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A/N: I will totally start working on my thesis right after writing this just like I said I would. And by 'start' I mean hit 'post now' and proceeded to do absolutely nothing. Anyway, enjoy this masterpiece of procrastination. Have a nice and productive week (Cuz one of us should)

Warnings: Murder, smut, MDNI

Bughuul x OC l Ishtar's POV

The next child to be adopted was Milo. He stuttered when he spoke and was a tad timid but he could also sometimes be a brat. A sweet woman named Claire took him in. I wept again. She lasted two weeks. The news called it “a freak accident.” The house exploded, they said it was a gas leak, but I saw the video; a grainy security cam footage the police released later. Just before the explosion, there was something in the hallway. Something tall. Watching.

The night it happened, the moon was thin as a blade, there were no stars, just the silence of children sleeping down the hall and the sound of my blood in my ears, thrumming like a ritual drum. I knew he would come, so I didn’t light candles, didn’t wear white, instead, I undressed slowly as though each layer of cotton and silk peeled away a part of me that had still clung to innocence. I stood by the window in nothing but my skin letting the house look at me. Letting him see me. And then he was there; not with footsteps. Bughuul did not arrive in ways that could be heard, he filled the room like breath filled lungs, like dread in prayer. My body prickled, nipples hardening from the chill, or perhaps from the heat that pulsed beneath my skin. I turned, and he was there, towering over me. Still, his head tilted slightly, as if wondering what part of me he should begin with. “Why do you keep coming back?” I asked. His hand moved, just a fraction, just enough. He touched my face without ever laying a finger on me, I arched and gasped, pleasure bloomed low in my belly, dark and needy. His fingers, spectral, traced down the line of my throat, then my collarbone, before tangenting the curve of my breast. He didn’t breathe, but I did. Every inhale scraped through me like a velvet-lined razor, my knees buckled, and I fell to them, kneeling before him, naked, trembling. “Take me,” I whispered. “Or leave me be. I can’t live in-between anymore.” And then, something shifted, the air folded in on itself, and then I felt him. He entered me, not with flesh, but with presence. My back bowed, my fingers dug into the floorboards and a cry tore from my lips that didn’t sound human. My vision blurred; I was being filled, ruined, remade. He fucked like an eternity. No rhythm. No mercy. Just overwhelming pulsing waves of darkness, light, hunger and love; yes, love, though it came as pain. The house moaned with us. A shudder ran through the walls, the windows dripped with black condensation, and when I came, my body twisted, writhing, lips raw from sobbing. I felt him mark my soul, he didn’t say my name. He carved it across dimensions. Isha. And when it was over, I was no longer just a woman. I was his beloved. His altar.

After that night, I changed, but not in ways the world could see. I still tied shoes, folded laundry and taught the little ones how to write their names. But my reflection flickered when I passed mirrors and my shadow lingered just a little too long behind me. Sometimes, I’d wake up with his mouth on my thighs, invisible lips between my legs, or a pressure inside me that left bruises which later bloomed in the shape of hands. The other staff left. One by one. They said the children whispered to things that weren’t there. That a strange figure appeared in photographs, that they heard my voice singing lullabies in rooms I’d never entered. And always, always the adoptions. Each new placement ended in blood, and the bodies piled up. The headlines screamed, but the orphanage stayed open; and I knew why. He wouldn’t let them shut it down, because he needed it to quench his thirst, and he needed me here.

I tried once, just once to end it. Before the attic mirror, where the first murder took place, I stood with a knife and drew it across my skin, shallow, hesitant. Not out of cowardice but out of hope. Hope that maybe just maybe death could free me, and most importantly them. He appeared behind me and didn’t speak like always. But his anger was louder than thunder. The knife rusted in my hand before crumbling to crust, my blood vanished and my wound closed. I collapsed to my knees and begged him. “Let me go. Let them go.” He knelt behind me and for the first time, I wept in his arms. There was no comfort, just the terrible gentleness of a demon who loved me too much to leave me human.

We began to meet in dreams, or maybe it was hell. I wasn't sure. The landscape was somehow always different. Sometimes a blood-soaked field, sometimes a child’s bedroom frozen in time, sometimes halls that bled into each other where doorways led nowhere where a child’s laughter echoed; distorted, distant and wrong. And in those dreams, I would run to him, fall into his arms, and he would kiss and a plague would spread across every inch of me until I forgot who I had been.

He took me nightly. In every way. Mouth, fingers, shadows. He took me soft, and he took me brutal. Sometimes I woke up crying, now and then, moaning and sometimes both. His mark never left my skin, black fingerprints on my hips and ribs. One time, a word carved into my stomach backwards. “Mine.” Was that my punishment for trying to leave him?

The last child was lilly. Seven years old. A man came to adopt her. A good man, so very kind. I could feel it in his handshake and in the way he knelt to speak to Lilly instead of towering over her. And so, for a moment I thought. Please. Let this one live.

I begged Bughuul that night. On my knees, naked, praying with my whole body, offering myself again, wholly, deeper. “I’ll do anything,” I gasped, while he ravaged me across my bed. “Just let lilly live.” His response was, as per usual, not in words, but in a vision, a wedding; our wedding. The guests, children of the orphanage were all dead, the altar was a pyre. And lilly stood beside me, eyes empty, face slack. She was already gone.

I screamed when I awoke and I found the sheets soaking through. Not with blood but with shadow. He said no.

• Chapter I • Chapter II • Chapter IV • Chapter V • Chapter VI • Chapter VII

Imagine if Ted from the Sinister 2 was a goth....

like, he had some black eyeliner on and he had his gothic fishing pole.....

or if Milo was, and he and his pet rats went around blasting goth music while in his little church clothes.....

just thought i’d put that thought in your mind :)

#sinister #sinister 2 #sinister series #bughuul #milo #milo jacobs #ted #sinister 2012 #sinister 2015

A/N: I saw my thesis professor today and he laughed in my face, is that a good sign? Be honest chat. Anyway enjoy this chapter!

Warnings: Hell, Smut kinda, murder of men, demonry

Bughuul x OC l Ishtar's POV

Hell had seasons, not like Earth, though. These were emotional tides, moods that swept through the underworld like storms. Bughuul thrived in the quiet despair of autumn, when the souls grew bitter with regret, when the echoes of murdered children whispered through cracked halls. But I longed for another season entirely: the season of vengeance. It started with one man, a lost soul. A butcher who once strangled his wife and called it love.

I watched him from the upper balcony, my legs draped over the arm of Bughuul’s throne. Bare, open, tempting. My husband’s eyes glowed with warning, but I only smiled and when night bled into nightmare, I slipped from his side, barefoot, leaving blood steps in my wake, and found that butcher. He tried to command me, then to claim me. So I laughed and let my lips hover over his, sucking his soul, pride and sanity. He screamed as I whispered every fear he’d buried into his ears. I fed him his own memories, over and over again, until he collapsed into madness. He never even touched me. I was too divine for that. And when Bughuul found what remained, he did not speak; but his shadow shook.

It became my ritual, I would slip from our bed of bones and ash, walk the winding halls, and find the newest sinner, not the repentant ones, not the broken. No. I wanted the smug ones, the cruel, the unpunished. Well, once in a blue moon, I would enjoy a priest or two, an innocent man. They had a sweet aftertaste, I took joy in corrupting them further before breaking them. One man begged me to hurt him; and I kissed his eyelids shut and fed him his own heartbeat until he choked on it. Another asked to be forgiven, and I led him down a corridor of mirrors that showed him every woman he’d ruined, and then I let the mirrors devour him, shard by shard.

They called me every name under the moon. Demon, witch, whore. But I was none of those. I was his wife. Which meant I was something much worse.

The first time Bughuul confronted me, we were in the great hall. Flames licked the ceiling, souls moaned in rhythm. I was wearing a dress made of the tongues of men who had tried to silence women. He stood at the doorway, his silhouette towering, monstrous, magnificent. “You corrupt the wrong kind,” he said, his voice was made of echoes and rot. I rose from my seat slowly, sensually, and walked towards him purposefully. “I corrupt the ones I choose,” I whispered. He moved toward me like a storm collapsing mountains. The air trembled and he spirits cowered, but I didn’t flinch. I kissed his jaw. “You chose children. That was your grief. I choose men, that is my rage. Deal with it.” I stared at him defiantly and he mirrored me before dragging me to our bed.

He undid me so thoroughly that I screamed until our realm cracked. He punished me with pleasure and I thanked him with sin. We fucked like demons who couldn’t agree, but loved too deeply to destroy each other. Although my husband kept punishing me. I did not stop, if anything, I became worse. I built a garden inside hell, each flower was fed by the bones of terrible men; their screams were my lullabies. I lured them with beauty, then broke them with empathy, whispered their own hypocrisies back to them with a smile, and my husband watched from the edge of the garden, unblinking. Sometimes with fury, sometimes with admiration. He never stopped wanting me, never stopped resisting the urge to control me. But he knew now I was not his creation, I became his equal in ruin. Last time he stood in the doorway of our chamber, not saying a word. I crawled to him wraping myself around his legs, kissing the hem of his coat. “Jealous?” I whispered. He lifted me by the throat. “I could tear the world apart,” he growled. “You already did,” I smiled. “I’m just dancing in the ashes.” And then we kissed like monsters born from the same tomb. Clawing. Devouring. Worshiping through violence.

Our sex was never gentle, it was need, feral and blasphemous and when we came, ourentire realm twisted in response. He never stopped loving me, even when I made his Hell my garden. He wanted me pure. He got me rotten.

• Chapter I • Chapter II • Chapter III • Chapter IV • Chapter VI • Chapter VII

A/N: Did I work on my thesis yes, yes I did, was it enough for the looming deadline, no, it wasn't. Am I jeopardizing my future? Maybe... I beg enjoy.

Warning: Implied smut, A demon, hell? IDK I suck at warnings nothing shocks me anymore please help. MDNI

Bughuul x OC l Ishtar's POV

The house is empty now. Gone are the children, the staff didn’t come back, there is only me and Bughuul. He holds me now, even when I do not sleep. Only leaving to haunt another family and feed on other innocent souls. He strokes my hair with hands I cannot see and kisses the back of my neck when I stand too long in silence. I no longer resist; because he is not death, he is devotion, he is what comes after the world forgets you.

It happened on a night when the veil between realms was thin. Not Halloween, nor the solstice, just a night when time sighed open. The house groaned beneath me like a beast stirring from hibernation. I stood at the attic window, wearing nothing but a sheer black veil. The outside world laid frozen, not with snow, but with silence, a hush so absolute it deafened me. I felt his presence as he unfolded from the shadows, like wings of smoke uncoiling, like centuries breaking apart, like God saying enough and letting the darkness speak. Bughuul stepped forward. And I, a mortal woman, a martyr, cursed didn’t wait for instruction. I offered myself not as sacrifice, but as a queen. He circled me like a shark, once, twice and the third time, the veil caught fire on its own but it didn’t burn me, it caressed me and when he touched my forehead, a memory bloomed.

I was not born here; I came back. The rot behind the roses, the howl of lullabies. That’s where I’ve always belonged and I have always been his. Ishtar, they called me once. Before they stripped me of my wings. Ishtar, in temples where they feared how deeply I loved the abyss, in stories that tried to cage me in velvet and lace. And he had waited for me, for eons.

The transition was not painful; it was… ecstatic. My skin peeled like petals from a blooming flower, revealing something underneath that shimmered black, red and starless. My bones rearranged and with longing, my moans rocked the walls of hell. He took me that night in a throne room built from grief and bones, dripping with blood. Floating fragments of souls, howling in pleasure and agony, circled around us like comets around a collapsing sun. That night, I rode him like a sinful priestess, my nails dragging across his immortal skin, my cries echoed in a forgotten language and my climax shook the underworld open. “I am yours, and you are mine.” I whispered.

He crowned me in silence. No gold. No diamonds. Just a circlet of thorns soaked in the blood of every orphaned soul he’d claimed. My gown was made of sorrow, stitched with ghostly thread, my veil trailed miles behind me, woven from the screams of the dead and I wore it proudly. They knelt for me, those broken spirits: children with glassy eyes, parents clutching photographs of lives that no longer existed, monsters, demons, witches who had lost their way. They all bowed to their queen. Me. And I stood beside Bughuul, his hand over my heart, not to silence it, but to claim its rhythm. He caressed my cheek with his other hand, “Ishtar, my divine damnation.” He kissed me, “Rule with me.” His words sounds so quaint in the mortal tongue. But in his, it is a howl. It is a thousand mouths whispering at once: I has come home. Bughuul never needed worship, he needed me and I had always been there. In every ritual gone wrong. I was his mirror, his equal and now, his consort. “You don’t have to ask me twice.” Our palace shifts. It does not remain one shape. Some nights it is a cathedral of bones, others, a burning forest, sometimes, it becomes the orphanage again; just to remind me where we began. We dance naked in its halls, we fuck on sacrificial altars and cradle each other in cribs left behind by murdered innocence. I wear his essence like perfume and he drinks my blood like communion.

We are what happens when love is so deep it becomes horror.

• Chapter I • Chapter II • Chapter III • Chapter V • Chapter VI • Chapter VII

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

A/N: Sooo... Umm Instead of working on my thesis like a functional human being, I decided to write a love story (if u can call it that girl...) about Bughuul and an OC named Isha. Yeah. That’s where I’m at emotionally. I call it productive procrastination because it sounds better than “I’ve lost control of my life, and i'm one crash out away from a mental institution” Anyway, this is the first thing I’ve ever unleashed onto the internet (outside of forcing ur friends to read ur unhinged pieces of fiction), so… I hope u enjoy? Or question if this bitch okay? Both are valid reactions.

Warnings: Blood, murder, gore, MNDI

Bughuul x OC l Ishtar's POV

The house creaked. It wasn’t something you could see with the naked eye, not something you could point to when the social workers asked how I’d turned a place so infamous into something tender. But I knew it. I felted it in the way the walls whispered during storms and in the way I couldn’t find sleep during the first weeks.

This house remembered blood, the stains remained. Only I could see them. My desperate scrubbing felt futile, the stain a haunting symbol of my failing efforts as the social worker’s judgment hung heavy in the air. They thought I was crazy, and maybe they were right. Nonetheless, they sometime called me brave. Saintlike, even, for buying the property with what little savings I had and converting it into an orphanage. They said things like, “You’re giving those children a future.” But sometimes, when I woke up to find the air in my lungs heavy with frigid breath and the nursery door half open, I wondered if I’d brought them here to be devoured.

The murders had occurred five years ago. A family of four, torn apart in their sleep; literally. Their limbs were found in the garden, their heads suspended by ropes in the attic like a grotesque cradle’s mobiles. The youngest child, a girl, was never found. I told myself she’d escaped. I needed to believe in that possibility. Now, it was my children’s laughter that filled the old walls of this house. I painted over the peeling walls baby blue, planted lavender in the front garden, let the sun in through the new glass. I red them stories every night, rubbed their backs when nightmares of him clung too tight, kissed scraped knees, braided hair and never, ever turned the lights off completely. Still, he came.

Bughuul.

I didn’t know his name at first. He was just a feeling, an ache, a shadow that didn’t move with the sun. Sometimes I’d look up from the sink and see him in the window behind me. Watching.

The first child to be adopted was Anais. Her laugh could crack through thunder, and she smelled like vanilla cookies and grass. A couple from Portland took her in. I wept the day they left. Three weeks later, investigators discovered their bodies in their basement. Headless and Anais was missing. After the third family, I stopped attending funerals. The state began to question my records. Was it a coincidence? Had I done something to the children? Did I screen the adoptive parents well enough? But I had done everything right. I was so careful. They didn’t believe in ghosts. They didn’t believe in demons or monsters with mouths empty like a deep, tempting void, silent, constant, devouring. But he believed in me.

At night, I could feel him in the corner of my bedroom. He didn’t breath He didn’t speak. But his presence hummed steadily in my veins, warm and terrible...