MONSTER MONDAY - WRAITH X F!READER
✦ WARNINGS: 18+ ・smut・dub-con*・haunting & possession・marathon sex・forced masturbation・masturbating to the point of exhaustion・overwhelming pleasure as a form of possession・ ✦ TAGS: smut・dubious happy ending ✦ WORD COUNT: 2.4k
*because this fic is centered around dub-con, it's listed in the warnings and given the tags, "tw: dubious content" & "tw: dubcon".
There’s something in your house.
Not a mouse in the walls; having something you could name, something you could trap, would be far too easy.
It creaks against your floors, the footsteps of something learning to walk in your space and claim your territory inch by inch. It rattles your windowpanes in a way you can’t contribute to loose nails or wind.
You don’t know when it appeared. Did it start with the flicker in the corner of your eye? The shadow in your hallway with no source? That unnerving feeling of being watched in shower?
(a tingling at the base of your skull, water running down skin that suddenly feels like it belongs to someone else)
This isn’t normal. You can’t keep pretending, can’t keep believing in coincidences.
For months, it’s persisted. It weighs heavy on you, a constant pressure that makes every instinct scream wrong! wrong! wrong! It lingers, following you from room to room with a bitter cold only found in absolute absence. It whispers to you, slithers along the shell of your ear when you teeter on the edge of sleep.
How long has it been since you slept more than an hour?
Another sleepless night, tangled up in your sheets. Moonlight drifts in through the window, giving just enough light for you to stare mournfully at your ceiling.
The cold spot intensifies beside you, sucking the warmth from the mattress, pulling the heat from your skin.
You don’t need to look.
You can feel it materializing, a coalescence of darkness and graveyard chill. A shimmer in the air, the inverted mirage of heat haze on a blistering road. The temperature plummets until your breath mists in the air, small clouds of proof that you’re still alive, still breathing, still here.
You squeeze your eyes shut, curl in on yourself in some futile defense.
If you can’t see it, it can’t see you.
(you know this isn’t true; you’ve known for months, but the lie is comforting)
“Go away,” you beg, weak and shivering.
Go away?
The response bypasses your ears, arriving directly in the meat of your brain, dry and raspy.
But darling, we’re just getting to know each other.
The foot of your bed dips.
Not with the creak of springs—metal coils compressed, the groan of structure bearing load—but silent, impossible weight. You feel it through your blankets, the pressure against the soles of your feet, cold radiating upward. The air grows thick, carrying the scent of damp soil and withered rose petals.
(things that bloomed once and died and now decompose in darkness)
You shudder, involuntary and full-body.
I love it when you tremble—
The voice slips into your consciousness, resonating in your bones. Letting out a soft whine, you pull the covers up to your chin.
—The way your skin pebbles. Such a fragile, beautiful vessel.
A touch, featherlight and freezing, traces your calf through the blanket leaving a trail of numbness in its wake. Your throat swells, voice locked tight, unable to scream. The terror that seizes you is one you've become intimately familiar with.
When did this creeping invasion become part of your nightly routine? this testing of your defenses, feeling its way through your body and mind.
Don't fight it, something coos from inside your head. You know you can't. You feel it, don't you? The space I'm carving out for myself. Right... ...here.
A headache, sharp and sudden, presses into the backs of your eyes. The pain makes your fingers twitch, chokes a gasp out of your throat.
It's starting.
Let me in, it whispers, sweet poison dripped into your ear. Let me feel what you feel.
Its frigid touch slides higher, higher, higher, a spectral hand smoothing over your hip to land on your stomach. It’s not the familiar glide of skin on skin, but a deep, invasive chill that sinks past your flesh and into the muscles beneath. Your body betrays you, a jolt of not quite pleasure, not quite pain, sparking from its touch.
(can a body betray you if it was never fully yours to begin with?)
“You…you’re k-killing me,” you force through chattering teeth.
Killing you?
A pause. Almost thoughtful.
Such a crude term. No, no, my dear. I’m…erasing. Making room. Think of it as…a renovation.
(buildings become ruins and ruins become foundations and foundations become dust)
The phantom touch drifts lower, hovering over the apex of your thighs. The cold is immense, the promise of pleasure so intense it would scour you clean. You press your legs together, an instinctual, useless gesture.
Ah, there is it, the Wraith thinks, a triumphant lilt to the mental intrusion. We’ve chipped away at everything else. Your peace, your concentration, your memory…only this is left. This final, secret place.
The pressure intensifies, focused solely on your core. Your hips buck off the bed as a whine tears itself from your lips. Your mind is a battlefield, a whirlwind of chaos and terror and a hideous, traitorous spark of morbid curiosity.
It’s been growing louder for months, the voice that you’ve tried so hard to ignore asking: what would it feel like, to be consumed?
That’s it. Just a little more. Let the walls down.
That last thread of control slips from your grasp. Your right hand, clutching at the blankets, relaxes its grip. The fingers uncurl, one by one, inching their way down your body. They follow the path of the Wraith’s frosty touch, tracing your collarbone to the valley between your breasts to your stomach.
You watch from a great distance, a spectator in your own body.
“No,” you breathe, a white puff of denial in the frigid air.
But your fingers don’t stop. They slip beneath the waistband of your pajama bottoms. The fabric feels rougher against your skin; the sensation is alien, loud in the dead quiet of your bedroom.
Yes, the Wraith purrs. The word seems to come from your lips, an off-pitch echo of your voice. I want to feel it from the inside.
The crack in your resolve splinters. Your mind, worn thin by months of psychic siege, gives away as the world disappears and the barrier between you and it shatters. You feel the invasion, a pouring-in of something vast and empty and incomprehensible. The bitter chill that was outside your skin now in your blood, in your bones, in your soul.
You’re no longer just you.
A gasp—yours, but not yours—fills the room. The hand that is and isn’t yours moves with a purpose you no longer command. Fingers you no longer control crawl across your skin, finding the slick heat between your legs. The touch is both ghost-cold and fever-hot, a dizzying clash.
Your other hand rises to your breast, kneading the flesh, pinching your nipple through the thin fabric of your shirt. Sparks ignite behind your eyes, the thrill immediate and overwhelming.
(your body has been asleep for years and, only now, under the Wraith’s command, can it finally wake)
You’re a passenger in your own skin, caught in ecstasy that is not your own. You can feel everything—the texture of your skin, the pressure of your fingers, the slick, wet heat gathering in your underwear—but you have no say in the matter.
The Wraith, through your body, explores. A curious, relentless hunt. One finger dips inside you, then another, the movements confident and practiced. An act of discovery so unlike your own explorations; the angle is perfect, stealing your breath, your thoughts, your very self.
The Wraith learns you from the inside out.
Oh, the thought echoes in the space where your consciousness used to be. Oh, this is…
The thought trails off into a moan ripped from your throat, raw and uninhibited. Your back arches off the bed, a perfect, taut bow. The fingers inside you curl, finding that spot that sends a jolt of pure pleasure straight through you.
Time loses all meaning. —seconds into minutes, —minutes into hours, —hours into days. You exist solely in this state of half-awake, neither fully conscious nor fully dreaming.
Your room becomes a blur of moonlight and shadow; the only constant is the squelching beat of your hands, the relentless building and cresting of your passions. Your body is nothing but a vessel for an experience that’s too large, too intense, for one person to contain.
Your mind is in tatters, shredded by the force of your own euphoria. You’re dimly aware of your own voice crying out, the sheets soaked with sweat and fluids, the never-ending shivers that wrack your frame.
You’re delirious with it, drunk on this decadent touch that’s both a gift and a curse. Your body is being pushed past its limits into a state of animalistic response, turning you into a creature of pleasure, nothing more.
(—nothing less?)
More, the Wraith demands, a sharp, insistent hiss. Give me more.
Your body obeys. The rhythm changes, becomes faster, more demanding. The pressure builds, builds, builds. It gathers in your blood, tightens in your core. Your fingers work—stroking, circling, plunging—with frantic, desperate energy. Every muscle in your body locks, straining for release.
Suspended in the moment before, the anticipation that is sometimes better than the release itself…
.
.
.
…the dam bursts, flooding you with a force of bliss that obliterates everything. Your vision blanks, hearing vanishes, and for a single, timeless moment, nothing else exists but this.
You scream, a wail rooted out from the depths of your soul, surrender and conquest. Your body convulses, a shuddering spasm that ruins you from head to toe.
It ends just as soon as it begins, leaving behind a hollow stillness. You collapse back onto the bed, limp and boneless as your chest heaves with sharp, shallow breaths. You’re spent, thoroughly and completely.
Every part of you begs for rest, for respite, but you know it won’t come.
The Wraith is still there, a watchful presence in the back of your mind. Its satisfaction sits dark and smug in the aftermath. A predator savoring its kill.
That was…enlightening, the thought comes, a lazy, contented purr. But I’m not done yet.
Fresh dread washes over you. You want to protest, beg for mercy, but you have no strength left. Your body is a ruin, a battlefield littered with the casualties of desire.
The Wraith doesn’t need your consent; it has your body, and it has no intention of stopping.
Your hands begin to move again, twitching and taunting in their revival. The touch is gentle this time, at least. A lover’s caress, a seductive dance that coaxes your weakened body back to life. There’s a flicker of response, a reluctant stirring in your groin.
(your body betrays you again and again and again and again and again—)
Oh, yes, the Wraith’s delight is a palpable thing. There’s more. So much more.
The hours bleed into one another, an unending cycle of arousal and release. You lose count of your orgasms, no longer a person, but a puppet for the Wraith’s insatiable hunger.
You drift in and out of consciousness, left in a dreamlike state where reality and fantasy blur. You see visions, fragmented and surreal: a moonlit graveyard, a tattered shroud, a pair of skeletal hands reaching for you. You hear whispers, a chorus of voices—some yours, some not—all urging you to let go, to become, pushing you deeper into the abyss.
Your mind is a shattered mirror, each shard reflecting a different version of the truth. Victim, prisoner, willing participant.
You are violated. —worshipped.
You are dying. —being reborn.
You don’t know who you are anymore. The line between you and the Wraith has been erased, woven into one pulsing entity. Your thoughts are its thoughts, your desires are its desires.
As the last vestiges of your own consciousness fade, a new understanding dawns. A horrifying, exhilarating realization.
You don’t want this to end.
The thought comes not from the Wraith, but somewhere deep within you, from a part of yourself you never knew existed.
Stay, you think. Stay with me.
A confession, a plea.
The Wraith’s presence stills suddenly. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve imagined it. Was the thought just another fragment of your shattered mind?
Then, a response comes. A single, chilling word that seals your fate.
Always.
The bargain is struck. You have given yourself over, body and soul, to the entity that has haunted you—tormented you—and shown you a pleasure beyond human comprehension.
No longer just you, you are something more, something other.
A vessel, a home.
The sun begins to rise, casting its pale light on the scene of your surrender. You feel a new, subtle shift in the fabric of your being. The Wraith is no longer this other, parasitic presence invading your mind. It is a part of you, as integral as your own bones, as essential as your own blood.
You sit up sluggishly, aching pleasantly with lingering exhaustion. Yet, you feel…whole. The void that’s been growing inside you for months now filled, occupied by this creature. You’ve somehow become more yourself than you ever were when you were alone.
You stand, bare feet silent on the cold hardwood as you walk to the window with unnatural grace. There’s a new strength in your limbs, a new clarity in your mind. The world looks different—sharper—more vibrant.
(smell the decay in the walls, hear the mice in the floorboards, you were never alone here—)
You feel…alive. More alive than you’ve ever felt before.
You catch your reflection in the window, a ghostly image superimposed on the morning light. You see yourself, your face drained, your eyes darkened with sleep deprivation. But then, the image breaks, and you see another face: a skeletal visage draped in rags, its eyes burning with otherworldly fire.
You blink, and the two images merge, a seamless blending of one, unified being of flesh and spirit.
Now, the Wraith’s voice scrapes in your mind. Its voice is no longer separate, but a part of your own consciousness, a cold, lurking undertone to your own thoughts. Let us see what the world has to offer.
You smile—the Wraith smiles—a slow, cruel curving of your lips.
You are the Wraith.
And you crave more.
