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jimmy wants nothing more than to be balls deep in his useless, neet sister.
he hates that. hates her. hates the way she lingers in his periphery, useless and ugly and a burden in every sense of the word. sheâs always there, wasting space, smelling like unwashed sheets and stale energy drinks, looking at him with those dumb, vacant eyes like she doesnât understand how much he despises her.
but it doesn't matter, not when she's like thisâsprawled out, thighs trembling, too fucked out to fight him off, too pathetic to do anything but take what he gives her.
he shoves a pillow over her face, stifling whatever aggravating sounds she makes beneath it. he doesnât want to see herâdoesnât want to look at the slack-jawed mess of her, doesnât want to acknowledge that itâs her beneath him. he can picture someone elseâanyone elseâthe new girl from work, some model from a magazine, someone worth fucking. but it doesnât change the fact that itâs her under him. useless. hideous. and yetâ
he sneers, pushing her ratty weezer shirt up, because at least her body is tolerable. at least thereâs something here he can stand to look at. her tits aren't great, not a pair heâd brag about, but they're better than her acne ridden face.
his hands tighten around her fat hips, and itâs so unfairâbecause for everything she lacks, she still has the tightest cunt heâs ever fucked.
and thatâs the worst part. thatâs the only thing she has going for her.
no one else would want her, no one else would have her the way he does. itâs a shame sheâs so uglyâa shame sheâs so worthless.
but if this is the only thing sheâs good for, then jimmy will just have to keep her to himself.
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a/n : i live for desperate, pent-up men (* ´ ďšď˝)
LEAD ME NOT INTO TEMPTATION
{ priest! curly x f! reader }
word count : 1408
warnings/tags : NSFW, religious themes, implied age-gap, ooc, confessional booth masturbation, corruption, verbal fantasies, sexual shame and guilt.
You come every Friday. Always after sundown, when the walls sweat and the pews groan, lonely and dark with the weight of waiting.
You never call it confession, but you ask for his ear. You tell him you're burdened. You tell him you're afraid.
Yet you look at him through the screen like heâs your shame and your salvation all at once. You lean forward with your lips glossy and bitten, your voice wet with something worse than sorrow.
Father Carling listens, as he must. It is his duty, it is his crossâand he carries it with shoulders bowed, hands tight in his lap, knuckles white as wafers.
Tonight, your voice is different. Loose, almost drunken. But youâre not drunk, no, the hunger that laces your words is older than thatâolder than youâand it drips into the booth like oil, slick and heavy, impossible to cleanse.
"Bless me, Father," you whisper, voice like sugar melting down his spine. âFor I have sinned.â
"âŚHow long has it been?" he rasps, already clearing his throat. Already ashamed.
"Since my last confession?" You hum, sweetly. "Seven days. But Iâve been thinking of you every one of them."
His breath catches.
You lean closer to the screen, and the latticework casts tiny bruises of shadow across your cheeks. He can see your outline, just barelyâthe hazy swell of your shoulders, the shape of your mouth. He doesnât need more than that. Heâs imagined worse in the empty hours of morning, when the church bells are silent and his sheets are damp.
"I touched myself this morning," you whisper, mouth close to the mesh, your breath fanning through. "And then again after lunch. I can't stop thinking about you, Father."
He freezes. Every hair on his arms lifts in silent protest. He swallows. Hard. But his voice is calm.
"You mustnât speak like that in here."
"Why not?â you breathe, "Isnât it better I say it in here than⌠do it again out there?"
Your knees shift apartâhe can tell from the sound of fabric sweeping across the bench.
âYou want to know what Iâm doing now, Father?â
Just a gentle pass of fingers beneath your skirt, but the soundâyour breath hitching, the soft grind of cotton between your legsâis unmistakable. The booth is hot. Suffocating. You breathe like someone freshly exorcised.
âYouâre doing it again,â he says, voice thin with disbelief. âRight now?â
âMmhm,â you murmur, lips going slack. âCan you hear it?â
He can. The wet, indecent sound of your fingers parting what should remain untouched. It echoes in his skull like water dripping in a crypt.
The screen shifts as you lean your head against it, the lattice bending as if it might snap under your breath. Heâs sweating. His fingers curl inward, dragging up the swell of his crotch, gripping flesh thatâs pale and sickly-soft under the black. He palms himself clumsily through his cassock, breath ragged, stomach clenching with shame.
"You mustnâtâŚ" he repeats, moreso to himself than to you. A final, trembling plea from a man already halfway to Hell.
His teeth grit behind closed lips. Through the thin clerical robe, he feels how stiff heâs become. He tells himself he hasnât done anything yetâbut thatâs a lie, and God does not suffer liars.
He just listens to the sound, that awful squelch as your fingers work through the slick mess between your thighs, it fills the booth like incense. A new kind of sacrament.
âTell me what you see when you close your eyes,â he croaks. âSpeak it plain. Do not spare me. IâI deserve to know the full weight of your corruption.â
He tells himself itâs to save your soulâbut heâs trembling. His thighs twitch beneath his robes, his cock a thick and pulsing brand of guilt in his fist. A bead of precum blooms at the head, spun from years of tension and restraint.
You whimper, soft and obscene, and he squeezes harder.
"I see your mouth," you whine, "I imagine you licking me hereâalong my slitâmoving your tongue slowly, carefully..."
He gaspsâa broken, wounded sound. His hand stills for only a second before moving again, more desperate now. His fingers are sticky with his own filth, the damp cotton of his underclothes clinging to him like a second skin.
âI imagine your hands, too. You have big fingers, Father. I think theyâd stretch me.â
A groan. Low, muffled into his sleeve as his spine arches. He should leave. He should run. He should vomit at the altar.
Instead, he shifts forward, pressing his forehead to the cool mesh of the confessional screen, his breath stinking of guilt and lust and sour wine from the last Mass.
âKeep going,â he whispers. âPlease.â
âIâm using both hands now,â you say. âOne finger on my clit, one inside. Itâs so wet. So hot. You did this to me, Father.â
Through the screen, you watch him squirm. He doesnât know how visible he isâhow his silhouette shudders every time your voice dips.
He stifles a moan, eyes squeezed shut as his own hand moves in jerks. Harsh. Desperate. Heâs biting his tongue, practically drawing blood, but the pain only makes him harder, makes his grip crueler. His hips jerk forward and the booth creaks beneath his weight.
âI want to come in front of you,â you moan, âI want you to see me dripping for you. I want you to open that screen, just once, and look at what you've done.â
A sob breaks loose from him. He imagines you curled in the opposite booth, thighs glistening, belly twitching, slick smeared down to your knees.
His legs twitch at the thought and he caves, pulling his cock out from under his robesâangry and red and leaking at the tip like something wounded, and strokes it furiously.
âYouâre going to make me cum,â you pant. âPlease, Father. Tell me I can.â
Heâs already gone, already past the point of prayer and penance. He trembles, his voice cracked wide and bleeding:
âGod sees thisâHe sees you ruin yourself.â
âI want Him to,â you whisper. âI want Him to watch you too.â
"FâFuck."
Something in him cracks. And when he speaks again, itâs not his voice. Itâs lower, darker. Sick with want and full of lust.
âSay my name,â he begs, pleads, the words tumbling out before he can catch them. âLet me hear it. Let me hear you cum with my name on your tongue.â
Your cries become wet and frantic, and he thinks he might die hearing them. Might rot right there in the booth, buried beneath his vestments, his purity crumbling around his shaking hand.
"I give you permission, my Child," he groans, the words dragging out of him like a curse, âCum for me.â
You gasp like a dying girl. The noise he makes in response is worseâa soft, strangled whine, helpless and boyish.
âI'mâ" you mewl, and he can hear it: the crescendo of your breath, the slapping rhythm of your hand, the helpless, wet clench of your insides.
You choke on his name, your slick crashing down around your fingers in waves, in dribbles, in sin. It leaks into the wood. It soaks the hem of your skirt.
He followsâonly seconds afterâhis whole body shaking, his hand sticky and twitching and useless as it cups the spent, wilting shame between his thighs.
It hits his fingers in hot, thick ribbonsâdisgrace painting his palm, his robes, the edge of the wood below him. His whole body seizes, a twitching marionette held up by guilt and ecstasy. His spine curls, bowing as if in prayer, but thereâs nothing devout in the way he grips the edge of the seat, white-knuckled, twitching with aftershocks.
He can hear you breathe, just beyond the screen. Shallow, shaky, content.
ââŚDid you cum too, Father?â you ask, your voice soft, breathless. Yet, you sound triumphant. Vicious with beauty.
He doesnât respond. Canât. The taste of it is thick in his throatâa blasphemous stew of salt, blood, and bile. His collar is too tight. His chest aches like heâs been struck.
And still, your voice continues, dreamy and warm: âYou sounded so pretty. I thought maybe you did.â
His cock throbs in his weary hand, softening slowly under the weight of what heâs done. What he let you do.
But he sits there. Still. Listening to you rise. Watching your outline slip from view.
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demon sstrafe and a reader who accidentally summoned him, begging uđđđđ
a/n: this was my first time writing something with a clear narrative and i had soo much fun!! i hope you enjoy it too, nonnie(s) :3
DELIVERANCE
{ demon! strade x f! reader }
word count : 3281
warnings/tags : NON-CON, past assault/sexual trauma, religious themes, porn with plot, grooming, flashbacks, blood and injury, extreme violence and gore, body horror, dissociation, urine/incontinence, accidental summoning, size difference, demon tongue fucking, cervical penetration, vaginal penetration, evisceration, reader death, implied necrophilia.
You return to the church like a dog to its vomit.
Not for hope. Not for God.
But because there is nowhere else to go.
The chapel is half-eaten by mildew and disrepair, its pews splintered and sagging with the damp. Once-brilliant stained glass windows now weep red with the dying light, casting cruciform shadows on the altar floor. The saints above you have no faces anymoreâjust sockets, blotted eyes, features patinaed and worn away by time.
You kneel where velvet once cushioned the obedient. Now, the fractured boards beneath the upholstery bite into the hard angles of your knees like the church itself resents your return. It's a familiar pain, familiar posture. Your knees had bent here as a child, reciting the Hail Mary in rhythm with your father's breath.
You clutch the old rosary in your handâthe one from your First Communion. Plastic pearls yellowed by time and sweat, the silver cross rusted along the edges. Youâd kept it hidden in a drawer for years, too ashamed to touch it, too afraid to throw it away. Now itâs looped twice around your fist, the crucifix graven into the meat of your palm like it resents being remembered.
"Please," you rasp, not knowing who you're speaking to. âPleaseârelease me.â
You don't expect an answerâyou've long forgotten what it feels like to be heard.
You squeeze harder. The cross slices deeper. You want to be clean. You want to be pure. You want to be good again.
Blood trickles down your wrist, drops onto the stone floor, soaks into the cracks where he once stood in pewter light, charming your father with war stories and imported beer. The man with the disarming, accented voice and military medals. The man your father invited in for lunch after Sunday service, letting him set his coat down, letting him stay too long, letting him take too much.
The man you knew then as 'Wilhelm'.
You didn't learn his true name until after his deathâwhen his stubbled face was plastered across every television screen and newspaper headline.
Strade. The name tasted like soot in your mouth.
Not Wilhelm. Not the man who ruined youâwhose thumbs pressed into the delicate, frightened skin of your throat while his car idled behind the chapel.
Not the man whose hands reached under your dress and pulled your panties aside despite your pleas.
The memory comes in wet, bludgeoning waves.
The sting of the seatbelt buckle digging into your spine when he forced you down across the seats, pinning your hips with his weight as his rancid breath fanned across your face.
The chemical stench of pine air freshener mixing with your virgin blood when he split you openâprobing, violent, carelessâmuttering something in German that you didnât understand, but would remember anyway.
The soft, endless choke of the rosary between your fingers now, and the ghost of it thenâhanging limp around your neck while you begged God to make you disappear.
It wasnât until your fingers wrapped around his car keysâ
still warm from the ignitionâthat you found salvation.
You donât remember thinking. Only doing.
The twist of your wrist, the puncture, the sharp, wet grunt that left his mouth when you drove the keys into his side, just beneath his ribs. You never forgot the way his blood soaked your hand, or how the taste of your own name vanished behind the rush of your heartbeat in your ears.
You remember stumbling out of the car with your dress askew, legs numb and shaking, your thighs sticky with blood and urine. You remember fallingâknees scraping gravel, palms skinning openâand the sound of him slamming the car door behind you as you ran blind into the road.
You remember the headlights. The driver that stopped. The woman who gasped at the sight of you.
You remember saying nothing.
You told no one. Not your father, not your priest. Not even God.
You buried it, buried him, and he never came back. He disappeared like a sickness the body couldnât hold any longer, taking with him your faith and everything that once felt sacred.
Years later they found his body rotting in the freezer of an abandoned house, curled fetal between the butcher-papered limbs of missing students. His name was all over the newsâthe face youâd tried so hard to forget, suddenly everywhere.
And still, somehow, it had never truly left you.
You donât know how long youâve been kneeling, only that your knees are bruised into the shape of penance and that the rosary unravels from your fingers like entrails.
And in that moment, in that terrible, holy silenceâ
The world rips open.
The air fractures.
The altar groans.
Candles flare to life, one by one, vomiting wax and smoke. The crucifix on the far wall snaps clean down the centre, a great vertical crack bisecting Christâs weary face.
And then you smell him.
Iron. Sulphur. Burned meat.
Memory.
The air tastes like the inside of his car.
You try to move, but your body forgets how. The glass windows seem to melt inward, their colours running like blood at your feet. The church convulsesâwalls weeping molasses-like ichor, rafters warping into grotesque, jagged angles. The house of God transforms, perverted into a cathedral of rot, consecrated by pain.
Your blood had opened the door.
A clawed hand erupts from the floorboards in the aisleâcurved and black, as if pulled from the depths of a kiln. Then another. They dig into the stone like wet clay, dragging the rest of him from the chasm that yawns open below.
He rises slowly, deliberately. Like he knows youâre watching. Like he wants to be seen.
His horns are the first thing to catch the lightâhuge, curved back from his brow as if carved from obsidian. Wings unfurl behind him, stretching the width of the nave, their membranes glistening like bat leather and dripping dark fluid that hisses when it touches holy stone. His skin is split in places, stretched too thin over a frame that no longer pretends to be human.
His chest bears a hole, cavernous and obscene, ribs cracked open around a heart-shaped absence. In its place, a writhing mass of green smoke pulses with hunger.
Heâs so much bigger nowâtowering, grotesqueâbut thereâs something in his face, in the tilt of his head and the way his eyes glint when they find you. That same glint, the same sick amusement. The same look he gave you before his thumbs pressed against your trachea.
You feel the urine warm your thighs before you even register the fearâand his mouth peels into a grin.
"You," he muses, his voice impossibly deep, like it comes from behind your skull.
Your knees collapse out from under you as you scramble back, hands slipping in your own blood. He follows, slowly, lazily, as if thereâs no need to rush. His tongue snakes out, long and green, curling over the edge of his lip as he tastes the air.
âYou got big, didnât you?â His grin widens. âAlmost didnât recognize you without the Sunday dress.â
He crouches low, knees cracking, claws braced against the floor as he tilts his head. You can hear the vertebrae in his neck grind against each other. His gaze drags down your body like candle wax.
"But I could never forget that scent."
You try to recoil, to shrink into the stone, but his hand shoots out and seizes your face. His claws dig into the fat of your cheeks, curling in like meat hooks. The points pierce skin, draw blood. You gasp, your jaw forced open beneath the stretch of his grip. If he squeezed just a little harder, you were sure he could crack your skull like an egg.
His hand grips your jaw until your teeth ache, and he leans closeâso close you can smell the rot curling behind his breath. It's the same stench that clung to the car, that filled your lungs while you wept against faux leather seats. The same scent that had soaked into your bones, that had made into a thing instead of a girl.
"Immer noch so sĂźĂ,â he croons, almost lovingly, before releasing your face with a shove.
You crumple backward, trembling with shock and old, cellular revulsion. The rusted crucifix rolls from your fingers, forgotten. You donât reach for it.
You know better now.
You flinch when his clawed hand snakes downânot toward your throat, as you'd braced forâbut lower. Down the slope of your hip, over the curve of your thigh, lingering.
âI can smell it on you,â he purrs, crouching between your legs. âThe Schande, the hate. You think this body's dirty, Ja?"
You donât answer. You donât have to.
Your body gives you away.
He laughs. It bubbles up from his chest like magma and smoulders behind his teeth. With a sudden jerk, he rips the fabric of your pants and underwear apart with his claws, leaving you bare and trembling on the altar floor.
You instinctively try to close your legs, but heâs already separating them, shoulders wide, wings unfurled, hands pinning your thighs apart.
âAh-ah-ah,â he tuts, mockingly. âDonât be shy now.â
You sob, â"P-Pleaseâdonâtâ"
âDidnât I already?â
Then his mouth descends, dragging hot breath across your inner thigh. His serpentine tongue slides out, wet and glistening, each fork tip twitching with independent hunger. He drags it up the inside of your legâdangerously close to your slitâtasting the saltiness of your sweat, the bitterness of your urine.
You jolt. The sensation is unspeakably wrong.
Wet, hot, invasive.
You feel everything. Every split flick of his tongue, every hellish sweep that refuses to be gentle. It skims against your clit and you gasp in response.
You hate it.
You hate yourself for the way your skin begins to buzz, for the way your stomach tightens. You sob again, and his tongue presses against your entrance.
You feel it split you. Each fork parting your soft lips, dragging obscene circles over parts of you youâve long tried to pretend donât exist. Places that have felt like festering, pus-filled wounds since that day. His tongue moves like a creature with its own mindâexploring, taunting, forcing you to feel.
Youâve spent years dissociating from this body.
Now heâs dragging you back into it.
His tongue forces its way deeper, both ends writhing as it burrows into you. The wet muscle twists and your back arches violently. You scream, pushing both hands against his head, trying to shove him away, to dislodge the horror writhing inside you.
His claws sink into the meat of thighs, keeping them spread wide, keeping you pinned like an insect. And still, his tongue delves deeperâtoo deepâuntil it presses against something youâve never felt touched before. A pressure so wrong it knocks the wind from your lungs. He finds your cervixâand flicks against it.
You convulse. It feels like being stabbed from the inside, like a parasite wriggling its way into your core. The slick, muscular tips coil and prod, as if they're tasting your soul through the soft, trembling mouth of your womb.
You choke on a mouthful of spittle, trying to twist away, but it only encourages him. He growls low against your cunt, tongue lashing inside you like a living flame. He is slick and relentless, forcing the shy, delicate opening to stretch, to give. The forks flutter torturously along the ridges of your cervical canal, nudging deeper until it feels like something inside you is unspooling nerve by nerve.
A fresh scream rips from your throat.
âStopâGod, please stopâI canâtâI canâtââ
But there is no mercy in him. No divinity left in this place. You squeeze your eyes shut to shield yourself from the horror slithering between your legs.
Every nerve in your pelvis lights up like fire. You gag on your own breath, your spine arching hard enough to snap. It feels like your body is trying to turn itself inside out just to escape him.
When he pulls his tongue from you, it's in one slow, obscene dragâthe forked tips dragging slick, pulsing heat along your inner walls on the way out. Youâre left gaping, empty, wet with spit and arousal. Your hips drop back to the floor, legs still trembling in their forced spread.
You suck in a breath, just oneâbefore he grabs your jaw and shoves his mouth over yours. His teeth are huge, jagged, they grind against yours, blunt enamel cracking against sharp points as his mouth opens far too wide.
Still warm from your cunt, his tongue snakes past your lips, your teeth, the back of your throat. You choke, spit bubbling from your nostrils as it slithers deep, tasting, invading. You try to claw at him, to push him away, but he grabs your wrists in one massive hand and pins them to your chest. You taste bloodâyour lip, or his, you donât knowâbut it floods your mouth all the same.
You canât breathe.
You canât think.
Your eyes roll as the wet bulk of his tongue pulses in your esophagus, pressing against your windpipe like it wants to taste the air youâre no longer allowed. His breath is like fire in your nose and all you can do is choke around the fleshy gag.
His mouth peels from yours with a wet pop, saliva and blood stringing between your teeth. You heave in a desperate breath and immediately bawl it out. He looms over you, panting nowânot from exertion, but from thrill.
His eyes lower, settling on your legs. They twitch involuntarily under his gaze, still stinging with pain from where his claws had braced you.
"ScheiĂe," he breathes, licking the corner of his mouth where his blood still clings. âI've missed this.â
Your head falls, and you see themâfour deep trenches carved into each thigh, blood pulsing freely, spilling down your legs in arterial waves. Yellow adipose glistens from the wounds, bulging where your flesh has been torn apart.
âOh my God,â you rasp. âThis isnât realâthis canât be realââ
Your elbows dig into the blood-slick stone as you try to crawl backward, pain flaring in your thighs and hips with each pull. You donât make it far before he jolts forward and drags you down with bone-grinding force.
He snarls like a dog driven mad with hunger. His palms splay over your inner thighs, grinding the bone beneath his weight until something in your hips pops with a horrible, wet crack.
You howlâa sound rawer than anything you've ever madeâas your joints buckle under the pressure. The sound sends lightning through your nerves, and suddenly, you canât move.
You canât run.
One leg spasms feebly; the other flops useless, detached from your command. You thrash weakly as he kneels before you, your scream splintering into broken cries, your terror animal and absolute.
âYouâre so loud, Liebling,â he coos, his voice dripping with adoration. "I used to wonder what you'd sound like if you screamed for real.â
His thumb brushes your cheek, collecting a string of mucus and tears. "Deine Schreie klingen sĂźĂer, als ich es mir je erträumt habe.â
You feel then, a pulsing heat against your crotch. It rises with each ragged he takes, sliding stickily along your skin. Your expression twists into something between disgust, fear, and dreadful knowing, your lips trembling as you glance down.
It's monstrous, inhuman. Thick and veined, his shaft throbs with an unnatural life, its blackened skin glowing from within. The head head drags wetly, drooling precum onto the curve of your stomach. It twitches when you cry.
Even semi-soft, it looks too largeâlike something no living body should take.
You shake your head, choking on your own breath. âNoâplease, no, no, youâll kill meââ
His laugh is low and full of teeth. "But isn't that what you were made for?"
You go still. The sob catches in your throat and stays there.
Because this is it. The moment that ruined you the first time, returned to finish what it started.
You were never free.
He was always thereâin the silence of every failed relationship, every broken reflection, and sleepless night. He lived in the tremble of your hands, in your fear of being touched.
It always came back to him.
He grips himself at the base and drags the tip along your trembling entrance. Your whole body lurches as the heat of it touches you.
His other hand finds your belly, pressing you down, flattening you against the stone. You canât move. Not with your hips cracked out of place. Not with the weight of him anchoring you like a grave.
When the head breaches your entrance, the scream that rips from your lungs doesnât even sound human. Itâs primal. Ugly. Utterly hopeless.
The pain is white-hot and blinding. You feel your body tear around himâskin splitting, muscles straining, an old wound reopening from the inside. Your mind tries to escape the flesh, but he yanks it back down with every thrust.
He throws his head back in a long, drawn-out moan.
âAhhh..."
His hips slam forward, driving deeper, and your vision blacks out at the edges.
âStill as tight as I remember," he breathes.
Your mind lifts, floats, untethers from the sound rising in your throat. You stare past the black twist of horns crowning his skull, past the blood-fog and candlelight, and fixate on the ceiling overhead.
Itâs rotted nowâmoss eats through the wood of once-sacred beamsâbut you remember how it looked once. How you sat in the pews below with your mother, your legs swinging off the edge of the bench, your eyes turned upward in wonder.
âHow'd they build that?â you had asked, voice hushed in awe.
And she whispered, âWith love. And faith. Always.â
But now thereâs nothing left of that little girl. Nothing left of that sanctuary.
The demon is panting harder, drooling above you, his claws twitching against your hips. You feel the pads of his fingers twitch, flex, and curl. The claw tips press into your skin of your stomachâthen through it.
He pierces smoothly through the tender skin as if you are made of butter. There's no resistance, only the sick, wet sound of muscle parting.
Your eyes go wide. He rips upward, dragging the points through your abdomen until your belly opens like a flowerâglistening red and steaming in the bleeding candlelight.
You feel your insides spill against his hands. Your stomach folds open, intestines bulging out like knotted ropes. Blood pools under your back, flowing over the altar floor in sticky, sacrilegious ribbons. He cups your viscera in his claws like heâs holding something sacred. Something beautiful.
And he doesnât stop fucking you.
"Look at you,â he breathes, eyes alight, lips stretched wide over his teeth. âSo much prettier on the inside.â
The wet sounds continueâslower now, as he moves through the mess heâs made of you, dragging out every last moment. Your hand lifts on instinct, reaching towards your organs as if to hold them in.
As if you can keep this body yours a moment longer.
You canât.
A chill blooms in your fingertips. Then your toes. Then it rushes in all at once, like black water in your lungs.
You look up at him. Your mouth opens. Blood bubbles on your tongue.
âI d-donât... want to dieââ
He leans close, presses his forehead to yours.
âYou already did, Mädchen. This is just... the part where you realize it.â
Your body gives out. Your vision splinters.
And in the very last momentâwhen all of you is coming undoneâ