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Untitled No.7

WLW

You returned home for your cousin’s funeral—planning to leave quickly. Then came Kiean. She's always been there, hasn’t she? She knows things about you she shouldn't—tiny details no one ever told her. You try to rationalize it. But the more your body remembers things your mind doesn’t. Desire curls into fear. Grief bleeds into craving. You don’t know what’s real anymore. But you do know this... you're not going home. And you don’t want to.

▪︎▩~16.4k Words, Lake Siren x Fem!Reader, Mentions of death, Slow burn, Plot, Horror erotica(mild), Hypno themes, Age gap, Memory suppression, Heavy siren description, Explicit sexual content(18+), Sex dreams, Unprotected sex, Multiple rounds, Choking and Bondage, Refers to her privates using the d and c word, Stomach bulge, Cervix hitting(light), Crying due to sexual intensity, Dirty talk and Praise, etc▩▪︎

You ran from this place like hell itself was nipping at your heels. Swore you’d never come back. But death has a way of digging its claws into everyone, and now here you are, dressed in black and standing under a heat-thick sky for a funeral you didn’t ask to be part of.

Alastair Jones.

Your older cousin. The golden boy once upon a time—your favorite when you were little. Used to let you ride on his back, sneak you candy, cover for you when you lied. Then time did what it always does. Life got heavy. People drifted. The world got meaner. After a while, y’all barely even commented on each other’s birthdays.

Now he’s in a box, and everybody’s suddenly got something to say.

"He got in trouble with some people about money—they got his ass," says some wrinkled stranger, her voice dry like ash and her face like the cracked bottom of an old skillet. You don’t recognize her. Probably never did.

"Nah," a younger guy chimes in, sounding too casual, too smug. "I think he killed himself. After ole girl left him."

You grit your teeth.

Same bullshit. Same vultures. Elders who think old age is a free pass to be cruel, and young adults who wouldn’t know responsibility if it bled out in front of them. People just standing around, sucking the sadness out of the air like leeches. Turning grief into gossip. Mourning into mouth-running.

You shouldn’t have come back. You knew better. But Alastair left you something. A sealed envelope, scribbled in his handwriting. A will written three days before he died. Said he didn’t trust anybody else with it.

You’re still chewing on all of that—turning it over like a bone you can't break—when you hear a voice that makes your stomach twist.

"Well lookie here. Didn’t think you would show up."

Your mother. And next to her—your brother.

You blink slow. Keep your face blank. You knew they’d be here, but it still feels like stepping into a room full of fire alarms.

"You’re not gonna speak? Well, that’s fine. We’re not here for you anyway."

Her words land like spit on your cheek. She walks off before you can even respond.

Your brother lingers. Always the more silent of the two, but just as sharp.

"Hey," he says like it’s an obligation.

"Hey. Good to see you," you lie. You’re tired of pretending.

"Yeah, you too. Well..." he glances away. "I’m gonna go see Aunt Neadean."

And he’s gone too.

You exhale slow at the mention of your aunt. You can’t even imagine the pain she and her husband felt. Loss is terrible, especially the loss of a child.

—

The crowd’s thinning. The fake tears have dried up. People are hugging each other like their affection makes them holy.

You wait until it’s quiet before you approach.

"Hey, Auntie," you murmur, giving her the softest thing you’ve got left in your chest. You nod at your uncle.

"Hey, baby..." Her voice cracks. "Wow, I haven’t—sniff—seen you in a while. All grown up."

You pull her in without hesitation. She folds into you like a crumbling house. Her body shakes, but she won’t fall. She’s too proud for that. She’s always been the strongest person in any room.

"I’m so sorry, Aunt Neadean," you say, voice low, like it’ll mean more if it’s quiet.

You pull back. Her face is puffy and wet, but still beautiful in that way grief makes a woman holy.

"I’m in town for a few days. If you need anything—anything—just call."

"Aw, thank you, but... we’ll be okay," she says, clutching your uncle’s hand like it’s the only thread holding her to this earth.

You start to say something else—but stop.

Because something flickers in your periphery.

Your head snaps toward the tree you were standing by earlier. That twisted old oak. For a split second, you swear you saw someone standing there. Watching.

But now?

Nothing.

Just the tree. Just the breeze.

But the air feels wrong. Still. Stale. Like a storm holding its breath.

And deep in your chest, something coils.

What the fuck was that?

Your brows furrow.

You know you saw something. A flicker—fast, subtle, but distinct. Like light bouncing off a mirror in the wrong place. Or a figure that moved too quick to be fully real.

You glance again. The old oak tree stands quiet and still, its bark flaking, branches low with weight and age. Moss hangs like tired lace. The shadows at its base are long now, stretched by the sun’s descent, curling against the ground like fingers.

But there’s nothing there. No movement. No glint. No one.

Still... a cold tightness coils in your stomach. Like something pressed too close to your spine.

"Everything alright, baby?" your aunt asks gently, following your gaze.

You force a tight smile. "Yeah, just thought I saw someone over there. Must’ve been nothing."

She doesn’t question it, but you see the way her face stills—like she knows something too but won’t say it. Her husband doesn't look up. Just holds her hand tighter.

"I think I'm gonna get going," you say. "I’ll come by, okay?"

She nods, and you walk off—toward the oak. Even though your gut tells you not to.

Each step crunches the dead leaves. The air is suddenly too still, too thick. Like the whole graveyard is holding its breath.

You stop in front of the tree. Nothing. Still.

—

You said your goodbyes and left.

On the way to a hotel, your car sputters, and you curse, mumbling something about buying an automatic and how stupid your clutch is and that you should've gotten a rental for the long trip.

You pulled over to the side of the road near the woods where all leaves have fallen and lost their color. The trees are gray and lifeless. You step out of the car and start cursing everyone and everything. "It is too fucking cold to be out trying to fix this stupid car," you muttered, irritated and cold.

You lifted the hood, and a bunch of hot smoke came out in a rush. You backed up coughing. Cough—cough "—oh, you sorry son of a bitch—I swear to God—" You fanned the smoke away and stepped to the side, letting it cool down.

Once the smoke settled, you went back to the car, and after a few minutes of searching around, you saw the problem. "What the fuck," you said, quietly already sick of being in this weather and upset aside the discovery that your car definitely won't be moving any time soon.

You sat there for a while and then pulled out your phone. You paused at your family contacts, but you really didn't want to deal with them or bother anyone; after all, most of them had just come from a funeral.

You heard a vehicle coming down the road; you looked up from your phone and saw a dark blue truck slowing. You got tense because even though someone was probably coming to help you, it could always be something else.

The truck stopped in front of you, and the person leaned their head out of the window, and you immediately recognized the person.

Kiean.

She was always strange—older, southern charm like sugar and venom—but now she’s… different.

"You need help," she asked, taking in your appearance with that same sultry look she's had for as long as you remember.

"No," you replied instantly, like you didn’t even fully process what she said before turning her down.

She chuckled and hopped out of the truck, walking over until you were both face-to-face. "I haven't seen you in decades...what dragged you back to this place?" she asks while she's searching your face for something.

"Funeral," you said flatly, trying to ignore your building anxiousness.

"Oh, yeah...Al, he was a good man, always did right by others no matter what the situation...my condolences." She murmured, giving you a look you couldn't quite place.

"Um, yeah, thank you," you said, glancing at the woods and empty road.

Your car made a wheezing sound. She looked behind you, and you sucked your teeth.

“Mhm,” she hums, head tilted. “You sure you don’t want help? Just a look?” Her voice curled around the cold air like smoke.

"Engines blown, I'll call a tow and taxi," you said, already looking up towing services.

"That’s not all that's wrong... I have towing stuff in the back," she murmured, pointing to her truck. Eyes boring into yours.

"Oh, no it's fine. I have to take it to a shop an—" she cut you off.

"No need, I can do it for you, it's better than having to pay and besides you know my daddy was a mechanic," she says coaxing, "where you staying?"

"A hotel." You said.

"Mm, why don't you come stay with me," she suggested, like y'all still know each other, like y'all are still close.

"Oh, no thank you. I don’t—"

"Look," she said placing her hand on your hip. "Let me help you, you're not bothering me."

You breathed in deep, "Kiean," you said looking up at her.

“Mama bought your folks’ old place. I’m there now. You should come see what’s changed…” She drags, eyes shimmering weirdly.

You frowned, but brushed it of, blaming on the little bit of sun peaking through the dark clouds.

"Okay," you complied, stepping to the side to get your stuff out of the broken down car. You looked back to see her smiling if you were dumb or didn't know her you'd assume she was just happy to help.

The truck door groaned as you climbed in, the vinyl seat stiff and cracked beneath you. It smelled like earth and engine oil, old leather and something sharper—like sap that had gone sour.

Kiean got in on her side, the cab groaning under her weight like it recognized her. You caught her in your peripheral. She hadn’t taken her eyes off you since she stepped out of that truck.

She looked... different. Bigger than you remembered. Not just older—heavier, harder, more real than anyone else you’d seen all day.

Her skin looked like it had been weathered by something worse than time. Hair darker, coarser, pulled back in a way that exposed the clean line of her throat and jaw. And her eyes—Not soft. Not sad. Predatory.

“I still can’t believe it’s you,” she said, smiling slow. Her voice had that same syrupy lilt, but there was weight behind it now, something that stuck to your ribs like bad news. “You’ve grown into something real pretty.”

You didn’t answer. You adjusted your jacket and looked out the window. The woods flickered past, dead and reaching, but your own reflection in the glass unsettled you more: tight shoulders, vacant eyes, the old fear crawling back to settle in your chest like a housecat that never left.

“You been gone a long time,” she said after a moment. Her fingers tapped the steering wheel—long fingers, rough knuckles, calluses you could hear when they dragged across the worn leather.

“We thought maybe you weren’t ever coming back.”

“I wasn’t,” you muttered. Silence bloomed between you.

Then, “Mm. But something always pulls you home, doesn’t it?” Her voice dropped, low and velvety, like she was speaking from beneath your skin.

You turned your head, slow.

Her smile hadn’t moved. But her eyes were hungry. Watching you like you were still a kid—but not in the way family did. No, this was something else. Like she was sizing you up for something. Like she already owned you and was just waiting for you to remember.

“I remember when you used to follow me around,” she mused. “Barely up to my waist. Always askin’ questions. Always starin’.”

“I was a kid,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to.

She didn’t relent. Her hand reached over, steady and sure, and brushed something off your thigh that wasn’t even there. You flinched instead.

“I know,” she said sweetly. “Still are, really.” The truck hit a pothole and you jolted. Her hand stayed on your thigh a second too long before slipping back to the wheel.

“You look cold,” she said, eyes flicking to your fingers. “Ain’t no meat on you anymore. You eat up in that city?”

You swallowed. “I do fine.”

“Mmm. We’ll fix that.” She said it like a promise. Like a threat. Like she’d been waiting to say it.

Outside, the trees pressed closer. You realized you hadn’t seen another car in miles. Your chest was tight. You couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or the way she kept glancing at you, like she knew you didn’t belong anymore but wasn’t going to let you leave either. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

—

The truck rumbled to a stop in front of the house. The house you grew up in.

You stepped out slow, gravel crunching beneath your boots. The air was colder here. Wetter. The kind of cold that clung to bone and memory.

The house hadn’t changed. Just aged. White paint peeled like shedding skin, wood warped and bloated from decades of storms off the water. The wraparound porch still hung low and heavy like it might collapse under its own weight—but the windows were clean. The steps were swept. The door had a new lock.

It was old. But it was lived in. You didn’t like that.

“This used to be my folks’ place,” you said, trying to ground yourself.

“Mhm,” Kiean said, coming around the truck. “Mama bought it off the bank years after they moved. I fixed it up.”

She passed you, brushing close. “It remembers you.”

You stopped walking. “The house?”

She smiled. But didn’t answer.

—

Inside was warmer than you expected. Not cozy—just hot enough to keep you uncomfortable. The old fireplace crackled in the corner. Something meaty simmered on the stove. You looked around while she moved with certainty. Like she’d lived here forever. Or never left.

The air smelled like rosemary and smoke. And something metallic underneath.

Kiean dropped her coat on the hook and moved into the kitchen. “You go ahead and get warm. Bathroom’s down the hall, you remember?”

You opened your mouth to protest, but she was already pulling open a drawer. “You’re shaking,” she said, not even turning. “Ain’t gonna get sick in my house.”

You hesitated.

“Go,” she said again, voice soft but absolute. That same hypnotic edge—a voice that knew how to be obeyed.

—

The bathroom was clean. Too clean. Old tile scrubbed until it gleamed, like someone had been trying to erase decades of memory in one room.

When you came back out—damp hair, old towel around your shoulders—there was a folded stack of clothes on the couch. Flannel. Cotton. Undershirt. Thick socks. You picked them up, something catching in your throat.

They weren’t just any clothes. They fit. Not like she guessed. Like she knew.

“I remember what you used to wear,” Kiean said from the kitchen. You hadn’t even heard her move. “Thought you might still like soft things.”

You stared down the hall, skin prickling. “How?” you asked quietly.

She turned, wooden spoon in hand, her eyes glinting amber in the firelight. Not gold. Not brown. Amber. Like something that had caught the sun and never let it go. “I’ve always remembered you,” she said. And that was the moment you knew she wasn’t just playing host.

She’d been waiting.

—

Dinner was thick stew and cornbread, served with a gentleness that made your skin crawl. She watched you eat like it meant something. Like it proved something.

You set the spoon down. “You always been alone out here?” you asked. She took her time wiping her mouth, then nodded once. “Not always,” she said softly. “But most folks don’t last long when they don’t belong. The house don’t like strangers.”

You blinked. “I’m not a stranger.”

She smiled. “No, baby. You’re not.”

—

The stew sits heavy in your belly, and the fire has burned down to coals. The house creaks like it remembers things it shouldn’t. You sit curled up on the worn old couch, still in the clothes she gave you. Still warm from her hands. Still unsure why you haven’t left.

Kiean leans against the kitchen doorway, arms folded, loose sleeves pushed up over sinewed forearms. Her hair is darker now, shadows pulling at the strands.

She hasn’t looked away from you since dinner. “You got someone waiting on you?” she asks, voice low and syrupy.

You blink. “What?”

Kiean smiles slow. “A boyfriend. Girlfriend. Anything like that.”

You grimace, the reflex fast, honest. “No,” you say. “God, no. Don’t have time for that kind of headache.”

She laughs under her breath. A dry, pleased sound. She steps closer. “Good,” she says. “Would’ve hated to send someone home disappointed.”

You look up, the edges of your thoughts fraying. “That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

And that’s when you feel it—that wordless shift. Like the room got deeper. Like the fire flickered in response to her mouth. Like your skin knows something your mind refuses to say out loud.

You're about to say something else—anything else—but then her voice slides back in, soft and slow like a hush in your ear. “Go to bed, sugar. You’re tired.”

You open your mouth to protest. Then blink. Then stand.

The room sways gently around you, and everything feels so far away, like you’re already dreaming. You carry yourself down the hallway like the house is breathing with you, pushing you forward. The door’s already open. The sheets are cool, the pillows soft, the window cracked open just enough for the river to whisper outside.

You don’t remember laying down.

—

You’re underwater. Not drowning. Just suspended—a warmth surrounding you like silk. You should be scared, but you aren’t.

You see her there, half-submerged in black water and moonlight. Her skin reflects silver, her hair fanned out like ink in the current. She smiles at you with her head tilted, her mouth slightly ope, teeth sharp like she’s about to say something.

But instead, she just reaches out. And her hand brushes your ankle. You jolt—but not from fear. From recognition. The touch burns, and you want it again.

She leans forward, close enough for her lips to skim your ear, “You'll always belonged to me.”

You try to speak, but the water rushes in—and you wake up gasping.

The room is still dark. But the window’s wide open now, and the breeze that rolls through smells like riverwater and rosemary. And something older than either. You blink a few times but your mind is hazy and your body is heavy.

You fall back to sleep

—

The sun’s barely crawled out, orange and low, mist curling off the wet grass like steam off flesh. You woke to the smell of oil and metal, and the low, slow grunt of someone working outside.

You didn’t bother dressing all the way—just threw on the oversized shirt she gave you last night. It clings in places from sleep sweat, and your thighs burn a little from the cold morning air.

Your feet slap against the wooden porch, damp from dew. You spot her instantly—Kiean, crouched by the open hood of your car, grease on her forearm, a cigarette between her lips. The smoke curls around her like it misses her when it leaves.

You rub at your bare arm and walk over. “What’s wrong with it?”

She doesn’t look up right away. Just leans in deeper, wrist disappearing into the tangle of your engine. “Engine’s blown,” she says flatly. “Belt’s cracked. Fan’s warped. You got more problems than this little thing knows how to hold.”

She glances up then. And sees you. Not in the casual way. Not like a friend or a acquaintance or someone doing you a favor. She sees your legs, your bare thighs, your toes curled on the cold dirt—and something slow and possessive flickers in her expression.

She drops the cigarette and crushes it out with the heel of her boot. “You always liked to walk outside barefoot,” she murmurs, voice going lower. “Even when it was cold. I remember that.”

You blink. That’s not something you ever told her. That’s not something anyone told her.

She straightens, taller than you remember. Broader. She smells like iron and something almost sweet beneath it—molasses and metallic. And then she steps close.

Her hand finds your waist—not asking—and she pulls you gently, insistently, to the edge of the car, tucking you against the cold metal frame. “Look here,” she says in that honey-slow voice, as if you were the one who asked to be taught.

She leans over you, her chest brushing your back, her breath warm by your ear. One arm curls around your side to point at the broken fan, the other steady on the edge of the hood—but she’s close. Every inch of her is heat and shadow, wrapped around your body like a second skin.

You swallow, eyes struggling to focus on what she’s showing you, because all you feel is the grip on your hip.

“You should put more clothes on before you catch a cold,” she says quietly, her hand sliding up to your lower back. “You’re not a kid anymore, baby. Can’t just run around half-dressed.” Her voice softens—but it doesn’t lose that edge. “Someone might take it the wrong way.”

She’s not moving away. She’s not doing anything wrong. And yet your heartbeat’s crawling up your throat, and there’s this pressure behind your eyes like you’re about to remember something. Something about her. About the water. About the way she never really left.

You glance over your shoulder, lips parting to speak—but her eyes are already on you. And they shimmer. Not with sunlight. But with depth. Like the bottom of a lake.

You don’t say anything. Not when she steps back, not when she wipes her hands on that rag hanging from her belt and mutters something about checking the radiator later. Not when she disappears around the side of the house like nothing just happened.

You stand there for a second longer, barefoot and stupid, the cold finally creeping into your bones. Then you turn. Inside, the house is still dark. Quiet in that heavy way old country homes get—like the walls are holding secrets in the insulation.

You slip through the back door, your skin prickling from the temperature shift, the sudden absence of her body heat. Her presence. You pad through the kitchen, floor cool under your feet. Smells like coffee grounds and dust. You don’t bother turning on lights. Just move on instinct.

In the bathroom, you peel off the shirt. Pull on something warmer—soft cotton, heavier fabric, sleeves that go past your wrists. It smells like detergent and wood smoke. You try not to think about how long it’s been since you last slept in a real bed.

In the mirror, your eyes look darker than usual. Wider. You splash cold water on your face. It doesn’t help. By the time you crawl into the guest bed—sheets unfamiliar, firm mattress, ceiling fan spinning slow overhead—it’s like the day’s weight finally catches up to you.

And then it hits you...Alastair. You hadn’t even really let yourself feel it yet. Not fully. You’d been too caught up in everything else—the strangers at the funeral, the way your mother looked through you like a ghost, the way Kiean’s hand felt when it grabbed your hip like it belonged there.

But now, lying still, it opens up in you like a bruise pressed too hard. Alastair’s face. His laugh. That crooked smirk he used to flash before doing something reckless. The way he always made you feel like you mattered, even when the rest of the family didn’t see you at all.

And then—That tree. That dream. Her eyes. Your stomach clenches. You roll onto your side, arm under the pillow, breath shallow. Grief sits in your chest like a stone. You close your eyes. Try to forget the way her voice wrapped around you like honey. Try not to think about the shimmer in her eyes. Try not to dream of things you buried years ago.

—

You don’t remember falling asleep, but the smell of food pulls you from the fog. The kitchen’s warm when you wander in—eggs sizzling, black coffee bitter in the air, sunlight trying to cut through the mist and fog just outside.

You sit at the table in her flannel shirt again, legs bare, still chilled from the walk down stairs. Kiean doesn’t say anything at first. Just sets a plate down in front of you like she always knew what you liked. You eat in silence. The TV buzzes faintly in the background—some news about a missing hiker, local rivers, search efforts. You barely listen.

“I didn’t think you’d stay the night,” Kiean says quietly, not looking at you.

You glance up. “Didn’t think I would either.”

She just hums. Her hands are stained with something dark from the car, but her nails are clean. Neat. Precise. She always had that about her—exactness.

You clean your plate, and she takes it from you wordlessly, brushing her fingers over your knuckles as she does. The contact lingers too long.

—

You curl up in the bedroom—your old room, though it feels like a stranger’s place now. The Walking Dead plays on low volume, half-watched. You used to binge this show in high school, back when things felt bigger, simpler, and safer.

You hear her footsteps before you see her. She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You still watch this stuff?” she asks, amused.

“Yeah. Nostalgia, I guess.”

She steps inside and sits on the edge of the bed like she belongs there. And maybe she does. You don’t stop her. You don’t move.

After a while, she leans back against the headboard. You lean too. Somehow, your head ends up on her shoulder. It feels… right. And terribly, terribly wrong.

You don’t know when you fall asleep again.

—

This time, the water isn’t still. It churns around your body, hot and thick. You’re naked, waist-deep, moonlight painting silver over every ripple.

And Kiean is behind you.

She presses her body into yours, arms wrapping around your chest, voice in your ear: “You keep dreaming about me, sugar.”

You moan as her mouth moves down your neck, her hands sliding over your hips, gripping your thighs. The pressure is low, unbearable—her fingers parting you, something not quite human pressing inside.

She’s inside you now—filling, stretching, dragging moans out of your throat that don’t sound like your own.

You gasp her name, but it sounds different here. Older. She teases into your ear. “Told you. You’re mine.”

You wake up sweaty, breath catching in your throat. The house is dead quiet except for the clock ticking in the kitchen. You glance at the time—2:42 AM.

Thirst pulls you down the stairs, but it’s not just that. Something feels off. You smell riverwater again—thick and earthy and cold. Then you see her.

Kiean stands in the middle of the kitchen. Soaked. Her clothes are drenched, dark and clinging to her solid frame. Her hair drips down her shoulders and spine, puddling beneath her bare feet.

You stare. “What the fuck, Kiean. Were you swimming?” you demand, heart pounding.

She just tilts her head, water sliding down her temple. “It’s not that cold,” she says, voice soft, strange.

“It’s almost below freezing,” you snap. “Jesus, what the hell were you doing out there?”

She doesn’t answer. Just watches you with that same glittering hunger from the river in your dream. And then she says: "You used to follow me down to the water all the time. Never knew why. Thought you just liked the way I sang.”

You freeze.

Her smile curls sharp and fond. “You don’t remember. That’s okay.” She steps closer. Wet footprints follow her across the floor, and you step back without meaning to. But her eyes hold you still. “Go back to bed,” she murmurs. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Your body wants to listen. Even though your skin is crawling. Even though your thighs still ache like the dream wasn’t just a dream. Even though you swear you hear something singing outside. You want to argue.

You should. You should be asking her what the hell is going on, why she’s dripping lakewater into the goddamn kitchen at nearly three in the morning, why she’s speaking in riddles like your bones aren’t already buzzing with the wrongness of it all.

But you don’t. Because something in your body turns heavy. Slow. Like you’re sinking into something thick and warm.Like you’re already underwater. Your lips part to speak, but nothing comes out. Just a breath. Shallow. Shaky.

She takes another step forward. Her gaze never wavers, locked on yours like it’s pulling you apart cell by cell. Her soaked shirt clings to her like second skin, and she smells like the river now—mud and stone and something deep. “Go on now,” she says, voice soft and curling like steam. “Upstairs, sweetheart.”

Your throat tightens. Your legs… move. One step back. Then another. You try to fight it, but your limbs feel borrowed. Not entirely yours.

“Forget this,” she says. “It’s nothing you need to remember. Just a dream slipping out of your mind”

You blink. Hard. The kitchen swims. You can still feel the wet in the air, the chill clinging to your skin like fingers. But your feet are already turning, carrying you backward toward the stairs. You glance once over your shoulder.

She hasn’t moved. Just stands there, soaked and calm and waiting. Like she’s done this before. Like this isn’t the first time you woke up and saw her standing there, all riverwater and silence.

"That’s it,” she murmurs as you reach the base of the stairs. “You’ll feel better in the morning. Just sleep. Let the dream finish itself.”

Your hand grips the railing. You don’t remember doing that. You try—really try—to ask why. Why she’s here. Why she’s wet. Why your skin still aches like her hands were on you all night long when you know they weren’t. But your mouth won’t cooperate. Your body is already climbing the stairs. Slow. Obedient.

Your mind claws against it, but whatever part of you is hers—whatever part of you never really left the water—is stronger. You make it to your bedroom. Pull back the covers with shaky fingers. The second your head hits the pillow, your limbs lock. Your chest rises once. Twice. Then stillness. Like drowning, but slower.

Far off, through the window left cracked, a sound drifts in. Not wind. Not leaves. Singing. Low and mournful. Too sweet to be safe. And underneath it, almost buried—your name. Whispered like a promise. And then, nothing.

—

You’re not sure what draws you back downstairs. The cold tile bites your feet, the house creaks with memory, and your breath fogs slightly in the hallway light. You’re in nothing but underware and her shirt again, sleeves pulled over your hands, legs bare.

You tell yourself you're just getting water. Just checking the lock. Just... making sure. But you end up in the doorway of her room, heart thudding like it already knows what happens next.

You shouldn’t be here. Not after what happened in the kitchen. Not after her voice curled around your spine like a hand and pressed obedience into your blood. Not after your body betrayed you and climbed those stairs like it had no choice.

You shouldn’t have been able to get back up. And yet—here you are. Standing barefoot in her doorway. Breathing hard. Needing something you don’t understand.

Kiean is brushing her hair at the dresser vanity, wrapped in a towel so thin it's practically transparent. Her back is solid and scarred, muscle roped beneath skin that doesn’t quite look right in the moonlight. It shifts—just slightly, just wrong—like something beneath the surface is breathing with her.

You don’t say anything. She looks up at you in the mirror. "Bad dream?”

You don’t answer right away. But you nod.

She pats her lap. “Come here.”

You shouldn’t. You know better. But you do. You crawl onto the bed slow, hands unsure. And when you straddle her thighs, the heat of her body seeps through you like steam. She wraps her arms around your waist, and her towel soaks into your shirt. Everything smells like her—rosemary, river silt, and something fresh beneath it.

“Poor thing,” she murmurs, petting your hair back, “You always hated sleeping alone.”

"Did I?” you whisper, not trusting your voice.

She doesn’t answer. Her fingers tilt your chin. Her kiss lands soft at first—then sloppy, deep, tongue sliding slow into your mouth. You try to breathe through it, but—You taste rosemary and brine.

Your lips tingle. Her tongue curls unnaturally deep. You flinch, thinking you feel her skin move beneath your hands—like slick muscle under too-tight leather, like water trying to shift inside a bag of flesh. But her voice—oh, her voice. “S’alright, sugar. You’re just tired. Just sleep.”

You feel high. A rush through your limbs. Like she’s dragging you under—but you don’t care. You whimper into her mouth, and she kisses you harder, dragging her nails up your back, whispering something in that old backwoods cadence that doesn’t quite sound like English anymore.

You lean closer without meaning to, caught between comfort and drowning.

"You’re mine,” she whispers into your mouth.

You pull back, gasping. Something inside you feels tangled—wet, glowing, foreign.

She smiles softly. "See? Feels better now, doesn’t it.”

You nod, dazed, still sitting on her lap. You can’t remember walking to her room. You can’t remember your dream. You can barely remember your name. All you know is she smells like home, and you feel like something that’s already halfway changed.

—

You wake up in your old bed with your lips still tingling. You're not sure how you got back here. You're not wearing pants. You smell like rosemary and iron and sleep. The covers are twisted. Your shirt's half unbuttoned.

You touch your mouth. It’s dry. But you swear—swear—you can still feel her tongue in your throat. You sit up too fast. Head pounding. Dream haze lingering.

Downstairs, you hear someone in the kitchen. Bacon. Coffee. The scrape of a pan. The radio on low—some old country station barely tuning in.

You stand and pull a blanket around yourself like armor, just as your phone rings. Unknown number. Local code. You answer. “This is the law office of Cadwell, Briggs, and Holmes. We’re calling to inform you that you’re named in Alastair Jones’ will. We need you to come in today, if possible.”

—

The office is cold and sterile. Fake flowers. Dusty leather chairs. A man with thick glasses and an unforgiving part opens a small box on the desk. “He left you this,” he says. “three thousand dollars… and this necklace.”

He lifts it out gently. The chain is long and dark silver, almost black. The pendant is a small disk—pearl-like, opalescent, carved with a faint crescent moon. The second your eyes hit it, your stomach turns. You've seen this before. You don’t know where. But you know it. You almost reach out. Then you stop.

Kiean, beside you, speaks first. “That used to be Mama’s,” she says softly, but her voice is different—older, like the memory is rusted and ancient. “Before she went in the water.”

You turn to her, startled. “What?”

She doesn’t repeat it. She just looks at you. Calm. Still. Like she knew this would happen.

The lawyer clears his throat. “He didn’t leave any additional notes. Just your name. Just this.”

You take the necklace. It feels warm in your hand.

—

Back at the house, you trail her to the garage. She’s got the hood popped again, sleeves rolled up, tank top dark with grease. “Any updates?” you ask.

She glances at you with that same unreadable smile. “Give me two more days.”

“Kiean—”

“Two days, sugar. You’re not leaving yet.” There’s no teasing in her voice. Just fact.

You should be mad. But something about the way she says it—like it’s already been decided—shuts you up. You wrap your arms around yourself. “Do you even work anymore?”

She leans back, wiping her hands with a rag. “Takin’ a break.”

"That’s not like you,” you say, brows furrowed.

"No,” she murmurs, stepping closer. “It’s exactly like me now.”

You frown.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, brushing a smudge off your cheek with the rag. Her hand lingers. “You just rest. You always hated the cold. You always got sick when you stayed out barefoot too long.”

You open your mouth to argue. But how would she remember that?

She leans in slightly. “Come inside. I’ll make you something hot. You still like those grits with butter and pepper?”

You nod, quietly, feeling like a kid again. No—feeling like something smaller. You step back. The necklace around your throat feels heavier than before.

The kitchen’s warm when you come in, stomach already tight with hunger and something else you don’t want to name. She moves through the space like she built it—barefoot now, shirt tied at the waist, hair half-wet from a quick shower. The windows are fogged with steam. Coffee brews slow, dark, bitter.

The smell of butter hits before you see it. She’s made grits—creamy, white, peppered black, wilted spinach folded in like something sacred. And French toast, browned at the edges, heavy with cinnamon and egg.

You sit, still in her flannel, the necklace cold against your skin now.

“You remember how you used to beg for this?” she asks, plating your food with casual care. “Wouldn’t eat anything else when you were little.”

Your brow twitches. “I… didn’t think you were around back then.”

She just hums. Not denying. Not confirming. You don’t ask again. Instead, you eat. The grits are perfect—velvety, spiced just right. The toast melts on your tongue. She watches you eat like it matters. Like you matter. You don’t realize you’re staring until the silence stretches.

“Your mom…” you say suddenly. “You mentioned her. Back at the office.”

Kiean stiffens—just slightly. Just enough for you to notice. She pours herself coffee. Doesn’t sit. “Yeah,” she says finally. “She drowned herself. In the lake years ago.” Flat. Matter-of-fact. Like she’s said it before.

Your throat tightens. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. She wanted to go.”

You open your mouth—to ask how she knows that, to press where it hurts—but the words die fast. There’s something too quiet in her tone. Too certain. You look down at your plate. The food goes heavy in your stomach. You don’t ask anything else.

Later, you drive into town together. Her truck is old, bench seat cracked and warm from the sun. You sit close—not touching, but the space between you hums. Her playlist is old country, swampy blues, weird gospel stuff with layered harmonies that don’t sound quite human.

You don’t talk much. The town rolls past, hollow and strange in the daylight. Empty porches. Old men smoking behind gas stations. One-eyed dogs watching from the shade. She pulls into the corner store. The one with the flickering sign and uneven gravel lot.

Inside, the air’s sharp with freon and artificial lemon. You trail behind her through narrow aisles, your fingers brushing the edge of shelves. You’re not sure what you’re looking for. She grabs radiator fluid. Zip ties. Gloves. You grab snacks—chips, Old Tyme juice, cookies you don’t need. You stare at a shelf of gummy candy too long. Don’t know why it makes your chest ache.

“Get it,” she says from behind you.

You jump.

“What?”

“The candy. You used to like those little frogs. You’d bite the heads off first.”

Your mouth goes dry. “You keep saying shit like that,” you murmur, “and I don’t know if you’re messing with me or if I really just forgot everything.”

She doesn’t smile. Just shrugs. Grabs a bag of chips for herself and heads for the register. “Some things stick,” she says, not looking back. “Some don’t.”

You follow her to the counter. Pay in cash. The man behind the register watches her like she’s a storm he’d rather not predict. Doesn’t speak. Just bags your things in a crumpled sack and nods once at you—not her.

Back in the truck, you sit with your thighs stuck to the seat and your chest tight. She opens a soda, drinks half of it in one go. You watch her throat work, her jaw tense. “You okay?” you ask finally.

She blinks. Turns her head toward you slow. “I’m fine,” she says, but her voice sounds like the wind over water. Low. Pulling. You believe her. You shouldn’t. But you do.

—

The house is quiet when you get back. Too quiet. Kiean’s in the garage again, music low, tools clinking in a rhythm that feels too deliberate. You call out a soft "gonna shower," and she lifts a hand in response, not even turning around.

You close the bathroom door behind you, lock it even though you don’t know why. The mirror is already fogging from the heat, and you peel your clothes off slow—her shirt, your underwear, that cursed necklace you now wear like it grew from your skin.

The second the water hits you, your head tips back.Hot. Steaming. Soothing. You try not to think. Try not to feel the ache between your legs or the way her voice echoes when you’re alone. But after a minute, the sound of the water isn't the only thing you hear.

There’s something else. Singing. Soft. Distant. Female. Not a song from the radio, not from the garage. Not from this world. It curls beneath the water like smoke—just a thread of melody, humming into your bones.

You freeze, soap sliding down your back. Heart in your throat. You yank the curtain open. Nothing. The bathroom is empty. Still fogged. Still silent. You rinse fast, skin prickling all over, and step out dripping, cold air curling around your thighs. You wrap yourself in a towel, breathing heavy, heart slamming.

—

Kiean’s on the couch when you walk out, tank top changed but still smeared with oil like she hasn’t actually rested all day. “Did you… sing earlier?” you ask.

She glances up from the TV, one brow arched. Remote loose in her hand. “No, sugar,” she says. “I don’t sing in the house.”

You pause. “What does that mean?”

She shrugs, flicks through the channels. “You want to watch something or not?”

You let it go. You’re still damp. Your skin feels too tight. You cross the room and sit beside her on the couch. You didn’t realize how tired you are until your head hits the cushion.

“You want horror or sweet and stupid?” she asks.

“Something sweet” you mutter, curling into the blanket she throws over both your legs. “But not stupid.”

She chuckles, slow and rough. A light comedy starts. Some romantic indie thing with a weird soundtrack. You’re not really watching it. Not when she shifts beside you, thigh pressing into yours.

Her warmth seeps under your skin. You shift. Sigh without meaning to.

And then she says it, low and knowing, “You always make that noise when you’re trying not to ask for something.”

Your breath catches. She doesn’t look at you. Just watches the screen like she didn’t just slice you open.

“What?” you ask, voice thin.

“You used to do it in the lake too. Little sound in your throat. Thought I didn’t notice?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your legs are over her lap now. You don’t remember putting them there, but she doesn’t seem surprised. Her hand finds your calf—rough, warm, callused from tools—and she starts rubbing. Slow. Soothing. Intentional.

You don’t move. Her fingers slide higher. Past your knee. Up your thigh. Right to the edge of where your sleep shorts start, breath held between her knuckles. You’re still looking at the screen, but you’re not seeing anything.

Her thumb brushes the inside of your thigh, just once. Then again. “You’re so tense,” she murmurs. “You always were, even when you were soft with me. Even when you wanted it."

Your lips part—but no sound comes out. The room smells like vanilla soap and her skin. The singing is gone. But the hum she leaves in your chest is worse. And her hand’s still moving.

Her fingers keep tracing the inside of your thigh—slow, purposeful, almost lazy. But her gaze stays forward. Like she’s pretending this isn’t happening. Like she’s letting you decide. You shift again. Just slightly. She doesn't stop you when you lean in.

Your lips catch hers—tentative, testing. A little unsure. But she answers without hesitation. The kiss is heat. It's memory. It’s something older than language, cracking open in your chest. Her mouth opens under yours. Her hand tightens on your thigh.

But then, she pulls back, just a breath away. “You should go to bed,” she murmurs, voice rough around the edges, frayed with want but threaded through with something else. Something final.

You don’t listen. You never listened. You lean in again, deeper this time, mouth parting wider, and slide your hand up beneath her shirt. The skin of her stomach is warm and firm and not entirely human. There’s a ripple beneath it—like something shifting just beneath the surface, something that notices you touching it.

Her breath catches in her throat. Then she laughs. Low. Dark. Alluring. “Mm, look at you,” she draws, mouth brushing your jaw now, tongue dragging over your cheek. “Little thing always got so greedy. Always needed to be told when to stop.”

You shudder. Your fingers twitch against her stomach. She kisses your cheek once—soft, sweet, almost loving. And then her voice drops inside you. Not just in your ears. Not just in your head. Inside. “Sleep now, baby. That’s enough.”

It’s not a suggestion. It’s a command. Your limbs go warm, then heavy. The heat in your belly flickers and folds in on itself like a dying ember. Your hand drops from her skin, limp. The blanket’s already around your shoulders.

She’s already standing, guiding you up—when did she move? “Go on,” she says gently, like a lullaby with teeth. “Dream of me.”

And you do. Your feet move down the hall. Your mind fogs. Your throat tries to protest, but all that comes out is a sigh.The bed swallows you whole. And her voice follows you down like a ripple of song in the dark water.

—

You’re in the lake. The moon is a sliver, like a wound in the sky, and everything around you is black water and willow branches. Your shirt clings to your skin, heavy and transparent. You’re barefoot, knee-deep, shivering.

Then you hear her voice. “C’mere, baby.”

You turn—and there she is, half-submerged. Not Kiean. Not really. This version of her is towering, inhuman, slick and radiant. Her hair fans out in the water like kelp. Her skin gleams dark but pale and iridescent, almost translucent, with a tail and scales and bone under the surface shifting in unnatural rhythm.

Her eyes are silver. Her mouth too wide. And she’s smiling. You step toward her.

You’re trembling. "Please,” you whisper. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to understand. You just need to listen.”

The water is up to your ribs now. You feel the pull—not just of the current, but of her voice in your spine. Then she’s in front of you. Her hand is around your throat. She kisses you so hard your knees buckle, her tongue sliding down your throat like it's tasting your lungs, her claws digging into your hips.

You're grinding against her before you even realize what you're doing, whimpering into her mouth.

"That's it," she murmurs. "That's what I made you for."

She lifts you—in the water—like you weigh nothing. Wraps your legs around her waist. Her body is hot and cold at once, slick with something like oil and honey. Her breasts are firm against yours. Her lower half shifts, brushing your thighs, your sex.

She pushes inside you without warning—something thick, wet, not entirely human. You scream against her neck. You try to pull away but she holds you still, mouth at your ear.

"Say you want it. Say it."

“I—I want it,” you gasp, sobbing and shaking, unsure if it’s pain or pleasure burning through you. “Kiean—Kie—Ughmm”

“Good girl.” She fucks you hard, rhythm synced to the pull of the river, voice in your head like a prayer and a curse. You cum so violently you think you’re dying.

And then you wake up. You sit up soaked in sweat. Gasping. Panting. Your thighs are slick. Your pulse is pounding. The moonlight is bright outside.

You get up—barefoot, shirt damp, necklace burning cold at your collarbone—and stumble to the back door. The porch creaks. The cold air slaps you awake. Then you see her. Her true form.

Kiean is standing in the yard, barefoot in the grass. Wet. Shining. Her spine is too long. Her hair floats without wind. Her eyes reflect moonlight like an animal’s. Her skin is dark, but opal-pale, veined with blue light. Her mouth moves wrong when she smiles—wider than it should, jagged teeth behind her lips.

And you see gills on the side of her neck, her legs have scales. She turns her head—almost 180 degrees—and looks at you.

You freeze. You back up, slowly, heart slamming in your throat.

She steps toward you. “Come here.”

You try to resist. You try. Your limbs fight it. Your breath comes in ragged sobs. But your body moves anyway. Barefoot in the dirt. Cold air on your thighs. Tears slipping down your face. “Please,” you whisper. “Please don’t.”

"Why are you cryin’, sugar?” she croons, voice like velvet and deep water. “You were mine before you were ever born.”

You reach her. Your hands are shaking. She pulls you into her arms. You sag against her. You want to scream, to run, to die, but all you can do is melt into her body.

She kisses your hair. “That’s it, baby. You don’t need to be scared. You just need to listen.”The moon pulses above you. The necklace burns your chest.You close your eyes.And the river inside you stirs.

—

You're not sure how you got to the river.

One blink ago, you were on the porch, cold and confused. Now you're ankle-deep in water, naked from the waist down. The moonlight makes the ripples shimmer like mercury. Everything feels distant—soft and syrupy—as if your limbs are underwater even before they are.

Kiean stands in the river, waist-deep, half-shadowed, half-wrong. Her silhouette is human. But barely. From the hips down, she's more mass than muscle—her thighs taper into a shifting long scally tail, moving slow and purposeful beneath the surface. Her skin glistens like oil slicked over porcelain. Her eyes are bright silver. Unblinking. Hunting.

"Come closer, baby," she croons, voice thick like honey left in a hot jar. "Ain’t you cold without me?"

You shiver. And step forward.

Your breath hitches as the water climbs your thighs. It’s not cold—not really. It’s warm now. Too warm. And pulsing.

“You always liked it out here, didn’t you?” she murmurs, sliding her fingers up your waist, around your ribs. “Barefoot. Dumb little thing. Just waitin’ to get claimed.”

You open your mouth to speak. You don’t know what you were going to say. Maybe please. Maybe stop. But Kiean’s hand wraps around your throat—firm, wet, claws lightly pricking—and everything melts.

She pulls you in close until her forehead touches yours. You feel something limp, thick and soft, heavy between you, already swelling against your belly. “Still got that tight little pussy, huh?” she whispers. “Bet you dream about me. Crying with my me inside you.”

You whimper. Your thighs twitch. You can’t even lie. Because you did.

She kisses you, slow and deep, tongue sliding over yours—rosemary and river water. Her other hand dips between your legs, middle finger sliding through slick folds, grinning against your mouth when she feels how wet you are.

“Goddamn, you’re soaked. And not just from the water, huh?”

Her length stiffens between you, swelling and swelling. You look down, gasping, when it pushes against your stomach—veiny, glistening, flushed deep violet at the tip, leaking already.

It’s too big.

"What’s wrong?” she teases, voice dripping with mockery. “You scared of a little dick, baby?”

“It’s not little,” you croak, staring at the bulge pressing against your navel.

"Mmm. That’s right. Say it.”

“It’s…big. You’re—fuck, you’re huge.

She laughs. Low and hungry.

“Damn right I am.”

Her clawed hand closes tighter around your throat—just enough to make your vision blur, your knees buckle. She lifts you like nothing and wraps your legs around her hips. You feel the blunt head of her dick push against your entrance—too wide, stretching you inch by inch.

You scream into her neck.

“Shhh,” she hums. “Take it. You were made for this. Bet that little pussy’s been aching for me.”

The lake laps around you. She pushes deeper. You feel her all the way inside—all the way. Your belly distends slightly from the pressure, her cock pulsing deep, too thick to pull back out without dragging a sob from your lungs. Your arms clutch around her shoulders.

“That’s it. Cry on it,” she whispers. “Let me ruin you, sweetheart.” She begins to move. Slow. Grinding. Cruel.

You choke on moans, eyes rolling back, hips twitching. Her voice is in your ears—cooing, coaxing, commanding. “Such a tight fuckin’ thing. Been saving this cunt for me, huh?”

“Y–yes—Kiean—I—”

“Say it.”

“I’ve been dreaming about you,” you sob. “You're so—ahhmn—I—I can’t stop—”

She groans. Thrusts deeper. You feel it. Her dick kisses your cervix and doesn’t stop—grinds over it, makes your womb ache. Your stomach bulges visibly with each stroke. She puts your hand there.

“Feel that?” she growls. “That’s me inside. That’s how full I want you.”

You cry out, babbling nonsense. She hushes you. Chokes you a little harder.

“You’re mine, baby. Always been mine.”

The water darkens around you, boiling and swirling with siren-song energy. You can’t think. You can’t breathe. You don’t want to. All that matters is the stretch, the heat, the fullness. The way she fills you like you were built for her.

“Gonna fuck you dumb, baby. Gonna keep you right here forever.”

Your orgasm hits hard—your body clamps down, back arches, nails rake down her shoulders. You hear yourself scream. And she twitches inside you. She doesn’t pull out.

She groans through gritted teeth, head thrown back as she floods you, thick spurts pulsing deep. The bulge in your belly swells slightly. You feel every drop.

You black out in her arms.

—

You wake to water in your lungs. Not drowning—consumed. You're in the lake, but deeper this time. Deeper than the bottom ever was. There's no sky. No wind. Just pressure. Cold and hot, pain and pleasure, everything blurred and vibrating.

Kiean is behind you, chest pressed to your back, holding you up in the water like you weigh nothing. Like you're hers.

Your wrists are tangled in thick riverweed, soft and slick like silk but unrelenting. Some of it’s wrapped around your throat—tight enough to remind you who's in control. It's also wrapped up your thigh, you can feel it rubbing firmly against your clit in circles.

You're floating. Bent forward at the waist. Her hands on your hips. Her dick is already inside you. Deeper than before. Your mouth opens in a silent scream. Only bubbles escape.

“You feel that?” her voice rumbles behind your ear, warping the water. “Ain’t no going back now, sugar. You wanted more. Gonna give it to you till you break.”

She thrusts up into you. And your whole body spasms.

She's angled different—deeper—like she found some new part of you to ruin. Something untouched and tender. You claw at the water, moaning against the pressure in your belly, the stretch in your gut. You feel yourself fading, her body against yours, the constant simulation to your clit, her driving into you over and over. The water coils tighter around your neck. Your toes curl.

“Bet you didn’t know you could take cock this deep, huh?” she growls, breath thick and heated against your spine. “Look at you. Split open like you were made for me.”

Your body writhes with each brutal grind of her hips, but you can’t get away. And you don’t want to. Every thrust punches breath from your lungs. You’re drooling, twitching, eyes rolling.

“You wanna breathe, baby?” Kiean asks, teeth grazing your shoulder. “You gotta cum for me first. Give me everything.”

You sob. The water wraps around your waist, your thighs, pulling you open, making it worse. Her dick drags across nerves that weren’t even awake before. She pounds deeper. Your belly bulges again, obscene. The seaweed tightens around your throat like a lover’s hands. You’re so fucking full.

"Taking it like such a good slut." No wonder you always walked around like you owned the place. Knew you’d get bent over someday,” she snarls, voice barely human now. “You’re mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you whimper. “I’m yours—please—”

“Say it louder.”

"I’m yours! Fuck—I’m yours, Kiean!”

The lake pulses. She moans against your neck. Her thrusts grow ragged, animal. Her claws dig into your hips—deep enough to bruise. Or bleed.

The water thrashes around you as your orgasm hits—harder than the first, a full-body seizure of need and surrender. Your cunt clamps down, and she moans.

“That’s it. Milk it. Cry on it.” Her length swells impossibly, pressing against your womb, and she cums—loud, deep, groaning into your skin. The pressure inside you turns unbearable as she fills you again. Your gut aches with it.

Still inside. Still hard. Still holding you in the dark. You float in silence, her arms around your stomach, her cock twitching as the water rocks you both. You don’t know where you are anymore. Only that you’re hers. And you’re not getting out.

—

You're gasping when you crawl on top of her. Your thighs sticky. Your lips swollen. Your body buzzing like you’re still underwater.

Kiean lies back on the shore, her chest rising steady, eyes glowing under the moonlight like oil on water—something slick and bottomless. Her wet hair pools beneath her head like a halo made of swamp.

You swing your leg over her hips, knees in the silt, mouth parted. “Kiean,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I—I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” she murmurs. “You’re doing so good, baby. Keep going.”

She doesn't touch you. Not yet. Just watches. Her dick rests heavy against her stomach, slick with river and cum, twitching under your weight as you straddle her.

“Uhhn—hahh—nngh—” your whines come out high and wet as you grind down, dragging your folds along her shaft, shivering from overstimulation.

“That’s it. Ride it, sugar. Ride what’s yours.”

You whimper louder “Ah-ahhn—fuck, fuh—” and press your forehead to hers.

Her hands come up, slow and sure, thumbing your nipples, tugging just right. "Poor baby,” she coos, her voice molten honey and undertow. “Look at you. Dripping. Shaking. All because I touched you.”

You nod frantically, whining again—“Mmh—please, please—”

Her hand moves down, fingers sliding between your thighs. Two find your clit and rub, lazy circles. Not fast enough. "Tell me how it feels.”

“It’s too much,” you cry, eyes fluttering. “It’s s-so much, Kiean—feels s’good—I’m gonna cum, I c-can’t—”

“You’re not allowed yet,” she says, voice suddenly sharp. The pads of her fingers slow down. “Use your words. Tell me who’s making you feel this way.”

“You, Kiean,” you breathe, teary and trembling. “Only you—”

"That’s right. Say it again.”

“Only you,” you sob, “Only you make me feel like this—like I’m gonna break—”

Her hands slide to your hips, guiding you as you line her up. She slides back in with a slick, obscene noise, and you both groan. Your walls stretch around her—hot, aching, still sore—and you nearly collapse.

“So perfect,” Kiean praises, cupping your breast again. “Still gripping me like you don’t want me to leave.”

"D-don’t leave,” you whisper.

Her mouth tilts up at the corner. “Oh, I’m not going anywhere.”

She snaps her hips up into you, once, hard.

You scream, voice ragged—“Kiean—fuck—hahh—”

She pulls your head down and kisses you—sloppy, filthy, tongue tangling with yours. She tastes like salt and rosemary, like a promise you made as a child and forgot until now.

You ride her, legs shaking, thighs clapping, skin sticky. Her voice pours into your ear, low and thick: "You were mine before you even knew what the word meant. I waited. I watched. I chose you.”

“Aahh—uhnn—fuuuck—” your moans melt into cries as your orgasm builds again, sharp and wet and impossible.

“Cum on it,” she growls. “Cum with me in you. Let me have you.”

You fall forward, collapsing against her, sobbing out her name as your cunt pulses around her. She thrusts up, rutting deeper, fucking you through the wave. You feel her twitch inside you—then the sudden rush of warmth, thick and deep, filling you until you're overflowing.

Your thighs shake. Your belly aches. Your whole body trembles like you’ve been rewired. The river kisses your feet.

Her hands rub your back, slow now. Her voice strokes your skull like a lullaby wrapped in a curse. “There you go. Good girl. Just like I knew you'd be.”

The moon watches. And it does not judge.

A/N: YOU CAN'T TELL ME THAT WASN’T GOOD!! I've been working on this since June 15th. I really enjoyed writing this. It's so much easier to write longer fics when you have an outline. And writing that summary almost killed me; I had to change it 4 times. I hate writing summaries for long fics.

Thank you for reading♡♡

Shell dividers by @girlonabreak Mdni/Support dividers by @cafekitsune

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