Leslie fell to a crouch and ran her fingers through the grass. It had been too long since she saw or felt real vegetation. Last time, it was the garden at Porn Studios, possibly fake. What was the link there, between plants and carnality? Her mind was in the wrong place to think of it.

"Where is this?" she asked, getting up.

"Louisiana," he said.

Alastor held his cane to light the way, and Leslie followed him. She found the night air to be sultry, hardly the place to cool off after an hour of dancing, and it was filled with the sounds of rushing water and unseen wildlife. The ground was semi-firm, grassy and wet. Of course it was. Her feet were still bare. Probably just as well, though: she pictured herself and Alastor crouched on a tarp in his office, chipping dried mud off their shoes with screwdrivers. It was decidedly unsexy, so she stopped.

They walked with difficulty along the bank, until there were scuffed wooden slats underfoot. She heard Alastor's shoes clopping against them.

"Is this where you bring all your girlfriends?" Leslie asked, scraping mud off her feet.

He smiled and stuck the end of his cane in the ground. It became a makeshift lamp, lighting their surroundings up in brilliant red. Danger. Alastor took off his jacket and laid it on the boards.

"Make yourself comfortable."

She stared. "The place we just left was comfortable."

"But we'll be alone. No-one downstairs or upstairs, no-one to interrupt. I've been coming here for years and never been disturbed." He walked over to kiss her - close-mouthed, to prevent an accident as he walked them back to the spot he'd picked.

Leslie broke away for a moment to sing. "Juuust the two of us," she warbled, but got no response.

Then Alastor swung her to the side, placing her down on his jacket, with the stiff boards beneath it. Uncomfortable. Isolated. No movement, no sounds of human interference with the landscape. They were truly alone. Leslie felt a shock of fear and delight in equal measure. With a look, she told him to get down here and join her, which he did, still bathed in red like a devil. He was a devil. Lying atop her, he kept most of his weight on the elbows, and she wasn't trapped, not at all.

In the time it took her to regain her strength, Alastor loosened her clothes enough to access her still-damp neck and chest, like any hooved animal to a salt deposit. He didn't care. His hands carved soft tracks in her sides and legs. No claws yet. Leslie's own hands drifted over him, and she only wished her arm-span were greater.

This continued for a while until Alastor dug a nail into her obliques, and that woke her up. Impatient, she tore her bodice down, and the skirt up, bunching it around her middle. To her surprise, Alastor did not conjure her panties into his hand; he cut them free of her body at either side, balled them up and tossed them at the lake, never to be seen again. Fine with her, so long as some frog didn't choke to death on them.

"You too," Leslie said, sitting up.

Sitting back on his haunches, Alastor waved a hand and his clothes dissolved away, landing neatly folded at the edge of the boards. This was not a trick she'd seen before. She covered her mouth, looking at him. From the waist up, he was the same, uniformly warm gray. Around Alastor's hipbones, the skin changed, turning dark, dark red, almost black in this strange light. She saw patches of white on his inner thighs… like a deer… and when she checked him for signs of disease (or perhaps some horrific barbs, designed for copulatory wounding) she found none. Coloring aside, he was quite normal.

Looking up, she noticed Alastor take a swig of something from a tincture bottle, which he discarded.

"What was that?"

He ignored the question, falling back upon her, and she let him. For a while, they were swimming on dry land, each lost in the flesh of the other, kissing like wild things. As always, he scratched and bit, just within the letter, and she didn't mind. The only thing wrong was their damn height difference.

She gently pushed him away, made him sit up, and climbed onto his lap. Touching him. Tasting the bitters of cologne on his neck, savoring the heat.

"Easy," he said into her ear. "There's no rush."

True enough, but Leslie was done waiting. Part of her was afraid to go through with this, because then it would be over; the stronger part urged her to seize the chance before he could take it away. She forgot what an abomination she was. She forgot the terrifying remoteness of the bayou. Instead she clung tightly, moving at the hips, her excitement meeting his, and she caught his eyelids as they fell closed. His inner radio tuned left and right, looking for the right station.

"I want you," she told him.

"That is obvious," he said, "but tell me again."

She said it over and over, as if the repetition alone would work that particular brand of magic. Her recent trance was helping, somehow; she felt it. Only when she got specific about her wants did he lift her up and try to fit them together. Leslie grew anxious as something felt wrong: the angle, possibly? Had it just been too long since she'd done this? Carefully, with patience, she persevered and breathed through the initial discomfort, as Alastor curled over, breathing down her neck like a horse. Finally came the brief snick as he safely broke her in.

"Fuck!" she said, getting used to the heat. It had happened, the culmination of months of teasing and wanting, worrying and longing. It took her a moment to notice that Alastor was looking down at her, the unnatural light casting harsh shadows over his face. He seemed the tiniest bit stunned.

"There," he said. Pulling her towards him, he fell onto his back, which put her on top. He took a moment to flip his hair out of his eyes and mouth with a 'fwuh' she found endearing. "More practical," he explained at last. "You're just too short, my dear."

On the contrary, she felt unnaturally tall in this position, but soon overcame the stage fright. Leslie did what she thought he wanted. When the men in her life put her on top, it was to enjoy a certain viewing experience, to have unfettered access to a female body. Here are my curves, she said, and kept up the same flattering, rolling motions until Alastor sat up and took her by the shoulders.

"Forget that," he said, gently reprimanding. "Do what works! Use me."

What the fuck did that mean? Leslie wondered, as Alastor pulled her down. They were now horizontal, parallel. He slid her forward and back, using the pressure of her own body weight against him, in a manner most stimulating.

"Oh," she said.

His fingers found her neck, which became rapidly flushed as she followed him down this path. Ebbing, flowing, breathing hard, and in her case, making high-pitched, urgent little cries. It was a sound for her benefit and his, driving home those sensations that would get lost without a little help. Alastor was talking now, about how he'd dress and season her for dinner. "You shouldn't eat bacon," he said, pulling her ears, "you should wear it."

"What?" Leslie saw herself from the outside in a rare out-of-body experience: the small, wriggling creature trapped in the hunter's arms, about to have its neck broken. She should have fled, but the feeling brought her back, of being a woman - not a rabbit! - able to bring him to the same heights she was chasing. "I will," she said, and never mind how weird it was, "I'll wear it."

"Oh, good. Good." He tensed, he buzzed, he made the most wonderful sounds - involuntary, almost ugly. Alastor was wrapped in his fantasy of eating her and it was so wrong, but Leslie adored his fervor. She gave herself over to it, bucking against him until it happened, in a series of deep contractions that took over her body. She clung to him as she climaxed, every muscle tensed, including the less exercised ones within.

Alastor lay where he was, feeling the overwhelming thud of her heart against his abdomen. As she recovered, weakened, glowing, moving to kiss him, she sensed that he himself was not done. Still restless, still desiring. In fact, he did something odd: coiling up, polishing his clenched teeth against her collarbone, like he was close to madness trying to rein back.

Leslie made a snap decision. She knew what he needed. It would hurt, but he needed it. She could not die. He could not kill her.

"Alright," she gasped. "Make it quick."

"What?"

"Eat me. That's what you want, isn't it?"

"Very much."

"Do it, then." She patted her shoulder. "Right here. Just… hurry!"

Alastor did not need to be told twice. With inhuman speed and strength, he seized her wrists, cuffing them above her head as he flipped her onto her stomach. Leslie's eyes widened. He kept her down with a firm hand, not messing around.

Alastor shifted, creating some wiggle room, just enough to drag her pelvis back, into position, and allow his re-entry. It was easier this time, at least from his standpoint; Leslie had to stay balanced on the balls of her feet, ass in the air like a sprinter on her mark. The different angle seemed to do it for Alastor, and his breath quickened.

Then, Leslie saw him silhouetted against the ground, monstrous, his antlers stretched out like sharp tree branches. There came a horrible noise, of an attic door being flung open, and Alastor, the warped, shrieking wendigo, lunged forward. His teeth snapped shut, piercing her right shoulder like a bear trap.

Leslie screamed, more from terror than pain. Some scared critter made a splash in the water nearby. Alastor's demon form erupted into muffled laughter. A stream of blood and saliva trickled towards her head, meeting new rivulets of sweat at the nape of her neck. You're fine, Leslie told herself through tears. You're fine, you're fine, just hang on. She tried to breathe through the pain at both ends. Her heart pounded, the blood spurted in unison, and he was still fucking her, one hand on her belly, the other hooked onto her collarbone. Leslie knew he'd finished when he gave a shout that rang in the night air.

Her insides stung.

Carefully, Alastor opened his jaws, freeing her shoulder. It was mostly puncture wounds, though he did take a singular strip of flesh, nipping it off at the end, and Leslie dug her nails into the wood. The sound of chewing next to her ear made her retch, but nothing came up, and she spat on the ground. It formed a long, viscid strand, dangling from her dry mouth.

Alastor's head fell between her shoulders, and his tongue swirled lazily, tasting her blood. The side of his face felt slack. Perhaps pleasure and exhaustion had taken away his smile.

They stayed that way for maybe half a minute.

"Thank you," he breathed.

The adrenaline was wearing off. "It hurts," she whimpered.

"I know, darling. I'll fix it." Now she felt the apple of his cheek; the smile was back.

While he regained his own energy, still inside her, Leslie's hand went to her clit, circling round and round. She was absurdly trying to wring some masochistic enjoyment from this situation with the flesh wound. Without warning, Alastor pulled out.

"Jesus fuck. Oww."

He leaned away for a second, fumbling in the pocket of his jacket (surely crumpled and muddied beyond repair). Then he gave her a handkerchief, offering it to the hand that was between her legs.

"Here."

"Thanks."

Alastor's healing hands rested on her torn shoulder, making her hiss. Leslie figured she looked ridiculous, kneeling there, covered in sweat and gore as she dabbed at the fluids leaking out of her. But the bite wound grew numb, sealing and reforming like nothing had happened. Alastor was so careful now; there was no trace of the hitherto stuff of nightmares. "Are you sore anywhere else?" he asked.

Leslie let out the breath she'd been holding. "What do you care?"

"I was going to fix you."

"Leave it," she said, "be a nice reminder tomorrow." Why wasn't she furious? She had every right to be. No fire left, she realized: Leslie was all burned up. She fell onto her back again with a grunt, tucking the handkerchief in her pocket. The stars shone above. More critters from the bayou made themselves known, and when she looked at Alastor, his mouth and jaw were smeared with her blood.