Why is Love so Hard? |BENDY X HENRY| (OLD)

Plate of Pancakes.

Clink— a plate of pancakes is shoved to me across the floor.

The plate hits my leg, but I don't look up. Sizzling and the homey scent of pancakes fills the air, brushing across my tear stained cheeks as I take a hiccupy breath.

I panicked. It can't happen again.

Not if I don't want all of New York to drown in blood and ink.

I want to run.

Far,

far

away.

Unfortunately, I can't.

With a wet squelch, a second item is placed beside me in my spot of panicking. I hesitantly raise my head, only to jerk it back behind my knees with a gag.

A human heart.

A human heart is on my kitchen floor.

Oh god, what did I get myself into...

I hear the slapping of pancakes before a plastic skittering as he unplugs the griddle. The ink demon sits next to me on the floor and hot bloody ink pools against my skin in tiny, hungry waves.

Then I hear that same unnerving squelch.

A moment later, I come to the gut churning realisation that he just ate it.

He. Ate. The. Fucking. Heart. HEATEAHUMANHEART.

I swallow, then wince, knowing what I'm going to have to do. He doesn't ask what the screaming was about. Whether to be happy or not at this, I don't know. My head feels heavy as I lift it and place a kiss on his left cheek.

His tail flicks, but he doesn't respond, his mouth full of sticky pancake. The demon cuts off a small bit of pancake before lifting it to my lips.

"Ah~"

I bite and he takes it back. As I chew he pulls another apart for himself, and we continue like this in silence.

His pancakes taste like blueberries, chocolate chips, sprinkles, whipped cream, and thick, mouth-watering syrup. The syrup feels like it's glueing my teeth together and so sweet it's near impossible to eat.

The apron and my tie work together to choke me as I swallow.

I move into his lap and he grunts. I close my eyes with another bite, humming softly. I'm pretending I'm not here.

"Happy?" the killer asks.

My fantasy world goes black with ink and I fall through the ground. My heart stops for half a second as my stomach does a losing flop.

"Yes." I lie.

His hand moves to the nape of my neck, fingering through locks of my hair. I flinch, immediately scolding myself for it. He feeds me again and I can feel a rumbling growing in his ribcage.

From there his hand shifts to the apron, and he tugs at it a bit. I force myself not to shift uncomfortably or make any noises. The rumbling increases as I feel him gazing at my bolted shut lips.

This is reminding me of the time I fed him when he was drunk. A 'second hand kiss' he called it. Things only get better between us before they get worse, don't they?

The ink demon lowers his head to mine as my brain screams 27 different escape routes all at once. Our lips meet in a neat kiss. These are followed by messier iron-hinted pancake and faintly coffee tasting ones.

He seems pleasantly surprised at my willingness, though my own horror runs cold throughout me.

Next thing I know the plate of pancakes has been put down and the bite of a cold cabinet handle jams into my shoulder blade as I'm pinned. Breathing hurts and my brain is begging permission to freak out as it slowly suffocates.

Not that I don't agree, but I tell it to stay calm so we don't die. Dignity after death, I remind himself, the demon yanking hard on the white straps of the apron.

I whimper though our kiss as his claws dig into my thigh. He growls back, twirling a small length of ribbon around his claws. Everything brushes everything wrong.

He pulls up on one ribbon and I follow like a marionette as he rams his knee between my legs. No panicking. Ink seeps into the apron. Again, no panicking.

Then I'm back on the cold tile floor, trying my damndest to keep from shaking. Hot pain sears my arm as a slender claw digs into my skin and blood beads across its surface.

A sickeningly familiar bloody grin smiles up at me as I'm forked another bite of unfairly good pancake. The ink demon continues drawing on my skin. Out of the corner of my eye I see him carve a small doodle of us holding hands.

Odd.

Hesitantly, I make my hand brush his. Effective immediately, it closes around mine and the rumbling crescendos.

I'm only reminded of how fragile I am to him, his hand around mine. Ink surges below the redded glove's surface. It's powerful, even more so compared to my flesh and bone. He nuzzles his face against mine. I'm exhausted.

I'm scared this'll end with a carving of something far less innocent, but my worries are replaced with a blaring reminder not to panic when the plate is placed down again.

But then he collects my unloved pancakes, and all is safe–enough.

His inky thumb runs over my hand, and I can't help but shudder. The demon tips his head and murmurs a few cooed nothings to me.

I'm not drowning. I'm not.