#(( even in death you will never be rid of him )) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

abbotjack · 17 hours ago

Text

The House She Left You

Content Warnings : 18+ MDNI explicit sex, grief, family trauma, complicated sibling dynamics, references to addiction and overdose, emotionally repressed Pope Cody behavior, morally gray choices, sexual content in emotionally charged contexts, kitchen sex, emotionally manipulative undertones, references to Pope’s canon instability, emotionally explicit dialogue, light dubcon tension (consensual but fraught), emotionally unhealthy power imbalance, unresolved trauma, unprotected sex,

word count : 6,637

a/n : Here’s the Pope fic that’s been sitting in my drafts for weeks. Not my favorite, but I figured I’d share it anyway since I probably won’t be posting much until after finals.

Summary : She’s dead. You have her kid. Her house. Her ghosts. And now—Pope. The man you were never supposed to want, who never once looked at you when he was hers… but who saw everything. He shows up when the fridge hums and the silence grows thick, and what starts as confrontation splinters into confession, then into violence you asked for.

Time: One week after the funeral Location: Oceanside, California — your sister’s house

You don’t turn on the lights when you come in.

The house doesn’t deserve it.

It’s not yours. Not really. Not yet.

Not even after the state handed you a stack of papers, stamped and signed, with your name on the last page and hers on the death certificate. Not even after the little girl sleeping down the hall said “mommy” in her sleep two nights ago and you had to step outside so she wouldn’t hear you lose it.

You shut the door behind you and breathe in the dark. Not a big breath—your chest won’t take it. Something’s been living there the past week, curling in your ribs like an animal, biting at your lungs whenever you try to hold too much air. You let your back hit the wood, keys still in your hand, eyes adjusting to the same stale shadows.

The kitchen light is off. You left it that way.

But the fridge is open.

At first you think it’s just the door not sealed right, some crack letting the compressor hum like a breath. But then it moves. A shape. A shoulder shifting. A figure standing there like he never left.

Pope.

Just his face in the cold light, slack and unreadable. Forearms braced on the counter. Staring into the fridge like there’s something in it worth seeing. He doesn’t look up when you walk in. Doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t apologize.

And why would he?

You flick the switch by the door. Harsh, overhead light floods the kitchen. It hits him like a slap. He barely blinks.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you ask.

Your voice isn’t loud, but it slices. Dry. Defensive. You’re not ready to see him. You weren’t ever going to be.

He shuts the fridge slowly. Leans his hip against the counter.

“You left the back door unlocked.”

You stare. “That’s not an answer.”

He shrugs. “Thought I’d check on the kid.”

“You already did that. Three days ago. She doesn’t even remember.”

“She’s seven.” He finally looks at you. “Of course she does.”

Something in you tightens. You cross your arms to keep it from showing. “You can’t just let yourself in.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?” you snap, voice sharp, teeth bared. “Because it’s her house? Because you used to live here? Fuck her on that couch? Eat breakfast with her daughter like you weren’t already halfway out the door before the coffee was done brewing?”

He doesn’t flinch. Not even a blink. And that’s what infuriates you most—that nothing you say ever seems to get under his skin.

You want him to react. You’ve always wanted him to see you.

“She’s gone,” he says flatly. “You’re here now.”

You let the silence settle. He always had that talent—the kind that made people fill the quiet just to get rid of it. You don’t give in.

He pushes off the counter, stepping around the table. Slowly. Like he’s giving you time to adjust to his shape in the room. Like he knows how he fills it.

“You get the paperwork?”

Your eyes narrow. “You don’t get to ask that.”

“She wanted—”

“She wanted a lot of things.” You throw your keys in the bowl by the door harder than necessary, like the sound might drown out the ache in your throat. “She wanted to be clean. She wanted to live. She wanted to be a mom.”

“I know.” His voice is still maddeningly calm, like nothing ever rattles him. “I was there, too. You think I didn’t care?”

“I think you cared like it was a job,” you say, eyes flicking to the spot on the floor where he used to drop his boots. “I think she used that. I think you liked being needed until it made you hate her.”

A long pause. Then—

“You blame me,” he says. Not a question.

“I blame her,” you bite out. “I blame me. I blame everyone. What does it matter?”

He nods once, slow. Walks toward the sink. Opens the cabinet, finds the glasses like it’s still muscle memory. Like this place remembers him even if you wish it didn’t. Even if you still catch yourself standing in doorways, waiting for him to look back.

“Water?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Don’t pretend this is normal.”

He drinks anyway—slow, deliberate.

“I’ve been watching,” he says—low, rough, worn down at the edges. “Not just her kid. You.”

You don’t know whether to be angry or scared. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe it’s just that old pulse again—buried too long under everything she took before you ever had the chance to want it.

“Why?”

He sets the glass down carefully. Like he doesn’t want to startle you. Like he’s still trying to be the man your sister needed.

“Because I know what this house does.”

Your throat catches. Tight. Dry.

“She let it rot,” you whisper, voice small and shaking and too full. “She let herself rot in it.”

He nods. Once. Quiet. He doesn’t say it out loud—he doesn’t have to. He saw it too. He stayed, and you ran. That’s always been the difference.

You shift your weight, heart pounding like a truth trying to claw its way out. “You don’t get to show up and act like this is yours. Like you’re the only one left who gets to carry her.”

“I’m not,” he says. Looks at you like he means it. “You are.”

And it shouldn’t feel like a punishment. But it does.

Because he’s right.

She left the mess—but she left it to you. The wreckage. The weight. The child. The smell of smoke in the walls. The goddamn silence. Pope? He gets to haunt the corners, slip in and out like a ghost with no leash. But you—you—have to stay and live in it. Scrub the stains out of the floorboards. Pretend the pain doesn’t sound like his footsteps in the hall.

You turn away, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. You won’t let him see your eyes. Not now. Not after all these years of swallowing the part of you that wanted him first.

And that’s when he says it. Quiet. Gentle. Like it matters now.

“She said you were the only one who never lied to her.”

You go still. Stiller than still.

“She said it like a confession,” he continues. “Last time I saw her. Said she couldn’t look you in the eye anymore. Not since the baby. Said you were the only one who meant what you said. Even when it hurt.”

Your hands grip the edge of the sink. White-knuckled. Nails biting down into laminate. Not to ground yourself—no, you know where you are. You’re trying not to shatter. Not to let him see that part of you that still wants to believe him.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because she never said it to you.”

Silence. Heavy. Sacred. Dangerous. It drips down the walls, clings to the space between your shoulder blades. It makes the house feel like it’s listening.

You stare at the wall above the sink—the same place your sister used to hang grocery lists she never followed. Where her handwriting used to live. You used to read them just to imagine what normal might’ve felt like. You used to watch him read them, too—pretending he didn’t already know how it would all fall apart.

“She wasn’t always cruel,” you say softly. Too softly.

“I know.” His voice is closer now. Closer than you’re ready for.

“But she knew how to gut you.”

“She had a gift.”

You turn. Slow. Like the weight of it might crack you.

And there he is.

Watching you like he’s seeing the ghost and not the girl. Like he knows what it costs to keep surviving her. But more than that—more than any of it—he’s looking at you the way he never used to. Not when she was here. Not when you were just the sister on the couch. Not when you burned for him and bit your tongue raw.

“Are you staying?” you ask, barely above a whisper. “Or just passing through again?”

He doesn’t blink. “Do you want me to?”

And that question—God, that question—lands in your chest like a knife you’d still let him twist. Because you don’t know. Because part of you wants to fold into him and forget the rest. Part of you wants to scream in his face. Part of you has wanted this for years, and none of it came the way it should’ve.

But the worst part?

Is that you don’t want to be alone in this house tonight. And he’s the only one who’s ever made it feel like it could be home.

Time: That night, 2:37 a.m. Location: Your sister’s house — hallway outside her old bedroom

You don’t sleep. You just lie there and sweat in the dark.

You’ve been doing that a lot lately—sweating through sheets, through your shirt, through your teeth clenched so tight you wake up with a headache. It’s not the heat. It’s not even the grief.

It’s the house.

It holds things. It holds her. You swear to God, it holds him too.

You roll over, check your phone. 2:37 a.m.

The silence feels off. Stretched too thin, like it’s holding its breath. You sit up slowly, pulse already pounding. You’ve lived in enough shitty apartments to know the difference—between a house settling and a house remembering.

You don’t turn on the light.

It’s easier not to see.

You press your feet to the floor and step into the hallway barefoot.

The wood is cold beneath your toes. The air feels heavier than it did an hour ago—like the house knows something you don’t.

You pause outside your niece’s door. Still shut. Still quiet. She sleeps the way she used to when she was small—after long days, after heartbreak. But now it feels different. Now it feels like retreat, not rest. Like she’s learned the same trick you did: vanish first, before anyone can ask why.

You move toward your sister’s door.

You should go back to bed.

It’s been almost a week since you stepped inside her room.

That had been your one boundary.

You cleaned the bathroom, scrubbed the grout with shaking hands. Rearranged the kitchen so it wouldn’t feel like a mausoleum. But the bedroom? You left it untouched. Shut the door like sealing off a limb you couldn’t afford to feel.

Because walking into that room was like crawling back into a wound.

And you’ve bled enough.

But tonight the door is open.

And the light is on.

You don’t call out. Don’t make your presence known. Because part of you already knows who’s in there. You can feel it in your chest—the static. The heat. The wrongness. The himness.

Pope.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed with his head bowed, elbows on his knees like he’s praying to something he’s already lost.

He doesn’t look up when you stop in the doorway.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” you say—quieter than you mean to.

His voice doesn’t move. “Neither should you.”

That makes your breath catch. Not because he’s wrong, but because he knows. He always fucking knows. Even when you never said a word.

You cross your arms, lean a shoulder against the doorframe.

“Thought we had a rule.”

“We didn’t.”

“I made one.”

He finally glances over. No surprise in his face. Just that same quiet—dead sea eyes, nothing on the surface but too much beneath it.

“She used to leave the door open when she wanted me to crawl back,” he says. “You remember that?”

You nod once. You were eighteen. Maybe nineteen. You remember everything. The way the door would crack just wide enough for his shadow to slip through. The way you’d sit awake across the hall, listening for the sound of his boots.

“She’d scream at me for two days. Throw my shit out in the yard. Block my number. And then the door would be open.” He gestures around the room like it’s a stage. “Light on. Bed made. Like nothing ever happened.”

“She knew how to make you beg,” you mutter.

He looks at you, sharp. Not angry. Just clear. Like he sees straight through you, down to the part that still aches when he walks into a room.

“I didn’t beg.”

“No,” you agree. “You didn’t. But you always came back.”

He leans back, palms flat on the comforter. Hands spread wide like he needs to feel the fabric beneath him to remember where he is. Who he is. Who he isn’t.

“So did you.”

And it’s true. God, it’s true.

Because you were always there—behind the door. On the stairs. In the silence between fights. You never left. Not really.

You just weren’t the one she asked for.

You push off the doorframe, walk two slow steps into the room.

“She was my sister,” you say. Like it explains everything and nothing at once.

He watches you. “You were kids together.”

You sit in the armchair near the dresser—her dresser, still covered in tarnished rings, tangled necklaces, the half-burnt stick of incense she lit the night before her last relapse. Everything left exactly how she abandoned it.

“She hated when people felt sorry for her,” you say. “That’s why she lied so much. Said she was clean when she wasn’t. Said she was sober on Christmas Eve and then passed out on the stairs an hour later.”

“She didn’t want to be seen like that.”

“No,” you murmur. “She wanted to be loved like that.”

Pope doesn’t respond. Just stares at the floor like it’s safer than looking at you. Like he’s afraid of what your face might give away.

You lean back in the chair, exhale slow. “We were so close, people couldn’t tell where I ended and she began. Thought we were twins. Then she started sleeping with my boyfriends, and suddenly the resemblance didn’t feel so flattering.”

That earns the faintest flicker of a smile. The kind that barely crests his mouth before it dies. But you see it. You always see him.

“She was always louder. Always got the attention. I’d do everything right—get good grades, make curfew—and she’d show up high at dinner and still get the last word.”

“She was fire,” Pope says. “And fire burns.”

You look at him for a long time. Too long. Like the ache in your chest has a shape now, and it’s him.

“She told me you were her last chance.”

He shifts. Slight. But you notice.

“She said that a lot.”

“But she meant it with you. You were the only one she ever… stayed clean for. Even if it never lasted.”

His voice drops. Quiet. Flat. “It was never real. The clean part. Not with me.”

You blink. Your breath catches. “What?”

“She’d lie. Say she was sober when she wasn’t. Tell me she wanted to go to meetings, but only if I went with her. She’d drag me to church on Sundays just to play house.” His hands curl on the edge of the bed. “I knew she was using again before you did.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because she’d already started using me, too.”

The room holds its breath.

Then you whisper, “She loved you.”

He shakes his head.

“She did. In her own way.”

“That’s not love,” he says. “That was ownership.”

You don’t argue. You don’t need to. You both know the kind of damage she did.

“I used to watch you,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Pope lifts his gaze slowly.

“I’d sit in that hallway when she was yelling. Just out of sight. I’d wait for the part where you’d yell back. Where you’d leave.”

He doesn’t speak.

“But you never did.”

“She needed someone who wouldn’t.”

Your throat goes tight. Your whole body stills.

“So did I.”

The words fall like glass. Sharp. Irretrievable.

And the silence after is deafening.

Not empty.

Just full of everything you never said.

Pope’s jaw tightens, like he’s grinding something down before it slips out. His fingers twitch against the bedspread—like they want something to hold, something to do. His gaze drops—traces the curve of your knees, your bare feet curled into the carpet like you’re bracing for impact. He doesn’t look away fast enough.

You feel it like a flare in your chest. Hot. Gnawing. Old.

He exhales, long and low. “She was scared you’d love me the way she couldn’t.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t.

You just sit there in the dim light, your sister’s walls pressing in like old ribs, her scent still soaked into the sheets, the air, the skin at your throat. Pope sits three feet away, looking like something half-ruined and still dangerous. Like grief only hollowed out the parts that could’ve stayed soft.

And for the first time since she died, you feel like you’re finally mourning her.

Not just because she’s gone.

But because this—this—this fragile moment between you, this silence filled with things she always took before they could be yours… this is everything she never let you have.

“I was always cleaning her up,” you say. “Not just the mess. Her. I’d hold her hair back. Cover her arms. Wipe blood off her teeth and pretend it was from brushing too hard. I lied to Dad. I lied to the kid.”

Pope leans forward. Not fast—like something’s pulling him. “You didn’t clean up,” he says, voice low. “You parented.”

The word hits somewhere deep. Somewhere sore.

You shake your head. “I loved her. That doesn’t mean I didn’t hate her too.”

He says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He knows—fourteen months apart, same house, same hell.

“She got everything first,” you murmur. “Boobs. Boyfriends. Bad decisions. I got the leftovers. The fallout. Hand-me-downs and scars she never even noticed she left. And every time she lit a fire, I was the one putting it out.”

He leans back, eyes steady on yours. “That’s why you never liked me.”

You hold his gaze. “That’s not why.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just waits. He’s always been like this—danger wrapped in quiet. And you’ve spent years avoiding this exact moment.

You hesitate. One breath. Two.

“I didn’t like you,” you say, “because you made her worse. You let her get away with shit no one else did. And every time she got clean, it was just to keep you.”

You pause. Let it simmer.

“But I couldn’t stop… wanting you anyway.”

There it is.

Hung in the air like smoke. Like confession. Like sin.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

He just sits there, wrecked and unreadable, and you think maybe that is what undoes you—that he’s finally hearing it, and not turning away.

“Say that again,” he says.

You rise to your feet.

And the ache follows you up like it’s part of your spine.

The room holds its breath as you cross the carpet, slow and deliberate—each step measured like you’re approaching something wild and damaged, something that might bite if startled.

You stop in front of him. Close enough to feel the tension radiating off his skin. Close enough to touch, but you don’t. Not yet.

“I wanted you,” you say again. “Even when I shouldn’t. Even when you were fucking her. Even when she made sure I saw it.”

His breath stutters, caught somewhere in his throat.

You lower yourself between his thighs, fingers grazing the inside of his leg—slow, certain, like a fuse being lit. Careful. Knowing. The kind of beginning that doesn’t end clean. The kind that ruins.

“She used to tell me I was boring,” you whisper. “Too clean. Too smart. Not the kind of girl men ruin.”

Pope looks down at you like you’ve just become a threat—like you’re something holy and reckless, the kind of woman men do ruin, and never recover from.

“I wanted to be ruined,” you say. “By you.”

And that’s what breaks him.

His hand twists in your hair, rough and unrelenting, dragging you up with the kind of desperation that doesn’t ask—it takes. Like he’s been holding back a storm and finally lets it swallow him whole.

The kiss is unholy. Starved. His mouth crashes to yours like a blasphemy he’s longed to speak aloud, all spit and heat and something darker—like he’s tasting damnation and begging for more. Like your ruin is sacred and he’s ready to bleed for it.

It’s violent with need—ten years of silence burning on his breath. He pulls you into his lap with a force that borders on frantic, devouring your mouth like he’s been fasting on guilt and grief and this is the first thing he’s allowed himself to want since she died.

His hands are on your back, your hips, your ass. Gripping. Claiming. Consuming. Like he’s trying to memorize you by force. Like he doesn’t trust this moment to last.

“Tell me you hate me,” he pants against your mouth, lips brushing yours, voice torn and desperate.

You shake your head. “Can’t.”

“Tell me this is a mistake.”

“It is.”

You kiss him again—harder this time—so violent it nearly topples you both. It’s not tenderness. It’s a confession in blood.

He groans—full-throated, ragged. Like it’s been trapped inside him for years. His hips jolt up, grinding into you with a heat that burns through the cotton between you.

You grind down, shameless. Raw. He’s already hard—thick, aching, leaking beneath the fabric of his sweats—and you feel the exact shape of everything you’ve ever wanted.

His hands fly to your face, rough with urgency, and he pulls you back to him like he needs to look at you. Like he can’t breathe unless your eyes are open.

“You want it slow?” he asks, voice cracked and wrecked. “Or just the part that hurts?”

"Both."

He lifts you off him in one swift, breathless movement—your body dragged from his like it wounds him to let go.

“On your knees.”

You obey.

Not because you’re submitting. Not with him.

With Pope, it’s not power—it’s surrender. It's history. It's wanting so badly it’s become a kind of religion. You crawl to the center of the bed, fingers sinking into her old comforter, and arch for him with instinct and ache, every breath shaking loose something you’ve buried.

He kneels behind you. Doesn’t touch you at first. Just breathes.

Then his hands are on your hips, tugging at your waistband—not rough, not rushed. Like every inch he bares is something he’s never thought he deserved. He slides everything down your legs in one slow motion.

You exhale like it hurts.

He stays there for a moment, hands resting on your skin—like if he moves too fast, he'll ruin you. Or himself.

You hear his breath catch. Feel his heat press up against your back.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice low and stunned. Wrecked. “So fucking pretty like this. Can’t believe she ever called you weak.”

“She said a lot of things,” you whisper, voice trembling. You’re already unraveling.

His hand traces your spine, palm flat. “She said you were off-limits.”

You look back over your shoulder. Voice like a dare. “And are you good at following rules?”

His eyes meet yours. Burning. “No.”

He drags his fingers through the wet heat of you. Slow. Possessive. Like he’s confirming something he already knew.

“Wet already,” he says, voice guttural. “You were waiting for this.”

You nod, breath shallow. “My whole life.”

He doesn’t pause.

He fists his cock—thick, veined, flushed dark—and brings it to your entrance, dragging the blunt head through your slick with deliberate weight. Like he’s about to take something he’s been denied for years.

And then—he freezes.

“You sure?”

You glance back again, hair falling into your eyes. “You don’t get to be gentle now.”

That’s all it takes.

He drives into you in one slow, brutal, soul-tearing thrust.

You gasp—lurch forward—and arch. Nails digging into the mattress. Breath punched out of you.

And he doesn’t move.

Just stays buried, impossibly deep. One hand locked on your hip, the other pressing down at the base of your neck—holding you there, grounding you, steadying himself like this is the only way he won’t fall apart.

Like you’re the first thing that’s ever made him believe he’s real.

“You feel that?” he rasps, voice raw and shaking. “That’s me. Inside what she said I could never have.”

He pulls back.

Then slams forward.

You cry out, high and sharp, and he fucks you like he’s punishing himself for every year he pretended he didn’t want this. Like he’s finally taking what he buried alive.

The rhythm is merciless—hips snapping into you again and again, the sound obscene, wet, relentless. His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your ribs, pressing you down like he wants to keep you there forever. He’s panting against your back, mouth open, breath ragged, murmuring broken things:

“Mine.”

“Should’ve been you.”

“Fuck—take me, just like that.”

You’re moaning, gasping, shaking, eyes blurred from how deep he is, how wrecked you feel. You brace your hands harder into the mattress as your body tightens around him—clenching, spiraling, gone.

When you clench, he growls, a low sound that vibrates into your bones.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Just like that. Let me wreck it.”

You nod, barely breathing, tears slipping hot down your cheeks—silent and unstoppable.

He leans over you, chest heavy on your back, and one hand slides under your stomach—ruthless, focused—fingers finding your clit with practiced cruelty. He rubs tight, filthy circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. It's too much. It’s perfect.

“You gonna come for me?” he mutters against your ear, voice thick, ruined. “Gonna let me feel it?”

You nod frantically, whimpering. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he snarls. “Come on. Give it to me.”

“Please—” you gasp, high and cracked.

“Let me ruin it,” he whispers. "Let me be the one who breaks it."

And you do.

You come with a sob—full-body, wrenching, your orgasm ripping through you like a scream you’ve been holding back for years. You clench around him, trembling, crying, coming apart with his name in your mouth.

He follows seconds later—slamming in deep, one final thrust that splits you open—and groans, long and guttural, like it’s killing him to let go. He spills inside you with a curse and your name dragged raw from his throat.

Then he collapses over you.

You’re both shaking. Breathing like you’ve survived something. Still joined. Still trembling.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move.

Just stays there—chest flush to your back, mouth pressed to the curve of your shoulder, fingers tangled in your hair like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing that’ll keep him from going under.

“Was it worth it?” you ask, voice broken, raw.

His answer barely makes it past his lips.

“Ask me when I lose you too.”

Time: 8:19 a.m. Location: Kitchen. The morning after.

You wake up to sunlight, and the first thing you feel is him.

Not his body—he’s gone. Just the dent he left behind in the mattress. The scent of him on your skin. The ache between your legs that’s part soreness, part memory. You feel raw. Wrung out. Touched in ways you’d spent years trying not to imagine. You feel like her.

You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. The images are branded behind your eyelids: Pope’s hand tangled in your hair. His voice in your ear. His body holding you still like he needed to memorize your shape before he could live with himself.

Let me be the one who breaks it.

You roll onto your back, and it hits you all over again—he fucked you in her bed. Not just sex. Not a mistake. A collision. A choice. A lifetime of looking and aching and staying silent that finally snapped loose. And now?

Now he’s gone.

You sit up slowly. Your thighs stick to the sheets. You wipe at the sweat on your chest. You look like a girl who got wrecked and abandoned.

You look like someone your sister would have mocked.

You dress in yesterday’s clothes and follow the scent of coffee.

You hear them before you reach the kitchen.

Her voice—small, familiar, sharp enough to gut you.

“You made them wrong,” your niece says.

Pope grunts. “There’s no wrong way to make pancakes.”

“Mom used to put bananas in.”

He doesn’t answer.

You stop at the edge of the doorway.

He’s there. At the stove. Same hoodie from last night. Hood up. Shoulders hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller, vanish into the steam. He doesn’t look at you, but his whole body goes taut the second you enter—shoulders pulled tight, jaw locked.

He knows you’re there.

He always knows.

You used to think it was a sixth sense for violence. Now you think it’s guilt. Or longing. Or both.

“Morning,” you say, voice low.

Your niece lifts her fork and waves. “He’s making breakfast. But it’s not the way she did it.”

You look at him.

He still won’t look back.

The silence is brutal. Ticking. Loaded.

You take a step in. Measured. “Can I talk to you?”

His hand flexes on the spatula. Tight enough to crack it.

“Not now.”

“You don’t get to do that,” you snap.

That gets him.

His gaze cuts over his shoulder—sharp. Brief. A warning behind his eyes like the ones he used to give her before everything went to hell.

“Do what?” he says.

“Pretend like last night didn’t happen.”

He turns now. Fully. Slowly. Like he’s squaring up, not facing you.

“It didn’t mean anything,” he says.

But it’s too fast.

And it doesn’t sound like him. Doesn’t sound like a lie he’s practiced. Sounds like it burned his mouth to say it.

You stare. Your voice softens, but it’s no less dangerous. “That how you’re gonna handle this? Just another Pope Cody vanishing act?”

His jaw ticks. That old, silent rage moving beneath the surface.

“There’s a kid in the room,” he says, dead flat.

“Don’t use her as a shield.”

His mouth tightens. No comeback. Just a low simmer. That silence that always came before the damage.

You step closer. Cross the kitchen tile like it’s a line he’s dared you to walk.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t feel it.”

He doesn’t.

He won’t.

Because he can’t.

Because for the first time in years, you touched something real—and so did he.

And now he's too much of a coward to hold it in daylight.

You wait while she eats—sloppy bites of pancake drowning in syrup, her small hands sticky and careless, bare feet kicking at the air beneath the table like she’s still too light to be touched by everything that’s broken.

Pope doesn’t speak. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t blink. His jaw is clenched. Shoulders coiled. He watches over her like it’s all he knows how to do. Like standing still might hold the world in place a few seconds longer.

He doesn’t eat. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t look at you.

When the bus honks outside, she shoves her plate away, grabs her backpack off the hook, and bolts out the door without looking back.

“Bye!” she calls.

The screen door slams.

And then—nothing.

No syrup chatter. No footsteps. No excuse left to not look at each other.

That’s when the silence gets dangerous.

He’s already halfway to the door when you stop him.

“Say something real,” you breathe.

He stops. Doesn’t turn. Just stills like an animal in a snare, waiting for the next shot.

“Last night… that wasn’t some mistake. That wasn’t about her.”

He shakes his head once. A sharp cut of movement. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

He turns. Slowly. Like it hurts. His face is unreadable—not empty. Buried. Like everything he’s ever felt for you got pushed somewhere too deep to dig out without bleeding.

“You think I wanted it?” he asks, voice low and cracked. “You think I planned that? I touched you in her bed.”

You fold your arms, fingers digging into your sides. “You wanted me before she died.”

He twitches like it’s a bruise you just pressed too hard.

“I saw it,” you say, breath tight. “The way you’d leave the room when I laughed too loud. The way your eyes caught on my hips when I wore her clothes. You were scared of it.”

“Of course I was scared,” he bites out. His voice splinters. “You were the only good thing left in this house.”

You blink.

The words hit harder than they should. Like a wound breaking open from the inside.

“I’m not good, Pope.”

“You are,” he says instantly, eyes locked on yours, voice ragged. “That’s why I came back.”

You blink. Again. Slower.

“I didn’t come back for her,” he says. “I came back for the kid. And for you.”

You step forward. Slow. Breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your spine.

“You kissed me like you hated yourself.”

“I did.”

Another step. “You fucked me like you were trying to forget her.”

His jaw clenches. “I was.”

And another. “But you held me like you didn’t want to let go.”

His breath catches.

And now—you’re in front of him.

Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest. Close enough to see the blood pulsing in his throat. Close enough to see what he won’t say in the tremble behind his eyes.

And that’s when he shatters.

Not loud.

Not explosive.

Just shatters—like a man who’s been grieving too long, loving too hard, and finally let himself want something he was never supposed to touch.

Like you’re the only thing he ever wanted that didn’t ask him to disappear.

He grabs your face. Not sweetly. Desperately. His palms are rough, trembling against your skin like he’s holding a live wire. Like this—you—is the thing that’s going to burn him alive, and he’s asking for it anyway. His forehead drops to yours, and he exhales like it hurts to be this close.

His hands are shaking.

“I don’t know how to want things without destroying them,” he breathes. Voice low. Fractured. Like it’s been stuck in his throat for years.

“I’m already broken,” you whisper.

“I know.”

And then he kisses you.

It’s not clean. It’s not even careful.

It’s devouring.

Too wet. Too fast. His mouth misses yours and lands on your jaw, your throat, your collarbone like he’s trying to bury himself in you. Like he wants to wear your skin, hide inside your ribs, press himself so deep he can forget what loving her did to him. What not touching you did to him.

His hands shove under your shirt—urgent, reckless—palming your ribs like they hold answers. He fists the back of your waistband, yanks you toward him, and lifts you up onto the counter with a grunt, breath ragged in your ear.

You gasp, sharp and startled.

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ask. He drags your pants down to your thighs like he’s furious they were ever on you in the first place.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he rasps, every word a confession he doesn’t want to survive. “I keep seeing you—bent over her bed. Your hands in the sheets. Your voice in my mouth.”

He pushes your legs open, staring down like it kills him. Like the sight of you is both prayer and punishment.

“I woke up hard this morning,” he chokes. “Had to jerk off in her shower. Couldn’t stop hearing you.”

You moan. Soft. Shaken. “Pope—”

He grabs your face again, rougher now, like your voice just undid something he was barely holding together.

“You wanna be mine?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“I don’t do gentle.”

“I don’t want gentle.”

His thumb brushes your lower lip. A tremble beneath the violence.

“You say stop, I stop.”

You nod. Breathless. “I won’t.”

And that’s it.

He shoves his sweats down, rough and clumsy, teeth clenched. His hands lock around your thighs—hard, claiming—and he lines up, flushed and thick and aching.

No teasing. No question. Just one long, brutal thrust.

You cry out—your whole body arching, splintering, as he drives deep into you.

Your sound echoes off the cabinets. The floor. The silence she left behind.

He doesn’t apologize.

Doesn’t slow down.

He fucks you like it’s survival. Like he means to stay. Like this is the only way he knows how to say I’m here—not with promises, but with ruin.

Like he thinks he can erase her memory by burying himself in yours.

Your hands claw at his hoodie. He doesn’t take it off. Doesn’t even kiss you again. He just fucks you harder, like he’s chasing something down inside himself—guilt, grief, hunger. Maybe all three.

You moan his name and his grip tightens until your skin burns.

“I can’t stop wanting you,” he growls, teeth bared.

“Then don’t.”

He thrusts harder. Rougher. You fall apart with a sob—full-body, breathless, undone—your orgasm ripping through you.

And he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going until he’s gone too—slamming into you deep, groaning like it’s killing him, his release pulsing inside you, your name dragged raw from his throat like it’s the only thing he still believes in.

The kitchen is silent again.

Except for your breathing—shallow, broken. Except for his—louder, rougher, like he’s still trying to catch it. Like he’s still somewhere inside you.

Pope doesn’t move.

His forehead rests against your shoulder, breath hot where it hits your skin. One hand grips the counter beside your thigh, the other still buried in your hair. He’s trembling. Not from the cold. Not from shame.

From the fact that he’s still here.

That you’re still here.

When he finally pulls out, it’s slow. Careful. Like it hurts him to leave.

You wince, but don’t pull away. You don’t move at all.

He tucks himself back into his sweats with one hand, the other never leaving your skin.

You expect him to speak. To backtrack. To run.

He doesn’t.

He stands between your legs, eyes closed, hands now resting on your hips—thumbs rubbing slow circles like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s trying to learn what staying feels like.

You whisper, “What now?”

He opens his eyes. Bloodshot. Devastated.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I don’t want to leave.”

Your throat tightens. You nod.

“I won’t make you promise anything,” you say.

“Good,” he mutters. “I break those.”

A pause.

Then—his hand lifts. Brushes your hair behind your ear. Fingers trembling.

“I don’t know how to be what you need,” he says quietly.

“You already are,” you answer. “You’re still here.”

His jaw clenches.

And for the first time in years, you see it on his face—not guilt, not rage.

Hope.

Tiny. Fragile. Flickering.

But alive.

He kisses you again. Slow this time. Like thanks. Like maybe, if he’s careful enough, this won’t burn too.

And when he rests his forehead to yours again, he doesn’t shake.

He breathes.

And so do you.

#animal kingdom fanfic #animal kingdom #shawn hatosy #pope cody x reader #andrew pope cody #pope cody #andrew cody x reader #smut #angst

276 notes · View notes

wildernessuntothemselves · 2 days ago

Text

Now See Them Burn in Fire | Part 4

Genre: dark fic, smut, angst

Word Count: 17.8

Chapter Excerpt:

“I was invited,” He says simply, and you feel a heat crawl up your spine. Invited. No. No, you didn’t invite him. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t want any of this.

“I… I didn’t—” You croak, your throat tight around the words. Panic claws at your chest, and your breaths come out shallow, frantic. Your gaze snaps to your mother, desperate to explain to her that you had nothing to do with this, but when your eyes meet hers, you see none of your own horror in them, none of the shock.

Instead, there’s an eerie calm in her eyes—a nauseating resignation.

“I did,” She tells you flatly, her voice steady, emotionless “I said I would end it, didn’t I?”

You stare at her, your mind struggling to comprehend her words. End it? What does that mean? Your heart hammers in your chest as it refuses to put the pieces together, to admit to what your mind already knows.

But it can’t hide away from it for long. Not when your mother blatantly proclaims it to the world to hear, not scared of how her act of betrayal against her own daughter might incur the wrath of the gods.

"Take her. Do what you want with her. Just release me."

Warnings: fem!reader, DARK FIC, FUTURE NONCON/DUBCON, mentions of people being burned alive, iron age au, supernatural au, yandere beomgyu, allusions to child sacrifice but nothing graphic, character death, smut, blow job, handjob, riding (lol the warnings be giving you whiplash)

______________________

The high priest’s burning sparks a twisted revelation in Beomgyu’s mind. Why should the tribe carry the burden of those marked by the curse—housing them, guarding them—when he could rid the land of them as he did with the priest? With each body he casts into the fire, he sees it as another step toward his grotesque mission of purification, purging the tribe of these cursed souls and claiming victory over what he calls the evil that threatens all of you.

It is not difficult for him to rally the tribe to his cause. After all, the afflicted were all but dead in the eyes of the people, their fates sealed as soon as the first sign of the curse was seen within them–and Beomgyu presents the purge as an act of deliverance, allowing the tribe to turn its gaze away from the humanity of the victims. With his power to draw out the mark before the curse could completely corrupt their bodies and souls, he convinces everyone that the victims’ removal is not only justified, but humane—a mercy killing.

The first of these so-called purifications unfolds in a scene of dreadful cruelty. Dozens of men and women, their voices silenced by gags and their limbs bound tight, are led to the center of the settlement where the flames are stoked high, eager to consume their bodies and drown their cries in the crackling and snapping of its fire.

The cloud of smoke that results from the horrid act is putrid and choking, hanging over the settlement like a deathly veil. It clings to everything—clothes, hair, even skin—until it becomes part of the very breath the people take. For days, the ash lingers like a dark miasma, a constant reminder of the atrocity that has occurred, haunting the people like a second shadow.

Though the smoke eventually begins to lift, it never fully dissipates, for the fire is never allowed to die. As long as there are new victims to be found, it continues to burn, fueling Beomgyu's influence over the tribe, as if his dominion is sustained by the very lives he consumes.

You confide in your mother, knowing full well that you cannot speak of your suspicions to Kai or his family. They would not understand. She listens, appearing perturbed by what she was hearing. But instead of confronting the horror you both know to be true, she retreats further into her work, her magic now consuming her every waking and most of what are supposed to be her slumbering hours. Though she does not say it, you know she believes you.

She has become a shadow of her former self, her body ravaged by the dark forces she’s courting. Her hair, once thick and full, falls away in brittle strands. Her eyes, once bright, are now hollow and drained of life. Her once-strong frame is now emaciated, the dark powers stealing away years of her life in mere weeks.

The sight of her chills you. If Beomgyu doesn’t kill her, the magic will. Either way, you fear for the fate of her eternal soul.

Not that she welcomes your concern. With each passing day, her bitterness toward you deepens, winding its tendrils around her heart, suffocating the remnants of warmth she once held for you. She holds you accountable for the blight that has befallen the tribe. In her eyes, you are the harbinger of doom. She insists that, were it not for you, none of this would have come to pass. She believes you were sent by the gods to curse your family, as Beomgyu cursed his, and that, unless she can find a way to break the curse, she will succumb to the same fate that afflicted your father and Beomgyu’s parents.

Oh, how Beomgyu would delight in this, were he to hear her words—or perhaps he already does, watching from some hidden corner, amused by your suffering. It must be endlessly entertaining to him to witness you enduring the very fate you once abandoned him to escape from—the distrust of your family, the suspicion in the eyes of your people, the public fall from grace. Could this all be an act of vengeance devised by a scorned man?

It can’t be… Surely he would not go so far just to hurt you. To curse the innocent, scorch their bodies, to raise those long slumbering powers—

Overwhelmed by it all, you flee to the hills that embrace the settlement, desperate for a breath of air that does not taste of ash. But when you reach the crest and look down, your heart falters.The village lies beneath you, shrouded in a veil of black smoke. It rolls across the earth, giving shape to the curse, devouring home, streets, and souls alike.

From this height, it’s difficult to find hope to cling to. From where you stand, all seems lost.

Should you flee? Kai and his family still rule the tribe, but for how long? How soon before Beomgyu weaves his schemes to undo them, just as he did with the high priest? His influence grows with each passing moment, and you wonder if their reign will slip through their fingers like water in the palm of a hand.

But where would you go? Would it be better to die under the claws of a wild beast than at the hands of Beomgyu and his men? Everywhere you turned your gaze you saw only death.

Your families were still fighting—that much was true.

Your mother, Kai’s family, and the remaining elders had bound themselves in an uneasy alliance, pooling what power and knowledge they possess between them in a last, desperate attempt to stall Beomgyu’s creeping dominion.

But as it was necessary for your mother to conceal the full truth from them in order to shield you both from suspicion—much of her work had to be done in secret. And due to that secrecy, she often found herself with no choice but to turn to you. Her summons were never tender. Your obedience never willing. It brought her no comfort, and you no peace.

Ever since that dark ritual she performed on your father’s lifeless body, your mother had spiraled deeper into the abyss of dark magic. Each incantation drew her further from the path of righteousness, binding her more tightly to shadowed forces—those ancient, insatiable beings whose whispers came with a price. Their demands grew darker, their hunger more cruel, and with every new pact, a toll was taken.

Her body suffered. But it was her soul that bore the deepest scars.

You tried to distance yourself as much as you could. Surely, fighting darkness with darkness was not the path of the gods. This calamity should have been an opportunity to prove your steadfastness, to remain true to your faith even if it meant your death. Better, you thought, to endure a slow, agonizing end upon this earth than to be cast out of the eternal bliss in the shadow of your beloved gods and into the fiery depths of the underworld.

You have come to realize a bitter truth: that despite all your knowledge, all your years of training and sacred rites, you are no different from the common folk when true peril knocks at your door. In the face of such a threat, even the wise falter. Even the learned cling to superstition, whispering half-remembered prayers, and committing the most desperate and selfish acts in the name of survival.

“You’re a long way from home, flower.”

Terror seizes your body at the sound of his voice. You hadn't heard him approach—not a single footfall, not the faintest rustle of leaves. How could you have believed that the wilderness could shield you from him when this is where he has always found refuge, where he has long conspired with the unseen forces that dwell in the shadows of the wild. This has always been his domain for as long as you can remember, his secret kingdom. Here, there is no escape from him.

“I just wanted to breathe,” You murmur, your voice barely a whisper, your body stiff with terror, refusing to turn and meet his eyes.

“I see,” He replies, his tone flat, undecipherable..

A silence hangs between you, as stifling as the black cloud of smoke. He is content to stand there and let the stillness suffocate you, and you realize you must break it yourself before it breaks you. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Do you think I am going to kill you?” He throws your words back at you, replacing your fear with amusement. They come out slowly, as if he’s savoring them, relishing in the terror he’s created in you. It is clear that your discomfort, your fear, pleases him.

“Is this funny to you?” You frown, unable to mask the disgust in your voice. He was the one who brought about this catastrophe, and yet here he stands before you, unburdened by any hint of guilt. His cold indifference to the suffering he has caused, the destruction in his wake—it’s almost worse than the act itself. He watches you, as if this is all some twisted game to him. He truly is a monster.

“I must admit, it is.” He replies, his voice light, almost playful.

“Why are you doing this? Just... please, tell me,” You plead, the desperation clear in your voice, seeking to find the real reason for his actions, to finally make sense of why he has seemingly decided to throw the world into chaos one day.

He laughs and you stare at him in incredulity. “What is so damn funny?”

"I find it rather amusing," He says, his tone laced with a quiet, unsettling humor that is only funny to him, "how not long ago, I was beneath you. And now, here you are, so eager to talk to me."

“You still are beneath me.” You proclaim proudly, no matter how dearly that would cost you. If he insists on this path, so be it. The monster standing before you has no shred of mercy within him so there is no point in trying to appeal to it. “Just because you’ve maimed and killed your way into this farce of a leadership among your band of savages, does not make you worth anything.”

The false lightness in his expression slips away, replaced by a burning hate. "And just because you married into power," He spits with bitter disdain, "does not mean they will protect you or your kin. When the time comes, they will stand aside and watch your bodies burn, all to save their own hides. He would, too."

“You know nothing of him.” You hiss at him, feeling defensive of Kai. “Your wretched soul cannot even begin to fathom the love his heart can hold. He would lay down his life to protect us.”

“But how will he protect you when he’s not even here?” Beomgyu tilts his head, feigning curiosity. In that moment, the reality of your situation comes back into clear focus and you remember where exactly you are, and who the man standing before you is.

He steps closer, his presence looming, and reaches out to gently grab your neck in his large hand, pressing down slightly. The absolute emotionlessness in his expression sends a shiver down your spine. You dare not resist; there’s no point. Any struggle would be futile, and you know all too well how easily he could overpower you. You’d be on the ground in no time like you were the last time you were alone with him. At least if he kills you now, you will die standing.

“If I wring your little neck and bury you in the earth under our feet, how will he stop me? If I choose to end this now, would he even know where his lovely bride laid? ” He taunts you, “Tell me, did you even bother to tell him you’d come here?”

He feels your gulp under his hand and his grip tightens in response, sensing your answer without you even needing to utter a word. A rush of regret floods over you—no, you hadn’t told anyone where you were going. You had acted carelessly, and now, that recklessness may cost you your life.

“Figured as much. You’ve always been pretty, but not too bright, my flower,” He remarks with a sneer, and you're taken aback by how his words sting. Though your death by his hands seemed imminent, you had still believed your past friendship was genuine. The thought that he had always harbored such disdain for you cuts deeper than you expected. It tarnishes the memories you thought were safe, innocent. Had he been deceiving you all along? Was he always the monster everyone had warned you about, and you’d simply failed to see it? You really are stupid…

It doesn’t matter now, does it?

But then, unexpectedly, he laughs and releases his hold. “How has your mother been?”

The sudden shift in his tone catches you off guard, and you freeze, unsure of what to make of this abrupt change. For a brief moment, confusion clouds your mind, but that confusion quickly turns to dread as the true implications of his question settle in.

“No. Don’t you dare!” You warn, your voice trembling despite your efforts to sound firm.

He chuckles, a hot, bright sound that scalds its way down your spine. “Dare to do what?”

You have no time for his games—they serve only to entertain him, offering you nothing but distress in return. Whatever truth he holds, he’ll twist it into something unrecognisable just to watch you suffer. The only way to find out what this threat truly means is to go find your mother right now.

So with a shaky breath and even shakier limbs, you take a step back. “Are you going to let me walk away?”

He grins, the expression predatory and playful, as if this is yet another game to him. “Why don’t you give it a try?”

You draw in another shaky breath, bracing yourself for what’s to come, before you sprint down the hill, heart pounding in your chest. Each step feels frantic, as if you’re trying to outrun your fear, the thought that Beomgyu could be hot on your heels unshakable. Every part of you expects him to leap from the shadows and drag you back into his grasp, to make good on his earlier threats. The world around you is a blur of trees and underbrush, and despite your desperate pace, the tangled roots and uneven ground slow you down, making you stumble and fall as if the earth itself, subject to his swat, has conspired to bring you to your knees.

By the time you see the familiar sight of home, you’re battered and breathless. Mud streaks your clothes, and your skin is marked with scratches and bruises—a testament to the battle you’ve waged against the wilderness. But none of that matters now. As you stand before the entrance to your home, a dread unlike any you’ve ever felt sinks into your bones. What will be waiting for you inside?

The possibilities rush to your mind, each one worse than the last. Will your mother be missing? Dead? Bound, tortured, andleft to the mercy of those dark forces she meddled with? The thoughts gnaw at you, and the images they summon are near enough to fell you where you stand if you let them continue to run wild.

With a quiet prayer to the gods above, you steel yourself, pushing the terror down into the pit of your stomach, and step over the threshold.

“Mother?” You call, the word leaving your lips with an urgency that belies your composure. There is a long, drawn-out moment of silence before you hear her answer. Weak, but unmistakable. Her voice, though faint, is still there—and in that small, fragile sound, you find a breath of relief. The tension that had wound so tightly in your chest begins to loosen, though you remain on edge, knowing the fight isn’t over yet.

You follow the direction of her voice, finding her hunched over her cauldron in her usual spot—her ghastly face illuminated by the flickering candlelight, casting eerie shadows as she stirs whatever concoction brews within.

At first, you don’t notice it, the strange lighting obscuring your view. But when she looks up at you, taking a step back from the cauldron, your eyes catch it—the faintest discoloration on her skin, a sickly, blackish hue that sends a rush of nausea through you. You’re so struck by the sight that you can’t hide your reaction, and it’s then that she sees your dismay.

“What?” She croaks, her voice trembling. You remain silent, a lump forming in your throat. “Is it on me?”

“Mother, I’m sorry–” You apologize as if you truly believed it is your fault. Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s all because of you.

Your words have the opposite effect than you hoped. Instead of evoking her sympathy, they seem to fan the flames of her fury. In an instant, anger takes hold of her, and she thrusts herself toward you, scratching at your face. “You fucking slut. You did this. You brought him into our lives.”

“I am sorry.” You weep, holding your hands to your face to prevent her from clawing your eyes out.

“I ought to kill you right now, bury you alongside your father and rid us of this evil. No, you do not deserve the dignity of a burial. I should slit your throat and leave your body out to the vultures to pick at your innards and the beasts to tear you apart from limb to limb.”

“Please, mother, I did not mean for any of this to happen.” You try to reason with her, but even you feel yourself choking on your own guilt.

“Shut up! Shut up!” She snarls, striking you repeatedly.

Fortunately for you, her strength has long waned, the dark magic sapping what little power she had left. You manage to push her away, stumbling backward toward the door, your heart hammering in your chest. As you flee your home, your tearful apologies echo behind you, but they feel hollow—an empty attempt to ease the guilt that eats at you with every step you take.

Kai is taken aback by the state you’re in when you stumble through the door of your married home—disheveled, wounded, your eyes wide and wet with grief. He asks what happened, tries to coax even an explanation from your lips, but you are in such an inconsolable state, you could not have given him any even if you had wanted to. So he stops asking.

All he can do is gather you into his arms and hold you close, rocking you gently as if the motion might carry you out of your despair, and futilely drying off your unending tears as he whispers meaningless reassurances to you.

It’s all worthless. Beomgyu is going to win. He will take each and everyone you love away from you and then he is going to kill you.

________________

You fabricate a story to tell your husband, weaving it with just enough truth to make it sound believable. The words flow from your lips with effort, each one stinging with betrayal. You tell Kai that you had a falling out with your mother over your decision to venture into the woods in search of a rare herb that would aid in her potions—potions that would ultimately benefit his family. You tell him that you ignored her warnings and ventured out alone, only to be attacked by a wild animal. You describe how your mother arrived just in time to save you, though her fear of losing you—much like she had lost your father—left her furious. Her anger, you say, led her to say things she didn’t mean and ultimately cast you out of her home.

It would have been a convincing story had the scratches on your face not looked so human and had you not been so reluctant for Kai to attempt to mediate any form of reconciliation between the two of you, fearing that your mother would be angry enough to expose your secrets to him, even if it meant her doom. After all, what has she got to lose? She’s already been claimed by the curse.

So imagine your surprise when she was the one who extended an invite to you to talk things over at your family home, telling you that she has found a way to get rid of the curse once and for all.

You felt exceedingly nervous about it, especially that she had specifically instructed you not to tell anyone you'll be meeting her. It made sense that she didn't want anyone to know about the secrets you've been harboring, but after the way she had spoken to you the last time you saw her, you worry about this being a trap to get you within arms reach so she could act on her previous threats.

Still, you had no other choice but to go. If anyone could find a way to break the curse, it would be your mother. And if not, you die. Either way, you die, right?

Your mother looks nothing like herself anymore. The curse has latched onto her like a parasite, rapidly consuming her body until she’s nothing more than skin on bones. She’s covered with it from head to toe. It writhes and pulsates over her in deep slow breaths.

“Mother…” You speak slowly and she grimaces.

“Don't you dare look at me in pity. You did this. You're the one who invited the evil in. But I'll be the one to end it.” She tells you resolutely, but before you can seek more answers, before you can ask her what she means, a sudden suffocating presence presses down on your chest. The room grows impossibly still, and the world outside seems to fade, leaving only the rhythmic pounding of your heart in your ears.

Your gaze is drawn, unconsciously, toward the front of your home. There’s a shadow, a figure standing just beyond the threshold, barely visible in the dim light of the evening. It feels like you’ve been here before, the vision cut right out of your nightmares—the figure so suffocatingly familiar to the deepest, most primal part of your brain, bringing forth images of deathly blue eyes, and with them, the paralysing fear.

The figure moves, a silhouette cloaked in darkness, each step slow, deliberate. Your pulse quickens as your mind races, your body rooted to the spot, unable to move, barely able to breathe. But when the figure steps fully into the light, the air in your lungs escapes in a sharp, panicked gasp, for the monster it unveils is even worse than the one in your nightmares.

Beomgyu.

A mixture of disbelief and terror floods your veins. You try to speak, to say something, anything, but your voice falters. He’s standing there, more real and solid than the ground beneath you that threatens to fall away from under your feet to escape his presence.

"W—what? What are you doing here?" The words stumble out of your mouth, barely more than a breath. Your legs feel as if they’ve turned to stone, unable to carry you to safety even as terror pulses through you. The monster in the doorway, Beomgyu, stands with an unsettling calm, his eyes fixed on you, something predatory in the curve of the smile lingering on his lips.

“I was invited,” He says simply, and you feel a heat crawl up your spine. Invited. No. No, you didn’t invite him. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t want any of this.

Instead, there’s an eerie calm in her eyes—a nauseating resignation.

“I did,” She tells you flatly, her voice steady, emotionless “I said I would end it, didn’t I?”

"Take her. Do what you want with her. Just release me."

The words hit you like a bolt of lightning, sharp and burning. You can't breathe. You can’t think.

“Mother!” You shriek, shaking your head in denial. “What are you saying?!”

Her eyes meet yours then, but there’s no softness, no comfort in them. Her expression is cold, like she’s already detached herself from what’s happening, like she’s already let go of whatever bonds once tethered her to you, allowing her to commit the unthinkable against her own flesh and blood without her heart giving way in protest.

Beomgyu doesn’t make any move. He just stands there, watching your reaction with curious intensity, studying your every flinch, your every gasp, as if to see if this will finally break you. The room feels impossibly small, as though the walls are closing in on you, and the darkness of his gaze—of his presence—fills every inch of space, suffocating you.

He tilts his head towards your mother, his voice laced with false sweetness as he continues to wear that chilling smirk on his lips, like a tyrant delighting in watching his subjects perform their misery for him.

“Look at you, Mother. You are unwell. It's making you delirious.” He coos, his eyes glinting with amusement as they flicker toward you. “I have nothing to do with this or your daughter.” “Don’t you dare mock me,” She spits out, her voice fierce, but there’s something hollow in it, something broken. “I know it is you behind all of this. I know you want to have her for yourself, so do it. Take her and do what you will with her. I won’t tell anyone. Just let me go.” The words send a tremor of revulsion through your body. Your stomach lurches, nausea rising like bile in your throat at the sheer abhorrence of what she’s just said. Your mother, your own mother—the woman who should have been your protector, the very one meant to shield you from the cruelties of this world— is willing to give you up, to throw you out to him in order to save herself. How could she? She has seen what he's capable of. How could she hand you over to him like this?

But to your surprise, Beomgyu doesn’t act on her offer. He doesn’t step forward, doesn’t claim you the way your mother so coldly suggested. Instead, his grin widens, and he chuckles softly, as if amused by the entire exchange.

“No offense, mother,” He says casually, his voice smooth and playful despite the jarring reality. That lightness, that ease, only makes it more terrifying. “Your daughter is a beautiful lady, and I understand that every child is precious and priceless in their mother’s eyes. But do you really think I’ve set the netherworld loose on my own tribe just so I can have her?” He pauses, letting the silence stretch between his words and wrap around your throats, before he continues, “I think you might be overestimating her worth a little bit.”

You halt at his words. When he says it like that, it sounds almost absurd, doesn’t it? How highly do you think of yourself? How inflated is your own sense of ego, that you could ever believe that a man would go to such lengths just to possess you?

You suddenly question everything—the beliefs you held, the assumptions you made. Have you completely lost your mind? The realization hits you like a wave, washing away your certainty, leaving only the salty sting of embarrassment in its wake. In truth, are you nothing to him but an insignificant pawn in a much larger game? All this time you had convinced yourself that you were his sole obsession, the source of his dark desire and unquenchable wrath, when your suffering may be nothing more than an afterthought to him.

But your mother is not so easily dissuaded.

“Don’t you dare lie to my face,” She snarls, voice shaking with fury, and lunges at him. “I know who is killing me.”

A blade flashes in her grip and for a moment your heart lurches in your throat as visions of blood, of Beomgyu’s skin split open and carved by her fury, flash through your mind unbidden—but she is much too slow. Whether it’s the curse draining her strength or the unnatural force thrumming through him, it hardly matters, because Beomgyu catches her arm mid-swing and twists it with savage ease, a sickening crack echoing through the room.

Her scream is as mangled as her arm and the fight leaves her all at once. She would crumble to the floor if it wasn’t for Beomgyu grip on her arm holding her up

“Mother, is that the mark of the curse?” He asks emotionlessly, bringing her now deformed arm to his face so could have a closer look.

Your mother pales at the realisation of what she's inadvertently revealed and tries to pull herself away from him but he quickly grabs her by the throat with his other hand, ruthlessly cutting off the protests she tries to utter.

No, this cannot be happening. You cannot bear to lose another parent to him.

Desperation surges within you, and you rush forward, falling to your knees. “No. Please, don't. I beg you. Don’t take her from me.”

He gazes at you, bemusement flickering in his eyes. “You wish for me to spare her? She was prepared to sacrifice you to me.”

Yes, you’re acutely aware of that fact, but she is the only family you have left. Without her, you would be utterly lost. How can you ever hope to stand up to him if the only remaining person who knows the truth about you and him is gone? The only person remotely capable of devising a plan to stop him?

“She’s the only family I have left. Please, don’t take her from me.”

The world seems to hold its breath as Beomgyu regards your pitiful form at his feet. His expression reveals nothing, his face carved from stone. You cannot begin to decipher what he's thinking, and that is the most terrifying thing of all.

You want to save your mother. That’s what you tell yourself. But as you kneel before him, a dark terror coils in your chest—tight and shameful. Because in pleading for her life, you’re leaving ajar the door your mother had opened—an invitation to come in and steal you away.

And what if he does?

You are all too aware of his hatred for you, and the thought of him finally getting his chance to unleash that festering rage, not on strangers or enemies but on you, the one who left him behind and chose another—it makes your blood run dry. Because you know you won’t be treated with the same twisted cruelty he treated them. No, what he has in store for you will be far worse.

And yet, when he finally speaks, it is not with fury—but with cold indifference.

“She has been marked. Her fate is no longer in my hands.” Beomgyu finally declares, his voice devoid of human emotion.

Without another word, he turns, dragging your mother along, and you follow in frantic pursuit, but neither your mother's wailing and flailing nor your screams and attempts to separate them yield any success. He leads you both toward the heart of the settlement where the bulk of the cleansings have been taking place.

“I have another,” Beomgyu announces to his men, who are tending to the ever burning flames at the center of the ritual site, keeping it well fed with daily sacrifices.

“No, please, don't do this.” You plead hysterically, but Beomgyu’s men have long forgone any trace of mercy. They move with grim efficiency, one tearing you away, another seizing your mother. There is no flicker of hesitation or remorse in their eyes, as though this act of unimaginable cruelty—this tearing apart of families, this march to feed the flames—has become second nature to them…mundane. “No, please, please!” You thrash and scream until your throat burns, but still you cannot break free of the grip that holds you. People gather quickly, drawn like moths to the flame, eager to feast their hungry eyes on the latest sacrifice to the fire that rages like a god over their lives.

And before long, so do your husband and his family.

A sense of nauseating terror and shame fills you as you see them make their way through the crowd, for in that moment, your greatest fear is not the impending loss of your mother—but the dread of what they might see, the secrets that she may expose in her desperation and anger at you.

“What is happening here?” The leader’s voice rings out, commanding attention, but Beomgyu does not flinch. His expression remains impassive as he calmly reveals the mark on your mother’s body, exposing it to all who have gathered around, and the sound of shocked gasps ripples through the crowd, echoing in the air like thunder.

The leader is struck into a disquieting silence, wearing a grim expression that tells it all. You shake your head in disbelief, the words tumbling from your lips in a frantic plea. “No, no, it’s a mistake. You must do something.”

But he does not answer you. This man—your leader, your shield, the one who once stood bold and brave against a whole horde of enemies at your gates—cannot even summon the strength to meet your eyes.

He doesn’t speak, because he doesn’t have to. His silence confesses what his pride won’t—that he is too afraid to challenge Beomgyu. Too afraid to stand between her and the flames. And in that moment, whatever faith you still held in him withers away completely.

So you turn your gaze to Kai instead, pleading for him to save your mother. And your husband, your precious Kai, tries to move forward, tries to do something, anything, to stop this madness. But before he can act, hands seize his arms. Not Beomgyu’s men, but his own family.

“She bears the mark,” His father declares, his voice flat, stripped of emotion. A wave of disgust churns within you, not just at his words, but at the apathy with which he speaks them, as though he agrees that condemning your mother to a fiery grave was the only possible solution.

"I have to do something!" Kai shouts, his voice raw, his body taut with urgency, but his family does not yield, they keep their grip on him iron-clad, unwilling to let him risk his life to save your mother’s.

Left with no other recourse, and desperation all but consuming you, you throw your body around, managing to somehow slip away from the man holding you.

“She didn’t do this. You know she didn’t!” You dash towards Beomgyu, but one of his men quickly intercepts you, shoving you back roughly, the force causing you to crash onto the ground–and you lay once again at Beomgyu’s feet.

He looks down at you, his expression blank, unnerving. “I know—or you know?” He asks, his words laying out a trap for you. “Is there something you’re hiding from us? Do you know who is behind this?”

A knot tightens in your stomach, and for a moment, the world stands still. You know you cannot accuse him, not without proof.

And without proof, nobody would ever believe you—they would turn on you as easily as they have turned on everyone else. They’re itching to burn you too, you are certain of it. This must be what Beomgyu wants. He seeks to provoke you, to drive you into a corner, to force you to reveal your own culpability in front of them all and seal your own fate.

“I—I don’t,” You stammer, flinching as you crawl back, the fear in your chest tightening around your lungs like a vice.

“Then how do you know she’s not involved?” Beomgyu takes a step forward, like a panther stalking its prey.

You hesitate, your mind racing for an answer that could save your mother without giving yourself away, but you cannot find a lie convincing enough even if your mother’s life depends on it.

So you turn your face away in shame, just like Kai’s father did. You’re all nothing but cowards and he will pick you off one by one.

“I don’t.”

A cold sneer curls on his lips, and he spits the words at you in contempt. “Then don’t waste our time.”

“He did this. He's the devil.” Your mother finally screams, not afraid of holding back anymore. But it’s too late for her now. No one listens to the ravings of the condemned. No truth she speaks will save her life—But that doesn’t mean her words won’t damn yours.

“Are you happy with what you’ve done?” She snarls, her voice trembling with fury as her eyes bore into yours. And in that gaze, you see it—a hatred deeper than any she could ever hold for anyone else, even Beomgyu. “You’ve killed me. You’ve killed your father!”

Your heart lurches in your chest, your mouth running dry. Is this it? Is this how you burn?

But before she can speak further–before she can offer you up to the hungry crowd, Beomgyu steps in, wrapping a strip of cloth around her mouth–silencing her.

Your mind reels. Why did he do that? Why did he save you? Is it so he can trap you a little longer in this waking nightmare? To force you to watch as everyone you love is devoured by flames? So he can draw out your agony, savor it, let it rot in your bones before he finally claims your life?

You watch as Beomgyu’s men bind your mother in the same manner they did the high priest, the ropes biting into her skin as they force her to her knees and hold her there. She struggles but her muffled screams are lost behind the cloth gagging her.

Then Beomgyu approaches her slowly, in his hand he carries a censer of burning myrrh, thick smoke billowing from its bronze mouth in slow, curling tendrils. He swings it over her head, his movements rhythmic and purposeful, the scent heavy, cloying, smothering.

"Spirits of darkness, foul ones born of shadow and hate, hear my warning and depart from this vessel. Recede back into the deep earth, to the cold underworld below our feet. Linger not, lest you perish with the flesh that binds you. Let her soul rise, carried by wind and smoke, to the gods who dwell above, that she may finally find peace and forgiveness in the light of the heavens."

A strange wind answers. It weaves through the crowd like a living thing, burrowing through cloth and skin alike with claws that cannot be seen–sinking into flesh with a chilling sense of foreboding and terror. Something ancient has stirred, and it is listening.

But even in the chaos of your frantic thoughts, an unsettling detail strikes you.

Why is Beomgyu invoking the evil spirits to depart? Why not bind them within her, trap them in the flesh they defiled, and let the flames consume them?

Surely, if his goal was to destroy them, this would be his chance. Unless… their destruction was never his aim. Unless this ritual is not a cleansing—but a deliverance. A gruesome offering to those same dark spirits.

You glance around, your eyes darting from face to face, searching for even a flicker of doubt—some glimmer of recognition that this is not right, that someone sees through the veil he’s cast over their eyes. But no one stirs. They stand in still, vacant silence, their faith—or fear—rendering them blind.

And so, without question, they watch as his men step forward and present him with a shallow dish filled with a foul-smelling ointment—thick, dark, and reeking of rot. Beomgyu takes it with solemn hands, dipping his fingers into the paste and leaning over your mother. Then, in slow, deliberate strokes, he begins to smear it across her forehead, tracing a shape you do not know—Not of your people. Not of your gods.

It is other. Ancient. Wrong.

“O watchers beyond the veil, turn your gaze from the mark that stains her flesh and upon the weary soul beneath—lost, bound, and cursed,” He intones, his voice echoing inside your skull. “Unbar the gates, and let her spirit pass into your keeping.” His words fall with the cadence of prayer, but they ring hollow. The chant drifts, aimless and meandering—lacking the clarity, the structure, the intent of true communion with the divine. He names no god, directs his plea to no realm, invokes no power.

To the unknowing, it may pass as a true prayer. But you know better.

The hollowness of it unsettles you—for it either speaks of his ignorance of the sacred rites he dares to mimic, or more chillingly, his deliberate intent to obfuscate the ritual’s true nature so as to confuse and mislead those who are watching.

Your suspicions are all but confirmed when Beomgyu is handed a ceremonial knife—its blade dulled by time but still sharp enough to serve its purpose. Without pause, he presses it to the center of his palm, unflinching as he draws a thin, precise line of blood.

Then, with grim ceremony, he places his bleeding hand upon your mother’s chest, the crimson smearing across her skin like a second mark. His chanting continues—a dissonant blend of the familiar and the foreign. Words you half-recognize, twisted into forms that sound unnatural to your ears.

It soon becomes clear—this is the true spell, veiled beneath the pretense of prayer and cloaked in the cadence of forgotten tongues. Yet its purpose still eludes you. There is no revelation in his words, no guiding light—only a slow, suffocating dread that wraps around you tighter with every utterance.

Whatever he calls upon is not merciful. It is old, it is patient, and it is hungry.

As his chant begins to wane, Beomgyu looks to his men, and with a single, commanding gesture, they seize your mother and drag her toward the fire. He lifts his hands to the heavens, his voice rising in one final invocation—deep, resonant, and utterly unintelligible–spoken in a tongue long forgotten by time, its meaning lost to all who hear it.

But you’re no longer listening.

You are rooted to the ground, eyes fixed on the figure of your mother as she’s cast into the fire. Her small frame is devoured almost instantly, swallowed whole by the flames. Even her screams are soon lost to the roar of the inferno.

You stand there, motionless, the tears that should have sprung forth remain trapped behind your eyelids, their ghostly tendrils burning hot on your cheeks. Around you, the world feels distant, veiled behind a wall of smoke and ash.

You stare at the faces of those around you–everyone who has come to witness your tragedy. Beomgyu stands at the center of it all, the firelight casting haunting shadows across his blank face, untouched by the horror he has wrought. His men, however, are alive with twisted fervor, their eyes gleaming with bloodlust as they watch their sacred flame consume your mother's body.

And the common folk… they are no different. They whisper among themselves with eager smiles, reveling in your tragedy—gleeful to see another of your kind consumed by the flames.

And then there is your leader—your brave leader who cannot summon the courage to lift his gaze to you, nor to your mother’s fiery grave, his shame shackling him.

They do not mourn for you. Not him. Not his family. Not the crowd that gathers like vultures at a feast. It is just as Beomgyu had promised. They would all stand back and watch, silent, eager, complicit, as you and everything you cherish burns to ash.

____________________________

Kai tries to explain, to excuse—offering hollow apologies for his father’s shameful cowardice. He promises you protection, swears by all the gods that he will keep you safe.

But you no longer have the patience for these white lies. You remind him that he couldn’t protect your mother from Beomgyu and he cannot protect you from his family.

Because now, just as Beomgyu had warned, his family force you to take her place—pressuring you to fill the role she left behind before her ashes have cooled. They drape her robes across your shoulders and place her tools in your unready hands. You are expected to brew their potions, chant their spells, stitch their wards—positioning you as a shield between them and Beomgyu. They do not care about the risk to your life or the toll it would have on your soul. Just as they hadn’t cared about what it did to her.

But the joke is on them, for you are not your mother. You possess not her strength. The power that once coursed through her blood lies dormant in yours. You cannot command the dark forces as she did, and so your body is spared the toll that broke hers—not out of mercy, but out of lack.

And with that lack, their terror grows. Beomgyu stalks their nightmares still, and without your mother’s protection, they are left vulnerable to his attacks.

In their fear, they grow more and more callous. They demand more. Always more.

They hold Kai over you, blaming you for any harm that would befall him should you fail. They shut you within the cold walls of your mother’s now empty home for days on end, leaving you to choke on the air heavy with long-spent incense and bitter memories. Days pass, and still they demand, pressuring you to invoke powers that should never be meddled with.

And when your hands falter, when the spells fail, they turn cruel. They tell you that if Beomgyu should come for you, they would not stop him.

But their threats fall flat. If they had possessed the strength to stop him, they would never have turned to you. And if your mother had failed, how could they have ever thought you would succeed? This was all an exercise in futility, and they know it. Only they cannot bear to face that truth. They would wear you thin, grind your bones to dust, bleed you dry, tear your soul from your body and lay it bare before the void—before they would ever face the reality of their own doom.

But before they can sacrifice what little you have to offer, Kai steps in.

He cannot silence their demands, nor can he shield you from the endless expectations they heap upon your shoulders—but he can, at the very least, keep them from raising a hand against you.

Not that any of them would admit to considering such a thing—yet you see it clearly in their eyes, the desperation, the growing contempt. If it came down to it, they would throw you to the flames if it meant they could delay their own reckoning, even if for a day.

And so, in the wake of your failure and inadequacy, Kai’s grandmother, a former temple priestess herself, has to step in—the magic in her bones faded but not gone.

She arrives at your mother’s house with two men in tow, straining to carry a heavy stone slab between them—its surface worn but unbroken. She bids them to place it at the centre of the room before she dismisses them, leaving only the two of you inside. You and the dark stone.

She tells you it was once part of a great altar, built by your forebears in time before memory, when your ancestors called down unknowable powers before the tribes bowed to gods with temples. This fragment is the only piece that remains. And for that, it holds power—ancient and terrible, capable of channeling the kind of dark magic Kai’s family so desperately needs.

She begins by laying down the materials atop the cold stone—arranging them carefully in the shape of a cross, each point aligned with one of the five cardinal directions: north, south, east, west… and the center—the axis, the bridge to the underworld.

To the north, bat wings—thin and crumbling at the edges—symbols of the veil, laid down to draw the unseen from its hiding places, to give shape to powers were never meant to walk in flesh.

To the west, mugwort— dry and heavy with scent—laid at the feet of the dying to open the path between worlds, to beckon what lingers between life and death.

To the south, wormwood—gnarled and acrid—burned to rouse what sleeps beneath the earth, to tempt spirits into the realm of the living.

To the east, a hare’s thigh bone—scrubbed clean, wrapped in ash-dyed twine– a vessel of passage, used in rites that tread the seam between realms, where breath falters and blood is the price of entry.

At the center, cedar—weathered, etched with faded sigils—It anchors what is summoned, lest it drift and devour. Once it touches the stone, the rite takes hold.

She murmurs to herself as she places each item, speaking in a tongue you barely recognize—an old dialect of the priestesses, near-extinct, clinging to life only through the lips of women like her, remnants of a world that has all but turned to dust.

Your pulse falters, skipping once—twice—before racing on. Though she has not said it, your heart knows it to be true. Each item, taken on its own, could belong to any number of rites. Harmless, even sacred in the right context. But not like this. Not laid out in this formation. Not chosen in this combination.

This is not a rite of protection. It is a summoning. And whatever it calls forth will demand a price.

Then, without saying a word, she leaves you, disappearing into the shadows outside your home, and when she returns, you see a babe sleeping quietly in her arms. Swaddled. Unaware.

Your breath catches and your stomach turns.

“Grandmother,” Your voice barely leaves your lips, “what are you doing with that baby?”

She places the child at the centre of the altar, directly atop the cedar. Her eyes find yours with an unsettling calm.

“You did not think blood magic came without blood, did you?” She asks. “The old rites demand life in exchange for power—untainted, pure life.”

The air grows colder, thicker, as if the house itself is holding its breath. You stagger back, one hand clutched to your stomach. “No—I will not do this.”

“You must,” She tells you, her voice low and final as she begins to light the materials one by one, the flames catching like a stuttered breath. “It is the only way.”

Your eyes remain fixed on the child, so small, so still. The flickering shadows from the burning herbs dancing across his skin like claws waiting to dig into flesh.

“Whose child is that?” You whisper, heart hammering in your chest. She meets your gaze without flinching.

“The debt has already been forgiven by his family,” She replies, as if that excuses the butchery. “They gave him to me willingly. They understand what must be done. He will save us all.”

“Save us?” You spit out, disgusted. “You think salvation could ever come from shedding the blood of the innocent?”

She says nothing, only stares—her eyes empty, carrying the same vacant look you saw in Beomgyu’s. They are no different than him. None of you are.

“You’ve lost your mind,” You hiss, stepping back, bile rising in your throat. “This is madness and I will not be part of it.”

The flames crackle louder, as if stirred by your defiance.

“It’s either this child or everyone else.” She tells you, her voice sharp like the crack of dry bone. “If you will not help us defeat him, you would doom us all. If you do not stand with us, then you stand with him.”

“I don't.” You insist fiercely. “I won’t be made his champion just because I refuse to slaughter an innocent.”

But she only narrows her eyes, her voice rising with condemnation. Then if the ritual fails because of your cowardice, do not dare to weep as your husband is dragged to the fire for you will have no one to blame but yourself when he becomes the next sacrifice to feed the fire you refused to quench.”

“No! There has to be another way.” You cry, refusing to believe that Kai’s salvation could be bought with the life of a child barely given to the world—a soul still cradled in innocence, not yet touched by sin or time.

“There isn't'.,” She tells you cruelly, banishing your hopes away. “Spare the child, and he’ll burn with the rest of his kin before the season turns. His death is mercy. His death is salvation.”

You recoil from her words, your voice breaking. “The gods will not forgive this.”

A cruel smile twists across her lips. “What do you know of the gods, foolish girl? The old gods demand blood. They always have. They have slept long and deep, and now they wake—and they hunger.”

“I won’t be a part of this.” If you stand on nothing, then you must at least stand on this.

“Then you are every bit the failure your mother feared you would be.”

Her words almost knock you off your feet yet she does not bother to waste another glance on you. Without another word, she turns away and begins to chant. At first, her voice is thin, worn by age, but as the words spill forth, it begins to shift. It deepens. Fractures. Each syllable splits into layered echoes, as though more than one voice now speaks through her. The sound slithers across the stone, coils around your spine, and settles behind your ribs.

The air shifts, darkening, as if it’s remembering a time before light. The walls of your home seem to breathe, expanding and contracting with each syllable of her chant. And somewhere just beyond your sight, you feel it—the veil thinning, the world bending. And something drawing near.

The moonlight recedes completely, swallowed into shadow, until only the dim glow of the burning herbs remains, their smoke rising in faint spirals. The scent of mugwort is sickly sweet in the back of your throat, mixing with the acrid tang of wormwood to churn your stomach. The symbols carved into the slab—ones you hadn’t noticed before—began to glow as if sensing the offering.

A strange power stirs within you, rising without warning. It shivers along your skin, flaring at your fingertips, lighting your nerves with wildfire. It fills you to the brim, heady and intoxicating, making you feel more alive than you have in moons—whole, strong, near invincible.

You glance at the old woman, and her face—withered and worn mere moments ago—now seems to shine with youth, her features blossoming by a vitality not her own. The dark force that is sparking within you has rooted itself fully in her, feeding her strength beyond what her flesh should hold. A faint smile graces her lips as she looks at you, knowing, triumphant.

And for one breath, you waver. For a moment the power calls to you—sweet and seductive. With this power, you can make the world right again. With this power, you can save Kai, you can save the tribe, you can restore everything to order. Perhaps one life is a small price for peace. Perhaps some sacrifices are necessary for the greater good.

But then, the child stirs.

And your eyes fall on him—-small, fragile, alive. His chest rises with each shallow breath, lashes trembling against his cheeks, tiny fingers curling as though instinctively reaching for comfort he will never again receive. And in a flash, his future unfurls before you like a vision—the laughter of boyhood, the wild courage of youth, the heat of love, the wisdom that only time can bestow. All of it devoured by a power that prowls around him like a beast, eager to tear into his soft flesh.

And then—suddenly—all that power is gone. It departs your body in a violent rush, leaving you gutted and raw. You stagger back, breath caught in your throat, bile rising. The strength that once made you feel godlike now curdles from the guilt and shame brewing in your gut.

You turn around, fleeing from the horror of it all. Your feet slamming against the ground as you run—out of what was once your home and into the cold night. You don’t stop to think. You can’t. All you know is that you have to get away.

From the altar.

From her.

From the child.

From what you’ve all become.

You flee the settlement in a haze, your feet carrying you into the wilderness before thought could catch up to you. You don’t pause to consider that if Beomgyu finds you alone, in the dark, he might not spare you a second time. Perhaps, somewhere beneath the panic, a part of you hopes he wouldn’t.

The forest swallows you whole. Branches clawing at your skin. Rocks biting into the soles of your feet. You wander deeper, breathless, until the walls of your world are replaced by thorns and shadows.

The air out here is biting—cold enough to make your teeth chatter, and still you welcome it. The frigid night air is a balm against the fever that has clung to you ever since the night-bloomer scorched its way through your blood. That cursed flower was the beginning. It opened something inside you, and whatever stepped through never left.

From the edge of this high ridge, you watch the settlement below. Its fire flickers and dances—no doubt being fed new sacrifices even now. It has become a nightly ritual. You have stopped asking who, or why, or what it accomplished. It no longer mattered. One day, it would be your turn. Perhaps soon.

You stay there for hours, curled against the earth like a wounded animal, until the morning sun breaks the night open with its blinding light, its heat beating ruthlessly against your back, pulling you from your icy resting place. Only then do you begin the long walk home. Step by step, as though the daylight could erase what you had witnessed from your mind.

As you approach Kai’s home—the one you had once tried to think of as your own—dread blooms anew in your chest.

Kai is waiting inside for you. He sits stiffly near the hearth, though no fire has been lit. His eyes, hollow and rimmed in red, snap to you the moment you enter. He hasn’t slept. You can tell.

“Where were you?” His voice is rough, dry. You open your mouth to answer, but the words catch. “I—I was just…”

He turns fully to you, something brittle in his expression, like a man one breath away from breaking. “Were you with my grandmother?”

Your heart seizes up, scared to beat lest it betray you. He knows. He knows what you've seen. What you’d almost done. He knows what you are now. A monster.

“Did my grandmother slaughter a child for blood magic?”

You open your mouth, but no words come. What is there to say? There is no explanation, no defense that wouldn’t rot on your tongue.

But he does not wait for your answer. He seems to barely even see you.

“She’s gone,” Kai tells you, his voice hollow. “They burned her.”

You stare at him, quiet, still, guilty.

“She was caught trying to dispose of the body,” He continues, looking somewhere past you. “The villagers found the remains… and the altar. They saw what she had done.”

He swallows hard, his own words hard for him to stomach. “They dragged her to the fire—And they threw her in.” His breath hitches, faltering for a moment. “My father tried to stop them. He tried to save her.”

Kai’s hands tremble, fingers curling into fists in a futile attempt to steady himself. His eyes shine with unshed tears. “He stood before them all and called Beomgyu the devil. Said he’d cut him down—and every last one of them who stood with him. Even if it meant slaughtering the entire tribe.”

Kai looks down, and for a moment, you fear he might shatter into a thousand pieces that you’d spend the rest of your short life trying to piece back together. “Beomgyu didn’t even need to say a word. His own people turned on him. Just like that. They dragged him to the flames and threw him in after her.”

He lifts a trembling hand to his face, his fingers press against his skin like a dam against a flood, but it’s no use. The tears spill anyway, silent and searing. “I only survived because my men held me back. They stopped me from running into the fire after them.”

Silence settles between you for a few long moments—pressing in from all sides, crushing. Then, finally, Kai lifts his gaze to you, and for the first time, you see him utterly broken.

“I’m next. I know I am.” He swallows hard, voice thinning to a whisper. “You were right. I can’t protect you. I can’t protect anyone.”

____________________________

Kai watches, helpless, as more and more of his family fall like winter leaves—plucked from the tree one by one, their faces lost to the fire.

He moves through life like the dead, a ghost barely bound to flesh, walking only because he does not know he has been claimed. Each morning he wakes is not a mercy, but a sentence delayed. Each breath drawn is a borrowed one.

And still, you try to protect him.

You surround him with wards, cleanse the air around him with sacred herbs, speak the old words over his sleeping figure. You draw on all the knowledge you had learned from your mother and your masters—every charm, every rite, every shred of knowledge that has been passed down through the ages.

And still, it is not enough. You can see the darkness seeping in through your protective walls, like water through cracked stone. So you shift course, forced to adopt a new approach if you wanted any hope of making it out alive.

You form an alliance with Beomgyu, offering him the illusion of compliance. You adopt the language of compromise, of reason—anything to buy time. You push Kai to yield, not just out of fear, but out of strategy. Because if Beomgyu truly means to rule, he cannot do so alone.

Let him burn the priests, let him silence the elders—but he cannot kill everyone. If he erases every trace of the ruling line and all religious authority, there will be no one left to legitimize him. The people may fear him now, but once the blood stops flowing, they will begin to question. And power built on fire alone will, in time, burn itself to ash.

You believe this. You hold onto it. Because the alternative is too monstrous to bear.

So you and Kai play your parts in this madness. You nod in silence to Beomgyu’s demands. You keep your gaze lowered when they drag another innocent soul to the pyre. You swallow down your shame, choke on your disgust, and wear your submission like armor.

And it works. For a time, the sickness slows. The village breathes. The sacrifices seem to satisfy something—if not Beomgyu, then whatever he serves.

But even that isn’t enough to save him.

You notice it first, of course. A faint shadow, just beneath Kai’s skin. A sheen of black along his collarbone, no bigger than a bruise. He doesn’t see it, but you do. You press your fingers to it, try to rub it away like dirt, but it stays.

And if Kai can’t see the rot slowly overtaking his body, he can still see your reaction to it—your alarm, your despair, and eventually he has to ask. “What is it?” He says softly, his voice quiet, resigned, as if he already knows the truth you cannot bear to speak.

Instead, you burn more herbs until your eyes sting from the smoke, steep roots and resins until your hands are raw, chant until your voice grows hoarse. You bathe him in salves, wrap him in spells and prayers—but still, it spreads.

The darkness that clung to your mother has found him now. It festers beneath his skin like rot, blooming slowly. The same black veins. The same sleepless nights. The same flickers of pain he tries to hide behind weary eyes and quiet smiles.

And with every passing day, you watch as you fail the one person you have fought so desperately to save. You wonder if this is why Beomgyu has spared you. So you would live long enough to witness your lover’s slow and torturous demise. So you would be forced to bear the agony of helplessness, to watch as love turns to ash in your arms. So he can see how much more you can take before your heart splits open under the weight of your grief.

_____________________

The fire in the hearth has long since died out, but you don’t have the strength to reignite it. The shadows stretch long across the room, and Kai lies beneath them—asleep, his breath shallow, his skin dark with the unmistakable touch of the curse.

You sit with him, legs folded, his head resting on them. You haven’t left his side since the coughing began—since the first flecks of blood stained his lovely lips.

His eyes flutter open, slow and unfocused, but when they meet yours, he offers a weak smile. “You’re still here.”

Your throat tightens. “Where else would I be?”

He shifts, just barely, wincing from the effort. “I keep dreaming… that you left me. That you–” He frowns, not continuing, and you did not wish him to.

You brush your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle, as though trying to smooth the sickness away. “I wouldn’t leave you. Not now. Not ever.”

Kai’s hand finds yours—shaky, and weak—and he brings your knuckles to his lips, resting them there. There’s no heat in his breath anymore, just the ghost of warmth. The silence between you is thick, filled with everything you feel and everything you don’t have time to say. Outside, the wind howls like it mourns for you.

Kai’s hand moves slowly, fingertips brushing your cheek. “Do you remember the first time I saw you in the temple gardens?”

You smile weakly, the memory fond and precious in your mind. “You asked me if I was a spirit.”

“You looked like one,” He murmurs, awed. “Too bright to be real.”

You let out a soft laugh—real but slightly bitter. “I think you’re the only one who’s ever looked at me like that.”

It’s true. No one has ever looked at you so kindly. Not your parents. Not Beomgyu. Not anyone.

“You’re the only one I ever looked at like that,” He tells you, his weak voice sounding firmer than it has been for a long time. “If my end is near… I’m glad I get to spend it with you.”

You press an aching kiss to his forehead, your lips lingering there, as if the love you press into his skin can sink deep enough to drive out the curse.

“It’s not the end,” You lie gently. “You’re still here. And I’m not letting go yet.”

He looks up at you, and there’s something in his eyes that breaks you—resignation, sadness, the desperate look of a man who knows he’s fading and wants to feel alive just one more time.

You shift, laying his head down on soft fabric so you can climb over him, breathing him in. His hands reach for your waist, tentative, as if asking permission. You don’t pull away. You wouldn't dream of it. Instead, you lean into him, your foreheads touching, the tip of your nose brushing his.

His fingers graze the back of your neck, sliding into your hair, and you press your mouth to his slowly. The kiss is soft. His lips part against yours, and you drink in the faint warmth of him while it lasts.

You pull back just enough to look at him again, eyes shining with love. He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear, thumb brushing the side of your face.

“If I die, I want to die like this. Holding you. Not in—” He gulps, and you shush him, quickly pressing another kiss to his lips.

Then his cheek, then lower—to the hollow of his throat where you feel his thready pulse, to his chest, where his heart beats faintly beneath your lips. You take your time with him. Every brush of your fingers, every kiss, is slow, deliberate—like you’re trying to remember him—not just his body, but everything about him, the way his muscles tense beneath your touch, the way he sighs your name like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

You make your way down his stomach, lingering where the faint little hairs rise from under his breeches, listening for the way his breath hitches at your proximity.

Then you pull them down, exposing his hard member to you. You gather it in your hands, placing a few gentle kisses along the length before taking it in your mouth. You shudder at the soft moan he lets out. He lies still and pliant, chest rising and falling in rhythm with your movements. His hand finds the back of your head, not pushing, just holding—like he needs you to anchor him.

“You feel so good.” He chokes out, breath quickening as the heat of your mouth gets to his head. “Gods, I love you so much.”

You slow down again, needing to savor the way his hips twitch beneath your touch, the tremble in his legs. You can feel his restraint, the way he’s holding back, not wanting to overwhelm you with his urgency. It makes your chest ache. Even now, with his body failing, he’s still thinking of you.

“I know, darling. I love you too. So much.” You whisper, taking your mouth off him to pump his length in your hand instead, your pace fast and easy over the wet member. “Want you to give in to me. Forget everything and only focus on my touch, the tightness of my grip, the softness of my lips…”

You talk him through it, punctuating your words with open-mouthed kisses to his cock, until his head falls back and a quiet, broken sound escapes his lips.

“I'm right there. I can't–I need you!” His body arches, shuddering as you draw every last drop of pleasure from him, and then he collapses back against the ground, boneless, eyes fluttering shut.

You move back up his body slowly, pressing soft kisses to his stomach, then to his chest, then to the curve of his jaw. When you finally reach his lips, he pulls you in, arms around your waist, holding you close like he never wants to let go.

“I don’t deserve you.”

Your heart drops in guilt, and you hush him with a kiss. “You deserve more than I have given you. More than I can ever give you.”

He shakes his head. “You’ve given me everything.”

No, you’ve taken everything from him, and soon you’ll take his life too.

Still, you stay close to him, selfishly curled along the length of his body, his skin damp with sweat, his breath still shallow but slower now. You rest your head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat—faint, yes, but steady. Strong enough to ease your worries, if only for tonight.

His fingers thread loosely into your hair, his other hand cradling the back of your neck, as though he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. Neither of you speak for a while. The silence full of things too heartbreaking to put into words: thank you, I love you, I’m scared.

You kiss the skin over his heart, once, then again, and he hums softly, tired but content.

“You're warm,” He murmurs, and you frown. Does he feel the burn of the curse too?

You shift to look at him, your leg draping over his hips, hands resting gently against his ribcage. You can feel the sickness thrumming under your fingertips. You know it all too well now—the slow, merciless crawl of it. The way it spreads inward, inch by inch, carving through flesh and spirit alike as it creeps toward the heart, and yet he holds you like he’s still whole.

“I wish I could take it from you,” You whisper, fingers pressing down firmly as if you could draw it out through touch alone. “I’d carry it all, if I could. Every ache, every breath. I’d let it tear through me instead—if it meant saving you.”

He shakes his head resolutely. “I would never let you. I would die a thousand deaths before I let it hurt you.”

There is no use arguing with him. For all your declarations, neither of you can save each other. So you lay your head back down on his shoulder and fall into a rhythm with his breathing, your hand moving slowly up and down his side in a soothing motion.

“Tell me something good,” He asks you quietly.

“Like what?”

“Anything. A lie, even. I don’t care.” He says, and his desperation breaks you.

You think for a moment, then smile to yourself, picking the most beautiful lie. “You’re going to get better. We’re going to beat this, beat him, and restore everything to what it was. Then we’ll rebuild—cleanse the tribe, shape it into something kinder, somewhere safe. A place worthy of the children we’ll raise together. And one day, there’ll be stories about us. Legends. Our descendents will speak about how we saved the world from darkness.”

Kai chuckles, low and raspy. “That’s a good lie.”

“I’ll keep telling it until it’s true.” You lean up and kiss the corner of his mouth. He turns his head and kisses you back, more desperate and needy this time—the kind of kiss you give when you don’t know how many more you have left.

He touches you more boldly, his hands running along your sides, to your hips, pulling your dress up and guiding you over his cock until you’re sinking down on it, making you both cry out in relief as you become one.

If you could, you would never let this moment end. You would stay here, forever bound to your beloved.

Your hands slide across his chest, your mouth trailing close behind it, kissing every inch of skin as if each touch could buy you another day. He murmurs your name like a prayer, over and over.

When your bodies meet, it’s not rushed despite your desperation. It’s not even just about pleasure. It’s about closeness. Skin to skin, breath to breath. You move together in the dark, your hands tangled in his hair, his fingers grasping your waist, your shoulders, your arms—anything to keep you near. You feel him tremble beneath you, from the strain of his pleasure, from the emotions he can no longer hold in.

You kiss his tears away. You give him your everything—every thrust of your hips, every desperate moan, every gasp as you ride him until neither of you can tell where he ends and you begin.

“I’m so sorry.” You tell him, fighting to hold back your own tears as you watch him ache beneath you, his cock hot and twitching inside your fluttering pussy. “I’m so sorry.”

He can’t hear your apologies, and perhaps that’s a small mercy. Better he never knows what you’ve done. The curse might claim his body, but to live his final days with the knowledge that he has been doomed by the very person he loves—that is a fate more cruel than death.

You can tell that he’s close, and you let one of your hands drop between you to brush against your pussy, pushing yourself over the edge so your contracting walls can milk his cock dry.

“Oh, gods!” He groans, his eyes fighting to stay on you as his second release wracks through his weak body. “I love you. Thank you.”

You cannot bear to receive his gratitude, not when you know that the slow ruin overtaking his body all began with you. So you kiss him until he can no longer speak, until the tension fades from his limbs and his body yields to exhaustion. Only then do you stop.

You collapse beside him, your bodies pressed together, limbs entwined like roots grown from the same tree. You rest your head in the crook of his neck, your hand over his heart once more.

It still beats. Not strong. Not for long. Not if you do nothing.

You cannot let him die. You need to save him. You’ve been selfish enough, watching him suffer for far too long while you cling to your fear, your pride, your hope that there might be another way. But there isn’t.

And you know what you must do.

_________________

You slip out in the dead of night, silent as the grave, your heart pounding so loudly it feels like it can be heard through the stillness. The village sleeps around you, tucked into an uneasy slumber. You should be asleep too—wrapped in your lover’s arms, but instead your feet carry you forward—to the one place you swore you’d never go.

Beomgyu’s home looms ahead, shrouded in shadow, the darkness pooling thickly around it, making it seem larger, more oppressive than it is. The door hangs slightly ajar, as though left open for you. And perhaps that should have been your first warning.

You step inside, breath lodged in your throat, every footfall echoing loudly in the unnatural stillness. You half-expect to find him asleep, or hunched over in some twisted ritual. But instead, he’s standing in the center of the room, perfectly still, eyes fixed on the door, on you, as if he knew you were coming. That should have been your second warning.

The hairs on the back of your neck lift. Every instinct screams at you to turn and run and not look back until you’re far away from here. But it’s already too late. You’ve stepped into his grasp, and you know he will not let go so easily.

“What are you doing here, flower?” He asks, his voice quiet—almost gentle. There’s no surprise in it. No confusion. Just a calm certainty. As if this moment had already taken place in his mind a thousand times before.

You open your mouth to speak, but your words fail you. You’re struck by the softness of him—not the snarling cruelty you've come to expect, not the hollow-eyed hatred he’d worn all these weeks since you’d first rejected him.

Gods—has it only been mere weeks? It feels like the terror and grief you’ve lived through can fill up a hundred lifetimes.

“Is it proper,” Beomgyu murmurs, his tone and expression almost… fond. As if you were lovers meeting in secret. “for a married woman to be alone in another man’s house at such an ungodly hour?”

His tone is light, but beneath it lies something darker—a knowing, a warning, a welcome. And though you haven’t yet said a word, he already knows why you’ve come. You see it in the way he steps closer, in the slight, assured curl of his smile. He’s been waiting for this.

“There is no such thing as an ungodly hour. The gods watch over us always.” Your voice is steadier than you expected, the defiance slipping out before you can stop it—small, trembling, but there, surprising even you.

Beomgyu smiles wider, and you can’t help but feel mocked. In this house of darkness, you worry that the gods can’t see you.

“Indeed they do,” He takes another slow step toward you, hands clasped behind his back as if he does not need to lift a finger to bring you to your knees. “Does he know you’re here?”

You shake your head, already struggling to breathe. “No.” Your voice is quieter now, more weak. “He can’t know. He can’t know any of it—so please, just… stop.”

Your mouth fills with saliva as bile rises to the back of your throat. “I don’t know why you’re doing this. I don’t understand what you want from me. But please… no more.”

You hate how broken you sound. You hate the way the shadows press closer around you as if they can sense your weakness, how he watches you as if he’s ready to devour you.

“So you’ve come here all alone… behind your husband’s back… to another man’s home?” He advances on you slowly, like a predator savoring the moment before the strike. “That’s not very wise.” Another step. “What if I do something to you?” His head tilts, eyes gleaming with something far too close to hunger. “What if I decide to take what I have always wanted?”

His words hang in the air like incense smoke, thick and cloying. He watches you the way a cat watches a mouse it had battered within an inch of its life—curious to see what you will do, knowing you can’t run.

Your breath is shallow, but your pulse is a thunderous roar in your ears. You flinch when he finally closes the distance between you and reaches out. You brace for the worst, but his fingers merely brush through your hair to tuck a loose strand behind your ear. The gesture may seem sweet, but it only serves to remove what little separates you from the depthless darkness of his eyes, and that is exactly his purpose.

He hates you and he wants you. This isn’t about affection—it’s about conquest. About proving that he can take what was once denied him. That he can make you his, if only to undo you. You feel it in his gaze, in the sharp softness of his touch. This is the revenge he’s always hungered for.

Your voice comes out quieter than you had hoped, but it remains resolute. “Do what you will… just stop this.”

“Stop what?” The corner of his mouth twitches. That cruel little glint of satisfaction, duper’s delight, flickering in his eyes like he can barely contain his pleasure at seeing his plans unravel so perfectly. “I am only purging this tribe of those infected with the curse,” He says, mockingly pious.

You stare at him, heart thundering, disgust bitter on your tongue. “Then go jump into that fucking fire. That will cure us all.”

He laughs, the sound battering against your weak heart and making it want to shrivel up and die–his apparent good mood more unnerving than his anger. You feel like prey already halfway into the lion’s mouth.

“Why, surely you’re not implying that I am behind the curse?” The mockery drips like poison honey from his tongue. He’s daring you to say it, daring you to try to strip away the mask he wears for the others and face the monster you’ve unknowingly nurtured.

“You are!” You cry, your voice thrumming with a courage you do not truly possess. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, or how you can find any of it amusing, but it’s not. You’re killing people—innocent people!”

Beomgyu doesn’t flinch, your fury and disgust scattering around him like ash in the wind. He merely tilts his head, a slow, mocking gesture, and drawls, “Who is innocent? Your mother? The woman who tried to barter your life for her own?”

That silences you—but he isn’t finished.

“Or perhaps your husband’s father—our brave leader—who threatened you, used you, and would've cast you at my feet just as your mother did, if it meant I’d spare him.”

You don’t respond, the truth of his words piercing your skin like blades.

“No one in this tribe is innocent,” Beomgyu continues, his voice low, almost mournful. “They care for nothing but their own safety. Their own comfort. They would let the world burn just to keep themselves warm.”

His fingers lift—gentle, too gentle—and brush against your cheek. The touch is soft, but it feels like it brands you. “They condemn that which they don’t understand and cast it out without a second thought. Without mercy.”

You swallow, forcing down the lump in your throat. “Is that what all of this is for? To punish them? To take revenge for what they did to you?”

His gaze darkens, like a storm passing over still water. You've struck something raw. “Do I not deserve revenge?”

“For what?” You ask, incredulous. “Because they looked at you in distaste?”

“You think that’s all that was done to me?” His false smile finally slips from his face, revealing the raw edge beneath. “I was feared by my own mother, hated by my own father, then blamed for their deaths. I was judged before I even had the chance to defend myself. I was stripped of everything, my family name, my birthright, my future, and you all watched it happen. No one came for me. No one defended me. My bloodline was doomed to rot while others like yours were revered. I was condemned to nothing—and still you call it distaste?”

You feel the world bend around you—as if even the night itself recoils in fear of his wrath.

“If you think all that was nothing but distaste,” He murmurs, his voice stripped of all pretense, “then why are you here, begging for it to stop when it’s finally happening to you?”

You blanch, the breath catching in your lungs like smoke.

Suddenly, everything begins to make sense. His aim was not just to dismantle and destroy those in power so he could rise to take their place. No—he wanted you to suffer as he had suffered. To feel the whispers at your back. To endure the suspicion in your family’s eyes. To suffer the isolation that gnaws at the edges of your sanity. To see your name soiled, your future crumbling in the palms of your hand.

He wanted to ruin you, just as you watched him get ruined. “Please,” You whisper, voice quivering with the tears of despair and utter hopelessness you’re struggling to hold back. “Whatever justice you believe this to be, you’ve delivered it. Let it end now—please.”

“But I am not doing anything, my flower,” Beomgyu says, his voice once again cloaked in silken innocence. “This is the gods’ wrath, sent down to punish the sinners.”

You recoil as though scorched, fury and dread climbing your throat like smoke from a pyre.

“Liar!” You hiss at him. “It’s you. This is all your doing.”

He feigns confusion, his smile soft and patronizing. “How can that be? I have no power, remember? I am nothing, no one. Not compared to you.” His gaze sharpens, though his tone remains deceptively light. “Wasn’t it your family who was entrusted with the sacred arts? The divine craft passed down through generations? Wasn’t it you who once told me of the dark magic that is kept hidden behind the walls of the temple? The spells marked in blood beneath the altar?”

The implication in his words is clear. You cannot give him up. If he burns, you burn with him.

Your knees nearly buckle under the weight of it all—his threat, his power, the noose he’s been quietly tightening around your neck seemingly since the moment you met him.

“Please,” You plead, voice frayed. “Spare them. Spare him.”

He regards you in a silence that stretches between you like a taut thread ready to snap. Then, calmly—almost kindly—he says, “Only the innocent will be spared.”

Your heart thuds heavily in your chest. “But… you said there are no innocents.”

His answering smile is slow, terrible, and you finally start to cry, the tears falling faster than you can wipe them away. “He is innocent.” You insist, wailing.

“Is he?” His voice is not raised, but sharpened—like a blade sliding between ribs. “His family is the reason mine is dead.”

“Lies!” You shout, desperate to drown him out, to push back against the tide of his hate. “He is good—he’s good.”

But your words barely leave your mouth before his hand strikes like a snake, fisting in your hair and yanking your head back sharply. You gasp, pain blooming across your scalp, your neck straining as he forces you to look up at him—his eyes dark and gleaming with fury and hurt, long-fed and allowed to fester.

“Tell me again. Tell me how good he is.” His grip tightens, uncaring that he’s hurting you as he watches your tears stream down your cheeks.

“Tell me why you chose him over me.” For the first time, his voice rises, a crack forming in his composure, letting you glimpse his hurt. “Was it because he is respected? Because his family’s name sits high on the tongues of fools while mine is dragged through filth? Because the people love him—trust him—as a matter of birthright—while they hate and fear me for the lies his family told? For the poison your elders whispered into my father’s ear? For the lies they let fester until they bled into every home in this cursed tribe?”

You try to shake your head, to deny it, but his grip holds you fast.

“You’re lying,” You manage, the words brittle, barely holding shape. “Why would they do that? Why would they want to hurt you?” You ask as if you’ve never heard the rumors. As if you don’t remember the whispers that once buzzed like flies around a fresh grave, speaking of his father’s untimely death and how fortuitous it was for Kai’s father to survive his only real rival for leadership.

Beomgyu’s laugh is empty, humorless. “Ask your precious husband. I’m sure he won’t lie to you—not now that you’re one of them.” The accusation in his voice burns like his fire. “You’re both cut from the same cloth. Liars and hypocrites. You wear righteousness like a veil, pretend to be pure, pretend to be above me—” He sneers down at you, his shadow devouring your light.

“I’ll strip away that veil—thread by thread. And when there’s nothing left to hide behind, not your name, not your blood, not your husband’s family, I’ll show everyone what you really are. What you’ve always been—rotten underneath.”

You stare at him, heart fluttering in your chest like an injured bird. “You’re insane,” You whisper faintly to whatever monstrous creature is wearing Beomgyu’s face.

And yet, the cruelest truth is the one you cannot deny—he is not wrong. You’re no better than him. You have brought death to your parents, ruin to your husband’s bloodline, and doom to the tribe. Every choice you have made has carried you further from the grace of the gods, and you fear that their gates have been long closed to you.

He leans closer, until there is no air between you and him. Until the warmth of his breath ghosts over your skin, and you can smell the faint trace of herbs and smoke clinging to him like a second skin. “Maybe I am after all,” He murmurs, voice low and intimate, as if sharing a secret only with you.

“What do you hope to gain from this?” You sob, wondering with growing terror if there remains any plea, any offering, that might yet stay this madman’s hand. “Just to kill us all for crimes you’ve imagined we committed?”

“Oh, flower,” He murmurs, almost fond. “You’re even more beautiful when you cry but I must warn you that those precious tears you shed only burn me with more hatred.”

He cups your cheek in his hand, and though he stands suffocatingly close, you can’t pull away, not with his fingers tangled in your hair like claws hooked into flesh. “It makes me want to kiss you until I've taken all your breath away, to fuck you until you have no tears left to shed and your throat bleeds from screaming my name.”

There it is—he no longer makes any effort to conceal his ravenous hunger. You came knowing this moment could come, hoped for it… but to say you were prepared for the violence of his desire would be a lie. Still, if surrender is the price for a little more time, you will pay it. If he harbors even a sliver of mercy in that withered heart, you’ll trade whatever pieces of yourself he demands so he will let you breathe a little longer. Not for you, but for it…

“Please…” You tremble, the words tearing your throat like thorns. “Spare my child. It is innocent.”

He stills, his haughty expression faltering. “You’re… with child?”

For the first time, there is no mockery in his voice. No smile on his face. No anger in his eyes. Just curiosity. And a flicker of something you’re scared to name.

You nod, tears blurring the shape of him, but never softening it. The despair wells up like a maelstrom in you as your thoughts drift to the life inside you. So small, so fragile. A child who may never see the light of day because of the monster that stands before you.

His shadow spills over you—vast, engulfing—larger than any mere mortal’s. His hand moves. Down. Until it lays gently over your abdomen.

You still, every muscle in your body tightening. You want to recoil, to strike him, to run. But you can’t. You’re afraid of what he might do if you try.

His touch is warm, gentle even, but it makes your skin crawl just the same. He is silent, contemplative, as though he could feel your child's lifeblood pulsing beneath his fingers. Then comes the faintest curve to his lips—a small, inexplicable smile that unnerves you. You can’t make sense of it and that terrifies you more than all the threats he’s made. Is he marveling at the life within you… or planning how best to use it? Will your child be spared, or sacrificed?

Your mind spirals. Behind your eyes, that horrible image resurfaces—the one you’ve tried so hard to banish: the infant Kai’s grandmother laid on the altar, soft and helpless, its innocence consumed to feed something foul and ancient.

Will he slaughter your child the same way—spill its blood to sustain whatever darkness writhes beneath his skin?

You wish you’d never told him. You wish your child would slip into the silence of your womb, its life fading before it could be used for something unholy. Before he could defile it, as he has defiled everything he’s ever touched. Before he could stain its soul so utterly that even the gods would turn their faces in disgust and refuse to welcome it home.

“Please,” You sob, barely able to speak through the wave of panic drowning your lungs. “Please don't hurt my child.”

He brushes away your tears with the pad of his thumb, his touch so gentle it only deepens your horror, convincing you that he’s preparing you for the slaughter. “Hush, flower,” He whispers. And then, slowly, he leans in—

His lips find your cheek first, kissing the trail your tears have burned down your face. He follows them as they run, until they pass over the corner of your mouth. There, he catches your lips in a kiss. Uninvited. Unwanted. Unstoppable.

You do not dare fight him. Instead, you kiss him back, desperate, needing to appease him. You let him draw you closer, pliantly responding to his terrifying hunger. You suppress your flinch when his hands start to roam, caressing and groping places only a husband should claim.

His pleased sighs are hot against your mouth, and you force yourself to swallow them down—burying your revulsion, your horror, your shame. You feel the hardness of him pressed against your hip, and everything inside you screams at you to stop this.

But you can’t. Because if this is the cost to keep your child alive… If this is what it takes to keep him from burning the only person you have left… then you will endure. Even if it breaks you. Even if the gods forsake you. Even if you never forgive yourself.

Your breath hitches as his hands roam lower, kneading the flesh of your hips, fingers digging in as though trying to mold you to him. You feel his hips grind faster against you—firm, insistent. You hear the roughness in his breath as he leans in closer, burying his face in your neck, breathing you in. And still you don’t pull away.

“So soft,” He murmurs, voice rough with need. “You don’t even realize what you do to me.”

You’re filled with revulsion—at him, at yourself. It sickens you to hear him all but admit to having viewed you so lewdly, to having lusted after you. But what makes your stomach turn even more violently is the way your body still reacts to his touch, despite everything—despite the monster he’s become, the horrors he’s unleashed, the blood he’s spilled. Despite the fact that you belong to another man, one you love. You hate it. You hate yourself for it.

And you begin to wonder if this too, is just another step in his cruel design? Not just to take you, not just to break you down and claim the pieces for himself—but to make you complicit? To make you question your purity, your loyalty, your sanity?

His lips press along your jaw, down the side of your throat, trailing heat and dread in equal measure. You close your eyes and try not to feel any of it. Try to think only of the child inside you. Of Kai’s face. Of anything but this.

You pull back, breathless, your lips damp with the salt of your own tears and the taste of him still clinging to your mouth. “Please, if I let you have me… will you spare them?”

He cocks his head to the side—eyes wild, feral. He lets the silence stretch until your heart is pounding against your ribs as if it wants out. You’re the first to break. Of course, you are. You cannot bear it, and so carefully, slowly you push one hand between your bodies to find his hard length and wrap your fingers around it in a tentative stroke. His jaw parts on a groan—a low sound that rumbles from deep in his chest. His lashes flutter shut, and for a few breathless moments, his body is open to you.

You study him—the quiver of his lips, the tension in his brow, the ache he hid for so long.

You watch his lashes, long and thick, fan out softly against his cheeks. His nose rising in an elegant silhouette from his handsome face. And his lips—soft, full, and delicate in a way that doesn’t belong in his world of ash and fire. You wonder how someone so lovely could hold so much darkness. With his eyes closed, he looks almost peaceful. Serene. Like an angel caught between two worlds, reminding you so much of the young boy you once held a small flame in your heart for, and your heart breaks. Not for the man in front of you, but for the boy who never stood a chance.

For a few moments, all you see is the boy who once waited for you at the edge of the woods with dirt on his knees and wildflowers in his fists. The boy who laughed too loudly and asked too many questions, excited and eager to have a friend, to get a glimpse at a world that never made room for him.

You wonder if he is still in there, if the fire burning through him hasn’t completely consumed him. You wonder if it’s not too late, if the monster still remembers what it means to love. You wonder if maybe, just maybe, there is a way to pull that boy out from underneath the embers.

But even with his eyes closed, you feel watched. Not by him—but by whatever always clings to him.

You keep stroking him, slow and measured, your other hand braced on his chest to keep some distance between you because despite all your mournful ruminations, this is not an act of tenderness, of love. This is a bid for salvation. He is no longer the little boy who yearned for belonging, who begged for your attention. That boy is long gone, if ever he existed. In his place stands a monster who slaughters those who once shunned him, carving out the place he was robbed of with blood and ash, and forcing you to bargain for the life of your unborn child with your chastity and dignity.

Beomgyu’s head drops back to your neck—gravitating there like it’s in his nature to tear you apart. His lips are hot and open, teeth scraping against your skin with something between hunger and rage. You wince, swallowing down your cries and moans. You can already feel the bruise forming there, how you’ll have to hide it later. If you live long enough to care.

He drags your dress up with possessive hands, fabric sliding over your thighs like a shroud being lifted. You shiver, the cold air meeting your bare skin, but that brief moment of chill does not last long for it is quickly replaced by his burning touch, his cock pressing—hard and hot, against your bare pussy.

You try not to cry out, try not to feel, but every nerve in your body seems to betray you, registering the pressure, the heat, the terrifying intimacy.

“What a pretty, pliant little whore,” He breathes against your ear, voice low and filled with a dark kind of awe. “Look how easily you break for me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, shame burning you alive. You want to vanish, to disappear inside yourself—anything so you won’t have to endure the shame and guilt of your body reacting to his touch.

But you stay still. You let him. Because there’s nothing else left to give. No more bargains to make. Just this. Just your body. And he knows it—He savors it.

You feel it in the way his breath turns ragged, in the low hum that escapes his throat like a growl. His hands tighten on your hips, fingertips digging into your flesh like he’s trying to imprint himself on you, like he wants you to never forget this.

His thumb brushes against your clit, touching you with slow intent, forcing you to feel as he drags his cock against your wet pussy. His satisfaction is palpable in the heat of his body, in the raspy moans that break from his lips like prayers through clenched teeth. Each breath he takes sounds like hunger. Each sigh, like triumph.

“Gods,” He mutters, voice shaking with pleasure. “I can eat you whole.”

“P-please…” You barely have the power left to speak, your shaky voice sounding repulsive to your own ears. Oh, how deep you’ve sunk. “Whatever you want. Just… just spare my baby. Spare Kai. Please.”

Suddenly, he pulls back, and the shift in his demeanor is swift and jarring. His mouth that was open in pleasure snaps shut. His brows that were furrowed in pleasure take on a furious look. And his dark gaze that is no longer tempered by pleasure—locks onto yours.

His hand wraps around your wrist and you swallow down the trepidation at the back of your throat, bracing for him to pull you in for more, to finish what you started. But instead, to your relief—and despair—he doesn’t. He pushes your hand away and steps back, shaking his head.

You blink, uncomprehending, as the distance opens between you. His eyes stay on yours, and for a heartbeat longer, he allows you to see the storm behind them. The rage. The grief. The boy who was buried alive beneath years of humiliation and exile, and who clawed his way back from the grave with nothing but the hatred and pain burning through his veins.

The full revelation of it, wrapped in a single, horrifyingly calm moment, almost knocks you off your feet.

“Can you give me back respect?” He asks, his voice low, his anger barely contained. “The dignity they stripped from me? The place in the tribe that should have been mine by birthright—stolen by your husband’s family?”

Your stomach knots. “No,” You shake your head, denying it until the end. “That’s not what happened. You brought this upon yourself. You killed your parents. You gave yourself to the dark.”

“Why is it so hard for you to believe they conspired to ruin my family in order to keep their place atop the tribe?” His eyes blaze, his tone bitter, “And yet so easy for you to believe that a child—a child—could murder his own parents? His unborn siblings?”

You struggle to meet his gaze as if the hatred within it has the power to fell you. “Because you’re evil. Everyone can see it.”

The words hang in the air, quivering like a blade waiting to drop.

His smile returns, and your stomach drops. That’s when you know—you’ve said the wrong thing. You’ve broken whatever fragile thread held back the monster. “Then everyone will see their evil too. And they won’t be given mercy, just as no one showed me mercy.”

“Please,” You try again, voice cracking and hands trembling as you try to reach out for him. try to fix it. “Please, Beomgyu.”

But his eyes remain cruel, pitiless. You’ve squandered your one chance.

He seizes your arm, his grip bruising, and hauls you toward the door. “Save your tears. You never shed them for me. Why should I care if you shed them for him?”

With a final shove, he casts you out. “Go to him,” He spits, looking down at you. “Save him if you can.”

And just like that, the door slams shut behind you—snuffing out the last flicker of hope you still dared to cling to.

__________________________

A/N: There is only one chapter left because this one was humungous. please let me know what you think and how you think the story will end

and just for fun though i already know the answer

#txt smut #beomgyu smut #heuningkai smut #supernatural au #dark fic #yandere au

53 notes · View notes

entities-of-posts · 3 days ago

Note

Howdy archivist! Nice to see you on this fine day.

I never really know how to start these.

I have a re occurring dream where I am Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the magnus Institute (or rather, i am him but im watching him from an external angle, like a movie.) And I am "cave crawling" with Timothy stoker. But we are not in a cave, we are in his muscle tissue, it spasms with pain and I keep trying to show him that there are termites that have burrowed into him and he's in danger but he brushes me off. The muscles occasionally get tighter making us unable to move for a while, other than the couple inches we can move by squirming against the slime of his insides. I show him a bug which is eating through him and he ignores me. I mold his muscle like clay to try and fix the hole the bug made but it dosent work, the hole re opens and the bug crawls to me, it is so much larger than me. And then we are back to crawling through slimy meat. And im back to trying to help him rid his body of bugs.

Now, I'm not sure if dreams really count, but this one *keeps* happening and it's really weird. I also have just had several dreams where I am jon sims. This dream is not scary, other than the frantic feeling of trying to warn him of his inevitable death. Even the bugs themselves aren't scary, and I'm scared of bugs normally. These are cute bugs.

Thoughts? (And prayers)

Given that this ask was sent before the release of The Magnus Protocol episode 39, it sounds like Jonathan Sims, real life Rusty Quill writer, was also in your dream to plagiarize. Flesh and Corruption.

#the flesh #the corruption #oneiric studies

39 notes · View notes

etlascivus · 2 years ago

Text

@hhemeraa how will you be DEVOURED ?

to be loved by the devil of carnal sin is to be trapped with him for all eternity . if asmodeus's obsession with sarah is any indication , myles has a long future ahead of him . the temporary nature of mortal years && mortal flesh will have no say in young man's end . whether it be by transforming him into a demon like himself or preserving delicate soul in the depths of his estate , asmodeus refuses to relinquish love again , especially now with teeth && claws sunk in .

however life leaves myles , it will not be without a fight . the soul may vanish , but it can be found . the body remains . the body can be preserved . the beast will grieve && grieve , && with eyes red && cheeks stained by streaks of watery kohl , he will summon his ram head . the devil's three stomachs are each unique , && the ram's is the perfect space for that most precious to him . the ram opens its maw && swallows empty corpse whole , keeping it safe until lost soul is found && love returns once more .

#hhemeraa #(( even in death you will never be rid of him ))#▌* ☽「 ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛs && ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ғᴜɴ ; meme me 2 life 」▌

3 notes · View notes

cygnusposts · 3 months ago

Text

i think it's really funny when people try to assign batfam characters their own colors or whatever but refuse to use duplicates. could not be me. the inherent tragedy in using red for both jason and tim is something i will never get over

#jason is red in the sense of war. he is passionate and strong and a little volatile but he is also love and warmth and the fire you sit--#-- around on a camping trip #tim is red but like not because he emodies the traits you know #tim is red because jasons death haunts his every decision. even if not consciously #hs is robin because of jason and he can never really move on from that #like no matter how individual he becomes as a person there is always a part of him that will be overshadowed by jason and his death #and i think its so important to acknowledge that while assigning the characters colors #tim is also sort of red in the 'red in my ledger' way i think #like i joke about it but i don't think he actually killed anybody on the bruce quest yk #because it is a conscious choice for him to be the person he is #as far as he falls sometimes and as many lines as he crosses he will not cross this one #i think out of all of them he's the one who understands bruce's no kill rule the most. like just how it works in his head #but i also think he grapples with the urge to throw it out a lot more than bruce ever does #there is a lot of guilt in that. in wanting to just give up and end things because whats the Point?#whats the point in fighting the joker for the thirtieth time this month? it would be so easy to finish this fight.#when its him or me why do i still have to try to save us both. why can i not put my own survival first #but like he feels guilty for thinking like that #and i think red is a good color for describing that sort of feeling in wanting to give in and forget the rules #but also something about the like #metaphorical blood on his hands that does not exist #the literal and imaginary #jasons hands are coated in real blood of people hes killed and tims are red from his own thoughts #when jason washes his off it stays gone but tim can't get rid of what was never there in the first place #i don't know if any of this makes sense but my point is that they're both red to me #they're such narrative foils two sides of the same coin 'that could have been me' to me #woof.txt #dc #i think they look at each other and ask 'what if?' a lot #what if jason hadn't died. would he be more like tim.#what if tim just gave in to the urge to do something the easy way and kill somebody. would he be more like jason.

1 note · View note

yanderedrabbles · 2 months ago

Text

Christine - A Yandere Short Story

Based on Christine by Stephen King After your boyfriend's death, you're eager to sell his vintage Mustang. The car reminds you far too much of him and worse than that, it feels oddly alive. The only problem? Your dead boyfriend isn't ready to let go. Tags: Male Yanderes x Fem Reader, Horror, Character Death, 12k words Taglist: @mel-vaz

When your boyfriend died, you and Christine were the only witnesses.

All through his funeral, you kept thinking of ways to get rid of her. You were being paranoid and you knew it - she couldn't speak even if she wanted to. But having her around put you on edge, made you grit your teeth until your jaw ached.

After the wake, you approached your boyfriend's parents and asked if you could have her. They were pale and shaken, reeling from the suddeness of death just as much as from grief. His father nodded like a sleep walker, his voice older than his years.

"He would have wanted you to have her. She's yours."

His mother squeezed your shoulder. "I can't imagine what you're going through, dear. Whatever his faults, my boy loved you. I know that."

You managed a smile, managed to thank them through the tears that were suddenly falling. But your mind was on Christine. Always on Christine.

You were the last to leave the funeral parlour. You tried to tell yourself it was a coincidence, but deep down you knew the truth. You were scared. Scared of Christine, scared of your too quiet townhouse, scared of the dreams that would come when you closed your eyes.

It was early evening and the streetlights were coming on in the narrow tree lined avenue outside the funeral parlour. When you stepped out, goosebumps crawled across your arms.

She was waiting for you.

Christine. Your boyfriend's 1969 Mustang, cherry red and entirely rebuilt.

She was directly under a streetlight and her paint gleamed. The light reflected off her windshield so you couldn't see inside, but for a second it seemed like someone was already sitting behind the wheel.

You squeezed your eyes shut. When you opened them, the shadow driver was gone.

Christine. For most of your relationship, you loved her just as much as your boyfriend did. She was a labour of love and you felt it every time you sat in her passenger seat.

But things were different now.

You walked towards her cautiously. It was ridiculous to be scared of a car, but you were.

When you opened the driver side door, you almost expected to see your boyfriend. Despite the funeral, the wake, the late morning call to please come and identify a body down at the morgue, you still expected to see him. Light green eyes looking up at you, half smile that was half teasing and half lecherous.

The seats were empty.

You slid behind the wheel, your breathing shaky. You almost never drove Christine. Not that your boyfriend didn't offer. It was just that you liked riding passenger - liked looking over and seeing your man with one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh, liked seeing the muscles flex in his forearm when he steered.

The car still smelled like him. That was the first thing you noticed. Despite being impounded for a week while the cops did forensics, despite the valet scrubbing and steaming the seats to get the blood out, it still smelled like him.

You rested your head against the steering wheel, closed your eyes and sobbed for the first time since the night you killed your boyfriend.

When you put Christine up for sale, the calls started coming in almost immediately. It wasn't surprising - she was in incredible shape, she ran like a dream, and her white leather upholstery was original.

At first, you thought you'd be able to sell her before the month was up. The buyers would look under the hood and whistle in admiration.

But something always changed when they took her for a test drive. You couldn't understand it - she would drive perfectly but by the time you got home, the buyers were almost always frowning at you, or worse - not looking at you at all.

No matter how fanatic they were at first, no one wanted Christine.

You dropped the price and then dropped it again, but still no takers. The car spent all winter in the garage. You'd turn her on to idle every few days, clean off any dust and check that the mice weren't nibbling at the wiring, but you never stuck around for long.

It hurt to leave her locked away - your boyfriend poured so much of himself into her - but it hurt even worse to drive her. Whenever you were behind the wheel, you could feel the gaping emptiness of the passenger seat, could still see the bloodstains.

It was on the first warm day of spring when someone finally bought her.

Colt Guilder called you when you were just about ready to give up on selling her. You were literally about to take down the ad when your phone rang. The voice on the other end was deep, with a slight southern drawl that immediately reminded you of your boyfriend.

"Can I come and take a look today? I wouldn't want to impose ma'am, but I'm in a hurry to see her before anyone else gets a chance to buy her."

Her. Even the older buyers didn't really call cars 'her' anymore.

"Sure. You can come by this afternoon."

You were sitting on the porch steps when he pulled up, a jug of iced tea and your novel abandoned next to you. He stepped out of his Jeep, a tall man in blue jeans and boots, and you felt your heart lurch. Something deep inside you told you that this was the man who would finally take her off your hands.

He smiled at you as he approached and for a second you wanted to warn him away. Wanted to tell him the truth about Christine.

"Howdy ma'am. I'm real happy you agreed to meet me so last minute."

You smiled at him and shook his hand and bit back the truth. Oh, how you would come to hate that decision.

When he pulled up, Colt wasn't expecting the Mustang's owner to be a pretty little thing in a sundress. He was a gentleman, his mama raised him right, but even he had trouble keeping his eyes on your face and not letting them wander lower.

His hand swallowed yours when he shook it and it was hard not to notice the softness of your skin. Whoever rebuilt the Mustang, it wasn't you. You had the hands of a lady, not a mechanic.

"The car is out back. Keys are waiting for you. She's been serviced pretty regularly and my... my boyfriend built her up himself."

You started for the garage and he fell into step behind you. You were so much shorter than him - it was kind of cute to see your head bobbing in front of him. Like a pixie in a sundress.

"How come your man ain't the one to sell it?"

He wasn't surprised you had a boyfriend. Hell, he'd have tried his luck if he could. No doubt other men had the same idea.

"He... he passed away a few moths ago."

He cringed. Nice going, Colt. Bringing up painful memories only three sentences into conversation. Must be a world record.

"I'm so sorry ma'am. I had no idea."

You shrugged. "It's fine."

He was about to say something else when Christine came into view. Her grille was a newly buffed silver and her deep red paint caught the spring sun.

He gave a low whistle. "Pictures don't do her justice."

You smiled at that, but edged out of the car's direct line of sight. Neither of you consciously noticed it, but you approached the car like you would an animal. Slightly from the side so it couldn't charge at you.

"Mind if I take a look under the hood?"

"Be my guest."

He popped the hood and let out another low whistle. Without even looking past the surface level stuff, it was clear your boyfriend knew how to build an engine. The Mustang looked almost new.

"How long did this take?"

You leaned against the garage door and crossed your arms.

"A long time. He bought her a few months after we started dating. She was gonna be scrapped - looked like a total rust bucket."

He raised his eyebrows. If that was true, the body restoration alone must have cost a fortune. Did you realise how valuable a vintage ride like this was worth?

"Y'know, just from looking under the hood, I can tell you could get at least three times as much as you're asking."

If his uncle heard him sabotaging himself like that, he'd have given Colt a whack on the head. Truth was, he wanted the car. Wanted her so bad he would have taken out three separate loans to afford her.

But he wasn't a monster. It wasn't fair to buy something so fine from a girl who might not understand its true worth.

You raised your brows, more surprised at his honesty than at his statement.

"I know she's worth more. But I'm in a hurry to get rid of her. And well..."

You looked away. "People find the car a bit strange."

It was his turn to be surprised. He couldn't see any red flags in her upkeep or her paintwork. Maybe it was a deeper issue.

You pushed yourself away from the wall and nodded at the door.

"Keys are waiting for you. Take her for a drive and decide for yourself."

The interior was just as well taken care of as he expected - a tough job when the upholstery was mostly white. The keys had a tag attached with a name engraved in metal.

"Christine?"

"It's what we call her. It was a joke at first but the name sort of stuck."

You slid into the passenger seat and tugged your seat belt across your chest. He glanced at you out the corner of his eye and -

'Silly thing, doesn't she know better than to get into a car with a stranger twice her size?'

He shook his head, like that could dislodge the idea. He wasn't that sort of man, wasn't some kind predator with a mind full of filth.

'It would be so easy. You're so much bigger than her, so much stronger. You want her. Why not just take what you want?'

Where the hell was this coming from? He might have a guilty thought every once in a while, but he was always quick to squash it down. It wasn't like him to think something so...forceful about a girl.

He turned the key and the engine roared to life. And it really was a roar. V8 engine growling so loud he could feel the vibration through the steering wheel.

Oh baby, he was sold on her right then and there. The devil himself couldn't have outbid him. What little boy didn't dream of a car like this? Didn't spend his childhood looking through magazines and brawling over matchbox versions?

The clutch was smooth as butter as he cruised down your driveway and turned onto the main road.

God, he wanted to gun it. Floor the gas and find out for himself just how powerful old school muscle was.

He looked over at you, about to ask if you knew exactly what your boyfriend did to the engine. You were looking out at the passing trees, your hair stirring in the slight breeze from his open window.

'She looks like she belongs here, with you.'

It was another foreign thought, something he wouldn't expect of himself. But it was true. The Mustang would have felt empty without you - in your sundress and white sneakers, you completed the picture. Your boyfriend must have rebuilt the car just for you, as a way to keep you next to him. Colt wasn't sure why he thought that, but somehow he knew it was true. Whoever your man was, he put so much of himself into this car that Colt almost felt like he was right next to the guy.

You turned to him, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress.

"What do you think?"

"She runs sweet as apple pie."

You felt your heart stutter. Your boyfriend used to say the exact same thing.

"You alright there sweetheart? You look a little pale."

"Sorry. Just a little car sick."

Car sick was right - you were sick to hell of this damn car and the way it played with your emotions.

"C'mon, I know a diner just off the highway. We can stop for some fresh air and a bite to eat. You'll feel better in no time."

You didn't have time to protest before he switched lanes and turned onto the highway.

The diner he took you to really was just off the highway, a retro looking spot railed off from a steep cliff.

"How did you know about this place?"

He shrugged. "I must have heard about it from someone."

Strange. Colt didn't think he'd ever seen the place before, much less heard about it. But when you looked at him with that slight hint of panic, that sudden fear, somehow he knew this was the place to bring you.

He climbed out and opened your door for you before you had a chance to do it yourself.

"You know this place?" he asked.

If anything, you looked even paler than before. "Yeah. My boyfriend and I used to come up here pretty often."

He frowned, annoyed at himself for somehow making this even worse. "We can go somewhere else if you want."

"No!" You took a deep breath. "No, this is fine. I just need a moment away from the car, that's all."

He led you to a picnic table near the edge of the cliff. Far below you, the main road clung to the cliffside and disappeared into the trees.

"You just sit pretty and I'll grab us some chow."

You smiled up at him. "Thanks Colt. Really. I know this is probably eating into your day."

He waved it away. "Trust me, this is a much better way to spend the weekend than what I had planned."

It was true. He'd wanted to see the car and somehow that turned into lunch with a pretty girl at a table with one hell of a view. Maybe Christine had some good luck about her. Maybe all of this was just meant to be.

When he stepped into the diner, he was greeted by jukebox country music and the smell of good, strong coffee. He didn't bother to look at the menu. Somehow, he knew exactly what to order.

"I'll have a banana spilt, some fries and a toasted sandwich." He smiled at the elderly waitress. "Please and thank you Agnes."

"Sure thing sugar."

He frowned. How the hell did he know the waitress's name?

Must have seen her name tag, right? That made sense. Must have been a half second, subconscious glance.

When she handed him his change, he dropped his eyes to her lapel. No name tag. No label. Not even a necklace with her initials on it.

It was a warm spring day but he still shivered. Something strange was going on.

No, don't be ridiculous. Agnes was a common name, a vintage diner kind of name. That was probably why he said it. His mind must have just made a lucky guess. There's no way he could know her name when he didn't even know about the diner until he pulled up.

Unless... it wasn't him that knew her name. Maybe it was someone else, something else speaking through him.

"C'mon Colt, don't be an idiot," he muttered to himself.

"You say something sugar?"

He jerked his head to the side, his heart lurching. Just the waitress, just Agnes, looking at him with raised brows.

"No ma'am. Just thinking out loud."

"Alrighty then. Here's your order. Be careful not to spill the chocolate sauce. It's hell to clean up."

"Yes ma'am. Thank you ma'am. Have a good day."

He was stupidly happy to step out of the restaurant. The place must have been getting to him. Why else was he suddenly so superstitious?

"You doing okay Colt?" you asked.

He grinned at you. "Just dandy sweetheart. I got you a banana split and some French fries."

"Oh! That's perfect, thank you."

See? Nothing strange at all. He had a sweet ride and a sweeter girl waiting for him. Why worry about some weird diner?

He sat down across from you and unwrapped his sandwich. Behind you, Christine looked at him with a shining chrome smile.

"Listen, you can get a whole lot more for a car that fine. But if you're willing to let her go for the price in the ad, I'll buy her today," he said.

You froze, a fry halfway to your mouth. He really wanted her? He wasn't coming up with some lame excuse or hurrying off with a mumbled apology?

"Done," you said, a bit too quickly.

You were finally getting rid of Christine. No more nightmares, no more tip toeing around the garage like you were scared she might notice you, no more unwanted memories every time you laid eyes on her.

You were burying your past like it should have been buried on the day of your boyfriend's funeral.

He offered you his hand and you shook it, a genuine smile on your face.

"She's all yours." And thank God for that.

Colt drove you home and followed you into the house to collect the car registration papers.

You frowned at your empty desk drawer. You could have sworn you left the documents right here...

You popped your head into the living room where Colt was waiting.

"Give me a second. I think I left them upstairs."

"Sure. I'm in no hurry."

He wandered around your living room while you were gone, too keyed up to sit still. It was a neat, modern room with art on the walls. The big bay windows opened onto the front yard and the driveway where Christine sat waiting for him.

Part of him still couldn't believe it. She really was his dream car. The sort of ride all his work buddies would be green with envy over.

He leaned against the windowsil and then quickly looked down when his hand brushed something metallic.

Picture frames, the small kind that usually sat on a desk. He picked one up, the frame cool against his skin. It was a picture of you and someone he guessed to be your boyfriend. Both of you were in formal wear - you in a deep red evening gown and him in a tailored tux. Christine was parked in the background, her red a compliment to your dress.

Your boyfriend was handsome in a rough cut sort of way, his hair swept back and a tattoo just peeking out of his shirt. He was looking directly at the camera while you looked up at him, his arm curled tightly around your waist.

Colt frowned. There was something about the man's expression... a kind of possessive meanness. He seemed the type of guy to start a fight and then finish it no matter what, a real tough customer.

And the way he held you... some might call it loving but Colt found it more proprietary than anything else.

'Mine. My girl, no matter what. Try and take her from me and I'll show you a world of hurt.'

Colt put the picture down with a frown and scanned the others. Out hiking on the mountains, at the beach, holding a huge bouquet while he kissed you. A perfect couple except... except for the way he looked at you. Sweet, yes. But somehow dangerous, in the way rattlesnakes and cougars were. Fine if they weren't disturbed, but tread on their territory and there'd be hell to pay.

He moved away when he heard you coming down the stairs. You were a little flushed, a little out of breath, but you grinned at him and waved a stack of papers.

"Finally found them! Just need to sign the change of ownership forms and she's all yours."

He watched you as you searched for a pen, your sundress swishing 'round your thighs. He didn't like your boyfriend - dead or not, he seemed like one mean bastard - but seeing you so happy, so flushed with life and hope and joy, Colt found he could almost understand the other man. If you were his girl, he'd hold you just as tight.

You finally found a pen and he scribbled his signature on the dotted line.

"Well, seems like you're the proud new owner of a 1969 Ford Mustang. Congratulations."

He carefully took the papers from you, his fingers brushing yours. "Real good doing business with you sweetheart."

You lead him out to the car, going through the list of things he'd need to do to properly register the car as his. Real cute of you, to think he didn't know it all already.

He slid into the driver's seat and when he touched the wheel, he felt that same sense of power. And under it, a strange feeling of being not quiet alone in the car.

You stood outside his window, running through a catalogue of spares and repairs that he might want to check out. If he had to guess, you seemed nervous.

He leaned back and smiled at you. "It's alright y/n. I ain't changing my mind. Deals done, remember?"

It was the first time using your name and it sent a small bolt of electricity jolting through him.

'Her name is mighty sweet, ain't it? Meant to be said oh so softly, meant to be savoured.'

You looked at him like you felt it too, your cheeks just a little warmer than before.

Oh Lord, what sort of bastard was he? Feeling this way about you when your boyfriend was in the ground for scarcely half a year? You were probably still mourning, still nursing your broken heart. He should be a gentleman and leave you alone, shouldn't take advantage of your vulnerability. He should be a good man.

'You'd be an idiot to let her go.'

The thought streaked through his mind. It almost didn't feel like his own idea. Wherever the thought came from, it wasn't wrong. He really would be an idiot to not ask you out when he had a chance. He got lucky with the car - prize piece like this would have been snatched up in a matter of hours. If he didn't ask you out, if he didn't push his luck for the second time, the same thing might happen with you.

"How 'bout I take you out to dinner later this week? As a thank you."

You looked unsure, your eyes jumping down to the car keys like you were expecting an objection.

"Please? I know Christine must mean a lot to you. I'd feel a whole lot better taking her off your hands if I could thank you properly."

You bit your lower lip and he found his eyes drawn to the sight of it. Please say yes please say-

"Yes, I think I'd like that. But no later than eight, okay?"

YES! He rubbed a palm across his jaw to hide his smile.

"I'll bring you home early, promise."

"I'll hold you to that, cowboy."

Oh god, he wanted to melt when you called him that. It was so silly - big guy like him getting butterflies over a sort-of kind-of date.

'Atta boy. You ain't gonna regret it.'

He was too distracted watching you walk away to realise the thought wasn't his own.

That night, you slept without dreaming. For the first time since your boyfriend's death, you didn't see his face when you closed your eyes.

You woke up the next morning expecting to be relieved. Christine was gone, wasn't that exactly what you wanted?

Yes, but...but what happens next? You weren't an idiot nor were you unduly superstitious, but Christine didn't feel like a normal car. Maybe that's what happens after a violent death - things change, the blood seeps through the fabric and poisons the aura, or the energy, or whatever the hell you wanted to call it.

You made yourself breakfast but couldn't eat more than a few bites.

Okay, try and be logical. It was probably just your guilt playing tricks on you. You loved Christine and you loved your boyfriend, so it was only natural that you'd feel terrible about selling her. That's all. Blood and death can't change the nature of an inanimate object, no matter how violent or grisly it might have been.

Right. Just your guilty conscience. No need to work yourself up.

Across town, Colt slept through his alarm. He was dreaming, a sweet little fantasy of cruising down the highway on a brilliant summer day. You were next to him, your sundress even shorter than before, smiling at him and running your hand up his thigh.

You were his girl. His and his alone. He could feel the certainty of it in every part of him. You loved him, you stood by him, you did everything you could to support him, you were his.

Christine purred through her gears and he pushed the gas a little more, eager to get home. He would show you exactly how much he appreciated you - inch by inch and kiss by kiss.

"I love you darlin'. I need you to know that," he said. His voice didn't sound like his own. It was raspier, with an edge of meanness that not even love could soften.

You looked at him, smiling all soft and sweet. "I know. I've always known."

Colt jerked awake, smiling and shivering at the same time. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, disoriented and feeling like a stranger in his own body.

"One hell of a dream," he muttered.

'Not a dream cowboy. A memory from someone long dead.'

He ignored the thought, his mind already focused on the day ahead. He'd driven Christine home yesterday, but left his Jeep parked outside your house. He could either get one of his buddies pick it up or take a taxi over and get it himself.

Was it even a choice? He wanted to see you again. If he had to pay an ungodly amount for an Uber, he would.

Should he call you before showing up at your door? What would be a good time to see you? He didn't want to show up too late and catch you in a rush to leave.

'She'll be awake by now. But she'll only leave for work after twelve.'

How did he know that? Did you mention it yesterday?

He climbed out of bed and half stumbled to the bathroom. As the steam clouded up the mirror, he thought of his dream. And what might have happened if he'd stayed asleep longer. Maybe your hand would wander further up his thigh, and then...

He lathered up his fist and took hold of himself. He was already hard from just the thought of you. Your sundress looked so damn flimsy. He could probably yank it off you with just one hand.

He groaned, his forehead pressed against the tile. Picturing your hand dwarfed by his when you shook on the sale; how soft your skin was, how good it would feel if you touched him just like this.

'Fucking yourself like a dog at the thought of her.'

He agreed. You really were turning him into a dog.

You were sitting in your living room, trying and failing to read your novel, when he knocked on your front window. You struggled to smooth down your hair while you scrambled for the door.

"Hi Colt! Came to pick up your Jeep?"

He was wearing blue jeans again today, with a tight wife beater that showed off arms thick with muscle.

"Yes ma'am. Thought I'd stop by and see if you needed anything."

That made you smile. How often does someone go out of their way to check up on a stranger?

"I don't think so. But I've got some fresh orange juice and donuts, if you'd like to come in."

He smiled at you and for a second his gaze dipped down past your chin. "There's nothing I'd like better."

He took up a lot of space at your kitchen table, but you found it comforting. The room felt too big without your boyfriend to fill it.

You flipped open the box of donuts and he picked out the mint chocolate one.

"Never really liked the mint ones," he told you, "But I've got an awful craving for one right now."

"Oh I never liked them much either. It was my boyfriend who was the die-hard mint fan."

He looked away from you, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "It must be hard for you. Losing him so suddenly."

"It was. It is. Everyone keeps telling me it gets easier, but it hasn't. Up until last night, I dreamt about him everynight."

"Dreamt of him?" he asked you suddenly, his eyes intense.

"Yep. Every single night. It was like I was reliving my memories again and again."

He looked a bit perturbed at your statement, but you put it down to him feeling awkward about the conversation. Death is never a fun or casual topic.

"So how's Christine treating you?"

"Like a dream. I was thinking of taking her down the coast next weekend. All open road and sea air." He paused, seeming to weigh something up in his mind. "Why don't you join me? The morning after I take you out to dinner. We can pack a picnic and have lunch at the cape."

"That sounds incredible." You looked down at your hands, slightly uneasy but not sure why. Your boyfriend spoke about doing that once. A mini road trip with the windows down and the sea breeze in your hair.

It's not that strange that Colt had the same idea, right? Everyone knew the coast road was a long, quiet stretch. Perfect for putting Christine to the test.

"You're gonna love it," he said. "I'll even make my world famous tiramisu."

You raised a brow. "You know how to make tiramisu?" Big guy like him didn't really seem the patisserie type. Did he have a cute apron with bows on it too?

He pointed his donut at you, blue eyes twinkling. "Not just any tiramisu. World famous."

You snorted out a laugh and for the first time in months, you kitchen felt like a happy place.

He dreamt about you again that night. Christine was parked in a dark corner on the edge of a cliffside hiking trail. He could hear waves crashing far below. It was nighttime, with the full moon outlining your face in silver and shadow.

He was in the driver's seat and you were straddling his lap. You were wearing a sweater and a cute pleated skirt that seemed oh so short with the way you leaned over him.

"You've been ignoring me," you accused him. You were pouting in an adorably petulant way. He looked at your lips - red and slightly swollen - and knew that he'd just been kissing you.

"I haven't been ignorin' you sugar. I've just been busy."

He spoke with that same raspy voice that somehow wasn't his.

"Too busy to say hello or drop by for dinner?"

You shifted in his lap and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from groaning. Oh, you damn tease.

"I'm filthy and tired after work sweetheart. You wouldn't want me."

You frowned, going from slightly annoyed to full blown angry.

"I always want you, you idiot. I'm not scared of a few stains. I like it when you come home smelling like the workshop. I like it when you're dirty from work." You tugged at his collar. "I like you. Why don't you get that?"

'Because you're too good for me.' He almost said it. It was on the tip of his tongue and it was only some dull instinct that kept him quiet. How couldn't you see it? You were everything he wasn't. You were educated and kind and selfless. He was just some bastard from the wrong side of the tracks.

He wanted to impress you. He wanted to be worthy of you. Fixing up the Mustang was just the start of it. He didn't care that it took him all summer and pretty much all of his pay cheque to do. He wanted a ride that he would be proud to pick you up in.

And it still didn't feel like enough. Nothing ever felt like enough.

He looked away from you and stayed silent.

You sighed and brought your palms up to his cheeks, gently turned his face back to yours. "I like you. I'm dating you. I want to spend time with you, no matter how grouchy you are. Okay?"

He should be a gentleman and let you go, shouldn't take advantage of your kindness. He should be a good man.

"Okay," he said and leaned forward to kiss you.

He wasn't a good man. He wasn't a gentleman. He was going to hold onto you for as long as he could.

Colt woke up with a snarl, slamming his fist on his alarm so hard the clock face cracked.

"I didn't want it to end, goddammit."

He rubbed his hand over his face. The dream felt so real. He could feel the late fall chill, could smell your shampoo and taste your cherry lip gloss. He wanted to go right back to sleep and fall back into that wonderful fantasy.

He scowled and threw the covers off. Dreams could wait, work couldn't.

All through the day he was snappish and irritable. One of the apprentices messed up an order and he snarled at them to stop being so fucking useless and fix it. His coworkers shot each other looks behind his back. He was behaving entirely out of character but both him and his buddies were helpless to stop it. It was only when he got home at the end of his shift that he realised why.

He wanted to dream about you again.

There wasn't any guarantee that he would. Dreams weren't exactly scheduled network programming. But somehow he knew it would happen.

He ended up going to bed before eight, a world record for someone who usually only considered sleeping when it was well past midnight.

He was right. He did dream of you.

You were in a bikini this time, lounging on a lawn chair in the backyard. You had sunglasses on and there was a slight sheen of baby oil on your skin. Your phone was on shuffle and pop music was blaring from the speakers.

You weren't expecting him and he kept his steps real quiet as he approached you. He kept expecting you to hear him and shoot up, and he was slightly annoyed when you didn't. What if he was a serial killer or some sick pervert, sneaking up on you while you were so vulnerable? Did you have no spatial awareness?

He made it all the way to the back of your chair and you were still totally oblivious. There was a magazine and a glass of ice tea on a small table next to you. You were softly humming along to the music.

He took a minute to just admire you. Your body stretched out and entirely at his mercy. His girl, his gorgeous girl.

He leaned down until his lips were right next to your ear.

"Hey there sugar. You miss me?"

You shot up with a shriek, your sunglasses flying. You whirled on him, grabbing your magazine like thirty pages of glossy Cosmo was going to help you fight off an attacker.

Your eyes narrowed when you recognised him and you smacked his chest, hard.

"You asshole! You gave me a heart attack!"

He couldn't help but smirk at the sight of you so riled up.

"You're lucky it was me and not someone else. Not everyone has such noble intentions."

"Yeah right. Was it your noble intention to scare the living daylights out of me?"

He held up his palms in a placating gesture. "Just teachin' you a lesson sweetheart. I was standing there for a good few minutes and you didn't notice a damn thing."

He cast a critical eye across your backyard. "I reckon some high wooden fencing would do the trick. 'Bout seven feet high, sunken flowerbeds on either side like trenches to make it even harder to get a leg up."

"I don't want a fence."

He ignored you, already mentally calculating how much lumber he'd need. "A nice light coloured wood. Pine maybe. Will match your house much better."

You sat back down, the fight draining out of you as your adrenaline dissipated. "What are you doing here? Did you get off work early?"

He narrowed his eyes but you didn't seem to notice. "Why? Don't want me around?"

That shocked you enough that you twisted around in your chair to look at him.

"Of course I want you around! Don't ever imply otherwise. This is a lovely surprise." You paused. "Near heart attack aside of course."

It was funny how easily you could calm him down. One sentence was all it took to get him smiling again. He leaned forward and hooked one finger under the strap of your bikini top.

"I haven't seen this one before. New?"

You blushed and looked down. "Mm-hmm."

"It's cute. But..."

You glanced up at him, suddenly self conscious. "But what?"

He grinned wolfishly. "But...you would look so much better without it."

He tugged at the bow holding your top up. The strings unravelled and fell down your back. The bra cups started to slip down too, and his eyes were glued to their steady fall.

He was going to teach you a whole 'nother lesson about wearing such a skimpy outfit where anyone could see you. Show you exactly what sick, twisted bastards would do to your body. Teach you a lesson you won't forget, so maybe, just maybe... you'd learn to be more cautious around men like him.

Colt woke up with a hunger like death. His cock so hard it was actually throbbing. He didn't feel well rested, despite having slept more than he had in two weeks.

It played over and over again in his mind. The strings unravelling, your bikini top sliding off... Always stopping right at the good part, the part he most wanted to see.

He got ready for the day with a savage efficiency. Bolting back his protein shake without even tasting it. He didn't realise it, but he'd started counting down the days until he could see you again. Just two more days. Two more nights of dreams and then you'd be there in the flesh and he could finally - finally what? He shook his head to clear away the dirty thoughts that were crowding him.

He was being a real bastard. Thinking about you, dreaming about you, when he had no right to. You hadn't shown any romantic or physical interest in him. You were clearly still grieving your man. He needed to get himself under control - what you needed in your life was a friend, not another man to obsess over you.

He forced himself to take a cold shower. Forced himself to avoid thinking about you. And to especially avoid thinking about the you from his dream.

'Good luck with that buddy. I used to be so tired I was falling asleep on my feet and I still couldn't get her out of my head.'

Work was thankfully busy that day and he threw himself into it with every feverish ounce of energy he had. Whenever his thoughts wandered towards you, he would find something else to do. He didn't eat anything at all and he didn't even notice getting hungry. He took on an extra shift and finished long after the sun went down, his muscles a hurting mess and his head not much better.

Christine was the last car left in the parking lot, sitting under a streetlight like she was waiting for him. He found his steps unintentionally getting slower the closer he came to her.

In the dark and lonely emptiness of the parking lot, she didn't feel like a normal car. If anything, she seemed to be watching him. Her headlights like eyes and her grille a silvery gash of a smile.

If he had to guess, he'd say the car was almost unhappy with him.

"Because I'm thinking about her?" He asked as he climbed behind the wheel. Immediately, he felt stupid and superstitious for talking out loud.

'Because you aren't thinking about her.'

He'd driven Christine to work the last few days despite not wanting to cause unnecessary wear and tear. Being in the car, driving it, was still a thrill.

Not tonight though.

He felt on edge, wanting to get out as soon as possible. She purred to life with the same thrumming power as always but his throat was tight with a nervousness he couldn't explain.

The inside of the car was suffocatingly quiet. He turned on the radio and old school rock 'n roll poured out.

'Just the sort of thing her boyfriend used to listen to,' he thought to himself. And then he laughed a stuttering, barking sort of laugh because there was no logical way he could have known that.

'Take it easy big guy. You and I are just gonna cruise. That's all.'

A nice cruise. Yeah, that sounded good. Calm his nerves, get rid of the nameless dread that was building all day. He relaxed into his seat, the streetlights crawling past in a hypnotic line of bright and dark.

He didn't notice when the radio dial moved on its own and the station changed from rock 'n roll to country. The singer sounded awfully familiar. His voice a kind of husky rasp. He was singing about his girl, his pretty woman, and he was singing about the grave and he was singing about the dark that waited.

'Oh,' he thought to himself dully, 'That's the voice I keep hearing in my dreams.'

When he finally reached home, it was two in the morning and the petrol gauge showed an empty tank. He'd somehow driven enough to eat through a full tank of gas. A drive that should have taken twenty minutes took five hours.

He got out of the car on legs that felt numb and cold. He couldn't remember driving. He couldn't remember the strange music or the even stranger passenger that rode with him. In his mind, there existed the clear cut memory of leaving work and climbing into Christine. Then there was nothing but a long, grey blankness that was tinged with a muted terror.

He collapsed into bed still in his work clothes. By morning, his mind would have stitched over all those things too terrible to contemplate. He would wake up feeling groggy and confused, and probably put it down to the strain of a long day.

Colt slept after driving with the dead and didn't dream.

On the day before your date, he found an engagement ring under the passenger side carpet.

He had no reason to look there, no reason to pull the carpet up by its seams. But he did it anyway and his reward was a silver and diamond band with blood dried in the crevices. There was an engraving on the inside and he had to take it out into the sun to try and read it.

'Mine. Forever and always.'

He shivered despite standing in the bright midmorming sun. Most rings would say 'yours' instead of 'mine.' He had no doubt that the change was entirely intentional. Your boyfriend was staking his claim on you - not just with the ring but with the intention behind it.

He looked at the brownish red stains and knew in his heart they were blood. Your boyfriend's blood.

Colt didn't know how the man died, but looking at the ring, he felt sure that it was bloody and far from natural. How would a blood stained ring end up in Christine? If the guy had been in accident sure. But the car was in perfect condition. The ring shouldn't have been there.

Unless he was murdered. Soaked in blood and tossed around during the struggle, the ring probably got pushed under the seam of the carpet. It was a sealed off spot and even a forensics team might miss something that small.

It was an outlandish and macabre theory to be basing entirely off one mysterious engagement ring. If he stopped to think about it, he would no doubt be able to poke a dozen separate holes into his theory.

Somehow, he knew it was true. The same way he suddenly knew Christine wasn't just an ordinary car and that his dreams about you were far from natural.

He felt a queer prickling all across his nape. He wasn't the type to scare easily, but this... This frightened him. He didn't feel alone anymore. He felt like if he looked up at the rear view mirror, he'd see someone in the back seat. No, not just someone. He'd see the dead man who owned the car before him.

He'd see the man who wanted to marry you.

He sucked in a sharp breath and forced himself to let it out slowly. He wasn't a superstitious man. He didn't let fancies of ghosts and ghouls affect him. But even he couldn't deny the way he felt. His gut was telling him something was terribly, terribly wrong.

He climbed out of Christine like a man scared of waking a sleeping bear. He didn't even bother to grab the keys.

He couldn't explain any of it. Not the dreams, not the thoughts that felt like someone else, not the prickling certainty that a man died right where he'd been sitting.

He got into his his Jeep and pulled out of the driveway, his eyes on Christine the entire time. Like she'd somehow roar to life and slam into him.

He didn't know where he was driving to until he parked. A bar across town, a real rough spot that on most days even he wouldn't want to stop at. But today wasn't like most days.

The place was dark and the folk sitting around weren't exactly the friendly sort. He settled at the bar and ordered a tequila without really thinking about it.

Funny. He used to hate tequila.

It went down like fire, and he shuddered. He wanted to laugh. What else was a mam supposed to drink when the world didn't make a lick of sense anymore?

"Give me another one." His voice was raspier somehow. Even though that never happened when he drank vodka or whiskey.

There were mirrored shelves opposite him and he caught sight of his eyes. A pale green. He tossed back his second shot and tried to tell himself it was just a trick of the light.

He wasn't sure who to talk to. Not the Sheriff's Office. Yeah officer, there was a man murdered in my car and now I can't stop dreaming about his girlfriend didn't exactly scream unimpeachable sobriety.

And not the pastor either. Father, I'm being haunted by filthy thoughts and I'm not sure if they're my own. He doubted the old man at his mother's church was qualified to deal with that sort of thing.

But he couldn't keep quiet either. He had to tell someone about it. If they called him crazy at least it was an acknowledgement. At least it was better than being dead drunk and being scared of his own eyes in the mirror.

Who could possibly know anything about it? Oh. Of course.

He fumbled his phone out of his pocket and almost threw it across the room when it wouldn't turn on. He charged it every night, goddammit.

"There a pay phone somewhere 'round here?" he asked the bartender.

The man jerked his face at the side door that lead to the back parking lot. Colt stumbled out - swaying on his feet far worse than two drinks should warrant.

It was late afternoon. He shaded his eyes and tried looked at the sun like it was deliberately lying to him. He arrived at midday and he couldn't have been in there for more than twenty minutes. How the hell was it this late?

'Time moves differently when you're dead cowboy. You should know that by now.'

The payphone was in the shadow of the bar and he shivered when he stepped out of the sun. Wrong. It was all wrong and he didn't know how to fix it. Why was the voice still in his head when Christine was all the way across town? Why did he still feel life he wasn't quiet alone?

It was only when he had the receiver up against his ear that he realised he didn't know your number. Shit.

He leaned his forearm against the payphone and rested his forehead against it. Could he maybe get a taxi and show up at your house? He scoffed. Yeah, that would go well. Showing up dead drunk just to say he knew you liked short skirts in fall and that he dreamed of pulling off your bikini top. He'd be lucky if you only mildly tazed him.

Fuck. Okay. Home again. Sleep it off. Charge his phone. Call you in the morning and try not to sound too crazy. He could manage that.

He called the taxi company listed in the phone book. Half wondering if they were still in operation. When it finally connected, the call was thick with static.

"Yeah?" The man's voice was raspy and standoffish.

"Can I get a cab at Ronnie's on Westside?"

The man laughed. "Oh you must be a real tough customer to be drinking there. Didn't think you'd have the balls cowboy."

Colt wanted to cuss him out. What kind of fucker answers the phone and insults you less than two sentences in? He squeezed the receiver until he felt he could control his voice.

"Yeah. I'm a real mean guy. So can I get my cab or not?"

"Oh, I'll send you a ride alright." There was a mocking tilt to his voice. "Best fucking ride you'll ever take. Just sit pretty. You'll know when it's for you."

The skin on the back of his neck crawled. He hung up without another word.

The streetlights were coming on and the gold of sunset was giving way to the awful in-between greyness of twilight. He waited for his ride.

You came home to find flowers on your doorstep. A bouquet of white roses. You froze. There was only one man who sent you flowers and he was cold and dead for the better part of a year.

You picked the card up by the edge and flicked it open.

Hope you didn't forget our date. See you soon dollface.

-Colt

Oh. You laughed, ridiculously relieved. Of course.

Dinner tomorrow night with the cowboy. You took the roses inside and hunted around for a vase. Was it actually a date? He'd said it was a thank you dinner, but it wouldn't hurt to dress up a little. Do your makeup a bit fancy, maybe wear your new heels. It'd been months since you'd gone out, had a nice dinner with a friend. This could be good for you. Just one more step back into normalcy.

The clouds were starting to gather and as evening came on, they broke with a shudder of thunder.

You curled up on your couch, all the lights on. It was going to be a bad storm. The first really awful one in almost half a year. You tried not to, but it got you thinking about that night. The night your boyfriend proposed to you. The night you killed him.

You closed your eyes and tried not to see it, but the memories followed you even past the darkness. You couldn't run from them for long.

It was cold outside, rain drumming on Christine's roof. Sharp, constant. Your boyfriend was in the driver's seat, buckling his belt. A lazy, satisfied smirk on his face.

You liked it when he looked at you like that. Satisfied. Mellow. It never lasted long, but in the few minutes after fucking you, he would agree to just about anything.

"I'm drunk on you baby," he'd said once. "Heads all woozy. Would do anything for you. Fucking anything."

Christine's windows were all fogged up, and you traced little hearts on the glass. To be honest, you felt a little drunk on him too. Heart still pounding, head reeling. Cunt still fluttering and full. He was so good at reading you, at fucking you just how you needed it. No man before him could make you come so hard, or do it so easy.

"I got something to ask you, baby."

You turned to him, hand reaching out for his and pulling it into your lap.

"Yes?"

He rubbed a thumb across your knuckles. He wasn't looking at your face, just down at your interlinked hands.

"You're my girl, yeah?"

"Obviously. I love you."

"And you ain't going to leave me?"

"Never."

He sighed. Managed to raise his eyes to meet yours. You weren't used to seeing him nervous. Usually he'd just bull doze his way through a conversation, not stopping until he got what he wanted. This was...new. It made a whole new crop of butterflies start up in your stomach.

"Will you marry me?"

You froze. What? Where was this coming from? You loved him. You cared about him. But marriage? That was such a big step. Such a grown up thing.

"I've got money put away. And Christine. I can put a deposit down on a house by the end of the month. Can pay for a nice wedding too. All white and frilly, like you want."

"I..."

"You don't got to worry 'bout your student loans neither. We can pay 'em off a whole lot faster if we're together. You can even go back to school if you want. Get that second degree you're always talking about."

"I...can't."

You pulled your hands away from his. Looked away from him.

"I love you. I really do. But it's too...much. We're too young. I... I just don't want to rush into things and make a mistake."

He was quiet. Awfully, dangerously quiet. His hand was still in your lap and you could feel when he clenched it into a fist.

"Is there another man?"

"What?"

You whirled to face him, suddenly angry. How could he even suggest...

"I haven't touched another man since the day you asked me out."

He wasn't smiling anymore. His green eyes were narrowed, mean.

"Who are you fucking? Which bastard is it? Huh?"

"No one! There's no one else. I just don't want to get married and make a -"

"Mistake? You think I'm a fucking mistake?"

You flinched. His voice was even louder in the closeness of the car. It made your ears throb.

His fist uncurled and he grabbed your hand, hard. Yanked you towards him so your upper body was sprawled across the gear shift.

"Was it a mistake to fuck me? A mistake to say you loved me?"

"No! That's not what I-"

He cut you off with a hand around your throat.

"You want to leave me. That it? You're going to fucking leave me?"

You pulled at his fingers with your free hand but it was useless. His grip was getting tighter the angrier he got. Your head felt all swollen, your nose and throat burning.

"Please just -"

"No! No fucking please. No changing your mind at the last minute. You ain't gonna be my girl? Ain't gonna be my wife?"

He pulled you towards his face, his lips barely brushing yours.

"If you won't be mine, then you'll just have to fucking die. It's me or no one else, baby. I told you that, all those months ago."

You scrambled for some way to get loose, but you were in an awkward position and he had all the leverage.

"I fucking warned you. I told you that if you dated me you couldn't ever leave. I knew I was going to fall in love with you. Hell, I was half in love before you even said hello. I tried. But you just didn't listen, did you?"

Your hand brushed something cold and metallic in the centre console. His switch blade. He usually kept it in his back pocket to help with work. Oh, and he kept it sharp. You grabbed it, more on instinct than anything else.

Your head was pounding and your heartbeat was pulsing in your ears. But the rain was somehow worse. Falling so loud you thought you'd never get the sound out of your head.

You tried to plead with him again, reason, beg, whatever it took. But when you tried to speak he just closed his fist even tighter and your words died in your throat with a shudder.

Oh god, he was really going to do it. He's eyes were wild, mad with something beyond reason. He'd seen reason in the rearview mirror about a hundred miles ago and now he was headed straight down the highway of fucking insanity.

How? How could the man you loved be choking the breath out of you?

Because he loves you. Because he'd rather see you dead than lose you. Because you were too damn blind with love to notice how dangerous he is.

White starbursts bloomed across your vision. Little fireworks to celebrate your brain dying.

You stabbed him.

You didn't fully mean to. You were half mad with fear, half dead in his grip. Not sure what you were doing until you felt the blood.

The switchblade sunk straight into his neck.

You didn't even pull it out. Just left it there and scrambled back when his grip on you loosened, your chest heaving. You throat and eyes and nose all felt swollen. Your lungs burned like fire.

He reached up and touched his neck. Looked down at his fingers like he couldn't believe the blood was his.

You might have tried to save him then. Might have come to your senses and called the ambulance, might have stripped off your shirt and tried to stop the bleeding.

But a knife in his throat apparently wasn't enough to stop him. He looked at you and there wasn't anything rational left in him. He reached for you again, hands curled like claws. He was dying and all he wanted to do was take you with him.

You screamed. So loud that it made your own ears ring.

You grabbed the knife and pulled. You didn't realise it was acting like a stopper until his blood splashed on you. Hot, stinking of metal. It sprayed across your face, got into your mouth and nose, soaked the whole front of your shirt.

You scrambled for the door handle and fell backwards out of the Mustang. Landed on your ass and pushed yourself away.

He was halfway over the passenger seat by then, hands still reaching, mouth pulled into an ugly snarl.

You kicked the door shut.

It slammed with a bang and mercifully blocked him from view. Your turned onto your knees, pushed yourself to your feet and ran.

The rain was coming down so fast that it stung your skin. You didn't rightly know where you were going. Only that it was away.

You still don't know how you made it home. You were a twenty minute drive away and it was too dark to see more than three feet in front of you. Must have been luck. Must have been fate.

When you got home, you were shaking so hard you couldn't even open the door for a good five minutes.

You stripped off your clothes right there on the doorstep and threw them in the trash. Switch blade too. You don't know how you managed to hold onto it during that wild, reckless run.

You took a long shower. Sat under the hot water with your knees curled to your chest. Too scared to cry.

At some point, the better part of your brain must have taken over. You vaguely remember burning the bloodstained clothes. Remember taking a drive and throwing the bleached switchblade out the window.

And when the call came a few days later, to please come down and identify a body, you were calm enough to not give yourself away.

If it was anyone else, maybe the cops would have tried harder. But your boyfriend was a rough man from the rough side of town. They gave you looks of sympathy but shook their heads behind your back.

Guy like him had it coming.

When it was all said and done, you and Christine were the only ones who knew the truth.

Colt waited all evening for a cab that never came. And when the storm started, he was annoyed enough to consider driving home on his own. He'd only had two shots. And that was a few hours ago. He'd be fine. Folk got away with worse all the time.

He left the bar with his jacket over his head and his eyes darting down the road. The rain was sheeting and he had to scramble to make it to his Jeep without getting totally soaked.

Wet and hungry and still a little drunk, Christine didn't seem like quite so big an issue. He was just jumping at ghosts. Tequila got his thoughts all twisted up, that's all.

Driving was miserable. Even with his headlights on bright and his wipers cranked all the way up, he was having real trouble seeing the road. The yellow line was the only thing he could properly rely on.

When the headlights showed up behind him, it took him a while to notice them getting closer.

"Guy's got a death wish, driving so fast in this weather."

The driver behind him was gaining quickly. Colt expected them to try and overtake, but they didn't. Just got closer and closer. A car's length away. And then half. And then almost kissing his bumper.

"Why is this dude so up my ass?"

He hit the gas, but the guy behind him didn't care. Just picked up and kept coming. Revved it a little and Colt could hear the engine even through the rain. Some kind of muscle car. A loud, growling thing.

Almost like a...Mustang.

His whole back suddenly felt icy. It couldn't be. Christine was back home, keys still in the ignition. Even if someone did steal her, why the fuck would they track him down? Must be another muscle car, with some ego tripping asshole behind the wheel.

He told himself all that and more, but his foot pressed harder on the gas.

And still the Mustang kept coming.

The speedometer crept upwards. Sixty. Seventy. Eighty.

Too fast for the narrow roads, and sure as hell too fast for a rainy night like this one.

A curve was coming up soon, the road ringed off with guard rails. He could see the reflectors glinting orange at him. Shit.

He took it wide, drifting into the opposite lane. He could feel his tires slipping a little and he hit the breaks just enough to steady the Jeep.

The Mustang didn't have any trouble with the curve. Stayed in its lane and gained a little more speed, so that when they were straight again, its hood was in line with his trunk.

Good. Maybe now the fucker would finally overtake him.

He couldn't see the car clearly. The headlights were bouncing right off his side mirrors. He couldn't even make out the silhouette of the driver.

Screech.

The Mustang's hood scraped against the side of his Jeep. The whole car lurched to the side, tires slipping.

"Fuck!"

Colt gunned it again, trying to out race the mad man. But whoever was behind him had no intention of letting that happen. They kept pace with him, blocking him from getting back in his lane.

Lightning flashed and Colt looked in the mirror just in time to see the car properly.

The thunder was loud enough to drown out his scream.

The car trying to run him off the road was none other than the 1969 cherry red Mustang that should have been sitting in his yard. Maybe he could have accepted it as a coincidence. Someone else had the exact same car as him and just happened to be driving like an asshole. Maybe he could have accepted that.

But the car didn't have a driver.

He saw it clear as day. The lightning glared straight through all the windows and there wasn't a single person in that car.

Impossible. This can't be real. There's no fucking way.

He could almost hear the laugh.

'Do I got you scared cowboy?'

Colt didn't have time to answer. The road was merging into the cliffside, and the wall of rock kept him trapped. There were lights coming straight at him, the blaring of a horn as whoever it was tried to warn him.

He slammed hard on the brakes. Christine shot ahead and at the last second he managed to edge back into his lane. The headlights roared past, the huge semi exhaling a spray of water and smoke.

It would have flattened him, even in his Jeep.

Christine's tail lights were a pair of glaring red eyes in the rain, until suddenly they weren't. Gone.

Colt slowed the Jeep, parked on the shoulder.

The rain was drumming on the roof and his hands were shaking. He got out of the car, water soaking through his shirt almost immediately.

The paint on the back door was scratched off in huge swathes. The metal was dented.

He climbed back behind the wheel, mind teetering on the edge of something past sanity. The world wasn't sane anymore. Nothing was.

He heard the growl of the Mustang through the rain. No headlights this time, just the whine of tires on slick tar.

Where?! Where was she?!

Christine slammed into the Jeep head on. All Colt saw was her red face and silver smile in the glare of his headlights before his whole world was filled with the grinding of steel on steel. His head slammed backwards, the whole car shuddering.

The airbags came on, blinding him.

Christine didn't stop after hitting him. He yanked the hand break up but she kept pushing forward, edging his car closer and closer to the edge. He felt it when the guard rail scratched against his bumper.

An ugly scream of metal, but the rails held. Christine didn't seem to like that. She pulled back, her tires shrieking as she got ready to slam forward again.

Colt jumped just before she hit the Jeep. His seat belt was almost the death of him. It wouldn't release and he couldn't see the catch in the dark. He must have had at least one lucky star though, because the door wasn't too mangled and he managed to kick it open just in time.

He landed hard, on his hands and knees.

Metal shrieked. Christine slammed into the Jeep hard enough to send it through the rails. He turned just in time to see his car go tilting off the road and down into the dark.

For a second, he thought he might have made it. Maybe she didn't notice him. Maybe it was all over.

Christine pulled back and her headlights washed over him, still on his hands and knees. One of the lights was hanging loose from the crash, making her look lopsided. The rain was still coming down hard and the droplets were gold in the light between them.

She revved.

Colt scrambled to his feet and ran straight for the guard rail. He jumped.

It wasn't a sheer drop. It was instead a steep slope, thick with shale and slippery with water. His knees buckled under him and he ended up on his back, half rolling and half sliding down the embankment. His palms were bleeding and as he fell, the gravel lodged itself in his open skin.

He couldn't see where he was headed. Could only try and and protect his head and brace for impact.

His slide ended with a boulder. He slammed into it his ribs first. Heard a crack before all the air was knocked straight out of him.

He could see the headlights way up above him, cutting through the rain.

At least she can't follow me down here.

True. Christine couldn't follow him.

But that's when Colt saw him. The driver. Coming to stand in front of the headlights, the silhouette of a man.

The silhouette stepped through the gash in the railing left by the Jeep and dropped out of the light.

Colt knew he should run. He could hear the shale slipping as the other man came down. Controlled. Measured. Nothing like his own tumble.

But he couldn't move. Everything hurt. Breathing sent sharp spikes of pain all across his chest.

"Well, well cowboy. Look at you."

The voice was low and raspy, mean. He knew that voice. Had been hearing it in his head and in his dreams and was fool enough to think it was his own.

His eyes were getting used to the dark. He could just about see the stranger. Tall, wearing jeans and a leather jacket. There was dirt thick on his boots, in the folds of his clothes. Not the black shale of the slope, but a reddish clay.

Kind of like in the cemetery.

No, he realised as the stranger squated down in front of him. Exactly like the cemetery. It was grave dirt he was seeing.

He was looking at a dead man.

The stranger might have been handsome once, but now one cheek was filled with holes. Ugly, clustered together things that showed his teeth. His other cheek was a mass of white. Worms, tiny little worms wriggling in and out of his face.

Colt wanted to scream. And vomit. And then scream some more.

There was a dark hole in the stranger's neck and when he moved it oozed a sticky, thick kind of blood.

"You know why I'm here?"

Colt didn't really notice it at first, but his voice was different. Thicker somehow. Like his vocal cords were packed full of dirt and blood.

Colt coughed and his whole chest hurt so bad he thought he was dying. Something was definitely broken. He'd be lucky if there wasn't internal bleeding too.

"Let me guess. Came to punish me for my sins?"

The dead man laughed.

"Not yours, no. Don't give much of a damn about you. I'm here to get what's mine."

The pieces were clicking together in his head.

"Your girl."

"My girl," your boyfriend agreed.

He reached for him, the nails on his hand either blue or totally ripped off. His skin filled with holes that showed pale white tendons and ugly pink flesh.

That was when the adrenaline really kicked in. Colt shoved at the man with one hand and pushed himself up with the other. It was like touching a carcass at the butcher. Cold. Limp. Just a piece of meat. No human should ever have to feel a body in that state.

He made it to his knees before the bastard hit back. Your boyfriend kicked straight at his jaw and Colt's head flew backward, smashed into the rock behind him. He dropped back down like a stone.

"Why you gotta be so fucking difficult, hmm?"

Colt was too out of it to pull away. The man reached for him and the skin of his hand was crawling with bugs. He grabbed his collar and dragged him up.

"Just gonna go to sleep for a little while cowboy. Maybe you'll wake up. Maybe you won't. Either way, I've waited too fucking long to let this chance go."

The corpse kissed him. Or more accurately, pressed his open lips against his and breathed.

His lips were cold and stiff and utterly beyond human. The taste was rancid. Worse than the worst thing he'd ever had. Metallic like blood, sweet like rotted meat.

Colt fainted.

The rain drummed down. Christine sat on the roadside and waited, her hood and paintwork back to normal. In bed, you tossed and turned in the hands of a nightmare.

The thing that was Colt Guilder opened its eyes.

It was your phone that woke you up. Your ringtone blasting even through your dreams.

You fumbled for it, eyes squinted against the brightness.

"Hello?"

The call was thick with static. Still, you recognised the voice. Would know it even from beyond the grave.

"Hey beautiful. Did ya miss me?"

#Yandere Stephen King #Horror #yandere #reader insert #yandere x reader #x reader #yandere oc #yandere oc x you #yandere male #yandere writing #Yandere novella #Yandere short story #yandere x darling #yandere community #Christine by Stephen King

5K notes · View notes

prlssprfctn · 3 months ago

Text

Every time another joke about Batman/Bruce Wayne passes by me, I can't help but imagine that the whole rumour about these two dating was originally (and probably accidentally) created by Bruce himself.

Just imagine, a teen Bruce, still only starting with his vigilante career, makes a crucial mistake - he pays with his own credit card in front of people, while being Batman. A stupid, absolutely instinctive mistake, but in his defence he wasn't sleeping normally for a week, and had an open wound in his stomach that day, so. Whoops.

And then someone asks Bruce Wayne about it, in front of a thousand cameras. And he blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind.

Reporter: So, mister Wayne, recently citizens had reported that they saw Batman paying for the damage in the city... with your credit card. Care to explain details behind this?

Bruce, smiling stupidly: Oh, he is my ex. I sometimes sponsor him.

The crowd: (goes wild)

Alfred, starting at the interview back in the Batcave: ...We are never going to get rid of this, are we?

And guess what? They don't!

Bruce thinks that with time passing, with his love interests switching and new rumours spawning in the world, they might forget about it. He was young, he was stupid - he fucked up, alright?

But decades pass. He has a whole football team of kids. Everyone still ship Bruce and Batman.

And when this stupid video accidentally gets resurfaced on the internet again, his family goes insane. They start creating even more stupid rumours on galas.

Reporter: Mister Wayne... For years now, the crowds are speculating... Who is exactly your mother, and where is she now?

Damian, sighing pitifully: My father and my mother don't enjoy contacting each other, sadly. My mom says that their relationship was just a rebound; father desperately tries to forget Batman... Still, to this day.

Bruce, gripping the glass of champagne: ...

Talia, watching this interview with Ra's: Now, that's my son right there.

Dick: Oh, why I was screaming at Batman in the middle of the street a few days ago? Oh, this bastard- I mean, this respectable vigilante, he dared to get in the argument with Bruce. He can't really leave him alone, really! They are so insane about each other... So toxic, but so, uh, captivating... But you know, Bruce! He has such a fragile heart...

Gotham: Aw-w, poor mister Wayne!

Bruce, sighing: Jesus Christ.

Tim, shaking his head to the camera: I hate Red Robin, really. Did you know that his existence is just a direct offence to my father? Yeah, actually, Batman took this kid under his wing with another man - I am not going to tell who - to make dad jealous. This is disgusting!

Jason, who returned from the death by pretending that all this time he was under the child protection system after becoming an accidental witness of the second Robin's death: Oh, yeah, it was tough... Poor kid exploded in front of my eyes! Reporter: But, mister Todd-Wayne, what were you doing in that warehouse?

Jason, wiping fake tears: They were like my divorced parents, you know... Batman and Bruce. Batman really tried to mend things with dad back then, and wanted me to like him... We just wanted to spend some time together with him, and that Robin kid... God, it was terrible... Batman refuses to contact me now. I miss my second dad...

Bruce, back in the Batcave, watching as Batman's reputation goes lower and lower: ........................... Alfred: Well, master Bruce... Bruce: Not a word. Al. Please.

#bonus points if some criminals in gotham keep also adding fuel to this agenda #Harvey: Batman is the reason why me and Bruce broke up btw #(he knows the truth. he is just having fun)#Selina: me and Bats... yeah... he only ever saw me as a rebound after that rich money bag left him!#bruce wayne #batman #jason todd #red hood #dcu comics #dc universe #dcu #batfamily #batfam #dick grayson #nightwing #tim drake #damian wayne #talia al ghul #alfred pennyworth

4K notes · View notes

slttygeto · 8 months ago

Text

༉‧₊˚. "Shut up, mom!" prank with JJK men.

➜ featuring: nanami kento, gojo satoru, geto suguru.

➜synopsis: your child(ren) has a death wish for sure.

➜note: wasn't able to pick a name for nanami's child. also sorry to the anon who sent this, i had a hard time understanding the request at first. anyway, part 2?

༉‧₊˚. reblog + comment!

༉‧₊˚. NANAMI KENTO

“You need to start learning how to fold your clothes,” you mention casually to your daughter as you carry a basket of warm laundry to the couch.

“Why would I do that?” Nanami’s eyes look up from his book, but he doesn’t budge.

“When you move out, you will only have yourself to rely on,” you continue with the advice and your daughter rolls her eyes as she makes her way to the kitchen.

“Ugh moving out this, moving out that. Just say you want to get rid of me.”

“What–I would never, I’m just reminding you that one day you will become an adult and–”

“Oh just shut up, mom!”

You truly gave birth to a mini you, a prankster. When you first saw the tiktok trend, you and your daughter had giggled to yourselves at the thought of getting a reaction out of her father. Though, you did warn her of the repercussions. Your husband did not play when it came to showing respect to you.

“I beg your pardon?” Nanami sits up from the couch so fast, it almost makes you jump out of your skin. You don’t have time to react, or hold him back before he is storming towards the kitchen where your teenage daughter was hiding. “What did you just say to your mother?”

“I said shut up, because she was bothering me.”

“And you think that’s one way to speak to my wife?” You see his eyebrows furrow, he even slams the book he was reading down on the kitchen counter so hard that his arm veins are about to pop out.

“Kento,” you walk up behind him, calling out his name softly.

“No, let me take this.”

“No baby listen–”

“I said I will take this.” It’s only when he repeats himself in a stern manner, that your daughter starts to giggle nervously.

“Daddy, it was a prank.”

“Yeah, baby it’s a prank.” You rub his shoulders and biceps reassuringly. Your daughter quickly wraps her arms around his waist and buries her face in his chest.

“I’d never be disrespectful like that.”

“Yeah well, it almost gave me a heart attack,” his voice is now much softer and warmer as he exhales, running his fingers through his daughter’s hair. He pulls you towards him and kisses your forehead before patting his daughter’s head.

“Now, whose idea was it?”

“Mommy’s.”

“Hey!”

༉‧₊˚. GOJO SATORU

“Hey Ryuu, could you take out the trash please?”

“No, I’m busy.” Satoru’s ears perk up at the sound of his son’s tone. But he doesn’t budge from where he’s standing in the kitchen.

“Baby, it’s been sitting there all day and it’s full. Could you please–”

“Shut up, mom. I said I’m busy.”

Normally, Satoru wasn’t easy to rile up. His relationship with his son was hilarious, one where he doted on his child whilst the latter pretended as though he couldn’t stand all the love and affection he received from his dad. But despite all the love that Satoru had for his son, you were number one. You come first, you are his wife and the mother of his child. When his son will leave, you will be the one he gets to spend the rest of his time with–and when he decided to marry you, a child wasn’t even in the picture.

So he will be damned if he was just going to stand there and let his son talk to you like that.

You freeze when you feel a sudden surge of cursed energy–you knew your husband when he got angry, it clouded over the rational part of his brain. So when you see him start to walk upstairs where his son is, you have to physically grab his arm to stop him. Thank god the infinity was off.

“Satoru– toru! Baby!”

“Who the fuck does he think he is, huh?” His eyes are glowing. You really shouldn’t have played this prank on him.

“It’s a prank baby.”

“A prank?” It’s fascinating how this man can go from 0 to 100 back to 0 so quickly. He calms down so fast, glancing at the top of the stairs where he sees his son standing with his hands in his pockets.

“I told her it would be a bad idea.”

“I–hey! I didn’t think it was gonna be this bad,”

“I did,�� Ryuu starts to walk down the stairs and past you two. “He’s said it before. He doesn’t play when it comes to people showing you respect, even if it’s his own son.”

Satoru can only sigh at his son’s words before staring at you. “Don’t do that again.”

“I won’t…But I won’t lie, seeing you riled up like that–”

“I’m too old to have a sibling!”

༉‧₊˚. GETO SUGURU

Your girls were a giggly mess. You shush them before saying very loudly.

“In what world is this acceptable?”

“Mom,” your daughter, Tsukimi, feigns an annoyed tone, refusing to look up from her phone. “I really don’t care.”

“But I do.” You stand over her bed, motioning for her twin sister to get into the role as well.

“Does it matter?” Asahi uses the same annoyed, bored tone. One that quickly catches Suguru’s attention. He walks into the main area from the garage before hearing the argument upstairs.

Quickly wiping his hands with the dirty rag attached to his pants, he starts to make his way up to your twin daughters’ room to see what it was about.

“Of course it does, I’m your mother.”

“You’re really just pushing it.”

“You sneaked out last night! Do you know how disappointed your father will be?” Suguru freezes up at the revelation. But he doesn’t let his disappointment or anger get the best of him, maybe the four of you can work this out–your girls were at a rebellious age, this was bound to happen and all he needs to do is figure out a way for all of you to get along without–

“Aren’t you supposed to be our best friend or something?” Tsukimi sits up on the bed, furrowing her eyebrows in a way that reminds you how similar her and her father’s features are.

“Right now I’m your mother.”

“Oh would you just shut up?”

A loud slam makes the three of you flinch, and you turn to find Suguru standing by the door looking as angry as a raging bull.

“Who said it.”

“Wha–”

“Who said it. Who was it?” He is so furious you could see steam coming out from the top of his head. “Have you lost your fucking minds to be talking to your mother like that? Did I fail at educating you or what?”

“Suguru–”

“No,” he puts a hand on your shoulder, gently pushing you out of the room. “I need to talk to them.”

“No wait, listen–”

“I don’t want to hear it.” When you see that he had a stern look on his face, you realize that you need to save your daughters from the prank.

“It was a prank. I promise you.”

“It really was a prank,” your twin daughters are sitting on the same bed, looking as sheepish and as guilty as ever.

“And it was my idea,” Tsukimi adds.

“And I didn’t stop her.” Your thumbs trace his cheeks, smiling apologetically at him. “Sorry,”

Suguru sighs, resting his hands on his hips as he shakes his head.

“Fucking prankters. That almost gave me a heart attack.”

“But admit it, we’re good actresses, right?” Asahi asks with a grin and Suguru chuckles before ruffling her hair.

“Yeah, you sure are.”

➜ ┊: COMMISSIONS | KOFI

#moon's works #jujutsu kaisen #geto suguru #gojo satoru #nanami kento #geto x reader #gojo x reader #nanami x reader #jjk reactions #jjk men reactions #jjk men x reader #jjk men x you #suguru geto #satoru gojo #kento nanami #gojo fluff #geto fluff #nanami fluff

3K notes · View notes

gojonanami · 1 year ago

Text

❝ 𝐈 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 ! ❞

❝ I HEARD FROM A FRIEND OF A FRIEND, THAT DICK WAS A TEN OUT OF TEN !! ❞

✧ pairing: jjk au sorcerer! suguru geto x sorcerer! reader

✧ summary: geto's routine after a mission -- ingest the curses that he collects before his shower. but after he does, his body begins to burn and ache with lust to the point of pain -- and he can't get rid of the feeling alone. so what else can he do when you show up at his doorstep offering to help but accept it (aka a sex pollen / aphrodisiac curse fic).

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, so much smut, jjk compliant au, geto stayed a sorcerer and didn't defect, reader is one year younger than geto, (set during jjk s1), aphrodisiac curse (sex pollen), multiple orgasms, multiple positions (missionary, doggy, riding, other positions mentioned: standing, against the wall, spooning from behind, against the wall), masturbation (m), soft dom! geto, oral (m +f), handjob (m! receiving), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, cervix fucking, panty stealing, squirting, mutual pining, a little angst (discussion of star vessel / premature death arc), but a lot of comfort, cuddling, gojo hijinks

✧ wc: 8,180

Suguru was only sure of one thing, as he stared at himself in the mirror — cheeks flushed red, sweat nearly soaking through his black t-shirt, and a painful and glaring problem in his boxers—

This was a curse — literally.

Curses were made up of different negative human emotions — from loneliness to grief to anger, these negative feelings would pool and create a curse. Sorcerers were made to exorcise these curses, and Suguru did so — but in a different way than the others. He had to consume them as part of his technique. And even with the hundreds of curses he’s swallowed over the years, he would never get used to the taste — a shit soaked rag used to clean up vomit was how he could best describe it, but even then, that didn’t come close to the indescribable act of swallowing the manifestation of the worst negative human emotions — at least for most of them.

The one he had swallowed today was different — he was sent to exorcise a grade 1 curse in the heart of Tokyo that dwelled in an abandoned building — from the inside, he could tell that it was used as a strip club and possibly a bathhouse-turned-brothel, from the seedy mattresses left behind with dirty sheets and mussed covers, with rusting incense burners placed around the room, and the gaudy, fake jewelry that laid strewn about the place — assumedly any real jewelry picked clean. He swore he could have even smelt the ever lingering scent of cheap perfume in the walls and vents.

But the greater concern was the curse he had found himself with — a grotesque creature that stared back at him — its body a deep maroon, many eyes dotting its back with a large pair of black lips that Suguru didn’t care to draw any closer to. It was more humanoid than most — its form showing a more sophistication than many curses did, muscles of its many arms contracted as it finally spotted Suguru, its many eyes settled their gaze on him.

It was far too easy for him to take down the curse in hindsight — far too easy — and it seemed to watch him summon curses — and he swore it almost had seen a glimmer of recognition in its eyes and then it allowed him to deal the final blow.

He had kept the curse on hand — he could swallow it later, when he was near a toilet and perhaps some mouthwash — though that barely did much to remove the taste from his mouth. He had returned to Jujutsu Tech to do his reports, and hopefully head back early — Satoru was out on another overseas mission and Shoko was busy tending to patients and bodies as always, but you—

He wasn’t sure what you were doing, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to text you. Not after what Satoru said.

“When are you guys gonna fuck already?” the strongest sorcerer asked, making Suguru choke on his Sprite — strong in ability, but not in tact, “you and her have been eye fucking for weeks and you had such a thing for her before she decided to move to Kyoto—”

“That was years ago—”

“She has a key to your apartment—“

“So do you!” he glares.

“Then what about last night at the bar?” Satoru leans back in his chair, lifting the front legs off the ground, as he pulled his sunglasses down, “you could have murdered the guy that was hitting on her with your look alone — and I think you did when you stuck yourself to her side with your arm around her waist, until he ran with his tail between his legs,”

If looks could kill, Suguru would have surely murdered his best friend — infinity be damned, “She looked uncomfortable, what was I going to do—”

“Well, she certainly didn’t look uncomfortable with you hanging all over her, now did she?” He raises an eyebrow, as he leans forward again, the front legs of his chair landing with a thunk, “what are you gonna do if a guy comes along that she falls for? You’re telling me you’re not gonna regret it, Suguru?” Suguru says nothing, unable to meet Satoru’s gaze, as Satoru crushes his own can into a ball, before tossing at Suguru, “You guys just got to hurry up and fuck,”

Suguru swats the crushed can away, “You’re disgusting,”

He grins, as his words seemingly only confirm what he assumes, “Disgusting, but correct, and if I’m right, you’re taking some of my missions off my hands,” he grins.

And Satoru’s words had been running around in Suguru’s head — just like any annoying song on the radio — but he couldn’t let Satoru’s words stop from hanging out with you. He had just gotten you back in his life again — he couldn’t lose you, not again.

Geto: Are you free to watch a movie and have takeout?

You: sounds good - did you get back from your mission alright? No injuries I need to yell at you about?

He snorts, as he types his reply: no, not this time.

You: Let’s keep it that way! :)

He bites back his smile as the two of you decide to have you head over in an hour to his place — you preferred it that way since you were still settling into your place, boxes still unwittingly everywhere there should be actual furniture. Last time he came by to pick a report up, he found you eating your meal on a packed box, instead of a table.

And he catches himself smiling, before his face sours at the thought of Satoru again.

Satoru was right — and he hated to admit it, his knuckles pressed to his lips. A year under him, you had spent days with him, along with everyone else — you always waited for him with his favorite snacks when he would return from a mission. You sat with him sometimes when he would get sick from swallowing curses, helping him swallow some water and saltines after he turned his stomach inside out. You were the one that pushed him when he hid his disillusionment from everyone else — even from Satoru. You wouldn’t leave him alone, you wouldn’t stop dogging his every step with snacks and comfort and company, hounding him to sleep, to eat, to say something, anything.

Until he did — one late night you spent up together — he didn’t sleep much those days anyway. And he told you everything — the poison seeping from his body, and leeching onto yours, your frown and hurt was the whole reason he hadn’t wanted to tell anyone to begin with. But the frown wasn’t yourself — it was for him, as your arms only curled around him, and he let you hold him the entire night.

“You don’t always have to pretend to be strong, Suguru. You’re allowed to be upset, you’re allowed to be angry, you’re allowed to grieve — but don’t bottle it up,” your fingers raked through his wet hair, undoing the tangles gently before running the comb through it, “don’t let it kill you from the inside out,”

“I feel like I did die — along with Amanai,” and you pause, your arms curled around his shoulders, chin resting on his head before you pinched his cheek and he flinched.

“There, you’re definitely not dead,” you say, “so don’t act like you are. And don’t act like you’re alone — because you’re not. You have me, you have Satoru and Shoko — even Nanami and—“ you voice cuts off at the thought of Haibara — “Haibara wouldn’t want you to hide from us, he looked up to you — more than anyone else, even Satoru,”

“I don’t know why,” he mutters with a sigh.

“I do,” your fingers guide his face to meet your gaze, your face an inch or two from his, “because you’re kind, you’re intelligent, and you’re strong,”

He scoffs, “Satoru is the strongest,”

“And you think Satoru thinks any differently of you? That any of us feel differently? You’re the only person who can understand him — and he’s the only one who understands you,”

He gives a small chuckle, “not the only one,” and he tears his eyes away, hoping you don’t see the way his cheeks burned.

And when he found those two sorcerer girls locked up — you were the one who called. The rage and anger had built into murderous intent, but he could hear your words ringing in his ears and before he knew it, he had called you to come to him.

You saved them together — Nanako and Mimiko had fallen asleep in your respective laps after all was said and done on the ride back — without much bloodshed (not that the blood that was shed was worth much, in his opinion) — and with Gojo and you smoothing things over with the higher ups (mostly with veiled threats and petty remarks), you managed to allow the twins to grow up safe, under Geto’s care, and your own.

At least for a time. After you graduated, Nanami left — and you were the only one of your class left — and the absence of your best friends weighed on you, even if you didn’t show it.

“I’m leaving for Kyoto,” you told him one afternoon the two of you spent lazing around his dorm, you sat against the bottom of his bed, as he lounged on the mattress, his gaze snapping to you, only able to see the back of your head, “this place holds too many memories — i need perspective, I need space from all of this,”

He wants to ask if you have to, ask you if he could convince you to stay, if he could do something, anything to make you stay — ask if he wasn’t enough to make you stay. But he doesn’t, because it’s the best decision for you. So he instead slips off the bed, sitting beside you, his hand ruffling your hair, “You’ll come to visit right?”

He knows you’re blinking back tears, but he pretends not to notice, your lip quivering, and god, he knows he wants nothing more than to tilt your gaze toward him by your chin and brush his lips against yours, until every sad thought has evaporated under his touch.

But he knows that would only be one more thought that would make things far more difficult — for the both of you. It was better this way. And it was. Years had passed, the two of you had become teachers at the Tokyo and Kyoto schools respectively — but as the years had passed, your relationship grew more distant, as it always seemed to with time and distance.

But then you decided to come back to Tokyo, transferred over — Yaga explaining it was due to all the happenings in Tokyo with the special grades and emergence of Yuji as Sukuna’s vessel — and he found himself in your presence again. And it was as if no time had passed — your days off spent in his apartment — as yours had become a haven of unpacked boxes. And he couldn’t help but wonder — when he’d glance at you in the dark of his living room, the only illumination was the TV that played some shitty horror movie (your words not his) you had put on — if the special grades were the only reason you’d come back. Your fingers were so close to each other’s on the couch, but an inch felt like a ravine.

One he couldn’t dare to cross.

But It was fine, just as he told Satoru — you were just friends, until both of you decided otherwise. Not that it would ever happen — no, he thought that ship had sailed, even if his heart had stubbornly said that it hadn’t.

Until he decided to consume the curse — and his heart was no longer the problem.

Or at least, not his main problem.

He sat in his bathroom, towel in the shower rack, ready to shower after he dealt with this. He had discarded his uniform jacket and pants — only in a black t-shirt and boxers. He stood by the toilet — as he learned his lesson the first few months swallowing curses — he never knows when one will turn his stomach inside out.

He holds the balled curse in his palm — he could feel it squirm just underneath of his cursed energy — the thing keeping it contained at all, itching to be freed from his grasp — though it never would. He pressed the ball to his lips, bracing himself as he opened his mouth, nearly having to unhinge his jaw for how large this curse was and pressing it past his lips and into his mouth. His palms pressed against his mouth, as he swallowed, eyes squeezed shut.

It…wasn’t as bad as he thought. He frowned, brow knit as he stared at his empty palm — it was still appalling to consume, but it was….sweet? But it burned as it went down, heat remaining in the pit of his stomach, even as it should have faded.

That should have been his first clue.

Either way, he turned on the shower before he shed the rest of his clothes, and stepped in. The water felt warmer than usual, as he washed his body first, letting his hair grow wet under the shower head. His fingers reached for the shower handle, turning it even colder, but his body barely reacted to the water — was it even cold?

Even under the water, he felt like his body was burning — a slow fire that lingered under the surface of his skin, burning and aching, the frigid water barely doing enough to soothe it. Running his hands over his body seemingly helped, a shiver running down his spine as he washed himself, but he knew it would have felt even better if it was you.

….what? He tried to shake that thought from his head — it wasn’t the first time he had thought of you like this. There were many times where his mind would drift to you at night, the warmth of your touch from a few hours ago still lingered, as his hard-on pleaded for his touch. Guilty gnawed at his conscious when he indulged, the first time being after a particularly vivid dream of you pinning him down while training — your mouth kissing down his body, eager fingers tugging at his shorts until that smirk met—

This wasn’t helping.

The burning had traveled southward, as his blood did, and he glanced down at his raging hard-on.

Fuck.

No, he couldn’t.

But his fingers were possessed, already reaching for his aching cock, large beads of pre-cum leaving his slit just as hand closed around it. He hisses when he does, a gasp ripped from his throat, as he braces himself against the shower wall with his other hand.

He palms his erection, swallowing thickly, as he grunts, as he begins to pump his cock from base to tip, smearing his pre along his length. But his mind wanders to you, how pretty you’d look pressed against the wall of his shower, his hard cock dragging between your ass. Lovely moans parting your lips as his fingers would reach around to rub at your puffy clit.

“Suguru, please—“

“Tell me what you want baby, gotta use your words,” he’d murmur, teasing your slick entrance with the tip of his cock.

“Need your cock — need you to fuck me,” you would whine, words nearly enough to make him bust there and then. And he would sink into you just as he does his fist, but your sweet cunt would feel so much better than his hand does.

Fucking wet and tight and just for him, as he works his dick deeper and deeper, until his tip is nudging your cervix. And he’d fuck you hard, just like he’s fucking his fist now, skin slapping each time his hips met your ass.

You’d cum before he would, he would make sure of it — one hand rubbing harshly at your clit, the other toying with one of your nipples between his thumb and forefinger. And your walls would squeeze and wring him dry, just as he squeezed his own dick now.

He spilled all over the wall of his shower, white spurts kept coming, as he grunted, imagining he was painting your walls instead. He panted, but as the afterglow ebbed away, the heat only came back tenfold.

He panted, as his fingers left his cock, only to find it still hard — the tip red and angry, twitching as he stared back at it.

What the fuck is going on?

He finally left the shower, pulling on his shirt and boxers delicately — every inch of his body felt feverish and sensitive, even the rubbing of his clothes against his skin was almost too much for him.

He stood in front of the sink, knuckles white against the porcelain as he tried to will his erection away, but each thought was only chased away with thoughts of you — of the dress you loved to wear riding up, of your legs spreading for him, of the wet patch on your panties—

He was so fucked. Sweat dripped into the sink, as he glanced at himself in the mirror — skin a ruddy red flush, lips impossibly dry, pupils blown out with need — he was so fucked.

He called Shoko — the embarrassment of this situation far gone at this point fading into plain need of wanting this situation to be over. One ring, two rings — finally five rings and she picks up.

“It’s not like you to call—“

“I need your help,” he cuts her off, biting back the groan from his cock rubbing against his boxers the wrong way — “I don’t know what’s happening to me,”

Her voice shifts from curiosity to concern, “Slow down, Suguru, tell me what’s going on,” and he tells her his symptoms — and she’s silent on the other line for a moment, “you have been a teenage boy before right? You’re not really calling me because you’re horny and you don’t know what to do—“

“It’s not that—“ he hisses, running a slow hand down his face, “I already tried…solving the problem myself but it didn’t work. And I feel weird — it only made it worse. I can’t stop sweating or thinking about—“ he cuts off — he couldn’t stop lewd thoughts of you from springing before his eyes, the thoughts of your moans, how soft your flesh would be under his fingers, how you’d look when he— “what is this, Shoko?”

She pauses on the line for a moment, “When did it start?”

“Right before my shower I think,” his mind foggy with need, he could barely even comprehend a coherent thought.

“And what did you do before your shower? Anything different?” he’s swallowing the lump in his throat, as he resists the urge to brush his hand over his hard-on.

He’s barely hearing Shoko at this point — “I took off my clothes, I got my towel, and then I—“ and the realization struck him — the curse, “I consumed the curse I collected today from my mission,” he mutters, “fuck—“

And then there’s a knock at the door, “Suguru?” He heard you call through the door. His dick throbs at the sound of your voice.

Shoko’s voice cuts through the white noise, “Suguru, the curse you ate — was there something different about it?”

“It was a grade one — it seemed a little too easy to defeat — it formed in—“ he swallows thickly, “in a brothel,”

“I’ve heard of curses being lustful, but not of them becoming a stimulant,” she murmurs, and he can hear her sigh, “you could try extracting the curse from your body — I doubt that would be effective at this point. I assume the effects will linger until the symptoms pass — just as it does when you become nauseous or sick from swallowing other curses,”

His phone buzzed with texts from you:

You: I’m outside, I grabbed takeout for us this time since you always treat me!

You: are you home?

His mind swam, it wasn’t the takeout he was craving — it was you. But no, no — he couldn’t. Not like this, but he was fighting a losing battle and he just about lost the war along with it.

“I don’t know, how do I get it to pass?” he was desperate, the sounds of your knocks and messages ringing in his ear, along with your sweet voice — why do you sound so good with his name on your lips? So sweet — his boxers grow even tighter — bet you even taste even sweeter.

“If dealing with it yourself didn’t work, then,” she sighs, “you’re going to need a partner,”

Another knock.

“Shoko, I have to go,” and he hangs up before she can get another word — a thought to thank her and apologize shoved to the back of his mind, as he stumbles to his door, a thunk as he nearly tumbled into it, wood and hinges groaning under the force and weight.

“Suguru?” you’re so worried yet his name on your tongue was nearly enough to have him cumming in his boxers then, the wet patch of his boxers nearly making the fabric translucent, “are you okay?”

He says your name, “You should go home, I’m not feeling well—“

“What’s wrong? Do you need help?” And he’s biting his lip, teeth digging into his bottom lip, nearly drawing blood, “let me in,”

“I can’t—I can’t let you help with this,” he’s shaking his head, “please, sweetheart, you have to go—“ And he hears the clink of your key going into the door — fuck, that goddamn key he gave you, and the door pulls open, just as he braces himself against the doorframe.

Your brow furrowed in concern, takeout bag in hand, as your eyes examined him, until they found their way to his boxers.

“Suguru—“

“You should leave — I can’t explain, there’s a curse inside me—“

Your eyebrows knit together, “Suguru, a curse did this to you? What happened?” And he’s shaking his head, mind far too gone, as he forces himself away, “let me help—“

“You can’t help. I have to get out of my system but the only way is—“ he cuts off, as he groans again, body and mind railing against each other, as his body just seemingly burns from even being near you.

“There must be something—“ and you step closer, and he can barely hold back from grabbing you, fingers twitching to wrap around your waist, the other holding your neck, lips finding yours, as he fucking rips his own clothes off— “I want to help—“

He’s tugging at the collar of his shirt incessantly, as you step closer, closing the gap between your bodies, and he can only focus on the way your pretty lips part, the way your chest curves under your shirt, and the far too short shorts you choose to wear — fuck.

He was so fucked.

He can’t hold back, as he’s drawing close to you in a moment, his mind clouded with lust, the hitch of your breath only making him want you more — but he forced every muscle in his body to stop. He couldn’t. Not until you agreed.

“If you don’t want me to fuck you right now,” he says lowly, his lips nearly brushing your ear, “I want you — regardless of this, I’ve wanted you for so long,” the confession tumbles from his lips because he needs you to know, needs you know so you can either leave him to his fate or help him get through this, “but if you don’t feel the same—“

But to his surprise, you lean closer, breath warming his skin until it was left scalding, “who said I didn’t?”

And he can’t hold back.

His lips crash to yours, his hands holding your cheeks, as he grasps desperately to you, takeout boxes spilling from the plastic bag and your purse spilling your things when you drop it, your fingers grasping at his damp t-shirt.

And your touch alone even through the fabric is nearly enough to make him bust a nut there and then — and his mind hadn’t even felt so clear until he felt your touch. He could notice every little detail about you — the way your breath caught when his fingers ghosted down your sides, the way your lips parted for his tongue without hesitation, and the way your knees shook when he squeezed your hips.

“So pliant for me,” he murmurs, eager to touch more, to taste more, “such a good fucking girl, aren’t you?”

And you’re nodding wordlessly — lips kiss ruined and red, saliva clinging to your lips when he parted from your lips — and he wonders which one of you swallowed a glorified sex curse.

“Know how long I wanted to do this?” words said pressed with heated kisses down your neck — he was right, you tasted so sweet, he bet another part of you tasted even sweeter — “how many times I thought about this?” He nibbled at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, rewarded with a pretty gasp, “wanted to mark you up so many times — when that fucker tried to hit on you — I wanted to do more than just wrap my arm around you. Wanted to show him how he could never please you,” and he’s sucking a mark there, teeth grazing and pinching your skin before he soothes it with his tongue. He smiles against your skin, as he admires his handiwork.

You whine when he drags a thumb down your puffy lips, “Sugu, please, more,” and his lips find yours again, swallowing your complaints and moans eagerly, as his large palms slide down your back to rest on your ass, squeezing as he presses you flush to his body, hard on pressed against your body.

“Need my touch that much, Princess? Should’ve just fucked you in that club, huh? Let them see that you’re mine,” And he’s walking you backwards towards his room, as he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it onto the floor of his living room. Your fingers running over his exposed flesh, thumbs teasing his sensitive nipples, pretty little lips pressing teasing kisses to both sides.

Fuck, the need to bury his cock in you grew by the second. But he wanted to feel good first — been waiting too long. He had all night to fuck you — but he only had one time to do it right the first time.

He’s walking you into the edge of his bed, as you both tumble onto the bed, his hands sliding under your shirt, tugging at the hem, and you help him take it off — and he hissed at the sight of nothing underneath.

“Were you always coming to my place with no bra on?” his lips curl, as your eyes look away, embarrassment painted on your expression, “wanted this as long as I did, Princess? Don’t get so shy now — you’re the one who insisted on helping me, so aren’t you going to fulfill your promise?” His lips brush against your earlobe, lips wrapping around it and sucking lightly.

You shiver, biting your lip, before you’re tugging him fully onto the bed, before slinking off of it and onto your knees for him, “Then let me help you,”

When your fingers toy with the elastic of his boxers, he’s ready to cum right there — he’s so sensitive still, he’s sure he won’t last long, but fuck, he doesn’t care with how pretty you look between his legs.

“Don’t be a tease, Princess, or I’ll pay you back later,” but your lips only curl, as you lean forward and press a kiss through the drenched fabric, tip of your tongue teasing his slit through his boxers.

“Oh I expect you to,” and you’re pulling his boxers down painfully slowly, letting the fabric of his boxers rub against his hard-on teasingly, a low hiss leaving the thin line of his lips, his balls aching with his release as his cock slaps against his stomach, “fuck, Sugu,” you murmur in almost reverence — he was thick, the tip flushed red with lovely beads of pre-cum already dripping down his length, your fingers already eager to trace those pretty veins, and feel the slight curve of his cock in your aching cunt, “how am I gonna fit you all in me?”

And his cock twitches at your words, as you pity him with a chaste kiss to the top, “Please,” he swallows, adam’s apple bobbing, fingers knuckles white as they fisted the now creased sheets, “fuck—“ as you blow air along his length, “I’ll cum all over your face at this rate,”

“Oh I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Sugu?” your point finger lightly follows the trail of his vein, as your lips continue to press butterfly kisses along his length, “paint my face with your cum,”

And his fingers thread themselves in your hair, pressing his length to your lips, and you smirk, looking up at him with half lidded gaze, as your lips part and his length slides in — that’s all it takes.

The coil in his stomach snaps, as he cums down your throat, hot seed spilling into your mouth, as his hips jerk against your mouth, his groans of your name sending a hot stripe of heat down to your cunt.

Despite that, his cock only seems to grow larger, twitching against your tongue, as you part for a moment, a trail of saliva and cum dripping from your lips, “Taste so good, Sugu — gotta have you one more time—“ you envelop him with your lips again — and he’s a mess of moans, head thrown back, thick haze of lust as his eyes finally meet yours. You swallow around him, tongue wrapped around his length, as your sinful fingers touch whatever can’t fit in your mouth.

“S’good baby, should’ve fucked this mouth a long time ago,” and he’s gone, as his hips begin to slowly roll against you, watching as you don’t resist, the tip of his cock brushing against your throat, “good fucking girl, never gonna go a day without these lips around my cock,” and god, he’s so close — twitching in your mouth, but what sends him over the edge is when he feels you moan, and spots your hand down your shorts.

Fuck, he’s pulling out, “can I—“ and you pump him in response, a grunt of your name as you let him cum all over your face and chest, the sight enough to make him hard all over again — his thick release slipping down your lips, as your tongue darts out to taste it again.

And he’s pulling you into a bruising kiss, tasting his own cum on your lips, before grabbing his discarded shirt to clean you off. His hand grabs your wrist and eases it from inside your cunt, tongue darting out to lick the release from your fingers, cleaning each of them.

In an instant, he’s got you spread on his bed, legs parted for him, “where’s that attitude now, pretty?” And his lithe fingers sneak under the elastic of your panties and snaps it against your skin, making you squirm, “seems like all those words fell out of your head just from sucking my cock,”

He’s slowly dragging your underwear down, before pulling at his bedside drawer to stuff your panties in, “for later use,” and you can’t managed a reply before his lips are pressing butterfly kisses up your thighs, before his teeth graze the soft flesh of your inner thigh, drawing a gasp from your lips, before sucking and soothing it with his tongue, “mine, all mine,” he’s already hard again — the feel of your soft skin under his lips was enough to have him cumming again like a virgin — the burning in the pit of his stomach only burned brighter for you — god, would he ever work his way out of this state? But as his gaze was met with your lovely dripping cunt with your puffy clit begging him for attention, he couldn’t seem to care.

You hiss when his fingers slowly spread your folds, “So fucking tight, baby, how am I gonna fit in you?” he clicks his tongue, inhaling, as his nose brushes against your clit, making your hips jump, “patience, gotta take my time with this princess cunt, gotta make sure you’re ready for me,” his dick twitching at his next sentence, “because I sink my cock in here, we’re not stopping at one round,”

Your cunt squeezes around nothing at his words, his breath warming your sensitive pussy, until he finally drags a stripe up your needy folds.

“Sugu, fuck,” his arms brace your thighs and hips down, as the tip of his tongue drags teasing circles around your clit, your slick gathering on his tongue, as he tastes it with a groan.

“Fucking, the best thing I’ve tasted,” and as much as he wants to bury his dick in you, he could live with his face between your thighs, “so perfect f’me,” and his tongue trails in tight circles around your clit, while his finger toys with your entrance, gathering your pre on his finger, teasing your entrance and delighting in the way your breath hitches.

He looks up at your face between half lidded eyes, you’re too fucking pretty — your hair a mess from, a sheen of sweat on your body, the lovely way your nipples were erect, and your eyes — pupils lost to lust and need. And all for him.

Fuck, he knows he won’t last long at this rate, he can already feel the urge to palm his raging cock, but he wants you to cum first, and he’s sinking a finger into your sweet cunt. He can almost imagine how your walls would feel fluttering around his cock — but he doubts his engorged tip would be even fit right now.

No, he needed to make this good for you — he slowly starts to finger fuck you as his tongue circles your clit in tighter circles, even sucking on it, and by the way your fingers grasped at the sheets, crumpling under your touch — you liked it.

Pretty moans left your lips, as your fingers found their way to his dark locks, still slightly damp from his shower — as he added a second finger inside. His name said between pants, as his fingers drag against your molten insides — the wet squelch rang in his ears as he fucked your cunt open. Knuckle deep in your sweet pussy, he knows he’s addicted — to the feeling of your molasses insides — warm and soft for him, his digits curling against your walls, looking for that one place that would make you fall apart.

“Sugu, please, please ‘m close—,” and he knows you need a little more, and he’s obliging with a chuckle, a third finger joining the other two, and he’s fucking you in earnest now — lips closing around your clit and sucking mercilessly, as his fingers find that spongy spot that has you seeing stars. Your back arches, as your nails dig into his scalp, as you cum around his fingers — walls fluttering as he eats you out through your high, his name leaving your lips again and again, as you slowly come down from your high, thighs twitching and chest heaving as you do.

As he finally pulls away, his chin and mouth glossy and drenched in a mixture of your cum and his spit — that he licks clean from where his tongue can reach, fingers collecting the rest, as he looks at your sticky cum gathered on his fingers.

Fuck, he could live in your cunt. Your sweet taste was the only thing he’d crave now after consuming curses — he wondered if you’d let him eat you out for hours after the curses he ate — he was sure your taste was the only thing that would erase that disgusting like nothing else ever would.

He’s giving you soft kisses after, dotting them up your body, murmuring praises, but you’re pulling him into a kiss, your fingers resting against the back of his neck, as your other hand finds his aching erection, swallowing his gasp with pleasure.

“Want you, Sugu, please,” and your words are enough to make him cum right there, as he tugs your hand away, “Sugu—”

“Won’t last long if you keep touching me and whining like that, Princess,” the heat only seems to lick at his skin like flames, engulfing him with every touch, and his cock was the epicenter of the wildfire, while you were the fuel that only made it consume you both to ash, “but I know it won’t be long until I’m fucking you again anyway,” Your cunt throbs at his words, as he draws close, dragging his weeping tip against your folds, watching his pre-cum smear against your slick with a grunt, “feels like you’re already trying to swallow me up, princess — you want this cock that bad?” fuck, he can’t hold back anymore, as he’s lining up himself up, and he’s sliding right into you with a groan, “know how long been waiting to do that?” his skin meeting yours as he bottoms out deliciously, stretching your walls out with his girth, pleasure ripping up your spine, “wanted to do this since the moment you walked through the door, but needed to do this right — when nothing about this was right,” he had so many things to say, while your mind had left you with not even a syllable, his cock twitched and pulsed inside your walls, dragging against it deliciously, “wish our first time wasn’t like this — but I’m so glad it’s finally happened, sweetheart,”

And you can’t help but smile up at him, lips parted with a small moan, as tears burned at your eyes from his size, “Me too, Sugu, wanted you for so long, needed you—” and he’s kissing your tears and words away with his lips,

Then he begins to fuck you — hard, the slapping of your skin and the wet squelch of your sex filling up most of the silence of the room, while both of your moans and grunts took up the rest. Your cunt was heaven to him — warm, wet walls wrapped around his aching cock — the slightest bit of relief was overcome with waves and waves of need — he needed to fuck you, needed to make you cum, needed to cum inside — he just needed you.

“S’big, Sugu, too big,” you whine, he was almost too much for you, the way his dick fucked places you only could imagine reaching, as his mouth leaned down to take a pert nipple between his lips — sucking and licking, as he couldn’t have enough of you, while his hand toyed with the other, “feels too good,”

“I know baby, gonna fuck your princess cunt so good — make sure its made just for me,” he’s murmuring, as his teeth graze your tit, as he pistons into you again and again, the tip of his cock brushing your cervix with each thrust, “all mine, baby, fuck — such a good girl for me,” and the praise has you keening against him, the knowing flutter of your cunt that tells him you’re all too close to the edge, as his hand reaches between your bodies to rub at your clit, “cum for me, pretty, need to feel your pretty little cunt squeeze me,”

And you do, falling apart as he fucks you through your orgasm, again and again — fuck, you felt so good, as he watched his cock slip in and out of you, a white ring of your release forming around his base. He’s fucking close too — can feel his balls tense, eager to blow his load, “where—”

You’re still moaning, eyes blown out in pleasure, as you watch him fuck you again and again, “Inside, Sugu, fill me up,” and that’s it, he’s gone — spurting his hot release, painting your walls, as he does, fucking it inside you — deeper, deeper, until he stills for a moment. And you’re twitching, eyes fluttering shut, when he pulls out, a groan parting his lips as he watches his seed spill from your cunt.

But then silence for several moments, the soft pants of your breathing only, before you hear him swearing and grunting, as your eyes open, and your pussy twitches at the sight before you. Suguru’s hand slid up and down his still erect cock, his eyes squeezed shut, as he groaned, “Suguru—”

“Wasn’t enough, need more,” he’s shaking his head, as his fingers squeeze around the base of his cock, “thought it would be enough to cum with you, but I can still feel it—” and he’s groaning, as you sit up, watching your mixed releases drip from you, “baby—”

And your lips kiss the tip of his weeping cock, “I told I’d help you,” and you ease his hand away, as you lick up his length, your eyes fixed on his, “just because we fucked, doesn’t mean we’re done,”

And in a moment, he’s got you flipped onto your hands and knees, as his cock slaps against your ass, his fingers squeezing the flesh, as he leans over to kiss your back, “Then I guess we’re gonna be up all night, sweetheart, because if you’re okay with this — I don’t think I’ll be satisfied with just a blowjob,” his tip drags against your messy cunt, “gonna need something a little tighter than your mouth,” and he’s sinking his thick cock into you again, balls slapping against your ass as he begins to fuck you, “better cancel any plans you have, pretty — because we’re not leaving this bed for a while.”

“Don’t fall asleep on me, baby,” his fingers grab your chin, and force you to meet his gaze, as he fucks into you, as you sit on his lap, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders, “almost gonna cum, and don’t want you to be asleep for it,”

How many times had you fucked? You had lost count — but you knew you had done it in far too many positions — on your hands and knees, standing up, against the wall, from behind with his hand gripping your leg up, and far too many others — and now you were spread in his lap, cock deep in your pulsing pussy, his lips kissing your neck, as he fucked into you, his dick reaching a deeper angle from this position, easily able to hit the furthest parts of you.

He had cum in you more than you thought was humanly possible — and you supposed it wasn’t — it was only the curse that enabled this — it was animalistic even, the way he rutted into you desperately. He grabbed a water bottle only to take a swig, and find your lips again, forcing you to swallow the water.

“Good girl,” he’s grunting, his hips beginning to stutter, “I’m close baby, are you?” You hadn’t thought it was still possible to feel pleasure at this point, but it was — his cock dragged against your walls, his dark gaze finding yours, “tell me you wanna cum,” and your pussy twitches at his order, “use your words, pretty, or have I fucked them all out?”

“Please, Suguru, I wanna cum on your cock,” and you’re so fucking close again — the all too familiar knot in your stomach ready to snap any moment.

“Fuck, greedy pussy hasn’t enough of me? We’ve been fucking until the daylight now,” as his hand grabs your chin to make you see the first rays of light peaking over the horizon, and he’s making you bounce on him with each thrust of his dick — your orgasm building and building with every brush of his tip against your g-spot, “fuck, s’good for me, baby — been so good — just need one more and we can stop,” and tears stream down your cheek that only make him groan, his lips finding yours in a messy, sloppy kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth right as his cock hits at the deepest part of you—

And you squirt all over him, drenching his cock and lap as you cum, your lips parting from him, as your head is thrown back, boneless, as he fucks into you, your spasming walls pulling him over the edge as he paints your insides with his release, fucking it into you, until he finally slows, your body draped on his, head resting on his shoulder. Bodies sticky with sweat and cum, his cock finally softens inside you, the heat finally beginning to dull, as he presses soft kisses and gentle caresses to every inch of your skin, as he lays you down carefully, pulling himself from you.

“Thank you, princess, thank you,” and you’re burying your face in the crook of his neck, soft breaths cooling the sheen of sweat on his skin, “did so good for me,” and he slowly rises, grabbing his shirt and running it under water to clean you off, if only a little.

You’re already half asleep, eyes only fluttering half open to watch him, and he can’t help but bite his lip, “Sugu?”

“Yes, princess?” And you nod, fingers twitching for him, and his lips curl as he obliges, wrapping you up in his body, “know it was rough on you baby, I’ll make it up to you — don’t worry, just rest,” he grabs a water bottle, and lifts your head ever so slightly and helps you drink some water.

“I know you want to ask me something,” and he pauses, as he pulls the bottle away, “I can see the gears grinding in your head — you can ask me anything, y’know,” you had quite the way of embarrassing him, didn’t you?

“I know, I just,” he swallowed, “was there any other reason you came back to Tokyo, aside from the threats, did you come back for anything else?”

And your lips curl, raising an eyebrow knowingly, “Anything or anyone you mean?” and you chuckle when his eyes can’t meet yours, your fingers finding his again, “baby,” and your hand brushes against his cheek, tracing the cut of his jaw, making his breath catch, “I did come back for someone — a very particular someone,” and he smiles, as your lips lean up to press a chaste kiss to your lips, “and my friends, of course,” you add, “I love Utahime, but I missed Shoko and Satoru, and you,”

“You did?” he murmurs, and you giggle, kissing him again, melting into his touch again, as your foreheads brushed against the other’s, “Sugu?” and it’s your turn to ask something now, chewing on your bottom lip, “can we do this again?” you murmur, before adding, “not like this but—“

And he laughs, pulling you impossibly closer, lips finding your leaping pulse, “Yes, we can, if you want to — because I know I do, because,” his thumb brushing the length of your cheek, “but I want all of you — want your body, your thoughts, your time, your heart and soul—“ and his lips quirk at the sight of your eyes widening ever so slightly, “is that okay?”

And your lips find his own as an answer, sweet kisses turn languid, heat stealing any doubts from either of your minds, “As long I have yours as well,” and the two of you share only a few more kisses, before you both finally drift off.

“If he’s fine, and I’m checking on him, I’m kicking his ass,” Satoru grumbled, as he held his phone between his cheek and his shoulder, Shoko sighing as he rooted through his pockets for his keys.

Shoko chewed her lip, she hadn’t heard from him in hours, “He was in bad shape, I can't find the time to go check and you were on your way home anyway,” Shoko says, wiping her brow, twisting a strand of her hair between her fingers.

“Yeah, on my way home back from a mission,” he finally finds his keys, sticking Suguru’s spare key into the lock and turning it, “If I have jet lag, and all I find is him jerked off and sleeping, you owe me,”

He twists the knob, and looks — he doesn’t see Suguru in the living room or kitchen — but he does see takeout containers spilled on the floor, along with a very familiar bag, and he blinks, before his lips curl. He asks if she’s heard from you, to which she says no,

He walks silently to Suguru’s bedroom, opening the door a crack to see you and Suguru curled up against each other, your head on his chest, his arm wrapped around you, the comforter strewn about and covering the rest of your bodies.

Satoru only grins, before he pulls his phone from his ear and switches to the camera.

“Never mind, Shoko, I owe you one,” and he snaps a picture of the two of you, wondering how many missions he could pawn off to Suguru now, “I’ll treat you to lunch.”

✧ a/n: so this turned out way longer than i thought (story of my life). i had so much fun writing this - i've been writing this in conjunction with prof geto part 3 and its been funny darting back and forth between these two -- although the scenes i've been writing

✧ taglist: @peachyminx, @garfunklefield, @unicornqueen05, @hiyori-ii, @equikaz, @unoriginalidea, @forest-fruits-jam, @torusinfinity, @hellkaiserinphoenix, @loonimae, @gojoedd, @sugurufic, @glaceliy, @telvess, @kentocalls, @nayasch, @iluvvreze, @yamaguccitadashi, @faeismism, @hanxyy, @catsgomurp, @sukaibg, @sugurusdiscordmoderator, @gojorgeous, @getos-slvtt, @sirencholia, @teatreeoilll, @dewdropdive, @appysauc, @kobycetacean, @missroki, @fushitoru, @pricetagofficial, @that-goth-bisexual, @shoyosdoll, @regrettinglifechoices, @mostinsanegirl, @roseybean, @fayyyrieee, @gojobbg, @strangehuman101, @saccharine-nectarine, @i-belong-in-a-retirement-home, @spider-fan72

#sab [mlist]#geto suguru x reader #geto suguru smut #geto x reader #geto smut #suguru geto smut #geto suguru x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #geto x you #jjk x you

14K notes · View notes

tuiccim · 8 months ago

Text

We're Gonna Burn

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: 3K

Warnings: Smut, Sex Pollen, Non/DubCon (because sex pollen), enemies to lovers.

Summary: When an exposure to a strange powder makes you feel as if you're burning to death, your only relief is in the person you hate the most.

A/N: Special thanks to my beta reader @whisperlullaby

We're Gonna Burn Masterlist

“What the hell was that, Barnes?” You practically yell as you push open the front door of the safe house you’d been directed to.

“I don’t know! I’ve never seen anything like it. God, the smell!” He shakes his head.

“It’s burned into my nostrils. All I can smell is that sweet flower smell. You’ve never seen that pink powder?” You throw your things to the floor, looking around the small, remote house.

“No, I’d tell you if I did, damnit! Why do you keep asking?” Bucky growls.

“You’re not the most forthcoming person! Shit, I think you’ve spoken more in the last two minutes than in the three months I’ve known you! Jesus, fuck, I’ve gotta get rid of this smell. I’m so fucking hot,” your voice gets smaller as you speak. You can’t think straight but head towards the bathroom, unzipping your tac suit and pulling it from your arms as you go. You slam the door and lock it. You turn the cold water on full blast and nearly fall over in your haste to get your suit off. The frigid spray helps for a few moments and you revel in it, but soon another type of heat begins to take over. Your clit throbs and when you place your hand between your legs, your wetness coats your fingers. The shower stops bringing relief and instead, the water coursing down your body seems to only make you hornier. You give in to the need that takes hold and circle your clit. It feels amazing and it takes only a couple of minutes for your orgasm to break over you. You bite your lip to hold in the moans, not wanting the asshat on the other side of the door to hear you.

Your body has a moment of relief but then the heat builds again, even quicker this time. You dip your fingers inside of you in a desperate attempt to stop it. The second orgasm you managed to pull did little to help your body and your fingers keep working furiously to bring another in hope of relief. Your moans are spilling from your lips without a care now. You just need to get this to stop. You’re disturbed when the door rattles and a fist bangs loudly.

“Open the door! I need to get in there,” Bucky bellows.

You wanted to scream at him to go away but you could barely form words. You hated the stupid supersoldier from the moment you met him. He questioned your every turn. Whether it was about your skill, experience, or motives. He never lets you get through a single conversation without making you feel like a lesser part of the team.

“Goddamnit, let me in!” He yells more loudly.

Nothing your hand was doing was helping any longer. You couldn’t think straight and, before you can make a move or form a thought, the door splinters open from a kick. A very naked Bucky comes through the door and your eyes widen as you see his cock standing at attention. He steps into the spray of the cold shower and growls. His hand works his cock furiously while his other rests on the tiles. His head falls forward as he lets the cold water fall down his back. You stand behind him, your hand still between your legs.

“Fuck, what’s happening to us?” you whimper as you lean your feverish forehead onto his back. The cool water does nothing to help but where your skin touches his tingles with relief. Abandoning all pride, you press your entire body to his and the fever seems to cool wherever you touch but your clit throbs even harder. Your cunt weeps, begging for attention.You rub yourself against him, your nipples pebbling at the contact with his back.

With a growl, Bucky turns around and you quickly back up to press your back against the wall of the shower. He stares at you, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble in your haze, “I don’t know what’s happening. I’m so hot and-”

You gasp as Bucky bends down, grabs your legs, and drags you up the tiles. You squeal and reach for any handhold as he puts your legs over his shoulders and attacks your clit with his tongue.

“Oh, fuck!” You scream as one hand lands on the ceiling to help you balance and the other buries in his hair. His tongue swirls over your clit expertly. His hands squeeze your ass as he gorges himself on you. It doesn’t take long for you to buck your hips as you come all over his face. As he sets you down, you squeeze your thighs together but your body simply screams that it wants more. You stare at each other, breathing heavily. “It’s not working. Nothing helps,” you whimper, tears forming. It’s obvious by watching him that this is affecting him almost as much as you. His supersoldier serum must be helping him but he was burning just the same.

Bucky sighs as he steps closer to you. He presses his forehead to yours with his eyes closed and whispers, “I think there’s only one thing that’s going to help.”

You put your arms around his neck, “Just do it!” You wrap a leg around his to encourage him and he lifts you up. He presses your back into the wall as he lines himself up with your entrance. He paused there for a second as if he was fighting himself. “Please, Barnes, please! I need it!” You can’t believe you’re begging the man you hate to fuck you but your body was demanding it and if he didn’t you were sure you would burn to death. If you had been thinking straight, you would probably prefer to burn but, at this moment, you wanted nothing more than to be filled.

“Goddamnit,” he whispers as he presses in. Your body bows with pleasure.

“Yes! Yes!” Your voice reverberates off the tile walls as you shout with relief. He begins to pump and your body trembles with each motion of his cock. He grabs your ass as he pounds into you and you know he’s as lost in the meeting of your bodies as you are. Your cunt flutters around him, pulling him in, begging for him to come inside of you. Your rational mind has gone completely silent and you are filled with only carnal lust. Every motion of his hips takes you higher and it’s all you want. “Don’t stop,” you grip his shoulders harder.

“Fuck,” Bucky grunts. He couldn’t stop if he wanted to and, truth was, this was the best thing he’d felt in a long time.

“Oh, God, oh, God, I’m- yes!” You release a long, high-pitched moan as you come. Your pussy grips his cock as his hips stutter. He comes with a long moan that makes you clench around him more firmly. You stay there for a few moments, catching your breath, and blessedly your body finally starts to cool. You release your legs from around his waist and he gently sets you down. You can’t look at him and instead maneuver yourself back under the cold spray. You rinse off quickly and step out of the shower. Wrapping yourself in a towel, you exit the bathroom to find your pack and some clothes. While you rifle through your pack, you feel your temperature creeping up again and then you double over from the intense wave that rolls over you. “No, no, not again,” you whisper to yourself. You look over to the broken bathroom door where Bucky still is and consider your options. Sex had given you the relief you needed but it was short lived. Your mind runs amuck with questions. What the hell was that powder? What was it doing to you? How long would this last? How many times would it take to stop this heat from trying to burn you alive? Was sex really the only relief you would find? Another pang hit and knocked the breath from your body. You were gasping in pain when an arm picked you up around your middle.

He was still wet from the shower and hadn’t bothered to dry off. The pains had hit him and he went to the only place he knew he could find relief. He carried you to the small bed in the house and set you down on your hands and knees. He grips your hips tightly and pauses for a moment as another rush of heat spreads over him, “I need-”

“Just do it,” your words come out in a rush, pressing back into him.

He enters you without preamble. Pulling you back to meet each motion of his hips, his moans give evidence of the pleasure and relief that the connection brings. You reach under you to play with your clit, trying to bring your orgasm on more quickly. Each of Bucky’s swift thrusts has you crying out with pleasure and he moves your hand away to bring you to orgasm himself. He wanted to feel you clench around him as you had before.

“Oh, fuck, just like that,” you whine, “Just like that, don’t- don’t stop, oh, fuck.”

Bucky moans as he feels your cunt flutter around his cock with your orgasm. The sounds you release are a hit straight to his cock and he comes hard, thrusting with each spurt into you. Breathing heavily, you both collapse on the bed. You lay on your side facing away from him while taking stock of your body. The relief you felt with your orgasm was short lived as heat began to build again after only a few minutes.

You feel like crying as your body radiates waves of heat. You turn over to face Bucky. He is lying on his back, his metal arm slung over his eyes, and his right hand fisting his hard cock. You make your decision quickly. Pulling his hand away, you straddle him and guide his cock inside of you. You move your hips slowly, hoping that perhaps if you stretched out the sex, it would keep the pain at bay longer. His hands grip your thighs as you rock slowly, his head is thrown back with eyes tightly closed. You looked at him for a moment and still couldn't believe that of all the teammates this could happen with, it had to be this asshole. When you first met him, you thought he was hot as fuck but as his personality (or lack there of) reared it’s ugly head you found him less and less attractive. Your anger at the situation grew as you rode him and you found yourself leaning forward, chasing your orgasm to just get this over with.

“Oh, fuck,” Bucky bucks up into you, causing you to cry out. He repeats the motion over and over again until your body spasms around him. He comes with a grunt as he watches your face contort with pleasure. You collapse on his chest without looking at him. You wondered if keeping your bodies connected would keep the heat from returning.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks softly.

You sigh weakly as you felt the now familiar warmth beginning to spread, “I was hoping…” You let out a frustrated grunt, “I was hoping if we stayed touching it would be enough. But it’s starting again.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Bucky acknowledges his own heat building. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“You don’t know that. You can’t know that,” you grouse.

“I think… I think this might be a pheromone or something Hydra created to force procreation. I heard of the experiments but they abandoned it when it didn’t produce the results they wanted.”

“Which was?” You ask as your hips make slow circles. You can feel his cock quickly hardening inside of you.

“Naturally born supersoldiers,” Bucky strains out the words.

“So, we’re gonna have sex until we die or what?”

“Usually wore off in a few hours but until then…” he trails off as he gots lost in the sensations.

“Fuck,” you groan, partially out of frustration, partially from the pleasure his thick cock was producing.

“Basically,” Bucky says and you surprise yourself by laughing at the droll comment. You are even more surprised a second later when Bucky rolls you under him. He buries his face in your neck as he pulls your leg up higher and thrusts. You throw your head back as the pleasure begins to build again.

“Harder,” you whimper.

Bucky complies immediately and you whimper with each stroke. Grabbing onto him, you get lost in the feeling of his cock pounding into you sharply. You were glad that he at least was decent at this. Or was it that whatever the damn contaminant was made everything feel amazing? You were getting close with the steady way he fucked you and words started to pour out of your mouth. You were usually quite vocal in bed but hadn’t wanted to give Bucky the satisfaction. Now, you couldn’t stop yourself.

“Oh, god, it’s so good. Don’t stop, right there. It’s so fucking good. Oh, fuck, fuck, I’m gonna- fuck!” You let out a loud moan as you come hard and Bucky’s hips work even faster as he nears his own end. When he comes on a broken cry, your body revels in the feeling of him emptying himself in you.

The rational side of your brain sounded far away but was still screaming at the situation. In a moment of it managing to take hold, you push Bucky off of you and roll away from him. Breathing heavily, you pray that this is over. Surely, this was enough to satisfy anything. You will yourself to stay cool, to not allow the heat to return, to hold onto any shred of sanity you can find, but despite it all, the heat built again. You felt like screaming but you knew that nothing you did would help. You turn back to Bucky and say frustratedly, “Ready for another round?” You can’t meet his eyes but you knew neither of you could handle the pain and heat. You needed each other.

Bucky turns to you, “Hey.” He waits, wanting you to look him in the eyes but you just stare at his chest. “Hey.”

“What?” You say waspishly, still refusing to meet his gaze.

“Never mind,” he says as he grabs you and pulls your back against his chest. His cock nudges you from behind and you maneuver your hips to allow him entry. His thrusts are quick and sharp but his fingers on your clit are pure magic. He’s learned your body quickly but instead of leading you straight to orgasm this time, he works you to the precipice and then backs off repeatedly. You understood what he was trying to do. He was trying to prolong the sex in hopes of not having to come inside you any more than he already had but it was as if your body only got angrier with each denial.

“It’s not working! Just let me come!” You finally cry out, your frustration having reached its breaking point.

“Say it,” Bucky growls.

You wrack your muddled brain trying to grasp what he wants and latch on to the only word you can find, “Please!”

“No, say my name.”

You would normally reel angrily at a command from him but the effects this powder had on you makes you compliant from need. You stutter as your tongue tries to cooperate, “B- Barnes.”

“No,” he says darkly, “Say it.”

“Bucky,” you grind the word out through your teeth. You had never once called him that. It had always been some variant of his last name. You felt even more vulnerable now.

Bucky doesn’t utter a word but he moves his hips faster and his fingers do their job. When you finally come, your whole body spasms and you scream. The sound was foreign to your ears but the orgasm just kept going. You fluttered around Bucky’s cock, milking him of cum. You stay in that position for the next two rounds of sex. Then you got on top again to give Bucky a break but this time you faced away from him. You couldn’t look at him. When you had rode him to two orgasms and yourself to utter exhaustion, he turned you on your stomach to fuck you again. You lost count of the number of times you had sex. More orgasms than you’d ever had in your life were accomplished and you didn’t have any clue how many times he came. You fucked until you both passed out.

Waking up fourteen hours later, you felt as if you had the worst hangover you’d ever experienced. You glance at the spot Bucky had been in but he was gone. On the table by the bed was a couple of bottles of water, a protein bar, and a bottle of pain reliever. You raised your eyebrow at the items but just shrugged as you tore into all of them. You notice your pack is by the bed and you get up to put clothes on. The first thing you notice is the soreness between your legs but really your whole body hurts. You listen for a moment but don’t hear anything in the house. Peeking out the door, you see the empty living room and slip into the bathroom. You shower quickly, trying not to remember what happened in the small space just yesterday.

You jump when a knock sounds while you are dressing. You call out, “Yes?”

“Exfil will be here in five minutes,” Bucky says through the broken door.

“I’ll be right out,” you say. Your stomach is in knots. You can’t imagine facing him after everything. Would he act like nothing happened or gloat like the asshole he is? You wonder if you will ever be able to look him in the face again. You look at yourself, surprised that you still look the same as you did yesterday because you know you’ll never be the same again. But you didn’t have time to dwell on that. Now, you had a jet to catch.

Part 2

Updates and taglist: Due to the unreliable nature of tags, I no longer keep a taglist. Updates for series will be made on Sundays Central Time Zone. Please follow my sideblog @tuiccimfanfiction and turn on notifications for updates. All series and new stories will be reblogged to it. You will only receive notifications when a new part or story is out! Nothing else will be blogged to the page. I can’t thank you enough for your support!

3K notes · View notes

tojicide · 5 months ago

Text

OBSESSED. ☆ SYLUS.

📰 extra, extra! why is your bodyguard so obsessed with you? girl, you wanna know...

warnings. fem!reader, popstar!reader, bodyguard!sylus, established romantic history ( very brief ), pet names, semi-public, fingering, oral ( fem. receiving ), cowgirl, unprotected p in v. wc. 4.6k.

an. reused the header and a bit of the plot from an aaron hotchner fanfic i wrote on wattpad in like… 2021??? tweaked most of the details obvs but ig i was born as a bodyguard au lover

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

Your bodyguard was such a buzzkill.

Dragging you out of every party you make an appearance at, replacing your shots with water once he believes you’ve had one too many, watching you like a hawk no matter where you are or who you’re with...

You despise those who have an inability to have fun, so as far as you’re concerned, Sylus is the devil reincarnated. You aren’t exactly shy about your opinion of him either, and perhaps in hindsight, that is exactly why he was currently pacing through the party you’re in attendance of to try and ruin your night yet again.

(Ruin your night or… do his job? Hell if you care about the logistics of it all. Two sides of the same coin, you think.)

His protective instinct only grew more intense ever since the two of you shared a kiss before a concert of yours that left your lipstick smeared over your face like there was no tomorrow…

And what did that asshole do? Nothing. It was in his nature to make your life miserable after all. Sylus let you walk out in front of your thousands of fans, makeup messy and appearance disheveled all from his mouth on yours alone.

And boy, did the tabloids have a time with that one… Who was the culprit? A new fling of yours? Fiancé? Possible baby daddy? Each and every news outlet had some uniquely wrong to say. Can’t a girl have a makeout session with her bodyguard in peace?

Unfortunately for you, the paparazzi have been hounding you ever since that day, itching to get the 4-1-1 on your love life.

And ever since, you haven’t given many people the time of day—including Sylus. Tonight, you’ve managed to stay two steps ahead of your dear bodyguard and evade eventual capture for just a bit longer. You’re currently surrounded by a few of your friends, socialites and actors alike.

Your lips seem to flap freely when you have a few drinks in you, but tonight, you’re sober but even more talkative than ever. Your chosen topic of conversation? Your overbearing and stupidly handsome bodyguard, of course.

Too lost in your story, waving your arms around to your theatrical pleasure, you hardly noticed the way your friends’ faces paled to a ghostly shade of white, their eyes nearly bulging out of their heads and their lips parted as if they had something to say but… couldn’t.

All the while, you were too busy blowing off the steam that you’d acquired from your last encounter with the forsaken bodyguard. “…And I was like, why are you so obsessed with me?”

As fate would have it, you hear a throat clear behind you followed by an annoyed sigh that you’ve grown to know like the back of your hand. You spin around, already wearing a scowl.

“Obsessed with you, hm?” Sylus says, his voice low and seemingly dangerous, though your utter distaste for the man rids him of his intimidation. “You’re quite self important. I could never live in a world where I’d fall at the feet of an egotistical popstar.”

You roll your eyes at that. Who does he think he is? Everyone loves you—all except for the disgustingly handsome man standing in front of you.

“Mm… well, you can always die an untimely death and never have to work for me again,” you reply, giving him the most passive aggressive smile known to man. “Hopefully that gives you an ounce of hope.”

“It does,” he replies, returning the same expression that you gave him.

It’s borderline infuriating how undisturbed Sylus was. No, it is infuriating. No matter how many insults you chucked his way, he never cracked. (And the one time he did, it led to the two of you playing tonsil tennis in your dressing room...)

You shake your head, huffing in utter annoyance. You then hold your wrists up for display, cocking your head to the side as you give him a mock puppy dog expression. “Sooo… are you here to take me away, Officer Buzzkill?”

Sylus merely blinks in response to your taunting, taking a firm grasp on one of your wrists before he tugs you through the sea of partygoers. He laces your fingers together, squeezing tight as to not lose hold of you.

“Must you always make things so difficult?” he asks, keeping his eyes ahead.

You shrug your shoulders. “More or less.”

“More or less?” he echoes, glancing over his shoulder to properly look at you. “I suggest you try a different style of communication, sweetness. Your clipped attitude will get you nowhere.”

“Oh? But it’s gotten me so far already…” you trail off, glancing at his lips for a few agonizingly long seconds before a smirk tugs on the corner of your mouth. “In fact, I think it can get me even further.”

Sylus’s jaw tenses, his eyes slipping shut as he tears his gaze away from you. He can’t handle the way you’re looking at him—so unbelievably beautiful with those siren eyes of yours, the mere sight of you already stirring something unwanted within him.

He turns around to continue leading you through the crowd without a reply. You begin to glance around yourself, attempting to plot your brilliant escape.

“Don’t,” he flatly states, his iron grip tightening on your hand.

“Why not?” you ask, your voice holding a strong tone of defiance.

Sylus gives your hand one solid tug before you’re standing in front of him, his free hand pressing onto the small of your back as he keeps you pressed to his chest. “If you haven’t noticed, you brat, I will always chase you. I’ll find you just the same.”

You almost deflate under his intense gaze, his deep red eyes piercing through your own. It wasn’t often that Sylus manhandled you, but when he did, it made you feel… different. Intrigued, maybe.

“How touching,” you deadpan, “but you still get on my nerves.”

Sylus clicks his tongue. “Tch. Oh, I’m sorry… when have I ever cared about what you think?”

“Never,” you say with a dramatic sigh. “You know… if you hate me so much, you should just quit on me.”

Sylus rolls his eyes, his red irises drawing you in like no other. “I don’t… hate you. You should be rather thankful that I don’t, because I’m doubtful that anyone else would want this job of mine—you’re quite the handful.”

“Mm, I’m only saying,” you murmur with a shrug, giving his hand a harsh squeeze as if the roughness of your grasp would make him let go, but he, of course, does not. “You don’t need this job, and yet, here you are.”

He raises a brow. “What do you mean by that?”

You smile, the same shit-eating grin that he has grown to be all too familiar with. “Give me your wallet.”

Sylus huffs, his broad shoulders deflating as he fishes his black leather wallet from his back pocket and hands it over to you. You take it with ease, taking your hand from his as you crack it open.

You slip his Black Card from the sleeve, proving that he truly didn’t need the job for any monetary gain. And then, a triumphant smile graces your lips as you pull out none other than a Polaroid photo taken of you—backstage at your concert just before the kiss you two shared.

“Ooh… what’s this?” you ask, raising your eyebrows.

Sylus reaches forward to try and snatch the tiny photo from you, but you are far too quick. “What are you revealing exactly? That you were secretly snooping in my wallet prior to now?”

“Yes,” you admit without hesitation, “and that you’re secretly rich and in love with me. Does that make us even?”

His jaw sets, his piercing gaze set on yours. He works to snatch the photo from you, tucking his belongings back into his wallet before he slips it into his pocket. “No. Maybe if you were less of a pain, we could be even.”

You wiggle your eyebrows in suggestion. “You’re not denying being in love with me, dear bodyguard of mine.”

Sylus gives you a deadpan expression. “Must you always be so self righteous? God forbid I am proud of you and your success.”

The genuine nature of his words set you back a step, your brows knitting together and your lips parting. If Sylus noticed the shift of your expression, he didn’t mention it. Thankfully. His cold fingers lace with yours once more, continuing the stride towards the exit of the party.

“Rather than putting on this show of yours, you truly should be thanking me for saving your reputation,” he quietly adds, his hand now curled around your waist as you approach the exit. “There is a swarm of paparazzi outside who are desperate to get their grimy hands on a picture of their beloved popstar doing something remotely scandalous.”

(And if Sylus knows anything about you, it’s that you love scandals. According to you, they ‘make life worth living’. Tch. Diva.)

You chuckle. “Aww, you care!”

“Do I care, or is it my job to look after you?” he asks, plucking his sunglasses from his pocket to place them on your face, shielding your eyes from the rapid camera flashes of the paparazzi. “Public intoxication numerous times a week is not a very good look for you, sweetie. Incredibly frowned upon.”

Your jaw sets as you listen to his words. While they are undeniably true, you don’t have any plans for admitting that—not now or in the near future.

“Making out with my bodyguard is frowned upon as well, but you didn’t seem to be complaining about that bit,” you say under your breath.

Your voice was low enough that your weighted words were almost drowned out by the booming music of the party and by the chatter of the photographers you’re about to be engulfed in. Almost.

Sylus flashes you a glare. “You shouldn’t mumble. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“You heard me,” you state.

He did hear you, that was exactly the problem. It was no coincidence that the two of you haven’t spoken much since your very intense lip lock. You’ve been avoiding each other, evading the invisible string that connects the two of you like both an electric current and a noose.

The tension between the two of you was tangible, palpable even—you could practically taste it just as well as you could still taste his lips on your own. It was intoxicating, imprinting, searing.

It managed to distract you from the flashing lights of the cameramen who were swarming you, capturing flick after flick of you being led through the crowd.

You chew on the inside of your cheek. “You know, you can help me out with all of this,” you murmur, gesturing towards the paparazzi. “My publicist came up with an idea that will get them off my back for a while. Give them the answers they need and… whatnot.”

“Is that right?” he asks, glancing your way. “Do tell.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, tuning out all of the chattering paparazzi who are currently surrounding you. “Be my impromptu mystery man for the cameras. I’ll give you anything you want in return, I swear it.”

Sylus hums, the sound omitting a deep rumble into the air. “Anything I want? My, my, sweets, you’ve made me an offer I cannot refuse.”

You huff, grasping onto the collar of his jacket as you pull him into you. “Just go with it.”

“Just go with wh— mmph!” Sylus’s words were muffled by your lips slotting against his in a searing kiss, his hands instinctively finding their home on the curve of your hips.

The kiss was… tame. It was supposed to be, after all. It was merely for the cameras, a way for you to put an answer to the questions that have been flooding your inbox and left your name circulating in the news for days on end.

But when Sylus’s tongue brushes against your bottom lip, you slightly pull away, muttering a faint, “Sylus, what’re you…” before he pulls you right back in, his large hand now resting on your cheek.

“If you’re going to use me like a whore at your disposal, I’d suggest you let me enjoy myself and taste you properly,” he sporadically says into your mouth, his hand shifting to tangle in your hair as he tilts you to his liking, your tongues meeting in with gentle swipes. “See? I knew you could do better than that.”

True to his suggestion, you kissed him like there was no tomorrow, your hands fisting his shirt in your palms as your lips moved in tandem with his. Lipstick and paparazzi long forgotten, you find yourself getting lost in the moment, a soft whimper leaving your mouth as his hands give your hips a firm squeeze.

The moment he hears that sweet, impossibly faint sound of your pleasure, he knows that he’s in for it now. That’ll do it for him.

He abruptly pulls away, clasping his hand onto yours as he continues pulling you through the now stunned crowd of paparazzi. Sporting an erection and your lipstick smeared on his lips makes no difference to Sylus—if anything, he enjoys the world knowing that he has the hots for the woman who he has sworn to protect.

Sylus helps you into the passenger seat of your black SUV, closing the door behind you before making his way to the driver’s seat. He peels off, driving with intention through the streets of the city.

It was now evident to you that he was driving the SUV in pursuit of his favorite lookout spot, one that overlooks the bustling city from a distance. Sylus had taken you there once before as per your request to ‘stay out a bit later’. Nothing happened then, but you have an inclination that your luck has changed.

“I know what I want from you,” he states, placing a hand on your thigh.

How did he already manage to figure out what he wants in return for helping you? A raise? A car? The blood of his enemies? You’re intrigued, raising a brow. “You do?”

“I do,” he confirms without missing a beat. “Get into the backseat.”

A gasp leaves your kiss swollen lips as you mull over the utter implications of his words. It didn’t take a genius to understand them, but you were… surprised to say the least. “I think you’re overstepping your boundaries, Mr. Qin.”

In a literal sense, sure he was. But if the two of you were going to judge based on what you two want, he absolutely wasn’t—you both knew that.

He chuckles, the sound low yet infuriatingly sexy. His hand slips beneath your skirt, his middle finger brushing along the damp spot of your panties. “Your body seems to disagree with you, ma’am.”

And if you weren’t already wet before, hearing him call you ma’am was more than enough to do it for you. “Shut up,” you grumble.

“You can make me,” he suggests, setting the vehicle into park before giving your thigh a few pats. He nods his head towards the backseat. “Go on.”

Without hesitation, you kick your heels off and crawl into the back of the vehicle, thumping down on the seat with a sharp sigh. Sylus follows you within the blink of an eye, his knees settling on the spacious floor of the car.

“What’re you…” you ask, though your eyebrows raise as the pieces of the puzzle click together in your mind. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” he repeats, his warm hands rubbing your knees as he spreads your legs apart, his lips finding the tender skin of your inner thigh. “You know… you truly should be resting for your show tomorrow evening.”

“Should I?” You bite on your bottom lip as he leans forward, nosing at your clothed pussy with a muffled moan of his own. He inhales deeply, the scent of your arousal driving him to the brink of insanity.

“You should,” he answers, pressing an open mouthed kiss on your cunt through the fabric of your panties. “You should stop talking too. You need to rest your voice just as much.”

You swallow hard, whimpering ever so softly as his fingers hook beneath the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your legs to give himself access to your glistening core.

His eyes are set on your heat, his cool hands hiking your thighs over his shoulders. He rests his cheek on the warmth of your inner thigh, glancing up at you. “Because believe me, sweetie, the things that I want to do to you will not be in favor of that beautiful voice of yours.”

“Oh?” you ask, titling your head. “What will they be in favor of?”

He grins, wicked and devilishly handsome. “I’m glad you asked, because there’s someone else I’ve been wanting to hear from.”

Before you have the chance to reply, he’s already got his face delving deep between your legs, the filthy sounds of squelches and slurping filling the otherwise silent car.

“Oh, I— mmh, you didn’t answer my… my question,” you stammer out between breathy moans, your head tilting back on the headrest as your eyes flutter shut.

Sylus smiles into your pussy, pointing his tongue to accentuate the squelching noises that your heat was making, entirely wet and dripping for him.

“Can you not hear her?”

Never in your life did you think that having a man on his knees talking to your cunt would be this arousing, but… you’re fucking soaked.

“I-I can,” you gasp, cracking your eyes open to look down at him. “Fuck, you can talk to her in fifty languages for all I care, holy shit.”

He quietly chuckles, the sound sending a spark of vibrations onto your already sensitive clit. Your thighs tense, aching to close on him, but he keeps them spread with his strong hands on your thighs.

Your lips part as a string of breathy sounds leave you, beautiful moans and needy whimpers alike—all of which play as music to Sylus’s ears. It was nice to know that your mouth was good for more than just singing and bickering at him…

Teeth nibbling into your bottom lip, you glance down at him, only to be met with the most crazed eyes known to mankind. So disheveled, your slick leaking down his chin while his tongue delves into your heat like a man starved. He looks like he’s in his own pussy drunk heaven.

When you feel his pointed tongue begin to curve and lick in ways it hadn’t before, you do your best to follow his movements.

S-Y-L-U-S he spells on your puffy cunt with his writing tool of choice—none other than his stupidly talented tongue.

“You’re so—”

“Shh,” he cuts you off, his voice more like a husky whisper now. His pupils were dilated to the size of saucers, sucking on your clit before releasing it with a harsh pop.

Filthy sounds fill the air, your own breathy moans spilling from your swollen lips in tandem with the messy sucks of Sylus’s lips on your cunt. Not to mention, your girl truly was loud.

“Singing so beautifully for me,” he rasps, his eyes flitting up to watch your blissful expression. Lidded eyes, parted lips, flushed skin—an absolute wet dream of his come to life.

You bite your lip, hardly focused on the words coming out of his mouth. “Mmh, what…?”

“Quiet, sweets,” he repeats, hooking his hands even tighter around your thighs as he gives your heat a few more harsh licks. “I told you I was talking to her, didn’t I?”

It doesn’t take much longer for your legs to begin to tremble, your body writhing in his grasp as he sets you any way but loose. Your hips buck up, your core grinding against his wet muscle as you chase your release.

Sylus was more than eager to give it to you, redoubling his efforts while locking his hands over your legs to keep you steady enough for him to pleasure you effectively. The warmth pooling in your belly was far too much, far more intense than anything you had ever experienced before.

“Mmh, I… I’m coming,” you warn through an airy whine.

And when you do, Sylus swoops in even more greedily than before, his flat tongue lapping at your honeyed release. There was no way he would ever be able to go without tasting you like this now that he has. Fuck, he’s such a goner.

As you come down from your high, you grin with a few pants. “Look at you, falling at the feet of your ‘egotistical popstar’—mmph!”

Sylus plunges two fingers into your mouth to shut you up, rising to plant himself onto the seat beside you. “That’s hardly an insult to me anymore, my dear. I know what I am.”

He pulls his spit slick fingers from your mouth, bringing them to your pussy as he gently circles your sensitive clit. His free hand guides you through the motion of straddling his lap. With a simple nod of his head, he gestures for you to lift your shirt up, and you do.

“And what’s that?” you ask, watching as he leans forward to mouth at your breasts through the fabric of your bra.

“I’ve already told you,” he murmurs, bringing his free hand to his belt to free his cock from the confines of his pants. “A whore at your disposal.”

“I knew it,” you chuckle, though the sweet sound is interrupted by a breathy moan that he coaxes out of you once he slides his fat cockhead along your folds.

He clicks his tongue, tilting his head to the side. “Are you not going to reciprocate my affection?” he teases, grasping tightly onto your hips. “Or do I have to work a bit harder for it, ma’am?”

Your knees would have certainly buckled if they weren’t firmly planted on the leather seats of the SUV. Who would have thought that you had a thing for white-haired bodyguards who call you ‘ma’am’?

Sylus raises a brow, a cocky smirk tugging on his lips. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?”

You feel your face heating up more and more the longer you look him in the eyes, shifting your hips so that the tip of his cock finally meets your entrance. “Just… shut up and put it in.”

“How demanding,” he hums, smirking ever so slightly as he uses his grasp on you to make one sharp snap of his hips, burying balls deep inside of your heat. “But as you wish, pretty.”

You cry out immediately, the burn of the stretch fading into unfolding pleasure. Eyes locked on each other’s, breaths mingling with ease, skin slicked with sweat, it was…

“Perfect,” he whispers, smoothing his hands along your hips before one reaches up to cup your cheek. He pulls you into a deep, searing kiss. “So, so perfect.”

Your movements are timid at first, you were merely testing the waters that had yet to be explored. His cock stuffed you full, his tip kissing your deepest points with ease, earning a muffled whimper from your mouth that his lips swallowed up eagerly.

Sylus begins to help you move a bit quicker, rocking your hips forward in smooth rolls, earning moans from the both of you that seemed to come straight from your guts.

“Give it to me how you like it, baby,” he encourages, both of his hands planting firmly on your waist. “Use my cock however you need it, sweets, it’s yours.”

His words have your clit pulsating around his thick shaft, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you begin to work up a pace of your own that has your heart beating wildly.

“I always… fuck—I always knew you were obsessed with me,” you jest, your grin stretching wide.

Sylus hums, the sound low and deep, his iron grip on your hips helping you maintain the intensity of your movements whenever your muscles beg for a break. “Yeah? Needed me to be buried inside of you to have that bit of confirmation?”

You nod with a smile, hands wrapping around his neck as you plant your forehead against his. He smiles too, a breathy moan leaving his mouth as you circle your hips in a way that has him seeing stars.

“Fuck yeah, I’m obsessed with you,” he admits without a semblance of shame, tilting his head back on the headrest.

Already feeling your second orgasm approaching, you bury your face in his neck, inhaling the scent of his cologne and sweat that made a musk that was so beautifully Sylus. His hands smooth over your backside, giving your ass a squeeze.

“Tch, let me see that pretty face,” he demands, nudging you with his shoulder so that you were sitting up once more. “You look so beautiful like this.”

You struggle to form a sentence, bouncing unabashedly on his cock, skin slapping together in an erratic pattern that spurred you even further. A string of whimpers and whines leave your puffy lips. Though your reply lacked words, it perfectly communicated what you wanted to say.

“Oh, I know it, baby,” he rasps, tilting his head back again as his eyes slip shut. “Pussy’s addictive—shit, I’m obsessed with her too.”

You begin to lose yourself all together, reduced to nothing more than a blissed out woman riding her bodyguard’s cock. “Sylus, I… mmh, I’m gonna cum.”

He nods in understanding, smoothing his hand through your hair as he brings you in for another kiss. It’s all teeth and tongue, messy and drooling in the most beautiful way possible.

“Gonna come inside you if you keep riding me like this, baby,” he warns, pulling back to look you in the eyes.

You feel his cock twitch inside of you, as if it were confirming his words. You don’t do this often, contrary to popular belief, but you are on the pill. Luckily. “Please do.”

Sylus pants through a smile, licking his lips as he guides you through a few more fleshed out grinds on his lap. “Huh… you really are something special.”

A deep groan leaves his mouth as he dips his head, grip tightening on your waist as you ride him through your shared orgasm. You aren’t sure where yours ended and his began, or if you had gotten the order wrong entirely. All you know is that in that moment, the two of you became one.

Panting, your hand plants on the fogged up window of the vehicle, leaving your handprint in its wake. Sylus lets out a breathy chuckle, raising his own shaking hand to the window.

You watch through lidded eyes as he draws a tiny heart, writing his and your first initials inside of it with a little + in the middle. How cute.

Sylus then turns to face you again, bringing his hand to your cheek. You nuzzle into his palm, placing a kiss on his skin. “I have something to admit.”

He nods his head a single time, beckoning you to continue. “What is it?”

You give him a wry smile. “My publicist never gave me the idea for that publicity stunt.”

“…I figured that much, sweetie.”

note. bodyguard!sylus, my glorious king… ok i lowkey hate this but it holds no purpose saving up space in my drafts so :D pls interact if you enjoyed, rbs are greatly appreciated <3 thank you for readingggg !!!

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request