Day Six: When Was the Last Time You Had Sex with Somebody Other Than the Beast?

It was nearly half a year ago now. Hunters rarely find companionship. Our lives are brutal, short, and often lead to the death of those we care for. It is easiest to remove oneself from the madness of love and focus on the purpose. Of course, that is the pretty lie we are told. Our bodies are weapons, finely honed, and meant for movement, pain, and they hunger as much as any monster does.

When two hunters mate, they do so with minimal speaking. There is no need for the rhetoric of common courtship. There is a need and there is a solution. She was not like the beast. She was softer, younger than I, and with the doe-eyed expression of inexperience. She did not know how to handle the hunger, only that she had it. It had been too long since her last kill and the fire burned in her veins.

We fucked on her mattress. It smelled like her shampoo and sweat and blood. There was no longer a bed frame after we had finished. She had screamed, cried out, dug gouges in my flesh with her nails. We both had bruises. Bite marks. The odd weapon wound. Sweat clung to our bodies after. I laid there, listening to her panting and almost admiring the glazed look in her visage.

Her eyes met mine and she smiled at me. It was with the blush of youth and tenderness. There was an instant discomfort in my instinct and I stood to leave. Her thin fingers clung to my wrist. She was terribly alone. Wouldn't I stay? My eyes must have betrayed my disgust at her need, for she withdrew without a need for me to speak to her.

Six months ago. I grimace to think of it now. For she died shortly after. Too young, too trusting. Our kind never does well with sweetness.

Day Five: What Does the Beast Provide You With, Apart From Sex? What Need of Yours Does It Fulfill?

War is coming. It isn't an expression and I am not just tossing out words. War is coming. The power of the darkness grow ever worse. It collides and confounds and destroys my brotherhood. I have not yet found a purpose to its movements. Yet I am certain it moves with a confidence and direction towards greater calamity.

Already the great museum has sunken into the earth. The papers say naught of its death, only that it has happened and to unknown causes. An entire museum. Three hundred and sixty-eight souls gone to another plane. I could not save them. I did not know.

But the Beast would know. It smells a change, it senses it. When the maddening darkness is about to erupt, it stirs. The darkness calls to it. And so, it is a weapon. It is a bird in a mine about to collapse, banging useless wings against tarnished cage.

When the war comes, it will be the titan I unleash against the darkness. Fire with fire. Pain with pain.

Day Four: What's the Most Dangerous Part of Having Sex With the Beast?

The body that was discovered when I first found the Beast was a clue to the true design of the Beast's nature. The Beast, as it were, was dying. It laid upon the ground, a slowly dissolving vessel of madness. The great chains that once held it in place clung to a husk. Blackness and malaise slithered out of it, running along slowly loping cement towards the drain.

But the body? The body was changing. The thick ichor of the Beast's body hugged the man's skin, infested the putrefying intestines and set them to rights. His body did not smell so much as death as it did of acid. I didn't dare to touch the body. I waited until I was certain. It would become the Beast. Even as strange insects carried away the last of the Beast's filth and the body breathed life into itself, I couldn't bring myself to end it.

The nudity had been a clue. I should have known. I think I did know. I think I whispered it within my mind. There was a price to this Beast. Becoming.

Even now as the Beast fills me, be it with languid tongue or rigid cock, I can feel that precipice of madness edge closer. Nails and teeth dig into my flesh, leaving blood in its wake. The Beast has not killed me. Nor would it. It would infect me. A claw too deep or a tooth too eager and I would not be dead, for death becomes the Beast.

The cement is rough on the skin, leaving burns and scratches as it pulses inside of me. The black eyes meet mine, no glimpse of human in either of us, and I know my future is certain. It will make me the next Beast. Less I kill it first. But I cannot.

I cannot.

Day Three: In What Way--And How Often--Does the Beast Show Affection?

Murder is in its nature. Perhaps not murder, but slaughter. We are akin in this and yet I would never admit it. Hunters are hardened to their purpose, removed from the outside by trauma and blood. Much in the same way I would assume medical staff or soldiers are. They've seen too much. They will never be the same.

The Beast has slaughter in its eyes. There's a glint there, murderous with a hint of chaos on the edge, that hungers for me in ways I couldn't fully understand. Even when it's within me, blood and sweat across its fur and my skin, I cannot understand. Perhaps it's the blood. It burns on my skin, slightly acidic.

Its affection is slow and methodical as its tongue traces my nakedness. Wounds close, knitting themselves together with terrifying speed. The licking is slow. It lingers over moisture, ensuring to clean it fully. Between its great legs, or paws, I lay, panting at first and then slowly breathing as its cleans me. After every time I visit, it rips me apart and puts me back together again.

Long, strong licks of the softened yet strong muscle that is its tongue. Were I to kill it tomorrow or it were to consume me, I would always remember the lingering tongue. Too long and with strange movements I had never seen before. It tasted of sweet memories and the promise of pain.

Day Two: Who Had Sex With the Beast Before You?

There is always one who comes before. The river that becomes a stream. The sapling which becomes a forest. The dream that becomes ambition. We are all of us an after. There will be another after me, perhaps, if I let it linger and tarry too long.

The one who came before let it tarry too long. He slipped back and forth into the miasma of hunger that the Beast gives. I only know him by the body I found. It was his disappearance that lead me to the Beast. There were ashes where his journal had once been. Dark inked stained the pages, illegible now that the fire had carried secrets to his grave.

It was his chains I found and his elaborate traps about the old warehouse that made me wonder what one such as myself would keep here. It is not so uncommon for our kind to keep the darkest of things in binds. War is inevitable. And death comes easier to or enemies when we can draw the madness from their own kind and wield it against them.

This is what I thought the Beast was. A weapon to forge. The man who found the Beast's foible was in the second floor of the warehouse, beside a modern spray painted gang symbol. Their guns pointed East, guiding my gaze to the body.

I've seen too many bodies to let them disturb me. The glimpse into my future before I knew it would be mine was unnerving. Death had come with screams of anguish. The smell of perforated intestines penetrated the air. Another hunter gone.

Day one: The Beastionnaire

I have sex with the beast. It's a secret.

It's smell reminds of wet soil and musk.

It feels rough and hairy to the touch.

I hide it in an old warehouse.

I'm attracted and aroused by the beast's wildness.

I'm repulsed by the beast's need for destruction.

I think the beast is a he, but I don't know.