AMOR MORTIS

A griefcore resurrection by R.M. Blackthorne

Synopsis

She buried him in the cold.
But grief made her wet.
Now he’s back—wrong, cold, hungry—and knocking from inside her skin.

She knows this isn’t James. But if this is what’s left…
she’ll open wide and take it. Again and again.

A gothic resurrection soaked in lust, longing, and sin,
Amor Mortis asks:

What if the dead don’t stay gone?
What if you don’t want them to?


Full Story

The man she buried is back and knocking.

I hear it first in my chest—
That sound.

Three slow raps.

Not a door.
Not wood.
Not even real.

Just… inside me.
Just him.

It’s been eighty-three days since they pulled his body from the lake.
Black water, blue lips.
I kissed him anyway.

They never found his phone. Never found his ring.
But I buried the rest of him in the small cemetery on the edge of town, beside the crooked angel statue with one wing broken and one hand raised like she’s still trying to stop the storm that took him.

They say grief comes in waves.
Mine arrived like a flood and never left.
It filled my lungs. Made me wet with memory.
And now it’s crawling down my spine like something old is rising.

I told myself I’d let go.
Told everyone I was fine.

But I still sleep on his side of the bed.
I still smell his shirts.
I still touch myself the way he taught me—two fingers, deep curve, breath held.

And tonight…
He knocks again.

Not outside. Not even in my head.
Lower.

Between.

A dull throb in the cradle of me—
Like he’s knocking from the grave I carry inside.

I slide off the sheets. My thighs are damp with sweat—or maybe want.
Grief makes no distinction anymore.
Love. Lust. Pain. Regret.
They taste the same when you swallow them at midnight.

I move without thinking.
No shoes. No coat. Just his hoodie and nothing underneath.

Outside, the wind cuts like a blade.
The cemetery gate groans when I push it open, and I half expect to see him there already—
Naked. Wet. Laughing.
Like this is all some fucked up resurrection trick he’s pulling just to watch me cry.

But he’s not waiting at the grave.

No. He’s still beneath it.

I sink to my knees in the frozen dirt.
I whisper his name. Not loud. Not pleading. Just… remembering.

And that’s when I feel it.

Not a knock.
A pull.

Inside me.
A tightening.
A grip.

I gasp and clutch the earth. My nails scrape frostbitten soil and I feel him—
his fingers, his tongue, the ghost of his fuck—
rising through me like smoke, like sin, like he owns me again.

I spread my knees.

Because of course I do.
Because he’s always known how to open me.
Because he promised he’d never stop wanting me, even if the world did.
Even if he did.

“You came back,” I breathe.

No one answers.

But the wind stops.
The moon burns.
And I swear I feel teeth at my throat.

Something presses in—slick, thick, spectral.

He’s inside me again.

Not with a cock. Not even with fingers.

But with memory.
With guilt.
With the twisted, awful hunger that says I let him die and I still want him back.

I ride the ache until I’m shaking.
Until I’m crying.
Until I’m laughing at the sky because no one ever told me it would feel like this—

like being fucked open by the past,
like coming on bones,
like loving a man who won’t stay dead.

When it’s over, I collapse.

Mud coats my knees. My thighs. The inside of me.

And then…
a shadow moves.

I lift my head.

He’s standing there.

Wet. Pale. Whole.

Eyes wrong. Smile worse.
But his voice?

Oh, god. His voice is the same.

“I told you, baby,” he whispers, stepping through the gravestone.
“I don’t stay buried long.”

And I fucking moan.

He walks to me and tilts my head up with two fingers to meet his strange gaze.

“Don’t move, Angel.
You’re right where you belong.”

He always did know how to keep me in my place.

This cant be real.
I saw what was left of him get put in that box.

“You’re not mad, my love.
Your body called to me the moment you moved on this grave.”

He brushes a knuckle along my cheek and it burns—
not from heat. From wrongness.
He’s colder than the dirt I laid him in.

“I didn’t come from the earth,” he says.
Fingers trail down my throat.
“I came from you.”

My breath stutters.

“You let me in once. You opened wide and swallowed every inch of me.
Did you think you could ever close again?”

His voice isn’t human anymore.
It’s wet—
like something that bloomed in rot, learned to mimic him, then crawled back just to fuck the part of me that still ached.

And god, it aches.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, nosing the shell of my ear.
“Is that fear, or memory?”

I don’t answer.

Because I don’t know.
Because it doesn’t matter.
Because my body is already parting like a prayer.

His fingers slip under the hem of my hoodie—his hoodie—and stroke the soft, soaked place between my thighs.

“I knew you missed me.”
A grin cracks his mouth. “You mourn like a whore.”

I whimper.

And he rewards it—with pressure, with pleasure, with possession.

“You fuck the ghost of me in your sleep.
Moan into your pillow like I never left.
Do you think I didn’t hear you?”

I bite my lip, but he catches it—his thumb smearing blood like lipstick across my cheek.

“You called me back, Angel.
With your grief.
With your cunt.
With your fucking need.”

And I did.

God help me, I did.

Because there’s no one else who knows how to ruin me the way he does—
like I’m a relic.
Like I’m sacred.
Like I’m the shrine he died for and the altar he’s returned to desecrate.

My body missed him.
Every soaked, throbbing inch of me, missed him.

But this? This isn’t James.

This dark thing that owns my moans, hears me coming undone in the night to a name that’s long gone and holds my pleasure in its cold grip…

This is what’s left when love dies.

I loved James. But I need this. If this is what’s left, I’ll gladly give him what he wants to feel close to James again

“I’m not him,” it says.

And yet it kisses like him.
Fucks like him.
Breaks me open the same way James did when he first whispered mine against my throat and made me believe heaven lived in the way he said it.

But this thing?
This thing ruins the memory of heaven.

And I let it.

I ride the shape of him in the grass, bare and soaked and sobbing into a mouth that doesn’t breathe.
Hands locked around my wrists.
Thighs pried apart like a sacrifice I willingly offer.

Every thrust feels like blasphemy.
Every cry like a confession.

He smiles against my chest as I come again.

“That’s it, Angel.
Let me hollow you.
Let me make room.”

“For what?” I whisper, shaking.

His teeth drag over my breast, grazing the old birthmark James once said looked like a fading star.

“For me,” he growls.

And James is gone.

But this?
This is something else.

This is devotion turned desperate.
Love gone necrotic.
A need so deep it digs up the dead just to be held again.

So I let him stay.
I let him fuck me full of sorrow and spit lies into my mouth like prayers.

Because if this is the ghost that came when James didn’t…

Then I will love the monster
to keep the memory.
He cradles my face after, like I’m breakable.

Like I didn’t just take death between my legs and beg for more.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to mine.

“Why?” I ask, hoarse, aching, ruined.

“For choosing me.”

I laugh.
Or maybe sob.
It’s the same sound now.

“I didn’t choose you,” I whisper. “I just… couldn’t let go.”

His grin is slow. Vile. Worshipful.

“Exactly.”

He reaches between my legs again, swipes through the mess of me with fingers made of frost and memory.

“Do you feel that?” he murmurs, lifting it to my mouth.

I nod, trembling.

“That’s grief,” he says. “That’s god.”

And I believe him.

Because I was never meant for clean love.
Not for warm sheets and safe kisses.
Not for sunrise promises.

No.
I was made for this.
For graves and gasps.
For mourning turned to moaning.

I open my mouth and let him taste me again.

And when I finally shatter into his arms, head tilted to the sky, cunt raw from sin, soul hollowed clean—

I swear I hear the earth whisper back:

This is Amor Mortis.


About the Author

R.M. Blackthorne writes grief-soaked, cunt-wet tales of obsession, resurrection, and ruin. Her stories live in the liminal—between ache and afterglow, between trauma and thirst. Amor Mortis is a love letter to the ones we can’t bury clean.

When she’s not conjuring dark erotic hauntings, she’s probably deadlifting ghosts or laughing with her demon muse in the shadows.

You can find her at:
Instagram: @rmblackthorne
Website: rmblackthorne.com (if live or coming soon)
Or simply at the edge of the veil, whispering 'I still want you.'