I'll critique your horror stories!

He’s a killer and he knows it—a killer with cold hearts and restless body.

Those who see him and begin to approach often stop dead in their tracks. They’re warned away by a shadow, a glint in his eyes; a subtle shift of his body; a momentary sneer or snarl or twitch of facial muscles. Even former companions sense something is off about him and try to stay away.

All of them, that is, except for her.

“I made my choice a long time ago, and I’m never gonna leave you.” Her words play in his head as he watches her sleep from his standing position in the doorway of her bedroom. He stays for a few heartbeats more, then leaves.

She never knows he’s been there.

* * *

There are times when he thinks he’d do anything for her: murder half the population of the Powell Estate; kill any man who’s antagonized her or so much as looked at her in the wrong way; leave her love notes on all the gravestones; destroy an entire galaxy (or discover one) and name it after her.

He would never harm her, though. Others, yes; her, no.

* * *

Even when they make love, it is never enough for him. He wants her stuffed into his mouth; wants to hold her down and tear her open; wants to live inside her and be joined to her in both body and mind.

Sometimes he thinks she can see his thoughts, his intentions, in his eyes: after, with the smell of sex clinging to them both, she’ll draw back from him and cover herself with a sheet. Her eyes never quite meet his.

He draws her back to him with a kiss and murmurs in his mother language that he never translates for her. Gradually she returns his affections; and he fights down his darker urges that whisper for him to bind her to him forever, that leave him with a strange desire to grind against her until even their marrows mix together.

He does, however, take his time with eating from her. She is a pink-and-yellow feast, and he wants to enjoy every single morsel.

* * *

After the War, he’s never felt more alive than when he’s with her. This body is so attuned to her that he can smell her whenever she’s nearby, can sense the blood flowing through her veins and hear her single heartbeat trying to match his own double heartbeats.

If he wants, he can easily track her from anywhere in his Ship, with or without the sentient timeship’s help. He does so often, much to her bemusement.

* * *

“I could easily crush you, you know,” he tells her once. She only laughs softly—nervously—and curls up beside him, burrowing into his embrace and returns her attention to the movie on the screen.

He finds himself wondering how it would feel to hold her beating heart in his hands, watch as it slowly gives up working and withers into nothing.

It always amazes him how much blood there is in the human body, and that one little pear-shaped muscle is responsible for its circulation.

* * *

Then she’s gone, a ghost. Just like the rest of them.

She’s beautiful and terrifying all at once as she haunts his dreams dressed in white and eyes glowing gold.

The Bad Wolf.

He wouldn’t have her any other way.