A/N: I barely achieved anything for my thesis... but I achieved chapter II....Are yall proud of me?
Warnings: murders, a hot demon that eats kids, gore, masturbation, Non-con MDNI
Bughuul x OC l Ishtar's POV
The first time I touched myself with him in the room, it was a dare. An illicit challenge intertwined with fear. A tremor ran through me not entirely unpleasant, a strange mixture of defiance and vulnerability. The air thickened, charged with unspoken things.I spread my thighs and whispered his name; quiet, like a prayer. As the adrenaline coursed through my veins, my heart pounded so fiercely it felt like it might burst out of my chest. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, sending shivers down my spine. My hands trembled uncontrollably, making me grip tightly onto my sheets. The room seemed to spin around me, the walls closing in as a wave of fear washed over me. Every creak of the floorboards, his shadow seemed to flicker in the corner of my eye, only added to the overwhelming sense of dread that consumed me. Our shared haunted pasts charged the air around us, creating a palpable tension that threatened to suffocate me. When I came, I swore I saw his empty eye sockets gleam. Not with desire, no, something older, ancient almost. Possession, perhaps. A knowing. That I was his. Had always been. Utterly at his mercy.
After that incident, he grew bolder. I’d wake up and find my nightgown pushed halfway up my thighs. My lips would burn, swollen with kisses I didn’t remember. My dreams turned crimson. Endless fields of blood unfurled across a liminal realm and children laughing with crackled skin.
Then him, always him, behind me. Around me. Inside me.
One night I said it out loud. “Why me?” Silence. Then, a breeze blew through my locked bedroom window. A single word, written backward in condensation on the mirror. Yours.Okay, well that doesn’t answer my damn fucking question.
There are things love can’t protect you from. Like hell fire. Or grief. Or Bughuul. He never touched me in a way I could prove it. But my body bloomed under his gaze like a flower that forgot it needed sunlight. My skin grew sensitive to the cold, to his shadows. My lips learned to moans his name in my sleep. I started painting again. I hadn’t painted since college, but my hands itched now, driven by dreams I couldn’t interpret.With heads bowed and strings tied to their limbs like marionettes, I painted the children. My children. A tall figure was always behind them. Faceless. Mouth agape. Devouring them whole.
He visited me more frequently now, not just at night, but in the stillness of afternoons when the house napped. Once, I caught his silhouette just beyond the linen sheet hanging on the clothesline. When I stepped forward, he didn’t move. He let me approach. I reached my hand through the white veil of cotton and touched him. He was cold. And then he wasn’t. My fingers tingled, then stung, then burned. I gasped, snatching my hand away, and found my palm marked. A symbol? Did he just brand me? That night, I dreamed of a wedding. The altar was a child’s coffin. It was drenched in blood. Bughuul waited at the end of the aisle, hands outstretched. When I stepped into them, he kissed me without a mouth. I woke up wet between my thighs, aching as if someone had violated me. When I washed between my legs, I found traces of black, like ink, a dark spot, or something much worse.
• Chapter I •Chapter III • Chapter IV • Chapter V • Chapter VI • Chapter VII
