#gargoyle... mark...him that's what he is...

Sylus follows, his tail twitching in irritation while he seems to glare at you like some disgruntled ex.

You have only been gone for a few hours; it was one evening spent with your friend… and her cats. Harmless, innocent—or so you thought.

But the moment you cross the threshold of your apartment, Sylus moves like a living question mark, silent and simmering. His nose brushes your hand, your wrist, your thigh, his scent glands marking you anew with obsessive diligence. Every pass reeks of jealousy, every brush against your skin a wordless demand: why them, not me?

"You absolute menace," you accuse with a pointed finger directed at your cat.

He chirps at that, a tiny, delighted noise that seems utterly smug.

"You're impossible, you know that?"

Sometimes, it truly feels as though Sylus understands you and communicates with you on levels that you shouldn't even try to explain to any sane mind.

The only sanctuary from your annoying cat is the bathroom, specifically the bathtub. Sylus hates water, the steam fogging up the room, and the lavender scents you sometimes use for deep relaxation a ward against your overbearing cat.

But not tonight, no, of course not tonight.

Just as you let your clothes fall to the floor, shedding them without much thought, you realise his presence. Perched on the edge of the tub like a gargoyle, Sylus stares at you. His large paws are perfectly balanced, while the red pendant still swings ever so slightly after his jump.

"Seriously?" you mutter before sliding into the water with a sigh. "What is your problem tonight? Stop staring at me, go, go play or whatever!" You practically snap at him by now with how perceived you feel.

He blinks slowly, judgementally, like you are the one being unreasonable. Like he can see straight through you.

"Are you going to stare at me the whole time? You hate water." The reminder makes you hesitate momentarily as you lift your hand dripping with bath water and contemplate throwing a few droplets in Sylus's direction.

No, no, you can't do that to him. But what you can do is turn the music up and let the soft tunes lull you into a faux state of relaxation. You fiercely attempt to ignore the heat of Sylus's gaze, the intelligence swimming in those uncanny eyes.

Eventually, he leaps down and pads out of the bathroom with another flick of his tail.

Finally, you exhale deeply and busy yourself with your routine. Sitting up, you begin scrubbing away at your arms and your shoulders. The heat is relaxing, the scented oils divine, but your shoulders won't unclench. Not fully.

Then, something drops into your bathtub, and not just the bar of soap that slips from your hand.

No, it is a presence. Something, someone slides into the water behind you. Familiar and foreign all at once. Before your startled gasp can tear free, strong arms wrap around your waist, pinning you back to a chest that is wet... human.

His voice vibrates against your neck like a low curse: "You let them touch you."

You freeze, your blood roaring in your ears. Sylus's mouth is at your nape in an instant, the breath he exhales dragging slow goosebumps across your skin. Every inch of you is suddenly aware of him; of the fact that Sylus (your cat) is no longer simply a little monster of soft paws and sharp eyes. He is a man now.

A man with cat ears twitching atop his head, fangs catching the edge of his lower lip and a white tail lazily curling around your thigh beneath the water.

And he is holding you.

His tongue flicks out against your nape. "You reek of them," he whispers, and you can practically feel his lips shape the word against your pulse point. He isn't angry, not exactly. He is... hurt. And far more than that, hungry. A hunger that has been restrained too long, hidden behind the mask of a domestic companion.

"Did they get to sit in your lap, too?"

You try to twist, face him, shove him away, or scream—you aren't sure which. But his arms only tighten, wrapping around you like the possessive choker around Sylus's neck.

The weight of him behind you is overwhelming. Wet hair brushes your shoulders, his nose is now buried against your skin, and he nuzzles along the slope of your neck.

"What's wrong, sweetie? Cat got your tongue?" he mumbles almost smugly, with desire hidden behind those words. "You're usually so talkative…" Sylus encourages you to speak as his nose nudges against your jaw, and fluffy strands of a shapely shag fall into the frame.

"I've let you pretend I was just your pet," he murmurs while those glaring crimson eyes come into view to pin down your wide-eyed stare. "Your sweet thing that curls up and purrs and waits. But I've waited enough."

His fingers drag slowly over your stomach, splayed wide across his territory. He isn't rough. But there is no gentleness in it, either. It is a certainty. A power shift that has been building for months, unnoticed or ignored, until now.

"You're mine," he breathes. "And I'm tired of pretending otherwise."

Your skin burns beneath his touch, and your heart thunders behind your ribs like it is trying to escape. But a part of you, the deepest, darkest part that has watched those strange eyes track you for so long, that part thrills at the finality in his voice.

He isn't going to let you go. And some secret place inside you doesn't want him to.

His hand, now splayed against your side, traces the warmth of uncharted territory without a hint of hesitance. Every brush of his fingertips leaves behind a slow-burning trail, claiming more than just skin.

"S-Sylus–" You mentally curse yourself for the stutter, for the way your heart seems to flutter because of your … pet. "You're naked, you—" You start to resist with a body taut from panic and a desire you don't want to admit.

"I'm always naked under all that fur," Sylus simply purrs into your shoulder. "You never seem to mind."

He presses his face deeper into your nape, breathing you in with obscene slowness. Every inch of him, long-limbed, bare-skinned, deliciously warm, moulds to your back while his scent wraps around you possessively.

"I should punish you," he whispers. "But I think this will do."

He mouths at your shoulder, slow and lazy as if savouring the act of marking you. Your skin blooms with heat where his teeth graze, and a pulsing sting remains.

You shiver from the way his lips ghost over the shell of your ear, his breath almost too warm, too close, as if he is still half-feral, restraining the full force of himself only because he delights in drawing it out.

"Do you even realise what you've done to me?" Sylus murmurs, voice low and rasped with emotion, nose pressing into your damp hairline. "All this time… watching you pet other creatures, speak sweet to them, let them on your lap…"

He trails off, the sentence disintegrating into a low growl of frustration and longing. One palm presses flat against your sternum, its fingertips brushing the swell of your breasts while the other, bolder, hand moves to your lower stomach, slowly reaching between your thighs.

Sylus pulls you back further into him, into his space, his scent, his heat, until you are caged without being held too tightly.

You can feel it, then. The way he inhales you, simply breathes you in like it is an addiction, and he hasn't had a hit in far too long. His tongue, warm and rough, darts briefly over your skin, tasting, claiming, marking. It sends a jolt through you, enough to make you squirm, and he chuckles low, pleased and utterly smug.

"Get out," you try to say, but it is a whisper. It is a lie.

Sylus chuckles at that—a purring, vibrating sound in his throat as he only pulls you into his chest tighter.

"Not a chance. I'll rub you raw with my scent if I have to," though he is only half-teasing. "Until there's not a trace of anyone else left. Just me. Only me."

"Sylus..." your breath catches however as you feel the sharp hint of fangs hovering over your neck, not yet piercing, just grazing, as if to remind you exactly of what he is. "Please, what is happening!?" Is basically nothing more but a whine that echoes off the bathroom tiles as you once again try to wriggle yourself free.

His cat ears twitch in response to every tiny gasp you make, every breath he draws out of you.

And when his mouth trails down your shoulder, dragging over bone and muscle with almost worshipful intent, he murmurs, "I could map you with my teeth if you'd let me. Say you'll let me," he urges with a nudge of his nose against your nape. "Hm?"

"Just, please… be gentle," you whisper before you can stop yourself.

The way he purrs at that, so loud, so deep, it feels like it is coming from inside your own ribcage. A vibration that doesn't stop at just sound but echoes through every nerve, every wet inch of skin touching his.

"You've just said my favourite thing," he groans, mouth returning to your neck like he means to write his name there. "Now, let me prove it."

You really should have known better. You don't just adopt a cat. A cat adopts you.

You were going to die.

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When Hiromi first saw you, days before, he had blood on his face, and soil on his shoes, and the leafcrush gore of a pot plant beneath his feet.

He stepped towards you, over a body. His feet crunched on glass. His hair was wild, and his dark eyes, too, and his tie was loose, and his shirt-tails, too, and you had no right to look as frightened as you did, backing up like a newborn foal; not when you were in the right place at the right time.

“You’re next in the queue, I assume?” he sighed, flat upon the surface but roaring beneath.

You did not answer him, at first; the pretence of grasping for words but failing, he was sure. An act. A ploy. He had seen it all before. He did not falter in his approach. Wind blew in through the shattered windows; so high up, so far to fall. For him, at least.

Hiromi stepped ever closer; each step slow and deliberate. "Come along, then. I haven't got all day.”

“N-no– no–”

“Don’t stutter.”

“Ple– p-pleas– I haven't done anythi--”

“Don’t– STUTTER!” he bellowed, swinging at you with such ferocity that he heard the air crack in his gavel’s wake. It did not meet its mark. You disappeared with a squeal…and reappeared twenty feet away, with your hands over your eyes and your breath coming in gasps.

Hiromi looked baffled, then insulted; then, disgusted. He straightened up. His steps quickened. When he came for you again, it was at a run.

You ran, too. Hiromi snarled. His hands snatched, and caught you by the hair, then the waist, then grappling; anything to hold you still as you flickered in and out of his grasp by some curious means that you pretended to not understand.

Eventually, he caught you, and threw you down onto your belly with little ceremony and even less kindness. Your face ground into the rough office carpet; your arms wrenched behind your back, pinned in his grasp, and he grunted as he straddled you from above, his thighs clamped on either side of your waist. He panted. You felt a bead of his sweat drop to the back of your neck, and you shuddered, your body alight with chilly heat.

Hiromi broke your cry of terror in half, when his other hand tangled into your hair, and arched you back so he could hiss in your ear.

"You're the sort that gets away with it; plays the fool, while someone else pays the price. You make me sick. This game is your comeuppance. I am your comeuppance. So if you can't have shame in life, have some dignity in death. It's the least you could do for yourself."

He smelled so faintly of cologne; of tangy blood and unwashed man. His nose and breath grazed your neck, and the way it peaked your breasts and clamped your thighs was far beyond your control. He was mad. Entirely mad; but the surety of his conviction had you doubting even yourself.

He took a deep breath above you, before growling into your hair.

"Domain expans--"

CRACK!

Hiromi froze with disbelief. Panting, and seething, he looked at the spot beneath him. The spot where you once were. He had you; he just had you. And like a worm, you had wriggled out of his grasp again.

You heard his bellow of outrage, and the TOK! of his gavel from your place halfway down the stairwell, where you had reappeared without your conscious choice. The sound rattled down and down, growing closer and closer, getting louder and louder, cracking the steps even as you stumbled down them, chased to earth by hairline cracks--

Tok-tok-tok-tok-tok-tok-tok-TOK-TOK-TOK--

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Days passed after the first encounter, and the many that followed, and still, you heard it in your dreams. Tok. It haunted you. You woke every night with one hand held out towards death, who held his carriage door open for you, and the other hand muffling your screams at the source.

You had asked for none of this, you thought, toying tok! toying with the slim-pickings you had scavenged from an overturned vending machine. The crisps turned to ashes in your mouth. You ate for functionality; the urge to survive, at least, TOK! at least, still strong.

The street was quiet, and narrow, with little tall walls and abandoned partitioned bins and family homes; now, all either empty, or coffins for single-point prizes. You sat behind TOK! behind a street lamp and outside of its light-- outside of any light at all-- and drew sweet patterns in the dust.

You thought of him; the Spectre. The man in black with the sunflower pin. A lawyer, you surmised; and a vindictive one, it seemed, with a chip upon his shoulder deep enough to notch his oversized TOK! oversized gavel into. It was difficult to ponder upon his vendetta against you, when the terror clouded your judgement.

You pictured him above you, just a few days before; a few near TOK! near misses ago. Though he had looked at you with venom then just as he had every time since, there was something else behind his eyes, too. Disgust, yes; but not for you. The crinkled nose bridge of one who felt the TOK! the knifeblade himself. Something unwelcome TOK! unwelcome rushed through you; heat at the memory of his body, such intimacy in danger. The rush of nausea TOK! nausea that came straight after did not escape you.

TOK!

Washed from your reverie with a bucket of ice water, you stilled at the sound of rustling nearby. It was happening again, you were sure. He'd found you again, with his keen eyes and grim purpose, and you could not keep running, your chest tight already and your legs shaking already and--

A tanuki, small and scrappy, rustled out from behind the bins. It padded forwards on its little clawed paws, led first by its nose to your overturned bag of crisps, before its eyes caught up and it skittered back from the crisps' owner. You stayed still, holding your breath. It's beady little eyes shone in the dark. You knelt, slowly, slowly, keeping your eyes on the tanuki...and tossed it a crisp.

The tanuki froze, then considered, then snatched the crisp in its little paws. It ate as though it was starving. You felt a pang of pity, and pushed the whole bag towards the tanuki with a whisper.

"Here you go," you said, looking down the dim street before walking away. "I don't like them anyway."

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By the time Hiromi stepped into the shadow of the streetlight, you were gone. He'd had a chance, and scuppered it by watching you, instead. He did not know why he wasn't standing over your body, instead.

Perhaps it was the crisp crumbs, left by grateful little claws; or the packet placed so conscientiously in the bin after, even amongst the rubble and ruin. He toed at the dust with the top of his scuffed shoe, and something unwelcome rose fast, too fast, towards the numb surface, trapped behind glass but threatening to break through; perhaps it was the hearts and swirls you had drawn in the dust. Perhaps you weren't scum after all, perhaps you were--

--a con artist.

Hiromi scowled. Harsh, and unforgiving, he scuffed out the drawings in the dust with his shoe. He looked down the street. He could no longer see you in the distance. Something twisted in his belly.

The others had died because they sought him out. He hunted you because you deserved it; no more, no less. You were guilty. You would not be here if you weren't.

He did not hunt you down because you pounded at the glass, cracking it. He did not. Could not. Could not--

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You could not stop watching; for horror was little more than dreadful fascination.

You had not witnessed any of your Spectre's murders, before; but when you finally did, you froze in state, grimly enraptured by the intimacy of such an act. You had hidden within the tall, many-seated hall of an old cinema, and chanced upon him before he could chance upon you.

From the blood on the seats and the way pictureless light still shone down from the hidden projector onto the screen, you surmised that whoever your Spectre was beating to death was no innocent man, himself.

You saw only shadows, for the Spectre had chased the man behind the screen. The man had not stood a chance, and you watched as the Spectre ensnared him in Court; a puppet theatre of justice, performed in real-time.

The man begged, and cried, and cursed. He had neither the capacity nor the mind to defend himself. You did not know how the Spectre did it, but mere moments after the charges were read, and the sentence was served, his terrible hammer fell down in its first skullcave TOK!

The cries silenced immediately. You heard the Spectre roar into the second swing, dropping to one knee before the corpse, panting. You could see no gore, but for that in the theatre of your mind's eye.

You watched the Spectre with an uncanny desire to know; to understand. He did not kill indiscriminately. You had seen him direct the innocent-- unlucky civilians, or hungry abandoned dogs-- to safety and shelter. He was flat, and cold, yes; but not indiscriminately cruel. So why you? Why did he hunt you?

The projector began to whirrrrr far above you, its focus shifting as it ran out of power. The Spectre still panted. Terror coiled in your gut. You had to get out, you were running out of time, he'd find you, he'd--

Then, the Spectre's head bowed forwards, and a single deep, rusty sob left him; the hook of his nose and his bonesharp profile projected upon the screen in stark shadow. His shoulders heaved, and he wept great, wracking sobs, and your shoulders slumped, and your heart broke. For a monster. Why?

"I can't...can't keep doing this," he despaired, begging to nobody at all. "I can't...I can't...please--"

His head remained bowed over the corpse, and he snapped, tossing his gavel away with a cry of anguish-- only for it to reappear in his hand, a moment later. He threw it again, and again, and again-- it came back, and back, and back. Eventually, burying his face in his hands, he buckled over, weeping like a child, like a boy--

You moved towards him without conscious thought. Your foot slipped upon the steps, and a clank! set your teeth on edge. A rancid can of beer clattered down them, spilling its contents along the way.

The Spectre stopped weeping immediately. He sniffed, and stood up, his voice thick and gravelly as he snarled.

"Who's there?"

You did not answer. You clapped your hand over your mouth. Your heart squeezed. Your lungs tightened. Your vision went black at the edges. The Spectre spoke again, creeping ever closer to the edge of the screen.

"Ah," he whispered, low and slow. "Ahhh...it's you, isn't it?" Your face crumpled. A sob left you, outside of your control. His voice softened again; almost kind. "Don't you want to just...stay? Don't you want to stop running? Don't you want this to be over?"

You began to back up the cinema's stairs. Your legs could barely hold you. Your blood was cold, viscous, but heat pooled in your belly and thighs with the intimacy of his grim invitation; a gross contradiction.

"I could make this be over for you," the Spectre whispered, finally appearing around the edge of the screen, with wet red hands, and cold tired eyes, and tears still fresh upon his cheeks. "I could make it quick. Painless, if you wanted. Stay."

Another sob left you, tears pouring down your cheeks, shaking your head and beseeching him with your eyes. He stiffened. His face twisted, too; all storm and fury and despair.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he growled. "Stop it, you deser-- why are you looking at me like that?"

You gasped. You snapped to action. You ran, slamming through the double doors, and the Spectre sprinted, hot on your tail.

"Don't you dare-- hey!"

Hiromi slammed through the doors after you, and you were...gone. Vanished. Like a ghost. Just like before.

The cinema plaza was empty. Popcorn staled in its glass cabinets. A ticket machine churned, vomiting blank tickets out to coil upon the floor. Lakes of spilled soda formed strange neon rainbows. Fluorescent lights blinked overhead. Wet footprints disappeared mid-step, halfway along the carpet.

And Hiromi buried his hands in his hair, and doubled over, and howled.

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Hiromi's dreams were not dreams; but nightmares.

Vivid flashes of red. Hot rage. Terrible grief. The screams of injustice, pounding on glass. Your body writhing beneath his, ripe for the kill, and how he would take you, first, with your thighs forced open and your eyes wet and wide and beautiful and your sobs in his ears and your sweet cries into his mouth as he drank you down and his pleasure dragged within you and your warmth enveloping him just as the cold did--

Hiromi woke up with a harsh, ratchet gasp. Disgust rose from his belly to his chest, hot and thick like bile, vomiting out of him. His horror clung to his skin, and he cried out, skittering to his feet in the alleyway, ripping off his suit jacket, and his tie too tight and his shirt, if only he could rip off his flesh, too, monster, monster--

He spun. He staggered. He buried his hands in his hair, and slammed into the brick, and broke.

"Get out of my HEAD!" he roared into the wall, his palms and his forehead forced flat against them.

His bellow echoed out through the night. Everything seemed to fall silent. The stars watched on. Even low-grade Curses, skittering and warbling, peeked their heads over window boxes and wooden stalls; an uncanny audience. Unwelcome. Like you. Hiromi breathed hard, panting, shaking, sweating cold sweat and cold and shirtless and begging. "Get out...get out..."

Hiromi stood like this, grazing his palms and forehead upon the wall, for countless minutes; maybe hours. Why did you plague him, so? Why did you press against the glass, when none of the others did before you?

Finally, the bilious rage faded and the curtain fell again. Ice frosted the glass. Numbness was a cold blanket.

Flat-faced and staring into nothingness, Hiromi picked up his shirt, and buttoned it up, and picked up his tie, and tied it on, and picked up his suit jacket, and shrugged it on, as robotic as if he was getting ready for work, and by the time he was fully dressed again, he had made up his mind.

He did not know why you haunted him so, but you did. You were the problem. Your constant evasion of what was right and just was the problem.

And you had to be exorcised. Like the curse you were.

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Your name is Higuruma Hiromi. You are a criminal defence lawyer. You are thirty-six years old. Your name is Higuruma Hiromi. You are a criminal defence lawyer. You are thirty-six years old. Your name is Higuruma Hiromi SCUM. You are a criminal defence lawyer MURDERER. You are

You turned over the scrap of paper in your hand. It had fluttered on the wind from his pocket, one day; when you had been hidden in plain sight, as though it had intended to find you. It was scrawled so hard, in places, that the pen had ripped through the paper, and with the bloody finger smudges that accompanied the grim affirmations, the paper had been reduced to a fragile, raggedy mess.

The Spectre-- the man, Hiromi-- could be reasoned with, you told yourself; even as the madness on the paper threatened to seep through your fingers. The mercurial instability that this dropped artefact evidenced, however, made such thoughts of diplomacy a wretched prospect indeed.

It would be no quest for the faint of heart; nor for the impoverished of character.

Thankfully, that was not you.

You brushed off your thighs, and were about to stand to step towards the gallows, when you heard him. A roar into the night; a roar of the most ghastly, agonised, and soul-splitting fury that you had ever heard.

You felt vomit rising in your throat again. All your surefootedness left you at once. You clapped your hand over your mouth, stumbling back over gravel, the remains of people and buildings. He was close. You could tell; he was close. You stared down the long, higgledy-piggledy remains of the city street, with its buckled buildings and overturned cars and bent street lamps.

And at the end of the street, the street lamps began to flicker. They flickered, and flashed, and cracked, and exploded in a shower of sparks, and died; one by one, from the end of the street, towards you, one, by one, by one--

You were left in near darkness. Bells tolled in your mind. You couldn't think; couldn't move.

The streetlight that had died first, at the far end, flickered on just once more (without a bulb, impossible, unreal)--

Just long enough to illuminate a familiar silhouette; a tall, black spectre with a gavel and a slouch.

The light went out.

The light came back on.

The figure was gone.

Then that distant light, and those above you, all flickered out at once.

The carriage stopped. Death had kindly waited. The door swung open, and a bloodless white hand reached out towards you through the dark.

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He did not give you a chance to run, this time. The Spectre-- Hiromi Hiromi Hiromi-- appeared before you with impossible speed. As his face appeared above you, and the other, black-cloud, many-toothed, white-faced spectre appeared above him, your breath caught in your throat.

You could barely recall the struggle and scrap; he had called you a snake, and oh, how you had crawled away on your belly. But it was never enough. His hands always found you again. You kicked, bit, scratched, fought, and he took every hit with grunts and curses, so much stronger than you.

By the time his hand had bruised your ankle for a second time, and you had been dragged back to be declared guilty, you knew for sure.

You were going to die.

You were going to die. You were going to die, going to die as he loomed above you, going to die as he raised his gavel, going to die as you saw the last flicker of hesitation fade behind his eyes--

"Hiromi! Stop!" you cried, leaning back on one bleeding elbow, and raising the other hand in surrender. The Spectre, now named, froze. His eyes flickered over your face in confusion, mistrust, guilt, rage, fear, rage, rage--

"You know my name," he croaked, his arm not lowering. "How do you know my name?"

Your breath hitched again. Your chance glimmered gold. You had never established a dialogue with him before. Your hands shook, but you managed to fumble the raggedy scrawled note out of your pocket. Hiromi went rigid, and the air thickened around you, and your voice wavered as you spoke.

"I--I understand-- you're not like this--"

"So you're a common pickpocket as well, are you?" he spat, turning his head aside with...shame? Disgust? Regardless, what burned within him was no controlled fire; its flames spread and belched in terrible and unpredictable ways. You walked on eggshells. You felt the tightrope wobble. You kept your voice measured.

"You dropped this--"

"How many times will you blame someone else, instead of yourself?" he snapped, dragging one hand down his face. The flames spread. The rain poured. Lightning flashed. His fury only built.

Sparks and shards of glass sprayed from the street lamp above you as it exploded again, and you felt the blood drain out of you. "How many times will you pretend you're not just like them?"

"Hiromi, plea--"

"Don't say my name!" he roared, and swung his gavel up with foul purpose again. And as he raised his gavel, and you began to close your eyes, unable to control your one pitiful cursed ability even if you wanted to, something appeared behind Hiromi in the dark.

A vast stop-motion creature, with a stop-motion warbling groan, all grey matter puce and putrid flora and--

"NO!"

"Get your filthy hands off me--"

A cloud of orange gas. A grapple-- a CRACK!

A brittle, rattling roar. The Curse, a behemoth gristle-worm, all viscera and vines, gawped its great mouth through the space where Hiromi once stood, and gulped down, down, down through the rubble. Its filthy tail flipped above ground once, twice, thrice-- before it disappeared entirely. It seemed to care very little about its missing meal. It left nothing behind but a cavernous hole, sprays of rotting foliage, greyrot slough, and the hanging orange mist.

Some thirty feet away, you coughed, and coughed. Sprawled on the street, with Hiromi braced against a wall and coughing beside you, you blinked owlishly down at your arm, and the strange orange pollenspray that covered it. You shook your arm. Some of the pollen fell off...no. No? Absorbing into the air. Dissipating into your skin? No...what is it? Hot. Clothes, itchy, hot.

“Good,” Hiromi spat, staggering against the wall with shaking orange-hued hands, and venom on his tongue. “Good– don't think that absolves you, though; I wanted you all to myself too, a death like that is too…too…”

“You're delusional,” you gasped. “You’re…you’re mad.”

“It’s because of you,” he spat again, fixing you with a look of such accusation, such disgust, that the heat and shame and guilt threatened to tear you in two. “It’s you, your– your lies, your little act– well I don't believe it for a second–”

You staggered to your feet, and your mind ran blank. Your mouth watered. A moan, low and filthy, broke free of you in a way that made Hiromi twitch; his eyes fixing wide upon you, his nostrils flaring. You felt a wave of heat hit you, as though you'd walked into a burning building; and by the way Hiromi breathed heavily behind you, you knew he felt the same. 

When your belly began to ache, and you felt your pulse at the crest of your thighs, and your nipples grazing dimples against your shirt, and the undeniable urge to crawl back to Hiromi and taste the sweat off his skin, you knew you had to run. Trembling, and feeling terrible arousal dampening your underwear, you hazarded a single glance over your shoulder.

Higuruma Hiromi had gone completely still. Crouched over, with one spidery hand braced against the wall, he stared at you like a jaguar in the reeds. The rage that burned through him had met another fire; but they did not temper each other. Quite the opposite. His eyes flicked over you, charting your weak spots; eyes, face, breasts, belly, thighs, breasts, lips, thighs–

Your clit twitched. You staggered. And you stumbled. And you fled.

A growl of fury and the sound of thundering footsteps followed in your wake. The hunt began; unlike any predation he had subjected you to before.

You had never run so hard in your life. The alleyways were narrow, dirty and crumbled; with bins overturned and walls half-collapsed and rats and Curses that squeaked and skittered, furtive in the dark. Still, the rain fell. Still, it did not wash the rancid desire off of you; the impossible drive to stop running, and to let Hiromi consume you, mind, body and soul. 

You throbbed at the promise of it; throbbed with the promise of how he would rip your clothes aside and wrench your thighs apart and press himself into your cunt, and soothe this dreadful ache with warm, salty balm.

“Please–” you begged, squealing as you narrowly dodged a snatching hand, millimetres from dragging you back by the ponytail. “I've never– I haven't– please–”

“Why are you– stand still– why are you–”

You turned a corner…and hit a dead end. The dead end. The end.

You had scarcely a second to process your impending death; but the force overtaking you that had been compelling you to stop, purred.

And Hiromi caught you, and grabbed you, and spun you back to slam against the brick wall. Your head hit the back of his hand. You saw stars. He towered over you, and glowered down at you, and when he trapped you with his knee between your thighs, your legs gave way, sitting you limp and supple and pinned between his arms.

With a final, hot flash of fight, you slapped him across the cheek. Hard.

Time stood still. Liquid fire pumped through your heart. The side of Hiromi’s face, sweaty and stubble-rasped, pressed against yours. You felt him tongue the inside of his stinging cheek, that squirming bulge pressing against your own cheek. It branded you. You shuddered. He panted in your ear; great, hungry, shaking breaths.

"Feel better?" he rumbled. "Does that feel good?" Warning bells sounded through the fog. Your heart had surely stopped beating.

"I-- I--"

"Do it again," he hissed, his voice so low that you could barely hear it. You sobbed, and cocked your hand back again, and slapped him again, and again, and again, each slap making him grunt, and groan, and press you against the wall harder.

Each slap was a log to the fire. You felt the twitch and strain of his cock against your belly. You knew that the haze, the need to fill and be filled to survive, had consumed him, too. It was a horrific playing field on which to be level.

Eventually you tired, panting, desperate; eventually, he spoke, low and breathless and agonised.

“Why are you haunting me like this?” he demanded of you, his nose and lips grazing embers over your throat even through his outrage. “Why can't I stop…why can't you stop…why won't you leave me alone?”

“You won't listen to me,” you sobbed, your hand finding his tie; betrayed by your own body which urged him ever closer until you could not tell where he ended and you began. “Won’t believe me. I keep…I keep telling you–”

“Lies,” he spat again, and your face crumpled as he swore and bit softly into your collarbone. “Lies, all of them, why would you be any different…why are you…you different, god, you taste…taste…”

His mouth found the sensitive junction of your neck and shoulders, tasting you against his better judgement, with a shiver and a moan. He could not think; overwhelmed by the wrongness, the rightness, how he could not think, could no longer see clearly–

“You want this, too– I– I think,” Hiromi groaned, reaching down to palm his rigid cock beneath his zipper, aching for any relief, anything. “Shouldn’t…should want you, but– but that thing, that– that thing– shit, need to get this poison out–”

He wasn't wrong; not that you were conscious of when you had made that decision, or whether or not you had even made it at all. But when you rocked your core against his knee, and the burst of pleasure that shuddered through you provided such blissful relief, you knew he was not wrong.

You did not even know when your hands had found his buttons, but the sinful rusty moan that spilled from his lips when your fingernails scraped over his chest was the final straw.

“Do you want this?” he demanded; such a curious question from a monster. His hand shook at the button of your jeans. His other snaked up, binding your wrists together and dragging them away from his body. You whimpered; denied, and he spat out curses again, slapping your hands to the wall above you in a swift small justice. “Do you want this?”

“I…I…unghhhhh, it hurts– Hiro–”

“Don't say my name like that.”

“Please–” you begged, your eyes tearing up and your core grinding mercilessly against his thigh. “P-please–”

“Don't look at me like that.”

A heavy pause; heavier breaths. Hiromi’s eyes, now dark and foggy and heavy lidded, hyperfocused on where your core had seeped, damp, straight through to his trousers. He ground his thigh up, his teeth burying into his lip as you moaned. When his eyes found yours again, they were flat, and cold, and his final words wracked one great sob from your body.

“This doesn't change anything.”

When his lips crashed to yours, and his hand ripped your jeans open to delve into your slick heat, you saw stars. The mewl that left you was unholy. Angels would have blushed. Hiromi growled at the feel of you; hypersensitive, hyperalert, able to smell everything, taste everything, twitching and spurting with the thought of a wet velvet glove around his cock. 

When he found your clit and began to pinch and squeeze and massage around it in rough, desperate circles, you mewled again; but this time, in shock. You had not expected–

“What?” Hiromi spat, chuckling without mirth. “I’m a killer, sure– but I draw the line at fucking you with no regard to your pleasure– drag it out of you, if I have to– consider it a trial–”

You whimpered, squirming around such dreadful, overwhelming pleasure. You squirmed and clawed at his chest until he hissed, even as your body begged for release.

"Stop it-- hands off-- you need this--"

"Please-- please--" A squeak, high and godless, piercing the night. He clapped a hand over your mouth, gasping, panting, black-eyed with desire.

"Fuck, any other...any other day...sound so sweet-- hands off--"

You had to be manhandled towards an orgasm for your own good. Hiromi, at least, seemed to understand this; he hit and batted your clamping thighs apart to bully himself between them, and spat feathers the whole time.

“Come on,” he growled, mocking, nipping at your lower lip and dragging it between your teeth. “Too much? Not enough?” A pause; a sobbing whimper for an answer. “Fuck– not enough, fine then–”

Hiromi released your bound hands, and tore your jeans and underwear aside between the seams, and plunged two fingers inside you without ceremony. His other hand did the same to your shirt, releasing a breast for him to latch onto with a low moan.

The fire burned hot. You buried your hands into his hair, drunk off the smell and feel of him, bucking your hips forwards to take his fingers deeper. Pleasure built fast. You vaguely heard the clinking of a belt; the shuffle, tug and groan of a hand jacking a man off while you twitched and clamped around his other fingers.

“F-fuck– yes– come on– come on– unnnhhhfffuck–”

Hiromi came first, and he did so with his head tipped pain, and the rain tumbling onto his face and chest and cock, and euphoric twitches of bliss. You felt thick spurts of his cum splattering to your pussy and his hand, and being fingered inside you as he hooked and fucked and ground you away towards the edge. You were right, you thought– your last conscious thought before agonised oblivion; his spend was a balm.

Hiromi kept stroking himself through your orgasm, hazy-eyed and endearingly dopey and staring between your face (tearful with honeyed pain) and your cunt (twitching and milking around his cum-soaked fingers). He pulled his fingers out slowly, gazing at the glaze upon them, and wiping them on his lips and collar, to save the smell and taste of you for later.

The relief, while immediate, was horribly short-lasting. You felt that brittle, prickling need rising in you again, spreading from pussy to toes in single flat seconds. Hiromi leaned his head over your shoulder, breathing hard, and grinding one fist against the wall even as his other continued to stroke his still-rigid cock.

“No,” he growled, grinding his forehead against yours now, bitter displeasure crinkling the bridge of his nose. “No…fuck, no–”

“Hiromi, you've got to–”

“I'm not fucking you like an animal!” he raged, thudding his forehead against the wall over your shoulder in overwhelming, absolute madness. You flung your hand up on instinct, cushioning his forehead before the next blow. At first, he leaned into your touch with a whimper that nearly made you weep; before recoiling, disgusted, raging.

“I'm not fucking you like an animal,” he repeated, with rapidly dwindling conviction upon each repetition. “I'm not…I'm not fucking you like an animal…I'm not…”

Even as he spoke, he had lifted you against the wall. He had lifted you against the wall, with two wiry arms encircling your thighs, and the cumslick head of his cock nudging against your exposed core, and his nose swiping from left-to-right across yours.

“I'm not…I'm not fucking you like an animal,” he whispered against your lips, canting his hips forwards until just the tip of his cock sucked between your inner walls. He groaned, such a pitiful little whimper, into your open mouth.

He tried to stop his hips from bucking, instinctively chasing his pleasure. He couldn't. Not when you had fallen so pliant and submissive in his arms. “I'm not…not fucking…like an animal…leave– get out of my head–”

He couldn't hold back any longer. He plunged inside you with one rough groan, and a stretch that made lights pop behind your eyes.

Pleasure hit him like a hammer. He came again before the tip of his cock even kissed against your cervix. You felt the twitching shudder and flood; his ratchet, rasping orgasm, that filled you so deeply that your belly ached. 

Whatever this Curse had done to you was so grotesque; so unearthly. You could have sworn you had dilated enough within, that had Hiromi pressed any harder, the tip of his cock would have popped through and continued its ejaculation right into your womb itself. But the thought didn't alarm you; it ignited you. Your legs tied behind Hiromi’s back and forced him deeper. The groan that left him was filthy. You kept him there, locked and spilling, mating like– like–

“Won't fuck you like an animal,” Hiromi begged, still exhaustedly rolling his hips, for his cock refused to soften. “I'm better than this…I used to be better–”

Hiromi thrust again; harder this time. The pleasure consumed you both, breathing each others’ breath, tasting each others’ blood, sweat and tears, inextricably tied by something that Hiromi had blinded himself to. You did not know if he was punishing you, or himself.

And his thrusts were punishing; hard, fast and slick, squelching between your walls and ramming into your deepest spots without slowing even once. Whatever terrible poison the Curse had imbued you both with was using Hiromi like a vessel; puppeteering his nerves and neurons until he was forced wildly past his limit. Until he was diminished completely. He spoke to himself, or you; begging, growling, raging.

“Fucking…monster– come again– not over, yet– again for me-- again–”

He reached down after bracing one of your thighs on his own, and pinched your clit until you howled, blinded by delicious pleasure.

Hiromi came again, and again, and again. You did not know where one peak ended and the other began, and simply clutched his lapels and let the fight and fog take you. Not once did you unlock your legs from behind his back.

It wasn't like you to let a man fuck you through his own catastrophic mental breakdown; but it was barely within your control, and your belly felt hungry for the stretch, and so there you kept Hiromi locked; trapped in a constant blurring cycle of lazy, exhausted ruts, and spine-tingling orgasms, until you both hung against each others’ bodies, limp and used for some foul purpose. Ruined. Sweaty. Aching. Wrecked.

The poison was fading. Your eyes were closed. The rain pattered a steady stream onto your face, washing the pleasure away. Your head leaned back against the wall, and his forehead leaned upon your decollete, and you felt his breaths slowing against the curve of your breasts.

Eventually, Hiromi shifted, grunting. You felt cold, empty, as he slid out of you with a shudder, leaving a steady drip of cum oozing from your pussy.

You felt colder still when he pressed his forehead against the brick wall beside your head, and spoke, his voice rough.

“Domain expansion: Deadly Sentencing.”

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Your body went numb. Your mind, still addled by drunken, stolen pleasure, went numb too. 

When you sank to the floor, you did so with your eyes fixed upon the Spectre, who swayed on his own perch some metres away from you. He pushed his scattered, inky hair back with one shaking hand, and zipped his softening cock back inside its confines, and could not meet your eye.

And for the first time in this whole wretched hunt, this monstrous, unjust predation, you felt not terror; but incandescent rage. You burned with it; fuelled by it, and you dragged yourself up, and gripped the wooden stand before you, and opened your mouth to spit venom.

“I told you that wouldn't change anything,” the Spectre interrupted quickly, straightening his tie and fumbling around for something on his stand. His expression was unstable; mercurial, flicking between boyish confusion, guilt and shame, and the same coldflame fury you had come to know best from him. His companion, an enormous, whitemasked black cloud who was just as blinded as the Spectre, hovered impassively behind him.

The Spectre spoke again, his voice growing louder, growing in confidence. “You are charged with–”

“What?” you spat, shuddering to feel the cramps in your full, aching belly. “Charged with what, exactly?”

A pause, mulish. “If you would allow me to finish–”

“Fuck you.”

“--or you will be held in contempt of court.”

“Fuck your court! And fuck your justice, you pig–”

“You are charged with–with...”

A pause. Something shifted in the courtroom. The Spectre paled, and spun towards his creature, his face twisted in denial. Though eyeless, the whitemask face seemed to turn its eyes towards the Spectre, too. As if hearing something that you could not, the Spectre shook his head, backing off and stumbling.

“No…no–”

Finally, he understood. Understanding was a terrible thing. The glass smashed. Hell broke through.

“You've got nothing, have you?” you sniped. The Spectre’s eyes widened. His hands still fumbled over his empty stand. Your hand slid across your own; and across a brown manila, that had appeared upon it, neatly tied with fine red string. The gift of vindication. Just for you.

"Shall we look at you, instead?"

“No…” the Spectre bargained, his hands raking down his face as his eyes widened in horror. The courtroom began to crumble around him; great chunks of painted image cracking away in a dome, and falling down to the floor around you;

Tok-tok-tok-tok-tok-tok-tok-TOK-TOK-TOK–

“No!” he snarled as you raised the file before you, and the creature that hovered behind him turned its gaze completely, and moved, slowly, to hover behind you instead. “No! You’re just like them! Just like all the others! Just like–”

“Just like you?” you offered, flat and cold. The Spectre froze…and then, crumbled like the room crumbled around him.

The mask of the hunter fell away. The man- Hiromi- was left behind, and he stared back at you; at the brutal reflection of the ideals he had abandoned in his quest for righteousness. The savage reminder of the blind cynicism that he had embraced in the quest for justice, and fairness.

And you pitied him. As his frightening companion abandoned him, you pitied him. As he dropped his gavel to the alleyway floor, staring at the ghosts of blood on his hands, you pitied him. And as the last vestiges of his domain tok-tok-tok’d away, you pitied him.

The rain had slowed. When you looked at him again, from his spot kneeling in repentance before you, your face crumpled. You could not stop the tears from falling. You were tired of this. Tired of being hunted. Tired of empathy for the ugly and the weak.

“I'm…I'm so sorry,” Hiromi croaked, staring into the empty void as if hoping it would swallow him whole. “I never…I didn't…I would never…”

“Just leave me alone,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Or get it over with.”

He looked up at you, at that; exhausted, drawn, still rumpled by the terrible pleasure that now haunted him. “'Get it over…'--I'm not going to kill you!” he cried, horrified. 

You raised one cynical eyebrow at him. It only deepened his horror. He rose on unsteady legs, and scooped up his gavel, and turned his back on you. He hesitated, whispering just once more before he walked away.

“I really am. I’m so sorry.”

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

You festered alone in the dark. Nobody hunted you. Nobody tried to find you. You hid; for it was all you could do in this nasty game. Your grace period was almost up. You accepted that a death in insignificance was better than a life won by blood.

Such was your loneliness, that you almost began to miss your Spectre; the ghost upon your shoulder. You were no longer haunted by his loathing. But you were haunted by his horror; by his apology, so devastatingly given and so harshly rebuffed, that you wondered, with no small degree of fear, if he had even survived the revelation of the depths of his own depravity at all. You pictured him, with a noose or a knife and it filled your belly with stones. It was a thought you could not entertain.

If the only one who noticed your existence was the monster who hunted you, even that small dignity was better than a death in insignificance. Surely. And if he could walk towards even a chance of forgiveness, perhaps you could both be saved.

You rose, shaky with hunger and exhaustion. You only had a few days left. You would find him, you told yourself as you limped off into the night; dead or alive.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

You had a guardian angel. You did not know why it had taken you so long to notice it.

Bodies laid in your wake like grisly breadcrumbs, but you had not been the one to kill them. You felt a ghost over their bodies; a familiar wooden TOK! somewhere in the vestiges of your mind.

It filled you with anxiety. It filled you with hope. It filled you with dread. It filled you with the memory of a desperate embrace; of a Spectre buried inside you and begging for release.

Hiromi found you before you found him.

You had retraced your footsteps without conscious thought, to the narrow residential street where you had shared your crisps with a hungry raccoon dog. The evening was setting in, and it smelled of the sweet mid-autumn.

The street lamps were just blinking to life when you spotted him; even more ragged and rumpled than when you'd last seen him, crouching on his haunches with his back pressed to the streetlight and a packet of crisps hanging from his dangling hand. He wiggled his fingers at the nearby tanuki, his hooked nose crinkled with his smile.

Something had changed in him.

You froze. He looked up. His eyes widened as he saw you, and he stood up fast; but then stalled, holding his palms up in surrender as you flinched.

“Whoah!” he said, his face softer now, without the harsh lines of loathing. “Whoah, hey hey hey…I just want to talk to you.”

Your eyes narrowed. Any determination that you had had to find him, had quickly been replaced by the flesh-memory of fear. Hiromi breathed fast, his eyes still wide. Without breaking his gaze, he opened the packet of crisps, and crouched down, and held them out. He gave them a shake.

“Come on, now,” he cooed. “Come on…pspspspsps— hahaha– OH! NO! No wait–” A half hysterical laugh, a scuffle to catch up to you as you turned on your heel and stomped away. “--no no no– please, I'm sorry– I'm sorry, that was rude–”

“You should watch yourself!” you sniped weakly, your cheeks hot with anger, relief, ridiculously misplaced fondness. “I know things about you– horrible things– I know that you whimper!”

Hiromi’s awkward laughter died, and he cleared his throat, and rubbed the back of his neck. The guilt, the shame, the self-loathing: all were there, still present in those dark, hangdog eyes. But so was hope. So was humanity.

He stepped ever closer, sensitive to your rightful hesitation, until the backs of his fingers ghosted against yours.

“We…we have some things to talk about, I think,” he whispered, the sun setting past the houses behind him, igniting the back of his head in orange and gold. “You still have more to say.”

“About what?” you asked, your throat thickening and your arms closing around yourself. His head dipped, looking at you from beneath his brow.

“Anything. Everything. Anything you'll give me. I need to...to remind myself who I was-- am. And I owe you and– and myself, the dignity of hearing you. Seeing you. With both eyes open.”

"Are you going to pin me against the wall and whimper again?"

Tony had insisted on arriving in the armored Audi because “neutral ground” still meant “I brought my own goddamn exit strategy,” and Pepper had her hands full keeping Morgan from interrogating Damian about his sword collection. You, meanwhile, had spent the entire car ride trying not to fidget with the neckline of your simple black cashmere sweater and dark jeans. Wednesday dinner at the manor wasn’t black-tie, thank God. Still, you’d caught Jason’s eye once at the gala. You weren’t about to show up looking like you’d tried too hard… even if your stomach was doing nervous flips the whole way.

Alfred greeted you all at the door with perfect British composure and a tray of hors d’oeuvres that made Morgan’s eyes light up like Christmas.

“Master Wayne and the family are in the main sitting room,” he said, voice warm with that dry humor only butlers seemed to master. “Though I should warn you, the young masters have already begun their traditional pre-dinner debate about whose turn it is to disarm the security system this month.”

Tony chuckled. “Sounds about right. Lead the way, Jeeves 2.0.”

You followed, heart doing an annoying little flip when you stepped into the room.

The Waynes were scattered in various states of billionaire-casual. Bruce stood by the massive fireplace, nursing a glass of something amber and talking quietly with your father like they were already negotiating world peace (or at least patent sharing). Dick Grayson was draped dramatically over an armchair, laughing at something Tim was showing him on a tablet. Damian sat ramrod straight on the couch, arms crossed, looking like he was plotting the fall of empires. And Jason—

Jason was leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, wearing a dark gray henley that hugged his shoulders way too well and a pair of black jeans that should probably be illegal. His hair was still artfully messy, and when his eyes found yours across the room, the corner of his mouth lifted in that same crooked, dangerous smirk from the gala.

Your stomach did the traitorous flip again. Shit.

“Stark delegation has arrived,” Dick announced cheerfully, hopping up. “Hi, I’m Dick. Ignore the murder gremlin in the corner—he bites.”

“Grayson,” Damian hissed.

You smiled, polite but warm, though your voice came out a little higher than usual. “Nice to meet you officially. I’m—”

“—the one who actually read Jason’s pretentious literature paper,” Tim cut in, pushing his glasses up with a grin. “Respect. Most people just Google ‘Jason Todd death’ and call it a day.”

Jason pushed off the wall and crossed the room in a few easy strides, stopping just close enough that you could smell the faint trace of leather and something like gunpowder and rain. “Ignore them. They’re jealous I have better taste in citations than they do in life choices.”

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was. “You weren’t kidding about reading my paper.”

“I don’t kid about Victorian lit and ethical resurrection,” you said, trying to sound casual even as your cheeks heated. “The part where you compared the Pit to Darcy’s pride and prejudice against his own nature? Brutal. Accurate. A little too on the nose.”

Jason’s eyes darkened with something like surprise and heat. He stepped closer. “Most people see the scars and the attitude and assume that’s all there is. You looked at the footnotes.”

You shrugged, fiddling with the hem of your sweater because what the hell else were you supposed to do with your hands? “I like footnotes. They usually tell the real story.”

Before you could embarrass yourself further, Tony’s voice cut through the room like a goddamn siren. “Hey. Kiddo. Personal space.”

He was suddenly right there, sliding an arm around your shoulders and pulling you back a step with that overprotective dad glare firmly in place. “Jason Todd, right? The one who died, came back, and still can’t stay out of trouble. Cute. But let’s keep those hands where I can see them, yeah? She’s eighteen, not eighteen-and-looking-for-a-bodyguard-with-a-death-wish.”

“Dad,” you hissed, mortified, your face burning. You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. “Stop it. We were just talking.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, unrepentant. “Talking. Sure. I saw the way he was looking at you. I invented that look, kid. I know exactly what it means.” He turned back to Jason, voice dropping into that fake-friendly tone that meant business. “She’s smart, she’s got my sarcasm, and if you even think about breaking her heart, I’ll build a suit specifically designed to shove your resurrected ass back into whatever hell-pit you crawled out of. Clear?”

Jason didn’t flinch. If anything, his smirk grew. “Crystal, Stark. Message received.”

You groaned, covering your face with one hand. “Oh my God, Dad. Can we not do this right now? In front of everyone?”

Morgan, already perched on the arm of the couch and halfway through a mini quiche, cackled. “This is better than the chocolate fountain. Dad’s going full Iron Dad mode.”

Dick and Tim were both trying (and failing) to hide their laughter. Damian just looked disgusted. Bruce, for his part, simply took a slow sip of his drink, the ghost of amusement in his eyes.

Jason glanced at you, that feral grin softening just a fraction. “Tour of the non-classified parts of the manor? Before your dad decides to suit up?”

You nodded quickly, desperate to escape the embarrassment. “Yeah. Tour sounds good. Really good.”

Jason’s hand brushed the small of your back—light, barely there—as he guided you toward the hallway. The touch still sent warmth racing up your spine, but now you were painfully aware of Tony’s eyes burning holes into both of you.

He led you through corridors lined with portraits, past a library that made your inner nerd weep, and into a smaller sitting room that overlooked the gardens. Moonlight spilled through tall windows, turning everything silver and shadow.

Jason stopped by a bookshelf, fingers trailing over a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. “You weren’t kidding about the paper.”

You leaned against the opposite shelf, still awkward from the earlier interruption. “No… I really did read it. The Austen bit was good. Really good. I just… I don’t usually talk about this stuff with guys who look like they could bench-press a car.”

He turned, eyes dark and intent. “You’re dangerous, you know that? Pretty, smart, and you don’t flinch at the messed-up parts.” He stepped closer, voice dropping low. “Your dad’s probably already designing that anti-Red Hood suit just in case. But fuck it—next week, just us. No family bullshit. No suits. No footnotes. What do you say, Stark? Let me take you somewhere that doesn’t involve our dads measuring whose tech is bigger.”

Your breath caught, heart hammering. Before you could even open your mouth to answer, a small, sharp voice cut through the room like a knife.

“Todd, if you are attempting to court the Stark girl with such vulgar prose, you are embarrassing the entire family,” Damian said, appearing in the doorway with his arms crossed and a sneer that could curdle milk. “Father would be disappointed. Grayson would call it ‘cringe.’ And I, for one, refuse to witness another one of your pathetic attempts at romance.”

Jason’s head snapped toward his little brother, jaw tight. “Damian, I swear to God, if you don’t fuck off right now—”

“Language,” Damian replied coolly, inspecting his nails. “And you wonder why she has not yet agreed. Your approach lacks subtlety. Perhaps you should consult Grayson. He is the expert in… what is the term? ‘Rizz’?”

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh at the sheer absurdity, but your cheeks were flaming again. Awkward didn’t even begin to cover it.

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. “Out. Now. Or I’m telling Alfred you fed Titus the last of the roast beef.”

Damian smirked, clearly unbothered. “As you wish, Todd. But do try not to scare her away with your… caveman courtship.” He turned on his heel and disappeared back down the hall.

Jason let out a low growl. “Sorry about the demon spawn. He lives to ruin my life.”

You laughed nervously, rubbing the back of your neck. “It’s… fine. Really. My dad’s doing the same thing, so… we’re even?”

Before Jason could try again, Dick’s voice echoed cheerfully from the hallway. “Jay! Tim needs your opinion on the new grapple line specs—something about ‘ballistic trajectory’ and ‘not exploding this time.’ Also Alfred says dinner in five!”

Jason muttered a string of curses under his breath. “Fucking hell. Give me two minutes.”

But two minutes became five when Tim appeared next, tablet in hand, dragging Jason into a quick debate about recoil compensation while you stood there awkwardly pretending to examine a painting. Every time Jason tried to steer the conversation back to you— “Anyway, about next week…” —either Dick would crack a joke about “baby bird finally getting game” or Damian would pop up again with some dry, cutting remark about “primitive mating rituals.”

By the time you all finally made it to the dining room, Jason looked ready to strangle someone, and you were equal parts amused and mortified.

Dinner passed in a blur of sharp banter, surprisingly good food, and the occasional near-argument about whose tech was better suited for “ethical climate intervention.” Jason sat beside you, his knee brushing yours under the table more than once—deliberate, warm, promising. Every time it happened, you’d glance at Tony, who was watching like a hawk with that overprotective glare, and you’d feel your face heat up again. Tony even leaned over at one point to mutter, “I see that knee, Todd. Watch it.”

When the evening finally wound down and goodbyes were exchanged at the door, Jason walked you out to the car while the others lingered inside, though you could feel multiple pairs of eyes watching from the windows.

He stopped just short of the driveway, turning to face you under the soft glow of the manor lights. “Wednesday wasn’t nearly long enough,” he said, voice rough. “Look, before anyone else interrupts—next Friday. You, me, somewhere quiet. No siblings. No dads. No demon brat calling my game cringe. Just say yes, Stark.”

Your heart raced, a shy, awkward smile tugging at your lips despite everything. “I… yeah. Yes. But only if you promise not to get interrupted mid-sentence again.”

He leaned in, slow enough that you could pull away. You didn’t. His lips brushed yours—soft at first, then deeper, tasting faintly of the wine from dinner and something undeniably him. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours again.

“Deal,” he murmured. “And if any of my idiot brothers show up, I’m shooting them with rubber rounds.”

As the Audi pulled away, you glanced back once. Jason stood on the steps, hands in his pockets, watching you go with that same half-smirk—though you could see Damian lurking in the background, already opening his mouth for one last parting shot.

Tony cleared his throat from the front seat, gripping the wheel a little tighter than necessary. “So. Should I start designing the anti-Jason suit now, or wait until he inevitably does something stupid and heroic?”

You laughed softly, leaning your head against the window, the ghost of Jason’s kiss still warm on your lips and your cheeks still burning from all the awkwardness and interruptions. “Wait, Dad. I think I’m going to like this particular terrible decision… even if you threaten to blast him into orbit every five minutes and his brothers keep cockblocking him.”

Outside, Gotham’s lights blurred past, but for the first time in a long while, the city didn’t feel quite so dark.

And somewhere in the shadows, you knew a certain red-hooded vigilante was already counting the days until Friday—probably while plotting ways to keep his siblings far, far away.

that same voiced boomed again, this time ringing in your ears and not your head, making you wince from the irritating loudness. the tone was ecstatic and expecting, owed by someone who was utterly delighted by your conscious state.

you tried to raise up from the horizontal position you had on the bed, but you couldn’t. your whole body was tingling, like ants were climbing all over your skin and dancing to the rhythm of your heartbeat.

heartbeat?

why couldn’t you feel your heart thumping against your ribcage? why wasn’t the flow of the blood, increasing with your surging panic, forcing your heart to accelerate the pumping?

why was your heart still?

terror washed all over you, clawing at your stiff body and eating its way up to your eyes, the only part of your body you could actually control. and your eyes, oh, they were so frantic, moving around and scanning the little area your vision allowed to find help.

to find the source of the caring voice and ask for explanations.

above you, something... hovered?

no, hung.

your breath hitched — or it would have, if your lungs still worked the way they were supposed to. but instead of warm air, you only felt cold. cold, crisp stillness deep in your chest, your throat, your mouth. as if you had been carved from the purest ice.

a soft scritch resonated from above — was it claws on wood?

your agitated gaze jolted upwards, where the four canopy posts curved into the ceiling, framed graciously by fluttering lace. something was perched on one of the beams, clinging upside-down like a shadow with wings.

no, not a shadow.

a bat. a small and attentive creature, monitoring you with deep and crimson orbs. if it weren’t for the twitching in its wings, you’d have mistaken the little being for a weird decoration.

and then it fully moved, flying downwards towards you.

in its opulent fall, two sharp hands unfolded delicately from the mass of fur, gripping the wooden post like a little gargoyle. its body multiplied in size, constantly contorting into strange and eerie shapes. its red-glinting eyes, glossy and uniform, blinked once, slowly. then–

plop.

it dropped. right onto your chest.

a whole person now, onto your chest.

well, almost.

he didn’t stand on you, otherwise he would’ve crushed your weak body. he just landed there, knees braced on either side of your hips, big hands flat on your sternum, grinning at you like a mad man.

he looked... young. beautiful. terrible.

disheveled dark curls. skin like marble with the faintest tint of plum under the eyes. his clothes were old-fashioned and formal, but wrinkled and stained with something darker than wine. a man out of a painting.

or a nightmare.

“hi!” he chirped, voice thick with joy, gaze gleaming with intense interest. “you’re so much cuter awakened!”

his face was so close now. eyes shining. fangs peeking.

your lips parted involuntarily, trembling in horror, so overwhelmed by what was happening. yet you couldn’t speak up. couldn’t move away.

“oh– oh, don’t look at me like that.” he pouted, one sharp finger reaching up to tap your forehead. “all that fear is so delicious, but also very ungrateful of you.” he tapped again. 

“i just got you fixed. you were almost done for. and now look!” he waved dramatically over you like he’d just unveiled a creation. his creation.

“my precious little sister.” he whispered reverently. “finally home.”

you blinked.

sister?

“yes, yes, i know…” he gasped, sitting upright with excitement — still perched on your chest like a gargoyle guarding its treasure. “it’s a lot to take in. dying always is.” he rolled his eyes back, somehow offended by the pedestal death takes in one’s life.

“but now you’re mine. forever. isn’t that sweet?”

“...your…sister?” you croaked, your voice sandpaper, repeating the words that permeated in your head.

“yes, you silly thing. you died. i helped you awaken. i made you better.” his head tilted, curls bouncing away from his devilishly red eyes. he leaned down further, nose brushing yours. “and now– now we’re siblings. you’re part of the vampire brood.”

he beamed, lips curling into a sinister smile. “i’ve always wanted a little sister.”

you tried to protest, to deny it all. but he only laughed — high, delighted, amused by your failed attempts at speaking.

“you’ll love it here. pink suits you.” he looked around fondly at the old lace, the delicate roses, the gorgeous patterns of the bed sheets. the room he chose specifically for you. “we’ll have so much fun.”

then, unannounced, he laid down on top of you like a weighted blanket, cheek pressed over your boobs, to your unmoving heart.

“hear that?” he whispered with a sigh.

of course you didn’t.

“there’s nothing. just silence.” he sighed again, dreamily, so enticed by the stillness of your heart. “music to my ears.”

and then he leaped forward and slightly kissed your collarbone, fangs grazing the edge of your throat, hitting that bruised spot that tom’s bite — the sire's — left behind. your body shook from the pain, but theodore paid no mind, pressing his face down even harder against your marked skin.

he inhaled like he was taking in the scent of a beloved perfume, lips brushing along the pulse that no longer beat beneath your skin. his hands, cold, elegant, slid up your arms as he purred lowly.

“you’re still so weak, poor thing. he turned you far too fast. typical tom — always greedy, always reckless.”

you winced as he dragged his nails over your collarbone, the angular tips barely nicking the skin, yet scratching enough to make you flinch. he cooed, sweet and sickly, as if he wasn’t the source of your distress.

“but don’t worry, darling. big brother theodore is here now. i’ll take care of everything.”

and then he sat up again, straddling your thighs with eerie grace, just like before. yet, his smile dropped — or rather, twisted. there was something sharper in it now, like he was planning do to something so terribly wonderful.

and that’s exactly what he was to do, as he brought one of his hands up between your bodies, flexing his fingers as if to admire them.

“i’m going to help you again, okay? you need strength. blood. my blood.”

before you could react — before your tongue could form the desperate what clawing its way up your throat — theodore bit into his own palm with a ferocity that made your stomach drop. the sound was wet, brutal, his fangs slicing through his flesh like butter. blood welled up instantly, thick and darkly red, almost shimmering in the candlelit room.

your eyes went wide. the scent hit you like a wave, drowning out any thoughts you had.

it was divine.

warm copper, spiced with something older — it clawed at your senses, curled around your throat like velvet, and seeped down to your belly in a desperate ache.

theodore’s grin returned, stained with red now, blood dripping down his jaw and neck.

“there it is.” he said, voice softer. “you feel it, don’t you? that hunger? it’s good. it means you’re really awakened now.”

you shook your head weakly, but your body betrayed you — your gaze, sparkling red, was locked on the blood running down his wrist; each drop hitting your collarbone like liquid gold and making you feral. your tongue darted out before you even realized it, catching one.

theodore’s pupils blew wide. his blood-slick mouth opened slightly, a shudder wrecking his body.

“good girl.”

he leaned closer, grabbing your chin with his uninjured hand, and tilting your face upwards.

“drink up, sis.”

then he forcefully pressed his bleeding palm against your mouth, fingers cradling the back of your skull. you tried to resist, but your lips opened, just barely — and that was all he needed. the blood hit your tongue and it was ecstasy. your spine arched against the bed, a strangled cry escaping as your entire body lit up with fire and cold all at once.

your fingers, discarding the paralyzing stillness from before, shoot upwards and clawed at his wrist now. not to push him away, but to pull him closer, to keep the connection.

you drank with no shame, possessed by animalistic need.

theodore moaned in pleasure, his cheek dusting a faint shade of red and matching with his crimson blood spotches. he leaned down, curling his body around yours, stained mouth dragging along your cheek as he whispered excited:

“mine now. my baby sister.”

and as you drank, as your limbs tingled with new strength, your memories still lost to the void, you no longer felt fear. not anymore.

•••

you fainted somewhere between your fifth swallow and his third moan.

the blood was too rich. aged like sin, like wine kept in a crypt. it filled you up too fast, crashing against your empty insides, each gulp pulling you deeper into a coma laced with euphoria and delirium. your hands, once desperate on his wrist, slid down limp. your mouth, wet and stained, slipped from his palm. eyes fluttered shut.

and the last thing you heard before the dark took you again was theodore humming.

•••

you woke up shortly after.

the first thing you noticed was warmth — or what mimicked it. the silk sheets, your cheek sunk into the old pillow, and something firm and unmoving behind you. something breathing slow… unnecessarily slow.

theodore.

he was curled against your back like a doting pet, still in his human form. one arm under your head, one draped lazily across your waist. his nose was tucked against your nape, close to your bite mark.

he was still. cold. his entire presence looming like a hungry predator.

the room was darker now, the candles burnt down to wicks. only a faint blue glow from some far-off moonlight spilled through the curtains of the bed.

you shifted slightly, and his arm tightened immediately.

"oh. you’re awake." he murmured, his voice sticky with satisfaction. "you fainted. so cute."

“…what happened to me?” you whispered.

theodore nosed against your throat, inhaling your delicious aroma. “you’re a vampire. your awakening was a success.”

your fingers curled into the sheets. your mouth was sticky, your chest felt hollow, but stronger too — frighteningly strong, like you could crush anything with your bare hands.

you reached up and touched your throat, the dried remnants of his blood crusted like a necklace along your collarbone.

“i drank from you…”

he chuckled darkly, hand now tracing lazy circles over your hip. “you did. and you’ll do it again, don’t worry. i’ll always feed you. i like it when you’re hungry.”

when you crave me.

you swallowed, trying to ignore the phantom taste still coating your tongue. “you said… tom turned me. who is that?”

the name made theo’s fingers freeze against you hip bone. but he resumed his motion immediately, slower now. pretending like you didn’t just deal him a blow by merely mentioning that name.

“tom is… our maker. he turned me. he also turned you.” theodore introduced him as briefly as possible, jumping from his description to the way the two of you were connected — something of more importance to him.

“but he abandoned you! i was the one that took care of you while you were unconscious.”

there it was, that possessiveness, that obsession blooming beautifully into rage. his sharp nails dug into your hip with unbearable harshness, piercing the flimsy material of your skirt. taking out some of his seemingly unjustified anger on you.

why were you talking about tom when he was here?

“you barely survived the awakening. my blood help you. me, not tom.”

theodore twisted you in the sheets to face him, to force you to look at him and only him. you couldn’t object, taken by surprise by his inhumane strength, ending up touching noses with him for a second time that day. 

his face was closer than you expected, and also so full of dismay. his eyes were bloody red, but no longer filled with joy — they were imbued with darkness, with jealousy and desire. his brows were furrowed, his lips drawn into a thin line.

"why… why did you do it?"

yet that simple question of yours watered down his tantrum in an instant. the smile that now curled his lips wasn’t comforting. it was greedy. proud.

“because you were meant to survive. tom turns many. no one matters to him, not really.”

his eyes shone with something twisted. “but you do. to me. and that makes you my perfect little sister. the first in centuries.”

your throat tightened, slightly uncomfortable by theodore’s attitude towards you and this proclaimed title of sister.

“why can’t i remember anything?”

he tilted his head, as if the answer was obvious. “because he wiped you. tom doesn’t like attachments. especially from fledglings.” his hand reached up to your face and dropped on your cheek, carefully caressing the stained skin.

“your life from before doesn’t matter anyway! you’re with your brother now.” he smiled so wide it almost hurt to look at. “isn’t that great?”

you stared at him — unsure if you wanted to smile or cry. theo did not give you time to doubt his words; he leaned closer, brushing your hair back gently, brushing away any unnecessary thoughts you might have.

“i’ll give you new memories. i’ll teach you everything.”

 “about being… like this?” your lip trembled, not exactly content with the way theodore forced his own plans upon your life, caging you in a future already built.

“about being one of us.” he instantly nuzzled against your cheek, chasing any sort of physical contact with you, whispering that dreaded pronoun once again. “about being mine.”

you shoved weakly at his chest, hoping to put some distance between the two of you. “theo–”

but he held onto you tighter. “don’t fight it. you’ll learn to accept this. you’ll have to. you already need blood — feel it, don’t you? that ache? that hunger that won’t ever go away now?”

your mouth went dry the moment he pointed out your newly-acquired bodily need. you did feel it: it was like a cold twist in your belly, raw and restless, begging to pierce skin and draw blood.

theo withdrew his face, his fingers cupping your cheek again. “you’ll come to me when it gets worse. you’ll crawl into my lap and ask so sweetly, like a good girl.”

he leaned forward and pecked your lips — mock-gentle, feather-like touch, like he wasn’t even there.

“tom may have turned you. but i’m the one who keeps you.”

but seeing your wide eyes and reluctant face, he knew...

that tiny kiss won’t do.

theodore’s lips hovered for a couple of seconds — then pressed again, longer this time, slotted fully against yours. he tilted your chin up to meet him, tongue flicking just barely against the seam of your lips, asking to be let in.

what started as a delicate brush of lips became fuller, wetter, hungrier.

he clawed at your body, clutching your form and manhandling you onto his lap in one swift motion. he didn’t give you time to protest, as he pushed into you again, catching your bottom lip between his own and suckling it gently, grazing the fragile skin with his fangs.

if it weren’t for the blood still drying on your mouth, it might have been a tender moment.

yet there was also nothing tender in the way he moaned when your full body weight dropped on his lap.

you squirmed, letting out a panicked noise, but his hand just cradled your jaw tighter, held your hips harder. keeping you in place, exactly where he wanted you.

“you taste like me now.” he whispered against your lips. “isn’t that perfect?”

you tried to shove him again. this wasn’t right — it wasn’t natural.

“you’re my… you said you were my brother…”

“and i am.” he cooed, like it was something to be proud of. “don’t you feel it? the bond? stronger than anything you had before?”

theo pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. his eyes glowed like fire, shifting with some unreadable emotion — lust, desperation, obsession. he dived back in instantly to make out with you with more fervor, chasing that blood on your skin to smother it further.

“so pretty. so mine.”

he murmured between kisses, licking into your mouth, letting your lips free every now and then to admire his diluted blood between your tongues.

your hands fisted harder at his shirt, asking to be freed. “stop…”

“stop?” he echoed, almost insulted, removing his lips from your own to snarl at you. “you want me to stop, baby sister?”

he punctuated the pet name by grinding his hips forward against yours — not obscene, not yet, but suggestive enough that you felt the new ache in your core bloom alongside the raw, gnawing hunger in your gut. it was hard to tell where the need for blood ended and the need for him began. your body was betraying you, heating up beneath him even as your mind screamed no.

you tried to push again, your hands restless against his torso. theo, fed up by your attics, caught your wrists and pinned them down with one hand, fingers curling sweetly around your fragile wrists.

“you don’t know what you need yet. you’re confused.” he said, fangs flashing as he leaned in again. “but i do. i know. you’re mine, and i’ll take care of you.”

he kissed you again, harder this time, tongue pushing into your mouth, claiming every corner, like you were a fruit to be devoured. and then, as you moaned into the kiss — unintentionally, humiliatingly — theo laughed.

“see? you do like it. you’re already getting better. aready getting wetter.”

your hips jerked against his by instinct, encouraged by his dirty words, rutting your pantie-clad pussy against his hard bulge.

 “that’s it, darling.” he gasped in pleasure. “say it.” he breathed. “say you want me.”

your jaw trembled, and so did your thighs. from arousal, embarrassment, from fear.

“i– i don’t–”

“you do.” he interrupted, voice velvety against your shattering denial. “your body’s telling me. this–” he rocked his hips up into you, slowly, dragging his clothed cock along the curve of your soaked cunt. “–this isn’t confusion. it’s instinct. you ache for me. don’t lie to yourself.”

your protest curled like vines in your throat, fragile and unformed. you didn’t even realize you’d started moving against him on your own, not until you felt the thick press of theo’s palm cupping your ass, adjusting you, nudging your hips in slow, cruel thrusts against his lap.

“you don’t need to say it.” he whispered, voice purring against your ear. “your body already knows.”

his other hand slipped away from your wrists — certain you will no longer push him away, but not into your skirt. he wasn’t that merciful. instead, he opted to grope at your chest through the fabric of your blouse, thumb grazing over your nipple, watching the way it peaked instantly beneath your shirt.

that earned him a fresh whimper, your hips twitching forward harder, rutting again against the base of his cock.

heat spread from your stomach faster. filthier.

“just like that, baby sister.” his voice dropped lower, hunger and desire latched onto every word.

“show me how much you need it. rub that pretty pussy on me. i want to feel you through all these clothes like the desperate little fledgling that you are.”

you whined, shame crawling up your spine as you did as told, now keeping a steady rhythm in your grinding. just to relieve the pressure. just to soothe the ache. theo moaned out loud, eyes fluttering half-lidded with delight at your compliance.

“mmnh, fuck, look at you.” he tutted, massaging your tits more firmly now, rolling your nipples beneath his palm, breath catching every time your hips ground harsher. “my perfect little sister. so obedient. so soft.”

but he wasn’t satisfied. his head tilted, lips ghosting over your neck — and not just any spot. the bite. tom’s bite.

“that mark…” he growled, disgusted by seeing another man’s sign on you. “has to go.”

you took some distance, but it was too late; theo’s mouth opened, and his fangs sank directly into tom’s mark, breaking open the scabbed wound with a wet crunch. you screamed — pain or pleasure, you weren’t sure — as your whole body jolted.

his blood-laced saliva smeared over your neck as he sucked greedily, replacing tom’s signature with his own.

“you’re mine.” he snarled against your throat, mouth slick with your blood. “no more of him. you wear my mark now.”

your body convulsed on his lap, overstimulated and desperate, every nerve raw. you gasped his name — be it a protest or a prayer — and theo only chuckled, chest rumbling beneath your fingers.

“you’re doing so good, darling. keep riding. make a mess.”

and beneath the iron scent of blood and the heat of your shame, you did. you rutted forward helplessly, humiliated sobs caught in your throat; theo’s hand never leaving your breast, his fangs still nestled in your neck — making the bite deeper than the original.

blood dripped down your collarbone. slick soaked through your panties.

but it felt so good.

theodore pulled back from your neck with a wet sound, your blood streaking down his chin like lipstick. his eyes glowed, drugged with the taste of you. his lips, stained a rich crimson, curled into a cruel smirk.

“look at you.” he panted, voice syrupy and ruined. “so good for me. so eager to be ruined.”

he flexed his hands on your hips, guiding your rhythm, grinding your cunt against his cock with filthy precision. the friction was unbearable — soaked cotton dragging over his length, every shift teasing your clit raw. you sobbed once more, trembling as the heat coiled low in your belly.

“shh, baby sis.” theo mumbled, lifting his blood-slick mouth to yours. “let me taste you again.”

so he kissed you — full and vile, mouth wet with your own blood. his tongue pushed past your lips, hot and sweet and heavy, mingling copper with spit. it was grotesque. intimate. you whimpered into the kiss, your lips parting further willingly, your body melting in his grasp.

your blood smeared your chin where his mouth had trailed off; the rest… he swallowed down greedily.

“that’s it.” theo groaned, letting his forehead rest against yours, hands gripping your ass beneath the skirt to guide you against him. “grind like a good girl.”

you whimpered — dizzy and helpless — as the pressure built again in your stomach, hunger and arousal knotting together, impossible to tell which one’s which. your thighs were shaking. your pussy soaked through the cotton, your hole begging for cock.

you needed more. needed him.

“please.” you gasped, voice hitching, eyes glassy as you rocked against him harder. “please, b– brother…”

“shhh.” he crooned, one hand rising to cup your face, smearing the blood across your cheek as he tilted your chin down. “open your mouth, darling.”

you obeyed without thinking.

he leaned up — but this time, he didn’t kiss you.

this time, he bared his throat.

a pale line of skin, shining with sweat and venom. pulsing with power. his blood called to you — hot and thick — and your fangs popped out before you could stop them. a strangled noise escaped your lips, half-hunger, half-fear.

“go on.” he purred. “bite your big brother.”

you did.

your fangs sank into him, and theo moaned like a sinner tasting heaven, hands tightening on your ass as you latched onto his neck and drank. his blood was intoxicating — tastier than the previous time you drank it. it seared down your throat like fire. it filled your belly like wine.

he rutted up into you as you fed, his cock finally snapping away from its confinements; the feeling of his naked cock dragging along your wet folds making you moan against his throat. and when you felt it, how it slipped beneath your panties, pushing against your cunt — hot, bare, and perfectly aligned.

you almost came on the spot.

“take it all, little sis.” he growled, hands guiding you down on his shaft with no further preparation.

you gasped around his neck as his cock breached you, thick and heavy. the stretch was brutal — made worse by how needy you were, by how your body welcomed him with sick, eager spasms. theo growled at the first squeeze, voice muffled into your shoulder as you sank down, inch by inch, until he was fully inside.

“fuck.” he snarled, one hand latching onto your back, scratching at your blouse. “tight little cunt… clenching around me like you’re starving for it.”

you were.

and he knew it.

you moved without waiting for his signal, riding him in messy, trembling thrusts, blood still dripping from your lips where they dragged across his throat. you lifted your face to kiss him again — and he met you halfway, mouth bloody and eager, smearing your own blood back onto your tongue.

the kiss was feral. wet and iron-slick. your tongue glued against his, fangs meeting fangs.

“mine.” he hissed between kisses, fucking up into you now at a violent pace, making the old bed creak beneath your combined weight. “mine forever, little sister.”

you sobbed into the kiss, your cunt milking him, your thighs quivering as your orgasm rose hot and humiliated through your gut. you didn’t want to come, but your body betrayed you.

“say it.” theo gasped. “say you’re mine.”

you cried against his lips, so overwhelmed by every bump of his cock against your cervix.

but you said it. loud and clear.

“y– yours. i’m yours, big brother.”

he captured your lips one last time and thrusted upwards hard, finally spilling inside you with a hissed curse, his cock twitching deep in your guts. thick spurts of cum shoot deep, kindly calming down that itchiness in your tummy.

you collapsed against him, shaking. breathless. your skin felt fever-hot where his cum leaked from your cunt, where his blood dried tacky on your lips, your chin, your chest. your thighs still trembled around his waist. your teeth still ached from the bite.

and theo– he held you.

one hand rubbed slow circles into your spine, as if comforting you after something tragic. the other cradled the back of your head, gently guiding your face to rest against his throat — right above the wound you’d made.

“you did so well.” he whispered. “my sweet, obedient girl.”

you didn’t answer. couldn’t. there was nothing left in your throat but the ghost of his kiss and the taste of his blood.

he kissed your hair.

and then, lower–

your temple.

your cheek.

your eyelid.

“my little sister.” he whispered. “mine forever.”

©dearmisshoney 2025. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.