A/N: Why am I posting new fics instead of updating my old ones? Simple. I killed my muses on accident and I'm trying to revive them. What happened instead was I over-indulged on my thoughts again, and so oneshots are born.

Cannibalism but no porn? I know, I'm so sorry to disappoint. There will be no cannibal sex. Damn.

Everything hurts.

Alfred finds him crying, trying to bury himself in a little hole he made in Alfred's backyard. At least the smell of wet earth calms him down, the coarse texture of the soil comforting against his skin. The earth craves for his flesh, and so does he.

He wanted to return to where he belonged.

But Alfred doesn't want him to. Won't let him.

And so whenever his body's longing for the earth intensifies to the point it hurts, Arthur cries.

He was crying, whimpering as he remained limp, his husband coming to coo at him, gently pulling him up until he was being carried, seemingly unfazed with the dirt and soil sticking to Arthur's skin as he cradled him like a child and brought him back to Alfred's home.

It used to be theirs, actually. Arthur can still make out the memories of the two of them, the way they both smiled and grasped each other's hands when they first stepped foot into their home for the first time. The years they spent working and saving up had finally paid off.

But not anymore.

The dead has no right of ownership over anything.

They belong to the earth.

"Please, please, let me go back, it hurts." He tried to reason, sobbing into his husband's chests, hands curled into fists, cold and pale against Alfred's warm skin.

"Shhhh…." Alfred whispers against his hair and Arthur felt himself shudder at the warm air brushing his skin. The sensation unfamiliar.

Alfred puts him down in the kitchen, guides him to sit on the dining table, a candle lit and a red rose resting in their usually empty vase. Arthur, teary eyed, looks at them in confusion, feeling rather unsettled in the romantic atmosphere it was supposed to be giving off.

When Alfred notices his husband's distress, he approaches him and gently lays a hand on his shoulder, making the man flinch and focus on him. "You're just hungry," to make his point across, he lays a plate of food in front of Arthur, whose were eyes quick to follow the plate. Alfred noticed his hands tremble underneath the mantle, white knuckled.

At the smell of his meal, Arthur felt his body tremble, the hunger making itself known. He didn't realise he was so starved until Alfred settled the plate before him. A long whiff tells him that it was fresh.

He didn't wait for Alfred to settle down in his seat next to Arthur, didn't wait for him to say grace like he always did, and he did not bother to grab a utensil to eat his meal, grabbing it with his bare hands, brown from the caked mud. Alfred must've forgotten to wash him.

But Alfred doesn't seem to mind and instead he let his meal go cold in his own plate, hands cupping both his cheeks as he watched his husband chomp on his meal hungrily, the sounds inhuman as he tore at the flesh.

He unceremoniously dumps the bone back in the plate when he was over, splotches of red marring his chin and lips, his tongue darting out to swipe at them. He couldn't get enough of it.

He frowns when he finally notices his husband's gaze on him, sweet and full of adoration. He doesn't seem disturbed at the spectacle Arthur had just done, in front of his dinner, nonetheless.

"How was it?" He asks.

Arthur felt himself grow self-conscious, dirtied hand wiping at the mess on his face in a hurry but stops when Alfred's hand darts to catch his wrist on time, the other holding out a wet cloth to wipe him clean. Arthur looks away.

"I hate old meat," he mutters, feeling himself calm, the urges gone and the pain away. For now.

Alfred laughs. Voice low, as if trying to convey his message to no one else but him he tells him, trying to soothe Arthur's nerves, "But they're the easiest to get. Old people can't run much."

Arthur's frown deepens. He feels his teeth start to chatter, his jaws tensing, seeking to open. His hands are so close, his flesh must be more tender and soft compared to what he fed him.

Scared of his own thoughts, he turns his head away, shrugging Alfred's hands off.

Alfred doesn't seem bothered, and continues, "You're frequently hungry and I might start getting attention from other kinds of people if more children started going missing, you know. We need to keep them diverse. And old people are the easiest to get, they barely make a fuss. You understand that, right?"

Arthur felt himself cry again, his voice cracking. "Why won't you just let me go?" Arthur says, in despair.

That seemed to have quieted Alfred, as his expression sobers, eyes unreadable. Then a moment later, he's back to his cheery self, if not sombre. "Come on, let's clean the mud off ya, then you can eat the rest of the old guy later, 'kay?"

Arthur, wiping at his tears, can do nothing else but nod as his hand was gently pulled into the bathroom.

The hunger only worsens as days pass by.

If back then, a bite of human flesh was enough to sate him, now, even an entire full-grown adult cannot. Arthur has a preference for children's flesh, the thought of the softness of their skin and the tenderness of their muscles especially when they weren't terrified before they were killed is enough to make Arthur writhe on the floor, mouth watering.

He doesn't like it one bit-the eating, but when hunger strikes, it comes in painful waves, worsening every minute. It was so intense he couldn't stop himself but wail, distressing his husband as much as he was at the sight, makes his husband do drastic things just to soothe his pain, to stop Arthur from running outside and trying to bury himself back into the ground. To keep Arthur's sanity and what's left of his humanity in him.

Alfred was just lucky Arthur doesn't know the way back to the cemetery, back to where he was originally buried and dug up after he was resurrected.

Arthur is a ghoul, a living dead, his soul damned to hell and his body rotting in the inside, the pain of the rot immense and can only be soothed by devouring the flesh of the living. It makes him feel like he has a soul again, reminds him of what humanity had once felt like.

The first few days of his resurrection was nothing but happiness, to be with the man he loved again and to see him happy as he sees Arthur in their-Alfred's-living room, reading a book or petting their pet cats. He was still trying to come to terms that no plant could ever grow again as long as Arthur is nearby, his beloved rose bushes had long since died once he stepped foot in their-Alfred's-yard.

He thought he could live through it, as long as he's with his beloved.

But the dead has no capacity to feel.

Their souls long gone and passed on into a different realm that is not of the living.

"I am hungry!" Arthur wails, throwing their-Alfred's-coffee table into the wall. Alfred cringes as it smashes into pieces. He worries for a moment if the neighbours had heard, if they will check and see their supposedly deceased neighbour, pale as death and mouth watering, tears in their eyes as they throttle things at their supposed widower, begging for something to eat.

For a release.

"But Arthur," Alfred says, lowly, because he really can't help but worry when the possibility is so very high, and wouldn't it be strange if they heard him call his supposed dead husband?

"That's all I can give you for now. Tomorrow, I promise I'll-"

"But I want it now!" Arthur screams as he tackles his husband into the floor, Alfred grunting when he hits his head on the concrete below. He was so distressed himself, haven't gotten a wink of sleep in days, finding people to feed his husband with at night, and trying to stop Arthur from running out of the house in the day to look for more. His hunger just gets worse the more Alfred indulges it, but how could he ignore them when Arthur looked so miserable, crying and begging for freedom. To be let go.

But Alfred wasn't ready for that yet.

He doesn't think he'll ever will.

Then he gasps when Arthur's teeth, flat and strong, latches onto his throat. He couldn't do anything when that powerful jaw snaps, taking away a mouthful of his own flesh.

He tried to call Arthur's name but nothing comes out of his throat but blood and gasps. Pained.

Then Arthur swallows, Alfred hears the audible gulp from his throat, red from Alfred's blood. Alfred knows, in the back of his own mind, that one day Arthur would turn on him, but Arthur wasn't to blame. He's just the victim.

He wasn't the one who damned their husband's soul in hell for being unable to let go.

He felt his eyes sting, apology burning in his tongue but could no longer say it aloud. He managed, in what's left of his strength, his vision darkening, to lift an arm and cup Arthur's face, Arthur's cheek cold and pale. Arthur doesn't respond to his touch anymore, his eyes unfocused and a dark grey, instead of the familiar green. Arthur's eyes had never been green since his death.

Alfred was long dead by the time Arthur gulps, his attention moving to the hand cupping his cheek when it started to slip, wet hands grabbing them before they completely fall.

He bites at them, chewing the bones as he did so, unbothered as they cracked against his teeth.

Of course, the neighbours had noticed the commotion, the crashing sounds alarming as well as the muffled screams.

When the police had arrived and broke into the house when no one answered, they found the whole place a mess.

The most shocking thing was, the corpse of their neighbour, lying on the floor, blood pooling underneath him, his state unexplainable and stomach-curdling.

Some of his bones were missing, his innards scattered on the floor, the thick blood making distinct marks, showing the perpetrator's movements. It appears to be that whatever it was that attacked the man was in the middle of their work when they came in. The skids on the floor shows how it had hurried away.

What further shocked them was that they were footprints. Human footprints.

It wasn't an animal who did this.

The track led them down the basement, where they had unfortunately failed to locate the suspect, but that doesn't mean they left empty-handed.

What they instead found were bones, but they were not of the victim's.

It was from someone else. From many people. Young and old.

Upon investigation, the bones match the DNAs of those who were reportedly missing since five months ago. They have no idea what the widower had done to the remains, why the bodies had decomposed to such a rate, or his motives are.

The neighbours had mentioned depression, after the death of his husband, the man dying from an accident. Something about jammed brakes that the man had always blamed himself for, but they though the widower had already moved on, his attitude back to its natural cheeriness.

The discovery of the so-called "house of bones" as the media had called it, calmed the people somewhat, deeming the streets safe once again.

But not a day later after the discovery, a body turned up.

It's state as gruesome as the so-called bones collector's was. Its innards discarded into one side and the rest of its flesh missing. They once assumed that the dogs got to it before they did but autopsy says the marks were made by human teeth.

It was strange, really.

And quite terrifying.

But less than a month later, the killings stops. For good.

And everyone just avoided talking about it, lest it happen again. They presumed the culprit was dead, like how the bone collector was. Unjust it may be, no one was going to defend these people someone were to just want them dead, fuck the trials.

Because they're just straight up monsters.

E/N: Sometimes I forget that hetalia fandom has yet to truly see the shit I like to write when I'm feeling giddy. Yes, its this.
I just wanted to write something about UK eating US because he's so hungry and he doesnt have a choice. Its a do or die kind of thing.

Might get confusing without much context but p much UK and US are married and happy with a house with a white picket fence and 2.5 cats (they're still thinking whether or not they'll get a dog at this point) but then UK dies in an accident bc his brakes arent working and p much US blames himself for it bc he did the maintenance on the car before UK left and used it. Also he couldn't bring himself to accept UK's gone.

Then while digging up UK's things in their basement he comes across UK's cult book that has this descriptive recipe+instructions about resurrection, which he does immediately once he got the supplies. He didnt really put much thought in the "CONSTANT craving for human flesh" bit as well as "damning their souls to hell" bc (in my own belief) once people die their souls are gone. Yada. And p much resurrecting UK means he's soulless. He couldnt feel for shit, but since he was recently deceased, he got some bits of feeling left. That lasted for like, a week after. After that, he'd gotten selfish, and when he gets hungry and couldnt satisfy it, his body's instincts was to succumb to the callings of the earth. So he tries to bury himself. But US won't let him and instead over feeds him instead, making the process faster, and so when UK's body starts craving for BIGGER, he couldnt reach the daily quota anymore without attracting cops.

what happened to UK? He regained control of his thoughts again after a week or so of feeding, since human flesh helps him regain sanity/humanity again. Realising what he had done p much destroyed him, so before he starts killing again, he finds his way to the cemetery to return his body where it belonged but he gets killed by hit-and-run on his way. Blergh.

I guess in a way, things were right again. Haha

aw man, I love tragedy. I missed writing tragedy, man.