TJ MIKELOGAN's HALLOWEEN HORROR 2025 EVENT + DAY 20: Quotes
Iconic Horror Movie Quotes â The Fly (1986), The Sixth Sense (1999), Jaws (1975), Frankenstein (1931), Scream (1996), The Silence of the Lambs (1991), Poltergeist (1982), Psycho (1960), The Exorcist (1973), The Shining (1980)
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uhmm, could you continue the ghost stories, but like a ghost orgy? like you can feel so many hands and cold breathes against you, using everything hole and hand
Living in a haunted house has its perks and disadvantages. Living with multiple horny ghosts? Thatâs definitely an advantage.
Watching tv on your couch, you start to feel a set of hands feel you up. At this point youâre used to it living here. Except you feel another set of hands. Then, another.
Panicking you start to get up but are pushed down by what feels like three people. Youâre home alone. Itâs just you and three ghosts in your house.
One set of hands holds you down by your shoulders. Slowly making their way to your breasts. Removing your shirt, leaving your chest bare.
The second set of hands are pulling your shorts and panties off. Leaving you naked to the mysteries in the room. The third set of hands arenât on your body but, you feel an erect dick slide into your hand.
Quickly youâre pulled to your feet and pushed to be bent over on your hand and knees on the floor. Before you could stand up you feel someone line themselves at your ass and slowly slide themselves in.
Letting out a moan, as your mouth is open, another cock enters your mouth. Before you could reach down to relive your now aching pussy from the sudden pleasure, your hands are pinned down.
Slowly, a third cock slides into your pussy. All three using your holes for your pleasure. Not being able to see the three mystery ghost men, it thrills you.
Moaning around the one from the pleasure from the two at your ass and pussy. Reaching your climax from being stuffed full, all three of the ghosts quickly follow.
Cumming in all three of your holes. Filling you with their green goo. Drooling the green oozing liquid from your mouth. Slowly dripping the green goo from your ass and pussy as well.
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Could you write a monster fic about a poltergeistic demon thatâs haunting an old house a stubborn reader moves into and ends up latching onto her? All the horror movie tropes + Iâd appreciate one thatâs very possessive and genuinely scares the reader.
Latching Onto You
°⥠9.5k+ words, Poltergeist-class Demon x Blackfem!reader, Possessive Themes, Horror Erotica (mild?), Creepy House Haunting Things, Attempted Suicide, Chasing and Catching, Threats, Violence, Plotty, Explicit Sexual Content(18+), Oral(youâre receiving), Fingering, Multiple Rounds, Flash Cut Smut, etcâĄÂ°
A/N: This was a request I received while I was taking a little break from writing smut, so it's a bit more plot-focused since I wanted to jump on it right away. I really hope you enjoy it! Feedback is welcome. I'd love to hear your thoughts because I actually struggled writting thisđ
The house looked like it had been waiting.
Even as your car crunched up the long gravel driveway, the two-story colonial watched you from behind lace-curtained windows like a thing holding its breath. The air was too still. No wind. No birds. Not even the cicadas were screaming, and in the thick summer dusk, that was unnatural.
But you were stubborn. Always have been.
So you killed the engine, stepped out, and told yourself the house was just old. Rotting wood and creaking shutters didnât scare you. Youâd lived in worse. And for the price? It was a damn steal.
You sighed and slammed the car door shut harder than necessary. âCreepy ass house,â you muttered, dragging your duffel over your shoulder. You werenât about to let some saggy-roofed horror movie house run you off before youâd even stepped inside. Besides, youâd signed the lease. No refunds.
The inside smelled like wet dust, pine cleaner, and something bitter you couldnât name. Your shoes stuck faintly to the floor in places, and there was that drip drip drip coming from somewhere deep in the walls that you couldnât locate.
Still, you moved your stuff in, talking to yourself under your breath like it would calm your nerves. âThere better not be rats in here. I swear, I hear one scratchy little footstep and Iâm calling the damn priest.â
You set your keys down on the chipped mantle, went to the kitchen, and came back thirty seconds later to find them missing. You looked around. Eyed the floor. Checked your pocket even though you knew damn well you hadnât picked them back up. They were in the fridge. Sitting on the top rack.
You stood staring at them for a long moment. Then, not moving, said flatly, âI know Iâm not tripping.â You werenât the type to scream or panic. You stared down the weird and dared it to try harder. But that didnât mean you werenât listening.
That night, the bathroom light flickered when you walked past it. Just once. When you turned your head, it was off again. Silent. Like it hadnât happened at all. You said, âOkay. No,â and closed the door behind you.
The house didnât fight you. Not yet. It was polite. Patient. Youâd hear a soft thump upstairs while brushing your teeth, and youâd freeze mid-motion, toothpaste pooling in your mouth, staring into your own eyes in the mirror with your heart climbing up your throat.
â...nope,â you said again. Then spat. âProbably just pipes.â But the pipes didnât whisper. The pipes didnât make your name drag across the hardwood behind you while you were unpacking. The pipes didnât tug your blanket an inch lower while you were pretending to sleep.
â
You didnât sleep the second night.
It wasnât because of the storm. You could sleep through thunder, youâd done it a million times before. It was because the wind didnât sound like wind. Not here. It sounded like breath. Close. Right up against your ear, under the sheets.
And when you turned the light on, there was nothing. No movement. No shadow. Just the shape of your breath fogging in front of you like the room had dropped to thirty degrees.
Youâd swear on your life you felt a weight at the end of the bed. Like someone was sitting there. Like they were waiting for you to ask them to come closer. But you didnât. You didnât say a word.
â
The third morning you woke up with the window fogged over from the inside. You hadnât even noticed it at first, not until you got out of bed and your toe caught the corner of the rug, nearly sending you flying. You cursed, caught yourself on the wall, and looked up right into the streaky glass.
Five long fingers. Pressed from the inside. Just the faintest shape, smeared through the condensation. The middle one dragged downward, like whatever made it was still watching you when it pulled its hand away.
You stared for a long time. Then, a clipped, dry: âThe fuck.â You checked every door and window. Bolted. Locked. No sign of a break-in, and nothing missingâexcept the small heap of underwear youâd tossed in the laundry bin the night before.
You didnât notice that until halfway through brushing your teeth. You leaned out of the bathroom with foam in your mouth, scowling toward the hallway. "I know I didnât do laundry. What the hell.â
The overhead light blinked once. You froze, toothbrush still halfway out of your mouth. "...Okay." You laughed. You had to laugh. Because the alternative was freaking out and driving to a motel in your pajamas, and that wasnât happening.
Not yet. So you stood there, brushing slower, eyes on the bathroom mirror while something just behind you breathed softly against your neck. A draft, you told yourself. A vent. Something explainable. Even if it smelled like old wood and something faintly sweetâlike burned sugar and meat going bad.
â
The attic opened on its own two days later. You heard it in the middle of the night. A long creak followed by the soft click of something unlatching. You werenât gonna check. Obviously. But in the morning, it was open. Just barely.
You didnât go up there. Not then. But you did start talking more. Not to anyone in particular. Just to the house. To yourself. To it, though youâd never admit it out loud.
Youâd be folding clothes and mutter, âTouch my stuff again and weâre gonna fight,â or cooking something and say, âDamn, youâre gonna give me a heart attack creeping around like that.â
Most days, it was just noise. Words to push back the silence. But sometimes? It answered. The lights would flicker when you talked too much shit. The old grandfather clock in the hall would chime once, sharply, whenever you said something it didnât like.
And onceâjust onceâyou found the words STAY traced into the dust on the dining table, even though youâd wiped it clean the day before. You stood there staring at it for five full minutes. â...Umm. No, see, thatâs not cute,â you whispered, backing away.
Another breeze, warm this time, slid across your cheek like a mouth breathing close. You nearly screamed. You almost ran. But you didnât. Because you were stubborn. Because you were curious. Because a part of youâsome dumb partâwanted to see what itâd do next.
â
It was almost noon when the knock came.
You werenât expecting anything, which was already weirdâyour packages usually got dropped off without a word. But when you pulled open the door, the guy standing there had the kind of sheepish smile that made you pause.
Tall-ish, kind of lanky, dark curls peeking under his cap, and glasses slipping a little down his nose. He looked like he got flustered easily. Like someone whoâd offer to fix your printer just to hang around for another five minutes.
He gave you an awkward little wave. âSorry, this one wouldnât fit in the drop box. Real heavy. Didnât want to leave it on the porch with the weather.â
âOh, yeah, thanks,â you said, pushing the door wider. âYou can bring it in if you want. Kitchenâs fine.â
He hesitated. âYou sure?â
You arched a brow. âYou scared of ghosts or something?â
He laughedâsoft and nervousâand stepped over the threshold. The second he did, the temperature dropped. Not sudden, but noticeable. Like walking under shade after being in the sun too long. You swallowed. Pretended you didnât feel it.
He followed you into the kitchen, setting the box down with a grunt. âDamn. You got bricks in there?â
You smiled. âBooks and glassware.â
You pointed to the counter absently while peeling the label off. âBrownies if you want one. Made âem last night.â
âOh, shit, really?â he said, already reaching. âThanks.â
He took a bite, eyes widening behind his glasses. âYo, these are so good. You cook like this all the time?â
You didnât even get a chance to answer.
The light above you flickered. Hard.
Popâpopâpopâlike every bulb in the house hiccuped at once. Then a slam cracked down the hall like a body hitting the floor.
You both froze.
He looked at you, half-laughing like maybe this was a prank. âUh⊠that normal?â
âNo,â you said flatly, your stomach coiling.
And then the knife moved. Not fast. Not flying like a horror movie gag. Just a gentle, deliberate scrape across the counter behind him. You didnât see it happenâbut you heard it. Metal sliding across wood.
The mailman flinched.
A thin, red line appeared across his cheek. Only skin-deep, just enough to bleed. But it stopped his laughter cold.
His hand flew to his face. âWhat theâ?â
The air snapped cold, so cold it made your teeth hurt. He didnât wait. He backed up, nearly tripping over the box, and bolted down the hall toward the front door. You stood there like something had sucked the bones out of you, breath shallow, frozen in place.
You didnât even try to stop him.
The silence that followed was too complete. Heavy. Watching.
You didnât move. You didnât say anything. Because for the first time since youâd walked into this house... you were scared.
Really scared.
You didnât realize you were still standing in the kitchen until your knees locked.
The house was silent again. The kind of thick quiet that feels like it has teethâlike itâs waiting for you to make a move so it can bite. Your heart was punching behind your ribs, the weight of what just happened clawing at the edges of your reason.
And thenâYou felt it.
Cold. Not like before. Not a draft or a trick of nerves. This was a presence.
Hands. On your hips.
Big. Cold. Gripping like they were trying to root you there. Your breath locked in your throat. And then the breathing started. Slow. Damp. Just behind you. A mouth close enough to fog your skin. You couldnât move.
You couldnât move.
You opened your mouth to speak, to scream, to runâbut then you saw him. In the warped reflection of the microwave door. Dim. Blurred. But there. A tall, broad frame behind you, looming like a shadow turned solid. Pale skin like old wax. Hair that hung in uneven, wet strands around his face. And his eyesâ
His eyes looked tired.
Not sad. Not soft. Just so tiredâand sunk deep into their sockets like he hadnât closed them in centuries. There was no warmth in them. Just hunger, and something else. Something greedy. Obsessed.
âWhatâŠ?â your voice cracked. Your eyes started to burn.
You trembled. You couldnât stop trembling. âWhat are you?â
He didnât answer. He just held you tighter. His grip dug in like he thought you might slip through his fingers.
And thenâ He leaned forward. Slowly. Like heâd done this before. And his face pressed into the crook of your neck. You shook.
You shook so bad your teeth clicked. The fear climbed your spine like fire, cold and hot all at once, prickling your scalp. He didnât kiss you. He didnât bite. He just⊠stayed there.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Like he was breathing you in.
Everything blurred. The floor tilted. Your legs went out from under you before the scream ever made it out of your throat.
â
You woke up shaking.
The room was dark. Quiet. Too quiet. And the air still smelled like him. That heavy, cold-sweet scent, like old dust and something rotting behind sugar.
Your sheets clung to you, damp with sweat, and your legs felt like rubber when you moved them. But you did. You moved. Because staying still felt worse. You pushed the covers back. Swung your feet over the edge of the bed and stood. Unsteady. Nauseous. Terrified. But moving meant you werenât frozen.
And that counted for something.
You ran out of the room, down the stairs, barefoot on creaking wood, heart pounding so hard you thought it might shake the walls. You made it to the front door, grabbed the lock with shaking fingers, turned itâclickâand yanked it open.
Or tried to.
It slammed shut before it even cracked an inch. You stumbled back. Let out a sharp, high sound you didnât even recognize from your own throat. âNoâno, noââ You grabbed the knob again and pulled harder, whole body shaking, knuckles straining. âLet me go. LET ME OUT!â
A low groan vibrated through the house. You turnedâand he was there. At the bottom of the stairs, watching you. Skin catching what little light filtered in from the windows. Broad shoulders casting long shadows.
His eyes low-lidded and dark, boring through you like he could hear every thought you were trying to choke down.
You bolted.
The kitchen. Back door. You were so closeâhand on the latchâwhen he was behind you again, chest pressed against your back. You gasped, the breath knocked out of you as his arms wrapped around you, tight, pinning you against the door.
The cold of him soaked through your clothes, seeped straight into your spine. âGET OFF ME!â you screamed, struggling to escape, "I swear to God Iâllâ!â You slammed your elbow back. Tried to stomp his foot.
He didnât move. Didnât flinch. He just turned you around in one brutal motion and shoved youâhardâagainst the door. Your head cracked against the wood. Not enough to knock you out, but enough to split your thoughts apart.
Then he leaned in. Voice low. Ragged. Possessive. âStay.â
You whimpered, pain spiking in your skull. âHell noââ
He stepped back half a pace. Just enough to give you room. You tried to run again. He was in front of you before you blinked. You slapped him. Hard. Palm stinging. It barely turned his head.
He grabbed your wrists and pushed you down to the floor with him on top of you. Heavy. Unmoving. Pressing your arms above your head like it was nothing. âStay.â
Your breath came in broken gasps, chest heaving. You kicked, twisted, cursed him out in every way you knew how. You called him names. You said you werenât scared, even though your body was trembling so hard your teeth wouldnât stop clicking.
He didnât hurt you again. He didnât move. He just held you there. Staring. His weight. His eyes. The heatless pressure of his body anchoring you to the old wood floor until your resistance thinned, until your heart stopped trying to beat its way out of your ribs.
Until the panic passed. And you whisperedâtoo quiet, almost ashamed, ââŠokay.â
He didnât let go. He just stared at you. Watching every twitch of your face. Like he didnât trust your voice. Like he was still waiting for the part of you that wanted to fight to come crawling back. And maybe it would. But not tonight.
â
You donât know how long he held you there. Long enough that your muscles stopped twitching. Long enough that your eyes stopped darting to every shadow. Long enough for your bones to go soft. But not long enough for the fear to fade.
When he finally shifted off of you, the cold left your skin in a slow retreat, like the tide rolling back. He stoodâtall, silentâand pulled you up with him.
You snatched your hand away. But he took it again anyway. No force. Just persistence. Like your refusal didnât register as real. He walked you upstairs. His hand stayed wrapped around yours the whole time, thumb stroking the back of it softly. Too soft. Like affection. Like he was trying to soothe and comfort you after terrorizing you.
Your bedroom door opened without either of you touching it. He led you inside. âSleep,â he said, voice rough and dry, like wind dragging through a broken throat.
You shot him a look so sharp it couldâve slit his face open. âShut the fuck up,â you muttered, yanking your hand back for real this time.
He let it go. Let you walk to the bed alone, still watching you like you were a thing he was memorizing. Piece by piece. You sat down, slow and tense. Took one breath. And when you blinked, he was next to you.
You screamed.
You scrambled, half off the bed. âNo. God, noâyouâre not sleeping with me.â
He tilted his head, frown small. Confused. âNo?â
âNo.â
He didnât move. Just sat on the edge of the bed like a dog trying to decide if it was allowed on the couch. You glared at him, chest heaving, ready to snap againâwhen something caught your eye.
A scrap of dark lace, peeking out of his pocket. You reached forward and yanked it free. Your favorite pair. Black. Soft. Yours.
You stared. Eyes wide. Mouth open. âOh my god.â
He looked at them, then at you, and shrugged with the dullest hint of a smile. âYou looked nice in them.â
You stared. âYou are so sick.â
His shoulders barely moved. Not smug. Not apologetic. Just fact. âI like you.â
You didnât answer. Couldnât. Because if you said anything else, your brain might snap in half. So you pulled your legs up, stayed tucked in the corner of the bed, and didnât blink for a long time.
He didnât move. Just sat at the edge, staring out the dark window like he could see something no one else could. Every so often, he looked over his shoulder. Not to check if you were asleep. To make sure you were still there.
You stayed up all night. Because there was no way in hell you were falling asleep with him in the room. Not after everything. Not when you didnât know what heâd do next.
â
Morning came.
You didnât sleep. Just sat with your knees pulled to your chest, eyes locked on the shadow sitting at the edge of your bed like a child waiting for story time. He never laid down. Never closed his eyes. He just sat there. Watching. Breathing too slow. Like he had all the time in the world.
Light was slipping through the old curtains. You stared at it, then sighed. Loud. Dramatic. Defeated. âJesus Christ.â
You swung your legs over the bed. He stood the second you did. You rolled your eyes so hard it almost gave you a migraine.
He tilted his head. âWhere are you going?â
âCoffee,â you muttered, walking past him.
He followed. Of course he followed. You didnât look back. You didnât have to. His footsteps didnât even make soundâjust a shift in air behind you. A pressure. A weight. Like gravity bent differently around him.
The kitchen was cold, like always. You flicked on the coffeemaker and leaned on the counter while it gurgled to life. He stood across from you, eyes fixed, hands loose at his sides.
You stared at the floor. Then at him. Then sighed again. ââŠAre you dead?â
He didnât blink. âA little.â
You frowned. âWhat does that mean?â
He didnât answer. You rubbed your face with both hands. âOkay. Then what are you?â
âIâm not really a ghost.â
That was not helpful. âYou have a name?â
A pause. His voice shiftedâlower, more like your tone now. ââŠCaleb.â
You stared. âRight.â The coffee finished. You poured it into your mug. You blew on it. Took a sip. He watched your mouth when you drank.
ââŠHow long have you been watching me?â you asked, keeping your voice flat.
He moved a little closer. âSince the first night.â
âYou were touching my stuff before that.â
âI was waiting.â
You almost dropped the cup. You set it down instead, slow and deliberate, and crossed your arms. âAnd whatâyou just got obsessed?â
He blinked. âYou talk a lot. Even when you're alone.â
Your blood chilled.
âYou said, âI know Iâm not tripping.ââ He said it in your exact voice. âAnd âif I get possessed, I want hot ghost dick, not a damn demon.ââ
You stared at him. Jaw open. âNo fucking wayââ
He nodded, serious. âYou also said âThis house is freaky.â I liked that one.â His mouth twitchedâalmost a smile. He stepped forward, casual. âYou like quiet in the morning but not too quiet. You hum when you clean. You sleep curled up, but you always stretch out around three AM.â
You backed up a step. âAnd you get angry when youâre scared,â he said, voice soft now. âBut youâre still brave. Thatâs why I stayed.â
You stared at him. You didnât know what scared you moreâthat he knew you like thatâŠor that some part of you, the deep stupid part, felt seen.
But you werenât dumb. Terrified? Absolutely. But not dumb. Youâd been surviving long before he crawled out of the dark corners of this house. Men. Jobs. Family. You knew how to endure things you didnât ask for. You knew how to pretend to submit until you had a weapon in your hand. So while he talkedâwhile he repeated your words back to you like some kind of unholy Alexaâyou plotted.
You tilted your head. âOkay. Okay. Can you do something for me?â
He looked at you with that slow-blinking stare. âWhat?â
âStay still.â
He didnât answer. Just stood there, watching. You grabbed the salt shaker. Started pouring a circle around him, casual. Nonchalant. Like this was just your little morning ritual.
âI just wanna try something, alright? Stand still. Youâre not scared of salt, are you?â
No reply.
You finished the circle and stepped back. Watched him. Waited. For one blissful second, he didnât move.
Thenâhe lifted his foot and stepped right out of it. No hiss. No burn. No drama. Just one deliberate step. You stared at the broken circle. ââŠWhat the fuck?â
He took another step forward. You threw the coffee. It hit his chest with a wet splash. Steam bloomed between you. His eyes narrowedânot in pain. In offense.
The smell hit firstâburnt sugar and caramel and bitter vanilla, like someone spilled a latte straight into a house fire. He looked down at his soaked shirt. Then up at you. Not mad. Not quite. But colder than youâd ever seen him.
And then he started walking.
You stumbled back, fast. Hands up. âIf you hurt meâIâll kick your ghostly ass!â
He didnât stop. You turned to run. He was already in front of you. Your body slammed into his chest, hot and wet with coffee and heat and him, and you scrambled back with a gasp.
He grabbed your wrist tight. âNever,â he said, voice low, deep, calm in that dangerous way. âDo that again.â
You swallowed. Hard. Your voice came out small. âOkay.â
After the salt and the coffee. After the "Stay" and the "You looked nice in them". After everything got a little too real to keep pretending you werenât living with something that knew every breath you took.
He tried to make it up to you, in his own warped way. He took you to the part of the house he was tied to. Youâd expected chains, or bones, or some cursed artifact bullshit.
What you got was a half-rotted closet behind the basement stairs, lined with old wallpaper and lined with black mold where his name had been scratched into the plaster over and over and over again.
He stood there quietly. âI didnât hurt him,â he said, meaning the mailman. His voice didnât echo in the basement like it shouldâve. âI could have. But I didnât. I knew it would upset you.â
You didnât answer. Because you didnât know what was scarierâthat he couldâve killed him...or that he didnât, just to please you.
â
It was late morning when you finally said it. âI need groceries.â
He was sprawled sideways on your bed, barefoot, shirtless, still damp from that weird cold sweat that never seemed to dry. He didnât look up. âOrder them.â
You scowled, arms crossed. âThat costs too much. Iâm not paying twenty dollars for delivery just because youâve got stalking problems.â
That got his attention. He turned his head slow, like a wolf hearing a rabbit say something funny. âYou donât need to leave,â he said flatly.
You shrugged. âI do.â The silence between you stretched.
His voice dropped, low and even. âIf you donât come back, Iâll come get you.â
You looked at him hard. âIs that a threat?â
âNo,â he said. âItâll just be bad for you.â
Your stomach dropped. He meant it. You didnât know what bad meant, but you believed him. Still, you didnât relent. You just grabbed your bag, your keys, and left the house before he could try to hold your hand again.
The minute you were outâtruly outâyou could breathe. You still felt him. Not physically. Just that weird pressure at the back of your mind. That sense that something was watching the world through your skin. But it was quieter now. Quieter enough.
You took your time. But you didnât just go to the store. You went to the library. The dusty local one, with no cameras, no shared history on their shitty public computers.
You dug. Hard. And it didnât take long. Not with all the weird notes youâd kept: the salt failing, the breathing, the physical touch, the power he carried like it was woven into the bones of the house.
You found something. A creature. A spirit. A haunting. A possession in progress. Not a traditional ghost. Not a demon in the hellfire sense either. But something between. A poltergeist-class entityâa psychic-tethered being drawn to people, not places. Born from obsession. Fixation. Loneliness turned feral. A force that didnât just move thingsâit attached.
It latched.
It fed on attention and responded to defiance like a lover scorned. They didnât usually take form. Didnât usually speak. But when they didâThey didnât leave.
Your hands shook on the mouse. You read the list of signs again. Touch that feels colder than the room. Emotional mimicry. Repetition of speech patterns. Invasive familiarity. Physical binding through threats, gifts, or prolonged proximity.
And then you saw it. The warning at the bottom of the page: âIf it speaks your name, it may already see you as its possession.â You closed the tab. Heart in your throat.
You needed to go. You needed to go now. But when you turned around. You swore you saw the light above you flicker.
â
You tried to act normal at the store. Like you hadnât just uncovered a list of reasons why your life had turned into a psychological horror show.
You got your groceries. Coffee. Paper towels. Food that didnât come from a can. And copper. You werenât sure why, exactly. Just that everything youâd read hinted that it could help.
Salt hadnât worked. Iron hadnât either. But copper? Maybe. You had to try. By the time you got home, your hands were shaking againâbut you didnât let it show.
You pushed open the door. He was already there. Waiting. Sitting in your armchair like heâd been waiting hours. Long legs spread. One hand resting lazy on his thigh. Shirtless again.
Dark eyes tracking every twitch of your body. Smug. Quiet. He didnât say a word as you carried the bags in. You tried to stay calm. Set everything on the counter one by one. And then, he was behind you.
Arms wrapped low and slow around your waist, dragging you into him like a returning lover. You flinched hard, hands frozen mid-air.
His mouth brushed your ear. âCopper wonât help you.â
You went still.
His voice stayed calm. Almost amused. âNeither will silver bullets. Or sigils. Or that little charm you almost bought and shoved back on the shelf.â
Your throat dried out. He knew. Heâd seen. His hands started to move. One slid under your shirt, cool palm dragging up your ribs like he was checking how close heâd come to your bones.
His fingers caught the hem of your bra. Tugged. Just a bit. Just enough to make your breath catch. Then lower. His hand paused on your lower stomach, fingers pressed there. Flat. Possessive. Like he wasnât just touching youâhe was claiming space.
He leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. âI see everything you do. I feel you... I latched onto you the second you stepped inside this house. We're bound.â
You didnât move. You couldnât. His palm stayed pressed low and heavy. Like he was listening. Like your body was saying things even your mouth hadnât yet.
Your breath shook, but your voice didnât. âUnbind us.â
He blinked. Just once. Like youâd said something in another language.
âI want you out of me,â you said, louder this time. âOut of my body. My head. Whatever the fuck this is. End it.â
He didnât answer.Didnât blink again, either.Instead, he said calmly, âCome to bed.â
You stared. âNo.â
He tilted his head. âIâll tell you how.â
Your stomach dropped. You didnât know if he was bluffing, but if there was even a chance⊠you moved stiffly. Walked to the room. He followed close behind, always too close.
He was already on the bed when you turned around. Lying back. Long limbs spread, eyes dark. Like heâd been waiting for you for centuries. He patted the space beside him.
You hesitated, but you needed the answer. So you laid down, slow, tense. He didnât give you time to breathe. He turned you gently, too gently, onto your back. Slid between your legs. Your whole body locked up. You panicked. Your hands pressed against his chest, but he didnât push harder.
He just settled. Cold, heavy, and too calm. âItâs okay,â he murmured. âI wonât hurt you.â
You stared up at the ceiling, frozen. Your legs shook around his hips. âTell me,â you snapped, voice brittle. âHow do I end this?â
He hovered over you. âThe only way,â he whispered, âis if one of us dies.â
Your heart stopped.
âOrâŠâ He looked down at you. Face soft, loving, and so terrifying. ââŠone of us almost dies.â
Your throat dried. âThatâs bullshit.â
âI donât lie to you.â
Your jaw clenched. He started moving. Small. Subtle. Just his hipsâgrinding. Not hard. Not frantic. Just slowâlike instinct. Like he didnât even think about it.
You stiffened. âStop.â
He didnât.
You grabbed his shoulders. âYou're being weird.â
He leaned down. And for the first timeâHe tried to kiss you.
You turned your face. Bit down hard on his bottom lip. Hard enough to taste blood. Hard enough to hurt. He gasped, sharp, and then he shuddered. Not in pain. In pleasure.
His body jerked slightly, breath catching in his throat. And when you looked up at him, blood dripping from his lipâHis eyes were darker. Hunger blooming across his face like a sickness finally let loose. He licked the blood from his mouth and smiled.
You stared up at him. Blood on his lip. Your taste in his mouth. That smileâIt wasnât human. And it sure as hell wasnât love. It was possession. Triumphant. Hungry. Endless.
Your stomach twisted. âWhat,â you said, barely breathing, âis wrong with you?â
His hand slid up your side again. Slow. Gentle. Like you werenât shaking. Like you werenât flinching under him.
âYou want to be free,â he murmured, voice low and warm in a way that made your skin crawl. âBut thatâs not real. Weâre already part of each other. Youâd feel it, too⊠if you stopped fighting.â
Your hands went cold. Your throat closed. âThe only way out is if one of us dies.â You heard it again. It echoed in your skull like a curse. You didnât want to die. You didnât want him to die. You just wanted to be free. And he said there was no third option.
You panicked. âGet off me,â you choked. He didnât move. âGET. OFF.â You shoved him hard. Hard enough to surprise himâbut not enough to move him.
He blinked, lip still bleeding. Confused like a dog scolded for biting too hard. Thatâs when you kicked. Your knee caught his stomachânot that it did muchâbut it was enough to roll your body sideways and scramble out from under him.
You hit the floor running. Down the hall. Through the kitchen. âStopââ he called behind you, but you didnât. You reached the front door, yanked the lock. It tuned. You pulled. The door flew openâand then slammed shut so hard the wood cracked and the walls shuddered.
âNo,â you whispered. You spun, breath ragged, chest heavingâHe was there. Already. Standing in the middle of the hallway, that faint pink smear still drying on his lip, his chest rising with slow, controlled breath.
You stepped back.
He didnât move. âYouâre scared,â he said, softly. Not cruel. Not angry. âBut I didnât lie to you.â
You shook your head, tears starting to burn. âI donât want to die,â you whispered.
His jaw flexed. âYou donât have to.â
Your voice cracked. âBut Iâm not living like this either.â
He took one slow step forward. You bolted the other way. Back door. Bedroom window. The cellar, even. You didnât know where. You just knew that if you stoppedâif you hesitatedâhe would touch you again. He'd crawl deeper into your skin and youâd never get him out.
You didnât stop running until your legs burned and your lungs scraped the air like glass. Down the hall. Through the narrow kitchen. Straight to the basement door.
It stuck when you pulled it, like it always did. But this time you ripped it open.
The cold hit you like a slap.
You barreled down the creaking stairs, heart slamming, breath ragged. Your bare feet slapped the warped wood. Dust rose around you like ash.
You headed straight for the back closet. The one behind the old shelf. The one he showed you. The place he said he was tied to.
You shoved the shelf aside. Dropped to your knees.
And saw it.
The faded name. Scratched over and over into the drywall. His name. Caleb. Scrawled in deep gouges like heâd carved it with his fingernails.
You grabbed the salt. Poured it in a thick line over the letters, over the walls, around the frame. Your hands trembled. Salt stuck to your sweat-slick fingers.
You poured lighter fluid next. From the emergency kit youâd kept since day one. A flick of the match. The flame caught. The smell of burning paint hit your nose. Acrid. Thick. You stepped back, eyes wide, heart thudding. âBurn,â you whispered. âFucking burn." The fire licked the wall. Smoke rose.
And thenâIt snuffed out.
All at once. Like someone pressed two fingers over a candle wick. Gone. Just like that.
You blinked.
âNo.â
You lunged forward, trying to scrape more fluid into the grooves, but your hands were shaking too hard. You screamed. Kicked the wall. Hit it with your fists. Salt flew in the air like sand.
You grabbed the crowbar nearbyâsomething youâd brought down weeks ago âjust in caseââand smashed the wall.
Splinters flew. You tore into it. Ripped the drywall down, gasping, screaming like you could rip him out if you hit hard enough.
âThis is supposed to work!â you sobbed. You hit it again. âSalt, fire, nameâitâs supposed to fucking work!â Your voice cracked. You choked. You dropped the crowbar. Fell forward onto your knees. The plaster dust covered your skin. Your arms. Your lips. You leaned your head against the shredded wall and broke.
You didnât hear him come down the stairs. But you felt him behind you. Warm now.
He crouched low, close to your back. His voice came soft. âI told you. Iâm not like the others.â
You didnât look at him. You couldnât. Because if you did, youâd see that smile. That gentle, awful smile. The one that said this is forever.
You didnât move when he came close.
Didnât flinch when his hand touched the back of your head, gently brushing drywall dust from your hair like some fucked-up imitation of comfort.
Your hands curled into fists.
He knelt beside you, close enough to press his body to yours, and he did. Just his shoulder at first. Then his chest. Then his arms sliding around your waist like he belonged there.
You stared blankly at the wall youâd tried to destroy. Your voice came out small. Flat. âWhy me?â
He rested his chin on your shoulder. âBecause you were the first person to come here who didnât try to change the house.â
âThatâs it?â
âYou talk to yourself. You make brownies. You left your door open the first night.â
âThatâs psychotic.â
He chuckled. âYou were lonely.â
You swallowed thick. He pressed a kiss behind your ear. Cold lips. Soft. You didnât recoil. You were too done.
âKill me.â
His breath hitched.
You turned your face toward him, slow, eyes dead. âThatâs what it takes, right?â you whispered. âYou said death breaks the bond.â
He stiffened.
âDo it,â you said. âRip me out of myself. Kill me. End it.â
He didnât answer.
You grabbed the broken piece of crowbar youâd dropped. Held it up to your own throatânot deep, not cutting, but enough to feel the sting.
âIâll do it myself.â
His arms snapped around you so fast you gasped.
The tool hit the floor. Clanged once.
âStop,â he said, voice low. Ragged. âStop.â
You struggled. You thrashed. âIâd rather die than stay with you,â you spat. âIâm not your fucking doll.â
His grip tightened. âIâm not,â he said, breath shaky. âIâm not trying to hurt you.â
You screamed in his face. âYou already did!â
That broke something in you. In him.
â
He carried you upstairs. Didnât ask. Didnât wait. Just lifted you like a corpse and took you to your room while you kicked and hit and swore like a woman set on fire.
He laid you on the bed. You didnât fight anymore. You curled up on your side, face wet, eyes blank, shaking hard enough to rattle your teeth.
And stillâHe crawled in behind you. Spooned you. Pressed his chest to your back, draped one arm across your waist and buried his face in your neck like you hadnât just begged him to kill you.
His breath was warm now. His hand splayed over your stomach. He kissed your shoulder. âIâll keep you safe,â he murmured. âEven from yourself.â
You wanted to scream again. But you didnât. You just stared at the wall. You didnât sleep. But he held you all night like you belonged to him... because in his eyes you already did.
â
He was getting bolder.
He cooked for you now.
Food you never told him you liked, but he knew anyway. Eggs the way you liked them. Toast burnt just right. Coffee with your exact milk ratioâeven though the creamer was hidden behind cans in the back of the fridge.
He started dressing you.
Laid clothes out on the bed. Picked your pajamas. Ran your water before you asked. You stopped closing the door to changeâbecause if you did, heâd just phase through it. Said it âhurt himâ when you pretended he wasnât part of you.
He called you his. Whispered it in the dark, when you pretended to sleep. âMy girl. My skin. My soul.â
You stopped fighting out loud. Started smiling when you had to. Nodding. Saying thank you when he laid another lace nightgown on your pillow.
But inside? You were plotting.
You planned it down to the minute.
The pills were easyâsleep aids, old muscle relaxers, half a bottle of prescription stuff he hadnât noticed in the back of the medicine cabinet.
The timing had to be perfect. Between midnight and 4am, when he was the most quiet. When he started fading in and out. Half in this world, half somewhere else.
You filled the tub. Clothes on. Swallowed everything, slipped into the water, let your head rest back, and waited.
Everything slowed. Your heart. Your limbs. Your fear. And for the first time in weeksâYou felt alone. Peace crept in through the cracks like fog.
Thenâ
The scream tore through the house. Not yours. His. It split the air like a crack of thunder, yanked you from unconsciousness like a hook in your gut.
He was in the water before you even opened your eyesâarms around you, dragging you out like a lifeless doll, sobbing, furious, feral.
You gagged on air. Coughed.
He pressed your face to his neck. Rocked you. Shaking. âDonât everâdonât everâdonât ever leave me again.â
â
You didnât speak for two days after that.
But you knew it worked. Youâd felt it. Just for a momentâhe wasnât there. That was your way out. You just had to find a way to make it permanent.
â
He found you again by the window. Sitting on the floor. Legs crossed. Head resting on your knees. The sunlight made you look soft. Like you were peaceful. You werenât. You were done. And he knew it.
He crouched beside you, quiet for once. âYou hate me,â he said.
You didnât answer.
âI donât want to hurt you.â
Still nothing.
âI just donât want to be alone again.â
Your head turned slowly. âSo youâll keep me trapped for it?â
His eyes dropped. Like a kid caught lying. âNo. Not unless I have to.â
You stared at him. Let the silence bleed out between you.
His voice dropped lower. âIâll let you go.â
Your breath caught.
âIâll let you leave this house. Go wherever you want. Live. Work. Walk in the sun.â
Your pulse kicked up.
âButâŠâ And there it was. His eyes met yours. Dark. Serious. âYou bind to me fully.â
âNo,â you said, instantly.
He didnât stop. âI wonât touch anyone else. I wonât keep you here. You can live. Be happy. But Iâll be with you. Always. Wherever you go.â
âThen Iâm not free.â
âYou will be. Just⊠not with anyone else.â
You scowled. âNo guys?â
He nodded once. âNo men. No dates. No one else feeling you.â
âThatâs psychotic.â
âItâs love.â
âNo,â you said. âItâs obsession.â
He leaned in close, voice steady. âYou say that like I don't know that.â
The back and forth lasted hours. You yelled. You threatened. He just waited. Calm. Steady. Inhumanly patient. Every time you backed down, he sweetened the deal. A phone. A car. Your own space. Time away.
Freedom in every way except one... belonging.
That, he said, would always be his.
By nightfall, your voice was gone. Your hands were shaking and he was still there... waiting.
You sat on the edge of your bed. Eyes heavy. Body tired. Mind split down the middle. âOkay,â you said finally.
He blinked. Almost disbelieving.
You looked at him, hollow. âYou win.â
He stepped forward.
You flinched. âDonât.â
He stopped.
âIf Iâm yours,â you said, âitâs because Iâm choosing it. Not because you made me scared enough to beg.â
He nodded once. Then held out his hand. Palm up. Waiting. You stared at it and placed yours in it. His fingers curled around yours like a chain made of velvet.
A whisper slid into your mind. You didnât hear it with your ears. You felt it. Mine. Forever. Mine. And you smiled, soft and bitter. Because now? You were closer than ever.
You could move. You could breathe. You could leave. You just had to figure out how to burn him from the inside out when he wasn't looking.
â
You stepped out of the bathroom with steam still clinging to your skin, towel wrapped loose around your chest, hair damp and dripping down your spine.
He was on the bed. Waiting.
Propped on one elbow, watching you like heâd been doing it the entire hour you'd been inside, like he'd never blinked once. The lamp by the bed was the only light onâamber, low, like it was trying to be romantic instead of ominous as hell.
You met his stare in the mirror. âWhat, Casper the Friendly Perv?â
He didnât smile. Didnât tease. âItâs time.â
You blinked. âTime to sleep, yeah.â
His eyes didnât move. âTime for the ritual.â
Your stomach turned. You crossed your arms, keeping the towel snug. âThe one where you try to bury your soul in mine like a roach in a warm engine?â
Still no smile. Just calm, heavy hunger. âYou fasted yesterday. You soaked in the sun like I told you. You washed. Youâre ready.â
You snorted. âYou didnât tell me to do that. You guilt tripped me into it.â
He tilted his head slightly. âSemantics.â
You stood frozen in the soft light, heart starting to beat faster.
He sat up slowly. Let the covers fall from his chest. His skin looked warmer than usual. Almost human. But his eyesâhis eyes were not. He held out a hand. âCome here.â
You didnât move. But you didnât run either. â...What happens?â
His voice dropped low, like a breath curling under your ribs. âI mark you. You bleed. I take you. You let me. You say the vow.â
Your mouth went dry. âThatâs vague as hell.â
âI told you. Itâs not Satanic.â
âThen what is it?â
He smiled nowâjust a little. âMine.â
Your knees felt unsteady. Your fingers dug into the edge of the towel. âI swear,â you said, voice tight, âif you try anythingââ
âYouâll stop me,â he finished. Calm. Confident. Then his eyes darkened. âBut you wonât.â He opened his arms. The air in the room got thick. Warm. Buzzing. Like a storm was coming through the walls.
âCome here,â he said again, voice a command now. Velvet and iron.
You didnât even realize you were stepping forward until your feet touched the edge of the bed.
Your breath stuttered in your throat as you climbed onto the bed, towel tight in your fists. The air was thick enough to choke onâsweet and static-heavy, like charged honey on your tongue.
He sat back on his heels, watching you like a starving thing. His body solid, still, and too calm.
âLie down,â he said softly.
You hesitated.
He reached for the knot at your chest. âLet me.â
You didnât stop him.
The towel slid off your body like a skin being shed. You were left bare under the dim light, skin still wet in places, goosebumps racing up your thighs.
He stared like you were sacred. Like you were something heâd been starving for centuries to touch.
You laid back slowly, not trusting him, not trusting yourselfâbut needing to see this through.
His hands came next. Large. Calloused. Cold. But they warmed fast on your skin. One palm spread low across your belly. The other between your thighsâgentle, but not shy.
Your legs tensed.
âRelax,â he said, dragging his fingers lightly through your folds, slow and almost clinical. Like he was feeling for your soul under your skin.
âEasy for you to say,â you muttered.
He dipped one finger inside you.
You gasped. Your hips shiftedâbut he held you down with his other hand. Not hard. Just enough. He curled his finger slowly, watching your face.
Then added a second. You bit down on a sound, fists knotting in the sheets. He kept going until he felt you were relax.
âGood,â he whispered.
His thumb brushed your clitâlight, teasing, almost tender. Your legs twitched.
âYouâre ready,â he said, more to himself than you.
âFuck you,â you breathed.
He smiled. âIâm trying to.â
He bent down. Mouth hot where his fingers had been. Your breath caught, and for a secondâjust a secondâit didnât feel like fear.
It felt like drowning. His tongue traced slow, reverent circlesâevery flick laced with power, with something old and deep and binding. You could feel it working. Like your body was being rewired. Like the part of you that wanted to scream was being replaced with something... wanting.
Your back arched.
He groaned low into your skin. The sound vibrated through your hips, your thighs, your spine. You clawed at the sheets. At his shoulders.
He didnât sto, didnât speak. Just devoured. And when you moanedâsharp, involuntary, furiousâhe bit down. Just enough to draw blood.
Your breath hitched sharp as his teeth sank into your thighâjust above the joint, just enough to make your hips jerk.
âI know you didnât just bite me,â you gasped, voice cracking between your clenched teeth.
His mouth didnât lift. His tongue just lapped slow over the blood like honey. You tried to close your legs. He pried them back open.
âI told you,â he murmured, voice low and dark. âYouâre mine.â
âYeah?â you mocked. âThen act like it and make me cum before I set this whole ritual off.â
He groanedâsoft and ruinedâlike he loved that. His fingers returned. Deeper this time. Knuckles slipping in, crooked and confident, like he knew exactly how you fit.
And he did. Of course he did.
His tongue followedâhot and relentless. Lips dragging slick over your clit while his fingers pumped steady, curling with obscene precision.
Your body betrayed you fast. Too fast. Your hips bucked. Your hands grabbed his hair. You choked on a moan that wasnât supposed to exist.
âCaleb, donâtâahmâ you gasped, âdonâtâstopâmghnâ
He didnât stop. And your body snapped around him like it belonged to him. You came hard, with a full-body shudder that cracked through you like a fault line. And he stayed there. Mouth on you, fingers inside, holding you open like he was trying to feel your soul quake with him.
He kissed his way up your stomach while you were still shaking. Wiped your slick from his mouth with the back of his hand. Then reached for your thighs and dragged you toward him in one smooth, terrifying pull.
âYouâre so cuteâ he whispered.
Your head lolled back. âDonât you fuckingââ
But he was already between your legs. Not pressing in yet. Just looming. Heavy, hard, hungry. You barely caught your breath before his body caged yours completelyâlegs between yours, arms braced beside your head.
His hips dragged low against your pelvis. You felt the heat, the weight, the stretch about to happen. Still, your voice came out sharp. âDo you have a condom?â
He smiled slow, dark. âNo,â he said. âWhy would I?â
Your breath caught.
He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. "You think Iâm gonna let you walk around not knowing if I put something in you?â
You shivered. Your thighs pressed togetherâand he felt it. His voice dipped lower, possessive and thick with heat. âI can't get you pregnant.â
âBut I want to.â
That was it.
You didnât answer.
Couldnât.
Your legs fell open on instinct and your hands slid up to his shoulders just to feel something solid. He kissed you sloppy and deep. His tongue pushed into your mouth like it had a right to be there. Claiming. Like it already belonged.
And thenâhe pushed inside.
Your whole body arched. âFuck,â you gasped. He was thick. Deep. Too much all at once, like your pussy wasnât ready even though it was soaked for him.
He groaned into your mouth. âYou feel that?â
You noddedâbarely.
He started moving. Slow at first. Heavy. Dragging every inch of his cock out and sliding back in like he wanted you to memorize the shape of it.
He didnât shut up. âSo warm,â he murmured. âSo tight around me. Your pussyâs holding on like it knows who I am.â
You moaned, legs shaking. He kissed you againâsloppy, mouths messy, tongues wet. His hand came up, grabbed your breast, thumb brushing your nipple until it hardened under his palm. You squirmed and he grinned against your mouth.
âSensitive,â he said. He thrust hard, and you cried out.
Then he dropped the other hand and started rubbing your clit.
You screamed. Your nails scratched down his back. Your pussy clenched hard around him and he groaned like he loved itâlike heâd been starving for this.
He looked down at you. Eyes black, wide, and obsessed. âSay youâre mine,â he growled, hips hitting deeper now. You moaned again, broken. He rubbed your clit harder. âSay it.â
You gasped. âIâmghnmâ!â
âSay it.â
"I-I'm yours." Your walls squeezed around him again, and his hips slammed deep. You felt him everywhereâfilling you, thick and hard and perfect.
He kissed you hard again, tongue back in your mouth, hand working your clit until you were crying into him. âIâll make you cum on this dick,â he breathed, possessive.
âThen Iâm staying inside. All fucking night.â
He is relentless. His hips hit deep, thick cock grinding right against your sweet spot again and again while his fingers worked your clit like he was tuning you, playing your body like an instrument only he could understand.
You were unraveling. You didnât know if you were moaning or sobbingâyour voice cracked and your thighs trembled and your hands clawed at his shoulders like they were the only solid thing left. âPleaseââ you choked out, unsure if it was to stop or more.
He slowed for just a secondâjust enough to lean down and press his mouth to your ear. âYou gonna cum on my dick now?â
"Mhmm," you hummed, nodding blissfully.
âYou gonna cry for me again, sweetheart?â
You did. Right there. Your whole body locked up and you clenched so tight around him you saw white. You sobbed into his mouth as you came, hips grinding down desperately, wet and needy and shaking.
âFuckââ he growled, deep and pleased. âBeg for it again,â he said, still grinding. âI want to hear you beg.â
You gasped. âPleaseâpleaseâfuck, justâdonât stopââ
He didnât.
You were shaking. Sweaty. Sensitive. Tears clinging to your lashes. He never let upâhips still rolling into yours, cock dragging deep through your soaked pussy, one hand cupping your breast, the other still fucking rubbing your clit like he wanted you to scream again.
You were overstimulatedâon the edge of crying. But you were close again. So close it scared you. âI canâtââ you gasped, âtoo muchâfuck, Iâmâ
âHe held your hips down. âCum for me,â he growled. âCum again, let me feel it.â
You broke. Tears streaked down your cheeks as your walls clamped down tight around his dick. Your body shook so hard you thought youâd black out. You moaned his name, a sob choked in your throat as you came for the second timeâharder than before, wetter, messier, louder.
He didnât last after that. His mouth crushed yours, hips slamming deep and staying there as he groaned into your throat. You felt his cock twitch inside you, hot and full, thick ropes spilling out into your pussy. He kept grinding while he came, buried as deep as he could go, chanting your name like it was a prayer.
And thenâHeat bloomed across your stomach. You gasped. Right where his palm had pressed earlier, something lit up under your skinâfaint pink, glowing, a strange jagged spiral inked just beneath your belly button like a brand.
Your mouth parted, body still twitching from aftershocks. He leaned back, breathing hard, watching it pulse. âNow youâre really mine,â he whispered. âNow youâre bound."
Flash Cut 1:
Youâre on your stomach, hair frezzy, hands clawing at the sheets. Heâs got your hips lifted, pounding into you from behind. âLook at this pussy,â he groans, fingers spreading you so he can watch your folds wrap around him.
âAlready stretched for me.â
You moan so loud it bounces off the walls.
âYou feel that?â he says, one hand pressing over your stomach, right on the pink mark.
âThatâs mine now.â
Flash Cut 2:
Youâre bent over the bed.
Heâs still hard, thrusting into you while your cheek is flat against the matress, moaning helplessly. You reach back, try to push him awayâbut he grabs your wrist, slams it into the bed, and keeps going.
âYou think this is gonna stop?â he pants. âYou think Iâll ever be done with you?â
âSay it.â
âSay youâre mine.â
Flash Cut 3:
Youâre pressed up between the wall and his chest. One leg hooked over his arm, his dick driving up into you while your nails claw his back.
He licks your throat, bites your jaw. âYouâre gonna take every inch,â he says. âEven if I have to fuck it into your soul.â
â
You were limp. Tired. Soaked. Shaking. Your body felt split openâused, worshiped, ruined. And he⊠he was soft again.
Not his dickâhim. He kissed your jaw, your cheek, your temple. Cleaned between your legs with a warm, damp cloth, careful like he thought youâd break.
He murmured to you the whole time.
âYou did so good.â
âSo fucking good for me.â
He pulled you into his lap afterward, back against his chest, arms around your waistâright over the mark. You didnât speak. You were too tired. Too full. Too changed. But you felt it.
Something had shifted. And no matter what you told yourself before... you werenât leaving this house.