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 ghost'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.