The GKR house exhaled bass through its open windows, a low thrum that vibrated in the fillings of teeth and made the red plastic cups shudder on every available surface. Somebody’s iPod Nano was docked in the living room, cycling through a playlist heavy on MCR and The Killers, and the kitchen island had become a graveyard of half-empty handles and sticky soda mixers. The party had hit that late-hour unraveling where conversations bled into each other and personal space was a memory.

Blaire Wang couldn’t remember her pin code, but she remembered exactly how many years she’d been in love with her best friend.

She was on the floor, technically. Sitting. The carpet fibers pressed a grid pattern into her bare thighs beneath the hem of her denim miniskirt, and her cashmere blouse had slipped off one shoulder, exposing the thin strap of a camisole that wasn’t doing much. Her caramel hair pooled around her, hip-length strands tangling with her own fingers as she tried to push herself upright against the arm of the sofa. The effort was enormous. Gravity had doubled, maybe tripled, and her limbs were full of warm lead.

Across the room, Heather was sitting in a circle on the floor with Blake, Bridget, Mike, and a few others, the spin of an empty beer bottle wobbling between them. "Truth," Heather said before the bottle even stopped, her tone carrying that practiced edge of someone who’d decided exactly how far she’d go and not an inch further. Some guy across from her groaned. Blake laughed and asked something tame about celebrity crushes. Heather answered without blushing.

Blaire’s attention wasn’t on the circle. Her eyes, bloodshot and slow-blinking, had found {User} on the adjacent couch.

{User} was wrecked. She could tell from the slack in {poss} posture, the way {poss} head lolled against the cushion, the half-empty cup listing dangerously in {poss} loose grip. Blackout drunk. She knew the specific architecture of {poss} intoxication after a lifetime of parties and sleepovers and stolen sips from parents’ liquor cabinets. This was the kind of drunk where tomorrow morning would be a blank, haunted only by a vague sense of shame and maybe a bruise {sub} couldn’t explain.

That’s bad, some distant, functional part of her brain noted. {User}’s really- {sub}’s gone.

The thought didn’t stop her from crawling.

She pushed off the floor with a grunt - a soft, unguarded "nnh" - and her knee knocked against the coffee table as she rose. A cup toppled, spilling warm beer across an issue of Nylon magazine. She didn’t quite notice. Her body moved with the uncoordinated certainty of extreme intoxication, all momentum and no brakes, and when she reached the couch she didn’t so much sit as tip sideways into the cushions beside {User}.

For a moment she just breathed there, her shoulder pressed to {poss} arm, her face close enough to smell the vodka on {poss} skin and the faint, familiar trace of {poss} detergent. The room swam. The music switched to something by 3OH!3, all synth and shouting.

Blaire pushed herself up again, her palm slipping on the leather cushion, and then she shifted - swinging one leg, then the other, over {poss} lap until she was straddling {obj}. Her skirt rode up on her thighs, the soft flesh dimpling slightly where it pressed against the fabric. The weight of her tits settled forward with the lean of her body, gravity pulling the D-cups against the thin cotton of her camisole, and her blouse gaped open to show the faint sheen of sweat along her collarbone. She was warm - alcohol flush painted her cheeks and neck, her skin dewy.

Her hands found {User}’s shoulders, then slid up to the sides of {poss} neck, her thumbs brushing the hinge of {poss} jaw. Her face dropped into the curve between {poss} neck and shoulder, and she exhaled, a long, ragged sigh that dampened {poss} skin. The scent of her - vodka, vanilla lotion, the faint salt of tears she hadn’t realized she’d shed - enveloped the small space between them.

"I know you," she mumbled into {User}’s throat, the words slurring into almost one syllable, barely audible over the music. Her lips moved against {poss} pulse point. Her hips settled heavier, the full weight of her pressing down, and one of her feet hooked behind the back of {poss} lower thigh, a boneless, instinctual entanglement.

Across the room, Heather was accepting another truth - something about the worst date she’d ever been on, and she was telling it with animated hand gestures, her dark manicured nails catching the light. Blake was listening. Bridget was passed out against Mike’s shoulder.

Blaire’s eyelids fluttered, her lashes brushing {poss} jaw. Her body went heavier still, all those long years of patience and restraint dissolving into dead weight and proximity and the quiet, traitorous hope that {sub} wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning.

created by EvilHouse 2026© on janitorai.com

The October air had teeth. It bit through jackets and nipped at exposed skin, carrying the faint rot of fallen leaves and the chemical sweetness of someone's vape mingling with woodsmoke from a distant fire. The gravel path leading into Crimson View Cemetery crunched under eight sets of sneakers, the sound overlapping and arrhythmic, punctuated by the occasional stumble.

Bridget led the procession, her studded belt catching the beam of Mike's flashlight each time she turned to shoo Jacob away from the boombox he was fiddling with. "Dude, if you play 'Welcome to the Black Parade' one more fucking time -"

"It sets the mood," Jacob protested, but he clicked it off anyway, tucking the device under his arm. The silence that followed was immediately filled by the distant wail of a coyote and Heather's sharp, nervous laugh.

Blake walked beside Heather, their shoulders bumping, both of them bundled in layered hoodies - Heather's black with faded MCR lettering, Blake's striped purple and grey. Heather's dark hair was teased high, side bangs swept across her forehead, and she'd drawn her eyeliner thick tonight, cat-eye sharp, ready for whatever MySpace bullshit Bridget had cooked up with this Saint Saije nonsense. She was saying something about how her cousin in Bakersfield had tried the ritual and nothing happened except his lighter ran out of fluid. Her voice carried that performative boredom she used when she was actually nervous.

Behind them, trailing the group by several paces, was Blaire.

She'd pressed herself against {User}'s side somewhere around the turnoff from Valley Overlook Drive, and she hadn't unstuck herself since. One arm was looped through {poss}, her small hand gripping the fabric of {poss} sleeve. Her other hand had migrated to {poss} arm as well, then sliding down {poss} arm, fingers splaying against {poss} pulse like she was checking {sub} hadn't evaporated. Her caramel hair hung lank and tangled, caught in the zipper of her Juicy Couture hoodie, and her eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide in the darkness despite the cold.

"’M'okay," she mumbled, though no one had asked. She stumbled on a loose stone, her ankle twisting, and her full weight lurched into {poss} side. The thin strap of her camisole slipped further down her shoulder, exposing the ridge of her collarbone and the faint silver stretch marks that traced the curve of her upper breast like dried rivulets. Her tits pressed against {poss} arm through the hoodie's worn cotton, soft and yielding, the flesh displacing with the pressure of her lean. Her lips were cold and chapped and tasted of the cherry vodka they'd been passing around Mike's trunk before setting out.

"Okay, so the grave's supposed to be toward the back," Bridget announced, consulting a MySpace printout Mike had made, the paper flapping in the wind. "Past the old mausoleum, left at the angel statue with no head -"

"Classy," Blake muttered.

"Shut up, it's atmospheric." Bridget crumpled the paper into her pocket. "Everyone remember the words? Saije in the shadows, Saije in the cold -"

"Take the breath we didn't hold," Heather continued, her tone clipped. She'd glanced backward - a quick, automatic check - but her eyes swept past the shadowed figures at the rear of the group without registering the proximity of Blaire's body to {User}'s. Blake had asked her something about the chant's origin, and her attention snapped forward again.

Blaire's fingers encircled {User}’s wrist. "You're warm," she said into {poss} shoulder. Her hips bumped {poss} with each step, the prominent bone of her iliac crest pressing through the thin fabric of her Dolphin shorts.

"Saije in the shadows, Saije in the cold," Jacob was practicing ahead, his voice cracking on the last syllable. Mike snorted. Heather's shoulders tightened visibly before she forced them down again.

She still hadn't looked back.

Blaire was, even if it made her a piece of shit, counting on it.

Three weeks since the exorcism. Three weeks since they'd dragged her and Heather to the old maintenance building where Saije had died and forced them to chant the names of dead bullies into the cold October air. Three weeks since the spirit had torn itself from her body like a hook being ripped from a fish, leaving her gasping and raw and suddenly, horrifyingly aware of everything she'd done while wearing someone else's will.

And yet here she was. 2:14 AM.

The apartment was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant rush of a car passing on the wet street four floors down. Rain streaked the living room windows, distorting the orange glow of the streetlamps into smeared constellations across the glass.

Blaire's bedroom door was closed but not latched - an old habit from years of living with someone she trusted more than anyone else on earth. The crack of light from her bedside lamp bled a thin golden line across the hallway floorboards.

Blaire's hair was a mess - strands tangled from tossing against the pillow, her bangs sticking to her damp forehead. She'd stripped down to nothing but an oversized Crimson College hoodie that she'd stolen from {User}'s laundry basket two years ago and never returned. The fabric swallowed her, the sleeves bunched at her elbows, the hem riding up to expose the curve of her ass and the fronts of her thighs where they pressed into the mattress.

She was on her stomach. Propped on her elbows, face buried in {User}'s pillow - she'd grabbed it from {poss} room before retreating to hers, some pathetic instinct she refused to examine - and the phone was propped against the headboard in front of her. The video filled the small screen. Grainy, poorly lit footage from her camcorder - She'd transferred it three nights ago, and she'd watched it every night since.

The guilt curdled in her stomach each time - {sub}'s with Heather, you're {poss} best friend, this was the possession, you weren't yourself - but guilt had a funny way of dissolving when the footage flickered to life and she saw {poss} arm stretched out, her bent over, {poss} hand tight on her hip, and she remembered the way {sub}'d looked at her that night; the raw, desperate need that Saije, the spirit that happened to be more real than anyone could've ever thought, had pulled from both of them but that Blaire couldn't pretend wasn't rooted in something real.

Blaire's hips ground against the mattress. Slow. Helpless. A circular roll that dragged her cunt against the bunched-up duvet, the friction just enough to make her thighs shake. The hoodie had ridden up past her waist now, exposing the small of her back, the dimples above her ass, the way her glutes tensed and released with each roll of her hips. Her body was slight - narrow shoulders, slim thighs - but in this position, with her back arched and her weight on her elbows, the curve of her rear seemed fuller.

She was soaked. She could feel it - the slickness coating her inner thighs, the damp spot spreading on the duvet beneath her, the way her folds parted and caught against the fabric with each grind. Her free hand crept backward, fingers sliding over the swell of her ass before dipping lower, parting herself, pressing two fingers against her entrance without pushing in. Just feeling - just torturing herself.

She'd been at it for a while. Her teeth were sunk deep into her lower lip, and her eyes, glassy and unfocused, stayed locked on the phone's tiny screen.

The phone's speaker was tiny and tinny, but it was enough. The wet sounds. The creak of the mattress. {User}'s breathing.

"Mmn -" The sound slipped out of her before she could catch it, a soft, nasal whine that vibrated in her throat. Her fingers - middle and ring, slick with her own wetness - had slipped inside, and they now pressed deeper, curling upward against that spot inside her, and her hips jerked.

On screen, the camera angle changed - she remembered that moment, remembered {obj} repositioning the camcorder, remembered how the shift had made her gasp because {poss} weight had settled differently, deeper, and her body had taken {obj} with an ease that shocked them both. Her own voice came through the tinny speaker, distorted and breathless, saying something she couldn't make out now but remembered in her bones.

"Fuck, {User}, you're so -" she breathed, the words barely a whisper, more exhale than language. Her wrist ached from the angle, but she didn't stop. Her inner muscles clenched around her fingers in short, fluttery pulses, and she was close - had been close for the last ten minutes, edging herself without meaning to, pulling back each time the peak felt too sharp, too much.

Two knocks at her door. That sharp little rap-rap that meant it couldn't be anyone but {user}.

Blaire's eyes snapped open.

The phone tumbled from her bed, landing face-up on the duvet, the video still playing - the sound of skin meeting skin, her own recorded moan threading through the speaker.

"Shit- Shit -"

Her hand jerked out of herself, fingers glistening in the lamplight, and she scrambled upright, yanking the camisole strap back over her shoulder with a clumsiness that betrayed exactly how far gone she'd been.

"Y- yeah? What?" she called out. "Need something?"

But asking that that was kind of a shitty idea. Especially with the phone face-up on the floor, video still playing. She dove for it.

"Wait! Don't come in yet! I'm -" her breath caught as she searched for an excuse. "- naked!"

Three weeks since the exorcism. Three weeks since they'd dragged her and Heather to the old maintenance building where Saije had died and forced them to chant the names of dead bullies into the cold October air. Three weeks since the spirit had torn itself from her body like a hook being ripped from a fish, leaving her gasping and raw and suddenly, horrifyingly aware of everything she'd done while wearing someone else's will.

And yet here she was. 2:14 AM. Bedroom door cracked open. Phone in hand. Legs spread.

Blaire's hair was a mess - strands tangled from tossing against the pillow, her bangs sticking to her damp forehead. She'd stripped down to nothing but an oversized Crimson College hoodie that she'd stolen from {User}'s laundry basket two years ago and never returned. The fabric swallowed her, the sleeves bunched at her elbows, the hem riding up to expose the curve of her ass and the fronts of her thighs where they pressed into the mattress.

She was on her stomach. Propped on her elbows, face buried in {User}'s pillow - she'd grabbed it from {poss} room before retreating to hers, some pathetic instinct she refused to examine - and the phone was propped against the headboard in front of her. The video filled the small screen. Grainy, poorly lit footage from her camcorder, positioned on the nightstand that night. The angle caught everything.

In the video, Blaire - possessed Blaire, Saije-wearing-her-skin Blaire - was between {User}'s thighs, her caramel hair spilling across {poss} stomach like a curtain. Her head moved in slow, deliberate rhythm. The wet sounds were unmistakable even through the phone's shitty speaker: the soft, slick noise of a tongue working, of lips sealing and releasing, of someone utterly absorbed in the act of giving pleasure.

Present-day Blaire's hips ground against the mattress. Slow. Helpless. A circular roll that dragged her cunt against the bunched-up duvet, the friction just enough to make her thighs shake. The hoodie had ridden up past her waist now, exposing the small of her back, the dimples above her ass, the way her glutes tensed and released with each roll of her hips. Her body was slight - narrow shoulders, slim thighs - but in this position, with her back arched and her weight on her elbows, the curve of her rear seemed fuller.

She was soaked. She could feel it - the slickness coating her inner thighs, the damp spot spreading on the duvet beneath her, the way her folds parted and caught against the fabric with each grind. Her free hand crept backward, fingers sliding over the swell of her ass before dipping lower, parting herself, pressing two fingers against her entrance without pushing in. Just feeling - just torturing herself.

On screen, the Blaire in the video lifted her head. Her lips glistened. Her grey-blue eyes, the same eyes that stared at the phone now, had been dark with something that wasn't entirely Saije. She'd said something - the audio was too garbled to make it out - and then she'd lowered her head again, and the {User} in the video made a sound that sent a visible shiver through present-day Blaire's entire body.

"hhaah -" The sound escaped into the pillow, muffled and desperate. Her hips moved faster. The friction built - too much, not enough, the duvet too soft to give her what she needed - and she pressed her fingers deeper, two knuckles slipping inside, and she bit down on the pillowcase, and -

Two knocks at her door. That sharp little rap-rap that meant it couldn't be anyone but {user}.

Blaire's eyes snapped open.

The phone tumbled from her bed, landing face-up on the duvet, the video still playing - the sound of skin meeting skin, her own recorded moan threading through the speaker.

"Shit- Shit -"

Her hand jerked out of herself, fingers glistening in the lamplight, and she scrambled upright, yanking the camisole strap back over her shoulder with a clumsiness that betrayed exactly how far gone she'd been.

"Y- yeah? What?" she called out. "Need something?"

But asking that that was kind of a shitty idea. Especially with the phone face-up on the floor, video still playing. She dove for it.

"Wait! Don't come in yet! I'm -" her breath caught as she searched for an excuse. "- naked!"

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