The Last Sexorcist

The rain slapped him in the face the moment he stepped back outside.

Cold. Unforgiving.

It hit like needles on his overheated skin, washing away some of the filth, but not nearly enough.

His coat was soaked through. His boots squelched with black-streaked water.

He could still feel her slime on his cock even though he'd tucked it away. The rope in his coat shifted restlessly, the sigils along its length still glowing faintly, digesting the last of the spiritual corruption.

Caspian exhaled slowly, watching the ghostly steam rise from his breath.

He stepped off the rotted stoop onto the sidewalk.

The Bureau van was still there. Its hazard lights blinked orange through the rain.

The two agents under their plastic ponchos straightened immediately when they saw him.

He didn't say anything at first.

He just walked up, dripping ectoplasm onto the muddy pavement.

The older agent eyed the black slime streaking Caspian's coat, the rope hanging loose at his side. His face twisted.

"Gods. You went with the rope again."

Caspian gave him a flat look.

"Job's done."

The younger agent looked green, swallowing hard. He couldn't stop staring at the black slime on Caspian's gloves, at the dark streaks running down his trousers where the spirit had squirted her taint onto him.

The older agent clicked his tongue and gestured at the building.

"Containment team's on the way. They'll bag whatever's left of it."

Caspian just nodded.

The younger agent finally found his voice.

"Did it… talk?" he asked hesitantly.

Caspian turned his head slightly, rain running down his face like tears he wouldn't shed.

"Yeah."

He spat onto the curb. The spit was black.

"Tried to bargain. Then it begged. Then it came."

The kid blanched.

Caspian shrugged.

"Standard Class III behavior."

He flicked his wrist, the rope coiling itself and tucking back under his coat like a loyal serpent.

The older agent shook his head.

"Always hated Lust-types. Messy work."

Caspian gave a humorless half-smile.

"Least it pays."

He reached inside his coat and pulled out the Bureau tablet. The screen was cracked, a smear of black slime across the glass.

He wiped it with his glove, leaving a smudge, and thumbed it to life.

The mission log blinked.

___

STATUS: COMPLETE

PAYMENT: 8,000 B-CREDITS PENDING

NOTES: CONTAINMENT REQUIRED

___

He signed it.

The device beeped.

He handed it back to the older agent, who took it gingerly between two fingers.

Caspian turned to go.

The kid called after him, voice cracking:

"Sir—uh—Exorcist Aureus—are you… okay?"

Caspian paused.

Rain dripped from the brim of his hood.

He didn't turn.

He just let out a low, ugly laugh that didn't sound amused at all.

"Define 'okay'."

He walked away without waiting for an answer, boots squelching in the street.

———

He found a cheap Bureau-sanctioned bathhouse in the Orange Zone twenty blocks away.

Steam rose in choking waves as he stripped off his soaked coat and let it fall to the tile with a wet slap.

His black Bureau shirt was glued to him with sweat and spirit slime. He peeled it off and tossed it in a corner.

He studied himself in the cracked mirror.

His tattoos glowed faintly, all down his collarbones and ribs, the channels still venting residual corruption in curling black wisps.

He was half-hard still. The rope's effect didn't go away quickly.

"Fucking hell," he muttered.

He stepped under the hot spray.

The water instantly went black.

It steamed as it sluiced the spirit slime off his chest, arms, cock, thighs.

He braced his hands on the wall, head lowered.

The spirit's voice still rang in his head.

No… please… stop… please… AH—YES—YESSS—

He snarled at himself.

His cock twitched.

He closed his eyes tighter.

"Fuck you," he told it.

He didn't stop himself from jerking off anyway.

His fist was rough, mechanical, pumping through the leftover slick.

Water pounded his back.

Schlk. Schlk. Schlk.

He remembered the feeling of her forced around him, walls rippling, trying to suck him dry, screaming in terror before melting into begging for it.

"Yeah…" he growled.

Schlk. Schlk. Schlk.

He came hard, spurting milky white onto the grimy tile. It swirled in the runoff with the last of the black slime, disappearing down the drain.

He panted against the wall, shaking.

He let the water run over him for a long time.

The shower kept pounding his back, hot enough to sting.

Caspian stayed there, head down, forehead resting on the peeling tile.

The black slime diluted and circled the rusted drain, vanishing with the last of his cum.

He let out a harsh breath.

His tattoos still glowed in dull pulses along his ribs. The sexorcism energy hadn't fully dissipated—it never did right away.

It felt like a raw nerve under his skin.

He lifted his head to stare at the cracked mirror through the steam.

His hair clung to his forehead in soaked black streaks, gold lines of protective sigil-ink cutting across his collarbones, faintly lit.

His eyes looked like a dead man's.

He snorted and spit into the drain.

"Fuckin' Bureau," he muttered.

He shut off the water.

The pipes squealed in protest before going silent.

He stepped out, leaving black, dripping footprints.

He wiped down quickly with the ragged towel provided, not even caring that it was Bureau-orange and smelled like bleach and stale sweat.

The rope coiled on the bench next to him, steaming faintly.

It had gone quiet after feeding.

He picked it up. It twitched once in his grip like a sleepy serpent, then lay still.

Caspian glared at it.

"Greedy fucker."

He tucked it back into his coat lining, where it settled with an almost contented hiss.

He dressed slowly.

First the Bureau-issue black shirt, pulling it over the healing burns along his arms.

Then the heavy coat, its hem still crusted with old spirit ichor.

He left the collar open just enough that the glow of his chest tattoos showed faintly, warning any stray spirit that he was licensed to end them.

He was lacing up his boots—still wet, squelching a little—when his phone buzzed.

Bzzz. Bzzz.

He didn't even flinch.

He finished tying the knot tight enough to hurt his ankle before pulling the phone from his coat.

It flickered to life.

Bureau seal.

He rolled his eyes.

___

CONTRACT ALERT

PRIORITY: LOW

LOCATION: 54 Stanley Row

TYPE: CLASS II – JOY-TYPE CLUSTER SUSPECTED

STATUS: UNCONFIRMED

PAYMENT: 4,000 B-CREDITS

___

He snorted.

"Fucking Joy-type."

He scrolled lazily, eyes heavy.

Clusters were annoying at the best of times, but Joy-types were worse in their own way—giggling, whispering, making people laugh until their lungs collapsed.

But Class II?

Not worth it tonight.

Especially for 4,000.

He flicked his thumb and closed the alert without even saving it.

"Find someone else," he muttered.

He shoved the phone into his coat pocket.

He left the bathhouse without another word.

Outside, the rain had eased to a cold drizzle that turned the cracked sidewalks into slick black mirrors.

Neon signs buzzed overhead, advertising everything from pawn shops to brothels with Bureau licenses.

He walked slowly, boots slapping in puddles.

He didn't rush.

There was no point.

The Bureau would spam him again in the morning if they really wanted him on that one.

He needed the time to breathe.

To let the worst of the buzz fade.

But it didn't.

He could still feel her.

Her walls clutching him, spasming with involuntary pleasure.

Her voice, cracking from begging into moaning.

No… stop… AH—YES—please—MORE…

He exhaled hard.

He adjusted his belt.

His cock twitched again, half-hard in spite of him.

He growled.

"Not now."

The rope in his coat slithered a fraction, like it was listening, waiting.

He ignored it.

He walked deeper into the Orange Zone, streetlights buzzing and flickering overhead.

Buildings leaned over the street like gossiping crones.

Light leaked from cracked windows in sickly orange and neon green.

He didn't even bother checking his phone again.

He knew there'd be more alerts.

The Bureau always had more jobs.

Tonight he just didn't care.

He let the drizzle soak him through again.

"Fucking Bureau," he muttered one last time.

He hunched his shoulders, hands buried in his coat pockets, and kept walking.