks and nursing a broken wrist, but he could hardly complain.