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A trip to the grocery store turns into a nightmare when an attack leaves you praying for a quick end. That prayer arrives in the form of something monstrous: a demon who intervenes with brutal, effortless violence. Finding your savior wounded in the aftermath, you bring him into your home. As you wash the blood away in soapy water and stitch his skin, the fear dissolves into an unexpected intimacy. You soon learn that while his nature is dark, being favored by a demon is the most divine thing you've ever felt.
ᦏ9k words, reader is said to have brown skin, plot before smut, vivid detailing of murder and dismemberment, violence, attempted sa, light horror erotica, tention, smut/explicit sexual content(18+), dirty talk (I KNOW HE HAS A FILTHY MOUTH), choking, spanking, riding -> doggy, namecalling/petnames (e.g., sugar, baby, sweetness, and little bird), sensory play, sweet ending, etc᪔
ᦏ18+ 𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝑫𝒐 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕᪔
The 1930s Mississippi Delta had a soul-crushing climate. The air hung heavy, a stagnant soup of humidity and rotting cypress swamps that smelled of damp earth and the iron-rich musk of the river. By the time you stepped off the general store’s creaking porch, the sun had long since bled out below the flat horizon, leaving the sky a ink-stained purple that swallowed the cotton fields whole.
You had driven the rusted-out Ford nearly twenty miles from your patch of dirt—navigating past sagging sharecropper shacks and endless, skeletal rows of white bolls—just to secure salt pork and peach preserves for your brother and his kin.
The gravel in the lot crunched like bone under your heels. Behind you, the store’s lone, grime-streaked window cast a sickly yellow glow that struggled to reach the edge of the lot, leaving you to contend with the encroaching dark. You clutched the brown paper bags to your chest, the paper crinkling under your grip, feeling like they were the only fragile shield you had against the vast emptiness of the Delta.
Then came the sound.
Boots.
Four of them.
The yellow light caught the sweat on their pale, unsightly faces, making them look like cruel carvings rather than men. They weren't just walking; they were closing in, a pack of hounds finding a scent. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you watched them approach.
"Late for a girl like you to be out, ain't it?" the one in the lead drawled. He stepped into your personal space, smelling of cheap moonshine and stale tobacco.
"Gettin' groceries for my family," you said. You forced your voice to stay steady, even though your knees were slightly trembling.
"Family," another one hissed. He stepped behind you, and you felt the cold, sharp draft of his presence. "Bet you got a lot of 'family' tucked away."
The leader reached out, his hand a dead weight on your shoulder. "Maybe you oughta share some of that sweetness with us. A girl like you... you oughta know how to treat a man right."
Another man chuckle. "I don't know boss. Her kind ain't good for much." He followed it with a word—a cruel, ugly slur.
The heat in your belly—a sudden, sharp flare of anger—overrode the cold terror in your veins for a split second. You looked him dead in the eye, your vision blurring with tears of rage. "I’d never do a damn thing with a racist cracker like you," you spat, the words coming out like venom. "You don't know how to please a woman. You're only good for stealin' and carryin' the evil you was born with."
The leader’s face contorted, turning a mottled red. "I’m gonna teach you a lesson the Delta won't ever forget."
They lunged.
The paper bags hit the gravel with a sharp clack, jars of preserves shattering with a wet, heavy sound. They dragged you away from the safety of the light, pulling you into the pitch-black maw behind your car. The mud was cool and slick against your skin as they shoved you down, the grit of the gravel digging into your palms. You screamed and fought, your nails clawing at the dirt, until—crack.
The slap made your head whip to the side, white spots exploding behind your eyes. The taste of blood bloomed in your mouth immediately. You closed your eyes, a silent, desperate prayer for a quick end dancing on your tongue.
The tall one loomed over you, the metallic clink-clink of his belt being unlooped from his trousers sounding like a death knell in the silence of the swamp. You scrambled back on your elbows, your nails clawing into the mud, but another man pinned your wrists to the ground, his weight crushing your chest.
Then, the world shifted.
It wasn't a human sound that changed things. It started with a pressure—an unnatural chill swept through the humid air, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. The man over you froze, his hand still on his buckle.
Suddenly, a blur of movement—something darker than the night itself—hit the man standing guard at the rear of the car. There was no struggle. Just a wet, terrifying crunch, followed by a sound that didn't belong in a human throat.
A scream ripped through the air—"AHHGLUR!"—not a shout for help, but a high-pitched, gargling shriek of pure, unadulterated terror. On the other side of the Ford, you heard the sound of heavy metal being crumpled like tissue paper, and then the petrifying sound of something being systematically dismantled.
Rrip. Rrip. Snap.
The three men standing over you scrambled back, their bravado evaporating into the thick air like mist. They stared into the dark behind the car, their faces turning as white as ghosts (if at all possible). The leader pulled a small revolver from his waistband, his hand shaking so violently the barrel rattled against his knuckles with a click-click-click.
"Go see what that is," the leader hissed at one of the men.
The man looked hesitant, his eyes wide and bulging with fear, but he stumbled toward the back of the car, his boots dragging in the gravel. Silence for two long heartbeats. Then, a sharp yell that was cut off by a wet crunch—the sound of a ripe melon being dropped from a great height, or a dry branch snapping while wrapped in raw meat.
A thick, dark liquid began to pool from under the car, snaking through the gravel like an oil slick. It was too dark to be water. It was viscous, steaming slightly in the cool night air, the copper smell of it overwhelming the swamp rot. Then, a heavy thud—the sound of a body being dropped like a sack of grain, followed by the wet sliding sound of intestines hitting the mud.
You scrambled to find your footing, desperate to run, but the leader’s hand clamped onto your hair, yanking you back with a force that nearly tore your scalp. "S-stay put!" he barked, his voice cracking with a fear he couldn't hide.
"You stupid son of a bitch! We need to run!" you croaked, your voice trembling.
From the shadows behind the car, a figure emerged.
He was tall, lean, and drenched in a dark, glistening crimson that coated his white shirt until it clung to his frame like a second skin, mapped out in horrific detail. He stepped into the faint spill of yellow light. He moved with a fluid, predatory grace. Too smooth, too silent. His skin was a pale tan, almost translucent in the moonlight, and his hands... his fingers were tipped and dripping with fresh, steaming blood.
"W-what the hell are you?" the leader screamed, cocking the pistol.Bang. The shot echoed off the store walls like a cannon blast. You saw the bullet hit Bo’s upper arm, tearing through the fabric and the flesh beneath. Bo let out a low groan—not of pain, but of irritation, like a man being stung by a common bee.
Before the leader could even think of cocking the hammer again, Bo was gone. He didn't run; he blurred. One second he was feet away, and the next, he was a solid shadow standing directly behind the leader. A large, blood-slicked hand reached around, catching the leader’s throat. There was a brief, desperate struggle, the leader's feet kicking uselessly in the air, and then the sound of windpipes collapsing—a dry, crushed whistle—as Bo squeezed until the man’s head lolled at a sharp, unnatural angle.
The fourth man turned to run, his boots slipping and sliding in the mud. He didn't get three steps. Bo reached out, his hand moving like a whip. There was a flash of something sharp, a wet shluck sound, and then the man’s head was simply... gone.
It didn't just fall; it was taken off with such surgical, violent force that the headless body kept running for a split second, blood geysering from the neck, before collapsing into a heap of spasming nerves.
The shock had your eyes wide, your body trembling so hard you could hear your teeth chattering against each other. The rumors you’d heard about the juke—the whispered stories about the "man" who haunted the outskirts, the one who didn't fear the lynch mobs because he was the one who hunted the hunters—they were all true.
Every terrifying word.
The gravel crunched. You looked up, paralyzed with a different kind of fear, as he walked back toward you. He stopped a few feet away, looking down at your broken groceries and the blood smeared on your lip. He reached out a hand—the one not covered in the men's blood—and offered it to you.
"They're gone, little bird," he said. His voice was surprisingly gentle, carrying a soft, melodic lilt that felt entirely out of place amidst the carnage and the smell of death behind him. "It's not safe. You should get home."
His eyes, dark and ancient, trailed over your body with a slow, heavy pressure that felt like it was peeling back your skin. He lifted his other hand, the fingers still slick and dripping with the life of the men he’d just dismantled, and slowly licked a smear of blood from his knuckles. He did it with a focused, animalistic intensity, his tongue rasping against his skin. You stared, paralyzed by a nauseating mixture of terror and intrigue, as the faint yellow light from the store caught the unmistakable glint of his fangs. Long, needle-sharp, and so real.
You noted then, through the haze of your panic, that he was Chinese. His features were sharp and elegant, carved with a precision that seemed out of place beneath the splattered gore. But your eyes quickly dropped to his arm. A steady stream of dark blood was pulsing from the bullet hole in his tricep, dripping onto the gravel with a heavy, rhythmic drip-drip-drip that sounded like a ticking clock in the silence of the night.
"You're hurt," you whispered, your voice a ghost of itself, thin and reed-like. "You’re bleedin' bad."
Bo looked down at his arm as if he’d forgotten it was even attached to his body. He watched the blood flow for a moment, his expression unreadable, almost bored.
"I don't feel it," he said flatly.
You didn't believe him.
You couldn't.
The wound was deep, the flesh jagged and torn where the lead had bitten through, and even in the dark, the sheer volume of blood he was losing was enough to kill a normal man three times over. But as he looked back at you, the darkness in his eyes seemed to expand, swallowing what little light was left in the world. You stood there, your knees knocking together so hard it was audible, looking at that dark hole in his arm. The blood wasn't slowing; it was a pulsing, red leak.
“You need to let me bandage that,” you said, your voice finally finding a shred of its footing, though your hands were still shaking. “Before you bleed out right here in the mud.”
Bo looked at the wound, then back at you, his face a mask of elegant stone. “I’ll be alright. It’ll stop.”
“Until the sun is up?” you countered. The words slipped out before you could stop them, fueled by the folk stories and the sheer wrongness of the man standing before you.
Bo stilled. A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips—one that showed just a hint of the ivory points behind his teeth. It wasn't a friendly look; it was the look of a predator realizing his prey had been paying closer attention than he thought. “And what do you know about the sun, girl?”
You swallowed hard, your heart thudding against your ribs like a trapped, dying moth. “I hear things. R-rumors from a few towns over... about what happened at that juke joint. They said dead people came through and left nothin’ but death. No, they didn't say people. They said haints... demons.”
Bo’s brown eyes searched yours, heavy and unblinking. The silence between you was taut as a wire about to snap. “Still gonna patch up a haint?” he murmured, his voice a low, melodic rasp that made the hair on your arms stand up. “Or do you not like my kind?”
You took a shaky breath, looking past him at the carnage—the splats of bloodied blonde hair on the gravel, the detached limbs, the torn skin of the men who would have done far worse to you if he hadn’t intervened. The horror of what he was balanced by the horror of what those men were.
“I’ll help you,” you whispered, the fear thick in your throat. “As long as you don't hurt me. You gotta promise.”
You held out your pinky, a childish gesture that felt absurd in the face of such violence. Bo looked at your small, trembling finger for a long moment. Then, he reached out. His skin was unnaturally cool, sending a jolt through your system. He didn't just hook his finger into yours; he brought your hand to his mouth and pressed a lingering, velvet-soft kiss to the knuckle of your pinky.
Your breath hitched.
“Make the promise official,” he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours. “Kiss the promise.”
You hesitated, then pressed your own lips to the spot he’d just kissed. As you pulled your hand away, you felt the tacky, drying blood from his face stick to your skin for a split second before parting with a faint, wet sound. The bond felt heavy. Visceral. Like you’d just signed a contract in salt and iron.
ᦏ᪔
The ride back to your place was an unsettling stretch of silence. The Ford’s engine groaned as it cut through the darkness, the headlights barely carving a path through the hanging moss that looked like drowned hair. Bo sat in the passenger seat, his frame dwarfing the interior, making the car feel like a coffin. He didn't move, didn't talk, just stared out into the blackness of the cotton fields. The scent of him—ancient earth, cold metal, and the sharp, copper sting of fresh blood—filled the cab until you felt lightheaded and dizzy.
When you pulled up to your small, weathered house, you hurried out, your heels clicking on the packed dirt as you fled the confines of the car. You unlocked the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, clicking on the warm, orange kitchen light. When you turned back, Bo was still standing on the porch, his silhouette tall and imposing against the night, his eyes reflecting the light like a cat's. He was just... waiting.
Is he slow? you wondered, a flicker of irritation cutting through your mounting dread. “Well? Come on in,” you said, waving him forward.
A faint, knowing smirk tugged at his mouth—a look that mocked your limited knowledge of the rules he lived by. But as soon as the invitation left your lips, he crossed the threshold.
The house felt smaller the moment he entered. He took up so much space, his broad shoulders and tall, fit frame making the ceiling feel dangerously low. You weren't a short woman, but standing near him, you felt fragile, like a piece of fine porcelain held next to a sledgehammer.
Bo stood in the center of your kitchen, his nostrils flaring.
He was smelling you. Beneath the scent of fear and the iron of the blood on your dress, he caught the deep, intoxicating aroma of your skin—sweetness mixed with a light earthiness. Your blood was still running hot from the adrenaline, pulsing visibly in the hollow of your throat, and to him, you sounded like a drum in the absolute silence of the house.
“Sit,” you commanded, pointing to the sturdy wooden chair at the table.
He obeyed, the chair creaking ominously under his weight. You turned away, moving toward the cupboard to gather what you needed—the jug of corn liquor for disinfectant, a needle, heavy thread, and clean strips of linen. As you moved, Bo’s eyes never left you. He tracked the line of your back, the curve of your hips, and the way your hands shook as you reached for the supplies. He watched the way your rich, brown skin glowed under the dim bulb. To him, you were a feast he was trying very hard not to devour.
You walked back to him, the supplies clutched to your chest. Up close, his handsomeness was frightening. His features were sharp, carved with a precision that was almost too perfect. His hair was black as a raven’s wing, slicked back but messy from the fight. You took a moment to give him a once-over, your eyes lingering on the way his white shirt was torn open, revealing the muscle of his chest, and the still-bleeding hole in his arm.
He was a monster. A haint. A dead man. But as he looked up at you, his gaze heavy and expectant, your stomach did a slow, treacherous roll.
“Hold still,” you whispered, unscrewing the cap on the liquor. “This is gonna bite.”
Bo’s eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a gravelly purr that vibrated in your own chest. “I told you, little bird... I don't feel a thing.”
You rolled your eyes, huffing a breath through your nose to hide the way your heart was racing. The corn liquor hit the open wound with an audible hiss, the sharp, medicinal sting of it rising in a cloud that made your own eyes water.
"Mhm, keep talkin’ that big talk," you muttered, dabbing the blood away with a rag that was quickly turning a sodden crimson. "Don't feel a thing. Like you ain't made of the same meat and bone as everybody else."
Bo didn’t flinch.
He didn’t even blink.
His skin was slick under the low warmth of the kitchen light, his muscles corded like iron cables. You glanced up at his face and found him just... watching you. Not with the frantic gaze of a man who’d just been shot, but with a deep, unsettling stillness that made your skin hum with a strange, forbidden electricity.
"What they call you?" you asked, trying to fill the heavy silence.
"Bo Chow," he said. His voice was so smooth; it seemed to settle into the very floorboards beneath your feet.
"Bo Chow," you repeated, humming the name under your breath. You kept cleaning the ragged edges of the hole in his arm, noting with a start that his skin didn't feel cold like a corpse's anymore; it felt like a low-burning stove, radiating a heat that began to seep into your own fingers. You couldn't believe you were sitting here—in the same place you’d fried green tomatoes just yesterday—patching up a haint.
But he looked so... beautiful. In a way that felt like a trap. The blood smeared across his high cheekbones didn't make him look hideous; it made him look like something out of a dream you shouldn't be having.
Is he the type that likes the pain? you wondered, your mind wandering down a lewd, forbidden path as you looked at the raw power of his frame. He looks kind of cute all bloody like that. You caught yourself and shook your head lightly, your face heating up. Lord, girl, stop it. Imagine if this man could read your thoughts. LALALALALAH.
You reached for the needle and the heavy black thread, your fingers trembling just enough to make the metal glint. When you looked back down at his face, his eyes caught yours. They looked strange—not just dark, but shimmery, like the surface of the river under a full moon, shifting with a light that didn't come from your kitchen lamp.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Your eyes," you whispered, leaning in a fraction closer despite the internal alarms screaming in your head. "They look... weird."
Bo’s mouth quirked into a ghost of a smirk. "That’s because I’m Chinese, little bird."
Your eyes widened at the dry wit, a small, startled laugh escaping your throat. "I know that. I mean they’re—um... shimmery. Like there’s a fire in ‘em."
Bo just hummed, a deep sound in his chest. Your gaze dropped from his eyes to his body—the broadness of his chest, the way his shirt clung—and for a second, a thought so filthy it made your ears hot flashed through your mind. You didn't say a word, just bit your lip and threaded the needle with a sharp, decisive tug.
"If that alcohol didn't hurt," you warned, leaning over him so your breath fanned across the hard line of his shoulder, "this definitely will. Bullet’s out, but I gotta close the door behind it."
You pushed the needle through the torn skin.
Suddenly, a large, cool hand clamped onto your inner thigh.
You froze, the needle halfway through his skin, your breath hitching in your throat. His grip was firm, his palm heavy and certain against the soft skin just above your knee. You could feel the heat radiating from his fingers now, the weight of him anchored to you.
"It hurts," he rasped, though his face remained a mask of tranquility. "Hurry up."
You nodded dumbly as wetness began pooling between your legs. His hands were massive, the veins standing out like mountain ridges. He squeezed your thigh—just a little, just enough to make your pulse jump—as you pulled the thread taut.
He inhaled deeply, a long, dragging breath that made his chest expand. You thought it was the pain, but Bo’s eyes were half-closed, his nostrils flaring. He wasn't bracing for the needle; he was drinking you in. You smelled like the rain coming off the Delta, like the sweet, dusty scent of dried herbs in the rafters, and the intoxicating, metallic spice of your own racing blood. To him, you were a feast.
You stitched as fast as you could, your fingers flying, trying not to focus on the way his hand was subtly, almost imperceptibly sliding an inch higher on your thigh with every stitch. The fear was still there, sharp and cold, but it was being smothered by a want you couldn't name.
"Okay," you gasped, your voice sounding higher, more breathless than you intended. "Okay. Done." You tied the knot and nipped the thread with your teeth, your face inches from his, the scent of him overwhelming your senses.
"Thank you," he murmured.
"Y-you're welcome," you stammered, the words tripping over the frantic rhythm of your heart.
Bo didn't let go. Instead, he reached out with his other hand, large and cooling, and hooked it behind the back of your other thigh. He slid his fingers under the hem of your torn dress and pulled you forward, dragging you between his knees.
He was still sitting, his head level with your chest, looking up at you with an intensity that felt like it was stripping the very marrow from your bones. His fingers brushed the sensitive skin at the back of your leg—calloused, rough, and stained with the dark, drying iron of the men he’d slaughtered. It sent a shiver up your spine that had nothing to do with the room's humidity and everything to do with the predatory heat radiating from him.
"You're a kind woman," he said, his voice dropping into an intimate register that made your body ache.
"You too," you replied, your brain fumbling for any shred of logic to hold onto. Then the absurdity of the statement hit you. "I mean... obviously you ain't a woman."
Your eyes trailed down, unbidden. You followed the line of his flat, hard stomach to the unmistakable bulge straining against the dark fabric of his trousers. It was thick, prominent, and pulsed with a life that seemed at odds with the "dead man" stories. Your heart nearly stopped, a cold spike of fear warring with a shameful heat.
"Oh! Lord—I—I’m sorry," you blurted out, your face hot with embarrassment as you jerked your eyes back up to the ceiling, focusing on a spiderweb in the corner just to keep from looking at the monster’s hunger.
Bo didn't look offended. He let out an amused, dark laugh—a sound that was rich, deep, and surprisingly warm, like honey poured over gravel. He let go of your thighs, his fingers lingering for a fraction of a second too long, and stood up in one fluid motion.
The transition was so fast it seemed to skip a frame of reality, making the kitchen floorboards groan and creak under the sudden shift of his weight. He loomed over you, his frame completely blotting out the yellow light of the kitchen lamp, casting a long, predatory shadow that swallowed you whole.
"It’s okay," he murmured, that mischievous, knowing smirk returning. It was a look that made your stomach turn—a perfidious mix of horror and a raw, magnetic attraction you couldn't suppress. "I've seen women look at me before. But never one who could sew me up without fainting."
You cleared your throat, clutching the blood-stained rag so hard your knuckles hurt. "Well, I ain't most women. And you ain't most men."
"No," he agreed. "I'm not. Now, show me where I can wash this filth off. I can taste the dirt in my pores."
You nodded, your legs feeling like jelly. You led him out of the kitchen, your back feeling exposed and vulnerable with him walking behind you. The floorboards groaned under Bo’s weight as you led him down the narrow, dimly lit hallway. The air in your small house felt different now—charged, like the atmosphere right before a thunderstorm breaks the heat. His silent, looming presence seemed to swallow the flickering light of the wall-mounted oil lamps.
You stopped at the door to the washroom, a cramped space with a slanted ceiling and the heavy scent of lye soap. "In here," you said, pointing to the galvanized tub in the center of the floor.
You didn't turn around to face him.
You couldn't.
"I’ll—I’ll get the water hot for the tub," you murmured to the wall. "I reckon I got some of my brother’s old work shirts and trousers in the chest. You can wear 'em while I wash yours."
A dark thought flickered in the back of your mind—that a man like him probably didn't need to borrow clothes; he likely just took what he wanted from the bodies he left behind. But you shook it away, choosing to believe in the quiet, euphonious lilt of his voice instead of the carnage you’d seen in the gravel. You wanted him to be a decent man, even if you knew deep down he was something else entirely.
ᦏ᪔
In the small, cramped washroom, you hauled the heavy kettle you’d left on the stove, pouring the steaming water into the metal tub. The steam rose in heavy, humid plumes, turning the small bathroom into a hothouse that smelled of woodsmoke and the iron tang of the well water. You felt the dampness immediately; the fine coils of your hair began to tighten and frizz against your neck, the edges of your kitchen-wrap softening into a halo of wild texture in the heat.
Bo stood in the doorway, a solid weight against the flickering light. He began to strip with a slow, crude lack of shame. The ruined white shirt made a wet, sticky sound as he peeled it away—a sound that sat heavy in your stomach.
Your eyes betrayed you, trailing over the map of his back. He was a landscape of fit, scarred muscle, shoulders broad enough to block out the world, tapering down to a waist that looked lean and lethal. The jagged lines of old wars—some silver, some deep and puckered—were smeared now with the fresh, drying blood of the men he’d just finished. It looked like war paint against his skin, dark and drying in the air.
His nostrils flared. He drew a breath so deep his ribs expanded like an animal scenting the wind. His gaze fixed on the back of your neck with a focused hunger. The steam was acting as a messenger, carrying your scent directly to him—the sun-dried cotton of your dress, the earthy sweetness of your skin, and the sharp, copper sting of the blood where the gravel had torn your knees.
"Wash me," he commanded.
The words weren't a request. They were a low, alluring rasp that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and into the soles of your bare feet.
You gripped the washcloth until your fingers ached, the water dripping hot and stinging against your knuckles. You hesitated, every instinct screaming at you to run out the back door and never look back. The air in the room was too thin, too hot.
"You got two hands, Bo," you said, trying to summon the ghost of your courage. "I already did the hard part with the needle and thread. I ain't your maid."
"It’s the least you can do," he countered. He took a step into the room, the space shrinking instantly. His eyes locked onto yours, hooded and unblinking. "I took a bullet in my dominant arm for you, sweetheart. Hard to scrub when you're stitched up tight."
You tried to find your spine, forcing a huff of indignation even as your heart hammered against your ribs. "You’re a monster. I reckon you got enough of that super-human devilry in you to handle a bar of soap without my help."
The smirk vanished instantly. His face dropped, a glum expression crossed his features, making the room feel even smaller and colder despite the steam. He looked at you with a startling vulnerability that felt more dangerous than his anger. It was the look of a thing that had forgotten it could be perceived as anything other than a threat to be put down.
"Is that all you see?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave into a bleak, hollow place. "A monster?"
A pang of guilt pricked at your chest. You looked at him—really looked, past the blood and the horror. You followed the line of his jaw, the tired curve of his eyes, and the way the blood was matted into his dark hair like a crown of thorns.
He looked exhausted.
He looked lonely.
"I didn't say that's all," you whispered, the words coming out softer and more regretful than you intended. "But you are what you are, Bo."
To break the smothering weight of the silence, you reached for the jar of dried lavender and bath salts on the shelf. You threw a handful into the steaming tub, the floral scent blooming instantly in a desperate attempt to mask the smell of the road and the kill.
"This should take the edge off the pain," you murmured, your hands shaking as you stirred the water. "Help you sleep."
Bo didn't look away from you. His hands moved to the buttons of his trousers. The metallic clink of the fly being undone sent a jolt of white-hot heat straight to your thighs, a pulse that matched the frantic, ragged beat of your heart. You watched, paralyzed, as his stomach muscles raised, the dark hair disappearing into the waistband as he pushed the heavy denim down his hips.
"I—um—I’m going to get the clean clothes," you blurted out, the panic finally winning. Your pulse was a wild, trapped thing in your throat, and you felt like you were about to drown in the steam. "I’ll leave 'em right outside the door so you can get in the water. And If you really can't do it yourself, I'll help. Promise."
You scrambled out of the room, your face burning and your skin damp with the ghost of his heat. You instantly regretted the last part of your statement. Why had you even offered? Maybe it was the lingering sting of guilt from your earlier words, a clumsy and impulsive attempt to balance the scales. Maybe it was the heavy silence that followed, making you desperate to fill the air. Or maybe it was the way he looked at you.
Those brown eyes held a pull you couldn’t quite name, an unspoken gravity that made you want to do things for him, to be the person who fixed whatever was broken. You didn't have to look back to know his eyes were on your spine, trailing the path of your retreat like a hunter watching a deer vanish into the brush. You stood in the hallway, shivering in the sudden draft, while the scent of lavender and iron lingered in your lungs like a curse.
ᦏ᪔
The kitchen was quiet, save for the rhythmic, wet shuck-shuck of the wooden scrub board. You stood hunched over the bucket, your knuckles raw and stinging from the harsh lye soap. You watched, mesmerized and appalled, as the water turned a deep plum color—the blood of the men Bo had slaughtered bleeding out of the white fabric of his shirt.
Your mind was a hornet’s nest, buzzing with images you couldn't unsee. Every time you blinked, you heard it again: the metallic clink-clink of that man’s belt, the weight of him pinning you down, the taste of Mississippi dirt and your own copper blood in your mouth. And then... the shift.
The sound of Bo’s arrival hadn't been human. It was the sound of a butcher shop at midnight—the wet, splintering crunch of bone, the melon-dropping thud of a head hitting the gravel, and that gargling, truncated scream. You had witnessed four murders. You had seen a man’s head taken off with the casual ease of someone plucking a cotton boll.
I’m patchin' up a demon, you thought, your rhythm slowing until the scrub board went silent. I’m washin' his sins off his clothes like he’s my own kin. A cold shiver raced down your spine, clashing with the sweltering heat of the stove.
Had you made a terrible mistake?
You had invited a thing into your home that didn't eat, didn't breathe right, and carried the stench of the grave beneath a veil of lavender. You were a lone woman in a sharecropper shack with a monster. If he decided he was still hungry, there wasn't a lock in the Delta that could keep him out.
But then, you remembered the way he’d gripped your thigh—not with the bruising, entitlement of the men in the lot, but with a anchoring certainty. He looked at you like you were the only solid thing in a world of ghosts. The fear was there, sharp as a razor, but it was being crowded out by a thick, honey-slow heat. You knew that look in his shimmery eyes. He wanted to ruin you, yes—but he wanted to be the only thing that ever touched you again.
And God help you, you were ready to let him.
The water in the bucket was too foul to continue. You needed to change it and get the rinsing rack you’d left in the washroom. You wiped your damp, soapy hands on your apron, the fabric rough against your sensitized skin, and walked down the hall.
You knocked softly, your heart beginning that familiar, erratic dance against your ribs. "Bo?"
"Come in," his voice drifted through the wood.
You pushed the door open. The steam hit you first, a thick, comforting fog that smelled of the lavender and salt you’d thrown in. But underneath the flowers was the unmistakable scent of him—rain, cold earth, and a hint of ozone. Bo was submerged in the galvanized tub, his long legs folded uncomfortably against the metal.
His wet hair was pushed back, revealing the stark, haunting beauty of his face. His tan skin glistened with water and oil, the blood finally gone, leaving him looking like a polished jade statue.
"I just came for the scrubbing rack," you whispered. You tried to keep your eyes on the wall, but they drifted, fixed on the way the water beaded on his collarbones and the muscles of his chest. "For your clothes."
Bo didn't move. He just watched you, his eyes shimmery and dark, tracking the rise and fall of your chest. "The clothes can wait, little bird. 'Member what I said?"
"Oh... yeah," you breathed.
You walked toward him, the floorboards creaking. There was a mesmerizing charm in his gaze that felt like an illusion of safety.
As you reached the edge of the tub, Bo’s hand shot out—the uninjured one—and caught your wrist. His skin was cool, a shocking contrast to the steaming water, and his grip was a firm cuff. He guided you down until your knees hit the damp floorboards with a soft thud.
"You made a promise," he murmured, pressing the hot washcloth into your hand. "Be thorough. I don't want a speck of dirt or blood left on me."
He leaned back, exposing the wet planes of his stomach and the strong column of his throat. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking and predatory. "Don't let your shyness keep you from seeing where you need to clean," he warned, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. "I want to feel every bit of that kindness you claimed to have."
You took a shaky breath, your fingers trembling as you pressed the cloth to his shoulder. You began to scrub, tracing the lines of his muscles. Bo watched you with an intense focus. He could smell the way your pulse had spiked, the scent of your arousal blooming like a night-flower in the cramped room.
He reached out, his large hand tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back. "Look at me while you do it," he commanded softly. "I want to see you realize what you're touchin'."
The steam had become a lavender-scented disinhibitor. As you moved the cloth lower, your knuckles brushed against the solid weight of him, submerged in the soapy water. You felt the thick, hard length of his dick stir beneath the surface, pulsing against your hand.
Bo let out a long, shuddering sigh. He didn't pull away. He just watched you, his shimmery eyes blown wide. Your lips were parted with a mix of curiosity and a hunger you couldn't hide anymore. You were gentle, your soapy hands sliding over his slick skin, but the more you cleaned, the harder he became.
Bo’s hand clamped onto your waist. Before you could gasp, he hauled you over the rim. The water surged over the sides, splashing onto the floorboards with a heavy thud, as you landed in the tub with him. It was cramped; the metal bit into your hip, and your dress was instantly a heavy, sodden weight clinging to your skin.
Bo’s grip was absolute. He held your waist with one hand, his fingers digging into your flesh, while his other arm draped casually over the edge, his veiny hand twitching.
You leaned in, your lips trembling as you pressed a tentative kiss to his.
Bo didn't do tentative. He moaned into your mouth, his hand pulling you flush against his chest. He took over the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with a desperate hunger that tasted of ancient promises. You felt his dick pressing between your thighs. You ground down, the wet fabric of your dress providing a friction that made your toes curl into the metal.
His hand slid beneath the wet hem of your dress, his fingers ghosting over your thighs until they hooked into the waistband of your panties. With one effortless tug, he ripped the fabric. The sound of the tearing cotton was a sharp snap of finality. He flung the ruined scrap into the corner.
He pulled back just enough to nip your bottom lip. When you looked down, your heart nearly stopped. His fangs were fully descended—ragged, ivory daggers that looked like fresh bone. They were jagged, lethal, and capable of tearing the life from you in a single heartbeat.
You felt a spike of pure fear, and Bo felt it too. He leaned in, his nose brushing yours. "Relax, little bird. I've got you. Don't let the teeth scare you... I'll only bite if you ask me too."
He licked a slow, hot path across your lip before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned, your head falling back as you grinded onto his dick. It was perfectly positioned, stimulating you until you were seeing sparks.
"Put it in for me," he rasped.
He began to kiss a trail down your neck, the points of his fangs dragging across your skin, leaving thin, white lines that stung and burned. You reached down, your fingers fumbling through the soapy water until you found him. He was big—thick and pulsing with a life that didn't belong to a dead man. You lined him up, your breath catching, and slowly, you started to sink down.
The stretch was deep, a forceful opening that made your vision swim. You felt every ridge, every inch of him as he filled you.
"Mghn, fuck..." you breathed, your nails carving small crescents into his skin.
"All the way," Bo commanded, his breath hot against your throat. "Take it all, sweetness. Every bit of it."
You pushed through the resistance until you bottomed out. He hit a wall with a blunt pressure that made your stomach ache with the sheer fullness. You sat there for a moment, impaled and trembling, while the water lapped at your waists and the steam curled around your heads.
"There," he whispered, his hand sliding up to cup your face. "Now you know exactly what a monster feels like inside you." Bo’s damp hand stayed clamped on your face, his thumb dragging roughly across your lower lip, pulling it down to reveal the slick, red inner flesh of your mouth.
He watched the way you trembled, your breath coming in shallow, broken hitches as your body tried—and failed—to accommodate the sheer, unyielding stretch of him.
He shifted his hips, a slow, teasing roll that forced you to feel every ridge and pulsing vein of him. You let out a high, thin whimper, your hands flying to his chest to push him away, to find some air, but his weight was like the Mississippi mud—heavy, ancient, and impossible to move.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice a low, condescending purr that vibrated through your joined heat.
"All that fire in the gravel lot, spittin’ venom at those crackers... and here you are now, shakin’ like a leaf just ‘cause a real man’s fillin’ you up. You’re a pathetic little thing, ain’t you? All mouth and no room for the consequences. You think you’re brave ‘cause you sew up a wound? You’re just a fragile woman who doesn't know how to leave things be."
The mean edge in his voice made your stomach flip, a toxic cocktail of shame and heat. "Shut—uhn... shut up," you gasped, your head rolling back as he thrust upward—a sharp, blunt jab that hit your g-spot with the force of a hammer, making your vision streak with white light.
"Make me," he challenged, his eyes shimmering with a wicked, gold-flecked shimmer that made your blood run hotter.
He didn't give you a chance to answer. He reached for the straps of your dress. He didn't bother being gentle; he ripped the fabric down, the wet slap of the ruined dress hitting the floorboards echoed loud in the cramped room. Your bra followed, snapped and flung aside until you were bare, your skin glistening with sweat and lavender-water in the flickering light.
Bo’s breath hitched as he leaned in, his mouth finding your breast, his tongue rough and scorching as he swirled it around your nipple. He sucked deep, his fangs grazing the sensitive peak just enough to draw a pinprick of blood—a jolt of pain-pleasure that traveled straight to your clit.
He thrust again, slow and agonizing, his hips grinding into your soft thighs with a crude force. You reached out, your fingers tangling in his wet hair, pulling him closer as you found a dulcet rhythm. You began to bounce, the water in the tub sloshing violently over the rim with every downward stroke, soaking the floor.
Bo threw his head back, a low, guttural moan tearing from his throat. He let you ride him, but his hands weren't gentle. They moved to your chest, his palms engulfing your breasts, squeezing the soft flesh with a bruising strength that made you gasp. His thumbs found your nipples, pinching and twisting until you cried out.
"That's it," he rasped, his fingers digging into your hip bones to anchor you as you hammered yourself down. "Ride it, baby. Show me how much you want it. You like the way I feel, don't you? Like I’m stretchin’ you out so far you’ll never close right again? You’re lucky I found you, or those men would’ve torn you apart... but I’m the one actually doin' it, ain't I?"
He sped up his own hips, his thrusts turning quick and short, hitting you with a force that made the galvanized tub rattle against the floorboards. You felt his fangs scrape against your shoulder as he leaned in to bite at your skin, not breaking it yet, just marking you with the weight of his hunger.
"You're so wet," he groaned against your ear, his breath smelling of lavender and the copper of his own blood. "Drippin' all into the water. Shit... I'm gonna make sure you can't walk for a week without—ahh—feelin' me between your legs, remindin' you who you let in."
You nodded, your head lolling against his shoulder, your voice nothing but a broken, humid whisper. "Y-you feel so good, Bo... Lord, you feel so good."
Bo let out a sound that was half-growl, half-purr, his chest vibrating against yours. He leaned in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that tasted of salt and the iron-sweetness of his. His tongue sweeping deep as he thrust upward, meeting your downward motion halfway. The wet slap of your bodies meeting echoed off the damp wooden walls.
"Mhmm, I bet I do," he mumbled against your lips, his drawl thick and heavy with condescension. "Better than anythin’ you ever imagined in that quiet little life of yours, ain’t it? You spend your days haulin’ water a-and pickin’ okra, never dreamin’ a demon from the dark would come and stretch you out like this, sweet girl."
You tilted your head, your tongue flicking out to lick across the sharp, jagged ivory of his teeth. The danger of it—the knowledge that he could snap your neck in a second—made your blood sing. "You're a mean one, Bo Chow," you breathed, your eyes fluttering. "But you can be as mean as you w-want, as long as you keep fucking me."
His eyes flashed, a shimmery darkness. Without a word, he gripped your waist and stood up. The water cascaded off his body, splashing onto the floorboards in a heavy torrent. He lifted you like you weighed nothing, your legs dangling for a split second before he flipped you over the cold, narrow edge of the galvanized tub. Your stomach hit the metal, your hands scrambling for purchase on the damp floor as you were forced into a deep arch. Bo was behind you instantly, his shadow swallowing you whole.
He didn't wait. He grabbed your hips—his fingers digging deep—and drove back home in one violent thrust that bottomed out with a wet squelch.
"Ahhn—!" You cried out, your fingers clawing at the wood.
He was fucking you like you owed him a debt you could never pay, his movements fast and relentless. It was rough, the friction of the wet skin and the deep, forceful stretch of him making your vision streak with color. He was marking you from the inside out, claiming every inch of your internal space.
"Look back at me," he ordered, as he reached back and delivered a sharp, stinging slap to your ass. One that made your skin tingle and your pussy clench tight around him. "Look at what I'm doin' to you. See how you take it."
You twisted your neck, looking over your shoulder with blown-out eyes. You watched as his shaft disappeared into you and reappeared, glistening with your combined slickness. You watched your own flesh stretch and yield, your hole squeezing him with every pulse.
Bo let out a long, ragged moan. "Oh my... look at that. Look at how you're grabbin' me. You're s-so greedy for it. Just a hungry little hole for the haint." He leaned down, his chest pressing into your back, and whispered something dark and filthy in Cantonese—the sounds sharp and ancient against your ear. Then, his voice dropped back into that Delta rasp. "I bet if I sink these teeth into that pretty neck of yours, you'd squeeze me so tight I’d never get out. I could drink you dry while I fill you up.
He kept pounding into you, his pace turning frantic, his breath hitching. The overstimulation was too much; you reached back, your hand pressing into his lower stomach, trying to find some leverage against the assault.
"Bo, w-wait... slow down," you sobbed, your eyes teary, your lips pouting in a desperate plea. "Please, it's too much..."
He paused, but he didn't pull out. He looked down at your face—the tears, the flushed skin, the absolute wreck he’d made of you—and a slow, possessive smirk crossed his lips. He reached out and folded one of your arms behind your back, pinning it there with his large hand, and began to fuck you slow and deep.
It was worse this way. Every inch of him was felt, every ridge of his dick dragging against your sensitive walls. You watched as your own cream began to coat his skin, dripping down his thighs and into the pink-tinted water on the floor. Bo reached around with his free hand, spreading your cheeks wide, his thumb tracing the seam of your ass with a strange gentleness.
"You're a mess," he murmured, watching the way you took him. "A beautiful, wet mess. I’m gonna eat this pretty pussy later, once I’m done usin’ it. I’m gonna taste every bit of what I put inside you. You’re gonna miss me for days."
Your hand drifted down to your clit, your fingers finding the swollen, sensitive nub and rubbing in frantic circles. The slow, deep thrusts were driving you to the edge of a cliff.
"Can you take it faster, baby?" Bo rasped, his hand leaving your back to wrap firmly around the base of your neck. "You want me to finish in you? You want the monster to fill you up?"
"Yes," you gasped, your head falling forward. "Yes, Bo! Please! Just do it!"
He gripped your neck, anchoring you as he began to pound into you with everything he had. The sounds were wet and violent, the tub rattling against the floor as he reached for his own peak. You felt your orgasm building, a tidal wave of heat that crashed over you just as he delivered one last deep thrust that pinned you against the metal.
You screamed into the empty washroom, your body convulsing as you came in wave after wave of paralyzing pleasure. A second later, Bo let out a low moan, his body locking up as he erupted inside you. You felt the scorching heat of him, the thick, pulsing ropes of his release filling you to the absolute brim, making you feel like you were overflowing.
He stayed there for a long time, his forehead resting against your back, both of you panting in the cooling steam. When he finally pulled out, the sound was wet and heavy. You stayed slumped over the tub, your legs shaking, watching as his thick, white cum began to leak out of you, dripping slowly onto the dark, damp floorboards of your home.
Bo stood over you, his eyes still shining, his thumb reaching out to catch a stray drop of his seed from your thigh before bringing it to his lips, tasting you one last time.
ᦏ᪔
The scent of lye soap and fresh floor wax had mostly chased away the copper sting of blood and the heavy musk of the night before. Your small house looked right again—quilts snapped straight, the hearth swept clean, and the kitchen table scrubbed down for the arrival of your brother, his wife, and their little ones. But despite the domestic order, the air still felt charged, humming with the ghost of the intimacy that had unfolded in the washroom.
Bo sat at your small kitchen table, draped in a set of your brother’s old work clothes. The denim was faded and the shirt was tight across his broad, scarred shoulders, but he wore them with a strange, effortless dignity. He looked like any other man from the Delta, save for the stillness in his posture and the way his eyes seemed to swallow the afternoon light.
You leaned against the counter, smoothing your apron, feeling the dull ache between your thighs—a constant, thrumming reminder of exactly what he was.
"Everything’s ready," you said, your voice a little raspy. "I reckon you can stay on and rest a bit longer, but you got to be gone before the crickets start their real loud chirpin'. My brother and his kin... they can’t find you here. Especially not lookin’ like you do."
Bo didn't answer right away. He stood up, his frame making the kitchen feel small again, and crossed the room with that fluid, silent stride. He stepped behind you, wrapping his large, cool arms around your waist. He pulled you back against his chest, his chin resting in the crook of your neck. You felt his breath, cold and smelling faintly of the lavender salts, against your skin.
"I’ll be gone before the first headlight hits the gravel, little bird," he murmured, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your throat. He didn't bite, but the threat—the promise—of his fangs was always there. "When can I see you again?"
You leaned your head back against his shoulder, closing your eyes. "Whenever you want, Bo. I'm sure you know the way."
He let out a low, satisfied hum that vibrated through your spine. He squeezed your waist once, firmly, before letting go. "Thank you again. For the thread. For not callin' the law or the lynch mobs." His eyes drifted to the window, looking out toward the cypress trees. "I’ll pay you back for the trouble. Name your price."
You didn't hesitate. You knew the value of your silence and your safety in this world. You named a price—a bold amount of silver that would keep your family fed and the taxes paid for a long, long time.
Bo let out a short, dry bark of a laugh, his shimmery eyes crinkling at the corners. "You’re a greedy woman," he said, but there was a deep, underlying respect in his tone. He reached out, his thumb dragging across your cheek. "I like that. I used to own a store myself, back before the world got so dark. I know the cost of doin' business. You'll have your silver."
ᦏ᪔
The house was full of the sounds of family later that night—the high-pitched giggles of your nieces, the heavy thud of your brother’s boots, and the soft chatter of his wife as they settled into the guest rooms. You played your part, serving food and enjoying family time, but your mind was stuck in the quiet shadows of the washroom.
When you finally crawled into your own bed, the sheets felt cold and lonely. You fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, exhausted by the weight of the secrets you were carrying.
In the dead of the night, the air in your room shifted. There was no sound, just a subtle change in pressure.
Bo appeared at your bedside like a shadow detached from the wall. He stood over you for a long time, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, and pressed a lingering, feather-light kiss to your forehead.
He reached out, his long fingers snagging a small scarf you’d left on the nightstand—one you’d used to tie back your hair. He brought it to his nose, inhaling the scent of you that clung to the fabric: the peach-sweetness, the earth, and the lingering spice of the night before. He tucked it into his pocket, a piece of you to take back into the dark.
When you woke the next morning, the room was empty and the sun was beginning to bleed over the horizon. You sat up, shivering slightly, and noticed a small piece of paper weighted down by a small sack on your vanity.
You picked up the note. The handwriting was elegant, sharp, and slanted.
The Delta is a dangerous place, dear. Keep your doors locked and your fire high. I'll be back for the rest of what I owe you.— B.C.
You clutched the silver coin in your hand, feeling its cold weight, and looked out at the swamp. Bo Chow was gone, but you knew that he was still watching.
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ℳegumi is forced to tutor his chaotic neighbor who refuses to take school seriously.
2.6k words. fluff.
Megumi Fushiguro had not exactly agreed to this out of kindness. In fact, if anyone had asked him, he would have described the situation as “logistically unavoidable.” His father had heard from a neighbor ; your mother, specifically, that her daughter was struggling in school, especially in math and literature, and that no amount of nagging, bribing, or late-night revision sessions seemed to help.
Toji, in his own extremely unhelpful way, had immediately decided that Megumi would be the solution. “You’re smart, she’s not, fix it,” he’d said, as if it were a chore on a grocery list. And just like that, Megumi always found himself standing in front of your house after school, backpack still on, expression flat, wondering where exactly his life had gone wrong.
You, on the other hand, had not agreed out of enthusiasm either. You were the kind of student who understood things… just not in the way teachers wanted you to. Sitting still for hours made your skin itch. Numbers blurred. Words on paper refused to behave. So when your mother announced that the neighbor’s son ; “a very serious, very smart young man”, would be tutoring you, you had immediately protested. Loudly. Dramatically. It had not worked. The phone threat sealed your fate. And so, with all the excitement of a prisoner being escorted to paperwork, you always found yourself sitting in a chair struggling with all these numbers.
──── ୨୧ ────
The afternoon sun bled through the blinds of the dining room, casting long, rhythmic stripes of amber across the mahogany table. It was a stifling silence, broken only by the aggressive click-clack of your manicured acrylics tapping against a blank notebook and the rhythmic, steady scratching of Megumi’s mechanical pencil.
The tutoring sessions always began in your dining room, always at the same time, always with Megumi arriving exactly two minutes early and sitting down exactly the same way, back straight, books aligned, expression unchanged.
You, meanwhile, were the opposite of structure. You sprawled across the chair, stole snacks mid-explanation, interrupted him mid-sentence to complain that quadratic equations felt personally offensive, and somehow still managed to look entirely unbothered by your own academic downfall.
Megumi looked exactly like the kind of person who enjoyed suffering through calculus, and who took notes in color-coded pens and judged others silently. Messy dark hair, tired eyes, uniform slightly wrinkled that screamed "my dad made me wear this so I look respectable." He hadn't looked at you once since you sat down, his gaze fixed firmly on a set of practice problems.
"Look, Fushiguro," you sighed, leaning back so far the chair creaked. You popped a bubble with your gum, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet room. "We both know why we’re here. My mom thinks I’m one failed quiz away from a life of waitressing, and your dad–well, I don’t know what your father’s deal is, but he clearly wants you out of the house. Sooo can we just... skip to the part where you sign the log and I go get a latte?"
Megumi finally looked up. His dark lashes framed eyes that held a level of nonchalance that was almost insulting. He didn't look annoyed; he looked bored, which was somehow worse.
"My father wants me to 'build character' by helping the community," Megumi said, his voice a low, steady monotone. "Apparently, that includes ensuring you understand the difference between a derivative and a hole in the ground. And if I don’t finish this session, he’s not giving me the keys to the car this weekend. So, sit up. We’re doing page forty-two."
"Fortyyy-two? That’s like... halfway through the book," you groaned, dramatically flopping your head onto the table, your black boho braided hair spilling over the wood. "My brain is literally already full. There’s no more storage space. It’s like an iPhone with too many photos of toes."
Megumi didn't even crack a smile. He simply pushed the textbook toward you, his finger pointing at a complex equation involving limits. "If you spent half the energy you use on metaphors on actual studying, you wouldn't need me to be here. Now, look at the limit as x approaches infinity. What happens to the function?"
You squinted at the numbers. They looked like a hive of angry bees. "It... goes to heaven? I don't know, Megumi. It gets bigger? Like my credit card debt?"
Megumi closed his eyes for a brief second, drawing in a breath that looked like a prayer for patience. "It doesn't 'go to heaven.' It’s an asymptote. It levels out." He leaned in closer, the faint scent of sandalwood and old paper drifting off him. He pointed to the graph. "The line gets closer and closer to a specific value, but it never actually touches it. It’s a boundary."
You rolled your eyes, leaning your chin on your hand and staring at his profile. Up close, he was actually... kind of fine. In a nerdy, "I read Camus for fun" sort of way. "Kind of like us, huh? We’re in the same room, but we’re never actually going to touch the subject matter."
Megumi’s hand paused on the paper. He turned his head slowly, finding your gaze. For the first time, his nonchalance wavered, replaced by a flicker of dry wit. "Actually, it’s more like you’re the divergent series. No matter how much input I give you, you just head off into complete chaos without any discernible limit."
"Hey! That was a math burn! You're a nerd!" You laughed, a bright, genuine sound that seemed to startle him.
"I’m your tutor," he corrected, though the corner of his mouth twitched—just a fraction of a millimeter. "And you’re a distraction. But since I'm being forced to be here, and you're being forced to stay, we might as well make it through the first five problems. If you get them right, I’ll tell my dad we finished the whole chapter so you can go get your coffee."
You perked up, blinking your long lashes at him. "Really? You'd lie for me, Fushiguro? I didn't know you had a rebellious streak under that library-monitor aesthetic."
"It's not rebellion," Megumi muttered, flipping the page and handing you his pencil. The graphite was still warm from his hand. "It's efficiency. Now, solve for y. And stop chewing your gum so loudly; it’s distracting the neighbors."
"Fine, fine," you muttered, actually pulling the paper toward you. "But if I pass this test, you're taking me to get that latte. It’s only fair. Tutoring is a two-way street."
"That's not how tutoring works at all," Megumi said, leaning back and crossing his arms, watching you struggle with the first line of the equation.
"In my world, it is," you chirped, scribbling a number down.
“You’re not even trying to understand the steps,” he said, exasperated, pulling the notebook toward him.
“I am trying,” you replied, chewing on a pen cap. “It’s just… my brain doesn’t like steps. Or numbers. Or responsibility.”
“That explains a lot.”
“Was that an insult or a diagnosis?” You squint at him like you’re trying to solve a very serious case
He paused. “…Both.”
Megumi didn’t wait for your rebuttal. He reclaimed his pencil with a surgical precision that suggested he was reclaiming his sanity along with it. He began sketching out a diagram, his movements fluid and practiced.
“Okay, since ‘steps’ are your enemy, look at it this way,” he said, his voice dropping an octave as he shifted into a tone that was dangerously close to being patient. “Think of this function like a VIP list at a club. The limit is the bouncer. You can get as close to the door as you want, you can dress up, you can yell, but if you aren’t on the list, you’re never crossing that threshold. You stay on the sidewalk forever.”
You blinked, actually following the logic for a split second. “So the asymptote is the velvet rope?”
“Exactly,” Megumi said, a look of genuine relief crossing his face, as if he’d finally found the right frequency to communicate with an alien life form. “You’re the function. You’re trying to get in, but the math says you’re stuck outside in the cold.”
“Wow. Math is even more depressing when you put it that way,” you remarked, though you finally started scribbling a calculation that actually resembled the correct formula.
The silence returned, but the tension had shifted. It was no longer the heavy, stagnant air of two people who hated each other’s presence; it was the focused, slightly more rhythmic atmosphere of a shared struggle. Outside, the cicadas began their evening drone, and the shadows of the blinds stretched across the table like the bars of a cage you were both starting to realize wasn't so bad.
Megumi watched you work out of the corner of his eye. He noticed the way you bit your lip when you were concentrating, a stark contrast to the loud, gum-snapping persona you’d worn like armor for the last hour.
“You got the sign wrong,” he said quietly, reaching over.
His fingers brushed against the back of your hand as he pointed to a negative symbol you’d neglected. The contact was brief, but in the quiet of the dining room, it felt like a static shock. You didn't pull away immediately, and for a heartbeat, Megumi didn't either.
“Negative times a negative is a positive,” he murmured, his gaze shifting from the paper to you. “Don’t forget the basics because you’re rushing toward the finish line.”
“I’m always rushing,” you admitted, your voice uncharacteristically soft. You looked up, meeting those dark, guarded eyes. “Everything feels like it’s moving too fast, Megumi. The tests, the applications, the expectations... I just want to pause the video, you know?”
Megumi held your gaze for a second longer than was strictly professional for a neighbor-turned-tutor. The "library-monitor" facade cracked, revealing a sliver of the boy who likely felt the exact same weight of expectation from a father like Toji.
“Then pause,” he said, pulling his hand back and clearing his throat. He checked his watch–exactly one hour and twenty-eight minutes since he’d arrived. “We’ve done enough for now. If we do anymore without a break, your ‘storage space’ will actually crash, and I don’t feel like dealing with the technical support.”
He began packing his bag, his movements slow and deliberate. You watched him, a mischievous glint returning to your eyes as you remembered your earlier demand.
“So... about that latte,” you prompted, leaning your cheek against your palm. “I solved for y. I handled the velvet rope. I think the tutor owes the student a reward for not throwing the textbook out the window.”
Megumi zipped his bag with a sharp zip. He stood up, slinging the strap over his shoulder, and looked down at you. He looked like he wanted to say no, like every logical, disciplined bone in his body was screaming at him to go home and study his own advanced physics.
“I’m not paying for the extra espresso shot,” he muttered, heading toward the front door.
You sat bolt upright, a wide grin spreading across your face. “Wait, really? You’re actually taking me?”
Megumi paused at the door, his hand on the knob. He didn't turn around, but you could see the tips of his ears were a faint shade of pink.
“I need the caffeine if I’m going to survive another hour of your metaphors,” he said, his voice regaining its flat, monotone edge. “And my father still has the car keys. So start walking. We’re taking the shortcut through the park.”
“Aye, aye, Fushiguro!” you chirped, grabbing your purse and and nearly face-planting over your chair in your scramble to keep up.
As you trailed behind him down the driveway, the evening air was cool, but the pavement still held the day’s heat. You fell into step beside him, swinging your bag and narrowly avoiding hitting his arm.
"You know, for someone who complains about my brain space, you're surprisingly good at explaining things," you mused, looking at him sideways. "Do you actually like this? Being the smartest guy in the room?"
Megumi didn't look at you, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. "It's not about being the smartest. It’s just... things have rules. If you follow them, they make sense. Unlike for some people."
"Heyy! I make sense," you countered, stepping over a crack in the sidewalk. "I’m like an abstract painting. You just have to look at me from the right angle."
"I think the 'right angle' for you involves a lot of squinting and a very strong prescription," he deadpanned, though the sharp edge was missing from his voice. He paused, the shortcut through the park coming into view. "And don't think a latte means I’m going easy on you on Tuesday. We’re doing the back half of the chapter."
"Ugggh, back to the salt mines," you groaned and roll your eyes, but you didn't slow down. "But hey, if I get a B on the quiz, we’re going for sushi next time. My treat."
Megumi shifted his bag to the other shoulder, hiding a very real, very reluctant smile. "I’ll believe the B when I see it on paper."
"Ohh woaa. Where’s the faith, Fushiguro?" you teased, nudging your shoulder against his arm as you walked. "I’m a changed woman. I’ve seen the light of the velvet rope."
He didn't pull away from the contact. Instead, he slowed his pace just enough to match yours, his gaze drifting over to you. "The light of the velvet rope? You’re still thinking about the bouncer metaphor, aren't you?"
"It spoke to me! It was the first time math felt... exclusive. High-end." You flashed him a grin, your eyes dancing with mischief. "Admit it, you like making things relatable for us 'chaotic' people."
Megumi stopped walking for a second, turning to face you as the sun dipped lower, painting his sharp features in shades of gold and violet. He reached out, his hand hovering near your face before he tentatively tucked a stray braid behind your ear. His fingers lingered for a second too long against your skin, the air between you suddenly humming with a tension that had nothing to do with textbooks.
"Maybe," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dry murmur that made your heart skip. "Or maybe you’re just the only person who makes me work this hard to explain a simple line. You’re exhausting."
"But you're still here," you whispered, emboldened by the way he was looking at you, not like a tutor, but like someone trying to solve a puzzle he didn't actually want to finish.
"I told you," he said, his thumb brushing the very edge of your jawline before he pulled his hand back into his pocket. "I want the car keys."
"Big ass liar," you sang out, though your cheeks were burning
"You really think you've got me figured out, don't you?" Megumi asked, falling back into step with you, though he purposely brushed his shoulder against yours this time, a rare, deliberate move that caught you off guard.
"I have a theory," you countered, regaining your footing and looking up at him. "I think you actually like these tutoring session. Your life is all straight lines and color-coded pens. I’m the only thing in your schedule that isn't predictable."
Megumi let out a short, huffed breath that was almost a laugh. He stopped at the edge of the park, leaning back against a lamp post as the first few streetlights hummed to life. "Predictable? You spent twenty minutes trying to convince me that x could be 'whatever it felt like being today.' That’s not a challenge, it’s a headache."
"And yet," you stepped into his space, your shadow merging with his on the pavement, "here you are. Walking me to get a latte you said you wouldn't pay for."
He looked down at you, his expression shifting from his usual deadpan to something more pointed. "I said I wasn't paying for the extra shot. I never said I wasn't paying for the coffee." He leaned down slightly, his voice dropping to a teasing tone. "But if you fail that quiz after all this work, I’m making you do the next session in the library. In the silent section. No gum. No snacks. Just me, you, and 3 hours of trigonometry."
"That actually sounds like a threat," you whispered, your heart doing a strange little flip at the proximity.
"It's an incentive," he corrected, his eyes lingering on yours for a beat too long before he pushed off the post and started walking again. "Now move. The café closes in twenty minutes, and if I don't get my caffeine, I might actually lose my 'library-monitor' composure."
"Wait up, Fushiguro!" you called out, scurrying after him. "Does this mean I get to pick the sushi place too?"
"Don't push your luck," he threw back over his shoulder, but the way his pace slowed to wait for you said otherwise.
And despite himself, he kept coming back.
It wasn’t like he enjoyed it. He told himself it was obligation, or pity, or maybe just the fact that your mother kept sending pastries home with him as bribery. But there were moments that made it difficult to fully convince himself of that.
Like when you actually got something right, and your face lit up in a way that was annoyingly genuine. Or when you leaned too close to the page, hair falling into your eyes, muttering to yourself as you tried again without asking for help. Or when you’d randomly drift off mid-problem and ask him completely unrelated questions.
He realized, with a quiet sink of his heart, that this was going to be a very long semester and perhaps, he didn't mind the chaos as much as he told his father he did.
And for the first time, “unavoidable” didn’t feel like something he wanted to escape.
᭡ kali’s notes ⸻ I hope you guys enjoyed it. I struggled a bit to make their conversation interesting and not just a platonic exchange, and I think I managed it pretty well, so yeah, whatever. Love y'all mwahh !
how to look into the catholic church, if you feel the tug of it—
look for communities near you to visit; morning masses have nice women who love to greet new neighbors. this is a book on how to visit, and this is my guide on it. the task is copying those near you. you need to find ethical relationship—going out is important. if you can't, though, try virtual masses (like those in my city through catholictv). follow the mass with a lectionary, the usccb daily readings, or the ordo
visit adoration, quiet times of reflection in front of the body. in various communities there are hours of this, or, it never ends
learn to pray chaplets or the rosary. visit churches half an hour before mass to recite the rosary with others. you can count on your fingers until you get one yourself
learn the nicene creed, which outlines the catholic faith in its gist
read vatican encyclicals like pope francis' delixit nos (he likens faith to his grandmother's cookies) or pope leo's recent magnifica humanitas (the rhetoric here is of loving the neighbor ethically, lornfully)
reach out to other catholics, like me 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯, pilgrim yourself to shrines, or visit festivals or feast days near you, (like the north end's st anthony's feast)
remain both generous and critical in one breath. name the violence of this church
lastly, look into ocia or rcia, rites of initiation guided by deacons or fathers to come home to the church
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watching a show and it references a film so now i watch the film to understand the show and the film references a book so i need to read the book to understand the film and the book references another older book and now i need to understand everything that is unknown to me
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