#horror smut

[urbanfunkchild]

precipice of pleasure (Ghosts 1996 AU)

Authors Note: this is a request! I hope you all enjoy this - i rarely see any maestro au fics, so hopefully this can fill a void. not sure if this is exactly in mikey's voice that i have worked on building but i suppose it is a character he plays.. or an alter ego.

Pairing: Maestro! Michael Jackson X fem! paranormal investigator reader

Summary: The Maestro has been alone for twenty years with a question he cannot answer by himself. You trespassed on his property and now you will pay for your actions - not on the way you think though. You will leave this encounter… enlightened.

Word Count: 5096

Tags: smut, porn with plot, oral sex (f receiving) michael as maestro from the music video ghosts, so... ghost sex?, haunted, 90s,

update: I wrote this all through the night on a red eye flight so if there are any continuity issues,,,, I be sorry lol

18+ minors dnu!!!

You walked through the hallways, that were startlingly still.

The air itself seemed to hold its breath, a thick, dusty silence that swallowed the sound of your own footsteps on the worn parquet. Your flashlight beam cut a wavering path through the gloom, illuminating motes of dust that danced like agitated spirits. The dictaphone in your other hand felt both absurd and necessary, a tiny, plastic tether to the rational world you’d left beyond the iron gates.

“Log entry… seven,” you whispered, your voice hushed not just for recording but out of a deep, instinctive reverence. The house demanded quiet. “Time, approximately 10:47 PM. I’ve entered the main hall of the property known colloquially as the abandoned L’Estaque Manor. Initial impressions… the decay is theatrical. 

Deliberate. 

It feels less like neglect and more like a stage set waiting for its principal actor.”

You panned the light upwards. A grand staircase swept into darkness, its banister adorned with intricate, cobwebbed carvings. The wallpaper, once a rich burgundy damask, peeled in long, languid strips, revealing the skeletal lath beneath. It was cold, a damp chill that seeped through your jacket and settled in your bones. Yet, there was no malevolence in it. Not yet. It was the cold of emptiness, of a vast space long devoid of warmth.

“No standard paranormal signatures yet,” you continued, moving slowly toward a pair of towering oak doors. “No EMF spikes, no temperature fluctuations beyond the ambient chill. But the atmosphere… it’s heavy. It isn’t threat, maybe expectation?.”

You pushed open the doors to what must have been a music room. A sheet-draped grand piano dominated the space, a hulking white ghost in the center. Tarnished candelabras sat on the mantle. 

Your light glinted off the glass of a large, gold-framed portrait above the fireplace, but the face within was too shadowed to make out. You stepped inside, your boots whispering on the Persian rug, its patterns faded into vague, blood-like smudges.

“This room,” you murmured into the recorder. “There’s a… resonance here. Auditory? Maybe. A memory of sound. If I listen…”

You stopped. You closed your eyes, letting the silence press in. And then, beneath the sound of your own nervous system, you heard it. 

Or felt it. It wasn’t quite a melody, but the echo of one. The faint, phantom vibration of a piano chord—a minor, unresolved, hanging in the air like a question. Your eyes snapped open. The sheet over the piano was perfectly still. No dust had been disturbed.

“Did you hear that?” you asked the empty room, the dictaphone catching your quickened breath. “A chord. C minor, perhaps moving to… no. It’s gone.”

But it wasn’t. 

As you moved back into the hall, it followed you. It wasn’t only just a sound, but a presence. The back of your neck prickled. The air, once uniformly cold, now seemed to stir with a faint, impossible current. 

You entered a long gallery, portraits lining the walls, their subjects’ eyes seeming to track your progress from faces blurred by time and shadow.

Then you felt it. A breath. Not on your neck, but inside your ear. A cool, gentle exhalation that carried with it the faintest sound—a wordless, melancholic fragment of tune, the same one that had haunted the piano chord. It was intimate, paralyzing. You froze, your blood turning to ice water.

“Who’s there?” you breathed, not daring to turn. The dictaphone, still recording, captured the tremor in your voice.

There was no answer. Only the returning, absolute silence, now feeling like a held secret. 

You forced your legs to move, driven by a compulsion that was equal parts terror and desperate curiosity. 

The master bedroom was your goal. In these old houses, it was often the epicenter of residual energy.

You found the door ajar. Pushing it open, you were met with a spectacle that stole what little breath you had left.

The room was vast, dominated by a canopy bed whose curtains hung in tattered shreds. But it was the far wall that commanded attention. 

The enormous windows were naked, their curtains ripped away or decayed. 

They were thrown wide open to the night, and the wind poured through in a silent, powerful river. 

The moon, nearly full, cast a slab of pewter light across the floorboards, illuminating the dust swirling in the turbulent air. The curtains that remained on the sides billowed and snapped like the sails of a ghost ship, soundless in the vacuum of the room. 

The night itself seemed to be invading, a cool, black ink flooding into the tomb of the house.

You stepped into the lunar wash, drawn to the windows, to the view of the overgrown gardens and the skeletal trees. The wind played with your hair, kissed your feverish skin. This was it. The heart of the strange stillness. You raised your dictaphone.

“The master bedroom. The windows are open. There’s a… a violent peace here. The wind, but no sound. The moon, is so creepy. I feel…”

You felt watched.

The sensation was so intense it was a physical weight between your shoulder blades. You slowly, so slowly, turned from the mesmerizing night.

He stood in the doorway.

You hadn’t heard a thing; footfall or rustle of cloth. He was simply there, having coalesced from the very shadows of the hall. Your mind, trained to document and analyze, short-circuited, overwhelmed by sheer aesthetic shock.

He was beautiful. It wasn’t in a modern way, but like a painting by a Romantic master who believed in the tragic allure of the sublime. Tall and imperially slender, he was dressed in an anachronism of elegant decay: a white poet’s shirt of fine linen, its ruffles at the chest and cuffs pristine, the top buttons carelessly open to reveal a expanse of pale, smooth skin that gleamed like marble in the low light. 

It was tucked into tailored black trousers that emphasized his long legs, and over it all, a sweeping black velvet cloak rested on his shoulders, not quite touching the floor. His hair was a cascade of raven-black waves, stirred by a wind that didn’t touch you, framing a face of heartbreaking symmetry—high cheekbones, a strong jaw, lips that seemed carved from something both soft and cruel. 

His eyes were the most alive thing about him, a burning, intelligent dark brown, with a glimmer of mischief in them.

And he was opaque, but only just. You could see, faintly, the outline of the doorframe behind him, the subtle suggestion of moonlight passing through the solidity of his wrist where he held the doorjamb. A ghost. A spectacular, gorgeous ghost.

Your legs gave out. The dictaphone clattered to the floor, but you didn’t hear it. The world tunneled into those dark benevolent eyes, and then into black velvet nothingness.

Consciousness returned without a jolt, but as a slow, cold seep. You were on the floor, but not on the hard wood. 

You were cradled in an impossible chill, a sensation like being held by a statue carved from winter moonlight. Your head rested against the crisp linen of his ruffled shirt, and through the thin fabric, you registered a profound, deep cold, the utter absence of living heat.

“Open your eyes.” The voice was a melody all its own, low, cultured, vibrating with an old-world accent and a current of simmering anger. “I did not grant you the courtesy of my solitude only for you to escape into unconsciousness.”

Your eyelids fluttered open. His face was above yours, inches away. Up close, his beauty was even more devastating, and more unnerving. His skin had a faint, pearlescent sheen, and the cool air around him smelled of old books, dried lavender, and something metallic, like distant ozone.

“You…” you croaked.

“I,” he agreed, his tone icy. With a grace that was both effortless and unsettling, he shifted you, helping you to sit up. His hands on your shoulders were like brands of ice, a shock that cleared the last cobwebs from your mind. He didn’t release you. He knelt before you, his stormy eyes pinning you in place. 

“Now. You will explain. Why do you trespass in my home? Why do you shuffle through my halls with your little machine, speaking to the silence as if it owes you answers?”

He was furious. It was not the rage of a monster, but a deep, personal offense of a scholar whose library has been invaded and ripped up by a vandal.

“I… I’m a paranormal investigator,” you stammered, your professional pride flickering weakly. 

“This house… it’s famous. I thought it was empty.”

“Thought it was empty?” He released you as if burned, rising to his full height in a fluid motion. The white ruffled shirt he wore, flapped in the wind.

“You thought. Or you assumed? And on that assumption, you violate my peace? For twenty years I have curated this silence. Twenty years of moonlit rooms and echoing chords, and you believe you can simply… walk in?” He turned his back to you, a gesture of supreme disdain, looking out at his billowing curtains.

“Your world is so loud. So bright. It forgets what lurks beyond it. It bulldozes. And now it sends its curious little children to poke at what it has forgotten.”

You scrambled to your feet, your legs still unsteady. The dictaphone lay at your feet, its red recording light a tiny, accusing eye. “I meant no disrespect. I’m just… trying to understand.”

He turned his head, his profile a sharp cut against the moonlit window. “Understanding is not yours to take. It is mine to bestow. And I am not inclined to be generous.” He faced you fully again, his anger seeming to settle into a colder, more calculating resolve. 

“However. You are here. You have seen me. That… complicates things.”

A new kind of chill, one of primal fear, trickled down your spine. “What are you going to do to me?”

A ghost of a smile, bitter and beautiful, touched his lips. “The traditional tropes? Frighten you to death? Haunt your dreams? How pedestrian.” He drifted closer, his movement so smooth on the rotten floorboards. The cold around him intensified. 

“I am a man of intellect. Of passion. Trapped. For two decades, I have been a curator of memories, a prisoner of sensation I can only recall. The taste of wine. The warmth of a fire.” His eyes raked over you, not with lust, but with a desperate, hungry curiosity. 

“The touch of a living hand.”

He stopped an arm’s length away. You were captivated, utterly. The fear was still there, deep in your veins, but it was subsumed by a terrifying fascination. He was a masterpiece of sorrow and anger.

“I will let you go,” he said, his voice dropping to a intimate murmur that seemed to reverberate in your very bones. 

“I will unlock the doors and watch you flee back to your noisy, bright world, and I will return to my melodic silence. But you will have given me something in return. A… experiment.”

“An experiment?” you whispered.

“A confirmation,” he corrected, his gaze holding yours. 

“A sensory recollection,” he added, with a whimsical tone.

“I have wondered, in my long solitude, if the memory of pleasure is a lie the mind tells the soul. If the mechanics of passion are lost to a form such as mine.” He lifted a hand, and his fingers, pale and slightly translucent, hovered just beside your cheek. 

You felt the chill, a thrilling ache. 

“I wish to know if, after twenty years, I can still… feel. In the most primal sense. I wish to know if I can still make a living woman sigh, and in doing so, remember what it was to be a mere mortal man.”

The meaning crashed over you, not in a wave of horror, but in a surge of electric, reckless understanding. He wasn’t asking for your life. He was asking for your body. As a test. As a sacrament. Your mouth was dry. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You should run. You should scream.

You looked into his eyes, saw the centuries of loneliness, the artistic fury, the haunting, fragile hope. 

You saw the pale column of his throat above the open ruffles, the elegant line of his shoulders under the worn white shirt. His hair fell shoulder length, and was beautiful - an almost blue hue shone off of it in the moonlight. 

He was the most beautiful, terrible thing you had ever seen.

“Yes,” you heard yourself say, the word leaving your lips on a cloud of breath in the cold air.

His eyes widened, a flicker of surprise, then a dark, triumphant fire. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

The word hung between you, a pact sealed. The anger in him seemed to transmute, melting into a fierce, focused intensity. 

He closed the distance. Where his body met yours, there was no solid impact, but a gradual, chilling immersion, as if you were stepping into the shadow of a glacier. 

His hands came up to frame your face, and the cold was piercing, exquisite. He leaned in, and his lips met yours.

They were soft, and colder than anything you could imagine, but not inert. They moved with a practiced, desperate skill, and a strange thing began to happen. 

As the kiss deepened, a sensation bloomed within the cold—a memory of warmth, a phantom heat that seemed to generate from the very friction of your living spirit against his spectral one. 

A low, shuddering sigh escaped him, a sound that was half moan, half sob, and it vibrated into your mouth.

The dictaphone was forgotten. The investigation was forgotten. There was only the Maestro and his experiment.

He pushed you backwards, his mouth never leaving yours, until suddenly he was gone. All that was left was a whisper of the feeling of him on your lips. You brought your fingers up to your lips immediately, missing the touch there. 

All of a sudden he appeared behind you, as if by magic and grabbed your other hand and pulled you onto the bed. 

With unseen force, the tattered remnants of the bed curtains fell away completely. He laid you down on the cold, silken coverlet, following you down, his form settling over yours with a weight that was more pressure than mass. His cloak enveloped you both, a dark tent against the moonlit room.

“Tell me you can feel that,” he murmured against your throat, his lips trailing icy fire down your pulse point. His fingers, deft and chilling, worked at the buttons of your jacket, then your shirt. “Tell me I am not just a dream touching you.”

“I feel it,” you gasped, arching into the shocking cold of his hands on your bare skin. It was a paradoxical feeling—the cold was so intense it burned, and within that burn, pleasure sparked, sharp and shocking. 

“You’re real.”

You nearly yelped at the force in which he pulled off your jeans.

He made a sound, a raw, hungry thing, and his own clothing seemed to dissolve into mist and shadow at his will; revealing the pale, sculpted plane of his chest, the elegant taper of his waist. He was slender, graceful, beautifully made, and glowing with that faint inner luminescence. 

His skin, when it met yours fully, was a shock—a deep, penetrating cold that made every nerve ending sing a desperate, alert song.

He explored you, focused, like a connoisseur rediscovering a lost art. His mouth, a brand of ice, traced the lines of your collarbones, the curve of your breast, his tongue swirling in a pattern that left behind a trail of goosebumps and fire. 

Your voice gave out, the sound swallowed by the billowing curtains and the silent night. Your hands clutched at his back, feeling the powerful muscles shift under skin that was smooth and cold as polished alabaster. 

You could fully feel him now, the reality of his form, even as your fingers sometimes seemed to sink into him a fraction too deeply, meeting a core of thrilling, empty cold.

“I crave the warmth between those legs,” he breathed, his voice ragged with wonder. He was between your legs now, his storm-cloud eyes holding yours, his dark hair cascading around his face, stirred by his own spectral energy. 

“You are... A delicious, living thing. Something I have not been close to as of late. Let me… let me remember this.”

He prepared himself by using his index finger to rub the precum on his cock, and then entered you in one slow, relentless glide.

The sensation was beyond anything you could have conceived. It wasnt the friction of flesh, but something stranger, more profound. It was a bone chilling cold, a possession that reached into the very marrow of your bones and clawed up to your heart from below.

It was like being touched from the inside out by a icy winter river, shocking and pure and terrifyingly intimate. 

Another choked and wordless sound of shock and overwhelming pleasure came from you; your back bowing off the bed, crazily, as if you were possessed. Maybe you were.

He stilled, his face a mask of agonized ecstasy. “Ah… it is… better than I remember….the memory is true. It is… worth the waiting.” 

He began to move, and each movement was a study in contradiction—the solid, rhythmic pressure of him, coupled with the eerie, chilling diffusion of his essence spreading through you. 

The feel of him became a drug, a stimulant. It sharpened every sensation, made every nerve raw, every pleasure point on the edge of falling apart.

You felt everything with a hyper-clarity: the silken slide of the coverlet beneath you, the rush of the moonlit wind over your heated skin, the exact, perfect angle of his hips as he drove into you, seeking his own forgotten culmination. His rhythm was diabolically good, you did not know that these feelings could overcome your body.

He was not silent within this endeavour. He whispered in a mix of broken words and song, fragments of poetry, curses, prayers. You couldn’t tell what was which - your brain unable to concentrate for the unbelievable pleasure coursing through your veins.

“Warm — you are so extraordinarily warm — I had forgotten — god, the scent of your skin alone is enough to have me—" He stopped. The sentence didn't finish. For the first time since you had met him, the Maestro had run out of words.

His hands were everywhere, icy points of contact that ignited wildfires under your skin. The juxtaposition of this feeling in your brain was hard to comprehend. 

One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat to his marauding, freezing kisses. 

The other gripped your hip, his fingers pressing in with a desperate strength that should have bruised, but only left a thrilling ache. You were unraveling, your own moans and pleas becoming a constant, ragged soundtrack to the act unfolding in this old gothic home. 

The pleasure built not in a warm wave, but in a cryptic crescendo, a pinnacle of sensation so sharp and cold and brilliant it felt like nothing you’d experienced before..

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice guttural, his form seeming to flicker with a stronger inner light. “Look at me when you fall from the precipice.”

You forced your eyes open, meeting his. They were no longer just stormy, but lit from within by lightning, wide with a shock of feeling so long denied. 

The sight of his beautiful, haunted face, hovering over you in the throes of a passion both otherworldly and devastatingly real, was the final trigger. 

The world dissolved into a ridiculous gothic black and white film. You felt like you’d fallen through the bed and into a whole other dimension - your body experiencing such extreme sensation it had never felt before. 

Your climax was a vacuum of sensation, a pulling inward of all the cold and the pleasure into a single, singular point of absolute zero ecstasy. You convulsed around him, a wordless scream trapped in your throat.

It triggered his own orgasm. He threw his head back, the veins of his pale neck standing out in stark relief.

His climax was silent; a transcendental event contained within the shimmering outline of his form. He grunted mercilessly at first.

A visible shudder wracked through him, a wave of distortion that made the moonlight behind him bend and warp. 

His head still thrown back, his mouth opened in a soundless cry of pure, unadulterated release, and for a moment, he became almost fully transparent, a mere sketch of a man lost in feeling.

Then he solidified again, collapsing forward, his weightless form half-covering you, his face buried in the tattered pillow beside your head.

You both lay there, entangled in the wreckage of pure sensation.

You could feel the echo of him inside you, a fading, delicious chill. His skin, where it touched yours, was no longer just cold; it was thrumming with a low, resonant vibration, like a plucked cello string.

He was the first to stir. He pushed himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. The storm in his eyes had calmed to a dazed wonder. He looked… younger. The lines of ancient despair had softened.

“The hypothesis,” he whispered, his voice scraped raw, “was correct. I’m still able to make a woman come undone.”

A breathless, hysterical laugh bubbled in your chest. “Glad I could be of service… for your research.”

The ghost of a real smile, less bitter now, touched his lips. He traced one icy finger from your sternum down to your navel, making you shiver. 

“Service implies a transaction completed. I find myself slightly… unsatisfied. The experiment had a singular parameter. Intercourse. It was a blunt instrument.” 

His gaze drifted lower, down the trembling plane of your stomach. “I wish to get closer.”

The air, still crackling with the aftermath, grew thick with a new, focused tension. “Closer?” You asked.

“I want to taste you,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that intimate, bone-resonating register. “I felt your heat before. A glorious, enveloping feeling. But I was a clumsy guest, storming the gates.” He began to move, sliding down your body with a serpentine grace that left a trail of gooseflesh. 

The silken coverlet whispered beneath you. “I wish to map the source. To taste the joys of your pleasure. To see if I can elicit the same symphony with my tongue as I did with… other means.”

He settled between your thighs, at the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders pushing your legs further apart. The moon cast him in stark relief—the fall of his dark hair, the elegant line of his back, the pale curve of his buttocks. 

“I wish to break you open, in your pleasure. Make you question everything you have ever known about your sensory receptors in your body. It needs to be precise”

He was kneeling on the floor, and as he did, you saw his hand move. He took himself in hand, his length already stirring again, impossibly, from the aftermath. 

It was graceful like the rest of him, and he gave himself a slow, thoughtful stroke, his eyes fixed on the apex of your thighs with the concentration of an artist contemplating a fresh canvas.

“You are watching me?” he said, without looking up. His thumb swept over the head of his cock, a slow, circular motion. 

He sniggered at your lack of response. 

“Good, I suppose. This is part of the process. The anticipation. The visual study.” He stroked himself again, a long, languid pull, his breath hitching with a soft, frosty sigh. 

“I am reminded that women of this day like to watch solo performances…. However, you’ll be so overcome you won’t even remember I am touching myself too.”

The sight was mesmerizingly obscene. This beautiful, beyond the living man, kneeling in worship between your legs, casually pleasuring himself as he prepared to devour you. It shattered any last pretense of a normal encounter. This was a ritual. Unlike any intimate moment you had shared with a partner before - it was as if they never even existed outwith this moment.

He leaned forward then, and his breath washed over you first—a cold, damp gust that made you jolt and gasp. He didn’t touch you with his mouth yet. He nuzzled, his cheek and the bridge of his nose sliding through your curls, inhaling deeply.

“Extraordinary,” he breathed, the words a vibration against your wet cunt. 

“The scent… alive. Musk, salt, sunlight trapped in flesh. I have missed this more than wine, more than music.” He finally looked up, his black thunder-cloud eyes glinting in the dark. 

“Tell me to stop if you are frightened?”

You couldn’t. Your voice was gone, stolen by the spectacle of him. You could only manage a frantic shake of your head.

A dark, pleased hum escaped him. “Then we continue.”

His tongue was not like a living man’s. It was cooler, smoother, and yet impossibly deft. He didn’t attack; he was calm and slow when he devoured you. 

A long, slow, flattened stroke from bottom to top of your centre, soaking in the feel and taste of you. You cried out, your hands flying to your mouth to cover the obscene sounds coming from you.

“Such a pretty and shy girl,” he murmured against you, the words almost indistinct, felt more than heard. 

“Let me hear you,”

He continued to just marvel at your sex; you looked down at him, bewildered that this could even be really happening.

“The texture… the give… the heat is not a wall, it is a tide. And it welcomes me.”

He began to work in earnest, and it was clear he was, as he said, a maestro. His tongue was a precision instrument, tracing lazy circles around your clit before focusing on it with a pinpoint, icy pressure that made you see what felt like the expansion of the universe. 

He alternated—broad, lapping strokes that cooled your entire core, then sharp, flickering assaults on that one hypersensitive node. His pace was deliberate, experimental, listening to every hitch of your breath, every twitch of your thighs.

And all the while, his right hand moved on himself. You could hear the soft, slick sound of it, a counter-rhythm to the wet, hungry sounds his mouth was making. He stroked himself in time with the flicks of his tongue, a slow, consistent pumping motion, his own pleasure feeding back into the attention he lavished on you. 

It was a feedback loop of sensation, a closed circuit where his cold arousal and your burning need amplified each other.

“You taste of the world,” he groaned, lifting his head for a moment. His lips glistened. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his face flushed with a phantom of color. His hand never stopped moving on his cock. 

“You taste of summer grass and night rain and… and life. It is an addiction.” He dove back in, his hunger less controlled now, more ravenous. He added his fingers, one, then two, sliding into you with that same shocking, perfect cold, curling upwards as his tongue lashed at your clit.

You felt obsencely overestimulated, the deep, filling chill of his fingers, the maddening, icy pinpoint of his tongue, and the visual, audible proof of his own mounting pleasure as he stroked himself faster, his breath coming in short, frosty pants against your skin. 

You were babbling, pleading, pulling his hair, your hips rolling uncontrollably against his face. 

The cold was no longer just a sensation; it was the fuel, the catalyst that made every nerve scream twice as loud.

“Is this the way?” he asked, his voice muffled, desperate for confirmation. “Tell me, my living beauty… does this path lead to the same peak?”

“Yes—God—yes, please, don’t stop doing whatever you’re doing, please—” you sobbed. “I am so close”

He redoubled his efforts. His tongue became a blur of cold, relentless motion. His fingers pumped, crooking just so, and his thumb pressed hard, circling your clit. His other hand was a piston on his own length, the rhythm frantic now, the soft slapping sounds filling the air. He was chasing it, chasing your climax with desperation; starving for proof of his own existence.

The build was different this time. Not a shatter or a falling apart that you’d have been used to, but a slow, inexorable melt. The cold he was pumping into you seemed to meet the core of your heat and create a thermal reaction, a swirling vortex of sensation that pulled everything you were into its center. 

Your muscles locked. Your breath stopped. The world narrowed to the freezing, brilliant point between your legs and the sight of his beautiful, obsessed face buried there, pleasuring himself as he drove you mad.

It broke silently, a vast, wave-like submersion. Your climax washed over you profoundly, a drowning release, a slow-motion unfurling of every tense wire in your body. 

You pulsed around his fingers, a long, shuddering series of contractions, a silent scream locked in your throat.

He felt it. He let out a choked, triumphant cry against you and his own rhythm stuttered, then broke. His back arched, a perfect, taut bow, and he spilled over his own fist with a ragged, gasping groan, his release pearlescent and faintly glowing in the moonlight, striping his own pale stomach and the dark coverlet beneath him. 

He trembled violently through it, his mouth still pressed against you, drinking in the final aftershocks of your pleasure as his own wracked him.

Slowly, he pulled away. He looked wrecked, glorious. His hair was wild, his lips swollen and slick. His eyes, when they met yours, held a look of stunned, satiated reverence. 

He looked down at the evidence of his own pleasure on his hand and stomach, then back at you, as if he couldn't quite believe either.

"The data," he whispered, his voice utterly spent. "Is... overwhelming. The hypothesis is not only confirmed... it is expanded upon. The variables are infinite."

He moved then, fluid and weary, coming to lie beside you. He didn't pull you into the full, chilling embrace of before, but he slid an arm beneath your neck, his body a line of cool pressure against your side. He was still stroking your hair with his other hand, his touch now almost gentle.

"You have," he said to the canopy above, "given a ghost a memory that does not hurt to hold. That is a rare gift, little trespasser."

You turned your head on his arm. The dictaphone was still on the floor, its red light a steady, distant pulse. The investigation was over. Something else had begun.

"What now?" you asked, your voice hoarse.

He was silent for a moment, watching the curtains dance with the night. "Now," he said finally, a new, contemplative note in his voice, "we discuss the parameters of further... experimentation. And you tell me your name. One should know the name of a beautiful, living creation, should one not?"

fin

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[ghostiesnightmare]

The Rules We Keep

Pairing: Brahms Heelshire x Female Reader Summary: While working in the Heelshire manor, you were given one warning: follow the rules. As near-supernatural events rock you to your core, the rules seem to hold you in a vice-like grip. As paranoia takes hold, a chilling discovery marks the start of a deadly game. The rules were meant to keep you safe; but what if following them was the most dangerous thing of all? TW: DARK content, read at your own risk. Non-con, stalking, nudity, foul language, violence, glory-hole, sense deprivation, power imbalance, orgasm denial, degradation, unprotected sex, restraints, rough sex, abuse, creampies, and more. Word Count: 9,623 MDNI- NSFW

-----

The Heelshire mansion was your own personal hell.

The sprawling stone structure seemed to stretch onwards forever, with nooks and crannies at every turn. With multiple floors, countless staircases, and forgotten rooms the manor seemed to be much more of a labyrinth than a household. Doors opened into empty cellars, books activated secret passageways, and every waking moment seemed to present another mystery.

The house itself acted as if it were alive, the floorboards creaking under the slightest pressure, windows hissing at the faintest breath of wind. If you had any sense about you, you would have believed the legends that the house was very much, in fact, haunted. Yet the eerie atmosphere that the house produced was the least of your concerns, with something much more sinister afoot. 

Brahms.

The porcelain doll that you were tasked with caring for was not only unnerving, but unearthly in every way. When introduced to the ungodly toy you had almost laughed, finding the request to babysit an inanimate object to be not only ridiculous, but a joke. Knowing your situation now weeks later, you wished you could take it back.

Nothing in the world could have prepared you for the reality of the situation. Items moving in the middle of the night, screeching across the floor so suddenly it tore you from any slumber you hoped to get. Paintings would topple from their hanging posts, crashing onto the hardwood floors at all hours. The light fixtures would flicker consistently, casting shadows on every surface within the house.

The doll would move too, seemingly hopping from room to room in order to utterly terrify you. One night, you awoke to the wretched thing on your bed, the painted eyes staring at you, taunting you. 

That was the worst part, the feeling of always being watched.

Walking into just about any room left the hairs on the back of your neck shooting up, a wave of goosebumps permanently etched into your skin. It felt as if the world was consistently closing in, the room folding in on itself and leaving nothing but you and that devilish doll. No matter the hour, no matter what you were doing, you felt as if eyes were burning holes into the back of your head.

It left a shiver down your spine in a way that nothing could shake free, the chill of fear in your bones. At first, you thought you were going crazy, the weeks alone in the countryside finally taking their toll after having only the doll as company. But as the nights went on, bringing nothing less than supernatural events, you began to believe the rumors swirling around the brick manor were true. 

You never were a spiritual person, finding urban legends and ghost stories to be nothing short of fiction. Thinking the spirit of a ghost child possessing a doll sounded like something straight out of a horror movie, yet after hearing how the original Brahms was rumored to have killed a girl before perishing in a house fire, the doll seemed all the more terrifying.

At night you could have almost swore hearing whispers through the walls, voices beckoning you to explore the darkness below. The thought alone would send fear coursing through your veins. Throughout all the torment, the paranormal events, and the paranoia, your fears were confirmed: the house wasn’t haunted. It was alive. 

Then there were the rules:

1. No guests.

2. Never leave Brahms alone.

3. Save meals in the freezer. 

4. Never cover Brahm’s face. 

5. Read a bedtime story.

6. Play music loud.

7. Clean the traps.

8. Only Malcolm brings in deliveries. 

9. Brahms is never to leave. 

10. Kiss goodnight. 

Those forsaken rules ran every segment of your life, daily routine completely overrun by caring for the doll and manor to the point where you were isolated from all other forms of life. Malcolm was your only saving grace, the weekly deliveries of groceries single handedly keeping your spiral to madness at bay. It felt as if the doll was draining the life from you, any slip within the rules resulting in the house completely turning against you.

One fateful morning during your first week watching over Brahms, you had haphazardly thrown a blanket in Brahms' direction, which ended up covering it completely. Almost immediately, the grandfather clock in the hallway had toppled over, the hundred year old antique smashing to pieces, causing you to jump out of your skin.

From that moment onward, the rules were much more sinister than suggestion- they meant your survival. 

The soft sound of violin pulled you from your thoughts, causing your spine to straighten abruptly. Wagner’s “Siegfried Idyll” drifted from the gramophone throughout the Heelshire study, the calming melody dampening your mental spiral. Sitting up against the velvet armchair, you leaned closer to Brahms, who sat attentively in his own miniature chair and desk.

Clearing your throat, you reached for one of the worn novels stacked on the wood. “How about another chapter of your book before bedtime?” You mused at the doll, who stared blankly back at you. Not expecting any sort of response, you pushed onwards, grabbing a hardcover copy of Robinson Crusoe, the yellowing pages fluttering under your grasp. 

Scooping Brahms into your arms from the chair, you padded towards the gramophone, lifting the needle from the record. The manor fell into silence, the absence of noise almost suffocating.  Sighing slightly, you glanced around the messy study, making a mental note to clean the bookshelves once Brahms was settled in bed. The smell of paper and pine wafted through the stale air of the room, and you sniffled, rubbing your nose with the back of your sleeve, holding Brahms at your hip.

“Okay… let’s go. Time for bed.” You whispered, holding the doll as if it were a child against you. When you first began working at the manor, the thought of actually caring for the doll, much less speaking to it, seemed completely out of the question. As time passed, however, the supernatural elements that plagued your every move seemed to subside when you spoke to the doll, less angry when you played along.

It kept you from going insane, anyways. 

Exiting the study, you shuffled through the foyer, yawning tiredly with Brahms and the book in tow. Reaching the bottom of the winding staircase, a shift in the light caught your eye. Turning slightly, you gazed at the bronze nameplate that seemed to sparkle in the dim lighting. Of all the paintings in the manor, this had to have been your favorite. The painting was massive, spanning the entirety of the wall and encased in a mahogany frame.

Depicted with utmost care was the Heelshire family in front of their house in an almost Victorian fashion. Mr Heelshire stood to the right, pocket watch in hand and towering over his wife. Draped in a luxurious evening gown, Mrs. Heelshire smiled playfully, hands clasped around an infant Brahms at her hip. They were the epitome of class and elegance, a young family that dripped in wealth and prowess. Your fingers traced the bronze nameplate tenderly, brushing a line of dust off the metal.

The Heelshire family. 

Your brows furrowed, pity sinking into your heart as you gazed at the young couple in the painting. Little did they know their world would be torn apart eight years later, their own child perishing in the fire that almost claimed the manor. Your grasp on Brahms tightened subconsciously as you stared into Mrs. Heelshire’s painted eyes. You found it hard to pull away from the serene moment, lost in the emotion that seemed to swirl in her eyes.

You couldn’t pinpoint what exactly drew you to the painting, something anchoring you in place every time you passed it, almost daring you to come closer. There was a sense of mystery surrounding the painted figures, the moment frozen in time for eternity in a way that left your head reeling with questions. 

A creak in the floorboards above tore through the eerie silence, and you ripped your gaze away from the painting. Brahms’ lifeless eyes seemed to burn into your skull, and you hoisted the doll up to eye level, inspecting the porcelain slightly. “Someone’s impatient…” You mused, shuffling the doll in your grip.

Sparing the painting one last glance, you turned and continued your trek up the stairs, leaving the lower floor in silence. Unbeknownst to you, another creak in the floorboards rang throughout the house, the wooden panelling under the painting shaking as a force passed through, no behind it at an almost inhumane speed.

And then, silence. 

—

Sighing tiredly, you finished the final button on Brahm’s sleepshirt, leaning back and admiring your handiwork. Tugging the embroidered comforter over the doll’s body, you fell backwards into the wooden rocking chair, pulling open the book once more. Shifting the bookmark from the worn pages, you leaned further against the padded chair, tucking your feet underneath your body.

Clearing your throat, you glanced once more at the doll before beginning. “Chapter four: Crusoe considers. And now being to enter into a melancholy relation of a scene of silent life, such, perhaps-” The shudders behind you fluttered suddenly, the nighttime air whipping against the side of the house.

You swallowed thickly, unease settling in your stomach. “-as was never heard of in the world before, I shall take it from its beginning-” The wall on the opposite side of the bed thumped loudly, almost toppling one of the shelves nailed to the wood. A startled yelp escaped you, and you whipped your head towards the doll.

Nothing.

Gritting your teeth, you struggled to find your place in the book once more. “...I-....I shall take it from its beginning, and continue it in its order.” Voice cracking, you snapped the book shut as the light fixture over your head flickered, casting the room in haunting shadows. “Brahms!” you chided, irritation boiling in your throat. Almost instantly, the light returned to its warm glow as the house seemed to settle under your words.

“If you don’t want to read, you could have just said so.” you grumbled, shoving the book off your lap and watching it clatter to the floor haphazardly. Glaring at the doll, you rose from your spot and picked the book back up, placing it on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed. Fingers tracing the cool glass of Brahms’ face, you swallowed, nerves creeping up your spine. 

You always hated kissing the doll, bile somehow forming when your lips pressed against the cool surface. Something about the action felt so… lewd, the air in the room instantly feeling heavy whenever it was time to kiss Brahms goodnight. Thousands of imaginary eyes seemed to follow your every move, and the action itself left you feeling dirty and used, always craving a hot shower when the deed was done.

Glancing at the doll once more, you shuddered slightly, disgust gnawing at you. Leaning forward, you quickly pecked the porcelain forehead, retreating as if you were burned. Standing, you wiped your hands on your jeans while turning towards the door, trying to erase the feeling from your mind. “Goodnight, Brahms.” you mumbled over your shoulder, flicking off the light and shutting the door behind you, refusing to spare the doll another thought.

If he didn’t want a bedtime story, that was his own fault, rules or not. 

Shutting the door, you padded down the hallway to the guest room, trying to shake the apprehension that had wound your stomach into knots. Practically throwing open the door to the room, you immediately headed towards the bathroom, flipping on the hot water in the shower. Leaving the bathroom, you rummaged through the wooden drawers before grabbing some pajamas to change into.

Tucking them under your arm, your feet absentmindedly searched for your slippers before heading back into the bathroom. Steam began to coat the mirror, the air heavy with moisture, and you took a sigh of relief at the sensation. Setting your pajamas on the countertop, you quickly discarded your clothing, kicking off your slippers before stepping in the shower. 

The near-scalding water cascaded down your skin, and you relished in the feeling of the water washing away the stressors of the Heelshire mansion. Squeezing your eyes shut, you rested your forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall, feeling peace for the first time in the day. It felt so good, not having to walk on eggshells in the confines of the shower.

You almost felt protected by the hazy steam that clouded your vision and billowed towards the ceiling. The comforting warmth allowed you to pretend that you were safe, not in an abandoned manor with a doll that acted very much alive. Quietly, you scrubbed the grime of the day away, skin red from the heat of the water and the rough scraping, but the warmth felt too good not to indulge in. 

Rinsing the suds from your body, you reluctantly turned off the water, almost groaning as the water sputtered to a halt. Reaching around the shower curtain, you blindly searched for a towel, clawing at the air. Fingers brushing against the soft fabric, you pulled the towel into the shower, wrapping the fabric tightly around your body before pushing the shower curtain aside,  metallic creaking filling the air.

Stepping onto the tiled floor, goosebumps prickled your skin as the heat of the shower faded, your bare feet leaving damp prints on the floor. The hairs on the back of your neck stood suddenly, and your spine straightened. Turning slightly, something caught your eye as you approached the mirror to grab your pajamas. 

Steam continued to coat the surface of the mirror, the glass fogged up everywhere but the middle, where it was perfectly clear, your shocked expression staring back at you– as if someone, something wiped away the condensation. Your heart dropped in your chest as the steam began to clear, revealing faint but telltale words on the mirror’s surface, water dripping around the letters.

 BREAK A RULE, PAY THE PRICE. 

Your blood turned to ice, fingers trembling as they clutched the towel around your shivering form. Your mouth gaped, a scream clawing out of your throat as you stumbled backwards, eyes trained on the words. The letters dripped as the steam evaporated, the message seemingly etched into place.

This couldn’t be real. This was just a horrible nightmare. 

Fear stabbed into your heart, and you whirled around the small bathroom, looking for any possible explanation. Your gaze jolted to the door, lock still intact and door secure. You were the only one who had been in the bathroom, yet the words on the mirror were all too real to ignore. Break a rule… you squeezed your eyes shut, a sob wracking your chest.

The bedtime story and the thump on the wall. The flickering lights, the tapping on the floorboards, it was all part of the fucked up game that Brahms was playing, and you were losing. “I… I’m sorry.” Your lip quivered as you apologized, voice barely above a whisper as you stared at the drying mirror, the disappearing words demanding your submission. 

The sink pipes groaned suddenly, pulling you from your trance. The wall shuddered, pipes screeching under an unknown pressure and causing the mirror to rattle violently. Your eyes widened, and you scrambled backwards, tripping over the bathmat and crumbling onto the tiled floor. “I’m sorry! It… It won’t happen again, I promise.” You babbled, hiccuping as tears rolled down your cheeks in fat globs.

The rumbling stopped abruptly, your sniffles being the only noise in the bathroom. Lifting your head up, you shakily stood, knees weak and trembling. “...Hello?” You called out, voice strained and hoarse.

No answer. 

The silence was deafening, your breaths coming out in shallow huffs as the adrenaline died down. Gripping the sink, you hoisted yourself up the rest of the way, fingers digging into the bowl. Someone– something was in the house with you. Bile rose in your throat at the thought, and your fingers gripped the bathroom door handle, cautiously peeking the door open, heart in your throat.

Pitch black stared back at you, seeming to swallow you up. Blindly stepping forward, you clutched your towel with one hand, feeling around the room with the other. “...Hello?” You pressed again, straining your ears for any movement or sound. Nothing. 

Finding the door to your bedroom, you pushed it open, feet planted against the hardwood of the hallway. Tracing the wall with your hand, you braved onwards, every hair on your skin standing on edge. Your foot almost caught the runner carpet in the hallway, and you struggled to balance yourself.

The house was silent, seeming to hold its breath with you as you reached Brahms’ room, any creaks or groans absent. Practically bursting through the door, you flicked on the light, relieved to find Brahms still tucked into bed. Scooping Brahms into your arms, you quickly retreated back to your room, clutching the doll as if it were a lifeline. 

Slamming your door shut, you immediately locked it, silently letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. Throwing the covers open, you tucked Brahms into your bed, looking for any semblance of comfort as you turned back to the bathroom. Shedding your towel, you quickly hung it up before reaching for your pajamas, grabbing air.

You froze, glancing at the counter.

The black stack of clothes that was your pajamas was missing, nothing but countertop space staring back at you. You whipped around, quickly looking for anything else out of place as you darted towards your drawers, fingers fumbling to grab another set of pajamas. 

Quickly sliding the material onto your body, you pressed your palms into your temples, trying to slow your breathing. You didn’t feel safe. Not here. Not anywhere. Creeping back into the bathroom once more, your gaze met the mirror, begging for the words to be gone. When your wish wasn’t granted, you sighed in frustration, tears filling your vision. You turned to flick off the light when a smudge caught your attention. Squinting your eyes, you looked closer at the mirror.

There, pressed against the bottom right of the mirror’s surface, was a handprint. 

—

Sunlight peeked through the heavy curtains of the bedroom, casting a soft glow across the hardwood floor, illuminating specks of dust and grime. Forcing your bloodshot eyes open, you tried to blink the tiredness away. You hadn’t slept well, if you could even say you slept at all.

You were terrified, any semblance of a noise causing you to jolt awake with Brahms clutched like a vice in your grip. You had hoped that bringing the doll with you would have provided a form of comfort or safety, but his cold porcelain form dug into yours throughout the night and gave you nothing but a sore side.

Nevertheless, you watched the doll like a hawk, afraid to let him out of your sight and possibly break another rule. 

With a halfhearted sigh, you pulled yourself from the tangle of sheets on your bed, reaching to grab Brahms from his seated position on a pillow. In the dim sunlight, his painted eyes lifelessly stared forward, causing a shiver to waft down your spine. Shaking off the nerves, you picked the doll up before heading to his room to get him dressed for the day.

He’s just a doll, he’s just a doll, he’s just a doll. The mantra repeated in your head like a broken record, but there was no solace within the words. If Brahms was just a doll, there were much darker demons at play, and you prayed you wouldn’t insight their wrath. Either way, today was a new day, and the morning routine waited for no one.

The doll had needs, after all.

Trying to keep the normalcy of the daily routine, dressing Brahms was first and foremost. Setting the doll on his bed, you rummaged through his lengthy wardrobe in order to find a suitable outfit. Settling on a tweed jacket and slacks, you quickly dressed Brahms, fastening brown loafers onto his glass feet before carrying him into your room and dressing yourself.

Slipping on a pair of jeans and cable knit sweater, you moved Brahms and his “dirty” clothes downstairs to the kitchen. Throwing the clothes in the hamper, you sat Brahms at his miniature chair next to the marble island, throwing your hair up in a ponytail. Grabbing a kettle, the pipes groaned as you filled the pot with water, the sound causing you to grimace at the memory of last night. 

Putting the kettle on the stove for tea, you continued to move around the kitchen, wiping counters as the tea boiled. The rules– although simple, were very clear, everything in the manor needed to be kept tidy and organized. You had learned the importance of cleanliness the hard way through the first week of your stay, and avoiding consequences was at the top of your to-do list these days. Wiping at the counters, you found your mind wandering to the handprint on the mirror.

The sight alone had left your stomach tied in knots for hours, yet something about it seemed… off.

It had to have been yours, right? Maybe you were leaning against the shower earlier in the day when doing your skincare, or bumped into it on your way into the shower. That made logical sense, didn’t it? No matter how many times you ran through scenarios, the unease lingered, tightening around your throat like a vice. 

The screeching of the tea kettle pulled you from your thoughts, and you quickly rushed to turn off the stove. Pouring yourself a cup of tea, you leaned against the island, staring warily at the doll, whose gaze never left your own. Drumming your fingers on the teacup, you sipped at the bitter liquid eagerly, trying to unwind the bundle of nerves in your stomach.

After a full cup of tea with no relief, you decided it was a lost cause, preferring to take your chances cleaning the manor instead. Hefting the doll out of the chair and into your arms, you padded over to the study, the unorganized clutter immediately reaching your gaze. Setting Brahms back in his study chair, you went to work, dusting shelves, reorganizing bookcases, wiping down the fireplace, cleaning the windows, and then some. 

As you worked, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched, consistently looking over your shoulder to stare at the unmoving doll in anticipation that something, anything would happen. Yet, nothing. Wiping your hands clean, you glanced around the study once more, the space much more tidy compared to last night.

Nodding triumphantly, you moved around the first floor, dragging Brahms as you went to clean anything that was deemed out of place or unnecessary clutter. Once everything was in working order, you began the trek up the all too familiar flight of stairs in the foyer, taking a quick moment to polish the nameplate of the painting as you went. 

Stepping into your room, you swept the floor, picking up dust and grime as Brahms watched you from your bed, silent as ever. After a quick dusting and window cleaning, your room practically gleamed in the sunlight. Next, the bathroom. You turned towards the room, dread creeping up your throat again.

You had refused to go into the bathroom since discovering the cryptic message and handprint, too terrified to confront any more ghosts or experience any more hauntings. Now that morning had come, a sense of bravery had fallen upon you, the daylight bringing a sense of security with it.

Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself and pushed into the room. 

The damp smell of soap immediately hit your nostrils, the air hanging heavy with moisture from the night before. The mirror was still foggy, condensation dripping from the reflective surface, the words barely legible in the dim light.

Your brows furrowed, confusion wracking your form– it shouldn’t be this humid in here. The bathroom had time to air out all night.

Grabbing a microfiber cloth and Windex, you pushed up on your tiptoes, leaning over the sink to wipe away at the mirror. As you wiped away the mist, something caught your eye. A streak of grime– or dirt?– was stuck to the mirror.

Wiping harder, the mark appeared unfazed– as if the streak was inside the mirror. 

Trepidation churned in your gut, and you forced yourself to continue wiping the surface. Maybe the mirror was damaged in a way that you hadn’t noticed before, or it was poorly made. Yet, your stomach twisted every time you ran the cloth over the streak. Huffing in frustration, you threw the cloth into the sink, elbow accidentally slamming against the mirror.

Upon the harsher contact, the mirror vibrated, a hollow rumble escaping the surface– just like last night. Rubbing your slightly injured funny-bone, you traced the surface of the mirror again, fingers dusting over the mysterious streak once more. Pushing against the material again, the mirror shifted, not much, but slightly giving in against the tiled wall as if it wasn’t hung properly. 

Worried you broke the mirror, your fingers pressed against the edge of the surface, causing the whole thing to wobble slightly under your touch. Your breath hitched, curiosity racking your brain as you ran your fingers along the edge of the mirror, feeling for any gaps between the wall and the mirror that was causing the noise.

Tracing the bottom right corner, thumb touching the smudged handprint, your nail snagged something. Feeling blindly for the snag, it dawned on you that there was something– a latch hidden between the mirror and the wall. Without thinking, you pressed down on the latch, heart pounding in your ears. 

Immediately, a faint click sounded out against the bathroom, the mirror sliding towards you slightly, revealing a slight crack of darkness behind it. Swallowing thickly, you pulled at the mirror, the hinged surface swinging towards you and revealing a perfectly cut rectangle where the mirror sat at the wall. A damp smell invaded your nostrils, any leftover moisture from your late-night shower pouring into your bathroom, causing you to gag at the smell.

Gripping the mirror, you looked at the inside of the mirror, finding the smudge of dirt glaring back at you. Horror gripped your chest. It wasn’t just a mirror, it was a one-way mirror. Gazing through the inside, you could clearly make out the tiled wall of the bathroom, clear as day. As you swung the mirror from hand to hand, the traces of lettering caught your attention. 

Written on the inside of the mirror was your cryptic message, and before you knew it you dipped your finger in the letter “B”, a wet material coating your index finger. Bringing your finger to your nose, you could faintly smell oil. Your brain seemed to short circuit at the realization.

There wasn’t a ghost boy haunting you, there was a very terrifying, very real person writing you messages in the mirror, knowing that the condensation on your side would reveal their haunting warning. Your lip quivered at the thought. You were staring at a door, a door leading to something. 

Despite any semblance of your conscious screaming at you to stop, you pulled the mirror fully open, the glass tapping the wall to your left. The gaping hole in the wall was filled with dust, and the stale air immediately invaded your senses, feeling heavy and suffocating. The space behind the mirror was small and narrow, but was just wide enough for a person to squeeze through.

Through the lighting of the bathroom, you could barely make out the faint outline of a passageway, the wooden beams acting as the support structure of the house fading into pitch black. Your chin trembled, fingers fumbling as you dug your phone from your back pocket, turning on the flashlight.

A thin stream of light illuminated the cavern, the passageway going straight then sharply turning left. You swallowed thickly, biting your cheek as you turned towards your room. Hurriedly putting on a pair of boots from the closet, you apprehensively approached the gaping hole in the wall.

Shutting the toilet seat, you stood on top of the toilet, turning your body over the sink as you reached into the passageway. Gripping onto a wooden support beam, you pulled yourself forward, inching over the sink and plunging further into darkness. Crawling into the small space, you glanced backwards, your feet dangling from the opening into the sink. 

Tucking your arms into your body, you let the phone’s flashlight guide the way, army crawling through the dirt until the cavern opened up, the walls thinning and ceiling expanding upwards. Immediately, you shifted uncomfortably until you were standing, crouching slightly. Looking back on the way you came, you noticed a wrapper on the dirt floor, the plastic pushed haphazardly to the side by your clumsy crawling.

Someone had been here– recently.

You inhaled sharply at the thought, heart twisting in your chest, but you pushed onwards, determined to solve the mystery that plagued you for weeks. As you turned, everything seemed to click into place.

Someone had been watching you. Someone in the walls.

A click made you jolt, and you realized the mirror had shut again, leaving you in unfamiliar territory. You stood, rooted in place, phone shaking in your hand as you tried to slow your breathing. Realizing there was no way to go but forward, you trembled slightly, bile threatening to rise in your throat.

The handprint. The rules. The noises. The lights. Everything– it all clicked into place with a terrifying realization. You weren’t alone. Ever since you stepped foot in the manor, you had never been alone.

“Just a quick look…” You reasoned with yourself, pushing forward. 

The passageway seemed never-ending, twisting and turning around the countless rooms in the manor. The wooden beams surrounding you were almost impossible to maneuver around, causing you to walk hunched over to avoid banging your head against the low ceilings.

The wooden planks creaked beneath your feet, and you cringed at any sudden movement you made. Within the tight confines of the passageway, every sound felt amplified– your breath, the rustle of your clothes, your steps. The twists and turns of the passageway left you at many forks, leaving you to blindly choose a direction with nothing but instinct to guide you. 

The deeper you went into the passageway, the more unnerved you became. It felt as if you were crawling into the belly of the beast, and a part of you was terrified with what you would find. You passed an immeasurable amount of peepholes drilled into the wall, each hole giving a clear view of the room attached to it.

Your bedroom. The study. The kitchen.

A chill creeped up your spine as you realized how every single moment you experienced in the manor had been on display, every movement watched by another. You swallowed thickly at the thought. Braving onwards, it felt like a lifetime had passed within the passageways, with you maneuvering against the nooks and crannies of the house.

Suddenly, the passageway opened up, housing an actual room in a space you could only imagine was the attic. An old bed frame was pushed to the far side of the wall, adorned with a ragged mattress and mismatched blankets. Food containers, papers, books, and other odds and ends covered almost every surface of the room.

A singular light bulb hung from the ceiling, the bulb swaying slightly in the drafty air. Papers were plastered to the wall, covered in sketches and pictures. You had stumbled upon your stalker’s hiding place. Lip quivering, you approached the wall, looking at the pictures under the light of your phone. 

They were sketches of you.

Drawings in various stages of completion of you doing random tasks, some with the doll, some alone. Your nostrils flared at a sketch of you in the shower, suds caressing your skin under a stream of water. Another showed you sleeping, the viewpoint being so close you were sure they were in your bedroom with you to sketch it. Your chest tightened at the sheer amount of sketches, and you backed away subconsciously.

Your knee hit the edge of the metallic bed frame, causing your attention to divert to the unmade bed in the corner of the room. Your eyes snaked across the multitude of blankets before reaching the crevice of the bed that met the wall. Two pillows were stacked on top of each other, your stolen pajamas from the night before pulled over them as a crude form of you. Crumpled up tissues dotted the edge of the bed and the floor, stomach churning violently as the reality of the situation set in. 

Your breathing hitched, and for a moment, you were sure you were going to faint.

Your stalker wasn’t just watching you. He was controlling the house– controlling you, by making you believe that the doll was real. The rules you were so keen on following weren’t about the doll at all. They were about you. The realization left you gasping for air, the atmosphere of the room becoming much too cramped for your liking.

Your breath came out in strangled huffs, and every part of you screamed to run, but you felt bolted in place. Your legs felt like jelly, and you struggled to tear your gaze away from those godforsaken pajamas and go back the way you came. 

Finally ripping yourself away from your trance, you turned towards the opening, flashlight trembling as you stopped dead in your tracks. Standing no more than a few feet in front of you was a man, his imposing form towering over you as he slouched against the walls. Silently watching you, his head cocked to the side, catching the light of your phone.

Your heart nearly stopped as the light illuminated a porcelain mask, all too familiar to the very doll you were employed to take care of. Your world came crashing down, each brutal piece falling into place to show you the true, horrifying reality. He was here; the whole time, terrorizing the manor and making your life a living hell.

Brahms Heelshire. 

You felt as if you were punched in the face, mouth parted in shock as you simply gaped at the man before you. Clearly not expecting you, Brahms stood with a tupperware in his hands, half eaten leftovers you made clearly forgotten. For a moment, neither of you moved. The atmosphere was impossibly heavy with tension, weighing down on you so strongly you could cut the air with a knife.

Your chin trembled, voice catching in your throat as you gaped like a deer caught in headlights. “(Y/n)?” A childlike voice escaped the hulking male in front of you, and a wave of nausea washed over you. The figure in front of you was nothing like the childish doll hidden away inside the manor, he was a man– a towering, cardinal force of nature that made your blood run cold. 

Brahms took a step forward, snapping you out of your shock induced state. Through the holes in the mask, you caught his eyes– brown so dark it looked black stared back at you, a curious but predatory look in them. You swallowed thickly, nodding quickly to acknowledge the man.

He hummed in approval, the noise much deeper than the voice let on, sending a shiver down your spine at the almost primal sound. You shuffled backwards, boots dragging across the floorboards, a creak splitting through the silence. Brahms froze, eyes narrowing, hands too large for comfort tightening into fists. You could hear a pin drop in the silence, the weight of his gaze alone making your head swim. 

“You… you broke the rules…” The voice chided you, cracking down at least an octave at the statement, the childlike pretense twisting into something much colder, sharper. He cocked his head again, eyeing you darkly. “-Now, you pay the price.” A shudder tore through you, his words echoing the haunting message on the mirror the night before.

The mantra pounded in your skull, gaze flying to the wall of sketches before landing on the rustled pajamas. Break a rule, pay the price.

The realization slammed into you just as your body reacted, a burst of movement tearing through you. Heels skittering across the floor from the force, you turned, the noise echoing through the room like a gunshot. You jolted, legs pumping as you sprinted to an opening in the wall. 

Brahms, startled by your sudden attempt at escape, took a step forward, hand clawing at your hair as you whipped past him. “Get back here!” He bellowed, the childish facade shattering as his rough, deep voice rattled your bones.

Ducking into the passageway, you narrowly missed crashing into the ceiling, phone slipping from your hand in the chaos. The space was suffocating, illuminated only by the slivers of light pouring through the peepholes in the wall.  The passageway rattled behind you, a furious Brahms expertly navigating the tunnels, too close for comfort.

You were in his territory now, and he was never going to let you escape. 

A sob clawed its way through your throat as you sharply turned right, trying to increase the distance between you and your attacker. Fumbling down another miniature flight of stairs, your sweater caught momentarily on a nail, causing you to lose precious seconds tearing yourself free. You could practically feel Brahms behind you, hot on your heels and closing in for the kill.

Adrenaline pushed you forward, and a fork in the road quickly met your gaze. Which way? Not missing a beat, you turned left, almost tripping down the passageway’s sharp decline. The stale air seemed cooler as you pushed onwards, and you prayed that the tunnel was leading towards the basement. If you could reach the basement, you would be able to slip through one of the windows or hide among the debris until you could formulate a better plan. 

What you weren’t expecting, however, was the collapsed wall you almost ran into full force.

Over the years, the beams had rotted away, folding in on itself and leaving small gaps in between the rubble. Panic seized you like a vice, heart beating so loudly that you were certain Brahms could hear it. Digging your nails into the wall, you threw yourself against the deteriorating beams, trying to open up a gap large enough for you to crawl through.

A rustle of clothing sounded behind you, a spike of terror seizing your chest. Brahms was close– too close, as if he was about to reach out and grab you.

Throwing your full weight against the beams, a sob tore through your throat and despair settling in the pit of your stomach. With a crack, one of the beams shifted, revealing a thin gap just wide enough for you to squeeze through. An unearthly growl sounded out behind you, practically right at your heels, and before you knew it, you surged forward through the gap, bracing for the impact against the cold floor. 

The impact never came.

Instead, pain exploded throughout your midriff as the beam fell, caving in on its own weight and crushing you in place. The air was knocked from your lungs, and you sputtered for air, trying to weasel your way through the gap, expletives flying from your mouth. You were pinned in place, the beams above collapsing in at a bruising force, and your lower ribs burned as if you were stabbed.

Breaths coming out in shallow, pained huffs, you quickly realized your situation. You were injured, trapped, and exposed. Stomach crushed painfully in between the beams, your hips knocked against the beam stubbornly, too large to un-wedge yourself from your position, no matter how hard you barred down and pushed.

A breathless chuckle escaped from somewhere behind the wall– chillingly amused. 

Your sight was useless against him, vision blocked by the very beams pinning you in place. Craning your neck, your hearing sharpened as blood roared in your ears. You could hear him– feet shuffling against the dirt floor as he approached you slowly, predatory and deadly. Squeezing your eyes shut, you stiffened, back scraping painfully against the wood, splinters biting into your skin.

Icy fingers brushed against your back, and you physically jolted at the sensation. You cursed your sweater, its betrayal evident as it bunched around your shoulders from the chaos.  A deep hum sounded out behind you, the graze of his fingers much more deliberate as they curled along your lower spine, seemingly savoring your warmth. 

“Caught you…” Brahms whispered, eerily calm in a way that made your head spin.

The passageway was catastrophic, walls closing in as your senses heightened, hyper-aware of the precarious situation. Jagged edges dug into your ribs, each breath you took causing a white-hot pain to shoot to your sides. Brahms’ blunt nails scraped against your back, more persistent, hungry.

Blind panic seized you, feet kicking blindly as you fought against the beams, praying for something to give way. A hand roughly grabbed an ankle, squeezing so tightly you were certain he would leave bruises. You froze, and the hostile grip eased slightly. “Fight all you want…” He growled lowly, voice dropping. “–you aren’t going anywhere.”

Tears fell at that, and you smacked a hand over your mouth to silence your sobs, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Brahms… I-... I’m sorry.” You sputtered out, voice shaking as you begged for mercy. The rules were supposed to be your saving grace, and now that they had been broken, nothing would be able to rescue you now.

Dropping your leg, Brahms clicked his tongue, weighing your apology while shuffling forward. He was so close, you could practically feel his breath on your back as he triumphantly stood over you. His icy touch returned, fingers tracing the vertebrae of your spine exploringly. You inhaled sharply, stomach clenching as he caressed the sensitive skin in an almost endearing manner.

His fingers faltered slightly, palm spread over the bottom of your back, pushing you down. 

Immediately, you arched, the pressure sending ripples of pain in your ribs that you struggled to alleviate. A heavy sigh rang in your ears, and realization stabbed into you like a knife. He was experimenting; a man hidden away from society and living in complete isolation for decades and never experiencing human touch, human connection.

But he was still a man, a man with wants… with needs.

Your heart caught in your throat as his palm retreated suddenly, opting to trace the curve of your waist almost shyly, curiosity evident in the slow, inexperienced touches. Calloused fingers wavered over the hem of your jeans, feeling your softness. The sensation sent you into a squirming mess, trying to push away from the ticklish movements. 

Brahms pushed onwards, fingers shaking from what you could only imagine was excitement as he dipped below your jeans, tapping your hip bones.  Large hands stuffed beneath the denim, he gripped your hips sharply, a startled yelp escaping your lips.

He shuffled even closer, hips draped over your clothed ass, almost leaning into the wall, hungry for the warmth radiating from your skin. You squirmed immediately, the weight of his eyes scalding as his touches became more frantic. A hand surged around your front, toying with the button on your jeans, and you inhaled sharply.

Break a rule, pay the price. 

The button popped beneath his fingers, zipper straining as it was practically yanked downwards. “Brahms-” you pleaded, boots scraping against the dirt as you braced yourself against the wall. Brahms huffed, seeming to enjoy the way you called his name, any warning or emotion attached to it forgotten.

Your jeans were unceremoniously pulled downwards, bunching around your knees, excited hands drawn to the exposed skin like a moth to a flame. Brahms’ patience quickly faded as he pressed forwards, poking and prodding your thighs with his fingers.

“So… soft.” a broken murmur came from behind the wall, Brahms enchanted by the way your skin felt beneath his fingers, better than any silk or velvet in the manor. 

You shuddered at his words, the feeling of his fingers dancing along your skin sending a stroke of fire to your stomach. Gone were the gentle, exploring brushes, replaced with something much rougher. Brahms mapped your legs with his hands, yanking your boots from your feet and leaving your lower half bare, spare your cotton panties.

Any exposed surface was immediately touched, hands encircling your much smaller ankles, scraping along your calves, or gripping your hips. A sharp smack to your ass left your head spinning, a startled gasp escaping you. Brahms was falling fast, resolve shattered at the promise of the new, shiny toy sprawled in front of him, hands kneading your ass while his hips absentmindedly ground against you. 

You jolted sharply as the outline of Brahm’s cock pressed into your upper thigh, the excited nature of the male behind you only amplifying once he discovered how good it felt brushing against your rear. An animalistic growl cut through the air, hips snapping against yours momentarily before your panties were grabbed tightly, the fabric straining against your skin before being torn to shreds, skin raw from the force.

“Brahms!” You tried to chide, knowing it was futile. It was almost laughable trying to control the doll version of Brahms, so the very primal, very real Brahms was out of the question. 

At first, there was nothing.

You could faintly make out his heavy breathing, and you cowered under the apparent gaze that was fixated on your newly exposed skin. If this had been any other situation, you would have been flustered, embarrassment coating your skin at the rough nature of your partner, but now you only felt terrified anticipation.

A lone finger drifted from your hip bone to your front, the touch surprisingly soft as it trailed down your skin, causing your thighs to clench at the feeling. Scraping down your pubic bone, the finger brushed against your pussy, dipping within your folds. Shame burst through you as he pulled your folds apart, swiping at slick collecting between your thighs.

You were aroused, your body betraying you from his soft touches as his finger experimented against your skin.

Brahms grunted, seemingly pleased, instinct pushing him onwards, another finger joining his endeavor, spreading you apart. The cool air hit your core at that, and you tensed, completely exposed and at his mercy. Almost lazily, his finger trailed along your slit, coated in your juices, mapping your folds to memory as you squirmed against his touch. A knuckle brushed your clit, and your heart almost stopped, stomach clenching at the sudden touch.

A whimper escaped you, and Brahms paused at the noise, curious. His fingers withdrew from your core, shuffling ensuing as you strained to hear something, anything. A droplet of something wet hit your rear, and you jolted. He was drooling, mask abandoned as he stared down at you, the heat of his gaze sending sparks down your spine. 

Abruptly, a finger wedged between your thighs, pushing inside of you. You cried out, the sudden intrusion causing you to clench around his digit, hands clawing at the dirt beneath you. Sinking inwards, he twirled his finger, flesh scraping against your gummy walls, much larger than your own fingers. The finger stilled, another quickly pushing in to relish in your warmth, the stretch uncomfortably addicting as he rocked his fingers within you.

You pressed your forehead against the dirt, heavy pants escaping you as he fucked you with his fingers, chasing the feeling of you clenching around him. The air felt heavy, tension crackling between you and your captor as you fell apart on his fingers, shame fading away as something much more primal began to take root. 

Brahms, addicted with the feeling of your soft walls, picked up pace, and you whimpered at the force. A shuddered sigh escaped the male behind you, getting lost in the image of his fingers sinking within you, a lewd squelch filling the air as his fingers retreated from your core. His hips ground against your upper thigh, and your lip quivered at the feeling of his clothed cock rutting against your skin.

His fingers scissored within you, and a broken moan tore within you. This was so wrong, so perverted, but you couldn’t help but get lost in the feeling, a wave of warmth tearing through you. Sweat beaded your hairline, and you clamped your jaw shut to try and silence the noises threatening to spill from your lips. 

Brahms however, always observant, noticed the slip immediately, no amount of stifling able to keep your sounds away from him.

Although quiet, the moan rattled throughout the passageway, shattering any sense of resolve or patience that was left. You wanted it, you liked what he was doing to you, and that was all the reinforcement he needed, whether you knew it or not. Your skin felt as if you were on fire, the pain in your ribs mixing with the pleasure in a dangerous concoction that left you reeling.

Your nails dug into the dirt, coating your fingertips as tears streamed down your cheeks, any coherent thought melting away as you felt your orgasm building within you, muscles tightening. The hand not driving into you traced along your lower back once more, the soft touches contrasting the rough thrusts of his fingers so sinfully your eyes rolled. 

You were so close, body quickly submitting to the pleasure that rocked your body, head spinning as he brushed your clit once more. Your hips rolled slightly, eager to match the pace, oblivious to the devious grin sported on the other side of the wall. Brows furrowed, your mind short circuited, chasing the feeling as you silently begged, praying to get your release.

Brahms’s fingers tore from you so quickly it hurt, orgasm halted right before you hit the precipice. Your jaw clamped down, biting into your cheek so roughly you drew blood, frustration wracking your body. Your legs shook, emptiness consuming you as you squirmed against the wall, desperately trying to reach your high. 

So caught up in your denial, you barely registered the shuffling of clothes, ears ringing as your heartbeat pounded in your head. A hand gripped your hip suddenly, nails digging into your skin as Brahms' hips met your ass. Your eyes widened, the feeling of his bare skin against yours sending a shiver down your spine.

Before you could even think, Brahms nestled in between your legs, clumsily aligning to your core and entering you in one, quick thrust. A scream tore from your throat at the intrusion, and you steeled yourself against the wall, trying to catch your breath as Brahms’ cock delved into you without any chance of stopping. 

Aching, you faltered, clenching blindly around Brahms as he quickly bottomed out, scraping against your walls in ways that made his fingers seem like child’s play. He was so big, filling you so full you could feel him in your stomach, his bruising force shoving you further into the wall, your ribs screaming in pain.

Bracing yourself against the dirt, you helplessly met his ruthless thrusts, choked moans spewing from your throat. It hurt so good, the uncomfortable stretch melting away with every thrust, the only thing grounding you in place being his hands digging into your flesh. He fucked into you, chasing the sensation of your snug walls, heavy groans and pants echoing around the passageway. 

You were falling fast, lost in the feeling of his cock pushing into you so forcefully you felt as if he were rearranging your insides, so consumed with nothing else but him. You felt as if you couldn’t breathe, pleasure racking through you so violently your toes curled into the dirt. Your whole body tensed, clenching down on Brahms so hard you were sure you were squeezing him to death.

Static heat prickled against your skin, electricity flowing through your limbs as you felt like you were going to burst. You babbled nonsense, chanting into the stale air as you felt your orgasm approaching, mind moving a million miles a minute and ready to crash down at a bruising force. Brahms continued his onslaught, refusing to let up as he delved into you, chasing the sensation of you wrapped sinfully around his cock. Your back scraped against the wood as he thrusted into you, head bobbing against the dirt as you took him with everything you had, drool dripping down your chin. 

It was too much, everything was too hot, too fast.

The grip on your hips never relented, pulling you towards him as if you were a fuck-toy, and you weakly met his thrusts. Arching your back, you ignored the burning sensation in your ribs, caught up in the addictive nature of Brahms’ cock drilling into you, ruining you for all others.

His cockhead snapped against your cervix, pain blossoming within you, and you sucked on your lips for comfort. Brahms was like an animal, so caught up in the way you sucked him in that nothing else could ever compare to. Your eyes rolled as he angled his hips upward, cock hammering into your spongy walls, the new position making your stomach roll. 

Your fingers dug into the dirt so hard a nail snapped from the pleasure, and you came.

Your orgasm crashed into you, body spasming as you screamed, clinging to the dirt like a lifeline. Brahms faltered at your visceral reaction, hips rutting against yours as you finished, fucking you through your brutal orgasm. The world tilted, vision dotted with black as you struggled to breathe, consumed with the release of pressure within you.

Brahms growled, pulling your hips flush against his, pace wavering as you clenched down on him like a lifeline. The sound of his cock leaving you in a squelching, moaning mess bounced lewdly along the walls, but you found yourself too exhausted to care. Stamina evaporating, Brahms collapsed on top of you, head pressed against the wood as he pushed himself so deep you were sure you were suffocating.

Thick ropes of cum coated your insides, filling you to the brim as you weakly took his final thrusts, Brahms heaving as he stilled within you. 

The air was heavy, the smell of sex coating your sweaty body as you laid limply in the dirt, cable knit sweater scraping against your raw skin. Brahms retreated from you slowly, a hiss of pain escaping you as emptiness consumed you. Your legs spasmed, twitching from the force of his thrusts as you tried to catch your breath.

Your ribs throbbed, the ache making it hard to breathe– limbs weak and heavy, adrenaline leaving your body as you trembled from the aftermath of your climax. Somewhere behind you, Brahms shifted, feet scraping against the dirt, a new wave of anxiety coursing through you.

The scratchy fabric of your jeans dragged against your legs as he tugged them back into place, movements rough and quick. You winced, powerless to stop his antics, but relieved to be clothed once more. With a sudden grunt of effort, the crushing weight on your ribs eased.

You blinked, confused as the beam pining you in place was hoisted into the air. The opening was wide enough for you to crawl through, and hope surged through your limbs. You wriggled forward, using the little strength you could muster to drag through the rubble.

Before you could crawl more than an inch, however, a strong hand gripped your sweater, yanking you backwards with a brutal force. 

You hit the ground, pain shooting through you as you landed in a crumpled heap onto the dirt floor. The beams came crashing down, a cloud of dust enveloping you, sealing the passageway you had fought so desperately hard to escape through. You stared at the crude wall of wood and stone– your escape route, gone.

Brahms stood a few feet in front of you, shoulders rising and falling with his heavy breaths. You swallowed thickly, the taste of dust and dirt coating your tongue as you gaped at your captor, mask tightly bound against his face once more. Dazed, you fumbled with your boots, slipping on the uneven ground as a defeated, tired sigh escaped your lips. 

Your gaze shifted to Brahms, who tilted his head, catching you in his line of sight. His eyes bore into you, making your stomach churn, your skin flushing at the memory of his hands on you just moments before. Wordlessly, Brahms stalked over to your form, towering over you as you pressed further against the floor.

Before you could react, a rough hand grabbed at your arm, pulling you up with unnerving ease. You stumbled, knees weak and body sore, a low chuckle escaping his lips, muffled by the mask.  A hand roughly gripped your jaw, forcing your face upwards to meet his eyes. Your breathing hitched at the proximity, his strength evident in the bruising grip.

The cool porcelain of his mask brushed against your damp forehead as he leaned closer, causing you to shiver. “New rule…” He rumbled, voice low with a newfound sense of authority. His grip tightened, your teeth knocking together painfully as you gaped into the void of his eyes.

“– I kiss goodnight.”

[part 2]

—

A/N: This definitely took longer than expected... I will try to post more consistently now that my schedule is more consistent! If you have any requests or suggestions please message me! Enjoy ;)

[greenandsorrow]

If you can, could you write a fem!reader and Albert Shaw having hate sex please? Maybe Albert being a bit rough with reader???

Sex with the Devil.

the Grabber x fem!reader

A/N: It's been a while since I've written smut of this scale, probably since my Hazbin Hotel reqs back in June. Yes, raw dog, 'cause they're fictional but you're not, so stay safe!! This one takes place in the iconic basement. And while it's a dom!Albert fic, I kept my portrayal of him as fractured. You'll see what I mean... ❤️

Warnings: sexual content (it's hate sex, intense but consensual), oral sex & p in v, age gap, angst, jealousy, emotional tension, possessivess & controlling tendencies, hair pulling, light choking, dirty talk, biting & marking, yandere!Al, dom!Al, switch!reader, mask kink, size kink, praise kink, light degradation, minor breeding kink, rough manhandling, pinning wrists, creampie my beloved, fluff

Got carried away again, this is lengthyyy.

Depraved smut, by Ophelia, with love, for y'all 💅🫶

The fight starts the way it always does... with silence.

Albert is sitting on the edge of the mattress on the floor, head bowed like he's holding back a hurricane. His jacket is still on and his boots still laced, fists clenched on his meaty thighs. You can practically hear his teeth grinding beneath the mask. The full, horned one he hasn't worn around you in weeks.

He only wears it when he needs distance.

Or control.

Or an alibi.

"…So that's it?" you say, leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed. "You drag me down here and then say nothing?"

His head lifts slowly.

A wolf scenting blood.

His voice, when it comes, is low and dark.

"You think I didn't hear you... In town. Smiling. Laughing. Hanging all over some little boy like you don't have a goddamn thing already keeping you warm."

Your breath catches.

Anger sparks immediately.

"Oh my God, Albert! He works there! Frickin' register. I was buying spark plugs—"

"Cute" he cuts in, rising to his feet with controlled fury. "You buy spark plugs with your hand on his arm? You laugh like that for everyone?"

"Excuse me for being fucking nice" you snap. "I didn't realize I had to report my facial expressions to you."

He stalks toward you, his steps heavy on the cement, heat coming off him like a furnace.

"You didn't look nice, you looked easy" he growls.

Your nails dig into your palms.

"You know what? Maybe I am easy. Maybe I'll go back there tomorrow and let him—"

You don't finish.

You don't get the chance.

Your back hits the wall, hard, and his hand is around your throat before you can even gasp.

Not choking, at least not yet, but holding.

Claiming.

Containing.

His voice is a gravelled whisper behind the mask. "Say that again."

Your pulse pounds against his palm.

You want to be angry. You want to bite back. But God help you, your thighs press together.

"Get your hand off me" you say, though your voice betrays you, breathless already.

He leans in, body pinning yours to the wall. You feel every solid inch of him.

"You want it off?" His thumb strokes lazily along your throat. "Push me off."

You don't move.

He knows you won't.

Because you like this.

He exhales slowly through the mask.

"That's what I thought."

"I'm not something you own" you bite out, trembling with frustration and heat.

He chuckles. "Keep telling yourself that."

His free hand drags down your side, slow and heavy, stopping at your hip. His grip tightens possessively.

"Nobody touches what's mine."

You lift your chin, defiant.

"Good thing I'm not—"

He grabs your jaw, fingers digging in. "Finish that sentence and see what happens next."

Your breath shakes. You hate how much this gets to you.

"You're sick" you whisper.

He steps closer, chest pressing yours, voice like molten steel.

"Then why are you wet?"

Your stomach drops. He always does this –rips your defenses apart like paper.

You glare up at him through your lashes. "Take off the mask if you're going to talk to me like that."

Something sharp flashes behind his eyes.

No, he doesn't want that.

The mask lets him say things he shouldn't. Do things he shouldn't.

The mask is freedom.

"Not tonight. Tonight, you wanted the devil."

His hand leaves your throat only to flip you around, pressing your front to the wall. A gasp punches out of you as he bends you just enough to make your pulse sprint with anticipation.

"And now" he murmurs at your ear, "you've got him."

Albert's breathing is heavy behind the mask.

You feel caged, his body blocking any chance of escape... but you don't want to run.

His hands slide down your waist, ringed fingers dragging over denim and skin.

"You think I don't know what this is?" he murmurs at your ear, voice low, steady, lethal. "You like pushing me. You like seeing how far I'll go before I have to punish you."

You grind your teeth, refusing to give him satisfaction. "You don't scare me."

He laughs under his breath, a dark sound that curls at the base of your spine.

"Oho, oh sweetheart…"

His hand comes up to wrap loosely around your throat again, this time from behind, angling your head to the side.

He watches you, taking in every flicker of your face, every reaction. He's not being mindless. He's dangerously focused.

"You go around town smiling at boys who can't do a damn thing for you" he growls. "What, you think they'd know what to do with you if they had you like this?!"

Your blood races. "Let me guess. You think you're the only one who can?"

His chest presses harder against your back, hips grinding frustration and desire into you.

"I don't think. I know."

He pushes your shirt up, slowly, making you feel every inch of skin now exposed.

His fingers trace your ribs, lingering under your bra, forcing a shiver out of you –one you pray he didn't feel.

"Sensitive" he comments against your neck. You swear he sounds pleased.

You push away from the brick wall to no avail, fighting a moan. "Get your hands off me if all you're going to do is talk."

He freezes.

Oh. That did it.

He fists the back of your shirt and spins you back to facing him. You meet the mask, shadowed eyes staring down at you, unreadable and merciless.

"You want me to stop talking? Fine."

He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head, one big hand holding them there effortlessly. The other hand drags down your throat, across your chest, down your stomach… until his fingers are gripping your jeans.

You feel your heartbeat drop straight between your legs.

Albert leans in, the mask inches from your lips. His voice is quiet and honest.

"Tell me you don't want this, you little prick" he challenges.

You glare. "Fuck you."

His head tilts. "You will."

He pops the button. Lowers the zipper. Slow. Mean. Your breath catches despite yourself.

"You like to pretend you're mouthy, but your body—" his fingers slip inside your waistband, knuckles brushing heat "—doesn't lie. You see, it simply can't."

You hate him.

You need him.

You're going to burn alive.

"Now say you want me" he demands.

"Dream on."

He smirks behind the mask, you can't see it, you just feel it.

His hand slides even lower, palm pressing between your thighs, cupping, rubbing. Even over your panties it's too much. You gasp and push into his touch helplessly.

Got you.

He tightens his grip on your wrists.

"Say it."

You shake your head, flushed and furious. "Make me."

The sound he makes is feral.

His voice drops impossibly low.

"You asked for it, love."

He practically drags you to the mattress. You fall back, jeans undone, shirt pushed up, body buzzing with anticipation and spite.

Albert stands over you, broad shoulders heaving, mask staring down all judgment.

"Take them off" you say, lifting your hips.

He shakes his head once. "No."

Your brows draw together. "Then what—?"

He points a finger at you then at himself. "You take them off. For me."

Your mouth runs dry.

It's not a request.

It's an order.

And you obey.

Your jeans slide down your legs, and Albert watches like dragging clothing off your body is something sacrilegious.

You can already see it. The war inside him. The desire to ruin you fighting the sick need to worship you.

Then his gaze darkens.

He kneels onto the mattress, crawling over you until he's a huge shadow above, one hand on the bed, the other sliding up your thigh, claiming his territory.

"This is mine" he raps.

"You think everything is yours."

He leans in, mask brushing your cheek.

"Not everything" he murmurs. "Just you."

You're lightheaded from lust by the time he drags you up from the mattress and into his lap.

His legs spread wide as he yanks you onto his thigh, big hands gripping your hips and buttockss, grinding you down against him.

The mask is inches from your face, breathing harsh and uneven. You feel how hard he is already, thick and heavy beneath his corduroy pants.

He squeezes the side of your neck again, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you where he wants you.

"Look at you" he mocks. "Already needy."

"Not for you" you pout.

He laughs once. Low. Dark. Cooing.

"You're a little liar."

You rock against his thigh harder just to spite him. He grabs your hips, holds you still. Makes you whine in frustration.

"Greedy girl" he mutters. "Always want what you don't deserve."

"Funny" you shoot back, breath shallow, having too much fun provoking him further. "I was about to say the same to you."

His thumb pushes into your cheek, turning your face so you meet the hollow eyes of the mask again.

"You think I don't deserve you?"

An angry, loaded pause.

"No one deserves you like I do."

Your chin lifts, still defiant. "Prove it."

A challenge... The stupid kind.

He stands abruptly and you yelp as he shoves you down to your knees on the cold basement floor.

His hand fists your hair. You look up, and oh, you've never seen him this gone. This unhinged. This desperate.

He undoes his belt. The clink of metal echoes like a threat in the silence of the soundproof room.

When he drags the zipper down and pulls himself free, he's rock hard –veined, flushed almost purple, and thick... Intimidating enough to make you swallow.

He tilts your head back by your hair.

"Open your pretty mouth."

You keep your mouth closed on purpose.

He huffs. "Always so fucking difficult. And for what? Huh?"

You run your tongue over your bottom lip, eyes never leaving his. "Make me."

A growl rumbles from behind the mask.

His hand tightens in your hair as he shoves his thumb between your lips. You suck it slow and filthy, eyes dragging up his body as you wrap your tongue around him, deliberately obscene.

You watch him break.

He pulls his thumb free and replaces it with his cock.

You open willingly now, and he groans and grunts like he wasn't expecting the sudden obedience.

His hand stays tangled at the back of your skull as he slides in deeper. Your tongue flattens. Your eyes water.

His eyes drink in every second.

"Look at you" he mutters, voice strained. "So fucking beautiful like this…"

He pulls back, then thrusts shallow, testing. His grip turns iron and his breathing changes quickly. You feel him slip.

He starts fucking your mouth, slow but brutal.

You choke once but you don't stop him. Hands on his thighs for balance, you let him use you, let him finally take what he's been starving for in his envy. His groans deepen. His pace roughens and picks up a bit.

You moan around him and his hips stutter.

"Yes. Yes—keep doing that—"

He holds your head perfectly still –careful not to injure you– and goes deeper, hitting the back of your throat, your eyes and nose running freely now.

He tilts his head like he wants to see you finally break and pull back, spattering. But you don't. You keep looking up at him. You keep taking it.

No fear. Just heat.

And the occasional gag.

"You feel so fucking good—Jesus—"

It shouldn't hit you like praise. Oh well.

You reach up, your fingers brushing the lower half of his devil face.

He flinches and tries to pass it off like it's just from you sucking him off.

Meanwhile, you don't ask for permission. You slide the mask's lower half down, cautiously peeling it away from his face.

His lips part.

His jaw is clenched tight.

His mouth is wet from panting.

And fuck, he looks wrecked already.

Then you kiss the swollen tip of him.

His whole body jerks.

"Oh, ah~"

You stroke him once, twice, three times, slick with your spit and his pre-cum.

Albert curls over you like he's mortally wounded.

You rise to your feet, lips glistening.

He looks at you like he wants to devour you and fall to his knees all at once.

You whisper... "Your turn, pretty boy."

He grabs you and kisses you.

Teeth. Tongue. Heat. No restraint. No air.

He hardly kiss like a man. He kisses like a beast in heat.

You moan into him and he pushes you back onto the worn mattress, climbing over you and breathing you in like he needs you to stay alive.

When he pulls back, the remaining upper half of the mask is halfway gone too, and his eyes...

Oh his eyes... They're not cold anymore.

They're alive and burning and terrified.

"Why do you do this to me?" he breathes.

You utter the steadiest lie you've ever told.

"Because you like it."

You're aware of your cruelness. Albert can't take this much exposure all at once, he needs grounding, but tonight you're offering none. You wanted the devil, he said it himself.

That's why, after he exhales hard through his nostrils, everything darkens in him again.

The softness dies violently.

He grabs your thighs and drags you to the edge of the mattress, ripping your panties down in one brutal motion.

"Spread."

Your lungs stop working.

You spread.

Your legs are trembling from pure want as he finally positions himself between them.

He's impossibly broad, shoulders thick and chest taut, built from years of hard work. However, there's also a curve to his spine, which makes him move like a predator coiled and ready to pounce.

You take in every line of him, every thick vein running down his forearm, every flex of muscle as he leans over you.

The age difference hits you in a new way. It's the weight of him, the authority, the dangerous gravity he carries with him.

You crave it.

Rough hands land on your inner thighs, pulling them apart, thumbs brushing over your sensitive flesh.

You feel your clit burning, pussy already slick from the teasing earlier. He smirks, letting out another gravelly growl.

"You belong to me. No one else." he hisses.

And then he pushes into you, slowly stretching you, filling you completely.

Your gasps are swallowed by the basement walls, your fingernails clawing into his shoulders.

Albert keeps a tight grip on your hips, preventing them from snapping close.

"You feel so fucking good" he groans, thrusting harder.

The remaining part of the mask gives him a sense of anonymity, letting him be brutal without guilt.

He bites along your shoulders and collarbones, marking you, essentially leaving traces of himself on your skin. You moan, half in pain, half in pleasure –pure ecstasy.

His own sounds are becoming louder.

He's pulling at your hair again, this time to tilt your head back, exposing your throat to him like a feast.

He pauses for a moment, chest heaving, then bows his head, brushing his lips along your jaw before grabbing your head and forcing a deep, passionate kiss. Hungry and messy, like he's trying to consume you.

You wrap your arms around his neck,kissing him back, while also moving your hips to match his pace.

"You're such a fucking brat. Always fighting me."

He thrusts harder, his balls slapping against you, slick and hot, and you try to bite back a feral smirk.

He chuckles darkly. "Yeah… that's right. You like that too, don't you?"

You can barely breathe, barely think.

Every movement, every slap of skin against skin, every harsh grunt leaves you trembling. He's relentless, pressing you into the mattress as he picks up pace, pulling your wrists above your head and pinning them with one arm while the other keeps your legs spread.

"You like it rough" he growls, nibbling at your earlobe, "don't you, little pet?"

"Yes" you moan, arching up, needing more more more. "Please, Albert—harder—fuck me!"

His response is immediate.

He loses himself even more –if that's possible, pounding into you with brutal precision, growls mixing with shouts and ragged breaths.

Your clit is being stimulated by every rough stroke, every press of him against your lower belly. You cry out, hands clawing at his back, nails scraping the skin raw. He bites the curve of your shoulder again, leaving another mark.

He pulls back slightly, gripping your thighs and lifting your hips, driving even deeper from this new angle.

"So fucking wet for me. Mine, mine, mine…"

Your knees shake and lock around his torso, your body tightens around him as waves of pleasure and frustration collide.

"You're unbelievable" his are hands pressing hard enough to leave bruises along your ribs.

"You're too much" you gasp and whine. "God, you're too much, Albert!"

"I don't care. You're mine. You always were."

Then the moment snaps...

He's pounding into you like a man possessed. You cry out as your body starts shaking violently, spasms everywhere.

Albert leans down, wet lips on yours, kissing you roughly even as he fills you to the brim, heavy balls pressing against you with every thrust, breeding you.

The tension coiled for hours, days, even weeks, breaks in a cathartic scream as you both climax together. Your body clenches around his twitching length. He groans as he spills inside you, raw and hot.

The basement is filled with your cries, his growls, and the wet, desperate sound of him taking what he longs to be his.

Eventually, he collapses over you, sweaty, mask still on, panting.

His hands slide to your waist, keeping you close. You're still catching your breath, still trembling with aftershocks.

"Mine" he mutters again, almost a whisper this time. "You're all mine…"

Your knees feel like jelly, your thighs burn, your clit throbs, your chest heaves, your throat raw. But somehow despite the brutality, and the aggression, and the possessiveness… there's a pulse of reverent awe beneath it all.

The basement is silent except for your shared ragged breathing.

"God, I can't believe this. You're fucking mine, sweetheart."

You shiver against him, exhausted.

"You've gone nuts, Al."

"Yeah?" he breathes. "But I'm yours. Yours..."

For the first time, the upper half of the mask feels like a cage keeping him from collapsing completely.

Why, you ask?

You see, while Albert's breath is still hot against your neck and his body heavy over yours, something has shifted. He isn't talking now, or moving. He isn't even growling anymore.

The silence in the basement is suddenly loud.

His fingers dig into your hips like he can't let go... can't afford to.

This isn't the weight of lust anymore.

So your hands move gently, brushing back the strands of silver-blonde hair that fell free during the deed.

He flinches, just slightly, like he isn't sure if he's allowed to be touched like this. Tenderly. No nails clawing at his back now.

You tilt his chin up.

The upper half of the mask stares back, cold and devilish, with its carved horns and sharp lines.

The man beneath it is shaking.

"Albert?" you whisper.

He doesn't answer.

Your thumbs stroke over his jaw, then his lips. Something inside him is cracking.

You reach behind his head, finding the leather straps. He tenses, like he might stop you, but he actually doesn't.

He lets you unfasten it. The mask falls away.

And... He's just a man. A flushed, still sweating man, trembling in his effort to hide the fact.

His lips are swollen from kissing you, and his eyes –God, those baby blues– are glassy. Obsession, fear, and rage still swimming inside them. But also… devotion.

You cup his face in your hands. His breath shudders.

"Hey handsome..."

He breaks.

Folds, like someone cut the last string holding him up.

He lowers his head slowly and presses his face against your breasts, breathing hard and shaky. His hands loosen. They aren't holding you down anymore. They're holding on. Very different.

His voice is pure gravel.

"I shouldn't—I shouldn't be near you. I shouldn't touch you. I ruin things. I ruin everything I touch."

You cradle his face against you, fingers sliding into his hair. He whimpers when you do.

"It's okay. You don't ruin me... Not in a way I don't want."

"But you don't know what I am. You shouldn't want me. You shouldn't—shit—" His breath hitches when you drag your nails lightly against the back of his neck. "I can't stop. I can't stay away from you."

He nuzzles against your chest, not sexual now. Just touch-starved. You stroke his hair again, gentle.

He shivers.

"You didn't hurt me" you tell him softly.

His grip on your tightens, like he doesn't believe you.

"I could have. I wanted—"

He stops for a moment, jaw clenching.

"I wanted to break you. I was so fucking angry. I lost control. I—"

"You didn't hurt me" you repeat, firmer this time.

He looks up at you.

"I'm here, Albert. Because I wanted this. With you."

He looks lost. Like no one has ever said that to him in all his life.

"You still want me now?" he asks quietly, terrified of the answer.

You don't hesitate. "I do."

He presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in.

"I don't deserve you."

You kiss the corner of his mouth. "Too bad. You have me anyway."

He exhales a broken laugh.

The hunger will come back, along with the possessiveness, and the mask. But right now, he knows you're not going anywhere.

Tonight, in the quiet after the chaos, Albert Shaw holds you like you're his angel.

If you enjoyed this fic & want to support its writer, tips are always a huge help! Thank you so much❤️❤️

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Black Phone Masterlist

Dividers by @strangergraphics 🍒

Tags: @flow33didontsmoke @heyitsjupiter

[faithfullyfawn]

You love your werewolf!boyfriend more than anything… but dealing with him during his ruts is a nightmare. The first night is fine. You always plan ahead, making sure his side of the bed is stocked up with water and snacks, but the second day is a lot harder.

You wake up with his hard leaky cock between your thighs, humping shamefully against your pussy as he whimpers in your ear. He’s such a large creature, thick corse fur rubbing against your back and large paws kneading at your chest.

Midday isn’t any better. While you try and focus on chores you can hear him whimpering on the sofa, your dirty panties pressed against his nose as he pumps his aching cock. He’ll keep whining until you put down the broom and crawl between his thighs so he can knot your throat and give your poor pussy a break.

But nighttime is the worst. After you’re freshly showered and in bed he’ll force himself between your legs, smacking his hard cock against your pussy. You whine, trying to push him off of you but he doesn’t budge, he just noses at your throat, breathing you in as he humps against you. You don’t say anything as the pulsing tip of him nudges your panties to the side and presses against your hole. You’re so sore, cunt aching from the never ending stretch that comes from taking his knot- but he needs you! You’re going to deny your loving boyfriend? If the roles were reversed he’d happily let you use him, so technically you owe him… its not like you’re fighting him, just whimpering and sighing softly as he pushes into you with whines of his own pushing past his lips.

[heavenlyao3]

hellou there. if it aint too much to ask, can i get some general nsfw headcanons for William and Jackson? and maybe some "first time" hcs too if it's not too much trouble bcos i 100% believe theyre both loser virgins lmaoooo

They are such LOOSERS. 💔

《 Hillwalker Brothers x Reader Smut Headcanons 》

William:

☆ For the first time he'd be super stiff; as in his body, not his dick. Like he just wouldn't know where to put his hands or how to position himself with you. You had to guide him through it but once he learned, he was all over you.

☆ I feel his favorite position would be to hike one of your legs up over his shoulder while the other lay on the bed and his hands are rested on your hips. He loves looking down at you.

☆ Or he'd want you to sit on his face with his hands resting on your thighs while he'd lick/suck on you. He loves the pressure of you sitting on his face, it almost fufills his fantasy of you dominating him. Not really, but it's the closest he'll get.

☆ He has a smell kink. He'll steal your panties/underwear from your drawer or the dirty laundry (ik gross) and sniff them while jerking off.

☆ I find this one really cute but if William's doing any sex act, on himself or you, he'll turn around the stuffed bear laying on his bed so it can't see what he does. He just feels guilty having it look. 😔

☆ A lot of times he'll have a wet dream about you before wanting to have sex with you. Normally, you'd be dominating him in those dreams but he'd never let you do that to him in real life. (Maybe...)

☆ I'd say his sex drive was higher than Jackson's before they met you, but his was a lot worse when you came along. He started to jack off a lot more often.

☆ William loves to bend down to touch foreheads with you. You guys just staring at eachother for a few seconds as your sweat mixes together. He pulls back to kiss your forehead gently and seconds later, the intimate moment is gone.

☆ He grunts during sex. Normally he doesn’t moan but there have been times you've caught him off guard and you'll get a moan out of him.

☆ He’s very good with his hands. From all the farmwork he does around the house, he's a pretty gentle man. His hands were always calloused and beat up but he'd rub a little bit of lotion on his hands for you before touching you.

☆ William is such an ass man. He loves ass. Ass or no ass, he wants ya, he's coming for ya. He gets so hard over the way it jiggles and moves. He'd bruise your ass from needing it in his hands too hard.

☆ William loves cuddling or just simply laying with you after you both are finished and tired. He may not admit it but he loves your company and would love to hold you in his arms forever. He loves to hear your breath against him, your heartbeat, the smell of you. Sometimes it doesn't help him sleep because you're so intoxicating. (In a good way.)

Jackson:

☆ For Jackson's first time I feel he would be way too fast right off the bat and move in huried movements. It was unpleasant for you and your bodies pleasure.

☆ Jackson would be very hesitant at first, considering his whole relationship with the "Lord" thing. He'd say it was sinful but then give in to his temptation.

☆ He'd 100% let you take the lead at first but then soon he'd get the hang of it, and flip you under him, taking the lead instead.

☆ Hopefully you're a masochist. He’s into BDSM. With all the sadistic shit he does, theres no way he doesn't love to do this with you. He ties you up a lot with old rope he'd find from outside, keeping you put as he puts on a violent show for you.

☆ Loves carving on your skin. Whether that be random slashes or it could be his name. It just turns him on to see you all bloody.

☆ I wouldn’t say Jackson has a high sex drive but it definitely went up when you came into his life. He never really gave into jacking off though, except once. He felt really guilty afterward and apologized to the "Lord".

☆ Since he's bipolar I think for the most part when he would've has sex with you would be during a hypermania episode. He'd normally wake you up late at night because he didn’t feel tired, just to fuck you. This is where his rapid movement comes into play as well. Though after you guys are finished, he gets very irritable and agitated, so don't expect to cuddle with him for a long time.

☆ One of Jackson's poorly stiched fingers have surely fallen off during sex. That didn't stop him though, he just kept going.

☆ Jackson whimpers. OH I JUST KNOW THIS LOSER WHIMPERS. Doesn’t matter if he's top or if you're top. He's so loud too, William has gotten pissed at him before because of it.

☆ For sure Jackson's into nipple play. Rubbing his hands over them in small circular patterns, nipping at them with his teeth. He traces over them with his cold blade, watching your nipples grow harder.

☆ Jackson has a breeding kink. Now, he doesn't want to get you pregnant. (If you can get pregnant) [(Ykw nevermind mpreg real too 🥹✌️)] I mean think of the responsibility that entails. And their child being born into a murderous family? (He-he-hell nah) He gets so fixated on the fact of overstimulating you until your babbling utter nonsense; riding you from dusk to dawn. Until the cum is leaking from you.

☆ Like I said he gets irritable after sex so he won't cuddle for long. You just have to make it last as long as it can before his brain overthinks. Now he's up and moving and doing random work around the house. Although, he eventually does get tired and comes to bed and curls up with you. He'll sit and watch you before his eyes get droopy and he crashes. Or he'll crash on the couch, barn, yard, porch, ect.

Taglist: @sherryclover @l1vender00

————————————————————————————————————

If you want to be in my taglist for, "The Butchery" please comment a, "🐖" in my comments. Or just state you want to be in my taglist!

[lilacxquartz]

kinktober 2025, part 16: grinding — pyramid head

plot: a monster slowly hunted everyone in your town, but you managed to escape the same fate it had given everyone else by surrendering into something unthinkable — themes: x f!reader, grinding, monster fucking, noncon, extreme dubcon towards end/out of sheer self preservation, riding, size difference, painful sex, warning in general for pyramid head — w.c: 1.1k

pairing: pyramid head x f!reader

kinktober masterlist • on ao3

It was surely over for you, the slowest runner in town, as that nightmarish entity drew increasingly closer. You had already tripped and fallen twice, and your clothes hung torn over your body as a result, barely hiding anything at all. The ground beneath you shook, and the smell of copper overwhelmed your senses; a scalding warmth radiated closer, closer, closer—the end was near.

It was only a matter of time before it was you next in line to fall under the cruelty of the beast, and so you braced yourself, praying quietly for a quick death. A scream queued itself up in your lungs in advance, just in case, but you were unsure if you could even accomplish that.

Suddenly though, talking, let alone letting anything else out, felt heavy.

Weighing down in your chest like an unwelcome weight.

With fear that anchored you—

—Rooting you to the spot.

You glanced around as the beast loomed over you, casting a shadow over your prone form. His weapon was already wedged in the ground, ready to lift and bludgeon you into eternal slumber. The doors around you of those who hid from their eventual deaths were already locked around you: nobody was about to let in a doomed soul. The blinds were already drawn, indeed, and yet, you could still feel so many eyes on you.

Judging you.

There was no pity in these times.

Then, movement—!

The monster grabbed you suddenly, and a muted yelp tore from your throat, already leaving you breathless. His large, calloused hands clamped down around your body, pulling you off your feet and surging you into the air in a way that made you feel strangely light. Then, he found a spot, it seemed, crashing down by a nearby wall. The sound of hurried footsteps escaping from within could be heard ever so slightly.

You gulped, not understanding the idea behind such a strange end.

Then, the monster acted erratically again, lifting you—pushing you down agains the metal slope of his head, forcing you to uncomfortably straddle around it.

“W-what—” you gasped out, not quite following the turn of events.

You were supposed to be dead by now.

Then, he dragged you down the hill of his helmet, grinding you against the corner again in a way that rubbed to a pinched point against your sex through your torn panties. The feeling wasn’t entirely unpleasant, the pressure nice against your clit, but it was confusing. This motion repeated a few times: up and down, down then up, until you got the hang of it, until you could move on your own, even if mechanically.

The monster felt around you all the while, gasping slightly.

This was confusing, there was no doubt about that, but also strangely preferable.

You weren’t dead yet—you were chosen for something different—horrible still, yes—but death was still the less desired outcome.

If this monster wanted you for such a purpose, then you would adapt.

Even despite the judging eyes.

Maybe you wanted to show them that you could survive and they couldn’t.

Even if it came down to something like… this.

Suddenly, the beast pulled you away, settling you over his lap. He tugged at your hips and then slammed you back down again, as if to remind you of the movement you needed to remember to replicate.

You understood perfectly well where this was going.

If this meant survival, then you were determined to proceed.

You found yourself scrambling around his shoulders, gripping at whatever tight piece of muscle that had the most traction and braced yourself for the potential pain. His body was huge in comparison to yours, and there was no doubt about it that his cock must have been monstrous, too. You felt it already: straining against the tough leather of the apron he wore, pushing forward until the tip sprang out from the side and seeking your sex with one hurried, unprepared thrust.

A gasp locked in your throat followed by a silent scream, the sensation so brutally raw that it rendered you silent from the intensity. Your walls could barely contain his girth as he stretched you out completely, the head of his cock pushing in so deep that it made you nearly pass out from the pain alone.

Still, you held on, moving from his shoulders to the rim of his helmet. He seemed to like that, too, gentling his grip around your hips as you adapted to him.

Maybe a part of you was imagining his softness that followed, but the rhythm that this monster had set wasn’t as punishing as it could have been: his hips rocked in steady pistoning motions, yes, holding you in place, but no longer was he strained with demand. No, this beast fell back, his form relaxed, as if completely content in having you move to your own accord.

Just like you practiced briefly over his helmet.

You gasped regardless of your enjoyment, or lack of: your lungs repeatedly having the air punched out of them as he impaled your bruised cunt again and again. His grip on you gradually tightened again, though not out of cruelty, but rather from anticipated completion threatening to push him over the edge. His body as a whole grew rigid as he kept on going, until—until—oops—he slammed you down regardless, spearing you down painfully over his erupting cock that left your insides feeling a little too full, a little too sore.

The beast seemed to relax again:

No such effort to remove you, regardless of the pain you must have been feeling, from his softening, spent length.

He seemed content again to just have you there.

You gasped a moment later, finally finding the strength to step off, hoping to yourself that this creature would somehow be asleep. False hope gave you confidence as he didn’t move to stop you, but as soon as you tried to sneak away, did he object.

Rising to his feet and rumbling the earth around him, he grew to tower over you once more, and before you could even think to break away, his hands branched out to hoist you to scramble and hold onto his helmet, however uncomfortable that was. Your legs wrapped around the sharp corners, your arms holding onto something that felt like it could have been traction, but only just about managing to ground yourself to what he had next forced you into.

Then, much to your unease, he began to pad forward, nowhere in particular, but for a reason unknown to you, he seemed reluctant to press ahead without you.

A part of you had a reason behind the idea:

Maybe submission was all it really ever was.

And now you had doomed yourself to such a fate.

Escaping death, yes, narrowly.

But at what cost?

[tojipi]

pennywise x reader ♡ © tojipi

content: mdni 18+ | you're Ritchies gf/side piece and he calls you at the most inconvenient time possible ;) cunnilingus, giant c0ck, monster fvcking, breeding, Ritchie is a massive dick to you

BRRRING, BRRRINGG, BRRRRRRINGGGGG

"Fuckinggg bitch" Ritchie groans standing awkwardly in the bussing hotel lobby, you were meant to be here over an hour ago.

he was late as usual, but if you were late, god this man would do everything in his power to make you feel like shit, to him- he was the catch and you hated that.

so on one drunken night at the fair you met the man- thing of your dreams dressed like a clown and you dont really know how it started but since then you've visited their dingy, dirty, damp sewer every weekend, and they werent shy at showing you who they really were.

this night was different, because you had stood up your own 'boyfriend' to get your guts absolutely rearranged by the clown- Ritchie never knew about where you went off to each weekend and not like he really cared, dude only ever seem to want you to make himself feel better and the sex? non existent, you've been together almost a whole year and this guy never goes pass first base, you started to think it was a transactional relationship. he paid for your trips, food, rent, fancy hotels- anything, you name it and he would definitely deliver for you, unless you were pent up and needed dicking down he'd downright refuse.

BRRRING, BRRRINGG, BRRRRRRINGGGGG

there it goes again that damn phone, you were currently sat on some cold cobble, the clown- Pennywise was taking their sweet ass time at lapping up your juices, every time that damn phone ringed their grip on your thighs tightened.

"Ca-can you touch me already?" you asked, breath shakey.

they giggled, head twitching as the little bells jingled.

red painted mouth dripping with saliva slowly grazing your plush folds, slowly they drew out one long lick with their tongue, you squeaked at the contact.

"Ahh~ you taste so goooood ♡"

they ate you out like it was their laste meal, the sound of wetness and sucking filled the air, you ground yourself against them nose pressed into your pubic bone.

soon they plunged their tongue into you further and further, and further.

you threw your head back moaning as the creatures tongue lengthened inside you, it was thick, wet and just euphoric, their gloved hands soon tore and sharp nails grew out of them digging into your thighs.

"H-hey, you can, s-slow down" you whispered tangling your hand in their auburn hair- they didnt slow down.

you literally felt like you were being devoured, tongue prodding into you cervix as if trying to break through, teeth grazing and nipping at your folds and clit.

"Ugh-ahhh~" you moaned out loudly feeling yourself about to release...

BRRRING, BRRRINGG, BRRRRRRINGGGGG

Pennywise stopped, dragging their tongue out of you slowly, clearly unimpressed.

"Pick. Up. The. Phone" they stared.

you grabbed the phone answering to Ritchie, muffled shouts blaring from the phone as Pennywise grabbed you flipping you, forearms knelt to the ground and ass up.

"I-Im sorry Rit-"

"No you're not sorry you bitch, you did this on purpose to make me look bad"

you sigh as regret somewhat started to build until- Pennywise slowly pushed their girth into you, it was dark, looked like a mix between alien and human, covered with ribs and bumps.

you covered your mouth hiding the moan that was about to escape, the stretch was painful, they were bigger than any other human, you slowly rocked yourself back and fourth on their cock to get used to the size, but nothing would prepare you for when they met your bounces. they gripped your plush hips bouncing into you at a reasonable pace to start, as if not to disturb the phone call.

Ritchie started bitching about how bad you make him look towards his friends, followed by further insults and that how he fucks you better than anyone- thats funny, because hes never fucked you.

"You- you dick, we- ahh, never- fuck, liar" you manage as Pennywise still pumps themselves into you.

Ritchie is quiet for a second before continuing to talk about how big his dick is and how everyone at work wants him- oh and how you'll never find someone as great as him.

you assumed in that moment he had company, he always tried to big himself up in front of his friends, pretty much all of them said you were wayyyy out of his league and he was not good enough for you.

Pennywise also knew this, perks of being a maternal creature i guess, they were very caring towards you however things got kinda confusing when they told you about what they are and who they are.

however when they were ploughing themselves into you, the thought of Ritchie never crossed your mind.

"F-fuck!~" you scream, Pennywise had fucked themselves into you so hard that they reach past your cervix, the small tight entrance fully accepting them.

"Aheh~ that feels, good~" they groaned out.

"What, what the fuck, who is that?!" Ritchie screams from the phone that is now scattered in the dirt of the sewer.

you couldn't care less about what Ritchie had to say, or even explaining yourself.

Pennywise gripped you by the back of the throat, this was unusual, usually they only do things to please you and sometimes themselves- that be rough or slow and intimate. their cosmic cock bullying itself deeper into your cervix, drool and sweat dripping its way onto your naked back, staining your hiked up dress.

"W-wait, what're-" you whispered.

both hands now strangling you, pleasure and pain washing over you squirting all over their cock dripping down onto the floor, your pussy clenching so much around their hardened girth. you began to felt weird, really weird, Pennywise was starting to make some strange groans and moans, were they cumming? no they dont do that, never have done that unless you were sucking them off and they had to conjure up some way to spunk on your face.

their grip on you wavers, their chest pressed against your back as they hold you tightly, biting down on your exposed shoulder now slamming into you at an ungodly pace, ramming into the deepest and gummiest parts of your pussy.

suddenly you feel a warm strange feeling deep in your abdomen, something that feels to be swishing around, and then they latch off you, pulling their cosmic cock from your uterus and out of your pussy.

you lay there for a moment shaking, pussy clenching around nothing at the loss of contact, your juices leaking onto the cold hard floor.

"What- what did you do?" you question the clown.

"Your body, it belongs to me now" they say in that stupid tone they always have, as if acting dumb.

you look down seeing your abdomen churn however it doesn't bring pain, instead it brings an intense pleasure as if your needy for more.

Pennywise smiles sadistically.

"You survived? good, now you stay here" Pennywise rushes off into the darkness, you assume to bring or show you something, you turn to the left of you and see the call still active.

"WAS THAT THE FUCKING CLOWN?!"

oh shit

[lassiie]

REFLEXION - TWINS!HEESEUNG X READER

CONTENT : smut, thriller, angst, mention of deep distress and probable suicide (hee's twin), dollification behavior, mention of blood and cuni during period, manipulative Heeseung, possessive!Hee, cheating, frottage, mention of strange hyperfixation (like taste and smell), psycho!Heeseung, needy!hee, mourning and death subject, use of sex as mourning strat, sloppy kissing, marking fantasy, mention of virginity lose, cuni, masturbation (both way), overstimulation, praising (hee want u to), romantical behavior turned a bit spychotic, bad/ambigious ending depending on your choice at the end WC : 14k

⚠️This story unfolds like a case : two possible endings routes (madness or possession) . Each path reflects a different truth hidden beneath the story. Follow the clues carefully... and find the ending that mirrors your reflection⚠️

This fic is a small gift for @bambiihee who I'm a fan off~

playlist

If I wake from dreamless sleep. May tomorrow begin like a dream.

Do you remember the first time you met someone important?

The way the air tasted, the vivid color of the sky, the rhythm of their breath when they looked at you for the first time. Most people don’t. Most people smudge memories without even noticing, until they become soft and blurry, like Polaroids left too long in the sun.

But with Heeseung and Heesu, you remembered everything.

You remember the shy “hi” you pushed out of your mouth while standing there in your wrinkled sunflower sundress, toes curling in your broken sandals, nose bleeding and knees completely scratched after missing a stair step in their courtyard. You remember balancing a large plate of blueberry cupcakes your mother had baked, a bit mushy... pretending it hadn’t fallen three seconds before. You remember the way the twins’ eyes lit up when they saw you, identical and startling, as if two mirrors facing each other had turned toward you at once.

“Whoa, she looks like a doll,” one whispered to the other. The other one faintly smiled, pointing at the blood running down your legs. “A broken one. Let’s repair you, okay?”

Yeah, you remembered.

Remembered how quickly the three of you devoured those mushy cupcakes until your stomachs ached. Rolling in the grass at the edge of the forest next to your houses. Laughing so hard it hurt. Them putting flowers on your wounds: cool little fingers pressing daisies into the raw skin like they were stitching you back together with petals and river water, playing doctors and sick.

That was the first time you had ever met real carbon-copy twins.

That was also the first time you felt that warm sting in your chest, something too strong to be called only curiosity, but too unfamiliar to be called love.

Yet…

It felt uncomfortable at first—like two sets of eyes peeling your skin back in perfect sync. Then it fascinated you, the way people can’t get there eyes off a mesmerizing piece of art. Then you were obsessed with the two twins living next door. After that summer, home time was never boring again.

Heeseung and Heesu’s house was close enough that your balcony looked straight into theirs; lean far enough, hop just right, and you could cross into their room as easily as if it were your own.

Your parents warned it was dangerous—more than once. You did it anyway. They always did too. Even after the room became Heeseung’s alone, the twins would still barge in with comics and snacks every time your light flicked on.

The three of you lived in a world stitched together by balconies, leaps, out-of-town houses, forests, dares, secrets, and innocent games—a patchwork suspended in time, as if consequence could never touch it.

Yeah…

Like the time Heeseung laughed and dared you to climb the lightning-split oak, screaming mid-climb, “If you fall, we’ll catch you,” while his eyes glittered like broken glass.

Or when Heesu seized your wrist—knuckles bone-white—and dragged you into the lake after you admitted you couldn’t swim, his smile too wide, voice too soft: “I’ll teach you.”

One of those innocent games was Who’s Who?

Pure laughter. They’d swap shirts, hair ties, glasses, bracelets, then stand shoulder-to-shoulder, identical grins sharpened to knives. You’d circle them like a coroner at a fresh corpse, hunting the twitch of a lip, the half-second delay in a blink that betrayed one from the other. They wanted you to guess wrong. They wanted to win.

But deeper—buried under the giggles and the teasing—they loved that you could always tell. Loved it more than your laugh, your smile, your pout, your cry. Loved it like a secret they’d kill to keep.

You were Heeseung’s and his brother’s favorite toy

Later, the blindfold came. A strip of old fabric that smelled faintly of dust and some aunt’s perfume. You’d laugh as they spun you around, but once the world went dark and unpredictable, the air changed—almost denser, pressing against your skin. Fingers guided your hands; your palms and fingertips brushed over cheekbones, sharp noses, fluffy hair, smiling lips. The attic was thick with dust and moth wings and the muffled thud of your own pulse beneath their stifled kid-laughter.

Then came the time it didn’t feel like the same game anymore. The blindfold stayed, but everything else turned… heavier.

The twins’ voices dropped to whispers, teasing at the edges, brushing you with fingertips that burned like brands. One nudged your dress strap off your shoulder; another guided your hands to new places—collarbones, ribs, the soft hollow beneath a jaw.

You could hear one breathing too close, hot against your ear, while the other paced slow circles just beyond touch, fingertips grazing the air above your skin. The attic felt alive, thick with something unsightly. And then, for a heartbeat, you weren’t sure if it was one mouth ghosting your throat or both.

That was the hardest part of the game—you never could tell which lips kissed you.

After that, the attic became sacred. You got too shy to climb those stairs again, but it existed. Every time you passed the door, the walls remembered too.

So from fifth grade to ninth, you were inseparable. Everyone marveled that you alone could tell them apart—teachers, friends, even their parents sometimes mixed them up, but not you. Not their precious doll.

It was as if an invisible string tied you to them, some instinct that sharpened whenever you looked at their faces. You knew the curve of Heeseung’s smile when he was about to make trouble, and you knew the way Heesu’s eyes darted away when he wanted to say something but swallowed it instead. You felt like you had a power no one else did, and for a long time you thought it made you just as special as they were.

Maybe it was the countless hours—nights where you fell asleep to the sound of their voices, always keeping your attention on them while they made sure you never wanted to look away.

You catalogued their smallest habits: the way Heeseung cracked his knuckles before a lie, the way Heesu’s left thumb rubbed slow circles on your wrist when he was nervous.

Maybe it was their warmth too—how each of them felt different when their hands brushed yours during games, or when they hugged you goodnight and got too lazy to leave, collapsing across your bed like it was theirs all along.

Heeseung. He was louder. Confident. A lightning strike in human form. One flick of his fingers, one lazy smirk, and hearts detonated—yours included. Nobody refused him. Especially not you.

Heesu. Quieter. Steadier. The soft-eyed boy behind bangs and glasses you wanted to cradle like something breakable. He could hush a storm with a single look, make the world feel safe enough to breathe.

Simple, right? You loved them both—different flavors of the same addiction. No harm could come of it… until tenth grade came and everything changed.

Suddenly everyone could tell them apart. Heeseung bleached his hair in a burgundy shade, punched holes through his ears. His name exploded in hallway gossip, and with each rumor a fresh body count, every fling a carbon copy of you: same hair length, same height, same doe-eyed stare.

Why not me, then?

They all looked like you. They all were you, just disposable version, unshared ones with Heesu.

And Heesu, he burrowed deeper. Books, study groups, genius-club lock-ins. Even if he still texts at 2 a.m., had low-key hangouts with you that lasted until dawn. He became your anchor, buried so deep you’d need a shovel and a prayer to dig him out of this zone.

Life became… Normal again. Boring, like it was before them.

So the three of you rocketed in opposite directions, weren’t orbiting the same little life anymore. There doll had been shoved back into the attic to rot, dust in her joints, cobwebs for hair. How dare they think playing with dolls wasn’t their thing anymore.

You had no choise but to fake normality too. You scraped together new friends, even snagged a sweet religious boy, who kissed you like he was terrified of smudging the glaze on your porcelain skin.

But Heeseung and Heesu hated it.

Hated the sight of you breathing without their permission, hated that you didn’t flinch for their touch anymore.

They glared every time his chaste lips and hands grazed your cheek. Oh those two sets of identical eyes burning every inch of you. Fuck, it was the only pulse in your chest that still proved you weren’t made of nothing : a frantic, guilty boom, boom, boom, screaming I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m someone’s.

But what could they do? That was the consequence of letting go of your wrist.

Heeseung turned untouchable, perched on a pedestal that required a ladder and a blood sacrifice. Heesu became the ride-or-die wallflower confidant you spilled everything to.

Except…

That one thing. That… Heeseung still slipped into your room after midnight. That every time Heeseung entered a place, your heart did backflips and your ears betrayed you crimson in a defferent way… It’d be a knife in Heesu’s back. Worse—it’d shred the last thread stitching your trio together.

So you swallowed it. Bitter pills, for days, or month? When did it start again? You just remember that it was a summer afternoon. Golden light dripping down the walls, shadows clawing up your bed. Heeseung was sprawled across your sheets like he owned them—owned you—flipping through your sketchbook without asking.

“Stop, Hee!” You lunged, joining him on pale pink sheets.

He smirked, tapping a sloppy portrait. “Made me ugly on purpose, hm? Forgot the piercings again?”

“It’s not—” Your voice cracked. “It’s not you.”

Heeseung blocked your wirst with one lazy arm, eyes narrowing. “Why not me?” He leaned in, breath ghosting your lips. “Don’t I look better than Heesu? Aren’t I your favorite?” He was pouting, just like a kid but—

Your gaze snagged on his mouth, then flicked up when you realised what he was doing. Heeseung was challenging you. In amusement. In hunger.

It was a first, when the too of you were alone.

And you shattered that easly, like an addict. In million of soft petals starting to rot the second he grazed your lower lips with his thumb, removing the gloss your boyfriend offered you that day.

“I… I think I like you, Hee.”

The words tasted like poison—bitter, instant regret that didn’t even capture what you really meant to spill, what you really wanted to express.

But Heeseung didn’t laugh. Didn’t mock you the way you expected.

He just tilted his head, dark stars glittering in those dangerous eyes, a strange smirk curling the corner of his mouth. Closed the gap until your lips brushed, and whispered, “Then show me, Dollface. You first.”

So you did.

A reckless, stupid kiss—barely a graze, a dare.

Go on, Lee Heeseung. Do something about it.

And fuck, he did.

He crashed into you like he’d been starving for a decade. Lips brutal, tongue forcing entry, stealing your air. One hand clamped your throat—just enough to make your pulse riot. The other yanked your hip flush, grinding slow, deliberate, so you felt every inch of what you did to him.

Not a first kiss. A fucking takeover. The attic games didn’t count, yeah? This was your first.

You wanted this to be.

Maybe it would finally crack the porcelain out of you, crack the grey glaze of your life, turn the doll into a woman—alive and real.

You froze, a porcelain statue mid-shatter, breath caught in your throat like a scream you’d never let out. He pulled back a fraction, just enough for the air to knife between you—then purred low, feral, lips brushing yours in a threat: “Relax. Open your mouth, dolly. I’ll show you something good.”

Then he showed you.

No gentle coaxing, no sweet first-kiss bullshit. He crashed in like a storm breaking glass—teeth clashing, tongue forcing past your lips with the single-minded greed of a junkie chasing the vein.

“Bite me back”, he pant. “Moan like my desperate little virgin doll—match me—I’ll make you.” Every swirl was a dare dipped, every nip a deliberate tear—biting blood out just to taste it, copper blooming hot and metallic on your tongue, mixing with the flood of your and his saliva he sucked, lickied from you like it was his personal brand of heroin.

Did the attic ever feel like this? No. Not really. Those were tea-party games with blindfolds and giggles no? This was pure cannibalism—him eating you alive from the mouth down, fingers already clawing for more.

Heeseung kept licking your salt-slick skin, while you smelled stale cigarette ash and tasted the raw animal want that leaked from his pores with sweat.

It torched every rumor, every ghost-girl who’d worn your face in his bed, every lie told by this town about purity. This was the epitomy of pure, and honest. His hips rolling slow, his cruelty, the ridge of his cock against your soaked cunt through two pathetic layers of fabric, teasing the ache until your spine bowed—please, ruin me, I’m begging..

It wasn’t pretty. Wasn’t polite. It was obscenely real—tongues wrestling in a slurry of spit and blood, your pressed little blouse—the one buttoned to your throat like armor, now half-ripped open. Heeseung broke away just to feast with his eyes : your lips swollen obscene, glistening with mixed fluids; cheeks slashed crimson; collarbone mapped in ugly, sucked bruises leading straight to tits he hadn’t groped yet, but god, the way he stared, pupils blown black, told you he’d brand them next.

Perfect. His perfect, modest little doll—finally cracked open so he can bury his fingers in it, see whats inside, what’s leaking for him.

“H-Hee?” Your voice came out a wrecked squeak, barely human.

“You’re so pretty right now,” he said, voice shredded on the edge, thumb dragging through the mess on your lower lip, smearing it like war paint. “Just for me, ok? Don’t you fucking dare show this face to anyone else, not even Heesu. Be this pure, this mine, only when I’m here.” His grin was dazed, unhinged, eyes strangely manic. “And dump that limp-dick church boy. We don’t like it. You’re ours.”

You shook your head at first, to remind him what happens when a doll is left on her own—she develops a mind that no longer belongs to him.

But then the plot dissolved—poof—scattered like the sunflower petals they used to press into your scraped knees.

Heeseung hands got everywhere greedy and sacrilegious. His shoved under your prim little skirt, the one that screamed look but don’t touch, fingers ripping past soaked cotton panties, curling inside your cunt with a wet, filthy schlick that echoed off the walls.

He knew the path—had jerked off to it in fever dreams, where he could lock you in that attic. Two fingers, then three, pumping brutal, thumb grinding your clit until your hips jerked like a marionette with cut strings loosing balance. Yours clawed his ribs, nails carving bloody crescents.

Heartbeats blurred—whose frantic boom, boom, boom, was whose? The bed cricked under you, wood splintering, threatening to collapse and swallow you both into whatever hell waited below.

He yanked his hand up—fingers slick with you, glistenin—and shoved them past your teeth. “here,” he whispered, eyes void-black, watching you gag on the taste of your own desperation.

“Taste how fucking drenched you are for me.” You choked, tongue swirling on instinct, saliva flooding, dripping down your chin in glossy strands. He groaned—a guttural, wounded sound—hips stuttering against you. Addicted. Grotesquely, pathologically addicted to your spit, the way it coated his skin like glaze; to the copper tang when he bit your lip and lapped the mix like it was vintage wine.

“More,” he hissed, finger-fucking your mouth until it got replaced by his mouth. “Give me everything—spit, blood, those little whines. I want to be inside you… Everywhere.” His breath stuttered. “I want to feel your inside.”

“Do it,” you ground out, voice shredded into a beggar’s rasp.

“Heeseung—fuck me.”

His eyes almost rolled backward, his head falling in your nape. And you felt it—his cock throbbing against your soaked panties like a second heartbeat, rock-hard and obscenely fat, stretching the thin cotton with every hump.

One twitch, one shift of his hips, of your fabric and he could’ve shoved it free, buried it deep, split you open right there, in a brutal move.

The vulgarity wasn’t even in the act itself. No—this was something far more raw. It was in the way he read you, flipped through your pages, ended up smearing ink across your thoughts, your skin until you were dripping and unreadable to anyone else.

It wasn’t just Heeseung, but the twins’ power over you. The real terrifying part was how much you wanted it—wanted to be their doll, the one they worshiped.

Maybe that was supposed to be love.

You wanted to believe it.

But maybe it wasn’t.

You were still shaking, covered in Heeseung’s release, when he tugged his cock back into his pants. His back was already turned, his voice flat.

“Don’t… don’t think this means anything. Don’t tell Heesu. Just… forget it. It’s a secret.”

But he kept coming back.

Sometimes in the middle of the night—storms with no warning—slipping through your window, pressing you into a wall, the mattress, the floor. Lips hot and greedy. Fingers tracing bruises like love letters. And every time, low and filthy against your ear, he’d ask:

“Do you love me?”

You nodded. Or your body did—hips rolling, thighs opening, cunt clenching around nothing until he filled it with his fingers. You let him in. Let him take. Let him leave.

Each “yes” grew smaller. Hoarser. Like it was choking on the lie. You kept telling yourself the secret wouldn’t hurt Heesu. That silence was mercy. That omission was kindness.

Bullshit.

It did.

It spread like rot under floorboards. You stopped crossing their threshold not because you were busy, but because the walls knew. Your window surprisingly got repaired after years of that lock being broken. Every laugh in Heesu’s voice when hanging out, carried sweet subtitles you couldn’t bear to read.

So you ghosted. Clean cuts, practiced quiet. Messages left to fossilize, plans dodged with bloodless excuses—“period,” “tired,” “maybe next week.” You swore you’d cut the cord clean once uni started after summer… Both of them out of your life.

Then one day, Heesu went silent too.

He walked into the woods alone—the same woods where the three of you once played dangerous games on sun-drunk afternoons. Except this afternoon was fog-thick, air heavy enough to chew. And he didn’t come back.

They said the river ran red. Not rusty. Not muddy. Red—like it bled out with him. The same river where you used to wash off tiny wounds from your games. The cops shrugged: he slipped and drowned. Case closed.

They said he looked peaceful.

Except the casket was closed. His face wasn’t a face anymore—rocks chewed it off, stitches barely keeping what remained in the shape of a person. Then the whispers metastasized: suicide? Murder? Sacrifice? Church women clutched their pearls and said Heesu always had that look. You know—the look of kids who skip Sunday service have. The one they get when they stop fearing God.

Heesu’s gone now.

And you’re at his grave, surrounded by strangers crying for the clout of grief. His mother wails about her “smiling boy,” voice cracking like cheap porcelain. Each word knots your gut—she’s lying for the grief, or maybe the memory. She never really saw him.

Not like Heeseung did.

Not like you did.

“Bullshit,” you hiss, rage hotter than tears.

Heeseung’s hand clamps yours, too tight, trembling. Jaw locked, eyes glassy. Don’t, his grip says. Not here.

So you choke the scream, let his pulse anchor you. For once, he’s the glue.

Crowd scatters like roaches when the lights flick on—condolences mumbled, heels clicking toward casseroles and gossip.

You stay at grave.

Fog turns headstones into jagged teeth.

Then—your name.

Soft. Faint.

Heesu’s voice.

Again.

Heeseung’s fingers catch your wrist. “I was calling you.”

“You… Sorry, It sounded just like—”

His eyes snag yours—grief, yes, but something feral underneath. Comparing him to his brother wasn't very… especially now...

“Come home,” he says, voice splintering. “Family’s gathering. You can’t stay here all day, ok?”

You open your mouth to refuse—not yet, let me rot with him—but his grip turns forceful.

Then she materializes. Heeseung’s girl—a new one apprently— the 101th problem of yours. Your reality’s jump-scare.

“Babe…” She snakes an arm around his. The word slices you in a million more pieces.

But for a first, Heeseung didn’t flinch from you. Don't act like you don’t exist anymore. “Go home. It’s for family now...” he say not even meeting her eyes.

Her glare flicks to you, like she could read the now faded hickeys under your collar, but dismisses you as not worth enough to be one of his girls.

“She’s family,” he repeats, slower, meaner.

And fuck, it lands, both poison and balm.

But as his fingers crush yours, one thought gnaws: If, you’re family, why did family did what the both you did?

Why did the family let Heesu walk into the fog alone?

The drive back is silent. Rain smears the windows into dull watercolor. You’re in the back of Heeseung’s family’s car, too small for the quiet. His hand swallows yours on the middle seat—warm, almost claiming.

Your thumb traces circles on his skin; you don’t really notice. Not until his stare started to burn. You turn and see it. That smile he gives at the prime vision of him holding your hand? Slow and faint. Like he’s wearing Heesu’s face and it’s two sizes too small.

Stop… Stop thinking about Heesu…

The car stops. Houses loom. Your chest caves.

Heesu still lives here in your head—laugh echoing down halls, bedroom light flickering like a beacon, that teasing lilt asking if you want a drink when you always said no, while his fingers “accidentally” brush your hair too long like he always did.

You can’t go in. Not now… Maybe not ever.

“Hey.” Heeseung’s voice slithers right up against your ear, too soft for how he speak naturally. “Come in, please.”

You shake your head so hard it rattles. “I can’t...”

“Please—” The word cracks like a bone, and it’s not his voice anymore.

That’s the real gut-punch. You’ve never said no to Heeseung. Not once. It’s his superpower. He always had that velvet choke-hold and you, the idiot who kept swallowing every word like water.

You open your mouth to spew the truth : “walking in with you, there, is stepping into the hole we dug for him, heeseung“ , but his eyes eat the words. Those aren’t the eyes that used to crinkle first at a joke. These are oil-slick, depthless, studying you like a specimen that forgot its own name, like he wanted to make you knew who you were talking to.

You yank your hand free. He doesn’t chase. Just stands there, rain plastering his hair to his skull, watching you dissolve into the dark fog around your house.

You stumble home with the sky crying on your neck. For one delusional second you think the clouds are crying for you… For Heesu.

Then you remember: weather doesn’t give a shit.

In your room you crank the shower to scalding and step in fully clothed, shoes and all. You stay until the mirror fogs into oblivion and your skin blisters pink, waiting for the water to excise something. It doesn’t. Guilt’s a tick burrowed too deep for steam.

You shut your eyes and there it is again: not Heeseung’s voice. The other one. The one six feet under. Whispering from the marrow of your bones like it never left. Your name, again, and again. Suddenly smelling iron, and wet mud in the water falling on you. You won’t open your eyes. Cause what if you do and he’s here? behind you, his head on your nape as he always loved it. Talking softly about nothing and everything.

Heesu…

Your innocent Heesu.

That night, the fever hit hard. You’re burning alive, lungs thick with hot tar, staggering through the house hunting pills you’re not sure will break the fever—or play nice with the anxiety meds already rattling in your bloodstream. One blink and the hallway tilts, walls pulsing like lungs, floorboards licking at your ankles. Next blink, you’re back in bed, collapsing into sheets that do swallow you whole, cool cotton turning to quicksand.

When you finally open your eyes, you’re there.

Back in their attic.

The colored dull light thru the tinted small windows, the dust particles flying in the air, and that old smell. The twin's laughter—low, syrupy, kind—curls around your skull. Someone’s knotting a blindfold over your eyes. Silk from their aunt’s old 90’ dress.

It’s familiar. You know this game. You invented it all together, back when it still sounded sweet and pure in the way only the three of you defined it.

They keep you spinning around until you lose all perception of your surroundings. The sound of Heeseung removing his piercing reaches your ears, accompanied by the clatter of Heesu putting his glasses down on a table close by.

“Guess,” the voices purr—Heeseung’s cadence, Heesu’s timbre, then Frankenstein stitch of both voices, “Guess.”

It's amusing in the strangest way. They approach you, circle you, one is blowing air in your ear, and you tilt. The other is nudging you in various places and you shrink.

Your laugh comes warm. “Stop fucking with me, we’re not kids anymore…”

Silent

“… Guys?”

Then, fingers—whose?—trace your jaw feather-light, then dig. And wet tongue laps at your lips.

Guess who, by touch and feelings, huh ?

Only now, the air feels slightly off-kilter. The laughter, thinner.

“Ready?” Heeseung’s deeper voice teases. It’s different from the usual... More… Heavy. He’s older, that’s maybe why.

You nod with a slight excited smile, feeling both thrilled and unsure.

Your mind sinks into it, and fingertips skim over your wrist. They trail lightly along your pulsing veins, pausing at the bend of your elbow, then gone.

Others, more hesitant, like it’s asking for permission it doesn’t really need, grazes the nape of your neck, putting your hair back, enjoying every graze down your back, followed by a hot, shaky breath. You’re ecstatic, shivering at every contact.

You don’t need to see to know who’s who normally. Choose and it’ll stop.

You know Heeseung. You know Heesu.

But it’s been so long since you all played this game… And you’re all grown, and changed, and different, and altered. They won’t mind you making it go a little longer…

They make you sit on that old velvet couch—the one that’s been losing its emerald color and collecting dust in a corner.

You feel their shoulders brush yours, hear the quiet scrape of fabric, a faint trace of vanilla-mint shampoo curling into your lungs when your head turns to your left. Heesu’s.

And a black musky cologne, when you turn to your right. Heeseung’s for sure.

Fever burns under your skin. Their hands, touch, copies, twins, glide over you like you’re porcelain, breakable, theirs. Fingers tangle in your hair, slowly, tugging just enough to tilt your doll-neck back.

“Guess…” A voice reminds you. And for the first time you’re not sure whose.

Nails trace your arms, your throat, your parted lips, mapping every inch like it’s the first time a woman’s body ever existed.

They breathe against you, hot, hungry, two boys, two men, worshiping their favorite toy.

“I-I like this dress…You’re the prettiest in it.” A voice breath, kissing your left shoulder as it slides down a strap of your night gown. From the hesitation you can tell it’s Heesu’s. From the choice of word too, you smiled.

Heeseung… would have called you fuckable, a dude turn on. sexy if he felt poetic.

“You're so fucking hot in it…” the other voice added, letting the other strap fall and the dress lend on your hips.

You can’t help but grin a little at Hee’s voice coming from your right.

“Guess…” Again you can’t tell suddenly.

What you believe is Heesu’s hands hook under your thighs, lift you until you’re straddling his lap, legs opened to the slightly cold ambient air. His cock already straining against his sweatpants, throbbing against your already ruined thin clothed pussy. He exhales like a dying man, hips bucking up, grinding his length along your ass in slow, filthy drags. The friction is good, his fabric soaking with your slick and his precum smearing until you’re somehow both slide-slipping-fucking without penetration.

“Move with me,” he begs, his voice cracking, a hand clamping at your shoulder the other on your hip to force his rhythm on you. You roll against him, clit catching on the form of his hard on with every hump, sparks exploding behind your eyes and voice purring small whimpers. He’s not wearing underwear, you feel it. Heesu’s head falls back, throat bared, moaning your name like a prayer, hips snapping very slowly, chasing the wet heat you’re painting across his pants.

The one you swear is Heeseung—don’t dare move. You can’t see it, but he’s staring, pupils blown wide like black holes ready to swallow you whole, tongue dragging slow and filthy across his lower lip, already tasting your skin in his sick little mind.

He yanks your wrist into a bruising grip like he’s claiming a limb, then drags his tongue over it in a slow, deranged glide—like he’s tasting a pulse he wants to bite through. His tongue chases every shiver in your veins, hunting them, before sliding between your fingers and fucking the gaps with wet, filthy thrusts that sound obscene in the quiet.

Then your index and ring finger disappear into the molten heat of his mouth—devoured, not kissed. His tongue thrashes around them, desperate, greedy, and his teeth sink into the base hard enough that you jolt like you’ve been electrocuted.

“Feels good, hm?” he rasps.

You nod—more from the practiced instinct than thoughts—your brain’s dissolving into the heat, the moment, and you offer yourself mouth agap: sloppy, trembling, desperate, begging without a word for him to break you open and crawl inside the wreckage he makes.

He doesn’t just step forward—he descends on you. His hand fists in your hair, knuckles grinding your scalp, jerking your head back until your throat stretches tight, a perfect exposed line he could bruise, bite, worship, or tear open. His breath hits your lips, starved.

“These lips,” he rasps, softly kissing, “Fuck… I’ve been dreaming of ruining them. Stretching them. Making you choke on me.” His voice cracks at the end, like wanting you hurts.

Then he takes your mouth—no prelude, no testing or warning, just collision.

He crashes into you with a force that feels like a fist made of heat. His tongue rams past your lips, claiming space, fucking your mouth with long, greedy strokes. He tastes like you, like the leftover copper from where he bit you earlier, all of it tangled with his spit as he forces yours to mix with his. It slicks your chin, but it doesn’t matter—Heeseung licks it off in a messy sweep that makes your knees buckle.

Then his free hand tears down his zipper with a violence that shivers through your bones. His cock spills into the air—thick, heavy, flushed so dark it borders on bruised. Precum beads at the tip, dripping slow, obscene, enough to slick his fingers as he wraps a hand around the base and strokes once to keep himself from unraveling too fast.

He drags the head across your mouth, smears himself over your lips like your favorite gloss, and just look at you. Then you feel his lips, tasting himself on you.

“I’m going to fuck your mouth until you forget how to close it, ok?” he mutters, voice shredded with need.

The tip slides across your tongue—hot, salty and bittersweet. Your body lurches forward without permission, chasing the taste he gives you.

“Open,” he whispers.

And you open, ready to take him as deep as Heeseung wants, ready to let him destroy the part of you he loves most.

The first push is slow, deliberate—velvet-soft head breaching your lips, scalding hot, stretching your mouth obscenely wide. You feel it throb harder against your tongue, veins pulsing like live wires, the slit weeping more of that bitter, addictive gloss. Heeseung groans low, hips twitching, feeding you inch by torturous inch while he watches—blindfold snug, your lips strained around his girth like it’s the holiest desecration he’s ever witnessed.

“Relax your throat,” he murmurs, thumb stroking your cheek in mock tenderness. “Breathe through your nose. Take me.”

You try. The stretch burns, jaw screaming, saliva flooding in a messy torrent that spills down your chin in thick, glistening ropes. Heeseung guides you deeper—slow, relentless—until the head nudges the back of your throat. You gag sharp, eyes watering beneath the blindfold, but he holds you steady, thumb pinning your tongue flat, soothing the panic.

“Swallow,” he says, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “Swallow around me, okay?”

You do. The reflex milks him—throat fluttering, clenching—and he hisses through clenched teeth, hips jerking forward. “Fuck, yeah—just like that.”

Behind you, Heesu’s hands glide to your thighs, fingers prying them apart, delving straight into the flood between. He moans—shattered, needy—as two digits spear your soaked folds, slipping far too easily into your clenching heat. He curls them, drinking the slick mess you’ve made, hips humping desperately against your ass. “You’re drowning my pants,” he whimpers, voice cracking, yanking your hips higher to force you grinding harder on his trapped cock. Fabric clings ruined, translucent with you; the blunt head catches teasingly at your entrance with every frantic thrust.

Up front, Heeseung owns your throat now—slow, merciless strokes that bulldoze past your gag reflex until you’re swallowing him to the root, nose crushed into the coarse hair at his base, lips stretched grotesque around his girth. Tears carve hot paths down your cheeks, but you moan around him anyway, the vibration ripping a guttural groan from his chest.

“Guess.” That voice echo again.

Heesu’s fingers start pumping in earnest, thumb grinding merciless circles over your clit while his hips slam upward, chasing your frantic grind. “Gonna come—sorry,” he sobs, voice splintering like glass. His grip turns bruising—good bruising—yanking you back onto him with raw possession. Teeth scrape the shell of your ear; between Heeseung’s relentless thrusts, you catch his fractured plea: “I’ll mark you… I’ll mark you outside, please, please, please.”

Heeseung eases out just enough for you to gasp—thick strings of spit bridging your swollen lips to his glistening cock—then slams back in, deeper, harder, until your throat visibly bulges. “Wish I could make you look at me… fuck, I need your eyes,” he snarls, hips snapping. “You’re ours, you know that.”

You try to answer—words, anything—but all that escapes are garbled moans and wet, desperate groans around his shaft. It’s enough.

Heesu breaks first. Hips stutter, cock pulsing wildly against your ass; hot spurts erupt, soaking your thighs, your stomach, claiming you in thick, filthy ropes that drip and cling. (When did he shove his sweatpants down?) The sensation shatters you—orgasm crashing like a tidal wave, cunt clenching greedily around his buried fingers, gushing over his hand, his lap, marking him right back.

Heeseung follows with a primal roar, yanking free at the last second. One fist, two—then he paints you: mouth, tongue, the swell of your tits in endless, obscene stripes. He crashes into a kiss through the mess, tongue scooping his own release from your lips, feeding it back to you, forcing you to swallow the bitter-salt mix with a possessive growl.

“So?” Heeseung pants, smug. “Guessed?”

Your trembling fingers trace his mouth; you breathe his name. His lips curve—right answer.

Heesu cups your chin, turns you for his turn. You whisper his name against the chastest brush of lips. He smiles, soft and shattered: “You’re the best.”

Heesu’s delicate fingers untie the ribbon like he’s unwrapping a gift he’s already broke. He’s so close your lashes brush his cheek, breath hot but suddenly sour with something metallic. His thumb tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, but the gaze behind his bangs that flicks between your lips and your blown-wide eyes is starving, not tender.

Still, he use the fabric to remove what Heeseung made out of you—looking like he wished he could too—as you grabed on his glasses to adjust them on his nose. He smile shy, eyes trying not to look too long at your chest, like you didn’t felt him busting a nut on your back a minutes ago, making it a marking thing on top of that.

He finished, circling you back in a back hug,“Maybe…” His head rest on you shoulder, “If I were more like him, you’d never guess who’s who, doll.”

“What do you mean?” Heeseung’s voice floats in from the window, suddenly lazy, distant, as if he wasn’t cataloguing every frantic pulse in your throat earlier.

“If I were mean,” Heesu breathes against your ear, teeth clamping your lobe hard enough to bruise cartilage, “I’d bite until I tast blood.” You flinch-smile as reflex. And he mutter a sorry.

“Am I?” Heeseung shrugs, still turned away, moonlight carving his silhouette.

“You are,” Heesu snarls, nose dragging down back your neck, lips sealing to your spine with wet suction—like he’s trying to suck the vertebrae straight through skin. His bangs rasp over flesh, tinkling, “Heesu, stop,” you giggle.

“You don’t treat her good… It hurts her, and me.”

You suddenly oblivious. Heesu seemed like he tried to defend you but it made strangly anxious. “You force my sweet doll to lie to my face—even after she swore she’d never hide a damn thing to me.”

You freeze. “W-what?”

Something cold and slick slithers down your spine—slow, deliberate, too thick for saliva. Too viscous. It pools at the base of your back, cooling into a sticky brand.

“We always agreed to play with her together. So why? Why having her all to yourself so many time.” Heesu’s voice drops to a gravel rasp. “I too—always wanted to fuse with her. Carve my name inside you. Our doll. Mine. I should shove it inside now as punishment.” He added in your ear.

“No!” Heeseung barks, still facing the dark glass, like somthing was making him stay in place. “It’s off-limits. It’s the rule—If don’t choose one, none has her.”

“What?” Your voice cracks like thin ice.

“But y-you two—didn’t you—?” Heesu’s tone warps, underwater.

“NO!” you scream, twisting to face him—

You scream. His face…

Flesh peeled in wet ribbons, dangling from cheekbones like gore-curtains. One eyeball dangles by a optic nerve, swinging like a pendulum. The other socket is a black pit leaking custard-thick blood. When his jaw unhinges, a fist-sized clot of tongue and teeth plops onto his lap with a wet splat, steaming.

You shriek, lungs seizing. Your hand jerks behind you on instinct—comes back drenched, arterial red up to the wrist. The air reeks of copper and rot.

Heesu’s body lurches upright, vertebrae cracking like gunfire, joints popping out of sockets with wet sucking sounds. Skin splits along the seams, revealing raw muscle that twitches and spasms. He drags himself toward you, dragging loops of intestine that slap the floor like wet ropes.  You want to vomit.

You scramble backward, nails splintering the old wood floor, until your up spine slamming into Heeseung’s chest. You whirl—his palms cup your face, but they’re slick, dripping, painted with the same blood.

“You’re the only thing I want,” he hisses, voice fracturing into static. “You won’t leave. You’ll stay right here, with me, okay? Don’t leave me like he did.”

Terror detonates. You wrench free, bare feet slapping the creaking floor. The door—yank it open—

To be faced with… You weren't sure anymore. Your name came out of his mouth and it sounded like both of them were talking.

“I’ll be the one you want, i’ll be him.” the thing gurgles, voices overlapping, wet and grinding.

Your name rips from somewhere behind you—Heeseung? Heesu?

You slam your eyes shut.

Open them gasping.

Heeseung kneels at the edge of your bed, real, human, a cold towel in trembling hands. Moonlight slices across his face—no blood, no gore, just worry.

“What the hell,” you rasp. “That dream—no, nightmare… felt…”

You touch your forehead. Fever’s a furnace. Heeseung’s voice is soft, exhausted: your mom barred the door, swore you were contagious. He scaled the balcony anyway, found you thrashing, soaked in sweat. Stayed all night, swapping cold clothes, whispering your name like a prayer.

“Feeling better?”

You shake your head. You feel worse. Hollowed out, paper-thin.

He stays most of the time at the edge of your bed, on the floor. Just like Heesu used to. Xhile you keep on blacking out and waking up. You heard him say in at a moment, “Call me whenever, I’ll be there…” until sleep drags you under again. When you woke up, it was to the sound of the banging rain. It was night again. You slept a full day. You’re a corpse still in your own bed, sheets glued to fevered skin.

You turn, left and right, rot on your phone, blankly looking at the ceiling. Until you find yourself crawling back to those old texts with Heesu, obsessively rereading every word, replaying his voice like it was a drug. And the last one? Yeah, that one hit like a sucker punch straight to the gut.

Heesu🐿️: "Meet me... Please"

Heesu🐿️: Tell me what’s going on?? Why won’t you come home?? Why no hang out anymore??

It’s been days since you swore you’d stop checking his messages. Lies, obviously. You still open the chat every hours, even under this fever, scrolling through old voice notes like a masochist with a lot of data.

You don’t even know what you’re looking for. Maybe the ghost of his laugh. Maybe proof that you did imagine the whole thing.

Then you do what you always did when logic gave you up since Heesu’s gone—you called. The ceiling stares back like it’s judging you. Then his voice: recorded, distant, too polite for the damage it leaves.

“Sorry, not here right now. Might call you later… Sorry if I forget.”

Beep.

Of course. The apology hits like a habit. You almost laugh. He always said sorry like it was punctuation.

You smile, if you can call that grimace a smile and wait through the beep. You were supposed to say something easy, something normal. Instead, it slips out raw:

“Hey… it’s me.”Your voice splinters. “I’m sorry, Hee. I should’ve been there. Should’ve listened. Should’ve—”

The word “told you I loved you too”, “loved you more“ dies in your throat.

The rest comes in fragments. Half‑played games you guys still need to finish, midnight walks, salted popcorn with chocolate the stupid mix only you two liked. You talk until the voicemail cuts you off.

And still, you kept calling. Because apparently, you’re the kind of person who argues with ghosts.

Until the phone buzzes back. Your heart stutters. The screen lights up.

Heeseung.

Heeseung🦌: Wanna hang out?

You stared at the screen, heartbeat pulsing in your ears. Every part of you screamed NO. But before you could type, another message appeared.

bzz.

Heeseung 🦌: Sorry

bzz.

Heeseung 🦌: parents left for Korea, to meet family... Kinda don’t want to be alone right now

bzz

Heeseung 🦌: please…

The guilt slams harder than the rain on your window. What time is it again? You can’t refuse him. Not tonight. Not when he seems so broken like that, raw, pleading, needy.

You lurch to your window, stare too long into the black. Then you wrench it open. Wind rapes in—cold, wet, invasive. It claws under your nightgown, licking up your thighs like it already knows how you taste.

Across the yard, Heeseung’s window’s open. He’s there, drenched, hair plastered like a second skin, eyes glinting. When he calls out your name, it’s not a question, or a plea. It’s a collar. A yank. A threat wrapped in his siren voice.

He extends a hand. Veins bulging. Knuckles white. Waiting.

You don’t think. You go.

You climbed the slick balcony rail, fingers trembling, rain threading down your spine like cold breath. The air bite at your skin, hardened your nipples, made your nightgown cling like a second unwanted skin.

Heeseung pulled you in easily, arms locking around your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish. He held you there a second too long. A touch too hot. A stare too deep.

He then shut the window behind you with a soft, final thud.

And the world went quiet.

Too quiet.

His house was soundproofed far too well for some old house. The silence felt unnatural, like something was being kept out... Or kept in.

You could hear your own breath, shallow and fast. His, a fraction uneven. Like he was holding something back.

“Hey,” you said, tugging his wet shirt, just to hear a voice, anything.

He turned. And for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Water dripped from your hair, your clothes clung to you like wet paper trying to shame you. Heeseung looked at you like someone caught between hunger and grief. You could see the words building in his throat, but he couldn’t pick which one would break you both faster.

But his eyes spoke volumes. They dragged over you—from your bare feet to the soaked hem of your gown, lingering on the hard peaks of your nipples straining against the fabric, the frantic rise and fall of your chest, your trembling lips. Then he stepped closer, tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and wrapped his arms around you—soft, almost reverent.

For a second, you almost believed it was… those same soft hands had—

You froze. No. Stop thinking about him.

Then you gave in. Your arms circled him back. You stayed like that until your pulse remembered how to behave.

Heeseung’s hand found yours—gentle but firm. His voice low, coaxing: something to drink, dry clothes. You refused. Took a big towel instead. Said you’d go home soon, change there. He didn’t like it—you saw it in the tight line of his jaw, controlled, swallowing words he’d regret. But he let it go. Didn’t argue.

That’s when you noticed. His hair was dark again. Not burgundy anymore. Slightly lighter in the glow, but mostly back to its original shade. You hadn’t registered it at the funeral.

“You dyed it back,” you murmured, reaching out without thinking, brushing his bangs aside into his signature style.

He let you. Leaned into the touch. “Yeah… sorry. It just felt wrong. The other color.”

Something unsure in his tone twisted your stomach.

You tried to keep the chat light, but the mood hung heavy. You were both drying off when Heeseung’s gaze drifted down the hallway to the shut door at the far end. He hesitated. Stared.

“There’s something I want to do…” he said quietly. “Something I don’t have the guts to do alone…”

You followed his gaze. Already knew.

Heesu’s room.

You both hesitated at the door, locking eyes. Your fingers were ice on the handle—until Heeseung reached for you, sliding his into yours. Neither spoke. Together, you turned the knob.

The air inside was stale. Preserved. Heeseung didn’t move at first. Just stood there, fingers tangled with yours, eyes scanning the space—scanning you. You felt it: the weight of his attention, gravity doubled, every pulse in your body announcing itself to him.

You shivered. Not just from the cold.

The shutters were closed. You flicked on a dim, dying lamp—its glow weak and yellowish, like it didn’t want you seeing too much.

His computer pulsed in sleep mode. Cables coiled like veins. Stacks of horror games, fantasy comics, psych books. Posters you’d helped tape up. The bed you’d collapsed on once or twice, limbs tangled, all-nighter laughter still ghosting the sheets.

Heeseung moved slow, touching things like they might crumble. Like they might scream.

“You should take something,” he said eventually.

You shook your head. “No. He wasn’t big on sharing, haha…”

Heeseung gave a thin smile. “He would’ve shared with you. You were the only one he ever shared anything with.”

You almost laughed—brittle. “What? Jealous?”

“Maybe…” He let himself fall back onto the bed. The sound cracked too loud.

“You shared me, though…”

“My friendship…” you added quickly.

You joined him on the carpet, knees drawn up, nightgown clinging cold to your skin, hair plastered to your neck. The air smelled of dust, metal, and the ghost of Heesu’s voice.

“Nah… You always had a favorite. For sure. Am I wrong?”

You didn’t respond.

Every breath inhaled memories—of the three of you. Then just the two…

Heeseung reached for the controller on Heesu’s desk and handed it to you. Plastic cold. Too cold. Like it had been waiting.

“His favorite?” he murmured.

You nodded. Turned it over in your hands. Worn buttons. Faded sticker. Throat tight.

“He used to curse at it when it lagged,” you said.

Heeseung let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Blamed everything but himself…”

So you played—the same game the three of you binged after school. But Heeseung picked Heesu’s mains. Every round.

Soft clicks filled the space where laughter used to live. The console hummed low. Outside, rain eased to a steady rhythm, like the world keeping time for you both.

Now and then, glances—too quick to mean anything, too long to mean nothing. No need to talk. The quiet stretched thin, vibrating with everything unspoken.

Minutes blurred into hours. Rain softened to a whisper. The screen flickered over curling posters, half-folded blankets. The room felt suspended—unsure what time it belonged to anymore.

You lost track of score. Game-over blinked red. Neither restarted. You stayed—he above, you below—like moving would snap the last thread tethering you to Heesu.

Then the console clicked to sleep. Light faded to dull blue. Stillness ached in your chest.

You lay back, head on the bed’s edge beside Heeseung, staring at faint fluorescent stars clinging to the ceiling. You remembered sticking them up with Heesu—him balanced on a tower of chairs, both of you laughing while he reached that damn corner.

One star was missing. You wondered if Heeseung noticed too.

“It’s your moles…” Heeseung started.

“Hm? What?”

“The stars. The pattern of the moles on your back…”

His voice flat, lost in plastic sky. “I realized it one day, but Heesu got pissed when I noticed… Guess he wondered how I caught it so quick.”

You stared harder—traced the constellation until it clicked. Then you were crying. Silent tears sliding into the corners of your mouth, salt and dust on your tongue.

Heeseung turned toward you. Voice low, trembling: “Hey…”

You breathed deep, met his eyes as he brushed your hair back again.

“Can you… stay? Just for a while.” Simple. But it landed like confession. “Since my parents are gone… let’s stay together.”

You wanted to say no. I can’t. I shouldn’t. This isn’t right. But the words curled behind your teeth, silent and aching.

So you nodded. Barely.

You moved—slow, crossing a line you both knew couldn’t be uncrossed. Carpet scraped your knees. Floorboards groaned like disapproval. Heeseung didn’t move. Just watched—through soaked, near-translucent fabric, through your shivers, through the hitch in your breath as you reached the bed’s edge.

His jaw locked. Eyes unreadable behind bangs. You hesitated. Then he took your hand. Pulled you down beside him—soft.

Mattress dipped. Space between you a breath. Shoulders not touching, but close enough for heat, tension, want. Silence pulsed thick, uneven—like a heart with a murmur. Blue console light painted his face softer—almost gentle. Almost like—

After what felt like hours, he whispered: “Why do you love me? Me. Not him?”

The question cracked something sealed. Something you weren’t ready to name.

Your lips parted—no sound. You turned to the ceiling, to fading stars. You’d thought them random. Never understood why Heesu needed them to sleep.

Fuck. You knew. Just pretended not to—because he wouldn’t dare claim you.

You were supposed to leave. University waiting. New city. New life. You’d decided to let time erase the ache. Erase Heeseung. And Heesu…

“I don’t know,” you said finally, small, pathetic. “It just… happened, I guess.”

He turned. Eyes searched yours for lies. Stars shimmered in your tears.

“But I know when I realized it…” you said. “Fourteen. When I got sick. You jumped the balcony every day—snacks, comics. Stayed even when Mom screamed. Checked my temperature. Made me laugh. And you…” Voice cracked. “Kissed me goodnight.”

Heeseung shifted closer. Your body tilted toward his—like it couldn’t help it. His expression flickered—wondering, almost afraid.

“You—”

“How did you know it was me?” he cut in. “We looked exactly alike. Could’ve been him…”

You smiled through ache. “The shirt. When you played on the floor—the tag had your name. Didn’t even have to guess.”

He exhaled—almost a laugh, broken halfway. Mouth twitched, fell. Light caught his face and for a moment— He looked like himself.

“Maybe it should’ve been him,” he said. Quiet. Flat. “He would’ve treated you better than me.”

The words settled like dust in a sealed room.

You wanted to say no. Don’t say that. But the thought lived in you too—impossible to ignore. If Heesu had made a move… if they’d both wanted to share you… would anything be different?

He looked down. Jaw tight. Something raw flickered behind his eyes—almost dangerous. For a second, you thought he might cry.

But Heeseung never cried. Not in front of you. Not ever. Until now…

“Hee…?” you whispered.

You reached up, touched his cheek—instinctive. Desperate. He leaned into your hand like he was starving. When he looked up, he tried to smile. It shattered.

“I’m sorry…” Voice soft. Splintering. “I won’t make you suffer anymore. I promise. I won’t treat you like shit anymore.”

The apology lodged in your throat. Felt wrong. Too sudden. You sat up, heart hammering.

His eyes glassy in low light—pain you didn’t know he could hold.

“You never really did, Hee—” But even as you said it, you weren’t sure it was true.

“I did,” he growled, voice cracked and ragged. “I did, and I won’t anymore. I swear to God, I won’t.”

You hesitated, thumb brushing beneath his eye where a tear had slipped. He shut his eyes and slammed himself harder into your touch, shuddering, shaking, as if the world would crumble if he let go. Every exhale scorched your wrist; every tremor crackled with his need like a live wire.

“Hee…”

No answer.

Just your name—ragged, desperate, scalding against your skin—like he was branding you, claiming you without a single word.

Heeseung closed the space until it scorched.

Chest crushed to your belly, his head hovering just above your ribs, every trembling, fever-hot inch of him grinding against you—raw, unfiltered, starving. Heat bled through the drenched nightgown, fabric plastered translucent to your skin, his ragged breaths fanning like flames over your hardened nipples. The cold metal of his earrings dragged deliberate across the peaks, sparking jolts straight to your cunt, while his fingers clamped your waist and hips, like if he eased up even a fraction, you’d dissolve into smoke and leave him aching.

“Stay… stay… please…” he begs, the words spilling out in pathetic half-sobs, half-growls, each one yanking you harder into his sweat-drenched mess of a body.

You don’t budge. One hand twisted in his greasy hair, the other fisting the sheets like they’re the last shred of your dignity while your traitorous cunt clenches and leaks for him. Every inch of him brands you—nerves, pulse, the inside of your skull.

Air’s gone rancid, thick with the stink of want, choking you both.

His hips jerk wild—sloppy, frantic, virgin-desperate. Forehead mashed to yours, chest flattening your tits, breath hacking out wet and ruined. He looks wrecked: eyes black holes, mouth hanging open, a guy straight-up melting into your skin like he’s trying to fuse.

Lips hover over the soaked nightgown, tongue lapping heavy, drooling stripes. When he finally clamps on your nipple, he sucks like a starving mutt, teeth gnawing, branding through fabric like it’s flesh. Hands follow the chaos: pinching, twisting, raking red lines down your ribs, hoarding every inch he’s jerked off to for years.

It’s wrong. Disgustingly wrong. Like he’s ripping his own guts out just to shove them inside you. Fingers dive south, shoving under the hem, hunting slick and bare skin. You jolt, thighs snapping shut; he groans like your heat just cauterized some festering wound in him.

“Fuck…”

His hand grinds your clit until your hips buck like a cheap whore. No. Not here. Not now, but why your body’s already sold out, arching, begging, cunt spasming around thin air.

Heeseung crashes—folding you like trash origami. Every squeak, every shiver, every pathetic whimper just pumps him meaner

“Heeseung—wait—”

You caught it. That feral glint in his eyes, black pits oozing a want you never saw before. He pinned to your knees to your tits.

You whimpered his name—tiny, cracked. But still didn’t fight. Not when he tore the drenched panties off, baring your pulsing cunt to stale air. Heeseung never—not once tried to eat you.

Your thighs trembled at the mere idea of him going down on you. Because Heeseung never did. Never once. Never bothered.

But him right now? Obsessed. Kneeling between your legs, hair a wreck, eyes locked on his own fingers grazing your slick folds, thumb circling your clit like he’s hypnotized. He swallows hard, throat bobbing, dying for a taste of that glistening mess.

What the hell was happening? Heeseung felt wrong—different, unhinged.

“Can I taste you? I really want to…”

He begged.

You nod—he lunges.

Nose mashed to your swollen clit, tongue lapping your juices like a starved dog, breath wild and ragged. He devours every tremble, every arch, pinning you to the mattress with iron hands.

Loves how your soft lips feel against his tongue, how you gush wetter the harder he grinds his nose in.

Your fingers twist in his hair, smearing him with you; he groans into your cunt when you finally grind back.

Doesn’t just let you—he joins, two fingers curling deep, shoving into your clenching heat. Fuck, nothing like your own—unpredictable thrusts, sudden scissoring, drinking every moan, every plea.

Then he speeds up. Faster. Tongue plunging alongside, stretching you as you chase the edge.

Smirks every time your nails rake his scalp.

“Cum—please, just cum—” muffled into your folds.

You shatter. Hips buck wild; he savors every second. First time this hard—even solo on your horniest nights, it never hit like this.

You tried to collapse back, thinking it might be over. Suddenly grossed by what the two of you are doing in Heesu’s room.

You were wrong.

“Wait, wait, wait, Hee—”

He forced your legs open again—relentless, brutal, demanding. His hands rewriting every boundary you’d ever known.

You tried to speak, but the words died in your throat. He didn’t stop. Only moved faster, closer, every motion feverish, desperate, claiming.

“Tell me you want it. Tell me you need me.” His voice cracked raw against your skin, trembling with want.

“Yes,” you gasped. But it wasn’t enough. Not for him. He pushed harder, devoured you with every thrust of fingers, every swipe of tongue—cataloguing every gasp, every twitch, like he was etching it into his bones.

Then it hit—a climax ripping through you like lightning, shredding your body in impossible waves. He groaned, his own need spilling hot into his sweats, fingers and lips chasing every spasm, every sob, like proof of your total surrender.

You were his. He was yours. Tonight. This moment. The insane, fever-drenched blur of everything you’d both been starving for.

You collapsed onto the mattress—breathless, undone, slick with sweat and sin. You rolled to your side, pulse hammering, and felt it: his bulge pressed wet, twitching against your ass through ruined fabric. Heeseung didn’t move. Just dragged slow, deliberate kisses down your spine—like each one was penance, like the sticky mess in his pants was all he deserved.

Unbearable. You wanted him like you’d never wanted anything.

And still, he didn’t move.

So you did.

Hips snapped back, slamming into his twitching bulge—hard, sharp, punishing. Grinding like you wanted to bruise him through the fabric. His moan tore out—raw, gutted, animal. Heat flared; your fingers knifed into his hair, yanking while stroking him through the soaked mess.

Coherent thought? Gone. You rutted like a bitch in heat—shivering, curves crushed to him, hips pounding wildfire. Friction turned feral, unrestrained. His teeth clamped your shoulder, growling hungry; hands dug your waist, forcing you down, harder, moans crashing in filthy harmony.

Heeseung started babbling—needy, wrecked: “Please… more… need more… don’t stop…” You shuddered, grinding vicious at his begging, his desperation vibrating through your bones.

You flipped to all fours—one hand spreading your dripping cunt, the other grabbing his waistband, thumbing his leaking head. “Please, Hee… fuck me. Do it!” you gasped.

He seized you. Sweatpants yanked down, creamed cock springing free. Aligned at your entrance, mouth hot on your spine—desperate—then slammed home in one brutal thrust, ripping a scream from your throat.

Pulled out slow—torture inch by inch—just to crash back, chasing that scream again. Every clench, every spasm drove him madder. Your name shredded from his lips in frantic moans, hips bucking wild as he lost the fight. Rhythm escalated—primal, unhinged, mattress groaning under the assault. Only sounds left: raw syllables, broken cries, sharp whimpers of need.

Two truths claw for dominance (all open endings)

Madness (bad ending?) : Heeseung’s grief rot into possession. Heeseung show his true face: he wants to chains you to him only (corruption, grief-twisted yandere Hee, possessiveness, manipulative!hee)

Possession (good ending?) : Heesu’s gone—or so you swear—until events doesn't adds up. shadows whisper your name, cold fingers trace your spine. (ghost!Heesu, spectral fucking, )

Which truth will you choose?

Madness :

The position shifts to missionary, raw. Your legs hook high over his hips so he can drink in every flicker of your face. Your hands fly to his cheeks, thumbs grazing damp skin, and you smile. You finally share this soft, stolen moment. His canine nips your palm. He grins, dazed.

“I love you.” The words hang and shatter you. “I always wanted you. If it wasn’t for him, you’d have been mine.” His thrusts quicken. Your moans grow louder. “No replacement. Just you. No hiding, no restraint. Just us. My pretty doll and me. You and me.”

He drops.

His forehead crashes into your neck. Teeth bare like a wolf scenting blood. The bite is vicious. Skin splits. Hot copper floods your tongue as you yelp.

He taught you this nights ago, blindfolded in the attic, whispering don’t flinch, doll, let it hurt good. The sting blooms into fire, into craving. You arch. Nails rake his back because yes, it’s yours now.

This pain brands you his.

And his make him yours.

Until you see them again—Heesu’s stars.

Those cheap plastic love letters glow faintly.

Your hand lifts on instinct. Fingers claw air toward them like your soul’s begging him back. Tears streak sideways, soaking the pillow, landing on Heeseung as he stretches your cunt open again and again, rewriting you from the inside.

His gaze snaps to yours. He freezes balls-deep.

Something curdles in his eyes, sour, and burning you.

“Why?” he whispers, voice cracking. “Why are you still thinking about him when I’m inside you?” Your hand drops slowly, regretting. “Why the fuck does your head keep crawling back to Heesu, huh?” His hips snap to punish you, grinding your clit raw. “I tried, doll. Dyed my hair back, softened my voice, wore his scent. But you? You... You still want him more right?” He thrusts harder, cutting your breath. “Why can’t you be mine alone? Why do I have to share you even now, huh?”

He grabs your neck, and you choke, not from the hold but his kiss. Spit mix. “Heesu bragged, you know. After that fever-kiss when we were kids. Came to me reeking of your lip gloss, grinning like he’d won the lottery. ‘She tastes like cherry,’ he said, flashing me that fucking grin.” Heeseung's laugh is wet, shattering. “That’s when I had to make that rule, you know." He started thrusting again, torturing you with slow moves. "No one touches you unless the other's here."

He keep kissing, and you bite on his tongue, tearing a groan out of Heeseung. Still, he smiled, liking your lips to paint them red. "If I can’t have you whole, no one gets a crumb. Not even my blood.”

Tears carve canyons down both your cheeks, but his grip morphs. Fingers crush your wrists overhead, bones grinding. “Still you're dripping for me, hm?” He slams in, bottoming out, holding until you sob. “Do you love me? Say it. Say you’re mine. My perfect doll. Only mine.” His free hand snakes to your throat again, not squeezing, just claiming the pulse he created. “I won’t share anymore. Never. Heesu’s six feet under, and you’re still reaching for his stars? Don’t be pathetic, he won't come. Stop thinking. Be mine, okay?”

Something creeps slowly, insidious. A strange kind of calm terror knots your gut, but his cock throbs inside you, hitting that spot he mapped in secret fantasies years ago. The bite pulses with your heartbeat. The blood tastes like home.

"Look I even made sure his spirit know I'm having you only for me, even here."

Right, Heesu was the dream, soft, safe, but gone.

Heeseung? Heeseung’s the nightmare you crave. The bites, the licks, the wounds you both call love. No one else could match it. Only Heeseung. Only he could see you: owned, split open, begging, alive.

He clocks the shift in your mind. Your hips roll up greedy. Cunt clenches like it’s trying to trap him forever. His grin is predatory, eyes still shining. “There she is,” he purrs, thrusting lazy now, sealing it. “My good girl. Learning who she belongs to, now.”

He leans in, breath ghosting your ear: “Let's tattoo my name right here.” Heeseung's fingers trace your wrist, then your inner thigh. “So every time you spread for anyone else or think of anyone else, there won’t be anyone else. You’ll remember who owns you, my beautiful doll. Who made you.”

The stars flicker. They stop shining. Even plastic disappear eventually. Heesu’s will fade too. Heeseung’s eyes burn brighter. He’ll make sure, even if he has to brainwash you, burn the room, the pictures, taint every good memory, places. He’ll do it.

You’re scared—god—terrified, but maybe no one else was ever perfect for you. Maybe this madness is your only match. You won’t feel alive without it lifting you up.

Heeseung lifts you. Eyes lock on yours. The hollow in your gaze thrills him. He carries you to his room now, lays your exhausted figure on cold sheets. You feel his mouth on your ankles, legs, hips, bones, until everything blurs.

He kisses you soft and whispers, “Stay with me, doll. Dream of me. Only me now.”

Possession :

Heeseung pounded you through the grief. Each thrust hammered blow to the hollow ache in your chest, your grief and lust tangled in a brutal knot, as you watched the fadding stars on the wall above.

You can't bear it. If you weren't so into wanting to lose yourself into Heeseung's touch, maybe things would have been deferent.

You turn clawing the sheets, ass high, face buried in Heesu’s old pillow that still smelled of him, memories of flowing, wishing it was him allong maybe.

Heeseung’s hips snapped, cock splitting you open, balls slapping hard enough to turn your silent cry into rought moans.

“Let's forget…” he snarled, teeth sinking into your shoulder. “Forget everything but this.”

You screamed into the pillow— a raw and ugly one., felling your orgasm crashed like a wrecking ball, cunt gushing around him, milking his release. He roared, flooding you hot and endless, hips stuttering as he emptied every drop of sorrow into your body.

You collapsed tangled, slick with sweat, cum, tears—grief fucked clean out, at least for tonight. But your mind was clearer now than ever.

When you opened your eyes next morning, light sliced through the blinds.

Heeseung spooned you tight with his long arm, cock soft against your ass, arm heavy over your waist like he’d never let go. For a second you pictured Heesu with you in this, and how it would have been real in an other dimesion.

You woke slow, blinking at the ceiling stars, one still missing.

“Morning,” heeseung mumbled into your neck, voice gravel and sleep.

You talked talked.

Really did.

Everything and nothing at first. then, the funeral. the attic. How Heesu used to steal your fries. How you both hated the color burgundy now. Soft laughter cracked through the quiet, fragile but real.

“Thanks for staying,” Heeseung whispered. “It's nothing, you did the same when I got that fever after the funeral.”

He stiffened.

“What? I crashed here after the rain.”

You blinked. "Really?" He nodded.

You might have hallucinated? Maybe it was a fever dream?

You brushed it off with a shaky laugh, "You know what, forget it, must have been the fever."

You walked you home, even if Heeseung insisted you to stay.

But no, you had somthing to do. Something important. Back in your room, you check if your absence got noticed but it didn't hopefully. You run down the shower preparing to cleance yourself for that slap worth relisation, and took your phone.

Dialed Heesu's number one last final time.

"Hey kiddo, I wanted to tell you something, somthing important, not excuses or past thing that never happen again but real shit you see..."

You took a deep breath.

"I love you. I really did--I mean do. did maybe... I didn't wanted to loose you and was too afraid to realise that the things I liked about Hee was the things I was afraid to get from you, or some kind of deep spychological thing you could have explain way better than me. I want to be more like you in the futur, and do the things we said we were gonna do in the futur. Like finally get that damn driving licence. I stick to the plan, I'll go to the uni dorm--maybe sooner than expected but it's for the better. I'll probably still some of your books tho. And... And... I don't think i'll be with anyone for now. Not now that you're not here." You ending the call way after you thaught you would. But it was your final goodbye to him, and actually to heeseung too.

You stepped into the shower, steam a choking haze. The water scalding your shoulders, finally cleansing your soul.

Your phone buzzes on the sink—you ignore it. Let it go. Let everything go.

You loose yourself in the water until it make you dizzy.

Then—

You hear the whisper. Your name, feather-soft but wrong.

You shut the water. Silence. Then again, curling through the steam like fingers from the drain you hear your name in the heavy air. You whip around, fog swallowing everything thick. Nothing. Just the drip-drip of water echoing like a heartbeat that isn’t yours.

You feel a cold somthing skate your spine—arctic, clawing under skin like they’re mapping bones.

You gasp, lungs seizing, ice flooding veins. You bolt out the shower, snag a towel, clutch it like a shroud against the gut-wrench wrongness crawling up your throat. Your knees buckle; fever’s back, gnawing your skull from inside.

And your phone buzz again.

You snatch it and look at the screen.

Heesu🐿️: I love you too

buzz

Heesu🐿️ : I'll be with you

buzz

Heesu🐿️: protect you

buzz

Heesu🐿️: love you

A hand—invisible, rotting-cold—grabs your hips and puch you toward the fogged mirror. Your heart jackhammers, erratic, skipping beats like it’s trying to escape your chest. You don’t breathe. Can’t as you drops your phone.

"Hee...Heesu?"

You're white, in from of you a star strace itself in the condansation of the mirror than an other until it forms your mole paterns. Even the one who disapered from his ceilling is now drawn, water sliding like tears on the glass.

"Oh my god...You... You're here."

the phone buzz and you grab the phone back.

Heesu🐿️ : I'll never let you alone

You feel it, arms circling you from behind. Back hugging you. Somthing rest on your shoulder, and you know. You get reminded, of Heesu's habit. There's no mistakes. "It's really you." You whispers. "I missed you..."

Buzz

Heesu🐿️: me too

The towel rips away with a slow tear, like undired flesh peeling. Mirror fog smears clean in one vicious swipe

You're faced with Your reflection alone, and see it. Your tits is being kneaded. The feeling's so strange. You can see your skin being pressed, feel the presure, the slight pain of a pinch on your nipple, then see for yourself them being twisted.

A shadow, a black blooms mark your skin.

He pushes you foward again. your palm's being pressed on mirror, and it's like finger intertwin with yours. You feel more than seen, you feel played with. The touch is cold, but the kind of cold that burn on the edge.

Suddenly your leg is yanked high, hooking it like a carcass, holded mid air.

If you weren't dazed by the whole unbelievable situation you would have understood the moment that towel got put out of the way.

“H-Heesu? You?” Your voice cracks, tiny, doll-broken.

You hear that whisper again—his voice, but hollow, echoing from inside your skull: “Mine.”

Then—you feel the stretch. Monstrous. Something glacial and scalding, pulsing with a wrong feeling that spears your cunt, splitting you wide on nothing but pressure. You scream into a palm clamping on your mouth, eyes rolling, brain short-circuiting into static.

Life drains—sucked out through your hole like marrow from bone, limbs jelly, held upright by spectral strings. Has he forced his way in, you almost can see him in the steam lengthen, twisting into his shape—bangs grazing your neck, a smile tracing against your skin.

“Bed—bed—” you choke, dizzy, world inverting, bile rising.

Air rips like tearing fabric. You are flung—slammed face-down on the mattress of your bed, ass jacked high, cheek grinding wet sheets that smell like the grass near the river. The dark now, shutters rattling without wind, your lock, locking on itslef.

The mattress dips under invisible weight while springs creak like attic ropes about to snap. You don’t see him, but you feel him. Cold breath ghosts your spine and makes every hair stand like a scream.

Then it hits.

His cock slams home in one brutal doggystyle thrust. Monstrous and thick as almost your wrist, veined like twisted roots with a head swollen and leaking somthing pre that burns ice-cold.

No warning. No mercy. It splits you open and stretches your cunt past limits. Walls ripping around the girth like wet paper. You howl raw and ugly with your throat shredding while nails claw sheets that bunch and tear under your grip.

“Mine,” the whisper hisses in your ear. The voice layers wrong, Heesu's but echoed from nowhere.

He pummels. Hips crush invisible while balls slap your clit with wet, obscene thwacks that echo like flesh on tombstone. Heavy, freezing orbs. Every withdraw drags inches of that veined thing out slow in torture.

Your hole gapes, clenches on air, and begs for more. Then he rams back deeper and harder. The head bulldozes next to your cervix like he’s trying to punch through to your soul. Your body jolts forward with tits swinging wild and nipples scraping sheets raw.

You sob snotty and desperate: “Too big—fuck—Heesu—s-stop!' But your cunt betrays and gushes hotter, slicker, milking somthing out of him like a greedy whore. He growls low, somthing almost inhuman. Pace turns frenzied with cock pistoning so fast the bed shudders and headboard bangs the wall like a poltergeist tantrum.

Cold hands yank your hips back in bruising force and make you meet every thrust. Ass ripples from impact. You feel it pulse inside with veins throbbing against your walls and head flaring wider to stretch you obscene.

Piss threatens in hot pressure building. You beg Hee : “Gon—gonna piss, please, please,please!!” He laughs with whispers multiplying in the room and angles deeper. He grinds that fat crown against your G-spot till you squirt arcs of clear shame that splatter on fine air, the floor, and soak everything in your ruin.

You can hear your name whispered, everywhere and nowere at the same time.

You collapse, with your cunt spasming endless and body wrecked, but he holds you up. Strings pull your limbs like a marionette and fuck you through the aftershocks till you’re babbling nonsense, vision black. His.

And it kept going. When you arrived at your dorm. In the library’s empty corners. In the shared showers on your floor.

And it kept going. When you arrived at your dorm, in the library's empty corners, in the shared showers on your floor.

Heesu was always there. You'd feel him help lift your groceries, wake you when you fell asleep at the library, scare strange guys away when you went back to the dorm. You would find yourself in your bed if you dozed on the couch, and the water already running hot when you entered the shower. He was always, always there—a presence in your bed, a faint voice in your ear, sentences shared through SMS sent from nowhere, voice cuts in the radio.

He was like a guardian angel.

But this presence had a price: strange marks on your body and such low stamina after he'd fuck you almost to death, leaving you sleeping for days and nearly collapsing.

Maybe—fuck maybe—that’s exactly what you wanted. What you needed. Unconditional love, even in death. The kind that brands, drains, owns even you dreamless nights.

end.

MASTERLIST. I need a minute… okay. GOD I genuinely thought this fic would never see the light of day but HERE IT IS 😭

Fun fact: it originally had three endings — the third one being Heesu killing Heeseung and taking his place… but that version would've triggered fear more than any mental unraveling from the MC, and it just didn’t fit the vibe in the end.

Honestly, the only thing I really want to say is: If you felt uneasy reading this… then I did my job.

I wanted to go back to my roots, and for once my theme and my natural writing style actually lined up 😭 I tried so so hard, even if the pacing feels weird in my head because of the gap between my writing sessions + the new grammar corrector I use.

I hope you enjoyed, my loves! And yes I’m begging (shamelessly!!!!) — tell me if it made you vibrate in some kind of way, if it made you feel anything 😭💖

TG : @cutehoons02 @fancypeacepersona @xxueisa @thesundys @karinasbaby @wonwonywonwon @xoenhalover @diameuwu @ikeulove @rafs127 @moonstrucksofie @r1zzymura @its-nova7 @justpassingdontworry @umbrellah @beaepa @mheretoreadff @matchacake2 @choimujinswife @heejakeyy07whtv @ssinjake @w2hoonki @chibi-rach @stayalittlelonger143 @hoondrop @thesundys @somuchdard @diameuwu @parkjeongpark @xoenhalover @gunilsguns @ri4-lovesenha @heekolazz @bambiihee @raven-unkind @mintchohoon @sofiafromvenus @w2hoonki @bacons-thighs @chibi-rach @ikeuceo @river-demon-slayer @eliephemeral @ @theyluvjake @i5woni @lmonade @thefallenhulya @i90snoo @ricepuddingluvr @won-derful @choeryyxyz @cyjhhyj @pinkbunnystories @taeogi @ancnymcnzjy @japieeey @koalaswillpeeonyou @xxxatdy @eternality @youtoopia @212diary @lovebamby22 @hnnnne @bvbblejayyyy @diameuwu @softservesungie @tinyenha @rspbrykawa @thicbucchi @nananananana-stuff @oreostoberi @heeshlove @joiigurl @ay0505050550 @janeluvwonuuuu @butterflydemons @deobitifull @jeonjieun17 @aubr3ysei @neorealm @taehyungslittlebrat69 @prettygirlthings-world @yazmike @kaiaonsaturn @icrieliterature @karinasbaby @hees-h0e @lynnlynnyuuashh @schniti-is-in-the-house @saccharinezennie @bacons-thighs @haocean @sangiewife @heejunluvr @monoidol @xiaoszone @hoonprksung @woniedoyouloveme @tinycatharsis @cutehoons02 @heebambilee @darling-delusions @luvminniexx @heeseung64 @heeknow @xerographx @bxbynana @sunghoonizz @saraabbas @melzonly @cutiepatootiejungwon @neozon3nha @hyundai432 @mmayuies @jayjw16enxp @lassiie-recs