Nathan wasn't picky.
He wasn't spiritual.
And he damn sure didn't care if someone died in the tub or jumped out the window ten years ago.
As long as the rent was cheap, the roof didn't leak, and no nosy neighbors banged on his door at midnight asking for sugar, or small talk, he was in.
And so, when the landlord smiled with a twitch in his eye and said,
"Place comes with… a bit of history,"
Nathan only nodded.
"Does it come with working plumbing?"
"Yes."
"Then I don't care."
---
The apartment wasn't much.
Creaky floorboards, a faint smell of lavender that didn't come from him, and windows that stuck when you tried to open them.
But it was quiet.
Empty.
And more importantly, his.
The key fit in the lock with a hesitant click.
Like even the door wasn't sure he belonged there.
The air inside was stale, like no one had breathed here in a while.
Perfect.
No roommates. No expectations. No noise.
Just him, his bag, and a half-dead phone.
He dropped it all by the couch, a lumpy, secondhand thing covered in a white sheet, and sat down.
"I've had worse," he muttered.
The couch…
sank in deeper than expected.
Almost like it welcomed him.
---
Later that night…
Nathan lay on a mattress he'd dragged into the middle of the room.
There were no curtains, just the streetlight leaking in like a soft warning.
His eyes fluttered closed.
And that's when it began.
Not the horror.
Not the screams.
Just…
A hum.
Low. Warm. Like someone was sighing through the walls.
He sat up. Listened.
Nothing.
He laid back down.
The hum returned, closer this time. Near his neck.
Like a breath.
Still, no fear. Just irritation.
"Ghosts better know I don't do spooning," he muttered, pulling the blanket tighter.
A beat of silence.
Then----
The blanket slid slightly down his chest.
Not torn. Not yanked.
Just…
pulled back.
Slow.
Intentional.
Nathan froze.
"Okay," he whispered into the dark. "You wanna haunt someone, fine. Just don't touch my food."
Another pause.
The fridge door creaked open in the kitchen.
His eyes shot open.
"…oh you've gotta be kidding me."
Nathan didn't scream.
Didn't run.
Didn't even flinch.
He just blinked at the open fridge, still lying flat on the mattress.
"…If you're cold, get in line."
The fridge door eased itself shut again, soft, almost guilty.
Nathan sat up, rubbed his face, then looked at the spot beside him on the mattress.
There was a dent.
He hadn't moved.
The ghost… had sat down.
He squinted at the space, vaguely annoyed. "I don't do cuddles, Casper."
Silence.
Then, tap tap tap on the wall.
Three gentle knocks. As if amused.
He sighed.
"This better not be a pervy ghost."
---
By the third night, Nathan had a routine.
He cooked instant noodles. Ate in silence.
Left the second spoon out on the counter, just in case.
And every night, like clockwork, the ghost joined him.
Not visually.
But the dents in the couch deepened.
The light in the bathroom flickered with rhythm, one he now recognized as pacing.
And sometimes…
Sometimes he heard breathing near his neck when he wasn't paying attention.
Still didn't scare him.
But it did intrigue him.
---
On the fourth night, it got bold.
Nathan was brushing his teeth, staring at the fogged-up mirror when letters began to form.
No dripping blood.
No jump scares.
Just… steam handwriting.
"Nice lips."
Nathan spat into the sink, mouth foaming.
"Wow," he said flatly. "A ghost with rizz."
The mirror cleared itself slowly. The writing disappeared.
But behind him—
A figure.
Tall, faint. Barely visible in the fog. Just watching.
He turned around.
Nothing.
He exhaled.
"…Stop flirting or pay half the rent."
---
The next morning?
There was a cup of coffee on the counter.
Fresh. Still warm.
Made exactly how he liked it.
He froze mid-step.
"…You touched my coffee maker?"
A soft hum echoed through the kitchen vent.
Not malicious.
Playful.
Nathan sipped it anyway.
Tasted better than when he made it.
"Great," he muttered. "I'm being out-barista'd by a damn ghost."
---
That night, as he climbed into bed, Nathan left a space open on the mattress.
Didn't admit why.
Didn't say it out loud.
But the sheets shifted.
And a faint warmth, barely there, settled beside him.
Not cold. Not sinister.
Just… present.
He didn't mind.
He even muttered, half-asleep, "If you're gonna spoon me, at least make breakfast again."
The answer?
A soft flicker of the lamp.
Like a laugh.
Day 6.
Nathan had stopped pretending things were normal.
By now, he'd accepted it. The extra toothbrush in the bathroom that wasn't his. The way his favorite hoodie always ended up draped over the armrest, even when he swore he left it folded. The music that faded in and out like a record scratching through time.
He talked to it now. The ghost. Or whatever it was.
"Morning," he muttered, scratching his messy hair as he wandered to the kitchen.
The coffee was already brewing.
Of course it was.
"Thanks," he added, pouring himself a cup like they were an old married couple.
He sipped.
Perfect again.
And there it was, a soft tug at his shirt.
Nathan didn't flinch. Just sighed, turning slightly.
"No, I'm not staying in all day. You're not keeping me here like some… cozy hostage."
Silence.
Then a breeze, cool, trailing along the back of his neck. Not threatening. Not even teasing.
Just… present.
"You're really clingy for someone who won't show themselves," he said, wandering to the window.
A piece of toast popped from the toaster, just one.
His.
Again.
Nathan laughed under his breath.
Six days.
He should've been creeped out.
Instead, he was… warm.
Safe, somehow.
Which was weird, considering his "roommate" was the literal definition of dead.
Day 7.
Nathan brushed his teeth like usual, leaning over the sink, groggy, shirtless, sleep clinging to his lashes.
He rinsed. Spat. Looked up.
And froze.
The mirror fogged.
Not because of the warm water, it hadn't run that long.
No, this was deliberate.
A message traced itself slowly, like a fingertip dragging through the mist:
"Cute when grumpy."
Nathan stared. Toothbrush still in hand.
"The hell?"
His voice cracked.
Not from fear, more like disbelief.
Then, just behind his reflection…
A flicker.
Not a full face. Not even a shadow.
But something.
A presence.
Lingering just behind his shoulder, like someone leaning in to whisper something right into his ear.
The bathroom light buzzed.
Nathan turned around fast, nothing.
But the air behind him felt used.
Like someone had just been there. Close enough to breathe on his neck.
---
Later that night, he lay in bed, phone on his chest, scrolling aimlessly through posts that didn't matter.
"You still up?" he whispered to the empty room.
The lights didn't flicker this time.
Instead, a soft pressure pressed against the bed.
Then shifted.
Like someone was lying beside him.
Nathan's breath caught.
He didn't dare move.
Didn't dare speak.
But he felt it.
A warmth, not cold, not spectral, but comforting.
Then, so faint it could've been imagined-
A breath. Against his neck.
Soft. Measured. Deliberate.
He turned his head just slightly and whispered into the air:
"…You're not really here, are you?"
The blanket tugged gently around his shoulder, pulling tighter.
A response. A promise.
Or maybe a lie.
Day 8.
Nathan didn't care anymore.
He didn't feel alone.
Nathan was cooking dinner, humming quietly to himself.
Eggs. Fried rice. A comfort meal, cheap and filling.
The pan sizzled.
Then it shivered.
He frowned. Reached to adjust the heat.
But the knob turned on its own, lowering to a gentle simmer.
He blinked.
"...Thanks?"
He didn't expect an answer.
Didn't need one either.
He was already used to the weirdness.
---
Later that night, he sat at his desk, sketching.
He'd found an old charcoal pencil buried in the drawer earlier. Looked untouched, like it had been waiting.
He didn't question it.
The lines came easy tonight.
Curved strokes, soft shading, something…familiar.
Halfway through, he realized what he was drawing:
A hand. Slender. Resting palm up, reaching.
Not begging.
Inviting.
He stared at it.
The pencil slipped.
A chill crawled across his nape.
And then—
A hand. On his shoulder.
Not cold.
Warm.
Fingers traced his spine, slow, like someone testing where he'd twitch.
Nathan held his breath.
Didn't move. Didn't speak.
Let it happen.
The hand stopped at the small of his back. Rested there.
Weightless, but real.
Not a threat.
A test.
Nathan leaned back, just a little.
The touch disappeared.
But the heat lingered.
He glanced at the mirror near the hallway,his reflection… unchanged.
Except for the faint smudge. Like a fingerprint. On the glass.
Right where a shoulder might rest.
He always go for a night shower before going to bed, after taking one, he faced the mirror.
The mirror had fogged up again.
Nathan stood in front of it, still naked from the shower, towel hanging low on his hips. He knew the phantom was there, he felt him.
A cold hand curled around his waist from behind, the towel pulled away with one effortless tug. He didn't fight it. His eyes locked onto the glass as invisible fingers traced the dips and curves of his torso.
"You want me to watch?" Nathan asked breathlessly.
On the fogged mirror, one word appeared, slow and deliberate.
"Yes."
His heart slammed into his ribs.
The ghost's hands slid lower, framing his shaft, thumbs digging in just enough to make him shiver. Then, press. A slow, rhythmic grind against his back, not rough, but firm, claiming. The outline of his own body trembled in the reflection, hips being pulled, guided.
He gasped, gripping the sink edge with white knuckles. His lips parted as something teased along his inner thigh, invisible but real, so real.
His reflection looked ruined. Flushed cheeks. Trembling legs. Half-lidded eyes already glazed. He was being taken apart, touch by ghostly touch, and the mirror made sure he saw it all.
"You like ruining me…" he whispered, watching himself unravel.
The words appeared again.
"You're mine to ruin."
A sudden slap to his ass made him jolt forward, moaning aloud. Then---his shaft, slick, slow strokes that left him panting, grinding helplessly against the air. His hips moved without shame, matching the phantom's rhythm. A cold breath brushed his ear:
"Come for me, Nathan."
And he did, eyes open, lips parted, face twisted in raw, vulnerable pleasure as he painted the mirror.
Even when it faded, the message remained:
"Good boy."
---
Day 9.
Nathan decided to go grocery shopping. With the rent barely making a dent in his wallet, he could finally afford a few indulgences in his cart.
"...I'm leaving. Gonna grab some things. Be back later."
He said it out loud, more out of habit than expectation. Talking to the air had become second nature now, as if silence would feel too lonely otherwise.
But just as he stepped out and reached to lock the door behind him, a cool breeze brushed across his cheek, gentle, deliberate.
He paused.
"You're coming with me?"
A soft tap landed on his shoulder.
That was a yes.
When he reached the grocery store, Nathan pulled out his list and grabbed a cart. He opted for more fresh goods than preserved ones, simple, clean, nothing fancy.
The place was more crowded than he liked. Too many people. Too much noise. So he made up his mind to move quickly, grab what he needed, and get out.
In the household aisle, he paused at the fabric conditioners. The brand he wanted was, of course, tucked way up on the top shelf.
He tiptoed, stretching for it—
When he suddenly felt something.
A hand, inside his pants.
"Oh no.." he whispered to himself. He exactly knows who's doing it. Who's bold enough to touch him in public.
"Can't you just wait till I get home?" But the grip just become tighter.
Nathan reached for the fab-con again and out it inside the cart. He pushed it while the phantom's stroke on his bulge went faster.
"Ugh!.. " Nathan's moan slipped, and the old woman he passed by looked at him with a concerned face.
"Are you alright lad?"
"Y-Yeah, i-it's just my stomach."
"Oh poor thing, you should hurry up and go home."
Nathan nodded and continued to push his cart somewhere with less people.
On the chemicals sections, there was no one at all. He stopped by the side corner, and gripped his bulging shaft.
"Oh please stop, what are you doing?"
The panthom only pressed on his balls, teasing him even more. Nathan, quivered pressing his thighs against each other. He leaned on his cart, back arched while holding his moans. He can feel the build up, and then there, bent forward on his cart, drooling and half lidded, he climaxed.
With trembling knees, Nathan clutched the cart for support, dragging himself toward a quiet corner of the aisle. He needed to breathe. To calm the chaos buzzing through his nerves.
His shirt tugged awkwardly over his hips, desperate to hide the wet patch staining his pants. His cheeks burned. His skin flushed. And sweat clung to his temples like guilt.
Even the cashier had noticed, eyes flicking, lips twitching with questions left unspoken.
Too humiliated to meet anyone's gaze, Nathan hurried. He bagged the groceries with trembling hands, shoved them into the car, and slammed the door shut behind him.
Only then did he let out a shaky breath.
"What the hell was that?!" He exclaimed in anger.
He looked at his rearview mirror, and the shadowy silhouette was there. He didn't flinched or twitched, but furious with it. The silhouette disappeared. Nathan thought it was gone, but as soon as his car drove off away from the store, he felt it again.
This time, not just a touch, but something else. A tongue?
"Oh hell no, I'm driving."
But it didn't mind him. It continued. He felt his shaft entering something wet, being played upon and teased.
"Ahh, how are you even doing this?"
Nathan tried to grab it's head or anything, but there was nothing to grab into. His back arched fro his seat, while stepping on the accelerator by accident when he climaxed again.
Good thing the road was clear and he managed to steer it on the side to pull over.
"Damn, you're getting out of hand. Not just because I let you, you're gonna do it anytime you like."
Then he heard a breathing on his ear, cold wind around his neck.
"But you liked it." Then it disappeared again.
---
Night came, Nathan just got out of the shower. Hair's still dripping wet, and the towel loosely wrapped around his waist. As he walked passed the kitchen tabke, he felt it grabbing him. Wrapping its arms around his waist.
There, his towel dropped to the floor, he bent down grabbing it but he didn't expect the phantom to do something.
While reaching down, as he bent to get the towel, there it is again, his tongue, exploring somewhere he never touched in ages. He gasped, as he felt its tongue inside, pressing against his walls, deeper than any of his previous partners could reach.
The phantom pushed him forward, and now? He's on his knees, in all fours.
"Fuck! You're really good at this."
It grabbed his butt cheeks, squeezed them and even slapped them. Then spread his hole wider while his tongue got deeper. It didn't take long for him to reach his peak again.
For the third time in just one day, he collapsed on the floor. The phantom scooped him up and put him to bed.
---
Day 10.
Nathan woke up feeling lighter than he had in weeks. His limbs were loose, his chest oddly calm. Whatever kind of sleep that was last night, it was deep. Restful. Almost too good.
Then he remembered.
What the phantom did.
His hand lazily brushed over his body, and a breath slipped out between his lips. "You're really just doing things your way, huh..."
He wasn't angry. Not really. But there was a sting of disappointment.
"I want to do things too," he mumbled into the empty air. "But you… you don't even have a proper form."
He rolled over, speaking more to the ceiling than anything else. "I mean… since we're doing things like this, are we... in a relationship now?"
The question was casual. Tossed out like a joke. Nathan didn't expect an answer. After all, ghosts don't have hearts.
Right?
Then he heard it, a faint hiss of breath. Not from him.
The window fogged up in front of him.
Words etched into the condensation:
"You're mine."
He blinked. Sat up.
And then—
A breeze. Cold. Lingering.
It pressed against his ear and whispered, low and clear:
"You're mine."
Nathan chuckled. Short and sharp, covering the way his skin tingled.
"God, you're possessive."
But he didn't move away.
He didn't shiver.
He just leaned back… and let the phantom linger.
That day ended not with touch, nor heat—
But with words.
Soft taps.
Whispers against the skin.
Letters drawn on fogged glass.
Nathan spent the evening talking to the air again.
But this time…
It talked back.
A brush on his wrist when he asked a question.
A whisper in his ear when he muttered something funny.
A message on the bathroom mirror when he got too quiet.
The phantom, whatever it truly was, tried.
In its own limited, strange way…
It tried to reach him.
To answer.
To connect.
And Nathan felt it.
The sincerity.
The effort.
The presence that no longer felt like a haunting,
but like a heartbeat without a body.
He didn't ask why.
He didn't need to.
Whatever reason the phantom had for staying…
Nathan no longer minded.
Not at all.
---
Day 11.
Nathan didn't wake up like most people.
There was no blaring alarm, no streak of sunlight across the sheets.
Just the chilled kiss of air on the nape of his neck.
And fingers, phantom ones, trailing his spine with the softness of breath and the intent of sin.
He sighed, eyes still closed, hips shifting slightly beneath the sheets.
"You really don't sleep, do you…" he murmured.
No answer came, but a ghost of laughter brushed his ear.
Then a hand, one that didn't exist, slid beneath the waistband of his shorts.
Nathan tensed.
Then melted.
---
The covers lifted slowly, as if the air itself grew impatient.
The phantom's presence curled around him, familiar now, almost warm despite the chill.
He felt his legs being eased apart.
Teasing fingers ghosted over sensitive skin, not solid, but felt, intimately, absolutely felt.
They skimmed past his thighs, curled toward the center, paused just shy of his need.
He bit his lip.
"You're a damn tease," he whispered.
The mirror across the room fogged.
"Mine."
The word was sharp. Possessive. Final.
---
Nathan whimpered.
"You can't keep doing that… you can't just claim me and leave me like-----"
He didn't get to finish.
Because that spot, the one just beneath, the place that made his toes curl, was suddenly being touched.It teased him, made him anticipate, and touched him like there's no tomorrow.
The ghost knew.
It knew exactly where to press.
Where to stroke.
And worse, how to stop just when Nathan's breath caught, leaving him trembling, aching.
"Please," he whispered, arching off the bed, "at least let me---let me touch back---"
But he couldn't.
There was no body to hold.
Just presence. Just pressure.
Just heat.
And it was driving him mad.
---
He turned over, panting softly, trying to reach for something he couldn't see.
The mirror fogged again.
"You're not ready."
Nathan laughed, dry, breathless, needy.
"I'm so ready."
The air around him wrapped tighter, firmer.
A phantom hand slid under his shirt again, circling his nipple, teasing it until it peaked.
Then, bite.
Not hard. But there.
A sensation like teeth grazing skin.
An unseen mouth tugging at him in places that shouldn't feel this real.
Nathan's legs shook.
His fingers gripped the sheets.
He felt possessed.
Owned.
Ruined.
And yet, he craved more.
---
By the time the phantom finally let up, leaving him a mess of sweat, flushed skin, and trembling thighs, Nathan could barely sit up.
He decided to take a quick shower.
Steam curled around Nathan's skin like breath, hot, thick, and rising.
He braced both palms on the tiled wall, head bowed, water running down his spine in rivulets that couldn't wash away what he felt.
Because it was there again.
Not watching. Touching.
The first ghost of a caress slid down the slope of his back, light as mist, then turned hungry. Bold. A palm flattened between his shoulder blades, then lower, circling the small of his back. Possessive.
He didn't ask it to stop.
Didn't want it to.
The next touch was firmer. His hips met the cold wall as invisible hands found his waist, fingers tightening like they had every right to own him. The air pulsed hot, heavy with tension he could feel curling against his thighs.
Nathan exhaled hard.
He spread his legs, just slightly, and let the water beat against his chest as the phantom's hold deepened. One hand slithered down to his shaft, kneading it slowly, deliberately. He gasped. Bit his lip. Moaned into the steam.
"Yeah…" he whispered, voice cracking, "You like seeing me like this, don't you?"
The mirror across the room fogged, then words appeared, slow and deliberate:
"I love it."
And then, bam, a jolt of heat surged through him, a teasing lick between his legs, not visible, but real enough to make him tremble. His knees nearly buckled as the phantom nipped and stroked, guiding his body into the rhythm it wanted.
Nathan let it happen.
Let himself be unraveled, soap slipping from his fingers, breath fogging the glass, and whimpers swallowed by water and ghostly hands that knew just where to press, to tease, to claim.
The water never cooled.
And neither did he.
The mirror offered one final fogged word before clearing again:
"Tomorrow."
Nathan stared at it, breath uneven.
"You're seriously gonna make me wait?"
No answer.
Just the faintest cool breeze against his lips.
A kiss goodbye.
---
He didn't leave the house that day.
Didn't cook. Barely moved.
He stayed in bed, hand over his chest, heart thudding like war drums.
The ghost hadn't even finished what it started.
But Nathan?
He already knew----
Tomorrow, he wouldn't survive it.
---
Day 12.
Nathan stood in front of the mirror, shirt halfway lifted, watching nothing.
But feeling everything.
A cold draft curled around his hips.
Then pressure.
A slow, deliberate push against the small of his back, right where the spine dipped, where breath got caught and eyes fluttered shut.
His reflection stared back at him, lips parted, chest heaving, while unseen hands traveled lower.
His knees knocked.
"You're not gonna let me get dressed, are you?"
The lights flickered.
Then the mirror fogged again.
"Why bother?"
Nathan grinned despite himself.
The phantom's answer was always maddeningly simple, and brutally effective.
---
Now pressed against the vanity, his reflection fogged and blurred, Nathan gasped as fingers, cold and knowing, slid beneath the waistband of his briefs.
They gripped.
Lifted.
Pulled him back into a cruel rhythm that wasn't meant to finish, only to build.
To torment.
His thighs trembled.
He clutched the edge of the sink, knuckles pale.
The sensation danced dangerously close to unbearable. Every nerve felt like a livewire, every breath a plea.
When he could barely breathe, the air whispered---
"Tonight, you beg."
---
Nathan couldn't sleep.
He tossed. Turned. Peeled his shirt off, only to groan into the pillow as that cool breeze slid beneath the covers again.
"Seriously?" he muttered, already half-hard from the air alone.
But this time, the phantom didn't tease.
It claimed.
---
Hands, not real, not seen, but heavy with intent, gripped his hips.
Dragged him down the mattress slowly, like prey being pulled toward its doom.
Nathan's breath hitched.
Then moaned.
"Come on… if you're gonna do it---"
Whisper.
"I am."
---
The mattress dipped behind him, the feeling of weight without a body, pressure without a form.
Then, nothing.
Only Nathan's pulse pounding in his ears.
Until the warmth of breath brushed his nape.
Not cold this time.
Warm. Wanting. Wicked.
And then lower.
Down the arch of his spine.
Down the slope of his back.
A flick, like a tongue made of shadow, tasting his skin with reverence and hunger both.
Nathan's toes curled.
He pushed back instinctively.
The air growled.
Yes. Growled.
"Needy little thing."
---
His briefs tugged downward by nothing but will. And when they were gone, he didn't even flinch.
He arched. Invited.
Whimpered.
"You're not gentle," he breathed, voice wrecked already.
"You don't want me to be."
And Nathan didn't argue.
---
What came next wasn't touch.
It was possession.
Every breath was a command. Every movement, a claim.
Nathan was trembling, face buried in sheets, hips high, taken by something he couldn't name, but never wanted to stop.
Every thrust it made send shivers down his spine. He was owned, claimed. His moaned, groaned, to every sensation the ghost made him feel.
Wetness he never knew it was there. Whether it was his or not. Pumping him down, with every fierce thrust it gave him.
He can hear its groans, eerie yet satisfying. Nathan couldn't get enough of it. He arched his back even more, and pressed against it.
And when he finally shattered, it wasn't with a cry.
It was with a laugh.
A satisfied, breathless, wrecked little laugh.
"Now that's a haunting."
---
Nathan hadn't moved.
Couldn't.
His limbs were liquid, body still trembling with the aftershocks of the ghost's merciless affection.
He blinked up at the ceiling, eyes glassy, dazed, mouth parted in stunned silence.
But peace?
It never came.
---
The air shifted again.
Heavy. Charged.
A storm on the verge of breaking.
He gasped when invisible fingers circled his ankle, yanking him halfway down the bed, his back against the mattress now, utterly exposed.
"Y-You're not done?"
The mirror across the room fogged up instantly.
"You said relationship."
"I'm making it official."
---
Nathan opened his mouth to sass, but a chill swept between his thighs, slick, teasing.
A moan caught in his throat.
"Holy—"
The word never made it out.
Because the ghost's mouth, or whatever it was using for a mouth, found its mark.
Hungry. Confident. Practiced.
Nathan's hips shot up.
He clawed at the sheets. At the air. At anything---
But nothing saved him from the way that tongue devoured him. Like it had all the time in the world. Like he was dessert served on a silver platter, and the ghost?
A starving king.
---
Nathan sobbed out a laugh.
"This isn't what they meant by full-service haunting."
But the ghost didn't answer.
Not with words.
Only with deeper licks. Firmer pressure. Sounds wet and sinful echoing through the room.
Nathan's legs shook violently, the pleasure building too fast, too sharp.
And when he came again, harder this time, messier, his moan wasn't a moan at all.
It was a cry.
Of surrender. Of madness. Of absolute ruin.
---
The mirror lit up one last time that night:
"Mine."
Nathan didn't argue.
He couldn't.
He just nodded---
And passed out.
A perfect, haunted mess.
---
Day 13.
Nathan woke up, body limp, butthole sore, and shaft kissed red from ghostly worship.
Sheets were clinging in places he didn't want to talk about.
His legs refused to move.
His neck had bite marks, from air.
He stared up at the ceiling fan like it could offer him therapy.
"You didn't hold back at all…"
His voice cracked.
The silence was suspiciously smug.
And then the mirror fogged.
"You begged."
Nathan groaned into his pillow.
---
Kitchen crawl of shame
He managed to crawl, crawl, to the kitchen, dragging a blanket behind him like a war survivor.
He poured water with trembling hands, only to feel a breeze lift his shirt and stroke his shaft.
Gently. Intimately. As if proud of its own sin.
"Stop it."
A whisper on his neck:
"Make me."
He gripped the counter.
The scene's memories flooded back.
---
Fridge Notes
A sticky note on the fridge door:
"Milk for the shaft. You'll need calcium."
"YOU'RE UNHINGED!"
A second note appeared on the toaster:
"And you love it."
---
Trying to leave
Nathan braved the front door.
Deep breath.
One hand on the knob.
And then—SLAP.
The ghost's invisible hand smacked his ass. Hard.
He gasped, jumped three feet forward, and dropped the grocery bag.
The mirror fogged once more.
"Claimed."
---
Evening whispers
When Nathan sat on the couch, a cool breeze kissed the back of his neck.
"Still sore?"
He nodded without thinking.
"Good."
The air curled around his ear.
"Tonight, I'm not letting you walk tomorrow either."
Nathan screamed into the cushion.
----
Nathan didn't remember when his knees gave out, only that he was suddenly lying there, chest heaving, body arching against an invisible weight that pinned him down with intention. His legs were parted, trembling. His arms sprawled, palms curling into the sheets as though they could ground him in this storm of sensation.
The air around him felt alive. Thick. Molten. Possessed.
Something unseen gripped his thighs again, spreading them wider like it had all the right in the world. The touch wasn't hesitant anymore, it was confident, knowing exactly where to press, where to tease, where to make him writhe. A hand he couldn't see held down his hip, firm enough to bruise if it were flesh.
Then—
Pressure.
Right at his ass. A deliberate drag. A grind that made his spine snap into a sharp curve, a moan bursting free from his lips before he could muffle it.
He bit down hard on the pillow.
"Hah—fuck..."
Another stroke. This one slower. Lingering. As though savoring him. The friction was maddening, slick and obscene, ghosting up and down between his legs, coaxing a heat from his belly that felt dangerously close to tipping.
Nathan bucked, helpless to stop the movement. He needed more, wanted more, and the phantom knew.
A cool breath tickled the back of his neck, followed by a whisper, low and firm:
"Mine."
Then it moved. Deep, like a pulse through every nerve. His hips jerked up, his toes curled, and the tension behind his eyes burned white. The phantom's weight pushed down as it kept thrusting, slow at first, then sharp and heavy. The rhythm was brutal, relentless.
And the sounds. Gods, the sounds.
Each stroke filled the room with wet, lewd squelches paired with Nathan's breathless gasps and bitten-back cries. His shaft slapping air echoed like thunder against silk, like he was being wrecked into another realm entirely.
He reached for something, anything, but found only air.
Fingers slipped down his chest, tracing the lines of his stomach, dragging up to pinch a nipple, then rolled it between two fingers with just the right pressure to have his body twitch.
Nathan sobbed a breath.
"Please…"
Was he begging? For it to stop? Or for more?
Even he didn't know.
The phantom didn't answer, it devoured. His back arched higher, another grind deep into his core, and Nathan shattered with a choked cry, his climax crashing into him like a tsunami, wrecking every thought, every breath, until he collapsed into the sheets, boneless.
It didn't stop.
Even after he came, the phantom kept moving, slower now, dragging out every oversensitive twitch with a cruel sort of affection.
Nathan whimpered. His legs shook.
And the last thing he heard before blacking out from overstimulation—
Was a soft kiss on the nape of his neck.
Then silence.
---
Nathan didn't even flinch anymore. He stopped counting the days he spent in his apartment.
The moment his legs were spread, he let them stay that way. He didn't fight, didn't squirm, didn't try to pretend he had control. He gave it up. All of it. Gladly.
Every moan he made wasn't muffled. He let them out. The walls could echo, the floor could creak, the neighbors could hear, and he still wouldn't stop.
Because this?
This was him, unfiltered. Vulnerable and aching, begging to be taken apart again and again. And the phantom, oh, it knew. It took its time, savoring him like a favorite melody, fingers he couldn't see tracing his ribs, tongue he couldn't feel licking fire up his spine.
Nathan arched into it.
Pressed into nothingness.
Whispered "yes" like a mantra, each time the phantom surged deeper, bolder.
He gripped the sheets, not to escape, but to anchor himself, because he knew if he didn't hold onto something, he'd float right off the bed. Weightless. Ravished. Unrecognizable from the man he used to be.
There were no lines left to cross.
Only territory to be claimed.
And Nathan, he'd already raised the white flag, thrown it down, and whispered, "Take me. All of me. Just don't stop."