We're back. Did y'all miss us? 'Cause we missed y'all — just a little. Enough to write it down, anyway. The baby's good. Vicky's still being Vicky — quiet, handsome, says more with a grunt than most people say in a TED Talk. Lately he's been staring at his phone like it insulted a tree. His mama's been texting.
You know the type — sweet until she hits you with the "blah blah when are y'all getting married," "blah blah don't pull that new age commitment crap," "blah blah I want more grandkids out of y'all."
And yes, before you ask — Vicky and his people by human standards? They sound a little like Argentinians. I know, I know, we met during the Black Death era, and folks always assume that means we're from Greece. Wrong realm. Just 'cause we survived a plague together doesn't mean we're Mediterranean. There's a lot of realms out here.
But Vicky's voice? The closest thing to it is Argentinian with a cosmic lullaby filter. Not a thick accent — just enough to make a lady hesitate, cross her legs, then uncross them slower than she meant to.
I remember when he got so mad at my ex — you know, the cursed one — when they tried to sue for full custody of our child. My man didn't flinch. He cussed them out in full Elvish. Full-on, ancient vowels, sharp consonants, syllables that could blister glass. My damn hero. That's why I keep him around — because if it were up to me, I would've sent that petty curse-deity to one of my favorite punishment doors. But no, some Sonsters court hearing held me back. Fucking Sonsters. Sometimes they suck... but I respect the hustle.
I mean—us more kids. Haha. Lmao. I know, I know — we're not even officially dating. Isn't that wild? Vicky and I act like the most domesticated chaos agents alive, but we're technically not a thing. Still, I want more kids. I really do.
Sometimes I imagine it — a little gaggle of tiny weirdos running around, one of them probably summoning fireballs by accident, another chewing on blessed bones like it's a teething ring. I picture Vicky, shirtless in the kitchen, stirring a pot of something glowing, baby on his hip, ancient lullaby on his lips.
But don't tell him I said that. I will deny it. Fully. With flame and fang.
She's got a better shot of getting them through adoption, but hey, weirder things have happened. Especially when your man comes from a culture where kids sprout like mushrooms with divine approval. Vicky's people don't birth babies the way humans do — no painful labor, no screaming midwives. Nah. The guy and the femme of their species plant these bioluminescent mushrooms. They grow in clusters, glowing with magic, and some give off this special aroma — like newborn spells mixed with rain. That's how you know they're baby-bound.
The parents pick the ones with the scent — eat them, plant more, and eventually, a baby forms. Sometimes inside the parent, sometimes in a sacred greenhouse if you're not into the whole carrying-a-fetus thing. Either way, congrats. You're getting a baby.
Half-breeds, though? Those gotta follow the rules of the non-elf partner. So in my case? I'd be the one carrying Vicky's kid.
And yeah, part of me really wants that. Me and Vicky — even though we're ancient by your mortal standards — we're still considered young in our own way. Young enough to run the gauntlet, make dumb decisions, and maybe... raise a whole murder-squad of little weirdos.
We're both willing to take care of kids, adopt them, love them fiercely. But having them? That's a different ballpark. That's a blood-stamped commitment to a future you can't always predict. Still... I wouldn't mind suiting up for that game.
And speaking of divine — can we talk about this man's swim trunks?
Because sweet celestial rites, I have seen gods fall and planets bleed, but nothing — and I mean nothing — prepared me for Vicky in low-slung black mesh. Water beading on his chest hair like holy droplets on an altar? Blasphemous. Heavenly. Illegal in three holy texts.
It wasn't just 'fuckboy' energy — it was primordial fuck Zaddy energy. That ancient, universe-sculpting kind of sexy that makes you forget your own damn name. I took one look and my soul tried to offer itself up like a sacrifice.
Zaddy could split my spine like scripture and I'd moan it into gospel. I would absolutely thank him — gasping, glowing — while filing divorce papers with the laws of physics and writing erotic fanfiction with my own damn blood.
Anyway, let's not unpack that box. I've been going on and on about Vicky and his mushroom family, so maybe it's time I drop a little lore about mine. You get one family member. Just one. Like a trial-sized trauma sampler.
I might be old as time sometimes, but even I get confused by Vicky's family and their mushroom-spawned cultural labyrinth. Still, I go along the best I can. Most of the time.
Though... my brother though.
I'd ask him for clarity, but he's more likely to hand me a manifesto and an espresso. The last time I saw that chaos goblin, he was marching through the Civil War with a 'Power to the People' chant and a cursed harmonica slung over his shoulder like it was holy relic. Jackass.
Alright. Let's talk work.
And before I do — yes, I know. I gotta work on not typing so long. But oh well. This should hold you over until something new drops. Also, I've got a backlog of posts I need to catch up on over here. So let me focus... and while I do, enjoy some cursed movie trivia.
Did you know The Shining (1980) basically redefined the 'couple stuck in hotel gone wrong' trope? It wasn't just the haunted hotel—it was the isolation, the breakdown of sanity, the slow twist into horror that made it iconic. And then there's 1408 (2007), where John Cusack's character checks into a room he absolutely should've avoided. The room eats people. Emotionally and literally. We stan psychological torment.
Anyway, y'all know I live for tropes like that. They're delicious. I'm just glad I don't have to deal with bullshit rules in real life… usually. Places like these are always secluded, always wrapped in some cursed aesthetic. Though, let's be real — managing schools, raising magical kids, and making sure nothing's on fire at home keeps me busy. Luckily, I got magic. Projection charms help me check up on everything while I'm away.
Me and Vicky? Our only true alone time is when we get called in for a job. Sad but true. That's why I'm glad this mission's somewhere romantic. It's not a speed-run kind of gig — it's more 'take your time, dodge death, kiss under moonlight' kind of job.
Current gig? Romantic retreat — slasher edition. Type: D-Class, Rank C. That's not apex predator level, but don't let the low rank fool you. These bastards are like haunted toddlers with a sugar addiction and a learner's permit. Especially Drive-Class slashers. Their whole thing? Vehicular murder. With style.
The gimmick? Enchanted rides. You and your boo hop into some magical whip, and the place reads your vibes to manifest a fantasy getaway. It's all fun and foreplay until the honeymoon turns into a bloodbath.
Three couples came back different. Changed. As in — with cursed toy cars still moving inside their bodies.
Yeah. You heard me. Inside. Inner organs. Full engine revving under your ribcage. Like, one poor chick coughed and her spleen downshifted. Damn. That bitch got run over from the inside out. No thanks.
And just so we're clear, Drive-Class doesn't mean it has to be a monster truck. Could be a demonized tricycle, a vengeful hearse, or even a soul-sucking Uber with bad attitude and murder in its GPS. If the slasher kills you with a vehicle, they're D-Class. Even if they turn you into the vehicle.
I swear, I must be in some movie trivia mood, 'cause now I can't stop thinking about all the times cars have been murder accessories in film and TV. Christine (1983)? That killer Plymouth Fury had more personality than half my exes. Death Proof (2007)? Tarantino said, "What if the car is the weapon?" and honestly, slay. Literally. Even Supernatural dabbled in cursed cars — don't get me started on that demonic truck episode.
Basically, Drive-Class slashers got legacy. They're like the Fast & Furious franchise — if family meant blood rituals and roadkill confessionals. And weirdly, they're one of the few slasher classes that prefer to work solo. No murder posse, no cult choir, no cursed prom dates with chainsaws. Just them and their ride. Makes you wonder if there's a deeper twist behind this case. There always is, isn't there?
So,Vicky and I went undercover again. We're the bait and the trap — dripping in #spon vibes, dressed like we're filming the season finale of a glam horror travel vlog called MurderBae Getaways: Honeymoon or Hellfire?. I leaned hard into the influencer energy — frosted gloss, matching dagger charm necklaces, and enough fake couple selfies to summon a parasocial demon. Nobody suspects a Hikslok couple of carrying silver-laced daggers and divine kill counts when we're also casually dropping skincare links.
What they don't know is the Order has our backs like a PR firm staffed entirely by cursed interns. They fabricate influencer profiles with flawless ratios, edit our kills into spooky VR shorts, and even auto-caption our slasher swings with trending hashtags like #SurviveTogether, #CouplesThatSlayTogether, #DeadlyDuets. Civilians eat that content up like it's midnight popcorn in a haunted theater.
When you see our pics, you assume we're someone else entirely. That's the trick. The Order usually deletes the whole profile once the job's wrapped, so we don't get hit with the Maslion Melda effect — you know, that "seen-it-too-many-times, now-it's-a-meme" burnout. Gotta keep it fresh, gotta keep it fatal.
And no, we're not some secret cabal. You just have to know which side of the cursed algorithm to swipe into. There's a whole realm of feeds out there, and baby — we trend in the dark ones. The legal dark ones, of course. No cursed copyright strikes, please.
Once you reach a high enough rank, you don't need to hustle livestreams or stage HikSlok with enchanted ring lights. That's rookie bait. But we still play along — you gotta make fun of the job or you'll end up whispering to light fixtures and naming your trauma. Pick the right moments to laugh, or this work'll eat you alive like a cursed WitchTok filter. Gotta keep the new blood foaming at the mouth — aspirational horror sells, but so does not losing your mind mid-slaughter.
And you might be wondering — how the hell are we undercover if everyone's seen our faces?
Because, of course, I don't know how many times I gotta say this: we live in a world where not everything works on everybody. Glamour tech, potions, cloaking rings — some folks just see straight through it like they were born with supernatural ad-blockers.
Every once in a while, someone looks past the influencer illusion and catches a glimpse of the real us. Worse, sometimes they stumble across our actual influencer profiles — because yeah, we still gotta maintain real-life personas. Post a glam selfie. Run a livestream. Keep up the aesthetic.
But hey, we keep all the money. That's the deal. We bleed on camera, we keep the tips.
It sucks when someone peels back the curtain, sure — but that's the gamble. Comes with the gig.
That's where the glam tech kicks in — shoutout to our cursed sponsor of the week. These special rings shift your face, make you look like your influencer alias, and double as a built-in second layer of identity cloaking. It's basically two-step verification, but for cursed field agents.
And if you're like me and allergic to ring rash? Just chug a PickMe Memory potion. People only remember you when you want them to. Best part? No pesky recall side effects — unless you count feeling hot and forgettable on command.
So yes, double-proof yourself. In this job, it's not just smart — it's survival.
We all have a high chance of a slasher trying to make a remake, and honestly? It's better to be safe. That's why I also send our kids to the Hasher schools. Less likely to get broken into, and they're training the majority of the next-gen hashers anyway.
Call it safety. Call it legacy. Either way, it keeps the bloodlines sharp and the bloodshed contained.
Yeah, and here's another little story to fill the content void — about why I still won't choose the ring and stick to the potion life.
Vicky and I tried the rings once. Once. Mine fused to my finger like an ex with boundary issues — wouldn't come off no matter what. I had to use holy water from hell to get it loose, and even then it hissed like I'd insulted its ancestor's altar.
Vicky was no help, of course. Just stood there, smirking, throwing out lines like, "Well, maybe now you have to marry me." Hilarious, right? Meanwhile, I'm over here performing a solo jewelry exorcism like it owed me three months' rent and half my sanity.
Never again. Potion girl forever.
Anyway. Back to the resorter. Don't judge me, naming things is hard. That's why Vicky does the naming — even for our son. I mean my son.
So I'm lounging poolside in this brand-new swimsuit — black with enchanted mesh that glows slightly under moonlight. Cutouts in all the right places, a little metallic sheen that says 'don't touch unless you want a curse in your bloodstream.' I was feeling myself.
Vicky's off sweet-talking the waitress. And before y'all start — no, I wasn't jealous. First off, she's just doing her job. Second? I sometimes use Vicky to get free drinks. The man's a walking thirst trap and I exploit that respectfully. The company pays for mission refreshments, sure, but the less we spend on miscellaneous items like alcohol, the more cash we pocket on the backend. Budgeting, babe — cursed edition.
Meanwhile, the sun felt... off. Warm, sure, but like it had no soul behind it. Maybe we were under a dome? I'm still trying to figure out if this resort is tech-based or magic-based. That matters. If it's tech, Vicky leads. If it's magic, I do. My magic can outstrip most tech when I want it to — but let's be honest, 'magic' is just a fancy way of saying 'I did some science I didn't fully understand and it worked anyway.'
He returns with our drinks in that smooth, bad-boy stride — feet barely touching the ground, looking like he just walked out of a forbidden cologne commercial. He hands me my Lava of Green Fire — my drink of choice, by the way. Tastes like mint, dragonfruit, and revenge served sizzling. Something I can handle, given my... let's call it 'lightly undead' status. My body doesn't exactly reject heat or fire — in fact, it welcomes it like an old ex who still owes me power.
Now Vicky's sap whiskey? That's where I draw the line. Sticky, syrupy, cloying — my throat would protest like it was swallowing regret. And yeah, I know y'all think I can eat anything. I can. But just because I can doesn't mean I want to deal with the side effects when something doesn't align with my necro-alchemy.
So while he's over there sipping like some dryad-turned-barkeep poet, I'm lounging with a glass of green flame, basking in my own very calculated chaos.
I shifted on my lounger, letting the top of my swimsuit fall down to my waist. I rolled onto my stomach, peeking back over my shoulder at Vicky with a smirk.
"Babe, get my back?" I purred.
He didn't say a word. Just popped open the sunscreen and knelt beside me, warm hands starting at the small of my back and gliding upward. Slow, circular motions — enough pressure to make me hum, enough heat to make me arch.
Lucky for us, this hotel leaned into the lovers-only aesthetic. 18+ all the way. Like I said, I prefer adult-only gigs. Less trauma potential. Less chance of a slasher hurting one of the minors we work with. Because if that ever happened... I wouldn't hesitate.
Anyway, Vicky was copping a full feel — just the way I liked it. His hands traced slow, burning arcs across my shoulder blades, fingers grazing the edges of my swimsuit like he was drawing sigils on my skin.
His lips ghosted against my ear, followed by a possessive little nip that made my breath hitch. Then he leaned back, all cool control, eyes sweeping across the lounge like a seasoned operative — but make it sexy. Staff didn't blink. This resort was built for secrets.
He dipped down again, voice velvet-dark near my ear. Whatever he whispered made me giggle, then groan, then murmur something filthier in reply. On the surface, we looked like foreplay made flesh. In reality? He was feeding me intel between kisses.
"Bartender said our D-Class might be her old coworker," he murmured, casual as sin. "The kind that stages loyalty tests. Finds a happy couple, sows chaos like a wedding planner for cursed drama. One test ended with a vintage garage turned into high-speed carnage art. Total write-off."
He flipped me on top of him in one smooth motion, and I shot him that 'are-you-serious' glare. If it was too easy, it meant something was wrong. The Order never sends us to an easy case. There's always a twist coming — one with fangs and a punchline.
He used his chest to balance my phone and adjusted my top while keeping the act going, fake-laughing and flirting about all the wicked things we'd do later. I flirted back, sure, but my brain was scanning data. The guest list said four couples were staying here — five including us. But the staff? Ten, supposedly. Except every time I glanced up, they looked different. Same uniforms, different faces. Shift rotations, maybe. Or something worse.
I texted our lore lore broker for slasher trivia backup. Minutes later, they came through — hacked the resort's outer logs. Just enough to confirm we were on the scent. Then came the cursed cherry on top: not a name list. Not even HR files.
A scroll of rules.
"Cursed Rule Drop — Intel via Lore Broker:
Do not leave your room during "center times" (undefined, but intuitively terrifying).Do not hum while crossing hallways — sound triggers them.If someone is standing perfectly still at 3:33 a.m.? Don't engage. That is not a person.And under no circumstances should you enter the center-most room after nightfall.
Basically? It's the kind of cursed welcome packet that smells like lavender doom and makes you autograph your soul with a glitter pen. Real influencer horrorcore hours.
Then this son of a bitch really texted:
"Good luck following the rules after dark. ;)"
I groaned at the rules — and not just because Vicky was getting hard and had to shift, his bulge pressing hot and heavy against my thigh through that clingy swimsuit. His not-so-subtle hard-on grazed the exact spot that already had me forgetting consonants. I held the phone up to his face so he could actually read the cursed rule drop, and he groaned like a man being denied dessert.
Not just because he had to read — but because rule-bound places suck. Hashers thrive on dealing with people, not architecture possessed by passive-aggressive demons in disguise. The minute we saw those damn rules, we knew: this wasn't going to be a slay-and-go. This was going to be slasher sitcom hell, guest starring our stress levels and Vicky's very distracting lap situation.
ormally, I'd go full Banisher Barbie — hair flip, curse snap, demon drop-kicked into a flaming recycling bin like it insulted my eyeliner. But Vicky? Vicky's not built for that. He's a tank, not a hexslinger. Think eldritch linebacker energy. He'll eat a curse for breakfast, but breaking one? That's my lane.
Working with someone who doesn't have your abilities doesn't mean they're holding you back — not even close. It just means they can do things you can't. Like, one time, I couldn't infiltrate a group that hated anything even adjacent to magic. I didn't even try. We had to gather intel from their base, and that group hated anything even remotely magical. Magic wards, anti-charm filters, you name it — I might as well have walked in wearing a neon sign that said "Hex Me." Sometimes, you've got to stay in your lane.
But Vicky? Vicky's the tech guy. He slid right in like it was a hacker spa day. I was pacing outside the whole time, worrying he'd get caught. And then he strolled out with their heads arranged in a bouquet of flowers like it was date night at the murder florist.
That was the moment I remembered — I'm not the only strong one.
Not that we're officially a couple, okay? Calm down. (Cue nervous giggle and longing side-eye.) But sometimes, the way we play this act — the way he looks at me like I'm the last spell on earth — it makes me wish we were.
And that center-most room? The one practically tattooed with "bad idea" energy? The one glowing with red flags and hellspawn vibes?
Yep. That's where the damn server is — because of course it is. If a place bothers to make a cursed rule about something, that's probably exactly where you need to go. Where enchanted honeymoon packages meet IT death traps and blood-slick firewalls. Welcome to the gig.
And no, we don't even know if the slasher's male or female. That's why I tell all the rookies — use 'they' for slashers until confirmed. Saves you from giving them a forum. Unless the rules force you to. It's a whole damn thing.
So yeah. D-Class. Rank C. Cursed romance ride.
One lucky little horror-muppet.
After that, me and Vicky headed back to our room to change — the couple act only works so far when you're dripping wet in swimsuits. As cute as mine was (and it was giving main-character-on-vacation realness), swimwear doesn't exactly scream "stealth ops." So we switched into something a little more honeymoon-appropriate: casual-sexy resort wear. You know, enough silk and slink to pass the vibe check but breathable enough to sneak through a murder tunnel.
Then we waited. Let the sun dip. Let the fake romance get real quiet.
When night finally dropped, we made our move. The waterfall near our private suite — yeah, that wasn't just for ambiance. Company files said it led to a hidden tunnel straight to the back of the main server room.
So what did we do? We got in that waterfall like we were starring in a cursed soap opera. Vicky held me under the spray like it was a honeymoon photo shoot — and yeah, I had to remind myself this was technically still work. But then he gave me this look — not smirking, not teasing — just soft. Like he was genuinely happy to be there with me, no matter what. And for a second, I felt it too.
I feel like we're leading each other on sometimes, the way we move around each other, like we're playing pretend just a little too well. But we both know the rules. We both know why we haven't said the things we probably should've said.
Let's not think about it.
I chose to go into the server room solo. That center-most room — the one written in every cursed rule scroll like a final boss room with velvet drapes and emotional trauma wallpaper — yeah, that one. I figured if anyone was going to survive it, it'd be me.
The majority of mortals would've pissed themselves halfway through the hallway. Bless their little soft lungs and easily flammable feelings. Every time a human gets within ten feet of a haunt zone, they start doing that thing — shaking, praying, quoting movie Latin. It's cute. Like watching raccoons play with a cursed toaster.
Me? I walk in smiling.
The air changed the moment I crossed the threshold. It got cold — not the good kind. The kind that wraps around your ankles like drowned hands. Something buzzed just below hearing, like wires whispering.
And then she screamed.
Another banshee — and this one looked like static had grown teeth. Her eyes were pitch voids threaded with glitch-fire, and her mouth stretched too wide, like it had unzipped itself from jaw to ear. Hair hovered like it was caught in a permanent underwater scream, twisting with ghostly fingers. Her skin flickered between corpse-pale and burnt static, pulsing like a cursed TV on its last breath. When she opened her mouth, it wasn't just a scream — it was every funeral dirge and emergency broadcast rolled into one. My teeth vibrated. My gums bled sympathy. The walls started weeping condensation that looked too pink.
I didn't even flinch. I looked that shrieking nightmare in the eye and let my banshee side flare. Just enough to crack the lighting in two and drop the server room into a flickering hell rave.
She froze mid-wail. Her face twisted somewhere between fury and confusion.
Then she started to move — joints popping, bones bending in reverse like she was about to perform some cursed Pilates. Her arms looped backward until they cracked like snapped broomsticks, and her neck rolled full-circle, spine twisting like a corkscrew. Her face peeled slightly at the cheekbones as if she was slipping into something more terrifying. A flick of her hand, and her own shadow screamed.
I stretched my neck, joints cracking like I was tuning up a murder sonata. One knee bent sideways just for fun. My jaw unhooked just enough to show off the extra row of spirit-cutters growing in.
We weren't fighting yet. We were both just warming up.
She gave me a half-crazed grin and said, "You'll have to do worse than bark and glow. I'm not giving you the list."
I squinted at her.
"How do you even know I'm here for a list? I never said anything about a list."
She rolled her still-recoiling shoulders and gave me the flattest deadpan I've seen from a spectral being.
"Be fucking for real. You're in the main server room. You think people break in here for the vibes?"
I lunged. Grabbed her by the throat. Slammed her into the server rack until sparks flew. She shrieked, called for help. I bit her — not enough to kill. Just enough to savor.
And god, I take pleasure in moments like this. It's a sick kind of romance, you know? The shudder of surprise in their bodies, the pathetic scramble in their eyes when they realize I'm not here to posture. I'm here to feed. It's ecstasy dressed in violence, and I wear it well.
I only wish Vicky could've seen me. He loves watching me work — says the way I fight is half ballet, half fever dream. He'd be leaning against the doorway right now, arms crossed, giving me that dark-eyed look that means, "Don't stop on my account." He gets it. Gets me.
There's nothing quite like biting into someone who thought they were the final girl — only to realize they're set dressing. The taste of raw lies, the snap of arrogance under pressure — it's divine. Like drinking truth straight from the bone marrow.
There's nothing quite like biting into someone who thought they were the final girl — only to realize they're set dressing. The taste of raw lies, the snap of arrogance under pressure — it's divine. Like drinking truth straight from the bone marrow.
She tried to phase out. I yanked her back. "It's always so cute when the meal tries to run," I said, grinning. "Why do they always think phasing'll save them? Just makes 'em stringier." The fear in her eyes hit that perfect mix of regret and dread. I leaned in, licked a tear off her cheek. "Thanks for the drink," I whispered, then bit in again — deeper this time, until her scream broke like glass in my mouth. That's when Vicky walked in.
And not a moment too soon — because honestly, that banshee? She tasted wrong. Like static rot and ego stew. Her scream was weak, too — like a haunted kazoo with stage fright. No drama. No kick. Just disappointing background noise.
I've had fresher despair from cursed vending machines.
But Vicky? See, he gets it. Unlike me, who dives mouth-first into the kill, Vicky's always been the kind who understands death — not just as a thing that happens, but as a language. Certain groups — mortal or immortal — they don't just witness death, they comprehend it. And Vicky? He speaks it fluently.
He stepped in with that calm presence, like he wasn't walking into a blood-slick nightmare but a conversation. And the banshee, bless her shriveled little soul, actually looked relieved to see him.
Vicky always plays the good hasher in moments like this — swooping in all noble-like, ready to save the trembling damsel from the big bad monster. Which, of course, is me. And gods help me, they always believe it. Their eyes go wide like, 'Oh my god, we're being saved!' Meanwhile, he's just trying not to roll his eyes while I wipe blood off my chin and pretend I'm the out-of-control one.
Classic Vicky. Prince Charming for the damned.
He even made it look like he was struggling — arms straining, voice raw with fake urgency — as if he were trying to pull me off her like some monster too far gone in the bloodlust. A beast that even he, the good one, could barely hold back. But in all that dramatic struggle, I let go — theatrically, of course — and she slipped backward in a panic, stumbling straight into Vicky's waiting arms. Smooth, silent, perfect. He caught her like a lover might catch a fainting bride, but his eyes? They were already on me. And that smile — all quiet promise and carnivorous glee — said everything: Now we've got her.
I started to lick whatever counted as blood off my lips. For a fake, she tasted like junk food—cheap, processed, unsatisfying. But Vicky? The way he flipped the switch right then? Whew.
He turned to her, his ember-soft eyes glowing with that dangerous blend of sorrow and seduction. Eyes that whispered I could save you, even as the shadows curled around his shoulders like smoke primed to swallow her whole. The kind of look that made you question whether you wanted salvation or to be devoured slowly, reverently, bone by bone.
She hesitated, flickering between belief and dread, her form half-phased, caught mid-escape like a glitching ghost. Poor thing — trembling like I was the problem when she had the answers. I started to circle closer, licking the blood from my lips like it was a cocktail rimmed with sin. My hands twitched, just enough to suggest what I'd do if she didn't cooperate. I took a step forward, eyes locked on her like I was choosing seasoning.
She flinched. Vicky — perfect Vicky — snapped his hand out and slapped me across the face with just enough flourish to sell the scene. I staggered back, gasping in mock fury, eyes blazing like I'd lost control. The banshee's breath caught — stunned, afraid, hopeful.
Oh, she bought it. Every cursed syllable of our act.
And that's when we got her.
Then Vicky reached out and took her hand, warm and priest-like. "You're strong. Smarter than she thinks. Just give us what we need, and I swear… I'll protect you."
And gods help her, she believed him.
We always end up in these tropes, right? The ones everyone lowkey loves but won't admit out loud — dark romance, villainous chemistry, the couple you shouldn't root for but kinda do. I mean, think of any good horror or action flick with a power couple so wicked you start fantasizing about crime scenes being date nights.
Me and Vicky? We're like that — legally speaking, of course. Think Morticia and Gomez if they had a body count and a war crime playlist. Or maybe closer to Mallory and Mickey from Natural Born Killers, minus the public access monologues. He plays the saint, I play the storm, and together we make holy terror look like a honeymoon.
She choked out the glyphs, each one tumbling from her lips like confessions carved in spectral blood. I stepped forward, fingers scrolling through the cursed data — names, places, addresses — while Vicky read over my shoulder.
Then I let out this little, pitiful whimper. "Vicky… why are you letting her go?" I said, voice quivering just enough to sell it. I staggered a bit, clutching my stomach like the betrayal hurt me. Classic damsel energy — a good spice for the moment.
Vicky didn't even glance at me. He turned his full gaze on the banshee, that soft, dangerous look that made fools feel special. "You've been real helpful, sweetheart," he said gently, almost like he meant it.
She started to relax — just a hair.
That's when he slid his hand along her back — not to soothe, but to steer. And steer her he did — straight back into the monster's mouth. Me.
My arms cracked wide open like a ritual gate, grin blooming with hunger.
The Fanshee thrashed in my grip — nails scraping, voice cracking, legs kicking like she thought sheer panic could undo a power couple's precision. She was struggling so hard to get free, and I just giggled. Vicky, calm as ever, tilted his head and chuckled too.
"She's getting hungry," he said, nodding toward me. "And you know, my girl doesn't like it when I touch women like you. I feel like you owe her something... maybe a little payback?"
I blew him a kiss, eyes glowing with pleasure. "Gladly."
Then I really started to drain her — ripping the soul right through her scream. Showing her how a real banshee does it. No whispery ghost play — this was art, raw and consuming. She bucked once, then twice… then nothing. Her body went limp in my arms like wet laundry, all juice sucked out.
I dropped her like a broken toy. Still warm. Still mine. "I'm still gonna eat it," I muttered.
That's when Vicky shoved me down — hard. Floor met back, breath left lungs. His lips crashed into mine before I could laugh — tongue tasting like lust, copper, and leftover screams. His hands slid down into my pants and gods, I was already soaked, like my body knew this script by heart.
"Vicky," I gasped, breath hitching as his fingers teased lower. "We've got a mission."
He didn't answer with words. Just clamped a hand over my mouth, eyes dark and primal, and sank his teeth into my neck. My moan hitched against his palm.
Fuck, I love this man.
People think Vicky's a gentle lover — they see the charm, the polish, the way he handles a teacup like a violin. But no. Underneath that velvet exterior? He's all bite and bruises, a sadist wrapped in silk. And lucky me? I was made to bleed for him.
We don't always go full scene on a mission, but sometimes? It's needed. Needed like air in a vacuum. Quick. Dirty. Sacred.
He growled low against my ear, "Shut the hell up and let me fuck you."
"Yes, Master Vicky," I whispered, voice trembling with anticipation.
I won't get into full details — just know that when he plunged inside, my whole world rewrote itself. I clawed at the tile, he bit down on my collarbone, and every thrust felt like a goddamn offering.
The banshee got devoured. I got demolished. The mission? Back on track in ten minutes — barely enough time for my legs to remember how to work.
The betrayal in her eyes had almost been touching — almost. But it was her fear that was the real perfume in the room.
My arms opened wide, my grin sharpened to a blade.
This wasn't just a hunt. This was high art. This was foreplay and forewarning. This was us.
Divine judgment dressed like a honeymoon package.
And her fear? Cinnamon, static, and the bittersweet aftertaste of trusting the wrong man.
He watched me sink in. Calm. Proud. Possessive.
I love that about him.
He never judges me for getting fat off a kill.