Chapter Text
Recently, Hafsa has been perfectly, ridiculously, miraculously happy.
Three entire months into her senior year of high school, and there has not been a single kidnapping, or murder, or devouring, not even an angry mob of animals demanding intertrophic civil wars. Her student life at her new school, Wombell’s Menagerie High, has been utterly ordinary.
Sometimes she suspects that maybe her experience at Noah’s Arc Academy had perhaps not been a reliable metric for the average high school experience. The contrast of her current reality versus her life only a year ago feels unreal; at times, she feels as though she might have hallucinated the past two years altogether, like some deranged fever dream.
But evidence of Noah’s Arc remains buried within her day-to-day, for better or for worse. For worse, she still has that damn scar on her right shoulder. Time has dulled it into a dark, desaturated maroon gash, partially concealed by new fur growth but still carves its sloppy warpath along the entire length of her clavicle. It makes wearing the strapless tops she used to love an awkward affair, and sometimes phantom pain flares up from its depths, like her muscles are being ripped out anew by invisible tiger fangs.
There were also her emotional scars, hidden from sight but far more painful than any flesh wound. She would jolt awake at least once a night, sticky with sweat, and her throat and nostrils alight with the burning, salty tang of blood from days past. Visions of her drowning in pink water, of a stiff post-mortem grin bearing down on her, of blood that is hers and not hers pooling inside her mouth, spilling out and down her white dress like a red waterfall. Of cold hotel rooms and shrink-wrapped meat.
In her panicked haze, she could seldom remember all the details of each nightmare, just one or two recurring props in her revolving theater of horrors. The only consistent element that she always, always remembered, as much as she’d like to forget, was death. Death, the dreams always involved death. Hers, or her loved ones’, or her enemies’, at her hands or through some external force, death would visit her every single night.
And every single night, she would just lie back down and fall back asleep. What else could she do? The sun would rise some hours later, and she’d wake up feeling less shaken, and remind herself that death is behind her now. She has to go to school.
She enjoys school now; truly enjoys it, beyond the sick thrill of chasing validation and playing the part of the perfect carnivore. Wombell’s lacked Noah’s Arc's pomp and grandeur, being a public school in the city rather than some elite academy cloistered atop a hill, but it’s warm, and its students friendly, and… simple. And simple is all Hafsa wants right now.
She was all too eager to abandon student politics— leave the title of student council president to some other sorry sap— and take up cheerleading again, though also renouncing the life of head cheerleader. That role now belongs to a good-tempered zebra mare named Victoria, a fellow senior.
Unlike Hafsa’s former head cheerleader policies, Victoria tries to foster genuine bonds between the females. On this particular Thursday meeting, she gathers the girls into their stretch circle and begins by posing an audacious question like always. She’d argued that they needed to warm up their sense of humor as well as their bodies, and it was a good way to get to know each other. The questions themselves were typically harmless, if not immature sometimes, so no one objected.
“So girls, have you ever tried becoming internet famous?”
A round of giggles infect the circle.
“I totally tried to be a makeup guru in middle school,” a curly-feathered emu is the first to offer her answer. “Bought the cheapo ring light from Temoo and everything. Oh my god, twelve year old me was so delusional. I was just yapping about whatever while putting on the nastiest makeup look known to animalkind. Worse than a clown’s, on god. And I thought I was eating too! Like, I forced all my friends to subscribe to my channel and stuff!”
The cheerleaders erupt into laughter.
“You have got to send us that!” A red panda titters.
“As if! I deleted all of those atrocities ages ago! They were basically blackmail material!”
“Please, I’m sure it doesn’t even compare to when I tried to start a photography blog,” A marmoset chimes in. “Filter on filter on filter. And I only took pictures of like, the same tree.”
“What, why?!”
“I dunno, I thought it was artsy!”
More laughter from the females.
“I’d ask Hafsa, but we already know she’s internet famous!” The emu grins.
The serval offers a sheepish shrug. “You should be honored an internet celebrity such as I attend these plebeian practices!”
The deflection is effective to keep the mood light and soon, she fades back into the background.
That’s another remnant of her tenure at Noah’s Arc. The rather incriminating video of her cringey graduation speech had gone viral shortly after being posted (no matter how many times she tried to report the damn thing, the Zootube admins were not swayed), showcasing her lowest moment for all the world to see. It was a rash, desperate display, fueled by the adrenaline of her decision to essentially throw her whole life away, consequences be damned, where she broke every implicit rule of carnivore etiquette. She admitted to craving meat, to imagining what it would be like to devour her classmates, to actually almost devouring her vice president. Common sense dictates that her reputation would be forever burned to cinders.
Yet shockingly, the reaction to her monologue proved to be overwhelmingly positive. Something in her words appeared to resonate with the masses. They seemed to say: “I’ve felt that too. Thank you for speaking up.” It was like both herbivores and carnivores had been waiting for someone to say something. It gave them the courage to do the same.
For Hafsa, this meant that everyone in her new school basically already knew her, or had at least heard of her, on her first day. Her reputation, though miraculously not in ashes, was different. She became subversive, counterculture, forward-thinking. She was welcomed with respect, if not a little bit of fear. It would be a lie to say it didn’t go to her head a little.
As much as she tried to embrace her new, candid self, old habits are hard to shake, especially when the habit feels so damn good. It was like the universe was finally praising her for all the bullshit she endured. In fact, it felt even better to be admired for her ugly moment of honesty compared to when people fawned over her manufactured persona.
So it’s okay if she can bask in the attention a little more, right? It’s not like it’ll last forever.
Cheerleading practice carried on with its usual giddiness. It’s become even more enjoyable for the serval as a regular member of the team, spared from the stress of coordinating routines and instructing usually placed on the head cheerleader. It must be even worse here, considering Wombell’s doesn’t have enough coaches to pass around, meaning the cheerleaders are on their own. Hafsa can only thank Victoria for taking one for the team.
After two hours of cupies and spin lifts, the zebra finally dismisses the squad.
“Solid work today, ladies!” She brays, still catching her breath. “Off to the lockers with ye harlots!”
“Join us, o head harlot!” The marmoset snarks.
Hafsa joins the others in their laughter. She likes these girls, she decides. They’re funny, and sweet, and easier to talk to than her previous squad. Or maybe it’s just Hafsa that has changed. She’d like to make friends—real friends, not just accessories— with other females this time around. Maybe she can start with her teammates.
She’s proposing a half-baked hangout session by the time they’ve toweled off and trickle out of the locker room, when Victoria suddenly interrupts with a low whistle.
“I’m down for whatever, but shouldn’t you run it by your boy toy first?” The zebra gestures her chin, pointing to a figure stationed down the hall.
As if on cue, the gaggle of females lets out scandalized ‘ooh’s as if this were somehow news to them. The serval can only roll her eyes, both at their hammy reactions and at the use of ‘boy toy’, which Victoria seemed inexplicably fond of.
Regardless, her mock annoyance fades the instant they approach the four-horned figure, who straightens up and locks eyes with her.
“Yo, Hafsa.”
The serval’s heart jumps to the base of her throat. Still, she tries to play it cool despite the new wave of catcalling from her teammates.
“Hi, Des.”
The Jacob sheep glances behind her, trying to come off as polite but only managing awkward. “Ladies.”
Luckily, the cheerleaders don’t pay him any mind, instead resuming their goading. “Well, Hafsa? Don’t you have something to ask him?”
The ram instantly lifts a brow at this, but Hafsa decides to take the path of least resistance (partly to end this farce and partly for her own satisfaction in teasing him). She locks her hands together in a pleading gesture and ducks down to his eye level. “Can you pleeeeease let me go out this weekend with the girls?”
Desmond’s eyes narrow in confusion, but seems to quickly get the picture that this is some sort of bit. “I don’t know, have you been good?”
The other females holler at the retort and jostle Hafsa around like she’s on the losing side of a rap battle.
The serval suppresses a snicker. “I’ve been so good, haven’t I? The best.”
“The best!” Her teammates echo her statement in her defense. Some blurt out, “come on Desmond!” or “pwease?” as additional arguments.
Desmond sighs out a long, pensive, completely feigned ‘hm’, as if considering a very important decision. “I guess I’ll allow it. You guys can get her home by eight, right?”
He peers over Hafsa’s frame once more to address the others, who hastily nod. A satisfied smirk plays on his lips. “Then I guess it’s settled.”
The cheer squad celebrate their victory by breaking the act and collapsing into another fit of laughter. With the promise of actually arranging a hangout in the group chat, they say their farewells and begin to scatter. Hafsa, however, remains by the sheep’s side.
“Thanks for waiting,” she says, her voice small and honest.
Her hand, which had been braving its way towards his side, is unceremoniously grasped in his, interlocking their fingers with practiced ease.
“Of course,” he looks off to the side, “You’re coming home with me tonight, aren’t you?”
“Don’t phrase it like that,” The feline scoffs.
The ram simply smiles and begins to lead the way towards the school’s exit. “What was that all about, anyways?”
“Oh, you know them. Same old, same old.”
“Must be tough having to share the same braincell with so many other girls.”
They share a laugh. Desmond’s changes into something softer.
“It makes me happy that you have fun with them. I’m glad you’re back on cheer squad.”
Hafsa gives his hand a light squeeze on instinct. While it’s true that her newfound friends have brightened her days, by far the biggest contributor to her perfect, ridiculous, miraculous happiness is currently holding hands with her.
Noah’s Arc remains with her, for better or for worse. For better— for best, even— is her boyfriend.
Hafsa’s never considered herself a romantic. She always thought of relationships as social contracts, transactional and calculated. They’re necessary, but she understood that her value would be scrutinized under a microscope by all of her potential suitors, and vice versa. The serval, humility notwithstanding, is intimately aware of her high value; it was the intentional result of her hard work. Therefore, she had the upper hand when it came to setting the stakes of a relationship. Her decision to date Solomon arose from a logical series of concessions, and their relationship was maintained through checks and balances befitting two business partners. She enjoyed the arrangement, even had moments of unexpected thrill and passion — Solomon had played his part perfectly, in his defense— but even at their best, she couldn’t escape the feeling of restraint that clouded over their time together, like a perpetual balancing act on a tightrope.
If you had asked her, she wouldn’t have changed a thing. That's how these things go, after all. That was until she finally started dating Desmond, and everything she knew about dating and romance was catapulted out a window.
Suddenly, it was all thrill, all passion, she could hardly think around him. Her feelings towards him, which had been building and building throughout two years, repeatedly crumpled up and stuffed deep inside her only to return with twice the intensity later, were finally allowed to bloom. Soon, her entire being had been completely covered by these blossoms in their vengeance.
And worse yet, she enjoys every moment of it. She delights in being consumed by her love for him, giggles as the parasite tickles her while gnawing at her bones, dances as her very being catches on fire, even when it's so intense it's painful. She never thought it possible to feel so strongly about anything, save for hunger or anger. She never thought she had so much of herself to give. But it is, and she does. Although her love has changed her into something she can hardly recognize, it’s bliss.
Even after three months of dating, her emotions show no signs of slowing down. Her heart still races when they touch, her vision still goes pink at the sound of his voice; even now, something as simple holding hands while walking, it feels like the first time. Her heart bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and it never runs try, never stops beating. A part of her wonders if this is because she’s a carnivore; if this is simply the perverted gratification of a predator who has conquered its prey. The rest of her couldn’t give a shit.
“Oh, by the way,” Desmond’s voice snaps her out of her lovestruck stupor. “Here you go.”
He reaches into his pants pocket and hands her a strawberry flavored energy bar, the same brand as always. Hafsa fights the urge to not pounce on him then and there.
She settles for leaning onto him, forcing them to bend awkwardly to the side. “You're the best."
Desmond tries (unsuccessfully) to hide the pinkening of his nose. “Yeah well… I know you get hungry after practice. Not takin’ any chances.”
The serval’s elbow jabs at his side. “I got plenty of room for dessert.”
“Pf, I bet you say that to every herbie.”
She giggles and gratefully unwraps the snack, taking a generous bite with a pleased sigh. Her boyfriend looks up at her face, mellow in its rhythmic chewing motion, in quiet appreciation.
Hafsa takes notice and tilts her head slightly. “You’re staring.”
“You’re pretty,” He parries back, not looking away.
Inside her head, the serval squeals into a pillow while kicking her feet. “Perv.”
“Gimme a bite.”
She obliges, tilting the bar to his muzzle. “So that’s what you were really after.”
“To think I’d be found out so soon,” Desmond mumbles darkly, taking a much smaller bite. His brows raise slightly. “It’s really sweet.”
“Yeah?” The feline follow up with another chomp of her own, trying to detect the flavor that would obviously not register for her. “What’s sweetness taste like?”
The sheep frowns. It’s not exactly easy to describe a flavor without just saying it tastes like itself. “It’s, uh… good, I guess. It’s easy to like, since even picky kids like sweet stuff, and um… it usually leaves you wanting more?”
Hafsa ponders his words. She knows Desmond loves sweets to the point of insecurity, convinced it somehow makes him look immature. Sweetness is said to be the best flavor, delicious and addicting. Kind, affectionate people are also dubbed sweet. It almost feels cruel that felines are incapable of experiencing such a wonderful thing. Why did nature exclude them from enjoying something so pleasurable, so gentle? Would savory things lose their appeal by comparison? FOMO prickles the back of her mind.
However, her melancholy doesn’t last long. It’s true she’ll never be able to enjoy ripe fruit or sugary cakes, but there is plenty of sweetness in her life that she savors every day. Isn’t that what she’s tasting now?
Hafsa ducks down and gives Desmond a quick peck on the lips, transferring a crumb of two. She’s mastered the approach by now, knowing just the right angle to avoid his side horns.
Desmond gapes at her, startled and already flushed. “Wh-what was that for?”
“My dessert.”