sheraheart

[sheraheart]

A/N: This week sucked the life out of me I'm so happy it's over... I hope you enjoy this chapter, love you guys.

Warnings: Okay this one is a bit dark, so unwanted pregnancy and um how can I put this, post-pregnancy abortion... infant deletus if you will. MNDI

Bughuul x OC l Bughuul's POV

My world, eternal, endless, unchanging, cracked. Demons do not procreate, we replicate, we corrupt.

But for some reason we had. She called it a sacrilege; I called it a curse. One night, she pressed the edge of a dagger to her belly. The moon outside our window bled silver across her skin, and for a moment I didn’t recognize her. She was so different, she wasn’t the terrorizing queen of my realm, She became a prisoner. “It grows inside me like a vine,” she hissed. “Twisting my ribs apart. I hate it.” I said nothing. I watched her stand naked before the mirror, her silhouette sharpened by pregnancy. She didn’t touch her stomach the way humans do. No cradling, no awe. Only disgust and loathing. She smoked like she was trying to burn it from the inside out, drank wine until her lips turned black and her eyes went glassy with hate. And I, Bughuul, eater of innocence, who has known centuries of silence and screams, could only watch her self-destruct from the sidelines.

The child had not come from our passion, it had come from weakness. A moment where softness got past our lovemaking. A thing that fed on the edges of our cruelty and tried to reshape it. It did not belong to us, and it was certainly not ours.

As the months passed, her body twisted. She clawed at her skin, bruised her thighs, screamed into the pillows as her dreams filled with lullabies sung backward. “It has my eyes,” she wept. “But not my soul.” I tried to kiss the pain away, but she did not want affection, I wanted to release her. I wanted my queen back.

We didn’t nest, didn’t name it, didn’t prepare anything but a coffin. She whispered to me at night telling me stories of women who drowned their infants in rivers, of witches who birthed fire and choked on the smoke, and I would hold her after the stories ended, not tenderly, but with reverence. Because I knew she wasn’t broken. She was defiant, ready to challenge God. How dare he punish her. The labor came in violent waves, she screamed like a banshee, her fingers dug into my skin and split it. And when the child emerged, it did not cry, it simply breathed. Like it had been waiting; like it knew. Its eyes, too awake. Its smile, too human. “It is not mine,” she said with disgust, “And It's not yours either.” She was right, this child was not our legacy, it was our undoing. A coil of fate that had wrapped around our necks and promised to one day choke the fire out of us. So I took it in my arms, and for a moment, I hesitated. It blinked at me, curious and soft. It's little arm reached for me then for her. Sensing my doubts, Ishtar spoke. “Do it. Consume it.” So I opened my mouth, I swallowed the soul whole before its heart ever beat its tenth beat. It tasted like milk, blood and parental betrayal.

“We almost lost ourselves,” she said. I nodded. We almost became something lesser, almost let something else redefine us: make us human. Her body slackened against mine, eyes heavy with relief. We burned the coffin; didn’t speak of it after. We returned to ourselves slowly. Me drinking children’s soul, her relishing in men’s fears again, dancing in candlelit ruins, fucking under blood-red skies.

We hunt again. We haunt again.

The realm pulsed differently now. Hungrier. Ishtar walked through it, hips swaying to the rhythm of torment. I watched her from the shadows, arms crossed. She was art. My finest masterpiece and the way she had blossomed since I devoured what fate tried to force on us; it was intoxicating. There was no softness now. No chains of motherhood around her slender, pale neck, no warmth where it didn’t belong. Just her: my Ishtar, temptress of mortals, empress of my realm.

Once, in the dead hush between hunts, we lied tangled in shadows, breathless and bare, eyes reflecting flickers of flame and undying love. “Do you ever regret it?” she asked.“The ...child?” I pressed my mouth to her shoulder, grazing her old scars. “No,” I whispered.“It would’ve ruined you.” “And you?” “I would have loathed it.” I lied She turned to me then, her voice cracked with tired laughter. “We’re not meant to create life, are we?” “No. We destroy it,” “Beautifully.” She added.

• Chapter I • Chapter II • Chapter III • Chapter IV • Chapter V • Chapter VI

[sheraheart]

A/N: I haven’t finished writing the chapter 7 of Ever Soulmates yet, but my fucking thesis got me feeling demoralised and depressed so I wrote a poem I hope you like it… TW: This poem explores themes of suicide

Death

Death, I call to you. I long for you. I think of you, constantly.

Sometimes, I reach for you, like a baby for its mother, small fingers grasping at air. But you,

You are a neglectful one. You drift past my crib, with indifferent grace. You never sing lullabies, You never lift me from the sheets, You never press me to your chest, You do not hush me, You won’t to rock me into eternal stillness, Your arms remain folded.

Why won’t you hold me, Mom?

-Shera Heart

[sheraheart]

A/N: I'm fucked, sooo very fucked... Before this we were getting Isha/ Ishtar's POV starting now, we we'll be getting Bughuul's POV. It's short but I hope you enjoy!

Warning: I really suck at warnings... umm hell? deaths nothing implicit though, demons I don't think anything shocking is going on honestly correct me if I'm wrong

Bughuul x OC l Bughuul's POV

Once, I had no dreams. Only hunger, my only purpose was the music of screaming children to lull me into stillness, and the sweet innocent taste of their infant souls. But ever since her, my nights ached with visions. I saw her not as she is now crowned in sin and glory, dragging damned men into the pit with her smile. No, I dreamed of her before, when she wept into the nursery crib, and begged an empty room for mercy. When she held a dying boy and whispered stories to ease his fear. The kindness in her haunts me. Because it’s slipping, melting, becoming something else. It all began with a man; not a remarkable one. Then a second, then a third, a predator in a pastor’s robe. She lured him gently, not with her usual blade-in-lip cruelty, but with a lie. She sat in his damn confessional booth and fake sobbed as she told him she still believed in grace and when he opened his arms to absolve her, she took him by the throat, dragged him into her garden, and he thanked her for it. I watched from above, trembling with fear and anger. Terrified of what I had created: my undoing dressed in bloody silk. She was no longer completely mine.

The children no longer whispered my name. Instead, they called her when they dreamed. The men of cruelty now ran not from me, but from her eyes. And I-I sat in the throne of ash I carved from a thousand slaughtered kin, and wonder: Did I make her? Or did I awaken something buried far deeper than myself? She didn’t need me to kill, didn’t need me to rule. Driven by desire, not submission, she returned to me each night. One night, she stood over me while I slept. Well, if you can call that sleep, and whispered. “You’re not the only ancient thing buried in the dark, beloved. You just woke up first.” She kissed my forehead and left.

There was a mirror in the House between worlds, one that reflects truth. I never looked into it, didn't have to. But tonight, I needed answers, so I did. And I saw her, not as she is, but as she has always been, and then I understood, that I did not choose her; she summoned me. Not five years ago, not when the house was stained red, but centuries before. In temples long buried beneath rumbles. In rituals written in books that burned in the library of Alexandria, forgotten by man. She called for a god to burn the world, and I came, thinking I was the flame. Now, when she returned from her hunt, blood on her lips and laughter on her breath, I did not pull her into my arms. I kneeled out of worship, out of love. Because I finally accepted. I am the demon. But she? She was the reason demons even existed.

Days continued to pass in the chilled in the realm, where silence bloomed like rot. I watched her paint her garden in laughter, feeding on men with fire in her teeth, and my name on her tongue and I loved her, Satan help me, I loved her as a man, not a demon. The blasphemy.

And then… Then she told me. Her fingers trembling against my ribs, her eyes full of fear and anger. “Bughuul,” she whispered. “I’m carrying our child."

• Chapter I • Chapter II • Chapter III • Chapter IV • Chapter V • Chapter VII

[sheraheart]

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

[sheraheart]

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

[sheraheart]

I like messy writers notes… little scattered notes and brains <3

[sheraheart]

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

[sheraheart]

« when will you write a happy ending? »

Idk man when my parents will hold me and tell they’re proud of me I guess

[sheraheart]

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

[sheraheart]

I am not working on my thesis and I am not working on the next chapter of my fanfic… See this is why writers are broke.

[sheraheart]

I’m going through a phase rn

[sheraheart]

On god

Me IRL: I don’t really like men, they kinda creep me out.

My taste in Fictional Men:

[sheraheart]

My man…

I’m a bar-baghuul, stealing kids is cool

[sheraheart]

I refuse to die before having done the hula-hoop sideways. Shitting can’t be the only reason I moaned.

[sheraheart]

The only reason Batman leaves his boyfriend the joker on the loose is because at the end of each fight, the joker rearranges his guts leaving his ass loose for a week. It’s a loose-loose situation.

[sheraheart]

The pussycat dolls are fucking liars. They said “be careful what you wish for cuz you might just get it.” Well I’ve been wishing for death for as long as I can remember and yet look who’s still here.

[sheraheart]

Some of yall cells didn’t do the mitosis correctly and it shows.