The One That Got Away - Sinister
|| Bughuul x f!Reader || Soulmate!AU || smut, pregnacy ||
|| Words: 24k || 18+ ONLY || Cross-posted on AO3 ||
You fucking get it, alright?
You know what happened in this house, the real estate agent was legally required to tell you the morbid affairs that transpired here just a little over ten years ago.
“Ah, so you’re the one living in the old Moore home?”
“I never thought someone would be… brave enough to move in there.”
“Don’t you feel icky, living in a house where four people were brutally murdered?”
“I don’t understand what would possess someone to move into a place like that.”
God, you’ve heard it all before, and you’re sick of it.
It’s not like you had any other choice. Well, you did, but you refused to live in an apartment or home with several strangers because the cost of living in Seattle was ridiculously high. Slobs, that stole your food, used your razors, and toothbrush without your knowledge. It made more sense to grab a cheap, quiet, large home, all for yourself.
The moment the real estate lady pulled up in front of the property, driveway big enough to fit six cars, large, lush front lawn and a private backyard shielded by a forest, you knew something was off. She knew your pathetic excuse for a budget, so why would she take the time to bring you here, to rub it in?
Pulling up, she said the house was owned by the bank, and had been on the market for close to a decade.
Inside, she pointed to the revamped, mostly opened living space, nice hardwood flooring, fresh coat of paint on the walls and white crown molding. A single-story home with an attic, four bedrooms, one bathroom and a complete en suite in the master’s bedroom.
The furniture belonged to the bank and, “If you chose to live here,” the real estate lady said, they’d take it all back. Honestly, you hadn’t bothered to get upset by the news, the furniture obviously stemmed from the 1990s, muted floral patterns and ugly as hell. They would not be missed.
You weren’t born yesterday, you knew, something was wrong with this place besides the lack of water pressure in the en suite shower – but your dad could easily fix that.
“What’s the catch?” You had bluntly asked the woman on the moldy, decaying backyard porch. The house ticked all your boxes, not too far away from the city, lots of privacy, en suite, modern appliances... So why was it a couple of hundred dollars under your measly budget?
The lady had made a face, sighing. “A family was killed here, ten years ago.”
Yea, that would do it. But people moved into homes where people were killed in all the time, this house should be no different, right?
“Why’s it still on the market?”
“A lot of visitors’ sense this… presence, when they walk inside.” You hadn’t felt any of that, maybe a bit chilly. “And when they find out what happened to those poor people, they –”
“– What happened to them?” Why had you asked? The answer eluded you to this day. The lady shifted uncomfortably, turning sickly as she had tried to find the words to describe the murders. “Never mind.” You add quickly, “I don’t want to know the details.”
That’s a lie, but you hadn’t been able to stand watching the nice real estate lady battle the obvious need to gag. You had guessed the killings were especially gruesome for her to react as such.
The immorality of moving into a house where a horrible homicide took place, was overshadowed by your desperate need for a cheap place of your own – without roommates.
Being the responsible daughter you were, that night, laying in a dingy motel room, you discussed the matter with your parents. You hadn’t looked up the details of the events that took place in the home, and asked your parents to not say a thing to you when they did do a brief google search. While your mother stomped down on the idea of moving in there right away, your father, bless his soul, didn’t mind the idea.
“Your uncle lives in a house where people died, he’s fine, we were fine the many times we stayed the night over. It’s your money, your life, and it’s a nice place, fits what you want. Go for it.”
Your mother then proceeded to yell at the both of you, but in the end, you ignored her.
You made a below asking price on the house, the bank accepted without much thought – you guessed they were just relieved to wash their hands from the place – and a week later, your things were packed in a mountain of boxes and you had your friends and family come over to help you move. Being the hero he is, your dad fixed the shoddy water pressure in your bathroom. The walls were repainted to your liking, decorated with whatever tickled your fancy at the time, the minimal furniture you owned set up in its rightful place.
And here you are now, months later, about to blow a casket if somebody mentions that damn house again.
During your lunch break, your coworkers sit alongside you, talking about nothing in particular, and it is during a brief moment of silence that one of your colleagues decide to ask: “Aren’t you curious, though?”
You raise a brow over the bowl of soup pressed to your lips. “I’m curious about a lot of shit, so you’re gonna have to be a little more specific.”
She rolls her eyes. “About the house, dummy.”
Eyes flutter close, deep breath entering your lungs as you try to push down the need to snap at her. “I’ve heard everything I need to know. I don’t need a visual with it.”
“I’m still traumatised after seeing those pictures.” Your work partner shutters, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “So much blood.”
“Well, that tends to happen when you’re sawed in half.”
Many, if not all of your coworkers groan, you included, now finished with your tomato soup. “Christ, Jess, we are eating!”
She doesn’t care, you know she doesn’t. You’ve worked closely with Jess for several months, she’s the first friend you made in this city and at this point, you know her like the back of your hand. The girl says what she thinks, not caring about how it affects those around her. It is a trait you like about her, mostly, when it doesn’t impact you directly, like now.
Turning back to you, she points to your phone. “You really should look it up. Then you’d finally understand why everyone avoids that house like the plague, and why they think you’re fucking mental.”
“I don’t give a shit what the Barbara’s of the world think, Jess.” You tell her truthfully, because you really don’t care. “I’m broke and don’t want roommates. That’s why I moved there. And you know what? I haven’t felt any of the weird sensations everyone keeps telling me about, no creepy little souls running across the hallway, nothing has terrorised me. I like it there, it’s my home.”
“You really don’t sense it?” Jess has come over a few times since the two of you got close, and every time she visits, she swears there’s someone else in the house.
“No.” That’s a lie. Lately, you are certain you’ve felt someone – or something – watching you. The feeling lingers in the air, or like an itch you can’t scratch, it’s bothersome while you think about it, but when your mind wanders somewhere else, you forget about it instantly. When you take the time to check inside each room, you find them empty of any other presence, and outside yields much of the same results. There is no one. You chalk it up to being paranoid, to have subconsciously let what people have said influence you.
Long after you’ve gotten back home, bags of groceries hanging off your arms, the conversation loiters in the back of your mind.
You are a curious person, you’d always been, so why not now?
Honestly, you're just scared you’ll realise you made a terrible mistake, not able to sleep comfortably at night and you’d be stuck living in a house you hate, regretting pouring your life savings into.
A few weeks later, when the feeling of being observed not only persists but intensifies, the curiosity finally gets the best of you. At least it’s a Thursday night where the Friday happens to be a national holiday, and if you end up having nightmares, you have three days to recuperate from your self-induced trauma.
Sitting in bed, back pressed against the headboard and laptop over your crossed legs, you open a new tab: Moore Family Murder, Seattle, April 2013.
The first thing that pops up is a news clip, a reporter standing in front of the Moore home, your home, yellow tape blocking the property, and gurneys topped with body bags. The reporter gives details you already know. The Moore family were found dead in their home in late afternoon, after colleagues and friends grew concerned when neither parent showed up for work several days in a row, the eldest daughter stopped contacting her friends and coming to school. What you didn't know - or extensively, at least - was that mother and father, both daughters dead, sliced from the top of their heads, down their faces, sternum, chest, separated at the groin area, youngest child and only son, twelve-year-old Carson, missing.
When you started, you couldn’t stop.
News report after new report, newspaper and online articles, photographs, interviews… it went on for hours. Long after the clock struck midnight, you still scroll through several pages on google search, until you stop, something catching your attention.
Clicking on the link, you are brought to a plain, white website with a video in the middle. Below it, are locations all across America, all over the world, home addresses and dates, some dating back to the early sixteenth century in Europe. Goosebumps litter your skin when you notice your address on the most recent part of the list. Seeing the paused, grave expression on the man’s face, your heart falls in the pit of your stomach, something screaming at you to both exit the site and to push on at the same time.
The man does not introduce himself, gets straight to the point.
He explains to the viewers, especially those with families, to never move into the houses listed below, the one that includes the house you are currently living in. As he speaks, pictures of each home, each family flash across the screen. The killings, are all linked, the man points out. Each murdered family previously lived in the house of another victim, said murders happening shortly after they moved into a new home, a child always ending up missing.
Sweat envelops your entire body, to a point where you have to throw the covers off your body and shrug off your sweater.
As he continues to speak, more homes, more screenshots of news coverages, more families, more missing children greet your eyes. By the time the timeline reaches the eighties, you’re shaking more than you ever have before, your heart pounds against your ribs with enough power to make you wince, each thump echoing in your skull.
And then, when you think you can’t possibly feel worse, your blood runs cold.
“There’s only ever been a single person who’s ever survived the pattern.” The timeline has reached the year of your birth, in the city you grew up in. The two-story house on your screen burned down just over ten years ago. You remember, because when it happened, you were sitting next to your dad in the living room as he watched the news, and the sudden change in his stance, the look he sent you, one you never understood. Kids used to avoid the area all together, rumors running wild across the city, reaching your sector, in the opposite end of town, saying that some bad energy lingered behind from the events that transpired there. A family, two parents that look vaguely familiar to you, three young boys and a baby in the mother’s arms. The second-eldest boy’s face appears, missing, and next to it, a picture of the infant, an infant that you recognise.
That little girl, you would recognise her anywhere.
“This baby was found by a neighbour the day after the killing, crying in the family’s locked car. I have yet to find the whereabouts of the girl, but from the records I dug up, I know she was adopted.”
Pausing the video, turning on the side lamp on the nightstand and flying out of bed, you yank the closet doors open to retrieve one of your many photo albums. Your vision blurs with unshed tears as you pull the album from the top self, lips quivering and breaths coming out in ragged, scattered huffs.
Knowing your legs are about to give out from under you any second, you fall on the edge of your bed, staring, utterly terrified at the static object in your hands. You already know the answer you will get once you open it, but you need confirmation where doubt still festers to the surface.
Inhaling deeply, you try and kid yourself into a false bravado, squaring your shoulders and blinking the tears away.
You’re about to be sick, light-headed and drenched in nervous sweat.
As soon as you turn the cover over, you shove the whole thing away, muffling a scream through cupped hands.
On the ground, are pictures of you at no earlier date than four months old, the child on your screen an identical match.
Your mind reels a thousand miles a second. You’re confused, scared, thinking about every single time your younger sister teased you about looking so different from the rest of your family, and your parents defending your place alongside them with way too much passion. Every time someone pointed out the colour of your eyes, the shade of your skin, and how it just didn’t quite match your father, your mother, your older brother or your sister comes to mind, the subtle comments your grandparents made over the years.
Suddenly, it all makes sense now.
You’re so different from your family, because they aren’t your real family. You belong with the people on your paused screen, with the same type of hair as yours, same smile, same everything, brutally killed by the middle boy, ten-year-old Alexander, your real brother.
You stumble back in the corner of your room, sobs tearing at your throat.
“She may have survived, but that infant is an exception. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you can escape the same fate as the others.” You haven’t moved an inch from your spot, and yet, the video starts back up all on its own. “And, just like the rest of them, I don’t doubt that Bughuul will come for her one day.”
Your hands move on their own and reach the roots of your hair, yanking hard, strangling cries filling the silence of your home. Your home where a family was killed, influenced by Bughuul, the same thing – deity who manipulated your biological brother, and killed your entire family. In a home where Bughuul was destined to return to should anyone move in.
“What ever you do, DO NOT move into these houses. If you live in a house that isn’t on the list, and you see this symbol, or you find a box of old Super 8 films, DO NOT watch them. And if you already have done one or both…” The man shutters, almost painfully. “Then I’m sorry.”
You don’t know what possesses you to turn your head and look outside, but you do. And in a single moment, you know your life has ended.
In the darkness of the night, in the middle of your backyard, is a man. You can see, despite the lack of light, the absence of any prominent facial features. Only black, upwards strokes of smudge where eyes should be.
You stand frozen, eyes widen in absolute devastating horror, unable to look away. Because if you do, you’re petrified that he – It, won’t be there anymore, that It’ll somehow end up materialising at your side and killing you instantly.
This… thing, must be what you have been sensing watching you all this time. Stalking you as his prey, like wolves do sheep, waiting for the perfect time, the moment you are at your weakest, to finally claim the soul that was never meant to be alive.
You don’t want to die, you’re not ready to die, dammit! You just started to live!
Stepping forward, crying so hard your shoulders wreck, you make sure to never break eye contact with the deity as you lock the window. In your paralysed, scared-shitless trance, you don’t stop to think that a locked window is completely useless to a fucking deity that eats children after convincing them to kill their entire family.
Luck seems to be on your side, because you kept your sweatpants on, sweatpants with pockets, pockets where your phone currently sits in.
Without looking, you manage to unlock your phone thanks to facial recognition, and open your calling app. Now, the only thing you need to do is dial the police.
Realistically, there’s nothing the police can do against a being of higher power. But what they can do, is report your disappearance to your parents – adoptive parents – and it will alert the man in the video that this thing has come to claim you once and for all. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll scare the deity away and you will get to live another day.
To call the police, you need to look away from the man standing, looming ominously in your backyard, head slowly falling to the side, as if daring you to try and find some help, mocking your pathetic attempt at survival.
You can’t see much through the endless barrage of tears, wailing so loud you might as well be yelling.
You’re scared. And you wonder if this is how all of his victims felt in their last moments on this earth, when they were being brutalised by someone they loved dearly.
It has to be now. You have to at least try!
So, you look away, dialing 911 in less then a second, only to look back outside to find the expense of your yard vacant of a presence. Sinking to the floor, you back away into the corner of the wall, settling your gaze on your bedroom door.
“911 What’s your emergency?” You don’t register the man’s voice on the other end, hand back over your mouth to muffle the sounds of your heaving, concentrating on the door. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
“Something-one is going to kill me.” The sound of your voice can only be described as shrill, high-pitch and broken, despite it being lowly hissed through the receiver. “I don’t want to die.”
“Someone is trying to kill you?”
“What’s your location, so I can send someone right away.” Though fried, your brain manages to conjure up the appropriate reply for the operator. “The police are on their way, ma’am, five minutes out. In the meantime, I need you to stay on the line for me, can you do that?”
“That’s too long…” You seethe through gritted teeth, empty hand going back to pull your hair. “I’ll be dead. God, I’m going to fucking die!”
In the grand scheme of things, five minutes isn’t that long at all, but when your life is on the line, every second that passes feels like an eternity, every second that passes means you are one step closer to taking your last breath.
The operator tries to sooth you, key word: tries. You can barely make out what he says, and even less answer his questions. He asks you your name, if you’ve always lived in Seattle, what you do for a living, asks you to try and give an accurate description of the person trying to kill you. You’re not sure if you’re even replying to him.
The small lamp at your bedside flickers, casting your room in tiny beats of darkness.
Your cries heighten in pitch, probably destroying the man’s hearing. “I don’t want to die! Please!”
“Ma’am. Ma’am, I need you to talk to me, alright? What’s going on?”
The words that come out of your mouth are barely coherent, a babbled mess of syllables slipping pass your sobbing cries.
“The police are two minutes out, Ma’am, hang tight.”
Feels like you’ve been cowering, bawling your eyes out in a ball in the corner of your room for hours, the light flickering more and more vigorously for just about the same amount of time.
As if this thing knows the police are close, the opened closet doors shut with a bang and re-open on and endless loop. The doorknob of your bedroom, the door itself, start to rattle, and the only thing you can do is scream. Your focus stays transfixed on the door, the handle that won’t stop shaking and turning left to right, mind going back to the figure that stood in your back lawn.
Right as the deity’s face comes to mind, it is as if you gave him an open invitation to your thoughts.
Something, someone, a voice echoes in the depths of your mind, phone dropping to the floor instantly. Faintly, you register the operator calling your name, asking you to keep talking, to tell what’s going on. But the palms of your hands press over your ears, nails dig in your scalp, head shaking furiously as you try to shake out the voice in your head that grows in strength with each second that ticks on.
Mine. The gravely, rough voice keeps chanting.
And you know who has invaded your brain.
Him. Bughuul. The eater of children.
Then, everything stops, time itself freezes. The lamp shuts off completely, the closet doors stay wide open, the phone grows static at your side and the doorknob stops moving.
It is this utter silence and total darkness – save for the shine of the moon on your door – that quiets your voice, levels of terror so high your nerve endings are shot, limbs so heavy they fall limply at your side. The only thing you hear is the crackling of the discarded phone a foot away and the pounding of your heart between your ears. You’ve gone into shock, a catatonic state as you wait.
The doorknob creaks as it turns. You want to scream, because you know what is behind the door, but your body has failed you, has accepted its fate, leaving you to silently sit in a ball in the corner of your room, mind shouting at you to get out of there, to tell the operator that your maker has reached you, and to tell him to tell you parents that, despite having forwent mentioning to you the fact that you are adopted, you love them more than life itself.
Straight out of a movie scene, your bedroom door opens tentatively on its own, your eyes shooting straight to the figure in the frame.
Up close, the deity is levels far beyond terrifying. It’s massive, top of its head hidden pass the top of your door, large, broad shoulders that’d make any man jealous. The suit It adorns is typical, black with a white dress shirt under, though dirtied and worn. And his skin, you don’t think you’ve ever seen someone so pale, white and ghoulish, stained with specs of darkness.
A whimper escapes your clog throat, its head cocking once again to the side at the noise you just made.
Black, endless pits of nothing reside where eyes should be, a subtle gleam of red catching its depths through the moonlight that graces its face. They dig straight into your soul, scrounging up every inch of fear your body can and has ever possessed to the surface, sinking its claws in your humanity.
From a distance, the police sirens that are no doubt heading this way, can be heard.
And that makes Bughuul take a slow step forward.
As he enters your room, though your eyes are solely trained on him – It, you swear you can make out other, smaller beings hovering behind him in the hallway.
You’re going to die, there’s nothing you can do now, but pitifully cry on your bedroom floor.
“Please!” And just like that, your voice returns to you fully, you come back to your senses and scream louder than your ever have in your life. In these last seconds before you leave this earth, you make a silly attempt to persuade a demonic God to spare your life, though you know it won’t. “I never asked for this!”
It lacks a mouth, just like its eyes. Where his mouth should be is a sunken, discoloured patch of brownish-black, strips of white flesh peppered through, making it seem like he once had a mouth there, but it was stitched shut. The small, upturn nose – the only feature It distinctively owns – twitches at your pleas.
It moves forward, the red and blue police lights illuminating the hallway, and the handful of pale, cracked-skinned children.
Mine. It repeats again in your head.
You hear the police at your front door, knocking loudly and asking you to open up. But all you can do is scream for help, plead them as you stare at the deity to come save you.
Bughuul doesn’t like that. The suspended atmosphere of the room shatters, becoming heavy, hostile, and you know you’ve just signed your death warrant. It walks to you slowly, without stopping to observe you this time, until it stands right at your feet, peering down at you, volatile, sending you all its hostility though the lack of eyes. You’re screeching and sobbing, backing away from the figure by pressing as much as you can of yourself into the wall. There’s nowhere else to go, less than an inch separating the both of you. Even if you try to make a break for the exit, or windows, the deity can simply bend down and snap your neck in half before you have the chance to get to your feet.
The deity crouches to your level – mostly, still a couple heads taller than you.
“Please.” You whimper lowly, breathless, trembling hands still stuck over your ears. It doesn’t reply, simply keeps its focus on you. The banging and shouting at your front entrance persist. “I’m not ready to die.”
You can see his brow bone flick downwards for a moment through your adjusted eyesight to the darkness. It appears confused.
You don’t have time to dwell on the thought, as his arm moves from its side, massive hand reaching towards you. And that makes more ear-splitting screams erupt from your lungs. You lower your head to your chest, turning yourself into a ball, weeping, begging for It to stop.
“Police! Freeze!” Flashlights light up your room, shinning over your cowering frame, swarming the room with their guns pointing at every corner of the space.
You don’t dare to look up, continuing to breakdown in your own little bubble, afraid that if you look up, you’ll find that it is all a dream.
“We found her! She’s here!” A voice shouts from your side, drowned out by the heels of your palms covering your hearing and the ear-splitting wails. “Miss? Miss, you’re alright now.”
Something touches your knee, making your head shoot up.
In front of you, is a middle-aged man in a police uniform, worry prominent on his features, lips pulled in a tight line and brow down in a frown, creating a shadow over his eyes.
You don’t understand. Nothing makes sense. You’re alive, the four men pointing their lights at your quivering form proof enough. But what you don’t get is the absence of the deity.
When you’re helped to your feet, you finally get it.
The window you previously locked, is open.
Surprisingly enough, for a Thursday night leading to a long weekend – or Friday morning, really – the police station is pretty vacant. Besides a few drunks and a coked-up prostitute, there’s no one else.
The police are relentless with their questioning. Who, what, when, where, why? You don’t have answers for the most of them, but you try your best to answer through your scrambled, traumatised brain, without sounding like a total lunatic. Instead of mentioning a deity as your attacker, you describe Bughuul as a tall man with pitch black, stringy hair that hover just pass his shoulders, black eyes, pale skin and a large mouth. It's essentially what he is.
The police note down everything, ask if you’ve seen this man before, and you reply that you’ve only felt like you have been watched for the past couple of months. You don’t have any enemies and you have no clue who could have done this.
While you give your statement, a few other police cars reached your house, and searched the premises, including the forest behind your house and the attic you’ve never used. And when it's all said and done, the morning crew begin their day, the sun is out and people around rising from their slumber and enjoying breakfast.
The man who reached you first, asks if you feel comfortable returning home or if you’d rather stay in a hotel until the police finish their search. Of course, you chose the hotel, you need to tell your parents what happened, what you discovered, and an email needs to be sent to the man from that video. At this point, he’s your only hope.
At nine in the morning, the police officer escorts you home, shielding you from the priding, judgemental gaze of your neighbours – as if they knew this was bound to happen – never leaving your side as you pack a bag with your laptop, chargers and a few toiletries.
His partner escorts you to a nearby motel, the same one you rented when you first searched for homes in the area, the police officer driving your car as you’re too drained, too unstable to do anything else but stare into the nothing.
You swear, as you drive away, that you can see Bughuul in the window of your living room, children at his side…
You check in, and as soon as you’re left alone – the police officer has your number and promises to call you as soon as he gets the all clear, and gives you his personal number if that man comes back – you take the desk chair and shove it under the door handle, plug your laptop and sit in the corner of your room.
You’re running on fumes at this point, but time is of the essence.
The first thing you do is send an email to the man from the video. You tell him who you are, where you moved into, and what went down last night. At the bottom, you put your phone number and implore him to call you as soon as possible, to come save you. You don’t have much time left.
Then, the hard part comes, and you need to call your parents.
Your mother picks up on the third ring, voice a little groggy from sleep.
You sound exhausted, utterly broken, which you are, the tone of your voice reflecting perfectly the state of your being.
“Sweetie? Are you ok, what’s wrong?”
Having been awake for more than an entire day, having cried your entire body weight, though you want to cry some more, to scream, you have nothing left to give but a shaky breath. You tell her some strange man entered your home last night, tried to kill you. You purposefully avoid the discoveries you made about your origins, and this new world of higher beings and murders and patterns.
She freaks out, making sure to let both you and your father have it, saying that she knew that house was bad news. Just as distraught as your mother, your dad tells you he’s booked plane tickets to come see you, and that they’ll arrive in the evening.
“Stay in the hotel room, and don’t open the door for anyone, do you hear me?” Your dad mutters as he shoves things in a bag. “I’ll call you when we land. Don’t worry about coming to pick us up, we’ll grab a cab and head to you. I love you, sweet pea.”
You choke, nodding even if he can’t see it. “Ok. I love you too, pops.”
They have to leave right away, so they end the call and you’re back to your own devices, to your thoughts, to mull over the horrors you experienced, and the horrors that are yet to come.
“She’s all grown up.” Alexander states dully from his place at the window, watching his baby sister drive away into the distance. Bughuul moves as soon as she is out of sight, disappearing in the dark without giving another order, leaving the children to their own devices until he needs them once again.
“That tends to happen when you’ve been alive for more than twenty years.” Milo mutters, trudging across the living room to take a seat on the cream couch.
Alexander huffs. “Last time I saw her, she was three months old. I knew who she was with just one glance, but I almost didn’t recognise her. She looks like mother and Christian.”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t remember families other than my own.”
“I still don’t get how we never found her that night, how she lived.” Danielle muses from the kitchen, playing on her yellow raincoat. “We searched everywhere.”
“Or why He let her live again tonight.” Peter adds as he and Emma sit on either side of Milo.
The leader shrugs, keeping his glance on Alexander. “We know better than to question him.” He reminds them. “How are you feeling, seeing your little sister, X?”
Alexander shifts, blinking without showing any emotions.
“I don’t feel anything.” He answers truthfully, because he really doesn’t. Seeing the woman, who resembles someone he once called ‘mother’, did not tug at his heart strings, or whatever had replaced the muscle when Bughuul brought him to his realm. No part of him yearns to turn back time and come back to life, or made him regret the things he did. He doesn’t feel the need to get to know the person he once thought more beautiful than sunshine, the person he had lovingly held in his arms and fed.
At least, that’s what he’d like to make himself believe.
“Though, I wonder why my fate was different than the Collin boy who failed to kill his family back in 2015. Shouldn’t I be dead?”
“You are dead.” Emma teases.
“You know what I mean.” Alexander rolls his eyes, finally moving away from the window.
Little Ashley skips to his side; hands deep in her apron pockets. “Maybe He likes her.”
Your phone rings, snapping you away from your thoughts. An unknown number is calling you. You pause, swallowing before you answer. “Hello?”
You make sure to keep your gaze locked on the door.
The voice sounds distinctively like the one from the video, this is the man that shattered your world in half. It isn’t lost on you, that he uses your original last name, not the one you signed the email with, not the one that was changed for your new birth certificate. Somehow, you don’t hate it, nor are you bothered.
“You know you’re going to have to go back to that house, right? At least, until I get there.” The man then clears his throat and introduces himself as So-an-So, like an afterthought. He clearly has just about left in him as you do, which isn’t much. Tired and burdened, you can only imagine the horrors he’s seen through the years.
“I know, I–” The words are lost on your tongue as you try to figure out your game plan. You know you can’t stay in this dingy motel room, that’s how the pattern spreads, that’s how you die. But the issue with that logic, was that as soon as you were adopted, you technically moved into a new home, the cycle should have continued, but it didn’t. Your world fell apart only when you moved into a home where one of the murders previously took place. Not after moving away from one. Basically, you went against the pattern. “I just need more time to wrap my head around what happened, and the fact that I’m adopted.”
“I watched your video online and saw the baby picture you used; it looks exactly like the earliest photographs of myself that I have. I knew instantly that the child was me.”
You hear the man sigh; you can tell he pities you. “I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”
“Better than never figuring out and not understanding why a man appears in my house to eat my soul.”
“I know. Bughuul, the eater of children, a fucking demon.” A strain silence follows your biting quip. You feel bad for snapping at him, but you’re tired, nearly got your soul sucked out of you, found out your true identity, you knew that he knew you watched his video. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”
He brushes off your apologies. “Don’t worry, meeting Bughuul will do that to a person.”
That makes your back stiffen, grasp on your phone tightening. “You’ve encountered him before.”
It’s a statement, not a question.
“Once or twice.” You say nothing, hoping So-and-So will elaborate. “I’ve been going across the country for years, burning down houses he’s previously occupied. Let’s just say we aren’t on good terms.”
Swearing under your breath, you pass a hand across your face, wondering if you’ve reached out to a complete fucking crazy person for a sliver of help. However, you realise that he’s alive, just like you are, even after having direct contact with the Pegan deity. When you ask him about this, he tells you how it all started.
Famous author Ellison Oswald, helping him with a case that took place in his hometown, finding out what was really going on. Then learning of Oswald’s death, which kick-started his quest to bring Bughuul down. Since 2012, So-and-So has left his deputy life behind, deciding to live off the backseat of his car, driving from coast-to-coast, destroying as many homes as he can get his hands on, essentially becoming a criminal, a serial arsonist. His girlfriend and her son once survived a Bughuul attack, but met the same fate as everyone else a few months later when they moved back into their old home. Since then, So-an-So has been on his own, doing America a great service from the shadows.
It’s a sad tale. And the fact that he continues helping others despite the atrocities he’s faced, makes you respect and appreciate this insane man even more.
“Why didn’t It kill me and the people that took me in after I was adopted? Why wait until now, why only me?” You finally ask, hoping, praying, So-and-So has an answer to your inquiry.
You hear some shuffling in the background, sounding loud against the silent backdrop of your conversation and your room. “That… I still haven’t figured out yet. I’ve been in contact with multiple experts, a few in particular, who specialise in occultist crimes. I’m still waiting on a reply from them. Your case, I’m sorry, but it makes no sense.”
Your lip quivers, a fog of tears clouding your vision.
The one person in the world who can help you, can’t, and you find yourself devastated, abandoning all hope of seeing it passed your next birthday.
“It’s just…” You curse under your breath, holding back a sob. “I thought…”
“If it makes you feel better, I just finished dealing with a house in Iowa. Heading to Seattle won’t take me more than three days.” It doesn’t. It only lets you know that help – though you can’t really call it help when your fate is sealed – is three whole days away, and in the meantime, you have to sit through an awful conversation with your folks and return to the house you most definitely regret buying now.
A motor starts, So-and-so probably getting into his car and heading straight for you. “While I wait for Professor Stomberg to get back to me, I need you to answer a few things, alright? God, I’m so sorry you have to live through this.”
You tell him you appreciate the sentiment, and while you aren’t excited to recount what happened in the early hours of the morning, you don’t have any choice in the matter, especially since it links directly to your chances of survival. He starts off by asking if you’ve seen snakes or scorpions in your house. According to him, those are two of his earthly symbols, signifying his invasion of a home. Omens, he clarifies. You have not, if you had, you best believe an exterminator would have been called and you wouldn’t have spent months sleeping in that house.
Then he follows up by asking if you felt someone in the home, heard things in the middle of the night.
You hadn’t, besides the persistent sensation of being watched.
“Come across a box of Super 8 tapes and a camera?”
“Neither, but I’ve never even checked the attic.” The both of you come to a consensus that the attic would remain untouched, extra storage space or checking ‘just in case’, wasn’t worth the risk.
You frown, teeth biting on your inner cheek. “Symbol? What symbol?”
“I thought you said you watched my video. In it, I show Bughuul’s symbol.”
After seeing your baby picture on the screen, you had paused the video, then proceeded to have a meltdown. The video did start up without your doing, but you had zoned out by then, and hadn’t paid attention to the rest. “By the time you reached that part of the video, I had direct eye contact with that thing. I was kind of preoccupied with that, sorry.”
“Don’t sweat it. I’ll send you a picture.”
“You sure you should text and drive?”
He scoffs. “Texting and driving are the least of my concerns.” A minute later, you get the notification of a new text, and once again, as you stare at your screen, your life crumbles even more than you ever thought possible considering your circumstances.
“(L/N)?” So-and-So calls when you dissolve into a million pieces, not bothering to keep an eye on the front door as you see no purpose in salvaging your life.
Letting your body fall sideways across the wall and on to the floor, you wail as you watch the birthmark at the base of your thumb, about three centimeters in length and two in width, a muddled version of the one on your screen.
Suddenly, you are disgusted, afraid of yourself. The connection between you and this Demon growing exponentially.
“Miss (L/N)!” So-an-so stresses loudly, panic-stricken. “What the hell is going on!?”
“The mark,” you whisper as tears run the side of your face, fingers dragging over what feels like a branding. “I have the exact symbol as a birthmark.”
“I HAVE THE SAME FUCKING MARK ON MY HAND! THE SAME, EXACT, ONE!” You can’t breathe, fingers clawing at your throat. Every exhale comes in rapid puffs, barely any air entering your lungs as you’re too quick to expel the small amount you manage to take in.
How, you wonder, has your life gone to shit so quickly?
Twenty-four hours ago, you’d blissfully lived a life of perpetual obliviousness, sheltered by stubbornness to not get into the fucked-up shit that surrounds your new place of residence. This is your punishment for ignoring the signs, for not listening to your mother who tends to always be right in the end, for valuing solitude over your morals.
“WHAT DOES IT MEAN? WHY DO I – FUCK!”
“I don’t know, miss. I really don’t know. But it might explain why you survived, why you don’t fit the pattern.”
You let the phone drop on the ground, feeling the life drain out of you before Bughuul even has the chance to get his hands on you. No hope is left as you accept your fate. Maybe you should put yourself out of your misery and return to the house, call out for Bughuul or his army of soulless children to make it all stop. You’ve been dealing with this for less than a day, and you’ve already given up.
“You can’t give up, Miss (L/N).” You must be mumbling your tragic thoughts out loud.
“(Y/N)” You whisper. Your birth name, just like your original last name, sounds more appealing, feels better on the tip of your tongue than the one you’ve been addressed as for your entire life. It feels… right. “Might as well call me by my real name.”
The conversation stalls from there, neither you nor the ex-deputy knowing what to say. He stays on the line though, to make sure you stay alive until either your parents or police station calls, listening to your whimpers as you sniffle, not bothering to wipe any of the snot and tears from your face.
You don’t care about making a fool of yourself in front of So-and-So, or the police, or your parents; all three groups having seen you at your worst.
It comforts you, in a way, having spoken with So-and-So, because at least one person will know the truth behind – what you don’t doubt will be – the odd, unexplainable circumstances of your disappearance. It comforts you, that before you die, you will get to see your parents one last time, let them know that even though you feel utterly betrayed by your findings, you love them and your older brother Benjamin and your younger sister Katie deeply. It comforts you, that while you deeply hate cops for their less-than-ethical methods of dealing with crimes and the deep-rooted corruption, they did everything humanly possible to assure your safety.
Just pass three in the afternoon, you get another call, and it’s time to say goodbye to your new friend So-and-So. He’s reluctant to hang up, but you assure you'll keep him updated on everything that is said and done, every action you take.
At this point, he knows you have nothing left to lose, so he lets you go and promises to call you when this occult professor sends word.
The policeman who stayed with you through the night and well into the morning informs you that they scoured the woods through-and-through, unsurprisingly to you, coming up empty. Neighbours were interrogated, and besides hearing you scream last night, no one saw or heard anything out of the ordinary or a man that matched the description you gave the police.
Of course, they wouldn’t find anything, or anyone, Bughuul and the children only showing themselves to his victims. A part of you had naively remained hopefully someone had, but you knew they wouldn’t unless they were as dumb as you and decided to move into the house.
The man on the other end of the line asks if you plan on returning home. You firmly state that you will wait for your parents to touch down on soil until you move a muscle from your spot on the ground.
That makes him chuckle sadly, as he can only imagine your state right now.
If only he knew the true gravity of it all… but you don’t wish your fate on anyone.
“Would you like me to stop by? Do I need to stop by?”
Even if he does, you have neither the energy nor courage to get up and open the door if he did, too scared that the Pegan deity shows himself at your doorstep instead.
“I’ll be fine, officer.” You try to reassure, though the lack of life and spunk in your voice makes you unconvincing. “It’s not like I’ll be moving anytime soon.”
“Very well. Be careful, alright Miss?”
“I will.” You muster, knowing this will be the last time you speak to the nice man, knowing that the next time he hears about you, you will be long gone from this world.
Then, it is only a matter of waiting.
You honestly have no idea how much time passes between your last call and waiting for your parents to make their own. You just fixate on a stain on the gross carpet you’re laying on, letting your thoughts go empty as the adrenaline from today’s events rapidly seep out of you. You can’t produce a single thought, move a single muscle, as anything other than numbly staring into space requires too much energy for your worn-out state. Without you noticing, your pointer has not stopped stroking the birthmark below your thumb, a mark that garnered a lot of attention throughout the years.
To think that, once upon a time, you saw it as cool.
Despite being far pass your limit, your subconscious battles to keep you from shutting your eyes, knowing, deep inside, that once you let go completely and succumb to your weariness, you’ll end up face-to-face with the being that has shaken you to your very core.
The sun begins to set, and thankfully, you had turned on the lights when you first entered, before plopping your ass on the ground. You’d probably have another panic-attack if the room went dark.
Your phone rings. It takes everything you have to press the little green button on your screen, a picture of your father staring back at you.
“We’re on our way to you, ten minutes out.” Hearing the warmth of his voice softens the shakes that have wracked your body for hours now, its effect similar to a comfort blanket placed on your shoulders.
“Ok…” You breathe, eyes growing heavy.
“Talk to me, hun. Tell me how you’re feeling.” Your mother chimes in this sickly-sweet tone she’s used every single time you or your siblings got sick, or got depressed.
But you don’t know how you feel – drained mostly, you tell her – nothing makes sense to you anymore, and you don’t want to make it clear either. Now, you just want to get this whole thing over and done with.
During the time it takes them to ride a taxi to you, your mouth moves on autopilot, answering your parents, your brain not even registering what is being said from either side. “When we get to your door, your mom will do that little knock she used to do when you guys were young.”
It’s smart, and just a tad over-the-top, but it only shows how intelligent and diligent your father is. Only five people know that knock, even the deity wouldn’t know it if by some miracle, it eavesdrops on your conversation right now, easily identifiable to you. That notion wells up a bought of bravery to surge through you, one that was snuffed out the moment that monster hovered in your door frame.
You can hear your parents muttering something to the driver, doors slamming shut, ringing from your device and from outside. “We’re coming up the stairs.”
For the first time in hours, you move from your spot. You sigh in relief when you find your room empty.
Then, the knock you grew up hearing echoes, two, two, one. “We’re at your door.”
“Coming.” You keep your phone at your ear, getting onto terribly wobbly legs at a snail’s pace. Each step causes the speed of your heart to increase, until it reaches painful levels. Your blood sears your veins, your skin burning up.
You jump and squeak when the knocks sounds again. “Sweetie,” You hear your mom in double. “Are you ok?”
That’s all you need to yank the motel door open, throwing yourself in your parents’ arms and immediately falling to shambles. They hold on tight as you clung to them for dear life, cooing gently while they stroke your back.
God, you love these people so much. Biological or not, they are your one and only family.
“I love you both.” You whisper through your hiccups, pressing them closer to you.
“We love you too, sweetie. So damn much.” The sincerity you get from your mother breaks you a little more, knowing she will never recover when you leave this world.
Your father is the first to break away, ushering the three of you inside the room away from prying eyes of other guests. You let yourself be guided to the dingy, creaking bed, your mom’s arms securely around your waist, never once straying from its place.
She sits next to you, your father on the office chair he dragged away from the entrance.
They don’t force you to speak, let yourself gather your bearings, head falling in your hands. Now that they’re here, the need to tell them about your discovery wavers, since you aren’t sure what good it will bring in the end. On the other hand, you want them to know that nothing changes for you. The woman at your side will always be your mother, the man sitting a meter away will always be your father, your siblings back home will still be your siblings.
Taking a deep breath, you inform them of what you plan on doing now that they are here. The three of you will return to the house, your mother will sleep next to you for your own comfort, and as a layer of protection against Bughuul. From what you learned from So-and-So, It won’t harm anyone that passes by, only the permanent resident of the home it inhabits. Your parents will be safe, and will keep you – hopefully – shielded until they leave. Your mother likes the idea and your dad agrees it's for the best.
As a plan forms, your exhaustion hits you all at once, and your body swoons in place.
“Let’s get you out of here, yes?” Your dad pulls you to your feet while your mom packs your things.
“I don’t want to sleep.” You admit, your body screaming with every step you make, begging you to lay down and stop moving so it can get some rest.
Both your parents need to help you down the stairs since your limbs have decided to stop working and turn to jelly. “You’ve gone through something awful, stayed up all night. You need to rest.”
And the only place where you are allowed to sleep at this point is in that house, if not, you will prolong the pattern. Just the thought of returning to that house gives you the chills as you know damn well, the deity and those children are waiting for your arrival. “I’m scared.”
“I won’t leave your side.” Your mother reassures, pushing you down in the backseat of your car. “Your dad will go to the hardware store to get you new locks for your front and back door and grab the things we’ll need to cook you a big lasagna.”
Your lips twitch. Pasta – crabs, really – is your favourite thing in the world, lasagna at the top of your list. It’s been your comfort food ever since you can remember, bringing nothing but smiles and cheeriness with each supper, each bite.
Seeing the near unnoticeable smile that ghosted your lips, your father smirks. “Yea… I knew you’d like that.”
With your bag placed on your lap, your parents get in the front and start the car and head for your house. The ride takes both forever and a second at the same time, anxiety spiking when your house comes into view.
You close your eyes and attempt to settle your uneven breathing, clutching the front seat with a death grip, with enough force to make the material protest. The car door opens, and you feel a hand soothing your back. “Your dad went in first to make sure it’s safe. C’mon, we’ll go together.”
Blinking back tears, you sit up straight and swivel your legs out of the car.
Instantly, you see the boy that was once considered your brother at the window. Face stoic and frighteningly void of any humanity, nothing about him different from the photographs. Your father can’t see him, since you see his silhouette passing behind Alexander, neither does your mother as she pulls you inside. You are stuck – much like with Bughuul – in a staring contest with your dead sibling as you make your way through the path leading to your ajar front door.
It is only when you are a few feet away from entering do you tear your gaze away, pausing.
Inside, there are other children, all with the same pale complexion as Alexander, though much smoother than Bughuul’s.
You can count seven in total.
“It’s clear!” Your father calls from one of the guest bedrooms.
It most certainly is not.
“Alright, in we go.” The tugging at your arms makes you move. It is only once you are back inside that you feel the tears on your cheeks, realise the deafening thumping of your heart rattling your skull, the sweat that tickles your brows.
From the corner of your eyes, you watch Alexander move from his place at the window, almost floating as he walks up next to a boy dressed in black slacks and sweater vest, not a hair out of place.
“I’m…” You hear a giggle, more like a reverberation you get in churches. A girl with ginger hair and an odd, khaki painting suit hanging loosely over her body, waves at you the moment you make eye contact. The only thing you could do is snap your head away and try to swallow down the impending need to vomit. “I’m going too – uh, nap… here.”
You sit on the couch, aware that the children are converging your way, depositing your bag on the coffee table. “I’ll bring you a pillow –”
“– Wait!” You shout, stopping your mother dead in her tracks. “Don’t… I don’t – you, you can’t.”
She gets what you’re trying to convey, thankfully, asking your father to bring you a pillow and blanket instead, sad smile curling her mouth. She takes the bedding from your father and tucks you in just like she did when you were younger.
When your parents are sure you’re comfy, your father takes your keys and heads for the store, while your mother turns on the television and sits in the rocking chair by the bookcase opposite the window. You love that chair, spent a lot of your savings to get it, loving to sway while reading a good book in the evening.
You’ll miss that stupid fucking chair.
“Sleep, honey. I won’t move, promise.”
Her leaving your side to pee or to get a snack isn’t what scares you, it’s the kids that stand around her that do. What if they attack her? What if Bughuul comes back and does something to her? What if you wake up to blood splatters all over the walls, the floor, your parents’ lifeless bodies at your side?
“H-Hey! Don’t cry!” You bite your lip and shake your head, silently begging the children to not hurt her. From her perspective, it looks to your mother as if you refuse to get a wink of sleep. She shoots up and sits on the edge of the couch. “Here, I’ll stay right here until you fall asleep. Ok?”
You nod and wiggle a hand out of the covers, lacing your fingers with hers, bringing them close to your chest. This is your lifeline, the only thing that grounds you, right here, and you won’t let go of it even once you enter your dreams.
She shushes your weeps, wiping tears that pool and drip down. You can’t ignore the figures still hovering around the rocking chair, but you let your eyes close and sleep finally claims you.
You wake up in the early hours on Sunday according to your phone, refreshed from having rested for over a day, courtesy of extreme fatigue and trauma.
Your mother, sleeps soundly in an odd position on the love seat to your right, your fathers’ snoring heard from down the hall in one of the guest rooms.
They’re alive, is the first thing that comes to mind, and you're so fucking grateful that your pleas to the good powers above acknowledged you. And what comes as an even greater relief, is that the children are gone, or have hidden themselves away from your sight.
Turning your head, you find the kitchen just as empty as the living room, the hall as well. No little heads peer from any of the rooms, and the house feels empty, as if there only are three people instead of quadruple that amount.
A large part of you, the one still absolutely shaken by what has and will happen to you, screams at you to wake up your mother. You need to shower. You smell like crap, your hair is a greasy, matted mess, and the thought of being alone in the shower, curtain drawn and obscuring your view from the door doesn’t sit well with you.
But dammit, your mother looks so peaceful sleeping and you know she hates being forcefully woken up. Let’s not forget that you’re a grown ass woman, who’s clock is ticking down so quickly the numbers aren’t visible.
Realistically, you have nothing to lose, and it is that notion that squares your shoulders and swells faint bubbles of bravery.
You don’t look in any of the rooms as you pass them. If the children, or Bughuul himself is there, you’d rather not notice. Stopping in the master, it’s exactly as you left it in the early hours of Friday. Covers a skew, hoodie and photo album on the floor, closet doors open. The only thing that has changed is the window Bughuul – you assume – left open when the cops barraged in your room. It is now shut and locked.
It calms you naught, knowing that the deity could simply appear at your side anytime It wanted.
Grabbing the first clothes you see; you take whatever you need and go in your en suite. It’s just as void of souls as the rest of your house, but for your own comfort, you do close the door but keep the shower curtain open, water could easily be cleaned up.
You’re as quick as you can, wash the grime out of your hair and body, not taking a second to breathe and enjoy the warm jet pounding against your skin or the feeling of being clean. No, the process is rushed, your own mental timer counting down the minutes before you let yourself wide open to be ambushed by the eater of children.
With your luck, it’d take you naked and dripping wet – not the good kind of naked and dripping wet.
Stepping out of the shower, you dry yourself haphazardly and change into leggings and a loose shirt, barely taking the time to remove most of the water in your hair before you exit. The bathroom is too small, too foggy for you to breathe comfortably, to feel safe.
So, you flee, leaving your dirty clothes on the ground, which are probably soaking up the water on the floor, and straight back to the living room.
For the next couple of hours, you just sit next to your mother and stare down the hallway. If you had to guess, the children would most likely come from that direction, especially since the main area of your home glowed from the rising east sun.
“Honey?” Your head snaps to the right, your mother groaning as she sits up, her back cracking loudly when she stretches. “You’re awake, and showered.”
Nodding, you fiddle with a damp lock of your hair. “Yea…”
“You slept for a long time. We had to check up on you a few times to make sure you weren’t dead.” She says it to tease, to lighten the gloomy cloud that has found permanent residence above your head, but the comment only sours your already bleak mood further. You manage to conjure up a smile, however faint, to show her you appreciate her attempt. “How about I make you breakfast? I made muffins yesterday.”
“That’d be great, actually. I’m fucking starving.”
She scoffs as you follow her to the kitchen. “I bet. You’ve slept through Friday night and the whole of Saturday.”
Your mom places down a Tupperware filled with chocolate-banana muffins, and you immediately take two. “I was exhausted.”
You watch as she takes out what she needs to cook you a gourmet breakfast, liking how she’s already familiarised herself with the ins-and-out of your kitchen, knowing where everything is. The bread, butter, cutting boards, knives and pans.
The muffins are mouth-watering, delicious, and you gobble them down in record time.
Soon after, your father joins and the three of you have a nice meal together. They ask you how you’re feeling, and you reply honestly. You’re still afraid to be alone – but less – you’re uneasy in your own home but don’t doubt that feeling will leave soon. For emphasis, you mention the new locks on the door that are useless against ghost children and a Pegan deity. But your parents don’t need to know that part.
They have to leave right after supper, which is perfect for you since you saw on your phone messages from So-and-So, informing you he’d stop by noon the next day. You didn’t listen to the voice mail he left you, choosing to let him know you are alive, with your folks and you didn’t answer him for a day because you were sleeping. You send him a selfie as proof, proof he accepts.
The entire time you hang out with your parents, you wonder when you should bring up the adoption, or if you should bring it up at all, they’re leaving soon, so why ruin a perfect moment together?
Oh right, because you need confirmation from their mouths that infant who survived that attack is you.
You choose after lunch as the perfect time to do so. You’re all siting quietly, watching television, this is as good as a time as any.
“Can I show you guys something?” You ask them, already pulling up an article of the events that transpired the night Bughuul and the children failed to kill you.
“Sure sweetie. What is it?”
When the article with yours and Alexander’s face pops up, you place the laptop in front of them. Their faces drop almost instantly.
“That’s me. Isn’t it?” Neither look up, or move, or reply, they just stare at the screen like they’ve seen a ghost, or like they’ve been caught in the act of doing something they weren’t supposed to do. “(Y/N)(L/N), that’s my real name, isn’t it? I’m adopted.”
You understand their stunned silence, but at this point, you’re growing impatient at their lack of response.
On cue, Alexander walks across the room to stand behind your parents, peering down at the computer briefly, then turning to stare at you. “So, you’ve figured it out.”
You don’t grace Alexander’s question with a reply, ignoring his existence altogether to focus on your parents.
“I’m not… This doesn’t change anything.” You breathe when you notice twinkling beads shimmering down your mother’s face.
Your mother drops her head in her hands, shoulders shaking as she cries. And you let her. You can only imagine what’s going through her mind. You sit and wait for the shock to let go of the reigns over your father’s ability to function, you wait until your mom has cried her fill and calms.
Alexander, as this goes on, takes a seat next to you, a little too close for your liking, but you don’t give him what he wants, your attention.
“You look exactly like our mother and our oldest brother.” You know this already, you’ve seen the pictures, and at first, the resemblance had scared you. “Me and Justin were more like our dad. I think we can both agree you got the better end of the stick on that one.”
The fact that this soulless child, a soulless child that killed his entire family, your family, makes you pinch your lips to stop a grin from blossoming is frightening. Alexander, your second-eldest brother, was one of Bughuul’s children, helping him lure other vulnerable kids to do atrocities.
“I was the funny one, by the way, duh. Justin was the smart one, but honestly, he didn’t have much competition in that department with Christian, the eldest, around. He was a good big bro, but an idiot.” Why is he telling you this? Is it to solidify this bond the two of you once shared? Is it to weaken your defense and make you an easier prey for Bughuul?
Your brows furrow at the last one, disgust at the very real possibility behind that thought.
Well, sucks for him, because you don’t intend to let yourself be manipulated that easily. You aren’t a child, if he wants to soften you up, Alexander will have to work much, much harder.
“I’m sorry…” Your mom finally says after many minutes have gone by. As soon as they stiffened, you had received your answer, but your mother apologising made it all the more true.
“Why are you apologising?”
She is taken aback by your question, mouth dropping open as she looks at you. “Wha… What?”
“Why are you apologising?” You repeat. You leave Alexanders’ side and sit on the armrest where your parents sit. “Because you didn’t tell me?”
“We never wanted you to find out this way. Or at all.” Your father mutters as he leans back on the loveseat, sighing deeply.
Your mother reaches for your hands, a broken look of desperation you’ve never seen before in her eyes. “Please don’t hate us. We love you so much, you are just as much as our child as Benji and Katie. Please don’t –”
“– I know.” Squeezing back her hands, you sent your mother a warm, honest smile. “I’m shocked, upset you didn’t tell me and I had to find out from some other source. But like I said, this… this doesn’t change anything. You will always be my mom.”
She bursts into more tears and pulls you to her, face buried in your shoulder.
The roles are reversed now, you, soothing your inconsolable mother.
You make eye contact with your father, whose eyes are also redden, brimming with tears yet to be shed. You mouth ‘I love you’ and take his hand in yours.
Later, they answer all of your questions.
Benjamin figured it out early on, thanks to biology classes in fifth grade. There was a six-year gap between the two, and after finding out where babies came from, remembering the lack of baby bump from your mother who had just showed up with you in her arms out of the blue, he confronted your parents and they told him the truth, making him swear to never to breathe a word to you about this, and later, to Katie as well. At least, now it made sense why Benji always got upset when Katie, or others teased you about being the black sheep of the family.
Your parents had always dreamed of having lots of children of their own, but after Benjamin, they struggled to get pregnant, going through miscarriage after miscarriage, and not long before your biological family was murdered, they started applying to adoption agencies.
Almost a year later, they saw your face on a list of possible adoptions and fell in love with you instantly.
“The pudgy cheeks, the eyes, the thick locks of hair. You were perfect, and the second we laid our eyes on you, we knew you belonged with us, you were our daughter.”
Katie followed a year and a half later, a surprise to all, a miracle. After your mom gave birth, one that nearly killed her, they decided to stop trying, content with the family they created together.
“You know…” You speak barely above a whisper, glancing at one of the many ridiculous family pictures of the five of you on your bookshelf. “I’m lucky.”
You wipe a stray salty droplet from your jaw, smiling gently. “Most parents don’t get to chose their children. But I – I was chosen. My parents saw me in a sea of hundreds of other babies and chose me, out of all of them. How lucky am I?”
Alexander has not strayed from his place on the couch, and you swear you hear him scoff. But enveloped in your parents embrace, you can’t be bothered.
Much to yours and your parents’ chagrin, they can’t stay any longer since they have work Monday. You’ve already called your boss to let them know you won’t be coming in tomorrow, and when she heard of the ‘break-in’, she allowed you a sick day no problem.
Goodbyes are tearful and painful; your father has to pry your mom away from you when the cab honks at them to get moving.
They’ll call you when they land, and with your blessing, agree to let Katie know about the adoption.
You make sure to hold back the tears – though you’re any second away from falling apart – and try and burn every inch of their faces, of their beings to memory. Just in case that once Bughuul sucks your soul, you can keep them floating around in your mind.
The sun begins to set as the cab drives off, and as soon as it is out of sight, you feel several presences behind you.
You resist the urge to scowl at the boy with the sweater vest and neat hair, pushing the lump in your esophagus further down and brushing past him and the others.
Your lack of response isn’t appreciated, several books go flying off shelves. You need to stay strong, not let your guard down and let yourself be vulnerable.
“You can’t ignore us forever.”
The hell you can. These children don’t know you what’s so ever, and it shows. Once, you ignored Katie for close to three months when she snuck into your room and stole, then ruined, your favourite pair of shoes. It was petty at the time; you can only imagine the lengths you are willing to go to ignore these kids.
Leaning on the kitchen counter, you sigh and rub your weary face. Alexander had hovered around you the whole day, just freaking staring at you, brows pinched. It unnerved you the entire time, but you had your parents as a sort of barrier against him and the rest of the shitshow that was your life. But you’re all on your own now again, and the fright is rapidly seeping back into your bones, body chilly and shaking. You need to do something, anything to distract you from the children, and from the very obvious lack of Bughuul.
You assumed it would come back the moment you returned home. However, as the clock struck eight, it comes to your attention that you have not seen the deity all day. It did not loom from the shadows, did not try to lure or scare you away from your folks, nothing. The worst you got was Alexander… and now this other kid throwing a tantrum and flinging your books all over the place. You get the feeling that this little brat is used to getting what he wants.
Too bad you hate brats, and don’t give a shit if he turns the whole house in disarray. Doesn’t he know you’re going to die and join him any day now? Foolish, naïve child.
Cursing, you dig the heel of your palm in your eye and crouch, keeping a hold on the counter’s edge. You don’t want to be alone, not yet, you want your parents back. You need more time.
Then it hits you, So-and-So, you had told him you’d call him as soon as you could, and here you are, in a ball on the ground trying to stop yourself from having a panic attack.
You need to know what this Professor Stomberg found out, if he found anything at all. Therefore, you stand, ignoring the children and reach for your phone.
“(Y/N),” So-and-So picks up quickly, he almost sounds relieved. “You’re alive.”
Glancing at the seven kids hovering around you, you mutter a soft ‘barely’ before dragging your feet towards the books on the ground.
“Did you listen to the message I left you yet?”
“No, sorry. I’m… ugh, I’m all over the place.” One by one, the books go back in their original spot.
“It’s fine, it’s not like I expect you to be considering…” The way he lets the sentence hang is not comforting. You know there’s nothing that will change your fate, but if you can get more information of why this is happening, the better. Dying clueless is not the way you want to go.
You flicker your gaze to the children quickly, then go back to pretending they aren’t there, sitting in your rocking chair. “Did he find anything useful?”
The sigh is very telling, and fresh batch of tears gather at your lash line. “I’m sorry, (Y/N). To be fair, there wasn’t much about Bughuul to begin with. Seeing its images is a gateway for it to cross in and out of our world. Some even believed scripture could be just as powerful.”
“So, whatever is, or was related to… y’know, was destroyed?”
“Most of it, yea. And what we have available is not much. What I’ve been doing has uncovered a lot, but there’s still so much we don’t know. Including, the mark on your skin or why he let you survive him. Twice.”
Rubbing the symbol permanently stained on your skin, you grumble. “It reminds me of a branding.”
It takes a beat for So-and-So to reply, the soft rock music from his car filling the silence. “Professor Jason mentioned it might be that mark that has made you an exception all these years. ‘Cause if we follow the pattern, you and your whole family should have died not long after they brought you home. And I discovered first hand that Bughuul will find you no matter where you are, you can’t hide. Your whereabouts, that night, were well known to him. I, we think that… well, that he let you go on purpose.”
The floorboards creak, your attention snapping to the children standing in a line ten feet from you. When you realise you can’t make out anything but their silhouettes, you gain awareness that you started crying, that your lower lip trembles.
It doesn’t make sense, none of this make sense.
“Why?” The word comes out so hushed you have trouble hearing your own voice.
“I don’t know (Y/N), I really don’t know.” You rest your elbows on the peaks of your knees, head falling. “You’re special somehow, maybe that means you won’t end up like the rest.”
You have to go to bed soon, exhaustion makes your lids grow heavy, contrasting with how alert you are to any movement, any twitch that goes on around you.
Standing, you stare in the eyes of each child.
That little shit with the sweater vest.
The girl with the trench coat.
The girl dressed in warm clothes and a tuque.
A boy with clipped light hair and camo pants.
A tuft of red hair, a girl wearing a painting apron.
Carson, the boy who used to live here before you, the boy who sawed his family in half.
And finally, Alexander, your steps slowing as you pass him, gaze faltering. He’s got the same eyes as you, the shape of his lips identical, as is the texture and colour of his hair. You think, in another life perhaps, that you might have adored him as an older brother – he did manage to almost make you crack a smile while you shattered your parents’ world.
You don’t want to get to know him, resist the uncontrollable urge to say a single thing that might open the gates you have shut off between you two. And you think he feels that want, that connection you both share, that you try to deny so fiercely. Alexander makes a face you have done countless times before when conflicted, the muscles of his jaw pulsing with how much force his grinds down on his teeth, left eye squinting subconsciously.
The fingers at his side move, and you take that as a sign to leave. You’ve got to prepare yourself for what is to come.
“(Y/N)?” Oh right, you were in the middle of a conversation.
“Y-Yea – shit, sorry. I’m here, just got distracted.” You look back at Alexander one last time, then head for your bedroom.
“Are you sure everything’s alright?”
The darkness of outside seeps through the house, the lights from the kitchen and living room turning off without you ever going near the interrupters. All doors are closed, oddly, it only adds to the sinking in the pit of your stomach
You open the door to your room, and your stomach drops at the lack of presences in it.
“I need you to do something for me.” You state, ignoring the ex-deputy’s question. As you stand there, in the darkness of your room, the heavy silence circling you, acceptance and understanding washes over you.
“What do you need, (Y/N)?”
“When you get here tomorrow and I’m gone, I need you to burn this place down and call my parents.” Pivoting on your feet, you take note of the children who all hover in your door frame. The glassiness of their eyes, the chipped, decaying skin makes you take a step back, beads of water run down your face, breath faltering. They’re different than they’ve previously appeared before. Now, they truly look dead. “I’ll text you their number, and I need you to tell them everything. They need to know why I’m gone.”
“– I’m going to bed now.” You cut him off, trying your best not to sob. So-and-So tries to argue with you, tries to instill lost hope within you, but you’re over it all. “Thank you, So-and-So.” You say through his instant rambling. “For taking the time to talk to me, answer my questions, and making all of this make sense. Thank you for doing what you’re doing, for bringing a stop to the murders. Thank you for being kind and lending me an ear. It’s a shame we won’t meet, but I think it’s better that way…”
“Please let my parents, Benji, Katie know, that I love them so damn much.” And with that, you hang up, and promptly text So-and-So your parents’ numbers.
He tries to call you non-stop, leaving voicemail after voicemail. But you just chuck your phone somewhere, gaze never wavering away from the children, moving to sit on your bed.
You are exhausted, mentally and emotionally. Tonight, you will most certainly die and you can’t be bothered attempting to run away and start anew, to fight the deity that will undoubtedly make an appearance.
There is nothing you can do, you are at a standstill, checkmated by your fate.
You slip off your socks and pants, not carrying for modesty. The sweater you have on comes next, and you put on your pyjama top and remove your bra from underneath.
They're still kids, you won’t show them your private parts.
You get in bed with a heavy heart, finally looking away from the children as your head lies on the pillow.
With the covers over your shoulders, your eyes shut tight and you wait. Wait for the kids to come in and taunt you, throw your room in disarray. Wait for Alexander, especially, to do or say something, anything.
But he doesn’t, none of them do.
Your bedroom door slams shut, jolting your stilling body, whimper escaping your throat despite your best efforts.
You aren’t stupid enough to think it’s over, something will go down whether you want to or not, whether you stay hopeful it won’t or don’t.
It is only a matter of waiting.
Then it comes, the eerie creaking of the bedroom door, the powerful aura of doom pressing you further in your mattress.
The presence of the Deity is difficult to miss, even as your eyes shut painfully tight and you are shrouded by darkness. It looms over you in a suffocating manner, making breathing become a challenge. You try to act as if you are unaware of the Deity, but you are overtly conscious that your body shakes, your limbs tense up visibly, and your breath comes out a harsh, wobbly mess.
The floor creaks under each step Bughuul takes. They come closer and closer until you can sense him right by your head.
Despite your best effort, you clutch the sheets closer to your body, as if to shield you from the otherworldly figure.
You take in a sharp breath, shut your eyes even tighter if that’s possible, shying ever-so-slightly away from the Deity. The floor creaks again, and you swear you can feel your face being fanned by his breath.
It’s an absurd thing to think, seeing as it has no mouth, but at this point, anything is possible.
You foolishly shake your head, leaning further in the middle of your bed to try and put some distance between the two of you.
“Please.” You whisper, voice cracking pathetically. “I don’t want to die.”
Cold skin settles on your sizzling cheek, a sob escaping your lips at the contact. You can’t explain the sensation coursing through you, the way your body instinctively reacts.
You’re quick to grab the wrist that holds your face, but you don’t try to pull it away. You just hold it there. Every ounce of you trembles, your heart pounds erratically in your chest, but you aren’t sure if it’s for the same reason as before.
You don’t think your body behaves like this out of fear.
The deity’s thumb strokes your cheekbone, chipped, blackened nails scrapping dangerously close to your lid. It causes you to whimper. The action is almost tender, loving, and it terrifies you when you realise you like it.
“Please…” You have no idea what you are pleading for. For it to let go, for it to keep its hand there, for death, for life, something.
It takes some time for you to listen, opening briefly only to shut them again when you catch a glimpse of its face. In your defence, it's not the most pleasant face to look at. The lack of eyes and mouth, the ghoulish skin, the stringy black hair. It is a thing of nightmares.
But you do, slowly, until they flutter open and no longer close. Until you lay face-to-face with the demonic God, the Pegan Deity: Bughuul; the eater of children
Your breath catches in your throat at the close proximity of your two faces.
From this distance, you can make out the white flesh strung up and down its mouth, the twinkle of red somewhere deep, in the place where its iris would have been if that thing were any part human. The black and brown faded blemishes contrast with the incredible paleness of his skin.
While you are still scared out of your mind, up close, you can’t help but think Bughuul is handsome in its own undead, eats-the-souls-of-children-for-breakfast type of way.
The thought clogs the columns of your throat, makes your mouth go dry.
It has said that before, several times now, and you have no idea what it could possibly mean.
“I –” Words are difficult to articulate at the moment, brain too full of everything to form any kind of coherent sentence at the moment.
Your grip tightens on its wrist subconsciously, brows twitching. “I – I don’t…”
Bughuul drags you up to a sitting position like it's nothing, and you let yourself be man-handled. You have far reached past your limit to move or think, or do much of anything.
To your utter horror, your heart aches when it removes its hand from your face to pull you up, tingles ran up the length of your legs when it grabs your ankles to place your feet on the floor, goosebumps covering your bare thighs when it rests its massive, cold hands on your knees.
I have been looking for you for millennials. The only thing you can do is stare, tears continuing to run down your face, mouth gaped openly like a fish out of water. He takes hold of your left hand, thumb pressing on your birthmark – its mark. You don’t even notice that the action pulls out something akin to a moan from your lips. My soul bound.
“I don’t understand. I just… I just don’t want to die.”
Its brow bones furrow, head cocking to the side. Even when Bughuul holds you like this, like lovers would, it does not lose any ounce of its eeriness.
You keep saying you do not want to die, as if I am here to kill you. I have no intention of doing so. Not yet, anyway.
“T-Then, how? Wh-Why?” Your eyes roam all over its face, as if you will find the answers to your questions by doing so. All you get is blankness.
I was born out of children’s fears of what lurks in the darkness. If you weren’t sitting in front of a demonic God, scared out of your mind, and confused, you would have appreciated this new piece of information. But within the depths of a child's innocence, even through the darkness, also comes the promise of light.
It taps the mark just under your thumb.
And you are my light. The soul that was meant to escape me. The soul created to be mine.
You sit there, stunned, unable to process what Bughuul tells you. “Light? Yours...?”
It nods, the hand on your thigh slowly creeping upwards. The moment you were born with this mark, you and I were destined to meet, to become one.
“Like, fuse together?” You swear Bughuul chuckles in the back of your mind, the noise low and scratchy, sending tingles some place it shouldn’t. It shakes its head, hand reaching closer and closer to your centre. “S…” You gulp. “Sex?”
Love. It corrects, fingers digging in the plushness of your thighs. You are the only person that can love me, and I am the only person that can truly love you, that you can love.
“But that doesn’t make any sense.” You try to wrap around what Bughuul is insinuating. The hand on your thigh makes it hard for you to concentrate as it elicits reactions from deep within you that you have never felt with anyone else before, or at all. Maybe it is telling the truth. “I love my family, my friends. So how can I only love you, and how would that even work?”
The simple fact that you are entertaining the idea of being linked to the deity is ridiculous on its own, and here you are, asking for clarifications on the working details of what – you assume – is supposed to be a relationship of some sort with Bughuul.
Its nails press further in your thigh, and you have to do everything in your power to not gasp, to not keen at the action.
You feel it, don’t you? It almost says in a teasing tone. The uncontrollable desire, the insatiable want… that is the cry of your soul to become one with mine.
“I don’t feel anything.” You are anything but convincing, voice barely above a whisper and low, your panties drenched from arousal. Your body screams at you to lunge forward, to let the deity have its way with you despite your fright, despite the insanity of it all.
The hand on your wrist leaves, as does the one on your thigh. It grips your hips and yanks you closer, until your noses touch and your body is flush with his. The rapidity of his pulls makes you gasp, latching on to its’ shoulders for stability.
Do not lie to me, (Y/N). I can smell how wet you are from here. Bughuul’s hands travel to your back side, grabbing the swell of your ass. You mewl, long and whiny, and in this moment, you have never been more ashamed than right now. And you smell delicious.
“W-Wait!” You shake your head, pushing Bughuul away from you just enough for your senses to be free to roam. “Does that mean you won’t kill me?”
You are not ready yet. Its answer doesn’t help, but you need to continue pushing through the haze of undeniable lust and forge ahead.
“What happens if we… y’know…”
His palms traveling up your back pull your shirt with them, skin both erupting into flames and shivering with the cold of his skin. You and I will be truly bonded, nothing will be able to separate us, ever.
“Will you continue to eat children, murder their families if we...?”
I must eat to survive. You almost wish you hadn’t asked. The reply little pleasing.
You’ve just learned that your fates meant to intertwine all along, you and Bughuul are linked, bonded, soulmates of some sort. This concept of soulmate is a thing of fairy tales and fan fiction, yet here you are, paired with a fucking demonic, Pegan deity, not even another human being. Someone meant to devour, cause havoc and pain wherever it goes.
And yes, you may want to tear away at Bughuul’s clothes and let him have his way with you, but you still have morals.
This thing, or man, ate the soul of your brother and killed your birth family. That is not something you can easily forgive.
You grab his wrist before they reach just under your breast, pulling them away. “I need time.”
For what? It – he turns his hands over and take yours.
“You killed my family.” You state, not shying from the red gleam deep in his eye socket. “You killed Alexander, and now, apparently, I’m soul bound to a demon responsible for all that? I need time to process all of this.”
Bughuul leans in, closer and closer, until your noses touch. It makes you shutter, eyes fluttering shut.
His hands travel to your front, sharp, darkened nails scratch at your skin, leaving a fierce storm of goosebumps in their wake.
You try to fight it, whatever this ‘it’ is, trying to cling on your last shred of conscious self-control. No part of you wants to give in to this bond you both clearly share and at the same time, every inch, nerve, every single atom in your body yearns to let yourself be claimed.
You will have all the time in the world to think after.
Pathetically, you shudder as his hands reach the swell of your breast, lip clenched tight between your teeth. Your brain manages, though with much trouble, to make out what Bughuul husked in your mind. But as soon as his freezing fingers graze across your painfully hardened nipples, any and all coherent thoughts fly out the window, a long, drone mewl slipping out of your bruised lips.
Mine. He has said this so many times that you find yourself starting to believe this claim. No one will ever be able to have you like this.
As horrific as it sounds, in the moment, for one, fleeing second, you yourself believe that you don’t want anyone else anyway, ever.
Brain clouded with his touch, his nails dig into your swelting breasts, thumbs rolling, flickering your nipples with an increase of pressure, in a way that makes your back arch into him, your mouth to fall open and disgustingly lusting sounds to echo in the darkness of your room.
“The children…” You whisper, hands gripping his collar, unknowingly pulling the Deity closer. “I don’t – ah! - I don’t want them to watch.”
They have long left. He answers you, nose slipping past yours, slowly going down, dragging in the hollow of your cheek, to the length of your jaw only to rest in the crook of your neck.
Shaky hands reach to cup the base of his neck, pressing his face closer, harshly into your skin. “I…” Eyes roll in the back of your head when he pinches one of the buds. You’re losing your grasp on reality, not only that, you’re about to just plainly lose it. “I need – m-more time.”
Bughuul doesn’t bless you with a reply. Clearly, he knows that your pleas are less than half backed at best, that you are incapable of stopping the inescapable fate the universe bestowed upon you long before you took your first breath.
If things couldn’t get any worse, you want to crawl in a hole and die when you whine in protest the millisecond his hands leave your breast and his face leaves its comfort where your neck meets your shoulder. It is only to pull your shirt over your head, to expose yourself to him.
You sit on your bed, so close to Bughuul you can actually feel the deathly chill of his body temperature, in only unflattering panties and you hate every minute of it.
Despite the lack of eyes, you can tell he is taking the sight of you in.
The heaving of your chest, reddened lips partly ajar, eyes already fucked-out and glazed over… You still clung to him with enough force to make your fingers ache, in the hopes that it will keep you grounded, that it will keep your brain functioning and afloat, to not let your entirety be consumed by the desperate yanking of desire pulling at your gut.
This is wrong, all of this is so very wrong you can’t even begin to process the severity of the consequences of what is about to happen.
If your parents saw you now, if So-an-So saw you now, if the dead children, the murdered families; your own, dead, biological family saw you right now, they would all be so ashamed of you succumbing to your needs.
The red gleam deep in the pool of his smudges never stray away from yours, his hands press on your stomach, pushing until you lay flat on your bed.
Your core pulses, throbs, gushes furiously in a way it never has before. No other person has ever reduced you into a pile of nothing as much as this Pegan deity has with only the simple graze of his freezing digits and the measly few flicks to your nipples. The wet spot on your panties is visible as your legs part further to accommodate his body between them, visible even in the night which shields your room. And with the downwards inclination of Bughuul's head, the lack of noticeability of the red gleam, you know that he’s staring at the spot, doing that side tilt he has done a few times before.
The hand resting on your rapidly rising and falling torso travels lower, scratch marks left in their wake, stopping just short of where - you would never voice this out loud - you want Bughuul to touch you most.
"What about you?" You breathe, tugging at the lapels of his black suit. His head shoots up. You don't understand how you know he is looking right into your eyes; you just do and it causes a shiver to run up your spine. What you say next ruins any chance you ever thought you had of resisting him, of trying to weed through the invasive need to claim him as yours.
Who are you kidding... you were fucked the moment you found him standing in your backyard in the middle of the night. Not even, you were fucked the moment you took that first gulp of air on this earth.
"I... I want to touch you too." The pleading, needy way you speak disgusts you, but with every tick of time that rapidly goes by, the more your entire being is taken over by a force stronger than you or the deity can wield.
He stands at full height, a terrifying reminder that Bughuul is no man, no human, a higher being capable of bringing pain and destruction down on earth.
Gulping, you watch transfixed as he shrugs off the worn suit jacket, neatly folding it before placing it somewhere on the floor. Now, his physic is revealed a little more to you. The white dress shirt strains around the thickness of his bulky arms, and you don't doubt the same goes for his back, seeing as the buttons work double-time to keep from ripping apart.
You have lost all sense of shame. You are already basically naked, Bughuul is something of your otherworldly soulmate, you will never love someone as you will him, he will never love anyone but you - never feel this human emotion but with you, and no one will ever be able to love you as deeply, as honestly, as fiercely as this deity.
Next comes his shirt, each button snapped to finally let you see his chest.
Much like his face and arms, his skin is ghoulishly pale, faint strokes of brown-black resembling dirt litter most of the area. His nipples are as black as his hair, as dark as the monsters that lurk in the night, as the sky in the early hours of the morning. His pecks, defined so sharply, you fear if you drag your tongue along their edges, you’ll get cut.
He’s beautiful, is what first comes to mind.
The way he simply stands there, arms slack at his side, letting you practically drool over him… the wide expense of his chest which you note does not rise or fall like any other living being, is inviting, you find yourself craving to let your hands wander through each dip, each curve available to you.
You move to kneel, not wasting another precious second, and more-or-less smack your hand on his abdominal region. Like the rest of him, he is cold to the touch, something you don’t hate.
You jerk slightly when you feel his hands cup the base of your neck, fingers pressing underneath your jaw to make you look up directly into the gleam. The angle is awkward seeing as he is so much taller, it makes you lean into him, breasts flush just above his naval.
The sensation draws more of your juices to stain your wrecked panties, a powerful shiver ravaging the length of your spine, your eyes fluttering as you bite your lip. You’re a mess, an absolute mess and nothing’s happened.
You obey without much thought, hands continuing their exploration. His face is a thing of nightmares, it really does scare you, but the way he holds you, has caressed your body, the way you’re close to combusting, it matters less and less. He has a certain beauty, as do most terrifying things, the paleness of his skin contrasts well with the total darkness of his hair, of the smudges. His hands are massive and surprisingly soft, gentle, even... and the sheer size – while again, scary as fuck – is something you would typically swoon over had he been any regular man on the street.
This makes you think of what he would look like as a human. Whatever the answer is, you don’t doubt that he would be a thing of dreams.
His hands now cup your jaw, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. You turn your face into one of his hands, planting a light kiss in the middle of his palm.
You swear you hear him growl.
Suddenly, his thumb is in your mouth, pressing down on your tongue as he slips his digit further. You find yourself sucking at it while keeping eye-contact with the Deity, swirling your tongue, grazing his thumb with your teeth.
And as this goes on, you stop your exploration of his chest and reach for the belt holding up his pants.
Bughuul shifts his gaze to your hands, presses even harder on your tongue as you remove the belt completely and dump it on the floor.
Never in a million years did you think you would be stripping a very aroused, a very hard and well-endowed being far beyond the scope of your understanding. It has not crossed your mind that Bughuul even possessed a penis, or what you assumed resembled male anatomy, but here you sit, proven wrong.
Tentatively, you cup his member over his pants – and possibly underwear – gasping at the sheer size you are met with. God, you are so stupid. Bughuul is huge, it only makes sense that the rest of him be as well.
He thrusts into your hand, whether intentional or not, and you don’t think it is, eyes locking back on to you with a rapidity which makes the curtain of hair framing his face to swivel aggressively.
Your grasp tightens around his shaft as much as his pants allow you too, and in the moment, you desperately wish he had a mouth, real eyes so that you can see if he is affected by your ministrations as you were when he simply grabbed your chest.
You don’t have time to dwell much on the thought, as Bughuul removes your hand and steps back. Entrance, you watch as the pants pool to the ground at his ankles – and you are shocked to see he actually has a faint dusting a dark leg hair over his thighs and calves and that deities do in fact wear underwear.
His bulge captivates all your attention, laying at an angle over part of his abdomen and so fucking thick your mouth fills with drool.
You wonder what it looks like, if it's exactly like one of a human, if it matches the rest of him, if it's as cold… You want to see it, taste it, know what it feels like when it undoubtedly spears you in half.
“Please…” There’s a chance your mind has gone cock-hungry, driven to madness at the prospect of being taken by your soulmate.
You have no idea what you beg for. For him to fully strip? For him to fuck you so deep, so hard, the mattress breaks, and you can’t walk for days?
No… just the thought of stopping renders you nauseous. The world could turn to shit, and you wouldn’t want whatever this is to stop. But more importantly, you don’t want him to leave.
I will never leave you, (Y/N).
You snap your attention away from his cock and up to his face, wide-eyes and gaped mouth. “You… you can…” You press a hand over your heart. “Read my mind?”
He nods his head, bending down over you until his face is right next to yours. Only fragments, only what you allow me to hear.
His nose bumps against your cheek.
Fuck, what you wouldn’t give to kiss him.
Your breath stutters when a hand cups your sex fully, long fingers slowly stroking up-and-down over your wet, covered folds. “Shit…”
He leans the both of you down, then proceeds to rid you of your panties – it’s not like they were of any use anyway.
Your whole body is taken over in shakes, as is your heart that beats wildly against the confines of your ribs.
Throwing your head back, you feel as if your body has been lit on fire, no coherent thoughts besides ‘more’ echoing redundantly in your brain.
I will always give you what you want… Two thick fingers push their way inside your dripping core, a broken cry tearing at your throat at the intrusion, at the contrast of temperature and the fucking delicious sensation of it all.
They fit well into the tightness of your cunt, juices coating his thrusting fingers, rubbing exactly where you need them too, exactly where no one has ever reached.
You mewl, on hand lacing itself to entangle in your hair, the other, mindlessly reaching out for him. The push-and-pull of his fingers is meticulous, precise, and intentional, never straying far from the spongy place inside you which has never been given any love until now.
The intensity is too much, too soon. Body arching off the bed, loud, desperate cries ripped from your lungs, that coil in your belly winding tighter and tighter until it becomes unbearable.
What sends you over the edge, is not the addition of his thumb rubbing circles over your aching clit, it is not the feel of intensity you get from the red gleam in the darkness of the smudges when his face hovers over yours… No. You experience the most powerful orgasm of your life, fluids gushing out and coating his hand, both of your thighs, your mattress, when he presses the space where his mouth should be against yours, when you feel the skin there poke your lips as if he did really have a mouth.
A shuddered, loud cry rings between your ears, your own cries, as you cum on his fingers, pressing yourself fully to him and kissing him hard. You are clutching on to him for dear life, making sure not a hair’s length separates the both of you. You want to feel as much of his freezing skin on yours as possible. The contrast in your temperature adds to the experience, adds to how amazing he makes you feel.
You want more, of him, of his everything, to be closer to him both physically and spiritually, you want to be consumed to your very soul.
You pant heavily, eyes barely able to stay open as you come down from your high, and you can’t help but think that he’s wrong, that he is the beautiful one.
“All yours.” You whisper softly, lips back on the space void of a mouth. “Forever.”
Bughuul shifts above you, and it is then that you feel something cold, something big, smacking your core. Gasping at the oversensitivity, you try to pull away, to catch your breath without your clit being stimulated. It still pulses from the careful, loving abuse it received as are your insides, as is your heart. But the deity holds you in place, one hand firmly on your hips.
As of now… He says, voice so low and husky that it turns you into a puddle of goo, reignites the insatiable lust that had settled after your orgasm back to life. You and I will never be apart again.
You don’t have time to react, the tip of his cock lined perfectly with your entrance dives in, his length splitting you open in one, hard thrust.
You had no idea you could be so full, that someone could fill you up so good you forget your own name. The moan that leaves your lips comes out as a shrill cry, widened eyes locked with his. Air sticks in your throat, no longer able to breathe.
He pulls his hips back, slamming them back into you with so much force you rise up the bed. “Oh – Fu-uck!”
The tip of his cock kisses your cervix, and not in a way that would usually hurt. You suppose that is because Bughuul is meant for you, no other person was meant to be in a position similar to this with you.
His cock, you realise, is not exactly like the human male anatomy. It pulses, contracts and expands ever-so-slightly, little bumps and ridges line its base, which makes every thrust of hips devastatingly powerful and oh-so perfect.
He fucks into you again, and again, building up a harsh, steady rhythm, hitting every spot inside you, his edges dragging against your gummy walls roughly, perfectly, exactly like you had always dreamed someone would.
You don’t want him to ever stop.
With each hard thrust, the bed rocks to the side, breasts bouncing in tandem.
You are overwhelmed, each ridge, each divot of his cock stroking all the right places in you, bringing you closer and closer to that sweet release you crave to experience once more.
Bughuul's hair tickles your sticky, sweat-matted face, his hands gripping you with such a force it hurts. There is no doubt that tomorrow, if you live to see the sun rise one last time, his fingerprints will be embedded in the curve of your hips.
No part of you minds this. The birthmark on your thumb – your branding mark pulses, sizzles with every subsequent slap of his hip. You are his after all, and he is yours, having his self-made bruises on you really is just an added bonus.
"Buh-" you try to speak, but with the roughness of his thrusts, it makes it difficult for anything to come out other than broken, wanton moans. Voice catching in your throat, words dying at your lips.
One of his hands circles your neck, squeezing it enough to make you see stars. Your pussy clenches his cock like vice, as if it is afraid that it will slip out and leave you empty.
His pointer digs under your chin. Speak to me through your mind, (Y/N). Let me hear you.
You close your eyes, whimpering in the side of his neck, hands yanking at the base of his skull for support. He doesn't mind, obviously, the sounds you make spurring him on to fuck you even harder than before. If that's even possible.
The wet slap of his balls against your ass drives you wild. It's loud and sinful and lewd and you think it's telling on how badly he affects you.
If you were with anyone else, you might have been embarrassed with how badly you are turned on right now... Who are you kidding, you have never been this horny in your whole life.
In your mind, you chant his name, begging him for more, for him to bring you to ecstasy.
The hand at your hip moves in between your bodies, cold thumb circling your clit quickly, answering your mental please.
Simultaneously, he hits your cervix and your sweet spot, a loud whine resounding in your ears, bouncing off the four walls of your room and out into the world. He pistons into you like his life depends on it - maybe it does – while the huffs coming from his nose fan your neck.
His pleasure is made known to you by the growls that ghost by your brain in a cloud of smoke. They sound far away, distant as they hide behind your jumbled mind. But they are there, and so fucking maddening.
You open your mouth to try and speak, and right as you are about to say the word, your airway clears and his hand is over your mouth.
Say. My. Name. Each word is punctuated by the snap of his hips, full of grit and tension and lust compatible with yours.
"Bughuul." It makes the fire in your soul crackle, burst uncontrollably wild when Bughuul throws his head back and groans, putting more force into his actions. His reaction, the way his muscled chest curves enough for you to see the dips in his skin perfectly, the sharpness of his jaw obscuring his face, that spot inside of you continuously under a never ending, decadent onslaught; your clit abused to oblivion… it all winds the coil at the base of your gut until you are ready to snap, until you beg him to bring you over the edge.
The thick rim of cream at the base of his cock grows, slowly trickling down to coat his balls. Bughuul is making a mess of your cunt, rearranging your insides to make sure you are molded as his perfect cock-sleeve, that no other person would ever be able to have access to your most intimate places.
"Don't stop!" You shout, digging your nails from the base of his skull, dragging them over his shoulders and down to his chest, causing the pale skin to flake. "Make me cum! Please, make me cum!"
Your legs wrap around his hips, the new position raises your pelvis just enough for the angle to change.
Now, the fat, weeping head of his cock is repeatedly, without fail, pushing against that spot you crave to have touched the most.
You're... He can't finish his sentence, groaning loudly in your head as he changes his position. Bughuul removes your legs from around his waist, slotting his hands in the crease of your knees and bringing them to your chest to bend you in half.
He pulls all the way back, enough that you're ready to complain if he pulls out of you completely. Don't worry, (Y/N).
He slams back in, and you scream, eyes bulging out of their sockets, mouth dry with how much you're panting, how much you moan and hiss and babble out nonsense.
That one move is all it takes for you to break.
"OH MY GOD!" The coil snaps with so much force you aren't sure you're actually cumming. Your body stiffens as you cry out, legs quivering madly in his hands, your juices exploding out of you and ruining your sheets.
Your vision is taken over by a wall of white, an array of coloured sparkles flash blindingly across the veil behind your eyes. Your pussy has a death grip over his cock, making it harder for him to brutally thrust in you. But he manages, fucking you through the best orgasm of your entire life.
It lasts for ages, body tingling and shaking, scream after scream of pleasure tickling his ears and aiding his cock to continue, to pulse and contract and drag your orgasm until it starts to hurt.
You are so beautiful, when ruined.
You can't muster enough energy to nod. "You better ruin me so much more, then."
Will you take what I give you? You hope, pray, that he means his cum, if deities can even produce such a substance. You are driven into oversensitivity, clit hurting, the walls of your cunt fluttering in protest. You need him to sooth you.
"Y...Yes." You murmur into his ear. "Please fill me up, Bughuul."
In your mind, words in a language you don't understand echo loudly and suddenly, your cunt is filled with piping hot ropes of cum that cover you wall-to-wall.
It brings you to your third orgasm, the heavy contrast of his cold cock and the burning of his semen filling you up to the brim is all it takes, and you milk him for all his worth, needing to keep every drop his gives you inside.
His thrust slow until they stop completely.
You pant underneath him, absentmindedly playing with his stringy tresses which you note are damp yet just as cold as the rest of him and with your skin on fire, it's a welcome sensation.
Now, I understand. Bughuul whispers, chilly finger stroking your wet cheek. He lets your legs fall either side of him, arms weaseling around your middle in, what you deduce from your fucked-out brain is, a loving embrace.
Just like your cunt, your heart feels full. The butterflies’ people have talked so much about throughout your life tickle the lining of your stomach.
You heave, never loosening your hold on Bughuul, your brain taking its sweet time in regaining its function. And slowly, you realise what just happened, what is going on now. You had the best sex of your existence, pussy still wrapped around his shaft, cum threatening to drip out of you… all of this with a myth, a legend, a deity probably as old as humanity itself.
It worries you how much comfort being held in his arms brings you, how the cold of his skin soothes you, because it shouldn’t. This man or thing – or better yet, being – has done unspeakable things. How can you allow yourself, while his cock is still very much buried inside you, to be laid down over his chest while he settles in your bed? It’s oddly domestic for a children-eating deity. His face continues to unsettle you, and at the same time, captivate you.
And you can feel that your body and soul has given up the reigns and succumbed to this pull he has on you.
Bughuul drapes your bedsheets over your bodies, one arm never straying from around your waist. His cock plugs you, keeping his seed inside, and with each tiny movement, the ridges and bumps elicit little whimpers from your hypersensitive cunt.
Sleep. He tells you, voice low, gruff, as you would imagine a sleepy, fucked-out man would sound.
You don’t feel tired, though. “Not yet.”
Sleep, (Y/N). Every thought that was snuffed out of you only moments ago rushes back in, and they need to be discussed. I will answer all of your questions, sooth all your doubts tomorrow. For now, sleep.
“Will you be here when I wake up? Will I still be alive?”
His hand entangles in your hair, petting your scalp sweetly – the action is so familiar, domestic, it almost chokes you up.
It is not the time for you to join me, (Y/n). Bughuul reassures you. You’ve asked this more than once, but you just really want to make you’re still up and kicking in a few hours. The time will come when you must leave this world behind and come with me, but not now. Until then, I will come see you as much as I can, care for you as best I can. And, I will love you.
You lift up your head to rest your chin between his pecks, blinking up at the bare face tilted towards you. “Promise?”
You don’t – or more like you can’t quite admit you feel the same as he does.
He presses the space where his mouth should be to your forehead, fingers cupping your face. I have not, and will never lie to you, (Y/N). I promise.
Satisfied, you nod and rest your head down, ear picking up on a single beating sound before sleep takes over you.
You wake the next morning to someone pounding on your front door.
The first thing that comes to mind is how you are breathing. And right after, that the bed feels so incredibly empty with just you in it.
“(Y/N)!” You curse, recognising the voice shouting your name. “Dammit (Y/N), are you in there!”
Ignoring the throbbing between your legs and the dull achiness tingling at your hips, you quickly start to dress, calling: “I’m here! I’m alive!”
The knock persists as you jump down the hallway, wiggling on a pair of pants. You curse when you nearly trip over, hand unlocking the door and yanking it open.
You stand facing a huffing man, short dark hair and panicked, exhausted, shocked brown eyes. “You’re alive…”
Despite having seen him on the video, he’s somehow not at all what you imagined him to be, on the shorter side of the scale, unremarkable looks and general stature, nothing as massive and beautiful as Bughuul.
“Seems like it.” So-and-So huffs while rolling his eyes, hunching over. He looks a mess, which doesn’t surprise you at all given what you put this poor man through. When he stands, you are quick to bring the man into a hug. “I’m so glad you’re here, So-and-So. Thank you.”
He hugs you just as tightly. “I… I thought – I was sure you –”
“– I’m ok.” You tell him gently, rubbing his back in a soothing manner. “I’m ok.”
“Good, I was a second away from getting my things to burn this place down.” So-and-So pushes you back, looking you up and down, a frown slowly creating a looming shadow over his weary eyes. “You’ve got some explaining to do, young lady.”
You bark a tired laugh, nodding. “Yea.” You sigh, opening the door and ushering him in. “I do.”
His steps are calculated, unnerved, cautious, afraid that one wrong move and Bughuul will jump out from the shadows and kill him. Honestly, you aren’t sure it’s wise for him to be here, since the two have met and confronted each other before. It worries you enough to grow anxious yourself.
“Was he here?” So-and-So asked in a hush tone, his eyes darting to every corner of your living space. You wonder if he has ever seen some of the soulless children running a muck which adds to his paranoia, or if his body language is just from encountering Bughuul.
You hand him a cup of steaming coffee and point to your small dinning table where you’ve placed muffins your mother made as well as milk and sugar should he need it. You don’t drink coffee, but always keep some for company – a little tip from your parents.
He sits in the seat that offers him the best vantage point of your home, only the bare wall behind him and a window.
Before you answer, you pour yourself a tall glass of orange juice, taking a languid sip right after. “Bughuul was here, yes.”
So-and-So’s eyes meet yours, surprised. “But… how?”
You press on your brand mark, an action that does not go unnoticed by the ex-deputy. “In a way, you were right.” You show him your hand and wiggle your fingers. “This mark is the reason I’m alive today, and will be for the foreseeable future.”
Movement catches the side of your vision.
The children must be back.
You have no idea if Bughuul told them anything, or if he even speaks to them, but it doesn’t really matter.
“It’s a soul mark.” You make sure to look at Alexander when you say it, voice muffled in the rim of your glass. A dark part of you relishes in his confusion – in the confusion of the two other children at his side, one you haven’t seen before – his expression mirroring yours when you find yourself in a similar headspace. Lost, brain struggling to catch with what is told, slowly putting the pieces together. When your brother’s eyes widen, you turn to an equally aghast So-and-So. “It means I am something akin to his soulmate.”
So-and-So recoils harshly at your words, mug slamming down on the table. “I’m sorry…” He shakes his head. “His soulmate?”
A puff of breath exits your lips, your body deflating as you rub your throbbing temples. “Pretty much. I haven’t gotten all the details from him yet, but that’s the reason why I wasn’t in the house the night my brother killed my birth family, why nothing happened after I was adopted.”
His hands are linked in front of his face, deep in contemplation. His brain must be fried.
The three kids surrounding the table aren’t fairing much better. The twit with the neatly groomed hair and sweater vest is pacing, the taller body just has his jaw slack open, and Alexander just stares at you.
You hum. “Holy shit indeed.”
He shakes his head again, as if to clear it. “Wait! Wait, wait, wait… the two of you had a discussion, as in sat and spoke and chatted? And he told you, you were soulmates?”
It’s impossible to not laugh at how ridiculous it all sounds – is, because it’s fucking nuts and completely ridiculous.
“Yep, and he also said he wouldn’t kill me.” You scowl. “At least, not yet, anyway.”
“I’m not ready. That’s what he told me.” You raise your hand when he’s about to jump into a frenzied line of questioning. “I don’t know what he means by it, so don’t even ask. I’m hoping to get more answers when he returns.”
He sinks in his chair, totally flabbergasted. Harshly, he wipes the disbelief from his face, pulling at the tan skin. “When he…”
It’s a lot, you aren’t sure that you’ve processed it yourself, you can’t expect him to understand and accept it just as it’s being shoved in his unsuspecting face.
Alexander comes to stand right next to you, perplexed. “I don’t understand…”
He reaches to take hold of your hand, but you’re quicker, pulling your hand down into your lap. You don’t like Alexander being so close, much less how, deep inside you, your body seems to recognise who he is and what he was once to you.
“How do you feel about all this?” So-and-So asks, not commenting on your sudden, odd behaviour.
You shrug. “How am I supposed to feel? Happy? Scared? I’m just as confused as you all are but I’ve accepted it. There’s nothing else I can do.”
So-and-So raises his brow, doing a quick scan of your surroundings. He must not understand who else you’re addressing, which clarifies that he does not, indeed, see the children.
“What does it mean if you’re his soulmate?” The little pompous shit asks, pointing between yourself, the boys and the sky. “What does it mean for all of us?”
“Maybe she’s going to rule his realm alongside him?” The lanky, taller boy says, walking behind So-and-So to look outside the small window.
“Don’t be stupid, Blake.”
“Then what can it be, Milo?” Alexander hisses, eyes never straying from yours. It’s uncomfortable, the way his eyes pierce the side of your face, but you can’t give him the satisfaction of getting your attention, of giving him anything.
You sneer the name Milo in your brain, happy to finally know what that little cunt’s name is. It’s as shitty as his personality.
“Right…” So-and-So finally drawls, resuming his coffee. “What are you going to do in the mean time?”
“Continue to live my life the way I’ve been doing. The only difference is that now I have a Pegan deity as a soulmate who eats children and gets them to murder their families, who’ll visit me from time-to-time. Y’know, normal stuff.”
That gets a chuckle out of him, a hint of a smile to ghost his lips. “This is so far from normal, (Y/N).”
So-and-So, on your insistence, stays for the rest of the day. You assure him that you will keep him updated, unless Bughuul tells you otherwise, and you tell him about your parents’ visit.
All the while, Alexander stays, sitting on the couch right next to you. The other kids left after your served So-and-So breakfast, but the boy who once was your brother, never strays far from your side, and not once, does he say anything to get a rise out of you.
Sometimes, he comments under his breath, little sassy bits that just happen to echo your own thoughts.
You hate that while not looking exactly alike, you two are much the same when it comes to who you are as people.
Katie calls you in the middle of the afternoon, an absolute sobbing, babbling mess. So-and-So is visibly uncomfortable the whole time with being privy to such a private conversation. You don’t really care that he’s listening in, you just feel bad that you can’t understand what your sister is saying.
You do catch pieces of it. Lots of apologising, lots of begging for forgiveness and lots of declarations of love.
Katie is a bit of a brat, but you care for her so deeply it doesn’t matter and when she tells you so transparently that you’re the best sister in the world, that she wouldn’t trade you for anything, it sinks in that yes, your biological family was taken from you by the very child sitting next to you, but you gained probably one of the best families that has ever existed.
You guess you owe Bughuul and Alexander for that.
The conversation isn’t really long, you both make sure the other is ok, makes sure to drive in the point that nothing has changed or will change and soon, you hang up feeling a hundred pounds lighter.
After some more chatting and food, So-and-So leaves right before the clock strikes seven in the evening, as more houses need his attention along the west coast. He’ll call you every day or two, to make sure Bughuul hasn’t taken you and when you say your goodbyes, you hand him some snacks for the road and a letter to give to your parents when you die.
So-and-So is reluctant to take it, or leave, for that matter. But, the both of you have lives to live, and with Bughuul most likely coming back soon, neither of you want So-and-So to stay for the meet-and-greet that is bound to turn ugly.
Finally, you find yourself alone again.
Well… not completely alone.
You trudge to the kitchen, Alexander in tow, getting a start in the dishes. There isn’t much to do, thank heavens. These days drain you and you have to go back to work tomorrow, you have to go back out there, with real people and pretend like nothing’s different.
Alexander stands next to you, watching you store dirty dishes in the dishwasher and scrub the few cooking utensils you used for supper. You make quick work of it, trying hard not to show your annoyance with your brother staring at you.
“I can tell you’re annoyed.” He simply states, as you turn to the fridge to start preparing your lunch. “It’s written all over your face.”
You bite your tongue, continuing to do your task and ignoring him in the process.
“If you’re coming to live in his realm, you’re going to have to talk to me at some point.”
It’s hard to resist the urge to scoff, but you manage, brushing roughly past him to put food in your lunch box.
“Justin was stubborn too, like dad.”
You’ve had it. “Enough!” You snap, wiping your furious gaze at Alexander. “Shut your filthy mouth and stop talking about the family you stole from me!”
You yank the fridge door open and practically throw your lunchbox inside, ignoring the concerning clank heard when you shut the door.
“I’m just trying to make conversation –”
“– Well fucking don’t, alright?” The words are laced with nothing but venom, pure rage stemming deep within your core. You stomp down the hallway and just like last night, all the lights shut off for you. “I don’t want to hear shit from you, I don’t want anything from you. So fucking leave! You aren’t wanted here!”
You slam the door in his face, teeth gritted much too hard for comfort, chest heaving and tears bubbling to the surface.
It takes everything in you not to cry, not to screech out the pain you feel taking over your heart, magnified tenfold by your brother presence.
You really don’t want him anywhere near you.
It just still hurts too much.
That can be arranged. You whip around, and come face-to-face with Bughuul. He asks to come, and I let him. But if you do not wish to see your brother, you will never see him again.
The heels of your palms press in your eye sockets, a way to push down the tears that threaten to spill out. You open up your mind to Bughuul partially. “It’s just too soon for him to be around.”
Very well. He doesn’t elaborate further, cold arms circling your shoulders to bring you into his chest.
A deity that hugs, the concept seems ridiculous. But then again, your whole life is upside-down, this is the furthest thing from weird you’ve experienced in the last few days.
Sighing, you hug him back briefly before pushing him away. You don’t think he appreciates it, because he tilts his head and tries to bring you back to him again.
“I need to go take a shower.” You explain, going about your room to gather your things. “You’re free to come if you want.”
The bathroom door opens on its own, Bughuul’s answer to your invitation.
One would think a deity that eats children would have violent tendencies with their partners, but Bughuul is nothing if not gentle with you.
In the shower, he helps you wash your body, kneading the fuller parts of your body, taking his time.
You don’t push him away when he leans his forehead against yours, fingers disappearing between your legs as he scissors you open. This time around, his touches are calming, trying to make you escape the wild, almost vile thoughts in your mind about your brother.
In his arms, like this, you get the sense that you are cherished, that in Bughuul’s world, there is nothing, no one but you.
Cumming this closely to him, is out of this world, unreal. And later, when you orgasm while sitting firmly on his lap, his cock deeper inside of you than yesterday, you find yourself addicted to the deity. Circled in a blanket of euphoria, is only you and Bughuul, your soulmate, and this swelling sensation of completion.
Being with him is unlike anything you’ve experienced before, powerful enough to make you rethink your entire existence.
You don’t want to say that you love him, although the words burn on your tongue while you’re screaming his name as a gush of cream runs down his shaft, his cum shoved into you. But you’re pretty sure you do, because nothing else could explain how deeply you feel for him, how you’re terrified of waking up tomorrow morning without him by your side, that you dread having to spend the whole day without being able to touch him, see him, or even sense him nearby.
You lost count of how many times he makes you cum, how many times he fills you with his seed.
You don’t want it to end, but it does, because he promised you answers.
Laying comfortably under the covers with a thick shirt on, you snuggle in to your soulmates’ side, eyes closed and listening attentively to what he says.
Bughuul won’t tell you when exactly you’ll be ready to join him, as he, himself, isn’t sure, but he’ll know when the time comes. And once you are taken to his realm, the both of you will live out the rest of eternity together.
You’re comforted in knowing that you will be able to watch your family live on, that makes you happy.
“Do you know why I was chosen to be yours?” You whisper, breathing him in. You note that he doesn’t smell of decay or death as one would assume. Inhaling the scent of Bughuul reminds of clear, natural air. It’s refreshing, and liberating all at once.
Our souls were forged at the same time, one born out of fear, one born out of the light. I do not believe it could have been just anyone. It had to be you, it always had to be you. His nose nuzzles the crown of your head and you press yourself deeper in his hold.
He does his best to describe you his realm, what awaits you, and as he speaks, the sound of his voice lulls you into a peaceful slumber.
You don’t think you’ve been this acquainted with toilets before in your life.
Frequently, you find yourself hunched over, barfing what little food you can keep down these days. No matter if you’re at work or at home, or out with friends, the sudden need to vomit lurks about in the shadows, waiting patiently, hungrily to strike during the most unfortunate moments.
Outside wafts a smell of either weed or skunk roadkill, either way, as soon as the stench reaches your nose, you bolt from your rocking chair, bulldozing past Alexander to hurl down the toilet.
“Again?” He holds your hair away from your face as you basically dry heave since you vomited your lunch about half an hour ago. “You realise this isn’t normal, right?”
“Be quiet.” You mutter into the bowl.
“You should go to the hospital.”
You flush, then fall back, hitting the wall hard behind you. “I’m fine.”
“No. I have to look out for you.”
You huff, looking at him incredulously. God, it’s fucking weird how an undead, ten-year-old boy tries to baby you, a grown ass adult. Only recently has Alexander been allowed to return in your life. After spending Christmas with your family, knowing what you know now, you finally accepted the loss of your biological family, finally allowed yourself to grieve for people you don’t remember, and you forgave.
Though now, you regret telling Bughuul to grant your brother permission to visit you. He’s annoying and persistent, and such a sassy worry-wart for a fucking child whose balls will never drop.
He helps you stand, hovering next to you as you rinse out your mouth. “I don’t need a kid to look out for me, or boss me around. I’m the adult.”
“Says the girl acting like a child. Go to the hospital.”
Groaning, you step out of the bathroom and return to your previous spot, picking up your book and making to read.
“And I’ll have you know, by the way, that I’m a decade older than you.” You roll your eyes. “Even if I’m stuck as a child, I’m still your big brother.”
“My big brother’s been through puberty already, even has a baby on the w–” The book in your hands falls to the ground as you gasp.
Slowly, you stand back up on shaky legs, hand resting on your belly.
The floor creaks, both you and Alexander turning to face Bughuul. He rarely comes during the day, busy eating children, you assume. The only times he’s shown his face when it’s still light out is when you call out to him, when you miss him unbearably and need him.
You stare at him dumbfounded. You understand what he’s telling you, know the words that tickle in your skull, but your brain isn’t understanding their meaning when placed altogether.
Bughuul walks up to you, his cool hand flat on yours.
It is time to leave, (Y/N). He repeats, leaning to press his forehead against yours. You’ve realised long ago that this is his own version of a kiss, how he shows you the love he holds for you.
“I–” You choke on air, stuttering as you try to make your brain function. “I... Can–So-and-So.” Bughuul hisses at the name, the grip on your shoulder and hand tightening. He despises the ex-deputy. “I need to tell him, so that he can tell my parents.”
“Bughuul!” Alexander flinches at your tone, at the shift of temperature in the air. You’ve never raised your tone at your soulmate, never disagreeable or difficult. But you’re putting your foot down whether he likes it or not, whether he just so happens to be a powerful deity capable of killing on the spot or not. “I’m seconds away from dying! You will give me the opportunity to say my goodbyes and that is final!”
You push yourself away, taking your phone out of your pocket.
It takes no more than a moment, a quick text to So-and-So telling him that Bughuul is finally taking you with him. Your vision is obscured by a barrage of tears and when you’re done, you chuck the phone on the coffee table and turn to your soulmate.
I am sorry. Bughuul never, if not rarely, apologises. His hands rub your arms gently, forehead back on yours.
You shutter a breath, placing your hand back on your stomach. “A child, huh?” You whisper.
My child, our child, is the symbol of our love. It is our prosperity.
“Does that mean I’m going to be an uncle?” You snicker, brushing the tears from your eyes. Alexander is shy, solely because Bughuul is present and watching him move like a hawk eyeing his prey, but he puts a hand on your tummy and grins. “The others are going to be so jealous.”
Bughuul removes Alexander’s hand from you without of word –he never does speak to the children– lifting you up bridal style into his arms. Close your eyes, (Y/N). Soon, you will be home.
You reach down for Alexander, waiting until he holds your hand tightly, and it is only when he does, that you feel strong enough to close your eyes, ready for the adventure that is to come.
As Bughuul takes his first step, your phone rings, but you don’t hear it. You can’t hear anything or feel anything besides your soulmate freezing skin holding you close.
The three – or four, really – of you step through reality and space into a new beginning.
I love you. You say to Bughuul for the first time, as you feel your heart slow to a stop, your veins turning blue and your being start to grow cold.
And I love you, (Y/N). Bughuul is quick to reply, a surge of pure joy radiating throughout the both of you despite the fact that you are decaying, that you are entering your soulmate’s cold, dead world. I love you, and our child.
