The water was warm against his ankles, almost incongruously so against the cool air of Waterfall. Frisk stood motionless in the shallow pool, the steam curling around his calves like something alive, and listened to the drip of stones somewhere in the dark above him. The sound was constant, patient, the only rhythm in a place that felt older than time. His shoulders ached from the journey — the long climb through Snowdin's frost, the damp corridors that led here — and the heat of the water was doing something dangerous to his muscles, loosening a tension he'd been carrying since the ruins.
He exhaled slowly, watching his breath fog and vanish. The blue of his sweater was dark with moisture at the hem, clinging to his skin. Behind him, the path he'd come from was swallowed by shadow. Ahead, the glow of glowing mushrooms cast everything in a soft cyan wash, the light reflecting off the still water in ripples that never quite settled.
He was alone. He'd been alone for so long that the silence felt like a companion, something he carried with him the way he carried his worn sneakers and the thin layer of dust that clung to them. He closed his eyes and let the warmth seep into his legs, his thighs, the ache that had settled low in his belly over the past weeks of walking, fighting, running.
That ache was the worst part. It had started as a distant discomfort, a thing he could ignore during the day, but at night it grew sharper, more insistent. The dreams had come unbidden — bodies pressing against his, hands finding him in the dark, a voice whispering things he couldn't quite remember when he woke. He'd wake hard and aching, his breath short, his skin hot, and he'd lie there in the dark and wait for it to pass.
It wasn't passing tonight. The warm water, the steam, the solitude — it all pressed against him, and he felt the heat gather low in his body, a familiar and unwelcome weight. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and the movement only made it worse, the fabric of his shorts pulling against him.
He didn't hear her arrive. One moment the dark was empty; the next, a shape stood at the edge of the pool, watching him. Frisk's breath caught, his hand moving instinctively toward the worn knife at his belt — but the shape didn't move, didn't threaten. It simply stood there, a pale figure in the gloom, and when she stepped into the faint glow of the mushrooms, he saw her face.
Red eyes. Brown hair falling long and straight past her shoulders. A green-and-yellow sweater that seemed to glow faintly in the dark, as if the fabric itself held a light of its own. She was smiling — a slow, knowing smile that made something cold and hot twist in his stomach at once.
He knew her. He didn't know how, but he knew her — the way you know a voice from a dream, the way you recognize a face you've never seen. She stepped into the water without a sound, her bare feet breaking the surface without a ripple, and walked toward him with a predator's grace.
"You've been traveling so long," she murmured, and her voice was soft, almost kind, with an edge beneath it that made his skin prickle. "All that walking. All that fighting. And no one to help you with the... tension."
His mouth was dry. He tried to step back, but the water seemed to hold him, the warmth of it lapping at his calves like a hand. She closed the distance between them, stopping close enough that he could feel the cool air around her, the strange absence of warmth where her body should have been.
"Don't run," she said, and it wasn't a request. "You've been running for so long, Frisk. Just... let yourself stop."
Her hand rose, and he flinched — but she didn't strike. Her fingers found the hem of his sweater, tracing the line of it where it met his shorts, and then lower, her touch feather-light through the damp fabric. He felt her fingers trace the outline of him, the shape of his cock straining against the wet cloth, and a sound escaped his throat that he couldn't name.
"There he is," she breathed, her smile widening. "All that determination, all that resolve... and this is what it's been building to." Her fingers curled, pressing against him through the fabric, and his knees buckled slightly. "You've been so good. So brave. Don't you think you deserve a reward?"
He couldn't answer. His voice had gone somewhere he couldn't reach, somewhere deep in the dark water. She stepped closer, her body brushing against his, and he felt the strange coolness of her skin through his sweater, a chill that made him shiver even as the heat between his legs grew unbearable.
"I'm going to take care of you," she said, and her voice was a promise and a threat at once. "The way you've been needing. The way you've been dreaming about."
She dropped to her knees in the shallow water, and the splash of it was the loudest sound in the cave. Her hands found his waistband, working the wet fabric loose with practiced ease, and he stood frozen, his hands hanging useless at his sides, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
The cool air hit his skin, and then her hand was around him, her fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, and he felt the impossible softness of her palm against the aching hardness of him. She stroked him once, slow, from base to tip, and his hips bucked forward involuntarily.
"So eager," she murmured, her red eyes fixed on him, watching his face. "I like that."
She leaned forward, and her breath — cool, impossibly cool — washed over the head of his cock, and he felt himself throb in her grip. Then her lips parted, and her mouth opened, and she took him inside.
Heat. Impossible, sudden heat, flooding through him as her mouth closed around him, her tongue pressing flat against the underside of his shaft. He gasped, his hands flying out, finding nothing to hold in the dark — just air, just the steam, just the echo of dripping stones. Her head moved, slow and deliberate, taking him deeper, and he felt the back of her throat give way, opening to accept him.
She swallowed around him, and the pressure of it made his vision blur. Her hands came up to grip his hips, holding him steady, and she began to move — a slow, torturous rhythm that pulled him to the edge of his mouth and pushed him back down, her throat opening again and again, her tongue teasing the sensitive underside of him with every pass.
"Oh —" The word tore from his throat, raw and broken. "Oh, fuck —"
She hummed around him, a low vibration that traveled through his entire body, and he felt his knees weaken. The warm water lapped at his thighs, the steam curled around them, and her mouth was everywhere — hot, wet, demanding, taking him deeper than he'd ever been taken, her throat opening to swallow him whole.
Her hands moved, one gripping his hip, the other sliding up beneath his sweater to press against his stomach, her fingers cool against his flushed skin. She pulled back until only the tip of him remained in her mouth, and then she dove forward, taking him all the way, her nose brushing against his belly, her throat clenching around him.
He cried out, his hands finding her hair — long, silky, cool to the touch — and gripping it without meaning to. She didn't pull away. She held him there, buried to the hilt in her throat, and swallowed again, and again, and he felt the pressure building in his balls, the desperate, aching need to come.
She pulled back, gasping, a string of saliva connecting her lips to the head of his cock, and looked up at him with those red eyes, her smile wicked and wet.
"Not yet," she said, her voice low and teasing. "I'm not done with you."
She took him again, faster this time, her head bobbing with a rhythm that made his thoughts scatter. Her tongue traced the vein on the underside of his cock, flicked across the sensitive ridge just below the head, and he felt himself twitch in her mouth, so close, so desperately close.
"Please," he heard himself say, the word barely a whisper. "Please, I —"
She pulled off him entirely, her hand wrapping around his slick, aching cock, stroking him slowly as she looked up at him with that terrible, beautiful smile.
"Please what?" she asked, her voice innocent and cruel. "Please make you come? Or please stop?"
He couldn't answer. His mind was a blank, white-hot haze, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. She watched him, savoring his desperation, and then she leaned forward and took him in her mouth again, slow and deep, and he felt the world tilt.
His knees gave out. He dropped to the slick stone, the water splashing around him, and she followed him down, never breaking her rhythm, her mouth working him with relentless, torturous skill. He lay back against the warm rock, the steam curling around them, and let her take him apart.
Her tongue circled the head of his cock, dipped into the slit, tasted the pre-cum beading there. She moaned around him, a low, hungry sound, and he felt himself throb in response. Her hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently, and he arched off the stone, a broken cry tearing from his throat.
"That's it," she breathed, pulling back just enough to speak, her lips brushing against the head of his cock. "Let me feel you. Let me taste you."
She took him deep again, her throat opening to swallow him whole, and this time he couldn't hold back. He came with a shuddering cry, his hips bucking into her mouth, his release flooding her throat. She swallowed it all, her throat working around him, her eyes — those terrible, beautiful red eyes — never leaving his face.
She pulled off him slowly, a final, lingering kiss pressed to the head of his cock, and sat back on her heels in the shallow water. Her lips were red and swollen, slick with spit, and she smiled at him with a satisfaction that made his stomach flip.
"See?" she murmured, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from her face. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
He couldn't speak. His chest heaved, his body limp and trembling against the warm stone, the water lapping at his sides. She watched him for a long moment, and then she reached up and caught the hem of her green-and-yellow sweater, pulling it slowly over her head.
The fabric peeled away from her pale skin, revealing the smooth curve of her shoulders, the delicate line of her collarbone, the small, perfect swell of her breasts. She let the sweater fall to the water, where it floated like a ghost, and met his eyes with a smile that promised everything she hadn't yet done.
"I'm not finished with you," she said softly, her red eyes gleaming in the dark. "Not even close."
She stood over him, pale and luminous in the cyan glow, and let the last of her clothing fall. Her shorts joined the sweater in the water, and she stepped out of them naked, her body a ghost of moonlight against the dark stone. He watched her through the haze of his spent, trembling body, and something in his chest ached at the sight of her — the small, perfect breasts, the curve of her hips, the lean line of her thighs. She was beautiful in a way that hurt, beautiful the way a memory hurts when you can't quite hold it.
She knelt over him, straddling his hips, and the cool weight of her settled against him. Her skin was smooth and faintly luminous, and where she touched him he felt a strange current, like static before a storm. She reached down and took his cock in her hand — still slick from her mouth, still half-hard, already stirring again at her touch — and guided it to the wet heat between her legs.
"You've given me one," she murmured, her red eyes fixed on his. "But I want everything. Every drop you have left."
She sank down onto him, and the world narrowed to the sensation of her — cool and tight and impossibly slick, her body opening around him like the water itself was parting to receive him. He gasped, his hands flying to her hips, and she smiled down at him with that terrible, beautiful patience.
"That's it," she breathed. "Let me feel all of you."
She rose, slow, until only the tip of him remained inside her, and then she dropped, taking him to the root in one smooth motion. The sound that tore from his throat was raw, broken, nothing like the sounds he'd made before. She did it again, and again, settling into a rhythm that was almost lazy, almost cruel in its leisure, and he felt the heat building in him again, impossible and urgent, the ache in his balls a deep, desperate throb.
"You feel that?" she asked, her voice low and teasing. "That's me, taking everything you've been holding. All that tension, all that loneliness — give it to me."
She leaned forward, her breasts brushing against his chest, and her mouth found his ear, her breath cool against his skin. "I'm going to ride you until there's nothing left, Frisk. Until you're empty. Until you can't remember what it felt like to want."
He couldn't answer. His hands found her hips, gripping the cool, smooth skin, and he let her set the pace, let her take what she wanted. Her cunt gripped him with every stroke, tight and wet, and he could feel himself swelling inside her, the impossible hardness returning, the pressure building low in his belly.
She sat up, straightening her spine, and the motion drove him deeper, a new angle that made his vision blur. She rode him slow, grinding her hips in a circle at the bottom of each stroke, and he felt the head of his cock press against something inside her that made her gasp, her eyes fluttering closed, her head tilting back.
"There," she breathed. "Right there. Don't stop."
She wasn't talking to him. She was talking to herself, to the rhythm of her own hips, and he was just the instrument she used to chase it. She rode him harder, faster, the slap of her thighs against his hips echoing off the stone, and he felt the pressure building, the desperate need to come, the knowledge that she wanted it, that she was taking it from him whether he was ready or not.
She leaned forward again, and her breast brushed against his mouth — small, perfect, the nipple a pale rose against the ghostly white of her skin. He opened his mouth without thinking, and she guided it in, and the sensation was overwhelming — the weight of it on his tongue, the cool smoothness of her skin, the way she moaned as he sucked, drawing the whole breast into his mouth like a jawbreaker, filling his mouth with her.
"Yes," she gasped, her hips stuttering on him. "Yes, suck me, take me, all of me —"
He sucked her, his tongue working against the nipple, and she cried out, her cunt clenching around him, a wave of heat flooding through her body that he felt in every nerve. She came around him, her body shuddering, and the sensation of it — her walls gripping him, pulsing, milking him — pushed him over the edge, and he came inside her, his hips bucking up into her, his release flooding her, hot and thick, the second time in an hour that he'd emptied himself into her.
She rode him through it, grinding against him, taking every drop, and when he finally went limp beneath her, she sat up, her red eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
"That was just the beginning," she said. "I told you. I want everything."
She didn't stop. She kept riding him, slow and relentless, and he felt himself stirring again — impossible, painful, the ache in his balls a deep, desperate throb that wouldn't be denied. She leaned forward, offering him her other breast, and he took it, sucking her into his mouth, and she moaned above him, her hips moving in a rhythm that was ancient and primal, the rhythm of the water dripping in the dark, the rhythm of the earth itself.
Hours passed. The glow of the mushrooms shifted, the steam thickened and thinned, and still she rode him, tireless, relentless, her body a machine of pleasure that drained him of everything he had. He lost count of how many times he came — four, five, six, more — each time weaker than the last, until his release was barely a trickle, a thin, watery thing that she swallowed down with a hunger that never faded.
She came as many times as he did, her body shuddering around him, her cunt clenching and releasing, her cries echoing off the stone. She came on him, over him, around him, and every time she did, she took more from him, the deep, aching emptiness spreading through his body like the water spreading through the cave.
At some point she pushed him onto his back, settling into a new angle, and rode him harder, faster, her breasts bouncing with the motion, her head thrown back, her mouth open on a silent cry. He watched her through the haze of his exhaustion, and he thought — dimly, distantly — that she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and the most terrifying, and that he didn't care. He didn't care about anything except the feel of her around him, the impossible suction of her body, the way she took and took and took until there was nothing left to give.
"Please," he heard himself beg, the word a broken thing. "Please, I can't —"
"You can," she said, her voice a whisper in the dark. "You can, and you will."
She leaned forward, her mouth finding his, and she kissed him — deep and slow, her tongue sliding against his, and he tasted himself on her, salt and musk and something else, something that tasted like the underground itself, like the water and the stone and the endless dark. She kissed him until he couldn't breathe, until he couldn't think, until all that existed was her mouth and her body and the slow, relentless rhythm of her hips.
She pulled back, and her red eyes met his, and she smiled — a soft, almost tender smile that he hadn't seen before. "Almost done," she said. "Just a little more. Give me everything."
He didn't know how, but he found it. One last surge of heat, one last desperate pulse of his hips, one last thin, weak release — and then nothing. Nothing at all. He was empty, drained, a husk of a boy lying on the cold stone, and she rose off him slowly, her body slick with his release, and looked down at him with something that might have been affection.
"Good boy," she murmured. "You did so well."
He tried to answer, but the words wouldn't come. His eyes were heavy, his limbs like water, and the darkness was closing in around the edges of his vision. He felt her hand on his cheek, cool and gentle, and then her lips on his forehead, a kiss as light as a ghost.
"Sleep," she said. "You've earned it."
He did. He slept, and in his sleep he dreamed of her — of red eyes and brown hair, of a smile that promised everything, of a body that moved against his in the dark. He dreamed of the water, and the steam, and the endless rhythm of a heartbeat that wasn't his own.
And when he woke, she was gone.
The water was cold now, the steam thinned to nothing, and the glow of the mushrooms had faded to a dim, sullen cyan. He lay there for a long moment, staring at the stone ceiling, and felt the ache in his body — the deep, hollow emptiness where his desire had been, the tenderness of his cock, the raw, rubbed-raw feeling of his skin. He was drained. Completely, utterly drained. And somehow — impossibly — he was happy.
He smiled, a slow, sleepy smile that he couldn't have stopped if he'd tried, and let his eyes close again.
Above him, in the shadow of a rock shelf, a short skeleton watched the scene with wide, unblinking sockets. He had seen everything — the ghostly girl, the boy beneath her, the hours of impossible motion, the sounds that echoed off the stone. His grin was frozen on his face, a rictus of shock, and his hands hung limp at his sides.
Slowly, silently, he backed away. His slippers made no sound on the wet stone, and he was gone before the girl's red eyes could find him — gone into the dark, gone into the endless tunnels of Waterfall, gone to pretend he had never seen any of it.
The water dripped. The steam rose. And Frisk slept on, dreaming of red eyes and a smile that promised everything, his body empty, his heart full, the ghost of a girl curled somewhere deep inside him where no one could find her.
He woke to the sound of his own name, soft and distant, like an echo from underwater. Frisk's eyes fluttered open, and the first thing he saw was the cavern ceiling, the dim cyan glow of the mushrooms casting long shadows across the stone. The steam had thinned to a faint mist, and the water beside him had gone cold. He was alone.
But not empty.
He lay there for a long moment, his body heavy and warm, and felt the strange, quiet hum beneath his skin — a presence that wasn't quite his own, curled somewhere deep inside his chest. He remembered her. The red eyes. The brown hair. The way she had taken him apart and put him back together with her teeth and her tongue and the endless, relentless motion of her hips. He remembered the taste of her, the cool weight of her breast in his mouth, the sound of her gasping his name.
And he remembered the emptiness — the deep, hollow ache where his desire had been, drained to nothing, scraped clean. He should have felt ruined. Instead, he felt light. Like a weight he'd been carrying for years had been lifted off his shoulders and dropped into the water.
He smiled, slow and sleepy, and let his eyes close again.
And that was when he felt it — a faint, tickling warmth in his chest, like a hand pressing against him from the inside. He opened his eyes, startled, and looked down at his own body. The striped sweater was still there, damp and wrinkled. But beneath his ribs, something glowed — a soft, golden light, barely visible, pulsing like a heartbeat.
He sat up slowly, his body protesting, and pressed a hand to his chest. The light faded under his palm, but the warmth remained, a steady, gentle thrum. He knew, somehow, that she was there. Curled up inside him. Watching him through his own eyes.
He didn't know if he should be afraid. He wasn't.
He lay back down, his head pillowed on the cold stone, and stared up at the ceiling. The water dripped. The steam rose. And somewhere deep inside him, the ghost of a girl stirred, settling into him like a cat finding a warm spot to sleep.
He felt her curl tighter, felt the faint brush of her awareness against his own, and he smiled again, a slow, contented smile that he couldn't have stopped if he'd tried.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice barely a breath in the dark.
The warmth in his chest pulsed, once, like a heartbeat. Like an answer.
And then the darkness took him again, soft and gentle, and he slept.