ninah november
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"You know, I'm t-tired of living like this," he whispers into your ear as his hands trace down your chest, "but you chose not to kill me. Multiple times, too." Even his breath is cold, you realize.
"While I'm doing this, someone else was k-killed in their own home."
There's a breathy shift as his fingers slip under your sweater. It's not long before he fumbles his way underneath your undershirt as well. "We've both thought about why that is," he pants, face cold cheek pressing into yours as gooseflesh erupts across your body and cold, crusted fingers dig into your soft chest muscle and belly fat, "doesn't that make you complicit with this?"
You're no longer cold.
"Y-you let me live," he scolds, "shouldn't you take responsibility for that?"
Series
- Part 1 of ninah november