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pascaloverx · 2 months ago

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HAUNTED (+18)

Summary: You awaken from a two-year coma to find that Detective Lois has been eagerly awaiting your recovery, believing you might have witnessed something crucial to catching a serial killer. What you didn’t expect is to learn that she suspects your doctor of being the murderer—and even more shockingly, it appears that you are married to him. Now, you must uncover your lost memories and find out who Charlie Mayhew truly is to you.

Author's Note: Yes, I'm writing another fanfic featuring Nicholas Alexander Chavez’s character from Grotesquerie. The characters belong to the universe created by Ryan Murphy in the series Grotesquerie (2024). This fanfic will include violence, strong language, and adult content. It will portray the character Charlie Mayhew as a doctor. I hope you enjoy the fanfic, but there's nothing certain about its future. If you like this fanfic, please interact, leave comments. This author will be grateful for any interaction. Minors should not interact with this chapter, be warned.

THREE FIVE

FOUR (+18)

Days passed, with you avoiding Charlie as if he were a disease. The truth was that his mere presence already unsettled your mind. You needed these days to reflect, allowing yourself to leave the guest room only when he was at work, taking your meals in secret. Mary helped you avoid your husband, though she always advised you to talk to him.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, here you were—facing Dr. Charlie Mayhew while he used an exercise bike, wearing a tank top that revealed his strong arms. Sweat glistened on his body, an almost provocative scene. "What are you plotting, Dr. Mayhew?" you said aloud, watching him exercise in the middle of the house. He was doing it on purpose—obviously.

"I see you've returned to calling me Doctor—such progress. If you must know, I’m simply enjoying my day off. Exercising to keep my body in shape, the very same body that once greatly satisfied my wife. You know, the one who now seems to prefer ignoring me over taking advantage of it..." he says playfully, as if trying to seduce you while also grumbling.

"Your body? Is that how you plan to get my attention?" you say, feigning indifference, as though his attempt to distract you with his physique is failing—though, in truth, it’s working all too well. You remain standing in front of the guest room door, dressed in your nightgown, noticing that neither Mary nor Ed is anywhere to be seen. Charlie, still pedaling on the exercise bike, has his back to you, his posture emphasizing his toned rear, which you can’t help but eye almost hungrily.

"It used to work, I’ll admit I’m resorting to extremes. And just so you know, Mary and Ed are off today. It’ll be just you and me the entire day. In case you were planning to hide away like a frightened little mouse," Charlie says as he steps off the bike, approaching you while using a small towel to wipe the sweat from his body.

"You did this on purpose, didn’t you? Is our marriage now about disrespecting each other’s personal space?" you ask, slightly irritated, nearly pouncing on him in your frustration.

"What marriage, mi amor? You see me as an enemy, as the villain in your story, not as your husband." Suddenly, the air grows heavier as you stand mere inches apart, your eyes locked on each other, the tension between you almost tangible.

"Are you asking for a divorce, dear husband?" you ask softly, your voice calm. Charlie's breath brushes against your face, the scent of his sweat acting like an aphrodisiac, stirring something deep within you.

"What other option do we have? Stay married while playing cat and mouse? You avoid me, and I pretend it doesn’t affect me? Will you spend the rest of your life thinking your husband is a monster and hiding from him? All of these options are a waste of time and emotional energy," Charlie speaks so rationally, though his expression betrays his words. It’s as if he’s daring you to consider the possibility of ending it all.

"It feels like we’re just going in circles around each other," you murmur, exhaling a heavy breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. You close your eyes slowly, feeling the weight of what ending your marriage would truly mean. It’s a thought that has crossed your mind before, yet there’s an ache in your chest at the idea of stepping out of Charlie’s life for good.

"Tell me honestly, would you feel at peace if I left? If I were no longer your husband?" he asks, stepping closer, his tongue slowly wetting his lips. It’s almost as if he’s testing your reaction to his proximity, studying your every move.

"There will be no peace for me until I truly know who I am," you reply, locking eyes with him, though now with a growing desire stirring within you. Your hand grazes his muscled arm, sending a visible shiver through him. He leans in closer, tilting his head as if seeking permission in your gaze. Slowly, deliberately, he tugs down the neckline of your nightgown just enough to bare your shoulder, his eyes darkening as he watches your response.

"And until you remember who you are, will I need to quit my job and dismiss Mary and Ed just to have a proper conversation with you?" he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, his gaze flicking to you from the corner of his eye as if gauging your reaction. A shiver courses through you, but your fingers find their way to his damp hair, gently caressing it.

Charlie's kisses trail from your shoulder to your neck, his warm breath brushing against your skin, sending a cascade of sensations through you. "So you admit you orchestrated this to force me to interact with you?" you manage to ask, though your focus falters with every brush of his lips. When his mouth lingers near your jawline, you realize rational thought is slipping away, overtaken by the pull of what you're feeling.

"I admit it—I wanted you with no distractions, no escape. I was desperate," he confesses, his voice low and laced with vulnerability. His lips travel softly over your cheek, grazing the bridge of your nose and the corners of your eyes, each kiss more tender than the last. His hands, warm and deliberate, trace the curve of your body, sliding your nightgown higher with a slow, intoxicating purpose, as if savoring every inch of contact.

His hands grip your thighs tightly as he slowly pulls them away from your face as if he's analyzing your reactions. "I'd be lying if I said I hadn't dreamed about this exact moment the entire time you were unconscious. However, if you're not comfortable, we can call it a day. As long as you don't ignore me again, that will be enough for me," Charlie speaks as if he were holding himself back from exploding with desperate to have you. He rests his head on your shoulder, looking up, his expression seemed like the perfect mix of lust and insecurity. At that moment something awakened in you, the notion that he might actually be sincere, at least about his desire to have you.

"You settle for so little," you mutter, waiting for a reaction from him. Charlie then lifts his head, staring at you for a few moments. His fingers caress your face with a certain firmness, passing his fingers under your lips. At some point his thumb slipped between your lips and you bit it lightly, then sucked on Charlie's finger as you stared at him.

"You're playing with fire, mi amor," Charlie says, kissing the corner of your mouth, as if he were teasing you. You turn off any inhibitions that would keep you from attacking Charlie's lips. Honestly, whether or not he is who Detective Lois is looking for doesn't really matter at this point. Your soul seems to be thirsting for Charlie Mayhew's presence, not just near you but within you.

"Burn me with your fire, Dr. Mayhew," you whisper. Charlie's eyes grow dark, his lips attack yours in a fervent, messy kiss. He sucks on your tongue as he tightens his arms around your waist. The kiss almost takes your breath away but leaves you so hot. You use your hands to grope his chest, while you cling to him. The kiss breaks as Charlie starts to kiss your neck passionately, nibbling your skin while his hands start to caress your breasts through your nightgown. At first, the gentle way his fingers played with your nipples through your nightgown sent a shiver down your spine. He seemed to grow impatient, as if he wanted to feel your skin against his immediately. Then he lifted you up with his arms, making you put your legs around his waist and hold on tight to his shoulders so you wouldn't fall. He placed you under the kitchen counter, placing his body between your legs. Quickly, he began to take off the nightgown you were wearing.

"See my beautiful wife, naked beneath her nightgown as if she knew I would be extremely pleased to see her like that," Charlie speaks as he runs his fingers over your naked body, ending up holding your ass with both of his hands, squeezing it tightly as he brings you closer to him. You who are studying every detail to memorize Charlie Mayhew's touch and taste. You pull his hair back, holding the strands firmly, going hungrily to Charlie's lips and kissing him. He bites your lip as he tries to match your pace during the kiss. You take your hands out of his hair, and start to pull down his shorts and underwear.

"I see that my wonderful husband was really right when he said I should take advantage of his body," you teases him as she watches his cock spring out of his underwear. Charlie gives you a kiss, as he moves towards you, using his hands that are no longer on your ass, to spread your legs wider. As his tongue explores not only your mouth but also your neck, his fingers enter you without hesitation. His fingers, going in and out quite quickly while your pussy squeezed them, you ended up moaning from the pleasure of feeling the pressure of his fingers in your pussy.

"An eternity could pass, but being inside you will still be the best feeling of my life," he murmurs, gently biting your ear while talking against it, giving you goosebumps. You then grab his hand before he can put his fingers inside you again, and with a thirsty look, you try to tell him that you want his cock. He then holds your thighs firmly, separating your legs with precision and then thrusts his erect cock inside you. You let out a loud moan, the feeling of him fucking you is something you weren't prepared to feel. He kisses your lips softly as he slowly thrusts his cock in your pussy that is already wet. You hold on to him as you feel him move in and out of you faster and faster.

For a moment it was as if an animalistic instinct took over him. You close your eyes tightly, reveling in the feeling of being taken by him, while your nails scratch every possible part of his body. For a moment, you drag your ass forward to increase the proximity of your body to Charlie's. He seems to want to see your face, moving your hair away from your face and pulling your face with his hand, kissing your lips once more. However, his hand goes down to your neck and and hold it there firmly. For some reason, the feeling of being lightly suffocated by him feels extremely satisfying. The more he pressed his hand against your neck, the more horny you became for him.

You were so wet that his cock was fitting perfectly inside your pussy, the synchronization of your bodies was almost surreal. Your only regret was not ripping off the damn tank top Charlie is wearing. With each thrust you feel yourself getting close to cumming, feeling your breath leaving you as he squeezes your neck in a strong way, taking you to the limit. You grind on Charlie's cock, making him groan heavily as he cums inside you. Even so, he continues to thrust his cock inside you while your pussy is sensitive from feeling him cum hard, until you cum too.

You two are a mess, dirtying the kitchen counter. Charlie lifts your head slowly, kissing every part of your face gently. "I think we should go take a shower wife. What we just did here certainly made us sweaty," Charlie says as he catches his breath after the sex you had. "You'll have to carry me," you inform him, feeling loose in your legs. He kisses your neck and then carries you to the bathroom in your room, where you bathe and have a second round.

Afterward, everything seemed normal. Charlie and you shared your bed again, following a day spent together during his time off, complete with him preparing dinner for the two of you. The next morning, he woke early for work, leaving a kiss on your cheek and informing you that Mary and Ed would be at your service.

You woke up feeling invigorated, determined to seek answers while also embracing the peace that being with Charlie seemed to bring. A few hours later, after getting ready, you set out to visit Detective Tryon. Ed accompanied you there, and you felt no fear of Charlie discovering your visit to Lois, as you had resolved to extend a measure of trust to both of them.

"Mrs. Mayhew, to what do I owe the honor of your visit to my workplace?" Lois asks, lighting a cigarette as she settles into her chair. You find yourself in her office, surrounded by officers, inmates, and suspicious individuals.

"I came here to understand why I am considered a suspect in your investigation," you reply quickly, remaining standing. Detective Tryon looks you up and down before exhaling a puff of smoke, seemingly pondering your words.

"You’ll need to follow me to a room where I can show you the answer to your question," Lois says as she stands, gesturing for you to follow. Curiosity gets the better of you, and you trail behind her as she leads the way to a room at the back of the precinct.

Upon entering the room, you are met with paintings depicting crime scenes, eerily similar to those you had once seen in Charlie Mayhew's office. Each artwork bears the same hauntingly realistic and morbid tone, sending chills down your spine.

"What do these paintings have to do with your suspicions?" you ask, bewildered by the connection between yourself and these brutally realistic depictions of crime.

"Well, Mrs. Mayhew," Detective Tryon begins, her tone grave, "I must inform you that these paintings are of your authorship. Not only that, but you need to understand that they depict actual, unsolved homicide cases. And you painted these works before the murders depicted in them occurred. This has made you a suspect. Moreover, all the victims were, at some point, connected to the hospital where your husband works. Many were even his patients."

Her piercing gaze settles on you, and the weight of her words sends your mind spiraling. You glance at the paintings again, confusion thickening as fragmented memories resurface. Images of your past flit through your mind—your quiet painting room, where you used to work with calm precision. Suddenly, you recall painting the image of one of the murdered women, her lifeless form rendered in vivid detail.

What strikes you as bizarre is that your reference seemed to be a photograph—one that was pinned to a bulletin board in front of you. The realization stirs something deep within, but a sharp pain in your head interrupts your thoughts, slicing through the memory like a blade. Dizzy and disoriented, you close your eyes tightly, the room spinning around you. Detective Tryon calls your name, her cigarette dropping forgotten to the floor as she rushes toward you. But it is too late. Your body goes limp, and you collapse to the ground, succumbing to unconsciousness.

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pascaloverx · 3 months ago

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HAUNTED

ONE THREE

TWO

You were finally discharged from the hospital after nearly a week of being poked, prodded, and thoroughly examined. However, your husband seemed displeased with the last conversation you shared. He hadn’t returned to visit you, leaving an unsettling emptiness in your chest. Even in your dreams, the striking face of your husband was absent. The fictional priest, your recurring specter, no longer graced you with his haunting visits. Detective Lois came to see you twice. The first time, you welcomed her, but when she began disparaging your husband, you quickly lost interest in continuing the conversation. The second time, you thought it best to turn her away before Dr. Mayhew discovered she had been there.

Now you are packing your clothes to return home—clothes you do not recall buying or ever wearing before. A house that does not feel like a home, for you have no memory of it. Whether you like it or not, Dr. Mayhew is the only semblance of familiarity you have. Yet, he seems to have lost interest in you. He is probably ready to file for divorce and pursue his happily ever after with the detective with whom he may or may not have had an affair.

"Mrs. Mayhew, are you ready to go home?" a strange man asks as he stands in the doorway. He is wearing a suit, and from the formal way he speaks to you, you assume he is not a relative of yours.

"I'm sorry, but I have no idea who you are. Actually, I'm waiting for my husband." You say, holding your suitcase while sitting on the edge of the hospital bed. The man seems to be preparing to say something that will hurt you. "Mrs. Mayhew, I’m your husband's driver. He can’t pick you up; he had an urgent commitment." He says, adjusting his suit, almost as if he’s embarrassed by the news. He seems to feel pity for you. For some reason, the fact that your husband is avoiding you irritates you.

"In that case, let's go." You say, a bit downcast but holding onto your suitcase tightly, trying not to let your anger show. You know there will be a moment when you'll give your husband a lesson—he's the one who deserves to hear your complaints.

"Follow me, I'll take you to the car and we'll head to your house soon," the driver says, raising his arm for you to hold onto as you make your way to the hospital exit. You try to keep up the appearance of being fine, smiling as you say goodbye to the hospital staff while being accompanied by your husband’s driver, Ed. As he drives you home, he starts talking about his life. He tells you how you had recommended him for the job as a personal driver. You learn that you used to give him art lessons and suggested him to your husband. The information leaves you more confused. You have the impression that you were wealthy, given the fancy clothes you wear and the fact that you have a private driver, but it seems you were also teaching art. This leaves you wondering about the life you used to lead in your own home.

When you arrive at the house, it’s almost everything you imagined. It’s large, not a mansion, but it has two floors, a garden, and a pool. Ed helps you out of the car and guides you on where to place your luggage, leading you toward the entrance of the house.

"On the first floor, you’ll find the kitchen, living room, laundry, and a guest bedroom. There’s also a dining room, but it’s only used for special occasions. On the second floor, there’s the master suite and the boss’s office. If you’d like, I can take you there," Ed says politely, though you sense that you need to spend some time getting familiar with your home and you don't want to bother Ed with your demands.

"There’s no need to trouble yourself, Ed. You’re free to go, and thank you for taking the time to pick me up from the hospital," you say graciously.

"It was my pleasure to assist you. If you need anything, I'll be just outside," Ed says before leaving you alone. For a moment, you find yourself captivated, taking in the details of the first floor of your home. As you admire the kitchen, a sudden noise from the upper floor catches your attention.

You freeze, startled by the unexpected noise. You were certain you were alone in the house, but now it seems you might have company. The thought races through your mind—it could be a burglar or perhaps one of your husband's mistresses waiting for his return, especially since you're convinced he's not home. Uncertain of your next move, you consider calling for Ed, but that might alert whoever is upstairs. Resolute, you grab a knife from the kitchen, gripping it tightly as you ascend the stairs, steeling yourself to confront whoever dares to intrude, the sound of water running hinting at someone taking a bath above.

You step into the master suite, your eyes scanning the space. Scattered across the bed are some of your husband's clothes, as though he had been deciding what to wear. Framed photos of the two of you together adorn the room, alongside other items that affirm this as the bedroom of a married couple. However, investigating the nuances of your marital life is not why you climbed the unnecessarily numerous stairs. Silently, you make your way to the bathroom, drawn by the muffled sounds coming from within the shower, mingling with the steady cascade of water. Your heart pounds as you realize—there's definitely a man in there, taking a shower. You grip the knife tightly in your hands and gather your courage to open the shower curtain.

Your husband stands before you, utterly exposed, his body glistening with water and lightly lathered with soap, one hand still gripping his cock mid-motion. "What the hell, Y/N?" Doctor Mayhew exclaims, his voice laced with shock and alarm.

Frozen for a moment, you struggle to process the scene, your grip tightening around the knife in your hand. Heat rises to your face, and without thinking further, you turn on your heel abruptly, your embarrassment overwhelming. "I— I didn’t know it was you," you stammer, your voice shaky as you try to compose yourself, your back still turned to him.

"Did it ever occur to you to ask?" your husband snaps, his voice sharp with irritation. You're unsure if his anger stems from being caught in such a vulnerable state or from having his private moment interrupted.

"It didn’t cross my mind," you retort, doing your best to maintain your composure despite the vivid image of his naked form lingering in your thoughts. "Especially since I assumed a man too busy to fetch his own wife from the hospital wouldn’t be occupied... pleasuring himself in the shower." Your tone is steady, but there's a slight edge to your words, masking your own embarrassment.

"I thought you'd prefer to return with someone you didn't consider a cold-blooded, adulterous murderer," Doctor Mayhew says, his tone laced with dry humor as he continues his shower. "Had I known you cared about my presence, I would have been there. And as for giving myself pleasure, despite the belief that I've had a torrid affair with another woman, my fidelity to you is so absolute that my only mistress is my hand." He chuckles softly, the sound almost mocking, while you remain rooted in place, still stunned and unable to respond or even move.

"If you'd cared enough to visit me after our last meeting, you would have known that I did want you there to bring me home," you say, your voice tinged with hurt. The air grows heavy for a moment, the tension palpable, until the sound of the running water comes to an abrupt stop.

"I was there every day," Doctor Mayhew replies, his tone soft yet steady. "But only while you were asleep. I didn’t want to trouble you. Your doctors told me you were improving, and I thought my presence might upset you." He steps out of the shower, the sound of his movements drawing closer to you. You can feel his breath against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. Before you can respond, his arms encircle yours, gently but firmly taking the knife from your grip. He places it on the bathroom counter, the action deliberate yet tender.

You turn, now standing face-to-face with your husband, Doctor Mayhew. A towel is loosely wrapped around his waist, droplets of water still trailing down his skin. "I wanted you there," you murmur, your voice barely audible, the words almost brushing against his lips. His face is dangerously close to yours, his presence overwhelming.

"I'm sorry, mi amor. I should have brought you home," he says, his voice low and full of regret as he steps even closer. Your eyes instinctively fall to his lips before locking onto his gaze. A heat rises within you, an undeniable pull—an ache to claim what is already yours.

And as if driven by instinct, you rise on your toes and press your lips to his in a tentative kiss, barely a whisper of contact, as though testing the waters. The taste of him is intoxicating—something that feels like it should be savored again and again. It’s overwhelming, addictive, his soft lips brushing against yours as your heart seems to stop for a fleeting moment. But caution wins, and you pull back, breath hitching as you study him. His eyes remain closed for a moment longer, his fingers brushing over his lips as though to confirm the reality of what just transpired. Slowly, his eyes open, smoldering with an intensity that takes your breath away.

"You shouldn’t have done that," Doctor Mayhew murmurs, his voice a low growl. Before you can respond, his arms snake around your waist, lifting you effortlessly as he crashes his lips into yours with fervor. The kiss is fire itself—searing and unrelenting, as though he wants to consume you entirely, pulling you closer, desperate for more of you with each passing second.

And it’s as if something ignites within you, a spark that feels as though you’ve always belonged to him. “Charlie…” you murmur between his kisses, your breaths coming in short gasps as you try to steady yourself.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes wide with surprise, though a glimmer of adoration softens his features. “That’s the first time you’ve called me Charlie since you woke up,” he whispers, his voice almost reverent against your lips.

You respond with a tender peck, letting yourself sink into the safety of his arms. “I wish I could remember you. I hope you know that,” you confess, gazing into his eyes. It’s the most honest thing you’ve said since you regained consciousness, and the raw sincerity in your voice hangs between you like a fragile thread of hope.

"I don’t care that you’ve forgotten me. I only want you to allow yourself to get to know me again," Charlie says softly, leaning in to press a kiss to your cheek.

"Do you think having sex would help me remember you?" The question escapes your lips before you can even process it, the desire that’s been simmering since you saw him moments ago suddenly rising to the surface.

Charlie freezes, his lips lingering near your skin as his breath hitches. His gaze locks onto yours, a mix of surprise and amusement flickering in his eyes. "I thought I was the doctor here," Charlie murmurs, a faint smirk curving his lips as his eyes search yours. The teasing tone in his voice doesn’t mask the tension building between you.

He takes a step closer, his hands gently finding your waist, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. "But if that’s your hypothesis..." his voice drops, low and intoxicating, "I’d be more than willing to help you test it." The heat in his gaze is undeniable, yet there’s a tenderness there, as though he’s waiting for your permission to cross the line you just hinted at.

The sound of a phone ringing breaks the moment, echoing from the direction of the bedroom. Charlie seems momentarily hesitant, glancing toward the source of the noise before he gives in and walks over to answer it. His voice lowers, the words indistinct as he speaks in murmurs, clearly trying to keep the conversation private. You stand there, feeling a shift in the atmosphere as his attention moves elsewhere. When he returns, there's a visible change in his demeanor, a hint of disappointment in his eyes. "Unfortunately, we can't test your hypothesis right now," he says, his tone a little colder than before. He plants a soft kiss on your lips before continuing, trying to lighten the mood. "I have a patient in need of urgent assistance."

Charlie leans in to give you a quick kiss on the lips, a fleeting gesture to maintain some connection despite the shift in mood. "But you’re welcome to stay here, take a relaxing bath, and explore the house. The only room that’s locked is my office, but the rest is open. You’ve met Ed, our driver. Mary, the housekeeper, is here as well, though you haven’t met her yet. If you’re hungry, all the takeout numbers are by the phone," he says before turning to finish getting ready.

As he finishes getting dressed, you can sense something unspoken hanging in the air between you, his demeanor colder now. "And, if you want to pick up where we left off later... just let me know," he adds, his words lingering in the space between you, leaving the invitation open yet uncertain. He pauses, studying you for a moment longer than necessary before turning to finish his preparations, the unspoken tension between you both hanging in the air.

"I think I'll take a bath and get acquainted with the house, but I'd like to have dinner with you," you say as you watch him finish getting dressed for work, struggling with the knot of his tie. You step forward, as if you're naturally accustomed to this, and expertly tie the knot for him—firm and neat. He smiles, genuinely appreciative.

"It seems like you still remember how to make a perfect tie knot," he comments, then takes your hands in his and presses a gentle kiss to your fingers. "I'll be here for dinner," he assures you before grabbing his briefcase and lab coat, rushing out the door. You're certainly charmed by your husband, but there's a growing sense of unease, too. Why would he be so secretive about his calls and office if he has nothing to hide?

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