Archive of Our Own ^beta

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The first few weeks are uneventful, blissfully quiet even. Jaemin finds a strange sort of peace in the stillness as though the house itself is allowing him to settle. It starts with a faint chill, the kind of cold that feels unnatural, creeping into Jaemin's bones even when the house is warm. A fleeting sensation of being watched. At first, he ignores it, blaming his unease on nerves, the stress of moving, or the strange loneliness that comes with living alone in a new place. Dismissible. Easily explained away. The house is old, charming in that way only old things can be.

Of course, old houses come with quirks—drafts, strange noises, flickering shadows. He tells himself it’s nothing, just the charm of an aging structure, and laughs it off as he settles into the worn embrace of his couch, the flicker of the TV bathing the room in soft, forgiving light.

Sometimes denial becomes futile.

Late one night, when the air feels too still and his mind too restless, Jaemin sits on his couch wrapped in the soft glow of his TV. The air feels off, heavier, the quiet pressing down on him. And then he feels it. A touch, light, almost hesitant.. Barely there at first, like the brush of a feather, just along his arm. His body stiffens. The touch lingers, deliberate and firm, sliding down his side, exploring him with intent. His skin prickles, and he jerks back instinctively, glancing around the room— but of course, he is alone.

Another touch. Softer this time, more tentative, just a whisper of pressure against his arm. His breath catches in his throat, and he holds it, waiting, hoping he’s imagining it. But there it is again, this time more insistent. He freezes, the blood draining from his face. The touch grows firmer, cold hands now roaming over his chest, his stomach, trailing lower with a sense of purpose. His breath hitches as fear begins to claw at his insides. Cold fingers trace the outline of his bones, lingering longer than anything imagined should.

His pulse quickens, breath stalling in his throat as fear surges beneath his skin, flooding his veins like ice. It feels like the house is reaching out, not content to simply be his home. The very walls seem to close in, the space no longer his own but something hostile, hungry. His stomach knots with fear but he tries to shake it off, dismiss the creeping sense of dread that gnaws at the edges of his sanity. Maybe he’s dreaming. That’s all it is, he tells himself—a dream, vivid and visceral, but nothing more. Yet the weight of the air around him, the cold touch on his skin, feels too real.

Jaemin thinks of standing, of breaking free from the unseen force holding him captive. His muscles tense as he tries to will himself upright, but before he can so much as twitch, an unseen hand shoves him deeper into the couch. His body locks in place, every limb useless. He's pinned as if the very air has turned solid, pressing heavily against him. The weight isn’t just heavy—it’s suffocating. The walls close in around him, and with each passing moment, the weight presses harder, pressing into his skin, suffocating him with the vastness of its emptiness. He cannot move. He cannot speak. 

There is no real struggle, no real resistance; there is only the immensity of it, vast and unrelenting, its invisible fingers digging into his chest, squeezing the breath from him, pulling the life out of the room until all that remains are faint puffs of breath the room eagerly swallows in the suffocating silence.

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Cold hands settle on Jaemin's shoulders, their grip firm yet eerily unhurried, gliding downward with a patience that feels predatory. The touch is deliberate, almost surgical, as though savoring the act of undoing him. His shirt is drawn away with ease, the fabric sliding free to expose his skin to the biting chill. He shivers, his breaths shallow and uneven, each inhale trembling in the icy stillness.

Another pair of hands finds his waist, more urgent, more insistent, stripping away the last barriers of cloth until he is left bare. The air feels colder against his skin now, but it is the fingers—those invasive, roaming fingers—that make him tremble. They map him with unspoken purpose, trailing over every inch of him, as if engraving his body into their memory. Each touch feels like a claim, a quiet assertion that he is no longer his own.

The air thickens around him, heavy with an almost tangible weight, as his fear blooms and coils within, an unbearable pressing against his ribs. He cannot move, cannot give voice to the terror clawing its way up his throat. He is ensnared, utterly powerless beneath the unseen entities that claim him, their presence an oppressive shadow that reduces him to nothing but a trembling fragment of himself.

Then, another presence. It does not touch him yet; its essence grazes the edges of his awareness, intimate and invasive, like a whisper too close to his ear. Slowly, something presses into his hand—an object rigid, pulsing with an unearthly warmth that seeps into him. His fingers curl around it without thought, drawn by a primal reflex. The heat spreads, insidious and electric, threading through him in a way that feels both comforting and corrupt. The sensation is disorienting, a grotesque mingling that clings to him like a shroud- the contrast alien and nauseating, a clash of sensations that worms its way into him, blurring the boundary between pleasure and pain. Each pulse sinks deeper, like an unseen hand carving into his very flesh, forcing him into a state of submission. His body rebels, yet it responds, quivering under the unholy pressure, as if his own flesh no longer belongs to him, but to the hungry darkness that encircles him.

Around him, they gather.

He cannot see them, but he feels their presence, closing in, brushing against the edges of his being. The air is heavy with them, with the unspoken promises and threats they carry. The cold hands linger, anchoring him, while the strange warmth pulses stronger, burrowing deeper into his core. His senses tangle, each overwhelmed by the oppressive intimacy of it all. The suffocating closeness, the inhuman heat, the chill that creeps like frost through his veins—each pulls at him, unmaking him one thread at a time.

And then Jaemin’s mind begins to spiral. Thoughts fragment, slipping away into the void, leaving behind only raw sensation, primal and consuming. The weight of them pressing down around him, a relentless force that crushes him into himself, suffocating him with a pressure that feels both unbearable and inevitable. He teeters on the edge, drawn into the chasm of their touch, knowing that the darkness will consume him—slowly, intimately—until there is nothing left but the empty echo of his surrender. The pull is unbearable, sickly, a desperate allure that promises relief, even as he knows it will strip him bare, unravel him piece by piece until nothing of him remains but the hollow imprint of his forced desire.

Before Jaemin can fully process what's happening, he's yanked to his feet, then thrust down onto his hands and knees as if he weighs nothing at all—like he is nothing more than a doll. Desperately, he struggles to rise, but it’s too late. He feels something hard, alien, line up against him—so tender and helpless. Pierced slowly, unrelentingly, forcing itself deep inside him inch by agonizing inch. It sinks into him. Slow. Unyielding. He gasps, his body trembling in terror as he fights against it, but another dark presence fills his mouth, cutting off any protest, silencing him but for a few trembling exhalations.

A faint whimper slips from his lips. He feels it again—something pressing against him, invading him. It pushes deeper, mercilessly stretching him until it feels like he’s going to tear apart. Pinned down, helpless, all he can do is submit as another member slides against the other, both teasing him with their presence. They take him—filling his every hole, using him for their own pleasure, without a word.

There's no need for words. 

Cold, invisible fingers coil around his shoulders, dragging him down into the cushions with a force that steals the air from his lungs. Instinctively, he tries to thrash but it doesn’t matter. The more Jaemin fights, the tighter their grips become—each movement precise, never faltering, as if they were designed for this moment. Panic rises, thick in his throat. His muscles tense, burn. Useless. He’s pinned helpless, trapped beneath the crushing weight of them.

They’re stronger than anything he’s ever known—stronger than his mind can fathom. Jaemin is tall and lean but that means nothing now. These entities, these things, give no respite, their presence crushing and constant, as if they have all the time in existence to torment him. Their hands work with an unnatural precision, tearing at his protestations. He struggles harder, muscles screaming in defiance, but they don’t care. They’re feeding off him, off his fear, his desperation. He gasps, but the air slips from his lungs in silence.

As Jaemin opens his mouth in a silent plea, he feels another intrusion slide between his lips. It is thick, relentless, silencing him further. The pressure in his throat makes him gag and this reflex makes Jaemin take them deeper. His arms tremble under the weight of everything, his body quaking as he feels  yet another sliding against his cheek, teasing him as though waiting its turn. 

They all move in sync, their rhythm brutal and efficient. Jaemin can only surrender, his mind on the edge of panic and exhaustion. The cold unseen fingers bruise skin, the invisible cocks forcing their way into him, filling him until all he can do is tremble and endure. Or surrender to the inevitability.

Jaemin’s vision blurs as tears spill down his face, the warmth of them a stark contrast to the coldness creeping through him. The presence tightens around him, suffocating in its intimacy, so close it feels like a second skin. They stretch through him, their weight unbearable, a darkness so thick it drowns his thoughts, pulling him into the depths of something ancient, unknowable. Yet beneath the terror, there is the unmistakable warmth of surrender, as if the very act of yielding to them would be a relief—a release from the suffocating pressure of resistance. He feels them curling around his heart, a gentle, coaxing pull, as if the darkness promises him a twisted kind of peace, a release from the madness they’re creating.

He trembles beneath their touch, helpless, his body a battleground between fear and something deeper, something that aches to let go. His skin is alive with the sensation of their presence, each pulse of their dark embrace pressing into him, filling him with terror and longing. They pull at him, pulling him toward the inevitable.

He hears nothing now, nothing but the thunderous pounding of his heart, each beat a reminder of his fragility. He is coming undone, unraveling in the face of the things inside him, and yet even as he shudders in fear, there is a quiet, insidious desire—the whisper of surrender, a taste of freedom in the very act of being consumed.

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They use him regularly now, filling him in every way imaginable. He can’t sleep, can’t eat without the oppressive weight of their presence hanging over him. Even during the day, when he should be free, he catches glimpses of them—shadows moving just out of sight, whispers curling around his thoughts, reminding him that there is no escape. Jaemin’s thoughts race back to the moment he first moved in. The excitement, the relief, the hope for a new beginning—all of it has been nothing. Nothing at all. 

Then comes the worst. It isn’t just their touch—it is the way they invade his mind. They feed off his fear, and with each beat of his heart, with each tremble in his body, they grow bolder, their touch becoming more insistent, more intimate.

One of them presses something warm and rigid into his hand. He recoils instinctively, but there is no escape. The object—no, the cock in his hand pulses like a heartbeat, thick and alive, defying any logic, any sense of reality. He wants to scream, to shatter the silence with a cry of defiance, but his throat tightens, bound by an invisible grip, and no sound escapes. It is as though the house itself swallows his voice, trapping him in an un-waking nightmare.

Every night is the same.

They come for him, unrelenting in their pursuit of his body and mind. Some nights, a flicker of resistance stirs within him, his courage flaring brighter than his dread. On these nights, he bolts for freedom, clutching at the fragile hope that enough distance might sever the chains binding him to this hell. Each time, Jaemin can almost taste the freedom, his limbs trembling as he races toward the door, his fingers reaching for the handle as though it might save him.

It never does.

The first time he tried to escape, it felt almost too easy. The car responded instantly to the press of the button, its doors unlocking with a soft click that sent a surge of relief through him. He slid into the driver’s seat, his breath coming fast and shallow, his fingers trembling as they hovered over the ignition button. Freedom so near it felt like a promise fulfilled.

But just as his finger grazed the button, the world shifted. The air outside the car seemed to ripple, bending and twisting like heat waves on asphalt. His stomach dropped as the sky spiraled above him, clouds churning unnaturally, the very fabric of reality buckling under some unseen force. And then it struck—a presence, massive and inescapable, wrapping around him like an iron grip.

He didn’t have time to scream. His body jerked violently, wrenched from the seat as if by invisible hands. The car door slammed shut behind him, trapping the faint echo of hope inside. He was dragged backward, feet skimming uselessly over the driveway, his terror mounting as the front door loomed closer, its frame warping, yawning open to swallow him whole. The last thing he saw before the door slammed shut behind him was his car, silent and empty, the promise of escape mocking him from where he had almost—almost—made it, slamming it behind him with a finality that echoes through his bones.

But those nights have become rare. Each time they claim him, they grow stronger, more determined and Jaemin grows a little less courageous, less resistant. He wonders if they savor his struggle, the way they play with his fragile hope, stealing it just when it seems within reach, as though the very act of breaking him is an indulgence.

And when they do claim him, it is always brutal, overwhelming. They pin him down, force themselves upon him, fill him in ways that make his body shudder and quake with fear and something else, something darker that he won’t admit even to himself. He tries to resist, but his body betrays him, reacting to their presence in ways he doesn’t want to understand. It is more than just physical torment—it is a violation of his very being, a reminder that he no longer owns himself. 

He’s started calling them spirits, ghosts, entities. “It doesn’t matter”, he says under their ever watchful presence. “It doesn’t matter what they are. They’re hurting me and I can’t stop them. They’ll never let me go.” The house is no sanctuary, no refuge—it is a creature of timber and stone that has coaxed him into its belly, severed his ties to the world outside, and now thrives on his suffering. It devours his fear like sustenance, drinks deeply of his despair, and claims even his flesh as its prize.

No one believes his story. Eyes avert, polite nods feign sympathy, but their silence screams louder than any denial. He tries to record the entities, setting up cameras and other instruments in every corner of the house. But each time, the footage is corrupted, distorted, as if the very air around him bends to their will. And still, they let him upload fragments, faint whispers of his ordeal, as if to mock him, to keep him tethered to the maddening ambiguity of truth and delusion.

Lately, he wonders if it even matters anymore. His circle of friends has dwindled to almost nothing, their patience worn thin by his frantic calls and fragmented explanations. Isolation felt inevitable long ago, a shadow he can’t escape. Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe it’s easier to stop resisting, to let them take what they want, to give himself over completely. The thought is a cold comfort: if he surrenders, maybe they’ll tire of him. Maybe, once they’ve consumed all he has to offer, they’ll release him and wait for the next unfortunate soul to cross the threshold.

The fight feels futile, his rebellion an insult to forces far greater than himself. They come for him nightly, relentless and ravenous, claiming him as their own. Each encounter erodes his will, carving away the fragile pieces of his identity. He can feel it happening—his mind unraveling, his resolve slipping through his fingers like sand.

And yet, the most terrifying moments are not those of possession or torment. They are the fleeting whispers in his own mind, urging him to let go. To give in fully. To allow them to consume him until nothing of him remains. He tries to resist, but the effort weakens with every passing night.

Because no matter how fiercely he fights, no matter how desperately he clings to the shreds of his humanity, they always win. They always will. And some part of him knows that this is the end he’s been heading toward all along—an existence where he is nothing more than a vessel for their insatiable hunger. Not just his body, but his surrender, his complete and utter submission to their will. The thought terrifies him, but every encounter leaves him more hollow, more fragile, until the resistance he clings to feels as insubstantial as his eroding sense of self.

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The tears continue to fall down his cheeks in hot, silent streams mingling with the cold sweat that clings to his skin. The intruding presence fills his soul completely, a presence both foreign and intimate, stretching through him like a dark tide. It presses into every crevice of his being, agonizing and overwhelming, yet there is something insidiously seductive in the way it moves—twisting, claiming, as if it has always been a part of him, waiting to emerge. He cannot escape it, cannot fight against the slow burn of its touch as it threads through his thoughts, drowning them in a wave of corruption.

His body reacts against him, trembling beneath its weight, as if each breath pulls him deeper into its grasp, into the thing that is both outside and within him. His senses distort, every sensation heightened. The presence grows inside him, filling the empty spaces with cold hunger, a terrible ache that claws at his chest, while a strange warmth unfurls in the pit of his stomach—something twisted, perverse, but undeniable in its allure.

He hears nothing now, nothing but the thunderous pounding of his heart, each beat a brutal reminder of his fragility, each pulse a reminder of how much he is slipping away, piece by piece, into the suffocating depths of their grasp. He knows he is being consumed, but even in his terror, there is the unmistakable stir of something deeper—something that wants to surrender, to let them in fully, to allow the darkness to fill him completely and erase whatever remains of his former self.

As he lies there, pinned beneath their weight, their presence suffocating and inescapable, he feels the final embers of defiance flicker and die. The fight has left him, drained away like blood from an open wound. He tells himself that surrender is easier, that it is the only choice left to him. He will give them what they want—tonight, tomorrow, and every night after. He will let them use him, until they are finished, until they grow bored, or until he loses himself entirely. They will take from him endlessly, and he will endure, hollow and obedient, until there is nothing left to take.

And when that time comes, when his identity has been stripped bare, his spirit consumed, and his name forgotten even by himself, the house will fall silent. Its hunger sated, its shadows will recede into the walls, leaving only an echo of the torment it has wrought. It will bide its time, patient and knowing, its appetite never truly abated. The house is not alive, but it breathes. It is not sentient, but it desires. And when the next tenant arrives, carrying their naïve hopes and fragile dreams across the threshold, the house will again stir.

For the house does not merely wait; it yearns. Its halls ache with longing, its beams groan with anticipation. The emptiness within it is insatiable, and it will lure, consume, and devour, as it always has, as it always will. It is a creature of eternity, a silent predator clothed in stone and wood, and it will never be full. Not until the last light dies and the world crumbles into silence will the house cease its feast. And even then, it will not starve—it will simply wait as it always has.