Chapter Text
By the somber toll of midnight, the Hunter ascends the creaking ladder and wanders over to the window beside the previously locked gate. The warm glow of a lantern, that once beckoned the Hunter to have an audience with a kind stranger, is snuffed out and broken into shards on the ground. Before, the Hunter might have listened to the gentle voice of a man beyond the windowpane and welcomed the reassuring guidance in a world the Hunter had only just woken up in.
But the night has been long, and the Hunter has visited this familiar window many times. Often enough to no longer require the counsel that each conversation brings, and often enough to recognize when the voice of the sickly man on the other side is replaced by another.
The man, who suffered through coughing fits just to speak with the Hunter, has already ceased to respond to the Hunter's desperate calls. For a while, the Hunter would leave small gifts on the pane and whisper comforting words against the translucent glass. But now, the Hunter crushes each one underneath bloodstained boots and slams a fist against the window as if to break in and drag that cruel impostor outside.
In the house that once sheltered a dear friend named Gilbert, the silhouette of a malformed darkness greets the Hunter instead. Shadows of its obscure form weave across the glass like quivering tentacles, morphing and reshaping, until they settle into the form of two large hands pressed against the window. The Hunter stills at the sight of blurry palms, and winces in anguish as a voice lacking all tenderness and care speaks out into the night.
"Oh, Hunter, have you come to save me? Heh heh heh heh… certainty, that must be the case. What a joy it is, having you here again. I've been feeling rather strange these days, but now that I see you… I might wish for a bit of company and a fine chat."
This mysterious voice sounds like Gilbert, yet the one speaking cannot possibly be the same charming man. Such a disingenuous tone amidst mirthless laughter is not like the Gilbert of hours passed, but somehow the Hunter becomes tame and calms for the sake of hearing more of those shameless lies.
The real Gilbert is gone. Slain by the Hunter's deathly Saw Cleaver after an unforeseen Beast Patient, with hauntingly familiar eyes, struck without warning when ascending the rusted ladder. Only after wrangling with its snapping maw and swiping claws did the Hunter come to realize the great misfortune that had befallen the sickly man.
The widespread affliction had transformed Gilbert, stricken him with pain and a beastly brain, and the Hunter was Death arriving with the scythe to vanquish his soul.
Drenched in Gilbert's lifeblood, the Hunter cradled the serrated mass of flesh and bone the man had become while wailing with such irrepressible misery. A Hunter must hunt, even if the one to be hunted is a beloved friend. There are no exceptions to the task, and the Hunter could do no more than bury Gilbert somewhere nearby and move on.
However, simply "moving on" was far too difficult for the Hunter. After hours had gone by, the Hunter came back to sweep up the broken glass beneath the window and to scrub away the remaining blood. The Hunter never touched anything else, in hopes of preserving what lingered as a memory.
But as the night carried on, the Hunter left… only to return again… to notice that something had changed.
Someone else conducted the repairs on the window, and someone else took liberties of their own to dwell within Gilbert's abode. This spectral figure never coughed or provided advice, yet still claimed to be unwell while chatting with the Hunter like a long-lost friend.
The Hunter hated this impostor without forgiveness at first, and cursed warnings for them to leave over and over. But the voice learnt to whimper in Gilbert's sweet voice, and the Hunter had to apologize before bidding farewell. In the end, the Hunter would ultimately return to that wretched impostor. Sometimes aggressive and other times restrained, but without fail the Hunter would demand to hear that voice and the falsehood that it brings.
Like this, Gilbert is alive and the Hunter can believe that terrible act of bloodshed never happened. As long as there is this window to separate them, this barrier to keep the Hunter from seeing the true form of that vile creature on the other side, then the Hunter can continue to dream that Gilbert is not buried and gone.
The Hunter can believe that what happens next is purely an admission of love, and surely nothing wicked or perverse.
-
"....Hunter, you are quiet as usual. Have you brought my medicine this time as well? I do not wish to burden you with my condition, but I am grateful that you do not think ill of me for relying upon you." The fake Gilbert smiles through the clouded glass, and lowers their hands to the hooks and latches keeping the window tightly sealed. "Do you mind applying it for me… like before?"
The Hunter nods in agreement, before reaching into a coat pocket to retrieve a vial with a clear solution stored inside. As the Hunter removes the lid to moisten gloved fingertips with the solution, the window cracks open to waist height until a round derrière appears within the space of the frame. The figure's pasty cheeks are arched in a position that conveys to the Hunter that this Gilbert is probably bent over, maybe clinging to the back of his chair or resting his palms on his knees.
"I am ready, so… if you would, Hunter?" Gilbert speaks casually, but the Hunter hears encouragement in his voice. "...do be gentle this time."
This bizarre exchange has happened more than once. During one of the Hunter’s routine visits, a request was made for a steadier hand to insert a suppository that this fake Gilbert claimed he could not administer on his own. Apparently, a traveler had come to his window and offered him a peculiar drug to help ease the worsening affliction he frequently suffered.
Gilbert asked the Hunter to push it inside of him with obvious desperation, and later tasked the Hunter with finding that traveler again to trade for more. But everything is mere pretense to the Hunter, because the only thing that was inserted in this impostor's ass during that occasion is the same hard object throbbing to be put inside of him now.
So, after chucking the vial without a care, the Hunter ditches the restrictions of pants and underwear to protect his gear from becoming dirty. A diligent hand smears the clear solution up and down the length of the stiffening erection twitching to life at the offering before him, while the other reaches out to grope those firm buns.
Since the starting glimpse of the Hunter’s Dream, from the moment his gloved hands learnt the weight of a Saw Cleaver, the Hunter has always been rough and short-spoken. For there were no opportunities for him to develop better habits, especially when dealing with the mobs of Huntsmen, Rabid Dogs, and so on.
The Hunter could never linger by the warmth of Gilbert's lantern for too long, he could never chatter away for long hours into the night with the only person willing to pay him any mind, or even squander a moment to explain the pang of emotion welling up inside of him as he thought of the sickly man he would love to know more intimately. The real Gilbert gave him a reason to keep searching for answers, to keep wrestling the smoking guns, to keep extinguishing the flames, to keep dodging bricks or bloodied spears for a chance of meeting again.
But, in the end, his efforts were for naught.
The long-lost Gilbert, who deserved proper loving care and a cure for this wretched affliction, vanished before the Hunter could find the time to utter the words to speak his true feelings. Instead, this impostor lingers to mock whatever he might have said and proves they are undeserving of any kindness or affection. In spite of this, and shamefully so, the Hunter is so desperate for what was lost that even an invitation from a fake is better than nothing at all.
If this voice that sounds so much like Gilbert keeps calling, then surely the Hunter can go on believing…
-
"Save me… please, save me, Hunter…"
The Hunter curses in evident torment upon hearing the pretentious begging, but still finds himself possessed with a need to satisfy that sweet and gentle voice. Such temptation makes the Hunter's mind go blank with reasoning, and he simply gives in to the desire of inserting the "medicine" this impostor craves so badly.
There are no heartfelt words, no overdo confessions, no tender touches, or virgin caresses. Everything moves at a harsh and unforgiving pace, with only hollow pleasure to ease the Hunter's weary soul. Through that crack in the window, by the light of Gilbert's once extinguished lantern, the Hunter spreads those pale cheeks wide and thrusts every inch inside while savoring the choked scream driven out from this impostor's lips.
If there is one thing the Hunter has learnt throughout the long Hunt, it's that 'there is more than one way to slay a Beast.' And the Hunter barely pauses before sliding out of that throbbing heat devouring him so greedily and plunging back inside with another punishing thrust. He keeps working that shameless liar into a frenzy with agonizing thrusts meant to bruise instead of offer pleasure.
"Yes, just like so...heal me from this dreadful affliction…keep going deeper…"
The Hunter rolls his eyes at the unbelievable rambles mingling with gasps and moans far too self-pleased to whimper or whine like he sometimes wishes they would. But there is no remorse to this stranger, no concept of pain for one who seems so addicted to this game of deceit, and the Hunter can only suffer the bane of such undeniable torture alone.
Eventually, the Hunter slams his fist against the glass of the window and hisses demands he would never ask of the real Gilbert. "Do it yourself, push it in yourself." He doesn't care anymore. If he is going to be used again, then why not make this fake bastard work for it?
"Mm, oh Hunter...what have I done? Are you angry?" This Gilbert cares nothing for the Hunter's mood, yet seems rather curious since the Hunter usually remains untalkative. Still, there is little delay in the movement of those hips as they shift to make up for the broken rhythm.
This continues, even as the Hunter seethes while banging on the glass and screaming Gilbert's name. That unceasing friction ties them together and keeps the Hunter throbbing for the sweet torture to never come to an end. He clings to the maddening sensation of that impostor sliding back and forth on his dick, and squeezes his eyes shut as the voice he loves so much whispers nonsense to him again.
"Save me, Hunter...save me...please, give it to me…"
Always the same wretched begging, which is bound to get on the Hunter's nerves and make him downright bloodthirsty. He feels his mind shattering to pieces, yet obliges that sinful voice beckoning him from the shadows and begins jerking his hips forward in sheer desperation. This awkward position, this horrible indulgence, makes the Hunter slide his nails along the glass and windowpane as he seeks out a stronger pace with that tight hole riding out its pleasure on the other side.
Why did it have to be like this?
Why wasn't the blood-healing enough to save him?
Why did Gilbert have to be one of the Beasts to be slain?
Why?
Why is being a Hunter such a fucking curse…?!
-
Like an unruly infant, the Hunter squalls into the night and embraces the sheer agony driving him insane. He pounds all his aggression into an imposter who will never truly satisfy him, and silently wonders if dear Gilbert will ever forgive him for the vile acts he has committed.
In forlorn defeat, the Hunter gazes at the dancing shadows through the misty glass and shudders as he cums with a pitiful groan. A hollow feeling grips at something barely beating inside of him, and makes him say the words he knows are truly meaningless.
"...G-Gilbert...will you leave this time?"
There is no response, as the Hunter expects. Only the harsh panting of a devilish impostor who is truly satisfied with the results of the Hunter’s inner turmoil and pent-up desires. Then, as if to mock him, the fiend curls a fist and extends an arm behind itself to rasp a few rhythmic knocks against the other side of the glass.
Like a lonesome puppy, the Hunter mimics the gesture and begs again. "Answer me! If I return, will you still be here?" But again, the responding words do not come.
Eventually the warm pleasure surrounding his used cock retreats, as this damned fake draws away from his desperate reach to leave the crack between the window painfully empty. In place of the dripping hole he thoroughly abused in a tryst of madness, the Hunter finds a gift being coaxed forward for his quivering eyes to see.
The simple item is a letter, sealed and branded with no name, from a hand concealed in woven bandages. After a long moment of hesitation, the Hunter takes what is being offered and stops asking to hear anything more from this fake Gilbert as the barrier of glass between them slides close.
Exploited and disregarded, drawn back into a ceaseless Hunt of aimlessly wandering for reasoned answers, the Hunter ventures away from Gilbert's home when the voice beyond the windowpane ignores him for a second time. He treats the letter with care, as if the written script nestled within might be genuine and heartfelt instead of the incessant prattle of a madman that drives him insane.
Miserable and longing for a friend, the Hunter shies away from the haunting glow of lantern light to brood in the depths of the Yharnam sewers. Amongst putrefied husks, deranged Huntsman, and savage fiends, the familiar paths the Hunter has traversed numerous times become a trail of crimson and blood-curdling screams once again. This continues until the streets are made silent, everything careening to an absolute pause, as anything that might become the Hunter's prey cowers in fear to hide in the deepest of darkness.
Only then did the Hunter stop to lower the Saw Cleaver in hand to huff and puff on every breath, as all the rage and frustration finally weighs the Hunter down. How many times has he done this? How many times has he told himself not to visit that liar? Yet he always does!
He hates indulging in such deceitful behavior, hates tarnishing Gilbert's memory with carnal desire, and hates staring into the reflection of this pathetic individual he has become while thrusting into an ass that actually makes him feel better about the dreadful person he has become.
What's more, there is something rather satisfying about having his feelings defiled by a rotten fake instead of having to own up to the coping methods he has catered to in the prior hours. At least, with things as they are now, the Hunter can retain an air of sanity as long as that impostor continues to linger around.
After all…
He is not a Saint, he is nothing but an accursed Hunter of Beasts, and most would view him as worse than the hellish atrocities out there. As a Hunter, as a blood-soaked killing machine, he is the one next on the chopping block to be disposed of. For he has seen the looks of the residents before their window grew dark and their lanterns burnt out; he has seen the panicked fear in their eyes as they hurry away to double-check the bolts and locks on their doors to keep him caged outside.
They see what the Hunter is, they know the unspeakable acts he has committed.
They know, THEY ALL KNOW!
And when the Hunt is complete, when there are no more Beasts needing to be slain, the next ones to be butchered and cursed for their vile existence…will be the Hunters. For even if they do not speak, even if their houses seem vacant, the residents of Yharnam will surely occupy this town again.
They'll come to stake their claim on what remains, they'll purge their sins in another bout of flames, and begin anew. They'll become the deranged and hysterical mobs determined to hang Hunters on crosses, instead of the malformed Beasts hanging from them now. They'll become the echoes in Yharnam streets, the ones carrying torches and pitchforks to burn their saviors at the stake.
And the Hunter will hear the clamoring of their souls, the truths they dare not speak as they chatter away into the wee hours of night while sipping their wine. The shouts of their voices as they point the finger at the Hunter and announce the words he has heard millions of times before.
MONSTER!
run away.
VILE BEAST!
get back.
Over and over their curses have filled the Hunter's ears, throughout the lonesome night their screams have reminded him of the absolute filth that they see him as, and he hears them now in the quiet sewers as the adrenaline pumps through his veins with every desperate breath that he takes. He listens to the hatred in their voices and finds a sense of comfort in the midst of their spite. Perhaps this is why he returns to Yharnam, this is why he taps on the window of the man he has brutally murdered, because here the ghosts will never forgive him. Here, they will always remind him of how wretched a creature he truly is.
Because a Hunter deserves no forgiveness, and shall not ask for it.
Still, even though the Hunter understands these things very well, he is a glutton for relentless punishment. In a miserable state, the Hunter manages to trudge through the blood and grime to drag his frustrations to the gated doors leading to the Tomb of Oedon. Beyond the barrier set ajar for all those who seek to kneel before the graves, the Hunter pulls his weary bones to a mound of soil in a corner more secluded than the rest.
The burial spot has no distinct marker or chiseled engraving, and there is nothing out of the ordinary about this particular mound except for an old Flamesprayer set nearby with two lilies placed in front of it.
In Yharnam, only humans have the explicit right to be memorialized and buried in the ground. Their pets are treated much like the roaming Beasts, and are either burned to ash or left to rot where no one can be bothered by the smell of them. But the Hunter is a Foreigner, a bloody fool married to his grief, and for that matter…when he struck down the Beast that Gilbert had become…he dug up the soil to bury him here.
He has returned the kindness previously given to him, which he no longer deserves, and positioned the offerings beside the mound with care. In this forsaken graveyard, no one will disturb his dear friend and no harm will come to his body in the future. Like this, Gilbert can be free of the sickening affliction and thrive without excruciating pain…even if his form is mangled and coated in fur beneath the overturned earth. Or so the Hunter would continue to believe, if the impostor never came to the window to call out to him in that familiar voice.
Now, to the Hunter's eyes, this grave seems misplaced and unnecessary somehow. He begins to wonder if perhaps he has gone mad and lowered the coffin for some disembodied pet instead of for the human that constantly guided him with helpful advice. If he truly allows himself to cling to all the lies, then Gilbert isn't dead.
There is a Gilbert out there waiting for him, if he bothers to open the letter stashed in his inventory. If he ignores this mound of soil, if he keeps washing the blood from his hands, then maybe someday he will truly become a Good Hunter to those who will finally pay him some form of mind. In time, would they even stop calling him a Beast?
Would they forgive him for cutting down Man and Beast with the same steady hand?
Surely, they could forgive him for an accident or two, or hundreds and thousands of messy mistakes, if he simply brought an end to all this madness.
If he… slaughtered everyone?
Yes, maybe that is the real solution to everything? Maybe he has been going about things in the wrong way this entire time?
If he had paid more attention, if he had slaughtered these dastardly fiends much faster, instead of heeding each blubbering wail for help. Then wouldn't he have found the answer by now and saved Gilbert from this awful fate?
If he had killed the man in the window at their first meeting, then would he still be feeling like this?
Should he kill him now? Put an end to this impostor, this fake Gilbert, that brings such turmoil to his warring heart?
Look how wretched and weak he has become since falling for that man's voice, since stumbling into that creature's intoxicating ensnare of pleasurable indulgence. And now! He can only rely upon this twisted relationship, that churns him up inside, to stop himself from going completely insane.
For that's it, he is falling apart at the seams. His mind is trapped in the midst of such unorthodox and immoral solutions to the plague of madness wrangling with his soul. Only more of this sinful poison, only a stronger dose of punishment, will spare him from this accursed reality. He must suffer for wielding death as his only miracle cure for saving those affected by the scourge of beasts; he must drown in this toxic manner of things because…only then can he go on lying about what truly happened to Gilbert.
Like this, the Hunter can romanticize the act of a Hunter caught by surprise and simply doing what a Hunter must do. Instead of addressing what really happened after ascending the ladder. He can punish himself for not knowing Gilbert had changed into a Beast Patient, when in truth…a Hunter is never so naïve.
No, never that.
But now, he is free from confessions and self-reflection, because this fake should be enough to keep him from crouching in graveyards. If he never gazes upon this mound of dirt again, then maybe…he will be cured. He needs this hateful madness to cease this horrendous act of sullying this grave.
This new Gilbert will guide him once again…
…and save him from these dreadful habits of hours passed.
Many hours earlier, lost in a state of miserable longing, the Hunter stood in front of Gilbert's grave with quivering eyes. Various times, since digging the soil and burying the corpse, the Hunter had come here to mourn and replace the two lilies before they would wither away. Each visit was the same as the last, with him bathed in splatters of cascading blood and guts from the severed prey eaten up by the Saw Cleaver's serrated blade, as he strolled back from regions near and far of Yharnam.
The relentless Hunt had been long and demanding, but the Hunter made time to travel to this specific grave after godheads and hosts were slain──one after the other. He would kneel to the earth, looking filthy and wretched, and utter the most dastardly things.
"I have returned, Gilbert." The Hunter would begin nonchalantly at first, in the same wearisome tone that a husband might use after strenuous hours spent at work.
An uncharacteristic smile would disturb the typical listless expression he wore on most occasions, remaining so, even as he stooped down to kiss the mound and pat the soil. The Hunter would remain there, positioned nearly as low as the parasites that scurried across the ground, and shift his head just enough to adjust his body to lay down upon the grave.
Moistened dirt and stone, softened by the damp blood and oozing chunks of severed flesh clinging to his customary garb, would cushion his weight. And for a time, amidst the foul stench of death and decay, the Hunter would simply lounge there to whisper tales of his perilous journey. Sharing his story for the silent corpse six feet under him to hear.
For a period of time the Hunter would do nothing more than this, while seeming so calm and in the right state of mind. His smooth voice would speak of lecture halls with slimy students, barren terrain with bell-ringing witches, twinkling caves with ambushing invaders, and cerebral entities swiping at him with enormous hands. In meticulous detail the Hunter would recount these happenings, and continue to stroke the soil in a doting gesture far too obsessive for even the most attentive of caretakers.
However, like the previous visits, the smile would gradually fade from his face and the mood would change as those thin lips would morph into a frown. With a pause, the Hunter would abandon his tales to mutter to lifeless Gilbert again. "Why won't you answer me? Are my words too boring, have I failed to earn your attention? Gilbert, I am not the silent man I was before…I can talk to you and have a conversation. I won't go away without a word, I won't return only when I need something from you. Can you believe it took me this long to understand how important it is for us to chat with equal participation? I always listened to you…I really did…but it wasn't enough. So I came to give you all my unspoken stories, and what I've been dealing with all this time. I want to talk to you properly, like I never could have before. Will you respond to me this time? Will you give me another chance, Gilbert? I'm really not that bad…I'm really…not."
Somber and sincere, the Hunter would do his best to address his mistakes and call out for a second chance. But the desolate tomb was not one to respond, and the silence always made him feel like the skeletons were pointing their accusing fingers at him. Dead men judged and condemned him, and the Hunter became agitated to the verge of pulling out strands of his hair or biting his nails till they bled from the savage attention.
"I'm not so bad." The Hunter would repeat again. "I'm not one of those deranged men. So, speak to me, Gilbert. I want to start over, and save you from that terrible sickness that kept you locked up inside. I want to hear your voice outside, and not on the other side of a window. Gilbert, I was wrong…wrong to leave you alone…but I'm here…I'm here! So stop making me repeat myself! Stop ignoring me! Get the fuck up and breathe! I barely touched you, I barely nicked you with my blade. How dare you lie here and blame me for your inability to keep your intestines on the inside? Why did you bleed and beg, while acting like a monster? How could I spare you if you acted this way? How could I not slay you as just another wretched Beast when you resist and give me no other choice but to see you as one? How could you do this to me?! How could you deny me what we both wanted?"
Frustrated and slipping into a frenzy, the Hunter would demand answers to these bizarre questions while switching his tone to a harsh and ruthless growl. As the ghosts would knock on their coffins and incriminate him from their graves, the Hunter would shout and argue for himself while pleading to lifeless Gilbert to reconsider what they could have had if the man had simply chosen to be with a "Good Hunter" like him.
Things would have been very different if Gilbert had agreed to leave his residence sooner, instead of ignoring the Hunter's pleas for the sake of hiding behind windows and bolted doors. If Gilbert had just obeyed him, instead of screaming and whimpering through his dreadful coughing, then the Hunter wouldn't have had to break the window to drag him out.
But Gilbert made him look like an absolute fool; he treated the Hunter like any other madman when his frequent visits became constant banging on the glass and shouts to come outside. He acted like the Hunter wasn't good enough for his company anymore, and acted like he couldn't understand why the Hunter kept asking to touch him. And the Hunter didn't understand what was wrong with wanting to touch Gilbert, or why such a sweet voice would become cold and fearful towards him.
The Hunter couldn't understand this behavior at all, yet still tried to entice Gilbert with his upstanding intentions. He returned one evening, and called out to regain positive favor while mouthing such a harmless white lie. "Gilbert, I found the cure! Did you wait for me? I'll give it to you, just open up. Let me see you, I'll take you somewhere safe. Gilbert! It's not too late, there's still time if you come with me. Hey! Don’t make me break the window, don't shut me outside! Come on, Gilbert, I can save you! I can save you! I can definitely save you! Gilbert…please, just talk to me. Just say something! Don't treat me like the rest!!"
But Gilbert gave him no response. The man cowered in his residence, coughing and praying in a corner, hoping for the Hunter to leave him be. Treating him just as coldly as the chattering bastards and harlots who burdened his shoulders with their sins, while mocking and berating him.
He had thought that Gilbert was different, but in that moment of being cruelly ignored…the Hunter's mind snapped. His sanguine eyes ignited with rage and a lust for blood as everything else faded to darkness.
When he had finally calmed down, the window was shattered to pieces and something mangled and grotesque soaked the stone pavement in front of his boots. His Saw Cleaver dripped beads of crimson like the majority of his clothing and gear, but the Hunter hadn't paid attention to these things. He only stared at the naked, half-turned Beast that really didn't look like anything more than chunks of flesh.
He stared, and stared, because even if his mind was slow to recall what happened…the Hunter knew what he had done. He knew what horrific things he had done to dear sweet Gilbert, and in an instance he made the decision to scoop up the remains and bury them along with his shame. He could never allow anyone to find out the truth, and left pieces of evidence behind to suggest that a Beast was merely slain by a "Good Hunter" nearby.
No one needed to find out about what really happened, and these days who would really care about a sickly man bound to die anyway?
Yharnam wouldn't care.
The Hunter could lie him in a grave and carry-on as usual.
He could hunt Beasts and think nothing more about Gilbert.
However, something would always draw him back to the ladder to ascend those creaking footfalls to the broken window. He would venture there as often as before, and cry out for Gilbert to hear him. Nonstop, for almost hours at a time, until eventually…something mimicked Gilbert's voice and gave him a response.
Something gave back what he had lost, and saved him from lusting after a corpse in the graveyard.
Thanks to that crude impostor, the Hunter could stop laying in the Tomb of Oedon with his lovesick feelings. With an eager hole to fill, there were no more fantasies to envision what things would have been like if Gilbert had only accepted his lies and allowed him to take him away from all this madness.
If Gilbert had just stopped shunning him like those pigs of Yharnam, and agreed to be associated with a Hunter like him - instead of becoming scared and whiny - then things wouldn't have ended in death.
He wouldn't have had to sate his desires in other ways…
-
Nestled atop Gilbert's burial mound, the Hunter would feel his body gradually begin to tremble with a desperate yearning for the man buried beneath him in the ground. He would whimper for that lifeless corpse to embrace his tarnished soul and fucked up brain, to forgive him for what twisted acts he committed while enraged that evening when the window broke.
While sobbing like he would ever change a single moment of what happened, the Hunter would beg for Gilbert to understand. Beg, with all his might, for this lifeless corpse to accept that what he does and how he touches himself is purely out of a genuine love for him.
He would swear this, and mean it too, even as he maneuvered his hips to start grinding his clothed erection against that mound of earth with the same frenzied expression he wore when drunk off of a satisfying kill.
Every visit, when he would stop wailing and conflicting with ghosts, things would eventually end up like this. With him groaning into the dirt, his eyes tightly closed, as he rocked his arousal into the soil while dreaming of something softer and more fleshly wrapped around his entire length.
He would cling to the soil, jerking his hips with no particular rhythm, as he visualized Gilbert's tight ass. His fingers would curve into the grunge and filth, massaging the smooth texture, as his mind dreamt of the distinct shape and intoxicating caress of each supple buttcheek.
More and more, the Hunter would crave to touch Gilbert's sickly body. To pin those limbs, weakened and slender, in his grasp as he ravaged that hopeless man's tight hole to the delicious rhythm of each hoarse and aching moan. He would surely make that man response to him then, and whimper for him to be rougher or fuck him harder.
He would make him bleed from how viciously he would ram him into the ground while stirring him up inside with each brutal plunge. Over and over, slamming into Gilbert's quivering hole, as he marked him with his teeth and devoured his flesh like a succulent meal created strictly for him.
He would bruise him, and work him into a frenzy, as he kept slapping their naked skin together with each dive of his hips. And Gilbert would glisten against his body, fitting perfectly into his ensnare, as he cried out for the pleasure only he could give him.
These thoughts would make the Hunter groan and reach for the buttons and zippers keeping his throbbing erection contained. He would free his member, and grasp the length in a glove sullied with blood and beastly entrails without a care for the mess. He would curve against the mound of Gilbert's grave, stroking his penis with miserable gasps as the makeshift lube failed to warm with the sloppy friction of his pumping hand.
He would keep going despite it all, moving his hips the best he could, as he touched himself and rubbed his face into the dirt to breathe in Gilbert's scent. The Hunter would hold onto this blissful feeling of ramming inside of that wonderful ass for as long as he could, while refusing to admit that he was merely masturbating like a fool in a graveyard alone.
Eventually, the Hunter would cry out to the silent ghosts before gritting his teeth to stifle the sound of his desperate release. He would shudder and milk the seed from his length onto the burial soil in thick globs of semen with a final groan.
Only then would the Hunter open his sanguine eyes to allow the tears to cascade down his cheeks and share in his shameful regret. He would lean up to gaze pitifully at the stains he had left on Gilbert's grave, while trying to look apologetic even when something inside of him felt rather satisfied.
Thinking back on it, something about those dirty acts in the graveyard made him feel sane. And though he berated himself numerous times for such unsightly behavior, he kept returning to indulge himself in sinful desire instead of in woeful prayer for sweet Gilbert.
He stopped bringing lilies after a while, and crouched with a new story to tell before ditching all pretenses completely to simply rub out his desires in Gilbert's grave.
The Hunter would have gone on like that for seemingly forever. Until hours later, he would meet an imposter in Gilbert's residence and reconsider this dreadful routine. He would receive his second chance, and return to the Tomb of Oedon to stand in front of that unmarked grave.
There, the essence of his actions would stare him in the face and give him pause to a myriad of emotions. He will smile, then frown, then cry, and finally turn his back on the real Gilbert. After a long pause, the Hunter will reach for the letter given to him by the Fake and open the folds to read what the liar has said to him.
The front will say, "Hemwick Charnel Lane."
And the back will read, "Come save me," with a shameless "♡" at the end of it.
The words themselves will mean nothing to the Hunter, but he will still hug the parchment to his chest as his tears dry up. This message is all he needs. This simple response, conveying that this fake Gilbert will stay with him a bit longer, is enough. It's more than enough, more than what he deserves.
And exactly what the Hunter needs to stop holding onto a cold, buried corpse with nothing more to say to him.