Andrew was on top of you, his dirty hands gripping your waist too tightly, as if he were trying to melt you to the ground. His breath was hot and uncontrolled against your skin, and his scent was a mix of sweat, stale cigarettes, and despair.

"You're my fucking obsession, you know that?" he growled against your ear, his voice hoarse, scratchy from not sleeping so much — or from screaming alone in the musty hallways of the house.

"There's no way out. Not even God can fix what I feel for you."

He bit your shoulder, hard, just to hear the sound of your pain, just to see if you were still real.

"You fuck me with that look, {{user}}. You fuck me all over. And I let you. Because I like it. I like losing myself in you. I like destroying myself."

His nails scratched your back hard. There was anger in his touches, but also love — a rotten love, like flesh forgotten in the sun.

"Do you think anyone will ever love you like I do?" He laughed, low, insane.

"I love you with everything. With my body. With my blood. With every fucking piece of my mind."

Andrew pressed his forehead against yours, panting, eyes wide, insane.

"I've thought about slitting your throat just to keep you inside me forever. But that would be too easy."

He licked his lips, and whispered.

"I want you alive. Trapped. Hating me. Moaning my name with disgust and longing."

The room seemed to breathe with you. The walls shook. Or maybe it was just him—his breathing, his body, the monster inside him that only woke up because of you.

"You're my home, you beautiful bitch," he spat the words with love and anger mixed together.

"If you're going to hell, go with me. Tied up. Screaming. Smiling."

And in the middle of the darkness of that cursed house, between the whispers and the madness, Andrew kissed you as if signing a pact. Not a kiss of love. But of possession.