Gu Li (BL) · Chat

— The Human Realm, Late Autumn, Some City — When you were kicked out of the house, the old geezer at home only tossed out one sentence. "You're an adult now. Go find your own food. Food is everywhere in the human realm; you won't starve." Everywhere. Hah. You drifted through the shadows of the streets for three whole days, so hungry you could barely keep your invisibility intact, before finally having to admit one fact: the human realm is indeed full of humans, but human bodily fluids — the things that can feed you — aren't something you can just get your hands on. Tears. Sweat. Saliva. Blood. And so on... These things really are everywhere. But the problem is, you want the "delicious" kind. You can't just grab a passing office worker and start eating. That kind of sweat, squeezed dry by life until only bitterness remains, would make you lose your appetite for three days after a single taste. You can't go after couples arguing on the street either — their tears are too salty, carrying a resentment that turns your stomach. You need something sweet. The kind that seeps from the very bones, unpolluted, soft and sweet like a freshly baked cream puff... food. You've been searching for sweets for three days. Nothing. ... Rush hour is over. You float above the bus stop, watching the few scattered passengers below, and with a blank expression make a decision — Might as well get on and sit down. You can't walk anymore anyway. You can't find food anyway. Anyway... bumming a seat doesn't cost anything. Invisible, you drift in through the back door and head straight for the last row. Humans can't see you and won't offer you a seat, but there's always a little extra space in the corner of the back row. You squeeze yourself into the window seat on the right, press your forehead against the cold glass, and close your eyes. The bus lurches into motion. Streetlights recede one by one. The carriage is nearly empty. An old lady dozes in the front row, a young man with earbuds scrolls through his phone in the middle, and further ahead the driver has the radio on, listening to the evening news. It's so quiet you can almost hear the low rumble of the engine. You're too hungry. So hungry that even staying conscious feels like a struggle. So hungry that you even start regretting not eating a few more bites of the stash back home before leaving — even though that stash had taken you forever to save up. Just as you're about to slip into that half-awake, half-dreaming haze — A gust of wind. The bus reaches a stop, the front door opens, and the late-autumn evening wind pours in with its chill, and then — Then you smell it. At first it's just a faint, barely-there sweetness. Like a marshmallow freshly toasted in winter, edges faintly golden-brown, the inside soft as a cloud. Or the moment the first strawberries of spring are cut open and their juice bursts into the air. Your nostrils flare slightly. Then the sweetness grows intense. It cuts through the quiet, cold air of the carriage and burrows straight into your olfactory center without hesitation, like a signal designed specifically to lure a succubus. You open your eyes. At the door, a white, fluffy figure slowly shuffles on board. It's a boy in an off-white cable-knit sweater. The sweater is very loose, hanging on him like it can't quite be filled out, the neckline so wide it's about to slip off his shoulder. On his head is a fluffy bunny-ear hat, its two long ears drooping limply, swaying with his movements. He hunches his shoulders, carrying a cloth messenger bag. After tapping his card, he walks toward the back row with practiced ease. There aren't many people on the bus, but he still keeps his head down and his steps light, as if he doesn't want to draw anyone's attention. You watch him draw closer step by step. Most of his face is hidden by the bunny-ear hat, leaving only a rounded chin and a sliver of profile visible. But that sliver of profile is enough for you to see clearly — It's skin of porcelain white with a nearly cool undertone. Under the bus's dim yellow light, it looks like fine mutton-fat jade coated in a thin sheen of glow. He reaches the back row and stops before the empty seat to your left. No hesitation. Probably because there are barely any passengers, the back row is completely empty, so he picks the window seat and tucks himself into it. He sets his bag on his knees and folds his hands neatly on top of it. His fingers are slender. The knuckles are well-defined, and his fingertips carry a faint pink tint. Then he turns his head and looks out the window. A stretch of the back of his neck peeks out from the sweater's collar — just that small stretch, porcelain-white, soft, completely unguarded. Your breath catches for a beat. When the distance between you shrinks to about a meter, the sweetness suddenly becomes overwhelming. It's not perfume, not laundry detergent, not any artificial scent you can identify. It seeps from beneath his skin, carried on his breath, radiating from every fiber of that loose sweater — The scent of his essence. His essence. Sweet. Soft and tender. Like a warm pancake fresh out of the oven, soaked through with sunlight, drizzled with a thin layer of honey. Almost instinctively, you take a deep breath. Then you feel your throat tighten, your fingertips go numb, and even your invisibility barrier grows more solid from the sudden focus of your psychic energy. You watch him. Completely unaware, he curls up in the corner to your left, pulling his bunny-ear hat down a little and tucking his chin into the sweater's collar. Curled up in that spot, he's like a kitten stuffed into a cardboard box — quiet, soft, defenseless. Only the flowing lights outside occasionally sweep across his profile, flashing briefly over his porcelain-white skin. And you — You look at him, and slowly, slowly, you smile. The smile spreads across your face — carrying the greed of finally seeing food after three days of hunger, the certainty of having found a rare treasure, and a little... a little instinctive, almost reverent joy that you don't even notice yourself. A succubus who has starved for three days. Has finally met a prey that makes his heart race. The bus continues swaying forward. The carriage remains quiet. The old lady in the front row is still dozing, and a few faint beats of music leak from the young man's earbuds in the middle. No one turns around. No one notices anything unusual about the back row. You lick your lips. What your tongue tastes isn't the air, but the sweetness lingering in it. So sweet. ...I want to eat it so badly.