Ghostface X You - Blog Posts
Ive never seen a dom reader x stu marcher before PLEASE BIMBO I NEED IT
Sucking him off, riding him, edging him, face riding him, mommy kink, idc FEED ME—
-VoxisDaddy
warnings — mommy kink, dom reader, sub stu
summary — Sub!Stu Matcher headcanons/drabble
𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 Stu as a sub would be so clingy, all over you, begging to be punished.
𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 He wants you to beat the shit out of him. Oblige, and he’ll be all over you.
𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 Unlike Billy, there’s not even any deep seated psychological reason for this, he’s just a freak, and he wants you to fuck the hell out of him.
𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 Suck him off until he’s begging for mercy, which he will. But then he’ll go back on his word, and beg you to keep going. “C’mon, more! I can take it, mommy I swear!”
𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 He gets a sick kick out of being tortured by you, so don’t let him cum for hours. Make his dick pink and runny with pain because he’s needed to cum for just that long.
𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 Ride his face while he’s tied up so he can’t even touch himself. Is his face wet from your cum or his tears? Neither of you know.
𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 He’s be so whiny about what he wanted, as if he deserves it. “Mommy, I know I was bad — But I can make it up to you,” He’d offer.
𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 But he deserves to be punished, which is lucky for him, because he wants to be. Badly.
a/n — I’ll go back to Inside job/Gravity falls in november. But now everyone should send me Bill Loomis and Tate langdon requests… yknow if we really wanna talk bout having a mommy kink..
˚୨୧₊♱ please don’t kill me mr ghostface, i wanna be in the sequel .ᐟ.ᐟ
ghostface!Dabi x fem!reader
˚₊♱ cw: smut, creampie, knife play, mentions of blood, fingering, derogatory remarks, degradation & praise mixed together cause I’m a slut for both, jealous possessive Dabi. MDNI +18
˚₊♱ word count: 4.6k
˚₊♱ A/N: my contribution for this year’s halloween, here comes your favorite psycho killer 🔪
It all came down to a fun event held at the PLF headquarters, something Toga and Twice had mostly insisted on, a Halloween party. The rest of the members were unsure, some calling it a waste of time with such childish matters, but as more thought was put into this, Shigaraki and Re-Destro in the end agreed. Some fun never hurt nobody, and the League deserved some fun time after all they had been through to achieve what they had today. Just one night to forget about the exhaustion of everything and enjoy the time.
You couldn’t deny, the thought of a Halloween party had you thrilled, the most exciting part were the costumes and makeup and the creativity that came with it. The rules for this celebration were clear: the dress code was a halloween costume, whatever it was, it didn’t matter. Even though some of the villains looked “scary” enough to the point no costumes were needed. One of these villains being a certain raven haired flame user, who was less than thrilled for such waste of time, as he said.
“Technically you’re a modern day Frankenstein, I doubt you’ll need anything to wear!” Toga said, pointing at Dabi’s piercings and staples all over his face.
“Emo Frankenstein!” Twice exclaimed.
“The party hasn’t even started and you both are already a damn headache” Dabi rolled his eyes, putting down his cigarette in the ashtray and leaning back on the couch. The League had gathered together in the lobby to enjoy some nice food before the party started later this evening.
“Hey guys, don’t be rude!” you said, hoping that Toga’s words didn’t offend Dabi in a way whatsoever, even though he didn’t really seem to care. “You could also be Hades you know? The one from the movie Hercules…who has blue flames for hair? That’s an easy option as well”
“Yeah? I think I’d need my pretty Persephone by my side” he grinned. “Would ya be willing for the role perhaps?”
His teasing question had you almost choking on the water you were drinking, the mental image of you both as Hades & Persephone had you feeling all warm inside. Oh, if only..
“Just kiddin’. Thanks for the suggestion doll, but I doubt I’ll be coming to such stupid party. Shit’s not for me,” he continued, before facing you. “But maybe I’ll pass by just to see what you will be wearing~”
“That’s a secreeet!” you grinned, though you still hadn’t decided what to wear. Too many options laid on the table.
“Yeah? Gonna be so scary people will drop dead at the mere sight of you?” he teased and you kicked his arm. “Or maybe so enchanting you’ll haunt everyone’s minds for the night, hm?”
“You worried you might be one of the victims and fall for me or something?” you smirked which earned a chuckle out of him.
“We’ll see who the victim is going to be, babe” he winked, the sentence sounding threatening and yet thrilling too.
“Oh no! Somebody’s dying tonight!” Toga giggled. “Imagine though, wouldn’t it be exciting? A serial killer going stabby stabby on Halloween night, like in the movies!”
“I’d rather live to see the day thank you” you said awkwardly, noticing Dabi grinning.
“Ya’ scared?” he asked.
“As if!”
The rest of the afternoon was spent on getting ready. You had thought for you and Toga to dress up together as the angel and the devil, though she changed her mind at the very last minute and chose to be a vampire instead. You didn’t mind, being a vampire actually fit her, knowing her bloodlust. Unfortunately there was no time left for you to get other costumes and pick something else, so you got stuck as an angel. Without a devil friend. Being an angel wasn’t your absolute favorite option, but the costume made you look ethereal: a shiny white short dress with frills and bows, pretty angel wings on your back, a halo on your head, your hair nicely done and soft glowy makeup on your face. Out of many options, being an angel was the easiest and the quickest, not to say the prettiest as well, so you didn’t bother to change it. It could also pass for a white swan costume too, out of the many options you had searched with Toga on the internet to match together.
Soon enough you met the rest of the group: Twice decided to be Deadpool, Compress remained in his magician outfit, Shigaraki had surprisingly dressed up as well, a game character from the League of Legends which you had no idea of, but he looked so cool. You encouraged him to wear that costume on daily basis as well.
You rushed to the underground arena where the party would be held, and it was already booming with loud music, crowds cheering and partying, the place filled with halloween decorations, and you just knew it was going to be the best night ever. Though only something was missing. Someone.
Dabi had already decided he would not be participating , though he had been meaning to show up and look at how everyone had dressed up.
No, in fact, he was interested in you. Him not joining the party had you upset, but at least the thought of his eyes on you, checking your cute angel outfit had you excited.
Though as minutes passed, he was nowhere to be seen. You decided to text him, feeling nervous, not wanting to sound too desperate.
You: hey Dabi, aren’t you coming?
After a minute or two, you received a text back.
Dabi: Ain’t making it tonight, doll. Too tired, I’m thinking of calling it a night and just pass out.
You: oh, okay then, sleep well!
Turning off your phone you let out a sigh of frustration, disappointed that he wouldn’t see you tonight. Of course you’d still have fun with the rest, but as you had applied your makeup earlier and dolled yourself up, your mind was occupied only by Dabi.
“Heeeey angel, why so serious tonight? Come on, let’s dance!” Toga’s loud voice snapped you out of your thoughts. The little vampiress grabbed both of your hands and pulled you to the dance floor along with Twice.
“I love this song!” you shouted, finally catching up with the rhythm of the music and enjoying yourself, not paying much attention to the prying eyes of the audience from afar. The sight of you dancing confidently, swaying your body and lost in the music, managed to get quite the attention from many people. Here and there people would come and join you, men you didn’t recognise, dancing with you as well. You didn’t mind, already made up your mind to enjoy this night at the fullest.
He doesn’t like that one bit.
As you danced, from time to time you would catch a quick glimpse of someone, who was in the middle of the crowd but not dancing like the rest. He was tall, dressed in dark clothing, gloves, and a mask which you recognised to be Ghostface from the movie “Scream”. At first you didn’t pay attention to him, but as time passed, you noticed the Ghostface killer was in fact staring at the dance floor where everyone was dancing.
Staring at you.
“I’m gonna grab a drink!” you told Toga who probably didn’t even hear you. Turning your head back as you left the dance floor, you noticed Ghostface started walking too, keeping his distance, but still observing you as you grabbed your drink. You felt awkward, and almost creeped out. Maybe it was some stupid prank and probably he was doing this with other people as well.
Except he wasn’t.
Thirty minutes had passed and the man with the ghostface mask had been observing you the whole time. There behind the crowd, tall dark figure standing out easily from everyone who was dancing. It made you frustrated, so you decided to run towards his direction. Walking through the crowd was difficult, but as you reached your destination you noticed he had vanished. You eyed the whole area, but you couldn’t find him anymore, it was like he disappeared off the face of the earth.
“Weirdo” you scoffed, relieved that he had gone away. Being watched like that made it awkward for you to enjoy the party.
Just like in the movies, Toga’s words echoed in your mind. Yeah, and Ghostface apparently had picked you as a first victim. The thought was ridiculous, but it still sent a shiver down your spine.
After a while you had the need to use the restroom so badly. Getting out of the party arena, you walked through the empty hallways to find the restrooms. At some point you regretted not bringing Toga with you, the silence and darkness were creeping you out. Quickly you ran for the restroom and finished your business, before looking at yourself in the mirror once more and fixing your makeup.
A sudden noise had your soul jumping out of your body. Slow, heavy footsteps were approaching, tap, tap, tap, as they got closer, louder.
“..hello?” you called out, but no answer. The footsteps had stopped, nobody entered the restroom. You gulped, fear rising in your heart as you slowly got out, eyes searching for anybody nearby. The place was empty.
But there was someone walking outside!
“Hellooo? Is someone here?” you called again, feeling anxiety tighten your chest. Re-Destro’s mansion was kind of creepy on its own, huge building filled with endless dark corridors that led you to god knows where. You still had yet to learn your way around this place.
Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
The footsteps again. You turned around, now sweating in fear.
“Wh-Who is there?! Hey, this isn’t funny!” you backed away, looking at some dark corner. From the shadows you saw a pair of boots appearing, slowly revealing someone.
Ghostface. The same one who was observing you earlier. He was now in front of you, towering over you as approached slowly.
“Huh? What do you think you’re doing you creep?! Cut this shit off, it’s not funny!” you shouted, but there was no answer on his side. Instead, he raised his hand slowly, revealing a sharp knife that he’d been holding this entire time.
“Oooh yeah wow, very creepy.” you snorted, but the more you looked at it, you realised that the knife was real. Dread settled deep in your gut as you looked at Ghostface gripping the handle of the knife tightly and walking towards you.
Finally, your legs gave in from being frozen in fear, and started to run. You let out a scream the moment he started running after you too, chasing you down the dark corridors. Panic had you hyperventilating, your high heels were making it difficult to outrun him. Loud heavy footsteps were sprinting towards you, the darkness of the hallways making it impossible to see the killer clearly, you could only hear him.
As stupid as it was, your legs sent you to a storage room, panic preventing you from thinking straight and find your way back to the party. You closed the door, quickly hiding behind some containers and sitting there in fear, shutting your mouth to not let out any noise. You had forgotten your phone in the restroom too. For a long time you’d find the protagonists in horror movies stupid and pathetic for not being able to think clearly on how to escape from the killer and get help, but now look at you. Even more stupid and pathetic than them, the thought would make you laugh if it wasn’t for the terrifying situation you were in.
Your hand reached to grab a hammer nearby, ready to attack in case he entered the storage room. Your quirk wasn’t fit to fight, and you cussed yourself for it.
Fuck, if only Dabi was here, he’d incinerate this fucker to ashes in seconds for pulling such insane prank on you.
The heavy footsteps from outside snapped you back to reality. Your heart was beating out of your chest, praying that this was just a prank and he’d only take it this far, that he’d leave you alone and go bother someone else. Your eyes widened as you heard him right outside the door, trying your best to swallow down the whimpers threatening to come out. It was a heavy silence that was suffocating you, for a moment you weren’t really breathing.
Not until the man outside kicked the door open with his boot, entering inside with ease. Your grip on the hammer tightened, and as soon as he approached your hiding place, you came out of it swaying the hammer to his direction, backing him away.
“Don’t you dare come closer!” your voice trembled as you tried to threaten him. You heard a faint chuckle under his mask, before he reached for you again, blocking your attack as his hands gripped on your arm, making you unable to hit him with the hammer. His strength was insane, twisting your arms in ways that had you dropping the hammer on the ground.
“Get away from me!!” you screamed loudly as strong gloved hands pulled you back by your angel wings, pushing you to the ground with ease.
“Stop it!! Let go!! Somebody help- mmmmphf!”
His hand was placed on your mouth, shutting you up and preventing you from screaming further. Finally tears started rolling down your cheeks, you had no idea who this creep was, and now the knife was brought closer to your face, the sharp tip tracing your tears slowly, as if wiping them. You laid there on your belly and him behind you, a trapped angel, unable to move or escape, what you thought was some stupid prank turned out to be worse. You had squeezed your eyes shut, breathing erratically, until you heard the same faint chuckle coming from the man on top of you. For a second you stopped breathing, slowly opening your eyes and turning your head towards the man behind you. Glossy eyes were met with the terrifying ghostface mask that observed you.
That laugh, the familiar scent that you finally managed to recognise.
No way?!
Gloved hands slid down your sides, gripping your hips, as he got closer to your face, taking in your scent of fear. Then he grabbed your face, squishing your cheeks together.
“You look absolutely divine tonight…”
The familiar voice made your eyes wide.
“D-Dabi?!” you stuttered pathetically as he laughed, removing his mask. Relief washed over you, but at the same time anger quickly bubbled up.
“You fucking idiot!! This wasn’t funny, I-I thought I was going to die!” you whined, more tears rolled down your cheeks as he hushed you, wiping them clean. “I was about to hit you with a hammer too! You’re fucked in the head!”
“Aw my sweet angel, did I really scare you that bad huh?” he hummed, but he didn’t sound sorry at all. The fucker was enjoying it all. And he’d do it again if given the chance.
You tried to push him away, too angry at his stupid prank, but he managed to roll your body and lay you down on your back, keeping both your wrists locked with one hand, preventing you from moving.
“Couldn’t miss this night without looking at my girl..” he whispered, leaning closer to breathe down your neck and leave soft kisses “… and get a taste as well.”
“Ugh, you’re insufferable!” you scoffed, still not over the death scare he had pulled on you.
“But it’s Halloween baby,” Dabi said, kissing your jaw and then going for your pouty lips, giving them a teasing bite. “Don’t you want to recreate our own scary movie~?”
You rolled your eyes at his words. Though, his low husky voice followed with kisses and bites all over your neck and collarbone had you already hot and bothered, you couldn’t even stay angry at him for one second.
“Gotta admit.. you make a pretty good Ghostface” you said, wrapping your legs around his waist.
“Yeah? And you’re such a sweet little victim too” he licked his lips, his hand sliding under your dress. “So beautiful f’me, how could I miss this?”
With a quick movement, he put the mask back on, grabbing the knife and putting it on your throat. Your breathing hitched, now frozen as his other hand found the hem of your panties.
“Dabi??”
“Shhh now, just stay still. Be a good girl and you won’t get cut, would be a real shame if something like that happened..”
Oh, so this is how it is. Having a knife pointed at you was by all means terrifying, but knowing it was Dabi, you knew he would never hurt you. The tables turned, and now what you found terrifying, had your panties dampening. He had already removed his gloves, and you could tell it was him by looking at the scars, though the mask stayed on.
Slender fingers skilfully managed to find their way to your weak intimate spot, slowly and teasingly dragging along your wet folds.
“You sure you were scared babe? I mean look at you..” his laugh came muffed under the mask. “Just admit you liked it, being chased like the pathetic pretty victim you are, ready for me to kill and devour~”
His fingers rubbed your clit as his nasty words went on, making your hips buck up and your breath hitch.
“Wanna see all kinds of pretty noises you let out for me tonight” Dabi whispered, plunging two fingers inside of you that made your body jolt. “Your cries, whimpers, moans, screams, give it all to me, don’t you dare hold back-”
The knife in your throat pressed further against your skin, the fear of him accidentally cutting your throat mixed with the pool of pleasure between your thighs. It was crazy, but your body responded in ways you didn’t even know it could.
“P-Please… don’t kill me Mr. Ghostface, I wanna be in the sequel!” you said breathlessly, a giggle managed to escape your mouth. You were high on adrenaline, far too gone, and even if Dabi stabbed you in that moment you felt like you’d enjoy that too in some sick twisted way. He got closer, the ghostface mask right above your face as you pulled him in, spreading your legs further for the killer.
“I’d have killed you by now if you weren’t so fun to play with” he cooed in your ear, curling his fingers inside of you, the wet squelching sounds of your sloppy cunt had your face heated up in embarrassment. “Needy sluts like you need their brains fucked out, not bashed in”
The more he dragged his words, the closer you reached to your climax. His movements got rougher, fingers slamming into you faster.
“F-fuck..m’gonna cum.. f-feels so good.. Dabi!!” your moans got more high pitched as you reached your high. Almost forgetting the knife pressed tightly on your throat you squirmed beneath him, your eyes blurry, unable to focus on his mask as they rolled at the back of your skull.
“Atta girl, cum for me… need ya all nice n’ ready” he grunted, knuckles deep inside of you as orgasm washed all over you. Your hands gripped his shoulders, head falling back as your body trembled.
“How weak, ‘s that all it took to break ya?” Dabi laughed and you tried kicking him with your fists.
“S-Shut up…” you breathed out.
“Too bad, I’m not even done with you”
Without a warning he flipped your body around so you were laying on your belly again, pushing your head on the ground.
“Ass up” he said, pressing the cold knife on your asscheek as a warning. You obeyed his command, arching your back nicely to give him a good view, until his hand pulled your hair from behind, making you yelp in return.
“Y’know doll, I could say I’m still mad from earlier” Dabi said threateningly, his voice going an octave lower sending shivers down your spine.
“Mad? W-why?” you whispered, wondering what might’ve angered him. But then it clicked; the whole time you were dancing on the dance floor, not even noticing the eyes of many other villains nearby looking at you full of lust, at your swaying hips and flashy angel wings fluttering, easily grabbing the attention of everyone.
A playful grin spread across your face, you loved when he got jealous.
“Maybe instead of declining the offer to come to the party, you could’ve danced with me the whole time. But oh well.. other people got to enjoy me tonight so-”
“Ain’t you a little attention whore?” Dabi said through gritted teeth, his hand coming down to smack your ass so hard the loud sound echoed through the room. You hissed in pain, unable to move as you felt your asscheek go numb already.
“I had a change of heart at the last minute” he continued. “Grabbed a shitty costume nearby and decided to join the party. But to my surprise, I see your pretty ass dancing around mindlessly, sooo lost in the music you couldn’t even see those fuckers approaching to dance with you. And you just let them.”
You raised an eyebrow, wanting to test his jealousy even further. Playing with fire might get you burned, but that’s what you wanted. “How is that so wrong? You allergic to fun perhaps? I dance with who I want.”
Dabi positioned the sharp knife on your asscheek, the tip threatening to plunge itself on your skin. “Yeah? Maybe I haven’t made it clear enough then…”
What?
The knife slowly digged on your flesh, your eyes widened at the pain that had you screaming.
“D-Dabi what are you-fuck!! It hurtssss!!”
“You forget who you belong to, sweetheart” he said, continuing to carve into your asscheek what seemed to be his initial. Warm blood slowly rolled down your legs and so did your tears down your cheeks.
“My name carved on you will be a constant reminder of that” Dabi grinned, looking at the bloody mess. “No other man gets to even look at you, let alone touch you, got it?”
You whimpered a weak “yes”, trying to catch your breath. Suddenly the flat of the knife was pressed right against your bare pussy, the cold metal had you moaning in surprise.
“Look at you, you like it when I cut you up huh?” he bit his lip, watching you slowly grind your pussy on the knife. “Careful there baby, I need this cunt functional…”
“S-Stop teasing me!” you said, panting hard as Dabi pressed the knife further against you.
“Me? It’s all you, grinding on this knife like a pathetic bitch in heat.” he laughed crudely, before looking down at the bulge tightening his pants. After teasing you long enough, he unbuckled his belt, pulling out his hardened cock, piercings decorating his veiny shaft, tip red and leaking with pearly precum, bulging with anticipation to plunge into your needy hole as soon as possible. Leaning down beside you, he took out his phone, pulling you by your hair and making you face the camera in front of you. The flashlight of the camera brightened your teary face stained with the ruined makeup and messy hair, capturing the moment as the killer with the ghostface mask stood behind, as if mocking you before breaking you.
“Gorgeous..” Dabi grinned, looking at the picture, before his tip teases your glistening folds, sliding it inside of you with ease. A soft moan escaped your mouth as he stretched you out completely. Throwing the knife on the ground, his hands roughly grabbed your body, sliding underneath your clothes to grope your tits whilst the pace got faster. You couldn’t hold back the loud moans, arching your back more for him and spreading your legs fruther as he fucked you from behind.
“Fuck look at that-” he grunted, gripping the plump flesh of your ass while looking at the way his cock disappeared inside your greedy cunt. Blood had already coated your skin and lower back, making the view unable to resist for him.
“Mmhmm f-feels.. so goood.. more…” you whimpered mindlessly, drunk on his cock, the pain of his carved name on your skin already forgotten.
“More, huh?” Dabi said, stopping his movements. “Y’know what, angel slut? Show me how much you want it”
“H-Huh?”
“Fuck yourself on my cock”
Heat creeped up on your cheeks as he stood there motionless, his cock still hard inside you waiting for you to move. The mask was still on, his pants lowered and his shirt halfway up, showing his scarred abs and lower abdomen, glistening with sweat. Even fully dressed as a serial killer, this man looked hot. You kept your eyes on the man behind you as you began moving, going back and forth and fucking yourself on his cock just as he ordered. You felt every inch grinding against your gummy walls, making your head spin.
“Good girl…nghh fuck- that’s it” he moaned, placing his hands on your ass again to guide your movements. You felt so full, and yet wanted him deeper, to completely invade you.
“Dabi…wanna cum…” you said breathlessly, speeding up your movements but tiring yourself out in the process.
“Tch. C’mere…”
Pulling himself out, he flipped you over and laid you on your back, putting your legs on his shoulders and sliding it in again without a warning. The new position got you screaming, if you thought he was deep before, you were wrong. It’s like he could reach depths you never even knew you had, tearing you apart.
“F-fuck Dabi!!” you cussed out as he leaned in closer, your thighs now pressed against your tits as his hand wrapped around your throat. You looked at the ghostface mask as he fucked your brains out, desperation painting your face.
“Tell me what you want, pretty girl~” he said, not slowing the pace.
“W-wanna cum.. n’ want you to kiss me!” you pleaded, grabbing at his mask. He let you remove it, before crashing his lips against yours in a needy, hungry kiss. Moaning against his mouth, you felt the knot forming in your stomach explode as he kept hitting that certain spot over and over.
“That’s it princess…fuck you’re creaming all over this cock” Dabi said, looking at the mess where you two connected, the squelching noises and smell of sex had filled the room. He kept fucking in your trembling body as you saw stars, barely catching your breath as he reached for his own high. With a loud groan he shot loads inside of you, painting your insides white, some of it even leaking outside. It made you feel warm, full, so full of him.
Slowly he removed your legs from his shoulders, reaching in for another kiss, not pulling out of you just yet.
“Baby..” he whispered through the kisses, chuckling as he saw you barely responding. “Did my little victim already pass away?”
“Mmhmm… mr. Ghostface certainly knows how to make his victims scream” you teased, biting his lip.
Dabi grinned, gripping your hips. “Looks like I haven’t made you scream enough since you still got a voice in that throat of yours”
Your blush deepened, eyes widening at his words.
“That sounds like a threat”
“And a promise, sweetheart. Cause I’m not anywhere near done with you yet”
Nobody minded the screams and cries echoing from Dabi’s room through the hallways for the rest of that night. After all, it’s Halloween. Kill or get killed.
that pussy got MURDERED.
🏷️ tags: @hunajan @suksatoru @sukunaes @angelblueflame @trickster-kat @luvsymai @syrenkitsune @melodyglow-blog @baby-tini @ameliaenya404 @zukowantshishonourback @sukunas-bitxh @cyberdazetragedy @shortstuffiequeen24 @isabeauwolf @gabz38
ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏʏ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴅᴏᴏʀ
͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝖲𝗍𝗎 𝖬𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋 x fem!reader
╔═ A/N ═╗ Based on this request. I apologize if I got the characterization wrong. I just feel like the darker side to his character is never properly explored. As goofy as he was, he was also a serial killer lmao
✬ Summary ✬ Stu's your best friend, you know him as well as you know yourself. At least you thought so. A snoop through his closet leads to a terrifying discovery. Now, everywhere you turn, that haunting mask is right there waiting.
“God,” you toss the remote on the cushion beside you. It bounces off the oversized couch and flops to the floor. “There’s nothing on TV,” you lament, draping yourself dramatically over the cushions.
Stu snickers and kicks his legs over the arms of his chair, shrugging with a smug look. “I told you we should have stopped by the video store.” His gaze drifts back toward the TV, grimacing at the obnoxiously loud MTV episode you stopped on.
“Hell no, Randy’s working tonight,” you scold, sharp gaze snapping toward him. He’s got a stupid grin on his face, clearly having decided that his form of entertainment tonight is going to be pissing you off. “I don’t feel like having him critique me for an hour on my poor taste in movies.”
He snorts and reaches to take a large handful out of the popcorn on the coffee table between you. “Maybe if you didn’t just rent stupid chick flicks all the time, he wouldn’t.”
Stu doesn’t have time to duck as you chuck one of his mom’s overpriced throw pillows at him. “Don’t act like you don’t love Pretty in Pink.” The pillow knocks the popcorn out of his hand, scattering it across the ornate rug Mrs. Macher bought last week. If she saw the state you’d gotten the house in this weekend, that ever-pulsing vein in her head would burst. As it is, they’re never actually at the house, it’s an oasis for practically half the school during the weekends Stu decides to throw a party.
For the first time in a while, though, it’s just you and Stu. No one else is here to rile him up or force him to put on a show. He’s at his calmest when it’s just the two of you. Which, honestly, doesn’t mean much for him, but still.
“I do not,” he objects, stretching out his lanky body and getting to his feet.
You roll your head lazily to face him, giving him a knowing smirk. “Billy isn’t here, Stu. You don’t have to lie,” you assure him, holding out your arms as he stops in front of you. You already know what he wants, he’s got that specific gleam in his eye as he smiles down at you.
“I mean,” he shrugs, “it’s not bad,” he concedes. Without another word, he throws himself on top of you, even prepared for it, you still feel the breath rush out in one hefty wheeze. Another thing you don’t see as much when others are around, just how goddamn clingy he is.
Sure, with his multitude of girlfriends, he’s touchy. But this is something different entirely. He clings to you like he would burrow into your skin if he could. He’s been that way since you guys were kids. While the feeling of others touching you might set you on edge, Stu fits against you like your missing piece.
Hands drifting up to play with his hair, you settle yourself against the cushions while he goes back to channel surfing, pleased to have you as his pillow.
The TV drones on, a dull buzz in the background now that Stu has the volume down. With his head practically buried between your boobs and your legs wrapped around his waist, you snicker.
Frowning, he props his chin on your chest, staring up at you. “What?” He demands, hating to be left out of a joke.
“Nothing,” you shrug as much as you can with him steadily pancaking you. “Just wondering what your girlfriend would think of us like this.”
“Oh,” he sets his head back down and places your hands back on his head to continue playing with his hair. “We broke up,” he tells you, like it means absolutely nothing.
“Stu!” You slap his shoulder, and he winces dramatically. As if you could ever do real damage to him.
“Ow!” He whines, bracketing himself up on his elbows so he can look down at you. “What’s your problem tonight?”
His hips are still lazily pressed against you, pressure increasing the longer he hovers above you. Swallowing thickly, you try to ignore the flush spreading through you. “You didn’t tell me you guys broke up.”
He rolls his eyes, glaring down at you. “I just did,” he points out sarcastically. You swat at his shoulder again, but this time, he catches your hand in his, lacing your fingers together with a smug grin as he keeps you trapped.
“You’re collecting these girls like they’re trading cards.” Despite his tight grip, you manage to slip out slightly from under him and prop yourself against the arm of the couch. “I don’t even remember the last one’s name.”
His face goes slack, lips parting as you see the cogs in his brain turning. He laughs and glances back at you with a dismissive shrug. “Neither do I. I just remember the tits.”
“Ugh,” you yank your hand out of his, ignoring his petulant frown. “You’re absolutely disgusting. What’s the point of even dating them?”
He slinks back against the other end of the couch. “I just said why,” he points to your chest with a grin, and you reflexively cross your arms. Stu tips his head back, dangling it over the edge as he stares up at the ceiling with a forlorn sigh. “I don’t get it,” he tosses his hands up, and you already know where this is going.
Head tipped back up, he narrows his eyes at you, “I don’t know why we don’t just date.”
You give him a deadpan look, arms still tight around your chest. “Dude,” you chide, “after what you just told me. Seriously?” When you were younger, him saying this used to set you alight. You’d get all dreamy-eyed, imagining what it would be like to be Stu’s girlfriend. Of course, you’d taken too long thinking about it, and by then, he’d already found a different girl to set his sights on. It had broken your heart, and their relationship had barely even lasted a week.
By now, you know better than to take anything he says seriously. Everything’s just one big joke to him. He’s so fickle you can’t trust that he would actually put effort into anything more blooming between you. You seem to be the only girl in his life that he actually thinks of as a person, going on a few dates with him isn’t worth screwing that up. Besides that, you’re not going to ruin the only friendship you’ve ever had that’s lasted more than two months.
Stu opens his mouth like he wants to say anything, but it snaps shut a moment later. His face sets into a glower, and you worry for a moment that you might have actually hurt his feelings. You’ve always thought the suggestion was just a sort of inside joke between the two of you. Though, he has been bringing it up more and more lately.
Your stomach flips unpleasantly, heart aching with guilt. It doesn’t last long, the feeling always remains fleeting. You’ve conditioned yourself for years to dismiss anything that might actually encourage you to pursue something with Stu. You love him, but you two would just be a spark waiting to light up.
“You’re staying the night, right?” Stu changes the subject, picking up the remote once more and not meeting your eye. Your lips part, and he cuts a glare toward you, “No girlfriend,” he stops you before you can even say anything. Your brows furrow, and he looks back to the TV. “No sleepovers if I’m dating,” he mocks the pitch of your voice, reminding you of the rule you'd enforced so long ago. Your lips fall in a flat, irritated line at his imitation of you.
“No girlfriend,” he reminds you, feigning indifference even though you can see right through him. Your plan was to go home, but you know him well enough by now. The set of his jaw, the stubborn way he won’t look at you, there’s no actual choice. You’re staying.
“Yeah,” you acquiesce with a low huff. “I’ll need to borrow some clothes.”
“You know where they are,” he tells you, still not meeting your eye. He’s never been this sensitive after you’ve rejected him before. What’s his problem? Eyes narrowed, you get to your feet, glaring at him the whole way up the stairs. He never loses the indifferent look, passive-aggressively turning the TV up.
Usually, you just grab some pants from the guest room. But with Autumn descending, it’s been getting colder, especially in Stu’s drafty old house. There’s a soft yellow sweater that you’ve always tried to steal from him, and he’s never let you get away with it.
Nabbing it would probably ease up the weird tension. He is a freak, he does love seeing you in his clothes. You figure it’s a solid plan and slip across the hallway, quietly opening his bedroom door.
As always, his room is a hot damn mess. The bed’s unmade, sheets completely untucked, and half of them sprawled across the floor. There’s a clearly well-loved nudie mag lying open on his nightstand, boobs bared boldly to the world. Rolling your eyes, you shake your head and turn toward his closet.
Your brows furrow, head tilting at the closed door. As odd as it is, Stu never closes his closet. It’s just another tedious task to him. Besides, he likes to just ball all his clothes up and toss them in wildly. You know his family’s old maid threatened to quit if she had to clean his room ever again. But you wouldn’t believe that looking into the closet now.
It’s not just clean, it’s pristine. Clothes hung up, sorted by color and sleeve length. Jeans all neatly folded away. The box of old books and junk he had just lying about are tucked up on the top shelf. “What the hell?” You whisper, looking around like you just stepped into Narnia.
Hell, maybe it’s a portal to a bizarro dimension, it would make more sense than him cleaning up after himself. Whatever, you don’t have time to dwell on Stu’s oddities, you’d just be standing here forever if you did.
You start in the yellow section of his closet, then drift toward the sweaters. And, of course, the only one you want isn’t anywhere to be found. It has to be buried somewhere in here, and you’re not giving up until that sweater is yours. You dig through his folded pile of jeans recklessly, hoping for a bright spot of yellow to be buried somewhere within them.
Tugging a little too hard on one of the stacks, something hard clatters against the wooden floor of his closet. “Ah, shit,” you hiss, shoving the jeans back and kneeling to try and spot whatever fell. Lowering your head to the ground, you peer under the hems of his shirts on the lower rack and squint into the shadows.
There’s a vague shape of something, and you reach toward it. Head tilted the other way, your arm stretches under the sweaters, blindly groping for whatever you sent tumbling. Your fingers snag on fabric, and you grin, thinking it’s the sweater you’ve been coveting.
Pulling it out, your smile stills, heart rapidly increasing speed until it feels like it’s going to beat out of your ribs. There’s a twisting pain in your stomach, anguish and immediate denial flooding through you as you stare down at the mask in your hands.
It’s just a cheap drugstore mask. Around Halloween, you could find it anywhere. You could easily dismiss it as something Stu bought as a fucked up joke. Were it not for the flaking copper on the chin of the howling mask. Your fingers tighten around it until you think it might crack.
Slowly, you tilt your head back toward the shirts. This wasn’t what fell. A part of you screams to just chuck the mask back and pretend you never saw it. You could go downstairs, continue your movie night with Stu, and pass out beside him on the couch. Lying to yourself would be so damn easy. It’s just a mask, half the guys in school bought one because they thought it was a fucking joke.
But your body isn’t interested in weak excuses. Bowing over, your hand swipes across the wood once more, wrapping around the object that fell. Before you even drag it out, you already know what you’re going to see. A pulsing pain spreads through your chest, eyes watering as you stare down at the knife in your hand.
A serrated hunting knife, to be exact. The same one Dewey said was used to kill Casey only a week ago. God, how had you not seen this? How could you have been so blind?
Stu had been the number one suspect, but Billy had been his alibi, no one could place him at the scene of the crime.
There has always been something twisted about Billy. It only got worse when his mom left. Maybe this was all his idea, maybe Stu was just dragged into this, but he doesn’t really want-
Your thoughts fade into a dull silence in the back of your mind. There’s no excuse. Stu has always been different, just slightly off. His jokes nearing the wrong side of dark. But you never would have thought him capable of something so brutal.
Footsteps sound up the stairs, and your brain shocks itself awake. Quickly, you toss the mask back under the clothes and shove the knife into the jeans. Wiping your eyes, you leap to your feet and rush out of the closet just as Stu barrels into his room.
The both of you pause, staring blankly at each other. You, a deer caught in a hunter’s snare. He, the drooling wolf, waiting to pounce.
Slowly, his eyes drift toward the closet, the light you left on, and the door you hadn’t had time to close. He turns back to you, and something twisted curls at the edges of his lips. Adrenaline shoots so fast through you it nearly knocks you off your feet.
“Looking for something?” His tone is light, barely audible, as he takes a step closer. It takes every ounce of self-control not to back away from him.
Something too strained to be a smile curls your lips up. “Um,” you lick your lips, swallowing down the dryness coating your tongue. You laugh nervously and take a step toward his bed. “Just that sweater I love.
He stalks towards you, and your eyes widen, heart fluttering in your chest. Just when you think he might run you over, he steps around you and heads toward his dresser. You turn, afraid to take your eyes off of him.
Peeking above the corner of a drawer is a yellow sleeve. He slips it out easily, holding it out to you with a grin that shows off all his teeth. “Thank you,” you whisper, voice cracking around the words as you snatch the sweater out of his hands.
“I made more popcorn,” he tells you, eyes wild as he stares down at you. “Halloween’s on.” It’s a simple invitation to a movie, but it feels like there’s a knife to your back. You have no choice but to step out of the room and head down the stairs. Every bit of you screams to act natural, to pretend that there’s nothing wrong.
How could you be? Your best friend, the boy you’re practically in love with, is slaughtering your friends. He’s running rampant through your town and killing girls just because they broke up with him.
Risking a glance over your shoulder, you see him already looking at you. The smile is gone, now he’s just watching you with this bemused expression, like he’s waiting for you to break and make a run for it.
You take a seat on the couch, lean against the pillows, and glue your eyes to the screen. Suddenly, Jamie Lee Curtis babysitting is the most interesting thing in the world to you. Stu takes his seat beside you, sinking into your side and wrapping his arms around your waist. Stiff as a board, you can’t find it in you to return the touch, too petrified by the thought of all the blood on his hands.
He doesn’t care for your trepidation, taking your arms and wrapping them around himself. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, lips brushing against the sensitive skin as he speaks. “What’s your favorite scary movie?”
Avoiding Stu has been easier than you thought it would. Usually, he’s more persistent in making you hang out with him. Especially when your parents are both out of town at the same time. But he’s been suspiciously quiet since you prematurely ended your weekend stay last week.
You managed to make it through the night. Though, while Stu dozed on top of you, you had been wide awake. Limbs stiff, eyes unblinking, the whole night had been spent on high alert. You’re not sure if he knows you know, or just suspects it. Either way, you should have turned him in by now.
The second you left his house, you should have gone straight to the sheriff. You know who's behind the Woodsboro murders. You know who the infamous Ghostface is, and have a suspicion who his other half might be. You could have stopped all this.
Casey and Steve would be avenged. If you had something, another person wouldn’t have been killed two days ago. You didn’t know him personally, you’d never even seen Stu or Billy interact with him. But this felt less like an attack on him and more like a threat for you.
Keep quiet, or you’ll be strung up by your intestines.
Triple checking all your doors and windows are locked, you head upstairs to your room. Prepared to camp out for another sleepless night. If you turned him in, you wouldn’t have to live with this paranoia anymore. Every corner you turn wouldn’t be prefaced with the idea that he might be waiting behind it. No matter how hard you try, you can’t pick up the phone and call the cops.
You lay back on your bed, listening to the radio in the hopes it might lull you to sleep. It never works, but you hold out hope. The shrill ring of your home phone echoes throughout your empty home. Sitting up on your elbows, you glare at your closed door like it might shut the damn thing up.
Abruptly, it cuts off. The empty halls of your home fall silent once more, the low droning of your radio barely audible above the blood rushing through your head. You hold your breath, eyes peeled on the door in front of you, waiting for… something.
The phone goes off again, and you jump, shooting off your bed and grabbing the bat by your nightstand. Slowly, you open your door, peeking your head out before you attempt to cross the hall to your parent’s room. There’s a phone in there, and you’re more comfortable up here than you are beside your glass patio doors downstairs.
You practically kick the door open, jumping inside the room like you’re prepared to bludgeon someone with your bat. The shadows are thick inside, but you don’t see a cloaked figure waiting for you within one. Feeling confident enough, you run toward your parent’s nightstand and grab the phone. Running back to your room as fast as you can and slamming the door closed behind you, you sink to the floor.
Thumb hovering over the button, you let out a shaky breath and answer. “Hello?” You try and instill confidence in your voice, but you can’t hide the tremor.
“Hey,” Billy’s voice croons on the other end, he says your name, and a shudder rolls down your spine.
“Billy?” His name is a hoarse croak as you feel your heart thud dully inside your chest. “What’s up?”
“I just wanted to tell you something.” He pauses, and you bite your lip, nails digging into your palms as you wait for him to speak. “I’ve always wondered,” there’s a click, and then a raspier, unfamiliar voice speaks, “what do your insides look like?”
Something slams against your front door, and you drop the phone with a shrill scream, jumping to your feet and whirling around. You hear Billy’s distorted cackle echo through the speaker before abruptly cutting off. On the floor, three low beeps sound out. Bending down, you pick up the bulky phone and press it to your ear. Nothing but white noise. You toss the phone on your bed and swallow down another scream. No service.
You’re all alone.
The startling realization of silence rushes over you, gooseflesh rises along your arms, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The banging downstairs has quieted and your house is once more silent. But it’s no longer the same vacant stillness it was before. There’s someone here, it’s an instinctive feeling. Long buried prey instincts warning you of a predator sniffing you out.
Creeping quietly across the floor, you avoid the creaky wood that would give your movements away and once more open the door. It seems foolish to put yourself so boldly out in the open. Being cornered in that room is no better. No matter what, it’s just you and him all alone out here.
You wonder, as you peek your head around the banister, if this is just Stu stalking you. Is Billy getting rid of a liability? Is it both of them?
One, you could handle on your own. But if it was the both of them, the only thing you could do was go down swinging. If you were going to die tonight, you weren’t going to let it be easy for either of them.
Your front door is wide open, an easy escape. There was no point in running. Either one of them is waiting outside for you, or they’ve cut the brakes on your car. You crouch, peering through the railings and silently making your way down the stairs. Try as you might, you don’t see signs that anyone has come inside.
Besides the door, there are no clues to give away where they might have gone. You don’t want to play the role of the bimbo in their sick fantasy. Despite the instinct to call out for someone, you swallow it down and continue through your home.
Beyond the stark terror of facing your own mortality, there is also the pain of being so thoroughly betrayed by Stu. You know the truth of what he is, of what Billy is. And you kept it quiet. You buried his dark secret like it was your own, protected him. This is how he repays you?
This is his answer after years of you loving him. How could he?
You stand in the middle of your living room, bat hanging limp by your side. The aching pain of grief and fear stills your body. The fight wanes inside you, debating whether or not prolonging this is worth it. The others all fought back, and they died bloody. Maybe if you just gave in, it would be quick, painless. Stu could at least grant you that.
There’s a brief flash of movement in the reflection of your patio door. It’s slight, like a shifting shadow. Only one thing gives him away, the white, howling mask. Instinct overrides sensitivities, you whip around, bat flying. There’s a low groan as it smashes over his head.
Reaching up, he snatches it in his hand, using it to jerk you forward. You’re quick to let it go. Instead, you aim for his throat. Hands outstretched as you reach up, gripping his neck as tight as you can. There’s shock in his stuttered breaths, like he hadn’t thought you would fight back. You were beginning to doubt yourself, too.
Turns out you’re too stubborn to die.
The bat clacks loudly against the wood as he stumbles back into your mother’s glass coffee table. His legs kick up, tripping you and sending you stumbling into his chest. The both of you go plummeting backward, glass shattering around him and the wood crumpling like a tower of cards.
Jagged shards cut at your arms and bare legs, but you know he takes the brunt of it. Your grip on his throat is unrelenting, you pick his head up and slam it against the wood. He lets out a dazed groan, and you would laugh were you not trying to stop your best friend from killing you. He seems ridiculous, wearing this stupid cheap mask and moaning like a cartoon character with a bump on their head.
He bucks under you, hips pressing up against yours as he flips you both over. Pain rips through your back as the glass digs into your skin. Letting out a low whine, your hands slack on him for just a moment. It’s still long enough for him to get the upper hand.
He straddles your waist, pinning you below him with his weight as he kneels on your swinging arms. You’re utterly paralyzed, with no other choice but to stare up at him as tears stream, hot and slick, down your cheeks.
Stu rips his mask off, eyes wild as he grins down at you. “Damn, sweetheart,” he laughs, and it only makes you fight harder against him. Screaming through your teeth as you try to buck him off of you. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
He tosses the mask to the side and motions to the knife in his hand, “Surprise,” he practically sings the word, watching for your reaction. You bite your tongue, hiccuping on a sob as you stare up at him through blurry eyes. “Right,” he concedes, tilting his head, “you already knew.”
You can feel the blood pooling beneath you, the glass digging further into your shredded skin. It only makes this all the more unbearable. “Stop,” you beg, voice breaking as you struggle to hold back the tears. “I didn’t tell,” you shout at him. “Why are you doing this?” The tears break around the rage slipping through your voice as you glare up at him.
“What are you talking about?” He snaps, his amusement waning the harder you cry.
“Billy!” you shout the name out, just barely managing to wiggle one wrist free. He snatches it up instantly, the knife falling beside you as he leans over you, digging your hand into the glass above your head. “He said you wanted to see my insides,” there’s no controlling the sobs now. You don’t want to die. You don’t want Stu to be the one to kill you. Somehow, though, you think this would have hurt worse if it was Billy holding the knife.
Stu’s face falls before quickly twisting up into something angry. He backs off, easing his weight just enough for the press of glass to sting a little less. “No,” he utters, shaking his head. “No, that’s not the plan.”
Stu looks nearly manic as he stares down at you. Something unfurls inside you, years of friendship have you reaching up with your free hand. You don’t know what your plan is until he’s leaning into your touch, eyes never leaving yours.
His hand grips your waist, easing you into a sitting position. You want to curl up into a ball and go hide in a dark corner. You want to shove glass down his throat and run. The knife looks particularly appealing beside you.
But you do none of that. You let him tug you closer, hand tightening to the point of pain around your waist, but you don’t think he realizes, and you’re too afraid to point it out. “You’re our final girl, baby,” he practically fucking giggles, and you struggle not to flinch from the sound. “He was just fucking with you.”
“Yeah?” You snap, fingers trailing toward his hair and yanking until his face crinkles with pain. “Then what the fuck,” venom coats your tongue, voice low and deadly, “are you doing right now?”
He smiles, leaning into the way you rip at his hair. “Screwing around,” he laughs, and he sounds like a goddamn idiot. Scoffing, you release him, jerking out of his grip and ignoring the way it pulls at the wounds on your back.
“God,” you crumple into yourself, shoulders hunching forward as you hide your face behind your hands. “I can’t believe I ever thought you could love me. You’re sick, Stu,” you snap, holding back more tears.
Blood and glass surround you both, the shattered fragments of your friendship. Stu looks more hurt than when you strangled him. He reaches for you, and you jump back, shaking your head. ‘I was never going to kill you,” he swears. But what does the promise of a murderer mean to you?
“I don’t believe you,” voice a whisper, the tears spill over once more. He looks between you and the knife like he can’t decide what to do. You wait for it, for the snap before he just plunges the knife into your gut. Twisting it and dragging your death on.
Instead, he lunges forward, wrapping his arms around yours and forcing you into his embrace. “Stop,” you claw weakly at his shoulders, snagging your nails in the cheap cloak. You shake your head, but the fight is over before it even begins. Your arms curl around his neck, and you sink into his familiar embrace.
His gloved hand skates over the wounds on your back, and you whine, arching away from his touch. He offers a whispered apology, but you don’t believe it. “Billy’s not going to touch you,” he swears. “I’m never going to hurt you.”
“You already have.”
His arms only tighten around you, pulling you into his lap as you cry. You might not believe him, but he knows the truth of it. You’re his best friend. The only person besides Billy he’s ever actually cared about.
You are his perfect final girl, and he’s never going to let you go.
end. — I do not own the characters or the movie Scream, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.
ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏʏ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴅᴏᴏʀ
͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝖲𝗍𝗎 𝖬𝖺𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋 x fem!reader
╔═ A/N ═╗ Based on this request. I apologize if I got the characterization wrong. I just feel like the darker side to his character is never properly explored. As goofy as he was, he was also a serial killer lmao
✬ Summary ✬ Stu's your best friend, you know him as well as you know yourself. At least you thought so. A snoop through his closet leads to a terrifying discovery. Now, everywhere you turn, that haunting mask is right there waiting.
“God,” you toss the remote on the cushion beside you. It bounces off the oversized couch and flops to the floor. “There’s nothing on TV,” you lament, draping yourself dramatically over the cushions.
Stu snickers and kicks his legs over the arms of his chair, shrugging with a smug look. “I told you we should have stopped by the video store.” His gaze drifts back toward the TV, grimacing at the obnoxiously loud MTV episode you stopped on.
“Hell no, Randy’s working tonight,” you scold, sharp gaze snapping toward him. He’s got a stupid grin on his face, clearly having decided that his form of entertainment tonight is going to be pissing you off. “I don’t feel like having him critique me for an hour on my poor taste in movies.”
He snorts and reaches to take a large handful out of the popcorn on the coffee table between you. “Maybe if you didn’t just rent stupid chick flicks all the time, he wouldn’t.”
Stu doesn’t have time to duck as you chuck one of his mom’s overpriced throw pillows at him. “Don’t act like you don’t love Pretty in Pink.” The pillow knocks the popcorn out of his hand, scattering it across the ornate rug Mrs. Macher bought last week. If she saw the state you’d gotten the house in this weekend, that ever-pulsing vein in her head would burst. As it is, they’re never actually at the house, it’s an oasis for practically half the school during the weekends Stu decides to throw a party.
For the first time in a while, though, it’s just you and Stu. No one else is here to rile him up or force him to put on a show. He’s at his calmest when it’s just the two of you. Which, honestly, doesn’t mean much for him, but still.
“I do not,” he objects, stretching out his lanky body and getting to his feet.
You roll your head lazily to face him, giving him a knowing smirk. “Billy isn’t here, Stu. You don’t have to lie,” you assure him, holding out your arms as he stops in front of you. You already know what he wants, he’s got that specific gleam in his eye as he smiles down at you.
“I mean,” he shrugs, “it’s not bad,” he concedes. Without another word, he throws himself on top of you, even prepared for it, you still feel the breath rush out in one hefty wheeze. Another thing you don’t see as much when others are around, just how goddamn clingy he is.
Sure, with his multitude of girlfriends, he’s touchy. But this is something different entirely. He clings to you like he would burrow into your skin if he could. He’s been that way since you guys were kids. While the feeling of others touching you might set you on edge, Stu fits against you like your missing piece.
Hands drifting up to play with his hair, you settle yourself against the cushions while he goes back to channel surfing, pleased to have you as his pillow.
The TV drones on, a dull buzz in the background now that Stu has the volume down. With his head practically buried between your boobs and your legs wrapped around his waist, you snicker.
Frowning, he props his chin on your chest, staring up at you. “What?” He demands, hating to be left out of a joke.
“Nothing,” you shrug as much as you can with him steadily pancaking you. “Just wondering what your girlfriend would think of us like this.”
“Oh,” he sets his head back down and places your hands back on his head to continue playing with his hair. “We broke up,” he tells you, like it means absolutely nothing.
“Stu!” You slap his shoulder, and he winces dramatically. As if you could ever do real damage to him.
“Ow!” He whines, bracketing himself up on his elbows so he can look down at you. “What’s your problem tonight?”
His hips are still lazily pressed against you, pressure increasing the longer he hovers above you. Swallowing thickly, you try to ignore the flush spreading through you. “You didn’t tell me you guys broke up.”
He rolls his eyes, glaring down at you. “I just did,” he points out sarcastically. You swat at his shoulder again, but this time, he catches your hand in his, lacing your fingers together with a smug grin as he keeps you trapped.
“You’re collecting these girls like they’re trading cards.” Despite his tight grip, you manage to slip out slightly from under him and prop yourself against the arm of the couch. “I don’t even remember the last one’s name.”
His face goes slack, lips parting as you see the cogs in his brain turning. He laughs and glances back at you with a dismissive shrug. “Neither do I. I just remember the tits.”
“Ugh,” you yank your hand out of his, ignoring his petulant frown. “You’re absolutely disgusting. What’s the point of even dating them?”
He slinks back against the other end of the couch. “I just said why,” he points to your chest with a grin, and you reflexively cross your arms. Stu tips his head back, dangling it over the edge as he stares up at the ceiling with a forlorn sigh. “I don’t get it,” he tosses his hands up, and you already know where this is going.
Head tipped back up, he narrows his eyes at you, “I don’t know why we don’t just date.”
You give him a deadpan look, arms still tight around your chest. “Dude,” you chide, “after what you just told me. Seriously?” When you were younger, him saying this used to set you alight. You’d get all dreamy-eyed, imagining what it would be like to be Stu’s girlfriend. Of course, you’d taken too long thinking about it, and by then, he’d already found a different girl to set his sights on. It had broken your heart, and their relationship had barely even lasted a week.
By now, you know better than to take anything he says seriously. Everything’s just one big joke to him. He’s so fickle you can’t trust that he would actually put effort into anything more blooming between you. You seem to be the only girl in his life that he actually thinks of as a person, going on a few dates with him isn’t worth screwing that up. Besides that, you’re not going to ruin the only friendship you’ve ever had that’s lasted more than two months.
Stu opens his mouth like he wants to say anything, but it snaps shut a moment later. His face sets into a glower, and you worry for a moment that you might have actually hurt his feelings. You’ve always thought the suggestion was just a sort of inside joke between the two of you. Though, he has been bringing it up more and more lately.
Your stomach flips unpleasantly, heart aching with guilt. It doesn’t last long, the feeling always remains fleeting. You’ve conditioned yourself for years to dismiss anything that might actually encourage you to pursue something with Stu. You love him, but you two would just be a spark waiting to light up.
“You’re staying the night, right?” Stu changes the subject, picking up the remote once more and not meeting your eye. Your lips part, and he cuts a glare toward you, “No girlfriend,” he stops you before you can even say anything. Your brows furrow, and he looks back to the TV. “No sleepovers if I’m dating,” he mocks the pitch of your voice, reminding you of the rule you'd enforced so long ago. Your lips fall in a flat, irritated line at his imitation of you.
“No girlfriend,” he reminds you, feigning indifference even though you can see right through him. Your plan was to go home, but you know him well enough by now. The set of his jaw, the stubborn way he won’t look at you, there’s no actual choice. You’re staying.
“Yeah,” you acquiesce with a low huff. “I’ll need to borrow some clothes.”
“You know where they are,” he tells you, still not meeting your eye. He’s never been this sensitive after you’ve rejected him before. What’s his problem? Eyes narrowed, you get to your feet, glaring at him the whole way up the stairs. He never loses the indifferent look, passive-aggressively turning the TV up.
Usually, you just grab some pants from the guest room. But with Autumn descending, it’s been getting colder, especially in Stu’s drafty old house. There’s a soft yellow sweater that you’ve always tried to steal from him, and he’s never let you get away with it.
Nabbing it would probably ease up the weird tension. He is a freak, he does love seeing you in his clothes. You figure it’s a solid plan and slip across the hallway, quietly opening his bedroom door.
As always, his room is a hot damn mess. The bed’s unmade, sheets completely untucked, and half of them sprawled across the floor. There’s a clearly well-loved nudie mag lying open on his nightstand, boobs bared boldly to the world. Rolling your eyes, you shake your head and turn toward his closet.
Your brows furrow, head tilting at the closed door. As odd as it is, Stu never closes his closet. It’s just another tedious task to him. Besides, he likes to just ball all his clothes up and toss them in wildly. You know his family’s old maid threatened to quit if she had to clean his room ever again. But you wouldn’t believe that looking into the closet now.
It’s not just clean, it’s pristine. Clothes hung up, sorted by color and sleeve length. Jeans all neatly folded away. The box of old books and junk he had just lying about are tucked up on the top shelf. “What the hell?” You whisper, looking around like you just stepped into Narnia.
Hell, maybe it’s a portal to a bizarro dimension, it would make more sense than him cleaning up after himself. Whatever, you don’t have time to dwell on Stu’s oddities, you’d just be standing here forever if you did.
You start in the yellow section of his closet, then drift toward the sweaters. And, of course, the only one you want isn’t anywhere to be found. It has to be buried somewhere in here, and you’re not giving up until that sweater is yours. You dig through his folded pile of jeans recklessly, hoping for a bright spot of yellow to be buried somewhere within them.
Tugging a little too hard on one of the stacks, something hard clatters against the wooden floor of his closet. “Ah, shit,” you hiss, shoving the jeans back and kneeling to try and spot whatever fell. Lowering your head to the ground, you peer under the hems of his shirts on the lower rack and squint into the shadows.
There’s a vague shape of something, and you reach toward it. Head tilted the other way, your arm stretches under the sweaters, blindly groping for whatever you sent tumbling. Your fingers snag on fabric, and you grin, thinking it’s the sweater you’ve been coveting.
Pulling it out, your smile stills, heart rapidly increasing speed until it feels like it’s going to beat out of your ribs. There’s a twisting pain in your stomach, anguish and immediate denial flooding through you as you stare down at the mask in your hands.
It’s just a cheap drugstore mask. Around Halloween, you could find it anywhere. You could easily dismiss it as something Stu bought as a fucked up joke. Were it not for the flaking copper on the chin of the howling mask. Your fingers tighten around it until you think it might crack.
Slowly, you tilt your head back toward the shirts. This wasn’t what fell. A part of you screams to just chuck the mask back and pretend you never saw it. You could go downstairs, continue your movie night with Stu, and pass out beside him on the couch. Lying to yourself would be so damn easy. It’s just a mask, half the guys in school bought one because they thought it was a fucking joke.
But your body isn’t interested in weak excuses. Bowing over, your hand swipes across the wood once more, wrapping around the object that fell. Before you even drag it out, you already know what you’re going to see. A pulsing pain spreads through your chest, eyes watering as you stare down at the knife in your hand.
A serrated hunting knife, to be exact. The same one Dewey said was used to kill Casey only a week ago. God, how had you not seen this? How could you have been so blind?
Stu had been the number one suspect, but Billy had been his alibi, no one could place him at the scene of the crime.
There has always been something twisted about Billy. It only got worse when his mom left. Maybe this was all his idea, maybe Stu was just dragged into this, but he doesn’t really want-
Your thoughts fade into a dull silence in the back of your mind. There’s no excuse. Stu has always been different, just slightly off. His jokes nearing the wrong side of dark. But you never would have thought him capable of something so brutal.
Footsteps sound up the stairs, and your brain shocks itself awake. Quickly, you toss the mask back under the clothes and shove the knife into the jeans. Wiping your eyes, you leap to your feet and rush out of the closet just as Stu barrels into his room.
The both of you pause, staring blankly at each other. You, a deer caught in a hunter’s snare. He, the drooling wolf, waiting to pounce.
Slowly, his eyes drift toward the closet, the light you left on, and the door you hadn’t had time to close. He turns back to you, and something twisted curls at the edges of his lips. Adrenaline shoots so fast through you it nearly knocks you off your feet.
“Looking for something?” His tone is light, barely audible, as he takes a step closer. It takes every ounce of self-control not to back away from him.
Something too strained to be a smile curls your lips up. “Um,” you lick your lips, swallowing down the dryness coating your tongue. You laugh nervously and take a step toward his bed. “Just that sweater I love.
He stalks towards you, and your eyes widen, heart fluttering in your chest. Just when you think he might run you over, he steps around you and heads toward his dresser. You turn, afraid to take your eyes off of him.
Peeking above the corner of a drawer is a yellow sleeve. He slips it out easily, holding it out to you with a grin that shows off all his teeth. “Thank you,” you whisper, voice cracking around the words as you snatch the sweater out of his hands.
“I made more popcorn,” he tells you, eyes wild as he stares down at you. “Halloween’s on.” It’s a simple invitation to a movie, but it feels like there’s a knife to your back. You have no choice but to step out of the room and head down the stairs. Every bit of you screams to act natural, to pretend that there’s nothing wrong.
How could you be? Your best friend, the boy you’re practically in love with, is slaughtering your friends. He’s running rampant through your town and killing girls just because they broke up with him.
Risking a glance over your shoulder, you see him already looking at you. The smile is gone, now he’s just watching you with this bemused expression, like he’s waiting for you to break and make a run for it.
You take a seat on the couch, lean against the pillows, and glue your eyes to the screen. Suddenly, Jamie Lee Curtis babysitting is the most interesting thing in the world to you. Stu takes his seat beside you, sinking into your side and wrapping his arms around your waist. Stiff as a board, you can’t find it in you to return the touch, too petrified by the thought of all the blood on his hands.
He doesn’t care for your trepidation, taking your arms and wrapping them around himself. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, lips brushing against the sensitive skin as he speaks. “What’s your favorite scary movie?”
Avoiding Stu has been easier than you thought it would. Usually, he’s more persistent in making you hang out with him. Especially when your parents are both out of town at the same time. But he’s been suspiciously quiet since you prematurely ended your weekend stay last week.
You managed to make it through the night. Though, while Stu dozed on top of you, you had been wide awake. Limbs stiff, eyes unblinking, the whole night had been spent on high alert. You’re not sure if he knows you know, or just suspects it. Either way, you should have turned him in by now.
The second you left his house, you should have gone straight to the sheriff. You know who's behind the Woodsboro murders. You know who the infamous Ghostface is, and have a suspicion who his other half might be. You could have stopped all this.
Casey and Steve would be avenged. If you had something, another person wouldn’t have been killed two days ago. You didn’t know him personally, you’d never even seen Stu or Billy interact with him. But this felt less like an attack on him and more like a threat for you.
Keep quiet, or you’ll be strung up by your intestines.
Triple checking all your doors and windows are locked, you head upstairs to your room. Prepared to camp out for another sleepless night. If you turned him in, you wouldn’t have to live with this paranoia anymore. Every corner you turn wouldn’t be prefaced with the idea that he might be waiting behind it. No matter how hard you try, you can’t pick up the phone and call the cops.
You lay back on your bed, listening to the radio in the hopes it might lull you to sleep. It never works, but you hold out hope. The shrill ring of your home phone echoes throughout your empty home. Sitting up on your elbows, you glare at your closed door like it might shut the damn thing up.
Abruptly, it cuts off. The empty halls of your home fall silent once more, the low droning of your radio barely audible above the blood rushing through your head. You hold your breath, eyes peeled on the door in front of you, waiting for… something.
The phone goes off again, and you jump, shooting off your bed and grabbing the bat by your nightstand. Slowly, you open your door, peeking your head out before you attempt to cross the hall to your parent’s room. There’s a phone in there, and you’re more comfortable up here than you are beside your glass patio doors downstairs.
You practically kick the door open, jumping inside the room like you’re prepared to bludgeon someone with your bat. The shadows are thick inside, but you don’t see a cloaked figure waiting for you within one. Feeling confident enough, you run toward your parent’s nightstand and grab the phone. Running back to your room as fast as you can and slamming the door closed behind you, you sink to the floor.
Thumb hovering over the button, you let out a shaky breath and answer. “Hello?” You try and instill confidence in your voice, but you can’t hide the tremor.
“Hey,” Billy’s voice croons on the other end, he says your name, and a shudder rolls down your spine.
“Billy?” His name is a hoarse croak as you feel your heart thud dully inside your chest. “What’s up?”
“I just wanted to tell you something.” He pauses, and you bite your lip, nails digging into your palms as you wait for him to speak. “I’ve always wondered,” there’s a click, and then a raspier, unfamiliar voice speaks, “what do your insides look like?”
Something slams against your front door, and you drop the phone with a shrill scream, jumping to your feet and whirling around. You hear Billy’s distorted cackle echo through the speaker before abruptly cutting off. On the floor, three low beeps sound out. Bending down, you pick up the bulky phone and press it to your ear. Nothing but white noise. You toss the phone on your bed and swallow down another scream. No service.
You’re all alone.
The startling realization of silence rushes over you, gooseflesh rises along your arms, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The banging downstairs has quieted and your house is once more silent. But it’s no longer the same vacant stillness it was before. There’s someone here, it’s an instinctive feeling. Long buried prey instincts warning you of a predator sniffing you out.
Creeping quietly across the floor, you avoid the creaky wood that would give your movements away and once more open the door. It seems foolish to put yourself so boldly out in the open. Being cornered in that room is no better. No matter what, it’s just you and him all alone out here.
You wonder, as you peek your head around the banister, if this is just Stu stalking you. Is Billy getting rid of a liability? Is it both of them?
One, you could handle on your own. But if it was the both of them, the only thing you could do was go down swinging. If you were going to die tonight, you weren’t going to let it be easy for either of them.
Your front door is wide open, an easy escape. There was no point in running. Either one of them is waiting outside for you, or they’ve cut the brakes on your car. You crouch, peering through the railings and silently making your way down the stairs. Try as you might, you don’t see signs that anyone has come inside.
Besides the door, there are no clues to give away where they might have gone. You don’t want to play the role of the bimbo in their sick fantasy. Despite the instinct to call out for someone, you swallow it down and continue through your home.
Beyond the stark terror of facing your own mortality, there is also the pain of being so thoroughly betrayed by Stu. You know the truth of what he is, of what Billy is. And you kept it quiet. You buried his dark secret like it was your own, protected him. This is how he repays you?
This is his answer after years of you loving him. How could he?
You stand in the middle of your living room, bat hanging limp by your side. The aching pain of grief and fear stills your body. The fight wanes inside you, debating whether or not prolonging this is worth it. The others all fought back, and they died bloody. Maybe if you just gave in, it would be quick, painless. Stu could at least grant you that.
There’s a brief flash of movement in the reflection of your patio door. It’s slight, like a shifting shadow. Only one thing gives him away, the white, howling mask. Instinct overrides sensitivities, you whip around, bat flying. There’s a low groan as it smashes over his head.
Reaching up, he snatches it in his hand, using it to jerk you forward. You’re quick to let it go. Instead, you aim for his throat. Hands outstretched as you reach up, gripping his neck as tight as you can. There’s shock in his stuttered breaths, like he hadn’t thought you would fight back. You were beginning to doubt yourself, too.
Turns out you’re too stubborn to die.
The bat clacks loudly against the wood as he stumbles back into your mother’s glass coffee table. His legs kick up, tripping you and sending you stumbling into his chest. The both of you go plummeting backward, glass shattering around him and the wood crumpling like a tower of cards.
Jagged shards cut at your arms and bare legs, but you know he takes the brunt of it. Your grip on his throat is unrelenting, you pick his head up and slam it against the wood. He lets out a dazed groan, and you would laugh were you not trying to stop your best friend from killing you. He seems ridiculous, wearing this stupid cheap mask and moaning like a cartoon character with a bump on their head.
He bucks under you, hips pressing up against yours as he flips you both over. Pain rips through your back as the glass digs into your skin. Letting out a low whine, your hands slack on him for just a moment. It’s still long enough for him to get the upper hand.
He straddles your waist, pinning you below him with his weight as he kneels on your swinging arms. You’re utterly paralyzed, with no other choice but to stare up at him as tears stream, hot and slick, down your cheeks.
Stu rips his mask off, eyes wild as he grins down at you. “Damn, sweetheart,” he laughs, and it only makes you fight harder against him. Screaming through your teeth as you try to buck him off of you. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
He tosses the mask to the side and motions to the knife in his hand, “Surprise,” he practically sings the word, watching for your reaction. You bite your tongue, hiccuping on a sob as you stare up at him through blurry eyes. “Right,” he concedes, tilting his head, “you already knew.”
You can feel the blood pooling beneath you, the glass digging further into your shredded skin. It only makes this all the more unbearable. “Stop,” you beg, voice breaking as you struggle to hold back the tears. “I didn’t tell,” you shout at him. “Why are you doing this?” The tears break around the rage slipping through your voice as you glare up at him.
“What are you talking about?” He snaps, his amusement waning the harder you cry.
“Billy!” you shout the name out, just barely managing to wiggle one wrist free. He snatches it up instantly, the knife falling beside you as he leans over you, digging your hand into the glass above your head. “He said you wanted to see my insides,” there’s no controlling the sobs now. You don’t want to die. You don’t want Stu to be the one to kill you. Somehow, though, you think this would have hurt worse if it was Billy holding the knife.
Stu’s face falls before quickly twisting up into something angry. He backs off, easing his weight just enough for the press of glass to sting a little less. “No,” he utters, shaking his head. “No, that’s not the plan.”
Stu looks nearly manic as he stares down at you. Something unfurls inside you, years of friendship have you reaching up with your free hand. You don’t know what your plan is until he’s leaning into your touch, eyes never leaving yours.
His hand grips your waist, easing you into a sitting position. You want to curl up into a ball and go hide in a dark corner. You want to shove glass down his throat and run. The knife looks particularly appealing beside you.
But you do none of that. You let him tug you closer, hand tightening to the point of pain around your waist, but you don’t think he realizes, and you’re too afraid to point it out. “You’re our final girl, baby,” he practically fucking giggles, and you struggle not to flinch from the sound. “He was just fucking with you.”
“Yeah?” You snap, fingers trailing toward his hair and yanking until his face crinkles with pain. “Then what the fuck,” venom coats your tongue, voice low and deadly, “are you doing right now?”
He smiles, leaning into the way you rip at his hair. “Screwing around,” he laughs, and he sounds like a goddamn idiot. Scoffing, you release him, jerking out of his grip and ignoring the way it pulls at the wounds on your back.
“God,” you crumple into yourself, shoulders hunching forward as you hide your face behind your hands. “I can’t believe I ever thought you could love me. You’re sick, Stu,” you snap, holding back more tears.
Blood and glass surround you both, the shattered fragments of your friendship. Stu looks more hurt than when you strangled him. He reaches for you, and you jump back, shaking your head. ‘I was never going to kill you,” he swears. But what does the promise of a murderer mean to you?
“I don’t believe you,” voice a whisper, the tears spill over once more. He looks between you and the knife like he can’t decide what to do. You wait for it, for the snap before he just plunges the knife into your gut. Twisting it and dragging your death on.
Instead, he lunges forward, wrapping his arms around yours and forcing you into his embrace. “Stop,” you claw weakly at his shoulders, snagging your nails in the cheap cloak. You shake your head, but the fight is over before it even begins. Your arms curl around his neck, and you sink into his familiar embrace.
His gloved hand skates over the wounds on your back, and you whine, arching away from his touch. He offers a whispered apology, but you don’t believe it. “Billy’s not going to touch you,” he swears. “I’m never going to hurt you.”
“You already have.”
His arms only tighten around you, pulling you into his lap as you cry. You might not believe him, but he knows the truth of it. You’re his best friend. The only person besides Billy he’s ever actually cared about.
You are his perfect final girl, and he’s never going to let you go.
end. — I do not own the characters or the movie Scream, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.
wicked influence
Poly!Ghostface x fem!reader
a/n: I’ve wanted to write for Scream for forever and have never gotten around to it. Well, it’s slasher season baby! I finally have my reason. (When I tell you that this movie was my sexual awakening as a child, I mean it. That’s not necessarily good, but it’s true. )
Summary: Visiting a Halloween carnival with your two best friends doesn’t seem that bad until you reach the haunted house. You’ve never been able to explain your fear of demons to anyone before, you have no idea where it comes from. But you do know, going into a hell themed house with teenagers screaming shitty Latin at you is one of your worst nightmares. You think everything’s okay until, suddenly, your nights are filled with visits from a strange shadowy entity and you don’t recognize the look in Stu’s eyes anymore. (Part of my Halloween Palooza)
“Hey! Demons are a perfectly rational thing to be afraid of.”
Billy scoffs and rolls his eyes, nudging you further toward the haunted house. “Alright, alright, would you calm down and just move it.” You stare into the gaping jaw of the devil that serves as the entrance to the house. You know this is all just a way for people to make a quick buck.
There’s not going to be anything in there except teenage actors and shitty SFX makeup. But that doesn’t make the looming doorway any less menacing. It doesn’t make your heart stop racing or your breathing any easier.
Billy frowns as some people shove past you all, tired of waiting for you to move inside. They cut the line and you can’t help but be grateful. Your nails dig into your palms until you feel the warmth of blood and have to swallow down bile.
Stu and Billy both lean towards you, varying looks of confusion on their faces. “Holy shit,” a grin breaks out on Stu’s face and he smiles widely at you. “You’re terrified, aren’t you?” He pokes you like you might be a statue, unmoving and solemn.
You stumble back and are effectively broken out of your terrified stupor. You swat at Stu’s wandering hands and glare at him. “Shut the fuck up,” you snap. But in your anxious state, it all comes out as one jumbled mess.
Billy lets out a disappointed sigh and gives you a funny look. “Alright, let’s just go. You’re not going in and it’s stupid to just stand out here all night.” Stu opens his mouth to argue but Billy shoots him a sharp look. You hate how sensitive they think you are. You can handle one stupid fucking haunted house. You’re not completely useless.
Still, you practically gulp as the Devil’s eyes bore into yours. You feel like your soul is being sucked out through your feet, leaving you startlingly cold. “I,” you clear your throat, waiting until it feels strong enough to speak. “I can do this,” you grit out, sounding like you’re trying to convince yourself more than them.
Stuf lets out a brief chuckle and Billy throws his elbow into his gut. Stu doubles over dramatically and you can’t help but laugh a little. Billy gives you a raised brow and you nod your head. “I just need a little nudge,” you mutter, glancing back at the house.
Stu grins and creeps behind you. “I got you babes,” he tells you in a ridiculous voice. You barely have a second to process what’s happening before he’s lifting you up and practically tossing you inside. Immediately, there’s a fake chainsaw in your face and a screaming Bubba Sawyer. You stumble back with a gasp, falling into Stu’s open arms.
“How’s that for a nudge?” Billy mutters as he brushes past you. You grab onto the back of his shirt and follow behind him. He glances over his shoulder at you with a knowing smirk and continues forward. None of the scares get him, but they get you.
The actors catch onto that. They also catch onto how fake and dramatic Stu is. Half of them target you for a good scream and the other half avoid you because of how obnoxious he’s being. You can already tell how bored BIlly is. There’s not enough gore in here for him.
He needs more blood splatter and fresh corpses, while you’re pleasantly surprised by the contents of the house. You’d really been dreading the demonic themes, but it seems like that’s not a huge factor. So far it’s just a few overzealous teens and some spiders on a string.
Sure, it’s still scaring the bejeezus out of you. But there’s a difference between a quick scream and a deeply rooted phobia.
You don’t know when this supernatural fear of yours began. Maybe your parents let you traumatize yourself with the crucifix scene in The Exorcist too young. But you know it’s been with you nearly your entire life.
You think you’re safe, that you can just relax and let yourself have fun, then you reach the final door. The lights are flickering so hard you think you might have a seizure, but you can see enough to know what’s before you. A red, rotted door, with three upside-down nines barely hanging onto it.
“Oh god,” you whisper and you think the boys can’t hear you. But then you feel Stu’s hands suddenly clamping around your neck and you leap into Billy with a shrill scream. Billy flinches away from the noise, turning to glare at you.
Stu doubles over, laughing his ass off at your expense and grinning wildly at you. “Jesus, we’re not even in there yet. What is wrong with you?” He says it like a joke but you can hear the truth of it lingering. It stings, the slight cruelty in his tone.
There’s nothing wrong with being afraid of something. Fear is healthy. The absence of fear is idiocy. You shove past Billy and turn to Stu with a mean glare. “I’m going to go in here and when I get out, I’m fucking leaving you.”
You shove the door open and take a step inside. You put on a brave face for about five seconds before you turn to see if they’ll follow you. You see just a glimpse of them before the door creaks closed. Billy is leaning against the wall, watching you with a half-amused expression. But Stu looks odd.
That doesn’t even seem like the right word. His face is completely devoid of any emotion. He looks expressionless and you’ve never seen Stu like that before. Whether it’s for good reason or not, he’s always making a face. Right now, you don’t even recognize him. Were it not for the outfit he was wearing you would think someone else had snuck up behind Billy.
The door is closed before you can call out to him and you find yourself plunged in complete darkness. There’s no noise for a long few moments. You can’t tell which way is the door and which is the exit.
At first, you worry you went in the wrong direction and entered an empty part of the house. A sudden cackle breaks through the air, and you leap forward, stumbling into the wall. You can already feel your heart beginning to race. Even though you can hear the static of a speaker and you know, deep down, that it's fake, you’re frozen in fear.
There’s a brief flash of light, just enough for you to see torn wallpaper and upside-down crosses. And something standing in the corner. “All alone?” A voice rasps and you whimper, pressing yourself up against the wall. You can’t tell if your eyes are open or closed, it’s too dark to know. You hope they’re closed. Whatever’s about to happen is going to traumatize you, you just know it.
A door creaks behind you just as the lights begin flickering on and off. Through brief flashes of illumination, you see something running towards you. They’re screaming Latin at you, water hits your face and you begin screaming uncontrollably. Footsteps pound towards you, egging on the racing beat of your heart.
A jarring grip lands on your shoulder and you swing out wildly. Your fist connects with something hard and you hiss in pain. There’s a brief pause where the only thing you can hear is your panting.
“Ow!” Someone snaps, an irritated raspy voice. The lights flick on and you squint against the sudden glare, blinking rapidly to try and lessen the burn on your eyes.
Billy and Stu stand on either side of you, astonished looks on both of their faces. A teenage boy in a shitty priest costume and red face paint stands before you. He’s rubbing his eye and cussing at you. “You fucking punched me!”
“You ran at me!” You yell back immediately, glaring at the little asshole. “I don’t think you’re supposed to touch me.”
He glares at you through one eye and points to Stu and Billy. “I didn’t!” He shouts and you flinch back, grimacing. “Your fucking friend did.” You clench your eyes shut, taking in a deep breath. Both you and Billy turn slowly towards Stu. His face is as red as the kid’s as he struggles to contain his laughter.
“Unbelievable!” You snap at him, slapping his shoulder roughly. He jolts, narrowing his eyes down at you.
“Hey!” He protests, “I was joking around. You’re the one that punched him.” He points the blame to you and you can’t argue. You did, technically, punch him. But it’s Stu’s fault. If he hadn’t snuck up on you, you would have just kept on screaming. You never would have touched the kid.
In awkward silence, you walk the boy out of the haunted house and buy him a cold drink to press against his steadily swelling eye. You can see purple shining through the fading paint and grimace. He throws himself down on a wooden picnic table and sighs forlornly.
“Thanks a lot, lady,” he mutters bitterly. Stu’s lips twitch as he watches the kid tug at his costume. You glare up at him and shove him away. He stumbles behind the table shooting you a sharp glare. You’re taken aback by the look.
It’s not like you’ve never gotten a little pushy with him before. His love language was manhandling. But the look on his face is unrecognizable. You’d thought you’d imagined it earlier, how off he had seemed. But it’s not fake now. You’re looking it clearly in the eye and you can’t deny the truth of it.
“I’m gonna sue,” the kid grumbles and you’re snapped out of your stare-off. You try and shake off the chilling feeling of unfamiliarity but it’s nearly impossible. You’re still wound up from the haunted house, you’re sure you’re just imagining things.
Billy shoves his shoulder and the kid falls back onto the table. “You’re not suing.”
He puffs his chest up and glares at Billy, “I could.”
Billy places his hand on the table, leaning in on the kid’s space until he’s flinching back. You avert your eyes, uncomfortable with the sudden display of dominance. Yet, you don’t stop him from bullying the kid out of a lawsuit. “You won’t,” Billy tells him, a clear threat.
The kid gives a shaky nod of his head, but Billy still doesn’t let up. There’s a slight curl of malice to his lips, you glance over to Stu for support. His attention is rapt upon Billy, something like hunger in his eyes. You feel like you’re watching two lions corner a gazelle, you can practically see the boy’s hands trembling from fear.
“Alright,” you clear your throat and tug Billy back by the shirt. He resists you at first and you know he only backs off because he wants to. It’s not for you. You look at the boy and give him a weak smile, “I really am sorry,” you can hear Stu laughing behind him and roll your eyes. The kid takes the drink off his eye and glares at you.
“Yeah, whatever lady. Why don’t you take a valium or something and chill the hell out?” He gets off the bench and brushes past you, shaking his head. You glance down at your fist and hiss at the pain shooting along your fingers. The skin of your knuckles is split and aching from hitting him.
Billy huffs out a laugh and takes your hand in his. “Really got him, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t mean to,” you argue petulantly.
Stu finally collects himself and rejoins you both, throwing his gangly body on the wooden picnic table. “Why don’t you tell his face that?” He practically snorts, looking down at your hand and then laughing all over again. It’s really not that funny. Even Billy looks confused by his boisterous nature.
He’s a dick, but this is a lot. You and Billy exchange a confused glance before looking back at Stu. But he’s silent now, already staring back at you both. Again, chills go up and down your arms at the empty look in his eyes. His lips are smiling, but his eyes are devoid of anything.
“Maybe we should just go home.” You suggest, trying to keep the suspicion out of your tone. “Carnival’s a bust,” Billy exchanges one last look with you before nodding.
“We still doing movies at Stu’s?” You desperately want to say no. Right now, all you want is to get as far away from him as possible. Earlier, with them and the kid, that’s normal. They’ve always had a bit of a mean streak when it comes to people weaker than them.
The way his eyes are boring into you right now is anything but normal. You’ve never felt quite so uncomfortable near him, but you can’t ignore the feeling. Every primal instinct of survival is screaming at you to run, but you can’t. You can’t say no. All you do is nod, tongue glued to the roof of your mouth. Stu’s eyes brighten slightly at your words, but it’s still nothing compared to how it should be.
You get ahead of Billy, not wanting to walk next to Stu. All you need is a good night’s sleep and you’ll be over this whole thing. Still, you can’t shake the feeling of too many eyes lingering on you as you make the trek to the car. The wet straw beneath your feet swallows the sounds of your steps and you try not to be discomforted by the quiet. It’s a carnival, where did all the people go?
The black-and-white static of the TV is the only thing to illuminate the room. It shines upon your face, makes it so you can only see in that square of light. You assume Billy is on the ground, passed out. And Stu is probably curled up in the overstuffed armchair.
Yet, you can’t look. As much as you try to crane your neck, try and find some comfort in their presence, you can’t move. Your body is pinned down by a weight you can’t see, only feel. This isn’t sleep paralysis. It’s like being held down by someone stronger and bigger than you.
You have no control over your body. You have no control over anything. Your breathing kicks up, coming in short panicked bursts. Your eyes roll around wildly, trying to find something, anything, to focus on.
You find yourself depressingly devoid of any distractions. Until a shadow creeps along the ceiling. At first, you think it’s just your eyes playing tricks on you. Like when you stare at one spot in the dark for too long and start to see impossible shapes.
But this is different. No matter how many times you blink or look away, it keeps moving. You whimper as it crawls over you. It dangles from the ceiling. You see nothing, only feel its eyes on you. There is no clear shape lurking within it, just malevolent malice.
It drops down behind the arm of the couch and you open your mouth to scream, hoping to wake one of the boys. Nothing comes out but a strangled gasp of air. You struggle for noise but the more you try, the harder you find it to bring air in.
Your eyes swim as you go lightheaded. You almost miss the tendrils creeping over the fabric of the couch. You almost don’t see it covering your feet. You wish you had missed it. You wish you just closed your eyes and never opened them again. But it’s like something is keeping those pried open too.
You can’t feel your legs. That’s the weight. It’s not someone holding you down. Your body is completely limp. It’s as though your bones were replaced with metal, you’re sinking so far into the cushions they’re rising around you. Even your fingers are too heavy to twitch.
You begin to feel it in your head, a sudden sinking feeling as it tips further and further back. Soon, you can only watch the shadow through your peripheral. Cold terror washes over you and fills your veins with something ill.
It covers your legs like a veil, slithering on them. Your thighs shoot apart and the blanket goes flying across the room. You can only let out a choked whimper as it dives between your parted limbs.
You shoot up with a gasp, sunlight peers through Stu’s living room windows, filling the room with much-needed warmth. You glance down, fisting the blanket and tugging it up to your chest in relief. Your heart is still racing and there’s sweat caked along your neck. But you can move your body freely again. It must have just been an awful nightmare.
You glance to the side and nearly scream. Stu lounges in the armchair, Billy’s still asleep on the ground. Stu stares right at you, empty eyes, wide smile. “Good dream?” he inquires, but the tone of his voice tells you he already knows the answer.
You swallow, fighting the sandpaper feeling of your throat and shaking your head. “No,” you croak, afraid to speak much louder than a whisper.
His smile widens and you feel your head feeling heavy again. “I love a good nightmare,” he admits, like it’s an awful secret. He leans back in the chair and turns towards the TV, mindlessly flicking through the channels.
With his gaze off you, you glance down and pull the waistband of your shorts down. You swallow down your tears and bile. Your underwear, like you feared, is gone. You glance towards Stu and narrow your eyes at the back of his head. You have an idea who took them.
Your parents are out of town for the week. Normally that means Billy and Stu infesting your home like pests. They’re being oddly evasive when you call, though. Not that you’re complaining. You haven’t been interested in being around Stu since the carnival.
He makes you feel unsafe. As much of a dick as he could be, never, have you ever feared him before. But you do now. You’re terrified of him. Even thinking about him makes you want to get up and check your closets for unwanted intruders.
However, as much as his absence is a relief, it brings with it its own problems. Nothing with Stu can ever be easy, can it?
You keep having the same nightmare. Except each night it gets closer and closer. You feel more of it than you ever want to. They’re turning into uncomfortably sexual dreams. You wake up wet and without any underwear. You can’t blame Stu for that when he’s not even in your house, though. Which leaves you fucking petrified when you wake up.
Because you know, deep down, you know someone wasn’t in your house. Something was, though. A heavy presence lingers over you during the day and makes you terrified to walk around the open spaces of your home. You’d lock yourself in your room all week if you could, but even that doesn’t feel safe.
The door slams behind you and you jolt forward with a scream. You stare at your backdoor with a horrified expression, glaring at it like it might start talking and reveal its secrets. Your house is old, there’s nothing odd about doors occasionally closing on your own.
Except, that hadn’t been open. You’ve kept it firmly locked all week, terrified of a possible home invasion. You need to stop watching scary movies on your own.
You pull your knees into your chest, staring at your door until you’re satisfied it’s not going to slam shut again. Slowly, you turn back towards your TV and keep watching the only good sitcom you could find at this time of night.
The second you let yourself get comfortable, however, you hear your bedroom door upstairs slam shut, followed quickly by rushing footsteps. Your eyes widen in terror and you mute your TV, glaring up at the ceiling and hoping you just imagined it.
Footsteps behind you, running across the linoleum. You whip around, nearly shrieking when you spot something black darting into your pantry closet. You scramble for the phone beside you. You slam 911 into the keypad and press it against your ear, keeping your eyes riveted on the pantry closet.
There’s a steady beep on the other end. The line’s dead. Someone cut your phone line. That’s okay. You can work with that. You can beat something real, but you’ve got no hope against something otherworldly.
You stand slowly, unmuting the TV so the laugh track will cover your movements better. You creep towards your linen closet, reaching for the bat your dad keeps in there for this very reason. He’s got different weapons placed all over the house and you blame him for some of your paranoia. But right now, you’re eternally grateful for the protection it’s providing you.
You slip into the kitchen, sliding quietly across the tiles on your socks. You position yourself behind the pantry door, your hand shaking as you reach for the handle. Just as you rip it open, the lights go out.
You scream wildly, waving the bat around with as much force as you can, hoping to just hit something solid. Glass crashes against the floor and you feel the bat connecting with something. The lights flip back on and your mother’s vase is shattered along the ground. There’s no sign of the intruder and you think you might throw up when you hear more footsteps upstairs, two sets this time.
But then someone darts through the living room, another flash of black before they’re gone. Three? How are you supposed to handle three?
Something titters behind you, bordering on a giggle, and you whip around, bat waving through the air recklessly. No one was there, no sign anyone was. And there’s no possible way for you to have missed them running past you. There’s nowhere to go or hide.
You think of the shadow you’ve seen in the closet and the lights flicker like they’re agreeing with you. The thing that’s been haunting your nightmares, it’s in the house with you. The lights flicker again and your stomach drops to the floor. Your heart is in your throat as you hear your voice chanted from upstairs.
It’s like staring at the Devil’s eyes at the circus again. You feel like there’s something being taken from you. You feel cold, empty, like you’re missing something you need. Something’s toying with you. Making you it’s twisted little plaything.
You can feel the tears clawing their way up your throat. The call of your voice gets louder and louder until it feels like it's being screamed straight into your ears. You want to run, want to fight, want to do anything but stand here and you can’t.
You can’t move. It’s just like your dreams. Your bones are metal and you are stuck. There’s a rough shove to your back, though you don’t feel physical hands on you. And then someone’s moving you, your legs are puppeteered as you’re directed up the stairs.
You stub your toes on every step, crawling up them like a child learning to use them for the first time. Every time you slow down or try and stop, you’re dragged forward again. Your bedroom door creaks open and warmth carves its way down your cheeks.
You stumble inside, the bat thudding to the floor as your hand goes limp around the handle. You want to call out to the entity, but your jaw is wired shut. You stand in the middle of your room, sobbing and terrified and completely alone.
Your closet door slowly creaks open and you brace yourself for the worst. Billy comes flying out, shouting nonsense at you as you scream until your throat feels bloody. Stu follows behind him, ripping off his stupid mask and giving you a wide-eyed look.
You crumple to the floor, covering your head and crying as you come down from the fear that you are being haunted. Stu kneels before you, hands gentle as they take your arms away from your head.
He looks like Stu now. He looks like the boy you grew up with. His eyes are full of worry as he pushes wet strands of hair off your cheeks. “Hey, hey, alright,” he tugs you into his chest and you throw your arms around him wildly. You cling tightly to him, taking in heaving breaths and trying to find some comfort from his touch.
“You fucking dicks,” you sob into his sweater. “I thought I was going to die.”
Billy scoffs as he stares awkwardly behind him. “Yeah,” he mutters bluntly, “I can tell.” He watches you cry for a little while longer before he gets irritated. “Hey, this was supposed to be fun. Would you lighten up?”
You suck in a deep breath, astonishment at what he just said temporarily stopping the tears of terror. You rip yourself away from Stu, ignoring the way his hands linger. “Excuse me?” You demand, glaring up at Billy.
He shrugs, “It was just a prank, chill out.”
You scoff, taking in a sharp breath and nodding your head. “Right, no, you’re right. It’s not like my friends used my biggest fucking fear against me!” You shout, shoving him backward. He stumbles into the corner of your desk and you glare at him and Stu.
“You’re horrible fucking friends, you know that.” You storm out of your room and pause at the top of the stairs. They linger in your doorway. Stu looks like a kicked dog and Billy looks like he’s about to blow the hell up.
“I don’t even know how you guys pulled all that shit off, but fuck you.” You give them both an astonished glare before shaking your head and going back down the stairs. “I hate you,” you scream, your voice shrill and full of uncontrollable rage.
Billy almost follows after you, probably to give you a shit apology and then let everything smooth over naturally. But he stops, foot hovering over the top of the stairs. He glances back at Stu and frowns, “What the hell did you do?” Stu gives him a confused look and Billy glares. “She wasn’t supposed to be terrified for her life, fuckwad. What the hell did you do to her?”
Stu shrugs and gives him a too-wide grin and for the first time, Billy finds himself disturbed by his friend. “Magician’s secret man, cannot, will not tell.” He zips his mouth shut and tosses the key, winking at Billy. Billy gives him a disgusted scoff and follows after you. They can hear you ranting in the kitchen, slamming your drawers shut, and shouting vile insults at them.
Stu watches Billy go down the stairs, his smile slowly fading from his face. Something dark passes over Stu’s face, something wicked, something unnatural. Perhaps it was all just a trick.
Or maybe that kid’s Latin wasn’t so fake after all.
end. — I do not own the characters or the movie Scream, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.
wicked influence
Poly!Ghostface x fem!reader
a/n: I’ve wanted to write for Scream for forever and have never gotten around to it. Well, it’s slasher season baby! I finally have my reason. (When I tell you that this movie was my sexual awakening as a child, I mean it. That’s not necessarily good, but it’s true. )
Summary: Visiting a Halloween carnival with your two best friends doesn’t seem that bad until you reach the haunted house. You’ve never been able to explain your fear of demons to anyone before, you have no idea where it comes from. But you do know, going into a hell themed house with teenagers screaming shitty Latin at you is one of your worst nightmares. You think everything’s okay until, suddenly, your nights are filled with visits from a strange shadowy entity and you don’t recognize the look in Stu’s eyes anymore. (Part of my Halloween Palooza)
“Hey! Demons are a perfectly rational thing to be afraid of.”
Billy scoffs and rolls his eyes, nudging you further toward the haunted house. “Alright, alright, would you calm down and just move it.” You stare into the gaping jaw of the devil that serves as the entrance to the house. You know this is all just a way for people to make a quick buck.
There’s not going to be anything in there except teenage actors and shitty SFX makeup. But that doesn’t make the looming doorway any less menacing. It doesn’t make your heart stop racing or your breathing any easier.
Billy frowns as some people shove past you all, tired of waiting for you to move inside. They cut the line and you can’t help but be grateful. Your nails dig into your palms until you feel the warmth of blood and have to swallow down bile.
Stu and Billy both lean towards you, varying looks of confusion on their faces. “Holy shit,” a grin breaks out on Stu’s face and he smiles widely at you. “You’re terrified, aren’t you?” He pokes you like you might be a statue, unmoving and solemn.
You stumble back and are effectively broken out of your terrified stupor. You swat at Stu’s wandering hands and glare at him. “Shut the fuck up,” you snap. But in your anxious state, it all comes out as one jumbled mess.
Billy lets out a disappointed sigh and gives you a funny look. “Alright, let’s just go. You’re not going in and it’s stupid to just stand out here all night.” Stu opens his mouth to argue but Billy shoots him a sharp look. You hate how sensitive they think you are. You can handle one stupid fucking haunted house. You’re not completely useless.
Still, you practically gulp as the Devil’s eyes bore into yours. You feel like your soul is being sucked out through your feet, leaving you startlingly cold. “I,” you clear your throat, waiting until it feels strong enough to speak. “I can do this,” you grit out, sounding like you’re trying to convince yourself more than them.
Stuf lets out a brief chuckle and Billy throws his elbow into his gut. Stu doubles over dramatically and you can’t help but laugh a little. Billy gives you a raised brow and you nod your head. “I just need a little nudge,” you mutter, glancing back at the house.
Stu grins and creeps behind you. “I got you babes,” he tells you in a ridiculous voice. You barely have a second to process what’s happening before he’s lifting you up and practically tossing you inside. Immediately, there’s a fake chainsaw in your face and a screaming Bubba Sawyer. You stumble back with a gasp, falling into Stu’s open arms.
“How’s that for a nudge?” Billy mutters as he brushes past you. You grab onto the back of his shirt and follow behind him. He glances over his shoulder at you with a knowing smirk and continues forward. None of the scares get him, but they get you.
The actors catch onto that. They also catch onto how fake and dramatic Stu is. Half of them target you for a good scream and the other half avoid you because of how obnoxious he’s being. You can already tell how bored BIlly is. There’s not enough gore in here for him.
He needs more blood splatter and fresh corpses, while you’re pleasantly surprised by the contents of the house. You’d really been dreading the demonic themes, but it seems like that’s not a huge factor. So far it’s just a few overzealous teens and some spiders on a string.
Sure, it’s still scaring the bejeezus out of you. But there’s a difference between a quick scream and a deeply rooted phobia.
You don’t know when this supernatural fear of yours began. Maybe your parents let you traumatize yourself with the crucifix scene in The Exorcist too young. But you know it’s been with you nearly your entire life.
You think you’re safe, that you can just relax and let yourself have fun, then you reach the final door. The lights are flickering so hard you think you might have a seizure, but you can see enough to know what’s before you. A red, rotted door, with three upside-down nines barely hanging onto it.
“Oh god,” you whisper and you think the boys can’t hear you. But then you feel Stu’s hands suddenly clamping around your neck and you leap into Billy with a shrill scream. Billy flinches away from the noise, turning to glare at you.
Stu doubles over, laughing his ass off at your expense and grinning wildly at you. “Jesus, we’re not even in there yet. What is wrong with you?” He says it like a joke but you can hear the truth of it lingering. It stings, the slight cruelty in his tone.
There’s nothing wrong with being afraid of something. Fear is healthy. The absence of fear is idiocy. You shove past Billy and turn to Stu with a mean glare. “I’m going to go in here and when I get out, I’m fucking leaving you.”
You shove the door open and take a step inside. You put on a brave face for about five seconds before you turn to see if they’ll follow you. You see just a glimpse of them before the door creaks closed. Billy is leaning against the wall, watching you with a half-amused expression. But Stu looks odd.
That doesn’t even seem like the right word. His face is completely devoid of any emotion. He looks expressionless and you’ve never seen Stu like that before. Whether it’s for good reason or not, he’s always making a face. Right now, you don’t even recognize him. Were it not for the outfit he was wearing you would think someone else had snuck up behind Billy.
The door is closed before you can call out to him and you find yourself plunged in complete darkness. There’s no noise for a long few moments. You can’t tell which way is the door and which is the exit.
At first, you worry you went in the wrong direction and entered an empty part of the house. A sudden cackle breaks through the air, and you leap forward, stumbling into the wall. You can already feel your heart beginning to race. Even though you can hear the static of a speaker and you know, deep down, that it's fake, you’re frozen in fear.
There’s a brief flash of light, just enough for you to see torn wallpaper and upside-down crosses. And something standing in the corner. “All alone?” A voice rasps and you whimper, pressing yourself up against the wall. You can’t tell if your eyes are open or closed, it’s too dark to know. You hope they’re closed. Whatever’s about to happen is going to traumatize you, you just know it.
A door creaks behind you just as the lights begin flickering on and off. Through brief flashes of illumination, you see something running towards you. They’re screaming Latin at you, water hits your face and you begin screaming uncontrollably. Footsteps pound towards you, egging on the racing beat of your heart.
A jarring grip lands on your shoulder and you swing out wildly. Your fist connects with something hard and you hiss in pain. There’s a brief pause where the only thing you can hear is your panting.
“Ow!” Someone snaps, an irritated raspy voice. The lights flick on and you squint against the sudden glare, blinking rapidly to try and lessen the burn on your eyes.
Billy and Stu stand on either side of you, astonished looks on both of their faces. A teenage boy in a shitty priest costume and red face paint stands before you. He’s rubbing his eye and cussing at you. “You fucking punched me!”
“You ran at me!” You yell back immediately, glaring at the little asshole. “I don’t think you’re supposed to touch me.”
He glares at you through one eye and points to Stu and Billy. “I didn’t!” He shouts and you flinch back, grimacing. “Your fucking friend did.” You clench your eyes shut, taking in a deep breath. Both you and Billy turn slowly towards Stu. His face is as red as the kid’s as he struggles to contain his laughter.
“Unbelievable!” You snap at him, slapping his shoulder roughly. He jolts, narrowing his eyes down at you.
“Hey!” He protests, “I was joking around. You’re the one that punched him.” He points the blame to you and you can’t argue. You did, technically, punch him. But it’s Stu’s fault. If he hadn’t snuck up on you, you would have just kept on screaming. You never would have touched the kid.
In awkward silence, you walk the boy out of the haunted house and buy him a cold drink to press against his steadily swelling eye. You can see purple shining through the fading paint and grimace. He throws himself down on a wooden picnic table and sighs forlornly.
“Thanks a lot, lady,” he mutters bitterly. Stu’s lips twitch as he watches the kid tug at his costume. You glare up at him and shove him away. He stumbles behind the table shooting you a sharp glare. You’re taken aback by the look.
It’s not like you’ve never gotten a little pushy with him before. His love language was manhandling. But the look on his face is unrecognizable. You’d thought you’d imagined it earlier, how off he had seemed. But it’s not fake now. You’re looking it clearly in the eye and you can’t deny the truth of it.
“I’m gonna sue,” the kid grumbles and you’re snapped out of your stare-off. You try and shake off the chilling feeling of unfamiliarity but it’s nearly impossible. You’re still wound up from the haunted house, you’re sure you’re just imagining things.
Billy shoves his shoulder and the kid falls back onto the table. “You’re not suing.”
He puffs his chest up and glares at Billy, “I could.”
Billy places his hand on the table, leaning in on the kid’s space until he’s flinching back. You avert your eyes, uncomfortable with the sudden display of dominance. Yet, you don’t stop him from bullying the kid out of a lawsuit. “You won’t,” Billy tells him, a clear threat.
The kid gives a shaky nod of his head, but Billy still doesn’t let up. There’s a slight curl of malice to his lips, you glance over to Stu for support. His attention is rapt upon Billy, something like hunger in his eyes. You feel like you’re watching two lions corner a gazelle, you can practically see the boy’s hands trembling from fear.
“Alright,” you clear your throat and tug Billy back by the shirt. He resists you at first and you know he only backs off because he wants to. It’s not for you. You look at the boy and give him a weak smile, “I really am sorry,” you can hear Stu laughing behind him and roll your eyes. The kid takes the drink off his eye and glares at you.
“Yeah, whatever lady. Why don’t you take a valium or something and chill the hell out?” He gets off the bench and brushes past you, shaking his head. You glance down at your fist and hiss at the pain shooting along your fingers. The skin of your knuckles is split and aching from hitting him.
Billy huffs out a laugh and takes your hand in his. “Really got him, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t mean to,” you argue petulantly.
Stu finally collects himself and rejoins you both, throwing his gangly body on the wooden picnic table. “Why don’t you tell his face that?” He practically snorts, looking down at your hand and then laughing all over again. It’s really not that funny. Even Billy looks confused by his boisterous nature.
He’s a dick, but this is a lot. You and Billy exchange a confused glance before looking back at Stu. But he’s silent now, already staring back at you both. Again, chills go up and down your arms at the empty look in his eyes. His lips are smiling, but his eyes are devoid of anything.
“Maybe we should just go home.” You suggest, trying to keep the suspicion out of your tone. “Carnival’s a bust,” Billy exchanges one last look with you before nodding.
“We still doing movies at Stu’s?” You desperately want to say no. Right now, all you want is to get as far away from him as possible. Earlier, with them and the kid, that’s normal. They’ve always had a bit of a mean streak when it comes to people weaker than them.
The way his eyes are boring into you right now is anything but normal. You’ve never felt quite so uncomfortable near him, but you can’t ignore the feeling. Every primal instinct of survival is screaming at you to run, but you can’t. You can’t say no. All you do is nod, tongue glued to the roof of your mouth. Stu’s eyes brighten slightly at your words, but it’s still nothing compared to how it should be.
You get ahead of Billy, not wanting to walk next to Stu. All you need is a good night’s sleep and you’ll be over this whole thing. Still, you can’t shake the feeling of too many eyes lingering on you as you make the trek to the car. The wet straw beneath your feet swallows the sounds of your steps and you try not to be discomforted by the quiet. It’s a carnival, where did all the people go?
The black-and-white static of the TV is the only thing to illuminate the room. It shines upon your face, makes it so you can only see in that square of light. You assume Billy is on the ground, passed out. And Stu is probably curled up in the overstuffed armchair.
Yet, you can’t look. As much as you try to crane your neck, try and find some comfort in their presence, you can’t move. Your body is pinned down by a weight you can’t see, only feel. This isn’t sleep paralysis. It’s like being held down by someone stronger and bigger than you.
You have no control over your body. You have no control over anything. Your breathing kicks up, coming in short panicked bursts. Your eyes roll around wildly, trying to find something, anything, to focus on.
You find yourself depressingly devoid of any distractions. Until a shadow creeps along the ceiling. At first, you think it’s just your eyes playing tricks on you. Like when you stare at one spot in the dark for too long and start to see impossible shapes.
But this is different. No matter how many times you blink or look away, it keeps moving. You whimper as it crawls over you. It dangles from the ceiling. You see nothing, only feel its eyes on you. There is no clear shape lurking within it, just malevolent malice.
It drops down behind the arm of the couch and you open your mouth to scream, hoping to wake one of the boys. Nothing comes out but a strangled gasp of air. You struggle for noise but the more you try, the harder you find it to bring air in.
Your eyes swim as you go lightheaded. You almost miss the tendrils creeping over the fabric of the couch. You almost don’t see it covering your feet. You wish you had missed it. You wish you just closed your eyes and never opened them again. But it’s like something is keeping those pried open too.
You can’t feel your legs. That’s the weight. It’s not someone holding you down. Your body is completely limp. It’s as though your bones were replaced with metal, you’re sinking so far into the cushions they’re rising around you. Even your fingers are too heavy to twitch.
You begin to feel it in your head, a sudden sinking feeling as it tips further and further back. Soon, you can only watch the shadow through your peripheral. Cold terror washes over you and fills your veins with something ill.
It covers your legs like a veil, slithering on them. Your thighs shoot apart and the blanket goes flying across the room. You can only let out a choked whimper as it dives between your parted limbs.
You shoot up with a gasp, sunlight peers through Stu’s living room windows, filling the room with much-needed warmth. You glance down, fisting the blanket and tugging it up to your chest in relief. Your heart is still racing and there’s sweat caked along your neck. But you can move your body freely again. It must have just been an awful nightmare.
You glance to the side and nearly scream. Stu lounges in the armchair, Billy’s still asleep on the ground. Stu stares right at you, empty eyes, wide smile. “Good dream?” he inquires, but the tone of his voice tells you he already knows the answer.
You swallow, fighting the sandpaper feeling of your throat and shaking your head. “No,” you croak, afraid to speak much louder than a whisper.
His smile widens and you feel your head feeling heavy again. “I love a good nightmare,” he admits, like it’s an awful secret. He leans back in the chair and turns towards the TV, mindlessly flicking through the channels.
With his gaze off you, you glance down and pull the waistband of your shorts down. You swallow down your tears and bile. Your underwear, like you feared, is gone. You glance towards Stu and narrow your eyes at the back of his head. You have an idea who took them.
Your parents are out of town for the week. Normally that means Billy and Stu infesting your home like pests. They’re being oddly evasive when you call, though. Not that you’re complaining. You haven’t been interested in being around Stu since the carnival.
He makes you feel unsafe. As much of a dick as he could be, never, have you ever feared him before. But you do now. You’re terrified of him. Even thinking about him makes you want to get up and check your closets for unwanted intruders.
However, as much as his absence is a relief, it brings with it its own problems. Nothing with Stu can ever be easy, can it?
You keep having the same nightmare. Except each night it gets closer and closer. You feel more of it than you ever want to. They’re turning into uncomfortably sexual dreams. You wake up wet and without any underwear. You can’t blame Stu for that when he’s not even in your house, though. Which leaves you fucking petrified when you wake up.
Because you know, deep down, you know someone wasn’t in your house. Something was, though. A heavy presence lingers over you during the day and makes you terrified to walk around the open spaces of your home. You’d lock yourself in your room all week if you could, but even that doesn’t feel safe.
The door slams behind you and you jolt forward with a scream. You stare at your backdoor with a horrified expression, glaring at it like it might start talking and reveal its secrets. Your house is old, there’s nothing odd about doors occasionally closing on your own.
Except, that hadn’t been open. You’ve kept it firmly locked all week, terrified of a possible home invasion. You need to stop watching scary movies on your own.
You pull your knees into your chest, staring at your door until you’re satisfied it’s not going to slam shut again. Slowly, you turn back towards your TV and keep watching the only good sitcom you could find at this time of night.
The second you let yourself get comfortable, however, you hear your bedroom door upstairs slam shut, followed quickly by rushing footsteps. Your eyes widen in terror and you mute your TV, glaring up at the ceiling and hoping you just imagined it.
Footsteps behind you, running across the linoleum. You whip around, nearly shrieking when you spot something black darting into your pantry closet. You scramble for the phone beside you. You slam 911 into the keypad and press it against your ear, keeping your eyes riveted on the pantry closet.
There’s a steady beep on the other end. The line’s dead. Someone cut your phone line. That’s okay. You can work with that. You can beat something real, but you’ve got no hope against something otherworldly.
You stand slowly, unmuting the TV so the laugh track will cover your movements better. You creep towards your linen closet, reaching for the bat your dad keeps in there for this very reason. He’s got different weapons placed all over the house and you blame him for some of your paranoia. But right now, you’re eternally grateful for the protection it’s providing you.
You slip into the kitchen, sliding quietly across the tiles on your socks. You position yourself behind the pantry door, your hand shaking as you reach for the handle. Just as you rip it open, the lights go out.
You scream wildly, waving the bat around with as much force as you can, hoping to just hit something solid. Glass crashes against the floor and you feel the bat connecting with something. The lights flip back on and your mother’s vase is shattered along the ground. There’s no sign of the intruder and you think you might throw up when you hear more footsteps upstairs, two sets this time.
But then someone darts through the living room, another flash of black before they’re gone. Three? How are you supposed to handle three?
Something titters behind you, bordering on a giggle, and you whip around, bat waving through the air recklessly. No one was there, no sign anyone was. And there’s no possible way for you to have missed them running past you. There’s nowhere to go or hide.
You think of the shadow you’ve seen in the closet and the lights flicker like they’re agreeing with you. The thing that’s been haunting your nightmares, it’s in the house with you. The lights flicker again and your stomach drops to the floor. Your heart is in your throat as you hear your voice chanted from upstairs.
It’s like staring at the Devil’s eyes at the circus again. You feel like there’s something being taken from you. You feel cold, empty, like you’re missing something you need. Something’s toying with you. Making you it’s twisted little plaything.
You can feel the tears clawing their way up your throat. The call of your voice gets louder and louder until it feels like it's being screamed straight into your ears. You want to run, want to fight, want to do anything but stand here and you can’t.
You can’t move. It’s just like your dreams. Your bones are metal and you are stuck. There’s a rough shove to your back, though you don’t feel physical hands on you. And then someone’s moving you, your legs are puppeteered as you’re directed up the stairs.
You stub your toes on every step, crawling up them like a child learning to use them for the first time. Every time you slow down or try and stop, you’re dragged forward again. Your bedroom door creaks open and warmth carves its way down your cheeks.
You stumble inside, the bat thudding to the floor as your hand goes limp around the handle. You want to call out to the entity, but your jaw is wired shut. You stand in the middle of your room, sobbing and terrified and completely alone.
Your closet door slowly creaks open and you brace yourself for the worst. Billy comes flying out, shouting nonsense at you as you scream until your throat feels bloody. Stu follows behind him, ripping off his stupid mask and giving you a wide-eyed look.
You crumple to the floor, covering your head and crying as you come down from the fear that you are being haunted. Stu kneels before you, hands gentle as they take your arms away from your head.
He looks like Stu now. He looks like the boy you grew up with. His eyes are full of worry as he pushes wet strands of hair off your cheeks. “Hey, hey, alright,” he tugs you into his chest and you throw your arms around him wildly. You cling tightly to him, taking in heaving breaths and trying to find some comfort from his touch.
“You fucking dicks,” you sob into his sweater. “I thought I was going to die.”
Billy scoffs as he stares awkwardly behind him. “Yeah,” he mutters bluntly, “I can tell.” He watches you cry for a little while longer before he gets irritated. “Hey, this was supposed to be fun. Would you lighten up?”
You suck in a deep breath, astonishment at what he just said temporarily stopping the tears of terror. You rip yourself away from Stu, ignoring the way his hands linger. “Excuse me?” You demand, glaring up at Billy.
He shrugs, “It was just a prank, chill out.”
You scoff, taking in a sharp breath and nodding your head. “Right, no, you’re right. It’s not like my friends used my biggest fucking fear against me!” You shout, shoving him backward. He stumbles into the corner of your desk and you glare at him and Stu.
“You’re horrible fucking friends, you know that.” You storm out of your room and pause at the top of the stairs. They linger in your doorway. Stu looks like a kicked dog and Billy looks like he’s about to blow the hell up.
“I don’t even know how you guys pulled all that shit off, but fuck you.” You give them both an astonished glare before shaking your head and going back down the stairs. “I hate you,” you scream, your voice shrill and full of uncontrollable rage.
Billy almost follows after you, probably to give you a shit apology and then let everything smooth over naturally. But he stops, foot hovering over the top of the stairs. He glances back at Stu and frowns, “What the hell did you do?” Stu gives him a confused look and Billy glares. “She wasn’t supposed to be terrified for her life, fuckwad. What the hell did you do to her?”
Stu shrugs and gives him a too-wide grin and for the first time, Billy finds himself disturbed by his friend. “Magician’s secret man, cannot, will not tell.” He zips his mouth shut and tosses the key, winking at Billy. Billy gives him a disgusted scoff and follows after you. They can hear you ranting in the kitchen, slamming your drawers shut, and shouting vile insults at them.
Stu watches Billy go down the stairs, his smile slowly fading from his face. Something dark passes over Stu’s face, something wicked, something unnatural. Perhaps it was all just a trick.
Or maybe that kid’s Latin wasn’t so fake after all.
end. — I do not own the characters or the movie Scream, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.
Cherry Waves : one
Ghostface! Danny Johnson x f!reader
Danny just had to save you. He just had to save your poor sad life. Knocking your sad frail body against fake plastic tiles. Shoving his fingers down your throat like a kid fishing for pennies. What was it you wrote in your diary? Your shiny white masked knight in a black shroud? Well how cute. Maybe it was time he kept a pet around.Just to play or course.18+ : eventual smut, themes of suicide (reader attempts), selfharm, sexual content, murder, themes of violence
ao3 prolouge masterlist
Three months later,
VETERANS MURDERED IN HOME
Adam webbing
Senior journalist
See page four for more details.
Another violent murder has shocked the small sunny town of Roseville after the body’s of Daren and his brother Edward Small were recovered outside their home in the early hours of the morning. The Brothers fought bravely in the army during the Vietnam war, Darren was a well loved member of the Roseville community and along with his brother they led the local boy scouts on numerous camping trips and charity events, last year raising nearly two thousand dollars for the local animal shelter.
The witness (who chooses to stay anonymous) found Daren slumped over on a lawn chair with multiple stab wounds, while Edward was found lying outside the trailer door in an obvious attempt to escape with a shattered leg and seven stab wounds to the back. The stab wounds were so brutal it shattered his rib cage and punctured his lungs. The Witness said she saw a man covered in a black shroud and white mask running from the scene before calling first responders. Darren died shortly in the ambulance after attempts to stop bleeding.
Is this the work of a new killer, or a robbery gone wrong?
If you have any information please contact Detective Moore at the RPD +(000) 000 000
A memorial will be held later today at the Roseville Community Hall at 4pm everybody is welcome to attend.
Your hand traces the words, they're so tiny you could have missed them. White mask. You bite your lip. A month ago you would have called him a knight in a shiny black robe and a white plastic mask. And now you're unsure if he really was a saviour, a guardian angel. When you had thought about it a bit more he had seemed like a vigilante, the violent ones from the comic books, like the punisher, or maybe even Batman. Cloaked in darkness protecting people from rapists by beating them to a pulp, he had reminded you a bit of the crow, your own Eric Draven.
And maybe he was just a vigilante, maybe the Small brothers had committed multiple offences during their time in Vietnam, you heard the stories. Rape, Looting, collecting ears. You had even heard about soldiers paying for certain commodities with children. But these were just maybes, maybe he was a saviour, a blessing in disguise, but he had also threatened you with a painful death if you would ever try to attempt again.
And although it was Florida, where crazy crack addicts try to train gators, or break into houses just to watch TV for hours. There was something shocking about the turn of events that had happened in such a short amount of time. You had a near death experience while unknowingly being saved by a masked killer, and then two 50 something year old men the community worshipped on veteran day had been killed, stabbed.
Shot in the head would've been easier to digest, but the brothers owned guns, they hunted, they had been in the army for god sake, they had killed people. Stabbed? When either brother is able to grab a gun and shoot? This was a completely different story. Whomever had killed them was not someone to mess with. He was dangerous.
And what if you were next, what if you crashed into the guy out of costume and he saw the scars on your arms, or a pot of pills from the pharmacy. What if you cut in line or told him to ‘fuck off’, would you be next, if you even thought about suicide again would he make good on his promise?
The Police thought they were clever, that it was NCIS level shit, the only problem was, when you have a town this small. Every detective or officer was someone you had spoken to. You could spot them from a mile away as they stood ridgid against walls holding candles like batons. The police were so sure the killer was going to be in attendance that you could make out the indentation of handcuffs in the jean shorts that half of them wore.
You walked, arm linked in arm with Aaron. He was on your recently completed college course, and had just landed a gig as a touring concert photographer with some band from the 70s. Made up of fifty year old men. It was high paying, and he actually got to go to like three places in Europe. So it was something worth being jealous over. The only thing you had managed to do was get a job at the paper as a photographer and assistant to the editor, running coffees while snapping photos for the paper wasn't exactly the hardest gig, nor was it the most riveting. But hey, you had bills to pay, and your uncle hired you as a favour from your mum.
In Fact the only reason you were here at the Memorial service at all was to snap quick photos of mourners, you had shot some photos of candles being lit by the boyscouts hall, along with flowers laid upon each other neatly, swapping from a digital camera to a film camera when you realised you were gonna have to edit either one on the difficult software you had begged your manager to buy. Aaron pointed out different ideas for the paper, but you knew your Uncle would go with the lit candles anyway, so there was no bother. After you had got your shots you head back to the gazette, zig zagging across the crowd of people heading to the memorial. You wave goodbye to Aaron as you sling your digital camera over your shoulder ready to enter the building and suddenly you're crashing into the wall. Or a person. You gaze up at your victim. He's a little shy of six feet, dirty blonde hair swooping every which way. Brown puppy eyes staring down at you, he brings his hand up apologetically, and you watch the way the curves of his lips twitch into a smile. “Im so sorry”
You squint back at him. “It's fine,” you wave your hand at him. “Really I should watch where im going” you pause, and then force a smile, reaching your hand out to grab the door handle, his hand follows and knocks your own, you both pull back quickly.
“Gosh! Look at us.” He smiles again, eyes crinkling into a big fake grin, you only stare back. “Well, ladies first.” he nods. You don't look back as you swing the door open, and then pull yourself into the building, not bothering if the door hits him on your way in. “Did you go to the memorial?” he asks, in an odd cheery tone, the kind you put on when you answer the phone.
“Yep” you mutter back, you're unsure if he even heard you as you turn in a twist of corridors, yanking doors and climbing up the stairs, until you're at the office.
The Gazette is an odd shaped building, its L shaped, the gap allowing for a parking lot that's scarcely used. The Gazette is on the second floor, underneath a marketing or lawyer firm. It's a three story building at the edge of town, a short walk from your home, and the local coffee shop you hide in.
Jed waves bye at you as you slip into the dark room, you spend thirty minutes developing the film and bathing it into baths of chemicals. You snip the roll into sections, hang to dry over the sink with film clips weighing each of them down. Then rebottling and labelling the chemicals you've used. You've got about two to five hours to wait-out until they're dry, so you sort the film from the other day into a clear folder, checking Jeds to see if it was dry. Your eyes glaze over the shots of a new cafe that opened up recently. Then you hurl yourself out the door.
You carefully scan your film into the kodak 35mm scanner, it takes ages to see it fully appear on screen, Then you work on editing the contrast and changing the photos from sepia to full colour. You finally print the photos for a final go over and head over to your uncle's office. You pass Jeds desk, perfectly organised, he swings around on his chair, you pause.
“Your films dry in there, by the way” you smile lightly and watch him lean back on his chair before standing, the chair rolls across the floor at a hurdling speed, and you pop your leg out to stop it before walking away.
Micheal Thomas Jones wasn't actually your uncle, before your dad passed he was his closest friend. He helped your mum out financially before she remarried, even offering her a job as assistant when she couldn't work due to health reasons. He's a sweet guy, you remember him swinging you around his garden at a family barbeque when you were seven. You weren't sure if they were actually hiring for a photographer/assistant when he offered you a job, in fact Jed had only been hired four months prior to your appearance and he was already taking photos for the paper. But freshly graduated you decided to take whatever you could.
You had learnt the office admired Jed, the ladies fawned over his perfect hair and the guys laughed at his crude jokes. You weren't sure how you stood with Jed, he was a seasoned Photographer/journalist that had crashed into the tiny town right next to your little apartment. Part of you wondered why Roseville, why a tiny town? With his experience he could have aimed for somewhere bigger. It felt like charity work, barely minimum wage for beautifully written articles about the intricacies of the town. He made potholes being filled sound like someone had won the lottery. It bothered you slightly, he was put on this pedestal, even a snarky remark had sounded like a lighthearted joke.
You push the door open to Mike’s office, planting the images on his desk as he smiles up at you. “Do you want a coffee from down the road?” you ask. Mike nods, bald head shining under the light. He stretches out his arm to check over the photos as you grab the company card from his wallet and walk out. You already had his coffee order memorised. You walk around and ask the few in if they want anything. Your feet land at Jeds desk. You purse your lips at the empty chair.
He takes it black, right?Maybe you should check.
Your arms sway against your body as you pull yourself up to the dark room. The red light isnt on so you plant your hand on the door. Slowly turning the silver handle. “Don't come in,” Jed hisses. You shut the door. Blinking quickly. “Sorry, the lights are off and I don't want to ruin these photos” You furrow your eyebrows, eyes glazing to the now shining red light above the door.
“All good, do you want a coffee?” you ask. You wait a few seconds and lean against the door, He doesn't reply. “Jed?” you wonder if you should leave. You clasp your hands and stretch them out in front of you.
A few moments pass and you feel the door open, you scramble to balance yourself on your feet as Jed peeks his head out the door. “Hey” He smiles. The scar on his cheek lifting. You step backwards to allow him out the room, head blocking the photographs he's hanging to dry.
“Hi”, you answer.
You watch him adjust his button shirt, pushing his glasses up before he tilts his head at you. “I'll come grab coffee with you!” He seems almost sincere. You nod your head as he leads you out the building.
The walk is silent. All you hear is Jeds converse scuff across the sidewalk in quick succession, he walks on the outside of the road and switches over when you cross. Hand pressed against your back as he moves round you. When you head into the Coffee shop they're nearly closing, you're glad you're only ordering four coffees. The whirring of the coffee machine fills your ears, and you sigh into the smell of freshly ground beans. After you order you wait for the coffees by the collection point.
You pick at your nails, Jeds hands slide into his back pockets and he kicks his feet against each other. “Sorry, I hope I haven't gotten the wrong idea, but do you hate me?”
His question startles you, you feel the wind knocked out of your lungs. It's too confrontational but not out of the ordinary for Jed. “No, what? Why do you think that”
He breathes a sigh of relief, fingers combing through his brows, “well, I guess it's because we don't really talk and I catch you giving me these horrid looks sometimes?”
Your eyebrow raises, lips snarling, and then you relax your face. “Look, I don't hate you. I guess I'm just a little jealous, I feel like Mike likes you more than me and I've known him for like, ever~” you watch him digest your words. There's a hint of a smirk on his face. “Maybe I'm just being cynical but it's like, everyone is so captivated by you and I have no clue why you are even here. Not in a bad way, just it's a small town in Florida literally outside Jacksonville, like Miami is right there. Maybe i just think you should aim a little higher, actually get your name out there”
He turns his head towards the barista, smiling and thanking her for the drinks. He nods at you and you follow him through the door. When you're outside you take out the carton of cigarettes from your back pocket, sliding one into your mouth and turning to Jed, he looks down at you. You feel squeamish on the inside, soft eyes hitting your own, his arm bumps your own in a sweet jokey way. You're starting to get why all those ladies like him at work. Something in his boyish nature takes you back to highschool. With those heart crushing crushes on indie nerds. You feel your cheeks blush. You smile back, it's genuine this time. You hold out the carton to him, he plucks one from the pack, slipping it in the corner of his mouth you bring the lighter towards the Cig, his lips purse as he huffs smoke from the corners of his mouth.
When Jed Olson waves you goodbye at your door with a smile, he steps into his cramped apartment and his face falls, shoulders arching inwards as he stomps off his clothes. Stepping into the shower, washing away the achy muscles of the day. Fresh scars burning as the water steams over them.He lets his hand run over his hair slicking it back until only a strand falls over his brow. He fishes out a black shirt from a pile on the floor and shoves it over his head. Wet skin sticking to the fabric. He needs a day off. Jed Olson is making him so sick. Keeping up appearances is only so easy when everyone wants a piece of you, he wishes Jed was less likeable. That he didn't feel the need to trap flies into his web with ease and yet he felt you edge closer to the centre of his cage, ready to be coiled into a prison of silk, just like the others. Because if everyone liked him, then Danny would have a far easier job.
Danny pulled out a small folder, and flipped through the number of photos he had taken over the past few months, Darren smoking a cigarette outside, Edward teaching a young boy how to tie a knot. Sally Hughes drinking a glass of wine and watching a trashy tv show and you .
You're sitting on the couch with your hand between your thighs. Kyle Maclachlan is on the TV drinking a cup of coffee. Another of you crying, mouth gaping open, hand over your throat. Face red from the vice grip. There’s one of you pinching the fat on your thigh. Another biting your finger in a tiny lil leopard print thong in front of the mirror. You're on the floor cutting your thigh with a small knife, blood smeared against your cheek. You licking the knife clean.
He wouldn't have run into you if he had climbed into his apartment that night. You would have been dead, rotting into the sofa. Body inflating. But he just had to save you. Knocking your sad frail body against fake plastic tiles. Shoving his fingers down your throat like a kid fishing for pennies. Pressing the leather into your tongue until you had thrown up. Patting your head as you cried. Threatening you. Saving you poor sad life. He could've ended it all right there, started the chain of events. Pulling you away from deaths edge and then pushing you straight in. He had seemed to convince himself that he would have been caught if you were dead. Apartment ransacked leading to his questioning, he’d never figure out the logistics of it. But he just knew you would be important.
So he slides himself over to the wall above his tv, pushing pins into the photographs, anyone else would call this a shrine. But really, it was his final plan.
Danny Johnson dresses himself in a pair of cargos, he pulls his leather combat boots on and ties them up quickly. He buckles up his brand new Shroud and slips on a white mask. He slips out the window smoothly and creeps on to the fire escape, walking slowly along the metal before purchasing himself outside your window. And then he watches.
CherryWaves
Prologue
Ghostface! Danny Johnson x f!reader
Danny just had to save you. He just had to save your poor sad life. Knocking your sad frail body against fake plastic tiles. Shoving his fingers down your throat like a kid fishing for pennies. What was it you wrote in your diary? Your shiny white masked knight in a black shroud? Well how cute. Maybe it was time he kept a pet around. Just to play or course. 18+ : eventual smut, themes of suicide (reader attempts), selfharm, sexual content, murder, themes of violence
ao3 one masterlist
There's something in the air. Maybe it's that time of year. When you feel yourself fall away like thread splitting at the seams. When you’re clutching at the fabric of your knit sweater. Pulling it closer to your skin. Jeans become looser around your waist, you watch them fall around your hips as you push down the urge to throw up. It's normal. It's a regular occurrence you swear! When winter comes round it's like you're dying from the inside. Wilting quickly. Blackened petals folding in on themself. Ready to crumble into a pile of ash. You're just another brown leaf on the sidewalk. Stepped on, splashed over. Melting into a mushy pile like the others. Until spring comes, when you find yourself blossoming all over again.
And maybe you haven't been too careful recently, watchful, cautious. You're in and out of work. The days feel slower and quicker and it's hard to remember what time it is and when you last washed the bra you're wearing. So it's not like you're keeping an eye on things.
You rub your eyes. Eyeliner smudging underneath, you feel the grit of your mascara rub against your eyelids. You huff smoke. Cigarette hanging out of your mouth as you tuck your hair behind your ears. There’s a slight chill in the air which is slightly unusual for Florida, but you tuck your thin sweater around your chest anyway, numb fingers taking the cigarette out your mouth as you blow a billow of smoke into the air.
You throw the cigarette on the floor and crush it under your foot, watching the embers escape into the concrete slabs. You check your watch. It's only ten past five, Thursday evening. Someone bumps shoulders with you as you pass by a crowd after work rush. You've only just escaped from a job yourself. You pat down your jeans, wallet gone. You look back quickly and watch someone scurry across the crowd of people, ducking between workers and customers. He was out of sight just as you noticed him. You sigh. Looking up at the pharmacy ahead. You bite your lip.
You pull yourself into a nook between shops and lean down on the cold gravel. Hands digging into your pockets, you pull out 4 dollars, a lighter and a receipt for milk. You bite the insides of your cheeks. Hands scraping up the wall as you bring yourself back up on your feet.
The door to the pharmacy swings open, it smells like an air-conditioning unit and pepto bismol, your shoes scrape across the floor as you wander around the aisles, eyes flicking through hair products, condoms, prenatal vitamins, and finally razors. A pack of twelve single blades is a buck. You wonder if you should just tuck them under your sleeve and buy a burger from over the road instead. You wonder if you should buy them at all. But you find your feet shuffling over to the counter anyway, before you can even think for yourself.
Are you really doing this?
Yes.
You made up your mind a long time ago.
You slide the pack across the counter along with a two dollar bill , the pharmacist looks up at you with a smile, it stretches across his face like a mask. Skin shiny and plastic. Against the hard fluorescent lights, You smile back quickly and watch him type up the price on the cash machine, buttons clicking. He looks at you. Eyes tracing over the curves of your cheeks, you watch his lips purse, eyes flicking towards the packet you slammed down on the counter mere moments ago, the bill curling up at the sides, you wonder if it still has coke around the edges. He sighs. “Do you have any I.D?”
You blink, biting your lip in annoyance. Of course you fucking dont. Your wallet just got stolen. You want to scream. You pat down your pockets, digging into the back ones and then shrug, baring your teeth on one side. “Oh sorry, I think I left it at home.”
He stares back in annoyance. “I'm old enough to buy them though, I promise.” you laugh, pushing the cash closer towards him.
“You have to be over 18 to buy, I'm sorry if you don't have any I.D I can't let you buy any.”
“I've bought them here before and you didn't ask for I.D?”
Plan B it is.
He shrugs, pushing your cash back at you. You blink slowly, hand grabbing onto the dollar bill and pushing yourself away from the counter. He watches you pass through the aisle, and you slip your hand out quickly to grab something before running out the door, your feet thumping against the sidewalk quickly, you dash into an alleyway and pull the object into your line of sight. It's a child's lip balm shaped like some cartoon character, it's dead-stock of some kind because you had the same one when you were about five, tiny cracked lips covered in glitter. Toothy grin.
You throw it on the floor and take out your carton of cigarettes, there's one. Broken, shoved in sideways at the bottom, you fish it out quickly and rip off the end, fishing your lighter out, you bring the cancer to your lips, breathing in as you flick the clippers edge, sparks fly quickly. You bring your thumb down repeatedly but no flame appears.
You fight the urge to bash your head against the wall.
You walk twenty minutes down the road, climb a flight of stairs and then settle between the indentation in your cheap sofa, your apartment is inherently hot, even as the sun sets behind the curtains you feel yourself melt into the cracked leather. Skin sticking to shiny fabric. The place wasn't exactly clean, but it wasn't like you were living in squalor the whole time, clothes piled into corners of the room, a couple of empty glasses here and there. A moulding cup of coffee on the windowsill, unopened bills piled next to the door. It was a list of things you weren't going to have to deal with in the next coming days or ever.
When you blink yourself awake it's eleven pm. You smile into your palm. Bare feet pattering against linoleum tile to the cupboard in your bathroom, you pull out the full bottle of sleeping pills. Closing the door and watching your face appear in the mirror, dark circles and gaunt cheeks. You trace your brow bone with your finger, watching the nail scrape against skin, it trails down to your cheeks. Then your lips and then you smother your face in your hands.
They won't find you till Monday, maybe Tuesday if they don’t realise you’re missing, maybe never, maybe you'll rot into the floorboards till it gives out on the weight of your swollen body and you'll collapse into the floor underneath you, you're a lawsuit waiting to happen. You wonder if the coroner will think you're pretty. Will they judge you for the underwear you're wearing, or will it be sliced off without a thought? They'll mark it as a suicide the minute they see the scars across your thighs
Will your Mum even attend the funeral?
Will he?
You groan against your palms, smile disappearing into nothing. You can't keep doing this to yourself, edging yourself at the thought of death. You shake yourself out of it quickly. Pulling the door open and grabbing the first bottle of liquor you can see. You sit down on the floor near the tv. Running your fingers over the edge of the pill bottle, fingernail knocking against every divot of the cap, you bite your lip as you pull it off. Pouring a couple into your hand, five perfect pills lying neatly in your palm. You tear the bottle cap of the whiskey, shoving the pills into your mouth without care and drowning them.
You swallow, feeling them go down your throat, nearly scratching the sides. Switching on the tv to some horror movie, you fall into the crevice of the couch.
And now you wait.
It feels like hours have passed quickly and you're floating, and suddenly the floor is crashing up at you. You're slumped over the toilet bowl as someone's hand digs deeply into your mouth, you gag, fingers leaving a trail of spit as you puke into the toilet bowl, the taste of acid and leather on your tongue. Your eyes are half closed as your cheek rests against the ceramic seat. It feels hard to breathe, you suck in air all jagged. You're breathing all wrong. Something or someone pats your back softly, and then you're throwing up all over again, watching the white pills come up quickly. There's about four in the toilet, only a sliver of them dissolved. Snot runs down your face. It's only been a few minutes since you took them and apparently since some guy has come into your home.
Your hands grip on the floor as the black smudges approach your face again, mouth yanked open as he shoves his fingers down your throat, you feel the bile rise up. And you're chucking up all over again, it’s just pure stomach acid, but the last pill comes up and you feel yourself slump into a pile on the cold plastic floor, tears wetting the hair you're leaning against. The shower curtain billowing against your legs. Your hands feel weak and you can barely grip a fist. You cough against yourself, drooling out your mouth. You run your hands over your face as you curl into a ball. You're hot to the touch, sweating through your shirt. Back sticking to the fabric.
Whoever is in your apartment has ruined your plans.
You blink as a cool glass of water is pressed to your lips, it tastes so sweet in comparison to the sick, and you gulp down the liquid as someone hushes at you softly. Leather wipes away your tears, you're pulled into a chest and rocked back and forth until you stop hyperventilating, it feels like you’re a child all over again, feeling so small. Half awake in the arms of comfort. You wonder if he’ll bring you to bed, tuck you in and read you a story.
It pulls off your clothes in quick recession, your limp body placed carefully in the bath, he holds your body to the wall as your scrubbed clean of spit and puke. Gentle hands running down your body. You're still so out of it. Eyes half closed the whole time, they feel so raw. The light penetrating through the window feels like they are ripping them out of your head.
Then your body gets pulled out of the tub, into your bedroom where you’re fully clothed all over again. He chosen the nice pj’s, the ones your mum got you for christmas, fished out from the sale rack of some expensive department store. They're still so soft on your skin, even when you use the cheap detergent. Strands of hair are wiped away from your face as you lie in bed. Your arms and legs are useless, they flop against the mattress as a sheet is pulled over your body.
You gaze up at the guardian angel. A pale face gapes back at you. Black eyes, a skeletal nose, You gasp. Wetting your lips with your tongue. Your heart beat raises for the first time that night. Your lip quivers into a smile. “Who?-”
“Shh, It's okay. Wrong place and Wrong time. Okay?” his hand grasps around your chin pulling your head into a gradual nod. You blink up at him. Lips parting. He smoothes a hand over the black sheet. He stands up, quiet on his feet as he approaches the door, you meet his gaze as he turns round.
“Try killing yourself again and I'll gut you” his hand grasps the door, he pauses. “Got it?”
You find yourself nodding quickly,“Yeah, I got it”.
“Good” He flicks the light off. The room pools into darkness, and he steps into the light of the hallway, whatever is on the tv switches off and the door slams shut after.
lord, thank you for letting me be born in time for danny johnson x readers.
Negotiations With The Devil
Chapter 2: Promises, Promises
Dead by Daylight
Danny Johnson “Ghostface” x f!reader
25.4k words
DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT
CW: noncon!elements, dubcon!elements (honestly this things a consent rollercoaster, strap in), obsessive behavior, death threats, spanking, oral (m!receiving), knifeplay, violence, unprotected pnv climactic intercourse, degradation, praise, Danny is a whole warning of his own lmao
Part 1
You’re having the most wonderful dream. It’s not particularly thrilling, nor is it lucid. You can’t control it, though even if you could you don’t think you’d wish it to change. It’s not even a dream per se, there’s no fluid plot or story, no basis of events that can be followed. In reality it’s more like a vivid phantom sensation. Just the serene caresses of soft, supple lips ghosting over your brow, the pleasant comforting weight of a warm body melded to your side, the featherlight draw of exploratory fingertips tracing over your skin in lazy passes.
You almost hope to never meet its end, your subconscious leaning into the dream, wishing it to last as long as humanly possible, hoping to fall deeper and deeper into its velvet clutches. Which actually seems to be working as the morning light never seems to seep its nosey fingers into the room to try and pry you away from this little bliss. But one, no matter how enthralled with the otherworldly visions that play just out of reach on the other side of our lids, can not sleep forever. And thus eventually you do begin to stir, and yet somehow it seems as though the dream isn’t quite content with the idea of letting you go. Even as you rise from the foggy depths of your dream it still seems to stick with you somehow, those lips never fade, the warmth at your side never abates and those fingers only sharpen in focus as you begin to wake.
You realize after you come to enough to open your eyes that the morning light had never woken you because you’d put on your sleep mask before bed. The memory of your migraine comes into focus slowly, the remnants of it must be the cause of this hazy fog you can’t seem to shake and there’s this horribly acrid aftertaste on your tongue. You can’t remember if you’d brushed your teeth before climbing into bed, hell you can’t remember what you’d had for dinner either. It’s all blurry and distant.
“Good morning, sleepyhead.”
The gruff rumble of a foreign male voice in your ear jars you out of the haze. All at once you scramble out of bed and rip the sleep mask from your eyes to stare in disbelief at the source of your rude awakening. He’s propped up by one arm, the palm of which is buried in his chestnut hair, pulling it back and out of his eyes. The other now occupies the space you’d just inhabited, basking in the residual warmth of you still radiating from the mattress where you’d spent the last eight hours, with his palm up and stretched out like he’s reaching out for you, tempting your return. He’s got on a plain black undershirt that covers his toned torso but leaves the musculature of his shoulders and arms exposed, the rest of him is covered by your bed sheets.
It’s when your eyes trail up to his face to peer into his own deep brown orbs that it all comes ripping back to you. The events of the previous night unfurl like the petals of a noxious flower bloom and you stiffen, your whole body going rigid with panic. Horror mounts within you and you aren’t terribly sure if you’re going to pass out or run. Your eyes flash between him and the door in indecision, inadvertently projecting your next move. He makes the decision for you, pulling a knife you are all too vividly familiar with from beneath his pillow, it’s steely edge still stained red with your dried blood.
“Whoa there, doll. While I’m sure you think you're plenty fast enough to make it from here to the door in time to scream for help before I catch up to you, it’s a chance I wouldn’t take. I’m pretty fast myself, and our little game of chase comes with pretty severe consequences for losing.” He flashes the blade in a show of just what those consequences entail and your gall withers.
“Who are you?” His face falls a bit and you’d forgotten just how out to lunch the man who’d broken into your home late last night really is as he draws a hand to his chest, as if wounded. “Oh doll, you’re breaking my heart. You don’t really mean to tell me you don’t remember all the fun we had together?”
The horrors of the previous evening are etched into the stone of your memory so deep and jagged you doubt that even with professional help you’ll ever be able to forget, forever scarred. They loop on an endless nightmare reel on every surface of your mind, flashing by in grainy stills every time you blink. “I’ve got the pictures to prove it if you need me to jog your memory.”
He pulls the covers back to draw closer, sliding out of bed headed right for you with the knife still clenched in his fist, predacious. “Or maybe you need a more physical reminder, I can walk you back down memory lane step by step by step if you want.” You shiver at the thought of letting him anywhere near you again, backing away to keep some measure of distance between you, but the room is only so wide and you jump as the cold grain of the door rises up to meet your back. To your relief he stops, his eyes ride the length of your entire body, up from the soles of your feet to the petrified gems of your eyes. He seems amused by them— that among other things his eyes keep drifting back down to.
It’s then you realize you’re still naked, the memory of your clothes being literally cut away from your body coming back to you with full force as you scramble to cover yourself from his gaze. You look at him accusatorily.
“What the fuck are you still doing in my house?” You husk out, all breathy and hoarse and pathetic. You want to scream it at him, make him feel an ounce of the sheer terror your fragile mind is coursing with, but the implications of the consequences hold you in contempt.
“I promised you I’d be here when you woke up and I take my promises very seriously.” You don’t know why you even asked, his answer would only ever prove to drive you closer to insanity, drag you down into the mouth of madness with him. You feel just on the cusp of passing out, the room swirls in and out of focus and you momentarily lose track of place or purpose or time, if it weren’t for the door at your back you’d have fainted long ago.
“I need to get dressed, I need to- I need to get ready for work, I-“
“You don’t need to worry about any of that, my love. I’ve already called in sick for you. Told them you’d come down with one of those nasty viruses going around, awfully contagious. They don’t want to see your face for at least the rest of the week and only with a doctor's note in hand at that.”
But you’re already moving, inching towards your dresser with your back still pressed flush against the wall. When you get to it you keep your eyes trained on him as you pull a bra, a skimpy night shirt and a lacy pair of panties from the top drawer, the first things your shaky fingers can seize upon and scramble to put them on before he rushes you.
It feels like the walls are closing in around you, your world is getting smaller and smaller by the second. How has your life changed so exponentially in the last twenty four hours? How could it ever have derailed so quickly? You cling to consciousness by the skin of your teeth out of pure fear over just what he may do to you if left unattended with your unconscious body. You can’t even bring yourself to think about what he’s done in the time he’s already had while you were asleep.
Before you can go back to the drawer to find anything more than that he’s grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you towards him, catching you as you nearly stumble in your resistance from digging your heels into the floorboards beneath your feet as if it were dirt. It makes you stumble into him and he has to catch you by the waist to stop you from falling forward into his chest. The feel of his hands on your hips is electric, the lace does little to conceal your skin and his fingers span a much wider surface than they could ever hope to cover, but it was all you could grab in the moment.
“What you need is something to eat, doll. You’re looking dim.”
He’s right, you’re teetering but you can’t cook like this and you won’t dare accept anything he makes for you ever again, it’s what got you into this situation in the first place. He pulls you closer and you flinch at his every touch, though he’s nothing but gentle as he pulls you out into the expanse of the rest of the house, guiding you to the kitchen and depositing you onto a stool at the bar.
He announces you need juice and though you watch the entire process from pour to procurment you still hesitate, the memories of innocently downing a glass of water to the last drop only to detect the lecherous bitter after notes of deceit a moment before your world went black sits like a weight on your shoulders, unbudging.
When several moments had passed and you still hadn’t so much as touched the glass for fear of its curses he informs you that he’d be more than happy to siphon it directly from his lips to yours if you’d prefer. That gets you going, well at least gets the glass in your hand and he watches as you slowly bring it to your lips and sip it. You get no more than enough to coat the surface of your tongue actually in your mouth, trying to detect any off flavors or distinct abnormalities.
Though you’re wary, you can’t help the way your mouth instantly salivates as the cool refreshing nectar saturates your tongue. After several hours with nothing to drink you’re quite parched, but you must exercise restraint to ensure you’re not being tricked again. After a moment goes by and you don't immediately pass out or begin expelling your guts from your esophagus, you figure it’s safe enough and end up downing the whole glass like an overeager child. He smiles, sitting across from you pleased as pie.
“That’s a start, but still not enough.” You eye him from overtop the rim of the glass and across the bar as you try to collect the last drops of juice running up towards your mouth in thinning streams onto your tongue, imagining all sorts of ways to maim or kill and flee him but acting out on none of them. You don't know what he wants from you, you’re certainly not about to sit here and break bread with this deranged stranger, though it seems he means for you to do exactly that.
“I’ll put it this way, I need to go to work but I’m not leaving until I see you eat something. So you can either cook us some breakfast or I can get up and whip us both up some real food to eat, I’m sure I can manage something without burning down your cute little kitchen in the process.”
You have half a mind to let him, at least then perhaps the firefighters will come, a truck or two full of trained professionals who may combat him and free you of this never ending nightmare. But there’s so many variables in between the house beginning to go up in flames and the five minutes it’d take for the fire trucks to arrive that it’s a chance you’re unwilling to take. He could do any number of things in that span of five minutes, none of them good.
Plus he’d just said he’d planned on going to work today, which ultimately meant he’d be leaving the house and after he left you could decide what to do from there. Now you just need to bide your time. Bide your time and keep things copacetic. You rise from your chair and find it’s much easier to stand on your own. You head into the kitchen as he takes the chair you’d just been in, sitting down and watching you intently as you get to work. You find you’ve got some eggs left in the carton in the fridge, a little bit of bacon and some bread that’s still soft, so bacon, eggs and toast it is.
You assume he’s not vegetarian, with a man as prone to violence as you’ve seen him be you seriously doubt he’s got any aversion to meat or blood for that matter. You pull out a few pans and get to work, trying not to let the intensity of his gaze get to you too badly. You had really hoped that you could go the rest of the morning in silence, just focus on cooking and coming up with a plan for after he’d left, but you had no such luck.
“Isn’t this nice?” You want to roll your eyes so hard they’ll be stuck in the back of your head for the rest of your days, at least then you’d never have to look at him again. And wouldn’t that be a relief because you find in the morning light it’s hard to look at him dead on. The dark did him no favors, if anything it only masked the real, profound nature of his natural good looks.
You steal little glances at him, bending down to grab the toaster from the cabinet, gathering up the shells to trash them after cracking eggs, grabbing plates from the shelf above the bar. And you think you know now why people can’t help but to stare at car crashes or train wrecks. There’s something inexplicably beautiful in the hauntingly macabre.
And every time his eyes met yours the direct eye contact sent sparks jolting through you. The light spilling in from the kitchen window over the sink catches in his eyes and lightens them, bringing out the lighter, honey-hued smatterings in the wash of deeper, more resolute browns. Each and every time without fail it makes your breath catch in your chest, makes your pulse quicken and there’s this lightheaded, dizziness that’s making it hard to focus.
You should be abhorred or indignant or even enraged and while to some degree you feel all these things, swirling in an emotional cocktail that’s so potent it’s making your head spin; there’s an overwhelming, archaic, dull throb resonating from deep in your greymatter. A hard to ignore conflicting emotion that makes all the rest feel like droning background noise.
You keep getting flashbacks, pleasure stained vignettes dancing across your memory of you pressed up against him, struggling for air beneath the suffocating weight of him, screaming in pleasure as he ravages you all while insisting your objections, even as you cream around his cock. No matter how much you tell yourself you’re disgusted by him, no matter how badly you tell yourself you want him out of your house, the memories of your late night foray has your pussy twitching around nothing as you flip eggs and struggle not to burn his bacon.
“Something on your mind, doll?” You come back to see him staring at you, an all-knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Your eyes widen as you wonder how he can possibly have read your mind, or if perhaps your thoughts now scroll across your forehead in real time, on full display for him like one of those digital Jumbotrons at football games or those constantly updating stock tickers on Wall Street. Your mouth parts in dumbfounded shock as you try to regain control over your short circuiting brain.
“Huh? Me? No. I-uhm... Shit!” Smoke plumes from the mouth of the toaster, billowing black and shouting your guilt to the sky with its cries of negligence. You pop the bread out, the charred surface a dead ringer as you struggle to pull it free from the cursed machine, burning the delicate pads of your fingers as you play hot potato with yourself to get it on a plate.
You figure you must look pretty silly as you simultaneously wave a tea towel around in the air erratically to keep the smoke away from the smoke detector all while trying to cut the heat from the stove to avoid burning the rest of breakfast as well. You haphazardly arrange the eggs, bacon and blackened toast onto two plates as he sits across the bar from you too lost in the pleasure of watching you squirm to offer any kind of assistance.
You huff as you set his plate down in front of him, embarrassed beyond hell at fucking something up as easy as god damn eggs and toast. But you know why you’re fucking up the simplest of tasks, the sole reason for your distractions is sitting in a chair across the bar from you, invading your space and you don’t just mean it in the way he’s asserted himself into your home. He’s much more potent than that. He’s slipped under your skin, permeated the dermis and spilled into your bloodstream. He’s spread to your brain, metastasizing. Like terminal cancer there’s no telling where you end and he begins anymore.
“God, doll. Can I just say I can’t believe we’re actually doing this right now. It’s all just so… surreal for me.” You have to tell yourself to just ignore him, but that doesn’t mean it's easy. He speaks so openly, so freely, so blunt.
“I’ve dreamed of this moment over and over again. Waking up next to you in the morning all huddled up close in your cute little bed.” As he speaks, getting lost a little in his domestic reveries you slip a knife from the butcher's block feigning for a napkin and slide it under the tea towel from earlier, for safekeeping.
“Standing in your cute little kitchen, watching you flip bacon and fry eggs in nothing but those cute little panties of yours.” He’s suddenly at your back and you had never even registered that he’d moved, never heard a sound as he snuck up behind you. He breathes the last words directly in your ear.
Pressed up against you, you can feel the bulge of his stiffening cock rub against you from behind. “Although I’ve gotta admit, in my head there was way more sex involved.” You’re ready for him, picking up the knife and whipping around on him. Though he’s also ready for you, reaching up and grabbing your wrist, stopping you just short of burying the wicked edge into the meat of his shoulder. You struggle against the strength of him, trying to push forward with all your might even despite him, but he’s stronger. “Easy there, killer. Someone could get really hurt with that.”
With a twist of his wrist your hand is pushed to the side and smacks down onto the bar, the knife clatters from your hand as you cry out and he releases. The close encounter ended just that fast. You nurse the pain blooming in your bruised knuckles, not daring a second attempt as he rounds the bar back to his seat and centers his plate in front of him while casually addressing you like he didn’t just thwart a hastily thought up and sloppily executed assassination attempt.
“Let’s eat.” You stop coddling yourself to look up at him as he picks up a slab of burnt toast and munches down on it without care. His eyes rise to yours over the blackened surface expectantly and it gets you in motion as you pull out a drawer to find two forks, sliding his across the bar at him to avoid contact of any kind.
He catches it and sets the toast down to dig into his eggs as you eye up your own plate with a kind of disdain. You don’t really want to eat, but you need to. You tread the open waters between hungry and too offput to eat, never quite finding solace on either side but he’s watching you, that much you can tell and you know if you don’t commit to shoveling food in your mouth soon he will more than likely do it for you.
So you look down at the plate, deciding on the simplest, most palatable item— the toast. It may be charred but you’re not unused to that. You really needed a new toaster but you had much more pressing matters preoccupying your time and so you picked it up and took a bite, letting the bitter, burnt flavor of it ground you as you try to compose yourself a bit.
You needed a clear head to think, to plan, to prepare. No matter how conflicted your mind was, no matter how torn you were feeling, the sentiment stayed the same. You must get this man out of your house, at whatever cost and to do that you must have composure. You take another bite to solidify the fractured parts of you, gluing them together with the chewed paste of burnt toast, united for a higher purpose and feel a bit more energized.
It helps that he’s fallen silent for once, content to eat and stew in his own thoughts. You’re grateful, not even daring to glance up at him should you break the delicate trance he seems to be under. You eat, not only to keep up appearances but because your appetite seems to be cooperating now that you’ve started towards a goal, even if you don’t know exactly what that goal really is just yet.
He startles you from thought as he sets the fork down on his empty plate and it takes that for you to realize you’re just about done as well, having scarfed down the bulk of what you’d prepared for yourself without even really realizing it. You ready yourself for his antics, bracing for whatever crazy shit he’ll launch into next. He rises from the barstool and you’re already flinching, body tensing as you observe him closely, something he doesn’t miss.
But to your surprise all he does is smirk at you from across the bar before heading out of the kitchen and towards the back bedroom. You watch him as he goes, shell shocked at the lack of… well… anything. There were no theatrics, no sweeping gestures, not even a thinly veiled threat to behave. You hear one of the doors in the back close and rush forward to crane your neck down the hall. The bathroom light is on, casting a warm bar of golden light on the floor out from beneath the crack. You stay like that for a moment, staring at it in disbelief with your mouth slightly agape, like at any moment a covey of mimes will come walking out of it, or perhaps a horse sized duck.
When none of those things happen you creep back into the kitchen and lean heavily against the counter using it to ground you in place when it seems the rest of your world has lost all its gravity. You need to think, you have limited time. You pick up the plates and round the bar to the sink, filling one side with hot, soapy dish water and setting to work. Busy hands provoke consolidated thought.
You think first and foremost about escape. Your front door was a brisk fifteen paces from where you’re currently standing and while it’s late in the morning and most of your neighbors have already left for their morning commutes, there’s a chance that maybe— just maybe, you may be able to hail a straggler, someone who’s a little behind the ball this morning.
But even as you let yourself float quietly across the house over to one of the front facing windows and peer out between the slats of the blinds you know they’re all already gone, and while there is a chance you could grab the attention of someone before he’d caught on and caught up to you, you know there’s only one person it could logically be, and that’s Mrs. Forsythe, your eighty seven year old neighbor.
And while you’re desperate for an escape from this hellish situation and you know she’d be awake and even still has good enough hearing to be able to heed your screams, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.
Mrs. Forsythe was not only elderly— which made her slow and easy pickings should she become involved in the situation; but she was also extremely altruistic. Which meant she wouldn’t cower away from him in her attempts to aid you and that’d only get her killed, something that if you let happen you’d never forgive yourself for. So you pulled back from the front window and went back to the sink and essentially back to the drawing board.
The next idea was fighting back, definitely not ideal. He was a force to be reckoned with, every attempt thus far to combat him has ended in failure. He’s both cunning and perceptive, both taller and stronger than you and he’s got a weird, almost eerie penchant for seeing through you. The only way to level the playing field is to catch him by surprise and he’d have to really, really be caught off guard for you to have a chance at success.
As you finish up the last of the dishes you think of a million different methods to kill or incapacitate him, they play on and on in your head like an outlandish looney toons montage but none of them are practical or seem within your wheelhouse to execute.
Ultimately you decide waiting for him to leave is the smartest course of action. You had a real chance, an actual golden opportunity to see your way through this, you couldn’t risk blowing that up with half-baked surprise attacks or impetuous escape plans. After he was gone, then and only then would you go out in search of real help.
You hear a door open and are hopeless to do more than turn away from the sink, grabbing the tea towel from the counter and wringing it in your hands nervously even long after they’re bone dry as you press back into the counter, socketing the lip of the sink into the small of your back. You stare at the mouth of the hallway, waiting for him to emerge and when he finally does you can’t peel your eyes away. He walks out into the open and catches you staring, you can’t help it. You blurt out mindlessly, a little in awe. “You look-“
“Different?” He finishes for you and you’re grateful because different isn’t exactly the word you’d have chosen. He’s dressed up in what you’d call business casual. A pristine white monochromatic plaid dress shirt buttoned all the way to the top, its collar cinched with a smart, thin tie. It’s got long sleeves but they’ve been neatly rolled up to the hams of his forearms and buttoned there. The hem is tucked into a dark gray pair of Dickies slacks and are form fitted around his waist by way of a worn black leather belt. He begins to stride towards you in what looks to be a fairly new pair of white, low-cut Chuck Taylors.
As he draws further into your shared space, closing the distance between you, you detect he smells of soap and something faintly spiced and pleasant. His hair looks wet and it’s slicked back like he’s showered. The ends curl back around behind his ears like rams horns, befitting for the devil. No, different is not the word you would have chosen had he left you hanging. Good is the word that sits on the tip of your tongue, just narrowly absolved of falling from your lips. He looked damn good.
“The mask I wore when we met isn’t the only one I must don. Keeping up appearances is important.”
Keeping up appearances is an understatement, he looks like a different man. Granted your views of him are skewed but looking at him now you’d never say the man before you and the one who’d broken into your home and subsequently broken you were the same person had you not known better. They had the same height, the same build but totally different demeanors.
As he is now he does more than blend, he looks unobtrusive, inoffensive, benign. His appearance brings to mind images of coffee machines and printer jams, white picket fences and weekend baseball games, unassuming, all American. He completes the look by slinging a worn, brown messenger bag across his chest, the most beat up piece of his whole ensemble and turns to you with an unidentifiable gleam in his eye.
“As much as I’d like to stay here and spend all the hours of our day together, I do have to go to work.” That snaps you out of your daze and you come back to your senses, suddenly remembering you have a plan to execute and you’re practically vibrating with the anxiety of it. You struggle to hide it as you smile to placate him. “Of course.”
You put the tea towel down, now wrinkled from being wrung to hell and back as you push away from the sink to follow him. Every step he takes towards the door you mimic, closing in to keep him from possibly retreating or changing his mind, each one adding to the building crescendo in your mind, a symphony of anxious agony.
But as he reaches the threshold he spins around suddenly, you back away in surprise but only make it about a step before you collide with the solid wall of the entry arch, his arms reach out to prop against the wall on either side of your shoulders effectively trapping you between the wall and himself, invading your personal space. “There is one more thing, doll.” You try to keep up your cheery, cooperative ruse to the very end, though your heart beats in triple time. You’re so close you can taste your freedom. “Yes?”
“I want you to stay here. All day. Can you do that for me?” Your chest tightens reflexively. You sort of knew he didn’t want you going anywhere, it was implied when he’d taken the liberty of calling in sick for you, but here he was reiterating it again, deliberately like he somehow already knows.
“Of course.” You respond immediately, ready to agree to anything he might say just to get him out of the door, no matter what your real intentions may be.
“Promise me.” That gives you pause, did he just ask you to promise? He waits for your response, holding your gaze raptly as you stare up at him dumbly. You quickly brush it off, no need tripping over the semantics. “I promise.”
He smiles and seems satisfied with your response and you believe he’s finally going to be out of your hair. “I’m gonna hold you to that.” He states melodically in an unserious singsong tone, though you know he means it. Too bad it’ll be too late for him by then if you have anything to say about it.
A brisk wave of his minty breath fans your face an instant before you realize you haven’t had a chance to brush your teeth and get self conscious. To him though, it seems not to matter as his lips crash to yours, pulling you into a deeply sweeping kiss. It momentarily steals the air from your lungs and the thoughts from your brain as your head bumps the wall with the force of it and his tongue slides over the seam of your lips with taunting fervor. His hands roam, one around the back of your neck to keep you in place and the other sliding down the swell of your hip to grip your ass, making you squeak into the kiss. He licks into the crevice of your lips as they part, one last little taste.
Satisfied with flustering you he pulls away, his Chesire-esque toothy grin the last you see of him before he’s out the door, leaving you behind to pull yourself together again. After taking a moment to regain your bearings, you rush up to the door and bolt it. Peering fearfully out of the peephole, you’re met with a distorted, fish eyes view of your front lawn and the surrounding world. There’s no sight of him, but of course there isn’t. That doesn’t necessarily mean he was gone. You just can’t bring yourself to believe it, never daring to feel like you’re rid of him. But he’d left you unattended, unbound, unchained. Why?
A test, perhaps? You wonder what would happen if you pulled the front door open right now. Is he just waiting in the wings for you to poke your head out? Only for him to come running from around the side of the house to spring on you like a lion, slitting your throat in broad daylight. Would he wait for you to take a few tentative steps outside? Let you gain your confidence perhaps before dragging you back inside by the scruff of your collar and slamming the door behind the both of you, never to be seen again.
The possibilities make you fearful, make you consider crawling back into your shell, tail tucked between your legs. Sitting on your hands until his return, like a good girl. But what becomes of you then? What does that make you? Death’s pet?
But that’s just what he wants, isn’t it? Wants you to fear him so resolutely that he doesn’t even have to do anything at all, kept in compliance by nothing more than your fear of the unknown, tucked away snuggly under his thumb.
These downward spirals get you nowhere, one glance at the clock makes you realize he’s already been gone for five whole minutes, your overworked mind running in fruitless circles. If you keep this up for long he really will be back home and you’d have amounted to nothing more than a self fulfilling prophecy, worse than nothing you’d have made backwards progress. You won’t let that happen.
So you crack the door, just an inch at first, just ajar. A wispy breeze blows in through the crack of the door, innocent, deceptive. You pull it open halfway, the sun shines, the birds sing and you alternate between feeling ridiculous and ridiculously exposed. You decide to do a litmus test, he can’t fault you for simply checking the mail, right? It’s not technically a violation of his rules and it’ll tell you if he is indeed waiting to pounce on you the moment you disobey.
You step out your front door on legs that don’t feel like carrying you. There’s an itch to your skin, an irritating gnaw at your neck. A pseudo-physiological reaction to just the memory of his knife biting at your throat that’s bringing on a real, palpable ailment. Like your body's last warning, meant to hinder you from continuing. You push forward despite it.
The sun is warming to your skin as you follow the paved path of your walkway until it junctures into your driveway, past the hulk of your car still in the same place you’d parked it after coming home the previous day and out towards the street to your little black mailbox.
No one is out on your street, the kids are in school, the adults have all gone to work, there’s no joggers, no stay at home moms toting babies in strollers, nothing. You collect your mail, assorted trash and bills and close the lid. There’s no pounding of feet on pavement, no hardened body colliding with yours, no seizing hands arresting you back inside. You feel both vindicated and condemned, both empowered and imprisoned.
You hurry back inside and shut the door, leaning against the sturdy wooden frame to settle your fried nerves. With a small victory under your belt it was time to set your sights higher. It was time to be rid of him for good.
Setting the plan into motion, you immediately jumped into the shower and something about the water cascading down your body, something about the heavy peace you feel when you can finally close your eyes without worry of what happens when you do feels freeingly cathartic, like washing him from your skin. Drying off and getting dressed only solidified it.
With each action of self care you felt just a little better, just an ounce more confident in your shoes, beginning to take back what he’d stolen from you. But as you grabbed your keys and headed for the door, indecision struck again. Not to scrap the whole idea but just about taking your car. You stared out the window at your cute little car with an overwhelming feel of mistrust.
He could have done any number of things while you were out cold. He could have slipped a tracker under the chassis or the wheel well or the floorboards. Could have checked how much gas you had in the tank or even looked at your mileage.
Could have measured the distance between your tires and the garage door or the edge of the walkway or the road. It was all too easy to imagine him out there, stooped down next to the tire with nothing more than a tape measure and a mag light in the dark of night, not even having to jot the numbers down, just simply able to recall them from memory. Approximate. Accurate. Obsessive. A measurement that’d be so tedious to replicate it’d be damn near impossible. A million different ways for him to know you’d gone against his commandments.
You’re descending into paranoia and it’s making you stall. You know if you keep up like this you’ll eventually chicken out. So in a split second decision you decide to ditch your car and walk. The police station wasn’t that far away, it eased all your qualms about taking the car and maybe the fresh air would do you some good. Without sparing another second for your doubts and worries to worm their destructive little fingers into the certainty of your plan you set out, locking the front door behind you and began to head down the drive.
Out on the street, with hard, affirming pavement beneath your feet you began to feel tentatively exalted. It felt like taking back control, manifesting your own destiny. You leaned into that feeling as you rounded the end of your street and merged onto the sidewalk that would take you all the way up Rose Avenue and into the heart of downtown Roseville. It was a bright Florida day, warm but pleasant and you’d expected to see more people on your walk into town. But as far as you could tell, aside from a few stragglers here and there, it was mostly dead.
With a new lens on life you could understand why. Before you’d mostly ignored the news. There were things that you’d heard, scraps of the details passed in hushed tones. Word of mouth is almost always unavoidable but for the most part you felt the news only served to further stress people out, stop them from living their best lives, keeping them suppressed with subliminal worry.
Why dwell on what you couldn’t change? Why come home after a long day's work only to harp over whatever the media wanted you to worry about that particular day? What would drive up their views and keep you tuning in. Why lose sleep over things that mostly never concerned you? Now, in hindsight, you’d seen just how stupid that’d been, how stupid you’d been. You only wish you’d done something sooner.
You never get to see the city at this time of day, always cooped up at work during this hour. It was nothing like you’d expected, but the lonely streets didn’t deter you, you’d be getting your life back today. After thirteen hours of pure nightmare you’d be free again. And there freedom was, just a block and a half away you could see the flag poles stationed out front of the police station, the Florida state flag and the American flag waved proudly in the gentle breeze side by galliant side, beckoning you to justice.
You thought at just the sight of them you’d start sprinting, had imagined walking up the driveway that nothing would keep you from those heavy, metal double doors, but as you neared you only slowed. Standing at the head of the last crosswalk you needed to take before you’d be at your destination you imagined you’d feel nothing but an urgency to get there but now all you felt was sick to your stomach.
There was no traffic to hold you up, no crowds in your way to slow you down, this was an internal struggle, a moment of grappling with oneself. And no matter how much you tried you couldn’t bring yourself to cross the street. Like some kind of fault in your motor function you can’t bring yourself to make that first step. You stand there in agony for five minutes struggling with yourself until you give up and make a right instead, crossing the adjacent street before beelining it straight for the old, worn doors of the Roseville public library.
You don’t know what makes you climb the twelve steps and push into the old, cool building. It’s deserted at this time of day, there’s an older lady at the front desk nose deep in a romantic paperback and an younger one pushing a book trolley around reshelving, but other than that you seem to be the only other soul in the building.
You’d been inside before, though it’d been awhile you still hadn’t expected them to have done any renovations since your last visit. And you found you were correct, the same row of aging computers were right where they’d always been. You take the one on the far end looking around behind you for any book browsers or lookie loos before touching the mouse and swiping away the screensaver to get to the desktop.
Booting up internet explorer and bringing up google, you sit and stare blankly at the screen, the cursor blinking at the end of the search bar patiently, ready to bring up a million search results for whatever inquiry you may ask of it. Something in you moved your fingers for you, striking the keys without even really thinking about it and hitting the enter key before you can think better of it.
In the next instant the page fills with results for ‘The Roseville Ghost’. You read them off one by one. ‘Seven slain at the hand of Roseville's Ghost’ and ‘Roseville continues to be haunted by a bloodthirsty killer, leaving RPD baffled’ and ‘Curfew in effect for the greater Roseville area as body count rises’.
You absentmindedly click one at random, the screen blanks, the cursor buffers and then it takes you to the article, published to the Roseville Gazette website by a journalist listed as Jed Olsen. Your eyes latch onto the words, unable to break away:
You back out of the article and return to the results page, clicking on the next link. It returns you to the Roseville Gazette’s webpage, to yet another article penned by Jed Olsen.
Your heart feels as though it drops from its place nestled in your rib cage and sinks through your feet into the floor. You suddenly recall an errant line of his lunistic ramblings from the night before under a magnetizing new lens, coming to the gut wrenching realization it wasn’t simply idle chatter.
“…until I’m slicing them open by their stomachs and dragging their intestines out to hang from the ceiling.”
You finish the article, unable to rip your eyes away from any of the gory details.
This man is a serial killer, a legitimate apex predator by all aspects of the word. The man who’d broken into your house the night before is the very same man that’s been terrorizing your town for months, the same man responsible for seven previous murders and not only had he picked you to be next but he’d coerced you into sleeping with him as well. You truly believe you’re going to be sick.
You can’t do this anymore, you feel as though you may very well pass out right here in the public of this old, dying library. You go to click off, exit out of the whole damn thing and try to make it to the bathroom before your breakfast, the breakfast you’d stood in your kitchen in front of a serial murderer and cooked for the both of you, came surging up when yet another headline caught your eye. You hovered over the link and felt your stomach churn once more, you gave it a moment to pass before clicking on it and pulling up one last article from the all-knowing Jed Olsen.
Attached below is the aforementioned photograph. It’s dark and blurry and you can imagine he was probably laughed at by his editor for even suggesting they run something so indistinguishable, but you’re not laughing, not one bit.
Just barely identifiable is a figure suited in black, his silhouette almost indecipherable against the shadows but what does stand out is the pale, obtuse oval of his face and the dark contrasting pits of its sad, sunken eyes, hovering above the nonexistent hole for a nose and ending in the long, agape mouth. The very same mask you’d woken up to hovering above your bed, worn by the very same man who’d broken into your house the previous evening and taken control of your life. Your blood runs cold at the sight of it and you whip around to make sure no one is monitoring you.
Satisfied that you’re still alone, you read on.
You can’t do this anymore. You can no longer sit idly by with this kind of knowledge, this is about more than you now. This is about all those that came before you and everyone the sick fingers of this monster’s work have yet to reach out and grab and you won’t stand to see another headline.
You get up from the computer after exiting out and scorching the browser history though you fail to shut it down in your haste. You hustle out of the library and get no more than a passing glance from the woman still nose deep in her paperback at the desk. Pushing through the doors and into the warmth of the bright Florida sun you’d thought you’d feel better, but the gooseflesh that riddles your skin is from far more than chilly library air and thus runs bone deep. You’re unsure where you’re even going but as you look up to see the police station just across the street you know it’s not there.
Even in all your rage, even in all your indignation and hunger for justice you don’t think you can bring yourself to go in there in person. You don’t have the nerve, but you can make an anonymous phone call. You round the exterior of the library and find the little patio nook that was originally meant for librarians breaks and the occasional nature-inclined reader but was used far more often by high schoolers smoking pot afterschool and the occasional homeless drifter in between towns and halfway houses.
You sat on the curved stone bench and reached for your phone before pulling up the keypad with confidence in your fingers. But staring down at the numbers your will weakened, and with your fingers shakily hovering over the number 9, your throat gets tight and your vocal chords constrict. Would an anonymous tip even work in this scenario? Would they even take it seriously? Do you even have enough information to give them?
You can’t think of a single thing to say, can’t think of where to start or how much to divulge. They always say tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. But can you bring yourself to tell them the whole truth? Do you leave out the more embarrassing details so you can just come out with it already or do you have to tell the whole truth? If you don't, will it come back to haunt you later? Could you be looked at as an accomplice?
Will the pictures be used against you if he brings them into play? They could certainly identify you in them and then the whole idea of an anonymous tip went out the window entirely. Could you show your face in this town after it got out that you’d slept with the infamous ‘Roseville Ghost’? You’d have to get a new job, maybe a new place, maybe a new name. Were you prepared for all that?
The little bit of money you’d saved up— what you’d offered him last night in exchange for your life is not nearly enough for you to move somewhere else in this economy. It’s not even enough to sustain you for the rest of the month and your name is on the lease of the house for another seven. What would you do then?
Your screen has long since gone dim and then relocked completely by the time you’d looked down again. You unlocked it once more, only this time you pulled up your browser and typed into the search bar ‘Jed Olsen’. Immediately a bunch of search results, many the same as last time, popped up in a list below the bar.
It’s under the article you’d read previously ‘The Ghost Face Caught On Tape’ that you found what you were looking for. You hovered over the number listed at the end of the article, reading the numbers over a few times impulsively as you solidified the decision in your mind before you clicked it.
It brought the number up instantly on the phone, all you had to do was press ‘Call’. Maybe Jed Olsen can do for you what you can’t do for yourself. It’s not like he was getting nothing out of this, you’re sure he’ll write a whole article, maybe even a whole book on how he single-handedly brought down the Roseville Ghost. Solved the case that had stumped law enforcement for months all on his own. After taking a deep breath and blowing it out, you hit call.
It rang and rang and rang, and you’d almost given up when a voice answered from the other end, what sounded like a young woman. An intern or receptionist perhaps, not who you were looking for. “Roseville Gazette.”
At first the only thing you could say was “Um.” And then the fog of your brain cleared as you closed your eyes and shook your head before continuing. “Yes, umm.. May I speak with Jed Olsen, please?”
You got back a prompt “One moment please.” before the line went dead. After a moment of measured silence someone on the other end picked up and this time it was a male voice that answered you. “Roseville Gazette, what can I do for you?”
“Jed? Jed Olsen?” You paused, bringing a hand up to your mouth and picking at your lips while you waited for confirmation, an old nervous tick. For some reason you didn’t feel safe to relay the information to anyone else. It had to be him.
“Speaking, can I help you?” He seemed a bit impatient, probably in the midst of another article or something else more important to him, you wonder if he’ll act the same after you tell him what you have to say. You don’t know how to beat around the bush, not really sure how any of this is supposed to go, so you just say it.
“I have information on Roseville’s Ghost.” There was more measured silence, but when he eventually did answer again it sounded much more like you had his full attention.
“I’m listening.” You’re still not sure where to start or how much information to give him, what did you really know about the guy, you could identify him and you knew his name, or at least the name he’d given you, was that enough to go on?
“I know who he is. I- umm.. I met.. him.” ‘Met’ is absolutely not the right word but you have no idea how else to put it without putting yourself in a bigger, shittier boat.
“May I ask who I’m speaking with?” No, no you can not, you think to yourself.
“I’d like to remain anonymous, like an anonymous source, the kind you write about all the time in your articles.” You hold your breath and hope he’ll leave it at that.
Before he’d sounded anxious, urgent, almost nervous maybe. But now he sounded calmer, cooler, back in control. Maybe he was starting to think you were pulling his leg or something. You couldn’t risk that, couldn’t risk this man not taking you seriously, he was your only hope.
“Yes, anonymous sources are certainly something we use to protect the identity of individuals when we receive information from them, but that’s to protect them from the public, I need to know you’re credible. I need your name.” You squeeze your eyes shut and pinch the scrunched bridge of your nose, you really had hoped that wasn’t something he would need. You had really hoped to be able to keep yourself an arms length away, but at this point you don’t think that’s gonna be possible.
“Do you promise I won’t be named?” When he answers he sounds smug and you’re starting to wonder if this is some kind of mistake, Jed Olsen is not turning out to be the saint you’d imagined him to be. “I promise.”
You’re not usually one to take a stranger on their word but you don’t exactly have much of a choice and he does sound sincere. You give him your name and there’s a long moment of silence where you worry that the call had dropped or maybe he hadn’t heard you. “Jed?”
“What exactly do you know?” You deflate a little at that but you’re here now and you have to tell the man something so you tell him all you know.
“His names Danny...” And that’s about the extent of it, you want to add on.
“Danny what?” You knew that was coming.
“Well, I don't know, he didn’t exactly give me his full legal name and social security number.” You can’t help but be a little snippy, what did this guy expect? “Look, he’s white, tall, 6.. 6’3 maybe, he’s got dark brown hair and dark brown eyes…”
He cuts you off. “And how exactly do you know all this?” You bring a hand to your head to shield your eyes against the sun, scanning around to make sure you’re still alone. “I told you, I met the guy, he… he broke into my house last night, ok?”
“And he didn’t kill you?” You’re beginning to get annoyed again.
“I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I?” He sounds amused on the other end of the line and you just know he’s not taking a lick of this seriously.
“And why is that exactly?” Your breath hitches in your throat as he adds. “… I mean, what makes you so special?” He’s in love with me, is why. You can’t say that but it’s the truth.
For some reason he’d picked you to imprint on, set his sights on you just how he claims he always had— seemingly at random. But when it came down time to deliver it seems he had other plans, much more tender, intimate plans. The thought makes you shiver and you know he’s waiting for an answer and your silence is probably nothing but damning. “I- I don’t know why, ok? He just didn’t.”
“Have you told anyone else about this?” He inquires.
“No, not a soul.” And that’s the god's honest truth, you’re surprised you’re even able to tell him this extremely modified version of events, you hope it’s not in vain.
“Not the police, nobody?” He seems to almost not believe you and you’re just about sick of his hesitations.
“Just you, now can you help me or not?” You were getting antsy, this was taking far longer than you’d like, the sun looked like it was beginning to sink in the sky and you were very much ready to go back home.
“Ok, I’ll help you.” Your heart does a little vertical leap in your chest, it makes your voice rise in pitch. “Really? You will?”
“Yeah, I will.” You can’t believe your ears, your troubles finally seem to be over, it doesn’t feel real. You don’t even know what his help will entail. Will he tell the police? Will they go after him immediately? Could they even with the limited information you’d given them? Would they actually be able to arrest him? Oh, who gives a fuck? He said he’d help and that’s the best news you’d heard all day.
“That’s-.. that’s great! Oh my god! Thank you!” You’re unable to hide the excitement in your tone, it feels like a huge weight has been lifted off your shoulders and you could scream you’re so happy. There’s silence on the other end and you don’t know what to say. You briefly pull the phone away from your ear to check and make sure he hasn't hung up, but it still says he’s apparently on the other end of the line.
“What uh.. what happens now?” You ask, kind of wanting to get to the end of the conversation to hang up and go home.
“I’ll be in touch.” And the line goes dead, just like that. Something about the tone his voice had taken in those last moments gave you pause. It made your brow furrow, the words echoing in the hollows of your mind for a moment longer than they should have. Something about it you just couldn’t quite place made it stick out.
You pull the phone away from your ear again and look down at the screen to see the call has been disconnected. Your wallpaper stares back at you with programmed patience and you’re left almost in limbo but you don’t dwell on it for long, already sweeping the errant thought from the forefront of your mind in your excitement and rush to get home, already beginning to forget what had concerned you in the first place.
You get up from the stone bench with a much lighter heart than you’d sat down with. You feel like you’re floating in your shoes. You’d done it. You were on the up and up.
You hurried home. You weren’t exactly sure they’d get him right off the bat. You just couldn’t believe that would be possible. You certainly didn’t want to get your hopes up but, in all reality Roseville was a relatively small town and really, how many Danny’s could there be?
Before you knew it you were turning onto your street and you felt like sprinting for the door. You hadn’t had the good mind to ask Danny where he worked or when he’d be home but judging on how he was dressed you figured he probably worked some boring standard 9-5 and it was already 4 o’clock. Which gave you an hour to sit on your haunches and worry.
Just as easy as your elation had risen, making you feel ten feet tall with its ascension, here was the crash, here was the burden of not knowing, here was the waiting game.
And that’s about all the next hour and a half of your life had amounted to, waiting. You switched the news on, expecting a flashy ‘Breaking News!’ segment to dominate the feed, but it was still the same old stuff they roll in the off hours, puppy videos and traffic jam reports.
You had imagined after hanging up the phone with Mr. Olsen, that he’d have taken some sort of immediate action. Done some digging, made some calls, alerted the authorities, rallied the calvary. But it seems whatever he’d done, if he did anything at all with your information, it had at the very least not been newsworthy. You couldn’t lie, you were disappointed. Now you just had to wait and see if the psycho was going to show up at your door again tonight, and what you would do if he did, at that.
You thought about calling someone to come over, your parents were out of town and your brother lived so far away there’s no way he could get here in time. You wouldn’t subject any of your friends to something like this, with or without their knowledge and consent of the situation, it was a risk you were unwilling to take. Maybe you could invite an old boyfriend over, say you’re trying to rekindle things, you didn’t exactly mind duping one of them into something potentially hazardous, especially a few on your blocked callers list, you thought you even had a few who wouldn’t hesitate to jump at the chance, but in the end you decided against it.
Then you had the idea to try and barricade yourself inside, board up the windows and push furniture in front of all your doors to keep him out. Lock yourself inside like some kind of princess in the highest tower of the most impenetrable castle. But if he had some way in you didn’t think of or if he still managed to force his way past your blockades somehow you couldn’t imagine what he’d do to you once inside.
No, the best course of action was probably the simplest, you’d done something today, made headway in one direction. Maybe, one last night in hell would be all you had to endure. Maybe you play nice, placate him and be the sweet, little doll he wants you to be until the swat team comes busting down your door. When there were six police officers pinning him to the floor and cuffing his hands behind his back then you could plant your foot on his ass as a little treat, one last ‘Fuck-you-I-win’ and claim victory.
You had given Jed your name, you surmise he could easily find your address with just that alone, maybe he’ll show up to ask more questions. The road to fame and fortune isn’t without its risks of course, if he wants that Pulitzer he’ll have to work for it.
Hell for all you know, they could already have picked him up. Just waiting on technicalities, or red tape, or maybe the FBI to come take it from here. Murders in the multitude of his caliber are almost always certainly handled at the federal level, you would think. Maybe he won’t show up at all.
Just then you hear the minuscule sound of metal scraping metal over the blare of the tv and your heart sinks. The door cracks and like something out of a 50s sitcom he calls out to you from the entryway, his voice sinisterly chipper. “Honey, I’m home.” Imbued by your new knowledge of him the sound sends a wicked chill ripping down your spine. You try to suppress the full body shudder it sends through you from your place on the couch.
You half turn in his direction. It is indeed him and he is indeed in your home. Standing in the entryway he looks less immaculately put together than he did when he’d left that morning. His slicked back hair had become a bit disheveled, a few errant locks hung down low over his brow in rebellious defiance. He raised a hand to his throat to tug on the knot of his tie, loosening it from its chokehold around his collar before pulling the messenger bag he’d left with that morning off of him and dropping it into the lone armchair set off in the corner that you used from time to time as your reading nook.
He strolls into the living area and sits down on the couch, though you’d slid over to the far side giving him ample room he takes the liberty of plopping down right beside you, his leg skimming yours as he settles into your personal space. The seating arrangement is extremely unbalanced, with more than two thirds of it empty and unused on the far side of him, and you have to hide the uncomfortable shiver that runs through you with both the intimate details of his track record on the forefront of your mind and his immediate proximity. The spiced aroma of his cologne wafts up to your nostrils and you could have sworn that the first fragrant wisps smell as if they’re laced with the pungent, malodorous coppery notes of shed blood.
You try to hide your surprise at his arrival, but you can’t possibly suppress every impulsive reaction so in your attempt to make small talk you blurt out the first least offensive thing to come to mind. “How did you get in my house?”
Not exactly smooth or inoffensive but it is certainly the most nonvolatile thing you can think to say, and you are curious. “I snagged your spare key on my way out the door.”
Of course he did, you think to yourself. You need to redirect this, it’s already erring on the wrong side of the tracks and it’s important to keep him as docile as possible. It shouldn’t be hard for you to pretend for just one more night that you can be hospitable. The easiest way you can think of to keep things light is what you lead with, you hope he’s not suspicious of your sudden change in behavior.
“How was your day?” You say as sweet as you can manage with what you hope he perceives as a warm, genuine smile in his direction. He seems to be buying it as he returns your smile in spades, beaming at you with not only adoration, and an intense, almost cloying sense of it at that, but also something that feels like pride radiating off of him in waves.
He doesn’t even need to say it for you to know this is somewhat of a dream come true for him. It brings back memories of his little domestic fantasies this morning. You think to yourself that probably for him the only thing this is missing is a prefixed drink in your hand and not a stitch of clothes on your body. You hope you aren’t overselling it.
“It was good, a bit boring at first but then the day just kept getting more and more interesting.” You felt your heart stiffen and nearly stop in your chest. What the fuck does that mean? It’s so vague. Interesting in what way? Did someone approach him in regards to your call? Was he stopped by the police? Did they let him go already? You almost want to inquire further but you’re also almost too scared to ask. Before you can even decide if you should or shouldn’t he adds on.
“But enough about me. I wanna hear about your day.” And if your heart hadn’t stopped before, it certainly had now. You instantly forget all about what he even said in your panic. You hadn’t thought of that at all when you’d started your ‘light small talk’, even though it was completely natural that he’d ask you the same thing. You try to politely brush it off as best you can. Even laughing a bit to try to make it seem like not such a big deal and ease some of the mounting tension in your nerves.
“Oh you don’t wanna hear about that.” He even laughs a little with you and you think maybe he’ll let it slide, but then he says. “Try me.”
Your stomach twists into knots. Of course in all your trickery, in all the conniving and scheming against him you’d done today, in all your caution to cover your tracks you hadn’t even thought to make up some kind of cover story. You feel ten inches tall and overwhelmingly stupid but you have to tell him something and the longer you remain silent the more you just know he’s scrutinizing you. You really wished you had prepared better for this.
“Well… after you left I went and took a shower and got dressed and then I watched tv for a little while..”
He cut you off to inquire further. “What’d you watch?” You both faltered and scrambled. “I- uhh.. I just watched some shitty tv show, I don’t even remember what it was about really, just whatever was on, it wasn’t any good.” He maintains eye contact and nods for you to continue.
“And then that got boring so I read for a bit-“ Once more he interjected. “What’d you read?” With each further inquiry into the minute details of your day you felt cut in half. You can’t believe you could let something this stupid, something so minisculely trivial in the grand scheme of things be what trips you up, and after all that time you had to sit and do nothing but worry too. You hope it’s not a fatal mistake.
“Just a book I’ve read before, one from the shelf.” You halfheartedly point towards your bookshelf but he doesn’t even turn to look where you’re pointing, just nods twice like he understands and you don’t know what to do from there. You certainly hadn’t said enough to fill your whole day, so you just keep going.
As you speak, prattling off random, hopefully innocuous yet convincing enough things that you want him to believe filled the time slot between when he’d left and his arrival, he’s studying you intensely. Far more intensely than you’d like and there’s an ominous foreboding in the glint of his gaze, it gleams with the same promise of pain his blade does. If you’ve seen it, it’s already much too late.
But if he knows anything about what you’ve actually done, if he’s detected any of your passed off lies he says nothing, content to let you continue rambling without interruption now and you start to actually believe you’d maybe gotten away with it. You actually start to feel like you may be in the clear, though you find it surprisingly difficult to look at him as you lie to his face.
You can’t imagine why, you should have no trouble lying to this absolute fucking psychopath, nay, sociopath, you remind yourself. But it’s not like you’re some kind of pathological liar, this is not normal or easy for you in any sense, none of it is second nature. You’d never even cheated on a boyfriend before, something that for some reason feels like an accurate comparison to this, though you decidedly resign not to look too closely at that fact.
You couldn’t even remember to come up with a cohesive story to sell him, just mishmashing random things together that you hope he’ll blindly buy into. And yet somehow even that seems to be working out for you as he continues to listen and you think you may be better at this sneaking around shit than you’d thought.
That is until you bear a look in his direction to notice he’s pulled his leather gloves from somewhere while you were purposefully looking away and now as you continue, he’s putting them on, slowly.
Your words begin to taper, dropping in volume and cadence before they falter and lose their confidence altogether until you’re mumbling, and then your mumbles wither away into whispers.
You can’t help but stare as his digits perfectly fill out the fingers of his gloves, his free hand tugging tightly on the hem at the heel of his hand to pull them flush against the tips. So tight like a second skin it steals the breath from your own lungs. You stare at each other like that, you with the egg of your folly still hanging off your lips and him across from you, with all the barely restrained violence of a precariously set bear trap, poised to snap. And you know that he knows.
You suddenly feel as though you’ve been skating by unscathed only to look down and realize you’ve ventured over a patch of thin ice. His eyes like the waters beneath the fractured surface. Dark, gelid, just waiting for the moment you shift your weight in the wrong direction, like the whole world is collectively holding its breath. It's when you realize you’re holding your own breath that the brittle ice breaks.
The trap snaps down onto your paw, his gloved hands seizing your wrist in an iron grip. You jump into action, leaping from the couch and trying to sprint out away from him around your side of the couch and hopefully, out the door to scream as loud as your lungs will permit— what you should have tried this morning when you’d first leapt from bed and had what you would consider, at least a decent head start. To try to do so now was more foolish than attempting to deceive him in the first place.
But it seemed today you were throwing caution to the wind as you pulled as hard as you could away from him, surprisingly succeeding in the first aspect of your plan and broke for the gap between the end of the couch and the coffee table as a rabbit will leap for the protective mouth of its hole away from the treacherous jaws of a chasing fox.
But unfortunately for you, you didn’t share quite the same deftness as the rabbit and only possessed about a fourth of its speed and you felt his arm wrap around your waist, the jaws of the fox clamping down around you.
The next moments played out in slow motion for you as he hauled you backwards. Pressed back against his stomach as you were, you could feel the muscles there flexing as he did, pulling you back away from the freedoms of your rabbit hole and into the perilous throne of his lap.
“Where do you think you’re going, doll?” He asks mockingly. His voice calm and smooth as silk a stark contrast to the way he wrestles you into place, rather easily to your dismay.
You bucked and kicked and even bit but nothing deterred him as you felt his glove clad hands pull and tug at the waistband of your jeans, grabbing solid purchase and ripping both them and your panties down your waist, over the swell of your ass and down your thighs in three quick, hard jerks.
Your eyes widened as you realized he’s starting to undress you. And so in turn, you screamed and kicked as your struggles renewed but with the tight, bunched fabric of your jeans encasing your thighs, you didn’t make very much progress, your legs imprisoned by a denim cage. And to make matters worse, as he positioned you just as he wanted you, with your lower abdomen and crotch laid vertically across his lap, you could feel a prominent bulge stab up into you from the seat of his pants, he was enjoying the struggle.
Distracted by your realizations, you’re caught completely off guard as the first smack rains down on the soft, bare skin of your right cheek. His glove covered palm bouncing smartly off the round, springy flesh with an audible crack. It gives you rise, making you rebound off his lap as you try to escape, but with an arm secured over the small of your back you’ve nowhere to go as the second smack follows the first.
Cracking forcefully across the opposite cheek in a precise blow that makes you let out a yelp so shrill it vibrates your vocal chords, making them burn to life in your throat. As you’re still catching up to the predicament you’ve found yourself in he asks you in a casual yet authoritative tone from behind you, as nonchalant as he’d inquired the first time, as if nothing between you had changed.
“What did you do today, doll?” He waits for an answer but you’re too preoccupied to indulge him, choosing instead to continue to thrash in his grip, hellbent on escape. Your hands whip around behind you to try and grab his face or his hands or his stupidly hard cock and scratch or claw or squeeze for your dear life, reduced to squabbling in his clutches like a raccoon rife with rabies.
He catches your hands easily, swiping them out of the air in a single move and pinning them to the small of your back with the same arm that’s held you in place with ease since the struggle began so he can return to your punishment.
As soon as you’re secure his hand cracks down across your ass again, in a trio of successive attacks that leave you with little room for recovery as you hardly have time to react to one before the next one lands. Pain blooming in delayed shockwaves radiating from the ground zero of his palm. You flinch at each, your body trying to shift away from the pain but only serving to somehow rise to the occasion and receive each new blow like you’re keening for them.
You whimper as he stops, the sound emitting from your throat beyond your control as you squirm against him trying to soothe your burning flesh, and you have a terrible feeling he’s only just begun. He calmly repeats himself, asking you again what it is you’ve done today. You hear him but you can’t even begin to process what he’s saying to you as your mind reels to comprehend how you’ve let yourself come to be in this kind of compromising position.
It takes the next round of smacks; two on each cheek and then a particularly heinous blow that falls on the underside of both for you to smarten up. It connects with the rounded peaks of your peachy swells and takes a sort of sweeping motion that drags the pliant flesh with it on its follow through. Pulling at the quickly heating flesh and magnetizing the sting so that it spreads throughout your body in tingles that reach all the way to your toes as you shout in agonized protest.
You scramble to answer as soon as you’re able, your brows knitting together as you fight against the whine that resonates from the heart of your throat in an attempt to speak. Though stubborn as a mule you persist in your plea of the mundane, swearing to him on all that you hold holy that you’d done nothing more than you’d already told him.
And you start to whine in desperation in the recesses of your mind as you try to remember even a single one of the things you’d told him to try and reaffirm your shoddy alibi and find that you can’t as two more devastating blows land with planned precision in almost the exact same spots as the last and it scatters your thoughts to the four corners of the wind as you cry out sharply into the echoing expanse of your living room, the sound bouncing off the walls and back to his ears like sweet birdsong.
“I’m losing my patience, doll.” He chides from behind. Asking you again, this time with an emphasizing smack on alternating cheeks punctuating each calmly stated syllable.
“What. Did. You. Do. To. Day?” You writhe and hiss like an agitated alleycat pinned to his thighs but out of fear of the consequences of the truth you hold your tongue, opting to hand feed him the same bullshit you’d offered him up the previous times, praying that if you believe it hard enough, if you can just sell it with enough conviction, then he’ll have no choice but to believe it too. Though you're really unsure just how much more you can take. You’re fairly certain, if the lights were to go out at this very moment, your ass would glow.
“I’ll give you a hint, doll. Since you seem to be struggling with it. I already know where you’ve been today.”
Before that moment your body had been as rigid as a board, your back had been perpetually stiff, your hands under the shackles of his palm had been balled into fists, the tendons at the base of your wrists taut as tightropes, even your toes, hanging off out of the way at the ends of your bunched calves were curled and rigid the entire time.
But as he breathed those words into being, as soon as he let the pen drop, your body broke loose of its tension. As if you’d been holding your breath the entire time, as if you’d been holding out for this, he felt the exact moment you fell in defeat and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t sate something in him he never stopped being hungry for.
So that’s it then. For all your worries, for all your efforts, for all your obsessive precautions, you’d failed. Somehow, someway you had simply overlooked, he knew. He knew you’d left when he’d implicitly told you to stay. You felt humiliated, and somehow even more so now than before.
For some reason you could take degrading punishments, literally being bent over his knee like a child and still feel an ounce of self respect but something about trying your hardest to elude him, to cover your tracks and sneak around without him knowing made you sick with shame. And you swear you feel him swell with pride beyond you, like he senses it.
Your silence is deafening and he knows he’s almost got you so he leans down over you to whisper in a low warning, his tone incensed and laced with threat. “So help me baby girl, if you lie to me again I’m gonna get upset.”
That breaks you. If this isn’t upset, you truly don’t believe you’ll be able to handle whatever him getting upset looks like. Out of a pure need for survival, in a final bid to stave off serious injury or death or perhaps something in between far worse than either option, you spill.
“I- I went to the library!!” You shout up at him, your head dipping down to rest against the arm of the couch as you tremble with defeat, the only silver lining in sight being that now, surely the punishment is over.
“Ohhh babygirl; you are in sooo much trouble.”
SMACK. Your head lifts from the couch on impact, a surprised cry flying out from between your lips as you turn as best you can to try and look at him, try and plead with him to stop, but his hand comes crashing down again and again and again. SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. SMACK!
“Stop!! Stop!! No more!” You cry out, the sheer burn of your ass too intense for you to be too proud to beg. “Please!!”
To your surprise he actually does heed your cries, his hand stilling overtop of your heated cheeks after one last resounding smack and he smooths over the top of it, admiring the warmth it now exudes as you recover and you feel disgusted with yourself for actually letting yourself be soothed by it, but you can’t help it.
When your breathing evens, he asks. “What’d you do at the library, doll? I don’t see any checkouts lying around.” You swallow thickly but the dam is broken and it’s fucked beyond repair. You don’t think there’s a point in holding back anything from him at this point, he probably already knows, but there’s one thing, one single fact about today that you’ll seize upon with all the strength left in the paws of your will and clutch tightly to your chest, shielding it from review. You will not tell him about your little chat. He will have to drag that out of you with the force of god.
And you know from experience that lies tend to thrive best when they’re grounded in the soil of truth, so you’ll tell him all about what you’ve learned today, you’ll spill about everything you’d read and maybe, just maybe, you can stroke his ego enough to keep the conversation between you and Jed Olsen a secret for as long as possible. So you start, weaving your deceit into the patchwork of your story beginning with the threads of truth.
“I had to get out of the house, I just couldn’t stay here. After you left it got too quiet and I felt like I was starting to lose my mind. So I took a walk, I didn’t know where I was going, I just needed fresh air and then before I knew it I was standing in front of the library and for no real reason at all, I went in.” You pause and he continues to stroke his gloved palms over the heated flesh of your ass, waiting for you to continue, not offering a morsel of support or encouragement, just letting you fend for yourself as you inch further and further out on a limb, wondering if your story will hold your weight or send you plummeting to your death.
“I went back to the computers and… and I looked up articles on Roseville’s Ghost.” You feel him tense a bit beneath you, shifting a bit at the mention of his moniker and it makes your stomach churn, your eyes squeezing shut where he can’t see as you sit uncomfortably across his lap, wishing to be literally anywhere else.
“And what did you find?” He implores and while it only serves to freak you out more, it’s a small victory. If he’s interested in listening to you regale him with the tales of his grotesqueries then maybe your plan to stroke his ego and distract him may be picking up wind beneath its sails. You just have to keep feeding it, but you’re nervous and you have to stop yourself from shaking in his hold. You hope he’s receiving the tension in your body and the uneven tone in your voice as fear of him and what you’ve learned he’s truly capable of and not fear of being found out.
“I… I read about the murders.” You begin sheepishly, still terrified out of your mind, but you take a deep breath and begin again, you have no other choice.
“I read about you.” You state boldly, almost spitting out the phrase at him in disgust. Though you’d like to pride yourself and call it a ploy; a subtle way to make him believe you’re being completely transparent by showing him real raw emotion, it’s not.
You simply let the mask slip for a second, not shying away from the disgust you’re feeling but more so leaning into it. Dropping your fear of him for a moment to truly be able to express the disgust you harbor for him and his misdeeds. You simply just can not feed into the bullshit— his bullshit, knowing all you know.
This is where the curtain drops, this is no act, this is the truth. You are nothing but utterly disgusted by what you’d read today, the thought of it makes your skin crawl and your throat tight, making it harder to continue, but you press on all the same.
“I think I read the counts up to eight now.” You can’t bring yourself to look at him, like there needs to be a sort of visual barrier between the two of you to even speak of such evil, like a confessional. Though you’re unsure who should be confessing to who in this scenario, they’re his crimes but it’s your transgressions.
“Julie Andrews, Mark Recosta, Donna Blaine…” You’d memorized their names, how could you not, you’d nearly been one of them, an exclusive club of poor souls with seemingly nothing in common. Living normal, contributive lives that, of no fault of their own— besides maybe living a bit too unguarded, were ripped unjustly from them, many before they even knew it. You continue.
“Claire Richards, Thomas Steiner, Edward Steltz..” Your voice wavered on the last two as you recall the way the article stated Mr. Marsh was so brutally mutilated, the way his remains were… disturbed. “James Marsh, Henry Lancaster.”
He speaks and it startles you from the trance-like state you’d fallen under as you mourn for people whose circumstances of their connection to you are almost too vile for you to take. Like he’s plucked the thought from your brain he adds your name to the list, letting it audibly hang in the air just adjacent to the others, like a reminder it’s not too late for you to catch the train and join them and it makes you squeamish.
“You know, if you wanted to know more about me you could’ve just asked, doll. I’d have told you everything and more than you read through in those articles today. What was it that solidified it for you? Indulge me. Which part did you read that made those cute little hairs on the back of your neck stand on end when you realized I was telling you the truth, hmm? Which details really set it in stone for you?”
You hesitate at his words, you felt like you had been building up momentum to berate him, gathering the courage to confront him and maybe even shame him for the things he’d done and in one fell swoop he’d toppled it.
“Or was it the picture that did you in? I bet it was, wasn’t it?” His voice rises in pitch, just an octave above his usual purr but you can pick out the giddiness in it, not needing to even see him to know he’s smirking, it leaks into his tone, tainting it.
“Just a passing glimpse, not much more than a blur really but you recognized me in it, didn’t you. You recognized my mask.” You want to shiver on his lap, his ability to oh so easily settle on the truth never failing to unnerve you. It’s just like he’d said the night before, his voice echoing in your ears as he claimed he knew you, and here he was proving it over and over and over again.
“I really caught hell over that one, took some serious ass kissing to get it published but it worked out in the end, we sold out every single printed copy in half a day.” Your breath hitches in your throat, your ears piquing at his words. Drawing wiry, crisscrossed connections between your current knowledge and your continuous new discoveries until your mind was tangled to hell and back in red yarn.
Your eyes widen as a thought occurs to you and then like a freight train, it slowly picks up steam, building and solidifying until it’s too exigent, too deafening. A dawning epiphany on the horizon of your mind, a roaring abomination rearing its ugly head that refuses to be ignored.
Your voice starts softly, a whisper that grows louder in tandem with your horror. “No. N-no. It-… it can’t be. you’re-“ You trail off, unable to finish it, unable to utter it aloud.
He leans down over your back, his body eclipsing you as he crowds in to get right up close behind your ear. With his breath hot on the back of your neck, goosebumps rise from the pores of your skin like the dead from their graves.
“I told you I’d be in touch didn't I, doll?” He muses smuggly from just behind you. The all too familiar phrase falls from his lips and your hopes and dreams of ever escaping this hellhole you’ve found yourself at the bottom of falls with it, crashing and burning down around you in a violent blaze that scorches all in its path, consuming you whole.
“You know, when we got off the phone initially, I was pretty pissed, I can’t lie. I had half a mind to make it a half day and come home early, but I really don’t like doing things out of anger. Things done in the heat of the moment almost always end up laced with regret, so I made myself wait all day and by the end I was actually rather impressed with you.”
“It takes a lot of balls to do what you did, it’s just too bad I suppose you didn’t have the brains to save yourself all this trouble.” He adds at the end, slapping you with the backhanded portion of his compliment.
“You see, if you’d have done half as much research on Jed Olsen as you did on Ghostface you’d have known then what you know now. Hell if you’d have just gone to the homepage of the newspapers website where you got my phone number from, you’d have seen a big ole picture of all the newspaper staff right there on the front, including yours truly.”
You had honestly thought you were at the bottom of the pit in terms of being freaked out, you honestly believed he couldn’t possibly surprise you any more than he already had but like rotten russian nesting dolls, each horror only encased a smaller more vile atrocity lurking beneath the surface.
And here was the next horror to set your teeth on edge, causing each individual vertebrae in the column of your spine to shift and contract until they were as straight as an arrow. Here were the many layers of the rotting onion, each pulled back to reveal a fresh, new face of decay smiling up at you from beneath.
You still deny it, unaccepting of the truth that sits heavy on your shoulders like a crushing weight. “No. No, that's impossible. You can’t-“
“Can’t be committing the crimes and reporting them too?” He cuts you off, almost giddily. His voice is elevated now, dripping with the excitement of your revelations, a showcase of the intricacies of his carefully crafted cogwork.
“Oh doll, it certainly is possible. Ever heard of Vlado Taneski?” He waits patiently but just as he’d expected there’s no answer from you, not positive or negative in response, only silence, which he doesn’t mind, it gives him a rare teaching opportunity.
“He was a serial killer from Macedonia. He killed three women over the span of three years and he wrote freelance articles reporting on their deaths. As you can imagine, that's something that I just could not get over. It’s… brilliant.”
“It’s not weird or strange to keep the articles written about your murders like trophies if you’re the one who writes them. They just call that a portfolio.” You can feel the confidence rolling off of him in waves, he thinks he’s so clever.
“But he made one fatal error. Can you guess what it was?” You squirm in his lap, not wanting to give into his little games or weird fucking pseudo-educational lectures.
After a moment of silence he grows impatient and you raise your head in alarm as you suddenly register he’s lifted his hand off your ass only a second before you feel it slap down again on your tender cheeks, making you yelp and become lively again, bringing you back to him before he continues.
“He got caught…” He pauses, emphasizing his words impatiently. “…because he used details in his articles that the police did not release to the public.” He reveals, smoothing over the heated skin of your perched ass like one might stroke a curled up cat.
“A stupid mistake that was easily avoidable.” He talks like there’s a manual for this kind of thing, rules laid down and etched in the blood of those who had failed before. A field manual meant to guide the future generations to follow, to learn from their mistakes and make them more effective, more deadly, more elusive.
That sick feeling in your stomach from earlier is churning again and it marinates the back of your throat in a bile so thick you feel like you’ll choke on it, it makes you bold, lets you speak your mind.
“Are you fucking telling me that you do these things, this… sick fucking shit and then wake up in the morning and go sit at a desk all day and write about it? Just… just fucking pretending to be normal and good and shit?”
While he’s not thrilled with your attitude about the situation he’s not stupid. He knows this probably comes as a bit of a shocker to most and he will give you credit for being at least open to discussion on the topic, so he indulges you.
“This isn’t the movies, doll. The world isn’t as black and white as they’d have you believe. There’s a whole world, a whole infinite spectrum of grays in between, toeing the line on both sides. What I’m doing is not new or abnormal under any circumstances. You do realize that, yes?”
You squirm in his lap, you can’t help it. What he’s suggesting is fucking insane. That everyone just oozes dirty little secrets. Like the general public is all walking around with a gaggle of skeletons trailing behind them, just a side effect of the wicked little ways we find to kill the monotonous, obtrusive, overbearing weight of our boredom.
“No. No fuck you. That is not true. Not everyone fucking kills people. You’re fucking sick. You’re fucking insane!” Your voice rises in pitch as you get a bit manic towards the end, coming a bit undone at the seams and to your dismay he only seems to grow more confident and composed as the conversation continues.
“You keep telling yourself I’m batshit crazy but you wanna know the truth?” He leans in close, his hot breath fanning over your neck and ear. “You’re just as batshit as I am, doll.” Your brows furrow, your eyes minutely flick back and forth with your flitting thoughts as you try to decipher just what the hell he’s talking about.
“Bullshit. I’m nothing like you.” His hand comes smacking down on your ass again and it makes you scream. A barrage of unfettered attacks that make you cry out weakly, your ass growing numb from the repetitive abuse.
“These are for lying to me. You say you’re nothing like me but That is bullshit and you know it. I know the sick shit you’re into.” His voice takes another upsweep in tone towards the end and you know he’s smiling above you again.
“You can fucking lie to yourself all you want but don’t try and sell me the same bullshit.” His gloved hand smacks down again right before he makes it clear to you just what he’d meant earlier.
“Every tumblr reblog, every ao3 bookmark, I’ve read them all.” Your body goes rigid beneath him at the mention of your more private social media platforms, the type of content they contain far different than the stuff you post onto Facebook and Instagram for your family and old high school friends to see.
“Porn is porn doll, physical video or written word it doesn’t matter. In fact, I find the latter to often be far more nefarious than the stuff you’ll find on the first page of pornhub. And some of the stuff you’ve been looking into? Well.. I bet you’d shame the shit out of the devil in comparison.”
He chuckles darkly above you as you come face to face with the extent of his knowledge of your dirty little secrets. Everything you’d ever clicked on, every story you’d read through, every indulgent fantasy you’ve ever subscribed to. You don’t know why you thought there were any secrets you could claim to hold sacred against him, he’d probably watched you masturbate to each and every one of them, there was no hiding from him.
“As much as you cry and beg me to stop, I know the truth.” He states plainly, squeezing the heated flesh of your ass just to hear you squeak, just to make sure you’re still with him. “The truth is you fucking love this. And that’s your real punishment, isn’t it?” It makes your blood run cold which only serves to intensify the burn in your ass as it spreads from your cheeks down into the crook between your thighs to your horror.
The laundry list of subject matters you’d perused through in your down time ran on and on in your brain. A growing list of kinks and fantasies, the most private bits of personal information held so close to your chest you’d never even tell your closest friends about and there wasn’t a shred of it he wasn’t privy to. Your mouth hung agape in a shock that ran bone deep, an embarrassment you’d never recover from.
To emphasize his point he started up again, raining smacks down that, emboldened by the new understanding between the two of you, you felt on a whole new level of torment.
“Oh, what am I gonna do with you, doll?” He muses as he continues, doling out smack after smack after devastating smack.
“If I can’t trust you to behave I’m gonna have to do something drastic.” Your eyes widen in alarm, this man’s definition of drastic could mean anything. You can only imagine what fate may befall you if he commits to something he deems drastic. Hell, you’d broken a promise, a verbal agreement held sacred to the authority of five year olds. Legally binding on account of the fact you’d crossed your heart and hoped to die, and now you were being bent over his knee, your ass spanked ruthlessly raw until his handprints were seared into your flesh like brands.
The thought of this man’s definition of drastic frankly terrified you and you caved. “Yes!! Ok, fuck!! I’m sorry! Please! I’m so sorry!” He didn’t stop right away, a few more stinging smacks laid out in perfunct succession across your blazing skin for good measure. “Please!”
Your tears had overtopped the levees of your lash line, warm tributaries that spilled down your cheeks and fell away in fat drops to land somewhere into the abyss between his lap and the cushions of the couch.
“Do you promise to take your promises more seriously?” He asks tauntingly, his smacks landing further down, right overtop the sensitive, unabused skin of the backs of your upper thighs. A blow you knew was intentional, a blow meant to bring you to your knees, meant to bring you to heel. It had the desired effect.
“Yes!! Yes, fuck!! I promise! I fucking promise, just please! Fucking please!!” Your chin trembles as the pain of his punishment rattles you, radiating out from your terribly sore ass and pulsating throughout your entire body in waves. The next time his palm grazes your flushed skin it’s far more gentle and you can tell even through the numbness that’s starting to settle in that he’s removed his glove, choosing to feel the heat of his afflictions without the barrier of the leather.
“Now you need to make it up to me.” Dreaded words you can’t even begin to imagine the exact extent of, but you’ll do anything for him to stop. You can’t possibly bare any more.
In a shaky, uneven tone that sounds pathetic even to your own ears you croak out a soft and almost unwilling “How?” There’s a silence after you utter the single, measly syllable. One that swells and expands until it fills the ambient space of the room around both of you like a vacuum, sucking the air out and leaving behind a greasy miasma of boundless, insidious opportunity in its place.
You can’t stand it any longer, you’ve stared down into the arm of your couch for so long you’ve memorized the way the threads in the fabric weave together, singed into your retinas by the shock of the pain and the burn of your tears. So you chance a look at him, turning your head to get a peek at his face when the anticipation grows too suffocating to stand any longer.
You look up to him, still draped over his knee, your ass throbbing. The tides of pain have started to recede, leaving nothing but alternating waves of heat and arousal in its wake. His smile widens at the sight of you, so quick the plump skin of his bottom lip catches in between his teeth as the idea of exactly how you can make it up to him graces him with its enlightenment. His loose locks hang down over the smooth cliff of his brow and down in front of his bright, gleaming eyes, glinting deviously with malicious excitement.
“That depends, doll. How bad do you really wanna make it up to me?” He asks in smooth jest, confident that he’s got you right where he wants you and ready to capitalize on the fact.
You scowl up at him; dark, hateful thoughts beginning to swirl in the space just behind your eyes. Something he catches in that same instant and all it really takes is lifting his offending hand off your ass and up into the air to correct it. You scramble and shift back, wiping the sour look from your face to replace it with a supplicating pout as the words fly from your puckered lips.
“No!! No! I- I wanna make it up to you. Please! Please let me make it up to you!” It does the trick, he lets his hand sink back down out of the air slowly and settle over your ass again in a soothing swipe, as if to say ‘that’s what I thought’.
He’s not fully broken you just yet; he can tell. Behind the simpering, docile little thing you’re masquerading as there’s an ember of defiance burning in the back of your brain and it pleases him to see it. He’d be a bit disappointed if you were subdued so easily. But there’s something else burning there, a fire of a different kind, one that burns slower. More smolder than outright blaze, and he can see that too, it only stokes the flames of his own desire knowing he’s the cause of it.
It makes his next words fall from his lips in a smooth, pleased purr. “Get off my lap and stand in front of me.” It’s a simple command, but it’s the unspoken commands that sit just behind it that makes you slow to comply— that and the humiliation of having to slide off his lap in the first place.
You swing your legs out off the side first and put your hands on his knees to push yourself up onto your feet. It’s the way your eyes never leave his as you do it that makes something low and dark in his chest stir. Probably unintentional on your part, just wishing to keep your eyes on the threat in the room but it has an effect on him all the same. Once you’ve done as he’s instructed his next command is as simple as the first, yet far more degrading. “Strip.”
Your eyes closed momentarily, you knew this was coming. It wasn’t enough to best you, it wasn’t enough to figure out your simple deceits, it wasn’t enough to humiliate you for them by bending you over his knee and then promptly humbling you by making you beg him for mercy. He wanted all of it, the full monty.
You shifted from foot to foot, thought for just a brief moment about trying to run again before succumbing to the fall of your pride and beginning to strip. You made it no slow, sensual theatric. Simply pulling your clothes off and throwing them to the side before modestly crossing one arm over your chest and the other in front of the apex of your thighs to subtly cover what little you’re able.
Saving yourself the ridicule of stopping halfway only to have him clear his throat and goad you into finishing the task and the mortification that comes with it. If you’re to subjugate yourself to him you may as well be brave about it. Hold your head high and look him in the eye while you do it, even if it’s just an arbitrary display of faux bravado to ease the ache in your already shattered pride.
He’s shifted since you’ve risen from your place on his lap, he takes up the whole of the couch now, sliding over from your side until he’s perched in the center of it. His arms are stretched out, resting over the back on either side, taking up most of its breadth with his impressive arm span. His legs are similarly positioned, his feet set flat out in front of him on either side, man-spreading far and wide with his feet planted into the low pile like he owns the space.
His eyes are currently preoccupied, slowly sweeping up the length of your body from the floor and trailing higher until his dark, lust-blown irises meet yours. A smug, pleased smirk tugs at one corner of his lips.
“My bag is in that chair behind you.” He says, barely lifting a hand up off the backrest to lazily point in the direction he means. “In that bag is my camera, I want you to go retrieve it for me.” Your heart sinks at the thought of more compromising photos, you think for a moment about begging him for an alternative but you’ve had just about as much groveling at his feet you think you can stand for one evening. So instead you turn to make your way towards the armchair in the corner when he stops you with an arrogant, almost melodic “Ah ah ah.”
You stop in your tracks but don’t turn back to him just yet, having to soothe your loathing for him that surges to the surface and taints the features of your face.
“Crawl.” He corrects, and you do turn back to him then, if only to gauge the seriousness of his command but his eyes brook no argument. And so, begrudgingly, you kneel, before settling down on your palms facing away from him, keeping your legs as tight together as humanly possible to try and conceal as much of you from his sight line as you can. It works mostly, until you start to move and then as one of your thighs shifts forward to start your crawl towards your destination and all is revealed. He makes it known by the low, approving growl that sounds from where he’s sat on his throne behind you.
You try and not think about it too hard as you shuffle as quickly as you can to the chair and reach into his bag for the camera, the bulk of it’s not hard to find and you pull it free from the confines of the old messenger bag as you turn to sort of kneel-walk back towards him when he stops you again.
“You can’t carry my camera in your hands and crawl, babygirl. You’re gonna have to find another place to hold it.” He can’t be fucking serious. You chime in at that point, your voice simultaneously light and coquettish while also dark and ground out between the grit of your teeth.
“And how exactly do you expect me to do that?” His answer comes after a soft yet smug smile that tells you he knows exactly how you’re meant to do just that.
“Put the strap between your teeth. That should free your hands up nicely, don’t you think?” If there was ever a single solitary moment in your existence where you could wish to kill someone with just a simple look, now would be the time you’d choose. Glaring daggers at him you’d love nothing more than to watch the tips of sink into the soft fleshy pits of his eyes.
You bite down on the strap and let it hang down from your lips as you resume your trek back towards the couch and if you thought the trip to the chair was the most embarrassing part of the whole ordeal you were dead wrong. There’s something about having to watch him watch you that is oh so much more degrading. The way his eyes keep trailing down to watch where the camera dangles as you sway, the pertinent position of it in relation to the rest of your body.
You watch as he adjusts himself at the sight of you and as much as you loathe to admit it, it sets you aflame. His obvious desire for you, the way he doesn’t even try to hide how he fixates on every aspect of your body, never skipping over the rough or unshapely parts of you. He drinks you in greedily like he’s got a thirst he can never quite quench and it sets your nerves alight with desire despite everything.
When you reach him he reaches out and plucks the strap from between your teeth with a satisfied smirk and you have the audacity to think it’s over when he brings his hand to his forehead animatedly— like he’s just remembered something he can’t believe he’d be so stupid as to forget.
“I almost forgot, doll. I’m gonna need you to get one more thing from the bag for me.” You just stare up at him in disbelief as he explains.
“On the back of the bag in a separate pouch you’ll find my knife, I need you to bring it to me.” You sit in front of him for a moment longer, the shame of your defeat rising in the back of your throat and you let it burn you, hoping that the memory of this will deter you from ever letting this kind of thing happen to you again.
You turn away from him and start to make your way back to the armchair when the telltale flash of his camera illuminates the wall in front of you, the sound of the shutter going off accompanying it along with a new sense of shame for you to wallow in. There’s no getting these images back, they’re in the world now, in his possession and always would be. That thought alone threatens to make you sick.
The shutter clicks off a handful of times behind you again before you make it back to the chair. You flip the bag over and after searching for a minute, you find the separate pouch in question. It’s hidden along the seams and doesn’t look original to the design, after opening it you stick your hand in and pull the cursed thing out into the light before turning back towards him.
It was much bigger in your hand than you’d imagined it to be. The sheath covered blade juts out from the end of your fist, a wicked extension of it. You turn it over a few times in fascination, gripping it proper as you choke up on the hilt, cool to the touch against the web of your hand, and something clicks into place.
It’s when your hand wraps around the curvature of the handle, when the phenolic resin melds against the swell of your palm that a most devious idea pops into your head. Here was the moment at hand, here was another golden opportunity. You had his knife and he had nothing but a camera.
You could saunter over to him and stick the thing right into his neck or go for the lager target and jam the blade right through his chest, lots of vital bits in there, or better yet you could just let the blade bite right into his thigh, let the tip nick his femoral artery and he’d bleed out in minutes.
His voice pulls you from your plotting. “We won’t be needing the sheath, doll.” You couldn’t agree more.
You hear him but don’t look at him, mesmerized as you grip the leather covering the blade and pull, feeling it slide smoothly up and away until the steel beneath is slowly revealed. Its surface is polished and you can’t help but to run your thumb along its blood groove and down along the upsweep of its clip point.
You look up at him and he snaps a shot of you at just that moment, one he can’t help but go back and review. A still of you staring up at him in all your naked glory, his knife gripped in one hand as the other toys with the tip. He thinks to himself it’s probably the single greatest photograph he’s ever taken and he’s going to cherish it for the rest of his life, make a million copies of it so the world will never be rid of it, eternalize it forever.
He’s still staring at it when he orders you. “Bring it to me.” He seemed caught up in the moment which played to your advantage, maybe you could work with that. You flipped the knife around and brought it to your lips. Parting them before settling the cold spine of the knife between your teeth and biting down, holding it in place as you settled back down on all fours and looked up at him from beneath your lashes as you crawled back towards him.
The low, sultry groan he lets out is like music to your ears and you tried to focus on that and not the fact that the blade between your teeth has been saturated with the blood of his victims, people you now knew the names of.
Julie Andrews, Mark Recosta, Donna Blaine.
Claire Richards, Thomas Steiner, Edward Steltz.
James Marsh, Henry Lancaster.
You.
You have to shut your eyes against your overactive imagination as you swear you can see it flowing through the fuller and dripping off the tip just out of your peripherie, swear you can taste the coppery, metallic tang of it on your tongue as you stare into his deep, brown orbs while you crawl towards him. Hellbent on letting him feel the bite of his own blade for once.
The flash of the camera goes off. He’s snapping pictures of you again. Pictures of you stark naked with his blade caught between your teeth, crawling towards him on your hands and knees. He was wrong before. This is the single greatest photograph he’s ever taken.
He swears it’s the most erotic sight he’s ever laid his eyes on. No playboy he’d ever snuck peeks at as a boy; no pornstar— illustrious or otherwise, holds a candle to how you look crawling towards him right now. Not even Helen of Troy could compare to the sight he holds in his viewfinder at this very moment.
The beating of your heart is so erratic against the cage of your ribs you worry it bulges out from your skin with every beat, your palms sweaty against the nap of the carpet beneath you, trembling as you draw near. You’re an arms length away from him now. Now is the time to strike if there ever was one. You stop in front of him, sitting back on your heels but before you can move he’s reaching out and wrapping one deft hand around the handle of the blade, beating you to the punch.
You stare at each other like that, peering into each other's souls, intentions spread bare for both to see plainly. In fact, you’ve never felt more in tune with the man who now torments your life than you ever have. There’s a real, raw understanding between the two of you. There is no deceiving him. There is no escape from him. This is your life now, that’s just how it is until further notice.
He pulls and you release for fear of the edge and its razor kiss and just like that the opportunity is gone. All the anxiety. All the build up. All for not.
He sets the camera aside for now, seemingly done with it at the moment as he takes the blade into the palm of his left hand and stabs the tip down into the armchair of your couch, resting it there as he peers down at you knelt between his thighs.
He makes the next move, just letting you watch as the hand not wielding the blade falls to his lap and begins to smoothly pull at the end of his thin, black belt. Tugging it through the loop and out of the buckle with one practiced hand. With it undone he resumes his lax position, throwing one arm back to rest leisurely over the back of the couch as he looks to you expectantly.
You know what he wants, it’s pretty obvious but you can’t bring yourself to do it on your own anyway. You just sit there and stare at the prominent tent of his dickies, your eyes wide. He knows you need encouragement so he twists the blade against the fabric of the couch, making a crater in it and capturing your attention with the sound of the steel tip ripping the fibers free.
“Don’t make me make you, doll.” He sounds amused but you know the threat behind the statement is real so you force your shaky hands forward against their will. One hand finding one side of the buttoned garment and curling your fingers overtop the hem to grip it and the other finding a similar purchase on the other side.
His flesh is warm and tight against the backs of your knuckles as you maneuver them deftly to unbutton his pants. With the button undone the individual seams want to part away on either side, held only in place by the zipper still tugged to the top of the junction. You grip it with your left hand and pull it down, the low buzzing of it as it rides the track down and separates is loud in the otherwise quiet of the room.
With them loose, he lifts his hips for you to shimmy them down his thighs a bit, which you do with a dour expression but without fuss. He sits now in just his boxers before you and they barely constrain the bulge of him yearning against the fabric for freedom. You look away from the bulk of him for a second to look up into his eyes and when they land on his you know it’s a mistake.
They hold you enraptured with the intensity of their gaze, the brown orbs darkened so considerably they’re almost black. You have the whole of his attention and you’ve never seen someone look more hungry. You have to look away.
You can’t handle the anticipation any longer, it only doubles by the second so you just reach forward and find the seam at the fold of his fly and pull it to the side, it’s all it takes for his cock to spring free and into view, the rigid pillar of him out in the open now right in front of your face.
Your eyes scale the length of it and you gulp. He’s girthy but not overwhelmingly so, it’s the length of him that has you clutching your pearls. You consider the next logical course of action and approximate you may be able to fit half of him in your mouth realistically, any more than that is going to be a challenge. One you’re unsure you’re ready for.
You had had him last night in all his fulty, but under the bizarre circumstances and with all the adrenaline pumping through you, you were sure now that you hadn’t understood the extent of his glory. You must be projecting your astonishment because he chuckles, a low, deep sound that resonates from his chest and snaps you out of it.
“Is something the matter, doll? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He lilts at you, mockingly. His shitty pun is not lost on you, you’re just still too dumbstruck to react to it. That’s when you feel the tip of his knife under the cleft of your chin, lifting your eyes from his cock to his face so you get the full jist of his words and their weight. All too familiar with its edge, you let it carry your gaze to him, unwilling to feel its bite just yet if you can help it.
“You’re not getting out of this, babygirl.” He reminds you sternly, his tone erring on the more serious side now. You know he means it too so you close your eyes as you feel the tip pull away from your face after one last dangerous caress and try to gather yourself.
When you open them again you turn your attention back to the task at hand and reach forward tentatively to wrap a palm around his length. He’s warm and twitches at your touch. Both of you share a sharp inhale at the contact and you can feel his eyes burning holes into you from above as you scoot up as close as you can until you feel your knees bump the skirting before you’re leaning in. You brace your hands on the curved planes of his thighs, your eyes fixating on his tip as you draw nearer before you draw them closed as your lips part and you pull him into your mouth.
He’s contrastly hard against the soft slide of your tongue, like velvet over hardened steel and he tastes clean as you run your tongue experimentally along the hardened ridge of him. You keep your eyes closed as you go and it helps, you find yourself getting into a kind of rhythm, something you’d thought would be impossible to achieve given the circumstances.
His mouth drops open as your tongue runs along the bottom of his shaft, the feel of it grazing against him has his arm drawing forward from where it rests on the back of the couch to caress the back of your head instinctively.
You squeak out in surprise around him at the unexpected touch and while he knows the vibrations that ring out from the sound are unintentional they feel heavenly all the same, and it pulls a groan from low in his throat that grows into a growl towards the end.
You’ve never heard a man get so vocal from a blowjob before. The men you’d blown in the past weren’t exactly silent during, but it’s like every move you make, every drag of your tongue against him pulls something from him and that kind of knowledge, the kind of power that it instills in you has heat pooling low in your belly. Igniting the low burning embers of your arousal from where he’d had you bent over his knee earlier, and that thought alone has you digging your nails into his thighs as you allow his cock to sink down your throat a little further than you’d been letting it.
He feels the head of his cock hit the back of your throat and tighten down around him reflexively, that paired with the way your nails are digging into the flesh of his thighs threatens to make his eyes roll into the back of his head and he knows he can’t take much more of this.
He thought he’d have more self control but the longer you go the more he feels like he’s slipping. He knows what he needs so the hand that’s been caressing the back of your head pulls away from your crown to cup your cheek, which makes you flinch a bit as you’re pulled from your thoughts, but it also makes you open your eyes and instinctively look up at him.
His brows are furrowed, collected in a pinch set above the piercing, brown orbs of his eyes that bore into you and you freeze. They’re dark as they gaze into yours but they swirl with something not immediately identifiable.
It takes a moment for you to realize that in the vast pools of his abject desire, resonating around the edges of his hunger is the soft glow of adoration, something that almost bridges on love. It holds you there, gazing up at him with his cock socketed in between your lips and you watch as his face contorts with pleasure just at the sight of you.
You find you are at odds with yourself again. You know what this man is capable of, you know the deep evil that festers below his augmented surface. The kind of inexcusable rot that makes you toss out even the most polished of apples but the growing swell of your need has you tempted to sweep the facts you’d read through today in great detail under the rug. It’s where this is so clearly headed anyway, there’s no getting out of it. And with the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the sole object of his desires, like you’re the only woman on the planet, you’re having a hard time not letting that have an effect on you.
Just the intensity of his gaze makes your thighs jump, an unexpected spike of need pierces through your unease and it sets you on edge. You start to move again, as more of a distraction against your own bodies reactions than for his pleasure but the choked moan it pulls from him has the opposite effect on you and you have to mime like you’re readjusting just so you can rub your thighs together discreetly, the sound shooting straight to your core.
He’s not having it, the palm on your cheek stiffens and it stills you. Pulling you off of him with an audible plop as he lifts your face from his lap to look up at him again, though he notes how you won’t look him in the eye this time. Just when you feel your resolve beginning to slip, like he already knows he speaks, like he’s plucked the words right out of your thoughts.
“Are you wet for me, doll?” He asks in a pleasure strained voice, his tone low and overwhelming seductive to your chagrin. Though try as you might, you can’t get anything past him it seems.
You can’t bring yourself to answer him, too mortified by the fact to even process it let alone speak. But he doesn’t need you to. He can see it in the desire emanating from the blown pools of your pupils, the way your thighs shift uncomfortably, the way your hands tense in his lap.
“Show me.” He commanded. And as if you’d been hexed one hand slides off his thigh and down your body to the juncture of your thighs, slipping deftly between them to paw at the slick heat of your sex. You pull it back up to the light and hold it before you, both of you examining it before you feel his hand grip your wrist and lift, pulling you up til you’re kneeling in front of him as he leans down the rest of the way. He’s inches from you now, the space between you just large enough to house his hand gripping yours.
You watch on bated breath as he brings your slick coated fingers up to his face and draws them into his mouth, enveloping your index and pointer fingers between his lips and sucking them clean of you right before your very eyes and the sensation of it paired with his intense eye contact has you stifling a moan in the back of your throat.
When the spell breaks he pulls your fingers free from your mouth to pull you up off your knees. He takes his hand off his blade, the tip stuck down into the turf of the arm of your couch like a planted flag long forgotten for bolder claims as he hoists you up with both arms and up into the seat of his lap.
You feel the hardened length of him against the inner crook of your thighs as he seats you into straddling him. You forget about your revulsion, forget about your punishment, forget about his knife just within arms reach as he braces you, splaying a hand at the small of your back as he grips his cock with the other and positions it at the entrance of your slick pussy, never breaking your eye contact.
If he’d had said anything in that moment, if he would’ve hesitated or made you speak it probably would have snapped you out of the haze and things would have gone down differently, but he didn’t and that made all the difference. He simply lets your body weight drop, spearing you open on his cock and making you both moan out together as he fills you.
Your eyes widen in response to the pain, that first sharp pinch of being split open and he hasn’t even drawn flush against you yet. He grips the swells of your hips in the palm of his hands, noting how they fill them perfectly as he drags you down onto him until he’s finally filling you to the brim. Your cries are tinged with discomfort as those last few inches plunge deep and he stills as you both adjust to the stretch.
You try to catch your breath perched astride him but he fills you so completely there hardly feels room for air, like the very length of him pierces into the bellows of your lungs and fills them too. But then he readjusts his grip on your hips and pulls you back up off him all the way to the tip before he guides you back down onto his length again and the pain gives way to pleasure.
The mind-altering, breath-stealing kind that has your eyes fluttering closed and your mouth falling open, the kind that you have to brace yourself against the intensity of and just take it.
When he gets hold of the reins in regards to his own pleasure he starts to move in earnest, his eyes concentrating on the way your face twists and contorts with each subtle movement. Your hands reach forth and find purchase by way of grabbing bunches of his dress shirt in your fists and cling to him as he rocks his hips up into you from below while the hands on your hips guide you ceaselessly up and down his hardened length.
Your vision blurs around the edges and you can't help the noises he pulls from you now, it’s lost on you to care, let alone try to stifle them. Your world begins and ends with each thrust and while it had seemed before that you’d had the upper hand, now that was clearly not the case as your back now maintains a perpetual arch, your moans never quite cease and since he’d pushed into you, you seemed to have long forgotten anything you’d learned today. Your head empty of all thought, as your focus shifts to the feel of his cock dragging in out of your tight, wet heat. He can’t help but to comment on the fact as he coos up at you from below, mockingly.
“Does that feel good, doll?” He snarks up at you from below as he thrusts up into you with just a fraction more force than before, eliciting a low, almost pained groan from you as you clench down around him.
“It’s ok, babygirl. You don’t have to admit it out loud, I know it’s hard. The way you’re gripping my cock tells me everything I need to know.” He keeps up like that, holding you in a pleasured daze until your eyes start to lose focus and your jaw goes slack, but no matter how much he enjoys watching you lose yourself with him buried deep inside you, this is still a punishment and you’re still meant to be making it up to him.
So while you’re blissfully distracted he pulls the tie from around his collar and loosens the knot until the neck is loose and wide. Reaching up, he throws the loop over the top of your thrown back head and lets the soft silken fabric catch around the column of your neck before pulling it taut by the end and jerking you down until your foreheads touch, forcing you to look at him as he stills and watches you pout as the heavenly sensations cease.
Your pleading eyes peer down into his piercing ones as he commands you with a single word that has you moaning low in your throat and complying instantaneously with the authority behind it.
“Bounce.”
Your hands relax their grip on his shirt to brace against his shoulders as you set to work, picking up where he’d left off and trying to find the rhythm he’d set previously with your own movements. It’s a pale comparison but after a moment you find that mind numbing pleasure again even if it feels drip fed instead of a constant flow.
“You know what, doll?” He quips from below you as he watches you set to work while he lounges back into the cushions. “I think you did this on purpose. I think you wanted this.” He lets the statement linger in the air for a moment, collecting weight before he continues.
“What kind of a girl in the kind of situation you’re in gets a chance to be free, a whole five hours while I was at work and you were all by your lonesome— and instead of calling a friend… or a family member… or even the police, you called me.” He chuckles then, a dark, hearty rumble that you can feel resonate through him where he’s buried deep as it vibrates into you.
“You must like being the victim, doll. You’ve done nothing to get out.” His words get to you, you can’t help it. They penetrate your concentration and reverberate, bouncing back and echoing off the walls of your mind because as much as you loathe to admit it, there’s a ring of truth to them. Why hadn’t you called the police? All those doubts you’d had, all those worries about what would happen if you talked to them, were they really the reason you never pulled the trigger? Or was it something else? Something deeper and darker that you just can’t bring yourself to face.
Your eyes squeeze closed at the thought as you drop your hips down onto him and still, your eyes rolling beneath the lids as his tip nudges a spot inside you that steals the breath directly from your lungs. You hear him growl below you before you feel the all too familiar sting of his hand slapping down on the flank of your ass, making you cry out in pain as your eyes fly open to meet his.
He’s leaned forward again, this close you can really see the way the lust clouds the varying hues of his eyes, muddying them together into a dark rich brown that holds you hostage with their intensity. It lets you feel the heat of his breath against your lips and you feel like you’ve got the answer to your burning questions when you find your eyes shifting down to his plush lips wanting to push forward and close the gap between you to taste them.
“Don’t you dare fucking stop.”
You lift your hips and get to work again as he sits back into the cushions and denies you the pleasure. He holds onto the tail end of the tie like a leash to keep you right where he wants you as you pick up the pace again. With the way his hips are angled now that he’s sat back relaxed, his cock drags along your walls every time you lift your hips up and it punches up into that sweet spot every time you drop down, making you gasp without fail as it stabs into it.
You can feel it, the pit of pleasure that pools low in your belly just behind your navel and you know you’re not gonna last much longer. It swells into a cresting wave, one catastrophic in nature that threatens to decimate all in its path and leave you drowning in its wake. Like a suicidal surfer you chase it out to sea, slamming your hips down against his as you start to reach its peak.
That’s when you feel him jerk on the tie around your neck, tightening it until he’s got your attention again. And when he speaks he sounds utterly unbothered, still completely in control as you teeter towards falling apart all over him. Relishing the cock drunk state he’s reduced you to and being this up close and personal to witness it.
“What’s the matter, babygirl?” He taunts, voice dripping in faux concern. “Are you getting fucking close for me?”
Your brows scrunch even further in frustration at his teasing, wishing to both simultaneously throttle him and grovel for your release. You want to shut your eyes against the effects of him, want to shut him out and regain your composure, want to resist this but he grabs your hips again and takes the helm, thrusting up into you from below in a way that leaves you wide eyed and gasping. Your answer is delayed but it’s dripping with desire, born directly from a place of burning need. “Yes!”
But you should have known he wouldn’t let you off that easily. “I don’t know, doll. You’ve been an awfully naughty girl today. If you wanna come I wanna hear you beg me for it.” He growls out as he feels you clench down around him at the sudden shift in dynamic between you.
Your hands ball into fists that dig into the shelves of his shoulders as he drives into you from below and coaxes you towards your release. He knows you’re close so he slows to a crawl and it makes you throw your head back and whine, a beautiful sight that tugs on the floodgates of his own release.
He uses his thrusts to punctuate his points, driving up into you on each word to express the gravity of them. “Beg. Me.” You moan as each one drives home deep and it breaks you as you quake in his grasp.
“Please!! Fucking please!! Let me come!!” You’re past the point of shame, over the humiliation of the position you’re in, all you care about is the precipice of pleasure you’re just out of reach of. You fucking need it, you’re desperate for it, you have to have it.
“Look me in the fucking eyes then.” Your head falls forward and he can see the desperation burning brightly in them, can see the submission yielding in your blown pupils. When he has your full attention he continues, digging down deep one last time to the heart of the problem, to the root of the cause of this entire predicament.
“You broke a promise to me today. I need to hear you say you’re going to keep them from now on.” There’s a part of you, lost deep below the sea of your pleasure that hears his words and knows this is fucked. Out of everything you’d done today he’s upset that you didn’t keep your promise? A promise made in haste to get him— an intruder who’d broken in and terrorized you out of your home as soon as you possibly could. You’d have said anything in that moment to be rid of him.
And what kind of person in their right mind expects a victim to keep promises made under duress to their captors anyway? A person who doesn’t see the situation under that light. That’s who. You keep forgetting. Somehow you keep forgetting this man is obsessed with you, a violent career criminal who’d singled you out as his next victim and then took it a step even further and decided to not only relinquish you of your life but allow you to keep on living it, worse than death he’d hijacked your existence and made you his pet.
But that part of you, that part submerged at the bottom of your pleasure, drowned out by it— that part didn’t currently have the microphone. That part sat at the bottom of your mind living off a lungful of air while the rest of you crumbled and remolded itself into the docile little thing currently perched on his lap with his cock buried to the hilt and his tie cinched tight around your neck as you begged him for more.
“I-I’ll keep them. I swear. I promise.” You stare down into his eyes from above and hope your voice carries the conviction you need it to as it’s strained from the exertion of your cries, both of immense pleasure and bristling pain. Your pussy twitches around him impatiently while you wait to see if he’s satisfied. You get your answer in the form of his hips starting to move again and it pulls a soft, sweet moan of relief from your chest as you cling to him.
He picks the pace back up in earnest, not holding back and the pleasure that courses through you singes the very walls of your veins and threatens to set you alight. His fingers dig deep into the plush flesh of your hips so hard you have no doubt you’ll still be able to feel them tomorrow. Phantom fingers you’ll relive the bruising grip of when you skim your own over the top for days to come.
He’s ruthless, on a path now to see you fall apart for him and he’s not far behind as he drives his hips flush with yours on every thrust, making you feel every single inch. It’s when you lock eyes with him again and in the softest, sweetest drawl he’s ever heard, plead with him one last time.
“Please, Danny!! Please don’t fucking stop!!” It’s in that moment he knows all is not in vain. Right then he wholeheartedly commits to never letting you go as he wraps the slack of the tie around his fist, dragging you down to smash your lips to his. It’s only a second after that that you both fall apart together, you convulsing hard around him as he thrusts up as deep into you as he possibly can and stills, filling you full.
When your bruised lips pull away from him he keeps a tight leash and waits for your eyes to flutter open again. When they do, he whispers heated promises low against your lips where only you can hear.
“You’re mine, doll. You can keep denying it and keep fighting me and we can keep playing these little games with each other if you want but the end result is always gonna be the same. Whether you choose to accept it or not is your prerogative but I’m not gonna stop cause I know…” He breathes low against your lips, chasing them as you pull away in feigned distaste of his words, even as you pulse around him where he’s still nestled deep inside your walls.
His nose brushes yours softly before he continues. “…I know the truth. I know you want this.” He leaves it at that. Letting you stew on the thought as you straddle him, suspended in the haze of a day that’s left you just as lost at the end as you’d been at the start.
But even later on, as you placidly let him help you cook dinner before ultimately retiring to bed together for another night spent with a man who’d forced himself between your sheets, even as he pulls you close in the dark of your bedroom and into the warmth of his arms you know this has only just begun and it’s not over until it’s over. You’d never been one to go quietly into the night.