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